Whatever You Think This Blog Is About. Rethink It.

🕊 Mhin likes to hover. That means, either around familiar places, or breathing right over your lips—but you suppose it counts. Long, careful fingers like to wrap around your waist, playing with the hem as they pull it off of you unceremoniously. They mostly like how warm your skin feels against their frozen flushed cheeks—weather in Eridia is, simply put, enough to turn anyone into a popsicle.

🕊 It’s psychological warfare. You can already feel them hard in their pants—give them any reason to jump you; they’ll send you flying to the headboard and they’re onto you like a deprived animal. You know what—scrap any simile—they are deprived, hungry, touch-fucking-starved; the title is there for a reason; and that’s not even taking into account the whole divine magic whatever hands shenanigans.

🕊 We know their whole act of trying to look tough and unaffected when they very much are—and that song and dance continues as kisses down your neck when they lay above you, forearms flexing on your sides. Even if you’re quiet, Mhin won’t be able to swallow the small squeals—of pure reflex over anything—that escape the thin line that has become their lips; if you didn’t know them better, you’d say they’re in pain.

🕊 You’re the sweetest fucking thing they’ve ever tasted. They wouldn’t dare show you whether they’re shaking as they unbuckle their belts, pushing themselves inside you slowly—as desperate as they are careful. You’re getting pinned down if they can help it; slightly propped up over the pillows, chests flush, thrusting deep inside you till your bodies refuse them any more.

🕊 Otherwise, Mhin grunts when you dig your nails in them or pull their hair too hard, looking at you beneath their lashes in questioning daze; debatable if they’re willing to form a coherent sentence. They feel good—way too good—and you think you do too, when they hide away, hands gripping your hips as their thrusts become sloppy and uncoordinated, until they go limp in your arms. Perfect opportunity to run your hands through their hair, I say, despite their small protests.