#col22nsfw

Continued from this chat.

Nobody had ever accused London of being a particularly talented chronomancer, but even she ought probably pick her moments better than this. The thought didn't occur, though, because he had a sudden and devastating effect on her lately, one that cracked her lips bloody and bled her dry of any drop of sense or concentration. Damien was a deathless requiem, always humming in the pews of her mind, and if she didn't like him so damn much she'd certainly hate him for it.

As it stood, the burning closeness of his eyes, and the flushed warmth of his skin so near to hers, only crumbled her resolve into a finer dust.

For a few long moments (the sort that are redolent with heavy thought), she settled her eyes to the crevices of his skin. The shadows cut a sharp silhouette against him, even in the artificial light bestowed on every classroom. Not so beautiful as the molten sunlight that danced through skin and sweat, but there was very little that could convince her that Damien wasn't, quite honestly, really fucking hot. Although she still couldn't quite reconcile herself with the betrayal she was perpetuating, the guilt was uncertain enough that her heartbeat could drown it out. As it did now. As it might for a long time-- - her doubts were quelled as she reached into the pocket of her shorts, not breaking eye contact with Damien except for the slow sweep of a blink.

Her hands dragged, the movement a strip tease in itself until the entirety of the desired object had been extricated from her pocket. It was a silky scarf, a nightsky blue, that London used to keep her hair in place during training. It was only by serendipity that training was next on her schedule, and she had the scarf to hand. It was something she hadn't realised she wanted to do until she felt the soft weight of it distort her pocket, but with it in her hands she hesitated not a moment before drawing it up over Damien's eyes, tying a deft knot in the back.

The first time London had been blindfolded, she hadn't anticipated it either. And honestly, she'd feared for her safety because it was a one night stand and they aren't notoriously trustworthy encounters. But he had been surprisingly gentle: firm and dominant, but asking twice whether she was okay. Since then, she would happily admit that blindfolds were rarely a bad idea. And Damien trusted her, she hoped, enough that he wouldn't push her away.

There was no threat in it, no malice. It was just fun, and she felt the red velvet clad interior of her heart beat an arrhythmia against her ribs for the thrill of it. With Damien blinded (and didn't the sight of him blindfolded for her make her skin cling just a little tighter to her bones, all drawn up in anticipation?), she receded from his lap and lost herself in the ether, all but disappearing from his senses.

She wanted him to lose himself in the game, to wonder whether she would have just left with no explanation. With soft-soled shoes, London moved in graceful, feline silence to stand behind the chair-- - and perhaps he would feel the hairs at the nape of his neck stand in the wake of her breathless breath. Tension wrapped itself around the air, fervently, feverishly, ribboning the quiet through with anticipation.

Until she broke it, one hand snaking its thin fingers around his throat with pressure. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make his lungs doubt their next breath. With her free hand, she held a single finger briefly over his lips... shhhh......... that held a rare gleam of authority. She wanted him to be very, very quiet, even as her hot breath warmed his ear.

Even as her teeth sunk ardently into the shaded hollow where his neck met his shoulder, gentleness long since swallowed. Even then, she wanted him silent at her command, because she forbade him from anything else.