[ Red can feel some inkling of that. She knows it herself - that this is something she can't quite put into words. Not yet. Not when she just came back, not when she was gone and she doesn't even remember it. There's a fear that saying it aloud might make this all vanish again in a puff of smoke. So she doesn't say anything. There's nothing to say and she tries to demonstrate through action. Her hands run over her body - waist and hip and breast and thigh, fingers skimming skin and scars, feeling out every part of her that she can. Her lips trail and leave kisses until she captures a nipple gently between her teeth once more.
It's an act of worship.
It's slow.
More than anything she wants to hear Cellinia sigh, exhale, moan. She wants to know that she's caused that. She wants to know that she's pleasing her. There's nothing else - every part of her deserves to be adored and touched and she deserves whatever joy Red can give her. ]
no subject
It's an act of worship.
It's slow.
More than anything she wants to hear Cellinia sigh, exhale, moan. She wants to know that she's caused that. She wants to know that she's pleasing her. There's nothing else - every part of her deserves to be adored and touched and she deserves whatever joy Red can give her. ]