andfire | Open RP Post

Open RP Post

Open RP Post

♦ All characters are allowed to interact, regardless of being in a game with Elsa or not.
♠ This is an IC-spam post; only character journals, please.
♥ Doubles and threadjacking are allowed for maximum derp.
♣ 4th-walling: is allowed; Elsa can take it. She will likely just think you're crazy.
♦ Wank and OOC matters will be deleted.
♠ Crit will be redirected to the HMD

♠♥♣♦

This post has no established setting, to allow for any sort of thread. Voicetesting, smut, derp, violence, angst, crack, memes, any other shenanigans I might be missing are acceptable.

Also backtagging.

Lots of backtagging.

♠♥♣♦

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The warmth of the room suddenly seems less stifling, though he doesn't stop to check out why. He swallows the delicious noise with relish, almost greedily, licking and kissing and prying at her lips to hear and feel more of it.

Cool fingertips press against his chest and it feels refreshing and vibrant, like the feeling of mint in one's mouth, and it trails lower towards his opened trousers. Intimacy and sex is always hot, sticky and suffocating sometimes-- and that's good, he loves that too, but this is something new and in a way it allows him to take his time with each sensation.

Henry isn't new to intimacy, but he'd never thought it would happen like this ever again. Everything feels new, physically and mentally, ever since he's avoided any sort of intimacy of this caliber since his divorce. Sure, a little job-related fuck was a given here and there, but he never let it get to him like this.

He hums against the small noise against his lips and places his hand over hers, helping apply a little more pressure and gradually work up to a slow stroking motion. Swallowing hard, he closes his eyes and nuzzles the side of his face against her hair. That relaxing and yet stimulating fragrance of vanilla and sandalwood fills his mind, mixing with the gin, and lets out a soft but throaty groan against her forehead.

That sound...

It's special. Even moreso at knowing that she was the one to make him make it. There's heat pooling between her legs, and that heat gives a wild twist as her hand works, at first following his lead and then taking the lead on her own. Inexperienced, Elsa may be, but her willingness to learn is nothing to be scoffed at. She gives his length an experimental squeeze and tucks her head under his chin to unabashedly watch her hand stroke him through the snowlight.

(It would be easy, to chalk her shamelessness on the alcohol, but there is a part of her that readily recognizes the alcohol comes secondary to how she desperately, desperately wants to hear him again, wants to feel it rumble low in his chest.)

"Henry..." Hazily soft and thoughtful. She doesn't lift her head to look at him, nor does her hand slow in its pace. She swallows. "I want to ask you something."

Even she is not immune to wanting to chat in the middle of a crucial moment.

Edited 2015-01-31 06:28 (UTC)

When he head is no longer facing the same direction as his, he's curious as to what she's up to, but he has to admit that the way she's touching him is an amazing distraction. Her willingness and eagerness play a huge part in the pleasure he feels, that experimental squeeze with those delicate but surprisingly firm fingers. He lets out a shuddering sound, swallowing again but finding his throat dry.

He's about to lose himself to the feeling, just sink into and let it wash over him when suddenly her voice rings out clear through the air. It's almost jarring, feels like it's been forever since they've said actual words.

"Hnn... yes, Elsa?" His voice sounds a bit cracked at first but he clears his throat, letting out a deep breath. Her hands are still moving, stroking, working him up and it makes him wonder if what she has to ask is something so important to bring it up now, of all times.

For a moment, it seems like she isn't going to ask her question at all, as if she had thought better of it. She's quiet as her hand continues to work over him, strokes even and gentle, and she watches as he slides between her fingers.

The truth of it is she knows she shouldn't ask. Even if there wasn't a better time than now, her question is undoubtedly a dangerous one.

Her fingers are sticky. The realization is enough to break her reverie, and she splays her hand over his chest to nudge him back onto his back before sliding on top of him. His hips cut into her thighs, and she tries very, very hard to not think about how she can feel him, firm and hot, through the sheer material of her underwear. That twist of heat between her legs tightens, and she dares reward it with a roll of her hips against his.

(... oh. She likes it better this way, she realizes, where she can see more of him, touch more of him, and feel more of him.)

Elsa regards him in the snowlight for a moment, before reaching between her thighs to give him another light stroke before trailing her fingers up his stomach, sternum, chest, shoulder -- she draws invisible lines down his arms until her fingers circle his wrists, and she guides his hands to rest on her hips. She rolls against him in a silent sort of request -- show me.

But her hands come up to catch his face, to make him look at her.

"Did she deserve it?"

She doesn't have to explain who she is. The question isn't angry, but thoughtful. And, perhaps, on some level, daring. Why it feels important to ask him now, when she's drunk and perched on top of a man, wearing nothing but her knickers and rutting against him like a lovesick teenager, she's not sure, other than the fact that it's still very, very important.

Elsa rolls against him again, and this time she has to draw her own bottom lip between her teeth.

"There is no right answer. Did she deserve to die?"

Her silence is regarded with some curiosity, but he doesn't press it-- he definitely doesn't press it when she's still got her hand wrapped around so nicely. Her eyes are still on him, and the rhythm is painfully even, so it's not out of indecision or shyness. Again, it's pushed back in his mind. It's not worth mulling over if she's not going to bring it up again.

He grunts as he's on his back again, letting out a sigh when her body slides up against his, their skin getting warmer again and he can feel that heat between her legs trapping him tight and elicits another pleased sound when she rewards herself. The unintentional show is relished as he watches her the best he can through slit eyes, threatening to close and roll back in his head.

Reading her body language, he can tell she wants more and it's made more obvious when he lets his hands be guided to her hips. His fingers tighten, slipping a couple of them under the feather light material of her underwear.

"Did she deserve it?"

Normal people would probably find that question a huge mood-killer, to bring up something like that out of the blue. With killing, there's no sadness, although there were times he did feel a bit sorry for them. Sylvia, being a special case, is a difficult one to categorize, but his answer is clear. His conscious is clear, if not for the fact that it wasn't Sylvia at all.

He looks at her, almost flatly, though the visible flush of his skin says his mood hasn't tanked otherwise. The roll against his hips again makes him groan lightly, the way she pulls back on her lip, that expression, only helping spur his mood further.

"Y-Yes...more than you know."

She needed to die, eventually. Sooner the better. It goes beyond what she had done to him. The world isn't safe with her in it, even if she played such a small role in the grander scheme of things. With such a powerful backing and network, who knew what she could do? The images of blood return and he grips at the thin fabric tight, and with a heavy hand he pulls them down a little. Its descent is only stopped by her spread legs. Breathing hard through his nose, he drags blunt but neatly trimmed nails down her thigh towards the source of her heat. Hand splayed out, he slips a thumb behind the creased fabric and gives her a firm rub.

She should find it sickening, that it doesn't kill his mood. Sickening, and perhaps even a little frightening. Instead...

... instead she nods. All right.

It looks more like a bow than anything else. She can feel his grip tighten on the fabric, and she brings her hand up to try and guide him into relaxing his hold when -- oh.

That...

That...

Wherever the conversation might have been going, that ends it quite abruptly with another gasp, followed by a another wanton sort sound. Elsa almost finds herself crumpling forward, but she catches herself on his chest. The touch is perhaps too firm, but it pulls her taut like a drawstring nonetheless. Her legs flex around his hips, tightening and then relaxing. Her hair is mussed, it falls into her face and goes unnoticed.

It's like igniting a wildfire. Her hands clench over his chest, hard enough that her nails are leaving cresent-moon indentations in her palms. She lets out a low groan (his name, undoubtedly) just as she drops down to kiss him again. This time there isn't anything chaste about the way her lips move against his, crashing and parting without hesitation as they are to taste him as deep as she can.

She makes a muffled sound against his mouth, and barely pulls back enough to speak ("Don't stop.") before she's diving back in again to leave a sharp nip against his bottom lip.

Curious blue eyes search her face for any sort of repulsion. His answer could've been unacceptable by some, even those who did not know Sylvia, and those who knew her would've waffled between their shaky morals. He didn't have that kind of time or patience. He'd have no regrets in killing her himself- though would probably feel it if something had happened to her while he'd been away. It's a sick sense of fulfillment, and he had tasted it. And he knew it was the right thing to do.

But in this moment, Sylvia matters no more. His thumb feels a little slick but it stills when he draws out that beautiful reaction from Elsa- she must be very new to this, he imagines with some fondness. He licks his dry lips, a flitting though of wondering how'd she'd taste crossing his mind. His chest heaves as she puts her weight on it, but she's not heavy- she says his name in that nearly pleading sort of way that makes his head spin.

"Els-," is all he gets out before their lips are mashed together, now with some fervor and perhaps desperation on his part. He manages to squeeze his hands between their lower bodies fingers full pressed under the only piece of fabric she's wearing. The sharp pain in his lip draws a short throaty growl as he matches her pace, swallowing her bottom lip and flicking his tongue past the threshold. He can barely get any words in, but he manages to mutter against her lips ("Never.").

A couple of fingers spread the slick skin where he'd rubbed, and now avoiding the all too sensitive spot directly, he rubs his fingers in alternating directions to stimulate the flesh around it. It's a gentle enough touch that it wouldn't make her double over, but enough to keep her body under his control.

It's a reaction that definitely would not have been as strong if she were more experienced in this. As it is, all of it is more than a little overwhelming.

Control is a tenuous thing. Hers is slipping away more and more. The frost that had spiraled along the bedpost is starting to spread along the curtains to the other side. She's only vaguely aware of it.

It's not enough. She makes a frustrated sort of sound against his mouth, internally cursing how it's impossible to push the sheer fabric down anymore perched on top of him like she is.

"This--" a kiss, a nip, a growl "--silly thing..."

Henry can feel her mounting frustration and to play alongside her nips and growls- mounting aggression, he thinks with satisfaction- he upends her once more onto her back so that he can free himself of her legs straddling him.

If she wants to force him back onto his back later, he certainly wouldn't mind.

Pressing his body against her in a hard but brief roll, he lets her know just how much of an effect she's had on his body. It aches when he does in that amazing way, drawing out another noiseless sigh. With a little less grace than he's used to, he yanks at her underwear, which was already slipping off a bit to begin with and lets it take its course off her ankles as their bodies squirm and shift on the bed.

He breathes hotly against her chest, lips pressing a needy kiss between her breasts, and now that there's nothing standing between him and her body, his hands roam freely. In contrast to his roughness before, they gently brush through the fine hairs between her legs and slips his fingers along the wet skin. Distracting her with his hands, his lips make their way down her body. Before he descends, he gives a teasing lick at her nipple and trails kisses down her stomach.

Her back meets the bed, and the last piece of fabric is peeled down her legs. The frost spreads across the canopy and spirals down another bedpost. She reaches for him as he comes down, hands splaying over his cheeks and tangling into his hair as he rolls against her.

His lips work their way between her breasts, and her back arches to press against his mouth. There's a sound in the air and she realizes a little hazily that it's coming from her: very soft and breathy laughter, barely louder than a sigh. In spite of her giggles, her heart is pounding so hard she can feel it in her ears.

It's exhilarating.

She lightly draws her nails along his scalp as he moves down her stomach and plays them along the shell of his ears.

There's a distant crackling sound in the distance and he barely spies the sheen of frost on the bedpost. He smiles against her skin, his nose nuzzling her stomach as he continues lower and lower.

His hands hold onto her hips tight, and scooches his body down the bed a little. He inhales, the same vanilla smell still lingering on her skin, then releases a hot breath between her legs and places a kiss on the most sensitive parts. Tentatively, he flicks his tongue out, softly at first, but then gradually works up to a steady lapping.

As much as his own desires were screaming at him by this point, he can't rush this. He's good at being patient and his self-control is nothing to shake a stick at, either.

It's one thing to have knowledge of something, and a whole other thing to have experience in it. Elsa has knowledge of sex and intimacy -- it is next to impossible to be the heir to a throne and not know about it -- but her experience in it is positively dismal. She knows what Henry means to do, when his hands grip her hips and he slides down between her legs, but she doesn't know exactly what to expect to come from it. So she shivers and laughs out of a sort of nervous anticipation.

A warm heat envelops her core, pulls her tight, and she sucks in a breath of air through her teeth. It takes every ounce of control she has left to not squeeze her legs around his head. Henry is a musician, and he's plucking her strings, making her sing. Where at first she was just taking steady breaths, it becomes soft gasps into the air. Not quite moaning, but almost. Close.

That her hips are pinned by his hands is absolutely maddening. In spite of it, she tries to shift beneath him to no real avail; one of her legs comes up to rest against his shoulder, and her toes curl into his back. Her fingers continue to card through his hair, idly stroking her nails along the back of his head and behind his ears -- at least until he starts building that steady lapping, and then her fingers are tightening into it, threatening to pull.

Oh god. He's going to unravel her. Unravel her so very easily. The thought sends a brief, but wild sort of panic up her back, and for a moment the frost threatens to thicken where it's spreading to the third bedpost.

Her whole inexperience of this all is a bit new to Henry, but he does take the proper steps to make this as good for her as possible. There aren't any questions or proper communication between them, which would probably help, but he keeps it pretty basic. Nothing painful, unless that's what she wants, and when/if it comes to it, then he'll take the necessary precautions. Sex can either ruin a good relationship or build a better foundation to a previously awkward one- and it's no question that their relationship didn't start off too great.

The way she shivers and laughs reverberates through her body, feeling the motions on his lips. Strong hands make sure she doesn't just clamp down on him with her knees, but he can also feel her holding back. The leg is ignored, simply because it doesn't get in his way, and he runs his hand up and down the side of her in soothing, comforting strokes. He hums against her skin when she runs her fingers through his hair and tightens, that sting on his scalp sending a pleasant thrill down his spine. It spreads through his body, forcing him to up his efforts.

He looks up at her slightly- thinking he should slow down a bit before this ends all too soon. Judging by the sudden thickening of frost and the slight drop in temperature, she's enjoying it enough, but can't get too excited. He doesn't want something...unfortunate to happen if he decides to keep going at this pace.

So as he teases her in that steady pace he's got going, there's a moment where he tilts his head up a little and pushes the tip of his tongue inside. It's barely a penetration, a test, just to see if that would elicit a delicious response from her parted lips.

If his hands holding her hips down doesn't drive her mad, then how steadily his tongue lapping against her most certainly will. It's slow enough that she isn't completely overwhelmed by it, but teasing enough that she can't quite keep still. With her hips pinned, her back arches slightly, and it's enough to change the angle just so that --

-- oh. That...

(Her soft gasps turn into throaty murmurs.)

It isn't much, but it's anticipation of it and what it means that sends a hot, aching twist straight down her middle. That alone sends another flutter of panic up her spine, and there's a faint crackling sound as more frost swirls and spreads to the final bedpost. Elsa only half-hears it.

The hand that had been tangled in his hair comes away, and fists into the blanket beneath them. The other finds his hand at one of her hips, and she circles her fingers around his wrist. She draws his palm back up the length of her body, shamelessly bringing it over one breast, and up to her cheek. She turns her head to nuzzle at it before she parts her lips against it and tips her head back to leave a nip against the pad of his thumb.

Perfect. That's the sound he expects, because he knows that this is just the beginning. If she'd made a louder sound or reacted more visibly, it would've been a little worrying. He wiggles his tongue for only a moment longer before withdrawing, breathing out coolly on wet, heated skin.

Her guidance brings him back up her body, giving her body the attention needs on its ascent- flicking his thumb over her breast, brushing fingertips against her throat, then finally resting on her cheek. His body isn't as worked up as it was before, having lost it in the couple of minutes away from rutting against her, but there's a growing lust in his expression while he watches her lips and teeth press and nip at his thumb. He curls it, brushing the surface of it against her lower lip.

At the same time, he's inched his body up again, and instead of straddling her, he's kneeling over her, pushing his knees under her thighs to hold her legs open. His exposed length rubs against the slick folds of skin, trying to build up that amazing pressure he'd lost. With that teasing hint of whats to come, he moans softly, ducking his head and planting small kisses on her chest.

There's something to be said about instinct in the wake of sex; how thoughts that would normally never cross one's mind seem plainly obvious. Henry's thumb brushes along her bottom lip, and she exhales sharply against it before drawing it into her mouth. Her expression isn't devious as she does so, like one might expect, but rather wide-eyed and searching, almost as if asking for validation in it before she presses a kiss to the pad of his thumb and reaches for him.

She feels a little... almost silly, spread out like she is in front of him. Exposed. Maybe not so much as that, but vulnerable, with the way he's kneeling over her. Elsa's immediate instinct is to wrap around him and hoist herself up so they're both sitting up. It would hinder their range of movement, she thinks, but it would bring them close, put them on the same playing field.

She does wrap her legs around him. But instead of hoisting herself upward, she brings her arms around his shoulders.

-- it's an embrace. Like catching him.

Loose, but warm. Elsa draws an idle pattern along his back before tangling her fingers into the hair at the back of his head while he kisses her chest. She presses a kiss to what she can reach of his forehead.

Such a simple action as drawing his thumb into her mouth garners a shudder from him. He catches that expression, and although a devious expression is just as alluring, the wide-eyed one is just as attractive- perhaps more fitting- on her face.

He smooths his hand over her thigh and buttocks, encouraging her to tighten her grip on him if she wishes and raises his head to work his lips up her neck and jawline. With her body vulnerable to him, touching and rubbing against him in such an unbearable way, he has to swallow a low growl in his throat. Even with the frosted over bedposts cooling the unusually warm room down, his body feels hot and wound up tight.

"How's the position?" Words kept to a minimum, but he keeps his tone light and breathy against her ear. His arms move around her body to suggest that he could easily lift her into a sitting position. From what he could tell, she seems to enjoy being on top of him rather than below.

Oh, that is a nice reaction. It almost makes her want to smile at him, but his hands are roaming and she's following encouragement, with legs tightening around him. Her head falls back as he works up her neck, giving him all the room he needs. Her shoulders rise as she sighs into the air, and strokes her nails along his shoulders.

-- talking is strange. They've spoken so little since tumbling through her door that, even with his tone so light, it's almost a little jarring. His breath is hot against her ear and it leaves her feeling a little hazy, alcohol notwithstanding. She hums in response, draws her fingers over the back of his neck, and catches his face again.

(It's a little alarming, how much she's starting to enjoy that so much, holding his face in her hands.)

He could lift her, yes, but she is determined to try and move on her own. It's more of a struggle this time -- he'll probably have to assist, anyway -- but she tries to leverage herself up and twist so she can perch on top of him again. She draws her braid -- it's so tousled now! -- over her shoulder and peers at him.

This time, she smiles. Faintly, but genuinely. She rolls her hips, slicking against his length. Her voice comes out just as light.

"Show me...?" ... how to do this?

He falls into the embrace of her hands, delicate little things that have a surprising amount of power. It's tempting to lean forward and kiss her again, following her lead and simply relishing her little touches on his face and body.

But his own body is needy, and wants to feel more than just innocent touches. He feels the bit of resistance in gravity, and he wraps his arms around her waist, supporting her as she overturns him. She's in his lap now, and god her skin is so slick against him that it makes him buck his hips just a little, he leans back on the bed with a small sigh. He looks up at her with a hint of pleading in his eyes but her request doesn't go unanswered.

He lets out a soft groan when she rolls her hips and he has his hands at the ready, resting on her hips which then suddenly grip firm to guide her up. He's erect, hard enough to move on to the next part of her lesson, but he doesn't guide her down or push her down in any way just yet.

"Just relax," he murmurs, a hand sliding down her front and he rubs a finger against the wet entrance. Without much of a warning, he slides a finger inside in one motion. It's slick enough that it shouldn't hurt, but he's always been the more careful type. Working it in and out, he makes enough room to slide a second finger in, only beginning to gauge her reaction at this point. She's so warm, tight, and sticky, and his own body feels like it's punishing itself, but just a little bit more. He's so close to fully experiencing her body and soul that he can almost taste it like he had before.

"I'll guide you through it, yeah?"

Talking doesn't sound as strange anymore the more he does it, but it's harder to form words and teach and be gentle all at the same time so he just doesn't bother unless he must. Normally, he's quite vocal, and he'd like to think that especially with someone not as experienced he'd be much more instructive. Perhaps that'd be a turn-off, perhaps not, it's hard to say when he hasn't been with anyone else for a long time aside from Sylvia and she was... well, she was a very experienced lass. But judging by Elsa's choice of using only a few words, he's pretty sure it all worked out for the better.

She's not sure how she knows what he means to do when he brings his hand between her legs, but she braces herself nonetheless. Later, she'll probably recall the moment, with a certain amount of embarrassment, how it's almost the exact opposite of relaxing. But it doesn't matter; one finger slips inside and she does relax, with her bottom lip drawn so tight between her teeth that she's a little surprised she doesn't draw blood. It doesn't hurt, but it sends a fresh twist of heat from between her legs and up her back. Her knees flex against his sides as she squirms a little with the new sensation, like trying to feel as much of it as she can.

Two fingers, and she shudders. Again, it doesn't hurt, but there's that heated twist low in her gut that pulls her taut. She squirms even more with it, knees flexing at his sides.

Heat rushes up her back, and color flourishes over her cheeks. She's not sure why she's suddenly blushing besides the fact that there are fingers inside her, and it won't be just fingers for very long. She inhales sharply, casting him an almost shy sort of look before she bends forward.

"It's..." Distracting. She can't really remember what she was going to say. Where Henry had been tempted to kiss her but didn't act, Elsa closes the gap -- parting her lips against his and kissing to taste him, long and lingering. Her fingers trace the contours of his cheeks, jaw, and throat before rippling over his chest until at least one hand splays over his heart. She can feel it beating beneath her palm. "... brilliant."

Breathing in and out, evenly as possible, he works the two fingers in and out of her to get her used to the feeling. It's safe to say her body is physically prepared, feeling how slick his fingers are as they rub against one another. The way she squirms on top of him and breathes heavy is a nice little show which only serves to heighten his anticipation of replacing his fingers with something else. She makes even one's first time look graceful and beautiful, even if she didn't think so herself.

When she leans forward to kiss him, he accepts it readily, the motion eager and hungry, humming low in his throat when she pull away to shower attention on other parts of his body. Her body tightens around his fingers when she leans, and he keeps them still although the urge to just shove them in hard and deep is tempting.

"Good, yeah..." His mind is elsewhere, incredibly distracted by all her little touches, the way her breath tickles his hot skin, and of course the way his fingers seem trapped inside her body. But slowly, he slides them out, using the slick coating on his fingers to lubricate his aching length. It's only a couple of strokes, gripping himself and rubbing the tip of it against the entrance he'd just pulled out of earlier.

"Ready? I'll help you move." His other hand rubs her lower back comfortingly, ready to hold her if she needs him. Thigh muscles flex under her as he positions himself, and with a hand clutching his base, he presses himself against her and slowly (excruciatingly, amazingly) squeezes just a bit of himself inside her. Her body is tight, new, so he takes care not to rush. It's all can he do to keep a shuddering gasp under control, however, and he feels his eyes screw shut at the tightening sensation enveloping him.

She would be a liar if she said that there isn't a part of her that wants to say it won't be necessary. Human beings have been procreating since their existence, and the act is fairly straightforward. But there's another part of her that knows it's wise to give into it, and let him guide. She had told him to show her, after all, it would do no one good to send such mixed signals.

There's something very final in his movements. Final, and perhaps maybe confident, in how his fingers retract and glisten under the sheen, how he spreads the slickness over his length. Elsa finds she isn't really ashamed to watch it. The better part of her reminds her that she should probably find it a little lewd to do so; the other part finds it enticing.

And when he shifts and she can feel him, hot and firm between her legs, her heart is suddenly pounding so hard in her chest that it's hard to breathe.

-- hard to breathe, because there's pain, too. A surprising amount of it, actually; sharp and deep. Her mind struggles to find something to compare it to, and she finds it can't -- because for as sharp and deep as it is, it's paradoxically, confusingly beautiful.

This is what it means to be with someone.

There's a heavy sort of weight that comes with the thought, and what it means.

There aren't any theatrics. There's no time for theatrics. Everything seems to just tumble forward. Just as soon as there was pain it's ebbing away again, and just as soon as it ebbs away it comes back in a flood. He presses into her (slowly, excruciatingly, amazingly) and it isn't enough. She sinks down (slowly, excruciatingly, amazingly) until she can't anymore, filled to the brim.

It comes in another wave, and then it goes, and she's left peering down into his face. Eyes wide and fiery, and nails sharp and clawing into his skin.

Elsa is still for a moment. She wants so very much to bend down, to kiss him until her lips swell and her lungs are screaming for air, but for the moment she's a little wary of moving at all. She takes a deep breath in, a deep breath out, and finally reaches up to cup a (shaking) hand against his face, as if trying to comfort him.

Her voice comes out thin, watery. "Don't move. Not... not yet."

There's something appreciative about a woman who has just enough poise and just enough boldness to simply sit and watch him administer the treatment on himself. It's exciting, and he's unable to control the quickening of his breathing.

He can't possibly imagine what this would feel like on her end, but he resists the intense urge to close his eyes and watches her closely. His focus is on her expressions as she slides down onto him. There's a mixture of pain and pleasure flitting across her face and he can't help but do the same. The squeezing of her body is mind-numbing, and he can't remember the last time he's felt this close to anyone.

"A-Ah..." There's no way to contain the sound as her body connects again with his, her weight and warmth wrapping him up completely and so fully. He's been watching the way he disappeared inside her as well, and he's biting his lip by the time she's looking into his eyes. Nails dig into him and he hisses, the prickling feeling cutting through his mind. It's swimming and driving him mad.

It's a good thing she spoke up before he had a chance to regain his composure because his hips were more than ready to buck on their own. He looks up at her, eyebrows furrowed in concentration and self-restraint, and places his hands on her hips. Every touch of her fingertips is like an icy burn, and he tries to focus on that sensation instead.

"I... I won't. Hm... are you all right?" His breath comes out shaky, and he swallows dryly letting his hands ghost over her skin idly.

"I'm fine..."

And she is. The pain is ebbing away again, like a low tide. Elsa brings her hand down from his face, and draws her fingertips across the half-moon indents her nails had scored along his chest. Her brows furrow an apologetic sort of way. There's a silent question in her eyes that she can't quite bring herself to ask: are you?

Silly. Of course he's all right. It isn't his first time.

She lets out a deep breath -- nervousness, excitement, both -- and gives a slight roll of her hips, testing. The pain she expects doesn't quite come as sharply, and by the second, third, fourth roll it has ebbed away completely. She draws her lip between her teeth, and the next roll is less testing and more teasing.

Oh.

A smile plays faintly across her lips, and she lets out a shuddery breath. "All right."

His hands had been gentle at first, and he'd honestly been trying to keep it that way. When she soothes the indents in his skin softly, he exhales deeply and closes his eyes for a moment. Calm down a bit. Just a little.

Whether she'd asked the question or not, in this case, it certainly would've been valid. Though not the way she probably meant it, but he's certainly not going to be all right if he doesn't move soon. Not that he'd ever say that out loud, of course.

Whoa. She moves her hips, a bit slow, tentative- which is expected. It's not a particularly difficult movement, so there's no right or wrong way to do it. It still feels damn good. His grip on her gets tighter with each roll, mouth open just a bit as he breathes in through his nose and out his mouth to keep himself focused. It's testing for her, but it's teasing for Henry the whole time. So when she finally says "All right", he has to muster all the energy he can manage to keep from moving too quick.

Offering a weak smile, he beckons her close with one hand while the other keeps a firm grip on her hip.

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