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.

♠♥♣♦

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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.

There is something distinctly alluring about the way he looks when he exhales to focus himself, when he breathes in sharp and exhales sharper. He's holding back. She's not sure how she knows it, only that it becomes more and more clear with every stroke of her hips.

-- and it's quickly becoming strokes. Light and unsure ones, but slowly growing in confidence.

It's brilliant.

... and it's a shame that she has to slow to a stop again when he beckons her close, if only because it hasn't quite occurred to her that she doesn't actually have to stop. Elsa leans down to stroke the side of his face --

(why does she like touching it so much...)

-- and touches her forehead to his.

"Say something..." Anything. While it had been strange before, she finds she would very much like to hear his voice now.

Oh, no... it's almost regretful that he's asked her to slow down, but he enjoys what he can get for now. As she leans closer to him, his hands slide down her backside and rest at the small of her back.

"Mm, you'll want to hold on tight, Elsa," he purrs, kneading his fingers into her skin. His hips shift a little, almost like a warning. While he enjoys the hangs along his face, how she caresses and takes care in her movements, he knows it's going to have to change soon when he gets started. What he's hoping for is some rough clawing on his skin- he's not sure why he suddenly wants it. Perhaps it's the sensation of her nails digging into his skin earlier that set his skin on fire? Either way, he's not new to rough lovers, so anything she can dish out (as long it's not an ice burn) he can handle.

"So beautiful..." He breathes out, barely audible, as his hips start to move.

It's a slow start, drawing out of her first before pushing himself back into her. The hands on her back aren't just for show, as he uses his hold on her as leverage. Unlike earlier, he doesn't interrupt and his movements definitely allow room for her to take control as well. Slowly but surely, he's building a gradual rhythm, making her feel the entirety of him, venturing deeper inside and pulling soft groans from his lips with the sheer heavenly feeling of wetness and warmth.

It's a slow start, but every snowball starts slow before rolling into an avalanche -- no pun intended. Moment by moment, everything falls together; guidance and instinct. Henry moves into a gradual rhythm, and she feels everything. It pulls her impossibly taut, like livewire, and from there it only gets tighter.

Elsa is content, in the beginning, to just follow his guidance. She braces herself against him, holds on tight just like he had warned, and moves with him, with sharp little gasps into the air and bitten lips; soft murmurs and light breathing.

In the end, there's still something to be said about Elsa's determination to learn; it isn't long before instinct overrides guidance. Henry leaves her room to take control and Elsa doesn't hesitate to seize it back.

And from there, it all feels a little like coming alive.

Where she had been pressed close, she props herself up back into a perch over him. Her hands find his shoulders and grip them tight, baring down on them to press them down into the bed below.

And she moves.

Hips moving in strokes, strokes long and sweeping. Her head falls back onto her shoulders, and what escapes her is a withered sort of moan that's loud enough that she can't exactly blame the alcohol for it. It should be embarrassing, by all means, but nothing can be further from the truth.

There is frost gathering along the canopy. Even in its coolness, color flushes into her cheeks, and beads of sweat break out along the back of her neck and shoulders, making the finer hair stick even more to her skin. It's almost a little annoying, actually, how hot and ticklish it is, but for the moment she tries to ignore it.

Every curse word in his brain starts to fire off when the rhythm becomes steady. He can feel her tensing and tightening around him, and hear her breathing in and out sharply alongside her gasps, and it's amazing. People always made jokes about having sex with inexperienced people and how great it was- he never really believed it, but now he can see there's definitely an appeal. They feel good, they feel like they're depending on you, and while he wouldn't want that all the time, in this moment, it's all that he could ask for.

For the most part, his sounds are muffled behind clenched teeth, parting them only when he can't seem to hold his breath any longer. Then there's a surge of motion from Elsa, and he resists the weight and pressure on his shoulder out of instinct, then remembers to relax as he lays full on his back, staring up at her in brief puzzlement. His eyes widen just a touch, expecting but not expecting, and then she moves.

And God does she know how to move. He imagines the movement is still fairly new to her, but considering the earlier momentum, she's picked up on it surprisingly quick. It's almost a surprise, but he hangs on for dear life as he clenches his teeth again and also moans through them. His eyes squint, relishing the friction of her body coating his length, stroking it mercilessly while squeezing and pressing it with each rise and fall of her hips.

His face is flush too, unable to register the beads of sweat at the moment, as he puts all his focus and attention on his hands and his own hips, occasionally thrusting up when she goes down. He spreads his feet slightly, curling his toes against the bedspread for purchase as his movements get harder, rougher- the image of her in bliss, moaning like that, it's nice...but he wants to see more, to see her eyes roll back and cry out. His control isn't slipping away per se, but seeing her get more comfortable with it allows him to get bolder.

If he wants to see more, he won't have to wait for very long.

There's something about the way his movements grow hard and rough that seems to draw her in. It's strangely, strangely satisfying, like scratching an itch that's waited an ungodly long time to be scratched. All at once, she becomes hyper-aware of the feeling of his hands weighing against her hips. Henry has nice hands; strong, confident...

(terrible, brutal)

... and it is really, really hard to not want them everywhere; to not want them to grip her tight, scratch her surface, fight for control, get under her skin...

(But he's already done that, hasn't he?)

The thought is an alarming one. Elsa doesn't understand it, much less know how to communicate it to him. Her grip on his shoulders, again, grows sharp as her nails dig into the skin, and she uses it as leverage. An upward swing of her hips and --

There. She's not sure what he or she had done, but whatever it is, it cuts through the haze of everything and sends twisting bolt of heat straight to her core. A very, very rare curse is ripped from her throat. The sound is embarrassingly wanton, and yet she can't bring herself to care. Her movements become slightly erratic -- her concentration is wavering -- and there's another shrill sort of moan in the air that sounds suspiciously close to his name.

It is probably a miracle that none of the neighbors have come knocking on her door yet.

The ravenous feeling is awfully familiar, and he knows right away what it is. It's that desire to take and take until there's nothing but a shuddering mess left. The context is completely different, of course, but it still applies somehow.

He can feel her up her efforts to match his, and it's perfect. It's tempting to upend her again, get her on her back and attack that smooth skin with his lips and teeth. But all coherent thought (or at least what's left of it) is thrown out the window when she swings up and-- Yep. It might be a different experience for him, it feels good but it's not at the same level Elsa is experiencing. What he's watching closely is her face and hearing that single curse word, a word he never imagined her ever saying, sends a bit of a thrill through his body.

The way she seems unsteady is noticeable. At this point, he can feel ever nuance of their movements with how intertwined they are. His hands were originally on her hips, gripping tight, but they roam up and down, smoothing over her stomach and waist then scraping his nails into her skin. He maintains the balance, takes over for her when she seems to be losing it, and he leans his head back and hums low in his throat at the sounds she makes (he also imagines it's his name). His thrusts maintain their power, pulling her down in when he moves up, going as deep as he can- it might even hurt her, he thinks, but the thought is so clouded that he can barely respond to it.

Unlike Elsa, though, he actually swears freely. It's mixed in with his groans, though, not too obscene but needy enough. His vision starts to blur with how much he's squinting, his body reacting to the squeezing and and wanton moaning more than he'd expected it to.

"God, you're amazing..." His voice is hoarse, breathy, and he speaks without thinking now, letting his mind and body simply do what it wants.

At this point, she would probably welcome it. As much as she's been resistant to relinquishing control -- what control she does have, does she even have any at all? -- she can't deny that having it suddenly taken away might hold a certain kind of appeal.

It hurts. But it hurts in a brilliant sort of way, like stoking a deep fire. It's deep enough that her back feels like it might give -- and so she yields to it and bends down. With his head tipped back like it is, it gives her ample room to kiss the hollow of his throat before leaving a sharp nip against the side of his neck.

Everything is moving incredibly fast. Too fast. Like sprinting toward a finish line, only to realize the finish line is at the edge of a cliff. Henry's voice is a low rumble in the air, and it makes the back of her neck prickle in a curious way.

"Not me," she breathes, not even realizing that she's answering him at all as she scrabbles to find his face so she can kiss him feverishly. She doesn't bother to draw back as her lips peel back in another loud moan. A warning. "H-Henry."

He gasps at the sharp prick in his neck, punctuating it with another thrust inside her. It's driving him dangerously close to that metaphorical cliff as well. Pain and pleasure always worked hand-in-hand for him, and it delights him in ways he'd never known to share his fascination for it with somebody else again.

Somehow, miraculously, he manages to respond to her as she kisses him with that animal-like hunger, clawing at his skin to bring his face back to meet her demanding lips. His bursts of movement slow to a deep undulating of his body, lean muscles working overtime to even out the bumpy ride. She moans into his mouth, and he kisses her lower lip, nipping it as she says his name out loud in that desperate wavering tone, like she's about to spill an insuppressible secret.

"Would you like me to slow down?" His tone is horribly teasing, willing to draw out the torturous suspense for even just a minute. The desire to regain full control is back in full force, knowing that if she's close to that edge, she won't be able to fight back as much. He wants to see her writhe beneath him, to feel her convulse and shudder against his skin, heartbeats thudding against each other. With that image in mind, he doesn't wait for an answer- he's confident that she'll want him to keep going. She's close to him again, and that makes flipping her over easier. It's a fluid motion, practiced almost, but rough and fun all at once, and he's got better leverage this way in his movements to thrust into her.

"I..." He groans again, louder this time. "I doubt you'll want me to, yes?"

"Don't you dare--" slow down. And yet, the way he does slow to deep undulations is positively delightful; paradoxically, it threatens to undo her faster than anything they've gone through up until now. It's part of the reason why she doesn't resist being turned onto her back.

She wraps around him when she meets the bed. The muscles in her legs are pulled tight as her toes curl and she tangles her legs in his. Arms go around him, holding him in something like an embrace if not for the way her nails are digging sharply into his back and scoring along the skin. That he has better leverage like this becomes quickly obvious with each thrust.

If he wanted to watch her writhe, now is his chance. Her poise sloughs away, and she squirms and turns beneath him, arches and writhes, meets him with each ripple of his hips.

It's beautiful and terrible and breathtaking all at once. Everything, winding her up so tight that she might as well be a springcoil in a new watch -- tighter, tighter, tighter --

(if the neighbors couldn't hear them before, they will definitely hear them now, as she moans into the air)

-- until it all snaps clean, and she's practically screaming his name between harsh drags of air that burns her lungs hotter than any fire ever could. The frost on the canopy suddenly thickens, though it goes entirely unnoticed.

A breathy chuckle at her empty threat- if he could even call it that. She reacts beautifully, arching her back so smoothly and slowly losing that hint of grace that she may or may not have been clinging onto.

He grunts and sighs heavily, all behind clenched teeth as he keeps the steady rhythm, winding her up tighter and tighter, feeling her body squeeze as her reactions grow harsh and desperate. His own vision starts to blur, lights flashing behind his eyelids every time he closes them, and he finds himself clinging to her as well, hands groping and squeezing onto squirming, writhing flesh for purchase. She feels so good like this, and from what he can see, she also looks fantastic- that wild side of hers finally bursting forth as she screams.

The sudden tightness makes him gasp and stutter, but his movements don't cease. If anything, he moves faster, body practically slamming into her now viciously. He wants everything her body and soul can give him, and as she scrabbles at his back- inflicts sharp little fires onto his skin- it spurs him on harder and he's more than aware that this might be more than what her body can handle. Maybe she'll sob into his ear, beg him to stop even though it feels way too good, and that might just send him careening over the edge. He's prepared, though- he's not irresponsible, nor stupid.

He lets out a dirty swear, heady and dragged out between his lips as her pleasurable release begins to wane and his movements only become more and more desperate.

It hurts. Oh, it hurts, but it hurts in a beautiful, visceral way. Deep and burning, and it makes her want to laugh as much as it makes her want to scream. The sounds erupting from her throat are as close to sobs as they can probably get without actually being sobs: rough, heady calls that sometimes sound like his name, and sometimes sound like nothing coherent at all.

She has enough mind to recognize it, however; to recognize just how loud it all is -- especially when the bedframe clacks against the wall once, twice, thrice. It's uncouth, and she knows it. It's raw and primal, and she can hardly recognize herself in any of it.

And yet, that's what makes it so amazing.

She scrabble for him once again, fingers coming up from where they had been scoring into his shoulders to tangle into the hair behind his ears. With almost a yank, she turns his head to catch his mouth on hers, and it's all a little like swallowing the sounds he makes as she kisses him, and bares herself to him.

Her nails catch sharply on his ears, and the feeling almost makes her want to laugh a little hysterically.

-- so she does; and that comes out sounding more like a sob than anything else, hot and heady against his mouth. It hasn't quite occurred to her that her eyes are prickling, because she has them squeezed shut, but it won't be long before there are soft hitches in her breath.

Those sounds she makes... he listens to them, absorbs them, encouraged even more by them knowing he's ripping them out from her lungs. If he'd thought, on the first time they met, that Elsa would be in his arms and calling his name through incoherent babble? He would've thought himself daft, and probably needed to get laid as an after thought.

He doesn't care for finesse, letting the bed clatter against the wall. It's more exciting to him knowing that they can fuck so hard that it wakes up the neighbors, that rush, that wild abandon from doing something so utterly savage. Not like any of their usual selves at all.

This time, it's Henry's turn to feel that coiling sensation. His muscles and insides twist in that amazing and painful way, needing it to snap. He finds his head being yanked, head spinning so fast that he melts into the kiss- she takes control of him there as he controls their bodies. Flinches- the nail catches on his ear, and he can feel her breath, her words (were they words? More like a sharp sob) pouring into his mouth and that's it.

Shit. He hates the idea of pulling away from her, to disconnect their bodies, but with a fierce snarl- at least, that's the best way to describe the sound he makes through clenched teeth- he yanks himself down her body. He ducks his head against her chest and releases a long, suffering moan, teeth bared and pressing hard against her skin. Despite how wild and out of control it all feels, he manages to gain some clarity as he reaches his climax, but even with that said, he's surprised that he gets his hand over himself so quickly. Not even after a couple of tugs, he's shuddering and quickly cupping a hand over himself. His breath hitches, trying to keep himself elevated off her with his other arm using the elbow. It's... a tough position, but there's really nobody else to blame but himself. Not like finding a condom was really on his mind on the way over here anyway.

It ends how he'd expected it to, sweaty, sticky and bit dirty. He wants to move, but at the same time he can't bring himself to do it. It's almost jarring how suddenly everything comes rushing back, Elsa, her death, himself- what just happened? It's not a feeling of regret. No, sir. It's just...strange, and different. His mind is in no condition to really think hard about it, so he simply leans his head on her chest, propped up just a little by his elbow, and holding a hand in a loose fist off to the side. He thinks against it though and just wipes it off on the bedsheet- fuck it, he'll wash it for her later.

It's almost a little surreal, how fast and easy it is to come down; but it's certainly a welcome feeling. Everything is more than a little sore, but the soreness is muted under a pleasant sort of buzz.

She takes a deep breath, takes in the faint smell of sweat in his hair, and holds it. Her heart is pounding, and she wonders if he can hear it, or if he's even listening.

Pounding.

Why does her heart pound, if they're supposed to be dead?

Her hand comes down to trace her fingers along the shell of his hear, the gesture very gentle compared to moments ago.

"I can't feel my toes..." Although her voice is soft -- exhausted -- there's a hint of amusement.

She's not alone in thinking the sensation surreal. Henry is only starting to feel the realization set in that, maybe, he's found some semblance of a normal life here. It's bizarre to even think it, considering how disturbing and fucked up everything is in Monad, but he can actually feel certain long lost emotions. Peace, comfort, at least in this particular moment.

He'll have to deal with the rest of the bullshit this afterlife throws at him again sooner or later, but at least he can have this. At least he's being allowed to have this, and it's humbling. His eyes stay closed, listening to her heart and he rolls off a little to the side of her and buries his face into the crook of her neck, chuckling softly.

"Sure that's the only thing you can't feel on your body?" He sounds drowsy. Not much of a cuddler, but it just feels like the right thing to do this time.

There is a face tucked into the crook of her neck, creating a warm weight there. She is still for a long moment before she slowly brings her arms around him, keeping him in a very light embrace.

"I feel everything else."

There is a heavy, heavy weight behind the words that he probably won't understand, and she probably won't be inclined to explain it. And it's true, and it is incredible. She feels everything, every sting of pain, every buzz of pleasure, every pound of her heart, every ache in her muscles. The heat of his body tucked against hers, and the tickle of his breath against her skin. The heady warmth that always inhabits her apartment, and the chill of the frost in the --

"I don't know how to make it go away."

The frost.

Edited 2015-02-06 18:06 (UTC)

The words swim in his head, and even if he did understand right away what her words meant, he doesn't ask. He doesn't close his eyes, but simply lays there in thought- the haze of the alcohol dissipated some moments ago so his mind is clear, even if it throbs a little. His hand is draped across her middle, not quite holding, but just resting, and the next thing she says has him sighing a little.

He can't really feel the chill of the frost just yet, his mind definitely elsewhere. She could at least wait until he'd left to start regretting her choices, he thinks with a wry grin on his lips. It's a bit disappointing to hear something like that, not used to having a wonderful experience only to feel the weight of someone's regret on his shoulder right after.

"Is that what you want?" There's no indication in his tone that he was upset or anything, just very neutral.

In the heat of everything, the top bedsheet had been cast aside. It lays in a rumpled pile next to her. She reaches for it to draw it up over herself, and then draws it over him as best she can without jostling him too much.

-- definitely not the actions of a woman who may or may not be regretting her choices.

With the blankets pulled up, it all seems a lot less uncouth. More intimate, somehow. Her fingers draw across the back of his hand along her middle.

"No."

It doesn't really occur to her that they're talking about two completely different things. But, if asked, her answer would be the same.

"Not at all."

Her fingers fold around his wrist -- the gesture might be familiar to him now, at this point -- and she brings his hand up to rest against her cheek.

His body felt tense. Not tense enough that she could feel it through his skin, but just enough to keep him awake. With the pleasant ache of his body and the euphoric feeling of the after-glow, this bit of tension is most unwelcome.

That is, until he felt the sheet drape over his body like a thin embrace. Tentative, but accepting, and he exhales against her skin and screws his eyes shut in relief. Was that relief? He didn't even realize so much of his emotions were riding on this short moment, waiting for her to react, answer, anything...

She didn't want it to go away. She wished for him to stay, to be a part of her body. They had been connected, shared with each other, and melded together in a primal and wild ritual of sorts despite everything that's happened, and to him it feels right. It feels right that they bonded over a horrible mistake, and it's more than he deserved. That realization in itself is enough for him to feel...happy. How odd.

"Mm..." It's not any sort of word, but it's a positive hum, as he lets his hand rest on her cheek. His fingers twitch a little, caressing her flushed skin absentmindedly.

There is a drowsiness falling over her. Thick and heavy, but pleasant. In the haze of it, she tries to remember the last time she's ever felt this relaxed, and she comes up with nothing.

It's... liberating.

She doesn't quite realize that her eyes aren't opening after she's shut them until she feels herself drifting away. There's a brief moment where she thinks to fight it -- she should probably throw some semblance of clothing on, for the sake of modesty -- but instead she turns her head so her nose touches his palm, and she lets out a breath against it. Her fingers draw a light, idle pattern along his shoulder blade until she folds them over the back of his neck.

The sleep is welcome.

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"Just let it go." /echoes into the night

omfg, these two.

big dumb babies

dumbest babies