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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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It is a quiet, but subtly playful tone. Forgiven? Not quite. Forgotten? Not quite that, either. But she's willing to set it aside, at least until she's ready to deal with it. The ironic thing is that she's starting to feel the alcohol now, how it makes her ears and nose feel warm, and her lips tingle, and --
She watches his lips while he drinks. It makes her think of what it had felt like when he touched them to her forehead. How oddly passionate the gesture had been.
She watches his hands while he pours. He has nice hands. Terrible, yes. Dangerous, yes. But nice.
Her own hands feel a little heavy as she reaches for the drink. It's hard to say if she realizes how she leans over the table to do it.
Challenge, accepted.
But just as she takes the glass, she also reaches out with her other hand to circle her fingers around his wrist and hold it in place. The hold is light and very easy to pull away from, if he felt so inclined to do so. And if he doesn't, she smoothes her hand along the back of his as if to cradle it --
-- sips the drink, grimaces; the thought occurs to her that she should probably slow down, even if she doesn't want to --
-- and brings his hand to rest his palm against her cheek in a decidedly familiar gesture.
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There's a small click in the back of his mind when he thinks about the way he'd died, but it's quickly lost as he watches Elsa lean over the table. Her dress is different from the gown (ripped and torn, sheer in spots, and silky to the touch) and his gaze skims over the slight curve of her shoulder as she balances her weight against the table, the way her clavicle is pronounced against her skin, and the dark shadows of her dress against her neckline as it crinkles from her efforts.
He's distracted enough that he doesn't see her hand go for for his wrist and his whole body stiffens. It's just a reflex. Her touch is gentle enough that he manages to relax, whoever, and as she guides his hands up, his lips part slightly in anticipation because he recognizes this feeling- this gesture. He purses his lips tight, fingers twitching, brushing them against the fine hairs near her ear and without the gloves to hinder the sensation, he plays with them fondly.
Did she enjoy that? He recalls the moment they shared, and it was possibly the most physically trying moment for her, he'd imagine.
"Perhaps... you should slow down." His words come out a little choked, mostly from how dry his throat feels. Eyes still fixed on Elsa's, his thumb strokes her cheek, the circular motion of it starting to draw his focus. The position of his hand shifts a little, fingers curling around her jaw and under her chin, tipping it up slightly.
His other hand is there to pluck the drink from her hand and he takes a sip from it himself, but quickly sets it down with a clatter as he pushes himself out of his seat a bit to close the gap between them. It's a chaste touch, but he brushes his lips against her forehead like he'd done before. It sends a chill down his spine, recreating a scene that they were both trying to forget, but there were bits and pieces of it that he could not forget as much as he tried.
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Instead, she closes her eyes.
This close, she can smell him -- very faintly of cotton and leather, and a hint of alcohol -- and feel the breath on her face. It sends a wash of visible goosebumps across her shoulders and down her back. The only reason why she doesn't shiver from it is because of the pleasant buzz between her ears. An overwhelming sort of calmness that she honestly can't remember ever having experienced. Not since Anna --
Her eyes open, and she searches his face, as if looking for something that isn't there.
... He's not close enough.
(Did she really just think that?)
"Perhaps you should catch up..." It comes out low and heady, and she isn't sure why she said it at all, other than it seems like an appropriate thing to say to get him to do it again. There's a part of her that wants to reach for the glass to sip it, as if to prove her point --
-- instead she reaches for his hand and tilts her head back into his palm to brush her lips against it.
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She looks at him with such searching eyes, but he can't quite read her expression, something deep within him wishing he could offer her what she wanted.
"I-," He stops mid-sentence, one: because it seems like a rhetorical statement anyway and two: the feeling of her lips on his skin makes him inhale deep. An action so small and simple yet it stops him in his tracks. Without a word, he picks up the drink and knocks the whole thing back. Lips slightly wet from the drink (he hardly notices), he maneuvers around the small table in a quick motion despite the buzzing in his brain, and places a gentle but deep kiss on her lips. His palm had moved away just enough for him to reach her, but now that same palm pushing her chin up towards him.
He needs her close.
His gin-addled mind suddenly turns into a one-track mind, but he fights, oh he fights. The other hand reaches for her free hand and brings it up to his own, curling his fingers around hers to get those nails wrapped around his ear like she had before. His mouth remains still, as tempting as it is to keep going, barely hovering over hers in a valiant attempt for self-control.
"I think... we're all caught up, yes?"
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There isn't any time to think about the very real possibility that he might suddenly find himself frozen to his spot -- he won't, not with her head buzzing the way it is -- or to think about how this is so very incredibly foolish and there isn't any time to think about how very foolish this is. There are lips on hers, and they're impossibly warm -- warm -- and it is the most overwhelming thing.
Her fingers do curl around his ear, and her eyes drop down to his lips. She brings her other hand up to his other ear, and spares him the briefest glance before tipping her head up to touch her lips to his. Gentle and chaste -- it isn't quite a kiss, and it isn't quite not one, either. Her hands come down to splay over his cheeks and hold him in place when she finally comes back down and glances away.
"Perhaps..." She opens her mouth to say something, stops, and then draws herself backward, to a more respectable distance. "I think so..."
For a moment, she thinks she might just turn and leave. It actually surprises her a little when she holds her arm out to him. "I also think I would like an escort back to my apartment."
There's something in her tone that says he probably won't have much choice in this matter.
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As quickly as the warmth had washed over them, it's soon gone, but her back is to him now and he figures it's probably for the best. Just... he shouldn't press it, he doesn't have that right. If it's a surprise to her then one can only imagine his surprise as he stares at the arm a bit stupidly for a second before regaining his composure. Embarrassing, but salvageable.
Not to mention her tone is a bit...commanding, in that regal sort of queenly way that he's so used to with Sylvia. Hers isn't as coy or mysterious, but a bit enchanting and refreshing- although he'd be lying if he said he didn't feel some anticipation there as well. He senses a wariness that rises to the surface out of habit, even as he takes her hand. The hand that could easily render his living flesh into a tomb of ice if she so wished, and here he is, just taking her hand like the thought didn't even cross his mind.
"Of course."
Of course he can trust her, right? If she'd wanted to pull something like that on him, she would've done it long before. Not the type to overly worry over his choices, he escorts her to her apartment in silence unless she had anything to say to him.
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Her steps slow when her apartment comes into view, as if she has half a mind to send him away before they even get to the door, and when she is within arm's reach she releases his hand to reach for the knob. This is the end of the line, isn't it? They can part ways and never see each other gain. Wouldn't that be for the better...?
Elsa opens her mouth to say something, perhaps a final farewell, and then closes it as she turns around to face him.
No. It's not enough.
She moves before she even realizes what she's doing: reaching for him and drawing him to her, meeting him in a (decidedly more real, and far less chaste) kiss before stepping backward until her back meets the door.
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He's not entirely sure what this will all lead up to, in all honesty. It's just a simple escort back to her place. Sometimes he reads too much into things, especially when intoxicated. When they're standing in front of her door, he puts his hands on his hips, a little lost in thought.
When she suddenly turns though, he snaps to attention and through the haze of his mind he doesn't quite remember how it all went down. One minute he's staring at the hem of her skirt and having a sudden urge to smooth a hand over her legs again (damnit, it's the gin. Thank god that mind-reading girl isn't around) and the next minute he's being pulled forward towards the door and on top of Elsa. No time to think, his hands are around her waist and kissing her back. He breathes in deep, parting his lips to draw her in deeper, pushing her now flush against the door.
What's happening? His thoughts are delayed, his hands and mouth moving faster than he can think.
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Warm hands at her waist, like a solid anchor, and warm lips over hers. Elsa, by all means, is not experienced in the art of kissing; she stumbles to keep up with it, lips moving clumsily against his in a way that's almost shy. But what she lacks in experience, she makes up for in instinct and willingness to explore -- it doesn't take long for her to cant her head to the side and -- oh, oh, that works.
Her own lips part, and she tastes the faintest hint and burn of gin on his tongue, and it's clearly not enough because she just winds up kissing him deeper to try and taste more of it.
They should probably stop. Or, if that's not an option -- and Elsa doesn't think it is -- they should probably go inside. Even if going inside might mean she has to stop kissing him (and since when did she want that to be a thing that doesn't stop?) there is a lot to be said about the fact that they are doing this somewhere so public!
It takes a bit of fumbling, but she manages to reach behind herself for the knob without pulling away. It turns with a loud click and swings inward. Instantly, they're falling backward and its a miracle that they don't fall over into the floor. A blast of warm air washes over them, bringing with it the scent of vanilla and sandalwood.
If he takes time to notice, Henry will see that there is a distinctly... regal look to the place. The walls are high and decorated with ornately-framed portraits, most of which are depicting landscapes. Those portraits that aren't are covered in black shrouds. There is a particularly large shrouded portrait over an intricately-carved fireplace, in which there is no fire. The windows, floor-to-ceiling,reveal a mountain landscape outside, blanketed by a steady snowstorm.
Where there should be a television, there is a glass display case; inside is a simple golden crown, and matching rounded decanter, placed delicately on a purple velvet pillow.
It is unusually hot in the apartment, and between that, and the gin, and Henry's mouth against hers, it's only moments before the skin at the back of Elsa's neck is growing faintly sticky with sweat.
Somehow, she manages to push off the door and kick it closed behind her, and then her hands are splaying out over Henry's vest in a way that, at first, looks like she might push him away -- until her fingers lightly fist into the material, and she keeps him close instead. It's hard to say where she gets the idea, as wrapped up as she is in just kissing him, but she breaks away from his lips to leave a very delicate trail of kisses down the side of his neck and to his collar -- and without thinking brings her hands up to try and loosen his tie.
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They're both trying to get each other's taste of gin on their tongues, practically fighting for the dominance even if it's not intentional. He hums low into her mouth, enjoying the force she brings.
Stopping is definitely not an option, and a thought that doesn't even cross his mind regardless of their location. He's into doing a bit of daring stuff, he's got a rather wide selection of kinks, and god she feels and smells so good. He couldn't place his finger on what the smell was- he'd caught a whiff of it earlier, when he'd leaned in to kiss her, but it finally dawned on him when she managed to jiggle the doorknob open and they stumbled into the room.
Vanilla... it's the first thing on his mind. The recovery of bursting into a room came second, and the exploration of the room...well, not quite third but it's duly noted that it's a very regal looking room. He doesn't have the mind to take in all the little details yet, his focus solely on Elsa.
It is hot, however. He'd originally chalked it up to the alcohol, but it's plain to see how much warmer it is in here than outside. He watches her hands splay across his chest, how the fabric wrinkles under her grasps and the series of light kisses leave him sort of breathless. As she works on his tie, he keeps his hands busy, though much less urgent than hers, smoothing them down the waist of her thin dress and then firmly over her slim hips. They reach lower down the side of her thigh, gripping and rubbing at it through the dress, tempted to just hike it up and feel the heated skin.
"Elsa-" He mouths it against her forehead for no reason in particular, stretching his neck a little further at the attention there. His other hand reaching up to fumble at the buttons of his shirt to speed up the process. His lips trail down the side of her face, both hands resting at her hips now and pushing her towards whichever way the bed is located. The tie loosening around his neck is liberating in the stifling heat of the room, and as he guides her along he breathes hotly into her ear, kissing and nipping at it briefly before moving down to her neck. He inhales deeply, planting wet little kisses at her neck, and gradually his tongue joining to lap at her skin, tasting the bit of sweat and the smell of the room altogether.
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It's such a silly little thing, but it seems like it would be disrespectful, to just drop the tie on the floor, even if she might feel inclined to do so. Elsa toys with the silky material between her fingers, mind struggling to think of what to do with it through the haze of gin and -- whatever this is.
A thought occurs to her, and she casts him an almost devious look before she loops the tie around the back of her own neck and reaches for his face again.
"A token."
And that's all the explanation she's going to offer.
The bed is, perhaps, too large for a woman of Elsa's size, but it is definitively the one she used to have in her old bedroom. It's a four-poster bed with thick curtains, and a spread of down pillows. She meets the edge of it just as she takes his face between her hands and sits on the side, bringing him down to her again, and then even further down when she lays back.
There's a quiet thumping sound as she toes her shoes off.
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Thank God he didn't wear his boots today. Those things are usually a bitch to take off, so with a mental sigh of relief he kicks his shoes off as well before he follows her lead, dipping his head back down to capture her lips. He even takes a moment to appreciate what a nice bed she has- large and accommodating.
He draws back slightly, admiring how she looks under him and trying his best not the replace the image of Sylvia's face (dying and bleeding) with Elsa's. That'd be an awkward reversal, but it's still arousing to him- perhaps only to himself. Their bodies flush against each other now, he lets his hand slip under her dress, up the side of her thighs and down. He digs his fingernails down her leg slowly, not too hard, and uses his other arm to keep himself steady, lips back to exploring parts of her body again. He'd noticed the bit of ice before when he nipped her ear, so he's curious as to what other interesting icy effects he can draw from her.
Might be kind of dangerous. Might be really satisfying, too. Pros outweighing the cons in this situation, he laps at her jawline, following it with firm kisses down her neck and worrying at the soft skin with gentle sucking and nibbling. His hand is more daring in its search, not only going down the length of her leg but going up along it far enough to skirt his fingers over the thin material of her underwear- passing over it completely- and resting on her waist, pushing up at the fabric of her dress.
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(Henry draws back to look at her -- admire her? -- and she peers up at him, gaze level. What is he seeing, she wonders.)
-- and it becomes even harder to care when he is dipping down and exploring her with his mouth, lips, tongue...
She moves with it, head tipping back to give him room as he kisses and nibbles and -- oh!, that is granted with a another gasp, and the air, for a moment, grows chilly -- body arching to meet his mouth. Her toes brush at the fabric of his trousers as he pushes her skirts up.
A strange thought occurs to her. Laying like she is under him, he can't see her. It takes some maneuvering, because she doesn't want to draw away from him so much that he takes his mouth away from her skin, but her body twists until she's pressing him back into the pillows and leaning over him in a sort of perch. Her nails flex into his shirt, and she regards him for a moment in the dim of the snowlight.
He's beautiful. Terrible, dangerous, but beautiful, too.
Her expression softens as she reaches back to undo the zipper at her back and draw the whole thing over her head, leaving her mostly-bare. By all means, she should be embarrassed by it...
... But he's already seen her at her most intimate, hasn't he?
Goosebumps prickle across her skin, making her nipples peak, and she leans down to catch his face between her hands.
The kiss she presses to his lips is very soft and light, but very genuine.
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He wants to see her, all of her, and it's the next thing on his list as he's tasting her pale skin (much paler than Sylvia, he notes vaguely) but he feels her twist in his grasp. It's not surprising, but he didn't expect that from her so soon-- and he's looking up at her with a little surprise. The dim lighting of the room creates a beautiful hazy glow around her as she's perched in his lap, a lovely queen of snow and ice, so warm yet so cold. She's a bit of a mystery herself, he admits. No surprise there.
The lighting only amplifies the beauty of her form when she pulls the dress over her head. Strands of frosted gold hair cling to fabric as it pulls away, floating ethereally in the haze-- gin fueled haze and lust twisting the image into something a lot more sensual-- but she's breath-taking. He can tell by how short his breath has gotten, drinking in the image of her naked body.
When she'd been wearing her sleeping gown, it wasn't hard to imagine her naked. He's pretty sure the thought crossed his mind at some point as he was ripping off portions of her dress. But seeing her now, it's different from what he imagined. It's better, definitely, but in a different way. Back then, the image was obscene, violent, with quivering and shuddering body parts, but in this moment, her body is practically art.
Things felt slow-motion for a moment there but then everything speeds up again when she leans down to kiss him. Hands automatically hold her around her rib cage, thumbs pressing against the underside of her breasts. Her body feels so...frail, physically, like he could just squeeze and she'd suffocate. Her curves feel almost too young for him, a body just barely into legal zone, but she's soft and willing and so so genuine compared to what he's used to. He hums low against her lips, hands supporting her balance, mind growing fuzzier only to have them clear again when he feels a familiar discomfort in his pants against her weight.
His hands start to move up towards his belt, wanting to at least relieve the pressure of his fitted pants.
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An eyetooth catches sharply against his bottom lip, and, as if to draw attention away from that, her hips roll against his.
(She can feel him, through his trousers, hard and warm and suddenly everything feels very real...)
Her hands ripple down his chest, to join his at the belt and help to tug it open.
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Like instinct his hands move to another part of his pants to make room for her hands, sighing at the slight brushes of her hands against his inner thigh area. Seeing her tug it open like so leaves his hands open now to just work at his vest and shirt buttons, trying to remove the oppressive cloth from off his already too-warm body.
He doesn't even bother kicking off his pants yet, but he looks disheveled and all out of sorts as he just looks at her, watches her, wanting to touch her more. With some little maneuvers of his own, he grabs her by the arms and pushes her to the side without letting go of her to press himself down on top of her, legs straddling her hips. His lips find hers, intensity increasing with each hungry kiss and a hand cupping on side of her chest while his thumb rubs smooth circles against the sensitive flesh.
Using his elbow to keep himself elevated, his other hand works his pants down a little further.
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It seems only fair, to return the gesture, and Elsa splays her hand over his chest, taking in the feeling of warm skin.
... it's strangely beautiful, to touch someone like this. To experience someone like this. It's something that Elsa had thought impossible for herself, and to be able to do it now leaves her a little mesmerized. Her hands map out his chest while he kisses her, and then his stomach when he props himself up to work his pants down. Her fingertips graze low on his stomach, where she knows his belt had been, and she makes another little sound against his mouth when she feels nothing but bare skin.
The ice spiraled around the bedpost seems to thicken slightly.
She breaks away from his lips to plant a kiss at the hollow of his throat just as her palm brushes over his length, and she lets out a sigh against his skin.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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?"
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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.
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... 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.
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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.
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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..."
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"Just let it go." /echoes into the night
omfg, these two.
big dumb babies
dumbest babies