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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'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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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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-- 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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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-- 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?
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"Just let it go." /echoes into the night
omfg, these two.
big dumb babies
dumbest babies