๏ผ dangerous words to a man accustomed to making people do exactly what he wishes them to at any given moment. he learned how to manipulate and bend men bloodied and young, and in many ways it was what kept him alive long enough to die how he'd envisioned all those years ago. his fingers curl in against the curve of her shoulder, well-manicured nails digging into her skin briefly and then released.
(he's painted them, most recently, a dark navy blue. it's the first time he's strayed from the colour he wore in akatsuki.)
make me, she says, and he has to remind himself it's a game, not a gauntlet flung as she shifts her position and eclipses him. he has wondered how genjutsu would stack up alongside chaos, but he puts that thought from his mind as her hair tumbles around him.
want is strange, unusual and messy. he certainly wants her to clean his desk, but not half so much as he wants her to continue doing what she's doing, and for a moment he's caught between desire and the charming lack of knowledge that comes from inexperience. he has had the sharingan active around her before — every feature memorized and tucked away in the endless vault of perfect recall, but he finds himself reassessing her for the minutiae of microexpression. time hangs in a suspended moment like a viscous fluid as he charts her eyes like a map of constellations, and then he reaches up and pulls her down. it is and does not feel natural to him, though it is as easy and graceful as everything else he does. it's a learned gesture, picked up from someone else in a gambling hall when he was much younger — something copied and remembered and now perfectly mimicked. he was not blind to the uses of seduction, it was only that he never needed it when he could acquire the same information in other ways. but he had found value in having the knowledge, just in case.
he does not offer to move to a more comfortable location than the precarious balance on chairs. no doubt if she wants it, she will drive the shift. instead, he kisses her again, exploratory.
[ Rather than the tension in her chest, warring constant on her heart, she feels something almost akin to lightness at issuing that challenge โ not that she suspects heโll take her up on it, not when it will mean abandoning their present course solely for the sake of mopping up a few drops of stray liquor. Theyโll likely be dried away on their own eventually, not that she makes mention of it when sheโs practically being drawn down into his lap, briefly fighting with her skirts before she abandons the struggle in pursuit of simply sitting across his thighs instead.
And then, his bite makes her shiver โ almost involuntary, the desire that runs along her spine to prompt a deep vibration that resonates from somewhere within until she realizes heโs earned a moan from her too, without her ability to stifle it first.
It must be the drink, she thinks โ itโs gone to her head, left her less in control, and that means her first move should be to try and regain it by any means necessary, scrape and claw for what she always wants to possess.
She has more of a desire to be retaliatory, then, to provoke a similar response or something altogether new โ and it drives her to be the one to break the kiss next for the purpose of letting her mouth trail along his jaw, over the curvature toward the side of his neck โ light presses to start at his pulse point, where she breathes him in quietly, eyes still fallen shut. ] Tell me I wonโt hurt you.
๏ผ that moan does something to him the kisses had not — a stir of heat that makes him immediately tamp down on his own physiological reaction, misliking and mistrusting his body's own response at once. it is not shame, it is — accustomedness to control. involuntary response is not something to be tolerated, and he sucks in a sharp breath between his teeth.
he is almost glad for the distraction that follows.
again, the consideration. yennefer has always struck him as a hard woman, one who does not balk at causing discomfort or otherwise to get her way. someone who has had to make difficult choices in a difficult life. so the fact that she is asking him these questions, making these allowances is continually catching him off his guard. he would rather she not mind — that she dismiss all thoughts of his recent injury and simply treat him as she would any other in this dance.
there are precious few people he would even accept that level of attentiveness from without railing against it, tasting pity on his tongue. yennefer, it seems, is one of them.
he tips his head to one side, granting her unspoken access. one hand drops to steady her thighs, and there is a dizzying moment where he is not entirely certain how it came to be that she was sitting astride his own. then: ๏ผ
You'll find me rather difficult to hurt.
๏ผ he isn't sure why he phrases it like that. it is not, at its core, a direct reassurance she can't, or won't. it's just a statement of truth. his tolerances, as it happens, are higher than most. hurt to him is something borne out in a fight. unless she plans to draw a blade and slip it beneath his skin he is quite reasonably assured that nothing she could do would cause him lasting, lingering pain. ๏ผ
[ The truth of it is that she'd posed the question solely as a last resort โ or a chance, perhaps, to give him the opportunity to retreat if there is only so far that his interest in this extends โ because once she really pursues this, there might be little that can distract her otherwise. The possibility that she's pursuing this because she doesn't want to embrace the alternative, merely sitting here in comfortable silence while the more invasive thoughts sneak back into her consciousness, is also something she internally dismisses so she doesn't need to dwell on it any longer.
So if she utters the words more breathlessly, more carefully than she intended to, it's far from her intention โ she barely even opens her eyes when she speaks them, her gaze hovering somewhere in the vicinity of his mouth while she sways forward, tempted simply to kiss him again so they can dispense with the need for talking altogether โ
With all of that stated, though, she finds that she's not opposed to doing things that would categorically hurt, or him touching her, gripping, digging a clutch of fingers into her body solely to trigger the synapses that register pain; she might want it, crave it a bit more than if he were simply to touch her too gently, reverently.
There is less hesitation from her, in the end, when she shifts atop his lap, and when she slips her hand underneath the hem of his shirt, palm and fingers pressing over slight muscle, and when she finally seizes his mouth with her own again, taking any sounds he might make as she presses against those healing areas, dulled and warm over yellowing bruises. ]
๏ผ there is a faint exhalation of breath at the nearness and the touch, the electric warmth of her hand and the press of her mouth. he is not, strictly speaking, pliant. there is no yield to him — when and where she pushes, she will find he meets her like the parry of a blade.
there is no gentle reverence to be found. his only frame of reference for physical nearness has been sparring, and so his grip is not kindly, contusions patterned in the shape of his hand already pressed into her skin, halfly over her skirt and then higher, against the jut of one hip. the exploration is a slow and gradual thing, but presumably if she didn't wish to proceed she would do something about it, so he leaves unselfconscious shyness behind.
the kiss breaks for air, and he shifts attention to her throat, dragging his mouth across the place where a knife would open a vein. he can feel her pulse, the strong thrum of it as his free hand captures her hair in the tangle of his fingers. he tugs the bulk of it to the other shoulder, letting it spill between them unobstructed there like so much ink.
hickeys are a thing a little more difficult to copy outright, given the broken sightline — so here he is perhaps a little too much teeth and not enough tongue, deliberating the action as he goes.
he has no wish to talk, so he doesn't try. instead: Direct me. I will adapt. ๏ผ
[ He's not gentle about this, and she doesn't need him to be โ doesn't want him to be. If anything, she'd rather it be rougher โ these past few days have left her numbed to too much, and she wants the sort of thing that reawakens her and allows her to return to some semblance of her previous self, the version that wouldn't be so foolish as to let anyone too near to what she's fought to keep enclosed.
It certainly leaves her gasping, though not in protest, as his hands grip down against her, clutching, grasping, but in want, and she'll respond in kind, then, her fingers shifting up from their place spanned across his back to establish their own clench on his hair, urging him against the column of her throat as he moves his attentions there. The proof that she can still feel as much is evidenced in how she shifts over him โ restless, but also seeking, dropping her weight in a manner that would allow for something else were there much fewer layers between them.
She does hiss, though, through gritted teeth, as his catch on her skin, bluntly biting and sure to leave a bruise; she has enough chaos within her on the station to heal even the smallest marks of this nature, but perhaps she won't. She could press her fingers into it later, let the reminder awaken her all over again, but for now she tilts her head back into the tugging slide of his fingers as his words form across her mind. Her own are there, shortly after, and she brings a hand to her own bodice, nearly breaking buttons in her haste to start undoing it. Keep going. Lower. ]
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no subject
(he's painted them, most recently, a dark navy blue. it's the first time he's strayed from the colour he wore in akatsuki.)
make me, she says, and he has to remind himself it's a game, not a gauntlet flung as she shifts her position and eclipses him. he has wondered how genjutsu would stack up alongside chaos, but he puts that thought from his mind as her hair tumbles around him.
want is strange, unusual and messy. he certainly wants her to clean his desk, but not half so much as he wants her to continue doing what she's doing, and for a moment he's caught between desire and the charming lack of knowledge that comes from inexperience. he has had the sharingan active around her before — every feature memorized and tucked away in the endless vault of perfect recall, but he finds himself reassessing her for the minutiae of microexpression. time hangs in a suspended moment like a viscous fluid as he charts her eyes like a map of constellations, and then he reaches up and pulls her down. it is and does not feel natural to him, though it is as easy and graceful as everything else he does. it's a learned gesture, picked up from someone else in a gambling hall when he was much younger — something copied and remembered and now perfectly mimicked. he was not blind to the uses of seduction, it was only that he never needed it when he could acquire the same information in other ways. but he had found value in having the knowledge, just in case.
he does not offer to move to a more comfortable location than the precarious balance on chairs. no doubt if she wants it, she will drive the shift. instead, he kisses her again, exploratory.
this time, he's the one to bite. ๏ผ
no subject
And then, his bite makes her shiver โ almost involuntary, the desire that runs along her spine to prompt a deep vibration that resonates from somewhere within until she realizes heโs earned a moan from her too, without her ability to stifle it first.
It must be the drink, she thinks โ itโs gone to her head, left her less in control, and that means her first move should be to try and regain it by any means necessary, scrape and claw for what she always wants to possess.
She has more of a desire to be retaliatory, then, to provoke a similar response or something altogether new โ and it drives her to be the one to break the kiss next for the purpose of letting her mouth trail along his jaw, over the curvature toward the side of his neck โ light presses to start at his pulse point, where she breathes him in quietly, eyes still fallen shut. ] Tell me I wonโt hurt you.
no subject
he is almost glad for the distraction that follows.
again, the consideration. yennefer has always struck him as a hard woman, one who does not balk at causing discomfort or otherwise to get her way. someone who has had to make difficult choices in a difficult life. so the fact that she is asking him these questions, making these allowances is continually catching him off his guard. he would rather she not mind — that she dismiss all thoughts of his recent injury and simply treat him as she would any other in this dance.
there are precious few people he would even accept that level of attentiveness from without railing against it, tasting pity on his tongue. yennefer, it seems, is one of them.
he tips his head to one side, granting her unspoken access. one hand drops to steady her thighs, and there is a dizzying moment where he is not entirely certain how it came to be that she was sitting astride his own. then: ๏ผ
You'll find me rather difficult to hurt.
๏ผ he isn't sure why he phrases it like that. it is not, at its core, a direct reassurance she can't, or won't. it's just a statement of truth. his tolerances, as it happens, are higher than most. hurt to him is something borne out in a fight. unless she plans to draw a blade and slip it beneath his skin he is quite reasonably assured that nothing she could do would cause him lasting, lingering pain. ๏ผ
no subject
So if she utters the words more breathlessly, more carefully than she intended to, it's far from her intention โ she barely even opens her eyes when she speaks them, her gaze hovering somewhere in the vicinity of his mouth while she sways forward, tempted simply to kiss him again so they can dispense with the need for talking altogether โ
With all of that stated, though, she finds that she's not opposed to doing things that would categorically hurt, or him touching her, gripping, digging a clutch of fingers into her body solely to trigger the synapses that register pain; she might want it, crave it a bit more than if he were simply to touch her too gently, reverently.
There is less hesitation from her, in the end, when she shifts atop his lap, and when she slips her hand underneath the hem of his shirt, palm and fingers pressing over slight muscle, and when she finally seizes his mouth with her own again, taking any sounds he might make as she presses against those healing areas, dulled and warm over yellowing bruises. ]
no subject
there is no gentle reverence to be found. his only frame of reference for physical nearness has been sparring, and so his grip is not kindly, contusions patterned in the shape of his hand already pressed into her skin, halfly over her skirt and then higher, against the jut of one hip. the exploration is a slow and gradual thing, but presumably if she didn't wish to proceed she would do something about it, so he leaves unselfconscious shyness behind.
the kiss breaks for air, and he shifts attention to her throat, dragging his mouth across the place where a knife would open a vein. he can feel her pulse, the strong thrum of it as his free hand captures her hair in the tangle of his fingers. he tugs the bulk of it to the other shoulder, letting it spill between them unobstructed there like so much ink.
hickeys are a thing a little more difficult to copy outright, given the broken sightline — so here he is perhaps a little too much teeth and not enough tongue, deliberating the action as he goes.
he has no wish to talk, so he doesn't try. instead: Direct me. I will adapt. ๏ผ
no subject
It certainly leaves her gasping, though not in protest, as his hands grip down against her, clutching, grasping, but in want, and she'll respond in kind, then, her fingers shifting up from their place spanned across his back to establish their own clench on his hair, urging him against the column of her throat as he moves his attentions there. The proof that she can still feel as much is evidenced in how she shifts over him โ restless, but also seeking, dropping her weight in a manner that would allow for something else were there much fewer layers between them.
She does hiss, though, through gritted teeth, as his catch on her skin, bluntly biting and sure to leave a bruise; she has enough chaos within her on the station to heal even the smallest marks of this nature, but perhaps she won't. She could press her fingers into it later, let the reminder awaken her all over again, but for now she tilts her head back into the tugging slide of his fingers as his words form across her mind. Her own are there, shortly after, and she brings a hand to her own bodice, nearly breaking buttons in her haste to start undoing it. Keep going. Lower. ]