๏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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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. ]