[And she does. And she wriggles a little closer, tugs him up and into a hug, where she can feel the warmth he's got left and the rise of his breath, and he can surely feel the rush of her heartbeat, among other things]
[He goes closer gladly - greedily - reveling in the nearness, in the warmth of her, in the feel of her heartbeat. His thumb trails back and forth over her cheek, now - idle exploration, like he's mapping the shape of it]
And. And like... it's what you wanted, too?
[There's a flicker of uncertainty there, still, like he has trouble quite believing it - like he expects this to be another dream, maybe]
[She murmurs shyly into his collarbone; shifts her bottom arm to hitch up gently at the small of his back, careful but soothing, pleased to be there, happy that he's happy]
So...good, I'm glad. I mean, if this is really good for you, anyways.
[He can't find the words, somehow; they stick in his throat, too big to try and untangle. He presses the feelings out her way, instead, clumsy - has to hope she'll understand]
[There's a flicker of uncertainty at that, just for a second - and then he becomes aware of what she's feeling, and it's replaced with relief, with a thrill of anticipation]
[His hand is close to her glasses, anyway; it's the easiest thing in the world, to take them off, gentle - fold them and put them aside, safely away from the edge of the roof]
[Which would be a great setup for some dumb joke as she blinks owlishly up at him; however, this close, she can see him just fine...better than before, actually. Her expression fades to a smile, private, pleased at what she sees and what she feels and what they have, right here, right now]
...I think you don't have to ask.
[Blanket permission, because she trusts him to use it well--because she wants him to. Self-consciousness still filters through, but no regrets or apprehension]
[Sighs into it, more comfortable this time, like whatever little niggle had been at the edge of her consciousness before has been removed; shaken free in that same earthquake. Her kisses back are soft and open-mouthed, and her hands run gently up and down his back. He's free to do as he likes, and her emotions reflect it--anticipatory, a thrill of a certain tension beneath it all, but nothing that can't be easily ignored. It's enough just to be like this.]
[He doesn't hesitate this time, to lick into her mouth - doesn't hesitate to let his hand wander, from her face to her shoulder, from her shoulder to her hip]
[The thrill finds an echo in him, heat and interest sparking as her hands play along his back]
[She shivers into his touch, fingers drifting back up so her thumb can play with the port at the back of his neck, the other sliding home at the small of his back. She catches his tongue and sucks on it lightly--not-so-lightly--before releasing it; wouldn't want to not give a guest a proper welcome.]
[It's--different, distracting, the stereo reactions of how he feels under her hands and how her hands feel on him-- There's no thought involved as her hands drift further on, searching for reactions--searching for skin to skim over, just for the extra contact]
[It's not hard to get reactions; he's responsive and appreciative, and with every inch her hands explore, the tension thrumming through him rachets higher]
[His hand drifts lower, from the hip to the outer edge of her thigh - traces the line of it, down and then up again]
[Yes, good, to all of it, his touches, his responses (especially those)-- She hums, shifting restlessly; bites her lower lip to keep still. Finds that his lower lip is in the way, so bites that instead. Surprisingly enough, worrying her teeth against the gentle give of his lip does not work to ground her at all; the restless tension only winding tighter.]
[The gentle sting of her teeth finding his lip doesn't work to ground him, either; the sudden spike of heat in response draws a sound from him. He shifts, just as restless - tries to stay still, can't quite - shifts again. The hand running over her side is a little shaky; the one trapped between them finds its way up, careful, to touch her face]
[Gives a little whimper at his cool fingers, since her face is hot--her everything is hot, mind hazy and increasingly id-driven. It's just that she wants so deeply--that sound in her ears and that heat in her blood and that feel of his pink skin under her mouth. Wants it and goes for it, suckling at his lower lip a shade too eagerly to count as 'gentle'--slowly pulls off, scraping the flats of her teeth over its fullness before finally releasing it with an audible pop.
She wants to roll them over, finally, press him down, and goes for this, too--because she wants to know just how pale and pretty a smudge he'll be against the tar paper of the roof, and because she wants her arm free to map the full star chart of his freckles, and because she wants him to touch more than just her face or her arm or her hip, and she leans in closer to--]
[--She rolls right back off him, low-key mortified. God--what was she thinking--too much, of course that was too much, no need to even ask. She feels a quick, embarrassed 'sorry' at him, though can't quite manage regret. Can't manage anything she ought to, spectacularly unable to throttle back the desire thrumming through her veins to more a manageable trickle than a tsunami. It's selfish, and probably rude? Probably unacceptable but she can't quite bring herself to fully untangle their legs--wanting to touch him even still.]
[The pang of loss when she pulls back off him is so complete that it feels like a physical ache; the reversion, after a few brief seconds of being blanketed by her weight, somehow seems unbearable]
[He wants, in rolling, vital waves, like a heartbeat; the heat is all-encompassing, caught up in the memory of her teeth scraping his lip, and her thumb on his hip, and the press of her against him, sweet pressure]
[He catches at the fabric of her shirt, before he can stop himself, to try and keep her from going - flushes, when he realizes what he's doing, and stops trying to tug, but can't quite bring himself to let go]
[He presses something back out her way, a fumbling amalgam of heat and confusion, some wordless sense of "why did you stop, why are you sorry?"]
[She looks up at him, and (self-conscious - embarrassed - longing) away, and back over, worried - uncomfortable - nnnot coming up with the right feelings. Swallows, then forces out words, voice a little hoarse]
Don't wanna--push.
[Because it's so easy to just steamroll over him when she gets carried away, and she knows he never protests, not enough to actually stop her. And no matter how much she wants, no matter the tension that even now jangles through her, there's no point unless he really wants this--isn't just going along with it not to rock the boat, or make her happy, or any number of other bullshit reasons.
A breath, and the self-consciousness is joined by reassurance--affection--something deeper. Not rejection, but permission to do, or to not do, whenever, whatever, however, if and only if he wants. Apology--she can do better, she will--she puts his hand over his and just rests it there. Which is still perhaps buzzing too hot to be soothing in any way, but she is doing her best,]
[His breath catches in his throat as her emotions twine toward him and burrow down inside; what radiates back out her way is some stumbling sense of almost-disbelief, as though he's caught flat-footed by how closely what she feels mirrors what he's kept buried for so long]
[Heat, yes, but always tamped down, always pushed to the side, always worried during the few brief times they did do this that she was only playing along for some game, or because she thought it was what he wanted]
[He isn't making an attempt to tamp down on it, now. It's simmering below his skin, all restless energy - burning him from the inside out. He's hyper aware of every point of contact - of the their legs intertwined, of her hand on his]
[He pushes reassurance and affection back her way, clumsy - that same blanket permission, that she's allowed to do anything, that he wants her to, that he can't think of anything he wouldn't try with her, given half a chance. He's self-conscious over how eager it is - embarrassed all in a wave, as the flush across his cheeks deepens. But he manages to get the words out, anyway, a little shaky:]
You ain't pushing.
[He swallows, with effort - tugs at her sleeve again, as though to urge her back to where she was]
[.........Ah. Dull realization; she gives a crooked smile.
This must all be a dream. How else could this have come out of nowhere--how else could she get this fairy tale outcome, tailor-made down to the last detail--the shy, eager desire? The rough wobble in his voice? The not-so-faint blush disappearing into his neckline--spreading who knows how much further than that? The sweet reassurance that yeah, he's okay with her--that he might actually want her like that?
Of course, of course; too good to be true. She's honestly a little surprised at how sharp the disappointment feels. It's not as though it's new that things that nice aren't real.
It's not new that her dreams are this flavor of nice, either. His hand is still warm under hers, and she grips his wrist, presses his hand closer, since-- Hell, if this is as close to the real thing as she's gonna get, why waste it?
Another breath, and her smile deepens, inviting]
...If...there's something you want, why don't you take it?
[He falters, a little, despite the inviting smile - can sense the realization, and the disappointment that comes on its heels. With only the feelings, though, and no thoughts for context, he doesn't have the complete picture]
[It all changed so fast, from heat and want and affection to something that stings like glass caught in his throat. His eyes search her face, looking for a clue; his mind races backward, to try and pinpoint what it was that he did wrong, some awful sense that he's ruined this already, just as it's getting started, welling up inside him]
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Re: Day 235 - Emotion Share
[Warm and bright and satisfied and wanting and excited and a little overwhelmed, all of it suffused with a soft sort of glow]
[He swallows, with effort; his throat is tight]
It's real good.
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[And she does. And she wriggles a little closer, tugs him up and into a hug, where she can feel the warmth he's got left and the rise of his breath, and he can surely feel the rush of her heartbeat, among other things]
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And. And like... it's what you wanted, too?
[There's a flicker of uncertainty there, still, like he has trouble quite believing it - like he expects this to be another dream, maybe]
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[She murmurs shyly into his collarbone; shifts her bottom arm to hitch up gently at the small of his back, careful but soothing, pleased to be there, happy that he's happy]
So...good, I'm glad. I mean, if this is really good for you, anyways.
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[He can't find the words, somehow; they stick in his throat, too big to try and untangle. He presses the feelings out her way, instead, clumsy - has to hope she'll understand]
[He takes a breath, careful. Takes another]
...can I kiss you again?
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Mm... Take off my glasses and lemme think about it.
[Spoilers, she has already determined the answer to this question, and she is hoping he won't need three guesses to come to the same conclusion]
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[His hand is close to her glasses, anyway; it's the easiest thing in the world, to take them off, gentle - fold them and put them aside, safely away from the edge of the roof]
...what'd you think?
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[Which would be a great setup for some dumb joke as she blinks owlishly up at him; however, this close, she can see him just fine...better than before, actually. Her expression fades to a smile, private, pleased at what she sees and what she feels and what they have, right here, right now]
...I think you don't have to ask.
[Blanket permission, because she trusts him to use it well--because she wants him to. Self-consciousness still filters through, but no regrets or apprehension]
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...same, okay?
[He presses a kiss, careful, to the line of her jaw]
Goes both ways.
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Guess a lot of things do.
[Which is less a surprise and more one of those obvious sorts of realizations, of course they fit together well, nothing new there.]
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[But somehow hearing her say it makes something inside him tremble, like the aftershocks of an earthquake that's already broken down the foundations]
[He shivers, a little - can't seem to help it. Presses in to kiss her again, on the mouth, this time]
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[The thrill finds an echo in him, heat and interest sparking as her hands play along his back]
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[His thumb drifts back and forth on her hip, a little restless; he flushes and presses into that welcome, helpless to resist it]
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[His hand drifts lower, from the hip to the outer edge of her thigh - traces the line of it, down and then up again]
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She wants to roll them over, finally, press him down, and goes for this, too--because she wants to know just how pale and pretty a smudge he'll be against the tar paper of the roof, and because she wants her arm free to map the full star chart of his freckles, and because she wants him to touch more than just her face or her arm or her hip, and she leans in closer to--]
[--She rolls right back off him, low-key mortified. God--what was she thinking--too much, of course that was too much, no need to even ask. She feels a quick, embarrassed 'sorry' at him, though can't quite manage regret. Can't manage anything she ought to, spectacularly unable to throttle back the desire thrumming through her veins to more a manageable trickle than a tsunami. It's selfish, and probably rude? Probably unacceptable but she can't quite bring herself to fully untangle their legs--wanting to touch him even still.]
...
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[He wants, in rolling, vital waves, like a heartbeat; the heat is all-encompassing, caught up in the memory of her teeth scraping his lip, and her thumb on his hip, and the press of her against him, sweet pressure]
[He catches at the fabric of her shirt, before he can stop himself, to try and keep her from going - flushes, when he realizes what he's doing, and stops trying to tug, but can't quite bring himself to let go]
[He presses something back out her way, a fumbling amalgam of heat and confusion, some wordless sense of "why did you stop, why are you sorry?"]
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Don't wanna--push.
[Because it's so easy to just steamroll over him when she gets carried away, and she knows he never protests, not enough to actually stop her. And no matter how much she wants, no matter the tension that even now jangles through her, there's no point unless he really wants this--isn't just going along with it not to rock the boat, or make her happy, or any number of other bullshit reasons.
A breath, and the self-consciousness is joined by reassurance--affection--something deeper. Not rejection, but permission to do, or to not do, whenever, whatever, however, if and only if he wants. Apology--she can do better, she will--she puts his hand over his and just rests it there. Which is still perhaps buzzing too hot to be soothing in any way, but she is doing her best,]
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[Heat, yes, but always tamped down, always pushed to the side, always worried during the few brief times they did do this that she was only playing along for some game, or because she thought it was what he wanted]
[He isn't making an attempt to tamp down on it, now. It's simmering below his skin, all restless energy - burning him from the inside out. He's hyper aware of every point of contact - of the their legs intertwined, of her hand on his]
[He pushes reassurance and affection back her way, clumsy - that same blanket permission, that she's allowed to do anything, that he wants her to, that he can't think of anything he wouldn't try with her, given half a chance. He's self-conscious over how eager it is - embarrassed all in a wave, as the flush across his cheeks deepens. But he manages to get the words out, anyway, a little shaky:]
You ain't pushing.
[He swallows, with effort - tugs at her sleeve again, as though to urge her back to where she was]
...please?
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This must all be a dream. How else could this have come out of nowhere--how else could she get this fairy tale outcome, tailor-made down to the last detail--the shy, eager desire? The rough wobble in his voice? The not-so-faint blush disappearing into his neckline--spreading who knows how much further than that? The sweet reassurance that yeah, he's okay with her--that he might actually want her like that?
Of course, of course; too good to be true. She's honestly a little surprised at how sharp the disappointment feels. It's not as though it's new that things that nice aren't real.
It's not new that her dreams are this flavor of nice, either. His hand is still warm under hers, and she grips his wrist, presses his hand closer, since-- Hell, if this is as close to the real thing as she's gonna get, why waste it?
Another breath, and her smile deepens, inviting]
...If...there's something you want, why don't you take it?
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[It all changed so fast, from heat and want and affection to something that stings like glass caught in his throat. His eyes search her face, looking for a clue; his mind races backward, to try and pinpoint what it was that he did wrong, some awful sense that he's ruined this already, just as it's getting started, welling up inside him]
Is that - I mean.
Are you. Are you okay?
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