[Well--well. Still sounds fake, but feels real--the gentle resistance beneath her fingers--the echo of his feelings, desire decidedly uncoupled from any more platonic emotion--it is all more intensely detailed than she feels she would have ever imagined on her own. She soothes her fingers over the curve of his rear almost automatically, probably going for apologetic but landing somewhere between stunned and aroused. Because--what if, for real--
She swallows, thick; her free hand creeping up from chest to collarbone to cup his cheek...his other, other cheek]
...I could check again to be sure. Or--you could...for science.
[Still, he hesitates; his hands smooth up her sides, shaky - down again, lower this time, to the curve of her ass. He is intensely aware of the places where he's touching her - of the places where she's still touching him. The heat and tension are slow and heady, borderline unbearable]
[She takes in a sharp breath, cheeks dark and brain fogged--squirms forward into him before she can help it. There's a hand still tight on the space below the swell of his ass and the expanse of skin past the hem of his shorts, and she squeezes there, too. It feels good--too good--and it takes an effort not to do it again--not to just do that forever.
For now, she leans forward and catches his mouth again, heated and with purpose; probably the best and honestly only response she could be expected to devise in this moment, when the world is a haze of that dizzying tension, the smell and the taste and the weight of him against her hands, against her body. So if he needs an answer, it's certainly not bad, thanks science]
[He makes a strangled sort of sound when she squirms into him; it comes with a spark of pleasure, bright and sudden, like electricity under his skin. On its heels is embarrassment, prickling and aware - because there's no chance she can't feel how affected he is, in this position]
[But it's hard to feel too ashamed, when she's kissing him again - hard to think about anything but how soft her lips are. When he kisses her back, it's a little desperate, all the heat she's funneling into him stoked higher and directed back her way]
[His hands wander where they are, given permission to explore; one slips lower, restless, the fingers brushing along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh]
[She tries not to feel so pleased at his reaction, but she is--something hot and fiercely accomplished blooming in her gut at his whimper, at his passion, at his probably-not-a-hipbone prodding into her thigh. She tries not to enjoy kissing him so much--enjoy the thought of more-than-kissing him so much--but it's hard to keep her hands or hips still when it feels so good not to; when she can tell it feels good for him as well. So despite her intention of leisurely exploration of his mouth, there's an intensity to her movements as well--taking his feelings and letting them ride; pressing into his touch with a little sound of her own, muffled into his mouth as she licks away the last remainders of ice cream sweetness.]
[The sound she makes seems to catch at him - take hold of the want inside him and twist it higher. It's good to hear her sounding like that, soft and half-muffled, for no other reason than that she's feeling good. It's breathtaking that he can feel how much she wants this, too - that he knows firsthand how hard it is for her to keep her hips still, even as he shifts against her, not quite able to tamp down on the impulse himself]
[His hand wanders up again, restless, to ruck up her shirt a little, where he pinched her before. There's nothing sharp about the touch, this time - only searching fingers]
[Surely there’s nothing wrong with shifting against him just a little. Or a lot, as his hands run up her sides and she shudders closer.
The touch is almost ticklish, unevenly bright and dull as his cool fingers run over the smooth flesh and rough scar tissue of her sides and back. And while she knows he’s had at least as many injuries as she, she can’t entirely stop a tendril of self-consciousness at how ugly it must feel, much less look.
Distraction is probably the best option, and her own hands begin to wander, careful over his scalp and over the sensitive skin of his neck, mismatched fingers stroking featherlight lines up and down, carefully gentle and deliberate, soothing, maybe]
[Despite the rush of want, the unmistakable swell of desire when she moves against him, he's intimately aware of the self-consciousness - aware, too, of where it's rooted and when it started]
[The response comes like a tidal wave: a fierce and almost offended denial that seems to radiate out like the beacon of a lighthouse, strong and unwavering. His other hand joins the first, there beneath her shirt; his fingers smooth along unbroken skin and old scars both, pointedly, and he presses a jumble of emotions out her way, clumsy and earnest. First and foremost is how good she is: strong and kind and funny and pretty, all sharp smiles and tangled dark hair, the conviction caught up in something flustered and almost bashful. Under that is an aching sort of longing, something that's been there for a long, long time - how difficult it's been, not to look when he's had the chance, and how lucky he is, to finally get to touch her now, and how the scars (even while he hates the games that gave them to to her, fierce and protective) are a part of her, too, and they feel as good beneath his palms as all the rest.]
[But also. Also, that distraction technique is really nice. The skin of his neck is too sensitive for it to quite manage soothing, but it's amazing all the same. The fingers trailing through his hair are a different sort of amazing: warm and gentle, their paths traced by prickles of a more simple kind of pleasure, followed up by almost-shy indulgence as he leans into it, not quite able to help himself]
[It is considerably easier to just laugh or wave away his platitudes when they're just words, as empty or unreliable as anyone's. It is very different when they're joined like this--when she's got a direct feed of acceptance and praise and love singing through her veins suddenly more peroxide burn than soothing heat, impossible to believe yet too genuine to dismiss. It's hard not to just dismiss it anyway, because even if he is not lying he is wrong, and this is felt with just as much conviction as any of his pressed bundle.
She shifts--pulls away with an intake of breath; ducks into the crook of his shoulder to exhale shaky against the skin of his neck so that he doesn't have to see her so overwhelmed. Not that he still can't feel the blaze of her cheeks or the hitch in her breath, or how she alternately presses into and tenses away from his purposeful touch, heat pulsing through the puckered scars that radiate down her back. And that's all apart from how he can feel her actual feelings--embarrassed, unworthy, selfishly longing nevertheless. More complicated emotions under that, but certainly nothing to be felt while trying to suck face--while looking him in the eye, even--that would ruin it--she desperately doesn't want to ruin it.
Stroking at his nape is soothing to her at least, and even if her rhythm goes a little uneven for a bit and one hand just curls tight at his shoulder instead, as if maybe she can ground herself that way, or keep from getting too far into her own head, or at least keep him from leaving when she feels so stupidly vulnerable--she's still faintly pleased that he's cool with it, beneath everything]
[There's a stutter of hesitation, as she pulls away - a purposeful softening, as the feelings start to overwhelm her. He presses a gentle pulse of apology out her way, working to blunt the sharp edges. The conviction that remains is no less strong - no less certain - but it's steadier, cozier, a hearth fire rather than a bonfire. And if he can't quite repress the small spike of dismay that she could ever think he's wrong (doesn't she know she's everything?), he manages to tamp down on that, too, in the effort to blanket her in warmth again]
[He sends her reassurance, and affection, and joy - how lucky he counts himself, to get to be here with her now. It's that center-of-the-heart feeling again, never truly gone, always present under the surface but swelling to the forefront once again]
[The hands on her back and sides still where they are, just resting, the palms and fingers cradling smooth skin and scars alike]
[She definitely, definitely doesn't deserve this, and curls closer into him with another shaky wash of breath. He's so good, and she's--a lot of things, but mostly sorry and grateful, the weight of each shifting with each second that passes and he hasn't just completely run out of patience for her entirely. How lucky she is, to have this--to have him. How humbled, how--still overwhelmed, but less overwhelmingly so.
Her shoulders shudder and her breath hitches again, and the little light that swells in her chest is pure and bright, more than a little closer to the same feeling as his, as best as she can reflect it.]
[In the face of that light, something in him melts, a little - goes soft and wondering, shivery and grateful and amazed. He can't help but press in closer to that glow, can't help but let it wash over him. He gathers it close, almost furtive. He basks in it, self-conscious for how badly he wants it, and radiates warmth out in return]
[When his eyes start to sting, he closes them - takes a shaky breath in, and presses a kiss to her hair]
[She finds that his (her) emotions are not quite as overwhelming once she's figured out the shape of that center-of-the-heart feeling and how to produce it--figured out how to let a few more of the walls blocking its light crumble, so that its shine might actually make it back out to him.
And even though it kind of still is too tight in her chest and her throat and her eyes, it's not the devastation she'd been afraid of, and it's much better than the vice-like squeeze of even a few moments before, drowning in emotion she had no idea how to process.
(She is still not really sure about that part, but at least the pressure isn't quite so high.)
Somehow, she hadn't expected the feeling of him feeling her feelings to be so--good--but it is awesomely, selfishly so, the very definition of a guilty pleasure. Mind, she wants him to feel all of those things, and even if it wasn't the intent, she is fiercely glad that he's feeling them because of her, even and in spite of how (unworthy) lucky she is to even have this chance.
Even so, it's gratifying to feel her same uneven flutter in his breath--deeper in his chest, in his soul. She can't exactly be the stable rock to keep him from going adrift at the moment, but they can at least drift off together, and can probably figure things out from wherever they end up.
She shivers under the light pressure of his kiss and noses into the space where his jawbone meets his ear, just where his pulse would be; sneaks her hand up under the hem of his shirt, so she can feel his skin against hers--as if that would allow the emotions to transfer that much more smoothly.]
[He's fine to get caught in the current and drift away, as long as it's with her - content, and more than content, to go wherever the tide takes them. It seems less like being set adrift when it's like this, and more like setting sail to find a new horizon]
[He shivers, at the feel of her pressing into the sensitive skin along his jawbone - shivers a little harder, when her hand finds bare skin]
[His own hands smooth their way along the skin of her back again, there under her shirt; he curls in a little further, to press another kiss to her hair. The feeling in his chest is swelling bright and almost unbearably warm, like the midday sun, and he clutches her light close in turn, basking in it with a dawning wonder that does nothing for the stinging in his eyes]
[She just--stays there for a while, breath a little ragged and face a little damp against his neck, but eventually she evens out, a tide settling after a storm, and her grip on him goes less desperate but no less secure.
She nuzzles in again, Eskimo kisses against his neck--suns herself in that feeling like the first clear day after rainy season. It's probably only thanks to being sundrunk on it that she actually attempts to speak, though it's a low murmur, as if trying not to break whatever spell means things can be like this for a little longer]
[His laugh is a shaky, wondering kind of thing, a little rough around the edges]
[His thumb strokes along the skin of her back, a gentle side to side]
[He's so happy it aches, low in his chest; so awash in warmth and light and love that the excess has filled in all the cracks and empty spaces, left nothing but this single perfect moment and the feel of her in his arms]
Whaaat? Have you heard yourself saying such sacrilege?
[Her voice is warm and lazy, too distracted by his joy to worry too much about...much of anything, actually. She shifts comfortably against him, just for the reminder that he’s there—or that she is, since all there is in her senses is him, his heart pouring out as warm and soothing as the sunlight above]
I know, right? Pretty sure I'm breaking some kinda law.
[His thumb keeps up its lazy back and forth motion, gentle. The rise and fall of her chest against him, the steady beat of her heart, the knowledge that for once she isn't worried about anything - it's all a lot, in the very best kind of way]
[It is a lot; something that would be more flustering if most anything negative didn't just shrivel so easily in the wake of his light, beaten down the rest of the way by the pulse of his emotion. It feels incredibly odd to just be unable to stop smiling, but there are definitely worse feelings out there]
Have fun in jail. Don't worry, I'll bake you a cake with a rasp in it.
[It's hard not to press this one to him, cradling it nearer - hard to keep himself from swinging the doors wide and letting it all flow in. In among that center-of-the-heart feeling, there's contentment so deep it feels almost physical, the warm, heavy weight of a blanket drawn in close]
Man, and here I thought I was gonna have to dig out with a spoon.
[She's got the warm and heavy part down at least. Between his heat beneath her and the sun above, she feels lax and comfortable as being in the bath--though it's her overworked emotional muscles that are being soothed in the warmth. Next time, more stretching, perhaps... She yawns, exhausted, either way; curls in closer even as she picks back up]
[There is not especially any want to move from here anytime soon; the warmth is good, and the closeness is better. His thumb still trails back and forth, gentle]
[Falls silent after that; loses whatever momentum she’d been building in the face of a contentment sticky sweet as honey. Her hands shift a little on his back, fingers wisping over his skin very slow.]
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Re: Day 235 - Emotion Share
[The flush grows deeper; the heat does, too]
Definitely, uh. Definitely felt that okay.
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[Well--well. Still sounds fake, but feels real--the gentle resistance beneath her fingers--the echo of his feelings, desire decidedly uncoupled from any more platonic emotion--it is all more intensely detailed than she feels she would have ever imagined on her own. She soothes her fingers over the curve of his rear almost automatically, probably going for apologetic but landing somewhere between stunned and aroused. Because--what if, for real--
She swallows, thick; her free hand creeping up from chest to collarbone to cup his cheek...his other, other cheek]
...I could check again to be sure. Or--you could...for science.
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Science is, like. A pretty noble cause.
[Still, he hesitates; his hands smooth up her sides, shaky - down again, lower this time, to the curve of her ass. He is intensely aware of the places where he's touching her - of the places where she's still touching him. The heat and tension are slow and heady, borderline unbearable]
[This pinch is just as quick, but no less sharp]
...any good...?
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For now, she leans forward and catches his mouth again, heated and with purpose; probably the best and honestly only response she could be expected to devise in this moment, when the world is a haze of that dizzying tension, the smell and the taste and the weight of him against her hands, against her body. So if he needs an answer, it's certainly not bad, thanks science]
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[But it's hard to feel too ashamed, when she's kissing him again - hard to think about anything but how soft her lips are. When he kisses her back, it's a little desperate, all the heat she's funneling into him stoked higher and directed back her way]
[His hands wander where they are, given permission to explore; one slips lower, restless, the fingers brushing along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh]
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[His hand wanders up again, restless, to ruck up her shirt a little, where he pinched her before. There's nothing sharp about the touch, this time - only searching fingers]
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The touch is almost ticklish, unevenly bright and dull as his cool fingers run over the smooth flesh and rough scar tissue of her sides and back. And while she knows he’s had at least as many injuries as she, she can’t entirely stop a tendril of self-consciousness at how ugly it must feel, much less look.
Distraction is probably the best option, and her own hands begin to wander, careful over his scalp and over the sensitive skin of his neck, mismatched fingers stroking featherlight lines up and down, carefully gentle and deliberate, soothing, maybe]
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[The response comes like a tidal wave: a fierce and almost offended denial that seems to radiate out like the beacon of a lighthouse, strong and unwavering. His other hand joins the first, there beneath her shirt; his fingers smooth along unbroken skin and old scars both, pointedly, and he presses a jumble of emotions out her way, clumsy and earnest. First and foremost is how good she is: strong and kind and funny and pretty, all sharp smiles and tangled dark hair, the conviction caught up in something flustered and almost bashful. Under that is an aching sort of longing, something that's been there for a long, long time - how difficult it's been, not to look when he's had the chance, and how lucky he is, to finally get to touch her now, and how the scars (even while he hates the games that gave them to to her, fierce and protective) are a part of her, too, and they feel as good beneath his palms as all the rest.]
[But also. Also, that distraction technique is really nice. The skin of his neck is too sensitive for it to quite manage soothing, but it's amazing all the same. The fingers trailing through his hair are a different sort of amazing: warm and gentle, their paths traced by prickles of a more simple kind of pleasure, followed up by almost-shy indulgence as he leans into it, not quite able to help himself]
Re: Day 235 - Emotion Share
She shifts--pulls away with an intake of breath; ducks into the crook of his shoulder to exhale shaky against the skin of his neck so that he doesn't have to see her so overwhelmed. Not that he still can't feel the blaze of her cheeks or the hitch in her breath, or how she alternately presses into and tenses away from his purposeful touch, heat pulsing through the puckered scars that radiate down her back. And that's all apart from how he can feel her actual feelings--embarrassed, unworthy, selfishly longing nevertheless. More complicated emotions under that, but certainly nothing to be felt while trying to suck face--while looking him in the eye, even--that would ruin it--she desperately doesn't want to ruin it.
Stroking at his nape is soothing to her at least, and even if her rhythm goes a little uneven for a bit and one hand just curls tight at his shoulder instead, as if maybe she can ground herself that way, or keep from getting too far into her own head, or at least keep him from leaving when she feels so stupidly vulnerable--she's still faintly pleased that he's cool with it, beneath everything]
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[He sends her reassurance, and affection, and joy - how lucky he counts himself, to get to be here with her now. It's that center-of-the-heart feeling again, never truly gone, always present under the surface but swelling to the forefront once again]
[The hands on her back and sides still where they are, just resting, the palms and fingers cradling smooth skin and scars alike]
Re: Day 235 - Emotion Share
Her shoulders shudder and her breath hitches again, and the little light that swells in her chest is pure and bright, more than a little closer to the same feeling as his, as best as she can reflect it.]
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[When his eyes start to sting, he closes them - takes a shaky breath in, and presses a kiss to her hair]
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And even though it kind of still is too tight in her chest and her throat and her eyes, it's not the devastation she'd been afraid of, and it's much better than the vice-like squeeze of even a few moments before, drowning in emotion she had no idea how to process.
(She is still not really sure about that part, but at least the pressure isn't quite so high.)
Somehow, she hadn't expected the feeling of him feeling her feelings to be so--good--but it is awesomely, selfishly so, the very definition of a guilty pleasure. Mind, she wants him to feel all of those things, and even if it wasn't the intent, she is fiercely glad that he's feeling them because of her, even and in spite of how (unworthy) lucky she is to even have this chance.
Even so, it's gratifying to feel her same uneven flutter in his breath--deeper in his chest, in his soul. She can't exactly be the stable rock to keep him from going adrift at the moment, but they can at least drift off together, and can probably figure things out from wherever they end up.
She shivers under the light pressure of his kiss and noses into the space where his jawbone meets his ear, just where his pulse would be; sneaks her hand up under the hem of his shirt, so she can feel his skin against hers--as if that would allow the emotions to transfer that much more smoothly.]
Re: Day 235 - Emotion Share
[He shivers, at the feel of her pressing into the sensitive skin along his jawbone - shivers a little harder, when her hand finds bare skin]
[His own hands smooth their way along the skin of her back again, there under her shirt; he curls in a little further, to press another kiss to her hair. The feeling in his chest is swelling bright and almost unbearably warm, like the midday sun, and he clutches her light close in turn, basking in it with a dawning wonder that does nothing for the stinging in his eyes]
Re: Day 235 - Emotion Share
She nuzzles in again, Eskimo kisses against his neck--suns herself in that feeling like the first clear day after rainy season. It's probably only thanks to being sundrunk on it that she actually attempts to speak, though it's a low murmur, as if trying not to break whatever spell means things can be like this for a little longer]
...Think the ice cream melted...
Re: Day 235 - Emotion Share
[His thumb strokes along the skin of her back, a gentle side to side]
[He's so happy it aches, low in his chest; so awash in warmth and light and love that the excess has filled in all the cracks and empty spaces, left nothing but this single perfect moment and the feel of her in his arms]
There's better stuff than ice cream.
Re: Day 235 - Emotion Share
[Her voice is warm and lazy, too distracted by his joy to worry too much about...much of anything, actually. She shifts comfortably against him, just for the reminder that he’s there—or that she is, since all there is in her senses is him, his heart pouring out as warm and soothing as the sunlight above]
Re: Day 235 - Emotion Share
[His thumb keeps up its lazy back and forth motion, gentle. The rise and fall of her chest against him, the steady beat of her heart, the knowledge that for once she isn't worried about anything - it's all a lot, in the very best kind of way]
Re: Day 235 - Emotion Share
Have fun in jail. Don't worry, I'll bake you a cake with a rasp in it.
Re: Day 235 - Emotion Share
[It's hard not to press this one to him, cradling it nearer - hard to keep himself from swinging the doors wide and letting it all flow in. In among that center-of-the-heart feeling, there's contentment so deep it feels almost physical, the warm, heavy weight of a blanket drawn in close]
Man, and here I thought I was gonna have to dig out with a spoon.
Re: Day 235 - Emotion Share
[She's got the warm and heavy part down at least. Between his heat beneath her and the sun above, she feels lax and comfortable as being in the bath--though it's her overworked emotional muscles that are being soothed in the warmth. Next time, more stretching, perhaps... She yawns, exhausted, either way; curls in closer even as she picks back up]
...Should prolly get up.
Re: Day 235 - Emotion Share
[There is not especially any want to move from here anytime soon; the warmth is good, and the closeness is better. His thumb still trails back and forth, gentle]
Re: Day 235 - Emotion Share
[Falls silent after that; loses whatever momentum she’d been building in the face of a contentment sticky sweet as honey. Her hands shift a little on his back, fingers wisping over his skin very slow.]
...Gonna fall asleep. Too comf’table.
Re: Day 235 - Emotion Share
S'worse places to sleep.
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