Loxley's lodgings are small, but tidy, lit by a cluster of candles in a shallow bowl. In her previous visits, Derrica noticed how neatly he kept the room, along with the little decorations, the orderly way he'd lined up his boots by the door. It was the type of detail about him that stuck in her mind, that strike her as sweet.
It comes to mind now as she watches him move through the room. It stalls her halfway out of her coat, which was moments away from being left in a puddled heap on the floor, and redirects it to drape over the chair instead.
"The tavern is not so loud yet tonight," is a stray observation, as Derrica leans a hip against the edge of the table to begin the process of undoing her boot laces. Maybe they've picked a good night for this, when so much of Kirkwall is drinking at the tourney into the wee hours.
Derrica is still watching him, attention evenly split between the task at hand and Loxley himself.
His own coat is off, draped over the chest at the end of his bed. The little scarf tied around his throat goes with it, and with his back to her, he tips his head as if to judge the sound levels. She's right: there's the faint strains of a stringed instrument somewhere, the occasional thump and scrape of furniture, the swell of noisy conversation that dims away again, but not as rowdy as it can get.
"It usually quiets off before the sun starts," Loxley says, turning and sitting down at the edge of his bed. He follows her action, tugging loose the buckles of his boots, shucking them off.
Noticing that she's watching him, and so returns the favour, corner of his mouth curling. "But I don't doubt a whole horde of drunken louts will come flooding in from the Tourney," thump, goes the second boot, "us being the first of them."
That said, he feels oddly clear. He'd ceased to drink after that last beer and on purpose, and there is always something uniquely sobering about a woman of Derrica's beauty. And she certainly seems steady on her feet too.
Crossing to him, boots discarded behind her, Derrica steps between his knees. She cups his face in her hands.
Maybe she should say something about the impending drunken louts. Or about the tourney. Or about any number of topics that she might tease him about or that would make for light, insubstantial conversation.
Instead, she tips his face up to her, takes a few moments to make a study of him. Loxley is handsome but that isn't anything new. But it's satisfying to be able to put her hands into his hair, see the way his expressions work across his face. She hasn't stopped smiling, had come to him amidst the revelry in good humor and it's kept for the entirety of their walk to the Anvil, and she's still smiling now, even as it softens as she looks him over.
"You aren't all bruised beneath those leathers, are you?" she asks, voice fond.
He stills a little when she slides into his space, puts her hands on him. Easily tilted. There is enough ego in him and confidence in her own nature and the nature of the affable journey through Lowtown to imagine that she'll only find something agreeable in her study, and then there was a kiss, earlier. Qunari are not the devil, here, and even if they were—
Loxley's hands rest on the sides of her thighs, smoothing up to her hips.
"I haven't checked," he says, which is honest, but certainly comes with a spark of hello-nurse in gold-ringed eyes. "And yourself? Any spots I ought to be careful with?"
The old scars, neat knife slashes across her belly and a stretch of mottled markings on her right side, have never pained her. She came out of the tourney well enough, and erased anything that might have settled into discomfort and aches. The lingering fizz of drink has flattened in the course of their walk; there's nothing to blunt the warmth of his hands on her hips.
Her fingers meet the base of his horns, then realign, so as to more fully thread into his curls. There's no hesitation in it. And if she does think of what he told her once, about how he should look, the body he should have, it doesn't diminish how he appears to her now.
She is very fond of his smile, she's come to realize. Among other attributes. Her thumbs stroke gently at his temples.
"Potential bruises aside, is there anything that..."
A pause, Derrica turning over her words.
"That I should be careful with?" she borrows, head tipping as she poses the question.
"All parts of me can tolerate a little rough handling."
But the gentleness is welcome, doing a lot with a little. Exciting, to be intimate when before one was not. To smooth his hands up to his waist, to circle his arm around her to shepherd them closer together, him seated and her standing. To place his other hand at the back of her thigh, which will help when he does this next thing.
Shifting backwards, with the intention to invite her onto the bed with him, hands steadying. It is large enough to comfortably welcome two adults, including one with Loxley's rangey proportions, but the wooden frame does squeak and shiver with any major redistribution of weight.
And if and when they make it that far, his hand comes up to cradle the back of her head and draws her in to kiss him.
It's invitation, and Derrica goes willingly, all the more so for the fact that Loxley holds onto her in such a way that she would step backwards, out of his grasp, without any trouble. This matters to her. More than anything else, that quality alone sticks in her mind, marks Loxley as someone she can be with in this way.
So she goes, following him up onto the bed with some care for the placement of knees and elbows in the process. The squeaking bed frame draws a laugh from her, and the moment that might have come after, when she might have given some serious consideration of whether or not the bed will hold, is cut short.
It is not a brief kiss. There is no need to be brief, when they have the rest of the night for this. Derrica puts her hands back into Loxley's hair. She winds herself in close to him. She kisses him with all the intent he'd been given a glimpse of on the tourney grounds, before she cedes her grip on his hair and draws slightly back turn her attention to the fastenings of his tunic.
"Take this off?" is a request posed very nearly against his mouth, as counterproductive as proximity might be.
He leans back when she does, resting an elbow on the mattress. Breathing escapes him a little shorter than it did before, eyes warmly kindled as he studies her at this proximity. (For his part, his kiss had been receptive, perhaps even interpreted as passive, until it wasn't.)
Loxley turns his head, brushing a whiskery kiss against the corner of her mouth as he takes a hold of her hand, guides it to a small strap that will undo his sash, bound wide around his midsection. With that, he lays back as he loosens the fastenings at his throat—already a bit loose, in a rakishly rumpled sort of way, likely done deliberately in a reflective surface at some point—and tugs his tunic away, navigating the curl of his horns as he's done a billion times prior.
There's some fresh mottled bruising, cloudy, darker grey across his side. A few small scars, here and there, and a pale stripe of one, a more serious wound if long healed, slashed across his abdomen.
He leans up to kiss her again, matching her intent with his own, while his hands roam for her waistband. Tugs it free, and skims his palm up the bare skin beneath, following the curve of her waist. He has always characterised Derrica as soft, in only the most flattering of ways—a gentleness in spirit, but also the wave of her hair, her warm way of looking at things. It's a feeling he seeks as he touches and kisses her, pulling her tunic high up along her spine.
With one hand wound into Loxley's sash, Derrica levers herself up over him to settle into his lap. When he leans up to shed his tunic, she takes the moment to draw the sash away entirely, and then remains, weight carefully balanced.
There is only a moment to consider him, think where she would like to put her hands, before he leans up to her. The sash is still in hand when she slides her arms around his neck, cups his nape, crowding in against him as Loxley's hands slide across her skin. The sash trails down his back, over his shoulder, as her palms slip from his nape to his face, clutching him close before she smiles against his mouth and tells him, "We match," before one hand drops to guide his palm around to her stomach.
Was this wound not as deep as his, or was it healed faster? (Did Richard heal Loxley then, or was it someone else? Who had he been with? What kind of fight was it?) But someone had once tried to slice her open, and the evidence of it, that raised strip of scarring, is easy to mark.
"Lift this off, please," follows after, soft direction that would require her to create some space between them, but—
Hand so guided, Loxley seeks out the scar tissue he expects, and he trails a light touch across it, following its path. Had either of them been less fortunate, then they'd have died in an exceptionally painful and ugly manner. He has a similar deep scratch up the inside of his thigh, which could have been differently unfortunate, give or take a few inches.
He smiles at her directing him, a hint of fang-like canine in the low candlelight, and he does as directed. He lifts her tunic like a curtain, but is slow to withdraw, a brush of a kiss hovered between them before he eases back enough to help untangle her from the garment.
Indulges in lying back all the way, the backs of his knuckles brushing up along her abdomen, raising fine hairs there. "Mine's a souvenir," he says, of scars. "To remember the fallen city of Nevarra by."
An impersonal wound, by and large, caught in the chaos from a mere one of thousands. He doesn't ask after hers, save to leave a space in the moment if she wishes to fill it with something similar. Even then, his focus has roamed further than scarring.
The sweep of his knuckles is good in and of itself. When Derrica shifts her weight, settles her weight just so, then lays her palms over the range of bruising on his chest, she's careful not to disturb the wandering progression of his hands. If he strays far enough, Loxley will find the secure cinch of binding linens around her chest, with the ends cleverly hidden between the layered loops. This sort of handiwork doesn't come free at a simple tug, but it's not so impenetrable.
A soft hum of acknowledgement as her own fingers move across the raised gouge there, before she says, "Mine was a lesson."
Like so many things were in the wake of Dairsmuid.
Her hands lift away, traveling up to the loosening coils of her braids She's pulling a few pins free as she finishes, "To be wary of getting too close to large men wielding falchions."
When she returns her hands to his chest, she's still holdings her hairpins. The metal is cool as it travels across his skin, stays folded between her fingers when she flattens her palms across his ribs and leans down to tease, "Remind me what type of sword you use?"
He held his breath when she'd resettled, and again now when her hands smooth against his chest, warm skin and the roll of cooler metal. It's released when he laughs, quiet and husky, and says, as if to assure her, "A rapier," as he slides his hands further along her sides, encouraging her leaning in.
"It's not very good at leaving behind scars," Loxley says, his fingers following along the creases of linen that wrap around her. "At least, not like these. It's extremely good at running people through at arms length, however," ah, there, tugging free one of the loose linen ends, "and assisting in the business of rescuing damsels."
He unwinds the linens, lazy patience, letting it loosen and fall away.
Broad palmed, his hands smoothing up along her sides again, now teasing along the curve of her breast with his thumb. "I've learned no lessons about staying away from women who wield lances."
The hair pins slip from her fingers, vanished into the sheets to be found later by Loxley's back or Derrica's hip. She might have stretched past him to drop the pins onto the nightstand, but it's more satisfying to bend, body bowing closer under the slide of his palms.
"All the better for me," she says, mock serious, before a smile breaks across her face while she continues, "Maybe I'll be a damsel one of these days, so I can see you and it in action."
Her elbows come down, one on either side of his head. One finger traces along his horn, before she dips down to drop a brief kiss first to the corner of his mouth, linger for a moment and then kiss him again, properly, as she sinks her fingers into his hair.
But not for long, because she's right there, close and warm and kissing him. The surface texture of curled horns are not completely smooth, but tended to. The ordinarily tousled wildness of his hair also betrays an amount of seeing to in silky texture, if a little tangled from the day's events.
His hands come up, tracing along the braids in her hair, fingers stroking through looser locks and sweeping it all aside as he kisses her back, head lifting. His hands travel down her back, crowding them together just to feel and enjoy the sensation of being pressed together, of holding her to him, and it's all very luxurious and patient if you disregard the slight shift of his hips beneath her.
More movement, then, the intent being to gently roll her beneath him, the creaking bed frame announcing it much louder than necessary.
She would. She'll be happy to remind him of it, should the opportunity present itself when they're out in the world together. But in the moment, she's pleased with the his mouth and his beard, the restless, responsive movement of his body, and his hands, always his hands, on her bare skin.
And because of how close they are, one line of connection between their bodies, everything telegraphed by Loxley's hands on her back and the flex of his body beneath her, Derrica understands his intention even before the rearrangement of their position drags a groaning complaint from the bed. Their kiss breaks on her smile, broad and delighted. She's momentarily yielding, welcoming the shift in position. Loxley feels so good over her, and it's very tempting, except—
Rather than allowing the momentum to come to a stop, and Loxley to bear her down into the mattress, Derrica presses up before he can settle. They roll again, with Derrica's leg hooking around his hip, intending to pin him onto his back on the opposite side of the bed.
Assuming there's enough bed for this maneuver. Derrica hadn't looked before she'd followed this impulse.
It's a near miss, but with his proficiency in dexterity saving throws, Loxley steadies them both a hand clutching the edge of the bed and another onto Derrica when her knee slips slightly past the mattress edge. His smile is bright, and he'd laugh if he wasn't extremely distracted by physics, her body, his own.
"Noted," he says, a breathless-half laugh, and both hands come down to situate her more firmly atop him, shifting a bit further back from the edge. Once there, hands slide away from her waist to skim over her behind, curling himself up to brush a kiss against her jaw. Admiring, as promised, can occur from any angle.
Having dug her fingers in to his shoulders, bracing for slipping all the way to the floor in a heap, Loxley's save is rewarded with a bright, easy laugh. Her grip flexes on his shoulders, then loosens, settling with a slow roll of her hips as his mouth moves along her jaw.
"Good catch," comes softly, pitched low. She turns her head to find his mouth, kiss him again as her hands move down his chest to find the lacing of his trousers.
There's something so sweet in being indulged without question. Her kiss is very open, one hand leaving his lacing to cup his face. The set of her fingers is very light, skimming over his beard, thumb finding his cheek as she sinks into their kiss.
Loxley has always been easy to like. But some quiet, fond thing steals in between them now, and Derrica finds no reason to try and dispel it.
The deliberate movement of her hips gets a noise out of him, quiet and unbidden, and he doesn't have it in him to be very self-conscious about things like that. What's he going to do, pretend he isn't very attracted to her, while they're tangled so? Or turn his head to oblige in meeting that kiss, a harder exhale muffled there as her fingers tug at the fastenings of his trousers.
His hands squeeze as he returns the pressure of that kiss, open and inviting and indulgent, gaining a heated kind of edge, now. He's already stiff by the time she's opened his trousers, or at the very least, well on his way, warm all over and the lines of lean muscle roped to bone, pelvis and thigh and abdomen, all strung taut in spite of the languid mood a minute ago.
He likes to sleep with people he likes, people he knows, even if the knowing is done over the course of a couple of hours, usually. There's something oddly heightened and new about this, however, familiar with a person over some months, and he thinks he likes that too.
It's a good sound. Derrica kisses him harder for it, as if to catch the taste of it from his lips before it goes. For a moment, it stays the work of her hand, laces held loosely in her hand as her knuckles stray along the flex of his stomach.
She doesn't pull back from him when she takes him in hand. Stays pressed in tight against him, kissing his mouth, crowded in close, as she touches him. It's an unhurried, easy movement. Not lacking intention, just not possessed of the kind of focused urgency that leads to a particular end.
"I want to know everything you like," comes so softly, a murmur at the corner of his mouth in harmony with the slow shift of her hand over him. "And I want you to know me too."
Here is the thing that matters: the invitation, the offering up of something she needn't share. There is a way of doing this where Derrica gives up nothing at all. Most men are satisfied with that. Maybe Loxley would have been too. But that's not what she wants this to be.
Loxley's hands smooth up her back as her hand curls around him. He breathes out slow and long, hitched tighter in his chest when she presses kisses to his mouth. Doesn't miss a moment to touch her back, even in broader strokes, following the dips and bumps of her spine, the lines of muscle, until he can bury a hand in her hair and kiss her back.
His eyes open by a fraction when she speaks, and he smiles at what she says. "I want that very much," he says. His hand slips around, palm brushing along the side of her neck, fingers tracing the curve that flows from beneath her ear, down to her collarbone. Like he's indicating some part of her he's already quite fond of.
A humming pause, Derrica drawing back by degrees. Their noses bump. The idle shift of her hand over him doesn't falter. She smiles around the instinctive response of everywhere, the kind of response that's so broad as to be of little use. She pats his check gently as she shifts up, laying her forearm across her chest so she lean against him and look down into his face.
She dips briefly to peck him a soft kiss as she lets go of him. The lingering impression of Loxley's fingers prickle along her skin.
"Here," she tells him, with a trailing of her fingers at the high point of his throat. The solemn tone of her voice is offset by the brightness of her eyes, her flushed cheeks.
"And here," she continues, as she tiptoes across his shoulder, over her own arm, then down his chest, pausing over the scar across his belly to add, "And here."
Silver-grey skin doesn't betray much as far as rising blood and fluster go, but it's not a signifier Derrica needs. Like his clothing, Loxley's sense of reserve and whatever control he has fast on outward presentation is half-shed, and he lets himself sigh when her hand lifts a way, swallow when her fingers touch his throat.
His hands on her hips press thumbs teasingly into the hollows at her pelvis, activating those pressure points only gently. "That's a path I'd happily follow," he says, and there's a thread of strain in his voice, like his breathing has shifted a few degrees upwards, resting beneath the arm she has braced at his chest.
She might feel the tug at the fastenings of her trousers before even noticing he's shifted his hands at all, a lace pulled free and then taut, as if simply catching her there.
It's satisfying, having an effect on one's partner. The way he sighs catches at her, sparks up a sweet kind of glow in her face. Not smug, but affectionately pleased.
Having rocked her hips forward into the pressure of his thumbs, the realignment of his hands is observed only in anticipation of where he might put them. Her laces had somehow not ranked among potential options. As aware as she is of the winding tension at her waist, she lets it fold her back down to him. Her arm slides across his chest, second elbow joining the first to balance her there.
"Let me—" trails into a kiss, rather than a specific action. She might have shed her trousers along with her boots, before she arrived in such a comfortable position.
The trouble is: she'd regretted drawing up far enough to demonstrate her point only moments ago. To roll off him entirely requires some kind of fortification against the separation, even in pursuit of something wholly worthwhile.
Loxley chooses not to help her find it. Or does. It's a matter of perspective.
Regardless, she kisses him, and he kisses back, and he loosens the lacings further, far enough that his hand, warm and sure, slips in between the fabric and her skin. His palm applies more pressure than his fingers, which only touch and tease as he feels her, in that moment.
And demonstrates his ability to listen, as the next time the kiss breaks for the purposes of breathing, or the little realignments that occur, he nudges her jaw up and side to lay a whiskery kiss at that spot, high up on her throat. It's not as sweet as they've started, ardent and warm, head lifted while his other hand, free now, strokes back through her hair.
Again, Derrica considers: among Loxley's many charms, she is growing especially fond of his hands.
The pressure is good, even if it isn't enough. Derrica makes a low, hitching sound against his mouth, automatically encouraging as her hips cant down against his hand. It breaks into a soft moan when Loxley's mouth passes from her mouth to her neck. There's a limit to how far she can move her hands without closing the space between them in such a way that would be unhelpful to his efforts.
"That's so good," comes as a murmur, even as her fingers dig hard into his shoulders. It's praise as much for the application of his mouth as it is for the placement of his hand. "But it's not going to help me get these trousers off."
Hers or his? Both? All of it necessitates leaving his lap, a more unappealing prospect now than it had been minutes before.
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charmoffensive) wrote2019-10-19 02:48 pm
post tourney celebration pt 2.
It comes to mind now as she watches him move through the room. It stalls her halfway out of her coat, which was moments away from being left in a puddled heap on the floor, and redirects it to drape over the chair instead.
"The tavern is not so loud yet tonight," is a stray observation, as Derrica leans a hip against the edge of the table to begin the process of undoing her boot laces. Maybe they've picked a good night for this, when so much of Kirkwall is drinking at the tourney into the wee hours.
Derrica is still watching him, attention evenly split between the task at hand and Loxley himself.
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"It usually quiets off before the sun starts," Loxley says, turning and sitting down at the edge of his bed. He follows her action, tugging loose the buckles of his boots, shucking them off.
Noticing that she's watching him, and so returns the favour, corner of his mouth curling. "But I don't doubt a whole horde of drunken louts will come flooding in from the Tourney," thump, goes the second boot, "us being the first of them."
That said, he feels oddly clear. He'd ceased to drink after that last beer and on purpose, and there is always something uniquely sobering about a woman of Derrica's beauty. And she certainly seems steady on her feet too.
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Maybe she should say something about the impending drunken louts. Or about the tourney. Or about any number of topics that she might tease him about or that would make for light, insubstantial conversation.
Instead, she tips his face up to her, takes a few moments to make a study of him. Loxley is handsome but that isn't anything new. But it's satisfying to be able to put her hands into his hair, see the way his expressions work across his face. She hasn't stopped smiling, had come to him amidst the revelry in good humor and it's kept for the entirety of their walk to the Anvil, and she's still smiling now, even as it softens as she looks him over.
"You aren't all bruised beneath those leathers, are you?" she asks, voice fond.
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Loxley's hands rest on the sides of her thighs, smoothing up to her hips.
"I haven't checked," he says, which is honest, but certainly comes with a spark of hello-nurse in gold-ringed eyes. "And yourself? Any spots I ought to be careful with?"
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The old scars, neat knife slashes across her belly and a stretch of mottled markings on her right side, have never pained her. She came out of the tourney well enough, and erased anything that might have settled into discomfort and aches. The lingering fizz of drink has flattened in the course of their walk; there's nothing to blunt the warmth of his hands on her hips.
Her fingers meet the base of his horns, then realign, so as to more fully thread into his curls. There's no hesitation in it. And if she does think of what he told her once, about how he should look, the body he should have, it doesn't diminish how he appears to her now.
She is very fond of his smile, she's come to realize. Among other attributes. Her thumbs stroke gently at his temples.
"Potential bruises aside, is there anything that..."
A pause, Derrica turning over her words.
"That I should be careful with?" she borrows, head tipping as she poses the question.
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But the gentleness is welcome, doing a lot with a little. Exciting, to be intimate when before one was not. To smooth his hands up to his waist, to circle his arm around her to shepherd them closer together, him seated and her standing. To place his other hand at the back of her thigh, which will help when he does this next thing.
Shifting backwards, with the intention to invite her onto the bed with him, hands steadying. It is large enough to comfortably welcome two adults, including one with Loxley's rangey proportions, but the wooden frame does squeak and shiver with any major redistribution of weight.
And if and when they make it that far, his hand comes up to cradle the back of her head and draws her in to kiss him.
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So she goes, following him up onto the bed with some care for the placement of knees and elbows in the process. The squeaking bed frame draws a laugh from her, and the moment that might have come after, when she might have given some serious consideration of whether or not the bed will hold, is cut short.
It is not a brief kiss. There is no need to be brief, when they have the rest of the night for this. Derrica puts her hands back into Loxley's hair. She winds herself in close to him. She kisses him with all the intent he'd been given a glimpse of on the tourney grounds, before she cedes her grip on his hair and draws slightly back turn her attention to the fastenings of his tunic.
"Take this off?" is a request posed very nearly against his mouth, as counterproductive as proximity might be.
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Loxley turns his head, brushing a whiskery kiss against the corner of her mouth as he takes a hold of her hand, guides it to a small strap that will undo his sash, bound wide around his midsection. With that, he lays back as he loosens the fastenings at his throat—already a bit loose, in a rakishly rumpled sort of way, likely done deliberately in a reflective surface at some point—and tugs his tunic away, navigating the curl of his horns as he's done a billion times prior.
There's some fresh mottled bruising, cloudy, darker grey across his side. A few small scars, here and there, and a pale stripe of one, a more serious wound if long healed, slashed across his abdomen.
He leans up to kiss her again, matching her intent with his own, while his hands roam for her waistband. Tugs it free, and skims his palm up the bare skin beneath, following the curve of her waist. He has always characterised Derrica as soft, in only the most flattering of ways—a gentleness in spirit, but also the wave of her hair, her warm way of looking at things. It's a feeling he seeks as he touches and kisses her, pulling her tunic high up along her spine.
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There is only a moment to consider him, think where she would like to put her hands, before he leans up to her. The sash is still in hand when she slides her arms around his neck, cups his nape, crowding in against him as Loxley's hands slide across her skin. The sash trails down his back, over his shoulder, as her palms slip from his nape to his face, clutching him close before she smiles against his mouth and tells him, "We match," before one hand drops to guide his palm around to her stomach.
Was this wound not as deep as his, or was it healed faster? (Did Richard heal Loxley then, or was it someone else? Who had he been with? What kind of fight was it?) But someone had once tried to slice her open, and the evidence of it, that raised strip of scarring, is easy to mark.
"Lift this off, please," follows after, soft direction that would require her to create some space between them, but—
Not just yet.
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He smiles at her directing him, a hint of fang-like canine in the low candlelight, and he does as directed. He lifts her tunic like a curtain, but is slow to withdraw, a brush of a kiss hovered between them before he eases back enough to help untangle her from the garment.
Indulges in lying back all the way, the backs of his knuckles brushing up along her abdomen, raising fine hairs there. "Mine's a souvenir," he says, of scars. "To remember the fallen city of Nevarra by."
An impersonal wound, by and large, caught in the chaos from a mere one of thousands. He doesn't ask after hers, save to leave a space in the moment if she wishes to fill it with something similar. Even then, his focus has roamed further than scarring.
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A soft hum of acknowledgement as her own fingers move across the raised gouge there, before she says, "Mine was a lesson."
Like so many things were in the wake of Dairsmuid.
Her hands lift away, traveling up to the loosening coils of her braids She's pulling a few pins free as she finishes, "To be wary of getting too close to large men wielding falchions."
When she returns her hands to his chest, she's still holdings her hairpins. The metal is cool as it travels across his skin, stays folded between her fingers when she flattens her palms across his ribs and leans down to tease, "Remind me what type of sword you use?"
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"It's not very good at leaving behind scars," Loxley says, his fingers following along the creases of linen that wrap around her. "At least, not like these. It's extremely good at running people through at arms length, however," ah, there, tugging free one of the loose linen ends, "and assisting in the business of rescuing damsels."
He unwinds the linens, lazy patience, letting it loosen and fall away.
Broad palmed, his hands smoothing up along her sides again, now teasing along the curve of her breast with his thumb. "I've learned no lessons about staying away from women who wield lances."
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"All the better for me," she says, mock serious, before a smile breaks across her face while she continues, "Maybe I'll be a damsel one of these days, so I can see you and it in action."
Her elbows come down, one on either side of his head. One finger traces along his horn, before she dips down to drop a brief kiss first to the corner of his mouth, linger for a moment and then kiss him again, properly, as she sinks her fingers into his hair.
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But not for long, because she's right there, close and warm and kissing him. The surface texture of curled horns are not completely smooth, but tended to. The ordinarily tousled wildness of his hair also betrays an amount of seeing to in silky texture, if a little tangled from the day's events.
His hands come up, tracing along the braids in her hair, fingers stroking through looser locks and sweeping it all aside as he kisses her back, head lifting. His hands travel down her back, crowding them together just to feel and enjoy the sensation of being pressed together, of holding her to him, and it's all very luxurious and patient if you disregard the slight shift of his hips beneath her.
More movement, then, the intent being to gently roll her beneath him, the creaking bed frame announcing it much louder than necessary.
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And because of how close they are, one line of connection between their bodies, everything telegraphed by Loxley's hands on her back and the flex of his body beneath her, Derrica understands his intention even before the rearrangement of their position drags a groaning complaint from the bed. Their kiss breaks on her smile, broad and delighted. She's momentarily yielding, welcoming the shift in position. Loxley feels so good over her, and it's very tempting, except—
Rather than allowing the momentum to come to a stop, and Loxley to bear her down into the mattress, Derrica presses up before he can settle. They roll again, with Derrica's leg hooking around his hip, intending to pin him onto his back on the opposite side of the bed.
Assuming there's enough bed for this maneuver. Derrica hadn't looked before she'd followed this impulse.
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It's a near miss, but with his proficiency in dexterity saving throws, Loxley steadies them both a hand clutching the edge of the bed and another onto Derrica when her knee slips slightly past the mattress edge. His smile is bright, and he'd laugh if he wasn't extremely distracted by physics, her body, his own.
"Noted," he says, a breathless-half laugh, and both hands come down to situate her more firmly atop him, shifting a bit further back from the edge. Once there, hands slide away from her waist to skim over her behind, curling himself up to brush a kiss against her jaw. Admiring, as promised, can occur from any angle.
extreme mercer voice: rogues, man
"Good catch," comes softly, pitched low. She turns her head to find his mouth, kiss him again as her hands move down his chest to find the lacing of his trousers.
There's something so sweet in being indulged without question. Her kiss is very open, one hand leaving his lacing to cup his face. The set of her fingers is very light, skimming over his beard, thumb finding his cheek as she sinks into their kiss.
Loxley has always been easy to like. But some quiet, fond thing steals in between them now, and Derrica finds no reason to try and dispel it.
that reliable talent
His hands squeeze as he returns the pressure of that kiss, open and inviting and indulgent, gaining a heated kind of edge, now. He's already stiff by the time she's opened his trousers, or at the very least, well on his way, warm all over and the lines of lean muscle roped to bone, pelvis and thigh and abdomen, all strung taut in spite of the languid mood a minute ago.
He likes to sleep with people he likes, people he knows, even if the knowing is done over the course of a couple of hours, usually. There's something oddly heightened and new about this, however, familiar with a person over some months, and he thinks he likes that too.
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She doesn't pull back from him when she takes him in hand. Stays pressed in tight against him, kissing his mouth, crowded in close, as she touches him. It's an unhurried, easy movement. Not lacking intention, just not possessed of the kind of focused urgency that leads to a particular end.
"I want to know everything you like," comes so softly, a murmur at the corner of his mouth in harmony with the slow shift of her hand over him. "And I want you to know me too."
Here is the thing that matters: the invitation, the offering up of something she needn't share. There is a way of doing this where Derrica gives up nothing at all. Most men are satisfied with that. Maybe Loxley would have been too. But that's not what she wants this to be.
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His eyes open by a fraction when she speaks, and he smiles at what she says. "I want that very much," he says. His hand slips around, palm brushing along the side of her neck, fingers tracing the curve that flows from beneath her ear, down to her collarbone. Like he's indicating some part of her he's already quite fond of.
"Where do you like to be kissed?"
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She dips briefly to peck him a soft kiss as she lets go of him. The lingering impression of Loxley's fingers prickle along her skin.
"Here," she tells him, with a trailing of her fingers at the high point of his throat. The solemn tone of her voice is offset by the brightness of her eyes, her flushed cheeks.
"And here," she continues, as she tiptoes across his shoulder, over her own arm, then down his chest, pausing over the scar across his belly to add, "And here."
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His hands on her hips press thumbs teasingly into the hollows at her pelvis, activating those pressure points only gently. "That's a path I'd happily follow," he says, and there's a thread of strain in his voice, like his breathing has shifted a few degrees upwards, resting beneath the arm she has braced at his chest.
She might feel the tug at the fastenings of her trousers before even noticing he's shifted his hands at all, a lace pulled free and then taut, as if simply catching her there.
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Having rocked her hips forward into the pressure of his thumbs, the realignment of his hands is observed only in anticipation of where he might put them. Her laces had somehow not ranked among potential options. As aware as she is of the winding tension at her waist, she lets it fold her back down to him. Her arm slides across his chest, second elbow joining the first to balance her there.
"Let me—" trails into a kiss, rather than a specific action. She might have shed her trousers along with her boots, before she arrived in such a comfortable position.
The trouble is: she'd regretted drawing up far enough to demonstrate her point only moments ago. To roll off him entirely requires some kind of fortification against the separation, even in pursuit of something wholly worthwhile.
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Regardless, she kisses him, and he kisses back, and he loosens the lacings further, far enough that his hand, warm and sure, slips in between the fabric and her skin. His palm applies more pressure than his fingers, which only touch and tease as he feels her, in that moment.
And demonstrates his ability to listen, as the next time the kiss breaks for the purposes of breathing, or the little realignments that occur, he nudges her jaw up and side to lay a whiskery kiss at that spot, high up on her throat. It's not as sweet as they've started, ardent and warm, head lifted while his other hand, free now, strokes back through her hair.
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The pressure is good, even if it isn't enough. Derrica makes a low, hitching sound against his mouth, automatically encouraging as her hips cant down against his hand. It breaks into a soft moan when Loxley's mouth passes from her mouth to her neck. There's a limit to how far she can move her hands without closing the space between them in such a way that would be unhelpful to his efforts.
"That's so good," comes as a murmur, even as her fingers dig hard into his shoulders. It's praise as much for the application of his mouth as it is for the placement of his hand. "But it's not going to help me get these trousers off."
Hers or his? Both? All of it necessitates leaving his lap, a more unappealing prospect now than it had been minutes before.
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dwrp don't oppress me with your notif shenanigans
betrayal from dreamwidth
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