"I'll suffer through somehow," Loxley says, easy and quick, but everything toned down and quiet in this proximity. "But I expect the real torture will be for everyone around us."
His fingers likewise skim across her skin, not so much in patterns than pathways, mapping the natural lines made by bone and muscle, her curves, all slow and light and lazy. Like he is indulging in the thing that looking naturally pulls him towards, which is to touch. He wonders if that's something she welcomes outside a bedroom as well.
He wonders a lot of things that will be fun to find out.
He lifts his hand, the backs of his knuckles easing down her jaw, admiring the flush of her skin, the subtle look of a mouth well-kissed.
All Loxley's languid explorations have their effect. The trailing slide of his fingers turn her breath shallow, begin that slow winding tip towards pulling her entire body taut. It doesn't tickle, but the lightness of it oversensitizes her skin, draws shivers from her as she hooks her knee over his to tangle their legs together.
"I don't want to move," she admits, the dip of humor in her voice betraying that this is the kind of statement that's both true and untrue by turns. She does want more, except that: "This feels good."
Not a means to an end, but a comfortable exchange of contact, enjoyable in it's own right. His hands are very good on her skin. Her fingers have migrated to his bicep, marking out the shape of muscle there as she watches him looking at her.
That is good too. Derrica is not often interested in being admired, but she likes Loxley's expression when he studies her.
Loxley responds to that, the comfortable weight of her leg hooked up onto his, by nudging his own to nudge between hers. It feels a little more like how they might lay together after they've done everything they've indulged in, but this lazy lapses of energy feel just as good too. Good, to simply be with someone in simple ways.
Still—
Humour has the corners of his eyes crease, and he says, "I do like watching you move," a confession, but there's no physical push to change anything up—at least, not forcefully. The trail of his fingertips shifts lower, knuckles brushing down the centre of her abdomen, over the scarring there, and then further down, touching that warm juncture of her thighs at the same moment he leans in to kiss her.
"And listening to you sigh and gasp," he says, and with a smile audible in his voice, "and tell me what you want."
There is some immediate, yielding response from her body; for a moment, every part of her softens, welcoming his hands and his mouth.
Then, just gently, there is a nip of teeth. More pressure than bite, shifting to a smile as she draws back. His hands are allowed to hold their place as she sets her palms at his shoulders and asked, "And if I want you to sit up against the headboard?"
A query that, once spoken, Derrica thinks better of. What are the exact limitations of what Loxley's bed will be able to withstand?
Loxley seems confident, anyway. There's a list forwards, like the temptation had been to go with her when nipped, but pausing at her answer. "Then I'd say I like that just as well." The bedframe complains only slightly ominously (you get used to it, maybe) as he pushes himself up to sit, carelessly pushing bedthings out of the way as he settles his back against the board.
Fixes his hair, while he has a second, just a quick swoop of long fingers past the blunt connections of horns and skull. Likely this is the only twitch towards self-consciousness he's shown, or will, comfortable with all his clothing on the floor, the relaxed stretch of his posture.
It's not a loss, only a readjustment, but it still feels a bit wrenching to lose the closeness of him alongside her. That's more than sufficient motivation to follow him up.
Derrica sits up on her heels first alongside Loxley, then mirrors his movement by sweeping the mass of her hair back from her face. A few bits of stray jewelry have yet to be removed, and it might mean tangling later, if she doesn't pull them out after they finish. But she doesn't care to stop for that now.
And then she reclaims her space, closes the distance between them to return to his lap. She touches his face first, retraces the drag of his hand through his hair, while she settles her weight over his thighs, reaches down to take him in hand as she kisses him, tugs lightly at the curls over his nape.
"Welcome back," he says, quietly, barely anything between a breath in and a kiss, which gets a relieved, pleasured sound out of him. Maybe for the kiss itself but also very likely for the hand wrapped warm around him. He feels as though his whole body responds, livens, held in fine tension between the kiss to his mouth, the hand in his hair, the other on his cock.
His arms move around her, his hands come up to bury themselves in her hair, a clutch designed to stimulate rather than pull. He smiles a little into the kiss to imagine how many of those she's been with before have been unable to keep themselves from that action alone, like the shining glimmers of metal in those waves are more than enough encouragement.
"I missed you," is a nonsensical, silly thing to say, but she says it anyway, smiling into their kiss. She's had him close to her since the moment she crossed the room to his bed, but she can still pretend that the handful of minutes in which they rearranged themselves is a significant amount of time.
There is some temptation to draw this out. Just as there had been temptation to stay tangled side by side, or to have let him wind her up a second time.
A question, posed so softly against his mouth: "How long could I touch you like before it was too much?"
It's the sort of question that has its own tangible affect, as live as if she'd tightened the curl of her fingers. It draws a twitch from him, a second spent rummaging around for a clever thing to say, while his hands feel her curls between his fingers, wind them around only to come loose again.
The headboard creaks as he leans back rather than curling up into her kiss. Still extremely easy to reconnect in that way, his hands still in her hair, hers in his, but he can look at her with blur.
"Depends," finally. "You're not in a hurry, are you?"
Something said like a promise or a proposal, her voice dipping honeyed over all night.
Except she doesn't want to take all night for this. The slow slide and twist of her hand continues on, no break in the rhythm, but the shift of her weight over his thighs as she slides forward by degrees is telling.
"Would you like that?" is a softer question. Not so specifically about the act in question, but a quieter, prompting thing.
Loxley's hands come down to rest on the backs of her thighs, articulate points of contact where fingertips gently dimple her skin. Like the potential to do more is there, to lift or to pull or anything, but held in reserve and just feeling as she tips herself in by those fractions.
Between them, the air feels close and warm, and his skin hot. There'd been a sketch of a smile at her first answer, distracted. And then her softer question, and his hands squeeze her, needful, not quite conscious. The next twist of her hand gets a noise out of him, quiet and broken off, and the slight push of her thighs under her, knees raising an inch as tension strings through him.
"Yes," he says. No line, this time. Something luxurious in this pace, yes, but also something risky, vulnerable, in allowing him to be driven to a point in the midst of this all.
Here is something of note: Derrica has stayed longer in Loxley's bed than any other partners' in quite some time, and they are not nearly finished with each other.
And here is something else of note: There is a way of this in which no one shares anything vulnerable. But they're trading something between them. Is the noise Loxley makes akin to how Derrica had shuddered apart over him? Maybe.
Or maybe not. They've only just begun this exercise, after all.
The yes is all there is for some time. It's permissive, so Derrica obliges him without hesitation. She leans in to kiss him, open-mouthed and firm, as her hand draws up and down in smooth, repetitive motions. Her chest meets his as she crowds in against him, hand in his hair tightening and loosening by turns.
"What else would you like?" comes in a murmur, breaking the exchange of gasping breaths between them. Derrica asks this directly against his mouth in an almost-kiss before her lips move farther, find the high point of his throat to kiss there as she touches him, as her thighs flex against the grip of his palms.
That grip squeezes again as Loxley lets his head tip backwards, body shifting in those small and subtle ways to meet her in turn, pressing them both close. His hands shift, pushing more intimate where he smooths his fingers down around to her inner thighs from behind, thumbs pushing into soft skin, sweeping in stroking arcs.
"Oh, you know," he sighs out. "Everything."
His hips push up a fraction beneath her against her hand, and for all this talk of all night, he feels like he's teetering on some form of cusp, and has been this whole time. He turns his head to sort of nuzzle a kiss into her hair. "I would like you," he says, quieter, husky but direct. "I would like to fuck you, Derrica, and for you to have me, anyway you like--"
If Loxley meant to say more, he's not permitted. Derrica lifts her head from where she'd dipped to the bend of his neck and shoulder to kiss him. There's an element of urgency in it, her hand leaving his hair to cup his neck, thumb at his jawline.
Everything is almost overwhelming. And then I would like you is overwhelming too. Or it's overwhelming because of what it pulls from her almost immediately, something she stifles against his mouth as she takes her hand from him.
There's no ceremony, no teasing. Just a slow, sinuous roll of her hips as she takes him into her. And then settles, little hitching movements and shift of her weight ending with her fully in his lap, thighs tight around his hips, breath gone shallow. Her expression is so tender, watching him.
He takes a breath as she slides down onto him, as she presses herself down tightly into his lap. Hazy pleasure makes his expression softer, mouth parting, breathing high and tight in his chest as he adjusts to the intensity of this specific feeling.
He loosens his hands from where he'd gripped on tighter than he'd been conscious of, holds her gentler but warmly, no desire to constrict her movement while she's situated so.
"Yes," he breathes out. "Here."
And Loxley can dig his heels in a little against the mattress, brace himself a little enough to roll his hips up a little, finding relief in the tug and tighten of muscle. "Like that?" he asks.
"Yes," she answers, hands drifting down to his shoulders, breathing deep as she relaxes into the sensation of him, of how their bodies feel moving together this way. Her fingers dig back into his shoulders, then loosen, then tighten again as she moves with him.
In the midst of this moment, a small curl of satisfaction unfurls alongside the warmth pooling in her belly, the flush and prickle of sweat blooming across her skin all over again. Loxley's expression is such a lovely thing. Derrica can kiss him for it, this close, just a sweet, brief little brush of her mouth before she draws back to admire him again.
"Slowly," Derrica tells him, a gentle, hushing note in her voice. "I've got you. Just let me."
Let me give you this, is what she means, in which this is such a blurry, tender thing. It lacks definition in the moment, and she isn't interested in making an examination of it. All Derrica's interested in is the way Loxley's breath has gone ragged and the way he's touching her, and how good it all feels.
There's a loveliness to Derrica that Loxley has always admired from a distance, comfortable with long-range appreciation. He might have indulged in imagining it all up close, too, but would not have anticipated how it is, to be its focus. To be looked at like that and touched in this way. To be told she has you, and request to keep having so sweetly.
He can only nod. He thinks he does say 'yes', again, but that it gets a little lost somewhere between kisses and the soft sounds she's pulling out of him. He does as asked—and it feels indulgent to do so—by staying mostly still and steady beneath her, at least to begin with.
She has his focus, magnetic, more a thing of physics than enchantment. His eyes watch her eyes and he hardly shifts enough to make the opportunity to kiss more difficult.
Rendering Loxley speechless—if this can be called speechless, because there is much communication in the sounds he's making and the grasp of his hands on her—is a singularly satisfying accomplishment. The small, experimental movements transition to something more deliberate. There's such intention in the undulation of hips, even if the pace remains languid and syrup-slow.
Her hands lift from his shoulders to his face again, leaving the business of steadying her in this business to Loxley's capable hands. It feels so urgent to be able to touch his face softly, thumbs on his cheeks, her fingers delicate along the line of his jaw, drinking in the way his reactions wash across his face.
"You're beautiful," she tells him again. Derrica makes no effort to hide the tremor running through her body, the shiver of exertion as she rides him, how her voice has gone breathless. "You're so good, Loxley."
Two different things but between them it covers a broad sweep of what she finds admirable about him, with the latter more heavily weighted than the former. It's not about how he feels, or how this feels, it's about the only reason this is happening in the first place. Loxley is a good man, and that is why it was easy not to say yes to him, but to fuck him this way, slow and open and without pretense.
As she starts to move in earnest, "Gods," he sighs, because there's no single Maker in Tassia, and only some of the gods are so equally disinterested.
He keeps his arms around her, not so much holding on tight but just holding. Giving her something to lean into, to push against, to steady herself in while still moving. As she picks her pace, Loxley matches it—slower, gently, necessarily less, but that stretch and tighten of muscle feels satisfying and indulgent too.
Praise sinks a warm, internal shiver through him, fingers curling into palms behind her back. The next exhale isn't quite a laugh, and the smile that goes with it is brief. Like he doesn't know what to do with the things she's saying, the feeling of her hands on his face, save to just let it sink in as sure as everything else they're doing to each other.
He swallows, collecting his words, "I'm supposed to be," a hitch, a sharp breath in, words released in a rush, "admiring you, remember?"
It doesn't go unnoticed, that punched-out breath, the smile that comes and goes too quickly. Derrica marks it the way she'd mark a fracture. She draws a breath to say something else, to tell him again, because Loxley is so easy to praise and because she wants to feel the way that praise settles into his body. The way he shudders beneath her is such a lovely thing.
But instead, there's a hum in answer, Derrica's smile widening as she answers, "Yes, I remember. You were going to outdo all those Marchers and their song."
There's a breathless element to her voice, places where the words waver in response to the shared movement of their hips. Her fingers sweep his hair back from his face, nails dragging briefly along his scalp, thumb light at the base of his horns before her hand returns to it's original position.
"But you have already, you know," is a softer, truer thing. The way Loxley touches her and looks at her and kisses her is it's own kind of admiration. Better even, because of the familiarity between them.
His eyes hood as her nails drag tingling tracks through his hair, a dreamier smile struggling into place in place of outright laughter. Yes, that's what he said. He's very smooth that way.
"You're right," Loxley says, "I do. I admire you greatly."
These words get a little lost as he pulls himself in nearer, dropping a kiss to her shoulder, and into the crook of her neck, the texture of one curling horn nudging her jaw. It's an odd sort of feeling in all this, alien in comparison to things like silky locks of hair or skin gone soft and slippery with exertion, wet mouths and blunt teeth. As if noticing that he's bumped her thusly, he changes the angle of his head, still kissing.
There's a steadiness and security to Derrica's motions and approach that—haven't dulled the intensity of it, exactly, but has held them in this place for longer than he might have lasted otherwise. He could unravel at any moment, and so his effort can focus on not doing that yet, not just yet—
"So beautiful," he's saying, a rough whisper and murmur. "You feel so good, Derrica. You're wonderful."
They're good things, sweet things, though Derrica likes feeling Loxley's mouth against her skin almost more than she likes hearing this kind of strained praise. But how satisfying is it, to know Loxley's capability for saying pretty things has been winnowed down in the course of their time together. It's pleasant, admiring the effect she's had.
And it staves off the urge to hush him, to draw his mouth up to her to kiss him quiet. She'd promised him, after all, to try to revel in such sweet things. It should be impossible for her to flush any warmer than she already is, but it feels as if his words deepen the heat in her face just as surely as they draw a hitching breath from her.
"I want," she begins, and then hesitates. Not for lack of specific things, but because she wants so many things, and it is hard to consider just one to put to him. Loxley's mouth is hot at her throat and the unsteadiness of his voice sings through her, and her hand opens and closes in his hair, at the nape of his neck, holding him close against her.
It's a particular kind of strain to maintain this pace now. But Derrica wants—
"I want to hear you say things like that. I want this to be good for you," are surely two easy things. She turns her head to kiss his temple, as she continues, "And I want to keep you here, because you're so lovely this way. Can you hold on for me? Just a little bit longer?"
There's a very pointed groan at this second thing she lists, felt in the kisses to her throat where she holds him, and he holds her. Check and check. The third thing has him tip his head back enough to look at her, mouth hovered near hers, landing a clumsy kiss next to it.
Contradictory, how her request puts a dull pressure on the ability to do as asked. Like there's something viscerally arousing in it, the way she speaks, the words she uses, the quiet possession with which she claims the thing they are doing.
"Yes," he says, anyway. Because he wants to.
Another kiss, then down, back to the other side of her throat. Hands smoothing up her back, then down to her behind, a grasp more there to feel the way she moves than dictate it.
Derrica doesn't know. What she knows is that she'd suspend them both here for ages if she could. Her entire body is oversensitized, skin prickling under the sweep of his hands, the heat of Loxley's palms lingering even after he's set his hands elsewhere on her body, and the way they move together is almost unbearable but for the control she exerts over the pace.
But Derrica isn't interested in setting Loxley up for failure. There is no doubt in her that he wants to give her exactly what she asked of him.
It's why even when everything goes blurry with heat and sweat and the clutch of hands, there's a murmured recall, "I've got you," against his mouth, hands in his hair, thumbs light at his temples as she watches every shift of expression across his face. A soft kiss between whispers. "Talk to me."
"I," Loxley breathes out, and it takes him longer than that to draw his focus back around, to engage in his ability to speak again besides just making sounds against her mouth.
But it's good, to focus. To pull back from the things she is doing to him—inasmuch as that's possible, inasmuch as he'd even want to. "I love this," he settles on, simply, a flutter of a smile unstoppable against her mouth. "Everything about you is beautiful, Derrica. I want to know every part of you. I want to touch you everywhere you want me to. I want to stay just here, like this, keeping you warm and wet and—"
Some deep thrum of sensation hitches his words and breath, hands clasping, loosening. "Gods," groaned out. Another subtle roll upwards, slow and barely there, more impulse than meaningful contribution. "You feel so fucking amazing."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
charmoffensive) wrote2019-10-19 02:48 pm
no subject
His fingers likewise skim across her skin, not so much in patterns than pathways, mapping the natural lines made by bone and muscle, her curves, all slow and light and lazy. Like he is indulging in the thing that looking naturally pulls him towards, which is to touch. He wonders if that's something she welcomes outside a bedroom as well.
He wonders a lot of things that will be fun to find out.
He lifts his hand, the backs of his knuckles easing down her jaw, admiring the flush of her skin, the subtle look of a mouth well-kissed.
no subject
"I don't want to move," she admits, the dip of humor in her voice betraying that this is the kind of statement that's both true and untrue by turns. She does want more, except that: "This feels good."
Not a means to an end, but a comfortable exchange of contact, enjoyable in it's own right. His hands are very good on her skin. Her fingers have migrated to his bicep, marking out the shape of muscle there as she watches him looking at her.
That is good too. Derrica is not often interested in being admired, but she likes Loxley's expression when he studies her.
dwrp don't oppress me with your notif shenanigans
Still—
Humour has the corners of his eyes crease, and he says, "I do like watching you move," a confession, but there's no physical push to change anything up—at least, not forcefully. The trail of his fingertips shifts lower, knuckles brushing down the centre of her abdomen, over the scarring there, and then further down, touching that warm juncture of her thighs at the same moment he leans in to kiss her.
"And listening to you sigh and gasp," he says, and with a smile audible in his voice, "and tell me what you want."
betrayal from dreamwidth
Then, just gently, there is a nip of teeth. More pressure than bite, shifting to a smile as she draws back. His hands are allowed to hold their place as she sets her palms at his shoulders and asked, "And if I want you to sit up against the headboard?"
A query that, once spoken, Derrica thinks better of. What are the exact limitations of what Loxley's bed will be able to withstand?
no subject
Loxley seems confident, anyway. There's a list forwards, like the temptation had been to go with her when nipped, but pausing at her answer. "Then I'd say I like that just as well." The bedframe complains only slightly ominously (you get used to it, maybe) as he pushes himself up to sit, carelessly pushing bedthings out of the way as he settles his back against the board.
Fixes his hair, while he has a second, just a quick swoop of long fingers past the blunt connections of horns and skull. Likely this is the only twitch towards self-consciousness he's shown, or will, comfortable with all his clothing on the floor, the relaxed stretch of his posture.
no subject
Derrica sits up on her heels first alongside Loxley, then mirrors his movement by sweeping the mass of her hair back from her face. A few bits of stray jewelry have yet to be removed, and it might mean tangling later, if she doesn't pull them out after they finish. But she doesn't care to stop for that now.
And then she reclaims her space, closes the distance between them to return to his lap. She touches his face first, retraces the drag of his hand through his hair, while she settles her weight over his thighs, reaches down to take him in hand as she kisses him, tugs lightly at the curls over his nape.
no subject
His arms move around her, his hands come up to bury themselves in her hair, a clutch designed to stimulate rather than pull. He smiles a little into the kiss to imagine how many of those she's been with before have been unable to keep themselves from that action alone, like the shining glimmers of metal in those waves are more than enough encouragement.
no subject
There is some temptation to draw this out. Just as there had been temptation to stay tangled side by side, or to have let him wind her up a second time.
A question, posed so softly against his mouth: "How long could I touch you like before it was too much?"
no subject
The headboard creaks as he leans back rather than curling up into her kiss. Still extremely easy to reconnect in that way, his hands still in her hair, hers in his, but he can look at her with blur.
"Depends," finally. "You're not in a hurry, are you?"
no subject
Something said like a promise or a proposal, her voice dipping honeyed over all night.
Except she doesn't want to take all night for this. The slow slide and twist of her hand continues on, no break in the rhythm, but the shift of her weight over his thighs as she slides forward by degrees is telling.
"Would you like that?" is a softer question. Not so specifically about the act in question, but a quieter, prompting thing.
no subject
Between them, the air feels close and warm, and his skin hot. There'd been a sketch of a smile at her first answer, distracted. And then her softer question, and his hands squeeze her, needful, not quite conscious. The next twist of her hand gets a noise out of him, quiet and broken off, and the slight push of her thighs under her, knees raising an inch as tension strings through him.
"Yes," he says. No line, this time. Something luxurious in this pace, yes, but also something risky, vulnerable, in allowing him to be driven to a point in the midst of this all.
no subject
And here is something else of note: There is a way of this in which no one shares anything vulnerable. But they're trading something between them. Is the noise Loxley makes akin to how Derrica had shuddered apart over him? Maybe.
Or maybe not. They've only just begun this exercise, after all.
The yes is all there is for some time. It's permissive, so Derrica obliges him without hesitation. She leans in to kiss him, open-mouthed and firm, as her hand draws up and down in smooth, repetitive motions. Her chest meets his as she crowds in against him, hand in his hair tightening and loosening by turns.
"What else would you like?" comes in a murmur, breaking the exchange of gasping breaths between them. Derrica asks this directly against his mouth in an almost-kiss before her lips move farther, find the high point of his throat to kiss there as she touches him, as her thighs flex against the grip of his palms.
no subject
"Oh, you know," he sighs out. "Everything."
His hips push up a fraction beneath her against her hand, and for all this talk of all night, he feels like he's teetering on some form of cusp, and has been this whole time. He turns his head to sort of nuzzle a kiss into her hair. "I would like you," he says, quieter, husky but direct. "I would like to fuck you, Derrica, and for you to have me, anyway you like--"
no subject
Everything is almost overwhelming. And then I would like you is overwhelming too. Or it's overwhelming because of what it pulls from her almost immediately, something she stifles against his mouth as she takes her hand from him.
There's no ceremony, no teasing. Just a slow, sinuous roll of her hips as she takes him into her. And then settles, little hitching movements and shift of her weight ending with her fully in his lap, thighs tight around his hips, breath gone shallow. Her expression is so tender, watching him.
"Here," she whispers. "Good?"
no subject
He loosens his hands from where he'd gripped on tighter than he'd been conscious of, holds her gentler but warmly, no desire to constrict her movement while she's situated so.
"Yes," he breathes out. "Here."
And Loxley can dig his heels in a little against the mattress, brace himself a little enough to roll his hips up a little, finding relief in the tug and tighten of muscle. "Like that?" he asks.
no subject
In the midst of this moment, a small curl of satisfaction unfurls alongside the warmth pooling in her belly, the flush and prickle of sweat blooming across her skin all over again. Loxley's expression is such a lovely thing. Derrica can kiss him for it, this close, just a sweet, brief little brush of her mouth before she draws back to admire him again.
"Slowly," Derrica tells him, a gentle, hushing note in her voice. "I've got you. Just let me."
Let me give you this, is what she means, in which this is such a blurry, tender thing. It lacks definition in the moment, and she isn't interested in making an examination of it. All Derrica's interested in is the way Loxley's breath has gone ragged and the way he's touching her, and how good it all feels.
no subject
He can only nod. He thinks he does say 'yes', again, but that it gets a little lost somewhere between kisses and the soft sounds she's pulling out of him. He does as asked—and it feels indulgent to do so—by staying mostly still and steady beneath her, at least to begin with.
She has his focus, magnetic, more a thing of physics than enchantment. His eyes watch her eyes and he hardly shifts enough to make the opportunity to kiss more difficult.
no subject
Her hands lift from his shoulders to his face again, leaving the business of steadying her in this business to Loxley's capable hands. It feels so urgent to be able to touch his face softly, thumbs on his cheeks, her fingers delicate along the line of his jaw, drinking in the way his reactions wash across his face.
"You're beautiful," she tells him again. Derrica makes no effort to hide the tremor running through her body, the shiver of exertion as she rides him, how her voice has gone breathless. "You're so good, Loxley."
Two different things but between them it covers a broad sweep of what she finds admirable about him, with the latter more heavily weighted than the former. It's not about how he feels, or how this feels, it's about the only reason this is happening in the first place. Loxley is a good man, and that is why it was easy not to say yes to him, but to fuck him this way, slow and open and without pretense.
no subject
He keeps his arms around her, not so much holding on tight but just holding. Giving her something to lean into, to push against, to steady herself in while still moving. As she picks her pace, Loxley matches it—slower, gently, necessarily less, but that stretch and tighten of muscle feels satisfying and indulgent too.
Praise sinks a warm, internal shiver through him, fingers curling into palms behind her back. The next exhale isn't quite a laugh, and the smile that goes with it is brief. Like he doesn't know what to do with the things she's saying, the feeling of her hands on his face, save to just let it sink in as sure as everything else they're doing to each other.
He swallows, collecting his words, "I'm supposed to be," a hitch, a sharp breath in, words released in a rush, "admiring you, remember?"
It doesn't sound like complaint.
no subject
But instead, there's a hum in answer, Derrica's smile widening as she answers, "Yes, I remember. You were going to outdo all those Marchers and their song."
There's a breathless element to her voice, places where the words waver in response to the shared movement of their hips. Her fingers sweep his hair back from his face, nails dragging briefly along his scalp, thumb light at the base of his horns before her hand returns to it's original position.
"But you have already, you know," is a softer, truer thing. The way Loxley touches her and looks at her and kisses her is it's own kind of admiration. Better even, because of the familiarity between them.
no subject
"You're right," Loxley says, "I do. I admire you greatly."
These words get a little lost as he pulls himself in nearer, dropping a kiss to her shoulder, and into the crook of her neck, the texture of one curling horn nudging her jaw. It's an odd sort of feeling in all this, alien in comparison to things like silky locks of hair or skin gone soft and slippery with exertion, wet mouths and blunt teeth. As if noticing that he's bumped her thusly, he changes the angle of his head, still kissing.
There's a steadiness and security to Derrica's motions and approach that—haven't dulled the intensity of it, exactly, but has held them in this place for longer than he might have lasted otherwise. He could unravel at any moment, and so his effort can focus on not doing that yet, not just yet—
"So beautiful," he's saying, a rough whisper and murmur. "You feel so good, Derrica. You're wonderful."
no subject
And it staves off the urge to hush him, to draw his mouth up to her to kiss him quiet. She'd promised him, after all, to try to revel in such sweet things. It should be impossible for her to flush any warmer than she already is, but it feels as if his words deepen the heat in her face just as surely as they draw a hitching breath from her.
"I want," she begins, and then hesitates. Not for lack of specific things, but because she wants so many things, and it is hard to consider just one to put to him. Loxley's mouth is hot at her throat and the unsteadiness of his voice sings through her, and her hand opens and closes in his hair, at the nape of his neck, holding him close against her.
It's a particular kind of strain to maintain this pace now. But Derrica wants—
"I want to hear you say things like that. I want this to be good for you," are surely two easy things. She turns her head to kiss his temple, as she continues, "And I want to keep you here, because you're so lovely this way. Can you hold on for me? Just a little bit longer?"
no subject
Contradictory, how her request puts a dull pressure on the ability to do as asked. Like there's something viscerally arousing in it, the way she speaks, the words she uses, the quiet possession with which she claims the thing they are doing.
"Yes," he says, anyway. Because he wants to.
Another kiss, then down, back to the other side of her throat. Hands smoothing up her back, then down to her behind, a grasp more there to feel the way she moves than dictate it.
no subject
Derrica doesn't know. What she knows is that she'd suspend them both here for ages if she could. Her entire body is oversensitized, skin prickling under the sweep of his hands, the heat of Loxley's palms lingering even after he's set his hands elsewhere on her body, and the way they move together is almost unbearable but for the control she exerts over the pace.
But Derrica isn't interested in setting Loxley up for failure. There is no doubt in her that he wants to give her exactly what she asked of him.
It's why even when everything goes blurry with heat and sweat and the clutch of hands, there's a murmured recall, "I've got you," against his mouth, hands in his hair, thumbs light at his temples as she watches every shift of expression across his face. A soft kiss between whispers. "Talk to me."
no subject
But it's good, to focus. To pull back from the things she is doing to him—inasmuch as that's possible, inasmuch as he'd even want to. "I love this," he settles on, simply, a flutter of a smile unstoppable against her mouth. "Everything about you is beautiful, Derrica. I want to know every part of you. I want to touch you everywhere you want me to. I want to stay just here, like this, keeping you warm and wet and—"
Some deep thrum of sensation hitches his words and breath, hands clasping, loosening. "Gods," groaned out. Another subtle roll upwards, slow and barely there, more impulse than meaningful contribution. "You feel so fucking amazing."
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)