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bakerstreet2012-11-27 02:43 pm
dreamlocket) wrote in bakerstreet2012-11-27 02:43 pm
The Fluffy Smut Meme
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Smut can be fun to play, but a lot of times, you want something more. You want to play the connections between people, not just the "wham bam thank you m'am" aspect. Foreplay is fun, and relationships even more so. When feelings are involved, sex can be taken to a completely new level. This meme is for people who want a little love in their smut or something tooth-rottingly cute to play. How to Play
Prompts 1. First Time: Finally, you guys are taking the next step. You're bringing intimacy into the relationship. Hopefully, things will go well... 2. Celebration: Whether it's Valentine's Day or a birthday, today's a special day. Is there a better way to celebrate than being together? 3. Spontaneous: Maybe you're both in the kitchen, or perhaps at a friend's house for a party. Whatever the case is, you can't keep your hands off each other. You need it now. 4. Romantic Date: Isn't it nice to do something together? Question is, though, will you use the darkness of the movie theater or the space under the table to your advantage? If you can wait, there's always the bed later on. 5. Love Confession: You've just told that special person how you feel. Now, you're going to show them. 6. Trying Something New: Once your comfortable with a person, you may fall into too much of a rut. Luckily, there are many ways to spice up your love life...and not all of them involve handcuffs! Just a few of the more fun ones. 7. Reverse: The person who usually tops or instigates the contact can get a break. Today, the submissive is the dominant, because there's a degree of trust here. 8. All About You: You're going to treat the person you love to the ultimate pampering. Roses, champagne, good food- and, of course, good sex. 9. Honeymoon: You've tied the knot. It's time to consummate the relationship, even if you already have before. No judgement here; the honeymoon's a clean slate. 10. Making a Baby: Your biological clock is ticking, and you want to bring new life into the world with the person you love. The time's right, the person's right, now all you need to do is let nature take its course. 11. Fail Sex: When you've been together long enough, your special moments are bound to go wrong once in a while. Oh, well. At least this person cares for you enough not to laugh...a lot. 12. For the Last Time: What's fluff without a little angst? It's like peanut butter and jelly and goes together perfectly. The two of you are about to be separated, maybe for a long while or maybe even forever. 13. For the First Time in a While: You've been apart for what seems like ages, and now you're back together. That means you can make up for all the lost time and show your sweetheart that you still care, no matter what. 14. Making You Feel Better: So, your significance other is having a bad day, is sick, is jealous, or something else. Time to make them feel loved! 15. I'm Sorry: There was a fight. Who knows what it was over; you don't even remember? But now you feel bad, and want to patch things up. 16. Goofing Off: Not all sex has to be super serious, man. Play around, eat food in bed, watch your favorite TV show while doing the deed, whatever. Just have fun! #yolo 17. Choose Your Own Adventure | |||||||
like a runaway train. made entirely of porn ...this got away from me.
It isn't like that's something Cloud can beat himself up over (even Cloud, who specializes in the art of Why didn't I, How could I, Shouldn't I have), but every once in a while, still, the thought occurs. And when it does, a whole avalanche, pileup, car wreck of others comes sliding downhill after it. He stops, stalls, forgets what he's doing - and falls under the drift trying to answer them all. Even though nobody's asking him to, anymore. Even though it's not a matter of do or let the whole world fall by the wayside, any longer. Old habits die hard, and all that. Especially the ones he can't remember developing.
Excuse me?
cuts through his latest woolgathering jaunt, and Cloud looks up through the jagged cut of his bangs to catch the same blend of irritation and concern he always surfaces to - no matter the face, that's one look he'll never again fail to recognize.
These, too,
he says, and that look transforms into the partially mollified kind he's come to call breaking even. He forks over a few extra gil, cuts his losses and gathers his things, then gets the hell out of there - a complex process that involves backing into the crowd milling loosely around him through the makeshift open air market (everything here is "makeshift," until they can build something better over the ruins of the last place), taking off, and turning down the first through way he can find. Regardless of whether it's in the direction of Home. There's not enough to Edge to get lost in, yet. He isn't worried.
The detour costs him only a couple more minutes than he expects, taking him around a newly built section of the miniature city and catching his curiosity. He's already made himself up to be dumb enough for one day that the notion of looking comparably ridiculous as he carts around a few unnecessary purchases alongside the requisite doesn't hurry him along; there's not much attention to garner around struggling refugees. They have their own lives to unearth out of the rubble, and he his. If there's just a lot less of his own to find down there, he should count himself lucky.
Tenfold to the same, if there's someone left to look, with him.
When he steps inside again, the partially finished barroom is as empty as he left it. They won't be ready to run a regular shift for a while, now, though there are already plenty of regulars - where there are workers, there are drinkers, and she likes to help them out where she can. He doesn't blame her.
Dropping the groceries on the counter (already polished and prepared for the beating it'll take, once the whole town's come and gone on opening night), he steps around the inside at a good clip. Suddenly, that self-consciousness he was missing before is there, and he can't help looking maybe guilty as he fishes an empty bottle out of the bin stashed down under the sink. It's just big enough to fit the stems of a few large, sunny flowers in.
The same ones he'll be leaving on the bar, not the least bit innocuous in the otherwise drearily barren room - and doesn't plan to say a word about, should anybody notice. ]
runaway porn train?! that's the best kind!
She's getting better about it. The strange grind of daily digging out new pieces of the life she's trying to put together, not just for herself but for them all, of the gray sky and the gray buildings and the gray people, the mundanity of fighting to find matching sets of chairs and not monsters - it helps ground her, helps make it all real. Yet... there are times, she'll blink - and just for a second - she'll expect to see green when she opens her eyes again. Sometimes... in that second as she steps outside - she's still afraid to look up at the sky. A part of her worries she'll always be that way even if the practical side of her knows better. In moments like those, she makes it a point to reach out and physically touch the nearby construction of her new world and she silently recites the names of her family. Not the memories anymore but the flesh and blood one and it reminds her that she's not alone. That this time it will be different.
She's taking inventory in the small side room they've set aside for supplies, day dreaming about what she'd like to have while she makes a list of what she knows she's lucky enough to already have, when she hears the front door open and the lack of shout afterward tells her who it is. It has her heart giving a little light bob in her chest, the way it always does when she's recognizing who it is that's just come home. Home. Their home. It has her up on her feet from where she'd been hunkered down and poking her head out the doorless entry, one hand wrapping around the door jam while the other still holds the sheaf of smudged paper. Wanting to welcome him home. It doesn't have to be anything special or elaborate, just... she wants to always welcome him home when he comes back. She wants him to get used to hearing it, even if it's just a word that goes in one ear and out the other on his way by. He's given her a home and she wants it to always belong to the both of them no matter what else happens.]
You're late. [It's the farthest thing from chiding, instead said fondly, a soft tease, something that's said with the same familiarity and acceptance as she'd once called him messed up and her smile when she says it is soft, the warm one that only he ever gets from her. It doesn't matter that he's late. It matters that he comes home. To them. To her. She hopes he knows that.
And then her eyes hit the only other burst of color in the room past his pale mountain sunshine hair, the one he's trying hard to so covertly abscond without credit for and that wine color goes wider. Seconds later, there's a wash of light through them that starts there and seeps out like sunrise all the way through her, across her face and through her shoulders.]
Flowers? [There's just the hint of a younger girl's voice in that quiet delight as she moves over to touch the petals reverently with ungloved fingertips before pressing her nose to one. It's simple and silly and sweet and because it is, her heart tips up happily inside her chest and suddenly the day isn't half so long and gray at all. And yet - they're still both new to this and so, turning those hopeful, happy eyes on the man covered in city dust, she still asks:]
For me?
choo choo $%@&ers
Getting caught in the act isn't part of the plan (vague and deceitful as it is, probably not a great plan from the get-go, should've realized sooner), and Cloud sticks on the spot like she's got a Stone Stare and there's no Soft around. The empty liquor bottle turned vase rattles incriminatingly as it settles against the polished counter top, just a hair's breadth from his fingertips. Not as clean a getaway as he was hoping for.
Well. Can't fight the wrap, now. Better to roll with it. His fingers curl inward, and he drops his hands away after only a second's reluctant pause. Shuffling back a step, Cloud settles for the standard, masks his surprise in layers of carefully cultivated nonchalance. A lot of those layers have thinned, over the past few months and weeks, some peeled back by necessity and more for the lack of it - but nothing will disabuse him of the act. The person he was a year ago may not be all of who he is, now, but he isn't worth discarding entirely, either.
Not the same one who stood up at the gateway of their journey to the heart of the Planet and "said it cool" one last time. ]
I took a walk.
[ The easy out. All of his roundabout path home didn't take a second more than that he spent staring vacantly into the rickety vendor's lain-out spread of cut flowers (imported). But she doesn't need to know that any more than that the real reason he bought something to brighten the place up was only to cover for another embarrassing slip out of the new normalcy. Rumors of a blond SOLDIER with a big sword who can't keep his head together are bound to get back to the most popular bar in the burgeoning city, after all is said and done, and he doesn't like the sense of déjà vu that comes tagged to that thought. Even less than the one that says She'd worry.
There's no trouble or concern in the look she turns on him now, though, and that's the way he aims to keep it. He may be painted with a thin coat of rolling wasteland dust, carrying a weapon that's still more than half his weight and size, and caught with the faintest tinge of exhaust in his clothing (new fuel doesn't burn as clean as mako did), but there's nothing in him so harsh or sharp-edged that's reserved for this place. It's half-built, but sacred already.
He nods, gestures vaguely around the unfinished room. ]
Can't decorate the old place with them, anymore. [ It's been buried beneath a million miles of crushed and obliterated for longer even than the rest of the dilapidated city beyond their new safe haven - but that isn't the part that's worth remembering. ]
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Her smile at the reminder both of what she's lost... and what started what feels like several lifetimes ago with another gift of flowers is soft, bitter sweet but she doesn't mind. There's finally sweet in her life again and the bitter is the past and a reminder to cherish what she has now. Her fingers stroke the petals again.]
We might need a few more flower then. [She's not expecting them. It's said more simply to talk with him than because she's actually making daisy chains for the walls in her head. What he's brought her already is somehow better than a room full of flowers because in being so few and so bright in the darkness they're even more rare and precious and she knows tonight, after she's closed down the bar here and shared her gift of flowers with everyone else, she'll carry the liquor bottle full of color up and put it on the nightstand on her side of the bed just to keep the feeling of it close to her. Petal dusted fingertips leave the flowers to reach, touching, to tenderly stroke his cheek. She doesn't fall for the non-nonchalance quite so often as she used to these days even if she usually doesn't show it.] Thank you. [Her heart peeks out of her eyes when they lift to find his, quiet and quietly happy. Her barely there touch lingers.] They're beautiful, Cloud.
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More? [ He cards a hand through his hair in the same way he always does, less arrogance these days and more earnest. Thoughtless. There's an opportunity to look away from that dawning expression of pure, absolute pleasure on her face, but he only does in one cursory flit of that neutral, unruffled gaze to the flowers in their makeshift vase. He can't really remember what he was thinking about just before he bought them, anymore, whether it really was about her or just to get out of an even more awkward stall than the one he went through when she caught him dressing the bar up in them - but maybe that makes it as good as anything. The gesture isn't empty, if it makes her happy. Another general rule he's lived by for longer than he can account for, now, gone undefined for half that time, at least.
When she touches him, the whole muddled thought process is forgotten, though, along with any unintentional decorative purchases and the groceries he went out for can rot, too (not that there's anything immediately perishable among them). ]
I'm glad. [ And maybe making a mental note to buy his way out of any future awkward pauses; if he can find a reason to drift off standing in front of a new boutique or maybe a place with brass knuckles on half-off special, being stuck a perpetual space case might not turn out so badly for him, after all.
He doesn't smile (or not a lot), but there's no refuting the pale reflection of that light in her eyes in his. Pretty's not the word for that look, but he doesn't know what is, hasn't got a lot of them. And she usually turns the ones he has away, anyhow. Rightfully so. They're a little unnecessary, too, much as talking's gotten him out of life. He leans in to kiss her, instead - something she usually does, or has to prompt him into, no matter how often the notion occurs naturally. Soft and chaste even if on the lips, it's brief, too, before he's backing away again. Not quite "You're welcome," but not any less. ]
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Her fingers are moving again, even before her eyelids really open, and she doesn't need her sight to know where he is or how he is. Not when she memorizes him each time he's in her world, as if that will solidify him and keep him from disappearing again. So she knows where the leather strap against his chest is and her fingers, the ones that aren't slipping from his face as he draws back, find that grip and close lightly around it.]
Come back? [It's just as soft as the barely there tug she gives. It's not often she shows her own needs and desires, hiding them away so they don't risk being a bother, part small town upbringing that says you just don't acknowledge your own selfish wants, part fear of rejection, part old, old habit to keep focus off of her and appear strong and self-sufficient. She's learning to trust her hidden, fragile self though, to the man in front of her now at least, needing to trust him that way, slowly edging into it and the flowers and the kiss make her forget to be afraid of pressuring him. Change things just enough that, for the moment, she doesn't chase him until he catches her but rather, quietly, vulnerably hopeful, lifts wine colored eyes soft as candlelight to his to ask:] Do that again?
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Though not even the smallest of her whims strikes him as inconsequential, rarely as she voices any other than the most humble, mundane request. He takes them all with due sincerity, just the same, but this is still something different. A change in the order of things, as they usually are.
Nodding very slightly, he leans in again to oblige. His only hesitation comes in the brief glance he shoots to the shut but unlocked doors across the bar floor - but the day outside is grey, and the street outside is empty, and it's still a little too early to be expecting customers. It's why she let him go out for supplies (knowing he might wander), and why inventory still isn't taken (and may not be for a while, now).
The second time he kisses her is just as light as the first, but lacking in some of the same caution. He doesn't have to wonder about her approval when he's only doing as she asks (though confidence dictates a modicum of concern for disappointing in other ways, as ever - that part doesn't change). ]
...How's that?
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And she's finding that she loves it when he quietly, thinking she doesn't notice, pays attention to her.
When he pulls away enough to ask his question, she follows, a subtle sway forward after him, fingers still curled around that strap over his chest and her eyes are slow to open. He makes her feel light inside, makes, somehow, everything seem as if it will be easier. The second kiss makes her feel young again too, pulls up enough of who she once was, before ashes and anger, back when she knew the confidence of being loved without question. It's only a whisper, a subtle flicker of light that's slow in growing but that's been rekindled and stubbornly refuses to go back out, fed by a dozen little half smiles and soft touches in the dark. Fed by unexpected flowers and secret attempts to leave them for her. It struggles upward now, brief, has her feeling confident enough to stay close to him, close enough to inhale his exhales and feel his warmth around her and so there's the smallest tease in her smile for him as she quietly murmurs:]
Not long enough.
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They aren't together often, though there aren't many reasons not to be. Sharing a bed and a home and a whole host of other intimacies - like the once turned-out inside of his mind - probably should've leant naturally to perfect comfort with each other. But it hasn't been so long since that first night in the shadow of the Highwind, at the end of the world, and since then, Cloud hasn't learned to be any more comfortable in his own skin than he's ever been, either. They've both grown quiet, cordoned off by nature - self-effacing to each other, even when it's evidently the only culprit behind keeping them both at an impasse.
He takes the leads that she draws him to without having to ask, of course, when he sees them for what they are, when it's not just something quiet and desperate and half-remembered in the middle of the night. But this is different, between her Not long enough and his hands finding her hips, guiding her back toward the edge of the bar with that less than hesitant grasp. It's different when he leans in again and presses his lips to hers with something more insistent behind them, soft pressure and a not-quite-soft mouth, and holds her there like something not quite restrained.
No customers to interrupt. No other residents to worry about walking in. There are a lot of reasons not to let this opportunity go, but the only one Cloud can keep focus on is hers. Not needing more than a third try to meet her demands might be a personal mark, for him. ]
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She bumps up against the bar lightly and her fingers stay tight on that strap, so her little bumble doesn't ruin everything entirely and break the crystal glass preciousness of the moment.... but he leans in and his lips are over hers again and this time...oh, this time....
Slowing rising tension slips out of her at the way he kisses her again and suddenly the gray of her world doesn't seem so gray, melting away into soft water paint colors. She's so easy to please, so simple when it comes to desires and maybe that's part of what trips him up sometimes because surely he thinks she should want more. Maybe he doesn't understand just how much the simple things he does make her feel whole inside. Or maybe he does. Either way she slips one arm, not the one still holding onto his harness with a death grip that gives away just how badly she wants this and how hard she's trying not to show it, up and around his shoulders and she pulls him, or at least hints at a pull, closer.
Of everything they struggle with though, it's the easiest thing in the world to kiss Cloud and she softens into it, lips answering his just as welcoming and willing for him as her heart quietly is. Things are never wrong when Cloud's kissing her and she gets to kiss him back.
If this is positive reinforcement for the gift of flowers, it works on her as well.]
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So maybe he does. He puts her up on a pedestal, unnecessarily complicating the thought of her, and unwittingly foils himself in the same way that he always has, tripping over his own toes when he can't keep track of which way they're going for thinking too much. Mostly in circles.
But this - this is a change he thinks he can live with, and that (for now) is where the thinking ends. Doing he's always been much better with, anyway. Even if it's doing without thinking that almost always ends him up in the situations that precipitate more unnecessary thought - but that's only going in circles, again. There's a straight line in following just what she says, not needing to presume or assume the role he isn't quite comfortable with. Leading in the field is nothing like leading when it's just the two of them, together, and he's even less knowledge to go on, with regards to the latter.
Breaking away, again, he draws in a slow breath and takes in studious inventory of her expression - no obvious notes of displeasure to be found, there. ]
What now?
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How many people would lose their jaw if they were to realize that the couple in front of them isn't as stoic and serious as they seem, alone and in private. Cloud doesn't share his feelings with the outside world much and Tifa doesn't mind that, appreciating the way what they have can be private and special, almost sacred and so it doesn't matter to her if others might misunderstand. As long as they two never do, she's content. And so her smile creeps up just a little bit more, a happy mischief starting to spread through her, soft glow over her skin, and she reaches up, finally letting go of that strap to stroke scarred knuckles tenderly along the cheek of the man that had traded hearts with her. Finding the game in his words. Brave enough given his prompting, she leans up that small, perfect distance to lightly brush her lips over his again.]
Lock the door. [She whispers it against him before another light brush and her heart whispers as well. Fingers give a soft tug against the fabric of his shirt but don't cling.] And then come back to me.
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One that he doesn't need to think about to follow, which makes the manner of this awkward negotiation all the more easier. With the press of her lips still lingering against his, he backs up a step, another, and nods - before hooking back around the bar and making a beeline for the door. A man prone to forethought may have wondered over that last look she gave him before he was already turning to follow her request, may have found some apprehension in the prospect of being at the beck and call of a woman like Tifa even in far less intimate circumstance. She isn't an open book, is hard to read at the best of times and has probably mixed up a lot of better men, in the spare corner of a lifetime she's had so far to perfect the art. But he isn't the thinking type, today. Right now. For the moment.
The sound of the lock snapping into place is oddly satisfying. He pulls down the shade, just for good measure - that's it, bar closed, go get soused somewhere else, tonight. Suddenly it feels like a relief they've no reason to expect a flood of patrons, anyway.
With his simple task seen to, Cloud pivots back to face the empty (and now slightly dimmer) barroom again, but manages only a couple of steps back on his initial course before he comes to an indecisive stop. With that door locked, of course, there's no chance of strangers interrupting from outside - but what about friends, or one of the acquaintances they'd had help around the place? Anyone who knows the back way in might be a potential risk, and there's no door on the hallway-
But she didn't say Lock the door, and then assess all potential social disasters that a compromising position might precipitate. No, today that's not something he's going to worry about. Today, he's just going to - come back. Picking up his casual pace again, Cloud shakes off the momentary brush with paranoia and steps back up to her, forgetting the sight of the open hallway in his obvious glance.
Not his problem.
It's her game, now. ] Good?
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Not now though. Now, for this at least, he's asked her what she wants and made it safe. Now, for this, she's allowed to think of herself and as she listens to his steps, his pause, the bolt, step, step, pause, step back to her, she's already smiling softly before her eyes even open as he comes to a stop in front of her again and brings his warmth with him. Her world grows very small when he stands close to her and she thinks she did well to even remember there was a door to lock in the first place. But he's back and she loses track of everything else because her entire planet, her gravity center and all the stars in her sky are standing close enough to set her skin humming. Heavy eyelids open and wine dark eyes lift to find his as her arms lift too to slide around his shoulders and she shifts that small amount close enough to press forehead to forehead, inhale to exhale. Cloud. Her Cloud. Everything she wants.]
Good. [She agrees it, voice soft and throaty to match the early twilight of the bar. Another kiss to his lips, more lingering than the previous ones she's offered because she's done paying attention to anything but the man in front of her now. Hopeful, girlish, her eyes lift when she draws back just enough to murmur her next request. It's a silly one, and one that she's embarrassed to admit to enjoying as much as she does but - it's a game. So... despite the slight pink over her cheeks, it's okay to ask. Just for now. Just for this. Her arms shift a little over his shoulders, self-conscious and yet hopeful.] Pick me up?
[And she leaves it open whether it's to set her on the bartop after or just hold her close. He's a part of this too and besides, any way he does wrap her close in his arms will make her happy.]
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The same way he will, again, when she asks. Fetch the groceries, lock the door, pick me up - easy, gladly, yes. His only pause is in the same consideration she leaves up to his discretion, this time. There are a few potential possibilities, in her request; he doesn't have to do more than glance beyond her (a disappointing contrast to the much more attractive sight of her close, filling his field of vision) to begin assessing the situation. The kind of benign crossroads he's found himself standing at, as his hands fall to her hips, something thoughtful cutting the intensity in his gaze.
There's not enough room in the booths, and the tables probably aren't sturdy enough (not built for that, his mind supplies, and it's almost amused). There are four walls to brace against, but none of them are polished smooth like the bartop - he doesn't have room to speak, considering his own taste in points of pride (sleek and metallic and usually too big, as they are), but he imagines it's this central piece of the room in which she's probably invested the most of hers. The bar's the most sensible option, short of lifting her bodily and carrying her upstairs - to a proper bed in an actual room - which wouldn't be difficult, either, but might take too long. Might afford them just enough time to fall back into their usual roles, with him taking the awkward lead because he thinks it's what she wants (and, more than that, because he thinks it's what's expected), and her as inscrutable as ever in the valley between what she'll accept from him and what she'd really like.
Better to be blunt. Better not to take the chance.
His grip is light, gentle, because he doesn't need anything more to pick her up, fingers curling around the backs of her thighs as he tugs her closer to gain a little leverage. The whole motion is carried out in one quick, sharp turn of his heel; there's not far to lift to situate her on the edge of the bar, his hands withdrawing only to settle again on either side of her knees, the toes of her boots tapping against his knees as he steps a fraction of an inch closer.
Orders carried out, he waits calmly for further instruction - at this point, prompting her again feels too pushy (even if impatience has already begun to fritter away at the edges of his mind). ]
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There's not a complaint inside her when he comes to his conclusion and acts on it, scooping her up with a close, easy intimacy that shows he knows he's welcome to it. Her smile grows, even the hint of a grin, by the time he's repositioned her and there's even a soft, happy sound in her throat at it, heart winging upward inside her chest as she looks down on him from her new height, arms lifting from his shoulders so that she can lean forward and comb her nails through his hair, so soft and fluffy that it's a quiet, constant temptation not to touch when they're not being intimate and others are around. She lets her short nails trail over his scalp while she does, indulging in simply being able to touch him the way she so often wants to.
He makes her so happy when he picks her up, as if she's as light as a feather, as if she's more precious than gold. As a fighter, being off her feet means she's vulnerable, not in control, ungrounded, but when Cloud picks her up for sweet or burning or even practical reasons, instead she feels safe. Cherished. Protected. It's a vulnerability that makes her feel stronger, wholer somehow and she delights in it like a little girl with a shiny gift unexpected and longed for. She doesn't feel as if she can tell him and how you would even say something like that without sounding awkward but, she's allowed to show her hand right now. Maybe - bringing her flowers can be part of a new game between them? A signal since they're so bad at expressing desires with words...
That's too far in the future though and she doesn't have a place in her world for it right now. There's only Cloud and she's leaning close with a smile, arms slipping back around his shoulders as she presses soft kisses to his much loved face. Tender, cherishing, she loves all of him, and her knees part for him, offering more, welcoming his slight crowd forward of seconds ago. She's been debating shifting over to more sensible pants but at the moment she's still in her skirt and she's glad. Light, her lips trail, finally press to the edge of his, hair falling down on one side and curtaining away the world there. This is a game between them, private and safe, and so she doesn't mind softly whispering:]
Take the gloves off...
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But this isn't about him, and beside that he's confident enough now to know that it wouldn't matter very much even if it was. He's got problems, and they both know it, but coming in dirty and sidling up to her before he's had a chance to shower it off and pretend to be put together and well is by far the least of all of them.
With his newly bare hands, he catches hold of her knees and adjusts their position just a fraction of an inch. They're already poised easily to either side of his hips where her legs dangle over the edge of the bar, but shuffling his feet makes an equally accessible excuse to touch her again - one that doesn't quite toe the line in this new game.
No, that's when he settles his hands on the smooth, exposed skin of her thighs, just edging below the set boundary of her skirt. Which isn't much for coverage, here, and there's sure to be a strange mix of regret and relief when she does finally find herself in a more practical wardrobe. But that's a concern for later.
There are probably a few key items in his own cluttered dresser that she suffers the same confliction over. ]
And?
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In her lungs, the air feels heavy and thick, against her skin it's like warm honey, wonderful, and she traces each move he makes with her eyes, fingers across his shoulders and patient, sealing away each little familiar movement, each precious moment into her heart. Her heart that beats slow and thick because he's given himself entirely to her, and sometimes it scares her and sometimes it makes her want to cry because she can't hold all the happiness inside and at the moment it makes her want nothing more than to cherish him and spoil him rotten even if she's still learning how. The touch to her knees has the smile slipping back over her lips because maybe it's cheating but it's okay when they cheat at their private games that are just for the two of them. It's the warmth of his hands, flat and spread, on her thighs that has her exhaling the humming sigh of pleasure and contentment though, that has the soft smile growing and filling her dark eyes. That has her skin warming and thrumming and all but glowing.
She doesn't want him perfect, polished and clean, masks of perfection in place when all she really wants is the man inside. The one with the eyes that whisper secrets about his soul to her, the one that smells like diesel and dusty road and the air before a storm. The one that loves her as she is, that she's allowed to love completely too, even, especially, all those broken parts he entrusts her with. She wants him to come to her dirty from the road and smelling like sword oil because it means she's more important to him than anything else, that she comes first... and it means that he trusts her to love all of him. That he trusts that she already does.
So her fingers, gloveless herself now that AVALANCHE is a group of friends and not a motley band of fighters trying to destroy and save the world, lift and stroke slow over the lean angles of his much loved face, tender caresses and it's all right if they trade a bit of road dust for a bit of storage room dust because she's humming that soft sighing sound again with her heart in her wine dark eyes as she loves the man in front of her and her voice is just as dark as her eyes as she lowers her head and her lips brush his face again.]
Touch me. [It's a sigh, a longing, a wistful need. Something that's always in her and so rarely asked in a world full of bar room chatter and running child's feet and the blur of life. If he only knew how powerful his simple touch on her, skin on skin, was, how it made everything easier and better and warmer and more alive - but how could she ever say so without sounding utterly like a foolish teenage girl with her first love? But he is. He is.] Please. [Her lips ghost down his cheek. His name is every whisper, every sigh, every confession of her heart when she breathes its secret against the curve of his ear.] Cloud...
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Both of their hands are calloused and rough, if in different places, but he considers his own the worse for the wear; wielding a sword leaves more of his palms vulnerable to it than making a fist does hers. So he's careful as he goes, though the firm shape of muscle that more than rivals his own strength is close beneath the smooth skin of her thighs, warmer and softer the higher his hands slide. The edge of her skirt detours him around for a moment, short and insensible but in this case very convenient - but he sees no reason to hurry past that barrier, as per her fairly loose instruction. His fingertips map that last vestige of exposed skin very thoroughly, down to the bartop and then back up to the tops of her thighs - pausing there, before slipping down between them, under the thin layer of dyed black leather and toward the hem of plain white cotton or whatever she's wearing, today (he doesn't go through her drawers, anymore), toward the outline of softer skin and more of that trusting vulnerability.
His lips brush the cusp of her ear as he turns his head, thinks to look down at what he's doing lest he badly miss his own intentions, now (whatever they are, he's still plotting that map). A breath brushes aside a few stray strands of dark hair. His heart catches somewhere high in his throat, and he swallows deliberately to knock it back down. ]
...There?
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She loves the way he touches her.
She loves the rough times, the fast times - but she loves the times he cherishes her, treats her as if he's amazed they're together and she's his. That he's hers.
...it always breaks her heart just a little too.
The tease along the hem of her skirt has her head bowing forward a little, has her lips parting for silent inhales between them, something wonderful and dangerous in the sight of his hands on her bare skin and she has to swallow as well when those long fingers glide under the fabric of her skirt, small shivers under her muscles, through her stomach and lower, rising up through her chest, a barely there jerk in her thighs that isn't protest or rejection. Against his back, one of her hands flexes but she's not allowed to touch yet herself. This is his moment and the almost silent sound slips out of her on an exhale as his lips brush her ear, her wine dark eyes finally closing as thistle down tickles down her throat at that contact, at the feather brush of his breath. She cheats, just a little, hand lifting to rest, light, against the back of his neck and the short riot of sunshine bright hair that starts upward there.]
Yes. [it's a whisper and she wets her suddenly dry lips before nodding, an unrhythmic move of her head a few times to make sure it's clear. A new part of their game perhaps and she's more than willing to play guide. Soft, her fingers stroke the warmth of his neck, just once. The second time the longing slips in.] Yes, Cloud.