[There's no denying it. Her response is a coin turned from one side to the other - a flicker of amusement lint sunlight glinting off the surface of sun warmed water. Yes. He has. But suppose there has been some pleasure in that as well, some joy to be derived in how he has tested her. If he wasn't so bullheaded, so intransigent, would she still be so sharply aware of this place? Would the way his mind and breath mingles with her own now feel so particular, so earned? There's something satisfactory in holding out her hand in expectation and being rewarded for it. Is this a reward for good or bad behavior? Does it really matter?
Will he make her wait so long before he kisses her? It's such a clear, crystal sentiment in the murmur of the rest - curling thoughts of his weight and the strands of her silver hair in his sturdy hand, of how she knows he will taste and the thrum of intent low in her belly - that it separates itself from the miasma without difficulty. She breathes across his mouth, heavy. This close, he might as well be her - she might as well be him.]
This close, with the tide carrying him deep, deeper than he had allowed in a long time-possibly ever, rising up over his head until he is submerged, they are separated by only the barest degree. She might as well be him. He might as well be her. Not quite. He still knows the difference between his hands and hers, even if their breath seems indistinguishable. That could- change, but for now he is content with her filling the gaps between his own thoughts.
Well- not entirely content- no more than she is. Patient- yes, but maybe he was waiting for her to be a little less.]
-of course not-
[There was a fine line between anticipation and delay that he has no intention of crossing. His hand in her hair barely moves- the slightest increase of pressure with his two smallest fingers and he tips his chin. It does not take much to bring his lips to hers, to brave that deceptively narrow distance, and-
And the universe does not shift. There is no shaking beneath his feet or crack as it all comes tumbling down around them. There is her mouth- thinner than he remembers, but it would be. A memory of another time, the feeling of stray strands of her hair catching against his jaw and chin- bare and smooth. There is her breath, hot and near- and her pulse, in his chest and in hers, as many things the same as are different. Maybe not quite so many. He can't remember if he'd had the courage then to bring his other hand up, to hold her steady even as he parts his lips and kisses into her mouth with far more confidence then he knows he'd had then.]
hi pan/lily/whoever else is tracking this u creeps
[Her lips are just lips, her tongue just tongue, the silvering strands of her fine hair under his sure fingers just keratin and dead skin cells. There's no secret of the universe in her mouth or how she opens it to him, to the line of her body as her shoulder gives.
--Or there is and it only sits behind the shape and heat of her mouth, warranting some deeper more intimate contact than a kiss or skin or anything bodies can give or do. Regardless: he kisses her and she kisses him and it's very simple. As easy to do as finding the silken sash wrapped at his middle with her hands. She shouldn't know how to untie the complex knot at his hip, but she does because it belongs to him.
[It is so easy that it was almost frustrating- or would be, if he was thinking of the past. He wasn't, though, too taken up in the physicality of her, an aspect that had almost seemed lost. But then, what was the difference between her growing distance and his ever stronger, more rigid control?
Certainly nothing right now, except perhaps that her hands were already wandering along with her mind, the exact direction each end of silk wrapped to complete the knot- and the knowledge that she had to go looking in the first place. Ridiculous- a huff of laughter at the edge of her mouth. She would have to forgive him, again, he hadn't considered the potential for added difficulty. He was not so presumptuous to imagine this inevitability- or perhaps it was simply that he was more vain than imaginative. He had certainly chosen every piece of the outfit with an eye towards something, and it was not the ease in which it could be shed. Another bit of structure to make him feel as if he had any control at all.
He didn't have to search her mind for the place her chains could begin to be unwound. he knew the drape of them, the way they fell, the ringing where they touched her hip and how it different from the chime at her wrist- the individual pieces, at least some of their meanings. He doesn't need to steady her. She is steady, so his right hand is free to run along the lower edge of one of the endless strings of silvery links, smoothly sliding across calluses that had a lifetime to develop. His fingers find the small hidden clasp at the same time his mouth finds a spot to come to rest, just under the curve of her jaw.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Will he make her wait so long before he kisses her? It's such a clear, crystal sentiment in the murmur of the rest - curling thoughts of his weight and the strands of her silver hair in his sturdy hand, of how she knows he will taste and the thrum of intent low in her belly - that it separates itself from the miasma without difficulty. She breathes across his mouth, heavy. This close, he might as well be her - she might as well be him.]
no subject
This close, with the tide carrying him deep, deeper than he had allowed in a long time-possibly ever, rising up over his head until he is submerged, they are separated by only the barest degree. She might as well be him. He might as well be her. Not quite. He still knows the difference between his hands and hers, even if their breath seems indistinguishable. That could- change, but for now he is content with her filling the gaps between his own thoughts.
Well- not entirely content- no more than she is. Patient- yes, but maybe he was waiting for her to be a little less.]
-of course not-
[There was a fine line between anticipation and delay that he has no intention of crossing. His hand in her hair barely moves- the slightest increase of pressure with his two smallest fingers and he tips his chin. It does not take much to bring his lips to hers, to brave that deceptively narrow distance, and-
And the universe does not shift. There is no shaking beneath his feet or crack as it all comes tumbling down around them. There is her mouth- thinner than he remembers, but it would be. A memory of another time, the feeling of stray strands of her hair catching against his jaw and chin- bare and smooth. There is her breath, hot and near- and her pulse, in his chest and in hers, as many things the same as are different. Maybe not quite so many. He can't remember if he'd had the courage then to bring his other hand up, to hold her steady even as he parts his lips and kisses into her mouth with far more confidence then he knows he'd had then.]
hi pan/lily/whoever else is tracking this u creeps
--Or there is and it only sits behind the shape and heat of her mouth, warranting some deeper more intimate contact than a kiss or skin or anything bodies can give or do.
Regardless: he kisses her and she kisses him and it's very simple. As easy to do as finding the silken sash wrapped at his middle with her hands. She shouldn't know how to untie the complex knot at his hip, but she does because it belongs to him.
What a kindness being familiar like this is.]
no subject
Certainly nothing right now, except perhaps that her hands were already wandering along with her mind, the exact direction each end of silk wrapped to complete the knot- and the knowledge that she had to go looking in the first place. Ridiculous- a huff of laughter at the edge of her mouth. She would have to forgive him, again, he hadn't considered the potential for added difficulty. He was not so presumptuous to imagine this inevitability- or perhaps it was simply that he was more vain than imaginative. He had certainly chosen every piece of the outfit with an eye towards something, and it was not the ease in which it could be shed. Another bit of structure to make him feel as if he had any control at all.
He didn't have to search her mind for the place her chains could begin to be unwound. he knew the drape of them, the way they fell, the ringing where they touched her hip and how it different from the chime at her wrist- the individual pieces, at least some of their meanings. He doesn't need to steady her. She is steady, so his right hand is free to run along the lower edge of one of the endless strings of silvery links, smoothly sliding across calluses that had a lifetime to develop. His fingers find the small hidden clasp at the same time his mouth finds a spot to come to rest, just under the curve of her jaw.]