Just a sliver. The trailing light of a star, the red sky at dusk... a sign that somewhere else you're alive.
[ ...sometimes he hardly feels like he knows where the words come from. His voice keeps to the rhythm of their bodies and the words supply themselves. Only they do describe his feelings, after all. Is it so bad if she shows some hint she isn't made of stone?
Sadly, he can't ask that as a purely rhetorical question. Perhaps it is. But his hands are responding to the insistent press of her hips, the moan, not her words, keeping up that pressure even as he tugs at the ties to her shorts. Pulling them off one leg and sliding them halfway down the other before his touch returns, scale against bare flesh. Pressing into her shallow with his knuckle, in the now-familiar way he favors, to keep those sharp claws away. ]
[It isn't the idea of showing that she is more than stone that concerns her, but rather the very obvious aftereffects of chasing hot-blooded ideas and showing that in a summit meeting. Two emperors might ignore the way she moves or any marks that aren't covered by her robes, but the third will undoubtedly, infuriatingly accept nothing she offers in explanation and tease her about her excursion. And then the delegations of four kingdoms would have a front row seat to how red the Imperial Kei can turn.
Not that Youko is of a mind to better explain this while he is loosening the ties of her shorts, or pulling the silk down and making her hips jump at the sensation of it peeling away from her heated skin. Certainly not when he presses his knuckle against her, just dipping in enough for her to feel the subtle difference of his scales against her slick flesh and to get her fingertips scrabbling at his chest, her mouth and the shape of her pleasure buried against his skin. Torture at its finest.]
[ He always feels acutely aware of his limitations when he touches her like this. A clumsy improvisation that doesn't do enough for her. Except that when she's keyed up like this it doesn't seem to make much of a difference; the movement of that folded finger, barely inside her, is enough to drive her body against his, full of wordless demands for more. Maybe it is only his ego that isn't satisfied, put off that there's no real skill or discernment on his part involved.
He could do more. But when she's clinging to him like this, leg squeezed tight around him, breath hot on his chest, it's hard to find the will to peel her off. If she's satisfied, that should be enough for him. So he keeps working with his finger, pace faster, arm holding her tight, wonder if she'll come from just this or reach a plateau where she, too, desires more. ]
Was it a long wait, Youko...? You're so sensitive...
[That is the double-edged sword of her having a receptive body; sure, she'll blush pleasingly on a dime, but she also takes very little to work into a lather. And that's before her imagination gets factored in. Not exactly generous to the ego, but he should take comfort in the fact that there is only one person Youko lets see her go to pieces like this.
The question pulls her from the haze enough that she shifts in his grasp, leg slipping down from where she had fixed it, and dislodging the blanket partially with a shake of her head. Peering up at him from under the drape of the remaining covers and a curtain of her own mussed red curls, she looks strung between arousal and guilt.]
[ 'Youko peering up at him red-faced' is a sight he sees constantly but never tires of. Every little variation on the theme is treasured, and the present view of her emerging from her bundled-up place under the cover is particularly... dare he say cute? Knowing he's responsible for that messy, unsteady look only makes it more appealing.
The guilt, less so. There is some part of him that's flattered that she cares so much for his well-being, amidst all her other troubles, and a part that that chafes at worry that feels excessive, but mostly he just wishes he could more easily set her at ease. ]
I missed you. Talking to you, feeling you like this...
[ He shifts down the bed, bringing his face closer to hers. And yes, part of 'missing her' is pure libido too, needs unsated. But he doesn't want to emphasize that aspect; he may feel she's too conscious of what her fellow rulers might guess, but he wants her to decide how far they go tonight from her own desires, not guilt. ]
[That 'I missed you' does some real heavy lifting with the guilt, smoothing it out into something softer, coy. It is easy for her to find a pitfall, to wind up feeling too needy, too hungry, too much all around sometimes, especially after a short absence, but that reassurance does wonders. She folds her arms against his chest, propping herself and the blanket up that little extra as he shifts closer.]
I missed you too. I haven't been sleeping well without you.
[Her tone is quiet, but honest. Steady. Hopelessly fond.
If her gaze drops while she shifts forward, bridging the gap between them to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, it can wholly be blamed on her thoughts turning to what she would have answered earlier and the phantom sensation the memory drudges up with it. It isn't any easier to talk about when he isn't fishing for the information to tease her or feed his ego, but she only ducks her head a little as she repurposes the thought.]
I want to be tired out, but... usually, the next day... it's a little obvious my legs are still weak...
[ It might strike him as strange, being so eager to [i]do[/i] but so hesitant to talk about it, if he did not remember being the exact same way. To his great regret. She tries, though, in this halting way, and he can't ask more than that. ]
I can save it for home.
[ Just a little implication there. That the longer he waits, the more is saved for her. But her frank admission does put him in a more protective frame of mind, and he strokes her head as she nestles up against him. ]
I want you to sleep well, too. If just being here does that, I can. Just be here.
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no subject
[ ...sometimes he hardly feels like he knows where the words come from. His voice keeps to the rhythm of their bodies and the words supply themselves. Only they do describe his feelings, after all. Is it so bad if she shows some hint she isn't made of stone?
Sadly, he can't ask that as a purely rhetorical question. Perhaps it is. But his hands are responding to the insistent press of her hips, the moan, not her words, keeping up that pressure even as he tugs at the ties to her shorts. Pulling them off one leg and sliding them halfway down the other before his touch returns, scale against bare flesh. Pressing into her shallow with his knuckle, in the now-familiar way he favors, to keep those sharp claws away. ]
no subject
Not that Youko is of a mind to better explain this while he is loosening the ties of her shorts, or pulling the silk down and making her hips jump at the sensation of it peeling away from her heated skin. Certainly not when he presses his knuckle against her, just dipping in enough for her to feel the subtle difference of his scales against her slick flesh and to get her fingertips scrabbling at his chest, her mouth and the shape of her pleasure buried against his skin. Torture at its finest.]
no subject
He could do more. But when she's clinging to him like this, leg squeezed tight around him, breath hot on his chest, it's hard to find the will to peel her off. If she's satisfied, that should be enough for him. So he keeps working with his finger, pace faster, arm holding her tight, wonder if she'll come from just this or reach a plateau where she, too, desires more. ]
Was it a long wait, Youko...? You're so sensitive...
no subject
The question pulls her from the haze enough that she shifts in his grasp, leg slipping down from where she had fixed it, and dislodging the blanket partially with a shake of her head. Peering up at him from under the drape of the remaining covers and a curtain of her own mussed red curls, she looks strung between arousal and guilt.]
It wasn't... long for you?
no subject
The guilt, less so. There is some part of him that's flattered that she cares so much for his well-being, amidst all her other troubles, and a part that that chafes at worry that feels excessive, but mostly he just wishes he could more easily set her at ease. ]
I missed you. Talking to you, feeling you like this...
[ He shifts down the bed, bringing his face closer to hers. And yes, part of 'missing her' is pure libido too, needs unsated. But he doesn't want to emphasize that aspect; he may feel she's too conscious of what her fellow rulers might guess, but he wants her to decide how far they go tonight from her own desires, not guilt. ]
no subject
I missed you too. I haven't been sleeping well without you.
[Her tone is quiet, but honest. Steady. Hopelessly fond.
If her gaze drops while she shifts forward, bridging the gap between them to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, it can wholly be blamed on her thoughts turning to what she would have answered earlier and the phantom sensation the memory drudges up with it. It isn't any easier to talk about when he isn't fishing for the information to tease her or feed his ego, but she only ducks her head a little as she repurposes the thought.]
I want to be tired out, but... usually, the next day... it's a little obvious my legs are still weak...
no subject
I can save it for home.
[ Just a little implication there. That the longer he waits, the more is saved for her. But her frank admission does put him in a more protective frame of mind, and he strokes her head as she nestles up against him. ]
I want you to sleep well, too. If just being here does that, I can. Just be here.