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thejusticelounge2013-07-28 03:33 pm
bossymarmalade) wrote in thejusticelounge2013-07-28 03:33 pm
tactile
One hand turns off the light and the other pulls him close.
There’s a man sleeping in their closet, and another man half-dead from fever next door, and two terrified children and their sister-for-all-intents in the next room over, and it’d be easy to lose it. It’d be easy—so fucking easy—to drop all the pins she’s juggling onto the cool shag carpet and let them roll away from her. She could cry if she wanted to. She could scream, roar, she could beat her fists against walls until they were bloodied just thinking about it. Her hair could come out in thick fleshy chunks if she pulled, she knows it could.
But there’s no time for that. She was born into a family of soldiers long before she became a warrior. She knows what she has to do.
It’s just that she doesn’t have to fight so hard when he’s nearby. She can’t put her finger on it, but she CAN put her fingers on him and feel it. It’s not that he makes her forget. Nor is it that he doesn’t understand the situation either. He can be the goofiest person she knows when he wants, but he’s no fool. He just calms her. Like sinking into a warm bath—soft heat and no worries, just comfort.
So when she pulls him close, she’s touching that feeling, intangible against her fingers for all the palpable flesh and muscle that constitutes his body. She wants the feel of the apples of his cheeks pulling up into a smile as he drags his jaw across hers. She wants the rough pull of his fingers against the curve of her back. She wants the moonlight to make his eyes look like matching mirror-puddles after a summer rain.
For a long time they lay intertwined underneath the vintage quilt. He’s a slow kisser, in that way that makes her guts twist and roll like it’s the first time a man’s ever kissed her. She tries to return it kiss for kiss, a slow rhythm that makes them both smile every time they pull apart. One of his hands creeps behind her, slipping up underneath her sleep shirt, and gently massages the tight muscles of her lower back. The other finds one of hers underneath the dark of the quilt and knits their fingers together. There’s no child between them this night, and although she loves Lian more than she can put words to, she’s been waiting four days for this solitary moment to just kiss him.
And that is exactly what they do. They kiss and smile and snuggle and kiss again, a gentle cycle of affection that makes no noise to awaken the others sleeping in the bungalow. Four days in this bed have already taught her Roy’s sleeping habits; the way his ring finger twitches as he gets drowsy, the exact rhythm of his breathing as he begins to drift off, the way his lips part softly even before his eyes close. She’s so wrapped up in watching it happen that she barely notices her own breathing going soft, and she’s nearly asleep when they hear Kyle’s first loud snore.
They both awaken fully, one more time, and instantly shake softly with muffled laughter. Another snore follows, then a third, and Mar’i turns to nuzzle against Roy’s neck for being there to laugh with her at the ridiculousness of it all.
The hand against her back adjusts and slips into her panties.
She doesn’t even register it’s happened at first, until his palm curls against the mound of her pelvic bone and grinds into the dark hair. He doesn’t touch the important parts just yet, instead kneading her bit of bone, hair, and thin flesh like it’s all he intends to do. She lets out a hard breath, and her hips involuntarily roll forward to push into his hand. She feels him smile again, but she doesn’t draw her eyes away from where his hand disappears into the dark bedding.
“Roy.”
“Mm?”
“We’ll wake everyone up.”
“Which is why I’m gonna keep you from making too much noise,” he growls, low and throaty, and then his fingers give her clit a firm stroke.
She nearly cries out, but he grabs her mouth with his and slips his tongue against hers so fast there’s nothing to do but let the noise disappear into his mouth as quietly as possible. His fingers are moving, slow and steady, against her clit, stroking the soft folds below it without entering. She didn’t remember when she had become so wet, but that was par for the course with Roy, she had discovered.
It doesn’t take long for her to come the first time. She’s wet and sensitive and Roy’s fingers are a godsend for fingering enthusiasts the world over—calloused and flexible, short nails and long joints. He’s strummed at bowstrings and guitar strings for so long he can play her like a violin without even trying. She gasps softly, and his free hand pulls her head against his neck so she can only make the sound into the crease where his neck meets his pillow. She shudders against the covers, like a flower in a rainstorm, and her eyes lock onto his until her vision is completely white.
For a moment, she pants gently beside him, his fingers paused in their movement. Only after she hears another snore issue from the closet—he’s still asleep, thank X’Hal—and her vision comes back does she realize he’s slipped a finger inside her.
“Tight,” he murmurs, lips pressed against her ear so the word can be as quiet as possible, and her shoulders shake a little with the tone. “Thought you were a party girl.” There’s a tinge of something there, a layer over his voice and for a moment she thinks he’s jealous or angry, and maybe he is, she doesn’t completely understand him and she probably never will, but when his free hand and strong arm negotiate her up and on top of him, she leans back over to cascade her hair around him.
“Haven’t,” she whimpers as the finger inside her curls and rubs her front wall determinedly, “not since that first night out in ahh-Arizona. Was hoping—ahh.” Her words are soft, barely intelligible, but the moonlight is bright enough that he can read her lips for what he can’t make out.
“Yeah?” he breathes.
“Yeah,” she responds with a nod that drags tendrils of her hair down the pillow to frame his face. “Yeah.”
A second finger slips into her and she sits up with such force that her breasts slam against her shirt. Roy watches, hungry-eyed but in control, and his fingers begin moving about inside her, splitting and pulling her apart, exposing her innermost parts to the warm air underneath the quilt. She slaps a hand over her mouth to choke back a cry, and his eyes haze over so completely that she knows he’s hardening up too, even if she’s not sitting far enough back on him to feel it.
He’s stretching her open in the tiniest possible increments and it’s agony. She’s so riled up she can barely breathe, and he’s clearly in no rush to end it. She slides back a little so her ass presses into the crotch of his sleep pants, and when his erection halts her movement back any more, she moans softly.
“Roy,” she murmurs, leaning over again to kiss at his collarbone as his fingers, still spreading her apart, stroke against her walls. “Roy, how big are you?” Her voice is feverish, and her words are barely contained. “I’ve been—ahh—“ she shudders against his chest at a wave of pleasure, “I’ve been imagining, thinking, dreaming about it—Roy, please, I have to—I want to know. Show me with your—“
His fingers automatically begin moving farther apart before she can even finish. She lets out a soft, happy noise, all the late night fantasies she’s ever had about him pushing to the forefront of her mind. Another digit slips in and adds its own space and she nearly cries from happiness. Further and further he pushes and spreads, and her mind is half-gone, off in a world where there’s not a man in their closet, and they’re not stuck in this fucked up disco-era camp, just her and him on his bed in Arizona and she’s measuring him with her hand, and her insides are clenching in anticipation just seeing him remove it from his pants.
“Move,” he commands quietly.
She looks up at him, eyes blinking heavily. “Huh?”
He’s gone too, all his remaining self-control holding him back from going further than this. She can almost hear his thoughts: not right now, just wait, too many people to hear us, Lian’s just a wall over, all the things he needs to tell himself to keep from ripping her clothes off. She wants him to, she’s wanted him to for a long time now, but she—they—understand that when it happens the first time they’ll need lots of room and no noise limit.
“Move like you’re gonna move when I finally fuck you,” he hisses through clenched teeth.
It’s like some force possesses her before she even fully comprehends what he’s saying, and instantly she’s sitting back up, one hand slamming into the pillow beside his head, the other lodging onto his shoulder to grip at his muscles. Her hips raise up—his free hand grabs at the joint of her hip and ass, squeezing tightly—and she brings herself down hard onto his fingers. Brings herself all the way down to his knuckles and palm, feeling them scrape against her clit and folds, leaving her slick moisture there as she comes back up. He’s still moving them, not much, but enough that every movement brings his fingertips pounding against her sweet spot. She doesn’t know how many fingers are inside her anymore, nor the amount of space he has put between them to simulate his girth. The only simulation that matters to her is the one she’s giving him. Showing him what she was going to do to his dick soon. A preview to a main event they’d both been skirting around and dreaming about.
Each thrust of her hips brings her ass down against his erection in strong, fierce strokes, and every time she starts to rise back up, the hand on her ass holds her down for the briefest moment—trying to savor the feel of his dick against her, even through the layers of fabric between them. They’re both biting their lips hard now, and Mar’i knows she’ll have a bruise tomorrow that she’ll have to explain somehow. That didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she was showing him. And that they were being quiet about it.
She could feel it now, imagine it, and that was half the thrill—imagining it was the real thing. But the other half was that this, this performance, was happening, too. The look on his face, the way his neck muscles strain as he arches his spine and chokes back a groan—these were things that made it just as important to her. She watches him watching her, and that’d enough right there, just by itself. The way his eyes wander all over her body, the way he follows the bounce of her breasts through her shirt, the way his hand grips her ass when he looks back up in her eyes. That part she’d been dreaming of, too.
He arches harder into her, and she knows he’s about to come. His eyes are hazing, his hands are shaking inside and outside of her, and his dick is twitching through his pants. In a haze of lust, she feels herself smirk, and pushes harder against him with the next stroke, watching how his mouth flies open and only a strangled grunt emerges. His eyes roll up a little, trying to focus on her but being drawn out of focus into his own white-hot pleasure, and only then does she allow herself to come the second time. She leans over, all her cunt’s muscles tightening around his fingers, and kisses, nips, at his Adam’s apple, before she makes a silent open-mouthed cry of her own against it. Moisture beads where her mouth hovers on his fawn skin, and against her ass she can feel the crotch of his pants moisten as well.
She’s not quite sure how or when his fingers move back out of her, but she does know when her body seems to gasp at the empty space left behind. Her walls are clenching at air, and Roy’s dragging her back down beside him, mouth finding hers again before he’s even done coming and holding it until she’s tucked into his arms again.
Her eyes flicker shut for a moment, trying to catch her breath without wheezing too loudly, and she reopens them at the sound of his tongue lapping at something. He’s licking his fingers clean, and when their eyes meet, he smirks and kisses her again.
“I get a preview, too,” he murmurs against her lips, and she can taste the sweet and salt of her own juices lingering there. It makes her shudder, because she knows that’s a different experience they’ll share soon enough. She just hopes he won’t make her fantasize too long.
He rolls over a little onto his side so they’re fully facing each other again, and for a moment he just presses his lips against her forehead. Then, just like he’s done for the past four nights, his ring finger twitches against her skin, and he drifts off to sleep. She watches him for a long time, fingers tracing the constellations of freckles on his cheeks, watching how his lips part and sigh in his dreaming, and finally, eventually allows herself the same dream.
There’s a man sleeping in their closet, and another man half-dead from fever next door, and two terrified children and their sister-for-all-intents in the next room over, and it’d be easy to lose it. It’d be easy—so fucking easy—to drop all the pins she’s juggling onto the cool shag carpet and let them roll away from her. She could cry if she wanted to. She could scream, roar, she could beat her fists against walls until they were bloodied just thinking about it. Her hair could come out in thick fleshy chunks if she pulled, she knows it could.
But there’s no time for that. She was born into a family of soldiers long before she became a warrior. She knows what she has to do.
It’s just that she doesn’t have to fight so hard when he’s nearby. She can’t put her finger on it, but she CAN put her fingers on him and feel it. It’s not that he makes her forget. Nor is it that he doesn’t understand the situation either. He can be the goofiest person she knows when he wants, but he’s no fool. He just calms her. Like sinking into a warm bath—soft heat and no worries, just comfort.
So when she pulls him close, she’s touching that feeling, intangible against her fingers for all the palpable flesh and muscle that constitutes his body. She wants the feel of the apples of his cheeks pulling up into a smile as he drags his jaw across hers. She wants the rough pull of his fingers against the curve of her back. She wants the moonlight to make his eyes look like matching mirror-puddles after a summer rain.
For a long time they lay intertwined underneath the vintage quilt. He’s a slow kisser, in that way that makes her guts twist and roll like it’s the first time a man’s ever kissed her. She tries to return it kiss for kiss, a slow rhythm that makes them both smile every time they pull apart. One of his hands creeps behind her, slipping up underneath her sleep shirt, and gently massages the tight muscles of her lower back. The other finds one of hers underneath the dark of the quilt and knits their fingers together. There’s no child between them this night, and although she loves Lian more than she can put words to, she’s been waiting four days for this solitary moment to just kiss him.
And that is exactly what they do. They kiss and smile and snuggle and kiss again, a gentle cycle of affection that makes no noise to awaken the others sleeping in the bungalow. Four days in this bed have already taught her Roy’s sleeping habits; the way his ring finger twitches as he gets drowsy, the exact rhythm of his breathing as he begins to drift off, the way his lips part softly even before his eyes close. She’s so wrapped up in watching it happen that she barely notices her own breathing going soft, and she’s nearly asleep when they hear Kyle’s first loud snore.
They both awaken fully, one more time, and instantly shake softly with muffled laughter. Another snore follows, then a third, and Mar’i turns to nuzzle against Roy’s neck for being there to laugh with her at the ridiculousness of it all.
The hand against her back adjusts and slips into her panties.
She doesn’t even register it’s happened at first, until his palm curls against the mound of her pelvic bone and grinds into the dark hair. He doesn’t touch the important parts just yet, instead kneading her bit of bone, hair, and thin flesh like it’s all he intends to do. She lets out a hard breath, and her hips involuntarily roll forward to push into his hand. She feels him smile again, but she doesn’t draw her eyes away from where his hand disappears into the dark bedding.
“Roy.”
“Mm?”
“We’ll wake everyone up.”
“Which is why I’m gonna keep you from making too much noise,” he growls, low and throaty, and then his fingers give her clit a firm stroke.
She nearly cries out, but he grabs her mouth with his and slips his tongue against hers so fast there’s nothing to do but let the noise disappear into his mouth as quietly as possible. His fingers are moving, slow and steady, against her clit, stroking the soft folds below it without entering. She didn’t remember when she had become so wet, but that was par for the course with Roy, she had discovered.
It doesn’t take long for her to come the first time. She’s wet and sensitive and Roy’s fingers are a godsend for fingering enthusiasts the world over—calloused and flexible, short nails and long joints. He’s strummed at bowstrings and guitar strings for so long he can play her like a violin without even trying. She gasps softly, and his free hand pulls her head against his neck so she can only make the sound into the crease where his neck meets his pillow. She shudders against the covers, like a flower in a rainstorm, and her eyes lock onto his until her vision is completely white.
For a moment, she pants gently beside him, his fingers paused in their movement. Only after she hears another snore issue from the closet—he’s still asleep, thank X’Hal—and her vision comes back does she realize he’s slipped a finger inside her.
“Tight,” he murmurs, lips pressed against her ear so the word can be as quiet as possible, and her shoulders shake a little with the tone. “Thought you were a party girl.” There’s a tinge of something there, a layer over his voice and for a moment she thinks he’s jealous or angry, and maybe he is, she doesn’t completely understand him and she probably never will, but when his free hand and strong arm negotiate her up and on top of him, she leans back over to cascade her hair around him.
“Haven’t,” she whimpers as the finger inside her curls and rubs her front wall determinedly, “not since that first night out in ahh-Arizona. Was hoping—ahh.” Her words are soft, barely intelligible, but the moonlight is bright enough that he can read her lips for what he can’t make out.
“Yeah?” he breathes.
“Yeah,” she responds with a nod that drags tendrils of her hair down the pillow to frame his face. “Yeah.”
A second finger slips into her and she sits up with such force that her breasts slam against her shirt. Roy watches, hungry-eyed but in control, and his fingers begin moving about inside her, splitting and pulling her apart, exposing her innermost parts to the warm air underneath the quilt. She slaps a hand over her mouth to choke back a cry, and his eyes haze over so completely that she knows he’s hardening up too, even if she’s not sitting far enough back on him to feel it.
He’s stretching her open in the tiniest possible increments and it’s agony. She’s so riled up she can barely breathe, and he’s clearly in no rush to end it. She slides back a little so her ass presses into the crotch of his sleep pants, and when his erection halts her movement back any more, she moans softly.
“Roy,” she murmurs, leaning over again to kiss at his collarbone as his fingers, still spreading her apart, stroke against her walls. “Roy, how big are you?” Her voice is feverish, and her words are barely contained. “I’ve been—ahh—“ she shudders against his chest at a wave of pleasure, “I’ve been imagining, thinking, dreaming about it—Roy, please, I have to—I want to know. Show me with your—“
His fingers automatically begin moving farther apart before she can even finish. She lets out a soft, happy noise, all the late night fantasies she’s ever had about him pushing to the forefront of her mind. Another digit slips in and adds its own space and she nearly cries from happiness. Further and further he pushes and spreads, and her mind is half-gone, off in a world where there’s not a man in their closet, and they’re not stuck in this fucked up disco-era camp, just her and him on his bed in Arizona and she’s measuring him with her hand, and her insides are clenching in anticipation just seeing him remove it from his pants.
“Move,” he commands quietly.
She looks up at him, eyes blinking heavily. “Huh?”
He’s gone too, all his remaining self-control holding him back from going further than this. She can almost hear his thoughts: not right now, just wait, too many people to hear us, Lian’s just a wall over, all the things he needs to tell himself to keep from ripping her clothes off. She wants him to, she’s wanted him to for a long time now, but she—they—understand that when it happens the first time they’ll need lots of room and no noise limit.
“Move like you’re gonna move when I finally fuck you,” he hisses through clenched teeth.
It’s like some force possesses her before she even fully comprehends what he’s saying, and instantly she’s sitting back up, one hand slamming into the pillow beside his head, the other lodging onto his shoulder to grip at his muscles. Her hips raise up—his free hand grabs at the joint of her hip and ass, squeezing tightly—and she brings herself down hard onto his fingers. Brings herself all the way down to his knuckles and palm, feeling them scrape against her clit and folds, leaving her slick moisture there as she comes back up. He’s still moving them, not much, but enough that every movement brings his fingertips pounding against her sweet spot. She doesn’t know how many fingers are inside her anymore, nor the amount of space he has put between them to simulate his girth. The only simulation that matters to her is the one she’s giving him. Showing him what she was going to do to his dick soon. A preview to a main event they’d both been skirting around and dreaming about.
Each thrust of her hips brings her ass down against his erection in strong, fierce strokes, and every time she starts to rise back up, the hand on her ass holds her down for the briefest moment—trying to savor the feel of his dick against her, even through the layers of fabric between them. They’re both biting their lips hard now, and Mar’i knows she’ll have a bruise tomorrow that she’ll have to explain somehow. That didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she was showing him. And that they were being quiet about it.
She could feel it now, imagine it, and that was half the thrill—imagining it was the real thing. But the other half was that this, this performance, was happening, too. The look on his face, the way his neck muscles strain as he arches his spine and chokes back a groan—these were things that made it just as important to her. She watches him watching her, and that’d enough right there, just by itself. The way his eyes wander all over her body, the way he follows the bounce of her breasts through her shirt, the way his hand grips her ass when he looks back up in her eyes. That part she’d been dreaming of, too.
He arches harder into her, and she knows he’s about to come. His eyes are hazing, his hands are shaking inside and outside of her, and his dick is twitching through his pants. In a haze of lust, she feels herself smirk, and pushes harder against him with the next stroke, watching how his mouth flies open and only a strangled grunt emerges. His eyes roll up a little, trying to focus on her but being drawn out of focus into his own white-hot pleasure, and only then does she allow herself to come the second time. She leans over, all her cunt’s muscles tightening around his fingers, and kisses, nips, at his Adam’s apple, before she makes a silent open-mouthed cry of her own against it. Moisture beads where her mouth hovers on his fawn skin, and against her ass she can feel the crotch of his pants moisten as well.
She’s not quite sure how or when his fingers move back out of her, but she does know when her body seems to gasp at the empty space left behind. Her walls are clenching at air, and Roy’s dragging her back down beside him, mouth finding hers again before he’s even done coming and holding it until she’s tucked into his arms again.
Her eyes flicker shut for a moment, trying to catch her breath without wheezing too loudly, and she reopens them at the sound of his tongue lapping at something. He’s licking his fingers clean, and when their eyes meet, he smirks and kisses her again.
“I get a preview, too,” he murmurs against her lips, and she can taste the sweet and salt of her own juices lingering there. It makes her shudder, because she knows that’s a different experience they’ll share soon enough. She just hopes he won’t make her fantasize too long.
He rolls over a little onto his side so they’re fully facing each other again, and for a moment he just presses his lips against her forehead. Then, just like he’s done for the past four nights, his ring finger twitches against her skin, and he drifts off to sleep. She watches him for a long time, fingers tracing the constellations of freckles on his cheeks, watching how his lips part and sigh in his dreaming, and finally, eventually allows herself the same dream.