Touching to touch. As much as to enjoy the sensation of her warm skin against his hands as it is to impart something pleasurable. Pleasure begets pleasure, but there is a selfish desire (that never feels selfish, when he is with her) to enjoy her, and touch her, and remap his hands on her body after so much of him had forgotten such a thing entirely. Doing so without demand still feels in spirit of their silent little contract.
And this time, at this promise from her, Loxley feels it like a rush of warmth, a downwards ache, and he lets himself respond with a sound, as she'd asked, a quiet drawn out groan. The next breath out, shakier, in time with the next rise of her hips, the next pushing down.
"Derrica," half-whispered, a signal, of the slow build she's drawing out of him. The real possibility he might ask for more, the usual sort of thing, harder and faster and messier, along with the indecision about whether he'd really want her to give it.
When she kisses him again, it carries a soothing, hushing quality. Not yielding. Maybe he will ask, but Derrica has no intentions for anything other than this pace she's set: so slow that it aches, drives the breath out of her as surely as it does Loxley.
"Not yet," is so, so gentle.
Loxley is always so good to her. All Derrica's best intentions have come apart under his hands, over and over. How many times has Loxley devoted himself to taking her apart first, before considering himself?
Maybe this was always in the cards, even without the tangled complication of his dream, all these new memories and the near miss of him vanishing hanging overhead. Without all this feeling, overwhelming and impossible, layering every movement.
She isn't unaffected. Just focused, watching him even as her breath goes shallow and she flushes hot. All of these things held in check as she moves over him, hands slipping to brace at his shoulders, use her own weight to bear him down into the mattress as he runs his own palms over herskin.
Later, he'd probably describe with better articulation of the after affects of such a dream. Of that slight sense of unhooking, weightlessness, that churn of adrift sense of place that he'd had to swim against when he first landed here. It isn't unfamiliar, that rootlessness, but certainly more existential when drawn between one reality and another.
This is all things counter to that. Bodily and focused, where any scattered sense of history or future is muted when the present becomes this vivid. Derrica braces her hands, rocks her weight that little bit forwards to bear him down, pinning him in place, beneath her. His hips twitch up, not very calculated, enough to feel the squeeze of her thighs on either side of him, feeling the way she moves with her own chosen pace.
Control slowly slipping free of his fingers, breathing gaining an edge of urgency, muttered things like gods, please for her to speed up, to drag them faster to a finish, an urge that never manifests in the touch of his hands, or more movement than those little, involuntary shifts beneath her.
When she lowers herself again, it is only to trade the pin of her hands for elbows at his shoulders. Sink her fingers into his hair again, brush back through the mass of curls, catch at the base of his horns. Derrica's nose brushes Loxley's, held close for a moment before brushing soft, loose kisses to his mouth.
"You're so good for me," she murmurs, whispers between each kiss. "Hold on just a little longer."
An indeterminate amount of time. Derrica has no set idea of exactly how much longer, only that she means to keep him suspended here until Loxley can't stand it anymore. It means devoting all her attention to him, narrowing everything down to kissing the pleas from his lips, breathing back affection and sweetness and praise back to him. The strain lives in all the muscles of her body, the clench and release of her fingers in his hair, but the pace she sets remains unwavering.
Unwavering until she feels Loxley arrive at some inescapable tipping point, where it is more important to give him what he needs rather than ask him to hold back. Yes first, before a question can even form. Yes, now.
It doesn't take long until the question of holding back or not holding back becomes impossible, driven so closely to that edge and held there, gently and firmly. He kisses her back greedily when she presses kisses to his mouth, broken off moans and half-formed pleas escaping between his fangs more and more.
Like this, with her pace and her weight against him and her words, there's no need for Loxley to worry about what he is doing for her, if it's enough, if it's good. 'Worry' is not really the right word for those other times, either, not with Derrica, but there is objective, motive, action. Here, there's only sensation, doing this one thing asked of him, sinking into it.
Derrica grants him that permission before the sounds he makes and the words uttered can tumble into proper begging. His hands finally grip properly as he climaxes, relief and tension strung white hot together, the next breath out long and vocal, arms winding up around her waist as far as this position allows.
This is the point. The way he comes apart, the sounds he makes, the way his hands clutch at her as the sensation rattles through his body. This is what she'd wanted. It doesn't matter whether or not she follows him over. What matters is having him, all flushed and pliant and contented.
She is still kissing him, slow and luxurious and easy, until he relaxes beneath her. And even then, it's only a matter of minor adjustments. Lifting her hips, resettling to drape comfortably across his chest. Touching just to touch him, fingers carding through his hair, slipping down to touch his cheek, trace the line of his jaw. Listen to him breathing, feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath her.
What else is there to say? All the soft, honey-soaked affections she's murmured to him, they still hang in the air. Her fingers press them gently into his skin, as she touches him, quiet as they breathe together.
There's a loosening all around, him first and then her. His arms slide around her, now, wilfully indulging in holding her smaller body to his own, the warmth radiating off of her. A shift of his spine, hips, aligning them both into a comfortable tangle.
A familiar tangle. And there's a world where Loxley woke up from months of dreaming to a colder bed, or one shared with a less empathetic presence, whether out of chance for it happening on an evening they didn't share, or even more abstractly, because it's a world where they hadn't sought each other out, and continued to.
Gratitude is a sharp and present twinge. That's what he calls it, anyway, that feeling, brow furrowing and chin lifting so he can kiss her forehead in a way he hopes conveys it.
If not the specific thing, then close enough to it that Derrica can divine the meaning behind the softness of the kiss and the expression on Loxley's face.
Her fingers are very light where they span his cheek and jaw. Derrica kisses the hollow of his throat, to stave off the urge to stretch up to catch his mouth again.
"Go back to sleep," she murmurs. "We can get up in a little while."
It's already late. A little more stolen time isn't going to make a difference now.
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no subject
And this time, at this promise from her, Loxley feels it like a rush of warmth, a downwards ache, and he lets himself respond with a sound, as she'd asked, a quiet drawn out groan. The next breath out, shakier, in time with the next rise of her hips, the next pushing down.
"Derrica," half-whispered, a signal, of the slow build she's drawing out of him. The real possibility he might ask for more, the usual sort of thing, harder and faster and messier, along with the indecision about whether he'd really want her to give it.
no subject
"Not yet," is so, so gentle.
Loxley is always so good to her. All Derrica's best intentions have come apart under his hands, over and over. How many times has Loxley devoted himself to taking her apart first, before considering himself?
Maybe this was always in the cards, even without the tangled complication of his dream, all these new memories and the near miss of him vanishing hanging overhead. Without all this feeling, overwhelming and impossible, layering every movement.
She isn't unaffected. Just focused, watching him even as her breath goes shallow and she flushes hot. All of these things held in check as she moves over him, hands slipping to brace at his shoulders, use her own weight to bear him down into the mattress as he runs his own palms over herskin.
no subject
This is all things counter to that. Bodily and focused, where any scattered sense of history or future is muted when the present becomes this vivid. Derrica braces her hands, rocks her weight that little bit forwards to bear him down, pinning him in place, beneath her. His hips twitch up, not very calculated, enough to feel the squeeze of her thighs on either side of him, feeling the way she moves with her own chosen pace.
Control slowly slipping free of his fingers, breathing gaining an edge of urgency, muttered things like gods, please for her to speed up, to drag them faster to a finish, an urge that never manifests in the touch of his hands, or more movement than those little, involuntary shifts beneath her.
no subject
"You're so good for me," she murmurs, whispers between each kiss. "Hold on just a little longer."
An indeterminate amount of time. Derrica has no set idea of exactly how much longer, only that she means to keep him suspended here until Loxley can't stand it anymore. It means devoting all her attention to him, narrowing everything down to kissing the pleas from his lips, breathing back affection and sweetness and praise back to him. The strain lives in all the muscles of her body, the clench and release of her fingers in his hair, but the pace she sets remains unwavering.
Unwavering until she feels Loxley arrive at some inescapable tipping point, where it is more important to give him what he needs rather than ask him to hold back. Yes first, before a question can even form. Yes, now.
no subject
Like this, with her pace and her weight against him and her words, there's no need for Loxley to worry about what he is doing for her, if it's enough, if it's good. 'Worry' is not really the right word for those other times, either, not with Derrica, but there is objective, motive, action. Here, there's only sensation, doing this one thing asked of him, sinking into it.
Derrica grants him that permission before the sounds he makes and the words uttered can tumble into proper begging. His hands finally grip properly as he climaxes, relief and tension strung white hot together, the next breath out long and vocal, arms winding up around her waist as far as this position allows.
no subject
She is still kissing him, slow and luxurious and easy, until he relaxes beneath her. And even then, it's only a matter of minor adjustments. Lifting her hips, resettling to drape comfortably across his chest. Touching just to touch him, fingers carding through his hair, slipping down to touch his cheek, trace the line of his jaw. Listen to him breathing, feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath her.
What else is there to say? All the soft, honey-soaked affections she's murmured to him, they still hang in the air. Her fingers press them gently into his skin, as she touches him, quiet as they breathe together.
no subject
A familiar tangle. And there's a world where Loxley woke up from months of dreaming to a colder bed, or one shared with a less empathetic presence, whether out of chance for it happening on an evening they didn't share, or even more abstractly, because it's a world where they hadn't sought each other out, and continued to.
Gratitude is a sharp and present twinge. That's what he calls it, anyway, that feeling, brow furrowing and chin lifting so he can kiss her forehead in a way he hopes conveys it.
slaps down bow
If not the specific thing, then close enough to it that Derrica can divine the meaning behind the softness of the kiss and the expression on Loxley's face.
Her fingers are very light where they span his cheek and jaw. Derrica kisses the hollow of his throat, to stave off the urge to stretch up to catch his mouth again.
"Go back to sleep," she murmurs. "We can get up in a little while."
It's already late. A little more stolen time isn't going to make a difference now.