Her fingers remain there, even when he turns his face back to her. Derrica cups his cheek, sets her thumb against his lips. The heavy gold cuff of her bracelet is warm, shifts only a little on her wrist as she touches him. Her expression is so intent, watching the way reactions break across his face.
Flushed hot, feeling warmth pooling in her chest and hooking low in her belly as he settles, movements ebbing towards a rhythm, Derrica thinks again about time, and how little they have of it. The unlocked door. Her shawl and necklace on the floor. How good he feels, caught up between her thighs.
"More," she instructs, tremor in her tone nearly contained. "I want you."
With her hand positioned so, she can feel the warm drag of his breath, the way there's a flutter to it, exertion and desire both. Catch on the hook of her watching him so intently, he opens his mouth just enough to collect her thumb between his teeth, to chase that impulse and close his mouth around it past the knuckle, wrap it in wet warmth.
Subtle shifts, the line of tension drawn up his spine. There is probably leverage she could wrangle out of his position but Marcus doesn't wait for to feel like she must, a thigh pushed higher and a hand squeezing soft flesh and muscle, hips canted just so to make the going easier, the wall firm behind.
A groan out of him, hummed against her hand, as he moves her in earnest. The speed of all of this feels heightened, which is probably for the best given the narrow window of time, but he unconsciously tugs back at that hot, hooking feeling, dragging him to the edge of this.
It is a surprise to find real pleasure in being handled this way, in having so little movement for herself. In letting him pin her, keep her splayed here against the wall while he moves into her.
It is good. Maybe it is good because it is Marcus, and as they fall into a rhythm together the flicker of anxiety melts away entirely.
Her thumb presses further, over his tongue as if laying some kind of proprietary claim. Her breath has gone shallow, fingers flexing over his shoulder where her opposite hand has fallen as he hitched her higher. A few locks of hair have come loose from her updo, will need to be teased back into place before they leave but she can hardly think of anything other than his face, the sensations rippling through her body over and over, building on each other as he moves into her.
"You feel so good," she tells him, voice catching, words punctuated by a bitten off gasp of reaction at some new, inadvertent angle. "Just a little longer."
Without any real sense of any end point, any coming apart. The gilded paper is cool against her overheated skin, and his mouth is so hot under her thumb, and why hadn't they done this somewhere with a bed, a locked door? (It would be something different; she doesn't regret their choice of venue, only the impermanence of it.)
The push of her thumb deeper into his mouth and firmer against his tongue emits another groan, the passing firmness of his teeth setting beneath the knuckle before gentling. The swoop of his tongue as if this, too, were a means of pleasuring her, as much as it's his own indulgence.
Just a little longer, which is not so much a tease at the delay as it is a signal that she only needs a little longer. He can hold himself here, in check, without that check extending to movements, the firm fucking of her against the wall as if they were in the privacy of one of their own rooms, as if she were against a bed, and the door locked.
Of course, if that were so, they'd be taking more time. He would enjoy making a mess of her hair and her dress, and kissing her in all the places he'd scarcely even imagined having access to.
The restrictiveness of what they've taken is frustrating, but a pleasing kind. A friction that is enjoyable for its own sake.
Her hand does something to muffle him, the small shuddered groans. Marcus has practice being quiet, and while he isn't ever loud, it's deliberate when he chooses not to completely close off all sound, felt against her hand and where their chests press together, in the ragged edge of breathing.
That suggestion of sound beneath her palm hooks into her, a pull of want in her belly that heightens all other sensation juddering through her body. What does he sound like, when they are not in someone else's library?
Would she ever know, or is it foolish to try and imagine? The liminal quality of their coupling here makes contemplation of anything the future, in daylight hours, in the Gallows alongside all other aspects of their lives, feel strange and unlikely. As if they might leave here with no sign anything had happened at all.
"Marcus," is only for the pleasure of saying his name, letting him hear the shivering breathless quality of her voice.
When she pulls her thumb from his mouth, it's only so she can kiss him. Bite his lip when she comes apart, arms tight around his shoulders, heel digging a bruise into the side of his thigh.
He's ready for that kiss, anticipates it, receptive and hungry, a growl of noise in the returning press of contact. A gasping breath at the feeling of her teeth setting against his lip, and then that, her clenching and closing around him, and it's with a determined kind of discipline that he doesn't lose all of those sensations to his own pleasure. Intent on drinking in these details, the twist of her spine and dig of her heel.
But not for long. While her muscles learn to unravel and that warm flush of pleasure settles, pools through her, she can feel him moving against her again. His mouth, nudging against her jaw, the warmth of his panting breath in the space near her neck, against her hair,
and then release, chin lifting as a line of tension draws up through his spine. Quiet, first, for that initial warm pulse, and then the sound of his breath punched out of him, voice strained.
There, a few more warm strokes, and then relaxing. Slowing, stopping, but still holding her in place as he leans against her.
Held still, further caught by the loose lean of Marcus' body into her, she listens to the rapid punch of his breath while her fingers stroke the strip of skin just above the fabric of his collar. Sets a kiss to his temple. Murmurs some soft, incomprehensible thing, something sweet and low and fond set into the syllables.
Skirts hiked up around her waist, Marcus still cinched between her thighs and leaned into her body, she is briefly struck by the intimacy of her words and how ridiculous it is to feel self-conscious about addressing him so.
The slow stroke of her fingers at his neck doesn't ebb. The alternation between soft kiss and hum of sound continues. He will set her down and she will straighten her dress, and they will go out to the ballroom again.
That is the order of things, she thinks. She will be sensible about it.
Here is nice, warm, comfortable. The stroke of her fingers, her murmuring voice. His shoulders are beginning to burn a little from keeping her here but that, too, is pleasant, something real after a night of strange and ephemeral nipping injuries. Marcus bows his head, a nudge of contact against her shoulder that is barely a kiss.
Considers, too, self-consciousness. Of having kept himself so composed around her, after that one murderous slip, and now this. It doesn't take, that possible sense of shame, but it does make it difficult to reconcile the moment they step apart.
But here, finally, he bends his knees before letting her legs slip down, so her slippered feet can find the floor. His hand, moving between them to adjust himself, conscious a little of the mess they've made of each other, both the looseness of her hair and otherwise.
"I want to stay here," he says, still half clutched to her. If he's apologetic, it's only because he might be making her be the sensible one.
Returned to the floor, Derrica feels real gratitude for Marcus' continued proximity. Keeping hold of him, she can reacclimate, let the unsteady sensation pass while caught between him and the wall behind.
The folds of her dress fall into place, freed of obstacle. She is aware of a deep ache left behind, the lingering imprints of his fingers where he had gripped her thighs. Derrica can shake out the fabric. (She will need to excuse herself, seek a washroom.) The flush hasn't left her skin.
Her hands slide down his chest, over his heart. Turns over the statement, consider the note of apology in it. She is smiling just a little as she reaches back to set her hand back against his cheek.
"I know. So do I."
If only because every part of this becomes complicated once they step outside, to say nothing about the night stretching on ahead of them.
I wanted you, he'd said.
"We should have set a fire," is a little teasing, softening the inevitable.
There are griffons nearby, to help transport them all back the following day. They could steal one. A minor crime.
The kind of thing they could get away with, but would leave some marks on reputations. His own is nothing he cares for, but hers, well. She touches his face, and he lets out a small rumbled noise at her words, teasing or not. Reaches up to cup her face, then, a gentle but matter-of-fact handling that enables him to look at her just like that, at what her expression reveals to him, but also more surface things, like her skin flushed and mouth kissed.
Does that last one again, a tamer kiss than the ones prior to it. Out of place, maybe, if all she had counted on was this one thing, this one release of stress and tension, but he doesn't think so. Doesn't wish for that, himself.
"I'll go out first," he suggests.
i sense we are approaching bow territory we must generate new content
It’s a good kiss. Soft, intimate and conversational. She tiptoes up into it, prolonging it just a moment or two before he straightens out of reach.
“Help me with this first,” she asks, though bending to retrieve her necklace requires her to well and truly break from the bracket of his arms and chest. “I had help doing up the clasps before we left.”
A maid, resentful and silent at waiting on a mage or a member of Riftwatch, or both. She does not tell him of this.
“Could you?” she asks, softer as she holds out the heavy necklace, it’s draping chains, the rustling chime of bells as it sways from her hand.
Marcus takes the piece carefully, as if it might shatter immediately on contact, but becomes more sure of it as he turns it over in his hands, finding the clasps. "Hold your hair up," he says, before lifting the necklace. Gently wrapping metal around her throat, his knuckles brushing against the back of her neck as he sees to the clasp.
Less dexterous than the maid, but gentler, and careful. Once it's secure, he sets about brushing the chains and dangling bells to sit properly, running a finger beneath one. Deliberate enough in this manner of prolonging the moment that Derrica could surely sense it. He would certainly like to stay. There are some probably more sensible pieces of furniture they could have done this on.
He imagines, briefly, how it would be to have her bent over the edge of that desk, silk pulled up high, or on her back, against the plush couch further near the windows. Something to torture himself with as he undoes the last tangle. Yes, he'd like to say.
Instead, he picks up her shawl. Runs it through over a hand to shake it back into its shape, offering it out to her.
Marcus has a way of focusing his attention on a thing, applying such care and thoroughness to actions he devotes himself to in the wake of it. If Derrica's flush had abated at all, the reattachment and arrangement of her necklace brings all that warmth back to her. It rises to the surface instantly under the application of his finger over her chest, searing through light fabric.
Yes, she understands. He would like to stay. If she is being honest, she would like to stay here too.
But returned more or less to her previous state, loosened locks of hair aside, Derrica reaches out to take her shawl. Returns it to an elegant drape down her shoulders, though they both have to be aware of how simple it had been to shrug off. How simple it was to unfasten the necklace. How easy it would be to return to more pleasant tasks.
"I'll see you in the ballroom," she tells him, as if his is any ordinary day and she cannot feel the ache of bruises forming on the backs of her thighs.
This is only sensible, she knows. It is still a wrench to hear the door close behind him, and worse to be left with her own thoughts afterwards.
And they still have hours of party left. It's that consideration that spurs her to set the whole thing, all her questions and uncertainties and the lingering flushed giddiness of adrenaline aside, so she might do her duty while they're here.
If she takes care not to be alone in his company again for the rest of the night, it only a safeguard against: the knowledge that the little room they had exited indeed had a lock on the door.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Flushed hot, feeling warmth pooling in her chest and hooking low in her belly as he settles, movements ebbing towards a rhythm, Derrica thinks again about time, and how little they have of it. The unlocked door. Her shawl and necklace on the floor. How good he feels, caught up between her thighs.
"More," she instructs, tremor in her tone nearly contained. "I want you."
Like permission.
He is so close, and it is not enough.
no subject
Subtle shifts, the line of tension drawn up his spine. There is probably leverage she could wrangle out of his position but Marcus doesn't wait for to feel like she must, a thigh pushed higher and a hand squeezing soft flesh and muscle, hips canted just so to make the going easier, the wall firm behind.
A groan out of him, hummed against her hand, as he moves her in earnest. The speed of all of this feels heightened, which is probably for the best given the narrow window of time, but he unconsciously tugs back at that hot, hooking feeling, dragging him to the edge of this.
no subject
It is good. Maybe it is good because it is Marcus, and as they fall into a rhythm together the flicker of anxiety melts away entirely.
Her thumb presses further, over his tongue as if laying some kind of proprietary claim. Her breath has gone shallow, fingers flexing over his shoulder where her opposite hand has fallen as he hitched her higher. A few locks of hair have come loose from her updo, will need to be teased back into place before they leave but she can hardly think of anything other than his face, the sensations rippling through her body over and over, building on each other as he moves into her.
"You feel so good," she tells him, voice catching, words punctuated by a bitten off gasp of reaction at some new, inadvertent angle. "Just a little longer."
Without any real sense of any end point, any coming apart. The gilded paper is cool against her overheated skin, and his mouth is so hot under her thumb, and why hadn't they done this somewhere with a bed, a locked door? (It would be something different; she doesn't regret their choice of venue, only the impermanence of it.)
no subject
Just a little longer, which is not so much a tease at the delay as it is a signal that she only needs a little longer. He can hold himself here, in check, without that check extending to movements, the firm fucking of her against the wall as if they were in the privacy of one of their own rooms, as if she were against a bed, and the door locked.
Of course, if that were so, they'd be taking more time. He would enjoy making a mess of her hair and her dress, and kissing her in all the places he'd scarcely even imagined having access to.
The restrictiveness of what they've taken is frustrating, but a pleasing kind. A friction that is enjoyable for its own sake.
Her hand does something to muffle him, the small shuddered groans. Marcus has practice being quiet, and while he isn't ever loud, it's deliberate when he chooses not to completely close off all sound, felt against her hand and where their chests press together, in the ragged edge of breathing.
no subject
Would she ever know, or is it foolish to try and imagine? The liminal quality of their coupling here makes contemplation of anything the future, in daylight hours, in the Gallows alongside all other aspects of their lives, feel strange and unlikely. As if they might leave here with no sign anything had happened at all.
"Marcus," is only for the pleasure of saying his name, letting him hear the shivering breathless quality of her voice.
When she pulls her thumb from his mouth, it's only so she can kiss him. Bite his lip when she comes apart, arms tight around his shoulders, heel digging a bruise into the side of his thigh.
no subject
But not for long. While her muscles learn to unravel and that warm flush of pleasure settles, pools through her, she can feel him moving against her again. His mouth, nudging against her jaw, the warmth of his panting breath in the space near her neck, against her hair,
and then release, chin lifting as a line of tension draws up through his spine. Quiet, first, for that initial warm pulse, and then the sound of his breath punched out of him, voice strained.
There, a few more warm strokes, and then relaxing. Slowing, stopping, but still holding her in place as he leans against her.
no subject
Held still, further caught by the loose lean of Marcus' body into her, she listens to the rapid punch of his breath while her fingers stroke the strip of skin just above the fabric of his collar. Sets a kiss to his temple. Murmurs some soft, incomprehensible thing, something sweet and low and fond set into the syllables.
Skirts hiked up around her waist, Marcus still cinched between her thighs and leaned into her body, she is briefly struck by the intimacy of her words and how ridiculous it is to feel self-conscious about addressing him so.
The slow stroke of her fingers at his neck doesn't ebb. The alternation between soft kiss and hum of sound continues. He will set her down and she will straighten her dress, and they will go out to the ballroom again.
That is the order of things, she thinks. She will be sensible about it.
no subject
Considers, too, self-consciousness. Of having kept himself so composed around her, after that one murderous slip, and now this. It doesn't take, that possible sense of shame, but it does make it difficult to reconcile the moment they step apart.
But here, finally, he bends his knees before letting her legs slip down, so her slippered feet can find the floor. His hand, moving between them to adjust himself, conscious a little of the mess they've made of each other, both the looseness of her hair and otherwise.
"I want to stay here," he says, still half clutched to her. If he's apologetic, it's only because he might be making her be the sensible one.
no subject
The folds of her dress fall into place, freed of obstacle. She is aware of a deep ache left behind, the lingering imprints of his fingers where he had gripped her thighs. Derrica can shake out the fabric. (She will need to excuse herself, seek a washroom.) The flush hasn't left her skin.
Her hands slide down his chest, over his heart. Turns over the statement, consider the note of apology in it. She is smiling just a little as she reaches back to set her hand back against his cheek.
"I know. So do I."
If only because every part of this becomes complicated once they step outside, to say nothing about the night stretching on ahead of them.
I wanted you, he'd said.
"We should have set a fire," is a little teasing, softening the inevitable.
no subject
The kind of thing they could get away with, but would leave some marks on reputations. His own is nothing he cares for, but hers, well. She touches his face, and he lets out a small rumbled noise at her words, teasing or not. Reaches up to cup her face, then, a gentle but matter-of-fact handling that enables him to look at her just like that, at what her expression reveals to him, but also more surface things, like her skin flushed and mouth kissed.
Does that last one again, a tamer kiss than the ones prior to it. Out of place, maybe, if all she had counted on was this one thing, this one release of stress and tension, but he doesn't think so. Doesn't wish for that, himself.
"I'll go out first," he suggests.
i sense we are approaching bow territory we must generate new content
“Help me with this first,” she asks, though bending to retrieve her necklace requires her to well and truly break from the bracket of his arms and chest. “I had help doing up the clasps before we left.”
A maid, resentful and silent at waiting on a mage or a member of Riftwatch, or both. She does not tell him of this.
“Could you?” she asks, softer as she holds out the heavy necklace, it’s draping chains, the rustling chime of bells as it sways from her hand.
it's all on you
Marcus takes the piece carefully, as if it might shatter immediately on contact, but becomes more sure of it as he turns it over in his hands, finding the clasps. "Hold your hair up," he says, before lifting the necklace. Gently wrapping metal around her throat, his knuckles brushing against the back of her neck as he sees to the clasp.
Less dexterous than the maid, but gentler, and careful. Once it's secure, he sets about brushing the chains and dangling bells to sit properly, running a finger beneath one. Deliberate enough in this manner of prolonging the moment that Derrica could surely sense it. He would certainly like to stay. There are some probably more sensible pieces of furniture they could have done this on.
He imagines, briefly, how it would be to have her bent over the edge of that desk, silk pulled up high, or on her back, against the plush couch further near the windows. Something to torture himself with as he undoes the last tangle. Yes, he'd like to say.
Instead, he picks up her shawl. Runs it through over a hand to shake it back into its shape, offering it out to her.
challenge accepted
Yes, she understands. He would like to stay. If she is being honest, she would like to stay here too.
But returned more or less to her previous state, loosened locks of hair aside, Derrica reaches out to take her shawl. Returns it to an elegant drape down her shoulders, though they both have to be aware of how simple it had been to shrug off. How simple it was to unfasten the necklace. How easy it would be to return to more pleasant tasks.
"I'll see you in the ballroom," she tells him, as if his is any ordinary day and she cannot feel the ache of bruises forming on the backs of her thighs.
This is only sensible, she knows. It is still a wrench to hear the door close behind him, and worse to be left with her own thoughts afterwards.
And they still have hours of party left. It's that consideration that spurs her to set the whole thing, all her questions and uncertainties and the lingering flushed giddiness of adrenaline aside, so she might do her duty while they're here.
If she takes care not to be alone in his company again for the rest of the night, it only a safeguard against: the knowledge that the little room they had exited indeed had a lock on the door.