Don't think at all. Feel, taste, smell... but don't think.
So he doesn't stop. Alternating between sucking on it and pulling back to brush the tip of his tongue against the very tip, tracing the edges, his hands sliding over her to feel out, explore, even his metal fingers grown warm as they lay against skin. ]
[ seems, if anything, to be responding more to the touch of his machine hand than the other. She's not in the least modest with letting him explore- unlike another, her body is relatively unblemished by scars (though there will be the occasional bud of tiny green new growth) ]
[ moves his head from one breast to the other, pausing on the way to nuzzle the space in between them, laying a trail of kisses down. touch careful against the soft buds of growth, lest they bruise.
palms and fingers eventually slip down along her sides again, to the folds of cloth gathered at her waist, pushing them down. ]
[ lets her, though as it comes up to his chest he lets go of her clothing, mouth leaving her breast, and sits up enough for her to pull it off the rest of the way, over his head and arms.
The moonlight's just enough to see by, to show her that as it used to be, his own skin is bare of design... making the other marks, many new since the days of the City, stand out all the more. Scars thick and thin, pitted and lined over the lean muscle of chest and gut and shoulders, the most prominent a dark, long furrow stretching across his ribs. Around his left side, the edges of an almost delicate filigree of them wind over the hip, disappearing further behind. ]
[ she might have seen something like it before on another, or others, raised hard skin the length of her thumb, where a blade equally wide might have once slid through, the kind of wound that few lived long enough to form such marks from, without aid.
... he doesn't meet her eyes, only reaches up to cover the backs of her hands with his. ]
[ the ones there all seem to be connected to one and the same, curving and curling and branching, like the fine stems and thousand-leaves of ferns etched onto his skin, covering the left half of his back from hip to shoulderblade. The only other incongruity a matching scar to the one she touched on his front, this one a fraction shorter.
his hand moves from her face to slide down neck, and shoulder, and body, feeling it out again. ]
[ ...moves it further, guiding her fingers to the grooves of his ribs, and around to his back, trailing them to the raised lines of muscle that run alongside his spine. ]
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devotedtothecore) wrote2011-08-18 08:23 am
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Don't think at all. Feel, taste, smell... but don't think.
So he doesn't stop. Alternating between sucking on it and pulling back to brush the tip of his tongue against the very tip, tracing the edges, his hands sliding over her to feel out, explore, even his metal fingers grown warm as they lay against skin. ]
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palms and fingers eventually slip down along her sides again, to the folds of cloth gathered at her waist, pushing them down. ]
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The moonlight's just enough to see by, to show her that as it used to be, his own skin is bare of design... making the other marks, many new since the days of the City, stand out all the more. Scars thick and thin, pitted and lined over the lean muscle of chest and gut and shoulders, the most prominent a dark, long furrow stretching across his ribs. Around his left side, the edges of an almost delicate filigree of them wind over the hip, disappearing further behind. ]
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... he doesn't meet her eyes, only reaches up to cover the backs of her hands with his. ]
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Beautiful, steady Chrysos. . .
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his hand moves from her face to slide down neck, and shoulder, and body, feeling it out again. ]
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...
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[ ...breaks off from kissing, and shakes his head, arm pulling gently away from her fingers ]
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...just... not there.
Not now.
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...lets go of her hand to cup her breast again, thumb brushing over the nipple, as he moves in to cover her mouth with his. ]
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