( it is absolutely a good thing palamedes takes that enthusiastic plunge, because clarke's set to fire back with and definitely not the most humble and inadvertently keep them in trash-talk-compliment limbo for a while longer.
she's good this time. sans any push pull from the hand at her hip, there's no residual attempts at dryhumping, despite the very recent memory of just how hard he'd felt through the confines of 1950's redressing denim pants. no, she'll remain constrained and wanting, but play above the waist. crowd in until her breasts press into his chest, crowding his hand between the two of them; hands sweeping the planes of his shoulders and sides of his throat until they're well familiar territory, easily mapped like the decks of the serena eterna; neck, jaw, cheeks, and mouth kissed and re-kissed, then kissed again until the taste of his mouth is practically her own.
seconds, minutes, half hour, maybe even an hour of gently tangling in each others limbs and mouths. maybe a break or two, where they fully look at each others faces and clarke invariably smiles, says something stupid and punch-drunk like you have beautiful eyes and they remind me of storm clouds, with a gruff follow up to any bemused fallout of don't look at me like that, i mean it before diving back in to drag their mouths together. one thing registers above all and it's that, beneath her sweeping hands, pal's incredibly thin. feels smaller than the aura with which he carries himself, near breakable. bone easily palpated through flesh, and she'll eventually wonder over if he remembers to eat while poring over notes and theorems. but that's for later.
it's when whimpers against his teeth threaten to turn into please and just let me's that she'll finally withdraw, an air of self imposed finality colored by the sunlight streaming through windows, now the deep yellow of afternoon-evening. hands slip from his body to the backrest of the passenger seat at his shoulders, grip tight and bracing. and a war is waged in her chest, eventually ending in concession as a fraction of her desire is killed off and shoulders resettle into line with reality. they can't just stay here like this. safe bubbles of stolen moments eventually have to pop, and the line of her mouth is indicative of preemptive mourning before it's stitched upwards in a gentle smile. )
I think we need to get back to camp.
( she means, of course, the diner. that dreaded parking lot where their predecessors had died. but old world tendencies slip through in moments of raw vulnerability. it's the same meaning in the end — back to the others, back to people they care about and should share the lacking information they'd learned out here.
there's not much wait for a response. clarke ducks her head for one last kiss, which hits off center at the corner of pal's mouth, then leverages herself back across the center console of the rover with a lot less grace than she'd climbed over it initially. )
no subject
she's good this time. sans any push pull from the hand at her hip, there's no residual attempts at dryhumping, despite the very recent memory of just how hard he'd felt through the confines of 1950's redressing denim pants. no, she'll remain constrained and wanting, but play above the waist. crowd in until her breasts press into his chest, crowding his hand between the two of them; hands sweeping the planes of his shoulders and sides of his throat until they're well familiar territory, easily mapped like the decks of the serena eterna; neck, jaw, cheeks, and mouth kissed and re-kissed, then kissed again until the taste of his mouth is practically her own.
seconds, minutes, half hour, maybe even an hour of gently tangling in each others limbs and mouths. maybe a break or two, where they fully look at each others faces and clarke invariably smiles, says something stupid and punch-drunk like you have beautiful eyes and they remind me of storm clouds, with a gruff follow up to any bemused fallout of don't look at me like that, i mean it before diving back in to drag their mouths together. one thing registers above all and it's that, beneath her sweeping hands, pal's incredibly thin. feels smaller than the aura with which he carries himself, near breakable. bone easily palpated through flesh, and she'll eventually wonder over if he remembers to eat while poring over notes and theorems. but that's for later.
it's when whimpers against his teeth threaten to turn into please and just let me's that she'll finally withdraw, an air of self imposed finality colored by the sunlight streaming through windows, now the deep yellow of afternoon-evening. hands slip from his body to the backrest of the passenger seat at his shoulders, grip tight and bracing. and a war is waged in her chest, eventually ending in concession as a fraction of her desire is killed off and shoulders resettle into line with reality. they can't just stay here like this. safe bubbles of stolen moments eventually have to pop, and the line of her mouth is indicative of preemptive mourning before it's stitched upwards in a gentle smile. )
I think we need to get back to camp.
( she means, of course, the diner. that dreaded parking lot where their predecessors had died. but old world tendencies slip through in moments of raw vulnerability. it's the same meaning in the end — back to the others, back to people they care about and should share the lacking information they'd learned out here.
there's not much wait for a response. clarke ducks her head for one last kiss, which hits off center at the corner of pal's mouth, then leverages herself back across the center console of the rover with a lot less grace than she'd climbed over it initially. )