trenchknives: (We'll make headlines)
Jimmy Darmody ([personal profile] trenchknives) wrote2012-12-04 06:49 am
Entry tags:

Open Post

It's party time all up in this open post.

[personal profile] daisily 2014-03-30 07:09 am (UTC)(link)
[This time, it's her own desire which causes her to slightly sway, almost shivering in the moonlight—not from a sense of dread, but from the yearning for more of his new, almost polite kisses, rather than an impassioned frenzy of deep kisses and heavy-handed touches which she feels neither prepared nor wanting for. She presses forward for a moment, her fragile weight resting entirely against him, but they cannot keep kissing forever. For a fleeting second, the thought strikes her that perhaps he would allow it, if that is what she wished for—but she has a suspicion that his endurance is not as fathomless as he tries to present it as.

She breathes a sweet sigh, a delighted little smile curling at her lips, in startling contrast to her damp cheeks. He has charmed her, and if nothing else tells him, the languid, slow way she sinks down onto the bed should. She hesitates before proceeding any further, before at last unhooking her diamond earrings, slipping off her bracelet of braided pearls. Freed of her riches, there is only the white silk petals of her dress and the cream color of her skin for him to gaze upon.

Feeling barer, and at once lighter, than before, she allows him lean over her further and further, until she lies flat on her back, her sleek bob splayed out across the cushions, her breath high and shallow in her throat. Her arms limply return close to her, her wrists held high on either side of her slender shoulders. It's a submissive pose, open and vulnerable, the blossoming pink of her throat and face is made all the more pronounced by the pale moon.]


There—

[Her voice catches on a high note, a breathless whisper, uncertain what to say, how to present herself in a way which might be attractive. All she can say is, simply, is there she is for him.]

There.

[personal profile] daisily 2014-03-30 06:18 pm (UTC)(link)
[She can hardly reply to his compliment when he claims her mouth once again, but she appreciates it all the same, surrendering to the tame and tender kiss. She fumbles for his unoccupied hand, and when she finds it, laces their fingers together—as if doing anything, everything she can to make it more meaningful, more passionate. She has been anticipating his touch, but still gives a kittenish cry of startled pleasure when one heavy hand wanders over modest curves and her petite build, feeling the heat of long fingers trailing over her clothed outline one by one. Another tremor shudders through her, but it has little to do with grief, only the low burn of a physical ache—feeling it the same as him, at last.

She had seen how he had discarded of his tie, and her free hand reaches out, almost wonderingly, to touch the dark buttons at the front of his crisp suit. Just then, the shivering tips of her fingers falter, abandoning the bold task of unbuttoning his collar for him, suddenly seized with an incommunicable sense of shame, as if this is her first lover, her first time being taken to bed.

Unable to help him undress, too overtaken by her own timid reservations, she is tempted to lose her nerve entirely, to continue on with another series of sugary kisses. But perhaps it is the champagne and the cigarettes urging her on, pulling back to catch her breath, and the hand which gracelessly lost in its attempt to disrobe him instead drifts down to her own clothing. The sleeves of flimsy, gauzy silk give no resistance when she slips them down, revealing the delicate frame of her shoulders, her exposed collarbone. Her dress is not so far down that she is entirely exposed, her modesty hidden by the opaque pattern of lace daisies.]
Edited 2014-03-30 18:23 (UTC)

[personal profile] daisily 2014-03-30 11:39 pm (UTC)(link)
[She averts her gaze when she sees him beginning to unfasten the row of buttons at the front his jacket, as if he is the one made bashful by nudity, not her. Even without uttering a word, her deepening blush betrays the faint traces of anxiety, terribly conscious of how his attentive gaze takes in her prone figure, wondering if he may be comparing her to previous lovers, if he may be thinking her too childlike of a girl, from how she fumbles and flusters.

But for the next moment, her worry, along with everything else, vanishes from her mind when his heated kisses begin trailing lower across unmarked skin, the soft arc of her exposed throat, the underside of her face. The brief squeeze of his hand is a small comfort, and she clutches at him with tangible desperation, as if seeking out some sense of stability, as if it is the last vestige of control she can have over her reactions. Her lips press together to muffle herself, to mild success, murmuring nonsense and the beginnings of his name.

In the sweltering summer night, she could trick herself into believing her artificial fever is induced from alcohol, or the thick air, or the constricting fabric of her dress. But it's futile to pretend the cloying heat, the light sweat gathering in the hollow of her throat, is caused by anything but the impassioned way he presses himself against her. If she is sufferingly hot, in her dress of airy silk, then he must be feeling unbearable. She could—she could, at least for his sake—

She leaves the top of her dress untouched, opting to reach low for the long skirt, its pearl-embroidered hem reaching down to her ankles, tangled up in her heels. With faltering fingers, the gold buckle of her shoes are undone, and afterwards—she manages the courage to raise her skirt just slightly past the knees, revealing Victorian-styled stockings, the lily-white skin of her thighs peeking through the thin, sheer material. This would please him, wouldn't it? It must, because otherwise, she feels as if she could collapse from the utter scandal of it all.]

[personal profile] daisily 2014-03-31 12:33 am (UTC)(link)
[She never thought about how many layers upon layers of cream cloth, and lace, and frills she wore, but his firm, insistent gesture at her stockings tells her it is all too much, especially from how unbearably flushed she is. She watches from beneath her lashes as he hastily rids himself of his own layers, the room feeling far too small and compact for them to be dressed with such overbearing formality.

As she watches how brazenly he reveals himself to her, it makes her feel all the more ridiculous for hesitating, fussing like a newlywed who has never had lessons in carnality. Her hands slipping beneath her skirt, her stockings are gently tugged to not ruin the delicate material, eased down from her hips to her ankles, finally discarded at her bare feet in a tangle of cloth.

But she barely has a moment to savor the freedom of exposing her legs, when he returns to press over her, feeling small in his shadow. Her new lover is hinting heavily to his desires, from the lift he gives her skirt, coming dangerously close to the junction of her thighs. She inhales sharply, both of her hands pressing over his, clasping over his wandering fingers to stop him from advancing any further.]

Ah—...

[She looks up to him, pleadingly, her lips opening and parting as if to speak. The dreamlike atmosphere they have between them is as brittle as the stutter in her voice, and she struggles to make herself coherent for him.]


—Darling, not there.

[The term of endearment slips out before she means it to, warm and intimate in her syrupy Southern drawl, growing more pronounced with the worse her nerves become. Her pale hands take his, trying to guide it back to the comfortable territory of her shoulders.]

[personal profile] daisily 2014-03-31 01:29 am (UTC)(link)
[If only he had asked anything but that, the most direct and blunt question of all which makes her fall silent. She can't possibly say it! In any case, how could she hope to express that what she wants is not the absence of his touch, but just a more gradual pace? It would sound too vulgar, too unbecoming to say aloud.

Slowly sitting up, cautiously assured that he hasn't been discouraged by her refusal, she turns around, revealing the vulnerable back of her neck and the curve of her hips. But more than the sight of her flesh, she shows him the line of bone and ivory buttons lining all the way down her dress, looking almost translucent in the starlight. On the other side of the frosted glass, she could make out the shadows of automobiles and thinning crowds in the distance, and she is acutely aware that this moment, their moment of peace, is just as temporary as the passing hours.

She reaches up, one hand curling, skimming over the buttons but unable to loosen their fastenings herself. Even without speaking, he should understand what she needs from him.]


Would you?

[personal profile] daisily 2014-03-31 02:07 am (UTC)(link)
[One by one, her buttons are undone, revealing the line of her spine, his rhythm unbroken by the absence of any underlying intimate garments. She tries not to shiver from how lightly his fingers stroke each new inch of skin, until the top of her dress is open entirely, with only the skirt in place. With her back exposed, the narrow shoulder blades are visibly tight with tension as she folds her arms modestly over her front.

Abashed, she turns to face him, the fine, white features of her face positively pink, her teeth worrying with her plump bottom lip, her hands clutching at her ribs to hide the subtle curve of breasts. Uncertain if he would be amused or angered at her audacity of being so prudent in the bedroom, she cannot meet his eyes directly for a long moment. She has nothing to say, no words to articulate what she wants, lost as to how she could suggest it any more directly to him.

Perhaps it's because she can't stand to look down at her crumpled dress, but she tips her head up to look at him, still not accepting his gaze. She focuses instead on his mouth, remembering the raw vigor of his kisses, the praise he has spoken for her. She would quite like another, but to cup his jaw means to reveal herself fully, so she sits in imposed self-restraint.]

[personal profile] daisily 2014-03-31 02:53 am (UTC)(link)
[He kisses her as if stealing the breath from her, not quite as controlled and refined as before, edging closer and closer to the intense sort of deep kisses he had given her when they first met. She find herself swept up in the passion, her hands falling away to run along his sides, tangling in his suspenders, wrapping around his waist. She clings to him, unable to restrain herself any more than the moonlight could stop shining over her, framing them in white.

She pulls back just for a scant moment of air, before pressing forward again of her own volition, grateful that he hasn't been disappointed in her after all, grateful for how tender and sweet he is making an effort to be, grateful for how much he loves her—

No, how much he appears to love her—the cynical thought comes unbidden, emerging from a dark corner of her mind lurks like a vicious specter. True love or not, there is still the plausibility of it, and with how he gazes upon her with such reverence—why, he might even love her already. Because if this is anything less than a romantic consummation, it would be just intercourse, just a physical act, no better than her husband's disloyal sprees. She has to remind herself of that.

Does that mean, then, that she loves him—?]


I—

[The sound of her voice surprises her, already halfway to answering her own silent question. Although it had been barely audible, little more than a mutter, she realizes he might take it as further reluctance. Putting an end to her attempts at making sense of her muddled thoughts, she pulls him closer, into an embrace.]

[personal profile] daisily 2014-03-31 03:43 am (UTC)(link)
[She is only too glad he doesn't inquire further, occupying himself with taking off even more clothing, just as she is shortly busied with the sensation of his fingers slipping through sleek blonde sections of her hair. Yet eventually, one of them must pull back for breath, and she shies away first, lashes fluttering to see him standing in just an undershirt. His shoulders are broader than she thought, seeing the lean muscle beneath the sleeves of his suit, and his complexion is a shade mildly darker than hers, and—

Her arms release him, one curious hand reaching out to trace the faint white flesh, a different color than new skin, scars of some wound healed over, a stark and unpleasant sight. She looks up to him, concern and pity written in her gaze. Perhaps he thinks her meddling, undeserving to comment on his private past, but she can't help the fierce rush of sympathy which threatens to have tears in her eyes.]


Does it hurt terribly?

[She regrets asking immediately, not wanting to be seen as a busybody or a prying gossip, guilt weighing heavily in her gaze, as if the sins of the man who inflicted those wounds were hers. This is meant to be a joyous occasion, and she wills the burning of tears away, the bed creaking beneath her as she lies back once again. With her in just her skirt, her dress halfway undone, and him in little more than his trousers, there is absolutely no mistaking what they have set out to do—no more chances for second thoughts, for excuses to leave, for doubts of any kind.

Her hands lie at her sides, taking fistfuls of the bedspread each, hoping to still their anxious quiver. What is there to say now, other than something trite, the sort of thing found in a romance novel that costs a penny? There is no use in asking him to be slow, to be gentle, because it's not as if tonight is her first. So she opts for quiet, with only her ragged, high breathing in the silence.]
Edited 2014-03-31 03:47 (UTC)

[personal profile] daisily 2014-03-31 04:40 am (UTC)(link)
[She looks alarmed at his reply, of being told that he's injured elsewhere and still feels their sting, even though it must have been ages since they were first inflicted. But before she could be any more tactless, he raises his arms and removes his shirt, quite promptly changing the subject.

He begins to pull down the long skirt, heavy with pearls and diamonds sewn into the cloth, and she raises her hips slightly for him. With her stockings gone, there is only her intimates remaining underneath, just as white and fragile as the rest of her ensemble. When the dress finally comes off, tangled on the floor with their other clothing, it's then that she thinks the worst is over, except—

Well, she never thought anyone would have seen that one, as concealed as it was. Where it comes from seems like an obvious answer, already presenting itself—after all, her husband's temper and fondness of liquor is the hot topic of fierce gossip in many social circles. But that isn't what he asks, and for the first time, something worse than regret, more troubling than distress comes over her expression, the faint traces of a terror, revived by an old and awful memory.]


—Yes.

[She admits in a quiet murmur, the sweetness and clarity absent from her voice, sounding as bitter as she has ever sounded, sour and cynical and deeply upset, as if it is a new complication. It's still fresh, dark and not yet turning an ugly yellowish color as it heals. She can still feel the phantom throb of it when he touches it, even with how gentle he is.]

[personal profile] daisily 2014-03-31 05:33 am (UTC)(link)
[She gives a little feeble shake of her head, refusing his apology. After all, it wasn't him who hurt her, who ought to be apologizing and asking for forgiveness. She is expecting him to allow the morbid topic to be quietly laid aside, to instead pursue other alluring, and unmarred, curves. But he does the very opposite, bewilderment seizing her when he bends low, giving way to an odd sort of gratitude when he presses his lips to the dark wound, as if it would heal from his innocent touch alone.

She is relieved when he seems satisfied with that act of kindness alone, deciding not to pursue it any further. Rather, there is something just as bittersweet they must address. She breathes out slowly, gathering the final vestiges of courage she can manage, her long fingers curling beneath the lace edging of her final article of unmentionables, and pulling them down with no small amount of prudent shame. The moment passes without speaking, her motions quick and desperate to finish undressing—until at last, the inevitable conclusion has been reached.

Fully revealed, she must appear distinctly petite and delicate beneath him, pale and smooth expect for the tender bruising. In certain places there may be beauty marks here and there, or patches of pink where she is the most easily agitated, her cheeks warm with a rosy blush. Laid out like a gift, she pauses for just a little longer, hesitating with what to do with her pose, or how he would like her to be presented. Ultimately, she doesn't do anything at all, not raising her arms nor bringing up her knees, unlike how the glamorous stars of the moving pictures do, or the heroines in love stories.

Because she wants this to feel genuine. More than anything, if there is one wish she can have granted tonight, she just wants to feel loved, in all her entirety.]

[personal profile] daisily 2014-03-31 05:23 pm (UTC)(link)
[She leans into his kiss, surrendering to the immediate, intense pace, her fingers delicately running along his scarred shoulders, the arch of his ribs, feeling warm skin and solid muscle. She remembers how much he seemed to enjoy his reckless kisses, dark and smothering—and she parts her lips for him without prompting, attempting to please him in the only way she knows how.

There is something about his demeanor, however: a sense of reluctance, although there is no hesitation in how he holds her, how he peppers her with eager kisses. For all of his bold posturing, once the undressing began, moving them into a fragile new stage of the evening, it is then that he had begun to act queerly. The thought of him being inexplicably reserved about his own appearance never strikes her—after all, he is a man. Particularly when it comes to new lovers, it is then that men are supposed to be at their pinnacle of masculine dominance, or so says the scandalized, drunken gossip overheard at parties.

May he be having reservations, after all? Or perhaps he cannot gather enough fondness in his heart for her, not even enough for the physical act—? It must be very hard to make love to a woman he finds unlovable, a wicked doubt whispers to her. He could love her: that's all he had promised. He could, but doesn't that also mean he couldn't? From how he's behaving, it certainly seems so.

With a little gasp, she breaks the kiss, the question pressing heavily in her throat. There is little point in asking if he would like to continue, if he even wants her for something as base as intercourse, not when her lips are still tingling from the force of his kisses.

The only genuine answer is in not his words, but...]
Edited 2014-03-31 17:28 (UTC)

[personal profile] daisily 2014-03-31 06:53 pm (UTC)(link)
Oh

[Her breath hitches, a little timid noise of pleasure catching in her throat when his hands press into the soft skin of her thighs, parting them with a surprisingly sweet amount of tenderness. In terms of experience, she knows well enough of the process—but in reality, it seems like ages since she has shivered and cried out beneath caresses as patient as his, since she has gone to the bed for anything more than an unpleasant interlude of friction, blood, and stinging pain.

His question initially fails to register, enraptured by the low tone of his voice, heavy and guttural with carnal hunger. Was it all right, he was asking—she should be the one asking, shouldn't she? His garbled messages and mixed signals are confusing her something awful, but—from how he hesitates, wanting to know her mind before proceeding any further, she wants to believe his answer would be—]


Yes.

[She confesses softly, in an almost lilting tone, her voice weak and wavering. Not from reluctance, but sheer shame of having to say it aloud, the color in her cheeks deepening. Finally, she gradually brings her knees up for him, revealing pink folds nestled amongst white skin.]

[personal profile] daisily 2014-04-01 12:46 am (UTC)(link)
[A shudder tears through her, her breath escaping her in a quiet mewl, tensing when he presses forward: not from pain, or from discomfort, but from the raw strain of feeling her flesh parting to accept him, for the first time in a long while. Still, as long as he takes it slowly, and gently, everything should be all right.]

J-ames

[When he has gone as far as he could, his name escapes her as a whimper, her pale brows drawn together in fleeting tension, willing the sharp clench of her muscles to settle. She attempts to focus on the comforting press of his hand against the curve of her hip, but it is a fleeting distraction when she can feel every press and shift of him. She struggles to quiet her thoughts, hoping she has not already been betrayed by the traces of anxiety in her expression: he mustn't think she finds it unpleasant—that isn't it at all. It's simply—overwhelming, especially for her fragile and sensitive nerves, and a moment may be required to adjust.

She is relieved when his hand cups her cheek, coaxing her to soften into his touch, soothing the abrupt tension in her body. She matches his kiss with an anguished, feverish urgency, reluctant for it to end. When he begins to set a slow rhythm, she feels a sense of loss when he pulls his lips away, watching his face intently, how he appears to restrain himself.]


A-ah, are you, all right?

[She can barely speak, her voice breaking into high notes. Perhaps her concern is unwanted, or even ruining the moment, but the look of almost painful constraint worries her. Is he holding back, for her sake?]
Edited 2014-04-01 00:49 (UTC)

(no subject)

[personal profile] daisily - 2014-04-01 05:35 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

[personal profile] daisily - 2014-04-01 22:34 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

[personal profile] daisily - 2014-04-02 05:22 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

[personal profile] daisily - 2014-04-02 05:52 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

[personal profile] daisily - 2014-04-02 06:40 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

[personal profile] daisily - 2014-04-02 17:44 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

[personal profile] daisily - 2014-04-02 18:41 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

[personal profile] daisily - 2014-04-02 20:36 (UTC) - Expand