The prospect of having to move isn't a thrilling one — and it's too easy to doubt I'd like you to, an instinct that has little to do with Stephen other than being wildly unfair to him — but the fact remains that trying to get back to her own room and luggage in the cold light of morning without having to have any sort of conversation with anyone else...
She'd already been caught leaving by Orlov in the first place. Coming back from her 'personal matter' carrying all of her clothes is not going to do wonders for her credibility.
“Ugh,” is a profound groan, exhaling a harsh breath as she stretches, sits up; her hair a mess of curls, half her back a mess of scars from the rage demon's claws. Shaking a hand through her hair to loosen it out, she doesn't — besides sitting up — rush to disentangle, though it's an immediate acknowledgment of the point. “It was the goal,” she sighs; if she'd been strategically planning, it could have been an excuse, but she really hadn't. Hadn't seen this coming,
though she should have, she thinks.
“I should go,” she says, the slightly unconvincing tone of someone convincing herself.
Despite the fact that Stephen was the one to broach the idea of leaving, there’s still the sudden kneejerk instinct to backtrack: nevermind, I take it all back, I changed my mind. Please don’t go.
As Gwenaëlle straightens and her back comes into view, his hand trails down the knobs of her spine, unconsciously counting the vertebrae, the scars on her back he hadn’t gotten a look at earlier. There’s still so much about her he wants to explore.
But if he keeps touching her, that’s a fast track to them never parting. And what’s the right thing to say here, now, in this circumstance? I’m glad you chose my window? Let’s do this again?
He bites down on the thought; straightens up behind her instead, and tries to convince himself too. “Don’t get caught,” Stephen says, a smile in his voice, still warm. “Holler if you are and you need backup.”
What’s he gonna do, come flying to her defense barefoot and dick flapping in the halls of an Orlesian manor? (I mean, maybe.)
The prospect thereof prompts an amused glance back over her shoulder — and it's hard to deny the appeal of just burrowing back down into the bedding beside him, taking in how much closer he is when he sits up and the dissipating warmth where his hand was on her back. It takes some stern self-discipline to slide off the side of the bed—
although leaving is not any quicker a process than undressing her was, as she yanks her slouching stockings toward her thighs instead of finally taking them off, searching around the mess they've made for where she discarded this and that. The chemise is the only part she bothers pulling back on; she'll ring a servant for a bath when she's in her own room, she decides, acutely conscious now she's standing up that she is leaking. The rest of her clothes she flings into a pile and uses her skirts like a sack, gathering her cloak around herself for the sake of— well, not modesty. Discretion. Making the prospect of bumping into anyone else marginally less awkward. The last thing she gathers up are her boots, taking in the room for a moment to be sure he's not going to have to shove her smallclothes in a pocket before someone tidies this room,
and him, in tangled bedsheets and out of clothing.
Self-discipline only goes so far. Gwenaëlle leans a hand on the edge of the bed and leans closer, her pile of things to be urgently laundered shoved under one arm, catching him in a kiss that would be briefer if making sure he's still thinking about her when she's gone wasn't mostly the point.
“Goodnight, Stephen.”
Stockings are quieter on tile than barefeet. The door slips shut terribly softly behind her, and there's nothing to strain listening to, just— quiet.
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portalling) wrote2022-04-02 01:17 pm
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no subject
She'd already been caught leaving by Orlov in the first place. Coming back from her 'personal matter' carrying all of her clothes is not going to do wonders for her credibility.
“Ugh,” is a profound groan, exhaling a harsh breath as she stretches, sits up; her hair a mess of curls, half her back a mess of scars from the rage demon's claws. Shaking a hand through her hair to loosen it out, she doesn't — besides sitting up — rush to disentangle, though it's an immediate acknowledgment of the point. “It was the goal,” she sighs; if she'd been strategically planning, it could have been an excuse, but she really hadn't. Hadn't seen this coming,
though she should have, she thinks.
“I should go,” she says, the slightly unconvincing tone of someone convincing herself.
no subject
As Gwenaëlle straightens and her back comes into view, his hand trails down the knobs of her spine, unconsciously counting the vertebrae, the scars on her back he hadn’t gotten a look at earlier. There’s still so much about her he wants to explore.
But if he keeps touching her, that’s a fast track to them never parting. And what’s the right thing to say here, now, in this circumstance? I’m glad you chose my window? Let’s do this again?
He bites down on the thought; straightens up behind her instead, and tries to convince himself too. “Don’t get caught,” Stephen says, a smile in his voice, still warm. “Holler if you are and you need backup.”
What’s he gonna do, come flying to her defense barefoot and dick flapping in the halls of an Orlesian manor? (I mean, maybe.)
no subject
although leaving is not any quicker a process than undressing her was, as she yanks her slouching stockings toward her thighs instead of finally taking them off, searching around the mess they've made for where she discarded this and that. The chemise is the only part she bothers pulling back on; she'll ring a servant for a bath when she's in her own room, she decides, acutely conscious now she's standing up that she is leaking. The rest of her clothes she flings into a pile and uses her skirts like a sack, gathering her cloak around herself for the sake of— well, not modesty. Discretion. Making the prospect of bumping into anyone else marginally less awkward. The last thing she gathers up are her boots, taking in the room for a moment to be sure he's not going to have to shove her smallclothes in a pocket before someone tidies this room,
and him, in tangled bedsheets and out of clothing.
Self-discipline only goes so far. Gwenaëlle leans a hand on the edge of the bed and leans closer, her pile of things to be urgently laundered shoved under one arm, catching him in a kiss that would be briefer if making sure he's still thinking about her when she's gone wasn't mostly the point.
“Goodnight, Stephen.”
Stockings are quieter on tile than barefeet. The door slips shut terribly softly behind her, and there's nothing to strain listening to, just— quiet.