eldorne_girl | (no subject)

(no subject)

[being warm seems like a luxury after so long being cold, and being able to run around in bare feet and a singlet top seems almost sinfully nice]

[if Tortallans and Delia had a strong idea about 'sin', that is]

[leaving that aside, Delia is out in the greenhouse. It's night, but it's summer and so thus it's jeans and bare feet and a lavender top with spaghetti straps and a few layers of sheer, lovely fabric - Indy bought it for her, on their trip to London, but she doesn't think about that. Instead, she just walks through and trails her fingers against the flowers]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[she doesn't say yes because she can't, even the dead need air to speak out loud. But she moves closer and slides her hands onto Josie's hips, tilting her head up to deepen the kiss]

Josie hums lightly, satisfied, into the kiss, hands tangling in perfect darkly luxurious curls, because, really, they don't need to say anything.

[no, they don't. The kiss ends, as all kiss must, and Delia moves her head down, kissing Josie's throat lightly]

Josie makes a light crooning noise in the back of her throat, closing her eyes now. The hand not knotted hard into Delia's hair curves over a denim-clad hip.

[warm. Warm skin under her hot mouth, warm air around her and them and warm, flushed skin...]

[warm. Not alive, but not cold, so Delia opens her mouth and presses it over the main artery in Josie's neck. Element of danger, even thought she's not biting...

yet]

Josie sighs, and tips her head back, delicate skin taut over tight muscles, heartbeat pulsing faster against Delia's lips teeth tongue. Long delicate fingers slip under the waistband of Delia's jeans, long delicate(sharp) nails scratch against her skin.

[somethings don't change. Delia had always, always held an interest in pain, in the sharp hurtsalivefeeling. And no matter that she has accepted being dead, no matter that she is no longer running from feeling dead, Josie's sharp nails still get a faint gasp and a digging in of her fingers into the princess's hips]

And Josie smiles brightly to herself, and sharp nails cut harder into soft skin, and fingers grasp poessessively into silky hair. She tugs, hard, pulling them hip to hip, breast to breast, pulling Delia's head up and joining also lip to lip.

"Here," between kisses, "now."

[low and husky and automatic,]

As you wish,

[but the words aren't empty nothings, oh no. Here greenhouseunlockedoutsidenight now when things are hot and sharp and Delia's fingers tighten on Josie's hips, enough to hurt and bruise.]

Hurt (yes) and bruise (yes) because that's what they're about, not everything no but they wouldn't be Josie and Delia if it wasn't there. Josie giggles again, brittle and bittersweet, and slides her lips to the side of Delia's neck, nipping hard enough to mark. Marks that Delia will know are there every time she twists her neck, for days to come.

[she arches her neck, shuts her eyes and twists her fingers through the layers of sheer fabric that cover Josie's skin. Tit-for-tat, and Josie said here and now, so those slender, clever fingers bunch the fabric up...]

[sometimes, there are things to be said for wearing pants, really]

There are, but then again, there are disadvantages as well. Josie's fingers are caressing the small of Delia's back, small smile hovering on her lips against the sweet skin of her neck, eyes closed.

[pros and cons for everything, but at the moment it's more about Josie then Delia. At least in the lady's mind, so when the dress is high enough her fingers move down to slide her inner thigh]

Of course it is. Josiane is a princess, after all. Why should it not be for her? She sighs, and one hand slides up Delia's back to tangle in fragrant curls.

"My love."

[no verbal answer, but that smile of Delia's is very wicked]

[no verba, answer, but her fingers are light and gentle and make a torment of that gentleness, circling and caressing and never quite getting high enough.]

"Delia," almost warningly, and Josie's teeth are a little harder, and ohsosharp.

[a breathy laugh]

Yes, Josie-love?

"Bitch," softly against her ear, before sharp fingernails trace up, and down her spine. Hard, insistent.

[so Delia's fingers move up, insistent and skilled]

Yours

"Of course," voice hitching just a little. Whose else would she be? Oh, she knows Delia has passions for others, but she will always belong to Josie.

Just so you remember...

[clever fingers, slender fingers, and it's hot in the summer night, in the greenhouse, and what if someone comes in, what if, what if...]

"You can always remind me," breath uneven.

Josie's eyes are closed now, forehead hot resting against Delia's neck, one hand clutching the back of her neck, the other hooked into her waistband.

What if, what would they see? Two girls embracing, long skirts wrapped around them. The blonde hanging onto the brunette as if her legs won't support her, trembling slightly.

I intend to.

[uneven is good, but speechless would be better - flattering to the ego, that someone could make tall, elegant and fragile Josiane whimper and moan because of the things that your fingers are doing...

and Delia's always had a weakness for things that improve the ego]

Whimper - her breath is catching in the back of her throat, high and near-sobbing. Moan - oh, she does, softly, needing, lips hot and wet against Delia's throat.

"Delia. . ." And her legs won't hold any more, and she sinks to the floor, pulling Delia with her. Propriety be damned, open doors be damned.

[and there's that laugh again, dark and breathy and boys and men have fought each other to have that laugh directed at them]

[but this is what she wanted, Josiane of the Copper Isles, perfect blonde scion of the Rittevon line in all their madness and beauty, whimpering and moaning and pulling her to the ground.]

[the dress may never be the same again, but that's not the point, is it?]