( twisting her hand to use their grip to draw him nearer to her, she says, )
I cannot be terribly sorry for not wishing to put you to further, unnecessary ill. Is it so unforgivably wrong of me to care as much for you as you do for me?
( surely she is the best of women, actually. has he considered that. )
[ He is easily drawn, a leaning out of his seat. Gives a rumble of a sound at this flourish to the argument they're hardly having. He could explain how it would tear him apart, to have done nothing when he could have possibly done something. That she hadn't known he was as hurt as he was, that she might have anticipated him perfectly capable.
But also: she is here, and beckoning him. He can do this, place his hand up under her jaw, warm against her throat. He can instead say, ]
Right, as always,
[ because they are here, both, alive and well, and he wishes to kiss her—which he does—rather than bicker. ]
( sometimes, there are benefits to rewarding bad behaviour.
this, as she warms to his touch, as she returns that kiss and returns for another— is one of them. it has only a little awkwardness for setting aside the remainder of a burning down cigarette that she might more easily transport herself from her own chair to his lap, where kissing him should require less strain on either of them.
beyond the emotional, obviously. and how incredibly tiresome she can be, when she's smug. )
[ He helps her along, a hand at her waist, a contented sound at the easy and assuring weight of her on his thighs. She is a myriad of familiar shapes and textures, from rigid stays to the fold and drape of inexpensive skirt fabric, and more intimately, the press of the kiss between them, including this altered angled. But familiarity doesn't equate to any sense of having had his share.
And there is a more discordant pang at the core of it. That there could well have been some last time, and they wouldn't have known it, then.
His hand (likewise now rid of cigarette) comes up to push fingers through her hair as he guides them both into a more ardent kiss than the last. ]
it always feels a little like something stolen. time, love, light. in this room, with him, with julius, joy snatched before it can be snatched away; it's there in the way she touches him now, the grip of her fingers at his jaw, tilting him where she can make the most of him. she twists a fist into her skirts, hitching petticoats enough that she can set a knee between his, slot them together, closer, flutter against him the softer and costlier fabric underneath all her unremarkable sheet-blues. )
You feel alive to me, ( a murmur, against his mouth. ) Lively.
[ A reflexively held breath when she repositions, the press of Marcus' hand helping her along a little late. But once she's there, he makes the most of it in turn. Well, not the most, but some—his hand getting up under her outer skirt, blindly navigating the fall of petticoat and lace until his hand finds her bare thigh.
Presses his thumb against softer skin, tempting and close. Under her mouth, his kisses are momentarily pliant and easy, distracted and instinctively giving under the feeling of her hand at his jaw. ]
Do I, [ murmured back. ] Best make the most of it, then.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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And I also [ he recites, or at least starts to, sidetracked in turning her hand to kiss her palm, then high on the inside of her wrist ] obviously.
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I cannot be terribly sorry for not wishing to put you to further, unnecessary ill. Is it so unforgivably wrong of me to care as much for you as you do for me?
( surely she is the best of women, actually. has he considered that. )
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But also: she is here, and beckoning him. He can do this, place his hand up under her jaw, warm against her throat. He can instead say, ]
Right, as always,
[ because they are here, both, alive and well, and he wishes to kiss her—which he does—rather than bicker. ]
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this, as she warms to his touch, as she returns that kiss and returns for another— is one of them. it has only a little awkwardness for setting aside the remainder of a burning down cigarette that she might more easily transport herself from her own chair to his lap, where kissing him should require less strain on either of them.
beyond the emotional, obviously. and how incredibly tiresome she can be, when she's smug. )
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And there is a more discordant pang at the core of it. That there could well have been some last time, and they wouldn't have known it, then.
His hand (likewise now rid of cigarette) comes up to push fingers through her hair as he guides them both into a more ardent kiss than the last. ]
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it always feels a little like something stolen. time, love, light. in this room, with him, with julius, joy snatched before it can be snatched away; it's there in the way she touches him now, the grip of her fingers at his jaw, tilting him where she can make the most of him. she twists a fist into her skirts, hitching petticoats enough that she can set a knee between his, slot them together, closer, flutter against him the softer and costlier fabric underneath all her unremarkable sheet-blues. )
You feel alive to me, ( a murmur, against his mouth. ) Lively.
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Presses his thumb against softer skin, tempting and close. Under her mouth, his kisses are momentarily pliant and easy, distracted and instinctively giving under the feeling of her hand at his jaw. ]
Do I, [ murmured back. ] Best make the most of it, then.