[ She's stronger than he is—something he didn't believe, at first, but in the years since he's had proof—and it isn't actually easy for him to hold so far back, so he only puts up token resistance to her interference. But he also pulls harder on her hair, aiming to tip her head further back, and leaves her bruised neck behind to look her in the face. Not smiling, exactly, but it's nearly a smirk. Winning.
Winning, and taking the opportunity to pull his wrist free, to massage a bared breast again, and maybe push his good luck with a half-mocking— ]
[ The breath she's inhaling hitches as her head is yanked back, no doubt turning that smirk all the smirkier. She doesn't exactly fight his grip but her chin is swung to the side, jaw working in a kind of frustration and then grit in a grimace as he shifts his hand. She fixes Kostos and his mockery with a look. ]
Fuck you.
[ She stops fighting with a stuck button on his pants and leans back more firmly against the wall, maintaining unwavering eye contact as she reaches down between her legs and replaces the fingers he's withdrawn with her own. So there. ]
Edited (every time i reread this tag i put the emphasis on the wrong word in this sentence and confuse myself even tho i fucking wrote it so i'm changing it) 2018-04-21 15:36 (UTC)
For a few moments it's only interesting in his peripheral awareness, while he stubbornly returns her eye contact and doesn't quite manage to glare. Close, but he's a little too impressed, and a little too interested, and silently deciding whether or not to sacrifice some of his hard-earned points on looking down.
He does. He does it with deliberateness, a decision rather than a slip, but then an inhale, too, while he steps back to handle his buttons, and a self-bracing, disbelieving head tilt on the exhale, because of the open shirt and stockings, the bruises on her neck and her working hand. It's a good look for her. Next time—
It would be a good look for anybody.
When he reaches for her again, it's to pull her away from the wall and turn her decisively around, using both hands to push her shoulders against the cold stone and then to position and pull her hips back to meet him when he presses inside her. It's a head-clearing relief, and after a few preliminary hard, shallow rocks forward he remembers he has an argument to win and moves his hands—not back between her legs, she can continue to take care of that herself or she can wait, but one to snake up her stomach and seize on a nipple again, and the other to her throat. ]
[ It's difficult to win when your opponent knows all your weaknesses. But also hard for Nell to feel like she's losing when exploiting those weaknesses means Kostos is giving her precisely what she wants. Doesn't that mean she wins, in the end?
She braces a forearm against the wall, holding herself back just far enough not to scrape her face on the stone and letting him do the work of moving, head hanging for a moment until his hand finds her throat. He'll feel her reaction to that: a clench of excitement around him, a breath sucked in in anticipation. The hand between her legs reaches back to his hip, slick fingers finding a grip where his pants are slipping down, nails like spurs dug into his flank. She lets his hands force her closer to upright and then leans forward eagerly into their grip. ]
[ Kostos doesn't need to see her face to know she's on board, obviously, but his grip on her neck doesn't tighten as much or for as long at a time as it would if he could—never mind that she can probably throw him off or light him on fire if it's too much. He'd rather things not end that way. Because he wins, in the end, definitely, if she comes apart in his hands. That's precisely what he wants.
He ducks his head in to keep an ear on her breathing, and to smell her hair, and to sink teeth sharply into her shoulder, once, while his hips go still long enough to keep his control from fraying, hard enough to leave stinging marks behind.
When he moves again, it's to slip out and back, to turn her around and back her by the shoulders toward her desk. It's less frenetic than last time, nothing knocked over on the way, deliberately paced. He doesn't have anything to say about it, charming or otherwise, but he smiles a little (again, it's a miracle) while he backs her onto it, encourages her legs to spread for him, pushes her shoulders toward the wall behind it, closes his hand around her throat again. Now he can see her face. ]
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no subject
Winning, and taking the opportunity to pull his wrist free, to massage a bared breast again, and maybe push his good luck with a half-mocking— ]
Just—?
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Fuck you.
[ She stops fighting with a stuck button on his pants and leans back more firmly against the wall, maintaining unwavering eye contact as she reaches down between her legs and replaces the fingers he's withdrawn with her own. So there. ]
no subject
interesting.
For a few moments it's only interesting in his peripheral awareness, while he stubbornly returns her eye contact and doesn't quite manage to glare. Close, but he's a little too impressed, and a little too interested, and silently deciding whether or not to sacrifice some of his hard-earned points on looking down.
He does. He does it with deliberateness, a decision rather than a slip, but then an inhale, too, while he steps back to handle his buttons, and a self-bracing, disbelieving head tilt on the exhale, because of the open shirt and stockings, the bruises on her neck and her working hand. It's a good look for her. Next time—
It would be a good look for anybody.
When he reaches for her again, it's to pull her away from the wall and turn her decisively around, using both hands to push her shoulders against the cold stone and then to position and pull her hips back to meet him when he presses inside her. It's a head-clearing relief, and after a few preliminary hard, shallow rocks forward he remembers he has an argument to win and moves his hands—not back between her legs, she can continue to take care of that herself or she can wait, but one to snake up her stomach and seize on a nipple again, and the other to her throat. ]
no subject
She braces a forearm against the wall, holding herself back just far enough not to scrape her face on the stone and letting him do the work of moving, head hanging for a moment until his hand finds her throat. He'll feel her reaction to that: a clench of excitement around him, a breath sucked in in anticipation. The hand between her legs reaches back to his hip, slick fingers finding a grip where his pants are slipping down, nails like spurs dug into his flank. She lets his hands force her closer to upright and then leans forward eagerly into their grip. ]
no subject
He ducks his head in to keep an ear on her breathing, and to smell her hair, and to sink teeth sharply into her shoulder, once, while his hips go still long enough to keep his control from fraying, hard enough to leave stinging marks behind.
When he moves again, it's to slip out and back, to turn her around and back her by the shoulders toward her desk. It's less frenetic than last time, nothing knocked over on the way, deliberately paced. He doesn't have anything to say about it, charming or otherwise, but he smiles a little (again, it's a miracle) while he backs her onto it, encourages her legs to spread for him, pushes her shoulders toward the wall behind it, closes his hand around her throat again. Now he can see her face. ]