twostandingby | (no subject)

Entry tags:

oom,
winter

(no subject)

Shove the stick to the left, throwing the X-wing into a sharp roll, and Tycho should feel the pull of the manuever even with the intertial compensator, but there's nothing. The simulators at Milliways are incredibly rudimentary; no simulated motion or even comm chatter. It's not flying. It's playing.

Still, it's as close as it comes to the real thing while Bound, and so Tycho is tucked behind the black curtain of one of the simulators in the recently (poorly) repainted room, determinedly vaping TIE Interceptors.

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She meets him eagerly, pressing herself against him as they kiss, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

A few lingering kisses and then he finally releases her bottom lip last, mouthing his slow, wet way down her throat with lips and tongue and a hint of teeth. Still sliding down ever-so-patiently, he unfastens the top button of her tunic.

Too patiently kthnx.

She lets her head fall back, her hands falling from his shoulders to tangle in his hair, the bedsheet, anything.

Ministrations reaching the recently uncovered skin and, oh, look at this-- another button seems to have slipped. And another, and another, and very shortly, her shirt is hanging open.

Nosing her collarbone, he slips down farther and plants a series of kisses and nips right along the edge of her bra.

She arches up a tad, both hands in the bedsheet now.

He slips hands where his mouth can't go -- under her bra. Fingers teasing, he licks down her sternum.

She arches up more, moving against him slightly.

Tycho slides down even more, and this means that he can't quite reach anymore, so his hands move to her sides for the moment. He kisses her smooth stomach.

She growls at him, pressing her hips up, moving her leg so her (booted) foot is digging into his lower back.

Gyah!

He pauses, looks up at her with a bemused eyebrow raised.

"I may smack you." She glares down at him. "Hard."

The more she talks, the less is happening.

He settles in more comfortably, sitting on her legs. "Why's that?"

He is not amused. That is her imagination.

She struggles to sit up. She gets...sort of up and reaches foward and SMACKS HIM!

On the arm.

Not the face. Don't want to damage the pretty.

"Ow! What was that for?"

Somehow..she's wiggled a leg free, and uses it to flip him over. So now, she's crawling towards him, and sits on him, pressing his arms into the mattress above his head. "Because."

A bit of a startled yelp as he finds himself thudding onto his back and being summarily pinned. Score one, Winter.

And now he's just looking up at her, with part anticipation and part (smart) wariness.

Very smart.

She lets his arms go, so she can sit on him properly, and pushes his shirt up, just a bit. Her hands trace patterns up and down his sides, pushing his shirt up a little at a time.

Yes, okay, this is rather less funny when he's the victim.

He keeps his mouth shut. He does, however, let a hand wander toward her knee.

Hand is slapped away, as she pushes the shirt up more and up over his FACE.

Then she starts a kissy-trail of torture! Or so she hopes.

He yanks the shirt the rest of the way off over his head--because flying blind is something to be avoided if possible--and lets it drop onto the floor.

His chest rises and falls with less steadiness as she moves lower, but there's no audible reaction. He just watches quietly.

She kisses her way down, till her nose touches his belt, and she pulls back up, scooting to the edge of the bed.

She sets to work on his boots, her back to him now.

There's a grunt at the stopping, but then she's off him and he takes full advantage, sitting up and wrapping his arms around her from behind. He doesn't move his feet, letting her deal with the boots. Instead, he rests his hands on her stomach, nuzzles her hair aside to trail kisses across the back of her neck.

Her head drops forward a bit, her hands faltering at his boots, but she manages to pull them off.

She turns around in his arms, shrugging her shirt off, and slid her palms over his bar chest.

He pulls her into his lap, rests his forehead lightly against hers. His hands dance up her spine, and when they reach her bra strap, they--after a second or two's work--unsnap it.

"Good job." She murmurs. Since you know, he usually sucks at bra-removal.

She shrugs the bra off, throwing it somewhere behind her. She takes his hands, sliding them up her waist, ribs, making them cup her breasts, as she bites her lip, watching him.