[ do they need to talk? maybe. she's tangentially aware that there are questions she could maybe ask him — what does this mean for them, what does he want, what exactly is on the table — but she doesn't feel like talking. it doesn't seem to matter, either, when he's surging forward to cover her body with his own, or when she can feel him pressing against her, her own instincts arching her upwards to meet him.
she barely gets anything out at all, then, just a mumbled curse word in some picked-up language, nothing in basic or even adjacent to it. it's the universal signal of wow in the crassest way possible, swallowed up by a kiss that makes her wonder if her lips will be bruised in the morning, one that leaves her panting and desperately squirming for something she can't quite put a name to.
but the tightness between her legs, slick and obvious when she shifts beneath him, tells her what she wants. more than a want now, really; it's practically a demand, as shameless as the words that spill from her mouth when they break apart, the ones that get expelled over a hot breath against his jaw. ]
Give me your hand.
[ so she can guide him, show him exactly what he's done to her, so she can make it absolutely crystal clear exactly what she wants him to do to her. slim fingers wrap around his palm, pulling it down between them until he's able to cup her between her legs, feel that searing heat and slick arousal with the barest brush of fingertips, the involuntary twitch of her hips in reaction to his touch against sensitive spots.
she doesn't stop him once he's there. if anything, the release of her hand from his once he's in position is encouragement — because she isn't fragile, there's nothing but lean muscles in her slim frame, and right now, she doesn't want to be treated like a delicate flower that needs coaxing into something. she wants this, wants him, as aggressive and passionate as any of their fights have ever been. she wants poe dameron in all the ways she knows him — and to learn, later, all the ways she doesn't. ]
no subject
she barely gets anything out at all, then, just a mumbled curse word in some picked-up language, nothing in basic or even adjacent to it. it's the universal signal of wow in the crassest way possible, swallowed up by a kiss that makes her wonder if her lips will be bruised in the morning, one that leaves her panting and desperately squirming for something she can't quite put a name to.
but the tightness between her legs, slick and obvious when she shifts beneath him, tells her what she wants. more than a want now, really; it's practically a demand, as shameless as the words that spill from her mouth when they break apart, the ones that get expelled over a hot breath against his jaw. ]
Give me your hand.
[ so she can guide him, show him exactly what he's done to her, so she can make it absolutely crystal clear exactly what she wants him to do to her. slim fingers wrap around his palm, pulling it down between them until he's able to cup her between her legs, feel that searing heat and slick arousal with the barest brush of fingertips, the involuntary twitch of her hips in reaction to his touch against sensitive spots.
she doesn't stop him once he's there. if anything, the release of her hand from his once he's in position is encouragement — because she isn't fragile, there's nothing but lean muscles in her slim frame, and right now, she doesn't want to be treated like a delicate flower that needs coaxing into something. she wants this, wants him, as aggressive and passionate as any of their fights have ever been. she wants poe dameron in all the ways she knows him — and to learn, later, all the ways she doesn't. ]