[ He assumes, since he and the box outnumber her two to one, that he should stay put. Doesn't pause to clarify if only because he's already throwing himself under the shower, unsure where this is going to end up but eager to offer every courtesy available all the same. Clean, he dons fresh pants, a fresh shirt. Fumbles with buttons in his haste and his hurt and his ruined fine motor control until a knock at the door distracts him, and he's torn between buttoning the final three or not keeping her waiting.
The amount of time any one button's going to take him to finesse through its corresponding hole being an ever unknown factor these days, he opts for getting the door. There's no subtlety in the way his eyes skim helplessly down and then back up to her face. Speechless for as long as he's breathless, which feels like one of the longest seconds of his life. ]
Hi. [ Exceptional work. Congratulations. Finally realising he's a roadblock, he swings aside, makes way for her. ] Come in.
[ Shadowheart, for her part, doesn't bother getting clean; she's spent the warm afternoon lazing in bed, and simply throws on a slip of a sundress with neither bra nor underwear, deftly winding her hair into its usual braid.
She just brings herself to his room, as everything else she needs is there. Shadowheart smiles at Stephen as he opens the door, easeful where he's tense. ]
Hello. [ She steps lightly past him into the room, hands clasped behind her back as she surveys the space--then glances over her shoulder at him, as he shuts the door. He smells fresh from his shower, humidity lingering in the air. ] Don't be nervous.
Do you prefer Stephen, or Dr. Strange? I suppose I should have asked before assuming familiarity. [ You'd think there's an obvious answer, when one's in the bedroom, but Shadowheart has called men all sorts of things. ]
[ Don't be nervous, she says, at total ease and practically glowing and here to press any one of the many large implements in that box into her body with him as sole audience, for his specific benefit. ]
Stephen. Please. [ Truth is she could call him whatever she likes and he's fairly sure he'd answer, but the idea of expecting her to Doctor Strange him in this context fills him with the kind of embarrassment no other situation could inspire in him for his usual iron grip on his title. He plays it off with the hitch of a conspiratorial smile, an attempt to shake off some of the nerves that had been so obvious as to earn comment. ] We can afford some familiarity.
[ Trying to settle back into ease in his own space, he follows after her back into the room, away from the door. Nods over to the bar cabinet, where glasses and bottles of water in their very own ice bath wait on its counter, an assortment of other options hiding inside. ]
Can I get you something to drink?
[ In his line of vision, just beyond where she stands, the bed against the room's back wall plays host to the waiting box of tricks, a promise pending. Framed by the curve of her body in that sundress, the shock of answering thrill is helpless and boyish and strangely grounding. Manifests in the rush of an inhale, a slow breath out. ]
Water is fine. [ Though she won't judge whatever he pours himself, particularly not in a place like Saltburnt, with all its rich vices at their fingertips. Shadowheart likes a good party, likes an audience, but privately she prefers the intimacy of a bedroom and one (or two, because the rumors about sharing with her brother are very true) partners within it.
She steps closer to the bed while he busies himself at the bar, runs her fingers along the soft throw the box sits on. Shadowheart's already well familiar with everything inside, but there's still a pleasant flutter of anticipation as she eyes the spread. She had put together some of her favorites, for him.
And that anticipation extends to the man across the room from her, with his damp hair and half-buttoned shirt, the handsome planes of his face. Curiosity guides her interests, much of the time, and she is curious about Stephen. Closer in age to Emmrich, maybe; Shadowheart has no real preference, but older sometimes suits her.
She crosses the room again, light on her feet, and slips between him and the bar counter, her gaze on his face and her hands finding the open collar of his shirt. She's noticed the scars on his--her own twinging strangely in sympathy, and for a flash of a moment she imagines a wound on the back of her hand, dark and unhealing--but she won't open with questions about them. Shadowheart presses her knuckles to the fabric over his collarbone, the heat of skin beneath, stepping close enough to feel his pulse as she asks her own question: ]
Can I kiss you?
[ An openness and ease to it, and her, rather than coyness. Shadowheart likes to tease, but there will be time enough for that when they get to the bed. ]
[ He's busy pouring two glasses of water - nervous, but not the kind that wants or needs any liquid courage - when suddenly she's there. A second to blink, draw breath, recalibrate under her touch. Then the question puts him immediately at ease. It's an offer of a degree of intimacy, a welcome to participate he hadn't been certain of before.
Stephen's mouth curves, smiling as he sets down the ice-wet bottle so he can turn his full focus onto Shadowheart. His bottle-chilled hand settles at her hip, the other lifting to gently tilt her chin, fingers trembling at her jaw while he leans in, nudging his nose to hers, playful if overfamiliar. He's all warm flirtation when he murmurs into the scant space between them: ]
Please.
[ And with permission granted, tips in to kiss her first, slow and soft and happy to be there, a gentle opening play. ]
[ She's always liked this part best. For a woman who's taken many partners over the years, a number of those in a professional capacity, Shadowheart is still a romantic at heart: someone who values connection, whether it lasts years or just one night.
She doesn't know if she'll see Stephen again, after she and Emmrich leave Saltburnt. The answer is often yes, with everyone in the Balfours' orbit, but it's not a given. So she'll enjoy this moment for what it is--a sweet press of lips to hers, the pleasant scratch of his mustache against her skin. He smells like soap, and she wonders how that will change when she lets him fuck her; wonders if he can smell her already, her cunt bare beneath her dress, skirting the edges of pleasure all afternoon.
The only thing she's wearing beneath is a small plug of her own (for photos sent to Rupert, which Stephen now reaps the benefits of, she supposes). A surprise for later. For now, Shadowheart meets the cadence of Stephen's kiss, her hands sweeping up his chest to wind around his neck, her mouth parting as she presses her body to his. The fabric of her dress is thin, leaves little to the imagination; she can feel each button of his shirt through it, the stiffer tailoring of his pants against her hips.
He's a good kisser. Shadowheart tips her head, teeth grazing his bottom lip as one of her hands tracks back down to his, the one at her hip. She guides it gently lower, letting go of a soft hum when his cold palm meets the skin of her thigh, just beneath the hem of her dress. ]
Edited (temperature addition was crucial) 2025-06-27 22:14 (UTC)
[ A kiss met and melted into, the shape of her evident in the press of warm body to warm body, so little between them now. She teases at his lip with teeth and leads his hand to where she wants it, and it doesn't take him long at all to take that invitation and run with it, fingertips pressing into flesh in glad acknowledgement before his cool palm skims up under the hem of her dress. Following the path of her thigh until he detours for the swell of her ass.
It's not a total surprise to find nothing there but skin, but it is a wonderful one, and he rewards the gift with a squeeze of the flesh under his hand, pulling at her, imagining she can feel the room's air on the ready hole she's come here to showcase. He'll find out soon enough that she's likely feeling something else altogether, but for now his fingers don't find it, soothing away to return to her thigh, sinking lower, getting a hold of her leg to urge it up and stepping in past where her feet are planted (were planted, only one now) so when he disrupts her balance his body at her front and the bar counter at her back are there to steady her. His hand drops from her jaw to splay across her lower back, and that's there to steady her too.
Perhaps this is a little fast to have her press her bare cunt against him through the rucked up fabric of her dress, but it doesn't feel any more presumptuous than they've both already been today. Thigh held against his thigh, coaxing it higher so he can steady her there with his palm and his forearm and still stroke outstretched fingers idly over the tender skin at the back of her leg, with a low drone of satisfaction Stephen parts from the kiss. Just barely, just briefly, seeking to meet her eye and ask, the question a rumble and play bright in the blown-dark blue of his own gaze - ]
Okay?
[ She'd sought his clarity and consent. The least he can do is return the favor, even if it's coming a little late. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
I think he can wait.
no subject
I'll see you soon, then.
no subject
[ He assumes, since he and the box outnumber her two to one, that he should stay put. Doesn't pause to clarify if only because he's already throwing himself under the shower, unsure where this is going to end up but eager to offer every courtesy available all the same. Clean, he dons fresh pants, a fresh shirt. Fumbles with buttons in his haste and his hurt and his ruined fine motor control until a knock at the door distracts him, and he's torn between buttoning the final three or not keeping her waiting.
The amount of time any one button's going to take him to finesse through its corresponding hole being an ever unknown factor these days, he opts for getting the door. There's no subtlety in the way his eyes skim helplessly down and then back up to her face. Speechless for as long as he's breathless, which feels like one of the longest seconds of his life. ]
Hi. [ Exceptional work. Congratulations. Finally realising he's a roadblock, he swings aside, makes way for her. ] Come in.
no subject
She just brings herself to his room, as everything else she needs is there. Shadowheart smiles at Stephen as he opens the door, easeful where he's tense. ]
Hello. [ She steps lightly past him into the room, hands clasped behind her back as she surveys the space--then glances over her shoulder at him, as he shuts the door. He smells fresh from his shower, humidity lingering in the air. ] Don't be nervous.
Do you prefer Stephen, or Dr. Strange? I suppose I should have asked before assuming familiarity. [ You'd think there's an obvious answer, when one's in the bedroom, but Shadowheart has called men all sorts of things. ]
no subject
Stephen. Please. [ Truth is she could call him whatever she likes and he's fairly sure he'd answer, but the idea of expecting her to Doctor Strange him in this context fills him with the kind of embarrassment no other situation could inspire in him for his usual iron grip on his title. He plays it off with the hitch of a conspiratorial smile, an attempt to shake off some of the nerves that had been so obvious as to earn comment. ] We can afford some familiarity.
[ Trying to settle back into ease in his own space, he follows after her back into the room, away from the door. Nods over to the bar cabinet, where glasses and bottles of water in their very own ice bath wait on its counter, an assortment of other options hiding inside. ]
Can I get you something to drink?
[ In his line of vision, just beyond where she stands, the bed against the room's back wall plays host to the waiting box of tricks, a promise pending. Framed by the curve of her body in that sundress, the shock of answering thrill is helpless and boyish and strangely grounding. Manifests in the rush of an inhale, a slow breath out. ]
no subject
She steps closer to the bed while he busies himself at the bar, runs her fingers along the soft throw the box sits on. Shadowheart's already well familiar with everything inside, but there's still a pleasant flutter of anticipation as she eyes the spread. She had put together some of her favorites, for him.
And that anticipation extends to the man across the room from her, with his damp hair and half-buttoned shirt, the handsome planes of his face. Curiosity guides her interests, much of the time, and she is curious about Stephen. Closer in age to Emmrich, maybe; Shadowheart has no real preference, but older sometimes suits her.
She crosses the room again, light on her feet, and slips between him and the bar counter, her gaze on his face and her hands finding the open collar of his shirt. She's noticed the scars on his--her own twinging strangely in sympathy, and for a flash of a moment she imagines a wound on the back of her hand, dark and unhealing--but she won't open with questions about them. Shadowheart presses her knuckles to the fabric over his collarbone, the heat of skin beneath, stepping close enough to feel his pulse as she asks her own question: ]
Can I kiss you?
[ An openness and ease to it, and her, rather than coyness. Shadowheart likes to tease, but there will be time enough for that when they get to the bed. ]
no subject
Stephen's mouth curves, smiling as he sets down the ice-wet bottle so he can turn his full focus onto Shadowheart. His bottle-chilled hand settles at her hip, the other lifting to gently tilt her chin, fingers trembling at her jaw while he leans in, nudging his nose to hers, playful if overfamiliar. He's all warm flirtation when he murmurs into the scant space between them: ]
Please.
[ And with permission granted, tips in to kiss her first, slow and soft and happy to be there, a gentle opening play. ]
no subject
She doesn't know if she'll see Stephen again, after she and Emmrich leave Saltburnt. The answer is often yes, with everyone in the Balfours' orbit, but it's not a given. So she'll enjoy this moment for what it is--a sweet press of lips to hers, the pleasant scratch of his mustache against her skin. He smells like soap, and she wonders how that will change when she lets him fuck her; wonders if he can smell her already, her cunt bare beneath her dress, skirting the edges of pleasure all afternoon.
The only thing she's wearing beneath is a small plug of her own (for photos sent to Rupert, which Stephen now reaps the benefits of, she supposes). A surprise for later. For now, Shadowheart meets the cadence of Stephen's kiss, her hands sweeping up his chest to wind around his neck, her mouth parting as she presses her body to his. The fabric of her dress is thin, leaves little to the imagination; she can feel each button of his shirt through it, the stiffer tailoring of his pants against her hips.
He's a good kisser. Shadowheart tips her head, teeth grazing his bottom lip as one of her hands tracks back down to his, the one at her hip. She guides it gently lower, letting go of a soft hum when his cold palm meets the skin of her thigh, just beneath the hem of her dress. ]
no subject
It's not a total surprise to find nothing there but skin, but it is a wonderful one, and he rewards the gift with a squeeze of the flesh under his hand, pulling at her, imagining she can feel the room's air on the ready hole she's come here to showcase. He'll find out soon enough that she's likely feeling something else altogether, but for now his fingers don't find it, soothing away to return to her thigh, sinking lower, getting a hold of her leg to urge it up and stepping in past where her feet are planted (were planted, only one now) so when he disrupts her balance his body at her front and the bar counter at her back are there to steady her. His hand drops from her jaw to splay across her lower back, and that's there to steady her too.
Perhaps this is a little fast to have her press her bare cunt against him through the rucked up fabric of her dress, but it doesn't feel any more presumptuous than they've both already been today. Thigh held against his thigh, coaxing it higher so he can steady her there with his palm and his forearm and still stroke outstretched fingers idly over the tender skin at the back of her leg, with a low drone of satisfaction Stephen parts from the kiss. Just barely, just briefly, seeking to meet her eye and ask, the question a rumble and play bright in the blown-dark blue of his own gaze - ]
Okay?
[ She'd sought his clarity and consent. The least he can do is return the favor, even if it's coming a little late. ]