Ransom looks, when she moves in his lap, lashes shadowing his cheeks though the unapologetic shit-eating curl remains at the corner of his mouth. He's been looking, nothing but, and he sees no reason to stop as far as that's concerned. They've actually ended up on a higher bench this time, so he can see that the space between them is negligible, droplets falling from her pubic hair to his balls. It lends an obscene quality to the water dripping from the tangle framing her face.
He almost corrects the idiom — he's never understood why no one does, generally, and has tended to in their own conversations — but decides her rendition is cute enough that he doesn't want to. It bothers him a little that he can't just google the translation of the Spanish, but he's certainly not going to ask. He gets enough from context anyway to assume a similar root to presume and that they're not just homonyms (how does she like his dead language now?). He's heard plenty of its like to get the gist.
Marta touches him and his eyelids remain heavy even as he looks back to her face. His hands have been resting pretty chastely on her waist, but at her question Ransom's thumbs begin to mold themselves briefly into the notches of her ribcage, moving up her body as he thinks. When he'd used that word he had meant it in its entirety, but he's perfectly capable of finding loopholes even in his own walls and boundaries when it serves him.
"I don't want to come," he says, finally, "but you can touch. I like when you ask permission, but I'll just be annoyed if you try to use it to predict what I can take. I can control myself and stop you if I need to." His hands frame her tits now, and his thumb traces below one of her nipples, much like she'd touched below his mouth before.
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( cw: ESL microaggressive thoughts?? )
Ransom looks, when she moves in his lap, lashes shadowing his cheeks though the unapologetic shit-eating curl remains at the corner of his mouth. He's been looking, nothing but, and he sees no reason to stop as far as that's concerned. They've actually ended up on a higher bench this time, so he can see that the space between them is negligible, droplets falling from her pubic hair to his balls. It lends an obscene quality to the water dripping from the tangle framing her face.
He almost corrects the idiom — he's never understood why no one does, generally, and has tended to in their own conversations — but decides her rendition is cute enough that he doesn't want to. It bothers him a little that he can't just google the translation of the Spanish, but he's certainly not going to ask. He gets enough from context anyway to assume a similar root to presume and that they're not just homonyms (how does she like his dead language now?). He's heard plenty of its like to get the gist.
Marta touches him and his eyelids remain heavy even as he looks back to her face. His hands have been resting pretty chastely on her waist, but at her question Ransom's thumbs begin to mold themselves briefly into the notches of her ribcage, moving up her body as he thinks. When he'd used that word he had meant it in its entirety, but he's perfectly capable of finding loopholes even in his own walls and boundaries when it serves him.
"I don't want to come," he says, finally, "but you can touch. I like when you ask permission, but I'll just be annoyed if you try to use it to predict what I can take. I can control myself and stop you if I need to." His hands frame her tits now, and his thumb traces below one of her nipples, much like she'd touched below his mouth before.