lazingroyalty | (no subject)

[Oona's life had never really had consistency before. Despite being a mermaid, she'd found herself compared to a cat more often than not, simply flitting around wherever she chose to go; she slept where she wanted, ate what she wanted, and the only real consistency was work and only because she couldn't avoid that (and even then she didn't have to come in if she didn't want to, so there was freedom and choice in that).

She likes to think it's just because of how she is. More likely it's a side effect of having her life so strictly monitored and scheduled from her time in human hands; having nothing like that now was more a rebellion, a stubborn refusal to return to that.

Which is why it hits her as so strange when she acknowledges that she's chosen to spend more time at Adolf's place than her other friends' now. That she's started keeping things at his place, not quite moving in entirely but there are certain things that are without a doubt hers', and not simply borrowed. Things that don't leave when she does, like they normally did. Clothes, a few thing sin the kitchen. A mug that was almost assuredly "hers'" by now. Shampoo and other toiletries in his bathroom. The decorations and knickknacks she bought at random, furniture she brought to make the place look less like some basic militant-style place to sleep and more like, well. A home.

That realization, too, that she considered this a home is startling. Where were these thoughts coming from? It wasn't as though Oona was stupid-- brash and horribly impulsive, yes, but even she had her moments of quiet reflection and deeper thoughts. She just didn't quite indulge in them often, because it usually turned into things like this, making revelations about herself she wasn't sure she was comfortable with.

She sighs and steps out of the shower, rolling stiff shoulders as she pulls her hair up into a ponytail. Her work has her sliding into his house at all hours, though for once she was actually in at a decent time (she hadn't even bothered to go to work today was why, honestly). It didn't stop her from changing into more comfortable clothes.

Her gaze slid to one of Adolf's shirts, pilfered from his closet on her way. She had her own pajamas, of course, but they were mostly untouched despite any efforts on Adolf's part. He'd even tried just giving her the shirts she'd taken, but she'd only laughed and tossed them in his dirty clothes at the end of the day and took a fresh one again ("It smells like you, I like it" she'd said once and Adolf's face had done a funny twitch before his hand was covering it and he was walking away, Oona's laughter trailing after him for a little longer than was probably necessary).

She was too damn fond of that eel.

His shirt pulled over her head (she was practically swimming in it and something about that always put her in a much more chipper mood, and she even put underwear on just for him because otherwise he probably would be very opposed to her climbing on his lap anytime soon. Oona chose her battles wisely and this was one she had given up on fighting), she deliberately avoided glancing in the bathroom mirror before she exited to go search out her eel.]

Do you think it is strange? [it's the first thing she says when she finds him. What a good way to start a conversation, right in the middle.]

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[Oona would've liked to say something witty and charming in response to all of this, but the truth of the matter is that she gets about as far as opening her mouth before his hand touches her skin. It's almost--no, it is--comical how much Oona underestimates Adolf in these situations. One day maybe she'll learn, but for now she regards nearly everything he does as innocent until she's inevitably proven otherwise. Like now.

So instead of a witty retort, her breath catches in an embarrassing squeak. She bites her lower lip and turns red, squirming a little. His warmth seeping through the shirt is both too much and not enough.]

Want this off... [A mumble, because really it's just getting in the way at this point. And actually being in a relationship now means she can forgo social niceties like wearing actual clothes now right?

The most important discovery Oona's made so far, to be sure.]

[ Okay, to be fair, Adolf's already seen Oona topless enough times that he's learned how to strategize when she's not wearing clothes— he has spare shirts at the ready in spades, she'd know that by now.

So he shouldn't be embarrassed about it anymore, not really. And he isn't, but her expressing that is still somewhat... well.

He stops midmotion in running his mouth over her scars again, keeps his head there while he answers. ]

...You'll still have to keep your clothes on around me.

[ A warning, gentle, as if he's read her mind. ]

I'm still a red-blooded male.

[ Meaning, she can't just do that to him all the time; she'll drive him crazy, at this rate. He obliges her for now, though, and pulls back enough so that Oona can take her shirt off if she wants...

...unless she wants him to do that for her, which she'll have to articulate. ]

Ahh, so mean. [but there's no heat in her words.] Where is the fun in that?

[She might have, on another occasion, teased him to take it off of her himself, but for all her talk about how she can be patient she doesn't waste anytime in pulling the shirt off to toss carelessly to the side.

She's been in various states of undress around him before, so this really shouldn't have been that different. Except, well, it obviously is. Usually he avoids actually looking at her body, keeping his eyes carefully above her shoulders, but now there's no sense of propriety to keep his eyes--or hands--from wandering.

Her own hands press against the scars between her breasts, the single unbroken one that bisects her body to below her bellybutton. The matching one on her back gives off a phantom sting, a pain remembered that she knows no longer actually exists.

When faced with the uncomfortable realities of her scars, Oona does what she's always done: She lifts her head a little and lounges back against the headboard as if to show them off, like they didn't bother her. 'Fake it until you make it,' she'd heard humans say before, and it was advice she certainly tried to follow.

So her hand slides from her body to grasp the hem of his shirt, tugging it upwards slightly in suggestion. Her head tilts deliberately to let one lock of her hair slide across her face, the ends curling between her breasts] I want this off too.

[ The conscious choice this time, for Adolf is to look. At every inch of her, because there's something about the way she leans back and shows him that he can't refuse. She breathes— inhales, exhales— and that in itself is beautiful, the way her scars curve with her ribs.

Whether it's a provocation or not seems moot by now, and Adolf finds himself running one hand up from where the scar ends beneath her navel and up between her chest. He lets the palm linger over her heartbeat for a few seconds before he finally concedes to her request, shifts back along the sheets so he can peel his own shirt off and toss it gently to the side.

If there was a time when self-consciousness was appropriate, he's passed that juncture long ago: he knows what he looks like, his mess of scars and discolored burns, the inorganic metal embedded in his chest, his joints, his bones. Despite that, he also knows that Oona won't flinch, and that's the reason he complies without protest. ]

...Not exactly what you were promised in stories, is it.

[ Princes usually come in better shapes and sizes, with charm and promises and 'ever-afters'. There's self-deprecation nestled in Adolf's words, but it's overshadowed by a brand of shyness that he tucks under his bangs and a tilt of his jaw downwards. He clears his throat, and moves forward to loop a hand around Oona's waist to push her gently back down onto the mattress. ]

What else do you want.

[ His voice is a rasp against her ear, simultaneously as serious as he always is (sincere, always sincere) and somewhat knowing (so he can spoil her, yes, and probably worse). ]

Edited 2015-11-07 15:26 (UTC)

[She knows he can't possibly be using his powers now, but every touch feels like an electric shock is coursing through her, a pleasant tingle that leaves her shivering in the wake of his fingers.

Half-lidded eyes watch closely-- she's seen him without a shirt before, it's inevitable when she's spent as much time over here as she has, but this time the context is much different. And no, she doesn't flinch, but allows her eyes to roam eagerly. She doesn't see the imperfections he surely does. She sees tight muscle and a story etched into his very skin. A sad, horrific story, yes, but it has survivor all over it, and she can appreciate that much if nothing else.]

Stupid. [An affectionate murmur and she reaches out to let the tips of her fingers brush against his chest and down his stomach until she can't touch anymore without having to lean forward. Her hand drops off to rest on the bed and she smiles] I am too old for those fairy-tales. I like this reality much more.

[He moves her again so easily and her teeth worry her bottom lip, her arms securing themselves around Adolf's neck. She presses a kiss to his cheek and nips playfully at his ear.]

You.

[Oona is a mermaid of simple answers and simple pleasures--she really doesn't need much. She pulls away to cup his face, angling her head up for a heated kiss-- air? Who needed that? She'd steal the very breath from his lungs if she could right now]

[ He curls into her, all 6 feet of him, to meet her kiss and to reverse gravity. Oona cranes up and Adolf is there to oblige her, as if she's using her native language instead of whatever the translators render their words into— each syllable is a siren's song, and Oona was absolutely right when she says that he was doomed from the start.

There's nothing he can say about her request, how that one syllable is capable of tugging his fractures back into place. There's nothing he can say, so he wisely doesn't, and opts instead to show her his intentions with actions, with gestures, because she so often tells him that he's more expressive with his body language than he is with anything else about him.

A wide palm callused with years of training cups Oona's hip, draws her inwards so that her lower half is effectively lifted from the mattress; Adolf keeps her there, hand at her tailbone and positioned between his legs, so he can roll up and against her in one surprisingly fluid motion, emulating what it'd be like if he were inside her.

Which is, incidentally, what he'd like— a moment of near-selfishness, conveyed through a fragmented exhale that runs a sigh across Oona's lips. ]

I can do that.

[ He finally manages, between rocking over the curve of Oona's body once more. ]