thismaskiwear | Room 505, Tuesday Late Afternoon

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Room 505, Tuesday Late Afternoon

So one minute there'd been an attempt at actually, finally sucking it up, saying 'the hell with it,' and kissing Francine until she couldn't breathe as a prelude to other things that . . . would have a definite impact on breathing.

And then she'd been small, and fuzzy, with floppy ears, and NOT ADORABLE, DAMMIT.

Katchoo had been keeping up quite the mental rant about this in her head ever since it had happened, but being a bunny she couldn't exactly express it in her usual oh-so-charming way. Chewing on things, maybe, vented some of the frustration but she had a lot more of that built up than this tiny lapine form should have room to hold.

. . . that rant was still going, no matter how comfortable she was at the particular moment.

[OOC: For that girl. NOT YOU, RAVEN. ETA: This post might be kinda NWS now. WHAT?]

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Unmissed, unmourned, whatever. Katchoo could hardly be bothered to care about semantics

now

of all times. She certainly wouldn't miss them.

As evidenced by her hand sliding along the back of Francine's thigh when she turned her head to nip at an earlobe -- no, no gross dribbling brains here -- and murmur, "I know." Which was not, for the record, her quoting

Space Battles

Gnyaaaah. Wait, was she supposed to be thinking something coherent? Brain. Ears. How could she not see it? Maybe it was just invisible.

"Good. That's--" Oh hey, there were her fingers. She'd lost track of those. Kind of a shame because that meant she couldn't quite remember the trip from Katchoo's waist and up her side and wow um um um um um um wow um. (Normal people call that a breast, Francine. A ways smaller than yours, but it should still be recognizable, especially considering the lily.) "Warm." That... wasn't the word she'd been going to say.

"Oh, it's not warm enough yet, honey, I'm only getting started."

And that was the Baby June tone of voice, only Katchoo couldn't possibly have felt less like Baby June than she did right now. Not when Francine's hand was right there, and her own fingers were sliding very slowly upward and the word "love" was involved, which was less important than the fact that the word was true.

So once upon a time maybe Francine had watched Taste of the Apple volumes 1, 2, and 3 (subtitle: Red Delicious, and if volume 4 turned out to be Granny Smith, Francine was so out of there) thinking mostly can I do that and if I can, will I go to Hell and that sort of looks fun if I picture it with different faces and but that woman has no HIPS, my legs don't BEND that way and it was all kind of academic and embarrassing and awkwardly tingly at the same time.

None of which has anything to do with the effect Katchoo's voice had on her now except for the part where if you could bottle and sell that feeling, 'Dite would go out of business. "Chewie?"

That would solve their financial problems nicely. It'd also be slightly more feasible than getting to Switzerland, but please. This was not about pocketbooks. Or even pockets, now that pants were out of the picture.

"Yeah, Francie?"

"Falling over on the floor in three...two...one..." Not that she was, yet, but.

That settled it. Katchoo didn't want to be down there.

"Bed," she said firmly. "Now. 'kay?"

"Kay. So very kay. You have no idea how kay." That could go on for a while. She should probably find something else to do with her mouth.

Clavicles are nice.

Doing things to clavicles with your tongue? Not so conducive to moving backwards towards a bed with anything like coordination.

Having things done to your clavicles with someone's tongue? Not conducive to helping the movement be any more coordinated. Just for the record.

The squirming probably had something to do with that, but never let it be said that Katchoo wasn't

trying

.

There might be some progress being made here. Very staggery progress.

Very staggery progress backwards by someone half a foot taller then the squirming clavicle-owner whose skin tasted like water and salt. Like most skin, but Francine didn't exactly have tons of comparisons under the belt she wasn't wearing. Or any sense of balance whatsoever, so you can see where this is going, right? Right. It's going backwards onto the nearest bed with a great windmilling of arms, but no broken noses.

Hopefully.

No, no broken noses. A slight

whoof

! of air when Katchoo landed on top of her, but at least it wasn't the other way around?

This was not going to ruin the moment. Katchoo wouldn't let it.

"Hi there," she drawled instead, and yes, Francine, that would be Katchoo . . . maneuvering her thigh between yours.

Her other first time had involved Emmett Cullen banging on a bathroom door and then at some point there was ripping required to get her out of spandex, and that hadn't ruined the mood.

Granted there was sex pollen involved that time, but this time there was a Katchoo on top of her, being very very warm and soft and kind of squishy and also -- "Hi, there" -- there was that thigh, there. So you know.

"Hi." That word? Breathed just next to Francine's ear by the warm, soft, kind of squishy (despite being so scrawny) Katchoo on top of her, hands sliding slowly down Francine's sides and back up again because there were breasts, and she had hands that curved in just the right way to cup them.

That thigh might be applying the subtlest bit of pressure now. Just saying.

Edited 2010-01-20 07:53 (UTC)

And maybe it wasn't just Francine's face that got all flushed when stuff like this happened. Not that stuff like this had happened in a long damn time or depending how you looked at it, ever, but the point was... what was the point? Francine was shifting her leg and closing her eyes, and the point sort of escaped out the window, there. Something about breasts.

Breasts, or maybe Katchoo's mouth trailing a slow, wet path along the side of her neck.

Did there need to be a point? It seemed a little extraneous when you factored in mouths and hands and the steady, gentle rocking movement of Katchoo's leg.

Point, what point? Maybe the point was how - nnnnnngh you can DO that? Why didn't I know you can do that? - steady Francine wasn't in response, hands clasping then sliding down Katchoo's back for a moment just to stop herself from turning rock into jerk.

You knew now, Francine. That was the key part.

Unless the key part was Katchoo returning the favor about the clavicle thing, throwing in light nips with her teeth every now and then. It was a bit harder to keep her movements quite so steady when there were hands sliding down her back and wow, shivers up her spine.

That part was contagious, which was weird considering how hot it was in here, or maybe that was just Francine having trouble with her thermostat. It seemed to think they were back in the West Indies again or something, requiring her to throw her head back just to find some air.

Or give better access to her clavicles. You decide. It's like a Choose Your Own Adventure!

How about both? Katchoo could go with both as an answer. After all, if Francine didn't need some air with what she was doing here, not to mention raking her nails lightly along the curve of Francine's side, she was doing it wrong.

No. No, whatever it was, she was most certainly, definitely, Francine would swear on a stack of bibles and worry later about whether she was going to Hell for it, not doing it wrong.

Francine still had some vestige of wondering if she was, but it was mostly lodged in her brain-stem, nowhere near her vocal cords. Like, some part of her nervous system wondered if trying to wrap her leg around Katchoo's was helpful or not, but she was in no shape to actually ask.

Edited 2010-01-22 07:27 (UTC)

F$*k a stack of Bibles, Katchoo might say, and to hell with . . . uh, with the question of going to hell.

But that was all beside the point, wasn't it?

Besides, kissing a slow, deliberate trail down Francine's sternum, pausing every now and then to flick her tongue against bare skin then exhale a warm breath against the spot -- wasn't that an answer, or at least reassurance?

She certainly wasn't showing any intention of stopping.

Both, it was both. Or at least it was enough to send Francine far enough out of her head that is this right/what should I be doing/oh godohgodohgod were swimming someplace a foot below her, like the thoughts belonged to somebody else.

Well, except for the "Oh godohgod" which kind of slipped out of her mouth, so she really did have to cop to that one.

And don't think for a second that didn't make Katchoo, pausing with her lips against Francine's skin just below her breasts, smile.

She reached up for Francine's hand to lace their fingers together, and scraped her teeth gently against the spot she was kissing. It was like there wasn't an upper limit for physical contact here. She wanted as much of it as she could get.

The "Oh godohgod" was, by the way, entirely mutual. If only internal on Katchoo's end.

Francine wrapped her fingers down tight - maybe a little too tight at first, but that might have something to do with the fact that she'd just discovered that drawing her own knee up a bit did really interesting things to that pressure from Katchoo's between her thighs.

Okay, maybe a little bit of ow, but Katchoo was taking it as a good sign.

She might also maybe, just maybe, be kissing a slightly less slow but definitely inexorable trail downward, over Francine's stomach, lingering a bit to see just which spots were the most sensitive.

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