[It's ridiculous, quite frankly, that the two of them are a pair of grown adults acting like a pair of teenagers sneaking an illicit kiss on the living room couch while their parents are otherwise preoccupied in the den. It's nothing short of absurd, and yet it's such a stark contrast to what it'd been when they'd both been under the influence of Possession that he's nothing if not powerfully grateful for it. There's no comparison whatsoever between this and the other; there's no heavy-handed seduction, no sickly desire to please.
It's just a kiss — a light, soft kiss. And somehow it seems equally ridiculous to think that such a fleeting thing could have such earth-shattering ramifications for the both of them, when in fact it's almost laughable how closely it verges to barely even being romantic at all. Feigned kisses in school theater productions have been more enthusiastic than this; staged deceptions have boasted more overt passion.
And yet it's not any less for it. It's just a kiss, light and easy, like idling on the beach and watching the sun sink beneath the water in a ball of molten red fire. It's just a kiss, soft and fleeting, like a breath of wind across a garden on the first day of spring.
It's just a kiss, and it's still just a kiss even when his hand creeps along the length of his leg to find hers and tug it away from his knee, but only so that he can press it down against the sofa cushions and cover her fingers over with his own.
It's only a kiss, and yet it's one he knows he'll gladly wait his whole summer to repeat, patiently and faithfully until the time comes for him to taste it again.]
[It's not the best kiss she's ever had. It's certainly not the most passionate; it's not the hungriest, or hottest, or even the most loving. It's simple, and sweet, and frankly a little soft for her tastes, and yet despite all that, Rosalind's breath comes out shaky as she pulls back from it.
So that's what kissing Christopher is like. So that's what he tastes like; so that's what it feels like, to be pressed lightly against him, with his hand seeking hers out blindly and his nose bumping against hers. It's absolutely nothing like she imagined, and that's what makes it so good.]
All right?
[She murmurs it against his mouth, her mind's eye lingering on the way his hand is covering hers.]
[He nods, half-inclined to tug a little further away just out of sheer instinct, but at the same time not altogether wanting to move away.]
...All right.
[And for a few seconds everything is just hazy that way, idle and pleasant and slow, right up until something occurs to him and he offers almost absently.]
...Though I suppose objectively speaking, the experiment is a bit of a bust, isn't it.
[And that's most certainly the growled answer of Rosalind, not Dr. Lutece, as she dives back in to resume the kiss. It's harder this time, an insistent punctuation to her statement, and once it ends she adds:]
We found out what it did, actually, so no, Christopher, it wasn't a bust. Are you really going to talk about that experiment when I'm kissing you?
[Oh, well. On the upside, she does manage to get his eyes to go a little wide as she moves back in for an encore — having surprised him, visibly — but sadly it's not enough to get his thinly-veiled amusement to dissipate before the next time they break for air long enough for him to get words out.]
I'm just saying —
[Mmph.]
— I'm flattered to know I take precedence even over science, in your attentions.
[Hah, what a lie that is, as if she's not hungry to kiss him the moment their mouths part. Rosalind shifts, though, pulling back further so she can view him properly. She feels giddy and breathless, suddenly unrestricted after months of restraining herself. This won't continue past this weekend, but god, they've free licence to do as they like until then, don't they?
And to that end . . .]
Sit back. There's ways to do this that don't involve my getting a crick in my neck.
[Strange, really. For what might just be the first time since the beginning of their acquaintance, he looks at her and doesn't have to remind himself to see Rosalind, to call her by name, to perceive the two of them as being on equal footing. He quite simply does, instinctively, and that's something worth relishing — but it's also something he's going to have to save for contemplation until later.]
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no subject
It's just a kiss — a light, soft kiss. And somehow it seems equally ridiculous to think that such a fleeting thing could have such earth-shattering ramifications for the both of them, when in fact it's almost laughable how closely it verges to barely even being romantic at all. Feigned kisses in school theater productions have been more enthusiastic than this; staged deceptions have boasted more overt passion.
And yet it's not any less for it. It's just a kiss, light and easy, like idling on the beach and watching the sun sink beneath the water in a ball of molten red fire. It's just a kiss, soft and fleeting, like a breath of wind across a garden on the first day of spring.
It's just a kiss, and it's still just a kiss even when his hand creeps along the length of his leg to find hers and tug it away from his knee, but only so that he can press it down against the sofa cushions and cover her fingers over with his own.
It's only a kiss, and yet it's one he knows he'll gladly wait his whole summer to repeat, patiently and faithfully until the time comes for him to taste it again.]
no subject
So that's what kissing Christopher is like. So that's what he tastes like; so that's what it feels like, to be pressed lightly against him, with his hand seeking hers out blindly and his nose bumping against hers. It's absolutely nothing like she imagined, and that's what makes it so good.]
All right?
[She murmurs it against his mouth, her mind's eye lingering on the way his hand is covering hers.]
no subject
...All right.
[And for a few seconds everything is just hazy that way, idle and pleasant and slow, right up until something occurs to him and he offers almost absently.]
...Though I suppose objectively speaking, the experiment is a bit of a bust, isn't it.
no subject
[And that's most certainly the growled answer of Rosalind, not Dr. Lutece, as she dives back in to resume the kiss. It's harder this time, an insistent punctuation to her statement, and once it ends she adds:]
We found out what it did, actually, so no, Christopher, it wasn't a bust. Are you really going to talk about that experiment when I'm kissing you?
no subject
I'm just saying —
[Mmph.]
— I'm flattered to know I take precedence even over science, in your attentions.
no subject
[Hah, what a lie that is, as if she's not hungry to kiss him the moment their mouths part. Rosalind shifts, though, pulling back further so she can view him properly. She feels giddy and breathless, suddenly unrestricted after months of restraining herself. This won't continue past this weekend, but god, they've free licence to do as they like until then, don't they?
And to that end . . .]
Sit back. There's ways to do this that don't involve my getting a crick in my neck.
no subject
As you wish.
[And back he goes.]