(appreciate her, she near says something corny in response. she wants to. it isn't just appreciation, but more than that. the scrap of cloth falls to the floor and irene sits half nude, cellinia is the one that's "mostly" dressed. though that's in something that is hardly considered clothing. the thin fabric on the front of it can feel the heat pooling between them in a slow simmer. this isn't anything hateful, not even violent, angry, or rough like they've both once upon a time experienced in their own ways. it's the perfect mix of complication in how it's so different. the resort can compel people, but that didn't mean that they had to follow the hedonistic urgings.
what this is instead, if it has to be labeled, is something far more intimate. while irene's hands moving along the exposed skin from the back of this leotard to find a zipper, cellinia eventually pulls back enough to help instead. the straps of it taken from her shoulders, then pulled downward after getting the thin fabric over her head. it's slow, the descent of it, the exposing of her bare breasts as the leotard pools around her stomach.
maybe she feels shy, too, in how cellinia can't help but be flushed slightly and look away. this isn't different, hadn't she shown this woman cradling her this body of hers more than enough by now? she has, she knows she has. so why does it feel different, unlike what she had thought to herself?)
....I'll always appreciate you.
(more than she'd ever know, more than she could ever say. how hopeless, but this is only another step forward into spiraling down into a more figurative death by romance once the realization comes. love has its ways of doing that, when it gets there.)
no subject
what this is instead, if it has to be labeled, is something far more intimate. while irene's hands moving along the exposed skin from the back of this leotard to find a zipper, cellinia eventually pulls back enough to help instead. the straps of it taken from her shoulders, then pulled downward after getting the thin fabric over her head. it's slow, the descent of it, the exposing of her bare breasts as the leotard pools around her stomach.
maybe she feels shy, too, in how cellinia can't help but be flushed slightly and look away. this isn't different, hadn't she shown this woman cradling her this body of hers more than enough by now? she has, she knows she has. so why does it feel different, unlike what she had thought to herself?)
....I'll always appreciate you.
(more than she'd ever know, more than she could ever say. how hopeless, but this is only another step forward into spiraling down into a more figurative death by romance once the realization comes. love has its ways of doing that, when it gets there.)