Nn-- I'm going to be very upset if you don't, Bigby.
[She's going to be very unsurprised, though she thinks she can at least get him to make coffee for her. Perhaps. It's worth a shot, anyway, and heaven knows Rosalind likes a challenge, especially when it comes with the thought of Bigby doing something nice for her.
But his ploy works perfectly: she's flushing, squirming thanks to that attention, too distracted to bother chasing after what he isn't giving her. Later, she thinks vaguely, and lets the matter drop in favor of grinding her ass back up against him again.
Fuck me, she tells him soon, too wet to dream of letting him just use her thighs. He doesn't need telling twice; with a groan he slips into her, stretching her open wide and filling her up, and Rosalind's mouth drops open, a moan slipping past her lips, her cunt throbbing around him.
It's not the most vigorous sex they've had, but what they lack in speed, they more than make up for in pleasure. Before long they're echoing around the bathroom, moans and whimpers and the wet sound of skin against skin, until at last he spills into her and leaves her aching for more.
It's very hard not to beg him to reciprocate, but luckily, he's not feeling particular cruel tonight. She slumps back against the shower wall, cold tile at her back, and gasps against the crook of his neck as his fingers slip between her legs.
The water's gone tepid by the time they finally exit the shower. Rosalind moves languidly, her muscles gone soft and pliant. She's a far sight from the uptight, tense woman she'd been arriving here, but a hot shower and an orgasm will do wonders for anyone, Rosalind included.]
How grabby are you going to be tonight?
[She asks it idly as they head into his room. She's almost certain he'll grope her at least once before they fall asleep. It's almost too tempting not to: she's stealing one of his button-ups, and the hemline falls only to her mid-thigh.
And . . . it's not that she's never slept with a man before. Of course not. She and Robert had shared a bed for nearly fifteen years; she's more than used to it. But it's odd to share one with someone who isn't Robert. She feels a little like an interloper as she sits on his bed, watching him as he moves about his room, but it's a feeling she keeps firmly to herself.]
Simply curious. You seem to have a particular affection for my backside.
[ if there's one thing he can confidently say he's learned about Rosalind, it's that she has more endurance than he would have reasonably expected. for someone that has been on her feet and subject to much strain to her muscles, she was able to withstand standing for a little bit longer if it means she gets fucked. then again, maybe it is easy to forget about the need to sit down, to sleep, when one is getting filled with a cock from behind. either way, she's a trooper and once their romp in the shower is over and done, he believes she's more than earned some rest.
they've both exited the shower after exhausting every little bit of hot water his home had available. Bigby opts to wear clothing for the one half that Rosalind avoids, a pair of pajama bottoms that ride low on his hips. he can't believe she's really wearing his clothes, but at this point, he doesn't believe there is any stopping her. is he watching as she puts it on? absolutely. is he so distracted by the thought and image of someone else wearing his button-up that he hardly hears her question? you know it.
Bigby has a delayed reaction to her question, and he visibly shakes his head when it soaks in. a hand runs through wet, matted hair, smoothing it back while he pauses to think. a few more seconds and he shrugs his shoulder. ]
Don't know. Not usually the snuggling type, so you might be lucky. Or disappointed.
[ she mentions his fascination with her backside and he can't help but smirk, not particularly embarrassed about being called out for it. he even makes a point of glancing down and stepping to the side to see if he can get a peek underneath the button-up. ]
[She scoffs as he leans over, but she's too tired to be anything but amused by it. At least he'll get a reward for his efforts: he can absolutely get a glance of the curve of her ass, though it only lasts for a few seconds. Then she's turning, facing him properly.]
And here you were supposed to tell me that you adored it. A compliment isn't impossible for you, Bigby, despite what you might want others to think.
[She's exhausted, their fuck having taken out the last bits of her stamina, but it's still hard not to be tempted by the way he looks right now. He isn't the only one staring; Rosalind eyes the lines of his hips, her gaze pointed, before turning away.
She sits on the bed. It's not quite as soft as the bed she has back in Olympia, and the sheets certainly aren't the ridiculously high thread count she insists upon, but after two days? She'd happily sleep on the floor. Anything even remotely soft is worth a great deal, and Rosalind sighs as she tucks her legs beneath her.
Her hands go behind her head, and she starts tying her hair into a neat braid.]
At least if nothing else, I shan't freeze tonight. Has anyone ever told you you're a furnace?
[That might be a problem come summer, but at least in winter, she'll take advantage of that without shame. She isn't particularly eager to cuddle with him, but she is eager not to spend another night cold, so. And speaking of chills . . . it's not that he doesn't have heat in this room, but she could also stand if he came over right now, because it's rather cold when you're still damp.]
If you get any flattery out of me, it's done with my hands. And that's a big if.
[ they've been looking at each other naked for the past half hour or longer. his hands had been all over and inside of her. she knows her body — and yes, her backside in particular — is adored. or at least the closest thing to adored that Bigby can muster up without feeling untrue to himself.
still continuously surprised that she hasn't passed out yet, he begins to walk over to the other side of the bed in order to crawl underneath the sheets. the last woman he had in his bed was Aranea, and that was a woman who was too fatigued to do anything even remotely sexual. kudos to Rosalind for trumping a battle-hardened mercenary in that regard. it leads him to wonder why the fuck his home is a pit stop for people, but he isn't about to start bitching about company. something in him says he enjoys it. ]
I'm going to assume that is you calling me warm. Thanks, I think.
[ Bigby groans as he gets comfortable on his own back, feeling his hips and thighs were rather tender as well. nothing he couldn't deal with, but at least it allows him to appreciate the bed and its comforts equally. ]
Is that code for something along the lines of "Bigby, I want your arms around me"? I might consider it if you ask nicely.
[She reaches for the edges of her sleeves, rolling up one carefully. There's a practiced air to the way she does it, suggesting she's rather used to wearing men's shirts-- or at least, one man in particular. Bigby's a bit larger than him, though, so it takes extra time. But soon enough she's done it. Sleeves up, hair tied, and she's finally ready to settle back under the sheets, lying down properly.
Cuddling or not, it's not a particularly wide bed; some touching is inevitable. Feet and legs and torso, and Rosalind offers him a slight smile as she turns on her side, facing him. For once, it's not a smirk, but rather something softer and sweeter.
Without much warning, she scoots forward, outright pressing herself tight against him. He's either going to have to stay with his arms stiffly at his side or wrap them around her.]
Bigby, I want your arms around me, because I'm prone to chills and you're very warm.
[He's not going to be able to see her smug little grin, but he can at least hear it. She shifts and squirms this way and that, settling in, her eyes already eager to slide closed. She won't last much longer, but there's something else she has to get in first.]
[ ah. okay. Bigby should have maybe expected the possibility of Rosalind latching onto him regardless of what he did first. when she does, he grunts, but he doesn't make any effort to shove her away or roll over instead. his shirt feels soft when it's not on his own shoulders, and it's almost natural in the way his arm slides underneath her. her head will now be resting on his bicep, with his fingers barely dragging against hers. ]
I think I've made a point of saying I fucking spoil you, but it doesn't hurt to remind you again.
[ he figures she's going to be asleep before she even realizes it, so he merely stares up at the ceiling with little thought of thinking he can get away with exploiting the shirt that is undoubtedly riding up her thighs. when she speaks again, he looks down at her, even clearing his throat awkwardly at the sudden thank you. ]
Uh... yeah. Don't mention it. I figure this should make us about even.
[ there's the briefest of squeezes out of him as he reassures her, even going as far to extend his fingers to brush some stray, wet hairs out of her face. ]
[Oh, that's . . . nice, actually. The brush of his fingers and the way he squeezes her and the warmth of his body as they settle beneath the sheets, all combining together to make something . . . mm. Not quite intimate, but comfortable. She'd been a little uncertain at the start of all this, but now Rosalind feels relaxed, utterly so. The wind whips outside, cold and harsh, but she feels . . .
Safe, she realizes, and it's a stunning realization. She feels safe, and more importantly, she doesn't feel alone. Here she is and here she'll stay til morning, all because he's fond of her.
It's something she hasn't felt in six months, not since Robert left her side, and she's loath to fall asleep and chase it away. So though her eyes are eager to close, Rosalind yawns and squirms, tipping her head back to push against his fingers.]
Well. If you won't tell me a story, I'll tell you one, hm? About . . . hmm. I suppose I was asking you for a fairy story; you might hear one from my world. Or something from my past, pick one of the two.
[ part of him wants to pretend he's fallen asleep. not because he's a dick (for once) just looking to make her be quiet, but because she should get as much shut-eye as she can. she's traveled miles upon miles on feet and embraced more wilderness than she would have ever wanted in her life only to fall upon his doorstep to get fucked in a shower. on her feet, at that, not even on her damn back or something. perhaps that's surprisingly kind of Bigby to think like that, but he decides not to when she suddenly throws an offer out there. ]
Oh, just so you can hold me to returning the favor at some point? I see what you're trying to do, Ms. Lutece. [ he's not completely serious, and he proves it by reaching down with his hand and giving a light swat at the side of her ass. she did expect he would touch her at some point; maybe not like that. ] I've heard enough fairy tales to last more lifetimes than you know. Let's go with something from your past.
[She says it more laughing than protesting, so he's probably in the clear for that. Though she does reach down to grab his wrist.]
If you're going to be like that, don't do it when I'm exhausted.
[Which is more so she can buy herself time to think. Hmm . . . something from her past? It can't be something ordinary, then.]
Mm . . . I was fifteen when I first entered university. Or-- no, fourteen, but I was fifteen the first time I made a friend. I was . . . very angry as a teenager. Very, very angry. I was resentful of the world and determined to prove myself, and absolutely naive as to how things worked. I thought that if I could simply prove that everyone in the world was stupider than me, they'd all have to bow to that fact sooner or later.
Well. You can well imagine how that turned out. It wasn't nearly as bad as when I was a child, but I experienced my share of, ah, setbacks, as it were.
But I had a roommate in my second year. Victoria Pendergrass. I didn't realize it at the time, but I was very much enamored with her. She was . . . vivacious, I suppose you'd call her. Brilliant and beautiful. And of course, she had a little gang of friends, and so I gained friends through sheer proximity.
One of them rather reminds me of you. Not entirely-- you're far gruffer than Henry Standish ever was-- but you both get a kick out of setting off my temper and riling me up. He used to do it by baiting me with scientific principles.
[She yawns.]
Mm. I almost married him, actually. We, ah, he was my first-- well. He was my first, and I suppose he felt an obligation afterwards, so he proposed. It was flattering, if not both very clearly a pained effort on his part and utterly horrifying for me.
But then there was Robert, and any further propositions became unnecessary. Which really was for the best, because Henry Standish had no idea how to please a woman, stupid boy.
[ when she grabs his wrist, he just reaches around with his free hand and paps her on the ass again. just because he can. he doesn't say anything after, though, listening to her go on with her story. there's a few comments he wants to make, mostly about how she's too smart for her own good, and how shitty of a last name Pendergrass is, but he doesn't. not yet. not until he hears Henry Standish. ]
Please don't compare me to a guy named Henry fucking Standish.
[ then she talks about marriage and he's immediately wincing. ]
Wouldn't that make you... like, fifteen or sixteen when you almost married him.
My mother began presenting me for marriage when I was thirteen, Bigby. That was a bit young, but she hoped to make a match based on my lineage. By sixteen I was attending every party my mother could find during semester breaks. That wasn't so young, not for us.
[ ages thirteen through sixteen for Bigby most likely consisted of him devouring animals and people double his size, so he figures he doesn't have much room to judge. so he doesn't. it's just an interesting thing to consider, Rosalind being a teenage wife. what a bullet she dodged with that one. ]
Guess it's a little funny. You went through your kid years too fast, so life tells you to chill the fuck out and you're stuck in your thirties for... how long was it, again?
[To be fair: she really has no idea how long to count the time she and Robert spent with Booker. On the other hand: it's more than a little misleading to keep being vague about it, but he'll never stop mocking her if she reveals she's the babiest immortal ever.]
Mm. In any case . . . there's worse I could compare you to than Henry. Be grateful.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[She's going to be very unsurprised, though she thinks she can at least get him to make coffee for her. Perhaps. It's worth a shot, anyway, and heaven knows Rosalind likes a challenge, especially when it comes with the thought of Bigby doing something nice for her.
But his ploy works perfectly: she's flushing, squirming thanks to that attention, too distracted to bother chasing after what he isn't giving her. Later, she thinks vaguely, and lets the matter drop in favor of grinding her ass back up against him again.
Fuck me, she tells him soon, too wet to dream of letting him just use her thighs. He doesn't need telling twice; with a groan he slips into her, stretching her open wide and filling her up, and Rosalind's mouth drops open, a moan slipping past her lips, her cunt throbbing around him.
It's not the most vigorous sex they've had, but what they lack in speed, they more than make up for in pleasure. Before long they're echoing around the bathroom, moans and whimpers and the wet sound of skin against skin, until at last he spills into her and leaves her aching for more.
It's very hard not to beg him to reciprocate, but luckily, he's not feeling particular cruel tonight. She slumps back against the shower wall, cold tile at her back, and gasps against the crook of his neck as his fingers slip between her legs.
The water's gone tepid by the time they finally exit the shower. Rosalind moves languidly, her muscles gone soft and pliant. She's a far sight from the uptight, tense woman she'd been arriving here, but a hot shower and an orgasm will do wonders for anyone, Rosalind included.]
How grabby are you going to be tonight?
[She asks it idly as they head into his room. She's almost certain he'll grope her at least once before they fall asleep. It's almost too tempting not to: she's stealing one of his button-ups, and the hemline falls only to her mid-thigh.
And . . . it's not that she's never slept with a man before. Of course not. She and Robert had shared a bed for nearly fifteen years; she's more than used to it. But it's odd to share one with someone who isn't Robert. She feels a little like an interloper as she sits on his bed, watching him as he moves about his room, but it's a feeling she keeps firmly to herself.]
Simply curious. You seem to have a particular affection for my backside.
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they've both exited the shower after exhausting every little bit of hot water his home had available. Bigby opts to wear clothing for the one half that Rosalind avoids, a pair of pajama bottoms that ride low on his hips. he can't believe she's really wearing his clothes, but at this point, he doesn't believe there is any stopping her. is he watching as she puts it on? absolutely. is he so distracted by the thought and image of someone else wearing his button-up that he hardly hears her question? you know it.
Bigby has a delayed reaction to her question, and he visibly shakes his head when it soaks in. a hand runs through wet, matted hair, smoothing it back while he pauses to think. a few more seconds and he shrugs his shoulder. ]
Don't know. Not usually the snuggling type, so you might be lucky. Or disappointed.
[ she mentions his fascination with her backside and he can't help but smirk, not particularly embarrassed about being called out for it. he even makes a point of glancing down and stepping to the side to see if he can get a peek underneath the button-up. ]
Mm, no. Just something easy to hold onto is all.
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And here you were supposed to tell me that you adored it. A compliment isn't impossible for you, Bigby, despite what you might want others to think.
[She's exhausted, their fuck having taken out the last bits of her stamina, but it's still hard not to be tempted by the way he looks right now. He isn't the only one staring; Rosalind eyes the lines of his hips, her gaze pointed, before turning away.
She sits on the bed. It's not quite as soft as the bed she has back in Olympia, and the sheets certainly aren't the ridiculously high thread count she insists upon, but after two days? She'd happily sleep on the floor. Anything even remotely soft is worth a great deal, and Rosalind sighs as she tucks her legs beneath her.
Her hands go behind her head, and she starts tying her hair into a neat braid.]
At least if nothing else, I shan't freeze tonight. Has anyone ever told you you're a furnace?
[That might be a problem come summer, but at least in winter, she'll take advantage of that without shame. She isn't particularly eager to cuddle with him, but she is eager not to spend another night cold, so. And speaking of chills . . . it's not that he doesn't have heat in this room, but she could also stand if he came over right now, because it's rather cold when you're still damp.]
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[ they've been looking at each other naked for the past half hour or longer. his hands had been all over and inside of her. she knows her body — and yes, her backside in particular — is adored. or at least the closest thing to adored that Bigby can muster up without feeling untrue to himself.
still continuously surprised that she hasn't passed out yet, he begins to walk over to the other side of the bed in order to crawl underneath the sheets. the last woman he had in his bed was Aranea, and that was a woman who was too fatigued to do anything even remotely sexual. kudos to Rosalind for trumping a battle-hardened mercenary in that regard. it leads him to wonder why the fuck his home is a pit stop for people, but he isn't about to start bitching about company. something in him says he enjoys it. ]
I'm going to assume that is you calling me warm. Thanks, I think.
[ Bigby groans as he gets comfortable on his own back, feeling his hips and thighs were rather tender as well. nothing he couldn't deal with, but at least it allows him to appreciate the bed and its comforts equally. ]
Is that code for something along the lines of "Bigby, I want your arms around me"? I might consider it if you ask nicely.
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[She reaches for the edges of her sleeves, rolling up one carefully. There's a practiced air to the way she does it, suggesting she's rather used to wearing men's shirts-- or at least, one man in particular. Bigby's a bit larger than him, though, so it takes extra time. But soon enough she's done it. Sleeves up, hair tied, and she's finally ready to settle back under the sheets, lying down properly.
Cuddling or not, it's not a particularly wide bed; some touching is inevitable. Feet and legs and torso, and Rosalind offers him a slight smile as she turns on her side, facing him. For once, it's not a smirk, but rather something softer and sweeter.
Without much warning, she scoots forward, outright pressing herself tight against him. He's either going to have to stay with his arms stiffly at his side or wrap them around her.]
Bigby, I want your arms around me, because I'm prone to chills and you're very warm.
[He's not going to be able to see her smug little grin, but he can at least hear it. She shifts and squirms this way and that, settling in, her eyes already eager to slide closed. She won't last much longer, but there's something else she has to get in first.]
Ah . . . I almost forgot.
Thank you. Truly. This means a great deal to me.
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I think I've made a point of saying I fucking spoil you, but it doesn't hurt to remind you again.
[ he figures she's going to be asleep before she even realizes it, so he merely stares up at the ceiling with little thought of thinking he can get away with exploiting the shirt that is undoubtedly riding up her thighs. when she speaks again, he looks down at her, even clearing his throat awkwardly at the sudden thank you. ]
Uh... yeah. Don't mention it. I figure this should make us about even.
[ there's the briefest of squeezes out of him as he reassures her, even going as far to extend his fingers to brush some stray, wet hairs out of her face. ]
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Safe, she realizes, and it's a stunning realization. She feels safe, and more importantly, she doesn't feel alone. Here she is and here she'll stay til morning, all because he's fond of her.
It's something she hasn't felt in six months, not since Robert left her side, and she's loath to fall asleep and chase it away. So though her eyes are eager to close, Rosalind yawns and squirms, tipping her head back to push against his fingers.]
Well. If you won't tell me a story, I'll tell you one, hm? About . . . hmm. I suppose I was asking you for a fairy story; you might hear one from my world. Or something from my past, pick one of the two.
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Oh, just so you can hold me to returning the favor at some point? I see what you're trying to do, Ms. Lutece. [ he's not completely serious, and he proves it by reaching down with his hand and giving a light swat at the side of her ass. she did expect he would touch her at some point; maybe not like that. ] I've heard enough fairy tales to last more lifetimes than you know. Let's go with something from your past.
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[She says it more laughing than protesting, so he's probably in the clear for that. Though she does reach down to grab his wrist.]
If you're going to be like that, don't do it when I'm exhausted.
[Which is more so she can buy herself time to think. Hmm . . . something from her past? It can't be something ordinary, then.]
Mm . . . I was fifteen when I first entered university. Or-- no, fourteen, but I was fifteen the first time I made a friend. I was . . . very angry as a teenager. Very, very angry. I was resentful of the world and determined to prove myself, and absolutely naive as to how things worked. I thought that if I could simply prove that everyone in the world was stupider than me, they'd all have to bow to that fact sooner or later.
Well. You can well imagine how that turned out. It wasn't nearly as bad as when I was a child, but I experienced my share of, ah, setbacks, as it were.
But I had a roommate in my second year. Victoria Pendergrass. I didn't realize it at the time, but I was very much enamored with her. She was . . . vivacious, I suppose you'd call her. Brilliant and beautiful. And of course, she had a little gang of friends, and so I gained friends through sheer proximity.
One of them rather reminds me of you. Not entirely-- you're far gruffer than Henry Standish ever was-- but you both get a kick out of setting off my temper and riling me up. He used to do it by baiting me with scientific principles.
[She yawns.]
Mm. I almost married him, actually. We, ah, he was my first-- well. He was my first, and I suppose he felt an obligation afterwards, so he proposed. It was flattering, if not both very clearly a pained effort on his part and utterly horrifying for me.
But then there was Robert, and any further propositions became unnecessary. Which really was for the best, because Henry Standish had no idea how to please a woman, stupid boy.
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Please don't compare me to a guy named Henry fucking Standish.
[ then she talks about marriage and he's immediately wincing. ]
Wouldn't that make you... like, fifteen or sixteen when you almost married him.
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[A beat. She wrinkles her nose over at him.]
My mother began presenting me for marriage when I was thirteen, Bigby. That was a bit young, but she hoped to make a match based on my lineage. By sixteen I was attending every party my mother could find during semester breaks. That wasn't so young, not for us.
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Guess it's a little funny. You went through your kid years too fast, so life tells you to chill the fuck out and you're stuck in your thirties for... how long was it, again?
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[To be fair: she really has no idea how long to count the time she and Robert spent with Booker. On the other hand: it's more than a little misleading to keep being vague about it, but he'll never stop mocking her if she reveals she's the babiest immortal ever.]
Mm. In any case . . . there's worse I could compare you to than Henry. Be grateful.