（ that appears to shock him enough that he is staring down in dismay at the pieces of dress in one hand, blinking as if he has no memory of why it's abruptly torn. but he isn't given long to consider it — instead, he obeys her and gives the garment a yank, taking it the rest of the way off. it bares more skin, and between that and the quest of her hand across his back and the twining of her fingers in his hair, he lets out a sound that is rough and fractured, forehead pressed against the crux of her shoulder like breathing her in is the only thing keeping him steady. it hurts to be touched in his current state, but it's worse not to be. it's as if every point of contact between them is sizzling the way hot metal does when it touches water, and he knows almost instinctively it will lead to relief if he can just bear it out now.
her thighs are tight around his hips, and he's suddenly pissed off he's wearing pants, that there's anything between them at all. the mindless urge to rut against her rises, and his hips buck against her, responding to the heat of her body and the press of her thighs and the manic, frantic need that's seized him by the fucking throat. still, the fragmented thread of him that's still rational hesitates to get undressed, to make this something real and solid, to step forward into something he can't take back.
he should — say something, he thinks. apologize for the dress. ask permission to keep touching her like this. he'd said she should be on top, right? he should —
but she's mostly naked now, bra pushed up. he's — seen breasts before, thanks, has seen both yoruichi and rukia naked, has imagined inoue in moments where he's alone, but those tepid dips into fantasy never get much further than just laying on a bed together before his mind clenches on the thought and drives him to a cold shower or some other method of distraction. nami's skin is paler where the sun hasn't kissed it, and her breasts are a soft swell against a body that's been made lean and hard by sailing life, and he should — get the bra off the rest of the way first. shouldn't wreck more of her clothes.
so the strap gets tugged, clumsy, down the length of her arm and then off the other, and the bra flung elsewhere in the room. one hand is flat, braced on the bed, and the other — when he touches her breasts it's neither gentle nor particularly polished, the inexperience showing in the fact he doesn't really seem to know what to do with them now that he's here. what results is an inarticulate series of otherwise valiant attempts, fingers kneading at her in a way he doesn't realize is bruisingly hard. ）
Did you — （ talking is So Hard right now. he's breathless. ） condoms?
i have like 300 icons and none for porn bye
her thighs are tight around his hips, and he's suddenly pissed off he's wearing pants, that there's anything between them at all. the mindless urge to rut against her rises, and his hips buck against her, responding to the heat of her body and the press of her thighs and the manic, frantic need that's seized him by the fucking throat. still, the fragmented thread of him that's still rational hesitates to get undressed, to make this something real and solid, to step forward into something he can't take back.
he should — say something, he thinks. apologize for the dress. ask permission to keep touching her like this. he'd said she should be on top, right? he should —
but she's mostly naked now, bra pushed up. he's — seen breasts before, thanks, has seen both yoruichi and rukia naked, has imagined inoue in moments where he's alone, but those tepid dips into fantasy never get much further than just laying on a bed together before his mind clenches on the thought and drives him to a cold shower or some other method of distraction. nami's skin is paler where the sun hasn't kissed it, and her breasts are a soft swell against a body that's been made lean and hard by sailing life, and he should — get the bra off the rest of the way first. shouldn't wreck more of her clothes.
so the strap gets tugged, clumsy, down the length of her arm and then off the other, and the bra flung elsewhere in the room. one hand is flat, braced on the bed, and the other — when he touches her breasts it's neither gentle nor particularly polished, the inexperience showing in the fact he doesn't really seem to know what to do with them now that he's here. what results is an inarticulate series of otherwise valiant attempts, fingers kneading at her in a way he doesn't realize is bruisingly hard. ）
Did you — （ talking is So Hard right now. he's breathless. ） condoms?