OOC: Storm commentary part 2
Log: Borrowed Memories
Date: 9/10/06
Players: Storm & Rossi
Continued from Part 1
She laughs, a light sound puffing soft breath against his skin as she turns her head into the touch of his hand. "That depends," Ororo says. She skims the backs of her fingers lightly over his chest, her lips playing at grin. "What did you have in mind?"
"Acceptable risks," Chris retorts, his other hand capturing hers to press it against the heartbeat under the skin. His warmth leeches swift through the thin fabric, finely wove cotton smooth against her fingers. His thumb slides over the pulse under her jaw; his head lowers, lips moving across hers. Zot.
I've mentioned about Storm's player being hot, right?
Right.
Hot.
H. O. T.
Take notes, ladies and gents. Seriously. Storm's player's gift for sensual expression is unbelievable. I learn what I can from her, with minimal success; I'm too old and set in my ways, I'm afraid. If I'm hot at all, it's because I have absorbed a little bit from her. But you! You are all young! Your minds are still flexible! Your talents are nubile! Read! Learn! Practice! Deploy!
Make the internets smoulder!
If touch is electric, it is not because a wrathful lightning bolt sears his flesh; if he is met with heat, it is the heat of breath, of lips, of tongue as Storm's mouth opens to his kiss, eyes laughing half-lidded and then closed behind the fan of lashes. One hand captured, the other finds his face, holding there as she angles her head to meet his mouth. And then breaks the kiss to breathe soft words, in a low, mirth-rough voice: "Kiss and make up."
A murmurous breath tickles against Storm's cheek, warm lips, warm touch nibbling at the corner of her mouth to stroke at roused senses. "What's the point of fighting," Chris asks, drinking in her scent, "if you don't get to make up afterwards?" Eyes already hooded smile, lit in waking heat and moving hunger; he lowers his head to search for the rush of blood under the skin, the pulse that flutters under the scroll of jaw and hollowed throat.
Head lifted to better allow him access to what is beneath, Ororo hums a breathless note of agreement, touched with still more unvoiced laughter. Her lashes flutter a blink, and then another, as her hands move -- one sliding to the back of his neck, to curve there; the other, to skim the breadth of his shoulders and then down his back; wandering fingers, chasing shape and texture and heat through fabric. "Right," she says. Distracted for some reason. A softer word, hissed out on a softer breath: "Yes--"
He moves at that roving touch, hisses through his teeth to nuzzle at that dusky heat, that desert warmth so akin to heat. Chris moves them, pressing her back until the window's post presses like a wall against her back; slides his free hand down her side, thumb sliding around the curve of breast and the harp of ribs to curl around her hip. "What were we fighting about?" he wonders to the blessed dark, drowning himself in silver hair and sweet skin. Eyes close, lashes butterfly kisses against her throat. "Was it important?"
Ororo, when I think of her as the player portrays her, isn't Halle Berry. That is to say, I don't get a static image of Halle Berry. I see her as ... silver, wind, desert heat, ripples, unvoiced laughter, bright blue, the pulse under the jaw, and an open window. A voice like mulled honey. Feline sensuality, lean muscles stretching, and an almost childish sense of humor. Halle Berry's face just contains it all, because Halle Berry certainly couldn't.
It seems repetitive just to chant the mantra of 'Storm's player HOT' over and over again, so let's be a little more specific. Random phrases in the above poses that are hot, from both the players:
'heat of breath, of lips, of tongue'; 'low, mirth-rough voice'; pretty much anything with breath, because breath against skin is intimate, and warm, and tickles, and caresses; 'drinking in her scent'; 'moving hunger'; 'rush of blood under the skin'; 'hums a breathless note'; 'sliding to the back of his neck'; 'wandering fingers'; 'chasing ... through fabric'--
And so on, so forth. Ahem.
He presses her against the wall that frames the window, which is a very masculine and rather controlling thing to do -- also hot! Walls are hot! -- but it's an understandable reaction after the conversation that came before it, a reminder of the most vulnerable and violating experience he's ever had. He has a need to assert control a bit, and while that's not really admirable, well. Storm is kind enough to permit it, and if she realizes that's what's happening, she's also sympathetic enough not to mention it.
There's a general repetition problem in the last pose I did, where I use the same words over and over. It's a bit embarrassing now that I look at it. If it weren't for that, the pose itself would be okay. Barring that, I like it, overall. It's rare enough that I like any of my own flirting/sensual poses. It is not something that I feel particularly strong in, which could be rectified by doing more of it -- but then again, might not.
It's probably a mistake to continue talking while you're necking. Rossi's not really paying attention to the conversation. He's got other things on his, um, mind. This is a mistake, since it ends up bringing them back to the very topic that he was wanting to leave.
Wind whips into the room and around them, fluttering papers and rippling at fabric and hair; behind the dark fall of her lashes, her eyes are filmed in snowy white. It encircles them, temperate but insistent; it spatters them with a light dusting of raindrops. "Frost." Her fingers curl inward, the strength of them pressing, biting into him as she suddenly stiffens in his arms. "I -- gods -- Chris." Her eyes close, and tighten, and she goes very still.
The exploring lips at her throat pause, breathing warmth into skin and into the blood beneath; when they move away, they leave nothing in their place. "What?" Chris asks, his expression invisible in the curtain of her hair. The strong body in her arms tightens, withdrawing even as his caress does. He straightens. Attraction, banked by a mature man's discipline, barely colors the closed expression. "Frost."
It's a little curious that I seem to feel the need to emphasize the fact that Rossi is in fact a mature man -- he's in his mid-30s, after all -- and therefore has control over his own body's reactions and his need to act on them. This might be because most of the men I know are in their late 20s and early 40s, and we've had discussions about the hectic days of youth. Research on my part, I admit it! I've heard some hilarious stories about how all-consuming the hormones were for guys when they were teens or early 20s, which I find hard to imagine since I know them in their far more mellow maturity. I am assured that it's sometimes hard for them to imagine as well.
For the record, all the married men tell me that marriage lowers testosterone levels in men. This is scientifically proven. Women are, in short, emasculating. Good to know.
What a buzz kill the thought of Emma turns out to be. Ororo recovers all the disconcerting memories of Emma's "associations" with Rossi, up to and including the humiliations she inflicted on him. Maybe even memories of standing with him and doing much the same thing as she's doing now! An eerie feeling of familiarity, maybe? All sorts of possibilities -- and none of them pleasant, given that they're memories that not only belong to someone else, but come attached to the baggage of rape.
Meanwhile, Rossi receives the cold splash of water that any victim would, when his rapist is brought back to the forebrain. Some men like to think about other women. He is not one of them -- or at least, he isn't at this particular moment, and definitely not of that particular woman. His face is hidden from her, which is probably a good thing; she doesn't get to see the first spasm of reaction. She gets to feel it instead: he stiffens, he withdraws, not even leaving regret behind. The protective armor distances him almost immediately, a gut reaction almost beyond his control.
Ororo shakes her head, wordless. Her expression flattens, frozen mid-flinch. Her head bowed, she says, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean -- how could she even?" She opens her eyes wide and peers into his face, a hunted expression. "After what she did to you, how could she touch you again like a lover? Just when I think--" She bites her lip, bites off the words. "I'm sorry," she says again.
Rossi releases Ororo, retreating a step; his hands slide into the safety of pockets, lacking purchase. "Hey," he says and spins a grin out of nothing. His baritone scrabbles roughly, searching for purchase against the slur of earlier arousal. "I look like a frail, fragile flower of femininity to you, Munroe? Don't feel sorry for me. I'm a cop. It's emasculating. --Shit. There's a word no man should ever have to say."
Hah. Emasculating. There's that word again. When Ororo talks about how she could ever stand to touch Rossi again, to Rossi's player there's overtones of "how could I," which is totally OOC knowledge because I know Storm has those memories of Emma's. Whether Ororo's player meant it that way or not, I do not know! Certainly Rossi doesn't hear that. What he hears instead is pity, or even liberal condescension, politically correct shock. That this is totally unfair to Storm goes without saying; when he has a chance to think it over and remember what he knows of her own past, he'll reevaluate and feel a twinge of shame that he suspected her of it. However, he's sensitive on that point, and so he leaps to conclusions not entirely justified. He hears righteous indignation, the kind of ignorant chest-thumping done by well-intentioned social workers who are just starting out. Idealism waving a banner for the victim.
In retrospect, it's a little odd that he doesn't hear a friend being upset on behalf of an injury done to a friend or loved one. That he's accustomed to, and has experienced himself, more than once, usually playing the indignant role. When I think about it though, I believe the reason he doesn't hear that is because he's used to being the indignant one, not the one that others take up the cudgels for. He is always the active one; to be the one who was misused is to be the passive one. He doesn't have it in his repertoire. On top of which, for all his ego and arrogance, Chris has his own deep-seated humility. He doesn't hear it because he doesn't expect it, and he doesn't expect it because it never occurs to him that he's someone that others would want to defend in that fashion. Barring partners and family, he assumes he is on his own, and the same generosity he would extend to his friends is not something he ever expects in return. It's always a surprise when he gets it: a sad statement, either on his friends, or on his view of people at large.
At any rate, Rossi immediately withdraws, touched to the quick. He is not to be pitied. It emasculates him. To feel sorry for him on something that matters, something that by rights he deserves sympathy for, is to reinforce the horrible truth that he was a victim. He is not, never was, and never will be a victim. He retreats behind humor, making a flippant handwave of the moment to cover anything and everything.
It's funny when you think about it; Chris has had some very raw, very open moments on camera, sometimes with people he doesn't know very well or really care too much about. It's the people that he cares about that he has a problem getting really vulnerable with.
Ororo presses the heel of her hand to her forehead and smiles -- the expression weak, wan, watered down with weary rue. "I'm not. Exactly. I mean--" She snorts. "It's a long story." She leans back against the windowsill, pressing palms on either side as she half-sits on it, and lets the wind ruffle her hair. "Talk about, um, killing the mood," she says, crossing her ankles. "Sorry."
A forefinger brushes lightly against Ororo's cheek, tracing the fragile curve of bone from temple down cheek to jaw. "No worries," Chris says, tipping his head against the fading of his smile. "I got to get going anyway. I found out I got a long-lost cousin. Taking her to meet the family. Remember the girl you got in that car accident with? I gave you guys a ride home. Turns out her grandmother was my grandfather's sister."
"All right." Ororo sighs, lashes lowering; she shifts forward again to kiss the corner of his mouth, and smiles sheepishly as she opens her eyes. Lightly she says, "Small world."
"Getting smaller every day," Chris says, bracing his arm against the wall to pursue her back, chaste kiss in exchange for kiss. Eyes flare green, bright with recovered warmth as he straightens. "I'll get out of your hair. It's good to see you again. Glad you're feeling better. See you around?"
I make a random note here that I was getting really tired by this point in the log (quite tired in the previous round of poses, in fact) and it's getting pretty obvious in my posing. Repetition, clunky phrases, etc. Sorry, Storm.
Also, I make a random mention that earlier in the -- day? Rogue posed almost the exact same thing about the world getting smaller every day, almost as though she HAD A BIT OF ROSSI IN HER. Which, of course, she does. Neither player knew it, but still! Very cool!
Storm does alliteration! Sexy. I was meaning to alliterate back, I remember vaguely, but there was that whole TIRED thing, which made me forget halfway through my pose.
The 'see you around?' is a classic male thing. I've asked guys about the meaning of that phrase, and they've all given me different answers, so I give up. There is no guy dictionary service here, I'm afraid. In Rossi's mouth, I choose to say that it's a wary offer; if she can get over the whole Emma thing, she's free to call him. If she doesn't, then he'll leave it alone and they can go their separate ways, no harm, no foul.
It's too bad Ororo's not a telepath, because you'd pretty much have to be in order to interpret that one.
"Soon, I hope." Ororo gives him another smile in answer, gleaming warm in blue eyes as she tips her head; and then half-turns away, though it's only to lift one bare foot to the sill and glance outside with a hint of yearning for the wind and clouds. "Take care."
Rossi's gaze slips past Ororo to the skies beyond. "You too," he says, baritone drawling -- and then he is gone, prowled out into the corridor's farewell.
...as it happens, she gives a good answer, "Soon, I hope," which may be just politeness, but certainly leaves the door open a little wider than it seemed to be to future encounters. And indeed, that turns out to be the case. Rossi checks the sky again, smart cop checking the barometer of the skies, and then heads out. Storm does the same thing, escaping unwanted borrowed memories and the taste of violation through her usual cathartic outlet.
Date: 9/10/06
Players: Storm & Rossi
Continued from Part 1
She laughs, a light sound puffing soft breath against his skin as she turns her head into the touch of his hand. "That depends," Ororo says. She skims the backs of her fingers lightly over his chest, her lips playing at grin. "What did you have in mind?"
"Acceptable risks," Chris retorts, his other hand capturing hers to press it against the heartbeat under the skin. His warmth leeches swift through the thin fabric, finely wove cotton smooth against her fingers. His thumb slides over the pulse under her jaw; his head lowers, lips moving across hers. Zot.
I've mentioned about Storm's player being hot, right?
Right.
Hot.
H. O. T.
Take notes, ladies and gents. Seriously. Storm's player's gift for sensual expression is unbelievable. I learn what I can from her, with minimal success; I'm too old and set in my ways, I'm afraid. If I'm hot at all, it's because I have absorbed a little bit from her. But you! You are all young! Your minds are still flexible! Your talents are nubile! Read! Learn! Practice! Deploy!
Make the internets smoulder!
If touch is electric, it is not because a wrathful lightning bolt sears his flesh; if he is met with heat, it is the heat of breath, of lips, of tongue as Storm's mouth opens to his kiss, eyes laughing half-lidded and then closed behind the fan of lashes. One hand captured, the other finds his face, holding there as she angles her head to meet his mouth. And then breaks the kiss to breathe soft words, in a low, mirth-rough voice: "Kiss and make up."
A murmurous breath tickles against Storm's cheek, warm lips, warm touch nibbling at the corner of her mouth to stroke at roused senses. "What's the point of fighting," Chris asks, drinking in her scent, "if you don't get to make up afterwards?" Eyes already hooded smile, lit in waking heat and moving hunger; he lowers his head to search for the rush of blood under the skin, the pulse that flutters under the scroll of jaw and hollowed throat.
Head lifted to better allow him access to what is beneath, Ororo hums a breathless note of agreement, touched with still more unvoiced laughter. Her lashes flutter a blink, and then another, as her hands move -- one sliding to the back of his neck, to curve there; the other, to skim the breadth of his shoulders and then down his back; wandering fingers, chasing shape and texture and heat through fabric. "Right," she says. Distracted for some reason. A softer word, hissed out on a softer breath: "Yes--"
He moves at that roving touch, hisses through his teeth to nuzzle at that dusky heat, that desert warmth so akin to heat. Chris moves them, pressing her back until the window's post presses like a wall against her back; slides his free hand down her side, thumb sliding around the curve of breast and the harp of ribs to curl around her hip. "What were we fighting about?" he wonders to the blessed dark, drowning himself in silver hair and sweet skin. Eyes close, lashes butterfly kisses against her throat. "Was it important?"
Ororo, when I think of her as the player portrays her, isn't Halle Berry. That is to say, I don't get a static image of Halle Berry. I see her as ... silver, wind, desert heat, ripples, unvoiced laughter, bright blue, the pulse under the jaw, and an open window. A voice like mulled honey. Feline sensuality, lean muscles stretching, and an almost childish sense of humor. Halle Berry's face just contains it all, because Halle Berry certainly couldn't.
It seems repetitive just to chant the mantra of 'Storm's player HOT' over and over again, so let's be a little more specific. Random phrases in the above poses that are hot, from both the players:
'heat of breath, of lips, of tongue'; 'low, mirth-rough voice'; pretty much anything with breath, because breath against skin is intimate, and warm, and tickles, and caresses; 'drinking in her scent'; 'moving hunger'; 'rush of blood under the skin'; 'hums a breathless note'; 'sliding to the back of his neck'; 'wandering fingers'; 'chasing ... through fabric'--
And so on, so forth. Ahem.
He presses her against the wall that frames the window, which is a very masculine and rather controlling thing to do -- also hot! Walls are hot! -- but it's an understandable reaction after the conversation that came before it, a reminder of the most vulnerable and violating experience he's ever had. He has a need to assert control a bit, and while that's not really admirable, well. Storm is kind enough to permit it, and if she realizes that's what's happening, she's also sympathetic enough not to mention it.
There's a general repetition problem in the last pose I did, where I use the same words over and over. It's a bit embarrassing now that I look at it. If it weren't for that, the pose itself would be okay. Barring that, I like it, overall. It's rare enough that I like any of my own flirting/sensual poses. It is not something that I feel particularly strong in, which could be rectified by doing more of it -- but then again, might not.
It's probably a mistake to continue talking while you're necking. Rossi's not really paying attention to the conversation. He's got other things on his, um, mind. This is a mistake, since it ends up bringing them back to the very topic that he was wanting to leave.
Wind whips into the room and around them, fluttering papers and rippling at fabric and hair; behind the dark fall of her lashes, her eyes are filmed in snowy white. It encircles them, temperate but insistent; it spatters them with a light dusting of raindrops. "Frost." Her fingers curl inward, the strength of them pressing, biting into him as she suddenly stiffens in his arms. "I -- gods -- Chris." Her eyes close, and tighten, and she goes very still.
The exploring lips at her throat pause, breathing warmth into skin and into the blood beneath; when they move away, they leave nothing in their place. "What?" Chris asks, his expression invisible in the curtain of her hair. The strong body in her arms tightens, withdrawing even as his caress does. He straightens. Attraction, banked by a mature man's discipline, barely colors the closed expression. "Frost."
It's a little curious that I seem to feel the need to emphasize the fact that Rossi is in fact a mature man -- he's in his mid-30s, after all -- and therefore has control over his own body's reactions and his need to act on them. This might be because most of the men I know are in their late 20s and early 40s, and we've had discussions about the hectic days of youth. Research on my part, I admit it! I've heard some hilarious stories about how all-consuming the hormones were for guys when they were teens or early 20s, which I find hard to imagine since I know them in their far more mellow maturity. I am assured that it's sometimes hard for them to imagine as well.
For the record, all the married men tell me that marriage lowers testosterone levels in men. This is scientifically proven. Women are, in short, emasculating. Good to know.
What a buzz kill the thought of Emma turns out to be. Ororo recovers all the disconcerting memories of Emma's "associations" with Rossi, up to and including the humiliations she inflicted on him. Maybe even memories of standing with him and doing much the same thing as she's doing now! An eerie feeling of familiarity, maybe? All sorts of possibilities -- and none of them pleasant, given that they're memories that not only belong to someone else, but come attached to the baggage of rape.
Meanwhile, Rossi receives the cold splash of water that any victim would, when his rapist is brought back to the forebrain. Some men like to think about other women. He is not one of them -- or at least, he isn't at this particular moment, and definitely not of that particular woman. His face is hidden from her, which is probably a good thing; she doesn't get to see the first spasm of reaction. She gets to feel it instead: he stiffens, he withdraws, not even leaving regret behind. The protective armor distances him almost immediately, a gut reaction almost beyond his control.
Ororo shakes her head, wordless. Her expression flattens, frozen mid-flinch. Her head bowed, she says, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean -- how could she even?" She opens her eyes wide and peers into his face, a hunted expression. "After what she did to you, how could she touch you again like a lover? Just when I think--" She bites her lip, bites off the words. "I'm sorry," she says again.
Rossi releases Ororo, retreating a step; his hands slide into the safety of pockets, lacking purchase. "Hey," he says and spins a grin out of nothing. His baritone scrabbles roughly, searching for purchase against the slur of earlier arousal. "I look like a frail, fragile flower of femininity to you, Munroe? Don't feel sorry for me. I'm a cop. It's emasculating. --Shit. There's a word no man should ever have to say."
Hah. Emasculating. There's that word again. When Ororo talks about how she could ever stand to touch Rossi again, to Rossi's player there's overtones of "how could I," which is totally OOC knowledge because I know Storm has those memories of Emma's. Whether Ororo's player meant it that way or not, I do not know! Certainly Rossi doesn't hear that. What he hears instead is pity, or even liberal condescension, politically correct shock. That this is totally unfair to Storm goes without saying; when he has a chance to think it over and remember what he knows of her own past, he'll reevaluate and feel a twinge of shame that he suspected her of it. However, he's sensitive on that point, and so he leaps to conclusions not entirely justified. He hears righteous indignation, the kind of ignorant chest-thumping done by well-intentioned social workers who are just starting out. Idealism waving a banner for the victim.
In retrospect, it's a little odd that he doesn't hear a friend being upset on behalf of an injury done to a friend or loved one. That he's accustomed to, and has experienced himself, more than once, usually playing the indignant role. When I think about it though, I believe the reason he doesn't hear that is because he's used to being the indignant one, not the one that others take up the cudgels for. He is always the active one; to be the one who was misused is to be the passive one. He doesn't have it in his repertoire. On top of which, for all his ego and arrogance, Chris has his own deep-seated humility. He doesn't hear it because he doesn't expect it, and he doesn't expect it because it never occurs to him that he's someone that others would want to defend in that fashion. Barring partners and family, he assumes he is on his own, and the same generosity he would extend to his friends is not something he ever expects in return. It's always a surprise when he gets it: a sad statement, either on his friends, or on his view of people at large.
At any rate, Rossi immediately withdraws, touched to the quick. He is not to be pitied. It emasculates him. To feel sorry for him on something that matters, something that by rights he deserves sympathy for, is to reinforce the horrible truth that he was a victim. He is not, never was, and never will be a victim. He retreats behind humor, making a flippant handwave of the moment to cover anything and everything.
It's funny when you think about it; Chris has had some very raw, very open moments on camera, sometimes with people he doesn't know very well or really care too much about. It's the people that he cares about that he has a problem getting really vulnerable with.
Ororo presses the heel of her hand to her forehead and smiles -- the expression weak, wan, watered down with weary rue. "I'm not. Exactly. I mean--" She snorts. "It's a long story." She leans back against the windowsill, pressing palms on either side as she half-sits on it, and lets the wind ruffle her hair. "Talk about, um, killing the mood," she says, crossing her ankles. "Sorry."
A forefinger brushes lightly against Ororo's cheek, tracing the fragile curve of bone from temple down cheek to jaw. "No worries," Chris says, tipping his head against the fading of his smile. "I got to get going anyway. I found out I got a long-lost cousin. Taking her to meet the family. Remember the girl you got in that car accident with? I gave you guys a ride home. Turns out her grandmother was my grandfather's sister."
"All right." Ororo sighs, lashes lowering; she shifts forward again to kiss the corner of his mouth, and smiles sheepishly as she opens her eyes. Lightly she says, "Small world."
"Getting smaller every day," Chris says, bracing his arm against the wall to pursue her back, chaste kiss in exchange for kiss. Eyes flare green, bright with recovered warmth as he straightens. "I'll get out of your hair. It's good to see you again. Glad you're feeling better. See you around?"
I make a random note here that I was getting really tired by this point in the log (quite tired in the previous round of poses, in fact) and it's getting pretty obvious in my posing. Repetition, clunky phrases, etc. Sorry, Storm.
Also, I make a random mention that earlier in the -- day? Rogue posed almost the exact same thing about the world getting smaller every day, almost as though she HAD A BIT OF ROSSI IN HER. Which, of course, she does. Neither player knew it, but still! Very cool!
Storm does alliteration! Sexy. I was meaning to alliterate back, I remember vaguely, but there was that whole TIRED thing, which made me forget halfway through my pose.
The 'see you around?' is a classic male thing. I've asked guys about the meaning of that phrase, and they've all given me different answers, so I give up. There is no guy dictionary service here, I'm afraid. In Rossi's mouth, I choose to say that it's a wary offer; if she can get over the whole Emma thing, she's free to call him. If she doesn't, then he'll leave it alone and they can go their separate ways, no harm, no foul.
It's too bad Ororo's not a telepath, because you'd pretty much have to be in order to interpret that one.
"Soon, I hope." Ororo gives him another smile in answer, gleaming warm in blue eyes as she tips her head; and then half-turns away, though it's only to lift one bare foot to the sill and glance outside with a hint of yearning for the wind and clouds. "Take care."
Rossi's gaze slips past Ororo to the skies beyond. "You too," he says, baritone drawling -- and then he is gone, prowled out into the corridor's farewell.
...as it happens, she gives a good answer, "Soon, I hope," which may be just politeness, but certainly leaves the door open a little wider than it seemed to be to future encounters. And indeed, that turns out to be the case. Rossi checks the sky again, smart cop checking the barometer of the skies, and then heads out. Storm does the same thing, escaping unwanted borrowed memories and the taste of violation through her usual cathartic outlet.