She arched towards him and this time he could not quite stifle the groan as he found himself flush against her. He rolled his hips towards her, echoing her movements but biting on the inside of his cheek to stop himself making any more sounds that might give them away. He wasn’t even supposed to have company at this hour. (Especially not company like this.)
Trying to stay quiet almost saw him let out a helpless chuckle because at least this part of the situation was as familiar as ever. It looked like Elsie was having the slightest of difficulties with the same task for once too, which might’ve made him laugh again if there was not a little too much urgency in the air to waste his breath on it.
It was fortunate, Tyb supposed, that this had arisen so unexpectedly, with the rest of this situation the uncharted territory it was: it meant there had been no time to ruminate about it beforehand, no time to spiral into never-ending worries about what he was supposed to be doing and what he might do wrong and how disappointing it might be. That said, he had ideas of how this was supposed to go and what he was supposed to do - had gleaned enough over the years from wisecracking mates and the quidditch locker rooms and even from his brother’s unasked-for advice, Merlin - and if he had made it through several years of a professional quidditch career and the odd Witch Weekly mention without having any real practice at this, it was not as though Elsie could expect otherwise, being that she was entirely to blame.
His shirt came untucked from his waist (fully untucked now, as though it hadn’t been nearly there all evening) at her grip on it, and although she was stockingless already, Elsie was still wearing rather more layers than he was. He pulled back a little to survey the situation, by which he mostly meant that his fingers were searching for the topmost buttons of her dress, undoing what he could - in the hopes that she was comfortable enough, as well as anything else - but swiftly coming to the conclusion that taking off all those layers as one was supposed to from this vantage point was going to be something of a tall order. He had managed less with that than with one accidental tug on her skirts. And surely women’s drawers did not have quite so many buttons as their dresses.
(So he threw the intricacies of that plan out for the time being and kissed her again instead, never more grateful for the straightforward nature of men’s clothes and the simplicity of a button-up fly.)
And, dream or not, dangerously bad idea or not... “I love you,” he dared whisper to her, half in wonder that he hadn’t said it yet tonight, when they got so few chances to and the future for saying it was still not something they could take for granted. When it felt like all they ever were was being tested, over and over. “You’ll stop me, if you don’t...” want to do this, he murmured, trailing off again, feeling like she would understand. If he was reading her wrong. If he did something wrong. If she changed her mind. Though he felt the need to voice it, Tybalt wasn’t worried. He’d questioned her enough, over the years; had often desperately needed her reassurances; but he had seen her make hard choices and sacrifices - even now, that she would turn down a courtship for him without hesitation, that she’d lie to her parents and risk all she had - and, however tonight went, he was certain, at least, of how she felt about him. How they felt about each other.
Trying to stay quiet almost saw him let out a helpless chuckle because at least this part of the situation was as familiar as ever. It looked like Elsie was having the slightest of difficulties with the same task for once too, which might’ve made him laugh again if there was not a little too much urgency in the air to waste his breath on it.
It was fortunate, Tyb supposed, that this had arisen so unexpectedly, with the rest of this situation the uncharted territory it was: it meant there had been no time to ruminate about it beforehand, no time to spiral into never-ending worries about what he was supposed to be doing and what he might do wrong and how disappointing it might be. That said, he had ideas of how this was supposed to go and what he was supposed to do - had gleaned enough over the years from wisecracking mates and the quidditch locker rooms and even from his brother’s unasked-for advice, Merlin - and if he had made it through several years of a professional quidditch career and the odd Witch Weekly mention without having any real practice at this, it was not as though Elsie could expect otherwise, being that she was entirely to blame.
His shirt came untucked from his waist (fully untucked now, as though it hadn’t been nearly there all evening) at her grip on it, and although she was stockingless already, Elsie was still wearing rather more layers than he was. He pulled back a little to survey the situation, by which he mostly meant that his fingers were searching for the topmost buttons of her dress, undoing what he could - in the hopes that she was comfortable enough, as well as anything else - but swiftly coming to the conclusion that taking off all those layers as one was supposed to from this vantage point was going to be something of a tall order. He had managed less with that than with one accidental tug on her skirts. And surely women’s drawers did not have quite so many buttons as their dresses.
(So he threw the intricacies of that plan out for the time being and kissed her again instead, never more grateful for the straightforward nature of men’s clothes and the simplicity of a button-up fly.)
And, dream or not, dangerously bad idea or not... “I love you,” he dared whisper to her, half in wonder that he hadn’t said it yet tonight, when they got so few chances to and the future for saying it was still not something they could take for granted. When it felt like all they ever were was being tested, over and over. “You’ll stop me, if you don’t...” want to do this, he murmured, trailing off again, feeling like she would understand. If he was reading her wrong. If he did something wrong. If she changed her mind. Though he felt the need to voice it, Tybalt wasn’t worried. He’d questioned her enough, over the years; had often desperately needed her reassurances; but he had seen her make hard choices and sacrifices - even now, that she would turn down a courtship for him without hesitation, that she’d lie to her parents and risk all she had - and, however tonight went, he was certain, at least, of how she felt about him. How they felt about each other.
