The bottle's in her hand and her back's against the wall before Greta quite knows what's happening (even with the narration's help), and she instinctively curls around Iman with a startled little hoot of laughter. This is ridiculous; they're in a closet, for goodness' sake. She definitely needs some of this wine, and she's guessing she has about two seconds before Iman does something incredibly distracting, so she takes a hasty sip from over Iman's shoulder as she speaks.
:Greta almost wants to contest the idea that she makes noises - at least not any worth trying to elicit - but then Iman's mouth is on her collarbone, and she lets out a gasp that, while quiet, still seems to fill the small space. Her hand fists in Iman's hair, the other barely keeping the bottle upright, and her head thuds back against the wall with more sound than actual force.:
"Ah-!" she starts, something between an aborted objection and strangled delight, acutely aware that this is exactly what Iman wants, drat her.
:Someone is going to hear them if they aren't careful,: her voice observes, not sounding half as reproachful as Greta might expect. Whose side is it on? :Clearly, Greta needs some way to keep her mouth occupied.:
"Come here," she finally manages, all but panting in Iman's ear. She definitely needs to get a little of her own back, and quickly.
:Not wanting to actually tug Iman up by her hair, she lets herself slump a little, sliding down the wall so she can reclaim Iman's mouth. That's better; she might still be making wayward noises, but at least they're muffled. Unfortunately, her knees have gone weak enough that instead of straightening back up, she just continues her slow sink towards the floor, dragging Iman down with her.:
The floor? That, Greta thinks, is taking things just a bit too far, and she makes an attempt to shift her footing and straighten back up. Instead, she treads on her hemline, and the unexpected tug is enough to turn the aforementioned slow sink into more of a fast lurch. She breaks the kiss with a frantic little "oh no" and loosens her grip on Iman's hair, but it's not enough, and she still ends up bringing them both to a rather bumpy landing on the carpet.
:By some small miracle, she doesn't spill the wine.:
"Oh, for..." Greta sets the bottle aside, then turns to Iman with a guilty, embarrassed smile. "I'm sorry - are you all right?"
no subject
:Greta almost wants to contest the idea that she makes noises - at least not any worth trying to elicit - but then Iman's mouth is on her collarbone, and she lets out a gasp that, while quiet, still seems to fill the small space. Her hand fists in Iman's hair, the other barely keeping the bottle upright, and her head thuds back against the wall with more sound than actual force.:
"Ah-!" she starts, something between an aborted objection and strangled delight, acutely aware that this is exactly what Iman wants, drat her.
:Someone is going to hear them if they aren't careful,: her voice observes, not sounding half as reproachful as Greta might expect. Whose side is it on? :Clearly, Greta needs some way to keep her mouth occupied.:
"Come here," she finally manages, all but panting in Iman's ear. She definitely needs to get a little of her own back, and quickly.
:Not wanting to actually tug Iman up by her hair, she lets herself slump a little, sliding down the wall so she can reclaim Iman's mouth. That's better; she might still be making wayward noises, but at least they're muffled. Unfortunately, her knees have gone weak enough that instead of straightening back up, she just continues her slow sink towards the floor, dragging Iman down with her.:
The floor? That, Greta thinks, is taking things just a bit too far, and she makes an attempt to shift her footing and straighten back up. Instead, she treads on her hemline, and the unexpected tug is enough to turn the aforementioned slow sink into more of a fast lurch. She breaks the kiss with a frantic little "oh no" and loosens her grip on Iman's hair, but it's not enough, and she still ends up bringing them both to a rather bumpy landing on the carpet.
:By some small miracle, she doesn't spill the wine.:
"Oh, for..." Greta sets the bottle aside, then turns to Iman with a guilty, embarrassed smile. "I'm sorry - are you all right?"