[ it's odd to think it, maybe, but a thought still nags at peggy: so far, the night has presented itself like a bawdy paperback. a touch too good, a shade too enjoyable. even before he had dropped to his knees, she had struggled with a sprinkle of doubt. but, in the end, there's nothing storybook about the way'd neglected their music. nothing storybook, neither, in how wednesdays are meant for work and now they've gone and muddied the waters.
peggy's steps follow his. low on grace and high on endorphins, she doesn't think twice about the clumsy waltz they make from the wall to his bedside, except to consider the fact that in all these wednesdays she's never ventured beyond the shelves that divided one portion of his room from the other. she's had glimpses of the other half, yes, but with no reason to fix her thoughts on it until recently.
-- they stub toes and elbows on their way through, stopping to blaspheme and distract each other with a wobbly kiss pressed against the shelving unit's corner. something -- a book, a box, peggy doesn't pay attention -- tips over.
this is what she'd expected of him from the moment he'd slipped behind her by the record player: a race to the bed sheets, clawing and pulling at one another. but she'll admit, at least in her own heart, that the detour taken before now has done wonders to take that initial edge off her nerves. sweeter and more effective than any cup of whiskey. her edges bleed, but her senses remain sharp. flushed and warm and rallied.
two more steps, then three, and peggy's hands wander under his shirt. she grips him by the palmful, taking hold of his side and -- with a look over his shoulder -- steering his backward strides toward the bed. twenty minutes earlier and she might have balked at going to bed with him in his actual bed, but a resurging arousal drowns out a slew of superficial hangups.
feeling more and more certain by the moment, she lets go only to push him back onto the mattress. ]
There, Mister Hunter. Horizontal.
[ said very much in a breathless tone of much bloody better. ]
no subject
peggy's steps follow his. low on grace and high on endorphins, she doesn't think twice about the clumsy waltz they make from the wall to his bedside, except to consider the fact that in all these wednesdays she's never ventured beyond the shelves that divided one portion of his room from the other. she's had glimpses of the other half, yes, but with no reason to fix her thoughts on it until recently.
-- they stub toes and elbows on their way through, stopping to blaspheme and distract each other with a wobbly kiss pressed against the shelving unit's corner. something -- a book, a box, peggy doesn't pay attention -- tips over.
this is what she'd expected of him from the moment he'd slipped behind her by the record player: a race to the bed sheets, clawing and pulling at one another. but she'll admit, at least in her own heart, that the detour taken before now has done wonders to take that initial edge off her nerves. sweeter and more effective than any cup of whiskey. her edges bleed, but her senses remain sharp. flushed and warm and rallied.
two more steps, then three, and peggy's hands wander under his shirt. she grips him by the palmful, taking hold of his side and -- with a look over his shoulder -- steering his backward strides toward the bed. twenty minutes earlier and she might have balked at going to bed with him in his actual bed, but a resurging arousal drowns out a slew of superficial hangups.
feeling more and more certain by the moment, she lets go only to push him back onto the mattress. ]
There, Mister Hunter. Horizontal.
[ said very much in a breathless tone of much bloody better. ]