![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
IC Inbox - Entranceway
Obviously I'm not here right now, but leave a message and I'll--listen to it. Eventually.
Obviously I'm not here right now, but leave a message and I'll--listen to it. Eventually.
Obviously I'm not here right now, but leave a message and I'll--listen to it. Eventually.
no subject
the truth is that even if she has misjudged the quality his person, that doesn't mean he hasn't also misjudged the quality of hers. it's far more likely that they've both just about managed a pleasant(ish) fiction on their wednesday evenings.
peggy very nearly signals for him to take a ruddy seat, already, but some lines perhaps can't be crossed in his quarters. not now -- not when he's already courting her anger with a kind of precise familiarity she'd not realized she'd allowed him to gain. it's working, and as such it's difficult to say whether the colour in her cheeks is due to her temper or her lack of temperance.
against her better angels and finer judgement, she rises to her feet. if she's going to be heard, if she's going to be seen, then it had damned well better be on equal footing. as equal as it can be when he still has a few inches on her, even after the heels are accounted for. ]
You said something at the bathhouse. [ she steams forward with her irritation still foregrounded in her tone -- as though it's a true aggravation to be put into a position where she has to speak even this much plain truth. ] You said I was important to you. Well, you're important to me, too, you know.
[ one hand on her hip, the other loose and useless as her side. she should have said it then, perhaps. if so, that's on her. ]
And it's why I'm not trying to distract you when I insist once more that, for Heaven's sake, Wonderland isn't the place for it.
[ romance, love songs, dancing, getting her fingers once again twisted up in the collar of his shirt. none of it. ]
Because -- [ oh, bloody hell. her mouth settles into an earnest frown when she realizes, in a flash, how the best explanation is among the cruelest. at the very least, she has the good sense to appear apologetic before she speaks. ] Liability reasons, Mister Hunter.
[ theirs isn't the endearing love story. it belongs to some other rip hunter and some other peggy carter -- mayflies who were never meant to exist beyond the walls of their event. ]
no subject
He's seen more than her façade; he's sure of it. As sure as he is that Peggy's gotten a glimpse past his—more than, when he thinks to the day she found him outside this room, when he found her shooting not at targets, but at her own heartache on July 4th.
She stands, and by instinct Rip leans forward just that touch to meet her at her level. For better or for worse, because it gives Peggy a damn fine view when his eyes widen at her words, the return of confession that she finds him important too. Something unspoken can be known but still somehow unreal; this, now, is given shape and weight by the cadence of her words, and Rip presses his mouth into a tight line, takes in one breath and then another.
Peggy can craft her lies well—but she isn't cruel enough to lie about this.
He swipes a hand across his lips, fingers outstretched, slow as they drag over his mouth. She goes on, insists on her logic, calls out to his with two simple words and yes, oh yes—
Rip does remember well just what they mean.]
Liability reasons. [He repeats them softly, his head dropping down, sagging as once more hands return to his hips. Some other Rip Hunter, some other Peggy Carter, who had met and kissed and maybe even fallen in love with the possibilities of each other. But she's right; that's not who they are, and Rip lets out a soft huff before he turns his head to look at her once more.]
I'm not some schoolboy gone head over heels, you realize. [God, what is he even saying? She's right, she's right, he knows she's right, and yet he still argues all the same. It's not just the desire to be contrary anymore; Rip knows it at his core. No, it's something more profound and more selfish all at once, and he could kick himself when he figures it out, just what he's fighting for then. After all, it's hardly fitting of a Time Master to be so moved for such a reason as not wanting to lose someone they care for.
He's never been meant to have such attachments.]
Where we are is a tragedy waiting to happen. [In time and place, in circumstances that exist only between them and as part of the world they've been forced to live in. Rip takes a step closer, as if he might somehow need to. As if in the quiet and dim of the room, she might not be able to hear him somehow.] I warned you when we met that there were nothing but bad barters in this world, and no doubt you know it just as well.
Yet even so.
[Even so.]
There's no ending this without regrets, regardless of what we choose.
[A knowledge shared between them. This path only promises agony at it's end, be it here in this room, or when the inevitable future comes. He reaches up then, brushes a lock of Peggy's hair back if she lets him, despite knowing damn well that he shouldn't.
He shouldn't. They shouldn't.]
Are you so sure that these are the regrets you wish to carry?
no subject
just as well. whatever it is, peggy's not ready to call it what it is. what it might be.
and perhaps rip is correct to call her on her cowardice. she is afraid -- unwilling to put either him or herself on the line once more for what will only ever be a transient arrangement. he calls it a tragedy waiting to happen, but the cynic in her suspects the tragedy has already transpired. it was birthed in a moment much like this one, because the way he touches her cheek is hauntingly alike to the way she'd adjusted his collar pin once they'd finished dancing.
a liberty taken; a detail fixed. and peggy's eyes harden because while he protests that he's no schoolboy -- and not least of all because it's never occurred to her to think so little of his feelings. after all, they'd shored her up through the altercation with her shadow. without him and his support, she might have succumbed to fighting the thing. it wouldn't have ended well. then again, neither will this.
even so. she allows him the brush of his fingers. her mouth twitches into an uneasy line even as her head turns toward rip's touch. the motion isn't dramatic -- barely more than a minor correction, maybe, but it nevertheless measures as momentum in his direction. and that's why she frowns, as if she's disappointed in her own constitution.
it's become staggeringly obvious to peggy that she has allowed him too deep behind her walls. too often, she's let him see the toll taken by her regrets. it's a note he's often heard in her voice and it's that note he plucks right now. she's being called upon to weigh one regret against the other, choose the one she can better live with, and thereby make her bad barter. ]
No. [ peggy lays two fingers against his wrist, gently redirecting rip's hand before the warmth of his touch proves too diverting. as it had already had about, oh, seven minutes prior. ] But only because, just now, there's very little I find I'm sure of.
[ except she's sure of her instinct -- even when she doesn't like what her instinct is telling her. but she remembers once asking someone, someone who also rated the word important, whether it was imperative he settle for only two options. have, or have not. zeroes, or ones.
peggy doesn't let his wrist go. instead, her grip settles like a buffer between them. something to inoculate them both against any escalation. fingers turned inward against the architecture of his wrist, far enough along the arm so that she can't be accused of holding his hand. ]
I am sorry. [ has she apologized for anything, thus far? surely not in earnest. but it happens now -- although it feels like pulling teeth and it makes her stomach knot. ] Not for not showing up, mind you. [ implying, perhaps, that she still stands by that call. ] But...for the radio silence.
[ i'm sorry. ]
no subject
That one alteration in course. The thudding in his own chest, steady. Constant.
He doesn't fight when she tugs at his wrist, draws his hand downward and away. Hers are not the only notes he's plucked with his words, because regret is so much of what forms their commonality. They have both made difficult, impossible choices. They have both risked so much, and felt the bitter pain of that loss.
They've both been the one to survive in the wake of death, to find themselves crumbled in a moment, torn and bleeding but still left to wonder when the new day comes, just how do they carry on.
She admits that she's not certain, and Rip only lets out a breathy huff because it makes him understand just how equally unsure he is as well. And that, that is the funny part, because he's normally the one who always can plan out the next step. To think and predict, to analyze situations and people and history itself, until the best of all the horrible choices stands out as the path he's meant to take.
But right now, just then, damned if he doesn't know where the next handful of seconds might lead as he stands there, head tilted forward, Peggy trapping his hand between them because as unwilling as she is to have him touch, equally she's unable to let him go.]
An apology from you. [One she means, a single grievance she laments and gives voice to. Not for her earlier failure to show up at his door, nor the kiss she pressed upon his lips, the one they shared once the spark of shock ended. He means to finish the joke, to cite how the world truly must be ending, because Peggy Carter has just apologized to him, of all people.
He cannot. The words die in his throat, supplanted by another set, another urge because if everything changes after this, then damn if he's not going to make this matter.]
I'm sorry too. [Not for transgressions already done, but ones yet to come. She holds his wrist between them, but Rip has height on his side. He tugs his arm down just that fraction, knows she'll understand what he means to do even before he leans his head forward. The best worst path, and he means to stand just as guilty as she, moreso perhaps, because if Peggy's kiss came in the heat of an argument's blaze, then Rip's would fall in the slow steady rise of incoming tides, the push and pull of an ocean that drags him out helpless into their depths.]
no subject
she wishes she had the right words to say. she wishes she could apologize both for more or less. she wishes the book she'd tossed had hit him squarely in his lovely face. maybe, then, she might have felt that little bit better about how she now holds her place and raises her chin and exhales -- impatient -- in a way that dares him onward. yes, yes, go on -- give yourself something to be sorry for, peggy thinks.
rip frets over his ability to trace the broader picture. peggy, meanwhile, frets over hers to absorb the smallest specifics. hers is an intellect both immediate and instinctive, and there's something just a little too quiet and inexorable in what's soon-to-be another kiss. the lean-in is slow enough to let the bottom drop out of her stomach, to let her stew in the span of heartbeats
his pull on her hand is an early-warning sign, and peggy finds herself resenting the position in which it leaves her: with time on her hands! so much of it, brimming over, that there's no hope for blaming immediacy and instinct for what happens when she pushes upward -- heels leaving the floor to give her height, letting her mouth meet his. in this way, she's kissing him back even before the kiss begins. peggy is an equal partner in it.
it's a novel place to be. ordinarily, as earlier indicated, she's the aggressor. that role has always served her best. shoot first, cut first, kiss first.
her fingers travel from his wrist to his elbow, digging in just above the joint in a sudden hungry bid to keep her balance in favour of crashing against him. and maybe there are a handful of comments she could make, but there's no air going spare for any of them. she spends her lung capacity on him -- and only towards the end does she grab at the back of his neck with her other hand, dragging him that one, maybe two, inches lower. ]
no subject
But he knows better. Head swimming from alcohol and the late hour and the heat of her mouth once more against his, Rip still knows that there is nothing promised in the moment after this one, or the next. So he doesn't waste his time with comfortable barbs of their normal Wednesday tete-a-tete; it's long past Wednesday, and the morning would no doubt see them less compromised.
So he lets abandon guide him, seeks out the taste of her under rum and whiskey, and the lingering traces of her lipstick. Once her hands shift so do his, each finding a place at her waist and drawing her closer, until there's little more than a whisper left between them. Words are left forgotten, unspoken, even in the moments when one or both of them must break away, forgo the pleasure of their indulgence to answer the greedy demands of lungs starved of air. But on those breaths he can still catch her scent, perfume and alcohol and this isn't Wednesday, but already it all feels familiar.
They've been there minutes, longer, before he finally does speak. His eyes still closed, his forehead resting against hers.] We should move. [A necessary note of caution, because the longer they stand there the more the room seems to spin, and while Rip is quite content to lose himself in her for however long this night allows, he'd rather not sway too far in one way or another, and find himself tumbling down in ridiculous fashion.
The problem is, caution isn't so much a thing being indulged tonight. Even after he advises, Rip is quick to press his mouth to the corner of hers and lower, to tilt his head so he can trace out a path along the line of her jaw.]
no subject
an when she speaks, it's in a tone harder than a whisper. ]
So move.
[ while he suggests and cautions, peggy (predictably) hasn't got the patience to do the same. she'll nudge him backward -- bumping him, briefly disappearing that whisper of space between them -- until his legs hit the coffee table. and then, with a choice blaspheme, she kicks the ball of her shoe against the furniture. with a hitched breath, she shoves it aside and clears a path to the sofa on where, earlier, he'd been sitting with his rum.
peggy's fingers seize at the nape of his neck -- twitching tight just milliseconds after his mouth begins its migration across her chin. only moments later does it occur to her that they might both be better served if she didn't grip him like a grappling partner. she can feel him wobble on his feet. by contrast, her posture is steady. she leans leftward as they pass the table and grabs what's left of the whiskey, holding the bottle by the neck.
it requires sacrificing her guiding hand, the one that had nudged him along, but she hazards an easy guess that he no longer needs it. ]
no subject
Wonderland has changed that. Certainly there are projects, experiments, what attempts he might make to tie research together and find a way home. But separated from his proper place in both time and the multiverse, this captivity has allowed him to chase down a different desire.
And only for the second time in his life.
She's harsh, demanding, and Rip would likely have rolled his eyes when she demanded he move if he'd not been otherwise occupied. Yet she remains demanding as ever, set on having things the way she sees fit as she pushes him back, threatens the balance of them both, and really, it's quite difficult to drunkenly kiss someone when that same person is urging you straight into the coffee table. He hisses softly when his legs hit, the edge digging into his calves, but only for a second.
Peggy's damn distracting when she takes hold of his neck.
Somehow between the two of them (perhaps mostly her), they make it to the couch without either of them (most likely him) sprawled out on the floor. There's a curious hum when she leans leftward, but Rip can't really afford to stop and question. The next impact has him against the couch, and with a momentary grin pressed against her skin, now it's Rip's turn to tighten his hold as he unceremoniously drops against the cushions, dragging Peggy along when he comes crashing down.
Only after, when Rip is trying to figure out just where their tangle of limbs and bodies might best align, does he realize what she's brought along with her.]
You grabbed the whiskey? [There's a touch of incredulous humor in his voice, Rip shaking his head.] Certainly I'm not doing that bad of a job at this.
[Even if it has been quite some time.]
no subject
he hits the couch. he pulls her with him. and peggy, thinking dully and in the final second, lands in his lap with her knees pressed against the cushions -- the ordinarily discreet existence of her thigh-holster now made obvious and distinct beneath a hitched skirt. the slim line of her ppk juts against the outside of his leg. discernible.
but peggy isn't thinking about her gun. instead, her focus lasers in on sitting a little higher -- spine straightening so she might take, oh, a bare advantage in 'height' as she steadies herself with an unoccupied palm against his shoulder.
she takes another kiss. shorter, this time. and pursued as if she's using it to prove a point. a point which soon follows: ]
You still taste of rum. [ she has the guts, still, to chide him. and although she takes another drink (the actual goal being to catch up), peggy presses the bottle against his chest. she gives it to him. ] Here. It'd be preferable.
[ she doesn't indulge him his humour. not with a smile and certainly not with any verdict passed on whether it's a good job or a bad one. honestly, she'd hope their current predicament speaks volumes on that account.
or, put another way, it should go without saying. ]
no subject
But not about the quality of his kiss, at least.]
First sugarless tea and now rum; I'm beginning to question your tastes, Miss Carter. [She doesn't smile and nor does he, but there is something to be said about the amusement of despair. This has all stretched well beyond the realm of reason, their efforts and choices now ones designed for present pleasures and future regrets. But be it madness, then it is pardonable, or so the old quote goes. He meets her gaze, perhaps a touch unsteady, but certain still as Rip drinks to take away what she's noted as the offending taste.
Not that image he seeks to create will last; a beat later and Rip means to set the bottle down without looking at where the coffee table should be--but since someone has already moved it, the whiskey merely hits his floor with a thunk before tipping over. It's rather loud in the room too, and Rip frowns as he looks down where it's fallen.]
...oh bollocks.
no subject
[ there's a pause just after her full stop. as if maybe she meant to say more in space following his name and how her voice curls low and slow around it. whiskey-warm at its edges, but otherwise perfectly chilly. question them all you want, but realize that you're therefore only questioning yourself -- that's how it might of went had she been of a mind to remind him so grossly of what, exactly, she's been tasting.
once upon a time he called dared to call her obvious. she dodges that description now.
she leans back and she watches him drink. straight from the bottle, and although the sight might have made her smile on another day it certainly doesn't now. her wit might be out, but she's still clouded by earlier implications. they're bound to regret this, no matter what way it's sliced.
and there is a moment of almost-lucidity where she watches him and her bottle. her hand settles against the line of his side. before tonight, she'd barely touched the man. but these new circumstances prove a kind of voluptuousness in her earlier reserve -- as if somehow her distance kept has been in direct proportion to her desire. but it seems as though she might be so inclined to run her settled palm up his torso but--
but then he drops her whiskey, as she's come to think of it, and peggy hisses a companion curse to his -- abandoning what could have been another kiss in favour of grabbing at his belt, treating it like a lifeline, and drifting nearly out of his lap in order to rescue the bottle off the floor. leaning away, reaching-- ]
Damn you. [ there's solace found in how much has already been imbibed, its contents too shallow to spill in earnest. peggy does them both a favour once she's recovered it and drains the last two, maybe three mouthfuls. ] Willful waste makes woeful want.
[ and, flooded with buzz, she nevertheless manages to reintroduce the empty bottle to the displaced table. ]
In fact, if anyone's tastes ought to be questioned...
[ but much like the first, this sentence doesn't find its end either. ]
no subject
Up until the point where Rip drops the whiskey, at any rate.
Peggy shows her ire openly then, cursing the circumstance and Rip alike as she leans to fetch the thing. He in turn grips her round the waist, holds tight while she bends lest Peggy lose her balance and somehow send them both spilling. They'll have plenty to lament when morning finds them already; he'd much prefer a cracked skull not to be heaped upon that list.
But the crisis is averted, mostly. She moves with a rather impressive grace, given how much of the bottle she's already emptied in this short night. Peggy finishes it off then, and not without saddling Rip with a lecture besides. His head cocks to one side, his eyebrow arched up, and even when she properly places the bottle down he still offers his counter.]
Damn yourself, Miss Carter. You were the one who moved the table.
[Yet there are better pursuits than this argument, aren't there? Now that he might taste a little less of one spirit and more of another, Rip leans up to interrupt the statement she never means to finish anyway. His kiss is harder this time, more eager, as if somehow letting more of that restraint go might in fact be the key to winning their little discussion.
Or perhaps it has something to do with what pleasure can be found with a beautiful woman balanced just so atop him. One of the two.]
no subject
looking at him, she forces her eyes to focus on him once more. bringing his angles and the sharp lines of his face into hard focus as she lifts the heel of her palm against his jaw. fingertips curling into a thicker corner of his beard -- nails scratching against the hair with little noises. damn yourself, he says, and she breathes out some short laughter through her nose.
-- whatever she might have argued in return, whatever antagonistic protest she had chambered on the back of her tongue, it's all of it drowned out by yet another kiss. this one more dynamic than the last. peggy's sigh muffles into a quieter noise before it gets lost against his mouth. and in that moment she brings both hands to bear against his cheeks. her grip slides just behind the hinge of his jaw.
there is almost more eagerness found in the way she claims her handholds on him than there is in the kiss itself. in a moment like this one, peggy betrays herself as a fundamentally physical person. regardless of the distance kept, the reserve cultivated, and all the detachment in the world. and although she'd feel sick to consider the word, the truth is that she loves as fiercely as she lashes out.
only this isn't love. can't-bloody-be. this is -- rip hunter. he's to blame. a rare person, the sort who figures out how to press her buttons with precision instead of simply mashing them all and hoping for winning combination.
peggy pulls back a moment and tilts her forehead against his. while she'd been plying her tongue against his mouth, she'd safeguarded some sly comment in the back of her thoughts -- something about how he ought to have known better when he damn well knew she'd moved it -- but suddenly the words break apart and float away.
instead, she offers a one-shouldered shrug. she lifts her face from his and brushes back a piece of longer hair that's fallen over his brow -- mussed in the heat of the moment. ] It was in my way.
[ and peggy carter has little-to-no forbearance in the face of an obstacle, be they people or protocols or pieces of furniture. ]
no subject
Of course it's not just what they share physically that's left him light-headed; a fact reaffirmed when she throws out her wry comment.]
I suppose it should have known better then. [Words that slip out when he's preoccupied with how she brushes his hair back into place, the aloofness in her expression and that single shrug of her shoulder. By God it makes him yearn for her, and Rip leans forward to press his mouth to her throat--but only briefly. It occurs to him then, a heartbeat after his lips part against her skin, that there's something odd in what he said.
Something, something, and he leans back with a frown.]
...I really am rather drunk, aren't I? [Because the table should have known better, and he breathes out a short laugh at himself for it. Drunk and dizzy and a touch tired, yet Rip is hardly willing to give up just what he's found with Peggy now, particularly with a potential end implied for the morning. So he leans forward again, meaning to resume what he started once before, the eager exploration of her neck by way of lips and tongue and the occasional scrape of teeth.]
no subject
audibly, she breathes out. relief and tension dovetailing together until -- annoyingly -- he straightens again just so he can natter on about being drunk. of all the foolishness...
peggy's shoulders sink with a sigh and it's a miracle she doesn't tug his mouth back toward the slope of her neck. she endures his laughter, his self-effacement, with a stony and impatient look. augured differently, she might have laughed alongside him or even found his burst of incredulity to be endearing. not so right now. she mumbles another curse, mutters something along the lines of steady going, mister hunter, and drapes her arms around him.
she draws him in. lifts his back away from the sofa's cushions. encourages his progress in how her head tilts and her neck opens up. there's nothing hidden in the way her breath catches when she feels teeth on her skin. she whispers a quiet affirmation and her fingers, sinking just beneath the collar of his shirt find first warm skin and next the the leading edge of whorled scar tissue extending from his shoulder.
curious.
she switches tack, pulling at his shirt in a sudden bid to remove it. to see him. but it doesn't prove simple to extricate themselves from their present tangle -- she finds her finer motor functions don't always obey her thoughts. the liquor's fault, most likely. the urge to enjoy him battles it out with another equal urge to explore him. ]
Utterly sloshed, yes. [ peggy assures him, head turning so that her words catch on his ear. if she wasn't drunk herself, she might have asked him if he wanted to stop. sit back. catch their breath and reconsider -- but instinct tells her they are both on the same page for once. ] It's likely a good thing you're not the one trying to keep upright.
[ ...nevermind that he's been bracing her above him since the moment she landed in his lap. ]
no subject
Seems he's found another button to push; how many more still will he discover before they're each sated?
Except Peggy's done a bit of exploration of her own, fingers snaking underneath his shirt, and when she tries to pull away the cloth she gets a grumbled complaint for her trouble. Now who's the one trying to get him to break off, and just as Rip's centered his parted lips over her pulse, readied himself to do something she will undoubtedly be quite cross at him for. But coordination makes certain demands neither of them can quite meet, and he's left to hum against her throat as Peggy brags into his ear, confirmation of what Rip himself has said while at the same time turning it into a triumph for herself.
Well. He can hardly let that stand, can he?
There is no warning beyond a tightening of Rip's hold before he turns towards his right--her left, because even sloshed Rip isn't keen on having her gun dig further into his leg. The tangled mess of their bodies only grows worse as Rip half-tosses, half-drops them onto the couch, meaning to have Peggy land flat on her back with Rip poised above her. Never mind that he has no hope of a graceful transition by now; a miracle might allow Peggy to land without hitting her head in some uncomfortable way, only to have Rip's weight press into her scant moments later.
But once he's balanced--oh! They would absolutely see just how he could perch himself atop her, albeit in not quite an upright position.]
no subject
she wiggles backward, propping herself up against the offending arm. and, above her, rip tries to find and keep his balance. despite the novelty of this angle, she stares up at him with a sort of low-broil exasperation. -- the kind that burns and sparks and spoils for a fight. or (in this instance) more of one. in one inelegant maneuver, she's lost both her higher ground and the sweet-hot trail of his kisses down her throat.
god, he's gone and left too much ruddy space between their bodies. even if she can feel him weighted and unsteady atop her -- it's not enough.
but there'll be no complaining about it. not in those words, at any rate. peggy will have to find some other means of expressing how she's unsatisfied with her change in fortune. only he's just there, canted above her, and she lets her eyes climb him slowly. blame the booze (she thinks) for how tardy her own gaze is in finding his again. how it sits and lingers and gawks. ]
Careful. I could have you on the floor, you know. [ she curls her fingers behind his belt. thumbs flush against the flesh just above his trousers. the touch is deceptively soft. ] If I wanted to. You're treading mighty close to being in my way.
[ like the table, it seems. and he, like the table, should learn to know better. but then she has to wonder what exactly her 'way' is that he's obstructing just by getting her beneath him. skirt hitched by circumstance, blouse running to creases, and her lipstick wrecked. shambolic, all of it.
she gives him a tug, eager to tip his balance towards her body. rip is drunker than she is, and she's not afraid of pressing that advantage. if she's going to be stuck under him, then she might as well make the best of it. ]
no subject
Not to mention how he enjoys the way she clings to him in the process and the aftermath. It might well be what equally keeps him from tipping too far in one direction for the other, the anchor of her hands about him, particularly since Rip doesn't quite press fully against her just yet.
Soon, however. So very soon, especially when he catches sight of the look in her eye, how her gaze wanders over his body. They're long past the point of toying about it, he thinks; kisses have been exchanged, explorations begun, and Rip goes so far as to move a hand to her thigh, teasingly pushing her skirt up that much higher as he answers her newest complaint.]
At this point, Miss Carter--[He breathes out her name, formal and proper still, because Tony Stark doesn't have a clue what he's talking about if he doesn't realize just how sweet that stiffness can sound]--you could likely have me anywhere you damn well pleased.
[But that's the game, isn't it? Challenges made, accepted, pushed one step further with each hungry breath? He goes where she leads, already certain of what she's after: a task left unfinished, and he's quick to resume his earlier efforts even as he shifts against her, to once more find her fluttering heartbeat along the side of her throat.
Yet there is a cruel irony, given the boldness of his words. The abundance of rum topped off by whiskey has left him wanton, reckless, far too keen for this foolish exchange--but as Rip presses down against her, there's a noticeable lack where eagerness should make itself most clear. Where the spirit is willing the flesh has been plied with too much alcohol, leaving him woefully unprepared to make good on what he's just asserted.]
no subject
-- it's like the whiskey's gone and dulled everything but the brightest, boldest sensations. they seize upon her suddenly and steal her breath away.
and so she sounds strained, pleasantly so, when she hisses her next best retort: ]
Anywhere, it seems, but below me. And I've got the lump on the back of my head to prove it.
[ she wheedles out the fine print from what is otherwise a rather pretty notion. his voice conjures up all sorts of possibilities. his floor, his bed, right-bloody-here on his sofa. peggy kicks off one heeled shoe and drops her toes to brush the ground beside the couch. and by order of some flexion in her hips, she fits her body better against his.
and it's in this moment she predicts she'll feel him full and present and expectant through his trousers. but expectation seems to lag behind reality. worse yet -- for as much as she holds herself head-high as an expert in all things, it's been a handful of years since she's gotten this heated and physical with another person. the fact that the booze might be to blame doesn't immediately occur to her. not in her own buzzing mind.
peggy wants him. and unless she really hasn't been paying proper attention, she's more than convinced he wants her in turn. this isn't only a meeting of bodies but a meeting of wills. and the heat of his palm on her leg, the plunder still taking place against her throat, the way she can feel his heart thunder when she dares to lay a hand over his chest -- all of it speaks to a wonderful covenant.
and yet.
-- there's no profit found in being bashful. peggy shifts beneath his body enforcing enough space to fit her hand between them. and with no ceremony at all, she palms the front of his trousers with an open eager curiosity. no, there's no mistaking it, he's not quite so ready for 'anywhere' as he's implied. ]
no subject
Keen, but still putting up their barriers. He chuckles darkly against her skin, favors her with another teasing bite as she complains about a bruise.] Somehow I think you'll manage. [The counter comes with easy confidence, mostly because Rip is damn sure there's allure in the challenge of it for her, same as him. Neither of them relents, each inch gained an inch that is earned, and if there is one thing about Peggy that has struck him is that she has little tolerance for weakness of will.
Besides; if she's that eager for revenge, the floor does remain an option.
But just as he readies himself to go a step further, to unclip the garters holding Peggy's stockings in place (which will prove a difficult act of balance to be sure), she finds space between them first, her hand worming beneath his body until she presses her palm boldly against his trousers--and finds a rather disappointing result. Rip grinds into that touch, but only once, a single thrust before he too seems to realize the same.
It's an unexpected problem to be sure; the rest of him is quite ready to proceed onward.]
That's--unexpected. [He frowns, cheeks flushing a deeper shade of red than what the alcohol has already provided. Like Peggy he doesn't come by the obvious culprit first; rather, he's quite caught up in the immediacy of what hasn't happened, despite some rather excellent temptation on Peggy's part.]
no subject
if anything, she's only a bit confused.
although she's no stranger to shouldering the elephant's share of blame when it comes to death and destruction, all other moments see her as a person who outright defies fault. but now, just now, she can't help but wonder just a little -- did she somehow mistake the cadence of their kissing? perhaps what she'd understood as alluring and playful had been something else -- after all, once the night had been properly catalyzed she'd wasted no time in coming on strong.
now, just now, a flutter of panic settles beneath her ribs. peggy had refrained from visiting his room like usual because she'd feared -- rip had been right to name it fear -- rejection. whiskey, ordinarily such a bolsterer of ego, now turns hers uncharacteristically vulnerable.
despite her trepidation, her palms come to rest solid and certain against his shoulders. even now, there's comfort taken in the heat of him through his sleeves. there's no trouble found in meeting his eyes, however, provided he'll meet hers. peggy clears her throat and proceeds the only way she knows how to. ]
I daresay I can't decide which one of us is more surprised.
[ -- wryly. ]
no subject
He braces a hand on the arm next to Peggy's head; beside her temple, his fingers tighten against the fabric.
Where she finds it a simple matter to seek out his gaze, Rip is determined to look anywhere but. His head turns towards one side, away from the couch and away from her, and when he catches sight of the few swallows of rum left in the bottle he (rather ironically) wishes there might be a good deal more in the glass. Yet she doesn't grant him escape; it works out well, considering the hole Rip suddenly desires to swallow him whole has yet to appear. Her assurance, dry thought it might be, offers something that doesn't quite merit the label comfort, but equally doesn't fall far off that measure.]
Oh, I'm fairly certain it's me. [Funny; Peggy's first thought is to question herself, and for Rip that is in no way a possibility. He runs his tongue across his lips, swallows against a suddenly dry mouth, shakes his head all in the span of stretched-out seconds that take entirely too long to tick by.
Funny how not all that long ago, he'd brashly decided not to apologize.]
I am--so, so sorry. [Dear lord, what has this night even become? Rip takes a breath, still unable to even look at Peggy; suddenly all the brazen courage provided by the drink seems to have abandoned him, the pleasure of that dizzy buzz now morphed into annoyance.] It would appear that I'm having some, ah. Technical issues.
[Yes, that hole could appear any moment now, thank you kindly universe.]
no subject
if, if, if he can stomach it.
peggy's hands chafe briefly against the outside of his biceps. a funny, almost platonic kind of gesture -- like a friend offering an awkward burst of support, and nothing like a lover trying to bridge a gap. after all, she's not quite convinced that's what they are no matter how close they'd come.
and close only counts with horseshoes and hand grenades. ]
Oh, for chrissake, don't apologize. [ she sighs, more unnerved than annoyed. he was right to think she can't abide weakness -- and the only weakness she identifies, just now, is how quick rip is to roll over and sell this like some dereliction of duty.
only now does she urge him backwards. ] Sit up. Go on. I know you must want to.
[ because she wants to, too. it's cruel and bizarre to stay canted in this suggestive position now that the mood is indelibly and irreversibly shattered. but even once they're both sat up, side by side, she find she can't exactly let him go. it's as if, this time, she's the one worried he might take flight. there's a churning in her stomach and peggy carter blames the--
oh. fucking hell, of course. it's ill-placed, maybe, but she can't quite stifle the sharp rifle report of a chuckle that bursts out of her. one doesn't rove the european theatre with a band of ne'er-do-well soldiers, from front to front, and not pick up a few stories. more than one centered on the age-old paradox of relying on liquid courage. ]
Mister Hunter. [ peggy is herself far from sober, but she's good at managing her symptoms. she almost looks clear-headed, although there's colour in her cheeks that can be blamed on alcohol and arousal both. ] May I be so bold as to suggest a diagnosis...?
no subject
It's...nice.
And a moment shattered quickly; he's almost worked up the nerve to look at her once more when Peggy suddenly laughs, sharp and sudden, not enough to fill the room in normal circumstances but Rip's nerves are rather raw just then. He frowns but! He does indeed turn eyes towards her, even meets her gaze as if showing off his displeasure at her amusement trumps whatever she's suddenly found so funny about the whole mess.
It would be worse if she didn't offer to at least share. He still doesn't look happy, but Rip nods all the same. The answer matters more, particularly if things might somehow be reversed or at least deemed temporary. He'd really prefer for this not to be an ongoing issue, particularly not if such an opportunity might arise again.]
By all means, Miss Carter.
no subject
speaking of! she nods her head towards the table. it houses not only his notes, her notes, but also two bottles. one emptied and one nearly-so. ]
Lechery, sir, it -- [ that is, the drink ] -- provokes, and unprovokes.
[ maybe it would be more merciful to tell him plainly what she thinks has happened. but, truth be told, it's all kinds of strange to be the person telling someone else what's gone awry with their own body. she's no physician, no nurse, no expert on anything except the ribald tales told around soldiers' campfires.
of course, she isn't accusing him of lechery. far-bloody-from it. nor is she calling him 'sir' in earnest which, let's be honest, would be a whole other kettle of fish. but why say a thing plainly when there's a perfectly applicable piece of good english drama that can say it for you? ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)