IC Inbox - Entranceway

[directed]

Obviously I'm not here right now, but leave a message and I'll--listen to it. Eventually.

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[mucked]

[ peggy is precisely the sort of person who can let herself forget -- at least between these walls and under the auspices of these moments -- that there is hell outside the doorstep. horror in a gilt package, one that waits to spring itself during the twisted events. events to which they are all of them subject. but it's something of a survival tactic, one that allowed her to navigate the war (relatively) unscathed.

a deep and entrenched ability to compartmentalize.

the same narrow focus that finds her in a fight finds her now, also, and hedges its boundaries all around him. he talks about a kind of harmony to their opposite but well-matched perspectives -- her looking down and him looking up -- and peggy's smile brightens not on her mouth but instead in her eyes. just as well, really, considering how hastily rip moves to occupy her lips.

even while she slants her mouth against his, peggy still pulls at her buttons until the blouse hangs loose and open on her body. but instead of shrugging free of it, she engages her hands on some other mission. her fingertips find the edges of his hips, then ride higher with each passing second as though she's committing the very musculature of his torso to sense-memory. and, yes, when she reaches that shilling-sized scar she thumbs it with idle curiosity. a curiosity that'll only be set to fire once her palms reach his bare back.

but it doesn't happen yet. because they're kissing, again, and peggy tilts forward until she's got him pressed back against his mattress -- and she bowed over him, palms on his cheeks. and although she's got every intention of dispatching his trousers as soon as bloody possible, she finds herself caught in this delightful rut where she doesn't dare break his kiss. not yet, not yet, not yet. it's a compartment within a compartment: twisting herself up in the act of kissing him to the exclusion of what's fated to follow. ]

[directed]

[She sweeps him away with the singularity of a kiss, draws Rip onto his back and Rip goes willingly, even eagerly as she directs. If he possesses reservation towards Peggy learning the shape of his body and the texture of his scars, it has yet to spark against the winds of exploration; his hands are no less idle than hers, not when she's perched over him now, leaving Rip free to touch each soft curves of her torso and waist, down to her hips. His fingers slide smoothly across skin, bump only the slightest at the hems of the lingerie she still wears. Yet while part of him wants to see absolutely every part of her, he's content to have that puzzle revealed in time--particularly when he's forced to break away just that small bit for air, opens his eyes and once more drinks in the vision she's created atop him.

A sight that takes his breath away as easily as their kisses have.

Equally, however, it is a growing impatience that has Rip keen to take Peggy just as she is; his want of her burns hot under his skin, lit trails of tinder burning through the path of his veins. He could kiss her for hours, spend just as long taking her apart in so much the same manner as he's done once already--but Rip craves a far more selfish satisfaction as well, one only highlighted when he uses his hold on her hips to draw Peggy down, to bring her body crashing against his in a prelude of what would soon come to pass between them.

He sucks in a sharp breath once more, his eyes dark as he looks up into hers.]

Unfortunately, Miss Carter, I've no intention of being a proper gentleman tonight. [Not in the most traditional sense of the terms, where a man and a woman would only engage in such intercourse once vows had been spoken and rings exchanged. There's unquestionably the most base brand of joke to be made about just where his 'gun' points this time as well, but he forgoes it. Seemingly contrary to his words, Rip doesn't release Peggy's hips just yet; rather he takes advantage of the still low angle of her body to press an open-mouthed kiss to her jaw. He wants, dear God does he, yet even as eager as he is to proceed it seems Rip might find it in himself to draw out this torture just a touch longer--if only because speaking her name reminds him that there's another dam to break first.

It's a silly game his mind sets forth, it's rules not shared with the woman he contends with. Yet it's victory would be sweet all the same, if he could coax Peggy into addressing his trousers first, slipping that much further before Rip can no longer stand this prolonged wait.]

[mucked]

[ his lips on her jaw leaves her mouth free for laughter. and as laughter goes, it's brief and low and textured. it's more like a hat tip to dark humour settling about their shoulders than it is to any genuine mirth. because, proper or not, she feels him beneath her -- stiff and dauntless. their weekly scotch hasn't sabotaged him tonight.

(then again -- it wasn't the scotch last week, was it?)

she'd love to pin him with some witty comeback, some seductive assurance that there's nothing 'unfortunate' about his intentions (or lack thereof), but her own wit is just a little too far out of reach. she can't grab it.

and she'd much rather grab at him, besides.

so they dally a little while, here, in another bit of prologue. peggy certainly doesn't mind the detour, and she's half-hoping he does. her next breath out is like a roll of gravel in the back of her throat, and once again she betrays herself as anything but a delicate creature. she might be, by a certain definition, out of practice -- but coming near undone against rip's bedroom wall with his head craning between her thighs did damned wonders for the easy, natural confidence she so often wear so well.

she noses a line across the angled plane of his cheek, dipping her mouth against the curl of his ear -- catching her breath and pressing her body onto his. it's all heat and limbs and the pleasant constant reminder that he waits for her, readied and at attention.

one piece of last week repeats itself when peggy pushes a hand between their bodies. this time, she probes for nothing but instead grips him through his trousers with clear and present intention of her own. stalled only by a thought, whispered warm against his ear: ]

The holster -- [ a beat, a sigh, god it's a chore just to speak when he's having his way with the exposed skin of her neck ] -- there's a French letter tucked next to the spare magazine.

[ the holster she'd left on the ground. it, much like her wit, feels altogether too far out of reach. far enough to make her regret mentioning that she'd come well-prepared to his door tonight. ]

[directed]

[Now it is Peggy who earns the sound that falls unbidden from Rip's lips; her breath hot against his ear, her hand gripping at his length even with the layers of cloth blocking her direct touch, and Rip can't help that low groan that sounds out against her skin. She gets a nip for it, sharp and quick, a scrape of teeth against her jaw even as Rip presses into that touch, entirely eager and ready to have so much more of her.

He's not looking for a delicate creature; long before this night, or even the one so similar to it last week, Rip had known Peggy Carter would be nothing of the sort. All the better, really; a delicate creature might want that proper gentleman, or at least a sweetheart to take her to bed--

And they've already agreed that will not be the path they travel down.

She beckons to her holster, if not by motion then by word, forced out between strained breaths and then? Oh, it's Rip's turn to quietly laugh. Not at the notion of responsibility, no; he rather appreciates her forethought, even if her very proposal just then might suggest she weren't atop him, palming Rip's cock through his trousers and leaving him rather not keen to slip away to fetch it. He's also come prepared, but in a different manner--one less reliant on the worlds they come from, and instead based in the world they're in.]

As fascinating a relic as that no doubt it--[A condom from the late 40s; in another world, he might actually have stowed it away in some corner of the ship, part of the collection of trinkets he's gathered over the years.]--it turns out that pregnancy isn't a concern here. I asked at the clinic. Anonymously. [As he is quick to add.

Still, there are other concerns: the less savory aspects to such a coupling, and while Rip knows his own state and suspects hers, he won't reject her outright.] Unless you prefer I go fetch it all the same. [Or one of a later era, benefited in design by modern advances. All in all, however, his vote remains to stay--and he emphasizes that by once more teasing her throat, this time sucking at some random spot on her skin, where he might well leave a bruise if left to his own devices for too long.]

[mucked]

[ so. they'd both done their coursework, and now they reconvene equipped and organized. maybe it's a strange moment for such a briefing -- new intel added to hers while he risks a lover's bite against her throat -- but there is something reassuring in learning they'd both of them behaved on-brand. carefully, and with forethought. two things not always associated with a fling; however, those same two things are indelible marks of their respective vocations. it turns out a thirst for adventure and a knack for deliberate planning are not mutually exclusive qualities.

although she is a little mortified, inwardly, to realize he'd gone so far as to contact someone over the network -- anonymous or otherwise. remarkably, that's what manages to put her off-kilter more than what he claims to have learned through that endeavor. but! but, there remains an uncharitable part of peggy carter, and so her first instinct is to doubt. it wouldn't be the first time some bloke tried to pass off a precaution as unnecessary. besides, that same uncharitable part of her is far too accustomed to dealing with the underhanded and the disingenuous -- two adjectives she's well aware are capable of being applied to the man she still straddles.

but both words fall short of describing rip right now. in her surprise, she's drawn back just far enough to look him in his eyes. truthfully, it's not the oddest potential side-effect of simply being in this pocket-dimension. and yet it's somehow among the trickier to simply accept.

as she stays silent, peggy's gaze searches his for a heartbeat, then two, and -- and although she knows that they are both of them important to each other, the scales of this decision is tipped not with the weight of sentiment but because she knows now that it's not his sort of gamble.

doubly so when he does the decent thing and offers to don it all the same. that alone spares them the wry 'argument' over what indeed constitutes a 'relic' in this situation, because by all accounts she's of the same era as the condom. ]

Oh, I don't imagine that's necessary. [ peggy exhales her verdict, dismissing any notion that they should disrupt their current circumstances. and she tries very hard to sound as though she's brimming over with ennui as she sits up astride his lap. her fingers pull slowly at his belt's buckle, prying it loose by degrees. ] I prefer you right where you are.

[ cheekily said, yes. but the subtext runs deep. peggy doesn't know for certain what sort of personal life he might have led after being turned a widower -- she can only make her best guesses, although those best guesses have always been rather good. the same can be said of him, guessing at her own history. but if both of them see fit to have confidence in one another and their these estimations?

well. they can consider it an exercise in trust. hesitated at, but hurdled all the same. ]

[directed]

[What mortified Peggy, Rip had deemed a necessary risk; time has proven again and again that even the best laid plans of men and the most advanced weapons could fail in one way or another. And no, perhaps such research does not necessarily marry naturally with a fling--but neither of them is one to go along with the expected at every twist and turn, now are they? Perhaps that is so much of why they can indulge as they do now: that mutual understanding, the willingness to lay down their foundations so that even when they engage in a seemingly reckless act, there remain safeguards in place.

Even if Rip distracts her in nearly the same breath he offers her a choice. Perhaps he should slow down a touch, let her consider with an unclouded mind--if it were possible with how much they've drunk and how far they've already gone. Either way, when Peggy shifts back enough to meet his gaze, Rip doesn't follow; rather, he lays his head back against the mattress, offers those handful of heartbeats to allow her to make her judgement of him, his offer, her choice.

The results bring a satisfied grin to his lips. If her verdict doesn't come from a place of trust, it's damn close. Near enough to keep any further worries at bay once Peggy rights herself and sets to work on his belt.]

Once again we are in agreement. [Tempted though he may be to roll his body against her, Rip stills himself if only to allow Peggy greater ease as she takes care of his trousers. Not one to be idle, however, he once more shifts his hands up her body, openly appreciative of her stature even as he splays his fingers along her sides, continues until his palms cup her breasts, giving them a light squeeze through the silky fabric of her bra. Each breath becomes far more deliberate now, the anticipation building with each thud of his own pulse.

Soon, so very soon, yet like Peggy Rip strives not to betray his excitement--certainly no more than his body would already clearly show.]

[mucked]

[ once again, he says. funny how that keeps happening. there aren't many in this world or in her own with whom peggy finds herself so broadly agreeable. it's not as though she and rip haven't got their differences, certainly, any likely many more as yet undiscovered. but they negotiate those conflicts altogether too similarly stay at odds for long, even when a peace isn't found. but this time -- on this topic -- their agreement is true and ironclad. and later she might wonder whether it isn't a kind of honeymoon effect making two unreasonable souls suddenly reasonable in pursuit of this: hands on curves and fingers sliding a belt free of its loops.

it's removed quick and discarded quicker. his belt adds to the clutter across his bedroom floor, a trail of hints and intentions starting over by their chairs and meandering to the bed.

peggy stretches above him -- grabbing for the bed's frame with her palm flat against the headboard. her fingers curl around its edge. the same preparatory spirit is alive and well in this gesture, and it's that braced posture that protects her balance while she frees him from his clothing. she's far too impatient to fuss beyond undoing a zipper and a rifling through his skivvies, but the end result is much the same once she has his cock in hand.

what happened earlier, her with her back against his wall, was something curated and directed by rip. and so there is a note of benevolent vengeance at play when she asserts this current direction as her own -- albeit one that is by all accounts both fiercely and mutually desired. she leads this dance when she leaves his words unanswered. why hesitate? she's leaps beyond any desire to gawk and fawn; every urge roiling in her blood points towards a desire to feel him, and properly.

with a sharp inhale, peggy guides him inside. her grip tightens against the outside of his chest -- digging between muscle and rib. she waits a moment, breath short, before rolling her hips forward. the room's lighting stays low and she casts a shadow riding above him, but even so she searches out his eyes once they're joined.

she craves that contact -- gaze to gaze -- nearly as heatedly as she craves the rest of him. ]

[directed]

[True enough; Rip could hardly be called an agreeable person by most who know him, and no doubt it's only a matter of time before he and Peggy butt heads in earnest. They've already seen signs of it, what with the whole matter regarding Fitz and how far he should be pushed, even if in the end Rip had deferred to Peggy's methods--less a matter of seeing it her way and more one of strategy on the whole. And perhaps that is the truth of it: their agreement is closer to coincidence, when two people of like enough mind are confronted by similar dilemmas.

Time would no doubt show them diverging paths in their futures--but not now. Certainly not, as his belt is undone and Rip pushes his hips up to oblige Peggy slipping it off, forgetting about it after the clatter the buckle makes when it hits the floor. He's far too occupied to care even about the noise mere moments later, Peggy's fingers quick and effective as they seek out his length, take hold of him and draw him out. His jaw goes tight with a sucked in breath, and for a moment Rip merely clings to her, the heat of her touch one he has not felt in quite some time.

Equally so, what comes next. There elegance to it lies in Peggy's efficiency, her clever and quick confidence once she has him in hand. It would seem there are to be no more words as she takes him in without further preamble, leaving Rip to shudder, to move his hands to her ribs and grip her tight when she takes him inside. His eyes shut in that moment, equally when she moves for that first time. The way her slick walls surround him nearly overwhelms, the answer to the anticipation they'd built between last week and now.

But her gaze is heated, demanding; he swallows, lets out a sigh and once more looks up at her. Her brown eyes stare intently down at him, and Rip knows in that moment to not expect this to be a long and drawn out affair. It's almost a shame in that regard, and as his fingers tighten their hold, he considers purposely slowing her pace, being a hindrance just to make the pleasure of all this last.

Curiosity wins out, in the end. That, and the promise of next time (next time! Such guarantees made in moments of insanity) he would drive the dictates of pace and rhythm. For now he's content indeed to let Peggy continue to lead, just as she chooses the records that play, bright and pounding jazz, the bombast of trumpets that would sweep anyone away with it's frantic beat.]

[mucked]

[ perhaps there would have been benefits to slowing down -- to taking her her time in measured, deliberate movements. and once she's got her fingers on him, the keenness of his reaction would under normal circumstances inspire at least a flare-up of patience while she explored the catch of his breath a little longer. but it's been quite some time for peggy, too. to the tune of some sixish years since she'd crossed this threshold with anyone.

and, back then, had she sat atop fred wells and maneuvered them both toward this end she's quite convinced her ex-fiance's heart would have stopped from surprise. the man could barely stomach the news that his bride-to-be could outdrink her brother. it's not to say she'd been a passive lover, or even a dainty one, but she had certainly been reactionary: the one on her back, the one pressed up against the outside wall of a bletchley hut under moonlight, the one ridden. and there was never anything wrong with that -- except, oh hell, it's a thrill to experience something else. and it's a thrill she chases without impatience and without even a play at being coy.

so she doesn't lose herself in diversion or distraction, saving those for some other hopeful wednesday. instead, as she has learned to do, peggy presses her advantage while she has it. it's not a hard rush -- she isn't bucking wildly, she isn't a berserker about it -- but she proceeds with firm enthusiasm. with relish. one hand gripped on the headboard, the other certain on him. initially slow, but gaining fast -- jazz isn't a bad analogy for the stride she sets. and at the foot of every sigh, her breath gives way to the beginnings of a groan -- a little sturdier each time. but because she's following instinct instead of practice, peggy's first real crack at this position teeters (every third or fourth thrust) towards the clumsy. in the end, what saves her is a strength in her core and a certainty through her thighs.

despite the earlier fog of whiskey and half-orgasm, she finds her mind remarkably clear right now. her thoughts are sharp and vibrant, like the absent jazz itself, and brimming with pleasure. she grabs at him, hips rising and falling as she bounces above him in earnest. in this way, peggy decides how she wants to feel him -- where, how deep, what angle. her attention corkscrews around that lovely pressure. that feeling of being filled.

the grit in her groan gets louder while she rides him. there are times (many of them) which call for discretion, but evidently this won't be one of them. ]

[directed]

[Perhaps her cadence is not a perfect one, but there's a great deal endearing about it all the same. Those odd strides where he feels her legs tighten where they press against his, catches sight of the tension in her belly, and it speaks all the more to her strength when she proves self-reliant in that endeavor rather than leaning on him. Fortunately so, because while Peggy has had at least a half-measure of pleasure to sate her, Rip has had nothing but his own company since last week's failed efforts. Her eagerness is not the spark for his own, but certainly serves as a potent fuel, and Rip digs his heels into the bed to better meet her driven thrusts. She lets out that first groan high overhead and Rip echoes, curses out his first true moan of the night, her determined and driven ride sparking sweet pleasure within them both.

Made all the better as Peggy voices her pleasure, seemingly without concern; Rip too had formative experiences shaped by a need for stealth. Moments and minutes stolen in the dark corners of the Time Academy, where cameras failed to reach and monitors could not see. Still, silence (or something close to it) had been a necessary safeguard; more than once a hand wound up clapped across a mouth, a reminder of their risk each time they came together, enjoyed each other in a manner forbidden to all of their station.

Now, as she pitches higher, Rip drinks in the luxury of Peggy's voice--so much the same as he savors the bounce of her breasts, the sound of her coming back down atop him, the bruises he can feel forming under her fingertips.

He might well not last; each time she draws him deep within wet heat, her walls tightening about his cock. Dry spells and delays do not lend themselves as favors towards drawing out this enjoyment, but more Peggy is simply far too good for Rip to resist, confident and sure, keen on having him as she would please, and carrying Rip with her to that apex of pleasure. A hand drops down her front, ungraceful in exchange for certainty of course. His earlier experience on his knees leaves him doubtful Peggy's had partners so wholly concerned with her pleasure--thus he wonders, suspects even, that she might not be used to having another's hand snake between bodies, press against heated flesh to find her clit. He needn't move his fingers much, he decides; rather, Rip provides that targeted focus for Peggy to grind against as she rides him, wanting to drive her over that edge first, selfishly desiring to feel her break around him.]

[mucked]

[ the intermingling of their voices puts a shudder down her spine. it starts low and climbs up her back, shivering out into her shoulders and tightening down her jaw. there is a moment, tempting and vulnerable, when peggy's eyes slip closed. half-measures be damned, she still feels the weighty isolation of years behind her -- unraveling now as proximity and touch pull apart those old stiff threads. threatening to leave her frayed and undone.

she bites down on a tremble in her lower lip, willing her words to stay down the back of her throat. noises are one thing; words are quite another. peggy guards hers jealously, hemming them in with one last scrap of pragmatism. but as scraps go, it's mighty and tough. it's a resilience fortified by the fact that, as maddeningly wonderful as he is to ride, she doesn't anticipate crashing before he does.

but that pragmatism might have met its match in rip hunter. when he touches her, when he reaches between them, he breaks rank with her expectation.

however, instinct is a funny little thing. after the first all-over quiver when his fingers find her sensitive and hot, peggy's initial reaction is to draw back a beat -- dragging her hand up from his flank so that she can instead grip him, vice-like, at the wrist. and for a moment it seems as though she might pry his hand off of her, surprised and uncertain. but much like her pragmatism, her uncertainty is short-lived. instead, and although there's hardly any fear of him doing so, peggy's grip chokes a centimeter higher. she makes no secret then of wanting to steady his hand in place -- to trap his touch precisely where it's best felt. she does as he'd anticipated: she grinds. her hips roll again to take him deeper. peggy presses against him. she luxuriates in the sensation, bidding it build and build and build--

and, eventually, there's no restraining her words. not any longer. ]

Christ alive.

[ peggy savours her time astride him, but she craves completion all the more. and, grinding against his touch, she can just begin to taste that eventuality like copper, conductive on the back of her tongue. moments more, another brace of heartbeats, another flicker of eye contact before her head falls backward. she comes -- hard, sudden, with a flood of feeling through her body and a tightening tremble of her thighs. if bruises were only beginning in the flesh of his side, then they're made in earnest by her grip on his wrist. she rides out each new cresting wave of pleasure, murmuring sharp and hungry praise.

but by some miracle she doesn't say his name. ]

[directed]

[For a moment her surprise seems to show the cracks of her vulnerability, and as Peggy takes that unyielding hold of his wrist even Rip wonders if she might not push him away for the second time, shaken perhaps by his willingness, indeed, his eagerness to see her sated even before him. Yet her stubbornness wins out along with perhaps her greed, and as her fingers turn to steel about him he breathes out a low yes, encouragement for her to take and take from him, until one wall shatters and she can't help the words that tumble down from her lips.

Each becomes a seed planted in the back of his thoughts; already Rip can construct just what else he might want to draw out of her.

But even someone such as he, who plans down to meticulous detail, cannot wander too far away from the present. Not when her voice heightens in pitch, when his body tightens beneath her, and each frantic outcry is paired with a rising rhythm of heartbeats, pounded out like drums. He cannot know the moment before she breaks; only when she does, tosses her head back and her hair cascades down over her shoulders, her pleasure making her shudder where she remains perched above him, her walls tightened, clenching about him.

She doesn't say his name; Rip bites his lip to hold back hers, even when the spark of pain from her grip and the dying tremors of her orgasm at last cause him to spill within her, his back arcing upwards against her hold and her weight as his own thrusts turn shallow and sporadic. His hand stays locked against her, more through Peggy's efforts now than Rip's own, and instinct drives him to abandon his more cooperative movements as he chases after his own finish, greedy and selfish in the end.

The rather fantastic end, he would think later, once he cared to do anything more than breathe and feel.]

[mucked]

[ what an adventure.

she'd hit the finish line hard and unforgiving -- vocal, dynamic, and clutching him with knees and hands (two hands, once she'd relinquished her anchor-hold on the headboard) until the world cracked asunder and melted away both. everything had turned taut and tight and coiled only to give way to tremors. there was nothing halfway about it; together, they make up the ground lost when she'd earlier stumbled away from his wall. she might be snug around him but the very borders of her body feel as though they disintegrate. her touch might as well fade into his, and she feels a burst of something good and beautiful and exhausting inside.

and immediately afterward, a muted stillness despite his quick thrusts upward and the hot spill that follows. but that stillness inside doesn't match the way she breathes quick and loud, or the way she shudders still, or how her insistent grip on his hand -- pushed against her -- drags out radical aftershocks. late, thoughtless, she lets him go only to sway above him. her fingers flex useless against the air, as though she already misses holding on.

her nervous system flutters, still. peggy is flushed and euphoric and lost within herself -- content to stay a moment where she sits and keep him claimed inside of her, emptied and spent. she pushes her fingers into disarrayed curls, stretching her spine with a pleasant huff. gravel lingers, still, in the way she whimpers just afterward.

peggy thinks she would very much like to sink against him and listen to his heart race alongside hers. some last faint trace of self-preservation invites her to second guess that instinct, and instead she dismounts only to flop alongside him in his bed. her toes curl, still.

she's not prepared to speak. not yet. her mouth is dry. her head feels like it's wrapped up in cotton and ready to be shelved for another day. and her limbs? well, a soft groan dovetails with her next sigh. maybe she should stop letting herself be surprised by rip hunter. had she the chutzpah left to do so, she might have laughed low and warm when she realizes she ought to have stopped letting herself be surprised by him the moment he proved himself such a exciting dance partner. ]

[directed]

[Somewhere between the moment he spends himself within her and when Rip next opens his eyes, he feels the way Peggy shifts and shudders above him, that moment when her body stills and the next when she abandons him in favor of claiming a place beside him on the bed. Surely it all doesn't take place at once, yet the way his head swims makes it seem so, one second layered onto the next, a dizzy blur while his mind still spins from what they've just shared.

He can feel her on his fingertips, even after his hand falls down between them.

On another night, years ago, with a different partner beside him, Rip would have instinctively turned onto his side, reached for the woman next to him and drawn her close. That drive is still there, and he has to stop himself from embracing Peggy even as they both luxuriate in the aftermath. Not sweethearts he can hear them both say, along with a litany of curses and praise and wordless sounds now, and though Rip doesn't know it there's a hint of a grin lingering about his mouth. The spared movement allows limbs to sink heavy against the bed, after a moment spent stretching his arms over his head.]

Bloody hell. [He murmurs appreciatively, despite the predictable thirst brought about by such exertion. Still, it's worth being said. That had been rather fantastic, and only after several more seconds pass does he think to turn his head and look towards Peggy, to affirm that she does indeed feel the same.

Or to simply drink in the sight of her, spoiled by bliss, relaxed for once without so much alcohol flowing through either of their veins. It's a rare thing, he realizes, and his smile grows that much more for it.

It's always lovely to find a way to get under the skin of someone he appreciates so.]

[mucked]

[ she shuts her eyes against the glow of the lights left on. it's taking longer to catch her breath than she'd first imagined; even now, it's all havoc. pleasant, erratic, unpredictable havoc. her next inhale gets thready and catchy come its peak. and maybe maybe maybe lurking far beneath this fresh panorama of feeling, peggy also feels some vestigial urge to get intertwined and cozy. but it's more like an echo of an instinct, and easily dismissed.

instead, she pillows one arm behind her head -- leaving the other arm slack at her side so that when she turns to look at him she hasn't got a cocked elbow impeding her view. what's less vestigial is her recognition of his smile. it's a rare enough occurrence that even now she knows to enjoy it.

she's got colour high in her cheeks. and peggy scrapes her teeth over her bottom lip, not quite hiding a grin of her own. bloody hell is bloody right, but she finds herself less inclined to share easy awe and praise now that the checkpoint's reached. slowly, she finds her tactical reserve once again. it trickles back to her in dribs and drabs.

but not so quickly that she doesn't offer up a threadbare judgment: ] That was a bit of alright.

[ wry, layered, and well-intended. she stretches and finds herself just beginning to realize they'd only managed to get rid of the bare minimum of their clothing, really, before hopping to it. next time, she thinks. ]

[directed]

[A bit of alright she claims, and Rip expects it's rather high praise coming from Peggy. He doesn't say it, however; merely reaches over with a hand to brush an errant curl from her face, the brown lock contrasting beautifully with the flushed pink of her cheeks.

Much like her lipstick; he thinks, idly, she must have wished for something with staying power from the closets. Whatever she'd found is certainly a survivor.]

Worth being mostly sober for, surely. [Though he has little doubt that what they might have had last week would have been good, it wouldn't have been--this. Though he's tired and his thoughts lazy, Rip's mind feels surprisingly clear all the same. It's a brand of relaxation he doesn't often find. Certainly not in Wonderland, and there's even the chance he might manage a decent bit of sleep tonight.

A rare prize indeed, should it happen.]

[mucked]

[ his touch doesn't catch her by surprise. she sees it, telegraphed, in his should and in his arm before it happens. and peggy, much like she did the week before, turns her face only slightly towards the gesture. she could have stopped it, dodged it, refused it; however, she didn't. but even as she indulges this bit of afterglow intimacy, she doesn't invite anything more.

what she does instead is shift languid-like onto her side, propping her head up with the flat of a palm. peggy's arm drapes across her side, red-nailed fingers finding a comfortable and familiar place against her own hip, the dark blue of her garter belt, and it's a compromise -- although she's spent and lazy in her own right, she at least pins her attention on him like some alternative to snuggling together. ]

Surely. [ peggy repeats. and although she thinks about kissing him, it's harder to accomplish without the white hot furnace of arousal driving her forward. to kiss him now would be almost exclusively sentimental.

unacceptable. ]

I do believe you've more than made up for last week. [ which is another scrap of praise masquerading as mild retort. silently, peggy thinks she could do with a drink -- spirits or otherwise -- but she doesn't trust her legs to carry her, just yet, and she'll be damned before she asks rip for any favours.

and so it's idle chatter (pillow talk, ugh) until she gathers enough steam to slip out. at least, that's the plan. it's not terrible concrete just yet -- and there's something wonderfully nice about laying right here and watch all of rip hunter's springs stay uncoiled.

it's a view she likes. ]

[directed]

[So simple a thing, and yet when Peggy leans in just that small measure, Rip once more feels an urge to draw nearer to her. He doesn't, however; their intimacy must have it's boundaries, as they decided on that particularly unforgiving morning last week. He can live with the momentary regret of what he must deny himself, if the trade-off means she'll show up at his door the next Wednesday and the next.

There is always a larger picture to consider, and a price to be paid for greater gains.

She speaks of his failing last week and he lets out a huffed breath, closing his eyes for a brief time. Though his breathing has evened out, he's not willing to drift off just yet. Though neither crosses the boundary of space between them, there is something to be said for the time shared, even if physical contact is no longer there.]

How grand. I wouldn't have been able to live with myself if I hadn't. [Though that's far from the truth; making up for the week prior truly hadn't been on his mind so much as ensuring tonight was simply good for it's own sake. A beat passes; in the quiet of the room he can hear the cadence of her breath, and something else: a bit of white noise he needs a second to identify, though when he does, it makes a rather convenient follow-up to her remark.]

Though now you're the one with something to make up for, Miss Carter. [Right back to that touch of formality, never mind that just minutes before Rip had been inside of her.] This whole time you've failed in your duty to select the next record--and left my player running to boot.

[mucked]

[ she breathes out one long breath after his hand retreats from her cheek. there's more said in the way she meets his eye than in anything else -- a kind of solidarity with what goes unspoken, acknowledging the time shared is welcome. wanted, even. sweethearts they won't be, no, but equally neither of them seem all that interested in carving a hard line between their sex and their camaraderie.

peggy has no desire to stay the night -- but she doesn't want to flee it, either. something both caring and protective in her better nature yearns to stick around at least until he falls asleep. better yet, her loosely defined affection informs her she wouldn't much mind if it takes him a quarter of an hour, a half hour, whatever to drift.

it's not love. but it's not friendship, either. out by the firing range she'd assured him they weren't friends and peggy is convinced that such a verdict stays true. they've skipped a few steps; they've found themselves mired straight in the middle. liked, respected, wanted, enjoyed.

she turns her head to glance across the room -- she can just about see the record player from this angle. ]

You're wrong. [ all the respect and want in the world couldn't iron out the attitude she puts forth, whether it's cloaked in a tired yawning voice or not. ] I never failed in my duty. I was thwarted. Sabotaged. There's a keen difference.

[ peggy gives a stretch, though, and considers how much she'd like a glass of something. perhaps a chance to tidy up a bit-- ] But I'll head back into the field and see the thing dispatched, Mister Hunter, if that's what you truly want.

[ it'll give her a chance to find her knickers. ]

[directed]

[Indeed, he's glad for her lingering company, even if they both restrain themselves to temporary touches and quiet words from this point forward. Equally that she seems content enough to stay for the time, rather than abscond immediately now that the more rigorous part of the evening is done. Rip already doubts that she would allow herself to spend the night. The two times it's happened now, they'd both been more drunk than anything else. And each morning after, neither one of them had been entirely comfortable around the other, particularly Peggy, whom had tried to sneak away without Rip's noticing on each occasion.

It's an interesting set of weight to put upon the scales: the warm presence of another body in his bed throughout the night, or the avoidance of a third morning marred by awkwardness. In the end it's a matter left entirely in Peggy's hands—and one better, Rip thinks, left without the input of whatever opinion he might form should he give it too much thought. He's often in the habit of spoiling something by overthinking it—something Miranda would often accuse him of in the past.

So instead he tries to accept the good for what it is, and trust the notion of what comes next to someone else. Not the simplest thing for him, and thus it's good that Peggy offers distraction. Such a brassy stance even now, and Rip turns his head just enough to show off a single arched eyebrow.]

Sabotaged; that is quite the accusation to make. [An entirely accurate one, he knows, but far be it from him to simply admit that Peggy's right. Especially not as she continues on, clever and quick as always. Suddenly the ball he'd deemed fit to set aside has been sent spiraling into his court, and with the question of his desires, Rip can practically hear the lynchpin of the trap set into place.

And here he'd been, just having decided to avoid bad habits.]

I'm rather fond of the quiet, actually. [Of her, close enough to touch should he stretch a hand out just to the side. Stay or go, the choice remains hers—even if Rip decides for the moment, he's content to have her put off making it just a touch longer.]

[mucked]

But it's not, is it? Quiet.

[ peggy shifts and returns to her place, head swiveling so she can look at him again. she watches his profile, side-on, and admires all the details she'd first observed in a scotched haze one week prior. observed, yes, as his head had sat in her lap. piece by piece, she builds up a familiarity. ]

Because I can hear it too. [ she assures him. ] The faint scratch of the needle on the platter. I imagine it's ruined, now. [ the needle; not the platter. ] You'll need to fit a new one before --

[ before next week ]

-- before you can listen to anything else.

[ that little noise might as well fill the room. it's a pedal note behind their gradually calming breath and the internal thrum of their respective pulses. the more she thinks about it, the more she hears it. ordinarily, it's the sort of thing that should fray her nerves after the first minute. but there's still lead in her limbs and a kind of euphoria working its way through her system. and...

and there's no mistaking rip's real meaning. fond of the quiet, he said. and although she'd replied to them, all she'd heard underpinning those words was an argument for her not to get up and break the detente between them. so, grabbing at one of his pillows, she decides there's no profit in trying to undo the damage that's already been done. the needle's broken; rushing to the player won't change that fact. so she'll linger here a little longer. peggy stuffs the pillow beneath her head and settles. more comfortable.

and after their hushed and tired chatter falls silent, she winds in and out of a light, light sleep. cat-naps, nearly, as she's never out of it for longer than twenty minutes at a time. but eventually she outstays her own welcome and leaves him to occupy his bed alone. in the dead of night, she's careful-quiet. she finds her clothes and she shuts off the player and she pauses -- hesitant -- beside the tumblers they'd left out on the table. peggy downs what remains of both her glass. it's a little liquid courage taken before she rifles through a desk drawer, finding herself a piece of stiff paper and a good pen.

she scribbles out a brief note, unsigned: see you next wednesday. and then she tucks it into whatever book he's reading, choosing a page at random after she steals his proper bookmark from within.

peggy takes it with her when she leaves -- hastily dressed -- and carries her shoes and holster with her. ]