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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.
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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. ]
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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.]
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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. ]
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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.]
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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. ]
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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.]
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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. ]
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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.]
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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. ]
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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.
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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. ]
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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.]
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[ 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. ]