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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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odd. he smells of vanilla and flour.
rather than wonder why, peggy starts down the winding mental road towards convincing herself that the event is to blame. not her heart, nor his. so her urges run in contradictory directions: one keen to keep him close and continue dancing through the last choruses and beyond; another just as keen to discredit everything that had brought them both to this particular crux. ]
Not in the least. [ she answers -- mouth against his shirt, hand still on his spine. it's a blessing that she's manage to iron out any quiver from her voice. as dreadful as it had been to sing, peggy already misses listening to him. it would appear she relishes anything of his that speaks to warmth and depth and liveliness: a song, a chuckle, a pleasant sigh. they are all of them medals she collects and keeps, memories intended to shore up her walls against how miserable she'd felt while missing him.
their tuneless dance makes a wonderful excuse for avoiding any eye contact. so she maintains it, breathing deep against his chest. ] Rather, I wanted to bring you something.
[ something that couldn't wait until wednesday, apparently. maybe it would have been better if it had. ]
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And yet Rip wouldn't alter the moment that it's become if he were given the chance.
He slips his hand more firmly about her waist, letting it rest on the small of her back as they continue to dance. His chin dips until it's just atop her head, and like Peggy, Rip can sense the scent of his partner with every breath: lavender, in her case, from her soap and shampoo. A fragrance he's starting to like rather a lot, by chance.
(Maybe one day he might wear it too, along with cake flour and vanilla bean.)]
Something for me? [Quiet though he still is, the lilt of surprise in Rip's voice stands clear. It's rather unexpected that she might bring him anything at all, since with rare exception, it's usually Rip who provides between the two of them: whiskey on Wednesdays, glasses to drink it from, the bed they share.]
Should I ask after the occasion? [He makes light of it, but part of him can't help but be concerned all the same. He's always found it easy to think through to the worst case scenario, yet these days that grim outlook comes all the more readily. Peggy in particular doesn't do things without some reason; whatever it is she's brought, there's a purpose behind it that likely goes beyond her merely wanting him to have it.
Whatever "it" turns out to be. He'd been too busy listening to her sing to notice anything new in the room—and he doesn't much care to look beyond her just then besides.]
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[ her reply doesn't miss a beat. not in conversation nor in their dance neither. in technical terms, it's a lie -- but not one of those lies she feels all that cut up to tell. so what if it's her birthday? what use does he have for that information? things are strange and muddled and emotional enough as-is; weaving in any sense of celebration simply seems like it might be asking for turmoil.
besides, it still wouldn't explain why she's bringing him a gift.
peggy's head lifts just enough to puff warm breath against his throat -- a punctuation note between steps, between thoughts, as though she's deciding whether the act of actually handing it over to him is worth cracking open their intimate formation. evidently not, because she waits until their lackadaisical dancing turns just enough so it's him facing the shelf before she says: ]
It's next to your little Waverider. [ she explains -- knowing he might only get a glimpse of the succulant in its aggressively modern planter before their silent rebel's dance turns again. ]
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Yet it's not too long before she drops her hint, forces Rip to turn his head just enough to catch a glimpse of--something green? He frowns, not in dislike exactly, but rather curiosity that's now warped into confusion.]
You got me a plant. [Statement and question both; while Rip does have some manner of nurturing traits, he can't exactly recall ever keeping a houseplant before. Moreover, it doesn't explain why Peggy thought he apparently needed one.
He knows she's got no reason to assume he would want one.]
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[ but! before he can take that explanation some woefully wrong way, she carries on: ]
They make a nice addition to just about any room, you realize. [ peggy keeps three or four small-to-middling size and non-flowering plants back in her own quarters -- quiet punches of greenery and effort where once upon a time the whole place had been textbook dreary. ] But that little fellow doesn't quite fit in with the rest of mine.
[ she's telling more lies, of course. they're easier told when their eyes are nowhere near meeting and she didn't have to see his confused frown. no, the choice of a succulent was rather deliberate and thoughtful -- rip was right to consider that no action peggy takes is without some sort of intention. ]
I thought it would look better on your shelves. So -- it's yours, now.
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But just then, with her pressed against him, the echo of a song still resonating in their dance, Rip finds himself less inclined to pick apart truth and lies. Later, perhaps, when he's been left alone with his new roommate and the silence.]
I suppose I'll have to attempt to take care of it then. [And there's the rub: Rip hasn't exactly kept houseplants before. Water is part of the process, as anyone knows. But a trip to the library might be advised for anything more intensive than that.
Unless--] Any advice on ensuring I don't force it to suffer a slow and agonizing death?
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and there, briefly in the middle of it all, she had allowed her eyes to lock onto his for the first time since their bizarre dance began.]
You water it. Luckily, yours will be a bit more forgiving than mine. You give the soil a thorough soaking once a week, perhaps twice. That sort of plant is built to expect a drought. It prepares for them.
[ that plant is a survivor. ]
Don't you dare let it die.
cw: suicidal thoughts
She's quite marvelous; her steps, her confidence in body. The look in her eye when so briefly, their gazes meet. Perhaps more now than when he'd sung those lyrics, Rip feels knocked off center.
But it's a dance, and he must keep time and rhythm alike. He tilts his face down but does not kiss her properly; rather, he presses his lips gently to her forehead, a whisper of a touch as she spells out her reasons in the form of instruction and demand. It's not just the plant she wishes Rip to maintain then, but himself right along with it. Once, maybe twice a week, and to do that he needs to remember what time it is, what day, to not let all of Wonderland blend together like that miserable hell he'd lived through on the Waverider.
Prepare for the hard times. Don't dare to let them consume him.]
When you put it like that, I suppose I don't have much choice. [Not if he wants to keep what he does have. Rip has experienced loss, keen and defining, the sort of thing that has made him wish for his own death time and again. But he's never managed it; there's always been some greater purpose, some task or duty to hold on to--or now, a woman in his arms and all she represents, moments of happiness and levity and song, and so very much more.
No. He can't dare let it die. He won't.]
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perhaps she bigs him up in her thoughts. perhaps she refuses to imagine him as ever being quite so vulnerable as he ever was. it's a dangerous bias she carries, towards strength and reason and perseverance. or maybe she merely hopes a nudge is all he needs to go back to who he used to be. after all, she'd never had her heart quite so broken as the day she realized how much seventy-some years had changed someone else; surely, a mere year is entirely recoverable.
peggy maintains her lead. she dances him through the small unoccupied space in his room, between desk and table and shelf and bed, with as much confidence as if they had a whole ballroom to themselves. but without music, without rip leading them with meticulous precision, the steps get sloppier. confident, but careless. and soon after his little kiss, they're left doing nothing more than swaying hanging off one another. ]
Peggy's orders.
[ she settles on an old phrase, one that hasn't been uttered much since her time with the howlies. but they'd always known what it meant: here is a position from which she won't budge, and from which they shouldn't deviate. where everything else might be negotiable, this wasn't. and it's confirmation that what he says is true -- he doesn't have much (or any) choice. ]
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I know it isn't Wednesday. [Naturally not, but Rip continues all the same.] Yet I feel like I should offer you a proper thanks for my gift all the same. [They've yet to stop dancing, after all, and Rip believes that they can remaster the rhythm, set up their own notes and their own lyrics, sing the song they choose rather than the one Wonderland has composed in their minds. A moment longer and he seeks to take the lead from Peggy—to pull gently away from her body, though their hands remain linked, and draw her back towards the bed.]
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it's late afternoon, on a monday, and peggy can't be arsed to play coy. already, she kicks off her heels. even now, dancing and warring playfully over who's leading who, there's an echo of new year's eve in the room. rip coaxes her in one unmistakable direction and there's not an ounce of her left that would want to linger back or loiter.
in fact, she proves in one or two wide strides that she doesn't need leading. she's there, at his side, and intends to sprint well beyond the discomfort of the event -- to stopper up any further risk of singing when she ensnares him in a kiss, one that she needs to stretch upward to achieve now that she's lost a good three inches without her shoes. they sit abandoned like tipped warships in the middle of his floor. ]
I suppose a proper thanking won't go amiss. [ but peggy does appear conflicted, for just a moment, as she considers where they stand and what options sit ahead of them. truthfully, she can't decide between knocking him flat on his back or otherwise taking a prim seat for herself on the mattress's edge. ] Provided no one bursts into song again.
[ in the end, she splits the difference -- tipping backward but hauling him with her, tugging his body down against hers. oh she'd missed being with him in his own bed. the last time she was here, she'd been alone. ]
thread is gonna get nsfw
And now he can't remember the last Wednesday--or Thursday morning--when she was with him and didn't have to go scrounging for her shoes.
She doesn't simply follow, nor put on an air of reluctance; Peggy proves herself eager, willing to be with him, and that very notion threatens to overwhelm. It doesn't escape Rip that he hasn't been with her, or anyone, in well over a year. But unlike the first time, they aren't drunk; unlike the first time, now he's coming off months and months of isolation, where the thought of another human's touch was as hopeless an indulgence as belief they might somehow defeat Thawne and his foes.
But he's no longer trapped within that prison; Wonderland may have pulled him into a different cage, but it's one filled with life, a sweet floral fragrance, and the odd taste of her lipstick as it smudges against his mouth. The doubt may linger as she makes her choice, but Peggy's quick to banish it again in him; he doubts she knows it's even there when she sends them both crashing into his bed, him atop her, trapped by her all the same.]
I'm sure there are ways we can prevent that. [A promise sealed with lips pressed to Peggy's jaw before Rip nuzzles her chin upwards. Just as she had stopped herself from singing those certain words, clearly Rip would be unable to do more than hum should he keep his mouth suitably occupied. Yet as so often is the case, there's another reason he ceases the opportunity. Whatever he might say as thanks or preventative measures, in this way he is the one setting the pace. She needn't touch him for his pulse to flutter so much the same as hers when he closes his mouth on her skin; no, rather Rip fears being unable to endure it, to fall into the storm that is Peggy Carter when she craves.
It's a good showing, all meant to hide away just how terrified he is of finding himself as he had in her shower, unable to do anything more but sit while she scrubbed away the dredges of his world.]
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peggy's next (first) breath is more like a pant. it's a short, sensitive sound -- a direct reaction to the familiar alchemical reaction that takes place just beneath her skin when he gets his mouth on it. blood simmers and nerves light up.
and she can only lay still for so long before she makes sudden and enthusiastic good on her half of this crash. crooking it at the elbow, she lays her arm from bend to wrist against the line of his back. it won't matter that she's stretched beneath him, or that his assurances are firm when he suggests he knows how to keep one or both of them from cracking into song. it won't matter, either, that she squirms when he sucks a kiss against the side of her neck. because while that transpires she has her palm tented against his neck, where it disappears under his collar, and her fingers reaching high on his nape. it's a steadying touch -- as though she recognizes the lead he takes in kissing down her throat, but she's still got her hand on the rudder. ]
Yes, yes, of course. [ even so, her voice is strained and thin and telling when she answers him -- falling into a more familiar melody than any song could provide. yes, yes. each word carrying more weight and affect than the conversation implies. ] An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.
[ she presses her lips, smudged nearly bare, against his temple. the only part of him own kisses can reach. and when that sparks a touch of frustration, peggy copes by tugging, pulling, grabbing at his shirt with all the loudly telegraphed desire to see it stripped off his body. ]
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Or upwards, as needs be. Her frustration has equally made itself manifest, and by the time Rip constructs some mental dam for his own desires, Peggy's started to claw at his shirt. Her message stands clear, and Rip pulls away from her, pushes himself onto his knees not only to breathe, but to tug away the now offensive garment. A brief blur of grey obscures his vision before he throws it aside; up and over, he thinks, though if either of them were to look, they would see it caught on the highest shelf beside his bed.
For Rip, the tee is already forgotten; he's too impatient now, too needy, to think of things that have been stripped away.
Instead of falling back atop her, however, Rip takes advantage of his position to address the blouse Peggy still wears. Part of him would rather see her buttons fly than be carefully undone, a temptation that only grows when his fingers shake as he undoes the first. But there's some part of him that can still reason better than that. He's more than mindless impatience; he's no fumbling schoolboy, and even in his hurry Rip can see a better end to be earned than surrendering so wholly to carnal desires.
Even so, he doesn't undress Peggy fully; her blouse laid open, Rip only now rejoins her in full, picks up his trail at the patch of red kissed into her neck, traces a path of like imprints as he travels further down.]
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it's bounding. or else she fancies it is -- leaping, like a jack rabbit, in his chest. peggy bites down on a grin as though some piece of her still won't suffer him seeing how much she enjoys his tells, or the shared effect they have on one another when the pleasantries crack away and their desires reign instead. such as the shake in his hands as he works at balancing out their states of undress, picking at buttons while she -- keen-eyed -- watches him fight a little battle between his instincts and his inclinations. her own is waged by the dark in her eyes and the lift in her hips. it's won and lost in the way she sighs when his touch, dipping between buttons, catches her skin.
it's been a week since he's come back to her and about ruddy time to acknowledge something beyond the tricky and poorly articulated emotions surrounding their reunion. this is a far far simpler language, and one they fall to speaking with familiar ease. he bends forward and she lets her hand slip back to his waist, fingers curving against his side with the kind of grip that allows her to urge him near. rock him forward. to take that spark of what's carnal and ignite it against a dash of encouragement as her body raises against his. her skirt is already in a state. creased, riding above her knees, hitched since the moment they'd tumbled into his bed together. and much like his shirt and her buttons, the rest of their clothing proves more burden than benefit. ]
-- Christ. [ she swears, sharply, and disavows any earlier desire to foster an even playing field between them. the slow torturous line of his kisses, sucked and marking, wreak havoc with her tolerance for laying back and letting him plot his own course. and so she lets her own want get the better of her, her own instinct win a skirmish or two, whens he grabs him by his waist and seeks, a touch roughly, to turn him onto his back. peggy hopes to supplant rip in his position and straddle him instead. ]
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Not that it isn't a struggle. Peggy's gotten damn strong thanks to her efforts in Wonderland. There's a war to be prepared for, and days spent running and training show in the effort Rip needs to counter her push. But he's got leverage on his side; his weight atop hers, and Rip shows little gentleness as he moves to grab her arms, one after the other, his hold tight as he tears them away from his body and up, up, pins them to the bed on either side of her head.]
Not yet. [He breathes out this admonishment even as he shifts against her, presses the bulge of his arousal down between her legs. God, how tempting it is to let her have her conquest, to feel her over him, knowing Peggy would make short order of those last barriers to take him within. But this is Rip's endeavor, his dictates; he means to do more than simply lose himself in her. Not that he has the use of his hands at the moment. But he'll still make do, ducking his head to capture her nipple between his teeth, lace and all, to suck firmness into the nub and have her all the more eager for it.]
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she rewards him in other ways. what defiance she offers now, palms squirming against his hold, stops short of trying to the break free. instead, she forces her fingers between his and fits their hands together. he can keep her pinned, certainly, but peggy opts to hold his hands rather than simply be held. not yet, he scolds and promises all in once breath.
-- she thinks very briefly on how lonely his year must have been. and about how quick he'd been to crash back into her once the dust of his return had settled. and then, all at once, she finds herself quite incapable of thinking coherent thoughts when he gets his mouth on her. almost on her. she complains about the lace through clenched teeth. hips rising to meet him as he brings his weight to bear. her breath stops briefly, tight and caught in her chest, and rip achieves what he's been after when she twists beneath him.
her heart's turn to hammer. her pulse's turn to race. her fingers curl into his knuckles and grip tight. ]
I know even your patience has its limits. [ she goads him -- dangling memory and opportunity both. but her whisper is more breath and hiss than sound. even peggy doesn't know whether she's trying to divert him or encourage him onward. ] And it's been so long, hasn't it?
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Shoes nonwithstanding.
Yet she doesn't relent; battles and wars between them always, and Peggy means to still fight on. She teases him with her words, gets a groan from him because yes, oh yes, it has been so long indeed.] Too long, [He sounds out between breaths and bites both, giving her another teasing nip before shifting his head to her other breast. He leaves dampened fabric in his wake, tonguing hungrily at her through her bra, but only for a moment. Her fingers tighten, and his as well. She has him, and in turn, he refuses to let go.]
Which is why I mean to savor you. [So often he surrenders to her, yields when Peggy asserts her control, and adores her for it. But in the wake of battles lost, Rip finds himself wanting something different this time. A reversal of roles, as it were, and he lifts his head to meet Peggy's eyes with a darkened gaze.]
When you beg me. When you crave me so badly, you cannot stop yourself. [Then, and Rip shifts downward on bent elbows and knees, clinging to Peggy still even as he pulls their joined hands to her sides. He has yet to touch her properly, to taste her mouth-to-skin since she made her move. Perhaps it's punishment then, but it suits his purposes well all the same. He needn't pull aside her knickers, after all, to run the flat of his tongue over them. To know she would feel the promise of what he could offer her, if only that damned silk wasn't in the way.]
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but she's got plenty of reasons, still, to challenge him. to make him -- make both of them -- work for every moan and sigh. ever since their first night together, when she got her first hint of how much he was eager to give, they've spent their time together mapping this would-be relationship with hands and mouths and noises. does he want a victory? a reaffirmation? a renewal of unspoken vows? she would happily give him all three. but, still, she needs to challenge him. he says he means to savour -- and surrendering so soon, so easily, steals that opportunity away from both of them. peggy dares to think that her challenge is exactly what he needs -- only mitigated, moderated, and offered up without the same spirited tactics that would normally see her wrestling him onto his back with her triumphant above him. he's asking her to run a marathon, not tap out.
she won't hold pleasure tight to her chest like a poker hand saved for the last possible moment; her cards were laid on the table back when the event overcame her discretion. the song's notes and rhythms linger still in the back of her head -- the memory of the music adds to her high, rescued from a dreary association made while she'd listened to it in his absence. her teeth dent her bottom lip but do very little to quell the sound she makes (soft, fond, unspooling) when he tugs her hands down like tethers shifted to give him slack. give him more opportunity to erode away her self-control.
so she grips his hands. peggy's thighs part without prompting, yes, but the motion is an invitation. not yet a plea. she has to trust that, yes, he'll have her begging before long. her duty is to (avidly; gladly; excitedly) revel in his build-up -- body bowing up, and a sharp breath causing her stomach to cave. she wants to tangle her fingers in his hair but clinging to him, telegraphing the tightening of her nerves with a squeeze on his fingers, isn't such a terrible alternative.
how he manages his patience, now, she'll never know. she may have gone some seven years without such depth of intimacy before, but now peggy knows going more than a week without him is a particular kind of misery.
she writhes. she enjoys the scrape of his beard against the skin of her thigh. and, in a tight breathless voice, she tells him the truth: ] I never stopped craving you.
[ not since they first crashed together. not while he'd been gone. and certainly not since his return. although she'd waited for a moment link this one ever since, it'd been nearly too much for her patience to bear. a price to pay for diverting them both the day he came back to her. for talking instead of doing. ]
But that doesn't make you any less -- [ what's the word for it? she gropes for it, driven to distraction and aggravation and delight all at once with the potential of his tongue hiding over silk knickers. ] Frustrating.
[ it's said with
loveaffection. ]no subject
He'd been drunk on rum by the time she had; his high this night finds it's source in a completely different creature.
He uses their hands for leverage. He cannot grip her thighs, but he can lean on his forearms, hold to her still even as he chuckles in quiet reply. When his head turns his lips this time find skin; he kisses her thigh, merely a peck, before offering confirmation and warning both.]
You've no idea how frustrating I can be. [But tonight, perhaps, he'd begin to show her. Fingers intertwined might not be the most effective restraint, but they are a perfect one for this moment. He nips her thigh once more before pressing his mouth to her knickers; this time the press of his tongue is firmer, dulled by the cloth and yet determined all the same to delve within her, to lick and kiss and taste her until that craving becomes a far less controlled thing--until her frustrations mount, and she's left helpless by her own need.]
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peggy listens -- eyes shut, hips shifting -- as he makes claims. and the coiling feeling just below her stomach helps her realize she can't discern her apprehension from anticipation. the word (frustrating) bleeds into something exciting. her instincts rebrand it. suddenly, viscerally, she wants to know exactly how he means it. she's about to continue their short-of-breath banter, to tell him to show her so, when the next sigh is stolen straight from her lungs.
god-damn-it rip. her fingers flex against his in earnest -- hands stretching, showing just how eager she is to get her grip elsewhere. with a huff of complaint, peggy's thoughts corkscrew around her desire to get a good grip on the back of his head. the instinct is a loud one, clamoring to be listened to. but she makes do with steadying a stocking-clad heel against the middle of rip's spine. her back curves; her body lifts. if she can't haul his head harder down against her then she can at least rise to meet him. kiss by kiss, lash by lash, there's less and less distinction between what's made wet by his tongue and what's her own arousal.
he's right. and that's the worst (best) of it -- one boast and one escalation and her frustrations have as good as doubled. but, oh, she's not ready to beg. not yet. ]
Your point's been proven enough.
[ but she will bargain. if not with words, but she still tries to free one hand -- convinced that all it will take is the right bit of leverage. the right burst of strength. anything, really, to win enough maneuverability to peel away the silk. to remove from him that instrument of frustration.
and when one hand does manage to twist free? peggy wastes a whole heartbeat in indecision -- to grab the back of his head, or to tear away her knickers? ]
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(He told her once she'd get used to his beard; it'd been nearly a brag, in fact. Idly, he wonders if she feels the scratch of rough hairs even now, through her knickers.)
But his precision means his grip on her fingers slackens, just enough for her to free a single hand. Fortunately, even when she wrenches away she still reels from the excitement, the pleasure he doesn't quite inflict in full. That hesitation serves to his advantage, and Rip lifts his head in that heartbeat, quick to grab her wrist once more and pin it down to the bed at her side. Indecision has cost her the opportunity for either means, leaving her still vulnerable to Rip's intended end.
He grins up at her; gives her a moment to realize that outside of their hands, she's lost any touch from him at all.]
Oh, I think it hasn't just yet. [As if to punctuate that counter, Rip purses his lips together, tilts his head just enough to blow on her thigh. The soft stream of air is steady for a second or two, cool where it falls on teased and burning skin. Quite a contrast to the not-quite touches he'd offered mere moments before, through the barrier of her knickers.]
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she knows what he's doing; he's playing famine against more famine -- so much so that, after a tickling puff of air on her bare skin, she's more than prepared to look on his earlier half-measure ministrations and miss them. want them.
crave them, in point of fact.
because all at once she has to ask herself what she wouldn't give just to feel the wet warm pressure of his mouth from behind silk once more. something would be less maddening than nothing. so she stops trying to wrestle free from his hands and instead holds onto his fingers like anchor points. tying herself to him -- committed, truly, to whatever comes next.
except... ]
There's no good answer, [ she complains -- but in a voice dark like hunger and thick like honey. and before she continues, she sucks in a stiff breath that dovetails into a whimper. one real and honest, betraying how close he is to being right. ] No matter what's said, you'll still be just as frustrating as you set out to be.
[ -- her grip goes slack in his. gently, affectionately, she traces little loving circles against his knuckles. it's a bid to be a different kind of persuasive as another puff of air feathers across her skin. fucking hell -- the gentle persuasive approach will be the death of her.
nevertheless, there is a hint of a truly plaintive tone when she whispers again: ]
Please won't change a thing.
[ one last tactic: to goad him into giving a firm promise. to give his word that all she needs to do is ask and he'll give her want she wants. ]
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Then don't say it. [He licks a long stripe up her thigh while she employs the gambit, stopping just where the fabric begins to cover her skin. He ends the trail with a kiss, lets her feel the shape of his smile when his lips linger. She knows all she could have, and who can provide it to her--
When he would choose to.]
I wonder how long you'll hold out like this, when you can't even lie still now. [He kisses her between the words, soft little pecks, retracing the abandoned path until he's centered once more over where her clit must be, so well hidden, neglected, unteased.] I'm not going to take you before you say it, Peggy. I promise you that.
[Once more he puts his mouth to work; once more he proves just how well he knows her, as he stretches his tongue against the fabric to find that sensitive nub and make her suffer that much more.]
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(--not going to take you before you say it.)
rip makes his promise and there goes another piece of self-possession. it's gone in a gasp and a flurry of four letter words -- all of them easier to utter than the ones he wants to hear. but even driven to frustration and distraction both, she realizes that want is too weak a word for it. rather, it's what rip expects to hear. to peel from her lips, her tongue, her very soul.
he wears her down in a most wonderful way. it takes time, yes, and peggy's fight is a good one but there was never any version of tonight wherein she outlasts his careful assault. heat pools and builds and bubbles low in her belly, spilling out sensations that soon overwrite any intention she ever had to stay the course, to bite her tongue, to make him work harder. to make him work more. instead, the muscle of his tongue flicks and prods a sharp yes of encouragement that lasts almost a half-second too short before, with a heel suddenly spurring him in his side, she pants: ]
-- Please.
[ it's small and airy and ripped out of her without an ounce of shame. there's no space left for contrition; every inch of it has been crowded out by a real and present need. for him, for his body bent closer, for his skin on her skin unfettered by barriers of any sort. ]