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]

[ what doesn't escape him does indeed escape her. peggy isn't thinking about the discrepant distance or time between them. she isn't thinking, either, about what that discrepancy might mean for him. it's not selfishness that wipes the slate of her thoughts clean, but rather the sheer force of his own ability to overwhelm her. sly words, words as good as a wink, and the scratch of his cheek against hers before he's tilting her head back -- exposing her, pulse and throat alike, to this little private world of theirs.

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. ]

[directed]

[She remains ever a wonder, eager and grasping for whatever parcel of skin she might find, fingers outstretched, neck curved as she chases some patch of flesh to plant her own kisses against. She breathes out her lustful sound and Rip finds himself nearly undone within that short note; he trembles hard above her, the want of her a sharp pain that makes his muscles seize for too long a heartbeat before he can think again, urge himself forward again.

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.]

[mucked]

[ he rises; her hands drop away. and in open defiance of her customary impatience, peggy takes a moment to behold him. to enjoy the sight, no matter how familiar, of him kneeling above. in the seconds after his shirt disappears (rendered irrelevant the moment it left his body) she slides a palm onto the flat of his stomach. her nails catch and pull at the trail of fine hair leading from navel to somewhere below his belt, but her touch continues in the opposite direction. with a rotation of her shoulder, with a bit of a stretch and with only her fingertips, she can just about reach the spot housing his heart.

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. ]

[directed]

[She gives him precious little time to sample her skin, to kiss a trail marked by reddened flesh and scrapes of teeth and perhaps a darker bruise or two, leading from the line of her throat down to the swell of her breasts. He wants not only to have her, but to relearn her; to once more seek out and discover all those hidden treasures within her, the ones that make her gasp and writhe and want until it's too much to resist. And it would seem he's traveled the path well, for just as he hooks a finger into the lace of her bra, aims to tug it aside to reveal all the more of her, she tries to change the game completely. She takes hold of his hips and he remembers without thought just what it means to have her hands on him like this. He remembers and reacts, just barely fending her off, keeping his balance rather than letting her tip the scales and him onto his back.

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.]

[mucked]

[ so! a year, it seems, has done very little to dull his instinct. there will be no surprising him with old oft-used tactics -- more than that, it seems now isn't one of those instances where he welcomes his own surrender. and for that reason alone, peggy doesn't allow him his evasion with any sort of ease. when he gets her arms stretched above her head, hands locked in his, it's because he's earned it. striven for it. and in that vein, her defeat feels much more like a victory. she bites down on her smile -- even if his head has already dipped too low to see it -- and stops just short of congratulating him.

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?

[directed]

[He almost can't hold her off; not when she twists and tugs and pulls against him, meeting and matching his struggle with her own. But when he finds victory--sweet victory, heralded by her fingers interlocking with his--he savors his triumph, right along with every shiver and every moan, and the way she strives to meet him when he grinds against her. So very close to the act, and yet still not; he's well restrained thanks to his trousers, and Peggy's technically got every scrap of clothing on still that she walked into his room with--

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.]

[mucked]

[ he aims to undo her. it's far from the first time but, recently, she has to fight off the looming disquiet that any time could be the last time. rip's mouth is a heated reminder that she's got fewer and fewer reasons to keep playing coy. each bite and every suck sparks a sublime tension through her body -- climbing from the pit of her stomach to her up-stretched arms. and all despite the dulling barrier of her bra between his mouth and his skin. he's right to put the onus on her; already, she wants to feel him as best she can. but a tug on their joined hands does nothing beyond reinforcing the anchored keep they both share. firm, tight, keeping each other anchored.

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. ]

[directed]

[He would have cursed had his mouth not been so occupied; as it is, she'll only have his shudder, the sudden way he sucks in a breath to answer her siren's call. I never stopped craving you, a confession honest and earnest, the simply spoken truth of her want of him, his body and his touch, his presence in her circle. Peggy Carter doesn't let her walls down easily; the first time they kissed, truly kissed, had come on the heels of an argument, as her proof that perhaps their connection would be better broken than indulged any longer. And just as she goes on to proclaim her irritation with warmth beyond pleasure in her voice, that night Rip had refused to merely let her be once she showed up on his doorstep.

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.]

[mucked]

[ she enjoys knowing he can be moved by a few words -- sincerely said, no matter how carefully chosen. peggy bites down on a smile although, with him so intent between her thighs, the only real witness would be the ceiling above his bed. but there's something in how he trembles when she tells him truths. it does something to how her blood flows -- quick and eager through her veins. laying fuses through her body. and the renewed sensation of his mouth on her skin, teasing the inside of her thigh with a kiss, lights a few fires.

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? ]

[directed]

[His focus is divided by necessity; Rip's quite busy, after all, shifting his head with the rise and fall of her hips, combating with the fabric that's meant to frustrate her, to keep her from feeling his mouth directly pressed against her heated and wet flesh. And oh, he well knows how eager her body is; the fabric of her knickers are soaked from his efforts, saliva and her arousal leaving them clinging against wherever he nudges, be it his tongue as he continues to lick her through him, or his chin or his nose when one of them moves in contrast to the other.

(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.]

[mucked]

[ actions come with consequences. now, and always. and in this particular moment, she imagines there's nothing worse than the consequence that comes with whatever action (or inaction, as the case may be) her freed hand manages to take. that sudden cliff-edge of no contact, none outside of how he traps her fingers again, does more to put a frustrated squirm through her body than all the previous efforts combined.

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. ]

[directed]

[There's a confidence that comes in denying her what she's truly after, in feeling every stretch and struggle Peggy makes beneath him while she still seeks out more. His fear of being overwhelmed has been channeled, funneled into this new effort: into having her be the one teetering on that needy edge, while he seems to remain poised and in perfect control. It's an indulgence he hasn't been allowed in ages, not even in this almost-accidental way. That neglected side stretches out under his skin, lured to the surface by the siren call of her moans, the sweet and lustful note of her complaints.]

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.]

[mucked]

[ here, right here, is the crux of a feeling she can't ever remember having felt before. because however much she might have just then sacrificed to shut him up, she realizes she'd give sacrifice so much more simply to keep him talking. there is a mettle in his voice and its almost as though it sends signals to all her nerve endings -- or at least the only ones that matter. he marries confidence with devotion, control with duty, and ties them together with the wet-slick line of his tongue traced along the inner thigh. it's no wonder she's left shivering, quaking, not quite capable of finding the seam between what he's giving and what he's taking.

(--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. ]