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]

[ 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. ]