July 25: Tom/Daria, Cliche Pt. 3

[kinetic_elaboration]

More of this (now a tag).

Tom/Daria, ~700 words, ~26 minutes

This is getting… slightly racier? Slightly.

*

That tightens something in her, winds it up: some combination of nerves and desire. ANYTHING, he’d said. Half-formed images come to mind, like montages taken from books. She’s never done these things, and the bodies in her mind aren’t quite hers or his or any real body but stylized forms, and what she feels now is something so different: the purposeful, decided touch of his hand and press of his body and how he rubs his face against her belly like he’s adoring her.

 

Anything.

She wants to ask him again what he means by that. But it’s an obvious answer, isn’t it? Only naive, inexperienced people would need clarification from that. 

She’s still carding her fingers through his hair, with more gentleness this time, and after a few moments she tunes in to the steady rhythm of his breathing and understands something of what he is feeling. That he is happy where he is, happy in a blissful sort of way.

“You didn’t have to apologize before,” he says. She doesn’t immediately understand what he means. Then—yeah, when she’d grabbed too hard to his hair. He’d already said it was all right. But she’d taken it as forgiveness, and the insistence in his voice now, it’s like he’s telling her something else. Something she can almost grasp. Something she understands but it’s not quite, not quite yet in words for her.

“Oh,” she answers. 

“I mean for being rough,” he says. And after another hesitant pause, “If that’s what you’re feeling, I—just want you to feel it.”

No, no; she just makes a strangled sound low in her throat, a hum of neutral understanding that is caught there, but she can’t argue it out. To just feel everything she’s feeling would be a raw, dangerous honesty. Too treacherous a path. But it’s rising up in her, rising like a physical ache in her chest, pressing at her ribs, all the same.

Maybe it’s the deep breath, pressing at her ribs.

Just to let it out, she grabs at him a little tighter again, pulls him closer, hears the sounds he makes muffled against her shirt. She falls back fully onto the mattress, facing up toward his ceiling. He comes with her, partially, not climbing on top of her but rolling toward her, and his hand grabs at her thigh like he’s desperate to touch her, his thumb and the edge of his hand curled down against her inner thigh, still above the fabric of her skirt. 

She’s holding on to his back now, gripping too hard; this feels like a sea swell and she hears him murmur something she can’t parse out.

“What? What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“Tom.”

He groans again. “Please,” he says again, louder this time. Like it’s wrenched from him. “Can I kiss you? Your skin?" 

She closes her eyes, can’t understand how it feels like so much. They aren’t doing anything. They aren’t doing a thing. But he sounds so pleading. And she wants and wants and wants, and there’s a rhythm to the wanting. 

She almost says please back. But that’s not right. She fists her hand in his shirt, still loosely, nods before she agrees in words so he can hear. "You can,” she answers, with only the slightest tremor.

He makes that sound, that low sound, part frustration and part wanting and part stifled relief, barely pushes up the edge of her t-shirt and kisses the skin beneath it, so slowly. Reverently, she thinks. Kisses a line there on that sliver of skin, pulls at the hem of her skirt and kisses her hip below it, all the soft parts of her with soft kisses. Without thinking, she spreads her legs and pulls at him until he’s settled between them, and then she bends one at the knee so that he’s caged there between the v of her legs. Like he’s hiding there against her. She presses one hand to the back of his neck. Holds him there. 

She knows because she feels it, between her legs, what this almost is, what anything is. What his reverence is. She might ask him to kiss lower. She might ask anything of him.