July 27: Tom/Daria, Cliche Pt. 4

[kinetic_elaboration]

Tom/Daria, ~500 words, ~16 minutes

Prev.

 

He pauses a moment, breathing hard, with his forehead pressed against her stomach. She can feel the outtakes of his breath on that bare strip of skin. Her clothes are in such disarray. When she stares down her own body, everything blurred without her glasses, at how stretched out and lazy and free she is, and then looks at him, holding on to her and desperate, thinks about all the reasons why they’re both out of breath, she feels such intense want that she thinks she might do any stupid thing in the world for more of this. And this, in fact, isn’t sex or even closeness and it isn’t just intimacy—it’s decadence. The heady feeling of being in control. Splayed out and open and revealing herself but it’s all hers to reveal. She’s aware again how he would give her anything.

She wants to press his face against her—an obscene image—an ache in her.

Without his sweater on and just in his t-shirt, she can see the shape of his arms better, trace the fingers of her other hand along his skin until he groans. She tries again with her nails and he shivers. The noise he makes is louder. 

If it weren’t for that noise, she might think he didn’t like it, because he slides lower down the bed and away from her touch.  He starts kissing this time the bare skin of her leg, below her knee, and over it, and then the inside of her thigh. She says his name and it’s somewhere between commanding and begging. Her legs fall open again, and as he kisses one, his hand gropes at the inside of the other. She is all malleable flesh and all sensation and all fire but in a low, simmering way. 

Her hips roll forward, all on their own. 

She thinks about it, about telling him, but instead she just steadies herself with her hand in his hair. 

Doesn’t let go until the sound of a door opening somewhere else in the house makes her jump.

“Shit,” Tom swears, and drops his head down against the sheets. 

Daria scrambles up, trying to sit up and close her legs all at once, and Tom sinks all the way to the foot of the bed and pulls himself up. “You think it’s your parents—?” Daria asks. 

He just shakes his head.

“Probably Elsie. I doubt she’ll come over here—”

“I think I’d consider this a mood killer.” What with the way her heart’s beating, hard in the bad way, painful in her chest.

“Yeah,” Tom admits.  He breathes out a deep, pained breath. “Yeah.” He leans over to pick up their clothes where they’ve fallen onto the floor, but doesn’t bother putting on his sweater. Daria leaves her jacket off, too. She just holds it awkwardly in her lap. 

“So,” she says, after a few moments, steady and deadpan, “have you read any good books lately?”