August 3: Tom/Daria, Cliche Pt. 6

[kinetic_elaboration]

Tom/Daria, ~660 words, ~20 minutes

Prev. on the tag ‘cliche.’

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By good fortune, Tom’s house is empty when they arrive. Daria’s not sure if this tense, taut, ache all through her, as they come in through the back and into the kitchen, with its immaculate black-and-white checkerboard floor, is nerves, of the bad kind, or expectation, something like excitement, tugging at her, bringing a dryness to her throat. She looks at the back of his head and thinks of how she’d pressed it against her middle, almost too hard for those few seconds. How much wanting there had been in those moments and how she used to think that type of feeling was just not part of who she was.

He volunteers to make a round and make sure his sister isn’t lurking in any of the other rooms, so for a few minutes Daria is alone in his bedroom. She unzips her jacket and hangs it on the back of his desk chair. Which feels a bit proprietary. But the day before last he was kissing the inside of her thighs so maybe it’s okay.

When he comes back, she’s standing in the middle of the room, a few steps away from the bed, and his eyes widen as if he’d forgotten she was there. Or as if he wasn’t expecting her bare arms. She crosses them against her chest, just under her breasts, then forces them back down to her sides. He closes his door behind him and tells her the coast is clear. 

That’s kind of a joke. But instead of laughing, she says, “Good,” and gravitates a little closer to him. He meets her in the middle and very gently leans down and kisses her.

She keeps the kiss soft and gentle, her palm against the side of his face. His arm around her waist but only holding her there loosely, and her body against his but not pressed tightly there. Just kissing him like this always feels so good. It’s like the opposite of their first kiss, closer to their second but still not quite, because anything frantic has been totally drained from it.  

And yet somehow it’s still driven by overpowering need. This is simply a need that does not fear interruption and that knows no guilt. She steps a little closer, kisses him more insistently, and slides her hand to the back of his neck. 

He makes a noise against her mouth when they break briefly for air. When she blinks her eyes open, she finds his still closed.

The second kiss is a little harder, more forceful, but she tries to keep it under control. Under her control. Slows down again when he presses against her, makes sure she is the first one to open her mouth. She takes a step backward, closer to the bed. His hands at her waist are holding on tight, as if he were afraid of where they’d try to go if he were to let them wander. 

She loosens her grip on the back of his neck, breaks their kiss in the middle of a thorough exploration of his tongue in her mouth, and immediately, he moves to kiss her chin and her jaw. She makes a quiet noise, approving, to encourage him. Tilts her head back and exposes her neck, her eyes closed; it’s almost dizzying. His kisses are trailing along her neck, her collarbone, following along the neckline of her shirt. Tongue curling in circles at the juncture of neck and shoulder, and a hint of grazing teeth.

She knows she’s breathing harder, and that he can hear it, can feel it in the way her chest expands and falls. She’s holding on to him loosely with her hand at his shoulder. When she’s too dizzy to keep her head tilted back, she tips it forward again and opens her bleary eyes and sees him kiss, lighter now, just above the neckline of her shirt. He has to bend down just to reach.