August 8: Tom/Daria, Cliche Pt. 7

[kinetic_elaboration]

Some more. Click the link to the tag with all the parts, here.

~650 words, 18 minutes

*

 

Her hand spasms where it’s curled around his shoulder, and every second, third breath starts to hitch. The warm pleasure of his mouth against her skin, and her shirt in the way, hiding too much of her skin. He seems so intent, too, not focused on her face but so focused on her, on kissing where he can reach, steadying himself with one hand solid and warm and heavy right above her hip. Through heavy-lidded eyes, she watches him kiss along the border of her t-shirt collar, and then he bends his knees and, barely balancing, trails light kisses, the approximation of kisses, a gesture toward kisses and maybe some sort of promise or rehearsal or vision, down the center of her, over the fabric. 

He’d been so careful last time, she remembers, to stay over the top of her clothes, only briefly and right before they were interrupted touching the parts of her legs that she purposefully leaves bare.

When he reaches her waist, he’s almost to the floor, and she watches as he sinks down to his knees. He doesn’t look up at her, and she can only see part of his face, the tops of his cheeks, the hint of his profile; it’s enough for her to discern that his skin has flushed pink. From excitement, she wonders, or from this position: on the floor, at her feet?

His shoulders and his back are moving, hints of his deep breaths. She knows she could ask him to look at her; she could examine every detail of his face; she could watch him as long as she wants, and however she wants. Such a simple kind of power. Maybe from the outside, it might seem like no power at all, but for her it is everything.

Instead, she runs her hand along his shoulder, noting the stiff, square way he holds himself, and then she tangles her fingers in the hair at the back of his head and pulls, just gently. Not to hurt him, but to remind him of her. He makes a low, groaning sound and then he leans forward, not as if he were pulling himself forward and not because she has pushed him that way but because that is the direction of the exhale of his breath, that is the natural direction of his body, just as a current has a direction in which it runs downstream. His forehead ends up pressed against her lower belly and his nose is in her skirt. He holds himself steady with his arm around her knees, his torso leaning against her legs.

She scritches her fingers against his scalp like praise. She hears, in a voice she recognizes as hers, a soft, low, satisfied sigh. 

She’s not in the habit of just finding beauty but that’s what this is. Feels so right that she doesn’t even think right away, the full implication of it, that he’s got his mouth and his nose just inches away from her and there’s only the fabric of her skirt between them. 

“Are you okay?” she asks, which feels a bit stupid to her ears as soon as she says it, bad enough to make her flinch, but he doesn’t answer as if it were.

“Yes,” he answers. Then, “I just—if I could only have this, I’d understand it, but…”

“But what?”

She hasn’t stopped stretching and curling her fingers through his hair. 

“I want you,” he admits. Heady shiver all through her. She can’t let her knees buckle because he’s holding on to her too tight, but for a moment, her eyelids flutter closed. 

Behind the lids, she has an image of him with his head under her skirt and she knows, she can feel it, that she’s already slick-wet and turned on and if he were to even ghost his fingertips across her underwear he’d know. She can feel the deep way he’s breathing, wants to feel those outtakes of air against her most sensitive skin.