August 20: Tom/Daria, Cliche Pt.9

[kinetic_elaboration]

More of the fic. See the tag ‘cliche’ for previous parts.

This isn’t really any more explicit than what’s come before but who knows, that might change soon. Completely under a cut for a reason!

Tom/Daria, 645 words, 24 minutes

 

She just wants to be closer to him, wants to show him this affection that she feels for him, and how pure and unfiltered and unironic it is, how true. On instinct, she reaches out and presses her palm against his cheek, and then stretches out her thumb just far enough to pass it across his lips. The shape of them, and the softness, that she can take in so much more slowly and completely than when they are kissing. She thinks she notices his breath catching when she does it. But he doesn’t stop her and he doesn’t stop looking at her. 

She traces the top lip, and then the bottom one. Her thumb catches on it and she feels the wet, soft inside of it, which makes both of their breaths hitch. How odd: she’s never felt the inside of someone’s mouth before; even with her tongue, it’s different. When they’re kissing, it’s less deliberate, not a moment that lingers. She tries it again and Tom opens his mouth and then his tongue is passing over the tip of her thumb. His gaze doesn’t leave her face and she thinks she discerns something in it, something like desire but a particular type. A desire to please. A desire to know he’s doing the right thing. And it’s the most honest expression she’s ever seen on another person’s face.

A more honest expression than she thought people could make.

She bends her thumb just slightly, curled around that soft pinkness of the inside of his bottom lip, and he tongues over it again but more insistent. Gently, he pulls her thumb into his mouth up to the first joint. The inside of his mouth is warm and wet and close and—it’s just her hand, but her toes curl inside her boots. Her own mouth is open. 

She wants to pull him up to her and kiss him. She wants to open her legs for him. The wanting feels unlike what she’s known before, like an immense wave, like a white blur. When she tips her thumb out of his mouth again, he kisses the center of her palm and down to the heel and then the inside of her wrist, while she holds her hand open, palm out, in front of him. He’s not holding it steady; his hands are lightly grabbing on to her legs. Every bit of affection he’s showing her, she could at any moment take away his ability to give it.

When she moves her hand away, it’s very gently, and only to return it to its spot at the back of his head. At the same time, she spreads her knees farther apart. She can tell he notices by the brief moment when his eyes grow wider, and maybe a part of her feels like she’s just play-acting at being powerful, but the awed look on his face makes it seem real. 

“Can I—?” he starts, and her throat catches: that image of him under her skirt, between her legs again. Maybe it’s come to him, too, because he stops himself. Or maybe he just doesn’t know what to ask, what he wants, or what she’d ever allow. “Kiss you?” he finishes. “Anywhere?”

She nods. “My legs,” she answers, trying her best to keep her voice steady. What right has she to say these things? And why does it feel so good, and only partially forbidden, so ridiculous if anyone could see them from the outside but so right, so good, when it’s just them? She hitches up her skirt some, and she hears him groan so low that she could almost miss it, but she still knows the sound will be replaying in her head for days. She’ll wear out the memory until she only half-believes it. But certain parts will still remain sharp and true.