October 5: Tom/Daria, Cliche Pt. 11

[kinetic_elaboration]

Back again, after some hiatus.

Tom/Daria, ~970 words, about 30 minutes

Previous parts on the tag ‘cliche.’

This fic is rated E for sexual content.

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She can feel his hard, hot breaths against her inner thigh, the desperation there, the waiting. How everything has become suddenly so still, and she knows she’s too caught up in her own mind, overthinking, separated from her own wanting and his. He presses a few more sparse, slow kisses there to the sensitive, hidden skin, and then he pulls back just enough to look at her again. 

She’s never seen an expression like this on his face before: so wide-eyed and wanting. Something almost sweet to it. She presses her palm against the side of his face like she’s measuring the shape of it by touch. There’s something strange in this, too: how deep the well of her affection for him springs, even when it’s mixed with such intense, hard, filthy desire and need. 

She spreads her legs a little wider, and she thinks she hears some low, guttural moan from deep in his throat. But that seems so impossible that she decides, only a moment later, that she’d imagined it after all. Still he doesn’t take the movement for a silent invitation by itself, and he stays where he is, but he whispers her name and he shuffles slightly in place, still on his knees.

“Tom,” she murmurs back. Hand still in his hair, sifting through strands, still gentle. “I…”

Want you, want you so badly, want you so badly it’s terrifying, keep thinking about your mouth on me.

Her legs are spread wide enough and her skirt hitched up enough that he can probably see all the rest of the way to her—she can’t use clinical words for it—to her cunt. High rush of heat to her face just thinking about it. And a moment after, thinking again of how he’s hard for her, wanting her, flashes of imagery like from a book pass through her mind, of other people, other people who aren’t her fucking because they know how and everything is so easy, slides together so true for them. She could be that close to Tom, if she wanted to be. And she swallows down so hard thinking of it that she’s sure he can hear it.

“You okay?” he asks, a little louder.

She must be shaking.

She nods. “I’m okay.” Trembling, needing, when she’s supposed to be in charge and in control. And being in control was supposed to make everything easier. 

“What do you want?” he asks. Something in the gentleness of his tone brings her back to herself. That’s all this ever was, right, this thing they’re doing: about settling into that quiet space of wanting and then just having, and that’s the only rule, that she wants and he’ll follow.

“Want you,” she murmurs back, not letting herself think fast enough to stop the words. Her eyes have fallen closed but she feels a tightening of his hands around her calves, over her boots, a sort of desperate holding on. She feels his vertigo. “Kiss me again,” she continues. “Higher. You can— I want you to.”

She might as well be speaking in obscenities, her face is so hot. When he gets up high enough, he’ll smell her, he’ll see her, slick and wet and wanting. Not even control erases vulnerability, she thinks. 

And maybe it’s good that it doesn’t. Maybe it’s enough that he’s still on the floor, still beneath her, still holding on to her like he needs her. She feels him nod, rather than sees it, feels him shift a little closer, and then a wide, wet kiss higher up on the inside of her thigh. Oh, it feels different there. Messier, dirtier, more secret, more private, more hers. But the feeling that chases after is another heady shot of power and control and confidence because he’s making her feel good, he’s so achingly devoted to making her feel good. His mouth kissing reverently at the inside of her thigh, just inches from her cunt, and his other hand tracing up the inside of her other leg, not spreading her open, or holding her there, but just feeling, like he’s honored to feel. Like he’ll sink into this opportunity to feel and to kiss and to be close to her, under her skirt, half-naked for her and pleasing her.

She flicks her eyes open, still narrow and bleary. She can see the muscles of his back, his shoulder blades, the detail of muscle and skin shifting with every movement—he is so close. 

His nose bumps up against her thigh. Even with her skirt rucked up, he’s still got his head beneath it. She reaches for his shoulder, the warm, soft, bare skin there, the shape of the bone.

“Can I—?” he asks. Outtake of breath against her underwear. So close, so very close. 

“Y-yeah,” she manages, barely. “Yes.” Please, please, please. She feels the tips of his fingers against the fabric, his face turned in and those hot exhales, so very close, and her toes are curling in her boots. “Yes.”

He presses a kiss right above her clit, over the fabric of her underwear, and slips his fingers beneath to touch bare skin. She hears the sound he makes but can’t parse it, it’s too deep and too needy, like it’s wrenched from him. A sound she didn’t know he could make, and certainly not because of her. His fingers don’t feel anything like hers do: bigger, even with this gentle touch, and so—out of her control, so foreign. Two fingertips sliding along the wetness of her slit, and then his other hand moves her underwear more securely to the side and his fingers reach her clit, and swipe over it, and she groans out some obscene sound and digs her short, stubby nails into his shoulder without thinking.