He's attentive enough to his chosen task that Carol can abide being unattended in other ways, for now, stretching out beneath him and luxuriating in the path his mouth takes. The little patches of her marred skin, some left unsutured out of fear and some for lack of opportunity and supplies, are an insufficient draw by comparison. Likewise, her hands slide over his back and she would swear there's nothing there but the perfect space for clutching him closer.
The fringe of his hair is tickling her again, sparking amusement in the little sounds of encouragement she's making. Her hips shift against him, less intention than instinct, open and waiting, but not so antsy. This feeling of being wanted, treasured for lack of a better word, she isn't in any hurry to nudge it to conclusion; she only wishes to return it, but there are limits to what she can offer in this position.
He wants (he wants, so much and so thoroughly that in this moment there’s little else to him but wanting,) to settle any lingering nerves she might have, he wants her to feel every bit as incredible as he thinks she is. And he does. It’s not only physical (though the attention he’s lavishing on her ought to bear witness that he doesn’t find her wanting; he neither avoids nor focuses on old wounds; they just are, unremarkable, his lips are as likely to fall on them as not), she’s suited to him in ways he never imagined anyone could be. He could, he thinks, spend hours like this, with his hands and his mouth on every inch of her, striving to make her feel desired, appreciated.
But he'd like to think he'll be able to find hours for that in the days to come. For now, they really have waited such a long while already.
She might be limited in the scope of how she can respond, positioned as they are, but the way she's shifting beneath him is endlessly encouraging. Being wanted in turn means he has no reason to hesitate; and so, at length, his hand slides down her side slowly to clutch at her thigh, and he lifts his head, nuzzling aimlessly at her throat on his way back to kissing her properly, shifting slowly against her.
She'd expected nerves, yet they haven't appeared excepting a passing thought to note the lack. What Carol couldn't have known is how different Daryl's touch would be than others etched into her memory -- so obvious, now, as to be laughable. There's more in it than want (though that too, gratifyingly). Want can take so many forms, it can hang heavy in booze-tainted breath or encircle a struggling wrist, it can ransack and tear and bleed. Or it can be devoted, yielding, seeking instead of taking. It can be offering and acceptance, it can be fingertips and petal-softness. She knows that, now.
The fit is smooth and perfect, drawing the breath from her in a long, airy note. She curls and flexes to meet him, pushing the pace only a hint here and there, and only after a round gasp that shows her thinning restraint. Initially she'd half entertained rolling off her back and hovering over, pressing down instead -- the intention is lost as her thoughts unfurl pleasantly, and so she finds her leverage in coiled limbs and clutching fingers. No pillow to muffle her this time but his ear sits conveniently close, her lips rest against it and withhold nothing of her sounds.
If she'd lost her nerve he wouldn't have faulted her for it, though they've long been past the point where it should have come up, he expects. There are bound to be memories here that can't be wholly quelled by any amount of gentleness, but damned if he's not trying to keep her attention in the present. Admittedly, it's more than pleasant work.
He presses his face into the crook of her neck, spurred on by her gasps and cries, too breathless himself to do anything but gasp raggedly against her as he moves, as they move, leaning willingly into her grasp when her arms tighten around him, clutching blindly at her thigh like it's the only thing tethering him to the moment. Everything in him is focused, blindingly, on her; on making the risk more than worth it, on making her forget everything outside this. He wants to overwhelm her in the best of ways.
And when he shudders a final time against her, shoulders slumping with the sudden, blissful exhaustion that follows, he still holds tight to her, tilting his head to nuzzle against the underside of her jaw. Oh, fuck, was that worth the wait.
She is focused, wholly and profoundly, on him only, though not quite overwhelmed in the same sense as before (she hadn't expected to and isn't disappointed, though she is left sizzling a little). The heart of the matter is that she now has a good -- very good -- memory to start rewriting her history. Maybe she should call it 'their' history, since just now she can't imagine anyone else, though that... seems a tad intense. One very pleasant and satisfying step at a time.
"Holy shit," she says blithely, a fitting review of the day if you ask her. She kisses wherever on his face she can reach without moving, then plunks her head back on the mattress to catch her breath. Soon enough the air will cool and chill the sheen of sweat coating them and they'll need to move, for now this is just fine. Perfect.
Possibly it should seem worrying that they've come so far without discussing any of what's between them, but it does seem to work well enough, feeling their way along instead. Words would be simultaneously too much and too little to say what he means, but he's doing well finding ways to express at least a little of it. More than just well, judging by the way she's still curled against him, her heartbeat strong and racing right against him, echoing his own.
As far as he's concerned, he's hers for as long as she wants him. Both in the immediate sense and long-term. That stays unsaid because it seems overwhelming, too much of a commitment for something so new, though admittedly something that's been building for a long while. After everything they've lived through, though, he can't imagine trying to connect with anyone who hasn't. All the time it's taken for them to work past their own and one another's defenses, that painstakingly gained ground is not so easily lost.
Rather than dwell on the heavy sense of possibility, though, he just laughs, little more than a soft breath against her, at that eloquent summation of everything that's happened today. Until they have to move he's going to make the most of this, curling together close and warm and (for the moment) safe.
"You sweet talker." The joke has an undercurrent of affection, punctuated when she gives him a gentle squeeze. Though there are things they'll need to put to words eventually, it's nice not to need them for now. Carol knows he means to her and she to him, for the moment she can forget about whether she deserves it.
...On second thought, there is one thing that bears mentioning.
"We have got to do that again sometime." Even warmly lethargic as her mind is, she can't help but think ahead to whether she can get him on his back, next time. Maybe apply some advance planning and bring a picnic so they don't have to go anywhere for a long while -- except a shower, which is really the only thing that could make this better.
"I got that goin' for me," he agrees, endlessly amused. Truth is he's barely got the presence of mind to say that, much less something properly affectionate. But he's pretty clear on how he feels, he thinks she ought to be able to tell.
He stretches just a little, moving his hand off her leg and propping himself up enough to look at her properly, slow and languorous, pausing for a brief kiss along the way. It does get a proper smile out of him, spreading slow and wide over his face. He's uncommonly relaxed, it's a rare sight (though, with any luck for the both of them, that might change.)
"Any time you like," he promises. All she needs to do to get him on his back is let him know that's where she wants him, honestly.
It's so, so tempting to respond with something to the effect of 'now's good' because it's cute and cheeky and she likes the sound of it, though if she's honest she wouldn't really want him to take her up on it. Not that it wouldn't be fun, it's just that they both need to recharge a little. And for Carol, there's a little mental untangling that should go on once she can nestle today's events in with the rest of everything that's stuffed into her mind.
In the meantime, she's content with Daryl's earnest smile melting her heart and, hopefully, a hearty round of snuggling. There will be time later to let today's fond memories duke it out with her trauma.
"Good." That's all that needs saying, her intention clear enough in that one word. The other intention that seems clear enough is that they'll be staying put for a while, so Carol stretches her arms overhead and glances around. Damn, the way they landed has her blankets out of reach. She makes a put-out sound in their general direction.
"Much as I don't want to move..." Eventually this is bound to get uncomfortable, or chilly, or both.
Now would be a bit much to ask, but he'd make a valiant effort. But there's certainly no reason to rush. He's got a lot less to sort through than she does, doubtless, but having nudged this door open it doesn't seem likely to slam shut right away.
For the moment, he mock-grumbles as he pulls away, managing to navigate the tricky task of moving back to the other side of her leg without crashing down on top of her now that he's not in such a hurry. It's a minor miracle, basically. Being a gallant sort he sets about fixing the pillows so they can sprawl out properly and pull the blankets over them, since he's not exactly in a hurry to leave and she doesn't seem to be kicking him out of bed and all.
Nabbing her blanket is an easy enough matter, she keeps pretty much everything within reach of the bed, just in case. A few flicks of the wrist get it unfolded and fluffed out, a warm wool blend that's cozy without being scratchy. Then she occupies herself with the far more important matter of sliding right up against him and pressing as close as possible. Kick him out of bed? Please, he'll be lucky if he gets a pass for dinner.
(She's still of half a mind to suggest a long shower, hot in more ways than one, but that might be a little like announcing to the household what's going on and that... there's no need.)
Under the circumstances a scratchy blanket would be beyond intolerable. Everything else, really, is just about perfect, particularly once she settles alongside him. Wrapping an arm around her he leans in to kiss her, lazy and slow and pleased.
(He wouldn't mind joining her for that, once they've taken some time to enjoy this. They can probably be reasonably subtle about it. Maybe. Either way the benefits might outweigh the risks.)
Considering her usual experience of post-sex activities involves an unpleasant mix of loneliness and disgust (and sometimes downhill from there), to say this is a welcome change would be vastly understating. Carol wraps around him as much as their recumbent position allows, returning his kiss with almost dreamlike ease. If there were any pressure for words between them this kiss well covers it; maybe they'll get there eventually, right now there's no need.
However long this clandestine little retreat goes on, she intends to make the most of it. They've learned too well to never trust in tomorrows.
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what_wings_dare2014-02-14 08:31 pm
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The fringe of his hair is tickling her again, sparking amusement in the little sounds of encouragement she's making. Her hips shift against him, less intention than instinct, open and waiting, but not so antsy. This feeling of being wanted, treasured for lack of a better word, she isn't in any hurry to nudge it to conclusion; she only wishes to return it, but there are limits to what she can offer in this position.
no subject
But he'd like to think he'll be able to find hours for that in the days to come. For now, they really have waited such a long while already.
She might be limited in the scope of how she can respond, positioned as they are, but the way she's shifting beneath him is endlessly encouraging. Being wanted in turn means he has no reason to hesitate; and so, at length, his hand slides down her side slowly to clutch at her thigh, and he lifts his head, nuzzling aimlessly at her throat on his way back to kissing her properly, shifting slowly against her.
no subject
The fit is smooth and perfect, drawing the breath from her in a long, airy note. She curls and flexes to meet him, pushing the pace only a hint here and there, and only after a round gasp that shows her thinning restraint. Initially she'd half entertained rolling off her back and hovering over, pressing down instead -- the intention is lost as her thoughts unfurl pleasantly, and so she finds her leverage in coiled limbs and clutching fingers. No pillow to muffle her this time but his ear sits conveniently close, her lips rest against it and withhold nothing of her sounds.
no subject
He presses his face into the crook of her neck, spurred on by her gasps and cries, too breathless himself to do anything but gasp raggedly against her as he moves, as they move, leaning willingly into her grasp when her arms tighten around him, clutching blindly at her thigh like it's the only thing tethering him to the moment. Everything in him is focused, blindingly, on her; on making the risk more than worth it, on making her forget everything outside this. He wants to overwhelm her in the best of ways.
And when he shudders a final time against her, shoulders slumping with the sudden, blissful exhaustion that follows, he still holds tight to her, tilting his head to nuzzle against the underside of her jaw. Oh, fuck, was that worth the wait.
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"Holy shit," she says blithely, a fitting review of the day if you ask her. She kisses wherever on his face she can reach without moving, then plunks her head back on the mattress to catch her breath. Soon enough the air will cool and chill the sheen of sweat coating them and they'll need to move, for now this is just fine. Perfect.
no subject
As far as he's concerned, he's hers for as long as she wants him. Both in the immediate sense and long-term. That stays unsaid because it seems overwhelming, too much of a commitment for something so new, though admittedly something that's been building for a long while. After everything they've lived through, though, he can't imagine trying to connect with anyone who hasn't. All the time it's taken for them to work past their own and one another's defenses, that painstakingly gained ground is not so easily lost.
Rather than dwell on the heavy sense of possibility, though, he just laughs, little more than a soft breath against her, at that eloquent summation of everything that's happened today. Until they have to move he's going to make the most of this, curling together close and warm and (for the moment) safe.
"Yeah," he agrees, because. Yeah. Holy shit.
no subject
...On second thought, there is one thing that bears mentioning.
"We have got to do that again sometime." Even warmly lethargic as her mind is, she can't help but think ahead to whether she can get him on his back, next time. Maybe apply some advance planning and bring a picnic so they don't have to go anywhere for a long while -- except a shower, which is really the only thing that could make this better.
no subject
He stretches just a little, moving his hand off her leg and propping himself up enough to look at her properly, slow and languorous, pausing for a brief kiss along the way. It does get a proper smile out of him, spreading slow and wide over his face. He's uncommonly relaxed, it's a rare sight (though, with any luck for the both of them, that might change.)
"Any time you like," he promises. All she needs to do to get him on his back is let him know that's where she wants him, honestly.
no subject
In the meantime, she's content with Daryl's earnest smile melting her heart and, hopefully, a hearty round of snuggling. There will be time later to let today's fond memories duke it out with her trauma.
"Good." That's all that needs saying, her intention clear enough in that one word. The other intention that seems clear enough is that they'll be staying put for a while, so Carol stretches her arms overhead and glances around. Damn, the way they landed has her blankets out of reach. She makes a put-out sound in their general direction.
"Much as I don't want to move..." Eventually this is bound to get uncomfortable, or chilly, or both.
no subject
For the moment, he mock-grumbles as he pulls away, managing to navigate the tricky task of moving back to the other side of her leg without crashing down on top of her now that he's not in such a hurry. It's a minor miracle, basically. Being a gallant sort he sets about fixing the pillows so they can sprawl out properly and pull the blankets over them, since he's not exactly in a hurry to leave and she doesn't seem to be kicking him out of bed and all.
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(She's still of half a mind to suggest a long shower, hot in more ways than one, but that might be a little like announcing to the household what's going on and that... there's no need.)
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(He wouldn't mind joining her for that, once they've taken some time to enjoy this. They can probably be reasonably subtle about it. Maybe. Either way the benefits might outweigh the risks.)
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However long this clandestine little retreat goes on, she intends to make the most of it. They've learned too well to never trust in tomorrows.