Carol's fine, happy even, with being the one to reach. She trusts him to be there when she does, never to let her fall. That's the harder role in her mind, the patience and deference. Her largest worry is that Daryl would respond to her even if he didn't necessarily want to, because that's the kind of good heart he has.
Intimate this is, but easy isn't so much on her mind as restless as her day has been. There's a little more than warmth in her kiss, like fanned embers. Her hand slides two inches up his leg. She's not truly planning to be more bold than he'd prefer, it's just difficult not to think of the quiet lakeside as private. Or, private enough.
And, well. He started her mind down this path. Let this be a lesson.
It's not unreasonable to be concerned. The thing is, it's difficult to detangle. He's much more apt to have an interest if she's the one starting it; so his response being sudden wouldn't necessarily make it any less genuine. Still, he's so concerned with treating her well that he doesn't think much at all about what he wants.
Right now, it's an academic question, because his interest is very genuine. Maybe it should be more of a concern that they haven't got walls, much less a door, but it's quiet enough to feel more private than their house full of roommates, nearly. He shifts his weight, sidling a little closer with a wriggle of his hips. Yes, that's okay by him.
He lets his hand drop again to rest low on her back and kisses her a little more playfully. This is probably a better way to waste energy than to get it, but she can make her bed and lie in it if she so chooses.
Such brash encouragement, he should know better. His shift means more incidental contact, her side flush against him and her mouth more secure over his, the spark of her mood flaring suddenly to life. Navigating boundaries is delicate work but stolen moments are rare, wasting this one when he's so gratifyingly responsive would be tragic.
Taking its queue, her hand skims up --
The kiss stumbles as Carol needs both hands to reach for her forgotten fishing pole, which is tugging urgently. It figures.
Oh, he's all too aware of what he's encouraging. Pressed against each other and knowing her like he does he can feel when she decides to move before she moves, parts his lips a little wider, lets himself get carried away by the thought. Just for a moment. Her fingers drift and for that second he lets himself wonder about the logistics; about the open space around them, about how far she'll let herself take this and a hundred little inchoate joyous thoughts he's been trying not to indulge and--
the flat, muffled sound he makes as she pulls away is more than half curse.
She's supposed to be working and he's supposed to be a responsible member of what passes for society, they ought to be thrilled that she's got a bite. More food to pack away for the lean months and all that. He leans his chin in his hand with a hopeless kind of huff, though honestly the whole thing's so ridiculous that his hand is covering half a smile.
She'd better reel it in. He wants to personally eat this fucker for dinner, all right.
Carol gives the line a hard yank over the shoulder opposite Daryl, to get the hook good and wedged. The line leaps about, definitely a fish and not some snagged litter. She reels as the thing fights uselessly for its life, smile playing on her lips.
"Don't sulk. It just means you should've been here sooner." The only thing that could be more hilarious about this is if she successfully drags the line in only to find a four-inch guppy dangling there. (Not that she hopes for it, pulling her weight is important to her for all the bluster she made about sitting here being a chore.)
"If the people here only knew what you gave up for the sake of their dinner..." Carol shoots over a purely mischievous look, her gaze dipping tellingly. It's an exaggeration but not by much; to say she had a plan is overstating but she'd been entertaining a few ideas.
As the end of her line draws nearer, she wonders if the mood is salvageable. She has a cooler, there's no need to hurry back with her catch -- her hands will definitely smell like fish, though, and because she's smelled like worse in her time doesn't make it any less irksome.
The mood is definitely changed. Salvageable? That remains to be seen. He rolls his eyes because what else can he do.
"I'm a damn saint," he drawls, though the sour tone is all exaggeration, there's definitely a laugh lurking behind his gaze. Still. Carol can get away with teasing him any day of the week, but it feels a little unfair to have the wildlife getting in on it. If this is their lot in life he can't complain, it's like having to worry about wearing suits and getting the laundry done, trivial enough that the frustration is a luxury.
Which... Does not make it not a frustration.
He leans back in a bit to watch her make her catch, the least the fish can do is have the decency to be a big one, damnit.
And yeah, he's not not thinking on it. Are fishy hands a deal breaker? By the standards of polite society they probably ought to be but he's really not sure he cares. It's not like they wouldn't be taking at least one more shower today anyway...
Whether his put-upon tone or the farcical twist that, let's face it, could only happen to them, Carol isn't so restrained in showing her laughter. If she had anyone to tell this story to she'd already be thinking of the cleverest wording for the precise expression on Daryl's face. (Lori would have gotten a kick out of it for sure, and Andrea.)
Finally her catch breaks the surface, a thick, wriggly catfish. Daryl's got his wish, it's a decent enough size, and fighting like hell. Carol drags it in and gets a hand on it, digging in its flanging mouth to see if she can wiggle the hook free.
When the hook comes loose to her satisfaction, Carol holds the catfish up for scrutiny. Fifteen inches, not terrible. She then points the fish toward Daryl, her eyes and voice full of laughter.
"I think it's smirking at us."
(She only teases for a moment though, in favor of bringing out a small thin knife and ending the poor thing's suffering with one decisive stab and hanging it on her prepared line to drip. There's joking and then there's cruelty for the sake of a joke.)
"Won't be when we fry him up," he promises, still on the verge of laughter. It's not that he's holding it in, exactly, he's just quiet in his amusement. The glare he's fixing on the whiskery little bastard is mainly for show, because he likes her laughing about it. There's a not insignificant impulse to drag her home and pick up where they left off and leave the goddamn fish for a victory dinner after, but that's not exactly in line with taking things at her pace. Still, it's a nice idea,
"Maybe so," she quips with a glance back at him that mixes mirth and something altogether softer. Good luck, damn straight he is. The best kind.
Carol grabs a water bottle and upends it to rinse her hands, even uses some liquid soap she's been dragging along on her fishing days just in case things veer into the realm of too gross for the walk back. She was galled at first to waste the water, preferring the lake for quick rinsing, but they have no shortage here. And much as of course she'll be taking a shower later, she hasn't discounted the possibility of having a rather significant, rather pleasant detour.
"Should I cast out again, or...?" She inclines her head, grinning suggestively. Somehow the idea of messing about here is intriguing, just a little risky. The surrounding woods combined with the constant twilight make it less so, maybe just enough to inspire confidence. If he needed a nudge, here it is.
She's not opposed to setting off for home, it just might be a long walk... which has its own benefits, really, now that she considers. Enough to change her mind, in a way.
Prepared for any eventuality, she is. He just sits and watches her, enjoying the fact hat he can take the time just to sit and watch her wash her hands with nothing but an idle glance around them. They're never not going to be aware of their surroundings, but it's nice to know the chances of dead bodies crawling out of the woods is unusually low.
And that is a thought that could spoil the mood if he let it. The point is that they're not at home, they can be a little risky if they want to. And... What he wants is mainly whatever she wants, but he would at least like to finish what he was not saying.
"Depends how hungry we are, I guess," he deadpans, utterly innocent except he follows it up by leaning in to kiss her again. There's nothing hesitant about him right now. Under the circumstances he doesn't need the nudge, but it's welcome, a reassurance that she's not changing her mind any time soon.
Something about the way Daryl responds to her slightest encouragement has her libido roaring to life, no care whatever for the timing or locale. It shows in the way she answers that kiss, a hand on the back of his neck, sinking forward to pare down the inches that separate them. There's as much heat pouring into the contact as she can manage with a mere kiss, and though she had intended to break it off fairly quickly in favor of another plot too tempting to deny, she finds herself curious and so it's not until her advance is blocked by limbs that need reshuffling that Carol pulls back, sudden and smiling.
"Grab my pack for me?" she asks sweetly, gesturing to where her backpack is dangling from a tree branch by its straps, a few steps behind them. She learned the hard way not to leave her things on the ground lakeside.
Assuming Daryl cooperates, he'll have to turn his back on her to follow instructions. She has every intention of interrupting him before he manages to retrieve the thing -- really, she could have just asked him to shift around, but teasing suits her mood. Besides, a little temporary frustration is a good motivator. She intends to make it up to him.
If there wasn't some promise of an eventual payoff he wouldn't be frustrated to begin with, so in the grand scheme of things it's a small price. Besides, having her pull back and pause is a much gentler interruption than a thrashing foot-long fish. And it is a pause, not a hard full stop; so really there's a minimum of grumbling as he pulls away and twists to stand and do as asked. (Not no grumbling, but if there was no grumbling she'd have to wonder if he was taken by pod people, probably. At any rate it's the good natured kind.)
He's wholly oblivious to any nefarious plans that might be afoot. That sucker.
Carol stands herself and bends over her hanging catfish, waiting for Daryl to get most of the way over to her back before she closes the distance in a few quick steps (he'll hear her, of course, and if he turns all the better). Nabbing the fabric of his sleeve to stop him from pulling her bag from its perch and pressing flush against him.
"Changed my mind," she says, splaying a hand on his chest and doing her best to guide him in whatever ways necessary to put his back against the tree trunk. Hopefully he'll do as she wishes, it's for a good cause.
Pressing in close again, she resumes kissing him with unapologetic fervor, and her hand slinks down to work his belt open. If there's any objection forthcoming, he'd better do it fast.
The suddenness makes him tense, a little, but only for half a second until he realizes what she's angling for, and then he's utterly obliging, trusting she'll keep him from backing up into the water. No objections here, ma'am. He lets himself fall against the bark, itching to get his hands on her but holding back to give her room to work without tangling their limbs togetherness yet. His heart is racing in the best way, and suffice it to say if she changes her mind again... Well, then he'd be very disappointed.
He shifts his hips beneath her hands without meaning to, eager and practically panting against her mouth. If she's decided, he's certainly not going to argue the point.
The only way she's stopping is if someone happens by, and by this point they'd have to decide to purposefully interrupt. (If that happened, she'd hit the ground laughing and never recover.) She grins into their kiss as his interest makes itself apparent, her fingers prying open buttons and zipper, pushing cloth aside.
There are connotations to this she can't entirely ignore, memories she'd just as soon not dredge up. Ignoring them is easier than she'd have guessed, so with that noise reduced to a dull murmur in the corner of her mind, Carol is free to do as she likes. Being in control of her own choices makes all the difference and there's no question that this is what she wants.
One last moment of attention to that kiss before she pulls back smiling, tempted to say something cheeky. But instead she drops to a knee, hands at his hips, and makes herself clear wordlessly.
Somehow it honestly still manages to take him by surprise, how brazen she can be. When he's thought about this-- and yes, he has; for all that things have been a little hot and cold since she got back, they've been hot enough to tend toward warm all around, it's never seemed outside the realm of probability that sooner or later they'd find the time for more than kissing, though he rather expected they'd be indoors when they did-- he's had it in mind that she might not want to do this, that she might have too many unpleasant memories, and he'd half thought he'd valiantly not let her because she doesn't have to. But of course she doesn't have to; if there were any intimation that she had to then she wouldn't.
So he lets her break the kiss and fall before him. That guileless, fond look in her eyes is enough to kill any protests that might be on the tip of his tongue. It's like everything else has been; entirely different in the heat of the moment than in the endless rationalizations, and when it comes down to it he doesn't have it in him to deny her anything. So he doesn't, and it's fortunate he's got something to lean on or he'd dissolve, trying to keep his hips stilled and running his hands lightly through her hair.
Maybe he ought to visit her at work more often, eh.
He needn't worry about her demons, she's got them controlled for now. They may pop up once and again but they're not so powerful as a promise she made to herself long ago, to never hold back on what she wanted to do. For too long her word was as good as dirt but since the prison she's found her balance, and in spite of how things ended she won't go back on it. (The one thing that might throw her is a tight fist in her hair holding her down, but only maybe, and so far he's gentle as ever. Briefly she wonders if that means she's not being distracting enough, contradictory though that is, but it has her more motivated which he should like.)
Years and miles and lifetimes since she's had a use for this particular... skill? Task? There's no delicate way to put it, but the point is her lack of recent history isn't such a problem. All that's really needed is enthusiasm and confidence, both of which are well covered. And being brazen, as he put it, doesn't hurt either; she's just fine with exploring and testing and trying just about anything if it'll drag a good reaction out of him. If she gets a queue from above, she doesn't hesitate.
Her only regret is she can't see his face, but there's time. He seems to be enjoying himself so she likes her chances for a second go-round.
Give him time to get used to the idea and he'll get less tentative about it; right now it's overwhelming enough to let her use her judgment, the last thing he wants is to spoil the moment holding too tight. She's more than distracting enough. If he's too quiet, chalk it up to shock and the fact that they are kind of doing this where anyone could walk up and see. (To her credit, he might not notice.)
Once he catches his breath after he'll reach down to offer her a hand up. Round two won't take much persuasion, though they'll have to finish the bottom half of this inning, first. (Yes, baseball again.) Daryl doesn't like to owe anyone anything; and though that's not what this is about, though it's not a transaction, he's all too eager to make it up to her.
But maybe... not here.
"Can you wait til we get home?" he asks, his voice low and rough and full of promise, and there's a good chance he will never, ever scrape himself up to tell her he loves her but maybe if he talks like this enough she'll hear it, anyway. She ought to.
She uses the moment he takes to find his breath to sip some water and rinse her mouth, sorry if that messes with any Playboy-oriented fantasies he has. By the time she takes his offered hand she's all smiles, and hopefully he'll pardon the air of self-satisfaction. That was fun. (And she's not worried, eventually she'll get a louder response out of him since she's quite willing to put in the time.)
"If we hurry," she says while resting a moment in the crook of his neck. Honestly, that voice. It's enough to make her melt if that wouldn't be wholly unconducive to hearing more of it.
If she's candid with herself, Carol might be the smallest bit nervous about breaking the ice in an actual bedroom. Not enough to make her hesitate, thankfully. As soon as he's ready to go, she'll make quick work of gathering her things. The catfish can wait in its cooler until she's damn good and ready to do something with it.
He'd never have asked her to start with, he's not gonna fault her. Besides, he does need that moment to catch his breath. Which is good, because that hurry is gonna light a fire under him to get that home. Maybe catfish victory dinner is on the menu after all.
Once she pulls away he sets about making himself decent and shouldering his bow, grabbing his own things before turning to see if she needs him to carry anything. He'd race her home if it wouldn't tire them out.
No racing necessary, she doesn't mind the wait. Along the way she nearly says about fifty different things ranging from smug jokes to curious inquiries as to what he's thinking about doing, exactly, once the wait is over, but in the end she is content to just walk together with the very agreeable mental replay of what just happened.
It seems strange to think it, but Carol is proud of herself -- not for the specifics or anything so tawdry, but for fighting through the nerves and hold-ups. For not letting herself keep Daryl at arm's length over things that have nothing to do with the here and now.
Maybe once they get home she'll be brave enough to do it again.
Edited (redundancy I hate you) 2014-11-18 04:22 (UTC)
If Daryl has his way she'll have plenty of time to work up the nerve.
Letting the walk pass in more or less silence suits him just fine; maybe he's a little more apt to touch her than usual, like he's got energy to burn, like he can't quite keep his hands to himself. It's not just about the act, it's the new dimension this adds to their relationship. (That word still kind of itches like it's ill-fitting, too small for all the things that tie them together, but at this point dancing around it, he figures, is ridiculous.) The eagerness now, hopefully, makes up for any apparent reservation he had earlier.
When they get home he'd very much like to head straight up the stairs and waste no time in getting her pants off, but there are possibly responsibilities to attend first.
"Whatcha think, we need to put that thing in the fridge?"
One more mild cockblock from beyond the fishy grave.
To say she doesn't mind his restless touching would be understating it; each brush of his hands is a tangible reminder of why she can't let herself languish in isolation. Nothing in her life is perfect or quite comfortable but this, his casual touch and the pleasantly heady bubble they're in, comes close enough to make up for some of the rest.
Carol hums her affirmation and goes to take their mischievous fishy friend into the kitchen. usually she guts and fillets them before storage but she's in a bit of a rush, so she wraps the guy in paper towels and foil so he won't alarm anyone with his bug-eyed stare.
Then she washes her hands again, uses some sweet-smelling lotion because it suits her mood, and joins Daryl near the foot of the stairs. Judging by the look she's wearing, dealing with the fish was hardly enough to spoil the mood. He can blame that husky voice of his.
(Don't be so quick to say one more, she's got her tall black boots on. Though they have zippers this time let's say.)
Back home the fish wouldn't last, so once again Daryl finds himself eminently grateful for the modern miracle of refrigeration. When she comes back he risks leaning in for a quick kiss; it's hardly the most private thing they've done or the most public place they've done it, he might not even mind except that if anyone sees they're likely to want to talk and he's got other things on his mind right now.
Like taking her hand and giving it an eager tug. Up the stairs, into a room-- hers is closer and this time he's not the least bit worried about providing an exit strategy-- where he can pull her to him and kiss her in earnest.
Even after their dalliance in the woods that little kiss shocks her for a blink, until she remembers that day in the foyer, not three feet from the front door. She'll have to do something about this presumption she has that anyone asking Daryl about their evolving relationship (it is a poorly tailored word, she agrees, though she can't think of a better one) would be met with stuttering, irritable denial. Not that she's sure either of them is in a rush to have that discussion. (Or, he's still a little fuzzy from earlier, which is equally as gratifying a thought.)
Carol permits him to half-tug her up the stairs, much appreciating his slapdash enthusiasm as she's feeling not unlike a kid, herself, all zeal and impetuousness. Once they're tucked away in her room Carol kicks the door, barely focusing long enough to note the telling click as she's swept into Daryl's arms with a sound of joyful surprise (she's not surprised at all, but likes the way it sounds just then). She couldn't begin to deny that she's still wound up from their time lakeside, though what's more curious is that he is. If she were to think on it -- and she has much more pressing matters to attend to at this exact moment -- it wouldn't be so remarkable for Daryl to be more invested in pleasing her than he is himself, but the contrast between this and other men she's known is extreme enough to draw her attention in a way that's probably more flattering than it should be (he'd do the same for anyone... figuratively speaking).
Melting against him, Carol is able to do little more than respond for now, a bit weak-kneed thanks to how he's behaving. She'll find her mettle again in short enough order; he likes her that way and so does she. For this short moment, she's fine being putty in his hands. Hopefully he'll make good use of the reprieve.
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what_wings_dare2014-02-14 08:31 pm
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Intimate this is, but easy isn't so much on her mind as restless as her day has been. There's a little more than warmth in her kiss, like fanned embers. Her hand slides two inches up his leg. She's not truly planning to be more bold than he'd prefer, it's just difficult not to think of the quiet lakeside as private. Or, private enough.
And, well. He started her mind down this path. Let this be a lesson.
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Right now, it's an academic question, because his interest is very genuine. Maybe it should be more of a concern that they haven't got walls, much less a door, but it's quiet enough to feel more private than their house full of roommates, nearly. He shifts his weight, sidling a little closer with a wriggle of his hips. Yes, that's okay by him.
He lets his hand drop again to rest low on her back and kisses her a little more playfully. This is probably a better way to waste energy than to get it, but she can make her bed and lie in it if she so chooses.
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Taking its queue, her hand skims up --
The kiss stumbles as Carol needs both hands to reach for her forgotten fishing pole, which is tugging urgently. It figures.
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the flat, muffled sound he makes as she pulls away is more than half curse.
She's supposed to be working and he's supposed to be a responsible member of what passes for society, they ought to be thrilled that she's got a bite. More food to pack away for the lean months and all that. He leans his chin in his hand with a hopeless kind of huff, though honestly the whole thing's so ridiculous that his hand is covering half a smile.
She'd better reel it in. He wants to personally eat this fucker for dinner, all right.
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"Don't sulk. It just means you should've been here sooner." The only thing that could be more hilarious about this is if she successfully drags the line in only to find a four-inch guppy dangling there. (Not that she hopes for it, pulling her weight is important to her for all the bluster she made about sitting here being a chore.)
"If the people here only knew what you gave up for the sake of their dinner..." Carol shoots over a purely mischievous look, her gaze dipping tellingly. It's an exaggeration but not by much; to say she had a plan is overstating but she'd been entertaining a few ideas.
As the end of her line draws nearer, she wonders if the mood is salvageable. She has a cooler, there's no need to hurry back with her catch -- her hands will definitely smell like fish, though, and because she's smelled like worse in her time doesn't make it any less irksome.
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"I'm a damn saint," he drawls, though the sour tone is all exaggeration, there's definitely a laugh lurking behind his gaze. Still. Carol can get away with teasing him any day of the week, but it feels a little unfair to have the wildlife getting in on it. If this is their lot in life he can't complain, it's like having to worry about wearing suits and getting the laundry done, trivial enough that the frustration is a luxury.
Which... Does not make it not a frustration.
He leans back in a bit to watch her make her catch, the least the fish can do is have the decency to be a big one, damnit.
And yeah, he's not not thinking on it. Are fishy hands a deal breaker? By the standards of polite society they probably ought to be but he's really not sure he cares. It's not like they wouldn't be taking at least one more shower today anyway...
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Finally her catch breaks the surface, a thick, wriggly catfish. Daryl's got his wish, it's a decent enough size, and fighting like hell. Carol drags it in and gets a hand on it, digging in its flanging mouth to see if she can wiggle the hook free.
When the hook comes loose to her satisfaction, Carol holds the catfish up for scrutiny. Fifteen inches, not terrible. She then points the fish toward Daryl, her eyes and voice full of laughter.
"I think it's smirking at us."
(She only teases for a moment though, in favor of bringing out a small thin knife and ending the poor thing's suffering with one decisive stab and hanging it on her prepared line to drip. There's joking and then there's cruelty for the sake of a joke.)
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Anyway, this fish is getting what it deserves.
"Guess I'm good luck."
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Carol grabs a water bottle and upends it to rinse her hands, even uses some liquid soap she's been dragging along on her fishing days just in case things veer into the realm of too gross for the walk back. She was galled at first to waste the water, preferring the lake for quick rinsing, but they have no shortage here. And much as of course she'll be taking a shower later, she hasn't discounted the possibility of having a rather significant, rather pleasant detour.
"Should I cast out again, or...?" She inclines her head, grinning suggestively. Somehow the idea of messing about here is intriguing, just a little risky. The surrounding woods combined with the constant twilight make it less so, maybe just enough to inspire confidence. If he needed a nudge, here it is.
She's not opposed to setting off for home, it just might be a long walk... which has its own benefits, really, now that she considers. Enough to change her mind, in a way.
"It'll only take me a second to pack up."
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And that is a thought that could spoil the mood if he let it. The point is that they're not at home, they can be a little risky if they want to. And... What he wants is mainly whatever she wants, but he would at least like to finish what he was not saying.
"Depends how hungry we are, I guess," he deadpans, utterly innocent except he follows it up by leaning in to kiss her again. There's nothing hesitant about him right now. Under the circumstances he doesn't need the nudge, but it's welcome, a reassurance that she's not changing her mind any time soon.
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"Grab my pack for me?" she asks sweetly, gesturing to where her backpack is dangling from a tree branch by its straps, a few steps behind them. She learned the hard way not to leave her things on the ground lakeside.
Assuming Daryl cooperates, he'll have to turn his back on her to follow instructions. She has every intention of interrupting him before he manages to retrieve the thing -- really, she could have just asked him to shift around, but teasing suits her mood. Besides, a little temporary frustration is a good motivator. She intends to make it up to him.
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He's wholly oblivious to any nefarious plans that might be afoot. That sucker.
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"Changed my mind," she says, splaying a hand on his chest and doing her best to guide him in whatever ways necessary to put his back against the tree trunk. Hopefully he'll do as she wishes, it's for a good cause.
Pressing in close again, she resumes kissing him with unapologetic fervor, and her hand slinks down to work his belt open. If there's any objection forthcoming, he'd better do it fast.
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He shifts his hips beneath her hands without meaning to, eager and practically panting against her mouth. If she's decided, he's certainly not going to argue the point.
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There are connotations to this she can't entirely ignore, memories she'd just as soon not dredge up. Ignoring them is easier than she'd have guessed, so with that noise reduced to a dull murmur in the corner of her mind, Carol is free to do as she likes. Being in control of her own choices makes all the difference and there's no question that this is what she wants.
One last moment of attention to that kiss before she pulls back smiling, tempted to say something cheeky. But instead she drops to a knee, hands at his hips, and makes herself clear wordlessly.
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So he lets her break the kiss and fall before him. That guileless, fond look in her eyes is enough to kill any protests that might be on the tip of his tongue. It's like everything else has been; entirely different in the heat of the moment than in the endless rationalizations, and when it comes down to it he doesn't have it in him to deny her anything. So he doesn't, and it's fortunate he's got something to lean on or he'd dissolve, trying to keep his hips stilled and running his hands lightly through her hair.
Maybe he ought to visit her at work more often, eh.
do I ever not have icons for this.
Years and miles and lifetimes since she's had a use for this particular... skill? Task? There's no delicate way to put it, but the point is her lack of recent history isn't such a problem. All that's really needed is enthusiasm and confidence, both of which are well covered. And being brazen, as he put it, doesn't hurt either; she's just fine with exploring and testing and trying just about anything if it'll drag a good reaction out of him. If she gets a queue from above, she doesn't hesitate.
Her only regret is she can't see his face, but there's time. He seems to be enjoying himself so she likes her chances for a second go-round.
i know that feel |D
Once he catches his breath after he'll reach down to offer her a hand up. Round two won't take much persuasion, though they'll have to finish the bottom half of this inning, first. (Yes, baseball again.) Daryl doesn't like to owe anyone anything; and though that's not what this is about, though it's not a transaction, he's all too eager to make it up to her.
But maybe... not here.
"Can you wait til we get home?" he asks, his voice low and rough and full of promise, and there's a good chance he will never, ever scrape himself up to tell her he loves her but maybe if he talks like this enough she'll hear it, anyway. She ought to.
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"If we hurry," she says while resting a moment in the crook of his neck. Honestly, that voice. It's enough to make her melt if that wouldn't be wholly unconducive to hearing more of it.
If she's candid with herself, Carol might be the smallest bit nervous about breaking the ice in an actual bedroom. Not enough to make her hesitate, thankfully. As soon as he's ready to go, she'll make quick work of gathering her things. The catfish can wait in its cooler until she's damn good and ready to do something with it.
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Once she pulls away he sets about making himself decent and shouldering his bow, grabbing his own things before turning to see if she needs him to carry anything. He'd race her home if it wouldn't tire them out.
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It seems strange to think it, but Carol is proud of herself -- not for the specifics or anything so tawdry, but for fighting through the nerves and hold-ups. For not letting herself keep Daryl at arm's length over things that have nothing to do with the here and now.
Maybe once they get home she'll be brave enough to do it again.
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Letting the walk pass in more or less silence suits him just fine; maybe he's a little more apt to touch her than usual, like he's got energy to burn, like he can't quite keep his hands to himself. It's not just about the act, it's the new dimension this adds to their relationship. (That word still kind of itches like it's ill-fitting, too small for all the things that tie them together, but at this point dancing around it, he figures, is ridiculous.) The eagerness now, hopefully, makes up for any apparent reservation he had earlier.
When they get home he'd very much like to head straight up the stairs and waste no time in getting her pants off, but there are possibly responsibilities to attend first.
"Whatcha think, we need to put that thing in the fridge?"
One more mild cockblock from beyond the fishy grave.
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Carol hums her affirmation and goes to take their mischievous fishy friend into the kitchen. usually she guts and fillets them before storage but she's in a bit of a rush, so she wraps the guy in paper towels and foil so he won't alarm anyone with his bug-eyed stare.
Then she washes her hands again, uses some sweet-smelling lotion because it suits her mood, and joins Daryl near the foot of the stairs. Judging by the look she's wearing, dealing with the fish was hardly enough to spoil the mood. He can blame that husky voice of his.
(Don't be so quick to say one more, she's got her tall black boots on.
Though they have zippers this time let's say.)no subject
Like taking her hand and giving it an eager tug. Up the stairs, into a room-- hers is closer and this time he's not the least bit worried about providing an exit strategy-- where he can pull her to him and kiss her in earnest.
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Carol permits him to half-tug her up the stairs, much appreciating his slapdash enthusiasm as she's feeling not unlike a kid, herself, all zeal and impetuousness. Once they're tucked away in her room Carol kicks the door, barely focusing long enough to note the telling click as she's swept into Daryl's arms with a sound of joyful surprise (she's not surprised at all, but likes the way it sounds just then). She couldn't begin to deny that she's still wound up from their time lakeside, though what's more curious is that he is. If she were to think on it -- and she has much more pressing matters to attend to at this exact moment -- it wouldn't be so remarkable for Daryl to be more invested in pleasing her than he is himself, but the contrast between this and other men she's known is extreme enough to draw her attention in a way that's probably more flattering than it should be (he'd do the same for anyone... figuratively speaking).
Melting against him, Carol is able to do little more than respond for now, a bit weak-kneed thanks to how he's behaving. She'll find her mettle again in short enough order; he likes her that way and so does she. For this short moment, she's fine being putty in his hands. Hopefully he'll make good use of the reprieve.
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