Honestly, Carol has given exactly zero thought to how she'd react to someone asking her about Daryl. She's far enough on the outside looking in, thus far, that she figures Daryl's the one more likely to get questions, possibly even of the what are you thinking? variety. Because truly, with the way he's all over her right now, she finds it impossible beyond her wildest dreams that anyone wouldn't want to trade places with her. Even platonically speaking, Daryl is arguably the most valuable member of their group, the most reliable and consistent and universally protective. This is a man who almost killed himself looking for a lost little girl he had no responsibility to save. If she ever heard him imply he's not a catch she'd threaten... something non-violent, yet incredibly effective at making her point. She'll think on specifics if it happens.
Finding her mental footing, Carol is happy enough to give up her actual footing and let Daryl push her into bed. She refuses to let this encounter be another thing she looks back on with regret and perhaps the only thing that could cause that is her being a cold fish (a phrase which, by the way, has taken on a whole new meaning between today's catfish interruption and references to card games). He won't need to worry about hesitation, now that she's catching up with herself Carol's as daring as he is, her hands pulling at his shirt buttons if there's a way to squeeze it between them, returning his kiss with with abandon despite already having her breath stolen away.
Only in hindsight will she wonder if perhaps she should have been bothered by the breakneck speed, and only in a purely theoretical sense. In the moment neither her body nor her mind are saying anything but yes, yes, yes. Chances are good her voice will get in on that, eventually.
Anyone who'd try to argue he's made a poor choice wouldn't deserve an answer anyway. Daryl doesn't think of himself as a romantic, but he has his moments; and more than that he's been fiercely protective of her since long before this seemed like a distant possibility. That hasn't changed. Maybe that's at the heart of why this is so new, so different from anything he's had before; all this is in addition to a deep friendship, not in lieu of it. (That's not to say he's never had close relationships, just not this close. There's a lot to be said for starting from something deeper than infatuation.)
Her response does nothing to dissuade him from his task. Maybe a little to stall him, keeping him kissing her a little longer. He lets her clutching his shirt guide him, stooping to kneel on the floor before her. It's a little too much of a stretch to keep his lips on hers, though, when he leans down to tend to her boots, since getting her pants off over them would be dreadfully difficult.
It's funny given Daryl's own view of himself that Carol does see him as a romantic. Not in that cornball, red roses and champagne kind of way, which really is less romantic in her book than condescending anyway, but in the sense that he believes in good things even when life gives him absolutely no reason to. That he struggled so much with losing Sophia, lashing out the way he did, only proved it all the more, and gave Carol more reasons to never give up on him, ever. Carol often used to wonder, sometimes still does, who she'd be if she hadn't gone down the path that led her to marry Ed, and maybe Daryl wondered the same about his own past. But whatever else can be said for their shitty histories, in a way it's part of their bond, part of what makes them work well enough for what they're trying at now; neither of them knows quite what they're doing, but they do know each other and that makes it okay if the road is littered with potholes and hairpin turns.
Carol catches her breath, leaning back on her hands as Daryl messes with her boot zippers. Leaning forward to help him sounds like ways to get a concussion in one easy lesson and that would derail things messily -- not acceptable. As for what, exactly he's up to... she never expected a precise quid pro quo, if that's where his mind is. She wonders idly if it would be more demure to voice some halfhearted objection if so, but, bluntly, screw that. She's careful and her nerves are kicking up in that anxious, excited way, but she's no virtuous young maiden and it's been forever. Frankly, if he asked right now she'd do pretty much any dirty thing he wanted.
She makes herself useful in what little ways she can, kicking up her feet so he can tug her boots free, lifting her hips if he goes for her pants. Making sure there's a pillow within reach in case she gets loud, because being shameless seems to be working for her and she's not stopping now.
There's no doubt that their shitty histories were a great part of what drew them together; so call that a silver lining, if you will. Maybe that's romantic or optimistic or something good; he thinks it doesn't matter. The only what ifs that matter are the ones ahead, cautious experiments rather than wistful fantasies. This moment, this whatever they are, it might not make up for all the dark times but maybe it makes it worth going on in spite of them. It makes him comfortable enough with her to let his guard down.
Once the boots are gone he spares a moment to glance up at her, wearing a trace of a smile, offering a chance to voice a protest if she wants, glad when she doesn't. One good turn deserves another and he's anything but shy, all willingness and wanting, eager to please. If she asked, he'd stop. It's about the only thing that would stop him, though.
The way she moves with him, shifting her hips so he can drag her clothes down over them, is patent encouragement; and he leans in to kiss her thighs as he bares them (though really, he's more blindly mouthing at her skin, too eager to be demure himself). It's a slow progression, not from hesitance but because it's the right pace for the moment, as he works his way down to the bend of her knee, leaving her pants in an unceremonious heap on the floor between them. There he pauses to meet her eyes again and wet his lips before he leans back in to meander his way back up her leg.
It's the mutual comfort which is most remarkable, that she doesn't shy away or even look away from him despite having an overflow of traumatic mess to weed through. Whether this is so far removed from her prior experiences because of her implicit trust in Daryl or because he's given her every inch she needs or because things happened that flicker-quick, Carol can't say. She doesn't especially care. Whyever this works, it's a fitting culmination, like closing a circuit. Sparks and all.
The only protest that comes to mind is that he's teasing, though she's hardly one to throw that particular stone, and really the poignant glances are every bit as effective at spiking her temperature as the rest. She does, however, give a twittering giggle as his mouth first touches her leg.
"Your beard tickles." She weaves a hand through his hair in case he should get any mistaken impressions about stopping, and slides down to prop herself on an elbow. Before long she's slid to lay flat, and doing anything but laughing, so much that she drags her pillow close enough to turn her face against when the inevitable need arises.
She's not shy about offering simple directions, shifting her hips or gasping out a word until he strikes just so and then there, right there is the last of it, and she's muffled against the pillow with her hand twisted in the bedsheets. The shift from almost to beyond is shockingly fast, yanking her off the mattress almost to sitting (and blessedly silent, she left the pillow behind).
Back onto the mattress with a lazy flop, head lolling, she draws a deep breath and looks over at him, quirking her finger.
"C'mere." She needs a moment for certain but not a chance is she through with him. If he could shed a few articles of clothing on the way it'd help her a lot.
Maybe he's teasing, but only a bit, only in the finest way possible. Even her giggle doesn't shake him; he responds with a low, purposeful hum right against her, and he keeps about his business. Lucky her, he always takes direction well, all the more so when he's so invested in his task. In all things he's a believer that anything worth doing is worth doing right; and so, he's relentlessly thorough, focused on each reaction he draws, every directive she gasps, rewarded by the roll of her hips, her muffled cries.
He straightens and stretches as she lets herself sink back against the bed, taking a moment to feel a bit smug, heart still racing in time with hers before she beckons him. The clothing will need a little more hinting but she'll find him utterly obliging; it's not as though they have any reason to be bashful. It takes him a moment to haul himself up beside her; his knees are a little stiff from being folded, but he's got no complaints.
This is mainly because, stretched languorous and smiling beside him, Carol doesn't seem to have any, either.
Bashfulness has indeed outlived its usefulness between them, and good riddance. Carol rolls to face Daryl, the motion requiring a not insubstantial effort, tempting as it is to rest there and savor the pooling warmth that's threatening to make her drowsy.
"No one likes a boaster," she quips, inching forward to kiss his neck and deciding to stay put for the moment. She wouldn't truly mind if he was, Lord knows he earned it. She has no decent scale for how good sex is supposed to go, and her feelings for him would let her greatly enjoy even something not that far upstream of average, but she thinks they're doing fine. It's hard to be objective in her judgment while she's indolent with afterglow.
Content as she'd be to bask for a time, Carol finds her hands want to be everywhere so she doesn't fight the impulse. No hurry though, a lazy stroke here and a freed button there. Finding skin beneath the hem of his shirt while her lips work north of the collar.
She seems to like a boaster plenty, he thinks, so he answers that with a low, skeptical hum, a laugh threatening somewhere deep in it, reaching for her as she moves toward him. He's not boasting, he's just savoring her satisfaction. The prospect of this had worried him a little, guessing as he does at what her marriage likely held; he hadn't been sure she'd be able to relax for him until she did, and that's gratifying on a multitude of levels. There's the simple satisfaction of a job well done, of course, but it reflects something much deeper than just the act, and that's really what has him so pleased.
If she just wanted to rest on his laurels a while that would be fine, too, but he's quite pleased to find her hands on him instead. There's a little tangle of limbs as he tries to sort out the best place for his arms, settling for absently uncatching a few buttons in the middle of his shirt for her before giving up and sliding his palms under the hanging hem of hers as well. She'll find if she tries it that he's already undone his fly. Multitude of levels, remember?
She hadn't been entirely sure she could relax, either, and she's still can't promise not to seize up. And yet she is relaxed, for the moment and hopefully beyond, uncertainty and all. Even the slowed pace doesn't give her pause as she thought it might, though her thoughts, sluggish from a moment ago, could be contributing. The exact reason is indecipherable and irrelevant besides; she's more than fine, and they're most certainly not done.
If Daryl shows any hint of that desperate impatience again, Carol's very much prepared to match his speed, jump in his lap and race to the finish, she's not so cruel as to tease him after what he just did. But this matches her mood, easy and exploring, savoring the slow build. She slides free the buttons he didn't get to, making an amused sound when she finds his zipper down almost like an invitation -- one she gladly accepts. Her kisses become more adamant on his neck; careful, though, not to leave any telltale marks, neither of them need that aggravation.
Right now whatever pace she'd like to set suits him just fine; he'd been overeager to even the score, but certainly he's in no rush to be finished with this. He's absently aware that there's still some cause for caution, but as long as she's taking the initiative he's happy to follow her lead. (And under the circumstances how could he not be?)
Here, safely surrounded by walls and with a mattress at his back rather than a tree trunk, he's noticeably more relaxed, more willing to respond with a soft sound or a sharp gasp here and there, hips bucking into her hand when it slips lower.
He tips his head back blissfully, running his hands up under her shirt with a little hum of joy.
While Carol can't deny appreciating the offerings of his overeager side, this also has its benefits. Like those quiet sounds he's making, the almost euphoric look on his face. It's almost enough to make her want to stay closed up in this room forever, just to watch him wear that expression. It's not the same as joy, but it's as close as she's seen him, and it's amazing.
Since they're in no hurry she explores a bit more, varying the movements and pressure and tension of her hand. Watching his face for any telling signs has her enrapt for a few moments before she leans down for another kiss, soft and slow but full of promise.
Honestly, Daryl does have his little moments of joy; they're small and quiet and they don't always show. You'll catch more of his smiles watching his eyes than his mouth. This... is something different, though not entirely so. It isn't just the physical act, it's the closeness that has gotten them to this point, the triumph that they're alive and whole enough, in spite of everything, to care. They have every reason to be joyous, they would even if she wasn't tracing her fingertips along him, purposeful and deft. He's given up trying to stay still because he can't, because she seems to enjoy his reactions so much. Christ, can he get his mouth back on her without having to move?
He frees a hand from under her shirt to run it through her hair, setting his palm between her shoulder blades when she kisses him, holding her close, pressing himself against her wherever he can. It's not the frantic desperation that guided him earlier, but this time she certainly can't have any grounds to doubt whether she's distracting him enough.
Much as Carol knows she doesn't have every reason to be joyous, everything about this moment s wonderful enough that she's forgotten, temporarily, the speck of grief that overlays everything she does, and even that what they're doing should make her at least a hint uncomfortable. A freedom that can't last forever; every reason to make the most of this while she can.
She has to move her hands, an unfortunate fact but for the good cause of divesting Daryl of his clothes. An abbreviated sound of frustration sounds against his mouth as she finds that lying on his back is not optimal for accomplishing such. So instead of slipping his shirt from his shoulders as intended, she grabs two handfuls of cloth and gives it a tug at the same time she shifts, starting to roll onto her back and clearly wanting him to come along.
When she rolls he obligingly rolls with her, coming to rest with his weight on one knee set between her own. In the course of moving he has to break their kiss (if they keep this up someone is going to manage to bite their tongue off out of the stubborn desire not to pull away) and he takes advantage of that to arch his back and work his way a little lower.
He has less patience for logistics than she has, maybe. At any rate she can work on shedding his shirt; he rolls his shoulders back and straightens his arms and occupies himself, pleasantly and shamelessly, sucking her breast right through her shirt, mouth hot and a little rough through the fabric.
"Impatient," she scolds, though she might inspire more contrition if the word weren't mostly breath. She then proceeds to make herself a hypocrite by sparing not a second in pushing his shirt off, somewhat daring him to mock her for it. She's unused to being so needy again, so soon -- but then, she's not used to this sort of wanting at all. A combination of pure selfishness and purely the opposite, which both amount to essentially the same thing; she wouldn't have thought it possible.
Lowering her hands, she grips the hem of her shirt, preparing to shuck it off if he'll pause for a second. Her leg nudges at his knee, the one outside hers, while he's waiting he can go on and fix that little problem.
He hasn't got an ounce of contrition for her. Impatient yourself, he might say, if he was saying anything, but he's vehemently not. Instead he teases by sucking harder a moment, rolling his tongue roughly on her nipple before he pulls away. Not far, of course, and not for long. It's funny, how patient they can be and how impatient they become once they start something, as though this is some opportunity that won't last if they don't cling to it.
He pushes himself off the mattress to finish getting his shirt off and give her room to pull hers off as well, and once he's balanced on his knees he thinks to shift, too, leaning precariously to bring his bent leg over hers. If he's lucky this will go off without a hitch, but there's a decent chance he'll fall before her shirt's off. It's a risk he's willing to take.
Her own impatience is a swirling mass of different things, each one of varying significance at any given moment. There's the obvious life's too short idea that they've been forced to adopt as a literal term, the fear of laying off the intensity because it might leave more room for less pleasant thoughts. The fact that, by most anyone's standard, they've damn well waited long enough. And then, the simple fact that it's fun. He can take his pick, any of them seem like perfectly wonderful reasons to toss restraint out the window.
Her shirt successfully removed and discarded somewhere in the room (she can't be bothered with specifics), Carol glances over at the acrobatics he's attempting. Spotting him wobbling on his knee, Carol snaps her hands out to try and steady his hips, while at the same time pulling him toward her, a physical version of oh no, you don't. She has just time enough to consider that perhaps the yanking was a poor choice when she finds herself crashing to the mattress with Daryl atop her.
"...Ouch," she says with far too much mirth for someone who probably has a bruise or two coming her way. "You okay?" Please be okay, stopping now would be just unfair.
If he has to pick, fun is probably the one he's gonna go with. All the others are valid, but certainly that's the most pressing; and in itself, not insignificant. In the wrong circumstances sex can be anything from a distraction to (at worst) a weapon, in the wrong kind of life; the two of them together with no goal except to enjoy themselves, that's worth a few catfish and other mishaps.
He manages to throw his arms wide enough not to elbow her, but that means he comes down a little harder on her torso than he'd have liked. At least he didn't have too far to fall, there's no chance for real injury here, except to their egos. And he's probably gonna have a bruise on his hip from her knuckles. He can live with it.
"Fine," he answers, mostly embarrassed, pushing himself up to rest on his elbows so he can look in her face. "You?"
She sounds it, but he wants to check. As long as she's okay he's pretty sure they can call this a minor setback in their plans, rather than an utter derailment.
Mishaps do seem to be following them around today, but somehow it's enhancing rather than derailing things, for Carol. A perfect, uninterrupted mood somehow wouldn't suit them; it's nice to be able to laugh a little here and there.
"No," she says with a low, serious tone. She pauses for effect, though not long enough for him to respond. "Your pants are still on."
No sooner are her words out than she smiles up at him; yes, she's absolutely fine. More than, unless you account for the fact that she'd rather be occupied in ways other than discussing whether they're fine. Her hands move against his hips, rubbing rather than doing anymore gripping just in case his 'fine' isn't wholly indicative of his condition, it felt like she bumped him in the fall. In any case, her point is clear enough.
It's a perfectly timed pause, not long enough to leave him looking stricken, just the right length to make a grin crack his face when she finishes her thought. More than fine. He leans in to kiss her collarbone, maybe a little in apology for coming crashing down on her, but also because it's a perfect segue to keep working his way down, picking up where he left off with the bonus of no shirt in between them. Which, though the other way had a reckless charm, is probably way more effective for her.
Being way more careful of his balance, he raises a hand to help her shove at his waistband, heedless of any possible injury. It'll take a while for bruises to bloom anyway, right now he's got bigger concerns. Like getting out of his pants without falling again, which he somehow manages, kicking them off the edge of the bed to join Carol's shirt in its uncertain fate. His shirt, too, come to think of it.
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.
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what_wings_dare2014-02-14 08:31 pm
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Finding her mental footing, Carol is happy enough to give up her actual footing and let Daryl push her into bed. She refuses to let this encounter be another thing she looks back on with regret and perhaps the only thing that could cause that is her being a cold fish (a phrase which, by the way, has taken on a whole new meaning between today's catfish interruption and references to card games). He won't need to worry about hesitation, now that she's catching up with herself Carol's as daring as he is, her hands pulling at his shirt buttons if there's a way to squeeze it between them, returning his kiss with with abandon despite already having her breath stolen away.
Only in hindsight will she wonder if perhaps she should have been bothered by the breakneck speed, and only in a purely theoretical sense. In the moment neither her body nor her mind are saying anything but yes, yes, yes. Chances are good her voice will get in on that, eventually.
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Her response does nothing to dissuade him from his task. Maybe a little to stall him, keeping him kissing her a little longer. He lets her clutching his shirt guide him, stooping to kneel on the floor before her. It's a little too much of a stretch to keep his lips on hers, though, when he leans down to tend to her boots, since getting her pants off over them would be dreadfully difficult.
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Carol catches her breath, leaning back on her hands as Daryl messes with her boot zippers. Leaning forward to help him sounds like ways to get a concussion in one easy lesson and that would derail things messily -- not acceptable. As for what, exactly he's up to... she never expected a precise quid pro quo, if that's where his mind is. She wonders idly if it would be more demure to voice some halfhearted objection if so, but, bluntly, screw that. She's careful and her nerves are kicking up in that anxious, excited way, but she's no virtuous young maiden and it's been forever. Frankly, if he asked right now she'd do pretty much any dirty thing he wanted.
She makes herself useful in what little ways she can, kicking up her feet so he can tug her boots free, lifting her hips if he goes for her pants. Making sure there's a pillow within reach in case she gets loud, because being shameless seems to be working for her and she's not stopping now.
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Once the boots are gone he spares a moment to glance up at her, wearing a trace of a smile, offering a chance to voice a protest if she wants, glad when she doesn't. One good turn deserves another and he's anything but shy, all willingness and wanting, eager to please. If she asked, he'd stop. It's about the only thing that would stop him, though.
The way she moves with him, shifting her hips so he can drag her clothes down over them, is patent encouragement; and he leans in to kiss her thighs as he bares them (though really, he's more blindly mouthing at her skin, too eager to be demure himself). It's a slow progression, not from hesitance but because it's the right pace for the moment, as he works his way down to the bend of her knee, leaving her pants in an unceremonious heap on the floor between them. There he pauses to meet her eyes again and wet his lips before he leans back in to meander his way back up her leg.
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The only protest that comes to mind is that he's teasing, though she's hardly one to throw that particular stone, and really the poignant glances are every bit as effective at spiking her temperature as the rest. She does, however, give a twittering giggle as his mouth first touches her leg.
"Your beard tickles." She weaves a hand through his hair in case he should get any mistaken impressions about stopping, and slides down to prop herself on an elbow. Before long she's slid to lay flat, and doing anything but laughing, so much that she drags her pillow close enough to turn her face against when the inevitable need arises.
She's not shy about offering simple directions, shifting her hips or gasping out a word until he strikes just so and then there, right there is the last of it, and she's muffled against the pillow with her hand twisted in the bedsheets. The shift from almost to beyond is shockingly fast, yanking her off the mattress almost to sitting (and blessedly silent, she left the pillow behind).
Back onto the mattress with a lazy flop, head lolling, she draws a deep breath and looks over at him, quirking her finger.
"C'mere." She needs a moment for certain but not a chance is she through with him. If he could shed a few articles of clothing on the way it'd help her a lot.
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He straightens and stretches as she lets herself sink back against the bed, taking a moment to feel a bit smug, heart still racing in time with hers before she beckons him. The clothing will need a little more hinting but she'll find him utterly obliging; it's not as though they have any reason to be bashful. It takes him a moment to haul himself up beside her; his knees are a little stiff from being folded, but he's got no complaints.
This is mainly because, stretched languorous and smiling beside him, Carol doesn't seem to have any, either.
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"No one likes a boaster," she quips, inching forward to kiss his neck and deciding to stay put for the moment. She wouldn't truly mind if he was, Lord knows he earned it. She has no decent scale for how good sex is supposed to go, and her feelings for him would let her greatly enjoy even something not that far upstream of average, but she thinks they're doing fine. It's hard to be objective in her judgment while she's indolent with afterglow.
Content as she'd be to bask for a time, Carol finds her hands want to be everywhere so she doesn't fight the impulse. No hurry though, a lazy stroke here and a freed button there. Finding skin beneath the hem of his shirt while her lips work north of the collar.
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If she just wanted to rest on his laurels a while that would be fine, too, but he's quite pleased to find her hands on him instead. There's a little tangle of limbs as he tries to sort out the best place for his arms, settling for absently uncatching a few buttons in the middle of his shirt for her before giving up and sliding his palms under the hanging hem of hers as well. She'll find if she tries it that he's already undone his fly. Multitude of levels, remember?
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If Daryl shows any hint of that desperate impatience again, Carol's very much prepared to match his speed, jump in his lap and race to the finish, she's not so cruel as to tease him after what he just did. But this matches her mood, easy and exploring, savoring the slow build. She slides free the buttons he didn't get to, making an amused sound when she finds his zipper down almost like an invitation -- one she gladly accepts. Her kisses become more adamant on his neck; careful, though, not to leave any telltale marks, neither of them need that aggravation.
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Here, safely surrounded by walls and with a mattress at his back rather than a tree trunk, he's noticeably more relaxed, more willing to respond with a soft sound or a sharp gasp here and there, hips bucking into her hand when it slips lower.
He tips his head back blissfully, running his hands up under her shirt with a little hum of joy.
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Since they're in no hurry she explores a bit more, varying the movements and pressure and tension of her hand. Watching his face for any telling signs has her enrapt for a few moments before she leans down for another kiss, soft and slow but full of promise.
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He frees a hand from under her shirt to run it through her hair, setting his palm between her shoulder blades when she kisses him, holding her close, pressing himself against her wherever he can. It's not the frantic desperation that guided him earlier, but this time she certainly can't have any grounds to doubt whether she's distracting him enough.
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She has to move her hands, an unfortunate fact but for the good cause of divesting Daryl of his clothes. An abbreviated sound of frustration sounds against his mouth as she finds that lying on his back is not optimal for accomplishing such. So instead of slipping his shirt from his shoulders as intended, she grabs two handfuls of cloth and gives it a tug at the same time she shifts, starting to roll onto her back and clearly wanting him to come along.
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He has less patience for logistics than she has, maybe. At any rate she can work on shedding his shirt; he rolls his shoulders back and straightens his arms and occupies himself, pleasantly and shamelessly, sucking her breast right through her shirt, mouth hot and a little rough through the fabric.
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Lowering her hands, she grips the hem of her shirt, preparing to shuck it off if he'll pause for a second. Her leg nudges at his knee, the one outside hers, while he's waiting he can go on and fix that little problem.
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He pushes himself off the mattress to finish getting his shirt off and give her room to pull hers off as well, and once he's balanced on his knees he thinks to shift, too, leaning precariously to bring his bent leg over hers. If he's lucky this will go off without a hitch, but there's a decent chance he'll fall before her shirt's off. It's a risk he's willing to take.
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Her shirt successfully removed and discarded somewhere in the room (she can't be bothered with specifics), Carol glances over at the acrobatics he's attempting. Spotting him wobbling on his knee, Carol snaps her hands out to try and steady his hips, while at the same time pulling him toward her, a physical version of oh no, you don't. She has just time enough to consider that perhaps the yanking was a poor choice when she finds herself crashing to the mattress with Daryl atop her.
"...Ouch," she says with far too much mirth for someone who probably has a bruise or two coming her way. "You okay?" Please be okay, stopping now would be just unfair.
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He manages to throw his arms wide enough not to elbow her, but that means he comes down a little harder on her torso than he'd have liked. At least he didn't have too far to fall, there's no chance for real injury here, except to their egos. And he's probably gonna have a bruise on his hip from her knuckles. He can live with it.
"Fine," he answers, mostly embarrassed, pushing himself up to rest on his elbows so he can look in her face. "You?"
She sounds it, but he wants to check. As long as she's okay he's pretty sure they can call this a minor setback in their plans, rather than an utter derailment.
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"No," she says with a low, serious tone. She pauses for effect, though not long enough for him to respond. "Your pants are still on."
No sooner are her words out than she smiles up at him; yes, she's absolutely fine. More than, unless you account for the fact that she'd rather be occupied in ways other than discussing whether they're fine. Her hands move against his hips, rubbing rather than doing anymore gripping just in case his 'fine' isn't wholly indicative of his condition, it felt like she bumped him in the fall. In any case, her point is clear enough.
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Being way more careful of his balance, he raises a hand to help her shove at his waistband, heedless of any possible injury. It'll take a while for bruises to bloom anyway, right now he's got bigger concerns. Like getting out of his pants without falling again, which he somehow manages, kicking them off the edge of the bed to join Carol's shirt in its uncertain fate. His shirt, too, come to think of it.
They'll deal with those questions later.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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