for Alyssa

Date: 2014-02-07 03:17 am (UTC)
aurallyfixated: (apple)
This is the tricky part.

Taking him apart almost comes naturally, once they feel out the boundaries and spaces, the places where what he wants lines up with what she's willing to do. She's still trying to coax him into telling her what he needs instead of just shortening the list of what he won't accept, but figuring it out (she's never slapped anyone in her life, if she's mad enough to hit she does it with a closed fist but this is different and she's shocked by the sharp ringing of her open palm on his flesh, shocked by the sound he makes, shocked by the way she looks at the reddening print of her hand on his skin and likes it and wants to do it again) is part of the fun. She turns it around, forbids him to make a sound and talks low and fast and harsh to him before she presses teeth into his skin, makes him stand and works fingers into him slower and gentler than he wants and tells him the moment he moves is the moment she stops. Prods and pulls and twists and coaxes and strips things away piece by piece until he's all that's left, and she thought she was doing it for him but god, he's beautiful like that.

No, taking him apart is easy. He practically does it himself. It's the putting back together that worries her. Hard to find the balance between not enough and too much, hard to remind herself when he tucks in close and needy that this part, at least, needs to be all for him. Not that she doesn't love it – every little touch, every quiet little sound he makes. She'd take it further if she thought she could, bathe the sweat from his skin if it didn't mean the risk of other people seeing and she has the decency to be ashamed that it's possesiveness rather than protectiveness that makes her hate the idea.

She holds her tongue. Doesn't say the things she wants to say (you're beautiful and you're good and I love you, love you, love you) that make him blush and drop his eyes at the best of times because she's supposed to be making him steady, not putting him off balance. But they build up, while she strokes his hair and rubs the ache from muscles pulled from tying, words filling up her mouth like a gulp of red wine that'll pour out and stain everything if she opens it. She doesn't want to say what he won't be comfortable hearing, but she can't swallow it down.

Compromise, then. She can hold him. Pull him in when he comes close, touch her mouth to his. She doesn't close her eyes. Watches the blur of his face too close to focus on, rubs a thumb over the damp of his cheek. Feels the warmth of his breath mingling with hers, breathes him in, air from his lungs and the thick, familiar scent of him, parts her lips against the bite-swollen softness of his and spills it into him instead, lets the kiss do the telling.
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Tilly

February 2014

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