driftfleet | ship mingle: february is for starstruckers.

Is that what you're feeling -- right now, deep into your bones? [ she teases -- leaning in for yet another kiss while her hands returns to its 'lazy' and gradual exploration. ] Nobility?

[ despite a hitch in her own breath, she's determined to take her time. to play her fingertips across the tender flesh at the very base of his manhood before tracing them once again up the length; grasping at girth; learning his twitches and sighs with nearly the same level of loving scrutiny that he'd displayed.

she splays her opposite hand against his chest -- feeling for his heartbeat. ]

No.

[ teasing and playfulness turn into raw honest. his heart races, just beneath her fingertips. there won't be any getting used to this, he thinks, it'll never become predictable, her touch, the things it ignites in him, the fact that it's her is enough to make him incoherent. he nearly bites his tongue when her fingers move, down, then up. steve had loved her since he saw her punch a sorry sod who talked back to her and still, he was always late, late to tell her, late to their dance, late, here, to tell her.

and then there's now. it's darkening outside and the air inside feels too warm, too humid. steve moves a hand down her neck and over her breast. ]

Not even close.

[ her mouth has gone dry -- throat tight with all the things she's not quite saying. like how she wants to ask him what he's instead feeling if not nobility. but another sound from him and she knows the answer already. better (perhaps) to let it simmer unsaid just beneath the surface.

electricity crackles under her skin -- mere steps behind his fingertips. again, she kisses him. and again, she reminds herself that there's no rush in this. that given the limitations already put on their 'progress' tonight, all they've got is hours to touch and explore and (best of all) learn.

doesn't mean, of course, that the ante can't be upped. peggy replaces her wandering fingertips with the full grip of her hand. and she doesn't ask him any questions; doesn't feel quite so cruel as to make him speak just now. instead, she leans in -- against him -- and whispers a near-silent i love you. ]

[ they're polar opposites, at that moment. Peggy is patient and controlled and good, so good, keeping a certain amount of clarity between them even when she's slowly undoing him. Steve is savouring her in a manner that's far more urgent, slanting his lips against hers, pulling her bottom lip between his and not relenting for a long moment.

And then she presses close, her palm instead of her fingers and steve swears, a choked shit, peggy pressed against her lips before he kisses her again, one hand tangled in her hair, the other one covering her breast, thumbing at her nipple. ]

Christ, I love you.

[ he steals her breath away. despite a valiant effort to overpower him in sweet distraction, the simple flick of a thumb causes her to lose a moan -- truncated, frustrated -- against his lips. she's momentarily thrown off course, her teeth knocking with his as a clumsy side-effect of her attempt to press nearer; get closer; take over. there's a distant voice (low and sultry) in the back of her head chastising her for ever being so responsible aloud and limiting the scope of their intimacy for the evening.

she silences that voice by busying herself with the barrier of his boxers -- pawing, pulling, blindly tugging them down his thighs to free him and fix the inefficient angle at which her grip can find him. peggy presses forward -- easing him, once again, onto his back. and with a kiss. ]

[ for a moment, all patience seems to evaporate from the tent and steve reaches for her waist, drags her closer and holds her for a few more precious seconds before she pushes forward and he finds himself beneath her again. there's laughter, pressed into the side of her mouth.

He moves a hand to her back, keeps her pressed against him. ]

Comfortable?

[ he meets her gaze, smiling. this evening, he takes to listening and obeying. in the future, it won't be that easy but then, he has a feeling she knows as much. ]

[ oh, she most certainly knows. not only is peggy acutely aware that her current edge is temporary, she can hardly wait for future 'altercations' to prove themselves more differently weighted. when the time comes, she will invite his challenges and his bullheadedness.

but for now? she keeps her place as the composer of the evening. leveraging her own patience against his lack of it, plying him to fall prey to his instincts and his urges. her kisses dip down to his chest -- teasing a future destination while she lavishes attention at the hollow of his throat. ]

Comfortable? [ there's a gentle gravel to her voice. ] Not the word I'd use.

What would you use?

[ he dares ask but the question itself is fleeting, he half fears her answer would only add fuel to an already existing fire and then where would they be? there's a slight arch in his spine, a quiet attempt to close non-existence gaps between them.

one to one ]

Thrilled. [ she kisses his shoulder. ] Stirred -- [ then, the initial slope of a pectoral muscle. ] Excited.

[ all sorts of words, it seems, that dance around the idea of arousal. but she doesn't dare say it. peggy knows she doesn't need to -- it's not a question he would have asked if he didn't have half-a-notion about what the answer might be. either way, the electricity bubbling beneath her skin is hardly comfortable. comforting, perhaps. but not comfortable. ]

Yeah.

[ it's a quiet, keen agreement. There's so much skin beneath his fingertips, he feels his way from her hips, up her sides and over her arms, squirming beneath her a little. ]

That was - the wrong word, absolutely. Peggy.

[ there is a request there somewhere but if pressed, he might not be able to focus on just one. There seem to be endless things he wants from and with her. ]

[ she doesn't answer. not with words, at least -- instead, she smiles against the smooth skin of his sternum and trails her mouth down to his solar plexus. pity (she thinks) that her lipstick has long since smudged away. she wouldn't much mind marking him, now, with its richness and vibrancy.

peggy shimmies backwards and grips him by his sides. first her chin grazes his navel, then her tongue teases an edge, then the tip of her nose passes it by. she's sinking lower, lower, lower --

but she freezes at the slope of his hip bone. as though waiting for a plea or permission or both. ]

[ his lips are dry, he realizes and there is a breath or two he's been holding, busy as he is watching her and then it all becomes impossible, she halts just shy of where she touched him and it all seems to click into place and the moment it does he almost jumps out of his skin.

she's waiting for him to say something, he knows that much. getting the words out proves to be a bit more of a challenge. ]

You know, you're killing me.

[ it's as honest as he manages. ]

Believe me, that's hardly my end goal.

[ killing him, that is. at least not so literally. it's true that the french have a hauntingly poetic way of calling what comes later the little death but his strangled honesty is all she needs to direct her attentions lower.

she breathes in: sweat and sunshine and musk. peggy braces her palm against the length of him and starts with only a sample -- a light, learning lick. a warm tongue on warm skin. ]

ship mingle: february is for starstruckers.

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