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[acaseofyou]

they say that death is a tragedy it comes once, and it's over

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[acaseofyou]

[ By contrast, a break in the Masquerade that dire is still impacting Birdie night to night. Coming back to New York was one foolish thing, and relationships with people are always fraught and risky, especially ones that last longer than a night or two. Even just friendship with him is a risk, but it feels like one she can't help taking, from meeting at diners to bringing him home.

And she really can't help herself when he looks up at her like that. Nothing creepy, nothing there to put her off. If anything, it turns her on, devotion in his eyes and slick on his chin, and she's struck through like she stepped on the third rail with the desperate need to see him look at her like that as much as possible. Evident, probably, by the small keen in her sigh when she takes him in, hands going to his cheeks. ]

Yeah, bed. [ Birdie smiles, delighted, but she doesn't move to the bed. She can't believe, suddenly, that she hasn't kissed him yet, and moves instead to fix that, bending down at the waist to put her lips to his, open and eager, another small noise at the back of her throat when she tastes herself on his mouth. ]

[exterminatory]

[ He cranes for the kiss, knowing the instant she moved to it that he wants this, in some way absurd and sublime, more than everything else. And he loves that there's no hesitation, no self-consciousness as her lips seal with his. In return he isn't delicate, meeting her open-mouthed. Tongue seeking hers with Birdie's flavor still molten between them.

Lifting her's the easy part, however graceless. He scoops her as he stands, hoists her up with her legs tucked round his waist. It's the moving that proves tougher, because he can barely bring himself to loose her mouth for half a sec; and she feels so good bundled against him, his brain starts to push the odds of ripping off his belt, dropping trou right there and then. Thus Fet manages to bang their noses, click their teeth and almost dump them both over a corner of rug before making it halfway to where he thinks the bed is.

None of which slows his roll. He's still kissing her when he finds the edge, tumbles her down past the canopy curtains. Only letting go as she's nestled on the covers, crouching low (with feet on the floor, 'cause for fuck's sake, his boots are still on). ]

[acaseofyou]

[ She could just keep kissing him like this. It isn't as if she needs to come up for air, not like she feels she needs the wet press of his tongue in her mouth or the broad mass of his chest for her to wrap around. And, god, getting her legs around him is nice, even with fumbling and trips and all, a little check mark on some portion of fantasy dutifully ticked away. She does breathe, though. Enough between clicks and fumbles for a gasp, a laugh, a quiet Vas, before pushing back in for more.

By the time Birdie's back hits the bed, cushioned and cocooned not just by the hanging fabric but by Fet hovering over her, she's utterly enamored. More than she already was, all lovesick and giddy just to send him pictures of her legs.

Legs that are still loose around his waist that's still fully clothed, which is a shame. A tragedy. Funny, then, that she smiles up at him as one hand slides down his chest between them to press her palm against the hard outline of his cock, hot even through his jeans. ]

Should've worn a skirt, Vasiliy. [ Birdie moves her hand just so the echo of a proper stroke, and grins up at him all sly and lopsided, though the noise she makes betrays how eager she is. ] Could get to you so much faster.

[exterminatory]

[ If there can be any doubt, through the urgency of these past minutes, that he's still overjoyed, it should be dispelled by his face: looking down into her smile, and radiating it back like a toothy cartoon (sorry for this one) sun. She's so beautiful, flopped on this bed, and he's so jazzed to be with her here, Miles Davis couldn't hold a candle.

Then her hand slides down his chest, down and down. And you gotta understand, having a hard-on this size ain't exactly comfortable, not when you haven't so much as paused to adjust. But there's worse feelings to endure, for sure, and he's a grown-ass man; he can bear an untouched boner. Really, at this particular juncture she might as well not even--

ah, fuck--

His own grin goes wobbly, not drained but dumb. There's a flickering of his eyelids, and though he tamps it right down, no wasting time, for a second his hips jerk helpless. ]

Even if I had one, wouldn't lift it for ya. Not yet. [ Fet slides back, in the same motion tugging Birdie along, closer to bed's edge. Quick work is made of undoing her belt, so he can finally, fucking finally strip away the skirt. His hands whisk over her bare legs, spreading them while he hunkers between. ]

You're gonna make more noises first. Let me finish what I started, hmm, ptichka?

[ Only most of this could easily be spoken in another language, broken up and muffled to boot. He's pressing kisses, down and down, to that tender spot where inner thigh meets cheek. She's still soaked, he doesn't even need to moisten his lips; doesn't even need to nudge her center again for the wetness to trail in streaks. ]

[acaseofyou]

[ There's something powerfully good, seeing him smile at her like that. And if Fet is smiling like the only sun she's seen since the summer of '67, she's over the moon. Powerful, too, to see that smile wobble just so when he bucks his hips against her hand. She wants to do it again, do more, show she's going to give just as good as she's getting, and she's getting some very very good, if you know what I mean.

It's a little overwhelming, how much she wants of him all at once. Almost like hunger, greedy and bottomless and demanding, even when he's pulling away and pulling her down the bed and, finally, pulling off her skirt. Hunger that tells her Fet is someone to keep, to grab the moment and not let go. ]

What if I say please? [ It'd be a tease, completely a joke par for the course of their usual dynamic, if not for the fact that she's half naked spread out in front of him and the little quiver in her voice as he kisses his way down.

She'd beg him, if it came to it. Coy and smiling and earnest, but she would. To taste him, to feel him, show him her tongue is good for more than songs and envelopes.

And, god, but Fet doesn't have to ask and she makes noises for him the whole way down. There's some part of her mind still rational enough to wonder what ptichka means, quickly drowned out by the feel of his hands on her, the way that slick cools against her skin when it hits the air. For a moment, the rational so so far gone she can't figure out what to do with her hands, how to get them back on him. When Birdie feels his mouth on her again he earns a proper moan, throaty and long, her half-forgotten hands fisted in the sheets beneath her. ]