acaseofyou | open post

Guess this means I gotta do something extra worthy, ya know
While I'm down there

I've definitely got a few ideas as to your options.

Wouldn't say no to some inspiration for my knightly feats, if you wanted to share.

Well, the first one that comes to mind involves you having to lean me up against a wall first so I don't fall down and my skirt up, if that's knightly enough for you to go with.

Only a super shitty knight would let you fall. Let's give me SOME credit

Like to hear more about your skirt going up though. For research purposes.

Oh, I have every faith in you and your knightly skills. Thought about them for a while. It's my legs that don't get any credit.

My skirt, though... The one I've got on now is long enough I'll have to hold it. So I can see you down on your knees properly and everything.

I could help you with that. Flip it out of the way, so you can see me, and I can see your bare legs
Assessing them for structural integrity of course

Oh, of course. Very practical.
Though I am hoping you'll get a little distracted when you see there's more bare than just my legs.

Uhhhh yeah
Yeah that'll do it

[ distract him, that is ]

You said you're wearing this skirt now?

Fantastic

[ Just as hastily planned. ]

I am. It's green, if that's important for your assessments.

If you're also wearing nothing under it, like right now

It's really not important.

[ like this whole exchange has been fun, but--

funny how quick silly horny can turn serious. ]

Just me and the breeze under here right now, Vasiliy.

Plenty of room for a knight.

[ She follows this up with a picture of her legs, one still covered in green skirt fabric and the other very seriously exposed up to her hip. ]

[ One screen-flash of her thigh has him gawking, compounded by the bared round of hip above. And he's seen a naked leg or two in his day, okay??

But oh, not Birdie's.

It takes him a bit to remember what the shit's a knight. ]

That's worth kneeling for alright.

Spent a lot of time thinking bout how fast I could get you out of your jeans
Shame on my brain for never supplying this alternative

[ It's a little wild that a picture so relatively tame, compared to what usually passes for enticing photography, still works so damn well.

Not just for him, either, because his reaction has her wondering if she should just call a cab. ]

You can spend that time better without a button fly, yeah?

Just think how quick you can get your hands on me if you tossed me up in the air like this.

[ The mental image evoked by that is more explicit by far. Though what Fet texts in reply genuinely doesn't give him any less of a rush. ]

Like to think about the noises you'd make. Your voice really revs my engine, you know that right?
Not even the whole serious songstress thing. Just the sound of you chatting and cracking up and humming those little hmmmmmmmmmms to yourself

Seems like every time you do that shit I wanna hear how good I could make you feel. With my hands, my mouth, all the rest of me too.

[ Talk about a rush. Usually, 'get your blood pumping' is a metaphor, but Fet has a talent for getting her pulse rate going. ]

I do make noises when I've thought about you, and your hands, and the rest of you. Wondered if when you tell me how you want me your voice would do that thing where it gets really low and quiet, if it'd change when I get my mouth on you.

Had to bite my tongue about it a couple times. Thinking now I should've just let you hear it.

Guess we were both holding back a bit. [ Which, for his part, could turn this convo more serious than it's already gone (at least compared to pinecones and hedgehogs and envelope licking start-ups). But the prospect doesn't discourage him. ]

Maybe we should quit that.

[ Birdie does take a moment to consider how serious this is going to get. All told, it's a short moment. He'll hardly even notice a pause. ]

Yeah, I think you're right. I think we should start quitting that immediately.

[ Definitely not discouraged, here. Still, there's the possibility he'll lay it all out. Not just how much he wants her, but how much he likes her, has fun with her and doesn't want to fuck that up.

But that pic she sent hasn't left his mind's eye for a millisec. Nor the thought of her under that skirt, just her and the lucky fucking breeze, while she thinks about him.

So what he sends is: ]

Where are you and can I come there

[ There's a longer pause this time. Partly because it takes her a bit to figure out how to share a location on the little map.

Mostly it's because she considers, before hitting send, how reckless what she's about to do is. Bringing anyone back to her place is rare, no matter how much she likes them. And she likes him more than Kindred more cunning than herself would consider wise or practical. She's been pretty good at keeping things more distant, more practical, but maybe it's the wanting him now and knowing for certain beyond jokes and teasing that he wants her that pushes this to foolishness.

Birdie hits send, sharing the address of her haven in the Village. Some cheap studio walk-up with high ceilings but considerably less square feet than his. ]

See you soon

[ Fet's moving even before he sees the soon, and it looks like he'll be the one calling a cab. Which he does utilize from time to time; though anyone could be forgiven for thinking he'd sworn them off, with how willingly he tools around this city in his freakin' work truck.

Fortunately this wasn't a work night. He's already cleaned up and prepped to go out (food shopping, mind you, 'cause sometimes that's just a productive evening's start). All he needs to do is grab his wallet and stuff, throw on size-sixteen clodhoppers and hit the road.

Still, twenty minutes out of Red Hook and through the Battery Tunnel feels like eons. He thinks about texting her something giddy and dumb, but doesn't because the cabbie randomly decides to be chatty. When they drop him off he could almost be masochistically glad of having had the time to settle. Only he bounds up the stairs, several at a stride, and when he knocks on her apartment door it isn't the effort that has his heart doing bunny binky leaps in his chest. ]

[ The wait is terrible and wonderful in equal measure.

Enough time to cool down a little, though her dead heart is still thumping along at a clip. Definitely enough time, too, for realizing where he's going to be, and have a mild panic about it. There's not any blood in the fridge at the moment because she'd downed the last of her bottled stuff when she woke up this evening, just before texting about hedgehogs and pinecones and, oh god, his hands and where they could go. But there's also no actual food there, either, which might look bad if he gets peckish. Other little things, small tells, the reasons she usually doesn't bring anyone home with her that she spends the wait trying to compensate for or hide.

She can hear him, though, bounding up the steps, and is already at the door to open it a second after he knocks. Doesn't even realize her skirt is still tucked up into her belt above her hip, either.

Just looks up at him, smiling, all those worries pushed right out of her head as the Fugue plays up there and the record player behind her by the bed, in the living room, because it's all just one room, plays something low and acoustic. ]

Hey, you.

[ Eloquent songwriter that she is, that's about all she manages in the doorway. ]

[ ooc: some apartment reference for ease of words. ]

[ She opens the door, and it's no cutesy metaphor to say his gaze eats her up. Not even just below the waist of her tucked-up skirt (although yes, everything below that) but all the rest: hair a little mussed, cheeks not exactly flushed but something breathless ~~ha!~~ around the mouth; blue eyes agleam, and the shape of her body, every line and curve, like a shot of downed vodka, the scald chased by delicious warmth.

Too over-the-top? Sure! But it doesn't feel like it, not with the way he's been wanting Birdie. Wanting her and playing like it's kinda just one big flirt and telling himself it's very manageable anyway, yep yep.

And after all this you'd be well within your rights to expect something suitably dramatic. For him to sweep her off her feet, plant one on her like a Harlequin paperback cover. The least he could do is fall to his knees, give that knightly imagery some oomph. But he just stands there... stricken not by shyness, and certainly not reluctance. If anything what's stamped across his frozen face is pure awe of the moment. ]

Hey. [ He does get out that much, and gets moving too; the night's crisp, and it'd be cruel to let that breeze turn chill. Though clad in only a t-shirt and jeans himself, Fet's running hot, you bet.

As he steps inside and fumbles shut the door, his first impression of Birdie's place (a cursory one, granted, snatched between continued ogles of her) leaves him helplessly chuckling. ] Everything but the macrame plant hangers, huh? [ Though the chuckle trips in his throat when he looks through the curtains, to her bed. ]

[ It's a lot, feeling him look at her like that just standing in her doorway. She doesn't even have the presence of mind to take him in right back, just smiling up at that awe in his face, getting warmer at the thought of him.

Part of her expects something more bombastic. Maybe not dropping to his knees, but possibly getting past the threshold with his mouth already on hers. There's no disappointment that it doesn't happen, though. Just a slow-simmering anticipation of it while he looks over her place. It is pretty stereotypical, piles of records and low light thanks to an old scarf covering the lampshade, fabric and rugs hanging around the walls and over the bed. There's only one window near the bed, covered in thick curtains itself and hidden insulation behind it to keep her from frying in her sleep. All in all, a cozy den.

And she takes him in, now. Fet's got an impressive build, and she likes to see it without the bulk of a jacket and pretense between them. Birdie looks over all of him, the fit of his jeans and his hands and the way his shoulders move when he chuckles. ] No, I was never good with plants. [ It feels like a deeply inadequate response after she says it, with out she's looking him over. Could've gone for another flirty remark or double entendre about better uses for macrame or something, but she can't help being distracted in the moment.

Wanting him, sure. Being this close to having him, absolutely. But behind the tension is knowing how vulnerable she is in the moment having him here. It's a harder thing to communicate to him without giving away too much, but she wants to try.

The first touch is electric, like a static shock when she reaches out and grabs his hand to pull it to her lips and kiss the back, far more graceful and intentional than she'd done back at his place. Takes a moment, too, to pull herself away, and even then his hand is close enough to her lips to feel the short puffs of air, breathing to speak the only kind of breathing she needs. ] You're the only one that's come in to judge me about it.

[ The plants revelation makes him smile; if it's part of a stereotype then he's the one doing a better job upholding it, what with his couple shelf-fuls at home of incongruously fancy greenery under incongruously fancy lights. But he doesn't actually view Birdie's pad through the lens of what's predictable. It's just pretty, and doubly pleasing because it suits her. He doesn't have to know every object's story to see she truly enjoys the space. For him there's an undeniable appeal in that, and an allure to transcend catchy aesthetic labels. ]

I like it. [ Which is a real dumbed-down version of those thoughts. But the way she's kissed his hand, kept it close so her words tickle the knuckles, maybe it's a wonder he can articulate that much.

Though the import of what she says fails to fly right over Fet's head. It was a big enough deal, a self-rule surprisingly self-broken, for him to invite her to his loft. And they hadn't even-- Jesus Christ, he'd wanted to, but they hadn't--

While he can't begin to guess at Birdie's own reasons for protecting her space to such a degree, he can absolutely respect them. Not only out of affinity, but out of trust. The gut-kind, built on intuition instead of the many things about her he really doesn't know, like doesn't even have the foggiest. He believes without analyzing that her reasons are good, just like he believes she'll be straight with him when he gets around to asking--

But first he takes back his hand. Pulls her whole arm along with it, so he can lift the underside and press his mouth to her skin, not chaste but open-lipped. A kiss that's half a suck on that tender spot above the wrist. ] Didn't come to judge, just to be with you. [ And his voice, his face, lends all the directness the Hallmarky phrasing lacks. ]

I know it means we can't dance around-- [ and because he cannot fucking help himself, he twitches into a grin, swings their arms up and out for a sec like it's promenade or die ] --this shit, not anymore. And I'm good with that.

Sure you are too?

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