acaseofyou | open post

[ 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?

[ There's a lot that can be said for assumptions, with them. And trust. Birdie isn't one to be shy with her affections, but bringing someone home, letting flirtation last this long-- it takes a lot. Somehow, she thinks that maybe she could trust him with all of it, lay out all the details of everything and maybe it wouldn't such a disaster.

All of that flies right out of her head when he kisses her wrist like that, along with a little noise at the back of her throat, soft and just shy of keening, but closer to a sigh. ]

I don't-- [ It comes out a little choked, and she has to take a breath before she laughs at his little mock of a dance, steps forward into his space, eyes a little dazed but with very clear intent. ] Don't think there's room for dancing in here, anyway.

[ Vas couldn't claim he ever doubted their flirting was born of a real spark. If it had still been mostly tame for too long, on his end, it wasn't from any desire to be untruthful. But careful? Hell yes.

Yet somehow they'd wound up at this prolonged in-between place, not friends (which he's determined he does not make), not one-night stands (which, yeah, though it's been a while). Just whatever they've been, and whatever they're about to become.

'Cause she doesn't need to say more for him to hear her answer loud and clear. He looks her over again, though with how near she's moved it's not as easy to manage. But he gets a glimpse of things lower down, and that's exactly what he sought. It does seem like he's always seen her in jeans, or maybe some equally covering corduroy. Now she's practically half-naked, right in front of him, thank all the goddamn saints. ]

There's room for this. [ He squeezes her hand, urges her back a step. Only so he can do what he might have done at the start: kneel, right there on her apartment floor. And it's cheesy as all get-out, okay? He's not a knight, he's not even classy! He's an exterminator with the barely legible print Deb's Delicatessen across this tee he got for free on a job five years ago! (Still wouldn't rec eating there, btdubs.)

But physically, with that motion, he's almost wholly poised. Collected as a lion couchant. He brings both hands along her sides, and they're steady, though he's gone slack-jawed. ]

I want to taste you. [ Gazing up at her, for once he's not even a smidge playful. And it feels good, so good to be blunt. ] I want to earn it. [ His hands stop where the skirt rucks over her belt, thumbs just edging the border between fabric and flesh. ]

[ Not like their limbo has been unpleasant. Birdie has time enough to spare, in the long run, to let things play out as they will. To enjoy the strange in-betweens when she has them, funnily enough, in-between other things. Maybe it was just delaying the inevitable to delay the inevitable that's coming after, however far away that is. Having to leave, eventually, to start all over again.

Vasiliy feels worth the wait, and the risk. Especially when he's looking up at her like that from his knees. She's got no qualms now of letting out a little noise of appreciation at the view, his own probably just as nice-- the small swell of her breasts under a thin tank top moving with breath just so she can sigh again, one hand cupping his face and the other pulling up the other side of her skirt slowly, inch by inch.

He's not a knight. Birdie wouldn't want one, and she's been with plenty of people outside the working class, Elders that very may well have been knights before, those that act as them now. She's been in courts and been with Princes, but she wouldn't trade this new excitement for any of them. ]

I've wanted your mouth on me, Vasiliy. [ She's warm, now. Not as hot to the touch as she might be, otherwise, but her blood is pumping sluggish and steady, heart racing by her standards. ] So taste me.

[ Inch by inch, the other side of her skirt rises until she's bare in front of him from the waist down, and she crooks one knee out in invitation. ] Make me make every noise I've made alone.

[ If a couple hours back someone could've successfully assured Fet he'd end up here, he still wouldn't have imagined it playing out like this. On his knees and saying such things, in a way he'd never have risked with most recent flings, venturing not just earnest lust but reverence ('cause let's face it, that's what's in his). Sure, he likes Birdie, likes her a lot. But reverence? They've talked at length about his cat hunting communist mice, for chrissake.

Only he's not actually thinking about any of this. He looks up, dog-biddable with her hand cupping his cheek. Keeps looking up even as she bares herself and that glorious delta blazes from his peripheral and he can smell her, heady and so close. To him she is prekrasnyy, not just fetching and fun but something fiercely keen that strikes a chord, that's always been there just under the skin. Thus it's really no wonder to find himself in this position. All he thinks, all he feels is that he's exactly where and how he should be.

And the shit she tells him? Has the organ in his chest graduating to stag-worthy bounds. (We'll make another rearing organ wait, but it's perky, believe you me.)

Her knee turns out and he leans in. But he's still way above waist-level, so he just bonks his head softly, greedily into her breasts. Like a big needy cat.

Then he finally slides down, her hips steadied under tightening hands. They're so large he can grip there and still use his fingers as a frame, triangulated on the tempting thatch of dark hair. He takes his first real look, he laps up the sight of her just starting to splay (and yeah, no actual lapping yet, though his mouth floods anyway): a flush like he's never seen above, all the more vivid within the pale.

When he nuzzles against her it's so light, at the start, his beard doesn't make a whisper. She didn't say he had to do more to earn it, yet Vasiliy goes slow. Deliberate as a vow. His lips part gradual but wide, with such gentle pressure that their slick yields to hers as much as the other way round; and that's how he tastes her for the first time, a savor that blooms over the palate before the lick's even begun. ]

[ There's something to be said for crossing lines. Birdie doesn't usually pay them any mind or give them any power. She feels and she loves with her whole, dead heart, every time. Even before he'd kissed her she might've called it that, though maybe not to his face, maybe just in a song kept in a notebook until she was somewhere new again and stuck with just remembering. She's young, for Kindred, and only now coming to the age where she realizes how short the time is with people, how precious, how easy to lose.

So she doesn't cross the line with him so much as pole vault over it, a giddy tumbling mess, gulping air just to sigh his name as he bumps his head against her, her hand moving to his hair as he lowers himself and--oh, that's a sight, isn't it? Birdie might not have capillaries capable of a blush, but even with her experience she can almost feel her face get warm. ]

Yes. [ It sounds something like a hiss of pleased approval, and the Fugue is playing so loud in her mind that she hardly hears herself say it, just tilts her hips toward him to encourage, even though she wobbles a moment and then, delighted and heady and over the moon, she laughs. It's low, followed by a soft grown as she tilts her head back, eyes closed. ]

Don't let me fall, okay?

[ She's not really joking on that front, but it sounds like it, cut off at the end with another little sound on an unneeded inhale just to marvel at the feel of him, here and now and immediate where before she'd just thought, considered, wondered alone about what this would be like. ] And don't stop. Please, don't stop.

[ All these thoughts unspoken, these histories unguessed could write their own song; and maybe he's got a few personal secrets to enhance the arrangement. Maybe after tonight it will even seem possible to him to hear the whole thing recorded (or at least roughly demoed). But that's the magic in it, to make both immortals and mortals who should really know better still feel like maybe what you don't know or can't change or haven't said won't be, this time, so very insurmountable. At least not enough to kill the music.

Right now Birdie's every utterance is a tactile tune, sending notes tripping over his skin like fingertips. She wobbles, she laughs and he could almost beam -- he pretty much does, for a sec, lips tellingly arched -- until she pleads. Then the sound that comes out of him is too desperate for smiling by half. It's uncontrived, even awkward and pained, the groan you might produce from a quick gut-punch. But he gives it full rumbling throat before it's smothered against her cunt.

Pressing as close as he can, Fet's tongue rolls over her at last. Insistent, yet still slow; their position's not ideal for much else, but that's the welcome trade-off for his worship of the moment. How many times has he wished for this, fucking fantasized about it, come home from their goofy little run-ins and jerked off like a teenager just thinking how it'd feel to burrow between her legs? Finally he's here, secret folds succulent in his mouth. So wet his licks have got to run long and broad, just to sop up all the spill.

And of course he keeps his grip, braces an arm at her back and clamps her in place. In this universe he may not be a knight, but the one where he lets Birdie fall? Doesn't exist. ]

[ She's wondered, especially at the beginning, about what happened in New York. What Fet might know, or what he saw, or what he did. Birdie always kept herself from asking, let the illusion that it won't matter stay a little longer. And there will be songs about this, about him. There's already half-finished scribbles of lyrics and notes in journals nearby, about his hands and his tunnels, architecture beneath the surface.

That sound might get a song of its own, even if it's just the moan she gives in response to hear it, to feeling it with him where he is. It's low, but turns to a strangled, happy keen when she feels his tongue, those broad strokes lapping at how wet she is, a flood that started hours ago at the thought of his head in her lap. ]

Yes, Vasiliy. I've wanted you so much, just like that.

[ She's babbling between little noises, signs and moans at the back of her throat. Because it wasn't just like this. There were a hundred ways Birdie has thought about having him if she could, after diner booths and hidden subway walls. Just like this, though, is real. It's happening, and it's wonderful. One of her hands has fingers curling in his hair, the other keeps her skirt out of the way so she can look down at him, and just the sight of him between her legs has her rolling her hips, a furtive attempt to grind her cunt against his mouth stopped short by his grip on her. ]

[ The truth of it is, much of the world-turned-inside-out stuff he went through not that long ago doesn't even daily factor in now. By and large he's living the life he had before he met an old pawnbroker with a silver sword. But one thing that's constant? It's tougher than ever to let himself connect with most people, at least not beyond surface level bullshit. Just another reason why what's happening with Birdie is... different.

And the way she says his first name, anything but mundane. Hearing it's almost as delish as the noises she makes, coupled with the rhythmic smacks of his own mouth: sloppy and sweet, intent as a beast laving musk from fur. She tries to grind and he roots blindly, lips champing over the whole of her mound, prickling ticklesome hairs beard to bush.

When he breaks off he's breathing hard, and not from the happy deprivation. His hand fumbles at her hip, helping keep the skirt back if only by dumb greed. The face Fet turns upward could be comically lascivious, chin gleaming where it hangs; but his eyes on hers are stark as meltwater. A gaze that shade of blue can't really be warm, much less soft, even (especially) when this fervent. It's for Birdie to decide whether she finds it as creeptastic as some have told him. There can be no doubt, though, that it's goddamn devoted. ]

Bed? [ He asks, though of course he could just carry. 'Cause asking feels right too. ]

[ 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. ]

[ 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). ]

[ 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.

[ 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. ]

[ 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. ]

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