acaseofyou | open post

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

[ 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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