Years, maybe, since the last whirlwind of anything half as meaningful (and the last thing crashed and burned long ago in the wake of duty) and here she is swept up in another. It's probably a terrible idea, getting tangled up in someone who doesn't belong here, who will inevitably leave all this and her behind for where he's meant to be — but she's weathered that storm before and she needn't think any farther than the present. Peggy spends her days trying to think ten steps ahead of the world but she can leave it at the door for a night, can't she, and allow herself this? This small, fervent piece of someone else's life.
He steers this kiss from hunger to passion in a heartbeat and she breathes into it, him, the heat of his mouth, his hands through the fabric of her dress; and as he moves, so does she, walking back blindly until her shoulder meets the mantle piece. Their momentum doesn't slow there — she knows a quarter turn will take her to the gap on the wall between fireplace and end table so she does it, lips parting to his with a soft noise and careless of the colour smearing across them; because it has been a while, a long bloody while, and she doesn't mind him knowing it. ]
[ It's the noise of appreciation that makes him short circuit, breath catching in his throat when she gets him against the wall, delaying any productive reaction by seconds. Even after the Framework, Fitz remains expressive at the worst of times, and this is — better, the best.
Carter finds the only gap in the wall of his bloody apartment, as it happens, a clever maneuver that doesn't go unnoticed or unappreciated, even if he has better things to do with his mouth than gawk at her. Fitz angles to the side, catching the corner of her lips, further smudging the redness there, and kissing across her jaw. Can't let her outdo him like it's nothing, yeah? Hands still firm at her back (not budging despite the reversal of positions), he ducks to trail his mouth along the hollow of her throat.
Spies tend to have a thing about that, confirmed by his own interests and experience of others. A little danger has appeal. ]
[ A little danger, a little surprise has appeal — she isn't often blindsided so the novelty is something she relishes (when it doesn't involve bullets), a thrilling little shiver down her spine all the while. Although it does feel a little bit like a gunshot for how precisely he turns the tables and she bares her throat to the wandering warmth of his kisses before she even realises it, lashes fluttering like her wild pulse. ]
Oh, bloody hell.
[ Soft, more breath than voice, because he catches on a spot that honest-to-God makes her knees a little weak — she'd blame the bourbon but please, she can lie to others, not herself — and her hand on his cheek finds purchase in his hair, curling through it and holding on as if to stop him, to keep him there, to drag him back up for another urgent kiss. She's breathless with it, with waiting for a slip of tongue or the nip of his teeth, with being torn on asking for it because all that she manages on a trembling exhale is — ]
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YELLS
Years, maybe, since the last whirlwind of anything half as meaningful (and the last thing crashed and burned long ago in the wake of duty) and here she is swept up in another. It's probably a terrible idea, getting tangled up in someone who doesn't belong here, who will inevitably leave all this and her behind for where he's meant to be — but she's weathered that storm before and she needn't think any farther than the present. Peggy spends her days trying to think ten steps ahead of the world but she can leave it at the door for a night, can't she, and allow herself this? This small, fervent piece of someone else's life.
He steers this kiss from hunger to passion in a heartbeat and she breathes into it, him, the heat of his mouth, his hands through the fabric of her dress; and as he moves, so does she, walking back blindly until her shoulder meets the mantle piece. Their momentum doesn't slow there — she knows a quarter turn will take her to the gap on the wall between fireplace and end table so she does it, lips parting to his with a soft noise and careless of the colour smearing across them; because it has been a while, a long bloody while, and she doesn't mind him knowing it. ]
🔥
Carter finds the only gap in the wall of his bloody apartment, as it happens, a clever maneuver that doesn't go unnoticed or unappreciated, even if he has better things to do with his mouth than gawk at her. Fitz angles to the side, catching the corner of her lips, further smudging the redness there, and kissing across her jaw. Can't let her outdo him like it's nothing, yeah? Hands still firm at her back (not budging despite the reversal of positions), he ducks to trail his mouth along the hollow of her throat.
Spies tend to have a thing about that, confirmed by his own interests and experience of others. A little danger has appeal. ]
no subject
Oh, bloody hell.
[ Soft, more breath than voice, because he catches on a spot that honest-to-God makes her knees a little weak — she'd blame the bourbon but please, she can lie to others, not herself — and her hand on his cheek finds purchase in his hair, curling through it and holding on as if to stop him, to keep him there, to drag him back up for another urgent kiss. She's breathless with it, with waiting for a slip of tongue or the nip of his teeth, with being torn on asking for it because all that she manages on a trembling exhale is — ]
Leo.