dial tone

[formoftherapy]

It's a Saturday, nothing special about it.

Kite, having done all of the homework she plans on doing and unable to settle on what to do next, grabs for her phone.

She calls Tony's house. (Nothing special about that, either.)

Comments

[formoftherapy]

Kite grins.

"Make me."

[toblameforit]

"Mm."

He wiggles a little.

"Weren't you saying something about my mouth a minute ago?"

[formoftherapy]

"Maybe."

She drums her nails in the middle of his chest.

"What are you gonna do about it?"

[toblameforit]

Brightly: "What are you gonna make me?"

[formoftherapy]

Her hand slides up, curls around the base of his throat.

"You think I need to make you? Telling me you don't want to?"

[toblameforit]

The way he moans when her hand touches his neck says very clearly that he sure wants something.

[formoftherapy]

"Well."

She half laughs the word, cheeks flushing.

"Learn something new every day."

Her hand tightens slowly.

[toblameforit]

He just came half a minute ago and this is still turning him right the fuck on.

(It's something both of them are into. No problems with character here.)

[formoftherapy]

"What I'm not clear on," she muses, "is how this is going to help me."

Her grip gets (slowly, steadily) tighter still as she talks.

[toblameforit]

Unhelpfully, he whimpers.

[formoftherapy]

"Alternately--"

(Tighter.)

"--what do you want out of this? To almost black out? To black out?


For me to leave you here like that, for anyone to find?"

[toblameforit]

He doesn't—he—

"Oh my God," he moans with his increasingly constrained supply of air.

This is nothing like how they do it. It's a dangerous unknown; it's an incredible turn-on.

[formoftherapy]

"Would you like that?"



Kite's hand stops squeezing, but doesn't relax.



"Would he?"

[if_inconvenient]

[formoftherapy]

She beams, running her free hand through his hair.

"It's just a question, honey; no need to look so scared."

Her grip around his throat eases--slightly, but noticeably.

[toblameforit]

"I'm not scared," he says, pure Tony.

[formoftherapy]

"You sure about that?"

Her hand squeezes back to where it was before.



And a little further.

[toblameforit]

"This," shakily, "is so not what fear looks like."

[formoftherapy]

"Then what is it, Tony? What do I have to do?"

A tighter squeeze--brief and (threatening, promising) tantalizing.

"Or is this one of those 'do what I want with you' scenarios?"

[toblameforit]

The name doesn't hit him like lightning this time. He shivers with it, but not so hard.

Somewhat ambiguously: "Fuck yes."

[formoftherapy]

"Okay, then."

(This is stupid. This is stupid and dangerous and it's going too far, but he likes it--do they both like it this way? She will have to be careful, oh fuck don't look back now.)

She fits her other hand over the first. Tighter.

[toblameforit]

It's reckless and it's hot as fuck.

It's exactly what Tony would do.

He licks his lips.

[formoftherapy]

"Done talking already?"

The bravado almost covers the tremor in her voice. (Almost.)

"I'm disappointed."

She squeezes--steady, even pressure from both hands.

[toblameforit]

He can still breathe; he can—

"Oh, fuck, Kite. God you're so hot. This is, I want, I... fuck."

The breath he draws is ragged, laboured, for more reasons than her grip on his throat.

[formoftherapy]

"Fuck, you're gonna have to wear scarves to school in goddamn July if you keep playing like this."

Kite lets her head fall back, stares at the ceiling while she tries to steady her own breathing.

"Watch you start sneaking out of class, all so I can put my arm across your throat; let everything get blurry at the edges and just fucking leave you wanting."