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[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

[toblameforit]

Laughing, he follows.

Chases, really.

[formoftherapy]

Kite puts on another burst of speed and turns hard into Tony's room, feed skidding sideways as she heads through the doorway.

She dives for the bed, sliding halfway across the comforter.

[toblameforit]

Pounce!

Can he pin her to the bed? Tony is pretty good. Not as good as Sherry. (She has never wrestled Sherry.)

[formoftherapy]

He can, if she's not fighting dirty.

This doesn't mean she makes it easy.

[toblameforit]

Honestly, he doesn't try that hard. Pinning, being pinned, as long as somebody's got their hands on somebody he's all good.

[formoftherapy]

She has one leg hooked around his, her hands scrabbling along his arms for purchase.

One hand slides up to the back of his neck and pulls him into a kiss.

[toblameforit]

He kisses her messily, all enthusiasm and no restraint. It's how Tony kisses.

(It's how Tony kisses Sherlock. Close enough as makes no difference to how Tony kisses her.)

[formoftherapy]

Kite laughs into his mouth.

She locks her leg tighter, rams her shoulder into his to try and roll him onto his back.

[toblameforit]

Grinning, he lets her.

There is an element of deliberation to the way he does it—something about the tension of his muscles—that suggests, for the briefest instant, that he might have chosen otherwise.

Maybe it's just that he felt like getting pinned to his bed today.

[formoftherapy]

She nips at his ear, possibly by way of thank you, before moving down the side of his throat.

[toblameforit]

"Fuck," he sighs, "that's nice."

(Tony is often talkative in bed, especially when you're getting something right.)

[formoftherapy]

(She likes hearing him run his mouth.)

"What's nice?"

She says the words tight against his skin, sliding her hips down.

[toblameforit]

"You," he groans. "Your mouth. Your—mmmmnnn, fuck—your teeth."

[formoftherapy]

"What, like this?"

She reaches his shoulder, tugs the collar of his shirt out of the way and bites down.

[toblameforit]

He gasps sharply. "Yes—"

[formoftherapy]

She lets go, laughing.

"Could just chew you up, couldn't I? And you'd like it."

She licks at the edge of the mark.

[toblameforit]

"Yeah," he breathes, grinning at the ceiling.

[formoftherapy]

"At this rate, you'll be wearing turtlenecks in the middle of summer."

She looks up at him through her lashes. "I hope you're prepared for that."

[toblameforit]

"Bring it."

[formoftherapy]

Kite wraps her mouth around the front of his throat and happily obliges.

[toblameforit]

"Mmm, yeah. Fuck, you're—so good."

('Almost as good as Sherry', while it would certainly interrupt the headlong plunge towards sexual congress without breaking character in the slightest, might land him in even more perilous waters.)

[formoftherapy]

She rocks her lower jaw, widening the inevitable mark.

One hand slides up beneath his shirt, drags slowly down his ribs.

[toblameforit]

He groans.

(How much is Tony going to hate him?

He suspects he will hate himself more.

It doesn't stop him.)

[formoftherapy]

She lifts her head very slowly, licking her lips.

"C'mon." She tugs at the bottom of his shirt. "Let's lose this."

[toblameforit]

Obediently, he wriggles free of it.