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

[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.

[formoftherapy]

"Much better."


She can get to his collarbone this way.

[if_inconvenient]

Now. Sherlock is the next thing to physically identical with Tony, and most people can tell them apart only by voice and mannerism.

But he is a clone, not a perfect replica. The details start to diverge once you get their clothes off. Sherlock is a little leaner, his muscles a little more defined under his skin.

He doesn't expect her to notice. Particularly not as busy as she is.

Also:

[toblameforit]

"Mmm."

[formoftherapy]

Kite works her way methodically from left to right. When she gets all the way across, she pauses to sink her teeth into his bicep.

[toblameforit]

His happy little wriggle is perfectly Tony, and as a side benefit, perfectly true.

(They like a lot of the same things.)

[formoftherapy]

Kite shifts back up to kiss him again, rolling her hips as she goes.

[toblameforit]

He kisses her passionately, breathlessly, happily.



...A little more precisely than usual, it must be said. Maybe he's learned something. (Try not to speculate from whom.)

[formoftherapy]

She notices the difference--you kiss a person enough and you get used to their style--but doesn't remark on it. He might have learned something. Not like they made each other any promises or anything.

(Sunnydale's a big school. It could have been anyone.)

She slides both hands into his hair to keep his head where she wants it, nails just shy of digging in.

[toblameforit]

His breath catches; he moans, and loses a little of that precision.

[formoftherapy]

She grins against his mouth and catches his lower lip between her teeth as gently as she can.

The nails, however, dig in a little harder.