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.)

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[toblameforit]

He breathes a sigh of pleasure into her mouth, wrapping an arm around her waist.

[formoftherapy]

She presses in closer, rocking her hips.

One hand closes on the back of his neck, her thumb stroking along his hairline.

[toblameforit]

With a quick, quiet gasp, he tightens his hand on her hip.



(Has Tony always been so sensitive there?)

[formoftherapy]

(No. She would have remembered, exploited it. Maybe it's a fluke.)

She repeats the gesture--slower, harder, and with the edge of her nail digging in.

She keeps kissing him throughout, as if nothing in particular caught her interest.

[toblameforit]

"Mm—"

The sound escapes before he can stop it. Tony has no particular attachment to that spot.

He squirms a little—disengangling himself from his pants—and kisses her, again, again, playing Tony on instinct because no matter his identity he is starting to get lost in the taste of her lips.

[formoftherapy]

(That sound is a victory and she locks it away.)

Kite moans softly into his mouth, hips twitching.

She drags her fingers (and nails) up over the back of his head.

[toblameforit]

Were they going to have sex? Because, fuck, he could just keep doing this forever. Kissing her like this. Touching her and being touched like this. Whimpering against her mouth like this.

[formoftherapy]

Kite is of a similar mindset, but she also doesn't like to give up on her goals.

Her free hand trails down his chest and curves around his cock.

[toblameforit]

He whimpers considerably louder for that.

[formoftherapy]

Her grip settles, a finger at a time.

She strokes with a slow, steady rhythm that is nothing like the one she uses on Tony.

[toblameforit]

"C'mon," he says, squirming with (genuine pleasure and) entirely characteristic impatience.

[formoftherapy]

She speeds up fractionally.

"Say please."

[toblameforit]

"Fuck," he says, and "fuck you," and, finally—

"—Please?"

[formoftherapy]

"Yeah." She sighs the word right into his mouth, hooking her leg over his hip.

"C'mon."

[toblameforit]

Groaning, he pulls her on top of him.

[formoftherapy]

She straddles his hips, curling his hands around his shoulders as she sinks down.

"Oh fuck--"

Her voice cracks a little on the word; her head falls back.

[toblameforit]

"Oh," he agrees in a soft moan; his hands settle on her hips and he looks up at her with total fascination, enthralled by the line of her throat.

[formoftherapy]

"I--"

Her head lolls in a slow circle until she can look at him again. She catches her lower lip between her teeth and rolls her hips.

[toblameforit]

"Yes," he sighs, barely breathing the word.

[formoftherapy]

She lifts her hips up, gasping, and sinks back down.

[toblameforit]

He whimpers long and loud.

[formoftherapy]

She laughs breathlessly.

"You can do better than that," she teases, trying to get a rhythm going.

[toblameforit]

"Fuck."

His hands follow the movement of her hips, keeping pace rather than trying to guide; his own shallow thrusts complement her tentative rhythm perfectly.

[formoftherapy]

Kite groans, lip drawn back between her teeth.

"Oh--"

[toblameforit]

"Fuck," he repeats.