Wynonna Earp (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
pacificator) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
singillatim2025-05-12 11:49 am
pacificator) wrote in singillatim2025-05-12 11:49 am
the wine, the beer, the whiskey are the only things that fix me
Who: Wynonna Earp & you!
What: recuperating after March-April, reaping consequences, etc
When: backdated to late April-May
Where: the Saloon (the old Post Office)
Content Warnings: Alcoholism, a little light cannibalism, others to be listed as needed
What: recuperating after March-April, reaping consequences, etc
When: backdated to late April-May
Where: the Saloon (the old Post Office)
Content Warnings: Alcoholism, a little light cannibalism, others to be listed as needed
no subject
...Maybe not. She watches as he flashes bright, blank white, feeling him freeze beneath her, like a prey response, which maybe isn't so inaccurate, considering. He's so close, warm underneath her thighs, against her side, and she can see the panic try to flicker into life in his wide brown eyes, but then—
Then he's everything, a wild mishmash of colors, every possible shade of red and pink and blues and oranges and so many more, like a hundred sunrises all crowded into ten seconds. She's always known he's felt so much, more than he ever lets get past the fingers that sometimes rub fretfully together at his side, the look in his eyes, the solemn and heartfelt way he sometimes speaks, when that velvet voice of his is soft and serious and he looks at her... at whoever he's talking to... like they're the goddamn gospel come to life in a person.
Wynonna waits it out, just watching the colors flicker and fade, nervous but strong, her eyes soft, the arm she has slung around his shoulders relaxed. A tiny smile plays across her lips; there's a bloom of alarmed scarlett, but it mellows, melts down. His hand lifts; hesitates; settles carefully against her side, like she's some delicate, precious thing, like an ornament made of blown glass.
There he is. ]
Oh, I'm afraid of lots of things.
[ Now that he's back to breathing and talking, she settles in a little more comfortably, her left hand flipping idly at his shoulder in small gestures as she talks. ]
Wasps. Taxes. Monogamy. That one teacher from middle school that I'm pretty sure had a glass eye. You know, actually scary things.
[ Which isn't him. It's never him, not when he's the wolf, not when he's dealing with this... other thing. She's not Kate, unable to protect herself. She's dealt with worse things than him since she was old enough to realize what worse even meant.
Her smile crooks up a little more, slipping a dimple into her cheek as she looks down into his face. Hard to remember when he was a stranger to her, when all he seemed to be was a greatcoat and a shotgun and just... such a good voice wasted on following the rules and on trying to get her to follow the rules.
Not anymore. Now she crosses her far leg over her near, almost curling herself into his lap, comfortable as a cat. ]
Yeah, I am. You?
cw: spicy things???? in my Virginal Victorian?? it's more likely than you think
He might give soft sounds of amusement at that list she provides with nonchalant movements of her hand, but Edward's finding himself barely capable of giving any sounds right now. Wynonna's smiling at him like that. It's another thing that no one's ever done, not for him.
He's happy. He's more golden streams of light and blooming pinks, because he's so happy that she's with him, that she doesn't need distance from him that she would most certainly be justified in needing (and should take, she should, it'd be safer, but— selfishly, the way he so rarely lets himself be, Edward doesn't want her to. He wants her just like this, as close as she'll have him.)
It's hard to answer her question. Is he comfortable like this? He's... many things, complicated swirls of emotions and frightening awareness of want, and shy fluttering insect wings in the heat of his belly. ]
....I am not... uncomfortable, [ he starts there, and there's a soft chuckle, as soft as he dares. It's only a little strained. He's terrified to move too much, so aware of the press of her body to his own like this, different from the press of it when she'd pushed herself against him hard and fast, hands in hair, mouth wide and warm.
His body feels different suddenly, tighter, hotter. Arousal is a strange concept for him. Perfecting the art of hiding anything of that sort is impossible right now, both with his colours — flashing with cinnamon-red now, heated, hungry — and the way his body itself reacts to her. His fingers twitch at her side, brushing just slightly. Then, with a flutter of startle— he can feel himself... stiffening against her, in a way that he has never been against a woman. And it's frighteningly quickly, this occurrence, needy and eager. It's completely out of his control, and the fact startles him.
The man gasps beneath his breath, just a soft exhale, and doesn't know how to move his own body to fix or accommodate this. There's the slightest shift of his hips, then his legs part just-so, opening a little. ......He is not sure this makes anything better, as it only causes her body to settle more into his lap in the process, pushing that swelling ache of arousal firmer against her.
Shame rushes into his voice, darkens his cheeks. He could die. ]
Please forgive me.
cw: let the spice flow (aka Wynonna is making things worse)
Because she's blushing pink, too, warm and sweet, and she hates it, how visible it is to him and to herself, too, impossible to ignore, impossible to mistake. She doesn't know what to do with it. A few months ago, she would have tried to stay as far away from him as she could, like these glowing colors aren't just shifting light at all but layers of herself, peeled back until the center is visible, raw and tender and vulnerable. It feels like he could slip his hand right into her chest and wrap his fingers around her heart, and that's dangerous. Far more dangerous than the threat he thinks he poses to her.
But then he shifts a little against her and stiffens — and stiffens, a familiar hard warmth against her leg — and her colors brighten with a surprised splash of orange while his turn dark, warm red glowing around him and in his cheeks both.
Oh. Hey. This, she does know what to do with.
Little looks like he wants to crawl into some hole in the ground and simply expire, but she brushes his embarrassment off, that startled orange melting into pleased rose. She's still relaxed on his lap, not moving away as his thighs part a little and she sinks closer, and she brings her free hand to his chest, sliding up to his collar, bending a little closer. ]
For what? Reacting exactly the way I want you to?
[ He's relaxed around her a lot, but he's still pretty buttoned up and proper most of the time, and this is the first time she's been pressed close enough to feel any kind of physical reaction from him. Rather than push away, she shifts even closer, deliberately pressing more firmly against him, enjoying the way it feels against her leg, hard and wanting. Her hand slides further up, to the side of his neck, thumb running along his jaw, and now she's bending her head lower, eyes lidded, so close his lips are only a breath away. Red streams through her colors now, too, cherry-red streaks the same color as the dress she'd worn at the end of the year, as the string that had tied them together for weeks after.
Her voice is a low murmur, coaxing, enticing, a little teasing. She doesn't lean the extra half inch it would take to actually kiss him, but she's coiled around him now, arm around his neck, hand at his jaw, body curled into him, warm and pliant in his lap. ]
I think it just means you want me closer. What do you think?
no subject
So when she says that he's reacting exactly how she wanted him to, it isn't surprising. He knows, just as he knows that he wants her to know he wants her too, in his fluttering, shy, messy way (a warm, imperfect kiss and then he's gone...)
But he's deeply ashamed by the undignified, ungentlemanly, unpleasant way his body reacts, certainly not a brand-new experience to a man who has lived thirty-something years, but— he's never indulged in such yearnings, certainly never in the ways some of his fellows might have when stationed, seeking out companionship the way lonesome sailors might after months or longer out at sea. Any yearnings that might come up would be extinguished in whatever method necessary to rid himself of them. A busy mind has little time for physical pleasures, after all.
He ought to excuse himself now, with as much dignity as he might be able to scrape back up, and free Wynonna of this— this disgraceful behaviour, but the thing is that Wynonna wants this and the other thing is that he wants it too, and his mind is a fresh swirling whirlwind of colours and textures: thick and melted-warm, pinprick flashes of bursting hues.
She's asking him a question and he needs to answer, but every ounce of thought and every puff of breath is abruptly stolen by the movements of the woman against him — pressing closer, tighter, warmer, and his vision is red. Red bleeds through her colours and through his own and his eyes fall to her parted mouth, soft and close enough to almost-but-not-quite taste, and Edward remembers when it was painted red, too.
He manages a soft sound around a tightening throat, eyes wide and almost a little panicked-looking for a moment as he squirms just once or twice beneath Wynonna, eyes slowly lifting from her mouth and back up to the woman's gaze as she brushes his face with that hand. She's so close (but not close enough is the shameful thought), and his heart is beating, beating faster.
'I think it just means you want me closer.'
Once again some part of him insists that what he wants doesn't matter, isn't relevant, he isn't meant to want anything. ]
Yes, [ he utters instead, eyes fixed on hers with such an intense, emotional focus that it looks like he might cry. (...He won't. Probably.) His heart pounds so loud it's almost deafening. His hand widens and tightens against Wynonna's waist, fingers grasping against the dip of her body, palm pushing into warm skin. His throat works with movement, and he pants softly with the effort of restraint as he manages words. She's right there but he wants her even closer, and it's a torment, a need that makes him feel dizzy and aching. ] I want to kiss you again.
no subject
What matters is this: sitting here, curled into his lap, her forehead nudging against his, his eyes huge and full of about a million things she can't name and at least one she definitely can. She can feel his breath coming fast and light and, really, haven't they waited long enough? Hasn't she?
I want to kiss you again, he says, finally, and she grins, a flash of white teeth as her lashes lower, her eyes half-lidded, the tip of her nose brushing against his. There it is, at last, spoken into the air between them, and her own voice is almost a purr as she leans in. ]
Finally.
[ The last thing she says before tipping her head to find his mouth with hers again, her arm tightening along the back of his neck, slung over his shoulders, her other hand spreading possessive fingers over the side of his neck, thumb pressing against his jaw. It's warm, slow, and she's controlling the angle, but there's nothing uncertain about this kiss. It's precisely where she wants to be, a soft sound escaping her throat, muffled against his mouth, and when it breaks, she simply kisses him again.
Three. She can count on the fingers of one hand how many kisses they've had up until now, including the one he gave her back in her own little cabin, not that long ago. A shy, wanting, awkward kiss and then he'd ripped himself away, stumbled back out her door while she stared after him in shock.
Not this time. This time, she invites him to sink into it, into her, the taste and feel and warmth of her, the two of them alone here in this quiet saloon with nothing but the crackling fire for company and all the time in the world. ]
no subject
He hears — and feels — that little sound she makes, and it does something to him, the hand at her waist moving around, palm to the small of her back, pushing insistent. Closer, closer. She sounds so sweet, and— the complete opposite of sweet, all at once, and his ears might be burning with flush, his colours might be bright hot red, but he doesn't shy away.
Edward kisses her right back, his other hand moving up now too, sliding right up to her face, cupping a cheek but it's a little messy, fingertips a soft tangle against her hair. He can't remember wanting anything so badly.
(He's still hungry in that other way too, but right now it's different, a distant thought, swallowed back in favour of other hungers finally, finally being given sustenance.) Edward could lose himself to it— and almost does, giving a soft gasp of breath as he's flooded with the beating of his own heart, and it's a little overwhelming, but not unwelcomed. He pants against her, eyes wide and mouth flushed red, everything in him feeling so hot and tight and needing. There is one such concern... ]
What if— a customer comes in—
no subject
She remembers how his hand had moved so awkwardly over her back as they danced, fingers carefully spreading, carefully holding her too him but never with too much pressure; she remembers how he'd done the same thing that night he came to her cabin, frantic with anxiety, and she'd set his hand there on her bare back. He's always been so shy, so careful, so uncertain. Not this time.
That little sound escapes her, and instead of landing like a bomb going off between him, scaring him away, for the first time ever he pulls her closer. His hand spreads wide over the bared skin at her waist, slides to her back and presses, insistent, wanting, and he doesn't know what the fuck he's doing, it's messy and sloppy and he's got no idea what to do with his tongue but she doesn't care. He's dragging her close, closer, hand palming her face and catching her hair, and for just a little while there's nothing in her whole world except him. The way he tastes, the warmth and solidity of him underneath her thighs and ass, his arm around her and hers winding around him in return.
Technique can be learned; she doesn't give a shit about that. The question she's been wanting him to answer this whole time has never been are you good at any of this? but always do you want this, do you want me, please want me back.
And he does, mouth open and gasping against hers when she tilts her head and kisses him again, slows them down, lips parted against each other and the tip of her tongue warm and wet and soft as she tastes him. He doesn't even try to get away, is only gripping her desperately closer, and she's grinning like a fiend when she pulls back enough to let him talk, to let him breathe. Just enough to grab a little oxygen for his spinning head; that delighted gleam in her eyes suggests it's only a short reprieve. ]
Then they can mind their own business. Or...
[ She loosens the arm around his neck just a little, enough that she can lean to the side, head tilting into that hand he has at her cheek, her hair spilling over her shoulder and over his fingers as she brushes her lips along the side of his neck, presses a lazy kiss there, just over the pulse point in his throat. ]
...Did I tell you this place has an apartment upstairs? A little one. Cozy. Very... private.
no subject
Yet once again, it's difficult to particularly care, even if a large part of him is so shy of it all — Wynonna... isn't from his time, and a woman might wear such clothing and perch upon a man the way she does, and— express affection to him like that, using her tongue in ways that he's never dared to even imagine before. A man might even do such things right back! And although he doesn't quite know how to return her gestures, mouth awkward and moving not quite in rhythm with hers, he's open and willing and inviting, everything somehow winding tighter and tighter in him while something else unravels. He feels dizzy, stunned, eyelids fluttering for a moment as she pulls back just enough to grin down at him, in a way that most could only call wicked but that Edward can't help just being dazzled by...
Rational thought keeps trying to tug him into its grasp; he mumbles something in response to her initial reply — probably the start to a fussing little sentiment that they can't just tell people to mind their own business, it's rude Miss Earp, and this would certainly constitute as a display of public indecency — but it's faded and hazy and nonsensical. Very quickly, he's losing ability to piece together those worried thoughts at all. Her mouth is against his neck, gentle and agonisingly soft compared to the gestures of her mouth just seconds ago, right up against his, filling a need while simultaneously making it greater, and he stares up at her, heart pounding, mouth still parted.
There might be an implication to those words, or anyone else might think there to be an implication to them. Certainly it's the most severe degree of improper to be alone with a woman in a cosy private little apartment, when he's like this, body blood tight and pulsing and every piece of him longing for the warm wet of her mouth again. ]
We must retire there, [ he agrees with a shudder ghosting through him just seconds after, throat moving as he speaks so softly, prickling with fresh awareness of the sensation of Wynonna's mouth there to his skin. His colours have gone all muddled again, blurry melted mixtures of bright red and deeper tones, those blushing pinks and those shining golds, everything swirling into one another. He can barely think. He should be terrified of that sensation. He isn't.
And then— all right, he does have to fuss and worry just a bit about it, although it's just a snippet of thought, and his voice has melted down to some lower, lazy-dripping register, throat almost feeling hoarse from it all; is this what it's like to have the passions so heavily and heartedly stimulated— ]
The matter of public obscenity, after all....
no subject
Because he's right there with her. No part of him seems to be trying to get away anymore; he's not trying to carefully lift her off his lap, he's not protesting as her mouth moves over the warm skin of his throat, and his colors— his colors.
Cherry-red, like that dress she'd worn at that party all those months ago, when they danced and he looked at her with that soft wanting warmth in his eyes. It mixes with blooms of rich pink and bright gold, and she can't begin to tell where his colors leave off and hers begin, because she's a similar warm rainbow of pinks and reds and brilliant lines of gold, hot and wanting and almost giddy with success when he agrees to go upstairs with her, his hand warm against her bare skin, his voice low and rumbling. It sinks into her like water into parched earth, tangles her guts into knots. She wants to hear her name in it, falling off his lips, the only thing he remembers how to say.
Not Miss Earp. Her name.
Wynonna grins against his neck, teeth grazing over his skin before she laves that gentle scrape with another kiss. ]
Baby, I haven't begun to get obscene.
[ She lifts her head just enough to find his mouth again, warm and wet and lingering in a kiss before she pulls back, tosses her head to flick her hair back over her shoulder and out of the way. She slides her hand along his forearm to find his fingers, curls her own around his as she finally shifts, sliding sinuously off his lap and tugging on his hand in the same motion. ]
But I guess we can lock the door before we go up. I wouldn't want you to get distracted by somebody showing up wanting a drink.
[ She's waited a long time for this. She wants all his attention on her, right where it belongs. ]
no subject
Or he could lose himself to this one. He could let something else swallow him up instead, something not born of hate and horror but the exact opposite of those things. He could let himself be free. Perhaps he shouldn't. But he wants to. He wants to, wants her, wants this. Wynonna's moving from his lap and he's standing to follow her in the next fluid movement, fingers linked, bodies linked, colours linked, everything bleeding into one another — those like hues a glow around them both, melting into one another.
He doesn't let go of her hand as he moves to the door to lift his other and lock it, quick and secure, his heart pounding fast. There's an overwhelming awareness of the lack of her that he feels now, body craving that closeness it just received, similar to when he'd been pressed against her in a slow dance and then abruptly she was gone from him again.
He's turning his head towards her as he moves to the stair, hungry and wanting, smile shy but eyes bright. His fingers are warmly wrapped around hers, and he forgets, for this moment, to be afraid of touch. Even while still wearing his gloves, he might shirk from the thought of making contact with her hand, from the warmth of her palm he can feel even through the material, but not just now. He gives her hand a squeeze instead, colours flashing brighter. ]
I do not think anything could distract my vision from you.
[ It's an earnest confession, a little breathless as he moves. He's locked in... ]
apparently the inspo I needed was LittleEarp sexting...cursed
Good.
[ She's smiling so much it's starting to hurt her cheeks, but she can't stop, dimples pressing there at the corners of her mouth as she leads him up the stairs, her hand firm in his, her whole body alive with electricity. It almost doesn't feel real, finally doing this, finally having him here like this, and she keeps glancing back at him even as she's opening the door to the little apartment tucked away up here and leading him inside.
It's no bigger than her little cabin, really, but the layout is different: a large front room with a fireplace, couch, reading chairs; a kitchenette off to the side, with a little table to eat at. There's a bedroom back through another door, and a bathroom, and that's pretty much it, but she doesn't need much right now: that couch by the fireplace will do just fine.
As soon as he's inside, she gives the door a little kick, sends it swinging back into place — not locked, but it might as well be for how alone they are, and she's waited so long for this that he can surely understand how she feels like waiting even one more second to step back into him would feel like a whole lifetime. So she does, letting go of his hand just so she can step close and slide her arms up around his neck, more closely than she had while they were dancing that night at the festival.
But just like then, she presses the front of her body up against his, chest to belly to hip, nosing gently at him with her eyes lidding, her glance dropping to his mouth. She leans so close her lips almost brush his, warm breath puffing against his skin. ]
See? Just like I said. Nice and cozy.
And nobody else around.
we're so back baby!!!
Almost, but not quite, because instead of being overwhelmed, he's encouraged. Not frozen, not stricken or engulfed. She's a wave rushing over him again and again, and each time it subsides, he only wants more of it to return, welcoming it back each time. He moves with her, hand wrapped around hand, heart pounding with adrenaline but not with fear. The music keeps playing as they go up until it's muffled down below, and then they're in a new space and she kicks the door back, and it's truly just the two of them.
He doesn't know what might come, but he doesn't try to plan it, for once, for once. Even now his heart does the leading, pumping fast and warm for her as she moves close once more, and that brief interlude of distance is fixed again; she's against him so tightly that every breath draws her in and every exhale pushes her back, in and back with him, always flush. Edward sighs as he places his hands at her waist the way he had before at the festival, watching her eyes drop to his mouth and feeling another rush of heat pooling behind his navel, liquid-warm, tight. He's darker red again now, and then flashes of orange and yellow, like the brightest part of the sun's rise or set, the peak it builds to and falls from.
She's close but it's not close enough, a sentiment that Edward is quickly becoming very familiar with. Her mouth is right there, the slight bit of distance agonising, but sweet all the same, and he feels a sudden rush of affection (another blossom of pink with it) as he reaches one hand up to cup her face, the pad of his gloved thumb gently settling against the soft dimple of her cheek. He brushes there almost lovingly — still shocked in some way that this is happening and all-too-eager to accept that it is.
And then with another rush of boldness he's seeking out her mouth again, leaning forward to press his own to hers — a soft kiss, one, two, then he's tumbling into it. Harder, heavier, hungrier. Inexperience makes him messy again, his open-mouthed gestures perhaps not always quite making the mark, but it doesn't matter, Wynonna's mouth is warm and wet and soft and he wants more of it. He almost doesn't know how to cope with so much want; his hands are trembling as both find her waist again and grasp there tightly, then even tighter as his fingers curl into the material of her shirt, longing, pulling slightly as though to bring her even closer to him, though she's about as close as she can be.
There's another soft sound as his touch-starved body prickles at the sensation, as he knows she can feel him, but fluster melts away in favour of how nice it feels. (There's a danger, it's there, he's hungry and even if it's in a different way from the Darkwalker's hunger in him, the two are intermingled in their way, a convoluted mixture that he's yet to truly be able to untangle. He'd never want to hurt her, but he wants her; his mouth is opening to taste her and there's so many different hungry things in him.)
But that Darkwalker's yearning doesn't overpower the other hungers, at least not yet. Not to begin with. For just a little, it's only her and him in this room, just like she said. Edward shudders again, following the memory of her own mouth against his neck and how good it felt — he imitates it now, tilting his head and angling down and moving his mouth messily along Wynonna's jaw, to the curve of her neck, kissing hard, harder. In his spinning dizzy mind he's aware of how brazen all of this is and he gasps against her skin for a moment, his mouth warm and wet. ]
If you wish me to cease— [ He pants against his own words, struggling through them. His very pulse itself seems to throb; it feels as though there's an animal trapped in his skin, wanting to claw itself out and to her. ] —Whatever you wish of me, Miss Earp.
no subject
Now she feels like a dog that's finally caught a car. He's here under her hands, his arms going around her, and it's his breath that catches and his lips that find hers like he can't wait anymore, falling into this like he's tripped on something and gravity has him in its greedy clutches. Edward's hands are warm and impatient on her waist, and then his whole body is crowding into hers, solid and shaking with adrenaline and want and the need that's rushing over her, over them both in waves of shocking pink and brilliant scarlet and deepest maroon.
It's messy. She doesn't care, can't care when it's his breath puffing hotly against her lips and his mouth on hers and she can taste him, breathe him in, warm and masculine with that comforting hint of musk that's just Edward. His fingers shake and then grip her, dragging her close, and his hand clutches her shirt like he's afraid she might be the one to step back and leave this time.
Not her. Not when she finally has him in her hands, pressed flush against her body. Wynonna meets his kisses with her own, hard and needy and messy, tonguing into his mouth as her hand goes sliding up over his neck and ear, fingers carding into those thick mussed waves of hair the way she's dreamed about doing for months, for a year or even longer. Silky strands part between her fingers and she grips into them, pulling him even closer, her other hand running over his shoulder, his chest, and then his mouth is on her throat and her breath comes on a ragged groan as her eyes close. ]
Do not stop.
[ Don't stop, never stop, keep running his mouth over her neck as she tips her head to bare it to him, fingers fisting in his hair and pressing him even closer, wanting his mouth even tighter against her skin, right there over the pulse point. Her whole body is flush against his, and she can feel him, hard and eager, pressing into her low belly even through the layers of clothes between them. Her free hand skates down over his back to his side, his hip, gripping into his clothes and pulling him close just as he does the same to her.
How the hell did she ever walk away, that night at the festival? ]
I wish—
[ Whatever it is, he'll give it to her. She knows that better than almost anyone, how dedicated he is, how loyal, how devoted, and now every inch of that devotion is bent toward her, that beautiful voice of his wrecked with wanting. His breath gusts hot over her neck and she shivers, a pang crossing her face. ]
I wish you'd take those goddamn gloves off and touch me so I can feel your hands. For a start.
no subject
It's almost painful how much want there is for her, for this. Do not stop and he won't, mouth opening wider against her neck, kissing more purposefully now and the gestures certainly aren't chaste — she wants him warm and intense and although he hardly knows how to define the movements of his mouth against her skin, he knows what feels right, is led by that knowledge. Harder, deeper, which means the tip of his tongue nudges from his mouth, shy for only a moment before he's pushing the muscle against Wynonna's neck, working it into the affections he places there. Wet, noisy, still gentle but warm — half-sucking here and there by necessity as his mouth moves up and down and back and forward, nose bumping and brushing against her.
All the while one hand keeps her pulled right against him as much as she keeps him to herself — and it's getting harder to breathe against the solid warmth of her body. His own hungers terribly, and everything is bright, bold red now. Cherry-red, the colour of her lipstick then and a dress that felt like silk beneath his fingertips. Edward doesn't dare move his lower half too much, ears flushed with heat, but the act of keeping each other held flush like that fuels his insistent body, aching with need. He feels that shiver ripple through her and it's barely seconds after she voices that wish that he's moving to do exactly that. Letting go of her for even an instant is practically unthinkable, but he does so quickly, hands shuddering more, mouth moving upwards again with breathless exhales to kiss her jaw, the side of her face, her cheek, messily making contact with her nose and then the corner of her eye, he's everywhere — as one hand gropes for the other, peeling off the glove (the ones she'd given him, his nice pair.) Even now he takes care with them, movements hurried but mindful as he pushes the one down into his pocket, then removes the other to join its twin.
Now he's filled with a rush of fresh pleasant nerves and longing as his hands lift, free of material, ready to seek her out — 'touch me' — and hovering. He brings one up to her neck to brush there, breaking his flurry of kiss-gestures for just a moment; his colours are swirling, dizzying. ]
Might we— convene there? [ He gasps through his words, swimming eyes tearing themselves away from Wynonna's face and towards the sofa in the room. Standing is nice, everything is nice, but he's lightheaded, breathless. He doesn't want to slow down, just be able to really— to be there. In whatever way that may be, and his heart is pounding again, skipping beats. ] Then I can devote my attention to properly touching you.
cw: clothes coming off!
She feels like a teenager. Messy, her heart flayed open because it doesn't know any better yet, red and bloody in her chest, each kiss as desperate as if they're working on a time table, like some chaperone is going to bust in and drag them apart. But no— they're alone, and it's far from the first time they've been alone, but it suddenly does feel like that first time, when she looked at him across from her on that couch, lit warmly by the fire, and felt that same warmth slide deep and low into her belly. But they'd barely touched each other then, not like this: his hands grasping her and hauling her close before letting go to hurriedly tug off those gloves. It was her request, and she still makes a small unhappy noise at the lack of his hands all over her, until one slips up beneath the waves of her hair and curves at her neck, warm and gentle and shivering with want, and the sound she makes this time feels like it's tugged from the lowest parts of her chest.
The couch — it's a good idea, maybe his best idea yet, or even ever. She nods, swallowing hard: her lips are pink and a little kiss-bruised and the firelight gleams off the wet patch of saliva he'd left on her skin at the column of her throat. Wynonna slides her own fingers down and out of his hair, reaches to fist them into his jumper, and grabs hold as her smile crooks, turns warm and wicked at his words. ]
I'm happy to make any necessary arrangements for you to properly touch me. The couch is a good start.
[ Not the bed, but they can always move. For now, she grips his clothes and steps back, tugging him along with her until they reach the couch and she can push him down to sitting. She doesn't join him just yet, though, instead sidling up, slipping a knee between his to nudge them apart until she can stand between his legs, looking down at him with her pale eyes blown huge and dark in the low warm light of the banked fire. ]
Here. I'll even give you a headstart... make things nice and easy.
[ Her flannel shirt is tied up above her belly button; she undoes that knot with a practiced tug at the ends and lets it fall loose before her fingers move to the buttons of the shirt, undoing them one by one. She keeps her eyes on his face as she lets the cloth fall open, revealing a creamy skin and a lean build beneath. She'd never quite regained the weight from last summer, and here and there the curving cage of her ribs presses softly up against her skin, and that pale expanse is broken up only by the dark material of the bra she's wearing. Nothing special; she hadn't expected anyone to see it today, but it's black and parts of it are shiny and it's held onto her by two thin straps that are exposed as she slides her shirt off her shoulders and arms, letting it puddle to the floor behind her.
He, of course, is still wearing enough clothing that even if she stripped naked it would probably average out to enough for two people still, but one thing at a time. Wynonna sets one knee at his hip, then the other, sliding sinuously into his lap once more, this time straddling it, facing him, her arms coming up around his neck again. ]
See? It's easier than ever to touch me now.
cw: essays about a man's horniness, cannibalistic themes... and he also lowkey thinks he's possessed
But where is "too much"? Little doesn't know, isn't thinking about defining anything. Definition isn't necessary, not when those colours glowing from them both explain what's needed, the same way that red tether had without words. He just— wants to be with her, and he isn't planning or defining how that may play out. It just is. She wants him to touch her, and he wants to touch her, and whatever comes or doesn't come after... it's all right. He isn't worried about it, which leaves room for him to actually enjoy a thing. And he is— god, he is, enjoying it in ways he never quite dreamed of: those sounds Wynonna makes, the grasps at his hair, the urgency of her fingers fisted into his clothing. He likes it all more than he might have imagined he could, heat swelling through him in fresh waves, everything so rushed and alive. He can't remember the last time he felt so alive in a way that wasn't horrible, a way that didn't involve pain or terror or self-loathing. His heart hammers away now, not in the adrenaline of fear or ache but in passion. It's so different. It's so nice. He wants more of it.
He moves with her towards the sofa, sits down hard and fast when she pushes him back like that, a soft sound escaping his parted mouth as his head tips up to stare at her. His own eyes are wide and hungry, but something freezes when Wynonna moves next, nudging his legs open like that and he doesn't resist in the least, posture opening itself wide open for her, heart in his throat as he stares. Then she's slipping out of the material of her shirt (""shirt"" being a very relaxed word for the scant amount of clothing compared to the layers upon layers that women and men of his time wore, but Edward's long-since accepted that he's the anomaly here, and most people in this more modern version of the world are used to wearing... one or two layers at most....), undoing buttons, one at a time. He keeps staring — up at her face first, his peripheral catching the movements of her fingers — but he can't help looking down once her clothing drops, revealing the contrasting dark item to her pale skin.
Slowly, ears and cheeks flushed, he looks down to her torso, taking her in. There's no undergarments that he'd know of — he knows, of course, that Wynonna, only seen one single time in a dress, doesn't wear petticoats or chemises. But this must be some sort of corset, the likes of which offer so much less coverage than he's familiar with. It's— hardly anything at all.
He seems frozen for that long moment, shocked, and staring all the while, eyes slowly roaming her flesh, exposed for him right there, and it's because she, once again, wants him to touch her. The idea is so enticing, that she wants, that he gives, that he makes her happy, that he conjures more of those little sounds of pleasure from her lips and throat — he feels a fresh swell of thrill, so powerful that it almost reels him sideways, dizzying. His eyes lull, lids fluttering, body aching. He can feel himself throb in time with his pounding heartbeat. And then Wynonna moves back into his lap in a new way, knees on either side of him, body flush against his once more, and now he can really feel her, feel how each hard pulse pushes insistently up against her, a strain that's warm and hungry and desperate against his own clothing. (And he doesn't explicitly understand that he can feel that something inside of her more now too, that she's exposed herself more to him not only in the physical, but in the incorporeal — that life force just as tantalising to his senses as the solid warmth of her against his lap.)
Edward can't help his own sounds, a moan melting from his mouth, colours bleeding those bright reds and bursts of orange. ]
Miss Earp....
[ It's all he can say. But speaking isn't how he can convey what he feels right now. 'touch me'
His hands move up to her waist, not as cautiously as they otherwise might. Hunger, he's so hungry, and now it's starting to really blend into something indiscernible: the two hungers that he feels. Edward spreads his palms out over her sides, fingers traveling up, grips her tight to him. He starts there, where he's held her before, but then his hands move up to her shoulders, sliding down her forearms, fingers grasping her tighter. He tilts up towards her, seeking out her mouth once again, hands moving, hungry, one palm moving around to her back to rest flush there, to keep her tight against him. His fingertips brush the material of that strange corset she wears in the process, and he moans hard and hoarse against her mouth as his other hand moves up and down one of her sides, touching more skin than he ever has, melting against soft warmth.
He doesn't want to hurt her. But he does want to satisfy his own desires as much as indulge hers, and it's there in him, right there, pulsing through his blood as much as any other type of yearning heat — the Darkwalker's hunger. He's kissing harder now, breathless, and his hands are tight and his fingertips press in a little, enough for nail to meet flesh, and as he closes his eyes and presses a shaking smile against her lips, he's soaking in her warmth — everything beneath her skin, what's deep down in her spirit, what the "demon" he's been so afraid to let feed again wants most of all. To Little, it's conceptualised like that — something supernatural with its own will outside of his own, something with its own hunger. Unfortunately, his hungers are now impossible to untangle from those other horrific ones, in a moment like this.
He's breathing her in, and it's so fast, and it's too much. He doesn't realise it's too much. It feels good; he wants more of everything, more friction, more touch upon her skin, more of her. (He'll eat her up, eat her whole—) ]
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She's hot, too, wet and aching and it takes all her willpower to keep from undoing her jeans, grabbing his hand, and guiding it between her legs. Eager and willing as he is, this is still Edward; he's never done anything like this. She's got to try and take it slow, no matter how it feels like she's about to combust at every rock of her hips against him.
But he is touching her, and his mouth is on hers again, messy and needy, and when she feels his nails dig into her skin she bites at his lip and soothes that spot immediately after with a sweep of her tongue. His hands are warm, and she's familiar with his shy, gentle touches, but he's finally shifting to a gear past that now, his hands tightening on her body, fingers digging into flesh. Her head is spinning; she feels a strange sidelong stumble inside herself, like her blood pressure has suddenly dropped.
It doesn't occur to her to think it could be anything other than her body reacting to finally, finally having Little here, touching her, kissing her, his body under her hands. She slides her palms over his shoulders, down his chest; tugs at the material of his shirt to pull it loose from his waistband so she can slip her fingers up under the layers of his clothing to gently touch the warm skin of his belly with a ragged groan of her own. ]
Little...
[ She's dizzy with want, opening herself up to him, panting for breath as she kisses him again, drowning in it. ]
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Wants. He wants. Again and again, his body and mind feel it. (And that place that exists deeper than both mind and body, the place that perhaps could be called spirit, the place where that demon-thing lives.) Edward wants with every piece of himself, and that means— that means the demon-thing too, which means—
'Little....'
She says his name like a plea. She's pleading with him like his own soft cry of her name was a plea, a desperate little need for more, unable to voice anything but that name. It sends a fresh pleasurable shudder right down his spine, more pleasurable than he ever could have anticipated, and then he feels her fingers up under his clothing, brushing against his skin. Some part of him remembers what it is to feel shy, but the other part, the part that wants—
He's kissing her again with wide, gasping, open-mouthed gestures, like he's hungry. Insistent, sucking, hands locked onto her sides and body breathing hard into her, in and out, and then pulling her right back in. Deeper and deeper, he pulls her in. His dizzied mind doesn't understand what it's doing, his aching body only knows it's getting pleasure, but his spirit latches onto hers, smart and starving, and doesn't let go. She tastes so good he could weep.
Eyes closed, mouth working itself back to the slope of her neck where he kisses and sucks hard enough to draw blood to the surface of her pale skin, Edward starts to eat her alive. It's with a rush, faster than he'd fed from Kate and more intentional, more directed. Now the hunger knows exactly where to aim, exactly what to take, and it does. ]
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He's dragging her closer, too, pulling at her as his mouth chases down over her jaw to her throat and latches there, sucking hard enough to hurt a little. She's going to have a bruise there later, and if someone had described to her everything that would happen here over this last year and a half when she first arrived, she would have put gets a hickey from Edward Little at the very top of the list of impossible things.
And yet here he is, dragging at her skin, curling around her and pulling her close, closer, the heat of his mouth and her own quick breaths making her head spin. She can feel his lips and tongue and teeth against her, dragging up on skin, on everything beneath, and her heart makes a strange little faltering stumble in her chest. She can't catch her breath, and when her eyes open, it's lazy, lidded, her pupils a dark pool of black ringed by a thin circle of ice-pale blue-gray. There's a weird swooping feeling in the pit of her gut, and she realizes belatedly that the pulling feeling is becoming more like a yank, and it's not just his mouth, it's not his arms around her, it's something else, something different, and there is pain now, not just the deep ache of want. She's a whirlpool of crashing water and he's a drain she can't escape.
Except she can, because she's not a teenage girl and the Old Bear's strength is still hot and vibrant in her. Wynonna fists her hand in his hair, more deliberately this time, and pulls, dragging him back and off her throat as she gives him a faintly exasperated look. Already her face is a little paler, her fingers trembling slightly from something other than the need to touch him as she slides her hand out from under his shirt and puts her palm on his chest to make some space between them. ]
Dude.
[ No part of her seems to be reacting to him as a threat; this is just a quick annoyance. Her own fault, probably; she'd meant to bring it up before but she'd gotten... distracted. ]
I know I'm a snack, but get it together.
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(Freedom. It's freedom, it's safety, she's home. If he craves pleasure from her, he craves pleasuring her just as much — they feed each other, it's wonderful, pulses pounding beneath skin, blood hot, and he feels a surge of loving affection in the root of his heart through it all—)
There's a tight tension curling through his hair and pulling and Edward doesn't even realise what's happened at first, only knows the sensation of it (fingers grasped close to his scalp, not exactly painful but forceful, and the way it makes his eyes swell darker with a cascade of unexpected, fresh want—)
He's panting open-mouthed, still locked into her, eyes swept down to stare all glossy and hungry at Wynonna as the warmth of her palm leaves his stomach and comes to his chest instead, and he's straining forwards against it, just a little, just enough that it's needing, because he's still so hungry for her and he doesn't want to stop—
She looks paler now though, and there's something trembling faintly at her edges, and he realises Wynonna's intentionally placing some distance between them, and his eyes clear a little, and then— ]
Oh, [ he breathes as those snippets of realisation form something bigger, some understanding (he can feel the bright spark of revitalisation, as though he's been dosed with something powerful and medicinal, something that brightens him up from the inside out, makes him stronger, makes him feel good. Makes all the ache and illness and hunger go away.)
Edward balks like he's been hit, flinching fast, and that tension against Wynonna's hand deflates immediately, pulls back instead. Spine pressed into the sofa cushions behind him, he freezes, eyes as wide as saucers. His hands jolt back from her, let go of every place he's touching skin. ...For a moment, and then he's lifting them again, hovering helplessly, terrified to make contact but wanting to help her. Somewhere in his mind he understands she's not like Kate was, not crumbling inwards, not screaming, but— ]
Oh, god. No. [ He looks like he wants to cup her cheeks but doesn't, keeps his palms there centimeters away, stares with horror as his eyes search hers with a swimming desperation that's fighting right through his haze. ]
I'm sorry— Oh god, I'm sorry. Please, are you— Are you all right? Please be all right. I'm so sorry.
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She's not Kate, and she's no stranger to pain, but this is... it's something different, something that dragged at the very core of her, gulping her down. He really could hurt her, she realizes, as he stares up at her with horror in his eyes and doesn't dare touch her face with his hands. He could hurt her. Probably he could kill her, if she didn't stop him. If he can't control it.
Which is all the more reason to learn to control it. ]
I'm fine.
[ Not quite true; she can feel a faint tremble in her muscles that doesn't have anything to do with keeping herself upright in his lap. Wynonna reaches her hands up to cover his, then guides them to either side of the slope of her neck. When she shifts to look into his face, her hair slides over the backs of his fingers in a soft warm waterfall. ]
I'm all right, Little. But you're not, are you? You haven't been. Not for a while.
[ Not since before she and Fitzjames went after that bear and she woke up however many days later to find Edward sleeping there at her bedside. It wasn't long after that when he'd come to her little cabin, an anxious wreck of himself, and told her there was something inside him that longed to devour her. She'd told him then he needed to find a way to control it, and he hadn't, and then Easter had come, the darkest night any of them had known for a while.
He's afraid of it, this need, this hunger. Fine. But she's still not afraid of him.
She keeps her hands over his until she's sure he won't lift his away, then lifts them and sets her palms on his shoulders. ]
You need to figure out how to control it, and you're not gonna be able to do that if you're afraid of it. So go ahead.
[ Her eyebrows push up, her gaze on him intent and unflinching. ]
Take a little from me. On purpose, this time, so you know what you're doing. And when I say 'stop,' you're gonna stop. Okay?
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But the seconds of initial relief pass quickly, and then horror is pooling in again, deeper now with a terrible understanding of the true measure of things. He hurt Wynonna. He was... taking from her. Feeding from her. The true horror of it is that he can't differentiate when it really started happening. Everything was gleeful, greedy, warm — and how does he know where the line is, when his heart and body and this beast's hunger all seem to want exactly the same thing? Her.
And now she's worn, even if just a little: gently pale, gently tired, gently shuddering. Horrified by this, Edward makes a sound when Wynonna reaches for his hands to guide them to her skin, shakes his head, fingers twitching. He doesn't force them back off of her, but he's tense, strained beneath her.
No, no he's most certainly not all right, and this was a mistake, the way it was a mistake back before. Wynonna's words conjure up memory of that time through the haze of his own mind and the coiling hungry thing left with its mouth open in the middle of feeding and wanting more. This happened then, too, much the same. Wynonna, trying to figure this out, telling him to touch her, and he had, he'd wanted to, but— the hunger comes on so fast.
...At least this time, he can't literally run away so easily.
So it's no true surprise that Wynonna says what she does next, but he's still shocked by it, eyes growing so big that it physically hurts. He doesn't move his hands away when the pressure of hers is finally lifted, but his grasp is faint, fingers pushed back more into her hair, palms not settling warm against her skin. There's a danger now to the warmth of her, of this. This curse is truly a cruel one. ]
No — I cannot purposefully— It is too dangerous, [ he breathes, his own insistence outwardly softer than the unyielding way Wynonna stares at him now, but just as stubborn. What if there is no way to control this? What if he can't stop? How could he ever intentionally cause pain to her? Her?
That look of horror is shifting, melting into something that pulls at his features like a physical weight. A deep, sad frown, eyes mournful as he watches Wynonna, as the jolts of shock and adrenaline and wanting are all settling, just a little, just enough for him to really feel how upsetting this is. What he wants clashes directly with what he doesn't want. To be with Wynonna the way he is now — something he can't perfectly define beyond those unfamiliar words like happiness, desire, freedom — but not to cause her harm. ]
......I don't want to hurt you.