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[For Declan] Jan 22: when I don't know what to say
She's been here since September. Been through people getting powers, people coming, people going, the island itself changing, finding out that she's maybe fictional or some kind of crap, but it's really not until today Kate's realized just how much this place fucks with her. Over breakfast, she finds out one of the people she really likes and respects lost her husband and now she's like five months pregnant and raising the kid of someone else who left her. By herself. The kid - who she fucking loves, okay? and, whatever, just she does - lost his mom, his uncle, and now his step-dad in a place that's way too safe for death to be something you just get like she and Thad did.
And when she comes home to detox for an hour before going to make up with her boyfriend, because she's been a complete fucking jackass for a week and he could just disappear any second without her ever getting to fix it, there's this sweet set up on her porch. A laptop with a huge screen and killer resolution, long life batteries, cords, speakers, HDMI for TV hookup, seriously everything a chick could want. There's a gold bow on top and a card that says "For Kate Freelander," and when she powers it up, it's got a sick media library. Movies, tv, music, games. She's not even sure whether to laugh or cry. Which she doesn't do. Cry. Not much. Not often. Not because it's weak or whatever. It's just not her thing.
She shakes her head and packs it all up in one of her woven hemp bags. Cleans herself up. Then spends about ten minutes deciding what face she's wearing when she goes to see Declan. Leather, lace, trench coat? She lines her eyes with some kohl and smudges some berry colored stain on her mouth but she's still not sure. Maybe jewelry will settle it. With a flick of her hand, she opens the box (not her box, and fuck if she doesn't miss that) and --
The light catches on a flash of bright silver and deep, rich blue. It's beautiful.
Kate doesn't cry, but when she lifts out the bracelet and slides it around her wrist, the kohl on her eyes smears and her lashes are wet. No one's ever given her anything like this before. She's an idiot.
* * *
Half an hour later, she's on Declan's doorstep with their new system, wearing refreshed makeup, the bracelet he gave her, and a straight-up Kate face. Black leather, black lace, blue top and jeans. She knocks because it's been a week and he won't be expecting her.
"Declan?"
*
Title lyrics from Pat Benatar's We Belong.
And when she comes home to detox for an hour before going to make up with her boyfriend, because she's been a complete fucking jackass for a week and he could just disappear any second without her ever getting to fix it, there's this sweet set up on her porch. A laptop with a huge screen and killer resolution, long life batteries, cords, speakers, HDMI for TV hookup, seriously everything a chick could want. There's a gold bow on top and a card that says "For Kate Freelander," and when she powers it up, it's got a sick media library. Movies, tv, music, games. She's not even sure whether to laugh or cry. Which she doesn't do. Cry. Not much. Not often. Not because it's weak or whatever. It's just not her thing.
She shakes her head and packs it all up in one of her woven hemp bags. Cleans herself up. Then spends about ten minutes deciding what face she's wearing when she goes to see Declan. Leather, lace, trench coat? She lines her eyes with some kohl and smudges some berry colored stain on her mouth but she's still not sure. Maybe jewelry will settle it. With a flick of her hand, she opens the box (not her box, and fuck if she doesn't miss that) and --
The light catches on a flash of bright silver and deep, rich blue. It's beautiful.
Kate doesn't cry, but when she lifts out the bracelet and slides it around her wrist, the kohl on her eyes smears and her lashes are wet. No one's ever given her anything like this before. She's an idiot.
Half an hour later, she's on Declan's doorstep with their new system, wearing refreshed makeup, the bracelet he gave her, and a straight-up Kate face. Black leather, black lace, blue top and jeans. She knocks because it's been a week and he won't be expecting her.
"Declan?"
*
Title lyrics from Pat Benatar's We Belong.
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Her body tightens from the tone of his voice and the suggestion he's taking his turn. It's stupid how fast she gets wet for him, how fast she rolls for him, and how completely. But she kind of likes it anyway.
Right now, she's showing him just how much time she can take, swirling her tongue over skin that rarely gets kissed. Slow slow wicked slow. He can't really complain. It was his idea.
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"Could I get an itinerary of your plans down there or are you looking to surprise me?"
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"You really need me to spell it out for you, babe, or are you just looking to hear me say I want to suck your brain out through your dick?"
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He's hard already, has been since he woke up, and Kate's probably as eager as he is. She loves giving head, has never understood chicks who think it's a burden or a birthday gift. As soon as she gets her lips around his head, she gives herself over to the salt and musk of his precum and the heat of him against her tongue.
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She's not even trying to draw it out, just giving him everything she knows he likes and then some. Her mouth is wet, spit's all over her face and his thighs all mixed up with his precum, her head bobs, cheeks hollowing to suck him in deep and throat open to swallow him. He'll probably have a set of bruises from how hard she's holding his thighs for balance, and she'll probably lick and suck and bite them to make them bigger.
She's his, but he's hers, too. And she always makes damn sure he knows it.
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He'll be gentle with her later, if she lets him, but right now it's all about him and what he wants. God, he's lucky she gets this way.
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It's probably the moan that sells it, the way it rolls up his dick, vibrating his skin. She loves this. She loves it as much as when he pins her, holds her hips, and licks and sucks and makes her come over and over and over. Maybe she'll convince him to tie her up later.
Right now it's just suck and swallow and feeling him build and that strange disconnected sexual float where she is her mouth around his cock and the only other thing she feels is the answering, impatient pulse in her clit.
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"Close, love. Figure you're swallowing, yeah?" He doesn't expect a response, considering she's occupied, but if she doesn't feel like swallowing, there's her warning to pull off.
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"Christ, you're good, Katie."
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"Also always willing to swallow," she purrs and kisses him hard when she's sprawled all over him. "Don't need to warn me. When have I ever done something I didn't want to do? If I'm not in the mood, babe, I'll let you know."
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"It's my nature. I think it's because I know, even if you've never told me, that people haven't always been respectful of you and your needs. I always want to be, even if I don't have to."
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She exhales slowly, shakes her head and says quietly, "You know that fight we just had? You're kind of doing it again." This is hard for her. Especially hard to do it without raising her voice and running away. But she doesn't want that. She doesn't want to fight with him. She just wants him to get her. That means letting him hear that this hurts.
"I get that you want to be good to me and it's sweet." Her voice gets lower, fingertips trace along his collarbone and she can't quite meet his gaze. "But whoever that girl is who needs long slow build to orgasms and for you to warn her before you come? She's not me. I need you to be with me."
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"It's not meant to hurt you, Kate."
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"I know, babe. I do. But..." Kate exhales again and tries to find words. She's great with words when it's lies and banter and bullshit. Sucks at them when it counts. "I'm not..." The word actually hurts her mouth like something spiky and metal and bitter, but she pushes it out anyway: "Broken. I don't need to be fixed or babied or rescued. I rescued myself a long time ago."
She inhales, closes her eyes, reminds herself that he loves her and this is safe and the right thing and if she tries to explain, he'll try to understand.
"The first few times we do something, I get you needing to ask and be sure. That's you being--" She smiles small and it's not faked, just strained. "British. That's okay by me. Or if something's off and you're not sure, it's okay then too. It's not even that it's a big deal you warning me when you're gonna come or asking if you can take me, not really."
As much as she wants to hide her face, she doesn't, just drops his gaze briefly to press her lips to his neck instead, steadies herself and then lifts up again so he can see her eyes. "Except. When I tell you I don't want you to and you say you're going to do it anyway, it says what I want doesn't count. Same as when you decide 'being good to me' means taking it slow and drawing it out, when what I want is something else. You're worried about respecting me and that's awesome, but the thing I need you to respect is my choices, you know?"
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"I'm sorry, love. I didn't mean anything by it."
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"Thanks, babe," she whispers and ducks her forehead to his chest. Now that she's got all the words out, her heart's pounding a mile a minute. He can probably feel it under his hand.
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"Are we good for now?"
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Preferences aren't the same thing as actual danger. He was right last time: her body and if she wants to risk it, she can. But it's wrong to force him to do it.
"We're good--" She nods and then ducks her head again. It's not normal for her to be shy about stuff but after that, it's hard to get herself to say, "Except...if you don't want to do it, it's cool, but I kind of need to get off." Maybe she should just do it herself because she needs it quick, no fuss, no bother.
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"I'm game for anything."
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"Thanks," she whispers into that quick, hard kiss. Not for the orgasm but for making it easy. She hopes and she's pretty sure, he knows what she means. And as for what she wants, that's easier. "Your fingers, like the night you wouldn't fuck me, and your mouth." Just that quick, she drops off to her back, grins guiltily up at him. "But fast."
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"More than once, you think? Or just fast in general?"
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"Just get me there fast?" she asks, trying not to plead. She's wound tight from tension and needy from before. Too much build will frustrate her when she already feels edgy and his breath against her belly tickles and aches so much she's squirming with impatience. "I doubt I'll need more."
And if she does, she'll let him know.
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