sandandwater: ([short] mussed and smexy)
Notes: This takes place just before Pippa's Christmas post. Sorry for the time line hopping.

Peaceful. Unaware. Beautifully naïve.

His face is all delicate planes and muted angles in the cool, pale light of the moon. Long lashes cast shadows over soft skin, marring the ethereal visage belonging to the man lying beside her. She can’t sleep so she watches him instead. Watches him despite wanting to press her face into her pillow, protection against aching in her heart, the tightness in her throat and the stinging behind her eyes. Pippa won’t turn away and she doesn’t wipe the hot tears seeping from the corners of her eyes. They run down her cheek and into her ear.

Her mind has been made up for days, weeks, really. She made the decision while they were apart—thinking seems easier when he isn’t right there. Now she has to tell him. Break his heart and leave him. Pippa continues to study him until the weight of her stare (or maybe the noise of her troubled thoughts) seems to draw Rory away from slumber. She even returns his sleepy smile with one of her own, whispering his name as his hand comes up to cup the curve of her cheek.

“Hey now…” he whispers in concern as he feels the dampness on her skin, realizes she’s been crying. “Sweet, don’t cry. I’m here. I’m right here.”

He folds her into his arms, kisses away the tears she’d ignored. Pippa lets him run his hands over her body and push her nightgown up over her hips as he rolls her beneath himself; his movements are well practiced even if they are heavily drenched in drowsiness. She knows he’ll barely remember this come morning—if he recalls it at all.

Still, he’s hard and she’s willing and it doesn’t take much for her to guide him to where he wants to be. Her face stays pressed against the warmth of his neck as Rory shifts, rocks against her and thrusts between her legs. She doesn’t want him to lift his head and look down at her; he shouldn’t have to see the sadness in her eyes as they make love. He makes love—Pippa winces as she corrects herself.

He’s making love; she’s only biding her time.

Pippa Kerr//368
sandandwater: (passion)
“Oh, Ro…” his name was little more than a sigh that escaped on a whispered breath.

“…I do believe in you, Believer girl…” And the deafening roar of the audience made it difficult for her to hear the end of the song as she stood backstage, just out of sight, watching. He looked amazing, they all did, the entire band. Kreske, Junie…Sascha…Nil and Dave couldn’t have looked more at home, but it’s Rory, front and center with the microphone in his hand and the audience at his beck and call that held her attention. He finished the song—her song—with passion that drove the fans into a screaming, hand waving, foot stomping frenzy. They wanted more.

She wanted more.

The mid-point act pushed past her then, taking the stage to let Breaker Street have a much-needed breather. Rory walked right toward her. The hunger in his dark eyes unmistakable, the effects of the audience—all their wants and desires, their emotional demands—flowing through his veins and driving him to give in to compulsions not entirely his own had him wordlessly greeting her by pushing Pippa back against a wall, his mouth covering hers in a kiss meant to consume and possess.

Her lips parted eagerly, hungry for the taste of him and she inhaled deeply, lost in the heady scents of his sweaty skin and the leather he wore.

He didn’t ask permission, didn’t take the time to find out what she might want as he lowered his head to suck at the side of her neck, nip sharply at delicate skin. His hands were hot and rough as he ran them down her sides, over her hips, further still to bunch the fabric of her skirt and push it up. His knee slipped between both of hers, pushing her legs apart, one side and then the other, until he was wedged between them and she was pinned between his body and the wall.

She whimpered and tossed her head to the side and back again.

There was a light switch or wall plate; she didn’t know which, digging into her back right between her shoulder blades and it caused her to shift, squirm, press more fully against him. Her reward was the firm pressure of his hand between her thighs, his fingers hooking the crotch of her panties and pulling them to one side, exposing her completely. One-handed fumbling followed as he undid his pants, hitched her leg high on his hip and growled against her ear, “Mine.”

Fingers curled against soft fabric, twisting and pulling.

It was her turn to tug and struggle with his clothing. She worked buttons loose to open the front of his shirt and bare his chest, slipped her fingers under the thin cotton, skimmed his chest and traced the defined lines of abdomen. He didn’t allow her long for her exploration; he was too impatient for that. There wasn’t enough time for it. Lifting her, encouraging her to wrap her legs around his waist, Rory hissed a ‘yes’ against her shoulder then drove himself into her with animalistic want.

She gasped and arched her back sharply.

As she held onto him, hands on shoulders and ankles crossed behind his back, Pippa moaned. He felt good; she felt…full, whole, loved. Needed. He still needed her, for this if nothing else. Faster, harder, deeper—that light switch was digging into her flesh again. He was murmuring to her, voice gruff but the words—oh, the words were soft and tender. A muirnin rua. I love you. A chroi. My sweet. Phillipa. He came, finished just a quickly as he’d begun, barely taking the time to kiss her again before letting her back down and pulling away to set his clothes to rights.

“Oh, Ro…” she called his name again.

Bit her lip.

Woke up.

Perspiration-soaked and breathing heavily, she ran her hands over her face, down the length of her body. Her legs still trembled and she was all too aware of the slick wetness between her thighs. Lifting her hand to her lips, Pippa found that they weren’t bruised or swollen.

His kisses were no more real than the rest of her dream, vivid though it had been. This time, the cry that tore from her throat was pain-filled and misery-laden. She missed him. More than that, she needed him. Loved him.

Left him.

Pippa Kerr//Last Call//733

ooc: I've fast forwarded a bit for this prompt. It takes place several months from now. It should also be noted that since this is largely a dream, descriptions of what the crowds do to Rory [ profile] fey_fire are based on Pippa's understanding of the phenomenon and are not necessarily accurate. Lyrics to Believer Girl belong to Rory's mun.
sandandwater: ([short hair] head on)
Come as you are

She was ignoring him, curled up in a ball with her face buried in a pillow. He sat at the edge of the bed with his bare back towards her, head hanging and cradled between his hands. Not for the first time, Pippa had gone from hot to cold without warning and rebuffed him mid-advance. His hands on her where they pressed against her shoulder, the curve of her hip…his breath on the side of her neck didn’t bring forth feelings of desire and need. Instead, they called up memories of someone else touching her with far less compassion and she’d cried then screamed. Rory couldn’t comfort her when she got like this, she didn’t want him to.

As you were

Candlelight and tangled sheets covered their sweat-slicked skin as they continued to explore each other in a lazy, nearly sated manner. Her hands slipped over his chest, her head following with lips grazing skin, teeth nipping along familiar territory. At the sound of the deep and contented sigh escaping his lips, Pippa lifted her head to smile at him. Words weren’t needed; she knew that look and understood his unspoken request. Rory’s hands settled on her hips as she shifted, rose and straddled his waist. He smiled as her hands found purchase against his shoulders, moaned as she leaned forward to kiss him.

As I want you to be

Pippa watched him undress, peeling the damp shirt away from his body, kicking shoes across the floor. Listened as he unfastened the buckle to his belt, the rasp of the zipper undoing the denim he wore low on his hips. Closed her eyes and thought about joining him on the other side of the room. She’d press kisses along his spine, wrap her arms around his waist and sigh as his hands came to rest over hers. Eventually, Rory would turn and embrace her, lift her off the balls of her feet and bring her closer for a deep kiss. She’d tangle a hand in his shaggy hair and inhale deeply, lost in him even as he lost himself in her just as he used to do after every gig.

Pippa Kerr//Last Call//351


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October 2009

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