alsohawkeye | ataraxion inbox

[irritated = hot sorry]

It better not be.

[Or else, and she punctuates that by twisting her wrist a little, pressing her thumb against her clit, too sudden and harsh to be teasing.]

Is this what gets you off? Talking about who's going to be the last one left?

[ Kate's laugh rises and breaks into a groan, and nails dig into Johanna's back. But she tips her head back against the wall to let her see her smirk. ]

No. I just wanted to make you admit you'd miss this.

Please.

[No, or else not going to admit it--but she laughs, low, enjoying this despite herself--between the look on Kate's face and the sound of her groan, the extra thrill an argument gives the whole thing. It's enough that she keeps up her touch, taking the tip of Kate's head as her chance to duck in and press a heated kiss to her throat, hard and crushing pressure.]

Liar.

[ Johanna goes for her throat and Kate lifts a hand, lets nails dig in to her scalp instead. Sound thrums beneath Johanna's lips, more than makes it out of Kate's mouth in an exhale tinged with pleasure and amusement. It doesn't stop her doing a half-decent imitation of Johanna's voice. ]

You already did. "It better not be."

But I wouldn't miss you.

[She's saying it against Kate's throat, her fingers presses into her, thumb working at her--teeth scraping a little at the soft skin of her neck before another kiss, her scalp prickling under Kate's grip--and still she's saying she wouldn't miss her. And she wouldn't. She'd be angry. But she wouldn't miss her. She knows better.

Another kiss; it starts soft, ends harsh, sucking at the skin before she pulls away to ask:]

Would you miss me?

I didn't say me, I said this. You'd miss this.

[ It's different, and not really an answer to the question. Kate doesn't cling to detachment as hard as Johanna; she'll admit at least to herself that she'd feel the absence in some fashion. It's hard to deny when she's so very present, her neck tense where Kate grips her nape, the relentless work of her fingers, teeth against Kate's throat, all of it pushing her breath quick and uneven, levering hips up and away from the wall. But miss seems too strong a word, too sentimental. ]

I'd think about you.

[This. Something carnal and pleasurable, something like affection with aspects of control. Whatever this is, it's winning the award for Johanna's longest lasting relationship, even if she would never define it that way. She doesn't want relationships. She wants the heat of Kate pressed against her, the press of her fingertips and the arch of her hips. Bitching at her even when she's fucking her.

Johanna laughs, bitter, a little numb, her lips brushing over the bruise that's already rising in the wake of her kiss.]

During sex.

[Amused and pleased. They don't get to remember, if they go home. (They don't go home.) Before Kate can come at her with something contradictory, Johanna arches her wrist just a little more, digging in with her thumb, and neatly slips two fingers into Kate as she does. It's easy; she likes that it's easy. Any minute now, they will have to go to the medbay. She considers leaving Kate, just like this, not finishing her--but she likes to watch her finish. Next time, unless they all die. Totally possible, like always.]

Tell me that's right. I know it.

[ Kate would argue what's in Johanna's head-- they could go home, they could remember. Nobody knows for sure, and Kate's done more inter-universal travel than probably anyone here. It's possible. Maybe not likely but possible, and she'll hold to that as long as she can. She might argue what Johanna's said, too, or have some cute retort that sidesteps it, but then Johanna curls her hand and the edge of her smirk is lost, mouth dropping open as eyes close. For once the sound she makes isn't half-laugh or half-protest or half-anything, just pure moan and it lingers in her throat when she speaks. ]

Yes. That's right.

[ She's being selfish today, no effort made to touch Johanna except to hold on, even with her naked in her lap. But she drops a hand now and drags a knuckle between her legs when she says: ]

You would, too. Don't pretend you're not just as into this.

[Her answer comes in her own breath out at that contact--half a moan itself, bitten back behind clenched teeth--and the rock of her hips, forward, presses her against even that slight contact, better than nothing, but Kate can do better. The thrust of her own fingers pushes a little deeper with that movement, in kind, and she laughs, again from between her teeth--]

Oh, I'm into this.

[Especially this mutual thing. So into this.]

I wouldn't pretend.

[Emotions, relationships, whatever. This is good. Now shut up, Kate, an she fixes her mouth to her throat again, taking further advantage of the tilt of her head, as she works her fingers in and out of her, as she twists to get more in return.]

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