(The thing is Ptolemais doesn't think Melissa really believed it was Finch either, not by the way she folded so quickly — she was desperate for a wolf to go into a cage, that's all. They all were and the voting was all over the place, and Ptolemais isn't sure they even did it right. There's a few more nights to go. Nobody is safe. What else is there to do but meet Finch in the field and smoke a cigarette?
When she sees him standing knee deep in the grass she calls to him,) We fucking made it, (because they did. Whatever happens from here, they will always have made it.)
[He says with a snort, like he's - still unsure how he got this far. Is it because he's good at being invisible when he wants to be, or because fate just thinks it's a lot funnier to take from him than to take him from others? His expression seems to lighten upon her arrival, eyes searching her over before he holds out that cigarette he promised.]
(Ptolemais is unhurt. She has watched other people get injured and killed (beheaded, after the fact). She has hidden to keep herself safe and let the blood wash over her and away — just like old times. Part of her wants to freak out about that, get low in the field and put her arms over her ears and her face into her knees, squeeze tight until she stops seeing bodies, and people crying over them. She's ignoring the urge but it's there, a strong, painful spot under her ribs, a caught lung.
When Finch offers her the cigarette she does a wonky approximation of a curtsey and takes it.) Thank you sir. (Ha ha.
But seriously.) Got a light? (She has to come in closer, pressing her shoulder into his arm. To block the wind.)
[He brings out a lighter; seen better days but so far as contraband goes here, it works and that's all that matters. He lights her cigarette for her, spending an extra moment or two leaned close; admiring the way the wind moves her hair.]
We made it.
[He echoes what she earlier said, as if maybe just now it settles into his brain - and he repeats it in its finality.]
(He's warm up close and Ptolemais finds she doesn't mind the accidental brush of his hand when he produces the lighter. When she breathes in, the smell of him (tobacco, metal) is like a soft hit, makes her mouth water, and she thinks she could laugh or cry or something, she needs some kind of release. Frantic energy is pinging against the inside of her head, zipping up and down her spine.
Now what.)
Here. (She brings the cigarette to her mouth, pulling in, and takes his jaw all gentle between thumb and middle finger—
gives him a second to realise what will come next and to pull out of it, say something, stop her.)
[It's like for the moment, she feels it too - this urge to do something, to find an outlet for the emotions that are on the inside. He doesn't know what to do with himself and doesn't know how he's going to ever remedy that. But he also has this urge inside him to do something, to stop stalling in the mud and be useful in some way. Otherwise he's going to implode.
She's warm - her touch is warm, her presence is warm. He doesn't pull away, doesn't stop, doesn't do anything for a long beat.
He just looks at her - gaze soft, open to her approach and anticipating something from it - but wondering precisely what that is, in some meager sense of worry that he's on the wrong page despite the words right in front of him. Here, she says. Here, he stays.]
Ptolemais can tell it's all over for her the second he goes pliant, jaw cradled in her hand. He looks at her all steady and warm, like he trusts her completely. Like whatever she wants to do right now, he'll let her do it and do it with her. He won't leave her here alone.
She pulls him in. Coaxes his mouth open with a gentle pressure at his hinge and slow-exhales the smoke into him. Their lips barely brush but she can tell they're soft and hot.
Letting her hand drop, deciding he'll probably keep his head where it is without her insistence, she cups the nape of his neck instead and strokes her thumb against his skull through the tangle of his hair, brings the cigarette back in between them for another inhale.)
[It's so funny sometimes how a non-sexual act can feel more intimate than something much more explicit. She breathes out the smoke and he brings it into his lungs, letting her shotgun the cig for him and feeling intoxicated by it. The touch of her fingers to the hinge of his jaw makes goosebumps lift on his skin. He can feel the warmth of her so close that he closes his eyes.
She holds the nape of his neck and then brings up the cigarette; his own fingers touch hers, helping to guide the filter to his lips. There's barely a sliver of space between them but he uses it to inhale, and replicates this process wordlessly by exhaling into her mouth. Sharing back the breath, flowing it into her next.]
(Ptolemais looks on, pulse in her throat, as he closes his eyes. She doesn't do the same but watches him pull their hands toward his mouth and take the next drag for her to breathe in — there's something strangely ritualistic about it. The slow passing of smoke, each of them taking turns, the warmth of him so close to her. Being outside.
It strikes her then that they may only be able to enjoy this because of the nature of the compound and everything needing to be done in pairs to really matter.
She takes the cigarette back from him, movements no longer slow and meaningful. Her hand, fingers pressed into his nape, trembles.)
Can you distract me. (Or she's going to think too hard about all this — the compound, the bodies, the Shepherd opening his mouth underneath a waterfall of blood — and fall off the fucking edge. It's right there. She can feel it pressing up between her back teeth, metallic and awful, and she pulls him in all the way to her in the same breath.)
[She asks him to distract her and he wants to laugh and say 'only if you distract me too', because he can think of no better thing right now than letting his head clear itself by allowing his body to move of its own accord. He needs something to focus on, to feel, to keep himself from picking at his own brain and lamenting his self-perceived failures. So she says 'distract me' and then they are kissing.
His lips meet hers softly, but after a beat of contact, the hunger in his body overflows and it's immediately deepened with a push. He's breathing out a slow breath, grunting because it just occurs to him then to touch her too, his hand on hers with the cigarette to the side of them like they're locked in a dance and the other on her hip, squeezing, before it slides up to cup her neck.]
(She breathes out against his mouth like they're still smoking, then in sharply through her nose when he touches her and isn't gentle. She doesn't think she could handle him trying to be. She needs something all-consuming and he delivers like he knows it, grabs her by hip and nape; deepens the kiss. She scrunches her hand into his hair to keep him right where he is, presses up onto tip toe to meet him there.
God, he smells so fucking good. Feels even better when she parts her mouth, rolls her teeth over his lip, tugs.)
[He could pull back - suck in a breath, give them both a second to rethink their approach but that'd be the easy way out. Instead he pushes into the kiss a little more forcefully, because he knows she's got good bite to her - can take it, too. And then he hooks the toe of his boot around the back of her ankle, pulling on it to start the crumpling chain of them landing down in the grass together, hoping what burns left of that smoke doesn't roll off and catch fire.]
(That's how she can tell she's into it: she doesn't care when he knocks the cigarette out of their hands and it gets lost in the grass. It's good, actually, it frees her up to press a palm against his chest, roam around until she feels his pulse sitting, hard and quick, underneath it.
At some point it becomes necessary to break the kiss just to make sure nobody rolls a fucking ankle; for Ptolemais it's also essential to make sure he goes down first, that she doesn't end up underneath him. She sinks down, and brackets his hips with her knees. Asks quick, voice rough with want,) Is this okay?
(All of it. Any of it. Her hands are waiting, paused where they landed on him.)
[He lost sight of the cigarette and it left his mind entirely - later he might lament letting the rest of it go to waste burning to ash on its own but the trade he gets is far more more valuable. They find themselves sprawled (or he does at least,) looking up at her with soft adoration and his hands resting on her thighs.]
Yeah- yeah, it is.
[He wants it, wants more - wants to keep his mind rolling in the present instead of worrying about the past or future. He kneads her thighs, breathing deep, giving her a few seconds to move before he will.]
She breathes out quick, satisfied with the answer (the look in his eyes), and drops down against his body, slow and certain. His hands anchor on her thighs; she spreads them out around his hips, knees brushing the ground and gathers her hair over to one side of her neck to get it out of the way before she kisses him again.
There is comfort in being mostly concealed by the grass, and in the warmth of his body when she brings a hand up his shirt to touch his skin, palm pressing up over his ribs. She feels him up with lazy curiousity, grinds low and close into his lap. Cants her hips inward, helpless, when he kneads and presses her like he's pushing the anxiety back, away from the surface of her skin.)
[The kiss is easy to get lost in; it's a good thing they're laying flat on the earth now, it grounds him, literally, as he closes his eyes. He can feel her atop him and she's a solid entity to hold, to touch. His hands slide up her thighs, and for a moment it's slow and gradual. Testing the waters, exploring, but after sucking in a breath between bouts of liplock it turns quickened and needy.
His hands are at her waist, tugging at the waistband; one hand up under her shirt. In a perfect scenario he'd be pulling it off, but his brain is short-sighted and instead focuses on pulling on her pants, wanting the essentials out of the way. And quick.]
(No, he's right. The way he yanks at her waistband sends a jolt straight to her clit and she moans into his mouth, the sound muffled in the kiss, skims her palm over his nipple, pressing down with the heel of her hand. Then she takes it back so she can help him help her to shimmy out of her clothes, pants first.
Her skin underneath is pale and tattooed, not smooth or perfect. Scars here and there, but he won't mind.
She kicks the pants to the side. She leaves her shirt on. She takes his wrist and brings his hand off her leg toward the heat between them, where she's obviously wet, underwear dark with it in the middle.)
[Finch's head is - clouded - a mess of hazy thoughts, a horny want for something. Someone on top of him, whose presence makes his hips buck up and his skin warm in a flush down his throat and chest. His hands are up her thighs, one hand cupping between her legs to feel her cunt through her underwear - crooking his fingers against the dip of her folds, groaning softly as his other hand is blindly trying to shove down his own pants without giving up a second of admiring her, with his eyes and the circle of his middle finger against her clit through the cotton.]
(Even though she brought his hand to where she wanted it she still gasps when he touches her, the pads of his fingers pressing inward as if they could go inside her that way before circling slow and lazy, feeling her. It's good, it's — been a while. Then he jostles them both with his arm; Ptolemais's eyes jolt open and she looks down, not to help, but to watch him work to free himself. An unboxing video.
[Said with a breathy laugh, mostly successful with his hip bones out and his pants shoved down his thighs. He's still so wrapped up in wanting more of her, the sooner the better - so yeah. Yeah. He could use the help.]
(She grins, waits a moment longer and then takes pity on him, drifting her hand down between to sink her fingers into the waistband of his underwear. She pulls them down, lifts herself (not ideal: losing contact with his hand in the process) so he can get his pants mostly off, everything off enough that it's easy to touch him, wrap her hand around his heat and hardness.
Is it fucked that his arousal makes her mouth water? Oh well.)
[Finch has always been putty in the hands of a woman, so when she touches him his eyelids flutter and his hips lift in the same motion. He grips at her thighs, her hips, tries to graze a breast but it's obvious he is but a weak and horny man, staring at her with lust and a little too much affection to be the one off they both presume this could be.]
(Him underneath of her: a solid, hot line of body and muscle and dick arching into her hand, the pre-cum that slicks her palm when she drags it up and down him, suddenly more interested in this than she was in his hand against her cunt. Yes, the hand planted into the grass by his shoulder is starting to hurt from holding herself up but it's more than worth the look on his face.) Yeah. I'm good.
[He huffs a breath that hints at the latent amusement, hands again on her, grabbing at her hips to insistently pull her down toward him. She still has control and leverage, still has him under her thumb - but he's yearning for a little more.]
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(The thing is Ptolemais doesn't think Melissa really believed it was Finch either, not by the way she folded so quickly — she was desperate for a wolf to go into a cage, that's all. They all were and the voting was all over the place, and Ptolemais isn't sure they even did it right. There's a few more nights to go. Nobody is safe. What else is there to do but meet Finch in the field and smoke a cigarette?
When she sees him standing knee deep in the grass she calls to him,) We fucking made it, (because they did. Whatever happens from here, they will always have made it.)
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[He says with a snort, like he's - still unsure how he got this far. Is it because he's good at being invisible when he wants to be, or because fate just thinks it's a lot funnier to take from him than to take him from others? His expression seems to lighten upon her arrival, eyes searching her over before he holds out that cigarette he promised.]
For the lady.
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When Finch offers her the cigarette she does a wonky approximation of a curtsey and takes it.) Thank you sir. (Ha ha.
But seriously.) Got a light? (She has to come in closer, pressing her shoulder into his arm. To block the wind.)
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[He brings out a lighter; seen better days but so far as contraband goes here, it works and that's all that matters. He lights her cigarette for her, spending an extra moment or two leaned close; admiring the way the wind moves her hair.]
We made it.
[He echoes what she earlier said, as if maybe just now it settles into his brain - and he repeats it in its finality.]
Now what.
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Now what.)
Here. (She brings the cigarette to her mouth, pulling in, and takes his jaw all gentle between thumb and middle finger—
gives him a second to realise what will come next and to pull out of it, say something, stop her.)
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She's warm - her touch is warm, her presence is warm. He doesn't pull away, doesn't stop, doesn't do anything for a long beat.
He just looks at her - gaze soft, open to her approach and anticipating something from it - but wondering precisely what that is, in some meager sense of worry that he's on the wrong page despite the words right in front of him. Here, she says. Here, he stays.]
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Ptolemais can tell it's all over for her the second he goes pliant, jaw cradled in her hand. He looks at her all steady and warm, like he trusts her completely. Like whatever she wants to do right now, he'll let her do it and do it with her. He won't leave her here alone.
She pulls him in. Coaxes his mouth open with a gentle pressure at his hinge and slow-exhales the smoke into him. Their lips barely brush but she can tell they're soft and hot.
Letting her hand drop, deciding he'll probably keep his head where it is without her insistence, she cups the nape of his neck instead and strokes her thumb against his skull through the tangle of his hair, brings the cigarette back in between them for another inhale.)
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She holds the nape of his neck and then brings up the cigarette; his own fingers touch hers, helping to guide the filter to his lips. There's barely a sliver of space between them but he uses it to inhale, and replicates this process wordlessly by exhaling into her mouth. Sharing back the breath, flowing it into her next.]
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It strikes her then that they may only be able to enjoy this because of the nature of the compound and everything needing to be done in pairs to really matter.
She takes the cigarette back from him, movements no longer slow and meaningful. Her hand, fingers pressed into his nape, trembles.)
Can you distract me. (Or she's going to think too hard about all this — the compound, the bodies, the Shepherd opening his mouth underneath a waterfall of blood — and fall off the fucking edge. It's right there. She can feel it pressing up between her back teeth, metallic and awful, and she pulls him in all the way to her in the same breath.)
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His lips meet hers softly, but after a beat of contact, the hunger in his body overflows and it's immediately deepened with a push. He's breathing out a slow breath, grunting because it just occurs to him then to touch her too, his hand on hers with the cigarette to the side of them like they're locked in a dance and the other on her hip, squeezing, before it slides up to cup her neck.]
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God, he smells so fucking good. Feels even better when she parts her mouth, rolls her teeth over his lip, tugs.)
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At some point it becomes necessary to break the kiss just to make sure nobody rolls a fucking ankle; for Ptolemais it's also essential to make sure he goes down first, that she doesn't end up underneath him. She sinks down, and brackets his hips with her knees. Asks quick, voice rough with want,) Is this okay?
(All of it. Any of it. Her hands are waiting, paused where they landed on him.)
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Yeah- yeah, it is.
[He wants it, wants more - wants to keep his mind rolling in the present instead of worrying about the past or future. He kneads her thighs, breathing deep, giving her a few seconds to move before he will.]
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She breathes out quick, satisfied with the answer (the look in his eyes), and drops down against his body, slow and certain. His hands anchor on her thighs; she spreads them out around his hips, knees brushing the ground and gathers her hair over to one side of her neck to get it out of the way before she kisses him again.
There is comfort in being mostly concealed by the grass, and in the warmth of his body when she brings a hand up his shirt to touch his skin, palm pressing up over his ribs. She feels him up with lazy curiousity, grinds low and close into his lap. Cants her hips inward, helpless, when he kneads and presses her like he's pushing the anxiety back, away from the surface of her skin.)
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His hands are at her waist, tugging at the waistband; one hand up under her shirt. In a perfect scenario he'd be pulling it off, but his brain is short-sighted and instead focuses on pulling on her pants, wanting the essentials out of the way. And quick.]
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Her skin underneath is pale and tattooed, not smooth or perfect. Scars here and there, but he won't mind.
She kicks the pants to the side. She leaves her shirt on. She takes his wrist and brings his hand off her leg toward the heat between them, where she's obviously wet, underwear dark with it in the middle.)
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Then she laughs, just a little.)
Need a hand?
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[Said with a breathy laugh, mostly successful with his hip bones out and his pants shoved down his thighs. He's still so wrapped up in wanting more of her, the sooner the better - so yeah. Yeah. He could use the help.]
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Is it fucked that his arousal makes her mouth water? Oh well.)
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[Finch has always been putty in the hands of a woman, so when she touches him his eyelids flutter and his hips lift in the same motion. He grips at her thighs, her hips, tries to graze a breast but it's obvious he is but a weak and horny man, staring at her with lust and a little too much affection to be the one off they both presume this could be.]
You sure you want to stay on top?
[Joking, playful - teasing. Can you handle it?]
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(Him underneath of her: a solid, hot line of body and muscle and dick arching into her hand, the pre-cum that slicks her palm when she drags it up and down him, suddenly more interested in this than she was in his hand against her cunt. Yes, the hand planted into the grass by his shoulder is starting to hurt from holding herself up but it's more than worth the look on his face.) Yeah. I'm good.
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[He huffs a breath that hints at the latent amusement, hands again on her, grabbing at her hips to insistently pull her down toward him. She still has control and leverage, still has him under her thumb - but he's yearning for a little more.]