ikissdhimbck | AU: Oakville, Texas. The morning after.

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AU: Oakville, Texas. The morning after.

**NOTE: This is part of a plot arc that was meant to occur in Milliways over the Spring/Summer of 2011 in Bar Time. It has since become an AU, and should be treated as a standalone plot not associated with any game, and not fitting into Kate's continuity.**

Kate doesn't sleep well. Once she gets to her room and undresses (for the last time tonight), slips on her chemise, and slides into bed (alone), she finds she can't stop playing their conversation out again and again. As she stares at the ceiling in her darkened room, driving their words so deep into her memory it'll be a while yet before she can erase them, she finds herself growing more and more agitated.

Stupid man.

Stupid drink.

Stupid her.

She wakes up later than she normally does. The light outside her window is already starting to yellow, hinting closer to seven o'clock than to six. She rises and gets dressed, mind still cranking, making sure she looks a smidgen more 'respectable' than when they first rode in. More womanly. More businesslike. And by the time she's finished she has a rehearsed speech all set in her mind. This constant arguing is pointless, and she won't do it anymore.

She steps out into the hall, catching sight of her wearied boots on worn and shabby carpeting. The rug was likely quite fine in its day, but like the knotted old wood it's trying to hide it's grown bedraggled and thin. She contemplates knocking on his door and quickly dismisses the idea. Her day doesn't hinge on whether or not Gene Hunt is happy with her.

She makes her way down to the dining room where the senorita from yesterday is cleaning shot glasses and tumblers, asks for a hot breakfast, and sits herself down at a table.

"Has my associate been down this mornin'?"

"No, ma'am. Only you."

Kate nods.

And waits.

By noon Gene still hasn't come down. She wonders if this is ordinary for him, but she's run out of reasons to linger in the bar without looking like a fool. She leaves a few coins for the barmaid, and debates whether she should go on and head out and just hope he gets the idea whenever he comes to. No. Things are mendable, ignorable, and shouldn't be left to fester simply because of their pride.

She scales the stairs and stops in front of his door, takes a breath, and resists rolling her eyes. She reminds herself that this is the last time this is going to happen. By god, this is the last time. And she knocks.

There's no answer.

She knocks again.

Perhaps he slipped out early, and no one noticed he left? She figures he wouldn't bother to tell her, especially if he's upset about last night. He could've just decided to take a look around town, or —

Her heart sinks.

Or he could've gone back to The Bar.

She opens his door — it's unlocked, just like he said it would be — and takes a look inside.

"Gene?"

He's definitely not here. Perhaps it should be comforting to note that his bags are still in the room. It doesn't look like he bothered to pack or clean up. But he's gone, along with his coat, which leaves only two equally unhappy possibilities. He's gone back to Milliways, left, had enough of her and this; or he's out, and likely been out all night. All night with...

She rubs at her forehead. Sighs heavily. Sits on the edge of his bed and just... just sits.

Her rehearsed apology and the amendment she planned to offer suddenly feel utterly childish. She feels utterly childish, for so whole-heartedly believing she was going to set things right. For actually believing, after so many failed attempts to overcome her doubts, her worries, this — this curse she can't ignore despite how fervently people tell her to, that she could get it together long enough not to mess another good thing up.

She considers feeling angry. For the briefest second, she does. But then all she feels is disappointed. It was never going to be part of the deal to let him in enough for her to get hurt. She wasn't going to care when everything went to hell. And eventually it would, she knew that, and that was okay. It is okay. This all blew up in their faces, just like it was always going to. And she's still okay with it. It's fine.

Just don't mind the gnawing ache in the pit of her stomach.

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He does conversation when he feels like it.'some birds lend themselves to it, some don't. Sometimes he just needs to take his mind off the woman on top of him, so he talks.

'Oral sex,' he clarifies, encouraging her back into rhythm with hands on her hips. 'Really never 'ad it?'

She looks partially concerned, though mostly just confused. Her eyes slip shut for a moment and she pulls in a breath, keeping to the rhythm of their bodies even as he has her worrying she's doing something wrong.

"No."

Her hands slide from his belly to his breast and she leans forward, her hair falling from her shoulders and touching his chest.

"Mph. No, I've never h-had it before."

Edited 2011-07-04 01:36 (UTC)

He laughs again, still breathless, and tries rocking back into her just a touch.

'Don' look so scared, sweet'eart. Jus' tryin' to take my mind off what you're doin'.'

As an experiment, he slips a hand over her thigh and searches out her clit again. Maybe she won't like it since it's probably still sensitive, but then again, maybe she will. Only one way to find out.

"Should I be doin' somethin' different?"

She has no concept of his needing to take his mind off things because she's doing things right. Clearly there's something she's not doing that she needs to be, some way to make this better for him.

She sucks in a breath when he touches her — still sensitive, though not unpleasant — and rocks a little deeper. Her walls spasm around him and she moans, slowing for half a beat before she picks up the pace again.

He tenses, his shoulders pressing into the mattress and arching his chest, trying not to shove up into her. He flushes with the effort, groaning helplessly.

'No...no, nothin' different.'

Christ, this is torturous. He can't move, and it's agony of the best sort. Killing him, but still amazing.

'So you've never given it either?'

"Gene."

She sounds more than a touch desperate. It's easier to breathe like this, but she's still struggling not to tense and gasp every time he moves a little deeper. Talking leaves her lightheaded.

"I don't..."

She can't focus well enough to handle a question that would normally have her three shades of red and sputtering incredulously.

"No. D'you wanna discuss my whole sexual past right now?"

He tries to laugh, but there's not enough air for it.

'No. But I don't wan' t'flip you over and hammer you either, so this seems like a safer option.'

Or rather, he does, but can't.

'An' if we can't talk about sex while we're havin' it...oh Jesusshit luv, don' squeeze like that...then there's some borin' pillow talk in our future.'

Would she rather discuss the weather, or what's on telly? He thinks not. Hopes not.

She drops her head, but if he's looking closely he'll see the smile trying to form on her lips. For a moment she can't say anything. She only breathes, shallow and haltingly, practically matching the rhythm of her body. Her skin is glistening under the light of the oil lamp.

"I don't think I've ... ever had a borin' talk with you."

She stretches closer to his body again, aching to feel more of him pressed against her. Aching for anything, really. Anything to draw her mind away from the pleasure-pain between her legs. Anything that doesn't make her think of her time with Doc.

"Y'could ... always say somethin' ... somethin' that'd get me closer for you."

'Like what? Talk filthy at you?'

Bloody hell. Just goes to show. Acts all innocent but underneath, mind in the gutter like everyone else.

He is so relieved to hear it.

He automatically arches up to meet her body, wanting her skin against his as much as she does, though it hardly helps his state of repressed desperation.

'Pretty hard t'do that, when you've never tol' me what you like. Or what you think you'd like.'

Knowing their luck, he'd say something that would totally put her off. And that would be nothing short of disasterous at this point.

"Filthy?"

He — what?

Her breath shudders from her lungs on the next exhale — a laugh, if she had the air to spare — and with him arching like that slips her fingers up into his hair and knots them there.

"If y'can't figure out how t'compliment me while we're havin' sex ... then we've got some a-awkward pillow talk in our future."

She pushes down on him, choking back a desperate moan, and her fingers go tight.

OK, he'd respond to that but she's pushing down on him and all he can do is clamp his mouth shut to hold back the cry. It comes out as a keen instead, every muscle going rigid for a moment, and he can't help but respond and push back to meet her. He can't stop it, his body just does what comes naturally, and he doesn't want to hurt her but oh God, it feels so good.

He swallows hard, his mouth dry as sand, and fights for control. He can feel his heartbeat pulsing between his legs, knows just how tight and drawn-up his bollocks are. She could have him coming in seconds if she tried, but he won't tell her that. Vanity makes him want to get her off again first, but he knows he's getting to the point where he won't be able to help it.

'Don' reckon y'n...need compliments.'

His hands slip round to her arse and press down, gently, gently asking her to ease him deeper. If nothing else, it'll remove a bit more pressure from the bit where he's most sensitive. Might make it last long enough to get her coming on him, and he really bloody wants to see that.

'Shoul' be able t'tell.'

She can't quite bite back a yelp when he thrusts to meet her, a hand reaching so quickly for the wrought iron that you can hear the slap of her skin and the creaking of the bed frame. She holds on, her face a mixture of pleasure and pain, and when he starts to ease in deeper she can feel a pricking burn in her eyes.

"I can't."

She can't take any more of him. She's already feeling stretched so tight it's hard to breathe. When he comes she's worried she isn't going to make it there with him; she knows he's close, and she's not quite there, and the deeper he pushes the farther she feels from that edge.

"I'm about t'split."

God, she wants him to get her there. She doesn't want to end the night tangled up in this torture. She frees her hand from his mess of sweaty hair and reaches down his arm, taking up his hand and bringing it back to her swollen clit.

Edited 2011-07-04 20:52 (UTC)

'Sorry sorry sorry...'

He lets go of her completely, dropping his arms to the bed and for a moment, just lies there prone, chest heaving. He can't contemplate stopping completely but he knows he will if he has to. He just needs to get his head around the possibility first.

So it's a relief when she takes his hand, and doesn't try to slide off him. He's happy to help her along and is very careful, very careful not to push up towards her. He just slips his fingers into her wet folds with a moan, finding her clit and rubbing over it gently, watching her face the whole time.

'I won' move. Jus'...come for me, luv...'

Edited 2011-07-04 21:04 (UTC)

She holds her position for a moment longer, half bent over his body. She blinks to clear the moisture from her eyes, wanting to see him, needing to see the expression on his face when he stops moving, stops touching her. That's not what she wanted, but as the pain eases off again she realizes maybe that is what she wanted after all.

Her breath hitches and her eyes slip shut. She's halfway to overstimulated, aching and sensitive, but she presses his hand closer regardless. Just once more. That's all she wants.

She tilts her body back, her hands on his thighs and her back arched, closes her eyes and rocks against him. She hums, teeth clamped shut to keep from crying out. She tries not to clench around him but she gets to the point where she can't help it, and she's rocking more to feel the touch of his fingers than anything. The build is so much slower than before, agonizing, but steady; until her whole focus is narrowed on the coil starting to unravel inside her.

It takes about three seconds for his muscles to start bunching; two more before they're rock hard and aching. Because he won't move, won't let himself move, except to flick his fingers on her.

There's not a chance of him staying silent, though he tries at first. But then she starts rocking, and he sees her gorgeous body arched and tight, the pain/pleasure on her face and she's clenching; the first quiet cry breaks loose, followed by another, and another, matching the rhythm of the hot swells of pleasure rolling up from his centre. He can hold it, knows he has to hold it but it won't be long now; he repeats it in his head like a mantra, not long, son, not long..., the only thing that stops him giving up and letting go.

The first cry washes over her like ice water, making everything inside her go tight and trembling. But she can't stop, not now, not when she's close and the sound of him is echoing in her ears and she finds it to be such a delicious turn on that she's arching more, and more, until she's there and she can feel it and all she has to do is

let

go.

Her head falls back, her hair cascading down between his knees and she moans, fingers pressed into his thighs, legs shaking and joints locked and everything, everything trembles with the force of her climax.

Oh thank Christ...

The relief is like that moment after a gunfight, when the sounds are still echoing but you realise you're not dead. It causes a stab of adrenaline and that's all she wrote; Kate's quivering all over him, he can see the pulse in her neck, the way her nipples point upwards, the tightness of the muscles in her stomach and it's beautiful, just beautiful; his hand fists the sheets, still trying not to move as he floods her, strangling the yell that wants to break free.

She's not the only one who's shaking by the end of it. He's not sure he's breathing, though the heaving of his chest would say otherwise. And now he can't move for a different reason. He thinks he might never move again, actually.

She's wrapped up in him entirely for a few fierce seconds before she finally, finally starts to come down. Her body rolls against him, slow and catlike, and she pulls herself forward only to spread herself out over his body, easing off his erection.

She nuzzles his neck, filling her lungs with deep, hard breaths. Once she's a little more collected, she slips to his side.

"Was that okay?"

He snorts a tired laugh, dropping one arm loosely around her when she spreads over him and letting it fall back to the bed under her when she presses up his side.

'Brilliant, luv.'

He'd turn and kiss her, but yeah, still not moving. He's thinking he might just have to spend the rest of his life on his back.

'You alrigh'? Still in one piece?'

She slips her arms around his middle, chest heaving and aching.

"Mmmhm."

She is lying very, very still of course. Her body is humming, and it's not wholly pleasant. But that last orgasm is doing a lot to keep her pleasantly adrift.

"Think so."

'Good.'

He waves an arm vaguely in the direction of the nightstand, and by some miracle, hits upon his fags. It's obviously his night. Now if someone would chuck a bucket of water over him and bring him a whiskey, he'd be completely happy.

But even without those last two, he's pretty damn chuffed. A good night's work, he reckons. Then a thought occurs to him as he lights up, and he chuckles.

'Reckon I'm gonna get my revenge in the mornin'. For when you laughed at me when I got off the horse the first day.'

Not that he'll laugh for real.

Probably.

"So this is your idea of pillow talk?"

He looks across at her.

'Sorry, was I suppose t'recite poetry?'

"You're hopeless."

Her lips twitch.

She drags herself up onto an elbow, leans in, and kisses him.

"Totally hopeless."

He smirks, and concedes enough to hold his fag away from her.

'Good thing. I don' know any poetry. 'cept a limerick about a girl from Penzance, but I don' think you want t'hear that.'

No one wants to hear that.

He's smiling as he kisses her.

'Enjoy it, then?'

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