It's About Holding and Being Held [Closed]

[whatisay]

WHO| Jason and Peggy Carter; Jason and Swann
WHAT| Jason is Peggy's support system, sad as that is; Swann gives Jason 'I'm sorry Leo called you crazy' cuddles
WHEN| After the Binding Plot and Jason's network post.
WHERE| D7 Suite; D8 Suite
WARNINGS| Shit might get deep in either thread. References to bidding, child abuse, alcoholism, suicide and mental illness may abound.

I. Peggy

Jason works late more often than most Escorts, not from any sort of work ethic so much as because he often prefers the workplace to home - since he's started regularly dating Swann and carpooling with her, the overnights have decreased some because he has a more pleasant third option. But sometimes he can still be found late at night, camped out in the District Seven Suite like an ill-tempered gargoyle, feet on the coffee table and suit jacket flung over the back of the couch. He's managed to secure a week of food for each of his Tributes come the next Arena, well before the theme is even announced, and that small victory has soothed his frazzled nerves.

It's about two in the morning, and given that he's imposed a strict schedule for all his Tributes that involves morning exercises and primping, it's dead quiet. Jason's decided it's not worth the hour's drive home just to get two hours of sleep and then come back, so he's drifting off on the couch, his notepad on his lap, his glasses fallen so far down his nose that he can't possibly looking through them, his head tilting back and then jerking forward again in a vain attempt to stave off sleep.

II. Swann

Jason expected pushback from his network post; he craved it, almost. He's not quite aware enough of his own behavior to realize that instigating fights is his way of shoring up his victimhood's fortress, of refilling his tank of martyrdom which gets him out of bed in the morning, but he did know he was looking to pick a fight. And he got a few of them - but also took some injury from one, from a comment which slipped past his defenses and lit up the inside of his head like dynamite. He finishes the conversation and shoves his communicator into his pants even before forgetting to turn it off (it will shut down automatically in thirty seconds).

He's so angry that for a moment he can't see, that even after his vision returns he feels uncoordinated, like his neurological impulses aren't moving muscles so much as setting off tiny explosions. After pacing around the Suite living room for a moment, he heads to the elevator, accidentally hits the button for the wrong floor before he manages to hit the right one, and resents that an elevator door can't slam. Instead he rests his forehead against the wall and waits to arrive at the District Eight floor.

He just hopes, for their sakes, that it's not Joel or Jack he runs into first, that he finds Swann almost immediately upon arriving.

Comments

[cigne]

She makes a satisfied noise, pressing against his hand, then unbuckles his belt while he drives. She doesn't hesitate to slide her fingers down into his trousers, resting her chin in her free hand, propped up on the console. Biting her lip, she lets her eyes flick up to his face, where he's watching the road.

"Tell me what you're going to do to me."

[whatisay]

"I'm going to do to you what no man has ever done before," he says. His voice gets low and husky, still rough from the earlier anger. "And what no one else will ever do to you."

Because she's his. She can probably feel him getting aroused, rooting around down the front of his pants. He bites his lip too, watching the road automatically, feeling the heat between her thighs.

[cigne]

His voice makes her shiver pleasantly and her thighs tighten around his hand for a moment before she moves. She leaves her shoes on the floor and plants her knees in the seat, leaving room for his hand even as her ass rises up. She bends down, closes the gap between them, and with only a few tugs of fabric, she has him in her mouth, bobbing her head up and down as she balances on one hand.

[whatisay]

He has to contort his arm some to keep his hand in place as she goes straight to road head, and thankfully he's near enough to the secluded part of the lot that he can pull in and turn the car off, because soon he can't imagine focusing on anything other than the way it seems she's pulling her very soul down past his navel. He throws his head back against the headrest, sucking air.

He can barely concentrate on his hand between her thighs, and his technique suffers for it.

[cigne]

She doesn't notice him faltering -- in fact, once he stops the car, she reaches past him and hits the button to slide his seat back, making room for her to let go of his cock with a quiet pop and then squirm underneath the steering wheel to kneel at his feet instead. It's a tight fit, even for her, but there's just enough room if she stays bent forward with him in her mouth.

Swann looks up at him through her eyelashes, her top discarded as she'd crawled across the car, so that she's left in just her bra and skirt, all the petticoats once again bunching up to create the illusion that she's emerging from clouds. Her hands slide on his thighs, gripping when she gets close to his knees, and soon she has to turn her eyes down because her nose is nearly pressed to his skin.

[whatisay]

He had no idea she could fit there, but any sounds of surprise are muffled by the way he's sucking at his lower lip, grinding his teeth because it feels good and hurts all at once, to be so full of want and to have her teasing it back out. She unravels him like a spool of thread. He grips the console and the car door, eyelashes fluttering behind his sunglasses.

"Jesus, Swann, where did you learn-" but he doesn't finish asking, because he doesn't want to know, doesn't want her sexual history to come between them. He wants only this moment.

[cigne]

Swann can fit anywhere that a medium-large dog can fit. This particular place is a tight squeeze, but that's mostly because the steering wheel is a threat to the back of her head -- her actual body fits down there just fine.

She coos around him in her throat, something it took her years to be able to do, but living to please others can imbue one with some useful talents. One of her hands slides up his stomach, under his shirt, and back down again, until she brings it under her chin to rub little circles with her thumb on the patch of skin right behind his testicles. Her other hand keeps hold of his hip, and she lets him graze across the roof of her mouth as she pulls back enough to look up at him again.

[whatisay]

"Oh my God..."

He scrapes the top of her mouth and when she pulls away he yearns, he makes a sound for it, for her, that doesn't seem to come from his throat but all the way through his body.

He meets her eyes and his are hazy, his consciousness divided between this moment looking at her and the parallel world of pleasure she's pulled him into.

"Keep doing- keep doing that, with your hand."

[cigne]

She smiles around him, bobbing her head again so that he rubs back and forth on the soft part of her palate before she pushes all the way back down, her suction increasing. Her thumb pushes in a little more firmly as she shifts a little bit, becoming uncomfortably aroused from the noises he's making and the way he feels in her mouth.

[whatisay]

It feels like ecstasy and it hurts, too, in the way that scratching an itch too hard does where it's still hard to say that you don't want it. He sucks a deep breath and shudders in prediction for the climax that comes next, that draws his body taut and then releases it. Inside her mouth still he starts to slack. He sees stars, feels his mouth go dry, wheezes out something that could be gratitude and could just be primitive pleasure.

[cigne]

All of her pressure eases until it's gone, her hand gently sliding away to his thigh while she swallows and holds him in her mouth until he makes that noise. She pulls away then, licking along his length one final time, then smiles up at him like a proud pet might as it gives its master a gift. Her hands fall into her lap, the mass of crinoline, while she waits, and she cocks her head a little bit to the side.

[whatisay]

Jason relaxes and stares, dazed, out the window for a few moments before he looks down at her and sees those need-to-please dark eyes. He sighs, relieved, less angry now than he was, and not thinking for the moment of returning the favor.

"How are you going to get out of there?"

[cigne]

"Well, you can't drive with me down here," she teases, "but I bet I can get out easier than I got in."

Holding his thighs, she slithers out from under the steering wheel, towards him, until she's in his lap instead of on the floor. It does take her a bit of creative contorting, but she wriggles out and rests on her heels, straddling him with her arms around his neck.

"See?"

[whatisay]

"Must be all that yoga," he says, as much into her hair as into her. He wraps his arms around her waist, squirming a bit as he works his fly back up. "Can you get out of handcuffs that easily too?"

He pauses, then blushes a bit when he realizes how that sounded. "I didn't mean that like that."

[cigne]

Swann laughs a little and smiles wider when he blushes, then leans in to press her forehead to his, their noses touching as she rubs along his spine with her fingers, just under the collar of his shirt.

"Depends on how tight they are, I suppose. I've only ever slid out of handcuffs once before, and it was an accident."

She has never been arrested.

[whatisay]

He exhales, his lips just a bit away from hers, nose meeting hers at the bridge, and some of that tension that seems to coil up in his back like an animal of its own dissipates. The anger, the rage he felt at Leo isn't dead, but it's somewhere behind them on the road, and they'll pick it up again later.

He just closes his eyes for a moment and enjoys holding her.

"I wish the resorts weren't in the Districts. I wish they were even further away than that, so we could go there."

[cigne]

She watches him when he closes his eyes, shifts just enough to rub the tip of her nose against his -- she remembers once being told that Eskimo kissing came from ancient people who lived in the cold, so that they could kiss without their mouths freezing together, and she's always thought that's lovely.

Idly stroking the back of his neck, she makes a small noise. "An island in the ocean, far away from Panem. Where no one else is."

[whatisay]

"Sure." He breathes deep again, deep enough that she can sink a little more into him, and he feels that devastating hollowness in him that he's never been able to fill, that what's the point? raging in his body that he tries to stubbornly ignore because he has no good answer and knows it. She's the closest he's come to stopping up that emptiness. "Just you and me. No one else. You and me."

It may be the closest Swann ever gets to romance from him, because really, there's very little difference between romance and escapism.

[cigne]

"And Pascal and Marcel." Swann sighs and closes her eyes, melts against him before moving her head to rest on his shoulder, forehead pressed in the crook of his neck. Everything feels nice and warm and right at this moment, like they've finished a puzzle together. Maybe not a big puzzle, but one of the moment, at least.

"You can go fishing and I'll make us those flower necklaces."

[whatisay]

"Fine. And Pascal and Marcel." He cradles her head in his hand, there against his shoulder. "Do I have to wear one?"

They could drive. It hits him like lightning, that they could drive and just not stop, go anywhere, this fantasy that wouldn't sustain reality. He wants to just hit the gas and go, never thinking of where their destination would be.

[cigne]

She giggles a little, nuzzles the side of his neck. "Uh-huh. Yours will be yellow and red and white. That's what you wear on islands, flower necklaces. We'll all have one."

It's never entered Swann's mind, to just go, because it seems so impossible that she might as well not think about it. She doesn't even know what's outside of Panem, if there's anything at all, and yet if Jason started the car and started driving, she would never leave his side.

[whatisay]

Reality begins to soak back in, and Jason sighs. They wouldn't make it outside the city without being asked for a pass to show that they have the right to travel to whatever District border they cross first. Then there are obligations here, they'll need to eat, someone has to clear up their affairs, and by the time they get everything negotiated the spontaneity will be gone and their lives will have caught them again.

He hates feeling like a fugitive from his own life.

"We have to get back."

[cigne]

Jason speaks and she pulls back a little to look at him, taking the sides of his face in her hands first. "Okay," she murmurs, then leans in and kisses him. She stays that way for a minute, holding his face and keeping her lips pressed to his, then touches their foreheads together once more before climb back to the passenger seat.

"We'll take a bath when we get home. To relax." It doesn't occur to her that she says it like they're one, like he lives with her permanently instead of just overnight for half the week. Part of it is simple convenience in speaking, but part of it is that she thinks of him as a static piece of her home now, and it feels empty when he doesn't stay with her.

She pulls her shirt back on when she takes her seat again, then flips down the sun visor to look in the mirror and use one finger to wipe away the lipstick smudges on the sides of her lips.

[whatisay]

She takes a little of his breath with her when she finally pulls away and presses her forehead to his head. "Alright."

It sounds nice, and ever since they developed this routine he's found himself actually looking forward to the end of the workday for more than just for a chance to get away from his coworkers and Tributes. He actually does relax.

He straightens his clothes a bit and starts to drive them back.

[cigne]

She watches him lazily, smiling as she pushes the visor back up and relaxes into her seat, her legs curled under her. She's comfortable and happy, content even to go back to work for those five or six hours they have left before the end of the day.

"Are you looking forward to this weekend?" she asks softly, reaching for his hand.