“I don’t really want to talk about them,” Etta warns. She peels her shirt off hastily and drops it. The jeans are low on her hips, the holes in the leather belt worn down from repeated use.
Astrid’ pops the buckle with one hand and answers devoutly: “It’s not a problem.”
Etta’s feet are grubby, dirt between the toes - the detail takes Astrid off-stride - her face is pot-stained with flecks of grime. The other woman crawls upward on the bed, arms wide, body low as a lizard. Her stomach is flat, ribs spare, small-sized breasts and not enough body fat. Etta’s teeth are caught in her bottom lip, and when she kisses Astrid, it’s a strike. Coiled and spitting venom.
It’s rough. She leaves diamond patterns on Astrid’s skin. She folds her vulva aside and flicks upward with the flat of her tongue, fingers hooked inside. When they’re finished, Etta pads out naked from the bed, walks to the communal shower and washes the grime from her body, lets the juices of their union float away.
“Thanks for that,” she says, dismissive.
Astrid raises herself onto one elbow and nods. “Don’t mention it.” There’s a stutter, a slow blink, then Etta gathers her jacket and walks out the door.
It’s longer, the second time. One might even say there’s foreplay, or what counts as conversation. Certain subjects are off topic, ‘them’ in big capital letters and italics being one, the resistance and Simon the other. Etta tucks her blonde hair behind her ears, sits cross-legged on the bed, and simply touches Astrid. The sensation so light, it’s ephemeral. The static of air caught between their skin warms.
She follows the contours of Astrid’s body: the valleys, the hillocks of her knobby knees. She smiles, pulls the bra-strap aside, and glides her fingertip down Astrid’s sternum, brushing her nipples and down to the navel. Steady, for the first time since Astrid’s known her - Etta displays patience. Her kisses are careful. Her teeth never catch. But she returns to Astrid’s lips like a person deprived from water, kisses that run deep and dark, that leave Astrid bruised all the same. Lips bee-swollen and wet.
Astrid returns the touche. Etta pulls away a fraction, intense and vibrating on a frequency Astrid can’t read, some secret chord between G and C – between red and blue. “Don’t tell me I look like my mother,” she says, fierce.
“I thought we weren’t mentioning them,” Astrid returns calmly. “Don’t break your own rules, girl.”
Her fingers tighten on Astrid’s thighs, in the soft skin behind her buttocks.
“Thanks for that,” Etta says, later.
She hesitates, jacket swinging from her forefinger, but doesn’t pull it on. Astrid raises her head from the pillow, arms folded beneath, sleepy-eyed and satiated. “Hm-mm.”
The third time, it’s a good day. It’s a fantastic night. And in the wee hours of the morning, it’s splendid sex.
It starts with the four of them sitting at the table. There is no beer, precious little alcohol - but where there’s Walter Bishop there’s narcotics, and they’re all extremely relaxed. It’s three girls and one boy and there’s too much skin, too many t-shirts, bare arms, and zero parental guidance.
“That’s an awful plan,” Olivia insists.
Peter smirks at her. “Don’t hold back on your opinion there, sweetheart.”
“Well, it is,” Etta agrees.
“I miss Lincoln,” Peter bemoans. “The sex ratio is all out of whack. There’s no support here.”
“Feeling out-numbered?” Astrid asks. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d be intimidated.”
“Three women doesn’t intimidate me. But the three of you are utterly terrifying.”
“Who’s Lincoln?” Etta sprawls in her seat and looks from one to another.
“Oh, hey, I have a picture!”
“You have a picture?” Peter repeats.
“Don’t judge,” Astrid whispers fiercely and pulls out a photograph from her wallet. It was taken in the early days, before Peter materialised in their world - when Lincoln had just moved across from Hartford. He’s standing stiffly; Walter and Olivia can be seen in the background, bent near the science table.
Etta breathes out. “Oh, my. He’s gorgeous. You guys didn’t amber him, too, by chance?” There’s an awkward silence. Etta raises her head slowly, and Astrid has to bite her lip from reacting.
Olivia and Peter both have perfect poker faces on.
“Oh,” Etta says, startled. “Who slept with him?”
Olivia colours faintly.
Peter stares up at the ceiling, his jaw clenching. “We’re missing important steps here – like a thirty-odd age difference – and our child thinking we’re old and heinous. You shouldn’t be *asking* these type of questions.”
Etta blinks and says incredulously. “So *everyone* slept with him?”
“I’m going to bed,” Olivia says, diplomatically, and hauls Peter up after her.
Etta stares at the photo for a bit longer, then carefully hands it back. “He was part of our team for a while,” Astrid explains. “And then things got complicated.”
“Not like us?”
“No,” Astrid smiles. “Not like us.”
Etta looks away, a line appearing between her forehead as she frowns. Carefully, Astrid hooks their fingers together and drags the younger woman away.
Etta’s pale cream and long bones. Astrid could bury her nose in the hollow of her throat, breathe in her scent, she could place her hands on the flare of her hips, wash her feet clean. They trade kisses, languid, and everything seems brighter, more disjointed, head reeling from the opiates and the lazy invitation of Etta’s sprawl.
She likes to be in control. But Astrid sees vulnerability, an undertone of shyness as Etta whispers. “I like you.”
“What do you like?”
“Your laugh, and your reflexive kindness. I like the way you treat me.”
Astrid kisses her pelvic bone, tastes Etta at her most intimate. She uses fingers and tongue, slick, because she believes in slippery ease. She uses two fingers, then three, wrist arched, fingers stroking long, tucks in four and listens to Etta pant, shudder through it, the contractions of her orgasm tightening around Astrid’s wrist. It’s sloppy, never rough, and when she quietens, Astrid goes back to using her tongue.
Etta curls in tight afterwards, eyes open, and never once says brusquely: “ Thanks for that.”
She stumbles out the next morning, the buttons on her shirt crooked, smelling like sex, and her hair in disarray. She smiles faintly, jacket hooked over her arm and whispers. “See you tonight?”
“Yes,” Astrid says, propped on one elbow.
Etta opens the door and walks straight into Peter, who’s standing in the corridor, shirt in disarray, unwashed, and a three o clock shadow on his face. He’s balanced on one foot while tugging on his other boot, and for a moment, they blink at each other comically.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
thanks for that Etta/Astrid
Date: 2012-10-11 08:38 am (UTC)Astrid’ pops the buckle with one hand and answers devoutly: “It’s not a problem.”
Etta’s feet are grubby, dirt between the toes - the detail takes Astrid off-stride - her face is pot-stained with flecks of grime. The other woman crawls upward on the bed, arms wide, body low as a lizard. Her stomach is flat, ribs spare, small-sized breasts and not enough body fat. Etta’s teeth are caught in her bottom lip, and when she kisses Astrid, it’s a strike. Coiled and spitting venom.
It’s rough. She leaves diamond patterns on Astrid’s skin. She folds her vulva aside and flicks upward with the flat of her tongue, fingers hooked inside. When they’re finished, Etta pads out naked from the bed, walks to the communal shower and washes the grime from her body, lets the juices of their union float away.
“Thanks for that,” she says, dismissive.
Astrid raises herself onto one elbow and nods. “Don’t mention it.” There’s a stutter, a slow blink, then Etta gathers her jacket and walks out the door.
It’s longer, the second time. One might even say there’s foreplay, or what counts as conversation. Certain subjects are off topic, ‘them’ in big capital letters and italics being one, the resistance and Simon the other. Etta tucks her blonde hair behind her ears, sits cross-legged on the bed, and simply touches Astrid. The sensation so light, it’s ephemeral. The static of air caught between their skin warms.
She follows the contours of Astrid’s body: the valleys, the hillocks of her knobby knees. She smiles, pulls the bra-strap aside, and glides her fingertip down Astrid’s sternum, brushing her nipples and down to the navel. Steady, for the first time since Astrid’s known her - Etta displays patience. Her kisses are careful. Her teeth never catch. But she returns to Astrid’s lips like a person deprived from water, kisses that run deep and dark, that leave Astrid bruised all the same. Lips bee-swollen and wet.
Astrid returns the touche. Etta pulls away a fraction, intense and vibrating on a frequency Astrid can’t read, some secret chord between G and C – between red and blue. “Don’t tell me I look like my mother,” she says, fierce.
“I thought we weren’t mentioning them,” Astrid returns calmly. “Don’t break your own rules, girl.”
Her fingers tighten on Astrid’s thighs, in the soft skin behind her buttocks.
“Thanks for that,” Etta says, later.
She hesitates, jacket swinging from her forefinger, but doesn’t pull it on. Astrid raises her head from the pillow, arms folded beneath, sleepy-eyed and satiated. “Hm-mm.”
The third time, it’s a good day. It’s a fantastic night. And in the wee hours of the morning, it’s splendid sex.
It starts with the four of them sitting at the table. There is no beer, precious little alcohol - but where there’s Walter Bishop there’s narcotics, and they’re all extremely relaxed. It’s three girls and one boy and there’s too much skin, too many t-shirts, bare arms, and zero parental guidance.
“That’s an awful plan,” Olivia insists.
Peter smirks at her. “Don’t hold back on your opinion there, sweetheart.”
“Well, it is,” Etta agrees.
“I miss Lincoln,” Peter bemoans. “The sex ratio is all out of whack. There’s no support here.”
“Feeling out-numbered?” Astrid asks. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d be intimidated.”
“Three women doesn’t intimidate me. But the three of you are utterly terrifying.”
“Who’s Lincoln?” Etta sprawls in her seat and looks from one to another.
“Oh, hey, I have a picture!”
“You have a picture?” Peter repeats.
“Don’t judge,” Astrid whispers fiercely and pulls out a photograph from her wallet. It was taken in the early days, before Peter materialised in their world - when Lincoln had just moved across from Hartford. He’s standing stiffly; Walter and Olivia can be seen in the background, bent near the science table.
Etta breathes out. “Oh, my. He’s gorgeous. You guys didn’t amber him, too, by chance?” There’s an awkward silence. Etta raises her head slowly, and Astrid has to bite her lip from reacting.
Olivia and Peter both have perfect poker faces on.
“Oh,” Etta says, startled. “Who slept with him?”
Olivia colours faintly.
Peter stares up at the ceiling, his jaw clenching. “We’re missing important steps here – like a thirty-odd age difference – and our child thinking we’re old and heinous. You shouldn’t be *asking* these type of questions.”
Etta blinks and says incredulously. “So *everyone* slept with him?”
“I’m going to bed,” Olivia says, diplomatically, and hauls Peter up after her.
Etta stares at the photo for a bit longer, then carefully hands it back. “He was part of our team for a while,” Astrid explains. “And then things got complicated.”
“Not like us?”
“No,” Astrid smiles. “Not like us.”
Etta looks away, a line appearing between her forehead as she frowns. Carefully, Astrid hooks their fingers together and drags the younger woman away.
Etta’s pale cream and long bones. Astrid could bury her nose in the hollow of her throat, breathe in her scent, she could place her hands on the flare of her hips, wash her feet clean. They trade kisses, languid, and everything seems brighter, more disjointed, head reeling from the opiates and the lazy invitation of Etta’s sprawl.
She likes to be in control. But Astrid sees vulnerability, an undertone of shyness as Etta whispers. “I like you.”
“What do you like?”
“Your laugh, and your reflexive kindness. I like the way you treat me.”
Astrid kisses her pelvic bone, tastes Etta at her most intimate. She uses fingers and tongue, slick, because she believes in slippery ease. She uses two fingers, then three, wrist arched, fingers stroking long, tucks in four and listens to Etta pant, shudder through it, the contractions of her orgasm tightening around Astrid’s wrist. It’s sloppy, never rough, and when she quietens, Astrid goes back to using her tongue.
Etta curls in tight afterwards, eyes open, and never once says brusquely: “ Thanks for that.”
She stumbles out the next morning, the buttons on her shirt crooked, smelling like sex, and her hair in disarray. She smiles faintly, jacket hooked over her arm and whispers. “See you tonight?”
“Yes,” Astrid says, propped on one elbow.
Etta opens the door and walks straight into Peter, who’s standing in the corridor, shirt in disarray, unwashed, and a three o clock shadow on his face. He’s balanced on one foot while tugging on his other boot, and for a moment, they blink at each other comically.
“This family can’t get any more awkward.”