hair
peggy carter x girly!reader
genres: fluff, suggestive
author's note: reader uses she/her pronouns but no female anatomy mentioned, i need the agent carter fandom to come back.
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The lamplight is low, and Peggy Carter is calm for once.
Relaxed.
The radio is on, playing something low, that has become nothing more than a gentle hum as she listens to the incessant chattering coming from your beautiful lips, the sweetness of your voice reaching her achy ears as you stand behind her.
“So, I told him to leave, because he was bein’ kinda nasty, y’know? Like, who comes to a diner and orders a glass of milk, an’ then argues that it’s spoiled?! Why would I serve someone spoiled milk?!”
Your wittering makes her grin, despite the sheer complaint in your voice, and she can’t help but laugh softly as she tilts her head backwards to give you better access.
“Darling, you really do stress yourself out over nothing.”
The dense boar bristles of your ornate, silver-laced hairbrush move sleekly through the dark tresses of her hair, stretching the perfect curls out into a shiny, healthy length that you can’t stop yourself from leaning down to kiss.
Peggy Carter is a brave, strong woman, but from the way that she sits here - back straight and fiddling with the strings of her silken robe - you can tell that she loves to be pampered.
Her breathing slows as you finish your brushing, and her mind seems to have completely quieted, and your heart clenches into something tight when she startles at the feeling of your weight settling on her thighs.
Her hands - with perfectly manicured nails and all - come to grip at your waist as her eyes shoot open, and your hand against her chest experiences the full weight of her racing heart.
“Lovebug, you have to give a woman some warning!” She scolds, but the grin of relief that stretches across her painted lips invalidates the words completely, and the shaky sigh that leaves her lips once you nuzzle your nose into her cheek makes your cheeks heat up.
“M’sorry Peg, how ever will I make it up to you?” It’s teasing, that lilting drawl as she brings one hand up to fiddle with the baby hairs at the base of your neck, the loose ones that are too fine and too short to fit into the tight wet-set of rollers atop your head, already tied up in your favourite silken scarf, the one that matches the grand rose and pearl of your mother’s hairbrush.
“Oh, I don’t know, my sweetest girl,” her voice comes soft and sweetly, and the sting of the feeling of her pulling your hairs taught makes you gasp, your mouth falling open as she starts her tirade of tiny kisses and kitten-licks against the lobe of your ear, over the gems of your earrings.
“Peg..”
“Sh, sh, sh… We don’t want Mr. Jarvis hearing you now, do we?...”
