as she turns in the arms that she has moved around herself, he is all grins, - teeth and all. something he has not truly been in decades before her. she squeals that he's gross, and he is laughing in return, coming down to meet allie at that halfway point between them so she does not have to stretch as far to get to him. "if i'm s' gross, why're ye laughin' s' hard?" he huffs, faux and jesting, at her while he gives her sides gentle little pinches and shuffles himself closer into her space.
It's a lovely, sunny day. Poppy has dragged her book, and a picnic blanket, and a little snack-tub full of things she can nibble on to the park and set up between a few of the flower gardens.
She's stretched out now, legs warming in the sun as she reads - until a shadow passes and she realises she's no longer alone.
Not wanting to be rude, she offers a small wave before returning her gaze to her book - but she's not focusing, not really, attention still on the other. For now, at least.
admittedly, winter is not the most floral of seasons. but, & annette would tell anyone this, if there's ever been someone who could find the flowers under the ice & frost, it would be allie. the bouquet is an uncharacteristic blue, purple, & white -- cornflowers, crocuses, grape hyacinths, winter heath, snowdrops, & a few she can't quite place. the medium gasps at the blooming presentation, taking it & holding the arrangement close. "o-o - oh, g-gosh -- ! al - all-lie, this i-is --" she holds them carefully as she moves to hug the blonde. "l-lov-vely."
there's drink in his system and it's colliding head-on with the medication he knows will not work as effectively if he drinks more, and thus, when allie drags him out onto the dance floor, he risks the embarrassment of white boy dancing over the fear of overreacting if someone else were to touch her the way she guides him to as they flow with the music.
the music that pounds in his chest and his skull alongside that of his heart, pumping harder to make the blood flow faster as he does his best to ignore the way other people look at her. it doesn't take long to be wholly distracted by her himself, her body pressed against the front of his own as she nudges up on tip-toes to steal what is rightfully hers in the form of a kiss. at least, that is what he assumes she is going for, when she isn't.
she nips at his neck, nestles in the side of his visage so she can whisper into his ear as he bends down to meet her, and the way she speaks of goading him as she continues to do so — before she has much opportunity to do more than ask that question, he's leading them out.
his focus has now shifted into maintaining the relatively cool and collected version of himself that the public sees, because whatever is stirring in the pit of his stomach is not a friendly beast. it is possessive, curling his fingers into the side of her dress in a way that makes one or two bystanders raise worried brows only to note that the girl on that arm is tickled pink to be exactly where she is.
and so when she is placed into the passenger side of that white seventy-nine firebird, already beginning to pitch a fit that he can feel stirring between them when he slides into his side and rumbles the engine to life, he's fighting that beast instead of simply pushing it back into its cage.
they can't do anything here, but he doesn't want to wait until they get all the way back home, either. he knows that is the case for her, too, before she even begins to speak her grievances out into the air. the sleeves of his nicer dress shirt are rolled up, buttoned into place, but strained by the way his forearms flex, left hand on the wheel and right on his leg with the elbow on the console between them.
if i go left up here, there's a long stretch of road with no street lights or houses.
her hand is pulling his over into her lap, drawing him from the mental mapping he's trying to work through to find them a spot where interruption won't cause him to combust, between the alcohol flowing in his blood and the general anger that comes with such a thing. he's glancing over to her, noting the very faint pale blob between her feet that can be nothing other than the panties he'd watched her pull up her stalks earlier in the evening with envy for their cotton.
please.
fuck the wooded path.
he's pulling the firebird over onto the side of the road, dark enough and abandoned to the point that he no longer cares if the odd car might whizz by, going too fast and caring too little to stop and see what's going on in that front seat.
allie crawls over almost as much as he's pulling her, cranking the seat back as far as it will go to give them enough room for her to fit between him and the wheel after he's thrown the fucking thing in park. where she immediately finds his mouth, he returns the kisses he'd expected — wanted — earlier, slipping his tongue between her lips to taste the drinks that had flown like water all night long. in the same breadth, he's pushing her skirts up, frustrated with his own choice of jeans for the lack of real ability to feel her as she grinds against him.
please comes again, and he's ahead of her this time, already trying to fumble with the ribbons and strings that make up the corset-like backing of her dress that he knows she likes, thus doesn't want to sacrifice. but the beast wins. the anger wins. muscles tighten, fabric tears, and though it's going to need replacing, that's for another time.
it's slid off her body, tossed into the passenger side, and his palms are gliding over her once more as she slips her own hands up beneath his button up, nails snagging lightly on the tiny rolls of where his skin comes over itself. but she's still wearing a bra, and it's in his fucking way. what little patience had been depleted by the attempt to save her dress comes out in him simply grabbing either side of the garment's clasp and yanking, snapping the fragile metals so he can pull it off her as well, tossing it into the backseat.
with her now fully bared atop him, he can focus, watch the way that as she rocks and grinds against his jeans, she leaves darker wet marks that allow him to almost feel the heat that is radiating off her, almost as much as it does him.
angus is reaching up, taking his time with the buttons of his shirt solely for that singular brain cell still operating on logic that says she'll need something to walk into the house in so they don't have the cops called on them, if this doesn't spur that enough. each button takes an eternity, but soon enough, the white under-tank is all that separates his chest from hers, where his palm slides up between her breasts to set on her sternum, then further, finding her throat not to grasp, but to gage her breathing.
"keep goin'," he mutters, slouching just a hair in the seat to give her better leverage and more space to grind while he watches, twitches under the denim that cages his length from her. his focus is so honed in on the way her pussy rubs on him that he's shuddering, shaking some beneath her.
This is nice. It feels like it's been an age since the last time they got to spend time together like this. Allie's always been such a bright spot in Corinne's life, that, in the time between their last meeting and now, her world had felt very dark indeed. She watches the other flit about in that excitable, glitterdust way that can only describe Allie Fleur; all girlish giggles and glowing youth. Allie doesn't just light up the room, after all. She radiates.
@enchaentales: we are not ‘paranormal investigators’. we are researchers. scholars. / kate and simon dkjhjsd
magnus archives starters / accepting
"i don't know if we're any of those things." no, not even the low-brow paranormal investigator. really, he's pretty sure they're just fucking around in the woods between shadyside and sunnyvale. simon, in particular, is having a blast messing around. naturally, he raises his voice, yelling into the darkness of the woods, "uh, sarah fier, if you're out there, cut my head off or something, c'mon."
