a due South story
by dirty diana
For the stop_drop_porn lj community. beta by serial karma.
Victoria's plans have been carefully made.
She made them long ago, at the start. In jail. Plenty of time then, to think, to see into the future. She made plans, in her head. Never on paper. Paper leaves trails, trails lead to boxes, a square ten by ten box with no windows. She learned that the hard way, in the time before. Then ran hard, ran north, into the wind and the goddamned snow. Turned out to be the wrong direction. Not an answer either, just another trap that she should have seen coming.
Running's not a plan. That, she knew already.
She planned this, all of it. She planned it, saw it. She saw the door, spinning round, like a carousel. In or out. Stay or go. And Ben standing there, stuck, like always. Wishes she'd planned the snow.
Too much like the first time. The weather puts Ben at ease, though, she can feel that, in the hard lines of the muscles of his back. She wonders what he's doing here, in the concrete and lights.
That's a whole story he can tell her later, under his breath, when they're covering each other in the shade of the dark. She wonders who reads him poetry.
She planned this, his hands underneath her shirt, tugging at the fabric and sliding across her breasts. He pauses to mutter a breathless apology, but his impatience doesn't slow, and she's with him, her hands curving around the back of his neck to draw him closer.
She kisses him again, mouths crushed against each other, in wet and slick confusion. His mouth is warm, his tongue sweet pressure against hers, and he tastes like earth, like snow and shelter.
She stumbles, then, against the doorframe, and puts a hand on his shoulder, to steady herself.
Ben is trembling.
And then it's both of them falling, back towards the bed.
They never got to do this. Not like this, face to face, breath on breath. Safe, and warm all over, touching fingertips to the centre of his chest, no fear of death. Only fear of living, and she can hear it in the beating of Ben's heart when she lays her head next to it, as he pulls her down on top of him.
Victoria planned this, but maybe not this exactly, with Ben's mouth owning her, all of her, on the crest of her forehead and the crease of her neck. With one hand tangled in her hair, as it falls over her shoulders, and his other tugging her skirt downwards, over her hips. She reaches down to help him, and her hand covers his, and there's a memory there on the tip of her tongue, traveling to the base of her spine, tiny bursts of sensation on skin that had lost feeling.
He whispers something then, something that she doesn't understand, something that might not even be English, and the breath of it brushes her cheek. She catches her name then, and smiles.
They discard their clothes in a pile at the side of the neat and narrow bed. They're in a hurry to be closer, to be touching completely. His fingers strokes the full curve of her breasts and nipples, drawing her breath in sharper gasps. She groans, pressing with her mouth against the solid shape of his chest.
Then Ben pulls back, just for a second, blue eyes dark with lust, with remembering. She's frozen then, despite herself, and lets him look, his eyes wandering over her, absorbing her completely.
It lasts just a second, and then he rolls her over, hand sliding between her thighs. He doesn't seem to want to talk, he seems lost, and she follows him in, gasping as his thumb slides over her opening, already slick with the wetness of her.
He looks good like that, concentrating, his mouth slightly open. Victoria can't help herself, and she reaches down, and strokes him with sharp, violent pressure, just to twist the side of her mouth as she hears the harsh cadence of his moan.
He has a scar on his thigh that she's never seen. She traces it with her finger. He pauses then, with his hand on her belly, a question.
She nods. Opens up for him.
He says her name again, and then he's whole and full, sliding inside her. Her legs wrap around his - they never had this, bare, skin to skin - and she's full with the whole of him, gasping, stretching, holding out, holding on.
She calls out first, and then he follows her, spilling over, gasping for breath and spiraling endlessly down.
He's trying again to say something, words that make no sense on their own.
"Shhh," she tells him and holds her against him, until he's stopped shaking. Her palm runs across his back, sticky with sweat, and then she runs her finger across his mouth. She presses her index finger against his mouth, and his lips part slowly, until the tip of her finger rests against his tongue.
There's no light in the room but the glare of yellow streetlights, flickering outside. She can hear the ticking of Ben's watch, as his hand cradles her head, resting at the back of her neck.
Ben fits snugly against her, still chasing the cipher of words at the back of his throat. She snaps her body away, a reflex.
And then settles back against him, resting her hand on the back of his leg.
"Sleep," she murmurs quietly to the window. "Sleep, Ben. I'll be here in the morning."
The easy rise and fall of his chest tells her that he believes her.
"In the morning," she repeats, and it feels good, like releasing something heavy. It feels so good, to finally tell him something that isn't true.