Rosie Wilson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
forthsofar) wrote2019-09-15 12:23 am
forthsofar) wrote2019-09-15 12:23 am
Entry tags:
there's no controlling the unrolling of your fate, my friend
Just like last year, the return of Movies in the Park was one of the main topics of chatter that day at school: groups of people making plans or shouting lines back and forth at one another in the hallway; gossip about who was going with whom (or who might say they were going and forgo the movie for other, more private entertainments); a few intensely enthusiastic people from the AV club discussing going in costume as one character or another. Strange though it was, as Darrow traditions went it seemed, at least, fairly innocuous. Especially after the summer that’s just passed, things like that seemed more and more of a rarity the longer she stayed in the city.
For a moment, Rosie considers attending herself, but when she hears that Charlie and Sabrina had already made plans to go--and that the movie scheduled for tonight was one of the blood-soaked horror films Sabrina loved so much--it’s all too easy for her to drop the idea entirely. Her offer to spend the evening at Nick’s is met with a lack of resistance, especially from Sabrina, that she might have thought suspicious under any other circumstance. Relieved as she is at having avoided a night of watching wholesale cinematic slaughter, though, she barely pauses to question it.
Hardly notices, too, the slight spark in Sabrina’s eye and the quiet look of planning both her best friends exchange as they turn away at the end of the lunch period.
When she gets to Chelsea that night, it’s just in time to say a quick hello in the lobby to Sabrina and Charlie on their way out. They’d done things like this on numerous occasions over the last two weeks, briefly checking in or updating one another on how Nick was feeling; this time, at least, it’s for a slightly lighter and easier reason. Rosie waves them happily out the front door of the building, then takes the familiar elevator ride up to the top floor and lets herself in to Nick’s apartment.
“Shift change,” she calls out to him, laughing a little. “Let me just put my bag down, and then I’ll be…” She trails off, noticing the neat pile of things on the coffee table: takeout menus, DVD cases with cover art that looks nearly as lurid and gory as that of the movie playing in the park, even a set of disposable cups and plates and a folded picnic blanket. And, prominently displayed, a note in Sabrina’s familiar handwriting exhorting them both to Have fun tonight!
“Oh, good grief.”
For a moment, Rosie considers attending herself, but when she hears that Charlie and Sabrina had already made plans to go--and that the movie scheduled for tonight was one of the blood-soaked horror films Sabrina loved so much--it’s all too easy for her to drop the idea entirely. Her offer to spend the evening at Nick’s is met with a lack of resistance, especially from Sabrina, that she might have thought suspicious under any other circumstance. Relieved as she is at having avoided a night of watching wholesale cinematic slaughter, though, she barely pauses to question it.
Hardly notices, too, the slight spark in Sabrina’s eye and the quiet look of planning both her best friends exchange as they turn away at the end of the lunch period.
When she gets to Chelsea that night, it’s just in time to say a quick hello in the lobby to Sabrina and Charlie on their way out. They’d done things like this on numerous occasions over the last two weeks, briefly checking in or updating one another on how Nick was feeling; this time, at least, it’s for a slightly lighter and easier reason. Rosie waves them happily out the front door of the building, then takes the familiar elevator ride up to the top floor and lets herself in to Nick’s apartment.
“Shift change,” she calls out to him, laughing a little. “Let me just put my bag down, and then I’ll be…” She trails off, noticing the neat pile of things on the coffee table: takeout menus, DVD cases with cover art that looks nearly as lurid and gory as that of the movie playing in the park, even a set of disposable cups and plates and a folded picnic blanket. And, prominently displayed, a note in Sabrina’s familiar handwriting exhorting them both to Have fun tonight!
“Oh, good grief.”
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"I'm not going to end up back in the hospital," he says, stroking his hand against her side. He smiles, glancing down, looking back up to meet her eyes. "You want to do that? Talk about it?"
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And oh, there's a charge to it, too--but one that's shared, rather than singular.
"I would," she says, though the fact that he asks at all surprises her, making her answer come out a little hesitantly. "If you'd want to. It's not...is it strange, to want to talk about that?"
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He shakes his head, shifting away from her a little, but only to give them both room to breathe. He stays close.
"Not weird at all, Wilson," he says. "I...think it's kind of hot, actually. That you want to."
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"Alright, good," she says, letting out a faint, relieved little sigh. "Because I definitely want to talk about it." She smiles again, ducking her head briefly before looking back up at him. "Though I'll admit I'm not sure what to say."
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He brushes a curl of her dark hair back from her cheek with light fingers.
"Well," he says. "Why don't I start with telling you that I having a really, really hard time not picturing what you've got on under your shirt?"
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She pauses, thinking about what to say, the thought of describing it rather than simply letting him see for himself making her just slightly dizzy. "Well," she says, meeting his eyes with hers as she starts talking, "you've already gotten a sense of it with how you've been touching me, I'm sure. Enough to know that there's a bit of lace along the band. There's more of it, more lace, along the sides of the cups, and in the middle."
She looks down then, tracing a finger over her blouse, along the lace panel that's pressed flush to her skin just underneath. "Just here."
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He grazes his thumb against the curve of her cheek. His eyes deep, watching the way that she touches herself, just the innocent brush of her fingers between her breasts. He swallows.
"What colour is it?"
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“It’s pink.” She squashes the urge to apologize, to make some comment about how she knows it’s a terribly mortal answer. “About the same color as my skin, when I first start to blush.”
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Nick's so incredibly turned on and he knows it's clear enough to Rosie. He shifts against the couch.
"Do your panties match?"
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"They do, Nick," she says. He's not even touching her, save for the still-gentle presence of his hand against her face, and she's still trembling. "That same pink, with...with lace just a-along the waistband."
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He huffs a little laugh, squirming down on the sofa a little bit, pushing his hand back through his hair. "You have no idea how much I want to see," he admits.
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Even though she wants Nick right now, so desperately it's almost scandalous, there's no question in Rosie's mind which is the better outcome.
"I have some idea," she murmurs, unable to keep herself from smiling at the way he ruffles his hair and shifts position again on the sofa. "I'll wear them again. Maybe when you take me for that proper date, once you're feeling better." It's not quite a presumption and not quite a promise; some heady mixture of both, perhaps.
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He bites his lip and smiles at her, reaching out to trail light fingers against her thigh.
"I'll look forward to it, Wilson."