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Eyes on you..

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Apr. 4th, 2007 | 09:55 pm

Another one. Again.
Ivy again. Backstory here.

Nc-17 for the badly written smut at the end.

The walls were closing in, gradually and inexorably shifting with the sickening crunch and scrape of stone-on-stone. It made her stomach lurch and tie itself into knots upon knots upon knots, and Ivy panicked when she heard Bianca shout. One by one the walls had come between them with an obscene intelligence, for lumps of stone created by people.
First, Billy had been locked outside with his maps and his navigatory magic, then Teddy had taken a wrong turn into a corridor that hadn't been there a minute ago. Now, Bianca was on the other side of a room created by the stupid sodding walls.
And Ivy was left with Tony, and she was panicking.

Ivy didn't panic like normal people panicked; when Ivy thought that she was going to die (a surprisingly rare occurrence, given her temperament and demeanour), she thought of the thing that she wanted most at that moment.
Unfortunately for her she was alone in a tomb with encroaching walls, and Tony was her only company. They were going to end up crushed together, a gory tangle of limbs pancaked against the wall like a swatted fly.

"We're going to die.."

Amazingly, there wasn't quite as much panic in her voice as she really felt. In fact, Ivy thought that she sounded positively calm, considering the circumstances.

"We're not going to die." Tony had sounded hard-done-by, as if he couldn't believe that of all the people that this tomb could have locked him in with, it was Ivy. Why Ivy?
He also put a strange inflection in his statement; no, they weren't going to die. They were going to be mangled beyond recognition and spend the rest of their lives in hospice. That worried Tony a little. What also worried Tony was they way that Ivy was pacing the increasingly small room like a caged animal (which, technically, she was), and chewed her lip and stroked her fingers over that scar on her chest.
It was a very provocative scar.

"We're not going to die," he had assured her. Ivy had just nodded (as if they were back in camp and she wasn't listening to him tell her that Bianca had just cooked dinner), and continued to pace.
When they had entered the chamber it had been huge, filled with beams and props. There were still beams and props littering the floor.
Ivy had the thought, but Tony had it first. He was already stacking the props and beams against the far wall, creating a platform of petrified wood. It was as good as stone.

When the walls had finally stopped (their platform creaking unhealthily beneath them, and Ivy clutching Tony's hand as if he were the only thing that she really, truly cared about), and started to recede when they could go no further forward, the pair of intrepid explorers made a break for daylight.
It was surprisingly easy to find themselves with the rest of the team on the stretch of neutral path between camp and tomb, and Ivy and Tony stopped running.

If she hadn't been holding his hand, she might well have fallen to her knees by Bianca. She might have sobbed or wailed. But she was holding Tony's hand (and oddly enough she felt alright as she did) as tightly as if she were afraid he might disappear. She was rather numb, taking long, shuddering breaths for - in her opinion - entirely the wrong reason with Him around.
It took her a while to realise that she could still feel him against her skin, his body heat radiating outwards at her, consuming her. And she wasn't holding his hand anymore, but he was holding hers, his other hand closed around the fist that held hers (her fingernails had left imprints in his skin) though he was talking quietly with Teddy. It took her a second longer to shake him off with a nervous twitch. She had a rule, damnit.

It was dark when the tent flap whispered aside, and someone that was not Bianca came inside. Whoever it was moved confidently (So it wasn't Billy, then, who jittered like he'd had too much coffee) and easily through the small space between the bunks (which meant that it wasn't Teddy either, who was as wide as he was tall).
The logical conclusion, then, was that Tony was sneaking around her tent, because even Rufus wasn't daft enough to come sniffing for food in Ivy's tent.

"Tony? Wh--"

She had been lying down, staring at the insides of her eyelids as lights flashed on and off in a kaleidoscope of colours. On hearing the noise, she had raised herself onto her elbows to peer into the gloom. Now she found a hand over her mouth and looked up into Tony's face. He was motioning for her to be quiet, leading her from the tent out into the moonlight.
If Ivy had been that kind of woman, she might have thought it romantic. But Ivy was a cynic, and all Tony and she ever did was argue, bitch, and snipe. So why the silence? The secrecy?

It occurred to her, upon noting the eerie emptiness of the camp (aside from Rufus, who looked rather dapper in an evening suit, managing quite ably to eat spaghetti and meatballs with a knife and fork), that this was a dream. Which rather ruined the next part, which involved Tony's fingers - strong and long and curling deliciously around her chin - forcing her eyes away from the dog and her attention towards him.
He kissed her, and it was just how she had imagined - strong and masculine and completely overpowering. Not that she had imagined kissing Tony. Really. He was her superior, her boss, her colleague. It would be bad and wrong to think of thinking of such things as kissing him.

So the fact that, in her dream (and she was certain, now, that it was a dream) he had her caught between a rock and a hardplace - rather literally - was actually ok. Because this was a dream, and he was allowed to do what he wanted to her, as long as it didn't hurt too much and as long as she got to hear him breathing (because there was nothing more intoxicating than the way Tony breathed when he was fucking her in her dreams).
She felt the stone scrape her back - cold and dry - and she felt his mouth close against her skin - hot and wet - as he took his time stripping her of her clothes.

But Ivy was never naked with Tony, and Tony was never exposed with Ivy. It was the bare essentials shared in the secrecy of the night (when Ivy's hand would wander between her thighs beneath the cover of a thin blanket and Bianca's gentle snoring). It was Ivy's hands pushing at his shirt and Tony's hands pushing under hers as they met in a tangle of limbs and tongues and teeth.
There was no intimacy here, no gentleness. Only need.
They had their intimacy over long days in close quarters, bitching at each other over the little things and letting the big things slide. They had their gentleness in the evenings, when they would search their maps for references to answers and dance around each other with teasing clues and obscure injokes.

But in the dark..

His hand slid down between cotton and skin and his knuckle found her there as his mouth found her breast to do amazing things with his tongue that she thought might have been impossible until she was distracted by his fingers moving and slipping over her skin as he gripped her thighs.
She was lifted, the air washing over her skin before the cool rock met her back once more, scraping down against her as she was shoved upwards. He had one hand around her waist, lifting and pinning her to the wall as his hand twisted against her. His breath was hot against her skin, covering her neck and sending shivers down her spine.

Ivy could feel herself, slippery wet and pulsing around his fingers, the ache rising from deep in her as she ground her hips down against him. And then they were on the floor, and she was straddling his hips and she could feel him, hard and shuddering beneath her as she teased him, with his hands on her hips and his arms tensed beneath her as they struggled for dominance.
In the dark she knew that he wanted to be inside her, and she knew that she wanted it too (why else would she ache so, her clit pulsing as she twisted her hips trying to stop from grinding against him). But in the dark, Ivy could control herself when it came to what she wanted, and Tony couldn't help himself as he growled and twisted and plunged. Ivy had never thought it possible for a person to seriously plunge (like in a tawdry novella), until that exact moment when her body arced to meet his as her fingers found his shoulders to leave marks not dissimilar from the ones she'd left on his hands that day in the tomb (her mark on him, and in her dreams she knew that she would never admit it awake that it was because he was hers).

It was the struggle that did it, she was sure; the way that they twisted and rolled in the heavy dirt, dust sticking dry and scratchy against their skins as she bucked and shook like a lamb. In her dreams he would only grunt and bury himself hiltdeep inside her as he came, and they would lie in a tangle in the dust and the dirt, breathing in each others' sweat until she woke up.
Until she woke up and all she could smell was herself and the night still clinging to her, and sex sticking to her fingers like a bad memory.

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