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WHO: Peggy Carter
WHERE: Peggy & Stella's Home
WHEN: June 10th Weekend
OPEN TO: Stella Gibson
WARNINGS: Adult content likely within

She's not sure what it is that broke the camel's back (so to speak), but one evening, Peggy returns back to her shared house with Stella feeling tense and tight, having seen a few couples in her daily rounds, and rather than feeling content for them, there's an envy within her that she thought she'd dealt with. It takes another day before Peggy realizes with a sharp pang that it's not a relationship that she's envious of. It's the ghost of touch that she's missing. It would be unladylike to admit how long it's been, but half a decade is a generous answer.

That is absolutely ridiculous, though she doesn't precisely know how to change that. She's hardly the sort of woman who would feel comfortable draping herself across some poor person's doorway to announce that she demands to be held (it sounds even more ridiculous when she puts it like that). Eventually, she concedes that she might be defeated in this respect.

She can take down a counter-spy organization, she can dismantle bombs, she can clock a man and interrogate Russian spies. Where she lacks experience is in this. Luckily, she lives with someone who's far better than this than she. Heading back home, Peggy knows this will likely be an awkward topic, but at the same time, it's been long enough.

"Stella, I'm home," Peggy calls out, shifting the food in her arms. "I've brought some berries and the dried meat from the latest batch."

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"That's not going to happen," Peggy guarantees, because no matter what she feels at the moment, a need for it to be over is certainly not in the cards. Her eyes are keen on Stella, watching her every move, not allowing her to simply drift away without at least making sure she knows that. It's been so long and she needs to get over this hurdle of equating sex to something powerful and meaningful.

Sometimes, it can be physical and fun and easy. She needs to let herself learn that.

Slowly, her stress and worries begin to melt away. With every additional kiss to her thigh, the reminder that Stella is excellent at this returns and she allows the touch of Stella's fingers to do something she hasn't even done for herself in weeks. It's not that she's busy, it just never felt right. "That's good," she praises, her voice low. "Really, very good."

Stella, on the other hand, has been used to the idea of sex and romance being totally separate for a long time now. There’s no need to make this into anything more than stress relief and physical comfort, which is what Stella’s used sex for since she was a young woman.

That’s not to say that it can’t or shouldn’t mean something, just that it doesn’t have to. Stella suspects this would feel different if she and Peggy weren’t already close — it’s hardly as if there’s not an emotional component here — but they’re not romantically in love and they’re not going to be. And that’s just fine by Stella.

From another woman, the praise might feel a little patronizing, but Stella doesn’t take it that way from Peggy; she just wants Stella to know she’s enjoying herself. And quite frankly, that’s really, really attractive. Stella smiles a little, maybe a touch self-satisfied, and kisses higher still, lips pressing to the crease of Peggy’s leg at the join of her hip and thigh.

There’s also a significant difference — as Stella is very well aware — between doing this for oneself and doing it with another person. Namely, there are certain things one really needs another person to achieve — and Stella seems set on reminding Peggy of this fact, as she finally settles in fully between her thighs, spreading her open with both hands and leaning in to taste, just soft darting strokes of her tongue first, memorizing how she feels here too.

Peggy shifts one hand upwards to slide under the pillow, grasping it with her fingers, while she moves the other to Stella's hair, absently toying and playing with the beautiful golden strands, feeling a touch like she's floating. "You know," she murmurs, voice breathy and in disbelief.

She knows she doesn't want Stella to stop, but good god, does she feel inclined to share a secret. "No one's ever done this for me, not ever," she murmurs, letting her head tip back, hair falling over her shoulders as she rolls her hips down to try and seek out more of that heat.

Stella likes the gentle drag of Peggy's fingers through her hair, pushing a little into the touch to encourage it. Jesus, she's so badly missed doing this. It would be really easy just to lose herself here — in the taste of the other woman, feminine and intoxicating, and in the absolutely stunning picture Peggy makes as she arches up above her and rocks her hips to get just that much more from Stella's mouth.

Peggy's words pull her back a little, and she takes that moment to pause for a second — not to stop, fuck no; just to catch her breath. It's not surprising no one's done this for Peggy before, really, because for whatever reason there are a lot of men who don't enjoy doing this for a woman. Or who think she should do this for them, but don't want to return the favor. Which is totally ridiculous.

Stella laughs a little, just a soft huff of breath. "Whoever had the opportunity to do this for you and didn't," she says, "it was his loss." She's unconsciously echoing Peggy's thoughts from earlier — and really, whoever it was, probably Peggy's fiancé she mentioned before in passing, it was his loss. It's all the better for Stella, who gets the good fortune of watching her fall apart like this.

And Peggy's so obviously enjoying what she's doing that Stella doesn't hold off any longer than that, just goes right back to it. The strokes of her tongue become firmer, more purposeful, more clearly intent; she starts to focus more of her attention on her clit, knowing exactly how sensitive Peggy must be right now for having been deprived of another person's touch for so long.

Eventually she moves one of her hands to slip a single finger inside her, stroking deeply, listening and feeling more than watching now for her reaction.

She likes to think that Fred experienced a great number of losses in not treating her like the asset she could be, disapproving of her wanting to go into the field and be more adventurous. She thinks Daniel or Jason would've done this for her if they'd gotten far along enough and Steve...

Well, they just never had the time.

"Stella," she murmurs, and this time, there aren't any words that she can muster because she's been boiled down to feeling. It's like nothing she's felt in so long, an overwhelming sensation of pleasure that crests over her in waves, bringing with it amazement that it can get stronger. Yet, it does. Her eyes fall shut when it seems to be too much and she knows it won't be much longer yet.

After all, it has been a while.

"I think...I think I'm almost..."

Talking is starting to become more than a little superfluous, as far as Stella's concerned. The less time they spend talking, the more she can focus on this — on giving Peggy precisely what she needs.

She could tease, of course. She could draw it out more; she's got a good deal of experience doing exactly that. But Peggy's close already and Stella's not interested in making her wait, not when the thought of bringing her over the edge is so much more appealing. She slips a second finger inside her, curling them a little bit with each thrust; and at the same time she hums against her, both for the extra stimulation the vibration will provide and as an encouragement for Peggy to just let go.

It's almost embarrassing how little it's taken for her to come, but she doesn't think Stella's going to judge her for it, especially not when she knows the context. It's been a terribly long time and no one's ever done this for her (despite the fact that some men probably might have offered).

What's really lovely is not doing this on her own. It's her first pleasure in years that wasn't self-brought, and as Peggy lets herself get lost in the orgasm, it's a magnificent feeling. Her fingers loosen around Stella's hair as she bites her lip, sagging back against the bed. "Mmm, you really are quite talented, aren't you?"

Now that she doesn't have pleasing the other woman to focus on, Stella's conscious of exactly how aroused she herself is and how badly she needs to be touched — but she's also considerate enough, and patient enough, to give Peggy a few minutes to get her head back on straight. She pulls back, sitting up and wiping her mouth as discreetly as she possibly can, tossing her head a little to let her hair fall back over her shoulders. The expression on her face is quite distinctly pleased with herself. They might not ever get to do this again, but at least it'll make for a very, very pleasant memory.

"Well." Stella doesn't quite shrug, but her tone is nonchalant as she moves to stretch out on the bed next to Peggy. "I've had a lot of practice."

That's not modesty, and she's not ashamed of it either. Stella knows she's good in bed, and she knows Peggy's not here to judge her for how many people she's slept with. She reaches over, brushing a strand of loose dark hair off the other woman's face, the touch lingering only for a second. Peggy looks beautiful and supremely satisfied in the aftermath, and Stella can't help but appreciate the fact that that's entirely her fault.

Peggy looks down at Stella from where she's lying, appreciative of how she moves the hair out of the way, but now that she has, it's left Peggy with the uncomfortable truth of what she has to admit next (not that she thinks it will be a great surprise to Stella). "You're going to have to guide me in order to help you," she says. "I know the basics, but I don't know what you like," she says, a touch hoarsely.

"I think I can do a clever enough job with my hands," she admits, grateful that due to her constant working around the village, she keeps her nails short and blunt. "If that's what you want?" She's waiting for Stella to tell her and then Peggy will go from there.

It's a lucky thing that Peggy is quite the quick learner.

"I'd like that," Stella tells her. Really, she'll take any sort of touch at all at this point, whether it's Peggy's mouth or her hands. It's been just long enough for her, and while she's not quite desperate — it would be very hard to push her to desperation — she's acutely feeling the fact that she hasn't done this with anyone in what must be at least a year. That's nothing compared to how long it was for Peggy, of course, but Stella's libido is maybe a bit stronger than some people's.

She reaches out one hand, winding her fingers loosely in the hair at the nape of Peggy's neck. "Come here," she murmurs, tugging her in for a kiss that would be soft, except that Stella nips at her lower lip at the end of it. It's meant to encourage her to keep going.

Peggy's rather pleased with the proximity and the affection, because it's Stella and there are no expectations for her to be something that she's not. Stella's seen every single part of her and she knows what she's about. It's why she finds it so easy to return the kiss, even as she shifts a little in order to find an angle she likes.

"Fair warning," Peggy notes, "I don't do this that often, so you may have to guide me." Her libido has always been there, but she comes from a time and a society where a woman's sexuality was stifled and not only that, but she was always so bloody busy. "Let's start light?" With that, she lets her fingers slowly descend to stroke over Stella's midsection, towards her hips, curving back around to her thighs.

Stella was constantly busy at home, probably nearly so much as Peggy is — at any given time she could be juggling a dozen or more cases, including serious crimes — but she still managed to make time every couple of weeks for this. Here in the village, where aside from her daily routine she hasn't got a job or a great deal with which to occupy her time — well. Maybe she just notices it more when she's lacking in the physical intimacy department.

"I don't mind that if you don't." Stella's certainly assertive enough to direct Peggy if she needs to, even if that includes physically putting her hands where she wants them. On the other hand, it won't hurt to let Peggy explore first, and Stella's not so needy she feels as if she has to rush this.

The touch is almost too soft, but it's touch, and Stella has to keep herself from arching into the other woman's hands. She inhales a sharp breath, and her eyes drift shut just so she can focus on this, on the feeling of being touched after as long as it's been. A low hum rises from the back of her throat, just a soft noise of encouragement in case Peggy is in any doubt whatsoever that what she's doing feels good.

Peggy has to fumble a little for a position that makes this comfortable, given that she's not simply reaching down to do this for herself. Giving a stubborn and frustrated little sound, she shifts her whole body so the gravity is shifted over a little, allowing her to use her dominant hand as she works two fingers slowly between Stella's thighs, starting with what she typically likes.

It's a slow warm-up, an introduction, but typically this is done at first. They've already been going for a bit now, so perhaps Peggy ought to increase her speed.

"Yes?" she wants to check in more than this, of course, but best to start slow.

That noise from Stella’s throat is most definitely a gasp, and she can’t help but push her hips into the touch, one hand settling on Peggy’s shoulder as if she needs to hold onto her, as if the mattress isn’t perfectly sturdy underneath her. Normally slow and steady would be the way to go, even Stella typically needs some warm-up — but she’s aroused enough to be a little impatient, and while this is good it’s not quite enough.

“A little faster,” she breathes, and though she doesn’t and wouldn’t say it, there’s definitely a please buried in her tone.

If there's one thing Peggy is good at, it's being a good soldier and taking orders when she believes in the mission. Lucky for her, this is something she believes in very strongly and the mischievous glint in her eye says that while she could ignore Stella's requests, she's absolutely not going to.

Working faster, Peggy leans down to kiss Stella, because now that she's had that intimacy back, it's something she intends to be greedy about, taking as much as she can. "Like this?" she murmurs into the kiss, using two fingers and increasing the pace of her strokes.

Stella kisses back shamelessly, though perhaps with a bit less finesse as Peggy picks up the pace and she finds herself increasingly distracted by the building pleasure. She’s breathing fast by the time Peggy pulls back to speak against her mouth, rocking a little helplessly into the other woman’s hand.

“Yeah, just— just like that,” she breathes, and she’s gone from resting her hand on Peggy’s shoulder to holding on to her now, nails digging slightly into her skin, unable to help herself.

It takes her a few more minutes, but it’s obvious when she finally reaches that edge — Stella’s normally quiet in bed, but there are tiny little moans rising from her throat, and then she swears under her breath and clutches at Peggy roughly as she comes.

Eventually she collapses against the mattress with a soft, relieved little noise, eyes closed as she recovers, breathing and pulse slowly settling back into a more natural rhythm. It takes her a moment to actually say or do anything, glancing up at the other woman and only then realizing how hard she’d been holding on to her there at the end.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” she says, an amused edge on her slight smile. She doesn’t think so, but it’s polite to ask.

There is no curl left in Peggy's hair, no lipstick left on her lips. She wouldn't say the words 'thoroughly debauched', but the evidence is beginning to pile up that she's clearly not in the sturdy and composed state that she was in before. She works her fingers and moves a third there, but lucky for her, her pride can stay intact when Stella comes.

Giving a hum as she settles in the bed, she glances to her shoulder, nailmarks offset by the bullet scars that adorn both her front and back. "I've had far worse," she's pleased to assure Stella, kissing her neck lazily as she settles. "Do you want me to leave?" It's a quick check, but she needs to make sure that Stella doesn't want her instantly out.

She looks properly fucked, is what she looks like — not that Stella would tell her that to her face. It looks good on her, and Stella knows she herself is more or less in an equal state of disarray, and she’s not embarrassed.

“No,” she says, almost immediately, surprising herself slightly by not wanting that distance in the aftermath. “It’s all right.” Maybe if it were anyone else, but Peggy is a friend, and Stella would feel remiss asking her to go.

She’s very exposed right now, and suddenly conscious of her scars again, but she manages to suppress the feeling of mild discomfort. Peggy’s seen everything else about her, and the marks are a part of her just like the rest. If they weren’t friends she would absolutely be at least pulling the sheet up over her legs right now, but for some reason she just can’t be bothered.

“I hope I met expectations,” she says, almost a tease though there’s something in her voice that says she knows she did.

Peggy gives a pleased sound, happy that she doesn't have to move anywhere, because she's feeling far too sated and delighted to actually move. She settles in a little, her fingers still stroking the bare skin on display. It's only when she slides her fingers a touch lower that she remembers the thought running through her mind.

The scars. Peggy hadn't wanted to ask before and certainly not during, but they've never been on display for her like this before. "Do you want to talk about these?" she murmurs, fingers stilling atop one of them just briefly.

Stella actually manages to let herself enjoy being touched in the aftermath, for once — a languorous contentment not unlike that of a lazy cat in a beam of sunlight. Peggy's touch is soft, not light enough to tickle (thankfully) but just enough that Stella's skin prickles pleasantly in the wake of her fingers.

Then that touch ventures lower to one of her upper thighs. It would be a misnomer to call what Stella does right then freezing — but her expression goes still and she goes quiet. She doesn't talk about this, as a rule. At any other time or with anyone who hadn't earned her complete trust in the way Peggy has, she'd shut down this line of conversation immediately. She's had bed partners ask her this question before, and usually a blunt no suffices to curtail the discussion before it starts. It's why she doesn't always take all her clothes off when she has sex, why she hides her legs under skirts or pulls a sheet up around her hips afterwards before anyone can manage to ask. She's always expecting a certain kind of reaction: confusion, worry, pity. She's always expecting that look, the one that says her partner feels sorry for her, the one that regards her like she's damaged, and fuck she hates that more than almost anything in the world.

Peggy's not looking at her like that, though, and her touch is gentle and brief. Stella's gaze drifts downwards, to the thin, fine white lines on her thighs — thirty years old and all but invisible except like this, up close. She considers warning Peggy that this isn't a pleasant story, but after a moment decides she doesn't need to. Scars never come with nice stories, after all.

"I was fourteen," she says, in a low voice just above a whisper. She doesn't look Peggy in the eyes for this, but her hand finds the other woman's, just to touch her, the pad of her thumb glancing over the backs of her knuckles. "A year before, my father had been diagnosed with leukemia. The doctors had said his prognosis was good, but in the summer he took a turn for the worse. He died around Christmas, about two months after my fourteenth birthday."

Stella clears her throat quietly. She's not used to telling this story. Katie Benedetto had heard a little, but only in outline. Peggy has earned more than that from her after all this time. "My father and I were very close when I was small, so I was grief-stricken. Furious. At the doctors, for not seeing the full extent of his illness. At God, I suppose, for taking him away. My mother—" She stops, for a second. "My mother was in her own world. I felt powerless. Out of control, as if I was floating in space with nothing to grab hold of except the grief and the anger.

One day I cut myself by accident — I think I was making something with paper for a school project, and I sliced my hand open with the scissors. It hurt terribly, of course, but it was something... something else to focus on that wasn't the anger. So I started doing it to myself, secretly. It made me feel like I was in control of something, even if that something was hurting myself."

Stella shakes her head a little. That makes it sound so simple, but it wasn't. She just doesn't have another way of explaining it. "No one was meant to find out, but one of my schoolmates caught me at it and told the headmistress. My mother had me put into therapy for two years." She smiles a little, sadly, and looks up at Peggy finally. "It must have worked because I haven't done it since."

Truth be told, the therapist had had no idea what to do about the self-injury. No one talked about it then, ever. But Stella does credit the two years of therapy with giving her the tools to dig herself out of that black hole.

Peggy's never had that sort of relationship with her parents, but she thinks she can understand that sort of adoration and fondness. For her, it had been her brother, and she still recalls the darkness that had surrounded her when he'd died. She hadn't taken anything to herself physically, but mentally she had shut down in a way she can't describe or imagine again. Even losing Steve hadn't been like that, any of the times.

She keeps her fingers slowly stroking Stella's legs, up to her thighs, as if to tell her that it's all right, that she doesn't mind, that she wants her to keep going.

"I'm sorry that you felt that was the only way to get out your pain," Peggy murmurs, laying a soft kiss to Stella's shoulder. She knows she can't make the pain vanish, but she hopes she can at least give it some ease. "I was never close with my parents, but I lost my brother. I can understand that feeling."

Luckily, Peggy had a war to take her aggression and grief out on and she'd met Steve soon after, giving her the chance to throw all her focus into that. When she'd lost him, she had her uphill battles at the SSR, which left her so little time to think about her own feelings.

Stella can count on one hand the number of people she's told this story to, and not on all five fingers of that hand. It's been a long time, maybe a decade or more, since the last time she recounted this to anyone. And Peggy's not looking at her with shock, or pity, or discomfort. Just compassion, and an unspoken tenderness in the brush of her hand and the gentle pressure of lips on Stella's shoulder.

It's cathartic, in a way that doing this hasn't ever actually been before. Stella feels better for having told her, where with anyone else she's always just felt miserable, worse for having dredged up the tangle of ugly feelings. It's — it's a relief, honestly. She breathes out, and shuts her eyes, concentrating on the soothing feeling of the other woman's touch.

"I'm sorry," she says, looking back up. Death is a routine part of life, neither of them are naive enough not to be aware of that, but Stella wouldn't wish the same kinds of feelings she experienced after her father's death on anyone. There's grief, bereavement, and then there's the yawning chasm of total loss and abandonment she hadn't been able to see any way out of except by causing herself pain.

"The war?" she asks, hazarding a guess. Her hand lingers over Peggy's free one, absently stroking the inside of her wrist with her thumb. It might seem strange to go from sex to talking about this, but the physical intimacy seems to lead naturally to an emotional one, a relaxation of boundaries that makes it easier to open up. Not easy, but easier, less fraught.

"I've lost plenty of people," Peggy says, "some during the war, many after. I've learned how to process that loss, but I think losing Michael left a wound that while healed, will always ache," she says, thinking that if anyone in the world will understand that, it's Stella.

She's finding it easy to settle into the bed and grow comfortable talking about awful things, but then, this is what they've been doing in their friendship. "You know," she says quietly, "I had a roommate in New York that I was very fond of. Colleen, who was always terribly ill."

"I got her killed," Peggy admits, her heart heavy to say it out loud. "I was once accused of being the reason the people around me die and I wish I could refute it, but I can't. Being here, the only benefit is that people don't die, they simply disappear."

“You mentioned her before,” Stella says, thinking back to the conversation they’d had after she’d come back with bruises all over her from Paul Spector. She doesn’t know what happened, and she won’t ask although she will listen if Peggy wants to volunteer that information — but she’s sure it can’t be nearly as much Peggy’s fault as she claims it is. “I’m very sorry that happened.”

Her gut instinct is to say I’m sure there was nothing you could do, but truthfully, Stella knows exactly what it is to carry around that kind of guilt.

“There was a woman we interviewed in connection with the Spector investigation, who claimed to have briefly been in a relationship some years ago with a man at university who nearly strangled her once while they were in bed together — a man who called himself ‘Peter.’ We thought he might have been the same man as our killer, who we hadn’t yet identified at the time. She was beautiful, dark-haired, she’d been studying to be a nurse; she fit the type. So we put out a composite likeness based on her description of him, said it was from nine years ago and used the name that she’d called him.”

Recounting it now, Stella still can’t believe she of all people made this mistake. She sits up in bed, drawing the sheet up over her legs and tucking them up a little against her chest, feeling suddenly chilled.

“As it turned out, it was the same man, because he tracked her down, kidnapped her from her own home, shoved her into the boot of her own car, drove her into a remote stretch of forest and left her there to die. We were barely able to get to her in time.”

She’s not saying this to get Peggy to feel sorry for her or take anything away from the other woman’s story. What she means is — “I understand what it’s like, to feel responsible for someone else getting hurt.” She reaches over, stroking Peggy’s hair away from her face. “Sometimes all we can do is learn from it and strive to do better.”

Edited (tmw your grammar doesn’t make any sense) 2018-06-29 15:54 (UTC)

Peggy didn't learn, though, which is the trouble. She'd managed to get Krzeminski killed, the Chief had died, and she'd nearly lost Howard, then Jason, and then so many others. Even when she'd gone back home for that too-brief period, Thompson had been on death's door, and what of Ana? Peggy feels worn, but she knows she shouldn't be focusing on this, not after the incredible night they've had.

"It's been better here, at least" she'll admit that much. "There's not quite so much to muck up, which I do appreciate."

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ex_assertiveness90 - 2018-06-30 03:13 (UTC) - Expand

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womanofvalue - 2018-06-30 19:06 (UTC) - Expand

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cw self-harm

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