2019-11-13 - Scotch

Even with the sky all grey and gloomy and drizzly, there is an undeniable brightness to the house on 7 Oak Avenue. Each of the porch posts has been painted with rainbows which rise from indigo into blue and green and warm sunshiny yellow which takes up most of the middle then further into orange pink and violet at the top. They're a bit uneven in the color spacing, all the proportions gauged by eye, but there's certainly consistency in the pattern, in the intention.

The other bit of brilliance standing out against the muted olive green of the house itself is Sparrow and that obnoxiously bright hair of hers. Sure, she could've waited inside where it's cooler, dryer, but she's settled on a comfy deck chair in that same black-with-silver-stars jacket that she wore on their last outing. But it's not jeans and a tee shirt beneath it today. Whatever she's wearing is all black and cuts off above the knee, leaving her legs bare all the way down to the tops of her ankle boots in high-gloss red. Which match her lipstick, slightly darker than her hair. She's got earbuds in as she waits, head bobbing about to something no one else can hear.

Up to the curb pulls that recognizable green car. Rather than stay running, the engine is cut off, and Yule slides from the driver's seat, letting the door thud closed behind him. His walk is a slow saunter to the house, intending to meet her at least on the stairs. He's left his jacket behind, revealing a dark blue shirt whose sleeves have been rolled up to mid forearm, and the top two buttons left undone. It also reveals the inside of those cuffs, along with the interior of the placket at the very top where those buttons are undone. It's a primarily red with a touch of white gingham pattern to add a dash of color. Khaki pants, a black belt to go with his black ankle high boots all polish off his look.

Wherever they meet at, she'll find his left arm wrapping about her in a loose grip, fingers splaying against her back between shoulder blades. And it is that bit of leverage he uses to bring her up to the tips of his toes. No words of greeting, but determined action. His head dips down, but the connection of mouths doesn't come immediately unless Sparrow finishes it off. Instead, Yule will let a couple of seconds pass in anticipation before the gap is closed. A dash of heat, a pinch of firmness, a slight parting of mouths is the recipe this kiss contains on his behalf. He won't let it linger long, just enough for her to respond, for a note of satisfaction to be heard deep from the back of his throat before it's broken to give one whispered, inticing word. "Ready?"

It takes a moment for Sparrow to pull those earbuds out and bundle them up, to turn her phone off and shove all of it neatly back into her jacket pocket, some minor fussing still on-going as she starts off to meet Yule. Once upright, it's easier to see the little black dress beneath the jacket for what it is, short, cute and still fairly casual, just tight enough to catch all her curves without clinging, while still moving with her every step. A little, "Hi," breaks her wide smile just before they're close enough for contact, just before he draws her in so efficiently. Breath caught, she doesn't chase the kiss immediately, instead brushing her nose to his in what might qualify as a taunt, bridging the ditance, but daring him to finish what he started. And when he does? Oh! It's a good thing he's holding her like that, that she has a hand braced against the small of his back, for how she just melts into it, all her wobbliness held steady for the moment. "Mhm," isn't the way she might've wanted to answer it, but it certainly expresses its own sort of enthusiasm, especially when delivered with eyes still shut as if what she's ready for is more of that. Right now. Please? She catches herself, breathes a quiet laugh and lets her hold on his back loosen as she nods, conjuring up her usual cockiness to confirm, "Been ready."

He waits for those last words to come, and there is an offering of a slight smile, ever so pleased not with her choice of what to say, but how it is said. "Yeah?" Brown eyes flicker over her face, soaking in the aftermath of that connection of mouths, and he keeps that left hand splayed loosely around her in support while he turns, leading the red head towards the car. "That dress looks gorgeous on you, Cards." It's delivered with casual observation rather than heavy flirtation, both appreciative for her choice, and the implied thought it looks good because it's on her rather than vice versa. No key into the lock this time on her side, for Yule arrived prepared, but still that door is opened, the digits on her back not departing until she's well into the car, and even then the nails brush lightly to her elbow. Her side is shut, and around he goes to get in on his own side. When the car starts up, it's still that 80s and 90s station, though the volume has been turned down, letting The Police's stalkery song of Every Breath You Take serve as white noise, just barely loud enough to make out the words.

Sparrow's only answer to that probably rhetorical 'yeah?' is an amused arch of one dark brow that might edge toward accusation for having made her wait this long. She puts a little wiggle in her step--for just a step or two--at the compliment for her dress selection, accepting with an, "I know," that falls just shy of arrogance when paired with a flirtatious look turned Yule's way. He might not cross that line, but she will. As she slips into the car and his fingers slip away, she lifts her hand to brush fingertips over palm, along fingers in departure. No attempt to catch and hold, just a bit of skin to skin before the door closes and she's left alone to a few seconds of fluttering. Once he's settled beside her, she angles a sidelong look his way--surely waiting for his fingers to settle on that gear shift so that hers can end up where they belong--and notes of his attire, "I dig the red," as if she might be reading something into it. Intentionally. Evidence that he's had her on his mind, clearly.

True to form, that hand settles where it must on the gear shifter, and those fingers part into just the perfect space for hers to settle. A small bit of airy laughter comes from him as they start off, down through the streets of Gray Harbor and towards the part that isn't nearly as well to do as Oak street. "Had a buddy in med school. Back then? Fuck. I had no style. Was lucky if I managed to get my shirt on right side out. But he told me something that has always stuck with me. Dress to match what you want to attract." It's a sidelong glance towards Sparrow that comes with that, the corner of his mouth closest to her tucking up into a coy smile. It's those side streets that require quite a bit of shifting - and thus a squeezing of his fingers against hers - as they come to stop signs and traffic lights, stopping and starting. "So what is it you'd normally be doing on a Wednesday evening when you don't have plans to drink scotch?"

Sparrow accepts that invitation with neither hurry nor hesitation, the deliberate brush of her fingers along the back of his hand incidentally showing off her blunted, black-painted nails before fingers slip into place and squeeze loosely, that connection contentedly held. "Like a matador flagging down the bull who might gore him," she croons in answer to that advice, like maybe he's the one who should be cautious. The arch of her brows, though, suggests she's impressed with that bold, foolishly brave choice. After the first bit of downshifting misses her legs, she shifts just enough to assure that when they start up again, their knuckles will graze bare skin and nudge up cotton, another point of fleeting contact. The question earns a look like she might wanna ask how honest he wants her to be, but she catches herself, already aware of the answer. "Coursework," obviously. "Cleaning. Maybe some video games. Maybe make out with whoever might be free tonight." She hesitates a moment before adding a touch more tentatively, "Shower. Wait for the boyfriend to get home."

"Both a horrible and amazing thing, that. Heritage and all," Offering an insight that might not have been guessed at given his appearance, "but I hate that so many knife the bull before taking to the ring. Cruel sport. But past that? The dance between matador and bull. All about going to the edge, and knowing when to stop and strike. One wrong move by the matador and they won't see tomorrow. Just means it is the older matadors of which you have to be most wary." It's the next set of shifts that has fingers brushing against that leg just as she had planned, and his pinky presses out to prolong that rake of flesh to cotton.

Yule hadn't even been modest when he said he lived in a trailer park, for there it is, the Huckleberry trailers looming in the distance down the road they turn on. One dark eyebrow arches upwards, either for the comment of boyfriend or the tentative tone in her voice. "Yeah? Whoever is free?" It's a touch of a tease at just how the phrasing sounds without having any bar of requirements for it, rather than any true judgement, a small push to see how much she feels comfortable sharing on this line of conversation. And so with it comes the out, letting the red head pick just what she wants to focus on. "Imagine you guys had a hell of a Halloween, yeah? Heard about the comic shop costume party too. Town always has loved it's Halloween."

Sparrow's expression warms some for that lesson in bull-fighting, for how expertly Yule turns her playful threat back to his advantage. "I bet," comes with a brush of her thumb along the side of his hand, not too far off in timing from the stretch of his finger along her leg. She should probably paying some mind to where they're heading, if she does plan to abduct him at some point, but her gaze doesn't much stray from the driver while they talk, even if her attention remains mostly indirect, head not turned to fully face him. "I've got options," says nothing about her taste level, how discerning she might be. "Little worried some of their hearts might break as I have less and less time to spare as my time is taken up with long drives and scotch..." But she doesn't really sound all that concerned about it. She squeezes his hand before looking forward, gauging where they are, maybe turning a look toward a familiar house or two in passing. She knows this town well and a lot of the people in it, after all.

"Gray Harbor always goes all out." She doesn't mention her win at the comic shop again or go into any detail about what the rest of the town did, instead explaining, "I danced with a gorgeous warlock who showed up unexpectedly in the bright orange skirt I sent to him on whim. Custom. With a blue sparrow where a poodle would usually be. My dream husband finally gave me the big ring I deserve." She looks back to Yule as she informs him it was, "Blue raspberry," before continuing to recount her Halloween. "I made out with the gorgeous blonde my brother's dating even though I know I should've left well enough alone. Went home with Holmes and my big book of answered questions." He is definitely not coming into an idle life. Sparrow lets that rundown linger for a moment before wondering, "Were you stuck at work?"

Sparrow remembers something and interjects quickly, "Legs. From the Pourhouse the other night. My brother's girl."

Down they slow, which necessitates shifting, fingers squeezing against hers, and this time that pinky catches the hem of that dress just momentarily, testing its stretchiness before another shift down is had. "Yeah? Maybe you'll get lucky and they will up their make out game to keep your attention." While his tone is light, there is his ego in there too, and the look he casts to her shows that try as they might? He has every confidence he'll still come out on top when it comes to kissing. That litany of her halloween festivities finally earns a brief, warm bit of laughter, his mirth rich in those few moments he allows it to spill out. "Fuck. Hope you have a flowchart of all this somewhere to keep it straight." But something in Yule's tone offers an admission that he doesn't really believe the sharp Sparrow needs it.

It's between two trailers they pull, closer to the vintage airstream with it's gleaming aluminum shell. The engine is killed, "Legs, yeah? Least he doesn't have to worry about you liking her." But it's her question before that which turns the conversation more weighty, and she'll learn that even when he might ought to, he won't pull his punches or soften those edges of answers. "Yeah. For a good portion of the night. Then I just came home and spent it by myself. Eight years doing this in New York City? Halloween just loses a lot of its luster, after the things you see coming in." It's then he pauses, a second of hesitation, before his fingers squeeze against hers, and the leather of his seat scrunches while Yule leans over, angling to offer a kiss to the red heads cheek. It's small gestures, and not apologetic in the least for his side of the conversation, but to reassure that these things? He doesn't mind talking about.

"We're here." Obviously, but it's the prompt that he needs to remove himself from the car, opening his side to slip out, and those digits? They stay tangled up as long as they can, until arms can straighten no further, and they have to release.

The cotton has some give, but it's not tested to its limit, given how Sparrow follows that tug without thinking, leg shifting as best as it can within its current confines in order to pursue continued contact. She's already wearing a dubious expression when he looks her way, entirely uncertain that there's sufficient competition to rival Yule... but there's also warmth and approval in that look, the way the quirk of dark eyebrows is paired with a soft smile. He's passed the non-exclusivity test with flying colors. "If you need visual aids," she croons for his teasing, like she's got a PowerPoint presentation somewhere to summarize her lovelife that she can pull out and project at a moment's notice.

Her fingers tighten around his when he explains why he stayed in for half of Halloween, a little sympathy which doesn't find voice. She tilts in toward that softer affection, breathing him in while she has the chance. This close, without the drizzle to distract, it's easy to catch the notes of her perfume, different from the last, but not entirely dissimilar: lush plum sweetened with honey and down into darker places by opium tar and smoky vetiver, the effect entirely enticing despite the shadow-scented threat. As they slowly separate, she wonders, "What's your holiday then?" Does she linger where she is just a moment to check out his ass once he's standing? Yes, yes, she does. But then she follows, clicking the manual lock as she gets out, before she shuts the door.

"Hold that thought," His own scent is a different today as well, a mixture of musk, lime, lilac and citron. It's hard to place the source, surely not just soap now, but the best guess? Is beard oil rather than a cologne. He slides out from his side, his lock clicked as well, and after he's circled around the car to places a hand against the small of her back, he gestures to the trailer next door. "That's Nat's. Well, Noelle and Snow stay there too. Ellis and Winter sometimes." It's lot 21, but that's all Yule comments about it before they ascend the steps and he opens the door, letting Sparrow slip in first to get the lay of the land without his body taking up space.

"Holidays. You have to answer my questions about them first. So let's get the obvious one out of the way," Hanging from one of the kitchen cabinets is a white wooden sign that reads, 'Support your local medical examiner. Die strangely.' It's a touch of a smile that graces his lips as he asks the question that surely must spring to mind given not just his name, but that of his family. "What are your thoughts on Christmas?" He tugs shut the door behind him, and a second of thought is given to it before the lock is clicked shut so no overly curious younger siblings come barging in.

An understandable curiosity, should anyone catch Yule guiding a significantly younger unnatural redhead in a short dress and starry jacket into his trailer. Sparrow considers the trailer in lot 21 with some interest of her own, maybe peeking at windows to see if she can spy any snooping siblings before she's lead on into the airstream. She considers lingering near the door for a moment to tempt Yule in closer, but she's not terribly good at that sort of patience when seemingly given invitation to explore something new, something that definitely has her interest piqued. Her pace is unhurried as she walks the length of the trailer in the longer direction, fingers trailing over countertops and cabinets and other surfaces as she goes, drinking it all in. "Love it," without hesitation. An answer to his question, almost certainly, though she seems just as intrigued by the decor. "Even more now that we're all older. There's no excited rush like there was when we were kids. We bake cookies on Christmas Eve, take our breakfast slow in the morning before exchanging gifts." She glances back over her shoulder, curious to see where Yule stands on the holiday by which his family was named, pausing in her perusal of his personal space just as she gets to the half-hidden bathroom before the bedroom.

Everything has its place within the trailer, maybe more out of necessity than his personality, but likely both. He also doesn't keep a lot of clutter in general, true to his words of not having many wants, but what he does? Is exceedingly picky, such as the espresso machine that takes up a small portion of the counter. "It's the best," Period, as far as Yule is concerned in that statement. "Watching the old christmas specials like the Grinch or Frosty the snowman. The warm mugs of hot chocolate. Eggnog. The laughter with family. Going around caroling. People who say it's overly commercialized now can fuck right off. That all can be ignored, focus on the great of what it all stands for."

No protest comes as she crosses that threshold to the bathroom, and beyond that the bedroom, the sheets and comforter all made up properly. He's at the kitchen, opening an upper cabinet to pull out two small glasses and a bottle. "Going to the mountains before Christmas itself, so you can see the snow. Or taking late night drives to look at all the christmas lights. Preferably in an older, british racing green car, whose heater works but still leaves you wanting to scrunch up closer to each other, despite that damnable gear shift being in the way." While it's given up as a casual thought, there is a sly sidelong glance towards the redhead as he closes the cabinet door. "You should try it sometime."

At least one of those details catches Sparrow's curiosity, but she doesn't linger on that threshold long, not when Yule pauses in the kitchen. Given that he's neither stopping her nor following her, she heads right into the bedroom to take in the details there. He might even catch the pull of a drawer as she shamelessly peeks at what he keeps in one of the nightstands beside his neatly made bed. This is an exploration of the aistream's sole occupant rather than a suggestion of where they ought to be right now, and she makes no apology, no excuse for it. When she reemerges, she tells him, "I will," to accept the invitation he didn't quite make, plans secured for a month or so in the future, confident that they'll still be just as invested in each other then as they are in this moment. If not more. As she draws closer, she pulls her phone from her pocket to ask, "Where am I plugging in?" though the USB cable hasn't yet been withdrawn. It leans her hands free to actually fuss with the phone, answering that notification light with a warm smile. And no offered explanation unless he asks. "I'm really looking forward to Thanksgiving. Think we might host at our place this year. Let Corey handle most of the cooking." But her head wobbles as she looks up, like it's not set in stone. "We'll see."

That bottle is a Highland Park 18 year old label, nearly full but having been opened before. "I know." Comes his response to that accepted quasi-invitation, a glance cast her way as she dips into the bedroom, partially obscured from sight. The drawer has a story to tell, and it starts with a kindle paperwhite that surely stores those reading materials he mentioned before. Beneath it is a physical book, a history one at that: The Silk Roads, A New History of the World. Next to it is a small self winding box that has a watch in it, likely kept for special occasions. "Yeah? So what is the source of your uncertainty," Even as he asks those probing questions, should she pull the drawer all the way out, it tells the story. Books and watch in front for easy access, and there in the very back? A couple of condoms sit tucked in a corner. "Not sure your parents will go for it? Haven't talked to Corey about it? Concerned about the logistics of your place with all the people?" The corked top of the bottle is undone, and he gestures to a speaker that is in the small stand the tv sits on top of when she asks. "You normally look forward to Thanksgiving, or is this year special?"

Whatever Sparrow thinks of the story found in that drawer, none of it is evident in her expression when she rejoins Yule, save perhaps the muting of her curiosity now that some of it has been sated. Despite the short dress, she crouches down in front of the TV stand, knees tucked together like this isn't her first time pulling this sort of move while dressed like this. "This year's special," is where she starts as she gets the cord out and starts getting everything connected. "First year in our own place, me and Corey. And our place is definitely big enough to fit everyone." Glancing up at Yule, she tells him, "Big as it looks on the outside? Even bigger on the inside. Entirely noneuclidian." Just a touch of hyperbole to emphasize the point. Looking back to the device, Spotify pulled up, she explains, "It's unreasonable, the deal we got on the place," but stops herself before she gets into any weird talk about real estate and her lease or wherever that thought might've lead.

"Mostly just not sure what it's gonna look like yet, how many people will be around to make it." With a breath of laughter, she adds, "Who's gonna wanna meet our parents." A song starts, quiet, and she fusses with the volume to get it to a place where she likes, where the music is decidedly present, but not unobtrusive, where he'll be able to hear Finneas singing, 'Let's fall in love for the night and forget in the morning,' when she rises. No longer having any need for her pockets, she strips off her jacket, another question expressed in the arch of her eyebrows--where should she put it--rather than voiced. "And I want to try to make it over to the Kellys' too, if I can." With a lift of her chin and a crooked grin, she asks, "Are we at meet the family yet?"

The glasses he uses are intriguing and perfect for the job. Their inside is curved in that hourglass shape of a good whisky glass, while the outside is contoured to be just one sweeping curve, just shy of being straight to make it easier to hold, the bottoms flat without any stem. "Doesn't sound like a reason not to have it, right? If you don't do it there, would you go over to your parents? Doesn't seem like too hard of a decision." Yule just calls it like he sees it based upon that information, and after he pours into both glasses, the bottle is recapped but not put away. It's all left on the counter while he watches her dip down to get everything situated, and with her back turned? It's a long look of unabashed admiration for both the grace and accents offered.

"Here," He takes the jacket and walks it into the back. It's when he returns that an amused smile flickers to life, a flash of warmth and appreciation for the first song that comes on. "Depends on the family member, yeah? I mean, you've already met one of my brothers at the coffee shop, even if it was briefly. And regardless of what you or I feel on it," His hand lifts, thumb sticking out to motion over his shoulder towards the the trailer across the way. "You come around here a few times? They are going to ambush you on the way out one of those times."

"Just a matter of coordination," Sparrow counters, angling a playfully stern look toward Yule that assures she's working on it and he can wait patiently while she does. When he takes her jacket, she stays put, hips shifting to the music as the singer croons, 'So take my hand, let's take a drive,' leaving it fairly clear that she picked this one for a reason, a good lead-in for anything that comes after. 'I've been living in the future, hoping I might see you sooner. I want you riding shotgun. I knew when I got one right.' She's shameless, even in her musical selections. With her jacket off, the little black dress reveals its shape a little more, cap-sleeved and scoop-necked, offering a glimpse of cleavage but only just, framing a couple layered necklaces, one with a little sparrow pendant, the other a small disc with something hard to read stamped into it.

The can be no mistaking that she was watching him the whole way when he turns around, the way her bright brown eyes are still locked on him. And need to rise up from wherever they'd been settled. Not that she shows any shyness for being caught checking out his ass. "I do mean to keep coming around," she tells him, as if he might not have a choice in the matter. She steps a little closer, but not too much. They've got drinking to do. "But I meant my parents. If you wanna come by. Can bring your brood. My siblings mingling with your siblings. Just, uh. Not sure if that's too forward. Even if it's just... wanting to share what's mine and all my time with people I like. Simple as that."

Yule comes to a stop a couple of feet away to listen to that serenade, and it draws out a far softer smile than normal. His eyes drop to a half lidded state, considering. "Don't think that'd be a little awkward, introducing me to your parents?" When she steps forward, he matches it, and while there is drinking to do? He doesn't seem in a rush to pick those glasses back up just yet. His right hand reaches out to wrap around her waist, drawing her in to a light, leaning touch. The left lifts to caress through her red strands, tucking a few back behind her ear so that bit of skin can momentarily be revealed. "Yeah. It's forward. But that's part of your charm, Cards."

"Appreciate the thought. Really. But I don't want to be away from my family during Thanksgiving, and even if I could talk them all into it? I think that'd be a bit too overwhelming." It's not just a matter of settling in closer, but Yule melts against that black dress clad form of the redhead, and his body language invites her to do the same. Noses nestle, his forehead tips to rest against hers. "I do, however, have a counter proposal." He lets it linger there, offering her the chance to confess interest or not.

"Friends are friends," Sparrow says of any potential parent-related awkwardness, like it's simple as that. He might catch a glimmer of some further teasing in her eyes just before he makes contact and nudges all conscious thought along new trajectories. Her right hand nearly mirrors his while her left braces loose and light against his chest, thumb tracing slow arcs over his shirt while she tilts into the touch to her hair, eyes happily half-lidding. She knows he's still talking. She can hear his words, but his body's right there, pressing to all her cotton-clad softness, and she can't help but lean in, fingers sliding from his side to his back to encourage this closeness, to keep him here. Behind them, a new singer takes over, voicing what's going through her head all too well. 'I see your lips move, all of the sound working against you...' Her forehead rocks against his as nose nudges to nose and lips draw a little bit closer. All she musters is a quiet, "Oh?" the curiosity sold in the way her brows shift against his skin, felt rather than seen.

A soft snort of amusement comes at her quip back about the parent related meeting, but those words of the new song coming on begins to sink in, and this draws a quirk to his lips he can't deny, despite his attempts to. "Fuck. I like the thought you put into things, Sparrow." Not that he fully follows the encouragement of that song, because he does have a counter proposal at the ready which requires some context. "For Christmas this year? The siblings want to do a road trip. To a warm beach." His features twist up a touch at the thought of that being the location for a Christmas holiday, but there is affection, a tone that says he'll do anything for that motley crew. "So between Thanksgiving and Christmas? Figured I'd spend a weekend at a cabin or chalet somewhere in one of the mountains nearby,"

He pauses, but not to let her think. It's so their mouths can connect in a slow, encouraging kiss, and he tilts his head a bit more than their last ones, so they can feel the difference in how their mouths settle. It's light but warm, brief but all the more intimate for it. "You could come. Bring Corey and Legs with you. Even boyfriend and another, maybe. Long as you don't overdo it," It's far more numbers rather than choices, but those offers are all an acknowledgement of what she professed to like in having her people around, even as he puts a couple of boundaries on it. "I'm not sharing a bed though." It's delivered with a softened edge of amusement, direct as ever without assuming that is where her mind would have immediately gone to with so many people. "Figure we can find our way around the slopes." In perfect timing, the hand about her waist tightens enough to let her lean come in closer, molding those curves accentuated by the dress to nestle against his harder lines.

"Good," quiet and firm, acceptance of his compliment. Appreciation for his appreciation. Sparrow waits as patiently as she can while Betty Who sings about how he should just shut up and kiss her, lips so very close to her own that she can feel every word. One might wonder if she's even listening for how readily she melts into that kiss when it finally comes, for how easily she follows that subtle shift in positioning. The fingers at his back press more firmly as she draws in tighter, while the hand on his chest edges upward, breaching shoulder, thumb just stroking throat when there's distance and breath again. The first evidence that she's really listening is how her gaze lifts when he mentions 'boyfriend,' an odd smile forming. "Only with me," she says of the bed-sharing. Just to be perfectly plain in her own expectations. "Is this a, uh." Oh, how her thoughts have slowed, clouded as they are with other intrigues. "Family thing or a just you thing? Cuz I don't need all that much extra warmth around me if I can spend all my attention on just this heat."

He at least has the decency to wait for her to finish those thoughts and that question, slow as it might be to form, before Yule takes another kiss. This has his head tilting to the opposite side, as if it might prove even better still. Different, certainly, but it's impossible to beat the enticements of those past kisses, managing only to meet those same lofty expectations. "A me thing. I'm going to be stuck in a vehicle for who knows how long with them to the beach. I love them dearly, but I need some me time too." One last slow, simmering kiss is given, and the hand against her hair cups to her cheek, thumb and finger giving a light squeeze against her earlobe before it helps to draw her back a step, his own body mirroring the same, and ever so reluctantly those hands depart from her form. "Go make yourself comfortable. We haven't even gotten to the scotch yet," Which forms a brilliant excuse for him to pivot, features focused on gathering up the two glasses and the bottle... and hiding the slow, shuddering breath he releases as those brown eyes close for a second.

As if this were some strange game of red light-green light, Sparrow's fingers move again the moment Yule's lips return, sliding below his collar to hold at the side of his neck, thumb tucked against jaw, these higher held fingers mirroring her lower hand in the way fingertips all apply a gentle encouraging pressure to wordlessly demand more, this, yes. Those digits don't relax with his initial withdraw so that he can answer her question, still firm even as she murmurs, "An us thing," in gentle correction, that last syllable almost certainly muted against his mouth.

Reflexively, she resists the imposition of distance. Initially, at least. It's only a heartbeat later that her limbs fall slack and follow suit. There's no hiding the flush to her cheeks, especially as they rise with her laughter, eyes going wide. "Wind me up and tell me to relax. You're cute." Her smile stretches ear to ear as she obliges all the same, unconvinced that she'll find much comfort no matter where she settles. As she sinks onto the couch across from the TV, she asks, "Alright if I take my boots off?"

"I'm just trying to see if I can get your cheeks to match the color of your hair, gorgeous." Comes his glib quip back towards her, that wit found after he's caught his breath. There is a moment his eyes drop to a half lidded state, sweeping over the features of her face from chin to brow, and it is her smile that manages to gain one back from him, a touch broader than the normally muted ones that grace his features. "Yeah. An us thing." He concludes in agreement, the thought going from idea to done deal.

"Go ahead." He offers up about those boots as he sets the glasses and bottle down on the side table next to that couch, and then his attention shifts to that very article of clothing she's referencing. "You going to need a hand with those?" But he's already sitting down, and what at first seems odd, there is a bit more space between he and she than one would anticipate. Without even waiting for her answer, he reaches down to tuck an arm behind both of her calves, and up those legs are swept until they come to rest on his lap so he can examine the boots. Before he bothers with trying to figure out their removal, however, it's a couple of the pillows he hands her that she might leverage behind her to prop up and keep her upper half in a more comfortable, upright position for the drinking of scotch.

"I could give you directions," Sparrow chirps right back, a challenge laid down that she knows full well he can and will meet, no map needed. Affection softens the cockiness in the look she angles his way without dulling all of the sharpness. Really, what stands out more than that lustful flush when she looks at him? She's happy. For all she might've implied that she wasn't gonna be able to get comfortable, there's certainly an ease to that joy as she looks his way.

The unexpected offer to help with her boots gives her pause, though. She can't tell if he's joking. Or if she should be honest in her response, about what she likes and how much she'd like that. But she doesn't need to be. That hesitation provides just enough of an opening that he can sweep her legs up before she answers. Her chin is held a little higher when he offers those pillows up her way, her smile a bit more muted, but it's plain she's pleased. And intrigued. "Socks, too," she instructs, testing a line while also pursuing that comfort she's after. She twists to get the pillows behind her, but leaves her legs mostly stable and still so he can work the laces of her glossy red Doc Martens and the evergreen socks below.

"I'm a typical guy there, I'm afraid. Never ask for directions, just keep my foot the gas pedal and keep forging on." It's a touch of mischief flashed her way for the thought of it, a promise spoken in those words on multiple layers as Yule turns his attention first to the scotch. One of those glasses is lifted up and held to her, his own set of instructions laid out. "Sip, not drink." And then he will relinquish that offering. The smell is of peat smoke, dried fruit, a touch of oak, leather and cocoa. Citrus is added into that mix, along with allspice for the taste, and it's sweetness that lingers on the tongue with a bit of that smoke at the end.

"Yeah?" He says about the socks in a, 'We will see' tone of voice, but there is something in the sly look that he casts her way that is even more implicit than that: the more she demands? The more he's going to return the favor at some point later. "So was it on a whim, your hair and color choice?" His fingers take their time with the laces, knowing their way well around such a thing, but equally in no rush to undo them. He does one at a time, a hand curling behind the back, the other on the toe to slide the first one off, slipping it out of the way, as much as possible, given the confined space.

'Won't you get off my mind,' sings another voice not too far away, one song moving to another. 'Cuz I'm busy, and you're taking over my time.' Sparrow couldn't predict the pacing of the night perfectly, this song a bit more upbeat than the last, but it seems on theme all the same. It leaves her head bobbing shallowly, absently, as she accepts the scotch, drawing it close to breathe it in first long before she takes a taste, her attention too divided to focus on the drink just yet. Catching the promise in his eyes, she can only grin, warm and reflexive, not at all troubled by what she finds in his eyes. "Choice," without hesitation. "To remind people who I am, where their eyes should be."

Finally, she takes a taste of the scotch, all while watching Yule over the rim of the glass. Hard to tell what she thinks, really, when she's that focused on something else. Her toes wiggle within their green confines once freed of her boot, the red-and-green pairing left on his lap looking rather, well, festive. The little snort of laughter when she notices that suggests maybe that wasn't entirely intentional, instead a happy little accident. "Do you have any tattoos?" Oh, she means to find out through other means, but still.

She takes another sip as MØ sings, 'Take me anywhere you'd like. I'll follow.'

There is a moment of pause before he begins on the second boot so he can listen to the next song that kicks on, his eyes lowering to a half lidded state to return that look she casts his way over the rim of the glass. "You really want to spend time with people who need the reminder? And what is your natural hair color?" A beat of a pause as his tongue sweeps out, catching on his lower lip to add on, "And don't take the low hanging fruit there, yeah?" Despite that warning, there is amusement in his voice, the second boot peeled off and put away.

"Yeah. Two." Comes his answer, but he doesn't expand on it this time, making her dig a bit more if she wants the additional information or to leave it as something to physically investigate up close and personal another time. His hands start not down at her ankles with those socks, but all the way up on her thighs, as if it were stockings she wore instead. Both hands so easily envelope her whole leg as they slide down, over her knee, down the calf, until finally they get to where that festive bit of clothing actually begins. "Shame. Sort of thing I'd take off last. If at all." No doubt because of that happy, intentional thought it implies about him, but back the fabric is rolled, until it leaves that right foot shed, toes free to breathe.

"I like all sorts of people," Sparrow counters with a high loft of her black brows. The qualifier appended to the follow-up question preempts any further comment as she laughs, the blush rising to her cheeks suggesting that, yes, she was maybe gonna go there, that he definitely called her out. The smile that goes with it makes crystal clear how much she approves of that quick thinking. "Black." Simple, sweet. And, more sincerely, she adds, "The red... or orange or aquamarine... All stand out more when I'm on drums. I'm not the drummer who fades into the background and just keeps a steady beat. Never will be." Her gaze dips thoughtfully as she admits, "I think you'd like it. My natural color. I do."

That last syllable goes airy as his fingers find her thigh, as she inhales sharply. Her leg shifts just a little, just enough to make that movement easier, to silently express a different sort of invitation altogether. Her toes point while he works, muscles flexing beneath his touch, relaxing only once the sock is off and her toes can wiggle again, the color on her nails matching, all high gloss black for the night, though there's a shimmery outline of a green heart on her big toe. "There's more," she promises. "For you to leave on or take off as you see fit." Just not the socks. Those, she wants off. Another sip. She must not dislike it entirely. "Tell me about the more recent tattoo. What it is and why."

Her laughter draws his attention back to her, a touch of pleasure derived from it's sound, and the natural color? It doesn't draw too much surprise from Yule given it is her eyebrows, but with her, he doesn't bank on anything being what it seems. "I've watched your video a few times. You wouldn't fade into the background regardless of your hair color. But I get what you mean," The process of that sock removal is repeated, his hands curling about her opposite thigh, and this time? His hands spread wide, just to let her feel that temptation of where else they could go, but once more it is down along her leg until the sock is removed. They are tucked into her boots for safe keeping, all so they won't get lost.

But that offer of leaving on, taking off, whatever he sees fit? There is a downright devious look that creases his features. "Good." Not that he acts on it immediately, instead keeping one hand sprawled just above her knees, while his other goes to grab his glass so he can join in on the drinking. "Most recent was still... eight years ago. It's a gravestone with R.I.P on it. Nameless. I got it right when I started working after all my schooling. A reminder that it's part of the reason I do what I do, to help the dead - and their families - find peace. And you? Any tattoos?"

Sparrow's brows arch like she might want to ask how many times exactly, her wide smile making plain her appreciation for that admission, but her thoughts are quickly directly elsewhere when his hands find her other thigh. She breathes a quiet, "Fuck," before her teeth catch on her lip, biting back anything else that might want to slip out unbidden. Again, her foot points, muscles tense and sleek beneath his fingers, all her time behind her drums keeping those legs lean and fit, but this time, when he draws away, sock pulled off, it's not just her toes that wiggle. She squirms in her seat, trying to shed some of the energy that's coiled up inside of her after that contact.

It might be retaliation, the way one leg bends to push toes in against the inside of his thigh, just above his knee, to apply gentle pressure not meant to move. Her bent knee then tips in toward him, toward the hand on her thigh, one leg just barely trapping his pinky against the other. And keeping her thighs together as if that might help quash all the heat she's feeling at their apex at the moment. "Not yet," is incidentally airy, an artifact of his teasing not meant to sound so noncommittal. "Soon," is spoken with certainty. But she's not giving that away, not when he makes her work for everything. Not when she wants him to have to choose, too. "What else is there, if that's only part of it? Why do you do what you do, Nine?"

In the background, the song shifts again, a new voice crooning, 'Where you go, I'll follow. I'll follow you. I'll never stray, so lead the way...'

Once that singular digit is trapped, she can feel the flex of his hand, but it doesn't seek to break free. It just grips, letting the calloused pads dig in against the lean muscle he can get to, even as she settles more comfortable with those legs in his lap. "When I first started out, I thought I'd be a surgeon. Or general practice, if I couldn't cut it there. Mom died of breast cancer when I had just started off in college. It spurred the whole wanting to save lives, yeah?" That hand finally seeks to budge, but not to leave, sweeping slowly up and down in a lazy caress of her inner thigh, up to the hem of that dress if she'll loosen her grip upon him just a smidge.

"Halfway through med school, something happened." What? Well, that's a different story, a different event that isn't articulated, not important to what else is in that job for him. "I realized that as a medical examiner? You are still saving lives. Part of the chain that provides answers - difficult answers - to families who need them. And honestly? It's the challenge, as well. Performing open heart surgery is the same routine again and again. Each death? It has a different context. A different story to unravel. Some easy, some hard." Never once do those brown eyes stray, though there is weight to those words. A heaviness even, but it is hidden behind a sip of his scotch. "Where did you go for your year before college? And why did you go."

Sparrow keeps one arm loose at her side, hand settled with comfortable ease against her belly, while the other holds her scotch aloft, the slight tension in those digits telling another story. She takes another sip while she listens. Now that he's paying more mind to her face than her feet, he might catch the faint furrow of her brows that suggests she's not yet quite sure what to make of it, the way her tongue works in her mouth as she considers the complexity. Though she nods for the comment that follows the mention of his mother's death, she doesn't sink into apology or sympathy; this fact was already shared, and she expected she might be edging that direction again with her question, already prepared for that somber reminder. With a little squirm of her toes against his leg, a subtle creep upward, she relaxes some of that pressure, enough for him to explore, the upward trajectory earning a deeper breath even as she manage to keep her expression otherwise mostly unaffected, focused. Enough to catch the untold story and tuck away that curiosity for later. Not now, not tonight.

Toes flex again when he says 'hard,' though that might be purely coincidental as there's no glimmer of mischief to go with it. "You like to pick things part." A fondly spoken compliment. A commonality. One day, she might tell him about her reputation for asking questions and the title it's earned her. For now, she smiles warmly at the question. "Everywhere," doesn't seem like evasion, but rather prelude. "Packed up the car and just... Went. Nowhere in particular at first, playing it day by day. Southeast, first. California, Nevada, New Mexico, Texas." The little wave of her glass suggests an et cetera, that they kept going from there. "Roadside attractions. Every amusement park, fair or festival we could find. End up settling in New Orleans for a while. Months. Longer than we'd meant, but we just loved it. Spent my days building houses and my nights conning people into buying me drinks." A happy memory, from the sound of it, though gods know it must've been dangerous for a girl her age, on her own. "Took a different route back, shooting north. Kansas and Wisconsin and all that. I loved it. Every minute of it." With a shrug, she adds, "Except the homesickness." To which she drinks. "What do you miss most about New York?"

It is a steady rhythm now, the way his hand caresses up and down in an absent fashion, but it'd be foolish to think he isn't letting the soft caress of her skin affect him, enjoyed. Now and then it sweeps so far lower, all the way to an ankle of that leg that creeps slower, giving a gentle squeeze to indicate yes, he knows it is there, and no, he doesn't mind. "Quite the journey. And we? You and your brother?" It might have been mentioned in passing, but if so it wasn't a detail he'd latched onto the first time around when she said she'd gone off on that grand roadtrip. And with those touches, his sipping of the scotch keeps time, a practiced thing that shows how often he partakes of this ritual.

"Quite the journey. A lot of places. You guys have money, or did you have to find ways to pay as you went?" A momentarily warm smile comes to his features when she points out one of the things he enjoys, that picking things apart, and it earns a brief reprieve from his own questions. "Have a coffee cup in the cabinet that says, 'Medical Examiners love you for what is on the inside.' Goes for the living too... have to find out all those things lurking beneath. What about New Orleans resonated so much with you?" All in the similar avenue to what she's asked, and a slow breath is exhaled as he considers. "Tough question. Not the people, /exactly/. The multitude of truly riveting things to go and do that just... took your mind off of things. See an off off broadway show. Go and see the Museum of Feelings. Find a little hole in the wall that serves the most amazing food from any place you can think of. It was so easy to get lost in there, in a good way."

Sparrow's breathing seems almost to follow the cadence of that caress which leaves her holding her breath every time his hand strays lower and drawing in deeper on the return, a variation on an otherwise steady cadence. Once or twice as those digits near the hem of her dress, slightly higher now than it had been before, her leg tightens and lifts ever so slightly, driven by her hips, a barely perceptible movement that he might miss where his hand not right there to feel it. Shaking her head, she says, "No," of her brother. "Corey went to Canada. I went with a friend who I've barely spoken with since. Some emails and stuff, but." Shrug. "She didn't feel the pull back home quite like I did. But we did have money. We'd saved up. Got some help from family. Probably better put toward tuition, but." She lifts her glass and sips again, toasting to pursuing experience over expectation.

Her smile goes wide even as she rolls her eyes for the mention of that mug, as she nods her agreement with that sentiment, addressing that before she answers the question. "The interesting bits are almost never on the surface." Glass-wobble. "With rare exception." Herself, she means, all in your face awesomeness by her own personal measure. But it's a tease, only half-sincere. The mention of a Museum of Feelings piques her curiosity, but the rest, the food and getting lost? That has her nodding. "That's what New Orleans is like. So much good food and all this history, and you can just walk it all for days. But I liked the people, too. Resilient. Warm and weird and fun. And I felt like I had something to offer there. For a little while." Which earns a softer smile, a little more personal. "What's the best show you ever saw? By your measure." What would she care for anyone else's.

If he notices - and surely he has to, what with the position of his other hand, and how he seems to memorize her legs by touch alone - Yule doesn't draw a touch of notice to it, never straying higher than right to the hem. "Not any fun to always make the right choice. Some decisions are crucial, because they are just that /important/, but experience, travel like that?" One shoulder lifts up into a small shrug, not even arguing that it was money unwisely spent. "You learn things that way you never will in class, as important as school can be." Up his glass comes in a playful salute to her comment of rare exceptions, the look he flashes her playful while he takes another sip.

"I'd love to say it was some little production no one has ever heard of... and there were some really good ones of those. But it was Book of Mormon. It is a great show, but equally it was the company I had for it, that night." Yet there was something in her words though that has his attention raptly focused, sharpening his question in that way that just doesn't pull his punch at all in following his curiosity. "Do you feel like you don't have anything to offer here? What is it that made you feel like you contributed there?" That earns another sip, the last of his, and up that glass is lifted, examined for a long moment in contemplation before those brown eyes drop to rivet on her, watching the reaction to his questions.

"It was important," Sparrow says of that decision to travel, agreeing with his assessment. And then elaborating on it, offering up more detail without waiting for him to pluck at those threads directly. "I needed to be away from home, both to find myself and what makes me happy and to know how much I still want to be here, how much all of this matters to me. How much I love the northwest. How much I need my family." There's that softer smile again, almost sweet. "I still love traveling, and I get some in whenever I can, but my trips lately have just been shorter. No less exciting for their brevity. You'd be amazed how much I can show you in just a couple of days." And she means to, says that look she shoots him, accompanied by another little press of her toes to his leg. "Not that I don't wanna go farther some day. Wine tour of Europe?" She lifts her glass, just a little spill left in it. "Maybe some scotch in Scotland?" With that, she finishes hers off too, brows arched in inquiry.

She bows her head when his questions hit, though that hardly hides how she smiles for that brutality. Really, she probably shouldn't like that quite so much. When she looks up, still smiling, she tells him, "First, I was building houses. Volunteering. Pretty good at it, too. Hard, satisfying work. And I'm sure I could do that up here, too, but it felt pressing and important down there. Felt like it balanced all the debauchery after sundown." There's decidedly challenge in that last line, daring him to pick at that, but she moves on. "And second? I have plenty to offer up here. It wasn't meant as a comparison, just part of why I stayed there for so long. Stayed here longer, haven't I?" She glances down at his empty glass then back up to meet his gaze. This is his ritual, and she should take his direction, but she opts to offer some input, very direct in informing him, "I wanna be closer," in the silence that follows the end of one song and what should be the beginning of another. Enough quiet passes before a slow percussion kicks in that he might wonder if something went wrong.

A dip of his head comes at that need to be away, a look of understanding in his features that doesn't need to be spoken. There is a faint smile that curls to his mouth at the mention of wine tours in Europe, but then it comes to an outright, bright burst of laughter for her ploy of Scotland. "Temptress," He declares without an ounce of shame, that empty glass lifted up to salute her. "And yeah, you've stayed here longer. But that doesn't mean it is for the same reasons. People are complex creatures, even when they wanna say they are simple. Glad to hear it though, Cards." His mouth parts, but whatever he is thinking isn't spoken out loud, an idea filed away to be taken up later.

"Yeah?" He murmurs to her statement, letting that silence of the song consume them before it finally kicks in, and then he glances to their mutual glasses. "If I have a second? I'm not going to be in a condition to drive you home. And I wanna be clear, direct," When doesn't he, though? "If you stay? I'm not going to sleep with you." But those fingers give a squeeze to her thigh, his focus turning serious towards her, "But fuck, Sparrow, it isn't for a lack of desire. I'm just not quite ready yet." But close. Soon is the unspoken words there in whatever internal process he goes through. "But what will happen, if I pour us another? I'm going to undress you. I'm going to find something far more comfortable for you to wear. There will be as much kissing as you can stand here on the sofa. A warm bed to rest your head, and I? Make an excellent pillow and heat source. I wake up early, so I'll drop you off at your place in plenty of time to get to your lab tomorrow," Yes, Yule is making a mental schedule in his mind of her routines that she manages to let spill out. "And I'll let you keep whatever it is I dress you in. But I get it if you want to stop here tonight, too."

The temptress nods in shameless acceptance of that title, though there's a warmth to her accompany smile that suggests there might be something genuine in that dream. Even if it's a far off sort of thing to be considering at the very beginning of something so very new. Sparrow is pretty sure she's feeling just as serious as Yule is when he looks her way, when he tells her he's gonna be direct. That's what she wants, right? They're on the same page? Maybe not. Her brows knit slightly as she listens, as this conversation steers sharply in an unexpected direction, the scotch glass drawn down to her lap. By the time he's done, her smile's gone, though it doesn't seem to be quite disappointment which has replaced it. Instead, she looks pensive, PJ Harvey singing about desire uninterrupted while she just stares at him, working it all through in her head.

"I'm not good at knowing when to stop," comes quietly, one of the questions he's already answered for her finally returned in kind. "I have a very hard time stopping. Especially when I know what I want." Toes curl against his leg, a little indication of where her thoughts are. "But I, uhm. I want you..." Sure, that much is obvious, but the thought is incomplete, getting all knotted up before it makes it all the way out. "Fuck." She heaves a sigh then holds out her glass. "Yes. I wanna stay. I want more. More you." There. That's it. That's what she meant to say. "Whatever shape that takes. And I still want to be closer if not that close. However close you'll have me. However long you'll have me."

He just watches that thought process that plays through her head, letting her consider the weight of those words, to bounce it against her own desires and wants. Only then does his own confession come, not wanting to have prejudiced her too far in that particular direction. "I want you to stay." Her glass is taken, but there is no second pour immediately for Yule places it on the side table right next to his own. It's her legs he uses shamelessly to pull her further onto his lap, with a hand reaching out to grab her arm so she doesn't just go tumbling off accidentally. "You are," He starts, those brown eyes watching her eyes for a second as the thought hangs in the air with a pregnant pause.

And it isn't finished. The arm closest to her, wrapped about her, lifts to burrow into those strands of red hair to demonstrate precisely what he wants. Closer, just as she. His other comes to wrap about her torso, just beneath the curve of breasts, and then their mouths connect. It isn't kindling, but a fire, one that expresses what he hadn't vocalized. His mouth parts, and it isn't just that teasing, slow and sinuous tasting of her lips, but instead his tongue forges ahead past the lush tiers of her mouth, finding her own to tangle and dance with.

Sparrow squeaks as she goes so swiftly from stillness to movement, her gasp sharp enough that it pitches upward into adorability. Her dress draws up as she's drawn forward, thighs laid bare without quite offering insight into what's below. Unless he catches her reflection in the television screen where he might catch a not-quite-black edge of underwear peeking past where her dress rises in the back. She seems neither to notice nor to care, held rapt by those brilliant brown eyes matching her own, by the promise of those words. By the curl of his fingers and the crush of his lips. She needs no urging to lean in, to part her lips and give herself over to him. The scotch upon her tongue is given further depth, the vetiver in her perfume highlighting the smoky notes, the plum and honey coaxing sweetness to the fore. With one hand braced against his side, curling firm and steady against his ribs, her other hand pushes into his hair, fingers cradling the back of his head and applying just a little bit of pressure, a delicate urging, an echo of his own desire. With a slight squirm, she shifts position slightly so she can lean into him more directly, sink into this kiss and maybe lose the whole night right here. What need has she for anything more?

A minute? Three? Who is counting really, but it is longer than any of the ones that had come before, an expression of whatever thought he wished to make clear to her. And when the succulent sound of suction broken with that kiss comes to life, his teeth catch her lower lip, dragging it out until the tension of skin forces it free to return to its properly position, mostly. "I'll pour us another after I change you." Maybe. He really is sincere about that thought, now, but given the half lidded state of his eyes, and the way they return down to look at her lips, what that squirm of her form against his lap reveals, it won't take much to distract the normally pointed man from his thought.

It takes a sheer force of will, felt by the tension in his body, to slide her to the sofa. "I'll be right back." Not that he can vanish into thin air here in such a small trailer, always to be seen. And so too does it take a couple of moments longer than it should before his hands push up off of the sofa, helping to find his feet, those legs unsteady for the first half step he forces them into. "Fuck." It's into the bedroom he heads, right at the entrance to it, sliding up the wardrobe. Out a crisp, white dress shirt is pulled. It's a perfect mix: so essentially him at the core, the type of shirt he often wears, but white so that it is the woman and her bright personality and hair that will stand out without even trying to compete. But he doesn't stop there, dipping into the bathroom, and when he emerges, a finger is running around the inside of the collar. She'll find out it's the same scent he's wearing tonight, a dab of that beard oil spread about to give one more little reminder when she takes it home.

A quiet whine escapes Sparrow as she tries to chase that tug at her lower lip to prolong the moment, that keening sound dying in a mixture of desire and satisfaction when the contact breaks and she draws that lip back in to suckle herself. Her fingers relax, sinking down to his neck, to trace her thumb along his jaw. "Change me," she echoes with what sounds like terribly tipsy amusement, nevermind that she's just drunk on that kiss. How wide and lazy that smile when he looks back down at her waiting lips. How easy it would be to just go in for more...

But he makes good, that discipline earning an airy giggle as she moves from lap to cushion. "And I'll be here," she promises, keeping her hands well to herself while those seconds tick past, while the song changes again. This time into a slow and sultry duet, almost certain made for some of that slow-dancing he promised her. She stands not too long after he does, working out some of the tension that's curled up in her muscles, stretching arms overhead as hips sway to the song, as eyes close while she dances with herself as she waits. Until she hears him returning, footfalls heading her direction through the trailer.

Turning to meet him, eyes open again, she looks to the shirt on offer and, rather than seek any privacy, reaches down to grab at her dress with every intention of drawing it up and overhead. She waits for just a second, just long enough for Yule to offer objection before up it goes. Her hip-hugging panties are revealed first, more forest green with delicate little pink flowers embroidered at the hips. The bra matches, a spattering of pink flowers blooming around the edges. Without the looseness of the cotton dress, her curves are even more defined, a defined hourglass with round hips, tone stomach and generous breasts. Once the dress is tossed aside, onto the couch to be folded later, her hands reach back to undo her bra, all while she watches Yule, all while she says nothing, all while the song croons to him about getting turned on.

All it takes is a look, a look that speaks volumes. 'Wait.' He steps forward, and rather than shoo her hands away, his mold over them so that it is both of their concerted efforts that let that dress begin to rise. His weight drags against the upward momentum here and there to make it a faux struggle, and he too sways to that song, seeking to send them around in a slow circle in place. He doesn't look down, but that is because his head is so close to her own, noses nuzzling in time, seeking to tip her head up, and while there is feather light brushes of kisses, no true melding comes.

It's all of an inch or two Yule allows between them when the dress gets high enough to be peeled off, and he looks to pluck it from her fingers and toss it towards the far end of the front sofa. Fingertips start at her neck, following the bones and dips of her collarbone, the palms just barely touching against the bra so that generous swell can feel the heat of those hands. While she unfastens the upper half of what is left, his thumbs tuck into the waistband of those panties, slowly circling around until they pull out and push down.

Sparrow chases each and every one of those too-soft kisses, giddily angling for more at every taste, each tease. Her hips sway easily in time with the song, in step with his, so easily lead nowhere at all. A deep breath presses all that soft flesh up just a little bit more into his hands before they go lower, before fingers start teasing at elastic. She breathes a quiet laugh, a note of surprise there, as if she somehow hadn't expected that. Not that she stops him. Hell, she pushes to her toes to let his hands slide farther to help him get those panties down further, until gravity takes over, and she kicks them aside. By that point, her bra is already loose, straps sliding down her arms, his chest the only thing keeping it in place, to be removed at his leisure. "You don't play nice," doesn't exactly sound like a complaint, but neither is it precisely praise, ache expressed in her tone as noticeably as admiration.

When one song bleeds into the next without their noticing, that slinky cadence is maintained, the intention just as direct. 'You call the shots, babe. I just wanna be yours.'

"Never will," He murmurs against her mouth with those words, and then he lets one of those fleeting kisses press in more warmly, a solid connection where she'd had only ethereal, ghostly connections before. "Don't play fair, either." He concludes, and the next kiss captures only her lower lip between his, cheeks hollowing for a moment in a gentle suckle. Down his brown eyes go, actually closing fully for a moment, and the expression is one of pure desire and happiness. A half a step back brings the bra to fall down into a pool on the wooden floor of the trailer along with those panties, and he is unabashed as his eyes open so he can show that despite her hair color supposed to be reminding people where to look? He's not going to. From lips to shoulders to breasts, ribs to hips, knees to toes and everything in between, it's a greedy drinking, and even then he still doesn't look satisfied. Despite it all, he holds the shirt up, "Come and slip in. I'll button you up."

"Good," falls partially formed beneath his lips, half-crushed with that kiss. Sparrow concedes her own horribleness with an 'uh uh' which pitches up into a hungry whine when he catches her lip, her body pressed more firmly to his in those few seconds, fingers curling at his hips to draw him in, to hold him there. But he draws back, leaving her fingers empty and her body bare. While there's no shyness as she stands before him, there is a restlessness which might read similarly as, for a second or three, she doesn't know what to do with hands that just want to touch and tear and take. In the cool air, her rosy nipples are hard, topping soft tits that each fit and decent handful. Her curls are, as expected, black as night, neatly trimmed, confirmation of her earlier admission. While there are a few scars here and there, nothing speaks to profound trauma, no marks standing out as significant. Hips continue to sway to the music until hands have something to hold onto, greedily taking the shirt and fussing with it until she's got it oriented right. One arm then the other. It's left open entirely, white lines framing her form; the work of making her decent is his to do. "Will you think about me later? About how differently this could've gone?"

Yule only moves once that shirt is slid into place, and he starts at the top to begin the process of buttoning. Almost the top, that is. The top two are left undone, and he makes no attempt to stop the connection of his hands against that shirt, especially as he works against that lush curve of her breasts, knuckles teasing the fabric to those rosy pink nipples. "I will be thinking about you this week, yes." Comes his first answer, those eyes lifting up momentarily from his work where fingers press against the underside of her breasts. It's large enough to nearly consume her, the bottom well below hips, and her hands will have to work to peek out from those sleeves. "And no." There is no pulling the punch of that admission or the couple of seconds of silence that follows it, and his fingers pick up where they had left off, meandering down to the very edge, so close to the apex where her legs meet to push through the final one. "But I am definitely going to be thinking about how the next time might go."

Sparrow keeps so very, very still while Yule works, hands hidden in sleeves kept to her sides as she watches his fingers. Not once does she tilt into that touch to deepen it, instead intent on studying what he takes for himself, without her instance. The last earns a soft sound, an unsteady breath expressing restraint, desire suppressed, and he might catch the slightest sideways squirm of her hips before he draws away. When he's done, she lifts her hands very purposefully, arms bent, encouraging the sleeves to fall, to reveal her hands. Those hands move in unison toward him, aiming to grab his jaw just as he finishes sharing with his thoughts are going to be after she's gone. She takes that half-step in and brings her lips to his, taking the lead this time, taking what she needs, firm and demanding and... softening after the first few seconds as she melts in against him again. It's quiet, when she draws back, no suckling, not much sound beyond breath for the delicate deceleration of that affection. "Have you thought about me already?" And just in case he decides to play coy, which she doesn't expect but neither wants to risk, her eyes find his as she clarifies, "Your hand around your cock and me in your head."

He doesn't move to meet her at all, letting her have full control over when and where that kiss comes that she wishes to give. It's only a touch of leaning into her fingers that betrays the pleasure of such simple skin contact, and then her mouth is upon his, and Yule is returning that kiss, melting so readily into it like a moth drawn to the flame. Both of his hands wrap about her to push those curves now hidden by that oversized shirt against him, and her question has one dark brow lifting, a faint smile of approval for the bold directness of that question. "Yes. After the drive," He clarifies on the timing of being appropriate inspired, "Three times." She's even rewarded with that piece as he lifts her up to the tips of her toes, trying to get them to step up onto his feet so he can claim wholly where they go in slow, small steps that leads not towards the scotch, but the bed. "And you?" A beat of a pause, before he clarifies with a touch of mischief. "With appropriate anatomy replacements, of course."

Another soft squeak escapes Sparrow as she's drawn up like that, giddily spilling into a giggle as her arms wrap about his neck, her weight partially braced on his shoulders while she follows his lead, settling her toes atop his feet. "Twice since the drive," she admits readily. "Once before." Leaning in to bring her lips to his ear, she whispers, tone bright as if they were conspiring in some lovely bit of fun and not sharing filthy secrets, "And once with my hand on my cock." Nose nuzzles to earlobe as she lets him move her, no protest issued. Lips brush against the back of his jaw, light at first then pressing more firmly in a slow path meandering forward and back, up until her nose is nestled to his cheek. Behind them, the music continues, growing a bit more distant with every step, a new voice again echoing her thoughts. 'I'm on string, and you can lead me anywhere. I'll go there willingly.'

There is something about that music that is just so perfect, dwelling in the background of the trailer as she's walked to that bed. It's a good two hours that pass by with kisses interrupted by idle conversation and questions, and sometimes? Just silence to let skin be touched while listening to one of the music choices that caught his ear. At some point during it all? There is a change into a t-shirt and boxers, letting the unnaturally red redhead see the lean, athletic form of the man. A few small scars here and there, but nothing that speaks to any bodily trauma in his past either.

Drifting to sleep is one of those naturally easy things for him, and at least at first? Those arms curl around her to press her back against his chest, his legs nestling beneath hers to spoon, letting her leech as much warmth from him as she desires while his arm serves as a pillow.

True to his word, he's an early riser. Breakfast? Not from him, though who knows what passes for culinary skills with the man. What there is is espresso, very good espresso, that fills the trailer with it's rich smell, creamer and sugar offered as needed before that morning must resume. And it's through encouragement - if she needs any - that he seeks to give to keep her in that shirt on the car ride for that much longer. To her door step she is taken, walked up to the very spot their journey had begun the night before to have that final kiss good morning.

It's one of those purposeful, intentional things from the man. With desire and passion and want, yes, but also an unspoken sorrow expressed by the way his hands hold onto her waist, gripping tight as if she might turn ethereal and vanish before he's done. It's how the lips linger, the breaking of that kiss so much slower than any of their other times. But end it must, and soon that green, classic car is going off to let them both get on with their day, even if their minds will be lost elsewhere.

Sparrow respects the rules, but doesn't play nice, fingers seeking access to otherwise covered skin, to touch and hold, to feel some of that warmth more directly. Even when it's time for sleep, she keeps skin contact, cheek to his arm where she slips intermittent kisses, fingers woven with his. But sleep doesn't come as easily for her, the playlist dimming into silence until all she can hear is his breath behind her and the muted world beyond the trailer. Eventually, she must drift off because she's still passed out, sprawled on her stomach with her arms wrapped around a pillow instead of his limb.

When she does finally wake, she takes to it easily, a morning person by nature, grateful for the espresso for its deliciousness more than its caffeine. The world does not need an overcaffeinated Sparrow. She checks her phone, full of messages that she isn't terribly quick to address; they can, most of the, wait until she's home. In what short time they spend in the morning, she keeps close and proves cuddly, affectionate, more free with her contact than she had been before they'd spent the night in one another's arms. The conversation, though, might prove odd as she runs through her mental prep for the rest of her day, including an explanation of the experiment she'll be finishing up in her organic chemistry lab... which might not be entirely foreign to the doctor. A few mental notes about other stops she needs to make during the day, then mention of a kickboxing class in the afternoon.

It doesn't take much convincing to keep her in that shirt, though not nothing but. Panties, socks, boots. The rest she can bundle up, clutched to her chest with one arm as her other hand steadies on his neck for that last lingering kiss. "I'll be thinking about you," doesn't sound the least bit dirty when she says it, like those thoughts might instead be soft and warm, the comfort of his body against hers as she slept and not just the hunger his kiss inspire. "And I'll see you again soon." Such certainty. Though she shivers as he turns to go, the autumn morning cool and damp, she doesn't go into the house until she's watched him go, until there's no one outside to hear her squealing to herself before she heads inside to face her housemates.