Please. You and I both know it's not just heroes that run around in capes and masks. ( and marc had made the point once, to andrea, his doctor, that his outfits, his chosen clothing, were the clothes of a dead man. where the cape was a shroud, the suit was the chosen outfit of funerals; suitable for a man who's died a handful of times and caused more.

but where the remark could be argumentative, it's instead dry commentary, an explanation that circles the edges of amusement as her smile — small but there — is almost audible. it earns a quirk of his lips and a dismissive wave of his hand, movement that brushes against her skin though he doesn't offer immediate acknowledgement. ) Besides, the mask gets sweaty. It's not very breathable.

( a foot of height between them isn't all that comfortable, isn't all that easy to manoeuvre and marc shifts his weight, a little awkward, as her arms work around the back of his neck and into his hair (needs cutting, he realises abruptly—), as her fingers press into his skin and he makes a noise that's part surprised, part (almost-not-quite)-pained and part pleasured. mostly, it's a moan-slash-groan of VARYING DESCRIPTION.

and then she speaks again and his gaze shifts. it doesn't meet hers, not as she's busy dropping hers down and down again. he's treated to the top of her head, to a glancing view of her features, to her hair pressed wet, slick against her skin and he—.

exhales. a short, sharp laugh of surprise crossed with disagreement. )

Not all priests are Christian. ( he lowers his head, just a touch. ) The God I grew up with had a very different opinion on the matter.