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natalia "natasha" romanova ✦ black widow ([personal profile] redhourglass) wrote2022-10-14 08:28 pm
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[personal profile] vestments 2023-09-30 08:24 pm (UTC)(link)
( he doesn't bother replying, figures the silence is enough of an answer for the two of them. of course it has hot water, he's not completely absurd.

for most of the people he deals with, the security system's enough to put them off. for the remainder, it's enough to warn him that someone's there, that someone's tampered with it. when he gets the alert to his phone — that it's inactive — he thinks that the timing's too convenient for it to be anyone other than natasha.

he's about fifteen minutes after her, long enough for the apartment to have warmed up from the escaping steam from the shower, from the heat of the pipes. he could have gotten changed, could have dressed in either a clean suit (the three-piece, the white everything) or something else entirely, but he hasn't. it's white enough, but with just enough dirt here and there, just enough red on the gloves and the sleeves to say what kind of night he's had.

the gloves are peeled off and dumped on a table that was probably originally a dining table and then repurposed as a desk and then a general dumping ground whilst the jacket and the waistcoat are draped over the back of a chair.

the shower and the open door make it just humid enough to be uncomfortable, and he rolls the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, stopping in the open doorway to the bathroom. his gaze drifts over the discarded pile of clothes pushed neatly into a pile away from anything of his (cute but unnecessary — marc's had a lot of experience with getting blood out of near enough everything, a lot of experience trailing blood over near enough every room in every property he owns.)

a lingering pause, and then his lack of preciousness is emphasised by the way he — finally — opts to remove his boots (white, of course, leather chelsea boots — not entirely practical, but they look good). they're left just to one side of the open door. )


—I know a very good dry cleaner.
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[personal profile] vestments 2023-09-30 08:57 pm (UTC)(link)
( he huffs a breath that's definitely a laugh, albeit quiet enough that it's impossible to hear over the sound of the running water. the quirk of his lips is answer enough in terms of a 'yes' — the suit is perpetually, uncomfortably hot and sticky and humid, but he's used to it.

he loosens the tie next, then the top few buttons of the shirt, and then he shrugs. it's — for him — a relatively relaxed action, lacking in the usual coiled tension he usually carries in his neck and in his shoulders. )


Most people don't need to know who's under the mask, ( he answers. it's not the truth, that'd be too simple. that marc sector is moon knight isn't exactly a secret — in a spectacularly non-violent breakdown (for him), he'd faked his death and run off to los angeles and had opted — he, not steven! — to film a tv show about fucking khonshu—. his identity is not only plastered on news websites from years past, but also on IMDB of all website—.

(it's a matter of personal pride, then.)

still, the heat from the shower is enough to make him feel stickier than normal, for his hair to curl at the edges and fall messily, untidily (mask hair is a problem—) into his eyes. )


Sweaty rather than hot.
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[personal profile] vestments 2023-10-01 08:36 pm (UTC)(link)
( he could stare. he could make this uncomfortable. he's always been quite good at it — misunderstanding conversations with marlene, misreading signs with maya, mis-everything with greer. it's not that natasha's not attractive (she is), it's not that she's not his type (she is), but that standing and ogling wouldn't do anything. not for her and not for him.

(how many men has she had to put up with staring at her? countless, probably.)

her shape and her movements are partially obscured, unclear behind the fogged-up glass of the shower screen and the pattering and the splashing of the water. still, he catches the slight, sharp movement, though he doesn't manage to piece together quite what nor why before she talks, before she redirects the conversation. )


It wouldn't, ( he agrees, tone mild and almost conversational. it's punctuated by a pause, one that hangs between them as she remarks that if he's good (essentially), she'll wash his hair, and he's not quite sure what to make of it — which means, ultimately, that he ignores it. ) I know I've told you, ( he adds instead, although he's not sure if he has or if he's just so used to it being common knowledge — or as common as anything is in their line of work. ) I like them to see me coming.

( he finishes unbuttoning the shirt and pulls it off, dumping it unceremoniously on the floor. he'll deal with it later. tomorrow? after sleeping, whatever time and day that ends up meaning for his laundry. socks after that, then belt, and then—.

a head, appearing quite suddenly at the edge of the shower. his gaze flickers from her to her face to her arm, pauses, the back to her face. pointedly, dryly. )
Let me look at it.
vestments: (marc: 111)

[personal profile] vestments 2023-10-09 06:38 am (UTC)(link)
( the water from the shower flattens his hair, presses stray, almost-curls into his eyes, irritating, and he pushes them back with one hand, the other extended towards her, towards her arm.

his gaze dances over her scars, not calculating, not exactly curious. somewhere in between, something that understands the sort of life led to get not just one, nor two, nor a handful, but a bodyful. he doesn't ask anyone why they do what they do — not his business, first of all, and two, the answers tend to be personal, even for those that posit 'it's just a job'. it's never just a job, there's always something else there. another reason, whether it's acknowledged or not. )


Sure, tough girl. ( he remarks, lips quirking momentarily as amusement threatens briefly to break free, as his expression smoothes into a there-and-it's-gone smile. )

Just because you've had worse, doesn't mean you have to let this one become worse, ( he adds, ignoring the way she reaches for the shampoo. instead, he curls a hand around her arm, below the cut. his fingers are rough, calloused, but his touch isn't. she's right, it's not that bad, not really, not in the grand scheme of things, but that doesn't mean much given everything.

he knows he doesn't look a whole lot better than her, if at all. his back is lined with scars, some not too dissimilar from the one above his eye (knives), the rest — like her — most likely the result of bullets. knees (both) that have clearly experienced a sharp drop and sudden, unpleasant stop at some point (a fire escape, an open parentheses before a myriad of awful, terrible, shitty fucking decisions bookended by the idea to fake his own death and hide out in mexico). the more recent — a variety of bruises a rich assortment of colours from black and blue to ugly yellow, an overt reminder that marc tends to treat the idea of defense as a vague suggestion, something that's only occasionally useful.

(he'd argue that there's something to be said for the psychological effect it has and whilst it's true — tony (taskmaster, not the other tony) certainly wasn't a fan of the approach — that's not the only reason for it.

he hasn't dwelled too much on the alternatives.) )


—But if you want to get soap in it, be my guest.
vestments: (marc: 137)

[personal profile] vestments 2023-10-09 08:11 pm (UTC)(link)
( it's not that he doesn't find her attractive — the opposite, in fact. (he's not blind.) but marc spector is awkward. difficult. he's had a lot of practise in making himself unavailable and off-putting, at emphasising his worse traits and refusing to acknowledge anything else.

on a mission in symkaria, one of the few times he'd managed to pull himself together long enough to be an avenger, he'd commented that he'd spent time in the worst places in the world with the worst people in the world, and he still holds that true. not all of them had been like bushman, some of them had been quiet in their cruelty. raoul, though, raoul had been brutal and marc had turned a blind eye. he'd ignored jean-paul telling him that signing up with his crew was a bad idea, ignored his own gut when it'd said that he'd fucked up (again). he'd ignored, too, the first time he'd seen raoul with his metal teeth, sinking them into another man's flesh just to prove a point.

(he'd said something about fear, and marc had just shrugged.)

natasha's scars are a story in and of themselves, but it's not his place to ask what. not now, at least.

he barely notices the way she leverages her agreement with getting a closer look at him, the oddest game of I'll show you mine if you show me yours. his gaze does shift, sharply and suddenly, when she traces her fingertips over a bruise. it's only fleeting, focus moving back to her arm with an inelegant grunt in answer to her question. today, yesterday, most days. )


I've got wipes and bandages. Not much more than that, but you don't need much more than that.
vestments: (marc: 110)

[personal profile] vestments 2023-11-03 10:18 pm (UTC)(link)
( it's not the bumps and bruises that are the issue, not in and of themselves, it's the how and the why. in their line of work, they're nothing unexpected, nothing especially — typically — complex, but that doesn't mean they're something he's inclined to just roll over and accept. that he's willing to skip over because they're part and parcel.

he doesn't catch any sign of the disappointment, he's never been aware enough for any of that, not even when it'd been marlene, not even when it'd been greer. he does follow the trace of her finger moving along his cheek and then reaching his hair, before—

oh.

she moves away and he manages to look startled, just for a moment, before she commits — actually commits — to the idea of washing his hair. he hadn't expected it, not really, had thought it not exactly a joke but one of those things that's said to diffuse the moment, to soften and to ease. belatedly, then, he offers her a wave of a hand rather than a verbal answer to her question: yeah, fine, he'll take it.

it's not an approach he gets or would get if it was explained to him. marc's never sought out company as a solution to the problem posed by doing what he does, or as an answer to the struggle of being himself. he wouldn't know where to start and so doesn't imagine, not really, that mundanity — relatively speaking — is something that helps her.

still, he ducks his head, compliant and agreeable. not exactly moreso than usual — marc's disagreeableness is often directed at opinions and suggestions more than actions — but it is without remark. he doesn't have to look up through strands of wet hair to see her, because even with his head lowered down towards her, the height difference is still enough that he can look at her with ease.

there's a comment to be made about how it's been a long time since anyone's done this for him, but even he knows it'd be ridiculous. it'd kill anything approaching a pleasant mood, and he's not funny enough to pull it off regardless.

instead, his gaze is equal parts watchful and equal parts contemplative, almost searching. )
You know I'm not a superhero.
vestments: (marc: 73)

[personal profile] vestments 2023-11-04 08:15 pm (UTC)(link)
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.
vestments: (marc: 137)

[personal profile] vestments 2023-11-05 10:25 pm (UTC)(link)
( when she stops moving, stops washing his hair, he closes for one moment, then two. he won't admit how long it's been since he's showered with someone else rather than alone, and it's — nice, the warmth not just from the water and the steam but from the presence of another body relaxing. ordinarily, showers are perfunctory affairs, in-and-out, something done because going to bed covered in blood and dirt and grime is frowned upon.

he reopens his eyes when she suggests she didn't know he was capable of laughing, and the noise the comment earns sits between a hmph and almost good-natured self-awareness. consideration that suggests she might have a point.

he looks as if he wants to retort, offer an equally unflattering but not unkind commentary of her that doesn't get much further than being thought about when his expression sharpens at the question, internal debate reflected in his features. )
Almost. ( a breath of a pause and a searching gaze, curious. natasha's never struck him as particularly religious and though it's not something he relates to in spite of his own difficult relationship with god (—gods), he doesn't blame her. he'd given up one god in favour of another simply because the first had seemed cruel. indifferent. unanswering. the second turned out to be much the same as the first, though easier to find. ) A divine gift and a holy obligation.

( that'd been the first. the second had never stipulated, although khonshu's lack of pleasure over his daughter's existence said enough. his goading, his taunts, his existence during nights spent with marlene said more.

a dry addition— )


—Between man and wife, mostly. I wasn't very good at that part.
vestments: (marc: 52)

[personal profile] vestments 2023-11-11 05:23 pm (UTC)(link)
( the teasing is light, inoffensive. it's almost cute, if such a word is applicable. he thinks it's not, not in any typical fashion, but—.

marc had grown up religious — it'd been impossible not to, with his father being who he was. he'd grown up believing in a god he didn't quite understand, couldn't reconcile with what he thought versus what his father taught him. boyish and then teenage rebelliousness and a desire to butt against the idea of pacifism as an answer sitting ugly against frustration and disappointment; estrangement and being disowned. then, he'd died and the lessons had started to make a little more sense.

(then elias had died and marc had experienced a minor crisis of self.)

it doesn't feel judgemental, the way she offers the 'you and everyone else', and it earns a hum of acknowledgement as her fingers brush his skin, down his shoulder and back up again. when she stops, when there's a moment of quiet that feels longer than it is, he looks at her. catches the weariness, the tiredness. he doesn't say anything about it, it'd be hypocritical (not his primary objection, marc has always been a 'do as I say, not as I do' sort), and he can guess as to how it'd end. instead, he answers, wryly— )


If that was going to happen, it would've happened a long time ago. ( a pause, then, and it's as if a thought occurs to marc and he adds, almost brightly (for him)— ) Besides, I don't stay dead. ( it's offhand, dismissive, spoken in the kind of tone that says 'as an explanation, this works'. it doesn't seem to occur to him that it might not.

then, he lifts a hand. it's not quite the raise-and-reach she'd had to do, the height difference working solidly in his favour, and he brushes wet strands of hair away from her face, consideration pulling at his features. )
My water bill's going to be astronomical.
vestments: (marc: 14)

[personal profile] vestments 2023-11-11 09:22 pm (UTC)(link)
( it's unexpected. marc has never been good at reading the room, it's why he'd been so surprised when jean-paul had told him he'd loved marc, why he'd stammered out a question of 'was I the only person who didn't know?', why he'd followed it up with a frustrated, less-than-gracious 'you should have told me', and why he hadn't had anything to say when jean-paul had pointed out he'd told marc every day by staying by his fucking side. it's why marlene had made the first move, greer too. it's equal parts obliviousness mixed with self-loathing to form a deep-seated response of 'wait, what—?'

there's a half-second, when natasha's lips, wet with shower water, glance his, where he thinks of marlene. it's not because he misses her (he doesn't, not anymore), not because natasha reminds him of her (at all—), but because he thinks, quite suddenly, of all the times she'd instigated something in the indoor pool at grant manor. all the times she hadn't had a care for if samuels or nedda would walk in and interrupt and by contrast, the kiss feels almost chaste.

there are comments he thinks he ought to make — about how the 'not staying dead' thing wasn't exactly a trick, how it's part of his debt, his duty, all part and parcel of being an avatar for an insane bird god, but none of it goes any further than a vague consideration, loose formations of words at the edge of his thoughts. (it'd ruin the — moment? the this.)

his eyebrows arch, eyes wide. a pause and then he kisses her back, one hand settling on the curve of her waist as he lowers his head to make it less of a stretch up for her.

a moment after that, he pulls away, just a touch, just enough to speak and offer a belated— )
I'm not a magician. ( because tricks, right? )
vestments: (marc: 73)

[personal profile] vestments 2023-11-16 04:37 pm (UTC)(link)
( marc exhales and it's a second almost-laugh, sat somewhere in the vicinity of agreement. marc's met a couple, technically, and one he is fond of — impressed by, no less! — and the other's her husband. the other is a man marc's managed to get on the wrong side of more than once, and has rarely been able to see eye-to-eye with.

but neither are relevant. neither linger in marc's thoughts beyond the vagueness of 'ah, yes, magic'. natasha has his attention, his focus; the feel of her against him, wet skin, the roughness of old scars and newer injuries alike, the feel of her talking as much as the sound of it.

(it's not nerves, but there's always a sliver, a slight lack of surety that accompanies marc and anything approaching intimacy, at least at first. it doesn't last, but he's been decked enough and told enough times that he's misinterpreted and misread; has found, plenty of times, that it's fine until marc is marc and not someone else entirely, someone better and more understanding and more normal.)

he ignores the lack of sophistication in her 'that was nice', skips past it entirely to murmur against her ear— )
Not that we have to worry about the hot water running out, but there's more to this apartment than the bathroom.
vestments: (marc: 112)

[personal profile] vestments 2023-12-06 08:34 pm (UTC)(link)
( he doesn't know her well enough to really tell the difference between her smiles, not beyond assumptions and inferences. it doesn't matter, not really, not for the moment.

because where this might not be what she does, but it's nothing out of the ordinary for marc. there'd be candace when he'd worked for the company, there'd been lisa just after. then there'd been marlene — she'd been the odd one out, the one who hadn't exactly been work-related, just work adjacent, and the one who'd stuck with him the longest. there'd been greer and there'd been maya. (and marlene again and in between—.)

marc doesn't really do one-night stands or flings, not these days. once upon a time, perhaps, when he'd been younger, when his life had been more barracks and tents and whatever shithole hotel was most appropriate and most available; and it'd been less about the woman and more about a warm body.

but it's not a deliberate decision and it's not that he expects this, whatever it is now and whatever it becomes, to be anything more than convenience. anything more than the right person at the right time, however fleeting, because sometimes that's all it needs to be.

and so he doesn't say anything as her fingers press into his skin, as her lips graze his skin and then—. oh. sharp and sudden and unexpected, and the noise he makes — a quiet grunt, equal parts surprised and equal parts pleasured — is half-buried by the question she asks, by the sound of their footsteps against wet ceramic. any thoughts of an answer is cut short by the not unpleasant shock of his body being pushed against wet tile.

all at once, it's as if the rest of it — the bloody clothes, the bruises and the injuries — are forgotten. where she's urgent, he's hungry. one arm against the wall for balance, the other dropping from her waist to the curve where thigh meets ass to pull her closer. )


No, ( he answers eventually, and it's said against and into her skin, wet and thick thanks to the spray from the shower and the water running in rivulets from her hair and down her body. )