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.
Not breathable. Right. ( a good natured grumble, blinking as her eyelashes stick together under the water. the steam and humidity is doing a good job at soothing her aches and pains out, drawing attention to places where she'll be more sore tomorrow; a bruise blooming across one hip, another one on her knee. nothing life threatening, definitely nothing as urgent as the cut on her arm, and even that had stopped doing more than throbbing.
the spray of the shower is doing a good job of rinsing his hair, as well as washing the shampoo off her hands, so she gives him (and herself, to be honest) a break. it's easier to rest her wrists on his shoulders to massage a knot in his trapezius that feels like it's lived there for a long time. the noise he makes goes straight through her, and she glances up at him sharply, making sure that she hasn't truly hurt him. the only way to loosen that sort of knot would be to put pressure on it, but her goal wasn't to cause pain. at least — not only. )
You know, I wasn't sure if you could laugh. ( the noise had startled her a bit, eyes widening until they creased at the corners with a smile of her own. a real one; not the one she paints on and rips off at will. amusement. there's lot to be amused about in this case. for starters — the weirdest conversation she's ever had while naked with a man.
(the longest conversation she's ever had while naked with a man, at least pre-'getting down to business'.)
feeling a bit of the muscle under her fingers relax, she digs her thumb into one last stubborn spot. )
So what was his opinion on it? 'Be fruitful and multiply'?
( 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.
( religion is, to be honest, much like political ideology — nice in principle, beautiful even. easily corrupted, so often applied to damage others, and not quite an area of interest of natasha's unless it could be used for leverage. it begs the question why she's even bothering to tease him, given the number of religious figures she's, ahem. corrupted. maybe it's just too easy, the way he becomes serious, his eyes sharp on her face.
she huffs a quiet sound, almost like a snort. divine gift and holy obligation. well, never let it be said that sex positivity is dead —
oh. right. there's the kicker. )
You and everyone else. ( natasha presses her fingers in to the knot one last time, feels it release and muscle unbunch under her hands. satisfied, she smooths her hand over his shoulder, then back up to the nape of his neck, resting there under the spray. he's warm, the smell of shampoo suffusing the small damp space, and for a moment she's tempted to just crowd in close, rest her head against his chest and close her eyes.
sentimental. surprising, given who she is. given who he is. still, the fatigue is apparent in the way she rolls her head to one side, eyes growing slightly more heavy lidded. )
So, what happens now? Divine retribution? Lightning strikes you down for your ... ( her voice trails off in a husky tease — )Indiscretions?
( 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.
( he's staring. if not staring, than just watching her — her face, even. something about that feels revealing, too intimate, despite the fact that they're both standing naked under the rainfall shower. still, she doesn't pull away. doesn't avert her eyes, or make him avert his. maybe it's the least she owes him for teasing him, or for breaking into not one, but two of his properties today. maybe she's in a mood where it's nice to be seen and not just as as the façade she wants to project. )
Right. Forgot about that part. Convenient trick. ( she snorts again, not pushing for more of an explanation. it doesn't make sense, not really — but maybe that's in the same way that steve is near impossible to get down, or bruce can swallow a bullet and sit back up. she's never had that luxury, for all that she heals faster, gets up quicker.
his hand is warm, calloused — it takes effort not to think too hard about leaning her head into it, pressing into his touch. not to calculate what that means, what he's thinking about it, and just feel it. )
You can afford it. ( half-smile in place, she hesitates — just for a moment. long enough to search his eyes, try and find something that's an indicator that it's not unwelcome to be close to him. she's got evidence enough: he got in the shower, he let her wash his hair, he was touching her.. and still.
pressing up on her toes, she moves slowly, using her hands at the nape of his neck to guide her. gently, natasha brushes her lips across his, a featherlight movement. )
( 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? )
( he... waits. long enough that she thinks she's made a mistake, that she ought to pull away, apologize, gather what is left of her dignity after that and beat a hasty retreat. it's complicated by the fact that her only clothing is covered in blood (black, but still noticeable if you know what you're looking for), that the path to the door is a long way away when you're naked in the shower, and —
marc moves, finally; rests a hand on her hip, pulls her a bit closer and lowers so that she doesn't have to stretch on tiptoes for much longer which is a precarious position to be in the shower. tension drops out of her shoulders, and this time she does give in to her earlier impulse — she closes the gap between them until they're chest to chest (or as close as possible given the height difference) and leans against him. )
No, you're not. I've met one, and I wasn't impressed. ( wasn't that what strange was? it was something like that. eyes searching his face for a long moment, she tilts her head to one side as though unsure what to make of him.
because she's not sure. is he uncertain? nervous? worried? )
That was nice. ( cringe. definitely the fatigue. not her best line, and jesus christ, she's been trained for this. )
( 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.
( his huff whiffs across her skin and natasha smiles — not the coy, half-smile she normally gives him (and most everyone), not the mysterious sphynx curve that says less than a neutral expression ... something more genuine. something that, if he's willing to believe it, might be her underneath it all. it's more comfortable like this, pressed together under the spray, fingers pressing into her skin.
as a general rule, she doesn't do this. oh, she does the mechanics — seduces, fucks if needed, even outside of the job she does and the missions she has. but if she falls into bed with someone outside of work, it's never anyone even close to adjacent to the job. too dangerous. too close. she uses a variety of fake names, fake identities, spends the night, and then disappears.
no one really spends their life mourning a one night stand, anyway.
that makes marc spector dangerous. flirting had been her modus operandi to start, but now? now, this is a calculated attempt at seduction of someone who knows who (and what) she is.
his whisper goes straight through her, a pang that has her pressing her fingers more firmly into his nape, turning her head to brush her lips against the curve of his neck before nipping sharply. )
So, do I get a tour? ( natasha murmurs, pulling back again to study his face for a moment, before using their proximity to walk him back until his back hits the wall of the shower. guiding, his arms more firmly around her, she presses up against him again, slanting her lips over his with more urgency. )
( 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. )
( marc continues to be nearly impossible to read — so she’ll tell herself that this is for the challenge. she’s doing this because he’s hard to read, because she’s not sure where she stands with him. it’s practice. it’s a bit of fun on the side. it’s something to ensure that her skills stay sharp. it’s harmless.
(there’s comfort in it, too. comfort in the way he finally winds an arm around her waist, in how he takes a handful of skin and pulls her in tight and kisses her like he can’t breathe.) )
Mm. ( murmured against his skin, irrespective of the water between them. she’s sore if he holds her too tight, but she doesn’t care; that’s part of it, too. the sensation of feeling still alive at the end of a difficult night, and having someone there to witness it.
he’d liked when she bit him. noting that, she runs her lips over the muscle where his neck meets his shoulder, nipping with kitten teeth and then sucking a mark there. her hands brush from his shoulders down, fingers skating over his chest, thumbing over his nipples and the smattering of hair, dropping to the lines of his abdomen.
she doesn’t touch his length directly, not yet; instead she’ll press her hips in, trap the hardness of him between their wet, slick bodies. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
redhourglass) wrote2022-10-14 08:28 pm
no subject
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.
no subject
the spray of the shower is doing a good job of rinsing his hair, as well as washing the shampoo off her hands, so she gives him (and herself, to be honest) a break. it's easier to rest her wrists on his shoulders to massage a knot in his trapezius that feels like it's lived there for a long time. the noise he makes goes straight through her, and she glances up at him sharply, making sure that she hasn't truly hurt him. the only way to loosen that sort of knot would be to put pressure on it, but her goal wasn't to cause pain. at least — not only. )
You know, I wasn't sure if you could laugh. ( the noise had startled her a bit, eyes widening until they creased at the corners with a smile of her own. a real one; not the one she paints on and rips off at will. amusement. there's lot to be amused about in this case. for starters — the weirdest conversation she's ever had while naked with a man.
(the longest conversation she's ever had while naked with a man, at least pre-'getting down to business'.)
feeling a bit of the muscle under her fingers relax, she digs her thumb into one last stubborn spot. )
So what was his opinion on it? 'Be fruitful and multiply'?
no subject
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.
no subject
she huffs a quiet sound, almost like a snort. divine gift and holy obligation. well, never let it be said that sex positivity is dead —
oh. right. there's the kicker. )
You and everyone else. ( natasha presses her fingers in to the knot one last time, feels it release and muscle unbunch under her hands. satisfied, she smooths her hand over his shoulder, then back up to the nape of his neck, resting there under the spray. he's warm, the smell of shampoo suffusing the small damp space, and for a moment she's tempted to just crowd in close, rest her head against his chest and close her eyes.
sentimental. surprising, given who she is. given who he is. still, the fatigue is apparent in the way she rolls her head to one side, eyes growing slightly more heavy lidded. )
So, what happens now? Divine retribution? Lightning strikes you down for your ... ( her voice trails off in a husky tease — ) Indiscretions?
no subject
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.
no subject
Right. Forgot about that part. Convenient trick. ( she snorts again, not pushing for more of an explanation. it doesn't make sense, not really — but maybe that's in the same way that steve is near impossible to get down, or bruce can swallow a bullet and sit back up. she's never had that luxury, for all that she heals faster, gets up quicker.
his hand is warm, calloused — it takes effort not to think too hard about leaning her head into it, pressing into his touch. not to calculate what that means, what he's thinking about it, and just feel it. )
You can afford it. ( half-smile in place, she hesitates — just for a moment. long enough to search his eyes, try and find something that's an indicator that it's not unwelcome to be close to him. she's got evidence enough: he got in the shower, he let her wash his hair, he was touching her.. and still.
pressing up on her toes, she moves slowly, using her hands at the nape of his neck to guide her. gently, natasha brushes her lips across his, a featherlight movement. )
no subject
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? )
no subject
marc moves, finally; rests a hand on her hip, pulls her a bit closer and lowers so that she doesn't have to stretch on tiptoes for much longer which is a precarious position to be in the shower. tension drops out of her shoulders, and this time she does give in to her earlier impulse — she closes the gap between them until they're chest to chest (or as close as possible given the height difference) and leans against him. )
No, you're not. I've met one, and I wasn't impressed. ( wasn't that what strange was? it was something like that. eyes searching his face for a long moment, she tilts her head to one side as though unsure what to make of him.
because she's not sure. is he uncertain? nervous? worried? )
That was nice. ( cringe. definitely the fatigue. not her best line, and jesus christ, she's been trained for this. )
no subject
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.
no subject
as a general rule, she doesn't do this. oh, she does the mechanics — seduces, fucks if needed, even outside of the job she does and the missions she has. but if she falls into bed with someone outside of work, it's never anyone even close to adjacent to the job. too dangerous. too close. she uses a variety of fake names, fake identities, spends the night, and then disappears.
no one really spends their life mourning a one night stand, anyway.
that makes marc spector dangerous. flirting had been her modus operandi to start, but now? now, this is a calculated attempt at seduction of someone who knows who (and what) she is.
his whisper goes straight through her, a pang that has her pressing her fingers more firmly into his nape, turning her head to brush her lips against the curve of his neck before nipping sharply. )
So, do I get a tour? ( natasha murmurs, pulling back again to study his face for a moment, before using their proximity to walk him back until his back hits the wall of the shower. guiding, his arms more firmly around her, she presses up against him again, slanting her lips over his with more urgency. )
no subject
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. )
no subject
(there’s comfort in it, too. comfort in the way he finally winds an arm around her waist, in how he takes a handful of skin and pulls her in tight and kisses her like he can’t breathe.) )
Mm. ( murmured against his skin, irrespective of the water between them. she’s sore if he holds her too tight, but she doesn’t care; that’s part of it, too. the sensation of feeling still alive at the end of a difficult night, and having someone there to witness it.
he’d liked when she bit him. noting that, she runs her lips over the muscle where his neck meets his shoulder, nipping with kitten teeth and then sucking a mark there. her hands brush from his shoulders down, fingers skating over his chest, thumbing over his nipples and the smattering of hair, dropping to the lines of his abdomen.
she doesn’t touch his length directly, not yet; instead she’ll press her hips in, trap the hardness of him between their wet, slick bodies. )