( 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
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. )