( the way he brackets her now reminds her of the man she'd first brought to her apartment, bloodied and carrying two russian reminders in the form of a bullet. how reluctant he'd been to look at her then, to witness her seeing him—it's been weeks since that night, countless spent tucked around various dive bars, downing one too many just for him to walk her back to that red entry, leave her there with the murmured 'goodnight, karen.' she doesn't want to undermine it, that he's not all flesh, but even when she'd first caught that glimmer of metal, even when she'd put the pieces together, she'd still treated him with those same delicate, patient hands.
she's leaning back on one of her palms, the other soothing still at his nape, and he seems to tackle one of those buttons of her own shirt as if to bide time, a means of distraction from warring thoughts.
it splinters through her, watching as he fights to pull his own weight over that barrier, and even if she can't do it for him—knows it's a step he needed to take, and one she'd never force from him—she could at least be waiting on the other side. and she is, and while she's eager to take in every part of him, she grants the courtesy of holding his gaze even when that last upper layer falls to join the other. that deflective humor manages the faintest tick to flushed lips, swollen with him, but there's a pained furrow that takes to her brows. and when he speaks again, words trying to find a way around his tongue it's like he's tugging that top of his right back on—like if he says it first, any distaste that might leave her mouth wouldn't be as sharp of a knife. )
Hey— ( it's ardent, and there's no bit of a command in her tone, but she needs him to hear her, lifting her hand to pinch gently at his chin with thumb and forefinger. there's a kiss to his lips and it lingers like she doesn't want to pull back, but she does, and she tries to divide the fear: there's seeing and there's feeling. so, she does the feeling first. )
I want you. ( even if she can't diminish that heat that's still there humming between them, it seems to pause, as if to let them have this first. she finds each of his wrists, another breath of a kiss, and carefully she's drawing each of those hands to her sides, tucking them beneath that linen top of hers, a quiet guide to curve around to her back: you're safe, here. goose flesh pricks along her skin, a stunning contrast between the two, colliding together in a spiral about her spine with a pleasure unfamiliar to her. and once they've settled, she's ducking in to the crook of his neck and peppering a line of thoughtful, decisive kisses—just the tips of her fingers running down vibranium; his bicep, curling around to it's back.
she's waiting at his ear, letting him get accustomed to how it feels—touching her, letting himself touch her. )
Feel me. ( it's whispered, like two children sharing secrets in the dark, blanket tucked over their crowns. )
no subject
she's leaning back on one of her palms, the other soothing still at his nape, and he seems to tackle one of those buttons of her own shirt as if to bide time, a means of distraction from warring thoughts.
it splinters through her, watching as he fights to pull his own weight over that barrier, and even if she can't do it for him—knows it's a step he needed to take, and one she'd never force from him—she could at least be waiting on the other side. and she is, and while she's eager to take in every part of him, she grants the courtesy of holding his gaze even when that last upper layer falls to join the other. that deflective humor manages the faintest tick to flushed lips, swollen with him, but there's a pained furrow that takes to her brows. and when he speaks again, words trying to find a way around his tongue it's like he's tugging that top of his right back on—like if he says it first, any distaste that might leave her mouth wouldn't be as sharp of a knife. )
Hey— ( it's ardent, and there's no bit of a command in her tone, but she needs him to hear her, lifting her hand to pinch gently at his chin with thumb and forefinger. there's a kiss to his lips and it lingers like she doesn't want to pull back, but she does, and she tries to divide the fear: there's seeing and there's feeling. so, she does the feeling first. )
I want you. ( even if she can't diminish that heat that's still there humming between them, it seems to pause, as if to let them have this first. she finds each of his wrists, another breath of a kiss, and carefully she's drawing each of those hands to her sides, tucking them beneath that linen top of hers, a quiet guide to curve around to her back: you're safe, here. goose flesh pricks along her skin, a stunning contrast between the two, colliding together in a spiral about her spine with a pleasure unfamiliar to her. and once they've settled, she's ducking in to the crook of his neck and peppering a line of thoughtful, decisive kisses—just the tips of her fingers running down vibranium; his bicep, curling around to it's back.
she's waiting at his ear, letting him get accustomed to how it feels—touching her, letting himself touch her. )
Feel me. ( it's whispered, like two children sharing secrets in the dark, blanket tucked over their crowns. )