[ the difference between this mission and all the others is the assurance of what he'll find when he returns back to his room each and every night, the feeling of having someone to come back to. it's never been the kind of thing he's used to, not even something he'd normally allow himself to even entertain; people come and go, and even when he's had partners and lovers, it came with the package deal of being fleeting, just something to keep warm for a night or two before everyone moved on.
but there's a promise in all the things he and marta have said, all stemming back to that aggravating little word she planted deep into his head — hope. alongside it is a confidence in constantly seeing her in that apartment, in finding her there night after night, in seeing a future and believing in it.
what the hell has she done to him? he sometimes thinks. but even that momentary lapse is often followed with a gentle, hidden smile, liking every moment that she's there, nestled at his side in bed.
she's already there when he comes in late tonight, kicking off his boots and ridding himself of his clothes, from his shirt down to his briefs (because it's what's most comfortable, and the nice thing about being in a relationship that's a little more defined is that he doesn't have to wear extra layers out of courtesy), before he crawls into the bed behind her.
he brings his arm around her, something of a routine by now with its variations (sometimes it's her settling in behind him or he reaches for her to cradle her to his chest, always any excuse to merely be close), his lips pressing soft behind her ear, kisses gentle and almost lazy, like its own quiet form of hello. ]
[ most nights she tries to stay up for him. their vastly different skillsets meant that often the nature of their roles during missions would see them at opposite ends of the spectrum, burdened with schedules that would see them more like ships in the night than anything resembling lovers. most nights she manages, but this day found her on her feet for eight hours before her first break, so that by the time she'd made it back to their apartment and washed the day off of her, all energy she might have had to keep her through the night had faded.
her hair is still a little wet when he makes it home, cold and damp against his cheek when he presses in for that kiss. she stirs after the third one, a slow wind of her neck that has her nose lifting up off the pillow she'd buried it into (his, of course, carrying enough of his scent now to help lull her to slumber) to find the culprit of those kisses out — like a sleepy bloodhound, trained to seek out more.
a soft sound in the back of her throat, rumbling and content. hello, he says. welcome back, she replies.
there are sheets tangled around her legs, making her attempt to roll over further into his arms a failure, and so she gives up trying and instead leans further back into his embrace. she can feel the heat of his bare body through the thin fabric of her sleeping shirt — one of his rare henleys he certainly hasn't complained of missing. by now she's tipped her head back enough to bump her nose against his. her lips part, imploring, but she's still in the thick of sleep enough that it'll have to be up to him to give her the kiss she wants so badly. ]
[ there's plenty of things he grows frustrated with during the missions, weights that carry upon his shoulders to leave marks of questions towards why he lets himself get so mixed up in it, so much more involved than is even necessary beyond the hunt for the orb. but then the reminder comes in the form of her waiting for his return, the silent call for him to come home, like there's actually a home worth coming back to.
when this all started, he didn't entirely know what he was fighting for, or what he wanted out of it; the answer is the gentle stir of her fitting against his body, of the gentle twist she gives to seek out more of him.
(he's not a stranger to the physical want, to the desire for lust that he can inspire, but even when that's present here, he knows it's more, that what she welcomes is more than his face, than his body.)
he remains a solid weight behind her as she curves against the frame of his chest, steady to be there when her neck twists enough for him to guide his lips up to find hers, a gentle graze for an initial fond affection before adding firmness, mouth craving a hotter taste. it all remains lazy, deepening with a hint of intention for fueling heat while maintaining a slow rhythm to match the pace of the quiet night, fingers curling to the base of that stolen henley, bunching the fabric against a firm palm to stroke against her belly. ]
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pops cherry
starting with one but the others will find their way
but there's a promise in all the things he and marta have said, all stemming back to that aggravating little word she planted deep into his head — hope. alongside it is a confidence in constantly seeing her in that apartment, in finding her there night after night, in seeing a future and believing in it.
what the hell has she done to him? he sometimes thinks. but even that momentary lapse is often followed with a gentle, hidden smile, liking every moment that she's there, nestled at his side in bed.
she's already there when he comes in late tonight, kicking off his boots and ridding himself of his clothes, from his shirt down to his briefs (because it's what's most comfortable, and the nice thing about being in a relationship that's a little more defined is that he doesn't have to wear extra layers out of courtesy), before he crawls into the bed behind her.
he brings his arm around her, something of a routine by now with its variations (sometimes it's her settling in behind him or he reaches for her to cradle her to his chest, always any excuse to merely be close), his lips pressing soft behind her ear, kisses gentle and almost lazy, like its own quiet form of hello. ]
no subject
her hair is still a little wet when he makes it home, cold and damp against his cheek when he presses in for that kiss. she stirs after the third one, a slow wind of her neck that has her nose lifting up off the pillow she'd buried it into (his, of course, carrying enough of his scent now to help lull her to slumber) to find the culprit of those kisses out — like a sleepy bloodhound, trained to seek out more.
a soft sound in the back of her throat, rumbling and content. hello, he says. welcome back, she replies.
there are sheets tangled around her legs, making her attempt to roll over further into his arms a failure, and so she gives up trying and instead leans further back into his embrace. she can feel the heat of his bare body through the thin fabric of her sleeping shirt — one of his rare henleys he certainly hasn't complained of missing. by now she's tipped her head back enough to bump her nose against his. her lips part, imploring, but she's still in the thick of sleep enough that it'll have to be up to him to give her the kiss she wants so badly. ]
no subject
when this all started, he didn't entirely know what he was fighting for, or what he wanted out of it; the answer is the gentle stir of her fitting against his body, of the gentle twist she gives to seek out more of him.
(he's not a stranger to the physical want, to the desire for lust that he can inspire, but even when that's present here, he knows it's more, that what she welcomes is more than his face, than his body.)
he remains a solid weight behind her as she curves against the frame of his chest, steady to be there when her neck twists enough for him to guide his lips up to find hers, a gentle graze for an initial fond affection before adding firmness, mouth craving a hotter taste. it all remains lazy, deepening with a hint of intention for fueling heat while maintaining a slow rhythm to match the pace of the quiet night, fingers curling to the base of that stolen henley, bunching the fabric against a firm palm to stroke against her belly. ]