[She hums, and sighs. Okay. It's not an untoward or unreasonable question.]
If I send someone to you, and they say I vouched for them, it means that I expect them to tell you the truth, and to not hurt you intentionally.
[Which is, largely, what she expects him to expect from her. Maybe not all the truths, but the truth, whatever that might look like. Whatever slice of it that she may be willing to give. Daphne doesn't like to lie, and of course she will, but she tries to keep that to a minimum.
So.]
And if they do either of those things, they know that they have to contend with me and the consequences after.
[And the consequences, with Daphne, can be severe. So she generally considers it a pretty good indication of her word. That said:]
Besides. I know you don't really know many people here. I don't pretend to imagine you trust me, but I think you should know enough about me at this point to know that my priority with you is less malice and more...horny.
( a handwave, abrupt and dismissive. he's got the answer he wants, is what it says, he doesn't especially care about the details, the ins-and-outs. )Please. He didn't hurt me. It just wasn't the conversation I was expecting. ( if he'd known, he wouldn't have agreed. if it'd been what he imagined, what he expected of anyone taking issue with a man named 'marc spector', it'd have been far simpler. )
I don't need protection, Daphne. You know who Khonshu is, what he might ask of his priests. I don't doubt your consequences, but mine are hardly pretty.
( still — "leave it". it hangs between them, and marc knows she's right. he doesn't know many people, for better or worse, and for as much as he'd like to point out that doesn't matter, it doesn't bother him, he knows it's not true, has pieced together enough that the difference barely matters. that knowing people is what matters here, enough to survive, enough to make the city something that approaches tolerable.
nevertheless, a cant of his head, considering and contemplative. wry. malice has never been the impression he's gotten — toying, maybe. gaming. playful. in accordance with what she's just told him. ) —Despite the words of the last man to be here with my name?
I didn't think he did. It's not about them hurting you. It's about my word. I only vouch for people I trust.
[She shakes her head, to clear it.]
Nevermind that.
[Instead:]
I don't know who he was. I'm interested in you. I like how you squirm a bit with me. I like that submissive streak you practically radiate from a mile away.
[That's not fair at all - but also it's true. That playfulness is coming back. She stands up against him, her body right up against him.]
I like that I make you just a little unsettled. But that you still kissed me.
(nevermind that. it's a break that marc appreciates. his usual approach to topics of conversation that either require even the slightest of acknowledgement of emotions, of feelings, of personhood, is resolute avoidance, even if he started the conversation in the first place.
usually.
he can't quite decide if what daphne moves on to is better or worse, a kind of reverse profile (what was that dick's actual name—?). he stiffens, eyebrows arching and eyes widening in surprise that he doesn't seem to even think about trying to disguise when she says "that submissive streak". that's — new. true, in spite of the way that he argues, rebuffs and bristles against authority, against being told what to do. like it's part of the game because ultimately, he knows, he's very good at being told what to do.
it's not often that's picked up so quickly.
he doesn't lean away from her as she presses closer into him. he tilts his head, looks down the crooked bridge of his nose at her. a quirk of his lips and, for lack of anything else— ) Most people find me off-putting.
[She has a nose for it. It was in how he let her kiss him, in how he took the order to kiss her, in the way he hedged and hawed and hemmed. She has a keen sense for submissive men, because she likes them, even though her man, he's not submissive at all.
If Marc was confident, he would have either told her no or come after her again. If the lack of a mark on his neck were honest, he wouldn't have let her pursue him like this without giving back something. She knows.
She reaches a hand up to his hairline, and brushes her fingers through his hair.]
Most people have poor taste and bad judgement.
[She takes one of his hands, then, brings it up her waist.]
I have excellent judgement. And mine is the only taste that matters.
( so close. if she hadn't added on that last part, he might have been won over. the hand she placed on her waist might have stayed, his other running up her arm. instead, he frowns, lips curling, unhappiness cording through his features and he steps away. )
No, it's not.
( marc has never been agreeable and there's something about the remark that sits a little too close for comfort. a little too reminiscent of the remarks that khonshu's made over the years for him to ignore it, to find it charming in its own way. it's not a rejection that'll last — it never is, for marc, disagreement's just part of who he is — but it's there for now. the immediate present. )
[She steps away, and she almost - almost - starts to purr, but that's more instinct than anything else. She's the one here, naked, showing her belly (figuratively and literally) and he-
She tucks her hands behind her back, and catches her tail, which uncoils down her spine and between her legs. It wasn't there a second ago, but shape can be hard and sometimes when she feels a little bump she'll lose her full grasp of it. Better pretend that it's on purpose, as she brings it up to give her hands something to do.]
I said something wrong.
[That is not an apology.]
Do you want me to shift back and leave?
[She asks, even though-
-if he says yes, she might. But honestly? She'll probably shift back and heave herself onto him, lay on him, and then make him wait while she decides what to do next.]
( truthfully, marc doesn't mind the lack of an apology, barely notices it. apologies aren't something that come naturally to him, is an expression of self and an admittance of ill-action that he struggles with. he'd never apologised — not properly — to marlene, whilst the thought of apologising to frenchie had never even occurred to him. most recently, he's sort of, kind of, technically apologised to greer, the words "I'm sorry" leaving his lips for the first time in god knows how long.
it doesn't occur to him now, here, that his response wasn't good. wasn't great. wasn't exactly ideal and deserving of something with more explanation, more situational awareness than a blunt 'no'.
but what he does notice is the tail, the way it seems to appear from nowhere, daphne's hands busying with it instead of resting on him as they had been.
the answer to her question is 'no' but it's not what marc says, not verbally, not in the way he holds his body. there's reluctance, but nothing that says for what. he gestures, loosely. )
[She looks at him with a sly little gleam in her eyes. What she wants.
Oh, Marc.]
What I want is for you to find a spot to sit, sit down, and be ready for me to sit in your lap.
[Its not quite said like a curious, thoughtful wish. It’s said something closer to an order, without the bark of a drill sergeant but all the steel. She cocks one hip, and her tail hangs down now, the tip going back and forth.]
( it's not what he meant and though to date they've only had a handful of conversations, he's quickly coming to the realisation that it's not something to be surprised by in the case of daphne. he shifts his weight and eyes her, mindful of the tail not so much swishing back and forth but twitches. he should know what it means, he thinks, and yet. )
Is that why you followed me? ( a breath of a pause; he hasn't missed the tone, the timbre of it, the way it sounds coming from her. a part of him finds no reason nor want to argue, the rest of him—
—doesn't strictly dislike being difficult. dryly, then, ) I've never been known for my agreeability.
( his gaze rests on her, lingering. searching. unimpressed is an expression he's wholly used to seeing, used to wearing and as such, it doesn't do much. instead, marc's attention slides away from her, towards the edge of the rooftop. to where he chooses to sit with a practised deftness that says he does this if not that, a lot.
his silence, not angry, not upset — like daphne — is the answer to her remark (statement, not question). yes — marc's propensity to disagree is part of his personality and not a whole lot else.
a raise of a finger, light, almost amused. ) I prefer unreasonable.
[This comes out a bit softer, now. Unreasonable men don’t sit and listen, even when they don’t like it. Unreasonable men would have tossed away her explanation of her relationship with Quentin, where it could have done damage.
She moves with that cat-grace, that smooth and easy balance, and slips into his lap, her thighs straddling his. Her arms are around his waist now, and her eyes are bright.
( he looks startled, just for a moment, when her first comment escapes her lips, although whether it's to do with the tone or the content, it's not clear. it soon passes, replaced by something not quite gentle, not quite at ease, but accepting as she does exactly what she'd said she'd do: sits on his lap.
her warmth and weight both are pleasant, and there's a quick quirk of his lips, faintly amused when she offers 'stubborn' and 'contrary' as alternatives. it shifts as she looks him in the eye, questions whether he's afraid. he thinks she knows the answer — she wouldn't be sat on his lap if she didn't, if she thought it was anything but what it is. )
No. ( a beat, a concession. ) That doesn't mean you're not dangerous. If it came to it, you'd kill me, I know that, but—. "Marc Spector's an idiot", ( he says, not even approaching offended, recalling their first conversation. ) Someone I used to work with once told me I'm too dumb to live but too tough to die, which puts us at an impasse.
[She smiles and that rare little dimple shows up in her cheek, which means that the smile is real, unguarded. She could kill him, it’s true. She doesn’t want to, though.
Still.]
I stand by that statement.
[But she leans in then, and kisses him, and it’s almost sweet. Certainly it’s more sweet than suggestive.]
( there's a flicker of something when she says she stands by her previous assertion. he's wondered, here and there, of the differences — if there are any — between him and the other marc that had been here, the stevens, the jakes that — oddly, bizarrely — haven't been mentioned. everything he's heard speaks to a man much the same as him, and what else would he expect?
—but then daphne kisses him, and it takes him a surprised second to reciprocate, his hands resting on her hips. he doesn't doubt her balance, not as such, but—.
"a positive quality."
it hangs in the air, somewhere between them, a very palpable example of marc's sense of self in that he doesn't know how to answer. there are things that he's good at, but none of those would ever be described as positive, not ever, and they're not precisely traits he takes pride in—. )
Loyal. ( at length, it's what he settles on. protective, maybe, but it'd be a bit on the nose given khonshu, given everything. )
[She admires loyalty; she can’t help herself. It’s a trait that she instills in the people who follow her, by being loyal in return. She expects it, along with respect.
So she kisses him again.]
That’s one to keep.
[She breathes it against his mouth.]
You have to promise me something.
[She takes his face in her hands.]
You can be loyal to me, if you want. I leave that up to you.
I don't believe in love. ( it's immediate, instinctual, and a complete lie even if he's willing himself to believe it. he looks to her hands, cupped around his face, before continuing. he's not about to jump to proclaiming his loyalty to daphne, they don't know each other like that, not yet, but that's not to say it won't come. not to say that she won't be one of the people he'd do anything — ugly and uglier — for.
but he'd loved lisa and he'd loved marlene. loves, still, if he's honest about it. he'd offered to give it all up — again — and settle somewhere, just marc spector and marlene alraune and diatrice, a cute little family and she'd said no because of course she had. he'd offered and she'd known, with more clarity than he had, that he'd never be able to do it.
he — no, steven — had tried before, when it was the two of them and frenchie and nedda and samuels, and it hadn't taken long for it all to fall apart, for marc's life to get in the way. a repetitive state of affairs, a near-constant need of self-sabotage, of self-ruination, of an inability to accept happiness.
marc is very good at making promises and just as good at breaking them. he's less good at recognising that fact — marlene knows just how good he is at meaning well and acting ill; and jean-paul too. want means nothing as far as marc spector's concerned, for better or worse.
(generally worse.) ) Besides—. ( a wave of his hand, fingers extended, dismissive. ) I'm a priest. I have other things to worry about.
[Daphne didn’t think she could fall in love. There were boys, men, women, who should have caught her but she always sat above it. Asher, who was perfect, except when he wasn’t, couldn’t hold her except in how possessive she became over him.
And then she came here.
And now there’s Charles, who occupies the negative spaces inside of her, the man who has her attention so completely that she doesn’t know how she would function anymore, without him. He took her by surprise.
You could destroy me she had said to him, once, and the words meant “I love you.”
But this is something else. She’s not worried about falling in love with Marc. She wants this to be simple.]
You’re not that kind of priest. And I had that kind of priest fall in love with me, once. I’m very loveable.
[What she is, actually, is emotionally unattainable and so men find her safe to fall in love with. There is no risk of her calling their bluffs.]
( the look he gives her is short, appraising, indecisive. contemplative and uncertain. daphne is not the sort of woman marc falls in love with, is not the sort of woman steven falls in love with, nor jake. she's not far from it, probably — tempestuous, self-assured. if he had more self-awareness, he'd clarify. if he was more open, he'd mention marlene, diatrice. he'd explain. but he doesn't and he isn't.
he loves greer, he thinks, but he's not in love with her, not the way it'd been with marlene. not the constant push-and-pull, concern sitting against frustration sitting against an inability to communicate. sitting against an inability to understand. )
I'm not, but I'm still a priest. ( his gaze darts to the jacket still sat on her shoulders. ) I have my vestments, my god. ( the one he resents, the other abandoned, indifferent and silent—.
he doesn't say that she's not loveable, that'd be cruel and it'd ruin whatever this is, the odd sort of companionship of almost-honesty and almost-sincerity. instead, then, there's a flash of wry questioning, a levity to the implied doubt before he, against everything that says this is a POOR IDEA, presses his lips against hers, hands pressing tighter against the small of her back to hold her in place.
[Daphne has her own understanding with the moon, and none of it is Marc's business, or Khonshu's, for that matter. She had asked him about the choice - as if choice were a factor - of a god of the moon, mostly because the moon is feminine, changing, tied to women.
So. He's a priest of the moon. He might as well be a priest of Jesus, for all that means to her, which is to say-
-she kisses him back, rising up against his body, her breasts against his shirt. Her nipples are already hard, and it's not cold enough out for it to be because of that. She moves one hand to the back of his neck, her fingers just in the hair at the nape, and pulls him to practically devour his mouth.]
I don't give a single fuck about your god, Marc.
[She says it with a growl, and takes one of his hands from where it's at her back to between her legs, so he can feel how hot she is. She's just getting wet now.]
And I don't want you to think about him when you have me in your lap.
( it's not the first time he's heard 'I don't care about khonshu' and he doubts it'll be the last. it's fine, too, because although marc can't say he doesn't care because it's COMPLICATED and DIFFICULT, marc is far from precious about khonshu. doesn't care about whether he's worshipped (no), admired (ha) or not (most likely). the difficulty, then, is in marc's positioning, where he — moon knight — sits in relation to everything else.
not a particularly pressing problem, not when khonshu's locked up on asgard and especially not when marc feels daphne's body against his own. the warmth, her hand — fingers, twining through and pulling at the shortest strands of his hair. her lips and teeth and tongue against his mouth; her hand directing his. a sharp glance as he shifts his weight, necessary, as he pulls away from her lips to press his against her neck, his fingers exploratory, teasing.
a huff of breath against her skin, an exhale that's nowhere near a laugh, not really, but not wholly devoid of something that borders on amusement. )Fine. ( agreement, not remotely argumentative and easily won. )
[She says it with a smug, pleased satisfaction; one that comes with the shift of her hips up, and then down a little. Now that his hand is there, she moves hers away, and uses it to tug a bit at his shirt, to pull it up just a little so that her hand can snake in and trace over his stomach.]
I'm not sure why all my men here are built like fighters, but I can't help but be pleased about it.
[She says it just inches from his mouth, her smile almost pressing against the corner of his mouth. Her fingers turn, and start to snake down.]
(good boy sits strangely, a little odd, but he doesn't quite have time to think on it as his attention is otherwise taken by the way daphne says it, the purr to her voice, the way that she moves and pulls her hand away from his.
a sharp glance — or it would be, if her face wasn't so close to his, eyeing and watchful as her fingers graze across his skin, work their way down and—. )
Maybe you've got a type, ( he suggests instead of answering her question, instead of acknowledging the growing tightness of his pants. instead his fingers trace her shape, skirts along the inside of her thigh, light and teasing and slow, whilst his other hand presses tight against her back, pulls her forward just a little bit more. )
[She says it as she kisses him again, this time tripping her fingers over the fastening of his trousers, trying to get more space.
One long, sharp tooth slips down in a shift, and she catches his lip. It doesn’t cut deep, but the smell of blood is just there on the edge of her awareness.]
I want to play a game.
If you can get me off with your hand before I get your pants and shirt open, I’ll ride you until you can’t see straight.
If not…I’ll use my mouth on you. There may be teeth. There may not.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
If I send someone to you, and they say I vouched for them, it means that I expect them to tell you the truth, and to not hurt you intentionally.
[Which is, largely, what she expects him to expect from her. Maybe not all the truths, but the truth, whatever that might look like. Whatever slice of it that she may be willing to give. Daphne doesn't like to lie, and of course she will, but she tries to keep that to a minimum.
So.]
And if they do either of those things, they know that they have to contend with me and the consequences after.
[And the consequences, with Daphne, can be severe. So she generally considers it a pretty good indication of her word. That said:]
Besides. I know you don't really know many people here. I don't pretend to imagine you trust me, but I think you should know enough about me at this point to know that my priority with you is less malice and more...horny.
no subject
I don't need protection, Daphne. You know who Khonshu is, what he might ask of his priests. I don't doubt your consequences, but mine are hardly pretty.
( still — "leave it". it hangs between them, and marc knows she's right. he doesn't know many people, for better or worse, and for as much as he'd like to point out that doesn't matter, it doesn't bother him, he knows it's not true, has pieced together enough that the difference barely matters. that knowing people is what matters here, enough to survive, enough to make the city something that approaches tolerable.
nevertheless, a cant of his head, considering and contemplative. wry. malice has never been the impression he's gotten — toying, maybe. gaming. playful. in accordance with what she's just told him. ) —Despite the words of the last man to be here with my name?
no subject
[She shakes her head, to clear it.]
Nevermind that.
[Instead:]
I don't know who he was. I'm interested in you. I like how you squirm a bit with me. I like that submissive streak you practically radiate from a mile away.
[That's not fair at all - but also it's true. That playfulness is coming back. She stands up against him, her body right up against him.]
I like that I make you just a little unsettled. But that you still kissed me.
no subject
usually.
he can't quite decide if what daphne moves on to is better or worse, a kind of reverse profile (what was that dick's actual name—?). he stiffens, eyebrows arching and eyes widening in surprise that he doesn't seem to even think about trying to disguise when she says "that submissive streak". that's — new. true, in spite of the way that he argues, rebuffs and bristles against authority, against being told what to do. like it's part of the game because ultimately, he knows, he's very good at being told what to do.
it's not often that's picked up so quickly.
he doesn't lean away from her as she presses closer into him. he tilts his head, looks down the crooked bridge of his nose at her. a quirk of his lips and, for lack of anything else— ) Most people find me off-putting.
( except here, apparently. )
no subject
If Marc was confident, he would have either told her no or come after her again. If the lack of a mark on his neck were honest, he wouldn't have let her pursue him like this without giving back something. She knows.
She reaches a hand up to his hairline, and brushes her fingers through his hair.]
Most people have poor taste and bad judgement.
[She takes one of his hands, then, brings it up her waist.]
I have excellent judgement. And mine is the only taste that matters.
no subject
No, it's not.
( marc has never been agreeable and there's something about the remark that sits a little too close for comfort. a little too reminiscent of the remarks that khonshu's made over the years for him to ignore it, to find it charming in its own way. it's not a rejection that'll last — it never is, for marc, disagreement's just part of who he is — but it's there for now. the immediate present. )
no subject
She tucks her hands behind her back, and catches her tail, which uncoils down her spine and between her legs. It wasn't there a second ago, but shape can be hard and sometimes when she feels a little bump she'll lose her full grasp of it. Better pretend that it's on purpose, as she brings it up to give her hands something to do.]
I said something wrong.
[That is not an apology.]
Do you want me to shift back and leave?
[She asks, even though-
-if he says yes, she might. But honestly? She'll probably shift back and heave herself onto him, lay on him, and then make him wait while she decides what to do next.]
no subject
it doesn't occur to him now, here, that his response wasn't good. wasn't great. wasn't exactly ideal and deserving of something with more explanation, more situational awareness than a blunt 'no'.
but what he does notice is the tail, the way it seems to appear from nowhere, daphne's hands busying with it instead of resting on him as they had been.
the answer to her question is 'no' but it's not what marc says, not verbally, not in the way he holds his body. there's reluctance, but nothing that says for what. he gestures, loosely. )
If that's what you want.
no subject
Oh, Marc.]
What I want is for you to find a spot to sit, sit down, and be ready for me to sit in your lap.
[Its not quite said like a curious, thoughtful wish. It’s said something closer to an order, without the bark of a drill sergeant but all the steel. She cocks one hip, and her tail hangs down now, the tip going back and forth.]
no subject
Is that why you followed me? ( a breath of a pause; he hasn't missed the tone, the timbre of it, the way it sounds coming from her. a part of him finds no reason nor want to argue, the rest of him—
—doesn't strictly dislike being difficult. dryly, then, ) I've never been known for my agreeability.
no subject
[She allows that because the reason is both less and more stupid. But:]
No, you’re nothing if not a cranky man who resists because it’s habit.
[her tail flicks a casual press, and she looks unimpressed, but not angry, and not upset.]
I’m not wrong.
no subject
his silence, not angry, not upset — like daphne — is the answer to her remark (statement, not question). yes — marc's propensity to disagree is part of his personality and not a whole lot else.
a raise of a finger, light, almost amused. ) I prefer unreasonable.
no subject
[This comes out a bit softer, now. Unreasonable men don’t sit and listen, even when they don’t like it. Unreasonable men would have tossed away her explanation of her relationship with Quentin, where it could have done damage.
She moves with that cat-grace, that smooth and easy balance, and slips into his lap, her thighs straddling his. Her arms are around his waist now, and her eyes are bright.
She still has his jacket over her shoulders.]
Stubborn. Contrary, maybe. But not unreasonable.
[She looks him in the eye.]
Are you afraid of me?
no subject
her warmth and weight both are pleasant, and there's a quick quirk of his lips, faintly amused when she offers 'stubborn' and 'contrary' as alternatives. it shifts as she looks him in the eye, questions whether he's afraid. he thinks she knows the answer — she wouldn't be sat on his lap if she didn't, if she thought it was anything but what it is. )
No. ( a beat, a concession. ) That doesn't mean you're not dangerous. If it came to it, you'd kill me, I know that, but—. "Marc Spector's an idiot", ( he says, not even approaching offended, recalling their first conversation. ) Someone I used to work with once told me I'm too dumb to live but too tough to die, which puts us at an impasse.
no subject
Still.]
I stand by that statement.
[But she leans in then, and kisses him, and it’s almost sweet. Certainly it’s more sweet than suggestive.]
So. Contrary. Stubborn. Idiotic.
Now a positive quality.
no subject
—but then daphne kisses him, and it takes him a surprised second to reciprocate, his hands resting on her hips. he doesn't doubt her balance, not as such, but—.
"a positive quality."
it hangs in the air, somewhere between them, a very palpable example of marc's sense of self in that he doesn't know how to answer. there are things that he's good at, but none of those would ever be described as positive, not ever, and they're not precisely traits he takes pride in—. )
Loyal. ( at length, it's what he settles on. protective, maybe, but it'd be a bit on the nose given khonshu, given everything. )
no subject
So she kisses him again.]
That’s one to keep.
[She breathes it against his mouth.]
You have to promise me something.
[She takes his face in her hands.]
You can be loyal to me, if you want. I leave that up to you.
But you can never fall in love with me.
no subject
but he'd loved lisa and he'd loved marlene. loves, still, if he's honest about it. he'd offered to give it all up — again — and settle somewhere, just marc spector and marlene alraune and diatrice, a cute little family and she'd said no because of course she had. he'd offered and she'd known, with more clarity than he had, that he'd never be able to do it.
he — no, steven — had tried before, when it was the two of them and frenchie and nedda and samuels, and it hadn't taken long for it all to fall apart, for marc's life to get in the way. a repetitive state of affairs, a near-constant need of self-sabotage, of self-ruination, of an inability to accept happiness.
marc is very good at making promises and just as good at breaking them. he's less good at recognising that fact — marlene knows just how good he is at meaning well and acting ill; and jean-paul too. want means nothing as far as marc spector's concerned, for better or worse.
(generally worse.) ) Besides—. ( a wave of his hand, fingers extended, dismissive. ) I'm a priest. I have other things to worry about.
no subject
[Daphne didn’t think she could fall in love. There were boys, men, women, who should have caught her but she always sat above it. Asher, who was perfect, except when he wasn’t, couldn’t hold her except in how possessive she became over him.
And then she came here.
And now there’s Charles, who occupies the negative spaces inside of her, the man who has her attention so completely that she doesn’t know how she would function anymore, without him. He took her by surprise.
You could destroy me she had said to him, once, and the words meant “I love you.”
But this is something else. She’s not worried about falling in love with Marc. She wants this to be simple.]
You’re not that kind of priest. And I had that kind of priest fall in love with me, once. I’m very loveable.
[What she is, actually, is emotionally unattainable and so men find her safe to fall in love with. There is no risk of her calling their bluffs.]
Kiss me like you mean it.
no subject
he loves greer, he thinks, but he's not in love with her, not the way it'd been with marlene. not the constant push-and-pull, concern sitting against frustration sitting against an inability to communicate. sitting against an inability to understand. )
I'm not, but I'm still a priest. ( his gaze darts to the jacket still sat on her shoulders. ) I have my vestments, my god. ( the one he resents, the other abandoned, indifferent and silent—.
he doesn't say that she's not loveable, that'd be cruel and it'd ruin whatever this is, the odd sort of companionship of almost-honesty and almost-sincerity. instead, then, there's a flash of wry questioning, a levity to the implied doubt before he, against everything that says this is a POOR IDEA, presses his lips against hers, hands pressing tighter against the small of her back to hold her in place.
love is one thing, but fun is quite another. )
no subject
So. He's a priest of the moon. He might as well be a priest of Jesus, for all that means to her, which is to say-
-she kisses him back, rising up against his body, her breasts against his shirt. Her nipples are already hard, and it's not cold enough out for it to be because of that. She moves one hand to the back of his neck, her fingers just in the hair at the nape, and pulls him to practically devour his mouth.]
I don't give a single fuck about your god, Marc.
[She says it with a growl, and takes one of his hands from where it's at her back to between her legs, so he can feel how hot she is. She's just getting wet now.]
And I don't want you to think about him when you have me in your lap.
no subject
not a particularly pressing problem, not when khonshu's locked up on asgard and especially not when marc feels daphne's body against his own. the warmth, her hand — fingers, twining through and pulling at the shortest strands of his hair. her lips and teeth and tongue against his mouth; her hand directing his. a sharp glance as he shifts his weight, necessary, as he pulls away from her lips to press his against her neck, his fingers exploratory, teasing.
a huff of breath against her skin, an exhale that's nowhere near a laugh, not really, but not wholly devoid of something that borders on amusement. ) Fine. ( agreement, not remotely argumentative and easily won. )
no subject
Good boy.
[She says it with a smug, pleased satisfaction; one that comes with the shift of her hips up, and then down a little. Now that his hand is there, she moves hers away, and uses it to tug a bit at his shirt, to pull it up just a little so that her hand can snake in and trace over his stomach.]
I'm not sure why all my men here are built like fighters, but I can't help but be pleased about it.
[She says it just inches from his mouth, her smile almost pressing against the corner of his mouth. Her fingers turn, and start to snake down.]
You're going to please me, aren't you?
WHOOPS not me accidentally hitting submit
a sharp glance — or it would be, if her face wasn't so close to his, eyeing and watchful as her fingers graze across his skin, work their way down and—. )
Maybe you've got a type, ( he suggests instead of answering her question, instead of acknowledging the growing tightness of his pants. instead his fingers trace her shape, skirts along the inside of her thigh, light and teasing and slow, whilst his other hand presses tight against her back, pulls her forward just a little bit more. )
no subject
[She says it as she kisses him again, this time tripping her fingers over the fastening of his trousers, trying to get more space.
One long, sharp tooth slips down in a shift, and she catches his lip. It doesn’t cut deep, but the smell of blood is just there on the edge of her awareness.]
I want to play a game.
If you can get me off with your hand before I get your pants and shirt open, I’ll ride you until you can’t see straight.
If not…I’ll use my mouth on you. There may be teeth. There may not.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
turns out i had this half-finished in my drafts for five years
We love a reply
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)