( 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.
( he looks at her, a sharp, sudden movement that says neither of those options are inherently unappealing, not until the second option fully sinks in and there's a brief twitch to his lips, unsure, like he's undecided on how to take it. it takes a moment, then, for his tongue to dart out, to run over the mild cut she's given him, to taste the blood, metallic and familiar, wet and runny from saliva, in an instinctual effort to wipe it away without the use of his hands. )
Fine, ( he says, and it's murmured against her skin, against her neck, his mouth and tongue exploring, tasting, as he works his way inwards from her thigh, pressure increasing, speed increasing — gradually. building in rhythm, back and forth. )
[She laughs a little, but she's moving now, undulating over him a bit as she starts to tease his shirt open, starting at the top collar. The way her body moves is as much as tease as anything; her mouth catching his and kissing it open, with teeth and tongue.
The scrape of her tongue, now more cat than human, and the warmth of the cut she gave him healing.]
( his eyebrows arch at the question, a soft hum offered in lieu of a real answer as daphne starts with the top button of his shirt, one that has regular buttons instead of the ridiculous, fiddly, fussy crescent moons he insists on using on his waistcoat, and as cuff links.
she makes it easy, in a way, to accept. demanding in a way that's ultimately inconsequential, in a way that doesn't really ask anything of marc, and given the situation, given the circumstances, that's completely fine. an uncomplicated way of spending less time in his own head.
it's not an entirely unfamiliar sensation, her tongue against his mouth and lips. rough in a way that's reminiscent of greer, a similarity that now makes sense given daphne's — everything. it's a thought that's not quite a thought, more shapes and vagueness, a sense than anything else, because his attention, his focus, is almost entirely on daphne. he stills, not completely but enough outside of the rhythmic circles he makes with his fingers, thumb brushing over her clit, over the sensitive skin, mindful of her reaction. )
What? ( murmured against her skin, gaze flicking up to meet hers. ) You'd prefer 'challenge accepted'? ( he half-asks, not strictly interested in the answer as he ducks his head, presses his lips to her clavicle, ungentle kisses working their way down to her breasts, to her nipples. )
[Her breathing starts to quicken a bit as she lifts her chest so that he can kiss there, so that he can put his mouth on her. She's still undoing the buttons on his shirt, but she's clearly slowing down a little, distracted by the touch of his mouth on her, his tongue on her.
This is exactly right, the way he treats her. His kisses are rough and feel almost like, if he just pressed a little more, he might bite. Bites last on Daphne's skin as if she were human, and she can't help but hum at the thought of that.]
I think I do.
[She slips her fingers to undo a button just as his thumb presses right there and she bucks a bit. It shouldn't be a surprise, his hand has been on her, but there is something exceptionally good about the roughness of his hands.]
A secret.
[She leans down so she can just just curve her head next to his ear.]
( he feels her hum more than he hears it, the sound a not-unpleasant vibration against where his lips press to her skin. it's distracting enough that he half-pauses as she speaks, her words earning an exhale of breath that's not a million miles away from a laugh before she bucks at his touch and he thinks ah—.
he doesn't change what he's doing — that'd be stupid — but he does pause, just for a second, at the words 'a secret', the vague thought that she's going to ask the same question she had before, the one he'd answered almost in spite of himself, and looks to her as much as he can given their positions, given her lips against the side of his head. her breath is warm against his skin, and the intensity of his gaze quickly fades at the words that follow. the admission isn't a complete surprise, not given her remark about her men — a turn of phrase to spare thought to later, certainly not now — being built like fighters. )
Bad secret, Daphne, ( he tells her, fingers pressing against her pussy with a little more intensity, rubbing with a little more speed. ) If you like fighters, they're par the course.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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. )
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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.]
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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.
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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.]
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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.
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[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.
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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.
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[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?
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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.
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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.
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—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. )
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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.
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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.
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[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.
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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. )
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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.
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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. )
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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. )
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[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.
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Fine, ( he says, and it's murmured against her skin, against her neck, his mouth and tongue exploring, tasting, as he works his way inwards from her thigh, pressure increasing, speed increasing — gradually. building in rhythm, back and forth. )
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[She laughs a little, but she's moving now, undulating over him a bit as she starts to tease his shirt open, starting at the top collar. The way her body moves is as much as tease as anything; her mouth catching his and kissing it open, with teeth and tongue.
The scrape of her tongue, now more cat than human, and the warmth of the cut she gave him healing.]
Is that all?
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she makes it easy, in a way, to accept. demanding in a way that's ultimately inconsequential, in a way that doesn't really ask anything of marc, and given the situation, given the circumstances, that's completely fine. an uncomplicated way of spending less time in his own head.
it's not an entirely unfamiliar sensation, her tongue against his mouth and lips. rough in a way that's reminiscent of greer, a similarity that now makes sense given daphne's — everything. it's a thought that's not quite a thought, more shapes and vagueness, a sense than anything else, because his attention, his focus, is almost entirely on daphne. he stills, not completely but enough outside of the rhythmic circles he makes with his fingers, thumb brushing over her clit, over the sensitive skin, mindful of her reaction. )
What? ( murmured against her skin, gaze flicking up to meet hers. ) You'd prefer 'challenge accepted'? ( he half-asks, not strictly interested in the answer as he ducks his head, presses his lips to her clavicle, ungentle kisses working their way down to her breasts, to her nipples. )
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This is exactly right, the way he treats her. His kisses are rough and feel almost like, if he just pressed a little more, he might bite. Bites last on Daphne's skin as if she were human, and she can't help but hum at the thought of that.]
I think I do.
[She slips her fingers to undo a button just as his thumb presses right there and she bucks a bit. It shouldn't be a surprise, his hand has been on her, but there is something exceptionally good about the roughness of his hands.]
A secret.
[She leans down so she can just just curve her head next to his ear.]
I like calluses.
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he doesn't change what he's doing — that'd be stupid — but he does pause, just for a second, at the words 'a secret', the vague thought that she's going to ask the same question she had before, the one he'd answered almost in spite of himself, and looks to her as much as he can given their positions, given her lips against the side of his head. her breath is warm against his skin, and the intensity of his gaze quickly fades at the words that follow. the admission isn't a complete surprise, not given her remark about her men — a turn of phrase to spare thought to later, certainly not now — being built like fighters. )
Bad secret, Daphne, ( he tells her, fingers pressing against her pussy with a little more intensity, rubbing with a little more speed. ) If you like fighters, they're par the course.
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turns out i had this half-finished in my drafts for five years
We love a reply
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