sacramentalisms | duplicity

[ she does want the company. she feels a little more real with him present, less like she's in the purgatory that comes before the hell she knows she's meant for. she doesn't know if sleep will be able to come either way, but it feels more likely to happen if he's closer. but he leans into kiss her and the desire for rest evaporates. it's over too quickly, but she savors it for the few seconds it lasts.

and then wants more immediately. ]

Just to start, huh. [ since he's already kissed her, she leans in to do the same, teasing him similarly by pulling back after only a few moments. ]

[whatever god has or hasn't decided to send his way, whatever the reason for this place at all, matt can't bring himself to care about any of it right now. he only cares about the warmth of her against him — what he thought he'd lost forever. he only cares that, no matter where they are, she's where he is.

he smells her, tastes her, feels her. that's what matters.]

Uh-huh. [a smile stretches over his mouth at the end of the next kiss, one that, because he's still close, she'll be able to feel.] Just to start.

[one hand begins to wander, seeking out the hem of her shirt.]

[ her clothes are borrowed or stolen from various places; a mix of what was to be found at the down shelters and centers and what the up boutiques couldn't tell were missing (they've honestly brought it on themselves since people in her position aren't permitted to purchase anything). what she's wearing now is a worn, long-sleeved shirt and an expensive pair of sweatpants and she's sure he'll note the difference in textiles, but she's also sure he's more interested in the feel of her skin.

the wounds that killed her mark her abdomen in hard knots of scar tissue. she shivers a little as she feels his fingers brush against them, then kisses him again in turn. ]

And where do you want to go from there?

[the difference in the fabric between the shirt and the sweatpants is notable to him, enough that it does pull a passing thought from him. not a judging thought, just a passing one; there's a lot he still has to learn about the laws of this place, but they're not fair to approximately half of the population that they forcibly oppress, by circumstance.

that's something he can consider later, when he's alone again. for now —

he keeps his hand on her abdomen for a moment longer, thumb moving back and forth over the scar tissue there. that hadn't been there, once; it tells him, beyond any lingering shade of doubt, that he isn't dreaming. slowly, as he kisses her, his hand rides further up under her shirt, catching it.]

I think we should get rid of this, [he says, when they break.]

[ it feels a little affirming that he keeps his hand over the scar for a moment. it reminds her they're both here and somehow alive, in spite of everything. her hand finds his wrist and squeezes it lightly, kissing him back until he pulls apart, letting go of his wrist as he starts to push his hand up her shirt. ]

I think you're right, [ and she steps back to help him guide it up and off of he body before her hands dive underneath the shirt he's wearing. ]

[any distance that comes between them right now is too much — no matter how little, and no matter for what reason. he makes quick work of her shirt, lets her take care of his; it's one of several worn tops that he'd been offered at the community center, fraying by its threads at the hem, and as elektra quickly pulls it over his head, without the care that something in that state might need, he can hear that thread fraying all the more.

he can't bring himself to care about that — or anything at all right now, except for eliminating that distance.

with both shirts gone, tossed haphazardly onto the floor, matt wastes no time; he brings her close again, against him, palms splayed flat as they roam over her now-bare skin. when he kisses her this time, it isn't gentle, but instead needy and deep.

desperate, like that's what he needs to keep breathing.

(maybe it is.)]

[ her heart beats faster and louder as he pulls her close and kisses her deeper, rougher. it's a relief to drop the pretense and let their bodies take and give what they need from each other, her hands roaming reverently over his own scars as his run over hers. there comes a time where they need to break for air and she only pulls back far enough to press her mouth to his jaw, his throat, his shoulder, breathing him in as deep as she can.

she starts to move them towards one of the beds in the room with purpose, letting her teeth nip and scrape over his skin, soothing the harshness with her lips. ]

[here, together, they can drop it all: pretense, masks, everything. it's a relief he feels through his entire body, as he stays close to her, touching, tasting what he's able. there's a thought that crosses his mind, too, and not for the first time. with her, he feels free.

the rest of the building has well-faded from what he cares to perceive by the time he feels her mouth at his jaw; the noise she draws from the back of his throat is all he can hear aside from both their heartbeats, which run in time. his knees could almost buckle, but as he holds on, he trusts her to lead them to a bed.

when he feels himself bump against the edge of one, he lowers himself down onto the mattress — and then, holding her by the waist, he brings her down with him, to sit on his lap.

the motion brings a tightness to his breath, but he seeks out her mouth again regardless, needing more.]

[ they need to be careful; the furniture's only so stable, along with everything else in the ramshackle building. her hands move to his shoulders as he lowers himself onto the bed, arms around her waist as he guides her to settle on his lap, her legs draped over his hips.

her breath hitches in her throat as she feels him hard between her legs, and her hips give an involuntary grind as she tightens her grip on his shoulders. then he finds her mouth again and she redoubles her efforts in kissing him back, her hands roaming, seeing out skin. ]

[the bed audibly creaks under their weight, betraying the state of it in a way that doesn't require his enhanced senses to know; it, just like the pipes in the walls, along with everything else in this building, has experienced much better days. if it's barely able to handle two people who are (mostly) still, much more than that is likely to break the bed frame.

still, in the instant that her hips grind against him and he groans into her mouth, he decides it's worth the risk.

(anything that he can feel of her, with her, is worth the risk. he'll never make the mistake of thinking otherwise again.)

one hand reaching to thread through her hair, he lets the other brush over her hips as he arches up into the motion, seeking out more.]

[ her hips rock once again as she hears (and feels) him groan into her mouth, the corners of hers puling into a slight upward curve. there's a light gasp as she feels his fingers thread through her hair, a thrill running though her as she recalls that time in the boxing ring at fogwell's, leaving her shivering as she presses herself flush to him.

she stays there a moment, her hips giving a slow roll now as she kisses him deeply, and once the roll comes to a stop she presses further forward, encouraging him to lie back. at some point they need to pause in their kissing to breathe and she trails her mouth over his skin, kissing down his jawline and throat as her hands clutch at his shoulders. ]

[he doesn't need to breathe, does he? couldn't he be sustained just by this alone, kissing her forever? after her heart had stopped in his arms, and after he'd woken again, broken and beaten, with her name on his lips, he hadn't felt alive; there's no question, now, with her body pressed flush to his, with her shiver like it's his own, that he's exactly that. alive.

it feels good, being alive. with her. it feels good, lying back to let her come over top of him, no matter how shitty the mattress is that almost immediately sags under their combined weight.

and even if there's a light noise of protest when she breaks from his mouth, it feels good to have hers move over his skin. the noise shifts into a moan, and he grips at her with both hands, fingers curling and digging in.]

[ no one's made her feel more alive, more like a person, than he has. most everyone in her life has tried to use her, to craft her into what they needed her to be and been disappointed when she wasn't. it had started with stick, but it certainly hadn't ended with him. there had been instructors, parents, socialite friends. but never him. he'd been frightened of what was within her, but he hadn't tried to make her change. hadn't tried to have her murdered because she wasn't willing to do it for him anymore.

she pushes those thoughts aside, growling as she feels his hands grip her sides and rocking her hips down onto his with purpose. she nips at his lower lip and moves her hands down, shifting and grasping until she works off the remainder of her clothing, trying to assist him with his. ]

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