totallytrustworthy | I N B O X:

As anticipated, Charlie finds his way up a few minutes later. He raps on the door, hardly urgent as he suspects her to be near enough to hear it, and settles back on his heels. Generally speaking, he looks much the same - he hasn't taken on a hoodie or any of that nonsense, but he has upgraded to a jacket of a different cut and he's carrying a backpack slung over one shoulder. Better to hide in plain sight than to make an eyesore of himself.

--And it's easier to haul around a bottle of wine in a backpack than simply bare handing it.

Simplicity suits him. Suits her as well as she's only freshly showered, sporting a dark tank and a battered pair of thin pyjama pants when she answers the door with no comment on his wig-less getup. No comment and the barest touch of relaxation at the corner of her mouth that leads right into an easy grin: he's there, she's covered her tracks - nagging won't do either of them any good now.

"No false mustache, I see."

All right, maybe a bit of prodding as a substitute. "C'mon in, darling."

It's a simple flat. Small (by small living space standards) and barely furnished with only one chair, one bed and the kitchen counter for perching space. Sports a lovely view of the outer wall-- all metal and maintenance ways and everything else unattractive-- and smells a bit of cleaner and stagnant air, but it works for someone that needs privacy and seclusion the way she does these days.

"Knowing my luck, I'd be allergic."

He follows her in to the exceedingly cramped flat, slinging the backpack from his shoulder and depositing it on the corner of the counter the moment he's within arm's reach (which takes approximately a stride).

"Lovely place you've got here, darling." There's an obvious trace of sarcasm to it - there's no way Chloe is entirely pleased with the outfit either -, though he cuts it by unzipping the bag and drawing the bottle out. "You do have glasses right? Cups?"

Not that they couldn't drink it straight from the bottle if it came to that.

"Mmmm..." Careful pause injected as Chloe tries to remember exactly what is stored up in those cabinets, just before rummaging through and tugs out a battered mug and an old canister. Little dusty, little unsophisticated, but more than capable of getting the job done. "One and a half."

She dusts out the inside of them with her shirt. Drops them on the countertop closest to him and his little gift.

"Now where on earth did you dig this up? Doesn't look fabricated."

"I've got connections," he said, all faux defensively as he works the cap off the bottle (don't be too impressed, Chloe; it's a screw top). "What exactly do you think I'v been up to all month? Standing about with my thumb up my bum?"

He scoffs, tossing the cap over his shoulder - won't be needing that - and then sloshes two generous pours into the mug and the canister.

The canister is hers, claimed as soon as the wine stops pouring. He wins himself an angled grin over the rim of it not long after.

"I'd pay to see that, you know."

"First of all," he says, leveling the bottle and setting it aside on the counter. "That's foul and I hope you're aware of what a lewd bastard you are. Secondly--" Charlie shrugs, pulling a slight face. "I haven't got a month to lay about here, but maybe an abridged version. Cheers, darling."

He clinks the edge of the mug against her canister and takes a swig of the wine. It's not great, but not bad and after so long dealing with the quality of wine and booze in Exsilium that's like saying 'and then the heavens opened up and a chorus of angels gently sang about it.'

"Wouldn't be any fun if I wasn't at least a bit self-aware." Chloe's up on the countertop in less than a minute: one casual hop back with the use of her (mostly) free hands puts them at equal height-- which she likes for more than just that reason alone-- bare foot closing the distance to curl purposefully round the back of his leg.

Close, proper contact.

"You look good." Meaning he looks the same as she remembers. "No one on one gladiatorial sessions in the arena, I take it."

He gives to the contact, weight shifting from his heels as he shuffles a few degrees nearer. It's a minor shift, but allows her heel a fraction more leverage at the back of his leg.

"Not yet anyway. There's a bloke showing me around the giant robots, so who knows." He shoots her leer, threatening all kinds of mechanized chaos, and takes a swig from his glass. "Next thing you know, I'll be a bloody sports star. Though it might make this whole covert operation thing rather more difficult."

"Just a touch." Him in a giant bloody robot. Can't be more ridiculous than the rest of this, but something about the image of him battling about in a gigantic machine and winning all sorts of popularity for it seems-- well it seems completely plausible. And maybe that's what's so uncomfortable about it.

She pulls another lengthy sip from her canister. Her toes curl in against fabric.

"Not much like our old flat, is it?"

It's an unexpected little stab to somewhere he didn't know was soft and vulnerable, grinding and hooking painfully behind the ribs. Charlie busies himself with a pull from the mug, the wine oaken and brusque at the back of his tongue. He manages a quick grin, corner of his mouth pulling. Cocks his head.

"Yeah, well, haven't got a whole stash of Egyptian gold to pay for this one now have you?"

"Not yet." She corrects, chin lifting while her bright eyes study the steep angle of his grin. "Think there's any such thing as Egyptians in space?"

"Statistically? Sure, about as likely as an Englishman and an Australian." And look at the probability of that one - and in the same room no less! It prompts the edge of a smile to pull farther, to show a flicker of teeth: real humor there as he settles himself into the narrow space between them, hip against the edge of the counter between her legs. It doesn't leave much space between them in which to tilt the mug back, to take another sip of wine, but he manages it well enough.

"Fantastic." Leaves less room when Chloe leans in the barest second after he's done sipping away, mouth over his and the taste of rough, bitter wine. Not really a kiss but nothing shy or chaste-- just stolen contact in a non-verbal demand for his attention. Her legs lock across the back of his thighs, crossed just above her ankles.

"Nate can fly us to them, you and I can pick up the spoils, and the three of us can retire easy."

He manages a low noise against her mouth, swallowing and then baring his teeth briefly against the shape of her lips. He sets the mug aside, nudging it away across the cheap compressed-whatever the counter's made of.

"Funny enough, Nate and I been considering a bed and breakfast. I suppose we could make some room for you in the operation. Housekeeping, maybe." And his hands are creeping to her waist. Well-- hips, really. Well-- ass, really. "Get you kitted up in a lovely black and white uniform. D'you think that's still the thing in space?"

"Haven't spotted any yet, but if I do, you'll be the first to know." Housekeeping, really. How absurd. The cup in her hands becomes less of a concern the more time she spends jammed up against his broad frame-- not to mention broad hands. "Dunno, though. Between the two of us you were always better at sweeping up."

That minute bit of space gets smaller; Chloe draws him in with the edge of her heels.

He's all warmth across her mouth and in her grip. Solid weight and enough tension in the cut of his muscle beneath clothing (probably left over from Exsilium's harsh winter rather than anything here) to feel like something of an anchor.

"Only as I've got more practice. If you put a little more time into it, you'd manage alright."

All things considered, there's very little in the way of wit there - though to be fair, he's gone and found a distraction that knocks his clever retorts game down a few pegs. Charlie slides his fingers into the back pockets of her pants (or where pockets ought to be - space pants?). After a moment his mouth shifts against her, nose pressing against her cheek, mouth sliding open against hers. He kisses her, abruptly hot: all tongue and the edge of teeth, breathing rough through his nose.

Suits her fine. More than, really, as the pads of his fingers scuff along across thin, thin fabric - catching only briefly once her weight rolls forward towards the counter's edge. It's nearly uncharactaristic how the roughness of his kiss isn't matched in anything but the hold she maintains on him: one hand twisted up like a threat in the front seam of his jacket, the other barely finding the sink beside her in an effort to drop the mug (it hits the edge, spills off down the drain) before latching on at the side of his throat. Her nails dig in, leave raw tracks across old scars like some heavy-handed attempt at redefining what they've left behind. Nearly forgotten.

Edited 2014-05-13 09:42 (UTC)

The prickle of her fingernails at his neck prompts a low, visceral noise from him - pressed from him to her mouth, a precursor to the way he drags and pushes: simultaneously pulling her to him (as if here were any distance left between the width of his hips and between her legs anymore) and pressing into the shape of the kiss. It lengthens the line of his neck, bares it to the dig of her fingers. They might have dropped the ball on the tattoos but if she wants to make her own mark, then he'll take it.

Her legs bracket him-- more than just the few inches from earlier: her ankles are uncrossed and tucked against his legs like the floor ought to be at his back and her body heavy over his, braced for an almost imaginary interaction-- or whatever's probably just ahead of them. Hard to say when they're tangled up like this. Not just physically, either. Not just the sting of her knuckles from being too tightly wound, but the sting of acknowledging what she'd almost lost. He might never have turned up. She might never have lived long enough to see it.

Stupid things to dwell on (and she doesn't) but they surface all the same under the heat and roll of his tongue and the familiar scent of him where he's too bloody close and she's too bloody breathless to inhale anything but what he exhales.

She does leave marks. Welling, needy sorts. Stark against his skin. But the kiss stays receptive as much as the hand at his hips (lower with each passing second) is insistent when it yanks open the waistband of his trousers.

They sting and he finds he doesn't mind it - that he's almost glad for the scrape and the burn that follows or the fact that while he'll be leaving he flat in a few hours but at least he'll be taking the stripes with him (which isn't much, but it's something).

If she's pliable to his mouth, then there's no arguing that he's the same under her hand. Charlie inhales as she fights his trousers open - standing slightly straighter through the spine, shoulder curling as he presses his hip to the heat of her, to her hand. And just like it doesn't take much to go from stupid banter to kissing her, it doesn't take much more than the vague implication of her hand near his prick for him to realize he's already half hard as he grasps at her - catching with his teeth, nipping and deliberate.

It's an old apartment. His hip digging in between her legs coupled with the way she's bearing down on the edge of that counter while she works to do away with his trousers means there's a good amount of protest on the furniture's part. There's no buckling or bending or the barest sign of a crack (bless whatever material future countertops are made from), but the occasional creaking's more noticeable than the hardness of his cock under her palm, though the latter is where her attention's focused-- that and the scrape and pinch of his teeth on her skin-- unashamedly rough handling where he's all tangled up in fabric. Where she's too bloody impatient to be careful or courteous about it.

Still, shifting back an inch or so seems to relieve the problem. On both fronts. Her fingers pull him loose with less than a second wasted between that and setting to work getting him off, and there's less groaning for it with the balance of weight more evenly distributed.

Or possibly more groaning elsewhere, provided she hasn't lost her touch when it comes to rolling her fingertips forcibly over the contours of his cock.

She hasn't.

Any awkwardness in the tangle of his pants is forgotten the moment she's got his cock free, her hand on him - the quirk of her wrist. It's something that necessitates a little bracing: fumbling a hand from the rear of her trousers to the counter top, cabinetry creaking low as he leans hard on the heel of his hand. There's no arguing that she does good work and he huffs against her mouth, the finger of his hand still at her back curling against the thin fabric.

There's no denying the edge of tension in him - the sharp realization that it's been a while. A month here, the interval in Exsilium where she'd been-- Charlie catches the waist of her trousers, impatient about how he hauls them down to bare a long stripe of her thigh.

Shifting her hips enough to make his efforts a touch easier interrupts the carefully measured rhythm she'd been maintaining. Gives her wrist a break, though there's still the matter of a taut wasitband digging into the side of her hip, and the difference in height with her balance all shifted that puts her mouth somewhere near his jaw in the space between it and the corner of his mouth.

And while she might normally grin and joke about it all (probably mutter something stupid and soothing in the same breath: 'easy tiger' or a phrase equally as cliche), it's been months more for her.

She could've lessened the interval of course. It's not like there was any promise he'd find his way here, or that there was any shortage of able-bodied humans going about their business within reach-- Christ, there was Nate. Nate without a future or the promise of a wedding band about his finger, and god knows if she'd relied on anyone while they were both in the thick of it, it was him.

For whatever reason, she never felt compelled to slake that need.

It's not really something he'd had weighing on his mind - bigger fish to fry, so to speak. But now that he's settled between her legs, with her pajama pants half down and his cock out-- well really, there's no not thinking about it.

Which means peeling her out of her pants, ducking his head and bumping his forehead less than gently against hers. Prompts a belated "Sorry," pressed against her cheek. The smell of her hair, the taste of her skin - it hooks something almost painful in him, makes his mouth water and his chest ache as he sucks in a breath, fighting her pajamas over her knees and down.

2/2, action;

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