totallytrustworthy | I N B O X:

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.

The grin she flashes against the grain of his stubble doesn't last long: it's purely reactive and her attention is fixed somewhere else-- somewhere low along the scuff of fabric and skin and the feeling of him across her palm as a solid, demanding weight-- meaning his apology is unnecessary. Darling, but unnecessary, and Chloe draws herself up closer as she resumes carefully shuttling her grip, free hand returning the favor of dragging both his trousers and underwear low enough across his thighs that her bare toes can manage the rest. Deft motions that don't interrupt that friction between his legs, or the urgency she's pressing back into it where he seems to have momentarily (courteously) stalled out.

Edited (uses butt icon) 2014-05-14 05:58 (UTC)

The crank of her hand is enough to make him flush, send him buzzing if not to actually get him anywhere near close - which is good, because otherwise they wouldn't be getting much farther than a demonstration of her grip. Which: while he's very emphatically not complaining, it's also not really how he wants this to go.

Which would suggest he has something in mind when really there's just a list of wants. He wants to get her out of her pants, so he does. He wants to kiss her again, so he does that too - mouth dragging against hers, breathing out hot across her lower lip. He wants to touch her, so he sets his hand high on her thigh, forefinger pressing to touch her hip bone, thumb sprawled low between her legs. He wants more friction, so he ruts into her hard - bangs his thigh hard against the edge of the cabinets. It makes the mug rattle gently in the sink basin.

His thumb is a counterweight; she keeps waiting for it to drop with each undelicate turn of her wrist, with the way she sets her teeth against his lip when he exhales and the rattling thud of his leg against the counter. And-- shit, neither of them have wanked off nearly enough for this to be an initially lengthy affair. Chloe can tell that much thanks to the slickness of skin on skin where her thigh is catching against his, and she's careful when she guides him (one hand low across the curve of his ass, the other still handling him) in towards the broad point of his thumb.

If they're going to fuck on the counter, they might as bloody well fuck on the counter.

Oh, they're fucking on the counter. And maybe again elsewhere. On the rubbish couch bed thing she's got going on in her sitting room? Probably not in the washroom as he assumes it's horrible, though they've both likely seen worse. It's a world of possibilities (if by that he means a world of semi awkward, largely rickety surfaces - and he does).

--But one thing at a time and currently his version of planning for the future gets about as far as catching his other hand at her knee, fingers digging at her thigh at hip as she draws him in. There's nothing about the slick, wet heat of her that prompts hesitation. His cock jumps in her hand at the initial contact, the tight press and Charlie breathes raw across her mouth. "Christ," he swears, bracing himself against her - to push into her. And he does, aching, grasping after her. After the initial slide, just enough to make sure, he abruptly drags her to him - to the edge of the counter - on to him. He makes a low, low noise at her mouth as they settle together.

Low on his part, maybe. Hers, not so much. It's been too long and she's locked too tight around him to make ignoring the urge to breathe out something harsh in compensation a possibility. Good thing Charlie Cutter's never been afraid of a little profanity.

And it's a good thing that beneath the layers of his coat her nails can't claw deep enough to do any real damage, because the way her fingers scrabble across his chest-- his arms-- in an effort to find purchase while they're flush against one another. Skin and taut heat and the dig of his fingertips where they're clinging hard like a lifeline.

It takes a touch longer than it ought to for her hips to buck up into that friction, but eventually she does. Flexes muscle and shifts her weight and ruts against him as best as she can without any amount of real leverage, and-- shit, Christ is right.

Edited 2014-05-15 04:42 (UTC)

It's not as if he needs any encouragement, but if he did that'd certainly be it. The catch of her against him, the dig of her heels and ankles - Charlie sucks in a sharp breath, fingers catching at her knee, the underside of her thigh. It's not the most perfect handhold, but he's had worse.

So no, it's not the greatest angle but that mostly doesn't matter when he's pressed all the way into her, when he starts to move. The first thrust is slower, fumbling, but it just takes a moment for him to acquaint himself with the awkwardness of screwing her on the counter top; he quickly forgets to be anything but impatient, banging the cabinet with his knee as he fucks into her - swearing into her mouth half from the flicker of pain and half from everything else.

Meaning she can't help but laugh-- or try to when she breaks a smile against his cursing mouth, unintentionally inhaling what he breathes out before her teeth are at his jaw instead. Given the difference in positioning there's little left to her to do as his thrusting sets fire to her nerves; Chloe makes up for it (as best as she can coming down from a Sahara's worth of a dry spell) with the sharp scrape of her teeth, with the edge of her nails as they settle in at the neckline of his shirt and drag livid, welling lines across his skin. With locked muscles and a flexible, arched back.

It's familiar. The feeling of his thick, corded muscles under her knuckles and between her legs as sturdy as a bloody brick wall-- but also his scent. The sound of his voice and the taste of cheap wine. Turns rough, hungry sex into a fixed point between spaces: what she'd lost and what she's gained all over again.

The sting of her fingernails at his neck at collar, the edge of her teeth is like an anchoring point - sharpens without really clarifying, puts an edge to the cant of his hips and the way his own fingers dig into her skin. He isn't laughing, but he is grinning - flash of teeth as he pants against her cheek. It's an abrupt shift in tone, if not pace. Still rough, still grasping; he's still fucking into her with a kind of admirable single mindedness, though then he's pressing kisses to her cheek, grinning against her hair cropped short at the temple as he rocks into her - a steady rhythmic creak of the cabinets and the catch of skin.

It's ridiculous and hot and he's doing most of the work by necessity and he can't help but simply want to touch her, to feel her - the pleasure of her under his hands and around him and the press of her fingers and the angle of her knee against his side.

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this is the closest thing i have to a crotchshot icon

fans self

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