totallytrustworthy | I N B O X:

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.

How many times they've been off their tits and going at it she can't remember, but it's been more than enough that timing doesn't matter all that much. Which is good, actually, because the angle of where he's pressed into her and the dull, aching grind from contact is wiping the board of her senses clean. Her toes are curled-- tightly-- against the bare skin of his thighs, and the sharp edges of her nails catch and scratch at the end of each buck. As her breathing goes all stop-start: too quick and too rigid interrupted by brief moments where she forgets to entirely.

His own pace is just as erratic - one moment fumbling with the angle of the counter and the next driving into her: sharp and low and desperate, punctuated by the scrabble of his fingers, short nails, against her bare knee and thigh. Charlie pants against the corner of her mouth, leans heavily into the palm of her hand against his chest.

It's not really good, except for how it is. She tastes good and feels good and the hot marks of her fingernails on his neck sting in a way that feels right, but the sex itself is sloppy and scrambling and it's honestly not long before he's making low, hard noises - fingers finding the front of her shirt and tangling and pulling and-- and he comes hot inside her. Hips catching. Jerking.

They're not really in it for performance marks at the moment. Or ever, really, though this bout might sit near some of the more ungraceful fucks they've ever managed. That said, it gets the job done.

More than, admittedly, because those shuddering spasms hit something low in her just right. All that coiled tension and shameless heat, and for every bit of grasping Charlie does, Chloe manages to mirror: teeth clamped down so hard every harsh breath has to slip out from between them until suppression is a word that doesn't exist in her vocabulary.

Sweat and spit and the feeling of his damp collarbone against her brow. How he's still hard between her legs as his muscles go slack-- bit by bit.

"Shit, mate." She huffs out against him. Breathy, sincere laughter.

Edited 2014-05-20 06:48 (UTC)

He breathes out raw in response, half low laugh and half gasping suck of air - a wordless "Ha," against her temple and her short, dark hair. Charlie fumbles briefly at her shirt, her hip. He's all post-climax clumsy, white noise in his fingers as he comes slowly down from the blood buzz high of rutting into her.

"Fucking hell," he manages, the heel of his hand catching at the countertop near her leg. He can't bring himself to draw back from the clenching heat of her just yet, though the flickering line of tension in his arm and shoulder suggests he's considering it. Just -- riding out the way she grasps involuntarily around him, taut.

Eventually Charlie mashes his nose unceremoniously against her cheek. Breathes out and in, the faintly tacky scent of sweat and sex. "So, same time next week?"

Clearly a joke; he's not going anywhere just yet.

"If you think you can manage it, cowboy, sure." Her profile scuffs against his, fingers stiff and shaky against the line of his collar. Takes more time than it ought to for Chloe to flex and settle back against the counter rather than against him, wincing against the feeling crawling back into her limbs. It's only half a joke: she wants him to stay-- and there's not a doubt in her perpetually cynical mind that she'll want him back again once the space-calendar rolls around.

And there's a good amount of spent effort regarding one solid pat on the ass before she's completely out of range.

"I'll be sure to put on my best pyjamas."

Edited 2014-05-20 12:28 (UTC)

He rasps out a laugh, lightly catching her bare thigh in a facsimile of a slap - easy catch of skin on skin before he makes good on bracing against the counter and slides free of her with a low, catching noise.

"I think I'll manage it," he says whilst leaning over, catching the half empty mug and canister from the basin of the sink. Charlie passes her the latter, takes a pull from the former.

Taken with an only half-steady hand. She's more focused on settling back across that hard, reflected countertop than she is drinking-- more focused on the thought of it rather than the reality which is proven a few seconds later when she knocks the back of her head against the cabinets set up against the ceiling.

Winces sharply, goes in for the wine. "Glad to hear it - think I could get used to this: going into hiding is way more fun when you've got someone else to knock boots with."

Charlie makes a low sympathetic hissing as she hits her head, punctuated by a somewhat mild little snort of laughter - he reaches up, tucking his fingers between her head and the edge of the upper cabinet. Too little too late, but it's the thought that counts.

"I thought that's why spies worked in teams, yeah? Got to have to something to take the edge off at the end of a long day pretending not to be yourself. Just ask James; sure he'd agree."

Pain aside she's smiling under the press of his fingers (one eye open, nose crinkled up unattractively) leaning back into the broad flat of his palm.

It's not the bump on her head that keeps her from connecting the dots: the name James-- actually most of the names from Exsilium-- feel more distant memory than what few months it's been. Eventually, though, Chloe gets it.

"Feel like I should be pointing out that neither of us are really Bond material."

"You, maybe. I've done the double agent thing, thank you very much." Not with much finesse, mind, but he likes to think it still counts. That it might still count where it matters. With Nate in jump school and Chloe here, they've both got their heads so far underground that there's no one left to watch their bloody backs. Not that the dig in and stay very still plan isn't a bad one - in a place this big, going to ground would be his first bet as well -, but it'd be a piss poor idea to send a potential angle down the river without giving it a shot first. The Serbian doesn't know anything about him; if Charlie plays his cards right, it'll stay that way.

Not that he says as much to Chloe. Not right then.

Instead Charlie knocks back what's left of the wine in his mug, shrugs and sets it aside before he tries to make for his pants and trousers, shimmying a little awkwardly to wrestle them up from around his thighs with only one hand.

"So did I," Her toes paw at his bare thigh as he shuffles his way back to decency. Chloe doesn't bother to chase after the discarded pyjama pants when half-dressed works so well with her new look. "And it ended badly for both of us."

Just saying.

"Oh, I don't know. It wasn't going too badly right up until the big bad bitch turned pyromaniac."

He's grinning - all post-coital stupidity as he wrenches his trousers the rest of the way up. He doesn't bother with fastening them, rather catching her thigh. He drums his fingers there at her skin, quirks an eyebrow. "Anyway, practice makes perfect."

"Provided you live long enough to improve." She braces herself, heels flat against the counters beneath her, leaning across the space between to scuff her forehead-- the bridge of her nose-- across the underside of his chin. "Come on, Prince Charming, this counter's no doona. Help me get down before I go numb."

"Doona," he repeats the word back at her, tucking his chin to press the elongated 'oo' into the corner of her mouth. "Bloody commonwealth."

But she has a point and he's getting tired of standing about with his trousers undone when they could be anywhere else. So he's straight forward enough about doing his pants up properly before catching her by the hips and dragging her to the edge of the counter - gives her a neat little smack to her arse before he steps back enough to give her the space to dismount.

It prompts a short snort of laughter from her as she climbs down, long tank top making the business of standing upright surprisingly decent (so long as she's not doing star jumps or anything else equally as ridiculous). Drops the cup on the counter and makes her way to the living room where she crashes down in a heap on the makeshift space-futon.

"Don't judge. Good things come from where I was born." Her ankles cross at the edge of the coffee table. "Like me."

"You know what else comes from there? Giant spiders" -- he makes as to count the list off on his fingers, though it's a brief beat before he grabs the bottle-- "Everything poisonous."

Moving after her, the flat's small enough that it's just a few strides for him from the cramped kitchenette to the equally cramped futon. He's ginger about sitting down beside her, legs all sprawled in front of him, as the thing seems rickety as all hell. To whatever fabricator did the job on it, the futon's frame groans under the weight but doesn't protest beyond that.

"But I suppose there are exceptions to every rule. You're only mostly poisonous, eh?"

"Mostly. More than mostly. Enough to incapacitate you." Her palm skids across his thigh, creeping over, over...and settling on the bottle before tugging it loose with a smug little sound from the base of her throat. "Nothing to be worried about, yeah?"

Which prompts an snort from him, all faux indignant as she wrests the bottle. He stretches his arms across the back of the futon, settling like a stone in water: legs outstretched, weight sinking low. "Yes, well - never been too good with the creepy crawlies."

He makes a face at her, all wrinkled nose and pulled back lip - catches his fingers against her hair and wriggles them, spider-like, for a moment for emphasis before his hand simply settles there. Stills a moment before blunt fingernails absently scuff through her short hair, up the back of her head. There's no real purpose behind the contact, ninety percent subconscious.

It feels good-- not just the weight of his hands or how his fingers sift soothingly through the cropped ends of her hair-- but this, all of it. Him beside her slack and smitten with all the noise of the world outside their window boxed out of the picture entirely. Her eyes lid, one breath pulled in through her nose and let out when she turns to rub the side of her head across his palm.

"You could stay."

Topic change, and it comes natural as anything after the lengthy silence in between breaths.

The weight of her head fits neatly against the palm of his hand. He presses back accordingly, a lopsided attempt at combing his fingers through her hair, and watches at he does it: studies the shape of his fingers tangled there, the line of her profile and the length of her eyelashes - the kind of look that isn't meant to be seen, a thorough study.

He presses his thumb against her temple, draws a slow circle against the skin.

"Sure, alright."

Which is fantasy and stupid to boot and he knows she knows it too, but what the hell ever. He can say whatever he pleases here and they can both pretend it's the truth.

this is the closest thing i have to a crotchshot icon

fans self

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