ataraxionlogs | (closed) stopped looking for the people that are gonna save me

Entry tags:

(closed) stopped looking for the people that are gonna save me

CHARACTERS: Heather Mason, John "Kable" Tillman
LOCATION: The showers
WARNINGS: nudity and truly vile attempts at manipulation
SUMMARY: Demon gets bored, decides to make her own entertainment
NOTES: ...we're sorry?

The problem with people is that they're basically rotten. Most of them would push their own granny under a bus for a little bit of fortune or fame. Which was entertaining, sure, but when you specialized in turning people against each other it could make your job a little dull. So every once in a while it was therapeutic to find somebody with cracks and prod at them, just for fun.

She didn't even have to do the finding this time. She'd been in her new outfit all of thirty seconds before opportunity presented itself in the form of a strong, silent and suffering cliché who had cunningly concealed his pain by doing the psychic equivalent of hiding it under a large red button marked DO NOT PUSH. He was a big juicy steak and damn it, she wanted first bite. So she waited and watched, and really, a better opportunity to make him as uncomfortable as possible could be a long time coming. Certainly longer than she intended to be on this floating mausoleum.

So in the name of a little light entertainment she followed Tillman into the otherwise empty showers, ditched her clothes, silently padded over to him with more stealth than Heather ever had, and pitched her voice soft and warm.

"John."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Tillman kept his eyes closed, his breathing calculated and deep. It had been so long since anyone had touched him with anything but malicious intent. More than the sex, he had missed the intimacy of touch itself. The silent language between Angie and himself was coded over years of bonding and distance and reunions. He knew it better than his own native English.

This was why he never once wondered if sex would feel different because she was in Heather's body. Knowing that it would feel exactly the same made it just that much harder to resist.

He brought one of her hands up to his lips and deliberately kissed each knuckle in turn. He smiled against her skin. "It's a date," he agreed, already planning on a walk through the oxygen gardens. Hopefully they would be free of junkies.

She made a happy little humming noise at the press of his lips against her knuckles, squeezing gently with the arm still looped about him. It was progress, at least, if excruciatingly slow progress. It felt less like foreplay and more like gentling a spooked horse into doing what she needed it to. Of course, if she ever needed a horse to do something - or hell, a person - most of the time she'd just make it.

So instead she did the closest thing she could think of. She tuned her face in and yawned against his shoulder, settling in warm and limp against his body, a boneless press that wrapped her around as much of his far larger frame as she could manage, and gave a tiny sigh.

Tillman inhaled deeply, allowing the expansion of his ribs to press back against her. "Are you tired, baby?" he asked, though he already knew the answer. His voice was a low hum, thick and warm as honey. He skimmed his lips over her inner wrist.

Now that was more like it. Damn, between the lips on her wrist and the low, rich timbre of his voice, she was starting to get into it. It was always a treat when work and play collided so sweetly.

"Mmm." She hummed agreement, still draped over him, pitching her response low so that he'd feel the vibration of it where her throat curved against him. She didn't move; not when the touch of a firm, warm body was so much more interesting than a cool bed even if he wasn't her long-absent husband.

"We should probably get to sleeping, then," he murmured, his lips still brushing over her lightly. He did not move, did not want to break the spell, wanted to linger in the comfort and promise of intimacy without crossing any boundaries. He could feel every breath that she took and that was enough.

"Probably," she agreed, not quite laughing though her voice was low and amused. She disentangled and lay back on the bed, making to pull him down beside her. Fully clothed and decent, he could hardly object, right? Why, it wouldn't even be that different to two friends giving each other comfort in a time of need.

Ha. Ha.

Tillman followed her lead without protest. He knew that the second that he rolled over and saw Heather's face in place of Angie's, the illusion would be cracked. Still, he did not hesitate to do just that. He brushed a few strands of hair away from her face, tucked them behind her ear. He missed the gold flecks in her eyes and her freckles, but her heated gaze and that playful little pull to her lips was the same.

The memories of the first time that she pulled him down like this came back to him-- him fresh off the plane from Iran and reeking of desert and sweat and insisting that he really ought to shower or they would have to wash the bedding, and her pulling him closer and kissing him with that firm, almost desperate need that he could never say no to. They had left the bed only once they had gotten their fill, and only then to have seconds in the shower, and thirds in the laundry room in the basement of their apartment, while the washing machine cleaned the grit and sand from their sheets.

She held his gaze, pulling thoughts straight from his head and trying to put enough heat and memory and love and longing into her eyes that the wrongness of Heather's face - the wrong flesh over the wrong bones over a very wrong mind indeed - wouldn't destroy all she'd built up. She pulled him close but stopped short of closing the distance between them with a kiss, though her hands on him were tight and needy, her eyes pleading - it's me, it's fine. Just let me.

Tillman could only take so much of that look. He leaned his forehead against hers, his eyes sliding closed, his breath held. He shook his head, but in a contradictory motion, he tilted his mouth toward hers. "Baby," he murmured, all at once asking permission and begging her to send him away.

Beautiful. He was hanging on by a thread, barely even fighting her. She lifted a hand to the back of his head, threaded her fingers into his hair and tipped her face in close so that when she spoke, her lips barely brushed over his.

"I'm here," she said, low and warm. "I'm right here." She closed the spare distance between them and caught his mouth with hers, firm and wanting and entitled, like there should have been no question about whether it was right. Like it was wrong not to.

Those five words were all the assurance that he needed. He kissed her back like it was the last times their lips would meet, as if the sheer force of it would somehow bring them back home or restore her to her body or freeze time or set the world right.

Oh yes. The fish was on the hook, well and truly. She clung to him, soaking up all his hurt and his need and feeding it back into him, her mouth and hands pulling at at him in near-desperation, a mockery of love too long denied.

The closeness in itself was enough to reassure her that she had him, that from here on he'd do just about anything she required of him. But she'd never been known for her restraint, and she wasn't about to start now.

Tillman shifted his weight and rolled on top of her, all at once protective and possessive and embracing the need for touch. When they at last broke for air, his mouth moved to her throat. He nuzzled there as one hand slowly unzipped her uniform.

Fantastic. She couldn't stifle a smile as his fingers went to her zipper, not that she was particularly concerned that he would notice. Not with her fingers tracking through his hair, her neck drawing out under his mouth and his name on her lips in that oh-so special tone. She shifted, rolled her shoulders and pressed up against him, the movement making the jumpsuit gape where he'd opened it in an invitation to peel it off.

Jumpsuits weren't exactly the easiest thing to remove in the bedroom, but Tillman wasn't in a rush. He enjoyed the slow, sensual act of removing clothes, of kissing every inch revealed. He pressed a lingering kiss to her throat and worked his way down her sternum as he gently, insistently pulled the material down and away.

His fingers brushed her wrist and encountered skin that was not smooth and whole. He lifted his head and saw the scars there, old and healed, but still telling the tale of vicious trauma. His brow creased in concern, and the question 'what happened' was at the tip of his tongue. He met eyes that were brown instead of green, and everything snapped back into perfect focus.

Before him was the duality of his wife and a trusted friend who had been through a lot of her own hardships. If there was even a tiny possibility that she was still in there-- still awake and watching what he was doing, than this was already a violation. It had almost been rape. He felt disgusted for letting it get even this far.

He pulled away and sat on the edge of the bed once more, hands over his eyes. "Baby, I can't. Put her-- your-- clothes back on," he murmured hoarsely.

Edited (SPACEDAD IS SORRY FOR SMOOCHIN YOUR STUFF) 2012-04-25 19:07 (UTC)

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck! So close to sealing the deal, and the little idiot was managing to ruin things even when she didn't have control. Still, his pain. She'd even go so far as to say anguish. If she had to choose just one hot, throbbing thing of his to go after, the pain was the hands-down winner.

"John- " This dance had steps, and she had to follow them. She sat up, reached for him in concern, glanced down at a body that wasn't hers and pulled the jumpsuit back on in embarrassed haste. With his face covered like that he likely didn't see her fumble the zip with shaking hands, but it was a nice touch anyway.

Carefully, she moved to where he sat on the edge of the bed. Not too close, just enough to lay a hand tentatively on his shoulder, the touch full of apology and concern.

Tillman took calculated breaths to get his heart rate back under control. It did nothing to wash the taste of guilt from the back of his throat.

"It's okay. It's not you. She could be in there," he shook his head and slowly straightened. He cupped her face, tilted it so that he could search her eyes. There was nothing sensual about the touch. The expression on his face was pinched in concern. He couldn't tell if she was in there, because even though her eyes were dark, the way she held herself was all Angie. "I'm sorry," he whispered, just in case she could hear.

His hands fell away from her as he stood. "I'm going to go for a little walk. I'll be back," he announced quietly.

It wasn't time yet for the no-she's-not spiel, not by a long shot. She'd drag it out, be so Angie that he wanted Heather gone, and then she could just tell him what he wanted to hear. Gloss it over with a little sympathetic experience, ask him if he'd been able to feel it when his player was in his head and assure him there was nobody in there but her.

Given the force with which Heather was trying to fight her off, she'd reduce herself to nothing soon enough anyway.

So she sat patiently through the examination, fixed her posture to match his memories instead of Heather's lingering teenage slouch or her own steel-backed rigidity, and nodded slowly when he let go of her face.

"I understand. I'll be here." A pause while she swallowed hard and dropped her eyes. "Or I could go to her room."

Tillman rested his forehead against the door and took a breath. He turned and his eyes fell upon her, and the little warm glow that he felt whenever Angie was near him burned a little hotter.

"I want you here," he stated. "Don't you ever think that I don't." He ignored the impulse to walk back over to kiss her. "I'll be right back," he promised with a smile.

The smile she sent him in return was sweet and full of relief, a little at odds with the hand she raised to shoo him out the door.

"Go," she urged, playing at trying to get rid of him. She put a little laugh in her voice that might have been covering up a jumble of emotions - most of them good - and wiggled her fingers in a wave as he walked through the door.

Once it was closed behind him, she pressed a fist to her mouth and succumbed to a fit of laughter that been a long time coming. Bubbling up in her since he'd been the first person to her side when she fell from the pod, before she'd even got a decent hold. Oh, he was turning out so much better than she'd dared hope.

Giggles fading, she nestled down into the pillow and worked up a good cry. When Tillman returned, he'd find her 'asleep' - curled on her side with the covers down, cheeks tearstained and flushed, hair in her face.

So very in need of his protection.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

(closed) stopped looking for the people that are gonna save me

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject