She leans back against him and Carver just presses his head against hers, matching her breathing. Holding her the way she's holding him. It's strange to realize how much of themselves is mirrored in the other: not perfectly, no, but enough to reach for when the world goes strange on them. And then there are the pieces they build together.
They were strangers at the start. In a different place, they would have killed each other and never thought of it again. Here, she's one of his closest friends. They know each other in the way that only comes with intimacy. It built slowly, in starts and stops. He can't think of a way to say that, to encompass all of that without dredging up yet more wounds, so he just holds her. Matches their breathing, and keeps his eyes closed.
Maybe for a little while, they can just hold each other.
She's careful where her hand is, not to clamp down too tightly, not to keep pressing against any raised or too-warm skin where her fingers touch; she hasn't forgotten that he came to her with the residual marks of the ways he still fights himself, that he came asking for respite.
But she's also aware of how they first touched, how careful and telegraphed and tenuous it was, how either of them might have burst into violence at a single wrong or too quick move; how they couldn't take their eyes off each other, not because of the mutual attraction running base and low between them. And now this is becoming less and less rare, though no less precious for all of that.
It's this thought that finally eases the tightness in her chest, or at least the dangerous edges of it. That lets her nudge her head against his, just a bit, lets her press a slow, warm kiss to his jaw. No expectation in it, just wordless gratitude, and a unutterably intimate affection.
They hold like that for a while, until Rosita shifts. Until she presses a kiss to his jaw. Carver opens his eyes slowly. For a moment, he doesn't react, barely breathes. Just sits there, holding her, being held in turn. Settling in his own skin, alongside the aches and pains that come from surviving.
It's such a small gesture, on balance. It means so much more than it seems on the surface. How many people have ever gone slow with him?
Carver nudges his head against hers. Then, wordlessly, he cups a hand to her jaw and smooths his thumb along the line of her lip before he kisses her there. Light, and slow.
It's a rarity mirrored in her: she likes to go fast, likes to go hard, likes to prove she deserves anything in life because she can suffer for it and she can protect it. And all of that is genuinely important to her. It makes her feel something like safe, something like confident in her own skin.
But she craves this, too: being treated like something valuable, something worth the effort. Something that would be irreplaceable if she broke or was lost. She breathes in against the warmth of his palm against her cheek, nestles ever so slightly closer, and then settles into the kiss with him.
She takes her time. They have time to take, and she stretches out in it, unhurried and unwilling to miss a single detail he gives her in this moment. She deepens the kiss just ever so slightly right before it ends, a bid for more even if they need to break for air, her fingertips curling, carefully, through the ends of his hair.
"You should come back to Creekside," she breathes, so close still it's almost with his own air. "If you want. You could come back."
She still wants him. She doesn't know what that looks like beyond this moment, but she knows she wants him still, so she opens the door she closed.
Before this place, Carver assumed he’d never be with another person again. Not like this, not with any kind of intimacy. A necessary sacrifice, he’d thought. He was part of the command structure and it would’ve twisted things if he’d allowed himself to want the way he knows some of the other Reapers did. And then things shifted, and he had to as well.
It’s a strange thought now, as Rosita touches his hair and they kiss slow, the kitten sleeping next to Carver on the couch. None of this was easy. But he will never, ever regret it.
He watches Rosita for a moment, smoothing his thumb along the line of her jaw. “I do,” he admits softly. “Want that.”
Life is only as good as the moment you're in; that was the lesson the virus taught everyone on the planet, those who survived and those who didn't. Learning it is part of what drove everyone so feral, so ready to turn on one another, and Rosita isn't an exception. Just the lesson she learned was slightly different, or maybe just how she shouldered it.
It's not a good way to live, is the thing. It's a tool in the belt, but it can't be the only one, she can't make decisions based on what's necessary in the immediate present alone. But she can make some decisions based on exactly that. Tomorrow, maybe this will hurt again - or the day after, or the one after that.
Today, she smiles, relieved and young; today she eases up to slide herself into the space between Carver and the arm of the couch, leaving the other side open to Dulcinea. It leaves her wedged in close, leaves them touching from shoulder to knee at a minimum at any given moment, but she's slender and they're comfortable together. It changes how they're tangled together but it also lets her set her forehead to his, fingers carding over and over through his hair, murmuring, "Good," before she's kissing him again, light and sweet.
She shifts, joining him on the couch, and Carver just puts his arm around her and pulls her closer. Breathe out, he thinks, and he does, closing his eyes as they kiss, again. Her forehead pressed to his, almost no space between them now.
Carver cups a hand to her cheek again, gentle, and kisses her back. It feels good. And right here, right now, it feels easy.
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handleyourshit) wrote2032-07-23 01:51 pm
no subject
They were strangers at the start. In a different place, they would have killed each other and never thought of it again. Here, she's one of his closest friends. They know each other in the way that only comes with intimacy. It built slowly, in starts and stops. He can't think of a way to say that, to encompass all of that without dredging up yet more wounds, so he just holds her. Matches their breathing, and keeps his eyes closed.
Maybe for a little while, they can just hold each other.
no subject
But she's also aware of how they first touched, how careful and telegraphed and tenuous it was, how either of them might have burst into violence at a single wrong or too quick move; how they couldn't take their eyes off each other, not because of the mutual attraction running base and low between them. And now this is becoming less and less rare, though no less precious for all of that.
It's this thought that finally eases the tightness in her chest, or at least the dangerous edges of it. That lets her nudge her head against his, just a bit, lets her press a slow, warm kiss to his jaw. No expectation in it, just wordless gratitude, and a unutterably intimate affection.
no subject
It's such a small gesture, on balance. It means so much more than it seems on the surface. How many people have ever gone slow with him?
Carver nudges his head against hers. Then, wordlessly, he cups a hand to her jaw and smooths his thumb along the line of her lip before he kisses her there. Light, and slow.
no subject
But she craves this, too: being treated like something valuable, something worth the effort. Something that would be irreplaceable if she broke or was lost. She breathes in against the warmth of his palm against her cheek, nestles ever so slightly closer, and then settles into the kiss with him.
She takes her time. They have time to take, and she stretches out in it, unhurried and unwilling to miss a single detail he gives her in this moment. She deepens the kiss just ever so slightly right before it ends, a bid for more even if they need to break for air, her fingertips curling, carefully, through the ends of his hair.
"You should come back to Creekside," she breathes, so close still it's almost with his own air. "If you want. You could come back."
She still wants him. She doesn't know what that looks like beyond this moment, but she knows she wants him still, so she opens the door she closed.
no subject
It’s a strange thought now, as Rosita touches his hair and they kiss slow, the kitten sleeping next to Carver on the couch. None of this was easy. But he will never, ever regret it.
He watches Rosita for a moment, smoothing his thumb along the line of her jaw. “I do,” he admits softly. “Want that.”
no subject
It's not a good way to live, is the thing. It's a tool in the belt, but it can't be the only one, she can't make decisions based on what's necessary in the immediate present alone. But she can make some decisions based on exactly that. Tomorrow, maybe this will hurt again - or the day after, or the one after that.
Today, she smiles, relieved and young; today she eases up to slide herself into the space between Carver and the arm of the couch, leaving the other side open to Dulcinea. It leaves her wedged in close, leaves them touching from shoulder to knee at a minimum at any given moment, but she's slender and they're comfortable together. It changes how they're tangled together but it also lets her set her forehead to his, fingers carding over and over through his hair, murmuring, "Good," before she's kissing him again, light and sweet.
no subject
Carver cups a hand to her cheek again, gentle, and kisses her back. It feels good. And right here, right now, it feels easy.