anythingbutblue | (no subject)

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When movement on the bed wakes her, Faye rolls over onto her stomach and pillows her head on her folded arms. Her eyes open, and she peers quietly over her arm at Gren as he sits up next to her.

It's not his chest, breasts half hidden by the hair that falls over his shoulders, that her eyes are drawn to first. It's not the less hidden distraction between his thighs, either.

It's his face she has to look at.

Those damn blue eyes are even bluer when his hair falls into his face like that -- which is almost all the time -- and it's that long dark hair that draws her eyes next. It practically cries out to be touched and felt, but before now she's always been able to resist it with no trouble.

Always.

The ends of his hair touch this curve in his lower back that nearly makes her heart speed up all by itself, and why is it that she never notices just how long his arms and legs are when he's wearing clothes?

It's a second or two before she realizes he's started looking back at her, and as though there's been nothing to see all along, she smiles with every ounce of feigned innocence that she can muster and lets her head sink into the pillow of her arms enough that her eyes are just barely visible over them.

Well, he can hardly blame her.

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Prettiest boy in the bar and the prettiest girl in the bar: it was bound to happen.

She's beautiful, and there's a slow and luxurious sensuality to Faye that she keeps really well hidden. He didn't know, didn't suspect. He thought she would be a pure force to be reckoned with in bed and she is, but she's also full of surprises. Little flirtations, unexpected sweetnesses, turns of phrase and fingertips both that belie her outward indignation when someone first eyes her up and down, as if despite her dress she deserves this special prioritized dispensation from prying appreciative eyes.

And who wouldn't want to look her up and down? Who in the universe could resist? She's all curves and fluid texture and dark-haired green-eyed lust packed into a yellow-and-red-clad bundle, and one of the biggest pleasures and honors he's had lately has been peeling that protective skin off her slowly, intentionally.

It's all about the way she feels beneath his hands, the way her hands feel on him, the way she looks up at him through those eyes of hers, the perfect plum of her lips, the demand tugging at the ragged and husky edges of her voice. In the heat of the moment Faye's as much tigress as woman and it's one of the headiest combinations he can imagine.

Just now he doesn't say a word. Instead, he lowers his body back onto the bed, rolls onto his own stomach, and on the way by, presses a kiss that's not quite lustful but neither is it soft and chaste to the spot right at the back of her neck.

See, he likes it when he makes her shiver just a little.

It's been a long time since any small gesture has pleased her half as much as the kiss he plants on the back of her neck, and the lazy smile it immediately puts on her face proves that.

Even if it's mostly hidden by her arms right now.

The warmth of that kiss stays on her skin long after he's settled back down, almost mirroring her, and having him stretched out like that is just another -- louder -- invitation for her eyes to shamelessly feast on him.

It's not often that she needs an invitation to do anything, but when given one like this, she doesn't waste any time.

She was kidding when she told him this was bound to happen sooner or later because he's pretty -- but that part she wasn't really kidding about -- and she's pretty.

If someone had told her as soon as she left the Rester House after first meeting him on Callisto that she'd wind up in bed with Gren despite what he said about women not being his style, she'd have tilted her head, smiled slyly, and asked oh really. But had she been told the same thing after she'd seen him in the shower, heard his story, and been left handcuffed on his bed while he left his apartment, she'd have had a reaction that was a hell of a lot more skeptical.

Sometimes she thinks she understands Gren with this intimacy that really surprises her, and sometimes she still can't quite figure him out at all.

Eventually even her stubbornness falters, and she unfolds one of her arms and rests her hand right on the small of his back, where it's been wanting to be since she first opened her eyes and looked over at him, and though her earlier feigned innocence doesn't hold up to the purposeful way she slides closer to him, that's okay with her.

"Hi."

Her hand has no recollection of the innocent smile, anyway, and her fingers splay over his skin possessively.

Ease and intimacy with a partner used to be second nature to him. Back before Titan, before prison, he joked that he was the easiest man on Mars. He'd spend hours on a lazy morning just reveling in partnership: hours and hours of this entirely sybaritic hedonism. He used to love it. Lounging around with someone, dallying unconcerned, no measure of hurry or reality invading the day. He could have been crown prince of the slow tug of satisfaction.

Since prison, though, he hasn't had much call for that and it's with this reluctant awareness now that he realizes he rarely ever lies on his stomach any more. Too many ugly, violent memories are burned into his body at some cellular level and right now he almost moves to roll onto his side, as if that simple action could wipe away the trauma of what he survived there.

Two things stop him: first, the stoic part of him speaks up with a reminder that those days are over. He's here now by choice, not by coercion; nobody's going to force him to do anything or use his body in any way. The second thing is the warmth of Faye's hand on the low flat part of his back. It's tiny and warm and kind and a little bit insistent but in a good way, not some if you don't let me have my way with you, I'll kill you, freak sort of thing in the least.

Being pretty had its flip side in prison.

Maybe it's time to rediscover the source of that catlike contentment he used to ooze. Maybe Faye's the one to help him on that journey. Maybe that's why he's still here.

There are so many intangibles. All he knows for absolute fact is that in their moments of intimacy, he hasn't thought about prison once. If he could wipe the whole thing from his mind for good, how perfectly satisfied he'd be.

Finally, he does roll to his side, but it's not out of discomfort or of trying to escape his past. It's so he can look at Faye: at the sleepy near-blissful expression in her eyes, at the glimpse of straight white teeth between the softness of her lips. He moves close enough to touch her with the length of his body, allowing himself to once again revel in every bit of sensation.

"Hi."

She has no cause to think of him as hers -- does she? -- but it would be a lie to say that she hasn't caught herself feeling possessive about him in more than just the way her hands play over him.

Her hand, homeless once he rolls to his side, flutters in the air above him like a leaf in fall for a moment before it lands low on his side and takes up residence there as if it was meant to be there all along and the small of his back was nothing but a flirtation.

It's too eager to touch him. She can't pull it back. Or at least she's too reluctant to show the restraint necessary to pull it back.

Restraint's boring.

What's a far cry from boring is the way he inches closer, and once they're touching, it feels like her very skin gives her away.

When he tells her hi, it's suddenly a full-body experience, and she finds herself having to answer it by leaning in practically before she even realizes what she's doing and giving him the most lingeringly sweet kiss she's capable of.

There's something so sultry in the kiss she gives him. Kisses like that ought to never end -- that's his assessment on it -- so he makes it last as long as he can, and when their mouths finally part so they can breathe again, he drags it out, his lips moving from hers to the side of her face to her jaw to the soft pale skin beneath her chin, all the way to the other side, down her neck to the little vee where collarbone meets sternum. It's a good spot and there's no hurry, so he dallies there where he can drink in the sweet perfume of her skin for as long as it takes. And then he does the whole thing in reverse, noting the flush on her cheeks with no small satisfaction as he works his way back to her mouth.

This is something he knows how to do, something he's good at. But beyond those considerations, it's something he's been longing for.

Aching for.

Again, he lingers against her, savors her, feels as if he could simply melt into her and when at last he pulls away, he gives her a heavy-lidded and very appreciative smile.

"Good morning." His top arm moves to caress her, bringing a blanket of long black hair with it like its own protective shroud. He wants to mold his body against hers, drape over her, wrap around her, wear her.

Good thing nothing's stopping that from happening, and he realizes with a surge of gratitude that this is what mornings are for. This is what they used to be like, only the present company is the best he's ever shared. He's played with letting luxury satiate him before, but those other times and other people and other sensations were nothing compared to this.

It is a good morning. It's already the best morning she's had in the entire damn time she's been stuck here.

It's almost a shock to have that thought -- she's not much of a morning person -- but even she realizes it's not the time of day that's so important. And that thought that kept cropping up in her mind last night comes back to hover at the edge of her thoughts: she would like him to be crazy about her. She'd like him to be completely selfish about her.

Not that she'll tell him that in so many words.

(Or at all, probably.)

Her arm comes up as if to trap his, but plans change completely when her hand touches his hair. Before she knows it, her hand -- well, of course it's not satisfied to stay in one place -- is in his hair again, her fingers running over it like it's silk.

About fifteen years ago, she'd have wanted to play with it and brush it to smooth shiny straightness and coil it and marvel at how pretty it is.

The girl she was -- the girl who was in the video Jet threatened not to let her see -- would approve of Gren.

Isn't that a funny thought?

She would've. And not just because his hair is so pretty and long and utterly exotic to her. She would've liked him because he came out of nowhere to rescue her from thugs a couple of blocks away from the Rester House. And because he took her back to his apartment and didn't lay a finger on her until...

Until Vicious complicated things.

She's... about 25 now? She thinks she's been here about two years, but it seems like longer. She used to complain about her twenties wasting away, but she didn't know the half of it before she got here.

At times Gren makes her feel every inch her age in the best ways possible.

And every now and then he makes her feel like the little girl from the video.

Her hand moves again -- both of them do -- and in seconds, she's facing him, the fingers of both hands laced behind his neck. "You know, I think it's much better when you don't handcuff me and leave me alone in bed."

Her smile is nothing like the little girl's.

"You think so?" Working his other hand beneath her body, tilting his hips toward her, he drinks in the tinge to her cheeks: being in her bed with her right now is the virtual embodiment of luxury. He's woken up in only two other rooms since he got here and he's always been a creature of habit. Used to what he's used to, he hasn't always sought out something new just for the sake of newness or change.

Still, it's a privilege to wake up to her, a thrill equaled in so many ways by the way she took him by the hand and led him up here last night, undressing him with a fervor he never would have expected from her just a week ago. They may not have made any declarations of intent or commitment or exclusivity, but there's no distracting other of any sort vying for his attention; he's no whore. As far as he's concerned, he's all hers for the taking if that's what she wants.

Right now, he wants her. She's awoken a slumbering animal inside him. If she's a tiger he's a lion; in a swift move he rolls her onto her back and positions himself over her. Propped on his elbows, he keeps a tantalizing inch or two of space between them; smooth sheets of long black hair tickle over her body. That only lasts a minute though; he lowers himself gently, resting the length of his body against hers.

They fit.

Dipping forward, he steals kiss after kiss right out of her mouth; they're right there for the taking and Faye doesn't seem to mind. He knows he doesn't; he could stay here all morning long, nothing but a cascading mane of hair shielding them from the light peeping through the window.

Just like last night, he surprises laughter out of her. Completely delighted, one hundred-percent genuine laughter: the kind usually reserved for watching her chosen pony cross the finish line first or winning a big bundle of Woolongs in a card game.

The pleased smile that crept onto her face after he kissed the back of her neck had nothing on the sweetly smug one there now, and one of her hands combs the hair back from his face only so none of it gets in the way of his kisses.

He's drop-dead gorgeous and he's in her bed and just rolled on top of her, and that's the best damn reason to smile she's had in ages.

One leg at a time wraps greedily around his waist, and for the first time ever, she thinks being confined to this room for the day wouldn't be so bad at all.

In fact, she plans to stay in as long as she can get away with it. And she's very good at getting away with things.

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