inkonstage (inkonstage) wrote in rooms, @ 2014-05-23 14:21:00 |
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Entry tags: | !marvel comics, *log, marta flores, seven morgan |
Who: Marta and Seven (and "Jaime")
What: Dealing with new 'roommates'
Where: Seven's home
When: Recent
Warnings/Rating: Talk about sex, language.
Some time had passed since Seven had left Marta alone for the night at his place, striding out the front door with the usual call of don’t steal anything! tossed over his shoulder in place of some more sentimental farewell. He always paired it with a smirk and it was met, in turn, with various four-letter words or a raised middle finger from Marta. So they were both clear that he was just being an ass rather than seriously thinking that she might pawn his flatscreen for some quick cash - and hell, even if she did, it wasn’t like she’d have the easiest time hiding from him. Beyond having eyes and ears all over the city, he actually knew where her apartment was since he’d helped her move some of the stuff that had made the migration over to his place. So, some time had passed. Like… hours? Yeah, that sounded right. Hours, maybe. He could have checked the clock on his phone, but that was a just a whole ordeal that would have required Seven to remove one of his hands from the man who was currently straddling his lap in the backseat of his SUV. And he very much did not want to move his hands anywhere, except to slip them further beneath the hem of this man’s shirt so that his fingers dragged over washboard abs and the sharp, angular lines of jutting hipbones. “What was your name again?” He asked, a little breathless as he pulled his mouth away from the place in the crook of the man’s neck where he’d been working caramel-brown skin between his teeth and tongue, marking a trail of indigo bruises towards his collarbone. “Fucking… Jimmy? Jamie? Something like that, huh?” “I’m - ” the answer was cut off as the car made a sharp turn and both men lurched to the left, coming to a hard stop against the door, even more tangled than they’d been before. Seven’s gaze flitted briefly to the rearview mirror and met that of his driver for the night, a real meathead of a guy who hated that he was playing chauffeur and hated it even more that his boss was all wrapped up in some dude right now. Seven knew that this asshole had been expecting him to take home one of the dancers from the burlesque club, rather than the bartender who was very much male and who had probably needed to paint himself into his tight jeans while getting dressed for the evening. “I’m fucking Timmy. God, how many times do I have to tell you that?” Seven just winked at the meathead in the rearview mirror. He saw the man’s upper lip lift into a silent snarl before he turned away, no doubt glaring out the window as he pulled the car into the driveway of his boss’s house. Even before they’d come to a complete stop, Seven was reaching up to yank at the door’s handle so that the two men were spilling out onto the sidewalk with shouts of laughter and drunken expletives that cut through the night air. He led the way through the security gate and up the path. “Your name is not Timmy,” Seven countered with a dismissive wave of one hand, pulling out his keys once they’d reached the front door. “No man over the age of twenty should be going by ‘Timmy’ unless he has to wear a fucking helmet when he leaves the house, alright? I’m gonna call you Jamie.” He didn’t wait for an answer before he shoved the guy further into the house, one hand planted against the small of not-Timmy’s back. He kicked the front door shut behind them and gave another shove, equal parts playful and rough, until ‘Jamie’ was practically falling over the back of one of the couches in the living room. Seven wasted no time in closing the distance between them so that his hips were pressed against the man’s ass, pinning him against the couch and sliding that hand up his spine, even as the other man twisted around and craned his neck to catch Seven’s mouth in a kiss. It was all tongues and teeth and anything but tenderness, and Seven wrapped his arm around the man’s ribs to press a palm to his chest, held against the fast-pounding beat of his heart that could be felt through a thin cotton shirt. Something told him that this man would answer to just about any fucking name right now. With how silent the house was, it wasn't hard to catch the sound of the SUV pulling into the driveway or the slam of its door. Marta's gaze pulled up from the page, her thoughts still clinging to the words there (Mawu's youngest child, Legba, was to remain with her and act as a go-between with her other children: in some clans he is young and virile while in Haiti he takes the form of an old man. Other deities might include…) and she looked for a clock to tell her how long she'd been sitting there. Not finding one, she looked back toward the front door, where she heard the murmur of two voices, both low, and the jingle of keys. And then the door was open with a spill of limbs and a laugh that she recognized as Seven's. The kind of laugh that wasn't meant for polite company. Her eyebrow arched up - he obviously had either forgotten that she lived there now, or at least didn't expect her to be awake and in the living room. The two of them were hard to see at first in the low light, but it wasn't difficult to track their progress toward one of the couches - and of course it had to be the one closest to the chair she was in. The one that was just at the edge of the circle of the light of her lamp. Light that was just enough to highlight the fact that it was definitely not a woman that Seven had pressed to the piece of furniture. Her other eyebrow shot up to join the first, and she stared for a moment. Yep, that was definitely a guy. Marta could give a rat's ass who people fucked when it wasn't her, but a corner of her mind had to admit to being surprised. She knew better than to rely on stereotypes for any-fucking-thing, but there'd been absolutely nothing since she met him that Marta could remember pointing to Seven swinging that way. Unless she was missing something. She frowned as she tried to think back over the different things she knew, and nope, there was nothing jumping out at her. She felt a little justified in her surprise. She watched the two of them for a moment, eyebrows still raised, a smirk sneaking across her expression at the thought that she wasn't surprised that it was the other guy that was being bent over furniture. Even as she was slotting "swings both ways" into her mental makeup of Seven, she didn't think she was going to be adding "bottoms to twinks" any time soon. There was something definitely rougher there than she remembered from her own encounter with Seven, and it was almost fascinating to see the differences. She spared a moment to wonder if he was gentler with women in general, or if it had been because of their own strange situation. And there was definite grinding going on. Groping and hands and thrust of hips, a broken-off moan that she was pretty sure came from Seven's "friend", and neither of them had noticed her yet. She supposed it was only polite to say something. Especially when nudity looked fucking imminent. She kept her voice quiet, not wanting to startle them too badly, though it was probably going to happen anyway at this point. It took a second for her to come up with something to say, and she was smiling by the time it came out. "Didn't realize free shows came with the room." In the retrospect that would come along with the pale light of tomorrow morning’s dawn, it wasn’t that Seven had exactly forgotten that Marta was living with him now. Even as he had swallowed down expensive scotch that warmed his insides and spun his head around, and he ignored the female dancers that offered him some private time, Seven was still - somehow - aware of the fact that the girl was back at his house. But despite the nature of their relationship (and that wasn’t the right word, of course not, but what the fuck else was he supposed to call it?), he could still convince himself that Marta was just like any one of the others. Like Sam. Some fucked-up girl who had nowhere else to go, who needed a place she could sleep without worrying about watching every inch of spine that showed through the pale skin of her narrow back. Yeah, but that was all wrong - there’d been that first night, but he wasn’t entirely sure that the sex was something to be noted, regardless of how good it had been. There was just something about the appearance of violent aliens that made their physical tryst seem less important in the immediate scheme of things. Keeping her safe? That was important. How she might have felt about him, and vice versa - well, that could take a back seat. So, her presence was a fact. It was an awareness, but not one that made any particular effort to swim through the alcohol to the forefront of his mind. And it was in this way that Seven was able to ‘forget’ even as he knew it; so thoroughly occupied was he with the physical presence of ‘Jamie’ in his lap, in his hands, pressed up against his couch when Seven grabbed hold of his hips and spun the man around to face him once more. Hardly time for a breath and the space between them had once again vanished so that their hips were pressed together and he was leaning in to steal a taste of the man’s kiss-bruised mouth. And that moan, swallowed in the midst of their fumblings in the dark, did very little to discourage the anticipation that was making itself known through the material of designer denim, against hands that groped and grasped and traced teasing lines. No, it was only the sudden presence of a third voice that was decidedly matter-of-fact, abrupt and amused rather than low with arousal, that served to pull both men out of their reverie. “What the fuck-” came the first exclamation from ‘Timmy-not-Jamie’, who abruptly pulled his mouth away from Seven’s and whirled on the spot to peer into the dim light that surrounded Marta in her chair. He shot an incredulous look in Seven’s direction. “Uh, who the hell is she? Is that - “ he glanced back towards the girl’s bare face and too-large t-shirt, scanned over the high pony that spoke volumes about the level of comfort this chick felt in Seven’s mansion. “Your sister? …Is she your daughter?” The smile was firmly on Marta's face at the reaction of Seven's 'friend' to her sudden presence, and she was just about to reply when he started listing off who she might be. And that? That made her laugh in a way that she hadn't since before the aliens touched down. An indelicate sound that was sudden and bright and surprised. And she shook her head. "Fuck me. Ask that last one again. I wanna see if you can get that vein on his forehead to explode." And then she was moving, setting her book on the floor and unfolding her legs from where she'd had them tucked up as she sat sideways in the chair. One and then the other, long (considering her height) and bare and pale, the ink of a tattoo stark on her left thigh, fully exposed because of how she had the waistband of the boxers folded rolled down. She stepped, surprisingly graceful, over the arm of the chair and onto the cushions of the couch that the two of them had been rutting against. When she moved, it was easy enough to see that she wore nothing beneath the shirt, the nipple piercing hard under the thin fabric. She gathered the shirt around her ribs, tucking it up and through the collar, between her breasts so that it held there, exposing more skin and more ink. And then she sliiiiiid her fingers down along her stomach to where the rolled waistband of the boxers sat far too low on her hips. "What man would allow his daughter to sit around like this, even in his own house?" Her fingers pressed and then rubbed back and forth, inches below her navel. She stood there, looking down at the two men, and then slowly sank to sit on the couch's arm, legs wide to show expanse of inner thigh. "No, baby, he's not my daddy." She smirked then, even more than she had been, taking a second to glance over at Seven before looking back at the other man. "I already made sure he wasn't in the same city as my mama when she got herself knocked up." She didn't even know why she was being such a brat. She could have just as easily slipped away into what had become 'her' room, but she just felt like pushing the line and pushing buttons. Maybe it was because she was doing just fine having a quiet night, and this man had interrupted it. Maybe it was the invasion of a space that she'd slowly just started to think of as safe and her own. Maybe she just needed to sass at someone. Maybe it was a different type of territoriality that she didn't want to (and wouldn't) think about. Even before Marta had time to shoot her reply back at the mouthy twink, he was glaring daggers. Not because she was there, and not because she had interrupted them. Nope, it was the fact that he already knew she wasn’t going to be able to resist stirring shit up that had him digging his fingers into the back of the couch, with a muscle in his jaw working in time to the - yes, alright - the vein that pulsed faintly, just beneath the skin that covered his temple. His irritation was equal-opportunity, so the other guy ended up on the receiving end of a glare and an eyeroll that flickered in his direction, but then Seven’s gaze was honed right back in on the girl who was posing herself on the arm of his couch. “Don’t mind her. She was just leaving,” he said, the growl of his voice somewhat at odds with the smirk that was playing over his lips as his hands found their way back to not-Timmy’s hipbones. His short, neat nails scraped over the young man’s skin just enough to demand the return of his attention, so that ‘Jamie’ let out a quiet gasp and turned back around to lean the curve of his spine against the couch. That left only Seven to take in the way that Marta’s fingers were working over the taut skin of her stomach where it was exposed, framed by the dark material of his own shirt and boxers - (when the hell were these girls going to stop raiding his fucking closet?) -, arching one eyebrow even as the other man’s attention had turned back to the evidence of Seven’s arousal. “Tell you what, Jamie. You head on upstairs while I deal with the stray, alright? Last bedroom on the left is mine.” The only noise of acknowledgement was a soft sigh that the man made through his nose, somehow still managing to sound disappointed at the prospect of waiting more than a second for Seven’s attention. But he slipped out from his position against the couch and headed for the stairs, taking them two at a time and calling out for Seven to not keep him waiting. Seven snorted, determinedly not looking in Marta’s direction as he backed up into the kitchen and headed for the bar. He didn’t bother doing up his belt. “Don’t you have anything better to do tonight? Like maybe not trying to get in the way of me and a decent piece of ass?” "Oh yes, I was just leaving. Obviously. I'll just get my shoes and coat and go." The reply came quick and sharp, though her gaze narrowed in on the scrape of nails, the gasp that followed it. Her attention held there for just a moment before 'Jaime' was being given directions up the stairs to Seven's bedroom. "Left is the one where your fingers and your thumb make an L, Jaime. You go the other way and you might end up in my room." She called over toward the stairs without turning her head much at all, eyes still fixed on Seven. Which she rolled at the guy's cheesy line about waiting. She finally let the pose drop once he was gone, slipping off the couch and going back to her chair to retrieve her book. Folding herself down into the chair again, she hoisted the book up where Seven could see it if he looked over. (He didn't.) The thing was thick and obviously heavy, and she waggled it slightly as she spoke before dropping it to her lap again. "I was doing something better until you came in here practically fucking your 'decent piece of ass' before you were even through the door. It's a big fucking house, I'm not going to hide in one room all the time." And maybe that 'decent piece of ass' comment stung, just a little bit, because she'd been staying with Seven for long enough that they could have easily hooked up again. But he'd barely even glanced at the skin she'd exposed, and he wasn't paying a damn bit of attention to her now. She pulled the shirt back through the collar, letting it tent too-large over her body again. She was small enough to nearly get swallowed by the chair, and she used her tucked-up thighs to brace the book as she found the page where she'd left off. "No one's stopping you." And then, after a silent sort of moment where she couldn't quite force her thoughts back to the words yet: "Didn't realize your pieces of ass came with so much dick." It was soft, almost casual, and she really wasn't trying to judge him for it. Though it could explain a lot, if she really let herself think about it. Why there hadn't been anything since that first night they met. Or maybe it had just been something physical that was easily written off by too many fucked up emotions brought on by what had happened to them. Like how people always fucked after going to a funeral - remind them that they're still alive. Maybe he was gay, maybe he wasn't. Maybe he just wasn't into her after the strange desperation of that night had passed. She tried to shrug it off in her mind, fingertip pressed to the page to find the line she'd last read. “Sure, love. You say that, and yet it still looks like you’re here.” Somehow, he managed to suppress the urge to mirror her eye roll (seriously, didn’t her eyes start to hurt at some point?), and turned his glance in the direction of the other man’s retreat. He was wondering just how long he should wait in order to get Jamie in the sweet spot, the place that hovered somewhere between impatient and irritable, and clothes-ripping desperate. Mouthy bottoms were always fun. “Oh, good one. You sure told him, huh?” Seven’s mouth formed the words like it was a sneer of his own, with the swell of his upper lip curving away from straight, white teeth, but there was also some smirk mixed in there. Were he a little more sober and a little less frustrated, it would have been a regular old smile. Because he actually liked this chick when she was throwing out all kinds of sass and unsubtle attitude, but now it was trying to get in the way of his fun. “Good thing you’ve got no petty inclinations, or else that could have gotten really ugly.” He glanced over when she lifted the book in her lap so that the cover was visible, but he didn’t let himself look for long. Because a look that lingered on Marta probably would have required some kind of acknowledgement of the fact that the buckle of his belt was hanging there, gaping wide open, and a level of self-restraint he wasn’t sure he held at the moment would be needed to avoid the deliberate display of her midriff. Jesus Christ, what was she trying to do? Again, Sober Seven probably could have put the pieces together a little better, but he was on vacation until the morning after Tequila Seven had a good night’s sleep. Speaking of - he grabbed a bottle off the bar and a glass that he figured was probably pretty clean, pouring out a couple of fingers of the golden liquid. (And he tried not to show his inward sigh when she untucked the shirt and let it fall back around her narrow hips, because it was a mix of relief and regret that he wasn’t close to understanding.) “Yeah, I bet there’s a lot of shit about me you haven’t realized. You looking for an apology or something?” Seven’s jaw was taut, clenched hard once more, while he rolled the edge of his glass over his bottom lip. Okay, he was kinda pissed, too. Not even because of the way that she said it, all quietly casual like that. He was pissed because he couldn’t tell how she actually felt about it, and the idea that she might be judging him without actually saying anything? That was worse than if she’d actually said it in a some shitty way. And that pissed him off even more, because what the fuck did he care what she thought about him? Yeah, he liked her, and he wanted to know that she was safe in the land of crazy assholes in capes and fucking aliens. But that was it. That was it, right? “I didn’t say shit about you having to hide, Marta. You’re living here, aren’t you? Read wherever the fuck you want, do whatever the fuck you want, but it’s not my fault if you happen to get in the way of me doing the same. Christ, it’s my fucking house!” He drank the rest of the glass, and then he turned to look at her. Actually look at her, setting down the glass with what was maybe a little more force than needed and raising an eyebrow. “Unless you’re jealous?” She looked across the open space at him with a gaze that was searching for the intent in his words and having a hard time finding it. She didn't get up from the chair, not yet, but her body went tense in preparation for it. And she did her best to not think about that tequila he was drinking, and how it could make the shittiness that was creeping up disappear again. "You want me to go, I'll fucking go, just say the word. I can find myself another place to stay if I need to. I've been doing it for years. You were the one that fucking insisted…" She trailed off. It wasn't like she'd said no for very long after he'd informed her that she'd be staying with him. If she admitted it to herself, she didn't fight much against it, knowing at least that he'd promised to keep her safe. In the face of aliens, that had been more than enough, but with that danger past, she wondered if it was the right decision on either of their parts. The sneer made that angry muscle between her shoulder blades go tight, wanting to lash out to somehow get it off his face. She hadn't planned to be a bitch to him tonight; she'd planned to sit and read until she fell asleep alone in her (big, soft, fucking awesome) bed. But he had to go and change those plans by bringing home some guy to fuck and barrelling into what had been a quiet night. And it wasn't the guy she was mad about, not really, but Seven's fucking non-stop attitude when she was just trying to get some quiet after all the other shit that'd happened. And fuck him for not even doing anything about that goddamn belt of his, hanging open like that and the fact that he couldn't even give her the tiny bit of respect needed to even look at her. "Did I say you should fucking apologize?" The words were sharp, delivered to the pages of her book. "Fuck who you want, I don't give a shit. You wanna go up there and have that guy shove his fist in you until you're too fucked out to even squirm on it, great. Unless you're fucking him next to me in bed while I'm trying to fucking sleep, I don't care who you're hooking up with." Though maybe she did care a little, not that she'd admit to it. And yes, she'd had to deal with that exact thing happening once - it was too specific an example to not be real. She got up from the chair in a rush and put her back to him as she headed for the stairs as well. The shirt hung on her still, long enough to nearly cover the boxer shorts. Her exit did nothing to refute his accusation of jealousy, but when she was halfway to the stairs, she turned, book in hand, and glared at him. "Maybe you just give me a fucking warning next time if you're going to bring decent pieces of ass home, and I'll be sure to clear out of the living room." She paused, almost about to turn around again, when she finished: "And I'll do the same for you when I bring someone home." When. Not if. And then she turned again and climbed the stairs silently on bare feet. If he wanted to continue the conversation, he'd have to follow her. It was the coward's way out of the conversation, and she knew it, but she couldn't quite bring herself to care. She didn't actually want to see more of that sneer tonight. She had headphones that she could plug in, turn up the music until it drowned out anything she didn't want to hear. And if that wasn't enough, she could always grab a taxi into the city and find her own hookup to stay with for the night. He wouldn’t follow her. Not for the reason she might have thought, either. He wanted to follow her up those stairs, and he wanted to drag his gaze slowly and languidly over the pale tops of her thighs where the expensive cotton of his borrowed clothing just barely skimmed the lines of decency as she climbed those stairs ahead of him, and led the way to her borrowed bedroom. He wanted to shut the door behind them and turn the lock and then he wanted her. Wanted her as more than just a faint scent of shampoo and perfume that lingered on his sheets and on his clothes. It was the dangerous sort of wanting, and it burned with a greater ferocity than the warm sting of tequila that coated his throat, and it was unwelcome. Even as Marta met each glare and sneer with her own in kind, there was a little spot in his stomach that held a warmth towards her. Because if she hadn’t stomped her way through this particular conversation in exactly the same sort of stubborn, clumsy way as he had done… well, then it would have meant that she didn’t give two shits about him. That he was no more than a free bed in her eyes. And god, did he fucking hate how much that thought bothered him. So he wouldn’t follow her. Instead he watched the silhouette of her retreating form against the moonlight that filtered through a window and framed her in a white, brilliant glow. By the time he finally went upstairs to his own bed, not-Timmy would be sprawled out on top of the covers and snoring gently. Seven would nudge him awake with his knee, and they would get down to their intended business in a manner that would manage to be both passionate and perfunctory in the same breath. And throughout it all, he would be thinking of a girl with dark hair and an angry scowl. |