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Daniel Ciin (miaiphonos) wrote in paxletalelogs, @ 2011-10-10 10:57:00

I must admit...
Who: Lia & Samuel.
What: Gift exchange! Call it an early quasi year anniversary celebration...
Where: D3.
When: Evening.
Warnings: Language.
Notes: Completed log.

For a number of reasons - including but not limited to the substantial shift differential, the break from the late summer heat, and the ability to keep obscenely late hours, thereby significantly improving the number of good PvP groups found online for any given game - Samuel thoroughly enjoyed the night shift. While it was by no means an assignment he had any desire to spend his life with, it did have its fair share of perks. Its down sides were of course obvious. He missed a great deal when keeping strange hours, not least of which was a schedule that conveniently coincided with Lia’s own; while her schedule did allow for no shortage of late nights, his getting home at seven a.m. did put a damper on a great many potential social engagements and typical dates. And so Samuel made somewhat grudging use of his time away from her, scheming toward the perfect ‘anniversary’ gift - though he suspected it would be hard to top his birthday gift to her, a shining, pink, custom-built .38 Special - and plotting the best way to deliver it.

In the end there was to be no grand gesture, no elaborate date on which he would present her with this. It had taken long enough in the making, and in truth he had commissioned it long before he was certain their relationship would even see a year. But it had seemed a risk worth taking, and after having seen its finely boned, hand crafted glory in its pristine box, he was certain it had been so. Now, more excited than before, their schedules at last realigned, he could not stand to wait.

“You decent?” he asked, letting himself in to her flat. His keys jingled perhaps a bit loudly in the door, his veiled way of helpfully announcing his arrival. He pulled the thin box in close at his ribs as he slipped through the door, careful not to crunch the blood red ribbon the attendant had carefully crafted, or to ding the gleaming black paper against the door frame. “I sure hope not...”

Her laughter floated in from the balcony, the doors of which were open. There she stood by the railing, the ocean breeze teasing at her hair and her dress. Somehow, the view reminded her of home, which didn’t make any sense, because the North Atlantic never looked like this a day in its life, especially not from Coney Island, Rockaway Beach, or the Jersey shore. Still and all, she loved this view like she’d never loved another. It took just another moment before she turned to call him over her shoulder.

“Come on out,” she said with a sloe-eyed smile.

She wore a white silk dress with a v-neck and dropped shoulders, a gathered bodice and back, with an asymmetrical hem that displayed her legs quite well, if she thought so herself. The three-quarter sleeves were sheer -- in fact, much of it was, but for a bit of a slip that formed the true base of the dress. It had cost too much, but this was a special occasion, and she liked the flirty, romantic feel of it. The whole garment was a bit of a tease.

She liked that.

But her dress wasn’t really the point; the point was the meticulously wrapped box, covered perfectly in aquamarine paper with a white ribbon. (She’d considered pink, just to tease him, but in the end, she couldn’t help but favor the sea blue.) It sat prettily on the small table she kept out there, but she found she didn’t want to wait. Instead, she plucked it up and went inside to greet him, reaching up to put her arms around him, careful not to crush the box that had immediately earned her attention.

“Happy almost-but-not-quite-quasi-anniversary, bello,” she said with a grin before giving him a kiss.

He met her halfway, happy to obey her missive, but so soon finding out there was no need. She was a vision, and he found he had no trouble telling her so.

“God damn,” he said, avoiding the burning urge to give an inappropriate and wholly predictable whistle. After one close, tight squeeze - during which each of them was equally attentive, equally delicate as they worked to keep from destroying the gifts they had so carefully chosen and prepared - he pulled away, casting a hungry glance over her. Anyone else might have felt underdressed: His black trousers, grey dress shirt, and black boots - scuffed, not shined, their every scar and mark of wear to him a badge of honor - paled in comparison to her, this tangible image of all he had wanted, all he was even capable of wanting. But to Samuel it was fitting, right, further evidence that all was precisely as it should be. He grinned as he pressed closer, shifting the long, slim box in his hands as he moved.

“Which present should I open first?” he asked, rough fingers slipping, as they were wont to do, toward the hem of her dress. He pressed his smiling lips to hers, his tongue tracing the soft swell of her mouth.

It was one of those times when Samuel’s smile was infectious. There wasn’t a thing he could wear that could make him look unsexy, but he did clean up beautifully. Her fingers ran over his short-cropped hair, and for a moment, she could only look up at him with undisguised pleasure. With his gift held in one hand (supported by the other - the package was a bit heavy for her), she kissed him back with a smile of her own.

“Well, considering it’d be nice to make it out of the house tonight...” she pulled away enough to hold the blue-wrapped box between them. “Let’s go with boxes first.”

Then she looked up at him, pointing one finger of the hand that held the wrapped gift.

“Not a word, Sergeant!”

He made quite a show of closing his mouth, opened almost certainly to mouth off some well intentioned obscenity. She shook her head and laughed.

To her surprise, she found she was a bit nervous, though far more excited. She was certain he’d like it. He had to like it. She’d asked his coworkers, quite cleverly and discreetly, she’d add; she’d done hours upon hours of research; she’d even cleverly measured her hands against his in the guise of the casual affection of afterglow so when she went to look at different models, she could be certain they’d fit his significantly larger grip. It was perfect. It had to be perfect.

With a little exhalation and a smile, she presented the gift-wrapped box with both hands. He set his own aside, its weight far less substantial than what she held out to him; he could tell that much, at least, by the slight fall of her arms, the tightness of her grip at its sides. Had he the patience, he might have guessed what was inside, knowing prolonging this moment would drive her mad. But with this being an impossible task, he merely lifted it from her hands, his fingers brushing hers as he did, and set about to opening his gift. As she might have expected, he tore into the paper as unabashedly excited as a boy; little shreds of it fell to the floor, homemade confetti adorning his boots. But he ceased his controlled chaos, at least, when he caught sight of the gift nestled inside, his lips parting on a sigh as he took its beauty in.

The black steel of the Kimber .45 Tactical Custom HD II seemed to absorb all the light around it. When she’d held it, it had given her a chill; something had told her at once that it was not meant for her hands, but that it was meant for his -- as though it had been made for him. It was heavy and hard and dangerous-looking: an object made for killing.

Balancing the box on one rough palm, Samuel reached inside, eager to hold what was so clearly his. His fingers slipped around its textured, deep red grip, grasping it with the easy familiarity typically gained only after years of service with a particular weapon. Every fibre of his being seemed to respond to it, a warm sort of thrill coiling low in his stomach as he turned it in the light. He tossed the box aside, forgotten, his eyes sliding from this new treasure to its originator.

“Sugar, this is absolutely perfect,” he said, a dark laugh punctuating his words. “Dunno where you found it, but you couldn’t have done better.”

A wide, brilliant smile dawned on her face at his words, and relief and deep satisfaction.

“I know guys who know guys,” she teased. Despite her growing aptitude with the perfect, pink .38 he’d given her, she was still far from a gun expert, so she was glad her instincts and research had steered her in the right direction. It had been worth the side trip to the Bronx one weekend when she was in New York visiting her parents. Once she’d figured out what she wanted, she’d called her cousin Chacho to see if he could help her out with it.

As it had happened, by fairly improbable coincidence, he could, with exactly the make and model she wanted, for half of what it was worth. Someone had owed Chacho a favor, and he was happy to help. He’d assured her everything was completely legal and above board, and that if anyone looked up serial numbers, it had been purchased legit, and was still brand-new. He’d stuck to his story even when she told him who the gift was for, so that was good enough for her. It was perfect, and she’d shipped it to LA with her heart beating so fast she’d barely been able to breathe, much less wipe the smile from her face at the post office.

“You like it?” she asked with a smile as she reached for his free hand and laced her fingers with his.

“Like it?” he said, laughing incredulously. “I love it.” And so he did, as evidenced by his inability to part with it now, even to accept even more of her grasp. There would be time enough, later, to thank her properly for her outstanding gift. For now he could not help but play with his new toy, shifting it in his hand, feeling the grip press its pattern into his palm. He smiled at the image, at the thought of weapon and master marking one another, bound now til death do them part. “I can’t wait to get this to the range.” He looked back up to her, throwing her a playful wink. “Shame you can’t go in that or I’d talk you into a change of plans.” At last he made himself lower the gun, his free hand slipping free of hers, sliding around the soft tuck of her waist. “But I gotta say you look too damn good to undress for anything less than dirty, screaming, marathon sex. What d’you think?”

“I think I’m glad you like the dress, but more glad you like the gun,” she said with a smile, her arms sliding up around his neck before she gave him a kiss with a little lip to his lower lip. Her pleasure at his reaction was immense, and she found she loved the way it looked in his hand, the way he held it. There was a certain pride that was burgeoning in her now, and it showed on her face. “And you know I’m always pro sex -- especially the dirty, screaming, marathon kind, but I did dress up all pretty just for you.” She grinned and kissed him again.

“You did indeed,” he agreed, laughing as he kissed her back.

“We can go to the range tomorrow, if you have time. Besides,” she said, standing on tiptoe to look over his broad shoulder at her gift, which remained unopened. “Aren’t I only supposed to exchange sex for gifts?” Her smile turned quite impish.

“Isn’t that how this works?”

“Not at all,” he laughed, shaking his head. All the same, he took a step back, glancing from his own gift to the one he’d brought. After some apparent contemplation he set the pistol aside, nestled snugly back in its original packaging. He was too intent upon seeing her reaction to let himself be distracted now; to rob himself of this particular joy when the moment was so close at hand would be an utter sin. “That’s prostitution,” he said, returning his hands to the soft curves of her body, “and although I love any excuse to cuff you, I don’t think now’s the time.” He gave her a brief, sharp pinch, eliciting a sharp little squeak from her, then returned their joined focus to the sofa, where waited her prettily wrapped gift.

“Go on,” he said, tipping his head toward the package. “But I want to see your pretty face when you open it. Don’t keep me in suspense.”

Her eyes sparkled with excitement, and she leaned up to give him another kiss before leaving him to sit on the couch, placing the box neatly in her lap. Carefully, she pulled the blood-red ribbon loose with a smile, enjoying the anticipation as she set it aside on the end table next to her, then glanced up at him with an impish little grin. Then she turned her attention back to the box, neatly pulling up the near-invisible tape, unfolding the thick, glossy paper, then biting her lip as the box was revealed. With a tiny sound of excitement that she subdued with a grin, she lifted the lid, then gasped.

It was beautiful; perfect. It was exactly the most flattering shade of pink for her skin tone -- or was it red? The color of the silk seemed to shift in the light, and it was perfectly complemented by subtle silver accents. The sweetheart neckline -- or really, decolletage line, truth be told -- would obviously be very flattering. She picked it up from the box and held it up in the light, where the color shifted to something paler, more girlish and flirty.

“Samuel,” she breathed, marveling at it. She’d never seen its like. “It’s gorgeous.”

Moving it back to her lap, she traced her fingers along its silky surface. It was more than just beautiful; she’d never seen an object she’d felt so much... want for. So perfectly hers.

“Is it custom?” she asked as she looked up at him, eagerness and pleasure evident in her voice.

“Of course,” he said, his brow furrowing as he adopted an expression of utterly overdone incredulity at her question. “You wouldn’t believe how long I’ve been keepin’ that a secret.” In his head he heard his brothers’ inevitable chastising, how they would have told him his elaborate presents were setting him up for later disappointment, when future gifts could not meet the standard he had now set. But in his head he told them - as he would have to their faces, should the opportunity arise - to fuck off, and left it at that. It was worth the borrowed trouble to see that look on her face, to hear that note in her voice, and he was certain it would prove doubly worthwhile once she tried it on.

“I’d ask you to make sure it fits,” he said, “but you said something about wanting to leave the house tonight.”

She rose from the couch, setting the box aside and holding her gift like a precious thing, and moved closer to him, leaning up to kiss him, a grin on her lips.

“Are you sure? I mean, it looks perfect, but it might be good for me to try it on. You know, just in case.”

The look she gave him sparkled with mischief and desire and affection, and she put her arm around his waist, still holding the corset close to her, her eyes on his. “Though I did want to have some dinner, at least. Maybe we could get something delivered?” She slinked a bit closer to him, nuzzling his cheek.

“It’s the most beautiful gift, bello,” she said softly, kissing him again.

“Glad you like it,” he said, pulling her closer. In truth he was more pleased than he could admit; he had put much of himself in the choosing of that corset, having pored long hours over its design, the very fabric and stitching that had gone into it. Countless times he had shamelessly cursed the seamstress for all she was worth, making no secret of how much he was paying, and how perfect it therefore had to be. It was the only time he was glad he lived so near to L.A., where such demanding and petulant antics were par for the course, and therefore far better tolerated than they would have been back home. But now all that work, all those tiring tantrums and too-long phone calls, proved entirely worth it. He leaned down to kiss her, biting playfully at her lip. “Ordering in does sound way better,” he said. “How ‘bout you go get laced up...” He reached down, pinching her backside. “And I’ll find someone to bring something to us to eat, preferably someone who can be given a little extra tip to not care what state of undress we answer the door in.”

That earned him a little squeak and a grin. “I like this plan,” she told him. “This is a good plan.”

With that, she leaned up, gave him a kiss, then slipped away to the bedrooom.

It fit perfectly, as she’d known it would. It hugged her every curve as though it had been molded to her body, tucking her waist quite snugly, but not uncomfortably, and flaring in just the right places to hold her breasts. It felt like a caress -- like his caress -- and as she pulled it into place, hooking it closed, and it pushed her breasts up and her waist in, she exhaled at the quite erotic feeling it created. She turned to the mirror, looking at herself in the corset and a well-matched pair of panties, along with her black, high-heeled sandals, and put her hand to her stomach, lips parted for just a moment.

And then she smiled.