Re: Marta / Seven
[This close, she smells like cigarettes and beer, the sharper sweet of hard alcohol, the mixture of the other girls' makeup and perfume, and men's aftershave, the cheap kind that cuts and clings. Her arms have slipped farther beneath his jacket, between the lined leather and the soft cotton his his shirt, nearly silky under her hands. It's warm, with solid muscled and skin beneath, and for a ridiculous moment, she wishes she were small enough to curl herself between his body and that jacket. Instead, she does the best she can, arms around his back, sliding up over his back, fingers hooking over the slope of neck to shoulders. On their searching journey, her fingertips encounter the lines and straps of soft-worn leather, confusing for a second until her arm skims past the solid edges of a gun resting along his side. It makes her hesitate, Ella's words about things legal and illegal, currently vs anymore. But fuck, she knows. She knows that he makes his living doing shit that isn't legal (even if she doesn't have the details), and it hasn't stopped her from feeling all the shit she's been feeling. And she's not the most stand-up person around, either. If she were a girl like Ella, the angles of the gun against the soft inside of her arm would probably make her pull away, but she doesn't.
It leaves her nearly plastered to his front, shamelessly. Being in flats reminds her of the inches he has over her, and for a moment it makes her feel safe, being this close. In the next moment, the difference in height reminds her of the difference in age, and her thoughts swirl again in confusion. There's too many things to think about, when she just wants to cling for a minute and not think about a damn fucking thing.
His voice makes her tighten her hold, that quiet rumble vibrating in her own chest where it's pressed to his, and she shivers even as his words make her worry. It comes after her desperate clinging, and she misunderstands those words that aren't being said, that aren't coming through her own jumble of thougths. And so though it takes her a minute to muster the effort, she starts to let go - slowly, reluctantly.] Sorry. I just... [Missed you. Worried about you. Want you. The space grows by hair-width fractions, but before she's far at all, he's moving, his hand coming up. And then she's trapped by her own desire to be touched and held, her fingers digging in with renewed tension, pressing into the muscles over his shoulderblades.
Eyes closed because she can't keep them open, not when he's so gentle in that touch to her cheek. Especially not when she can feel the heat of his mouth in a press that is almost a kiss. She does her best to keep from tipping her head up, to keep from finding that mouth with her own, though the warm exhale near her ear nearly makes her shake with the want of it. She may not give in, but she does press closer, no space between her body and his for a moment. But then she tries to at least loosen her hold a small bit, not quite so indecently pressed against him. But she still shakes, a delicate little tremor that she can't stop.
Especially not at those last words. The ones that catch her breath again. The ones that make her feel like a silly little girl filled with hope she shouldn't have. The ones that make her warm and flushed. I need you to stay. But why does it still feel like that could mean anything? Her throat holds back a tiny, painful sound before she's forcing thick words from it again, turning to murmur her reply into the side of his neck, warm from the collar of his jacket.] You're confusing the fuck out of me.