Re: Marta / Seven
[It is close to being okay. There is that part where Marta is ready to melt into him, stretching up on tiptoes with her arms and delicate little hands seeking, searching, that splay against the width of his ribcage and make a bizarre frame around the worn leather of his shoulder holster. That part is hard. And then there is the way that the slender length of her body rolls against his own, with jolts of electricity from shoulder to pelvis to ankle, lighting up the night air around their separate forms.
But mostly it is the closeness, the mint-scented breath, and the warmth of exhaled air against his neck that churns itself into a dangerous volatility, just on the edge of eruption. Seven swallows hard, and it is with misguided fingers that he reaches out to trace the swooping line of her cheekbone, like he's terrified that Marta might shatter beneath his touch. And even as the strength of her words echo, still they sound hollow - cutouts in the nighttime air, flashing 'vacancy' like the neon of a shitty motel.] What I want from you?
[A sharp and pointed laugh, then - as if he's supposed to know about the raw, unbridled bits of uncertainty that travel between them. The sound is fierce and violent and insincere, and it takes only a shake of his head to show that he does not approve of the searching grasp of her fingers in his shirt.] I want you to be here. I want to be able to look up at your face in the morning, okay?
[It's in that moment that a frown creases his brow, and he can't quite combat the rising nausea that makes his esophagus burn.] So maybe I want you in my bed, and maybe I want you to be as confused and as nuts about me as I am about you. Because I'm a selfish asshole. And I don't know how to exist without hurting you, Marta. [Seven's voice takes on a dangerous cadence in that shift of a moment, cutting through the nighttime air. He is desperate and his needs are horribly, utterly variable.] So what the hell would you suggest that I do?