note ; these two are a very underappreciated dynamic that is very much capable of tearing my heart to shreds. so here's some shameless smut with a dash of heartbreak ayy.
. . .
There's something of a routine between the two of them.
Or, at the very least, a sense of familiarity between them that needs few words and even fewer cues. They've been here before – this isn't their first time; but each time, she takes and takes, as best as she can. Just in case. There is always a chance this could be her last chance – hers only. Not his.
Although it's occurred to her at some points here and there that she could kill him by accident. There are hypothetical scenarios that used to run fearfully through her mind. Her reckless coiling could perhaps smother him, arms tightening across his neck are capable of strangling him if she doesn't think. Or her venom laced teeth grazing across marble skin could poison him. But while bane courses through her veins, he is filled with luck. He could die somehow in some way, but he would come back anyways. He always does.
For me, she likes to think sometimes. A stupid, foolish thought. He defies all odds and dodges death for a sake of showmanship most times, but sometimes, sometimes she likes to think there's a thought in his mind as he regenerates each time – that he'd miss them too much, if he were to die.
"You're going to miss me so bad when I'm gone, Greed." she'd told him once, drunkenly or so she suspected. That was why he hadn't taken that remark all too seriously, or so she figured. That was why his response was a laugh, soft and weightless in tone.
But he'd also shaken his head at that time, and cupped her chin with a surprisingly tender hold, and said; "You're not going anywhere, doll."
. . .
Tonight falls into a sense of familiarity. She waits for him, passing the time by carving her knife into the worn wood of one of the bar tables. At least she's not doing any real damage, it's just mindless fidgeting as she drags out long, imperfect lines light enough to go unnoticed. If someone says something, a nameless patron can easily be blamed. Reasonable enough explanation, right? It's not like the furniture – along with the place with it – was ever first class to begin with. ( She loves this place dearly, she does. It's home, but it's still a shithole. ) Besides, this is the least destructive activity she can think of to cure her boredom.
However, she's just about halfway there into giving in and grabbing a drink. And that's when – just in the niche of time, someone might as well have grabbed a damn spotlight – he decides to make an entrance. Well, just show his face really. Come to think of it, she wasn't quite sure what he was up to today. Greed staying low and quiet is a bit of an unusual concept. It's got something to do with the wanted posters, probably. That'd be her best bet. Except even when Bido came back with one of them all crushed up in his hand the other day, the boss seemed completely unbothered. If anything, he'd burst out laughing at the sight before promptly becoming offended; how dare they, they'd gotten a few of his flawless details wrong. And when he laughed it off, so did they. After all, they were safest with him. And most times, when he assured them it was safe, then so it was.
For this particular occasion, she doesn't feel like playing it safe though.
She'd figured it was him entering the room, but she glances over just to be sure. Except it's hard to miss a face like his with that pretty pair of violet eyes across the room. So she stabs the knife into the table in order to keep it in place – which for the record, is not the smartest idea for the tabletop's condition – and goes right to him; wordlessly and without warning, she crushes her mouth against his without even taking a breath. He hasn't even settled in, but it's no matter. There's no need for polite words or dancing around the subject at hand. He's told her multiple times now to take what she wants, to take what is righteously hers.
( But you aren't mine, a dreadful thought reminds her. It is a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. You can't be, you're everyone's and you're no one's. )
He seemed to know it too, the instant he crosses the threshold. It's an otherworldly sense, as though there's something in the air – something familiar, dangerous, and electric. All of his nerves stand on end, and he wants it all, craves it all. There's a gleaming look in a pair of emerald eyes across the room; her eyes are hunger panged, ferocious, ever the viper waiting to strike. Other night dwellers and bar hoppers would shiver in fear at the sight of her. But Greed? All he can think is; that's my girl. He knows just from that look alone what she wants, and he knows she can give something back in exchange. They've got themselves a nice little deal set up here – something that used to tread along the lines of friends with benefits, but that title wore off years ago.
Greed's lips curl into a wolfish smirk as she approaches him, but that is soon smothered by her kiss. He leans into her without hesitation, hand coming to grasp the back of her head. His fingers are knotted in the short lengths of chopped blonde hair, threatening to grab a handful of it in this dance. Her arms anchor around his neck, and he uses this opportunity with his free hand to go around to the small of her back, pressing flat; pressing her closer to him.
He tastes like cigarettes, leather, and cologne. He tastes like everything bad that worrisome mothers warn their precocious daughters about. God help her, he tastes delectable. And she can feel that smirk lingering on his mouth even in this embrace. He's a bad influence on her – egging her on about taking and taking, not owing anyone a thing – she wants the taste of him, all of him. She wants his scent to last until the next morning, on her and her clothes. Just like every time beforehand.
Sharp teeth scrape along her lower, plump lip before he soothes with his tongue. There's no need to make her bleed, not so fast. After all, she doesn't heal the way he does. ( And, she'll get back to him later with her own sharp teeth; her venom stings like a bitch, he'd really rather not die before climaxing again. ) Besides, it doesn't have to all be rough housing. He can be gentle, such as in scenarios like now where the tone changes – now he's kissing her fully, stopping only when she wants to. Only, when he imagines, that an ache begins to fester in her lungs from a lack of air.
Which eventually, of course, comes to be. Martel pulls away, gasping, her arms unrelenting in their hold. She never needs an explanation, yet she gives one anyways.
"I want you. Here. Now. Only you."
His head tips back, and he peers at her, violet gaze hooded, lips quirked. A hum of approval is heard from his mouth, a single brow quirked.
"Didn't anyone ever teach ya anything about manners, baby?" he teases at first, but at the same time, he's dipping his head back down. Martel can barely suppress the laugh between her teeth, it takes an even greater effort to withhold the snort at the half-assed tease coming from his end. They're wanted people – thieves and gamblers and part-time killer freaks all wrapped in one package – and he's bringing up mannerisms? C'mon, if this is his idea of dirty talk then he needs to step his game up as this goes on. At least she doesn't get the chance to roll her eyes for a reaction – he seals his mouth over hers. With her lips captured once more, there's a sound that escapes her throat. It's something torn between a groan of ecstasy and a hiss ( that unwanted reminder of her inhumanity ) would have torn her from him in an instant, in any other case.
It used to, back in their earlier days. She'd practically leapt off him then, horrified by the newfound bedroom noises that seemed to be part of the chimera package deal. He'd coax her back each time, assuring her he liked the sounds; oh, they were sweet melodies to his ears, so long as she made sure to sing his favorite tune – her screaming his name by the end of it all.
His hands glide down her hips, and he begins to gently press forward. A single eye cracks open just to see, guiding their way back to the counter. After all, she'd said here and now, didn't she? Well, what kind of guy would he be if he denied her that? So he reaches out, groping blindly, until his fingers securely wrap around the edge of the counter. All this time she'd followed his lead, maneuvering rather awkwardly whilst trying to keep her mouth attached to his. Honestly, it was a miracle she hadn't stumbled backwards or tripped over his feet. When she feels her back pressing into the woodworks of the tabletop, she knows exactly what this means. Oh c'mon now.
They could've at least been classy enough and head for the ratty couch from an oh not so far distance.
Perhaps she's to blame for this one though. She did say here and now, and she should know by now from all their previous encounters that she needs to work on her wording. Dammit.
He pulls himself away from her lips. "So, sweetheart. Y'wanna tell me what's got you all riled up?"
The chimera within would be proud of that look on her face, that feral smile that's gone wide on her mouth. Lips swollen and reddened already, muscles tensed as her limbs continue to coil in their hold around him. Oh, she's only just getting started. Martel doesn't even care to answer him at first. Instead, her hands briefly fumble, struggling to take ahold of that silly vest of his and toss it off. Now, she knows it irritates him when just about anyone else grabs it by the faux feathers – in fear they will inevitably be plucked – but she knows the moment she discards her top, his rant will be over long before it starts.
"Dunno." she murmurs after a pause, still trying to catch her breath. Briefly, her features scrunch in frustration. But then, at last, she manages to pry that ridiculous vest off of him. To others, it would seem awfully bold of her to be putting her hands on it. But the truth is Martel is the only one who can get away with touching the vest. She's the only one who he trusts to not totally ruin it – because hey, that thing was expensive as hell, and he won't let it end up as wasted shreds – and besides, when she's topless? That quells any thoughts of concern for the vest anyways.
Wandering hands finding themselves now entangled in his dark hair, fingers hooking and twirling and knotting into it. Martel seems to think on those words, as if there's ever a worded reason needed.
But this is Greed. She knows him all too well. If she doesn't tell him now, he'll make her talk much later on. And oh, he's damn good at denying her as punishment.
At least the hair playing was all a ploy, a distraction as she leans forward and presses her body closer. It seems to meld to his, with every angle and curve willingly adapting to melt into his own. And then she lightly grinds her hips, purposeful and teasing. Now that feral grin of hers has taken on a crooked shape to it, once she's come up with a reason or two. "Missed ya. Bored. Jealous. Need you. Need a good fuck. Take yer pick, do as ya will."
Oh, that'll do for an answer. By now she can already feel him growing hard against her, and she decides to take advantage with a little adjusting; she hitches her weight with a quick bounce, half of it is on the countertop, and her legs are hooked tightly around his waist. Her movements are always so smooth, so fluid. Always bending, but never breaks. He respects that, admires that quirk about her. And this little adjustment of hers just now is going to work in both of their favors soon enough. His hips buck forward, and he starts to grind against her in return.
"'ight." is all he says in return at first to her little reasoning. Silence follows – no sound heard save for their breathing and the movement of their bodies against one another – before the shield forms on his arms, his fingers sharpening into fine points. Martel shivers upon hearing that familiar sound as his hands flex, and change. She isn't afraid, in fact there's something she can't help but admire about his shield. ( How truly indestructible it is – how inhuman it is. ) She knows he's artificial, but sometimes she swears there's something real about the warmth he emanates; that is, 'til the flesh dissipates and instead there is a metallic, icy touch.
His hands work their way underneath the thin fabric of her shirt, starting just below her breasts. Razor-sharp talons dragging against soft flesh and leaving raised, red welts in their wake. Bastard. He always knows where to go, where it hurts, where to get a noise out of her. She barely suppresses yet another guttural groan from the back of her throat. Though she doesn't know it, he most certainly heard that. A low chuckle emanates from his throat, all too amused by this. Hey, at least he's being careful this time. He doesn't want to hurt her – not too severely, anyway. Pain is to be expected during things like these.
In the meantime his hands are here, there, everywhere. Grasping and groping and caressing – oh, she can hear that delighted little snicker under his breath when he quickly discovers she's not wearing a bra, her nipples hardening as obsidian thumbs stroke across them.
"You really couldn't wait for me, huh?" he teases, but with a little hint somewhere as though he's a bit disappointed. She knows exactly why. He's got a real shitty habit of using those talons to slice her bra straps, no matter how many times she reminds him she doesn't have an infinite supply of undergarments and he needs to be more careful dammit.
"Don't worry - " she's all too reassuring, leaning forward 'til her head settles nicely against the crook of his neck, if only for a moment. She plants a gentle kiss by the shell of his ear, before her teeth graze lightly ( considerate enough to conceal her fangs, for now ) and nib at the lob lightly. Her breath is hot against the surface as she whispers; " – There's still plenty for you to take off."
With that said, she kisses him once more. His teeth pull sharply at her lower lip again, and he presses himself in against her, fingers digging in further – just enough – in the softness of her skin to make it hurt.
She shivers, she bleeds. In his arms, where he holds her as though she is the last woman on the planet, she melts. In fact, her arms nearly go boneless as she sinks further into him at just the right touch. Her fingers are in his inky black hair, yanking at fistfuls of it for each time he brings his claws down the length of her torso. Only when they make their way 'round the back and rake down her back does she decide it's almost too harsh to bear. After all, there are bruises from their last affair that have yet to heal, he'll know when he sees the yellowish state that's yet to fade. She pulls away once again, breathless and bottom lip bloodied.
" – Wait, cowboy." She gasps, one hand untangling itself from his hair to swipe the blood from her mouth off. She struggles, but eventually perseveres and manages to remove her top altogether. And now she's half bare, her breasts sore from the harsh groping and law marks made, goosebumps crawling up her spine.
He seems somewhat disappointed. Tough shit.
"Gonna have to ask you a favor, I don't need you tearin' this top to shreds like the last one." But it's the last favor of the night regarding her clothes. By the time they're finished, if he had things her way, she'd be in tatters with nothing to wear come morning sun.
For every sharp sting, there is a gasp. But his mouth and tongue are soothing, distracting her as he moves further alongside her jawline and towards her neck.
Her heart is racing and the heat between her legs is intensifying, the longing all too much to bear. She's not quite sure when he started to lay her down on the tabletop, but her hold on him was so great that she was unintentionally bringing him down with her. It doesn't seem to bother him in the slightest. His laugh is rich and heavenly – "y'gotta loosen up for me, sweetheart" she hears him say – and she obliges, tightening muscles of her legs uncoiling their hold on his waist. Truth be told, he's more than capable of breaking free without her help. But there's no need to put up a fight tonight, this tabletop couldn't handle that kind of roughhousing anyways. It's already about to take a beating as is.
Talons latch onto the hem of her pants, pulling them down. Her legs cooperate, trying to assist by kicking them off her ankles. Her legs have shifted from being wrapped around his waist to bringing them up to the tabletop as best as she can. Greed wastes no time, leaning down and starting with a series of kisses just below the valley between her breasts and trailing down the length of her lean abdomen. The only remaining obstacle for him is her panties, which he slowly discards using his teeth.
Now she's all his, and she can see it from the look in those violet eyes. He's had her plenty of times before, there's nothing new to this. But each time, a ravenous desire comes alive in him. He wants her, every bit of her that she has to offer, and even then he'll take more.
"Come on, lovely," his voice is low and husky as he shifts between her legs, his breath hot and grin eager. One of his hands is parting one of her thighs further, the other hooked in hold around her thigh. A single, chaste kiss is planted. "Sing for me."
No other words are spoken from thereon. His mouth is on her, giving a swift lick at her slit. And then another, along the length of her lips. He's slow, painfully, teasingly slow. He delves between her folds and his tongue flexes in and out, his movements fluid despite the tempo. She tenses as an immediate reaction, her legs tightening around him. ( At least they're not around his neck; having his neck accidentally snapped in the middle of cunninlingus would certainly have to be marked somewhere on a list of unique deaths he's endured. ) His tongue, slick and hot, traces torturously slow circles around her clit. The little gasps coming instinctively from her mouth are not enough, no, and she knows this.
Two fingers – which have thankfully shifted back, she doesn't need to be wounded from the inside out – gently prod their way towards her entrance. She clenches at first, only because his mouth has simultaneously closed around her clit and began sucking firmly, and the sound she makes is something between a strangled cry and gasp. As soon as she's able to open for him, his fingers enter her, filling her at once.
Martel arches underneath his touch, her hips bucking and limbs shivering. Greed just finds it all the more amusing, and he moans on her clit, the deep vibrations of his voice ticklish and traveling into her core. His fingers travel further until - god.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck." A string of vulgar curses spill from her mouth, completely beyond her control, her voice raised an octave higher. He's found the right spot and just to be certain, he tests it so by curling further; again and again and again. She lays there, completely helpless aside from shuddering and thrusting each time against his touch. Shaking hands have found their way to his hair once more, tugging relentlessly.
Sing for me. He'd said. The sounds which escape her now are high-pitched and girlish, there's something of a melody to be found in them. She's reciting his name like a prayer at this point as her fingers curl further into the roots of his hair. At last, her voice turns into a sweet whine as she comes on his fingers.
But this is Greed. While the movement of his fingers comes to an abrupt halt, his mouth remains exactly in place. He has every intent to drag this out, to prolong her. She'd said she missed him, she's said she was in need of a good fuck. Well that was exactly what he was prepared to give her, to make sure she'd never spend another day soon missing him.
Blinding heat of ecstasy comes to her in waves, as her entire body spasms. A sensation rushes through her veins, she's rendered breathless. But he doesn't stop, he won't, not until she's sobbing.
Only by then, does he take one last drag of his tongue across her, lapping up all of her juices. He pulls away, slowly licking his lips and savoring the taste of her honey. Her legs have gone limp, collapsing lifelessly when he leaves her. Panting heavily, it takes every ounce of remaining strength within her to force herself to sit up properly.
Here she is; dried blood on her mouth, sweat glistening from her bare body – her bare, scar riddled and war-torn, altered body that's not the small, girlish figure she had once years ago ( every ounce of her is hardened or aged ) – hair's a mess, and he's looking at her like she's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
( Don't. She has to remind herself that that's how he looks at everyone, everything. It becomes more valuable, more treasured when it is his for however long that time may be. She mustn't let herself overthink it. )
"Whatsa matter?" he asks, grin fading. There must have been some kind of look on her face that gave it away. "Not satisfied?"
The snort that comes from her has a little more snark than intended. By now, she's at least caught her breath. "That's rich, coming from you."
Or maybe, that's a state of common ground that they have – a lack of satisfaction. Whereas he's vocal about it, she isn't. Besides, the dissatisfaction is for different reasons. Hers is of a certain kind of bitterness, a vengeful spirit lurking within that wants justice for what was done to her and her friends. It is a selfishness, for a lack of gratefulness at simply being alive and having settled someplace safe. He was made that way, he is avaricious; and no matter how many golden days and silver nights she could offer, even if she were to cut her heart out and offer it on a silver plate, the most he may be in truth is flattered. It's nothing malicious; it's just how it is. She supposes he deserves some credit at least, for not trying to drag her down into the wrong idea – it's why she's one of his many possessions, it's why he dances around the subject of what they are. They're not lovers, he's never addressed it as such. ( But they are, it's such a laughable lie to call it anything else. ) He's not a liar, and he won't fill her head with false hopes and promises. They're not lovers, no. But she wonders if he's ever loved her, one way or another.
"Martel." his voice cuts through with an air of concern, interrupting her thoughts.
She closes her eyes and exhales quietly, the faintest hint of a bittersweet smile on her mouth. Not tonight, she decides. She's not going to ruin this. So she swallows it all down and opens her eyes once more, a humored and enlightened look to them.
"It's nothing." That's half of a lie. ( It isn't just nothing, but it means nothing. ) The gears are turning, she's got to cook up a lie of some sort on the spot. "It's just… do we gotta play rough all night? We're just going to make a mess, and I'll end up with splinters on my back before you know it."
For a moment, there's an expression on Greed's face that doesn't seem convinced. Or at least, that was during the first part of her sentence. When she finishes, he too, seems willing enough to discard those thoughts aside. The next thing she knows, his arms have scooped her up entirely. Her weight means absolutely nothing to him, there is no difficulty moving, save for the throbbing pain between his legs.
A quick glance at the bar table as it disappears from the line of sight, and she can't help but sigh in dismay. Not too bad, but still a bit of a mess. Someone – and by someone, more than likely she – is going to have to come down at the earliest possible hour to clean that up before someone loses their shit.
. . .
It would've been more practical to have just tossed her onto the bed; the silk sheets and soft pillows are a guaranteed comfortable landing. He's growing impatient, she seemed to have sense this because she's kissing him once again as she helps let herself down. There is a taste on his mouth, a remnant of her. It's wrong, but she can't help but want to savor it entirely.
The entirety of his shield has retracted, leaving in place finely carved muscles. She'd even go as far as to call him godly in appearances; not a single error or flaw to be found, he was beautifully built and long-legged.
His hands fumble with the belt buckle for a few moments or so, growling underneath his breath in frustration. After all, he's waited long enough for her. It seems as though he's even tempted to just tear it off before, at last, he manages and kicks off his pants entirely.
She gestures wordlessly for him by curling her index finger. He's got a look that says he'd never thought she'd ask.
He crawls atop her, and just as before, her legs sink around her waist. And then in one swift, fluid motion he slides right into her. Just this once, she'll allow herself the hiss that surges from her mouth, it was practically an uncontrollable, instinctive response. He thrusts in deep, head buried in the crook of her neck and moaning.
"Remind me again – " he pants, his pacing coming to a torturously slow halt. Her body twitches in agony from the prolonging. Oh, he's got a wicked look conjured in those violet eyes. "What was it you said you want?"
"To fuck me." Another hiss for a reply. She's fairly sure she's accidentally baring her fangs by now out of irritation. "Keep going, come on. Please."
That's not enough of an answer.
"You gave me a whole list of reasons, doll. What was the first thing you said?" Really? Fucking seriously? He's going to quiz her at a time like this? Oh god, at a time when she's never needed him now more than ever. He gets a kick out of this, watching the gears in her head turn and trying to think back, becoming distracted by the teasing roll of his hips. For the record, if she bites him because of this it'll so be worth it.
"I missed you." she chokes out – like a eureka, a complete realization at perfect timing – and her fingers are sinking their hold into his back.
"You missed me?" he repeats back, in false awe. Brows raised, he's paused once more. This straining doesn't do him any favors either, he'd love for nothing more right now than to fuck her until she forgets her own name. But he wants this his way, he wants just a little something special to go with this moment.
"Yes," another groan, another wave of ecstasy washes through her. "Oh god, I missed you. Fuck me so I'll never forget you again."
There's a little bit of overdramatic sarcasm dripping in there somewhere, but the desperation is pleasingly evident. For the moment, he is content.
"Anything for my girl." He's grinning from ear to ear.
Their bodies are interlocked, the pace torturously slow still – only for another few moments – but gradually picking up in speed.
Sharp, wolfish teeth graze at the hammering pulse by her neck. He drags his tongue across the surface of skin there, teasing. And then his teeth sinks right into the spot, nothing fatal, but enough to make a mark. His mark.
That's the only real downside about these affairs. She can be as rough and vicious as she'd like, and none of her marks will last the night on him. By dawn, he'll have healed. Hell, he usually heals entirely in under an hour or so. But the marks claiming her body will remain for days, weeks. The truth is she can't remember the last time when her body was a bare canvas – even if they'd gone weeks without seeing one another – because there's always something to be covered.
" – – – Gr – eed. Please…" she drawls, voice drained and hoarse with desperation. But at the same time, full of adoration. ( Somewhere, somewhere there is a withheld and forsaken I love you trapped in her throat. ) The sounds that escape her are high-pitched and girlish. She is at her weakest, her most passionate, and her most alive.
"What a nice little sound. I think I'll bite there again."
Martel almost doesn't hear him – her head tossed back against the pillows and back arched, her body is still in a state of convulsions; her thighs coil and constrict around his waist amidst the rise of this heat in the pit of her stomach. It is building, building, then imploding, she chokes on a breathless growl. So instead, a barely audible hiss escapes at first. The skin there is most sensitive, every sensory coming to life and every nerve electrified. Here. Now. In these moments, she is truly alive. Then his teeth sink into the crook of her neck once more – razor sharp and raking across fragile skin promising to mar, tempting fate should a reckless slip up cause a puncture – but he is careful. He always is, she trusts him with her entirely.
Her body has melded to his as the pace quickens with each thrust, her fingers ensnared in his hair. The knots are perhaps painful on his part, but she cannot bring herself to care or pull away.
All at once she is weak, weightless, boneless.
And somehow, she does hear him as she writhes and sobs when she climaxes. She can feel the shape of that mischievous smirk against her wounded skin, as she is panting and struggling to recollect herself. Again, he says, nowhere near finished – and it summons a last ounce of strength in spite of her absolute exhaustion, of arousal and excitement.
Greed knows her best; he is her sole lifeline, her divine, her salvation, her crooked king all the same.
He finishes inside her not long after, spilling his seed into her but cock still pulsing. Martel, in spite of her exhaustion, arches and tilting her hips forward while he's still inside of her. But no, it would seem he's satisfied, judging by the guttural groan he exerts in response. For now. He leaves her, flopping off beside her on the bedroom.
Silence, save for heaving chests. She observes the glistening sweat on his body and takes hold of his tattooed hand, leaving delicate kisses right at the ouroboros mark. For quite some time, she's wondered about whether or not the nerves there happen to more sensitive than the rest. And for all the years she' known him, for all the times she's been with him, she still can't quite figure that one out. Oh well. There's always time to learn.
"Want to go another round?" he quips, rolling onto his side and facing her. Somehow, she's got the feeling that if she agrees, it won't be much of a joke anymore.
The kisses cease temporarily. Exhaustion seems her sore limbs and sinks beyond into her bones. If he has any intents of hogging his bed tonight for himself, he can forget about it. Unless he's willing to drag her out and drop her off a couch instead, she's not going anywhere. He might be greedy, but she is goddamn stubborn.
"I have to sleep at some point." she answers sweetly, eyes already shut. Despite closed eyes, she can practically picture the flash of disappointment on his features.
There's a shift in the weight of the bedroom, and the sound of a door opening. Several minutes pass, and though slumber threatens to take her at any minute, she can't help but keep her senses perked. Was Greed really that annoyed that he's gone off looking for someone else to sate him for the rest of the night? Her worries are dispelled moments later when she hears the distant sound of footsteps, a door closing, and his weight – his scent of both of their sweat and still lingering cologne – beside her.
"Had to clean up the uh – evidence." It's as if he knew she'd ask.
Oh. Right. The bar table. Well that takes care of that. At least she doesn't have to make herself get up earlier than everyone else to do it herself for once.
"What? You worried about suspicion? Accusations? Jealousy?" she giggles, clinging ahold of a pillow. Or, she was in one moment. By the next, she can feel the warmth of his arm slipping beneath her, pulling her closer to him.
"The hell I am." he's brash as ever. Realistically, everyone else in the bar should have a decent idea of what goes down between the two of them every now and then. She has reason to suspect she's not the only one he's gone to anyways. "If they're that upset, they'll have to wait their turns."
Brilliant green eyes open and stare intently at his face at once, with almost a saddened look to them. Her bottom lip has curled into a pout. "Hm. If you get busy with them, you might forget about me. And then I'll just miss you all over again."
"Never." His fierce reply comes just seconds after she speaks. The hold around her is tightening, he presses a gentle kiss to her forehead. She settles right against the crook of his neck, taking in every bit of warmth his bare body can offer. In moments like this – moments of such delicate, gentle intimacy – she can't help but think; she can't help but wonder if this is how lovers act. If whatever they have here is exceptional, in any way, shape or form. His word just now was so fierce, so sudden. She's only a possession, she has to remind herself. But he holds her like she's his one and only lover.
And the last thing Greed tells Martel before she falls asleep is " – I could never forget you, sweetheart."
. . .
fin