(SPOILER: For those of you who have beat the game, see them as you like them. If you're uncomfortable with incest and can't imagine the characters beyond canon, then do not read. I, personally, don't find it hard to see Booker and Elizabeth as not related. Anyway. Hope you like it. ;] /EndSpoiler. )
"Shut it! For fuck's sake, shut it!"
With all the emphasis he could manage through a whisper, Booker had hissed this through clenched teeth. Elizabeth was two steps ahead of him; already helping him to shut and bolt the door. Once the locks were fastened, the two of them collapsed onto the floor of the room. Panting.
"This place …" Booker said, implying all the disgust and revulsion possible for ten men's souls. His shotgun slid off the wall and dropped beside him with a loud clank. Elizabeth jumped.
The two of them had just survived yet another wondrous battle with a dozen armed men, and Booker was getting really, really tired of it. Though they had ended every life that pursued them in this sector of the city, the two were still wary of being followed. The feeling would wear off soon, however – the paranoia was just the typical aftermath of fire, murderous crows and flying lead.
After these little spats, it was becoming routine for them to sit in silence for many hours, each recovering mentally and emotionally in their own way. Booker was slumped on the ground, legs splayed out in front of him, back leaned against the wall with his fallen shotgun beside him. Staring at everything and nothing.
Elizabeth typically wandered on these occasions, but this time, she found herself at a large glass window with the curtains pulled back. The two had locked themselves in a Hotel, closed for renovations. It was empty, beautiful, and they were completely alone. It was a nice feeling to be in a quiet, secret place after living through brief spurts of horror.
She gazed out at the city. The sun was setting, and she always liked how the sky shaded so many colors of orange, scarlet and plum behind the floating buildings. The clouds were so puffy – like pillows. It truly looked like heaven in Columbia, but she could never see it this way.
And suddenly, she realized how cold she was. And afraid – terrified, really. She hugged herself, and her lip trembled as the most recent battle relived itself fresh in her memory. So much blood, splattering red with aimless abandon. The smell of burning skin and the screaming agony of men. The deafening sounds of gunfire and that icy adrenaline of never knowing whether or not the bullet will find you.
Elizabeth went over and sat on the bed, no longer able to look at her city. For once, she kind of missed being locked up in that room … but she missed Songbird most of all – all these things symbolized her innocence and lack of experience in the world. Fond memories of her childhood came alive; times when she fell dancing, cried to herself, and Songbird came and sang beautiful melodies to her to ease her sorrow. Sometimes he would sing lullabies to her at night. Sometimes he would sit quietly beside her as the read, and she'd hug his massive beak.
She felt broken right now, and she wished Songbird could be here to comfort her again.
But the warmth was short-lived, for another memory speared through. Of her older self, curious and wanting more than her captivity. Of Songbird knocking her down when she tried to escape, breaking her ankle far worse than dancing ever did, and him screaming unbearable, atrocious sounds at her that made her whole body seize. His growing authority as well; with every rebellion or slightest independence Elizabeth developed, Songbird repressed her tenfold. Violently, mercilessly, and without love.
And she no longer missed him.
And she was still broken and in need.
And she realized that she was utterly alone.
Booker's eyes drifted up as he heard sniffling on the other side of the room. Elizabeth was sitting alone on the bed, hugging her knees, and crying gently to herself. She had that distant look in her eyes; like her attention was focused inward and her thoughts were tormenting her. He'd seen this tortured look in many a soldier.
"Elizabeth."
She looked at him, tears shining.
God damn, those eyes are blue. Breathtaking.
Grunting, he hoisted himself up and limped to her – his side still aching from being backhanded by a Handyman. Booker wasn't the most nurturing man in the world, but he found it in his heart to at least sit beside her. Maybe his nearness would be enough to soothe her.
"You alright?"
"I'm …" Her stomach hurt from the multitudes of conflicting feelings, confusion, and ruined ignorant bliss. "Scared," was all she could think of to say.
He was on the corner of the bed, looking at her sideways.
"Well don't be. I won't let anything happen to you." He said this matter-of-factly, lacking any affection. It was almost business-like.
But Elizabeth, regardless of lost ignorance in some areas, still held tightly to ignorance in others. In her eyes, she saw a new protector. One that would never hurt her, or so she thought. Booker was Songbird's antithesis; he was the symbol of protection and freedom. And in her innocence, she mistook Booker's comment for more than it was.
Being the older man, and Elizabeth being as easy to read as an open book, it was a little too obvious to see what she was thinking. She was holding herself, gazing at him with wide, teary eyes, her brows shaped in a way that revealed her need for comfort. He sighed. Rather loudly. She wanted him to hold her or something.
"Alright," he said, as if she had asked him a question. He scooted closer so that his back was to the headboard. Booker held his arm out, inviting her in. And oh, she took the invite. She pretty much lunged into him, causing him to wince (his side, you know), but he managed to catch her. She was so childlike. And once the two of them got settled, it was pretty nice.
One leg was slacked off the bed, the other resting on the mattress. Elizabeth was nestled in his arm, her little frame snuggled against his broad chest. His cut hand, loosely tied in fabric, lay in his lap. He could tell by the relaxing tension in her body that Elizabeth was feeling better. And he was too. He liked the smell of her hair – something like vanilla or sugar, and he found that he didn't mind holding her. Sure, he was a little uncomfortable, but it was alright.
Elizabeth wiped her tears and nearly curled herself halfway in his lap. She sighed away her sorrows, her terrors went away, and she thought of Paris. That dreamy, childlike wonder returned, and all was well again. She felt fixed, and Booker had been the one to fix her.
And now that the darkness was cleansed, her mind was open to other things. She was suddenly more aware of herself, pressed up against the warm body of another man. She wasn't a child anymore, and she had read and understood many books of romance – some with scenes that had suggestive, nondescript moments. Moments where men and women stripped their clothes, kissed passionately, and woke up naked together. What was it like? Everything in-between? What did a kiss taste like? For some reason, Booker made her wonder these things. After all, she was so curious and full of wishful desire to experience the world.
Thoughtlessly, Booker wrapped his other arm around her to hold her tighter. It was more comfortable for both of them. And then, the mentality came. He inhaled with a deep breath and released it long and hard. The more he thought about her, he really liked Elizabeth as a person. Her heart was enormous, ready to receive anyone and anything. And while she was a little naïve, she was brilliant as well – sharp, cute and witty. And damn, she was so beautiful. There weren't people like her in the world anymore. She truly was an angel caught unjustly in the web of this insane, racist, brainwashed city.
And that's when it began to hit him.
The doubt.
Of taking her to New York.
Elizabeth had other things on her mind. As she listened to his heartbeat, her head raced with every romantic novel she'd ever read. She'd read of many things – quantum mechanics, physics, microbiology – and these things she understood. It was the beautiful things, like art, music, Paris and romance … that were mysteries to her. And she wanted to know it all. To be it all. And she had a habit of plunging headfirst into things that she wanted.
She sat up, and Booker instinctively loosened his arms to allow her mobility. She looked at his face, into his darker green eyes. He was handsome – he had the evidence of a riper age, his features were chiseled to a masculine edge, and he had some of the most profound eyes she'd ever seen. They were intense, forceful almost, and soul probing. She wondered what it would be like to kiss him. He looked back at her and noticed that she studied him in a most peculiar way. She wanted something again.
And he had an idea of what it was. Knowing it was a bad idea, his arm hesitantly slid away from her. But she didn't get the hint. She leaned forward and kissed him right on the mouth, but he pulled away, just barely, and she withdrew.
"What's wrong?"
She didn't understand. Men liked kissing women in the books – they always wanted to kiss first! And he seemed to fit the profile of her protector, her hero, so why didn't he want to do these things with her? She thought he cared for her.
"Elizabeth …" He rubbed his forehead, trying to think. "Look. We just … we can't."
"I did something wrong, didn't I." She sighed and scooted to the other end of the bed.
"Well, no, but …" He decided to be honest. She was a smart girl after all, regardless of her blatant naivety in other areas. "I just have a feeling you don't know what you're doing. It wouldn't be right of me to allow it. I'd be taking advantage."
"Taking advantage?" She looked up at him, processing. It shocked him how quickly she could shift from innocence to intelligence. "Is it if I really want to though? I don't know what I'm doing because I've never done it. So I want to try. And I thought …"
He stood up uncomfortably. He knew where this was going.
She murmured it insecurely, sensing his apprehension. "I thought you cared for me."
And she immediately felt stupid after saying it.
"I do," he blurted.
And he thought it was just a dumb response to ease the tension, but it took him less than half-a-second to realize that yes … he really did. Somewhere amidst the running, the fighting, and the searching, he'd grown to care about this girl as more than just a ticket out of debt. Being the detached person that he was, it was hard to realize emotion within. But as he looked at her, he knew he wanted her safe - forever. And it was this care that stopped him from taking advantage of a willing but clueless girl.
"I do," he repeated, with a little more meaning.
Elizabeth stood up and rounded the bed to stand in front of him. Her dainty hands were fidgeting nervously. Booker didn't move as she stepped near.
"I'm … not sure how things will end," she said sincerely, sadly. She meant failure. Possibly death. Or worse, recapture. "Just one kiss. I just want to know." Just in case everything falls apart and I never, ever get the chance again, is what was left unsaid.
Those eyes. Those crystal clear, blue, rapturous eyes. Booker stared deep into them and his mind went blank as she dared to inch nearer. He couldn't think, and soon he felt her little hands on his chest, then he felt her breath on his face, and then her lips on his mouth again. He shut his eyes, and allowed this for her.
After all, how harmful could a kiss be?
Sensing she wouldn't know what else to do, he instinctively took the lead. Her sweet lips pressed wetly, and he opened his mouth and kissed her again, tasting her bottom lip. His clothed hand wrapped around the arch of her back, and his other palm cupped her jaw, tilting her head so he could kiss her more passionately. Elizabeth's inexperience was apparent, but it was endearing. When he first put his tongue in her mouth, she timidly met it with her own. And once she understood how he did things, she got greedy, and soon the lead was hers. Elizabeth wanted more of it, too much of it, all of it – his lips, his tongue, his hands on her body.
She decided she really, really liked kissing. Her previously shy hands wrapped around his neck, and she made out with him like a love-struck teenager. Booker groaned, excitement coursing through him, and as they kissed, he walked her backwards until they fell onto the bed. She yelped, surprised, and he caught himself on his hands on top of her. For a second they looked at one another.
Elizabeth looked frightened and enthralled all at the same time, looking up at him and breathing hard. Booker lowered himself down, just enough to press his body on her – but not too much. She was young and inexperienced, and he didn't want to intimidate her. And after he swept a black lock of hair out of her face, he took her chin into his hand, and kissed her again.
As a first moment, Elizabeth drank in every miniscule element. The texture of the cloth wrapped around Booker's hand, the feel of his fingers lightly holding her face and curling around to the back of her neck. The sharp smell of his aftershave. His hot breath on her face, the taste of his mouth, and the rough feel of an unshaven jawline. It was an odd feeling too, the weight of him on top of her. Comfortable, exciting, and yes, intimidating. She could feel every difference between their bodies – his wider, masculine form, his muscled limbs and their difference in height. Booker made her feel very feminine.
She was suddenly more aware of herself; her narrow waistline, her breasts squished against his hard chest, and her over-all more fragile construct. Everywhere, she wanted him to touch her. It was a new and scary desire, one she'd been deprived of her whole life. And after many years of unexercised hormones, blossoming within a ripe girl, she couldn't control the impulses within because she never had the time to train herself against this type of need.
Elizabeth closed her knees together, shifting them anxiously. A tingling, sharp twang was throbbing between her legs – begging for stimulation. She moaned in frustration, right into Booker's mouth. He sighed heavily in response. Since her dress was so tight, she had fallen on the bed with her legs together, to Booker was straddling her, but men's intuition told him it was time to change this.
He took a fistful of her dress, hiked it up a little, parted her legs with his knees and settled himself between her thighs. She swallowed and looked noticeably bewildered, for her upper legs felt a draft of cold air. As a modest girl, she wasn't used to having so much skin exposed.
"Is this …?"
"It's fine," she blurted, flustered and blushing red.
"Alright …" Booker pushed his hips between her thighs, and the pressure of him made her clitoris throb. She ached for stimulation so desperately that her bottom lip trembled. She had masturbated before, but she was a total alien to wanting sex. And because of her lack of knowing, she didn't know what to ask for or what to do. Elizabeth was so completely, utterly virgin.
Booker, seeing her frustration, touched her cheek tenderly.
"Hey. You okay?"
"Yes, I –" Her mind was only halfway working. "I … I'm just really hot."
"You want to stop-?"
"No!" She interrupted. She liked this too much. She didn't want to stop kissing like they did in the books. Not ever.
He raised his eyebrows, and finally understood. She was just "hot". Booker had underestimated how truly pure this girl was. Swallowing, and with a moment's hesitation, he put a hand on her knee.
"Elizabeth … If you want me to …"
He slid his palm down her thigh, feeling guilty the whole way down. He shouldn't be taking advantage of her, but he couldn't stop himself. Elizabeth, laying beneath him, looking up at him with those wide, beautiful eyes was inviting, ordering him to satisfy her. And he wanted to. He wanted to please this inexperienced virgin girl.
Booker's fingers dragging down her thigh sent bursts of electric excitement between her legs. Her little hands balled into fists and she held them close to her chest like a worried child. Booker dipped his head to her neck and took a deep breath as his fingertips reached the outer silk of her panties. Slowly, he maneuvered his hand in, and touched her moist lips.
Elizabeth whimpered. Her thighs trembled a little. He placed his thumb over her swollen clitoris and inserted two fingers into a very tight opening. Elizabeth literally yelped a moan and gripped his shoulders hard. Her hips jutted forward, and Booker began to play with her below – rather skillfully. In and out, very slow, caressing her in every place it mattered. Her moans were soft and stifled, like she couldn't control herself, but wanted to. His fingers hurt a little, but it felt too good to care.
Below, Booker felt all the blood in his body rush to his groin. Her sensual voice in his ear, her heavy breaths and her wet, tight lips were teasing him. His own breathing started to get heavy, and it was easier and easier to smell that hint of sugar in her hair. Feeling hungry, he kissed her neck, down her nerves, sucking a little every time – her back was starting to arch. She could feel him touching inside of her, pleasing her in a way she was never able to accomplish herself.
But there was a problem. The more Booker gave her, the more she wanted. Craved.
"Mr. Dewitt … Er, I mean-".
He paused and gave her a look that said Seriously?
"Christ, Elizabeth. How many times do I have to tell you?"
He was, after all, inside of her.
"Sorry," she said, smiling shyly.
"Well what is it?" He was noticeably flushed.
"I just, I don't know, I just … well, I don't know." She didn't even know what she wanted. Booker raised his brows at her stammering and started having second thoughts about having his hand in her, but something told him not to withdraw. She didn't seem bothered. Just confused.
"I just want more," and then she whispered this timidly, to be polite: "please …" And then proceeded to blush all over.
"More?" He thought a second. "Like this?" And he pushed his two fingers in as far as they could go. Elizabeth bit her lip, whimpered a little and squirmed.
And she gasped before speaking, like he'd stolen her breath. "I just want more of you. I want all of you. I don't know. I wish I was making more sense."
But she made perfect sense. Booker dropped his head and let out a long breath. Thinking. He removed his hand and unlatched his belt buckle – the metal click was prominent in the silence of the room. But he paused yet again. He wanted to do this so horribly bad. But it felt wrong somehow. He really didn't want to take advantage of Elizabeth.
"What's wrong?" Elizabeth frowned, wondering if she said too much. But she had heard his belt buckle, and knew they were on the right track. After all, romance novels gave her a pretty good idea of what they were supposed to do. They just didn't specify everything in-between.
"I don't know if we should do this."
Booker lifted his head and looked into her eyes. It was a nice feeling, staring into the depth of that blue color. It made him warm. He decided he needed to make eye contact with her more often.
She was really good with the puppy eyes, mostly because they were sincere.
"Why not? I don't want anyone else."
And then it hit him hard: He didn't want her with anyone else either. He wanted her. He saved her. And he would keep her safe. The thought of someone else defiling her innocence very near sparked his temper. He had to stop his thoughts dead in their tracks, lest he end up pacing around the room, fuming over nothing.
"Are you absolutely sure? It won't feel good at first. It'll hurt."
She nodded. She trusted him wholly. And she didn't want to say it, but she doubted the pain would compare to what she'd been through anyway. As far as she was concerned, this was one of the best moments she'd ever experienced.
Before adjustment, he slid his free arm under her head and nestled it there like a pillow. As he sagged his pants down and maneuvered his erection out of his under-shorts, he kissed Elizabeth on the neck. Once he placed the tip of his head at the opening of her lips, he swirled it around a little, wetting it with her fluids. He glanced up at her. She looked uncertain.
"You ready?"
Elizabeth bit her lip and nodded. So he started to push in, slowly, tearing her open. She gasped, quickly wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and hugged him tight. She felt him filling her, ripping her in an ongoing stabbing pain, but something about his enormity inside of her was so much more satisfying. Booker held his breath; for once in his life, he cursed the wide girth he was blessed with. He seriously doubted he could fit.
The tightness gripped him all around and he let out his breath with a groan. Elizabeth was whimpering in his ear, so he wrapped his arms underneath her and held her as he pushed in. Back out, nice and slow. Back in. Over and over. The tension in her body started to relax, and he could feel her start to open up. Her arms loosened around his shoulders, and gradually her whimpering softened into little moans.
Her body eased and everything naturally amplified – the pain subsided and all she could feel was the slow, steady rapture of Booker making love to her. It was a new and magnificent feeling, one she hadn't known existed, something better even than Paris.
And soon, everything changed. His pace quickened, and she felt his enormity slam into her wall. An abrupt cry was forced from her throat, and her nails dug into his shoulders, aching for something to cling to. He pounded her again, and again, echoing her screams throughout the room. Bookers arm tightened around her waist, and one lifted to touch her face.
"Elizabeth, shh …" And his tired voice was breathy and husky as he tried to say this through thrusts.
But she couldn't stop, and he really didn't want to, so he continued to ram her, and she continued to scream. Booker buried his face in her neck, stroked his fingers through her hair, and very well fucked the shit out of her.
Her thighs were tight around his hips, and her nails felt like they were cutting through the cloth of his vest and shirt. They were sweaty and loud. Elizabeth nearly shook with ecstasy. Her cries were deafening in his ears. He sank his fingertips into her back, wishing this could last for a lifetime. Elizabeth could feel it inside, building and getting better and better.
"More, more," was all she could think of say, though this came out in gasps.
So he rammed her quicker and harder. And then, in one long broken cry, Elizabeth's whole body shuddered. Her back arched, thighs shook, and lips trembled. Every muscle seemed to spasm, and something hot and blissful flooded through her every nerve. Booker let go and ejaculated with a deep groan. As he spasmed inside of her, Elizabeth hugged him around the shoulders, cuddled her head into his warm chest, and sighed contentedly.
"Oh. That was amazing …"
Booker stroked her hair affectionately and kissed her on the forehead, still out of breath.
"It's hot in here," he said quietly. "I should open the window."
"Okay."
As he got up, Booker adjusted himself accordingly and removed his vest. He opened the window and let the burst of chilly sky air waft through the room. Rather carelessly, he yanked off his button-up shirt and tossed it to the floor. When he turned around, Elizabeth was already dressed down to her slip and lying under the covers.
"That feels wonderful." She was still glowing with that beautiful post-sex sheen.
"Yes, it does." He kicked off his shoes. "You ready for bed?"
Elizabeth nodded with a shy smile. No sleeping on the floor for him tonight. Booker moved to the bed and eased in beside her. He rolled over on his side, wrapped an arm around her, and pulled her close. Like a giddy teenager, her heart already started to pound again – her first puppy love. As much as she could, she scooted closer until they were completely body-to-body. She could feel the steady rise and fall of Booker's chest as he breathed and could catch the faintest hint of his cologne. And he liked this too; holding her littler, leaner form. It made him feel like he needed to protect her even more.
"Goodnight, Booker," she sighed.
And he said it softly into her ear with that familiar rough voice, "Goodnight."
And they both fell asleep, dreaming of Paris.