Things We Lost in the Fire

[simplememes]

Mutual Healing Shipping Meme

Healing doesn't come quickly, whether the need comes from physical or mental wounds. But you're trying regain your strength - and yourself. People, as a general rule, are kind, or at least not outright inflammatory to you, it seems. Still, you just can't connect with them. No matter how nice, how caring, they don't understand. They've never experienced anything like what you've gone through, or they're not like you in a way that lets them see what you still go through; they have no frame of reference. Sure, they have sympathy, but it's not the same. So there's no real connection, despite any friendliness. It's so easy, then, to feel detached... ...until you meet them, in this place of both death and healing. They may not have been through the exact same struggles, they may not be exactly the same as you, but they know what darkness is light. How they handle this fact may be better or worse than how you do, yet you can see yourself in their actions. And for once? There's connection; more than that, too. Slowly, you can feel yourself opening up towards them, and then, falling for them. Is this something your used to? Will you fight your feelings, or will you jump at the opportunity to be with someone who can begin to get you? You may have little choice in the matter, as your instincts may just reach out to be with whatever compatible contact you can get. That's better, in the long run, though. Who else could have wounds like yours? Essentially, it's what it says: a "romance," in the loose definition, or "shipping" meme for characters who have been through the wringer or have hangups. Reply with your character, preferences, and any info you want to include. Remember, the more information, the more taggable you are. Respond to others. Thread.

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[kissthatgoodbye]

He isn't, he knows, a nice man; but he can be. He can pretend to be, and he can do nice things, and they won't save him by themselves in the end but if she is concerned about binding him to her, he is not oblivious to the advantages of her genuinely liking him. He doesn't imagine it would stop her - or anyone - from turning on him, but it might stop her from actively looking for ways to rid herself of him.

So she kiss his way down from his smiling lips, and he tips his head to a side to give her more room, and a shiver runs out from where her fingers press against his bare stomach, his breath catching pleasurably with the attention. He chuckles, low in his throat, as pleasant a sound as the purr of her voice and then he's leaning forward a little, taking his cue; exacting, one hand reaching first down to find the end of her clothing, then back up to settle again where it was before but this time his palm is warm - very warm - directly against her skin. It feels more secure to him, and his eyes are open fully again from the half closing he'd allowed; his other hand is exploring again, brushing his thumb along the gentle curve of her collarbone, smoothing just an inch or so down the line of her breastbone, nothing like low enough to even touch the collar of her top.

"You smell good," he murmurs, and it isn't actually as absent as he lets it fall from his lips, but it does allow him the pretext to kiss her temple, to breathe in deep, to tuck his face in close.

[utselet]

"So do you," she whispers, still kissing along his neck, tracing down the graceful line of his jugular. She closes her own eyes as she feels his warm hand come to rest on her side, drawing in a slow breath. There's a certain point of no return on matters like this, and even though she has no intention of returning at all anyway, this moment -- the purposefulness of it, his hand under her blouse, lingering near the waistband of her skirt -- is the one that crosses it.

She lets it go past without dwelling on it, but it lets her feel like she can move forward without feeling like she's dragging him into anything, or like they're not on the same page. They are. He wants what she wants, possibly for different reasons, possibly for the same.

She pauses where she is, her lips hovering just above his skin, her breath hot against it. "You can--" She hesitates, biting her lip, and then sits back and starts slowly, deliberately undoing the buttons on her blouse.

[kissthatgoodbye]

The truth of it is, she could call it off at any time; he would stop if she said, if she was afraid, if she changed her mind. He is not a nice man, he is not kind, but neither is he the kind that would force anything on someone he wanted for an ally, not for anything short of life or death or worse. And maybe that's what this is, ultimately, but not immediately.

All the same she pauses and he pulls back enough to look at her face, searching for the cue, and then he watches what her fingers are doing. She makes it to the second button before he's nodding, understanding immediately.

"Okay," he lifts his hands to take over, assuring her that he understands. That he is on the same page, that he's not being dragged. The tradeoff isn't that simple, until it is, and now it is. And, once the last button is parted, once her blouse falls slightly open, he offers, "Here," and reaches for the hem of his t-shirt, starts to drag it up over his head.

[utselet]

She helps him out of his shirt, and then slips the rest of the way out of her own, letting it drop to the floor below. While her clothes tend to be modest, he'll start to realize soon enough, if he hasn't already, that she's really anything but underneath. Even though she wasn't expecting this, for example -- has, if she's being honest, thought about it, because he is supposed to be her husband and he is a very good-looking man, but not expecting it -- the lacy brassiere she's wearing stands in sharp contrast to the demure blouse that had been hiding it.

Similarly, there's nothing shy or retiring about the way she looks him over, or the interest in her eyes. She smiles a little and leans back in for another kiss, running her hands up his arms and down his chest, lingering teasingly at his waistband before coming to settle briefly at his sides.

[kissthatgoodbye]

It does surprise him, a little, in the pleasant way: the concept of marriage may not mean much to him, but he's familiar with sex, with enjoying another willing body, with pleasure for all that it wasn't what he was intended for. Instructed to do occasionally, ironically enough, but never officially sanctioned. He's glad of finding her not only willing, but interested.

For his own part, he has never had the luxury of privacy, and he is neither shy nor self conscious as a result: he makes no secret of looking her over in return, of letting himself be seen, and his lips quirk a little when the waist of his pants tug. It serves a dual purpose, the cool logic running always in the back of his mind informs him; it creates a connection, and it proves to them both that they are who they say they are, that they are in the predicament they say they are. No wires, no unexpected tattoos, no strange marks.

"I learn best by doing," he teases her, a little, almost mirroring her motions in reverse: up her sides, dusting across her shoulders, one hand coming to rest with his palm splayed warm across her chest, just the edge of his thumb brushing at the top of the curve of her breasts, more interested just now in the warmth of her skin, the rise and fall of her breathing. He kisses her, of course, and shifts enough to partially drop one of his legs out of the way so she can turn properly to face him, or pull closer to him, his face nuzzled in close to her hair when she doesn't actively have a use for his mouth.

[utselet]

She's not one to argue with that, even if she weren't out to make his every wish come true. They have some time, and she lets him learn all he likes. Eventually, they move over to the bed, and they continue to reassure each other that there are no wires, no marks, nothing but skin to map out with their hands and mouths. Nothing to separate them, husband and wife that they are, nothing to hinder the union they're taking from story to truth.

Enjoying herself isn't very high on Lena's list of priorities, but she's glad to find that she does anyway, enough that in the aftermath she has a brief respite from all the tension that's been wound up inside her. She stretches out under the covers, loose-limbed and pleasantly achy, letting out a long breath she might have been holding since they first got the bad news. She'll start holding it again soon, but for a moment, just a moment, she get to close her eyes and breathe.

"Quick study," she murmurs absently, approvingly, a smile hovering on her lips.