the red girl

[scubatankfilledwithfarts]

Her hand is warm. Fingers wedged between his longer ones, squeezing, tethering him to the now in an effort that he cannot escape [even if he wanted to] and all he can think about is how warm it is. Of course, dripping wet as he is he can hardly retain any heat. She does, though. She always does even as she pulls him into hell, even as she drags him to her apartment after a particularly grueling day.

Ariadnne gently turns him to face her, fingers on his shoulders, gentle, gentle, painfully so. Her green eyes look at him the way no one else does. Like he’s real. Those fingers ghost down his shoulders, skitter down, down, to tug the hem of his shirt away from his belly—stop.

“Is that a hunting knife strapped to you or are you just happy to see me?” The corners of her mouth twitch up in spite of the blood staining her teeth beneath.

Her efforts result in his blank look but he comes away with a pistol when his arm circles her hips for the shirt she has half-tied to her middle.

Ilchev cocks a brow though she doesn’t bother to look sheepish, unsurprisingly.
“Alright so we’ve both got toys.”

Her lips purse, hands grow more insistent as she remembers he has a vest on [“stupid, who the hell dresses you?? I know that old bag doesn’t bother—“], comes away with two more knives and a grenade.

Like clockwork, like a dance, like a song only they know, his own fingers work between the wild, sweeping motions of her own, between the wet slop of his clothes and the dull ting of his weapons where they land on the floor, where her pistols and knives and smoke bombs join them.

When they’re as bare as ever those knobby knuckled fingers squish his cheeks together and she looks into his eyes.

“You look like if crap built a house out of crap,” Ariadnne concludes very solemnly. He peers back at her just as solemnly.

“Thanks.”

A huff of a sigh, the corners of her eyes crinkle to stretch the fond, though exasperated, smile on her face.

“Come on,” she calls, she drags him to hell, out of the fire and onto the couch barely big enough for 2 people let alone an adult. Her front lines up perfectly with his spine, knees digging into his butt, her nose pressed to the curve between his neck and shoulder.

“Did you think this through?” Does she ever. “One of us is going to fall—we can’t fit.”
She nuzzles her chin into the back of his neck, summoning goosebumps. “Shhhh—we totally can, shortie. Just go to sleep. Shut up.”

She definitely didn’t think this through. But it’s something…her scent, the warmth of her body tucked around his, the fact that he’s the little spoon [the fact that he doesn’t realize he’s stupidly in love with her--] but he falls asleep, just like that.