Electromagnetic Pulse
Sep. 7th, 2008 08:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kiyakotari
Another bit of snake crossover. This one's NSFW.
“Thank you,” Jian says, taking the well-loved but still neatly folded blankets from the young woman’s hands. The falling rain is so loud against the roof of the building – or maybe ‘hill,’ it actually seems to be both – that he has to raise his voice for her to hear him. The windows, what there are of them, are all securely boarded up, and still the wind is strong enough that some of the harder gusts are making the panes rattle. “We should be fine with these.”
"You're welcome," the woman answers with a nod, short black hair falling into her eyes, and leaves, not saying anything more to him. He watches her go. She looked harried, dark circles under her eyes that had nothing to do with age and everything to do with too much responsibility. He wonders if one of the children they passed, sitting in a group in one of the central rooms while a tired man told them a story about pirates and a magical floating island in hushed tones, belongs to her. He suspects such is probably the case. She didn’t talk much when she took their muddy clothing to be washed, let them each rinse off quickly under a showerhead on the wall of what looked like an outhouse, gave them clean, dry clothes that don’t really fit, but are far better than the bug-and-ditch slimed ones they had on before. She looked like she needed someone to take some of the burden of life away from her – but then, don’t they all?
Jian closes the door, turns around. The room they’ve been given barely qualifies for the status of broom closet, but it has a door and he’s not complaining. It’s certainly better than some of the places they’ve stayed in, even if he can only just stand next to the twin bed – his knees are touching the edge, and if he leans back a bit his shoulders will hit the wall behind him. He sets the blankets down on the bed and looks at Wren, now that they’re alone and not out among unknown people.
She’s curled up on the far side of the mattress – which still isn’t very far away. She’s on her side, on top of the sheets and pressed as close to the wall as she can get without actually uncurling and stretching out against it. Her back is to him. He crawls up onto the bed, reaches out and puts his hand on her shoulder – she shudders under his touch, and her skin is hot, though she’s not sweating.
“Talk to me,” Jian murmurs softly, and Wren says nothing, is silent for a long, long time. Jian waits.
“Right now,” Wren finally replies, her voice tight and strained, “I want to rest.”
Jian looks at her for a moment, thinking about that, then rolls her over onto her back – she doesn’t resist him, moves easily under his hand on her shoulder and uncurls, stares up at him. Her pupils are huge, her lips dark, her cheeks flushed. Jian slides his hand along her shoulder to her neck, skipping over the strap of her borrowed tank top. Her mouth opens a little, and that’s all he needs to know the suspicion that’s been floating in the back of his mind ever since he saw her holding onto the roof of the Chevy to steady herself is right.
“There was something more than just anti-venom in his saliva, wasn’t there?”
“I think so,” she gasps, closes her eyes. “I–”
Jian leans down, covers her mouth with his, swallowing whatever she had been about to say. When he pulls back, she’s panting, her hand has come up and is gripping his shoulder hard enough that her fingers leave white marks on his skin. Jian lowers his head again, kisses her jaw, her earlobe, the side of her neck – he can feel her pulse hammering under his lips, hot and strong and not lethally fast, and he bites down, lightly, just hard enough to leave a red mark, but not to bruise. Wren moans then, her hand on his shoulder moving up and tangling in his damp hair, not quite pulling at it, fingers spread to cradle the back of his head.
He shifts, stretches out on the tiny bed, half on top of her as much from lack of space as from desire, and finds her mouth with his again. He whispers into her lips, “Will this help?”
“I-don’t-know,” she says, the words coming out in a breathless rush. “Maybe. I think so.” She twists underneath him, squirms, and then plants her hands on his chest and pushes him back, hauls the borrowed green t-shirt up over his head, throws it against the wall – it slides down and hits the floor. Jian gets his thumbs under the edge of her tank top, works it up the length of her stomach and ribcage – she arches under him, helping him, then raises her shoulders just enough to let him pull it off of her. It joins the green shirt over by the door, and she yanks him back down and they’re skin to skin and it doesn’t matter that they’re in a swamp in a house full of people they don’t know, that there’s an almost-hurricane outside, that Wren’s forearms and hands are wrapped in gauze, that their earpieces are fried, knocked out by some kind of EMP on the property. All that matters is Wren, here, underneath him, her hands hunting for the zipper on the too-large jeans he’s wearing and her stomach muscles tense and firm against his abs.
More squirming, awkward in the cramped space, and their pants hit the floor. He’s braced over her, his elbows and hands on the sheets, his knees bent to hold him up. It’s been a while, with how much time they’ve spent in the field lately – neither of them is really in the mood for extended foreplay, and Jian doesn’t even try to slow Wren down when she wraps her thighs around his hips, reaches to find him and guides him into her. She shudders, tightens, and he tries to pull back, alarmed by the suddenness of it – her legs hold him in place as she rides out the orgasm, and he gasps at the feeling.
“Are you –?”
“No,” she says, hands skittering across the sheets, up his ribs, his arms, finding his lips and his ears and his shoulders, as if she can’t get enough of touching him. “Keep going.”
He doesn’t argue. It’s easier than it should be to forget the bugs and the storm and the ears that might hear them, and simply lose himself in her, in the fact of her still being alive.
“Thank you,” Jian says, taking the well-loved but still neatly folded blankets from the young woman’s hands. The falling rain is so loud against the roof of the building – or maybe ‘hill,’ it actually seems to be both – that he has to raise his voice for her to hear him. The windows, what there are of them, are all securely boarded up, and still the wind is strong enough that some of the harder gusts are making the panes rattle. “We should be fine with these.”
"You're welcome," the woman answers with a nod, short black hair falling into her eyes, and leaves, not saying anything more to him. He watches her go. She looked harried, dark circles under her eyes that had nothing to do with age and everything to do with too much responsibility. He wonders if one of the children they passed, sitting in a group in one of the central rooms while a tired man told them a story about pirates and a magical floating island in hushed tones, belongs to her. He suspects such is probably the case. She didn’t talk much when she took their muddy clothing to be washed, let them each rinse off quickly under a showerhead on the wall of what looked like an outhouse, gave them clean, dry clothes that don’t really fit, but are far better than the bug-and-ditch slimed ones they had on before. She looked like she needed someone to take some of the burden of life away from her – but then, don’t they all?
Jian closes the door, turns around. The room they’ve been given barely qualifies for the status of broom closet, but it has a door and he’s not complaining. It’s certainly better than some of the places they’ve stayed in, even if he can only just stand next to the twin bed – his knees are touching the edge, and if he leans back a bit his shoulders will hit the wall behind him. He sets the blankets down on the bed and looks at Wren, now that they’re alone and not out among unknown people.
She’s curled up on the far side of the mattress – which still isn’t very far away. She’s on her side, on top of the sheets and pressed as close to the wall as she can get without actually uncurling and stretching out against it. Her back is to him. He crawls up onto the bed, reaches out and puts his hand on her shoulder – she shudders under his touch, and her skin is hot, though she’s not sweating.
“Talk to me,” Jian murmurs softly, and Wren says nothing, is silent for a long, long time. Jian waits.
“Right now,” Wren finally replies, her voice tight and strained, “I want to rest.”
Jian looks at her for a moment, thinking about that, then rolls her over onto her back – she doesn’t resist him, moves easily under his hand on her shoulder and uncurls, stares up at him. Her pupils are huge, her lips dark, her cheeks flushed. Jian slides his hand along her shoulder to her neck, skipping over the strap of her borrowed tank top. Her mouth opens a little, and that’s all he needs to know the suspicion that’s been floating in the back of his mind ever since he saw her holding onto the roof of the Chevy to steady herself is right.
“There was something more than just anti-venom in his saliva, wasn’t there?”
“I think so,” she gasps, closes her eyes. “I–”
Jian leans down, covers her mouth with his, swallowing whatever she had been about to say. When he pulls back, she’s panting, her hand has come up and is gripping his shoulder hard enough that her fingers leave white marks on his skin. Jian lowers his head again, kisses her jaw, her earlobe, the side of her neck – he can feel her pulse hammering under his lips, hot and strong and not lethally fast, and he bites down, lightly, just hard enough to leave a red mark, but not to bruise. Wren moans then, her hand on his shoulder moving up and tangling in his damp hair, not quite pulling at it, fingers spread to cradle the back of his head.
He shifts, stretches out on the tiny bed, half on top of her as much from lack of space as from desire, and finds her mouth with his again. He whispers into her lips, “Will this help?”
“I-don’t-know,” she says, the words coming out in a breathless rush. “Maybe. I think so.” She twists underneath him, squirms, and then plants her hands on his chest and pushes him back, hauls the borrowed green t-shirt up over his head, throws it against the wall – it slides down and hits the floor. Jian gets his thumbs under the edge of her tank top, works it up the length of her stomach and ribcage – she arches under him, helping him, then raises her shoulders just enough to let him pull it off of her. It joins the green shirt over by the door, and she yanks him back down and they’re skin to skin and it doesn’t matter that they’re in a swamp in a house full of people they don’t know, that there’s an almost-hurricane outside, that Wren’s forearms and hands are wrapped in gauze, that their earpieces are fried, knocked out by some kind of EMP on the property. All that matters is Wren, here, underneath him, her hands hunting for the zipper on the too-large jeans he’s wearing and her stomach muscles tense and firm against his abs.
More squirming, awkward in the cramped space, and their pants hit the floor. He’s braced over her, his elbows and hands on the sheets, his knees bent to hold him up. It’s been a while, with how much time they’ve spent in the field lately – neither of them is really in the mood for extended foreplay, and Jian doesn’t even try to slow Wren down when she wraps her thighs around his hips, reaches to find him and guides him into her. She shudders, tightens, and he tries to pull back, alarmed by the suddenness of it – her legs hold him in place as she rides out the orgasm, and he gasps at the feeling.
“Are you –?”
“No,” she says, hands skittering across the sheets, up his ribs, his arms, finding his lips and his ears and his shoulders, as if she can’t get enough of touching him. “Keep going.”
He doesn’t argue. It’s easier than it should be to forget the bugs and the storm and the ears that might hear them, and simply lose himself in her, in the fact of her still being alive.
