Back to the Disaster
by ALC Punk!

Or, not fingers. He isn't really sure that telekinesis has any sort of corporeal form, but that doesn't disconcert him as he works his fine telekinetic motor control and makes her skin shiver.

"Bastard." But the words are feeble, because she certainly doesn't object to it when his hands join in sliding here and there across her body. And he likes her body, although he sometimes thinks she's too thin. But then it's all muscle underneath the pale skin. He knows the moment she's woken enough to fully participate, because her hands grab for his head and her lips meet his.

There's passion and lust and a little bit of self-hate in the first kiss. Then the self-hate disappears because she has moved her hands and one of them is right *there*.

Morning sex with Domino is always less acrobatic than night sex. Because they're both getting older, and also because they're both cranky and tired. And also because it's just a little more satisfying to look into amethyst eyes in the dawn light, and know that she's not going anywhere.

Even if that last bit is him lying to himself and merely hoping.

He would never force her to stay.

By the time any of this filters through his brain, they've moved past the kissing and she's straddling him, slim fingers tugging at parts of his anatomy while he uses his telekinesis to stroke air across her nipples. At some point he will become too distracted to have such fine control and he'll stop using it. But right now, it's like having extra hands. Something she has almost always appreciated.

"Fuck." The word comes out drawn-out with a strange accent that will make it sound like 'faaack', and he'll know she's ready and push up while she pushes down.

His own voice says something in Askani, probably. Or he'll even resort to Russian or French (if he's feeling silly).

By the time they've reached the pinnacle, they'll have rolled and moved, and maybe he's got her sitting up on him, or they fell off the bed and she's leaning on the mattress until his legs give out and they collapse again. Or she's underneath him, writhing and desperate. It can go a dozen different ways, and he likes them all.

She almost always comes before him, and that always makes him really smug.

Usually the smugness earns him a smack, but he takes it, because once he's come down from his own high, he knows he can stroke her back to orgasm with a flick of his mind. He likes to hear her curse at him while her body shudders from a hundred different tiny touches.

At some level, he remembers that it didn't used to be this antagonistic. But he kind of doesn't mind.

Perhaps they've both been through hell and back, or heaven simply doesn't exist for them. He doesn't really dwell on it, much.

Neither does she, if she dwells on anything at all.

Breakfast usually ends up being late, with the toast half-burnt (Dom blames the toaster oven, and thinks the coffee-maker is out to get her) and the eggs runny. Or if he's making pancakes, he'll get distracted, and the last batch will burn themselves to a crisp. She claims since he cooks he should do all the damned dishes.

He figures that's fair, as long as she vacuums in the nude.

Of course, he never asks where she goes during the weekends. And she never asks what he does during the week. It's an equitable exchange. They don't really talk much, their communication is mostly by touch and taste and smell. And sometimes, he knows when she's been out on another hit from the gun oil on her skin and the powder burns in her clothes.

There's no reason to object--there rarely has been. He would never stop her from being who she is. He tried that, once, and he let her go.

And she's come back to him, but she's different.

Not that he's any better. Broken-down finished Messiah in a world that doesn't need him.

Sometimes, he knows she's his only reason for living.

But the morning sex is what keeps her there.

-finis-

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© 2005 ALC Punk!