[Fic] Strip Show
Aug. 31st, 2010 10:10 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kittydesadeTitle: Strip Show
Fandom: The Losers
Characters: Clay/Aisha
Word Count: 850
Rating: R
Summary: Aisha comes home after a mission rather beat up. Clay wants to make sure she's not further injured. No, really.
A/N: Written for the![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kink_bingo prompt "Exposure/Striptease"
"I'm fine."
"Bullshit."
It wasn't an argument yet. It could quickly become one. Aisha had come back from this meeting with one of her contacts on her own power and without escort, clandestine or otherwise, which was better than she'd managed the last time. But she still looked rough. She had a bruise on one cheek with a cut in the middle that was still tacky with blood, and she carried herself like she had other bruises or sprains elsewhere. Clay wasn't happy about that. She hadn't really expected him to be.
But of course she was being stubborn about letting anyone know. She was independent, and fierce in her assertion that she could handle herself despite no longer needing to. Clay sighed. She folded her arms. It'd take time for both of them to get used to each other, as he'd already had hammered into his head once. Thank god for Cougar. She hadn't been up to that kind of talk after the second or third go-round.
"You want me to prove it?" This time, she was taking his concern with good grace. The sway of her hips as she advanced on him said that 'prove it' meant throwing him to the bed and having her way with him. Which was damn appealing.
But he had other things in mind, first. "Sure. Strip."
Her eyebrows shot up. "That an order?"
"Do you need it to be?"
Some people did like to play those games. She preferred the ones where she argued back. "Not tonight." Which was both reassurance and admission, that she was all right and that she wasn't up to the usual strength of their games tonight. A striptease, though, that he could have. Hell, she'd make that make it worth all their usual violent foreplay.
Starting at the waist. Unbuckling her belt and slipping it out of the loops where normally she would just unbuckle it and drop trou. Now she opened it and slid it out of her jeans slowly and taking care to make the leather rasp on the loops. Even if he didn't know precisely why the sound teased along his nerves, he felt the effects. Her belt laid to one side, she popped the top button on her pants and shimmied them down along her hips so that when she stood, she eased and rolled up to her full height, exposing the length of her legs.
And they weren't perfect. There were tiny scars, on the bottoms of her feet if you looked close enough to tell, one on the back of her ankle. But he found them beautiful, and she was comfortable with them, and that was what mattered.
Tonight, they were less than usual. Dark bruises colored over her thighs, three of them, one of them big enough for him to span with his hand (which he did) and he looked up at her with an arched eyebrow. Aisha slid her hand down over his, curling her fingers into his before lifting his hand away. "Look, don't touch," she told him. "This isn't the touching part."
He gave her a look that was equal parts amusement and concern. Amusement overtook the concern when she showed much-diminished stiffness as she stepped over his knee and away again.
And then something else again, as she took another step back and began to unzip her jacket. Taking her time about it, fingers curled around the zipper pull to suggest delicacy and stroking more than one quick yank and have it off. By the time she was down to her camisole top and panties he wasn't smiling anymore, though not for lack of good humor. His eyes were focused on her hands and her face, and what she was doing. Not, either, on the large, hand-shaped bruise on her arm, for which she was very thankful.
Aisha moved forward, straddling his thighs, knees pressed into the couch. It was hard to balance the way she was seated, would have worked better if he'd been holding her over him but she'd told him no touching. And this still wasn't the touching part. This was the reminiscing part, their first time together in a boxcar with both of them half-drunk on cheap booze. Tipsy, anyway. They'd had a glass each or so and it had quickly gone from there. And she'd straddled his lap then, too, with his warm hands on her ribs and peeled off her camisole top. Like she was doing now. The way she remembered it, he loved to bury his face and mouth over her neck and breasts.
"Okay, fine," she breathed a chuckle, when his expression turned more like a pleading puppy after she was down to her panties. "I guess that makes this the touching part."
"Oh goodie," he smirked, arms sliding around her waist and pulling her in close.
She noticed that, even by the time they were almost ripping her panties off, that he was careful of all her bruises and all her little cuts and gashes. But it didn't stop him from making love to her as fiercely as the first time.
Fandom: The Losers
Characters: Clay/Aisha
Word Count: 850
Rating: R
Summary: Aisha comes home after a mission rather beat up. Clay wants to make sure she's not further injured. No, really.
A/N: Written for the
kink_bingo prompt "Exposure/Striptease""I'm fine."
"Bullshit."
It wasn't an argument yet. It could quickly become one. Aisha had come back from this meeting with one of her contacts on her own power and without escort, clandestine or otherwise, which was better than she'd managed the last time. But she still looked rough. She had a bruise on one cheek with a cut in the middle that was still tacky with blood, and she carried herself like she had other bruises or sprains elsewhere. Clay wasn't happy about that. She hadn't really expected him to be.
But of course she was being stubborn about letting anyone know. She was independent, and fierce in her assertion that she could handle herself despite no longer needing to. Clay sighed. She folded her arms. It'd take time for both of them to get used to each other, as he'd already had hammered into his head once. Thank god for Cougar. She hadn't been up to that kind of talk after the second or third go-round.
"You want me to prove it?" This time, she was taking his concern with good grace. The sway of her hips as she advanced on him said that 'prove it' meant throwing him to the bed and having her way with him. Which was damn appealing.
But he had other things in mind, first. "Sure. Strip."
Her eyebrows shot up. "That an order?"
"Do you need it to be?"
Some people did like to play those games. She preferred the ones where she argued back. "Not tonight." Which was both reassurance and admission, that she was all right and that she wasn't up to the usual strength of their games tonight. A striptease, though, that he could have. Hell, she'd make that make it worth all their usual violent foreplay.
Starting at the waist. Unbuckling her belt and slipping it out of the loops where normally she would just unbuckle it and drop trou. Now she opened it and slid it out of her jeans slowly and taking care to make the leather rasp on the loops. Even if he didn't know precisely why the sound teased along his nerves, he felt the effects. Her belt laid to one side, she popped the top button on her pants and shimmied them down along her hips so that when she stood, she eased and rolled up to her full height, exposing the length of her legs.
And they weren't perfect. There were tiny scars, on the bottoms of her feet if you looked close enough to tell, one on the back of her ankle. But he found them beautiful, and she was comfortable with them, and that was what mattered.
Tonight, they were less than usual. Dark bruises colored over her thighs, three of them, one of them big enough for him to span with his hand (which he did) and he looked up at her with an arched eyebrow. Aisha slid her hand down over his, curling her fingers into his before lifting his hand away. "Look, don't touch," she told him. "This isn't the touching part."
He gave her a look that was equal parts amusement and concern. Amusement overtook the concern when she showed much-diminished stiffness as she stepped over his knee and away again.
And then something else again, as she took another step back and began to unzip her jacket. Taking her time about it, fingers curled around the zipper pull to suggest delicacy and stroking more than one quick yank and have it off. By the time she was down to her camisole top and panties he wasn't smiling anymore, though not for lack of good humor. His eyes were focused on her hands and her face, and what she was doing. Not, either, on the large, hand-shaped bruise on her arm, for which she was very thankful.
Aisha moved forward, straddling his thighs, knees pressed into the couch. It was hard to balance the way she was seated, would have worked better if he'd been holding her over him but she'd told him no touching. And this still wasn't the touching part. This was the reminiscing part, their first time together in a boxcar with both of them half-drunk on cheap booze. Tipsy, anyway. They'd had a glass each or so and it had quickly gone from there. And she'd straddled his lap then, too, with his warm hands on her ribs and peeled off her camisole top. Like she was doing now. The way she remembered it, he loved to bury his face and mouth over her neck and breasts.
"Okay, fine," she breathed a chuckle, when his expression turned more like a pleading puppy after she was down to her panties. "I guess that makes this the touching part."
"Oh goodie," he smirked, arms sliding around her waist and pulling her in close.
She noticed that, even by the time they were almost ripping her panties off, that he was careful of all her bruises and all her little cuts and gashes. But it didn't stop him from making love to her as fiercely as the first time.