soulthatwanders | [for Bruce]

[for Bruce]

It's only weird if you make it weird. Don't make it weird.

With that thought firmly in mind, Wanda took a deep breath and knocked on Bruce's door, jacket slung carefully over one arm. She'd put the task of returning it off for as long as she could because she'd secretly been hoping that it might disappear with the rest of Manhattan and she'd be off the hook, but it was apparently native. No such luck there.

Not that she wanted to avoid him forever, of course, but she really had no idea how it might go, and as far as she was concerned, New Year's had proved that her judgment was apparently weirdly impaired where he was concerned. Still, as long as she didn't make a big deal out of anything that had gone down (which was pretty much nothing, anyway), she was fairly sure it would be fine. Why wouldn't it?

"Anyone home?"

Not weird.

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"Oh - " Bruce gets out, but only just barely, because then he finds his mouth very thoroughly occupied again, his arms encircling her a little more when she steps forward, close enough for him to feel the soft curve of her shape against his own. His hand smooths down her back, tracing her spine slowly, and the only reason he breaks away this time is to kiss her jawline and the side of her neck, nuzzling over the softness of her skin.

Wanda gasped again, tipping her head back and to the side because hello, apparently she was a lot more sensitive to that sort of thing than she remembered being. One hand still clutching absently in the back of his shirt, the other crept up to the nape of his neck, drawn in by the warmth of his skin and the distraction it offered as she struggled to keep her breathing steady.

She's intoxicating. How could he have missed this for so long? She's in his arms now and he doesn't even know how he never realized what was right within his reach. That gasp of hers is the exact reaction he's hoping for, and he nips against her pulse point as it flutters to the touch with every heartbeat. She's breathless, and he's not faring much better as his fingertips press into her body and he loses himself in her scent, her responsiveness.

She wanted to press forward against him and back into his touch all at once, so Wanda settled for just arching her back at the dig of his fingers while her own carded up through his hair in a slow, stilted motion. A moan slipped from her lips at the continued ministrations of his mouth, a high, needy sound that she only barely recognized as her own voice.

He wants to say something, wants to tell her so that she knows she's incredible, amazing. But he's drowning in her and he's worried any words are just going to snap them out of this haze they continue to fuel by giving in to each other's touch. He can barely curb a shudder from the sensation of her fingers in his hair, and his mouth finds hers again, hungry and wanting, his hands anchoring low on her hips as he pulls them into his.

She moaned again, lower this time and muffled against his mouth, his tongue. How the hell was this the same man who had seemed terrified to touch her, even innocently, only days ago?

Wanda wouldn't have been able to speak even if she tried; there wasn't a single word left in her head. There was nothing in her but sensations and needs, like the one for further contact that sent her hand down to tug at the edge of his shirt, to roam against the skin at his lower back.

His heartbeat is a constant rush in his own head, only broken up by the sounds she makes, the ones that make him want to lean in to hear them as close as he can so he's the first one there the second they tumble from her lips. She's in his head by the way his body is starting to respond to her - stirring in ways he'd long been convinced he wasn't able to experience without serious risk.

There's nothing to bring him back to a reality - no heart monitor on his wrist, and the only dizzying sensation he has isn't at all like the feeling he gets before he slips into blackness, before the Hulk takes over. It's just the headiness of her warmth, her scent, her hand trailing against his skin, and he's fumbling behind her for purchase before guiding her up against a shelf, pressing her there needfully yet gently.

There was a small sound of surprise caught in her throat as her back hit the shelf, but she didn't disengage for an instant, pushing his shirt up a little higher and using the added stability behind her to pull him against her a little more forcefully, rolling her hips. She was wanton and desperate and if she could see how it looked, she likely wouldn't even recognize herself, but he'd gotten in under her skin somewhere along the line and she couldn't very well deny it anymore. Not now, anyway.

He can feel her coaxing his shirt up in the back, but a part of him isn't willing to pull away in order to pick up where she's left off. What he does is ease back to look at her, face still hovering close to her own while his hand cups her cheek tenderly and he traces the ripe red swell of her lower lip with the pad of his thumb.

It's soft and heated under his touch and he presses his lips there, soft brushes of his mouth that build into slight nips without any sharpness to them. He's touching her but not clutching at her, his hands roaming, exploring over her curves without being too invasive.

It almost wasn't enough, there being a moment where she could feel his eyes on her without that amazing distraction of his mouth and she needed more, but then there he was again. It was softer, but just as overwhelming in its way, his hands somehow seeming to be everywhere at once, pulling her attention in twenty different directions. Her own movements remained needy, the fingertips of both hands now sliding across skin, digging in, keeping him as close as possible.

It's almost too overwhelming, the caresses of her hands, the touch of her mouth. He wants to touch everywhere he can all at once, but there's only so many boundaries he wants to test without her giving the permission - even though, deep down, there's that part of him that wants to press harder, wants to completely consume her. He ducks down to kiss her neck, her clavicle, partly out of a need to hear more of those sounds from her lips as his fingers skim the hem of her blouse, dared by his own desire.

Wanda threw her head back, baring her throat to him, and for the second time, there might have well have been a third person in the room with them for all that she recognized the sounds she was making. Seeking out any additional point of contact she could, she slipped a leg out and hooked it around his, and while the movement was an odd one to her, foreign feeling, it did the trick nicely.

He opens his mouth to say something, anything and splutters on her name, lips only moving as far to form the W before the sound dies in his throat when she hooks him in with her leg. This can't be him. But maybe it is. Maybe this is what happens when he finally comes to terms with the other side of himself, learning to accept the other guy in his blood.

As nice as this is, though, she doesn't deserve to be pinned to the wall like this, and he slides his hands under her thighs, coaxing her up and away from the shelves.

With a soft gasp of surprise, Wanda let herself go along with the motion, slipping her arms up and over his shoulders for stability. It was all too much for her, too fast, but in the best possible way, and still she only ended up wanting more.

He swivels, moving to take her someplace else, any place else - and stops, too drawn in by the scent and the shape of her to do anything more than just hold her in this moment. "You're killing me," he whispers, syllables forming against her neck while he cards fingers through her hair. Even in a murmur, the words are full of longing, satisfaction and an ache that's begging to be sated with each passing second.

His words set a fire inside of her, and she wrapped herself more fully around him, clutching at him like a drowning woman. It felt like an eternity since she'd last spoken, and as her lips brushed against his ear, her whispered words were rougher, drawn out.

"Bedroom's in the back."

It's reckless, impulsive, and so many more things that he would've never believed about himself until now, but maybe he had just needed the right person to reveal it to him. Through the fog of lust her touch creates, his nerve endings singing when she whispers in his ear, he can't think of any reason not to do this.

He's carried her before, limp and almost lifeless, her face pale from loss of blood, but she's never felt more alive in his arms than she does here as he brings her into the bedroom. Somewhere along the way they get stuck at the doorframe when he pins her up against it with his hips, nudging her blouse over the flat plane of her abdomen.

It seemed like a lot to ask of her, having to break away from him for any reason, but after stealing another kiss and tightening her legs up around his waist, Wanda leaned back just enough to follow his lead in getting her top off. There was a little voice in the back of her head starting to make itself known, mostly just asking her what the hell she was doing, but as the answer was a fairly obvious one, it was simple enough to brush aside for now. It was a really quiet voice, anyway.

There might be a moment eventually when he snaps out of this, but now, he neither cares nor wants to find out if it'll happen. All he knows now is if he doesn't spend all the time he has learning the shape of her, he's going to regret it tomorrow. He shuffles a few more steps, taking them out of the doorway and into the bedroom, his hands spanning her back as his mouth returns to cover hers.

Her hands coming to rest on either side of his neck, Wanda threw herself against him again, luxuriating in the feel of him. It went beyond warmth at this point, it felt as if his touch should have been burning her, branding her, like there was no way she wouldn't still be feeling those hands on her tomorrow or a week from now. Exploring his mouth with lips and tongue, moaning encouragingly, it was all she could to goad him on as she rocked her body against his from her precarious position.

He's not the smoothest when it comes to pulling these things off, and so making it to the bed in one fluid movement isn't impossible - it's just a little tricky. He knows he's on the right track when his legs bump into the edge of the mattress, and reflex has him bending forward to gauge the right angle and hoping she'll hold on until he can lay her down gently. He's not apart from her long, sliding over her to cover her in his weight without crushing her, propping himself up on one elbow as he bends low to kiss over her chest.

Not long, but long enough for that little voice to come back and remind her of what she was doing, how much she'd almost certainly be regretting it later. But then he was back, too, on her with his mouth and his body and nope, just like that, she couldn't hear a thing anymore. Instead, she filled the silence with a breathy sigh as she stretched herself out beneath him on the bed, allowed herself to fully lose herself in the situation.

His hands firm over her hips, her sides, thumbs skimming over her ribcage as he spends the next several minutes committing the curves of her shape to memory by touch alone, his lips notched at her clavicle as he nuzzles against the hollow of her throat. He sighs when she does, breathing hot over her skin, and slowly descends over her body, kissing lower with each passing minute.

It was a rare thing for Wanda's mind to be completely blank, even on a good day, but it had been many years since she'd had anything like this to distract from the clutter in her head. Her entire world was suddenly focused like a laser, nothing else existing but Bruce and his hands and his mouth and the blood in her veins, rushing in her ears, pushing everything else farther away than she could possibly fathom. When she sighed again, it was his name on her lips as she ran her hands across his back, his arms, whatever she could reach, because what else was there?

It almost scares him to consider the possibility that he doesn't want to stop doing this, doesn't want to reach the point where he'll have to call it quits - because a part of him is worried, however selfishly, that she'll draw even further away from him in the aftermath, and then the longing will be worse. She's somehow permeated his own shields, like an infusion in his skin or a sickness that he doesn't want to get rid of. How can it be bad when it feels like this, with her arching underneath him when he kisses the valley between her breasts, her hands touching whatever she can reach?

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