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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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?

Wanda tipped her head up just enough to see him better, and somehow, the sight of him kissing her ended up being just as potent a turn-on as the feel of it, and while she was doing what she felt was an admirable job of keeping her breathing even, it nevertheless came in heavy intakes, the rise and fall of her chest visible even to her. Her hands flowing incessantly across shoulders and arms, trying to memorize the feel of him, so different from what she was used to and yet everything she'd come to want; it wasn't nearly enough, and she brought a leg up to run her foot along the back of his thigh (her sandals having been lost somewhere along the way to the bedroom), any additional point of contact serving as a lifeline, even with their bodies pressed together that way.

In the back of his mind, there's that nudging reminder to pace himself, to not take this too fast or be too hasty - for as much as he believes it could never happen, there's a very slim possibility that all this excitement could trigger something a lot worse. And yet he doesn't want to stop, for her sake as well as his own, because when he nuzzles his cheek against the swell of a breast and marvels at the softness of her, he realizes he could very well get used to worshipping her in this way. His hands are already, albeit tentatively, seeking to remove the barriers of clothing from skin despite not being undressed himself.

Wanda sat up a bit, eager to help him along, hurry him up, anything just to keep moving, keep on pushing for that intangible more that kept running through her head. Even still, it was difficult to resist the urge to just bend down and kiss him again, to drag him back up and drape herself in him.

He lets her pull him up when she beckons, realizing he wants to cover her as much as she might need him to do it - even if it means leaving the task he originally set out to accomplish unfinished for the time being. But he still can't resist letting one hand ghost down, thumbing the curve of her hipbone, just enough for it to be felt.

It was a strange sort of relief to have him there, surrounding her in a way that she could really see herself getting used to (untrue, maybe, but not in the moment), and Wanda sighed against his mouth, contended save for the way her hips pressed needfully up against him at his touch, however light.

The tiny voice in the back of his head is driving him on towards more, more - but he stops himself, refrains from doing anything too suddenly or forcefully until she gives him the go-ahead, whether verbally or otherwise. The push of her hips against his hand, though, is pretty easy to interpret, and while he may not be the most dexterous sometimes, he can still manage his way around buttons and zippers with only one hand to use while the other threads into her hair, tangling in silver strands.

It was almost as if she'd been in something of a trance from the start, but this was all finally starting to feel more real by the second, and Wanda's heart beat a quick, frantic tattoo as she took her hands off of him just long enough to help push her shorts down her hips, silently cursing herself for wearing something so tight. Awkward shimmying wasn't sexy, even if it did grant a little extra friction. It wasn't as if wanting to get them off in a hurry had a been concern of hers that morning, though.

Now he's starting to realize how very overdressed he is in comparison - but then again, he's more distracted by her state at the moment to care too much, and once again he lets his mouth descend, kissing her gently yet with purpose, moving over her collarbone, the swell of a breast, the smoothness of her abdomen. In the end, though, he hesitates near her hip, glancing up at her, as if waiting for some kind of acquiescence, even if it's only in her gaze.

The day was still warm, his touch still burned, but a shiver ran through her nonetheless as he trailed kisses across her body, drawing lower. Wanda wouldn't tear her eyes away from him to save her own life, and by the time his look met hers, there was only one thing on her mind, let alone her tongue.

"Bruce," she murmured, the end of the syllable turning up as if it were a question, practically pleading as she ran a hand lightly through his hair. She was aching for him.

That word - his name, but more importantly, the way she utters it - is like a direct tether to what beats behind his ribcage, beating hard enough to feel akin to exploding, and it's all because of the way she looks at him and speaks - begging, breathless.

He turns his face away, muffling an audible groan against her hip even as he coaxes his way between her legs, nudging one shoulder under her thigh. She's beautiful, aching, wanting, and he can't obey anything else but the drive of his own need. There's no self-doubt, no-fear. It all washes away the moment he puts his mouth to her to taste for the first time.

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