2040-09-02 Celebrations

From X-Factor

Date Posted 2015/08/17
Location India
Participants Ciel, Rohan
Summary Ciel and Rohan celebrate. By which we mean they get it on.
Mild sexytimes.
It's been a good day. By which we mean the as-yet-unnamed mercenary company has managed to accomplish their goal for the day, which started as a sneaky-raid into a warehouse and ended up in the sort of fight in which no one on their side got seriously hurt and everyone got to feel very heroic for at least a moment, and have now stumbled back to their compound, flushed with success, and have broken out the beer. An impromptu party is in full swing, complete with loud singing and a great deal of making out. Rohan, on the other hand, is sitting outside at the back, beer in hand, looking uncharacteristically thoughtful.

"Oh, come on, tiger." The relative quiet of the outdoors is broken first by the rise in volume of the festivities inside as the door swings open, and then by Ciel's voice, warmly amused and just slightly touched with the fuzz of alcohol. "Don't tell me /you/ don't do parties." She steps forward, moving down a step or two before she turns to face him with a tilt of her head. The colored streak in her hair is brilliant blue today, a stark contrast to all the tight black she's wearing. She tilts a hip, digging into her back pocket to pull a pack of cigarettes free as she watches him. "I thought you'd be in there dancing with your hands half up someone's skirt.

Rohan snorts in reply, and lifts a foot, kicking the chair beside him in invitation. "_Half_ up someone's skirt?" he asks with a lift of his dark brows. "Give me some credit. It's all or nothing."

"Mmm," Ciel answers, her smile curving warm behind the sudden glow of a flame as she brings a lighter to her lips to breathe a cigarette to life. "Fair point." She turns as she tucks the lighter away again, dropping her weight into a heavy slouch in the offered chair. She takes a slow, deep inhale, then turns a look sideways after him and, after a moment, extends her cigarette in querying off, brows quirked upward.

"No smoke rings tonight?" wonders Rohan, his voice a low rumbe. He reaches out for the cigarette, and adds, "Embarrassing confession of the day--even a rubbish telepath like me sometimes gets a bit exhausted with so many minds so close." He gives her a slow glance over by the light of the cigarette, taking close note of that tight black. "I do like my present company, though."

"I could manage a few, if you really want," Ciel answers. Her smile is slow and appreciative as she watches the wrap of his lips around her cigarette, and after a beat she digs another free and cups her hands around her lighter again. She tilts her head back to breathe a stream of smoke into the sky, then dissipates it with a breathy laugh. "Oooh," she says, "/smooth/. Very nice. Stir up a little sympathy, then slide right in with the compliment." She turns her head, face still tilted up to the night sky, to look at him with a lazy warmth that takes her teasing from friendly to vaguely flirtatious.

"Practice," replies Rohan, smoke and a smile playing around his mouth. He leans toward her, the legs of his chair scraping on the concrete below as he drags it just a little bit closer. "Man of the world, I am. Practically James Bond." He watches her, close, eyes lingering on the length of her throat as she tilts her head back.

"Now that's just insulting," Ciel answers in a slow drawl. She drags her gaze down to look at him more properly.

"Now that's just insulting," Ciel answers in a slow drawl. She drags her gaze down to look at him more properly. "If you're James Bond, what is that supposed to make me?

Rohan thinks about that. At length, tilting his head back to exhale his smoke before glancing back at her. He flashes her a quick grin, brilliant in the dimness. "I have no idea. I never did manage to watch a Bond film properly, all the way through."

"Well," Ciel starts, letting her gaze linger on that grin with an easy smile of her own. "The girls in those films are hot, sure. Sometimes they're not complete and total morons. But they're always second or third or fourth fiddle, and their primary job is to fuck the hero." Her brows sweep up as she tilts her head at him. "So you're not trying to tell me something, hm?

Rohan's grin only grows. "Well, Sky," he says, all very reasonable and rational, "You are very hot. You are very much not a moron. And you are certainly not second or third (and definitely not fourth) fiddle." He leans a little closer, grin still bright, eyes dancing a little in the light of the cigarette. "As for fucking the hero..." he murmurs, teasingly.

"I'm sure as hell not," Ciel agrees. She watches his lean without movement save for the draw of her breath, the slow trickle of smoke from the corner of her mouth. There is no shame in the angle of her gaze, which drops to the curve of his lips, the shape of that grin. When she does move, it's sudden and decisive. She rises from her chair in a fluid motion, all easy, confident grace, and a neat twist deposits her in Rohan's lap instead, a leg on either side of his hips. She leans into him, her hair a dark tangle of a curtain on one side as she crosses her arms behind his neck. Her cigarette dangles loose between the press of two fingers, and her breath is hot against his skin as she pauses close.

Rohan is startled; the surprise shows in a brief pause between breaths, before they deepen. He is far from displeased, however, tossing his cigarette aside (let's hope he doesn't start any fires), and settling his hands on her hips, fingers moulding to her curves. His eyes catch on hers, his breath mingling with hers, and instead of speaking, he simply closes the distance between them to claim her lips, all his lazy teasing turned sudden hot desire.

Ciel laughs, which is maybe not the most flattering of responses. Her breath flares hot against his cheek as she turns from the kiss after the briefest of indulgences, and she lifts one hand to twist her fingers deep and tight in his hair. She uses the grip to leverage his head back a touch, and for a moment she simply stares down at him, her eyes a little wild. "Is this what it's like out here?" she asks eventually, her voice a whisper in the darkness.

Rohan stares back at him, heat behind his dark eyes, his fingers tight around the curve of her hip. "Yes," he says bluntly, his voice just as soft. "But sometimes it surprises you."

"God," Ciel breathes, shaking her head in a riot of dark, tangled waves as she lowers her mouth to his, "I'm /sick/ of surprises." She catches his lips on another bubble of laughter, dark and wild. The sound disappears in the heated clash of lips and tongue and teeth, and she looses her hard grip on his hair to drag her hand downward between them.

Rohan doesn't ask. Not about the surprises, not about her laughter. He is far more interested in learning her, losing himself in that kiss, his hands sliding upward, underneath her shirt, gun-hardened fingers teasing at her tender skin.

Ciel wiggles her approval, encouraging the exploration of his hands without the slightest hesitation and no apparent concern for the party raging just behind them. Her fingers flick her cigarette free toward the safety of concrete stairs, and then she has both hands free, which makes unbuttoning his fly far easier. She breaks their kiss long enough to drag her teeth against his earlobe, walking the thin line between pleasure and pain.

Rohan's breath catches at the touch of her teeth against his earlobe, a breathy little gasp. His hands are exploring beneath her shirt, up along the curve of her back, around to brush her breasts, lingering there a moment before they end back down, this time ghosting along her stomach on their way down to unfasten her pants. He squirms beneath her, adjusting his position just so.

"Shit," Ciel breathes, and there's her laugh again, though this time it's lacking that wild edge. "Should've worn a skirt." She leans in to nip at his bottom lip, fingers all sorts of familiar below, and then she pulls back with his hand caught in hers. She draws him to his feet as she turns, shirt rucked up and pants undone, to step into a portal. It takes three to get them from party to one-room apartment, from roof to roof to bed, where they spill out in a tumble of eager hands and instantly unbalance into a downward topple atop the tangled sheets. Clothes disappear with remarkable speed, leaving them to learn all sorts of new facts about each other in fascinated exploration. It is a delightfully long night.

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