[She's about to argue the point; that it does matter, because Eddie invited her in, and hasn't let her go. But she's in the brothel already, feeling awkward in her own skin. Maybe she should have made more of an effort beyond brushing her hair. She's in lace up britches, a sweater, the usual braids. Less 'booty call' and more 'grocery run.'
The polite thing to do is knock on Kovacs' door, which she does. The other polite thing to do would be to wait, which she also does. ]
[Bemused, one eyebrow ticked upwards as he opens the door. Steps away immediately, moving back over to a bureau on one side of the room, the myriad of bottles and decanters there. In his usual work dress, he's shirtless, loose pants, easily confident in the space.]
Some of us are polite, [is the easy snark she sends back while she does a very quick look around while his back is turned. She hasn't been in any of the rooms at all and has been curious about what to expect inside the brothel, expected decadence.
She wasn't expecting it - or Takeshi - to be moderately lived in. ] Yes, please. [Then: ] Only if you are, though.
[The face he makes back is similar, though it's dosed with an edge of kids these days.]
Wanting something so badly it hurts, but you can't reach it, can't feel it the way you need to. Minutes feeling like hours. Days. Until you think you're just about going to lose your mind.
[He describes it slow, steady, deliberately evocative.
Then he takes a sip of his drink and moves to sit on one of the loveseats.]
I've seen the way you go at the festivals. If no one's given you that experience in the ropes, you should amend that.
[Sad. Unhappy, lingering want. She sips, she watches Takeshi Kovacs sit, and she knows that she has felt yearning more than once. Yearning is just longing, in the dictionary of Jem Walker. She takes another sip and then places the glass down, and she goes to him.
One knee at his thigh, the other on the opposite. She settles onto him, a hand at his shoulder, a knuckle at his chin. ] Longing is lonely. It's miserable. I don't like it.
[It's better already, he thinks, as she evidently makes a decision. Comes to him with confidence. She's pushing at something, though. A truth that maybe she'd gleaned from his mind, in the tangle and pulse of the connection the spores had strung between them.
He doesn't turn away from it. Chin tipped up by her touch, he meets her eyes steadily.]
It can be.
[Lonely, and miserable. Like grief, a weight and a wound carried forever.
His hands find her hips. Pull her more firmly down over him.]
Unless you know the other person's longing, too. That you'll both find relief, eventually.
Never pegged you as such an optimistic romantic, Takeshi.
[There's a quip to her mouth; a cheeky smile emerging. Her thumb brushes over his bottom lip, and up close, he isn't any less handsome. He's full of angles, emerging fine lines; Takeshi Kovacs is a solid mass of a man, and he's beautiful, and under all of that, he's a terrible, soppy, romantic.
She kisses him, after a moment. It's slow, it's careful. It's the first time she's kissed him with all her wits about her; without the thread of transformation immediate and terrifying. He tastes like a lifetime of cigarettes. He tastes like night cap, like lingering ash, just like the caves. It's grounding, it's lovely. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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i'll be 1 min
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Door's open.
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The polite thing to do is knock on Kovacs' door, which she does. The other polite thing to do would be to wait, which she also does. ]
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[Bemused, one eyebrow ticked upwards as he opens the door. Steps away immediately, moving back over to a bureau on one side of the room, the myriad of bottles and decanters there. In his usual work dress, he's shirtless, loose pants, easily confident in the space.]
Drink?
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She wasn't expecting it - or Takeshi - to be moderately lived in. ] Yes, please. [Then: ] Only if you are, though.
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Tell me about these dreams.
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Now who's bad at sexting?
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[She makes a little face, all scrunched nose and irritated eye roll, like yearning is completely uncool and beneath her, actually. ]
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[The face he makes back is similar, though it's dosed with an edge of kids these days.]
Wanting something so badly it hurts, but you can't reach it, can't feel it the way you need to. Minutes feeling like hours. Days. Until you think you're just about going to lose your mind.
[He describes it slow, steady, deliberately evocative.
Then he takes a sip of his drink and moves to sit on one of the loveseats.]
I've seen the way you go at the festivals. If no one's given you that experience in the ropes, you should amend that.
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[Sad. Unhappy, lingering want. She sips, she watches Takeshi Kovacs sit, and she knows that she has felt yearning more than once. Yearning is just longing, in the dictionary of Jem Walker. She takes another sip and then places the glass down, and she goes to him.
One knee at his thigh, the other on the opposite. She settles onto him, a hand at his shoulder, a knuckle at his chin. ] Longing is lonely. It's miserable. I don't like it.
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He doesn't turn away from it. Chin tipped up by her touch, he meets her eyes steadily.]
It can be.
[Lonely, and miserable. Like grief, a weight and a wound carried forever.
His hands find her hips. Pull her more firmly down over him.]
Unless you know the other person's longing, too. That you'll both find relief, eventually.
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[There's a quip to her mouth; a cheeky smile emerging. Her thumb brushes over his bottom lip, and up close, he isn't any less handsome. He's full of angles, emerging fine lines; Takeshi Kovacs is a solid mass of a man, and he's beautiful, and under all of that, he's a terrible, soppy, romantic.
She kisses him, after a moment. It's slow, it's careful. It's the first time she's kissed him with all her wits about her; without the thread of transformation immediate and terrifying. He tastes like a lifetime of cigarettes. He tastes like night cap, like lingering ash, just like the caves. It's grounding, it's lovely. ]