She traces his spine with her thumb, listening to his breath hitch.
He smells like soap, the clean cutting through day-old Chinese food and gun oil. It's all she can do not to give in when he shivers, all she can do not to use her fingers – rough the way he likes it when it's just the two of them, his forehead resting on his hands. Rough the way he likes it when there's no cocky grin and there's no teasing smile, just his groans spilling out every time she moves.
It's all she can do not to fuck him, hard and fast, with her fingers digging into his hips. Sharing the sting and the hiss as she pushes the head deep inside, just want and need and him thrumming inside her belly when they move against each other.
She's not the girl who's supposed to want, old ghosts whispering 'wicked little girls like you grow up into wicked witchy women' every time she touches him. Old ghosts telling her that Jezebel had red hair like hers and that Jezebel is the bible's most famous whore, that she's marked by sin no matter how hard she scrubs herself clean every morning.
And the ghosts recite their litanies in the dark.
But she wants.
She wants to watch the way his body arches, the stretch and the pull – the way his sweat glistens across the hard edges and the curves, picking up the flicker from her stolen candle. Feeling want and need and him holding her together as she drops like a stone, falling down deep until there's nothing left inside but the sound of his voice saying her name, the sound of his voice full of want and need and her as he breaks against her fingers.
Nipping her way down his spine, she presses her lips into the small of his back, still damp hair brushing his skin. There's something about the way he groans when her tongue swirls between his cheeks, pushing past the small ring of muscle until he rocks backwards with a hiss, that strikes the spark deep – a slow burn spreading between her thighs the faster his hips buck.
She's not the girl who makes men shudder. She's the phantom thing curled up on the shabby chair in a dusty library, the phantom thing who watches the world through a pane of cracked glass – just as broken as the window for all that she can cover it up. And she's not girl who makes men stutter ''shit and 'damn' and 'God' until all that's left is a moan and the soft sounds of her mouth fighting against the whir of the fan still running in the bathroom.
But it's her voice drawling 'going to fuck you, baby, going to fuck you so hard' as the sweet smell of lube fills the room. It's her voice telling him that she's going to ride him until he howls and that she's going to leave bruises in the shapes of her fingers, that he's going to be marked as hers a hundred different ways once she's done with him no matter how much her cheeks flush when the words spill out of her mouth.
She watches the pulse at his neck keep time with the blood rushing through her veins, her breath catching right along with his when the tip of the dildo finds its mark.
"How hard do you want it, baby?" she asks softly.
It comes out somewhere between a gasp and a growl, his hands fisting the comforter as she thrusts – slow inch by slow inch – until his knuckles go white. "How hard?" she says, feeling the tremble through his hips while she waits, watching the bow of his shoulders when he lowers his head.
"Hard as fuck."
And he pushes backwards when she pulls out just as slowly as she thrusts in, still pushing backwards when it's her hips bucking as fast as they can – her fingers digging into flesh and leaving white crescents behind. Her skin sings, the twist of scars across her belly stretching as she reaches around to grab his cock. Her skin sings, her muscles clenching around the silicone deep in her pussy. Her skin sings, feeling the flood overflowing through her fingers with a 'yours, you - shit' as he comes and ropy strands spill onto the comforter underneath them.
The bathroom fan sputters when she collapses next to him, loose-limbed and sweaty and wishing she could start all over again because it's him and he's there and he's hers and no amount of talking will convince him that he's the only one she wants when the whole goddamn thing is over. No amount of talking can convince him that the little moments they're given, sneaking past the gun oil and day-old Chinese food, are the ones that matter – that he's always going to be the one she wants no matter how they end up.
But he's got ghosts of his own.
They don't say anything, staring back at her out of his eyes.
She already knows them like she knows her own. The little boy and the fire and the baby in his arms. The dark-haired girl who rejects him twice, carrying a part of him that she will never have for all that it's over. The silent scream inside his head as he feels the knife slice his mother's belly wide open, the silent scream and the crackle of fire that sings him to sleep every night.
He doesn't say anything, just watches her with unguarded eyes – and the room fills up with nameless women, thrashing on top of him while he thumbs their clits or bunching sheets in their hands while his head bobs between their legs. There's more of them than there are of her, their nails scratching his back and their voices crying out the fake names he gives them.
There's more of them, even though it starts being her the night a demon's poison worms its way into their bones. It starts being her the morning she slides a piece of toast into his mouth covered with strawberry jam, her cheeks turning bright red when he sucks the sugar off of her fingers. It's always been her after she kisses him back, both of them covered in sweat and blood and the memories of children whose hearts are strong enough to feed one of the old ones left behind to fend for themselves when the Grigori abandoned them.
Even though she's the nice girl, the one who sneaks sandwiches into libraries and ends up getting mustard on her white uniform shirt that she covers up with her green uniform sweater. Even though she's the nice girl who wears a pink pom-pom hat in the winter and waddles like a duck when it snows to keep from falling on her ass.
And a girl like her isn't supposed to want a man like him.
That's what his old ghosts would say if they could talk.
But he's not a man who listens to words, finding his answers in the bloody half-moons on his hips and the way she licks his come off of her fingers. She can't stop the flush that spreads through her when he suddenly grins, tugging on one of the harness' buckles, loosening it until he can slip it off. Licking his lips with the promise of his tongue inside of her as the dildo slides out with a soft, moist sound.
He curls two fingers into the slick and the salt, waiting for her breath to hitch.