- I don't know where we're going, he whispered as his lips slid way lower, kissing every patch of damaged skin on your back, the burns already healing. They didn't hurt so badly anymore, just tugged a little unpleasantly. Straight to hell, maybe.
- But it feels so right.
Sam started smoking before he'd even joined DARPA, made his first suit, or drawn his first blueprint - smoking was deeply ingrained in his life, and it seemed that the fresh air was beginning to poison him worse than any cigarette. But then you were assigned to him as his partner.
Then he was working on another drawing, holding the blueprint with one hand and the cigarette with the other. But when the fire was about to reach his fingers, he moved his hand aside and, out of habit, pressed the butt, as it seemed to him, into the table....
It was your hand.
He turned his gaze back to you - not a sound escaped your open lips as a small burn appeared on your skin. But no sooner had Sam apologized than you yourself touched your fingers to the redness, shook off the ash, and... pressed on. That's where it all started.
The bedclothes stick unpleasantly to the skin, crumpled mercilessly under the weight of two bodies. The air is stale, stinking of sweat and the smoke of a cigarette flickering in the dark. You lie on the bed. The slight rustling, the sights, the heavy breathing of the man pressing against you from behind - all of it blending as his stubble lightly tickles your neck, leaving a kiss on your collarbones and bringing the cigarette to your hand on the pillow. So you can see. The smoldering tip is so close to your skin you can feel its warmth. A little more and it burns. One more time, just like before. But Sam just shakes off the ash - teasingly - and kisses your shoulders again.
Gideon brought the cigarette to your collarbones, pressing it roughly into the skin right between them.