Work Text:
They both had cuts and bruises. They both groaned and hissed as they moved, feeling every muscle stretch with aching tightness and their joints grind and bend. It had been a long day - long weekend really - with twists and turns and overwhelming odds. The fact that they were both in one piece walking one at a time through their front door seemed like a miracle. But just because they were in one piece didn't mean that they had walked away unscathed.
Their cuts and bruises were numerous, hidden beneath clothes and buried under grime. Without halting they went straight to the bathroom. He turned on the shower, setting it to the usual warmth, letting steam build and roll above the glass enclosement. The mirror fogged over, obscuring their reflections, and he was grateful.
She stood beside him clutching the counter to steady herself, her coat wrapped tightly around her at the waist. He nudged her lightly, both of them hissing at the contact. He stripped off his clothes and she followed, slowly and deliberately in order to keep the pain at a minimum. He opened the glass shower door and let her step in first, giving her the first comfort of the hot cascade within.
He followed moments after. She was bracing herself against the wall, letting the water batter against her back. He grabbed the sponge and lathered it up with her favorite soap and gently pressed it to the small of her back, rubbing circles and other formations across her skin. At first she tensed at the contact, but then leaned in, sighing. He washed the cuts and bruises that spanned the whole of her back, cleansing her of the events that caused them.
She turned, grabbing another sponge and began doing the same for him, gliding it over his chest, over his heart. That was a place most sensitive, riddled with physical and emotional scars both new and old. She had healed so many of them over the years, but these new ones seemed so much stronger, created by fear. Fear of losing her. Fear of losing himself to darkness. Fear of the unknown. But with each soapy shape she pressed into his skin, the pain and fear trickled away, leaving only the physical representations of their latest battle. Those he could handle. Those he could live with.
They roamed over each other's skin, cleansing and healing. He focused in on a cut just over her heart, nestled at a tender spot of her breast. He let his finger sweep over it, wiping away the grime surrounding the agitated skin and she winced. He glanced up at her pained expression and frowned. She never should have been in harm's way. She wasn't meant to be out in the midst of the fight. "Felicity," he whispered as his hand fell to cup the swell of her breast. "I'm so sorry."
She smiled sadly at his words. "No need to be," she replied, letting her hand caress the uneven, scarred skin of his abs before coming to rest over his heart. Her eyes lifted to meet his, revealing the darkening depths. They were still etched with pain, but also shadowed with desire and his heart skipped a beat at the sight. His hand began to knead her breast, gently massaging and she tilted her head back. Her hands trekked over his chest and came to rest at his shoulders, fingers gripping his tense shoulders, digging in and relieving some of the aches and knots. He sighed before leaning down and letting his lips crash against hers.
It was a mess. Aching limbs, fiery cuts and slippery lips. But it was necessary. They were alive. They were home. They might be worse of wear, but they were together and alive. Each maneuver of their lips and dance of their tongue reminded them of their survival. Of their brush with death. Of their victory. And they luxuriated in every sensation.
His hands fell down to her waist tugging her closer before coming to rest at the curves of her ass. She gripped his shoulders harder and nipped at his bottom lip. One hand trailed down his body to rest at his hardening length, brushing patterns against it, driving him crazy. His hands fell lower, gripping her thighs and lifting her up. With a pained hiss from both of them, she wrapped her legs tightly around him. He pressed against her center, teasing. Their kisses grew desperate with each movement against her until he moved forward, the water rushing over their heads and her back hitting the tile. She gasped in pain, her nails digging into his shoulders again as the cuts and bruises along her back came into contact with the wall.
"I'm so sorry," he murmured against her lips. He held her up with one arm and turned the shower off. He stepped out of the shower and cradled her against him, trying to hug the pain away. He exited the bathroom, finding the bedroom toasty from the heater and went straight for the bed. He turned and sat on the edge, bringing her onto his lap. She tensed above him, letting his hardness press against her softness. Her eyes were closed and she was biting her bottom lip. It was a mixture of pain and pleasure, and he knew it was just the beginning of the combination. He thrust up slowly and she met him halfway, burying him into her. They both gasped, the pleasure masking the pains searing through their bodies.
She moved her hips, up and down, rolling against him and he held her, his hands gripping tightly. She was clamped down around him, her inner walls the most pleasurable vice. His mind was hazy with each movement she made but he needed more; he wanted to give her more.
He stood, never letting their connection break, and took her to the dresser. He sat her on the very edge, barely even there, cradling her back with his hands. And then he moved, thrusting hard and deep. At first she hissed and then she moaned against his lips. The sound spurred him on.
In and out, skin against skin, scars against scars. Each thrust sent trickles of pain away as their pleasure built, rising within them steadily. She cried out first, her nails tearing into his skin, creating new cuts and sending him closer to his own release. He embraced the sensation, letting it send him over the edge with one final jerk of his hips.
They stayed there for a few moments, locked in an embrace of pain and pleasure and love. When the high began to dissipate, he broke their connection. He went to the bathroom and collected two damp washcloths and brought them out, handing her one. They cleaned one another in silence, tenderly. Lovingly.
Tossing the washcloths into a laundry basket, he carried her to bed, burying her beneath the sheets before doing the same for himself. He held her, careful of her cuts and bruises. He let his lips trail kisses along her forehead, her wet hair tickling his nose. "I love you," he whispered against her skin as he sensed her drifting off into a much needed slumber.
His words meant so much more than what they normally entailed, much like the sex they had just had.
His words meant that he was happy they were in one piece. That he was relieved she had made it out alive alongside him. That he was grateful for the little moments they shared and the battle they had survived together. That he was so enthralled by her every word and movement and touch. That he worshipped her in every way a man could worship a woman. That he was thankful for her presence in his life. That, despite their cuts and bruises, they were together and life would go on.