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( she comes there to his side — sits on the bed with him and bruce just slowly lets himself look over to her as she does. quiet. the rain and rumbles of thunder every now and then being the only thing filling the silence between them what with the television no longer being the white noise in the background.

after a moment, eyes fall shut and he hangs his head some, though not with the intention of falling back asleep. he's exhausted. but from the nightmares that still plague him. even here, in this place so far from gotham. blindly, he lets himself lean in — forehead pressing so gently to hers and just... sighs. )

[ His forehead nudges, warm, against hers, and she feels that same rush of emotion in her stomach, her chest, as she had before when he called her princess. Her eyes close, his breath warm against her cheek, her lips, as the rush fades away, replaced by a dull familiar ache.

If she could enter his dreams, protect him there from the shadows that attack when he's most vulnerable, she would. But all she can do is be here, now, her forehead warm against his, her breath slow.

She doesn't know if he's looking at her. The thought of opening her eyes to see those blue ones looking back at her from only inches away isn't one she wishes to dissect. ]

( for a long moment, it's just the patter of rain and their slow breaths that can be heard within the darkness of the motel room. he doesn't entirely know why he feels the need to be close like this to her. there's just... a sort of pull almost. as if deep beneath the surface of his skin — beneath his very core that has him here with her like this.

after another rumble of thunder within the clouds, he parts his lips, forehead still pressed to hers. eyes still shut. )

You should go back to sleep. You have to go find Cupid in the morning.

( yet even as he speaks, his words are soft. lingering, almost. )

[ Her lips part into a smile as she laughs, soundless, just a puff of warm breath escaping in her amusement. Her eyes open, just a little, heavy-lidded in the dark. ]

Eros.

God of love and desire. Not Man's World's watered-down Cupid that they stick on cards and in movies.

( as if feeling her gaze just barely there on him, his own blue eyes open and he stares to her for a moment before they're falling shut again — before he noses at her. soft. slow. much like his words. )

So he doesn't have fluffy little wings?

No.

[ Still amused, still warm. Still not moving, even as he shifts, his nose brushing against hers. Even as her breath catches, quiet. ]

And no arrows, either. Typically, he'd be depicted holding keys.

( still he lingers close. still his words are soft. as if meant for only them to hear within the darkness of a room occasionally lit by a brief flash of lightning across the sky. )

Why keys?

Keys to the heart.

[ A dangerous proposition, at the very best of times. ]

Obvious, I know. Subtlety is not a trait very often associated with the gods.

( he figured as much. so, instead he softly asks. )

What about with you?

[ She smiles again, shaking her head against his. ]

I've been told it isn't a trait often associated with me, either.

So keys for Cupid and golden lassos for you.

( he damn well knows he's being a jerk. )

Mm.

[ He's enjoying this, teasing her. She has no qualms about throwing logs on the fire. ]

It isn't bats, I grant you.

( that elicits a huff of soft amusement from him and he presses his forehead against hers a little more at that. )

I actually have a few of those. Back in Gotham.

( living in the underground subway station he's made for his batcave beneath wayne tower. )

Well. I only have the one lasso.

[ Outside, lightning cracks, throwing the angles of his face into sharp relief. He's so close, dark lashes smudged against his cheeks. The dull ache in her chest, in her stomach, sharpening a little with each shift of his forehead against hers.

Her voice quieting. A whisper in the dark. ]

Bruce.

( the way his name sounds on her lips...

before his nerve can get the better of him. before he falls into the usual insanity of overthinking every. little. thing. that comes to mind, with a nudge of his nose, eyes still shut, he kisses her. soft. kisses her in a way where it lingers there on both their lips, fingers twisting in the sheets over his thigh before he lets himself ever-so-gently deepen that kiss a little. )

[ Is it enough?

A last embrace on the battlefield. A dream of Themyscira. Another of revenge. The decision she'd made and lived with ever since.

Lived with. Maybe... regretted.

A small sound tugs from her throat, as her eyes fall closed and her lips part, soft, against his. ]

( maybe all this talk about cupid— eros has drawn something out of this moment that neither of them are able to resist. it's been awhile since bruce has felt anything like this — selina having been the more recent one with the way she kissed him there above gotham city against a sunsetting sky. a moment that still lingers on his lips, yet is gently washed away by the softness of diana's against his.

a hand grips at her waist — the sound of thunder drowning out the noise spilling from his lips and he deepens the kiss some. lets himself. shuts off some part of his brain and just lets himself feel rather than think as he pulls her in close. unwilling to part his lips from hers. )

[ One kiss is all they'd ever managed before. A few across the years, stolen here or there. But never this: never a quiet room, a bed, his hand warm at her waist; a second kiss to follow the first.

Lightning illuminates the room, him here with her, and she lifts a hand to curve it at the angle of his jaw, gently threads the tips of her fingers up into his hair. Leans forward, meeting his kiss with a deeper one of her own, that dull ache, that longing so tight inside her chest it's difficult to breathe. ]

( lightning flashes, thunder makes the sky tremble, and bruce shifts with a sort of ease as he does when moving within the shadows. a twist, hand at her side still, he maneuvers them on the bed almost blindly, guiding her down to it as he follows in suit from above, lips never straying from hers nor taking a moment to stop. rather, they brush over hers in ways that grow deeper — needier. strands of hair falling in front of his face from above her as he kisses her with little to no hesitance. )

[ Her arm goes around him, firm, pulling him close even as he follows her down, kisses her into the blankets still muddled from the few hours of sleep they'd managed earlier. His body, lean and strong, presses along her side, over her, as the intensity of his kisses ratchets up.

A small sound escapes her as her lips meet his, again and again, drowning her in scent, in taste, in sensation. None of this anything she's allowed herself to want, or even to think about. But now, having it in her hands, she's desperate for more. Running her fingers up into his hair, brushing it back only for those strands to fall forward again, tickling her cheeks. ]

( maybe this is a bad idea. maybe this just... shouldn't happen. they're here on a mission — they have a meta looking to rewrite history that needs to be found and dealt with. distractions will only cause delays and they don't know how much time they have here or with any of this search they've thrown themselves into. and yet, that's just it. they don't know how much time they have here... how much time they have at all with this. being here. so, why not? why. not.

pulling back for only a couple seconds, fingers pinch his shirt between his shoulder blades and he pulls it off in one swift movement, scars and fading bruises gently hidden within the darkness of the room for the most part. his lips find hers again — no second thoughts made, and he runs a hand down over her chest. to her stomach. between her legs where fingers dip down low and brush along her through the material of her pants. curious. needing to know she feels it like he does. burning there. like it has been practically from the start. )

[ His shirt disappears into the dark, an invitation for her to touch the newly-bared expanse of pale skin as he leans back down to her. So she does, boldly, hands strong and fingers spread as she tracks them over his shoulders, his back. Allowing herself this unthinking delight, a small huff of a laugh on her lips as she remembers landing at the dorm, being confronted with his beauty. Unable to touch it.

So she indulges herself now. Mapping out scars. Feeling the way muscle shifts beneath skin, smooth and graceful, as he caresses her in turn.

Her body arching like a bow under the sweep of his hand, heart beating rabbit-quick, until his fingers slide over her and even through the material of these jeans she's sure he can feel how she's burning with desire. ]

Bruce.

[ His name the only word on her lips. The only one in this quiet room, as the storm grumbles and flashes outside. ]

( the way his name leaves her lips like that... she wants this. just as much as he does. and he wants to give it to her as much as he wants to have it for himself. something that isn't vengeance. something that isn't justice.

he needs this. maybe they both do. maybe they both need something to indulge in that isn't a myriad of expectations, disappointments, and frustration heaved onto them in ways they can't always seem to control. to feel something that isn't emotional exhaustion or the weight of stresses they can barely shoulder at times despite their bravado or nonchalance they wear about it. to be as close to human as possible for once, even if one of them is hardly that to begin with.

lips relentlessly seek hers out in the dark, running along the curve of her jaw when he needs a second, and fingers blindly pop open the button on her pants, tug them open, before they dip their way inside unabashed, slipping into panties to feel her warmth there on his fingers. stroking her. eagerly. lips pressed to the apple of a cheek as he works her up — as he fucks her with his fingers through the rainstorm around them. )

[ Her fingers dig into his skin, pressing divots in smooth muscle as he slips his fingers beneath flimsy cloth and slides them against her. Her legs pressing open for him, welcoming his touch as her breath burns. As she burns.

This is why he should be more careful. Mind his cynical teasing about the gods. Eros has never been a joke. Cities, countries, whole eras have been destroyed by desire run rampant. The way hers does now.

Lifting her hands off his skin to push at her jeans, shoving them off her hips and down along the smooth length of her legs. Taking advantage of her dropped hands to grip his hips, run her palm over the back of the pants he's still wearing, then over his thigh and down. Wanting to feel him, to touch him, as he's touching her. ]

( limbs shift some when she does. when she goes and slips herself out of her pants like that and the sound on his own lips is one of appreciation. for the act. for her. and he shows that appreciation with the way he strokes her from the inside. eager and unabashed in pulling more of those sounds out of her. but when her own hand reaches for him, he groans. lips parting some on her cheek.

he's hard. turned on by the way she feels on his fingers — by the sounds she makes in this shared room of theirs. a quiet prayer for the walls not being too thin or for the storm outside to swallow up the desire in here, not needing to try and toss some excuse about moving furniture that won't be taken as anything but a lie.

a kiss is dropped down to her lips, moan pressed into her mouth as he fingers her still, hand braced against the mattress. he swallows up every little sound she makes and lets his own be swallowed by her as he blindly searches for that sweetness inside her — wanting to taste it on his fingers for himself. )

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