(no subject)
One can only sit still so long before one's legs start to ache, and Illyana has hit that point. The lucious, dusky-skinned woman unfolds from a chair beside the slim, flat-chested blonde body, and adjusts the position of a Russian Orthodox-styled cross pendant laid across her hands. Stretching, she wanders out into the clinic proper, blinking like she's trying to remember what time it is.
Tom is on his way out, apparently, but not with the firm direction of a man who knows what his next course is. His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his khaki pants, his scowl tipped downward towards his sneakers. He pauses to fiddle with the foliage of one of the tended plants in the waiting room, eyeing it with skepticism as he attempts to determine whether it is alive or plastic.
"Hello." Illyana's accent combines with her newly husky voice to make her sound like a Bond villain--or a Bond girl. "Who were you visiting?" She looks back over her shoulder to where the majority of the coma patients are hooked up.
Baffling a little at the sound of her voice, Tom checks her identity the easy way, with the brush of telepathy, and gives her a little scowl for good measure. "The kid upstairs," he says. His gaze flickers over her, noting this detail or that, and stalls out briefly at the pendant laid over her hands. It seems he finds it a little incongruous, from his expression.
Illyana narrows her eyes at Tom, and taps the pendant with a fingertip before stepping back from her comatose body again. "It helps keep the spirits from stealing it. An empty body is an invitation." Her expression--even on unfamiliar features--/dares/ him to comment. She tips her chin upwards. "How is he?"
"He was dozing. I left him alone." Tom folds his arms over his chest, a hint of challenge to answer Illyana's in the spark of his gaze as he eyes her. "I didn't know you were /Christian/ as well as crazy."
"As Mama raised me." Illyana looks a little taken off guard by the question. She starts to make a gesture, and her arm bumps into her chest, larger than it should be. She crosses her arms, making cleavage, and looks down at it a bit bemusedly. She looks back up, trying to sneakily check if Tom has a reaction to it.
His brow furrows, the dip of his glance brief where she goes to such /trouble/ to draw his attention. But Tom looks about how Tom usually looks: annoyed. Probably not by her breasts. He makes a "hmph" noise in the back of his throat, stance spread on the plant of his heels. It's also not very sneaky to a telepath who can hear you doing it, for the record. He opens his mouth, and then closes it again, lips thinning. "Yeah," he says at length, "mine too."
Tom is perhaps not normally an object of attraction, but he is male, and Illyana is perhaps slightly scientific about matters at the moment. She tires a more hip-slung stance. "It's useful for some things." She touchs the cross a last time, then chews on her lip. "When will the boy be healed enough, do you think?"
Tom's expression changes. He stares at Illyana's face, which isn't actually Illyana's face, and the look on his face reveals his thoughts quite well. It says, 'Are you fucking kidding me?' "I don't know," he says. "I left him alone, remember?"
Illyana frowns. /Her/ expression says 'Bah. Clearly a eunuch', and she goes back to the arms crossed over her chest to minimize it body language. "Katya just needs to go back soon." Nevermind /Illyana's/ wish for her own body.
"I don't think anybody's making a /vacation/ out of it," Tom says, with a narrow-eyed look at Illyana that implies that SOMEBODY might be.
"Things don't just /happen/. They happen because there's something to learn." Illyana shrugs. "Looking for that is something to /do/, at least."
"No," Tom says testily, "things /happen/ because somebody is a fucking douchebag. There's no mystical /reason/ that you were pulled out of your body and shoved into another one. Jesus Christ." He shoulders past her so that he can plow on his way toward the door, but because she has gone to such lengths to impugne his masculinity, he also makes a point of angling his right hand to grope the curve of her ass as he goes by.
Illyana calls him something insulting in Russian, and then squeaks in surprise at the grope. Enough surprise that she lets him get away, unretaliated against, eyebrows climbing very high.
Tom doesn't speak Russian, and he's too busy finding himself hilarious and awesome to use his telepathy to determine what her insults might be, as he disappears out the door.
Full disclosure!
There's a dusky-skinned rather lucious looking young woman sprawled on one of the couchs in the lounge this evening, looking rather sorry for herself. She's dressed in a skirt and a shirt that's definitely a bit tight, and no bra, and she has a shot glass of vodka--or maybe water! but probably vodka--resting on her taut, flat stomach as she frowns up at the ceiling.
Parker wals into the room wearing athletic shorts and a plain cotton shirt. He looks around with his normal happy disposition and rubs his chin. It doesn't take him long to see the sprawled young lady, woman, ... person. He scratches his head a few times before saying, "Hello," and walking over toward the bar. After grabbing a bottle of water he makes his way over toward Illy.
Illyana sits up, finishes off the vodka in her glass, and gives Parker a bit of a bleary look. "Do you think I look pretty?" she asks, accent totally at odds with her features. She looks down at her chest, straining through the shirt.
Parker stares at Illyana for a moment, then looks from side to side. He unscrews the cap of his bottle, saying, "Um, yes," in a tone suggesting slight confusion. Of course, his eyes stray a little, but swiftly snap back up.
Illyana looks back up at him too. "I'm not usually this pretty," she explains with the exaggerated care of the slightly drunk. "I think maybe I should take advantage of it. What do you think?"
"Erm," Parker replies. He walks closer and takes a seat. "How do you mean?" he wonders curiously. Afterward he takes a long gulp of water and wipes just under his mouth. "I mean, take advantage of it?"
"Maybe it's a suggestion. To scratch an itch." Illyana frowns, feeling out the idiom before she deploys it. "Would you sleep with a woman who looked like this?" Under the fuzzing tendency of alcohol, Illyana doesn't actually seem to be going anywhere with the question, Parker is just handy.
"Uh, um," Parker exclaims initially. "Well, maybe. I mean, yeah. Yeah, I think so. Yes," he concludes. He scratches his cheek, clearly taken aback at the forward questioning. It takes him a moment to ask one of his own, "Did you, did you want me to come over there?"
"Oh!" Illyana flushes abruptly. "Oh. I--uh--" She looks at him, properly this time, in surprise. "Um?"
Parker grins, a place he is familiar with! Ohs and ums! He scoots over, onto the same sofa, over near her legs. "I'm Peter Parker," he says simply. "I was on the backup crew. You were.. body switched?"
"My brother's name is Piotr." This information, brought to you by vodka. "Yes." Illyana looks down at her chest. "This isn't mine. So why...act like me, yes?"
Parker listens to the information quietly for a moment. Afterward, he grins again and says, "I guess. I mean. Erm. I don't mind! What's your name? Or codename? Or, what do you go by?" He takes another sip of water.
"Illyana. Majik. I don't go by that." She tilts her head. "What's your name? I remember reading about you, but only your picture." She stretches out a leg to consider that aesthecially too.
Parker grins. "Peter Parker. Spiderman," he re-introduces, still grinning. He reaches up and begins to massage her leg, if she'll let him. "OK, I know who you are now. I've seen you around base, I mean. We've never met." His thumbs will work against her calves first.
"Oh. Peter. Yes." Illyana flushes again. "I'm sorry. This body isn't like mine, with vodka, yes?" She grins. "That's my excuse." She leans forward to whisper that. The touch brings a pleased noise to her throat, and she scoots in closer, natrual demonstrativeness coming to the fore.
Parker grins and pulls her up until her legs can comfortably rest on his lap. One hand works on her calf while the other makes its way down her leg, to her thigh, and begins to squeeze. "I wouldn't know. Still in mine," he explains quickly. "How much've you had?" he adds, gesturing to her glass.
Illyana looks at her empty shot glass, and then counts on a few fingers, frowning deeply. She wiggles her ass a little more onto his lap, not a practiced seductive motion, just enjoyment. "Not more than three?" She doesn't sound sure of it. "I was--tired. Tired of not being me, tired of guarding the bodies for everyone. I wanted to be /bad/ for a while."
Parker grins and helps her up, then pushes his hands down even deeper, toward her inner thighs. Then he leans forward a bit and tries to give her a swift kiss on her lower lip. "Bad?" he asks, success or no success. "I can carry you up to my room! It has a king sized bed and everything. But, if that's not comfortable, I have a hammock, too." A hammock!
Illyana gives a slight squeak as he makes it to much more interesting territory. She gives him a quick kiss right back. "Carry me? Are you strong enough? I have more--" She twists to look at her herself from that other angle. More padding = heavier. It is not, one might note, an objection. More of a challege. She wrinkles her nose. "A hammock sounds easy to fall out of."
"What, a little thing like you?" Parker asks, grinning. "I'll be OK." He makes to scoop her up, abandoning the kisses and thighs for a moment. If she's willing, he pulls her up like a baby, or a drunken coed, and grins down at her. The guy's actually really well built, a compact ball of muscle. "Oh, well, bed it is!" he declares.
Illyana whees as she goes up, but she truns her head to try to catch his eyes to check something. "This is...not real, yes? Like the body. Temporary. Then I go back to normal." She tenses, ready to wiggle free if he gives the wrong answer.
Parker shifty-eyes, then grins. "I won't tell anyone if you won't, if that's what you mean. Even you when you're back." A pause. "Oh! Oh, right. Yes, temporary. I won't come knocking on your door, I promise. I mean, for this, that is."
"Promise," Illyana agrees in turn. Then she slings and arm around his neck, along for the ride now in her awkward, overly curved body. Whee!
Another thing to do in a borrowed body.