Monet, Piotr
It's fairly late, most saner members of X-Factor have vacated to rooms with less metal in them. Media rooms, personal rooms, even outside. But there are barely any filling the weight room. Barely any meaning, one. It's been dark for a while now, a single light illuminates the far end of the weight room. Laying back on a bench, Piotr finishes the final rep of his set, pushing up the bar he goes to set it back in the rung. The massive amount of weight easily maneuvered by the big man. Despite him constantly preaching to people to always have a spotter, the big man goes to sit up and grab a towel, swabbing at his face.
When Monet enters the weight room she is already covered in a salty liquid. A towel wraps around the back of her neck, dabbing its end against a brow, and she manuevers through the lack of light expertly to find one person already inside. There is no ipod on her person this time. Moving closer to the light, her eyes find the individual already inside to be Piotr--the observation of his body is subconscious. A light hum is a sign of Monet's approval. "Aren't you supposed to have someone with you to make sure you don't hurt yourself?"
Wearing a sleeveless shirt and track pants, Piotr goes to sit up fully and place his knee on his lap. Wiping at his face furiously, he pulls the towel away before flicking it to the ground. Piotr looks over to the person entering the room. A small smile curls up his lips as he scoots back on the bench, leaning against the bar. Pulling his arms up onto the bar. "Yes. You are. Don't tell anyone you caught me like this."
Monet is wearing a tank top and short-shorts. "You have my promise." She grins and accepts his form of invitation to spot him, moving to the head of the bars in fluid motions. The towel is disgarded to the side and Monet hovers the palm of her hands underneath Piotr's own. "Thank you," Monet says, waiting for the initial lift to begin.
Not sure when he actually made the invitation, he arches his brow. Taking his arms off the bar he scoots forward before slowly laying down on the bench. He tilts his head with a light frown. "For what?" He asks, clasping his hands around the bar he goes to lift. Pulling up the bar, "Exactly how super strong, are you?"
"For being my personal Russian chef last night," Monet responds. She removes a strand of hair from her face and places it behind an ear before Piotr begins to lift. "A few hundred pounds." The vagueness is on purpose.
"Ah." Piotr smiles as he slowly lowers the bar near to his chest. Then pushes it back up. "I usually give myself a little more rest between this much weight." Lowering it again he goes to push up powerfully. He seems relatively relaxed with these first few reps, not struggling at all even though the weight excedes three hundered pounds. Lowering it again, he goes to push up again. "You never said you enjoyed it or not."
Monet's hands follow the bar as it lowers and lifts from Piotr's chest. She smirks, saying, "I'm sorry. I thought my unwavering smile spoke volumes for you." She is relaxed as well, standing with legs stretched shoulder length, and hovering lightly at the head of the bench presser.
"So did you like it or not?" Piotr asks solidly, lowering the bar once again. Not to be deterred by the comment of the unwavering smile, he pushes the bar back up. His jaw tightening somewhat as he gets into the higher numbers. Face starting to redden, it is obvious that it's getting more difficult, veins starting to pop through his arms.
"I liked it," Monet replies, her precaution building when his face begins to redden. Her palms face the ceiling, underneath the bar, in case the tension is too much for the Russian to bare. She is there for him. Her eyes trail him for a second, but not in a supportive sort of way, a grin forming slowly. "I liked it a lot."
"Good." Piotr lets out as he pushes up the bar once again, and then again. A long exhale is let out a few more pumps. Finally he reaches twelve, pushing the bar up one last time, with difficulty. It takes him a long push but, "Don't help." Is muttered out before it is finally raised and set down back on top of the benchpress. His arms then drop down to his sides as he lets out a few ragged breaths. "I'm glad you liked it."
Hands remove themselves from underneath the bar. Monet also removes herself from over a bench pressed Piotr and travels to where her towel is thrown. She grabs it an towels any excess liquids from her body, evidence that a gymnasium has recently seen Monet. "You are an impressing speciman, Piotr."
"Ah, thank you." Piotr says after a few huffing breaths. Pulling down on the bar he puts himself in an upright position, glancing over at her sidelong, not wanting to creepily stare as she towels herself off. "As are you." That's the polite thing to say, right? He gives a slightly awkward smile, while going to grab his own towel and dab himself off. "Little late, for the weight room, da?"
"I didn't think I would have company this late," Monet replies, dropping the towel once more. She begins removing some of the three hundred pounds of weight from the benchpress, taking the initiative and assuming he is done. "My turn. Now move." It is a friendl demand.
"As you wish. Here, let me, you don't want any of my sweat." Piotr quickly moves up and off the bench, going to pat down the bench with his towel swiftly. Once he is satisfied he has removed all the sweat from the bench, he straightens fully, gesturing for her to go ahead. He'll then take his place at the head of the bench so that he's in position to spot her.
Monet doesn't say a thank you but she gives him a look that suggests it. Sitting on the bench, she lowers underneath the bar and grips it firmly. She inhales and then lifts, lowering the bar to her breasts, and then raising it. One. "How many did you do again?"
"I do three or four sets of twelve." Piotr rumbles, arching a somewhat impressed brow as she lowers the bar and then pushes back up. He smiles a little lightly, tilting his head to the side. "I see." He murmurs as if she had finally answered a question he asked earlier. His hands follow the bar lightly.
Agreement comes with lowering the bar and raising it once more. There is very little tension now. "You know..." Another drop and lift. "I've never been good at--" Drop. Lift. Hold. "--competition." She holds the bar for a second, blinking, and then drops and lifts. Her face begins to flush but her expression is one of calm.
As she starts to show a little wear, his hands follow the bar tightly, following the full motion up and down. His hands clench around it tightly. Piotr frowns lightly at her words, tilting his head lightly. "What do you mean?" The big man asks.
"Don't." Monet says firmly, telling Piotr to remove his hands--a familiar phrase for the Russian. The drops and lifts continue and a bead of reformed sweat forms. No matter how cliche its timing and positioning on her brow, Monet begins to struggle. "I mean..." Hesitation comes from the tension of the weight and not from the subject. "I like you, Piotr." A pause. "But I like to win." Drop. Lift. Hold.
So Piotr does remove his hands, tilting his head lightly. "Sorry." He utters back. He frowns at her struggle and his own struggle to figure out exactly what she is saying. "I like you too." Oh crap. "You mean? Win? How do you win? I'm afraid I don't understand. What competition?"
The veins begin to form now, Monet dropping the bar quickly but a hesitation forming when she lifts. "Ugh," is the sound of her moan, her face becoming a frown, her eyes beginning to venture from the bar. To Piotr, "You like me?" His later comments are ignored for the time being.
"Well, in a way that you are nice enough to be around. I am afraid, if you are talking about affection." He pauses for a moment, persing his lips together. "I enjoy your company, but I do not yet know you, Monet. As you do not know me. I am not sure without that familiarity..." He pauses again, taking a slow breath. "What do you mean, Win?"
"What do... you mean... affection?" Monet asks, lifting the bar to its top height. Considering another rep, the bar she places the bar back on its holster-thing. She sits for a second, regulating her breathing and then sits up. She gets up and reaches for her towel. "Piotr, darling, I think you have jumped to the wrong conclusion." Again, the question is ignored.
"Ah.. forgive me." He lets out a small chuckle as his face starts to redden, looking mildly embarrassed. "I thought.. Forgive me, for being so foolish. Could you please, explain what you mean? Even though I have lived here so long, sometimes English is still a struggle. A little." The man steps away from the bench, Piotr quickly going to grab her towel for her, and hand it over.
"I forgive you." She smiles and reaches for her towel. Taking it, the wiping begins and her posture straightens on the bench. "The comment was meant jokingly," she begins, "but I am pretty competitive." Wipe. Wipe. Wiiiipe. "And you seem pretty precautious when it comes to any assumption between you and me."
She didn't sound joking. He frowns lightly, "Ah. I don't always have the greatest sense of humor." He admits with a sheepish smile. Though he frowns at that last bit, going to take a seat on the bench. "No. It's just that. I..." He tilts his head to the side, letting out a long sigh. "I have made many mistakes with relationships. I just am careful so I don't make more and accidentally.." He gives a shrug.
"I noticed," Monet replies quickly. His hesitation catches her attention. She wraps the towel back behind her neck and raises an eyebrow curiously, his final words causing her to shake her head. "Then not making the same mistake is probably the most efficient answer." Her tone is a bit sarcastic, yet maintaining its friendliness.
He shuts his lips tightly, glancing over at her. He gives a slow nod. Leaning forward he puts his elbows on top of his knees, bowing his head down. He slowly lets out a chuckle shaking his head lightly. "I suppose you're right." He murmurs, glancing over at her.
A smile suggests "Of course I am," and Monet says it just in case. She stands from the bench and walks around to Piotr's back. "Aww, it'll be okay, Piotr. You are a wonderful person, I'm sure." Her fingers press against his toned back, circling and massaging. Moving upward, she applies a small amount of pressure to his neck.
"As are you, I'm sure." The last word is half cut off by the long groan leaked out at the massaging motion against his back. His shoulders slump forward, head drooping down as she works his back. "You are very good." He admits between light groaning.
Another groan is let out as his shoulders are worked, rolling his head around his shoulders as she continues. The abrupt pause, however, gives him pause. Going to sit up straight he frowns lightly. "It is." He agrees simply.
"Thanks for spotting me," Monet says. She wraps her fingers around his chin, lifting his head upward so that his eyes meet her own. "It was fun. We should do it again." Lips meet forehead and then Monet is starting for the door.
And as she pulls up his chin, his lips turn into a light smile. Eyes dancing somewhat as she looks to his eyes. "Yes, we should." Piotr agrees, smiling broadly as her lips meet his forehead. "It was nice seeing you, Monet."
When Monet enters the weight room she is already covered in a salty liquid. A towel wraps around the back of her neck, dabbing its end against a brow, and she manuevers through the lack of light expertly to find one person already inside. There is no ipod on her person this time. Moving closer to the light, her eyes find the individual already inside to be Piotr--the observation of his body is subconscious. A light hum is a sign of Monet's approval. "Aren't you supposed to have someone with you to make sure you don't hurt yourself?"
Wearing a sleeveless shirt and track pants, Piotr goes to sit up fully and place his knee on his lap. Wiping at his face furiously, he pulls the towel away before flicking it to the ground. Piotr looks over to the person entering the room. A small smile curls up his lips as he scoots back on the bench, leaning against the bar. Pulling his arms up onto the bar. "Yes. You are. Don't tell anyone you caught me like this."
Monet is wearing a tank top and short-shorts. "You have my promise." She grins and accepts his form of invitation to spot him, moving to the head of the bars in fluid motions. The towel is disgarded to the side and Monet hovers the palm of her hands underneath Piotr's own. "Thank you," Monet says, waiting for the initial lift to begin.
Not sure when he actually made the invitation, he arches his brow. Taking his arms off the bar he scoots forward before slowly laying down on the bench. He tilts his head with a light frown. "For what?" He asks, clasping his hands around the bar he goes to lift. Pulling up the bar, "Exactly how super strong, are you?"
"For being my personal Russian chef last night," Monet responds. She removes a strand of hair from her face and places it behind an ear before Piotr begins to lift. "A few hundred pounds." The vagueness is on purpose.
"Ah." Piotr smiles as he slowly lowers the bar near to his chest. Then pushes it back up. "I usually give myself a little more rest between this much weight." Lowering it again he goes to push up powerfully. He seems relatively relaxed with these first few reps, not struggling at all even though the weight excedes three hundered pounds. Lowering it again, he goes to push up again. "You never said you enjoyed it or not."
Monet's hands follow the bar as it lowers and lifts from Piotr's chest. She smirks, saying, "I'm sorry. I thought my unwavering smile spoke volumes for you." She is relaxed as well, standing with legs stretched shoulder length, and hovering lightly at the head of the bench presser.
"So did you like it or not?" Piotr asks solidly, lowering the bar once again. Not to be deterred by the comment of the unwavering smile, he pushes the bar back up. His jaw tightening somewhat as he gets into the higher numbers. Face starting to redden, it is obvious that it's getting more difficult, veins starting to pop through his arms.
"I liked it," Monet replies, her precaution building when his face begins to redden. Her palms face the ceiling, underneath the bar, in case the tension is too much for the Russian to bare. She is there for him. Her eyes trail him for a second, but not in a supportive sort of way, a grin forming slowly. "I liked it a lot."
"Good." Piotr lets out as he pushes up the bar once again, and then again. A long exhale is let out a few more pumps. Finally he reaches twelve, pushing the bar up one last time, with difficulty. It takes him a long push but, "Don't help." Is muttered out before it is finally raised and set down back on top of the benchpress. His arms then drop down to his sides as he lets out a few ragged breaths. "I'm glad you liked it."
Hands remove themselves from underneath the bar. Monet also removes herself from over a bench pressed Piotr and travels to where her towel is thrown. She grabs it an towels any excess liquids from her body, evidence that a gymnasium has recently seen Monet. "You are an impressing speciman, Piotr."
"Ah, thank you." Piotr says after a few huffing breaths. Pulling down on the bar he puts himself in an upright position, glancing over at her sidelong, not wanting to creepily stare as she towels herself off. "As are you." That's the polite thing to say, right? He gives a slightly awkward smile, while going to grab his own towel and dab himself off. "Little late, for the weight room, da?"
"I didn't think I would have company this late," Monet replies, dropping the towel once more. She begins removing some of the three hundred pounds of weight from the benchpress, taking the initiative and assuming he is done. "My turn. Now move." It is a friendl demand.
"As you wish. Here, let me, you don't want any of my sweat." Piotr quickly moves up and off the bench, going to pat down the bench with his towel swiftly. Once he is satisfied he has removed all the sweat from the bench, he straightens fully, gesturing for her to go ahead. He'll then take his place at the head of the bench so that he's in position to spot her.
Monet doesn't say a thank you but she gives him a look that suggests it. Sitting on the bench, she lowers underneath the bar and grips it firmly. She inhales and then lifts, lowering the bar to her breasts, and then raising it. One. "How many did you do again?"
"I do three or four sets of twelve." Piotr rumbles, arching a somewhat impressed brow as she lowers the bar and then pushes back up. He smiles a little lightly, tilting his head to the side. "I see." He murmurs as if she had finally answered a question he asked earlier. His hands follow the bar lightly.
Agreement comes with lowering the bar and raising it once more. There is very little tension now. "You know..." Another drop and lift. "I've never been good at--" Drop. Lift. Hold. "--competition." She holds the bar for a second, blinking, and then drops and lifts. Her face begins to flush but her expression is one of calm.
As she starts to show a little wear, his hands follow the bar tightly, following the full motion up and down. His hands clench around it tightly. Piotr frowns lightly at her words, tilting his head lightly. "What do you mean?" The big man asks.
"Don't." Monet says firmly, telling Piotr to remove his hands--a familiar phrase for the Russian. The drops and lifts continue and a bead of reformed sweat forms. No matter how cliche its timing and positioning on her brow, Monet begins to struggle. "I mean..." Hesitation comes from the tension of the weight and not from the subject. "I like you, Piotr." A pause. "But I like to win." Drop. Lift. Hold.
So Piotr does remove his hands, tilting his head lightly. "Sorry." He utters back. He frowns at her struggle and his own struggle to figure out exactly what she is saying. "I like you too." Oh crap. "You mean? Win? How do you win? I'm afraid I don't understand. What competition?"
The veins begin to form now, Monet dropping the bar quickly but a hesitation forming when she lifts. "Ugh," is the sound of her moan, her face becoming a frown, her eyes beginning to venture from the bar. To Piotr, "You like me?" His later comments are ignored for the time being.
"Well, in a way that you are nice enough to be around. I am afraid, if you are talking about affection." He pauses for a moment, persing his lips together. "I enjoy your company, but I do not yet know you, Monet. As you do not know me. I am not sure without that familiarity..." He pauses again, taking a slow breath. "What do you mean, Win?"
"What do... you mean... affection?" Monet asks, lifting the bar to its top height. Considering another rep, the bar she places the bar back on its holster-thing. She sits for a second, regulating her breathing and then sits up. She gets up and reaches for her towel. "Piotr, darling, I think you have jumped to the wrong conclusion." Again, the question is ignored.
"Ah.. forgive me." He lets out a small chuckle as his face starts to redden, looking mildly embarrassed. "I thought.. Forgive me, for being so foolish. Could you please, explain what you mean? Even though I have lived here so long, sometimes English is still a struggle. A little." The man steps away from the bench, Piotr quickly going to grab her towel for her, and hand it over.
"I forgive you." She smiles and reaches for her towel. Taking it, the wiping begins and her posture straightens on the bench. "The comment was meant jokingly," she begins, "but I am pretty competitive." Wipe. Wipe. Wiiiipe. "And you seem pretty precautious when it comes to any assumption between you and me."
She didn't sound joking. He frowns lightly, "Ah. I don't always have the greatest sense of humor." He admits with a sheepish smile. Though he frowns at that last bit, going to take a seat on the bench. "No. It's just that. I..." He tilts his head to the side, letting out a long sigh. "I have made many mistakes with relationships. I just am careful so I don't make more and accidentally.." He gives a shrug.
"I noticed," Monet replies quickly. His hesitation catches her attention. She wraps the towel back behind her neck and raises an eyebrow curiously, his final words causing her to shake her head. "Then not making the same mistake is probably the most efficient answer." Her tone is a bit sarcastic, yet maintaining its friendliness.
He shuts his lips tightly, glancing over at her. He gives a slow nod. Leaning forward he puts his elbows on top of his knees, bowing his head down. He slowly lets out a chuckle shaking his head lightly. "I suppose you're right." He murmurs, glancing over at her.
A smile suggests "Of course I am," and Monet says it just in case. She stands from the bench and walks around to Piotr's back. "Aww, it'll be okay, Piotr. You are a wonderful person, I'm sure." Her fingers press against his toned back, circling and massaging. Moving upward, she applies a small amount of pressure to his neck.
"As are you, I'm sure." The last word is half cut off by the long groan leaked out at the massaging motion against his back. His shoulders slump forward, head drooping down as she works his back. "You are very good." He admits between light groaning.
Another groan is let out as his shoulders are worked, rolling his head around his shoulders as she continues. The abrupt pause, however, gives him pause. Going to sit up straight he frowns lightly. "It is." He agrees simply.
"Thanks for spotting me," Monet says. She wraps her fingers around his chin, lifting his head upward so that his eyes meet her own. "It was fun. We should do it again." Lips meet forehead and then Monet is starting for the door.
And as she pulls up his chin, his lips turn into a light smile. Eyes dancing somewhat as she looks to his eyes. "Yes, we should." Piotr agrees, smiling broadly as her lips meet his forehead. "It was nice seeing you, Monet."