"You're wearing a dress." He holds up a hand as she starts to say something. "And that was four words, so it doesn't count."

"You're going to argue gods-damned diction with me, Agathon?"

"No. I'm gonna remind you that blood's a bitch to get out of your clothes, and if you think I'd give up my balls without a fight, you're sadly mistaken. I'm not stupid enough to think I'd win a fight between us, because you fight damned dirty, but I'm not just bending over and kissing them goodbye."

She holds the glare for another few seconds then her shoulders slump. "How stupid do I look?"

"On a scale of one to ten?"

"Yeah."

"Ten being the most stupid you've ever looked in your entire life, beating even that time you ejected and got caught in the stand of trees and hung upside down for two hours before we found you, which rated at least a nine and a half?"

She grits her teeth, grinding them together, probably in an effort to keep from sinking them into his throat and ripping out his jugular. "Yes."

"Negative seventeen."

Her breath seems to stall, which does things to her chest and, subsequently her breasts. They look different - bigger, but not, and there, which sure as frak isn't something he's used to - and he can't help staring a little. Her voice, when it comes, is as surprising as her breasts, nervous and shaky and something that Margaret Edmonson would just as soon kill you as admit to feeling, unsure. "Really?"

"Aphrodite's gonna kick your ass for stealing her thunder." He grins as she starts to correct him. "Figuratively, Mags. Not literally." He belatedly closes the apartment door behind him and shrugs off his coat. "Can I ask why you're wearing a dress?"

He supposes dress is as good a word as any for the fabric that hugs her body and shows that there's something beneath the stocky cadet blues and grays they wear. She's got curves that draw his eye down to places he's not supposed to be looking at and legs that start on one end and don't seem to stop.

"I have a date."

"A…a what?"

The softness in her face vanishes and he knows he's put his foot in his mouth because he can feel himself choking. She reaches up and tugs at the band holding her ponytail back and lets her hair fall and suddenly he really can't breathe. "A date, asshole."

"With who?"

"None of your gods-damned, frakking business." She throws the hair band at him and whirls on her heels - oh, how did he not notice them before? High enough that he's pretty sure she could step on his chest and pierce his heart through his ribcage, and black leather with a strap around her ankle that makes his cock tighten. He plans to take a step forward and grab her arm, ostensibly to stop her from walking out of the room and to keep them on speaking terms and to assure himself that he won't wake up in the middle of the night with her looking to satisfy his apparent death wish, but instead he grabs her wrist and pulls her hard against him, his free hand in the small of her back and his mouth on hers to shut her the frak up.

She makes a sound, and he's relatively certain it's not a protest, but he's not about to stop kissing her just on the off chance that he's wrong. She winds her free hand around his neck and insinuates her body against his, the wispy fabric of her dress clinging to his civvies. He releases her wrist and slides that hand around her back as well, tugging her even closer. She fits against him in ways that he's damn sure she shouldn't given that she's a good foot shorter than him, but that might have something to do with the fact that her legs are around his waist, ankles crossed behind his back and he's holding her, supporting her and fumbling his way out of the living room to whoever's bedroom is closest.

He stumbles over shoes and piles of clothes, and so he's pretty sure it's his own mess until he turns and falls back on the bed and gets a mouthful of lingerie. He splutters as Maggie laughs, kneeling around him in a frakking cloud of fabric so soft he's not sure where it ends and she begins. He runs his hands up her thighs, pushing the dress back. Her thighs are all muscle and sinew and he can feel every movement against his worn, faded trousers. She catches wrists and guides them up over his head, grabbing one of the tiny scraps of lace off the bed and winding his hand through the straps and twisting it so he's effectively trapped.

He wants to say something, but whatever train of thought he had flies right off the tracks as she rakes her blunt nails down his t-shirt to his belt and undoes it without even looking, shoving her skirt out of the way to get to his trousers. She unfastens the buckle and tugs, letting the belt whisper against the fabric before she jerks it free, the leather cracking loudly in the overheated air. Helo groans and his hips jerk up, his cock thrusting against the heat of her trapped between them, beneath her dress.

"Gods, Maggie."

She winds the belt around his wrists as well, tangling leather and lace and his head falls back, watching her tie him up tight enough that both dig into his skin, sure to leave marks that will take at least a day to fade.

"Maggie." She shifts back onto her heels and tugs her dress up slightly, a hint of knees and thighs and the darkness between them sending another surge to his cock and making his hips jerk up. Maggie takes advantage of the movement and tugs his trousers down, letting them settle in the middle of his thighs, too intent on settling back over him to care about getting him more naked than she needs. He realizes the second she sinks down on him that she's not wearing anything beneath the dress, and just the thought is enough to drive him deep inside her, filling her up on the first thrust.

"Frak," she hisses, raking her hands down his chest again. She keeps one hand centered on his stomach as she rides him, all tight muscles and hard, quick thrusts. Her nails dig in, pressing against the muscles beneath the skin. The nails of her other hand trail down his thigh, just above the length of her calf. He moves in unison with her, his hips rising up as she thrusts down, and her hair is a wild mass around her head and his hands clench into fists with the desire to grab it, grab her, the leather tightening almost painfully.

He sucks in a breath that burns his lungs, choking on it as she slides her hand over his thigh and down, wrapping her fingers tight around his balls. "Frakking…. Gods-damn, Maggie." He jerks up and comes, thrusting up with every pulse of it through his body. She eases the pressure when he exhales roughly through his nose, bringing both hands to his chest and leaning forward to kiss him before she sinks back one more time.

Helo shivers beneath her as she slumps forward, sprawling across his chest. He struggles against the belt for a second before giving up and just bringing them down around her, the knot at his wrist in the center of her back.

"You're gonna be late for your date, Mags."

"Don't have a….Gods, Helo." She lifts her head and smiles at him, sharp white teeth bright against her flushed pink lips. "You are my frakking date." She kisses him again, lingering this time, tension dissipated and spent. "Idiot."