The problem with the world is that everyone is a few drinks behind
”Poor girl,” Weaver teases lightly, finger slipping forward to bop him on the nose lightly before retreating. ”I told her you were my boss, and she was disappointed to find out that I was not also a mermaid pirate. Serving food and drink is far less exciting.” She’d left out the details, of course, that she owned a bar in Halo, that her job was far more than just food and drink. Still, she’d been impressed with the little girl, with her willingness to learn, to fight, her ability to comprehend that such things were not just for play.
He seems not to believe her, that she isn’t so mean. Apparently she really does have quite the good reputation after all. Apparently she wears her mask well, this hard exterior that is cruel and unkind, in many ways. She is so much softer than that, so much kinder, though she is unafraid to do what needs to be done. ”Well, not unless you deserve it,” she hums, playing right into the girl she has crafted so well. So well, in fact, she is that girl. Perhaps he’d say he does deserve it, though she would disagree. Doing terrible things didn’t make them terrible people, necessarily.
His hand comes up to her hair, fingers lacing through the strands which have long since fallen from their braid. There’s almost nothing of the braid left, and she reaches up to pull the band loose, freeing the remaining strands, allowing him access to the long dark tresses, tangled, splayed around her face and neck. ”That tongue is kind of weird,” she teases, noticing as it slips back out, a grin on her face. She refrains from poking at his lip, though.
”Oh, cause you had to try so hard?” she says, her voice a little harder on the edges, though in a very teasing manner. He pulls her closer, and though they are pressed tightly on the couch, she finds ways to slip a little closer still. One leg shifting slightly to meet his, her head slipping into the crook of his shoulder, her hands against his chest, fingers resting against the warm muscles. ”I have stumbled home drunk for far longer than you have even lived here. Every man in this town knows if they touch me they will find a knife somewhere they do not want it.” A clear enough threat, though it’s not necessarily directed at him. Besides, he already knows she’d do exactly that, if she wanted. He already knows she would not be here, if she did not want to be.
She dims the fire slightly, letting it cast its light but reducing the heat. She does so easily, without looking its way, just a thought, and with it Maea creeps into her mind, somewhere on the fringes. A friend that never was. A love that never quite was, either. A girl who would not get to find out where life might take her. Gods, her mind was nowhere good. ”I have a pocket full of beautiful feathers to add to a cloak,” she teases instead, trying to pull something good from a mind that cannot quite find it.
He seems not to believe her, that she isn’t so mean. Apparently she really does have quite the good reputation after all. Apparently she wears her mask well, this hard exterior that is cruel and unkind, in many ways. She is so much softer than that, so much kinder, though she is unafraid to do what needs to be done. ”Well, not unless you deserve it,” she hums, playing right into the girl she has crafted so well. So well, in fact, she is that girl. Perhaps he’d say he does deserve it, though she would disagree. Doing terrible things didn’t make them terrible people, necessarily.
His hand comes up to her hair, fingers lacing through the strands which have long since fallen from their braid. There’s almost nothing of the braid left, and she reaches up to pull the band loose, freeing the remaining strands, allowing him access to the long dark tresses, tangled, splayed around her face and neck. ”That tongue is kind of weird,” she teases, noticing as it slips back out, a grin on her face. She refrains from poking at his lip, though.
”Oh, cause you had to try so hard?” she says, her voice a little harder on the edges, though in a very teasing manner. He pulls her closer, and though they are pressed tightly on the couch, she finds ways to slip a little closer still. One leg shifting slightly to meet his, her head slipping into the crook of his shoulder, her hands against his chest, fingers resting against the warm muscles. ”I have stumbled home drunk for far longer than you have even lived here. Every man in this town knows if they touch me they will find a knife somewhere they do not want it.” A clear enough threat, though it’s not necessarily directed at him. Besides, he already knows she’d do exactly that, if she wanted. He already knows she would not be here, if she did not want to be.
She dims the fire slightly, letting it cast its light but reducing the heat. She does so easily, without looking its way, just a thought, and with it Maea creeps into her mind, somewhere on the fringes. A friend that never was. A love that never quite was, either. A girl who would not get to find out where life might take her. Gods, her mind was nowhere good. ”I have a pocket full of beautiful feathers to add to a cloak,” she teases instead, trying to pull something good from a mind that cannot quite find it.
Weaver
