The problem with the world is that everyone is a few drinks behind
“Glad you agree,” she purrs, catlike in the way she strokes her own ego. In some other life she was a cat, certainly. Curiosity that will one day get her killed. A back that arched into a touch. That superior feline attitude. Besides, fuck them. Fuck them all with their high horses and their rose colored glasses. Fuck them all for thinking they are ‘good’ when it’s such an arbitrary word anyway. They just hide behind lies, behind false niceties, behind deception and the guise of ‘doing the right thing’. Not like her and Sunjata. They just did what needed to be done. Sometimes it was dirty, sometimes it was messy, sometimes it was damn wrong. Someone had to do it though.
She hums a murmur of approval. “All good stories start with booze ‘and yet’, don’t they?” She sounds almost nostalgic, almost regretful, and almost hopeful all at once. There’s no reason why besides her conflicted emotions, besides the ghost of Maea in the corner of the room.
Fuck, they were the villains after all.
She’d said no to Loren when he’d been drunk and in need of distraction. It should not be different, but it is. Even then there’d been a part of her that wanted to wait for him, that wanted to stumble into that damn Launcelyn when the stars aligned in a different way. Perhaps she’d missed her chance, but if he was happy with Sam, it was enough. Sunjata though? Heis comfortable and fun, and it feels okay. It feels almost right.
He slides a hand down her side to his own leg, his grin literally fanged. He brings out his own knife, which is no real surprise. She grins, her smile not literally fanged but she gives the same impression anyway. At his words, she twirls the knife against his chin, the point resting gently against his skin. “You seem to be insisting,” she says, voice a low growl, a dangerous purr. If he is the incubus, then she is the succubus.
She pulls the knife away, slipping it back into its place. Just in case. She does not say that the good things do not have their share of shit. Only that they are good first. Already the Kraai brought argument after argument with her and Korbin, and it wasn’t even technically open. Still, there was good. It was the location for this, which was only the beginning of a whole new story.
“What were you going to do?” she asks, a tease in her voice. Though she doesn’t really care, because he was not doing it now. He was here, curled against her, breath hot against her skin. His answer doesn’t matter, and it’s swallowed by the kiss. The kiss that doesn’t feel wrong.
Gods, it should though. Gods, she could care. She should care that she’s a distraction to him, except this is nothing more for her. She should care that this is Sunjata, the man she told Maea she had no interest in (true enough, except that she’s not blind or prude). She should care. But she doesn’t.
Maea’s ghost disappears.
He tugs her closer, and she slips into the spaces between them, a leg coming up to wrap on top of his. She slides beneath the bat wing that wraps around her, the fire flaring in the hearth though she doesn’t intend it. She melts into the kiss, no idea if there will be more, content not to worry about anything but the taste of him, smoke and vodka now. Her hand tangles in his hair at the nap of his neck, her nails against his skin, and she presses herself closer.
She hums a murmur of approval. “All good stories start with booze ‘and yet’, don’t they?” She sounds almost nostalgic, almost regretful, and almost hopeful all at once. There’s no reason why besides her conflicted emotions, besides the ghost of Maea in the corner of the room.
Fuck, they were the villains after all.
She’d said no to Loren when he’d been drunk and in need of distraction. It should not be different, but it is. Even then there’d been a part of her that wanted to wait for him, that wanted to stumble into that damn Launcelyn when the stars aligned in a different way. Perhaps she’d missed her chance, but if he was happy with Sam, it was enough. Sunjata though? Heis comfortable and fun, and it feels okay. It feels almost right.
He slides a hand down her side to his own leg, his grin literally fanged. He brings out his own knife, which is no real surprise. She grins, her smile not literally fanged but she gives the same impression anyway. At his words, she twirls the knife against his chin, the point resting gently against his skin. “You seem to be insisting,” she says, voice a low growl, a dangerous purr. If he is the incubus, then she is the succubus.
She pulls the knife away, slipping it back into its place. Just in case. She does not say that the good things do not have their share of shit. Only that they are good first. Already the Kraai brought argument after argument with her and Korbin, and it wasn’t even technically open. Still, there was good. It was the location for this, which was only the beginning of a whole new story.
“What were you going to do?” she asks, a tease in her voice. Though she doesn’t really care, because he was not doing it now. He was here, curled against her, breath hot against her skin. His answer doesn’t matter, and it’s swallowed by the kiss. The kiss that doesn’t feel wrong.
Gods, it should though. Gods, she could care. She should care that she’s a distraction to him, except this is nothing more for her. She should care that this is Sunjata, the man she told Maea she had no interest in (true enough, except that she’s not blind or prude). She should care. But she doesn’t.
Maea’s ghost disappears.
He tugs her closer, and she slips into the spaces between them, a leg coming up to wrap on top of his. She slides beneath the bat wing that wraps around her, the fire flaring in the hearth though she doesn’t intend it. She melts into the kiss, no idea if there will be more, content not to worry about anything but the taste of him, smoke and vodka now. Her hand tangles in his hair at the nap of his neck, her nails against his skin, and she presses herself closer.
Weaver
