The problem with the world is that everyone is a few drinks behind
She could blame the booze right now. Certainly the influence is there, and though she can feel it crawling through her veins, she knows she’s not drunk enough to truly blame the alcohol for any of this. No, this is simply her. It is raw, foolish desire. It is all the things she never thought she’d actually do. She hadn’t lied to Maea that day. She meant it, when she said Sunjata was all Maea’s. She meant it, when she said there was no threat from her. All that had been true, was still true, and yet. Ah, and yet... And yet his hand in hair, his fingers skimming her side, they feel so damn good and maybe she is tired of trying. Maybe she is tired of caring. Maybe for a moment she understands why her brother’s mood is so sour because it’s hard. It’s so fucking hard to try, to love, to care, to keep going when everything crumbles down around you.
And yet still, if you asked her, it is a good life. No, good is the wrong word. Good is a useless, stupid word. It is a beautiful life. He is beautiful, scars and all, mistakes and all. This moment is beautiful, despite the wrongness that she cannot feel, because it feels right. Ah, no, here is where good is a useful word. It feels good. Fuck it all, because if she boils it down to the bare bones, does the rest matter?
He presses into the knife, drawing a tiny prick of blood. Not much, but enough that the healing magic thrums in her veins. She can feel the small wound, though she leaves it, letting him choose to bleed. It is cathartic, after all, and this was a night for catharsis. Maybe they should just play with the knives. Maybe playing with each other was playing with knives. What else were they, if not weapons made flesh?
He is a furnace against her skin, and she doesn’t mind the way she burns at his touch, the way the fire leaps in the hearth as his fingers trail along her side. His hand slides below her hip and he presses into her, her breath hitching in her throat as she meets him there. He shudders and pulls away just slightly, nipping at her lip, and there’s nothing about the gesture that is wrong but still, she slips her hand to his jaw, her eyes looking for his, her voice soft. ”You can say no too,” she tells him, not that she necessarily wants that (even if she should want that), but somehow it feels important to give him the option, to give him the out. Whether he takes it or not is his own choice.
Her hand slips away though, tilting her head back to give him access to her neck. ”We have access to beds,” she says, voice deeper than normal, a little smokier. ”Or a nest,” she says, allowing him to shift them so she’s underneath him now, one hand waving vaguely in the direction of the furs on the floor still. The place she had, truly, intended to sleep. He pulls away slightly, asking permission, and she simply slips her hand into his hair in response, pulling him back to her.
And yet still, if you asked her, it is a good life. No, good is the wrong word. Good is a useless, stupid word. It is a beautiful life. He is beautiful, scars and all, mistakes and all. This moment is beautiful, despite the wrongness that she cannot feel, because it feels right. Ah, no, here is where good is a useful word. It feels good. Fuck it all, because if she boils it down to the bare bones, does the rest matter?
He presses into the knife, drawing a tiny prick of blood. Not much, but enough that the healing magic thrums in her veins. She can feel the small wound, though she leaves it, letting him choose to bleed. It is cathartic, after all, and this was a night for catharsis. Maybe they should just play with the knives. Maybe playing with each other was playing with knives. What else were they, if not weapons made flesh?
He is a furnace against her skin, and she doesn’t mind the way she burns at his touch, the way the fire leaps in the hearth as his fingers trail along her side. His hand slides below her hip and he presses into her, her breath hitching in her throat as she meets him there. He shudders and pulls away just slightly, nipping at her lip, and there’s nothing about the gesture that is wrong but still, she slips her hand to his jaw, her eyes looking for his, her voice soft. ”You can say no too,” she tells him, not that she necessarily wants that (even if she should want that), but somehow it feels important to give him the option, to give him the out. Whether he takes it or not is his own choice.
Her hand slips away though, tilting her head back to give him access to her neck. ”We have access to beds,” she says, voice deeper than normal, a little smokier. ”Or a nest,” she says, allowing him to shift them so she’s underneath him now, one hand waving vaguely in the direction of the furs on the floor still. The place she had, truly, intended to sleep. He pulls away slightly, asking permission, and she simply slips her hand into his hair in response, pulling him back to her.
Weaver
