The problem with the world is that everyone is a few drinks behind
There are so many shouldn’ts in her life. She shouldn’t hunt alone, but she does. She shouldn’t drink nearly as much as she does, but she doesn’t stop. She shouldn’t curse, shouldn’t fuck, shouldn’t be who she is, and yet she is all those things and more. She shouldn’t be here, pressed against him on this couch. She shouldn’t be burning against him, with him. But she is, and does it matter when in the morning all their sins will be washed away? There are no other keys to this room. No one else will ever know. It is their life to live tonight, beneath the shadows of secrecy and pleasure. It is their burden to bear or perhaps, their burden to shed.
His lips leave soft kisses on her neck, though she can feel the fangs still there. Her hands slide to his back, fingers light as they trace the muscles and scars on his hot, tanned skin. She lets her nails drag slightly, not hard enough to cut, but enough to feel the threat of them, like his fangs, all the same. She may not have his shifts, but she could threaten all the same. ”Gods, you really would make a terrible Halovian. Your loss,” she says in a breathy voice, distracted by the feel of his body pressed against hers, the weight of him on top of her.
His hand slips beneath her shirt, and she takes in a breath at the feel of those fingers against the scars on her skin. Her lips find his ear, nibbling on the lobe, though otherwise letting him explore her neck, her shoulder, the tattoo for Erebor. When he pauses to tug her shirt off, she lifts herself up slightly, wiggling herself out of the undershirt with his help. There’s still the bra, but she unclasps it, tossing that to the side too. Maybe she should have known from the beginning, from the time when they’d started tossing clothes to the ground so casually without a second thought, revealing skin and scars and ink.
Her hands run along him to his neck, lifting herself to him, sucking in his lower lip to bite, gently, at the skin. Tonight, they could burn. They could burn together, rage inside the inferno of pain and pleasure. Tonight, they could wash it all away. They could drown together, lost to the flood. In the morning, they could rise from the ashes. They could go on, and maybe, just maybe, it would hurt a little less.
His lips leave soft kisses on her neck, though she can feel the fangs still there. Her hands slide to his back, fingers light as they trace the muscles and scars on his hot, tanned skin. She lets her nails drag slightly, not hard enough to cut, but enough to feel the threat of them, like his fangs, all the same. She may not have his shifts, but she could threaten all the same. ”Gods, you really would make a terrible Halovian. Your loss,” she says in a breathy voice, distracted by the feel of his body pressed against hers, the weight of him on top of her.
His hand slips beneath her shirt, and she takes in a breath at the feel of those fingers against the scars on her skin. Her lips find his ear, nibbling on the lobe, though otherwise letting him explore her neck, her shoulder, the tattoo for Erebor. When he pauses to tug her shirt off, she lifts herself up slightly, wiggling herself out of the undershirt with his help. There’s still the bra, but she unclasps it, tossing that to the side too. Maybe she should have known from the beginning, from the time when they’d started tossing clothes to the ground so casually without a second thought, revealing skin and scars and ink.
Her hands run along him to his neck, lifting herself to him, sucking in his lower lip to bite, gently, at the skin. Tonight, they could burn. They could burn together, rage inside the inferno of pain and pleasure. Tonight, they could wash it all away. They could drown together, lost to the flood. In the morning, they could rise from the ashes. They could go on, and maybe, just maybe, it would hurt a little less.
Weaver
