WEAVER
she was beautiful
in the way a forest fire was beautiful
in the way a forest fire was beautiful
Is it tempting fate, or is it simply fate, this night? Does the distinction matter? They are not two halves of one whole. There is no poetry in this, no love, just desire. There is no destiny in the stars for them, save that someday when they have burned all they love to the ground, they might be the only two left. For they kept surviving, despite it all. They are both the same thing, steel tempered in scalding fires, beneath the hammer of their lives. They clash against one another, steel against steel, and there is something beautiful and glorious in the sound, the feel, of it. They are weapons, whether they ever wanted to be or not, and they live for the battle, for the taste of blood.
It is a good thing indeed, for him. He is not meant to live in the grasp of the cold, where even his flood might freeze. Not like her, a girl made of fire and ice both, of infernos and blizzards. She belongs here, in this frozen wasteland, for it cannot stop her. It brings her to life instead, gives her reason to burn all the more brightly.
She leans into the bites he places along her skin, along all the scars. So many of those scars were friendly fire, but her and her brothers never practiced with wood. What was the point, because someday you’d be in a real fight with steel on steel, someday you’d feel the sting of that sharp blade against your skin, and when that day came, you needed to be ready for it. You needed to be used to the threat of a little blood, to the bloom of pain. Like him, she is not afraid of a little blood. Instead, she hums her approval, a soft purr in the back of her throat.
He pulls back to look, her bra gone, her breasts and scars and the soft but subtle muscles of her abdomen on full display. She lets him look, unashamed of what she is. Then she’s pulling herself up and close, pressing her chest to his, his hands supporting her back. Her mind goes quiet, nothing but him filling it. Him and the fire in her veins, the fire in the hearth that crackles and thrives with the magic that’s flared to life beneath the heat of him.
He sweeps that weird snake tongue along her lip, and she pulls back just slightly, a shudder that might be pleasure or disgust (maybe both) running through her at the feel of it. She grins that fanged grin at him, mischief in her eyes. She follows as he pulls her back, shifting so she’s sitting atop him, legs folded beneath her. Her hips move like a wave against him, teasing, encouraging. Her lips find his, sucking in that lower lip of his again, biting harder this time. She may not have fangs or a forked tongue, but she’d find ways to match him all the same.
It is a good thing indeed, for him. He is not meant to live in the grasp of the cold, where even his flood might freeze. Not like her, a girl made of fire and ice both, of infernos and blizzards. She belongs here, in this frozen wasteland, for it cannot stop her. It brings her to life instead, gives her reason to burn all the more brightly.
She leans into the bites he places along her skin, along all the scars. So many of those scars were friendly fire, but her and her brothers never practiced with wood. What was the point, because someday you’d be in a real fight with steel on steel, someday you’d feel the sting of that sharp blade against your skin, and when that day came, you needed to be ready for it. You needed to be used to the threat of a little blood, to the bloom of pain. Like him, she is not afraid of a little blood. Instead, she hums her approval, a soft purr in the back of her throat.
He pulls back to look, her bra gone, her breasts and scars and the soft but subtle muscles of her abdomen on full display. She lets him look, unashamed of what she is. Then she’s pulling herself up and close, pressing her chest to his, his hands supporting her back. Her mind goes quiet, nothing but him filling it. Him and the fire in her veins, the fire in the hearth that crackles and thrives with the magic that’s flared to life beneath the heat of him.
He sweeps that weird snake tongue along her lip, and she pulls back just slightly, a shudder that might be pleasure or disgust (maybe both) running through her at the feel of it. She grins that fanged grin at him, mischief in her eyes. She follows as he pulls her back, shifting so she’s sitting atop him, legs folded beneath her. Her hips move like a wave against him, teasing, encouraging. Her lips find his, sucking in that lower lip of his again, biting harder this time. She may not have fangs or a forked tongue, but she’d find ways to match him all the same.
something to be admired from a distance
