WEAVER
she was beautiful
in the way a forest fire was beautiful
in the way a forest fire was beautiful
She has a surprising lack of scars from people out to get her, but then again, she’d lived a sheltered life, in a way. There are scars from hunts gone south, of course, scars from claws and fangs and tusks and a few rookie mistakes. There are all the scars from training. But she’d grown up and lived an entire life in Halo, and though there’d been men to try and take advantage of a pretty girl (weren’t they surprised to find a tiger and not a woman), there’d been nothing more than that. It was a hard existence here, but full of good people, surrounded by a town all trying to make it together. Though the ursur tusk through her chest is another matter, the sort of scar he bears as well. They should both be ghosts. She’d trade her life for Erebor any day, because he deserved to live in a way she did not. She imagines Sunjata would trade his life for Lusea all the same. Yet they were the ones left, the ones still living.
Maybe they were still alive to meet one another. Not to be soulmates, not to fall in love, but to keep each other standing when it would be so much easier to fall. To remind each other why they lived like death was on their heels, because it always was, wasn’t it? On their heels but not yet ready for them, so instead they left it in their wake. Might as well keep going with the destruction.
But was this really destruction? Not of them. Not of those left alive. Only of pain and loneliness and sorrow, at least for a time.
He groans into her as she bites his lip, and she grins around the bite before letting go. She could just heal whatever little wounds they tore into each other when it was all done, though she doubted that she would. That wasn’t really the point. The point was the pain, a thing that they had both learned to find pleasure in. He draws blunt claws against her side and she arches into the touch, the potential of pain and pleasure both. He bites her own lip with real fangs, and she can taste the hint of blood, though she doesn’t mind.
He shifts them again, and she obliges, stretching her legs out and leaning back, pushing at the tight cotton pants to slide them down, allowing him to take them all the way down and off, kicking them away to join the growing pile of clothing on the floor. A sharp bite to her neck, and her hands come to tangle in his hair, careless if she grips a bit too tight, though she does not hold him in place, letting him drift, letting him explore. Her hands trail along his skin, finding scars and muscle again and again, learning the feel of him as he tastes her, as his hand trails against her thigh and sends the fire in the hearth even higher.
Maybe they were still alive to meet one another. Not to be soulmates, not to fall in love, but to keep each other standing when it would be so much easier to fall. To remind each other why they lived like death was on their heels, because it always was, wasn’t it? On their heels but not yet ready for them, so instead they left it in their wake. Might as well keep going with the destruction.
But was this really destruction? Not of them. Not of those left alive. Only of pain and loneliness and sorrow, at least for a time.
He groans into her as she bites his lip, and she grins around the bite before letting go. She could just heal whatever little wounds they tore into each other when it was all done, though she doubted that she would. That wasn’t really the point. The point was the pain, a thing that they had both learned to find pleasure in. He draws blunt claws against her side and she arches into the touch, the potential of pain and pleasure both. He bites her own lip with real fangs, and she can taste the hint of blood, though she doesn’t mind.
He shifts them again, and she obliges, stretching her legs out and leaning back, pushing at the tight cotton pants to slide them down, allowing him to take them all the way down and off, kicking them away to join the growing pile of clothing on the floor. A sharp bite to her neck, and her hands come to tangle in his hair, careless if she grips a bit too tight, though she does not hold him in place, letting him drift, letting him explore. Her hands trail along his skin, finding scars and muscle again and again, learning the feel of him as he tastes her, as his hand trails against her thigh and sends the fire in the hearth even higher.
something to be admired from a distance
