the wolves are watching

Maeve

The idea of killing anything curdles her stomach and she hides her discomfort over the idea with a long swig from the bottle of rum. They're a little half way through it now and gods if it doesn't help. Warmth suffuses through her veins, flushing her cheeks prettily, and blowing out her pupils with something other than lust. Maeve hums lazily, "Then you can surely teach me something." She teases, dropping her head back against his shoulder and nuzzling lightly into his neck. He's so warm and this time he smells like her. Lavender and vanilla. Yummy. Her mind is growing a touch hazy. Not enough to urge her to sleep, but enough to encourage her to melt against him. Fingers come up to brush through the hair at the nape of his neck, scratching lightly.

"Do you think a plant would count? It probably wouldn't count..." She answers her own question, huffing out something akin to a laugh against his throat. A chicken might not be too bad. A chicken or a ramphire. Not that she really wants to kill anything, but Safrin asked her to. She needs to do it. She doesn't want to disappoint her. "Don't have to go in the Wilds. Just thought maybe it would be more impressive." Her lips curl into a little smile and maybe she's drank more than she thought. Is the bottle only half empty? Nope. Definitely more. Way more. When was the last time she was anything past tipsy? She honestly can't even remember.

I admit that I'm a little messed up
but I can hide it when I'm all dressed up