She feels. She feels everything and that's what makes Monet go quiet. The wash of Athos' breath, the rumble in his chest, how his arms are warm and real and there around her. Monet is dead. Monet is gone. Monet was screaming so loud she couldn't focus and this quiets him. All of him. All of them.
No more ghosts.
For a moment it's so silent she feels like she's died when he keeps on. Centers her. Anchors her. Holds her in place so she won't fly apart or float away. More than his hands his voice seeps in through every jagged crack left behind by Bifrons and Monet, seeping in sweet as syrup and thick as tar to smooth over the bits of her that make her bleed when she breathes. Blunts them and braces them back in place. But that uncertainty- can she have that?
Can she have everything?
There's this constant uncertain undercurrent of want whenever she's around him. It's always been that way. Something in him that piques her interest. Maybe it's the ruin that Anne left him. Maybe it's wanting to find someone just as broken and try to fix them. Maybe it's just his too old eyes and his too soft hands and his all too rare smile. Maybe it's nothing and all of this but she wants, has wanted, but doesn't know if it's safe to want. If he wants back. If they can have instead of yearn. The simple answer is that it's never safe. It'll never be safe. And oh, he wants to keep her safe from Monet and that he can do.
But he can't protect her from herself.
She wants him. Like the axe wants the turkey, she wants him and for this moment it seems as though she and she alone has him. Not Anne. Not even the ghost of her.
There's a lingering thought of James, of Natalia, both slip aside as she pulls herself all the more close to him, pressing her lips along his pulse, along his jaw, against his mouth once more to silence that foolish promise. He can't save her from what will kill her. But he can make the idea of sticking around a little bit longer more appealing. He can remind her to be less of a weapon. This kiss is gentler, sweeter. Kinder.
Less like a fight and more like an invitation. She even goes so far as to take one of his hands and slide it down to rest on her hip again, pulling back to catch his eyes as she rolls against that stiffness she'd caused earlier. "I can be yours however you want me- for tonight."
Just tonight. She can't be certain of anything more.
well they are sweet
No more ghosts.
For a moment it's so silent she feels like she's died when he keeps on. Centers her. Anchors her. Holds her in place so she won't fly apart or float away. More than his hands his voice seeps in through every jagged crack left behind by Bifrons and Monet, seeping in sweet as syrup and thick as tar to smooth over the bits of her that make her bleed when she breathes. Blunts them and braces them back in place. But that uncertainty- can she have that?
Can she have everything?
There's this constant uncertain undercurrent of want whenever she's around him. It's always been that way. Something in him that piques her interest. Maybe it's the ruin that Anne left him. Maybe it's wanting to find someone just as broken and try to fix them. Maybe it's just his too old eyes and his too soft hands and his all too rare smile. Maybe it's nothing and all of this but she wants, has wanted, but doesn't know if it's safe to want. If he wants back. If they can have instead of yearn. The simple answer is that it's never safe. It'll never be safe. And oh, he wants to keep her safe from Monet and that he can do.
But he can't protect her from herself.
She wants him. Like the axe wants the turkey, she wants him and for this moment it seems as though she and she alone has him. Not Anne. Not even the ghost of her.
There's a lingering thought of James, of Natalia, both slip aside as she pulls herself all the more close to him, pressing her lips along his pulse, along his jaw, against his mouth once more to silence that foolish promise. He can't save her from what will kill her. But he can make the idea of sticking around a little bit longer more appealing. He can remind her to be less of a weapon. This kiss is gentler, sweeter. Kinder.
Less like a fight and more like an invitation. She even goes so far as to take one of his hands and slide it down to rest on her hip again, pulling back to catch his eyes as she rolls against that stiffness she'd caused earlier. "I can be yours however you want me- for tonight."
Just tonight. She can't be certain of anything more.