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ｍｏｒｄｅｃａｉ ｔｈｅ ｈｕｎｔｅｒ. (
2017-06-11 11:42 am (UTC)
He's pushing her back, straight into the table in Sanctuary. Best laid plans, pushed the floor, blood-ink maps of vaults and eridian statues and places where the earth talks all ancient like her skin. Fuck him, he's not a philosopher, hell, he's not even really that smart, he knows his gun and his measurements and how good it feels to get that line of sight down perfect, one shot one kill straight through the eyes.
It feels the same, as he grips hard to her lips, the taste of rakk ale in his mouth, burned up and burned out ugly, dragged across the bump of her shoulder as he yanks the cap of her sleeve down to drag his tongue heavy over the river-markings. The spark taste of ash in his mouth she tastes sweeter and more foul than the best whiskey, the worst water they drill up out of the ground.
Fuck, he's sorry Roland. Fuck, he's sorry Lilith. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, and he snatches her by the hips and drags her under him. Dripping fingers into her arse and lifting her up to grind her against hard heat in his pants. Felt barely through straps and ammunition belts and wraps of material. Mouth panting against her collar bone. Dumb as teenagers and twice as good. Wanted her a hundred years, but she had eyes otherwise and he was never hung up on that kind of thing. Not like how Roland looked at her like a damned puppy dog. Or Brick either. But something just as sad. Them and the merry band of misfits and that just means - what is left now. Has to be enough.
It's all they've got left.
And he's still fucking sorry.
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