birthrightgreen

It's a welcome feeling when my fingers curl around the handle. Familiar. Comforting. I remember the first one she handed me, the first time I wielded it, trying to imitate her movements, jerky, off balance. I was frustrated. She was patient. It didn't help in the end, not really. She was still gone, though I carried it with me, the bone handle cutting deep into my palm where I clutched it too tightly. It was crude, that first weapon, and I couldn't call it to my hands when he bound them and held me down.

I was too stunned at the next. Too frightened of the one after. In too much pain with the fourth. But then came one, and my body was adjusting to what they did to it. It still hurt, but there was the ability to think under the pain, to hate. To rage. To call it in and wrap my hand around it and plunge it deep into his back until he bled as much as I did the first time.

There were others, and people learned. They talked. The plotted, but no one cared enough to stop me. Then he came and there was training and there were teachers. It became a dance in and of itself and separated from the basic needs of survival it became a release. Grace and beauty under the brutality of the movement. Anyone can watch a fencing match and see the beauty, but the grace in the movement of a smaller blade is often lost. Far too often it is used for only one thing, though there are some who can see the beauty in the patterns it can trace on skin as it slices it away. Precision in the cuts. A twist of the wrist. The sure knowledge that the thin blade has done damage no surgeon can repair, slicing a triangle in the heart that can't be stitched closed.

A beautiful instrument ornamented, decorative and deceptively harmless looking, but it delivers death, swift and sure. It's always with me, and there will be none who take what I'm not willing to give ever again.

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She gave him a pout, but swung the stick up into ready position.

He immediately attacked, his body following the blow in where their two sticks connected. He was close enough he could feel the heat from her body, and he managed to stroke Surreal's knuckles before pulling away again.

She scowled at him, nevermind the touch, and attacked quickly.

"You look displeased."

He met her blow.

She struck again. "You pulled out Lucivar's toys.."

He fell back at her outlash, before spinning in a move that belonged better on the dancefloor. He lifted the stick over their heads, one hand on each end, briefly leaving himself fully exposed to her attack. Then he brought it's line down behind her back, traping her against him.

He kissed her. Hard.

That was more what she had in mind and she only half heartedly tried to get away as she returned the kiss.

He pulled her even closer with the slighest of pressure to her back.

She moaned, wriggling a bit more.

"Make me drop the stick," he challanged into her mouth

She gave him a wicked grin and knocked the stick away with a blast from the Gray.

He had envisioned her hands being involved somehow.

And so, he may have actually pouted.

Her hands slid under his shirt, backing him toward the wall.

That, on the other hand, was perfect.

He kissed her again as they moved.

She chuckled against his lips, then pinned him to the wall, taking advantage shamelessly as her lips moved to his neck.

He never once forgot how strong she was, and yet she always managed to surprise him as well.

She nipped at his pulse point, then slid her lips lower, across his collarbone, her fingers stroking along his waistband.

From the corner of his eye he could just see the edge of the cabinet, their first purchase together. He growled a bit in pleasure, mouth finding hers again.

She nipped at his lip sharply, fingers unfastening his pants and pushing them down, then running over his hips, pressing into him.

Her clothes.

He considered them as he arched against her in response. She wore entirely too many of them.

She smiled against his lips, fingers running up him briefly before she dropped gracefully to her knees, lips teasing at his inner thigh.

Looking down at her, he felt a surge of love and had the most sudden urge to dance with her naked. From corner to corner of their floor. Instead he just dropped to his own knees, pushing her down to her back with a kiss of his own.

She wriggled a little at her plan being thwarted, but wrapped her arms around his neck kissing him deep.

The floor was polished, and gleamed brightly in the afternoon light. But not half so brightly as her. He kissed her name into whatever exposed skin he could reach.

She murmured his name against his skin, fingers trailing over him and touching everwhere, pulling him against her, basking in his warmth and the warmth of the sunlight.

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