#chatter; this is older than even if we can't find heaven but i didn't post it for some reason

[lampea-by-lamplight]

like a moth to light

“stop that.”

“stop what?”

irritation darkens his eyes, turns them the colour of malachite instead of spring leaves, and makes his shoulders tense in a way that can’t be comfortable - she’s half tempted to offer to draw him a bath or give him a massage or something - as he glances pointedly at her lips. “that.”

that, it turns out, is her habit of biting her bottom lip in thought - a habit he’s well aware of, considering just how much thinking they need to do in their line of work, so she doesn’t actually know what the issue is this time - and, honestly, who could blame her for being too deep in thought to clock on immediately?

lust’s perfume just has so many applications in potions that it’s kind of funny how it’s named for the spirit of lust and not one of its many uses, like how it can be used to create a potion capable of relaxing a person to the point they almost die.

reflexively, she bites her lip again. an aggravated groan leaves him, his jaw now also clenched in irritation, as he stands and circles the table to stand over her. his left hand, covered by a leather glove as it always is, is warm against her skin as he cups her face and presses his thumb against the centre of her bottom lip.

she looks up at him, eyes wide, and traces the stoic line of his mouth, the furrow between his brows her fingers almost itch to smooth out, the way his hair is out of place after several hours of staring at schematics and books in frustration.

it is a semi-unfortunate truth that, under the single mindedness and the sarcasm and the pride, fitz is an attractive man.

“it’s like you’re consciously tempting me.” he mutters under his breath, almost to himself, fingers absently stroking her jaw line. “but i know you are not so, please, stop.”

her skin is soft, her eyes are bright and clear, and everything about her is so damnably light that a part of him - the parts of him soaked in blood and revenge and possession - aches. a lesser man would forget the dragon fire that seeps through her veins, would forget her wit and her mind, would forget the magic that curls around her like smoke and fog and mist, would forget her rage and her biting tongue and the blood that stains her hands, but he cannot because it is the presence of those traits that makes her brightness even more brilliant.

the smart thing to do, she knows, would be to agree - he would step back, go back to his work, and she would return to hers, and they wouldn’t acknowledge this one tension filled moment ever again, wouldn’t acknowledge his apparent fixation on her lips or how the feeling of his hand on her skin made her shiver.

“make me,” darya says, because sometimes she wants to be stupid (also she kind of wants to see how he’ll react), and nips at his thumb for good measure.