allgotrabies | IC CONTACT

"I think it means you can choose to be one." She doesn't necessarily believe everyone gets to choose. Whatever she is now, there was no thought involved, no planning and no real choices. The few things she has decided to do only made things worse--and that's why she lives moment to moment, doing what her impulses ask her to do, never slowing down to examine them.

Like for instance this impulse, when her mouth brushes his. "What do you choose to be right now?"

Fuck.

His lips tremble at the sensation, so acute it makes his scalp tingle. Sweeney's breath is shallow and hot against hers in answer. He shuts his eyes, his mind desperately fighting against his need.

But is it actually need? Or just overwhelming want? He's never been one to split hairs on that definition, but right now, it seems a fundamental to the situation. Can he actually choose?

Even with a deliberate swallow, it takes him a couple of seconds to muster the words.

"I think...I think I should probably go," he whispers, having found little more than breath to offer. That said, he hasn't convinced the rest of his body to move back, just resist urging forward.

She wants him to stay so badly that her nails are digging into her thighs to keep from pulling him to her. And she feels that pit of disappointment that she won't get him and, paradoxically, a surge of pride for him. For choosing when she knows he wants to have her as badly as she wants to be had.

It is still so hard to make herself be still, to not kiss him again. "Come smoke with me tonight," she whispers back. "In the Greenhouse."

Where the temptation is so much less than it is right here, where all he has to do is touch her.

He takes the win.

"I'll try," he whispers. His lashes flutter as he tries not to inhale too deeply. He might lose his resolve and be swept up in taking her.

"I can't promise."

There's too much in him. Too much want. Too much confusion. Who knows if he'll even be himself then? Or remember? What if he can't control himself?

At least he manages to push against the floor, allowing himself to move back from her and work on getting his legs under him.

It would take so little effort to get to her feet, to push him against the wall, to undo buttons she's slowly becoming familiar with...

She's aware of the way her gaze rakes over him and she can only imagine what he sees when he looks at her, kneeling on the floor in front of him, fighting these little thoughts.

Come back. If he could read her mind, the things he'd hear right now. The fact she isn't flirting, isn't teasing, must speak plenty about how hard she's working against herself.

"Well," she licks her lips, which feel dry. "I'll be there around midnight. If you're lonely."

Sweeney doesn't need to read her mind to know what his own is begging. He knows damn well how skilled she is on her knees, and it's no stretch to call up the image of stepping to close the distance between them so she can practice those tricks she keeps on about.

He takes the opportunity to shift his weight with hopes of some vague reprieve from the pressure, but there's little to be had. His eyes close again, and he sucks a slow breath in, grateful to be nowhere near her hair when he does. Setting his resolve along with his jaw, he manages to speak with more confidence.

"Make it ten."

He can do that, he decides, knowing there are fallbacks available if shit goes sideways.

"Ten," she agrees, and makes herself stand, makes herself open the door. Her hand brushes his hip and she almost shuts that door again to keep him here. "I'll be there."

It'll give her time to scrub the paint off of her skin at least, give her time to change into something a little warmer than she's got on now.

Just when he thinks he's got his momentum, her touch causes him to stutter. Not stumble or shift, but it's enough to make his mind waver, filling him with fresh thoughts of pushing her to the floor.

Cautious of taking another breath, he forces himself to tip his head in acknowledge as he digs his hand in his pocket for his keys.

Once he passes the threshold, things are a bit easier. Enough, at least, that he can get in his own door without looking back to her.

He can do this.

Probably.

Fuck.

She puts her paints away and she goes home to Godric's cabin, where she scrubs under hot water until her head feels a little clearer. She's still thinking of him, but her thoughts drift back to Gerard and the flowers in a vase on her nightstand.

She goes to the Greenhouse a little earlier than planned, and she brings only one cigarette because by then she's browsed the network and seen the concerns about rationing. So much for the joys of chain smoking.

Sweeney's already there by the time she arrives, having arrived half an hour early to see if he was even capable of being there before he had to do it with her. Nothing implies he's changed or otherwise addressed himself.

He's not at the knoll, however. Instead he's meandering through some pots and bushes of flowers, perusing them with a cigarette in one hand and his other tucked in the pocket of his jacket. Sweeney's attention seems focused, noting various species with a keener eye. Some nearby are strikingly similar to those that had been tied with blue ribbon.

"Hey. Guess we had the same idea," she says, smiling despite the very obvious worry. She looks at the flowers and up to him, remembering what he'd said about not knowing what Gerard did.

"He gave me some of those," pointing.

Sweeney's brow furrows in confusion as he goes from processing flowers to her greeting to the confrontation of information. He looks from her to the flower and back.

"That's Devil's Flower," he answers plainly, one brow quirked as he's a bit unsure why that would be of interest to a prudish fuck like that Frenchman. Unless he's not so prudish after all.

With a tip of his head, he takes the opportunity to clarify. "Bachelor Button."

She shakes her head slightly. "I know palm trees and papaya and orange blossoms. And roses." Other plants are a mystery. "Why do they call it Devil's Flower?"

He shrugs. "Cause humans are dumb shits that can't decide if a devil is something ta be avoided or desired."

Sweeney doesn't have an answer other than 'human's decided it so', but that doesn't mean he has to like it.

"Prob'bly why they rebranded it."

"So 'bachelor's button' probably doesn't have a reason either," she guesses. "It's like constellations, huh? None of 'em make any sense."

But even so she brushes her fingers along the petals and can't help a little smile. "I like flowers. I don't think I'd name them, though. If I was the first person to ever see them."

"Humans have an inherent need to name things." It's a truth he knows better than most, having been born of them time and again. It's a complicated topic for him.

"Those are fer love magic." He explains without strong affect. If the Frenchman is trying ta cast some bullshit, she should at least know about it.

"Love magic?" She looks up at him, still running her fingertips along the petals. "What d'you mean?"

Sweeney doesn't think it's that complicated.

"Like...usin' them ta make ya fall in love with someone." What else would love magic be?

"But..." she looks at the flowers. "You mean he wants me to fall in love with him?"

"Fuck if I know." There's only the faintest edge of bitterness to the words. After all, it's his fucking body that Frenchman's been wandering around in without so much as a by your leave.

"Just know they're good fer it." Sweeney shrugs and takes a drag. "Yer the one that's seen him of late." He rolls his eyes beneath their lids before they settle back on her.

"What do you think?"

"I don't know," she says, bewildered and now a little frightened for Sweeney. "I don't think so. He thinks you're hurting me, maybe he just wants to 'fix' that?"

Sweeney frowns. He hates himself plenty without this cockwobbler adding to the pile. He taps his ash and turns to her, stepping so they are within arms's reach while his expression smooths. His focus drops to her, his head cocked a touch.

"You think he's tryin' ta make me fall in love with ya?"

She gives the flowers a wary look. "He can't though. Right?"

She knows the reason Sweeney has his rules around sex is to avoid catching feelings, and she knows that like a cold, feelings spread once they take hold somewhere. This is the worst place imaginable for that.

Now that is a fucking terrifying proposition.

Sweeney's lips flicker tight before his tongue slides between to ease them. He looks up past her to the flowers down the way.

"Fuck if I know." He tries to sound like he's not too concerned. "Does lots of things he shouldn't. Ne'er been in a situation like that."

"But you know magic," she insists. She shifts her weight, subconsciously trying to draw his attention back to her. "Love magic is fake though, right? Just flowers aren't magic."

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