“Spar with me,” Cinder suggests, and Winter has never been one to say no to a fight.
This is how they wind up here: Winter’s own sword at her throat, Cinder crouched over her, hands caressing the hilt like a lover. The tip of the blade presses against her skin, cold and unforgiving, and there’s something in the danger of it all that makes her want to —
Cinder pushes a little, as much as she can without breaking skin. It may as well be her blade now. As if she notices the way Winter is looking at her, she slips up, draws the hilt of her sword under her chin and tilts it up, and smirks when an involuntary whine slips past Winter’s lips.
“That desperate, huh?”
“No, I — fuck you,” Winter says. It comes out weak, choked. She swallows thickly.
Cinder tilts her head to the side, smirk turning pitying. Has her boot always been on Winter’s thigh? “Oh, sweet thing,” she purrs, moving the sword away from her throat, “you want this back?”
Winter can’t think of a response. She resorts to gaping up at her, which communicates basically everything.
Her smirk widens, grows sharp. Cinder removes her boot and stands up to her full height, which of course makes everything markedly worse. When she offers Winter a hand, it takes her a second to process the intention.
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FILL: Team Anime/Manga
Date: 2024-07-21 09:49 pm (UTC)let me know if this is a bit much lmao
//
“Spar with me,” Cinder suggests, and Winter has never been one to say no to a fight.
This is how they wind up here: Winter’s own sword at her throat, Cinder crouched over her, hands caressing the hilt like a lover. The tip of the blade presses against her skin, cold and unforgiving, and there’s something in the danger of it all that makes her want to —
Cinder pushes a little, as much as she can without breaking skin. It may as well be her blade now. As if she notices the way Winter is looking at her, she slips up, draws the hilt of her sword under her chin and tilts it up, and smirks when an involuntary whine slips past Winter’s lips.
“That desperate, huh?”
“No, I — fuck you,” Winter says. It comes out weak, choked. She swallows thickly.
Cinder tilts her head to the side, smirk turning pitying. Has her boot always been on Winter’s thigh? “Oh, sweet thing,” she purrs, moving the sword away from her throat, “you want this back?”
Winter can’t think of a response. She resorts to gaping up at her, which communicates basically everything.
Her smirk widens, grows sharp. Cinder removes her boot and stands up to her full height, which of course makes everything markedly worse. When she offers Winter a hand, it takes her a second to process the intention.