#tags please

how about some arsenic on the house

Okay, this has turned into rambling. You get the point. Tags!

((Tags are being fucky.))

His logic was truly infallible. They were angry, so they did have angry sex which explained all the bruises and some of the scrapes and all of the bruising, bloody rings of teeth printed into her skin. They’d both been drinking. They’d both drunk even more after they’d made it to the inn, even; she vaguely remembered Caz encouraging her to deck him while she’d been riding him. Her knuckles were sore, quick to point out that she had. She watched him, his lazy, arrogant sprawl on the mattress inviting her to try and drive the smug off of his face again. He was a dancer with the company she’d aspired to be part of when she was a girl. His body was beautiful. She’d enjoyed the sex they’d had. It said something about her that she’d missed the violent stuff. It’d been a while since she’d had bruises from fingers around her neck. Her fingers trailed down the marks she’d left on his chest, “I don’t remember it,” she mostly-honestly confessed, “might as well go again so I do.” ( @cazmilan | @cazthechameleon )