They lick their wounds near the edge of the waterfall that rolls underneath the goblin camp. Or what’s left of it, anyway. Luther uses a fallen log as a seat while Mercy fusses around them. Pieces of armor litter the ground — pauldrons, chainmail, belts. A glove. All Luther’s, who’s dressed down to the fabric of their shirt: off-white and dirty, except near the collar where the red’s soaked through. It’s ripped — Mercy’s doing, who else? — and pulled down to expose their shoulder. Still bleeding. Courtesy of the arrow Luther took for her only scant minutes before.
Mercy stands before them, gloriously uninjured — Luther’s doing, who else? — and dressed to the nines in black and leather. Her eyes meet theirs. Violently soft. Like any second she’ll erupt. Slowly, deliberately, she lowers herself onto their lap. Shifts her hips once or twice to get comfortable, then reaches back to reveal the healing potion she’s kept stored in her belt pouch. This isn’t the first time they’ve been here, nor will it be the last. Mercy knows what’s coming next. Waits for it, really, like a snake in the grass. Luther opens their mouth to protest — no, save it, that’d be a waste — and she strikes.
She closes the space in an instant. Her lips find theirs, impatient and eager, and she kisses them. It’s raw and hungry and not near as gentle as she means it to be. She’s a thief, see; she can’t help if she’s made to steal the words from their throat. The breath from their lips. Her free hand reaches up to skim the wicked curve of Luther’s cheek, then further, and further still. Her touch is just like her lips: searching, greedy. Mercy curls her fingers into the thick of their hair and pulls herself closer. She doesn’t relent until she feels their chest heave, their body shudder. Not until she’s left them gasping against her kiss.
Only then she retreats, and not even fully. A nip — this isn’t over, dear-heart, war-priest, whatever you are — at the bottom of their lip as she releases them. Her right hand presses the cool glass of the potion into the center of their chest. “More?” It comes out breathless and ragged and self-satisfied. There it is: that signature grin, that lazy little smile. She runs her lips along the underside of their jaw. A promise disguised as a phantom kiss. “Drink, Adonis. All of it.”
Not once does she let go of her grip on their hair.
@breathetender head empty. surprise kiss.
