talviuni
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Deborah Vance is by no means a saint. Raunchy segments belong to her standard repertoire and she never turns a deaf ear to hot gossip.
But since meeting Ava Daniels, the meaning of Too Much Information has never been more apparent.
Creative partners or not, she knows Ava more intimately than any employer should and there's no acceptable explanation for why the uninvited details about her life burrow so deeply into Deborah's mind.
The one perk is that Ava has given her all the strings to pull when Deborah wants to see her squirm.
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“Just so you know, I’m very aware of your habit of kissing me when you get tired of listening to me, and I haven’t decided how I feel about it yet,” Ava goes on, just to show she still has some spine, even though it begins to evaporate the moment Deborah’s mouth moves down her neck.
Deborah hums. “Do you want to keep talking about your stories?”
“No god, please,” Ava whines, inhaling Deborah’s perfume like she needs it to breathe.
“Good. If I have to learn one more fan term in the next forty-eight hours, I’m getting a migraine that might just be my last,” Deborah says before closing her lips around Ava’s again.
“I told you. Bad idea. Totally not worth it,” Ava enunciates in between kisses.
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“You keep my flowers,” Rio turns the journal. It overflows with pressed flora, the name of each specimen marked in Agatha’s lettering. A collection of lilies and violets, even the modest dandelion, carefully arranged over the wheaten pages. “I didn’t know,” her voice softens into a whisper.
“What a terrible lover I’d be, tossing away a maiden’s gifts,” Agatha croons and curls a strand of wild hair around her finger. She’s never as fond of her name as the moment it falls from Rio’s tongue.
“Your lovers end up in coffins, Agatha,”
“Curious,” she points at Death, “Did you know I’ve been dreaming of the pretty grave your bones would make?”
Death laughs at that and Agatha’s face is warmed by a grin. Rio leans over her like a shadow looming and Agatha purses her lips, but instead of getting a kiss, a finger taps her nose.
“I mourn the day a knife cuts your tongue, my witch,” Death murmurs to her.
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Slowly, Moiraine lifted her arm, reaching out to Siuan with shaky fingers.
Siuan offered her hand once again and Moiraine grasped her by the wrist, bringing the Amyrlin’s open palm to the side of her face.Such a simple touch alone was nearly enough for her tears to fall.
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"You have enchanted me, First Arcanist."
Surrounded by moonlit water, the night's beauty suited Thalyssra in a way no dress could. Lady Liadrin smiled at the sight, her love-sick heart throbbing headily in her chest.