Work Text:
“Hold still.”
“I am holding still.”
“No, you're not.” Long, thin fingers slither around the back of her neck, palm flat against the ridges of her spine. There’s weight to the hold, weight belied by the willowy grace of that hand. There's power to it, the promise of magic thrumming just below the skin, and there's command to it, command given by a woman used to being obeyed. And Scarlet wonders, briefly, if this is how she dies.
“Hold. Still.”
Maker’s tits.
“Yes, ma’am,” Scarlet snarks.
After all these years, she can control her emotions, hide her reactions to outside stimuli, as well as any Circle mage whose life has depended on it more than once. But either she gives something away in trying to be flippant, or Irene Amell is just that bloody perceptive, or, more likely, Irene bloody Amell is fucking with her. Because the leggy, dark-haired mage that Scarlet has been a little love with for months now chuckles, low and throaty. And–Maker’s tits–her fingers press just slightly at Scarlet's pulse point, and–Maker’s tits–she leans over, presses more of her weight onto Scarlet’s bare back, and she purrs, she holy shit damn well bloody purrs:
“That's my good girl.”
Yes. This is definitely how Scarlet dies: accidentally asphyxiated by her own arousal while getting a tattoo (which she doesn’t! even! really! want!) as a last-ditch, not-so-clever ploy to get close to her crush.