[re: you move me more than any song]
A/N: prompt from tumblr: desire is no light thing. in which sophie has A Crisis while dancing at tartarus. set at some vague point after the archon's flagship mission, no story spoilers.
"hey brooke remember when you were actually working on this fic like two months ago" listen okay i have no idea what self-control is and i've got approximately a million other wips.
BUT. i had a prompt and some inspiration, and even though this is out of order i wanted to post it here bc it's something. and don't worry, i AM still writing stuff for sophie and reyes, just... slowly.
It's heavy, and it pulls her down like a comfortable weight and she surrenders without a thought. It presses in on her, coils in her chest and the pressure is so familiar – so normal – that it's intoxicating. Tartarus is loud but it can't drown it out; the deep bass thrums in her ears, keeping time with her pulse, but when he speaks his voice cuts through the noise and she's enraptured.
She runs a hand through sweat-damp hair, catches a lip between her teeth when she knows he's watching, and when he leaves for the bar she follows. He orders a beer – makes it two – and she lounges back against the bar and loudly mourns the loss of all the good tequila she had back home. He watches her as she talks, spinning stories out of half-truths to keep from crumbling beneath the weight of the desire; she returns his gaze, doing less to hide the way her eyes linger.
The beer's cheap but she drinks it anyway, because he's finally paying and she never turns down free alcohol, and sometime after her third bottle the atmosphere begins to get to her again; the slow beat of the music, the heady energy from the dance floor, the occasional brush of contact she shares with him – it pulls at her, tugs her down, and her patience bends and buckles and snaps.
Let's get out of here.
She manages coy where she feels desperate, feigns composure where she has none, and the locks on the door to his upstairs room haven't even clicked into place before she's reaching for him; she grabs at his shirt, pulling him closer as she lets herself back flush against the wall. One of his hands rests on the wall beside her and the other grips at her waist and her hip and the small of her back, pulling her in and holding her close as if she isn't already pressed against him.
It's a distraction – an excuse, something to hide behind so they don't have to trip and stumble over their words – but she doesn't care, because the way he moans against her parted lips is so much better than fucking up a conversation about her feelings, anyway. It's a conversation that's long past due, and she thinks about stopping, thinks about the well-rehearsed opening line that's worn itself into her thoughts – I've been falling in love with you and it's crazy but everything in Andromeda's been crazy and I think if anyone has a chance, it's us – but instead she tugs at his bottom lip with her teeth, rolls her hips against him, and prays to Suvi's god for the courage to have that conversation one day.
He says something she doesn't catch, something whispered – maybe a curse, maybe a confession, maybe a prayer of his own but it's lost beneath her own labored breathing. He says her name, next, and she catches it, catches the heat and desire in that single word and her heart stutters in her chest as that warm pressure encircles her again; she doesn't beg but she demands, and as one of his hands slips beneath the waistband of her shorts she instructs him, and her voice shakes as she gasps but it doesn't matter, because he knows her as well as she knows him and so much between them goes unspoken yet understood.
And it isn't just the sex – and this isn't just sex, it's more than just drinking and fucking and leaving – but she doesn't admit that, doesn't allow herself to have someone who knows all of her flaws and secrets and shortcomings. She's reckless, and she's ruined whole parts of her life because of it, but this one stupid, thoughtless decision to trust a man who wouldn't even pay for his own whiskey is one of the best choices she's ever made, and it isn't fair that it's a liar and a criminal who's completely unraveled her and so effortlessly drawn the truth from her.
Except he's gone and made a liar out of her, too, because she holds her confession back and it holds her down and she sometimes wonders if she'll collapse under the weight of it or if the stress of being Pathfinder will get to her first.
It would be a simple thing to admit – she's said it before, after all, to other men and women only half as deserving – but it's his name that rolls off her lips, falling quieter as she steadies herself and his hand withdraws and her gasping breaths grow calmer. But her heart still races and her mind keeps pace, because she wants him but she's always wanted him and it's different now – there's a weight to it, like everything between them is at stake and it pulls at her until she can't ignore it.
I love you. I love you and it scares me and I don't know how to tell you.
So she doesn't tell him – she kisses him and says your turn and presses a hand to his chest to guide him backwards to the couch. The words stick at the back of her throat so she drops into his lap and kisses him again, because they have nothing but time and she is, occasionally, capable of being patient, so rather than speak she gives in and surrenders to the comfortable weight of the desire that's settled over her.