A Sloop Tries to Bash a Schooner, Which Mast Wins?

She laughed, faintly, as she reached over the edge of the tub and picked up the bottle of rum that she had sent down there a few minutes back, fingers hooking the neck and bringing it up over the edge to tip against her lips. She'd never admit it, ever, not even to Horus, but it had been close there, when her daggers had stuck in the body -- she had resigned herself to death this day, but she was still there, still there and very much aware of his movements as his hands worked over her body, as she felt his body move against hers. She wouldn't deny that she felt something for him, if pressed, but it had always been that way with Horus. They worked well on the battlefield and in the bedroom.

But she never had been sure if he would give it up, settle in one place. Her cliff side home and her small smuggling operation, with her spirits and demons haunting the place. No, there was a good possibly he'd go running the opposite direction should she even suggest something of the sorts to him. Free spirit. Horus was far too happy being free, or so she assumed. And truth be told, she was a bit of a coward for never running the idea past him, maybe he would, if she worked up the courage. The alcohol was helping to soothe her, just as much as the slide of his soapy hands on her skin. Get all the blood and bits off us both, get under the covers and let hands roam for a little while. Relish the feel of bare skin on bare skin.

Celine offered him the bottle, as she reached over for the soap, maneuvering herself into his lap, the water keeping her "modesty" in place, even if she was about to slide her hands down his arms and move those roaming hands to her chest as she worked soap across his shoulders. Her knees slid along his thighs as she settled down in his lap, hands moving to work up his arms, along his shoulders, her thumbs tracing along the column of his throat, pausing only long enough to give him a brief moment of wonder -- would she squeeze? She knew exactly where to shatter bone and snuff out his life. It excited her enough that she couldn't stop the way her hips rolled against his, aided by the soap and water. Don't have to undo it, if we never leave the bath, but the water grows cold, so I vote we finish one another and then resume this position in the bed? Once she had cleaned the blood from his neck, she scooped water up to rinse the soap and grime away, touch gentle as she worked. When she had first joined the Crows, she had only seen her hands as instruments of death -- that she could touch him in moments like these, and bring him pleasure, instead of pain, had helped her with the transition into more "civilian" life than she could tell him. I somewhat like the idea of riding you slowly until neither of us can keep our eyes open anymore.

Sometimes it wasn't about the finish line, but the shared pleasure of the race.

@Horus