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They surge together. Fairfax's slim form settles pleasantly upon Hachet's lap; the larger woman raises one battlescarred hand to stroke along her jester's delicate ribs.
"Scars like flowers," Hachet grunts.
Fairfax's smile is fleeting, fluttering across her lips in what is almost a spasm. Hachet only knows it isn't because she knows Fairfax well enough.
"You can't s-say that, my dear-" Fairfax's voice is breathy. This is in part because Hachet is two fingers deep in her and in part due to Fairfax's own hesitance.
"I can." A pulse of her wrist. Fairfax keens. Her hips roll, rising and falling-- "Like the sea," Hachet growls. "'s how your hips move. Look so lovely." And she has to say it. She has to. Fairfax's eyelids flicker. Burn scars ride down the jester's neck, down her ribcage. The Fanatic, with his damnable furor, had strung her high. Now Fairfax, who had already borne scars upon both her face and limbs, was burned all across her body by brand and fire.
"You look lovely." Hachet is not the sort of woman who says lovely.
Or --
-- she hadn't been, before.
But is now.
She remembers the fear: the smell of burning flesh. She pushes her face into Fairfax's neck, wraps that free arm tighter about Fairfax's slim frame.
"My lovely bird," Hachet grunts. As always her praise is awkward, unsure. Life has not allowed Hachet to have the opportunity to give much praise of this sort at all, but she has seen the way it eases the strange light in Fairfax's eyes. She has seen what it does to the smaller woman, the way it stills her shaking, knuckle-scarred hands. She kisses along the arch of Fairfax's throat, feels the flutter of her heart, bites gently along clavicle, along shoulder. Her fingers push deep. Curl. Drag. Fairfax clings to Hachet. Makes a desperate little noise.
Close. She's close. Hachet has learned this over a dozen times by now.
In a voice made wildly hoarse by bellowing in the wild, Hachet growls. "Wan'a feel you-"
And Fairfax comes for her, gasping, head back, moonlight slashing across her scarred face; Hachet follows the moonlight with lips and tongue, with loving murmurs, with warmth they can get nowhere else.
Should the day take Fairfax from her, Hachet decides, she will follow this lovely fool into the mouth of whatever hell lies beneath.