Salvation’s Gotta Come

Luka

I know there are angels singing somewhere
I hope they sing for us

Luka has always been rather blase about sex - it's a fact of life, and there's no sense in getting all flustered about it - so her flirtations, while minimal, still inspire a coy curve to one side of his smile. "I see why you need no help concocting stories if that's one you consider worthy of brushing aside," he praises, because she seems the type to enjoy that.

Her hands are wet from the fountain and as pruney as she had bemoaned, but that doesn't stop Luka from holding it steady with a firm, calloused grip. Turning her arm slightly back and forth and making humming, considering noises. "Mhm. I see." Turning her arm so her hand is palm up, he nods decisively. "I think three kisses will suffice," he informs her gravely, bending over her hand and kissing first her fingertips, then the sensitive softness of her wrist, and finally just below the bite wounds. Pulling away just enough to look up at her without releasing her, one dark brow rises. "What's the prognosis now?"

For our bruised mouths are an act of resistance
and our singing hearts, together, make a beautiful prayer