Safrin
Starlight gathers long before her body does; a slow, deliberate unfurling of brightness that pushes back the gloom as though the night itself has been waiting for her permission to shine. The damp grass dries beneath a widening corona of violet-white light, and the flowers around the altar lift their heads as if roused from dreaming as Safrin steps into existence at the center of it. Her hair spills down her back in a fall of constellations that move in their own ancient rhythm, each strand a thread of night sky pulled into shape just for her.
"Jack," she purrs, her voice curling around his name like starlight around a blade. "You know you don't need to be on your knees for me."
Her thoughts greet his telepathy in the next breath—not the full force of her divinity, not the devastating, infinite intellect that could drown him in galaxies—but a distilled version, pared down like a star dimming itself so a child might look up without being blinded to make a wish. Still, even subdued, the sensation is overwhelming in its beauty: the hum of nebulae forming, the tug of planetary tides, the slow heartbeat of an entire cosmos exhaling.
A single stray ribbon of her awareness brushes the edges of his mind like the caress of warm silk, testing, tasting, finding what he’s offered her and drawing it closer. "If you wished to be stripped bare," she adds in a murmur, "you only had to ask."
Her gaze slides to his forearm then, to the compass inked into his skin, and something sparkles in her eyes. Safrin steps nearer, close enough that the air around him fills with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and golden warmth. One hand rises, fingers trailing over the compass rose in a gesture that is gentle and possessive all at once, tracing the lines as if she’s following routes only she can see. "Well then," she murmurs, thumb brushing over the centre point, "would you tether yourself somewhere new? Or just extend the reach of what you already have?"
"Jack," she purrs, her voice curling around his name like starlight around a blade. "You know you don't need to be on your knees for me."
Her thoughts greet his telepathy in the next breath—not the full force of her divinity, not the devastating, infinite intellect that could drown him in galaxies—but a distilled version, pared down like a star dimming itself so a child might look up without being blinded to make a wish. Still, even subdued, the sensation is overwhelming in its beauty: the hum of nebulae forming, the tug of planetary tides, the slow heartbeat of an entire cosmos exhaling.
A single stray ribbon of her awareness brushes the edges of his mind like the caress of warm silk, testing, tasting, finding what he’s offered her and drawing it closer. "If you wished to be stripped bare," she adds in a murmur, "you only had to ask."
Her gaze slides to his forearm then, to the compass inked into his skin, and something sparkles in her eyes. Safrin steps nearer, close enough that the air around him fills with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and golden warmth. One hand rises, fingers trailing over the compass rose in a gesture that is gentle and possessive all at once, tracing the lines as if she’s following routes only she can see. "Well then," she murmurs, thumb brushing over the centre point, "would you tether yourself somewhere new? Or just extend the reach of what you already have?"
