sweet dreams till sunbeams find you, sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you
She isn't surprised to hear that they're his favourite. Indeed, she knew instinctively that he'd not shy away from this sort of combat. The sort of contact and tension needed to maintain the right sort of proximity. As he steps towards her, Safrin seems to grow and shrink at the same time. Physics seems to bend around her, making her seem large enough to feel indomitable, and yet small enough that he might whisk her away with one arm.
The prickle where the blade released just a single drop of blood from his chest will blossom outwards with star coils of heat and gravity. Like white fire running through his veins, it will streak up and out, coiling about his arms. Phantom images will sparkle there, beneath his wet clothing. He'll feel them, like etchings, though no one else will.
"A chance, then." She whispers, in solemn agreement. Reaching up she tangles a hand into his hair, the difference in their heights wavering such that there is not so very far between his lips and hers.
"Let the blood of every race rinse this blade." Cold steel sings around them and though he's too close to see, Sunjata will undoubtedly surmise that Safrin has risen herself onto her toes. "And let justice be served by the other.."
She presses against him then, leather and lace felt keenly against his skin despite the clothing between them. Her lips touch his and to call it fireworks is as grotesque an understatement as it would be to call Safrin pretty. Heat, such as that borne in the birth of stars and galaxies seer between them as her body presses against his. Though before he might do anything more—pull her hair, thrust her against the wall, throw her out the window—she disappears in an entirely unsatisfying purr of smoke. Where she was just, on the ledge by the window, are two ornate daggers.
The prickle where the blade released just a single drop of blood from his chest will blossom outwards with star coils of heat and gravity. Like white fire running through his veins, it will streak up and out, coiling about his arms. Phantom images will sparkle there, beneath his wet clothing. He'll feel them, like etchings, though no one else will.
"A chance, then." She whispers, in solemn agreement. Reaching up she tangles a hand into his hair, the difference in their heights wavering such that there is not so very far between his lips and hers.
"Let the blood of every race rinse this blade." Cold steel sings around them and though he's too close to see, Sunjata will undoubtedly surmise that Safrin has risen herself onto her toes. "And let justice be served by the other.."
She presses against him then, leather and lace felt keenly against his skin despite the clothing between them. Her lips touch his and to call it fireworks is as grotesque an understatement as it would be to call Safrin pretty. Heat, such as that borne in the birth of stars and galaxies seer between them as her body presses against his. Though before he might do anything more—pull her hair, thrust her against the wall, throw her out the window—she disappears in an entirely unsatisfying purr of smoke. Where she was just, on the ledge by the window, are two ornate daggers.
but in your dreams whatever they be, dream a little dream of me
