His attention wanders across the dark planes of her body and her skin tightens reflexively beneath the weight, uncomfortable but not entirely fearful. Those dark eyes are sharp and clever, but they do not feel cruel, do not feel hungry in their quiet, uncertain depths. She shifts anyway, resettling slightly to one side as though the movement will be enough to unsteady him and force his eyes from where they roam the hollows and lines of long, slender bone. But then her eyes drift, too, from that smooth, elegant face to the strength in the curve of his neck, the power hidden beneath tangles of mane as pale and soft as starlight.
She might’ve drifted further if it weren’t for the sound of his laugh, dry and deep, and when it pulls her eyes back to his face they are soft and round and dark like damp earth. You do not look foolish. He says and she smiles faintly, decides she likes the depth in his voice, the way it is smooth and sharp like mountain air. “What does foolish look like?” There is a light in her eyes, a smile in a voice that is almost, almost teasing when it fills the dark between them.
His eyes shift from her to the stars, her stars, and she follows his gaze with a quiet kind of curiosity that feels warm and light in her chest. He seems lost in them for a moment, and she is lost in him in turn, tracing the lines in his face and the way his expression shifts so imperceptibly from one instant to the next. But it is like he can feel her eyes on his face because his gaze drops to find hers, and it is like fingers hooked beneath her chin an pulling her to him. She flushes, warm beneath the blue, and is only able to drop her bruised eyes from him when he releases her with yet another laugh. But this one feels warmer, easier, and she returns tentatively to those dark, quiet eyes.
His eyes narrow, pulled tighter by the effort of his frowning mouth, and she knows he has seen the wound in her neck, a mix of ruby and onyx and wet, and she flushes with quiet embarrassment. She should have hid it in shadow, an easy illusion, a simple trick to confuse the eyes and push them elsewhere. But instead his eyes linger there for several long moments, plain and appraising, always quiet, until at last they find and settle against the blue of that dark, delicate face. “Maybe I am foolish.” She reminds him quietly and in a voice like silver, turning her face away from him so that it is lost to him in the dark.
I am, he says, and still she will not look at him, will not turn her face to catch and cup the lights bouncing between them, but not in the way you appear to know. It is enough to quiet her, to settle her, and when she lifts her eyes to his face she is surprised by the deep frown she finds waiting for her, surprised that it would affect him at all. Her brow furrows gently to reflect her uncertainty, and it deepens the hollows and lengthens the lines of her face until she is a blend of light and dark and quiet hesitation. I do not make a habit of marking up young women for sport.
This, this coaxes a smile to her lips, softens the corners of her mouth until all previous signs of wariness are gone and forgotten. She laughs, a quiet sound, and it is light and bright like silver bells, like stars thrown together. “You should open with that instead.” She tells him finally, easing across the space between them to touch her nose to his jaw in greeting. Then, pulling back, “My name is Luster.”
A pause, the gentle furrowing of a dark brow, the flash of quiet, bright eyes, and then, “What is it that makes you dangerous?”
She might’ve drifted further if it weren’t for the sound of his laugh, dry and deep, and when it pulls her eyes back to his face they are soft and round and dark like damp earth. You do not look foolish. He says and she smiles faintly, decides she likes the depth in his voice, the way it is smooth and sharp like mountain air. “What does foolish look like?” There is a light in her eyes, a smile in a voice that is almost, almost teasing when it fills the dark between them.
His eyes shift from her to the stars, her stars, and she follows his gaze with a quiet kind of curiosity that feels warm and light in her chest. He seems lost in them for a moment, and she is lost in him in turn, tracing the lines in his face and the way his expression shifts so imperceptibly from one instant to the next. But it is like he can feel her eyes on his face because his gaze drops to find hers, and it is like fingers hooked beneath her chin an pulling her to him. She flushes, warm beneath the blue, and is only able to drop her bruised eyes from him when he releases her with yet another laugh. But this one feels warmer, easier, and she returns tentatively to those dark, quiet eyes.
His eyes narrow, pulled tighter by the effort of his frowning mouth, and she knows he has seen the wound in her neck, a mix of ruby and onyx and wet, and she flushes with quiet embarrassment. She should have hid it in shadow, an easy illusion, a simple trick to confuse the eyes and push them elsewhere. But instead his eyes linger there for several long moments, plain and appraising, always quiet, until at last they find and settle against the blue of that dark, delicate face. “Maybe I am foolish.” She reminds him quietly and in a voice like silver, turning her face away from him so that it is lost to him in the dark.
I am, he says, and still she will not look at him, will not turn her face to catch and cup the lights bouncing between them, but not in the way you appear to know. It is enough to quiet her, to settle her, and when she lifts her eyes to his face she is surprised by the deep frown she finds waiting for her, surprised that it would affect him at all. Her brow furrows gently to reflect her uncertainty, and it deepens the hollows and lengthens the lines of her face until she is a blend of light and dark and quiet hesitation. I do not make a habit of marking up young women for sport.
This, this coaxes a smile to her lips, softens the corners of her mouth until all previous signs of wariness are gone and forgotten. She laughs, a quiet sound, and it is light and bright like silver bells, like stars thrown together. “You should open with that instead.” She tells him finally, easing across the space between them to touch her nose to his jaw in greeting. Then, pulling back, “My name is Luster.”
A pause, the gentle furrowing of a dark brow, the flash of quiet, bright eyes, and then, “What is it that makes you dangerous?”