synanthrope | (no subject)

(no subject)

Quiet week, isn't it?

[Saya will never be the first to say no curses but she's thinking it]

I remember something, from long ago. An invasion. Around this time of year. I remember locking the Warehouse.

It was a long time ago, but I was only twenty-six.

I'm sorry the warm weather didn't last longer.

[That's how one uses I'm sorry, right?]

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Couldn't find jeans that fit?

[She's smirking, but she doesn't move to put out the cigarette. Instead she takes his hand - Saya burns a little hotter than most people, that's the shifter physiology - and leads him through the Warehouse. She's heading back to the autopsy room]

They don't belong to Carla, do they?

I'm still on a limited budget.

[ He follows, noting that hot hand -- was she this warm when he was bleeding out on the floor? It's hard to remember. ]

If they did, I doubt I'd be wearing them.

Rent and food come first, I suppose.

[In some worlds. Saya doesn't pay for either.

She opens the door to the autopsy room with a key that she takes out of a pocket of her jeans and lets him in]

Does it look different now that you aren't dying?

[So neat and precise.]

[ Half the time Blonde doesn't pay for food either, not after slipping to Rosella that he isn't sure he or Carla can cook. ]

It's still the same room.

[ He does look around, though. ]

Yes. But this time I don't need to lower the table for you to get on.

[She hopes.]

Have a seat and take off your shirt, please.

You got it.

[ He sits, pulling his shirt off as directed. Blonde is armed, of course, but there are no suspenders waiting today. There is, however, a stitched up mess of a wound. It doesn't look like he's been shot anymore, simply because having amateurs stitch you up, rip the stitches out, and stitch you up again will do that. Either way, it doesn't seem to bother him -- if it is, he's doing a good job ignoring it. ]

[Her fingers press the area around the wound - it looks clean, uninfected, but messy, like he was mauled instead of shot.]

They'll never come out if she keeps picking at it.

[Not judging, just factual. Her hands splay over his chest]

But at least it doesn't look infected.

She's always pickin' at something.

[ His stitches, her neck, whatever. ]

I'm not surprised. She's a neat freak. Cleans the apartment with bleach.

[Saya's hands are spanning his ribs, now]

Don't let her clean this with bleach.

[ He's enjoying it. ]

I won't.

[Her eyes flicker up, light brown]

I think I'm satisfied that you're not going to die, then.

Feel like celebrating?

It depends on the celebration you had in mind. I don't particularly eat cake.

No, no cake.

[She puts her hands flat on the table next to him and first one knee, then the other so she's straddling his lap.]

Something a bit more like this?

[ There's a lick of his lips, one hand coming up to slide over her side. ]

Yeah, that sounds good.

[She puts her hands on his shoulders and brings her mouth to his, hungrily. She's not wearing rings but this close her necklaces slip and press against his chest, cold.

When they separate, her hands go to the hem of her shirt and she tugs it up, but doesn't take it off.]

I suppose I'm over dressed.

[ The cold doesn't bother him. It's not a bullet, it's not sharp nails or a needle -- it's a necklace, and he's got a beautiful woman on his lap. At least she moves a little more easily like this, or so it seems. ]

Well, you could leave it on, but it'd be a shame to ruin it.

[ It looks expensive, after all. Besides, he'd like to touch some skin. ]

[She does move more easily; it's not as strange, her motions when she does this, maybe because it's tapping more into her human half, or maybe because there is no spider equivalent to this kind of behavior.

She tugs her shirt over her head. Her bra is black against her very pale skin, and her necklaces fall between her breasts]

Better?

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