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WTF, Ji. I was meant to be bunnying YOU, not the other way around.
Ugh.
((Thom is thin, and knows he is supple.
He remembers, from Mithros knows where; Delia’s hands clenched white-knuckled and stubborn around the wooden post of a bed, throwing commands of tighter I can still breathe perfectly well I’m sure it’ll go tighter over her shoulder at a servant. Equally white hands wrapping loops of ribbon around themselves, for grip, and tugging in sharp bursts of violence that tear gasps from her throat, one by one. When it is done she turns and smiles and lifts white arms, brushing colour onto her cheeks to replace that leeched away with the air that now fights to get into her lungs.
Flirting, she tells Thom’s reflection in the mirror, is as easy as breathing and dancing takes corsets into account and a breathless laugh is the most appealing.))
Thom bites his lip. “I can’t lead,” he says, unwillingly.
“You’re not dressed for it.”
“I’m not dressed to dance.” He looks at her, sharp and pointed gesture towards the stockings that are beginning to fall down and the black threads trailing pathetic down his thigh.
Alanna bites her lip, and now every red-headed reflection has an identical expression. “Dance horizontally, perhaps,” she says, but the joke is forced.
“Ahaha,” Thom says politely, and attempts a curtsey. It works rather better than he expects, and Alanna is bowing more or less on juvenile reflex, and before either of them can step out of the pattern her lips are touching the back of his hand.
Ugh.
((Thom is thin, and knows he is supple.
He remembers, from Mithros knows where; Delia’s hands clenched white-knuckled and stubborn around the wooden post of a bed, throwing commands of tighter I can still breathe perfectly well I’m sure it’ll go tighter over her shoulder at a servant. Equally white hands wrapping loops of ribbon around themselves, for grip, and tugging in sharp bursts of violence that tear gasps from her throat, one by one. When it is done she turns and smiles and lifts white arms, brushing colour onto her cheeks to replace that leeched away with the air that now fights to get into her lungs.
Flirting, she tells Thom’s reflection in the mirror, is as easy as breathing and dancing takes corsets into account and a breathless laugh is the most appealing.))
Thom bites his lip. “I can’t lead,” he says, unwillingly.
“You’re not dressed for it.”
“I’m not dressed to dance.” He looks at her, sharp and pointed gesture towards the stockings that are beginning to fall down and the black threads trailing pathetic down his thigh.
Alanna bites her lip, and now every red-headed reflection has an identical expression. “Dance horizontally, perhaps,” she says, but the joke is forced.
“Ahaha,” Thom says politely, and attempts a curtsey. It works rather better than he expects, and Alanna is bowing more or less on juvenile reflex, and before either of them can step out of the pattern her lips are touching the back of his hand.