Re: Second Class; Theater - Smoking Room
She didn't care about the glass gone wayward, except in the way that she had so easily put aside his gift. She didn't look down at it, didn't care that one slim knee rested in the damp swamp it made of the cushion there. She only cared when it appeared in his hand, taking it from him again and leaning back and away in a feline arch to place it on a nearby table with a heavy crystal clack. The line of her stomach bared and tensed as the lean and subtle muscles drew her back toward him. "Names hold power. They make you who you are," she volleyed, quiet for his ears. "Change it and it changes you." Delivered as truth, no chance to argue and debate her into a different opinion.
"I'm always myself." This was delivered close to his cheek, her sway bringing her well in past any sort of personal boundary. "Even when I'm different." She breathed deep, smoke and man heavy on the back of her tongue as the curl of it filled her lungs. She blinked at him, slow, a cat's fickle affection in that moment, but sharpened again at the lift of his chin, the reveal of face. The cotton rasped over stubble, guided by fingers that were careful to keep claws from snagging. And then she smiled. Slow and pleased. "There you are." Her hand moved again, back up, and fingertips found that sandpaper rasp uncovered by fabric, throat and chin and jaw, trailing along as she mapped and learned.