I'M ALL RIOT/ALRIGHT

How Verin's languid and near mindless movements roused him so, subtle surprise flits across her features before she meets his stunned stare with half-lidded eyes and a self-satisfied smile settles across her features. Contented, she relaxes into him, started loosening her hold, contented, and her focus drifts. His pulse paces against her fingertips, his words a prattled hum at her palm, the ebb of his breathing soft in her hand, she's enamored, she forgets to consider the murder song that ran through her own pulse. Pins and needles danced from the tips of her fingers to the base of her palm; he tempts her; tests her, teases her grip, with his own around her wrist, warm. And shewonders if he can feel the thrum of her blood, her own excitement; As he breathed in her air, she tightened her grip. He tasted of wine and petrichor, it's heady, it's clarity. It's a hesitation before she continues to apply pressure. While Verin needn't words or her hands to silence him, he was fool enough to wrought the storm himself and he needn't spells to do that.

im so bored, I need to put myself in danger

It was endearing. The clutter of a lived in home, the way he flitted about her to help take off her jacket, those little wisps of hair that had come loose from the rest framing his face she noticed in the corner of her eye when he did. It's enough to nearly catch her off guard, enough that a soft smile lingers across her features. "Cold?" She parrots back, as if she's both bemused and amused; as if she doubts him; she touches a finger to her cheek. "I- Thank you." A laugh trickles out, as she looks back to him, the flush of her features no longer from the cold alone. "—Is there anything I can help you with?"

she's a 10 but she bites

Standing beneath her gaze, Gale finds, is not unlike finding yourself her unsuspecting muse. He feels her eyes along his back, their weight tracing the veins that stain his hands, and if a muse was a touch like being rodent to a cat, well, that Gale shivers, he'll not admit. Besides, playing her tutor, it was hardly professional tossing over these thoughts! So, when Verin stands beside him with a croaking incantation, Gale, shaking out of it, finds his nerve. "Unsure?" he asks harmlessly, sensing her agitation. "If it's one thing I know at all, which is rather quite a lot, it's that you're never unsure about anything." Ever. "Now, here. Try again." Patience. His focus trains on this frightening woman, taking in the jerk of her fingers and the purse of her mouth, and with a quirk of his wrist, the air again crackles thrilling with spell. It's mesmerizing. It's like they're stood in the center of a rainstorm, perhaps budding ruin, and faintly, the inked wisps up his chest throb slow. "You aren't ever to tame the Weave, Verin. This may be a thrillingly new concept," ha, "but there is no control to seize or whips to lash. You aren't here fighting or forcing something into submission. You're making art." Somehow, his everything feels impossibly heavier. Of course. With the utmost care, Gale, close, smelled of maelstrom and wine, is channeling that magic through her, guiding her, and the taste of it is — different. "Feel that?"

Frustration holds her features, furrowed brow, that pout of a scowl on her lips, carmine eyes almost quietly asking him to call it there. She's more frustrated that he noted hesitancy of her than her failing, though that tiny despondence speaks to small embarrassment of hers. He's far too perceptive of her tells by now, yet she'll hide it in the next moment. As his, 'try again', is met with a roll of her eyes and cheeks pinched by her teeth. 'Try again' as if it will go any better than before, but she'll humor him, her persistent teacher. Yet with his prattling, her mind wanders between his words, peeks the thrum of the orb, emanating lines, her eyes wander up until she meets his own. Almost absentmindedly she nods along, though more sincerely to his last question, still entirely unconvinced even as his powers swirl about them, though she'll breath it in, breath him in. She's getting distracted again. And what was it he had said earlier on 'word, hand, breathe, and will', she takes another deep breath before trying again, "Harures," It's sharp, chased by the crack of lightning, aimed at one of the limbs he had taken down in his own incantation, and nothing near as magnificent as him, but better than nothing. She turns over her hands, the feeling of static still flitting through her fingertips, and she looks to him expectantly, almost surprised by herself, surprised by that, alongside what he enabled her to do.

I just think deadly or dangerous female characters are boring if they arent allowed to get a little messy thats all

like yeah she can kill you in seventeen different ways but does her hair get fucked up. does she get blood on her clothes. does she get blood on her face. is she breathing heavy with an unbalanced look in her eye. these are the important questions