ㅤㅤㅤ𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐝𝐢 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 the room, the gramophone in the corner spinning rapidly upon the tracks, softly carrying forth a familiar violin concerto in e minor. it's a favorite of hers - all vivaldi is - but the huntress is a predictable creature in a few regards, and the need to fill her mind with the saw of a violin before any mission is a habit that kafka could not break. there were tracks she preferred - and others she did not - but when he shared her space prior to going into the field, her choices were more deliberate. instead of the sonorous cry of the composer's winter, kafka would settle for the softer lilt of fall or summer... anything to keep blade balanced, to keep him together, music included.
ㅤㅤㅤshe stands before the mirror of the en suite - able to see where he sits upon her carefully made bed. she's been applying makeup for what feels like hours now, each eyelash a curl of perfection, the tone of her blush a lush color of pink that brings out the lavender of her contacts, and silken gloss bright upon the countenance of her lips. resplendent, as always, the stellaron hunter, and she knows it too - but has no mind for her own opulence when it comes time to fuss over blade, to struggle him into a tuxedo ( tight, across the chest, as always ), and attempting to wrangle his mane of hair.
ㅤㅤㅤand there she stands now - in that little black dress, hands on shapely hips - and peering down at the tall man seated upon her mattress with an ever shrewd gaze. ❝ ⸻ ready to get started, bladie ? ❞ it's a practical crone, svelte fingertips popping the button of the frog clasp at the front of his jacket with a tug so that the front falls open to reveal those broad, bandaged pectorals. ❝ no husband of mine would go to a dinner party like this... you have got to stop shredding holes into your jackets. ❞ but her tutting is saccharine, almost affectionate. she knows this sort of mission isn't his cup of tea, and knows deep down that maybe - just maybe, it'll be hard on her too, to play pretend for something that she thinks she might want to be utterly, totally, real.
ㅤㅤㅤ❝ come on. ❞ hand finds his own, ungloved fingers lacing through his to pull him to his feet and towards the wardrobe where the carefully tailored tuxedo hung from an ajar door. over one shapely shoulder does she look, before pausing before the furniture to place her hands upon his chest, allowing those dual-tone hues to meet the warmth of ageless crimson. ❝ are you nervous ? ❞ and some part of kafka wonders if she's not asking herself that question.
@lycorisa
