#parapsyched18.

   “Ya got a, uh, tiara ya wanna throw on top’ah all this or what?” Pash’s tone CARRIES ANNOYANCE ON A SILVER PLATTER but her body speaks a whole different language as Lesley brushes a dark lock of hair behind her shoulder and smooths the shimmering fabric of the dress from her ribcage past her hips with that solid, assured touch of his. As most things are with her, gettin’ ALL PRETTIED UP with him was more of a double dog dare ya than the indebted favour it would’ve been between any other pair of people.

    “What I mean t’say is, ARE YA QUITE FINISHED MY FAIR LADYIN’ ME or is there some ten tonne Cartier surprise I oughta be bracin’ myself for? Huh? Edward Lewis?” You’re dickin’ up your references there, Novak. For all her shit talking, Pasha can admit she AIN’T AT ALL PREPARED for what happens when Lesley wordlessly pivots her toward the mirror. Goddamn, that motherfucker knows how to roll a street rat in glitter. She’s a SMOKING GUN in gold lamé, doing them long divorced Greek ancestors of hers a good turn thanks to Lesley’s even better eye. Her dark stare tears away from her hot-as-shit reflection to stare at him over her shoulder. She couldn’t bite back that megawatt smile if she tried. “Tell me the truth. Should I be wearin’ underwear to this function?”

he’s proud of his work, despite the fact that he thinks it’s pointless. no matter how he preaches to himself (sometimes others) the importance of dressing well, his principles on the subject have never applied to pasha novak. she could turn up in a burlap sack and he’d still be charmed beyond hope of self-preservation.

his hands still on her hips, les rests his chin on pasha’s shoulder and grins, too, in a knee-jerk reaction to her own. he gives her reflection a slow, wildly appreciative once-over.