yosafbridge | OOM: Upstairs.

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OOM: Upstairs.

After a particularly rousing evening, Saffron wakes up to a dimly lit room and a body sleeping soundly in the bed next to her.

He doesn't look like he'll be waking up any time soon, so she dresses quickly and quietly, running a comb through her red curls, and then slips downstairs to bring a few things back up to the room with her.

There's a tray in her hands when she comes up, with a hot thermos full of good, strong caf and some assorted breakfast food - a plate of eggs, some toast, a bowl of assorted sliced fruit. Most of it she wouldn't touch herself, apart from the fruit (and Bar serves fruit that's all kinds of fantastic), but when she'd put in the request, it's what she'd been given, and she can at least nibble on a few things.

He's still asleep when she gets back, so she sets the tray down at the foot of the bed, kicking out of her jeans to leave herself in his shirt, and then crawls back under the covers to drape her body over his, leaning in to nibble on his earlobe.

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He hums under her touch, stretching briefly out on the bed.

"Then it sounds like things'll work out just fine."

She's tempted to agree, but she's never been that optimistic.

Instead, her hand moves down from his neck and starts to trail lower - that, she can do.

"Heavens, aren't you lovely," he breathes, fingertips trailing across her skin as his muscles tense under her touch.

"I'd put good money on the fact that I'm the luckiest man on several planets if I'm to get the scale right."

She moves quickly, seizing the opportunity of her distraction as she pins him down to the bed, one hand reaching for his wrist to pull it up and up over his head.

Her fingertips trace the veins on the inside of his arm, blue under the skin (red outside) before her hold tightens a fraction of an inch and she keeps it there, like a makeshift handcuff.

"Some tried their luck before," she admits, leaning down to swipe her tongue over his upper lip.

"It didn't work out."

For a split second, he bares his teeth, hissing even though he doesn't put forth any resistance (not yet, anyway). His eyes dart about quickly for a fraction of a moment before they land on what he's looking for: a knife. He doesn't let his gaze linger on it for any longer than a moment, and doesn't make any motion to go for it.

He juts his chin forward as if in defiance, although his lips twist into a semblance of a grin.

"First time for everything, pretty."

"Guess that's true."

She swings a leg over his waist, rolls her hips forward right around the same time that her other hand reaches for the second of his wrists to join the first above his head.

Her hold is tight, but not impossible to break as her body winds against his.

"Only exception to that rule is cheatin' ol' death himself."

In a single movement, he pulls one of his hands away, curling the fingers of the other around her hands as he pushes forward, rolling her onto her back as his free arm lashes out to grab the knife he'd been eying before. The blade is pressed to her jaw before they even still.

"And although that's true, as far as tryin' your luck goes?"

He leans in, lips brushing her cheek.

"I wouldn't advise it."

She can feel the edge, sharp and cool against her skin, and if she shifts even a fraction of an inch, he could draw blood, but there's a part of her that wonders if he wouldn't mind that very much.

She bites on her lower lip, looking up at him.

"Would you do it? Right here and now?"

Slowly, he runs his tongue over his lips. (He can hear his heart beating in his ears.)

"That a request?"

He adjusts his grip on the handle of the knife, careful not to let it stray any closer or any farther from her skin.

She doesn't even move to swallow, but her lips part just a fraction of an inch, like a deep red flower unfurling in bloom.

"You could," she purrs, giving him no answer one way or another. (There's a seemingly helpless tone in her voice.)

"You could do whatever you wanted to me right now and I wouldn't be able to stop you."

He'd call foul play if it he'd ever be justified in saying so.

"You say it like that, I almost want to consider it," he hums (he hasn't moved a muscle).

Her tongue snakes out to flick against the top of her upper lip.

One of his hands is on the knife, which means one of hers is free, and she slowly works her fingers around the wrist of the hand that holds the blade to her throat, a snake coiling around just before it squeezes.

"Bet you wouldn't want me to just lie back and take it, would you?"

He smiles, slow and easy (it's almost more just a baring of his teeth). His fingers curl about the knife a little harder, muscles contracting under her hand.

"Guess."

Her hand tightens simultaneously around his wrist; she can feel the threading of his pulse beneath the pad of her thumb.

"Still feeling lucky?"

His first response is a simple grin.

"Like I was born under a lucky star."

"Seems to me that there's nothing stopping you, then."

Her thumb presses hard against that pulse point (he can't not feel her own under his forearm, feels like it's going to beat out of her gorram chest), and the excitement is evident in her gaze.

He slides the knife against the curve of her neck, still not hard enough to cut, his eyes fixed on her face to gauge her reaction.

"Ain't that a thought."

It's not razor-thin, but sharp enough, and her hips jut up against his in a slow roll.

It might be enough to draw blood, one drop of red welling against a pale canvas marred with the occasional purpling mark from earlier.

Then again, it might not.

"Penny for yours."

His hold on the knife eases, and he catches the tip of his tongue briefy between his teeth.

"I am nothing if not amenable."

Something in her gaze flickers again, and she tracks the placement of his tongue between his teeth.

Her hand seizes around the knife, the blade digging into her palm when she tugs it free from his grasp, tossing it aside to a loud clatter on the floor; both that hand and the other take hold of his face to draw him down to her, putting every ounce of want into that one kiss (almost hard enough to damn near bruise if she doesn't have a mind to let up soon - she does).

He'd laugh against her lips if he thought he had that much leeway. His shoulders arch above her, one of his hands following the near-invisible the knife had drawn previously.

"My, my, I do like a girl who knows what she wants."

She bites his lower lip, gentle in contrast to the fingers of one hand that dig in and scratch just briefly under one shoulder.

"You," she gasps, and then: "now."

"Your wish is my command."

The words are almost grated out as he sucks in a breath, a mix of a grimace and a grin flashing across his face as her fingers dig into his skin. And, immediately after, he places an open-mouthed kiss on her neck, hands already sliding over her waist.

She isn't wearing much already, and what she does have on is his; the hem of the shirt slides up over her thighs and hips before she gets rid of it completely.

She notes with considerable delight that he hasn't exactly made progress in the way of getting dressed, which makes it all kinds of easy for her hand to slide between them and low, again.

A wordless groan passes his lips, his fingers curling into whatever purchase they can find. He presses into her touch, breath already uneven.

(Should he still retain the coherency to speak, the only thing he'd say would be good God.)

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