[It isn't until he emphasizes her last name that Rosalind realizes she'd gotten a bit used to him calling her by her first. It had simply made sense that night at the bar, and when he'd invoked it just now, it had seemed . . .
Fine, really. Almost natural. She certainly hadn't thought to correct him, and the very fact she hadn't is a touch worrying, because that's an instinct almost as natural to her as breathing. Hm. She'll have to think on that later. She has a sneaking suspicion it has something to do with fucking and . . . not friendship, precisely, but something affectionate. Fondness? She's bedded a few people this past week (more, frankly, than she cares to admit), but the only one who has that affection as well is Aranea (and perhaps Henry and Qrow, but she hadn't fucked them). So she'll have to see if she'd be bothered by the thought of Aranea calling her something more formal . . .
In any case: that's food for later thought. Right now, she won't insist on one thing or another; let him call her what he likes, and she'll follow suit as she sees fit.
He demands her attention as he comes in close, yanking her towards him, but though her heartrate suddenly spikes, her expression remains calm.]
I don't fear people. Not anymore. Not--
[He's got a good grip on her, tight and not easily broken. They're touching on any number of points, but just to be safe, she hooks two fingers in a belt loop, ensuring he won't skitter away. And then they're gone, just like that; there's a moment where they appear a block away, standing on the street together, and gone again, blinking and reappearing on a roof, three stories above the streets, until they leave there too, and then they're--
Home. The journey took all of four seconds, which is an eternity compared to what she used to be able to do.]
--when I can surpass them. If they manage to find my apartment on my voice alone, they'll have more waiting for them than they bargained for.
[She tips her head back, regarding him. There's something a little strange in her expression as she adds:]
Believe me: I've no intention of dying again. Nor of suffering, not at any man's hand. And certainly not at the hands of some idiotic gang of thugs.
[A few seconds pass. She releases his trousers and adds far more briskly:]
You're getting blood on my skirt. Kindly sit on the couch, if you please-- I'm certain you remember where that is. Trousers off, and if you can try to keep any fibers from entering the wound, I'd be grateful.
no subject
Fine, really. Almost natural. She certainly hadn't thought to correct him, and the very fact she hadn't is a touch worrying, because that's an instinct almost as natural to her as breathing. Hm. She'll have to think on that later. She has a sneaking suspicion it has something to do with fucking and . . . not friendship, precisely, but something affectionate. Fondness? She's bedded a few people this past week (more, frankly, than she cares to admit), but the only one who has that affection as well is Aranea (and perhaps Henry and Qrow, but she hadn't fucked them). So she'll have to see if she'd be bothered by the thought of Aranea calling her something more formal . . .
In any case: that's food for later thought. Right now, she won't insist on one thing or another; let him call her what he likes, and she'll follow suit as she sees fit.
He demands her attention as he comes in close, yanking her towards him, but though her heartrate suddenly spikes, her expression remains calm.]
I don't fear people. Not anymore. Not--
[He's got a good grip on her, tight and not easily broken. They're touching on any number of points, but just to be safe, she hooks two fingers in a belt loop, ensuring he won't skitter away. And then they're gone, just like that; there's a moment where they appear a block away, standing on the street together, and gone again, blinking and reappearing on a roof, three stories above the streets, until they leave there too, and then they're--
Home. The journey took all of four seconds, which is an eternity compared to what she used to be able to do.]
--when I can surpass them. If they manage to find my apartment on my voice alone, they'll have more waiting for them than they bargained for.
[She tips her head back, regarding him. There's something a little strange in her expression as she adds:]
Believe me: I've no intention of dying again. Nor of suffering, not at any man's hand. And certainly not at the hands of some idiotic gang of thugs.
[A few seconds pass. She releases his trousers and adds far more briskly:]
You're getting blood on my skirt. Kindly sit on the couch, if you please-- I'm certain you remember where that is. Trousers off, and if you can try to keep any fibers from entering the wound, I'd be grateful.