The smile softens her eyes before it touches her lips — it lifts the creases of catlike lids, a folding of pleased surprise. Fingers platform the narrow chain, brushing white digits with the significance of touch. She crosses the divide to meet Bastila where she stands, gift admired for its simple delicacy but more for the hands which offer it.
Revan looks up from canted head, crown bowing before her, lips brushing the knuckles which shimmer against the chain. It catches light as Revan’s eyes swallow it, lashes falling in a covetous glance.
‘ Beautiful. ’ She murmurs, a low, feline hum of content and of pride.
She turns her back to Bastila, hand sweeping a curtain of jet hair over the curve of her shoulder, an intimacy that leaves her breathless. She smiles privately, head turned in profile, the long flute of her neck an invitation. She allows herself to be marked. She allows Bastila this claim. She allows Bastila everything.
‘ I am truly glad you think so. ’ So simple it is the rejoinder that eases the multiple marks and creases left behind upon her brow, like covering the sharp and the harsh of unfounded shame and solicitude with a woven veil, whose heaviness is ultimately the positive pole in an instance in which weightlessness is the negative one in its stead —— the density evens out what lightness could never ever fully clothe with being merely light.
Bastila is most reverent when she is given to observe, from beneath half-lidded vision, touched with allure all over —— a daze added to the overpowering aura now enlacing her too by the hips, the waist, the shoulders, and has graced her knuckles with lips the definition of godlike, in an endearing gesture only she is permitted to understand. She is made quiet inside, soaking in the details of Revan’s gratitude before her own waning self-consciousness.
The invitation brings heat to where cold reigns, and then her to her knees, justly flattered, rightfully captive, unwilling to break a crescent smile resting deep into the corners of sewn together lips. Bastila drops her gaze and is pulled ever closer, an initiative not her own yet wanted. The rhythm she follows is painless, noiselesss and colourless —— carefully held tips go around Revan’s luscious head, and meet their equals right above the bone in the back of her gracious neck. Long fingers press lightly against the loop when it is tied, lingering a bit in the place before falling back. ‘ A perfect fit. ’ She remarks in a murmur, with a voice as subtle as the swish of a vibroblade tearing fine silk asunder.
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