[ He might be twice her age, but his reflexes are better than this. That's almost the scariest part of her seizing him by the hair and raising the scissors: the fact that by the time he's throwing up a hand in defense, the blades have already swept their arc, missing his fingers by a hair's breadth. ]
[ There's a noise somewhere in his throat between a pained snarl and a panicked wheeze that he bites back, breathing hard through his teeth, but the piercing, blossoming heat doesn't follow through. The only sensation beyond the wrenching across his scalp is his shirt falling open, snipped clean through, which he reaches to tug closed again on instinct before a hint of cool metal presses up beneath his jaw. ]
[ Reluctantly, Vidal falls still. Deathly still. Call him Sigourney fucking Weaver with this tongue-lolling alien sniffing up the side of his throat. His mind's still racing though, racing up to the moment she lets him go, thudding him back up against the wall. But it doesn't rattle anything loose this time, except for maybe his temper... She's definitely not the sort of person to rile up, a better part of him knows, but he definitely does not have the clearest head at the moment. All that's up there is disengage, disengage, disengage. ]
Yeah. Real sweet baby angel good samaritan, she was, [ he spits out, eyes locked on the scissors again. ] Wouldn't put it past you though.
[ And it aches, but at least he can still move fast when he puts his mind to it. Clamping his legs together on the ankle between them, he aims a simultaneous strike to the side of her knee with the heel of his hand, following through to shove her off balance and trip her on his thighs. Disentangling himself, he twists, gathering his legs up and pushing to his feet, lunging for the door—if he could just close her in— ]
[ —He gets about a step and a half and his calves fizz like a freshly cracked soda, his feet fill with static as if he'd been sitting on them for hours and it all liquefies beneath him, pitching him swearing back down to his hands and knees. ]
more like with the player screaming THE CHAIR GIVE HIM THE CHAIR
[ There's a noise somewhere in his throat between a pained snarl and a panicked wheeze that he bites back, breathing hard through his teeth, but the piercing, blossoming heat doesn't follow through. The only sensation beyond the wrenching across his scalp is his shirt falling open, snipped clean through, which he reaches to tug closed again on instinct before a hint of cool metal presses up beneath his jaw. ]
[ Reluctantly, Vidal falls still. Deathly still. Call him Sigourney fucking Weaver with this tongue-lolling alien sniffing up the side of his throat. His mind's still racing though, racing up to the moment she lets him go, thudding him back up against the wall. But it doesn't rattle anything loose this time, except for maybe his temper... She's definitely not the sort of person to rile up, a better part of him knows, but he definitely does not have the clearest head at the moment. All that's up there is disengage, disengage, disengage. ]
Yeah. Real sweet baby angel good samaritan, she was, [ he spits out, eyes locked on the scissors again. ] Wouldn't put it past you though.
[ And it aches, but at least he can still move fast when he puts his mind to it. Clamping his legs together on the ankle between them, he aims a simultaneous strike to the side of her knee with the heel of his hand, following through to shove her off balance and trip her on his thighs. Disentangling himself, he twists, gathering his legs up and pushing to his feet, lunging for the door—if he could just close her in— ]
[ —He gets about a step and a half and his calves fizz like a freshly cracked soda, his feet fill with static as if he'd been sitting on them for hours and it all liquefies beneath him, pitching him swearing back down to his hands and knees. ]