( she deflates, suddenly, a popped balloon with all of its anxious helium wheezing out of it. it's — a little uneventful, actually, a whimper when she had expected something more ... cataclysmic, on scale with the rending power of the fold. paul's response, at least, as difficult to navigate as that black swath of darkness — unsure of what she'll meet, when she stumbles forward next. the worst part of it is the sickening, irrational disappointment that follows over paul's non-reaction — no flinch of jealousy, no pain. no part of him that seems to care she's been shared with someone else, someone dear to him.
the point is: all of alina's turmoil has nowhere to go, a firework with no ignition to it. useless apologies die early on her tongue; her defensiveness curls up in retreat, sharp teeth put away. for a singular moment, all she can manage is a stupefied blink, her eyebrows crawling closer and closer together in bemusement.
then, with a wrinkled twitch of her nose: ) Don't call them conquests. It makes it sound more like warfare than fucking.
( gross, too, considering — she doesn't think of alia as an object to possess, a prize to be conquered. it's crass of alina, maybe, but she's still jittery with nerves — a buzzing of pent-up adrenaline when she slides her fingers between paul's, even if every part of her aches to pace and fiddle and fuss. she turns over their joined hands, instead, channeling her energy into the motion. )
I still don't understand. Isn't it strange?
( she huffs out a breath, a disbelieving exhale tinged half-hysterical, with her attempts to reconcile the reaction she'd imagined paul having — repulsed, justifiably, betrayed and gutted with hurt — with the reality of it. his placid understanding, as unbothered by the revelation as a still lake. maybe, then, the problem is with her — an orphan's tacit misunderstanding of the unconditional love shared between one's own blood and bone. )
She's your sister. You would have every right to be angry with me for it.
no subject
( she deflates, suddenly, a popped balloon with all of its anxious helium wheezing out of it. it's — a little uneventful, actually, a whimper when she had expected something more ... cataclysmic, on scale with the rending power of the fold. paul's response, at least, as difficult to navigate as that black swath of darkness — unsure of what she'll meet, when she stumbles forward next. the worst part of it is the sickening, irrational disappointment that follows over paul's non-reaction — no flinch of jealousy, no pain. no part of him that seems to care she's been shared with someone else, someone dear to him.
the point is: all of alina's turmoil has nowhere to go, a firework with no ignition to it. useless apologies die early on her tongue; her defensiveness curls up in retreat, sharp teeth put away. for a singular moment, all she can manage is a stupefied blink, her eyebrows crawling closer and closer together in bemusement.
then, with a wrinkled twitch of her nose: ) Don't call them conquests. It makes it sound more like warfare than fucking.
( gross, too, considering — she doesn't think of alia as an object to possess, a prize to be conquered. it's crass of alina, maybe, but she's still jittery with nerves — a buzzing of pent-up adrenaline when she slides her fingers between paul's, even if every part of her aches to pace and fiddle and fuss. she turns over their joined hands, instead, channeling her energy into the motion. )
I still don't understand. Isn't it strange?
( she huffs out a breath, a disbelieving exhale tinged half-hysterical, with her attempts to reconcile the reaction she'd imagined paul having — repulsed, justifiably, betrayed and gutted with hurt — with the reality of it. his placid understanding, as unbothered by the revelation as a still lake. maybe, then, the problem is with her — an orphan's tacit misunderstanding of the unconditional love shared between one's own blood and bone. )
She's your sister. You would have every right to be angry with me for it.