( unsubtle, her eyes flicker to the shifting pillars of his fingers. her breath catches again — nauseated with self-loathing, this time, to imagine the lingering aches of what she's unknowingly done. the stalk of her flower doesn't seem to bend, doesn't seem to wilt, in the stone of his grasp despite it — though alina has to wonder if it's her own manner of coping, to think of wildflowers sprouting in concrete cracks, persevering. gentle miracles that can still grow, if they're cradled and nurtured.
like the brush of alina's own fingers to meet his own in their descent, cupping them in her palm. the first jolt of cold tenses her guts until they lurch, trading his temporary discomfort for her own. she lifts them to her mouth as she should have done for his dying body, as she hadn't had the mind to — blowing puffs of hot air onto their tips. trying to warm them all to life, really, for all that she knows she'd been a failure at restoring him, the first time. )
That's a typical mortal mistake, offering options to selfish creatures. ( beneath the dark trellis of her lashes, her eyes searchingly find his. looking for any seed of doubt, any sproutling disgust for her, and finds — nothing. just the rosy blossom of his cheeks, calling to mind simpler times, when he hadn't known her. hadn't known better than to withdraw from her orbit. a little wistful pang of nostaglia shadows her stare. ) You shouldn't trust a nymph not to swindle all you own.
( or — she's the one caught in the sticky honey of a trap, most likely. anticipatory and anxious both, a pink peek of her tongue sets out to wet her lips. )
I'll have both, once you have a solution for my riddle. I've been struggling to find the answer, lately. ( her heart squeezes impossibly tighter, a wringing fist threatening to reduce it to pulp. and still, she asks, suddenly as small as any mice that knows better than to squeak: ) You love me still?
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like the brush of alina's own fingers to meet his own in their descent, cupping them in her palm. the first jolt of cold tenses her guts until they lurch, trading his temporary discomfort for her own. she lifts them to her mouth as she should have done for his dying body, as she hadn't had the mind to — blowing puffs of hot air onto their tips. trying to warm them all to life, really, for all that she knows she'd been a failure at restoring him, the first time. )
That's a typical mortal mistake, offering options to selfish creatures. ( beneath the dark trellis of her lashes, her eyes searchingly find his. looking for any seed of doubt, any sproutling disgust for her, and finds — nothing. just the rosy blossom of his cheeks, calling to mind simpler times, when he hadn't known her. hadn't known better than to withdraw from her orbit. a little wistful pang of nostaglia shadows her stare. ) You shouldn't trust a nymph not to swindle all you own.
( or — she's the one caught in the sticky honey of a trap, most likely. anticipatory and anxious both, a pink peek of her tongue sets out to wet her lips. )
I'll have both, once you have a solution for my riddle. I've been struggling to find the answer, lately. ( her heart squeezes impossibly tighter, a wringing fist threatening to reduce it to pulp. and still, she asks, suddenly as small as any mice that knows better than to squeak: ) You love me still?