Or have you made so many rules that it's difficult to remember to follow them?
[ An eyebrow raises, challenging. Weakness is a guise. The less you say the more words your weight carries. Meet insults with laughter. All of his spouted wisdom has created a series of complex rules that she has discovered are nearly impossible to navigate, a structure that leaves no room for fumbling without its whole foundation crumbling apart around her. Some time ago, she might have assumed princes — with all of their influence and power and prestige — would have the freedom to establish their own rules, but she hadn't known Nikolai then. Had barely come into her own power, and what the title thrust upon her might mean for the future of Ravka.
He is as trapped as any of them, she thinks. It only happens that his cage is more gilded, its extravagance giving the illusion of freedom. Perhaps that's worse, but she doesn't want to think of the traps they've set for themselves. Even if the lingering hint of alcohol on his breath is a reminder, traces of fine liquor from his attempts to charm nobles into coughing up coin the night prior, offsetting the sharp sweetness of jam. She chases after the taste with a low hum in her throat, swiping over his bottom lip, sweeping her tongue into his mouth with a greed that, in quieter and isolated hours, often frightens her.
A warm flush paints itself across her cheek when she pulls back, lips shining as she presses them to the corner of his own — as if she isn't in need of catching her breath, as if her heart isn't threatening to plunge through her chest, as if each kiss doesn't radiate through her until she is molten, as if she has more restraint than to kiss him until her lungs die out.
She hardly does. It's an overestimation of her self-control, and the unnatural golden glow to her eyes, when she leans back to look at him, proves it. It sparks and fizzles out, much like the dying light of a setting sun, but she is too preoccupied with outlining his mouth with idle strokes of her fingertips to realize any of it. Her lips curve, the only warning of her deliberately annoying cheekiness before it spills out of her. ]
The more you offer it, the more I start to think Nikolai Lantsov has a secret taste for punishment.
dw is a salty thot, much like me
[ An eyebrow raises, challenging. Weakness is a guise. The less you say the more words your weight carries. Meet insults with laughter. All of his spouted wisdom has created a series of complex rules that she has discovered are nearly impossible to navigate, a structure that leaves no room for fumbling without its whole foundation crumbling apart around her. Some time ago, she might have assumed princes — with all of their influence and power and prestige — would have the freedom to establish their own rules, but she hadn't known Nikolai then. Had barely come into her own power, and what the title thrust upon her might mean for the future of Ravka.
He is as trapped as any of them, she thinks. It only happens that his cage is more gilded, its extravagance giving the illusion of freedom. Perhaps that's worse, but she doesn't want to think of the traps they've set for themselves. Even if the lingering hint of alcohol on his breath is a reminder, traces of fine liquor from his attempts to charm nobles into coughing up coin the night prior, offsetting the sharp sweetness of jam. She chases after the taste with a low hum in her throat, swiping over his bottom lip, sweeping her tongue into his mouth with a greed that, in quieter and isolated hours, often frightens her.
A warm flush paints itself across her cheek when she pulls back, lips shining as she presses them to the corner of his own — as if she isn't in need of catching her breath, as if her heart isn't threatening to plunge through her chest, as if each kiss doesn't radiate through her until she is molten, as if she has more restraint than to kiss him until her lungs die out.
She hardly does. It's an overestimation of her self-control, and the unnatural golden glow to her eyes, when she leans back to look at him, proves it. It sparks and fizzles out, much like the dying light of a setting sun, but she is too preoccupied with outlining his mouth with idle strokes of her fingertips to realize any of it. Her lips curve, the only warning of her deliberately annoying cheekiness before it spills out of her. ]
The more you offer it, the more I start to think Nikolai Lantsov has a secret taste for punishment.