[ within the span of one heaving breath and the next, she finds herself believing him. it should be a balm to an old ache, wounds that have marked her with festering scars, but it's as precarious as splitting the skin back open again. because he has seen her, cracked her open and looked inside, and as much as she has come to him craving that —
it's as terrifying as plunging into the sea. it's as exhilarating as the wind whipping in her hair. it's as dangerous as hope, with a faith that is twice as deadly, when she thinks of every pretty, sweet word that nikolai has carefully constructed to get his way. it's just another skill in a long list of talents — that silver tongue, capable of telling anyone what they wish to hear. for a moment, she wonders if the truth of her heart has been that open, that obvious.
but even in knowing that — saints, she believes him, even when he tells her i would be a little less of anything for you. he has offered her so much, and perhaps for the first time, she can allow herself to be selfish and take this from him. she blinks back up at him, a little dazedly doe-eyed from how struck she is by everything that he is, just before his fingers descend.
the groan that tears out of her throat, hoarse and rasping, is not entirely from pleasure. leave it to nikolai to be an incorrigible bastard, even in this. what is worse is how utterly right he is; the soft glow of morning light spilling along his skin makes him look ethereal, a mythical creature hovering above her — what should be untouchable, to someone like her. annoyingly handsome, and just as annoyingly capable of speech, when just the light pressure of his fingers has her arcing into that touch.
alina's retribution is the sharp nip of her teeth, sinking into the plushness of his lower lip. she isn't doing this right, if he is still in possession of a vocabulary, if he can still think a thought when she's overcome with her own urge to loosen the threads that hold him together. just for awhile. just until there is nothing but the rawness of his honest reaction. just until he stitches himself back together again and remembers what he is.
just until they're even, to lessen the embarrassment of that thin scrap between them, soaked through and clinging to her skin. her fingers clench around his shoulders, gripping and clasping and digging in, before she drags her nails weakly down his spine. ]
You could stand to be a little less of a smug idiot.
[ the usual, snarky bite to it is suspiciously absent, courtesy of her breathlessness. still: alina starkov, queen of sweet nothings. ]
no subject
it's as terrifying as plunging into the sea. it's as exhilarating as the wind whipping in her hair. it's as dangerous as hope, with a faith that is twice as deadly, when she thinks of every pretty, sweet word that nikolai has carefully constructed to get his way. it's just another skill in a long list of talents — that silver tongue, capable of telling anyone what they wish to hear. for a moment, she wonders if the truth of her heart has been that open, that obvious.
but even in knowing that — saints, she believes him, even when he tells her i would be a little less of anything for you. he has offered her so much, and perhaps for the first time, she can allow herself to be selfish and take this from him. she blinks back up at him, a little dazedly doe-eyed from how struck she is by everything that he is, just before his fingers descend.
the groan that tears out of her throat, hoarse and rasping, is not entirely from pleasure. leave it to nikolai to be an incorrigible bastard, even in this. what is worse is how utterly right he is; the soft glow of morning light spilling along his skin makes him look ethereal, a mythical creature hovering above her — what should be untouchable, to someone like her. annoyingly handsome, and just as annoyingly capable of speech, when just the light pressure of his fingers has her arcing into that touch.
alina's retribution is the sharp nip of her teeth, sinking into the plushness of his lower lip. she isn't doing this right, if he is still in possession of a vocabulary, if he can still think a thought when she's overcome with her own urge to loosen the threads that hold him together. just for awhile. just until there is nothing but the rawness of his honest reaction. just until he stitches himself back together again and remembers what he is.
just until they're even, to lessen the embarrassment of that thin scrap between them, soaked through and clinging to her skin. her fingers clench around his shoulders, gripping and clasping and digging in, before she drags her nails weakly down his spine. ]
You could stand to be a little less of a smug idiot.
[ the usual, snarky bite to it is suspiciously absent, courtesy of her breathlessness. still: alina starkov, queen of sweet nothings. ]