[ spoiled. that single word knots around her heart like scar tissue, seeps into the wounds that already exist — old injuries from an orphaned childhood, from the acute pain of never quite belonging in any one place. it's the outsider in her soul that recognizes the same in his, even if he treats it so cavalierly as he does now. even if he wears it as his armor, so that the next remark of his bastard status might simply slide off of the metal without causing any damage.
it's enviable, in a way, to capture that confidence. it's miserable, in another, to know its creation came from every dirty look and ill word. she doesn't want to think of how long it has taken him to guard himself against those barbs, or how long it may take her to do the same. she doesn't want to think of the way she often feels as though she is slipping and slipping, in over her head, and wondering if the world around her has truly witnessed how unworthy she is — some orphaned girl turned grisha, made into the living legend of a saint. she doesn't want to think of legacy, or the loneliness their lives demand.
her eyes settle on the gold of his hair burnished by the sunlight, instead, and the soft stroke of her fingers as she brushes it from his eyes. as tempting as it is to seal her eyes shut as though it might spare her the nervous ratcheting of her heart, she watches him through the spellbound fog of dark, half-hooded eyes. just in case. just in case he needs to know she is imagining no one else dipping low between her thighs, dragging a kiss-swollen mouth over the twitching muscles in her thighs. just in case she needs to convince herself this isn't a figment of a dream. it should be one, having a prince asking for a taste of her, but —
he feels more real, like this. more tangible, like something she could dare to have, if only she reached for it. her fingers cascade down his cheek, fluttering back upward to card through his hair and down the nape of his neck, a touch as soft as a butterfly's wings. there is too much of him for her hands to decide where to linger, where to touch. ]
I happen to like your spoiled blood.
[ more than i should. her tongue comes out to wet her lips, teeth toying with her bottom lip, as she swallows her insecurities. the splay of her legs is slow, opening to him in the invitation. even if she can feel herself dripping onto her thigh, onto his pristine sheets. there will be no question that the rumors have some truth, now, after this.
for now, she hooks a leg over his shoulder, her voice as tremulous as her gentle smile when she murmurs, ] How could I hate anything that shuts you up, Nikolai?
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it's enviable, in a way, to capture that confidence. it's miserable, in another, to know its creation came from every dirty look and ill word. she doesn't want to think of how long it has taken him to guard himself against those barbs, or how long it may take her to do the same. she doesn't want to think of the way she often feels as though she is slipping and slipping, in over her head, and wondering if the world around her has truly witnessed how unworthy she is — some orphaned girl turned grisha, made into the living legend of a saint. she doesn't want to think of legacy, or the loneliness their lives demand.
her eyes settle on the gold of his hair burnished by the sunlight, instead, and the soft stroke of her fingers as she brushes it from his eyes. as tempting as it is to seal her eyes shut as though it might spare her the nervous ratcheting of her heart, she watches him through the spellbound fog of dark, half-hooded eyes. just in case. just in case he needs to know she is imagining no one else dipping low between her thighs, dragging a kiss-swollen mouth over the twitching muscles in her thighs. just in case she needs to convince herself this isn't a figment of a dream. it should be one, having a prince asking for a taste of her, but —
he feels more real, like this. more tangible, like something she could dare to have, if only she reached for it. her fingers cascade down his cheek, fluttering back upward to card through his hair and down the nape of his neck, a touch as soft as a butterfly's wings. there is too much of him for her hands to decide where to linger, where to touch. ]
I happen to like your spoiled blood.
[ more than i should. her tongue comes out to wet her lips, teeth toying with her bottom lip, as she swallows her insecurities. the splay of her legs is slow, opening to him in the invitation. even if she can feel herself dripping onto her thigh, onto his pristine sheets. there will be no question that the rumors have some truth, now, after this.
for now, she hooks a leg over his shoulder, her voice as tremulous as her gentle smile when she murmurs, ] How could I hate anything that shuts you up, Nikolai?