[ a quiet, pensive agreement. it's laughable, to believe that she might strip away his secrets with each piece of clothing that flutters to the floor. but in these more tender moments, when his lips brush against her forehead like a promise imprinted on her skin, she can believe it is more than the fantasy of a bastard prince and an orphan girl suffocating beneath their ambitions for ravka.
the easing tension in her spine speaks to a relief she doesn't give voice to. even as she narrows her eyes at the moan pouring out of his throat, quite aware that he has — deliberately or otherwise — only contributed to their audience with that particular performance. even as that puddle of teal drapes along her shoulders, drowning her in its lavish fabric.
he really does have the most terrible taste in clothing. the gaudiness is nearly offensive to her eyes, but it wouldn't be nikolai if he wasn't skilled at peacocking. she snorts, plucking it off of her shoulders with a wrinkle of her nose just so she can turn it over and inspect it, despite knowing what embroidery she will find.
if she were a fool, she could convince herself that it means nothing — that it's only to rile the servants into twittering — but it is, undoubtedly, a statement. a large declaration of his fondness, of the ties that bind them, but she is not deaf to what messages she will convey. it dares her to prove herself, challenges her to make a choice; if mal had been so rattled by a kefta — by what it had represented — she cannot imagine his anger to be anything less than a storm on a horizon, sending him into that dark whirlpool of self-destruction she has seen him spiral down into.
she swallows thickly, hesitating for a moment longer, before she pulls her arms into its sleeves. ]
If this turns out to be a way of marking your territory, I'm going to choke you with the rest of your toast.
[ it is, after all, what alina considers a fair warning. ]
no subject
[ a quiet, pensive agreement. it's laughable, to believe that she might strip away his secrets with each piece of clothing that flutters to the floor. but in these more tender moments, when his lips brush against her forehead like a promise imprinted on her skin, she can believe it is more than the fantasy of a bastard prince and an orphan girl suffocating beneath their ambitions for ravka.
the easing tension in her spine speaks to a relief she doesn't give voice to. even as she narrows her eyes at the moan pouring out of his throat, quite aware that he has — deliberately or otherwise — only contributed to their audience with that particular performance. even as that puddle of teal drapes along her shoulders, drowning her in its lavish fabric.
he really does have the most terrible taste in clothing. the gaudiness is nearly offensive to her eyes, but it wouldn't be nikolai if he wasn't skilled at peacocking. she snorts, plucking it off of her shoulders with a wrinkle of her nose just so she can turn it over and inspect it, despite knowing what embroidery she will find.
if she were a fool, she could convince herself that it means nothing — that it's only to rile the servants into twittering — but it is, undoubtedly, a statement. a large declaration of his fondness, of the ties that bind them, but she is not deaf to what messages she will convey. it dares her to prove herself, challenges her to make a choice; if mal had been so rattled by a kefta — by what it had represented — she cannot imagine his anger to be anything less than a storm on a horizon, sending him into that dark whirlpool of self-destruction she has seen him spiral down into.
she swallows thickly, hesitating for a moment longer, before she pulls her arms into its sleeves. ]
If this turns out to be a way of marking your territory, I'm going to choke you with the rest of your toast.
[ it is, after all, what alina considers a fair warning. ]