[ it's like pushing against grisha steel, comes alina's first frantic thought, too unyielding to bend beneath her hands. feebly, she beats a frustrated drum against his chest in one last effort to move this mountain of a man in her path, before —
the clarity sets in. the fearful fog in her head clears enough that the deep timber of his voice registers, wrapping around her voice with far too much intimacy. alina. she peels back — as far as she can, trapped by his barring arm — to confirm she hasn't hallucinated him into existence. against her will, she sags and tenses in equal measure, as though her body is never quite certain how to react.
her eyes track the drip, drip, drip of — blood, she realizes quickly. not his own, either. the idea that he's the one to come to harm is so ridiculous she discards it immediately, and for good reason. every part of him resembles an untouchable demon birthed in blood, slathered in the paint of viscera and gore.
never has he looked more like himself. this, she reminds herself, is who he is. the irony of running from one monster into the arms of another is not lost on her.
and still, alina clutches to him despite herself. despite the disgust roiling in her gut as she's doused in the scent of death radiating from him, acidic nausea burning up her throat, threatening to make her retch. her fingers twist, knuckles blanching, in his dirtied collar as she pivots a glance over her shoulder — and regrets the sight that greets her. like turning away from the carnage of an execution, alina quickly turns her head as the cut connects just in time for his shadowy barrier to rise around them, burying herself in his chest as her eyes squeeze tightly.
even his protection seems to come with a cost of violence, of spilled blood.
coursing adrenaline rattles through her, shaking in her limbs. the proof of her fear trembling against him, tightening her grip to stop the tremors seizing her fingers. she tries to suppress it, to smother it before he can take notice, to little success. ]
I have to go, [ she blurts out, a current of words that nearly bleed into one another, in her rush to get them out. another look gets reluctantly thrown over her shoulder, flinching as what she finds: the battering of blue light against his dark shield, slow to be extinguished. ] My summoning — they've done something to it. Drained it. I don't know.
[ her head shakes, panicky, as she chokes on a distressed, animalistic sound. her fingers wrench away from his shirt, quaking in the air between them, as she echoes with mounting panic: ] I don't know. I have to go.
no subject
the clarity sets in. the fearful fog in her head clears enough that the deep timber of his voice registers, wrapping around her voice with far too much intimacy. alina. she peels back — as far as she can, trapped by his barring arm — to confirm she hasn't hallucinated him into existence. against her will, she sags and tenses in equal measure, as though her body is never quite certain how to react.
her eyes track the drip, drip, drip of — blood, she realizes quickly. not his own, either. the idea that he's the one to come to harm is so ridiculous she discards it immediately, and for good reason. every part of him resembles an untouchable demon birthed in blood, slathered in the paint of viscera and gore.
never has he looked more like himself. this, she reminds herself, is who he is. the irony of running from one monster into the arms of another is not lost on her.
and still, alina clutches to him despite herself. despite the disgust roiling in her gut as she's doused in the scent of death radiating from him, acidic nausea burning up her throat, threatening to make her retch. her fingers twist, knuckles blanching, in his dirtied collar as she pivots a glance over her shoulder — and regrets the sight that greets her. like turning away from the carnage of an execution, alina quickly turns her head as the cut connects just in time for his shadowy barrier to rise around them, burying herself in his chest as her eyes squeeze tightly.
even his protection seems to come with a cost of violence, of spilled blood.
coursing adrenaline rattles through her, shaking in her limbs. the proof of her fear trembling against him, tightening her grip to stop the tremors seizing her fingers. she tries to suppress it, to smother it before he can take notice, to little success. ]
I have to go, [ she blurts out, a current of words that nearly bleed into one another, in her rush to get them out. another look gets reluctantly thrown over her shoulder, flinching as what she finds: the battering of blue light against his dark shield, slow to be extinguished. ] My summoning — they've done something to it. Drained it. I don't know.
[ her head shakes, panicky, as she chokes on a distressed, animalistic sound. her fingers wrench away from his shirt, quaking in the air between them, as she echoes with mounting panic: ] I don't know. I have to go.