[ she isn't proud of how her bones jump, trying to break free from her skin in reflexive surprise, once his voice slides through her mind. a fitting interruption to her thoughts, alina thinks, with how eager he must be to extract them. goad her into leaking them out into the network in an overflowing stream of consciousness.
it's not a kind interpretation of his intentions. maybe it's only his need for privacy, wary of the nameless faces that politely skirt by her on the narrow street, but she's in no mood to dole out kindness. that well has run dry for the evening.
sullen, alina's arms fold over her chest, hands wrapped around the willowy bend of her arms. for a stretch of time, there's only the wet slap of her heels against sun-baked cobblestone, refusing to flinch at how it sizzles unpleasantly against her skin. taunting her, almost, with a power that's been drained from her a second time.
that, at least, she can take pride in &mdadsh; ignoring him for a few heartbeats when her awareness of him is prickling the back of her neck. when he's caught up to her enough that the heat of his breath fans out against the nape of her neck, as though even his exhales refuse to let her forget his presence.
does she want to foist him on someone else, make him their problem? yes. no. the darkling is only another responsibility of her own that no other soul can handle. another burden on the long list of being the sun summoner. especially when it includes deciphering his actions — as she is now, trying to calculate whether he's truly taken her words to heart and course-corrected, or if this is another trick.
both, perhaps. with him, she finds it's rarely one or the other. ]
What I want? [ she grumbles, uncaring or simply unaware that she sounds so huffy. ] Right now, what I want is to shove you into the dirt.
[ ... well, never let it be said she isn't bluntly honest when she's in the mood to be. ]
sobs thank you, let's pretend i'm secretly a genius who never typos or forgets words
it's not a kind interpretation of his intentions. maybe it's only his need for privacy, wary of the nameless faces that politely skirt by her on the narrow street, but she's in no mood to dole out kindness. that well has run dry for the evening.
sullen, alina's arms fold over her chest, hands wrapped around the willowy bend of her arms. for a stretch of time, there's only the wet slap of her heels against sun-baked cobblestone, refusing to flinch at how it sizzles unpleasantly against her skin. taunting her, almost, with a power that's been drained from her a second time.
that, at least, she can take pride in &mdadsh; ignoring him for a few heartbeats when her awareness of him is prickling the back of her neck. when he's caught up to her enough that the heat of his breath fans out against the nape of her neck, as though even his exhales refuse to let her forget his presence.
does she want to foist him on someone else, make him their problem? yes. no. the darkling is only another responsibility of her own that no other soul can handle. another burden on the long list of being the sun summoner. especially when it includes deciphering his actions — as she is now, trying to calculate whether he's truly taken her words to heart and course-corrected, or if this is another trick.
both, perhaps. with him, she finds it's rarely one or the other. ]
What I want? [ she grumbles, uncaring or simply unaware that she sounds so huffy. ] Right now, what I want is to shove you into the dirt.
[ ... well, never let it be said she isn't bluntly honest when she's in the mood to be. ]