01-19-2020, 02:50 AM
dove
LOVE COULD BE LABELED POISON AND WE'D DRINK IT ANYWAYS.
She is alone today, and desperate for a distraction.
Always afraid of wearing on Draco’s nerves, she does not follow or argue when he wants to leave. There were others that were far more worthy of his attention, like their half brother, or the pretty viper girl, or the one that looked like a walking galaxy. She does not feel jealousy when she sees her brother with someone else; the feeling inside of her chest is more like sorrow, and it sinks like an anchor to the very core of her, unmoving. She is beautiful, but she is not dangerous – she is not sharp or interesting, she is not destined for great things. Everything about her is soft and blurred, from the intricate snowflakes on her pale nose, to the dim glow of the dapples on her skin. She would always be an afterthought, to him and likely anyone else she met – just the pretty little silver girl, with eyes as blue as her heart, but never remarkable enough that anyone stayed.
She is near the river that winds through, because it was, in her opinion, the prettiest part of this kingdom. Pangea was for the most part barren and dry, seemingly unable to shake its cancerous beginnings, but here along the riverbank that carved through the canyon there were parts where the grass was verdant, and the water clearer.
She is surprised, though, when someone lands nearby.
From the corner of her eye she watches him – all brilliant teal and white, with beautiful wings, exploring in the shadows of the canyon’s walls. She doesn’t have wings, but she can fly, too, in a way; dissolving into a shimmer of fairy dust and spiriting herself to wherever she may want to go. It’s not the same as flying, though, and while there is a glimmer of curiosity, she does not approach him.
It’s not until she sees the way electricity sparks in the strands of his hair that she turns to fully look at him. She can feel her heart begin to flutter nervously, warring with herself on whether or not she should say something to him. She wants to – she so desperately wants to ask about his wings and the lightning he seems to carry with him – but that crippling shyness sets up like concrete in her veins, and she doesn’t.
So she diverts her gaze, looking back to the sparkling surface of the water, locking all her questions and curiosity up inside until the striking boy decides to leave, like he is so sure to do.
Always afraid of wearing on Draco’s nerves, she does not follow or argue when he wants to leave. There were others that were far more worthy of his attention, like their half brother, or the pretty viper girl, or the one that looked like a walking galaxy. She does not feel jealousy when she sees her brother with someone else; the feeling inside of her chest is more like sorrow, and it sinks like an anchor to the very core of her, unmoving. She is beautiful, but she is not dangerous – she is not sharp or interesting, she is not destined for great things. Everything about her is soft and blurred, from the intricate snowflakes on her pale nose, to the dim glow of the dapples on her skin. She would always be an afterthought, to him and likely anyone else she met – just the pretty little silver girl, with eyes as blue as her heart, but never remarkable enough that anyone stayed.
She is near the river that winds through, because it was, in her opinion, the prettiest part of this kingdom. Pangea was for the most part barren and dry, seemingly unable to shake its cancerous beginnings, but here along the riverbank that carved through the canyon there were parts where the grass was verdant, and the water clearer.
She is surprised, though, when someone lands nearby.
From the corner of her eye she watches him – all brilliant teal and white, with beautiful wings, exploring in the shadows of the canyon’s walls. She doesn’t have wings, but she can fly, too, in a way; dissolving into a shimmer of fairy dust and spiriting herself to wherever she may want to go. It’s not the same as flying, though, and while there is a glimmer of curiosity, she does not approach him.
It’s not until she sees the way electricity sparks in the strands of his hair that she turns to fully look at him. She can feel her heart begin to flutter nervously, warring with herself on whether or not she should say something to him. She wants to – she so desperately wants to ask about his wings and the lightning he seems to carry with him – but that crippling shyness sets up like concrete in her veins, and she doesn’t.
So she diverts her gaze, looking back to the sparkling surface of the water, locking all her questions and curiosity up inside until the striking boy decides to leave, like he is so sure to do.
@[Saphris]