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@upiric.
knuckles are grazed. there’s the slightest trickle of red crowning the cracks down the backs of her hands, which she brushes the pad of her thumb over and smudges. it stings and throbs at the same time, underlying an ache which is shrugged off with the flick of a lighter, and the pursing of a cigarette between her lips.
‘ it’s nothing—you should see the other guy, right? ’
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╳ ┆ @upiric
“Stop. Stop watching me like that. Important people with busy pens have told me I don’t do well when others are JUDGING me. Or when I think they are, anyway. Are you judging me, Roman?” She imposes thin fingertips into her BORING GLASS OF WATER (sugared beverages make her q u e a s y) and FLICKS crystalline droplets toward his observing face. Most of them fall with soft patters onto the woodwork tabletop, but her CHALLENGING GAZE does not waver. A precocious thing, her, with the SLIGHT upturn of her nose and naturally defiant arch of her brow. So much F I R E inside of her from ruin and hope, and she’s no clue how to REIN IT ALL IN -- not YET, anyway. He shall just have to suffer her insincerely infuriated moods. Perhaps.
