lays down and cries. colouring
alpha dersecest is probably the best dersecest
She moves like a river, and you’re sick of similes and cliches like that but she’s just stubborn enough to warrant them, to make you sicker with their use. She walks like rain falls, and her mouth is a smirking stormcloud and when she shows her teeth it’s a lightning strike of white. You grit your own teeth at the thought.
She looks like you. Not exactly, but enough. Same white-blond hair, same thick eyebrows and arms a little too long for her body. You wonder if she’s noticed the similarities. Probably, since she’s about nine times more observant than you are. At least, you have to assume so. What with her being a writer. She’s desperately gorgeous and obnoxiously intelligent, and whenever you speak to her you feel like she’s got a rope around your neck and whenever you aren’t speaking to her you feel like the rope is being pulled so tight you ought to be purple in the face.
She’s so guarded, but she doesn’t hide as well as she’d like to. Not from you, anyway. Not from anyone who watches her closely.
There’s an glint in her eyes when champagne is passed around, and a quiver in her hand when she turns the drink down. Her dress is not the flat black that all the other women wear; a faint lilac tints it. She’s wearing white tights and big dumb mary janes, and you make a mental note to commend her on the ironic statement. She’s talking to her editor, and her laugh is forced and dry and it’s almost painful to watch.
You cross the room, and quietly ask “need a knight, Lalonde?”
She rolls her eyes but lightning strikes and she kisses your cheek. “I know what I’m doing, Strider.”
