ㅤ the mask of self-deception was no longer a mask for me it was a part of me. night lifted it laying bare the stifled truth below; but there were none to see. ㅤ
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It makes sense, she’d find it natural. It is, to her. That’s why it’s strange to him, rather than mildly interesting. Much better, this way.
Invitation accepted, hands and step both managing with little effort to join pace. He likes seeing her tired; enough to match, help.
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there's a nameless tune then, hummed alongside the faintest of smiles. she's inviting him in. she's inviting him closer. she's so very tired, but there she reaches, both hands grasped as he's pulled into step.
strange? is it really? it seems only natural, to her.
@WELKINMELODIES ㅤ
Somewhat’s too cruel. Way too cruel. Keeping something he wants out of reach is terrible, just terrible. ♡
Dreamy sigh, brushing by skin as cup’s lazily turned, contents swirled. When her touch settles, his starts.
It would be comedic, at least. Messy, but funny.
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Arm lifting, gaze following, movements fluid despite the mechanical shifts and flickers of his focus. Oh, dancing. She was dancing.
Cute. Fun. Lucky, though? He’d never consider himself an anchor for anything but more lost, wandering things. Strange. .
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a tug, a pull... steps light with him in tow, pace set slow enough she can raise his arm to spin beneath. hm, hm. ♫ how lucky she is to have an anchor to rest against, when tired.
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So often. So very, very often. But there’s a vain pleasure to it, if nothing else. *✨
Hand accepted, head tilted, and arm tugging back. She can be tired of something and still need it. That’s what the best anchors are for, mh?
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oh. yes... he's right. he's right, a lot of the time. does he tire from being right? she tires from being seen, being surrounded, being anchored down. yet still she reaches for him—takes his hand in hers, hums. tug, tug.
she doesn't want to be lost right now, fun as it could be.
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“Eh?”
Blink-blink. Sideward glance and an absentminded gaze raised to hers; his answer, first, a shrug.
“Ehe, lucky me if ever it does. You’re nice to look at, is all. Though. . you must have something to share about yourself, mhu? A name, a dream, a wonder?”
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Following her gaze, the way a cat might the shining of a light; eager to observe the unknown.
Of course there is. She was lost just then, wasn’t she? Being lost means seeing new things, finding out about where you are now. Or where you were.
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distracted as he hums... gaze caught onto faint patterns near feet. she takes one step to catch a closer look-- only for head to whip back up.
wings flutter. head tilts. ૮꒰˶ ❛ ˕ ❛˶꒱ა ?
ah. there's... fun? in being lost?