just a wip of a sebina drabble… take this. sort of like communion.
it is not fair, savina thinks, how the corner of his mouth distracts me so—beckons her in some wicked way that makes her lips part on a shaking breath, heart pressed and thudding against her fragile ribs. it is unfair how he slithers into her dreams at night, with his mouth crooked in that dangerous, surreptitious smile he offers her when he lures her into an empty alcove. when he slinks up behind her to ask if she needs assistance in potions, breath ruffling the curls at her temple—his shadow falling over her, heavier than his cloak draped over her shoulders. the way he guides her, half a shepherd, through the crowded halls with his hand on the lower part of her back. low enough that she can feel the burn of it hours later, through layers of fabric. low enough that it teeters on a precariously thin line of social propriety, the one he’s predisposed to dancing upon.
a tightrope walker, prone to—perhaps craving—the danger of falling.
they’re stationed in front of the serpentine beast, a marvel of stained glass that savina would stare at for hours, given she was not caught in the wonderful trap of his company. with the sun at its highest point, it streams in through fragmented shafts of gleaming color. kaleidoscopic light rains down upon him; streaks of blue against his cheek, green at his throat. gold makes his hair shine like he’s wearing a crown—she wants to reach out and run her fingers those perfect-yet-messy waves. sebastian leans towards the window, eyes heavy lidded in a half-squint as he gazes down at a piece of parchment. savina rests with her back against the rail, cold-warm stone that holds onto its chill even as it basks in the sun. hands clasped in front of her, demure and unassuming. the shades of rose starting to creep into her cheeks, the tips of her ears, the delicate column of her throat—they are the indicators of her thoughts. her aching need to be indulged. and her fear of it, just as much.
she wonders to herself, am i bathed in that light, too? do i look half as holy?
she craves her own sort of danger. in this, just as in many other ways, they are so very similar. the anguish is what holds her prisoner to her endless yearning, always a glutton for some form of punishment. the siren’s call of him, ever a sweet song that spills not only from his lips, but from every part of him. the way he moves. the way he stares. the way freckles dot his face, a secret map of constellations she strings together when he leans in so close, she thinks she can glimpse chips of pyrite in his eyes. temptation is the name of the game she’s destined to fail.
