[She knows these arms. She knows this voice. She knows that there is nothing but absolute safety in being swept in safe against this chest with these arms and this soft voice murmuring against her hair.
But for a garbled, unhappy moment, Ophelia can't stop herself from pushing.
It's only a weak little shove, the sort of jolt that comes from an instinct rather than a plan. It takes barely a second for her fingers to twist from pressed flat to clinging to whatever fabric she can catch hold of. Her shoulder droop back into themselves, her spine relaxes from its brief rigidity, and her face burrows in properly against the hollow of Faramir's neck.
No words can find purchase in her throat. Every last inch of it has still to be ripped through with the incoherence of her exhausted sobbing. It will take a few long moments before she can find her breath again, searching against Faramir's throat for a steady rhythm for her own aching lungs to follow.]
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But for a garbled, unhappy moment, Ophelia can't stop herself from pushing.
It's only a weak little shove, the sort of jolt that comes from an instinct rather than a plan. It takes barely a second for her fingers to twist from pressed flat to clinging to whatever fabric she can catch hold of. Her shoulder droop back into themselves, her spine relaxes from its brief rigidity, and her face burrows in properly against the hollow of Faramir's neck.
No words can find purchase in her throat. Every last inch of it has still to be ripped through with the incoherence of her exhausted sobbing. It will take a few long moments before she can find her breath again, searching against Faramir's throat for a steady rhythm for her own aching lungs to follow.]