Vittoria nods and lowers her head as if she's about to kiss Persephone's hand, resting her forehead on it instead.

"Then I swear that the light of my blazing star will make your sky shine brightly, and I swear to guard you from hate with love, until the two can too reconcile. That my light of friendship never goes out even in the heat of battle. Lonely Love Requiem."

A light shines out from her heart and eyes, rays of multicolored light radiating from the space between them. The promise is carved in the bones of this place, below the dream that can be seen, at the very edge of the dream that can be felt.

"...That's the power of a magical girl."

"...ad-libbing."

For just a few seconds throughout, the doll's face is exactly as unreadable as it ought to be, and yet has never been. Awe, maybe? Passive amazement? Intent concentration?

As soon as she speaks, that ends. Or, no, she doesn't speak exactly. She laughs, sincere and kind and silvery, and her starlike eyes shrink up into little mirthful upward crescents. It is a laughter that shakes the surface of the stream, sending ripples over it crosswise to the current. For just a moment, in peripheral vision, the stars appear to swim.

The doll leans forward. The smooth place where its mouth ought to be touches Vicky's bangs, delivering a pure and imaginary smooch to her forehead. Her hand delicately turns over in the magical girl's grasp so that they can hold each other, instead of passively being held.

"I believe you. Do you know, I really do believe you? You have a beautiful heart. It must be, to say a beautiful thing like that and really utterly mean it. Haha, even more if you're ab-libbing! That makes it even better."

The doll pulls back, but not too far. Its hand squeezes Vicky's.

"A little star. A light that's life-giving. I like it a lot, you know. Even if things have been... tempestuous? I'm so glad you've never unlearned how to be that kind."

Signals from the nerve-ape behind the rosy dreamself's eyes plateau in intensity. Someone's on that good shit, neurological wildfire held back by the bravest little amygdala, bleeding it off into wriggling limbs and dilating blood vessels. Not enough to hide from the dream. But enough to stay virtually modest.

"I- um, I..." Her blush threatens to detonate. Torture, this is, she thinks, but maybe the good kind. Not sure. Emergency measures may be in order.

She's been pliable to everything, but rebels against the drawn-out silence she extends between them by doing something very physically volitional, and very silly; she turns and plops her side down on the grass, facing away from her New Friend (++). In the extensions of dreamspace, they're just as close to each other, closer in fact, her hand staying on the doll's, but...

But she's unwinding tangled beam-strings of expression, pulling them back from the strain of being seen, of being pulled taut into their full form, all in the air between them.

"...usually. Ahah. Usually I'm the one who makes people blushy and speechless. I thought I had you for a second there...!"

"I mean, uh—uuuuu—it's, it's not like I prefer it when... when people don't really get it, or they, um, can't..." She trails off. "...this is different and nice but I'm just not used to being..."

"...gobbled up."

Poor thing. A deft comet pulled in by the gravity of a passing planet.

Persephone is big, in ways not described by her physical size. If there's one way she can be 'unpleasant', it's this:

In a haze of woodsmoke and incense, you can't get a breath of fresh air.

When a person is like a planet, the only way you can get distance is to jump.

The torture is almost unbearable. But it doesn't last forever. The beam-strands, eventually, are untangled.

"Awww, but don't be embarrassed," she says softly at the end. Her hand squeezes the magical girl's, gently. An acknowledgement, and an attempt not to pull her back in just yet, but it pulls anyway. Her legs stretch out, knees no longer against the chest. "You were doing so well! Ahaha, you still are. Even so badly off-script, you are so perfectly yourself. Thank you for letting me see it."

A moment of "space" and "fresh air" later, her other hand comes to rest on the pixie's side, stroking it as if to comfort a wounded animal. Maybe pride.

"There's nothing wrong with being gobbled up anyway," she continues after the pause. "The balance point between Pluto and Charon is in the empty space between them. The balance point between Terra and Luna is still inside of Terra. Do you think the moon feels embarrassed?"

"It's, um- I mean, it's just... I think the way I usually deal with stage fright is by feeling like I'm... like I have more presence than the audience. Like I'm untouchable. You know?"

She writhes a practished shimmy, hand brushing back against the other's.

"And... I'd feel like you really are, if... if I didn't know any better."

There's a hint of uncertainty there.

"I'm not," she says, but her voice is smiling. "I'm really, extremely touchable. Ahaha, in a lot of ways!"

The cuteness of the shimmy overwhelms her. She leans in, tapping her featureless face gently to the back of the magical girl's head. It's a kiss, as surely as she can smile without a mouth.

"But if you'd like to pretend I am, that's okay too. I like it a lot, you know."

The innuendo is—although meriting the traditional blush—weirdly calming, a nice banality giving her some familiar ground to stand on. The intimacy gets a rapid, convulsive giggle, like she's ticklish. Her strings don't exactly re-orient to follow the orbit, but they do stretch out of the body, relaxing, dancing in the gravitational pull.

"Everyone gets to be touched. It's not fair to poke at someone without having their skin push back. What's the point? And it's nice to... touch people. Like we're touching each other."

Real blush again.

The giggle is met with a low mmmm of approving acknowledgement. "You get it. That would be really boring, wouldn't it? Luna pulls on Terra too- that's called the tides! That restless energy you have... it's really infectious. It softens people up, doesn't it?"

Just the doll's slightly-pointed fingertips- a little hard, but yielding, like fingernails- trace up the magical girl's side, then back down again. Looking for response, playing her like an instrument.

A little slyly: "You can't see it, but I'm blushing now too. Just for example."

It would be easy to close her eyes and lean in, shiver, let the moment bleed through her. It would also be the hardest thing in the world—her mind is set taut on programmed responses and structured counter-investments. This is war.

She lets out a little sharp breath and pouts, leaning in, like it's an accident, like it's only natural. "...Figures. I bet your blood is going all sorts of interesting places. What with... the tides."