11-12-2020, 12:17 AM
Her lips are still on his shoulder, and in a soft exhale, she seems to breathe her healing into him. It is not widespread, focused only on the wound where her touch lingers, easing the brightness of the pain. For all her kindness, her mind still did not work in the way many would expect. She does not heal him of her own accord, does not take it upon herself to complete such a selfless gesture in its entirety. He could ask, and of course, she would oblige, but at the moment, it does not occur to her to heal beyond what her lips are touching.
It was just another strange way the wires of her mind had been crossed, another example of how the world twisted and molded her into this peculiar mix of dark and light and chaos.
She settles against him then, shifting her delicate wings and resting her nose again on his shoulder with the relaxed confidence of someone that paid no mind to the idea of strangers and caution. She is brazen in a way that is muted by her angelic appearance and the ethereal radiance of her glow, a boldness that hides behind softness and light. Always the contradiction, with the halo above her head and the mapping of scars that etch a thousand stories across her body.
A thousand stories, a thousand times that anything light about her was twisted into something else entirely.
His injuries did not spark the same memory as touching Echis’s had, but there is still something in the way he speaks. The way he forms the words, so careful like he thinks someone – someone besides her – will hear them. She recognizes that caution, and thinks she can taste the remnants of confusion and fear that linger across his tongue. She knows it all too well, and even if she had not recognized it immediately, the unbidden quickening of her pulse would have told her all she needed to know.
It all sounds so familiar, and she is surprised at the feeling that flares inside her chest.
It is not quite jealousy because she is rarely a jealous creature, and what a strange thing to be jealous of regardless. To be jealous that someone else has felt his wrath and his mercy, and she wills that feeling of longing away. She thinks the mark on her hip might sting but also thinks it could just be her imagination.
“He does that sometimes,” and the way she speaks is perhaps not as heavy as it should have been. It is light, almost nonchalant, her nose still tracing paths along his skin, though her mind has now wandered thousands of miles – an entire galaxy – away. “How did it happen?” She asks him, quiet and careful, spoken in such a way it could be taken for concern (and partially, it is), and not the desperate curiosity that it truly was.
It was just another strange way the wires of her mind had been crossed, another example of how the world twisted and molded her into this peculiar mix of dark and light and chaos.
She settles against him then, shifting her delicate wings and resting her nose again on his shoulder with the relaxed confidence of someone that paid no mind to the idea of strangers and caution. She is brazen in a way that is muted by her angelic appearance and the ethereal radiance of her glow, a boldness that hides behind softness and light. Always the contradiction, with the halo above her head and the mapping of scars that etch a thousand stories across her body.
A thousand stories, a thousand times that anything light about her was twisted into something else entirely.
His injuries did not spark the same memory as touching Echis’s had, but there is still something in the way he speaks. The way he forms the words, so careful like he thinks someone – someone besides her – will hear them. She recognizes that caution, and thinks she can taste the remnants of confusion and fear that linger across his tongue. She knows it all too well, and even if she had not recognized it immediately, the unbidden quickening of her pulse would have told her all she needed to know.
It all sounds so familiar, and she is surprised at the feeling that flares inside her chest.
It is not quite jealousy because she is rarely a jealous creature, and what a strange thing to be jealous of regardless. To be jealous that someone else has felt his wrath and his mercy, and she wills that feeling of longing away. She thinks the mark on her hip might sting but also thinks it could just be her imagination.
“He does that sometimes,” and the way she speaks is perhaps not as heavy as it should have been. It is light, almost nonchalant, her nose still tracing paths along his skin, though her mind has now wandered thousands of miles – an entire galaxy – away. “How did it happen?” She asks him, quiet and careful, spoken in such a way it could be taken for concern (and partially, it is), and not the desperate curiosity that it truly was.
R y A t A h
and you can aim for my heart, go for blood
but you would still miss me in your bones
but you would still miss me in your bones
@[Svedka]