05-16-2018, 05:46 AM
the secret of our world is written in the stars
Though she smiles, though her voice is gentle and meek, there is great sorrow simpering beneath the surface of her eyes. She bears it gracefully (for him, at least), but he can see that the turmoil still loosely coils around her vocal cords, heavy in her throat and mind. He wonders how long this will plague her, a darkened and terrible memory sitting like a dense shadow in her beautiful mind. Svedka wishes above all else he could take it from her, wear the burden across his own back and carry it for her so that the pain is his, the memory is his.
The velveteen of her pure white mouth grooms him tenderly, touching his pallid gold and alabaster skin with mindlessness. It must comfort her, in some way, to pull at the tangled mess of his ivory and blue mane, ignoring the bitter pain that is lodged and hidden so deeply within her. He allows her this normalcy, this mundane activity between two friends (very intimate friends, sharing both closeness and tragedy), and begins to pick the flawless white of her mane with his own teeth, soft huffs of warm breath pulsing against her withers.
“Whatever you carry, I carry,” he murmurs into her skin with the semblance of a smile in his baritone voice, “you won’t have to carry it alone, Ilma. Your child will not be alone.” The last phrase he says with finality, brushing the side of his face against her shoulder before beginning to lip and groom her once again. Nothing has been fixed or suddenly wiped away as if it had never happened, but there is comfort that radiates now - warm and palpable in the frigid air - and that was enough for him, for now. Svedka snorts softly, curiously, and then casually asks:
“When was the last time you slept?”
The velveteen of her pure white mouth grooms him tenderly, touching his pallid gold and alabaster skin with mindlessness. It must comfort her, in some way, to pull at the tangled mess of his ivory and blue mane, ignoring the bitter pain that is lodged and hidden so deeply within her. He allows her this normalcy, this mundane activity between two friends (very intimate friends, sharing both closeness and tragedy), and begins to pick the flawless white of her mane with his own teeth, soft huffs of warm breath pulsing against her withers.
“Whatever you carry, I carry,” he murmurs into her skin with the semblance of a smile in his baritone voice, “you won’t have to carry it alone, Ilma. Your child will not be alone.” The last phrase he says with finality, brushing the side of his face against her shoulder before beginning to lip and groom her once again. Nothing has been fixed or suddenly wiped away as if it had never happened, but there is comfort that radiates now - warm and palpable in the frigid air - and that was enough for him, for now. Svedka snorts softly, curiously, and then casually asks:
“When was the last time you slept?”
(be my escape)
Svedka
@[Ilma]