07-10-2023, 10:15 PM
it's a mystery to me
we have a greed with which we have agreed. you think you have to want more than you need; until you have it all you won't be free. and when you think more than you want, your thoughts begin to bleed.
Her stomach drops when he flashes that characteristic smile. Perhaps in the days after her (first) death, when she was tall, ebony, and confused, his smile would’ve made fear drop icy-cold in her belly. Wishbone won’t deny that she was genuinely afraid in the days after her death. Ivar had taken her fearlessness along with her life, yet she had regained it quickly. Her bravery would never melt so suddenly again, even in the face of a Curse that left her dead when she refused to say any word on Sickle and Malik.
Maybe it is her fortitude that makes her stomach drop now. She doesn’t feel the coldness of fear, but a warmth that builds deep down. It spreads and burns stronger as his eyes catch on the glowing outline of her scar, cutting deep and jagged across her chest. Ivar would be right to assume it means she is unkillable, though it isn’t the whole truth. Wishbone does die — at least for a few painful, splintering moments. She can’t deny that it’s an uncomfortable process, but it beats the hell out of dying and staying dead.
He moves closer, smelling of saltwater and manly musk and the faintest hint of blood. Wishbone’s life with the kelpie feels so far away, yet the smell and sight of him act as vessels to transport her to the past. It has a cascading effect, and even as Ivar is talking, the pangare mare finds herself thinking about the twins she has failed (both sets of them), the kingdoms she has failed... and maybe Ivar eating her alive will numb the guilt that acts the same.
Their eyes meet. Although his gaze seems to lack recognition, Wishbone feels the burn deepen. She feels like she is playing hide-and-seek with the truth. She is keeping a secret now, and she doesn’t want to give it up yet. Her eyes have never been much good at gatekeeping, and thus their expression is one of mystery and a flash of amusement. They might show more humor if she knew how her voice sounds to his ears, raspy from ocean waves filling her lungs by his command.
“You strike me as someone who could even work with ‘disgusted.’” Ivar’s touch is surprisingly gentle. She closes her eyes against the sensation for a brief moment, tipping her chin up slightly. Her long, dark purple locks fall back against her broad neck, revealing the smooth curve of her throat just inches from his mouth. Although he might not remember her, Wishbone hasn’t forgotten him — or the behaviors that might tease him.
Maybe it is her fortitude that makes her stomach drop now. She doesn’t feel the coldness of fear, but a warmth that builds deep down. It spreads and burns stronger as his eyes catch on the glowing outline of her scar, cutting deep and jagged across her chest. Ivar would be right to assume it means she is unkillable, though it isn’t the whole truth. Wishbone does die — at least for a few painful, splintering moments. She can’t deny that it’s an uncomfortable process, but it beats the hell out of dying and staying dead.
He moves closer, smelling of saltwater and manly musk and the faintest hint of blood. Wishbone’s life with the kelpie feels so far away, yet the smell and sight of him act as vessels to transport her to the past. It has a cascading effect, and even as Ivar is talking, the pangare mare finds herself thinking about the twins she has failed (both sets of them), the kingdoms she has failed... and maybe Ivar eating her alive will numb the guilt that acts the same.
Their eyes meet. Although his gaze seems to lack recognition, Wishbone feels the burn deepen. She feels like she is playing hide-and-seek with the truth. She is keeping a secret now, and she doesn’t want to give it up yet. Her eyes have never been much good at gatekeeping, and thus their expression is one of mystery and a flash of amusement. They might show more humor if she knew how her voice sounds to his ears, raspy from ocean waves filling her lungs by his command.
“You strike me as someone who could even work with ‘disgusted.’” Ivar’s touch is surprisingly gentle. She closes her eyes against the sensation for a brief moment, tipping her chin up slightly. Her long, dark purple locks fall back against her broad neck, revealing the smooth curve of her throat just inches from his mouth. Although he might not remember her, Wishbone hasn’t forgotten him — or the behaviors that might tease him.
@Ivar