05-22-2015, 11:14 AM
My poor Sinder, though the vines around your blackened heart are shrivelled and dead, you forget that when the Spring returns, new life comes. Vulnerable though you may be and may not admit to be, Noori does not take pleasure in the recapturing of your most vital organ, the one which beats slowly, a stone in all rights. The Goddess has never felt pleased with her accomplishments. Three suitors had never been her dream as a small girl, growing alongside Kaida, nestled against her twin as the wrath of their mother burned through their tough skin until nothing but bones remained.
Perhaps that is why she now wears her alabaster armour.
He comes to her hardened, resentful, silent. The fruit - her fruit - curl towards him, grow moister as he nears, swell with infatuation (but never love, oh no). His red-and-white coat conceals all that Noori once knew intimately; yet for all his secrecy, all his silence, Noori perhaps knows Sinder better than all others. Smolder has not been seen in years, and their parents are nonexistent. Despite their estrangement, Noori understands the stallion intimately. Perhaps it comes with their child, this inner-sight.
Her exhale sounds like the last leaf falling from the mother tree.
Her inhale reminds you that Spring always comes back.
The shadow of his face conceals his emotions; Noori simply must change the angle. Like a brook running into a creek and finally to the river, Noori approaches him slowly. Memories replay in her mind (oh, how fragile had the sun-speckled redhead been, entranced by the vacancy of his being, enthralled by the way his lips felt like dripping blood as he tasted her). Their dynamic changes with the waning and waxing of the moon (had he not forced himself on her, had he not tasted the wrath of Mother Spring, had he not wrought destruction in her life by beginning a new one). And yet in this way, they are steady. For the moon comes just as the Spring does. The cycle continues, on and on and and on.
I'm so sorry.
The words are pressed into the dip between his shoulder and neck, the hollow where words feel like kisses. She does not speak them; does not break the silence which stands between them, holding them apart and together all at once.
I... Still want you.
He tastes like agony and sex, like resent and love. The words she'd almost said fall from her eyes in the shape of a single tear, one rolling down each side of her face. Her lips close around his skin, a careful kiss, an erotic reminder of how their closeness had once been their drive, their fire. She holds the position for a moment, white bark digging into his fragile skin, Goddess caressing the mortal. Oh, how sin tastes glorious.
They part like the eagle from the cliffside, all too quickly. Her cheeks have dried, though her eyes glow almost too brightly. The fruits around them have stilled, as though the scene before them has frozen their magic. Beneath Sinder's hooves, Nightlock begins growing, the small plant's berries a deadly metaphor for what they have made between themselves.
Perhaps this will speak more than words ever have.
Perhaps that is why she now wears her alabaster armour.
He comes to her hardened, resentful, silent. The fruit - her fruit - curl towards him, grow moister as he nears, swell with infatuation (but never love, oh no). His red-and-white coat conceals all that Noori once knew intimately; yet for all his secrecy, all his silence, Noori perhaps knows Sinder better than all others. Smolder has not been seen in years, and their parents are nonexistent. Despite their estrangement, Noori understands the stallion intimately. Perhaps it comes with their child, this inner-sight.
Her exhale sounds like the last leaf falling from the mother tree.
Her inhale reminds you that Spring always comes back.
The shadow of his face conceals his emotions; Noori simply must change the angle. Like a brook running into a creek and finally to the river, Noori approaches him slowly. Memories replay in her mind (oh, how fragile had the sun-speckled redhead been, entranced by the vacancy of his being, enthralled by the way his lips felt like dripping blood as he tasted her). Their dynamic changes with the waning and waxing of the moon (had he not forced himself on her, had he not tasted the wrath of Mother Spring, had he not wrought destruction in her life by beginning a new one). And yet in this way, they are steady. For the moon comes just as the Spring does. The cycle continues, on and on and and on.
I'm so sorry.
The words are pressed into the dip between his shoulder and neck, the hollow where words feel like kisses. She does not speak them; does not break the silence which stands between them, holding them apart and together all at once.
I... Still want you.
He tastes like agony and sex, like resent and love. The words she'd almost said fall from her eyes in the shape of a single tear, one rolling down each side of her face. Her lips close around his skin, a careful kiss, an erotic reminder of how their closeness had once been their drive, their fire. She holds the position for a moment, white bark digging into his fragile skin, Goddess caressing the mortal. Oh, how sin tastes glorious.
They part like the eagle from the cliffside, all too quickly. Her cheeks have dried, though her eyes glow almost too brightly. The fruits around them have stilled, as though the scene before them has frozen their magic. Beneath Sinder's hooves, Nightlock begins growing, the small plant's berries a deadly metaphor for what they have made between themselves.
Perhaps this will speak more than words ever have.