[ It's perhaps not great words of wisdom, but the truth of that is that Angel would have a hard time accepting half of what she was told. Her choice was self-destruction, her choice was dark oblivion, why this is at any length difficult to understand how others spoke when they didn't know what it was to only have nightmares being interchangeable with comfort.
Ilde does, for all she might not say it, and it might not come up so directly, but she suspects it's why she can lay here in her own nothingness with Ilde so comfortably. With everyone else, there's a need to make it up, but with her -- there is just them. Other people's delusion and the imprint it's left on them in return -- and to that end, when Ilde brushes her fingers against her cheek, Angel's eyes close and her free hand reaches up, to still it there against her face. Turning into it ever so slightly, the flutter of eyelashes and the brush from the corner of her mouth against the edge of her palm, her fingers laced over and across with no pressure other than the softness of what she had asked to start with, for her to stay.
If Ilde is a gardener, then Angel suspects this must be how it feel to be one of her flowers. ]
(... Alright.)
[ Trust, she realises, has many forms, and even if it is not -- some speech Roland might give, it's what she needs, the confirmation that they have time now. She can be more now, she can with it, find things to fill up this space. With seconds, moments, like this. Her appreciation, gratefulness, is open. ]
[ Her pulse quickens, an unfamiliar burn of heat across her collarbones. She does not understand this vulnerability, this tenderness. The only experience she has of such things is her Godking, and even at his most tender he scorched everyone around him, she has little burn marks on her skin from where he had been gentle.
The sensation, skin prickling, is almost like fear. Almost like that fevered sickness when her symbiote ability activates itself... but ever so subtly different. Giddy, half-hysterical. It makes her a little dizzy, uncertain whether to pull her hand away or to leave it in place where at least the physical contact was grounding in the swirl of terror and delight.
She blinks, forcing herself to shake it off enough to think although the prickling under her ribs remains. ]
Try to rest. I will be here when you wake up.
[ She manages to speak it, despite the subtle breathlessness. ]
[ She shifts this time, and it's not the cloying grip, the need to hold onto something because she wasn't sure she could remember how to move herself under her own will. This was to hold, this was to be close, because Ilde was there, offering things most people couldn't understand the weight of.
Rather she feeds off that giddiness, lets it give her the courage to move closer. No more experienced than Ilde is about what it means. A short sharp inhalation as she presses them together again. Just as messy, but with more intent on being close. A twist of limbs, a mess of hair, the clumsy brush of her nose against Ilde's cheek, the press of her fingers against her hip. She has no learning on how to be intimiate, just a galaxy full of observation that she tries to apply to mixed effect. A second to get comfortable like that, another to find her stillness where she might giggle or cry again and to let her eyes close with it.
Sleeping again is still strange, she hasn't gotten used to the fitfullness of dreaming again. The drift into it no longer comes natural. But for once -- it's less so. For once she's lulled into the quiet, and yes in dreaming it's thing she never remembers the details of, ancient buildings and forgotten star systems and things hidden by time as much as space - but she doesn't care then. Rather it's a second where she has her eyes lowered, taking in rise and fall of Ilde's own breathing and then afterwards its an absence she finds not awful. To sift down like moving through water, not drowning this time, just wading into the comfortable warmth and depth before she sinks away. That oddness to sleeping -- alive without being aware, a laxness and and an evenness to her breath when finally she's asleep, resting against Ilde -- no more and no less than that. ]
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circumspector) wrote2016-03-14 03:55 pm
no one look at me
Ilde does, for all she might not say it, and it might not come up so directly, but she suspects it's why she can lay here in her own nothingness with Ilde so comfortably. With everyone else, there's a need to make it up, but with her -- there is just them. Other people's delusion and the imprint it's left on them in return -- and to that end, when Ilde brushes her fingers against her cheek, Angel's eyes close and her free hand reaches up, to still it there against her face. Turning into it ever so slightly, the flutter of eyelashes and the brush from the corner of her mouth against the edge of her palm, her fingers laced over and across with no pressure other than the softness of what she had asked to start with, for her to stay.
If Ilde is a gardener, then Angel suspects this must be how it feel to be one of her flowers. ]
( ... Alright. )
[ Trust, she realises, has many forms, and even if it is not -- some speech Roland might give, it's what she needs, the confirmation that they have time now. She can be more now, she can with it, find things to fill up this space. With seconds, moments, like this. Her appreciation, gratefulness, is open. ]
looking into your eyes so deeply
The sensation, skin prickling, is almost like fear. Almost like that fevered sickness when her symbiote ability activates itself... but ever so subtly different. Giddy, half-hysterical. It makes her a little dizzy, uncertain whether to pull her hand away or to leave it in place where at least the physical contact was grounding in the swirl of terror and delight.
She blinks, forcing herself to shake it off enough to think although the prickling under her ribs remains. ]
Try to rest. I will be here when you wake up.
[ She manages to speak it, despite the subtle breathlessness. ]
no subject
Rather she feeds off that giddiness, lets it give her the courage to move closer. No more experienced than Ilde is about what it means. A short sharp inhalation as she presses them together again. Just as messy, but with more intent on being close. A twist of limbs, a mess of hair, the clumsy brush of her nose against Ilde's cheek, the press of her fingers against her hip. She has no learning on how to be intimiate, just a galaxy full of observation that she tries to apply to mixed effect. A second to get comfortable like that, another to find her stillness where she might giggle or cry again and to let her eyes close with it.
Sleeping again is still strange, she hasn't gotten used to the fitfullness of dreaming again. The drift into it no longer comes natural. But for once -- it's less so. For once she's lulled into the quiet, and yes in dreaming it's thing she never remembers the details of, ancient buildings and forgotten star systems and things hidden by time as much as space - but she doesn't care then. Rather it's a second where she has her eyes lowered, taking in rise and fall of Ilde's own breathing and then afterwards its an absence she finds not awful. To sift down like moving through water, not drowning this time, just wading into the comfortable warmth and depth before she sinks away. That oddness to sleeping -- alive without being aware, a laxness and and an evenness to her breath when finally she's asleep, resting against Ilde -- no more and no less than that. ]