ISKRA
I always feel alone, inside my mind
How do I love my scars when I'm traumatized
How do I love my scars when I'm traumatized
The snicker of his response comes out between the pockets of his answering grin. "It'd take more than some shit to get rid of me." Though it's a joke, something that's snowballed into an absurd image and hypothetical, it's utterly true too. He holds the look of her as he says it, bright gaze unwavering as it gleams past snow and impossibility. The notion of just giving her up to the plight is one he could never consider, not even for pretend.
Wound close for educational purposes only and not because he's drawn to her proximity, each inhale pulls in a bit of her sweet smell. Something reminiscent of honey, salted by the sea and her frustrations, but rich with something more. Despite the layers, where some contact is born as his hand moves with hers, it's more than fire magic warming him now. "Just like that," he encourages, voice kept low with the distance so little between them, laughter brushing itself into her hair at her biting remarks for what'll be released.
Her next few passes don't convert the ice back into complete liquid, but instead preserve the frost crystals, slipping away portions in controlled amounts to start to give an idea among the frosty surface. "That's it!" Delighted to see the success, however minor. "Now just do that like 500 more times with breaks in between to keep the ice cold and you'll have a section of an ice sculpture!" The reality of carving is the slow and steady process, and how mistakes can't be undone, only built around. "We could also try with knives and axes. Might chip away at it faster, then use the fire for polish and detail." He shrugs, because while he whittles, it's with wood and pocket knife at home, less so these grand designs of ice.
Wound close for educational purposes only and not because he's drawn to her proximity, each inhale pulls in a bit of her sweet smell. Something reminiscent of honey, salted by the sea and her frustrations, but rich with something more. Despite the layers, where some contact is born as his hand moves with hers, it's more than fire magic warming him now. "Just like that," he encourages, voice kept low with the distance so little between them, laughter brushing itself into her hair at her biting remarks for what'll be released.
Her next few passes don't convert the ice back into complete liquid, but instead preserve the frost crystals, slipping away portions in controlled amounts to start to give an idea among the frosty surface. "That's it!" Delighted to see the success, however minor. "Now just do that like 500 more times with breaks in between to keep the ice cold and you'll have a section of an ice sculpture!" The reality of carving is the slow and steady process, and how mistakes can't be undone, only built around. "We could also try with knives and axes. Might chip away at it faster, then use the fire for polish and detail." He shrugs, because while he whittles, it's with wood and pocket knife at home, less so these grand designs of ice.
I've been trying to find something
that can set my soul free
that can set my soul free
