[ She curls around her, about her. Her hair brushing against Ahsoka's cheek where she's drawn it up. Ahsoka's fingers around her to hold herself steady - she knows, it's hard. It's so hard to have affection when there's a lifetime of denial to consider. How much it hurts, not the misery, but the kindness, the sweetness, the brush that others take for granted. Feels it echoed back in the sweet drink-fuelled haze of her mind. Lets her linger softly and contently against her cheek until Ahsoka pulls away from her. A note in her mind that is: formless, it does not have words, it is only intention that in that one second, hums through her whole body and presses back into Ahsoka.
They're here, they're here, they're here and no one could take this from them.
Because it is such a want, to be touched, even just slightly. To feel that shiver of life from another person and have it -- all to yourself. Living, she hums, living is these sort of moments. Right in its transience, she was a siren, nothing but movement, both here and there, dying to be reborn and for this one second the drink makes clear to her: Ahsoka is her whole world.
But the real core of it, always, she knows, is choice. In the keen absence she'd always had. The fear is nothing but normal. The shudder of it that always curled in her limbs when Ilde had whispered it to her. ]
There's nothing to be sorry for. There never has to be anything else but this.
[ She holds her wrist still, as still as she can. Letting the blue set against her skin, complimenting to the veins of her skin where she is pale. ]
no subject
They're here, they're here, they're here and no one could take this from them.
Because it is such a want, to be touched, even just slightly. To feel that shiver of life from another person and have it -- all to yourself. Living, she hums, living is these sort of moments. Right in its transience, she was a siren, nothing but movement, both here and there, dying to be reborn and for this one second the drink makes clear to her: Ahsoka is her whole world.
But the real core of it, always, she knows, is choice. In the keen absence she'd always had. The fear is nothing but normal. The shudder of it that always curled in her limbs when Ilde had whispered it to her. ]
There's nothing to be sorry for. There never has to be anything else but this.
[ She holds her wrist still, as still as she can. Letting the blue set against her skin, complimenting to the veins of her skin where she is pale. ]