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[ unmoored had been an understatement, in hindsight. his ruminating leaves her drowning in uncertainty, submerged in tension, for all that she understands his weighted pause. a once-caged creature will always be apprehensive of catching itself in another snare, after all. to be tethered to another so willingly, to make a choice that is neither influenced by their former jailers or the outside influence currently squirming around in their skull —
it's no easy decision, no easy task to navigate their uncharted freedoms, no easy challenge to trust himself not to fall into the maw of the same traps. a wave of remorse threatens to ripple through her in a surging tide, the longer the empty air between them stretches on, the longer it allows her too much room to reflect on his origins. the last hand that had stretched toward him, that had promised a choice, had been the same hand used to subjugate him, to hand him the length of rope needed to hang himself by.
and yet here she stands, asking for what must be nearly impossible.
her pulse shuffles restlessly, ricocheting around in her chest. there's something to be said for the small brush of a relieved exhale against his artery, once his answer carries itself to her on the wings of that whisper. it's a sort of power over her she hadn't anticipated, nor planned for — that innate ability to leave her drifting, or anchor her back into herself, into a moment, with just the magic of a word. which, she supposes, equalizes the scales between them, their trust balanced in one another's hands. ]
When I dream of what that path must look like, it's as blurry as the past. But once the future is clear to me, you'll be the first to know.
[ it's a wistful little confession, as tinged by warmth as such a vow is. it must, she thinks, appear the same to the rest of them — their futures indistinct silhouettes in the distance, the lives they had once envisioned for themselves slipping away for better (herself) and for worse (astarion).
she shifts upward, noses her way into his cheek. the heat of her breath lingers there, sparing her the embarrassment of such an invitation, and the (however slim she believes it to be, now) potential for rejection, when she continues in a hinting murmur, ]
I've heard there are methods of sealing such important promises.
[ sealed with a kiss is a expression for a reason. still, there's nothing quite expectant about it — just an anticipatory offer of interest, a little less confidence in herself. a funny thing, she knows, in clashing contrast to every filthy promise she'd made. ]
it's no easy decision, no easy task to navigate their uncharted freedoms, no easy challenge to trust himself not to fall into the maw of the same traps. a wave of remorse threatens to ripple through her in a surging tide, the longer the empty air between them stretches on, the longer it allows her too much room to reflect on his origins. the last hand that had stretched toward him, that had promised a choice, had been the same hand used to subjugate him, to hand him the length of rope needed to hang himself by.
and yet here she stands, asking for what must be nearly impossible.
her pulse shuffles restlessly, ricocheting around in her chest. there's something to be said for the small brush of a relieved exhale against his artery, once his answer carries itself to her on the wings of that whisper. it's a sort of power over her she hadn't anticipated, nor planned for — that innate ability to leave her drifting, or anchor her back into herself, into a moment, with just the magic of a word. which, she supposes, equalizes the scales between them, their trust balanced in one another's hands. ]
When I dream of what that path must look like, it's as blurry as the past. But once the future is clear to me, you'll be the first to know.
[ it's a wistful little confession, as tinged by warmth as such a vow is. it must, she thinks, appear the same to the rest of them — their futures indistinct silhouettes in the distance, the lives they had once envisioned for themselves slipping away for better (herself) and for worse (astarion).
she shifts upward, noses her way into his cheek. the heat of her breath lingers there, sparing her the embarrassment of such an invitation, and the (however slim she believes it to be, now) potential for rejection, when she continues in a hinting murmur, ]
I've heard there are methods of sealing such important promises.
[ sealed with a kiss is a expression for a reason. still, there's nothing quite expectant about it — just an anticipatory offer of interest, a little less confidence in herself. a funny thing, she knows, in clashing contrast to every filthy promise she'd made. ]
[ Softly, ]
It's your turn, Astarion.
[ The campfire crackles. Her feet are light, shadow hovering at the edge of his tent. A larger, bolder shadow pushes just-a-step further: the bottom-half of a long, grey maw, and a rounded black nose, dares to part the flaps that seal the entrance shut. Manners, Bosky, comes the low reprimand, and the dire wolf retreats with a displeased whine. Shadowheart's luck, that Bosky's taken such a liking to sniffing and rifling and just being near Astarion's things.
Tav apologizes, of course. She knows that he likes things — his things, particularly — just as they are, without any wolf-shed. But Bosky is still an animal companion, not a fey-spirit familiar, and he has a willy little mind of his own, however stubborn it is.
Slender fingers hook into the scruff of the wolf's neck to stop any more advances. Tav hates waking any of them from rest, sleep or trance, but they have a long day tomorrow, traveling towards Rivington. Survival's the name of the game, and after one Githyanki ambush too many, everyone takes watch.
And so.
Again, quietly, ]
Astarion?
[ Maybe he's more tired than usual. Or he's gone hunting. She could go for a few more hours yet, if necessary. Maybe she should try Karlach next? ]
It's your turn, Astarion.
[ The campfire crackles. Her feet are light, shadow hovering at the edge of his tent. A larger, bolder shadow pushes just-a-step further: the bottom-half of a long, grey maw, and a rounded black nose, dares to part the flaps that seal the entrance shut. Manners, Bosky, comes the low reprimand, and the dire wolf retreats with a displeased whine. Shadowheart's luck, that Bosky's taken such a liking to sniffing and rifling and just being near Astarion's things.
Tav apologizes, of course. She knows that he likes things — his things, particularly — just as they are, without any wolf-shed. But Bosky is still an animal companion, not a fey-spirit familiar, and he has a willy little mind of his own, however stubborn it is.
Slender fingers hook into the scruff of the wolf's neck to stop any more advances. Tav hates waking any of them from rest, sleep or trance, but they have a long day tomorrow, traveling towards Rivington. Survival's the name of the game, and after one Githyanki ambush too many, everyone takes watch.
And so.
Again, quietly, ]
Astarion?
[ Maybe he's more tired than usual. Or he's gone hunting. She could go for a few more hours yet, if necessary. Maybe she should try Karlach next? ]
[ A contrast, perhaps, but one he finds charming β comforting, even. After all, it's a contrast, too, against his own lurid words as well, his apparently inherent overt sexuality replaced by something more timid, more at ease in these early stages of intimacy. (He wonders if that's a disappointment to her, but the thought is there and then gone within the space of a breath, considering the way their little lakeside picnic has played out thus far.)
It's a blessing, he thinks, that they're both still figuring out the shape of affection, having been bereft of it (been averse to it, even) until recent days. Want, before, had been so inextricably tied to sex, to lust, to something transactional and chalked up only to beauty and charm rather than anything deeper. He'd grown to hate it, almost β he doesn't have to articulate that to her, but he wouldn't really know how to, either, not without the caveat that he does feel desire, that his pulse jumps when he thinks of her. It feels too simplistic to say that it depends solely on whether he cares for the other person involved, but at the same timeβ it does seem to weigh heavily on that factor alone.
Now, for instance, there's no hesitation as he turns his face to her, so close that their noses touch. He pauses again, though the smile (sweet, rather than sly) that crosses his face, the wrinkles that form at the corners of his eyes, leave much less to the imagination as to how he'll respond. ]
Is that so? [ he muses, the tease clear in the tone of his voice. ] And what ever could they be, I wonder ...
[ He closes the sliver of distance left between them almost as soon as the words have left his mouth. The kiss is gentle, cautious despite the invitation, the press of his lips soft even as his arm pulls her closer to him, his other hand finding the dip of her waist. (Care, despite everything that's taught them such a thing would be a punishable offense.)
It's true that their futures still feel foggy β each of them has some crystal clear aim, but an aim so all-consuming that any life beyond that is practically an afterthought. But he does think of it now, at least, of something beyond (free of) the shadows of his past. Something hopeful, as naive as that sounds, so long as she's a part of it. ]
It's a blessing, he thinks, that they're both still figuring out the shape of affection, having been bereft of it (been averse to it, even) until recent days. Want, before, had been so inextricably tied to sex, to lust, to something transactional and chalked up only to beauty and charm rather than anything deeper. He'd grown to hate it, almost β he doesn't have to articulate that to her, but he wouldn't really know how to, either, not without the caveat that he does feel desire, that his pulse jumps when he thinks of her. It feels too simplistic to say that it depends solely on whether he cares for the other person involved, but at the same timeβ it does seem to weigh heavily on that factor alone.
Now, for instance, there's no hesitation as he turns his face to her, so close that their noses touch. He pauses again, though the smile (sweet, rather than sly) that crosses his face, the wrinkles that form at the corners of his eyes, leave much less to the imagination as to how he'll respond. ]
Is that so? [ he muses, the tease clear in the tone of his voice. ] And what ever could they be, I wonder ...
[ He closes the sliver of distance left between them almost as soon as the words have left his mouth. The kiss is gentle, cautious despite the invitation, the press of his lips soft even as his arm pulls her closer to him, his other hand finding the dip of her waist. (Care, despite everything that's taught them such a thing would be a punishable offense.)
It's true that their futures still feel foggy β each of them has some crystal clear aim, but an aim so all-consuming that any life beyond that is practically an afterthought. But he does think of it now, at least, of something beyond (free of) the shadows of his past. Something hopeful, as naive as that sounds, so long as she's a part of it. ]
[ He doesn't know what it is that's made the dire wolf so interested in him, beyond perhaps some innate ability to sense who among their party desires its company the least. Bosky's presence had also put a damper on any attempt Astarion might have made to nibble on anyone at camp during the night, attentive as he is. Risking the beast's ire had seemed too high a cost to pay for the sake of an easy mark.
(If he's being honest, it's not so much that he minds Bosky's presence or interest than the fact that being even partially responsible for the wellbeing of any creature, great or small, strikes him both as a great worry and a tremendous annoyance.)
One more beat passes before the flaps of his tent part, and he emerges looking just a little bleary. He's not naturally a particularly heavy sleeper, but they've had a less-than-easy go of it with the Githyanki on their tails. ]
My turn already? [ he hums as he gets to his feet, taking a moment to straighten out his shirt and fix his hair (the rare bit of preening he's done in front of anyone else, rather than appearing already in fine form). ]
I suppose I ought to be grateful to receive such a lonely summons from such a pretty mouth. It does soften the blow.
[ He casts his gaze once around the camp before returning his attention to Tav, and offering a conciliatory hand in Bosky's direction. Best to stay on his good side, after all, as well as Tav's. ]
Nothing creeping about out there, then?
(If he's being honest, it's not so much that he minds Bosky's presence or interest than the fact that being even partially responsible for the wellbeing of any creature, great or small, strikes him both as a great worry and a tremendous annoyance.)
One more beat passes before the flaps of his tent part, and he emerges looking just a little bleary. He's not naturally a particularly heavy sleeper, but they've had a less-than-easy go of it with the Githyanki on their tails. ]
My turn already? [ he hums as he gets to his feet, taking a moment to straighten out his shirt and fix his hair (the rare bit of preening he's done in front of anyone else, rather than appearing already in fine form). ]
I suppose I ought to be grateful to receive such a lonely summons from such a pretty mouth. It does soften the blow.
[ He casts his gaze once around the camp before returning his attention to Tav, and offering a conciliatory hand in Bosky's direction. Best to stay on his good side, after all, as well as Tav's. ]
Nothing creeping about out there, then?
[ it's the ground opening up beneath her, she finds, that she despises most. a purpose, a cause, has given her even-footing; faith has allowed her to read without faltering. bereft of it, she's left with the permanent sense of plummeting toward an unknown, with no guarantee of safe passage nor safe landing.
perhaps such an aversion is precisely what had made him a source of her apprehension, before — before now, before this. astarion had been, stubbornly so, a cryptic book written in an ancient language: difficult to parse, pages stuck together, unable to brute-force her way through. it's a little humorous, she thinks, to be able to interpret him so easily now. the sparkle of his eyes as they crinkle, somehow youthful for all the years he carries. the lilt of his words, teasing. the angle of his face toward her, open.
the small collection of secrets she's gleaned from a man that's gone from unknown to known, before she'd come to realize it. (and a promise of acceptance that eases her shoulders down, that sends her pulse fluttering in an upward spiral.)
anticipation, rather than former wariness, is what locks her breath in her chest. she knows, of course, what's to come next — conceptually speaking, that is, some idea of stolen breath and pillowy mouths, in her faint recollections. she can only remember such experiences as something intangible, now, something more phantomlike than the first press of his mouth to hers. something too that doesn't prepare her, not wholly, for the sighing breath that shakes out of her in response.
(something that fails to compare. perhaps that's the one benefit of memory loss she's found: this chance to reclaim her firsts, redo them as she would have chosen, had she the freedom.)
she seems to pause to hover, for just a moment, meeting his lips with just an overwhelmed spill of hot breath. it's a breed of stillness that basks, like savoring a first bite after weeks of fasting. (that memorizes, that fears the absence of another integral piece plucked from her mind.) it's difficult, not to act hungry after a lifetime of being starved, once she urges herself impossibly closer — but there's a methodical quality to the first swipe of her tongue, indulgent and measured. an unhurried exploration of sorts, a discovery of secrets she can only taste when she licks into his mouth, a palm rising to gingerly cup the contour of his cheek.
he tastes sweeter than she'd imagined, no copper tinge to tingle in her mouth, as she traces the curved point of a fang in unabashed curiosity. ]
perhaps such an aversion is precisely what had made him a source of her apprehension, before — before now, before this. astarion had been, stubbornly so, a cryptic book written in an ancient language: difficult to parse, pages stuck together, unable to brute-force her way through. it's a little humorous, she thinks, to be able to interpret him so easily now. the sparkle of his eyes as they crinkle, somehow youthful for all the years he carries. the lilt of his words, teasing. the angle of his face toward her, open.
the small collection of secrets she's gleaned from a man that's gone from unknown to known, before she'd come to realize it. (and a promise of acceptance that eases her shoulders down, that sends her pulse fluttering in an upward spiral.)
anticipation, rather than former wariness, is what locks her breath in her chest. she knows, of course, what's to come next — conceptually speaking, that is, some idea of stolen breath and pillowy mouths, in her faint recollections. she can only remember such experiences as something intangible, now, something more phantomlike than the first press of his mouth to hers. something too that doesn't prepare her, not wholly, for the sighing breath that shakes out of her in response.
(something that fails to compare. perhaps that's the one benefit of memory loss she's found: this chance to reclaim her firsts, redo them as she would have chosen, had she the freedom.)
she seems to pause to hover, for just a moment, meeting his lips with just an overwhelmed spill of hot breath. it's a breed of stillness that basks, like savoring a first bite after weeks of fasting. (that memorizes, that fears the absence of another integral piece plucked from her mind.) it's difficult, not to act hungry after a lifetime of being starved, once she urges herself impossibly closer — but there's a methodical quality to the first swipe of her tongue, indulgent and measured. an unhurried exploration of sorts, a discovery of secrets she can only taste when she licks into his mouth, a palm rising to gingerly cup the contour of his cheek.
he tastes sweeter than she'd imagined, no copper tinge to tingle in her mouth, as she traces the curved point of a fang in unabashed curiosity. ]
Edited 2023-10-07 22:40 (UTC)
[ Bosky leaps at the invitation, butting his forehead into the slack of Astarion's fingers — there's no crumb of affection the beast turns away when it's offered, though he has, at least, gotten better at chewing on fingers. (At almost hip-height, nobody had thought the habit particularly reassuring. Save, of course, Laezel.)
Tav smiles. Patient, less and less pink than she'd been in the beginning, when she'd thought Astarion beautiful but strange, like the last bird of its kind. A sweet song, but hard to understand — made for someone, but not her. She follows his line of sight for a moment, taking another cursory glance around. Only campfire smoke, the shudder of wind through trees; she cocks her head, as if truly straining to listen. And then, cheeks bunching upwards, ]
Just you, I think.
[ She likes a tidy camp. Everything has its place. The fire flickers, casting soft shadows over a nearby bedroll, a small quiver of arrows; a bowl of wispweed, a stone mortar and pestle, a scent that still lingers under the edge of her nails. Tav hesitates for half-a-step, the way she does when she has something to say, brows twisting into some unnameable, careful expression. ]
Do you need to eat, before?
[ It feels very terrible, and frequently so, that she can't look after his needs well. None of them ask, beyond those moments when past ghosts start to nip at their heels. But she can hardly offer Astarion anything as easily as an apple: an odd book, perhaps, or a shining, pearlescent comb, but nothing sustains as well as Have you eaten?, and considering what he needs to fulfil that question.
She does try to offer, anyway. Twice a week, like clockwork. ]
Tav smiles. Patient, less and less pink than she'd been in the beginning, when she'd thought Astarion beautiful but strange, like the last bird of its kind. A sweet song, but hard to understand — made for someone, but not her. She follows his line of sight for a moment, taking another cursory glance around. Only campfire smoke, the shudder of wind through trees; she cocks her head, as if truly straining to listen. And then, cheeks bunching upwards, ]
Just you, I think.
[ She likes a tidy camp. Everything has its place. The fire flickers, casting soft shadows over a nearby bedroll, a small quiver of arrows; a bowl of wispweed, a stone mortar and pestle, a scent that still lingers under the edge of her nails. Tav hesitates for half-a-step, the way she does when she has something to say, brows twisting into some unnameable, careful expression. ]
Do you need to eat, before?
[ It feels very terrible, and frequently so, that she can't look after his needs well. None of them ask, beyond those moments when past ghosts start to nip at their heels. But she can hardly offer Astarion anything as easily as an apple: an odd book, perhaps, or a shining, pearlescent comb, but nothing sustains as well as Have you eaten?, and considering what he needs to fulfil that question.
She does try to offer, anyway. Twice a week, like clockwork. ]
[ Only a short time ago, all of this had been unthinkable. To lie in the warmth of the sun, embracing someone for whom he feels genuine care (and who cares for him in return), caught up in a kiss that doesn't spark any feelings of self-loathing or disgust within him. There's a part of him that feels like he's a step apart β still thinking about it a little too much β but he expects she's in much the same boat. And that's a boon more than anything else; they'd promised each other a hand to hold in the days to come, and part of that includes feeling these sorts of things out together.
It feels like they've done things in reverse, to a certain extent, but, he thinks, it was for the best, establishing at least the faint outline of mutual want before going further, getting the kinds of pretenses they might otherwise be putting on now out of their systems. It's not like him to be sweet β or at least, he works his hardest to ensure nobody would ever say so β but it's what he defaults to, given the latitude. The press of his arms his gentle, firm enough to keep her held to him, but not so tight that she couldn't easily back away if she wanted to.
That said, it pleases him that she doesn't, that she in fact draws even closer. In turn, he leans into her touch (again, permission, a sign that it hasn't escaped his notice that every move she makes is tentative, an ask, a gap left for him to fill or back away from, should he feel at all uncomfortable with it), a sigh escaping him as well β smoothing out the slope of his shoulders and any tension therein β as he kisses her in return.
He laughs β really nothing more than a low hum caught in his throat β as she finds his fangs, charmed more than anything else, at least if the fact that he doesn't break away from her is any indication. There's a somewhat canned response that comes to mind (if I'd known you were so curious, I'd have kissed you sooner), but it's gone from his mind just as quickly as it manifests. It's true, but he knows it wouldn't have felt the same, wouldn't have had the same effect; they've only just found their footing. ]
There, [ he says instead, the first time their lips part. ] I think that's our promise sealed.
[ The line of his mouth curves into a smile β they're still so close that he can feel her breath on his skin, the tip of his nose brushing against hers. ]
Though, perhaps we ought to try it again β just to be certain.
It feels like they've done things in reverse, to a certain extent, but, he thinks, it was for the best, establishing at least the faint outline of mutual want before going further, getting the kinds of pretenses they might otherwise be putting on now out of their systems. It's not like him to be sweet β or at least, he works his hardest to ensure nobody would ever say so β but it's what he defaults to, given the latitude. The press of his arms his gentle, firm enough to keep her held to him, but not so tight that she couldn't easily back away if she wanted to.
That said, it pleases him that she doesn't, that she in fact draws even closer. In turn, he leans into her touch (again, permission, a sign that it hasn't escaped his notice that every move she makes is tentative, an ask, a gap left for him to fill or back away from, should he feel at all uncomfortable with it), a sigh escaping him as well β smoothing out the slope of his shoulders and any tension therein β as he kisses her in return.
He laughs β really nothing more than a low hum caught in his throat β as she finds his fangs, charmed more than anything else, at least if the fact that he doesn't break away from her is any indication. There's a somewhat canned response that comes to mind (if I'd known you were so curious, I'd have kissed you sooner), but it's gone from his mind just as quickly as it manifests. It's true, but he knows it wouldn't have felt the same, wouldn't have had the same effect; they've only just found their footing. ]
There, [ he says instead, the first time their lips part. ] I think that's our promise sealed.
[ The line of his mouth curves into a smile β they're still so close that he can feel her breath on his skin, the tip of his nose brushing against hers. ]
Though, perhaps we ought to try it again β just to be certain.
[ Her first response prompts a sort of scoff, half oh, you and half oh, please, but nothing more explicit given that he can't really argue the point. They'd all cottoned onto him annoyingly quickly, after all.
He looks down at Bosky as the beast pants excitedly, wiggling enough to practically be petting himself. He's still looking at the dire wolf (mostly wondering to himself how the creature changes so drastically in battle, when he doesn't appear much more dangerous in camp than Scratch β save for his former habit of nibbling on proffered fingers) when she asks if he needs to feed. It's a small blessing β he doesn't like being caught off-guard, and the question (at least the way she asks it) somehow always does.
At first, it's an easy yes. She's offered her neck to him willingly; why would he ever say no?
(Less and less pink than she'd been in the beginning. He's noticed, of course. It'sβ almost a shame. The degree to which she's considerate of him, of his needs, is singular. It makes him feel a little sick β that's as close as he can really come to describing the sensation of fondness or the anxiety that a door might be closed that he wants, for better or worse, to be open. But he gets the sense that her song is meant for someone else, too.)
And so, after a moment of thought, he waves a hand in dismissal, the gesture accompanied by a roll of his eyes. ]
I couldn't possibly, little duck. Not when you look so pale already.
[ A beat. Thank you for asking hangs on his tongue. Instead: ]
βWho should I wake, after? Is it the wizard's turn, next?
He looks down at Bosky as the beast pants excitedly, wiggling enough to practically be petting himself. He's still looking at the dire wolf (mostly wondering to himself how the creature changes so drastically in battle, when he doesn't appear much more dangerous in camp than Scratch β save for his former habit of nibbling on proffered fingers) when she asks if he needs to feed. It's a small blessing β he doesn't like being caught off-guard, and the question (at least the way she asks it) somehow always does.
At first, it's an easy yes. She's offered her neck to him willingly; why would he ever say no?
(Less and less pink than she'd been in the beginning. He's noticed, of course. It'sβ almost a shame. The degree to which she's considerate of him, of his needs, is singular. It makes him feel a little sick β that's as close as he can really come to describing the sensation of fondness or the anxiety that a door might be closed that he wants, for better or worse, to be open. But he gets the sense that her song is meant for someone else, too.)
And so, after a moment of thought, he waves a hand in dismissal, the gesture accompanied by a roll of his eyes. ]
I couldn't possibly, little duck. Not when you look so pale already.
[ A beat. Thank you for asking hangs on his tongue. Instead: ]
βWho should I wake, after? Is it the wizard's turn, next?
[ Don't I always look like this? she wants to say, but that gets locked behind her teeth. Grace, in all things, like the beasts and the trees and the green: her own personal creed, really, defined and refined again over time. In another life, perhaps she would have been a druid. Halsin, and even Jaheira, at least seem to think so, but that's such a silly thing to think. No animal escapes what it really is. Something always survives.
Her answer isn't immediate. Instead, Tav crouches down, both hands digging into Bosky's fur. The wolf makes a soft noise, a grumbling sort of half-whine at such a manual accost for his attention. (And away from his very favorite person, too.) She practically presses her face into the soft concave of Bosky's ear, placing a quiet, low instruction. (Go see if—. And the rest, inaudible.) Whatever it is, it makes him bound off into the night, a looming shape venturing beyond the thicket.
Satisfied, Tav straightens. Brushes a little dirt from her palms, tipping her chin into a short nod. ]
Wyll, please. [ A definitive answer, the play decided, though it's not without a small grin. Not shy, exactly, but maybe a little smaller, like the first pass of a secret that she thinks is funny: ] Gale hates it when you wake him so close to sunrise. You're very good at needling him sometimes.
[ (It's one of the very best things, about traveling with this group of people, all their Illithid-shaped dangers aside. That they keep her secrets, and make her laugh, and she's allowed to keep theirs in turn.
What right does she have, to ask for more than that?)
Tav makes as if to move towards the heat of the fire. An open arm in gesture, or maybe more questioning: ]
I'd like to keep you company, until Bosky comes back. [ Another definitive. A pause, and then her expression flickers, suddenly unsure with a, ] If you'd— like.
Her answer isn't immediate. Instead, Tav crouches down, both hands digging into Bosky's fur. The wolf makes a soft noise, a grumbling sort of half-whine at such a manual accost for his attention. (And away from his very favorite person, too.) She practically presses her face into the soft concave of Bosky's ear, placing a quiet, low instruction. (Go see if—. And the rest, inaudible.) Whatever it is, it makes him bound off into the night, a looming shape venturing beyond the thicket.
Satisfied, Tav straightens. Brushes a little dirt from her palms, tipping her chin into a short nod. ]
Wyll, please. [ A definitive answer, the play decided, though it's not without a small grin. Not shy, exactly, but maybe a little smaller, like the first pass of a secret that she thinks is funny: ] Gale hates it when you wake him so close to sunrise. You're very good at needling him sometimes.
[ (It's one of the very best things, about traveling with this group of people, all their Illithid-shaped dangers aside. That they keep her secrets, and make her laugh, and she's allowed to keep theirs in turn.
What right does she have, to ask for more than that?)
Tav makes as if to move towards the heat of the fire. An open arm in gesture, or maybe more questioning: ]
I'd like to keep you company, until Bosky comes back. [ Another definitive. A pause, and then her expression flickers, suddenly unsure with a, ] If you'd— like.
[ it's — nice. that one little word seems such an understatement, deceptively casual; nice is reserved for full-bodied vintages after a long journey, or a breeze caressing gentle fingers over sweat-soaked, blood-slick skin after a battle runs hot. nice fails to encompass the glow dappling her cheeks in the aftermath, as though sun-kissed; nice wouldn't warrant the wistful fog clouding her eyes, that draws them like an arrow point to his mouth. nice is ...
simplistic. but with the tangled knot their paths have become, it's nice for something to feel so uncomplicated. something she doesn't have to pick apart, just to make sense of it.
her fingers brush in feathery strokes over the bladed angle of his jaw, distracted. every facet of him seems designed for predatory danger, alluring in the way of a serpent's shimmering scales, promising beautiful lethality. perhaps she's always harbored a quiet fondness for night's creatures, for nature's less understood creations — or perhaps few know, as she's come to learn, the gift of being chosen by what the world would call a monster.
a sense of security she does not take for granted as she molds her front more solidly into his chest, bumps her forehead to his in an affectionate nudge, as though he's no greater threat to her than a doting housecat. ]
Should we?
[ a raspy tease to match her hovering mouth, skimming like butterfly wings across his own. the fatal flaw of their tightly interwoven group is how they've come to naturally learn one another's scars, their weaknesses, their talents. valuable secrets to wield as a crutch, in hours of need, or as weapons, if the mood were to suit.
astarion's vanity is a harmless thing to tease out and rile, in that grand scheme, but no less known to her. case in point: ]
Perhaps we should. I fear you might need the practice.
[ her vexing little smile imprints itself against his mouth like a warm brand, just before she sinks teeth in, drawing the pillowy swell of his lower lip out with a nipping bite. ]
simplistic. but with the tangled knot their paths have become, it's nice for something to feel so uncomplicated. something she doesn't have to pick apart, just to make sense of it.
her fingers brush in feathery strokes over the bladed angle of his jaw, distracted. every facet of him seems designed for predatory danger, alluring in the way of a serpent's shimmering scales, promising beautiful lethality. perhaps she's always harbored a quiet fondness for night's creatures, for nature's less understood creations — or perhaps few know, as she's come to learn, the gift of being chosen by what the world would call a monster.
a sense of security she does not take for granted as she molds her front more solidly into his chest, bumps her forehead to his in an affectionate nudge, as though he's no greater threat to her than a doting housecat. ]
Should we?
[ a raspy tease to match her hovering mouth, skimming like butterfly wings across his own. the fatal flaw of their tightly interwoven group is how they've come to naturally learn one another's scars, their weaknesses, their talents. valuable secrets to wield as a crutch, in hours of need, or as weapons, if the mood were to suit.
astarion's vanity is a harmless thing to tease out and rile, in that grand scheme, but no less known to her. case in point: ]
Perhaps we should. I fear you might need the practice.
[ her vexing little smile imprints itself against his mouth like a warm brand, just before she sinks teeth in, drawing the pillowy swell of his lower lip out with a nipping bite. ]
Edited (tmw u realize the agony that is accidentally repeating words ) 2023-10-10 00:41 (UTC)
It's hardly my fault he makes it so easy.
[ An easy response to a comment that's delivered lightly enough that he doesn't take it as chiding β not seriously, anyway, if that smile on her face is any indication. As for what followsβ
He's come to know that look well β the look she wears when she's thinking. It's not a mannerism he's really seen often, save on the shy, and she's not really that; it is, quite literally, thoughtfulness, not any anxiety as to what to say next, not in the traditional sense (at least as far as he can sense it, anyway). She doesn't say anything without seeming to think it through, which makes her somewhat unusual in their camp, what with the abundance of hot tempers and general stubbornness.
A slight frown crosses his face as he watches Bosky lope away, natural curiosity as to what she's said buzzing like a mosquito in his pointed ear. The offer to stay up with him until the direwolf returns β which a part of him strongly suspects won't be until his shift, as it were, is over β is another consideration that's almost irritating for the fact that he knows few others would make the same gesture, and even fewer would genuinely mean it. ]
I'd like it very much, [ he says, adopting the kind of tone one might use to placate a child, though with enough of a twist of his lips as he delivers it that it's clear he does appreciate the thought. (Best not to be ungrateful, especially when that isn't the truth of the matter.) ]
I don't suppose you'll tell me what sort of errand you've sent that beast on?
[ An easy response to a comment that's delivered lightly enough that he doesn't take it as chiding β not seriously, anyway, if that smile on her face is any indication. As for what followsβ
He's come to know that look well β the look she wears when she's thinking. It's not a mannerism he's really seen often, save on the shy, and she's not really that; it is, quite literally, thoughtfulness, not any anxiety as to what to say next, not in the traditional sense (at least as far as he can sense it, anyway). She doesn't say anything without seeming to think it through, which makes her somewhat unusual in their camp, what with the abundance of hot tempers and general stubbornness.
A slight frown crosses his face as he watches Bosky lope away, natural curiosity as to what she's said buzzing like a mosquito in his pointed ear. The offer to stay up with him until the direwolf returns β which a part of him strongly suspects won't be until his shift, as it were, is over β is another consideration that's almost irritating for the fact that he knows few others would make the same gesture, and even fewer would genuinely mean it. ]
I'd like it very much, [ he says, adopting the kind of tone one might use to placate a child, though with enough of a twist of his lips as he delivers it that it's clear he does appreciate the thought. (Best not to be ungrateful, especially when that isn't the truth of the matter.) ]
I don't suppose you'll tell me what sort of errand you've sent that beast on?
[ He's wondered, more than once now, how he looks to her. He has some understanding of his own features, garnered simply by touch, by memory, by what people have told him β of pale beauty, best used, he'd been told, in service of the hunt. He knows how to alter his expression, to darken his gaze, to arch his eyebrows just so, to look both dangerous and welcoming, to make an easy lure for most who've crossed his path. But she's seen him at both highs and lows, now, and more than that, she sees him differently. That's the version of himself that he truly wants to see.
In that light, he almost envies the change she'd made for herself β the new, pale moonlight of her hair, a physical declaration of her rebirth. She conveys strength, to him, in a way he knows he doesn't β he hasn't wanted to, really β as foreign to him as sunlight had once been, but shining upon him, for him alone. (He doesn't take that for granted, either.)
And, still, the feline comparison isn't far off the mark β eager for a spot in the sun, for an affectionate touch, but still with a slight fickle streak, prone to running off should something else catch his attention. Granted, quite a high bar to clear at this point. ]
Oh?
[ He laughs, bright and cheerful (and only a little mock offended), the sound quickly muffled by the press of her lips as he once again cranes up to meet her touch, her warmth. That nip gets a satisfied sort of hiss β it's not often he's on the other side of that particular equation. ]
Not up to your exacting standards, my dear? [ he murmurs, the next time their lips part, his tongue darting over the faint pinpricks of sensation left by her teeth. He sighs, nosing against her pulse, the line of her jaw.
Just as he leans in for another kiss: ]
Two hundred years, gone to waste! What a shame.
In that light, he almost envies the change she'd made for herself β the new, pale moonlight of her hair, a physical declaration of her rebirth. She conveys strength, to him, in a way he knows he doesn't β he hasn't wanted to, really β as foreign to him as sunlight had once been, but shining upon him, for him alone. (He doesn't take that for granted, either.)
And, still, the feline comparison isn't far off the mark β eager for a spot in the sun, for an affectionate touch, but still with a slight fickle streak, prone to running off should something else catch his attention. Granted, quite a high bar to clear at this point. ]
Oh?
[ He laughs, bright and cheerful (and only a little mock offended), the sound quickly muffled by the press of her lips as he once again cranes up to meet her touch, her warmth. That nip gets a satisfied sort of hiss β it's not often he's on the other side of that particular equation. ]
Not up to your exacting standards, my dear? [ he murmurs, the next time their lips part, his tongue darting over the faint pinpricks of sensation left by her teeth. He sighs, nosing against her pulse, the line of her jaw.
Just as he leans in for another kiss: ]
Two hundred years, gone to waste! What a shame.
[ gone to waste. it strikes close to the heart an uglier truth, speaks to years dwindling away in their respective captivity. for the protection of her sanity, she doesn't oft linger on what-if hypotheticals, doesn't allow her mind to wander down untaken paths. such thoughts are only an exercise in self-torture, she's learned — what if she'd had the peace of a normal, loving life? what if shar's rot had never exposed itself, before shadowheart had festered in the dark further?
what if, what if, what if; in the end, every theoretical version of herself is an inconsequential phantom, intangible. only she lives, here in the present, no matter what she might have been; no matter how some sliver of herself mourns for some version of herself who remains a stranger. there is little need to dawdle on what cannot be changed, marks that cannot be erased. and yet —
that doesn't diminish the studious nature of her stare as it trips over the slope of his nose, his warm mouth (ironically bright, like the light of his laugh contains the sun). she can hardly claim she would relinquish this — all she is, all she's come to know, all she's come to have — for an opportunity to revise her past. still, it would seem a tragedy to ever contemplate losing ... this.
this impossible companionship. paths too rare to ever cross in any other iteration of their lifetimes, had their situations differed, like a contained lightning strike. rather than thicken the air with a solemn thought, she eases into a murmur of, ]
Don't worry your pretty head. Two centuries could have never prepared you for me, kitty.
[ for all the confidence of that tease, it fails to err into the same arrogant territory his usual remarks take. (overcompensation, she suspects, a veil designed to hide his self-loathing.) a quick, deliberate tilt of her head lands his next attempt on her chin, afterward, as her smile grows playfully dimpled. ]
In many ways, you've been my first. My only first worth remembering, at least. My standards are as exacting as they need to be.
[ the only one that truly feels as though it matters, now that she sits outside shar's complete control. the flat of her palm braces at his nape, as she shifts — a movement that brings him more readily hovering above her, his face eclipsing her view of the sun. sweetly, she tucks a stray, dislodged curl from the movement behind his ear, tracing the point of it with the tip of her nail. with a low, melodic hum, ]
A pity we'll have to stay here until you've gotten it perfectly right.
what if, what if, what if; in the end, every theoretical version of herself is an inconsequential phantom, intangible. only she lives, here in the present, no matter what she might have been; no matter how some sliver of herself mourns for some version of herself who remains a stranger. there is little need to dawdle on what cannot be changed, marks that cannot be erased. and yet —
that doesn't diminish the studious nature of her stare as it trips over the slope of his nose, his warm mouth (ironically bright, like the light of his laugh contains the sun). she can hardly claim she would relinquish this — all she is, all she's come to know, all she's come to have — for an opportunity to revise her past. still, it would seem a tragedy to ever contemplate losing ... this.
this impossible companionship. paths too rare to ever cross in any other iteration of their lifetimes, had their situations differed, like a contained lightning strike. rather than thicken the air with a solemn thought, she eases into a murmur of, ]
Don't worry your pretty head. Two centuries could have never prepared you for me, kitty.
[ for all the confidence of that tease, it fails to err into the same arrogant territory his usual remarks take. (overcompensation, she suspects, a veil designed to hide his self-loathing.) a quick, deliberate tilt of her head lands his next attempt on her chin, afterward, as her smile grows playfully dimpled. ]
In many ways, you've been my first. My only first worth remembering, at least. My standards are as exacting as they need to be.
[ the only one that truly feels as though it matters, now that she sits outside shar's complete control. the flat of her palm braces at his nape, as she shifts — a movement that brings him more readily hovering above her, his face eclipsing her view of the sun. sweetly, she tucks a stray, dislodged curl from the movement behind his ear, tracing the point of it with the tip of her nail. with a low, melodic hum, ]
A pity we'll have to stay here until you've gotten it perfectly right.
[ It isn't, for whatever it's worth, particularly difficult to tell when Astarion's being earnest β at least, not once the veil has lifted. The mask he wears is a heavy one, and not something he's found easy to part with. It's not totally a work of fiction β he is a vain creature, typically more easily motivated by personal wants and needs than any sense of the greater good β which makes the endeavor of separation all the more arduous. But, for all that remains the same, there's a marked change in his behavior, in the lack of a furrow in his brow, in a lighter timbre to the tone of his voice, in a slightly dialed-down level of melodrama and a less single-minded focus on carnal pursuits.
Those qualifiers β less but not gone completely β are what's made freedom such a strange gauntlet. There's no way of totally separating himself from the creature he'd been under Cazador's thumb, much as he might wish to. What that monster had built out of him had not been from scratch. He hates that, resents it. He hates not feeling like he belongs to himself.
And so, my first, she says, and he seems to pause. There is a thought that he wants to offer in return, that she's his first worth remembering, too, but the words feel like they take the wrong shape, if only because he knows how they could sound in his voice, like he's proud of having been a lothario. That's not how he means it, of course β what he means is, well, exactly what she's said. This is the first significant relationship he's really had β it's precious to him, something he doesn't want to ruin.
(Again, he remembers some things from his previous life β enough to know that he hadn't really left anyone behind, not like this. There's a blank space where love would be; after all, he hadn't thought death to be quite so close at hand. Not that he'd really been ready for it, in retrospect, at least not if his general personality is much of an indication.)
So, with the words beyond him, he smiles, instead, the expression slight, meant not for an audience but just for her. ]
A pity indeed, [ he murmurs, as his gaze travels over her features, his hand rising to mirror her gesture, brushing her hair gently from her face, lingering at her cheek. His fingers stay there, cupping her face, as he cranes down to kiss her β relatively chaste, this time, a single press of his lips before his mouth wanders to the line of her jaw, the curve of her neck. ]
And quite the conundrum β to please you, my dear, or to deliberately draw out our little date? [ Then, as he shifts to meet her gaze again: ] Though perhaps I've underestimated where you've set the bar.
Those qualifiers β less but not gone completely β are what's made freedom such a strange gauntlet. There's no way of totally separating himself from the creature he'd been under Cazador's thumb, much as he might wish to. What that monster had built out of him had not been from scratch. He hates that, resents it. He hates not feeling like he belongs to himself.
And so, my first, she says, and he seems to pause. There is a thought that he wants to offer in return, that she's his first worth remembering, too, but the words feel like they take the wrong shape, if only because he knows how they could sound in his voice, like he's proud of having been a lothario. That's not how he means it, of course β what he means is, well, exactly what she's said. This is the first significant relationship he's really had β it's precious to him, something he doesn't want to ruin.
(Again, he remembers some things from his previous life β enough to know that he hadn't really left anyone behind, not like this. There's a blank space where love would be; after all, he hadn't thought death to be quite so close at hand. Not that he'd really been ready for it, in retrospect, at least not if his general personality is much of an indication.)
So, with the words beyond him, he smiles, instead, the expression slight, meant not for an audience but just for her. ]
A pity indeed, [ he murmurs, as his gaze travels over her features, his hand rising to mirror her gesture, brushing her hair gently from her face, lingering at her cheek. His fingers stay there, cupping her face, as he cranes down to kiss her β relatively chaste, this time, a single press of his lips before his mouth wanders to the line of her jaw, the curve of her neck. ]
And quite the conundrum β to please you, my dear, or to deliberately draw out our little date? [ Then, as he shifts to meet her gaze again: ] Though perhaps I've underestimated where you've set the bar.
[ faux-accusatory, ] Scheming, are you?
[ a worry that might have rung more true, once. might have made her leery, plagued with distrust as she was. (another gift, she thinks sardonically, viconia had bestowed upon her.) as it stands, there's an airiness to it, empty of any true suspicion. or judgment that isn't hers to pass on, for that matter. gods know no one escapes lady shar's service without having embodied nightmares themselves — the beasts children should dread, much as any sharp-fanged spawn lurking beneath a window, awaiting an invitation inside.
she's breathing proof of such, isn't she? the tall tale children are told by their chastising parents. behave, or they'll come for you next. and they had — had made her interrogator, torturer, believer. multi-faceted as a tool, a soldier, a spear. it's written in the lithe line of her torso as she leisurely arches toward him, seeking, in a quiet whisper of strength. graceful, yes, but with not without her own hidden ugliness.
that knowledge of her own (grotesque to her in some ways, now, in light of how they had been used) capabilities would have soothed her in the past, were he to have nuzzled as near to her jumping pulse as he does now. a promise of a fighting chance against him, if his teeth began to itch. perhaps she's a fool to find her faith lies solely in trust, in its place, as she elongates the pale, delicate column of her throat. some would call it foolish, brave, or foolishly brave to expose it in the presence of a predator, when she'd hardly trust a ravenous wolf with her soft parts; shadowheart thinks of it simply as a leap of faith.
absently, her fingers move to draw patterns at the nape of his neck, to glide up further, until she's gingerly sinking her fingers through silvery strands. ]
You're clever enough to accomplish both, I think, [ she continues, the hint of an impish smile in tow. ] I've the utmost faith you'll rise to the challenge.
[ a worry that might have rung more true, once. might have made her leery, plagued with distrust as she was. (another gift, she thinks sardonically, viconia had bestowed upon her.) as it stands, there's an airiness to it, empty of any true suspicion. or judgment that isn't hers to pass on, for that matter. gods know no one escapes lady shar's service without having embodied nightmares themselves — the beasts children should dread, much as any sharp-fanged spawn lurking beneath a window, awaiting an invitation inside.
she's breathing proof of such, isn't she? the tall tale children are told by their chastising parents. behave, or they'll come for you next. and they had — had made her interrogator, torturer, believer. multi-faceted as a tool, a soldier, a spear. it's written in the lithe line of her torso as she leisurely arches toward him, seeking, in a quiet whisper of strength. graceful, yes, but with not without her own hidden ugliness.
that knowledge of her own (grotesque to her in some ways, now, in light of how they had been used) capabilities would have soothed her in the past, were he to have nuzzled as near to her jumping pulse as he does now. a promise of a fighting chance against him, if his teeth began to itch. perhaps she's a fool to find her faith lies solely in trust, in its place, as she elongates the pale, delicate column of her throat. some would call it foolish, brave, or foolishly brave to expose it in the presence of a predator, when she'd hardly trust a ravenous wolf with her soft parts; shadowheart thinks of it simply as a leap of faith.
absently, her fingers move to draw patterns at the nape of his neck, to glide up further, until she's gingerly sinking her fingers through silvery strands. ]
You're clever enough to accomplish both, I think, [ she continues, the hint of an impish smile in tow. ] I've the utmost faith you'll rise to the challenge.
[ It's a leap of faith, and a quantifiable measure of trust that she doesn't flinch or otherwise redirect him away from the column of her neck. He knows better than to take that for granted, to file her lack of resistance away as weakness. Besides, if that makes her foolish, then what does that make him? Should she decide to put an end to his existence here and now, he'd hardly be in much of a position to stop her, lacking armor and, indeed, any armament at all, save the paring knife that sits in the basket nearby.
It's an admission of trust on his part, too, that he doesn't shy away from her touch β that he finds he desires it, is comforted by it. He wants her to touch him, rather than finding it stirs up feelings of self-hatred. Same as a feral cat, one might suppose; initially wary of any closeness, let alone an extended hand, but made as docile and trusting β as loyal, at least as any such creature can be, though perhaps that is where the comparison ends β as any house cat over the course of time.
And on top of that all, he knows it's no small feat that they're both still here after having discovered the darker parts of their pasts. For all that they'd been acting in the service of higher powers, there's no way of totally abjuring responsibility for the lives claimed or pain exacted along the way. And no, they can't offer each other absolution, butβ it sort of comes close, to feel deserving of something like this. ]
Well, when you put it so nicely ...
[ As his lips find hers again, his knee slips between her legs, nudging them apart, the gesture itself enough to be suggestive, but stopping there. (A means by which to gauge her intent as well as a marker of how quickly β or slowly β he's willing to take things. As precious as the instinct sounds, he doesn't want to fuck this up, not by playing too loosely with what he's comfortable with, nor by failing to meet her expectations.) His hand, meanwhile, finds the small of her back, supporting the arch of her frame, as his other arm serves as a brace against the ground next to her head. ]
It's an admission of trust on his part, too, that he doesn't shy away from her touch β that he finds he desires it, is comforted by it. He wants her to touch him, rather than finding it stirs up feelings of self-hatred. Same as a feral cat, one might suppose; initially wary of any closeness, let alone an extended hand, but made as docile and trusting β as loyal, at least as any such creature can be, though perhaps that is where the comparison ends β as any house cat over the course of time.
And on top of that all, he knows it's no small feat that they're both still here after having discovered the darker parts of their pasts. For all that they'd been acting in the service of higher powers, there's no way of totally abjuring responsibility for the lives claimed or pain exacted along the way. And no, they can't offer each other absolution, butβ it sort of comes close, to feel deserving of something like this. ]
Well, when you put it so nicely ...
[ As his lips find hers again, his knee slips between her legs, nudging them apart, the gesture itself enough to be suggestive, but stopping there. (A means by which to gauge her intent as well as a marker of how quickly β or slowly β he's willing to take things. As precious as the instinct sounds, he doesn't want to fuck this up, not by playing too loosely with what he's comfortable with, nor by failing to meet her expectations.) His hand, meanwhile, finds the small of her back, supporting the arch of her frame, as his other arm serves as a brace against the ground next to her head. ]
[ an answering laugh dies on her tongue, decomposes into a surprised intake of breath. he is not without his own elegance, in this — but there's a marked, unexpected gracelessness that seems to lurk within them both. a clash against the images they've portrayed, the roles they've slotted themselves into: the predatory philanderer and the sure-footed cleric, no longer quite so sure-footed or predatory at all. the consequence of dropped pretenses, she thinks: all of their false convictions and comforts have rotted away, leaving nothing but the raw core of what they are.
and what she is, is — inexpert. hardly better in the depths of intimacy than if she dared to venture out into the lake, half-drowning in her attempts to remain afloat. this, perhaps, is its own price for what she has been, previously — for the perfectionism viconia had demanded, shar had demanded, on threat of pain. bumbling prayers answered with agony; hesitation met with the disciplining burn of her wound. there had been little room, of course, for making herself a disappointment. little room to learn at a pace dictated by herself, and herself alone. little reason to feel accomplished in her progress, lest it was honed into immaculacy.
her pride doesn't quite relish in revisiting the sensation of being so amateur in any regard, accordingly. she has to shake the determined hum beneath her skin to improve, as though it's a trial to overcome; has to shake the instinct to expect humiliation. astarion, notably, isn't meeting her restless hands with laughter. there's no derisive snort as they cling to the back of his shirt, clumsily slide down his spine, clutch to his collar to hold him against her. that feels like safety, too — to not be made to feel the fool, even if her body flushes ripe pink, in acute awareness of herself.
her fingers twist the material of his shirt. when her thighs tighten around his own, squeezing the column of it, it feels like answering an unspoken question with another, an invitation met with an invitation. the upward grind of her hips is slow, as a result. restrained, as though reluctant to be too damnably needy. though perhaps she's already surpassed that threshold, she thinks, as a shuddery exhale breathes itself from her lungs and into him. there's something to be said, after all, for rubbing herself against his thigh like they're two inexperienced teenagers sneaking off into the woods to clumsily explore one another. (a comparison that feels more and more apt, by the second.) ]
and what she is, is — inexpert. hardly better in the depths of intimacy than if she dared to venture out into the lake, half-drowning in her attempts to remain afloat. this, perhaps, is its own price for what she has been, previously — for the perfectionism viconia had demanded, shar had demanded, on threat of pain. bumbling prayers answered with agony; hesitation met with the disciplining burn of her wound. there had been little room, of course, for making herself a disappointment. little room to learn at a pace dictated by herself, and herself alone. little reason to feel accomplished in her progress, lest it was honed into immaculacy.
her pride doesn't quite relish in revisiting the sensation of being so amateur in any regard, accordingly. she has to shake the determined hum beneath her skin to improve, as though it's a trial to overcome; has to shake the instinct to expect humiliation. astarion, notably, isn't meeting her restless hands with laughter. there's no derisive snort as they cling to the back of his shirt, clumsily slide down his spine, clutch to his collar to hold him against her. that feels like safety, too — to not be made to feel the fool, even if her body flushes ripe pink, in acute awareness of herself.
her fingers twist the material of his shirt. when her thighs tighten around his own, squeezing the column of it, it feels like answering an unspoken question with another, an invitation met with an invitation. the upward grind of her hips is slow, as a result. restrained, as though reluctant to be too damnably needy. though perhaps she's already surpassed that threshold, she thinks, as a shuddery exhale breathes itself from her lungs and into him. there's something to be said, after all, for rubbing herself against his thigh like they're two inexperienced teenagers sneaking off into the woods to clumsily explore one another. (a comparison that feels more and more apt, by the second.) ]
[ If anything, the way she touches him isβ reassuring. A tether, as some part of him fears falling back into old habits or having the ground give way beneath them. (If it'd happen to anyone, it would be them.) It's a reminder that what she wants from him is not a fantasy, as so many others had, but just him, a thought that's nearly inconceivable to him despite all his usual bluster.
All it takes is the tug of her fingers to both clear his mind and send it spiraling into a session of mental gymnastics as he tries to parse through what he wants versus what he's used to, and how to separate the two things. Even time seems like a limiting factor β they're not in such dire straits now, as evidenced by the fact that they can steal away for even a moment, but there's no guarantee as to how much more time they'll get to themselves, whether or not they'll even survive the ordeal they've been flung into.
And he knows he wants this, wants her β wants to be good enough, wants to be enough. ]
Tell meβ
[ The sentence gets swallowed up, lost on her tongue as a faint moan rolls off of his, his frame shifting into the rise of her hips. ]
Show me what you want. What you like.
[ Though he doesn't say as much out loud β it'd hardly be romantic, he thinks β he doesn't mean it in the sense that he expects her to know already (especially considering the fact that he's similarly at sea, in the process of re-learning and re-drawing his boundaries), but it feels easier for him to follow, here, than to lead, easier to mold what he knows when given some kind of direction rather than trying to figure it out by himself. ]
All it takes is the tug of her fingers to both clear his mind and send it spiraling into a session of mental gymnastics as he tries to parse through what he wants versus what he's used to, and how to separate the two things. Even time seems like a limiting factor β they're not in such dire straits now, as evidenced by the fact that they can steal away for even a moment, but there's no guarantee as to how much more time they'll get to themselves, whether or not they'll even survive the ordeal they've been flung into.
And he knows he wants this, wants her β wants to be good enough, wants to be enough. ]
Tell meβ
[ The sentence gets swallowed up, lost on her tongue as a faint moan rolls off of his, his frame shifting into the rise of her hips. ]
Show me what you want. What you like.
[ Though he doesn't say as much out loud β it'd hardly be romantic, he thinks β he doesn't mean it in the sense that he expects her to know already (especially considering the fact that he's similarly at sea, in the process of re-learning and re-drawing his boundaries), but it feels easier for him to follow, here, than to lead, easier to mold what he knows when given some kind of direction rather than trying to figure it out by himself. ]
[ have i not made it clear? contends with her tongue. in the end, the tease never emerges victorious; the moment is too thick with vulnerability to dare undercut its importance, much as their banter has lightened the load of tenser moments. relying upon it strikes her as the cowardly path, somehow — a manner of disappointing him, leaving him fumbling in the dark, when he's looking to her as a guiding light.
that, in itself, is a wonder: astarion with none of his usual dastardly swagger, like some confident lothario plucked from the sordid pages of a romance novel. it's another pretense dropped, though it forces her to call into question how much of himself has been tailored to suit an ideal, a wet dream of someone else's creation. it's the spark that ignites her forward to reclaim his mouth with renewed vigor, until there's no mistaking that honest hunger. until her mouth is freely greedy where it scatters to his chin, his ear, a light trace of teeth and tongue marking her path. ]
That's an easy enough answer to give, [ comes her rasp, buried in his jaw's underside. ] You.
[ nothing more, and nothing less, than what he'll give of himself. it is not, she suspects, the clarification he had been seeking — but it's the most genuine treasure she could offer, the most valuable demonstration of what she wants. when she melts back into the grass, it's with labored rise and fall of her chest and a kiss-swollen flush to her lips. hardly a vision of self-discipline, never mind composure.
and perhaps that's — okay. to undo some shred of restraint, for this once. it makes it easier to smile up at him through her breathlessness, through the stormy darkening of her gaze; makes it easier to search herself. show, not tell, he'd asked, but — ]
I want to feel good, with you. [ quieter, ] I want you to touch me as though there's nothing you could crave more.
[ it's what anyone would want, she thinks, that intoxicating proof of being unmistakeably wanted. she gathers up his hand, presses the pad of each finger to her lips with careful consideration. less sweet is the kittenish flick of her tongue as she draws his index finger past the pout of her mouth, just barely so; it makes her body burn, a little ember settling low in her stomach, to hook her gaze onto his — to watch him watch her in return. it's undoubtedly turning the tables, in her own need to hear it, and yet, ]
But I'm not the only one with wants. [ lowly encouraging, she presses, ] What happens in your dreams, when you think of me?
that, in itself, is a wonder: astarion with none of his usual dastardly swagger, like some confident lothario plucked from the sordid pages of a romance novel. it's another pretense dropped, though it forces her to call into question how much of himself has been tailored to suit an ideal, a wet dream of someone else's creation. it's the spark that ignites her forward to reclaim his mouth with renewed vigor, until there's no mistaking that honest hunger. until her mouth is freely greedy where it scatters to his chin, his ear, a light trace of teeth and tongue marking her path. ]
That's an easy enough answer to give, [ comes her rasp, buried in his jaw's underside. ] You.
[ nothing more, and nothing less, than what he'll give of himself. it is not, she suspects, the clarification he had been seeking — but it's the most genuine treasure she could offer, the most valuable demonstration of what she wants. when she melts back into the grass, it's with labored rise and fall of her chest and a kiss-swollen flush to her lips. hardly a vision of self-discipline, never mind composure.
and perhaps that's — okay. to undo some shred of restraint, for this once. it makes it easier to smile up at him through her breathlessness, through the stormy darkening of her gaze; makes it easier to search herself. show, not tell, he'd asked, but — ]
I want to feel good, with you. [ quieter, ] I want you to touch me as though there's nothing you could crave more.
[ it's what anyone would want, she thinks, that intoxicating proof of being unmistakeably wanted. she gathers up his hand, presses the pad of each finger to her lips with careful consideration. less sweet is the kittenish flick of her tongue as she draws his index finger past the pout of her mouth, just barely so; it makes her body burn, a little ember settling low in her stomach, to hook her gaze onto his — to watch him watch her in return. it's undoubtedly turning the tables, in her own need to hear it, and yet, ]
But I'm not the only one with wants. [ lowly encouraging, she presses, ] What happens in your dreams, when you think of me?
Edited 2023-10-13 04:15 (UTC)
[ They're words he's heard before β sometimes with the same words prompting them, though certainly never in the same tone, a realization that catches and passes quickly enough β but never in this context. Never from the context of a real relationship, anything lasting longer than a single night. She says you, and he feels an ache in the trellis of his ribcage, something he'd laugh off under any other circumstances but, here, prompts a soft sigh, an admission of that confession's effect. (And has he ever received the question in return?)
For just a fraction of a second, as she settles back against the grass, there's an almost dangerously unguarded look on his face β his eyes wide, searching, unmoored. That expression changes in the next second, colored by endearment and desire as he looks at her, takes in the way want unspools the careful self-control that seems to come so naturally to her otherwise. He likes that β it only makes him want to tug on that thread, to see her come totally undone. A part of the give and take, he supposes, that they should drop all of the pretenses they'd held up to each other, the act of pretending they're something else (something stronger, less vulnerable) easier to drop given all they've discovered about themselves since first falling from that nautiloid.
What he'd imagined, when they'd still been in their respective tents, hadn't even come close to how perfect she looks to him now. His lips curl in a smile as her tongue finds the pad of his finger, his gaze flickering, darkening. ]
When I dream of you, [ he begins, his voice just a murmur as he leans down to press a kiss to her forehead, ] my dreams begin with your hand in mine. [ A kiss upon her cheek. ] With you, already in my arms. [ Then upon the other.
There's that ache, again. There are things he could say β has said β that he thinks would better fit the bill of what such a question generally begs as an answer, butβ ]
There's nothing that can touch me, but you. Nothing that I want to touch me, but you.
[ His other knee nudges hers apart β an invitation offered and accepted, his hips settling against the rise of hers. ]
In fact, I'd say my dreams play outβ quite like this. But what I can dream upβ [ his hand travels down her side, tracing the dip of her waist ] βcan hardly compare to the real you.
For just a fraction of a second, as she settles back against the grass, there's an almost dangerously unguarded look on his face β his eyes wide, searching, unmoored. That expression changes in the next second, colored by endearment and desire as he looks at her, takes in the way want unspools the careful self-control that seems to come so naturally to her otherwise. He likes that β it only makes him want to tug on that thread, to see her come totally undone. A part of the give and take, he supposes, that they should drop all of the pretenses they'd held up to each other, the act of pretending they're something else (something stronger, less vulnerable) easier to drop given all they've discovered about themselves since first falling from that nautiloid.
What he'd imagined, when they'd still been in their respective tents, hadn't even come close to how perfect she looks to him now. His lips curl in a smile as her tongue finds the pad of his finger, his gaze flickering, darkening. ]
When I dream of you, [ he begins, his voice just a murmur as he leans down to press a kiss to her forehead, ] my dreams begin with your hand in mine. [ A kiss upon her cheek. ] With you, already in my arms. [ Then upon the other.
There's that ache, again. There are things he could say β has said β that he thinks would better fit the bill of what such a question generally begs as an answer, butβ ]
There's nothing that can touch me, but you. Nothing that I want to touch me, but you.
[ His other knee nudges hers apart β an invitation offered and accepted, his hips settling against the rise of hers. ]
In fact, I'd say my dreams play outβ quite like this. But what I can dream upβ [ his hand travels down her side, tracing the dip of her waist ] βcan hardly compare to the real you.
[ no one within the realm of sanity would, by any means, call her precious. invaluable, perhaps, as an asset and ally — but not as gems are, needing the utmost care, prone to fracturing under harsh treatment. it wrings the breath from her lungs, then, that he should be so deliberately delicate, painstakingly gentle with her in ways the world has failed to be. she aches all the more for it, emotion's fist seizing around the pulp of her heart to squeeze, until her exhale seems to quietly shake past her parted mouth.
it's more affecting than it has any right to be. more deeply moving than the rough treatment her brethren have been known for, the cursory manhandling she would come to expect. her eyelids flutter with it, anticipation thick on her tongue, eyelashes skirting her cheek like a butterfly's kiss. (it almost makes it worse, to let her vision close for a moment; to have no distraction from the tenderness in his touch, the reactiveness of her own nerve-endings. scarcely touched, and yet well on her way to being overwrought.) ]
Quite the salacious dreams you've had. [ teasing warmth saturates it, makes no secret of her fondness. more hearfelt, ] You make them sound beautiful.
[ he makes her sound beautiful. no one within the realm of sanity would have thought his head to be filled with soft, fanciful notions, but if one pays attention, she can see hints of whimsy in his love affair with the sun, a tender sentimentality buried under layers. it's a secret she doesn't mind selfishly keeping — this little part of him reserved for her. (preserved even in death, she wonders, or a need cazador hadn't realized he'd created through starving his spawn of human gentleness? protectiveness roils and surges inside her, at the thought.)
her hands slide down toward his hands, along the trunk of his forearms, fingertips tracing branching veins. up further, pushing back his sleeves. a slow and gradual disrobing, in her craving for his skin against hers, wherever she can have it. ]
I'm not convinced I didn't dream this moment into being. [ a whisper, something half-burned out of her. the culprit: the notch of his hips against hers, the spellbound shift of her own in reply — sinuous, trance-like, a serpent called by a song. she holds more tightly to his bicep, grounding herself through the audible hitch in her breath, the noise that lodges itself in her throat. what breaks free, inevitably, is a seeking, wispy, ] Astarion.
[ she doesn't have much need for prayers, these days. his name sighs out of her lungs as an invocation, all the same, like an appeal one finds themselves making in the midst of a desperate night. ]
it's more affecting than it has any right to be. more deeply moving than the rough treatment her brethren have been known for, the cursory manhandling she would come to expect. her eyelids flutter with it, anticipation thick on her tongue, eyelashes skirting her cheek like a butterfly's kiss. (it almost makes it worse, to let her vision close for a moment; to have no distraction from the tenderness in his touch, the reactiveness of her own nerve-endings. scarcely touched, and yet well on her way to being overwrought.) ]
Quite the salacious dreams you've had. [ teasing warmth saturates it, makes no secret of her fondness. more hearfelt, ] You make them sound beautiful.
[ he makes her sound beautiful. no one within the realm of sanity would have thought his head to be filled with soft, fanciful notions, but if one pays attention, she can see hints of whimsy in his love affair with the sun, a tender sentimentality buried under layers. it's a secret she doesn't mind selfishly keeping — this little part of him reserved for her. (preserved even in death, she wonders, or a need cazador hadn't realized he'd created through starving his spawn of human gentleness? protectiveness roils and surges inside her, at the thought.)
her hands slide down toward his hands, along the trunk of his forearms, fingertips tracing branching veins. up further, pushing back his sleeves. a slow and gradual disrobing, in her craving for his skin against hers, wherever she can have it. ]
I'm not convinced I didn't dream this moment into being. [ a whisper, something half-burned out of her. the culprit: the notch of his hips against hers, the spellbound shift of her own in reply — sinuous, trance-like, a serpent called by a song. she holds more tightly to his bicep, grounding herself through the audible hitch in her breath, the noise that lodges itself in her throat. what breaks free, inevitably, is a seeking, wispy, ] Astarion.
[ she doesn't have much need for prayers, these days. his name sighs out of her lungs as an invocation, all the same, like an appeal one finds themselves making in the midst of a desperate night. ]
[ There's a small stretch of silence that follows. Karlach, softly snoring nearby. Tav frowns and it changes the shape of her face, tightens her shoulders imperceptibly — displeasure, or a defensive measure, or a fissure of frosty anger that's characterized her before. It lasts only as long as it takes her to sit on one of the bedrolls by the fire. There, she blows out a heavy sigh, rumbling her lips into a soft raspberry. (That's not a very leadery thing to do, is it?) ]
I asked him to run through the forest, [ she tells Astarion, carefully. Her eyes cut sidelong to him, neutral, still thinking. ] To see if there are any animals out there larger than a rabbit.
[ It's not anger that made her frown. It's just— She feels— a little embarrassed, is the thing. Caught out on her small, secret plan, for a small, secret thought, that if not her own, a deer might do.
Quickly, as if what happened before isn't important, she adds, ]
You always ask for my secrets, Astarion. [ Even with the fact that it's hard to keep them, sometimes, with their visitors they share, crawling just behind their eye sockets. ] I won't have any left, soon.
[ She smiles at him. She's not really upset, this isn't at all like how she didn't speak to Gale for half a tenday that one time, and she could always say no. Tav has before. But there's a premium to the truth, one that she always pays before telling — she's never been the best liar, anyway. ]
I asked him to run through the forest, [ she tells Astarion, carefully. Her eyes cut sidelong to him, neutral, still thinking. ] To see if there are any animals out there larger than a rabbit.
[ It's not anger that made her frown. It's just— She feels— a little embarrassed, is the thing. Caught out on her small, secret plan, for a small, secret thought, that if not her own, a deer might do.
Quickly, as if what happened before isn't important, she adds, ]
You always ask for my secrets, Astarion. [ Even with the fact that it's hard to keep them, sometimes, with their visitors they share, crawling just behind their eye sockets. ] I won't have any left, soon.
[ She smiles at him. She's not really upset, this isn't at all like how she didn't speak to Gale for half a tenday that one time, and she could always say no. Tav has before. But there's a premium to the truth, one that she always pays before telling — she's never been the best liar, anyway. ]
[ No one would call her precious, and no one would call him a romantic β even aside from the pretenses he puts on, his taste for mischief makes it difficult to see him as anything but a cynic, a proponent of chaos. It's a trait that fits in with his petty side, with the ease with which he dismisses that which he thinks is trivial or not worthwhile, with how easily he takes offense. And it all seems to sit at odds with the idea of a soft center, of any sweet aspect to his personality. But the fact is that he's always had it β always had a weakness for heroism, for an ideal of goodness that couldn't possibly actually exist. It had nearly been beaten out of him, butβ it's still there.
What makes him willing to share even of a sliver of it with her is the fact that he knows his Casanova act hadn't appealed to her (if anything, it had actually made her openly antagonistic when they'd first met). What she wants from him isn't a fantasy. (What she sees in him is greater, deeper, more significant than what any sketched-out portrait could capture. And he finds that he wants her to see him.)
He wonders if it surprises her, that the dreams he'd choose to describe to her are so chaste. But it's the truth β boiled down to his very essence, what he longs for is tenderness, for care. For so many years, he'd been starved of it, resigned to the fact that he'd never be anything but alone for the rest of his immortal days. He'd still mostly believed it, even after the tadpole (who in their right mind would want to associate with a vampire, after all), but then sheβ ]
A shared dream, perhaps? [ he wonders aloud, fingertips traveling over the stitching of the leather she wears. ] But, no β a dream could hardly be so sweet.
[ Even in dreams, he wouldn't be so assured as to imagine that she would choose to bestow any kindness upon him, especially not with how hard-won it's been. It's kindness, he thinks, that ought only to be spared for herself, for someone more deserving of it. But here, in their waking hours, it's hardly as though that's enough for him to refuse or rebuff her, not when he's so hungry forβ well, for her. For the way she speaks his name, for the warmth of her touch, for the way she wants him.
It's easy to feel a little drunk on that, even without a drop of her blood passing his lips β as though seeking, his mouth passes over her pulse once more, but only as a stop along the way as his lips find her clavicle, the rise of her chest, following the line of skin left bare by her clothing. It's the boldest he's been, apart from their remote dalliance β itself a sign of comfort, of trust. ]
What makes him willing to share even of a sliver of it with her is the fact that he knows his Casanova act hadn't appealed to her (if anything, it had actually made her openly antagonistic when they'd first met). What she wants from him isn't a fantasy. (What she sees in him is greater, deeper, more significant than what any sketched-out portrait could capture. And he finds that he wants her to see him.)
He wonders if it surprises her, that the dreams he'd choose to describe to her are so chaste. But it's the truth β boiled down to his very essence, what he longs for is tenderness, for care. For so many years, he'd been starved of it, resigned to the fact that he'd never be anything but alone for the rest of his immortal days. He'd still mostly believed it, even after the tadpole (who in their right mind would want to associate with a vampire, after all), but then sheβ ]
A shared dream, perhaps? [ he wonders aloud, fingertips traveling over the stitching of the leather she wears. ] But, no β a dream could hardly be so sweet.
[ Even in dreams, he wouldn't be so assured as to imagine that she would choose to bestow any kindness upon him, especially not with how hard-won it's been. It's kindness, he thinks, that ought only to be spared for herself, for someone more deserving of it. But here, in their waking hours, it's hardly as though that's enough for him to refuse or rebuff her, not when he's so hungry forβ well, for her. For the way she speaks his name, for the warmth of her touch, for the way she wants him.
It's easy to feel a little drunk on that, even without a drop of her blood passing his lips β as though seeking, his mouth passes over her pulse once more, but only as a stop along the way as his lips find her clavicle, the rise of her chest, following the line of skin left bare by her clothing. It's the boldest he's been, apart from their remote dalliance β itself a sign of comfort, of trust. ]
[ It's an answer that almost makes him feel guilty for asking, which is a nettlesome feeling in its own right. Before her, before all of this, he doesn't think he'd have thought twice about taking advantage of such an offer, such kindness. Why should he balk now? (The answer reveals itself easily enough: no one had offered him kindness before, not really. It's what makes him so inclined to follow her, even if he thinks her generosity is a danger to herself. Who else, after all, would keep an eye on the shadows behind her?)
In lieu of saying you didn't have to β because he will still feed on whatever Bosky ends up bringing back β he clicks his tongue, an only mildly reproachful tsk that travels between just the two of them as he comes to sit next to her by the campfire.
(It had been quite funny to see Gale so on the outs, if only because of the degree to which the wizard had been flabbergasted his usual charm had so utterly failed him β and to see stony anger manifested on Tav's usually soft features.) ]
Just because someone asks for a secret doesn't mean you have to tell them, [ he says, as though imparting some sage piece of wisdom. ] Well, except for me, I suppose. You must tell me.
[ He pauses, then, as he usually does when contemplating sharing even a shred of an earnest thought, the firelight dancing along the sharp edges of his face. ]
Go on, then. Ask me something in return.
In lieu of saying you didn't have to β because he will still feed on whatever Bosky ends up bringing back β he clicks his tongue, an only mildly reproachful tsk that travels between just the two of them as he comes to sit next to her by the campfire.
(It had been quite funny to see Gale so on the outs, if only because of the degree to which the wizard had been flabbergasted his usual charm had so utterly failed him β and to see stony anger manifested on Tav's usually soft features.) ]
Just because someone asks for a secret doesn't mean you have to tell them, [ he says, as though imparting some sage piece of wisdom. ] Well, except for me, I suppose. You must tell me.
[ He pauses, then, as he usually does when contemplating sharing even a shred of an earnest thought, the firelight dancing along the sharp edges of his face. ]
Go on, then. Ask me something in return.
( β continued from )Not a particularly high bar considering you've just told me I'm your first, is it?
And ... yes.
[ Not, in fact, the point he intended to make, but he did walk right into it. ]
Though I'm actually not sure if tents and bedrolls are included in that category.
Edited 2023-10-21 19:09 (UTC)
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