[ 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.) ]
no subject
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.) ]