[ 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?
no subject
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?