[ 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. ]
no subject
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. ]