[ rather late for that, she thinks. her body is already a topography of scar tissue, mapping the merciless nature of her upbringing, and yet — she can't recount the origins behind a single line. not the divot that marks her elbow, or the silvery streaks where blades must have surely glanced off, left to invent and imagine their stories. a training session turned too relentlessly punishing, a mission with more twists than she'd planned for — the likeliest culprits, perhaps, but strangely ... forgettable. disconnected from the rest of her, as though it had been earned in another life.
it's a strange, morbid thing to cherish the scrapes and cuts they've gathered along the way — fresh ownership over the landscape of her skin, and the knowledge she's chosen what to endure, of her own volition. of carrying what has mattered to her. when the inevitable comes — when they all disperse, traveling down forked paths in the road, should they even survive the journey — at least she'll be able to press her fingers to skin and remember.
he'd likely think her inflicted with new madness, were she to insist there's no one else she would rather have marked on her. she settles, instead, for this: an endeared, impish curl to her mouth, as a prelude to her nails leisurely raking along his scalp. a silent reward for the devotion coloring that promise of bloodshed, perhaps, if not encouragement. ]
No need to seduce me with pretty promises, [ she sighs out, a rasp that floats from her like smoky wisps from a bonfire. ] You already have me.
[ some girls prefer the romance of flowers. some girls prefer the darker touch of protective threats casting a shadow of death over their enemies. shadowheart, as it turns out, finds both equally enthralling. (a woman of multitudes, she is.) it likely shouldn't settle low in her stomach like molten gold, on that note, but — but. she understands the creatures they are, understands the significance of devotion given willingly, when they have each had to suffer the ailment of fealty being compelled by another's hand.
it hardly helps that he looks as she feels, utterly — gone. hopelessly addicted. it's more flattering than any compliment he could bestow; more powerful than any ill-gotten illithid gains. emboldened, her fingers reach for the hem of her shirt, only minutely distracted by the muscle he sends twitching in her corded thighs — and wriggles her spine to peel it overhead. a comfortable and confident sort of nudity, now that's grown more certain she hasn't misread him.
as if pulled by a string, her fingers return to his nape, kneading fingertips against the back of his neck. reassurance every step of the way, as her legs splay to accommodate his travels, though not quite so great an affirmation as her quiet albeit steady: ]
i'll never live the shame down
it's a strange, morbid thing to cherish the scrapes and cuts they've gathered along the way — fresh ownership over the landscape of her skin, and the knowledge she's chosen what to endure, of her own volition. of carrying what has mattered to her. when the inevitable comes — when they all disperse, traveling down forked paths in the road, should they even survive the journey — at least she'll be able to press her fingers to skin and remember.
he'd likely think her inflicted with new madness, were she to insist there's no one else she would rather have marked on her. she settles, instead, for this: an endeared, impish curl to her mouth, as a prelude to her nails leisurely raking along his scalp. a silent reward for the devotion coloring that promise of bloodshed, perhaps, if not encouragement. ]
No need to seduce me with pretty promises, [ she sighs out, a rasp that floats from her like smoky wisps from a bonfire. ] You already have me.
[ some girls prefer the romance of flowers. some girls prefer the darker touch of protective threats casting a shadow of death over their enemies. shadowheart, as it turns out, finds both equally enthralling. (a woman of multitudes, she is.) it likely shouldn't settle low in her stomach like molten gold, on that note, but — but. she understands the creatures they are, understands the significance of devotion given willingly, when they have each had to suffer the ailment of fealty being compelled by another's hand.
it hardly helps that he looks as she feels, utterly — gone. hopelessly addicted. it's more flattering than any compliment he could bestow; more powerful than any ill-gotten illithid gains. emboldened, her fingers reach for the hem of her shirt, only minutely distracted by the muscle he sends twitching in her corded thighs — and wriggles her spine to peel it overhead. a comfortable and confident sort of nudity, now that's grown more certain she hasn't misread him.
as if pulled by a string, her fingers return to his nape, kneading fingertips against the back of his neck. reassurance every step of the way, as her legs splay to accommodate his travels, though not quite so great an affirmation as her quiet albeit steady: ]
It's alright, Astarion. I trust you.