[ Mere weeks, months ago, Astarion's idea of a future had been nothing but a blank slate — not for the fact that the possibilities seemed endless, but that escape from the prison he'd found himself in after his death had seemed so impossible. All he could do was to hope for Cazador's demise, and even that, hope, had started to seem like a poison. And as much as he'd like to think of himself as a better man — especially now, in the company of those who would keep him from succumbing to a kind of hunger that he previously would have thought only natural.
Even when he'd first been infected by the tadpole, the picture of freedom he'd had in his head hadn't involved anyone else — not for lack of want, but for years upon years of learning to close his heart to the possibility lest it lead to further pain. Now, it isn't as if he's completely changed — the best things that his companions manage to draw out of him have their roots in the kind of wishful thinking he'd allowed himself as a child, a weakness for romance and daring heroes — but—
—but it doesn't escape him that the chances of this outcome are so astronomically slim. If they hadn't been infected, if they hadn't run into each other on the beach, if, if, if. He finds himself unwilling, suddenly, to contemplate what will come when the Elder Brain is defeated (if they can manage such a thing), to wonder whether or not the bond they've sketched out between themselves is but a temporary thing.
He's allowed to be greedy, he thinks. What else can he call his? His own choice, his own volition, repaid by the trust she places in him. (A gift to be held close, to be treasured.)
His gaze flickers up as she peels off her shirt, a not-insignificant distraction (and temptation) as he gently pulls down her breeches, easing the fabric over the curve of her hips. All he can offer is a sigh at the sight of her bare skin — the scars that mark it — as he lowers his head, pressing a soft kiss to the tender flesh of her thigh. His hands anchor at her waist as his tongue draws a slow trail to the part of her legs.
It's still thrilling to feel genuine want, to feel a shiver run through his body, to feel every nerve ending respond to even the slightest sensation. That first taste of her draws a low hum from his throat, equal parts pleasure and anticipation. It's strange to feel this way about intimacy again (if he'd ever, he can't quite recall) — eager to learn what makes her tick rather than simply having to do so for the sake of passing a night. ]
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Even when he'd first been infected by the tadpole, the picture of freedom he'd had in his head hadn't involved anyone else — not for lack of want, but for years upon years of learning to close his heart to the possibility lest it lead to further pain. Now, it isn't as if he's completely changed — the best things that his companions manage to draw out of him have their roots in the kind of wishful thinking he'd allowed himself as a child, a weakness for romance and daring heroes — but—
—but it doesn't escape him that the chances of this outcome are so astronomically slim. If they hadn't been infected, if they hadn't run into each other on the beach, if, if, if. He finds himself unwilling, suddenly, to contemplate what will come when the Elder Brain is defeated (if they can manage such a thing), to wonder whether or not the bond they've sketched out between themselves is but a temporary thing.
He's allowed to be greedy, he thinks. What else can he call his? His own choice, his own volition, repaid by the trust she places in him. (A gift to be held close, to be treasured.)
His gaze flickers up as she peels off her shirt, a not-insignificant distraction (and temptation) as he gently pulls down her breeches, easing the fabric over the curve of her hips. All he can offer is a sigh at the sight of her bare skin — the scars that mark it — as he lowers his head, pressing a soft kiss to the tender flesh of her thigh. His hands anchor at her waist as his tongue draws a slow trail to the part of her legs.
It's still thrilling to feel genuine want, to feel a shiver run through his body, to feel every nerve ending respond to even the slightest sensation. That first taste of her draws a low hum from his throat, equal parts pleasure and anticipation. It's strange to feel this way about intimacy again (if he'd ever, he can't quite recall) — eager to learn what makes her tick rather than simply having to do so for the sake of passing a night. ]