[ tension smooths the crease between her brows. what she's failed to say — what implication lurks beneath the surface — is how tiring it's all become. how unspooling the schemes woven throughout her life has exhausted her beyond what her determination would suggest. how she would rather not do the same with him, to see if he's puppeteering her on new strings. after all of the questioning she's had to do, she hardly thinks it's so much to ask that he doesn't make her question his intentions toward her.
that worry pops like a bubble, for now, as the smile that breaks across astarion's mask reminds her of porcelain chipped away, a mask crumbling. it's difficult not to feel accomplished in the face of it, in the wake of an expression that seems meant for her and her alone, when they've only just lamented what meager crumbs they could ever call their own.
the goblet's stem rests carefully, delicately, between steady fingers as her opposite hand raises. reaching for him is a fragile balancing act, too; the brush of her thumb becomes feather-light as it travels across the territory of his lower lip, needing to chart the shape of it for herself to believe it, memorize its sincerity through sensation. ]
Your secrets couldn't possibly ask for a better guardian.
[ who better than the woman trained in confidentiality, who can scarcely recall her own buried secrets? astarion, she assumes, must note the irony of it — as she does, with a little acknowledging sparkle behind her eyes. still, for all her tone's lightness, a hint of a promise nestles within it: in this quiet space, his honesty is safe in her hands, slips of truth she'll carry close to the chest.
her thumb slips away as to not overstay its welcome, gliding down his chin before it comes to a soft landing within plush grass. ]
Delighted you don't have to share my attention? [ her plait swings like a lazy pendulum once she cocks her head, warmly regarding him. there is something to be said, perhaps, for how the appearance of his smile has eased the same from her mouth. ] Or happy I've given your hands a needed respite from lockpicking?
no subject
that worry pops like a bubble, for now, as the smile that breaks across astarion's mask reminds her of porcelain chipped away, a mask crumbling. it's difficult not to feel accomplished in the face of it, in the wake of an expression that seems meant for her and her alone, when they've only just lamented what meager crumbs they could ever call their own.
the goblet's stem rests carefully, delicately, between steady fingers as her opposite hand raises. reaching for him is a fragile balancing act, too; the brush of her thumb becomes feather-light as it travels across the territory of his lower lip, needing to chart the shape of it for herself to believe it, memorize its sincerity through sensation. ]
Your secrets couldn't possibly ask for a better guardian.
[ who better than the woman trained in confidentiality, who can scarcely recall her own buried secrets? astarion, she assumes, must note the irony of it — as she does, with a little acknowledging sparkle behind her eyes. still, for all her tone's lightness, a hint of a promise nestles within it: in this quiet space, his honesty is safe in her hands, slips of truth she'll carry close to the chest.
her thumb slips away as to not overstay its welcome, gliding down his chin before it comes to a soft landing within plush grass. ]
Delighted you don't have to share my attention? [ her plait swings like a lazy pendulum once she cocks her head, warmly regarding him. there is something to be said, perhaps, for how the appearance of his smile has eased the same from her mouth. ] Or happy I've given your hands a needed respite from lockpicking?