[ lucky for astarion, she thinks ruefully, that her threshold for pain had been — refined, through shar's instructions. that she can tolerate the rot of her emotional wounds, even as they gnaw away at her. were tears to come of it, instead, she expects he would crumble into a frightened pile of dust at the sight, some fearsome creature laid to waste by a woman's crying. not that she expects her actual reaction to be met with a warmer reception, as she lets instinct guide her forward, as she lets some lonely need lead her nearer.
(a more meaningful gesture, when words can't measure up to the swell of gratitude in her chest.)
a hand braces between his shoulder blades (cautious, even now, wary of touching secrets raphael had little right to dole out to them in the name of showboating). it's the leverage she needs to haul herself across the distance, quick to bury her face in the alcove of his throat. he's not so frigid as she'd come to anticipate — thawed, perhaps, by the sunbeams above — but she hasn't discounted the possibility of his surprise. a hair's breadth exists between their bodies in that half-formed embrace she's initiated, as a result, her arm loose, in full expectation that he'll become a squirmy cat in her grip.
she waits, for just a single second, for her nerve-endings to flare with agony, as they might've otherwise. this would be softness, distraction, something to be lost and wielded against her — but she breathes a relieved exhale, to find shar's interference absent. (and yet, she thinks, it would've been worthy exchange, trading pain for the comfort of a closeness long lost to her.) ]
It seems I'm not the only one guilty of looking in dark places, then.
[ it might be commentary on their (his) choice to care for her, a targeted jab she aims toward herself, but it isn't without a tinge of warmth. there are a thousand other jumbled words that come to mind. a question as to whether he intends to heed his own wisdom, first, and trust they would never allow him to be taken, and then a more somber curiosity — of whether he might choose to forget what his hands have done, if he had the choice. of how painful it must be to remember, in order to steel herself.
she shakes them all off, in place of a murmur that brushes the slim line of his throat: ]
You say that as though it's a poor substitute for what I've lost. [ it is, very minutely, chiding. then, more softly, ] When the truth is ... I can't think of any greater gift to gain than to not have to walk through this world alone.
astarion's love language like https://i.imgur.com/o1ECFXy.jpg
(a more meaningful gesture, when words can't measure up to the swell of gratitude in her chest.)
a hand braces between his shoulder blades (cautious, even now, wary of touching secrets raphael had little right to dole out to them in the name of showboating). it's the leverage she needs to haul herself across the distance, quick to bury her face in the alcove of his throat. he's not so frigid as she'd come to anticipate — thawed, perhaps, by the sunbeams above — but she hasn't discounted the possibility of his surprise. a hair's breadth exists between their bodies in that half-formed embrace she's initiated, as a result, her arm loose, in full expectation that he'll become a squirmy cat in her grip.
she waits, for just a single second, for her nerve-endings to flare with agony, as they might've otherwise. this would be softness, distraction, something to be lost and wielded against her — but she breathes a relieved exhale, to find shar's interference absent. (and yet, she thinks, it would've been worthy exchange, trading pain for the comfort of a closeness long lost to her.) ]
It seems I'm not the only one guilty of looking in dark places, then.
[ it might be commentary on their (his) choice to care for her, a targeted jab she aims toward herself, but it isn't without a tinge of warmth. there are a thousand other jumbled words that come to mind. a question as to whether he intends to heed his own wisdom, first, and trust they would never allow him to be taken, and then a more somber curiosity — of whether he might choose to forget what his hands have done, if he had the choice. of how painful it must be to remember, in order to steel herself.
she shakes them all off, in place of a murmur that brushes the slim line of his throat: ]
You say that as though it's a poor substitute for what I've lost. [ it is, very minutely, chiding. then, more softly, ] When the truth is ... I can't think of any greater gift to gain than to not have to walk through this world alone.