[ it's the ground opening up beneath her, she finds, that she despises most. a purpose, a cause, has given her even-footing; faith has allowed her to read without faltering. bereft of it, she's left with the permanent sense of plummeting toward an unknown, with no guarantee of safe passage nor safe landing.
perhaps such an aversion is precisely what had made him a source of her apprehension, before — before now, before this. astarion had been, stubbornly so, a cryptic book written in an ancient language: difficult to parse, pages stuck together, unable to brute-force her way through. it's a little humorous, she thinks, to be able to interpret him so easily now. the sparkle of his eyes as they crinkle, somehow youthful for all the years he carries. the lilt of his words, teasing. the angle of his face toward her, open.
the small collection of secrets she's gleaned from a man that's gone from unknown to known, before she'd come to realize it. (and a promise of acceptance that eases her shoulders down, that sends her pulse fluttering in an upward spiral.)
anticipation, rather than former wariness, is what locks her breath in her chest. she knows, of course, what's to come next — conceptually speaking, that is, some idea of stolen breath and pillowy mouths, in her faint recollections. she can only remember such experiences as something intangible, now, something more phantomlike than the first press of his mouth to hers. something too that doesn't prepare her, not wholly, for the sighing breath that shakes out of her in response.
(something that fails to compare. perhaps that's the one benefit of memory loss she's found: this chance to reclaim her firsts, redo them as she would have chosen, had she the freedom.)
she seems to pause to hover, for just a moment, meeting his lips with just an overwhelmed spill of hot breath. it's a breed of stillness that basks, like savoring a first bite after weeks of fasting. (that memorizes, that fears the absence of another integral piece plucked from her mind.) it's difficult, not to act hungry after a lifetime of being starved, once she urges herself impossibly closer — but there's a methodical quality to the first swipe of her tongue, indulgent and measured. an unhurried exploration of sorts, a discovery of secrets she can only taste when she licks into his mouth, a palm rising to gingerly cup the contour of his cheek.
he tastes sweeter than she'd imagined, no copper tinge to tingle in her mouth, as she traces the curved point of a fang in unabashed curiosity. ]
no subject
perhaps such an aversion is precisely what had made him a source of her apprehension, before — before now, before this. astarion had been, stubbornly so, a cryptic book written in an ancient language: difficult to parse, pages stuck together, unable to brute-force her way through. it's a little humorous, she thinks, to be able to interpret him so easily now. the sparkle of his eyes as they crinkle, somehow youthful for all the years he carries. the lilt of his words, teasing. the angle of his face toward her, open.
the small collection of secrets she's gleaned from a man that's gone from unknown to known, before she'd come to realize it. (and a promise of acceptance that eases her shoulders down, that sends her pulse fluttering in an upward spiral.)
anticipation, rather than former wariness, is what locks her breath in her chest. she knows, of course, what's to come next — conceptually speaking, that is, some idea of stolen breath and pillowy mouths, in her faint recollections. she can only remember such experiences as something intangible, now, something more phantomlike than the first press of his mouth to hers. something too that doesn't prepare her, not wholly, for the sighing breath that shakes out of her in response.
(something that fails to compare. perhaps that's the one benefit of memory loss she's found: this chance to reclaim her firsts, redo them as she would have chosen, had she the freedom.)
she seems to pause to hover, for just a moment, meeting his lips with just an overwhelmed spill of hot breath. it's a breed of stillness that basks, like savoring a first bite after weeks of fasting. (that memorizes, that fears the absence of another integral piece plucked from her mind.) it's difficult, not to act hungry after a lifetime of being starved, once she urges herself impossibly closer — but there's a methodical quality to the first swipe of her tongue, indulgent and measured. an unhurried exploration of sorts, a discovery of secrets she can only taste when she licks into his mouth, a palm rising to gingerly cup the contour of his cheek.
he tastes sweeter than she'd imagined, no copper tinge to tingle in her mouth, as she traces the curved point of a fang in unabashed curiosity. ]