[ it's — nice. that one little word seems such an understatement, deceptively casual; nice is reserved for full-bodied vintages after a long journey, or a breeze caressing gentle fingers over sweat-soaked, blood-slick skin after a battle runs hot. nice fails to encompass the glow dappling her cheeks in the aftermath, as though sun-kissed; nice wouldn't warrant the wistful fog clouding her eyes, that draws them like an arrow point to his mouth. nice is ...
simplistic. but with the tangled knot their paths have become, it's nice for something to feel so uncomplicated. something she doesn't have to pick apart, just to make sense of it.
her fingers brush in feathery strokes over the bladed angle of his jaw, distracted. every facet of him seems designed for predatory danger, alluring in the way of a serpent's shimmering scales, promising beautiful lethality. perhaps she's always harbored a quiet fondness for night's creatures, for nature's less understood creations — or perhaps few know, as she's come to learn, the gift of being chosen by what the world would call a monster.
a sense of security she does not take for granted as she molds her front more solidly into his chest, bumps her forehead to his in an affectionate nudge, as though he's no greater threat to her than a doting housecat. ]
Should we?
[ a raspy tease to match her hovering mouth, skimming like butterfly wings across his own. the fatal flaw of their tightly interwoven group is how they've come to naturally learn one another's scars, their weaknesses, their talents. valuable secrets to wield as a crutch, in hours of need, or as weapons, if the mood were to suit.
astarion's vanity is a harmless thing to tease out and rile, in that grand scheme, but no less known to her. case in point: ]
Perhaps we should. I fear you might need the practice.
[ her vexing little smile imprints itself against his mouth like a warm brand, just before she sinks teeth in, drawing the pillowy swell of his lower lip out with a nipping bite. ]
no subject
simplistic. but with the tangled knot their paths have become, it's nice for something to feel so uncomplicated. something she doesn't have to pick apart, just to make sense of it.
her fingers brush in feathery strokes over the bladed angle of his jaw, distracted. every facet of him seems designed for predatory danger, alluring in the way of a serpent's shimmering scales, promising beautiful lethality. perhaps she's always harbored a quiet fondness for night's creatures, for nature's less understood creations — or perhaps few know, as she's come to learn, the gift of being chosen by what the world would call a monster.
a sense of security she does not take for granted as she molds her front more solidly into his chest, bumps her forehead to his in an affectionate nudge, as though he's no greater threat to her than a doting housecat. ]
Should we?
[ a raspy tease to match her hovering mouth, skimming like butterfly wings across his own. the fatal flaw of their tightly interwoven group is how they've come to naturally learn one another's scars, their weaknesses, their talents. valuable secrets to wield as a crutch, in hours of need, or as weapons, if the mood were to suit.
astarion's vanity is a harmless thing to tease out and rile, in that grand scheme, but no less known to her. case in point: ]
Perhaps we should. I fear you might need the practice.
[ her vexing little smile imprints itself against his mouth like a warm brand, just before she sinks teeth in, drawing the pillowy swell of his lower lip out with a nipping bite. ]