[ Be mindful, rather than don't. He's almost taken aback, despite the fact that they're here, like this, tangled in each others' arms. The aftereffects, he supposes, of having spent so long actively trying to hide what he is β it'd been a shock, even, that he'd been allowed to stay in camp after the truth about his nature had come to light. To have her allow it, embrace it β it's a gift.
The significance of tenderness runs both ways, after all β just as easily as he could tear her throat out if he so wished, so too could she turn him into ash with a single incantation. (It's a little ironic, he thinks, that she's arguably the one in their camp who would have the easiest time of dispatching him, emotional attachment aside.) And, with all they know of their respective pasts, the choice not to defer to what they've found easiest throughout the long years is a significant one.
It makes the arch of her spine all the more enticing; as intoxicating as the sound of her breath had been that night, it's even more so now, given more freely, coupled with the feeling of her frame against his, the lovely blush of her skin, the way her fingers curl in his hair β neediness, but more importantly, neediness that's reciprocated. He feels drunk on it β yet another surprise, something he hasn't felt since he was living. There's a hint of that sensation in his gaze as he looks up to meet hers, a smile pulling his lips back over his teeth, a half-joke in the same vein as her own. ]
Woe betide the poor soul who'd dare leave even the faintest scratch upon your skin, [ he murmurs, as one of his hands finds the dip of her waist, the band of her breeches. The other draws a path along the inside of her thigh, a hint as to his intentions as he eases his frame further down her own, all slow enough to ensure he's not rushing things. Even now, he seeks permission, despite the invitation issued, as though each movement required its own affirmation.
She can handle herself perfectly well, he knows, but that isn't the point of such a comment β it's an offer, a contract, an acknowledgment of care expressed in a way that comes easily to him, namely, the threat of violence against anyone who'd hurt her, or even simply inconvenience her. ]
[ rather late for that, she thinks. her body is already a topography of scar tissue, mapping the merciless nature of her upbringing, and yet — she can't recount the origins behind a single line. not the divot that marks her elbow, or the silvery streaks where blades must have surely glanced off, left to invent and imagine their stories. a training session turned too relentlessly punishing, a mission with more twists than she'd planned for — the likeliest culprits, perhaps, but strangely ... forgettable. disconnected from the rest of her, as though it had been earned in another life.
it's a strange, morbid thing to cherish the scrapes and cuts they've gathered along the way — fresh ownership over the landscape of her skin, and the knowledge she's chosen what to endure, of her own volition. of carrying what has mattered to her. when the inevitable comes — when they all disperse, traveling down forked paths in the road, should they even survive the journey — at least she'll be able to press her fingers to skin and remember.
he'd likely think her inflicted with new madness, were she to insist there's no one else she would rather have marked on her. she settles, instead, for this: an endeared, impish curl to her mouth, as a prelude to her nails leisurely raking along his scalp. a silent reward for the devotion coloring that promise of bloodshed, perhaps, if not encouragement. ]
No need to seduce me with pretty promises, [ she sighs out, a rasp that floats from her like smoky wisps from a bonfire. ] You already have me.
[ some girls prefer the romance of flowers. some girls prefer the darker touch of protective threats casting a shadow of death over their enemies. shadowheart, as it turns out, finds both equally enthralling. (a woman of multitudes, she is.) it likely shouldn't settle low in her stomach like molten gold, on that note, but — but. she understands the creatures they are, understands the significance of devotion given willingly, when they have each had to suffer the ailment of fealty being compelled by another's hand.
it hardly helps that he looks as she feels, utterly — gone. hopelessly addicted. it's more flattering than any compliment he could bestow; more powerful than any ill-gotten illithid gains. emboldened, her fingers reach for the hem of her shirt, only minutely distracted by the muscle he sends twitching in her corded thighs — and wriggles her spine to peel it overhead. a comfortable and confident sort of nudity, now that's grown more certain she hasn't misread him.
as if pulled by a string, her fingers return to his nape, kneading fingertips against the back of his neck. reassurance every step of the way, as her legs splay to accommodate his travels, though not quite so great an affirmation as her quiet albeit steady: ]
[ Mere weeks, months ago, Astarion's idea of a future had been nothing but a blank slate β 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 β 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 β 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 β 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 β butβ
βbut 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 β the scars that mark it β 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) β eager to learn what makes her tick rather than simply having to do so for the sake of passing a night. ]
[ it's inevitable that the first graze of his tongue should be fire to gunpowder, an ignition that prompts a cataclysmic reaction, after she's starved her body of affection for so long. of their own accord, her thighs snap tighter like the steel mouth of a metal trap; her fingers coil and pull so tightly it should sting his scalp. and the whine that wrings itself from her throat — it makes her fondness for privacy weep, internally, for how high and thin it pitches, in an otherwise quiet forest. all of her nerve-endings feel at turmoil, all of her muscles wound to a tight point, and yet ...
she finds this — this closeness, this new inability to hide parts of herself away — to be the missing element from their last little act of intimacy. clothed tent walls had still kept them shrouded, still kept her safely disconnected, still kept her lonely and yearning for something beyond her reach. she finds it, now, as her fingers scramble across her skin — leaving thin, temporary white lines in her nail's wake — to cling to his.
smoothly, her fingers lock through his with ease, providing an anchoring point amidst stolen breath and surprising sensation. she squeezes once, twice; some delirious, shy smile graces her mouth as her cheek plants into the grass, parting around a mesmerized, reeling (and very eloquent, very succinct), ]
Fuck.
[ karlach's lexicon might have its merits, in hindsight. all other words fail to accurately describe the forcible way she has to shakily pry her legs from mashing his ears against his skull, or the seeking hitches in her hips toward his sinful mouth. it takes effort to fall back on old habits to pin them back to the ground, to try not to squirm so pitifully, to keep still for his sake — a task immediately failed, for all of her talk of self-discipline.
(perhaps, then, that the accomplishment is not overtaking him to see to her own needs; to learn to allow another to take care of her, tempted as she is by her natural urge for control, for self-reliance. some habits still need to be unlearned. the muscles in her abdomen flex, clench, with the effort of holding back.)
she presses the tips of her fingers to her mouth, watching him through heavy eyelids. a thousand words of praise bloom, the pleasure he's gifted her only fueling her need to provide it in turn, only — they're all inadequate. two centuries have likely reassured him already that he's unfairly good at this, and his own preening ego knows he is — as she's noticed, with a pang in her chest — unbearably pretty, the way marble statues are.
all truthful words, yes, but ones that her fumbling for something better. something he isn't so certain in. and so: ]
Perfect, [ she exhales, a pleasure-drunk, wonderstruck whisper. ] You take such good care of me.
[ The conundrum, he thinks, is that there is only one of him β that he cannot kiss every part of her at once, that he cannot properly watch her reactions to his ministrations without also being the one to prompt them. It's a sort of greed; a desire to devour her every movement, every breath, to hoard away a perfect memory. To wit, when her legs close around him and his fingers curl into a fist in his hair, his reaction is a huff of breath, half-laugh and half-groan. It's an inconvenience β even a pain β that he welcomes, what with the sensation intertwined as it is with her expression of pleasure.
The squeeze of her hand is met with his own, equal parts a response and an anchoring as the lick of his tongue becomes more insistent, seeking her taste, the soft bud of sensitive nerves that sets off each new buck of her hips. When his eyes meet hers again, the look contained within is wanton β hungry, in a way he'd thought himself incapable of β drinking in the blush of her features, the heaviness of her own gaze. His own need feels somehow trivial in comparison; what he wants is to see her come undone, to fully tear apart her sense of self-control for the sake of succumbing to desire, to him.
So, for once, there's no clever retort to the whisper that passes her lips, just a flutter of his lashes in response. It undoes him piece by piece β the way she looks at him, his hunger matched; the timbre of her voice like honey in his ears; and, of course, the simple fact of what she chooses to say. She knows, already, of his weakness for praise β a kind of neediness built out of insecurity, buried deep, and the desire to be wanted, adored β but there's a simple distinction between what he's heard over and over again (what he already knows, what he's used as a weapon) and what's meaningful, what's more about what they choose to do for each other.
It sets afire the ache already present in the pit of his stomach, nervous trills of arousal running through his frame as his own hips square against the grass, a buzzing in his head that's as much to do with what he wants to say: I want you to come, or more to the point, I want you to come for me. And all of that can be expressed just as well through gesture, through action, through his maintained focus on her. You take such good care of me, she says β a sentiment worth proving true, to the last moment.
By contrast, for him, it's near impossible to fall back into old habits. There's no sense of absence for him, here, nothing about this that is perfunctory or put on. In the moment, he only vaguely recognizes that, instead caught up in the thrill of mutual want. That's the thing, isn't it: she makes him feelβ alive. ]
[ her first, irrational thought is that it's simply — unfair, how easily he pinpoints a weakness, exploits it with merciless precision, lends her no warning before he's licking her raw. she'd laugh, at any other time, at how utterly astarion it is to take note of a vulnerability and toy with it (and how utterly unlike her it is to reveal a soft spot, to start). as it stands, her fingers can only wring tighter around his own, white-knuckling her grip until they blanch from pressure.
it's a funny thing, trusting that someone might put her back together after she's shown them where to strike, after they've determinedly taken her apart; it's a funny thing to think her own weaknesses might be used against her, for no other means than to push her into pleasure's embrace, rather than a misstep to be promptly corrected. a blemish wiped from mind. here, she can merely ... be. be at a disadvantage. bare herself, without threat of excoriation. that, more than anything, seizes her chest with fondness — to know, without doubt, she's found one place she is encouraged to lay down her arms and rest at ease.
a strange sense of peace streams through her, despite the rigidity that seizes her frame, the rippling trembling in her thighs, all warnings of a seismic event. it's only inevitable that he should be able to finesse what he wants from her; it's only inevitable that starving her body of affection for such long stretches of time would make her susceptible to the thrall of his tongue. her tongue flicks out to wet the pillowy swell of her lower lip, a spell to summon words that would otherwise evade her: ]
Could you — [ she falters around a choking, plaintive moan. (when was the last time she supplicated herself in earnest, for anyone but a looming and spiteful goddess? when was the last time she was certain her request would be heard and embraced, rather than denied — forbidden to keep her memories, forbidden to dream, forbidden her lady's favor? the answer to both, she suspects, is never.) ] Inside.
[ a slow dragging of their interconnected hands leads him over the plane of her stomach, toward the intersection of thigh and hip, to clarify her request — if the fluttering, clenching pulse between her legs hasn't, a lingering emptiness that ache to be filled — the last thing she needs to be pushed over the edge.
then, with the desperate, entreating edge of one that has experienced denial and deprivation one too many times: ] Please.
[ not a word she's been known to throw around lightly. it strains, raw and foreign, in her throat, as she squeezes his fingers for emphasis. ]
[ There are clear tells, for creatures like them, as to what constitutes true trust and affection, each entwined with the marks of what they've endured to get to this point, what makes the act of opening up so significant to begin with. For her, the willingness to be so vulnerable, to let go of control; for him, the willingness to be supplicant, to be unselfish. Two hundred years of servitude had taught him to close off his heart, to think of no one's survival or pleasure but his own. But for her, oh, for herβ
Were this not the kind of catharsis that it is, he might take pleasure in drawing this out, in teasing her, in refusal. Perhaps he would still, if they had all the time in the world, but they don't, not with the threat of the end of the world hanging over their heads, and besides, he has never known her to ask for anything, let alone plead, carelessly. And there is nothing, he thinks, that she could ask of him that he would deny her.
His tongue leaves her for only a moment, just long enough to bring his other hand to his lips, to take one of his fingers into his mouth to wet it. In the single beat before his tongue finds her again, before his finger presses into the heat between her legs (slow, careful not to cause her any discomfort): ]
My loveβ
[ The words escape from him on a sigh. Gods know he's spoken it time and time again before, but never like this, never without an exact calculation as to far how it would get him. Here, that's no longer relevant; they're not words given in expectation of an exchange. It's simply a truth, given because he wants to give it, because he wants her to know β because he's half out of his mind with desire, how tight she is around the arch of his finger.
For them, such things amount to a killing blow, strength and pretense set aside for the sake of honesty. He'd thought, once, that the tadpole and all of the calamity it brought with him were hardly his concern β others, more inclined to heroism, would take care of such things. But his need for her sparks a different want within him: the desire to see things through for the sake of their shared future, for the sake of not losing this, and how precious she's become to him. ]
[ a sigh of approval, at surface level; a deeper vow, buried within, with all of the heft of a binding oath. it doesn't subscribe itsef to the same possession that lives within i belong to you, or words like mine and yours and ours, better used for objects and valuables. they know better than to stake those claims upon one another as though seizing territory, have too freshly begun to unclasp their chains to long for another fetter so soon. instead, it's a weighted choice by her hand, a single word that agrees i belong with you, the way birds flock to their own and wolves demand a pack. or, perhaps, more dramatically: the way night can't exist without day, moonlight without sunlight, lungs without air.
what a thing it is to be loved, to have a home of her own making — to decide where it is she belongs, rather than be told her place in this world. her chest burns with it, with the wrenching force of the sounds pulled from her throat, uncertain if it's the bespelled nature of his words or her overwrought senses that pushes her so quickly over the edge. (he'd been right, as it turns out, to think a word as sentimental as love could sway even the most resilient hearts.) she's still pulsing around his finger in tight, frantic waves when she tugs upon his hand, a silent come here —
— that she takes into her own hands, regardless of how quickly (or otherwise) he adheres to her demand. her legs cinch around his shoulders to flip him underneath her with relatively smooth ease, a rare show of strength without violence to drive it. (a new use of it, for her.) a pronounced pause follows, splintered only by her half-flustered little smile as it beams down at him, before she begins her descent — a panther-esque crawl that sees her land in his lap, unabashed by the damp stain her arousal marks into the front of his trousers.
what she wants to ask is is this okay, is this good? — a search for reassurance that's lost, in the hungry press of her mouth, something half-starved in the nature of her kiss. but that's the thing, about having a first taste of something forbidden; it's only awoken her greed, drawn attention to that famished ache in the pit of her chest that wants — that wants, that permits it of herself. when she pulls away, it's only by centimeters, each syllable breathed into him, ]
Again. [ a mere, intoxicated whisper of a word. old, battleworn callouses catch on his skin as she frames his face with the cup of her palms. ] Tell me again.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lmao we've all been there
The significance of tenderness runs both ways, after all β just as easily as he could tear her throat out if he so wished, so too could she turn him into ash with a single incantation. (It's a little ironic, he thinks, that she's arguably the one in their camp who would have the easiest time of dispatching him, emotional attachment aside.) And, with all they know of their respective pasts, the choice not to defer to what they've found easiest throughout the long years is a significant one.
It makes the arch of her spine all the more enticing; as intoxicating as the sound of her breath had been that night, it's even more so now, given more freely, coupled with the feeling of her frame against his, the lovely blush of her skin, the way her fingers curl in his hair β neediness, but more importantly, neediness that's reciprocated. He feels drunk on it β yet another surprise, something he hasn't felt since he was living. There's a hint of that sensation in his gaze as he looks up to meet hers, a smile pulling his lips back over his teeth, a half-joke in the same vein as her own. ]
Woe betide the poor soul who'd dare leave even the faintest scratch upon your skin, [ he murmurs, as one of his hands finds the dip of her waist, the band of her breeches. The other draws a path along the inside of her thigh, a hint as to his intentions as he eases his frame further down her own, all slow enough to ensure he's not rushing things. Even now, he seeks permission, despite the invitation issued, as though each movement required its own affirmation.
She can handle herself perfectly well, he knows, but that isn't the point of such a comment β it's an offer, a contract, an acknowledgment of care expressed in a way that comes easily to him, namely, the threat of violence against anyone who'd hurt her, or even simply inconvenience her. ]
i'll never live the shame down
it's a strange, morbid thing to cherish the scrapes and cuts they've gathered along the way — fresh ownership over the landscape of her skin, and the knowledge she's chosen what to endure, of her own volition. of carrying what has mattered to her. when the inevitable comes — when they all disperse, traveling down forked paths in the road, should they even survive the journey — at least she'll be able to press her fingers to skin and remember.
he'd likely think her inflicted with new madness, were she to insist there's no one else she would rather have marked on her. she settles, instead, for this: an endeared, impish curl to her mouth, as a prelude to her nails leisurely raking along his scalp. a silent reward for the devotion coloring that promise of bloodshed, perhaps, if not encouragement. ]
No need to seduce me with pretty promises, [ she sighs out, a rasp that floats from her like smoky wisps from a bonfire. ] You already have me.
[ some girls prefer the romance of flowers. some girls prefer the darker touch of protective threats casting a shadow of death over their enemies. shadowheart, as it turns out, finds both equally enthralling. (a woman of multitudes, she is.) it likely shouldn't settle low in her stomach like molten gold, on that note, but — but. she understands the creatures they are, understands the significance of devotion given willingly, when they have each had to suffer the ailment of fealty being compelled by another's hand.
it hardly helps that he looks as she feels, utterly — gone. hopelessly addicted. it's more flattering than any compliment he could bestow; more powerful than any ill-gotten illithid gains. emboldened, her fingers reach for the hem of her shirt, only minutely distracted by the muscle he sends twitching in her corded thighs — and wriggles her spine to peel it overhead. a comfortable and confident sort of nudity, now that's grown more certain she hasn't misread him.
as if pulled by a string, her fingers return to his nape, kneading fingertips against the back of his neck. reassurance every step of the way, as her legs splay to accommodate his travels, though not quite so great an affirmation as her quiet albeit steady: ]
It's alright, Astarion. I trust you.
no subject
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 β 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 β 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 β butβ
βbut 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 β the scars that mark it β 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) β eager to learn what makes her tick rather than simply having to do so for the sake of passing a night. ]
no subject
she finds this — this closeness, this new inability to hide parts of herself away — to be the missing element from their last little act of intimacy. clothed tent walls had still kept them shrouded, still kept her safely disconnected, still kept her lonely and yearning for something beyond her reach. she finds it, now, as her fingers scramble across her skin — leaving thin, temporary white lines in her nail's wake — to cling to his.
smoothly, her fingers lock through his with ease, providing an anchoring point amidst stolen breath and surprising sensation. she squeezes once, twice; some delirious, shy smile graces her mouth as her cheek plants into the grass, parting around a mesmerized, reeling (and very eloquent, very succinct), ]
Fuck.
[ karlach's lexicon might have its merits, in hindsight. all other words fail to accurately describe the forcible way she has to shakily pry her legs from mashing his ears against his skull, or the seeking hitches in her hips toward his sinful mouth. it takes effort to fall back on old habits to pin them back to the ground, to try not to squirm so pitifully, to keep still for his sake — a task immediately failed, for all of her talk of self-discipline.
(perhaps, then, that the accomplishment is not overtaking him to see to her own needs; to learn to allow another to take care of her, tempted as she is by her natural urge for control, for self-reliance. some habits still need to be unlearned. the muscles in her abdomen flex, clench, with the effort of holding back.)
she presses the tips of her fingers to her mouth, watching him through heavy eyelids. a thousand words of praise bloom, the pleasure he's gifted her only fueling her need to provide it in turn, only — they're all inadequate. two centuries have likely reassured him already that he's unfairly good at this, and his own preening ego knows he is — as she's noticed, with a pang in her chest — unbearably pretty, the way marble statues are.
all truthful words, yes, but ones that her fumbling for something better. something he isn't so certain in. and so: ]
Perfect, [ she exhales, a pleasure-drunk, wonderstruck whisper. ] You take such good care of me.
no subject
The squeeze of her hand is met with his own, equal parts a response and an anchoring as the lick of his tongue becomes more insistent, seeking her taste, the soft bud of sensitive nerves that sets off each new buck of her hips. When his eyes meet hers again, the look contained within is wanton β hungry, in a way he'd thought himself incapable of β drinking in the blush of her features, the heaviness of her own gaze. His own need feels somehow trivial in comparison; what he wants is to see her come undone, to fully tear apart her sense of self-control for the sake of succumbing to desire, to him.
So, for once, there's no clever retort to the whisper that passes her lips, just a flutter of his lashes in response. It undoes him piece by piece β the way she looks at him, his hunger matched; the timbre of her voice like honey in his ears; and, of course, the simple fact of what she chooses to say. She knows, already, of his weakness for praise β a kind of neediness built out of insecurity, buried deep, and the desire to be wanted, adored β but there's a simple distinction between what he's heard over and over again (what he already knows, what he's used as a weapon) and what's meaningful, what's more about what they choose to do for each other.
It sets afire the ache already present in the pit of his stomach, nervous trills of arousal running through his frame as his own hips square against the grass, a buzzing in his head that's as much to do with what he wants to say: I want you to come, or more to the point, I want you to come for me. And all of that can be expressed just as well through gesture, through action, through his maintained focus on her. You take such good care of me, she says β a sentiment worth proving true, to the last moment.
By contrast, for him, it's near impossible to fall back into old habits. There's no sense of absence for him, here, nothing about this that is perfunctory or put on. In the moment, he only vaguely recognizes that, instead caught up in the thrill of mutual want. That's the thing, isn't it: she makes him feelβ alive. ]
no subject
it's a funny thing, trusting that someone might put her back together after she's shown them where to strike, after they've determinedly taken her apart; it's a funny thing to think her own weaknesses might be used against her, for no other means than to push her into pleasure's embrace, rather than a misstep to be promptly corrected. a blemish wiped from mind. here, she can merely ... be. be at a disadvantage. bare herself, without threat of excoriation. that, more than anything, seizes her chest with fondness — to know, without doubt, she's found one place she is encouraged to lay down her arms and rest at ease.
a strange sense of peace streams through her, despite the rigidity that seizes her frame, the rippling trembling in her thighs, all warnings of a seismic event. it's only inevitable that he should be able to finesse what he wants from her; it's only inevitable that starving her body of affection for such long stretches of time would make her susceptible to the thrall of his tongue. her tongue flicks out to wet the pillowy swell of her lower lip, a spell to summon words that would otherwise evade her: ]
Could you — [ she falters around a choking, plaintive moan. (when was the last time she supplicated herself in earnest, for anyone but a looming and spiteful goddess? when was the last time she was certain her request would be heard and embraced, rather than denied — forbidden to keep her memories, forbidden to dream, forbidden her lady's favor? the answer to both, she suspects, is never.) ] Inside.
[ a slow dragging of their interconnected hands leads him over the plane of her stomach, toward the intersection of thigh and hip, to clarify her request — if the fluttering, clenching pulse between her legs hasn't, a lingering emptiness that ache to be filled — the last thing she needs to be pushed over the edge.
then, with the desperate, entreating edge of one that has experienced denial and deprivation one too many times: ] Please.
[ not a word she's been known to throw around lightly. it strains, raw and foreign, in her throat, as she squeezes his fingers for emphasis. ]
no subject
Were this not the kind of catharsis that it is, he might take pleasure in drawing this out, in teasing her, in refusal. Perhaps he would still, if they had all the time in the world, but they don't, not with the threat of the end of the world hanging over their heads, and besides, he has never known her to ask for anything, let alone plead, carelessly. And there is nothing, he thinks, that she could ask of him that he would deny her.
His tongue leaves her for only a moment, just long enough to bring his other hand to his lips, to take one of his fingers into his mouth to wet it. In the single beat before his tongue finds her again, before his finger presses into the heat between her legs (slow, careful not to cause her any discomfort): ]
My loveβ
[ The words escape from him on a sigh. Gods know he's spoken it time and time again before, but never like this, never without an exact calculation as to far how it would get him. Here, that's no longer relevant; they're not words given in expectation of an exchange. It's simply a truth, given because he wants to give it, because he wants her to know β because he's half out of his mind with desire, how tight she is around the arch of his finger.
For them, such things amount to a killing blow, strength and pretense set aside for the sake of honesty. He'd thought, once, that the tadpole and all of the calamity it brought with him were hardly his concern β others, more inclined to heroism, would take care of such things. But his need for her sparks a different want within him: the desire to see things through for the sake of their shared future, for the sake of not losing this, and how precious she's become to him. ]
no subject
[ a sigh of approval, at surface level; a deeper vow, buried within, with all of the heft of a binding oath. it doesn't subscribe itsef to the same possession that lives within i belong to you, or words like mine and yours and ours, better used for objects and valuables. they know better than to stake those claims upon one another as though seizing territory, have too freshly begun to unclasp their chains to long for another fetter so soon. instead, it's a weighted choice by her hand, a single word that agrees i belong with you, the way birds flock to their own and wolves demand a pack. or, perhaps, more dramatically: the way night can't exist without day, moonlight without sunlight, lungs without air.
what a thing it is to be loved, to have a home of her own making — to decide where it is she belongs, rather than be told her place in this world. her chest burns with it, with the wrenching force of the sounds pulled from her throat, uncertain if it's the bespelled nature of his words or her overwrought senses that pushes her so quickly over the edge. (he'd been right, as it turns out, to think a word as sentimental as love could sway even the most resilient hearts.) she's still pulsing around his finger in tight, frantic waves when she tugs upon his hand, a silent come here —
— that she takes into her own hands, regardless of how quickly (or otherwise) he adheres to her demand. her legs cinch around his shoulders to flip him underneath her with relatively smooth ease, a rare show of strength without violence to drive it. (a new use of it, for her.) a pronounced pause follows, splintered only by her half-flustered little smile as it beams down at him, before she begins her descent — a panther-esque crawl that sees her land in his lap, unabashed by the damp stain her arousal marks into the front of his trousers.
what she wants to ask is is this okay, is this good? — a search for reassurance that's lost, in the hungry press of her mouth, something half-starved in the nature of her kiss. but that's the thing, about having a first taste of something forbidden; it's only awoken her greed, drawn attention to that famished ache in the pit of her chest that wants — that wants, that permits it of herself. when she pulls away, it's only by centimeters, each syllable breathed into him, ]
Again. [ a mere, intoxicated whisper of a word. old, battleworn callouses catch on his skin as she frames his face with the cup of her palms. ] Tell me again.