[ Spoken confidently, belied by the way he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. It's one thing to know one's servitude is ill-won; it's another thing entirely to realize it so late, and to still be blind to so much of one's former life on top of it. He understands that, to some extent, that's why she's been at more of a remove than the rest of their fellows at camp: one cannot freely offer a part of oneself that's gone missing. ]
And besides, better miserable together than miserable alone.
[ With that, he takes a seat by the water, partially to try to breeze by the rest of what he perceives as gratefulness (terrifying), partially to get himself back on relatively steady footing and avoid the directness of her gaze. (He speaks as he always does, half with his hands and the sway of his frame, but perhaps with a little less ease than he usually might, a symptom of both attempted truthfulness and the resultant severe discomfort.)
She reminds him of the sun, of the light. For all that Shar had kept her in the darkness, her facility for light, for healing, seems innate. The role of a cleric β to protect, guide, and heal β is inconceivable to him, as had been, for a long time, the chance to once again stand underneath the open sun. He doesn't know if it's meant for him, as much as he may covet it. ]
Or, I suppose, miserable you, delightful me.
[ A more believable lie, as requested, as buoyed by his typical displays of ego, no matter how facile they might be. Gods know he's not a happy creature, per se, nor will he ever feel totally comfortable in his own skin so long as Cazador still lives, but there'll be a time and a place for that. ]
[ what a group they must make, on second thought, dragging their cloud of misery around with them. still, the first iteration of her smile is as weak as a middling illusion — easily dispelled, easily seen through. astarion's defenses may lie with charm, but she's not immune to presenting a front, herself. her sharran brethren, as she recalls them, have always shared the deadly appetites of wolves; one scent of weakness in the air is as tempting as a copper trail of blood, a reason to sink teeth into a vulnerable underbelly once it's exposed. only strength has ever deterred them from tearing into the throats of their own pack.
that self-preserving appearance is so habitual she doesn't quite realize she's fallen into an old trap, as she comes to a slow seat beside him. a respectable distance remains wedged between them — not so wide a chasm that it's impossible to bridge, but not so close as to be certain over whether she should heed her compulsion to close it.
(as with most skittish creatures, she considers the benefit of allowing him to come to her, instead, and rights herself into a more relaxed posture: a recline into soft grass, laying within the sun's caress, as her fingers interlace across her stomach. distance or closeness, he is right — better miserable together, than to be left miserable alone. the company is a balm to the ache that sits inside of her, most days.)
then, almost as though it's an idle observation than one of her astute ones: ] You seem struck by nerves.
[ the second iteration of her smile might be genuine, but perhaps worse, for how its breezy teasing comes at his expense. the energy radiating from him makes him look the part of a novice, in fact, at courting — though she supposes a dependence upon his pretty face had done well to serve him on its own, up until this point. up until her, especially. her booted foot wiggles out, knocks gently into his calf, as her cheek tilts into the greenery to cast a sideways look at him. ]
I can't fathom why. Of the two of us, I'm not the one with a reputation for my bite.
[ Her comment, along with the prod of her foot, is enough to pry a tsk from Astarion, along with a skeptical raise of one eyebrow as he shifts to lie on his side, head propped up on his hand. (The movement brings him a little closer than he had been before β affirmation as to her instinct to let him take things on his own time.) ]
Perhaps it's excitement, [ he says smoothly, though still lightly enough to be showing a little of his hand. ] I seem you recall you promised me the privilege of choosing my own reward, if I remained on good behavior.
[ But she knows as well as he does that titillation isn't the reason why he's on tenterhooks. He pauses, the line of his mouth briefly twisting as he considers what to say next. It feels less necessary to play coy, somehow, when not shrouded in darkness. And as his lips curl, the rest of his expression seems to unfold, his gaze losing its usual hooded quality to reveal something more openβ something younger than his years. ]
I've never had the pleasure ofβ continuing a courtship, shall we say, [ he offers, his tone calculatedly nonchalant, following a pause. ] Even if I'd wanted to, before, it was hardly in the cards. Nothing was mine. [ Then, a quick amendment: ] Nothing was for me.
[ Another pause. This isn't really a conversation he wants to have β not just for how closely he guards his secrets, but for making this more about him when she's in the middle of such a maelstrom. ]
I guess the point is that I can be nervous, around you. I know you won't flagellate me for it β beyond telling me I'm acting like a fool.
[ He rolls onto his back, then, checking for the basket (resetting the distance between them, having shown a little of his hand). ]
[ he must be an adroit dancer, shadowheart muses to herself, for how quickly he steps from honest secrets to a sharp turn in subject. despite the twists and turns of astarion's demeanor and the dizziness they bring upon her, she follows the rhythm he sets, temporarily indulges him with a quiet, ]
— You can.
[ whenever he returns his attention to her, the pensive lines that crease her forehead are easy to interpret: she hasn't conveniently forgotten, in the span of a few heartbeats, what's been shared, no matter his attempt to spin her away from it. it's funny, in the way that tragic poetry carries irony, that she's come to realize they're tethered by more than the wriggling parasite in their heads. her brainwashed zealotry, astarion's subjugation, karlach's servitude, lae'zel's dutiful obedience — they've all been pawns on a board, all suffered the moods of a master, all had their worlds turned on an axis, all struggled to adapt to new freedoms.
(if she believed strongly in such a concept, she might be so bold as to call it fate. as it stands, it's both fortunate and unfortunate coincidence to have found herself in the company of those who understand that unique pain to such a personal degree.)
she slinks onto her side, elevates herself onto one elbow — open body language that reflects the empathetic twist in her expression. vulnerability for vulnerability only seems to be a fair exchange, a show of trust from astarion's end that convinces her to confess, ]
I'm familiar with that breed of singular devotion. When everything you have, everything you are, is given in service of another ... you forget you ever had wants of your own at all. I've been a vessel for Lady Shar for so long that her dreams, her ambitions, became my own.
[ and now she is simply ... floating. aimless. not unlike astarion, given the newfound freedom to stumble as much as a newborn exploring the world, now that she is allowed to exist beyond shar's schemes. her eyes flutter across the expanse of astarion's face, from temple to chin, before they return to his eyes. ]
So, [ comes her warm drawl, low. ] I prefer you as the nervous, bumbling fool over the rake who always knows the right honeyed words to say.
It's honest, Astarion. I haven't had much of that in my life, lately. [ a brief, poignant pause. ] Perhaps not ever.
[ He laughs, at that, only a little incredulous, easing into something less skittish, more open.
It's as clear a statement as he could wish for, without having told her he's agonized over such things, that she might see him for who he is, not what his former master had taught him to be. He doesn't take that for granted, as loathe as he is to let his defenses down. The difficulty is in how he's learned to perceive his own self-worth, how he's essentially unlearned the ability to navigate affection and desire.
Resigned (forgoing the as long as it's both of our first times innuendo that comes to mind): ] Well, what kind of devil would I be to refuse you, then?
[ He squares the bottom of the wine bottle against his stomach, uncorking it soon thereafter with minimal trouble. He's stalling, really, as he produces a goblet from the basket as well, but he thinks she'll forgive him a moment to catch his breath. They're still in early stages, after all; neither is expected to fully bare their soul just yet, and he doubts it'd be easy for them, even if they wanted to. ]
Just so long as you don't tell the others, [ he adds, as he offers her the cup, the red liquid inside glimmering nearly as well as the water beyond it. ] I can't have them rushing to confide in me all at once.
[ But even that is half-hearted, a last jest offered while he turns back onto his side to properly look at her, nearly mirroring her posture. Miserable you, a fool I, he thinks, a smile coming unbidden to his lips. ]
I'd have gone with you, if you'd asked, [ he says, with a nod vaguely in the direction of their camp. ] But I'm happier that you're here, with me.
[ 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?
[ He holds her gaze as her hand alights upon his face, the shape of his mouth shifting only once as he laughs. It's for the best, he supposes, that they can all joke about their respective circumstances. Such self-awareness β a little distance β is the first step on the road to overcoming it, after all. ]
You know full well I do hate to share anything, much less your attention, [ he says, managing to err on just this side of playful rather than prissy. ] Though, of course, the respite is very welcome, too.
[ His other hand, formerly resting along his hip, comes to find hers in the grass between them, fingertips taking mock steps across the ridge of her knuckles before his palm settles, the pad of his thumb tracing over the bend of her wrist. It's still a light touch, an attempt to afford her the same kind of courtesy she's extended to him. Funny, really β her request that he lay down his usual pretenses leaves him at something of a loss. Were she anyone else, were the aim simply seduction, he'd have no trouble with the next steps of their dance, but as things areβ ]
I did quite enjoy our little ... nighttime chat. [ The words carry more truth than is immediately obvious. The fact is that he hadn't really expected to; anything close to physical pleasure had brought him nothing but loathing and disgust for so long. He doesn't want it to, but that prize had been wrested from him by force.
Then, a slight tempering, a little quieter: ] Yet another thing I didn't think you'd agree to, and yet, here we are.
[ Normally, he'd suggest translating the experience into action now, without much more fanfare, but that's not, he thinks, what she wants from him. Not immediately, anyway. (He's wondered, in the time between now and then, what it would be like to kiss her, to touch her. The impulse feels almost foreign. Would she want to know? Would she understand, if he recoiled? What he's shared with her β with any of them β has only really scratched the surface of what he'd gone through over the course of two centuries. He doesn't envy anyone the task of having to unravel it all, nor is he certain it's all worth sharing, in the end.) ]
[ it's poetic, really, that his astute senses are too adept at navigating the dark for her to conceal much within it, for her to remain enigmatic. despite the temptation of old habits, her training is no match for something so ... exposing. which is all to say — there is nothing so covert in how her pulse acts at odds with her usual composure, a betrayal of her own body; the little skittering hitch in it gives her away, the moment his thumb comes into contact with the (deceptively delicate, for all the pain they must have doled out) bones in her wrist.
she doesn't move to suppress it, notably, regardless of the self-conscious apprehension that arises whenever her vulnerability appears. it'd be an obvious attempt, for one; for another, it feels selfishly inequal, to demand honesty and yet deny him the same. her fingers twitch, instead, and then blossom open to be able to toy with his own in turn in light caresses. (mother superior — viconia, her mind harshly corrects — had never much cared for her inquisitiveness. too many questions posed a threat, she supposes. but she can enact upon her curiosity freely, now, even if it's relegated to something so seemingly simple as exploring the shape of his hands.) ]
No one is more shocked than I am, I assure you. [ it could be seen as her usual dry jabs, but as it stands — ] You continue to surprise me, Astarion.
[ — it's much too quiet, too earnest, to be one. even now, there's something heartbreakingly gentle in his consideration of her, made more painful by shar's deprivation of such things. a pause lapses by, occupied by the way her eyes flitter across his face, searching. ]
— Has it been memorable for you? [ the manner in which her voice drops, barely a pitch above a husky whisper, isn't designed to entice; it's merely the effect of butterflies the memory threatens to stir anew, whenever her mind travels toward it. ] The way it's been memorable for me?
[ — not just have you been thinking of me? it feels more significant, more meaningful to her, that it should be a memory that can't be taken, nor lost, nor claimed by some cruel outside force. ]
[ The way her heart skipsβ he's attuned to it, of course, as a creature whose very existence relies upon tapping into the pulses of others, but it's a first that he should find it cute. The temptation to pursue it strikes him almost immediately, visible only in a quick blink before he swallows it, lets it past. It's a genuine reaction, he thinks, a genuine want, but he doesn't fully trust his own heart (a curse, a mark he'd once thought indelible), and besides, though they may not exactly have all the time in the world, they have at least a little of it. ]
It has. I don't think I'd be able to forget it all even if I tried.
[ He turns his hand over, his open palm facing up β more territory to explore, should she so wish. (Trust, in the way there's no tension in his long fingers, no urge to close them into a fist or flinch away, and, on top of that, almost a confirmation to himself that he can be so open. It's hard for him to put out of mind the last time he'd felt anything close, the last time he'd tried to spare a soul from Cazador's grasp, and spent an entire year confined to a tomb as a result.) ]
In fact, I've hardly been able to think of anything else but you.
[ An answer delivered in his usual language, but distinguished by his tone: startled, almost, rather than seductive, and missing the usual pet name he'd typically append to such a thought. They've spoken enough that he knows her wording isn't incidental, and this is something of a gift in return; an acknowledgment of her importance to him in exchange for her willingness to forgo it. He opens his mouth to speak again, seems to think better of itβ then speaks, anyway. ]
Iβ like it.
[ It's the simplest possible nod at the fact at the notion that such a thing wasn't guaranteed, or that it's difficult for him at all β and exposing in its own way, as well. To wit, much more breezily than he means it: ]
Isn't that strange? I wasn't sure I was capable of it.
[ it's an invitation she seizes upon with only a passing heartbeat of a pause, some minor hesitation that speaks to the novelty of it all. of closeness, especially, beyond the encouragement of baser releases amongst shar's followers. this is no prelude to something more, nor would such a tender one be welcomed amid her brethren, besides. she takes her time with it, accordingly. time she's never had to simply be in the comfort of another's presence, outside a distant memory of a small alcove and — someone she can't recall. the blurry silhouette of what may have been a friend, she thinks. her first ever, perhaps, though time has blessedly shown her they were not to be her only.
she can't quite call astarion by the same name, she supposes, as her fingertips tickle along the grains of his palm, but he is — something. something important, something enlightening. a first, in many more ways. it seems in poor manners, then, to agree with him, to say neither did i. no matter how truthful or sardonic, the fact remains: she hadn't thought him capable of thinking beyond himself. hadn't imagined she would stick under his skin like a thorn, beyond tolerating her usefulness. hadn't even presumed, especially, that he might like to be haunted by her.
it casts a pleased little curl upon her mouth. not quite smug at the revelation, but certainly contented. funny, she thinks, that he should find the right magical combination of words to charm her when he isn't actively hunting for them. ]
Oh? Is it so peculiar?
[ her eyebrow arches gracefully, nails gliding over the lifelines etched into his hand lightly, absently drawing her own patterns among their number. a more direct approach seems the type of strategy that would send him scurrying; she opts for something more tongue-in-cheek, instead, to act as its own gentle nudge — if not the smallest breather, in consideration of the effort he must be extending, to lay himself so vulnerable at her request. ]
I do hope, for your sake, that's self-reflective and not commentary on my virtues.
[ That gets a scoff, a breath followed by an incredulous laugh. It's not that he doesn't take this seriously, justβ there's something lighter about the way he responds, here. A lack of pretense, if not a lack of his seemingly incurable affinity for drama. ]
Oh, please. Perish the thought.
[ For just a moment, he wiggles his fingers underneath hers, as though he might physically dispel even the slightest inkling that it might be her fault. His hand goes still again soon enough, open to her ministrations.
(He could hardly blame her, had she voiced the first words to come to mind. All things considered, he hasn't really given any of them much reason to trust him; he does the bare minimum as a party member, and isn't even close to forthcoming. Almost everything they've found out about him has been incidental, and it doesn't take too keen an eye to see that he's practically allergic to telling the truth. It's a miracle they keep him around β but he's grateful they do.)
For a beat, his gaze falls to their hands, following the lines she traces across his palm. ]
But, I must point outβ [ his fingers curl, drawing her hand more solidly into his ] βI hardly think I'm the only one with a case of nerves.
[ It's the most they've really touched. It feels bizarre, to him, that they should have shared something sexual before broaching such a thing, but perhaps it's all been for the best. It makes him a little nervous, too, though there's no hint of anything but steadiness in his expression as he looks back up at her. ]
It'd be quite desperate, wouldn't it, if I asked if you meant it. That it's beenβ a memorable time.
[ perish the thought rises in her throat, the temptation to echo him bubbling within. in the end, she opts for an equally breezy, and yet somehow forthcoming: ]
Perhaps I enjoy a touch of desperation.
[ a tentative, considering pause settles between them. ]
It would be no more desperate than if I asked whether you meant all you said that night, besides.
[ struck by a case of nerves, then, isn't an ill-fitting description of her — much as she innately wants to shuck off such an adjective. it seems so ... childish, in a manner she has learned to resist. another facet trained out of her, like a dulled blade that had needed sharpening. she can still recall slivers of those punishments, the discipline that hesitating had earned her. surely, viconia would likely scold, shadowheart should have shed those growing pains by now.
if anything, she has grown back into them, in relearning and reclaiming herself. even so simple a gesture as tethering her fingers between astarion's own, sliding home like a key to a lock, seems an act of rebellion against the restrictions she's known. a distraction she wouldn't have been permitted to keep, if it led her devotion stray elsewhere. ]
You're not especially known for taking much seriously. And as you've all discovered, I've a history of looking for love in dark, terrible places.
[ in essence, it's a rueful stab toward herself. blind devotion had led her astray, before; she trusts he won't fault her for her initial doubt in the extent of his interest and its sincerity, when her life has been so uprooted by betrayal.
her eyes drift to their interlinked hands, to the absent strokes of her thumb over the dips and valleys of his knuckles. it's a bit funny, in hindsight, that they've done their fair share of dancing around one another when they've both been desperately waiting for affirmation. it's precisely why she doesn't resist gifting it to him when she continues, markedly soft with vulnerability, ]
I suppose I have been careful because of it. But you were ... sweet to me, where you didn't have to be. Another surprise. [ her lips twitch, a smile that dies quickly. ] You've unmoored me and brought me peace all at once. Memorable almost seems a weak word, for something like that.
[ Sweet. The word sticks. His brow furrows as he looks at her, like he's looking for a lie. Not that he doesn't think he hasn't been (nor does he feel a tremendous amount of uncertainty as to her affection for him, in part because they're here, and in part because of an unfortunate streak of innate narcissism), butβ some part of him thinks it might be a lie, nonetheless.
How many sweet words had he offered to those he'd drawn into the dark? How many of them had found him gentle, affectionate, unmooring? The guilt he feels is complicated by the fact that it had been a necessary part of survival; it had either been him or them, and it wasn't like Cazador to make even death an easy means of escape. Had they met any earlier, either she'd have driven a stake through his heart, or he'd have lured her back to the Palace without a second thought.
The sigh he lets out, as such, is unintentional, something he only catches once it's already left his chest, wistfulness he immediately dismisses with a click of his tongue. ]
I wouldn't say you went looking for it, [ he says softly, about as kind a thing as he's ever said thus far. Then, lightly, for the sake of balance: ] But, no, I suppose I didn't have to be.
[ Still, he doesn't pursue that line of thought, doesn't speak aloud the aren't I nice that he might, were this conversation anything other than what it is (were they not alone). Instead, he turns onto his back, though he doesn't pull his hand away. (Her hand feels so warm in his β small, almost, more delicate than one might expect from someone so proficient in battle.) ]
I know what that's like. To be taken.
[ He keeps his face turned toward the sun, his gaze on the clouds that lazily float through the sky above them. ]
[ his words tiptoe uncomfortably close to absolution. the upward angle of his gaze means he misses the fraught crease between her brows. it is, perhaps, the greatest boon he could give her. it's also, shadowheart decides, not his to offer — if it can be offered at all. how can one even begin to ask forgiveness for sins they can't recall, from faces they can't remember? what right does she then have to believe him, to let herself be soothed by it?
she shifts to nestle quietly in the grass. for comfort's sake, she draws his hand closer, lets their joined fingers pillow underneath her cheek. for such warmth he provides, he is contrastingly chilled to the touch, brushing her skin like a cool breeze on a balmy day. ]
Didn't I?
[ go looking for it, at least in the end? it's as rhetorical as it isn't — and easier to speak into the air, once she lets her eyes seal closed. a bit of irony, she supposes, that her first compulsion is to find comfort in the darkness that accompanies the back of her eyelids, for how she's walked through this life with them closed to the truth. ]
Viconia is a different breed of monster, [ she says, carefully. the implication still lurks beneath: than cazador. ] Even now, I struggle to call her one. She was my mother, Lady Shar my beacon. Every punishment was a vital lesson taught. Every ounce of pain was a test to overcome.
[ there's a point to be made, there. the faint, blurred image astarion has painted of cazador has been a cruel one — a master without the pretense of love, of kindness. a leech, she thinks, in every manner the word can possibly be applied. astarion's obedience had been forcibly compelled, at odds with how willingly she had emptied herself into her faith, in the belief she would be better for it. (is it worse, she wonders, to feel the collar tightening around your throat — or to be oblivious to it, even as it strangles and pulls?)
she can't reconcile it: the reality of being bent and broken to another's liking, her role in it, where her responsibility and adjoining guilt begins and ends. the warring twist to her expression showcases as much, as her forehead crumples. ]
Fool I was, I convinced myself it was proof she cared for me. [ a struggling pause. ] Perhaps she did, in the way one cares to polish a blade.
[ Myriad responses spring to mind, all colored, he knows, by his own experiences, not hers. It feels inconceivable to him, to feel anything but hatred for a former captor, but what he knows of love, of the human heart, is that it can be a fickle, ruinous thing. He understands, for what it's worth, that their circumstances do differ. Had he been taken as a child, would he have felt the same way? Perhaps, perhaps. There's no way to know for certain.
Do you still wish for her approval? It seems too bold of him to ask, and too personal for her to answer. For better or for worse, such things have a way of getting under one's skin β the simple act of contemplation can become painful.
You had no choice. Too patronizing, even if he does believe it to be true.
I care for you. Too honest. (Too forward?)
A fourth recourse β to kiss her, to close the distance between them β occurs to him, too, but those are old habits flaring back up. An attempt to change the topic, even if he is increasingly tempted by the notion. ]
Youβ have people who do care for you, now, [ is what he settles on, instead, spurred to look at her again by the shift of her hand, the warmth of her cheek against his skin. (A small gesture, but a tender one.) Her expression is clear enough to read, and it makes him feel, annoyingly, concerned. ] I doubt anyone at our camp would let you face what's next alone. And not because they want anything from you. I imagine even our Gith friend would relish the chance to help you reclaim your past.
[ He squeezes her hand, studying her expression. He's never been good at comfort beyond the promise of a night spent together, in no small part because he hasn't really cared, before. And even now, his impulses lean toward promises of revenge, of blood spilt on her behalf rather thanβ whatever it is that she truly wants.
Well, fuck itβ ]
I care for you, Shadowheart. I know, I know, one thing cannot so easily replace or temper the other, butβ I do. And not as a blade, or some kind of protectress. Just ... as you.
astarion's love language like https://i.imgur.com/o1ECFXy.jpg
[ 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.
[ Shockingly, he doesn't pull away from her embrace β rather, he eases into it, going from stillness to a tentative sort of answer, his arm looping gently around her shoulders.
It feels strange to be touched with genuine care, not just lust or desire, or even the threat of violence. He sinks into it the way one would into water, letting any tension leave his body, focusing just on the weight and warmth of her, closing the last fraction of distance between them, his cheek settling against her forehead. He blinks once, twice, in surprise, a little freer in letting uncertainty play out across his face given his would-be audience isn't in a position to see it. ]
You're leaving me rather a lot of room to sing my own praises, [ he hums, then affecting an impression of himself to say, ] 'Of course it's a gift, to have won the affection of the most devastatingly beautiful vampire to walk this earth.' Not that I don't think of myself as such, but ...
[ His fingertips travel from her shoulder to the nape of her neck, the movement slow and ponderous. Is is such a gift, he wonders. With all that they know now β about the Elder Brain, about the Emperor β there's an end in sight to his days in the sun. He can see that clearly, even if he has yet to breathe a word about it to anyone at camp. Perhaps, should he fulfill the ritualβ though he can't say he's exactly missed the general disapproval that notion has prompted. Of course he understands the whys of it, butβ
βbut that's a train of thought to follow some other time. (As for whether or not he'd choose to forget ... it's difficult to say. There's not a single memory of his life under Cazador's boot that brings him joy, but on that same token, he doesn't know who he'd be without it all.)
Instead, he focuses on what he can sense β the rise and fall of her chest, the sound of the water, the faint tickle of her breath, her hair. Tokens to hide away, to keep. When he speaks again, it's without pretense; plain, unadorned, quiet. Everything he chooses not to be, in the day-to-day. ]
Don't sell yourself too short. It isn't as though you haven't given me a gift, in return.
[ it's a funny thing, to have once believed she couldn't possibly miss what she had forgotten. no longer does that ring true as she slots against him, ankle tethered around the hook of his own, weaving them together like yarn — close as she can be, without crawling between his ribcage. as though she subconsciously fears the loss of the tranquility, the absence of comfort, even now.
she's right to cling to it, she thinks; for them all, peace has been the hardest element to mine, to keep for themselves. (has she known it, before? some hazy childhood memory tries and fails to break the surface. it seems an impossibility that serenity should have ever come from her, when all she's known is the strain of honing her mind as a tool, her body as a weapon. whatever peace had been promised had merely been another piece wrenched from her mind by shar's claws, some illusion of easing her suffering, her grief. this, she knows with an alarming amount of certainty, can't be a mirage. it's much too perfectly imperfect.
and just as likely to be ripped away, once they leave the shelter of this little moment. perhaps it's simply their lot in life, to always have an executioner's axe dangling above their necks. for now, though — for now, it's enough to just know the taste of it.) ]
True enough, [ she concedes, though it's known that any concession from her is suspicious. ] Your ego would devour us both, if I weren't here to tame it.
[ cheekiness aside, she knows it is not, of course, the sort of gift he's hinting toward. it's a fair exchange, equal footing; if she does not have to continue on this journey alone, neither does he. in the end, perhaps they'll all go walking hand-in-hand into the flames of what's to come — but it makes it easier, braver, to face what's next. (no matter the latent worry that rests in the back of her mind, like a child fearful of a monster in the woods, of cazador and the number of wolves within his gruesome little army.)
her nose glides upward, nuzzles against the scar that decorates his throat. it's easy to read her smile for what it is, with the soft shape of it pressed to his skin. ]
I'd dare say you sound prepared to start singing my praises. [ it's fleetingly light, that chaste kiss she lays over old puncture wounds. ] Enlighten me.
Edited (so what if my brain blacked out and i mixed up my nerdy johns. don't look at me) 2023-10-06 03:23 (UTC)
And what a delicious little meal it'd make of you.
[ He feigns biting the top of her head, a gesture he almost regrets for how childish and playful it is, butβ he's already said things he finds more embarrassing, and he knows neither of them would behave this way if they weren't alone.
And he knows, too, that they haven't chosen an easy thing; the immediate future seems filled with nothing but conflict, with Cazador and Viconia still out there, let alone the unresolved matters of the rest of their friends (friends β how strange) and Gortash and Orin's machinations (the latter a responsibility he's not certain they should have to bear, but to see it all through is a part of the price paid). But, he thinks (he knows), there are worse ways to die, if that's what's meant for them.
As he settles back down, a hum echoes in his throat, against the (soft, surprising, suddenly intoxicating) press of her lips. ]
What can I say about you? [ he wonders aloud, as his fingers travel further up, to the lock of hair that rests curled behind her ear. ] Were I to wax poetic about your beauty now, would that cause your heart to flutter?
[ He doesn't think the answer is an outright no, not anymore, but it's also not likely to be the first thing she wants to hear. (Besides, he's used those kinds of words too much before.) The only problem is that it's easier for him to spin such words than his genuine sentiments β the fact that no one had had a kind word or gesture for him before, not without expecting something in return. She deserves better than his initial intentions β to seduce and secure an ally, to ensure through what means he could that he wouldn't be abandoned or betrayed β something not based in a lie. ]
You don't spare your strength β your considerable strength, I should say β on behalf of others, even if it would mean you had none left for yourself, [ he begins, following a moment of thought, ] and you do make it terribly easy for me to place my faith in you. And I find I don't ... I don't want to be away from you β though whether that's a virtue or a vice, who's to say?
[ With a slight shake: ] I'll have you know I've never said so many nice things β and meant them β in all my days.
[ a laugh digs its way out of her chest, no louder than an raspy exhale, but — telling, all the same. tattling on herself, even. it is mortifyingly childish, but such a silly display endears itself to the child she had never been allowed to be, the lost little girl that had died too young in order for shadowheart to take her place.
the nip of her teeth (where his pulse would be, were it to beat) is a harmless, retaliatory strike — which in itself is revealing, when the both of them are creatures capable of great violence, once tasked to a mission. it's written in the sharpness of his incisors as equally as it's etched into the lean strength of her form, an undeniable aptitude that makes choosing softness (softness that had never served either of them, nearly eroded beneath the heel of a master's boot) all the more poignant.
more's the point, it's an answer. for all her pride, shallow vanity has never much ranked among her priorities. she's hardly unaware of her looks, the way one is aware that the sky is blue — a simple fact, and little more. some natural observation that doesn't require much deeper thought than what's skin-deep. judging by the light huff of her exhale, his instincts are well-honed to veer away from the superficial, no matter how sweet the sentiment may be. ]
Shall I take pity on you, I wonder? I would hate for kindness to become your new cause of un-death, lovely as it is to hear from you.
[ teasing though it is, an honest note chimes within it. it hardly necessitates a scholar to recognize this is uncharted territory for him, that she's nudged him to tread outside his comfort zone. her fingers lift to stroke along the back of his neck, accordingly soothing, like caressing a lounging cat's fur. a thoughtful hum stirs in her throat, in the pensive pause before: ]
Know this: my considerable strength is yours to draw from, in the days to come.
[ it's as direct a promise as one can make (your faith in me is not misplaced, it says, between the lines), without pointedly picking at the scab that is cazador. he doesn't deserve to have his name spoken, in this moment or any other, besides. ]
After all, I've developed a taste for liberating precious artefacts and keeping them close at hand. If it pleases you, I think I'll keep you, next.
[ Positioned as they are, he can't quite see her face, nor she his. It gives him a moment to contemplate a response, to try to parse through, in at least some temporary manner, the idea of being had, being kept. She doesn't mean it so literally, he knows, nor does he truly feel any resistance to the idea of giving himself over to her, butβ such are the peccadilloes born of the lives they've led.
It's a shame no separate terminology exists. What they speak of is an exchange β no, not an exchange, but something shared, but they've both, to differing degrees, been had by creatures who used the same words to establish a strict hierarchy, to establish ownership. With that in mind, it feels like a tremendous risk to trust anyone, to open up to even the slightest degree. But she doesn't make him grovel, make him beg, doesn't dismiss him despite how easy it would be to do so. There's blood on his hands, he thinks, enough to fill an ocean or more, and yetβ
βshe's still here, offering him a kind of care that's been totally foreign to him thus far. ]
It would please me to no end, [ is what he settles on, spoken barely above a whisper.
It doesn't escape him that, as new as this may be for him, it's new territory for her, too. For any of their number, he'd imagine, misfits that they all are. It makes it easier, if even just by a fraction, to be honest. The words don't taste like poison on his tongue, justβ an admission. ]
Wherever your path leads, there shall I be.
[ In other words, a vice versa, a less explicit way of saying that he has no compunction with regards to helping her fully uncover her past, to deal (in one way or another) with those who'd irrevocably altered the course of her life. It's only fair, and, besides, he's curious, too. ]
[ unmoored had been an understatement, in hindsight. his ruminating leaves her drowning in uncertainty, submerged in tension, for all that she understands his weighted pause. a once-caged creature will always be apprehensive of catching itself in another snare, after all. to be tethered to another so willingly, to make a choice that is neither influenced by their former jailers or the outside influence currently squirming around in their skull —
it's no easy decision, no easy task to navigate their uncharted freedoms, no easy challenge to trust himself not to fall into the maw of the same traps. a wave of remorse threatens to ripple through her in a surging tide, the longer the empty air between them stretches on, the longer it allows her too much room to reflect on his origins. the last hand that had stretched toward him, that had promised a choice, had been the same hand used to subjugate him, to hand him the length of rope needed to hang himself by.
and yet here she stands, asking for what must be nearly impossible.
her pulse shuffles restlessly, ricocheting around in her chest. there's something to be said for the small brush of a relieved exhale against his artery, once his answer carries itself to her on the wings of that whisper. it's a sort of power over her she hadn't anticipated, nor planned for — that innate ability to leave her drifting, or anchor her back into herself, into a moment, with just the magic of a word. which, she supposes, equalizes the scales between them, their trust balanced in one another's hands. ]
When I dream of what that path must look like, it's as blurry as the past. But once the future is clear to me, you'll be the first to know.
[ it's a wistful little confession, as tinged by warmth as such a vow is. it must, she thinks, appear the same to the rest of them — their futures indistinct silhouettes in the distance, the lives they had once envisioned for themselves slipping away for better (herself) and for worse (astarion).
she shifts upward, noses her way into his cheek. the heat of her breath lingers there, sparing her the embarrassment of such an invitation, and the (however slim she believes it to be, now) potential for rejection, when she continues in a hinting murmur, ]
I've heard there are methods of sealing such important promises.
[ sealed with a kiss is a expression for a reason. still, there's nothing quite expectant about it — just an anticipatory offer of interest, a little less confidence in herself. a funny thing, she knows, in clashing contrast to every filthy promise she'd made. ]
[ A contrast, perhaps, but one he finds charming β comforting, even. After all, it's a contrast, too, against his own lurid words as well, his apparently inherent overt sexuality replaced by something more timid, more at ease in these early stages of intimacy. (He wonders if that's a disappointment to her, but the thought is there and then gone within the space of a breath, considering the way their little lakeside picnic has played out thus far.)
It's a blessing, he thinks, that they're both still figuring out the shape of affection, having been bereft of it (been averse to it, even) until recent days. Want, before, had been so inextricably tied to sex, to lust, to something transactional and chalked up only to beauty and charm rather than anything deeper. He'd grown to hate it, almost β he doesn't have to articulate that to her, but he wouldn't really know how to, either, not without the caveat that he does feel desire, that his pulse jumps when he thinks of her. It feels too simplistic to say that it depends solely on whether he cares for the other person involved, but at the same timeβ it does seem to weigh heavily on that factor alone.
Now, for instance, there's no hesitation as he turns his face to her, so close that their noses touch. He pauses again, though the smile (sweet, rather than sly) that crosses his face, the wrinkles that form at the corners of his eyes, leave much less to the imagination as to how he'll respond. ]
Is that so? [ he muses, the tease clear in the tone of his voice. ] And what ever could they be, I wonder ...
[ He closes the sliver of distance left between them almost as soon as the words have left his mouth. The kiss is gentle, cautious despite the invitation, the press of his lips soft even as his arm pulls her closer to him, his other hand finding the dip of her waist. (Care, despite everything that's taught them such a thing would be a punishable offense.)
It's true that their futures still feel foggy β each of them has some crystal clear aim, but an aim so all-consuming that any life beyond that is practically an afterthought. But he does think of it now, at least, of something beyond (free of) the shadows of his past. Something hopeful, as naive as that sounds, so long as she's a part of it. ]
[ 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. ]
[ Only a short time ago, all of this had been unthinkable. To lie in the warmth of the sun, embracing someone for whom he feels genuine care (and who cares for him in return), caught up in a kiss that doesn't spark any feelings of self-loathing or disgust within him. There's a part of him that feels like he's a step apart β still thinking about it a little too much β but he expects she's in much the same boat. And that's a boon more than anything else; they'd promised each other a hand to hold in the days to come, and part of that includes feeling these sorts of things out together.
It feels like they've done things in reverse, to a certain extent, but, he thinks, it was for the best, establishing at least the faint outline of mutual want before going further, getting the kinds of pretenses they might otherwise be putting on now out of their systems. It's not like him to be sweet β or at least, he works his hardest to ensure nobody would ever say so β but it's what he defaults to, given the latitude. The press of his arms his gentle, firm enough to keep her held to him, but not so tight that she couldn't easily back away if she wanted to.
That said, it pleases him that she doesn't, that she in fact draws even closer. In turn, he leans into her touch (again, permission, a sign that it hasn't escaped his notice that every move she makes is tentative, an ask, a gap left for him to fill or back away from, should he feel at all uncomfortable with it), a sigh escaping him as well β smoothing out the slope of his shoulders and any tension therein β as he kisses her in return.
He laughs β really nothing more than a low hum caught in his throat β as she finds his fangs, charmed more than anything else, at least if the fact that he doesn't break away from her is any indication. There's a somewhat canned response that comes to mind (if I'd known you were so curious, I'd have kissed you sooner), but it's gone from his mind just as quickly as it manifests. It's true, but he knows it wouldn't have felt the same, wouldn't have had the same effect; they've only just found their footing. ]
There, [ he says instead, the first time their lips part. ] I think that's our promise sealed.
[ The line of his mouth curves into a smile β they're still so close that he can feel her breath on his skin, the tip of his nose brushing against hers. ]
Though, perhaps we ought to try it again β just to be certain.
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[ Spoken confidently, belied by the way he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. It's one thing to know one's servitude is ill-won; it's another thing entirely to realize it so late, and to still be blind to so much of one's former life on top of it. He understands that, to some extent, that's why she's been at more of a remove than the rest of their fellows at camp: one cannot freely offer a part of oneself that's gone missing. ]
And besides, better miserable together than miserable alone.
[ With that, he takes a seat by the water, partially to try to breeze by the rest of what he perceives as gratefulness (terrifying), partially to get himself back on relatively steady footing and avoid the directness of her gaze. (He speaks as he always does, half with his hands and the sway of his frame, but perhaps with a little less ease than he usually might, a symptom of both attempted truthfulness and the resultant severe discomfort.)
She reminds him of the sun, of the light. For all that Shar had kept her in the darkness, her facility for light, for healing, seems innate. The role of a cleric β to protect, guide, and heal β is inconceivable to him, as had been, for a long time, the chance to once again stand underneath the open sun. He doesn't know if it's meant for him, as much as he may covet it. ]
Or, I suppose, miserable you, delightful me.
[ A more believable lie, as requested, as buoyed by his typical displays of ego, no matter how facile they might be. Gods know he's not a happy creature, per se, nor will he ever feel totally comfortable in his own skin so long as Cazador still lives, but there'll be a time and a place for that. ]
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[ what a group they must make, on second thought, dragging their cloud of misery around with them. still, the first iteration of her smile is as weak as a middling illusion — easily dispelled, easily seen through. astarion's defenses may lie with charm, but she's not immune to presenting a front, herself. her sharran brethren, as she recalls them, have always shared the deadly appetites of wolves; one scent of weakness in the air is as tempting as a copper trail of blood, a reason to sink teeth into a vulnerable underbelly once it's exposed. only strength has ever deterred them from tearing into the throats of their own pack.
that self-preserving appearance is so habitual she doesn't quite realize she's fallen into an old trap, as she comes to a slow seat beside him. a respectable distance remains wedged between them — not so wide a chasm that it's impossible to bridge, but not so close as to be certain over whether she should heed her compulsion to close it.
(as with most skittish creatures, she considers the benefit of allowing him to come to her, instead, and rights herself into a more relaxed posture: a recline into soft grass, laying within the sun's caress, as her fingers interlace across her stomach. distance or closeness, he is right — better miserable together, than to be left miserable alone. the company is a balm to the ache that sits inside of her, most days.)
then, almost as though it's an idle observation than one of her astute ones: ] You seem struck by nerves.
[ the second iteration of her smile might be genuine, but perhaps worse, for how its breezy teasing comes at his expense. the energy radiating from him makes him look the part of a novice, in fact, at courting — though she supposes a dependence upon his pretty face had done well to serve him on its own, up until this point. up until her, especially. her booted foot wiggles out, knocks gently into his calf, as her cheek tilts into the greenery to cast a sideways look at him. ]
I can't fathom why. Of the two of us, I'm not the one with a reputation for my bite.
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Perhaps it's excitement, [ he says smoothly, though still lightly enough to be showing a little of his hand. ] I seem you recall you promised me the privilege of choosing my own reward, if I remained on good behavior.
[ But she knows as well as he does that titillation isn't the reason why he's on tenterhooks. He pauses, the line of his mouth briefly twisting as he considers what to say next. It feels less necessary to play coy, somehow, when not shrouded in darkness. And as his lips curl, the rest of his expression seems to unfold, his gaze losing its usual hooded quality to reveal something more openβ something younger than his years. ]
I've never had the pleasure ofβ continuing a courtship, shall we say, [ he offers, his tone calculatedly nonchalant, following a pause. ] Even if I'd wanted to, before, it was hardly in the cards. Nothing was mine. [ Then, a quick amendment: ] Nothing was for me.
[ Another pause. This isn't really a conversation he wants to have β not just for how closely he guards his secrets, but for making this more about him when she's in the middle of such a maelstrom. ]
I guess the point is that I can be nervous, around you. I know you won't flagellate me for it β beyond telling me I'm acting like a fool.
[ He rolls onto his back, then, checking for the basket (resetting the distance between them, having shown a little of his hand). ]
βCan I tempt you with a drink?
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— You can.
[ whenever he returns his attention to her, the pensive lines that crease her forehead are easy to interpret: she hasn't conveniently forgotten, in the span of a few heartbeats, what's been shared, no matter his attempt to spin her away from it. it's funny, in the way that tragic poetry carries irony, that she's come to realize they're tethered by more than the wriggling parasite in their heads. her brainwashed zealotry, astarion's subjugation, karlach's servitude, lae'zel's dutiful obedience — they've all been pawns on a board, all suffered the moods of a master, all had their worlds turned on an axis, all struggled to adapt to new freedoms.
(if she believed strongly in such a concept, she might be so bold as to call it fate. as it stands, it's both fortunate and unfortunate coincidence to have found herself in the company of those who understand that unique pain to such a personal degree.)
she slinks onto her side, elevates herself onto one elbow — open body language that reflects the empathetic twist in her expression. vulnerability for vulnerability only seems to be a fair exchange, a show of trust from astarion's end that convinces her to confess, ]
I'm familiar with that breed of singular devotion. When everything you have, everything you are, is given in service of another ... you forget you ever had wants of your own at all. I've been a vessel for Lady Shar for so long that her dreams, her ambitions, became my own.
[ and now she is simply ... floating. aimless. not unlike astarion, given the newfound freedom to stumble as much as a newborn exploring the world, now that she is allowed to exist beyond shar's schemes. her eyes flutter across the expanse of astarion's face, from temple to chin, before they return to his eyes. ]
So, [ comes her warm drawl, low. ] I prefer you as the nervous, bumbling fool over the rake who always knows the right honeyed words to say.
It's honest, Astarion. I haven't had much of that in my life, lately. [ a brief, poignant pause. ] Perhaps not ever.
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It's as clear a statement as he could wish for, without having told her he's agonized over such things, that she might see him for who he is, not what his former master had taught him to be. He doesn't take that for granted, as loathe as he is to let his defenses down. The difficulty is in how he's learned to perceive his own self-worth, how he's essentially unlearned the ability to navigate affection and desire.
Resigned (forgoing the as long as it's both of our first times innuendo that comes to mind): ] Well, what kind of devil would I be to refuse you, then?
[ He squares the bottom of the wine bottle against his stomach, uncorking it soon thereafter with minimal trouble. He's stalling, really, as he produces a goblet from the basket as well, but he thinks she'll forgive him a moment to catch his breath. They're still in early stages, after all; neither is expected to fully bare their soul just yet, and he doubts it'd be easy for them, even if they wanted to. ]
Just so long as you don't tell the others, [ he adds, as he offers her the cup, the red liquid inside glimmering nearly as well as the water beyond it. ] I can't have them rushing to confide in me all at once.
[ But even that is half-hearted, a last jest offered while he turns back onto his side to properly look at her, nearly mirroring her posture. Miserable you, a fool I, he thinks, a smile coming unbidden to his lips. ]
I'd have gone with you, if you'd asked, [ he says, with a nod vaguely in the direction of their camp. ] But I'm happier that you're here, with me.
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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?
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You know full well I do hate to share anything, much less your attention, [ he says, managing to err on just this side of playful rather than prissy. ] Though, of course, the respite is very welcome, too.
[ His other hand, formerly resting along his hip, comes to find hers in the grass between them, fingertips taking mock steps across the ridge of her knuckles before his palm settles, the pad of his thumb tracing over the bend of her wrist. It's still a light touch, an attempt to afford her the same kind of courtesy she's extended to him. Funny, really β her request that he lay down his usual pretenses leaves him at something of a loss. Were she anyone else, were the aim simply seduction, he'd have no trouble with the next steps of their dance, but as things areβ ]
I did quite enjoy our little ... nighttime chat. [ The words carry more truth than is immediately obvious. The fact is that he hadn't really expected to; anything close to physical pleasure had brought him nothing but loathing and disgust for so long. He doesn't want it to, but that prize had been wrested from him by force.
Then, a slight tempering, a little quieter: ] Yet another thing I didn't think you'd agree to, and yet, here we are.
[ Normally, he'd suggest translating the experience into action now, without much more fanfare, but that's not, he thinks, what she wants from him. Not immediately, anyway. (He's wondered, in the time between now and then, what it would be like to kiss her, to touch her. The impulse feels almost foreign. Would she want to know? Would she understand, if he recoiled? What he's shared with her β with any of them β has only really scratched the surface of what he'd gone through over the course of two centuries. He doesn't envy anyone the task of having to unravel it all, nor is he certain it's all worth sharing, in the end.) ]
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she doesn't move to suppress it, notably, regardless of the self-conscious apprehension that arises whenever her vulnerability appears. it'd be an obvious attempt, for one; for another, it feels selfishly inequal, to demand honesty and yet deny him the same. her fingers twitch, instead, and then blossom open to be able to toy with his own in turn in light caresses. (mother superior — viconia, her mind harshly corrects — had never much cared for her inquisitiveness. too many questions posed a threat, she supposes. but she can enact upon her curiosity freely, now, even if it's relegated to something so seemingly simple as exploring the shape of his hands.) ]
No one is more shocked than I am, I assure you. [ it could be seen as her usual dry jabs, but as it stands — ] You continue to surprise me, Astarion.
[ — it's much too quiet, too earnest, to be one. even now, there's something heartbreakingly gentle in his consideration of her, made more painful by shar's deprivation of such things. a pause lapses by, occupied by the way her eyes flitter across his face, searching. ]
— Has it been memorable for you? [ the manner in which her voice drops, barely a pitch above a husky whisper, isn't designed to entice; it's merely the effect of butterflies the memory threatens to stir anew, whenever her mind travels toward it. ] The way it's been memorable for me?
[ — not just have you been thinking of me? it feels more significant, more meaningful to her, that it should be a memory that can't be taken, nor lost, nor claimed by some cruel outside force. ]
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It has. I don't think I'd be able to forget it all even if I tried.
[ He turns his hand over, his open palm facing up β more territory to explore, should she so wish. (Trust, in the way there's no tension in his long fingers, no urge to close them into a fist or flinch away, and, on top of that, almost a confirmation to himself that he can be so open. It's hard for him to put out of mind the last time he'd felt anything close, the last time he'd tried to spare a soul from Cazador's grasp, and spent an entire year confined to a tomb as a result.) ]
In fact, I've hardly been able to think of anything else but you.
[ An answer delivered in his usual language, but distinguished by his tone: startled, almost, rather than seductive, and missing the usual pet name he'd typically append to such a thought. They've spoken enough that he knows her wording isn't incidental, and this is something of a gift in return; an acknowledgment of her importance to him in exchange for her willingness to forgo it. He opens his mouth to speak again, seems to think better of itβ then speaks, anyway. ]
Iβ like it.
[ It's the simplest possible nod at the fact at the notion that such a thing wasn't guaranteed, or that it's difficult for him at all β and exposing in its own way, as well. To wit, much more breezily than he means it: ]
Isn't that strange? I wasn't sure I was capable of it.
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she can't quite call astarion by the same name, she supposes, as her fingertips tickle along the grains of his palm, but he is — something. something important, something enlightening. a first, in many more ways. it seems in poor manners, then, to agree with him, to say neither did i. no matter how truthful or sardonic, the fact remains: she hadn't thought him capable of thinking beyond himself. hadn't imagined she would stick under his skin like a thorn, beyond tolerating her usefulness. hadn't even presumed, especially, that he might like to be haunted by her.
it casts a pleased little curl upon her mouth. not quite smug at the revelation, but certainly contented. funny, she thinks, that he should find the right magical combination of words to charm her when he isn't actively hunting for them. ]
Oh? Is it so peculiar?
[ her eyebrow arches gracefully, nails gliding over the lifelines etched into his hand lightly, absently drawing her own patterns among their number. a more direct approach seems the type of strategy that would send him scurrying; she opts for something more tongue-in-cheek, instead, to act as its own gentle nudge — if not the smallest breather, in consideration of the effort he must be extending, to lay himself so vulnerable at her request. ]
I do hope, for your sake, that's self-reflective and not commentary on my virtues.
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Oh, please. Perish the thought.
[ For just a moment, he wiggles his fingers underneath hers, as though he might physically dispel even the slightest inkling that it might be her fault. His hand goes still again soon enough, open to her ministrations.
(He could hardly blame her, had she voiced the first words to come to mind. All things considered, he hasn't really given any of them much reason to trust him; he does the bare minimum as a party member, and isn't even close to forthcoming. Almost everything they've found out about him has been incidental, and it doesn't take too keen an eye to see that he's practically allergic to telling the truth. It's a miracle they keep him around β but he's grateful they do.)
For a beat, his gaze falls to their hands, following the lines she traces across his palm. ]
But, I must point outβ [ his fingers curl, drawing her hand more solidly into his ] βI hardly think I'm the only one with a case of nerves.
[ It's the most they've really touched. It feels bizarre, to him, that they should have shared something sexual before broaching such a thing, but perhaps it's all been for the best. It makes him a little nervous, too, though there's no hint of anything but steadiness in his expression as he looks back up at her. ]
It'd be quite desperate, wouldn't it, if I asked if you meant it. That it's beenβ a memorable time.
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Perhaps I enjoy a touch of desperation.
[ a tentative, considering pause settles between them. ]
It would be no more desperate than if I asked whether you meant all you said that night, besides.
[ struck by a case of nerves, then, isn't an ill-fitting description of her — much as she innately wants to shuck off such an adjective. it seems so ... childish, in a manner she has learned to resist. another facet trained out of her, like a dulled blade that had needed sharpening. she can still recall slivers of those punishments, the discipline that hesitating had earned her. surely, viconia would likely scold, shadowheart should have shed those growing pains by now.
if anything, she has grown back into them, in relearning and reclaiming herself. even so simple a gesture as tethering her fingers between astarion's own, sliding home like a key to a lock, seems an act of rebellion against the restrictions she's known. a distraction she wouldn't have been permitted to keep, if it led her devotion stray elsewhere. ]
You're not especially known for taking much seriously. And as you've all discovered, I've a history of looking for love in dark, terrible places.
[ in essence, it's a rueful stab toward herself. blind devotion had led her astray, before; she trusts he won't fault her for her initial doubt in the extent of his interest and its sincerity, when her life has been so uprooted by betrayal.
her eyes drift to their interlinked hands, to the absent strokes of her thumb over the dips and valleys of his knuckles. it's a bit funny, in hindsight, that they've done their fair share of dancing around one another when they've both been desperately waiting for affirmation. it's precisely why she doesn't resist gifting it to him when she continues, markedly soft with vulnerability, ]
I suppose I have been careful because of it. But you were ... sweet to me, where you didn't have to be. Another surprise. [ her lips twitch, a smile that dies quickly. ] You've unmoored me and brought me peace all at once. Memorable almost seems a weak word, for something like that.
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How many sweet words had he offered to those he'd drawn into the dark? How many of them had found him gentle, affectionate, unmooring? The guilt he feels is complicated by the fact that it had been a necessary part of survival; it had either been him or them, and it wasn't like Cazador to make even death an easy means of escape. Had they met any earlier, either she'd have driven a stake through his heart, or he'd have lured her back to the Palace without a second thought.
The sigh he lets out, as such, is unintentional, something he only catches once it's already left his chest, wistfulness he immediately dismisses with a click of his tongue. ]
I wouldn't say you went looking for it, [ he says softly, about as kind a thing as he's ever said thus far. Then, lightly, for the sake of balance: ] But, no, I suppose I didn't have to be.
[ Still, he doesn't pursue that line of thought, doesn't speak aloud the aren't I nice that he might, were this conversation anything other than what it is (were they not alone). Instead, he turns onto his back, though he doesn't pull his hand away. (Her hand feels so warm in his β small, almost, more delicate than one might expect from someone so proficient in battle.) ]
I know what that's like. To be taken.
[ He keeps his face turned toward the sun, his gaze on the clouds that lazily float through the sky above them. ]
I wouldn't subject you to that again.
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she shifts to nestle quietly in the grass. for comfort's sake, she draws his hand closer, lets their joined fingers pillow underneath her cheek. for such warmth he provides, he is contrastingly chilled to the touch, brushing her skin like a cool breeze on a balmy day. ]
Didn't I?
[ go looking for it, at least in the end? it's as rhetorical as it isn't — and easier to speak into the air, once she lets her eyes seal closed. a bit of irony, she supposes, that her first compulsion is to find comfort in the darkness that accompanies the back of her eyelids, for how she's walked through this life with them closed to the truth. ]
Viconia is a different breed of monster, [ she says, carefully. the implication still lurks beneath: than cazador. ] Even now, I struggle to call her one. She was my mother, Lady Shar my beacon. Every punishment was a vital lesson taught. Every ounce of pain was a test to overcome.
[ there's a point to be made, there. the faint, blurred image astarion has painted of cazador has been a cruel one — a master without the pretense of love, of kindness. a leech, she thinks, in every manner the word can possibly be applied. astarion's obedience had been forcibly compelled, at odds with how willingly she had emptied herself into her faith, in the belief she would be better for it. (is it worse, she wonders, to feel the collar tightening around your throat — or to be oblivious to it, even as it strangles and pulls?)
she can't reconcile it: the reality of being bent and broken to another's liking, her role in it, where her responsibility and adjoining guilt begins and ends. the warring twist to her expression showcases as much, as her forehead crumples. ]
Fool I was, I convinced myself it was proof she cared for me. [ a struggling pause. ] Perhaps she did, in the way one cares to polish a blade.
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Do you still wish for her approval? It seems too bold of him to ask, and too personal for her to answer. For better or for worse, such things have a way of getting under one's skin β the simple act of contemplation can become painful.
You had no choice. Too patronizing, even if he does believe it to be true.
I care for you. Too honest. (Too forward?)
A fourth recourse β to kiss her, to close the distance between them β occurs to him, too, but those are old habits flaring back up. An attempt to change the topic, even if he is increasingly tempted by the notion. ]
Youβ have people who do care for you, now, [ is what he settles on, instead, spurred to look at her again by the shift of her hand, the warmth of her cheek against his skin. (A small gesture, but a tender one.) Her expression is clear enough to read, and it makes him feel, annoyingly, concerned. ] I doubt anyone at our camp would let you face what's next alone. And not because they want anything from you. I imagine even our Gith friend would relish the chance to help you reclaim your past.
[ He squeezes her hand, studying her expression. He's never been good at comfort beyond the promise of a night spent together, in no small part because he hasn't really cared, before. And even now, his impulses lean toward promises of revenge, of blood spilt on her behalf rather thanβ whatever it is that she truly wants.
Well, fuck itβ ]
I care for you, Shadowheart. I know, I know, one thing cannot so easily replace or temper the other, butβ I do. And not as a blade, or some kind of protectress. Just ... as you.
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.
LMAOOOOOO delivered in that cadence exactly π
It feels strange to be touched with genuine care, not just lust or desire, or even the threat of violence. He sinks into it the way one would into water, letting any tension leave his body, focusing just on the weight and warmth of her, closing the last fraction of distance between them, his cheek settling against her forehead. He blinks once, twice, in surprise, a little freer in letting uncertainty play out across his face given his would-be audience isn't in a position to see it. ]
You're leaving me rather a lot of room to sing my own praises, [ he hums, then affecting an impression of himself to say, ] 'Of course it's a gift, to have won the affection of the most devastatingly beautiful vampire to walk this earth.' Not that I don't think of myself as such, but ...
[ His fingertips travel from her shoulder to the nape of her neck, the movement slow and ponderous. Is is such a gift, he wonders. With all that they know now β about the Elder Brain, about the Emperor β there's an end in sight to his days in the sun. He can see that clearly, even if he has yet to breathe a word about it to anyone at camp. Perhaps, should he fulfill the ritualβ though he can't say he's exactly missed the general disapproval that notion has prompted. Of course he understands the whys of it, butβ
βbut that's a train of thought to follow some other time. (As for whether or not he'd choose to forget ... it's difficult to say. There's not a single memory of his life under Cazador's boot that brings him joy, but on that same token, he doesn't know who he'd be without it all.)
Instead, he focuses on what he can sense β the rise and fall of her chest, the sound of the water, the faint tickle of her breath, her hair. Tokens to hide away, to keep. When he speaks again, it's without pretense; plain, unadorned, quiet. Everything he chooses not to be, in the day-to-day. ]
Don't sell yourself too short. It isn't as though you haven't given me a gift, in return.
john mulaney kin
she's right to cling to it, she thinks; for them all, peace has been the hardest element to mine, to keep for themselves. (has she known it, before? some hazy childhood memory tries and fails to break the surface. it seems an impossibility that serenity should have ever come from her, when all she's known is the strain of honing her mind as a tool, her body as a weapon. whatever peace had been promised had merely been another piece wrenched from her mind by shar's claws, some illusion of easing her suffering, her grief. this, she knows with an alarming amount of certainty, can't be a mirage. it's much too perfectly imperfect.
and just as likely to be ripped away, once they leave the shelter of this little moment. perhaps it's simply their lot in life, to always have an executioner's axe dangling above their necks. for now, though — for now, it's enough to just know the taste of it.) ]
True enough, [ she concedes, though it's known that any concession from her is suspicious. ] Your ego would devour us both, if I weren't here to tame it.
[ cheekiness aside, she knows it is not, of course, the sort of gift he's hinting toward. it's a fair exchange, equal footing; if she does not have to continue on this journey alone, neither does he. in the end, perhaps they'll all go walking hand-in-hand into the flames of what's to come — but it makes it easier, braver, to face what's next. (no matter the latent worry that rests in the back of her mind, like a child fearful of a monster in the woods, of cazador and the number of wolves within his gruesome little army.)
her nose glides upward, nuzzles against the scar that decorates his throat. it's easy to read her smile for what it is, with the soft shape of it pressed to his skin. ]
I'd dare say you sound prepared to start singing my praises. [ it's fleetingly light, that chaste kiss she lays over old puncture wounds. ] Enlighten me.
honestly both apt tbh
[ He feigns biting the top of her head, a gesture he almost regrets for how childish and playful it is, butβ he's already said things he finds more embarrassing, and he knows neither of them would behave this way if they weren't alone.
And he knows, too, that they haven't chosen an easy thing; the immediate future seems filled with nothing but conflict, with Cazador and Viconia still out there, let alone the unresolved matters of the rest of their friends (friends β how strange) and Gortash and Orin's machinations (the latter a responsibility he's not certain they should have to bear, but to see it all through is a part of the price paid). But, he thinks (he knows), there are worse ways to die, if that's what's meant for them.
As he settles back down, a hum echoes in his throat, against the (soft, surprising, suddenly intoxicating) press of her lips. ]
What can I say about you? [ he wonders aloud, as his fingers travel further up, to the lock of hair that rests curled behind her ear. ] Were I to wax poetic about your beauty now, would that cause your heart to flutter?
[ He doesn't think the answer is an outright no, not anymore, but it's also not likely to be the first thing she wants to hear. (Besides, he's used those kinds of words too much before.) The only problem is that it's easier for him to spin such words than his genuine sentiments β the fact that no one had had a kind word or gesture for him before, not without expecting something in return. She deserves better than his initial intentions β to seduce and secure an ally, to ensure through what means he could that he wouldn't be abandoned or betrayed β something not based in a lie. ]
You don't spare your strength β your considerable strength, I should say β on behalf of others, even if it would mean you had none left for yourself, [ he begins, following a moment of thought, ] and you do make it terribly easy for me to place my faith in you. And I find I don't ... I don't want to be away from you β though whether that's a virtue or a vice, who's to say?
[ With a slight shake: ] I'll have you know I've never said so many nice things β and meant them β in all my days.
ur right i wasn't even wrong the first time
the nip of her teeth (where his pulse would be, were it to beat) is a harmless, retaliatory strike — which in itself is revealing, when the both of them are creatures capable of great violence, once tasked to a mission. it's written in the sharpness of his incisors as equally as it's etched into the lean strength of her form, an undeniable aptitude that makes choosing softness (softness that had never served either of them, nearly eroded beneath the heel of a master's boot) all the more poignant.
more's the point, it's an answer. for all her pride, shallow vanity has never much ranked among her priorities. she's hardly unaware of her looks, the way one is aware that the sky is blue — a simple fact, and little more. some natural observation that doesn't require much deeper thought than what's skin-deep. judging by the light huff of her exhale, his instincts are well-honed to veer away from the superficial, no matter how sweet the sentiment may be. ]
Shall I take pity on you, I wonder? I would hate for kindness to become your new cause of un-death, lovely as it is to hear from you.
[ teasing though it is, an honest note chimes within it. it hardly necessitates a scholar to recognize this is uncharted territory for him, that she's nudged him to tread outside his comfort zone. her fingers lift to stroke along the back of his neck, accordingly soothing, like caressing a lounging cat's fur. a thoughtful hum stirs in her throat, in the pensive pause before: ]
Know this: my considerable strength is yours to draw from, in the days to come.
[ it's as direct a promise as one can make (your faith in me is not misplaced, it says, between the lines), without pointedly picking at the scab that is cazador. he doesn't deserve to have his name spoken, in this moment or any other, besides. ]
After all, I've developed a taste for liberating precious artefacts and keeping them close at hand. If it pleases you, I think I'll keep you, next.
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It's a shame no separate terminology exists. What they speak of is an exchange β no, not an exchange, but something shared, but they've both, to differing degrees, been had by creatures who used the same words to establish a strict hierarchy, to establish ownership. With that in mind, it feels like a tremendous risk to trust anyone, to open up to even the slightest degree. But she doesn't make him grovel, make him beg, doesn't dismiss him despite how easy it would be to do so. There's blood on his hands, he thinks, enough to fill an ocean or more, and yetβ
βshe's still here, offering him a kind of care that's been totally foreign to him thus far. ]
It would please me to no end, [ is what he settles on, spoken barely above a whisper.
It doesn't escape him that, as new as this may be for him, it's new territory for her, too. For any of their number, he'd imagine, misfits that they all are. It makes it easier, if even just by a fraction, to be honest. The words don't taste like poison on his tongue, justβ an admission. ]
Wherever your path leads, there shall I be.
[ In other words, a vice versa, a less explicit way of saying that he has no compunction with regards to helping her fully uncover her past, to deal (in one way or another) with those who'd irrevocably altered the course of her life. It's only fair, and, besides, he's curious, too. ]
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it's no easy decision, no easy task to navigate their uncharted freedoms, no easy challenge to trust himself not to fall into the maw of the same traps. a wave of remorse threatens to ripple through her in a surging tide, the longer the empty air between them stretches on, the longer it allows her too much room to reflect on his origins. the last hand that had stretched toward him, that had promised a choice, had been the same hand used to subjugate him, to hand him the length of rope needed to hang himself by.
and yet here she stands, asking for what must be nearly impossible.
her pulse shuffles restlessly, ricocheting around in her chest. there's something to be said for the small brush of a relieved exhale against his artery, once his answer carries itself to her on the wings of that whisper. it's a sort of power over her she hadn't anticipated, nor planned for — that innate ability to leave her drifting, or anchor her back into herself, into a moment, with just the magic of a word. which, she supposes, equalizes the scales between them, their trust balanced in one another's hands. ]
When I dream of what that path must look like, it's as blurry as the past. But once the future is clear to me, you'll be the first to know.
[ it's a wistful little confession, as tinged by warmth as such a vow is. it must, she thinks, appear the same to the rest of them — their futures indistinct silhouettes in the distance, the lives they had once envisioned for themselves slipping away for better (herself) and for worse (astarion).
she shifts upward, noses her way into his cheek. the heat of her breath lingers there, sparing her the embarrassment of such an invitation, and the (however slim she believes it to be, now) potential for rejection, when she continues in a hinting murmur, ]
I've heard there are methods of sealing such important promises.
[ sealed with a kiss is a expression for a reason. still, there's nothing quite expectant about it — just an anticipatory offer of interest, a little less confidence in herself. a funny thing, she knows, in clashing contrast to every filthy promise she'd made. ]
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It's a blessing, he thinks, that they're both still figuring out the shape of affection, having been bereft of it (been averse to it, even) until recent days. Want, before, had been so inextricably tied to sex, to lust, to something transactional and chalked up only to beauty and charm rather than anything deeper. He'd grown to hate it, almost β he doesn't have to articulate that to her, but he wouldn't really know how to, either, not without the caveat that he does feel desire, that his pulse jumps when he thinks of her. It feels too simplistic to say that it depends solely on whether he cares for the other person involved, but at the same timeβ it does seem to weigh heavily on that factor alone.
Now, for instance, there's no hesitation as he turns his face to her, so close that their noses touch. He pauses again, though the smile (sweet, rather than sly) that crosses his face, the wrinkles that form at the corners of his eyes, leave much less to the imagination as to how he'll respond. ]
Is that so? [ he muses, the tease clear in the tone of his voice. ] And what ever could they be, I wonder ...
[ He closes the sliver of distance left between them almost as soon as the words have left his mouth. The kiss is gentle, cautious despite the invitation, the press of his lips soft even as his arm pulls her closer to him, his other hand finding the dip of her waist. (Care, despite everything that's taught them such a thing would be a punishable offense.)
It's true that their futures still feel foggy β each of them has some crystal clear aim, but an aim so all-consuming that any life beyond that is practically an afterthought. But he does think of it now, at least, of something beyond (free of) the shadows of his past. Something hopeful, as naive as that sounds, so long as she's a part of it. ]
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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. ]
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It feels like they've done things in reverse, to a certain extent, but, he thinks, it was for the best, establishing at least the faint outline of mutual want before going further, getting the kinds of pretenses they might otherwise be putting on now out of their systems. It's not like him to be sweet β or at least, he works his hardest to ensure nobody would ever say so β but it's what he defaults to, given the latitude. The press of his arms his gentle, firm enough to keep her held to him, but not so tight that she couldn't easily back away if she wanted to.
That said, it pleases him that she doesn't, that she in fact draws even closer. In turn, he leans into her touch (again, permission, a sign that it hasn't escaped his notice that every move she makes is tentative, an ask, a gap left for him to fill or back away from, should he feel at all uncomfortable with it), a sigh escaping him as well β smoothing out the slope of his shoulders and any tension therein β as he kisses her in return.
He laughs β really nothing more than a low hum caught in his throat β as she finds his fangs, charmed more than anything else, at least if the fact that he doesn't break away from her is any indication. There's a somewhat canned response that comes to mind (if I'd known you were so curious, I'd have kissed you sooner), but it's gone from his mind just as quickly as it manifests. It's true, but he knows it wouldn't have felt the same, wouldn't have had the same effect; they've only just found their footing. ]
There, [ he says instead, the first time their lips part. ] I think that's our promise sealed.
[ The line of his mouth curves into a smile β they're still so close that he can feel her breath on his skin, the tip of his nose brushing against hers. ]
Though, perhaps we ought to try it again β just to be certain.
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stares into the sky ... i forgot to hit post comment on this for like three days
lmao we've all been there
i'll never live the shame down
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