[ it's inevitable that the first graze of his tongue should be fire to gunpowder, an ignition that prompts a cataclysmic reaction, after she's starved her body of affection for so long. of their own accord, her thighs snap tighter like the steel mouth of a metal trap; her fingers coil and pull so tightly it should sting his scalp. and the whine that wrings itself from her throat — it makes her fondness for privacy weep, internally, for how high and thin it pitches, in an otherwise quiet forest. all of her nerve-endings feel at turmoil, all of her muscles wound to a tight point, and yet ...
she finds this — this closeness, this new inability to hide parts of herself away — to be the missing element from their last little act of intimacy. clothed tent walls had still kept them shrouded, still kept her safely disconnected, still kept her lonely and yearning for something beyond her reach. she finds it, now, as her fingers scramble across her skin — leaving thin, temporary white lines in her nail's wake — to cling to his.
smoothly, her fingers lock through his with ease, providing an anchoring point amidst stolen breath and surprising sensation. she squeezes once, twice; some delirious, shy smile graces her mouth as her cheek plants into the grass, parting around a mesmerized, reeling (and very eloquent, very succinct), ]
Fuck.
[ karlach's lexicon might have its merits, in hindsight. all other words fail to accurately describe the forcible way she has to shakily pry her legs from mashing his ears against his skull, or the seeking hitches in her hips toward his sinful mouth. it takes effort to fall back on old habits to pin them back to the ground, to try not to squirm so pitifully, to keep still for his sake — a task immediately failed, for all of her talk of self-discipline.
(perhaps, then, that the accomplishment is not overtaking him to see to her own needs; to learn to allow another to take care of her, tempted as she is by her natural urge for control, for self-reliance. some habits still need to be unlearned. the muscles in her abdomen flex, clench, with the effort of holding back.)
she presses the tips of her fingers to her mouth, watching him through heavy eyelids. a thousand words of praise bloom, the pleasure he's gifted her only fueling her need to provide it in turn, only — they're all inadequate. two centuries have likely reassured him already that he's unfairly good at this, and his own preening ego knows he is — as she's noticed, with a pang in her chest — unbearably pretty, the way marble statues are.
all truthful words, yes, but ones that her fumbling for something better. something he isn't so certain in. and so: ]
Perfect, [ she exhales, a pleasure-drunk, wonderstruck whisper. ] You take such good care of me.
[ The conundrum, he thinks, is that there is only one of him β that he cannot kiss every part of her at once, that he cannot properly watch her reactions to his ministrations without also being the one to prompt them. It's a sort of greed; a desire to devour her every movement, every breath, to hoard away a perfect memory. To wit, when her legs close around him and his fingers curl into a fist in his hair, his reaction is a huff of breath, half-laugh and half-groan. It's an inconvenience β even a pain β that he welcomes, what with the sensation intertwined as it is with her expression of pleasure.
The squeeze of her hand is met with his own, equal parts a response and an anchoring as the lick of his tongue becomes more insistent, seeking her taste, the soft bud of sensitive nerves that sets off each new buck of her hips. When his eyes meet hers again, the look contained within is wanton β hungry, in a way he'd thought himself incapable of β drinking in the blush of her features, the heaviness of her own gaze. His own need feels somehow trivial in comparison; what he wants is to see her come undone, to fully tear apart her sense of self-control for the sake of succumbing to desire, to him.
So, for once, there's no clever retort to the whisper that passes her lips, just a flutter of his lashes in response. It undoes him piece by piece β the way she looks at him, his hunger matched; the timbre of her voice like honey in his ears; and, of course, the simple fact of what she chooses to say. She knows, already, of his weakness for praise β a kind of neediness built out of insecurity, buried deep, and the desire to be wanted, adored β but there's a simple distinction between what he's heard over and over again (what he already knows, what he's used as a weapon) and what's meaningful, what's more about what they choose to do for each other.
It sets afire the ache already present in the pit of his stomach, nervous trills of arousal running through his frame as his own hips square against the grass, a buzzing in his head that's as much to do with what he wants to say: I want you to come, or more to the point, I want you to come for me. And all of that can be expressed just as well through gesture, through action, through his maintained focus on her. You take such good care of me, she says β a sentiment worth proving true, to the last moment.
By contrast, for him, it's near impossible to fall back into old habits. There's no sense of absence for him, here, nothing about this that is perfunctory or put on. In the moment, he only vaguely recognizes that, instead caught up in the thrill of mutual want. That's the thing, isn't it: she makes him feelβ alive. ]
[ her first, irrational thought is that it's simply — unfair, how easily he pinpoints a weakness, exploits it with merciless precision, lends her no warning before he's licking her raw. she'd laugh, at any other time, at how utterly astarion it is to take note of a vulnerability and toy with it (and how utterly unlike her it is to reveal a soft spot, to start). as it stands, her fingers can only wring tighter around his own, white-knuckling her grip until they blanch from pressure.
it's a funny thing, trusting that someone might put her back together after she's shown them where to strike, after they've determinedly taken her apart; it's a funny thing to think her own weaknesses might be used against her, for no other means than to push her into pleasure's embrace, rather than a misstep to be promptly corrected. a blemish wiped from mind. here, she can merely ... be. be at a disadvantage. bare herself, without threat of excoriation. that, more than anything, seizes her chest with fondness — to know, without doubt, she's found one place she is encouraged to lay down her arms and rest at ease.
a strange sense of peace streams through her, despite the rigidity that seizes her frame, the rippling trembling in her thighs, all warnings of a seismic event. it's only inevitable that he should be able to finesse what he wants from her; it's only inevitable that starving her body of affection for such long stretches of time would make her susceptible to the thrall of his tongue. her tongue flicks out to wet the pillowy swell of her lower lip, a spell to summon words that would otherwise evade her: ]
Could you — [ she falters around a choking, plaintive moan. (when was the last time she supplicated herself in earnest, for anyone but a looming and spiteful goddess? when was the last time she was certain her request would be heard and embraced, rather than denied — forbidden to keep her memories, forbidden to dream, forbidden her lady's favor? the answer to both, she suspects, is never.) ] Inside.
[ a slow dragging of their interconnected hands leads him over the plane of her stomach, toward the intersection of thigh and hip, to clarify her request — if the fluttering, clenching pulse between her legs hasn't, a lingering emptiness that ache to be filled — the last thing she needs to be pushed over the edge.
then, with the desperate, entreating edge of one that has experienced denial and deprivation one too many times: ] Please.
[ not a word she's been known to throw around lightly. it strains, raw and foreign, in her throat, as she squeezes his fingers for emphasis. ]
[ There are clear tells, for creatures like them, as to what constitutes true trust and affection, each entwined with the marks of what they've endured to get to this point, what makes the act of opening up so significant to begin with. For her, the willingness to be so vulnerable, to let go of control; for him, the willingness to be supplicant, to be unselfish. Two hundred years of servitude had taught him to close off his heart, to think of no one's survival or pleasure but his own. But for her, oh, for herβ
Were this not the kind of catharsis that it is, he might take pleasure in drawing this out, in teasing her, in refusal. Perhaps he would still, if they had all the time in the world, but they don't, not with the threat of the end of the world hanging over their heads, and besides, he has never known her to ask for anything, let alone plead, carelessly. And there is nothing, he thinks, that she could ask of him that he would deny her.
His tongue leaves her for only a moment, just long enough to bring his other hand to his lips, to take one of his fingers into his mouth to wet it. In the single beat before his tongue finds her again, before his finger presses into the heat between her legs (slow, careful not to cause her any discomfort): ]
My loveβ
[ The words escape from him on a sigh. Gods know he's spoken it time and time again before, but never like this, never without an exact calculation as to far how it would get him. Here, that's no longer relevant; they're not words given in expectation of an exchange. It's simply a truth, given because he wants to give it, because he wants her to know β because he's half out of his mind with desire, how tight she is around the arch of his finger.
For them, such things amount to a killing blow, strength and pretense set aside for the sake of honesty. He'd thought, once, that the tadpole and all of the calamity it brought with him were hardly his concern β others, more inclined to heroism, would take care of such things. But his need for her sparks a different want within him: the desire to see things through for the sake of their shared future, for the sake of not losing this, and how precious she's become to him. ]
[ a sigh of approval, at surface level; a deeper vow, buried within, with all of the heft of a binding oath. it doesn't subscribe itsef to the same possession that lives within i belong to you, or words like mine and yours and ours, better used for objects and valuables. they know better than to stake those claims upon one another as though seizing territory, have too freshly begun to unclasp their chains to long for another fetter so soon. instead, it's a weighted choice by her hand, a single word that agrees i belong with you, the way birds flock to their own and wolves demand a pack. or, perhaps, more dramatically: the way night can't exist without day, moonlight without sunlight, lungs without air.
what a thing it is to be loved, to have a home of her own making — to decide where it is she belongs, rather than be told her place in this world. her chest burns with it, with the wrenching force of the sounds pulled from her throat, uncertain if it's the bespelled nature of his words or her overwrought senses that pushes her so quickly over the edge. (he'd been right, as it turns out, to think a word as sentimental as love could sway even the most resilient hearts.) she's still pulsing around his finger in tight, frantic waves when she tugs upon his hand, a silent come here —
— that she takes into her own hands, regardless of how quickly (or otherwise) he adheres to her demand. her legs cinch around his shoulders to flip him underneath her with relatively smooth ease, a rare show of strength without violence to drive it. (a new use of it, for her.) a pronounced pause follows, splintered only by her half-flustered little smile as it beams down at him, before she begins her descent — a panther-esque crawl that sees her land in his lap, unabashed by the damp stain her arousal marks into the front of his trousers.
what she wants to ask is is this okay, is this good? — a search for reassurance that's lost, in the hungry press of her mouth, something half-starved in the nature of her kiss. but that's the thing, about having a first taste of something forbidden; it's only awoken her greed, drawn attention to that famished ache in the pit of her chest that wants — that wants, that permits it of herself. when she pulls away, it's only by centimeters, each syllable breathed into him, ]
Again. [ a mere, intoxicated whisper of a word. old, battleworn callouses catch on his skin as she frames his face with the cup of her palms. ] Tell me again.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
she finds this — this closeness, this new inability to hide parts of herself away — to be the missing element from their last little act of intimacy. clothed tent walls had still kept them shrouded, still kept her safely disconnected, still kept her lonely and yearning for something beyond her reach. she finds it, now, as her fingers scramble across her skin — leaving thin, temporary white lines in her nail's wake — to cling to his.
smoothly, her fingers lock through his with ease, providing an anchoring point amidst stolen breath and surprising sensation. she squeezes once, twice; some delirious, shy smile graces her mouth as her cheek plants into the grass, parting around a mesmerized, reeling (and very eloquent, very succinct), ]
Fuck.
[ karlach's lexicon might have its merits, in hindsight. all other words fail to accurately describe the forcible way she has to shakily pry her legs from mashing his ears against his skull, or the seeking hitches in her hips toward his sinful mouth. it takes effort to fall back on old habits to pin them back to the ground, to try not to squirm so pitifully, to keep still for his sake — a task immediately failed, for all of her talk of self-discipline.
(perhaps, then, that the accomplishment is not overtaking him to see to her own needs; to learn to allow another to take care of her, tempted as she is by her natural urge for control, for self-reliance. some habits still need to be unlearned. the muscles in her abdomen flex, clench, with the effort of holding back.)
she presses the tips of her fingers to her mouth, watching him through heavy eyelids. a thousand words of praise bloom, the pleasure he's gifted her only fueling her need to provide it in turn, only — they're all inadequate. two centuries have likely reassured him already that he's unfairly good at this, and his own preening ego knows he is — as she's noticed, with a pang in her chest — unbearably pretty, the way marble statues are.
all truthful words, yes, but ones that her fumbling for something better. something he isn't so certain in. and so: ]
Perfect, [ she exhales, a pleasure-drunk, wonderstruck whisper. ] You take such good care of me.
no subject
The squeeze of her hand is met with his own, equal parts a response and an anchoring as the lick of his tongue becomes more insistent, seeking her taste, the soft bud of sensitive nerves that sets off each new buck of her hips. When his eyes meet hers again, the look contained within is wanton β hungry, in a way he'd thought himself incapable of β drinking in the blush of her features, the heaviness of her own gaze. His own need feels somehow trivial in comparison; what he wants is to see her come undone, to fully tear apart her sense of self-control for the sake of succumbing to desire, to him.
So, for once, there's no clever retort to the whisper that passes her lips, just a flutter of his lashes in response. It undoes him piece by piece β the way she looks at him, his hunger matched; the timbre of her voice like honey in his ears; and, of course, the simple fact of what she chooses to say. She knows, already, of his weakness for praise β a kind of neediness built out of insecurity, buried deep, and the desire to be wanted, adored β but there's a simple distinction between what he's heard over and over again (what he already knows, what he's used as a weapon) and what's meaningful, what's more about what they choose to do for each other.
It sets afire the ache already present in the pit of his stomach, nervous trills of arousal running through his frame as his own hips square against the grass, a buzzing in his head that's as much to do with what he wants to say: I want you to come, or more to the point, I want you to come for me. And all of that can be expressed just as well through gesture, through action, through his maintained focus on her. You take such good care of me, she says β a sentiment worth proving true, to the last moment.
By contrast, for him, it's near impossible to fall back into old habits. There's no sense of absence for him, here, nothing about this that is perfunctory or put on. In the moment, he only vaguely recognizes that, instead caught up in the thrill of mutual want. That's the thing, isn't it: she makes him feelβ alive. ]
no subject
it's a funny thing, trusting that someone might put her back together after she's shown them where to strike, after they've determinedly taken her apart; it's a funny thing to think her own weaknesses might be used against her, for no other means than to push her into pleasure's embrace, rather than a misstep to be promptly corrected. a blemish wiped from mind. here, she can merely ... be. be at a disadvantage. bare herself, without threat of excoriation. that, more than anything, seizes her chest with fondness — to know, without doubt, she's found one place she is encouraged to lay down her arms and rest at ease.
a strange sense of peace streams through her, despite the rigidity that seizes her frame, the rippling trembling in her thighs, all warnings of a seismic event. it's only inevitable that he should be able to finesse what he wants from her; it's only inevitable that starving her body of affection for such long stretches of time would make her susceptible to the thrall of his tongue. her tongue flicks out to wet the pillowy swell of her lower lip, a spell to summon words that would otherwise evade her: ]
Could you — [ she falters around a choking, plaintive moan. (when was the last time she supplicated herself in earnest, for anyone but a looming and spiteful goddess? when was the last time she was certain her request would be heard and embraced, rather than denied — forbidden to keep her memories, forbidden to dream, forbidden her lady's favor? the answer to both, she suspects, is never.) ] Inside.
[ a slow dragging of their interconnected hands leads him over the plane of her stomach, toward the intersection of thigh and hip, to clarify her request — if the fluttering, clenching pulse between her legs hasn't, a lingering emptiness that ache to be filled — the last thing she needs to be pushed over the edge.
then, with the desperate, entreating edge of one that has experienced denial and deprivation one too many times: ] Please.
[ not a word she's been known to throw around lightly. it strains, raw and foreign, in her throat, as she squeezes his fingers for emphasis. ]
no subject
Were this not the kind of catharsis that it is, he might take pleasure in drawing this out, in teasing her, in refusal. Perhaps he would still, if they had all the time in the world, but they don't, not with the threat of the end of the world hanging over their heads, and besides, he has never known her to ask for anything, let alone plead, carelessly. And there is nothing, he thinks, that she could ask of him that he would deny her.
His tongue leaves her for only a moment, just long enough to bring his other hand to his lips, to take one of his fingers into his mouth to wet it. In the single beat before his tongue finds her again, before his finger presses into the heat between her legs (slow, careful not to cause her any discomfort): ]
My loveβ
[ The words escape from him on a sigh. Gods know he's spoken it time and time again before, but never like this, never without an exact calculation as to far how it would get him. Here, that's no longer relevant; they're not words given in expectation of an exchange. It's simply a truth, given because he wants to give it, because he wants her to know β because he's half out of his mind with desire, how tight she is around the arch of his finger.
For them, such things amount to a killing blow, strength and pretense set aside for the sake of honesty. He'd thought, once, that the tadpole and all of the calamity it brought with him were hardly his concern β others, more inclined to heroism, would take care of such things. But his need for her sparks a different want within him: the desire to see things through for the sake of their shared future, for the sake of not losing this, and how precious she's become to him. ]
no subject
[ a sigh of approval, at surface level; a deeper vow, buried within, with all of the heft of a binding oath. it doesn't subscribe itsef to the same possession that lives within i belong to you, or words like mine and yours and ours, better used for objects and valuables. they know better than to stake those claims upon one another as though seizing territory, have too freshly begun to unclasp their chains to long for another fetter so soon. instead, it's a weighted choice by her hand, a single word that agrees i belong with you, the way birds flock to their own and wolves demand a pack. or, perhaps, more dramatically: the way night can't exist without day, moonlight without sunlight, lungs without air.
what a thing it is to be loved, to have a home of her own making — to decide where it is she belongs, rather than be told her place in this world. her chest burns with it, with the wrenching force of the sounds pulled from her throat, uncertain if it's the bespelled nature of his words or her overwrought senses that pushes her so quickly over the edge. (he'd been right, as it turns out, to think a word as sentimental as love could sway even the most resilient hearts.) she's still pulsing around his finger in tight, frantic waves when she tugs upon his hand, a silent come here —
— that she takes into her own hands, regardless of how quickly (or otherwise) he adheres to her demand. her legs cinch around his shoulders to flip him underneath her with relatively smooth ease, a rare show of strength without violence to drive it. (a new use of it, for her.) a pronounced pause follows, splintered only by her half-flustered little smile as it beams down at him, before she begins her descent — a panther-esque crawl that sees her land in his lap, unabashed by the damp stain her arousal marks into the front of his trousers.
what she wants to ask is is this okay, is this good? — a search for reassurance that's lost, in the hungry press of her mouth, something half-starved in the nature of her kiss. but that's the thing, about having a first taste of something forbidden; it's only awoken her greed, drawn attention to that famished ache in the pit of her chest that wants — that wants, that permits it of herself. when she pulls away, it's only by centimeters, each syllable breathed into him, ]
Again. [ a mere, intoxicated whisper of a word. old, battleworn callouses catch on his skin as she frames his face with the cup of her palms. ] Tell me again.