[ 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.
[ it's — nice. that one little word seems such an understatement, deceptively casual; nice is reserved for full-bodied vintages after a long journey, or a breeze caressing gentle fingers over sweat-soaked, blood-slick skin after a battle runs hot. nice fails to encompass the glow dappling her cheeks in the aftermath, as though sun-kissed; nice wouldn't warrant the wistful fog clouding her eyes, that draws them like an arrow point to his mouth. nice is ...
simplistic. but with the tangled knot their paths have become, it's nice for something to feel so uncomplicated. something she doesn't have to pick apart, just to make sense of it.
her fingers brush in feathery strokes over the bladed angle of his jaw, distracted. every facet of him seems designed for predatory danger, alluring in the way of a serpent's shimmering scales, promising beautiful lethality. perhaps she's always harbored a quiet fondness for night's creatures, for nature's less understood creations — or perhaps few know, as she's come to learn, the gift of being chosen by what the world would call a monster.
a sense of security she does not take for granted as she molds her front more solidly into his chest, bumps her forehead to his in an affectionate nudge, as though he's no greater threat to her than a doting housecat. ]
Should we?
[ a raspy tease to match her hovering mouth, skimming like butterfly wings across his own. the fatal flaw of their tightly interwoven group is how they've come to naturally learn one another's scars, their weaknesses, their talents. valuable secrets to wield as a crutch, in hours of need, or as weapons, if the mood were to suit.
astarion's vanity is a harmless thing to tease out and rile, in that grand scheme, but no less known to her. case in point: ]
Perhaps we should. I fear you might need the practice.
[ her vexing little smile imprints itself against his mouth like a warm brand, just before she sinks teeth in, drawing the pillowy swell of his lower lip out with a nipping bite. ]
Edited (tmw u realize the agony that is accidentally repeating words ) 2023-10-10 00:41 (UTC)
[ He's wondered, more than once now, how he looks to her. He has some understanding of his own features, garnered simply by touch, by memory, by what people have told him β of pale beauty, best used, he'd been told, in service of the hunt. He knows how to alter his expression, to darken his gaze, to arch his eyebrows just so, to look both dangerous and welcoming, to make an easy lure for most who've crossed his path. But she's seen him at both highs and lows, now, and more than that, she sees him differently. That's the version of himself that he truly wants to see.
In that light, he almost envies the change she'd made for herself β the new, pale moonlight of her hair, a physical declaration of her rebirth. She conveys strength, to him, in a way he knows he doesn't β he hasn't wanted to, really β as foreign to him as sunlight had once been, but shining upon him, for him alone. (He doesn't take that for granted, either.)
And, still, the feline comparison isn't far off the mark β eager for a spot in the sun, for an affectionate touch, but still with a slight fickle streak, prone to running off should something else catch his attention. Granted, quite a high bar to clear at this point. ]
Oh?
[ He laughs, bright and cheerful (and only a little mock offended), the sound quickly muffled by the press of her lips as he once again cranes up to meet her touch, her warmth. That nip gets a satisfied sort of hiss β it's not often he's on the other side of that particular equation. ]
Not up to your exacting standards, my dear? [ he murmurs, the next time their lips part, his tongue darting over the faint pinpricks of sensation left by her teeth. He sighs, nosing against her pulse, the line of her jaw.
[ gone to waste. it strikes close to the heart an uglier truth, speaks to years dwindling away in their respective captivity. for the protection of her sanity, she doesn't oft linger on what-if hypotheticals, doesn't allow her mind to wander down untaken paths. such thoughts are only an exercise in self-torture, she's learned — what if she'd had the peace of a normal, loving life? what if shar's rot had never exposed itself, before shadowheart had festered in the dark further?
what if, what if, what if; in the end, every theoretical version of herself is an inconsequential phantom, intangible. only she lives, here in the present, no matter what she might have been; no matter how some sliver of herself mourns for some version of herself who remains a stranger. there is little need to dawdle on what cannot be changed, marks that cannot be erased. and yet —
that doesn't diminish the studious nature of her stare as it trips over the slope of his nose, his warm mouth (ironically bright, like the light of his laugh contains the sun). she can hardly claim she would relinquish this — all she is, all she's come to know, all she's come to have — for an opportunity to revise her past. still, it would seem a tragedy to ever contemplate losing ... this.
this impossible companionship. paths too rare to ever cross in any other iteration of their lifetimes, had their situations differed, like a contained lightning strike. rather than thicken the air with a solemn thought, she eases into a murmur of, ]
Don't worry your pretty head. Two centuries could have never prepared you for me, kitty.
[ for all the confidence of that tease, it fails to err into the same arrogant territory his usual remarks take. (overcompensation, she suspects, a veil designed to hide his self-loathing.) a quick, deliberate tilt of her head lands his next attempt on her chin, afterward, as her smile grows playfully dimpled. ]
In many ways, you've been my first. My only first worth remembering, at least. My standards are as exacting as they need to be.
[ the only one that truly feels as though it matters, now that she sits outside shar's complete control. the flat of her palm braces at his nape, as she shifts — a movement that brings him more readily hovering above her, his face eclipsing her view of the sun. sweetly, she tucks a stray, dislodged curl from the movement behind his ear, tracing the point of it with the tip of her nail. with a low, melodic hum, ]
A pity we'll have to stay here until you've gotten it perfectly right.
[ It isn't, for whatever it's worth, particularly difficult to tell when Astarion's being earnest β at least, not once the veil has lifted. The mask he wears is a heavy one, and not something he's found easy to part with. It's not totally a work of fiction β he is a vain creature, typically more easily motivated by personal wants and needs than any sense of the greater good β which makes the endeavor of separation all the more arduous. But, for all that remains the same, there's a marked change in his behavior, in the lack of a furrow in his brow, in a lighter timbre to the tone of his voice, in a slightly dialed-down level of melodrama and a less single-minded focus on carnal pursuits.
Those qualifiers β less but not gone completely β are what's made freedom such a strange gauntlet. There's no way of totally separating himself from the creature he'd been under Cazador's thumb, much as he might wish to. What that monster had built out of him had not been from scratch. He hates that, resents it. He hates not feeling like he belongs to himself.
And so, my first, she says, and he seems to pause. There is a thought that he wants to offer in return, that she's his first worth remembering, too, but the words feel like they take the wrong shape, if only because he knows how they could sound in his voice, like he's proud of having been a lothario. That's not how he means it, of course β what he means is, well, exactly what she's said. This is the first significant relationship he's really had β it's precious to him, something he doesn't want to ruin.
(Again, he remembers some things from his previous life β enough to know that he hadn't really left anyone behind, not like this. There's a blank space where love would be; after all, he hadn't thought death to be quite so close at hand. Not that he'd really been ready for it, in retrospect, at least not if his general personality is much of an indication.)
So, with the words beyond him, he smiles, instead, the expression slight, meant not for an audience but just for her. ]
A pity indeed, [ he murmurs, as his gaze travels over her features, his hand rising to mirror her gesture, brushing her hair gently from her face, lingering at her cheek. His fingers stay there, cupping her face, as he cranes down to kiss her β relatively chaste, this time, a single press of his lips before his mouth wanders to the line of her jaw, the curve of her neck. ]
And quite the conundrum β to please you, my dear, or to deliberately draw out our little date? [ Then, as he shifts to meet her gaze again: ] Though perhaps I've underestimated where you've set the bar.
[ a worry that might have rung more true, once. might have made her leery, plagued with distrust as she was. (another gift, she thinks sardonically, viconia had bestowed upon her.) as it stands, there's an airiness to it, empty of any true suspicion. or judgment that isn't hers to pass on, for that matter. gods know no one escapes lady shar's service without having embodied nightmares themselves — the beasts children should dread, much as any sharp-fanged spawn lurking beneath a window, awaiting an invitation inside.
she's breathing proof of such, isn't she? the tall tale children are told by their chastising parents. behave, or they'll come for you next. and they had — had made her interrogator, torturer, believer. multi-faceted as a tool, a soldier, a spear. it's written in the lithe line of her torso as she leisurely arches toward him, seeking, in a quiet whisper of strength. graceful, yes, but with not without her own hidden ugliness.
that knowledge of her own (grotesque to her in some ways, now, in light of how they had been used) capabilities would have soothed her in the past, were he to have nuzzled as near to her jumping pulse as he does now. a promise of a fighting chance against him, if his teeth began to itch. perhaps she's a fool to find her faith lies solely in trust, in its place, as she elongates the pale, delicate column of her throat. some would call it foolish, brave, or foolishly brave to expose it in the presence of a predator, when she'd hardly trust a ravenous wolf with her soft parts; shadowheart thinks of it simply as a leap of faith.
absently, her fingers move to draw patterns at the nape of his neck, to glide up further, until she's gingerly sinking her fingers through silvery strands. ]
You're clever enough to accomplish both, I think, [ she continues, the hint of an impish smile in tow. ] I've the utmost faith you'll rise to the challenge.
[ It's a leap of faith, and a quantifiable measure of trust that she doesn't flinch or otherwise redirect him away from the column of her neck. He knows better than to take that for granted, to file her lack of resistance away as weakness. Besides, if that makes her foolish, then what does that make him? Should she decide to put an end to his existence here and now, he'd hardly be in much of a position to stop her, lacking armor and, indeed, any armament at all, save the paring knife that sits in the basket nearby.
It's an admission of trust on his part, too, that he doesn't shy away from her touch β that he finds he desires it, is comforted by it. He wants her to touch him, rather than finding it stirs up feelings of self-hatred. Same as a feral cat, one might suppose; initially wary of any closeness, let alone an extended hand, but made as docile and trusting β as loyal, at least as any such creature can be, though perhaps that is where the comparison ends β as any house cat over the course of time.
And on top of that all, he knows it's no small feat that they're both still here after having discovered the darker parts of their pasts. For all that they'd been acting in the service of higher powers, there's no way of totally abjuring responsibility for the lives claimed or pain exacted along the way. And no, they can't offer each other absolution, butβ it sort of comes close, to feel deserving of something like this. ]
Well, when you put it so nicely ...
[ As his lips find hers again, his knee slips between her legs, nudging them apart, the gesture itself enough to be suggestive, but stopping there. (A means by which to gauge her intent as well as a marker of how quickly β or slowly β he's willing to take things. As precious as the instinct sounds, he doesn't want to fuck this up, not by playing too loosely with what he's comfortable with, nor by failing to meet her expectations.) His hand, meanwhile, finds the small of her back, supporting the arch of her frame, as his other arm serves as a brace against the ground next to her head. ]
[ an answering laugh dies on her tongue, decomposes into a surprised intake of breath. he is not without his own elegance, in this — but there's a marked, unexpected gracelessness that seems to lurk within them both. a clash against the images they've portrayed, the roles they've slotted themselves into: the predatory philanderer and the sure-footed cleric, no longer quite so sure-footed or predatory at all. the consequence of dropped pretenses, she thinks: all of their false convictions and comforts have rotted away, leaving nothing but the raw core of what they are.
and what she is, is — inexpert. hardly better in the depths of intimacy than if she dared to venture out into the lake, half-drowning in her attempts to remain afloat. this, perhaps, is its own price for what she has been, previously — for the perfectionism viconia had demanded, shar had demanded, on threat of pain. bumbling prayers answered with agony; hesitation met with the disciplining burn of her wound. there had been little room, of course, for making herself a disappointment. little room to learn at a pace dictated by herself, and herself alone. little reason to feel accomplished in her progress, lest it was honed into immaculacy.
her pride doesn't quite relish in revisiting the sensation of being so amateur in any regard, accordingly. she has to shake the determined hum beneath her skin to improve, as though it's a trial to overcome; has to shake the instinct to expect humiliation. astarion, notably, isn't meeting her restless hands with laughter. there's no derisive snort as they cling to the back of his shirt, clumsily slide down his spine, clutch to his collar to hold him against her. that feels like safety, too — to not be made to feel the fool, even if her body flushes ripe pink, in acute awareness of herself.
her fingers twist the material of his shirt. when her thighs tighten around his own, squeezing the column of it, it feels like answering an unspoken question with another, an invitation met with an invitation. the upward grind of her hips is slow, as a result. restrained, as though reluctant to be too damnably needy. though perhaps she's already surpassed that threshold, she thinks, as a shuddery exhale breathes itself from her lungs and into him. there's something to be said, after all, for rubbing herself against his thigh like they're two inexperienced teenagers sneaking off into the woods to clumsily explore one another. (a comparison that feels more and more apt, by the second.) ]
[ If anything, the way she touches him isβ reassuring. A tether, as some part of him fears falling back into old habits or having the ground give way beneath them. (If it'd happen to anyone, it would be them.) It's a reminder that what she wants from him is not a fantasy, as so many others had, but just him, a thought that's nearly inconceivable to him despite all his usual bluster.
All it takes is the tug of her fingers to both clear his mind and send it spiraling into a session of mental gymnastics as he tries to parse through what he wants versus what he's used to, and how to separate the two things. Even time seems like a limiting factor β they're not in such dire straits now, as evidenced by the fact that they can steal away for even a moment, but there's no guarantee as to how much more time they'll get to themselves, whether or not they'll even survive the ordeal they've been flung into.
And he knows he wants this, wants her β wants to be good enough, wants to be enough. ]
Tell meβ
[ The sentence gets swallowed up, lost on her tongue as a faint moan rolls off of his, his frame shifting into the rise of her hips. ]
Show me what you want. What you like.
[ Though he doesn't say as much out loud β it'd hardly be romantic, he thinks β he doesn't mean it in the sense that he expects her to know already (especially considering the fact that he's similarly at sea, in the process of re-learning and re-drawing his boundaries), but it feels easier for him to follow, here, than to lead, easier to mold what he knows when given some kind of direction rather than trying to figure it out by himself. ]
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no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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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simplistic. but with the tangled knot their paths have become, it's nice for something to feel so uncomplicated. something she doesn't have to pick apart, just to make sense of it.
her fingers brush in feathery strokes over the bladed angle of his jaw, distracted. every facet of him seems designed for predatory danger, alluring in the way of a serpent's shimmering scales, promising beautiful lethality. perhaps she's always harbored a quiet fondness for night's creatures, for nature's less understood creations — or perhaps few know, as she's come to learn, the gift of being chosen by what the world would call a monster.
a sense of security she does not take for granted as she molds her front more solidly into his chest, bumps her forehead to his in an affectionate nudge, as though he's no greater threat to her than a doting housecat. ]
Should we?
[ a raspy tease to match her hovering mouth, skimming like butterfly wings across his own. the fatal flaw of their tightly interwoven group is how they've come to naturally learn one another's scars, their weaknesses, their talents. valuable secrets to wield as a crutch, in hours of need, or as weapons, if the mood were to suit.
astarion's vanity is a harmless thing to tease out and rile, in that grand scheme, but no less known to her. case in point: ]
Perhaps we should. I fear you might need the practice.
[ her vexing little smile imprints itself against his mouth like a warm brand, just before she sinks teeth in, drawing the pillowy swell of his lower lip out with a nipping bite. ]
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In that light, he almost envies the change she'd made for herself β the new, pale moonlight of her hair, a physical declaration of her rebirth. She conveys strength, to him, in a way he knows he doesn't β he hasn't wanted to, really β as foreign to him as sunlight had once been, but shining upon him, for him alone. (He doesn't take that for granted, either.)
And, still, the feline comparison isn't far off the mark β eager for a spot in the sun, for an affectionate touch, but still with a slight fickle streak, prone to running off should something else catch his attention. Granted, quite a high bar to clear at this point. ]
Oh?
[ He laughs, bright and cheerful (and only a little mock offended), the sound quickly muffled by the press of her lips as he once again cranes up to meet her touch, her warmth. That nip gets a satisfied sort of hiss β it's not often he's on the other side of that particular equation. ]
Not up to your exacting standards, my dear? [ he murmurs, the next time their lips part, his tongue darting over the faint pinpricks of sensation left by her teeth. He sighs, nosing against her pulse, the line of her jaw.
Just as he leans in for another kiss: ]
Two hundred years, gone to waste! What a shame.
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what if, what if, what if; in the end, every theoretical version of herself is an inconsequential phantom, intangible. only she lives, here in the present, no matter what she might have been; no matter how some sliver of herself mourns for some version of herself who remains a stranger. there is little need to dawdle on what cannot be changed, marks that cannot be erased. and yet —
that doesn't diminish the studious nature of her stare as it trips over the slope of his nose, his warm mouth (ironically bright, like the light of his laugh contains the sun). she can hardly claim she would relinquish this — all she is, all she's come to know, all she's come to have — for an opportunity to revise her past. still, it would seem a tragedy to ever contemplate losing ... this.
this impossible companionship. paths too rare to ever cross in any other iteration of their lifetimes, had their situations differed, like a contained lightning strike. rather than thicken the air with a solemn thought, she eases into a murmur of, ]
Don't worry your pretty head. Two centuries could have never prepared you for me, kitty.
[ for all the confidence of that tease, it fails to err into the same arrogant territory his usual remarks take. (overcompensation, she suspects, a veil designed to hide his self-loathing.) a quick, deliberate tilt of her head lands his next attempt on her chin, afterward, as her smile grows playfully dimpled. ]
In many ways, you've been my first. My only first worth remembering, at least. My standards are as exacting as they need to be.
[ the only one that truly feels as though it matters, now that she sits outside shar's complete control. the flat of her palm braces at his nape, as she shifts — a movement that brings him more readily hovering above her, his face eclipsing her view of the sun. sweetly, she tucks a stray, dislodged curl from the movement behind his ear, tracing the point of it with the tip of her nail. with a low, melodic hum, ]
A pity we'll have to stay here until you've gotten it perfectly right.
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Those qualifiers β less but not gone completely β are what's made freedom such a strange gauntlet. There's no way of totally separating himself from the creature he'd been under Cazador's thumb, much as he might wish to. What that monster had built out of him had not been from scratch. He hates that, resents it. He hates not feeling like he belongs to himself.
And so, my first, she says, and he seems to pause. There is a thought that he wants to offer in return, that she's his first worth remembering, too, but the words feel like they take the wrong shape, if only because he knows how they could sound in his voice, like he's proud of having been a lothario. That's not how he means it, of course β what he means is, well, exactly what she's said. This is the first significant relationship he's really had β it's precious to him, something he doesn't want to ruin.
(Again, he remembers some things from his previous life β enough to know that he hadn't really left anyone behind, not like this. There's a blank space where love would be; after all, he hadn't thought death to be quite so close at hand. Not that he'd really been ready for it, in retrospect, at least not if his general personality is much of an indication.)
So, with the words beyond him, he smiles, instead, the expression slight, meant not for an audience but just for her. ]
A pity indeed, [ he murmurs, as his gaze travels over her features, his hand rising to mirror her gesture, brushing her hair gently from her face, lingering at her cheek. His fingers stay there, cupping her face, as he cranes down to kiss her β relatively chaste, this time, a single press of his lips before his mouth wanders to the line of her jaw, the curve of her neck. ]
And quite the conundrum β to please you, my dear, or to deliberately draw out our little date? [ Then, as he shifts to meet her gaze again: ] Though perhaps I've underestimated where you've set the bar.
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[ a worry that might have rung more true, once. might have made her leery, plagued with distrust as she was. (another gift, she thinks sardonically, viconia had bestowed upon her.) as it stands, there's an airiness to it, empty of any true suspicion. or judgment that isn't hers to pass on, for that matter. gods know no one escapes lady shar's service without having embodied nightmares themselves — the beasts children should dread, much as any sharp-fanged spawn lurking beneath a window, awaiting an invitation inside.
she's breathing proof of such, isn't she? the tall tale children are told by their chastising parents. behave, or they'll come for you next. and they had — had made her interrogator, torturer, believer. multi-faceted as a tool, a soldier, a spear. it's written in the lithe line of her torso as she leisurely arches toward him, seeking, in a quiet whisper of strength. graceful, yes, but with not without her own hidden ugliness.
that knowledge of her own (grotesque to her in some ways, now, in light of how they had been used) capabilities would have soothed her in the past, were he to have nuzzled as near to her jumping pulse as he does now. a promise of a fighting chance against him, if his teeth began to itch. perhaps she's a fool to find her faith lies solely in trust, in its place, as she elongates the pale, delicate column of her throat. some would call it foolish, brave, or foolishly brave to expose it in the presence of a predator, when she'd hardly trust a ravenous wolf with her soft parts; shadowheart thinks of it simply as a leap of faith.
absently, her fingers move to draw patterns at the nape of his neck, to glide up further, until she's gingerly sinking her fingers through silvery strands. ]
You're clever enough to accomplish both, I think, [ she continues, the hint of an impish smile in tow. ] I've the utmost faith you'll rise to the challenge.
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It's an admission of trust on his part, too, that he doesn't shy away from her touch β that he finds he desires it, is comforted by it. He wants her to touch him, rather than finding it stirs up feelings of self-hatred. Same as a feral cat, one might suppose; initially wary of any closeness, let alone an extended hand, but made as docile and trusting β as loyal, at least as any such creature can be, though perhaps that is where the comparison ends β as any house cat over the course of time.
And on top of that all, he knows it's no small feat that they're both still here after having discovered the darker parts of their pasts. For all that they'd been acting in the service of higher powers, there's no way of totally abjuring responsibility for the lives claimed or pain exacted along the way. And no, they can't offer each other absolution, butβ it sort of comes close, to feel deserving of something like this. ]
Well, when you put it so nicely ...
[ As his lips find hers again, his knee slips between her legs, nudging them apart, the gesture itself enough to be suggestive, but stopping there. (A means by which to gauge her intent as well as a marker of how quickly β or slowly β he's willing to take things. As precious as the instinct sounds, he doesn't want to fuck this up, not by playing too loosely with what he's comfortable with, nor by failing to meet her expectations.) His hand, meanwhile, finds the small of her back, supporting the arch of her frame, as his other arm serves as a brace against the ground next to her head. ]
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and what she is, is — inexpert. hardly better in the depths of intimacy than if she dared to venture out into the lake, half-drowning in her attempts to remain afloat. this, perhaps, is its own price for what she has been, previously — for the perfectionism viconia had demanded, shar had demanded, on threat of pain. bumbling prayers answered with agony; hesitation met with the disciplining burn of her wound. there had been little room, of course, for making herself a disappointment. little room to learn at a pace dictated by herself, and herself alone. little reason to feel accomplished in her progress, lest it was honed into immaculacy.
her pride doesn't quite relish in revisiting the sensation of being so amateur in any regard, accordingly. she has to shake the determined hum beneath her skin to improve, as though it's a trial to overcome; has to shake the instinct to expect humiliation. astarion, notably, isn't meeting her restless hands with laughter. there's no derisive snort as they cling to the back of his shirt, clumsily slide down his spine, clutch to his collar to hold him against her. that feels like safety, too — to not be made to feel the fool, even if her body flushes ripe pink, in acute awareness of herself.
her fingers twist the material of his shirt. when her thighs tighten around his own, squeezing the column of it, it feels like answering an unspoken question with another, an invitation met with an invitation. the upward grind of her hips is slow, as a result. restrained, as though reluctant to be too damnably needy. though perhaps she's already surpassed that threshold, she thinks, as a shuddery exhale breathes itself from her lungs and into him. there's something to be said, after all, for rubbing herself against his thigh like they're two inexperienced teenagers sneaking off into the woods to clumsily explore one another. (a comparison that feels more and more apt, by the second.) ]
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All it takes is the tug of her fingers to both clear his mind and send it spiraling into a session of mental gymnastics as he tries to parse through what he wants versus what he's used to, and how to separate the two things. Even time seems like a limiting factor β they're not in such dire straits now, as evidenced by the fact that they can steal away for even a moment, but there's no guarantee as to how much more time they'll get to themselves, whether or not they'll even survive the ordeal they've been flung into.
And he knows he wants this, wants her β wants to be good enough, wants to be enough. ]
Tell meβ
[ The sentence gets swallowed up, lost on her tongue as a faint moan rolls off of his, his frame shifting into the rise of her hips. ]
Show me what you want. What you like.
[ Though he doesn't say as much out loud β it'd hardly be romantic, he thinks β he doesn't mean it in the sense that he expects her to know already (especially considering the fact that he's similarly at sea, in the process of re-learning and re-drawing his boundaries), but it feels easier for him to follow, here, than to lead, easier to mold what he knows when given some kind of direction rather than trying to figure it out by himself. ]
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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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