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Karlach pushes two fingers within, spreading Astarion with unrivaled gentleness.
His gasps are the only sounds she needs to hear; how much of it comes from a genuine place neatly hidden in his chest and how much is just an eagerness to please, whose roots are far tarnished to to be mended. The drawn expressions can be well made, as much as a good pretender Astarion can be, but blown pupils aren’t hard to read. It’s all in the cracked edges of his mask—it’s all Karlach pulls back, and admires what still remains.
Enough slickness allows her calloused fingers to slither back and forth his hole, fucking him kindly. His voice trembles but doesn’t attempt words yet. Astarion holds her forearm, however, and drags a palm over scarred skin without judgment, rising and rising to her neck, her throat, then descent to her collarbone, thumb up and down the hollow of the bone which Karlach finds endearing. Often were the times they’d ought to break the thin barrier between them, only to end up with a mere touch of hands and kisses that took no longer than short seconds.
At the openness of this gesture, Karlach speeds up. The tightness around her fingers loosen in the measure she brushes over a delicate spot that wrings a moan straight out of his collected lips, that she did not know why before but—but what matters, even, if Astarion throws his head backwards and clutches her shoulder firmly? If his hips sway against—or with, Karlach’s yet to catch his pacing—her fingers in an attempt to please himself even more?
Good thing she doesn’t leave him hanging.
Karlach leans down as she stimulates him, pressing and filling him with each thrust, and doesn’t avoid kissing Astarion’s jaw as yet another way to pinpoint her interest. Those are delicate as if his pale skin was made of porcelain, meticulously chapped but not unworthy of attention. She is aware of the weight she places above him. She is all too aware of how Astarion opens up to her, his legs bent on her sides now laid down against sheets as a way to let Karlach be as within as she’s capable of.
His palm roams from her throat to her nape, and her lips approach his own. Right on its corner. She still waits for a sign to come even if none seems to be needed.
It is Astarion who tilts his head towards Karlach so their mouths can brush and dance. It’s him who strokes his erection according to her fingers, moans vibrating between close lips, closer and closer to the edge she pushes him onto.
His breath quickens. Then he stiffs and whimpers, firmly clutching strands of her black hair as he spills over their bellies. A moment passes through slow, wrung out strokes, and he breathes again.
Karlach lets him take this moment for himself. The necessary dive into unthoughtful bliss and the slow climb into reality back to everything that surrounds them; in Astarion’s case, this process was never too gentle or too sluggish. Always a rush to get the smallest control of himself even if it meant nothing later. But here, he allows himself to, and she cannot take such a thing from him.
She cleanses them when Astarion opens his eyes wide, signaling he’s still there. Karlach sits, and she’s careful. Astarion does the same, only to tenderly hold her cheek, a honey-coated tone dripping over her overly tightened core. “My dear, would you lay down for me?”
Karlach smiles and gives him the wheel. The spot is the same and it discloses as intimately as they’ve been building to this very moment: like Karlach, Astarion showers her body in light, feather-like kisses, from mouth to throat to collarbone. Lips grow in heat and her chest is enshrouded in craving—each touch of his wrings a quiet grunt that speaks in itself a need encapsulated in years impermissible.
At his mouth shifting between nipples, coils tangle within her belly. Teeth and fang brush her skin, but he doesn’t bite. Sucks her after a deep breath, and though Karlach wants and wants, she controls the ways she handles Astarion though it happens the other way around. His tongue through her abs accuses her yearning by its slick tip, constant taste of metal over marked and scarred red skin, but never pushes its judgment further. It’s a statement. It’s a truth worn beneath sleeve, one she has no bother in telling—and one he perceives as he licks her damp lips and unfurls her lovingly.
Karlach’s breath goes in deep exhales and dry swallows. Even beneath, she is too aware of Astarion’s wanton and whether—and how much—it is genuine, but this line of thoughts cuts itself with a kiss on her inner thigh, a tongue licking over her vulva, his hands caressing and following the curve of her waist. He finds her breast and squeezes it softly. She looks beneath, and his eyes are filled with unmatched tenderness.
Karlach buries her fingers between his curls and fondles Astarion. Unveils, through an insistent attention over her clit, confessions attached in her throat just by the fear of wounding. She would never leave it there, forever; Karlach makes sure to not repress—or never withholds herself. As much as she blossoms for Astarion, who’d listen to every curse with a smug in his lips if those weren’t so occupied, she blossoms for herself, blue petals wide and brimming with life. Is in the short breath, a knot tying in her belly and chest, the urge and demand for more convoluting as long as delight builds up her navel, that Karlach feels alive. In the cold digits, in the small kisses, in the presence that knows and sees her, and touches…
She moves her hips upwards to ride his face, pressed tight against the middle of her legs. Karlach might have felt his fangs, but she doesn’t dismiss his fingers within. Curled right onto her sweet spot, it brings her down into gaped-mouth moans, legs trembling with a pleasure threatening to wash and drown her entirely.
And she allows it gladly.
Karlach shudders, throws her head forth then back, and fully blossoms. It’s a beautiful feeling—this coil and release that renders one thoughtless. Pleasure courses through her in waves that crash continuously as Astarion teases her sensitive clit, dangling on edges she’s reached and will again if he doesn’t let go. She revels in it; but he ceases, and draws back. She doesn’t complain.
In her sight, she sees wisps of blue flame which cannot scorch. A messed-up white hair slowly raises so eyes are seen, worn and beautiful as hers, and a gaunt, cool and pale cheek presses against a strong, warm and crimson thigh. Flutters draw along her torso, various feelings needless to say but wanted to. Karlach trails Astarion’s jaw by her fingertip, endearing him. She doesn’t withhold the tugs in her heart, either; she says the feeling in its whole meaning: “I love you, I love you, I love you,” all in different tones, all true to the numerous confessions she has already told in the nights they’ve slept together.
Astarion narrows his eyes and grins. He moves up, towering ever so little above her. Karlach’s hand doesn’t part—stays close to his face, and at the glimmer of saliva on his chin, she wipes it dry with a carefulness to not undo his grin. Astarion does it constantly, but she loves it when it becomes the equivalent of her own smile at this very moment.
Then he lays on her chest, cheek upon heart, warm and protected. The tugs are heard loud and clear. Her truth made proof.
At last, he says: “I love you,” as he nuzzles in her blue warmth; “I love you,” as he gently kisses the rough skin; “I love you,” as he stares up to her eyes, and she knows he might not repeat this so easily in the forthcoming days, but it is true. She knows. And that is enough.
They huddle in each other, his form frail and small compared to hers, but nonetheless one that dovetails perfectly with the sturdy and tall body of hers. Yet one thing so similar is the touch: fingertips all the same, made of feather, brushing softly against each other’s scars and all the worth that remains.