[ It's an unhappy walk from the carnage to the water. Bloodstained grass makes way for loose soil, and the litany of things that aren't yet spoken drift away from them both, carried on ambient sounds of the flowing river.
This is what razing one's past looks like: a whole lot of nothing. Just empty, vacuous space. The dead no longer have answers for the living, and the living can no longer expect the truth from the dead.
The rest is silence, blistering and absolute. Clive knows how it feels to hold his ears against it, and to swallow the nausea that comes from the pounding sound of his own pulse－ he keeps Lauralae close and tucked against his side, angling her so that, if she'd like, she can press her face to his chest and hear his heartbeat instead, slow and steady despite this shared grief. ]
I'll be right here with you.
[ His answer to where he'll take her. Here, in the unbearable present. He only loosens his grip when he reaches to unclip his cape from his pauldron, letting the fabric fall onto soft ground; he guides Lauralae down to settle with him, legs splayed towards the burble of the water as he hefts her half onto his knees, a thing for her to lean on. ]
Tell me plainly. [ She smells like the sting of copper-blood, and so must he. Still, it's not a crime to try being gentle, even after so much violence. His voice is low, soft. ] What hurts?
[ Yes, he knows she said that she isn't. He asks anyway. ]
Lauralae has felt loss before, of course. She had lost friends, some distant family, things that meant a great deal to her, but she had been numb to it all then. All of her feelings had been so deeply buried that she hadn’t ever allowed herself to wallow, to sink into it at all; it had felt like weakness. Closing herself off to the world was a kind of protection that had been necessary, otherwise she would have sunk.
Living at the Hideaway, befriending others, learning to be happy and at peace had opened her up to all these strange and unfamiliar feelings. For the first time in years, she’d let herself overflow with emotion, let herself bask in the warmth of it. She knows a great deal of it is due to Clive himself, his patience and kindness and warmth, and even now he stands with her, supports her, guides her through the open maw of feeling so much that it burns her.
Slowly, she sinks into him. Slowly, she leans in to listen to the pulse of his heart, and even slower comes her own breathing, relaxing from the intense high of loss. There’s still so much coppery blood around them, still so much death, but with his warmth and his scent as a cocoon she feels anchored. No one can harm her while he is at her side, and she believes in that. Months in, and her trust in Clive is set and secure, unshakable.
This cements her faith.
Lifting her head, she looks at him, hand rising to grip at the front of his armour, to tangle in the fabric she finds. She needs this, she thinks. She needs what he gives her, and that’s strength. ]
My heart. [ It’s a soft confession. It burns in her eyes. And then, absently - ] My hands. It’s… Strange. They’re not harmed, and yet…
[ A phantom ache, a ghost of suffering long removed from her life - a reminder of what she had been forced to live with, once upon a time. ]
[ Together, they're fire and brimstone, ozone and copper. Two beasts out of hell, tucked against each other in the dim. Clive remembers their first encounter, remembers sitting five handspans away from Lauralae and wondering if even that was far too close for her comfort; they've come a long way since then, even if the new, novel proximity is a consequence of something he doesn't wish on anyone.
Her heart hurts, she says. Clive thinks of the trust that she must have in him, now, that she can place that honesty in his hands, and the weight of it keeps him anchored. A reciprocal cementing of his own faith, his own resolve.
He doesn't want to fail her.
So he breathes, and meets the need in her eyes with a request of his own. His brows slant in empathy, but his lips curl up in vague, perhaps misplaced affection. Every part of him wants to be here with her, to listen and to know; the mention of her hands has him lifting his own, metal clinking as he divests himself of gauntlets and gloves to lay his palms and fingers bare.
Once that's done: ] Can I see them? [ As he shows her his calluses, offers his open-palmed touch. ] Your hands.
[ He knows what this entails, and what she fears. ]
[ The time the two have them have spent getting to know one another is obvious in the way they interact, and the trust that has developed in its wake is there. Lauralae isn't necessarily comfortable making it obvious to anyone else, but she thinks there's a thread of understanding through a lot of people in the Hideaway at the moment; perhaps they can see the way that she responds to Clive, and how different it is from how she is with other people.
Clive is the one who broached her, gave her time and patience. He is the one who put the effort in, the work in, to be kind, to be gentle, to be soft and willing to allow her to approach like the wild animal she thought she was. Even now, lost in the marsh of her own grief, he is gentle, encouraging a sweeter side out of her that she doesn't think that she's worthy of; there was no reason to believe in it until now. When he reaches for her, she wants to reach back, to trust in what he gives her.
What she wants is to, somehow, feel as if she is worthy of this. That she has earned this. That was Clive gives her is permissible. She doesn't know how to do that.
Dark eyes watch as he bares himself, strips down to the skin of his palms, and she feels something else ache inside of her. She doesn't know what to say, ever so briefly, before her mouth opens and she swallows.
It's hard, but who else in the world could she trust? Her gloves are dark and damp now, from blood and tears, so she ought to remove them. It doesn't make it any easier.
Lauralae's gaze doesn't falter from Clive's as she peels the gloves off her arms, as if she's afraid to bare herself in that way to him. They're pulled off and away, dropped aside, and she can feel the strangeness of it, being curled up against him but having the air on his skin. Her fingers flex, twitchy, buglike movements, and she squeezes her eyes shut, feeling a knot in her stomach.
It's not as if they're that bad. They're burned, marked along the skin and marred, with edges of blackness where the magic has focussed itself. They're not a pretty sight, no matter what, and she can barely lift them to let Clive take her hand in his own. ]
[ Forged in fire and steel. Clive waits for Lauralae to make her deliberation, to decide whether she wants to bare this last part of her that she'd hidden under fabric and pain; when the layer finally starts to peel, he leans into her side and watches that piece of the puzzle fall into place, blackened skin and scars and all.
Not pretty, no, but they needn't be. There's history in her hands that Clive is grateful to see, not dissimilar to the gnarled map of discolored skin cutting across his own face from cheek to neck. A mark of strife, earned through hardship. Life and death, trial and survival.
She's still beautiful. Clive shakes his head when she speaks to hiding again. ]
They're a part of you.
[ It sounds a little like please. Low and plaintive, in the tradition of him whispering when he wants to be heard. That strange idiosyncrasy at play, even now.
Fingertips touch along the back of her hand. He recalls what she's told him about touch inflicting pain, and while he anticipates it, waits for it―
―the brush of skin against skin feels like a controlled burn. Her fire, his fire, sparking without setting anything ablaze; like a path of light mapped by his fingers along her knuckles, a trail of aether and something ancient, primordial. Ifrit rumbles happily in his chest, and he flares hotter for it.
Ah, he breathes, and moves to curl his grip around her wrist. ]
[ As soon as his eyes land on her skin, the urge to pull away and hide herself overtakes her. She wants to burrow herself aside and tug the gloves back on, to do something to protect herself from his deep, curious gaze - the way that Clive always looks at her, the way he always seems to see into the core of her. He has never flinched, never turned away, but the quiet, frightened part of her heart still expects it.
Perhaps that is unkind of her, but she cannot help herself.
Her fingers twitch when he touches her, jerking and moving like a child poking a caterpillar, lurching away in case it causes him pain. She expects it herself, that familiar burning, horrifying feeling, the pain and hurt that had her parents whispering monster in her ear. Her eyes close, tight and hard and aching, until... It doesn't come, the surge of heat and burn that she is so accustomed to.
It feels warm, yes, and hot, like her fingers are seeking out the heat of a fire, but it is far, far less painful than she could have ever dared dream.
Eyes widening, she turns her gaze back to Clive, expression wide-eyed and confused. ]
[ Clive has no reference for what this should feel like, and thus, this is his baseline. This not-unpleasant flare, this flicker and warmth. Like, yes, a bite that isn't quite hard enough to break skin; the promise of teeth, scouring like a too-rough kiss.
It makes Clive shiver despite the heat of it. Where Lauralae projects wide-eyed confusion, Clive reciprocates with wide-eyed fascination: his grip slides from her wrist and downwards, fingers unfurled to let the tips of them trail down and over the thin skin stretched over her pulsepoint and down to her palm.
Should they be negotiating more? Is he meant to be more careful? But nothing hurts, and so he tests her boundaries just a little more, winding an index around an index. ]
Is it painful for you?
[ There's still the possibility that Lauralae is bearing the brunt of the pain, and Ifrit is absorbing most of his.
(He can feel his aether pulse against hers. Not repelling, but acclimating. Resonating.) ]
This is an ache she can manage, one that might be worth the gentle intimacy of being closer to Clive and enjoying his company, his kindness, the way that he looks at her. When their fingers intertwine with one another, she almost trembles, expecting a burst of hurt and pain that she can barely prepare herself for, but all that comes is... A tingle, like someone poking at the skin of a bruise.
It feels strange, not just because this is the first time in years that anyone has touched her fingers, her hands, her skin here, but because it's so absent of pain and fire that she feels as if she's breathing for the first time after being submerged in water. It's hard to even begin to put into words all the things that are rolling through her mind, but when she lifts her head to look at Clive properly, her awe is probably obvious.
Slowly, she shakes her head. ]
It aches, but it is not...
[ Something knots in her stomach, and she turns their hands, to press her smaller fingers between his larger one. ]
[ From that tentative curl, their hands shift and splay against each other until they're palm-to-palm, burns to calluses and skin to skin. Clive hovers like that for a moment, on the needlepoint of anticipation, caught between chasing or preserving this perfect equilibrium that they've managed－
－until he decides to break that tension and lace their fingers, one by one. He watches her as he does it, her cheeks still tear-streaked, eyes still red-rimmed. The feeling of that touch slithers up his arm, sparks like static against the nape of his neck. It almost feels good, that kick of recognition along with the jolt.
His heart feels too full in his chest; thunderous, it hits against his ribcage in a pleasant staccato. ]
...That's one less hurt for you to shoulder, then.
[ A murmur, less pleased than relieved. This changes nothing about the blood on them and the death surrounding them, but it's a point of contact that Clive can give that says I'm here, I've got you. He closes his eyes, breathes in, and lifts their linked hands to brush his lips against the rise and dip of Lauralae's knuckles. ]
[ There's a kind of painful, ricocheting intimacy that is stunning her into silence, not able to process what is happening to her. The more she touches Clive, the more she expects to dissolve into pain, to end up wincing, or weeping, or something else - to feel herself break into a dozen little pieces. None of that happens, as if she had made her power and her weaknesses up in her head, masquerading as someone special when she is no different from any other Branded.
It's almost impossible to drag her eyes away from where their fingers touch, to the way his hands, so much larger than her own, hold her so gently. The awe is obvious beneath the blood and tears and lingering grief, an inability to hide just how affected she is by the way that he touches her. It's such a simple thing, but it almost breaks her heart to experience it all over again.
Swallowing, she almost pulls back when he speaks, afraid that it'll be a scolding, but...
In the truest fashion of this man, he remains gentle. ]
You...
[ There are no words.
Instead, there is his lips on her skin. There is the rush of something hot to her face, girlish and soft with her embarrassment, with how overwhelmed she is, and a few moments where she doesn't seem able to move. Her fingers twitch, wanting to touch his skin - his cheek, jaw, neck, anything before her, and she has to fumble for words. ]
[ Is he gentle? He poises and hovers until Lauralae delivers her verdict, with their fingers still tangled and the edges of her dark, blackened skin pressed to his lips. He hasn't always thought himself capable of this－ still doesn't, sometimes, when he stands alone with the corpses he occasionally leaves in his wake, broken and sword-torn and charred. A demon, just like the Eikon he houses in his chest. Simmering and seething.
But he wants to offer Lauralae his truth, so he does. With his breath still dancing against her bared hand, with this new distance bridged and filled. Her vulnerability deserves something reciprocal, and so, Clive keeps his voice steady. ]
I want to be. For you.
[ Because the world so often requires something else from him: brimstone and fire, ozone and ash. Cid the Outlaw, torchbearer and successor. A shield, a sword, a Dominant. None of these things are particularly known to have a gentle touch, nor expected to have one, and yet. It's Lauralae with her knife-sharp eyes and the strength of her bite who makes Clive believe that he can hold and keep and protect; it's her wariness that makes him want better, and her grief that makes him want happiness.
There's so much more in this world than pain. If he can make Lauralae believe that, even for a breath of a second, he can feel joy. ]
―If you want it, after everything you've seen.
[ An addendum, as he lifts their shared grip and presses her knuckles to his forehead this time, as if in prayer. Because this means nothing if she doesn't want it. ]
The idea of having warmth, tenderness, any kind of sweetness directed at her is such a strange and odd thing that she can't even begin to understand it. Even with Clive in front of her, showing her all of this kindness time and time again, holding her with blood on her hands and tears in her eyes, she questions herself. In what way had she earned this? In what way could she deserve what is in her hands now, from someone who carries so much on his shoulders and deserves so much more than she is?
Lauralae is barely beginning to recognise herself as a person again, as having feelings, and wants, and desires. Finding the part of herself that yearns, that desires, that craves? It has been a long journey, a struggle, and when she lifts her gaze to look at Clive, all she can think is yes. Oh, the longing inside of her is centred upon him, and how could it be anywhere else?
When he holds her, when he touches her? The safety she feels cannot be second-guessed, cannot be ignored. He, and no other, has inspired this in her, and the burning in her heart makes her want to demand that he gives her more. If she thinks about what that 'more' is then she loses sight of it, unsure of herself, but the want remains.
Slowly, she leans ever so much closer, comfortable in his lap, her fingers turning to cup his cheek, the bristle of his beard and the burning hot pressure of his skin against her own. ]
I want all that you have. The bright flame and the lowest ember. All the parts that you hide, and all that the world sees. I want you, Clive.
[ Fingers sift along his face, over the brand-turned-scar, leaving a trail of raw energy that pulls a warm sigh from him, breath like mist over Lauralae's palm. It should hurt, instinct says, but the furnace inside him swallows her aether whole, hungry and eager, and turns it into fuel for his heart to beat stronger in the cage of his chest.
Instead of turning away, he turns into the touch. Rests, and shutters blue eyes; like this, he must resemble his hound, nesting into a particularly beloved palm. Like the night they'd first spoken to each other under the one-eyed moon, Torgal and treats and traded half-secrets.
He trusts her. He wants her to trust him. A wish long overdue for the both of them, maybe. ]
You're always allowed to want, Lauralae.
[ The content of her wanting is a different story－ him, of all things. Once-kinslayer, who left an entire duchy in rubbles; once-killer, with blood up to his elbows. But maybe they share those sins in spades too, the helplessness and the clawing and biting to maintain a sliver of themselves that could remain unsullied by fate.
His eyes open, and he turns his head to kiss Lauralae's palm, her still-persisting lifeline bisecting her burnt skin. ]
[ Clive says it as though it is so simple, so easy, and it's beyond anything she has let herself think or have before now. He looks at her as if she is precious, offers her all the things she could want and need, leaves it in her hands for her to grasp and hold, and she doesn't quite know how to deal with it. Her instinctive urge is to pull away and hide, to throw herself aside and tell him to look elsewhere for this, but at the same time...
Her longing is so profound, and she can't hide how she feels about him now that they're so close. She has confessed to her desire for him, to her wish to take and be greedy, to sink her teeth into him and not let go, dangerous with desire. Her eyes glint, and she breathes out, shuddering as her hair falls over her face. The shyness overcomes her, but - it's also for fear of him seeing just how needy she suddenly feels.
When he speaks, he makes it sound simple. That she can just have this. Have him. As if she is at all worthy.
The leader of their organisation, strong, powerful, burning with his magic and blessing, towering over her in brawn and brightness both. Lauralae wants him so desperately it could make her feel sick, and while denying him might be easy - it isn't what she wants.
He is what she wants.
Nodding her head, she breathes out. ]
You can want anything. Everything. I want to give it to you.
[ Leaning closer, she pushes up on her knees, to meet him. ]
Tell me what you would beg of me, and I will offer it all. I want you, Clive, and for you to want me, too.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
This is what razing one's past looks like: a whole lot of nothing. Just empty, vacuous space. The dead no longer have answers for the living, and the living can no longer expect the truth from the dead.
The rest is silence, blistering and absolute. Clive knows how it feels to hold his ears against it, and to swallow the nausea that comes from the pounding sound of his own pulse－ he keeps Lauralae close and tucked against his side, angling her so that, if she'd like, she can press her face to his chest and hear his heartbeat instead, slow and steady despite this shared grief. ]
I'll be right here with you.
[ His answer to where he'll take her. Here, in the unbearable present. He only loosens his grip when he reaches to unclip his cape from his pauldron, letting the fabric fall onto soft ground; he guides Lauralae down to settle with him, legs splayed towards the burble of the water as he hefts her half onto his knees, a thing for her to lean on. ]
Tell me plainly. [ She smells like the sting of copper-blood, and so must he. Still, it's not a crime to try being gentle, even after so much violence. His voice is low, soft. ] What hurts?
[ Yes, he knows she said that she isn't. He asks anyway. ]
no subject
Lauralae has felt loss before, of course. She had lost friends, some distant family, things that meant a great deal to her, but she had been numb to it all then. All of her feelings had been so deeply buried that she hadn’t ever allowed herself to wallow, to sink into it at all; it had felt like weakness. Closing herself off to the world was a kind of protection that had been necessary, otherwise she would have sunk.
Living at the Hideaway, befriending others, learning to be happy and at peace had opened her up to all these strange and unfamiliar feelings. For the first time in years, she’d let herself overflow with emotion, let herself bask in the warmth of it. She knows a great deal of it is due to Clive himself, his patience and kindness and warmth, and even now he stands with her, supports her, guides her through the open maw of feeling so much that it burns her.
Slowly, she sinks into him. Slowly, she leans in to listen to the pulse of his heart, and even slower comes her own breathing, relaxing from the intense high of loss. There’s still so much coppery blood around them, still so much death, but with his warmth and his scent as a cocoon she feels anchored. No one can harm her while he is at her side, and she believes in that. Months in, and her trust in Clive is set and secure, unshakable.
This cements her faith.
Lifting her head, she looks at him, hand rising to grip at the front of his armour, to tangle in the fabric she finds. She needs this, she thinks. She needs what he gives her, and that’s strength. ]
My heart. [ It’s a soft confession. It burns in her eyes. And then, absently - ] My hands. It’s… Strange. They’re not harmed, and yet…
[ A phantom ache, a ghost of suffering long removed from her life - a reminder of what she had been forced to live with, once upon a time. ]
no subject
Her heart hurts, she says. Clive thinks of the trust that she must have in him, now, that she can place that honesty in his hands, and the weight of it keeps him anchored. A reciprocal cementing of his own faith, his own resolve.
He doesn't want to fail her.
So he breathes, and meets the need in her eyes with a request of his own. His brows slant in empathy, but his lips curl up in vague, perhaps misplaced affection. Every part of him wants to be here with her, to listen and to know; the mention of her hands has him lifting his own, metal clinking as he divests himself of gauntlets and gloves to lay his palms and fingers bare.
Once that's done: ] Can I see them? [ As he shows her his calluses, offers his open-palmed touch. ] Your hands.
[ He knows what this entails, and what she fears. ]
no subject
Clive is the one who broached her, gave her time and patience. He is the one who put the effort in, the work in, to be kind, to be gentle, to be soft and willing to allow her to approach like the wild animal she thought she was. Even now, lost in the marsh of her own grief, he is gentle, encouraging a sweeter side out of her that she doesn't think that she's worthy of; there was no reason to believe in it until now. When he reaches for her, she wants to reach back, to trust in what he gives her.
What she wants is to, somehow, feel as if she is worthy of this. That she has earned this. That was Clive gives her is permissible. She doesn't know how to do that.
Dark eyes watch as he bares himself, strips down to the skin of his palms, and she feels something else ache inside of her. She doesn't know what to say, ever so briefly, before her mouth opens and she swallows.
It's hard, but who else in the world could she trust? Her gloves are dark and damp now, from blood and tears, so she ought to remove them. It doesn't make it any easier.
Lauralae's gaze doesn't falter from Clive's as she peels the gloves off her arms, as if she's afraid to bare herself in that way to him. They're pulled off and away, dropped aside, and she can feel the strangeness of it, being curled up against him but having the air on his skin. Her fingers flex, twitchy, buglike movements, and she squeezes her eyes shut, feeling a knot in her stomach.
It's not as if they're that bad. They're burned, marked along the skin and marred, with edges of blackness where the magic has focussed itself. They're not a pretty sight, no matter what, and she can barely lift them to let Clive take her hand in his own. ]
I can put them away.
no subject
Not pretty, no, but they needn't be. There's history in her hands that Clive is grateful to see, not dissimilar to the gnarled map of discolored skin cutting across his own face from cheek to neck. A mark of strife, earned through hardship. Life and death, trial and survival.
She's still beautiful. Clive shakes his head when she speaks to hiding again. ]
They're a part of you.
[ It sounds a little like please. Low and plaintive, in the tradition of him whispering when he wants to be heard. That strange idiosyncrasy at play, even now.
Fingertips touch along the back of her hand. He recalls what she's told him about touch inflicting pain, and while he anticipates it, waits for it―
―the brush of skin against skin feels like a controlled burn. Her fire, his fire, sparking without setting anything ablaze; like a path of light mapped by his fingers along her knuckles, a trail of aether and something ancient, primordial. Ifrit rumbles happily in his chest, and he flares hotter for it.
Ah, he breathes, and moves to curl his grip around her wrist. ]
no subject
Perhaps that is unkind of her, but she cannot help herself.
Her fingers twitch when he touches her, jerking and moving like a child poking a caterpillar, lurching away in case it causes him pain. She expects it herself, that familiar burning, horrifying feeling, the pain and hurt that had her parents whispering monster in her ear. Her eyes close, tight and hard and aching, until... It doesn't come, the surge of heat and burn that she is so accustomed to.
It feels warm, yes, and hot, like her fingers are seeking out the heat of a fire, but it is far, far less painful than she could have ever dared dream.
Eyes widening, she turns her gaze back to Clive, expression wide-eyed and confused. ]
Clive... What...?
no subject
It makes Clive shiver despite the heat of it. Where Lauralae projects wide-eyed confusion, Clive reciprocates with wide-eyed fascination: his grip slides from her wrist and downwards, fingers unfurled to let the tips of them trail down and over the thin skin stretched over her pulsepoint and down to her palm.
Should they be negotiating more? Is he meant to be more careful? But nothing hurts, and so he tests her boundaries just a little more, winding an index around an index. ]
Is it painful for you?
[ There's still the possibility that Lauralae is bearing the brunt of the pain, and Ifrit is absorbing most of his.
(He can feel his aether pulse against hers. Not repelling, but acclimating. Resonating.) ]
no subject
This is an ache she can manage, one that might be worth the gentle intimacy of being closer to Clive and enjoying his company, his kindness, the way that he looks at her. When their fingers intertwine with one another, she almost trembles, expecting a burst of hurt and pain that she can barely prepare herself for, but all that comes is... A tingle, like someone poking at the skin of a bruise.
It feels strange, not just because this is the first time in years that anyone has touched her fingers, her hands, her skin here, but because it's so absent of pain and fire that she feels as if she's breathing for the first time after being submerged in water. It's hard to even begin to put into words all the things that are rolling through her mind, but when she lifts her head to look at Clive properly, her awe is probably obvious.
Slowly, she shakes her head. ]
It aches, but it is not...
[ Something knots in her stomach, and she turns their hands, to press her smaller fingers between his larger one. ]
It does not hurt.
no subject
－until he decides to break that tension and lace their fingers, one by one. He watches her as he does it, her cheeks still tear-streaked, eyes still red-rimmed. The feeling of that touch slithers up his arm, sparks like static against the nape of his neck. It almost feels good, that kick of recognition along with the jolt.
His heart feels too full in his chest; thunderous, it hits against his ribcage in a pleasant staccato. ]
...That's one less hurt for you to shoulder, then.
[ A murmur, less pleased than relieved. This changes nothing about the blood on them and the death surrounding them, but it's a point of contact that Clive can give that says I'm here, I've got you. He closes his eyes, breathes in, and lifts their linked hands to brush his lips against the rise and dip of Lauralae's knuckles. ]
no subject
It's almost impossible to drag her eyes away from where their fingers touch, to the way his hands, so much larger than her own, hold her so gently. The awe is obvious beneath the blood and tears and lingering grief, an inability to hide just how affected she is by the way that he touches her. It's such a simple thing, but it almost breaks her heart to experience it all over again.
Swallowing, she almost pulls back when he speaks, afraid that it'll be a scolding, but...
In the truest fashion of this man, he remains gentle. ]
You...
[ There are no words.
Instead, there is his lips on her skin. There is the rush of something hot to her face, girlish and soft with her embarrassment, with how overwhelmed she is, and a few moments where she doesn't seem able to move. Her fingers twitch, wanting to touch his skin - his cheek, jaw, neck, anything before her, and she has to fumble for words. ]
You are so gentle.
no subject
But he wants to offer Lauralae his truth, so he does. With his breath still dancing against her bared hand, with this new distance bridged and filled. Her vulnerability deserves something reciprocal, and so, Clive keeps his voice steady. ]
I want to be. For you.
[ Because the world so often requires something else from him: brimstone and fire, ozone and ash. Cid the Outlaw, torchbearer and successor. A shield, a sword, a Dominant. None of these things are particularly known to have a gentle touch, nor expected to have one, and yet. It's Lauralae with her knife-sharp eyes and the strength of her bite who makes Clive believe that he can hold and keep and protect; it's her wariness that makes him want better, and her grief that makes him want happiness.
There's so much more in this world than pain. If he can make Lauralae believe that, even for a breath of a second, he can feel joy. ]
―If you want it, after everything you've seen.
[ An addendum, as he lifts their shared grip and presses her knuckles to his forehead this time, as if in prayer. Because this means nothing if she doesn't want it. ]
no subject
The idea of having warmth, tenderness, any kind of sweetness directed at her is such a strange and odd thing that she can't even begin to understand it. Even with Clive in front of her, showing her all of this kindness time and time again, holding her with blood on her hands and tears in her eyes, she questions herself. In what way had she earned this? In what way could she deserve what is in her hands now, from someone who carries so much on his shoulders and deserves so much more than she is?
Lauralae is barely beginning to recognise herself as a person again, as having feelings, and wants, and desires. Finding the part of herself that yearns, that desires, that craves? It has been a long journey, a struggle, and when she lifts her gaze to look at Clive, all she can think is yes. Oh, the longing inside of her is centred upon him, and how could it be anywhere else?
When he holds her, when he touches her? The safety she feels cannot be second-guessed, cannot be ignored. He, and no other, has inspired this in her, and the burning in her heart makes her want to demand that he gives her more. If she thinks about what that 'more' is then she loses sight of it, unsure of herself, but the want remains.
Slowly, she leans ever so much closer, comfortable in his lap, her fingers turning to cup his cheek, the bristle of his beard and the burning hot pressure of his skin against her own. ]
I want all that you have. The bright flame and the lowest ember. All the parts that you hide, and all that the world sees. I want you, Clive.
[ Then, doubting - ]
Is that... Allowed?
no subject
Instead of turning away, he turns into the touch. Rests, and shutters blue eyes; like this, he must resemble his hound, nesting into a particularly beloved palm. Like the night they'd first spoken to each other under the one-eyed moon, Torgal and treats and traded half-secrets.
He trusts her. He wants her to trust him. A wish long overdue for the both of them, maybe. ]
You're always allowed to want, Lauralae.
[ The content of her wanting is a different story－ him, of all things. Once-kinslayer, who left an entire duchy in rubbles; once-killer, with blood up to his elbows. But maybe they share those sins in spades too, the helplessness and the clawing and biting to maintain a sliver of themselves that could remain unsullied by fate.
His eyes open, and he turns his head to kiss Lauralae's palm, her still-persisting lifeline bisecting her burnt skin. ]
Am I allowed to want you, in turn?
no subject
Her longing is so profound, and she can't hide how she feels about him now that they're so close. She has confessed to her desire for him, to her wish to take and be greedy, to sink her teeth into him and not let go, dangerous with desire. Her eyes glint, and she breathes out, shuddering as her hair falls over her face. The shyness overcomes her, but - it's also for fear of him seeing just how needy she suddenly feels.
When he speaks, he makes it sound simple. That she can just have this. Have him. As if she is at all worthy.
The leader of their organisation, strong, powerful, burning with his magic and blessing, towering over her in brawn and brightness both. Lauralae wants him so desperately it could make her feel sick, and while denying him might be easy - it isn't what she wants.
He is what she wants.
Nodding her head, she breathes out. ]
You can want anything. Everything. I want to give it to you.
[ Leaning closer, she pushes up on her knees, to meet him. ]
Tell me what you would beg of me, and I will offer it all. I want you, Clive, and for you to want me, too.