[ 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
－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.