#regentia

thank you harper!!

delphene: the long way home by hampus naeselius

delphene/wyll: sugar by editors

The smile softens her eyes before it touches her lips — it lifts the creases of catlike lids, a folding of pleased surprise.  Fingers platform the narrow chain, brushing white digits with the significance of touch.  She crosses the divide to meet Bastila where she stands, gift admired for its simple delicacy but more for the hands which offer it.

Revan looks up from canted head, crown bowing before her, lips brushing the knuckles which shimmer against the chain.  It catches light as Revan’s eyes swallow it, lashes falling in a covetous glance.  

          ‘ Beautiful. ’ She murmurs, a low, feline hum of content and of pride.

She turns her back to Bastila, hand sweeping a curtain of jet hair over the curve of her shoulder, an intimacy that leaves her breathless.  She smiles privately, head turned in profile, the long flute of her neck an invitation.  She allows herself to be marked.  She allows Bastila this claim. She allows Bastila everything.

   ‘ I am truly glad you think so. ’ So simple it is the rejoinder that eases the multiple marks and creases left behind upon her brow, like covering the sharp and the harsh of unfounded shame and solicitude with a woven veil, whose heaviness is ultimately the positive pole in an instance in which weightlessness is the negative one in its stead —— the density evens out what lightness could never ever fully clothe with being merely light.

   Bastila is most reverent when she is given to observe, from beneath half-lidded vision, touched with allure all over —— a daze added to the overpowering aura now enlacing her too by the hips, the waist, the shoulders, and has graced her knuckles with lips the definition of godlike, in an endearing gesture only she is permitted to understand. She is made quiet inside, soaking in the details of Revan’s gratitude before her own waning self-consciousness.

   The invitation brings heat to where cold reigns, and then her to her knees, justly flattered, rightfully captive, unwilling to break a crescent smile resting deep into the corners of sewn together lips. Bastila drops her gaze and is pulled ever closer, an initiative not her own yet wanted. The rhythm she follows is painless, noiselesss and colourless —— carefully held tips go around Revan’s luscious head, and meet their equals right above the bone in the back of her gracious neck. Long fingers press lightly against the loop when it is tied, lingering a bit in the place before falling back. ‘ A perfect fit. ’ She remarks in a murmur, with a voice as subtle as the swish of a vibroblade tearing fine silk asunder.

He does not know what to do with indoctrination ( if that was even what he had heard ). A mangled voice over the comms, beamed from somewhere in the center of the galaxy, had told him she was dangerous, that a veteran was required, that even then it might simply not be enough. He has known human biotic bombs, centuries-old krogan warlords, turian defectors, asari temptresses and he has stood on their bodies and wiped the blood from his greaves but never felt much like a veteran. He is only in his forties--still a good century left in him if he is so lucky to die a natural death in an unforgiving cosmos.

But even this--this fear of the unknown, this fear of the old machines, this fear that this time he will not return to his partner or her arms or her bed--fails to stay the hand that raises a pistol high, aimed to kill, pausing for a reason he can’t explain. 

   There is very little she can do or absorb, not before nor after the space is locked against her and brought in its affinity the beloved smile of others. It is nearly tempting to mirror it, though she resists quite in time to the approach. Bastila is caught in her own place and setting; the promptly soothed grey in her irises betrays just how much. Composure is hardly lacking but there is a pressure that governs this overwhelming attraction to her equal —— another celestial body just as she, another one contained in the same streams of the Force, the channel is only one and they are two ——, and it is a influence both in her and in Revan that she does not decline.

   Her wrist moves and it is unwitting when she places a palm upon her lover’s forearm, a whole so fitting, filled with care and utmost familiarity. Bastila is drawn to hold her, just as her free hand is drawn to curl around that which secures it now. Gaze falls from grace upon the touch of what is not warm skin anymore and, quickly, she makes known the content left behind, hard and thorough. The glint begins on those curves of metal surface and ends following the round edges of her irises. ‘ What —— ! ’ She murmurs and it is entirely reticent what comes next. The fingers lingering on Revan’s arm leave it be for a moment, coming to run along soft strands of brown hair —— it ends abruptly right below her ear and it is inexorable to let out a puff of air through painted lips, in pure delight muffled by discretion only.

Send me the name of a DA (Canon) character and I’ll try to make up a Banter between them and my muse. | Not Accepting

Thora: I see you and Blackwall are friends again. Sorta.

Solas: I needed time to think. Now that he no longer hides behind his lies, he may have a chance to change.

Thora: I think so, too.

Solas: If I may ask, Inquisitor... how did you forgive him? He means more to you than I, and yet you forgave him without a second thought.

Thora: I know what it’s like, tryin’ to be a better person.

Solas: And that is why you stayed?

Thora: I stayed... because I realised I didn’t just love the lie. I loved him, too.

     Hers is the very WEIGHT that presses down her shoulders and spine, and she is also the layered spikes and thorns of the bony edges of herself ——— where it ceases to be her and becomes the ABSENCE of the other. It is a process, an act of INUREMENT to which there is no certain amount of bliss to placate or ATONE for. Unarguable is the condition of loneliness; as searing as the AWARENESS which follows. It is not a similar sensation to, ——— half of her is indeed MISSING, and yet she still stands.