IV
He hasn't told her how much he likes the view of her body as he lays under her and she's moving in a steady rhythm. He hasn't told her that because it would mean he cares, and Samson likes to lie to himself that he doesn't. Sometimes Calpernia bites her lower lip, or opens her mouth in a silent prayer, or lets out a whimper; all these gestures he knows so well now. She's so close Samson yearns to touch more, and every now and then she lets him.
She has her hair loose for once, blonde waves on her shoulders and back like a cape. When she arches her back and moans (quietly; she's always so quiet), he feels her whole body shiver, overwhelmed by pleasure. Samson watches her, mesmerised, all his thoughts gone or reduced to the woman who granted him the privilege of touching her sacred body.
He doesn't need any gods, the old ones or the new, if he could only have this moment captured forever in his mind. Everything is so simple here. For one second Samson loathes the world as a whole; everything outside this room becomes irrelevant because nothing comes even close to the image of this woman crying out in pleasure, chanting words in her odd language, and looking at him with such intensity he can nearly physically feel something inside him breaking into pieces. Red lyrium glows but it is nothing comparing to the light she radiates, and Samson is (scared) sure he would be begging her if she ordered him to beg.
She collapses on top of him, so frail and small. One of his hands rests on her back, the other he tangles in her hair, holding her close, too close, refusing to let her go. This is perhaps the most intimate moment she has ever shared with him. Suddenly embarrassed by this display of affection or whatever it is, Samson knows he should push her away before she starts hissing at him like a wild thing she is. Or at least let her go, so she can get up and leave like she always does.
The problem is that he doesn't want to.
Calpernia, thank the Maker, doesn't say a word; she lets him wrap his arms around her. To keep warm in the cold night air, of course.
Samson could swear he closed his eyes only for a moment, but when he wakes up it's already early morning. He's still holding her, Calpernia's back is pressed to his chest, and he has his face in her hair. He shifts uncomfortably, initially too confused by this whole intimacy to enjoy it. It's… odd, and it takes him few moments to remember where they are, and, most importantly, who they are. Samson can never get rid of the taste of lyrium, but when he's with her, he can pretend to forget.
It's not raining anymore; sun shines through the dirty window, colouring the room in the shades of grey. His hands travels from her waist to her breasts, teasing, testing, as he wonders if he would dare to...
Calpernia's eyes flutter open, Samson freezes when she takes a deep breath and grabs his wrist, surely to break his bones and incinerate him with a single spell – but then she presses his hand to her chest urging him to continue. Her lips open slightly, she lets out a faint, panted gasp. Silently, he slides into her, and she awards him with a small moan, pressing her whole body to his, so that Samson may think she's more desperate than him (Maybe she is, he lies to himself). She meets his every gentle thrust, and for once she doesn't complain it's not fast or rough, she doesn't order him to do something or stop touching her. He can't help but admire the contrast between their bodies as they move together in a slow, lazy pace. She's needy in a completely new way; he doesn't know what to do with this newly–discovered knowledge, because the woman he's holding doesn't seem like Calpernia; or maybe she is her, and only now he sees the real one, not the fierce leader of the Venatori that could crush him under her boot.
There are so many things wrong with this, his head spins when he thinks about it. He's twice her age (he assumes; he doesn't know much about her); she's a former slave and a mage; red lyrium poisons every fibre of his being (not that he cares about it). And as if it wasn't enough, they're in the middle of a blighted war.
In a moment of weakness, Samson lets out a weak moan and shudders as he spills inside her. He feels pathetic, and filthy, and worthless, and if he could disappear into nothingness, he would. But then Calpernia turns her head to him, lips parted, breathing out words in Tevene. When he leans in to kiss her, he thinks he understood correctly, feeling her responding with hunger, and he's allowed to forget about everything else that is not her.
Red lyrium howls all around him, chews on his soul, threatening to shatter him if he ever disobey its calling. Samson feels the weight on his shoulders, suddenly too exhausted to move. His lips open, he bares his teeth reminding the whole world he can still bite, like a cornered animal desperate to avoid showing any signs of weakness. His eyes scan the battlefield, and when he notices a majestic figure among flames, he has to look.
Calpernia raises her arms, bending fire to her will as she stands victorious. She's a beacon of light in a sea of red; she should be wearing a crown of bones and gold on her head, make people fall to her feet begging to adore her because she deserves to be worshipped.
Samson has to bite his tongue to feel blood mixing with the taste of lyrium in his mouth, and he turns his head away from her, takes a step forward. Then another one, and another until he's far enough that he's not tempted to search for her among monsters and death.
A/N2: Thank you for reading! Comments are always appreciated.