He adores the challenging, cutting edge to Zevran’s stare; the stiff set of his jaw and the rise and fall of his chest; the way it all beckons him to tease and to test as he has so many prisoners before him. Because to a man with an abiding interest in pain, defiance is just another plaything, adding sweetness to a heady sense of triumph when it was crushed to dust. His thumb lingers on his skin, as if he has found the perfect point at which to sink in his teeth and drink as befitting his reputation in Valachia. Crunch through the windpipe and tear out meat and bury his face to his nose into wetness and warmth, the blood fresh and oozing like the juice from an orange.
Vampires have none of his respect and admiration. It’s the simple brutality of such an attack, the primal excitement of it that has the adrenaline racing in his blood. If he could not be loved, he would be feared. It’s the best alternative he has ever known.
“Alas, your head is not worth so much as a paperweight, for it would soon rot and fill my chamber with a foul stench.”
He cracks a faint, lopsided smirk at that, but it falters when a look of stunned surprise flashes across his face despite himself. He cocks his head as if he’s so sure he misheard Zevran, but as he’s taking in the elf’s blank-faced confusion his thoughts are already coming together in a moment of terrible clarity. He had forgotten the possibility of the man coming back as a blank slate. Everything gone, temporarily or permanently.
Swallowing past his heart lodged in his throat, he nods dimly in a sort of knowing, resigned way, the corners of his mouth hard-set in a smile.
“Forgotten them already?” He snorts absently, lifting his thumb away. “You are a terrible lover.” As evenly delivered the answer, sharp and crackling with roguishness, it’s strained too. Muted emotion flickers in his eyes and it’s all he’s willing to say on the matter, not caring to make it his business to reunite lovers. To have a hand in making them happy. It isn’t what Forgemasters do, he reminds himself. It’s of no benefit to him.
Sometimes, he still stirs awake from half-sleep expecting someone to be by his side, and lies there remembering the sound of his name – of Rosso – warm and tingling on the shell of his ear, the echoes still resonating through the fibres of his being. Remembering the foreign tenderness calloused hands had introduced him to. The salt of sweat on his skin, the feeling of his teeth in his flesh and lips stealing his like they meant it. Days best left behind.
He found some truth in the adage out of sight, out of mind. Zevran had already left his indelible little mark, but it hadn’t been until he was gone entirely and there were no unfiltered conversations left to stumble upon - and then to read with braced nerves and an aching, angry heart despite the protests of his better judgment – that he could truly breathe again. He was free. And day by day he found himself reminded that he was a fiercely independent and self-sufficient individual, a survivor time and time again. That devils needed neither friendship nor love, nor were meant for either, spending their lives at the edges of corners of society, looking in and taking what pity-fucks they could get. That he could live without Zevran’s company and thrive in solitude. It was not so bad, being alone, he’d tell himself. No one could touch him; no one could hurt him. No expectation, no dependency, no disappointment.
And as he holds Zevran’s gaze now with clearer eyes, it feels like so long ago, a lifetime ago, when he had laughed and meant it. When he had loved this man and lost him. It’s like some long dream he’s finally woken from, shaking off the last of the clinging illusions.
Perhaps it’s easiest this way, with Zevran’s lapse in memory. He could pretend every regretful decision could be unmade, or never made at all. Had could even press his advantage and weave a tale that they were lovers too, giving shape to a false life and trapping him in it.
“Indeed. You never did know me well, in the end.” Had you, perhaps it could have been different. We could have been different. He feels a dull pang in his throat and wills it away, smiling more gently. “But a few good fucks were had; that certainly must be of some merit.”
The flame goes out and he steps back into the shadows.
TW a bit in this tag, and there should have been a TW for graphic images in my first tag, sorry
He adores the challenging, cutting edge to Zevran’s stare; the stiff set of his jaw and the rise and fall of his chest; the way it all beckons him to tease and to test as he has so many prisoners before him. Because to a man with an abiding interest in pain, defiance is just another plaything, adding sweetness to a heady sense of triumph when it was crushed to dust. His thumb lingers on his skin, as if he has found the perfect point at which to sink in his teeth and drink as befitting his reputation in Valachia. Crunch through the windpipe and tear out meat and bury his face to his nose into wetness and warmth, the blood fresh and oozing like the juice from an orange.
Vampires have none of his respect and admiration. It’s the simple brutality of such an attack, the primal excitement of it that has the adrenaline racing in his blood. If he could not be loved, he would be feared. It’s the best alternative he has ever known.
“Alas, your head is not worth so much as a paperweight, for it would soon rot and fill my chamber with a foul stench.”
He cracks a faint, lopsided smirk at that, but it falters when a look of stunned surprise flashes across his face despite himself. He cocks his head as if he’s so sure he misheard Zevran, but as he’s taking in the elf’s blank-faced confusion his thoughts are already coming together in a moment of terrible clarity. He had forgotten the possibility of the man coming back as a blank slate. Everything gone, temporarily or permanently.
Swallowing past his heart lodged in his throat, he nods dimly in a sort of knowing, resigned way, the corners of his mouth hard-set in a smile.
“Forgotten them already?” He snorts absently, lifting his thumb away. “You are a terrible lover.” As evenly delivered the answer, sharp and crackling with roguishness, it’s strained too. Muted emotion flickers in his eyes and it’s all he’s willing to say on the matter, not caring to make it his business to reunite lovers. To have a hand in making them happy. It isn’t what Forgemasters do, he reminds himself. It’s of no benefit to him.
Sometimes, he still stirs awake from half-sleep expecting someone to be by his side, and lies there remembering the sound of his name – of Rosso – warm and tingling on the shell of his ear, the echoes still resonating through the fibres of his being. Remembering the foreign tenderness calloused hands had introduced him to. The salt of sweat on his skin, the feeling of his teeth in his flesh and lips stealing his like they meant it. Days best left behind.
He found some truth in the adage out of sight, out of mind. Zevran had already left his indelible little mark, but it hadn’t been until he was gone entirely and there were no unfiltered conversations left to stumble upon - and then to read with braced nerves and an aching, angry heart despite the protests of his better judgment – that he could truly breathe again. He was free. And day by day he found himself reminded that he was a fiercely independent and self-sufficient individual, a survivor time and time again. That devils needed neither friendship nor love, nor were meant for either, spending their lives at the edges of corners of society, looking in and taking what pity-fucks they could get. That he could live without Zevran’s company and thrive in solitude. It was not so bad, being alone, he’d tell himself. No one could touch him; no one could hurt him. No expectation, no dependency, no disappointment.
And as he holds Zevran’s gaze now with clearer eyes, it feels like so long ago, a lifetime ago, when he had laughed and meant it. When he had loved this man and lost him. It’s like some long dream he’s finally woken from, shaking off the last of the clinging illusions.
Perhaps it’s easiest this way, with Zevran’s lapse in memory. He could pretend every regretful decision could be unmade, or never made at all. Had could even press his advantage and weave a tale that they were lovers too, giving shape to a false life and trapping him in it.
“Indeed. You never did know me well, in the end.” Had you, perhaps it could have been different. We could have been different. He feels a dull pang in his throat and wills it away, smiling more gently. “But a few good fucks were had; that certainly must be of some merit.”
The flame goes out and he steps back into the shadows.