antivanleather: (Default)
Zevran Arainai ([personal profile] antivanleather) wrote2012-07-14 08:26 pm
Entry tags:

Voicemail / Appointments

Threads that don't fall into posts or logs, sneaky private gatherings or midnight rendezvous. Whatever your fancy.

Please indicate the type (Written, Voice, Action) and the Date.
relictusdeus: (Devil Forgemaster's Crest)

Just a bit before June 4th / written

[personal profile] relictusdeus 2013-06-03 11:50 am (UTC)(link)
[A few minutes short of midnight, Zevran will receive a message:]

I will be found behind the Battle Dome. Come and be quick about it, lest I change my mind.

[His penmanship's not as neat and crisp as to his usual standard, the lines scratched into the page and somewhat wobbly as if he had scrawled the words in haste.]
relictusdeus: (What have I become)


[personal profile] relictusdeus 2013-06-04 12:09 am (UTC)(link)
[It’s a quiet night, the smell of burning paper drifting in the air.

Pages upon pages of warm, laughing eyes and full lips rendered with a patient, loving hand greet him one last time before blackening beyond recognition and crumbling away. He closes his eyes a moment, letting out a slow breath before he tears out another page carefully along the edge of the notebook and feeds it to the flames, staring deeply and unseeingly into the ashes.

It was not the first time he had been in thrall to another’s whims, his mind and body not entirely his own. He had lashed out at himself first, tearing at flesh and feathers, and every curse he knew he had screamed at a god he had always known to be deaf to every word, beating the jeering ghosts of Rosaly and Hector and Dracula back into his mind. So many hours had been lost to a powerless, burgeoning rage that drained the life from him and left him tired, so tired in its wake, his head throbbing relentlessly. But he couldn't find sleep.

There is no doubt in his mind that Jack has spoken of their encounter and that Zevran must hate him for it. Writing him hadn’t been part of the plan when he had nursed a few glasses of wine, feeling it slosh around the hollowness inside him with every struggling, bitter swallow. But there are things that need to be said and have long needed to be said. Too little too late, he knows.

He doesn’t lift his head at the soft rustling of grass, waiting for it to draw nearer.
relictusdeus: (What have I become)


[personal profile] relictusdeus 2013-06-04 01:47 am (UTC)(link)
[At his name, this silly little term of endearment, he blinks for the first time in what feels like hours. His eyes feel sore. The book is softly shut and set aside, and for a while he’s lost in his attempts to read into Zevran’s tone.]

Do you remember… [He begins musingly, looking skyward.] Long ago, when we stood by the bath and you had asked me... if that was all there would ever be?

[For a moment he considers extending a mute invitation for him to join him by the fire but then he makes things simpler, rising slowly to his feet as if not having had reason to stand in some time. With only an arm’s length between them, he stops, worn, haunted eyes fondly tracing the features he has long since memorized. There’s a gnawing sensation, a cold queasiness deep in the pit of his stomach that no amount of numbing drink could reach. ]

…do you?

[He asks again, and doesn’t make a demand of it. Not this time. His low, almost toneless voice holds something rare, something so close to defeat, and what little remains of his self-respect has him cracking a thin, lopsided smile. But this comes too late, too.]

You need not say a word.

relictusdeus: (Look away / closed off)


[personal profile] relictusdeus 2013-06-04 04:02 am (UTC)(link)
[Isaac nods faintly to himself, retreating into his thoughts. But he's drawn from them just as soon by the tingling of his nerves as he’s touched. A feeling, he has learned, that can instill such reassurance and pleasure one moment and gut-wrenching terror the next. And though his eyes lift questioningly, he doesn’t resist his heavy hand being guided and where it is made to rest.]

I knew not, then, of where your loyalties could lie. [He says it bluntly, devoid of the anger that would have raged any other day] I knew not whether you could be everything I had ever hoped to know… and no mere dream of mine. One of many glorious fantasies nurtured for much too long.

[Words catch like fishbones in his throat and he glances aside ashamedly, the line of his jaw tautening. The crackling and spitting of the fire fades into awareness.]

I have always thought it better to treasure them in silence than to ever speak of them, for fear of that which I had being destroyed by but a single word. God forbid you might refuse. God forbid -- [He suddenly snarls it through his teeth, voice cracking rawly. -- you might vanish like everyone I had ever--

[Breaking off, he forces himself to breathe, chest heaving. The wild passion comes and goes, leaving a shadow of a man and the ragged, sob-like laugh that wheezes from him, low and soft under his breath.]

Ah. But I needn’t worry of that any longer. It has now been made simple for us both.

[Such is what he has always claimed to have wanted. He should feel happy, not gutted.

His free hand slides into his own shirt and from it he draws the little pouch with its earrings within, as pretty as the day they were entrusted into his care. Not throwing it or thrusting it at Zevran, but surrendering it, his grip on it slackening. Perhaps he would curse him for having kept it and lied. It didn't matter now.
relictusdeus: (Dead to me; resentful sidelong look)


[personal profile] relictusdeus 2013-06-04 05:41 am (UTC)(link)
[On an impulse, he digs in his fingers, fabric pinching as his nails pressing in sharply. Dark thoughts twist and turn behind an inscrutable mask and he tests the idea of sinking them in, of tearing flesh and cracking bone to snatch what he’d wanted. But the futility of it all is the first to soften and weaken his grip, hand molding to his chest. Close, so close, and yet out of reach.

This vow, so resolute, leaves him shaken and unbalanced as it's left too long to sink in. It brings into focus all his flaws: his lack of grace and talent for friendships; how unworthy he is of this, as much as he has come to value it; how he’s destined to be second to someone else, never good enough. To Dragos; to Hector; to Rosaly; to his own perceptions of the man he should have been.

There’s only so much he can do and be and it seems it's always a losing battle. Eyes press shut, prickling hot, and he sucks in a slow, thin breath through parted lips, struck with a pang of regret for ever having said anything.

Would it that I could have a part of you for myself… and that I might be of as much worth to you as them one day. But these… now bring me only pain.

[Isaac shakes his head softly, throat bobbing when he huffs a breath as if in an attempt at a laugh. It isn’t true that it was never too late to act, to say something, and now he's desperate to be rid of the ruthless squeezing ache in his chest, the disappointment he had always lied to himself to avoid.]

‘tis indeed a fearsome, bewitching curse, this... need and this want that man thinks to be so noble and selfless. Love. [The world feels foreign and strange on his tongue, too rich for him.] Many have killed for it... and pursuit of it was my own undoing, in the end. [The things he had done for recognition, for love. Dracula had never really cared and he'd known it. He'd known it and chose the warm comforts of illusions instead. He deserves this.]

One would think I might have learned something. [He swallows tightly and manages a giggle despite himself, unaware of how much tension he's carrying until his shoulders sag.] Not nearly enough, it would seem. [Faltering, he slants his heavy-lidded gaze sideways, something unseen off in the distance holding his attention at length. Steel in his jaw, but not in his eyes.] It matters not.
Edited (CRIPES, okay last time FOR REAL. /runs away) 2013-06-04 15:34 (UTC)
relictusdeus: Hector's got byoooootiful girl hair. (Kiss)


[personal profile] relictusdeus 2013-06-05 04:06 am (UTC)(link)
[When feels the prickle of lips ghosting his skin, and before memories of nights warmed by laughter and wine flood his mind, there is a moment in which he hopes that he might learn to appreciate and accept this one day more than he can now. The fear at what would happen when he’d lift his hand away and break that connection is lost in a chaotic whirl of emotions as he twists away, the look in his eyes as sharp and cutting - and as fragile - as broken glass. Accusatory, lost.]

Don’t-- [He spits it through gritted teeth, staring. But the rest abandons him, words, and what remains of coherent, rational thought. And as he feels Zevran’s eyes still on his face and his own regrets bear down with the weight of all the world, his cracked mask quietly crumbles away like the sketches in the fire. He lunges, all adrenaline and impulse, before his mind has the chance to catch up with him. Lunging to steal a bruising kiss from a mouth he remembers too well, framing his face with grasping, uncertain hands.]
relictusdeus: (Damn it all)


[personal profile] relictusdeus 2013-06-05 06:07 am (UTC)(link)
[Maybe it’s stunned surprise or some sort of pity, some barely-tolerated attempt at obliging a man with little left to live for that has worn down the resistance he expects. There’s only the feeling of deft hands curling around his arms, all that assures him this is no dream he'll soon wake from. Or perhaps it is, in its own way. A moment in time that might never again be. He takes this as he has all pleasures he finds, claiming and clinging with a white-knuckled grip. Devouring every scrap, yes, before another could.

But this is far less a pleasure than it is a plea, clumsy and delivered with a roughness that manages to be both apologetic and unapologetic. More the former as it goes unreciprocated. Fears of what it means to pull away gnaw at the edges of his mind, triggering the old animal instinct to fight as he’s always fought. Even if he knows he has already lost. He kisses, soft and wet, deeper and insistent, and with the unspent tenderness he had once meant to reserve for Hector alone, had he loved him. A searching, expectant pause follows. A heavy pause, his chin quivering. And then he tries again, pouring himself into it in his desperation to dredge up a different answer. Something better. Desperate for some sign that he wasn’t as mad as ever in deluding himself.

But it’s met with the same emptiness of something dead and gone and he doesn’t know how to stop shaking when he draws back, his breath ragged and rattling in his throat. This is it, then. This is how it must be.

His hands slide away and he looks elsewhere, one absently rising to his face to brush at his mouth with the back of his hand before he lets it drop. He tastes Zevran and salt on his lips as he steps back and turns towards the fire, not trusting his voice. But there’s nothing to say.

Forgemasters weren’t meant to cry. They were to grow cold as they learned to let love and mercy - dangerous sentiments – and the expectation of them wither away, lest it jeopardize their operations. Failure meant weakness. Failure meant losing power and respect and inciting Lord Dracula’s wrath. Being killed, if one was lucky.

But even now, he’s not as good a Forgemaster as he wanted to be. Never good enough.
relictusdeus: (Look away / closed off)


[personal profile] relictusdeus 2013-06-05 04:58 pm (UTC)(link)
[A low, retching sob bursts from him and he clamps down on it fiercely, feeling it press and claw at him desperately from the inside. It hurts to think, to breathe, his chest in spasms with every raw, sharp intake of breath he’s forced to pull through his nose. He’s not ready to be touched when the elf reaches across the distance, but he never would have been even with all the time in the world. He lets him coo and trace the rigid line of his jaw with loving fingers like he used to. He lets him move him gently like a broken wooden doll, a mouth pressing to the stiffly twitching line of his own and coaxing him into a meaningful kiss he doesn’t feel. What helpless, strangled noises aren’t trapped low in his throat he stifles against Zevran’s lips.

On some level he’s aware that the words twisting into him are meant to be a kindness, and he doesn’t know when it all begins to form an impenetrable haze around him. Or when he shuts down and folds in, his eyes filming over with death of a different sort. Another kiss comes, short and stingingly sweet, and he gives it nothing it deserves. He can give it nothing at all. Giving in and giving out and there’s nothing left in him to give. Changes have been set in motion and he’d be powerless to stop them if he had wanted to.

‘I am too far gone’, he’s told Julia more than once. ‘There is nothing you can do.’

The apology long-sought is more of one than he’s ever gotten in his life for anything, and now that he has it, it sits there in his hands like a heavy weight and he’s at loss for what to do with it. It’s not the panacea he had hoped for; it does not bring with it satisfaction, even of the bitter sort. It just is, and he’s sorry too. Not for what he’s done so much as all that he hasn’t in his lifetime, more than he will ever know how to express.

His short, hitching gasps begin to peter out and he straightens his shoulders, head tilting, the set of his jaw betraying what is otherwise a tired, but almost defiant impassivity. At least he knows now. There’s nothing left to doubt as his castle of sand lies in ruins at his feet, to be swept away like the one he’d built for Hector.

And at last it comes, raw and barely above a whisper. A single word.
] No. [Wetness clings heavily to his lashes, eyes unfocused and gleaming incandescent in the dark. He swallows, nearly choking on a clot of phlegm and saliva sticking in his throat.]

‘tis I who is sorry.

[Above all things, for having been honest. For having gone and humiliated himself and never being able to undo it. How much safer, how much easier it’d have been to keep hiding behind hollow laughter or a painfully wry joke, suspecting but never having the courage to ask.

Tics tug at the corners of his mouth as viciously as ever and he tenses his jaw and bites down hard on his cheek. Chest surging, air puffing in and out his nose.

You have all you need now. [He manages when the moment passes. Looking at Zevran with different eyes, he hasn’t it in him, here and now, to do anything with anger other than to let it bleed out of him. Come the arrival of the morning light, there is no saying the sort of man he will be.] The hour is late.

[He doesn’t know what to do with himself anymore, let alone with his one true friend. He wants more than anything to be able to say that there are pressing matters that need attending but there aren’t, a lack of purpose and direction haunting him since the dawn of his second life. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow will be lost in an indistinguishable blur, he thinks, as have all the days that have come before. Empty and wasted, unwanted.]
relictusdeus: (Holding shoulder/vulnerable)


[personal profile] relictusdeus 2013-06-06 05:14 am (UTC)(link)
[Would that such a caress could soothe the rawness inside him and lull him to sleep how his mother’s would when he’d wake wide-eyed in the small hours of the night to the snarls and growling of things. Hungry, vicious things restlessly circling their warded home. Would that it could fit the pieces of him back together and make him feel right and whole and wanted, at least for a little while. But it is what it is and it’s all that it can be. He feels hollower in its wake, a lesser, weaker man.

Dracula had been right - that much he will give him.

He remembers Hector had known love once, and it too had doomed him. And yet sometimes, despite how devastating his loss, Isaac thinks his erstwhile companion has come away richer than he ever will be. How could he not burn with envy? How could he not burn with self-contempt for all he had become and all he could never be?

He blinks his eyes clear and from the corner he acknowledges the elf in a quiet farewell, too spent and dazed to say anything more. Then his hands finally remember to tug the hood of his cloak over his head, casting his sallow, tear-blotched face in deep shadow. The dark of night beckons him as it always has and into it he’ll soon steal away and fade unnoticed while Luceti sleeps, crawling into his glorified hole in the ground where he knows he won't be finding sleep. He could disappear forever and no one else would know, he muses. Dawn would break and the world would keep on turning with cruel indifference, but it’d be alright in the end. He’d be buried deep under a mountain of crumbled stone, at rest and beyond reach of what ifs and if onlys, freer than he had ever been in life. He can’t think of a place he would rather be.

There is no leaving with Zevran and slipping into a warm bed, nor can he go back to his hole. He won’t go back. Time’s slipping away too quickly and a stab of desperation pushes words from his mouth.

Wait. [The urgency is absent from the hoarse murmur scarcely heard above the sputtering of the dying fire. But there’s a sudden sharpness and insistence to his gaze, some small, daring gleam of expectation, and it’s the most he can to do to regard him steadily.] There is one last thing I ask of you tonight.
Edited (Perfectionism: worse than Dracula's Curse) 2013-06-06 20:16 (UTC)
relictusdeus: (Arousal 2; simple pleasures)


[personal profile] relictusdeus 2013-06-07 10:56 pm (UTC)(link)
[Silver-embossed steel flashes as a dagger slides free from his boot and catches what soft moonlight pierces the forest canopy. But slowly, much too slowly drawn for it to be some sort of attack. Then, reaching across darkness and distance, his hands find Zevran’s and take one.

It’s selfish, but to need is what it means to be human. No; not only human. Any being with a sense of self-awareness and a heart that beats away. His is not so much a rock as it is a black hole. A vacuum that consumes all it can but finds nothing to fill the void.

He presses the pommel into the elf’s palm and gently closes his fingers around it, his own curled over them. There is a moment now, a moment of absentminded tenderness with which he strokes Zevran’s knuckles with his thumb before he slowly guides his hand up and up, pressing the blade’s tip into his chest. Not yet breaking the skin.

It’s all there’s left to ask for, and he feels no electric trill of fear, of adrenaline as he stands on the edge of the abyss, looking his salvation in the eyes.

Take what was yours.

There has to be an end.

[He whispers around the joggling knot of his Adam’s Apple and a faint, lopsided smile tugs at the corners of his thinned lips. Tired amusement that never reaches his eyes. He keeps his hands framing his, reluctant to let go.]
relictusdeus: (Arousal 2; simple pleasures)


[personal profile] relictusdeus 2013-06-08 01:53 am (UTC)(link)
[It has never sat well with him to find himself at another’s mercy. Patience belies nerve-twisting desperation as he hangs on every beat of silence, searching the man’s face with dimming eyes for the flickers of emotion that'd decide his fate. When an answer comes at last, it’s not the one he had expected.


It washes over him, hot water soothing tired flesh, and his shoulders sag, eyes sliding shut. And from the darkness behind his lids, Zevran slowly takes shape. His knowing, world-wearied gaze; full lips softly pressed thin; and every little crease in his brow, each telling a story. That he is a masterful assassin has no relevance here and now. This is a deed that demands not cold-blooded efficiency or steeled nerves, but an understanding he has found in no one else.

His only true friend.

This is the last thing he would see and remember -- and for the first time he has ever known in his life, it feels like all might be right with the world. His mind doesn’t know what to do with something so fragile and new, restlessly picking at it for imperfections until it finally gives up and finds rest, pain pushed aside to make room for it.

You are all there is…

[The words are left to sink in deep, and he gives the barest hint of a nod before letting his hands slip away and fall reluctantly to his sides.]
relictusdeus: (Knocked out 2)

action (tw: graphic imagery)

[personal profile] relictusdeus 2013-06-08 03:33 am (UTC)(link)
[Isaac breathes.

He’s been told he ought to be burned alive at the stake. To have the Pear spring open inside his screaming mouth until he chokes on blood and broken teeth, and then thrust in again to tear through his insides, death coming not by the wounds gouged by brutal force but by the infection that would set in. Such is what witches and sodomites deserve.

And it’s what he knows he deserves. Not as a sodomite or a witch, but as a devil who has wreaked so much havoc. It’s selfish of him, too, to have chosen how he wishes to die. Each and every person he had killed, innocent or guilty, had hopes and dreams and ambitions of their own. Some had had loved ones; others had spent their days alone. He had never given them the luxury of choice, ending it all out of fear, out of the need to satisfy his thirst for bloody vengeance, out of the need to further his misguided, futile search for approval and favour and love from a master who hadn’t cared for such ideas, let alone for him.

Unlike the sharpened stake that had come at him so long ago, this does not miss its mark, and all he can think as the hilt slams into him, metal jamming into meat and bone, is that it’s too good for him. The air’s punched out of him and he manages a strangled croak, the pain bleaching his mind a blinding white. But there’s something keeping him from slumping back. A hand. Zevran’s hand moving from his shoulder to press up against his back, easing him down as his body trembles and chokes and dry-heaves all too briefly, struggling lungs denied the chance to snatch at air. It’s the easiest he’s ever had anything.

Zevran’s touch and the ground beneath him fade away, and as he’s falling into vast, empty silence, there’s a small flash of realization like a flare in the night.

this is