[ No one would call her precious, and no one would call him a romantic β even aside from the pretenses he puts on, his taste for mischief makes it difficult to see him as anything but a cynic, a proponent of chaos. It's a trait that fits in with his petty side, with the ease with which he dismisses that which he thinks is trivial or not worthwhile, with how easily he takes offense. And it all seems to sit at odds with the idea of a soft center, of any sweet aspect to his personality. But the fact is that he's always had it β always had a weakness for heroism, for an ideal of goodness that couldn't possibly actually exist. It had nearly been beaten out of him, butβ it's still there.
What makes him willing to share even of a sliver of it with her is the fact that he knows his Casanova act hadn't appealed to her (if anything, it had actually made her openly antagonistic when they'd first met). What she wants from him isn't a fantasy. (What she sees in him is greater, deeper, more significant than what any sketched-out portrait could capture. And he finds that he wants her to see him.)
He wonders if it surprises her, that the dreams he'd choose to describe to her are so chaste. But it's the truth β boiled down to his very essence, what he longs for is tenderness, for care. For so many years, he'd been starved of it, resigned to the fact that he'd never be anything but alone for the rest of his immortal days. He'd still mostly believed it, even after the tadpole (who in their right mind would want to associate with a vampire, after all), but then sheβ ]
A shared dream, perhaps? [ he wonders aloud, fingertips traveling over the stitching of the leather she wears. ] But, no β a dream could hardly be so sweet.
[ Even in dreams, he wouldn't be so assured as to imagine that she would choose to bestow any kindness upon him, especially not with how hard-won it's been. It's kindness, he thinks, that ought only to be spared for herself, for someone more deserving of it. But here, in their waking hours, it's hardly as though that's enough for him to refuse or rebuff her, not when he's so hungry forβ well, for her. For the way she speaks his name, for the warmth of her touch, for the way she wants him.
It's easy to feel a little drunk on that, even without a drop of her blood passing his lips β as though seeking, his mouth passes over her pulse once more, but only as a stop along the way as his lips find her clavicle, the rise of her chest, following the line of skin left bare by her clothing. It's the boldest he's been, apart from their remote dalliance β itself a sign of comfort, of trust. ]
no subject
What makes him willing to share even of a sliver of it with her is the fact that he knows his Casanova act hadn't appealed to her (if anything, it had actually made her openly antagonistic when they'd first met). What she wants from him isn't a fantasy. (What she sees in him is greater, deeper, more significant than what any sketched-out portrait could capture. And he finds that he wants her to see him.)
He wonders if it surprises her, that the dreams he'd choose to describe to her are so chaste. But it's the truth β boiled down to his very essence, what he longs for is tenderness, for care. For so many years, he'd been starved of it, resigned to the fact that he'd never be anything but alone for the rest of his immortal days. He'd still mostly believed it, even after the tadpole (who in their right mind would want to associate with a vampire, after all), but then sheβ ]
A shared dream, perhaps? [ he wonders aloud, fingertips traveling over the stitching of the leather she wears. ] But, no β a dream could hardly be so sweet.
[ Even in dreams, he wouldn't be so assured as to imagine that she would choose to bestow any kindness upon him, especially not with how hard-won it's been. It's kindness, he thinks, that ought only to be spared for herself, for someone more deserving of it. But here, in their waking hours, it's hardly as though that's enough for him to refuse or rebuff her, not when he's so hungry forβ well, for her. For the way she speaks his name, for the warmth of her touch, for the way she wants him.
It's easy to feel a little drunk on that, even without a drop of her blood passing his lips β as though seeking, his mouth passes over her pulse once more, but only as a stop along the way as his lips find her clavicle, the rise of her chest, following the line of skin left bare by her clothing. It's the boldest he's been, apart from their remote dalliance β itself a sign of comfort, of trust. ]