And what a delicious little meal it'd make of you.
[ He feigns biting the top of her head, a gesture he almost regrets for how childish and playful it is, but— he's already said things he finds more embarrassing, and he knows neither of them would behave this way if they weren't alone.
And he knows, too, that they haven't chosen an easy thing; the immediate future seems filled with nothing but conflict, with Cazador and Viconia still out there, let alone the unresolved matters of the rest of their friends (friends — how strange) and Gortash and Orin's machinations (the latter a responsibility he's not certain they should have to bear, but to see it all through is a part of the price paid). But, he thinks (he knows), there are worse ways to die, if that's what's meant for them.
As he settles back down, a hum echoes in his throat, against the (soft, surprising, suddenly intoxicating) press of her lips. ]
What can I say about you? [ he wonders aloud, as his fingers travel further up, to the lock of hair that rests curled behind her ear. ] Were I to wax poetic about your beauty now, would that cause your heart to flutter?
[ He doesn't think the answer is an outright no, not anymore, but it's also not likely to be the first thing she wants to hear. (Besides, he's used those kinds of words too much before.) The only problem is that it's easier for him to spin such words than his genuine sentiments — the fact that no one had had a kind word or gesture for him before, not without expecting something in return. She deserves better than his initial intentions — to seduce and secure an ally, to ensure through what means he could that he wouldn't be abandoned or betrayed — something not based in a lie. ]
You don't spare your strength — your considerable strength, I should say — on behalf of others, even if it would mean you had none left for yourself, [ he begins, following a moment of thought, ] and you do make it terribly easy for me to place my faith in you. And I find I don't ... I don't want to be away from you — though whether that's a virtue or a vice, who's to say?
[ With a slight shake: ] I'll have you know I've never said so many nice things — and meant them — in all my days.
honestly both apt tbh
[ He feigns biting the top of her head, a gesture he almost regrets for how childish and playful it is, but— he's already said things he finds more embarrassing, and he knows neither of them would behave this way if they weren't alone.
And he knows, too, that they haven't chosen an easy thing; the immediate future seems filled with nothing but conflict, with Cazador and Viconia still out there, let alone the unresolved matters of the rest of their friends (friends — how strange) and Gortash and Orin's machinations (the latter a responsibility he's not certain they should have to bear, but to see it all through is a part of the price paid). But, he thinks (he knows), there are worse ways to die, if that's what's meant for them.
As he settles back down, a hum echoes in his throat, against the (soft, surprising, suddenly intoxicating) press of her lips. ]
What can I say about you? [ he wonders aloud, as his fingers travel further up, to the lock of hair that rests curled behind her ear. ] Were I to wax poetic about your beauty now, would that cause your heart to flutter?
[ He doesn't think the answer is an outright no, not anymore, but it's also not likely to be the first thing she wants to hear. (Besides, he's used those kinds of words too much before.) The only problem is that it's easier for him to spin such words than his genuine sentiments — the fact that no one had had a kind word or gesture for him before, not without expecting something in return. She deserves better than his initial intentions — to seduce and secure an ally, to ensure through what means he could that he wouldn't be abandoned or betrayed — something not based in a lie. ]
You don't spare your strength — your considerable strength, I should say — on behalf of others, even if it would mean you had none left for yourself, [ he begins, following a moment of thought, ] and you do make it terribly easy for me to place my faith in you. And I find I don't ... I don't want to be away from you — though whether that's a virtue or a vice, who's to say?
[ With a slight shake: ] I'll have you know I've never said so many nice things — and meant them — in all my days.