[A hand comes up, plastered against Lobelia's chest, and pushing him gently, gently to try to prevent him from coming closer. He is misbehaving. He won't have it.]
Think what you want.
[He thinks to say that he isn't planning to bite, but he thinks the man will take that as a challenge. So he words it a different way.]
[Lobelia takes note of where Hansa draws the line—then pointedly ignores it. He pushes against that hand, still and unblinking, as if he might tear Hansa to shreds with his gaze alone. If he could, perhaps he'd try.]
Then what are you here for? Whatever salvation you and your God intend to offer will fall on deaf ears, I assure you.
[His voice softens to something closer to silk than disdain.]
Surely you're not so égocentrique as to believe I fall within your means to salvage. I made peace with my fate a long time ago.
Heh... so you do give yourself away, Père. The more you circle me like a moth to a flame, the more you invite a little retribution.
[Lobelia's fingers close around Hansa's wrist, tight and deliberate, a snare snapping shut. The pressure builds, and with it the sickening want to crush, to ruin, to hear something crack the way metal screams when it bends in his grip.
It poisons the air around him. It poisons him.
He is trying, truly trying, to walk the right path. Even when his chest is hollow. Even when this, whatever this is, is no closer to happiness. Even when a holy man standing before him inspires not devotion, not gentleness, but violence.]
Keep sticking your nose where it doesn't belong. Let yourself be torn from God's hands and thrown headlong into hell. Playing with demons is a nasty hobby for a man of the cloth.
[He doesn't flinch. The metal - and there is metal there, like a doll's wrist - doesn't bend. He's made of the finest metals the Church has. Consecrated to his core.]
[Hansa closes his eye for a moment, thinking.]
[It's poison, but the Lord didn't even walk away from that.]
I'm not playing with you, as much as you want to call yourself a demon.
[He really isn't, no matter how light his words can be. His eye opens, deep purple glimmering in the low light.]
Neither will I be torn from God's hands. Either way...come now, Lobelia. I'm talking to you man to man. That's all this is.
[Metal that refuses to yield beneath his fingers. Faultless, consecrated, unbreakable. It's beautiful. It's maddening. It's a defiance that sinks its teeth into Lobelia in all the wrong ways. In the end, it's Hansa who bit first.]
Then tell me what it is you want, Hansa.
[His grip tightens, not cruel but inexorable, a test he hopes to see fail.]
Is this merely amusement for you? You circle those closest to hell as though drawn by instinct. Why is that? Is it your vaunted duty... or because something in you recognizes the rot and calls it kin?
[He leans in, unable, unwilling to relent. The danger is mutual. That makes it worse. It makes it impossible to release him.]
[He clearly wants to laugh at the notion of himself recognizing the rot. What an accusation. It feels like calling the sky red, or saying two and two equals five.]
I think what's happening says a lot about you than me. I have met monsters in human flesh. They don't want to challenge me like you do. Why? Because they're set in their ways. They know I won't change, so why should they?
[Now he's the one leaning forward in return, the pressure in those solid fingers not abating.]
I think you, deep down, want to change. You're struggling. Why would I want a soul like you gone?
[For a split second, Lobelia's grip falters. Not enough to grant freedom, not enough to be kindness. Only enough to reveal that Hansa has struck something vital, something buried, something Lobelia refuses to let see daylight.]
Change?
[The word is echoed back as though foreign on his tongue, as though he might choke on it.]
You mistake me for a man who still believes in such things. Change. Redemption. Becoming something better than the wreckage I've always been.
[He laughs— soft, breathless. It's the sound of someone cornered by a truth he refuses to acknowledge.]
Mon Dieu... you are a dangerous creature, Père. Not because you threaten my life, but because you threaten my certainty.
[Lobelia's fingers slide from Hansa's wrist to the back of his hand, deliberate and controlled. An intimacy sharpened to a point.]
You think I want to change? That I'm struggling?
Perhaps. Or perhaps you are merely projecting your own pious delusions onto me. Perhaps you want to believe I'm something salvageable so you can justify your fascination.
[He leans in— close enough that their breath mingles, close enough that defiance reads like a confession.]
Tell me, Hansa... does your God reward you for trying to tame the monsters you find? Or does He simply enjoy watching you bleed for them?
[The more Lobelia talks, the more intense his own gaze becomes - akin to the tip of an arrow, ready to pierce. The hand slides over the back of the one placed against Lobelia's chest - and he can almost hear the thumpthumpthump of his heart. He's so alive. Not like those dead men walking, the ones he hunts.]
[His own smile curves upward, wolfish. What defiance.]
[He's defiant too. Stubborn to a fault. A thorn in people's sides.]
[His fingers curl in the man's shirt, his own breath hissing out between his teeth.]
I don't tame anyone. I don't bleed, either. I execute. But I can decide who...or what I should deliver justice to.
[And he's damn good at it. He doesn't need to use his skills here, however. Here, he is Hansa the man. Not Hansa the Executor.]
I have no delusions, here. Don't put words in my mouth. I simply see what I see. If you want to talk....here I am.
[Ah. There it is. Something in Lobelia's expression sharpens— hunger, challenge, the electric thrill of meeting someone who refuses to yield. Hansa's fingers command him to heel, but the real hook is the steady, unflinching conviction in the man's eyes.]
Exécuteur, is it?
You wear that title like a blade. I can see why. There's a certain... purity in the way you say it. No trembling hand, no doubt, no fear... just the certainty of a man who has decided exactly how the world must be cut.
[He leans in until their foreheads nearly touch, voice dropping dangerously low.]
But you've made one mistake. You think I came here to be tamed, or saved, or even judged.
[Lobelia's hand rises, brushing Hansa's jaw with the barest pressure like testing the cutting edge of a blade he wants to break himself on.]
You keep offering me "talk," as though that's what I'm reaching for. As though my mouth wasn't made for far crueler things.
[He smiles. Not sweet. Not kind. A thing with teeth.]
I have no interest in your justice. What I want is to see what a man like you becomes when he steps outside the armor of his calling and stands before me as nothing but flesh.
[His thumb grazes Hansa's cheekbone, slow and deliberate.]
So tell me again, mon Père... If you're not here to tame me... not here to bleed.. not here to save me...
[Why reach for anything? He wants to answer, but for a moment, he is well and fully distracted by the fingers brushing over his jaw. He's never been made for softer things. His eye shifts a little in his sockets, before regaining composure. As fiery and determined as ever.]
Too bad. I'm one and the same with that armor.
[A little pause - and then it comes, a little hiccup of a laugh. A pure little sound, even as this man, this sinner, whoever he is, holds him so close.]
...You know. I just felt like I should.
[It's like the answer of a child, perhaps. Someone who moves to his whim, deep down.]
Lobelia's grip eases the smallest bit, silent while he considers him, considers his next words. There's something searching in the way he looks at Hansa now.]
You wanted to. Just that.
[Laughter? It's infectious, but his is incredulous. Congratulations, Hansa. Not many manage to truly frustrate him.]
You're a strange man. You see a monster struggling in the dark and your impulse is to walk toward him rather than away.
[His hands loosen, but they hang around as if to test the man. Will he take the opportunity to strike him? Will he do nothing at all?]
Tell me what you meant by reaching for me. I won't assume.
[Yes, frustrating. Deeply so. Hansa is a confounding man on top of it all, but why wouldn't he be? There are things he understands innately that Lobelia knows only in theory. The impulse to reach for someone else. The promise of comfort. The simple flicker of emotion that makes such gestures meaningful. That makes people happy, doesn't it?
If nothing else, he can envy that. Perhaps envy is the closest he comes to wanting.
The threat in him ebbs when his hands fall away. He doesn't step back, but the tension shifts— no longer a predator's coil, but something quieter, though no less sharp.]
It would make little difference to me. You should save your compassion for those who feel gratitude for being rescued.
[That, too, is happiness. Simple, warm, and forever beyond his grasp.]
Besides, consider this, Hansa: if a man has only ever known the mountains, how is he to believe — blindly, foolishly — that anywhere else would treat him better?
[Now it is his turn - he crosses the boundaries, eliminates the personal space, like the flow to Lobelia's ebb. His hands reach up to lightly grasp over the other's face.]
Faith is believing a sunny day will come tomorrow after one hundred rainy ones. Being human isn't logical. We are blind and foolish all the time.
[Humans aren't made to be rational. Hansa smiles, eywme glimmering with muted delight.]
[Oh. When did he drop his guard? Pride forbids him from acknowledging it, yet the truth haunts him— he stopped fearing what Hansa might do the moment the man stepped close. Instinctively, his shoulders tense beneath the touch, but he doesn't move away. He wouldn't want Hansa to, either.]
Faith. You say that as though it's the simplest thing in the world. Belief in the intangible— something that cannot be touched, cannot be proven.
[Something that doesn't yield beneath his fingers. Something that doesn't break. He watches the candlelight catch in Hansa's eye, unable to look away. Angels shouldn't look like this, but life is nothing if not a string of small surprises— brief flashes of something like happiness, the only kind he's ever known.]
You speak of faith as though it were breathing. As though anyone could simply decide to feel what they've never known.
[His hand lifts— hesitation, then a slow, deliberate touch to Hansa's wrist, not gripping this time, only tracing the shape of something unbreakable.]
Then tell me, Hansa... how does a man who feels nothing begin to believe in something he cannot see?
[It's a lovely paradox. It's like how sinners can also be forgiven, how a bush can burn, how water can turn into wine. Faith itself is magical.]
[His thumbs slide a little over the man's cheekbones - hands that have smashed bones to smithereens in seconds, used to hold him so gently now.]
Well, everyone is different. But you can start small. Believe in little hopes here and there. Looking forward to fair weather next day, or the expectation of seeing a flower tomorrow. Or believe in a person to follow their lead and take the first step.
[Forehead is against forehead, now. The push and pull has shifted, his hands warm. Lobelia is a warm being, not some wooden puppet.]
Every day will get a little easier. I believe in that. If I can, so can you.
[How can he stand to be held like this with such gentle hands? It should be easy, simple, instinctive, but it isn't. His own hands rise to layer over Hansa's as though to anchor them there. He fights the feral instinct urging him to tear free before he's ensnared completely.
His eyes slip shut. It feels like inviting ruin, like offering his throat, but the darkness sharpens everything else— every word Hansa breathes, the conviction beneath them. It's sentiment he barely knows how to hold. Promises he wants to believe in more than he'd ever dare to admit.]
You're quite the cruel man. And at the same time, far kinder than most will ever know.
[The slightest tremor threads through his breath, gone as quickly as it comes.]
How does a child feared as a creature of the mountains come to believe in anything at all, let alone something as fragile as faith?
Lobelia. What a funny man you are. Faith isn't fragile.
[It never is. That's what life is based on. Always believing in something that doesn't immediately give rewarda or dividends.]
[His grip is firm - even if Lobelia pulls away, or trembles, or grasps him back, he will be as stalwart as the mountains he came from. He doesn't detach himself from Lobelia either, his breath steady and warm.]
I told you. I lost everything. My mother died trying to save me. I lost myself, and an old man found me. He regained my trust in the world, little by little.
[And then he was brought into town, and the rest was history.]
Step by step, Lobelia. You won't wake up tomorrow with belief laid in front of you like a feast. But at least...you can choose something every day for that.
[Strange. Faith is a frightening variable, an unknown Lobelia can neither measure nor rely upon. Still, Lobelia wants to believe in it. Believe in Hansa. A leap of faith can only end in one of two ways. Should there be no one to catch him when he falls, that's just as well. That would be a familiar pain, one he can reliably count on to ache right down to his very soul.
So he'll abandon skepticism just this once. His eyes open, he gazes into Hansa's eye, but Lobelia isn't looking for the truth in them. He seeks something deeper.]
I am nothing if not patient. You've convinced me. Still...
[Still, there's an unease in his chest that won't abate. It isn't fear, no. He would know if it were mortal terror. It's more like... an omen. An ill portent. With some hesitation, he speaks—]
Surely you don't expect me to remain on the right path without guidance. I will be relying on you, if you'll allow it. And should I ever stray...
I trust you'll correct me accordingly. No matter what.
[He says, with some amusement, but the look in his eye matches the other's. Something more piercing, like a hook. He doesn't know why Lobelia has had this affect on him - perhaps it was the familiarity. The push that begs for a pull. The need to drag a man out of a dark cave into the sunlight. Why? Because of faith? Something deeper?]
[He shakes his head a little.]
You make me sound like I'll should be putting a leash on on your soul. But I understand what you mean. I believe it won't come to that point.
[If he really feels that way...]
[He pats the other's cheek gently, meaning to be playful, reassuring.]
[It's all pins and needles under the skin— the feeling of being seen is a discomfort Lobelia has spent years avoiding. He's built his life around independence. Upon needing no one. Having no one. What is he thinking, letting Hansa this close, if he's thinking at all?
No, no. He clearly isn't. That's why he shifts, lips nearly a ghost against Hansa's skin. The temptation to bite is there. So is the temptation to do far worse.]
Bien sûr. Naturally, you want to believe everything will work out... and I won't fault you for that. Still... it never hurts to have a contingency plan, n'est-ce pas?
Really, you should be cursing me for putting you in such a position. You should be mad. Livid.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[Lobelia's smile sprawls, warm and amused. Candlelight frames the curve of his jaw as though the chapel itself conspires to frame him kindly.]
Ma cher Père... I have always left the door open for God to step into my life. It's people I keep at arm's length.
[He steps closer, closing the space between them, pushing the limits of what Hansa will let him get away with. His tone drops to a velvet murmur.]
Besides... you were the one who came to me. If I'm letting anything in, perhaps you should take the credit.
[He lets the implication hang, venom staunched by something sickly sweet.]
Or the blame.
no subject
[The darkness casts odd shadows on both of them, but Lobelia is a perfect little cherubim all the same.]
I'll take both credit and blame. Besides, why shouldn't I be pleased with this? You haven't run away.
no subject
[That tickles something in Lobelia, prying a laugh from his lips. It's a slow, decadent laugh, like something sweet melting on the tongue.]
Mon cher père, if you think I'm the sort who flees at the first hint of danger, then you've misunderstood me terribly.
[He drifts a half-step closer, just inside Hansa's personal space. Testing. Pushing. Misbehaving terribly.]
I stay when something interests me. I stay when someone does. And right now... I find you very, very interesting.
[His laughter comes out softer than a whisper, but venomous all the same.]
So tell me... should I be pleased that you haven't run? Or should I worry that you mean to bite?
no subject
Think what you want.
[He thinks to say that he isn't planning to bite, but he thinks the man will take that as a challenge. So he words it a different way.]
I'm not here to be a danger to you.
no subject
Then what are you here for? Whatever salvation you and your God intend to offer will fall on deaf ears, I assure you.
[His voice softens to something closer to silk than disdain.]
Surely you're not so égocentrique as to believe I fall within your means to salvage. I made peace with my fate a long time ago.
no subject
What am I here for?
[And a laugh, carefree, as if he can't help himself.]
I'm just a guy who keeps sticking his nose into things. I wouldn't call that egocentric. Maybe a little stupid.
no subject
[Lobelia's fingers close around Hansa's wrist, tight and deliberate, a snare snapping shut. The pressure builds, and with it the sickening want to crush, to ruin, to hear something crack the way metal screams when it bends in his grip.
It poisons the air around him. It poisons him.
He is trying, truly trying, to walk the right path. Even when his chest is hollow. Even when this, whatever this is, is no closer to happiness. Even when a holy man standing before him inspires not devotion, not gentleness, but violence.]
Keep sticking your nose where it doesn't belong. Let yourself be torn from God's hands and thrown headlong into hell. Playing with demons is a nasty hobby for a man of the cloth.
no subject
[Hansa closes his eye for a moment, thinking.]
[It's poison, but the Lord didn't even walk away from that.]
I'm not playing with you, as much as you want to call yourself a demon.
[He really isn't, no matter how light his words can be. His eye opens, deep purple glimmering in the low light.]
Neither will I be torn from God's hands. Either way...come now, Lobelia. I'm talking to you man to man. That's all this is.
no subject
Then tell me what it is you want, Hansa.
[His grip tightens, not cruel but inexorable, a test he hopes to see fail.]
Is this merely amusement for you? You circle those closest to hell as though drawn by instinct. Why is that? Is it your vaunted duty... or because something in you recognizes the rot and calls it kin?
[He leans in, unable, unwilling to relent. The danger is mutual. That makes it worse. It makes it impossible to release him.]
You should want me gone.
no subject
[He clearly wants to laugh at the notion of himself recognizing the rot. What an accusation. It feels like calling the sky red, or saying two and two equals five.]
I think what's happening says a lot about you than me. I have met monsters in human flesh. They don't want to challenge me like you do. Why? Because they're set in their ways. They know I won't change, so why should they?
[Now he's the one leaning forward in return, the pressure in those solid fingers not abating.]
I think you, deep down, want to change. You're struggling. Why would I want a soul like you gone?
no subject
Change?
[The word is echoed back as though foreign on his tongue, as though he might choke on it.]
You mistake me for a man who still believes in such things. Change. Redemption. Becoming something better than the wreckage I've always been.
[He laughs— soft, breathless. It's the sound of someone cornered by a truth he refuses to acknowledge.]
Mon Dieu... you are a dangerous creature, Père. Not because you threaten my life, but because you threaten my certainty.
[Lobelia's fingers slide from Hansa's wrist to the back of his hand, deliberate and controlled. An intimacy sharpened to a point.]
You think I want to change? That I'm struggling?
Perhaps. Or perhaps you are merely projecting your own pious delusions onto me. Perhaps you want to believe I'm something salvageable so you can justify your fascination.
[He leans in— close enough that their breath mingles, close enough that defiance reads like a confession.]
Tell me, Hansa... does your God reward you for trying to tame the monsters you find? Or does He simply enjoy watching you bleed for them?
no subject
[The more Lobelia talks, the more intense his own gaze becomes - akin to the tip of an arrow, ready to pierce. The hand slides over the back of the one placed against Lobelia's chest - and he can almost hear the thumpthumpthump of his heart. He's so alive. Not like those dead men walking, the ones he hunts.]
[His own smile curves upward, wolfish. What defiance.]
[He's defiant too. Stubborn to a fault. A thorn in people's sides.]
[His fingers curl in the man's shirt, his own breath hissing out between his teeth.]
I don't tame anyone. I don't bleed, either. I execute. But I can decide who...or what I should deliver justice to.
[And he's damn good at it. He doesn't need to use his skills here, however. Here, he is Hansa the man. Not Hansa the Executor.]
I have no delusions, here. Don't put words in my mouth. I simply see what I see. If you want to talk....here I am.
no subject
Exécuteur, is it?
You wear that title like a blade. I can see why. There's a certain... purity in the way you say it. No trembling hand, no doubt, no fear... just the certainty of a man who has decided exactly how the world must be cut.
[He leans in until their foreheads nearly touch, voice dropping dangerously low.]
But you've made one mistake. You think I came here to be tamed, or saved, or even judged.
[Lobelia's hand rises, brushing Hansa's jaw with the barest pressure like testing the cutting edge of a blade he wants to break himself on.]
You keep offering me "talk," as though that's what I'm reaching for. As though my mouth wasn't made for far crueler things.
[He smiles. Not sweet. Not kind. A thing with teeth.]
I have no interest in your justice. What I want is to see what a man like you becomes when he steps outside the armor of his calling and stands before me as nothing but flesh.
[His thumb grazes Hansa's cheekbone, slow and deliberate.]
So tell me again, mon Père... If you're not here to tame me... not here to bleed.. not here to save me...
Then why reach for me at all?
no subject
[Why reach for anything? He wants to answer, but for a moment, he is well and fully distracted by the fingers brushing over his jaw. He's never been made for softer things. His eye shifts a little in his sockets, before regaining composure. As fiery and determined as ever.]
Too bad. I'm one and the same with that armor.
[A little pause - and then it comes, a little hiccup of a laugh. A pure little sound, even as this man, this sinner, whoever he is, holds him so close.]
...You know. I just felt like I should.
[It's like the answer of a child, perhaps. Someone who moves to his whim, deep down.]
I just wanted to.
no subject
Lobelia's grip eases the smallest bit, silent while he considers him, considers his next words. There's something searching in the way he looks at Hansa now.]
You wanted to. Just that.
[Laughter? It's infectious, but his is incredulous. Congratulations, Hansa. Not many manage to truly frustrate him.]
You're a strange man. You see a monster struggling in the dark and your impulse is to walk toward him rather than away.
[His hands loosen, but they hang around as if to test the man. Will he take the opportunity to strike him? Will he do nothing at all?]
Tell me what you meant by reaching for me. I won't assume.
no subject
[His eye creases at being called a strange man. It's a familiar thing to hear. He almost feels fond at it, his own hand loosening a little.]
...I was a monster. A long time ago. They called me that, a child living in the treacherous mountains. They told tales about how I ate climbers.
[But he didn't. He wasn't a monster, or evil spirits, or a demon, but...]
An old man reached for me back then. Without him, I'd probably be a monster for real. Isn't it human? To reach for another?
[Hansa's voice is quiet.]
Should I leave you to the treacherous mountains, too?
no subject
If nothing else, he can envy that. Perhaps envy is the closest he comes to wanting.
The threat in him ebbs when his hands fall away. He doesn't step back, but the tension shifts— no longer a predator's coil, but something quieter, though no less sharp.]
It would make little difference to me. You should save your compassion for those who feel gratitude for being rescued.
[That, too, is happiness. Simple, warm, and forever beyond his grasp.]
Besides, consider this, Hansa: if a man has only ever known the mountains, how is he to believe — blindly, foolishly — that anywhere else would treat him better?
no subject
[Now it is his turn - he crosses the boundaries, eliminates the personal space, like the flow to Lobelia's ebb. His hands reach up to lightly grasp over the other's face.]
Faith is believing a sunny day will come tomorrow after one hundred rainy ones. Being human isn't logical. We are blind and foolish all the time.
[Humans aren't made to be rational. Hansa smiles, eywme glimmering with muted delight.]
You simply need to not be afraid to feel so.
no subject
Faith. You say that as though it's the simplest thing in the world. Belief in the intangible— something that cannot be touched, cannot be proven.
[Something that doesn't yield beneath his fingers. Something that doesn't break. He watches the candlelight catch in Hansa's eye, unable to look away. Angels shouldn't look like this, but life is nothing if not a string of small surprises— brief flashes of something like happiness, the only kind he's ever known.]
You speak of faith as though it were breathing. As though anyone could simply decide to feel what they've never known.
[His hand lifts— hesitation, then a slow, deliberate touch to Hansa's wrist, not gripping this time, only tracing the shape of something unbreakable.]
Then tell me, Hansa... how does a man who feels nothing begin to believe in something he cannot see?
don't spell when half asleep kids
[It's a lovely paradox. It's like how sinners can also be forgiven, how a bush can burn, how water can turn into wine. Faith itself is magical.]
[His thumbs slide a little over the man's cheekbones - hands that have smashed bones to smithereens in seconds, used to hold him so gently now.]
Well, everyone is different. But you can start small. Believe in little hopes here and there. Looking forward to fair weather next day, or the expectation of seeing a flower tomorrow. Or believe in a person to follow their lead and take the first step.
[Forehead is against forehead, now. The push and pull has shifted, his hands warm. Lobelia is a warm being, not some wooden puppet.]
Every day will get a little easier. I believe in that. If I can, so can you.
no subject
His eyes slip shut. It feels like inviting ruin, like offering his throat, but the darkness sharpens everything else— every word Hansa breathes, the conviction beneath them. It's sentiment he barely knows how to hold. Promises he wants to believe in more than he'd ever dare to admit.]
You're quite the cruel man. And at the same time, far kinder than most will ever know.
[The slightest tremor threads through his breath, gone as quickly as it comes.]
How does a child feared as a creature of the mountains come to believe in anything at all, let alone something as fragile as faith?
no subject
[It never is. That's what life is based on. Always believing in something that doesn't immediately give rewarda or dividends.]
[His grip is firm - even if Lobelia pulls away, or trembles, or grasps him back, he will be as stalwart as the mountains he came from. He doesn't detach himself from Lobelia either, his breath steady and warm.]
I told you. I lost everything. My mother died trying to save me. I lost myself, and an old man found me. He regained my trust in the world, little by little.
[And then he was brought into town, and the rest was history.]
Step by step, Lobelia. You won't wake up tomorrow with belief laid in front of you like a feast. But at least...you can choose something every day for that.
no subject
So he'll abandon skepticism just this once. His eyes open, he gazes into Hansa's eye, but Lobelia isn't looking for the truth in them. He seeks something deeper.]
I am nothing if not patient. You've convinced me. Still...
[Still, there's an unease in his chest that won't abate. It isn't fear, no. He would know if it were mortal terror. It's more like... an omen. An ill portent. With some hesitation, he speaks—]
Surely you don't expect me to remain on the right path without guidance. I will be relying on you, if you'll allow it. And should I ever stray...
I trust you'll correct me accordingly. No matter what.
no subject
[He says, with some amusement, but the look in his eye matches the other's. Something more piercing, like a hook. He doesn't know why Lobelia has had this affect on him - perhaps it was the familiarity. The push that begs for a pull. The need to drag a man out of a dark cave into the sunlight. Why? Because of faith? Something deeper?]
[He shakes his head a little.]
You make me sound like I'll should be putting a leash on on your soul. But I understand what you mean. I believe it won't come to that point.
[If he really feels that way...]
[He pats the other's cheek gently, meaning to be playful, reassuring.]
But I will do what I have to do. I promise.
no subject
No, no. He clearly isn't. That's why he shifts, lips nearly a ghost against Hansa's skin. The temptation to bite is there. So is the temptation to do far worse.]
Bien sûr. Naturally, you want to believe everything will work out... and I won't fault you for that. Still... it never hurts to have a contingency plan, n'est-ce pas?
Really, you should be cursing me for putting you in such a position. You should be mad. Livid.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
1/2
2/2
(no subject)
me closing my damn EYES
this is normal good and wholesome it's fine
(no subject)
french is such a fucked up language and i hate it
]sahkjsdhk YOU DID THIS TO YOURSELF
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)