HONEYED / DESIRE

‘ dear-heart, you are beautiful, no doubt. ‘ she mumbles, fingers now gently threading through sleek, sunny strands of hair — her forehead rests upon the other’s, brow furrowed and saddened. lenora takes a hand into her own, thumb ghosting over knobby, callused knuckles, mapping out dents and SCARS so reverently. ‘ and you are a star — my own. and you are perfect and wonderful, even if you wish to be ridiculous and not believe it. i adore you so. ‘

unworthy   ,   but devoted all the same. 

❛     i do believe being utterly ridiculous is part of my charm.   ❜   despite answer his chest warms   ,   tightens uncomfortably. he does not wish to contradict her to be contrite or to cause pain   ,   but belief is hard to come by after a life of being told otherwise. A SCOUNDREL FIRST   ,   LOVER SECOND   ,   ELF LAST. few cling to any other such label for him   ;   he is not an overly complicated man. he has been written quite soundly down as all that he is. 

“The concept of Love, I would imagine,” murmurs Roland; content to touch and make frames the delicacy of Zevran’s face, resting upon his own lap.

“Thoughts of poetry and of comfort.” Roland touches the line of his golden eyebrow, the slanting line of the ink at his temple, the sloop of his cheekbone. “Of safety … and of trust, yea. ‘Twere too long to have thee in my lap again, il mio amore, and I am bereft from it.” And in doubly doth Roland bounce his eyebrows, and he beams gladly.

Past experiences help shape who we are currently, how we see the world. Send in a symbol and I’ll write a drabble of one of my muse’s memories. 

–

❥ - a childhood memory

♣ - a fading memory

✂ - a vivid memory

✖ - a repressed memory

✈ - an eye-opening memory

✤ - a memory that involves romance/love

☤ - a memory of death/loss

✍ - a memory of their mother

☽ - a memory of their father

♘ - a memory of their sibling(s)

✌ - a memory of a relative

↕ - a memory that may or may not have happened

♚ - a memory of something paranormal

✓ - a sexual memory

during his childhood he’s faced a fair amount of physical, emotional, and sexual abuse. his fixation with sex & seduction as a defining character ‘trait’ is very much tied into this. this does not mean he does not enjoy sex nor the chase, but he has also been told much of his life that he is useful for two things - his body and the blade he wields. divorcing his self image from something innately desirable would, at this point, be nearly impossible. 

whore, bastard, elven & vilified - zevran is no stranger to shame. he has turned such into badge and honor, wears what others calls him with a sort of pride that borders on the obscene. 

loathe as he is to admit it, zevran is an incorrigible romantic at heart. he is an expert at not getting his heart involved in his trysts but should he allow himself to fall he does so deeply. it is not a quick or painless process, but his loyalty once truly earned runs deep.

his body is scarred and shows wear but his hands are the worst of it all. my friends and i went with the idea that the reason his lockpicking skills are so abysmal when he is first recruited is because his hands are failing him. fingers broken multiple times, body driven to extremes again and again. arthritis has begun an early onset in his fingers and will only get worse with time. his digits are knobbed and rittled with scar tissue, his palms and wrists sporting burns. where fingers were once long and elegant now lays the bloody history of a man who has known pain. zevran wears gloves at all times the older he gets.

he is something of a polyglot. this comes down to his crow training as well as a natural aptitude & interest. he is fluent in common, orlesian, rivaini and antivan. his tevene is passable and generally good, his qunlat and elven phrases here and there. 

a number of his scars are from self harm. initiation rituals and the like. 

the idea of a family & children is more terrifying than it is anything else. he believes himself to be very much a product of his mother - alcoholic, a whore, good for nothing - he’d be so assured that this be some awful legacy. he wouldn’t trust himself to be a decent father nor trust the world to be kind to a child. 

there are flowers here, unfurling from the crypt of my ribcage — mortuary lilies and coinage of calendula, ivory on gold filigree, all spiderwork lattice, an aegis torn from within the vena cava. this strange sun transfigures me: i stand somewhere between shadow and saint, scapulae untwined gargantuan, stretched out behind me in a mockery of wings, a dark, vespertine infinity of sky. there are flowers here, at the altar where i give myself over as offering, as SACRIFICE to strange, saturnine gods; plucking the sternum free from the crown of my thorax — oblating all i am as ceremonial knife.