I haven't been hiding. You could come see me at any time.
( this nightmarish echo of the little palace is stupidly (wastefully) spacious, yes, but she has one experience that speaks to his patience. it isn't difficult to imagine him as a restless phantom stalking the corridors, slipping into the corners of alina's usual haunting grounds. pacing. waiting. seeking.
so the implicit, unspoken question becomes: if his honeytrap-words are true, if his want for her is a persistent toothache, then why has he been there while she's been here? )
[ Maybe he has been, at the edges of her awareness. Watching her swim, eat dinner, walk across the lawn. For a sleepless vampire, the time is there to be filled.
Nevertheless, a gentleman has to maintain some sort of form. ]
And deprive myself of the pleasure of being invited?
( not in the traditional sense of bloodsoaked battles, but in the sense of claiming her open desire as though it's a spoil of war. needing, hungering, to hear her admit to it the way she's gorged himself on his confession, so freely handfed to her.
for his trouble, her implicit invitation, sealed like a drop of blood, the teasing whiff of sweet perfume on an absent lover's letter: )
I spend my days by the lake, and my nights in the library. Will I see you?
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no subject
( this nightmarish echo of the little palace is stupidly (wastefully) spacious, yes, but she has one experience that speaks to his patience. it isn't difficult to imagine him as a restless phantom stalking the corridors, slipping into the corners of alina's usual haunting grounds. pacing. waiting. seeking.
so the implicit, unspoken question becomes: if his honeytrap-words are true, if his want for her is a persistent toothache, then why has he been there while she's been here? )
no subject
Nevertheless, a gentleman has to maintain some sort of form. ]
And deprive myself of the pleasure of being invited?
no subject
( not in the traditional sense of bloodsoaked battles, but in the sense of claiming her open desire as though it's a spoil of war. needing, hungering, to hear her admit to it the way she's gorged himself on his confession, so freely handfed to her.
for his trouble, her implicit invitation, sealed like a drop of blood, the teasing whiff of sweet perfume on an absent lover's letter: )
I spend my days by the lake, and my nights in the library. Will I see you?