moritat | Victorian weenie au

"Fault is mine," she argues unthinkingly. The poison she's been drinking curls in and around every word. Her knees draw up to her chest, and the sheet droops indecently only to be ignored. "I let him court me. Like a child, I believed in him. And I said, 'I can be with you!'"

Paloma subsides and bites the inside of her lips, releasing them instantly in recognition of that being an awful habit even for sheathed fangs. She hides her face into her knees.

"You cannot tell. Please."

"Even should I wish to speak of your secret, which I do not, it would need be explained how it is I have come to know such a thing. My own shame would be revealed. There is no better insurance."

He leans forward, tentatively, to touch her cheek (don't look down, don't look down, weenie noises, don't look down, eyes on the prize, keep it eyelevel, not on her nakedness nope). "It is not your fault, every moment there are men lying and women believing them. If you are robbed, none would think to argue the fault as yours, it rests solely in the thief. Such a lie may as well be theft of innocence."

She's glad for that secrecy, for hearing the truth. He won't have to forget.

Even though the Beast is ever-present in its appetite and his blood would serve as well as any, Paloma tilts into his palm, eyelashes tickling Jekyll's fingers.

Making a meal of him is the last thing she wants to do. So long as the Beast is caged. There's other prey.

"You mean all these words."

"Of course. You were not wrong to love." In a moment of boldness, Jekyll takes her head in his hands and kisses her forehead. "Although you need not live this way."

Plucking at his shame cushion in shyness, her lips quiver. He may not be good, but he's kind. Even in the jaws of her sire she can dream a little dream.

"You are so generous." Were her eyes so hypnotically luminous before? They're dizzying. "He cannot be touched as a farmer never puts hands on a king. But I greatly love to see a future without."

"Not at all." He can only be shameful, not generous, he hasn't done anything for her. And that shame cushion better stay where it is.....

"There would be less damage done sooner than later." It's only to point out to her, not to insist at all. Something to keep in mind. Realising where his hands are, he drops them, into his lap, on the shame cushion.

That persistence is frustrating but wins him a partially suppressed smile. It reminds her of the hopelessness of the trap she's fallen into, but he means well.

Is there harm in indulging a fantasy?

Paloma curls onto her side, head pillowed by an outstretched arm. "Perhaps he is ran off. Would you appear?"

"Appear?" He thinks he may understand what she means by that, but he can't be sure, and so he can't assume. That could be awkward.

He also debates turning back onto the bed properly - it's rude not to look at someone you're speaking to. But - no, there's no but, he shifts to do much the same, which means his shame cushion doesn't work so well anymore...

Well, if he's so close-- Paloma can be forgiven caving into the temptation to delicately sweep with her thumb what hair falls over his brow.

"As my friend. In this dream where he leaves and I am alive."

Her fingers curl. She takes them from his hair.

That isn't quote what he'd thought. But he does blush for her tender gesture. "Of course, I would be your friend always, you must never doubt such a thing. Particularly in a time of need." Even if he may disappear for a while shortly.

She does so appreciate the statuesque angles of his face. Paloma keeps her fist pressed against herself to stay the need to explore him, now that they lie quietly outside of a hot frenzy.

"Then here is to the night, and to our friendship."

Truly he might very much like to do the same. But that has to be put out of mind. How can he be so terrible as to even think it. Especially when she speaks of friendship! Something he's already trampled on in doing this.

He smiles. "Secrets and freedom."

Victorian weenie au

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