aionlogs | [open] post-imprisonment log

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liem talbott: champion

[open] post-imprisonment log

WHO: Liem & you!
WHAT: Liem is released from the naughty-Kenoma dungeons
WHERE: The Citadel, possibly Achamoth proper
WHEN: After his release on Firaseri 6th
WARNINGS: References to Liem’s imprisonment, including brainwashing, torture, & self-harm

I. The Wounded Option

[Liem is released from the Citadel’s dungeons without fanfare, staggering from his audience with the Regent back to his own rooms and sequestering himself there to recover from the most immediate after-effects of Dionys’s ministrations—or to at least attempt to. Rest is out of the question; the stings and aches throbbing through him would make sleep a struggle even if he could close his eyes without being transported immediately back into Dionys’s clutches. His mind feels like a sieve, his thoughts slipping away from him like water and leaving him only with the jagged edges of the past ten days. The best he can do is nurse his filthy and abused body while he tries to piece his mind back together.

He spends a lot of time alone over the ensuing days, but the observant or well-informed may have noted his return from the occasional servant delivering food or medicine to his room, or from hearing the sounds of activity within it. The sounds of running water are especially obvious, should one happen to walk past while he’s washing.

But of course, he has to tend to his injuries all over again once he’s stripped off the bandages and washed away the salve. Some of them are easier to reach than others, especially given the lingering pain involved in moving around too much. After bandaging his arms and tending the half-healed cuts and bruises on his chest, a short hiss punctuates his attempts to minister the lashes on his back.

Any knock on his door is meet with a brief silence, followed by the door cracking open and Liem’s dark, tired eyes peering out from it.]

Can I help you?

II. The Insomnia Option

[It doesn’t take all that long for restlessness to lure Liem out from the confines of his rooms. The walls start to creep in on him after just a couple days; the quiet starts to become oppressive. It’s too much like his cell in the depths of the Citadel, and it’s too much like his cell in the cathedral back home. Leaving the barren stone and cold, empty bed behind, he ventures out into the Citadel at large, seeking something to keep him occupied.

a. The middle of the night is a strange time to find anyone in the kitchens, but that’s where Liem is right now, smelling of oranges and cinnamon, his sleeves folded back to the elbows and his head bent over a small pie filled with some kind of soft white cheese. Flour dusts the bruises and half-healed bites on his wrists and forearms as he carefully lays a lattice of dough strips over the top, lifting his eyes from his work only briefly as he hears someone come in.

b. Regardless of how sleepless his nights (and his days) have been, or how residual aches from his injuries still plague his waking hours, Liem still turns to training as something that can occupy him even while he’s only operating at 50% at best. Target practice is something he could do even in his sleep, so the deep shadows beneath his eyes and the lethargy in his movements don’t stop him from finding a target to practise with in the pre-dawn hours when most of the Citadel is still dreaming. Stress and exhaustion have made him jumpy, though; the sound of approaching footsteps filters into his awareness slowly, and then in a rush all at once as he whirls to point his crossbow at whoever just walked in.

c. During the day, Liem mostly keeps out of the way in parts of the Citadel that don’t see much use. There’s a spare room near the top of a tower that stays empty for hours at a time, and it’s here that he can be found curled up on a window seat, gazing out of the narrow window while he scratches at a notebook with a stick of charcoal. Or at least, that’s what he’s been spending much of the afternoon doing, if the formless doodles and patterns scrawled across the pages are any indication. Liem himself isn’t available for comment, leaned as he is against the cool stone wall in the grip of a shallow and uneasy sleep.]

III. Wildcard

[Liem can be found around the Citadel or, later on, even out in Achamoth itself. His inbox is also open for post-imprisonment communion! Feel free to hit me up on plurk at Sporelett or DM me on discord if you want to hash out something else.]

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Mmm. [ A pleasant hum, for should. For perfect world. That's their task now, after all.

Matt takes a long swallow (some would say "thorough") from his glass. Then, with movements that are gentle but indefatigable, he leans to the side, tipping his head to rest against Liem's shoulder. ]

Hold onto that, [ he says. ] Okay? Not everybody has that kind of conviction.

[This conversation is taking a dangerously serious turn considering Matt's determination to relax and Liem's determination to not become drunkenly morose in his presence for a second time in a row. He can't stop the thought that conviction of that kind seems unnervingly rare, even among the others of their sect. The Citadel is so filled with damaged, disparate people; how many of them really believe a better world is even possible?

But the contact is soothing. Liem shifts automatically to accommodate Matt's weight leaning against him, tipping his head so he can press his cheek against his hair. He smells clean and warm and human, comfortingly familiar despite the gulf separating their last meeting in Venera and this very Achamite evening.]

I am. [Murmured against the top of his head.] And I will. For another century, if I must.

[ Matt sighs pleasantly as Liem moves to accommodate him, as his cool cheek presses to his hair. He sinks gently to settle more fully against his side. He's not quite relaxed; he's too keyed up after their dance for that. This intimacy makes him itch, each point of contact sparking deeper hunger. Still, he can be patient. He even likes it, the ache of wanting without satisfaction.

He just doesn't want it to last all night. ]

Another century? [ he says. His eyebrows arch, perhaps unseen to Liem but likely audible in his tone. ]

Mm.

[Liem’s confirmation comes out as a small hum, nuzzled into Matt’s hair. He probably shouldn’t hurry through his second drink; the first is already making him want to tangle up in Matt like a cozy, sexy blanket.]

Almost exactly. Since I finished my training, I mean.

[He lifts his head reluctantly in order to peer over at Matt, unsure whether his surprise indicates some kind of problem. It should have been abundantly obvious well before this point that he wasn’t human, but that doesn’t necessarily mean Matt is automatically okay with hooking up with someone old enough to be his great-grandfather.]

Should I have… mentioned that earlier?

Oh my God, [ Matt--doesn't quite giggle. But if that sound isn't a giggle, it's hard to qualify what it is. ] You look so good! I guess you've got a bit of [ distinctive, silver-foxy ] gray, but seriously, you look great for a hundred plus.

[ Matt's taking care not to let his drink spill, but he's also not really drinking from it at the moment. His cheek brushes absently to Liem's shoulder, a lighter version of the way an affectionate pet might rub against you. ]

Vampires don't live any longer than anybody else where I come from, [ he adds, in a thoughtful murmur, ] so I didn't really think about it. [ A beat. Then, cheerful: ] I'm 25.

[Liem is grateful for the immediacy with which Matt makes it clear exactly how much his age is not a problem. The tension that had crept back into his shoulders softens; his expression relaxes into one of dry amusement. “You look great for a hundred plus” is not exactly a glowing compliment in and of itself, but he grasps the sentiment easily enough.]

Well you look great for twenty-five.

[Without stopping to think about it, he angles his head slightly to press a kiss against Matt’s hair. Then he pauses, frowning.]

What do you mean, “vampires don’t live longer than anybody else”? You’re saying they’re… alive?

[ Matt chuckles, the sound softening at that brief kiss. A small pang pierces his heart. Maybe it's selfish to keep chasing little tastes of Liem's sweetness, but he can't help it. These touches and kisses feel, however fleetingly, like being cherished.

Liem's question gives Matt as much pause as his observation gave Liem. He blinks, a set of heretofore-unexplored metaphysical questions bubbling up in his brain. ]

I ... yes? [ he says. ] I mean, as distinct from spirits, yes, definitely. Born or bitten, age, die ...

[It should be easy to imagine a world in which vampires live and die just like people do, given that Liem's father was one, but it takes Liem a beat to really process this concept in a meaningful way. The concept of vampire is so tangled up in death that the concept of a living race of them resists logic. He tries not to give any mental bandwidth to the frankly abhorrent idea of vampire children.]

I see, [he says instead.

Then, into what is rapidly threatening to become an awkward silence, he adds,] That's not true where I'm from. Wasn't, I mean. My father was killed by a vampire. And turned. And then… I was conceived.

[ Matt breathes, ] Oh.

[ His head turns, and his chin lifts--not to pull away from Liem, but to be able to regard him face to face. He doesn't think he entirely understands the mechanics of Liem's situation, but he's positive he doesn't need to know. Not right now. ]

That sounds ... like it'd be really hard to go through.

[ For Liem, or his father, or his mother? Yes. ]

[When Matt turns to meet his gaze, Liem searches his eyes, not sure what he’s expecting to find there. Matt had, apparently, assumed he was a vampire. Is this better? Worse? At least in his world vampires evidently weren't sired by walking corpses.

He doesn’t have the emotional fortitude right now to talk about it at all and still pretend that it wasn’t a big deal, that it didn’t end both his parents’ lives and make orphans of their children. Instead he just says,]

That was a long time ago.

[More than a lifetime, for any normal human. He can’t say it doesn’t matter any more—but it doesn’t matter more than the subsequent death of his entire world.]

Ah, but… it wasn’t a common circumstance. Suffice to say, I don’t often meet peers my own age.

Okay. Yeah.

[ Matt's eyes are a bit wide, now that the full weight of what he's stumbled into has hit him, but the look in them is all tenderness and sorrow. He wants to comfort Liem, but still has his fucking glass to hold onto. He feels acutely, guiltily, that he doesn't have enough hands.

Matt pulls back. Takes a gulp from his drink, the fruit and herbs warm and stinging down his throat. He sets the glass down and reaches up to touch Liem's cheek with the tips of his fingers. ]

I'm sorry. I don't mean to make you sad.

[When Matt's fingertips find their way to Liem's cheek, the sober, searching look in his eyes falters into surprise.]

You haven't.

[When has Matt ever been responsible for his sadness? They don't know each other well enough for that to be true. The roots of his melancholy are all older than his relationship with one kind, lonely man. A candle isn't responsible for the darkness stretching behind the one who's holding it.

Reaching up, Liem peels the mask from his eyes and puts it down next to his drink. Then he meets his gaze again, his cool, bloodless fingers sliding over Matt's warm ones.]

You have always been far kinder to me than I had any right to expect, and I enjoy your company immensely. I promise.

[ Matt's pleased to hear Liem say this--who doesn't want to be told their company is immensely enjoyable?--but his true, gut-deep relief comes when Liem takes off his mask, and one more small barrier between them is removed.

Liem's fingers cover his own, a cool balm in the body-packed heat of this place. Matt smiles softly. ]

Okay. Good. [ He leans gently forward, tipping his head so their foreheads just touch. ] I enjoy yours immensely too.

I like you.

[ Wanting someone to be happy doesn't feel entirely congruent with this goals. But Matt wishes Liem peace, at least. A satisfaction in knowing he's doing the right thing. ]

Is that so?

[Liem finally smiles as Matt leans closer to rest their foreheads gently together. Their intimate proximity—brow to brow, hand to cheek—seems almost conspiratorial amidst the press of music and voices in the club: the words, I like you, like a secret meant just for the two of them.

He strokes along Matt's knuckles, peering at him from beneath his lashes. His face feels very warm—almost electric—where it contacts Matt's skin.]

Tell me more.

[ Their faces are, at this point, too close for Matt to regard Liem easily. Still, he catches a sweep of his lashes, fluttering like the wings of a shadowy insect.

He grins. ]

Ahh ...

[ Matt's briefly stumped again, but this time in a highly enjoyable way. As easily as he stumbled onto painful topics, he seems to have stumbled out, and as a bonus, he gets to do one of his favorite things: meditate on a sex partner's good qualities. ]

Well, like I said--or implied--I like your convictions, [ he says. ] I think they're rare. I even like that they're a little different than mine in some respects? Because I like learning what your perspective is.

[ He pauses briefly, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer. ]

And I like that you've been so sweet with me. People aren't always, and I can handle it, but ... I like the way you are.

[Despite Matt's earlier comment, Liem couldn't have begun to guess what he might consider to be his likeable qualities. He puts so much effort into being acquiescent, being diligent, being civilized that what Matt actually says makes a flush of startled pleasure darken the skin beneath his fingers and wistfulness ache at the back of his throat.

He wonders what that last sentence betokens: what Matt's referencing when he says I can handle it. That doesn't sound like the same thing as I like it. It sounds like making do.]

I find it surprising…

[He tips his head gently, until their noses brush together and Matt's breath is tickling his lips.]

… that anyone wouldn't want to be sweet with you.

[ The soft brush of their noses pulls a hum from low in Matt's throat. It's one of his favorite affectionate gestures among a garden of favorites, and he can't help recalling how it had felt on the dance floor. Is Liem echoing it back to him now on purpose? ]

Oh? [ Murmured. Their mouths are so close now that Matt doesn't want to breathe wrong, for fear of breaking the spell. ] Why's that?

Because, [Liem says, his eyes sliding briefly closed as he nuzzles gently against Matt’s nose.] You make it so rewarding.

[He pauses with his lips just a breath away, still curved slightly with that pleased little smile.]

I like what it does to your breathing.

[That softening, like ease sinking into his chest and picking it slowly apart. It seems so fascinatingly involuntary, he can’t help but want to pursue it again and again.]

And I like how you look at me when I am.

Oh.

[ Speaking of breath, this comes out on a small flutter. Matt's lips and nose don't move any closer to Liem's--they scarcely can, from here--but his body sways forward, warm skin and beating heart pressing to Liem's chest. ]

I don't know how I look at you. [ Amused, a bit sheepish. Breathless. ] But I'm glad you like it. I ...

[ Matt doesn't kiss Liem, exactly. But his mouth brushes Liem's mouth, lips slightly open and electric with the contact. ]

[Matt presses closer, and Liem's skin feels hot and alive where their chests touch. He shifts against him, tilting toward his body with unthinking, mirror precision: a binary star pulled inexorably and oppositely toward its twin. Want and anticipation still his breath in his throat.

He wouldn't know how to explain in words the change he sometimes perceives in Matt's regard. It's a look like a shift in weight in the midst of a dance whose moves he doesn't know; it could herald anything from a leap to a fall. He just knows he wants to find out which it might be.

If the brush of Matt's mouth against his own isn't exactly a kiss, Liem makes it one. As his arm moves to circle Matt's waist, fingers and palm scrubbing over his back in slow arcs, he meets the slide of lips softly and pursues it, unable to refuse its invitation. He kisses him with caution that wants to be relief, but hasn't quite managed it; it's all hushed nerves and stifled desires, a wary, stolen kiss that makes contact and hovers again like a bird reluctant to land.]

[ The kiss becomes a kiss, and Matt sighs into Liem's mouth. It's only a soft sound, no more than a breath, but it's full of want--all the want that's been building in him this evening, loosened by liquor and sharpened to an aching point by their dance.

Liem's arm slips around his waist, his hand moving over Matt's back, but Matt can feel a sense of hesitation as his lips touch down--like he's scared to stay. Matt's hand shifts on Liem's cheek: thumb stroking, palm cupping his face to keep him close. He tips his head to aim another kiss at Liem's mouth, this one intended to last. ]

[The small, aching sigh breathed against Liem’s mouth travels all the way down to his belly. His lashes flicker as Matt’s palm cups his face, his touch warm and softly insistent in a way he can’t bear to refuse. The want to be not just touched, but desired, pursued, gnaws at his bones and makes his heart trip in his chest—and Matt has been so gentle with him, so attentive. He tips his jaw under his hand’s soft imperative, relaxing obediently into it.

The touch of his lips is still cautious, but this time, when Matt kisses him, he meets him with gentle invitation and a soft, wanting murmur, hummed low in his throat. Liem’s arm tightens around him, fingers curling against his back; he nudges his cuff down to stroke his thumb over his wrist. And he kisses him, tenderly, deliberately, as though now that he’s let himself linger, he couldn’t possibly bear to pull away again.]

[ Oh--yes. There's an intoxication in feeling Liem ease like this, a thrill that pools like skin-warm, rippling silk in Matt's belly. He feels a mingling of pride and tenderness at the thought of drawing him out. Of fanning the candle-flame of his desire to something bright enough to sear flesh. Everything in its truest form is like that: powerful, undeniable, not entirely safe. As with all insight, Matt craves it.

Liem makes a small sound, his arm tightening at Matt's back, and Matt presses more insistently to him. He breaks off only for the time it takes to gulp a breath; then he's right back to kissing him, more firmly this time. As if Liem is what Matt actually needs to breathe, and oxygen is just a pesky technicality. In a sense, that's true. Desire has always lit Matt up like nothing else can, in ways physical, emotional, and magical, and Liem's desire tastes sweeter to him than wine. Matt can't help but want to drink and drink.

His fingers slide over Liem's cheek to wrap around the back of his head, sinking into his hair. Matt's lips part against Liem's mouth, a moan slipping from low in his throat. ]

[He might be in trouble, being in a place like this with someone like Matt. Everything he wants, Matt gives him. He clutches him tighter, and Matt all but molds himself to him. He sinks into their kiss, and Matt makes it hungrier. He seems to have no qualms heedlessly seeking more, without a care for the club or the patrons or anything else in the world besides the two of them.

And it's driving Liem insane. Clearly it is, because he skims down from Matt's wrist to slide his hand down his flank, from his ribs all the way to his hip. At the sound of that moan, he leans forward, pressing him back just slightly, and nibbles gently at that parted lower lip. He tastes like fire in the dead heat of summer, ready to flare beyond any hope of control, and Liem would rather his hands blister than let him go.

But eventually, he has to. He masters himself again, by some looser definitions of the word, remembering the decorum he was willing to temporarily forget to assuage his loneliness. God knows he's already drunk enough, to compromise himself so readily, but he does eventually finish his drink. And then, somehow, he's convinced to let Matt buy him another one.

By the time he's finished it, he swears he can feel the club's music thrumming in his chest, and his head has attained that familiar floatiness that makes everything seem soft and cheerful. He gains a sudden insight into the movement of the patrons swaying on the dance floor.]

Ohh.

[Beside him, his jacket lies neatly folded on the seat. His sleeves are folded back almost to the elbow, revealing not a single bruise from his confinement just days ago—only old bite marks, in various states of fading.

He says, with an air of revelation,] That's why that dance is in fashion. Even a drunk could do it.

[ Matt is midway through his own third drink by now, and happily en route to a perfect evening. He's out at a venue whose atmosphere he likes, watching great live performances, in the company of a thoroughly gorgeous man who seems to like kissing him. Even his stump is giving him a break tonight. What's not to love?

Liem's looseness, more than his own level of intoxication, makes Matt bolder about touch. As his eyes skim across the bite marks on Liem's forearms, his hand follows of its own accord, one fingertip tracing the fading lines. His touch is as gentle as ever, though slightly carefuller about it now that he's tipsier.

Liem's remark, both its suddenness and the sheer tone of eureka, makes him look up and laugh in delight. ]

Exactly! [ he says. ] It's democratic. Which is really good on a fashion level, because democracy is the least bad system of government.

[ Matt's fingers wrap around Liem's wrist, his thumb stroking a spot where--it seems to him--a sharp canine once punctured skin. ]

Do you wanna go again?

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