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.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[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?

[Awkward though the scars on his arms may be to acknowledge with other people, Liem willingly accepts that bit of discomfort for the tantalizing pleasure of Matt’s fingers stroking along his skin. He has, over the course of their time on the couch, found himself snuggled up to his companion so he’s sitting flush against him, close enough that he can feel it when he laughs. He slants a sideways glance at him, pleased.]

Hm, you think so?

[There was a time not long ago when Liem might have had some pointed feelings about the implication that all forms of government are bad. It flies in the face of a significant portion of Abadaran scripture, which in many ways resembles a city charter more than a religious text—but none of the governments of his world or this one have ever availed their people anything of merit, so he finds he doesn’t have the ground on which to base an argument. Every mortal government that has ever been invented has been irredeemably flawed, mostly on account of the faults of the living beings necessary to populate it.]

I wouldn’t mind another go. [He moves his arm so he can tangle his fingers gently with Matt’s.] You know, you’re the first person to ask me to dance since I’ve been here. For all the city’s attitudes, the Citadel isn’t exactly a hub of revelry.

[ Matt, as hipster trash, does sort of think so. But primarily, he's saying whatever nonsense comes into his head right now. His words aren't deeply held beliefs so much as one more means of getting closer to Liem, a bright bridge spanning between them.

See also: ]

Right. [ In a tone that manages to be simultaneously pleasant and aggrieved. ] Liem, people should ask you to dance all the time. But I think a lot of us are very ... all about the goal, which you should be. I am too. But it's like, you can't serve from an empty vessel, can you?

[ Speaking of empty vessels, Matt caaaarefully levitates his glass up to his mouth for one last sip. Then he surges to his feet, squeezing Liem's hand in his, and guides them to a nearby open spot of floor. His bearing isn't noticeably different than last time they danced, except that it's more confident. Less space between thought and movement. He also doesn't hesitate to drape his left arm around Liem's neck this time. ]

Well… all the time might be too much.

[Liem murmurs, caught between guilt, pleasure, and fascination as he watches Matt float his drink up to his lips in lieu of using his occupied hand. Even if people did ask him to dance on a regular basis, he'd certainly end up refusing most of the time anyway. As Matt points out, many of the Citadel's inhabitants are quite work-oriented, and Liem unquestionably lies square among their number. Still, there is a wide and fertile stretch of difference between all the time and never.

He picks himself up when Matt does, following him adroitly despite the glasses of fruity amber that have all gone straight to his head. His tightly wound, almost unnatural poise has subsided into something that looks a little more eager and considerably more human. He seems quite comfortable resting his hand on Matt's waist, idly stroking his skin through the fabric of his blouse.]

Do you like dancing, Matt? Other than the kind you do in bars.

[ Matt has had a little too much to drink to consider how much of Liem's relative relaxation might be due to drinks. Therefore, his mind is blissfully empty of self-recrimination. He just cherishes the sway of him, the gentle movement of his fingers over Matt's clothes. ]

Mmm ... I don't really know how, [ he admits, amused. ] I learned exactly one formal dance for cotillion, and it felt like being on a rocking horse.

[ Matt starts in on the best of his cotillion waltz that he can recall--which is, you know, the basic one-two-THREE--in a clomping, high-low cadence. ]

[Liem is briefly puzzled by the rocking horse comparison Matt offers, until he breaks into an unpractised waltz, bringing Liem along for the ride. His expression twitches abruptly into a bright, sharp-toothed grin as he follows along, dutifully matching his rhythm with light, curious steps.

On one hand, the musical accompaniment offered by the club is completely inappropriate for a waltz, so the circumstances are far from ideal; on the other, it's fairly apparent to Liem that he hasn't practised since long before his world ended.]

That doesn't sound like the answer of someone who likes to dance. [His grin subsides into a small, amused smile.] Are you not fond of performance?

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