Herbalists' Cache i who have always been unbecoming am becoming un

he wanders from his brother in search of relief. it is the sun, he thinks, and when the forest shades him he thinks it is the crushing feeling against his ribcage. it is the long journey, he tells himself, searching among the foliage with erratic movements and darting eyes. relief finds him easily; he's sure they mean for this to happen.
jaws snap around his prize, a bright flower, and reluctantly he tears away only a few precious little crumbs. his mouth is dry. the seeds stick in his throat, and he swallows rapidly, wincing with each hard contraction of his throat. finally he chokes them down, eyes watering, and settles back on his haunches. the poppy is in front of him, crushed and torn and splayed like he imagines himself. he stares at it, and he thinks that the flower is far more fortunate.

his discovery of this cache is unintentional, letting his paws carry him from the glacier idly. lately things have been on his mind that usually aren't: his past, his family, him. perhaps samaantine's depature has torn a new hole in his heart despite all he'd like himself to believe.

no matter. he is not well versed in plants -- knows enough for a patch job -- knows what those colorful bulbs of orangey gold represent. impassively samothes watches the stranger's mouth close around the flower, feels his own throat flex empathetically. leave it, a part of his mind he's learned to ignore demands. "escaping, are we," he murmurs instead, creeping into view with a well practiced smirk.

he's startled by the quiet comment, freezing until the stranger is in his line of sight. his hackles lift as he registers the smirk. "prying, are we," the words slip from him without thought, full of lazy disdain. the tension fades slightly from his posture, but he studies the stranger critically, sharp words writhing impatiently on the tip of his tongue as he waits for his next move.

it is not the reaction he expects but it is so desireable (ha!). he's always had a soft spot for a critic. lazily, unbothered by lifted hackle or by underlying threat, the messeda winds his way closer, taking a seat. "i do enjoy prying," he agrees, "and being where i'm not meant to be." playful his tone suggests: so what will you do with me? it has been some time since he's had a game!

he allows the approach, only eyeing the man with distaste. he doesn't like most people anyway, but it's rare he meets someone so insufferable. it's almost enough to make it tolerable; he can't help but wonder what this guy is all about, and how he's still alive. morbid curiosity is a bitch. "so you're my mother," he comments dryly. "what a buzzkill." literally.

"ouch," he says, laughing, "i fear you aren't the first to accuse me of that." he is in a fun mood -- a nice change of pace, frankly. how far can he push it? "indulge me," samothes says, and bats his eyes prettily, "though you look like you'd rather die than play along."

"i would," he agrees easily, contempt fading by fractions; it's just too much effort to hold for long. "is that motherly concern? i'm touched." he pauses and considers leaving it there, but he can't resist adding, "maybe if you kiss it and make it better." kiss what? he doesn't know, but he's pretty sure the guy won't agree anyway, so.

tinsy pp, can edit if ya want

well. let's blame it on the movement of the stars, pretending we believe in such things. samothes is not, frankly, the kind of man who rises to dares. but he is tired of being a coward and -- for a breath he feels as though this is he and **** so many months ago now. boldly he comes forward, planting a kiss right on the stranger's (!) mouth, pulling back untroubled and slow, accepting whatever violence may greet the gesture. "i've kissed much worse," he tells him, "but it's yet to make me better." grin. wait for punishment. repeat.

he doesn't expect the approach; he finds himself frozen in place, hackles lifting again to full height where they had started to settle. the contact breaks the horrified sort of trance he's in, immediately sending him into action. he registers the words distantly, already stepping forward in pursuit. the next moments are a blur to him— he moves, he feels fur against his own and flesh under his teeth.

and then he is standing over the stranger. he notices immediately there is no metallic tang on his tongue; he hasn't drawn blood, but his teeth have found their way to the soft flesh of the man's throat. he hesitates, tension leaving his body in an instant as he fully realizes the position he's in. he has no desire to fight. if he hasn't already been thrown off or wrestled to the ground himself, he releases his grip, lingering with nose still pressed against his throat and breath coming fast and shallow.

PERFECT

it turns out he does not need to wait. he is on his back and there are teeth at his throat, no pain but the staccato beat of his pulse, the hitch of his breath. oh, this. this is something he missed. a laugh bubbles out of him, a strangely disappointed melody as he feels those threatpoints slip away, despite samothes making no attempt at escape or conflict. "you could do it," he says, voice coming out a ragged whisper, goading, "no one would notice." no one would miss him -- he is unbound, untethered, unknown amongst the northerners, without family, without lover. how easy could it be if only he was so inclined.

the words strike him hard, and bile rises quickly in his throat. he wants to say that he can relate — he can; but he thinks of absynthe and it feels like a lie, even if he doesn't count. instead he presses his muzzle more firmly against his throat. he wonders if he could suffocate him this way.
he's still for several more beats, increasing the pressure until he's sure it strains the stranger's breathing. then he steps away, settling back on his haunches again. "why," he says, expressionless, toneless. his lungs feel constricted now. he wonders if he will regret not killing the stranger; he's never killed before, has never wanted to, but he wonders now.

for a fleeting moment his disappointment is replaced by anticipation. surely this is it, he will feel teeth in his neck and then he will be gone. maybe he can be the fox head samaantine left him -- what a perfect way to get her back, isn't it? there comes no sharp sting but pressure, slowly applied until samothes' breaths come in sharp, desperate hitches. still he makes no attempt to escape.

and then suddenly he can breath again, gasping instinctively for precious air. the ringing in his ears nearly obstructs the man's why. he twitches, slowly turning back onto his side, lithe form uncoiling. he refuses to feel ashamed. "just the way things turn out sometimes," the messeda says, his voice coming out in a rasp. there is not some tragic story to share here, unfortunately. it's just the way things turned out. "tell me your name," the throaty command comes instead -- if he is not going to die here he feels he is owed this much, at least.

he watches impassively as the other uncoils, distantly regretting his decision; it is not for the reason he expects. the intimacy of their position had not been lost on him, but in the moment had been secondary— now, he feels lacking. it has been so long since he has touched another not of his own flesh and blood. the request is unexpected, but he doesn't blink. "tell me yours," he returns, expression unchanging.

samothes cannot read the man's expression, does not know how to predict his next moves. his mind whirrs but comes up with nothing -- something he has craved. how long has it been? he swallows, feeling the abused muscles of his throat flex painfully. it will heal too quickly.

"gregory," he lies easily, the name coming into his mouth without a second thought. he does not want this man to know his real name. there is power in real names, isn't there? or maybe he just wants to keep this game going longer, give him a reason to get himself hurt. "now yours," he says again, demand dropped for a plea that stops just short of amused, trying to find something in those distant, beady eyes.

gregory. strange, but he doesn't voice the thought. instead he draws closer again, this time stopping just within the other's personal space. "gregory," he repeats, inkjet eyes fixed on rose-gold, unblinking. "call me ronnie." he has no use for acheron any longer; it does not fit him, it sits too large and too elegant for the grungy, drug-fogged creature he has become.

ronnie -- so plain a name for so fascinating a figure. samothes does not blink at the sudden proximity, the only indication he's been startled the hitch of his voice and the quickening of his pulse. he is close enough to steal another kiss and yet he doesn't, feeling for the first time a flickering of fear within him (and oh that is a delicious thing indeed.)

he swallows. "ronnie," the rasp already fading from his voice, "how have things turned out for you?"

he doesn't understand the question; more accurately, he doesn't understand the curiosity behind it. for several long moments he is silent. unmoving. finally, he blinks, lips parting slightly for a beat before he speaks.
"isn't it obvious," he pauses, noting the slowness to his own words, the barest hint of a slur. "or are you asking for the story?"

"i'm finding very little to be obvious with you," he says with the barest suggestion of a smile, a hint of tooth. "but if it's a story you have to share here, by all means." in a way this has brought them full circle to samothes' original question -- whether it will bear fruit this time remains to be seen. but even if this is barren ground he is reluctant to part from it, the adrenaline addictive. what is a stable home in ice compared to this?

good, he thinks; his mother would be proud. he resists the urge to give voice to the thought, instead listening to gregory's next words. the indirect yes does not surprise him. "everything has a price," he tells him flatly. in the next moment, one side of his mouth pulls back slightly; perhaps the ghost of a smile, or a grimace.

involuntarily he draws his tongue against his teeth, unsurprised but enticed by the parry. enchanté. "what's yours?" samothes asks, keeping his voice from breathlessness despite the too-eager look in his eyes, his cool composure obviously ruffled. it is so, so easy to undo him, after all.

the eagerness pleases him in a twisted sort of way; he knows himself well enough to know it's the feeling of power over the situation, real or not. he smiles slowly, but the expression only lasts a moment after it settles on his face. he reaches for the crushed poppy, still possessing many of its seeds, and tosses it near gregory's feet.
"keep me company a bit," he tells him, watching his face with sharp eyes. "i'll talk until i get tired of hearing myself." he leaves the rest unsaid; if you want to know more than that, there will have to be a next time. assuming he agrees to a first time.

an easy enough request, although truthfully, anything that removes samothes' sense of control makes him anxious. he could refuse and walk away now. instead his limbs find themselves arranging, lowering him to the earth below, ignoring every screaming impulse to do the sensible thing, samothes, are we not blessed by your strong sense of practicality?

his tongue curls around the poppy, drawing it into his mouth. the taste is mild, floral -- about what he's expecting, maybe, having never consumed the tricky little plant himself. the effects are not immediate -- of course they aren't, he's too on edge, looking for the moment when his control slips -- and so of course he won't notice it at all, pillowing his head on blonde-stocking legs to allow his won prize to wash over him.

a smile spreads across his face slowly. he only watches gregory for a time, fighting the urge to draw closer, to trace his nose along each fine line and delicate curve. his rotten touch would only taint the aesthetic. "mmm, where to start? i was born to a bitch-queen — ah, sorry, a witch-queen." he laughs without much humor, turning his gaze away from gregory. "you must understand, she was very dedicated to her image, and by extension, our image — the merciless beasts, the magick-wielding heathens, wrath and plague incarnate."
he yawns. "all very quaint. if you're into that sort of thing," he is not, but that goes without saying, doesn't it? "turns out, lots of wolves are. but i could never get over all the snakes. weird shit, that." he laughs again, but this time he means it; even being born and raised among the creatures, he's unsettled by them — but he misses them, too, though he'll never admit that.