Big fluffy sweaters, chilly nights, cute hats, blue jeans, crunchy leaves, and the smell of a perfect Autumn day… All mixed with Thanksgiving and my birthday in November… ^_^ Summer it’s been fun, but I’m tired of sweltering, crazy heat waves.
So I think what I really love the most about Zevran (among an endless amount of things) is that in order to garner the most approval from him, you just have to care.
Your warden has to tell him again and again that they understand his feelings, that they recognize how truly horrendous his life as a Crow was, and how you’re just glad to have him there because he’s been starved of compassion for what can be assumed to be the entirety of his life.
This is a man who never had a family, who was sold to the Crows as a seven-year-old, and was raised to believe love is a weakness (only to find it and then have it stolen away shortly after).
And he just wants someone to be kind to him and it breaks my heart.
“Prettier than when you left?” you asked, repeating Dean’s words.
He was still staring at you with some unfathomable look in his eyes, attaching his memories of holding you in his bed and in his arms on nights when he would worship you like you were his religion, to the person in front of him now. He seemed to completely miss the way your arms were crossed, your eyes narrowed.
“Yeah,” he said, almost a breath as he searched your face.
“So prettier than when I was asleep in a hotel room and you snuck out in the middle of the night, then?” you pressed. He blinked twice, seemed to snap back to the present and the hard look you were giving him.
“Look, Y/N, I didn’t mean for things to get so messy with us. I mean, you were…” he trailed off, gesturing vaguely to you with his palm out.
“I was what?”
“Friggin’ amazing,” he said with an easy shrug. “I just thought I should get the hell out before I derailed your life.”
“It’s a pretty shitty excuse for leaving the way you did,” you said, trying not to let his words eek past the walls you’d built after he’d left.
“I know. It is. It’s…you deserved more than that. You deserve more than that,” he replied, running a hand over his face. “How about coffee? Could we do that? Just talk?”
You waited a few seconds, let him stew in your silence for just a bit before letting out a sigh.
“It depends,” you said, and started away from him.
“On what?” he called, and you felt yourself grinning at the eagerness there. You turned back to look at him, allowing yourself to remember now the way his skin had felt against yours, the hundreds of ways he’d kissed you; it felt like time was nothing, that you could have been in his bed just this morning. You threw the smallest of grins at him, challenging.