"He's a fucking prat, and I am going to rip his tongue out the next time he - "
What? Implies that Deimos treats Athessa badly, challenges him to a duel, what? He does know, it gets bitten off, as sharply flared up as it goes.
His arms cross, unhappy, though when is he ever happy? This is more than that though, a general uncomfortableness. Like he didn't know where to place himself. Where he seeks to be. Though the silence is enough. Go on, explain away.
Athessa waits until it's clear that Deimos isn't going to finish that sentence, watching him in his discomfort.
"Well...there are different rules for different situations and a lot of them are fucking stupid, and vary person-to-person. The safest thing is to just ask if you don't know--"
She looks at him with eyebrows raised. "--which I know sounds like admitting you're not the best at something but for most Southerners, it'd make you seem more perfect. Just...get permission for whatever."
It's hard, when so filled with rage, to work out what it is that angers him particularly. To not just smash the thing closest to him. To find some relief in how he kicks a plank of wood from the broken chair and try to tell himself it's enough and he doesn't need to find that wretched little dog-bastard and rip his tongue out of his throat.
( That he has rules, he needs rules, he will always need rules, not for his sake, but for theirs. He needs to know where to be, what to do, how to act, what his place his when his head screams day and night in the blood-soaked misery ).
"I am perfect. I know what that dog-fucker is implying, I know what you all whisper about Qunari, I hear your little snake words whispering in the dark." He grinds it between his teeth. "This is why we go to Tamassarns, why those men and women who want gold are better to deal with than any of you. Do you think we don't know how it goes? We saw what Vints did in Kont-arr to innocent men and women."
She looks at him, listening and raising her eyebrows and waiting for him to be finished. Perfect indeed. She saw the torment of his dreams and heard it, anguish and pain that rattles deep in your bones no matter how tightly you clamp your hands over your ears. She didn't see the cause and she can't know the extent but to withstand that hints at a life far from perfect.
So there isn't anger directed back at him in response to his insults that, whether he thought to or not, are aimed at her as much as anyone outside of this room. Just patient listening, and that raised eyebrow trying to elicit some deeper thought about what he's implying.
And she thinks: I almost was one of those women asking for gold.
"They have rules." he snarls it back to her. "This many gold pieces for this service. This for this many hours. Yet they get spat on the street for making sense. Because all Bas are ashamed of sex." It's not particularly that he cares. It was their world. Their choices as a society.
But he cannot make sense of it. "He can take his fucking idea that there are no rules and shove it so far down his throat he chokes on it."
"You're right," she says, conceding that the way sex is treated, even with brothels being under guild protection and most southerners giving less than two shits about gender, is still far from the matter-of-fact way of the Qun. She sits up, no longer lounging on his bed with chin in hand but moving to sit on its edge. "It's fucking stupid. But you're not mad about someone else being wrong."
Athessa looks at him, head tilted, curious expression on her face. He told her to get out, but is that what he really wants? Does he even know what he wants?
"Do you really want me to leave?" Do you not want me anymore? No matter how confident she might be that what they get up to is more fun than not, more mutually enjoyable than not, none of it dulls the sting of his accusations. He might bean other Bas, but there isn't much that sets her apart from them.
No, no he is not. His head shaking the once. Teeth gritting. Fists clenched. His nails sinking into the worn callouses of his palm.
There is everything that sets her apart from them. Everything commends her over them. Their petulant and ridiculous rules. She is herself, and he - he doesn't know what it means. But he comes back to that. She does as she is and that is what matters, to him. He thinks.
Turns, about march, to her. His fingers finding her jaw. Her face. Her eyes. Tilting her up to look at him. But there is carefulness to it. Because what that man implied, what that prat said was -
"Did I force you? Was the pain not what you wanted from me? Because that is all I have to give you in this room. But what I want is to know is if it's something you wanted."
No, he is not worried he is wrong. He is worried, only, that Byerly might be right, and he has misunderstood something he has seen done. In Kont-aar. In small settlements when he passed through in the haze of smoke.
She looks at him, lips parted in a silent realization as her eyes flicker between his. He's not mad, not really. It might come out as anger, because that's all he knows, but putting a word to it, it's clear as day.
He's worried.
"Of course you didn't force me," she says, the hint of a smile settling in the corners of her lips, but not a full grin. He's too tall to pull down into a kiss, so she holds onto his forearms for balance and stands on the bed. The only way they can ever be the same height, or at least within a few inches of it. She cups his face in her hands and kisses him, all sweetness and soft and gentle. "You're the only one who gives me pain I do want."
It's all of the pain outside of his company that's non-consensual.
For the first time, he is slow to touch her. She's never kissed him like this. This - this softness. This carefulness and this smile like she understands something he doesn't - which is true. He has no idea why she's smiling like that.
But he is being kissed, and - the assurance settles as a long breath out as he brings a hand up to her back, for once not bent so much to reach her. Settling and sliding up her back, pressing against her lips in a slow drag as he tries to work out how to do this. "Good."
There's something charming, or perhaps more like endearing about his hesitance when it comes to being gentle, and his stubborn willingness to try it anyway. Like it's something he's been denied every time he's ever thought to want it, and started to believe that he doesn't want it after all.
And it's reassuring that he cares enough about what she wants to ask her, when in doubt.
Athessa slides her arms over his shoulders in a loose embrace, some buoyant happiness broadening the smile on her face. "Good."
He's made her look like a lot of things. Sated, desperate, crying, begging, the afer-glow afterwards, sometime furious or irritated or demanding.
But he's never made her look...
No, it's not... not that. Not her. Not exactly. Or well, he means: it is her. But it is only her. There has never been anyone that has greeted him, looked at him, and... seemed... pleased? in his presence. That wasn't right. Chrysis was pleased wit him and often. But it was not - that way Athessa's eyes crinkled. Her lips pulled at the corners and her brow softened, just that little bit, like she was seeing something, and that thing was him, and that caused this... this... what was this? He didn't know.
Who was supposed to ask about it?
His throat clears and his hands drop, picking a spot somewhere over her head.
"As long as that's cleared, then. Tell that dog-fucker to shut his mouth then." Gruff, and it's valiant attempt to hide how uncomfortable he is.
"Yes, Deimos," said in the same tone as yes, dear, and she kisses his chin. When she pulls back, she doesn't fully release him, hands planted on his shoulders for balance and because she's always remiss to let him go. "I'll tell him. No guarantees he'll listen, buuuut--"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
What? Implies that Deimos treats Athessa badly, challenges him to a duel, what? He does know, it gets bitten off, as sharply flared up as it goes.
His arms cross, unhappy, though when is he ever happy? This is more than that though, a general uncomfortableness. Like he didn't know where to place himself. Where he seeks to be. Though the silence is enough. Go on, explain away.
no subject
"Well...there are different rules for different situations and a lot of them are fucking stupid, and vary person-to-person. The safest thing is to just ask if you don't know--"
She looks at him with eyebrows raised. "--which I know sounds like admitting you're not the best at something but for most Southerners, it'd make you seem more perfect. Just...get permission for whatever."
no subject
( That he has rules, he needs rules, he will always need rules, not for his sake, but for theirs. He needs to know where to be, what to do, how to act, what his place his when his head screams day and night in the blood-soaked misery ).
"I am perfect. I know what that dog-fucker is implying, I know what you all whisper about Qunari, I hear your little snake words whispering in the dark." He grinds it between his teeth. "This is why we go to Tamassarns, why those men and women who want gold are better to deal with than any of you. Do you think we don't know how it goes? We saw what Vints did in Kont-arr to innocent men and women."
no subject
So there isn't anger directed back at him in response to his insults that, whether he thought to or not, are aimed at her as much as anyone outside of this room. Just patient listening, and that raised eyebrow trying to elicit some deeper thought about what he's implying.
And she thinks: I almost was one of those women asking for gold.
no subject
But he cannot make sense of it. "He can take his fucking idea that there are no rules and shove it so far down his throat he chokes on it."
no subject
Athessa looks at him, head tilted, curious expression on her face. He told her to get out, but is that what he really wants? Does he even know what he wants?
"Do you really want me to leave?" Do you not want me anymore? No matter how confident she might be that what they get up to is more fun than not, more mutually enjoyable than not, none of it dulls the sting of his accusations. He might bean other Bas, but there isn't much that sets her apart from them.
no subject
There is everything that sets her apart from them. Everything commends her over them. Their petulant and ridiculous rules. She is herself, and he - he doesn't know what it means. But he comes back to that. She does as she is and that is what matters, to him. He thinks.
Turns, about march, to her. His fingers finding her jaw. Her face. Her eyes. Tilting her up to look at him. But there is carefulness to it. Because what that man implied, what that prat said was -
"Did I force you? Was the pain not what you wanted from me? Because that is all I have to give you in this room. But what I want is to know is if it's something you wanted."
No, he is not worried he is wrong. He is worried, only, that Byerly might be right, and he has misunderstood something he has seen done. In Kont-aar. In small settlements when he passed through in the haze of smoke.
no subject
He's worried.
"Of course you didn't force me," she says, the hint of a smile settling in the corners of her lips, but not a full grin. He's too tall to pull down into a kiss, so she holds onto his forearms for balance and stands on the bed. The only way they can ever be the same height, or at least within a few inches of it. She cups his face in her hands and kisses him, all sweetness and soft and gentle. "You're the only one who gives me pain I do want."
It's all of the pain outside of his company that's non-consensual.
no subject
But he is being kissed, and - the assurance settles as a long breath out as he brings a hand up to her back, for once not bent so much to reach her. Settling and sliding up her back, pressing against her lips in a slow drag as he tries to work out how to do this. "Good."
no subject
And it's reassuring that he cares enough about what she wants to ask her, when in doubt.
Athessa slides her arms over his shoulders in a loose embrace, some buoyant happiness broadening the smile on her face. "Good."
no subject
He's made her look like a lot of things. Sated, desperate, crying, begging, the afer-glow afterwards, sometime furious or irritated or demanding.
But he's never made her look...
No, it's not... not that. Not her. Not exactly. Or well, he means: it is her. But it is only her. There has never been anyone that has greeted him, looked at him, and... seemed... pleased? in his presence. That wasn't right. Chrysis was pleased wit him and often. But it was not - that way Athessa's eyes crinkled. Her lips pulled at the corners and her brow softened, just that little bit, like she was seeing something, and that thing was him, and that caused this... this... what was this? He didn't know.
Who was supposed to ask about it?
His throat clears and his hands drop, picking a spot somewhere over her head.
"As long as that's cleared, then. Tell that dog-fucker to shut his mouth then." Gruff, and it's valiant attempt to hide how uncomfortable he is.
no subject