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--"
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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