Waking up from a PTSD fueled nightmare isn't a novel experience for Athessa, but waking up from someone else's sure is. When her eyes snap open and none of her desperate breaths seem to ferry enough air into her lungs, the emotion of that turmoil lays heavy over her like a stone slab.
But knowing that Deimos must be feeling this weight too, the panic and the rage and sadness, propels her out of bed and to his room. There's no point in knocking, so she lets herself in and quietly closes the door behind her, padding silently across the room to where he lay.
"Deimos," she whispers, cupping his face in her delicate little hands.
Delicate or not, little or not, these hands will protect him.
Awake or asleep, the reaction the second her hands touch him is the same. He snatches her by the throat and throws her body into the bed in a half-mad reaction driven fever-rage. Her body down into the pillows, pinning her under his weight. The other hand to her wrist to pin both her hands above her head. his hips leaning heavily on hers. Held, unmoving and heavy. Not an embrace but a threat.
"What are you doing here?"
It's Qunlat, not trade, half sunk, there is no space for anything else in his churning mind.
Somewhere in their shared past, a similar tableau is playing out, with her smiling despite the pressure on her pulse and the grip on her wrists. But here and now she's not trying to tease him or seduce him, she's not spreading her legs to straddle his thigh as his hips press into hers. This is different, even if it looks the same.
But she doesn't panic or show fear, doesn't struggle beneath him. She uncurls her fingers to show empty palms where he's pinned them. Her body is not frozen, but still and calm beneath him. And while her pulse thrums against his grip and that grip squeezes tears from the corners of her eyes, those eyes are searching his. For recognition, for consciousness, for that quality in them that makes him Deimos.
"Deimos," she manages a whisper, seeing the rage and the churning but not seeing him in that feral stare. "C...come back. Come back to me."
What little fear that creeps into her expression isn't for herself, but fear that he's lost and alone somewhere in that nightmare, still.
Edited (nitpicking word order) 2020-03-16 06:20 (UTC)
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no subject
But knowing that Deimos must be feeling this weight too, the panic and the rage and sadness, propels her out of bed and to his room. There's no point in knocking, so she lets herself in and quietly closes the door behind her, padding silently across the room to where he lay.
"Deimos," she whispers, cupping his face in her delicate little hands.
Delicate or not, little or not, these hands will protect him.
no subject
"What are you doing here?"
It's Qunlat, not trade, half sunk, there is no space for anything else in his churning mind.
no subject
But she doesn't panic or show fear, doesn't struggle beneath him. She uncurls her fingers to show empty palms where he's pinned them. Her body is not frozen, but still and calm beneath him. And while her pulse thrums against his grip and that grip squeezes tears from the corners of her eyes, those eyes are searching his. For recognition, for consciousness, for that quality in them that makes him Deimos.
"Deimos," she manages a whisper, seeing the rage and the churning but not seeing him in that feral stare. "C...come back. Come back to me."
What little fear that creeps into her expression isn't for herself, but fear that he's lost and alone somewhere in that nightmare, still.