And he simply stares down at her. Of all the things that have ever been said of him. Ever been accused of. The crimes he has committed. The things they screamed.
"I do not."
He pushes back up, jostling her and not wanting to. Wanting her gone but not knowing why his tongue was stuck in his mouth on the words.
"Well now you don't," she moues, sitting back and sitting on her heels, straddling him. Perhaps it's because she's tired, but she can't help but pout a little bit. "What's wrong?"
He doesn't know what to do with his hands. Falling away from where she'd put him. Chasing the air down her arm. Curling in and out before they drop back to his sides. Then unhappy with that, cross over him. Curling over the warmth she left behind.
"No one does that." Which is to say, no one does that to him.
It's stiff then loose, his arms still not sure where to go. Trying to figure out what this - is. Did he want her to go?
"I did not say that."
His eyes look away, tensing his jaw. Working his teeth against each other.
"I just don't know this - " he struggles, visibly a moment, trying to find the word. Whether it was in Qunlat. " - this is." He gestures between them. Her sitting on him. But not fucking. Touching and not hurting. This, this, this that she keeps doing.
That's not a yes, but it isn't exactly a no, either. She wants to coax his arms around her again, for him to lay back again, to press her cheek to his chest again. She can show him where to put his hands, that's easy.
"This...? Isn't anything," Which she believes, but of course isn't true. The term cuddling has long since been invented, and she knows the term, but this clearly isn't that. "It's... ya know, just...nice."
Which he likes admitting even less, even more of a bitter little mutter under his breath that he has to at all. He should just do the sensible thing and push her off before she did something else he'd have to admit to. Or done it first. That is what Chrysis would have done.
She cocks an eyebrow at him, amused. Time to give him a taste of his own medicine.
"Why?" Why take the ferry to Kirkwall, walk to a brothel, pay someone, and explain that you just want to lay on top of them with their arms around you, sharing warmth and the rhythm in your chests? Explain without admitting that what you want is a hug that lasts six to eight hours? Forget why, how does one do that? "Do you think they're better than you?"
He frowns. His hands finally unfolding once more to drop to grip her hips.
"No." Bites in, holding onto her firmly that she dare ever think that there was anyone better than him at anything. That should not even be a question that falls from her lips. His hands dropping, kneading at her for a brush to remind her that she best not ever make that comparison again.
"But they seemed to do physical things for money. Seems easier than just looking for ... something comfortable." He looks as uncomfortable as those words sound as he says them.
That gets a soft chuckle from her, and she loosens his grip on her hips. Unhurried, conveying trust me, I know what I'm doing in the gentle guiding of her touch.
"You make it sound like comfortable is a bad thing."
He still doesn't know what he's doing, and his usual snit of an answer is broken off as she moves him once more, stopping him from gripping so tightly. Mouth open slightly, that little confused frown at her, watching her movements more than her face.
Then: "Comfort is a lie, only pain follows." His fingers still settle widely apart. Her body is so small that his hand covered the breadth of any of her limbs easily, gripping then loosening to brush over her in curiosity. It's not unfamiliarity, he knows her, knows every inch of her.
But not like this - and in his need to be best, to be right, to be given a purpose, he looks up at her briefly in open want of affirmation. Is he doing this right? Is this what she wanted?
He's doing fine, because he's following her lead. He's still acting like she's a snake that might bite him, though, and his words ring so false that she can't let them go unaddressed.
"What the fuck kinda nonsense is that? Comfort is a lie." She looks at him like she can't believe he thinks that's true. "Haven't you ever just wanted to be held by someone?"
That makes him sit up. Pushing her flat onto his hips and makes him scowl at her in irritation. What did she know?
Takes her wrists, pushing them back. But not enough to bruise. Not yet. He will. He will as soon as she says whatever it is he decides is too far. He will.
"That is pointless. Sten are not children crying for their Tama. Being held is meaningless, and only weakens the body."
The words come perfectly in memory, and pattern, of how he had been taught. The inflection of her voice in the tone, even now, how she speaks.
She doesn't resist his hold on her wrists, doesn't protest. Perhaps it's sheer foolishness on her part that she doesn't believe he'll actually hurt her, perhaps she just doesn't care if he does. Perhaps, in some way, she recognizes something of herself in his eyes.
"I can't hurt you," she says plainly, splaying her fingers as if showing that she doesn't have a weapon. "And don't want to. If you want me to leave, just say so. I'm not trying to trick you."
His gaze flicks between her eyes. Looking like he means to pull the deceit from the dark gold colour there. Out by teeth and fury if needs be.
But he does not find it. Not in her. Hadn't that always somehow been the point? He liked fucking her because he could break her throat with one hand. She liked fucking him because he could break her throat with one hand.
"No, you can't." Can't hurt him, can't trick him. Says it like a warning, all bitter spat and sharp. The demand he makes, like he's the one that makes the choices. Not her. Like she hadn't just laid on him, and he for some reason, keeps letting her.
But the fingers loosen. Unforgiving as always, there aren't kind words in his mouth. But she knew that when she first climbed into bed with him.
"Do what you want." his grip turns and tugs. Drawing her back into his chest.
It's a sudden enough motion, being pulled against him, that she's unprepared for it and whumpfs against his chest instead of catching herself. And in the moment, it strikes her as funny. She giggles through adjusting to be more comfortable, once again pressing her cheek above his heartbeat, looping her arms under his, and sighs. Finally.
She flops on top of him, a pillow of curls that's all warm, her hair tickling under his nose as he looks down at her. She'd wanted his arms around her, that as well. How had she put them? Was that the way they were meant to be for something like this? He refused to do anything badly, just because it was stupid.
Hands then. He settles one on her back. She always seemed to like that when he did it, that way her waist is laughably little against the palm of his hand as he settles it on the small of her waist.
The other could go on her hair then. Try and keep it from being so wild and spilling everywhere. Something like petting it. Something like patting it, as he started to touch it, moving over her head to move the hair.
There. That seemed right, and he mentally congratulated himself on a job well done.
It would be stupid to jeopardize her victory by doing anything to annoy Deimos, which is why she doesn't do it on purpose. As he figures out what his hand is doing with her hair, she turns her head to face the other direction. With her eyes shut, she can't see if that movement is contrary to his, but for reasons she can't articulate, she'd rather not have her face turned so any passers-by might see.
But yes, this. This feels right, and she sighs contentedly.
He's just got it not so ridiculous. All out of his face, and then she goes and moves, and the little coils of hair go springing free.
He frowns, and starts again. Patting down the bits of hair. Trying to get them to lay flat as he cards his broader, blunt tipped fingers across her hair. Stay. Stay damn you.
But the one little bit of hair is stubborn. Pulls his hand free and spring it goes. Bouncing back to tickle his cheek.
So he does the only sensible thing. He huffs, and shoves his face into her hair. Pressing it all down and rubbing his nose against it. Messing it up more but in a different direction. So there.
The petting is on its way to lulling her to sleep when Deimos gets fed up with it, but as he nuzzles her she can't help but smile sleepily, arms curling around him tighter.
It's just that he's so warm, and he's built like a brick wall, which surprisingly enough makes for the perfect amount of cuddling surface area. Or...something. However she justifies it to herself, the reality is that sometimes, you need physical contact that doesn't hurt, isn't sex, and is just...calm. There's probably some kind of science behind it, something about babies being held in their formative years and touch starvation fucking up your brain and touch releasing some beneficial hormone or whatever.
He keeps patting at her hair, she seems to - like it? Fine. He can do that. He'd do it well even if this was the place she was determined to stay. Clumsily petting at her head, smoothing the curls down, even as he lifted his head briefly.
And completely unmoving as she settles there. Determined to not twitch his body in case it disturbed her. It wasn't that he was enjoying it, it was that would be as good at this as he could be at anything else. So he lets her drift off there, back pressed against the wood.
At least until another issue springs up that he can't control, that he's never steady. Not really. The thud in his chest of a sped-up heartbeat becomes obvious, even when he tries to slow his breathing down. That spike every time someone walks past, a bird calls too loudly, distance voices echo in. Each time it calms, then speeds up again.
In the calm, she drifts, but any time his heart races, she floats back up towards waking, close as the beating is to her ear. It's never true waking, not actual lucid consciousness, but that half-in, half-out fuzziness.
"Shhh," she tells that drumming, drumming, drumming thing beneath her head. She kisses his chest, then scoots up until her face nestles against his neck. Arms looping up and around lazily, her chest flat against his. Perhaps her steady heartbeat will show his what to do.
Her damn hair. Look at it. Perhaps it was not some attack he needed to be worried about from her fingers, it would be from her hair, trying to smother him.
But at least she felt... nice there. Warm. Pleasant, even. Granted, was there any man that wouldn't be pleased with a warm pair of tits on their chest, straddling them? None he'd ever cared to know, that's for sure.
That may be, then, wasn't so bad. Even if her hair was trying to kill him. Did she even bother to oil it? Probably not. He saw how badly they looked after themselves at the best of time. No purpose, no order, the poorest left to squall in their own filth.
Well, if she was going to be laying on him, he'd see to that. Had to do something with all that gold they care about.
The problem Athessa has with her other...people who she sleeps with, is that they're all closer to her own size. Derrica is her size. So there's a delicate balance when it comes to comfort. She would never try to cuddle Kostos, of course, but she and Derrica sometimes share a bed and it's a tangle of limbs and hair and bedding that is fine, but it's different than this.
This, of course, being a behemoth of a Qunari making the perfect perch for a petite elven frame. He's like a breathing, self-heating mattress, even if his heartbeat won't calm the fuck down. His breathing is steady enough, a gentle rise and fall that soothes the mind enough for the body to be boneless against him.
But no, his observation is correct. She doesn't oil her hair. She doesn't know that she needs to, her hair is just hair and when it's dirty she cleans it. It's not even that she hasn't the means to do it; she simply lacks the knowledge and motive. But he'll see to that.
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"I do not."
He pushes back up, jostling her and not wanting to. Wanting her gone but not knowing why his tongue was stuck in his mouth on the words.
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He doesn't know what to do with his hands. Falling away from where she'd put him. Chasing the air down her arm. Curling in and out before they drop back to his sides. Then unhappy with that, cross over him. Curling over the warmth she left behind.
"No one does that." Which is to say, no one does that to him.
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And then her fingers slide over his crossed arms. She doesn't pull this time, the touch a silent request but with room to decline.
"Do you want me to go?"
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"I did not say that."
His eyes look away, tensing his jaw. Working his teeth against each other.
"I just don't know this - " he struggles, visibly a moment, trying to find the word. Whether it was in Qunlat. " - this is." He gestures between them. Her sitting on him. But not fucking. Touching and not hurting. This, this, this that she keeps doing.
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"This...? Isn't anything," Which she believes, but of course isn't true. The term cuddling has long since been invented, and she knows the term, but this clearly isn't that. "It's... ya know, just...nice."
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Which he likes admitting even less, even more of a bitter little mutter under his breath that he has to at all. He should just do the sensible thing and push her off before she did something else he'd have to admit to. Or done it first. That is what Chrysis would have done.
"You could pay one of those... women for... it."
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"Why?" Why take the ferry to Kirkwall, walk to a brothel, pay someone, and explain that you just want to lay on top of them with their arms around you, sharing warmth and the rhythm in your chests? Explain without admitting that what you want is a hug that lasts six to eight hours? Forget why, how does one do that? "Do you think they're better than you?"
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"No." Bites in, holding onto her firmly that she dare ever think that there was anyone better than him at anything. That should not even be a question that falls from her lips. His hands dropping, kneading at her for a brush to remind her that she best not ever make that comparison again.
"But they seemed to do physical things for money. Seems easier than just looking for ... something comfortable." He looks as uncomfortable as those words sound as he says them.
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"You make it sound like comfortable is a bad thing."
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Then: "Comfort is a lie, only pain follows." His fingers still settle widely apart. Her body is so small that his hand covered the breadth of any of her limbs easily, gripping then loosening to brush over her in curiosity. It's not unfamiliarity, he knows her, knows every inch of her.
But not like this - and in his need to be best, to be right, to be given a purpose, he looks up at her briefly in open want of affirmation. Is he doing this right? Is this what she wanted?
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"What the fuck kinda nonsense is that? Comfort is a lie." She looks at him like she can't believe he thinks that's true. "Haven't you ever just wanted to be held by someone?"
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Takes her wrists, pushing them back. But not enough to bruise. Not yet. He will. He will as soon as she says whatever it is he decides is too far. He will.
"That is pointless. Sten are not children crying for their Tama. Being held is meaningless, and only weakens the body."
The words come perfectly in memory, and pattern, of how he had been taught. The inflection of her voice in the tone, even now, how she speaks.
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"I can't hurt you," she says plainly, splaying her fingers as if showing that she doesn't have a weapon. "And don't want to. If you want me to leave, just say so. I'm not trying to trick you."
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But he does not find it. Not in her. Hadn't that always somehow been the point? He liked fucking her because he could break her throat with one hand. She liked fucking him because he could break her throat with one hand.
"No, you can't." Can't hurt him, can't trick him. Says it like a warning, all bitter spat and sharp. The demand he makes, like he's the one that makes the choices. Not her. Like she hadn't just laid on him, and he for some reason, keeps letting her.
But the fingers loosen. Unforgiving as always, there aren't kind words in his mouth. But she knew that when she first climbed into bed with him.
"Do what you want." his grip turns and tugs. Drawing her back into his chest.
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"Very generous of you, Deimos, thank you."
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Hands then. He settles one on her back. She always seemed to like that when he did it, that way her waist is laughably little against the palm of his hand as he settles it on the small of her waist.
The other could go on her hair then. Try and keep it from being so wild and spilling everywhere. Something like petting it. Something like patting it, as he started to touch it, moving over her head to move the hair.
There. That seemed right, and he mentally congratulated himself on a job well done.
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But yes, this. This feels right, and she sighs contentedly.
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He frowns, and starts again. Patting down the bits of hair. Trying to get them to lay flat as he cards his broader, blunt tipped fingers across her hair. Stay. Stay damn you.
But the one little bit of hair is stubborn. Pulls his hand free and spring it goes. Bouncing back to tickle his cheek.
So he does the only sensible thing. He huffs, and shoves his face into her hair. Pressing it all down and rubbing his nose against it. Messing it up more but in a different direction. So there.
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It's just that he's so warm, and he's built like a brick wall, which surprisingly enough makes for the perfect amount of cuddling surface area. Or...something. However she justifies it to herself, the reality is that sometimes, you need physical contact that doesn't hurt, isn't sex, and is just...calm. There's probably some kind of science behind it, something about babies being held in their formative years and touch starvation fucking up your brain and touch releasing some beneficial hormone or whatever.
But who cares? He's warm.
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And completely unmoving as she settles there. Determined to not twitch his body in case it disturbed her. It wasn't that he was enjoying it, it was that would be as good at this as he could be at anything else. So he lets her drift off there, back pressed against the wood.
At least until another issue springs up that he can't control, that he's never steady. Not really. The thud in his chest of a sped-up heartbeat becomes obvious, even when he tries to slow his breathing down. That spike every time someone walks past, a bird calls too loudly, distance voices echo in. Each time it calms, then speeds up again.
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"Shhh," she tells that drumming, drumming, drumming thing beneath her head. She kisses his chest, then scoots up until her face nestles against his neck. Arms looping up and around lazily, her chest flat against his. Perhaps her steady heartbeat will show his what to do.
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But at least she felt... nice there. Warm. Pleasant, even. Granted, was there any man that wouldn't be pleased with a warm pair of tits on their chest, straddling them? None he'd ever cared to know, that's for sure.
That may be, then, wasn't so bad. Even if her hair was trying to kill him. Did she even bother to oil it? Probably not. He saw how badly they looked after themselves at the best of time. No purpose, no order, the poorest left to squall in their own filth.
Well, if she was going to be laying on him, he'd see to that. Had to do something with all that gold they care about.
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The problem Athessa has with her other...people who she sleeps with, is that they're all closer to her own size. Derrica is her size. So there's a delicate balance when it comes to comfort. She would never try to cuddle Kostos, of course, but she and Derrica sometimes share a bed and it's a tangle of limbs and hair and bedding that is fine, but it's different than this.
This, of course, being a behemoth of a Qunari making the perfect perch for a petite elven frame. He's like a breathing, self-heating mattress, even if his heartbeat won't calm the fuck down. His breathing is steady enough, a gentle rise and fall that soothes the mind enough for the body to be boneless against him.
But no, his observation is correct. She doesn't oil her hair. She doesn't know that she needs to, her hair is just hair and when it's dirty she cleans it. It's not even that she hasn't the means to do it; she simply lacks the knowledge and motive. But he'll see to that.