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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no subject
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.
no subject
"Very generous of you, Deimos, thank you."
no subject
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.
no subject
But yes, this. This feels right, and she sighs contentedly.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
"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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.