Sometimes you just want comfort and contact without the intensity or effort of sex.
Sometimes you wander aimlessly not knowing that's what you want until you see someone looking quite comfortable on a settee or chaise or couch or what-the-fuck-ever that piece of furniture is called, and then you're struck with the knowledge and inescapable yearning.
Which is how Athessa ends up approaching Deimos where he's reclining and, wordlessly, lays atop him with her cheek pressed to his chest.
He'd been quiet, for the time being in the only place that wasn't a miserable fit for him. The too-short beds, the chairs that looked like they would break, the tables that were always so low and gave him a crick in his neck as he tried to use their tiny writing tools.
But the library? They had those long window lounges. Where he could get on leg up, cram his back into the wall and do something like doze comfortably in the off-hours. Open one eye and grunt at anyone that got too close until he was done. It was a simple, easy exchange.
Until she goes and lays on him. Hears her footsteps with familiarity. Then she's there, on top of him. His eyes crack open with a grunt of irritation.
She's got her eyes closed, and sighs heavily before responding. The sound of his heartbeat and the rumble of his voice through his chest almost entirely what she needs. Almost.
"I don't want to fuck right now," her own voice, quiet and tired. She hasn't been sleeping much, for some reason she can't discern. She shifts slightly, getting comfortable and nuzzling more solidly into his warmth.
It is not a steady heartbeat, nor quiet. The thud that is even as he lays here, that little bit quick on the drum of his chest. His chest rising and falling with deeper breaths as even without looking, he seems to aware of everyone's movements. That careful attentive flicker that he seems to have practised well enough to be aware without ever seeming that he's looking. Even now, when his eyes stay only on her. Still steady and unwavering to look at. But it is just that, practised to seem true, but it goes no further.
"Shhhh," she soothes. This is nice, but there's something missing...ah, yes, that's it. She reaches blindly for his arms, refusing to open her eyes for such a menial task--arms are, of course, always where arms should be under these circumstances--and tugs on first one, then the other, to coax them around her small frame.
His arms are stiff when she pulls. Has to pull, to get them to move. His fingers splayed wide in wariness. So utterly unsure where she's leading this. Taking this. This touching, but it's not sex, this is holding, but it's not fighting.
Not that he's never seen it, anyway. Thinks maybe, he remembers something or he wants to pretend that memory is real. Of being wrapped up as she sought to be now. But it has to be false. Chrysis only held to hurt. Teach him to never trust these things.
That he cannot, even now, let himself be at ease. His heart taking a quicker step. "Why do you want this?" There must be a why. There must be a purpose, surely. Of all people, why was she laying on him.
She almost doesn't answer. She almost leaves it at a soft hmm and leaves it at that, but he's just so... tense. A stark contrast to her draping over him, languid like a cat and curling her arms under his in as much of an embrace as is possible without being able to get her arms under his back. She tips her head up so she isn't speaking into his chest or towards his side. Cracks her eyes open halfway.
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.
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Sometimes you wander aimlessly not knowing that's what you want until you see someone looking quite comfortable on a settee or chaise or couch or what-the-fuck-ever that piece of furniture is called, and then you're struck with the knowledge and inescapable yearning.
Which is how Athessa ends up approaching Deimos where he's reclining and, wordlessly, lays atop him with her cheek pressed to his chest.
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He'd been quiet, for the time being in the only place that wasn't a miserable fit for him. The too-short beds, the chairs that looked like they would break, the tables that were always so low and gave him a crick in his neck as he tried to use their tiny writing tools.
But the library? They had those long window lounges. Where he could get on leg up, cram his back into the wall and do something like doze comfortably in the off-hours. Open one eye and grunt at anyone that got too close until he was done. It was a simple, easy exchange.
Until she goes and lays on him. Hears her footsteps with familiarity. Then she's there, on top of him. His eyes crack open with a grunt of irritation.
"We can't fuck here."
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"I don't want to fuck right now," her own voice, quiet and tired. She hasn't been sleeping much, for some reason she can't discern. She shifts slightly, getting comfortable and nuzzling more solidly into his warmth.
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He does not touch her.
"Then you have a bed."
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Not that he's never seen it, anyway. Thinks maybe, he remembers something or he wants to pretend that memory is real. Of being wrapped up as she sought to be now. But it has to be false. Chrysis only held to hurt. Teach him to never trust these things.
That he cannot, even now, let himself be at ease. His heart taking a quicker step. "Why do you want this?" There must be a why. There must be a purpose, surely. Of all people, why was she laying on him.
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"Just felt like it. You looked comfortable."
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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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