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Every raindrop is a needle, cold and sharp and biting. It’s some small blessing, as the pain keeps her conscious.
Unlike the pain in her side, which threatens to eclipse the senses and subject her to darkness. It’s bad. Would’ve been bad even if the Venatori hadn’t poisoned their blades, but they had, and with poison Athessa herself has used in the past.
In her delirium, she vows never to inflict this on anyone else, if she lives that long. From where she lays, pinned beneath the enemy’s dead weight and heavy armor, it looks like a pretty big if.
“Fuck,” is the first word she manages to croak out. The Venatori is impaled through their throat. Their blood dilutes in the rain that flows down the blade and over Athessa’s white-knuckle grip on her dagger. The poisoned blade—the sharp end of a halberd—is still stuck in her side, and it burns. She plants the heel of her free hand on the dead fanatic’s shoulder and tries to shove him off of her, but he’s too heavy and she’s quickly fading.
“Fuck...off...” She grinds it out between clenched teeth and shoves again. It’s no use, and she lets out a strangled cry of pain, the effort only exacerbating the wound in her side.
Unlike the pain in her side, which threatens to eclipse the senses and subject her to darkness. It’s bad. Would’ve been bad even if the Venatori hadn’t poisoned their blades, but they had, and with poison Athessa herself has used in the past.
In her delirium, she vows never to inflict this on anyone else, if she lives that long. From where she lays, pinned beneath the enemy’s dead weight and heavy armor, it looks like a pretty big if.
“Fuck,” is the first word she manages to croak out. The Venatori is impaled through their throat. Their blood dilutes in the rain that flows down the blade and over Athessa’s white-knuckle grip on her dagger. The poisoned blade—the sharp end of a halberd—is still stuck in her side, and it burns. She plants the heel of her free hand on the dead fanatic’s shoulder and tries to shove him off of her, but he’s too heavy and she’s quickly fading.
“Fuck...off...” She grinds it out between clenched teeth and shoves again. It’s no use, and she lets out a strangled cry of pain, the effort only exacerbating the wound in her side.
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.
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 forgets, at times, just how little she could be. It was one thing when she curled up against his side, her hands barely enough to curl around his wrist. It is another when he sees the weight of the brute crush her from where he is on the other side of the fight. Disappearing under the slide of armour and that is enough to tell him something is wrong - she is faster than that. She has always been faster than that.
That is the last thing he thinks, as it becomes clear. Something is wrong. The sword in his hand hacks through them. A direct line through the chaos of the fight. To hell with them. There will be nothing left of them before he is done. For her pain, least of all.
( But this - this most of all. )
The venatori that falls on her is lifted off with a grunt when the last of them are dead. His broad hands making short work of the body as he throws it. But for violence in him, his touch is unsure as he slides them under her head. Threading into her tangled curls as he lifts her head, up, to face him. The other wiping the blood and gore and tangled locks from her cheek.
"Athessa. Athessa look at me."
Like she had ever followed an order of his before in her life. Like that his giving an order might stave off death for even a moment longer.
That is the last thing he thinks, as it becomes clear. Something is wrong. The sword in his hand hacks through them. A direct line through the chaos of the fight. To hell with them. There will be nothing left of them before he is done. For her pain, least of all.
( But this - this most of all. )
The venatori that falls on her is lifted off with a grunt when the last of them are dead. His broad hands making short work of the body as he throws it. But for violence in him, his touch is unsure as he slides them under her head. Threading into her tangled curls as he lifts her head, up, to face him. The other wiping the blood and gore and tangled locks from her cheek.
"Athessa. Athessa look at me."
Like she had ever followed an order of his before in her life. Like that his giving an order might stave off death for even a moment longer.
What was she doing?
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."
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."
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.
"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.
Her dagger goes with the body of the Venatori when the corpse is flung off of her, which frees up her trembling, bloody hands to grasp at Deimos like a lifeline. But he spoke, didn't he, he told her to do something--
Fuck it's hard to keep her eyes open but she's trying, bleary through tears and sweat and rain and blood and delirium. His face is blurry, but she knows those horns, that gold glimmer from the adornments in his hair, the red painted on his skin, and she can feel how solid his arms are even if his touch is so gentle, unsure.
"Are you--hurt?" She grimaces, which should be a smile but she can't manage that as well as she'd like. "I think I might be."
Fuck it's hard to keep her eyes open but she's trying, bleary through tears and sweat and rain and blood and delirium. His face is blurry, but she knows those horns, that gold glimmer from the adornments in his hair, the red painted on his skin, and she can feel how solid his arms are even if his touch is so gentle, unsure.
"Are you--hurt?" She grimaces, which should be a smile but she can't manage that as well as she'd like. "I think I might be."
Edited (she can't not make jokes is the thing) 2019-10-27 22:04 (UTC)
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.
He does not touch her.
"Then you have a bed."
He does not touch her.
"Then you have a bed."
"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.
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.
"Just felt like it. You looked comfortable."
"Just felt like it. You looked comfortable."
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.
"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.
"You started lying on me out of nowhere."
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.
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.
"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."
"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."
"I don't understand."
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."
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."
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?"
"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.
"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.
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?
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?"
"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.
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."
"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."
It’s long enough after Satinalia—after Nevarra City—that the Sten Who Likes Bread would be within his rights to feel forgotten. (Feeling forgotten would be doubly appropriate, actually, given that he was initially misplaced and left out.) But Bastien isn’t a forgetful person, only a busy one, so around the time he stops discovering corpse dust and dirt in places he would prefer neither to be, he shows up at the door to whatever room the giant has been squeezing himself into.
His knock on the door is shave and a haircut, out of habit. If he has to knock twice, he’ll use a different riff. He has an endless supply.
His knock on the door is shave and a haircut, out of habit. If he has to knock twice, he’ll use a different riff. He has an endless supply.
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