perhaps in another life, one where they were different people, this would have sounded romantic. poetic, even. but as it stands, he means this quite literally.
the blade digs into her skin — a reminder of this. ) Although my money would be on you bleeding out first. Neck wounds are nasty like that.
[ maybe she would. maybe she would rather die than belong to him. for all that she had fought in life to preserve her own survival at all costs, that sense had dwindled since waking up here. what's the point in resisting? what does she have left to live for? there are no kuruko. there is no revenge. the people who had destroyed her clan are dead.
yet she isn't ready for it. if she, suddenly, finds herself attached again to the idea of a life, is that her feeling or his? ]
You won't. You don't want to kill me either.
[ she gropes up for his face, tries to press her fingers into the little cavities, the soft spots. anything to force him to loosen his grip. but the reality is that she's weakened already, dazed by her illness, and the uncomfortable angle of her arm means she cannot find anything of use. only the curve of his jaw, the slope of his nose.
another slew of coughs. this time, it presses her throat into the blade, jostles her so that it cuts through flesh, just enough for her skin to feel cold and blood to come forth. enough to make his point.
[ she doesn't want to die. fear claws its way up her throat, alongside the tickle of flower petals. he has her frozen. she can't fight. she will either yield or die. ]
Do it, then. [ her expression contorts, full of anguish. another flutter of coughs, but this time, she persists in talking through them. ] If I yielded to you, then my people's deaths would be dust — meaningless, forgotten.
[ she cannot value her life above theirs. she can't. even as tears burn at the corners of her eyes. she had left herself with no other choice when she had made this challenge. a self-flagellation from top to bottom then, punishment for that desire for companionship that she'd dared to feel, even if it was only a result of some kind of telepathic bleed. ]
what a strange thing to think when she can feel her own blood spilling down her chest from the open wound in her throat. she gasps for breath, but all that does is start to draw blood down into her lungs. instead, she sputters, more coughing, spilling more iron into her mouth as she turns her head.
she can't even feel how he pulls at her hair now. it is distant beside the cold prickle rolling down her body — bizarre, really, when the blood outside of her is so hot and so much.
no. no, no, she doesn't want to die, she doesn't want this to be the end. ]
Y— [ it's a harsh, guttural sound. a hack. ] Help. [ each syllable a strained gasp, punctuated with sputters as her own blood threatens to drown her with each inhale. ] Yield. I yield.
[ he isn't holding her still anymore — why would he? what need is there? her fist closes around his collar as she tries to pull herself up on him, tries to cling to — to anything.
she tries to get something else out. it's mumbled, this slur of the soft consonants of his full name. ]
( he moves quickly — away goes the blade, cast aside; a hand wraps around her neck, staunching the blood, while another keeps her steady.
sealing an arterial wound always comes down to timing. panic sets in, and it's the only thing that keeps him from succumbing to the exhaustion that sets in as he inevitably overextends himself.
stupidly, he wonders if there'll be a scar. ) You owe me dinner after this. ( although the thought of eating anything right now makes his stomach churn. )
[ his hand is warm, so warm — is it because she's freezing? is it because of her blood slicking his palm, still flowing? there is nothing to say to his demand, nothing she can say at all.
it slows, though. the warmth and the blood loss and the relief of her heart still beating as the moments stretch out soothes her, and she stops flailing, stops clinging. relaxes into his grip, head tipped willingly back into him, her body leaned against his.
idly, it occurs to her that she has never seen this much blood in a challenge before. but then, she has never seen a challenge between two people so acutely capable of destroying one another, either.
the grief is a distant thing. set aside for later. she is light-headed with illness and blood loss and exhaustion, but she is alive. because of him.
reaching up shakily, she touches her hand to the one wrapped still around her throat. not to stop him, just to rest is there, palm flat. as if conceding its place there, conceding his hold. there is a peace in that, however temporary.
finally, she nods. food is a fair trade, she thinks, for a life. ]
that's good. he's gotten so used to fighting her on everything that the easy capitulation is welcome.
he's not in any shape to press for more right now. sweat beads at his hairline, and the colour leeching from his complexion. it's like what life he has is flowing into her.
but her breathing is steady now. her heartbeat settling as the wound seals. she's going to survive this. )
[ she goes quiet and still in his arms. in his arms, as if he were embracing her, not holding her life in his hands. for a stuttering, fearful moment, she thinks that she'll have to confront this. that they'll sit here in the silence of the moment until it overextends itself and they have to speak to one another.
instead, she feels his breath slow where his ribcage is snug against hers. and when he collapses, it's a slow, lethargic thing, slumping over and pulling the foundation out from under her. she spills onto the ground with him, and for a moment, she can only stare at him, wide-eyed.
reaching up, she pushes matted hair out of her face. she is still weak, still ill, still exhausted, but she is conscious. and he is not.
when they'd been in opposite positions, he'd been prepared to drag her back to the empire. to his home.
that's where she takes him. it is a slow process, especially when she has to determine which limbs are safe to pull on after she had stabbed him in so many ways, when she has to strip off the bottom of her shirt to bandage the wound at his knee so that it stops spilling blood on the dirt.
she remembers the way to the basement he'd brought her to, the night of the harvest festival. she brings him there, lays him out on the same rotted cot. when he doesn't wake up after some time, she limps back over and lies down at his side, back pressed to his arm, to rest. ]
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logs2022-11-26 07:29 pm
no subject
( simply put.
perhaps in another life, one where they were different people, this would have sounded romantic. poetic, even. but as it stands, he means this quite literally.
the blade digs into her skin — a reminder of this. ) Although my money would be on you bleeding out first. Neck wounds are nasty like that.
no subject
yet she isn't ready for it. if she, suddenly, finds herself attached again to the idea of a life, is that her feeling or his? ]
You won't. You don't want to kill me either.
[ she gropes up for his face, tries to press her fingers into the little cavities, the soft spots. anything to force him to loosen his grip. but the reality is that she's weakened already, dazed by her illness, and the uncomfortable angle of her arm means she cannot find anything of use. only the curve of his jaw, the slope of his nose.
another slew of coughs. this time, it presses her throat into the blade, jostles her so that it cuts through flesh, just enough for her skin to feel cold and blood to come forth. enough to make his point.
would it be so bad? to belong to someone? ]
no subject
( yet he'd come. he'd met her challenge; had bled for her. doesn't that count for anything? )
But what I want doesn't seem to matter.
no subject
Do it, then. [ her expression contorts, full of anguish. another flutter of coughs, but this time, she persists in talking through them. ] If I yielded to you, then my people's deaths would be dust — meaningless, forgotten.
[ she cannot value her life above theirs. she can't. even as tears burn at the corners of her eyes. she had left herself with no other choice when she had made this challenge. a self-flagellation from top to bottom then, punishment for that desire for companionship that she'd dared to feel, even if it was only a result of some kind of telepathic bleed. ]
no subject
what a waste, indeed. )
Their deaths already are. ( and he draws the blade across her skin. )
(cw: blood, fatal injury)
what a strange thing to think when she can feel her own blood spilling down her chest from the open wound in her throat. she gasps for breath, but all that does is start to draw blood down into her lungs. instead, she sputters, more coughing, spilling more iron into her mouth as she turns her head.
she can't even feel how he pulls at her hair now. it is distant beside the cold prickle rolling down her body — bizarre, really, when the blood outside of her is so hot and so much.
no. no, no, she doesn't want to die, she doesn't want this to be the end. ]
Y— [ it's a harsh, guttural sound. a hack. ] Help. [ each syllable a strained gasp, punctuated with sputters as her own blood threatens to drown her with each inhale. ] Yield. I yield.
[ he isn't holding her still anymore — why would he? what need is there? her fist closes around his collar as she tries to pull herself up on him, tries to cling to — to anything.
she tries to get something else out. it's mumbled, this slur of the soft consonants of his full name. ]
no subject
sealing an arterial wound always comes down to timing. panic sets in, and it's the only thing that keeps him from succumbing to the exhaustion that sets in as he inevitably overextends himself.
stupidly, he wonders if there'll be a scar. ) You owe me dinner after this. ( although the thought of eating anything right now makes his stomach churn. )
no subject
it slows, though. the warmth and the blood loss and the relief of her heart still beating as the moments stretch out soothes her, and she stops flailing, stops clinging. relaxes into his grip, head tipped willingly back into him, her body leaned against his.
idly, it occurs to her that she has never seen this much blood in a challenge before. but then, she has never seen a challenge between two people so acutely capable of destroying one another, either.
the grief is a distant thing. set aside for later. she is light-headed with illness and blood loss and exhaustion, but she is alive. because of him.
reaching up shakily, she touches her hand to the one wrapped still around her throat. not to stop him, just to rest is there, palm flat. as if conceding its place there, conceding his hold. there is a peace in that, however temporary.
finally, she nods. food is a fair trade, she thinks, for a life. ]
no subject
that's good. he's gotten so used to fighting her on everything that the easy capitulation is welcome.
he's not in any shape to press for more right now. sweat beads at his hairline, and the colour leeching from his complexion. it's like what life he has is flowing into her.
but her breathing is steady now. her heartbeat settling as the wound seals. she's going to survive this. )
no subject
instead, she feels his breath slow where his ribcage is snug against hers. and when he collapses, it's a slow, lethargic thing, slumping over and pulling the foundation out from under her. she spills onto the ground with him, and for a moment, she can only stare at him, wide-eyed.
reaching up, she pushes matted hair out of her face. she is still weak, still ill, still exhausted, but she is conscious. and he is not.
when they'd been in opposite positions, he'd been prepared to drag her back to the empire. to his home.
that's where she takes him. it is a slow process, especially when she has to determine which limbs are safe to pull on after she had stabbed him in so many ways, when she has to strip off the bottom of her shirt to bandage the wound at his knee so that it stops spilling blood on the dirt.
she remembers the way to the basement he'd brought her to, the night of the harvest festival. she brings him there, lays him out on the same rotted cot. when he doesn't wake up after some time, she limps back over and lies down at his side, back pressed to his arm, to rest. ]