multiversallogs | ( let me kiss you hard in the pouring rain you like your girls insane )

Entry tags:

( let me kiss you hard in the pouring rain you like your girls insane )

Who: Ilde Decima & Ivan
What: Ilde and Ivan try something new; it goes horribly, horribly awry.
Where: Ivan's flat.
When: Sukkardi night.
Notes: Hasi and Ilde previously discussed (it hasn't happened yet in the log but it will) the concept of subspace and how that works; while Hasi was by no means suggesting that she try it, Ilde has a lot of curiosity and a marked lack of common sense about what is and is not healthy for her.
Warnings: This log features sexual situations, references to past abuse (non-sexual), a severe trigger reaction in character, violence, and suicidal ideation. If I have missed anything, please poke me and I will correct that.

feet, don't fail me now take me to the finish line, oh, my heart it breaks every step that I take, but I'm hoping at the gates, they'll tell me that you're mine

It's not that it doesn't work.

That would be better; if it were just awkward, if it just didn't fit, if she couldn't sink so deep. Sexual experimentation doesn't always work, and maybe it could have just been something that they laughed off later, a chance they took that didn't pan out. It would be disappointing, but it would be fine.

It would be fine.

Ilde doesn't have words for fine or not fine right now; her body is warm and her vision is dark and it isn't that she can't focus, it's that there is nothing to focus on. Just him and the control she wanted to give him, reaching for that blank canvas that she isn't and can't be. Pain doesn't feel like pain right now, his hands on her skin, slick with her blood, the burn of torn skin pulling when he moves and she could come like this if she weren't spinning out of herself, this would work perfectly if it just wasn't what it is. It's only she's nothing and he's right there and she can't stand it, someone else in this empty space she's put herself. Someone else in control when she comes apart, no, that's too much; she doesn't remember her name and she doesn't know why that's so fucking important because if it were important then he would've given it to her already and she wants-- something. Not this.

This is clean smells and mouths making words that aren't for her because people have conversations and she isn't people, they were always very clear on that but not to her because there was never any need to dignify her with explanations. This is that quiet place she went in her own mind where no one could touch her; this is where she goes every time she smiles out at the world with human eyes and human mouth like a light coming on in a dark room, pretty and wrong and not hiding but controlling. This is too close to something that has never been, can never be pleasurable, something that Ivan is not allowed to see or to touch or to know.

He isn't really what she's seeing when her hand closes around his throat.

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It's a charming backdrop to her tears, the sound of Ivan retching up water that she doesn't immediately understand even if she's generally aware that she's a damned nymph and he isn't supposed to slosh when he walks. She hadn't done it on purpose-- no, that's not exactly true--

If she could just make this stop, she could tidy it away and explain it away and they could just, they could pretend it never happened. If she could just get herself together.

It doesn't take long, and he feels raw but steady as he comes back to the bathroom door. "What do you need?" he asks, quietly, after a moment. He hates not knowing what to do; it's not a sensation he's used to anymore.

"I don't--" the rest of that sentence might be any of a number of things, if she can finish it; it doesn't quite get there, her eyes pressing shut instead and the back of her hand against her mouth like she's keeping something in, keeping something back. It doesn't quite occur to her that Ivan doesn't even know yet what the hell just happened, though perversely it'd probably make her feel slightly better. Even fleetingly.

"What did I do?"

"I'm not positive. I think you tried to choke me." His voice is quiet, even, but more because he's not sure of her than because he's angry. "I'm sorry." He wasn't sure if he'd done something wrong, or if something else had happened altogether.

"Oh."

Ilde pulls her knees against her chest, feet tucked in and toes curled; she remembers water, she's just not exactly clear on...anything else, and she pushes it aside after a moment as too much else that doesn't make any sense. Maybe it'll make sense later, when she can think straight, which is generously assuming there's going to be a later when she can do that. It doesn't feel like a given.

If she were thinking about that, she'd probably be more concerned about the fact she hasn't got up for the first aid kit in the bathroom yet; it's routine, now, to make sure she takes care of the inevitable bitemarks left behind sooner rather than later, and she isn't thinking about it at all, hiccuping leftover tears and wondering how the hell she answers a question like what do you need. Would they be here, if she knew that?

Her nails dig into her palms.

Once it's been long enough that it's clear she doesn't have an immediate answer, he fetches the first aid kit himself. He knows it's not like her. He doesn't think she's in danger of bleeding out, but there's no sense being foolhardy.

He comes back to the bed and sits on the edge. His motions are still slow, and deliberate.

"I didn't mean to," she says, eventually, though Ivan presumably has sufficient grasp of the obvious to have already cottoned onto that by himself. Tense when he sits down, she-- stays that way, but doesn't move or object, registering what he's got in his hands and trying to muster some kind of reaction. She always thought it'd be nice to be looked after.

It doesn't seem terribly surprising that it isn't, really.

"I'm fine." It had been unpleasant, but he'd never heard of any sort of vampire you could drown.

"May I make sure you're not going to bleed out?" He's not going to try touching her without permission; if nothing else, her attempt did get his attention.

There's a smudge of blood on her cheekbone from her hands when she takes them away from her face, unsteady but thinking. After a pause during which she's debating whether or not to let him or whether or not she can unclench long enough for that to happen, she lets her feet slide forward and her knee fall to the side, with a shrug that looks brittle. "Okay."

He nods, and slowly attends to her. It occurs to him that making sure someone doesn't bleed to death is a bizarre thing for him to be doing. But he can sort that out later. For now, he carefully cleans her up, slowly and deliberately bandaging her thigh and subtly making sure her pulse is steady as he does.

It feels like it takes longer than it does, watching his hands and making herself hold still when the faint antiseptic smell makes her gag against the back of her hand. She lifts her chin and stares up toward the ceiling, counting backwards from fifty in her head and this, this steadiness would work better if her hands would stop shaking.

She doesn't feel quite real, somehow.

When he's done, he stays where he is, setting the supplies on the floor. "Do you want some water to drink?" He's not sure what can help, but he's reluctant to leave her.

A stiff drink sounds a lot more appealing and a lot less like something she's actually going to get or anything resembling a good idea. She could sleep if she were drunk, though, and then maybe she wouldn't remember any of this when she woke up and it'd be like this hasn't just happened, except Ivan would still remember and that sucks all the air out of that fantasy.

Her fingers curl into the edge of the blanket and she pulls it higher.

"They're all dead," she says, after a slight pause, only it sounds like a reassurance in the way that similarly abrupt announcements tend not to. The words make it something that should be terrifying, but it sounds more like she's telling herself she's safe, the fact she doesn't sound very convincing or convinced notwithstanding.

"Who are?" He knows he's on broken ground; she doesn't like looking at her own emotions too closely under much better circumstances. But it seems like something that will need to be at least cursorily broached before they can move on. Before she can calm herself better.

"I don't know." Semantics; they're a what and not a who in her mind, human-enemy-Prometheus, people whose names she never knew who talked around her as though the idea of talking to her never occurred to them to discard in the first place. She knows Finnegan's name and she still wakes up some nights trying to forget it, reminds herself where he is now and remembers how to breathe.

It grates, every time somebody looks at her like it disturbs them that she isn't what they are, like she should expect that. It feels, every time, like a reminder of how something like Prometheus could happen. So easily.

"I hate that smell," she says, instead.

"The antibiotic?" Presumably not the blood - if it was, she'd never mentioned it before. He's trying to follow along in a book with most of the pages ripped out, he suspects.

Her brow furrows slightly and she leans away from the question, physically, dragging her feet in underneath her and leaning forward into the blanket that's only covering about half of her, slid down the side of her hip and leaving her back bare.

"Why are you here?"

It isn't an objection; she seems puzzled. This has all gone completely to shit and he's sitting there looking at her and doing things and she doesn't understand why.

"I'm not precisely sure where that question is tending," he said, frankly. "I live here, for one. And I'm rather certain you're not alright, for two, which is likely partially my fault."

It wasn't so bizarre for him to assume he'd done something wrong; they'd been trying something new, after all, that he himself didn't fully understand.

"Right." This is his flat, not hers, despite how much of her crap is currently occupying it while she finds it easier to tolerate Hilmi in her living space if she's mainly not there. This is the only part of that she's conceding, though, despite copious evidence in support-- "I'm fine."

That would be a tough sell even if she were a better liar right now, but this is the only way she knows how to fix something. Just fucking pretend it isn't broken until people stop looking.

"Don't go anywhere, though, all right?" Even though she's completely fine. Yes.

"I wasn't planning on it." He doesn't comment on the ludicrous claim that she's fine. "I'm right here, Ilde. I won't leave."

It's so absurd as to not merit even acknowledgement, but if she doesn't have to argue about it then maybe she can pretend that it's true, for a while. (Not really; not very well.)

"Okay." After a few moments in silence, scrutinizing him with almost disturbing focus, she wrinkles her nose and looks away, shoulders drawing in tighter. "I'm sticky."

"That will happen." With both the blood and the sex. "Do you want a bath?"

It requires moving, but she's told him, and and he's noticed, that she's generally better with some water.

"Yes." It'll mean redressing the wound he just bandaged, after, but that's low on the list of things Ilde cares about; presently, that's an incredibly short list. This quietness masquerading as composure won't stand up to close scrutiny, but it's enough that she feels like maybe if she moves she won't shatter. "A bath, and-- and a bath."

"Alright." He gets up, still deliberate and slow. "I'll go run one. I won't be far." And he'll leave the door to the bathroom open. It probably won't matter, but it will make him feel better.

The sound of running water loosens a knot in her shoulders that she hadn't noticed (the water in the tank was still and sickly and clean the way that metal is clean and pressed to her skin and made her weak), even if the room without him feels unexpectedly empty, too large for her and too quiet without someone else to echo off.

Without an audience, she's crying again, quietly, and it's funny that she doesn't know why. Almost.

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