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

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( 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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"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.

Once the bath is ready, he comes to the door and falters. He doesn't know what to do with her, like this.

A very faint memory stirs, of his daughter crying for her brothers. He hadn't known what to do then, either. He'd been so crushingly young, then.

He comes to her side, and sits again, reaching if she lets him to brush the tears away.

"I'm sorry," she says, inanely, pressing her eyes shut and flexing her fingers convulsively against the edge of the blanket he'd draped over her earlier. Later, she really will think for a moment that it's funny she apologizes for crying and not for trying to choke and drown him, but it just goes to show what parts of herself she's learned so expertly to hate.

"It's fine." The way he says it, it really is; there's a lot about the situation he dislikes, but he has a higher threshold than many men for coping with tears.

"The bath is ready. Do you need a hand to get to it?"

A hesitation. "No." Maybe. She uses his arm to brace herself when she untangles from the covers and edges off the bed, anyway, and there's something oddly comforting about pressing her hand against his skin and finding it cool instead of the uncomfortable heat of a human.

So there's that, at least.

Despite what she says, he gets up so that she can use him to lean on as she walks to the bathroom. She may or may not need him, but he's really only good in so far as he can be useful, for now. As long as he has concrete things to do, he'll be fine.

The dressing gets discarded on the floor in front of the tub and she only wobbles slightly when she rises up on her toes and steps in, sinking down and -- all the way down, closing her eyes under the water for an unpleasantly long moment that'd be a hell of a lot more worrying if she were physically capable of drowning.

Sometimes she pretends; imagines that the water closes over her head and she doesn't have to open her eyes again.

He's left her alone for a moment to go put on some trousers and to fetch his cigarettes - smoking when his lungs hurt is clearly a great idea - and when he comes back, he comes to sit on the edge of the tub with a worried frown.

He's not worried that she'll kill herself, not this way. But he's worried about why she'd want to flirt with it.

Like this, there's a safety net, this is the safety net; this isn't real. This can't hurt her, she can't accidentally go too far, there is no danger to her in sinking into the water. She is what she is and this is where she's safe-- even before she knew, she couldn't have hurt herself no matter how long she lay under the unbroken surface.

She remembers what it was like to not know that, though. How it seemed like it could be a solution, sometimes. How it seemed like it would be so easy and it is, it is easy, all she does is lie down and it doesn't hurt her so it's even easier without any instinctive struggle.

Ilde opens her eyes under the water and watches him.

He watches her back, dragging on his cigarette. This went south abruptly and he's still not sure why. But he can give her time. He has no where else to be, particularly. That she needs something he doesn't doubt. He's just unsure what it could be.

Eventually, he lightly skims his fingers over the water's surface, as if testing the temperature.

The ripples distort her face underneath increasingly pink water, blood soaking off her skin and staining the bath. He looks far away and unreal through that, smoke rising strange and jagged, and it feels like something best left unexamined that he's allowed to be here, still, now. Everything more complex than yes or no is something Ilde considers best left unexamined and that, as well, is something she doesn't think too hard about.

Maybe this would make more sense if she did.

After a moment, he lets his hand sink down in to the water, up to his wrist. He doesn't touch her, for now - that still feels like too far, without permission. But he is available if she wants to touch him.

They do better with tactile than verbal communication. But he can still see how safe she doesn't feel.

Her fingertips edge his, disturbing the water with motion that looks almost lazy from above and-- isn't. It's barely contact, an almost calculated measurement thereof, this much is okay.

He leaves his hand there, letting her control their contact. Just because things are calmer doesn't make them right.

They stay like that, for a while.

Their fingers tangle together, and they stay like that, too. For a while.

It's a measurement of time that means Ilde doesn't really know, and it can just be like that, stillness and something that isn't warmth and almost something that makes sense, as opposed to everything else so far. 'You trust me too much', he says, well, that's true. Funny now, though, watching him frown down at her, smoking his cigarette, acting like somebody who gives a fuck. Who else is she supposed to trust?

And she doesn't, anyway.

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