On all the shard-bearers who had to watch you two rolling around in the dirt like monkeys, maybe…
[A lasting impression… Tch! But though Hayame chastised and grumbles, it’s not as if her hearts are in it. She almost fought Amos herself in the midst of the Manon shard debate, she would have if it hadn’t been for Claude’s disrespectful interruption and the frustrating truth that no matter how much she wished to solve things simply by right or by smite that this accursed world and these complicated people refused to allow it.
She focuses instead on watching as Set rises and closes the scant distance between them to refold himself into the cradle of her “lap”. She’d asked him to move on purpose, to see how he moved, and it makes her lips purse to note how much he seems to be concealing. She can’t tell how bad it truly is, not when he’s being so stubborn, but she is a warrior herself… and one who would do the exact same thing rather than show weakness. She can read his cover for the effort required.
Ahh… If only they never had to deal with Communion or parlays of the mind. Her distaste of the medium has always been plain… and it has worsened over time, for every attempt she has made to engage the team at large using it seems to have only ended in condemnation or bickering. That, or in Voryn Dagoth crowing about his illustrious, slave-owning lineage while those who claimed to call her a friend stayed conspicuously silent.
Hayame loathes communion and what it reveals to her. So she doesn’t say anything at all. More damning silence.
Her hands gather Set’s hair, careful to the point that it’s almost odd how she avoids brushing against his flesh. Not only is he bruised but the skin of his shoulders, back, and chest is lewd and bare and warm as always, and she- the vibrant red strands and how they shift will have to signal the movements of her fingers.]
… As if meeting me offsets any of this?
[No one has ever been glad to make Hayame’s acquaintance, she’s pretty sure. Call it a hunch. With a nip into her bottom lip, sharp and unsettled and cornered and desperate for what she had to do in order to claim that godsdamned Oracle—
She begins carefully untangling the mess that Set’s long hair had become in his brawl with Amos, gathering strands to cover for the patch ripped out in the struggle, looking… no, decidedly not looking for a streak of black as if to confirm whether she’d just imagined it or not.
Or maybe it was faded already. Dun forelegs shift just slightly, fetlocks curling and brushing hooves along his thighs.]
no subject
[A lasting impression… Tch! But though Hayame chastised and grumbles, it’s not as if her hearts are in it. She almost fought Amos herself in the midst of the Manon shard debate, she would have if it hadn’t been for Claude’s disrespectful interruption and the frustrating truth that no matter how much she wished to solve things simply by right or by smite that this accursed world and these complicated people refused to allow it.
She focuses instead on watching as Set rises and closes the scant distance between them to refold himself into the cradle of her “lap”. She’d asked him to move on purpose, to see how he moved, and it makes her lips purse to note how much he seems to be concealing. She can’t tell how bad it truly is, not when he’s being so stubborn, but she is a warrior herself… and one who would do the exact same thing rather than show weakness. She can read his cover for the effort required.
Ahh… If only they never had to deal with Communion or parlays of the mind. Her distaste of the medium has always been plain… and it has worsened over time, for every attempt she has made to engage the team at large using it seems to have only ended in condemnation or bickering. That, or in Voryn Dagoth crowing about his illustrious, slave-owning lineage while those who claimed to call her a friend stayed conspicuously silent.
Hayame loathes communion and what it reveals to her. So she doesn’t say anything at all. More damning silence.
Her hands gather Set’s hair, careful to the point that it’s almost odd how she avoids brushing against his flesh. Not only is he bruised but the skin of his shoulders, back, and chest is lewd and bare and warm as always, and she- the vibrant red strands and how they shift will have to signal the movements of her fingers.]
… As if meeting me offsets any of this?
[No one has ever been glad to make Hayame’s acquaintance, she’s pretty sure. Call it a hunch. With a nip into her bottom lip, sharp and unsettled and cornered and desperate for what she had to do in order to claim that godsdamned Oracle—
She begins carefully untangling the mess that Set’s long hair had become in his brawl with Amos, gathering strands to cover for the patch ripped out in the struggle, looking… no, decidedly not looking for a streak of black as if to confirm whether she’d just imagined it or not.
Or maybe it was faded already. Dun forelegs shift just slightly, fetlocks curling and brushing hooves along his thighs.]