physically unable to stop thinking about talanah pressing a kiss to aloy’s wound while recovering from a fight. i am feral
One last tug, and the bandage wrap is fixed tight.
"There. Done," Talanah says from behind her. "I'm thinking you'll survive."
Even though Aloy can't see her face, she knows Talanah is smiling. A small one, from the way her voice drops low over the last word as she says it, glimmers like the first point of light in the evening sky. A smirk curved warmer. Aloy's been able to picture this one for longer than she'd admit, and she pictures it now before she responds.
"Can't say I was worried." Her voice isn't as bitter as the berry she just finished chewing, but there's an edge to it. Not especially in the mood for playing along. Yes--she knows she'll be fine. The wound is a foolish one in a foolish place. It was a good clean kill, but a failed escape--a mistimed dodge after puncturing a Longleg's concussion sac, and a particularly sharp piece of ensuing shrapnel slicing through her silk and along the inside of her shoulder blade, just above the line of her breastband. It's deep, sure, and right after she took the hit she bled like a stuck boar. But it didn't hurt, really. It stung, maybe. Stung a lot, salty-skin heat--until Talanah soothed away the sweat and blood with palmfuls of water from her own canteen.
Even with the task complete, Talanah stays behind her, kneeling close, hands settling easy where Aloy's thighs crease with her sitting hips. Aloy doesn't look back. She keeps her eyes fixed on the smoldering remnants of someone else's campfire and sighs, ribs constricted by the linen wrapped at an angle around her opposite shoulder. Every slow-down is a frustration, especially when the slow-down is nothing more than a sting. The healing herbs packed under the bandage burn against the wound. Means they're working.
"Someone's sullen," Talanah murmurs, steady and smooth, and Aloy can feel her breath against clean and bare skin. It's a sunburnt feeling--deep warmness and risk, all at once--to be known like this, too.
So Aloy admits, gravel-toned, "Stupid injury."
When she goes to break away, to stand and dress and fume and carry on, Talanah halts her by moving closer.
"Hey. Stop." And it's hard not to abide when her voice is like this, soft and hard at once, a command wrapped in silk. Pliable, but something to lean on. To rest against. "You heal quick."
Before Aloy can argue, Talanah presses her lips gently against the wound. The feeling is muted by the dressing, strange and somewhere else, but it rattles sharp up Aloy's spine all the same. Same idea--she can sense the smile, the way Talanah's mouth is set, just like she can sense the way Talanah's sweat-soaked hair is stuck to the back of her neck.
"Talanah," Aloy says, heat creeping to her cheeks as Talanah's arms come to encircle her waist more fully, "you don't--have to do that."
Talanah laughs. Raspy, tender, close to Aloy's ear. Enough to make her shiver and pull her lower lip between her teeth.
"Come on, Thrush." Her lips roam to Aloy's naked shoulder, then to the sensitive angle where her jaw meets her throat. "You really think I only feel like kissing you because you're injured?"
Her mouth again. This time, on Aloy's. The bitter taste fades into something better.
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