His swollen finger draws underneath her dainty chin far more softly than it seemed possible. Despite his present size, despite his capabilities for utter brutality, there was gentleness still within the decaying god's grasp. It was his most powerful tool of all, it seemed, against a witch who would defy the universe, defy life and death, defy himself-the one and only Deity in all of creation. She hated not pain nor agony nor brutalization nor anger or wrath or justice or decrees. None of these things moved past the skin and in between the ribs into the heart where it must be poisoned and soured. What did that, he discovered, was something far worse than all of that. His dripping hand held her body still while his fingers gently coaxed the flesh of her face into the palm of his hand. "What? Aren't you laughing now?"
No.
She's not laughing at all.
The incredulousness stayed upon her face but the default sanctuary she often found within humor is snuffed out when his grip on her changed. No longer crushing her jaw. Something... kinder.
If she had pupils visible among the blackness of her eyes they'd surely dilate in suddenly registering what he was doing. Calling her bluff to get him to leave. His disgust over such engagements often led to him storming off after 'punishing' her for such vile insinuations.
It must be so easy to read the way her expression creased, her face clearly asking, "What are you doing...?"
Subconsciously the witch knows before any other part of her. She has only ever been violently hunted in her life. Attempts to lure her in with such gentleness (or even seduction) were often seen through and turned around upon the bold individual that would dare. She has never been sincerely preyed upon by another with something that actually hurts her so personally. It's easy to rile her up about her fellow witches or duties but no one ever discovered how to target her solely. It made sense it would be him, a sharp mine stuck alone with her with any other life being completely gone. Something was bound to give her away.
Why would anyone have reason to guess one of her main fears was intimacy? She was often so open and willing, sincerely cared and expressed it more physically than she did with words. But it would seem even Zamasu has come to see the true nature of this fear each time she rejected any form of a gentle touch among the chaos and violence.
It wasn't an issue until there was a mutual understanding between souls and their identities. It didn't matter this god and mortal butted heads, there was something incredibly personal about revealing your true self to another (even one deemed an enemy) and having it understood. Accepted, even if hated.
Introducing something like this was not okay. It would have been shaky ground if he miraculously approached her with a sincere interest but she knows it's false.
That look in his eyes... it's no different than the thrill he feels when he is enjoying the way her body breaks again and again between his hands.
Don't let this replace any of that. She would take pain over intimacy.
She had to with him, given the state of things. Don't go after a witch's nature like this, especially hers - already riddled with vulnerabilities in this specific area.
Mortem's body responded before her mind had fully caught up, stepping back to retreat from this advancement.
He didn't leave.
He didn't leave.
HE DIDN'T LEAVE!
The ever decaying limb does not allow her to escape. The witch stared upon the god perplexed, which upon realizing she couldn't get away from him grew into being vexed. Even more-so by how gently his hand held the side of her face.
Warm.
She's reminded of the desert fortress she served centuries in. Passionate hearts, deadly hands - friends, comrades, someone even a witch found worthy to follow.
The cries of her being named TRAITOR.
No longer does she have her mother's warm embrace, the fortress's unity - there's just time and purpose. Each century, each passing era more and more isolating. Outliving new friends, unable to slow down. They exist on the world's speed but she is the cosmos and has had to adapt to such.
"Stop." The word is uttered. If the galaxies that made up her single universe could show in her eyes, they would. Everywhere he touches is both hot and nearly numb all at once. Is this what exploding stars feel like?
"You'd stoop so low to hurt me - as if your other methods aren't effective?" Mortem gazed between the mismatched eyes, swallowing thickly as she took in a slow breath to steady herself. She's old, she's known as the parasitic witch for a reason - she can adapt to this. She had to.
Show him this isn't so effective. Run that mouth just enough, remind him he hates this, too - remind the god of the violence he so easily gave into. It was all better than this. "You're just giving me more ammo to use against you later, acting like this. Vent your disgust upon me already, Zamasu." As confident as her tone comes out she can't erase how raw she fells; there's an underlying tremble, she hates this.
