[ There are clear tells, for creatures like them, as to what constitutes true trust and affection, each entwined with the marks of what they've endured to get to this point, what makes the act of opening up so significant to begin with. For her, the willingness to be so vulnerable, to let go of control; for him, the willingness to be supplicant, to be unselfish. Two hundred years of servitude had taught him to close off his heart, to think of no one's survival or pleasure but his own. But for her, oh, for herβ
Were this not the kind of catharsis that it is, he might take pleasure in drawing this out, in teasing her, in refusal. Perhaps he would still, if they had all the time in the world, but they don't, not with the threat of the end of the world hanging over their heads, and besides, he has never known her to ask for anything, let alone plead, carelessly. And there is nothing, he thinks, that she could ask of him that he would deny her.
His tongue leaves her for only a moment, just long enough to bring his other hand to his lips, to take one of his fingers into his mouth to wet it. In the single beat before his tongue finds her again, before his finger presses into the heat between her legs (slow, careful not to cause her any discomfort): ]
My loveβ
[ The words escape from him on a sigh. Gods know he's spoken it time and time again before, but never like this, never without an exact calculation as to far how it would get him. Here, that's no longer relevant; they're not words given in expectation of an exchange. It's simply a truth, given because he wants to give it, because he wants her to know β because he's half out of his mind with desire, how tight she is around the arch of his finger.
For them, such things amount to a killing blow, strength and pretense set aside for the sake of honesty. He'd thought, once, that the tadpole and all of the calamity it brought with him were hardly his concern β others, more inclined to heroism, would take care of such things. But his need for her sparks a different want within him: the desire to see things through for the sake of their shared future, for the sake of not losing this, and how precious she's become to him. ]
no subject
Were this not the kind of catharsis that it is, he might take pleasure in drawing this out, in teasing her, in refusal. Perhaps he would still, if they had all the time in the world, but they don't, not with the threat of the end of the world hanging over their heads, and besides, he has never known her to ask for anything, let alone plead, carelessly. And there is nothing, he thinks, that she could ask of him that he would deny her.
His tongue leaves her for only a moment, just long enough to bring his other hand to his lips, to take one of his fingers into his mouth to wet it. In the single beat before his tongue finds her again, before his finger presses into the heat between her legs (slow, careful not to cause her any discomfort): ]
My loveβ
[ The words escape from him on a sigh. Gods know he's spoken it time and time again before, but never like this, never without an exact calculation as to far how it would get him. Here, that's no longer relevant; they're not words given in expectation of an exchange. It's simply a truth, given because he wants to give it, because he wants her to know β because he's half out of his mind with desire, how tight she is around the arch of his finger.
For them, such things amount to a killing blow, strength and pretense set aside for the sake of honesty. He'd thought, once, that the tadpole and all of the calamity it brought with him were hardly his concern β others, more inclined to heroism, would take care of such things. But his need for her sparks a different want within him: the desire to see things through for the sake of their shared future, for the sake of not losing this, and how precious she's become to him. ]