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He had told her not to do it. She has to consciously walk herself through the memory to confirm it, which makes her feel a little guilty, but in all fairness Quay objects to a lot of things they do in the ruins of Aeor. Sometimes he’s afraid for their lives, and sometimes he’s afraid for his new gloves, and it’s not always easy to tell which until later, which means she tunes him out a lot. With the benefit of hindsight, she can tell that the thing tempering his voice wasn’t the affectionate nag or a journalistic abundance of caution, but honest, tamped-down terror.
Sure, there had been a lot of hazard signs, almost illegible with age, but Aeor’s concept of lab safety seemed to have been ‘just don’t be stupid enough to get hurt’.
In any case, she wasn’t listening; too distracted by the lure of accomplishment and the matching interest in Essek’s eyes when she looked over at him, too hasty to do more than a cursory scan of the room as she stepped into it.
“Laerryn, this seems like a great way to get yourself killed– no, actually listen to me, don’t–”
There had been a single, shining moment when the journal was in her hands and she'd thought everything was okay– that any security systems had rusted out centuries ago, that there had never been any in the first place, that their concerns had been entirely unfounded.
And then the panel of glass had come down, emerging from a seam that had been hidden in dust and rubble, and she’d had just enough time to look back and lock eyes with Quay before the acid had started pouring in.
She’d fractured her elbow against the glass, she’s pretty sure, without making a crack in it. The pain had been searing , the acid melting through the clothes on her shoulders and then her skin. She’d been fighting against the urge to pass out before Caleb’s giant cat paw had crashed through the glass and she’d tumbled out.
"Are you alright?" Caleb had asked, as Quay wrapped his cloak and his arms around her and poured healing spell after healing spell into her body until the room stopped spinning and she could focus on things other than the burn of acid.
"I fucking hate Aeor," she'd said, breathless, clutching onto Quay’s sleeves for stability, and then, softer, "Enough. Don't waste your spell slots, we might need them later."
"Not a waste," Quay had said petulantly, and as if to make a point, she’d felt another surge of his magic–bereft now of wildflowers but not of his own fundamental wildness–before he relented.
"...Did you get it?" Essek had asked, faintly guilty, and as she uncurled her arms to reveal the journal, still unharmed, Quay's disbelieving scoff was almost drowned out by Essek and Caleb's gasps of delight.
***
Tonight, Quay puts a pillow down before he orders her to her knees–and it is an order, even if his tone is mild and he’s barely looking at her as he says it– which is how she knows it’s going to be a difficult scene. There are certain discomforts that barely register as discomforts to her, little things like the slight stiffness in her knees that she rolls her eyes at whenever he fusses about them. The fact that he’s taking care with this means he will be taking care with his every action tonight, which means he’s not here to be nice. There’s something there, she thinks, something distinctly Fae and almost storybook about his need to be the only thing that hurts her.
He runs a hand over her head, brushing loose strands of hair away from her ears, traces the thin chain around her neck where her wedding ring hangs–the only thing she’s still wearing. She tilts her head into his touch, but as soon as she moves he draws away with one final squeeze of her shoulder; like reassurance and like a shared secret and like he’s satisfied she’s going to stay where he’s put her. She’s reminded of taking a prized possession out of its box–holding it in your hands as if to remind yourself of its existence, before tucking it back away.
He proceeds to go about the first few stages of his nightly routine as if she’s not there. He’s positioned her so she has a clear view of the room with the bath, so she can watch when he steps over to the basin to wash the dust and makeup from his face and run a comb through his hair.
He usually doesn’t bother with actual cosmetics in Aeor–especially given the general state of cosmetics in the hell-future– but for the past two days he’s spent a good twenty minutes each morning selecting colours and tiny brushes, an intricate and deliberate process she knows he finds meditative. He’s also been quieter than usual, and for the most part when he does speak it’s something like his broadcast voice, that glossy charm so reflective you can’t see anything underneath. Even when it’s just the two of them he’s been off; withdrawn and very, very careful. She’s found herself missing the acerbic little barbs and biting commentary that she knows he’s been working to hold back and redirect–at least it’d be something real.
He crosses back over to where he’s left his pack on the armchair, and she thinks maybe he’s getting something he wants to use on her, but he’s only re-counting their healing potions and sliding the half-rotted folder of barely-preserved photographs he’d found that morning into a waterproof case.
“Do you know what you’re being punished for?” he asks, after about fifteen minutes of this, screwing the cap back onto the jar of weird herbal moisturizer he’s been buying from the sort of apothecary that comes straight out of a horror novel. He paces back over to her casually, thumbs tucked into his waistband.
“I think so?” she says. It’s not the answer he wants, but it’s the answer she has, and it’s really no good if she starts this off with a lie. It’s close enough, she hopes.
“Tell me,” he says.
“The um,” she thinks about it, and winces. She can still feel the skin on her shoulders burning. “The acid trap thing.”
“Be more specific,” he says. “What are you being punished for?”
“For reaching for the journal,” she says. “After you told me not to.”
“Better,” he says, “but not there yet. Tell me again. Why did I tell you not to? What are you being punished for?”
“For reaching for the journal when I knew there was danger,” she says.
“Correct. You knew there was danger; you chose to ignore your better instincts and nearly lost your life in order to get a–” there’s a pause, so brief that anyone who wasn’t her wouldn’t notice it– “historical artefact. You behaved rashly and you know better.”
He’d called it a trinket , that first night, when he’d been trying not to rant about the incident over dinner and failing. She thinks about arguing, chewing on her lip, and finds that she can’t. She behaved rashly. She nearly paid the price. He doesn’t care about the journal the way she does, would never agree that the risk was worth it, but that doesn’t change the fact that it was a risk she didn’t have to take.
Still, the urge to say something in her defence is overpowering. “I didn’t–”
“Hush now, I’m not done,” Quay says, not harshly but indifferently. Like shooing a fly. “I think you understand what could have happened to you. I think your experience drove that in well enough. But do you have any idea what that would have done to me ? Put yourself in my shoes. Watching your flesh melt off your bones, powerless to do anything about it. Having to tell Nydas and Patia what happened to you.”
Something drops in her stomach, like a stone. She can’t look at him. “Quay, I–”
“When I want your apology I will ask you for it,” he says. She raises her head and he’s examining his fingernails instead of her. She wants… she wants.
“Quay,” she says.
“I will tell you when you can speak,” he says. “Stand up.”
She stands, wrists crossed behind her back the way he likes them, and he doesn’t look at her face. He looks at her body, walking a slow circle around her, inspecting. Her body has never been found wanting before, but she worries that that’s not what he’s evaluating. The room is a little cold without clothes or another body to warm her, and she finds herself wishing she could wrap a blanket around her shoulders.
“I suppose you’d like it if I caned you,” he says. “But at the moment I’m not particularly interested in what you’d like. What do you think I should do with you? Speak.”
She wants him to take her in his arms and tell her she’s forgiven. She wants to watch him sleep.
“Slap me,” she says. “Across the face.”
It’s not something he’s ever done before. He’d told her, a long time ago; it was about optics and gender and he hadn’t been a man, exactly, in the feywild but here in Exandria he’d chosen it with both hands, and… He’d said it felt like something done to her, and not with her.
He’s never slapped her. It’s one of a few things he’s told her he’s never wanted to do. But sometimes, she wonders, if she’s crossed a line, if what she’s done is bad enough, if she’s not the one he loves anymore…
When he speaks again, his voice is a little softer. “You know I won’t do that, darling. What do you think I should do with you? Tell me.”
“I don’t know,” she says, honestly. He’s the creative, of the two of them. “Anything you want. Anything that’ll make you feel…okay.”
He finally stops his circling and steps into her space. She doesn’t uncross her wrists. She doesn’t reach for him. He kisses her, sweetly, but the grip he holds on her jaw is rough. Squeezing her face, so close they’re sharing air, he says, “You need to stop being so careless with what’s mine .”
She shivers, and it’s a lot of things. Her legs go a little wobbly, heat creeping down her neck and up over her ears and down to her core– he’s always so pretty and he uses words like a weapon; she’s always been vulnerable to the cadence of his voice. But the way her pulse thuds under her skin means ‘you are not from this world’ and the way she has to bite down on her lip to keep from speaking says ‘you are hurt’. Her voice might be available to her only at his pleasure, but he hasn’t said anything about her hands. She’s scared he’s going to step away again, and right now that point of physical connection is the only thing keeping the cold at bay.
She presses her face forward as much as she can into his hands, trying to close the scant few inches between them– trying to distract him, just a little bit, so that when she drops her right hand from behind her back and knots her fingers into his shirt it won’t register right away.
He kisses her again, still gentle, and when he pulls back he lowers his hands from her face to rest on her upper arms and looks pointedly down at where she’s holding his shirt.
“Hmm. Something with your hands, then? I knew you’d come up with a suggestion if I gave you a minute to think about it.”
She almost corrects him. He obviously notices, letting the beat stretch to highlight the preparatory inhale and the cut off sound. His hand closes around hers, which is nice for about half a second, and then he starts prying her fingers out of the fabric of the shirt. She has to swallow another sound of protest, briefly animal-panicked and needing this and desperately thinking that surely, surely he won’t make her let go–
She takes a breath and relaxes her fingers and lets him pull them loose.
“Down,” he says, nodding to himself and pressing lightly on her arms– not enough to actually move her, but enough that it’s clear she’s expected to go straight back down to her knees without the counterbalance of her arms. He steps back as her knees hit the pillow, uncomfortably off-centre, so that when she teeters forward he’s not close enough to steady her.
She holds her hands awkwardly in front of her, suddenly hyper-aware of them and utterly at a loss as to where they should be in space.
He steps around behind her and bends down, taking each of her hands in one of his. He draws her arms out from her sides, perpendicular to her body at shoulder height, turning her hands so her palms are facing up. Coming back around in front of her he studies the position briefly, then leans over her to apply a gentle, steady pressure to each arm until they’re held just a bit behind her. The stretch feels good, honestly, though she’s having a hard time picturing what his final goal looks like.
“There we are,” he says, brushing his hands against his thighs and turning away, walking past her towards the door to the room. “I’m sure that won't be too difficult for you.”
Without him close to her the position feels suddenly extremely vulnerable. Her chest, her entire core fully unprotected, the soft skin of her inner arms, her open and empty palms.
She curls in on herself as much as she can, tucking her chin down over the column of her throat.
“Posture,” he says, the absolute hypocrite.
She considers, briefly, not responding. Wonders if he’d come back over to physically adjust her himself. But she’s still a little off-kilter; she’s not sure of what he’s going to do and when it comes down to it, she wants to please him. Gritting her teeth, she straightens, chin up, ears swivelling to track his movement behind her.
“Good,” he says, but there’s no pleasure in it. It feels like he’s simply checking a box on a list. “Stay like that, please.”
And then– nothing. She can barely follow the faint tread of his feet on the carpet, the slightest shift in air currents– as if... he’s opening the door.
“Wait!” she’s not even aware she’s spoken until she hears the sound of her own voice, rough and too small. “Quay, where– Don’t–”
There’s no answer. Her ears flick frantically, useless, trying to catch a hint of his presence still in the room with her, but of course in a magical demiplane there are no floorboards to creak, and Quay has spent years cultivating the kind of mastery of his form that doesn’t leave room for fidgeting or shifting.
The door closes, and she doesn’t call out again. Surely he won’t go far. Surely he’ll be back any second, just gone to retrieve something or– or–
The room around her is eerily silent. None of the faint background noise she’d once been used to– bustling city streets and rumbling automatons; none of the not so faint background noise she’s learning to tune out all over again– wagons and roosters and town cryers. Not even the rushing of wind or the settling of old walls. She can hear her blood rushing in her ears and as the drumbeat pulse of it gets louder she starts to be illogically terrified that Quay will come back into the room, or say something to her, and she won’t hear it.
She wants to wrap her arms around herself, but she can’t. She won’t. She deserves this, and she can do this, and she’s going to.
He doesn’t come back, and he doesn’t come back, and it wears on her mind even heavier than it does on her body, even as her arms start to burn and it becomes a struggle to keep them upright. The stretch of her muscles and the straightness of her spine are a constant reminder, of what she’s done and of the hardness in Quay’s voice and the fucking cold in the room, curling up around her and making her bones ache and consuming her…
He's probably not gone for more than five minutes, but by the time he gets back she's sobbing , and the strain in her outstretched arms has nothing to do with it. He kneels down next to her, instead of making her stand up, and tilts her chin up with a finger.
"I will hear your apology now," he says, "if you are inclined to give it."
She nods, choking on her own voice. "I'm sorry," she says. "I'm sorry. Please don't leave again."
With a thumb he wipes the tears off one cheek, and then the other. "I love you very much; you know that, don’t you?"
She nods. She does know. Her earlier experiment had yielded positive results, but it still settles something inside of her to hear him say it. His hand is still on her face, and she pushes into it a little.
"It scared the hell out of me, that business with the acid," he says, and draws back to look at her for a long moment. "You can put your hands down, and get off the floor," he says. "Go sit on the bed for me."
She sniffs a bit, forces herself to even out her breaths. She lowers her shaking arms slowly, deliberate, wrists back behind her, watching him the whole time. She wants a reaction– she’s fine with either pride at her endurance or irritation at her showing off, but all he offers is a tolerantly fond little quirk of the lips before he turns away to pull down the thick blankets on the bed. The sheets are purple and soft, the sort of small luxuries they no longer get outside of the tower.
Even with the pillow her knees crack when she stands, and she staggers a bit as all the blood begins to rush back like a thousand tiny lightning bolts. He doesn’t catch her as she stumbles, but once she’s perched on the edge of the bed he sits beside her and pulls her close to him, arm around her shoulders as she burrows against him for a too-brief moment.
It’s warmer than she’s felt all evening, and she could happily remain here for as long as he would stay. But it’s barely thirty seconds before a slight shiver runs through him, and his arm tightens quick and almost convulsive around her.
“Quay?” she asks, and he pulls back. There’s something fierce in his gaze for the few seconds he catches hers before she has to look away, the distance and cold gone but the gentle flame of fondness banked behind something more desperate.
He moves back on the bed silently, and spreads his legs, opens his arms, making a place for her to rest against his chest.
“I thought the rules I gave you tonight were really very simple, darling,” he says, as she clambers closer. “And yet.”
She presses her lips together hard so no more words escape. For the first time this evening she’s annoyed with herself– he’s always very particular and clear about rules, including letting her know when they no longer apply. It’s one of her favourite things about playing with him. Well. One of her many favourite things.
Once she’s situated leaning back against him, turns a bit to the side (she suspects so he can still see her face) he combs his fingers through her hair, gently urging her head to tip back to lean against his shoulder. His other hand trails lightly up over her stomach, between her breasts, pauses to rest more firmly over her throat, then finally he strokes her cheek, feather light. She turns her face slightly to kiss his fingers, and as soon as her lips touch them he hooks three fingers into her mouth, pushing her jaw open and then just resting there on her tongue.
“What I need you to understand is that you’re mine. Your body is mine ,” he bites out, voice low and dangerous. He tightens the hand in her hair, sharply. “All of you is mine. You don’t come without my permission. Understood? Speak.”
She nods, rocking her head between his hands. He huffs out an impatient breath, and tugs her hair again.
“I told you to speak. You seemed so eager to say something a minute ago, after all. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she tries to say, around his fingers, cheeks heating as the word comes out mangled. He pulls the fingers out of her mouth and, with no preamble, slides them down between her legs.
He’s very, very good at this. He was good at it when they met, and since then he’s had years to learn exactly the way her body ticks. Even when the marriage was getting worse and worse, the sex was always good. It’s a scant few minutes before she’s teetering over the edge.
“Quay,” she gasps. “I’m going to–Can I–please–”
He takes his hand away. She whines, lifting her hips uselessly towards the place where sensation should be. He strokes her hair instead, slow, placidly.
“I understand our new friends are very exciting to you,” he says, calm, almost distracted, like Laerryn’s head isn’t spinning. “Essek, and Professor Widogast. I understand that they’re interested in the same things as you, in ways I can’t always keep up with.” He cups a hand under her chin, and tilts her face towards him. “You can speak freely now, it’s alright.”
“Whuh… huh…” She’s still panting, trying desperately to kick her higher brain functions back into gear, and he doesn’t even have a goddamn stitch of clothing out of place, using the tone he’d use to discuss what he wants for dinner.
“I understand the urge to impress them,” he continues. “It’s perfectly fine to want to impress them, you’re very impressive. But it’s easy to get carried away. Darling, are you following?”
“Uh–”
“It’s alright. I can wait.” He keeps stroking her hair.
“I–” She squirms, pushing her head up into his hand, blinking hard. “I–Yes–I… Listening.”
“You’re so stupid today,” he says, scritching at her scalp affectionately, and she whines again, trying to grind down into the mattress. “Ah! You know the rules. Are you listening, or are you trying to get off?”
“Listening. I’m listening,” she says, somewhere between lying and exaggerating and willing it into existence.
“Good,” he says. “As I was saying…”
His hands stay resolutely on her head, gentle and soothing and it’s not where she wants to be touched. When she reaches out to take one of his wrists in both hands, to bring the hand to her mouth where she can kiss it, he raises an eyebrow at her.
“As I was saying, love,” he continues, “I do understand that this expedition is exciting to you, to the three of you, in ways that it is not necessarily exciting to me. But your common sense has to lead.”
“It…was. It did,” she says, momentarily distracted from her plan to suck on his fingers. “It was… I thought, only one of us. We can’t just go in there and not touch anything.”
“You can’t touch everything, either, darling,” he says, petting her head, and then his fingers tighten in her hair. “Laerryn. Run that by me again. Your plan was to go to the journal alone so that you would be the only one to die in the case of a problem?”
She pulls his other hand closer into her, like a security blanket, like she can hide her face from him behind it. “No? Maybe?” She winces. She doesn’t know what the right answer is–or rather, she does, but it would require something to be true that is not currently true. “I can take it.”
“You can’t take every hit, love.” There’s a tension in his jaw that usually comes when he’s very, very afraid. She kisses his palm again, and again.
“Not every hit,” she says. “More than the rest of you. I made it out.”
“ Barely ,” he says, and without warning his hand is back between her legs, stealing the thoughts and the breath right out of her.
For a minute, there’s just the slick sounds of Quay fingering her, Laerryn’s gasps and little helpless moans and the shifting of the sheets as she squirms. Pressure starts building in her hips again, and then–
“Are you married to Essek and Professor Widogast?” Quay asks, voice harsh, and stops touching her.
“ Quay ,” she says first, a helpless protest. “I–Whuh–”
“Did you promise your heart, and soul, and body, and life, to Essek and Professor Widogast?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “ I don’t behave the way you do, because I remember that I made a vow, and I have a spouse to answer–to. ”
He punctuates those last two words by replacing the thumb on her clit and rubbing, as if to keep her on the edge as long as possible.
“Nn– Please ,” she whimpers. “Quay. Please. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sure you are, darling,” Quay says, brushing the hair back from her face again. “You’re going to be a lot sorrier before the night is over.”
“Wha?” She’d thought the night was almost over, but time is a bit blurry, gliding past above her on the surface of her awareness while she keeps paddling uncertainly in the direction she thinks ‘up’ might be. “I–what are you–What do you…want?”
“I know you’re strong,” he continues, almost as if she didn’t speak, “I know you want to keep us safe. I love that part of you as much as I love every part of you. But... there are worse things, for me, than getting physically injured.”
“Uh huh,” she says, struggling to focus. “Quay, just, I need–”
“Protecting people doesn’t always mean sacrificing your own wellbeing. Hurting yourself hurts me.” She’s close enough to him that she can feel his breath stutter in the slight hitch of his ribs. He bends to press a kiss to her neck. “Please understand that.”
“Quay,” she says, because his name means so many things and all her thoughts are sparks of electricity, snapping away before she’s even realized they’re there.
“We promised,” he says, almost soft enough that she thinks it might not be intended for her.
“Quay,” she says again, less of a plea, trying to reach that hurt thing she can hear in his voice, and his name is the only way she knows how.
He kisses her neck again, and again, and then slides his hand up the inside of her thigh and back onto her clit.
“Do you think your life is worth less than that journal?” he asks, evenly, after a minute where the only sounds are her harsh breathing and the faint shifting of his sleeve as his thumb continues to rub steady circles.
“No,” she says, thoughtlessly, because it’s the obvious answer, the one he wants to hear.
He pushes his fingers inside of her–not rough, but unyielding. “If that’s the case, why would you do what you did?”
She grinds against his palm, trying to shift the angle just to where she wants it, to get the friction that she needs. “I don’t–I’m sorry.”
“Yes, you’ve already said that, darling, and I appreciate it. But that’s not what I asked, is it?”
She doesn’t know the answer to anything he’s said. He kisses a path down from behind her ear to her clavicle and she whimpers, trying to tip her head against the hold in her hair to expose more of her neck to his mouth.
“Oh darling,” he says. “You know you’re worth more than anything we could find here. You do know that.”
“Uh huh.” She’s so close, cresting a wave she won’t be able to stop herself from going over. It’s going to hit her hard and she no longer has any say in the matter– “Quay. I’m going to come, I can’t– Please let me–Can I–”
“If you had died, the journal would have almost definitely been destroyed as well,” he says, in that viciously mild ‘opinionless reporter’ voice, and takes his hand away.
“Fuck!” she snarls, fresh tears prickling at the corners of her eyes–she’s not upset, more overwhelmed and frustrated and desperate. He strokes over the crown of her skull, her ears, the back of her neck, making little shushing noises. “Please–Fuck you.”
“I think I’m the one doing the fucking tonight,” he says, and his voice curls around her ears and she has to clutch the sheets and focus real hard on not coming just from the strength in his voice, the way the word ‘fuck’ sounds in his mouth, touch or no touch.
“You’re all right, my love,” he says, softer, and she wants to bite him because for someone so devoted to the spoken word as a communication device he has some significant fucking issues with basic semantics. “You’re so smart, and you’re so strong. You amaze me.”
“Then touch me,” she gets out, focusing deliberately on each pointed word.
“I am touching you,” he says, absently. “All I’m asking is that you place the same value on yourself that I do. That’s all.”
She twists to press her mouth aimlessly against his cheek, nuzzling into his throat, mouthing at the rabbit-quick pulse under his skin. “Please, Quay.”
“Are you listening?” he asks, as if casually curious. “Tell me what I just said to you.”
“That you want me to– I–Value–” It’s there, the concepts are there, but everything is slippery right now, sliding just out of her reach. She makes a frustrated sound. “I don’t know.”
“It’s okay.” He wipes some stray tears off her cheeks. “Listen again. I want you to treat yourself like a high value commodity. Because you are. I know you understand that. Can you tell me?”
“High value,” she repeats, catching her breath. “Act like it. Quay can we please –Can I finish? Please. I’m–this is the third time, you’re fucking killing me–”
“Hmm,” he says. “We’ll see. Personally I’m having a very nice time, aren’t you? Isn’t this better than acid?” She doesn’t even need to see his face to know the expression, that self-satisfied little smile that says ‘aren’t we all glad I’m here to make this decision for you?’
It’s his Herald smile. It’s infuriating. She doesn’t need his preenings and platitudes right now; she needs him to get her off.
He starts brushing the pad of one finger over her clit, barely there touches that have her straining fruitlessly towards his hand. “We both made that deal.”
She reclaims his free hand, and she wraps her lips around his ring finger and hollows her cheeks, leaning slightly forward until her lips rest right against the warm metal of his wedding ring. Whenever he takes it off he always waits for her to put it back on him.
“Sweet girl. You’re going to be good for me, aren’t you?” His voice and his eyes are both soft, warm, and she finds herself gravitating towards that warmth, leaning just a hair closer and holding the ring gently between her teeth. She nods, just slightly, enjoying the way it makes his hand bob with her. “My sweet, sweet darling.”
He grinds his thumb into her clit again, hard enough to make her yelp, and then resumes with his barely-there touches like he hasn’t woken up every nerve in her body.
“More,” she says, around his finger.
“I’m the one in charge here,” he replies. He frees his finger from her mouth with a pop, and cups her breast, playing absently with the nipple. “This is how you should be touched. Lightly. Gently.”
“More, please . Just–a little more.”
“I know exactly how to touch you, sweetheart,” Quay says. “I’m not taking suggestions.”
He does this to her six or seven times, coaxing her body right to the edge then pulling away, talking the whole time like he expects her to engage in contemplative conversation with him. She’s insensible and begging, writhing in his arms, face wet with frustrated tears, before he pulls his fingers out of her and sticks them in his mouth.
“I think you’ve had enough of this, darling,” he says, stroking her hair again, tucking her head under his chin. “Don’t you?”
“Yes,” she murmurs, “Yes, yes, please. Can you–please. I need–”
“Shhh.” He presses her close, muffling her words in his shirt, finally wrinkled. “Shhh, it’s okay. It’s done now. We’re done now. You did so well.”
“Quay, can you–please, let me–just a little–I’m so close .”
“Easy, my love. You did good, you did good, I’m so proud of you. We’re done now, it’s alright.”
“Quay, can I please–Please, can I come, I’ll. Anything you want, I won’t use my hands, I–”
“Shhh,” he says. “It’s not that kind of night, my love. You knew this was a punishment.”
He bites the point of her ear, hard, and Laerryn whimpers. “Please, please, please,” she murmurs, like a mantra, pushing her forehead into the safety of Quay’s chest. She doesn’t know what she wants anymore. She doesn’t know what she’d do if he gave it to her.
“Poor baby,” he croons, stroking her hair, rubbing a palm smooth and soothing over her back. “It’s okay. You’ll be alright. I can hardly reward you nearly getting yourself killed, now can I?”
She squeezes her eyes shut so tight she sees stars, hips rutting uselessly into nothing while he gives her little nothing touches, along her back and head and shoulders that don’t give her what she needs. It’s a moment before the fog of arousal recedes, just a little, and then she drops her forehead onto Quay’s shoulder.
“You could ,” she says.
The way he’s holding her prevents her from lifting her head to look at his face, but she’s close enough to feel the little hitch in his chest of suppressed laughter. “I will not ,” he says, precisely enunciated, but he can’t hide the smile in his voice. He’s smiling. He’s smiling.
She nuzzles her face into his neck, maybe hiding her own smile. “Quay,” she says, whining more than a little. “Please?”
“No,” he says, again, pleasantly bored.
“Quay. Don’t you love me?” It’s a joke, a hail mary that almost never works, but she can’t help the way her hands tighten in his shirt as she asks it.
“I love you immensely , my darling.” He flips them abruptly; Laerryn squeaks in surprise as her back thumps into the mattress. “We’re done tonight. No, you may not touch yourself.”
His tone is the kind that usually means he’s not going to bother arguing the point, that his word is final and she’s expected to fall into line. Still, she spends the next few minutes alternating between trying to entice him–nibbling on the round bit of his ear and playing with the buttons on his shirt and scattering little kisses over his face and neck–and shoving her freezing cold hands onto his ribs to make him jump. A point comes when the desperate need for orgasm fades and all that’s left is the sheer stubborn drive to get what she wants, and that’s when he lets out a slow sigh and puts his feet on the ground.
“Where are you–” she starts, and then he picks her up (she flings an arm around his neck to help) and carries her to the other room, depositing her in the bathtub. It’s not as good as an orgasm but the heat hits her tired muscles all at once in a pleasant shock before it soaks in, and when she takes a deep breath it smells like violets– Caleb’s meticulous attention and care for all of them never ceases to take her off-guard. Quay rubs firm palms down her arms, her shoulders, presses his thumbs into the spot between her shoulder blades where knots form. When he pulls away, he doesn’t leave. For a while he reorganises the cosmetics that he already organised not an hour ago, he uses the mirror to fuss with his hair, he re-folds the towels into origami shapes.
“Quay?” she says, immersed up to her chin in the water, watching the steam rise. “I… am sorry. About the acid. It wasn’t my intention.”
“I know, darling,” he says. “I just wish you’d be more careful.” And then he’s leaning over the tub, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You can relax for a while,” he whispers. “I’ll come get you before I go to sleep.”
“You’ll come get me,” she repeats. It’s not that she doesn’t know that–that he’ll always come get her. That he’ll come back. She does know. She does know, also, that it’s her duty to always come back to him. It feels good to say it, anyway.
Taken apart and put back together, feeling settled and warmed and loved down to her bones, Laerryn slips into trance.