37th of Vortas, 2718
HOME | Late AFTERNOON
Charity didn't resist so much as object, body yielding to the need to talk without words—just barely. The delicate pianist tensed, clearly having more to say, and while Rhys glanced up at her frustrated face, lips against her inner thigh, he couldn't help but smirk at her swearing. His hands moved to invite the movement of her legs, hiding his face and his thoughts between them with the press of his tongue, forcing himself into a far less focused silence.
It wasn't entirely as though he didn't want to continue their conversation, it was simply that he'd run out of anything new to say. Angry. Frustrated. Afraid. Helpless. The not-galdor had admitted these things so many different times already that he was beginning to feel as though that was all he clocking had to say. He wanted something to change, some sliver of hope that their togetherness wouldn't unravel into some bloody, ugly mess any time soon despite the hatchers in the mist waiting for them both, hungry for their hearts. He didn't know how to say everything, anyway—there weren't words for the depths of desperation and fury he'd faced in the mirror while Charity writhed and moaned her way not through any kind of pleasure, but through withdrawal.
That, he had no power over.
Their familiar, mingled fields had never cared about his origins, had never questioned their compatibility. The mona-laden extension of their existence warmly came together, filling their Perceptive-honed senses with an awareness of each other that few people shared. The depths of their once-close friendship had only seemed to grow over with roots and vines in their parting, binding them closer instead of driving them further apart once they were, indeed, again in each other's company.
The now-brunette tightened her grip in his hair and he could only breathe her in, all of her, eyes shut tightly, held firmly by trembling legs as his tongue sought to undo her, wanting the tension he felt building in her pale body to come apart as beautifully as she had made his life become once again in her company, more undeserving though he was now than he'd ever imagined as a youth all those years ago. Her keening became louder, and he whimpered at the arching of her body toward him, the press of her whole self around him until his senses were unable to be aware of anything else other than the arousing pain of her tight grip in his hair. Silence and the sudden intake of breath did not slow him, did not return him to gentleness, firm motions rewarded with her forceful release, loud and amplified by her unspoken frustrations.
Rhys barely had a moment to blink, still very lost in the wash of her field and the weight of her legs, but her hands shoved him back before the same delicate fingers grabbed his flushed face,
He whispered as he heard the Monite, breathless but familiar, on her lips. Almost tempted to mutter a counterspell, his glamour tightened around his person reluctantly, distracted as Charity moved so fluidly from the couch toward the tall blond. His hands roamed over pale skin hungrily, inhaling sharply as her violet eyes captured his attention, demanding he look at her even as her hips shifted and he felt the very sharp, pleasurable rush of her bringing their bodies together,
"—gods, I just—"
He tried to growl an objection to the spell he knew on her lips, but his words dissolved into ugly sobbing instead, overwhelmed by the flood of emotions the petite galdor shared so intimately and so very strongly with him. Engulfed in all of her for a moment, her memories and feelings consumed him, tears burning his eyes and blazing trails down his flushed, well-carved cheeks even as the inescapable heat of being inside of her made it difficult to string syllables together into words,
"Stop. I can't. I'm never—" Rhys didn't want to feel all of it but he did and he whined, fingers curling tightly into her backside at the sudden tide of her affectionate emotions. He heard her words, searching her face with so many different kinds of desperation, shifting with equal suddenness beneath her in order to all-but toss them both onto the floor in the narrow space between the table where forgotten tea steamed and the tousled couch Charity had just writhed on, keeping their bodies together as he hovered over her. He didn't care where her legs went or whether his shoulder pressed against the table, tangling them as one body. Putting his weight on one palm while the other curled beneath her to pull her tighter against him, he whispered,
"I do. I get us. We make sense. You. And I."
Not even waiting to settle into a comfortable position before he began to move within her, the motion of his hips sought depth with too much force to be called gentle but not enough to be called inconsiderate. He let his own feelings filter through the shared connection of her spell, the Perceptive mingling of their minds and hearts was almost like some expansion on the comfortable mingling of their fields.
His memories of her were always bright: she was an anchor in his otherwise drifting childhood, a friend who didn't care about his small town or questionable field. He remembered her bright encouragement; he'd needed her focus to keep from being a feral, wild thing as a schoolboy. The anger and confusion when he'd not been allowed to see her again had been destructive, and he didn't hide his hurt from her even as he panted, setting a wild, expressive pace that stole his voice for a few heartbeats before he whispered with ragged breaths,
"I don't want to be a galdor. I don't want to be a wick. I don't even clocking want to be a Seventen, Charity. I've always just wanted to be yours. For-clocking-ever, I'm pretty sure." He'd made mistakes along the way, he knew he did. He knew he still did. Rhys had certainly attempted to forget her, but there was not enough alcohol and there were no relationships satisfying enough and there was no danger deadly enough to change how his heart burned so brightly for the pale galdor beneath him, "You have always been everything I needed, even when I was too stupid or scared to see it, and I'm who I should be when I'm with you. No one else."
He huffed and he whined, agreeing, committing, and still crying. To feel so much at once was excruciating, bodies as entwined as their hearts and fields, the young Valentin thrusting as if he could fully express himself with each motion of his hips. His words faded into sobs broken by hitched breaths, everything made so much more sensitive, so much more meaningful by all that they'd shared. Maybe he hadn't said enough. Maybe he hadn't said what Charity had hoped to hear, but, Good Lady, was he explaining now,
"If nothing else makes sense in this mess, we have each other." Rhys' spoke somewhat loudly, voice wavering, unable to whisper his words of devotion as he shifted for another angle, so deliciously close but still so agonizingly far away like some kind of physical metaphor for his life, not just that fiery promise of release that he chased for them both with the eager rocking of their bodies together.