You melt, purring, against the side of the pool as he works on you, and tangle your legs together. Your mating parts aren't likely to show willing, not when you've already been so well used, but this is good, this is right. "Take me," you tell him. "Use me up, I want you."
"That is so unhealthy," you murmur adoringly, as you wrap yourself around him and get to work reclaiming every inch of him. Spoiler Your own mating parts are slow to react, tired as you are, but you haven't been losing blood lately, and you haven't had him for weeks. Your bulge fills little by little, exploring his sheath and nook without force. Your kisses and nibbles are too gentle for blackrom as well, but hell with it; he knows how you feel, and you've never wanted to hurt him for real. "I missed you," you say whenever you come up for air, "I missed you so much, I was so scared I'd lost you."
"I'm here," you tell him, "have me, I'm here," but his teeth never do more than tease, and no calm quietness comes from his attentions, just a hotter and more urgent need. When he's lying against you, panting, finished, it hits you all over again that your Lady is gone, your Lady is dead, you have no one to hold you or care for you or give you what you're longing for the way only she can. Could. You sit up, slowly, and move Bel off of you. Then you limp into the main habitation area, full of a terrible, dizzy loss, and pick up the nearest thing--a couch? You don't care-- and throw it, hard, at the wall. It breaks and you turn to the table, break it too. You pick up a chair and throw it off the balcony, then turn, grab the rim of the recuperacoon, and tear it in half. Your Lady is dead and you love the boy who killed her and what are you going to do? What is there to do? You want to break everything in the world.
Yeah, you were afraid of this. Maybe you should've tried harder to stop them, maybe it wouldn't have made a difference, you don't know, but you do know it's up to you to help him through this part. Unfortunately, you're still wobbly as hell from getting halfway exsanguinated not so long ago, so when you try to get up and go to him, you trip over the strap of the egg pouch and fall flat on your face. "Fuck," you mutter into the carpet. "Uh... babe?"
That's your moirail. He's not for breaking. You throw three more chairs off the balcony, kick what's left of the safetyglass sliding doors into splinters, and comprehensively destroy the lounge chair. With nothing more to rend or tear, you rake the nearest wall with your claws, leaving deep gouges in the soft stone, then sigh, slump down against it, and look at Jethro. "What am I going to do now?" you ask bleakly, and rub your aching marks. "I need her."
You roll over on your back and stare at the ceiling, counting slowly backwards from ten to refrain from pointing out that 'she' tried to kill you less than 24 hours ago. "What for?" you say instead.
"What for?" you repeat, and laugh a trifle hysterically. "What for? She's— she was— my, my Lady, I need her. To be— to be there for me, to be who I was there for, to be my Lady." You rub your marks again, harshly, frustrated. "She... owned me," you say, trying to put it into proper words. "She pulled me open, and held my heart. And I didn't have to be my own anymore. And it was good, it was so good. I was happy."
"So... you have a slave kink?" Your brows furrow in genuine perplexity. "Did you always have a slave kink, or did she kinda paste it on with her psi shit?" You retreat to your lusus pile and troll Lu. You're not going to get anything coherent out of Erskin, you don't think.
You growl at him, frustrated and disappointed and more than a bit insulted, and go curl up in the ruins of the sofa. The fluff makes a decent pile. A slave kink. As if your devotion to your Lady was some sort of, of, of degenerate fantasy! HMF.
"So that's a no? Sorry, babe, I'm not trying to be insulting, I'm just tryna understand why you're missin' being her juicebox. I'd come over an' hug you, but she like to killed me yesternight, so I ain't feelin' tip-top." There may be a slight edge of snark in that last sentence.
"Alright, alright, I'm sorry," you sigh, and heave out of the couch pile. You make your way unsteadily over to your moirail, flop down next to him, and curl up around him. Good god, your leg hurts. "There, there. There. You'll be fine." When he seems as if he's going to continue pressing on subjects he's clearly not open to actually listening to the answers therof, you pat his face, and kiss the nearest horn. "I'm tired," you say. "You're tired. Bel is presumably tired because he hasn't come out of the pool and I hope he turns into a big blue prune in his sleep. So. I think my slave kink can wait until after today, what? Things should look a bit better in the evening."
"Yeah, okay," you sigh, and snuggle close. After a few minutes, you remind him, "I ate a whole strawberry cake." And it is this very important thought you take with you into sleep.
