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Oct 18, 2019 2:55 AM
magical girl drug addict cato and jean
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Trembling with sensation, hands straying to his chest again ... he's slipping, again, sending out lust and touch-hunger...

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He lifts his hands.

"Careful."

His voice is just a little strained.

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He's crying, when he manages to turn it off, reaching up clumsily for Valentine with both hands -- don't be angry, don't stop touching him, please...

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His hand returns to Jean’s hair.

“Shh. Hush, you’re all right.”

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Calm again, floating and peaceful, distress forgotten. 

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It will be much easier, now, to keep watch until the end.

He doesn’t stop touching him, speaking to him softly, letting him know he’s wanted.

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He responds to it less and less, gradually, keeping a better hold on his composure. 

It’s nearly over before he can bear to sit up, to lose the skin contact. 

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And now the pleasure he will afford himself is gone, and he pulls the curtain shut.

 

"...well. That was...an interesting demonstration."

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"I apologize for all of the..."

(He makes a vague gesture which might encompass the empathy, the vulnerability, the blowjob, everything.)

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He waves a hand dismissively.

"There's no need. Morning glory will do what she pleases."

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"You're too kind."

He takes a deep breath, and his clothes shimmer back to the neatly pressed suit he arrived in; the makeup fades away.

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"Just experienced. I've seen enough of it."

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Behind the couch, Cato pulls himself to his feet. He looks somewhat dazed.

"...are we done?"

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"It certainly seems that way."

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"I think so. I'm very sorry for the trouble." He's adjusting his hair, fussily.

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"As I said. You hardly need to apologize."

He's perfectly composed, smoothing out the front of his jacket.

"Cato, would you–"

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"Give me a minute."

He's managing a transformation, slowly, silver trickling down from his roots, shirt fusing together and clinging to his body.

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Jean watches with a sort of detached interest.

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It’s a minute before he’s done — his silver ponytail is halfway down his back and his practical shirt and vest and slacks have become something like a skating costume, dark and fitted with the occasional bright swirl of silver. The braces on his ankles are curled up his calves, like before.

The room flickers — there’s a distinct, shuddering whump, half a sound and half a feeling — 

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—and then they’re back.

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Cato very promptly detransforms, in a shimmering blur, and crumples to the ground.

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"--is he all right?" Jean asks, kneeling down and reaching out towards him.

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“...yes, he will be.”

He kneels down and gathers him into his arms.

“Three people, four hundred miles, accurately, twice — and it’s been a few days.”

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He appears to be too preoccupied with shaking to object to any of this.

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He's not needed; he stands again.

"If you'd give him my thanks. When he's well enough to hear them."

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