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Nov 22, 2019 5:47 AM
democracy at work
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"No, please..."

He's moving, aimless but urgent, like a man caught in a nightmare. He's not talking to Valentine.

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       The water is at your chin.

 

   You will breathe it – you will not hesitate. You will not choke.

                     It will hold each memory – drown it – it will sink away.

 

      Cloth is moved aside.

And –

  

                     Breathe.

His hand is on him.

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He breathes in --

     -- deep, unhesitating, almost gasping with how much he wants it, desperate for his own drowning --

-- and out --

     -- a sobbing moan, nothing in it protest, nothing in it surprise, nothing in it thought at all, only the basest reaction to a longed-for touch --

-- and in again --

     -- his hips are moving, irregular, clumsy, not seeking out anything in particular --

-- and out again --

     -- crying out, wordless, overwhelmed anew each moment...

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             Let it wash away.

One stroke.

       It's becoming harder to remember anything at all.

    None of it will remain.

Another stroke.

                 This may be the first time he has ever felt anything like this.

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There's no control left to him, no dignity; he moans for the touch, loud and unrestrained, and tears escape his closed eyes.

He's beginning to shudder; his thighs are beginning to tense. It's unfamiliar.

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              It will be cleaned out, in a moment.

   Nothing left –

                              only this.

          Let it go.

                 Drown – and then wake.

                                      

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He's awake.

He's gasping for air and Valentine's hand is on him, Valentine is touching him somewhere that should be impossible to touch, his whole body is alive with it and something is twisting in his stomach and he feels like a stone in midair, lingering a moment at the top of its arc.

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Valentine lets go.

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No --

His whole body is a rictus of agony and he's plummeting, his wings have fallen to pieces and he's spilling over his stomach, halfway screaming with it, losing everything at once, pleasure transmuted to ash and lost in the wind.

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Valentine is still touching his face.

Valentine is still holding him.

(Valentine is clearly hard.)

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He's clinging to Valentine, weeping and shaking, and he'd be horrified at himself if his mind were on anything but --

"Please. Please, Valentine, please. Please, please...."

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“Please?”

His fingertips brush over Deina’s cheek.

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It takes him a moment to choke out the words, but he wants it badly enough to do it. 

“Please fuck me, Valentine, please.”

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...well.

"I haven't cleaned any of that, yet."

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“I don’t care, please — please, I want, please...”

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"It wouldn't be your thighs, either. Are you quite sure, Deina?"

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He’s weeping, agonized with shame, but he’s still shaking with what Valentine did to him. 

“Please. Please, I’m sure, please.

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He stands, with Deina in his arms.

"Cato, don't let the food go to waste."

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Nod.

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He’s still trembling, whispering please again and again. 

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Valentine pauses, at the door, sets him down carefully on his feet, still supporting him.

"Put on your face for the rest of the house, now."

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He’s grateful for the mercy. His face straightens at once; he brushes away tears, frowns for a moment, and pulls out a pocket compact to briefly touch up reddened eyes. 

After another few seconds of fussing with his hair, he tucks the makeup away and nods to Valentine. 

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He opens the door, and leads him down the hall.

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