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Feb 23, 2020 5:38 PM
valentine furnishes his new house
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"Best not to let you dry out."

He reaches aside, and then puts a cup of water up against his lips.

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There's something incredible about that: himself, utterly helpless; Valentine, offering him this small work of mercy. Valentine could drown him as easily as tipping the glass a little farther, but Valentine is giving him water to drink instead.

Jean doesn't have much choice, really, but to drink until Valentine decides he's done.

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He gives him the entire glass, slowly and steadily tipping it up until it's drained.

"There you are."

He begins to undo the buckle on the collar.

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He feels a little overfull, by the end. It seems on-theme for the day.

"Thank you, Valentine."

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"You're very welcome."

The collar comes off, replaced by the strap.

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He relaxes happily into it. (It's so good. It's his favorite thing.)

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And then there's the blindfold.

 

You could call it loving, this time. There's always a hand in his hair.

He still chokes him at the end, down his throat completely, but he pulls back at the last minute, comes over his tongue.

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The aching has become throbbing, by the end; the restraints preventing him from so much as squirming to rub against his own pants are actively torture.

Valentine coming in his mouth is blatantly, wonderfully a gift. He can only bear to swallow it because he wants that, too, to have Valentine inside him as much as he can get.

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He’s checked — pet — left.

 

The next time Valentine returns, there are fingers in his mouth again.

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Jean sucks them, eagerly, showing off all the tricks of tongue and lips he's had no chance to display until now.

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The blindfold comes off.

“Very talented. Where did you learn that, I wonder...?”

He hasn’t taken his fingers away.

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Then Jean has more urgent things to do than responding. (Like sucking Valentine's fingers while watching Valentine's face. It's a minor miracle in itself.)

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He enjoys himself for a good minute or so before he pulls his fingers from Jean’s mouth.

“We’re going to feed you now.”

The strap comes off, and the collar goes on.

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To anything else, he'd object. But there's no objecting to Valentine feeding him.

"Yes, Valentine, thank you."

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The straps come off, one at a time, and then he helps Jean to his feet.

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He stumbles, slightly, and looks very annoyed with himself about it.

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It might help, when Valentine catches him, just as slightly as he stumbles.

“All right?”

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He only barely has the self-control not to lean into it more than he needs to. 

“—of course. Thank you.”

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Then he'll help him out of the room, one hand on his waist.

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It’s an exercise of will, walking so close to Valentine, to resist the temptation to steal more touch by brushing against him. 

(The hand on his waist is already the center of his world.)

 

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When they enter the kitchen, the table is already set.

Cato is seated, drowning in an oversized sweater and halfway hiding behind Brave New World.

There's a place set in front of Cato, and a place set for Valentine. Jean's place is apparently at a folding tray set at the base of the table. There's a pillow on the floor beside it.

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...oh.

(Valentine's hand on his waist might catch a small, quickly-suppressed shiver.)

"...reading, or re-reading?" he asks Cato, casually.

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"...Re-reading."

He starts to fold over the corner of the page – catches Valentine's face, and digs in his pockets instead.

"Haven't stopped hating it since last time."

There's a slightly bitten mechanical pencil in one of his pockets. He deems it an acceptable bookmark.

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"Do tell."

He's still standing. He wants to kneel at the place which -- must be set for him, surely -- but, without an invitation, it feels presumptuous.

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"It's just – smug."

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