Except that they both can feel clearly that it's not, that they're teetering on the edge of something far more dangerous. Still, Rey latches onto denial, her constant companion all these years and a familiar, welcome presence. It is the only thing that can steady her when she's adrift like this, torn between her habitual need to stay anchored in the concrete realm of her injuries, which is currently providing only pain, and getting swept out by the tide of her feelings, which she has always strived to avoid.
To some extent, his question feels like an effort to prove something -- to win the battle to get her to admit she's incapable and injured and needs help. He is seducing her into doing so, she decides. Most absurd of all is that a part of her does not mind it.
Yes, she wants him to keep doing precisely what he is doing under the guise of help bathing her. She might have even admitted that she needed it. But the way her breathing shifts and quivers, tightening her lungs, incites a fresh surge of pain. Arousal's natural consequence is not, as it turns out, helping. Her brow creases in something caught between guilt and exasperation.
Practicality was left parsecs behind in favor of savoring his basic human warmth, but she tries to reclaim it now to combat his efforts to tease her. To save herself from tipping over into something they can't recover from. So she straightens, slightly, drawing away from him. She's ginger with her ribs, pressing one hand to her diaphragm and trying to steady her breathing. ]
My back. [ She sounds tired, but still stubbornly resolved. Turning her head, she tugs at the ends of her hair to sniff it. It still smells faintly of garbage, but that seems like an indulgence, a luxury, not necessity. She is here for necessity. She waffles for a moment, then admits, ] My hair.
it's true
Except that they both can feel clearly that it's not, that they're teetering on the edge of something far more dangerous. Still, Rey latches onto denial, her constant companion all these years and a familiar, welcome presence. It is the only thing that can steady her when she's adrift like this, torn between her habitual need to stay anchored in the concrete realm of her injuries, which is currently providing only pain, and getting swept out by the tide of her feelings, which she has always strived to avoid.
To some extent, his question feels like an effort to prove something -- to win the battle to get her to admit she's incapable and injured and needs help. He is seducing her into doing so, she decides. Most absurd of all is that a part of her does not mind it.
Yes, she wants him to keep doing precisely what he is doing under the guise of help bathing her. She might have even admitted that she needed it. But the way her breathing shifts and quivers, tightening her lungs, incites a fresh surge of pain. Arousal's natural consequence is not, as it turns out, helping. Her brow creases in something caught between guilt and exasperation.
Practicality was left parsecs behind in favor of savoring his basic human warmth, but she tries to reclaim it now to combat his efforts to tease her. To save herself from tipping over into something they can't recover from. So she straightens, slightly, drawing away from him. She's ginger with her ribs, pressing one hand to her diaphragm and trying to steady her breathing. ]
My back. [ She sounds tired, but still stubbornly resolved. Turning her head, she tugs at the ends of her hair to sniff it. It still smells faintly of garbage, but that seems like an indulgence, a luxury, not necessity. She is here for necessity. She waffles for a moment, then admits, ] My hair.