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King and Lionheart

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Kal'tsit, in spite of herself, can't help but look a little exasperated. "You really shouldn't have."

"Nonsense! I think there's plenty of good occasions for it." Theresa, of course, just smiles, pressing the package into her arms. "Right now, for one. Should you not be comfortable, when it's just the two of us?"

When she puts it that way—still, though, Kal'tsit can't help but be a little apprehensive. Theresa cares little for what is easiest, and it would be far easier to be the great king who prefers to privilege the voices of her own people over outsiders.

The contents of the package itself, when she unwraps it... are soft, creamy-white. Not the kind of material they often are able to procure, certainly. Delicately-spun yarn with a fuzziness to it that she realizes is, unfolded—"a bit diaphanous" would be slightly more modest than the garment is really owed.

"Theresa," she says, sternly, lowering her eyes, but it lacks a proper edge.

Theresa's eyes crinkle at the corners, her shoulders rising a little in bemusement. "I designed it with you in mind," she says, clasping her hands behind her back. "Won't you try it on, so I can see how it turned out properly? It's much too short for me."

Hell. She can't argue with Theresa, or rather—not when it comes to things like this. Kal'tsit sighs, setting the garment down on the back of her desk chair, and starts pulling her jacket off.

She must admit: though it's certainly far from what she would have picked out herself, Theresa knows her tastes well enough. Cowled around the neckline, skimming her form but not too tight to it—

"'s a bit short," Kal'tsit says, aloud.

"Hm," says Theresa, but it's more of a contented hum as she leans closer to tidy Kal'tsit's hair a little, hands coming to rest on her shoulders. "From where I'm standing, it's perfect."

"It's not very practical," Kal'tsit adds, shifting a little on her feet. She knows it's a weak protest, and she knows what the point is.

Which Theresa knows her well enough to point out. "You could be a little less practical on certain matters," she says, tracing her fingers down to cup at Kal'tsit's breast through the fabric.

"Ah—ah." Kal'tsit sucks in a breath between her teeth, a light hiss, and lets her eyes flutter closed. "I suppose—for now, you make an excellent case, but I won't forget we still, ah—had reports to go over—"

Theresa nestles her face against Kal'tsit's neck, and Kal'tsit can feel her smile. "What would I ever do without you. That's why... I want you to be able to lean on me a little, too. You give so much to others. So—"

She gently leads Kal'tsit backwards by the shoulders to the secondhand armchair in the corner—one of the few pieces of decently comfortable furniture on the landship—bidding her to sit, to lean back. "So, if you'll be so kind as to let me—let me give to you. Just for now."

Really—both of them knew this would be the outcome from the start. So Kal'tsit can't complain too much; especially not with the feel of Theresa's soft hands through soft fabric, the hungriest such a delicate touch can be. And especially not when Theresa's lips follow—down, down, briefly diverting to close around Kal'tsit's index finger in a way that runs electric up her spine, and then—

Kal'tsit gives another quiet sigh, feeling Theresa's fingers curling into the band of her panties, and shifts to raise her hips for her. "You don't, ah—think they go with the ensemble, then."

Theresa, from between her legs, looks up only to dip her head slightly in a laugh. "I would say it's meant to stand alone," she says, and tugs down, gently; the fabric slips over Kal'tsit's knees and to the floor, and Theresa slips in-between her knees.

"Nn—hh, oh—" Her toes curl against the hard floor, head tilting back into the worn cushioning of the chair, as Theresa's tongue explores and teases lightly into her folds. Stoicism comes easily to her, most of the time, but now—now, it's almost a little embarrassing, how quickly Theresa can get her undone.

Theresa's taking her time, though; her tongue curls in slow, languid motions, almost lazy, as her fingers slip under the fabric to trail gentle, soft touches up Kal'tsit's spine. It's a slow, smoldering burn; hardly Kal'tsit's normal approach, but it's one that, she thinks... really does suit Her Majesty.

Her eyes flutter open again when a change in movement brings her a little bit more to her senses; Theresa dips one shoulder to hike Kal'tsit's leg up onto it, and—

"Theresa–oh. Oh—" is what she manages, as Theresa presses into her with her tongue, and her leg almost jerks entirely into the air. Her king's face is pressed hard against her, tongue moving in slow, firm strokes, and—

...and she's not so lost to the feeling that it doesn't flicker across her mind that this is still risky. The Lord of Fiends on her knees before an outsider like this—it's one thing for some to whisper about the possibility, another thing entirely if it became public fact.

But it's only a fleeting thought. It's only fleeting, because Theresa is intent and diligent in being a distraction from other cares, and—how could Kal'tsit deny her?

She tenses around Theresa's tongue, and the throbbing, building heat finally boils over—her fingers digging into the arms of the chair as she comes, gasping, white at the edges of her vision.

Kal'tsit knows what forever is like, and—they won't have forever. She knows all too well what it means to be the Lord of Fiends. But, as Theresa contentedly rests her chin on Kal'tsit's knee in a way that's even a little smug, and Kal'tsit's hand shakily settles onto Theresa's hair—'s enough. For now, it's enough.

Years later, reminded of the way the Lord of Sarkaz was known to grant visions of comfort and cherished lost companions to those she wanted to honor—

She can't help but smile to herself, just a little, in the reminiscence. Maybe that was her attempt to give that to Kal'tsit, a woman too stubborn and who had seen too much to accept something anything so illusory.

Perhaps tonight she'll turn in early, for old time's sake. Just this once.