#but i could
Fencing had some hangovers from when it was used to kill people. He’d learnt that at school, and the particular ‘hangovers’ had unsettled him as a teenager. Armpit strikes. Aiming for the joints of the knee. The neck. Points where armour wasn’t, points where someone was particularly vulnerable. Where you could, if you were quick, completely debilitate someone with a single lunge.
His thumb considered her mouth, press her lips apart, running the soft pad against her teeth, the light moisture making the digit slip over them easily. One last bit of defence, before all her vulnerability was exposed to him. She was half gone, slipping between consciousness and trance, drifting in and out of sub space. He pushed, wedging his thumb between her teeth, prying them open.
There was a slight moan a moment before they gave, and then his thumb was in, and she was suckling on it. The action made him smile, almost chuckle, that instant acceptance of him, the tongue pushing up against against the thumbprint, as if trying to get his identity, steal some of his DNA. He twisted it, worked his way around, pressing and pushing, until he was pressed against the roof of her mouth.
Her eyes half opened, sleepily looking up at him as he sucked.
What could he do but smile? What could he do but lunge at the heart of her, strike her down and take her, for all that she was?
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