Work Text:
“Tell me what you like,” The words came lower, the consonants softer, not an order but a promise wearing the shape of one.
“Not with poetry. One word at a time will do.”
“Slow,” “And—pressure. And—” The next word left him without permission. “Praise.”
“Oh,” he said.
They could hear him smiling like one presented with a favorite book.
“My dear boy. Of course.” The next sentences were warm as a hand to the cheek, firm as a hand on the hip.
“You’re doing beautifully. You listen so well. You’re so good at this, do you know? The way you pay attention… it undoes me.”