Note: This story is rated for highly stylized allusions to sex.
E L O Q U E N C E
One of the things Daine loved most about Numair was the manner in which he spoke.
He truly was a scholar before he was anything else, a master of no less than five languages who delighted in his vocabulary, and who could turn the spoken word into a symphony both enticing and overwhelming in its complexity. It was a quality that carried over to all aspects of his life, even in his dealings with her. This was flattering at the best of times – exasperating at the worst. There seemed no subject too mundane for obfuscation.
"Dinner? My appologies, Dearest – if you will allow me another forty minutes to stabilize this ferrous compound – "
It was better now, after five years of knowing the man, that she could understand most of what he said. And even when she did not, the rich cadence of his voice smoothed any irritation she might have felt from her heart.
As did the fact that she was the only person alive who could render the Black Robe monosyllabic.
It amused her to no end, this great change that occurred in the throes of their passion. All of the mage's legendary eloquence seemed to drain out of him when met with the forces of her mouth and hands, his beloved vocabulary reduced to the desperate patterns of a layman. Words he had smugly spun around her, like "prolix" (the meaning of which evaded her) and "simulacrum" (the pronunciation of which still evaded her) were replaced by more humble utterances of "yes" and "more."
"Just like that," became as familiar a phrase as "I love you," – both were manageable enough to gasp into the crook of her neck, or to sigh along the small of her back in syllables punctuated by calloused fingers. "Let's try it this way," was as complicated as phrases went for him in lovemaking.
Even commonplace endearments seemed too complex for his otherwise focused mind to turn upon. Terms like "Magelet", "Dearest," and "Sweetling" were supplanted by the much more powerful annunciation of her name.
"Daine."
He would repeat it differently each time, at times sobbing, at others laughing – but once her name was uttered it became the only word the sagacious Numair Salmalín could fathom.
Once, as he still lay panting beneath her – inside her – she had made the mistake of teasing him about it. Numair had blinked – chuckled – and re-inspired had flipped their positions with the ease of reverent study. His response as he pulled her to him again – while still halting – had been infuriatingly triumphant as the eloquence returned.
"At least I can still form words."
Lemon peel goes with almost everything, where a full lemon does not. After so much Numair torture, I had to let him get the last word at least once. :)