( no fingers painted red stroke the back of his husband's neck, lines sinuous, curving into known quantities echoing his heart as much as that impulsive part of him unwilling to lay back down again after it awakened to the allowance of his existence once more. the possibility of his hands movement stills with the one word, and his expression, disgruntled and set, morphs slowly into mellow grumpiness, remaining unseen. )

Start by asking. Pleading after deciding for yourself is unworthy.

( there's of course unfair reasons in both directions, but he's tired of this, tired of this treatment of porcelain when he hasn't been fragile in genuine ways for years now. the shift into a man who walks a path other than the one of sword arts is long established, but still not fully accepted; he's not the strong qi cultivator he once had been, but he's not weak except in the bullheaded perspective of those who would only pit themselves directly against unstoppable forces as unmoving walls. it's how his husband has crafted himself, but it's not limited to that, his husband is not limited to that.

but this, too, is true: )

You're precious to me. Agree to your own physical with her now, and I will.