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It builds, that familiar clenching heat, tight and straining. Winn's brow furrows hard enough to promise a headache, later - but don't think about that. Think about Kira's lips making a wide, warm seal around her clit, steady, focused, sucking. Think of a door opening, a light washing out, the blinding, encompassing beauty that must be what it's like to—
Kira breaks off and moves lower, licking into Winn's folds. That's fine. The heat plateaus against the pressure of Kira's nose ridge as she presses her tongue broad and deep, the way she knows Winn prefers. A reprieve; a reminder not to try so hard. This used to be easy. It still is, for Kira: a "good, my child" and she's gone, head pressed to Winn's breast, ear warm under Winn's palm, the peevish look that she so often wears loosened by touch and gratitude. But when it's Winn's turn, it eludes her. Like too much else. It's not her age; alone, it's easy and almost thoughtless. It's not the distractions of her office, her responsibilities – this is meant to cure them, it always has, two bodies shaping a rare pocket of solace in the endless turmoil of space. It's not even Kira's distrust, though that's grown in the intervening years, ill-concealed behind grim loyalty to Bajor's kai. On the contrary, the way it melts away in private is a reassurance: Winn knows what's best for Kira; even if Kira doubts it, she is still what Kira needs.
Kira licks her way back up to the sensitive clitoral hood and Winn holds her breath. The thought of Kira's begrudging acquiescence is good, useful, arousing. Winn focuses on it and on the knot of pressure behind her mound, tense and eager, and—
Instead of sucking, Kira licks circles around flesh so sensitized that the gentle friction stings. Winn yanks at Kira's hair, trying to pull her into the right position. The right position, the right pace, the right pressure. The release is there, so close it's a tremor in her limbs, so close she can almost see—
Nothing.
She doesn't hear her own remonstrance, but she feels it in her throat and in her shoulders, muscles relaxing with the relief of finding someone to blame. She doesn't see the dismay that returns to Kira's face, closing up under that familiar pinched expression, but she can feel her pull away, a shift in her weight and the loss of warmth as she sits up.
"I'm sorry, I'll—"
"You have given it your best effort," Winn says. It's kind and true and further settles the tension in her neck. It's the same thing she'd say to a supplicant whose petition goes unanswered: You did your best. It just wasn't good enough.
There's a pause, a moment where Kira might argue. But she turns away, sitting on the edge of the bed to reach for her clothes. Winn lets her go.
Prayer and faith, Kira could say. A willingness to try again. To believe in the value of the effort, to accept the silence of the Prophets' answer and then keep asking, keep seeking, keep trying the door, to open it, to see the light and let it swallow you.
But it's not her place. Winn lets her go. When the door closes at Kira's back, Winn shuts her eyes and finds the familiar heat between her legs, the memory of gratitude on Kira's face. She begins to stroke herself, and this, at least, she can do. This is easy: Kira did most of the work, and Winn finishes it. No frantic striving, no desperate reaching. No glowing light. Just an ordinary, earthly pleasure, a warm pulsing and then an exhale, the furrow fading from her brow.
It's enough. For now.