She's earthy and merciful, holding him close, letting him thrust into her hand as though this is anything besides pathetic and needy on his part. Vex'ahlia is a miracle several times over at this point; by all rights, he should be wedged into the corner of a cell beside a festering corpse, and instead he's embracing her like he'll fall to pieces if he lets go. He shouldn't be here, and the knowledge is exhilarating.

He comes laughing at her plan to hold him accountable for his actions later, the sound strangulated enough by his release that it probably doesn't sound much like a laugh at all. And for a moment or two, everything is fine. Percival de Rolo is a normal man living a normal life, and someone else gives a damn about whether he lives or dies (or just experiences a little death). Maybe later he'll sleep in a real bed, beside a living person, and he'll dream normal dreams.

And even after he's done, every tension running out of his body, a hazy sense that things are all right lingers. It's nearly better than the way she'd stroked him earlier, the peace of mind settling over him.

"I - oh, damn," he mutters under his breath, wondering whether it's going to look more undignified to try and capture his jism or to let it linger in the water, since either option sounds rather humiliating. That's the only issue worth worrying about right now. "I recover fairly quickly, for what it's worth - not to presume, but your options are, er. Open."