[ Her impatience rolls through him—that hunger he's come to know so well. In bed, out of it. She wants what she wants and he's never been under the illusion that they do not consume her, these multitude of desires she holds, but sometimes he thinks—maybe he can slide into the places where pieces of her are missing, where the world has taken its pound of flesh and left only a hollowed space in return and left her chasing what she can't have. That maybe she has found something important in what she does have here, between them, something not so fiery, so all-consuming.
He can look at the medallion she held, long before he landed in Thorne, and he understands: she doesn't want to forget him, either.
He hears the catch in her breath, the strain in her voice. His hand slips directly between her legs, glides up, until his fingers find a heat, a slickness. He lets her watch him, lets her see the flutter of heavy eyelids and how his gaze follows the curve of her lips, the length of her neck. When he kisses her there, his mouth finds her pulse. He hears it, and now he can feel it, too, thrumming underneath. Every press of her nails makes his breath stutter—and it's especially so when they bite into the fresh scar there.
His own hunger stirs: unfurling, rising steady like the tide to meet hers. For a moment, he feels. (Whole.) Like he has something, someone, to hold onto, someone here in this world he needn't explain in words exactly what he went through. Exactly how it tore into him, because she knows now, felt it intimately when she reached inside him. It's hard to explain, that ever-present conflict. How much he both doesn't want her to have found this part of him and yet, now that she has, it's grown to bind them, too. And he still can't fucking tell if he wants to push her away for it or cling to her, but right now, he chooses the latter, his grip tightening around her, pressing down. ]
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He can look at the medallion she held, long before he landed in Thorne, and he understands: she doesn't want to forget him, either.
He hears the catch in her breath, the strain in her voice. His hand slips directly between her legs, glides up, until his fingers find a heat, a slickness. He lets her watch him, lets her see the flutter of heavy eyelids and how his gaze follows the curve of her lips, the length of her neck. When he kisses her there, his mouth finds her pulse. He hears it, and now he can feel it, too, thrumming underneath. Every press of her nails makes his breath stutter—and it's especially so when they bite into the fresh scar there.
His own hunger stirs: unfurling, rising steady like the tide to meet hers. For a moment, he feels. (Whole.) Like he has something, someone, to hold onto, someone here in this world he needn't explain in words exactly what he went through. Exactly how it tore into him, because she knows now, felt it intimately when she reached inside him. It's hard to explain, that ever-present conflict. How much he both doesn't want her to have found this part of him and yet, now that she has, it's grown to bind them, too. And he still can't fucking tell if he wants to push her away for it or cling to her, but right now, he chooses the latter, his grip tightening around her, pressing down. ]