[ Her sharp inhale brings a curl to his lips. Her weight settles atop him: familiar, missed. Warm. His breath catches as she shifts her hips and he rises to meet her. They fall into a steady rhythm, one he knows so well with her after all these years. He keeps his hand where she holds it, runs his thumb gently back and forth. His other hand rests at the small of her back—presses his fingers a little into her spine where he can feel it arch and bend with her movements. The candles flicker; a heat curls inside him.
When they part, he presses his thumb to her lips. They're wet, a hint swollen. He can see the flush on her cheeks, the shine of her eyes. Eventually, his hand travels from her jaw to her collarbone, over her bare shoulder. He cups the curve of her breast, but it is the mark on her stomach where his gaze really lingers. Sodden. That's new. For as long as he's known her, the only mark she's ever born were the ones on her wrists. This is, he realizes, the first time he's seen the scars of that battle. (What the fuck really happened there? What had she done?)
Perhaps it's the first she's seen some of his, not just the ones on his back but the teeth sunk into his leg, too. They've been here before—here, in this tent, in this bed. Wrapped around each other. But it feels different. It does not feel like they've gone back, like they're living out a past they once had and can no longer. That's not what he'd have wanted, but this. This, he does, where he can see her reaching for him, knowing the walls built between them since the mountain—the scars they've earned since, visible and not—and wanting him, anyway. ]
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When they part, he presses his thumb to her lips. They're wet, a hint swollen. He can see the flush on her cheeks, the shine of her eyes. Eventually, his hand travels from her jaw to her collarbone, over her bare shoulder. He cups the curve of her breast, but it is the mark on her stomach where his gaze really lingers. Sodden. That's new. For as long as he's known her, the only mark she's ever born were the ones on her wrists. This is, he realizes, the first time he's seen the scars of that battle. (What the fuck really happened there? What had she done?)
Perhaps it's the first she's seen some of his, not just the ones on his back but the teeth sunk into his leg, too. They've been here before—here, in this tent, in this bed. Wrapped around each other. But it feels different. It does not feel like they've gone back, like they're living out a past they once had and can no longer. That's not what he'd have wanted, but this. This, he does, where he can see her reaching for him, knowing the walls built between them since the mountain—the scars they've earned since, visible and not—and wanting him, anyway. ]