[ How dare she? Bring up the bits better off dead. Talking about a conscience that kills to sate itself. ( She's right, he couldn't stand her if she was dead eyed and pliant mouthed, that would be the worst of it - the one part he couldn't forgive her for working out and knowing. ]
No, let's not.
[ Let's - he says with hands, - tear each other to pieces instead. His hands roam across her bare belly, bracing wide to the thin stretch of her hips, narrow, always, lean like a hunter should be. He holds there, one moment where she's warm - she's more than warm, she's burning herself and burning him up with her. He's never been more sure she doesn't need him than in where she's pressed as close and as intimately as she could be.
Damn it all if he doesn't need that truth.
So he gives her what she wants - his attention. She gives him skin and he carves, her long thick hair he pushes up in a sharp up curl of muscles and strength that he never loses. A hand into her hair, to yank her head back, to bare her throat to him like an offering he's taking for himself. Doesn't give her a way forward or back except under his lips and tongue and teeth.
His mouth at her neck, scraping over skin: at her collar bones, the top of her breast, lower again to trace without giving her the parts of him that are still warm. The heat of his breath ghost but no more where it'd feel far too good to have. Lets her rut against him, that need they both have - because this better than feeling, better than acknowledging. It's seeking a death that is as needed as it is temporal. ]
no subject
No, let's not.
[ Let's - he says with hands, - tear each other to pieces instead. His hands roam across her bare belly, bracing wide to the thin stretch of her hips, narrow, always, lean like a hunter should be. He holds there, one moment where she's warm - she's more than warm, she's burning herself and burning him up with her. He's never been more sure she doesn't need him than in where she's pressed as close and as intimately as she could be.
Damn it all if he doesn't need that truth.
So he gives her what she wants - his attention. She gives him skin and he carves, her long thick hair he pushes up in a sharp up curl of muscles and strength that he never loses. A hand into her hair, to yank her head back, to bare her throat to him like an offering he's taking for himself. Doesn't give her a way forward or back except under his lips and tongue and teeth.
His mouth at her neck, scraping over skin: at her collar bones, the top of her breast, lower again to trace without giving her the parts of him that are still warm. The heat of his breath ghost but no more where it'd feel far too good to have. Lets her rut against him, that need they both have - because this better than feeling, better than acknowledging. It's seeking a death that is as needed as it is temporal. ]