#dipsii

Next is her lips, soft as they press against his forehead. Against the scars around his eyes from the strain. They're so much deeper and pronounced than she remembered. It sparks hate in her, so dark and unfathomable, so unlike her. Every scar under her lips is a reminder that they took him from them, that they broke his body and forced him with a mental torture unlike nothing she could fathom. It stirs hate in the pit of her stomach, quiet and horrible. Her lips meet his, both chapped and scarred but it's perfect and he's starting to tremble under her touch. Too fast, too far, perhaps, she pulls back.

Later she'll curl around him, with quiet determination to never let him go again. Peel off his clothes, promise new ones when her claws tear holes in them or break off buttons. She's clumsy from too little interaction. She's clumsy from giddiness, the impossibility of her situation, the desire to see his smirk, his smile. She'll kiss him from horn to leg, lavishing him in all her affection. All her desire. All the things she'd been holding in her heart since that horrible day.

She'll coax out his bulges, not to tease or torment, but worship--and somehow, she realizes, that's worse for him. He loves her, pities her, like he does Signless, holds them higher than himself for reasons she does not understand. So many sweeps without them and she insists on curling beside him and playing, letting his bulge twist around her fingers. He curses--when doesn't he, she remembers--and one wraps thick around her wrist. Her fingers stroke and curl down, just playing with his nook.

No claws in the nook, she mumbles, but her fingers do execellent work instead. Her callused fingers slide and slip along the edges and travel wetly up to the base of his bulge. Hard grasping strokes gentle to whispering twirling of her fingers as she reaches the tips, coaxes noises out of him. He hates it, he loves it, he might be crying and she kisses him, breathless in her own desire, her own need, but she doesn't insist on her own. It's all him, always just him, even if he wants and burns to turn the tables. Maybe he wants to worship her, wants his power brushing over her until she's breathless, wants his tongue wormed into her nook and his hand stroking and twisting her, wants her thick inside of him and him flexed and twisted in her, wants to touch her until her claws bring bright stripes of yellow to his back and her body arches against his touch, his bulge, his everything.

She slips inside him, her final act of worship. He presses into her, needily, desperately, even as one twines around the base of her own. He strokes, he flexs within her and she him, breathless above him, watching him sprawled below her. It's not perfect, someone's missing, but god it feels perfect in the moment. It's perfect in a different way, two pieces of a puzzle brought back together. Two surviving remenants of a relationship twisted back together. She tries to hit the spots she remembers, the ones he loved. It takes longer, too long. They're rushed, all the time in the world but they remember things don't last. Two surivors who grasp every second.

In the space between his orgasm and hers, they forgive themselves. For now, it's okay. For now, their guilt vanishes and it's love and pity and longing, such desperate longing to be whole.

Their pile is a mess by the end, his clothing slightly shredded, her own stained green and yellow. It's not perfect but it helped.