All things considered, it takes her less off-guard than it might and the huff of laughter she lets out is just a breath before his mouth is on hers and her hands have slid to the nape of his neck, barely hearing the double thud of Small Yngvi landing off the side of the bed, finally giving up on these idiots. Kissing him has yet to stop feeling wondrously novel, a gift, a thing stolen and to be held onto tightly and jealously—
she is in no rush to make him use his words again, in other words, when she'd really been very looking forward to exactly this. The weight and taste of him. The assurance that they are both whole and here and that neither of them have thought better of embarking on the arguable insanity of romantic entanglement. Maybe, too: that pressing him hasn't pushed him away, peeling him open to look at his innards when she has herself reacted harshly, even violently, to the same.
(Not from him, though. And isn't that it, exactly?)
“You're so important to me,” she says, and it sounds like a scold, except she's still kissing him, the words sliding languid between their mouths. “I don't know how to not want to be in your ribcage about it.”
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she is in no rush to make him use his words again, in other words, when she'd really been very looking forward to exactly this. The weight and taste of him. The assurance that they are both whole and here and that neither of them have thought better of embarking on the arguable insanity of romantic entanglement. Maybe, too: that pressing him hasn't pushed him away, peeling him open to look at his innards when she has herself reacted harshly, even violently, to the same.
(Not from him, though. And isn't that it, exactly?)
“You're so important to me,” she says, and it sounds like a scold, except she's still kissing him, the words sliding languid between their mouths. “I don't know how to not want to be in your ribcage about it.”