[The face he makes back is similar, though it's dosed with an edge of kids these days.]
Wanting something so badly it hurts, but you can't reach it, can't feel it the way you need to. Minutes feeling like hours. Days. Until you think you're just about going to lose your mind.
[He describes it slow, steady, deliberately evocative.
Then he takes a sip of his drink and moves to sit on one of the loveseats.]
I've seen the way you go at the festivals. If no one's given you that experience in the ropes, you should amend that.
[Sad. Unhappy, lingering want. She sips, she watches Takeshi Kovacs sit, and she knows that she has felt yearning more than once. Yearning is just longing, in the dictionary of Jem Walker. She takes another sip and then places the glass down, and she goes to him.
One knee at his thigh, the other on the opposite. She settles onto him, a hand at his shoulder, a knuckle at his chin. ] Longing is lonely. It's miserable. I don't like it.
[It's better already, he thinks, as she evidently makes a decision. Comes to him with confidence. She's pushing at something, though. A truth that maybe she'd gleaned from his mind, in the tangle and pulse of the connection the spores had strung between them.
He doesn't turn away from it. Chin tipped up by her touch, he meets her eyes steadily.]
It can be.
[Lonely, and miserable. Like grief, a weight and a wound carried forever.
His hands find her hips. Pull her more firmly down over him.]
Unless you know the other person's longing, too. That you'll both find relief, eventually.
Never pegged you as such an optimistic romantic, Takeshi.
[There's a quip to her mouth; a cheeky smile emerging. Her thumb brushes over his bottom lip, and up close, he isn't any less handsome. He's full of angles, emerging fine lines; Takeshi Kovacs is a solid mass of a man, and he's beautiful, and under all of that, he's a terrible, soppy, romantic.
She kisses him, after a moment. It's slow, it's careful. It's the first time she's kissed him with all her wits about her; without the thread of transformation immediate and terrifying. He tastes like a lifetime of cigarettes. He tastes like night cap, like lingering ash, just like the caves. It's grounding, it's lovely. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Tell me about these dreams.
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Now who's bad at sexting?
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[She makes a little face, all scrunched nose and irritated eye roll, like yearning is completely uncool and beneath her, actually. ]
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[The face he makes back is similar, though it's dosed with an edge of kids these days.]
Wanting something so badly it hurts, but you can't reach it, can't feel it the way you need to. Minutes feeling like hours. Days. Until you think you're just about going to lose your mind.
[He describes it slow, steady, deliberately evocative.
Then he takes a sip of his drink and moves to sit on one of the loveseats.]
I've seen the way you go at the festivals. If no one's given you that experience in the ropes, you should amend that.
no subject
[Sad. Unhappy, lingering want. She sips, she watches Takeshi Kovacs sit, and she knows that she has felt yearning more than once. Yearning is just longing, in the dictionary of Jem Walker. She takes another sip and then places the glass down, and she goes to him.
One knee at his thigh, the other on the opposite. She settles onto him, a hand at his shoulder, a knuckle at his chin. ] Longing is lonely. It's miserable. I don't like it.
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He doesn't turn away from it. Chin tipped up by her touch, he meets her eyes steadily.]
It can be.
[Lonely, and miserable. Like grief, a weight and a wound carried forever.
His hands find her hips. Pull her more firmly down over him.]
Unless you know the other person's longing, too. That you'll both find relief, eventually.
no subject
[There's a quip to her mouth; a cheeky smile emerging. Her thumb brushes over his bottom lip, and up close, he isn't any less handsome. He's full of angles, emerging fine lines; Takeshi Kovacs is a solid mass of a man, and he's beautiful, and under all of that, he's a terrible, soppy, romantic.
She kisses him, after a moment. It's slow, it's careful. It's the first time she's kissed him with all her wits about her; without the thread of transformation immediate and terrifying. He tastes like a lifetime of cigarettes. He tastes like night cap, like lingering ash, just like the caves. It's grounding, it's lovely. ]