[ 2B stills at what he says, his words hitting her in places she hadn't known had been capable of feeling them. She presses against him, molding her body flush with his, her pulse accelerating and her internal processes kicking into overdrive. Every breath he sucks in, every noise he makes, every sly glance and murmured syllable makes 2B feel like drowning.
She can feel his artificial heart pounding against her chest, and it makes her ache. She wants to hold him, to cradle him to her; she wants to keep him safe and warm as much as she wants to tear him the fuck apart. The sensation reminds her of the birds they'd seen upon their arrival to the city: fluttering and fragile, so easy to destroy with a sudden, certain movement. As 9S twists and pulls her hand against his neck, her grip tightens, fingertips digging into the sides of his throat. She can feel his pulse, vital and steady beneath her grasp, and her own breath hitches.
Not yet, she thinks to herself. There is no way to preserve his black box while we're trapped here. There's no sense in doing it now.
2B allows her own hips to slot against his, a soft exhalation of breath the only indication that she's feeling this as much as he is. She doesn't say anything in response to him; she can't. His words cut her deep and rob her of speech. Instead, she presses against him, desperate and quiet, the hand not at his throat working deftly at the buttons holding his coat closed.
She needs to be closer to him. Needs to feel more. ]
no subject
[ 2B stills at what he says, his words hitting her in places she hadn't known had been capable of feeling them. She presses against him, molding her body flush with his, her pulse accelerating and her internal processes kicking into overdrive. Every breath he sucks in, every noise he makes, every sly glance and murmured syllable makes 2B feel like drowning.
She can feel his artificial heart pounding against her chest, and it makes her ache. She wants to hold him, to cradle him to her; she wants to keep him safe and warm as much as she wants to tear him the fuck apart. The sensation reminds her of the birds they'd seen upon their arrival to the city: fluttering and fragile, so easy to destroy with a sudden, certain movement. As 9S twists and pulls her hand against his neck, her grip tightens, fingertips digging into the sides of his throat. She can feel his pulse, vital and steady beneath her grasp, and her own breath hitches.
Not yet, she thinks to herself. There is no way to preserve his black box while we're trapped here. There's no sense in doing it now.
2B allows her own hips to slot against his, a soft exhalation of breath the only indication that she's feeling this as much as he is. She doesn't say anything in response to him; she can't. His words cut her deep and rob her of speech. Instead, she presses against him, desperate and quiet, the hand not at his throat working deftly at the buttons holding his coat closed.
She needs to be closer to him. Needs to feel more. ]