[ He looks at her and he thinks it a shame. Not because she's less beautiful (she isn't), and not because he likes her any less (he doesn't). But because maybe, just maybe he wants her even more this way — meager and threadbare and already his, his name stitched upon very muscle and nerve, his magic sunk deep into her, its tendrils chokeholding every seam, making every moment slow and small except for that brief flash of a smile.
(It'll never last but nothing does. The more precious she gets, the quicker she'll burn. Not unless he gets creative and creativity isn't cheap and Eamonn isn't sure he can admit to her earning it.) ]
T'ought y'd never ask.
[ Grace smiles and so Eamonn smiles in turn — the corners of his mouth pinched upwards, the angle too sharp and the sentiment far too indulged — as he reaches first for her shoulder and then for her breast, kissing Grace again. Please and thank you; selfish through and through; more cloy but still no claw. (Y'r right gorg'us when y'smile like t'at, he'd told her once. He says it less these days but still the memory occurs to her now, the sound of it in her ears like the tolling of a big, fat bell.)
His mouth is still on her, his hand still pawing when he mutters thick with satisfaction: ] T'ere ain't a place in t'is wide world—
[ Where I won't follow. Where you can hide from me. The sentiment is both sweet and suffocating. (He doesn't know any other way to be.) ]
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(It'll never last but nothing does. The more precious she gets, the quicker she'll burn. Not unless he gets creative and creativity isn't cheap and Eamonn isn't sure he can admit to her earning it.) ]
T'ought y'd never ask.
[ Grace smiles and so Eamonn smiles in turn — the corners of his mouth pinched upwards, the angle too sharp and the sentiment far too indulged — as he reaches first for her shoulder and then for her breast, kissing Grace again. Please and thank you; selfish through and through; more cloy but still no claw. (Y'r right gorg'us when y'smile like t'at, he'd told her once. He says it less these days but still the memory occurs to her now, the sound of it in her ears like the tolling of a big, fat bell.)
His mouth is still on her, his hand still pawing when he mutters thick with satisfaction: ] T'ere ain't a place in t'is wide world—
[ Where I won't follow. Where you can hide from me. The sentiment is both sweet and suffocating. (He doesn't know any other way to be.) ]