When you laugh, his throat tightens up. He has to swallow against the lump that forms. He likes when you laugh. He hasn't heard you laugh—in years.
You like sex, though you feel pressure to do well. Looking back over his experiences with you, he can see that. But it's not what he wanted you to say. It would have explained the way things worked between them if you had said you didn't enjoy sex. He looks down, trying not to let the wave of disappointment engulf him. Did you feel pressure to "get it right" between them? Did you think that was right? Did you care?
He doesn't want to talk about this anymore or think about the past. He wants to go back to kissing you.
"I don't know." If he likes sex or not. He shrugs one shoulder, frowning down at his lap. He's too consumed with his own questions to think very hard about yours. "Humanity is so isolated, trapped alone in your bodies and minds. Disconnected. It makes sense that you engage in acts of gluttony and violence and lust to stave off facing the desolate solitude of your existence." If he was thinking more clearly, he'd acknowledge that fact that, unlike angels, humans don't live with ties to a collective consciousness. His experiences at the camp taught him that some humans still strive for that kind of connection, and even though no shared substance or mutual orgasm can achieve it, enough people were willing to fool themselves that it could. It made it easy for him to fool himself along with them. To keep the loneliness at bay.
He glances over at you. "Do you feel pressure now to get it right?" Between them. Shifting towards you across the leather seat, close enough that their legs tangle, he reaches forward to rest a hand on your thigh. He slides it up to your hip, rubbing gently up and down your side over your t-shirt. Touching you like this is still a rarity, a gift. He stares earnestly into your eyes. You said they could continue to pretend. "If we—had sex. Would you want to get it right?"
Make it be how it's suppose to be? He swallows again, convulsively. He would consider having sex with you if they could get it right this time.
no subject
You like sex, though you feel pressure to do well. Looking back over his experiences with you, he can see that. But it's not what he wanted you to say. It would have explained the way things worked between them if you had said you didn't enjoy sex. He looks down, trying not to let the wave of disappointment engulf him. Did you feel pressure to "get it right" between them? Did you think that was right? Did you care?
He doesn't want to talk about this anymore or think about the past. He wants to go back to kissing you.
"I don't know." If he likes sex or not. He shrugs one shoulder, frowning down at his lap. He's too consumed with his own questions to think very hard about yours. "Humanity is so isolated, trapped alone in your bodies and minds. Disconnected. It makes sense that you engage in acts of gluttony and violence and lust to stave off facing the desolate solitude of your existence." If he was thinking more clearly, he'd acknowledge that fact that, unlike angels, humans don't live with ties to a collective consciousness. His experiences at the camp taught him that some humans still strive for that kind of connection, and even though no shared substance or mutual orgasm can achieve it, enough people were willing to fool themselves that it could. It made it easy for him to fool himself along with them. To keep the loneliness at bay.
He glances over at you. "Do you feel pressure now to get it right?" Between them. Shifting towards you across the leather seat, close enough that their legs tangle, he reaches forward to rest a hand on your thigh. He slides it up to your hip, rubbing gently up and down your side over your t-shirt. Touching you like this is still a rarity, a gift. He stares earnestly into your eyes. You said they could continue to pretend. "If we—had sex. Would you want to get it right?"
Make it be how it's suppose to be? He swallows again, convulsively. He would consider having sex with you if they could get it right this time.