Work Text:
A strong blush floods across her face—across the valleys of her body, warmth pouring down on her like rays of Earth-sun as she sinks onto him. He runs his hands up her sides, feeling, with a carefully-controlled frantic desire that would be imperceptible to any others, the curves of her skin, the softness of her flesh, the comfort of her. His hands rest over her hips, guiding her, pulling her closer.
Dr. Morden still won't look at her. Instead, wetness grows at the lines of his eyes, tears elicited by all of it—the first intimacy since the accident, with someone who foolishly thinks that she can save him. Maybe it isn't right, maybe it's wrong to enjoy this when he is surely a lost cause, when he will fall right back into mourning when this is over. He's wasting her time, but she feels good around him, and he's interesting company to conquer her apparent loneliness.
She's also married, but that part doesn't bother him as much. It should. He was married once—he would feel differently about her interest if they were still alive, but he is only a hollowness now, he is only an utter voidemptiness that has consumed everything in its path.
She makes him worse. Her idea of helping him is desecration. She is trying to take his soul out and examine it, shard by shard, still operating under a false belief in saviors. She is trying to keep him from becoming the dead civilizations they study—her optimism is horrific. She drilled a hole in his love stone and strangled him down with the chain, pulling him into her orbit.
He went into this of his own free will. He wanted her, wanted this; his eternal flaw and his ultimate source of power is the fact that he is starving. They are both complicit in this crime.
She kisses the tears away, running her tongue over the salt. A warm, reddened hand moves from her inner legs to underneath his chin, pointing his gaze upward, his eyes pouring into hers.
“Be here with me,” she says, rocking over him. “Stay in the moment.”
So he stays in the moment, kisses her, allows his passion to unfold into her—a broken and disfigured passion that he still apparently possesses. Anna Sheridan makes him worse, but she's—she—