Work Text:
Dr. Morden’s hands are too soft; she feels the contrast in hers when they touch, her skin grating against his, only scarring Anna---his own flesh unaffected, sliding smooth against the current. He doesn’t feel like an archaeologist—he doesn’t touch like one either, he kisses with a shattering passion, with a fervor that can only translate into overall fury. Her hands are callused, worn down from infectious hard work, from putting the past in her mouth, swishing it around, and swallowing—his hands are soft but not gentle, not like a researcher’s hands at all, smooth with a lack of comfort, simply too smooth to be endured—there is more to him than he allows anyone to truly touch, hiding his thoughts in the graves of her hardened skin.
