Teeth and hands and that sense of finally, finally; like she's been holding her breath for a terribly long time and can't quite catch it, pleasantly alien in her own skin. Scar tissue raises texture under the passage of his hands, and it's strange how little strange it is - how easy not to think of it, how little it matters. A thing that altered and did not destroy her, and here she is, altered again.

Only mortal, only young, constantly changing. She tilts her face up to him and pulls her hand free of cuff and sleeve to slide behind her into his hair, finds the nape of his neck and twists it silken around her fingers in a fist.

(She is neither gentle nor patient by nature.)

Maker, this is better than arguing about fucking elves. (Just. Fuck this one elf.)