[He remembers the last time he saw her, her face carved into harsh, unforgiving planes. He doesn't want to think of it, of her, not when he's bent over a railing being spirit-fucked.]
I was sick of the dead. I wanted to live.
[Iggy's body jerks, and he utters a cry of pain. But he still doesn't try to get away. He puts his forehead against the hands he has on the railing. Tears escape closed lids, and spit drips from his open mouth.
He wants to come. Maybe it will end if he does. So he rolls his hips and chases the feeling, growing close in spite of the pain. So close.]
no subject
[He remembers the last time he saw her, her face carved into harsh, unforgiving planes. He doesn't want to think of it, of her, not when he's bent over a railing being spirit-fucked.]
I was sick of the dead. I wanted to live.
[Iggy's body jerks, and he utters a cry of pain. But he still doesn't try to get away. He puts his forehead against the hands he has on the railing. Tears escape closed lids, and spit drips from his open mouth.
He wants to come. Maybe it will end if he does. So he rolls his hips and chases the feeling, growing close in spite of the pain. So close.]