The Living
They do not kiss the way the living do.
She has no tongue, and he has only the vaguest of ideas as to how the act is performed, and so it's more a touch of lips to lips, breath to breath, down there in the dark. But he insists, because he wants to understand the living, and she insists, because she wants to understand him. So they play at kisses, at tender touches, and every time he pulls away to ask,
You truly want this? It will only make you change faster still.
she gives him a look that says
Shut up, fool Architect, and satisfy me
because Utha is demanding and harsh and powerful, and she fascinates every inch of him. Long years together have twined them close, and he cannot deny her, even though a part of him twinges at the thought of her bloated and twisted into a Broodmother.
He studies that aching part carefully, when they lie exhausted, finished, and she manages grim smiles. She is, he believes, resigned to her fate, and hastening or slowing it have little meaning. The form it will take has little meaning.
He's crafted her into a sentient ghoul, perfect and his, and he's let her in to all of his secret worlds, all of his plans. He would keep her like this, always. But her final transformation- that still lingers ahead, and she seems to run fast towards it through the gloom.
He wonders if, perhaps, these touches are a form of suicide.
A/N: Reposted after I did some research and modified a few things. Also, this is totally icey cold's fault. 3