When she closed her eyes, she remembered his touch. Soft on her body, hands that she remembered feeling hotter than normal, because if the frigid air of the Bridge Tower.
When she wakes to him holding her, numb and possibly feverish, she stays still, not wanting to shatter the fragile skeleton of her dreams. She believes she is not truly awake.
"Saf," she breathes out quietly.
"I'm here," he murmurs, rubbing her back, "for now."
She shuts her eyes, hating those last few words.
"What are you here for?" she whimpers, knowing his answer.
He gives her an infuriating grin. "What I seem to be perpetually coming back for."
He rolls her on her back, and she consents to his adjustments of her body. The hem of her nightgown is guided up around her thighs, and his rough hands settle around her hips. He drags her a bit towards him, and she tangles her hands on his hair. She stares up at him, not sure how to feel about having him back.
She still wraps her legs around him though, and he groans against her throat.
"Sparks." He mutters between kisses. "You're going to be the death of me."
"You're the one who came back." she points out, gasping as he presses himself, growing more and more ready for her, into her longing core. She had missed him more than she could ever admit. Just as much as he missed her.
They were simply too proud. Katsa and Po could work something beautiful out of their separation and independence. While it wasn't perfect, it was better than this absence of love she felt with Saf.
His lips find hers. Her mouth opens to his, feeling him warm her, starting inside out. Maybe the love isn't exactly absent. But it's unspoken. He's fiddling with her undergarments, getting them out of the way. He rubs her damp sex roughly, but she likes when he's like that. He only treats her like Bitterblue when he's angry. Now, underneath his full weight, she's Sparks. Adventurous, free Sparks. He plays with her body like it's his favorite toy. He has ownership of it. She was never his queen. She loves it.
He never dawdles, minces words, or tiptoes around the subject. He's here because he wants her. Sometimes she wonders how many others there are, or why he comes back to her if he has them. If he can get what he wants elsewhere why is he…
And he's sliding inside her, filling her, taking up space in her body as he does in her mind. She think about this all the time; the slow rolling of his hips she's trying to savor because it's happening now and she'll be missing it again later.
She wants to beg him to stay. She can't. But with him thrusting into her so hard her could break her she wants nothing more than this for the rest of her life.
She keeps arching against him, trying to feel as much as possible, and his fingers slide over her clit as fast as he can manage while thrusting inside her. She wonders who he practiced this with. If he got better while he was away. If she did.
That last part was unlikely. She couldn't stop viewing herself as bound to him, in the strangest of ways. There wasn't anyone else. Not like this.
His fingers are rougher and more insistent, begging in the only way he can manage for her to finish; and she knows he's getting close. He wants her to cum before him. He would never admit it.
For all the times he's just appeared, he made it a bit more about her than she thought he would, but he tried to hide it. It was the little things that made her realize he wanted to please her as much as she wanted to please him.
But he finishes before her, and tenses over her body. He shoves his face in her pillow. It strikes her that he's embarrassed, or even ashamed.
"It's alright…" she strokes his back. "It was still so good, Saf."
He shakes his head, refusing to let her speak.
He pulls out of her, staring down into her eyes. He looks so intense.
He makes his way down her body with his lips, kissing various parts of her chest and slides her neckline under her breasts, licking and sucking on them. She whimpers, begging him to continue, or simply for more.
He moves his face down to her core and licks, parting the lips, and moves his tongue inside her. She gasps, arching her back. He's never done that before. It strikes her that he's trying to make something up to her.
His tongue laps over her clit, fast then slow, light then hard and back again, torturing her. Her hips are wildly bucking against him, because of him, and she loses control, her queenly composure, and cums intensely. Her eyes shut tight and she grips the sheets and moans his name and it leaves her lips before she thinks it over. But she means it, she really means it.
"I love you." she chokes out.
And then she wakes up, and she knows that this isn't just the wanderings of her mind. He sent this to her, to feel the longing he felt. He was torturing her.
He had the infuriating habit of making her never want to wake.