The first press had felt like so much. Too much, too intense, too warm to possibly bear but that small brush of contact- lips and nose against his jaw, his throat- the twining of their fingers? Suddenly make what was too much nowhere near enough. He aches in ways he cannot hope to articulate, needs what he does not have the words for.

Ever helpful, York prompts him with a mental smirk.

"Locus-" Are you certain?

Yeah, he'll love it. "I need you-"

And if that isn't a desperate scrape of voice, a hitch of his hips and knot of his throat, he doesn't know what is. "I am yours for the taking."