Sinjir still hungers, but it's in a different way, marrow-deep, skin-stripped, raw. He half wishes that Ba'al would leave him used and dripping, just whisper filthy things to him and leave him broken. Half-wishes, too, that Ba'al would keep on like this, slow touches, fingertips skimming along the skin as Sinjir hums in soft pleasure. Imagines sinking down on Ba'al in the bath, curling half-asleep and fuzzy as Ba'al's hands take care of him. He breathes soft sounds, and touches back, lazy and blind and hungry at the same time, reading Ba'al's jaw line and collarbone and the curve of his shoulder through Sinjir's fingertips.