Merida
from the ashes, a fire shall be awoken
He leans into her touch and almost (almost) she is shocked by it. For a fleeting second, she assumed she would have met resistance, whether physically or verbally. But no, the beast (the man, hers) turns his jaw towards her touch and whatever hesitancy that lingered in the trembling of her ebony lips now subsides, the warmth of her mouth firm and decisively so against the muted gold of his skin. “I know; I could never force anything you didn’t want to do,” her voice comes quietly in response, shallow and pressing as it falls against his jaw. There is no cheeky remark, or sarcastic droll that accompanies her thought. It is the truth, and she knows it. Anything he has done has been his own free will, because he has chosen to do so.Embered eyes, alight and dancing, flicker to the cobalt of his, suddenly brave instead of the simpering fool, realizing that she too has made her own choice each and every day.
She hadn’t known that she had been choosing him until today.
This is not forced by either of them, but a discovery that had laid dormant for far too long.
His face presses in to the supple arc of her red-flecked neck, and she feels her chest tightening as her breath holds itself carefully in her throat. A gesture that, in their other skins, she would not have even thought much of now seems more raw and intimate than she could have ever imagined. He asks her again, and this time the question is much less intimidating and the answer all the more clear. There is a hum in her throat as his touch turns familiar against her raven skin, a soft sigh erupting from her mouth that falls lush against the slope of his sturdy shoulder. His need to hear her say it, the unabashed way he draws closer and has not backed down from her prideful actions, gives her all the realization she needs to know that admitting such a thing would not be seen as a weakness.
Perhaps, the onyx vixen thinks idly, she would be stronger.
“Crevan,” she murmurs, dark lids falling across burning eyes, the soft plane of her cheek tenderly pressing against the bulk of him. “I do.” Her voice is final and without waver as she submits the confession to him, the tiniest inkling of a smile tugging at the charcoaled black of her mouth. She does not move from him, does not turn away, but merely remains where she is, content and happy beneath the curve of his neck and against the fullness of his chest. It didn’t even matter if he said anything back, or if he thought her a fool (he would never), or told her he loved another.
She has made her choice and he will have to live with it.
“There’s nothing you can do about it, either.”
@[Crevan]
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