you could break my heart in two, but when it heals, it beats for you
He does not back away, or relent and meet her part way. Brigade is a citadel and she hates that she feels like a desperate girl. Nothing in his face changes as it had before, she is undone by the stillness, by the refusal she reads on every inch of wine-red muscle. The wind picks up yet again, whips her blond locks across her freckled face, softening the obstinate set of her features in a way she would despise if she could see it.
Isn’t she strong enough to face someone like him and bend him to her will? She who refuses to be weak ever again?
It summons up too much, her seams are torn and the petals that she stuffs her bodice with are fluttering away and exposing the angry onyx bones beneath. If she is honest she thought she could woo him, carry him home in her heart and wait for the day he would climb into Hyaline to find her, his mind and body crazed by the memory of her. Stupid girl. Yes! Yes I do! She wants to scream it in his face, challenge her pulsing fear of his bared teeth (enough to hurt her even if he is not satisfied with their capacity for violence), the innate desire to submit. Her silence is louder, resisting further humiliation at the hands of this hateful creature.
She doesn’t hear any thunder.
Brigades teeth are at the corner of her mouth in an instant, without warning and she lets herself be dragged in, pulled close, exhaling abruptly as though she’d been struck only to gasp at the taste of him. She is only allowed a moment to press her lips back before he is gone, searing his way down her skin with her name in his mouth, his breath hot against the latch of her throat. She leans in to his touch like a broken thing, shivering when he pauses, her breathing a hitching and erratic.
Nothing she can say will please him. She understands this has he withdraws, and knows too that he told her no lies when he said she should stay away. This man is no play thing to entertain her between trysts and she wants to rage at that truth too. He is too much, the sensations too vast and the danger too great to risk herself on. Kensa should fold and leave him with his hateful glares.
“Brigade.”
She can think of nothing else to say, and so pants his name like an oath before taking back the distance he has put between them pressing her forehead to his. When she kisses him she means it to be tender, to plead with him with her body but she cannot manage it long. She catches his lip in her teeth before trailing her mouth along the granite planes of his face, pressing her cheek to his, baring her throat to his mouth, his teeth. “...Brigade it wouldn’t be enough.”
Kensa
@[brigade]
