BRIGADE
She rips open his defenses and she leaves him bare and vulnerable. Except it only serves to stoke his own fury, to make him that much more aware of his weakness. He is so young and so foolish and he has no real defenses against someone like her. Someone who stands up to him and refuses to yield; someone who doesn’t back down when he bites at her, who steps into his inferno and drags him closer.
He mind whirls with it, his heart thundering.
He can’t decide if he loves her or hates her; if he wants to kill her or let her kill him.
She says his name and he bites back a groan, fighting to remain impassive and calm. But she closes the distance again and he loses the battle, feels the undertow. The defenses come crashing down and instead of his steel, she gets his oceans. It roars through his head as her teeth catch his lip and he nearly shakes his antlered head, trying to clear his mind of anything but the fog and the waves that crash through it.
“Kensa,” he says again, and it is like a plea, but he doesn’t push her away again. He doesn’t try to fight the roiling hunger in his belly and the feral growl that builds in the back of his throat, His mouth finds her jaw and then her throat, his teeth grazing down the graceful curve of her neck to her withers.
He wants to consume her. Wants to tear her apart. Wants to figure out what lives beneath the beautiful surface and lies beneath those dangerous eyes. “Kensa,” this time, his voice is darker and her flesh is between his teeth. He can taste the salt of her and the mountains and the lake that she has described; he can taste the wild right there and it drags at the wanderlust dreaming of his heart—the need, the want.
“This is a mistake,” he manages, because he knows it is. She has no way of knowing the selfish ways of his young heart. She doesn’t know how deeply jealous he is. How possessive. She doesn’t know that he consumes what he loves and destroys what he wants and that she is wading too deep into the riptide.
She doesn’t know that beneath his stormy grey eyes there is pieces of himself he has yet to discover.
She doesn’t know. He doesn’t know.
But it’s lost in the feverish way that he pulls her against him, that he kisses her, head spinning when he realizes that he barely knows her—that they have barely met. But it doesn’t matter. The pressure in his chest continues to build and he loses himself in the moment, in the press of her against him.
the world was on fire and no one could save me but you
it's strange what desire will make foolish people do
@[Kensa]