BRIGADE
She must know what she is doing.
She must, she must.
Each touch, each moment is enough to send him spiraling until he can’t hear through the dull roar that builds in his ears. He can feel the soft velvet of her nose, the heat of her mouth, the sting of her teeth. He can feel the way that she is slowly and surely pulling him apart, leaving him unraveled. He knows that there was something important he had to say, but he can’t remember what; he knows that there was something he knew that he had to stop, but he can’t remember what he was meant to do.
She asks him a question but it doesn’t cut through the fog.
All he can do is keep tasting the wilderness down the smooth curve of her neck and the elegant arch of her back. The way that she opens up before him like a feast and he can only lose himself within it. He bites back the dark growl that builds in his throat again and he knows (he knows) that he not being gentle enough with her. He is taking and hoarding and not stopping to be sweet and soft.
She comes to his wing and he is practically blind with everything that rages in him. He nips at her, bites, feels the give of flesh and then follows it with a searing kiss, but her question comes back to him. “This,” he finally manages, his voice throaty. “This is.” He shakes his antlered head and pulls back, gasping for air that he can’t seem to get, his broad chest heaving as he tries to steady himself.
He has one hand on steady ground and he has to use it to pull himself up before he drowns. “I can’t,” and there is almost regret that darkens his voice, but he buries it under whatever steel he can muster. He takes another step back and the rich red of his coat is darkened, his heavy mane split over both sides of his arched neck, light grey eyes stormy. For a second, he says nothing, listening to nothing but the sound of the thunder that builds and the sound of their own breathing. She is so beautiful like this and it makes his chest ache with the desire to pull her close, to try and be gentle, to tell her just how lovely she is.
But he doesn’t deserve that—look at the way he handled just the few moments he had been given.
He’s so aware of his brutish hands, at the way he would crush her between his palms. He studies her face for a second longer, feeling that sharp pull of need in his belly and knowing that it, more than anything, is why he can’t stay. Is why he can’t continue. “I should go,” he says and he is surprised by how steady his voice sounds when everything within him feels so deeply turbulent. “I’m sorry.”
the world was on fire and no one could save me but you
it's strange what desire will make foolish people do
@[Kensa]