and all the quiet nights you bear, seal them up with care
no one needs to know they’re there, or i will hold them for you
She is a fine winter mist, and he is an impending hailstorm. Peaceful within herself, quiet and reserved: Brunhilde is unlike herself as her lips purse and her eyes close. She freezes, wings tucked upward, one leg lifted a mere two inches from the ground.
The stallion’s mouth and hot against her skin when she moans, breath hitching in her throat. She would choke if she could move any part of her body; instead, she shivers and finds herself cold where his lips have left, and curses herself for it. This is the exact opposite of what her parents taught her: fight and fight and fight like hell, even if it is with a loved one. This is no loved one, just a wretched and selfish being; and still she cannot find it within herself to even mildly deny him. There is no game here, she is quickly realizing - no game, just engulfing fear and sickly obsession.
It is beneath him that she finally breaks, the dam around her patched heart splitting open with a terrifying crash.
The air goes still when he wraps his wings around her. Brun watches as rain falls in slow motion, crystalline drops heartbreaking in their purity. She knows she will never feel the rain the same again. Even that simple joy, one of feeling clean after a spring shower, he steals from her.
“Oh,” she whispers when he is inside of her. Over and over again, she tells herself she could fight back: she should at least try to set him on fire, right? But even this she denies herself, relaxing beneath the push of his hips and attempting to tear her neck away from the sharp grasp of his teeth. It would feel good if she wanted it, Brunhilde quickly realizes, knowing all too deeply how much she wants others to inflict pain on her. It is a sickly epiphany, one that makes her silently gag.
A single, aggressive thrust forces the little flame forward, knees buckling at his weight and how much she wants to enjoy this. She moans and hates herself for it, even as tears begin to drip from her eyes.
Say you hate me.
“I hate you,” she whispers, though it is the empty response of desperation.
Say it.
“I fucking hate you.” This time there is meaning, but it is forced apart by a broken moan, and Brunhilde whips her head around to snap furious teeth in the stallion’s face. She begins to back into his hips, and spits, “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. I bet you didn’t want me to enjoy it, did you?” Tears still stream down her cheeks, turning what might be a worthy rebuttal into a childish one.
