"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
and all of us, we’re meant for the fire, but we keep rising up and walking the wires
And here, she comes undone.
She no longer has anything to hold onto—nothing to say. He presses his lips into her flesh and she sighs, softened by him, quieted by him. Her vision is hazy, blurred on the edges, and she lifts her head back, to look at the sky as it spins wildly above them. This is the moment she has always spent so much time trying to avoid. This is the moment she has always tried to keep away, and, instead, she finds that she is diving into it headfirst. She drinks it in greedily, purring in her throat, arching into his touch.
He is everything and nothing like she assumed.
He is wicked and beautiful and hers.
He is hers.
(She is his, but she can’t admit that—not yet.)
She grows wild with want, with need, and he draws her further and further down the path of it. He need only crook a finger and she obliges. She no longer has any restraint, any conviction. She is not the icy woman he has always known; she is not the guarded woman of his youth. She is bright and fierce and alive beneath his touch. She gives us much as she takes, and she hungers for more, her eyes sharp with it.
When he finally groans, she shakes her head, throaty laughter escaping her.
“My last chance was a long time ago.”
She curves her head back to him, beautiful in the light that washes over him. She drinks the sight of him in greedily, wanting to remember it forever, wanting to carve it into the back of her mind and she sighs.
Nods.
Gives herself over to the flames that lick through her very bones.
In this beautiful, perfect moment, all he can think is this is everything he has ever wanted. Her, warm and alive against his skin, the fire of passion licking between them. Her, acquiescing to the desire that he has always known lurks within, beneath the icy exterior and sharp, jaded words. Giving herself over to him to experience everything. To know pleasure as it should be known.
Yes, he thinks. Those words are everything he has wanted to hear. With a hungry groan, he kisses her heated flesh ravenously before pulling her roughly against him. He is almost beyond thought now, wanting only to know the feel and taste of her. Within moments his knees are gripping her hips, his lips trailing along her spine, teeth scraping and kisses soothing. And then he’s inside her and nothing else in the world exists. Nothing matters more than bringing her to the peak of her pleasure.
He is by turns gentle and rough, bringing her with him, moving with her until it is almost as though they have become one. He is both patient and impatient, determined that she will find as much pleasure as he. Lips teasing, hips rocking until they are both gasping. Until he is able to hold on no more. With a low, rumbling groan that vibrates through his chest, he presses his lips hotly against her shoulder. “Come with me Lynx,” he growls into her skin, voice hoarse, rough with desire.
A few more perfect, blissful moments and he’s growling into her heated flesh, the shout muffled by her skin.
For a moment, he holds her there, savoring the way she presses so sweetly against him, savoring the feel of her beneath. Then he’s easing off her, muzzle brushing gentle, almost possessive caresses along her hip, her ribs, her shoulder, until he’s pulling her against him. With a sigh, he holds her in his warm embrace, neck draped across her spine, his chin against her shoulder. Closing his eyes, he whispers her name, unable to prevent the raw note that invades the single syllable. “Lynx.”
and all of us, we’re meant for the fire, but we keep rising up and walking the wires
It happens too fast. Too slow.
All she can feel is the heat of him licking up her sides, the way that her belly tightens, the way that she is surrounded by him. She doesn’t hear his thoughts other than the dull roar in her head. She doesn’t hear her own protests, weak as they are, in the back of her head. She doesn’t feel anything except for the sweet feeling of knowing that this is what submission feels like. Submission to him. To herself. To joy.
If she didn’t know any better, she would think that this was all a product of his own manipulation.
But she does know better.
She knows that this isn’t manipulation. This is just the result of everything that they are.
His teeth on her flesh, his legs around her—they are all the pieces that build into something dangerous and glorious and everything all at once. She drinks it in greedily, storing away every moment, every touch. She lets go of her power and feels the flood of his thoughts, as incoherent and hungry as her own.
When it is over, she is shaking, she is weak, she is glowing with a rare peace in her belly.
Her eyes are soft and hooded as she turns to him, as she presses into his broad chest. She leans heavily against him, blood syrupy in her veins, her pulse slow and heavy and thudding dully. Lazily, she begins to trace patterns into his flesh, tasting the edges of salt from exertion, a reminder of what has passed, of what has occurred. “Is it always like that?” she asks quietly, wondering at the way she feels safe here.
She’s never felt safe—
Not like this.
Part of her wants to reach for her familiar defenses, to arm herself with indifference, but she can’t find it in her to pull the armor on so quickly. So instead she lets herself slip into the warm waters of his presence, giving herself this moment in the afterglow to bask in the sunshine of his smile.
“I’d like to think that it’s always like that,” she whispers.
Every touch and movement is perfection. The soft sounds she makes the most beautiful kind of music. He would hear it again and again if she let him. Would show her just how incredible this could be. Again and again.
His entire body feels almost weightless as he holds her close to him, languid. And entirely too pleased with himself. He smiles against her skin as he presses kisses against her shoulder, soft and satisfied. “Mmmmm,” he murmurs, voice muffled, eyes half-lidded and slumberous. He presses close, enjoying the salt-tinged scent of her mingled with his own.
For this one moment in time, she is his. Whether she would admit it or not.
As his breathing settles, he begins to trace lazy patterns along the ghostly edges of white and delicious ebony. He stills when her soft question registers, lips lingering on her skin. For a moment, he is uncustomarily silent, his lips moving along her skin until his muzzle is buried in the fall of her mane. He rubs the curve of her crest briefly, before smiling faintly. “If it is done right, yes,” he finally responds, voice soft as his breath causes the stray hairs of her mane to flutter.
He leaves the rest unsaid. She must know anyway. She’s seen enough thoughts to know not everyone cares so much about pleasure. Not everyone would treat her so well. The thought disturbs him. That she might ever be mistreated sends a pang through his heart and stirs a curious knot in his gut. But he brushes those thoughts aside. This moment is only for them. Only for the pleasure they had so willingly shared.
At the moment, he has everything. She had allowed him to show her what this could truly be. And that is more than enough for him right now.
and all of us, we’re meant for the fire, but we keep rising up and walking the wires
In this moment, so soft and sweet, she is out of her element.
She can feel it, the way it exists on the outside of her peripheral, her being entirely unequipped to deal with the well of emotions that rises in her chest, clogging her throat. There are thoughts that play along the edges, threatening to form into words on her tongue, but she chokes them down. She’s not ready to admit the way she feels about him. She’s not ready to share that with him. She’s not ready to tell him about the way this has opened up something soft and vulnerable within her, and how scared she is that she won’t ever be able to hide it again—how delicate it feels, swathed in the golden light of his joy.
Instead she closes her eyes as she feels his lips trace over the edges of her shoulders, leaning into him if only because her limbs have gone heavy and the blood in her veins has turned syrupy. She is hollowed out and she wonders at what will flood into the new cavern. Will this change her? Will she wake up tomorrow with the same buoyancy? Will she run from this? Will she harden herself in response?
She doesn’t know.
Can’t know.
Instead, she lets herself loosen her grip on her gift and slips into the warmth of his thoughts, letting his own pleasure flood through her, loosening her already relaxed muscles. There is trust in this moment, as she drops her head and leans her cheek against him, breathing the scent of him in deep. “I know,” is all she says. Two words that speak to the cruelty she’s seen unfolded in the minds of others. Two words that speak to the reality of the world that is never far from her. “I’m glad this was done right.”
She is glad it meant something. She is glad it was with him.
Quietly, so quiet he may not even hear it, she whispers into him, “I’m glad it was with you.”
