bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
if you must drink of me, take of me what you please
Woolf has never been an emotional or sensitive man.
He has spent his life as an observer, a scientist—someone who indulges himself in only the ways that he thinks can expand his own understanding of the world around him. It has led to a life outside of others. He has a child, but it was purely for curiosity sake; he had felt no hunger, no need during it. It was only when he was with her that he felt something else slip beneath the surface, her own wild emotions cutting him to his quick, peeling back his layers of indifference to leave him vulnerable and aching.
Her thoughts are a constant ripple in his own mind, and for the most part, he is too lost in the moment to dive into them. Too lost in the feel of her against him, the heat that kindles to life between them, to try and discern the doubts and the fear in her—but when he pauses, when he rests his head against her, trying to gain some semblance of control, they come screaming to life, and he frowns. He tips his head back, watching her untangle her own emotions, untangle her own desires, doubt spreading through her.
When she dips her head back down to him, trailing her teeth and lips along his jawline, he smiles, the emotion as wolfish as his name—but he isn't ready to leave. Not yet. His right hand comes up, cradling her jaw, his thumb brushing across her soft cheek. “Okay,” he breathes, voice thick, “but first, you need to admit to me that you know what I actually want—from you, from this.”
He reaches for her palm, pulling it to his forehead, letting it rest there. His emerald eyes look to her and then, blood starting to bead along the wound, he opens his mind to her the way her mind has always been open to him. He lets it rush out, letting her pick through the desire, the want, the newness of it all. He lets her feel the heady emotions he’s felt since their first encounter, the lust that flicks like flames up the side of his mind and the simultaneous, trickier emotion that rides like an undercurrent beneath it all.
His eyes go a little dark, somber as he pulls her hand away, pressing a rough kiss into the palm before releasing it. He clears his throat, fire still simmering in his belly, when the rest of the world comes screaming back into stark reality. The bubble he has placed around them pops, snow beginning to drift in closer, as the metal flowers strike ground. Something shifts in Woolf, and he slides Wallace down, her body still pressed close to his, but his eyes going flat, his handsome features taking on a keen edge.
He knows about Kerberos.
Known about him since the first day he had met Wallace when she had thrown open her mind and nearly drowned him in the memories of her first encounter with the man. He remembers the moment as if he had experienced it himself. Her fear. Her pain. Her shame when her hair was sheared off. His lips peel back over his teeth, one arm pulling Wallace behind him. Not because she can’t handle herself, but because he can’t, and the last thing he wants is to let her get in between him and the man of iron—
Not now, not here.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he snarls, the wicked scar curving over his shoulder splitting open as he greedily opens the floodgates of his own power. Flames begin to lick down his arms, completely harmless to the woman behind him, although she may feel the hints of warmth. He knows that Wallace has somehow found it in her heart to forgive Kerberos—or, at least, forgive him enough to continue to let him in her life, but he doesn’t forgive as sweetly. It’s clear in the hard edge of his mouth.
“I’ve always been curious to know the temperature that iron melts,” he spits the words with venom, barely holding himself back, the fireball in his left palm pulsing as it begins to fade from orange to white.
“Unless you leave right now, you’re going to find out with me.”
woolf
I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste
um, so woolf has a temper. :| i'm sorry.
