[mature] but now we're sleeping at the edge; dacian

[Dacian]

you have forsaken all the love you've taken
sleeping on a razor there's nowhere left to fall

He wonders how much she can see on his face. If she can see the intensity of which he stares at her, if she can feel the hunger that coils and leaves an ache inside of him. It does nothing to stop him, of course. His gaze does not break, does not lessen as he memorizes the sharp, feminine angles of her face, softened by the starlight. Can she feel how badly he wants to touch her? How badly he craves to feel the warmth of her beneath his lips, to feel the life that must thrum beneath her skin? He has not touched anyone in any capacity since he has been back. He has not caved to any one of his physical desires – sexual or otherwise.

He knows that tonight that he will.
He knows, because when he notices the way the light shimmers across her curves that it takes all of his resolve to not take her right then and there.
It is only the fact that she has set herself apart from so many others that forces him to swallow his lust and find some semblance of control. He wants her willing, not afraid. He wants to keep her, and he knows he cannot keep her if he hurts her.

Some of his strength crumbles when she speaks, and though it incites another crooked smile to his face, it also brings him forward. He does not stop until he is close enough to feel the heat that radiates from her, until he can hear the softness of her breathing. Then he reaches, his mouth against the groove of her throat when he murmurs, “What do you want to know?” His lips linger there, before dragging them up behind her ear and then beneath the strands of her mane, and he drinks in all that he can in case she pulls away, as though this touch might be all that he has.

Dacian

your body's aching, every bone is breaking
nothing seems to shake it, it just keeps holding on