"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
She hates the fact that of everyone she has ever met, he (he) is the one to scare her.
Him with the bright eyes and wide smile and floppy ears, using his ability to manipulate ice and snow and control winter itself so that he can grow absurd ice eyebrows just to make her laugh. Running his lips down her ribs to get her to giggle. Teasing and poking at her and looking so damn smug the whole time.
He is ridiculous, and he is absolutely terrifying because of it.
“I see the tree,” she snaps, growing increasingly icy with the fear. He is too close. Physically. Emotionally. He is too close to seeing everything about her. The fact that she is lonely. The face that beneath everything, she has always been just a scared little girl who wants to believe the best in the world. The fact that she loves her family and hates them for not chasing after her more. The fact that she had loved her father and can’t stand the thought of him anymore, of how he has destroyed their family.
He is too close and she desperately wants to keep all of it from him.
When he gets serious, she grows increasingly skittish, not liking that somber look in his eye. She freezes at the feel of his nose against hers like prey, drawing in the scent of him, before shifting her head to the side. She scoffs, shaking her head. “Everyone tries to keep secrets.” Her control slips once more, but this time she looks terribly sad instead of girlish and joyful, shadows striking her eyes. “I should know.”
She ignores the fluttering in her belly as his face shifts from mischievous to playful. She can’t stop feeling the way that she straddles a need to get rid of him for good or satiate that hunger gnawing at her—the one that mirrors what she sees reflected back in his eyes. Suddenly, irritation flares in her belly.
She shouldn’t be afraid of him.
She shouldn’t feel trapped by his warm brown eyes or goofy smile.
She takes an emboldened step forward, trying to grab for some semblance of control in the conversation that has increasingly felt like it is heading down a dangerous road. “How about you do that, Fox,” her voice drops an octave as she takes another step toward him, closing the distance—hoping to throw him off balance as much as he has been throwing hers off. “You certainly talk a big game.”
He loves teasing her. Loves the flashes of the true Lynx he sees beneath her carefully crafted exterior. He can sense her discomfort, but that doesn’t stop him from wanting to break down all her walls. He wants the real her. Calm, ruthless, sad, lonely, aching. Every bit of her. He wants it, because it’s real. It’s his oldest childhood friend wrapped so carefully in that icy exterior.
Besides, he’s never minded ice.
He is grinning like a heathen when abruptly she stops, stilling her skittish feet as a new light brightens her eye, a new intent setting her features. Rather than retreating, she takes a bold step forward, and Fox lifts one brow in question. The grin slips into an easy smirk. Until her words escape her lips, causing every bit of that smirk to slip from his lips.
For a moment, he stares at her. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t surprised. He certainly hadn’t expected the abrupt aboutface. He had been certain he would have to tease and cajole until she once more grew comfortable in his presence. Instead, she throws down the gauntlet, a daring challenge staring him straight in the face.
And oh, didn’t she know how eagerly this is one challenge he would accept?
Eyes darkening with rakish intent, he too steps forward until they are nose to nose. “Is that so?” he rumbles in a tone that has dropped much the same way hers had. He is not the only one who talks a big game, it seems. The real question however, is whether or not she would follow through.
Slowly, he brushes his muzzle along the bridge of her dark nose before he traces his lips along the hollow just beneath. With an aching slowness, he follows the line of her cheek until her pauses just at the crease of her throat. Breath warm against her skin, he grins momentarily before nibbling lightly at the corner of her jaw.
Abruptly, he withdraws, amber eyes heavily lidded as he seeks out her gaze. “Are you certain this is actually what you want Lynx?” His voice is low and husky as he speaks. Let her say the words aloud. She might be privy to his thoughts, but he cannot hear hers. And if she were only teasing, he would much rather know now.
and all of us, we’re meant for the fire, but we keep rising up and walking the wires
He doesn’t feel ridiculous now.
She feels the blood freeze in her veins and then turn to liquid heat, racing through her, lighting her very extremities on fire. She stands still as he closes the gap between them, and she wonders at why she has never noticed all of the flecks of different colors in his eyes, the way that the light turns them molten. How they can shift from green to hazel to honey, taking on such a vast and dizzying array of color.
Her belly tightens, desire pooling in there.
She has never really felt this before. Never let herself want it. She was content to live apart, set aside and watching from a distance. She was content to travel alone, to keep an eye on her dangerous brother and to keep Fox squarely filed away as the old, slightly obnoxious, slightly funny friend.
But he doesn’t feel funny now.
And she doesn’t feel like laughing.
He traces patterns into her flesh and goosebumps follow, her nerves lighting up at every place that he has been. Her icy blue eyes heat and she turns to him, determined to not lose her edge in this game, determined to keep at least one hand next to his on the steering wheel. She was not raised to be a coward and she would not let the likes of him drive her away. She would not flee from this.
“Fox,” her voice is smoke and she reaches out, almost shy at first as her lips find the heavy angles of his jaw. He had just been a child the last time they had been together. He had been gangly and fluffy and cute, no edges, nothing to cause her heart to flip. But he isn’t just a boy anymore. He has grown into himself, his body filling out, his face taking shape with masculine weight and angles.
All she wants to do is explore them.
Perhaps later she will know that her determination to wrench control is what caused her to lose it entirely. Perhaps she will figure out that by fighting desperately for control, she relinquished it all, but she doesn’t recognize it now. All the same, she’s lost in the moment, lost in him. She nearly hums in her throat as she nips slightly at him, catching hide between her teeth and holding it, pinching down and then releasing it.
She sighs, her breath rolling lazily over him.
“Shut up, Fox,” she murmurs, mouth moving over the slopes of his forehead, lipping at the soft velvet near the corner of his mouth. “Don’t say something stupid and make me regret this.”
His name on her lips brings with it a flood a warmth, ice turned to heat in his blood. Instead of retreating, she softens for him, the sharp angles of her face taking on an entirely new cast. For the first time, that ice melts entirely, letting him see her. Just her. His Lynx.
Doesn’t she know that’s all she had ever needed to enrapture him completely?
There is nothing child-like about this now, nothing to bring back memories of an old friendship. Instead, it is something new, something fresh and wondrous and bright. And like the greediest of dragons hoarding his gold, he wants every bit of it.
When she doesn’t reject him, fire sparks along his skin, igniting something he might never forgot. She is his now. His. And he would never let her forget it.
Eyes almost slumberous, he lets her touch, relishing the sensation of her lips tracing the contours of his jawline. A shiver races along his spine when her teeth pinch his skin, the faintest hint of pain sharpening the pleasure of her touch. A lazy, faintly wicked grin curves his lips as her breath shudders along his skin, her slightly vexed words amusing him.
Closing the gap between them, he skims his muzzle along the satin skin of her neck until he reaches the hollow of her shoulder. Pressing gentle kisses along the sensitive skin there, he pauses only when he reaches the sharper point of her withers. Gently, he scrapes his teeth along the skin that stretches tautly over bone before placing a soothing kiss on the offended flesh. Then, he chuckles, a low, rough sound that teases at unfulfilled desire. “You will never regret this Lynx,” he groans breathily against her skin. “Never.”
and all of us, we’re meant for the fire, but we keep rising up and walking the wires
She wants to believe him.
She wants to believe that she will never regret this. That she will wake up in his arms and that they will go on to live a happy life together. She wants to believe that she will always lower her defenses around him, that she would always be willing to let him close to her—but she knows better. She’s seen the way that love can twist unto itself, the very sharpness that brought it beauty being the same edge that slices through the chest. She’s watched her father turn from her family. Her mother deal with the aftermath.
She knows love isn’t forever.
She doesn’t even know if love is real.
(Is this love?)
Her heart pounds wickedly against her chest and she wants to pull away, wants to extract herself from his thoughts that have turned increasingly smoky and enticing, but she can’t. What had started as a dare has turned muddy around her ankles, and she can feel herself sinking into it. Leaning into it. His mouth brushes her flesh and she shivers. His teeth rake against her and she nearly moans, the sound building in her throat and getting stuck on her tongue. It’s foggy. Everything is foggy, and she comes undone.
“I already regret it,” she whispers, but she doesn’t break from him. Her lips trace his neck, find the dip of his spine. She trails down his belly, alternating between small bites and the gentlest of kisses. “I can’t be what you deserve,” she pulls back but only so that she can find his neck and then his jaw. She traces her way down his face, stopping by the corner of his mouth. “But I don’t want to think about that right now.”
Her blue eyes are clear, her face stripped clean of pretense when she finds his gaze.
“I want to stop thinking for once in my life, Fox.”
He pauses, lips hovering over the black and white of her skin, his breath warm, steady. She spoke of regret, and he never wanted her to regret anything they did here today. Her lips send shivers racing across his skin, already missing the heat of her touch when she retreats along his neck, his jaw, the corner of his lip. His eyes, warm and amber, focus on hers when draws back, that plea on her lips. His heart thumps in his chest as he stares at her, his understanding and compassion as real as her fear.
Drawing close once more, he tugs her in to a warm embrace, her skin heated against his cheek. Finally, he whispers his response into her warmth, willing her to feel the depth of his own emotions. “There should never be regret in pleasure,” he murmurs softly. “Just feel. Let it be what it is, nothing more.”
He chuckles softly then, almost inaudibly, as his lips find her skin once more. “As for the forgetting part, I think I can help you with that,” he rasps as his muzzle finds her spine, as he traces and nibbles his way along the elegant slope. He wouldn’t profess love for her, wouldn’t tell her things she wouldn’t want to hear, wouldn’t believe anyway. But he would show her what she could have if she gave herself over to it. Would show her what he would gladly give her every day, for as long as she wanted him (even if it is only one. The one thing she would never have to fear was a lie.
With a soft groan, he moves down the length of her lovely body, lips slow and seeking. He pauses at the point of her hip, a gentle nip soothed by a shower of kisses. He skims farther, shifting. Pausing.
With a soft, rumble in his throat, he grins faintly against her skin before shifting again. His lips find their way along her other side, paying the same attention to the delicate skin there. Let her feel the anticipation, the growing hunger, the heat in her loins. It would only heighten her senses. Would only intensify the pleasure. Finally, his agonizing exploration brings him to her neck, the hollow beneath her jawbone. He nibbles there briefly before he withdraws, his eyes dark with wicked hunger. “Did you regret that?” he breathes.
and all of us, we’re meant for the fire, but we keep rising up and walking the wires
He stokes a fire in her belly until it blossoms into an inferno.
She can feel it spreading through her limbs, the edges of her mind turning hazy, her extremities going numb. The rest of the world seems to fade away into a dull, soothing static, and she feels drunk in the moment, lost in the agonizing slow build of his touch. She can’t find the words in her throat, can’t feel anything except for the soft purr in her throat as he kisses his way down her sides, as she feels lips and teeth and the impossibly warm roll of breath as it hovers over her skin, pooling like fog in the morning.
There is a part of her, a weak part of her, the blooms beneath his attention. She unfurls beneath his touch, wanting to believe in the purity of it—wanting to believe in hime. Her heart is vulnerable, having been shielded and kept away for so long, and he undoes the defenses so perfectly that she has to wonder if she had any to begin with. Was there a moment where she was not his? Was there a time?
She can’t remember.
She can’t remember anything but this: the hitch in her breath, the spike in her pulse.
He comes back up the other side and her eyes open, her face naked with emotion, the muss of her hair so different from the usually elegant, sleek appearance of her. “I don’t,” she breathes, trembling slightly. She can still feel the whispers of his mind and, for perhaps the first time, she withdraws completely. She pulls it into herself, remembering the lessons of her mother and the ways to shut it off when needed.
Would he feel the absence of her from his mind? Would he feel the weight of her being lifted?
She didn’t know. All she knew was that she did not want to hear his thoughts now.
Not when she had this to ask.
“Fox,” his name is heated on her tongue as she reaches out, tracing his face, tasting whatever she can reach. “Tell me you’ll be mine.” The request is almost so quiet that he may not hear her. Almost so quiet that she could ignore the stab of shame in her belly at her weakness, but she doesn’t apologize for it. She just leans into him, curling her neck to find the warmth of his chest, to feel the thud of his heartbeat.
For tonight, she thought. She just needed something to call her own. At least for tonight.
She fears weakness, but he sees only strength. Courage, beautiful and aching, in every supple line of her body. In the way she gives herself over, despite everything she knows of the world. In the gift of her trust, tender and fragile in his embrace. And he loves her all the more for it. Because even if she cannot see it, he can. The effort of that acquiescence, the struggle to forget everything to simply exist in the beauty of the moment with him.
There is strength delineated in every motion, and he wants nothing more than to show her just how much.
He feels her pulse when he places that kiss in the hollow of her throat, smiles at the way it jumps beneath his touch. His eyes are slumberous and bright on his wicked features as he traces his gaze over her feminine curves, pausing a moment to admire her. Her breathy denial causes his lips to stretch, and he rewards her with a tender kiss to the curved line of her jaw, lingering to trace its delicate shape.
Fox, she says in a heated tone. “Lynx,” he replies, his voice raspy with restrained need. Her lips move along the lines of his face, sending shivers of delight along his spine as heat curls in his belly. Tell me you’ll be mine, she pleads before curling into him. He inhales on a breath of surprise quickly swallowed by pleasure. Groaning, a low rumble that vibrates through his chest, he ducks his, pressing his lips hard against her, her satin skin hot against him as he fights the urge to make her his then and there. “I’m yours, he rumbles. “All yours.” The words are hoarse, more breath than sound as he moves his lips greedily against her skin, touching every piece of her he can find.
and all of us, we’re meant for the fire, but we keep rising up and walking the wires
There is part of her that wants to return the words. That wants to whisper the truth of it back into him, giving him the most precious of gifts—be damned whether it ruins her. She wants to unravel before him, losing all sense of control, following him down the path of the unknown. She wants to light on fire for him, show him the weakest parts of her, the parts that she doesn't even visit often—the parts she doesn’t dare trail her fingers down, where she doesn’t dare put pressure against the joints most prone to buckling.
So, even though the words are there, tripping over her tongue, just begging to be said,
(I’m yours too.)
they remain clogged in her throat.
It instead becomes a soft hum, a murmur, a light groan against the back of her teeth.
It becomes something she shows instead of says because the words have too much power and she’s not willing to fall beneath its weight just yet. It becomes the way she curves to him, heavy-lidded and soft where she is usually all angles, all anger, all furious cold. It becomes the way she presses her lips to to chest, trailing up the masculine curve of his neck, lingering on his jaw, teeth testing the flesh there.
She no longer has words to show him the passionate shattering in her breast, the fears lost in the fog.
All she has is this—here and now—this impossible moment where he has finally made his way behind her defenses. She almost chokes when she finds his gaze, almost remembers the danger there, but she doesn’t back away, doesn’t try to leave. She just nods slowly, pressing her cheek to his and then moving closer into him until they stand chest to chest and she can lose herself in trailing patterns down his broad back.
She doesn’t need to say the words for him to know. Doesn’t need to tell him the things she so clearly shows in the touch of her lips and the curl of her body. He might not be a mind reader, but he could read her. He could taste the admission on her skin, hear it in the gasp of her breath. One day perhaps she would tell him. But he doesn’t need her to. Has never needed her to.
He revels in her touch, both gentle and demanding. Soaks in the warmth of her cheek against his before his lips find her skin just as hers find his. He tastes and touches, tracing every inch of the graceful slope of her spine. Her own touch trails heat along his skin, igniting a fire deep within him, entirely overtaking ever bit of chill in his skin.
He takes his time, lips lovingly trailing over her rips, nibbling and soothing in turns. He wants her mindless, forgetting everything but his touch. Forgetting the thoughts that so constantly tickle at her mind. He wants her focused only on him, on the pleasure he can give her. On the fire he can stoke in her belly and the unbearable sensitivity of her skin. He wants her on the very edge of bliss, until nothing else matters in this world.
He nips the point of her hip, a bite of pain to sharpen the pleasure. His mouth quickly soothes away any sting before he trails his lips along the smooth slope of her rear. He nibbles and kisses, his breath slightly ragged, warm against her skin. He shifts, pressing against, skin hot and tight as his mouth moves ravenously across her spine above the graceful sweep of her tail. After a long, hungry moment, he pauses, the tension thick between them.
“Last chance,” he groans hoarsely against her, wanting so desperately to feel her beneath him. Her yes would make her inarguably his. No turning back after this.
