All of the heat and the rage and the beauty of the moment implodes and they are left in the quiet aftermath of it. He feels as if he has swallowed the sun and is now left with the ringing quiet—left with the world that they can not make in their own likeness. She is quiet and he feels a strange, dull echo of it in his own chest—the raging tides slowing beneath the gentleness of her touch, the promise of the slowness.
She calls him hers and there is a small shiver up his spine, something possessive that sparks in his wolfish heart, but he doesn’t try and reclaim her now. It is enough to feel it pounding in his youthful chest—a heart that is so naive and so sharply contrasted with the man’s face that he wears. He is but a boy beneath the muscle and the steel and has never had love turn its knifes edge on him but it will. It will, it will.
“Stay,” he whispers into the tangles of her hair, smiling despite himself, feeling that wonderful rush of nerves and excitement in his belly. It is a relief that washes through him—a tentative hope that somehow blossoms in his chest—and he melts into it. This chance and this moment to simply be himself.
He lips at her jaw and down the delicate curve of her throat.
He is soft and quiet, now trying to stir heat but rather exploring, tasting the sweetness of her and marveling at the way her skin turns from ivory to gold. “I want to know more about you,” he says quietly, feeling the gentle breeze race across the Loessian soil and across their backs. “Come with me?” He looks up and then squinting against the sun. “I—I have a place I like to go.” It’s the only real home he has any more, but it’s more home than this naked, exposed expanse of land where they have been fighting.
“We can go—just to talk,” he explains, his grey eyes intense beneath the gentle sweep of his forelock
BRIGADE
when I was a man I thought it ended when I knew love's perfect ache
but my peace has always depended on all the ashes in my wake
@[Kensa]