there's a wildfire with your name on it, sochi

[sochi]

sochi

If she is surprised that the two of them—only moments before vying for the other’s jugular—now remain in this bubble of near contentment, she doesn’t show it. If she still thinks about what he would look like torn apart, the scales ripped through and the blood sticky and thick down his neck, she says nothing. She just watches as he finally gets back to his feet, clearly weakened, and makes his way to her side. As he presses against her, using his mouth as a navigational tool—dragging lips up her neck and to her face.

She doesn’t return the gesture but she doesn’t push him off completely either.

Instead she just tilts her head to the side, her mane sticking to her neck with sweat and blood. “I submit to no one,” she repeats, her voice steady despite the exhaustion and fatigue. “Not anymore.” She thinks of Castile for a moment—of his draconic form and his strength—but she knows that for all that she loves him, respects him, she does not submit to him. She would never submit to him. He would never ask.

She huffs lightly when she hears his name, accepting the weight of him against her and ignoring the way that her legs ache, the way that they threaten to buckle. “My name is Sochi,” she finally offers in return, her gaze briefly flitting down to watch him. “You will need to eat something soon if you want to feel better.” She rolls a shoulder. “I find that small game is usually enough to return your strength.”

Her vegetarian diet in this form was not enough after a fight to sustain her—and she suspected that he knew such things. That he too knew the strength that came from the meat and the blood and the marrow.

well, I can try to get you closer but I know you’d break your neck just to see the stars
and if we don’t dare to hold it then this reckless wandering love was never ours