[ She kisses him, and he shuts his eyes, letting the truth and sincerity of her statements move over him like a balm. His beast is a dangerous and ravenous thing that longs for violence as surely as bees are drawn to flowers. It often paces inside of him, apalled by the necessity of hiding behind a veneer of civilization because it is used to dealing death and relishing the fear of his chosen victims. Perhaps one day, someone will tell her about the acts of violence attributed to his name, the horrors that accompanied them. But today he can hold her, just as she asks to be held. Today, he and the beast are in agreement:
Eun is precious to them. She could have challenged, could have thrown them sass, at their first meeting. She could have marched over angry at them for their absence and instead delivered a swift and impersonal note - with a gift made with care.
She is not afraid of them, even if she should be - but neither of he nor his wolf want her to be.
She meant the kiss to be chaste and brief; but he tasted the emotions that she then expressed into words. So he bridges the space between them, slants his mouth over hers, using the arm she's taken as a pillow to bear his weight.
This kiss is not chaste nor brief, and it is possibly entirely too full of feeling. He does not think of before, of the grief he's tried to process, or of the heaviness of despair that set to seduce him into madness these last few centuries. Instead, he thinks of the softness of her skin, the yield of her mouth beneath his, and the promise of possibility. ]
no subject
Eun is precious to them. She could have challenged, could have thrown them sass, at their first meeting. She could have marched over angry at them for their absence and instead delivered a swift and impersonal note - with a gift made with care.
She is not afraid of them, even if she should be - but neither of he nor his wolf want her to be.
She meant the kiss to be chaste and brief; but he tasted the emotions that she then expressed into words. So he bridges the space between them, slants his mouth over hers, using the arm she's taken as a pillow to bear his weight.
This kiss is not chaste nor brief, and it is possibly entirely too full of feeling. He does not think of before, of the grief he's tried to process, or of the heaviness of despair that set to seduce him into madness these last few centuries. Instead, he thinks of the softness of her skin, the yield of her mouth beneath his, and the promise of possibility. ]