[He rubs her ear—and although she isn't certain if he's trying to comfort her or himself, her heart still wavers, she lets this part of her head cant to his touch, if for no other reason than to keep him reminded that she's with him, she's by his side, she's right here.
Listening, the more he says, the stiller and unmoving she gets. Her heartbeat increases, brutalizing, pounding without rest inside her, and though human ears wouldn't be able to detect it, he can probably hear it. And slowly, almost unsettling, all of the fur on her starts to rise, to stand jaggedly on end, perturbed. The sensation of her vibrates over him, like she might be clenching her shearing molars, as if she's holding back a contemplative and agitated growl.
In the snow, she has toes and claws splayed, and her thighs are tense with the urgency to spring up, but she doesn't move. It's as if she's readying herself to snap some invisible hand that might snake out of the air for him. Hasn't it been enough? He was tortured before. There's really no other way to describe what she's feeling: something seething, a god's wrath housed away, the love that usually dominates it, that she has for everyone, that she has for him trying to keep it sheathed. The guilt is there, gasoline under the fire of her fury, and she doesn't move because she has nothing to bite. She doesn't move because there's nothing she can do.
And, for the most sensible reason: she doesn't move, because he's here now. She tries to soften herself, her disposition, but she's angry, she's angry. She moves to rest her jaw carefully at his chest, to blanket him further, wanting to embrace him, and to hold him, and livid that she can't. And that she can't verbalize the words I love you, no matter if he scoffs or thinks they're stupid, so he can hear it, and know that she means it, and no matter what, and that she's sorry, she's sorry she's weak.]
no subject
Listening, the more he says, the stiller and unmoving she gets. Her heartbeat increases, brutalizing, pounding without rest inside her, and though human ears wouldn't be able to detect it, he can probably hear it. And slowly, almost unsettling, all of the fur on her starts to rise, to stand jaggedly on end, perturbed. The sensation of her vibrates over him, like she might be clenching her shearing molars, as if she's holding back a contemplative and agitated growl.
In the snow, she has toes and claws splayed, and her thighs are tense with the urgency to spring up, but she doesn't move. It's as if she's readying herself to snap some invisible hand that might snake out of the air for him. Hasn't it been enough? He was tortured before. There's really no other way to describe what she's feeling: something seething, a god's wrath housed away, the love that usually dominates it, that she has for everyone, that she has for him trying to keep it sheathed. The guilt is there, gasoline under the fire of her fury, and she doesn't move because she has nothing to bite. She doesn't move because there's nothing she can do.
And, for the most sensible reason: she doesn't move, because he's here now. She tries to soften herself, her disposition, but she's angry, she's angry. She moves to rest her jaw carefully at his chest, to blanket him further, wanting to embrace him, and to hold him, and livid that she can't. And that she can't verbalize the words I love you, no matter if he scoffs or thinks they're stupid, so he can hear it, and know that she means it, and no matter what, and that she's sorry, she's sorry she's weak.]