I can feel the fire in my veins, burning fast and taking up the reigns

[quarrelsomecat]

There are still blood stains drying on Tybalt's shirt when they get back from the battle. Remnants of the fight visible in a contrast to the invisible lingering touch of the battlefield that always left his blood racing, his reflexes quick and his adrenaline coursing. Whenever the battle ended he was left with the same feeling. Edgy and riled up, like he could keep going for days. His sword was clean now. He never left the battle field without wiping the blood off her blade, but the handle was still warm against his hand, even after he had tucked her away back into the sheath at his side.

He did not enjoy the killing. It was a  side effect to the battle, but the fighting itself was a rush like no other and sometimes he thought he lived for it. It certainly seemed to be one of the only things he did well. Put a sword in his hands, or a pair of fists against his own, and you would not find a happier cat. He had followed Bran after the battle, like he nearly always did, an extra something to his step that wasn't a spring so much as an at-the-ready. the edge of the battle leaving him ready to spin and fight at the slightest potential, well after the battle was dead and done.

Comments

And then the prose turned purplish, my apologies

[faeconman]

It was impossible to remain cold and distant under such fervent ardor, and Bran almost thought he could hear the roar of a forest fire in the thunderous rush of his pulse that made blood and passion alike race through his veins.

The sound he made was one of surrender, but not defeat. He was giving in, not giving up.

All right, let life claim him for a while longer if this was to be part of it, perhaps it might even actually be worth it. Perhaps this was enough to warrant further existence.

His fingers buried themselves in Tybalt's hair as he felt and tasted and arched against that lithe body that could move with such deadly grace.

It might well be the death of him in this moment.

perfect purple prose?

[quarrelsomecat]

Tybalt could nearly always pin the point when Bran's attitude shifted, and he purred against the fae's lips. He let his fingers press into skin and tug Bran's hips forward against his, rocking into them.

It was always harder to focus after a battle. His blood pounding in his head and set on fire with adrenaline. Only burning hotter with the other body so close to his. Bran drove him just a bit crazy, and he was never completely sure why.

His lips moved to Bran's neck and turned to sharp nips of his teeth as he slid one hand up his torso.

This was the only thing beyond fighting that made Tybalt feel alive. It wasn't the same, perhaps, for him, as it was for Bran. But it was similar. At least he liked to think it was. That he could understand a bit why Bran needed this fire after the battle left him cold and hollow.

pfft <3 /purples on

[faeconman]

Bran's hips rocked against Tybalt's as well in perfect time with the cat's movement, their bodies knowing each other by heart and when the mind let go they were free to speak without the interruption of thought.

They fit and flowed against each other, dancing to the drum of racing heartbeats, moans and sighs making secret music filled with ancient mystery and wonder.

Why did Bran need the fire? It wasn't something he thought about, instinctively shying away from what could possibly destroy everything they had.

The unspoken words that were not so much waiting to be revealed as they were memories too vague to properly recall anymore. A lost opportunity turned to something irresistible but ever so fragile. They were Icaruses flying ever so close to the sun, and that is where he needed to be.

He was fettered to the world by his search and longing for something they would never call theirs.

Love.