Song: End of the World by Katie Angel
The lights in the city are all out by the time he comes to her apartment. It’s late, the party is over. The party was never really for him; the party was always going to be for the team, and Tiger has never really been a team player anyway.
When she opens the door, he’s still wearing the white shirt he fought in, still wearing the same expression, and there is rain in his hair and something like hunger in his eyes. She doesn’t turn on the lights. There is enough light in the city, even with the lights out. They don’t need any more light than that.
He has said nothing to her, not the whole night, not in the car. He didn’t even need to tell her that he wanted her to come with him. It was a mutual understanding, one forged over years, over shared victories and defeats, one that did not need words. Not words like please and thank you, and not words like I love you and I need you. There was never any need for words like those, not for them.
He comes to her and wraps an arm around her waist, drawing her close to him. He smells of the fight, of sweat and blood and adrenaline, but she doesn’t mind. She loves the way he smells after a match. It always makes her want him more. His hand moves slowly from the curve of her spine to the soft skin at her hips, and he pulls her in close, so close she can feel the heat of his skin through the thin cotton of his shirt.
He bends down to kiss her, his lips rough and gentle against hers, his hand cupping her chin. She knows this is wrong, she knows this shouldn’t be happening, but she doesn’t care. She never cares when it comes to Tiger. She wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, her fingers tangling in the soft mess of his hair, the rain still clinging to the strands, dampening her fingers.
He breaks away and looks at her, his eyes searching hers, looking for something. She doesn’t know what, but she hopes he finds it, whatever it is. He bends down, pressing his lips against her forehead, and she closes her eyes, letting out a soft sigh. She doesn’t need to ask him what he’s thinking. She already knows.
He leads her to her bed, his fingers intertwined with hers, and they sit down together. She turns to him, and he reaches out, tracing a line from her temple down to her jaw. She closes her eyes, savoring the sensation, the warmth of his touch. He leans in, pressing a kiss to her lips, and she can taste the fight on his lips, the blood, the sweat, the adrenaline. It’s a taste she knows well.
She runs her hands up his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under her palms. She can feel his muscles, tense and taut, coiled and ready to spring into action at any moment. She knows how much he has given to the fight, how much he has sacrificed, and she wants to give him something in return, something to soothe the pain, the ache in his muscles and bones.
He lies down beside her, and she moves closer, wrapping her arm around his waist, her hand resting on his chest. He covers her hand with his, holding it close, and she can feel his heartbeat, steady and strong. She rests her head on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his body, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes.
Kinktober
@luckyangelballoon
