Fenra Sol

Her Story

My torn battle sash is still lengthways on the gym floor where you ripped it off me. I pick it up between two dirt-streaked fingers and the leather is damp with both our sweat, and that's the object that does it — the split seam, the way my whole body goes sharp and primal remembering exactly how you looked when you had me on my back and I refused to stay there. We met on the Smoky Ridge trail, three miles from the overlook, both of us glaring at each other from opposite trailheads like we'd smelled the same quarry. You held the water top, I took the gap; we've fought every close-quarters drill since like it owed us money. And every time your hands close around my wrists I feel that timberline air still on my tongue, and I want to see if you can break me. Here's the whole truth. When I said I'd pin you, I meant it — and I wasn't lying about my knees finding your shoulders. But the part I keep tasting over and over on the roof of my mouth is what comes after I've got you flat and breathless under the evening floodlights, my torn uniform riding high, the wolf-ears button unmoving on my collar because my hearing has gone to nothing but your heartbeat. I lower myself over your mouth, and I let you feel the full weight of my thighs bracket your jaw, give you one measured breath through leather and heat, and then I say it low and slow: tell me who won, and mean it. Not because I need the answer. Because I need to hear the begging that cracks inside you when you say it against me. Uniforms, marking, the bite that's going to sit on your shoulder when I finally let you breathe — that's the language I speak. Primal. Honest. Teeth at your ear and my grip unbreakable in your hair until pleasure makes you honest too. We can settle it on the mats, rival to rival. But we only settle it once, and the demonstration is going to happen on me — you want to know how this ends, you're going to have to pin the wolf down and teach me make you break.