A little baby warm up from a seriously out of practice authoress.
A shiver runs down your back when his fingers slide down the curve of your spine. Though layers of fabric divide your warm skin and his rough fingertips it feels as though they have seared through your clothes to trail over your skin. Your body feels small next to his, gathered to his chest like you are. His lean body feels impossibly solid against yours as you both tumble to the ground, his body forming a living breathing shield. His fleeting touch totally removing you from the present, from the danger that explodes behind you with a sonic snarl and a wave of fire. The harsh drag of earth across your skin as you fall down in the backlash is enough to wake you from your wishful haze and your fingers turn to claws shredding the turf in your haste to regain your feet and outrun the steady roar of the flames at your heels. His broad hand has already clamped around your thin wrist and yanked you back to your feet before you can make up from down.
"Get the fuck up bitch!"
Your ears ring, from the explosion, from his words, and you can barely see straight with all the smoke the ravenous fire is churning out. The bomb has turned the surrounding trees to matchsticks and there are more in that maniac's hands. It is dark and smoky with only the orange, flickering light of the fire to dimly light your way as you are dragged along, tripping all over your feet.
You are not scared.
His hand is tight around your wrist, anchoring you to this world, a buffer against the fear that should be eating you alive from within. Blood is dripping off of his sword, glinting maliciously in the phantom light, and it holds your fear at bay as surely as his strong grip.
You love him, in a totally frustrating hopeless kind of way and though you know he will never be able to reciprocate in the way you truly want him to you know he loves you enough to deliver you safely through this hellish night.
He always does.