these, our bodies, possessed by light.
The moment is stunning and not quite livable, like summer cutting to the bone, or the ruined bodies of fireworks. Never mind the cool air around them, never mind the glass-frost on the leaves, they are bright-heat and impending apocalypse, as wild and unknown as anything can be. It is a kind of comfort that their fire has become not only recognizable but dependable, a light at the end of the tunnel when everything else is up in the air. A solid presence in the back of her mind.
All that solidity falls away when he touches her, light as a feather, sweet as honey. This is not something they’ve done before - this is nothing comfortable, nothing known, and she shudders at the feeling, his lips a curse on her skin, breath sifting the golden hairs with something almost like gentleness, something that has never been part of their repertoire. It fits him well, Bexley thinks, or maybe she’s only hoping it does.
That’s been a talent of hers, recently, hoping, and as much as she wants to hang onto is, she knows (doesn’t she?) it will only curse her. Curse, if she’s lucky. So what. It sticks to her like a burr on a wild dog, like fog to the mountains. Hope and all its awful repercussions. Gods help me, she thinks, and realizes in the next instant that it’s a thankless kind of effort, as most of her efforts are.
Acton’s smile against her skin is crescent-moon, bleached and feral and sharp as a wild thing’s. It makes Bexley shudder, and she’s almost thankful for it.
I always get it right the second time -
Something divine, something anxious and unholy, tingles deep in the pit of her stomach as his mouth closes around that wispy gold chain, pulls until its clasp is pressed deep into that nest of white hair, a gentle, insistent pressure just barely threatening to break against the curve of her neck: Bexley’s breath hitches in her throat, almost nervous as she thinks of how easily the necklace could snap, fall right away from her and be gone forever. How dangerous it is to play along with this game.
(When hasn’t it been?)
She swallows her qualms, as small as they already are. Heat blazes across her skin, almost a blush, if a blush could glow. With composure so intense she finds a way to move in fractions, Bexley raises her jaw and tilts her head back, degree by degree, so that the soft curve of her throat is open, vulnerable, the threat of the chain omnipresent against her neck, and pauses there, glittering like a dare and a half.
You should come back to Solterra with me. A languid blink, a lazy smile. Her eyes gleam with something suppressed. If you want to make good on your promises. You did say you'd visit.
@acton<3
