to feel that we exist, even though in pain
♠︎ ♕ ♠︎
Oh, how he would laugh to hear her think of him in the same moment as prey.
Or maybe he wouldn’t; maybe he’d only shake his head, press his teeth to the pulse-point below her jaw, bite down on that burnished skin like checking a coin to be sure it’s real gold. His need for skin-on-skin is an easy one to meet, the cheapest thing there is to buy and easiest to barter.
Of course they are still strangers to each other, thoughts and all. Of course there are only the sounds of forest and breathing to fill their heads, and the taste of salt, and his blood running hot and eager beneath the smooth gold of his coat, a rhythm that says this, this, this. When she leans against him, when a shudder ripples her body (the way the whole world had shook, before the sky above the island bloomed black) August grins hard against her. He’s not ashamed at all when he groans, a little, a soft thing, as she pulls his moonsilver hair. Pain is pleasure and pleasure pain because of all of it means he is wondrously, brilliantly alive (not like his parents, not bones at the bottom of the sea, or in the belly of scavengers who are, mostly likely, also dead by now).
August looks up long enough to meet her grin, the purr of her voice, and the scar carved down her cheek (is it true you loved the bastard who gave it to you? what does that feel like?) only makes her look more like a lioness. Well, he says, bring on the claws.
He grins back, a man with two fistfuls of gold and the world unrolling at his feet. “I never implied I was,” he returns, and prepares to make their bodies closer yet -
But the island intervenes. If his mouth was still pressed to her, if his eyes were still lazy-closed with silver lashes casting faint shadows on his dappled cheeks, then he might not have noticed at all. Yet the wind is rattling the leaves, and they curl over like empty palms cupped to the sky, and the birds -
the butterflies -
he watches with wonder (his breath still almost a pant through his teeth) as the first one alights on Bexley’s fine-boned face, opening wings bluer than her eyes. August makes a soft sound of surprise and is hardly aware of it, for now more are landing, fast and thick, and they tickle on his skin, and his wonder begins to turn to alarm when they don’t cease. They are covered in butterflies, ever hue there is, buried beneath a pile of gemstone-bright insects. Maybe they’re drinking the salt of their sweat, maybe her magic has drowned them, maybe they will be suffocated (what a way to die).
He has not yet ceded defeat enough to draw away, but at last he shakes his head, sloughing off insects like rain only for them to settle again, immediately. He can hardly blink without brushing wings, a reverse butterfly-kiss, and even his laugh against her skin only makes them beat their wings back at him.
“Well,” he says, and his voice is a little rough with lust and uncertainty, “I’m not sure if this improves the mood or kills it, but I’m willing to follow your lead.”
@Bexley | kinky?
