b e x l e y
zeus acts as zeus ordains. do you think the gods ignore a man who steps on holy things?
B
exley has not felt this way—whatever “this way” is—in a long, long time.It is a dark, growling heat in the pit of her stomach; a rush of electricity that starts in the corners of her mouth and rides up her spine; it is the way her heart beats faster and faster until it feels as though it has grown wings; around them the night has become impenetrable, and with the light of Antiope’s axe gone there is nothing to reflect over the wet cobblestones.
Solterra’s ex-regent licks her lips, casts her eyes up at Antiope. Something in the blue gaze is fervent. Rain frosts her thick, dark lashes. It casts the rest of the world into shining, glittering, blurry hexagons, a strange warping of the world. It becomes something like the paintings they keep hung in the citadels, or like statues in the churches—a kind of art she feels unworthy of, but cannot escape.
Antiope steps closer.
Bexley does too.
She is not afraid of anything. Especially not this. Not the tight, dark hungriness in the way Antiope looks at her, not the way her own body tenses in response, not how the space between them closes and heats up at the same time until it’s burning, like salt in a wound, a halo around Bexley’s heart.
Then—
There are lips against the shell of Bexley’s ear, and breath stirring the fine white curls laid against her neck. Warm. Electric. A searing, spine-tingling kind of pleasure. Her pulse, now, is beating faster than ever. It is making her a little faint: the blood is rushing to her head, and it rushes even faster as Antiope’s touch travels the length of her neck, down to her spine.
The world is strange, and dark, and cold with rain, and Bexley is not scared. Only thrilled. In a criminal way. To an outlandish degree.
Her eyes grow dark and darker and darker. But Antiope cannot see it, because Bexley has reached out now to run her own lips from the warrior’s neck to the base of her cheek, the sheerest part of her throat, where the pulse is the strongest. When she breathes in, Antiope smells like petrichor, of course, and the scent of Denocte, and something else—something warmer than a mortal has any right to be.
Bexley smiles, and for just a moment her teeth slide against Antiope’s neck.
”If you insist,” she says. Her voice is somehow different, has become newly sweet and rough, and if there is a little tremor in it, or a little uncertainty in the blue of her eyes, it is hard to tell.
So she steps back, into the dark.
@Antiope | "speaks" | notes: <3
