Wild, Thing.

“ever wondered what made people ache to see us together?” the music is loud, the glaring, strobing lights flashing in a red and blue rhythm to the electronic thump blasting through the speakers, but madoc’s mouth is so close to her ear he could’ve just whispered it against her skin. they’re both slick with sweat as they sway together in the heart of the club, her back against him, his hands roaming over her silhouette, exploring, indulging. bet she’d call him shameless were they in any other situation. he is. but this is a special night. “you don’t look this alive when you’re with him.” his hand finds hers, and he spins her around until she is facing him, their mouths too close to be accidental. “can you tell the difference?”

"i can think of several reasons madoc--" she's letting herself get carried away with him, each rock of her hips--she tells herself she's chasing the beat, but it's not the only thing she's chasing, not the only thing she's high on. his breath is an open flame against the shell of her ear, her dress is plastered to her, by sweat and by it's nature. the material is thin, and no match for the sweltering heat of him. his hands are all over her, and she encourages it, lets him take a little more than usual. she forgets about the crowd, about the fact that tomorrow they will be bogged down in even more rumours, that she will be fielding calls from a very pissed off limebacker. for tonight she's free. he spins her around and her hands find the nape of his neck easily, she slots into place like she belongs there, and it's hard to remind herself she doesn't. "i think you see what you want --" but there's no bite to her words, no acid and she's unsure who she's trying to convince. him or her? "you always loved to play with fire. no damn common sense--" and yet she doesn't move away, inches closer until her mouth is brushing against his, and her stomach is in flames. "if you want something love, you should say something. waiting is a dangerous game--"

pandora's words invoked a laugh, a sound surprising even himself. a good time. the concept felt foreign on his tongue, like a language he'd forgotten how to speak. "you might be right," he relented, "i think i am." he tightened his grip on her waist, pulling her closer until the space between them became nonexistent. the warmth of her skin seeped through the thin fabric of her dress, and he could feel the faint hum of magic holding a charge beneath the silk. it was a sensation he'd never grown used to, this constant spark woven in every move they made together. it grounded him so much that the past half hour felt like an out-of-body experience, and he didn't want to let it end. "don't go telling people," he murmured, smirking a little. "wouldn't want to ruin my reputation as the grumpy recluse."

"...and there was very little magic required. would you look at that." she has a vocabulary of his micro-expressions, knows each one now with the kind of intimacy she'd reserved for her sisters, the kind of intimacy that required study (in showers, in bed, in cars, on sofas, in the midst of fights, in the shadow of storms, in the quiet of after). she knows it's an almanac that will keep growing, each furrowed brow, each quirk of his lips, different shades of him. he pulls her closer, and her magic sighs at the contact. she's fought it at various points, how right it felt to be just like this. in the quiet, stealing moments of time that felt somewhere between fantasy, and reality. "i'll keep your secret. the supernatural world might fall apart if they knew." she smiles, a soft thing that splits her face open with a quiet sort of innocence before burying her face in his neck, and inhaling. her mouth brushes against the place she'd bitten, there's a small scar there-- and it feels like static against her lips, the edge of magic. old magic. she sighs softly, and sits in the moment, in the shimmery, static of their bond, the softness of the night, and holden. always holden.

OLANDRIA CARTHEN For Charlotte Tilbury Beauty

at Anshula Kapoor's wedding ceremony

Simone de Beauvoir, from "Inseraparable: A Never Before Published Novel,"

The Great Gatsby (2013)

For the entire evening, Lucian had existed in a realm of restraint, far too terrified that one wrong move or one too over zealous touch would send Nyx running. He had sensed her growing disinterest, the faint sharp sent of restlessness that clung to her skin, and it had pushed him to a point of panic. He had walked her to her door, still trying to piece together some kind of explanation for being so...rigid - expressing that it was in no way a true reflection of how he felt about her but she made the first move, a light feather touch of her lips to his...and it snapped the last thread of his restraint. In the blink of an eye, Lucian had Nyx pressed firmly against the doorframe, his larger frame boxing her in and his movements completely devoid of his earlier hesitation. He turned into something primal and hungry, a stark contrast to the careful, measured way he had carried himself the entire evening. His mouth was relentless and his hands wandered with sudden surge of confidence, sliding under her clothes to seek out the heat of her skin. For a moment he was lost in the rhythm of her - the way she arched into him and her small hands gripped his arms, and then he stiffened. The fog of lust cleared just enough for his conscience to roar back to life. He slowed his movements, stopped altogether, then pulled back just an inch. His breathing was heavy, ragged, his blue eyes darkened and his pupils blown wide. Lucian carefully let her down, stepping away with his chest heaving, "I...I'm sorry," he rasped, his voice sounding rough. He retreated a step further, putting a cautious distance between them. However, the effort to stay away from her was visible; his muscles taut, and the bulge in his trousers was painfully prominent. "I got carried away...I...I should leave...can't have your poor old neighbour having a cardiac..." His voice trailed off into a breathless sound which sounded somewhat like a laugh, as his gaze passed over her. He swallowed hard, his throat tight. He wanted to reach out and pull her back into his arms, to bury his face into her neck and do whatever it took to hear all her nosies again, but the fear of rejection held him frozen. "I should go, right?" he asked softly. "I'll go. Right now." but he stood there, poised to turn and walk away, but his feet remain planted to the ground. "Do you want me to leave?"

She brushes her hand against the door, whispers a soft spell, urges the old brownstone to admit him. The door clicks, swings open on it's own merit. "It seems my house thinks you should stay too." She tilts her door, invites him into the ordered chaos of the Laveau Brownstone. The house is heavy with magic, echoes her mother's own sensibilities. The entry way has a family portrait of Marie and her girls, nyx and all her sisters-- painted by some artist who'd fancied himself in love with the legend. There are plants everywhere, blooming when they shouldn't-- unseasonal, certainly but at home in the cozy chaos. The living room is dark, minus the eerie glow of a warm lamp. A staircase interupts their view of the rest of the house, but there's a garden, a kitchen-- just beyond it, humming with life. None of it is her focus tonight, she's is still caught in the undertow of his mouth, and it's making her impatient. "...Upstairs?" She gestures to the stairway. "Or would you like some tea--?" She's a little wary of spooking him, of misinterpreting the look in his eyes.