For the word aesthetics writing prompt : Forelsket or baisemain for Solomon :DDDD THANK YOU FOR YOUR BEAUTIFUL WORK (づ｡◕‿‿◕｡)づ
Thank YOU for reading and enjoying my writing! It means so much!!
baisemain (n) a kiss on the hand
Solomon/gnMC Sexual tension
“You wanted to learn, didn’t you?” He speaks as if he commands, rather than affirms. But you still listen, standing in the middle of his candlelit room, furniture pushed aside so all focus is you.
You, and him, tickled by the crack of magic as it twists over his skin, your skin, making the ends of your hair stand on end, making your breathing thick and uneasy.
You understood the strength of his power. No. You thought you understood its strength. But you realise it was just the surface you knew, barely bared to you, to anyone. But his honesty opens it up to you, the pages turning one by one as the candle wicks diminish.
You think.
He takes a step closer.
“We’ll try again.” You’ve never really noticed how smooth his voice is until tonight, coated in his magic.
How much have you missed, not really looking?
“Do you really think I can do this?” you say, feeling the deep ache of exhaustion in your chest. You’ve lost track of the time. At first it bothered you, but as the nights went on, you longed to stay. And stay. “I’ve barely managed a flicker of magic, a light, anything.” You stare at your hands. They’re shaking. Red raw and sore. “Nothing.”
Solomon steps closer again, the hiss of his cape gone as it’s a pool on the floor. You see the way his arms move against his shirt, open down to the third button. Edges of his seals peek through, each one so different, unique. You swear you see one of them move; another catches the light, the ink shifting in colour as you watch his chest rise, and fall, as he breathes - quicker - as he stands-
-closer.
“There’s something that’s holding you back,” he says, soft and slow. You want to protest, but you can’t.
He reaches out, and your hand is in his, warm, magic washed fingers entwine around yours. He’s gentle, he knows you’re in pain. But it still hurts and you hide the wince as skin, meets skin.
“What is it?” He asks, but he already knows.
You try to tell him, but all you can do is watch, watch as he twists his hands around yours, pushing down your sleeve with the pinch of thumb, of forefinger, twinkling with his rings.
“You’re afraid,” he says as he draws his hand along your forearm, the smooth back of his painted nails making you shiver. They leave behind a trail of magic; a plethora of your favourite colours snaking around your skin then dissipating, as if soaked beneath your flesh.
A gift, or taunt.
He catches your eye.
“Are you afraid of me?”
Your silence is loud enough.
Then he kisses your hand. Lips press against sore fingers, cradled by his, and you can feel the magic on his lips. Tangible. Like words forming that you need to translate.
You realise you’re not breathing as he kisses your palm; as he looks up, holding your eyes as his kisses trail down, down, to your wrist, his breath painting the pulse against your skin.
“In a den of demons,” he says through another kiss, his lips cresting your thumb. “You’re afraid of me.”
You can feel his smile, because your eyes are closed.
You can feel his body, because it’s touching yours.
He kisses your palm again, again, then trails them down your forearm where his magic once was, and as he does, you feel your magic stir, as if plucked by each kiss, each touch.
“I’m afraid because I know nothing about you,” you whisper, feeling like your voice speaks for itself.
Like your body.
It turns into him, as he kisses your inner elbow, his breath tickling the thin skin, the blue of your veins beat, beating with blood.
“Do you want to?” he asks. And he waits for your answer. He waits.
You unhook the fourth button of his shirt.