Disclaimer: Hahahahahahano.
Author's Note: I love this pairing. Quite a bit. So why do I never write for them?
Warnings: Sex, drugs, rock and roll. Give or take one of those things. Incorrect Chinese, I'm sure. (But I tried.) And dammit, my OTP managed to worm their way in here. They're so sneaky. XD;
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No Evil
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He doesn't need his eyes to see her.
Spidery fingers dance on whirled tips, balancing atop threads of lust, love, and opium. Three addictions, two people, one chair; thighs spread and backs arch as the satin drape of clothing hides their secret from the den. She sits upon his lap, just as he sits upon his throne, and they are concealed by a curtain of cotton candy clouds. Like gods. Like royalty. Like puppet masters behind their marionettes, and that is true for so many different reasons, in so many different ways—connected by lucent strings and creamy strands. All along the smog-swathed walls, other arachnids skitter and claw; the echo of raking nails and chaffing skin and heady, hazy exhalations waft through the poppy-and-nightmare scented air. And as their customers squeak and scramble, as he grinds and thrusts and hums, feelings swirl and spin within, weaving together to form a milky-sweet mess: ensnaring her heart and draining her lungs and claiming her womb.
His hands are on her hips. Or her ribs. Her breasts. The small of her back. The curve of her knee. And they are wandering the gaudy cobbled streets, or lounging in the pretty Earl's drawing room, or meeting with other black market scum in alleyways as shady as their dealings.
And still, his hands remain. On her hips. Or her ribs. Or her breasts, her back, her knee, her core, slipping up and down her body without ever seeing an inch of it, because he doesn't need his eyes.
Even without them, she knows that he sees no one but her.
X
He speaks too much, and in so doing, says nothing at all.
She speaks of nothing, and in so doing, says far too much.
But when they kiss, they say just enough. When they kiss, they make the perfect amount of noise. The silken slick of tongue and lip, the quiet click of teeth and chin, the sonorous thrum of knotted cords, wanton fingers plucking and tugging at the unconventional instruments that had once been pieces of clothing, and clasps burst open with a sound like breaking sanity.
Down the manor halls, there resonates a muffled shriek: bedsprings, boy, and butler, engaged in a not-so-secret rendezvous that further shrouds their own. Perhaps they had forgotten they had guests. Perhaps they had remembered but didn't care. Perhaps it was a dare, a challenge, a joke; a pawn cannot turn his back on his king, lest he wish to join him at the gallows.
He chuckles against the plump of her bosom, velveteen lips curling into a sneer that teases her nipples into pert little rosebuds. And she parts her petals for him, whimpering in noiseless ecstasy as patches of plum pink blossom upon the lily crest of her throat. So beautiful, so delicate; I want to put you in a vase on the shelf, my dear. I want to keep you, cherish you, as you wither into nothingness.
The earth within is broken and tilled, made softer, softer, softer— and in a rain of hungry kisses, she hears herself gasp as he moans, sighs. Mèimèi… Honey oozes, sticky and saccharine, as she grinds her heels into the base of his spine, keeping him in place until her insides burn and her womanhood aches and the butterfly beat of his heart has slowed atop her own.
Seeds are planted in the hope of future flowers, but childhood travesties have left her garden sterile and bare.
In like a lion, out like a lamb.
Spring is such a wonderful time of year.
X
Dì xiōng.
Her hand is sprawled possessively atop his chest, palm splayed as if to guard the special place that she has made her own. But there is no need to worry, no need to fret; at the gentle insistence of his touch, she leans her head against his shoulder and relaxes.
Dì xiōng.
His thigh is sinewy and strong, warm and familiar: a comfortable perch for a voiceless songbird. But there is music in her silence, a melody in her serenity, and with his eyes that do-not-see he watches as her whispers coil and spin like evanescent dreams, spiraling into nothingness. He can hear her sing, just like she can feel his gaze; he turns to face her with a chipper smile, ivory pipe resting against the curve of his bottom lip.
Dì xiōng.
Slender fingers brush against his china mask, as if to test how securely it had been affixed; wide amber eyes stare vacantly into the brunt of that cheerful beam, irises dull and impassionate for all of their taciturn ardor.
Wo ai ni.
Already still, he seems to pause. Pressed as she is against his silk-swaddled torso, she can feel the precise moment when his heart skip-thump-thuds— the scantest hint louder, the faintest bit warmer. And no, she doesn't need to say it for him to realize, didn't even need to think it… but it feels good, so good, to know that she can do that to him. Almost as good as knowing what he can do to her: how he can make her own heart swell and strain against its fragile cage of bone, pump-pounding when his arm coils ever more dotingly around her middle, and his mouth skims against her temple in a kiss so fleeting that even the Earl's precious manservant would miss it.
But she doesn't miss it. She feels it, relishes it, treasures it. And he doesn't need to speak aloud for her to understand its meaning. She knows— just like she knows that, for once, his smile has reached his eyes.
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