Wheeling Gull Isle martinique, that montserrat mystique

Tagging you because I have not posted in like fifty years. ♥

Oh, but he was kind!

Her tender eyes were two blue-winged butterflies, and they alternated between landing upon him boldly and darting shyly awry to settle upon the soft, velvet safety of her catlike paws. His grin beckoned an immediate reaction; the roguish glint in his fiery eyes, though fleeting, had thankfully sparked to life during one of her braver moments. It transformed the stoic, even somber set of his features, and without thinking, “Handsome,” she informed him with what must have seemed uncharacteristic frankness — but Seelie wasn’t shy about admitting attraction or giving a name to beauty. She was shy about herself, about taking up the air that was better breathed by others; or treading upon the silence that was better broken with a full, unsullied voice. “@Constantine,” she whispered, focusing hard to pronounce his name. She could have given him her own name in return, but there was something to be said about receiving names from wolves she was enamored with. She missed it — and so,

“You?” she entreated him in a silky susurrus, carefully dislodging her hard-shelled passenger to get to all fours and shake the sand from her feathery fur. “Please — ” She fumbled over words she hadn’t pronounced, trying to work her tongue around them, her sentences fragmented by her inability to voice all she wished: “You choose? Name?”

Feeling playful now, almost despite herself, she danced away from the dark wraith to invite a game of chase — but then inched nearer again as if she couldn’t risk the chance that he might not actually want to put effort into catching her. Seelie was easy, malleable; and although she badly wanted his company and his scent and the adrenaline rush of his teeth nipping at her fur as she sped away, she was more keenly invested in what he wanted.