Raphae Irrigo/Iconic Conetl
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Summary
“There’s only three stages.” If Raphae layered his patience on any thicker, you’d drown in it. You wish you could. “You shouldn’t have pushed that far at all.” His eyes soften. “You could’ve hurt yourself. You - god, ID, what were you thinking?”
His fingers brush your cheek, and bile rises in your throat. When you pull away, he exhales, shoulders slumping, but he doesn’t follow.
You take another sip of tea. You can’t get angry. You won’t get angry. And if your voice goes dry, that’s not the sort of thing that draws more then a buzz of discontent from your pan. They can make you mild! They can’t make you pleasant, no matter how much they try.
“I was thinking, darling, that it’d make a good show -”
“You tortured them,” Raphae says, flat, and his eyes aren’t nearly so soft, now.
Thank the gods. The way he’s looking at you is so much better than before. Anything’s better than that, so you smile at him, crooked and lazy, so he can see the green on your teeth. “But the crowd loved it, didn’t they?”
Comballet is a bloody sport, but it doesn't usually involve torture. ID brings it to the next level, but his matesprit has some objections.
- Language:
- English
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