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For Jinx, kissing Ekko on a winter day meant burning.
Sizzling. With blood popping and skittering like droplets on red-hot metal.
Same old story: a needle bypasses the thimble, alcohol on hidden cuts, salted rain through the cracks of a barren and desolate land. It crept across her cheeks and reached the temples, where tear glands clenched, spilling liquid that swam back into her eyes like an inflamed haze.
It did little good to bury her chin in the scarf, her tongue darting out, lizard-quick, to wet the desert and fight the irritation with more burning. So she stole from Vi that lip balm Caitlyn had lovingly gifted and swallowed dried blood and cherries every time Janna shouted too loudly in her face.
The result was an even worse mess, with red grooves tugging at her lips whenever she spoke, which only aggravated her further and caused her to nibble, eventually. The dead skin that hung from the flesh added one irritation to another, bite to other bite, prickle to other prickle.
Then Ekko would slightly open his mouth, and the pain became impossible to ignore.
This is usually the moment when a moan slips from her lips and presses against the dorsal of his tongue, a damn searing thing. His taste buds pierce her wounds, prod, sink, roll, and salt all the way to the back of her palate, to each and every nerve ending. And salt melts snow, melts thoughts, guts, until all that's left is a warm mush of herself.
He tilts her head to kiss her deeper.
He licks her mouth, withdraw, bites her scarred lip and eats blood, cherries, and shreds of skin. The fruity balm stains his face. A spider's thread still links their mouths together, pinkish as a string of syrup.
Ekko's breathing is thick. She feels it curling on her features and melting snowflakes trapped between her lashes. His gaze flickers from her eyes to her lips with the blood lust of an animal that hasn't eaten in days, a little fierce, a little wretched. Needy.
Jinx luxuriates in that need. She brings the tip of her index between them and breaks the thread, just to see how he'd react. His eyes darken, a hand spreads on her lower back, presses, their hips bump, and he makes a sound like a languishing creature as he assault her again. It's a frenzy of agony. His saliva burns her, it hurts, it's hot, good, wonderful; she's tearing up, her purple fingers tempered as they touch his skin, she slips them under the collar of his parka.
He jolts and quivers in her hands, which makes her feel less alone in her state. But then he moves his jaw again, again and once more: he flays the healing layers, chews, sucks the traces of blood, and pushes it back into her mouth, thicker, warmer.
Yes... warm is nice. Warm is life.
He doesn't let her breathe, makes a slaughter of her and plunges utterly into it, claws scratching and fangs digging.
She tears herself apart before him. For him. Her fingers take his neck to keep herself from falling, sharp nails snag the artery — how foolish, how reckless! Hungry pup, you don't leave your throat exposed to your prey!
She scratches him.
He growls, then smiles, but doesn't pull away. Jinx smiles back.
Oh. She does love him.