I wrote this brief piece in response to the Improbable Press prompt of last week.
His eyes were green, his skin pale. A right Irish honeypot, and everyone wanted a taste of the sweet lad.
His hair was his glory: golden red, which burned like a holy fire when the sun caught it.
When he walked, the little sway in his hip made traffic stop. He didn’t aim to seduce, but he could hardly help it. Fey blood made a fey boy potent, sparking desire even in those who never expected to desire a boy: a red-golden, cream-skin, emerald-eye, honeypot boy.
He ought to have been hung about with a sign.
His laugh was a siren call and a warning.
That cackle of joy burst out of him at the most unexpected things; but seriousness could also descend without notice, coming upon him like a solemn oath. He would burrow briefly into the dark, rooting uncomfortable truths from the soil and the roots of life, before turning it all upside down again, flinging what he found into the light, cackling again.
The fey honeyed boy drew the flies, but also the bee, a lad sumptuously large, striped black and golden, full of the solemn hum of life, heavy with a rich nectar. Where the fey boy cackled, the sumptuous boy smiled, his solemn hum lilting lighter. The fey boy burrowed into the dark loam of him, turned it upside down into the light. The gold inside one glinted in the burning sun of the other.
Honeypot and bee, the fey and the earth, the sun and the glow.
Carelessly, they tumbled into love.