Chapter Text
Your head between her thighs, full of desire but devoid of shame.
Frightened, yes, though the knife’s edge of your fear is starting to grow dull.
(Of course, there is always a risk,
but more and more you find the reward outweighs it,
at least with her.)
Knowing that the taste of her should be savoured — slowly — like fine champagne, you cannot help but drink greedily. Your thirst, growing with every mouthful; with every sweet moan dripping from her lips.
Her thighs, closing around your head, like a vice tightening. Pressure building inside your skull and lungs; aching for air, static flickering, blood booming in your ears.
Soft fingers carding through your hair, pressing down; pushing you closer, grinding against you, riding the crest of your tongue like a wave that swells and folds.
She, a goddess; a solar storm made corporeal. A pulsating star bathing you in gamma rays, reducing you to atoms, flesh rendered dust. It is a privilege to burn, and an easy price to pay for even just a moment of her warmth.
You, then, a bug of some sort. An iridescent beetle, shining and shimmering like gasoline. Caught in flowing tree sap, falling into honey, drowning in her ichor.
Preserved, made beautiful by proxy; by simply being near someone so brilliant and splendid.
The flick of your tongue draws her closer. Your fingers, curling inside her, reward you with the sound of her voice. Loud but smooth, like a bell ringing. Lifting you up, up, up, into the ionosphere; your body turned particle, charged and thrumming.
Starbursts racing down your spine. Almost enough to send you over, the way she tightens around your fingers; the way she shudders and gasps and moans.
You think you could come just from the sounds she makes, from the way she feels around you. Her taste alone, more than enough to make you ache.
Her strong, muscular thighs, pressing tighter. Pressure increasing, bone starting to whine. Fragile as eggshell. Easy to break. Thinking it wouldn't be the worst way to go, all things considered.
Nails digging in, pushing you closer, closer; impossible to breathe now, heart pounding holes right through your chest. She is nearing the end; legs quivering but never letting up, squeezing tighter with every flick of your tongue, every push and pull of your wrist.
Shaking harder, gasping in between each rising moan; whispering your name like a golden thread braided through it all.
Close, close, close. The core of the star, about to collapse. You are almost out of air; lightheaded, losing shape, turning brittle. Something that will be swept away once the supernova hits.
Adding a finger: the right decision. The final push.
The star, exploding; gravitational waves rippling through her, into you. Fire and light and cosmic rays leave you blind and warm and breathless.
Her legs fall away, then, spreading wider.
Breath of air, head full of ozone. You are drunk and dizzy and far from sated.
Your thirst, worse now than before. A well that can't run dry. A fruit that keeps replenishing; sweet nectar coating your mouth and chin, dripping from your fingers.
Your hand against her thigh, against soft skin, unable to hold back a moan. Your voice and hers: two notes in harmony. Pain in your tongue and an ache in your jaw; your fingers cramping and still, both of you have more to give.
Each time she comes on your fingers, warm and wet and wonderful, your thirst grows stronger. Your body is a chalice, aching to be filled. Ready to spill over, and still, still wanting more.
(Once you have tasted divinity, you will always know hunger.)
Of course, all good things must come to an end. Her hands, strong but gentle — always, always gentle — pick you up easily; the bug plucked from the stream, turned onto its back, irradiated by the sun beating down on it.
Her hands, again, caress you slowly, tracing every line of you as is for the first time. As if the touch of you, the sight of you, never loses its lustre.
Dipping down to catch you in a kiss, moaning when she tastes herself on your tongue. Her hands move to close around your wrists, locking them tightly but playfully above your head.
Your breath hitches, as it always does. Meeting her eyes, your heart fills to the breaking point; vision flickering black and white, like you were staring at the sun.
Straddling your hips, then, mouth quirked with just the smallest hint of mischief. Knowing just by looking at you, by the way your hands curl, how you long to touch her.
Like light spills across the wall in early morning, she folds herself over you, sinking down.
The first few times she took your in her body like this, you tensed, as if waiting for a strike; your body forced to remember what your mind refused to. A wound that had scabbed over, easily ripped open. Having to decide right then and there how much you were willing to trust her.
A lot, it turns out.
It is difficult to say what you were afraid of, what you’re still afraid of, somewhere in the back of your mind. There is just the overhanging sense of something waiting to plunge down; that knife, again, aimed right at your heart.
She has wielded that knife many times and never stuck it through your ribs.
(Still, it is difficult to fully let one’s guard down,
always listening for a rustle in the grass.
Opening your body is the first step, but not the most dangerous.
Opening your heart, revealing soft flesh, now that’s the true test of your courage,
one you always, always fail.)
Over time, your body has learned to trust her. Your body does not yet know that this trust will one day be turned against it.
(It is blissfully unaware, at this point in time,
that one day someone else will wear her face.)
But for now, you are safe and wonderful.
I'll take care of you, my love, she says and strokes the hair out of your eyes.
She tells you that you're beautiful. How good, how lovely, how she burns with longing for your touch.
Through her eyes you become someone extraordinary, someone who exists only in a dream. Someone you don’t know how to become; the man she deserves, as if he could ever truly be made real. As if he could be housed within your body, as if she — who deserves everything — could ever meet her equal.
(But you must try. You must. You must, because without her there is no point to any of this.)
You are so close to burning out now that you’re practically glowing. She only has to move, slowly, slowly, one hand still squeezing your wrist, while the other dips inside your open, gasping mouth.
Tongue curling around her fingers, you whine and whine and whine. See-through and splintering; ready to dissolve but waiting for permission.
My darling, she says, catching your eye. My sweet, sweet love.
You try to hold on for her. You try to be strong, but there is only so much a mortal man can take.
That whine again; louder, thinner, an apology and a plea folded into one.
Come for me, love. Come. It's alright. You've done so well—
At this point in your life, you are still fairly quiet. Like there is a block, somewhere, that closes your throat around each sound. Afraid to let go, afraid to be heard, afraid that your voice will reveal the things you’re not yet ready to admit.
All you can offer is soft moans, quiet huffs and trembling whines; small sounds that slip through your teeth while your heart keeps all of its secrets.
It's okay, my love, she says, always patient, don't hold back. You don't have to hide yourself from me.
She removes her fingers then, and you whine again at the loss; louder, but not as loud as the sound you make when she threads her fingers through your hair and pulls. Not hard, not hard at all, but still enough for now.
(There is still some time.
You are not yet irreparable.)
Yes, she says, as your chest opens up and all manner of noise tumbles out. Yes, yes, that's it, that's it, beloved, you're doing wonderful.
Thinking, then, that maybe it's worth it, just to hear her breath hitch. Just to see the flush spread across her skin. Thinking you owe her this, at least.
Small moans and whines grow into shouts. Loud, tremulous, finding that you love the way they make her shiver; how each sound from your throat is echoed in hers. Each note, striking some nerve inside her, until you're both screaming, both burning, both luminous with sweat, hearts braided together like a rope.
Her name, falling from your lips, as if there's something you want desperately to say, unable to find the words.
Something in your chest, expanding. Larger than you, larger than anything; beyond the boundaries of physical space.
It's okay, she says, caressing you face, you can let go.
And you do. Back arching, throat bared, wrists straining in her grip as your voice breaks down the middle.
She scoops your shaking body into her arms. You are water, you are something boneless held close to her heart, safely hidden from the world inside the sweeping veil of her hair.
Kissing you, deeply, warm with passion and still so very soft; whispering words you can't hear but which fill your heart with joy.
Knowing that there’s something missing, something that she needs; something she deserves and which you have, but which you cannot bring yourself to give.
(When desire recedes, fear swoops in to take its place.)
Thinking that next time, next time you’ll get it right. Next time you’ll tell her everything; next time you’ll give her all you’ve got. Next time, there will be no part of you to which she can’t make claim.
At this point in time you still believe this. You still have faith that you can change.
The truth is that she won’t ever know how much you love her. She won’t know because even if you tried for a hundred lifetimes, there is no way to put it into words.
Still, you will say I love you, knowing that it’s not enough.
You will say I love you right before you run away. You’re always running away. Always running but you never get anywhere except further from where you want to be.
There’s an ache in you that’s been growing since you were born. Since you were old enough to know what want felt like. An ache you will never be able to fill, because to do so means standing still.
(Standing still, as you know, is how they get you. Standing still is how you get hurt.)
You’ll never get used to this feeling, but you’ll get better at carrying it around.