Work Text:
Spread out on silk, blue-tinted goddess. Veil discarded. Her personal bride, entirely defiled. Her touch's gentle on her keeper's thighs. Butterfly-touch. Spreads them. Nestles between them. Belongs, right here, observing rosy cheeks and ragged breathing, her keeper so beautiful when she's glimpsing ecstasy's heaven.
Her mouth's not gentle. Not soft, not nice. Filthy and daring as she bites into her keeper's inner thigh. Red blooms, skin irritated. Indents deep like a declaration. Her keeper's anything but irritated, head thrown back, fingers scrambling, holding onto the sheets like that will invoke her mercy.
Blank canvas, meant to be ruined. Devour her whole, her keeper, her moon. May be called star herself, but wouldn't it be lonely, without that beacon in the dark? Shining so bright it burns.
She only welcomes the lunar warmth with a heart carved open. No one else deserves to witness. No one else reveres like her.
Observe it and die. By sword, by hands. Neck twisted, bone's broken.
Hole through the heart, steel unforgiving.
Mine, she thinks. Decides. Would possess her even if her keeper were to deny her. To love is to own, to cherish, to declare, oh, she's mine. So obviously mine, how dare you think otherwise?
How dare you interfere?
Hands wandering. Mapping, remembering. Memories still fragmented. Cannot comprehend—to forget is as sin. Body trembling under her ministrations, back wound tight when her mouth tastes, savors. Flick of the tongue has the legs on her shoulders dig into her spine. Yes and oh and my star, my star, my—
Blissful, otherworldly.
Ephemeral.
Her keeper's hand reaches up, expression devoted.
No, she decides.
Her keeper's hers. For her keeper to leave her would be a death sentence.
Murder-suicide doesn't sound so bad when it means to possess, to belong.
Her keeper, her shore.
Hers.