[there and not there, physical and shadow, morphing betwixt the two, a ghost, a phantom, nosferatu at the throat of the girl, carmilla embracing her beloved, story after story has been told just-so about such visits, and armand is dracula, he is the phantom and the opera and the song and the pen, he is poet and poetry and he finds the ache of alia’s soul and kisses there, kisses the blood of her heart’s wound and the soft shiver of her stomach and her hands reach out to card through his dark curls, imagines them upon her pillow, imagines her predator, sneaking, uninvited force through his window.
someday, someday, perhaps – her grief is her gift, her touch the welcome mat, and her hips lift, spun-gold curls damp and glistening between her pale thighs, stroking armand’s hair back and thinking of braiding it, weaving wildflowers and brambles and berries into the dark locks, thinking of crowning him queen, king, whichever, both of the may. spring will come again, the winter of her devastated grief will end, but for now summer is armand’s mouth on her, his poetry plucked like harpstrings in her mind.]
Contemporary of Shakespeare, Benjamin Jonson. “Witches Song” [a tug to his hair, a spread of her legs, the fount of sleek and wet and slick offered for libation.] ”The moon it is red,and the stars are fled, And all the sky is a-burning.” Is it, votary-mine, penitent, benediction? Tell me, is the sky a-burning, or is it only me?
[ Summer, by the lake, the grass giving up in fragrant death as it was crushed by her body. The warmth of the sun on skin, pale and dark, not caring who sees -- enjoying it, the performance they put on together, the sight of their mutual pleasure their gift to lesser mortals. A good summer, a sweet summer.
He licks sunshine over her skin, drinks lake water from the curls of her public hair, from the spring of her cunt. The beat of her blood in her thighs, precious rivers and tidal surges flowing through her body. He brings his hand to his own mouth, bites off the sharp tips of his nails so he can stroke two of them over her, parting her soft folds, pressing them into heat and shivering tightness. A long summer, full of ripe fruit, and time to be together. Oasis in the desert, a resting time. ]
It burns for you, goddess. The stars fall to leave us in darkness.
[ He rises up a little to set his mouth back on the tiny precious bud of her clit, tonguing it back and forth, sucking lightly while his hand moves within her, in and out. Mischievous, Puckish, his service. A fey creature lingering in her grace. ]
"There sleeps Titania sometime of the night, lulled in these flowers with dances and delight." Let it burn, my Titania.
[the water laps against the mud, soaking the loamy places where alia will seek out crawling, creeping creatures, where she will coax them free of their hidey-holes, cradle them in her muddied palms, bring them back to show him, to make him smile with all his teeth. and alia arches her back, the perk of her tits pointing sunward, stomach tensing, clenching, rocks her downy cunt towards armand’s mouth.]
What angel wakes me from my flowery bed? [titania, beloved of the wayward sweet bully bottom, enchanted fairy queen, deceived and bewitched – no, no, she doesn’t like that part. alia will be titania earlier, at the beginning of the tale, when she delights in her sweet changeling, her stolen boy with dark curls and soft eyes.
armand has these, them both, and he has a tender, sweet mouth and long clever fingers and he delves them within her like her mind seeks out his, ancient and unknowable, millennia of presence and prescience humming like a hive in her mind. alia wiggles her hips, reaches down to pet and pet his hair, lets the coil of grief and the coil of want twine together, build sweet and slick in the fount of her cunt.]
A pleasing sacrifice, a worthy offering. [tender, her knuckles to his forehead, little-sister-sweet and sour, knocking lightly.] Never had so sweet a changeling, knight of my train, to trace the forests wild.
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someday, someday, perhaps – her grief is her gift, her touch the welcome mat, and her hips lift, spun-gold curls damp and glistening between her pale thighs, stroking armand’s hair back and thinking of braiding it, weaving wildflowers and brambles and berries into the dark locks, thinking of crowning him queen, king, whichever, both of the may. spring will come again, the winter of her devastated grief will end, but for now summer is armand’s mouth on her, his poetry plucked like harpstrings in her mind.]
Contemporary of Shakespeare, Benjamin Jonson. “Witches Song” [a tug to his hair, a spread of her legs, the fount of sleek and wet and slick offered for libation.] ”The moon it is red,and the stars are fled, And all the sky is a-burning.” Is it, votary-mine, penitent, benediction? Tell me, is the sky a-burning, or is it only me?
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He licks sunshine over her skin, drinks lake water from the curls of her public hair, from the spring of her cunt. The beat of her blood in her thighs, precious rivers and tidal surges flowing through her body. He brings his hand to his own mouth, bites off the sharp tips of his nails so he can stroke two of them over her, parting her soft folds, pressing them into heat and shivering tightness. A long summer, full of ripe fruit, and time to be together. Oasis in the desert, a resting time. ]
It burns for you, goddess. The stars fall to leave us in darkness.
[ He rises up a little to set his mouth back on the tiny precious bud of her clit, tonguing it back and forth, sucking lightly while his hand moves within her, in and out. Mischievous, Puckish, his service. A fey creature lingering in her grace. ]
"There sleeps Titania sometime of the night, lulled in these flowers with dances and delight." Let it burn, my Titania.
no subject
What angel wakes me from my flowery bed? [titania, beloved of the wayward sweet bully bottom, enchanted fairy queen, deceived and bewitched – no, no, she doesn’t like that part. alia will be titania earlier, at the beginning of the tale, when she delights in her sweet changeling, her stolen boy with dark curls and soft eyes.
armand has these, them both, and he has a tender, sweet mouth and long clever fingers and he delves them within her like her mind seeks out his, ancient and unknowable, millennia of presence and prescience humming like a hive in her mind. alia wiggles her hips, reaches down to pet and pet his hair, lets the coil of grief and the coil of want twine together, build sweet and slick in the fount of her cunt.]
A pleasing sacrifice, a worthy offering. [tender, her knuckles to his forehead, little-sister-sweet and sour, knocking lightly.] Never had so sweet a changeling, knight of my train, to trace the forests wild.