Puppetry
sabrastuff for sabra since sabra is sabra sabra sabra sabra.
sabra.
He makes my words work. No one else can.
He puts his mouth to mine, spills his words into me. He has plenty to spare. That isn't enough; what he's given me is soft and unrefined, and they stick silently in my throat. His mouth again, on my shoulder, on my belly. His hands, calloused in odd places, warm on my skin, make my back arch sharply, nearly enough.
His weight on me, insistent, pressing my breath out of me and then letting it rush back in. He pins me and the tension that whips through me lets the beginning of a familiar sound spill from my lips. He smiles. Almost. Almost enough.
Slowly, gently, he helps me speak out all the useless ends of sounds that I won't need, all the breathy noises that are pushed out as what he's giving me crowds in, until finally I am left with only what I need to say.
He withdraws from me, exhausted from his work, looking down at me with his face framed by long dark hair. I open my mouth to show him what he's helped me make, the magic riding on my tongue.
Laughing, he kisses it away before I can speak it.