some hollanov femslash wip / rated e
When she fucks you, she leaves bruises. When she fucks you she leaves her bra on, her nipples hard beneath the fabric, your thumbs tracing over the topography, a mountaineer’s journey. When Ilya arrives at your room, it’s with her strap already hanging between her legs, thick in her grey sweatpants. You learn her by touch, not by sight. Your hands know the shape and scent of Ilya’s cunt but your eyes don’t. Sometimes, after Ilya leaves, you bring your hand to your nose, sniffing at the leftovers of Ilya’s slick like a bitch in heat.
No, no one knows. You keep it quiet. A ticking time bomb. Queerness is the landmine. The radium in your bones. Decay, little by little. Or is it the silence that comes bound with it, part and parcel? You can’t speak, you can’t tell anyone, not your teammates, not your fans, not your adoring public. They’d tear you to pieces. That’s how fame works, everyone’s ready to step on you to get a little closer to the light. Closer to god. Your mother calls you with the headlines but you don’t look for them. One of these days it’s not going to be pretty. One of these days, an October evening sitting on your bed, not expecting it, you’ll open your inbox to a flood of hateful messages, telling you you’re awful, you’re a predator, you’re a bad example, you’re a cheater, why don’t you just get the fuck out, why don’t you disappear, how dare you.
It’ll come. It always does.
Her tits are so small. Scarcely a swelling under the white lycra, the Adidas logo on her breastbone. She could be a boy if you didn’t know any better, her dick fat and hard rammed up against your cervix, where it nearly hurts and it feels like a hunger almost satiated. There’s something scrabbling at the back of your throat and you don’t know where to put your mouth, your teeth.
You want to swallow her whole.