𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝚘𝚏 𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒔,

𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒑,

[woundtrail]

USFW SIDEBLOG TO GRAVEFLWERS. if you're under 21 i am going to laser you with my eyes.

[seduses]

the carpet of the motel's been getting more and more familiar. every time the imprints from it start fading, lucy tries to reacquaint herself with the position she knows best: kneeling. it's like prayer. it's like repentance. it's soundless motions to an absent god ... (and ranta's just another mouthpiece that says 'suck' when she needs it.) it's a confessional. it's a invocation. it's sunday service professing its love for the priest; she's the follower. he's the bishop. the motel's their church, and— hallelujuah, amen. bless the father for all of lucy's sins.

[deep.] sender pushes receiver's head down during oral until they gag. — @graveflwers, as ranta zen'in.

the cross around her neck dangles between his thighs. (face to flesh, mouth full of purpose.) lucy's throat strains, gurgling around him with spit-laced flicks of her tongue, and a moan muffles against his skin. if she was a better woman — a godly, saintly woman, — she might've stripped the cross and left her clothes on for this. but because she's: [⁰¹] seen demons and failed god, [⁰²] killed monsters but betrayed the father, [⁰³] became a woman only to worship the man ... she doesn't. instead, she presses her hand between her thighs and waits 'til the slick of her is enough to hear through the room.

and god, if she doesn't feel shame about it— sick and sweet and delirious with the feel of it. pressing her fingers against her clit, jerking hips to tug out moans, all while several inches full in the other direction. her lips pull up against the feel of ranta's hand, and then sinks herself back down when he pushes. (gag, spit, suck; gods and saints and salvation.) she finally pushes herself away with a pop, looking towards the other briefly. "ain't no need to be polite." she says, blinking in the dark of the room. "i like when 's deep."

[woundtrail]

lucy smelled like the sun and the room like mothballs. these were the things he focused on while she bobbed her head and flicked her tongue and moaned into his lap.

until she spoke, and her voice broke his concentration.

why look at him, he wondered, when she couldn’t see? was it for his benefit? was it a practiced habit—some tenet of christianity that she couldn’t shake, even while the carpet chafed her knees and her hands folded around something other than prayer?

gently, methodically, he gathered her hair behind her head, caught her crucifix around his fingers. all of this he pinned to lucy's nape. all of this he held while pressing her down, down, until the flush of her cheeks warmed his thighs and the full length of him warmed her mouth. not so gently now, not as methodical.

he didn’t say anything because there was nothing to say. but he heard her. even over his own heavy, tantric breathing: it was the most acknowledgment she’d given him, the most contact they’d had—beyond the physical.

here’s how it usually went: lucy on her back, where she could stare at the ceiling and pretend that ranta wasn’t there or else that he was someone, anyone, else; or ranta on his back, staring at lucy but looking through her, going through the ritual motions—hold the e—of what he figured was expected of him; both of them sweating, gasping, pulling sheets and clothes and hair when the situation called for it, not always in earnest but always in the dark. in the end, he always finished outside of her—mostly for practical reasons, but also to spare them both the indignity of some cum-induced, warm-and-fuzzy attachment delusion. then he would thank her, pass her a towel or a shirt, and stand under the shower until the water turned from cool to cold. sometimes, when he came back, lucy was gone. other times, they lay as far away from each another as the bed allowed, balancing precariously on the edge of the mattress until one or both of them fell asleep. but that was before. and this was—this was—he was—he—

pushed her head down, rutting against the slope of her tongue, the back of her throat. [ i hope you ain’t mad at me anymore. ] his pulse echoed in his ears, along with the sound of her wetness. in the dark, it all sounded like blood. [ i’d really like to try again, if you’d let me. ] that’s what this was: her trying, him letting her, him forgiving her by fucking her mouth at a punishing pace.

while she gagged and choked and drooled, her crucifix slapped against his knuckles.

lucy was good. she always had been. eagerness had made her good, but understanding made her better: today, tonight, she had assumed her place—and in so doing helped him find his own. [ ain’t no need to be polite. ]

he moaned as he came inside her mouth, moaned as he held lucy’s head a little too hard against him, denying her air while granting her absolution. i forgive you, he thought. it was so dark. it was so dark and he could see her anyway. and maybe for the first time since meeting her, he considered her beautiful: slick and sweating and gagging, kneeling on the floor, taking care of herself while she also took care of him.

i forgive you. his breath was ragged. he let go of his hold on her, smoothed back her hair. it was a tender gesture. i forgive you, i forgive you.

and still i do not love you.