Work Text:
She thinks about the beauty embedded into it all, how Kosh’s gentle touch and quiver falls over her like droplets of fresh drought rain, a mound of muddy light leaking holy water from its healing wounds. It is replenishing—she spreads him across her cuts and aches and he soaks it all up, leaving faint suction marks like gentle kisses over her skin. The mound of light inside of her gets brighter and brighter, the muddiness seeping from her eyes through tears of devotion as she floats up closer to the divine. Kosh inside of her, and Kosh Inside Of Her, capitalized like the G in God, their connection reflected in the vastness of the universe surrounding only them. She’s getting closer, and closer.
At first it had been difficult to adjust to him, overwhelming in his beauty, too painful to look directly at with the eye of the mind, like gazing directly into an eclipse because it is just too tempting to shield yourself from. On her knees, panting over her mattress, the fullness of him a welcomed pry. A beam of light reaches out to stroke the side of her face, comfortably warm against her renewed skin. Lyta breathes out his name as if it is a holy term, in the same way one rejoices over answered prayers.
She wonders if anyone else has been here with Kosh. He is so patient, as if experienced, but still eager, still projecting outwards a calm passion uncharacteristic to his kind. She wonders where this unity will take her, the raw, intimate sensation of Kosh’s “touch” just inside enlightening her beyond it all, beyond duality and opposite, beyond choice, opening up the possibility of some forbidden third option she thinks she’s not supposed to see under these circumstances. She is unimaginably lucky.
The material and emotional planes blur into one—she becomes something prized under him, throned around him as he twitches and rolls. The light grows and grows, expanding its circuitry, an infection of cure. She hadn’t expected sex with a Vorlon to be this physical, to see Kosh bear his all to her in return. There is a sense of reciprocity in the act of leaving his encounter suit—she thinks back to their first meeting, her palm inside of him, his essence opening up for her as she remains open for him now, and decides that he must understand more than he lets on.
Without the translation of the suit, she cannot hear him, but she hears it in her mind somehow still—her name in Kosh’s song,
Lyta,
the low rumble of his typical voice in a burst of musical sound that reminds her of every song she has ever heard, every bit of music in the universe touched by Kosh as he emits Lyta’s name out. It’s just—it’s too much. She feels his shielded fascination slip through as she comes, as if she has peered into something rightfully hidden and now she will never be the same. She explodes and is pieced back together, strip by strip, with gentle care, her insides exposed for Kosh to see and touch and hold. Everything that composes her becomes drenched in pulsing light, bleeding through every layer of Lyta Alexander until Lyta Alexander is an entirely new creature. She thinks about the beauty embedded in this, how that beauty is inside of her now, how it’s all inextricable.