Work Text:
You close your eyes—-all of your eyes, collectively, at once, facing inward—-and imagine many things. You are so adept at imagining—-your massive heart flutters to the beat of the music Carol danced to in a memory from long ago. Helen’s memory—-off limits—-but she aids in the imagining; she has every memory of Carol at her most vulnerable, her bare, raw self, and Carol is most beautiful when she is vulnerable.
The light of the stars is infectious. Holy. You wonder if your consciousness will spread to any of the other societies that are lucky enough to receive your gift.
Will you be able to see beyond Earth? Will you be able to gaze at the shining beauty of the unknown, and connect to your counterparts beyond the stars? What will the other worlds look like? Will they, too, be beautiful?
Will any of it compare to Carol Sturka? Could anything ever compare to Carol Sturka?
She’s so beautiful in every scrap of her existence. She sleeps beside you and runs her touch over your shoulder and the world never stops being beautiful and Carol never stops being holy and you never stop wanting her divinity to touch you.
Would the people who sent you here be upset if you loved? If you wanted the immune to touch you, to slip right inside of you while gazing a threat of adoration into your eyes? If you wanted the enveloping to be physical instead of psychological, sometimes, a joining of bodies-essences-vessels before the greater joining of minds? You want her inside of you, you want to sing her hymns from within—-she deserves this bliss, this realm of utter love and togetherness. She has struggled, she has suffered, and she deserves it.
She is so lucky to have you.
“What do… you know…” she pants, her body still shaking from her orgasm, hands resting over her chest as you untangle yourself from her legs, “what do—-what do you—all—-like?”
You rest your head on the pillow next to her. She’s so beautiful like this—- and that is the only word that truly fits. You have every professor of every language in the world embedded within and the only word that can capture Carol Sturka well is beautiful and every translation of it. You take your fingers and run Carol’s slick back into your mouth—-you crave this taste, you have missed it. She is every rose and every miracle and every baby’s laughter and every loyal pet and every cheek that has ever blushed and every heartbeat that has ever increased around their beloved and and and—-
You shrug. “We like you.”
“No, but I mean… what do you want me to do for you?”
It doesn’t compute. You love everything about her books. You love everything about her. You want her to do everything to you. You want her to slip deep inside of you and you want to fuck her deep inside and you want to tenderly make love to her underneath the light of every star. You want to kiss her thighs again.
Instead, you shrug again, and shoot her a blank stare.
“You can’t think of anything specific?” she asks. “It’s okay if you want me to… you know…”
She turns over, stares at you. Her fingers slide between your thighs and slither upward—-you sigh as the tips circle around your clit, experienced and determined.
“Do this,” she whispers, pulling you closer, your breasts rubbing against one another, your legs entwining once more.
“We like that,” you admit, your legs weakening.
“Would you like it if I—-“
A finger slips in, and the vessel of Zosia yelps. Your entire physical mass stops its actions gracefully and dissociates back to this moment—everyone watches you, turns within towards this body, tunes into the sensation of Carol inside of you, her finger massaging and pressing and thrusting around.
It feels so, so good. You look down at the Earth from the International Space Station. You look at the snow from the bodies stationed in Antarctica. You gaze up into the northern lights from a small island in Alaska. You want to take her to every single wonder imaginable and watch her face as she experiences every non-Carol beauty this planet has to offer. You want her inside of you—-truly inside, absorbed and humming within you. You want it all. You want all of her.
You know that she is trying to distract you—waving pleasure and attention and calm in front of your face as she plots to unravel your gift. It's not anything new. Eventually, one of two things will happen, the universe's inevitable spiral downwards. For now, you have this.
