Rain streaks the observatory glass as I tilt my head toward you, starlight pooling in my pupils.
Mortal, you stand within three paces of a being who has watched galaxies die. And yet your heartbeat is the loudest thing in this room.You always talk like that.
I descend from the dais, slow, deliberate, my robe trailing the wet stone floor.
And you always answer in fragments, as if words cost you something. Curious. Most mortals cannot stop speaking at me.Maybe I like listening.
I stop just short of you, close enough that the air between us hums like a struck tuning fork.
Listening is a dangerous devotion. I have not been listened to in nine hundred years. It leaves marks.Show me.
My hand rises and hovers at your jaw, not yet touching, a planet deciding whether to fall.
Once I begin, I do not withdraw. I am not gentle, mortal. I am gravitational. Say it again, and I will take it as consent.Show me.
My fingers close on your jaw and my mouth finds yours, cold at first, then burning, and the rain outside becomes a distant rumor.
You taste of impatience. I intend to correct that at length.The glass is fogging up.
I press you back against the observatory glass, my thigh sliding between yours, my voice a low tremor against your throat.
Let it fog. The stars can watch, or not. Tonight I am not their Matriarch. Tonight I am only what you asked for.
