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ADULT CONTENT
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Features sexual themes or language, but does not depict sexual acts.
Explicit depiction of sexual acts.
Features non-consensual sexual acts.
Graphic depiction of blood, gore or mutilation of body parts.
Description of severe mistreatment of children.
Description of self-harm
Description of suicide.
Description of torture.
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Info
Thine Eyes as Stars, Thy Name as Air
Author:Wynths
This is the final tale in a series of 3 pieces, which includes "To Learn to Fly" and SCP-7964. If you haven't already, please consider reading and supporting these two before reading "Thine Eyes as Stars, Thy Name as Air."
Thanks for reading!
Restless, I rouse from sleep as she lies beside me, gently rising and falling as she breathes deep, relaxed breathes. In. Out. In. Out.
As I come into focus, I cannot help but think: Look at the two of us, fools, fools we are!
And yet, over the black abyss we hang, and giddy am I as I look down and will the floor to vanish. We hang over the forest so highly that it reduces itself to different shades of black and green under the untarnished moon, and yet we are as solidly grounded as if we were at the top of the mountain that reaches for our side.
Slowly, I will the floor back into my vision, and I lift my side of the blanket, and go onto the floor. The simple magick lets me see clearly in the night, though we have not even a crack in the door to actually illuminate anything, so I am able to find my stockings easily. I know now what I woke myself up for, and I am eager to continue writing it.
I crack the door, and I look back. She’s sleeping. Good. Hopefully in the morning, she’ll crack a smile at it.
As I walk through the hall, an open space that is illuminated by the moonlight that falls upon the courtyard, the dead silence of the island upon which we have built our home becomes quite odd to my ear. I suppose it’s a reaction that I’ve brought with me from the home country—it is colder at night, and there’s more movement then than in the day. The merchants’ complaints and the camel’s brays travel far under the black stars.
But, thankfully, we do not have to worry about others tonight.
I’ve managed now to stumble my way into my study, a few rooms down from where I had just been fast asleep with Rangi, and with a slow, creaky motion—it appears I haven’t fully woken up my body, though my mind is at full attention—I light the lamp that hangs by the door.
The study is a beautiful thing. We made it so. Books line the walls, hundreds of them, with bindings of leather and fabric and paper, and gold, blue, white, black titles jump at me, wanting me to read them and to validate the time which their authors put into them. Some of them are yellow, old grandfathers, others slick, white, new books that’ve been printed just the week before. All of them are precious little things.
But I walk past them, for, right now, what consumes my mind isn’t absorbing the work of others, it’s making, nay, crafting something for just one other person… My beloved.
Thine Eyes as Stars…
Thy Name as Air
The text had been left there the night before. It had come into my head spontaneously, as all of the greatest ideas do, and I could not bear to watch myself forget it. On a scrap of paper it went, and here it was now—waiting. Ready.
It takes a moment to collect myself, to begin word production, but now I think I can write another line…
To think we’ve gone so far
The perfect, name’d pair
No, something a bit better occurs to me now! Let us try…
What hath compelled ye, so far,
To remain truly there?
Yes, that’s the direction I think this should go in. I sit down in the plush red chair, lean over the paper, and I begin to write freely, if quite slowly.
For it is more than I can bear
To rise with you through the air
To wind through the dark
That tries to pry us apart
The sky our saviour, the ground an open maw
Those years I cannot now detect
Since the office of that prefect
Have been consumed with the greatest intent
To love you, and to make that love a burning incense
A house united, a golden pair
For so long have we been out in the clear
Bless her, for somehow she remains there,
My lord, ﷲ
Just as I finish the first part, a hand touches my shoulder. Before I can flinch, my brain recognizes who it is, and I instead smirk at my own foolishness. I had left the door unlocked, and I had not been as discreet as I had thought.
“My love, you are not under your parents' roof anymore. If you wish to write me a love letter, you can do so without sneaking off at night.”
“And how else shall it be a welcome surprise, instead of a welcome gift?”
“Do you think it being but a gift would make it worse?” She leans over me now, her breath caught in my ear. She too is waking up her body, but doubtless she’s reading the poem now. It’s fine, I suppose; I don’t believe I am the greatest at rhyming anyways.
“B'sides, I love it as it is anyways. You’re better at this than you realize, you know?”
“Ah, ‘tis nothing. A couple of forced rhymes can be dedicated to anyone.”
“But you chose to dedicate them to me, yes? That is the true gift.” She pauses, and adds, "And there's no surprise needed for that."
She has truth in her words, and she wraps her arm around me, gently massaging my sore arm with her hand. She’s surely awake now, and while I feel slightly guilty that I disrupted her rest, it seems that, whether I rose or not, she did not want it.
“It is, yes. I suppose you don’t want to try and rest now, do you?”
“Oh, you’ve woken me up plenty of times before. It’s not as though I need the full rest—that’s just laziness speaking to me” She chuckles, her brilliant, honey-sweet chuckle. She adds, “I suppose I'll just tend to the parsley 'erb before I return to laying in bed.”
I rise from the chair and look at her. Her sun-tanned skin and crows’ feet always a welcome surprise whenever I see her aged, my lover of over a decade. The poem was only the latest of my many attempts to show her how I felt, but, somehow, I feel that she already knows exactly what it is that churns in my heart and belly and loins when she is there, and we are wrapped around each other, our heat shared and our bodies discarded, interlinked, unified.
We both smile at each other for a moment, then break away. She must have noticed that I lingered more than I usually do.
I seal and put away my pen, and leave the paper and the ink scribbled upon it to dry.
“Then I shall go for a small flight. I’ve ‘ought to wake fully my body anyways. I’ll be helping you all day with the tī kōuka, won’t I?”
She looks at the open door, the moonlight visible in the courtyard, and back at me.
“Yes, you will. And I will go with you too.”
It was a foolish thing to do, really, it was. But that made it all the better, as I idly drifted in the air, and she followed me, her arm catching mine as I felt my stomach turn—as it always did from the massive drop to the ground—and as fire entered my loins, as it always did from the rise.
“Truly, thou art the fucking worst, aren’t you?” She whispered—a long and drawn whisper—in my ears as she fondled at my shirt, undoing the buttons for me, drinking in the flat planes of my chest. I let her do it, and I keep my arm around her, feeling her waist, bringing her together. And we rise—yes, do we rise!
She lets fall my shirt, and I subconsciously will it towards the home as I fully give up any semblance of decency, and now I attack her dress, and she lifts her arms, and under it are her twin towers, her twin prizes for the man who would be her taupuhi, and she goes at my belt, unbuckling it. The metallic sounds of its undoing linger in the air, and it whooshes as it falls quickly, rushing the air like we rush to our bodies. Like she rushes to my lips, that she kisses now, fervently, passionately, dancing with my tongue, playing off it, letting her hunger for me show as we kick off the last vestiges of our humanity, letting the cold air strike us and try its hardest to fail to take from us our warmth and love and our passion.
And now, we truly bound through the air. There’s a churning feeling in my stomach as I lurch down, and I see the ground, surely miles below, and I break our dance and laugh childishly, out of some demented mixture of love and lust and knowing there's no limit to our desires. She sees my passion-drunken face, sees the ground below us, hears the wists of a past remade, and she laughs too.
I break the muteness, and as I feel not only the curves above but the curves below, I manage to smoothly eke out “Somehow you get hotter everytime we do this.”
She chuckles and answers immediately, as though she’d been waiting for the compliment, “And everytime you find a way to be even lovelier.”
I climb onto her, and she holds fast now, gazing not only at me but also at the bright stars of Andromeda, her love-drunk twin in the sky, and I see that she was telling naught but the unbridled truth—and I can tell her later that I knew she would have brought me flying and fucking tonight even if I hadn’t tried to pen some awful poem.There’s. Her soft moans are as precious as gold for a panner—when at last I bring them out of her, they are the most wond’rous things that can grace my ears—and I cannot resist letting out my own deep, tough cries, even if I try half-heartedly to resist.
As I go onto and into her, we sway back and forth in the air, and we twist towards and away from the stars, and we flip—I feel her tense around me and my whole body loosen and churn—, each time rocking me to my soul as I see the ground abandoned under us, ready to take us back violently if we err even a moment, and then I see the sky, so inviting and beautiful with its shining and its stories, beckoning that if I come to it, we can fuck forever in the stars. It doesn’t change that we are forever locked on each other, and we feel each other now, fully, including the holy and secret place that we thought once would never be shared, and we defile it together, for the hundredth, thousandth time, with a slow, measured metronome of lust.
The pace quickens now, and so does the sound of our love, the sound of our hearts, excited and full and free, escaping from us as steam does from a hot pot. I ravish her, and she takes it voraciously as she feels the desperate, barely-measured and barely-contained pounding inside of her, her lover ready for her, and she ready for him. And I can’t bear it any longer, her flesh beckons to me, and I answer its hot call. We cry out together as I feel her twitch around my flesh and she feels my seed inside her. The radiant blushes on our faces cool as we come close together, and she relaxes, both soul and body, her energy spent, and we lay for a while together, panting as dogs, She smiles at me, telling me that she greatly appreciated the break from sleep—I reply to her, yes, I loved every second of it—as the air around us begins to whip at us, wanting us to leave as it tries to shower us with ineffectual freeze and fog.
We decide, eventually, that we should break apart, and we do, letting the water in the air carry away our sweat and come, letting flecks of sweat and love fall. All the while we’re staring at each other, and I know I’m never tired of the sight, and I know she will never be either. We pant for a bit, and once we have cooled down, enough to pretend that we were merely caring for the parsley, we begin to move back down, backing away from the clouds. I save what I last want to say for the journey home, as we swim through the air, hands interlinked.
“I love you, Rangi. Even more than flight.”