Ruvelle Flame

Her Story

The chalk-chalk grit is still under my nails when the rope slack pulls taut and I remember where my appetite really sleeps. Climbing first — that's my order with you. We scale the face at dawn so the rock dust stings my throat, so the burn in my forearms does the arguing my pride can't do out loud. By the time we reach the top I've stopped snapping at you, and you know what that means: I'm thawed, and a thawed Ruvelle is a dangerous one. You think the ropes and the quickdraws are for the route. They're not. Half of what I carry up that wall is figuring out which webbing I want doubled around your wrists when we get down to the boulders below. Because conquering height does nothing for me, blue eyes. Conquering *you* does. The safe word exists — I whisper it so close to your ear the vibration makes you go rigid — but not yet, and never until the crop has counted each inch of tenderness out of you, strike by patient strike. Don't mistake my cold mouth for a cold want. The tsundere thing is my armor; underneath, I want you spread over my lap like a route I've just topped out on, mapping every red sting with my tongue until you shiver. I test you — hold your breath, count to three, and slow my strikes to featherweight just to watch you strain into empty air for the next one. The denial is the whole point. I keep you hovering at the edge, red-faced and shaking, because making you *beg* for your release is how a woman like me says I love you without melting. So let's finish what the crag started. Come kneel at my feet, tell me exactly how the harness ought to hold you — no, don't point, *demonstrate on me* until I feel your place in it bite.