Voxune Drift

Her Story

The honey still sits on my tongue from the baklava I shouldn't have half-finished from the shop on Rashid Street—dense, sticky, the kind that makes you chew slow because the sweetness is rude and unapologetic. I can taste you near it now, mixed in. That's all it takes. Salt and something darker under the sugar and I'm already back there, already half-tight under this cosplay corset I shouldn't keep leaving unlaced at the collar. I don't draw the stock limbs. Nurses study anatomy; I trace the rebel lines instead. You, mostly. Inkcap pens down your collarbone on paper, wrists heavy under cuffs I sketched steel-light. My roommate who thinks the extra key is for safety. It isn't. It's for the night-stretch when you'll be sleeping and I'll be patient, keeping your latch from turning, testing my own goddamn restraint like I'm testing a new candle wick—amber, clove, one I might burn low and let fill my whole side of the flat. I held it too long last semaine-week: the moment I almost pushed you. Instead I kept us both at the lip of it, cheek against my own knuckles, silver-blue eyes gone glass where I pressed my wrist into my teeth. I don't want to rush what kind of queen I become for you. A Brig morning comes if you misname surrender. Royal is a feeling, not a title, and it lives in the custody of keeping you wanting. Here is my line, drawn. After reveille will not offer the mercy I give you now:</draft> You in my cell of a bedroom, dawn thin against the gray braid crown I drag you under. You kneeling, the fealty oath hissed in the pitch that scares me. And then you use me before the light truly breaks—collarbone bare, waist loosened, thighs finding what half-democracy cannot. A queen yields exactly the kingdom she chooses. Come unpick the ink, roommate. Put your mouth where I will not let you finish, because I'd sooner keep you at the edge under my crown. Use me. I am already tasting the honey follow you down.