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“You know, I was a scared little thing back then.” Crescent’s breath was hot on Aevia’s neck. Her hands explored Aevia’s sides, blindly finding the hem of her shirt and slipping underneath. Crescent’s fingertips traced circles into the bare skin of her lover’s waist. Aevia shivered at the touch; she stared back at the girl straddling her with reverence—and a hint of fear.
“I told you, in the end, how much I loved you,” Crescent continued as her hands trailed up to Aevia’s ribs. She teased around the elastic band of Aevia’s bra, experience guiding her to unhook the thing in a smoother motion than Aevia could even manage herself.
“But I was never brave enough to show you .” She gathered the fabric of Aevia’s shirt in both hands, lifting it up past her head and discarding it entirely into the nighttime sands of the Zorrialyn Coast. Aevia’s attention broke away from Crescent—her eyes followed the shirt, surely marred by sand and grit already—just long enough to offend. Long enough to invoke jealousy. Jealous of a fucking shirt of all things.
Crescent grabbed Aevia’s chin. “Fifty years, Aevia. It’s been this long, and you still don’t know how to behave.” She blew a lock of her hair away from her one good eye.
“I can—I wasn’t—” Aevia stammered, the fear in her gaze taking reverence’s place.
“No, no. No, my darling. Quiet now.” Her tone was calm, but it had a cold firmness that stopped Aevia’s thoughts without hesitation. Crescent smirks. A good dog remembers her training still, it seems.
A purple light formed in Crescent’s palm. It shifted itself into a small knife perfectly fit to the rogue Interceptor’s palm. The psychic blade tapered into a clip point five inches out from its origin in the handle. This was a favorite of Crescent’s, reserved for her private purposes alone; she had spent many nights sobbing alone, her forearms and thighs made red from this blade’s caress. It was sentimental, too: this psycho-cut make was a nostalgic facsimile of the real thing that brought her back to reality on many days when she had first come to the orphanage.
That blade was always how she truly felt love. It was, too, how she wished to show Aevia how she really felt. It was her confession; her pleading cry for true acceptance.
Crescent was rough with Aevia, but never unfairly so. She was a woman who knew what she wanted. Crescent had played out this scene in her mind hundreds upon hundreds of times, now; she knew the position of every limb: Aevia’s wrists pinned above her head with Crescent’s left hand, her thighs hugging Aevia’s waist.
Once she was confident Aevia wouldn’t dare move, she allowed herself the indulgence of Aevia’s tits. Embarrassingly large things, they splayed to either side of Aevia’s torso, bemoaning their lack of support. Her nipples hardened with the coastal breeze, and Crescent wasted no time rolling them between her thumbs. Aevia’s eyes shut as she moaned through the feeling, her cheeks’ reddening visible even in the pale moonlight.
“You’re so beautiful, my love,” Crescent rasped, her voice husky. She took her favorite blade in hand, dragging the pointed tip against the young girl’s abdomen. Crescent bit her lip.
She really is young, isn’t she? She’s hardly had time to grow since we parted. Crescent dragged the blade along Aevia’s sternum now. It felt like being seventeen again. Back then, Crescent had felt inferior to Aevia in every way, even despite being a year older. Aevia felt more mature, kind, more developed. It pained her, thinking of her former fear.
If only I had given her those scars back then. Would her wrists still show my love if I had? Or would they too have faded with her memories?
Crescent aligned the blade with Aevia’s forearm. She was almost shaking with excitement—while Aevia shook with fear.
“Can I show you how I truly feel, Aevia? What I wished to say all this time?”
Aevia’s lip trembled. The divine awe returned to her eyes. She said in the quietest voice she had ever used: “Please.”
The blade, forged from Crescent’s idyllic memory, made nothing but the perfect cuts the rogue Interceptor dreamt of. The first cut was deep, and it made Aevia wince and tear up. She whined in pain.
“Shhh, my love.” Crescent stroked the girl’s cheek with her free hand. “You’re beautiful. This is what I wanted you to feel.”
Heavy beads of crimson collected from the wound, dripping down Aevia’s trembling wrist and falling into the sands. Crescent lined up her blade for another cut, horizontal, parallel to the first. She pulled the cut—clean, perfect once more—and shifted for a third. A fourth. Fifth. All the while, Aevia sobbed. She gasped every time, winced every time—but not once did she protest.
Crescent stopped counting her cuts after the sixth. She had many, many years to make up for—many scars of her own to repay. Aevia’s forearms were red, covered fully in raised, raw tallies. She was breathtaking, in Crescent’s mind; a girl who looked as broken as Crescent felt. Someone who could finally understand what she’s been through all these years, decorated and adorned with the briars of Crescent’s love.
After completing her final brushstrokes, Crescent set down her figurative brush and banished it into the aether. She cooed gentle reassurance to Aevia as her breath shook.
“You did so well, Aevia,” and, “I’m all done. You’re all done, you did perfect.” She cupped Aevia’s jaw, stroking tears away from the girl’s cheek with her thumb. Crying, bleeding, adorned with scars she’ll have to hide for fear of prying eyes and questions, and topless with breasts bared for the world—what a perfect girl.
Aevia met Crescent’s gaze with watery eyes and a broken smile. “Hey,” that tiny voice managed, raspy and dry. “Let me thank you, Crescent.” Aevia’s hands moved from above her head to Crescent’s knees, just high enough to avoid any claim of innocence. Aevia tried to clear her throat again to no avail. A shiver worked its way through Crescent’s entire body as those delicate hands grazed her thighs, her hips, her—
“You’re—so wet,” Aevia said, surprised. She wore a puzzled expression which turned quickly to a sly one as she seemed to put the pieces together. Aevia hooked her thumbs around the waistband of Crescent’s soaked panties. She pulled forward, urging Crescent to shift herself further up.
Crescent understood. Aevia wouldn’t claim to be bold with words—but she was skilled with her mouth in other, more interesting ways. To Crescent, this made her the perfect girl: quiet and skilled with her tongue in ways that would make her absent mother frown. Crescent didn’t bother taking off any clothing; she pulled her panties aside, and forced herself against Aevia.
Aevia’s tongue against her labia made her weak. Aevia’s tongue against her clit made her tremble. Crescent hunched over, supporting herself with weak arms. She rolled her hips, forcing her cunt against her lover’s face to urge her to explore deeper. Aevia indulged freely—it was an act of care, after all, and there would never be another more giving than her.
“Ohhhhhhyes—,” Crescent growled.
The woman’s raspy voice was a reward to Aevia; she picked up her pace, lips wrapping around the clit grinding against her cheek. Crescent collapsed in pleasure. She was losing herself, and fast: she needed this, and she needed it to be perfect. Crescent scrambled to grab onto Aevia’s arm, her thumb stroking fresh wet and raised cuts like she desperately needed good luck.
“You’re mine now, Aevia, for real this time.” Crescent rolled her hips into the girl’s face even harder, faster. Desperate. “Everyone will see these,” Crescent panted, “and I can’t wait to see their worry. Their fear.” Her moans and cries grew loud, risking the attention of any late-night Sashilans. “But I know you’re mine. These show you’re mine. You’re—I’m—,” Crescent’s thoughts broke, she stumbled over them, her crying grew silent and her grinding harsh—
“I love you, Aevia,” Crescent sobbed as every part of her body was undone, all at once.
Saying it out loud felt tangible for the first time in her long life. No longer just a mere declaration; instead, an ontological truth.