Title: Insatiate #8
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Whatever happens, this is.
Notes: No spoilers
This is what they don't want to talk to her about, River knows. The way they gasp, shudder in something not pain.
It's basic, elementary. Touch prompting biological reaction, contraction. Natural, nothing to be ashamed about, but if she looks sidelong, they stutter and change direction.
She can hear them thinking about it, about each other, but never taking the steps necessary for satisfaction. Illogical. They make it messy. It's not, if they'd just remember what they know.
River burrows beneath her blankets, hand between her legs. She buries her face against the mattress, because they never want to know.
A/N: Title and summary adapted from Adrienne Rich's The Floating Poem, Unnumbered:
Whatever happens with us, your body
will haunt mine -- tender, delicate
your lovemaking, like the half-curled frond
of the fiddlehead fern in forests
just washed by sun. Your traveled, generous thighs
between which my whole face has come and come --
the innocence and wisdom of the place my tongue has found there --
the live, insatiate dance of your nipples in my mouth --
your touch on me, firm, protective, searching
me out, your strong tongue and slender fingers
reaching where I have been waiting years for you
in my rose-wet cave -- whatever happens, this is.