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This isn’t real, of course.
Which, to be fair, is the only reason why Monet is doing this at all. This isn’t real—he’s not actually touching her, her body’s alone in her room in her bed, this can’t hurt her, can’t wreck her—but it blurs and bleeds all the same.
Victor’s eyes are glazed over with a blissed-out expression, his mind empty, empty, empty, even intertwined this closely with hers. Here on this plane she bridged telepathically between them, bright white hugging them all around. He’s gasping, his adam’s apple bobbing as she grinds down on his cock again, and it rushes through her so hot Monet thinks she’ll die.
This isn’t real. This isn’t real, they’re each alone in their respective beds, even when their minds are lighting up with the pleasure they carve out of each other here, it isn’t real, it’s like… masturbation, she supposes. Like the fantasies she has about him when she’s all alone.
This isn’t real, but that doesn’t do anything about the burning desperation in her chest; no, the only thing her body seems to recognize is that she’s straddling him at last, that he’s underneath her, that they’re pressed together, skin-on-skin, that she can feel his rapid heartbeat under her palm, under his furry chest. Lights her on fire instantaneously, and perhaps she’s been burning this entire time, perhaps guarding it so closely, anxiously to her chest without letting anyone see it has only made it worse.
Monet is ravenous. It’s horrible, she thinks, as she leans down and desperately searches for his mouth with hers, as his groan rumbles into her as he—just as desperately, scrambling to get her, and it just makes her throb even more, makes her so dizzy everything is spinning—grabs at the back of her head to pull her closer.
This isn’t real, and yet she feels his breath fan over her face, feels his warm lips against hers, his tongue nudging against hers, rough against her, feels the heat of his palm on her neck and his body underneath her hands, feels how his cock throbs where it’s pressed against her cunt. He’s sticky; he’s come over his stomach twice already, and she tries to imagine it, tries to imagine him in his room with his eyes squeezed shut, his hand clutched around his cock while his mind is here, here, here with her, but that just makes another throb of arousal so sharp she whines roll through her.
It’s terrible, truly. What he’s doing to her—what she’s letting him do to her—and he’s none the wiser, either, because he’s still all doped out underneath her, brain scrambling for something, anything to hold on to.
She’s one orgasm in; but it’s not like that helped. It’s not like that did anything to get rid of this itch—this desperate, frantic clawing inside of her, this need that haunts her, and he’s so warm against her, so warm, so warm—no, instead, it just seemed to make it worse. Just seemed to make her even more hungry, even more frantic, even more needy, and if there’s one thing Monet hates, it’s being needy.
(If there’s one thing Monet hates, it’s having all these feelings. All these vulnerabilities.)
“Monet,” Victor slurs, pupils so dilated they swallow his irises when she pulls away just a little, shivering at the way his claws scrape over the back of her neck, the way he tries to grab at her, the way his cock jumps again. She feels molten on top of him; boneless even though she’s most evidently not because she keeps moving, because she keeps grinding against him, watching his chest heave with his breaths.
Faintly, at the back of her head—in the small, small part that still regains sanity; if she didn’t, she supposes she wouldn’t be able to keep them entangled here, and wouldn’t that be a shame?—she wonders if the telepathic sensations are too much for him, too overwhelming. If she’s coming off too strong, too needy, if he’s ever done this with anyone else before.
A tinge of bitter-tasting jealousy rushes through her body, an ugly feeling that makes her dig fingernails into his chest until she splits skin, until Victor groans, body going taut for a moment, head throwing back, until he comes in hot bursts over his stomach again.
For a moment, she just stares. Stares, panting, at how his eyes roll back, at how his hips twitch against hers, his back arching off white nothing, stares at the way his brows furrow, his hands—his claws—flex, at the way he bites down on his bottom lip, at the way his cum soaks into the hair on his stomach, a groan rumbling out of him from deep inside of his chest.
Makes her feel lightheaded. The way he—the way he feels about her, this up close, the way he wants her, the way it’s almost tangible, especially here, especially like this, with his mind under her fingertips. His huge feelings in his huge body, and it makes her crazy, makes her—
“Monet,” he repeats, almost sharper this time, like a plea, grabbing at her hips, dragging her against him so her cunt rubs up the length of his cock—half-hard and surely soon to be completely hard again—pin-pricks of pleasure rushing up her spine. Burns her all over again, pulls her back in, makes her notice—again and again and again, over and over and over—just how fucking wet she is. Just how fucking tight her hips feel, how her pussy is throbbing around nothing, desperate for release, or perhaps even more desperate for touch.
And Monet gets that when Victor brushes his hand up her back, holding her there, skin hot against hers, palm rough and big in a way that makes her legs feel all shaky. In a way that makes her lean in again, in a way that makes her press a kiss to his cheek, then another, in a way that makes her allow him to nuzzle his cheek against hers, to drag his tongue over her jaw over and over, purring like the world will end if he doesn’t.
In a way that makes, “You’re beautiful,” spill out of her, and that’s just what she means. This isn’t real, but it feels real. This isn’t real, deceptively so, in a way that makes her sink into her secret desires, in a way that makes the fact that he’s actually here—his mind, that is—that he can actually hear her, that he’ll remember this so easy to slip her mind.
Victor was thinking—he was thinking about making her come. Actually, he’s been thinking about that the whole time; mostly with flickering thoughts of his mouth buried in her cunt and the like, but he was thinking it again just now, about asking her, about asking her, but now his brain is blank again.
It’s weird. She’s frantic for it; of course she wants to come, doesn’t she? Yet still, she slows down grinding against him whenever she can feel it coming, whenever she can feel it rush through her body like liquid gold, building up, wants to wait, wait, wait, and bask in this feeling.
That’s where the trap lies, after all—this is not real in the sense that they aren’t actually touching, in the sense that she’s still never touched him at all, even when she’s grinding down (slowly picking up her rhythm again, mind spinning as she stares, stares, stares down at him, lips parted, wishing she could wrench his ribcage open and crawl inside, dragging her cunt over his cock, gasping when the slippery friction presses against her clit) on his cock right now. But on the other hand, this is quite real in the sense that he’s—that he’s right here.
That this isn’t some sort of fantasy like she keeps slipping into, that he can actually see her, hear her, feel her. That she’s still desperate right in front of him. That she keeps forgetting that, because the thought of him has been something so very private all this time—excluding when she prods at him, when she flirts with him with the tip of her thumb against her lips, but he always, always, always thinks she’s just toying with him anyway, no matter what she says, no matter how obvious she feels with this stupid, swollen feeling inside of her—that she’s kept so close to her, that she could really only indulge in whenever she’s alone.
And maybe that’s just what this is, Monet realizes. Maybe her mind relaxes, because she’s retreated into her telepathy, because she feels safe and alone despite everything, despite how she’s not, because she is indulging. Because she’s stretching this long, long, long, because this is the only place where she can ever allow herself to—
(Want him. Want him, want him, want him, and she wants him so bad it feels like it’s suffocating her. Wants to stay here forever. Wants to wreck him. Wants to see him cry, wants to push into his mind and see everything that has ever happened to him, wants to dig her fingers into his flesh until she hits bone, until she can no longer tell where he ends and where she begins. She feels like an animal. She’s never wanted anyone like this.)
“You’re mine,” she hears herself say. Feels how her face heats up until she feels like she’s being burned alive; but it hardly matters, because Victor’s head is still empty, because he nods, because there’s drool dripping out of the corner of his mouth, shining on his fangs.
“Uh-huh,” he replies, and she thinks right now he’d agree to anything. It feels—it feels; raging in her chest, feels like power, tastes like this hunger that she always feels whenever she looks at him too long.
(The slope of his nose. His bushy brows, when he furrows them. The roll of his eyes, the tapping of his claws. His wide shoulders. The way his hands almost comically dwarf hers. The way his nose twitches when he’s scanning for scents. The way he scowls. The way his face softens whenever he looks at her. She wants to die. She wants to live inside his head, wants to never stop touching him.)
“Please,” he whines when she lifts off him, hands grabbing at her hips desperately, like she’s a lifeline, like she’s the only thing keeping him afloat. Monet wraps her hand around his cock and he groans, body relaxing under her as she lines it up with her hole. “Yes—yes, yes, yeah, yes—”
There’s something itching, burning in her ribcage, in her throat. Something desperately trying to claw its way free, and she swallows, swallows, swallows as she slowly sinks down on his cock.
It feels strangely… blurry. Feels good, of course, feels filling until she’s warm and prickling and half-melted all over, but she doesn’t actually know what his cock feels like—because she’s never even touched him in reality, because their bodies are in War Room X and there’s deadly Terrigen Mist all over the world and Jamie is already dead and perhaps they’re all going to die, anyway—so her mind is just filling in the gaps from experience, and she figures it’s probably the same for him.
Doesn’t matter, anyway. This isn’t really about sex—if it was, she could have just as easily slipped into his room, but that would be too close, wouldn’t it, that would be too dangerous, that would mean his skin would actually be on hers—this is about… about how she wants to eat him. Or something like that.
Ya Allah, she’s so fond of him. It’s terrible. It’s so, so terrible.
“You have no idea how much—” a moan spills out of her, cutting her off, her head spinning. Monet’s nails dig into his chest, and she rolls her hips against his until they’re both gasping, until her head grows warm and hazy. “How much I want—And when you look at me, you’re so—you’re so sweet, I—”
“Monet,” he grits out from between his teeth, hands flexing where he’s grabbing her hips, claws digging and digging and digging into her flesh but never breaking skin.
She leans over him again—and he’s already curling against her, already trying to bridge the distance as much as he can, but he is so tall that she has to stretch so much to be able to reach his face—pressing kisses to his stubbly jaw, wanting to feel him, feel him, feel him. Like this, when she grinds against him, her clit rubs against him, and there’s his cum drying between them, and she doesn’t know what to do with everything that’s threatening to spill out of her chest.
This isn’t real, she thinks. And, This is real enough. Shut the fuck up, St. Croix.
“Sweet boy,” spills out of her anyway; she can’t stop it. She’s so high on it all, on the warmth of the body underneath her, on the way his chest vibrates underneath her palms with how he’s purring, on how he’s touching her, how he’s inside of her, even when it’s just in their heads. “Mine. My good boy.” Victor whines, cock throbbing inside of her, and Monet holds the very threads of his mind in her hands; he’s letting her. She can feel it all, the pleasure rushing through him, electric and sharp. He’s close again. “Do you like that? Do you like when I’m nice to you?”
She can’t stop. It’s burning through her, and it feels so good, feeling him tremble and bend underneath her. Feeling how his mind spikes, feeling how he moans, how his muscles flex underneath her palms when she bites him. She can’t stop.
“Victor,” Monet pants, thinking the desperation in her voice is so obvious that she wants to die. “You have no idea how much I—I think you’re so—hot—and I need—”
“I love ya,” Victor says—sobs, really—interrupting her. He’s trembling. “I lo—I love ya. I love ya. I love ya.”
She comes. This isn’t real, but it wrecks her, anyway.
When she comes back to herself, she’s in her room all by herself, her fingers inside of her, her cunt still working out its last throbs around her. They’re cold when she pulls out, when she rolls over onto her side, curls up. When she tries to breathe, a strange pressure on her ribcage. This isn’t real, but it hurts her, anyway.
(Part of her waits—hopes—for him to come here, to knock on her door, all bashful maybe, with his ears going pink, but he doesn’t.)