Archive of Our Own ^beta

Apples and Oranges

Clark after sex
is languid. Liquid
Sweat pooled in hollows and hips
like rain puddled on a bed of leaves.
Sunshine soaking into his skin.
Thrumming with power;
the picture of living energy.

Arms stretched wide. Torso twisted. Legs akimbo.
You're reminded of a life-drawing class you once took.
You can still name the line of muscles
from shoulder to hip. And how
he likes it when you trace each one slowly
with lips and then with hands.

He says he can feel every scar that marks you
And far from marring the perfection
The slight scrape of your lips on his skin
The calluses on your fingers
leave him breathless (this boy who never tires)
and aching (this almost-man who can't be hurt.)
Every touch brings you a thousand questions.

During, he's crisp and tart.
Tastes of youth and sustenance.
He tempts you with Rome Beauty lips;
Your Golden Delicious boy,
The apple of your eye.

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On Lex:

The bright, sharp flavor of him. The texture
in those secret, sacred places
makes you think of blood oranges
hanging heavy on the tree,
though your own experience is apples.

You want to peel away his layers
reveal the pith. The essence of him
section by section,
that only you know.

The way the juice of him bursts on your tongue
like a miracle. A prayer.
Each swollen segment a sign
of the existence of God, or Nature
-- call it what you will, because
why would something so complicated
-- sweet sour bitter salt
exist otherwise?

The weight of him inside you
The life and length of him
Fragile strength in your hand.

The way it fills your mouth; your ass
Making breathing an effort;
Movement a must.
Like the wine he has taught you to savor
he is an acquired taste.

Nothing on Earth or off
should feel this good.
Heart and heat and home.

The gift of his presence
feels wholly undeserved.
You want to thank him
with every truth of you.