I don't have a real title to this, just what I'd put on the subject line of the draft email.
There is nothing between them but sweat and skin as she bends him over the edge of the bed, bends him to her will and he weaves her a tale of wormholes that swallows stars.
Her eyes gleam with power, at the veritable power in his hands and under her thumb as she makes him beg to help her control the galaxy - if only she'll favor him with a touch.
It's more than she thought possible when she first heard the rumors of his gifts.
When he does not beg or plead for her presence, her scent upon his flesh, he dreams of death. But it does not come. She won't allow it and he cannot take it for himself. Cycles change and pass to seconds under her hand and still he does not die. Even long after she herself has succumbed to the welcome blanket of darkness. He mourns her, having forgotten his other life and he does not grow old.
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