you're too young & eager to love

Fandom: Black Swan. Character study.




“Open your mouth.” He says. “Open it.”

So you do, but his mouth is raw, wet and red and then suddenly there is his tongue, exploring the open wound that is your lips. How rigid you stand, how horribly restrained. An icicle, and the heat of his hands roaming your body do little to melt away your resolve. You think you can taste his Frenchness; you think the thin layer of your leotard is not nearly enough protection.

There is something calloused in the way he’s groping. Something bitter at the tip of his tongue.

But you try, standing there in an embrace that is sudden and foreign. You are not so accustomed to this, his frank brutality, or the feel of a man’s hand sliding between your thighs. Pressing up and against you, pulling pink sheer fabric tight. This, however, is what he’s used to – this taking of things he believes is his right. Because you are the Swan Queen; because you must taste like all things pure and white.




You open your mouth for her.

Willingly, hungrily. Her skin is like paper, and you want to feel it crumble, watch it tear. She is infuriatingly everywhere, but the two of you are twin trees, the branches of your arms entangled. How similar it seems. Kissing her is like kissing your reflection.

Lily is disarming. You expected her to match her name, as though a name were a branding. But she is dark and fetid, yet warm – terribly warm. The type of warmth you want to plunge your hands into, the type of warmth that, like Prometheus, you would try to steal. Her kissing is like her dancing, painfully personal and vibrant, shimmering like the effects of the drug navigating your blood. You wish you could be like that, dance like that, feel like that.

She is not afraid of anything, while you? You are frail, meager, a tiny thing that can be prodded and poked. You try to do what they say: let go. Let go. Let go.

You fall into her, against your mattress inside your bedroom where everything is lollipop colored and laced. You don’t do much touching, just holding her arms, shoulders, grasping for her mouth. But slowly and quickly, Lily is descending, leaving wet trails from her mouth between your ribs, down your slim stomach, until her mouth is there. Devouring you and making you cry.




The two of them are whispers. Shadows you cannot locate. Fleeting visions, caught only in your peripheries.

He watches her.
You want to be watched like that.




Seduction, like ballet, is an art. You can dance en pointe, but you cannot wrap your arms around a man’s shoulders, entrancing him by the perfume lingering in your hair. You cannot learn how to kiss without biting.