You have known every facet of desire, all beauty and ugliness, save this one. So come.
Press her body, sweating, against your own. Twine your fingers with hers to give her purchase, to writhe against you, to scream, and pant, and moan. Give her something to hold onto. Give yourself something to hold onto, for the universe is opening, the reality you’ve known is cracking before your eyes, and all the little everyday miracles suddenly overwhelm you with their power.
She needs you to hold her, but you need her strength. You see it in every trembling tendon, every sinew and strain. The fierce, mad grin and the tears in her eyes.
She’s stronger than you, and you are the Demiurge. You are the Lightbringer, and you have to squeeze your eyes nearly shut because she’s too bright to look at.
Lucifer ... Lucifer ... Lucifer ...
Chloe chants your name, rising, falling, gasping for breath. Not a prayer from this one, your partner, your equal. A demand, from the love of your very long life, a command.
You have your pride in stamina, but this is beyond an orgy, beyond a bacchanalia. This is hours, nearly days with barely mercy to even gasp for breath, with every line and cell canted in yearning. You feel exhausted, know it is nothing to the bone-deep exhaustion of the woman you hold in your arms.
She is beyond you, her eyes closed in concentration, close, close, seeking release from the pressure that’s become nearly unbearable. She grits your name from clenched teeth, she begs for help even as she shakes her head at the uselessness of her own plea. You have nearly the power of the Creator itself, and you can offer nothing but your arms around her, your hands to hold, your mouth pressing helpless kisses to her drenched brow, whispering
Chloe, Chloe, you are doing so well. You’re nearly there. She’s nearly here. I love you so much.
All the crescendos of ecstasy you’ve heard in eternity, from the first blue-white star to the last aching moan of orgasm, nothing has ever sung so sweetly in your ears as her last, low and rising howl of triumph, joined by a sudden high note of pure insistent being. The chord reverberates through your brain, your heart, your soul. It is fire more scourging than the Fall and more beautiful than a supernova.
Chloe collapses back against you. Your hands have gone numb, and she finally lets them go, reaching out beyond you. She is handed this new Desire, bloody and screaming, and she turns in your arms, and weeps, and laughs, and offers you this new thing.
Attend, Lucifer: Desire fusing and igniting, bright enough to burn you up in aweterrorlove and spark a phoenix in your ashes.
Lucifer, Lucifer, meet your new Morningstar.