An Owl On Our Shoulders

She looked like an owl, sitting there, perched upon Henry's top bunk and looking all over us every which way and when. The mental image was amplified by my knowledge of her sharp eyesight and hearing, both of which we had unfortunately experienced during cleaning inspections, with her correcting flaws in our room we hadn't noticed and making sure we didn't talk when we were supposed to be quiet.

She sat there, waiting for someone to announce the room ready for inspection from the traditional three paces away. In this case, it meant that one of us would have to climb the bunk opposite to the one she had chosen and report from an awkward position. After a moment of silence, I bit the bullet and did it.

* * *

She moaned against my mouth in the shower as I thrusted myself deeper and deeper into her. Her eyes screamed to not let go and to let her go, and I felt her sharp nails draw blood from my skin even as the running water washed it away. As I embraced her, the feathers tattooed to our skins made a picture of an owl and then broke it as we writhed in pleasure and pain.

It was our symbol, our pact of the unlikely love that we hid from our peers.

* * *

Morning came, and her boot hit me the hardest. Just because we shared something unspeakable didn't mean that we were special; just because I could make her mine didn't mean I wasn't subservient to her.