confessthysiins

[confessthysiins]

for @handtame( desk ) - our muses have sex in an office, clothed

By the time he had come to terms with it, in all its tragedy, it was already too late.

The girl had crashed into him like a tide, mouth spilling hot over his, hands firmly locked about the collar of his shirt. Stricken with the shock of it he had barely reacted when she had pushed him back into his leather chair and climbed into his lap, bruised knees pressing into his thin waist. She had let go of him just long enough to tug his tie loose and a few buttons with it, a firm hand slipping beneath the linen to trace along his collarbone. A violent shiver had taken him. Weakly he had tried to say her name, but the word lost itself between lips that should never have met, like a hare torn apart by hungry dogs.

Above all he wanted to be appalled. He wanted to take the knot in his stomach and call it disgust, desperately wanted the crawling feeling on his skin to be named horror. But he knew too much of sensations to delude himself, and these two he knew very well, though they had been strangers now for long years. Hunger. Excitement. His body longed for hers in that animal way that was the logical end point of their lengthy game of cat and mouse. Sometimes, he was the cat; all feline smiles, stalking around the border of polite distance like a predator. Today he was the mouse, and she the ravenous one. 

She pressed herself into him, body a rolling wave, and against all reason a goading hand still gleaming with a wedding band came to rest at the small of her back. Miriam’s heart beat furiously against his chest when he whispered in her ear, breaths shallowed by the last restraints of his willpower: “This is what you’ve wanted, then, this whole time…? My undoing at your hands.” Her answer came as a thrum against his neck. He winced when Miriam’s teeth dragged against his skin, chattering with desire. He buried his nose in the crook of her shoulder in turn, silken hair dragging on her bared skin, hot sighs welling in the dip of her collarbone. “Didn’t you want this? Didn't you look at me with the same hunger?” she whimpered, hands pressing on his chest, wrapping around jutting ribs beneath the pale linen to drag her nails along his back. He stifled a groan in a gentle bite of her soft skin as the rhythm of her hips grew desperate, the kiss of her sex hot through the clothes that separated them, last bastion of discipline. His own pressed against the confines of his trousers, the ache meaningless next to the burning her words elicited in him. His confession was murmured close to the tender arc of her jaw: “I did.” His Miriam, his little starling, in his arms at long fatalistic last. How often has he thought of it, of the taking, the shame devouring him through her delicate lips and the warmth between her thighs. For months he has wondered where they would be when they would inevitably give in to reckless thirst, a thought that haunted and excited him in equal measure. He had hoped he would never learn the answer.

Yes, he wanted her. Her big eyes that shone like ice, her scathing remarks, her lithe legs with their knees always bruised rosy, her hands, her mouth. All for himself, selfishly, like he wanted everything. And he wanted to forget himself, only if for a moment, the brief moment of elation. Nothing now remained to stop him from chasing it - no morals and no thoughts, no reason. His short breaths devolved into moaning as thin hands wandered up her skirt and pushed her closer onto him. Miriam squealed when his thumb ran over her scarred stomach and navel, down to lips wet through light underwear. Shaking hands gripped at the arms of the chair, leather creaking as the girl’s whole body worked to stroke the length of his erection, every roll of her hips punctuated with a high pitched whine. “Look at me, Miriam, my sweet Miriam.” Her name on his lips had never tasted more of milk and honey. When her eyes met his, silvery mirrors of lust, she thought she saw tears. Her kind doctor, so beloved to her heart, the man for whom her death was made to wait; somewhere between his lips she thought she could dig out the kingdom of Heaven. Look at me and see a man unmade. His ring was cold against the nape of her neck when he took hold of it to press her into a kiss thick with desire. Oswald’s other hand was firm on her thigh, her skirt and sweater hiked up to bare her stomach, his thumb slipping under the hem of her panties to rub at her most sensitive point. 

Somewhere in the pit of his shame he had always known that it would come to this, that the dewy fruit of her desire was ripe for his picking. He knew it from the way she mirrored him, the way she would stare into his eyes when she would eat or drink as if to say, You’re next, the way she would press her goose-bumped thighs close together when he called her my girl. He could have slipped between those pale knees like a snake into Eden and she would not have stopped him. He resented that knowledge, it’s pull like a black-hole stain on his otherwise stable life. Miriam had crafted for him a beast that kicked and scratched at the doors of his ethics, at what little sense of morals he still held onto, a great horned satyr drunk with the pride of being needed.

Her panting moans between his lips sent his own body rippling against hers as their needy grinding reached a paroxysm. Through his trousers she could feel him hard and throbbing, desperate to be free, to be buried inside her where he rightfully belonged. She needed it so badly she thought she could go insane; the very thought of it threatened to render her so. Her thighs tightened shakily around Oswald’s waist, and she bit at his shoulder, the taste of his cologne filling her mind. Breaths mingled hot, skin against sweating skin, they saw together stars and light. Miriam came first, the sweet sound of her release barely muffled by Oswald’s hand placed hurriedly over her mouth. She bit at it as she rode out her agonizing elation, soaked and warm, tongue lapping at the silver ring, soft lips wet against his palm. A long and trembling moan escaped her as she took the thin fingers into her mouth, metallic bitterness giving way to the tangy taste of herself on his thumb. His breath hitched, stopped as he came in turn, pushed over the deadly edge by her voice and the heat of her tongue, staccato sighs pitched high with ecstasy. Her arms wrapped around his neck through the last jolts of satiation, planting kisses where she had bitten and sucked, soft purple blooms.

They remained embraced as such as they slumped into each other, Miriam’s head rested on her dear doctor’s shoulder, his hand in her tousled hair. He held her close, hearts beating furiously in their joined chests. In that moment there existed no one else, no world beyond the closed doors of the office where they had met, where they had come to know each other, where now they sat together on the chair he once used to lord over her - as equals. As lovers.

Oswald stroked her hair gently, and she purred with satisfaction, nuzzling his collarbone. He felt something bloom in his chest, in the stark foresight that follows release. Again he found himself wanting to name that feeling something else, perhaps love, or pride. But its name was grief.

“Miriam…” he whispered, voice still raw from pleasure. “Miriam, I love you. I love you and I cannot ever see you again.” His hand moved to her back, and he squeezed her tightly. He felt her body stiffen, a pained exhale when she stirred to look at him, brow furrowed sceptically. “What? What are you saying?” “You can never come back here. Do you understand?” he spoke gently into her ear, pressing his face against her cheek. He kissed it tenderly. “I could make you happy,” she spoke, trying to blink away welling tears. Cradled in his arms Miriam had felt happier than she ever had in years. She loved him, fully, with all her heart, wanted his voice and his thoughts and his body, as well. How could he say those things? He loved her too. She knew it, had always known it. He wanted this. Why was he throwing her away? The softness of his voice felt like a hundred thousand knives. Oswald held her still as he spoke, heartbeat slow against her breast, his arms around her and hers around him like a picture of young love. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, hands clutching at her shoulders, rocking her gently. He felt the tension in her soften, a sob wracking her body as she fell away from him. “I could love you forever,” she said, voice cracking with hurt. When he replied she felt her heart break into a million little pieces, sharp like glass.  “I know, my love, and that is why this must end.” 

Pain brewed in her stomach. She redressed from their embrace reluctantly. “You… you don’t mean that.” He suddenly grew cold. “Please.” No longer his Miriam. No longer his starling, his little stray dog, no longer his girl. She couldn’t bear the thought of it, of yet another man consumed and destroyed by her desires. Not him. Oh God, any man but him! Any man but the one she loved. She felt as though cursed. Shaking with shock, she got up, legs trembling, held herself as if his gaze had stabbed her. It might as well have. Every shaky step she took towards the office door felt a little bit like dying. She had thought of running away from here before; before she knew him, before he knew her. She knew exactly the steps. Eight. Six. Four. She couldn’t bear to turn away, even as his sad eyes threatened to tear her to shreds.

“Miriam-” Oswald called to her, one last time. He paused, head down, face sunken with heartache. She looked up to him, pale eyes full of tears, hope beating painfully in her chest. But all he said, calmly, with the weight of regret, was “I’m sorry.” She thought her knees, shaking and bruised, would buckle under her sorrow, her anger, the terrible weight of his apology and all that she heard in it;  I’m sorry it ended like this. I’m sorry I had to. I’m sorry I am selfish. I’m sorry I used you. I’m sorry I am the worst kind of man. How could it end so soon? He had been warm and welcoming and loving. Now he was terrifyingly cold. Miriam pulled her clothes back around herself with trembling hands. The office door slammed behind her like a gunshot when she finally ran, loud and wounding. Oswald’s head sank into his hands, hair messy about his frail frame, wedding band glistening still with the wet of her mouth.

[confessthysiins]

[confessthysiins]

🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕🖤💕

the hearts anon bandit strikes again!!!!

[confessthysiins]

"Don't Deal with a Dragon" shadowrun ozzy???? shadowrun ozzy????? i dont know shit about shadowrun but may i get a shadowrun ozzy??

Send me "Don't Deal with a Dragon" and I'll assign your character a Shadowrun character concept" | ACCEPTING

---- In the depths of Europe, a tiny village is barely a dot on a map. They have connection to the Matrix, but they're the kind of remote that GridGuide never even considered them as a possible place to implement self-driving cars. After all, the vehicle population was on average older than the company itself. These were a people that didn't need to be sold cars.

But what they were sold was a religion. They were sold mechanical workers to help till their fields and clear the snow and hang up the lights for their blackbird rites and rituals.

This was a place that used the Matrix as one did the old 'net. Watching videos, for trideo development was unnecessary. Why have holograms when a handyman or codejockey could turn the scrap of old satellite tech into uplinks, route 'em to old televisions that would make even the most tech-illiterate sprawler gag.

In a village such as this... who would expect the pastor of the church to be one of the most technologically-advanced of his people? To have made pilgrimage to the cities of Europe, taken of their strengths, while maintaining the humility of his position? A man with a flock of crows, who learned to adapt to the changing times, rather than stay stuck in tradition and rite. A flock of chrome bones and cameras for eyes, with minds of code made to evoke the personalities and livelihood of the corvid they impersonate.

---- The man was a Rigger, whose spine and nerves had been invaded by technology, who could connect to compatible vehicles and drones and become them. The twitch of a finger flexes pistons, a tensed shoulder turns the steering axle, a clenching of the diaphragm introduces gas into the engine and the car goes. Eyes become windows into the soul of the machine, cameras on the dashboard giving the rigger an out-of-body experience... and far more granular control than was otherwise humanly possible. Each and every one of his bird-drones, made to look like the real things, could be inhabited, the only indication that anything was any different was that the bird would go still. It would 'forget to act', and it would pay more attention. Blink... and you'd miss it. The less said about any magician who claims "Raven" as their mentor spirit in his presence, the better.

Any of Father Oswald's birds could be possessed so, lending an air of credibility to tales of children and sinners being watched by the godly. When money grew tight, the preacher would leave sermons for... who? Altar boys? The devout? Someone would have to tend to the village whilst he travels to the cities, he would indulge in their lights and their vices, and be paid to smuggle, kill, and steal.

His body is marred by cyberware; smuggler's compartments form pockets that were taut in his youth, and remain strengthened by their implantation despite the rigors of age around them. Small pouches in the flesh, large enough and water-tight to carry things over borders and through rent-a-cop inspections. Obvious chrome keeps others from searching the old flesh, and law enforcement are all the more fools for it.

---- Accompanied by crows, the runner known as "Flock" keeps abreast of developments in the nearby cities. Old friends, from before he went into retirement ("this time for certain" he would say, lasting anywhere from months to years before he took another run) do not reach out first. They always wait, and they always think of him when opportunities flitter over their commlinks, trickling down through the shadownet and across their desks. How many crews has he run with, missions and schemes concocted over weeks or months, executed to perfection before he left for his little village again, several thousand nuyen the richer, and expecting never to see comrades and coworkers again?

How many times did he leave with one of their number left in a shallow grave?

No, Flock was an enigma, and in his career he's forgotten more than most runners ever get to learn. He was alive when the first Orks and Elves were born, when the dragons emerged and the Sixth World was made manifest. His has been a life of adapting to an ever-changing landscape, more aware than any of you how fluid the Megas' hold on the world truly are, no matter how monolithic and untouchable they present themselves. He is a sailor, and he is guided by only one north star.

PRIORITY TABLE: AACEE [ Skills / Attributes / Resources / Magic & Resonance / Metatype ]

A - SKILLS (46 points for individual Skills, 10 points for Skill Groups)]

A - ATTRIBUTES (24) [ Spread between BODY / AGILITY / REACTION / STRENGTH / WILLPOWER / LOGIC / INTUITION / CHARISMA, usually starting at 1/6, but different Metatypes have different starts and limits ]

C - RESOURCES (140,000¥) [ Spend this before starting the game to determine what your character owns; you cannot keep more than ~1,200¥ after your spending spree. This accounts for buying your lifestyle, clothes, armor, weapons, vehicles/drones, etc. ]

E - METATYPE ("choose one"; just kidding, Priority E Metatype locks you to being human.) >> Human (1) [ Add the number after your metatype to your EDGE attribute. EDGE is your 'Luck' stat.

E - MAGIC or RESONANCE (NONE, you're MUNDANE, old man!)

[confessthysiins]

Leonard Cohen, from Selected Poems

[confessthysiins]

grundtvigs kirke, 2022.

[confessthysiins]

Have your muse confess something to mine!

Their love, hate, appreciation, dislike, or indifference to my muse. Maybe a fantasy or dream involving our muses together. Perhaps even their deepest darkest secret!

[confessthysiins]

Geof Kern

[confessthysiins]

He has tried. In the name of every god and every saint, he has tried to keep down the beast that howls in his chest, its bellowing cry hoarse with need. He has averted his eyes, as propriety dictates, from her exposed skin, her heaving breasts. He has slowed his breathing, closed thin lips over his slavering fangs, shut from his mind the bacchanal images brought forth there by the scene before his milky eyes, by the thick smell of her sweet blood. But while he has tried to settle himself, to put to bed that hungry thing clawing at his guts, she has only grown bold.

In an instant, she is upon him. Like a pale lioness pouncing, Miriam rushes into the hunter, and before he can blink his mouth is at her throat. It curves appealingly, swan-graceful and just as white in the moonlight. She slips her sweet voice into his ear like a crawling insect, a centipede that slithers hot into his skull. Perhaps he was wrong to take her hand. Perhaps he should have left her to breathe the last exhales of beasthood on her own, bereft of temptations. Oh, he should have known! For that voracious hunger is one he knows well, one he has imposed upon her before, her blue-veined wrists in his hand, his teeth worrying her neck… She tells him so, her whisper choked with it, like velvety fur in her throat. Does she? Does she feel it? That ache in his chest, that knot around his jugular like a serpent coiling. His body screaming for hers, skin ablaze, heart pounding in his sharp mouth.

Does her body scream to taste of his own, too?

She tears herself away from him. Not like the slicing of the silver teeth in her back, it is not so crude, but just as painful. The wound is internal, spiritual. He can see it in every curled finger, in the dark of her mouth; everywhere she wants to sink a part of her into him, leave bruises and puncture holes like so many divine blessings. She’s bled out the beast, fed it to the floorboards where they both kneel, but the hunger remains. He knows it. He’s hungry, too. Her hands grip his shoulders.

She rises before him like the ghost of herself, from a blood-stained chrysalis. Her robes fall at her sides, folded wings. She is weightless and delicate, and all too briefly he takes her blue-veined wrists in his hands. “ Yes, of course. Please, ” he stammers, clearing his throat. “ Sit down on your bed. I will fetch the supplies. ” Oswald follows suit, a steadying hand on her arm. Steadying her, steadying himself. For it is not the hungry animal, not the starved wolf of him she needs, not now. He swallows, breathing deeply, as his addled mind returns to him in increments. Now he must be the gentleman. Now he must be the man she has remade. 

Run, the beast in his chest howls. Run before you eat her.

The hunter heads to the cabinet, sighing as though it would clear the heady scent from his lungs. The smell of blood is still so strong. He feels it, her blood, slick on his fingers where he has touched her pale arm, and his mind strains against the thought of putting his tongue to the bright rivulets. Focus on what is before you: the cabinet doors creak; faded silver eyes search the labels on a myriad vials, their names blurry; she shifts behind him and he does not look. The wounds must be cleaned. Alcohol, clean rags, a bowl where he pours water. Yes, she must be made clean. And she will be made beautiful.

And she will be made yours.

Her body is bound by this inward lycanthropy, the fur that sprouts on the inside of her skin. Now the silver-tipped whip and its silver-tipped blades lie still, now the moon has full dominion over her bare flesh, her blood-ripe flesh. In the aftermath of her enthrallment, the thirst ebbs but the mouth waters. What exaltation she didn't find in flagellation, it comes to her now with the surge of his smell in the room, the smell of everything he's killed, and his skin, and blood, and the sweat that streaks it. Oswald's hand on hers, his warmth.

The beast's been bled from her, no doubt, but its litter still turns in her gut, looking to be birthed. The doctor shakes faintly with the weight of it in her veins, with the backwards pull of Oedon's mercury gathering in her bruising brain. Writhe, she thinks. Writhe. Pain-muddied, teeth dripping, she's banished all propriety from her mind. If he had just let her be, sit in the excitement without trigger, the madness could have stilled then, she imagines.

But when he takes her hand, kisses it as if to press his teeth to her skin, when he reveres her... She shivers naked before him, dizzy with the thirst for him to see this body, the sticky red inside of it. His touch, his almost-touch, the hungry rasp in his voice, it all conspires to pull her into the furnace of his arms. Because it is right, see? It is his right.

There is ever still the whisper in her blood, this divine biology that bids her: let it run, let it run, run to him.

Her wounds weep and suck, drool their red slaver down the length of her spine, down the length of her fine fingers, when she finally turns to him. Looks at him. At his fang-swollen mouth, his moonlit stare. She is spellbound by his face, looks at him as if drunk on her own blood, the pulsing, the throbbing. The animal that lies dead in her, twitches. Miriam twitches with it.

She surges into his arms, naked breasts pressed hard to his filthy garb, the thick leather, the viscera that clings to him. Miriam's mouth is at his ear and her throat is by his teeth. "I can feel it," She whispers hoarsely, thick with a primal, red-hot ache. "My love, my brave hunter, what you endure. What I force on you," she laments with that same helpless, breathless pleasure-thirst, that rawflesh desire. Her lip trembles with each heavy inhale, as if she could drink him by his scent, by the mouthful, lick him deep inside, take him- Focus.

Before his grip might tighten, or worse: slip, she peels herself back from his heaving chest. The searing pain erupts anew with each muscle that shifts. Her head bent before him, she gasps with him, in time, with the burgeoning lapse of all judgement and restraint. Can she feel it, truly? Can she feel his hunger? If not, what makes her want to lick the drool off his chin?

"I'd never deny you," Miriam shudders through each word. Her rationale briefly winks at her, a school of silver fish disappearing below the surface of choppy waters. Red waters. "Forgive me, forgive— There is alcohol in the cabinet, to clean the wounds. No Blood, not yet. We've quite enough of that tonight."

At last, she begins to push herself to her feet, gripping hard upon his shoulders for balance.

[confessthysiins]

NOTHING CAN STOP.

for @confessthysiins !!

Alias Grace, Margaret Atwood

[confessthysiins]

upstream, mary oliver; gravity and grace, simone weil; journal of a solitude, may sarton

[confessthysiins]

Have your muse confess something to mine!

Their love, hate, appreciation, dislike, or indifference to my muse. Maybe a fantasy or dream involving our muses together. Perhaps even their deepest darkest secret!

[confessthysiins]

[confessthysiins]

his whoreish tendencies and huge nose have captivated me

[confessthysiins]

ooc. hard to believe but ozzy's collection of affairs is growing at an alarming rate

[confessthysiins]

Once, he would not have considered himself the type of man to believe in such things as fate. He had believed, foolish youth that he had been, in life as a mere series of happenstances, fully devoid of Providence, like being sailed downriver with no oars and only the whims of the wind at one’s back. In old age, Oswald had relented on this view, with the hindsight granted only by experience, and had conceded to there being something more, some other force that gently puppeteered. And then the girl speaks her name.

Abra Aimes. The name dances at the edge of his memory, with its alliterative elegance, it’s heart-shape connotation. Aimes. Aimer; to love. But she doesn’t look to him as a loving creature, right now - she looks wary, skittish, ready to bolt if he only moves too fast, speaks too loud. Her honey eyes are sharp, wide like the blade of a knife. No, the loving creature in his mind was not herself; he knows this now, as the name teeters over the edge of remembrance. It was a different woman, with hair stark-black as a raven’s feathers, and a gaze just as cutting.

Madonna. Madonna of no last name, Madonna of the shackle, his darling Donna of the starlet sobs and laughter that scared and seduced in equal measure. How long had it been…? Now he finds himself face to face with her daughter, that wild thing she had resented. She hadn’t liked to talk about the girl, and so he knows very little of her, but nevertheless finds himself smiling as he watches Abra wander the office, her footsteps quiet on the turkish rug. Prudent fawn-thing, could she ever know? How deeply, how fully he had loved the mother she hated! 

Her singsong voice drags him from reverie.

He leaves his mess of half-chewed paperwork on the floor, white sheets in the open maw of the briefcase that had previously held the strange rabbit, directs his attention instead to a metal box that rests on the coffee table at the center of the room. He opens it to reveal a lovely collection of cookies, adorned with elegant swirls of dark chocolate.

“ I’m afraid I do not, but I have these, ” he replies, plucking from the box a humble sablé. “ They might be too sweet for your Henri, however. Ah, unless you were asking for yourself? In which case, take your pick. It's the least I can offer you, ” the doctor adds, one slow step closer to present Abra with the box.

It's honeyed eyes that stare, unabashedly, at the other's outstretched hand with a level of confusion.  It isn't entirely his fault.  In fact  —  one might argue that it isn't the fair doctors fault at all.  It's Abra who sees too much where there is nothing, perhaps.  Her staunch paranoia and constantly inquisitive nature.  But in her life, nothing ever happened by chance or coincidence    —    she was certain of this, certain that at times, she could feel the thread loped around her narrow wrists and ankles.   There  was  no  such  thing  as  coincidence. 

His name is Oswald,  he is a doctor  —  he has a gentle way about him,  but no kindness nor pleasantry could deter Abra from the pressing issue at hand.  What was she doing here, exactly?

Abra's arms tighten a fraction around the softness of her rabbit and his twitching nose.  She bows her head,  only somewhat forgetting her manners  (  or perhaps lacking them to begin with  ). Her heart is racing like deer's hooves against the breadth of her chest.  She hears something strange  —  a crinkle,  or perhaps a tear.  But the good doctor is asking Abra if he might welcome her into his office.  The good doctor is asking Abra for her name. 

She looks at the man.  A certain girlish reproach — as if she were very young, and very suspicious of the world and circumstance. 

    ❛  I'm Abra.   Abra  Aimes.  ❛   She answers after a lingering beat.  The little crinkle sound returns and Abra blinks, startled.  Her flaxen head bows as she looks down to Henri.  The sound, surely, was coming from him. 

    ❛  Oh, Henri.  You've gotten into something!    ❛    Abra cries out, lifting the soft brown rabbit to her level and gently pinching a tuft of crinkled paper from his mouth.     ❛  Tricky boy.  You're eating the Good Doctor's papers ...!   ❛  Pale brow furrows,  and she draws Henri to her chest  —  slip of half-eaten paper in hand.  She doesn't hand it back immediately, instead  — taking this opportunity to pass by the Good Doctor,  meandering into his office without skipping a beat.   She really doesn't have a choice in the matter.   Oswald's office is quite nice and good-smelling,   and she's already resolved to figure out the meaning behind Henri bringing her here to begin with. 

She throws Oswald a backward glance. Honeyed eyes are soft,  but wary. 

❛  Do you have any crackers?  ❛

[confessthysiins]

a kiss when it’s not allowed. / a kiss to gain control. -- @confessthysiins old meme for u but ive just been Thinking about that unhinged DM you sent me here on tumblr and uuuhhhh 🥴

The building seemed to come alive at night, breathing in creaks and sighs, dreaming of the days when its belly brimmed with parishioners and their old-fashioned, low-throated hymns.  Now, its vaulted ceilings swallowed the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.  The quiet was heavy, heaving.  

Anri paused in the doorway to Oswald’s study, her fingers brushing the aged woodgrain of the frame.  She hesitated, just enough for him to glance up from the manuscript he had been reviewing.  Pale, sharp eyes flicked toward her like a falcon sighting its quarry, pinning her in place like a butterfly to corkboard.  

“I’ve finished filing, sir,” she said softly.  “I’ll be heading home now.”

He nodded – an economical gesture – but his gaze lingered longer than it should.  It almost always did.  Anri had learned to savour the weight of it, to imbibe it like something heady and forbidden, to provoke it when she could.  This evening, her skirt was rolled at the waist to settle the hem just above her knee.  Her blouse, unbuttoned just enough to reveal the delicate columns of her collarbones, to showcase a heart-shaped locket that rested at the soft rise of her cleavage.  

Once, he had asked her what was inside that locket – a polite, offhand question.  Nothing, she had told him.  It has never even been opened.  

Oswald said nothing now, but his silence was thick – a waiting, breathing thing.   

Heels clicked against the hardwood floor as she approached his desk.  His office was an odd place – part sanctuary, part confessional.  It smelled of all things ecclesiastical, of all the things that had ruined her. Faint traces of leather and ink mingled with the ghost of incense that had never truly left the church’s deconsecrated bones.  The doctor’s chair, massive and antique, dwarfed him, yet he sat with all the poise and power of a king on his throne.  

It could not be called a courtship, this suffocating, months-long tension.  Her only reward for debasing herself by quiet degrees was the weight of his gaze, those creased eyes heavy and inscrutable.  

In her youth, Anri grew impatient.  Tired of skirting along that razor edge without relief, feeling only the rush of blood in her ears, pounding between her legs.  She stopped in front of him, expectant, her hands resting lightly on the carved wooden arms of his chair.  Heart hammering, she leaned forward.  At her approach, his breath hitched – just slightly – but he did not move, did not protest, did not shy away.  Lips parted as if to speak, but her kiss landed before he could summon a word.  

It was the softest brush, almost chaste, a whisper of touch.  Anri lingered just long enough to let him taste her strawberry-balm lips, to let the gravity of it sink in – the defiance, the irreverence, the control.  Against her chin, the faint roughness of his evening stubble, the warmth of his breath mingling with hers.  For a moment, he was still, a statue bound by propriety and perhaps by something wearing a darker coat.  

When she drew back, her gaze met his – violently blue and doe-like, though a spark in her eyes betrayed something far less innocent.  She straightened slowly, her movements deliberate, slinking, a silken thread unspooling.  Below her throat, her locket swung faintly, drawing his eyes downward once more, to the peach fuzz of her skin, to the ripe fruit of her breasts.  

“Good night, sir,” she murmured, voice kitten-soft.  Then she turned, skirt swishing with the movement, and walked to the door.  At the threshold, she glanced back, her lips curving ever so slightly before she disappeared into the dim corridor beyond. 

The study was steeped in quiet again, though the air still hummed with the electric charge of what had passed.  Perhaps it was that thrumming that compelled Oswald to rise, to move to the night-dark window.  

Outside, the streetlamps cast a golden haze over the tarmac, and there she was, her figure illuminated in their angel-fire glow.  From on high, he watched as she swung her leg over the seat of her bicycle.  Heels were tucked neatly into the wicker basket at the front, the pedals now kissed by tatty pink Converse.  One could not say whether the flutter of her skirt – revealing the briefest glimpse of lace, the soft curve of her buttocks – was by accident or design.

Anri paused, one hand resting lightly on the handlebars, and turned her face towards the glass.  Their eyes met, separated by the moon-dusted pane.  Both remained impassive, their gazes locked.  Then, with a gentle push and a girlish wave that cut through the heart of the frisson, she rode into the night, leaving behind only the memory of her presence, the warmth of that kiss.