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theonlyqualitytrash · 3 days ago

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Gramen ante falcem - Fyodor x Reader

Synopsys: "Муж и жена—одна Сатана."

This is a story of desire and devotion, but not the kind sung about in hymns or sealed in sunlit chapels. He meets your need for safety, affection, and understanding in a way no one else ever has. That alone would be enough to cause dependence. But he doesn’t stop there. He never condemns you for your “sinful” feelings. Instead, he rewards them, affirms them, redeems them. Where others might shame, he sanctifies. He becomes both priest and savior in the private cathedral of your longing.

This is not a redemption arc.

Warnings/Tags: Fem!Reader, cult themes, religious trauma, psychological/emotional manipulation, emotional codependency, loss of agency, symbolic cannibalism, breeding kink, pregnancy, miscarriage, soft body horror, blood mentions, smut, MC has anxiety/low self esteem, emotional manipulation, power imbalance, mild gore.

Please read with caution and take care of your mental well-being. If any of these themes are distressing to you, proceed carefully or consider skipping this fic.

A/N: Writing this made me realize I desperately need to write a canon Fyodor wedding—something softer, with fewer cults and more mutual sanity. And also an MC who has some spine (affectionately). Anyway, here’s a fun game: take a shot every time I use the word reverent.

Word count: 21,000

One thing you will always remember from your parents is the lesson to not judge a book by its cover. It is a shallow thing to do, and it says more about you than the person you're judging. But never trust blindly, either. People, in general, are built on opposites: born to do good, but stained by the ease of evil. They find sadness in happiness. They kill each other for love.

So, judging is survival, and first impressions are everything.

Fyodor knew that. He could not afford to mess this up. He would not.

You've met two and a half years ago. At first glance, he was warm—but not overly so. Calm and restrained, but never distant; never distant with you with you, that is. He was just a kind stranger who frequented the same corners of the city as you did. A quiet constant in a world full of noise.

Soon after your first meeting, you learned he'd grown up in a secluded mountain town in Russia. He had come here, he said, to see what else life could offer. He spoke to you softly, almost fondly, like his words were secrets meant only for your ears. He told you about his home and how he still missed it sometimes. How he wrote letters to his parents—old, gentle people that were untouched by the world of screens and satellites. You knew that was true; you saw the careful way he wrote their names when he let you come with him to the post office on quiet afternoons.

Sometimes, you read together. It was never planned, but somehow, he was always there, a book in hand, whether he was reading it or simply holding it, like an old prayer.

Fyodor was magnetic, and he knew.

Maybe it was his smile, that small curve of reverence directed at you when you spoke. Or his eyes, dark and bottomless, searching. Or maybe it was something you couldn't name—something not from this world. Something divine, like a presence that made you ache before you even understood why.

Being around him reminded you of how alone you truly were. Not lonely—at least, not always. But there was a quiet pressure in your heart, like a longing for something more. Something this world could not offer, not in its noise, or in its mess.

What began as curiosity quickly bloomed into infatuation.

When Fyodor cracked you open, he found exactly what he expected: a heart too full, too deep and too bruised. You were born to feel everything, and the world had called it too much. You were grass before the scythe—delicate and yielding, too easily cut down by yourself when they couldn't bear your softness.

But he could. He saw the ache beneath your gentleness, and he would not let you be trampled by a world too brutal to deserve you.

No, it was always only a matter of time. Of course it was. He would bring you to the mountains, to the quiet cradle of the peaks, where no blade could reach you, where no hand but his could touch you. From there, you could both watch the world burn. Together, untouched and at peace.

He would save you. There was never any doubt.

He saw the way you tiptoed through the world, terrified of breaking the ground beneath your feet. How words felt too sharp in your mouth, so you chose silence instead. Your voice, a soft, hesitant, uncertain thing, was a sound he craved. You'd speak while looking away, eyes downturned, biting the inside of your cheek like it could anchor you beneath the weight of his gaze.

Where others saw mess, he saw meaning. Where they saw too much, he saw depth.

The easy part was courting you.

Traditionally, for him, it would have been an entire process. His mother or father would’ve visited your family’s home—never directly speaking of marriage, but circling around it in riddles and old-world phrases. The custom dictated that the first few visits ended in polite refusals, the conversation little more than a poetic dance:

“Our gander is looking for a goose. Might you have seen one?”

And the answers came back just as cryptic, full of metaphors and gentle deflections.

But none of that happened. Because your parents, to put it simply, didn’t care.

Or perhaps they did—in their distant, conditional way. As long as you didn’t end up in the hospital spending their money, they considered your life your own to manage. Their disinterest wasn’t cruel. It was something worse: hollow. Polite. The kind of absence you couldn’t point at, but always felt. And that absence carved a space in you—and it was perfect for Fyodor fill it, fully and forever.

To him, it explained everything. The way you hesitated before asking for help, the way you ignored your body until it collapsed, and the way you apologized for resting. He saw how much you'd never been taught, how much care had been withheld from you under the guise of independence.

When you spoke of them, your voice flat, eyes trying not to gloss over, he listened. And he added it, quietly, to his growing list of reasons to save you.

And your so called friends... ah, don’t even get him started. They didn’t understand you. But he did. He remembered the way your voice trembled, as if trying to mask your heartbreak, when you told him what happened. How you had poured your soul out to someone you trusted. How you shared something precious, something that made your chest swell with meaning. Only to receive an “You’re thinking too much.” Again and again.

And so it came to be cemented into his brain that he would take you away. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere holy. Somewhere you could finally breathe. And he would make you happy. Oh, he would.

He would take you back, even if it took a decade. And of course—he would take his time. Rushing would spoil the beauty of it. Spoil you. He needed you to come willingly, gently.

It was in the first year of knowing him that he asked for you to be his partner.

You, soft and naive, nearly came undone at the seams. How could someone so brilliant, so careful, so kind want you? It felt like something out of a dream you never dared to have. And you swore then, that you would cherish this man, however long he stayed in your life.

You didn’t know, of course, that Fyodor had no intention of letting you go.

Your life together unfolded slowly, carefully, like bricks being laid with deliberate hands. One after the other. Mortar. Patience. A foundation carved from certainty. When fear crept in, especially in the hollow hours of the night, he would be there. Whispering reassurances. Gently reminding you of your worth. Or rather, the worth he saw in you. And compared to everyone else in your life? It was sky high.

His parents visited only once.

You understood—they were in their seventies, not accustomed to travel, especially not by plane. But when they arrived, it felt like something sacred. Like something soft being placed into your hands. They welcomed you as their own, with no hesitation or judgement. Just warmth.

And when you tried to speak to them in your broken Russian, fumbling syllables with trembling lips, they didn’t laugh. They corrected you gently, tenderly. Their eyes glimmered with pride. With acceptance.

It was like nothing you had ever received from your parents. And it wrapped around your heart like a prayer you didn’t know you’d been waiting to hear.

He had originally planned to wait longer. Years, maybe. Patience was in his blood. But watching you fracture beneath the weight of a world that had no place for you... that changed things. You needed saving, and he would not wait while the storm pulled you under. So, he proposed.

It wasn’t grand. There were no fireworks, no elaborate gestures. Just the two of you, tucked into a quiet corner of a national park—hidden from the world, as always. The sun was dipping low, casting the sky in hues that looked painted by hand. Gold bleeding into rose and then into purple. A masterpiece meant for no one else.

He got down on one knee.

No speech. No rehearsed promises. Just a small black velvet box in his hands, and a smile that pulled something deep from your chest.

He didn’t need to ask. Your answer was already there, in the way your hands trembled, in the tears catching light in your lashes.

You dropped to your knees in front of him. Your lips found his cheek, soft and chaste, as the tears came in earnest. You couldn’t stop them—not that you wanted to.

This man. This wonderful man. He wanted you.

“Oh, my darling Fedya,” you whispered, voice cracking between kisses. “Yes. Yes! A million times, yes.”

He didn’t hesitate. Of course he didn’t. He already had a handkerchief waiting. A soft, embroidered square he used to dab your tears with a touch so tender it made you cry harder. “You shine even more when you're crying,” he murmured with a smile, as if it were the simplest truth in the world.

The way he saw you in that moment... it was everything you’d ever longed for. You, undone. You, adored. Even in your vulnerability, especially in your vulnerability, he offered reassurance like it was scripture.

He kissed your forehead, slow and lingering. Then he took your right hand, and with fingers that never once trembled, slipped the ring into place. It fit. Of course it did. The weight of it felt familiar. Almost like it had always belonged there.

His beautiful bride to be.

Then came the planning. You both agreed to do it in a way that honored you both. First, a civil marriage—just a quiet signing of papers before your family. It was a formality more than anything, a gesture of obligation. Not love. Not celebration. Merely proof to show your parents that this was a long term commitment.

After that, you would fly to Russia for the true wedding—a religious ceremony in Fyodor’s hometown, surrounded by the people who mattered. His parents, his roots. Their age it made it difficult for them to travel for the civil part, and truthfully, that suited you just fine. Because the second wedding was the one that felt real.

The civil ceremony was small, very small. He wore his suit, you wore your white dress. Present were your parents, a few acquaintances from work, a handful of friends, the legal officiant, and the two required witnesses. Everything felt… awkward. Off. Like you were both standing in someone else’s memory.

You stood side by side in a sterile room: white walls, grey chairs, a clock ticking far too loudly. And in that moment, it all felt forced. Like you were marrying this man out of convenience. Like this was a quiet escape disguised as devotion. And maybe this was an escape. No—no, that couldn’t be right. You loved Fyodor.

You stole a glance at his profile as you stood in front of the officiant—his calm expression, the patience resting in his features, the quiet devotion that never demanded anything too loudly. He was the man who asked for your hand because he loved you. So you had to love him too. That was how it worked. This wasn’t convenience.

This wasn’t about running from loneliness.

It couldn’t be.

Even if he was the first man who had ever looked at you and really seen you.

Even if he was the first who showed care.

The first who stayed.

…No. This was real.

This was genuine.

You didn’t marry him because you were afraid of dying alone.

The officiant’s voice rang hollow in your ears, distant and weightless. Your hands moved mechanically as you signed the platinum paper. Black ink spread down across the neatly printed lines—each stroke another thread binding you to Fyodor. Yours came out angular, sharp, like the pen didn’t quite belong in your hand. His signature curved across the page like a quiet declaration: smooth, certain, as if he were signing a love letter instead of a contract.

And then it was done.

You and Fyodor, partners and lovers, until death do you part.

And the kiss. Maybe it was the atmosphere numbing you, or the sterile air of the room, or the hollow ring of your name spoken by someone who didn’t know how to say it with warmth. The kiss passed too quickly—you didn’t even have time to respond. Just a brush, a formality, as if affection were too sacred to share in front of these people.

Fyodor smiled down at you, and the expression was soft, oh so gentle it made your chest tighten. There was a small cruelty in the way he withheld, offering you only a fleeting kiss you couldn’t hold onto.

“Is something the matter, dearest?” he murmured, low enough for only you to hear. He didn’t turn toward the sound of your friends cheering, or your parents’ stiff, performative applause. It was all for show, and he had never cared for theatrics.

You shook your head, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “No, no... I just, I just wished it was longer,” you whispered, the words folding in on themselves. Maybe a longer kiss would have softened the edge of your parents’ indifference. Maybe it would have made the moment feel more real. They would’ve been more excited to watch paint dry than witness their own child get married. Yeah... a distraction would’ve been good.

Distraction?

Were you using Fyodor as a distraction?

From the silence in your home? From the way your life had been so terribly lacking?

No. No. You loved him. You did.

Truly. Wholly.

This wasn’t about convenience. You weren’t using him.

You weren’t.

As consolation, Fyodor pressed another kiss to your lips—this one softer, more lingering, as if he knew your thoughts were tangled in a web of doubts again. When he finally pulled away, his fingers, delicate and sure, brushed a stray lock of hair from your face, his touch a silent promise of reassurance.

“Quiet your mind, my dear,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “I apologize for not kissing you more thoroughly... remind me to make up for that when we’re home.” The hint of a smile played on his lips, knowing exactly how he made you feel.

Your heart raced, cheeks flushed with a warmth that crept all the way to the tips of your ears, and you turned away quickly, unwilling to face the heat building inside you. It was too much—the way he effortlessly drew you in, made you feel both small and cherished, like he was the sun and you were just a leaf drawn irresistibly into its orbit.

You couldn’t admit it out loud, not the way you wanted him, the way your body ached for him. It was too embarrassing, too consuming to even think about saying, but his presence? His eyes? His perfect mouth... it was all too tempting. Too undeniable. God made him so beautiful.

With a deep breath, you turned to face the gathering, trying to steady yourself, but the façade before you was cold, distant. You let out a shaky sigh, and in the dim light of the moment, you grasped Fyodor’s hand, your anchor. His warmth bled into you, grounding you, and for a heartbeat, it felt as if nothing else mattered.

With him, the world outside could vanish; when everything else was lost, there would always be him. His voice a lullaby that would hold you close and remind you that you are his soul to keep. He will be all that you need, your wide eyes oblivious to everything. Everything but him.

The ceremony was over, the legalities completed, and there you stood, married. But as the guests began to disperse, and the buzz of the celebration began to fade, your parents approached you with a sense of finality, almost as if the day’s events were nothing more than a business transaction.

Your father handed you an envelope, the weight of it in your hands unsettling. You hesitated for a moment, staring at it, the gold seal on it shimmering in the light. Your mother stood beside him, arms crossed, eyes distant.

“This is for you,” your father said, his voice flat. “A sum for your future, from us.”

You opened the envelope slowly, the thick paper crinkling beneath your fingers. Inside was a substantial amount of money, far more than you’d expected. It felt surreal, like something meant for someone else. Someone still tethered to that life.

Your mother’s voice followed, calm and clinical. “This should cover what you need going forward. Now that you’re married, there’s really nothing left to discuss.” There was no spite in it. No overt cruelty. Just a quiet finality, the kind that doesn’t beg for understanding. The kind that doesn’t care if you’re hurt.

The envelope hung heavy in your hands, more than money: it was severance. Payment for a daughter they no longer intended to know. You were a transaction, an obligation completed. Nothing more. Their eyes barely lingered on you as they turned away, leaving you standing there.

For a moment, all you could hear was the dull thudding of your heartbeat in your chest. You glanced at Fyodor and hoped your mascara wasn’t runny—his presence beside you was a comfort, but also a reminder of what had just happened. What you had just become. His eyes were fixed on you, unreadable, but not cold. There was a softness there, something close to pity or pride or both. His hand brushed against yours, grounding you in the moment, but the air still felt heavy. Thick with the realization that you had been cut loose. Severed and abandoned in a way you couldn’t yet name, let alone comprehend.

The flight to his homeland was not what you’d expected. Two hand rollers, clothes for the season, and Fyodor’s steady presence, yes, but everything felt too perfect.

No long lines, no delays, not even a wrong order at the café. Everything unfolded with eerie precision, like the world had smoothed itself out just for you.

Was this how the honeymoon phase should feel like?

Fyodor watched you sip your drink, his expression content, almost knowing. He told you not to pack too much—his parents had already prepared your wedding clothes. Everything would be ready when you arrived.

It struck you as deeply thoughtful. Not only were they paying for the ceremony, they had chosen your dress. Entrusted you with their customs. And Fyodor—Fyodor had entrusted you with his culture. With his name.

You found yourself wondering how it would all play out. A few quiet weeks—get married, take a longer honeymoon, as Fyodor had suggested with a warm smile, then settle down. Time wasn’t an issue. Money wasn’t an issue. His parents wanted you to stay for a while.

And so it was off the plane, into a cab, then a long drive into the mountains. The roads twisted higher and higher, and the trees grew taller, older, like they had been watching the road longer than anyone who drove it. You rested your head on Fyodor’s shoulder as the landscape blurred past in shades of green and stone.

His arm around you was still the best part of the journey.

When you stepped onto the bricked road, something shifted inside you. It wasn’t like the roads in the city—this path felt quieter. Worn by time but never weary. There was peace here, something welcoming in the air, like the land itself had parted, waiting for you. One hand clutched your roller, the other rested in Fyodor’s, steady and warm as always. You walked together, your steps echoing between the stone homes.

His village was tucked into the embrace of the mountains. A quiet settlement with roofs pitched against snowfall, walls of wood and stone built to endure. Narrow brick and dirt paths wound like veins through the heart of it, leading always to the great church that loomed at the center.

Fyodor had spoken of three old women before. He called them the grandmothers of the community—not his grandmothers, but everyone’s. His voice softened when he spoke of them, almost reverent. He said their presence was a blessing. That where he came from, age was not feared, but honoured. These women had lived through storms, through births and burials, through the burning of old chapels and the building of new altars. Their wisdom was not questioned. It was followed.

And now, they were waiting at the church steps.

The women stood together, as though carved from a single thought. Sisters by blood, and by something older. The first had white, clouded eyes—she saw what others could not. The second, her head wrapped tightly to cover her ears, tilted toward you, as if listening to the sound your soul made. The third stood silent, her mouth sewn delicately shut with white thread. Her mind, they said, held too many things to speak, and so she had chosen silence instead.

Together, they saw all evil, heard all evil, and kept it away through their devotion. They were not cold. They were not frightening. They were warm in the way fire is warm—ritualistic, steady, and ancient.

The deaf sister stepped forward first, her voice a mere murmur, soft praises in Russian, her words flowing in a rhythmic lullaby. Her fingers brushed through the air, tracing a quiet path around you, as if mapping a silent blessing. She glanced at Fyodor briefly, her eyes softened by something deeper than respect—almost an unspoken understanding. Then, as though waiting for a signal, she turned back to you, her presence both calm and reverent.

The blind sister followed, moving with the grace of someone attuned to every subtle vibration around her. Her hand reached out, fingers lightly grazing your skin, searching for something deeper. As her palm rested against your forearm, you felt the weight of her touch, a lingering sensation, as though she could read the truth of you through the delicate hum of your pulse. She said nothing, her silence more profound than words.

And then the mute sister approached. Without speaking, she placed a small folded note into your hands. The Cyrillic letters on the page were graceful, etched with care, though unreadable to you. The weight of the paper pressed into your palm, heavy with meaning. You lifted your gaze to Fyodor, your uncertainty clear.

He took the note from your trembling hands, his fingers brushing yours in an intimate gesture. His other hand slipped into yours again, warm, possessive, grounding.

“We are blessed,” he whispered, his voice a soft murmur just for you, his words wrapping around you like a protective embrace. “That our Fedorushka,” he paused, an amused smile tugged at the corners of his lips, he was not bashful of the nickname, “has found such a wonderful soul. We are happy to have you here.”

His eyes flicked down to the paper once more, his fingers moving over the note as if it held something he could not yet fully grasp, but his gaze softened with every passing second. When he looked back at you, there was a warmth in his eyes, simmering with the unspoken bond between you two.

“It seems to me, my dearest, that you are welcomed here with open arms.” he continued, his voice laced with something both tender and commanding.

Your eyes gleamed, and your heart throbbed with something unfamiliar but deeply rooted. They wanted you here. You. Not as an outsider, not as a guest, but as someone who belonged. It echoed within you louder than anything your parents had ever said. You couldn’t help the smile blooming on your face, quiet and aching.

“I’m glad…” you whispered, as though speaking louder would shatter the fragile grace of the moment.

That night, you slept apart.

Fyodor’s explanation came with that same gentle, coaxing tone he reserved just for you. It was tradition, he said—an act of reverence, not distance. His village didn’t recognize the civil ceremony as a true union. The real wedding would come, and until then, being alone together would be seen as giving in to temptation, allowing the sin of lust to stain something sacred.

"Distance makes the heart grow fonder, my dear. Does it not?" he murmured with a soft smile, brushing your knuckles with his lips before leaving. “And abstaining is a gift. An offering of restraint, in honor of the bond we’re about to seal.”

You didn’t argue. You didn’t want to. You watched him go, a hollowness blooming quietly in your chest. It's reverence, you told yourself. Not rejection. Never that—he never rejected you, only preserved you. Protected what was his.

The next morning arrived dressed in gold and promise. The village was alive with movement, every doorstep spilling into the streets with arms full of fabric, food, and flowers. It felt like something out of a dream—like the whole community had placed their hands on your wedding, molding it together like sacred clay. Every glance you received was reverent. They didn’t just look at you; they saw you. And when they looked at Fyodor, their eyes shimmered with trust, devotion, even awe.

You turned to him as you both watched the bustle from the threshold of a house. “They’re really doing all of this for us?” you asked, half breathless.

He nodded, voice low and calm, like running water. “Here, dearest, a wedding is not just a private affair. It’s a celebration of the whole community. Think of it as a testament to unity and to divine love. Our happiness becomes theirs.”

You smiled again, softer this time. His community—a tightknit family bound by shared faith and quiet rituals—was happy for him. For you. For both of you. And you couldn’t help but feel the warmth of being cared for like this, not just by him, but by all of them.

Now you understood why he wanted to bring you here, to this place nestled between mountains and myth. It wasn’t just about having a wedding; it was about offering you a piece of his world, of him. His family, his past, his traditions. A glimpse into what shaped him. You were being invited in, allowed to brush against the marrow of who he was. And perhaps, letting you weave your lonely, fragile little heart around him tighter.

It hit you then, the weight of it, and your eyes gazed at him. At his sharp cheekbones, his patient gaze, the quiet gravity he carried like a second skin—and without thinking, your lips pressed to his.

A gasp echoed around the square. The kind of silence that follows a snapped string. Before you could even process what you’d done, his mother had rushed forward, her movements quick despite her age, hands trembling as she stepped between you two and gently pulled you apart.

You blinked at Fyodor, then at her, confusion flooding your face. Your heart plummeted, landing somewhere cold and distant. Did you do something wrong again?

Her voice came in fragmented English, laced with Russian, eyes wide with genuine concern. “Н��льзя… kiss before wedding... Плохая примета, bad sign…”

Heat clawed up your neck like wildfire, and your stomach twisted. You felt too large, too clumsy in your own skin, the shame blooming sharp and stinging in your chest. You didn’t know. Of course you didn’t know. Your hands began to tremble, the blood in your veins turned to static. A breath hitched—tight, shallow. The moment cracked like thin glass beneath your feet.

Were you already ruining it? Would they take this as a sign you didn’t belong?

Before the spiral could swallow you, Fyodor was there. Always there. “My dear,” he said softly, his voice a whisper anchored in warmth. “I am here.”

His hand found yours and held it firmly. You could barely meet his eyes, but he saw everything. The storm behind your ribs. The way your thoughts turned against you. How even the smallest things curled inward like shameful secrets.

“You did nothing wrong. You didn’t know,” he murmured, brushing his thumb across your knuckles. “And now you do. That is all.”

You nodded—barely—and turned to his mother. Your pulse thundered in your ears. Your throat felt tight, but you forced the words out, trembling and low. “Я… я извиняюсь… пожалуйста—”

You couldn’t finish. The knot in your throat was too tight, the weight of eyes and expectation pressing too heavy.

I deeply apologize. Please, forgive me. Please. Please. Please. Please—

Fyodor’s hand moved gently to your back, guiding you a step closer. “…простите её, мама,” he said, warm and steady. He did not shield you. He stood beside you, close, steady and grounding, so you could be seen.

His mother’s eyes lingered on your face for a moment. You could feel her searching—not for perfection, but for sincerity. Then her face softened, a quiet nod of understanding passing between you. The tension broke; not entirely, but enough to let you take a full breath again.

Then, wordlessly, his mother cupped your cheek, guiding your face gently down to meet her lips on your forehead. The kiss was brief, but it spoke the language of forgiveness, of acceptance. It was the kind of kiss that felt like a promise, that regardless of the mistake, there was love here. Real love. Not like your parents’ love. Not out of duty or obligation, but something deeper, something that wrapped itself around you and held you in place.

They loved you. Not out of convenience, but because you were you. Because you were the one who would stand beside their son. His soon to be bride.

Later that day, with your nerves slightly quieted and the edges of your uncertainty dulled, you made your way to the fitting for the wedding dress. When you saw it, your breath caught in your chest. The dress was nothing like the ones you’d seen in storefront windows back home. There was no glittering white tulle or trailing silk. Instead, it was heavy with meaning, each thread a whispered prayer, each fold a tradition reborn.

It wasn’t just a dress; it was a piece of art, woven from years of tradition and patience. The kind of craftsmanship that took time to master, that asked for devotion, something you could never have imagined. As your fingers brushed over it, you felt the weight of all that history and love, all that care that had gone into making something so beautiful for you.

The fabric was a muted ivory, handwoven linen stiff with embroidery, the craftsmanship was immediately apparent—each stitch a delicate testament to care and reverence. Crimson threads snaked around the hem and cuffs in swirling patterns of vines and flowers.

Around your waist, a ceremonial sash was wrapped three times and knotted with careful hands. Red for blood, white for spirit. The women told you, in hushed voices, that the knot was to protect your womb and bind your soul to your husband’s.

Your head was crowned with a kokoshnik, a headdress of white and gold. The intricate patterns of the embroidery caught the light, the shining threads curling like fire against the muted ivory of your dress.

The kokoshnik was no simple adornment; it was a symbol—one of status, unity, and transformation. The gold threads spiraled, each stitch carrying meaning, a binding, not only to Fyodor but to this life you were stepping into.

A single sprig of rue was tucked into the back—it was a tiny symbol of protection against envy.

In that moment, you wondered what it truly meant to be loved. You thought of your parents—the money they handed over, the silence between you, and then you thought of Fyodor’s parents, their quiet gestures, and the warmth you could feel in the delicate folds of the wedding dress they gave you.

When you asked for Fyodor, hoping for his approval or to see his reaction, you were gently coaxed back into place. You didn’t understand all the words, but the meaning behind them was clear: "stop" and "bad luck."

Later, when Fyodor heard what had happened, he only chuckled softly. He explained that tradition forbade the bride and groom from seeing one another in their wedding clothes before the ceremony. To do so would invite misfortune.

You understood. There were so many differences between this place and the world you came from—so many things to learn, to accept, to absorb. The customs, the rituals… they were pieces of the love you had chosen. Pieces of him.

And in their structure, you could find comfort. In their repetition, security. If this love demanded something as small as patience, as mystery, then you would offer it freely.

Because you couldn’t afford to lose it.

You couldn’t afford to lose him.

And the wedding. Oh, the wedding. The morning air was sharp with a crisp chill as the first rooster crowed, heralding the sun’s slow rise. The morning itself was a blend of quiet chaos and careful order, a flurry of activity, yet everything was moving with purpose. Your wedding, their celebration, and you—the guest of honor. They wouldn’t let you lift a finger. While eating, while dressing, while opening doors, you were treated as something divine, untouchable, as if you were holy, and beyond the reach of worldly concerns.

The stone church welcomed you and Fyodor like an old friend, its ancient walls standing strong against the passage of time. The air was thick with history, and the light inside was dim, filtered through the stained glass windows, casting muted hues across the floor. You felt something you never thought possible—safe. Safe? That word had always eluded you, slipping through your fingers like sand, yet here, amidst these people, in this sacred space, it settled on your skin.

The church was hushed. No music accopanied you, no murmurs of delight or distant laughter. Only the soft crunch of salt beneath your bare feet; scattered across the stone floor in intricate patterns, too careful to be meaningless.

Three women stood before you, robed in white linen veils that veiled their faces entirely. The deaf one, the blind one, the mute one, they were your silent guides. Each held a tall candle in front of her chest, the flames swaying with each of their slow steps.

You walked behind them, your hands folded over your heart, feeling it pound through your fingertips. As you approached the altar, the scent of beeswax and smoke grew stronger. Fyodor waited at the end, his eyes never leaving you. There was reverence in his gaze, yes, but something more—something unreadable, like awe twisted with hunger.

He wore a long rubakha, a traditional white tunic shirt that fell past his thighs, its edges embroidered to match yours: flowers and black thorns. Over it, a deep red vest fastened with mother of pearl buttons. His sleeves were tied with ribbons the same crimson as your sash, knotted at the wrists, the ends trailing like bloodlines.

A golden pin, an old, modest heirloom, was fastened to his chest in the shape of a cross, but not a crucifix. It was older, harsher, with sharp corners and ancient, unfamiliar symmetry.

When you reached him, the veiled women drifted away like smoke, vanishing into the pews as if they’d never been there at all. Not a single word had been spoken since the ceremony began. Only breath, only movement, only the hush that blanketed the room.

The silence pressed against your skin, not harsh, but expectant. A test, perhaps—of your stillness, your obedience. You weren’t afraid. You had rehearsed every moment of this in your mind, over and over, until it became a prayer of its own.

But still, your heart stirred. Not with fear. No, never with fear, never when you were with him. Only the ache of awe. Fyodor, impossibly calm and beautiful in the way untouched things are beautiful. And somehow, still reassuring.

A woman approached: his mother, wrapped in a deep red shawl. In her hands she held your sash—now unwound from your dress and carefully laid across her palms.

You extended your hand. Fyodor extended his. Your wrists met—palm to palm, skin to skin—and the fabric coiled around you both, slow and ceremonial. Once. Twice. Trice. With your free hand, you held your end of the sash and Fyodor took his. Together, you pulled. The knot cinched between you—firm, final, binding. Not uncomfortable. No, it felt right. Inevitable. As though your bodies had always been meant to be tethered this way.

The guests began to whisper. Not words, but prayers. All of them at once. A low, choral murmur that echoed through the stone chamber like wind over a field. You could not pick out any one voice, nor any one phrase, just sound, like a lullaby hummed by the earth.

Fyodor didn’t look at the knot. He looked at you. “You are mine,” he said softly, his breath warm against your cheek. “And I, yours.”

You could only stare up at him in awe and love. No, this was not just a wedding, this was your soul, your very being, melting into him. You were not marrying into a family.

You were being enshrined into it.

With the knot sealed, you both kneeled together on a white square tarp. Your hand tighten on Fyodor’s.

A clay bowl was passed between hands, slow and sacred. Inside: ash, fine and grey, smelling of burnt herbs and something older—myrrh, maybe. Another vessel followed it, this one carved of wood, filled with golden honey, viscous and shining in the candlelight.

Fyodor’s mother took the ash first. She dipped her fingers into the bowl and touched it to your forehead in a cross, then again to Fyodor’s.

“So you remember grief,” she whispered.

Then she dipped another hand into the honey. This time she touched it gently beneath your lips, and then Fyodor’s.

“So you choose sweetness, even when you could choose silence.”

The room was breathless. It felt as if something larger than all of you was watching, as though the mountains themselves had bent to witness the vow.

Fyodor didn’t blink. His voice was low, steady. “We will be devout,” he murmured, and you felt the honey sting where his words met your skin. Your lips parted instinctively, tasting the gentle authority in his kiss. His free hand cradled your cheek, and in that moment, you could no longer tell where his skin ended and yours began. All you could breathe, all you could feel in that moment, was him—his presence, his warmth, his taste.

A vow passed between your lips, something too soft, too sacred to understand fully, but your soul understood, as your thoughts dissolved like smoke in the air. Everything that existed before was erased.

When you finally parted, your head spun, disoriented, like you’d been submerged too deep in his embrace. Fyodor, ever composed, wiped away the honey that clung to your lips with slow precision, and without thinking, you parted your lips in welcome, as if your body knew what it needed. His fingers slipped past your mouth, and you instinctively began to clean them, slowly, reverently. The heat unfurled in your stomach, pooling lower, making it impossible to ignore.

Why were you feeling like this? This was ritual, sacred, pure. You shouldn’t be so... affected. His fingers in your mouth, caressing the soft muscle of your tongue, applying just enough pressure to remind you of who is doing this to you. You should push these thoughts away, banish them, but they were there, igniting a fire within you that you couldn’t extinguish.

Weak. Weak. Weak. You should be able to control yourself.

When he pulled his fingers from your mouth, it left an ache that settled deep in your chest, like a piece of his soul had been torn away from yours. You were left hollow, a strange emptiness where once there was warmth.

Then it was his turn.

Fyodor’s grip on your wrist was gentle but unyielding, his fingers wrapping around the fragile skin and guiding your hand to his lips with a quiet command. You hesitated, taking a shaky breath, your hand trembling as you wiped the honey from his lips. It felt intimate, sacred. Slowly, you slid your fingers into his mouth, letting him offer the same care you had shown him moments before. You felt the weight of his gaze, the intensity with which he took your fingers, his mouth closing around them with purpose.

Now he mirrored your position, but it wasn’t the same. You were small, reverent, offering care as he had moments ago. Yet even in this gesture of supposed submission, there was control. Quiet, coiled dominance in the way he guided your hand, subtle and unmistakable. The illusion of equality dissolved the moment his mouth closed around your fingers.

He wasn’t yielding. He was tasting.

His movements were precise, deliberate—the touch of a predator biding his time. A patient one. He would wait, yes. Wait until you were soft enough, pliant enough, trusting enough to be devoured. Even a wolf could be still when the hunt was worth it.

The next moments passed in a blur; a haze of motion and sound, untethered from reality. At some point, you and Fyodor shattered porcelain. You couldn’t remember how the plates had been placed in your hands, only the sound of them breaking. The shards scattered across the floor like fallen stars, each fragment a promise: prosperity, health, happiness. You almost wished you could grind them into dust—fine powder to be swept into the walls of your home, each speck a testament to the years yet to come, to the bond you had just sealed.

Then came the feast.

The celebration stretched into endless faces, laughter, toasts and songs all blending into a single, pulsing rhythm. You danced until your toes throbbed and your lungs clawed for air. The music seemed to vibrate through your bones, every step a prayer, a performance. You were proving something—not just to them, but to him. That you were worthy. That you had earned this. That you belonged beside Fyodor, not by grace, but through grit.

Your chest burned. Your limbs ached. Dizziness curled at the edges of your vision like smoke. But you didn't stop. You couldn’t. Not until the other women began to falter, one by one, feet stumbling, breath hitching. Dropping out like falling petals, until you were the last one left. Still moving. Still enduring.

The cheers came next: rising around you like a wave, like heat. They cheered for you.

Then he came.

His hand found your face, cool and firm, steadying you as the world spun. You looked up, vision blurring at the edges, and he offered you a cup. His grip was steady, grounding, as he guided it to your lips. You drank deeply, greedily, the liquid thick and sweet on your tongue.

“You are a vision, my dear,” he murmured, voice low, reverent. “I could not look away.”

His eyes didn’t waver. As you drank, he tilted your chin just slightly—ensuring you swallowed every last drop. Not a drop wasted.

He was taking care of you. Hydrating you after your dance, after your sacrifice. A lovely husband, in his own way. His care seeped into you like warmth, like honey, melting doubt into something sweet and heavy. You were his, and he would keep you whole.

When the party at last began to fade, the tables emptying, the village quieting, you found yourself nestled against him on a wooden bench outside your new home. The night air was crisp, but the space between your bodies radiated heat. His presence was a hearth, one you would never again stray from.

His arm wrapped around your shoulders, and his thumb traced soft circles on your arm, a subtle movement that grounded you further into this new reality. There was no question of leaving, no thought of what came next beyond this moment. You didn’t question him—didn’t question anything anymore.

Here, in the quiet of the night, with his embrace surrounding you, you felt content. You had no desire to leave, not even the smallest thought of making a life apart from his. In this moment, it was as though the rest of the world had disappeared, and all that mattered was the warmth of his body beside you.

His voice, slightly lower, the thick tinge of his accent heavier in the stillness of the late hour, reached your ears like a soft caress. "Dearest, let us get you inside. The night is cold."

In response, you only hum, a soft sound of agreement, and let him guide you through the quiet night, your steps slow as if savoring the moment. Into your new forever home. The air inside is warm, and as you step across the threshold, you feel the weight of the world lift just a fraction.

He leads you into the bedroom, where he lights a small flame on the nightstand, the soft glow casting dancing shadows on the walls. The flickering light warms the room, but it’s Fyodor’s presence that truly envelops you. He steps closer, his movements deliberate, unhurried, as he reaches for you, his hands gentle as he begins to undress you.

“You must be tired. How about I help you get into something more comfortable?” he murmurs, his words soft but with an unspoken command that makes you nod without hesitation.

Words, for now, are unnecessary. His hands work with slow precision, each movement of his fingers carefully undoing the layers of your clothing, as if peeling back each part of you with reverence. You could feel the weight of his gaze, hungry, yet patient. His hands linger on your skin, as if savoring each soft, exposed inch, and the warmth that spreads through your body in response is undeniable.

He helped you out of your dress with slow, unhurried care—his fingers gentle as they undid each clasp, each tie. You were trembling beneath his hands, not from fear, but from the weight of it all. The exhaustion. The expectation. The ache.

When you are left in your undergarments, vulnerable and open before him, he shifts, his hands moving to gently unravel your hair. His touch is tender, as if each strand he brushes from your face is a sacred offering. You close your eyes, the sensation of his hands in your hair sending a ripple of heat through you, one that has nothing to do with the warmth of the room.

You exhale sharply, trying to quell the overwhelming rush of desire that suddenly stirs within you.

“Is something upsetting you?” His whisper brushes over your skin, his voice filled with soft concern, but there’s something deeper in it, a hint of possessiveness masked by gentleness.

Then came the words—rushing out before you could catch them.

“Fedya… I feel hot, and… and I wish for more.”

Your breath hitched as the confession escaped, raw and clumsy. You glanced up, eyes wide, shame blooming across your chest like spilled ink. “I… I’ve had thoughts. About you. Especially during the honey and ash ceremony. I—”

You faltered. The heat in your chest rose like a fever, mingling with the ache that hadn’t left you since the moment his fingers touched your lips. Had you said too much? Would he see you as unclean? As wanton? You were his wife now. Shouldn’t you be better than this?

Then he chuckled.

Not cruelly. No, his laughter was soft, low, warm enough to unravel you. He brushed your cheek with the back of his hand, a touch too tender for how undone you felt.

“Oh, my dear,” he said, voice dipped in affection. “I hope you are not chastising yourself. It is only natural to desire your husband, no?”

His eyes held yours—calm, unreadable, but kind. You could feel yourself sinking into them, the shame in your chest dissolving beneath his gaze like sugar in tea.

“And besides,” he continued, tone still velvet, “it is our duty to consummate our marriage.”

Your breath caught. Consummate.

The word echoed in your skull like a bell rung too close. Your mind spiraled—images rising, shame blooming again, this time wrapped in heat. To have him above you. Inside you. The shape of him, the weight of him, the sheer presence.

You reached for his tunic with trembling hands, your voice little more than a breath: “So I can undress you…”

Not a question. A prayer.

His smile deepened, eyes darkening just slightly. “Yes, my dear.”

And that was all you needed.

That simple, sacred yes lit something inside you. A flame you had been denying, repressing, pushing down again and again until this moment. Until permission made it real. Until you were allowed to burn.

Your hands moved on their own, eager, trembling as they peeled the fabric from his ivory skin, inch by inch. Slowly, but with purpose, the distance between you both began to disappear, the space between skin and skin closing. Fyodor guided you gently to sit down onto the mattress, and as you settled against the sheets, you watched him loom over you. The warm, flickering light of the candle slid over his features, over his ribs—his fragility on full display. How could a man so delicate hold such an overwhelming power?

His hands, so gentle yet firm, traced patterns down your sides, each movement a soft hymn against your skin. He sank, lowering himself to the floor as though he couldn’t help it, as if he were driven by something too deep to resist.

A thought lingered in your mind—did other angels fall this sweet?

His voice was low, muffled against the skin of your upper thigh as he confessed, with reverence, how long he’d searched for a place to worship, for something to hold onto, something to claim.

Oh, how you put him to his knees.

But it wasn’t submission. No, this was something different. He was a man who knelt out of his own choice, his own will. Even now, with his gaze lowered to the floor, the power still lay with him, quietly and resolutely. You could feel it in the weight of his presence, the way he was still in control, even in this position.

And you found solace in it. In that constant. Him. The hunger in his eyes, the hunger in his touch. It was allconsuming, unrelenting. How long he had waited, patient and still. Now, he would savor every inch of you with a ferocity that bordered on wildness—on something primal, urgent, even rabid. And you... you would let him. You would let him have his fill because, in that moment, what else could you do but give in to the hunger?

He continued his path, kissing his way up your thigh, over your belly, and across the soft curve beneath your breast. Every press of his lips, every touch was a whisper, coaxing you closer to surrender. You wanted him to split you open, to break you in ways you had only ever dreamed of. As his lips traced the tender lines of your ribs, you found yourself yearning for him to pry into you, for him to lick the heart of you, to taste your blood, to crack your bones and suck the fatty marrow from them—each moment pulling you deeper into the intoxicating pull of his touch.

Lips continued their exploration and when they finally reached the hardened peak of your breast, his tongue circled the stiffened bud, drawing it into his mouth where it swelled even more, throbbing with need.

Then—a soft bite. Deliberate. Possessive.

His shaky breath spilled across your breast, warm and trembling, and then another bite followed, deeper this time. Each flick of his tongue, each slow drag of his mouth sent jolts of electricity straight through you, unraveling you from the inside out. Your inner walls clenched helplessly around nothing, aching, starving, to be filled.

Goosebumps bloomed across your skin. A whimper slipped from your lips, fragile and wanting. Your hands tightened in the sheets, searching for something to anchor you as you whispered his name like a prayer barely remembered.

That is exactly what he needed to continue. Fingers danced along the slick petals of your sex, teasing, stroking, parting them with maddening leisure. They glided through the dewy folds, gathering the evidence of your arousal before circling your aching bundle of nerves.

You bucked against his touch, a wanton sigh escaping your lips as your body betrayed your desire. Were you losing control, drowning in the tide of sensation he was unleashing? Were you too much? Oh God, what if you were using him?

Sensing your inner turmoil, Fyodor murmured against the soft swell of your breast, "Hush now, my sweet. Silence the doubts that plague your mind. I am here, and I am not going anywhere. This, right here, is where I want to be."

His words, a soothing balm to your frazzled nerves, nonetheless ignited an inferno within your womb. The way he made you feel desired, cherished, worthy of such intimate attention—it was terrifying in its intensity. His touch, his presence, his very essence consumed you utterly, and you found yourself craving more, needing to surrender completely to the depths of his love.

Gently, almost reverently, Fyodor pushed a single digit past your glistening folds, delving into your scorching heat with maddening slowness. His eyes, narrowed into smoldering slits, remained fixed upon you as he watched you unravel, drinking in every minute reaction. He did not take pleasure in your moans. He took pleasure in the way you tried to hide them—because control was holy, and you were closest to divinity when you denied yourself.

Your body instinctively begged for more of his touch, any crumb of attention. Then a second finger joined the first, stretching you exquisitely, eliciting a breathy whimper from your throat that you tried to suppress. Your head lolling back as your legs fell open, baring yourself completely to him. For him.

"There we go, my darling..." Fyodor murmured, his smile soft and indulgent. "You are breathtaking. Say it back to me. Tell me that you are gorgeous." His fingers continued their sensual assault, stroking along your silken walls, coaxing out breathless moans that painted your cheeks a pretty pink.

"I... I am," you managed to murmur between hitching breaths, your voice trembling with need.

"You are what, dearest?" Fyodor prompted, curling his fingers just so, eliciting a more wanton sound from your lips. "Louder, my love. Claim your worth." He punctuated his words with another deep, purposeful thrust, his eyes never leaving your face.

"I am... gorgeous," you whimpered, the admission torn from your throat as pleasure coursed through you. Your lashes fluttered, your lips parted, and your body shuddered beneath his practiced touch.

"That's it, my splendid wife," Fyodor praised, his voice a low, approving. "Simply splendid." He continued his relentless, intimate caress. In and out, slowly, curling, as if testing how you would react. Every gasp, every flutter of your heat slick folds, every tremble in your lashes—his.

All of it. Every movement, every breath, every shiver that danced across your skin existed only because he allowed it. Because he coaxed it from you with hands that knew you too well, with a mouth that worshipped and claimed in equal measure.

You were his darling wife, after all.

“May I touch you? P-please, Fedya...” you whimpered, the words trembling out of you before you could hold them back. A desperate part of you wanted to give back what he gave you; you wanted to be good. You needed to be enough. You had to be. To show him that he had chosen well, that his wife was devoted, loving, obedient.

He smiled at your eagerness—warm, knowing.

“Not now, my love. But soon... don’t worry,” he murmured, as his hands continued their quiet worship. He had studied you, learned you—memorized the subtle shiver in your breath, the way your body bent and bowed at only the sound of his voice, as if each word he spoke was divine scripture. But watching you unravel at his touch—it was intoxicating. Addictive. He didn’t want to stop, but you had to disobey.

Fyodor paused, his touch withdrawing from your aching, empty depths as your trembling hands reached out to caress his chest, tangling in his hair. The sudden loss of his intimate caress left you bereft, a whimper of protest escaping your lips at the void he left behind. His fingers, glistening with your essence, paused at his mouth, and for a moment, you imagined you could see the glint of satisfaction in his eyes as he savored your taste.

"What did I ask of you, my dear?" Fyodor murmured, his voice a low, gentle chide even as his gaze softened with understanding. The air between you crackled with a mix of disappointment and anticipation, the promise of consequences hanging heavily in the charged atmosphere.

When you apologized, he felt nothing but warmth. Remorse meant you still feared losing him—and that fear was proof of devotion.

"I... I am sorry, please..." you breathed out, quickly retracting your hands as if burned, only to clutch at the sheets beneath you, your fingers twisting in the fabric. The ache between your thighs throbbed, a crude reminder of the pleasure he had been stoking, only to leave you wanting.

In that moment, he contemplated binding your wrists with soft linen and holding you down beneath the flickering candlelight—letting you tremble beneath him with no escape, no mercy. Not out of passion, but with calm indifference. A lesson, slowly and silently taught: that actions have consequences. But he did not act on it. Not yet. He was not that cruel, and you... you were still learning.

So instead Fyodor leaned down, pressing a tender kiss on your breast, his lips lingering on the sensitive skin. "It is quite alright, dearest," he reassured you, his voice a low, soothing murmur against your flesh. "I could never be upset with you." His words were gentle, almost indulgent, even as his eyes held a hint of something darker.

He didn't say it aloud, but you could feel it in the way his gaze raked over your body, in the way his hands still rested on your hips, gripping you. He wanted to take you, to claim you, to make you his in every way possible. To consume his little lamb until there was nothing left, until you were a part of him, branded by his touch, his love, his desire.

“I will be good.” It wasn’t just a promise—it was a plea. A desperate offering at the altar of his affection. A whispered vow to earn, to keep, to deserve his love. “I want to be enough for you.” But no—want was too small a word. “I need to be.”

There. That was the truth. Bare and trembling in your voice.

He rose to his full height, slow and solemn, like a priest ascending to his pulpit. He kissed your temple and your heart throbbed in your throat, aching sweetly with every beat. He was divine. Untouchably divine.

“You are enough, my dear,” he said softly, and it felt like absolution. Each word a golden thread sewing your soul to his, tighter, closer. “You’re doing something of high importance.”

Your breath caught. Important. You blinked up at him with wide, searching eyes—uncertain, trembling. You were important. To him. His hands framed your face, cool and careful, as if cradling something holy. His thumbs brushed your cheeks in gentle strokes.

“Do you know why you’re important?”

You couldn’t answer. Because the truth was... you didn’t know. Not really. How could you possibly see yourself the way he did?

His voice deepened, softer, heavier. “You will bear a child. And you will be a wonderful mother. I know it.”

He would make sure of it.

He leaned in closer, his breath ghosting across your lips. “And this child... this child will change lives.”

Your heart stuttered. And it didn’t feel like a future being handed to you. It felt like a blessing.

With unhurried hands, Fyodor guided you gently back, coaxing your body down into the mattress. His every touch was purposeful, tender, as if he were lowering you into sacred ground. The sheets embraced your back, soft and cool against your flushed skin.

He loomed above you then; not threatening, but monumental. His gaze swept over you, slow and reverent, a dark storm of hunger tempered by restraint. He could take, he was capable of that, but he didn’t. Not yet.

He waited. Because he wanted you to give it freely. To ask.

And so you did.

“Fedya... w-would you make love to me, please?”

That is exactly what he wanted to hear. Let him fill the void. Let him fix you. Let him love you into shape.

His eyes softened, like candlelight made flesh, and for a moment, he just looked at you. Quiet. Still. It was as if he were etching the moment into memory, branding the image of your bare, willing form into the folds of his soul.

“You sweet creature, I will give you what you asked for.”

His hands, long and pale and reverent, hovered just above your skin, trailing over the warm air that clung to your body. He wasn’t touching you, but you felt it anyway. Felt it everywhere. Like the ghost of a prayer. Like the promise of something holy.

Your breath hitched.

His hand moved first to your sternum, the center of your chest, fingers splayed. You could feel your heart beating under his palm, desperate and loud, like a caged bird. He felt it too. He smiled, just slightly.

“Eager,” he whispered.

Each touch felt like a verse recited. His fingers skimming over your breasts again, lingering this time to toy with the peaks, his thumb rolling slowly, slowly, watching the way your body arched into his touch like a flower turning toward sunlight.

Fyodor's lips blazed a trail down your throat, his mouth worshipping every inch of your skin as if it were hallowed ground. He kissed the delicate hollow of your throat, the gentle slope of your clavicle, the soft expanse of your belly that cradled the promise of new life, his child. His love. His future. And then he was trailing back up, his lips brushing against the delicate curve of your cheek in a feather-light caress that made your heart stutter.

For a moment, there was a breath between you. A pause. A beat that stretched into infinity. And then he was pushing into you, the head of his manhood parting your slick folds, and your world shattered. You gasped as your hand flew to his hair, grasping, clutching, desperate for an anchor in the sea of sensation drowning you.

He moved deeper, his length sliding home, filling you, completing you in a way that defied logic and reason. It felt right. It felt meant to be. Your body, it seemed, had been sculpted for this moment, for him. Hollowed out to make room for his essence, his presence, his very being.

If the universe denied you a house, a home, you would make one out of your entwined bodies, your limbs, your very souls.

He moved slowly, deliberately—each thrust a careful offering. But you could feel the subtle tension of his shoulders, in the way his breath caught and his eyes fluttered halflidded. He was straining, not from unwillingness, but from the fragile cage of his body; his anemic frame trembling under the weight of restraint, devotion, and want.

You wanted to help. You wanted to give back. You wanted to love him in return.

“Fedya…” you whispered, your voice fragile, cracking like fine porcelain under heat. “I… I could… if you would let me…”

Your thighs trembled, uncertain and your hands hovered—eager, scared, devoted. You didn’t know how to carry him through this, only that you wanted to. That you needed to.

To be good. To be worthy.

He fully opened his eyes, slow and unblinking, and for a moment he simply looked at you—drank in the sight of your offering. The mental imagine of you above him, trying so sincerely to ease him, to serve him, to deserve him... it unraveled something low and deep in him. He said nothing. Not at first. Only moved with measured grace, guiding you carefully, reverently, to straddle him.

His hands, resting at your hips, held you as though you might shatter from too much praise as his thumbs drew grounding circles into your skin. And then, he guided you down. Slowly and deeply onto him. The stretch made your breath catch in your throat—but it didn’t hurt.

No, it filled.

Again, it felt like home. But this angle—new, raw, more intimate—made you take him deeper still, until the very head of him kissed the gate to your womb. You bit your lip. It was too much. It was perfect. You needed more. Up. Down. Slowly at first. Rhythmic. Not just friction—not just pleasure.

But work.

The kind that meant something. The kind that showed you were useful. That you weren’t just taking—you were giving too. You eased the weight from his hips, bore the strain with your own body. You labored for the ecstasy. Because pleasure, in your mind, could never be taken—it had to be earned.

And still he held you. Still, he spoke, low and steady, voice wrapped in silk and smoke. “You’re taking it so well,” he whispered. A hush of praise against the shell of your ear. His hands didn’t tighten—they reassured. “Breathe. Breathe with me.”

And you did. Because you trusted him to teach you how.

You breathed with him, in perfect synchrony, the rise and fall of your chests like tides. He guided your rhythm with quiet words and subtle touches, the slow roll of your hips matching his whispered encouragements. You moved with the intention of giving, and yet he was the one granting you everything.

He watched your face, drank in the way your lashes fluttered, the way your mouth parted. He drank in every little sound you made, every tremble in your breath, every plea. He looked at you like a man witnessing divinity. And as you rode him, tears welled behind your eyes—not from pain, but from being seen, cherished, claimed.

Your head dipped until your forehead touched his, breath mingling in the narrow space between your mouths. Everything felt tender and raw. You wanted to press inside him. Crawl beneath his skin. Cradle yourself into the hollows of his ribs and rest there, where it was quiet and safe.

You wanted to be good. You begged yourself to be good for him.

The thought of being rotten inside, unclean or unworthy, clawed at your chest. You could not bear the idea that your soul might be something ugly. But Fyodor... Fyodor saw through it all. He turned that ugliness into beauty, that doubt into doctrine. He laid it bare and kissed it into something pure.

Every corner of your mind had him in it now. Every thought looped back to him like a psalm. There was no self left untouched. No selfish desire that wasn’t rewritten in the language of devotion.

And then when you said his name. Whispered. Soft. As if the syllables might break if held too tightly. It unravelled something in him. And you felt it—felt him shudder inside you, his composure fraying at the edges.

“This is what you’ve earned,” he murmured, voice raw, trembling not from doubt but from depth. He meant it. He believed it.

And somehow, that hurt more than cruelty would have. Because you hadn’t earned it, not yet. Not fully. But he was giving it anyway, and that was worse. Because it meant he believed in you. And belief was so much harder to live up to than punishment.

Your walls clenched around him, your body seeking absolution in his. But it didn’t come. Not fully.

You were close—so close it hurt—but that final crest never broke. You stayed suspended, trembling with need, straining for something just out of reach. And still, he held you. Still, he filled you. Perhaps this, too, was a lesson. To be filled, not fulfilled. To ache for heaven and never quite arrive.

He came with a shaky breath, his hands holding you tighter. And you felt it. You felt it: the warmth spreading, thick and slow, filling every aching hollow. Not just release, but something else.

Something purposeful.

Down your thighs it ran, hot and heavy. His seed. You closed your eyes and held him tighter, trying to pretend it was enough and that this was completion.

Even as your breath trembled and your body still ached. This felt right. Even if you were still waiting.

Because wasn’t that what you were for? To be made full by him. To carry something of him within you. A child. His child. The thought wrapped itself around your spine with a dizzying sort of pleasure. You didn’t dare say it aloud, but somewhere, deep beneath the sweetness of your exhaustion, a secret part of you whispered that maybe if he fills you enough... it will stay.

This feeling, of being needed, accepted and wanted, it will stay.

The weeks following the wedding were dreamlike. The villagers are warm, curious, kind and you found yourself growing used to the rhythm of the place, where people speak slowly and smile without suspicion. Even your name, once just a sound, is now spoken with gentle familiarity.

You and Fyodor never spoke of leaving. He didn’t mention it, and you didn’t think to ask. The thought simply never occurred to you. Even in the short time you’d been here, this place had settled into your bones. It felt like home, and leaving it felt as unnatural as forgetting how to breathe.

Russian had come easier than you expected. You’d started learning it after you began dating Fyodor, out of appreciation. But sporadic study and forgotten Duolingo lessons hadn’t taken you far. It wasn’t until you came here, to his home, that it became more than a gesture. Most people spoke only Russian, so you had no choice but to learn. Daily life demanded fluency, and slowly, through necessity, you began to understand.

You ended up spending a lot of time with Fyodor’s mother. She knows, from her son, that your mind runs too fast sometimes and that silence can feel suffocating, not soothing. So she begins to steep a special tea for you each day. A quiet ritual—just the two of you, served in a chipped porcelain cup with a small nod of encouragement.

A mother in law like her is what people dream of when getting married into a family. So having this gentle woman take care of you like you were her own child did not only make you feel like Fyodor’s spouse, but an integral part of the family.

It helps at first, the tea. The earthy, slightly bitter taste becomes part of your afternoons, a grounding note in the symphony of care you’ve been given. But then...

It started with your breasts.

They’d been sore for days, almost feverish to the touch, and you’d grown used to cupping them absentmindedly; it was a little reminder that something had begun inside you. But now, they feel… normal. Heavy, yes, but no longer tender. No more fire behind the skin. Just flesh again. Just breasts.

You also notice it in the mirror and tilt your head slightly, wondering if it’s just your mind playing tricks; so you ignore it. “It’s too early to worry,” he tells you. “Every body is different. Some women feel cramps. Some bleed a little. Some lose their symptoms and everything is fine.”

He says it like scripture. Like science. Smooth as silk over stone. And you believe him, because you want to. Because he speaks with certainty, and you are too tired to doubt.

You try to eat, but your appetite is odd. That sharp nausea you used to wake up with is gone. No more aversions, no sudden cravings. You sip tea, and everything tastes muted. Dull. Like your body has stopped whispering those strange, hormonal requests.

There’s a dull throb in your lower spine, like a string being tugged from behind. You try stretching, walking, lying flat and somehow nothing helps. It’s not excruciating. Just… constant. Familiar, almost. Like the ghost of a period past. You press your hand against the small of your back and whisper something to yourself. Maybe it’s just the uterus shifting. Making space. Rearranging.

But something cold settles in your gut.

And then the pressure begins. Low in your pelvis. It’s like a weight pressing downward, slow and deliberate. You feel full, not with life, but with gravity. Like your insides are preparing to let go. Your body has gone quiet.

You go to the bathroom more often. Your lower abdomen feels tender and swollen, like bruised fruit. Each trip, you half-expect to see blood, but the paper comes back clean. Clean. Clean.

One late evening, when you could not sleep, Fyodor sat behind you on the bed. His hands, long and pale, press into the curve of your lower back, tracing small circles over your vertebrae. Your nightgown is pulled up just enough to bare your skin. It’s cool to the touch. Damp. As if your body already knows what’s coming.

“Shhh,” he murmurs when you flinch. “The body is strange sometimes. You’re simply adjusting.”

You exhale, small and obedient. He watches the back of your neck, the damp curls clinging there. His hands work downward. He is so careful with you. So calm. As if nothing in the world could go wrong when he’s the one holding you together. But your bones feel hollow.

His thumbs push a little deeper into the muscles, working through the tension. You let your head fall forward onto the pillow, eyes closed.

And then the warmth comes—pain. Real pain. A dragging ache deep inside your pelvis, like something straining to hold on. It leaks between your thighs without warning: a flush of heat, thick and undeniable. You feel it as it spreads, and you freeze.

So does he.

His hands go still. Slowly, you both look down. There's a stain blooming beneath you, deep and red and silent. Your nightgown clings to your skin. The blood is warm, fresh, and spreading.

You don’t say a word. Your mouth has forgotten how.

Fyodor moves first, with such purpose, such care. As if he’d done this before. As if he knew what to do. He peels back the sheets with delicate fingers, inspecting the soaked fabric like it’s a puzzle to be solved. No alarm, no disgust. His face does not change, but there is a flash of panic his eyes—not fear, not exactly, but a quick, cold calculation.

He helps you sit up, then kneels again to remove the soiled gown from your body. You stare at your lap, the slick redness of your thighs, the clots on the fabric. A hot shame crawls up your chest, something primal. Like you’ve failed. Like you’ve broken something he gave you.

But he doesn’t scold you.

The blood did not unnerve him. Fyodor had seen prophecy in worse. Loss, to him, was not absence; it was clearing. A sacred pruning. If the womb had been emptied, it was only to make room for something greater.

He wipes you down with a warm cloth, careful and reverent. His touch is slow, unrushed, like he’s washing relics at a holy site. Then he wraps you in fresh linens, clean and white.

“You haven’t failed me,” he says softly, as though reading your thoughts. “This was only a rehearsal.”

It was a temporary setback, a momentary loss. You swallow hard. Your throat feels bruised.

“We’ll try again,” he continues, smoothing your damp hair away from your face. His voice is calm. Comforting. Final.

And deep in your chest, beneath the grief and the ache and the shame, something flutters. Something small and awful. Want. That unbearable need to be filled again, to be remade.

You hate yourself for it.

He lays down beside you and holds you until the tremors in your legs stop. Until the blood has dried. Until your breathing evens out, your mind goes soft.

You nestle into his arms like a doll, pliant, ruined, and beloved.

And in the quiet, something inside you whispers he will fix it. He will fix you. He will put you back together in the way that he wants.

The next morning, his mother lit a candle and stayed silent. She understood, too. She grieved with you—quietly. No wailing, no pity. Just stillness. His parents held you, one on either side, and you drank your tea.

No one said the word aloud. But you felt it.

The child—your child—was gone.

He did not cry. Fyodor never cried. What broke inside him was not grief, but timing. The ritual was not yet complete. But you were still his. Still holy. And holiness, he believed, could not rot. “It was not your fault,” he had said, voice low and even. “Your body just needs more time.” And he held you like you were still carrying something precious. Like you were still full. Still whole.

You tried again, a few weeks later. Gave your body the time it needed to realign its hormone levels, to remember what it was made for. And the second time… it was different.

This time, the blood came earlier. Faster. You weren’t even sure if anything had truly begun growing yet. But your mind latched onto it anyway, frantically, desperately. The grief came harder. Sharper.

It broke something in you.

You screamed. You couldn’t stop pacing, couldn’t stop clawing at the sheets, whispering frantic prayers to no one in particular. To anything that might still be listening.

Unclean. Unfit. Why was this happening?

One of Fyodor’s hands pressed gently to the back of your head, guiding your face into the fabric of his shirt, the other rested firm across your shoulder blades, anchoring you there. They were there for comfort, yes, but also to guide the pain through you. It had to move. It had to pass. You sobbed into him, loud and shaking, pain on every nerve in your body—grief that was too big for your skin to hold.

What if you couldn’t give him what he needed? Would he resent you? Would he leave you, slowly, quietly, like your parents?

Even his gentle rocking, the low hush of his voice threading through your hair, did not soothe the aching hollow in your chest. And he knew that. He knew your grief wasn’t just for the child. It was for yourself.

Grief was just all the love you couldn’t give. Wasn’t it?

And your heart—your foolish, swollen heart—was too big for your body to process quickly. So he stayed. Patient as ever. Wrapped around you like something sacred. A man fulfilling a promise.

He had brought you here to protect you. To make you feel safe. You just needed more time. That was all. He will take care of it and he will fix you.

You found solace at the wooden table in Fyodor’s parents’ home. The surface was scuffed and well-loved, the wood darkened by years of elbows leaning, fingers tracing, heads resting. Old, gentle hands were steeping your tea in the kitchen. It had only been a few days since your second loss, and you were still fragile and tender around the edges, walking carefully in your own skin. Baby steps, they said. You needed that. Probably both literally and figuratively.

You were bouncing your leg under the table, the repetitive tap of your finger against your thigh barely noticeable unless someone was watching you closely. Your eyes lingered on her back as she moved, her presence somehow soft and heavy all at once.

And you found yourself wondering…

“Mrs. Dostoe—”

“Dearie, how many times do I need to tell you to call me Mama?” she interrupted kindly, turning just enough to smile at you. Her tone was scolding only in play. It was affection, not reprimand.

“Ah. Yes, I’m sorry,” you said, offering a soft, folded smile. You didn’t mean to sound so formal. Of course she treated you like her own child, of course calling her Mama was an honor. You were grateful. Truly. But maybe it was just the way you were raised—polite, reserved, never too familiar too quickly. If you got too close, they might see it. See right through you.

“I was just wondering… what was it like? Having a child?”

Your leg stilled as she walked over and placed a cup in front of you. Her own tea followed, and then she eased down into the chair across from you, her body sighing into it. The smile that crept onto her face was soft and nostalgic, lines deepening around her eyes.

“Dearie, your experience will be different from mine. And your time will come. I know it. I’ve been praying to God every day since your wedding.” Her voice held conviction. Certainty. Faith.

Your heart fluttered, unsure if it was comfort or guilt that stirred.

“But if you must know—it’s a blessing. Truly. I was never happier than when I carried Fyodor.” She took a sip of her tea, breathing in its warmth. “How is trying going?”

Your mouth opened, then closed. What do you even say to that? Your thoughts didn’t go to ovulation charts or anything clinical—no, your mind just went to Fyodor. The way he fills you. The way your walls cling to him when he calls you endearments, or worse, when he says your name like a prayer he’s about to sin through.

“I… Um…”

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Relief crashed through you like a gust of air. You didn’t even care who it was—thank God for the interruption. You began to stand, ready to open the door yourself, but Fyodor’s mother gently ushered you back down with a tut. She went instead.

It was one of the town elders—the mute sister, the one with soft eyes and grey hair plaited in a long braid. She offered you a tender nod as she passed, disappearing with Fyodor’s mother into the front hall.

You sighed quietly and reached for your cup again. It was warm, a comfort. Like always.

And then, through the thin walls and the hush of rural quiet, you heard it:

“She’s too delicate. That’s why I gave her black cohosh. It helps women settle down after difficult emotions. It cleans the womb.”

She wasn’t whispering—not exactly. It was just… a statement. Folk medicine, spoken with the confidence of someone who’d made that tea for decades. There was nothing malicious in her voice. Just care. Old-fashioned care.

Still… your hand froze halfway to your lips.

Black cohosh.

That name scratched at something in your memory. A health class? A book? Something online once, years ago. You couldn’t place it exactly, but the unease bloomed in your stomach like rot. Cleaning the womb. Settling difficult emotions.

You smiled tightly when Fyodor’s mother returned. You finished your tea. You said nothing.

But that night, long after everyone had gone to sleep, you snuck into the tiny hallway bookshelf. Your fingers trembled as you thumbed through an old herbal compendium. Black cohosh… You scanned quickly. Heart racing.

And there it was.

Not recommended during pregnancy. May cause uterine contractions and potential miscarriage.

You stared at the words, jaw slack, eyes wide. The muggy heat of the room suddenly felt suffocating. Cold sweat gathered at your temples.

You’d been drinking that tea every day.

And then, an ache in your sternum as another thought struck: What if you kept drinking it?

What if you bled every time, just to have him fill you again? Again and again and again and again. To feel him hold you afterward, soothe you, kiss the tears from your lashes. You would apologize, and he would forgive you. You’d try harder next time. And he’d breed you, fill you with the hope of being whole again.

That night, cradled at Fyodor’s side, sleep eluded you. Did you even deserve peace for having such thoughts?

The next day, you were at the table again. Lunch with Fyodor and his family. Warm baked bread, steaming bowls of solyanka, pickled cucumbers, potatoes with dill. You’d even made cherry pie—just how Fyodor liked it. Being part of something—it felt good. You felt good.

Until the tea came.

The cup landed in front of you with a quiet clink.

Your hands trembled as you stared down at it. Your reflection staring back at you, judging you.

Fyodor noticed, of course he did. He always noticed. But he didn’t say anything.

You reached for it, just enough for the scent to hit you—sharp, herbal and deceptively gentle. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad…To keep being filled, emptied, filled again. To stay desirable. Needed. Wanted.

And then your hand snapped back. You couldn’t think that way. No. No, no, no, no, no. The guilt bloomed so fast it nearly choked you. You were sick for even letting the thought breathe.

You stood abruptly, the teacup tipping in your movement. The hot liquid splashed onto your dress and the lace tablecloth. A gasp rippled around the table.

“Are you unwell?” Fyodor’s father asked, eyes narrowing in mild concern.

“I’m fine—” You bit your lip. You couldn’t lie. Not now. You were shaking.

Fyodor’s hand slid to yours. His touch careful, protective.

You met his eyes.

And not long after, he led you out of the room.

You were in a small hallway, the kind where sound carried too well and nothing felt truly private, but you didn’t care. You gripped his hand tightly, almost as if pleading with him to forgive you for something that you did not do.

“Please tell them I can’t drink the tea,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “My—my... miscarriages, they were caused by the black cohosh in it.”

He blinked once. Then again. The sort of blink a person makes when they’ve taken a bullet and are waiting to feel the pain. His gaze drifted briefly to the door, to the room beyond where his parents sat. You could almost hear the quiet shifting of their chairs, their breaths, their ears. It was too quiet.

Then he looked back at you, and stepped closer. His free hand came to rest at the curve of your waist, protective. Possessive. His expression didn’t change much—his tone stayed level. But a frown pulled at his lips, tight and cold. He looked like something had just brushed too close to the edges of his control.

“Are you certain?” he asked, quietly.

You nodded, guilt and fear spilling from your eyes, you didn’t mean to put the guilt on his mother. “Yes, yes, but I know they meant well,” you said softly, eyes flickering to Fyodor’s as though begging him to soften what you already knew would hurt. “She meant well.”

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t lash out. He said nothing for a long moment. Just… watched you. And when he finally spoke, his voice was still even, measured—so very calm it scared you. “From now on, I will personally see to everything you eat. No more tea and no more surprises.”

You were trembling as you nodded, your body already sagging into the relief of being held, of being told what to do. Something in your heart ached and curled at the edge of his authority. It wasn’t fear. It was… surrender coupled with an emotion you didn’t know if it was relief or shame. Maybe all three.

He cupped your cheek, gently turning your face toward his. “I’m going to take care of you. Do you understand me?” He tilted his head and leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead. His voice was calm, but behind it—rage, grief, restraint. “We won’t let this happen again, my dear.”

It isn’t a question. It’s a correction.

He doesn’t mean to punish you. He is simply taking control again, because he has to. Because something got to you. The tea was not meant to harm you, but it did anyway, and that is unacceptable. He will fix it.

The door creaked open and his mother stood in the threshold, face pale and trembling, eyes wide with something that looked like heartbreak.

You knew the moment her hands reached for yours that she heard everything. She came to you not with excuses, not with defenses, but with sorrow that sat behind her eyes like a gathering storm. Her touch was careful, reverent. Like a mother to her child.

“Dearie,” she whispered, “oh, my God...”

Your breath caught in your throat. You looked to Fyodor. He hadn’t moved much, but his hand on your waist had tightened, just barely. You could see the frown in his eyebrows, but his lips were drawn in a neutral line, offering no judgment yet—only restraint.

You felt small under their eyes, under the weight of everything unsaid.

“You were trying to help me,” you whispered. Your voice was thin, nearly lost to the stillness. “I know that.”

A nod from her. “I was,” she said, her voice cracking. “I swear to God I was. I never—I never thought…”

Her words dissolved into a soft sob, but still she did not let go of your hands. Her fingers shook in yours, wringing gently like she could squeeze the horror out of what had been done. Her eyes held no deceit, only sorrow and guilt so think it could drown.

“I’ve given that tea to women all my life. It’s what my mother gave me. What her mother gave her. I never knew it could…” She trailed off, lips parting, then pressing together again, like the rest of the sentence might poison the space between you if spoken aloud.

Behind you, Fyodor exhaled. It was slow. Controlled.

He stepped closer, if that was even possible, so your back lightly touched his chest, so his presence could bracket you, ground you. One hand moved from your waist to cradle your stomach. Not in desire, but in mourning.

The emptiness was shared.

A few days pass. Enough to let the silence settle and enough to let your hands shop shaking when you sipped your morning water. But not enough to erase the ache, and definetly not enough to make you forget the emptiness inside you.

You told him you were ready. Even though you weren’t sure your body could bear it again. Even though something deep in you whispered to wait. Still, you pressed your hand on his chest one evening and insisted. Your voice was soft, meek, but your plea was clear.

He tilted his head at you, watching in that way he always did; like he was peeling back your thoughts layer by layer, insecurity by insecurity. His silence didn’t stretch long, but it was long enough that you almost took it back.

But then, a small nod. “Alright,” he said simply as he took your hand.

And then you laid your back onto the bed. He joined you slowly, reverently, as though you were something a mere mortal could not look upon. His fingers brushed down your sternum, pausing low on your belly, as a silent question and a quiet promise.

And then he entered you again.

Your body immediately reacted. You gasped softly—your body still tender, pliant, open and waiting for him. His length filled you inch by inch, a slow splitting that made you cling to the sheets. And of course you welcomed it, you needed it, because you needed him to reach somewhere your grief and shame couldn’t.

He moved inside you with aching control, each thrust deliberate and deep, slow enough to draw out the tension coiling low in your belly. You took him so completely that it made you ache, but the ache felt right. It felt earned. Like your body was remembering its purpose, made to hold him, made to house this sacred union.

Fyodor leaned over you, breath hitching against your skin, lips brushing across your cheek, your collarbone, the hollow of your throat. You were caught, suspended, like a pressed flower between the pages of his body and the bed, delicate and flattened beneath devotion.

And when it was done, you let out a soft sigh. He cradled you in his arms, and you clung to him with something close to faith—praying, whispering in your mind that maybe this time it would stick.

Maybe this time, you would be full and whole again.

But the fear crept back in like a shadow under the door. The tea was no longer a threat; Fyodor had taken control of everything you consumed. But it wasn’t your body you feared anymore. It was your mind.

You’d read once that a woman could lose her child from stress alone. And you were not doing well in the relaxing department. So the fear of miscarrying fed into itself. A spiral of your own making.

Until—

It was one evening, deep into your second trimester, you almost felt proud of something your body had done. No more blood. No more grief. Or at least, that’s how it should have felt.

You told yourself it was just the fear of losing it again. Not the ache to be needed. Not the gnawing want to be desired. To have purpose.

It was fear. Nothing else. You would tell him, and he would soothe you—he always did.

You kissed his cheek as you slipped into bed, folding your hands beneath your cheek as you watched his profile. He was staring up at the ceiling, eyes distant, unreadable. You wondered what lived behind those deep purple pools.

“Fedya…” you murmured. His gaze snapped to you—not threatening, but in that startled reverence he always gave you when you said his name like that. And suddenly, you wanted to melt into the mattress, to disappear beneath your own guilt.

It’s just fear. Just fear, nothing else. He’ll soothe you.

“I’m afraid,” you whispered. “Afraid we’ll lose another child.”

He looked at you, quiet, dissecting. His gaze softened, though the stillness behind it never changed. Fyodor never flinched at your fear, nor recoiled from your doubt. To him, it was proof that your unrest hadn’t found its final anchor. And he would be that anchor. He would soothe the tremors, not by silencing them, but by reclaiming them, because peace was precious only when it came from his hands.

“And what do you propose we do,” he asked gently, “to dampen this fear?”

Your heart lurched. Heat flushed your chest. Words turned to blades behind your tongue.

“Just… to be sure it stays, Fedya…” You trailed off, eyes stinging.

Say it. Use your words. Come on.

“Please…”

Fear. Fear. Fear.

“Please put it in me again…”

You weren’t sure you’d spoken it aloud until you saw his expression shift. Slowly. His eyes dropped to your lips, then to your stomach and stayed there. He sat up, just slightly, resting his weight on one elbow as he looked at you—no, through you. His hand moved, slow and warm, settling over the gentle swell of your belly. You weren’t showing much, not yet, but to him, it was already sacred.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, thumb brushing across your skin, light and slow.

You nodded faintly, only now realizing you were crying. You didn’t know when it started. He never chastised you for tears. He never told you to stop.

“You poor thing. This body is mine to care for, my dear. You only needed to ask.”

Your breath hitched as his fingers slipped beneath the hem of your nightgown with the kind of patience that made your chest ache. He never rushed. He devoured gently, so slow you didn’t even feel the sharp teeth until they were already spilling blood from you.

Then, he dipped his head and kissed your stomach. Not sweetly. Devoutly. His hair tickled your skin; and you gulped hard, fingers twitching with the urge to reach for him. To thread through his hair. But you stayed still. Let him love you. Let him take care of you.

His hand slid between your thighs—patient, searching. He checked you. Shame bloomed in your chest when his fingers came back wet. You wanted to hide. He hadn’t even touched you properly and still, you were open, aching, ready.

But he only smiled.

You did not wait long. He parted your legs with quiet authority. One to the side. One resting on his shoulder. Then he filled you, deliberate and inevitable. Again and again. In and out. His brooding eyes never leaving yours.

His pace, as always, was restrained. Controlled. Like he was preserving energy. But he never left you empty. No, he couldn't. He had to fix you.

And when he finished, he did not leave. No, he closed his eyes and pressed a lingering kiss on your ankle. His seed was warm and thick, claiming. Your breath stuttered. You reached for him, skin slick with devotion, hair tousled, skin flushed. He looked like a statue, carved from the rarest quartz on earth. Or maybe not from this earth at all.

But then there it was again, that stupid ache. A want. Your body clenched around him. A silent plea.

You turned your face, ashamed. Would he let you finish? This wasn’t meant for indulgence. It was duty. Obedience. A sacred offering. How could you want more?

Fyodor never saw a need for your climax. It felt too worldly to him—unnecessary. He saw your restraint as holy. Your ache, your suffering and your denial were your form of worship.

But still—your voice, small and trembling, broke the silence.

“Can I... please...?”

He opened his eyes and stilled. That strange, quiet stillness he gets when something doesn’t match the script in his head. His gaze dropped to your belly. To your helpless, trembling form. He touched your stomach absently, considering. Then, slowly, he pulled out.

The emptiness was unbearable.

“You want to climax, my dear? Is that what you think you deserve?”

His voice wasn’t mocking. It was curious. Indulgent. Like a parent humoring a child’s strange request.

He kissed your belly again. Soft. Calculating.

“But you’ve already received your reward. You carry it inside you.”

Yes. Yes, of course. He was right. You should have been content. You were content. Greedy, greedy, ungrateful thing. How could you ask for more?

But then—

“But I could not deny you this,” he whispered, his voice velvet. “It is my duty as your husband to make you comfortable. To make you feel loved. Especially when you’re carrying something so precious.”

Relief broke over you in a quiet wave.

He shifted down. His fingers returned, so patient, so precise. He knew your body like scripture, like something studied in silence. And he didn’t dive in. He listened: to breath, to shiver, to the subtle trembling of your thighs beneath his hands.

His lips brushed over your cheek; the contact was barely there before trailing down to your throat. He kissed once. Just once. And then his mouth stilled, his breath soft and steady against your skin as his fingers slipped between your legs and found you open and warm.

Then, with quiet intent, his fingers pushed inside—gathering what had dared to spill, returning it to its rightful place, as if it had never been meant to leave. He stayed like that a moment. Still and silent as though sealing something. As though reminding your body of its purpose. His purpose.

Then he moved.

He stroked you lightly, so lightly it felt like a question or a prayer. Your body arched into it before your mind caught up, gasping, legs spreading further on instinct. You tried to speak, to plead, but only a whimper came out, breath broken and wordless.

That pleased him. His fingers moved with unbearable patience, pressing deeper, spreading heat through your belly like honey left too long in the sun. Your thighs trembled. Your mouth parted. Still, you said nothing.

Circling, pressing, gliding just beneath the edge of bliss without letting you tip. Keeping you suspended. He didn’t let you come.

Of course not.

Cruel man, cruel husband, cruel seer—so gentle it almost felt like kindness. But it wasn’t kindness. It was mercy. He was letting you ache. Letting you feel what it meant to want something holy.

“It’s remarkable,” he said, his tone quiet, musing, not gloating. “How we pretend desire is a thing we choose. But yours…” His thumb brushed lightly across your clit, just once, and your body flinched. “Yours is instinct. Pure and obedient.”

He lowered his head again, kissed your throat—again, only once. You whimpered softly. Your hips shifted, chasing his touch. But he stilled.

“I think,” he whispered, more to himself than to you, “we’re always closest to God when we deny ourselves. But there’s another kind of grace… the kind that slips through even when we try to contain it. A trembling. A gasp. The way your breath stutters against my fingers.”

Your hands were lost, twisting in the sheets. You didn’t even trust your voice. You didn’t trust your mouth. You were afraid that if you spoke, you would scream.

And he loved that. The restraint. The devotion. The trembling effort to be good. It was the kind of worship he valued most.

He pressed his thumb against your clit again—finally—and circled it in time with his thrusts. Just enough to make you shudder. Not enough to let you break.

Your chest was heaving. He watched the way your lips parted around soundless pleas and held you there, on the edge of your undoing. That’s when the tears came. Not from frustration. But from grace. From the unbearable sweetness of being seen in your silence, undone by mercy, loved so thoroughly you’d forgotten yourself entirely.

And when he finally let you fall—

When his fingers shifted just slightly, just enough to let your body cascade into release. It wasn’t like breaking. It was like communion. It was like taking the host at the altar. A private blessing. A holy indulgence offered from his hand to your body.

“Beautiful,” he whispered against your ear. You were shivering, so weak, so precious, and so entirely his.

He didn’t move for a long time.

One hand splayed over your thigh, the other resting on your belly. His body wrapped yours with the calm of someone who just offered prayer. You felt his breath cooling the sheen of sweat along your shoulder.

The field was quiet, touched only by the wind and the occasional sway of tall grasses bending to its will. A blanket had been laid out beneath you, soft against the earth, and you rested with your head in Fyodor’s lap, cradled by the gentle slope of his thigh.

He had peeled a pomegranate with the same reverence he reserved for scripture. Its skin cracked open with a soft, fleshy resistance, revealing glistening seeds like rubies packed tight in a jeweled chalice.

Pomegranates were said to hold a single paradisal seed from heaven, a relic of Eden that had never withered. And yet, it was the same fruit Hades offered Persephone in the underworld. The same fruit that sealed her fate.

And now Fyodor was feeding them to you.

One by one.

To share it with you was beautiful. To feed it to you, one seed at a time, between the soft parting of your lips was something more: it was a kind of quiet binding. You received each offering with the docility of a bride in worship, head tilted back slightly, lips glistening from the juice.

There was something almost holy in the act. Or something quietly damning. The fruit of paradise… and the chain that kept you his. The tips of his fingers and your mouth both gleamed with the same red—like a sacrament dressed in the color of sin. You let him press the seeds to your lips like communion. And with each one, you accepted that paradise and captivity could share a taste.

He watched the way your throat moved when you swallowed, how you breathed more softly as his hand slid to your belly, cupping the gentle swell with a control so tender it bordered on holy. You wore white, of course. A thin, gauzy dress that caught the light and curved over your body like the linen of a saint’s burial shroud.

You looked like sacrifice incarnate, like an icon—the Virgin in linen, a vision sanctified by the weight of her duty.

And to him, that was love.

“My little prophet,” he murmured—not to you, but to the child nested in your womb. His voice, a breath of incense against your skin. “Grow as you must, and grow strong. Know that you are already loved beyond measure."

His head bowed over you. He pressed a kiss to your forehead. He spoke in hushed russian—too soft to catch, the cadence of prayer wrapping around your unborn child like a lullaby only the soul could hear.

His breath a hush against your skin. “They feel your warmth, my love. How could they not rest easy?” His hand brushed slowly over your belly, and his voice dropped, reverent. “The world you’ve given them is gentle. Sheltering and simply perfect.”

You didn’t speak. You only closed your eyes and let the warmth of his hand ground you.

He fed you another seed, red staining the corners of your mouth. He wiped it away with his thumb—slowly, carefully—then sucked the juice from his own fingertip, eyes never leaving your peaceful features.

And in that moment, it didn’t matter that you were bound. That you had long ago given up autonomy in exchange for peace. In his hands, you felt seen.

Even if that love was a cage, you had long since chosen it. You did not reach for more. You did not resist.

You simply opened your mouth again, and let yourself be filled.

A few weeks. Some kicks from your unborn and quiet days of being taken care of pass. Then, one evening, contractions: a slow tide of tension that lapped at your spine and thighs, a rhythm you couldn’t quite breathe through but didn’t yet fear. Fyodor had kissed your forehead, pressed your hand to his chest, then left the room when his mother beckoned him away with a look you didn’t understand.

Weirdly, he didn’t fight her on it. He only bowed his head. As if conceding to a greater law.

And now you were surrownded by only women in the low amber light of the birthing room, or what was your bathroom turned into a birthing chamber.

They had undressed you gently, washed you in warm water, combed out your hair and pinned it back with a hairpin that once belonged to a grandmother you had never met. They called it tradition. They called it care.

Steam rose from a copper pot in the corner.

The blind sister stood near it, stirring slowly with a long-handled spoon, as if she were divining something. Her clouded eyes blinked softly, her lips moving in silent prayer.

They sat you down in the water. It was warm, welcoming.

The deaf one kneeled beside the tub, her hands were stained from oils and roots, but they were sure and kind as they guided your legs apart. And the mute one was closest of all. She held your hand.

Fyodor’s mother knelt behind you in the water, one arm steady around your ribs, the other splayed protectively across your stomach. You could feel her heartbeat thudding against your back, calm, ancient, like a second pulse inside your bones. She was solid when everything else inside you was slipping, stretching, tearing open.

The first real pain came low and deep, molten and grinding. A swell inside you that no breath could soften. No prayer could unmake. Another woman brought a half-cut lemon to your lips, pressing it there—its sharpness slicing through the heavy sweetness of the air, grounding you, distracting you from the agony. It helped. Barely.

They did not rush you. No barking orders. No surgical steel or bright lights. Just warm hands and whispered prayers and cloths soaked in rosewater.

“Breathe,” Fyodor’s mother murmured behind you. Her voice felt old. Like a bell rung deep in a mountain.

You breathed. You bled. You bore down, again and again, clutching the mute sister’s hand so tightly your nails left crescent moons in her skin—but she never pulled away. She smiled at you. A knowing, ancient smile.

This pain was sacred. This was the passage all women in the sect passed through. And now you were walking it too. Barefoot and broken but beloved and never alone. They were right there, guiding you, holding you through this pain, as if it were their own.

You weren't sure when your voice left you—whether it had been dragged out in a scream or swallowed whole by the pressure, but now there was only breath. Water. And the soft rustle of fabric as the women moved around you like priestesses tending to the altar of your body.

The pressure shifted lower. Deeper. Hotter. The pain no longer flared, it opened. Like a gate being torn off its hinges. Like something ancient pushing through the thinnest membrane of your humanity.

“There,” Fyodor’s mother whispered, her fingers firm on your shaking thigh. “They are ready. One more, dearie. Just one.”

You gritted your teeth so hard your jaw ached, the citrus juice dripping from your chin. You pushed.

And then came the crown. The swell of the head, rigid and slick, stretching you wide, too wide, until the skin between your thighs burned, splitting at the edges, searing like hot metal pressed into flesh. There was no dignity in it, only rawness, wet and wild. The slow violence wrapped in purpose made you feel it: the delicate skin of your perineum straining to hold, fighting not to split beneath the raw demand of life.

Water sloshed. Blood clouded the surface.

There was a sound: a pop, wet and awful, as the head slipped forward another inch. Your hips bucked against the pain. It felt like your bones might break in half, your pelvis splitting like bark beneath the force of it.

You cried out. Not a scream—something lower. A groan pulled from the pit of your stomach, old and animal and holy.

“Good,” whispered Fyodor’s mother. Her breath ghosted the shell of your ear. “Very good, keep going.”

You shook. Your vision blurred. The mute sister wiped your brow. The deaf one adjusted your legs again, pressing her palm low into your belly.

You bore down once more, and the pain tore through you—a ring of fire igniting along the rim of your body, scalding and all-consuming. You felt it all: the slide of damp skin, the forced stretch of muscle, the way the world narrowed to a single unbearable point where your child was forcing you to open wider than you ever thought possible.

And then—release.

The head passed with a sudden wetness, like flesh sloughing from bone, and your breath shattered in your throat. Shoulders came next—twisting sideways, brutal and slow, like something carved from you with a dull blade.

And then, finally—

The child left you.

A slithering relief. A slick, grotesque blessing. Your body emptied all at once with a low splash and the awful, perfect sound of new flesh hitting water.

The room held its breath.

Steam curled through the air, fragrant and heavy with sweat, milk, and copper. For one unbearable second, there was only silence—no cries, no cooing. Just the soft ripple of blood-stained water around your thighs.

And then—

A thin, reedy cry pierced the stillness. Soft at first. Then louder. Demanding. Alive.

The mute sister caught them in her arms without flinching, lifting the tiny, blood-slicked body with sacred precision. The child was slippery, smeared with vernix and birth, their skin flushed in blue and pink marbling. One eye opened, not fully, and then clenched shut again as their mouth opened wide to wail.

The cord pulsed between you—a thick, glistening tether, red and white like sacrificial silk. The blind sister held it delicately between two fingers, reverent as Fyodor’s mother reached for a curved blade.

Snip.

And still—it was not over. Not yet.

A second wave built in your gut. Less urgent. Deeper. You whimpered as your body clenched again. The afterbirth.

It came slower, heavier. There was no stretch now—just pressure. A dull, thick ache. And then it passed through you: a slop of deep red, warm and slick and strangely solid. You felt it slide from you like a second child—heavier than expected, less alive, more holy. The air changed when it left your body.

Your muscles gave out. You nearly slumped beneath the surface, but warm hands steadied you—held you up as your child was finally swaddled and brought to your chest.

Their skin against yours was hot and fragile, their breathing quick and uneven, mouth nuzzling blindly at your breast. You couldn’t see clearly. Couldn’t move your fingers. But your arms curved around them anyway.

The bathwater was pink now. A soft halo of blood was drifting in whorls around your hips.

The women whispered to one another in words you couldn’t follow. A final blessing, maybe. Or a warning. Then, one by one, they stood. They kissed your forehead, touched your shoulder. The mute one squeezed your hand. Fyodor’s mother murmured something as she pressed her lips to your temple, too soft to catch.

And then they left you. Alone. Changed. Split open and whole.

Silence settled over the room like gauze.

Until—

The door creaked.

Bare feet on tile. A pause. He was here.

Fyodor knelt at the edge of the tub, his white shirt open at the throat, his sleeves pushed restlessly up. His eyes raked over you—slow and disbelieving—as if you were some rare relic pulled from the earth, dirt-stained and priceless.

You watched him through half-lidded eyes, your body too heavy, too hollow to move. Still, you offered him a weak smile: small, cracked at the edges, but real. The best you could give.

His hand entered the water first, unhesitating. His fingers brushed your thigh beneath the surface—warm despite the cooling water, tender despite the ruin of you. You shuddered at the touch.

His voice was too steady, too calm for what burned behind his eyes. “Look at what you’ve made for me.”

He said me and not us.

He reached forward, hands trembling from the unbearable weight of awe, and tucked a wet lock of hair behind your ear. His knuckles skimmed your cheekbone with heartbreaking care, as if he thought you might shatter if he pressed too hard.

"You were brave," he murmured. "You were good." His voice was soft, reverent, like a man speaking to a chalice just after lifting it from the altar.

You thought you heard more—another whisper shaped against your hairline—but your mind, dulled with exhaustion, couldn’t catch the words. They dissolved into the blood-heavy air like incense.

Something about belonging.

Something about forever.

You closed your eyes, tears slipping hot and silent down your cheeks. It was too much. All of it.

The baby stirred faintly against your chest: tiny, blind, perfect. Fyodor’s gaze dropped to the child, and the smallest, most fragile smile ghosted over his mouth. Something in him broke then, you thought. Something silent and secret.

Without a word, he rose.

You barely registered him undoing the buttons of his shirt, pulling it over his head with slow, careful movements. His pale chest caught the candlelight, sharp bones, translucent skin, and then he stepped into the water without hesitation.

It didn’t matter that his white pants soaked up the blood tinted bathwater, turning pink around his thighs. It didn’t matter that the air reeked of sweat and iron and birth. It didn’t matter that the water was no longer clean. It was holy. And he wanted to be closer.

Fyodor sank down behind you, one arm sliding carefully around your ribs, the other cradling the child to your chest. He drew you back against him with infinite patience, letting you rest your weight entirely on him.

You felt his breath on your temple. Slow. Steady. Holding you both together.

He pressed his forehead to your damp hair and stayed like that for a long, long time.

At some point, you heard him whisper—not to you, but into the hollow space between your bodies:

“All things must be broken open before they are made sacred.”

You were too far gone to answer. But you felt it. Felt the truth of it seep into your skin, the same way the water seeped into your bones.

He held you until your breathing evened out, until the shivering in your muscles dulled to a low, exhausted ache.

Then, a gentle knock.

The door opened just a fraction, candlelight catching on Fyodor’s mother’s shawl. She didn’t speak, but her eyes flicked to the child nestled between your chests—small, silent, sacred.

Fyodor didn’t look at her when he spoke.

“You may take him, mama.”

No hesitation. She stepped forward and lifted the child from your chest with careful hands, as if cradling something anointed. You whimpered faintly at the absence, your arms twitching with the instinct to hold on—but Fyodor’s voice found you again, softer than before.

“Shh. It’s alright. He’s safe. He is not away from us… only watched over.”

You nodded—or thought you did. Your body didn’t feel quite yours yet. It had been a vessel, then an altar, and now it was just… heavy.

Fyodor helped you up, not with force, but with patience. His hand under your arm, his other at your back. You didn’t walk so much as lean, let yourself be steered. Slumped forward. Bare feet finding cold tile with unsure steps. You were trembling. He didn’t comment.

He wrapped you in linen and whispered something in Russian against your ear that you didn’t catch. Your mind floated somewhere outside your skin.

The hallway was quiet as he led you to your bedroom.

He helped you sit. Then lie. Then breathe.

You leaned back into the pillows, fingers curled loosely in the folds of the robe, too spent to speak. The pain was receding, but the echo of it still clung to your thighs, your spine, the base of your skull.

Fyodor didn’t leave. He sat beside you, silent. One hand on the back of your neck, the other resting on your knee through the linen. He didn’t touch only to comfort, but to anchor as well. To remind you that you were still here, and still his.

Time passed. Maybe an hour. Maybe more.

At some point, you closed your eyes. When you opened them again, there was a knock, heavier this time.

Fyodor’s father stepped halfway into the room. His face was unreadable, but his voice was soft.

“It’s time. The meal is ready.”

Fyodor nodded. No ceremony. Just fact.

Your home felt warmer than before. Gentler. And when you stepped into the main room, the fire was bright. The table set.

Your son, swaddled now, lay cradled in Fyodor’s mother’s arms. Eyes deep and fathomless. Mute. Watchful. Already his father’s child.

And when you were led to the table, you let yourself be guided like a doll. A low chair, cushioned, a wool shawl tucked over your shoulders. Fyodor was beside you in an instant.

Someone brought you warm water to rinse your hands. You blinked slowly, unsure whether you were awake or still inside some dream haze of labor. Then, Fyodor’s hand reached for yours, and when your fingers barely closed around his, he pressed a kiss to your knuckles. Cold lips. Warm breath.

“You have given me something eternal,” he said, voice low and clear. “And still, you remain here, breathing. Beautiful. Enduring. I could not have asked for anything more.”

A plate was set before you then: rich, earthen vegetables—carrots roasted in honey, soft bread torn by hand. A dark, tender cut of meat glistened in the center. You blinked at it, unsure. It smelled… warm, familiar, but you couldn’t place it. The tea beside it steamed faintly, rooibos mixed with lemon balm; meant to soothe the womb, they had said.

Fyodor picked up your fork before you could.

He cut into the meat with practiced elegance, slicing a modest piece and blowing on it. Then he brought it to your lips, cradling your chin in his free hand. “Eat,” he said softly. Not quite a request.

You parted your lips.

He watched as you accepted the bite. You chewed slowly. The meat was tender, perfumed with herbs, coated in honey and something metallic. Sweet, but not cloying. Strange, but not wrong.

“You must take your strength back into you… for the child, and for me.”

You hummed in response.

A pause.

“What meat is this?” You ask quietly after swallowing the first bite.

He didn’t answer at first. His smile lingered, soft at the edges, unreadable. Then, gently, like a secret passed in a chapel he said. “It was part of you that you gave freely. And now… returned to you with care.”

You trembled. Did he mean—

“Would you prefer I lie?” he asked, almost fondly. “No… you would not. You would rather suffer in truth than live in soft deception. That is why I chose you.”

He fed you again, slow and precise. Each bite coaxed from your lips like an offering. You leaned toward him without meaning to, a quiet tilt of your body seeking the steadiness of his. He noticed, of course.

In the corner, Fyodor’s parents hummed as they cradled your son. The boy was asleep. Quiet and perfect.

Fyodor leaned close as he gently wiped the corner of your mouth, careful and ceremonial, like a priest cleaning a chalice. “You have done beautifully,” he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “To bleed for me. To break yourself open for this cause we now cradle in our arms.”

You closed your eyes. And though your limbs still trembled, you obeyed. Each bite was devotion. Each swallow, a promise whispered into the marrow of your being. You were carrying his blood in two forms now—in your arms… and on your tongue.

You had given yourself wholly. And for that, he was pleased.

Exactly three days later, the baptism took place.

By then, your body had begun to mend. People came bearing flowers, offerings, prayers. They looked at you with awe, with trembling hands and wet eyes, as though divinity had passed through your womb. As though you had birthed not a child, but the second coming of Christ.

And perhaps, for them, you had.

The sin eater. Born from a bond that defied flesh and surpassed the small, trembling understanding of ordinary hearts. A child to carry the weight of sin on their back. A child to cleanse, to devour transgression not with wrath, but with quiet love, holy devotion, and willing sacrifice.

You had been broken open to bring them this salvation. You had swallowed your own pain. Your own blood. And now they knelt before you, revering what you had made.

The church was colder that morning. Not in temperature, but in breath, in time. As if the stone walls had drawn in the chill from the surrounding peaks and held it tight like a sacred truth. You stood in silence, your child bundled in white linen against your chest, their warmth the only thing tethering you to your body. The sky outside was slate grey, and the mist clung to the church windows like sighs trying to get in.

The congregation was already inside. Rows upon rows of villagers, heads bowed, hands clasped, whispering. You didn’t understand the words—only the tone. Reverent. Awed. And maybe... afraid.

At the altar, the three sisters waited. The same who had guided your wedding, veiled now in black. The blind one’s eyes were hidden beneath a shroud of muslin, tight around her skull. The deaf one’s ears were wrapped in woven wool, thick and solemn. The mute one’s lips—still sewn, the white thread now stained faintly crimson from old attempts at speech. Still, they stood tall.

Your child did not cry. You had not heard him cry since he left your body.

You stepped forward with Fyodor at your side, each step echoing on the stone floor. Behind the altar, a basin had been carved into the earth itself, a deep bowl. The water shimmered faintly with silver flecks—ashes, you realized.

The blind sister reached for your child.

You hesitated, but Fyodor’s hand pressed gently at the small of your back. “It is alright,” he murmured, soft and unhurried. “They will only bless what we’ve given.”

You let go. Your heart beat like a warning. Not because you doubted him, but because part of you still feared exile. You had been welcomed. Anointed. Touched by holy hands. And still… something inside you whispered: do not get too comfortable. Love does not mean you belong.

The sister’s hands, despite her blindness, were sure. She took the child in her arms, cradled like something fragile, divine, already mourned.

Then came the immersion.

Once—for the soul.

Twice—for the flesh.

Thrice—for the sins not yet committed.

Each time, the child slipped beneath the surface like a falling star—disappearing into the water’s hush, only to rise again, eyes open, untouched by the cold. You clutched Fyodor’s sleeve, heart thudding like a warning bell against your ribs.

The deaf sister approached with a small glass vessel wrapped in cloth. When she uncorked it, the sharp, resinous scent of myrrh unfurled into the air. Dipping her fingers in, she anointed the child’s temples, chest, and wrists.

“So you will carry both burden and balm,” she said, breath thin as incense smoke.

Then she rubbed a pinch gently along the baby's heels.

“So you will be preserved,” she murmured. “So rot will not find you.”

Then came the oil—dark, pressed from olives and mixed with herbs. She traced a spiral at the navel, then the throat.

“So your voice will be guarded. And your hunger holy.”

The mute sister approached.

She said nothing—could say nothing. She pulled, from her robe, a small knife.

You gasped—but Fyodor placed a calm hand on yours.

“She opens her voice,” he whispered.

With a swift cut, the stitches at the mute sister’s lips split. Blood dripped slow onto the floor. And then she began to sing.

No words. Just sound. A low hum, aching with generations of sorrow and rebirth. The entire congregation joined in. A thousand voices, some cracked with age, others clear and melodic—singing without language. Just sound. Just devotion.

You began to cry. You didn’t even know when.

The sisters laid the baby in your arms once more. A wreath had been placed on their head made of sage, rue and pressed violets, all bound in red string. Around their waist, a small sash, mirroring your wedding one, looped thrice and knotted once.

You looked down.

Your child was smiling.

That small, tender smile—so quiet, so good. Their eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but they did not fall. You could not tell if it was joy, serenity, or something far older than emotion. It pierced you either way.

You broke.

Not with a sound, but with the way your arms tightened instinctively around them. As if to shield them. As if that could still mean something. As if the ritual hadn’t already claimed them.

Your knees nearly gave, but Fyodor caught you, steady, solid, eternal. His hands cradled your shoulders as he whispered into your ear, low and warm. “They are perfect, my love. You gave them the world. And now... now they will cleanse it.”

You looked around at the congregation—so full of adoration, so full of fear. They would revere this child, but never hold their hand. Never run with them in the fields. Never laugh freely. Your heart ached. It bled.

But Fyodor was unmoved. He watched the child like a man who had found his legacy in flesh. His smile was proud. Not just of the child, but of you. Of your devotion. Of your body, which had carried his design into the world.

You heard the congregation’s final note. A swell. A sigh.

And then, silence.

As if something ancient had exhaled through all of them and was now sleeping again.

They kissed his forehead with trembling reverence. Then stepped back. None dared to hold him again.

Your child, this little miracle, was now the village’s sin eater. Sacred. Beloved. Alone.

But not unloved.

Never unloved.

Then, one quiet evening, you found yourself walking beside Fyodor. The path was narrow, the fields open. The sun was lowering but hadn’t set, casting long, golden beams that stretched through the wheat. Your feet were bare, the earth still warm from the day. It clung softly to your skin, grounding you, reminding you that you were here. Alive. His.

Children’s laughter rang out in the distance—sharp, high notes of joy as they chased one another through the tall grass. You paused, instinctively, and glanced toward the sound. For a moment, just a moment, you thought of yours. Likely nestled against his grandmother’s chest now, drowsy and warm with milk. Safe. Wanted. Whole.

And then, strangely, you thought of your parents.

Their faces blurred. You had last seen them a little over a year ago, and yet… you could no longer recall the exact curve of your mother’s cheek, nor the timbre of your father’s voice. Time had softened them in your memory, worn them down like river stones.

Perhaps that was for the best.

Fyodor’s fingers brushed yours. Then curled around them, slow and deliberate.

From the open window of a weathered home, an old woman glanced out, her voice rasping as she passed the proverb down with an wry smile:

"Муж и жена—одна Сатана."

You blinked. The words rolled over your spine. You should have flinched. But instead, a strange warmth spread through you.

It wasn’t a judgment. It wasn’t an insult.

It was truth. Dressed in proverb. A sigh of knowing.

One flesh. One soul. One sin.

You didn’t laugh. You didn’t deny.

You only nodded, as though you understood. And perhaps you did.

Because the rhythm of your life had become inseparable from his—threaded through your breath, your blood, your being.

It was a cycle. You had felt it humming beneath your skin for some time now, rooted deep beneath the bone. A rhythm you fell into without ever learning the steps. You would falter—doubt yourself, spiral inward, pick at your bleeding thoughts. And he would be there. Always. A hand on your back. A kiss to your temple. A voice like dusk, low and thick with calm, telling you that you were enough. That you were his. That he saw you, all of you, and still chose you.

Maybe that was what undid you. That he chose you.

Not once, not briefly. Not with hesitation. But over and over, with quiet conviction.

You didn’t know when comfort became craving. When needing him became the only thing that made you feel safe. When his touch stopped soothing and started claiming.

But perhaps… that was the point.

If you ached, he would soothe. If you cried, he would hush. If you feared being too much, he would hold you like you were made of silk and sorrow and nothing more.

You folded yourself into his shape, gave him your voice, your womb, your worth. And he took it, of course. With reverence, with tenderness, with quiet hunger. And in that, he was possessive. But softly so.

You needed to be his. And he needed to be needed. So the circle held. The pattern repeated. You weren’t sure where he ended and you began anymore. But you didn’t want to know. Not if knowing meant undoing this.

Not if it meant unraveling this—this fragile, necessary thing.

Dividers: saradika-graphics

#bsd #bungou stray dogs #bsd fyodor #fyodor bsd #bsd fyodor dostoevsky #bungo stray dogs fyodor #fyodor x reader #bsd fyodor x reader #qt.cult.fyo

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salemssimblr · 3 days ago

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Tag Game: Non-Sims Interests

Thank you so so much for the tag @honeysylvan, @living-undead, @fledermausbend, & @ethelgodehel!! ILYY!! 😘

I always weirdly forget everything I've ever liked or been into when I get tagged in these but let's seeeee

Music - I've come to accept that I might actually be allergic to silence - not because I can't stand the sound of my own thoughts (quite the contrary, actually), but because I'd much much rather have music in my brain. I always have something playing, or at the very least a song stuck in my head. But I was raised this way. My dad was the guitarist/vocalist for multiple heavy metal bands in my area before I was born, & there's an unconfirmed rumor that he turned down a position in Pantera because my mom was pregnant... I have legitimately not idea of its validity lmao. But he raised me on the good shit, and helped develop what I would consider a delightfully well-rounded music taste that I'm actually weirdly proud of.

Concerts - Three of my items for this list are music related and I regret absolutely nothing. I'm an indoor cat through and through... unless there's a concert I feel I need to go to. Local shows, bigger shows, festivals, give me all of it. I've been to VooDoo fest in NOLA multiple years (and I'm gutted it doesn't happen anymore), Sonic Temple fest this past year, and I actually won a sweepstakes all-expenses paid trip to Coachella in 2016. If it's music, I'm there. I actually recently began to compile a list of all the shows I've attended and all the artists I've seen... and it's over 100... and we have (*counts*) 5 more scheduled for this year, with a few more to inevitably be added oops.

Vinyl - Music point #3 lmfao. For our first wedding anniversary, my husband and I got ourselves a really nice record player, and I swear it was the best/worst thing we could've done. Now I cannot stop buying vinyl. I'm in TROUBLE when Spotify sends me fan-first vinyl offers, but it's how I've gotten quite a few cool ones. I'm particularly interested in special/limited and anniversary editions. Not to brag (I'm going to brag just a little) but I have the "tooth-white" deluxe edition of unreal, unearth: unending (hozier), & the anniversary editions of American idiot (Green Day), the sickness (disturbed), & fallen (evanescence), plus a lot of other limited/special edition colored vinyl (my fave). I think I'm officially at 67 records and counting.

Writing & RPG - I haven't written too much lately so I almost didn't include this, but it's been such an integral part of my entire being that I couldn't leave it out. I began writing on a text-based, "play per post" rpg forum allllll the way back in 2005, and I never looked back. I was insanely active on that forum and went on to own my own that was fairly successful until around this time last year when I finally shut it down. But the writing bug has never left, and lately I've been focusing on my own projects and reacquainting myself with solo writing. 90% of the renders I share here are of rpg ocs and a good percentage of my renders are meant to be snapshots into their stories (which I hope to share as a rendered 'comic' of sorts soon). In the meantime I really should create a writing sideblog.

True crime/crime docs/law - I've always had an interested in the macabre, and true crime is no exception. I had the wild opportunity to take a forensics class in high school (which was insanely well set up, with a literal crime lab in the school and final grades dependent on our performance in a series of 4 mock crime scenes, in which our fellow students (not in our class) were victims and perpetrators). In that class I "worked" the homicide team and tbh I've been chasing the high of "arresting" another student in the school ever since lmfao. But that experience set me on a weird path of knowing way too much about serial killers (I gave a 45 minute presentation on Jeffrey Dahmer in that class), ingesting so many true crime docs that I'm genuinely surprised when I hear about a case I didn't already know about, and, more recently, watching hours upon hours of live trial coverage for some pretty interesting cases. Right now I'm listening through the retrial of Karen Read after watching every single agonizing minute of the first trial last year. It can be a pain but it's also really interesting to see how the justice system works in detail, and by watching it with attorney commentary, I'm actually learning a lot (I can identify objections pretty easily now lmao)

Food & coffee - I'm a foodie, what can I say? When traveling, the first thing I research is the food options, specifically the proximity of a good iced coffee source near our lodging, but also any exciting or unique restaurants nearby. I never want to eat something I can get at home if I'm somewhere else. Gimme local cuisine or at the very least something I can't find back home! My family likes to tell us how "adventurous" we are but really we just like having a well-rounded appetite and a larger rotation of dinner ideas so we don't get too bored. Now, when it comes to coffee it better be iced, and it better be in my hand asap. I will literally always say yes to an iced coffee, no matter the day, time, or weather. As a matter of fact I used to stroll into dunkin out of the snow on my way to work in NYC and order my iced coffee with NO shame lmao. But coffee in general is a bit of a 'passion' I guess? That's a weird way to put it maybe but I have a dedicated coffee bar in my house (& not, like, one little cart in the corner, this beast takes up almost a whole wall), where I have multiple different grounds (some flavored), too many syrups and sauces, and a machine that makes hot, iced and frappes all in one. My obsession is well-known by my family too. My aunt just recently gifted us an antique, 100 year old wall-mounted coffee grinder that looks so fucking cool next to our coffee bar.

I could keep going but this has become wayyyy too long and much longer than I was expecting lmao. I always blank on these but this time I just couldn't stop typing. I always feel like my interests aren't as cool as everyone else's but yknow what, they are lmao.

Anyway on to the tags! I'll tag @acidheaddd, @hell-is-coming-for-you. @aching-joints, @jokiyo, @crazy-hazy-sims, @1-800-cuupid, @m0n0lithical, @queenofthedork, @notasimblr, @flovoid, @omgkayplays, @azeterna, @aheathen-conceivably, @dizzyrobinsims, @orionisms & YOU if you want to do this I tagged you! (& if I tagged you and you've already done this feel free to ignore (or share more things about you!))

Thank you again for the tags I love yall!!!!

#tag game #nonsims interests #nonsims #salem rambles

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krystalchoi · 18 hours ago

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At his mention that it was a creative job, but it was one that could come with difficulties, like if there was a creative block she gave a soft nod, "I could understand that, the ability to feel like you are constantly on demand — or I guess in some ways I do understand that, just in a very different form. But all brains need breaks, can't expect them to produce something, literally, out of thin air, at all times." The creative process involved so much when it came to writing a novel, something that she'd find far more stressful than the high demands of a hospital, but they all had their specialties.

"Kind of? Probably most people might associate x-rays but there's a lot of other things I read and do. I read MRI scans, CTs, I give IV injections of contrast, I'm there for anyone who hasn't had one before if they have an allergic reaction to CT contrast, I do biopsies through either ultrasound guided or MRI guided forms, among others, — interventional radiology, but besides that yes, I do interpret medical images." It didn't bother her that not everyone knew what radiologist did because it was a speciality for a reason, not everyone could do it. Some people even thought it was a boring and cheap way out as a doctor, but when she was doing biopsies and attempting to keep those patients relaxed and calm, she knew she did something special.

As the man explained his personal mission, "Don't think anyone is really going to judge you for having a cart full for fruit and veggies, but if you want to add a little twist and are looking to try different cultures soups, I would recommend Manduguk, it's a Korean dumpling soup. You can get veggie filled dumplings but there's pork or chicken filled dumplings you can use. Very delicious, very filling. Highly recommend." At his mention of one day buying a ton of meat, she laughed, "Oh but I love breakfast-for-dinner, I haven't done that in forever. I may have to dig out my waffle iron and make Belgian waffles and oh, oh, pancake sandwiches — you know, the ones where you use pancakes as the bread has a little syrup, sausage, egg, cheese. Ugh, you are expanding my shopping list." Maybe this was why she did need a shopping buddy, to give her more creative ideas then what she was typically buying.

"Sometimes." Furrowing her brows, "It depends on how many hours I've been on call, how tired I am, how far I've stretched every ingredient in my house before I have to come here." she said, "What about you, seems like you've got a pretty good relationship with the grocery store here if you're worried about them judging you over fruits and veggies."

So she’d just left the hospital… Christian nodded at her, privately very interested. He’d lived in Windsor Bay for six years now, but the healthcare professionals seemed to have been somewhere else, anywhere that he hadn’t been. He’d always wanted to learn what it was like to work in a medical environment.

(And his run-in with a GI surgeon on that flight from Seattle to Chicago… That stoked the intrigue.)

At the woman’s use of the word “creative”, Christian laughed lightly and nodded. “Yeah, it is a creative job—that’s literally the most you can hope for, is that creativity is going on when you’re sitting at your laptop,” he joked. “Sometimes it’s not. Sometimes it’s not a creative job after all, and you find yourself thinking of things that aren’t creative, like whether you should paint your walls or whether it’s worth stopping writing to witness people creatively reinvent their lives on Bravo.” (Christian had a secret love affair with reality television.) “But you’re right—the number of times I’ve fleshed out a very pivotal scene while wearing sweatpants is over twenty.”

When the friendly woman mentioned radiology, Christian actually recognized the word. He’d had a fellow student council member in high school whose parents, both of them, worked as radiologists at a Seattle facility. “Oh, that’s so cool,” Christian told the woman sincerely. “That’s—sorry, I’m not super knowledgeable on anything health-related—that’s the kind of doctor that looks at X-rays, right?” (Student council member Quentin’s parents had done that all day, every day, as far as Quentin had been concerned.) “And you know what medical problems look like on those scans, right? That’s amazing.”

Christian spotted two grocery carts sitting near empty parking spaces. When the woman he was talking with said she “had time” to hear today’s grocery problem, Christian gladly filled her in as he approached the carts: “I’ve got three recipes I want to make, and, bizarrely, all of them call for just produce. First is fruit salad. That’s for a party I’m going to. Second is gazpacho, and third is just regular vegetable soup. That’s for a personal mission to taste the difference between soups from different cultures.” He chuckled. “But it means that I’m going to be checking out today with all these fruits and vegetables in my cart. I’m going to look like the best vegan ever. And I’m not vegan—four days ago, actually, I came here for just meat.” Now he was fully laughing. “I got—sorry, I’m picturing it in my head now—I got the funniest look from a cashier that day who could not conceive of why I needed all that stuff. It was, by the way, for a breakfast-for-dinner night and a seafood stew. But I was judged.”

Once Christian had grabbed the stray cart, he returned to the woman and asked her, “So is it hard keeping up with stuff like this as a doctor? I know, you’re probably so wrapped up in doctor stuff that it’s always on your mind somehow.” Christian did know that doctors were extremely busy by nature. “But is it…you know…somewhat reorienting to find yourself at a grocery store—like, anywhere that’s not the hospital?”

#THREADS — C. FORD int.#THREADS — 0001.

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bubbles-flourishing · 2 years ago

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Heaptober day 2: this is stanley painting a watercolour painting

This was based on something I read on ask angie about stanley most definetely not taking up watercolour painting as a hobby agshsgdhsg

#art #my art #art on tumblr #artists on tumblr #artwork #artists of tumblr #traditional art #traditional drawing #traditional sketch #traditional illustration #heaptober #heaptober 2023 #stanley the rat #septimus heap #stanley #i have a day off tomorrow so i will draw beetle #or i might write something depends on what i feel like #bc the mental health is not mental healthing rn

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asktheevilgeniusesson · 10 days ago

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Thinking lately and i might give infinite epilepsy, perhaps. And no not just for ‘oo drama reasons’ because thats just.. wrong? To give a character a real life issue JUST for dramatic things. I personally like to explore disabilities, disorders, physical issues etc via giving them to characters and writing for disabled characters, its my personal way of learning and such and trying to make my followers and other moots who struggle feel like this is a safe space, or such like that.

So, in thought of this, i’d love to hear your guys’ opinions and thoughts on this, i’d rather be told outright that “hey this is a bad/good idea” then it be sugarcoated btw, ill check the comments and any asks abt this when im back from my nap. Take care lovelies<3

#mod rambles #idk i like to write disabled characters to explore how their life is like with disabiliites and issues.#i’d only ever write an epileptic seizure with infinite if the moot of the thread is comfortable and alright with it.#if i do go with it. i might do little mentions of offscreen episodes here and there. maybe. or mention things in threads #depends what my moots see as acceptable/good and not abelist or something of the sort.#dont wanna offend nobody just looking to educate myself and make this space feel more safe with disabled muses being shown^^

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dropthedemiurge · 1 day ago

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I was quite busy making all the posts after LFLS bluray with behind the scenes and commentary got into my hands but now I'm back! Eager to rant about one of my favourite episodes in the show!

= My theory about debuffs is really that there's only one valid Affection level that Myungha as a player can operate on: Yeowoon's Affection Level towards him. Of course, we've seen a very sad scene where it was shown that Yeowoon had -100 AL for himself but that was a hint-reward from the game, meanwhile Myungha actively works to collect Affection points from Yeowoon, and the debuffs happen because of negative points + the scale depends on how much into negative points Myungha is (comparing the strange leaf debuff with -5 or smth to him losing conscience on stairs here at -99, just like you guessed right).

And still, Yeowoon didn't hate him as much as he hated himself, 99 vs 100 :')) Fun fact: director said they also used -99 specifically to indicate the affection level scale to viewer, if it'd be -100 you could wonder whether it also can go -200 -300 or else.

I actually wonder what are your headcanons about why Myungha had such a destructive intimidating reputation of a fighter before :]

I'm going to put the rest under the read more so we don't hurt people's wrists when they scroll down xD

= Episode names are related to missions! In direct and non-direct way^^ 발전 means improvement, progress, development but not "gamedev" specifically, game development would be 개발. It's actually interesting how there's a perfect word that works with extra double meaning effect in English! Here, imo the title means again Myungha's progress with Yeowoon, with Yeowoon finally going into positive affection level and becoming his 'upgraded' clingy version.

= I actually don't remember the scene of hopping the wall well because I never noticed how Myungha actually had a cast(?) on his left leg. But he's clearly wearing it in bts video. (and I finally had an answer how Yeowoon could worry about Myungha's leg just by looking at it under the table and not hearing from others)

Ehem, I went to find the bts video and got distracted by the actors being absolutely cute and hilarious in their adlibs (Also there was a funny moment when Taevin thought a bug flew into his "cast" and he freaked out shaking his leg lol). Ehem, I'm back. And I guess he might've just sprained his ankle a little bit.

Sangwon, my beloved<3 I absolutely ADORE his smug "Hi~" every time. That's such a brilliant little detail from the actor that gives this character such fun personality. Also fun fact from cast interviews: Minsu (Sangwon's actor) would keep talking to director even right after they finish script reading, and he'd write a lot of in-depth analyse notes about his character, that's why Sangwon is so charming and he's not a simple third wheel love blocking side character like in many other shows.

= The "disease" in Korean is used in casual speech a lot. I'm not sure why were you looking for a different translation, but it's something like 'illness, being sick'. Any obsessive trait can be a 'disease/illness'. It's also often used in phrase like 'celebrity disease' (when you're full of yourself and think you're the biggest star), or being too nosy, or thinking the world revolves around you (that's the same word that Myungha said about Kyunghoon's sister at first when she thought he might be interested in her).

[Very random offtop: I also love roasting/teasing humor (with no negative feelings) with my friends, and I grew up in such companies - with all engineers and IT people in school and uni who love a good intellectual or worplay or simply witty jab, it was so joyful to bicker and everyone knew it wasn't serious - but then I reunited with my best friend since elementary school who went to study humanitarian and philology in uni. And I'm not trying to stereotype guys vs girls or tech vs culture, btw - she said her uni classmates were full of vicious sarcastic subtext or roasting each other and it felt like bullying. So for a couple of years we constantly hurt each other because our ways of communicating meant very different things, it took some adjusting. Which is a life lesson but also - I definitely feel you wanting more of this fun bickering energy in your life!]

>The show isn't really SAYING any of this at the moment. <

That's the fun part! This show is actually saying a lot on the level under the surface, and you can trust a lot of things that slowly get connected, like Sangwon being dismissed by his mom at school and immediately seeing Yeowoon with new shoes, to him rolling his eyes to the sky and skipping school to support Yeowoon (because it probable made him feel bad). A lot of scenes are connected to each other with invisible thread, CG and props, it's hard to tell if you don't know the language but there's also a lot of throwbacks/connections in the words they use; the way the actors use microexpressions in important scenes - it's also all very deliberate job that took them long analysis and in-depth thoughts as they shared... Which is not me saying all your headcanons are correct, I'm just saying if you want to guess something based on reactions – you should stop doubting yourself because there are almost no random choices or sloppy editing/acting decisions and this show doesn't feel the need to spell out every single thing to a viewer - but not to the point where you get confused :D Feel free to go wild with theories and interpretations! I love how you're already doing that.

= I would actually love seeing other people's affection of me above their heads, feels like a very useful thing that can save a lot of anxiety and stress that comes with communication's vague nature...

Yes! Blue shoes and Yeowoon changing his behavior so drastically also made me feel like it's a new evolution, character level up and unlocking of new interactions/etc :D Btw I'm not sure if you noticed or just wrote your reaction post this way, but Affection Level actually changed from 0 to 1 right when Yeowoon crossed the finish line. That's why Myungha had such an interesting relief-hope-joy face despite Yeowoon coming in third (yeah, subs were weird). Taevin said he thought a lot what should character feel and express, finally seeing Affection level going from 0 to 1.

And yes, Yeowoon starts talking more about romance too, implying about his hidden feelings and trying to stop Myungha from causing them if he doesn't mean it.

Director said the four characters eating together is her favourite scene in the show (if you don't count romance specifically) and I fully agree. The bickering! The caring! The love of friendship and found family! The romantic notes!

I already tagged you in my linguistic posts but briefly, Sangwon talks respectfully to Myungha but sometimes he slips and there's a form of question that can feel a bit rude, especially if you don't add honorific ending, and that's why Yeowoon was already 'hey, watch your tone!' over just one phrase, and Sangwon said 'did I talk rudely to you?" - "be rude (speak informally) only with me" - "I am already rude with you!" this is SO HILARIOUS I love all of them. It's perfectly normal between same age people tho, so it's not like Sangwon and Yeowoon are too rude to each other as well, frenemy perfectly describes them xD

= Yes, the guys were talking about Myungha 'leaning' on them or help holding him so he doesn't put more strain on his hurt leg. Hold him up? I wonder what'd be the best alternative in English.

= ALSO I JUST WANT TO SAY. YOU'RE A GENIUS!! I've never noticed the butterflies in the script or Myungha's journal, and I've been rewatching this show for so many times (I blame the poor quality of available videos online but now I got bluray discs and damn I can even see each scar and stubble on Myungha's face). I loved your interpretations - I know of different symbolism for butterflies so it was interesting to see your side of knowledge! There was also a flower in this Senior & Myungha in a Bar location at the very first episode, not sure if it's seen now, but it also had a nice meaning (which I forgot but I can look it up once you finish this show).

Yes, the questions are what Myungha gave his answers to and what pop up in the game! I think I also translated some of them - or maybe I can do it when I rewatch the show in better resolution if you're curious xD Not all of them appear as game elements/missions.

(also one stab for your roommate for breaking the glass you liked)

= It's funny how the translation was a bit weird but you interpreted it correctly in your reaction. Senior has said "the world happiness is a bit too vague, so the standard is important" (aka what exactly will make you or someone else happy? how do you measure or decide the happiness is reached or found? In a game, you need to gather or reach a specific quote for developers to announce that mission is completed).

Also offtop, this talk made me remember a moment from my other fandom that I really love – when after many hardships iKON released a song that was loved by entire country and it won "song of the year" award. leader B.I gave a speech and said "The word happiness is too vague, so I hope you guys feel like it is worth living every day". I don't know why but this phrase stuck with me and I felt the same gentle hope in Senior's words to Myungha. What is the standard of happiness to you? What small things can make you feel like every day is worth living?

You get it in your reaction, so I don't need to add anything else :D Actually, if you know Korean, you can guess what Senior tells Myungha next even with muffled effect. It doesn't feel like a huge spoiler or critical information to me, so I can tell you in replies if you want to continue theorizing? Or you can simply continue watching the show :D

= Tbh, Myungha was weirded out a little bit in first episode, to me he just strikes as a person who quickly adapts to situations - as we see him immediately get part-time jobs or quickly come up with white lies on the spot. But him not remembering who the senior is exactly adds a lot of fun mystery that surrounds the game and the debuffs and vague missions. I wish I could theorize about Myungha and the show ending but I know the direction the show is going to, so I might have to omit it x)

I didn't actually notice video game sound in the scene with Kyunghoon! :0 I might have to rewatch LFLS once again *fake reluctant sigh* There is constant waterish muffled sound though when Myungha transitions from game world to his memories/real world, it sounds the same every time, I think, yeah!

Again, to me Myungha didn't feel guilty for lying but rather it was the bittersweet feeling of not having enough time, he's reminded again about some threat looming over him if he doesn't finish the mission in time so he can't really join Kyunghoon in joyfully planning hangouts in university. (because of how connected the scenes are one after another, penalty reminder > countdown > and then talking about future. LFLS really loves to hit us with the bitter layer in fun scenes huh)

Again, I tagged you in my retranslation/explanation for the fighting scenes with bullies for Myungha and Sangwon so I'm going to skip my comments but I love you pointing out how Kyunghoon is stepping out to protect Myungha! It really feels like an important change, and I didn't connect the dots fully before. Remember how Yeowoon also said he wants Myungha to lean on him and to be equal, while Myungha came in as everyone's protector ? Yeah. I LOVE THEM ALL

How much would you bet that blondie Joonho is actually closeted?xD With the way he reacts fiercely about any implications - very homophobic but something in those also tells me he could be contemplating this kiss and how it felt somewhen when he's alone and doesn't have to pose as Big Bad Bully :D My own headcanon lol

Or do other people see this as just a friendly interaction? Because things would not end well if my friend rubbed my head and used that tone with me. I'd see it as condescending for sure.

That's so fascinating! To me, Myungha gently patting Yeowoon's nape was a sign of care and teasing, he's like 'uwu yes, you're big and strong and will kill everyone for me'. Like you'd say to a kid who's making great great promises and really insisting they'd get you a moon for your next birthday. Like, it's very affectionate but not seriously believing in Yeowoon's words. Which can be seen as condescending but I don't read it at that level at all, there's no malice in his words or gesture that could make Yeowoon feel bad or offended - in my view. Maybe he'll pout a little because Myungha still can't step down from his guardian pedestal.

But it does feel like he's out of the loop. It feels more like he's invading their space. He's not part of the hierarchy of this group. The uniforms vs. plain shirt is visually depicting that as well.

I'm actually still contemplating Sangwon's role himself. On one hand, in first episode the gang boys said 'we should let Sangwon know when we're about to ambush someone cuz he doesn't like when we're doing things beside his back' which makes it feel like he's the true leader, and he was sitting down on a rooftop watching the bullying unfold after he was just hanging out with Kyunghoon, but also here it seems like he just comes and goes as he pleases, maybe looking for entertainment or respect from others, and the real chaos and fighting and bullying always comes from Joonho and the track boys he enables. (I just noticed everyone is looking at Sangwon with 'how dare you?' eyes and only Joonkyung is looking at his blondie brother in a worry. He does seem like he was an actual friend of Sangwon)

The bi lighting of Sangwon when he hears about the kiss and admits he has gay feelings himself!! Fascinating, isn't it? Tbh, in first script reading Minsu had a different reaction with the same words. When Joonho said "What the hell are you saying? (being on Myungha side and not his) You're not even a faggot." and in the show, Sangwon tilts his head and goes "I am a faggot, though?" but in first script reading it was more like Sangwon laughed at first and then self-realization came right at that moment (I can't post video in reblog but I'll try to describe). Same words, but with different intonation the translation would be "Faggot... that's me, though?" Which made me go feral, because the way he said the line give very different energies, and I kinda love that we didn't get 'Oh.' moment but instead got the badass unapologetic confession about his feelings like there's nothing shameful. Anyway, legendary moment.

In Korean, there isn't truly clear 'Si' sound, somehow it always comes with an "h", like 'Shi' so both Shia and Sia is correct in transcription, subtitles probably just didn't have glossary to write the name the same way every episode. The S sounds with a/y/i/e also why I'm struggling because my nickname in my Korean company has both clear "Sa" and less clear "Sha" but they don't have direct 'sha'! They always pronounce it as "shya/shia" and it drives me insane cuz it sounds like a 3yo kid says my name but it's my 50+yo boss.

Anyway, I have to go out in 10 minutes again so I'll try to wrap up quickly (why does it always take me a couple of hours to write my own comments on your comments lol? I'm sorry)

Yeowoon said that he's annoyed. Myungha says "he's been rude lately". Did he drop honorifics?

Yes, he did! Or more like, not honorifics this time, he says "You're annoying, Tae Myungha". And you don't address someone older than you in their full name without any honorific suffixes! It should be Myungha-hyung or Myungha-sunbaenim, but Yeowoon pouts and says "TAE MYUNGHA" imagine your parents scolding you by using your full name. Seriously, Yeowoon cares a lot about being polite to Myungha (to the point that he very rarely closes the distance and calls Myungha Hyung instead of Senior (unlike Sangwon who started immediately claiming Hyung)), he only drops to informal speech when Myungha keeps the distance despite all Yeowoon efforts to get closer (like when he asked who hurt Myungha and Myungha joked away, or the same here)

It's a bit of a kabedon moment with the tree. I'm enjoying it, because as confident as Myungha was when he kissed Joonho, he's not confident at all here. He's flustered.

LMAO FUN FACT Taevin specifically clarified that he has to close his mouth with a hand when Yeowoon kabedons Myungha against the tree, and immediately in the very first take he totally forgot to cover his mouth and just kept staring in Yeowoon's eyes like 🥺 and then tried to explain it as he was too surprised by the advances, oh boy, he's also down bad, even more than his own characters xD (again, can't put videos on tumblr reblog sigh...)

The messages will definitely appear again but also you made me cry with 'no trail that brings me to you.' too т___Т it's so bittersweet and sad but also beautiful.

I also have never known any symbolism for seagulls. Not in Korea, not in my own country. It's so interesting, I should definitely research more to see whether your interpretation has any meaning for Korean people!

Yeowoon says he now understands why Myungha likes the sea. Did Myungha say he liked the sea? I don't remember that. 🤔 It could be in an earlier episode, or I could have overlooked it.

I feel like they might've cut it out from the script later (let me consult my script book in Korean that I also bought - why do I feel ashamed but also ehem. I will check.) Because I'm also sure they didn't outright say Myungha liked sea but also the question "Sea or Mountains?" is a very popular 'personality division' question in Korea so it could be implied in the moment when Yeowoon says he likes mountains and wants to climb one (meaning Myungha preferred the second option).

I'm laughing at how much you're thinking whether the sound is water or not or if it means something or not xD Oh, to be obsessed with details~ I think this show is not specifically color coded too (but Myungha does always wear black shirt under his school uniform unlike others) but I might be wrong...

Let's gooo learn about Sangwon a bit more in the next episode! 👀👀 I will patiently wait for your next reaction~

Catching Up: Love for Love's Sake (Ep 4)

Other Reacts: Ep 1 Ep 2 Ep 3

Yes, it's 3:15 in the morning. Yes, I have to work tomorrow. No, I can't even sleep in because I have to interview a potential intern at 9 am. Plus, the kids will be home with me too since it's a school holiday. I don't care. I'm starting episode 4 anyways.

And yay! We've went back to the fight. I was hoping we would find out more about what happened.

Is this a new way for them to do the subtitle for "debuff/curse". I guess that's fine so that people who don't understand gaming get it. It feels a little late in the game for that though. Still, I loved this screenshot, because you can see the transition that's a bit gamified. And the purple aura energy is showing up on Yeowoon's arm.

We didn't have any debuffs last episode so I guess the debuff really does relate to affection of Myungha and not Yeowoon's personal affection. Fine. I'll exit my clown car theory about the debuffs....for now. Outside of my clown car, it makes sense that the debuff would show up now since Myungha's affection level just plummeted.

Myungha absorbs the debuff. Yeowoon is left in shock. He definitely is feeling rejected/slighted at this point.

Myungha is dragging Sangwon through the halls. Sangwon says "I'm not a kid." I'd be careful Sangwon. That line of thinking means he can hit you. I know Myungha knows how to fight, but I do wonder more and more every episode about "why" he fought. I'm already developing a lot of head canons on that score. Maybe we'll find out eventually though.

He's not going to hit him (not that I thought he ACTUALLY would anyways), because we now have a ringing sound. I'm guessing the debuff is having an effect. He absorbed all the bad purple energy, and it was STRONG this time base on his -99. Was the -99 in red last episode? If not, it should've been. Sorry, random thought.

Myungha falls down the stairs.

I've given up on the episode names being strictly related to missions. The gamer in me though is going to retranslate this as "progress". That feels better in gamification terms. Especially if it's talking about progress in the mission quest. I obviously have no clue whether that is right. Wait. Unless they're talking about aspects of the game being "in development" like new code/levels being written or the story being redeveloped/changed. Hmm. That actually feels likely. We'll stick with development.

KYUNGHOON! You're back. I missed you so much. I'm guessing they're having to skip class to go to the competition. Apparently, Myungha has hurt his leg. Kyunghoon struggles to get over the wall. Based on how Myungha hopped the wall, I'm guessing it's the right leg that's hurt. But Myungha's leg obviously wasn't THAT badly hurt. It didn't look like he tried to favor one leg more in the landing. Guess that could depend on the type of injury though. My perspective is probably skewed. I've dislocated kneecaps more times than I wish to recount. I definitely wouldn't have made it over the wall shortly after one of those times. My personality is such though that I'd have doubled down and probably hurt myself more while trying. Lol.

Sangwon is waiting on the other side of the wall. I loved his "hi". Kyunghoon asks if he was waiting. Myungha says it's a "disease". It works, but I wonder if there is a different translation of that word. They've used it several times. It was also used in a very similar way during Secret Relationships ("being nosy is a disease").

Sangwon says he was just late to school. It's coincidence that they met up. I love that he's somewhat "talking back" to Myungha. But I also have a very sarcastic/roast style sense of humor. These types of exchanges always make my day. I wish I had more of that energy in my life.

Kyunghoon asks about the shoes, and Sangwon realizes that he had made a mistake. I didn't mention it last episode as the post was already getting really long. But my guess is that Sangwon was upset about the shoes, because he thought that his mom gave them to Yeowoon. His mom had just been to the school after all, and it appears like they have a complicated relationship. I'm guessing there's a lack of affection there too based on Sangwon's reactions to Myungha's signs of care. This is all conjecture on my part. The show isn't really SAYING any of this at the moment.

But now he knows the shoes weren't from his mom. It's okay Sangwon. I made several bad calls in the last episode too. Sangwon decides to follow.

And just like that, we have a gaming party embarking on a quest.

Our trio notices that Yeowoon is standing instead of taking his place on the blocks. Is he wearing the blue shoes? It looks like it. Myungha is still outside of the love supremacy zone, but he yells Yeowoon's name. I'm taking note that his number is 251 just in case it pops back up at some point. I loved the sound effect as the camera circled around and Yeowoon realized his name was being called.

Yeowoon is recalculating his affection, and the number starts moving up fast. Lol. This feels very much like love indeed. Highs and lows and emotional turbulence. Some might say that's the fickle nature of teenage affection. I'd say that doesn't ever really change. But maybe that's just the nature of my personal relationship talking. Maybe it'd help if we had affection scores above our head so we'd both know when we screwed up. On second thought, I don't think I'd want to know my score. That feels like a recipe for disaster.

Yeowoon takes his place at the blocks with magic sparkles coming off of his blue shoes. The affection level keeps rising.

If this wasn't a "game", the new shoes would be disastrous in a competition. But as I've thought about it, I actually like that this feels like an equipment upgrade in a game. Higher tier equipment immediately leads to better outcomes in a game assuming you have the skills to use it.

The music reminds me of late 90s/early 2000s movies. I kind of love it since we're panning across Sangwon and Kyunghoon's faces, and it feels like a friend montage moment out of one of those types of "high school" movies. Ah nostalgia.

Affection level is back at 0. The subtitles say Yeowoon is second, but I'm guessing he's actually third. They announced two other names before him.

Yep, he's third place based on the next part of the dialogue. Myungha says he did well. Yeowoon is crying, but Myungha definitely doesn't understand the reason. Yeowoon is trying to figure out why Myungha is nice to him.

Poor boy is definitely dealing with romantic feelings now. I'm loving the romance driven emotional angst of it all. This is my cup of tea.

The coach interrupts. Yeowoon is still emotional, but Myungha says he'll wait. They can eat together afterwards. Yes, please do. I'm always going to be down for a shared meal.

Yay! Our whole crew is EATING together! And Yeowoon is smiling.

Yeowoon tells Myungha to eat too and gives him food. OMG - our affection level has crossed the zero threshold. We're now at 5. And it keeps climbing as he keeps giving Myungha food. Lol. Kyunghoon tells Myungha to eat slowly and Sangwon's face is priceless! He seems absolutely disgusted by Yeowoon's actions. We end on an affection level of 17 for now.

Sangwon and Yeowoon are bickering. I love it. so. much. Frenemy relationships are the best. I'm looking forward to seeing how this develops moving forward.

For those that like talks about linguistics, they said a bit about honorifics too. If I followed it correctly, Sangwon used more casual speech with Myungha and Yeowoon didn't like it. I could be mistaken though. Myungha really is the exasperated parent here. Lol. Cutie Kyunghoon helps Myungha out. He is worried that Yeowoon's feet might hurt since he ran with new shoes.

Yeowoon says he's fine, but he asks what happened to Myungha's leg.

🤣 This pout had me dying. For the game aspect, it really is like now that his "affection level" has went up, it's unlocked all kinds of new dialogue/expression options.

I wonder if Myungha realizes that his leg getting hurt was due to the purple energy. He's a smart cookie. I bet he's figured that out.

This whole scene just put me in a good mood.

Yeowoon offers to help "hold" Myungha. I'm betting there's a better translation of that. Kyunghoon used the term earlier too. I bet it has to do with letting Myungha lean on him or something like that rather than "hold" as I typically interpret. Myungha says he fine.

Yeowoon wants Myungha to rely on him too. This is a tricky situation. Yeowoon wants them to be EQUALS, but Myungha is definitely going to struggle with that. Myungha has taken on a caretaker role, and while those things aren't mutually exclusive, it can make things complex.

Yeowoon asks how Myungha knows his (shoe) size. Myungha says he let the fan (sis) pick it out, and that she wants to meet Yeowoon. Yeowoon doesn't seem happy about Myungha hanging out with her often, but he agrees to meet up with Si-a.

Yeowoon has essentially walked Myungha home. He tells him thank you which Myungha teases him about. But he says it again and leaves.

The entry light starts flickering and there are some jarring sounds. Ominous music plays, and Myungha's head is hurting.

OOOOOOH. It WAS development like "game in development". Exciting.

We're back at the bar from episode 1. Senior is asking Myungha questions.

I first noticed the three butterflies in the corner of the paper. It shouldn't be a surprise given my blog name that I'm likely to notice butterflies. They're a symbol of transformation and personal growth. Actually, they have different stages of development just like a game. A butterfly's development requires they insulate themselves from the world and focus on changing themselves before they can emerge in their final form. I don't know whether that has anything to do with this show or not though.

But these questions are interesting. Yes, I used my phone to translate. Though it kept giving slightly different translations depending on the angle I held it, I think I got the gist of it. One of the things says "like minded friends" which was what the quest said in episode 2. If I remember correctly, that was in Myungha's hand writing. So is senior having Myung-ha essentially write the game levels? I had said in an earlier episode that this was really a quest for Myungha's own happiness as well.

It WAS his writing. I love this shot. It feels like a magic dungeon with the candles and lighting. The shape of the glass is nice. I think it's a glencairn whiskey glass. Actually no. The base is wrong. It doesn't matter. The glass itself is probably not symbolic. I just find certain types of glassware pretty. As a fun side note, I used to drink everything (soda, milk, etc.) out of a red wine glass that I got while dumpster diving in college. I loved that beautiful glass. My roommate eventually broke it "on accident", but said it was "probably for the best" so that people didn't think I was drinking alcohol. Fun times 🙄.

It's late/early. I'm rambling. *Focus brain*

Senior is in white as the "heavenly" being with the power. Am I supposed to trust him? I don't. But it feels like he's God/angel coded.

"Will there be happiness to 29 year old Tae Myungha?"

"So the standard is very important." says Senior.

Myungha doesn't hear him clearly, and we can't hear his next line clearly either. He's muffled as if he's under water. It's the same sound as when he first entered the game world.

This feels important, and it feels mistranslated. Or at least like it was translated without the needed nuance. I need to pause anyways. I'm tired enough that I know I'll miss details if I keep going tonight.

(pause)

Ok. I've slept a few hours and hung out with the kids for a bit. I've mulled it over. I'm guessing that senior is really meaning that Myungha needs to be very careful about what goals/words he's using. Happy is a pretty vague term. I actually walked down the aisle to a song called "Different Kinds of Happy" from the movie Sweet Land. The idea/theme in that movie is that happiness can take different forms and mean different things to different people. In a game, if you don't have a clearly defined objective, then it's going to be difficult to meet it. So what does Myungha actually mean by "happy"?

But Myungha "can't hear" what senior is telling him. Myungha, and us by extension, are missing a critical piece of information. I'm guessing it has to do with the standard/clearer objective or that it's a warning of some kind.

We're back in the video game world. Myungha is looking at his notes.

AND OMG - YES! HOORAY! A time jump/alternate world that GETS how problematic it is for a 29 year old to be suddenly back in high school. The dialogue is clearly establishing that he IS 19 in this world. It's how I had resolved it mentally myself in episode 2. I love it when my head canons become actual canon.

Anyways, it's a good question. What CAN he do? Because "making someone happy" on a identity level scale really isn't easy. I would argue that it's not actually possible. That they have to strive for their own happiness as they accept themselves. It's not just circumstances that's driving Yeowoon's mental disdain for himself. New shoes are great, but they're not a long term solution. When you're dealing with suicidal ideation the other person has to "want" to live. A lot of times they don't even realize it until the moment. Yeah, it wasn't my grandfather's first attempt before he succeeded. My brother's neither. So far my brother has always decided he wanted to live and sought help in time.

I love that Myungha is being smart about this. He goes "What does he WANT me to do?" If you're playing a game, that's an important question. It's anticipating the game maker's design. I am noticing that the butterfly is on the journal paper here. But it's only one this time, and it's in the top right corner instead of the bottom corner.

Now THAT'S interesting. He doesn't remember "senior". There are a lot of fun implications in this development, but I'll have to stop for now. It looks like my husband has got off of work early today. It's a national holiday. I should've expected it. This will have to wait until after everyone is asleep tonight. I didn't get very far in this session, but it's fine. I really should've been working/writing anyways. I have five scripts due in the next two weeks.

(pause)

Well...the emoji tag game happened, and I got a wee bit carried away with it. I loved it so much. But then my brain was broke so it's taken a few days to get back here.

The fact that Myungha doesn't remember "senior" from his real life is a cool detail. I had said I thought it was in odd in episode 1 that he wasn't weirded out by the situation. It could mean that ONLY senior is obscured. Or it could mean that the facts of his "future" will slowly disappear as he creates a new story leaving him only with the 19 year old version of Myungha. There are a few other possibilities too, but I'll go with those two for now. I actually like the latter one in some ways. I don't remember if he recalled senior once he entered the video game during episode 1. That would provide evidence for which possible interpretations to keep moving forward. I might have to go back and check that out.

Regardless, we know this memory was jarring. The question is what triggered the memory.

We're down to 288 days left to complete our mission so a good bit of time has passed, and we're reminded that death is the penalty. We still don't know whose death we're talking about though.

We cut to Kyunghoon and Myungha walking down the hall together. Myungha is complaining that the teacher treats him like a thug. Kyunghoon proposes that they go to college together, drink together and have fun together in the future. I love the video game sound effects in the music/soundtrack.

OH! Random thought. I wonder if those sound effects show up at critical/specific moments. Is this like the rain drops in When It Rains or just a fun part of the soundtrack? Sound analysis is tricky for me, but it can add a lot to a show. And I LOVE it when sound is used symbolically. That would require an entire rewatch though as I'd have to focus just on the sound. I'll try to make note of it moving forward though to see if I can find a pattern. I can't promise I'll catch it every time though.

Hold up. We HAVE had a sound. The freaking water. I said before that it sounded like water when Myungha is shifting between worlds. That's definitely a specific sound at critical moments. Is that significant? Is it even water? Stop brain. You know your hearing can't be trusted. Move on.

Myungha is obviously uncomfortable here. Probably because he knows that he doesn't have that kind of time. He was just reminded of the countdown. It could also be because he didn't have that kind of life in the past. I don't know if he has those resources in the current videogame timeline either. Money isn't an obstacle for Kyunghoon. But it will be for Myungha and Yeowoon. But I figure it's that he feels like he's lying to Kyunghoon by agreeing to a future that may not exist. Yeowoon has already called him a liar after all.

Ah, the bullies are circling for blood. Frizzy blond guy asks Myungha if he's gay and is obviously intimidating Kyunghoon. Myungha says "I'm gay. So what." That's the confidence of someone who is very comfortable with themselves. I wonder if he was always that way, or if this is a manifestation of him already working through that part of his identity in the "real world".

Cutie Kyunghoon steps in between to protect Myungha 🙌🙌🙌. This is VERY important. Why? Because it's a dynamic shift. Myungha is collecting people in his life that care about him too and who will stand up for him even if it's risky. He's gathering "like minded friends" as well.

🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣

Myungha kisses the bully.

Should I be laughing? Probably not. This is a forced kiss. But AM I laughing? 100% yes. And all of the bully gang not knowing how to respond is epic.

Blond guy is rightfully angry, and Myungha just scolds him for swearing. What I love about this interaction is that it quickly and decidedly shifted who was the "victim" in this interaction.

Blond guy - Tak ...Joonho? It'll eventually stick with me. Anyways, he punches Myungha and we see Myungha deftly assert his dominance. He threatens to kiss him again.

This is the second interaction where Myungha has really shown this guy to be pretty pathetic. As he seems to be a leader in this "gang", he's probably not going to react to this well. He wouldn't be able to keep power over his bully gang if he ignored things like this. I'd expect backlash soon. He'll either take it out on his own members or start targeting people Myungha cares about (Yeowoon, Kyunghoon). Potentially both. If he comes after Myungha himself, it will be sneaky style. He can't (or shouldn't) risk another direct confrontation like this one. He's already lost twice.

Teacher intervenes. Apparently Myungha has got some type of cleaning duty punishment.

Yeowoon is on the other side of the window being cleaned. I'm trying to figure out if Yeowoon had heard about the fight or he just noticed Myungha's busted lip. Either way, his expressions here are KILLING me. They are so earnest and so different than what we had in previous episodes. The rise in affection level has definitely had an impact.

Myungha tries to brush it off, but Yeowoon won't let him. "Who hit you?" Myungha tells him he doesn't need to know.

Yeowoon gets very serious. Just like that earlier interaction with Kyunghoon, this is actually very important. Yeowoon is asking to be seen as an equal. As someone that Myungha can rely on. He's asking Myungha to trust him. Ooh interesting. Yeowoon dropped honorifics.

Yeowoon drags Myungha to the nurse's office. It's a reverse of care. Yeowoon taking care of Myungha. I mean, technically Yeowoon had intervened before. However, this is DIRECT care. Yeowoon asks if he's really not going to tell him. Myungha responds "What would you do if you knew?". Yeowoon - "I'll kill him". 🥹 Yes, I'm taking the threat as a squee worthy moment. There was no hesitation. Just a direct assertion of "you matter to me that much".

Myungha rubs his head.

I'm going to have to think about this one. Why is this man's physical affection so hard for me to interpret? This feels like a parent/child interaction to me. Which...is possible. Is he in guardian mode? Trying to calm Yeowoon down while acknowledging that he's grateful for Yeowoon caring about him? Or do other people see this as just a friendly interaction? Because things would not end well if my friend rubbed my head and used that tone with me. I'd see it as condescending for sure. But cultural differences could be in play here. I'm going with guardian mode.

Myungha says that rather than hit, it's more like we kissed. And Yeowoon's reaction is amazing.

Myungha is flustered by Yeowoon's reaction. Yeowoon has to be cycling through all kinds of feelings. One - this gives him hope. Two - Myungha was kissing someone besides him.

So many thoughts running through this boy's mind.

He says he should ask Tak Joonho. That means he DOES know who was involved, but he wanted Myungha to confide in him on his own. "Can men kiss too?" "I want to kiss him" while staring at Myungha's lips and putting on the ointment. Baby boy is down bad.

We cut to Sangwon coming towards the bully gang. There's the "hi" again. Love it. But it does feel like he's out of the loop. It feels more like he's invading their space. @dropthedemiurge I see what you meant now. He's not part of the hierarchy of this group. The uniforms vs. plain shirt is visually depicting that as well. That does make me have some questions about the earlier rooftop scene, but I'll hold them for now.

Did he come because he had heard about the fight? Or is this just part of his routine? He does seem to do whatever he wants. Case in point - he didn't come to class just because he didn't want to. Skipping seems to be a regular occurrence for him.

Tak Joonho says that he's going to teach Myungha/Kyunghoon a lesson. Sangwon is trying to put the pieces together. I do find it odd that Joonho is openly admitting that Myungha kissed him. I would've expected him to threaten the others and keep that quiet. Unless he's expecting Sangwon to commiserate with him and understand.

Not happening though. Sangwon is clearly on Myungha's side in this one. I figure he knows Tak Joonho enough to know he instigated whatever happened. The chuckling of the other students as Sangwon pushes back has got to raise Joonho's ire.

Tak Joonho thinks Sangwon is teasing him, but he's actually angry.

I'm rewording this line a little bit in my head to fit better with that sassy head tilt that just made me so happy. In some ways, it's a lot like Myungha earlier. "Yes. I am. What are you going to do about it?" It's a statement and a challenge.

Unlike Myungha, Sangwon does punch Joonho and IMMEDIATELY puts his hands back in his pockets. LMAO. That's a dominance signal right there. He knows Joonho isn't going to immediately punch back. He doesn't see him as a threat.

Joonho says he's holding back because he's rich. Sure you are. Keep telling yourself that. Kyunghoon seems to be pretty rich too, and you tease him just fine.

Note - I do realize that they've said that Sangwon can get away with everything due to his family. I'm sure it does play some role. But it's not everything. Sangwon is exuding dominance in this situation. He's even leaning in a mock little bow and saying "thank you" in a snarky tone. God, I love him and his self-confidence. He has grown on me so much, and I'm only halfway through this show.

Joonho asks if he can't see that he's outnumbered.

Sangwon (in other words): Bring it.

I'm sorry. I've tried to ignore that hideous wall color this entire show, but now we've added what has to be one of the ugliest arrangements known to mankind in front of it. I'm sure there are people who like that kind of thing, but it just makes me wonder why someone thought a feather duster was appealing. Normally I would be trying to figure out if the red meant something, but I just can't. It's an eyesore.

Is Si-a considered part of our gaming party now. I'm not sure. 🤔 They're collectively worrying about Sangwon though.

Si-a asks if Myungha wants to be a model for Swoony (the brand). The pay is better after all. Pay is always an enticing thing.

Myungha tells Si-a to buy him dinner. I'm confused. Why does he want Si-a to buy him dinner? 🤔 Myungha doesn't do things without a purpose. What's the catch?

LMAO. It's because Yeowoon is here. He's giving her the fangirl moment. Yes, she better buy the meal. A good one too.

Wait. Her name has an "h" sound? The subtitles now say "Shi-a". Did I miss that before? No. I'm pretty sure that's a change in subtitles.

Yeowoon looks ticked. My guess is that he thought he was going to get to eat with Myungha alone. He wouldn't be reacting like this if he had known it'd be a fangirl moment. Yeowoon is being very terse. Yes, he seems to be a more introverted, private person. But this is what you do when you're thrown for a loop. Myungha, you really need to give us introverts a heads up for these types of situations. Especially true if you gave us false expectations and now expect us to socialize with someone we are not comfortable around.

I'm still bitter over there being no food at the company meal that I drove two hours to yesterday. Don't promise me food and then give me a non-alcoholic beer instead. Shared meals are sacred. Oh...it's probably this kind of stuff that prompted the anon's "what's with you and food" question the other day. I get it now. Sorry anon. I didn't understand what you were asking.

I'm squirreling. None of that's really relevant. Yeowoon is just upset because he expected alone time with Myungha (pretty sure on that one), and he isn't getting it.

This conversation is awkward. Si-a signals Myungha to please help. Myungha asks Yeowoon if he has any questions. "Are you two close?" I've said all along that I love how direct Yeowoon is with Myungha. If he has questions, he is going to ask them. It's admirable, but lol. He's not looking at Si-a at all. Yeowoon is grilling Myungha.

Myungha responds playfully and tries to direct the conversation back to Si-a. I actually see that as a way of trying to include her in the conversation. He was trying to create a fan moment for her after all. Si-a says they're just colleagues which Yeowoon smiles about. But then Myungha protests that designation.

Yeowoon didn't like that at all. 🤣 "Are you closer to her than you are to me?" I love that Si-a can see this is important to Yeowoon. She's giving Myungha this look that's like "You idiot. Don't you dare make my blorbo upset!"

Myungha says "I only have Yeowoon in my heart" which makes Yeowoon beam. Si-a takes the opportunity to ask for an autograph. Si-a, I know I struggled with you in earlier episodes. I'm sorry. I can respect your non-toxic, supportive fangirl side.

"What do you think of when you run?" "I imagine there's a big crocodile chasing me." Well...that would be motivation I guess. I never imagined what was behind me when I ran. I was always focused on the finish line. Different things for different people I guess.

Ok Yeowoon. Let's not manifest that energy. There are too many trucks of doom in dramaland. And I've had two of my family members hit by vehicles. They survived, but they still have side effects. My brother got hit by a car while he was INSIDE a building.

Anyways, Yeowoon is saying that the vision has changed. He now imagines that someone is waiting for him at the finish line.

Sweet. I wish I knew what his personal affection was at this point though. We're seeing the impact of Myungha's affection level changing in his mannerisms and dialogue, but has it impacted how he sees himself?

Si-a says that's romantic, and Myungha breaks eye contact and visibly shifts. Lol. He felt that one.

We cut to them walking home. Yeowoon tries to ask Myungha about Joonho again, but Myungha says that Yeowoon isn't allowed to say kiss.

We got confirmation that Yeowoon thought it was going to be the two of them. Myungha chastises him a bit saying he needs friends. That's really not the point Myungha.

Yeowoon said that he's annoyed. Myungha says "he's been rude lately". Did he drop honorifics?

Yeowoon says "I want to go play with you". My kinky brain takes that line a completely different way that intended. But he's asking him out really. I LOVE this frame. There's a blinding light of love, but it's mostly over Yeowoon. Yeowoon knows he wants to kiss Myungha. He knows he wants to spend time with Myungha 1-1. Myungha still hasn't come to that realization yet.

It's an amusement park near the sea. Myungha seems hesitant, but he says yes. Wasn't Myungha's mom near the sea? I wonder if that's part of his hesitation. Yeah, there's definitely something there. This means something more to Myungha for some reason. But he's agreeing anyway.

Well hello. 👀 She's pretty. She was hidden initially in the frame, but they've now exposed her as she's asking Si-a for help. Who is she? Is this the person returned from abroad that Kyunghoon mentioned?

We're now in a dream sequence. 100%. "Do it with me too. The kiss."

Based on the game interface, this is Myungha's dream. Fun. Realization is coming. It's a bit of a kabedon moment with the tree. I'm enjoying it, because as confident as Myungha was when he kissed Joonho, he's not confident at all here. He's flustered.

Myungha wakes up.

Yeowoon has been sending him messages. Apparently he woke up early. If you get messages from me at 4 am, it means I haven't went to bed yet. Not unusual.

Myungha has a message from an unknown number. It's referencing children's day, mother's day, and teacher's day. Myungha isn't sure who it's from though. My immediate guess is his mom. But that doesn't make sense. He hasn't had contact with his mom since he was really little.

Is it the heavenly senior? We know information about the game comes to Myungha through his phone. "But no time for me to meet you." It's reminding me of the poem I wrote for my grandfather following his suicide. It wasn't about holidays/time, but about hiking trails. That was our thing. "But no trail that brings me to you." Crap. I'm crying again. This has been a week of tears in BL land. For the record, I cry very little in real life. But I bawl like a baby watching shows. It's cathartic in some ways. I can't analyze this properly. I'm going to read things into this that aren't there. I'm sure this will become a reoccurring event. I'll wait until the next message to figure it out.

Yeowoon came to pick Myungha up, and it looks like he paid for the bus fare for both of them. Cutie. Myungha may not realize it, but Yeowoon is definitely taking him on a date.

The mural next to the bus is of the sea. I could get a better angle this time. Phone keeps translating different based on angle, but it's better than last time. Something about sacred and beautiful love. Something about a lighthouse.

I love that Yeowoon quickly says "Look at the seagulls". There were birds on the mural too. Seagulls are a trip down memory lane for me. I got handed a bone during my oral qualification exams and asked what I could tell the professors about it. It was a seagull bone.

Seagulls have so many different symbolic meanings depending on culture. I know there are a few different takes in literature. There are also a lot of different meanings for them in Native American lore. Some positive, some negative. It depends on the tribe. A lot of it has to do with their ability to navigate in a storm and overcome obstacles if I remember correctly. There might have been something about the connection between physical and spiritual realms which would be interesting given the premise of this show. Like a bridge or messenger between the two. I don't know what they typically means in S. Korea though. I'll dive into that later.

Yeowoon says he should've brought shrimp chips. They're not my favorite, but my sous chef loves shrimp chips.

Oh. We're feeding them to the seagulls? I mean, they'll eat it. It's a fun experience for the human. It probably doesn't give them the nutrients they need.

Myungha asks if Yeowoon likes the sea. Yeowoon says he likes the mountains more. I love them both, but I live closer to the mountains. I've asked my kids this question before. One chose sea. One chose mountains. One chose "Wherever Uncle Zach is". Yeah, I'm not the only one who thinks my brother is awesome.

They're planning to climb mountains. Yeowoon wants to climb "Kongryung". Based on Myungha's reaction, that must be a hard climb. Based on Yeowoon's reaction, I'm guessing it's a long one. "I'm happy to be with you." Myungha doesn't seem sure how to process that.

Yeowoon asks if Myungha has been here before.

This feels like a lie. It's going to be interesting if lying becomes a thing for Myungha. Well-intentioned lies. But lies nonetheless. It might not be a lie though. That's just my gut talking.

They're planning on going to a clam kal-guksu place. I enjoy noodle soups, but I've never had clams in any capacity. They're not very common here. I have dissected one and done an experiment on heart rate for a class though. Not important.

Apparently, Yeowoon doesn't like seafood. And Myungha slips up. He's using information from the manuscript. Yeowoon is rightfully perplexed and then amused that Myungha knows this about him.

"Sometimes it feels like you're someone that knows me."

Yeah, that's probably going to hurt when he realizes Myungha has known about him all along.

All of Yeowoon's little smiles are killing me this episode.

Yeowoon says he now understands why Myungha likes the sea. Did Myungha say he liked the sea? I don't remember that. 🤔 It could be in an earlier episode, or I could have overlooked it. If he likes the sea though - is that why we have a water sound? Yes, I'm still stuck there. My brain is still obsessing over a sound that probably isn't even what I think it is. I curse my brain sometimes.

Yeowoon says "I've come to like it too". Cut away to them sitting on the stairs in their coordinating blue/green shirts.

There is so much I could say about that closing frame, but I know that I'm out of images. Anyways, we're halfway up the stairs. We're building the relationship. We're sitting side by side. We're equal...in this moment at least. There's no railings on this part. It'd be easy to fall off the sides.

The blue/green combo I find interesting, because it's a shift. These two characters have worn a lot of black & white. What does the shift mean? Is it part of their relationship developing or the changing levels of affection?

Is this show even color coded? I'll have to think about that. Because Sangwon also wears a white undershirt. He's definitely not a "heavenly human" type. Wait...is Myungha the ONLY one wearing a different color undershirt as part of their uniform? Is he the only one in black? I guess that makes senses. He's from a "different" world after all. But why black? Actually, Yeowoon's running outfit was in black too when he had the -100 value. So Myungha isn't the only one in black. Nevermind. I was overthinking again.

This was a fun episode. I'm loving that Yeowoon is so open and direct with his feelings. Myungha isn't there yet, but he's beginning to react. Now I just need to convince my brain that it's 4 am and it needs to just let the water sound go. IS IT WATER?!?

Don't tell me. Because if it is water, that means it's important. And if it's not water, I'll eventually realize it wasn't important.

For now, I'll just distract my brain with a more pressing question - what happened to Sangwon?

#love for love's sake #korean bl #love supremacy zone #love for love's sake comments #lfls

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leatherbookmark · 2 months ago

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reading the notes of that one post that reposts a tweet about books using modern online slang and being painful to read and while some people sound like they genuinely don't like it, some sound like they're just repeating what they heard others say. and some act like having a character say "cool" would give them an aneurysm, which makes me wonder about their age

#shrimp thoughts #i don't read tiktok literature and i suppose most of these complaints are booktok-related #(oh and tlt. people act like it's memes and tumblr lingo top to bottom but from what i've heard it is Not the case?)#but like. how to put it. i guess it Is obnoxious when writers awkwardly shove haha fun relatable online slang into their books but #if it makes sense? i'm afraid it might be the author & not necessarily the slang references themselves #because for example while cf (and by extension meggie and mo) get a wee bit too Inspired for the current me when they think about #how books have Souls and how the characters are Alive etcetc... it all depends on the execution because reading about a character who #actually reads books and watches movies and has thoughts and feelings about them instead of the author just using them as shortcuts to idk #create their Vibe? it sounds great and i once wanted to do something like that in a fic #like... if you only mention your protagonist being an ao3 user to make her hihi relatable to the tiktok user who will DIE and SCREAM and #SHIT without a 300k fic a day? yeah it's lame. but if you actually do something with that -- what fandom? what fics? why does she love it #so much? how does it tie into the plot and her relationships with other characters? that's writing!

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fiepige · 1 year ago

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Wanted to write a quick noirpunk blurb but now I'm 4 pages in and actually considering making it a full blown fic instead.

I don't think it would be that long but I've still got a couple of things to add so I feel like I might just make it a fic at this point.

#it was originally just going to be me writing down a concept for a story #and then writing down the stuff that could/would happen in said scenario #but then I ended up writing dialogue for some of it and now I might just finish what I've started lol #I guess it depends on if I feel like I can write it all in a satisfying way #since I've never written noirpunk before #but I like the concept I've come up with so I'll definitely write more about it #I guess time will tell if it ends up as an actual fic or if it just stays as smaller segments making up the concept for a larger story #I haven't felt this motivated for writing something in a long time so that's nice #the process has been super fun and easy so far so I hope the motivation stays long enough for me to finish it lol #my post

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stillthewc · 1 year ago

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What if... I procrastinated reading a certain chapter of a really good fangan by drawing fan art for it? Haha, just kidding... unless...?

Anyways, here's Kai Dagonet from Danganronpa Wonderland, a fangan I found near the end of 2023, and one I've been binging like crazy lately. Sadly, I don't know if the creator of this fangan has a Tumblr account on here (nor the person who created Kai in the first place), but here's the story he's in.

Also, because I feel like this particular piece benefits from being background-less, there's a version of that below the cut!

#danganronpa wonderland #i might talk about the project in full length but that's dependent on how I feel at the end of the month #regardless this story really deserves to be checked out! the relationship writing is super super good #...something kai's socially-awkward ass ironically doesn't get to be a part of much. but hey them's the brakes 🤷#btw the chapter I've been procrastinating on's the one called 'the 8th square on the board'.#i'll likely jump back into reading the story once this is posted but. i'm not looking forward to what happens in said chapter 😢#also since i've been doing a decent amount of fangan art lately I should make a tag so:#fan of these ronpas

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grimxark · 2 years ago

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I love how family-centered ROTB is. Everyone feels like a family: of course, you have Noah and his brother and mom, but you also have Noah attempting to be the “older, assertive sibling” to Elena (it didn’t feel like romance to me, just two people bonding over growing up in a hard place) and even accept Mirage into his family. Mirage inserts himself in the House team, bonds with Noah’s little brother, they care for each other. I didn’t really see any sort of chemistry between them, but I’m not judging people for that.

I just think it’s nice. Noah shows genuine pride at seeing Elena on the news, he’s relieved for his brother, he cares for Mirage and in turn Mirage cares for him. Noah isn’t quite in Mirage’s family as Mirage is in his: because the Autobots are a family, one that tries to mirror what Noah has going on. I think Elena sums it up pretty well in the movie (comparing Optimus to Noah, two soldiers who are too worried about taking responsibility for every inconvenience that happens around them to really worry about themselves) and I think it’s a nice way to put it

#sorry if I don’t make sense I’m rlly rlly tired. i might write something better tomorrow depends how brave I feel #rotb #maccadam #rotb spoilers #? idk im tagging it just in case lol.#I just like their dynamics and I think trying to push a romance where there isn’t any is sort of eh.#but whatever y’all are enjoying yourselves and that’s what matters #I feel like they did try to push a romance between Noah and Elena but I just didn’t see any chemistry. to me it was #2 strangers trying to connect and relate to each other. which is nice!#Noah obviously dives in head first when it comes to caring about people

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rawliverandcigarettes · 1 year ago

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I think. I have an idea to push The Empire of Preys out relatively fast and make it more fun and more bearable for me.

#the empire of preys #my writing #in short: not wait for everything to be fully written and validated #it might diminish the polish level somewhat #but within an acceptable margin of error #so no proper schedule probably #but #that allows me to actually rekindle stuff every once and a while #which sounds more like something that would work with what I need right now creatively #plus chapter 1 is... very very close to what I'll release I think #chapter 1 to 8 need some rework but the bones are mostly there #chapter 10 is my sworn enemy #the rest is kind of okay #most things need lacquer and even some rewrites/restructuration #still banging my head on salarian hypermnesia depending on PoV characters #it's one of the big problems right now #that and infodumping #but anyway I feel like it's a better course of action than waiting for everything to be perfect

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capslocked · 3 months ago

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PARIS

male reader x sana minatozaki

30k words

"City's a shithole," you tell Sana, stepping out of a taxi. "Absolutely rotten."

"It is not a shithole."

"It is a shithole, Sana."

"You just got off the plane. Can we reserve judgement on Paris until we've seen the fucking place?"

(This is the one where you get over a fear of flying, of falling - and Sana's breeding kink goes a little further, gets a little more complicated - and neither of you give up much ground. It's an ordeal, that one. You really oughta stop surprising her in hotels.)

"Little known fact," Sana says to you near the beginning and looking for once a little less ethereally put-together, a bit more like she wants to go back to sleep. "St. Valentine was actually an incel who died in jail."

She's slumped onto your kitchen counter in a sweater several sizes too large - the one with your college crest, a hole in the armpit - and shorts, her long bare legs dangling above the tile.

"So, y'know."

And you haven't a fucking clue.

She shovels another spoonful of cereal into her mouth, "spending the holiday insufferably alone is something of an homage."

"What?"

"An homage," she crunches, happily.

Oh, you're charmed by her, have been for weeks now, and you chuckle despite yourself, pour her coffee while you're waiting for the toaster to finish. You've decided she's going to eat fruit today whether she wants to or not - it's barely breakfast if it's just a bowl of sugary carbs; and in a pair of fuzzy socks, a stolen crewneck, with last night's makeup still slightly smeared at the corners of her eyes and her hair mussed to shit, Sana makes you feel sorta responsible for her health. Your infatuation must be showing.

She lifts her chin, blinks lazily.

"I guess that makes us both artists by extension, or something," you say.

"Incels?" Sana snorts.

"No." Your toast pops. "Homage-payers."

You watch her mouth quirk around her spoon. "I kinda like that," she allows.

This morning, for the record, is only different than others in terms of superficial details - today Sana woke up with your hand cupped over her cunt, three fingers sinking slowly into her heat - annoyingly slow, the way she likes it least and best, depending on what she gets out of the teasing: her morning orgasm, in this case - and it was different enough that she moaned high and pretty, back arching as she squirmed on your palm, the sheets, whispering a delirious good morning against your jaw when her wits finally cohered into something more linear, understandable.

It's your new normal, sure: sleeping together - and its odd, comedy-forged counterpart, waking-up together.

It's eating breakfast, it's Sana stealing your clothes, sitting on your counters like breaking convention is some sort of biological imperative.

It's her legs wrapping around your waist while she kisses you soft and open-mouthed, leaving it to you to decide how much morning breath you can tolerate - and maybe that's a routine worth indulging, for a bit. At any rate: it's February 7th, which means there's this sword of Damocles hanging over your head that a whole financial system has been built around monetizing, a day people probably buy chocolates and flowers and write sonnets over - except Sana is jetsetting next week and you'll be spending February 14th in your apartment, possibly taking a shower, definitely sleeping in until noon, not being in love.

She's a once-in-a-generation talent, a gorgeous face, a fantastic fuck - this is just what's in the cards for you.

"You're going to miss me," says Sana, flat-out declaring it, threading her fingers beneath your chin, hooking her ankles loosely in the small of your back.

The cereal bowl clatters as you set it in the sink. "I might," you say, noncommittal, enjoying the way it makes her press further into your body, clinging tighter. "How long did you say this trip was going to be, again?"

"Oh, forever, maybe," Sana breezes, waving her other hand.

"You're gonna change your mind about the whole concept of romance and think about texting me within five, ten minutes of dropping me off at the airport. But then you won't actually do it, because you'll figure that I'm busy, and then you'll spend the rest of my flight kicking yourself for not sending me, like, an emoji, or something, and that it could've been enough to bridge the gap, and instead I'll be off somewhere all dolled-up and glamorous, probably surrounded by hot models, and that's when I'll meet someone new. I mean, there'll probably be no comparison to well, y'know-" She palms your crotch, fingers skating across the fabric. You recoil, almost scowl, and she snickers. "-but that's what happens when you don't text me. We're not in contact for one week and I replace you with a French man named Pierre. Or Jean. Jean-Pierre, honestly. If I were you, I'd play it safe and shoot me a Valentine's text."

"Wow." You push your thumbs under the hem of her shorts. "You got it in one, I think."

She shrugs, faux-modest. "Naturally. Jean-Pierre knows what's up."

You slip your hands up further and her expression shifts as you meet skin under the heavy fabric: all suggestion, no pretense. Sana sighs contentedly, leaning back onto her wrists so that you have to chase her, tilt your head to follow the movement. This is natural. She takes your lip between her teeth and sucks, gently. The angle puts a crick in your neck. You let her get away with it anyway, press further in between her thighs, spread them wide - and then she bites harder, the flesh of your bottom lip giving under her canines.

There's a spark there, it makes you want to pull her hair, kiss her harder, dig your fingers into her hips and leave bruises that'll last through the next couple weeks of international press junkets and glitter-eyed meetings with like-minded, like-pretty strangers. You're starting to suspect she's psychic - because she slides a hand up your shirt, letting her fingers skate over your stomach, the dip of your hips, the places that make you tick.

You clock the twitch in your pants, growing, filling. You've slept with this girl an awful lot. It's a problem.

"Possessive," is Sana's assessment, with all of the derision of a tease.

"Cool it," you warn her, sliding your grip up from her legs to her hips, pinning her solidly to the countertop. "I've got a full enough schedule this morning without you making a mess of things."

"Mmm, you don't." She's petulant, kissing you again and letting the touch linger on your bottom lip. It's a strong argument.

"I do," you try.

"You really don't," she says, sing-song, breathless with expectation, anticipating rough treatment.

Her smile is syrup-sweet, oozing indulgence: the sight of her sprawled beneath you is a pure profligate pleasure. Like she's an apple you stole fresh from the orchard, red and shiny and dripping juice down your forearm, dribbling sticky on the grass, rotted with temptation. You wonder if she's always been this way - begging to be held down, fucked hard, edged beyond the realm of possibility - and recently her appetite for filth seems endless, like she's come into a taste for it. Sana Minatozaki doesn't often say no.

For all intents and purposes, your answer should be a given.

"Well," you drawl, thumbing the soft cotton of her shorts, that spot just above the waistband, where her inner thigh meets the crease of her pelvis and you can make her voice go to velvet. "Did you say he died in prison?" You pull away from her a bit, switching tactics, letting the subject slide from bedroom talk to regular breakfast chatter. "Of what, heartbreak?"

"You'd think," she says, almost curt, irritated at the prospect of edification and sorely lacking a good fuck. It's a pleasant mood to find her in - very manageable, easier if you slip your tongue between her legs, though still relatively straightforward. "It turns out the dude got beaten to death with clubs, then beheaded; hence the martyrdom bit, which I think is fair. Pretty metal death to warrant sainthood."

"Seems a little redundant."

"So does giving a holiday to people who are already, like, super in love or whatever, but." She gathers her hair off her neck - lets it fall, satisfied. "I guess romanticism and pragmatism are just mutually conclusive."

"Exclusive," you correct, lightly.

"What'd I say?"

You exchange looks: it's definitely something you've already joked about before. It's easy, like the rest of your dynamic. Sana smiles, slow-burn, and all you can do is try and one-up her: you shrug, sigh, like there's a lot to consider.

Her fingers work open one of the buttons on the front of your shirt, hover on the one beneath it - her patience is dwindling.

"Fine," you relent, rolling your eyes, feigning reluctance. "But we need to be quick about it. Fifteen minutes, twenty max. Then I absolutely need to leave and go sit silently in a room doing jackshit for eight hours."

Sana kicks you lightly in the shins. "Let me get on top, and we'll have time to cuddle, too."

"No dice," you tell her. The negotiations continue, as they always do. "Face-down-ass-up, princess. You can clean up the kitchen afterwards."

"Ugh. You're gross," she says, as you help her down from the countertop, maneuver her toward your room with one wrist tucked firmly in your palm, already rucking up her sweater to skim your fingertips along her ribs. Sana goes easy, her joints loose, willing to bend. "And annoying. And unaccommodating. You're totally wasting my last few days in town."

"I know. I'm sorry about it," you respond, stepping behind her up the stairs, her fingers gliding gently up the rail.

"Liar." She shoots you a half-smile, laughing with no bite behind it. You think, just a bit, that she'd let you get away with just about anything - that is to say, she'd get off on a great many things: you'd let go of your own guilt, just for a moment. For someone so hot and cold with her control, it'd be easy to slide the pendulum to the other side. Maybe she'd beg for it, and it'd sound real: a small part of you thinks she's close enough already. Sana tosses a smirk over her shoulder and your mouth goes dry. "But i'm sure you will be," she tells you, her gaze somehow already unfocused. You suppose all the daydreaming is beginning to affect her too. "In, like, four and a half minutes, give or take. Probably closer to four."

"Careful, Sana," you intone, pitching low; it's like warning a child not to touch an open stove. "Your ass gets red fast."

Sana wiggles her eyebrows in an endearingly ridiculous way - you can't believe this is the girl getting checks from all these designer brands - and twists your way for a second, pressing a soft kiss to the hollow of your neck.

"Promises, promises." She bats those unequivocally long lashes up at you. "You better know I'll hold you to 'em."

In any case, she was right: St. Valentine got fucking wrecked. It's the whole morning's lesson. Maybe there's something to be said for dying in a spectacular way, one so fantastically morbid that it has to have happened in another era.

Sana gets on top, sorta, in spite of any negotiations; Sana kisses you stupid; Sana talks nonsense while you eat her out; Sana cums when you get two fingers deep inside her ass and slam her cunt full of another, curling the tip of tongue right across her clit. She goes easily from her knees to bracing herself against the headboard; and you follow her up the mattress when she scoots forward so you can fuck her with her back flush against your chest, head tossed on your shoulder, throat arched so she can choke out sounds you've never heard from anyone, ever. She's not a screamer, but she makes these high, keening noises when she's close - when you're giving her just the right pace, the right rhythm, the right depth - and you lean back on your heels, slap her ass, pinch her hip, "make me cum, baby," and god, her pussy grips down on you greedily, hungrily, swallows every inch and fucks you back until the condom swells full, deep inside her heat.

"You." You say it like it's a half-formed threat, kissing her sweaty, satiny shoulder, nosing the bra strap barely clinging to her skin. "Are such an insufferable cocktease."

"That's me," she quips, out of breath, entirely too pleased.

It's such a familiar refrain now, her elbow bent back, hand trailing your neck, head tipped - she sinks her fingers into your hair and holds you against her pulse where it jumps sporadically under her skin. You flip her around - somewhat elegantly, somewhat not - nestle her soft, creamy thighs over your hips, warm your cock inside of her as she falls back from the clouds, pressing your hand to the tightness of her waist - she wasn't exaggerating: there's time to spare, to kiss her like a movie ending, and to come up smiling.

It's not just all the risky, illicit sex and reckless abandon already in play: it's also the entire lexicon and etymology of fated ends, of doomed sentiment - each verb conjugated twice and three times and five times over. She's got the filthiest parts of your imagination reined in with that face alone, like you're drowning in divinity; this is a girl so pristine and peerless and utterly without vice, staring up at you from underneath mascara-dusted lashes, waiting for her own devastation - always daring you to indulge her.

"You think you're corrupting me," Sana laughs in your ear, serenely, almost self-aware. "Is that it?"

"Well," you start, and there's a self-reflection somewhere in there - your fingertips on her jaw, her heartbeat in the hollow of her throat. The skin's so impossibly soft. Fragile. "It's a thought."

She lifts a shoulder, smiles lazily. Her mouth has that permanent imprint of sin, somehow simultaneously a crime scene and a place of worship.

"Baby," she drawls, all sugar-sweet. "I'm sure that's a given. I was such a good girl before I met you."

"Yeah," you reply, nipping the hinge of her jaw. "Such a sweetheart. So well-behaved."

"I'll take it."

Sana rolls the condom off of you, sitting cross-legged on your bed as you fold a pillow in half and prop yourself up, watching her do her thing.

She’s got so much control like this - wringing the thick mess out into her palm, then sitting back onto her calves. With two fingers and her thumb, she pinches at it, lets it drip back down. A beat later, she makes another string, decides she's all for swallowing today. That's an art. And it's mesmerizing, the way she concentrates with delicate precision, tipping her chin up and staining her lips, her tongue diligently slipping through the spaces between her knuckles.

"You're really cute," you inform her, and she flushes while licking up the rest - you love it, the little contradictions. "But that is filthy."

“Could’ve been inside me instead,” she muses, casually. She’s just testing it out, rolling the syllables on her tongue.

You raise your eyebrows. “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” repeats Sana, quietly. She reaches forward, runs her thumb along your slit, a little lower - just a semi-circle of pressure. Yeah, you’re still achingly hard. She eyes you and her focus shifts; she seems to come to a conclusion, nods her head once; this girl, really, with all her unpredictable tempers. She takes the length of you in her hand, a loose, idle grip, more to be playful than sexy. It works both ways, apparently: your eyes roll up at her, and you suppress a gasp, grabbing hold of the pillow.

It's those dreamy, half-lidded eyes, glazed over and vapid - ah, the total and utter loss of any brain capacity. Something like a prelude to the sweet surrender; Sana does the drooling part for you.

“You wanna go again?” you ask her, and this is another bit: the whole I-say-one-thing-and-do-the-other game, the winding, unwinding tension.

When she wants something, she talks to you like she'd burn a church down for you, then tuck her arm right into yours like the fire doesn't exist in the first place - Sana blinks prettily up at you, strikes the match behind her back. For her part, she doesn’t lie as often as she could, as often as you would expect her to; in the beginning, at least, you assumed she was a bad liar, a good flirt, that kind of contradiction.

If you didn't know better, you'd fall head over heels.

"Or are you just stroking me off because you like the way it feels in your hands?" you go on. You'd like to find out, actually.

Sana smirks, and slides her palm lower, gets a second hand involved, slow and steady - the friction is aching, fantastic. "Aren't you supposed to be working?” she asks, twisting both. You could cum again, but maybe you shouldn't. "Is this really how we spend all our time?"

“How conscientious of you,” you say, drily, and she laughs before tucking her hair behind her ear, kneeling on the sheets and bringing her lips to the end of you, letting her spit run down the head and catching it with her knuckles; just once, she licks. Then, twice. Okay, well - you could probably afford to stay away a while longer. In theory. Three times, four times - oh, her mouth is hot and silky and there's really no way around it.

You grab your phone, shoot off an email or two, and slip your fingers into her hair.

Sana's someone you know from work, in a real roundabout sort of way. That's the whole sordid story.

You've got the cushy office job, the creative credentials, she's art, the product; and the optics surrounding that means you're supposed to never, ever lay a finger on her; oils mixing like they shouldn't - the finished, the half-baked, the polished to a gleam versus the raw unvarnished clay; but she'd wandered into the employee-only elevator and said good morning with that smart, sarcastic little voice and you'd turned around, thinking of some entitled manager in the process of haranguing you - only it wasn't a suit-and-tie corporate climber, oh, no, no-

"Hey," you said, too stunned for eloquence, too dumbstruck for wit.

Because here's a perfect, pouty-lipped princess, dressed like an angel and grinning like she's ready to rob a bank; like the moon landing and Shakespeare rolled into one, fantasy and classic literature and a pastel linen shirt, with what felt like half the buttons undone.

You blinked, remembered to breathe.

"Hi." She tipped her head and let a curtain of copper-spun hair slide off one shoulder. Took a slow, appraising sip of her iced-coffee. "You're new. Or - new to me, at least."

The doors shut, and suddenly there was no going back.

The signs are there. Four different conditioners on the bath rack, her lotion on the bathroom counter, her shaving cream next to the soap. She prefers peppermint to vanilla. And date night takes a turn from red wine to ramen; you'll end up on your couch watching crime documentaries because Sana will hook her fingers into the loops of your jeans, saying, can't we just, like, stay in?

This morning, too: her hand clings around your forearm a little longer when you kiss her goodbye and help her find the shoes she's wearing home, make her promise to return your sweatshirt soon.

But you know that if anyone asked, Sana'd shrug and laugh, say I dunno, it's not really anything at all.

You're hooking up. You're being idiots - this whole thing, from the very start of it, was so off-the-rails, so questionable. You remind yourself she's never met anyone she didn't like.

She doesn't think about consequences, and she certainly won't start with you. You figure things will fester, get murky and muddled and frustrating - and the worst part isn't how she's ruining you for anyone else; it's how you're going to miss the idea of her, the impossible promise. She's living the glamour, the ceaselessness, the adventure. It's all planned out. She'll keep living her life this way until she doesn't. It's an occupational hazard.

And she won't pay it any attention once some Jean-Pierre becomes her next hot, enigmatic, incomprehensible, asshole genius plaything - hypothetically speaking.

(Or maybe he'll be the first one to really, really figure her out, and that's the more disconcerting thought.)

So you're just...you don't even know what you are, frankly. Friends who text? Sure, whatever: that makes sense. You can cling to that. It's the most sensible explanation so far.

Sana: i was promised an apology text (´;︵;`)

Sana: the pregnant man emoji seems wildly inappropriate given the circumstances

You, at ten fifteen in the morning on February 8th: i'm in a staff meeting, first of all.

You've been getting nonsensical, arbitrary stuff since, like, October: grocery lists, links to memes, notes on things she remembers in the shower. Occasionally, it's horny stuff - a water droplet emoji, the wink, and the peach; then a photo of her skirt lifted in the mirror and her naked ass in a pair of heels - and occasionally, you oblige it.

You: second, I don't want this to come off as arrogant or anything, but I didn't realize you think about me the minute you wake up

Sana: um, soooo arrogant lol wtf

Sana: but also ur not wrong, im desperate for some relief <333

You: poor, pitiful baby 🙄

You: go find miyeon

Sana: she's ignoring my calls

Sana: just send something nasty please PLEASE 😭

Sana: tell me how hard i make you

You: i'm in a meeting, sana.

Sana: I WILL RIOT.

Sana: jk don't tell me. i'm just looking at pics of us rn and i'm going to die.

Sana: (send a dick pic u coward)

She sends you a heart. And an eggplant. Then the tongue.

You: I'll see what I can do

She follows up with: thank u thank u god bless <3

Oh, it's dangerous, working in the same office, dealing in all that proximity - even with the floors between you.

You're constantly resisting the urge to slide by, to try and catch a glimpse, to find excuses to bump into her in the hallway, listen to her talk, say hi. So maybe you're a sucker for the devil, or maybe it's all just because she's Sana, and she's a vision in a pencil skirt, a beauty with her legs crossed and her chin tipped high; or it's worse: you'll catch her in yoga pants, hair mussed and shiny with sweat as she flits from practice room to practice room, to get water, to take a phone call, to rub chapstick over her mouth - the daydreams write themselves.

But it's not like you know any details of her job other than, 'singer' or 'professional tease' or the occasional tangential reference. She never really talks about work.

You walk through the halls, eyes flitting around every corner; there's a standing appointment, of sorts, and it has been for the past month, maybe longer - you've got your doubts that today will break the streak. You've never actually agreed to meet her; it's sorta an unspoken understanding, and you find her exactly where you thought you might, after you've made a loop around the seventh floor, wandered as slowly as humanly possible - as if stalling could stop you from inevitably descending the same stairwell you do every time. It's an awful, terrible descent and it's gonna get you both fired - or killed, if her manager finds you first. It's a miracle you're still here.

Sana's leaning against the railing, flipping through her phone; when she hears your approaching footsteps she looks up and meets your eyes. Smirks.

"Ms. Minatozaki," you say, like this is a high school and she's one of the tardies you can't stop calling out.

It's the nth time this has happened, and you have to know she comes looking for you, too.

"So," she drawls, standing and sweeping all her hair up off her neck, clipping it like it's habitual, and the way her hands rest at your waist is a scandal in itself. The watch on her dainty pale wrist glitters in the fluorescent lights, slides down her forearm as she pushes her sleeves past her elbows. You're not really thinking about things like propriety, restraint; Sana's very good at convincing you to shed all pretense of ethics, morals. You're slave to the thousand-kilowatt smile, the short skirts and thigh-high boots and every calculated display of skin. This girl has her agenda written plain on the walls and you've made it known in ten different languages: it's one hell of a view, and it's impossible not to stare.

"You here to escort me somewhere?" asks Sana, in a way that sounds vaguely dirty - which it is. "Need to go looking for pens again?"

She takes a step closer, presses a palm flat to your chest; hums a low, delighted sound.

"Or you could bend me over the railing and stuff me right here." Sana tilts her chin and squints upwards, assessing the metalwork. She drops her gaze, presses her fingertips to the knot of your tie; and then, a show of pity or mercy, drags her eyes back to your face, pretty lashes blinking slow. "Wouldn't be complaining."

"I really wish you could hear yourself sometimes, sweetheart."

"Trust me, it's been on my mind all morning," she confesses, all soft, wicked intimacy. "Distracting me. I doubt you want me keeping it to myself, either."

"No," you admit. "You've got that right."

Her fingers toy with your top button, pop it open. You grab her wrist, stop her, gentle and warning. Her hand goes limp in your grasp, acquiescing easily; this is the part where she likes it, getting pulled back on the right side of polite. "You should kiss me," says Sana.

Like she has to. Like this girl, rich and famous and inexplicably out of your league, a glamorous songbird living high up in her nest, and still wanting for the little taste of heaven she thinks she can steal away from you in dark corners

"Where?" You're playing, and the moment you brush your mouth over hers, the second her breath meets your lips, you've gone and forgotten all your prior reservations about fucking her at work. You let go of her wrist, allow her hand to wander lower, unbuttoning, dipping past the waistband of your pants. She slides her palm beneath the material of your underwear, tugs them just low enough that her slim, small fingers can encircle the base of your cock.

"Anywhere," Sana decides, and kisses the answer into your mouth, sighing into it - enough to pull you under, to submerge and suffocate.

It's funny; she smiles like she's the heroine of your life story, like the storybook star on the cover of an epic, or an infallible leading lady - like someone to love, like someone to admire and aspire to. Or maybe it's a touch sinister: her eyes sparkle and your worldview snaps a little sideways, just to accommodate her; she could be the villain all the same - not your protégée, not the good girl, not an angel or a miracle. There's your poison, and it's in her blood - it's a flashpoint of pure greed, and Sana doesn't need a mirror. She knows every single sin.

You drop your hand from her hair, the pretense, and give in: the railing creaks a quiet noise of protest as she wrenches her ass against the unforgiving steel, and then she's arching into your body, sighing again; it's a sound you've committed to memory, ingrained it, the sweet taste, the sharpness of her exhale when your hand wanders high up the hem of her skirt.

"Anywhere?"

"Sure," breathes Sana, fingers spidering further into your open zipper.

It's so incredibly risky, it's bad practice, not to mention illogical: the stairwell is a public, communal space, no escape, nowhere to hide - there's only seven floors to the building, seven opportunities for someone to stumble in, and none of these numbers are in your favor.

"I'll be quiet," she mutters, lips ghosting along your jaw. "I promise." She knows that's not what you're concerned with, but you appreciate the thoughtfulness; oh, who's fooling who? "We can just-" Her hips hitch up and press firm against yours. "-see where it goes."

And, well - you have the rest of your career to be responsible, probably. Professional, obedient and boring and ethical and so many other useless terms you could drag up and wave in the face of the fact Sana's fucking gorgeous. She's holding back from giving you the full-on pout, but just barely - you catch the shadow of it on her lips; the thinly concealed ache, the pretty agony. She kisses you like she's not gonna breathe until the second after you're inside her - then that's that, like some sorta ritual. A tradition, an instinct, it's a swan-song for every shred of decorum she's begging to burn up.

You hoist her, balance her on the railing. When your grip tightens, she shuffles forward, draws her legs up a little - that's the key, letting her settle just right: the end of the world could come now and she'd still feel fucking divine, pussy dripping through her underwear straight onto the crotch of your pants - there's a wet spot now, you can feel it on the side of your thigh where you've got a fistful of her skirt scrunched, rolled up above her thighs, all bare creamy skin, something to remember this by: her in the height of perfection, full of good intentions and eager to fall apart.

"Panties," you tell her, palm up, hand held out.

"You're fucking crazy," she exhales, but she's fiddling with her waistband and shifting on her ass in seconds - they're tangled around her boots - you're a goner from the start, it's like your soul leaves your body with a wet little snick. "Get - get them off," and it sounds so sweet in her voice, whining, ragged - not that it was in any danger but her own breath renders her resolve for composure pointless.

"Your little cunt's dripping," you note, with your hand cupping it, two fingers teasing along her soaked slit; no part of the conversation has ever needed to go in circles with Sana, or anyone else. You just sort of lean into it. "Been wanting me since you got dressed, huh."

"Your fault," she tells you, nose sliding over yours, seeking affection. "Explicitly. Never got those pictures out of my head."

"Um," you say, slipping into another finger, because she's hot and slick and insatiable and the friction will melt her right to goo - you think Sana's orgasms might be getting a little violent, these days. You're more inclined to inspire them. "I didn't actually send you anything provocative."

"See?" She grins at you, breathless. "Here lies my problem."

"Such a hard life." You crook your fingers a little deeper; Sana collapses against you, a flower drooping from too much rainwater. "Such a burden, being you, hm?"

"So I'm the issue in this scenario," she mutters, pushing back into your hands, squeezing her thighs. "Causing problems, all by myself, sluttly-little-me."

"I never said that."

"You called me a fucking cocksleeve, the other night."

"Sana."

"Which is absolutely correct. Like. One hundred percent. But don't act like you don't get off on it."

"Well," you say, innocuous: stroke up inside of her, stretch, reach - crook - and there's a breathy moan in your ear. "So do you."

"Shut up," she says, "this is about your inability to compartmentalize," and her cunt is so slick that it makes a delicious, lewd squelching sound as your fingers dip and curl in further, the walls of her pussy clenched tight, suffocating your skin - every time you roll a condom over your cock and sink inside her you do have to wonder if it's really, genuinely necessary.

"Wanna cum?" you ask, deflecting a bit, and stroke her with intent, relishing the way her little pink mouth drops open to exhale.

"Gotta be better than getting psychoanalyzed by a guy who has my fucking panties in his pocket," she grits out, hips rolling to the tempo of your fingers, now scissoring apart. You're only touching her cunt and still she moves against you like you've been railing her for hours - you think she's so wet you might hear it down the hall, down the street. "Might be a good tradeoff. Maybe." Then, more resolutely: "Fuck. Yes. Please."

It's hard to take her seriously like this, with her pretty features drawn up, all the facets of a statue rendered beautifully human, transient, falling apart in the pleasure. In moments like these, Sana looks most ethereal; when your thumb's fast on her clit and you croon compliments and the sweetest-bittersweet filth in her ear until her whole body becomes liquid-fire, sloppy and hot, desperately keening.

"On my fingers?" you ask, because maybe you're a lot like Sana: an insufferable tease.

You slip your fingers down to the next knuckle and curl it up against the slick heat, deep, until she's making soft, whimper-like sounds, brow furrowing in focus, straining for release, and Sana can't even look you in the eyes, too far gone already, lost in this. "Or," and here's the dangerous part - "I could get on my knees and eat this pussy until you can't see straight." You're dangerously close to taking the panties from your pocket and sliding the lace under her tongue just so you could see how pretty she looks like that, huffing, groaning, eyes flickering shut at the sensation - not the actual taste of herself, but just the way it's so undignified.

She looks pretty at any angle, any moment - you wonder if you can fuck it into her so she'll always know it's true: the kind of egomaniacal narcissism Sana might get off on. It seems appropriate.

Sana just hums at this, arching a delicate brow, considering.

"How about you give me your mouth and watch me fuck the hell out of it, hm?"

"Mildly threatening, but okay." You take one hand, smooth over her ribs until it's cupping the slope of her jaw, and draw her gaze upward, until she's staring into your eyes. "You always taste like a godsend - could get addicted to it, probably, baby - would you wanna ruin my throat? Make me drool all over you? Turn it into a little fucking mess, just the way you like?"

The sound she makes then is unearthly, somewhere between a moan and a groan. A reverb.

You know it's out of hand because you've started using the same euphemisms she does - breeding her, ruining her tight little pussy, stretching it out nice and full. Getting a second opinion, then a third and a fourth. It's a little crass for your typical repertoire, but she makes the sweetest, most ruined noises at that. You're an equal opportunist, and her whiny submissiveness is just as good - maybe a little less effortless. More demanding: there's always the feeling she's lording it over you.

"No, really." You're stroking your fingers in solid, even thrusts as you speak: gentle, measured, nowhere near enough. "You're fucking soaked," you remark, the corner of your mouth tilted up. "Like you can't stand not having something inside you, huh?"

"Something big," she grits out.

You laugh a little, amused. She's practically leaking down the heel of your hand.

"The problem is," breathes Sana, swallowing once, twice, eyelashes flicking lower, her cheek pliable in your palm and her nails scraping gently against the hair at the nape of your neck - she's dissolving. She's all yours to own, consume, to make cum. She's drenched and warm and perfect and there's a whine threaded through every expletive. She always likes things better when you're nastier to her; it's probably fucked up. Everything is, and it's Sana - so that should go without saying. "Fuck - whatever - please. Just-"

You laugh again, and the noise twists a little meaner this time in Sana's ear.

"C'mon," you say. "Tell me about this - about my issues. Your ideas. How badly you're gonna, what was it, destroy my life, I think? Just talk while I go down on you. Might help take the sting out of it." You pause. "Or make it all the more worse, really."

Sana whimpers, broken, liking the sound of that, judging by the way her cunt drips, swollen and fluttering and you can feel her pulsing against your fingertips.

"I'll tell you if you start to go in the wrong direction," says Sana, petulant and lovely as ever. "How's that - how's? Oh, my fuck-"

Sana's words drop off. It's well-warranted. You're hungry for her, insatiable; you sink down to the floor, get your mouth on her pretty little aching cunt and that's sorta how this always starts.

She gasps out and tangles her fingers in your hair, fucks her cunt against your tongue and cries out like this isn't a scandal.

You pray to god no one comes for a smoke, for the breeze to cool them off: because nobody needs to know how thoroughly you ruin the company's golden goose, their pristine girl-next-door, pop-sweet baby-princess. You pray because she's going to cum like the rest of your brain won't remember it tomorrow, like every teary-eyed scream won't stick to your lips like static.

Your tongue moves, pressing harder to her clit; she rides your face. Grinds down your lips while your gaze remains rapt, transfixed.

You won't blink, won't look away for even a moment. Not when Sana's falling apart above you: a complete fucking mess, a spitfire and a divinity and a filthy-wet-dream in heels, panting so hard that you're gonna need an excuse. That everyone's gonna see you've done it, broken the perfect facade and left her absolutely mangled. It's fucking obscene the sounds she's making. High, aching whines, squelch, wettened suction; her fingers tearing through your scalp; those god damn lip-gloss-flavored moans - they echo on your neck and chest, run down and through your rib-cage. They land in your gut and rest heavy and stale, ruminant, too thick. Sweet and molasses and unbearable, all stuck inside your throat. Fuck, fuck. She cums; there's your paycheck in the line of her body, arched into an acute, cataclysmic peak, an upstretched needle to pierce the surface.

It's a moment in a crystal-clear shot, one you'll try and lock in the bank, the hallows, your mind.

She's beautiful, obviously: in the aftermath, ragged, inelegant - you figure it's the fact that the poor thing's so damned unused to being fucked, has gone on for all her teenage years, then her early adulthood, barely scraping a few fingers, a low buzz of some unremarkable toy; no - she's used to the admiration. The flattery. The rapture and praise.

But you doubt anyone's made a thorough wreck, a beautiful slobbering, sloppy mess - and who would? She's worshiped like she's an icon. Some half-baked notion of reverence, like she's holy. An angel in the wrong hands - oh, the imagery's much too flimsy. Fawning. Unending, untethered; you might be a sucker, but you wonder when you'll meet the next guy in her rotation, and, not wanting to spend much thought on him, wonder instead about Sana and her subterfuge.

You've wondered on and off why the hell she chose you.

"You don't deserve that," says Sana, after, a little breathless but otherwise unfazed and smug, like it isn't a big fucking deal to talk back to you while your jaw is still covered in her slick.

"Pretty sure I do." You wipe at your mouth, come up closer to her again. "Seemed like it helped."

"I have a whole monologue prepared," says Sana, a touch irritated - ah, well, she might be spoiled after all. "It wasn't easy to put together. The idea of you fucking me is kind of distracting, just for the record."

"Sweet of you, baby."

"Oh, fuck off," says Sana, promptly.

You smile. It's charming and cheeky and Sana blushes, suddenly off her game. "I'm serious," she says, scrambling back to her point. "You deserve nothing for leaving me alone and miserable and not showing up for ages. You're so - I'm mad at you."

"Oh," you say, and raise an eyebrow, mock-horrified. You kiss her bare, sweat-sticky neck, trace a finger from her navel down past her hips. Sana shivers. "I had no idea."

It's just Sana's axiomatic response: all snark and sass and sly one-liners until you've got your finger against her clit, and then all at once she's begging, sobbing, falling to pieces, whining your name like it's a mantra. She doesn't give a damn about your apology now. The state of your relationship has hardly progressed - but it doesn't matter. It's only the sex, the endless hours spent with Sana's thighs bracketing your head, her lipstick imprinted on your throat, the red lines she paints over your shoulder blades. It's only that. Sana's cunt, clenching and raw from orgasm and soaked like you can never fill her up: dripping, drooling.

And, okay. Yeah, maybe you didn't show up when she asked you to, didn't listen. You admit it. She's needy every second, craves praise and your cock in equal measure - but you are guilty.

(What's that she said earlier - that you didn't deserve it? Right.)

You aren't really in a position to say shit about being ignored either, so.

Sana has you pegged to her whims: she doesn't have to do a damn thing, she just breathes and has you around her finger.

Well - actually, she's very proactive. She likes making demands. Well, really: she wants things.

It's February 9th, for anyone keeping track - the shortest month of the year and the one with a few more grey days in the bank than the others, which makes sense since you're deep into the heart of winter by then. On December 28th you and Sana had spent nearly three hours on the phone discussing the latest installment of this netflix miniseries of very questionable quality. There were a lot of different points to be made, apparently: you think both of the leads are, objectively, fairly attractive, but Sana wouldn't admit she had a crush on the lead until you got to the third season.

Anyway, she was upset on her birthday because of it.

"Happy new year, by the way," you told her, somewhere in the middle of the call. Sana had to speak quietly so her parents wouldn't hear, but she sounded kind of moody. "How are you gonna celebrate?"

"My ex," Sana groaned, ignoring the question completely, "made fun of my taste in guys. Like, my type or whatever."

You cocked your head. "And what is your type?"

"Oh, you know," she said, dismissive. "Hot." You laughed, and then she said, "A little less old and a little more muscular," and that shut you up, quick. Sana hesitated.

"Shit," you said.

"Shit," she agreed. "I really, really like you, though." And then:

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

And you've been kinda done for ever since.

Right, okay. You get sidetracked, easily. It's a running gag. Sana gives you shit for it, but then again she gives you shit for a lot of things.

On February 9th, evening leaking through a skyline cracked open and gushing like an oil spill, and the stars dripping silver - auspicious, potentially, on Sana's side - she turns up at the door of your apartment, tapping snow from her boot-clad feet, mouth tight.

"It's fucking freezing," she snaps at you, as a greeting - the hello goes unsaid. You open the door wider and she sweeps past, takes a glance around like she owns the place. You should have known - in hindsight.

Work was fine but felt lengthy. Sana shot photos for some designer brand you'd never heard of and felt pretty proud of the day's accomplishments. She talks your ear off about it while you lean against the counter and nod attentively, put water on to boil and think about getting a fish, a dog, maybe a plant; you haven't quite figured it out. Sana might have opinions about it all.

You make tea for both of you. It's this rose hibiscus thing that supposedly soothes the mind. It was a gift from a coworker at some point. Or maybe it was going to be a gift to a coworker and you just never got around to sending it; either way, it had a bow and everything. At some point in time, when someone received it, there was a bow involved. You'll work out the details - at the very least, you'll say the explanation was very elaborate and poignant, and it'd get Sana smiling. She'd trace your hand, thumb skimming your knuckles. All of a sudden you'd be sitting across a small table, talking and talking as a stream of conversation ebbed and flowed; you'd think about the stars in the sky, like blood in water. You'd kiss her neck and tell her you're not tired, ask her if she'll stay the night - it would be easy.

"So he's a total prick," finishes Sana, chin in one of her palms, blowing over the lip of the mug, "but at least he's good with a camera. Otherwise, I swear I would've left the label years ago."

"Wow," you say. You weren't paying attention.

"Mhmm," she continues.

You blink at her, slightly disoriented.

"I was talking for like, twenty minutes. You should have noticed."

"Were you," you say mildly, "seriously? Shit. I'm sorry. I guess I tuned out, just - went somewhere else."

"Huh." Sana leans on her arm. There's a lacy white ribbon tied in her warm, amber hair. It suits her, matches the gauze-thin chiffon sleeves of her sweater, the floaty skirt she's wearing, dark gray tights adorning her legs - a cossack blouse, maybe, would describe it. She's so fashionable, all the time, like it comes from the tips of her fingers, unbidden and instinctive. It makes sense; Sana's a muse for the finer things in life, all light and lovely like gold. Like - rose quartz, the blush of dawn. It's an indescribable sort of attractiveness - the kind that is rooted in her mind, in her character.

You're glad she hasn't made you spell this sentimentality out.

"Do you have a secret girlfriend you need to be confessing to?"

"I ran into Momo earlier," you say instead, which - bad timing, maybe. Sana's bright-eyed, brow lifted, curious.

"Where?" she asks.

"That cafe place. The one by the second-hand shop she likes. Near the theater."

"I've never been to a movie with you," she remarks, instead of pointing out that your explanation could apply to like, twenty places around the city alone. "Is it because you'd rather die than be seen with me in public? Like, are you worried I'm ruining your reputation?"

She's playing. Obviously. The script here is flipped: you're the secret fling, the casual affair, the quick fuck that isn't meant to mean anything, no strings attached - but maybe the implication in Sana's question is that she'd consider it otherwise. She'd like to go to the movies, or out to dinner. Somewhere crowded. Not exactly an ideal date, but you could see it on her. You want to take her places. Maybe you already do, anyway.

You roll your eyes. "Right," you say.

"Does she know?" Sana taps her bottom lip. "About us."

"Yeah," you say, too quickly.

Sana makes a face. "How? When?"

"She's your roommate," you explain, kind of at a loss. "And - you talk to her. I figured. How could she not know?"

"Dude," says Sana.

"Is this gonna be one of those moments where you pretend to be way angrier about something than you actually are?"

"Obviously, yes." Sana tilts her mug toward you in accusation. "What'd she say?"

"She asked if we were dating."

"What'd you say?"

"No," you say. "And then she asked if I wanted to be, and then I ran into traffic, like, literally, to escape."

"Do you," begins Sana, in her best innocent voice. "Or don't you?"

She looks delighted. You stare at her flatly. "Ask Momo," you tell her, and she dissolves into that creased-eye smile that sends all your faculties reeling. The gorgeous little tri-tone of laughter and her fingers combing through the silky length of her hair - she's still teasing you. You've figured out the steps, memorized the way this game moves forward. It's an indulgence and it's an obsession - and it's the same thing for you as well, really.

"Can't," she says, still laughing. "She'll lie on your behalf."

You have no clue what that means - but you guess that's just Sana.

So here's an inflection point, right before Valentine's day, because you have terrible timing - right before Sana ships out to Bruges, or Milan, or wherever the fuck it is for Fashion Week: you'll only catch a few days, maybe less, before she jets again for some other assignment. It's part of how her job works, and the situation's all roundabout, because she's probably spending the holiday eating French toast with a model and waiting in an airport, watching the world go by from the plane. So, sort of backwards. You should get the bouquets and heart-shaped boxes and share a plate of pasta, you suppose - but the main thing here is you'll only get a weekend. Then you won't even see her in person until the 28th.

Or not at all. Whatever the outcome - maybe she'll stand you up and have her revenge for you being so goddamn difficult and antagonistic in the first place. Who knows. Not you.

She's studying her reflection in your bathroom mirror, tying off an elaborately loose bun, pulling some curls free, working around the headband that she seems hell-bent on keeping in her hair, in case you should ever forget she's a total living doll. A pair of shorts reveals the creamy expanse of her thighs; she doesn't have a bra under her tank top. Your mind wanders.

"You look fine," you say, yawning, elbow to the sink's countertop.

The sound of the shower running is white noise in the background, droning away, and the door's cracked ajar so steam wafts into the hall. Sana doesn't spare you a glance, focused as she is on arranging herself back to magazine-cover perfection.

And it's not unreasonable: you've seen in her high heels and on runways, with cameras flashing, with a toned physique and carefully sculpted makeup and hair to match - but you think there's an authenticity here, the clothes she keeps in a bin above your dresser that have somehow mixed themselves in with a tube of mascara and a stick of deodorant, a set of bristled hairbrushes - the toiletry bag from her makeup case. If you were a more emotionally intelligent and honest man, perhaps you'd say something to the effect of, you look beautiful, or maybe, I'm going to miss you, you know, so if there were any big revelations that you might be having, if you might have something important you've neglected to bring up-

(Maybe it's not healthy - but you'll admit to some oddness, some habits: Sana sleeps better after she's been fucked senseless, her forehead pressing to yours; the sheets need washing more than once a week. It's a very regular development in her life and the fabric softener she prefers, the lavender and verbena, has started appearing in your cabinet; you're using that type now automatically.

And that's not nothing. That's probably an invitation for some sort of talk. It's not - well, yeah. Anyway: no one will ever accuse you of being great at communicating.)

You wrap your hands around her waist, pushing the cotton of her shirt up, spreading your palms flat to trace her skin, feeling the tight muscles in her stomach flex and quiver - your touch skates to the valley of her cleavage and back, around her side, shoulders to collarbones and the front of her ribs, then her hipbones. She squirms a little bit; her skin pebbles where you're touching her. She's sensitive - ticklish, maybe.

"Feels good, that," she admits, half into the sink.

And in the reflection, watching, you see her lean back, lean into you, without thought for herself; the familiarity of your touch. The easy intimacy of it.

"Well," you tease, "yeah, it's a bit of a problem for you lately."

The shower's still running. You kiss the side of her throat.

She smacks a hand down on your wrist - she's playful, though, teasing in her chide. "Get out," she says. "Unless you're getting in with me."

It's 11:34PM. You're already halfway to fucked-out; there was a particularly intense stretch, her thighs clenching and trembling on either side of you as she rode your face, hair falling and hitting her cheeks, her mouth parting open into the hottest sound you've ever heard, her shoulders arching; your palms braced tight against the soft skin of her hips, holding her just above your tongue as she whimpered please, more. She'd came on your face - like, all over - and then fell to your lap and was just so, so eager for a second helping. So you held her there, at the edge of your mattress as she took it so prettily; moaning and pleading until she'd sobbed through another and collapsed in a messy heap of satisfied flesh, slumped against you like the physical stress had stolen whatever architecture her bones had remaining.

It's not an unusual turn of events - and now, there's the two of you. A routine; a domestic dance, almost. A morning-evening-afternoon affair.

"Nah," you say, pressing a kiss to her hairline, her jaw, the nape of her shoulder. "You could use some space, baby. Wouldn't wanna infringe."

"It'd be worth it," she says - not even flirtatious. Just blunt, honest.

You run your hand through your hair, intimate deep-in-thought.

"Oh, c'mon." Her reflection scoffs at you. "Momo doesn't call us a pair of sluts with a love story because you're the uncomplicated, mature one."

"So you did talk to her." She shoots you a glare through the glass - but no fire to it. She's relaxed in your grip, compliant. "And listen, maybe it's my character arc, honey, let me have it. I think I'm really coming into my own."

Sana flushes just a little at the pet name. There's a roll of her eyes, too. It's intentional, and you adore her for it. "Are you?" she snipes, but you're her favorite frustration and this is all just prelude; there's heat in her tone, an anticipation of wanting to be grabbed, to be slammed down into the pillows and fucked hard until her thighs can't tremble anymore. It's an indulgence in familiarity. You understand - but you don't quite give her what she's looking for.

"I hope so." You lean further, push deeper into her space. Your arms bracket her in. She's a beard-burn shy of looking completely debauched. It's tempting. "One of us has got to get their shit together, and you're obviously not taking any interest," you continue, all clandestine and shrewd and serious. Your free hand presses at her thigh. It doesn't matter which one.

Sana rolls her eyes again. "You bitch," she mumbles, shifts her weight - nudges you a bit with her elbow. She keeps you close, either way. "I'm being serious."

You'd beg to differ, but the way she reaches her hand back into your hair and looks at your reflection is so loaded: lips plush, jaw smooth, a shadow resting across her shoulders. The honeyed quality of her hair. The rough shape of her collarbones, half-hidden beneath her loose cotton top, gray as gunmetal and baring her smooth, gorgeous shoulders. Sana is, above all, an attention-getter. It's hard not to fixate on the physicality. All parts of her - legs, ass, tits, hair, the swan's neck, the way she's just tall enough that you'd need her standing on tip-toe to kiss her, chin lifted, eyes down - that sweet little pout of a mouth - they're all an aesthetic intent; her waist has been grabbable since you've known her, and you would die to tug the ends of her hair free, ruffle the order and let them fall, a wavy-brown disaster, to her bare shoulders, frame her eyes with her eyelashes. That would make you soft, for sure. Or, anyway - more soft. As though you hadn't spent the past three months staring her down in the mornings, sneaking glances like she'd catch you at it, fixated and lust-ridden: Sana has all the elements to break you down.

You snap her waistband to make her flinch.

"You know what our problem is?" The water's still running - maybe she likes the sound of it, is trying to tune you out. "I always have to watch you for like five minutes before you kiss me," she chides, lifting her hair like she's fishing for compliments. "It's fucked up."

"A serious dilemma," you agree, without hesitation. Your thoughts are: 5'4", 120 pounds soaking wet, a perfect proclivity for being manhandled and made to feel cherished and worshipped and slutty as she needs. It's what you know of her, more or less. There are more things not on record. Things of consequence, weight. It would require context. "Truly."

"I mean, your mouth is never where it should be."

"Everyone's a critic."

Sana leans into you. Tips her head back. "Pay attention," she whispers, "be good," and lets her lips begin to part.

"Yeah?" your reflection replies, unkind.

She rolls her eyes again. Again again. There are many moments for this: the attitude, the incredulous stare, her naked body pressed to the marble walls of a bathroom she's becoming dangerously fond of - she sighs, like her heart's in it and it aches her. It's dramatic. "I'll teach you."

She spins away from the mirror and cups her hand around your mouth: another gentle touch, in contrast.

You think, all over again, of her thighs. Of the weight in her shoulders. The fine points of her wrists. She loosens the ribbon from her hair and places it on the counter. You don't know why that's so poetic. It feels like you've won something.

"Do I need to go get another condom?" you ask, dry, when your head goes south and your gaze gets low, right there - the cut of her clavicle, the way she'd probably like being handled rougher, hiked up on the bathroom counter, forced to submit like she's letting you do it.

Sana doesn't smile, but her lips twitch.

"Maybe," she says.

(You have an inkling, or two, or more.)

"Maybe you should take your clothes off before we talk logistics, huh?" she teases, and she does smile now. You laugh, despite your better judgment. "Don't look at me like that."

"I'm not looking at you like that."

"I swear," she mumbles - it's accusatory, the way she leans her weight against you. It's her signature move. "I think your new thing is just a dirty girl complex."

You stare down at her. "Oh, okay."

Her lips crease: disgusted. "Just a thought," she says. Her eyes are hooding, and it's what she does when she's letting herself slide. Her hands come down slow, so slow to your neck. You could bite her if you wanted to. There's plenty to mark, plenty of skin to bruise: she's at your mercy, and she loves it like that. She licks her lips and waits. "You're out of them, by the way. Like - the condoms. I grabbed the last one from your nightstand and - you know." She's shaking her head - something solemn about it. "No more. I'm telling you for your own benefit. So, um - yeah, that's your warning."

"My warning?" you repeat.

You take her jaw, watch her cheeks bloom pink - it's nice. Pretty. Very charming. Well, that's Sana - well, at least it fits.

"What I'm trying to say," she begins, slowly, uncharacteristically bashful, "is you could, like, do whatever you wanted, probably."

"Dirty girl," you repeat, quiet.

She blinks at you. A furrow forms, impervious, in her pretty brow.

"This isn't - I don't - listen, no one says that- they only do that shit in the movies."

You grin.

"But you're like, a guy in real life."

She swats at you.

"I can't believe I have to clarify the fact that-"

"You want me to fuck you raw," you interrupt, gently - and when Sana looks at you there's something guarded, and soft, and caught, and it's almost like-

Well, what's the word?

"I just mean I trust you," she mumbles.

You think: well, you could've led with that.

"Oh," you say, instead. "Oh - sweetheart," and then she blushes harder, but it's not because of you. She has a sudden and surprising sense of embarrassment, and you just blink at each other for a couple seconds - maybe you weren't expecting that from her, the sentimentality - and she doesn't want to apologize. "Listen-" you begin, and then cut yourself off. What is there to say? What did you just spend the better part of an evening trying to avoid mulling over?

(A fleeting, untoward notion. Some sort of unsolicited idea, illicitly tangible. As in: maybe you're both going a little insane.)

"I have a couple questions," you add, like an afterthought.

"I can't with you." Sana ducks her head, pulls on the bottom of her top. "Sorry, just," she starts, but lets the rest slip. "You don't need to make a thing of it."

"You seem - conflicted, is all." You catch her by the hip, guide her a little closer. There's a slow-simmering feeling stirring in your gut - something incessant, demanding of attention. "A little regretful. Look at me."

"I wasn't asking." She looks. It's a direct hit: she has a mean glare, one with the same capacity to bore through you, tear you limb by limb. She has the capacity for cruelty, is what you're getting at. "If you're that curious about the specifics, it was an expression of trust. Take it or leave it."

"Now you seem upset."

She arches an eyebrow: the normal one, the regular sardonic-you're-so-hot-I-hate-it eyebrow, not the sexy-sultry-dirty eyebrow.

"Five minutes," she huffs, without explanation. "Five whole minutes and I'm still not being kissed, like, why-"

Your laugh comes from somewhere in your chest; deep, surprised.

"There's no winning with you," she grumbles, but when she looks up you can already see it - it's in her eyes, she's not actually that upset. There's no stormy undertow, just the fondness lurking like a tidal wave underneath everything else. You feel the current a bit before it swallows her: there are hands tugging, winding, drawing the whole mess closer and closer. It's affection, an entire sea's worth of it, flooding and indiscernible. You can see all the stars that shimmer. It's just: her hips are so fucking grabbable, you know that already, that it's to the point of being inescapable, an absolute truth - and she wants to get off, she always wants to, but there's some greater, darker purpose to how her breath ghosts on your neck. How she blushes like it's the first time.

"I want," she breathes. It comes with intent.

(Yeah, a lot of fucking intent.)

"I know, baby," you tell her, low - and press a kiss to the juncture of her jaw, one hand lifting her top, palming her breast, the other sliding into her underwear. "You always want more," you murmur. Sana nods like a doll - you've reduced her, again, into a bundle of fussy limbs and breath and gasps, begging you to get inside her pussy. "I've got you," you coo, a bit darkly: and, well, Sana isn't wrong - it is a kind of dirty girl syndrome. At least for her.

For you, it's more like a daily reacquaintance with your sins.

Your mouths meet, clumsy and off-kilter; Sana's tongue is heavy, languid in the wet heat of your mouth, and the kiss tastes like everything else: her hair like flowers, her makeup, the faded sweat, her cherry lip balm, the flat, glassy quality of the cum dried on her thighs, her underwear around your fist. There's a lingering scent to her sex that reminds you of how badly you wanna fuck her; your finger ghosts at her cunt and it's wet again, dripping-pink and sensitive, ready, open, a bruised thing.

"You," she breathes into your mouth, and her teeth skim your lip, "are so fucking hard." She's skated her palm down into your sweats, taken a rough hold of your cock, as though to prove something: and she's so right. She doesn't break the kiss. Her thumb smears a bit of your pre-cum over the slit, spreads it up and down your length. You're already aching-hot and throbbing for her. "Baby," she murmurs, sounding devious, feeling it, too. There's more to say, more of that floodgate left to open up:

"You're going to cum so much in me, aren't you?"

(It's rhetorical.)

You hoist her onto the counter, shove her shorts down, pull your cock out of your pants: it's just muscle memory, the way the rhythm works itself out - and if Sana was trying to push you, she's definitely succeeding.

"You should be careful what you wish for," you offer, half-nonsense, half the judicious side of an agreement. The devil on the shoulder's not exactly in the business of sticking to your promises: "I should probably pull out, you know," you go on, mindlessly - but she's got her arms around your neck, is rolling her hips impatient and insistent like the conversation isn't even important enough for her to properly listen to.

"Gonna cum on all over me instead?" she asks, too quiet. "Is that the plan?"

And it's the least combative you've heard her be in a hot minute. You slicken your fingers with her cum and rub your digits along the flushed, throbbing surface of her clit: the only way you know to deal with her filthy mouth.

"Right on my tummy, or all over my chest," she goes on, heedless, dragging her fingertips over her shirt like you need a demonstration. She's just spewing bullshit for the thrill of it. The grin accompanying that is sly, cheeky, like her whole self; she rubs her nose against yours.

You gather her panties and let them ball up in your palm.

"Maybe a mess all over my ass?"

"Oh, definitely," you sigh, finally, and work her apart as the kisses fall out of line.

She looks up at you from beneath long, delicate lashes, fluttering like she knows the effect it's having on you: it's un-fucking-fair, the way she uses it, wields it like the weapon it is. A sigh slips from her, ragged, fucked: she's bracing herself, chasing the tip of your cock, leaning into the nudge. "Maybe you can push me onto my knees, shove your dick down my throat and gag me with it until I swallow every drop, yeah?"

"Sana," is your reply. "Of course." It's the conscientious, mature, adult thing to do.

She's batting her eyelashes. You should do something about it, maybe: you line your cock up against her entrance, holding steady, and slap your hand on the smooth expanse of her right thigh. "Spread," you snap at her, and then grin back.

Her face scrunches: genuine exasperation, tight cunt, real feeling.

She huffs, opens her thighs wider, gives herself up to you - and that's another victory. Her fingers reach up and dance against the scruff on your jaw like it's a fond curiosity. You watch her search your face for affirmation like it'll fix everything. There's not much to do but to slip your arms around the waist, let her wrists cross over your shoulders like she needs the anchor to survive.

"So pull out then, mister-good-ideas-at-work," she taunts, nosing at your throat, the underside of your jaw, up to your ear: "Show me, if it's so easy."

You can barely breathe, it's so tense; the way she teases the shape of it, her cunt slick and open against you. She'll stretch like she was tailored for the fit, easy and familiar, taking, taking, taking - she's always such an angel, but she's halfway in hell already, legs spread out, slick pussy lips bumping against the blunt head of your cock, so wide, so vulnerable.

"Sana," you hear yourself say, voice like sandpaper, throat drying. Her smile twists her features to something more-knowing, all full-lipped and curving at the corners - she's a little more practiced in sinning, knows the game better. It's an act and it isn't, all at once.

"C'mon, I need it," she drawls, but the soft little plea comes back: "please."

Your hand drops from her mouth, smoothing over her chin, down the swell of her breasts, her ribs. You slip your cock inside her and can see the exact moment her face blanches - it's so sweet, so sharp: her eyes widen and her jaw goes slack, lips falling open as her brow furrows. She's so wet around you, taking you, swallowing up every inch like it's no work at all, her perfect pussy clenching just as it hits the base: like it's muscle memory, like she's been molding herself for it, opening for you. The very thought makes you want to fuck her even deeper: you tighten your hand at her hip, drag yourself out of the slick squeeze of her cunt.

"Oh," Sana breathes out, eyes half-lidded. "Holy- oh, you're-"

Your cock sinks deeper. The word gets lost in her moan; a crease forms on the bridge of her nose, between her brows, and she presses her fingers to your nape, clutching at the skin like she's unsure of the support. One of her palms strokes across your cheek: a wonder, a mercy, a favor, all of it. You'll ruin her, just like she wants, just like you promised. You're sure of it.

You have to fight the urge to ask if she's okay, because you know what kind of face she'd make: exasperated, disappointed, incredulous. Instead you snap your hips and drive yourself inside of her again.

All her thoughts and her confidence - the casual faux-command, the playful, arrogant tilt in the turn of her words - unspools, dissolves, crumples in her eyes, collapsing to dust around you: she can't even choke out her filthy demands, let alone the sugar-soaked slights and slander that came first. The innuendos, the bullshit, all those deliciously-subtle negotiations. She blinks, and the second you slide a couple inches back in and in and in, her eyes flicker shut and you both exhale into the same breath: an oh-my-fuck-Sana, and the answering whimper-moan that falls so effortlessly out of her mouth. Your palm burns against her hip bone, sinking deep, trying to press her tight against your cock, skin-to-skin and full-to-the-brim.

"How," Sana gasps out, sounding delirious, out-of-it, her brain rattled by nothing more than the full, perfect fit of your cock inside her. Her fingers lock behind your head, pulling you even closer. She gasps against your mouth, "-how does it- fuck, oh my god, fuck-"

You see what she's getting at.

There's nothing separating you, and it feels - well, her pussy is unbelievable. The realization is hitting you harder with each glide you sink inside her; just like everything else with Sana - charged, thrilling, slightly inappropriate and hotter for it.

And you'd tell her if you had the words - how fucking good she feels, the grip around your shaft as you hilt inside her, the exact feel, taste, texture of Sana's perfect, pretty, slick-squeezing cunt. Oh, you're slaking a kind thirst here they write stories about, the kind you die for: it'll never be sated, you'll always be seeking, and the deeper you go the further you drown.

"Yeah," is all you can say. "Fuck." The only explanation.

Her voice goes tighter with each stroke, her legs wrapping around your waist like rope. You're touching everything of Sana that can be touched: you kiss her hair, suck marks into her collarbone, cup her face and force her eyelashes open; you fill her up so deep you can feel her throat tremble when your name just brushes the roof of her mouth.

Oh, it's rough, messy, somehow incandescent; you're pounding her right there on the counter, against the sink. The showerhead's hissing just loud enough for you to miss the string of expletives you know she'd be spitting, the half-bitten curses. She keeps her ankles hooked like she's afraid you'll fall, afraid that you'd slip out of her, leave her empty, unoccupied, unfulfilled, wanting.

"Fuck, baby," you hear, feel against you: her lips are near your ear. She shivers. "If I knew," a pause as Sana swallows, her hair clinging damply to her forehead. "If I knew- felt this good- you're going to- your fucking cock, I swear, ohmygod, I swear-"

You press your mouth right at her temple, harshening the rhythm and loving the way her fingernails dig hard, bright crescents into the skin of your back; there'll be marks there tomorrow, the perfect imprints of her grasping, coming apart, holding on.

"God, Sana," you mutter, almost desperate. It's such a fucking disaster. She's wet on your skin, soaking everywhere. It's so fucking hot.

You want her cumming on your cock; you want her on her back, knees up, shaking; you want her a sweat-shining mess, breathless and glassy-eyed. You'd worship her body if you didn't have your hands clenching her ass so you could push her (one, two, three, four) times (five) against the tile, (six) against your skin.

It's more imperative than religion, really.

Three months later and you suppose there's been a lot of perfect, sopping-wet, begging-and-creaming, broken-off, rough-thrusting, sinful fucking, and sometimes it's in her apartment or in the backseat of her car or in your fucking kitchen, her braced up against the island countertop with her legs spread and you railing her in her pajamas. Sometimes it's when Sana whimpers in this awful way when she's kissing you, pressing a soft, barely audible "ruin me," into your mouth - it's then when she gets really, truly fucking filthy: you're actually going to fucking cum inside her, sobbing and stupid, if she doesn't fucking knock it off. If this doesn't just kill you both - and that's how it'll go: her legs locked so tight around your waist, hands white-knuckled around your shoulders, face-to-face and with the base of her cunt kissing your cock so sweetly.

Sana makes a weak, overwhelmed noise, like the same thought's gotten the best of her, too.

"My pussy," she says in this high, thin whisper. "It needs you. Like I fucking - oh, fuck - like I think I was made for your cock." Her words have gotten little manic, voice edging at hysterical: "It's a perfect fit. Just feels fucking-" A whine pitches in her throat and she grinds her clit against your lower stomach, her abs quivering like she's had three cups of coffee.

You thrust once - no, you really, truly fuck her: you snap in and in and in - you hold her fast to the sink basin and bury your cock all the way to her deepest point, to where Sana clenches and her muscles ripple around you.

She's always so sensitive. Like in a smearing-lipstick, fucked-through-half-a-box-of-tissues, you-absolute-angel kind of way.

But there's no tease, no falsified modesty to it - none of the push-and-pull from either of you; your expressions are blissed-out, stuck in awe, in reverence. Jaws dropped and punching out each hard, deep fuck into her, gasping for air. "Oh my god," she's saying, head lolling like there's no rigidity left to her spine, nails digging into the hard muscle of your back. She's saying other shit - and you're talking, too, talking a bit: it's the kind of delirium that strips language to the bone. "Holy fuck- I know- Yeah. Fuck, I know."

The nodding is excessive - but in your shared defense, so is the sensation of fucking each other raw. Who the fuck coulda guessed?

She's hot and tight and god-blessedly gorgeous - and you tell her that. From the first time you watched her stretch a condom over your cock, roll it down with her palm, and felt her pussy sink onto you inch by inch and the pressure was immediate and aching - "It feels so fucking good," she'd been saying - to the fifth, to the fiftieth. To her draining you dry, her moans winding you up and around her finger - even that first time in a filthy, nasty, cramped bathroom stall, drunk as all fuck, and then the next morning. "More, more, more," and now, too, all: "It's everything, please, fuck, keep going," all the other times where your tongues have turned to satin, curling into the place of your own destruction, where the warmth is licking out all sense.

In the worst of moments, in the best - she's clung to you, body arched up, hips up, heels dug into you so hard you might be bruised under her.

All her moans are punched-out, high-pitched, shuddering with her exhales.

It's everything: "Don't stop."

And that's really how the last shred of coherency slips past, disappears down the drain: her voice twists as you graze the spot inside her you want her to cry at, and you sink into a pleasure so intense, a release so in-tune, it's like it'd only be complete after you both sank to hell.

"Such a good girl," you kiss into her skin, sinking your fingers into the round fullness of her butt, spreading her apart so she knows, even better, exactly where her cunt ends and your cock begins. "The prettiest fucking girl; your fucking pussy is so tight; hot and soaking wet for me." Your voice sounds worse with each dirty little nothing: you've both been babbling for a while. Maybe ten seconds. Maybe since the beginning. "I think I could fuck you forever."

"Cocksleeve," she agrees, and tips her chin to the ceiling, blinking hard at nothing, trying not to lose it, but maybe also, in the same sense: "Literally could just - be my cunt. For the rest of time. Cocksleeve."

"Gorgeous," is what comes next out of your mouth; and, in some warped parallel to the truth, "All mine."

For her, too, really: she likes being tossed around, told how much you need to breed her, how slutty she is - but then you watch how her brain fries with the softer, sweeter stuff. Oh, you're making love to the thoughts she keeps trapped under a box in the back of her head, and all the things she'll only dare admit to under dim lamplight; when she thinks she can disguise how they might come across as anything at all besides absolutely fucking tragic.

You could bottle her tears for how sentimental this shit is - well, you could do that anyway - the whole messy situation. You say her name once and she whimpers out your own. That's the state of affairs. Just one look at her face is all you need. It's an instant trigger, it's how the electricity rushes and buzzes through the wires.

"You're stunning," you say, totally earnest.

And the heat goes straight to her guts.

It's the transparency of it all, or the bordering bratty-tilt to it, or something, you're not a therapist - it's just what sends Sana toppling, fluttering like a heartbeat as her hips stutter into your own, legs spasming, pussy clenching - and right on the heel of that, with a strangled: "So fucking good to me, I swear, please-"

The moan barely passes the boundary of her lips as it breaks like dawn over her body, sending her spine arcing, chest heaving. It's a kettle-whistle pitch and you think your neighbors are sick of the screams, the late-night-to-early-morning, pounding rhythm against the thin walls, the laughter, the headboard beating like a drum. And they would have to be blind, to not look at her and see a sin they want to taste, too - she's divine like this, moans broken-off and falling into each other, a slur, a blur, her tits bouncing under the flimsy tank, rising higher with each stroke - the fat, firm weight of them; and this is when you know she's going to cum on your cock, the way her muscles go loose, pliant, willing, relaxed - it's all an afterglow in the waiting, she's wriggling into her death, in anticipation, arching up to meet you.

When you pull your hand out from under her ass to grab a fistful of her shirt, right at the center and pulling up to keep her back arched off the counter, her breasts spill from the loosened material and up, and up - they bounce higher, tighter; you're pounding her sopping-wet pussy harder than you have any right to.

There is no heaven to compare.

You'll tell her, if you'll survive the sight of it: Sana is an absolute fucking wreck. Her jaw is slack, her lipstick has long smeared to obscurity and she is a vision in the sexiest, sluttiest sense. She is the kind of fucked that's worth staying dead for. Worth taking last breaths to witness, dying to witness.

And, the moment her lips graze yours: your insides crackle and smolder.

Her hand hits the counter, knocking whatever's next to you onto the tile - the clatter would've been distracting, but you're balls-deep and you think it'd break her if you hit it any rougher-

"Ruin me," Sana pants into your mouth, barely audible. "Fucking ruin me, please, ruin me-"

"Sana," you manage through the hot clench of her around you, the near-painful crush of her arms tight at your waist.

"Need your cum," is what she sounds like. "Like fuck, do you feel that?" She's breathing into your ear. "God, fuck, your cock is right against my tummy, right here," she mewls, one slender hand slipping down to tap a knuckle right below her belly-button, "can feel it pressing up against me," and your mind's gone off, racing down every back-alley, all the old dirt-road streets: "You'd cum right up my little womb. You could. If you wanted, you could breed me up - pump me full, fuck me full. Give me- just - give me everything," and she has no idea - no idea what she's saying, what she's doing, how hard it is to think around a girl with such a perfect, pretty, slick-squeezing cunt-

"Sana," is all you can manage, warning and plea in one. "Careful." It's stupid: you have half a foot on her, outweighing her by more than the other direction, and yet Sana makes you weak. You're like clay for her to mold, bending beneath her fingertips and falling straight through, like the word please: a request. You don't know how she has you all figured out. It's no fun this way.

"Or else what?" Sana smirks, winning. "Gonna get me pregnant?"

You swear you see stars, that it's going to end embarrassingly fast for you, and the thought of you hilting right into Sana's tight cunt, knocking up against her insides, breeding her like your stupid fucking cock knows it wants, that's so, so fucking filthy - no, no, fuck no: that's not what this is, this is supposed to be innocuous, or some approximation of it - you're gonna put her on her knees, cum on her face, fuck a load across her tits, in the bowl of her cupped palms and watch her lap it up and lick clean her long fingers, maybe push the whole, aching head of your cock between the lips of her plush, pink, sweet-as-can-be mouth. Send the load directly down her throat, tugging those gorgeous tresses while her brown, liquid eyes peer up at you. A mess: a sopping, fucked-out, splayed-out, mess.

"Filthy fucking mouth," you deflect, because you can't keep on track with how pretty Sana's perfect cunt's clutching you like a fucking fist, her tiny frame somehow matching you, thrust for thrust.

"What about it," and Sana isn't even flinching.

"Gonna cum in it," you snap, a growl, and it's supposed to be a threat, but then it hits - right at the crease between her torso and legs, your favorite place to pound into her; you're fucking her like a toy, treating her like the easiest little hole you've ever had your hands on, and you'd never pull out, you'd never give this up and Sana knows it, too - you have to make sure to take the base of your cock and work your cum deeper into the bowels of her perfect, hot cunt.

"Yeah?" she hums resplendently.

Somehow, fucked-out and blissful, soaking your cock as you split her open, there's a note of tease in her voice - and an echo in the swell of her womb, clenching, just as willing; Sana's a genius, so she must have found all this shit out already - but it's the type of thing you have to admit, privately and to yourself, through gritted teeth, not within hearing-distance of a girl whose smile could undo every thread in the fabric of time: it's kind of really, ridiculously hot.

"Can you promise?"

"Yeah," you choke.

"Go on," breathes Sana, a dare and a request in one. "Love hearing you say it."

"On your knees," you try to swallow, "gonna pump your cute little throat full," you groan, a man unmade, "gonna have to fuck you like this again, baby. I'm going to make you-"

Make her what: a mother? A whore? A wife, a baby, something she'll be afraid to call out loud, but will say anyway-

"Yours," and that's Sana, fucking the thought out of your head, "so you could use me up, so you'd make me take it, give me everything - cum, cum in me, I need it- please," her voice climbing, crescendoing, "Cum in me," a broken record, all instinct. Sana and her tight, creamy little pussy, you pumping full, you flooding her insides and spilling out, the messier the better - it's how she gets off, her voice wavering until you can feel the shivering, the shaking, the quivering; that perfect moment of collapse, where you're there with her, just the same.

There's a certain kind of pure, self-destructive stupidity in trying to rationalize it, you know, but that's the fucked-up part.

"Oh," she breathes, deep and deliriously hot, and it's an aftershock of its own.

There's no reasoning with how badly you're pounding into her, fucking your cum as deep as it'll go, letting her soft curves rut against your body, to meet her rhythm in turn, to fill her up to the brim and then just a bit over.

"Oh, I can feel it," and Sana sounds like you've done the unthinkable: as if you'd broken a prayer, a hymn, the key to heaven held beneath the wetness, the heat, the fluttering pulse, the tightness, the sex, this body of yours. Like she could die. Like she should die. "That's - oh, oh - your cum's filling up my pussy," and it doesn't register that she shouldn't say it, and you should be telling her to shut the fuck up, but it just doesn't cross your mind at all: "Oh, God. You're - it's so hot inside of me, can - feel it," and it's all true.

There's nothing like it, her silken, creamy, slushy warmth surrounding your softening cock, the way you fit so easily against her.

"I told you," is the first thing out of her gorgeous, swollen mouth. Her lips brush your jaw, your neck. Sana's breath tickles, light on your skin. "No shot you were pulling out."

"Shut up," is the best you've got - it makes her laugh, eyes creasing, throaty and sweet; oh, there's that quintessential Minatozaki charm.

(That's it: she has your number; you watch her smile, watch the way her legs shake when you slip out of her, watch her warm brown eyes flit upwards. You can't let her leave. And she knows.

Sana's fingers graze the curves of your cheeks as she holds your lip between hers, tongue tasting, teasing. A long beat before she releases you, and her smile spreads over the line of your face, slow and steady, like a sunrise. She's impossibly gentle, all silk and sweetness. Unthinkingly soft as her palm smooths your hair out of your eyes - her skin on your skin. Sana's eyes are dreamy like this. The radiant gleam in her irises clashes with the moonlight on her lashes.

She's glitter, gold.)

The pharmacy. The one by your apartment that's open a little after 1 am on a Saturday.

And this should be your cue: walk on by, look forward, straight ahead.

Walk, like you have somewhere to be. Toss some distractions into the basket, drain cleaner, detergent, a fifth, new, foreign bottle of conditioner; maybe some light beer, too, to fit the stereotype, to balance things out.

You tell yourself you have no place here, amidst boxes of birth control pills, gels and patches and syringes and capsules of every single kind. Don't dawdle - don't linger.

Sana's milling the aisles in pursuit of candy, or a bag of those heinous fucking Takis, probably. A bottle of gatorade, realistically; she likes the blue one, says it tastes like putting your tongue to a nine-volt. What an eloquent princess, you think, and find it hard to hide the smile, the simpering stupidity, the tenderness.

She's someone you text about shitty things, who complains to you about her coffee stuck in the vending machine, Mina's ongoing billionaire-affair and Nayeon's chattering over some boy she likes from way back when. Someone whose high ponytail can be found above a pair of comically large glasses, a paperback novel pressed between the bend in her arm and her ribs (bitch, of course there is, she'd said when you'd asked, there's smut in everything these days); whose laugh, tinkling and lilting and silver-bright, has no right to sound as rich or as deep or as richly deep as it does.

Someone who looked in your eyes and found it - that gaping hollowness, a vacancy in the marrow - and who laughed at that, too. She makes it worse. You might actually love her.

"You're like, really nervous," she tells you, not asking.

"Well," and that's when the wall between your mouth and your brain finally collapses: it all rushes through; no air left in the room. "Maybe I'm a fucking idiot."

"I've actually always known this." Sana looks at you, half a smirk. It's almost impossible to imagine the last time you were anything else. "But, like, aren't all men, really?"

"Yeah, yeah. A genius observation." You run a hand through your hair; her smile blooms wider.

"If you insist," and Sana tosses her head, exaggerated, before dumping a shit ton of Twizzlers into the cart. "They're for Tzuyu," she explains. "She's been fucked by her publicist more times this week than she's had hot meals."

"Y'know I actually caught wind of that," you say, moving one step forward in line. "It was neck and neck until she skipped a lunch. Although I don't think those count as like, substantial nutrition. It doesn't negate the other thing."

"Fuck, you're probably right. Gummy bears next time, then."

"Right. Better, slightly."

"That's the spirit," and she peels away, leaving you with her smoky sarcasm - a hand on your bicep as she saunters off to the parking lot. "Also: get some of the good Tylenol from behind the counter. You fucked my brains out and I think I'm coming down with a concussion."

"Jesus christ," you groan. "Again with the outdoor-voice, Sana."

She flashes you her megawatt-grin, flips you off, and the whole transaction at the register is over before you've made sense of it. It's an opportunity for some perspective, a chance to decide you've got it wrong. You should walk home, Sana should ask for a ride, or an Uber - neither of you should need a night-time pharmacy. You could change it if you tried. It's almost absurdly simple, but the way she takes your hand on the walk home is so soft. She's so close: her profile is elegant, poised in the streetlamp's sick, sulfur glow.

You turn the key. There's her laughter again, echoing like windchimes through the city.

And, fuck. It's going to be harder to forget this than you think.

"The internet says it's best to use within twenty-four hours," is all Sana says about it. The tablet's small and green. She hands the plastic bottle to you to check it. Her hair's fallen over her shoulders like ribbons, soft as her eyes. "And the way Momo described it," she explains, almost playfully, "if I wait to take this tomorrow, I think we'd get an excuse to fool around some more."

The look she gives you then is somehow uncharged, despite the suggestion, and she has that habit, when she's laughing or when she's moaning, of chewing on the inside of her lip. She's sitting on top of your breakfast table and looking like starlight. She uncrosses her legs, tips her head.

"What do you think?" and it's everything, a complex trap in four syllables. She's caught you well and squarely. "Do we have a reason?"

"Hm," you say. Sana crosses her legs the other way.

"It's bona fide," she says, teasing you a little, running a finger along the tabletop, her eyes flicking up. She's impossible. It's terrible. "You can creampie me over and over. Can fill up every inch of my pussy - fill my guts right up, and breed me good."

"Huh." It's all you have left to deflect with, when she's laid it all out like that. "That's not what bona fide means, by the way."

Sana lifts a hand, cocks her head. "Means you can do whatever you want." She clicks her tongue, scandalized. There's not much point in refusing, and not even a chance.

"Carte blanche might be what you're after," you offer.

Her laugh is a little breathless, annoyed. "Yeah," and it's like she's flushing pink. "That's what I said. Are you gonna ask me if I know what creampie means too, smartass?"

"Princess," you say, grinning a little, setting the plastic down beside her. You're pretty sure it's rhetorical anyway. "If you read even another sentence from one of Momo's incognito tabs, you'd end up drooling on my sheets." You keep her gaze, eyes locked - well, at least one of you's taking this seriously, you think, as the corners of your lips curve, unbidden - fuck, she's always making you smile.

"Does this mean you're into me, or something?" You tilt your head, pretend to consider. Sana makes a show of scowling. "Or do you just have a thing for being a cumslut," you gesture vaguely, "like, generically?"

Sana leans in and kisses the underside of your chin.

Quick, easy; she snaps back into place like you'd somehow never notice. "A little of both," she says, as breezy as possible. "I'm surprised you're ruling out me taking pity on you." Her eyes have all the mirth you'd expect, and the warmth - the fondness. She looks up at you, and her smile's not as bright or sharp as it used to be. She just seems happy. "Wishful thinking, but whatever."

And maybe Sana's on to something: wishful thinking - but, then again, maybe you're getting close to the part where you've both got it all so, so wrong. You'll have to figure things out from there. Either way, you're at a place where you're genuinely taking medical advice from Hirai Momo.

So, it is what it is.

You don't exactly talk about it. Which is to say neither of you ever bring up how this whole arrangement came to be.

Because it's not romance, it's not sweet, it's not soft or sentimental - it's not even halfway serious: the way everything unfolds haphazardly and with no real, defined idea of what you're getting yourself into, other than a precautionary 'hey, we're not gonna know each other' rule that got broken almost instantly is all that you can divulge, for now. There's all these complexities, layered and tangled and difficult. It's all-consuming. It's an emotional quagmire. It's the kind of thing that'll take years to unpack, the kind that'll never really have an actual explanation; a mistake, probably, you think, one worth repeating, definitely.

"Look. You're leaking out of me," she murmurs from against your pillows, thighs parting - you glance at her cunt, exposed by her twisted panties, and sorta get stuck there. Sana laughs. "Wow," she says, watching you with that wide-open smile of hers, dark hair splayed across the pillows. "Your obsession's worse than I thought."

She's leaving town in the afternoon, so it's been this lazy, lingering fuck all morning, just to pass the time.

You're working from home in the most metaphorical way possible - taking advantage of the daylight streaming in the windows, playing with her hair, fucking her on and off until you get tired of having a mess of a stranger in your apartment. Right. That's the explanation you'll give, when anyone asks. It's a miracle you've slept at all - but then again, Sana gets blissfully and completely tuckered out, turns into putty in your arms, and this is the most dangerous thing of all, the sultry, doe-eyed beauty of her slack mouth in the dark.

You fell asleep together the first time you shared a bed and now never seem to wake up on your own anymore.

She's lax on your mattress, and the blanket's riding low on her thighs, revealing the slopes of her perfect ass. Her little cunt's gaping. Leaking cum. There is no denying it. You think the devil would look a lot like this.

You place your reading glasses delicately on the nightstand, pretend you haven't heard her - or the squelch of her fucked out cunt as she slides a finger down, down, down-

"Oh. Am I distracting you?"

"You have a breeding kink," you say, once she's on a second bottle of water, when her skin's less flushed. You're rubbing between her shoulder blades - she's glowing in your sheets like she belongs there, all white satin and innocence, even with the sweat matted at the ends of her hair.

"Probably," sighs Sana, eyelashes fluttering. "Do I?"

"Definitely," you say, amused.

"Maybe," hums Sana, sounding winded still. You dig your fingers into the nape of her neck, and the next sound out of her mouth is not entirely uncontrolled. You have a point; you're both thinking it. You're just not going to make it. "What's your excuse?"

"Excuse?"

You're not asking her to clarify the question, you're simply buying time to scramble for an answer. Because- "I have no excuse." You shrug. "Just - biology." She rolls her eyes at the apparent insufficiency. "Something about filling up this perfect little body and ruining your whole" - you make a gesture toward her - "pristine-ness."

"Ah, there we go." Sana sits up, the sun casting golden streaks over the angles of her back as she goes.

She stretches like it's an accident, reaches for the hair-tie on the nightstand, and it doesn't matter if you see her do it. "Well." She combs back her damp curls, piling it in an errant bun with practiced ease. It looks good. It's hot, actually. Your cock's still sensitive - but, well, so is Sana's everything. "We're fucked in the head. We get it out of our systems."

"Speak for yourself," you say. She raises a pointed, unmistakably Sana-ish brow. "I'm well-adjusted," you insist. "No baggage."

You watch her go through a moment of disbelief, trying to find some leeway before she snorts. She's climbing on top of you, apparently. Theoretically, you've been keeping an eye on the clock - counting down the minutes before she has to be checking bags and folding up a boarding pass into her purse - first class, because the company believes luxury begets beauty. You'd argue she was both regardless, but-

"That," she says, very matter-of-fact, and settles down so the curve of her ass is over your thigh. It's light pressure. Barely. "Is bullshit."

"I thought that's what you wanted, Ms. Corporate-wunderkind. A therapist type."

"Shut the fuck up." She smacks your chest, too hard to be playful, but a beat later and her hand's snaked back behind her, palm curved over your cock with a promise that makes the rest of the world seem sort of dull.

You shift beneath her, involuntary. Let your hands trail to the warm hollow of her hips, brushing your thumbs over the pink blush marks that blossom on her skin when you touch her for too long.

"Wanting, wanting," she muses, with a strangely alluring sense of casualness, "you've got one track mind - ah - don't even try to hide it." You're more interested in her fingers dragging over your tip, the graceful knuckles that go rigid as she finds your cockhead grazing over the pad of her palm. "For all you know I'll fuck another guy," she says, in a matter-of-fact, it doesn't matter anyway type tone. "Or, god, a dozen."

"Please." Your incredulity and chagrin slip out in equal measure. "Have pity."

Sana cocks her head, intrigued, and takes ahold of the base of your dick.

"No," she decides, "can't say that I can."

There's the stretch, the press. She sinks onto you with no resistance; she's all velvety and wet and you know you were the one who'd gotten her that way. You hiss - so does she. Then it's just quiet again, except for Sana shifting above you, her long legs tangling with yours, the heels of her palms pinning your thighs down to the mattress behind her. She gives a languid little swivel.

"Do you remember," you hear Sana saying, very dreamily, and that's what makes you think perhaps it isn't a serious inquiry and that your input isn't required. She goes, "there was that last day of scheduled rehearsals, that we had before the long winter break. And we got through the numbers in four hours, maybe? Tons of time to kill, and there was nowhere for me to be."

"You came over to my place," you mumble, a vague, wordless reminder of your role.

"Right." Another shift; you're still sensitive as fuck but Sana's weight feels good in your lap and the view of her tits is objectively excellent. "And I took a shower."

"Sure."

She squeezes and rises in tandem, sighing blissfully.

You sit up slightly, support yourself on one elbow and watch yourself disappear, reappear in the wet slit of Sana's pussy. "For a really long time."

"Like an hour," agrees Sana, almost humming, and snaps her hips forward. The jolt forces a groan out of you. She tilts her head up as she does it again, eyelashes fanned, and the reverberation of her movements shakes loose that damned piece of hair clinging to the arch of her temple. You watch a thin stripe of cum leaking out of her, too; that'd been inside her an hour ago. Maybe less. She's fucking you like it doesn't bother her, like she'll never grow tired.

She pulls at the long lock of her hair, seems to examine it contemplatively. She's so perfectly content in her self-aware, blasé, cat-like smugness, purring and untouchable and arching back. Then she says, "That was because I was fantasizing about getting filled with so much cum that I just started running down your shampoo bottle - that's, like, the ultimate breeding fantasy for me, honestly."

"What about that one time," you say, as though unhinged, as though half-conscious, as though every word has the consistency of molasses and there's a bright pulse of blood flooding your brain and rushing out your cock, "when we snuck out to the parking lot, and I made you sit on the hood of my car-"

"Shh, not the same," dismisses Sana, leaning into you, and you hold her there, lock your fingers into the swell of her ass to steady the desperate throbbing inside her pussy. Her tongue darts to the corner of her mouth, but her head lolls to the side, the gauzy curtain of her hair swaying at her waist.

"But," she concedes, an exhale, "that was good, yeah."

"You came really fast - like, so fast," you insist, thrusting up to the sound of her small groan. Her body, all lush skin and ample, unresisting curves, is flushed and gleaming. There's so much of her to take in: the inky fan of her lashes, the ridge of her ribs, the way her breasts hang heavy as she moves. This kind of debauched view feels exclusive, as if reserved just for you. "Remember that?"

"Did I?" She blinks owlishly.

"I'm remembering it for you." Your palm is heavy on her ass; it's what keeps you grounded, lets you get leverage. "What were you thinking about then?"

She bares her teeth in an indecent grin, tugs on the corner of her lip, as if reveling in the memory.

You watch her mouth open, close again.

It clicks: "Right," she answers, finally, and rides you all the harder. "Errant thought, but." She climbs up onto her feet, knees swung wide, her tiny soles balanced perilously atop the duvet - it's all slippery friction and she's so light you could flip her right over. It's all at your discretion. You lean up further. Your arm braces her back, low and hot. "Was imagining how you'd feel in my ass," Sana continues, carelessly, matter-of-fact, as if discussing dinner plans or a movie rental, and you don't expect a laugh from your lungs, but it comes out harshly, all surprise and hot delight, like a confession.

"This was a few years ago," Sana says.

She lifts off, teases your cockhead with the shallowest grip. Watches all the lines in your face start to wobble, and then sinks back down, all the way, burying your cock in her pussy again. Her lips move, you bottom out, you know she's going to ruin your next orgasm like that.

"Someone online posted some bullshit comment about me being - quote-unquote - easy," she tells you, turning her head to the side, to the window. You know the expression on her face: her mouth curved, eyes dark and so, so full of that amused contempt. "Just this thing that you see on the internet all the time. Everyone just doing the same thing - said I probably love it in the ass and - yeah. Can't recall. Fucked off right away."

"Really stuck with you, huh?" Your hips snap, and you swallow hard. "Brought that - image. Up. Didn't it."

"Guess it kind of did."

"Uh-huh."

She licks her lips. "I'd heard worse," she says, and hums, low.

Your grip on her back, her waist, her hip - they're steel-tight. "Felt like someone had put it in my head," Sana remarks, dreamily, then raises an eyebrow. "So y'know. Had a thought and let it take me there. Only made sense. Let myself. Daydream a little, take a long shower," and her smile goes lopsided, her eyes drift, "breathe hard against the bathroom tile, take two of my own fingers up there-"

And she drops, sinks, the lewd, sloshing sound of it resonant; your hands pull her to you by the roots of her hair and she gasps, heaves a small, faltering breath. She's so fucking wet.

"Baby," you groan, completely flat. "I'm gonna cum in you."

"Yeah." Sana looks like she's miles away. She could be. "I know."

She brushes the hair out of your face, holds her nose to your cheek, starts riding you fast, faster - and you do.

This is where the story actually starts - which, in retrospect, is kind of ironic, because everything was technically pre-written, already preordained:

You're in an airport, arriving late and harried, your hair a mess, Sana's luggage slipping from your shoulders. It's snowing biblically outside, the pavement frosted and dangerously slick with ice. The precipitation heavy and thick and white enough to obscure vision. You keep checking your phone, checking your texts, trying to stay grounded even though the forecasters specifically said the skies would clear by sundown.

Flying conditions: sub-optimal - but only barely.

You think serendipity could be something of an old friend to the two of you - if only the pantheon of weather-adjacent gods didn't seem to like her just a little more.

She's calm and unruffled and preposterously cool, with one hand slipped into her coat pocket, her face tipped towards the window so she can survey the falling snow. She looks the part of the chic world-traveller, clad in leather gloves and a tweed peacoat, the collar popped high and stern.

In contrast, you feel like the embodiment of frazzled, clutching anxiously at the handle of her suitcase and turning frantically to ask her which direction to head in; you're not her manager, you didn't plan her flight, didn't schedule any car services for the ride to her hotel. In a few odd hours she'll be on a different continent, standing in a different hemisphere, and you don't really know what to do with your hands.

"When am I gonna see you again?" she asks, pointedly sidestepping all forms of goodbye, bypassing any polite small-talk about the state of the storm.

She's done up in semi-dramatic makeup, a pair of gold earrings swinging when she tilts her head, fixes the edge of her fringe with her fingers: you watch her catch herself, relax - like a true work of art, you suppose, nothing to imply a separation.

There's the duality, you guess. You're looking at a profundity in motion.

And there will be a thousand cameras in her face when she touches down, vying for attention, swivelling and clicking, seeking shots that are just perfect enough - the internet is rabid and frothing at the mouth for a glimpse, some semblance of truth to satiate the rumor-mongers and their constant dissections of the arch of her spine, in the sway of her walk. She's got knee-high socks on and the fashion mags will be desperate to tear her apart at the seams, claim a sliver of all that profundity - they'll never know it's less of an aesthetic decision and more just a stopgap for the thumbprints blooming yellow-bruised in the curves of her calves.

Sana's watching you watch her; expectantly, eyes shining, big enough to fall into.

"Soon," you say, like you have a choice, and hope it sounds like reassurance, not resignation. "Hopefully soon."

She lifts her carry-on to one shoulder, smiles.

The lens you have is quieter, subtler - that's all.

(You can feel Sana turn to look from the terminal, paused, hovering, her jaw catching on her silhouette; and she waits until you're gone before she strides confidently to the desk, brandishing documents and asking sweetly, charmingly, for the check-in. Her walk slows, stutter-stops. Her posture straightens.

She brushes back her hair and keeps going.)

"You better not be romanticizing your melancholic solitude," Momo says later, with a tray of food in her hands.

It's the next day - same time, probably - you'd gotten back from the airport, hailed a cab and stewed in something like self-reflection before deciding you'd bury yourself in your work. You've been letting Sana distract you too much recently - not that you particularly mind it - but if she's not here to drag you into a conference room and drop to her knees, you might as well start making some progress elsewhere.

You roll your pen around your fingers. "What exactly do you think I'm gonna get up to? Staying up until midnight writing shitty poetry and getting blackout drunk?" Momo snorts. "She'll be gone for two weeks, Momo, not ten years. I think I'm gonna manage okay."

"Don't go punching through glass windows just yet, buddy. It's been twenty-four hours, that's nowhere near enough time for your brain to bathe itself in all the wrong chemicals yet." She plops a bowl of instant udon down in front of you. You realize suddenly you haven't eaten in - well, quite some time.

She wrinkles her nose. "God. So morose."

When you glance up, Momo's regarding you with one fist balled tight to her hip. You stare back at her. Her shirt is doing absolutely nothing to contain the top-half of her chest and your coworkers keep passing and rubbernecking. You get it. Her lanyard just goes right through the center of her cleavage; you sorta squint.

Some things never change.

"Um," she says, mock-scandalized. "Can you not?"

You lean back in your seat. "That was totally professional. I looked right at you."

"Yeah, like I'm a specimen." Momo pulls out the chair next to yours and takes a seat.

"I mean, you kind of are," you deadpan.

Momo chortles, pointing her chopsticks at you. "That was almost flattering, thank you." She slurps up the first noodle. "If you're nice to me, I won't tell Sana you're flirting with girls at the office while she's away. I think she'd come all the way back and wring our necks."

"And wouldn't we deserve it," you add. Your computer screen is frozen, blue-tinted with failure. Great. Momo sits down and the sky's falling within seconds. You assure her for the umpteenth time that she's not really your type anyway.

"Excuse you," Momo says, indignant, because that's a joke.

See - Momo's everybody's type, if you had to peg the definitive example of universal attractiveness. She's everyone's favorite eye-candy whether they swing right, left, upside down or none-of-the-above; it's the ass, ostensibly. The big eyes, the gorgeous cheekbones too - her jet-black hair's cut short, practically the opposite of Sana, sleek and androgynous and hanging off her shoulders in the prettiest sort of way.

If they made dolls they'd be collectibles, wildly sought after as a pair, mint-in-box-worthy - the perfect, polished icons of feminine beauty: brains, bravery, strength. But also definitely the ass.

You blink. "Is there something you're here to harass me for, or is my total lack of interest in banging you just something you're interested in re-establishing?"

"I dunno," Momo says around a mouthful of noodles, "it's distracting. It feels weird when Sana isn't here. Things don't feel very funny. Or cute, y'know? I feel like a standup act missing the lead comic relief."

"Are you saying I'm not hilarious and entertaining?"

"I think you're funny, but." She munches happily on some spring onions. "Not intentionally, not usually."

"So why are you getting soup all over my desk?"

"You're pouty for one, all sad-like," Momo says, swallowing. "And you're supposed to be coming up with this advertising pitch and the only thing written in that word doc was 'hey guys'."

"First draft's the hardest," you recite automatically. "I'll figure it out."

"But not anytime soon," Momo drawls.

You slump your shoulders. "But not anytime soon, no."

"If you miss her, just call her," Momo urges, with all the delicacy of an elephant on stilts. "I'm sure she's bored and horny. Like, wicked horny."

Momo is both direct and filthy - there's another difference. Sana's a layer cake: whip it into shape, top it off in pink icing, drizzle white syrup on top; she looks good and acts good and you can swallow her whole, every inch of her tasting sugary, syrupy sweet. Momo doesn't hide that she's the filthiest mess in a five-mile radius; the complete opposite of Sana - well, sorta.

"I heard you dropped a load inside her, earlier." She laughs out loud, true to form. "What the fuck are you thinking? I mean, serious talk: that shit will also rewrite your brain-chemistry. And the farther Sana is from us, the more your neurons are going to start feeling like they're fucking dying, so don't give me your stupid bullshit and tell me you're 'fine' when you're like, a total wreck."

"Can you fucking keep it down?" You rub a hand over your face. "Also wasn't it you who called us 'all-or-nothing?'"

"That was like a month ago. The whole being-casual-and-making-it-work shtick seemed neat and I wanted in. Also it's February 14th, you jackass. I think you two skipped past normal the second you could get into each other's pants." Momo slurps the broth. "Totally unhealthy."

"Also not fucking true." You exhale. "What am I gonna do?"

She gives you an are you stupid? look. "Text her," she enunciates slowly, like you're hearing her wrong. "Call her, I dunno. Romance is all about grand gestures and unreliable narration. Or at least she reads enough trashy Nancy-Meyers-movies-adapted-into-books-style romance to try and extrapolate something. Go out, and find some flowers." The next bite of her noodles is overly enthusiastic. "Make the girl feel special or something."

"Right, she's gonna love that."

"That's what all the books say."

You purse your lips. "So basically all the books have lied, but Sana loves them anyway because they make her cum with how badly they're written, and now you want me to act like they're an instruction manual on fucking courtship. Am I missing any other steps? Like, does this take into account the fact that I'm also really not that romantically inclined-"

"I think you have to do something nice, put some effort in," Momo interrupts, sagely. "Y'know, the gesture's important. A little creative thought. Something better than you've got going on in that empty husk of an advertising pitch. She doesn't actually care about flowers, but it means you think of her."

You slide further into your seat. Momo grins at the glare you give her, too-friendly. The girl is the only person on the premises who can call you out on your bullshit with any actual weight and expect to get away with it. She doesn't technically even work with your department - has more or less established herself as some combination of A-lister, sex icon, social darling - all rolled into the body of a curvaceous woman barely dressed. And everyone's just sorta charmed by it.

If you were a slightly-less-rational person you'd probably try to date her, too.

"Did you know that St. Valentine was actually beaten to death with clubs before getting decapitated?"

It's an aside question, because the only thing worse than arguing a point with Momo is when she happens to be right.

"Where are you pulling this shit from?" Momo wonders, deadpan, wiping her chin. "Why would you tell me that?"

"Thought it might be relevant." You swirl a plastic spoon in the bowl. "Do you have anything else for me, O great and venerated sage of modern womankind?"

Momo snickers at the sarcasm. "Sure," she says. "Tell me your current thoughts on Paris."

You drag a breath through your teeth. "City's a shithole if you aren't rich, famous and absolutely beautiful. In which case, the city exists solely to bask and dote upon your presence. What was the question?"

"Stop checking the travel sites."

"I'm not."

"Are to."

"Don't."

"Do," Momo replies, primly, and waves her hand dismissively. You are very, very mature. This is your professional space. "Keep it simple." She adds, casually: "Or something."

Far, far away and farther still, a girl ducks into a hired car, takes her heels off and turns up the air conditioning, wiggling her toes in relief.

She ends up slipping out of her clothes, taking a hot shower, changing into sweatpants. A private meal is offered to her; she turns down a glass of champagne, instead requesting iced coffee with an obscene amount of espresso shots - pours a ridiculous amount of milk in until the contents are a creamy beige, not even close to being a light-roast.

Later, much later, after a scented candle is extinguished and a notebook is closed shut, the night sky still dark and unchanging, the time zones shift, and then a single, glowing notification flashes across the screen - 4.42 am, her phone says. She's drifting in and out of sleep, dreaming in monochromatic pixels.

It's a mundane, totally insignificant message: nothing fancy, nothing new. A quick update - something along the lines of where are you, what are you doing, are you safe and happy, thinking of you. But it's punctuated with an exclamation point and followed by a pair of hearts - which is something new - like you're thirteen and she's just given you her home-room assignment list on a slip of paper and made you promise to exchange homework with her in the morning.

"How cute," she breathes, softly, and feels warm.

Here are the three rules about falling. Another anecdote; another wish-wash of creative editorializing, again: you really hate that you're quoting Momo on literally any of this, but unfortunately Momo has a lot of practical advice in the form of shitty armchair-psychology.

You know because you have a literal book full of the worst pithy maxims, delivered by her in varying states of drunkenness and hysteria and grudges borne of much heavier drama, all edited to her personal taste. It's a different thread, but also all part of the story: she and Sana are best friends. Take it or leave it.

Anyway: the rules,

1.) Grand gestures. Unreliable Narrations. Know that the idea is romantic, but the process is totally horrifying.

There aren't really any guidelines or requirements, not an exact science, anyway: there are softer, slower and easier ways to love than an impulse transcontinental flight; it comes in different forms, with much fewer headaches, far, far less red tape.

Try a knee nudge in a cab, a smoke-flavored kiss on the back porch, a text me when you get home, murmured in between yawns, the click of heels coming into the house after work - maybe, outside her apartment, making out against a wall of bricks like it's all you'll get, breathless and laughing under streetlights; if Sana were any less captivating (a loaded word if there ever was one) there'd be no good reason to think or to dwell on the semantics.

2.) Bending at the knees makes you less likely to get a concussion when you lose your balance. It's still risky, still a shot in the dark: in physics, there's a certain amount of grace under pressure - Sana's adored not by men, not by people, but by the universe itself.

It feels like: she's too loved, too known. The number of followers she has is, frankly, abhorrent to your sensibilities.

3.) An object at rest remains at rest: it is up to someone else to try and change its trajectory.

For all practical intents, purpose and reasonable application: forget them.

The only lesson that counts is 4.) Fuck logic, and that goes in the book.

February 14th.

Presently, we're flying at an altitude of twenty-eight-thousand feet as we begin our descent into Charles de Gaulle Airport. I'd like to ask you to please fasten your seatbelts, place all tray-tables and upright seats in their fully-vertical positions and power off all personal electronic devices. The local temperature at the landing strip is eleven-degrees celsius or about fifty-two degrees Fahrenheit. The forecast for the rest of the afternoon predicts clear blue skies, and we would like to thank you for flying Air France. Please have your passports and immigration documents handy for quick and efficient processing.

Then the same message in French, you're guessing. Welcome then, to the City of Light.

Your cell service pings back to life as you navigate through customs. Her texts and voice-mails are short, clipped, inane: news bulletins of random things she's heard of, things that catch her attention, new designs, newly-founded associations, this gallery and that gallery, this statue, that museum - all without her own commentary or editorializing.

The deluge of information almost makes her seem impersonal, disconnected from her own thoughts, like you're getting everything secondhand. Like it's accidental.

9:00 AM - Sana: oh btw just saw the 80's hairdressing revival special in studio e. 7000 times worse than the 70's one. nothing. nada. not a single ounce of cool. not like, at ALL.

Sana: never in my life will I EVER, in the history of fashion, agree with it.

Sana: photo attached

The photo is honest-to-god terrible. You have no idea what she's referencing.

11:30 AM - Sana: idk how it happened or why, but there's this tennis match thing i guess i'm supposed to be at

Sana: im honestly too zoned-out to tell whether i actually like this game lol

Sana: how tf does everyone know the rules. what is for-de-all? is that just a made-up thing people scream when a serve bounces into the net???

Sana: we'll see how it ends

Sana: ok the pro in the white suit is kinda hot and like, sosososo talented

Sana: he hits hard and his returns are perfect

Sana: how have i gone so long without knowing how deep i could get into the sports of men in fitted shorts??

There are countless more: small-talk, casual banter, lighthearted teasing, all going at her own speed of 5000 centimeters per second. You skim through, not sure how to parse the implications: she seems at best half-focused, unengaged, probably tired - maybe high on local-jet-lag, more interested in telling you she misses you and that her hotel room bed feels massive than telling you about her afternoons wandering art museums in a designer dress; oh, the magazines are frothing over her.

For reasons you don't feel entirely ready or qualified to address, you're reading between the lines to all sorts of things.

3:00 PM - Sana: could i call you? it'd just be like 5 minutes, i'm not busy or anything but idk if youre busy. not sure if you'll reply to this right away.

Sana: sorry don't mean to disturb you (´;︵;`)

Sana: well tbh i actually kinda do mean to interrupt.

She sends an obnoxiously bright, cloyingly pink 'V-Day' Gif in place of the last text and then doesn't answer. And suddenly, in a way you hadn't considered before - you think you're losing your goddamn mind, trying to construct an actual picture from fragments, assembling all the puzzle-pieces back into a single, discernible whole. She hasn't so much as signed off her text, let alone give you anything concrete to follow up on; this whole chain reads like the equivalent of sending her a lunch break meme, asking what her day looks like.

Inconveniently: it's the 14th of February, and Sana is the kind of person you'd get chocolates for - would tear open a Valentine's Day card and sign the message and seal it off with a stamp. It'd be tacky, and overly sappy and gaudily, horribly romantic - like a suitor from the Renaissance. You've always suspected she was something like an antique, in this very modern kind of way. It's how she looks best, all draped in antique jewels, chiffon and damask, dripping pearl and lace and silver threads, all in expensive, cosmopolitan aesthetic that makes sense within itself: something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.

The insanity is that it's making perfect sense right now. You have been ruined in ways unimaginable, and you have not, as Momo kindly warned you, even known.

You are not, in fact, alright - or casual about the situation.

You need flowers, urgently: this is a gift-giving crisis.

It's funny - this winter fling, as ill-fated as they come, a few months in: time seems to pass fast. Too fast, to the point where it starts to slip away in longer and longer increments, faster and faster, further and further intervals - like shadows stretching inexorably towards dusk.

There's no flowers, no cards, no nothing - and that is sort of the nature of it, the romance of the everyday.

You're in the metro so you can't even use your data, can't send her a quick selfie of your charming visage, with the background blurring like you're getting real poetic about it. No moon, no stars, no gaslight illuminating the dark. Just plain-ass subway tracks, a near-soviet expression of concrete, and some stupid ads for full-body waxes. The trains clear the station at 8:57 PM local time. That's Paris's time, Paris's city, her backdrop. The frame of this portrait.

So, in other words: you are not poetic, at all. You've probably got nothing in your hair except dust, dirt, and a bit of airfare grime. You've still got yesterday's cologne and nothing worth sending her except an afterthought.

No photos, no video, no cards, no ring; no pearls or lace, no gold and silk - and this is total luck, by the way; serendipity must still like her more - you look across the platform and watch the lights of another train arrive: the girl stepping off is stunning.

And even further in terms of non-comparisons: she's the type who laughs too hard at your jokes and wipes away the smeared tears on her cheeks afterwards, who will drop a dirty joke at every moment, who lets you see her mouth open in a perfect, dripping-wet gape, who will sink into the mattress after a good, rough fuck, the headboard creaking; a girl who will tell you your coffee is too bitter and when you ask, sweet enough? - she'll still say no; not yet; no; don't; harder, don't you dare stop - that type of girl, is the one inching off the metro, glancing down at the watch on her slender wrist.

The trains start again and the girl is left standing on her own. In another five seconds, someone will probably say, mademoiselle? - which, also: there's a class on language you have not passed; you'll pay that back later - and in response, she'll sigh deeply, stretch her arms out. Tilt her head upwards for some fresh air.

You blink once, twice: and no - that really is her, on the other end. Sana Minatozaki - somehow inexplicably, for no reason you're privy to - has materialized as though she just decided on a whim to visit her home planet again.

You call out across the chasm, like a man possessed, and it is incredibly loud, incredibly embarrassing, incredibly out of character. You hardly notice.

Your voice catches on the draft of the tunnels; it must've echoed. She spins around to see who's calling her.

When she spots you, her face glows.

"Holy fuck," she rasps, trying to catch her breath, putting her forehead to your shoulder. "Jesus christ. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"We were in the same city," you respond, hoarse and almost panting, palms flat against her skin. Your muscles have that third-rail electricity running through the tendons and straight on through, too; Sana feels like pure tension, just burning off. There's something vaguely buzz-high about you. "Couldn't resist. I was gonna call eventually-"

She hits your shoulder like she's mad, but her face has more or less melted in pleasure, her mouth parted into a wide smile, all sharp edges and incisors. Her hair's almost a disaster: you can see the barrette slipping out, the edges of it, the glittery accents; you think about getting your hand all knotted up in the up-do and pulling - just to watch her spill off the end of the spool, tightly wound, twining around you like ribbon, sinking in and refusing to leave.

The doorman tried to ask for your coats before you fell on each other - in the middle of the lobby, if that's possible - and it's not like he even really saw anything, you were sure: just saw her smile when you pressed the tip of your fingers up under her chin, just your thumb grazing her lip before you bent your mouth to hers and didn't come up for air.

The doors of the elevator up shut close, and suddenly there's nowhere left for you to go: no further to climb, to hide, to disappear.

"You," she begins, biting off the end of the sentence in exasperation, settling instead for letting the word trail away. Her lips ghost across the hollow of your throat, the curve of your jaw, the little dip between the column and your ear, pressing hard and insistent - marking her territory.

"Do you just, y'know, pop up in fucking New York once in a while, too, for like a spot of breakfast and then, yeah, I'm good." Her voice sounds tired, worn. It's kinda cute. "No plans to stay, nothing booked, just passing through, huh?" She taps your shoulder, pulling away to run her fingers through your hair. "Idiot," she breathes, in that saccharine way of hers, smiling; you are helpless; you are done for, fully done-for: she can take as many digs at you as she wants. "Also what the fuck, you didn't answer my texts," her face crumples a little when you grab her, haul her against you - holding on, tight. It's an intoxicating rush, seeing Sana falter like that.

She's as stunning off-kilter as she is put together: more real than any human being should be allowed.

"Well," you say, not apologetic at all. "It's a holiday."

"You're making it really hard to be angry right now," she replies, lifting herself in her pumps and slotting her lips over yours. This time, the kiss lingers. It is the point of departure, a threshold of arrival: who knows whether or not she can feel you melting beneath the heat of her fingertips. You want her to take as many soft, easy-going kisses as possible - a stack, a row, a wall. If she keeps leaning into you like that, you'll do just about anything. "Not just to make a boner joke, either," Sana whispers, fingers gripping onto your shoulders for balance. "I wanna go slow for once. Real gentle."

"Say that again?" You hum, unable to leave well enough alone.

"Something slow?" She lilts.

"A boner joke."

"God," she groans. "Would it kill you, you massive fucking prick, to have a modicum of compassion and not act like you're five?"

And look - there's not enough elevator for the whole story, let alone the novel it would be to properly explain everything there is to know about Sana; how the sky goes dusky-hued when the streetlights come on; how she always fiddles with her hands in her pockets when she's bored, the impatient flex of fingers, pulling at the loose threads. How you'd kiss her knuckles to calm her - how she was annoyed that she let you in the first place.

The story of the two of you would take, well - it'd take a few months.

"Actually," you counter, "it would. Probably kill me dead. Obituary, a single photo of a smirking ass in a dress suit. Very sad."

"Christ. I've put up with way too many assholes today," she huffs, shaking her head, "for you to be the way that you are."

"Oh, trust me. It's not my favorite either." You lean back, can't quite help it: she's not at all ruffled - only curious, only teasing. You pull her hips tighter towards you. She kisses you, sighs a little: her neck smells like orange-blossoms. You had no idea that could be as sensual as it is. "You'll just have to deal," you murmur.

"Like always," she complains.

"It is pretty rough."

Sana meets your grin. Her hand cups your face - it feels oddly tender.

"How," she says, slowly, the words very carefully enunciated - "the hell did you think this would turn out?"

You open your mouth: this is what you are capable of.

Sana never actually gets around to telling you the things she meant to say: the confession of a valentine, all sappy and serious, almost candid, with gravitas - a five-paragraph essay, four pages long.

It's a messy affair - you've got a fistful of hair and the other's shoved down the front of her skirt. She's been wanting to be here all day, it seems - you've seen the text-book spread of supermodels and old-money socialites and she's wanted a moment's escape from them all, has been pining for someone, anyone (most certainly you); waiting in her pretty dress and her high heels, a set of pearl earrings, the starlet curls of her hair - the clutch she left on the floor by the door because you shoved your hand underneath the fabric, said: I'll eat you out right fucking here.

So there's a common thread, if nothing else: you and Sana are verifiably incapable of having anything resembling a serious conversation. There isn't a single point of departure: the entire thing starts out casual and remains, firmly, casual.

You are deeply unserious people; this is just how it is. So clear from your head the ideas of saviours, soulmates.

You stumble together into the sitting room of her hotel suite - the luxury is appalling, almost, the floor-to-ceiling windows opening onto a gorgeous balcony and overlooking the Seine - "It's fashion week," is her excuse, "all the good penthouses have been booked since last November," she apologizes, which you can't really wrap your mind around anyway. You nod like that's reasonable, the right answer, pull at her lip with your teeth, and she melts right into the open palm of your other hand - oh, she'll fit well here. It's where she belongs: soft, sweet, yielding to you.

"Don't need your pity," she pants, breaking the contact to speak, to drag her tongue up your collar and up to the hinge of your jaw, grinding her hips down so that you hiss and close your fist tighter in her hair, give her that sudden tug, that sweet little rush: that thing she doesn't need, wants anyway.

Her expression flicks something in you - the eyes, the mouth; the trademark Sana-sneer. And suddenly you need to pin her to the wall, the floor, hold her still for the taste. You look up to get your bearings and find the world gone monochrome: night, cold, grey, grey-on-grey, black, dark - and that's fitting somehow. Sana tilts her head away to observe you back - you have a feeling she's observing how fucked-up you are over her already, and for some reason, you can't give her the satisfaction, not quite yet: can't admit the defeat of how you can't ever take your eyes off her, the thick swell of her legs and the smooth curves of her calves. Can't lay out what you'll do to her.

Though that's about when the storybook romance vanishes, and in its place - a more familiar arrangement; the reality you'd built with her over the past half year, the awful, easy rhythm you're going to settle back into with little ceremony: all playful affection, no sentiment. Zero pressure to pretend - or to pretend anything differently.

(Which brings you to this.)

"Sana," you drawl, grabbing her chin, making her twist in the direction of your touch. "Is that your dildo stuck to the coffee table?"

Because in the middle of all this, that's what she left lying out in plain sight: a some-odd inch silicon cock, unabashedly translucent, obscenely clear; with a ridiculously realistic head, veined shaft, balls - she had gotten her vibrator out of one suitcase and forgot the rest. It's literally sitting right next to the complimentary drinks; so obviously out-of-place, it's impossible that someone could mistake it for anything.

"Oh god," is the only reply, mortified. "Please, dont. I didn't think I'd be-"

"Should I be offended?" You are doing a truly appalling job at sounding seductive. You are, in fact, kind of choking down a laugh.

Sana takes a hand through her half-disassembled hair. Tosses the bobby-pin holding up her bangs: there. Full dishevelment - the effect is startling. You can almost trace the silhouette of a girl so very badly kept together; frayed ends, straying strands, half-gossamer and half-permanent dye.

"It's a toy," Sana explains, like you hadn't pieced together that much. She shrugs off a strap of her dress, the other. "It's just plastic and stuff." She looks at it. You can see the wheels turning, trying to figure out if it's worth salvaging. Then: "Here, c'mon - don't think. Don't," she tries, unconvincingly: "think too much about this."

You raise an eyebrow.

"I was planning to fuck myself senseless, maybe because somebody wasn't answering their texts," she adds, glibly. It is absolutely stunning, watching Sana Minatozaki shamefaced, pouting - trying and failing, failing miserably - to look even a little apologetic. "Just lemme - if you're into it, y'know, we could. Use. It. Or something."

"Or something."

It's too late: you're cracking up.

"This is really what you use on your off hours? On yourself?" You pick it up: it's heavier than you expect, mostly because the thing is made of clear jelly, probably some kind of latex-powdery-water concoction - just the sheer thought is bizarre, foreign to you. The base suction cups to...any surface, you suppose, to provide stability. It's not altogether very practical, now that you're getting a closer look. "Is this," and you hush conspiratorially, "Is this Jean-Pierre?"

Sana smacks the side of your arm, flushing. "Shut the fuck up," she responds, laughing. A beat later, her lips tilt. "His name's Woody."

"That sounds like a conversation starter."

"I shouldn't have to explain the reference."

"You're sure it's a he?"

"It's got testicles don't it?"

"Oh yeah," you say, weighing the toy in your hand. "Look at that."

"Would you just, like," Sana coughs delicately, looks around the room for something interesting. "-put it somewhere."

"Phrasing," you can't help but point out. "Jesus you moved the mirror in here, too."

And you'd caught the moment originally, when the blush had filled her cheeks, her forehead, her nose, all the way on to her ears. She had known. "Maybe you really did corrupt me," she counters, turning her head pointedly away. "Wiped away the good girl veneer and turned me into a degenerate pervert."

"Which is basically how you started," you remind her - and you catch her in your arms. She relaxes almost instantly; you sink a palm down the small of her back to rest in the dip of her spine. You've learned a little: Sana prefers closeness, intimacy, touch. No questions, no fanfare, no gimmicks, just the simple offer of body warmth. She'll curl into your chest and stay quiet, almost content; an ineffable smile leaking up the back of her throat as your nose tickles the side of her neck, mouth open and warm and pressed into her skin.

Her eyes crease. She feels more real, a little less ethereally divine.

"How could you?" she asks, faux-affronted. You can feel how she breaks character, the laughter reverberating against your fingertips. "I'm, like, so fucking demure."

It takes everything to resist kissing her until she moans: which is the danger. You do anyway, but at least the damage has already been done.

She locks her wrists loosely behind your neck. Kisses you slow. Heavy. Giggling - you've been demoted to giggles in the end, it seems, a slip from seductress back to child-like delight. "Seriously," Sana sighs, rolling her shoulders out and circling her hips slowly. Your heart drops. Your entire face turns hot; you're really fucking gone for this girl. "Wanna watch me ride it?"

The thing is, a bed-time story would have paper-hearts, and candles, and maybe a field of birds; an open space, a plush meadow, a wide, beautiful, clean canvas for this little romance to run wild across, uncontained.

Sana instead, reaches for a bottle of personal-lubricant, glances back with a smile; your breath catches - you think it's a momentary trip, a chemical reaction.

You realize it's the lighting instead, the frame of this moment. The simple concept of art, how the hues of the dark deepen, saturate into something a shade off - purples and blues; something to capture and press into paper, inked forever.

She holds the bottle above the end of the toy, pours generously. As you can already tell - no lack of initiative, imagination: she takes both her legs to the edge of the table, stretches them outward - makes a pretty little show of herself, arches her back off the glossy wood - and sets the tip just against the inner junction of her thighs. Sana pushes, tilts: gasps aloud, sharply inhaling, watching you watch her with heavy-lidded eyes. Her shoulders relax and the rest of her muscles follow the tension - easing in a slow, languid circle, hips grinding down. She sighs at the cool feel of it, before pulling it back to rest the edge just in-between her lips, a teasing movement, right where you would reach - two fingers inside, hook up and outwards and open, stretch her wide to fill.

The girl looks like sin, looks like decadence; near-saintly: holy and sacrosanct. You think they've beatified less.

Sana reaches with her free hand for the front of your shirt.

"You," she whispers, and your hands flex involuntarily.

"Yeah," you reply, soft, even-keeled. "Me."

(Romance me, she'd said, only half-sarcastic. Sweep me off my feet and ruin me. Then I'll show you just how obsessed I am with you.)

There's always the itch, the impulse: to undo and dismantle everything around her, take everything to pieces; reduce her to tears until all she knows is your hands and your voice. To stop treating her like a masterwork and treat her more like something you're carving out of a block of stone. Maybe she'd lose that divine edge; she'd fall from that angelic grace into something mortal, and it wouldn't be anyone's fault. Not really.

Well - until now; because this is all you.

"Oh, Sana," you murmur, watching her tear up like it's killing her. "God, look at you."

You’ve got your fingers running through her honey-blonde tresses, got her wet lips slipping down the length of your cock, got the cutest little whimpers coming from her chest when you push a little too far, force yourself a little too deep - got the prettiest girl on her knees, working your cock to the back of her throat and letting her hips grind a few more inches of silicon inside her. The visual isn’t even in competition, in comparison - her huge amber eyes all innocent and glassy, those flawlessly plush red lips - you really shouldn't do it; if she hates something it's being mussed up, but here she is, anyway, because if there's anything she hates more, it's not getting a full serving of exactly what she wants - and she's swallowing your dick down her tight little throat without asking anything in return.

"You love this, don't you, baby," and when she bobs up - sinks back down - your next breath drags through your teeth.

The mirror's behind her; you don't need the nod for confirmation.

You can see it clear as day: her pussy creaming, glistening as she takes it even deeper, leaving a white, glistening trail from the base to the tip of the silicon shaft - how far she's gone; how far she'll still go.

"You love having my cock down your throat," you keep talking, and you curl your fingers gently in her hair, not enough to guide or press, but Sana - bless her - takes it like an indication and does the work for you; she nods anyway.

The waterline of her big doe-eyes is swimming, nearly spilling over - and if this doesn't prove it, then nothing will, certainly not anything she could say herself.

But, really - you can't get over her face, and she must know that.

Prada, Fendi, Chanel, Dior - they've got similar ideas, sure; straight to the gutter, only if they could see how you're replicating their vision - her eyes: too huge, too shimmery, too imploring; her hair spills from your fists in loose, glossy coils; that magazine-cover-ready look all flushed, mascara-thick lashes wet from the strain, jaw a little slack to accommodate the size of you - you're not too much easier to take than the dildo stretching her cunt wide right now, either.

Oh, she's filled up on both accounts.

"Mmnhph," is how Sana hums around you, tongue working obscenely over the head. Her mouth feels velvety-tight on the upstroke.

It doesn't take much to forget her mouth's playing second-fiddle to the work her cunt's doing, and her free hand's curling tight around your thigh, a steadying mechanism - which, isn't that the very root of the matter: the first time you'd cum in her tight little pussy, hadn't it been just like that, where all the pieces slotted right back into place, a certain order to the chaos? The desperate cling of her pretty-fingernailed hand.

Eyes wet and blinking: trust, don't let me down.

And you'll indulge her like tomorrow's the end of the world. Work her through it; watch her fine eyebrows pinch tight together; note how her high-strung breathing sounds muffled in her nose. How she lets you slide to the edge of the chair to fuck her face, lifting your hips and knocking into the slightest gag-reflex possible. She gets progressively filthier, tongue lathing the underside of you, sucking the head with the tight seam of her lips whenever you pull back to give her a second to breathe.

"Jesus." Your fingers loosen in her hair, combing her wild bangs from her flushed face. It's suddenly delicate. Gentle. Doting. Sana's pretty little forehead deserves a kiss for how fast, how deep, she's taking your cock in the softest part of her throat.

"There we go - just relax, sweetheart," you tell her, the very same girl who is making herself cum in the full-length mirror: pussy stretched and pulsing wet around the toy. "Catch your breath."

She doesn't even flinch when you touch your thumb to her cheekbone, carefully pulling her face back, feeling the wet press of her tongue at the crown. But her lips pull into a pout like she's sad you're stopping her. "No more?"

You inhale, deeply, and try not to laugh out loud. Her cheeks have flushed this adorable rose color. "Baby," your voice trails off with a click, and it's entirely your fault for teasing her; you might not get out of this room for the rest of the night, after all. So much for red wine and valentine's on the Seine - the perfect, the picturesque-

"I can't help it," Sana cuts in. She doesn't even hesitate. If anyone can redefine perfection, well. She's wearing that look: her mouth an utterly sinful pucker and her tongue skimming pink up the wet mess her throat's made of you. Her big, heavy-lashed eyes gazing at at you, and her pupils - well, that's no doubt what happens when something hits too hard, and it's the last thing you should notice, really, in this moment.

Her tongue is flat, stuck out. Very pink. She slaps your cock against it. Jesus christ, you think.

But: who can blame you, when the gorgeous, nude, marble-perfect woman on her knees is riding her toy with no qualms whatsoever, gazing straight into your soul?

"The faces you're making are really fucking hot and it's valentines day and you, like, taste and smell so fucking good-"

"Okay." You're twitching in her hands, and it's making her give you the most awful bedroom eyes in the world. "Okay, baby, slow down-"

She doesn't, but she can't do much worse; Sana presses her plush, swollen bottom lip to the crown of your cock, makes a show of licking the precum beading from your slit - licks her lips like it's a present, like she'd flown halfway around the world just for that, and it's an ambrosia she'd rather savor than spill.

"Sana," and your laughter falls out in a gasp, because, fuck - she's got a tight grip on your thigh and the most selfish desire for your orgasm you've ever seen; her other hand is already set, too, the one rubbing away at her own dripping pussy, wrist working just underneath her, catching her clit. "You're going to make me cum like that."

"Okay," she tells you, all round-eyes and wet-mouth; she's so fucking insatiable. "Then cum."

You're not sure how a goddess who worships your cock ends up like this: propped up the hotel-furniture, sinking down a thick, gleaming dildo and the slightest hitch in her breath a fucking non-sequitur. "Fucking hell," you gasp. "Princess-"

And, well - it's not like you really protest; her mouth's already at the tip of you and she's working it there, in and out, with a teasing wetness.

She sighs, heavy, but also blissful; sinks lower in one, rolling agonizing movement; meets your eyes when you go heavy-lidded and biting your lip - like it's a competition for who can end up the worse wreck. She swallows, slowly, so slowly. Lets her nails lightly dig into the sensitive skin behind your balls, drags them back up with her tongue and her throat constricting.

It's her expert mouth, that's the thing. You close your eyes because you think you might cum right then; right down the back of her pretty, porcelain throat. You can hear her humming like she's enjoying it more than you - can hear the clicking sound in her throat when she bobs her head, fucks herself deeper. Can hear the slick, filthy slaps of her pussy taking the cock fastened to the coffee table under her. And, you think, opening your eyes just a crack: when your girl's making a mess of the expensive hardwood with the cream spilling from her needy cunt - that's worth giving into. That's an image so good and perfect and god-damned filthy that you'd bet, when you cum, all the devil will want is a deal for a replica, for a pact to possess every woman out there who fits the mold: this one's yours.

You're fucking her mouth so hard, she's drooling.

"Jesus- ah, fuck. I'm going to fucking cum, Sana," and, not that she listens, “down your fucking throat, honey- I'm, oh," - not that she cares, really - you've just managed to grit your teeth - to arch your back up like that could pull you out from the sensation: it doesn't.

She does moan around you, then. Pulls the vibration deep and uses her tongue, works the pink, slender muscle right down to where you're half-gagging her, making her eyes water.

It's easy to knot your fingers back in the locks of her hair, pull tight.

Easier still, her face is framed with your thighs and the effect's immediate - it feels as hot and wet and tight as a vice and your voice shakes along with the rest of your neurons, firing, collapsing, keening - and, of course: when your hand fisted in her hair tries to pull her hot mouth off your cock, well.

There's a few more inches of sloppy-wet friction and slippery-tight drag you hadn't really budgeted for.

You're cumming all over her face, not that you had much of a choice - it's just one wave and another, your thighs tensing and the breath going out of you in stilted, long, stuttering moans - Sana looks up, when your brain has unscrambled enough to register her name and the light of the world and the absolutely perverted expression she's got: there's a shot of cum that streaks across her closed eyelid and another string making a sticky-white mess out of her button-nose and, god-

You don't mean to cum in her hair, but-

"Fuck," your teeth clatter around a biting-gasp, "Sana, oh fuck," but - as expected, she does have your cock gripped tight at the base, her lashes clumped with the mess, her cheeks sticky-messy.

Sana's looking up with the innocent sort of mischief only she could ever get away with, you figure, cum-covered and beautiful: the good girl with her good girl mouth, all the evil inside of her.

She lets your cock fall out of her hand, down, with an obscene, wet thud, right where she can press it against her face - press it against those sharp cheekbones - and those doe-eyes, and those lips: the ones she draws across the dripping tip, pulls at them with a sultry sort of sigh. Sinking the curve of her nose down the belly side of your cock as you paint her, gasping for air; and it gets worse - when her tongue catches between your balls, when her lips are pouting right around the soft skin there and her soft moans make you pump the white-hot ropes of cum until it's a mess in her hairline, in the silky locks that fall to the crests of her ears and down to where they rest over her tits, hiding the flush of her hard, puffy nipples, her tiny little pink clit-

"Messy," Sana croons, without much of an inflection; one eyelid flutters open and a milky-stream runs down the curve of her cheek; the other seems hopelessly stuck.

Oh, she's usually such a wet blanket about getting anything in her hair (which is more often just an excuse to ride you brainless on the shower bench, but it doesn't come without her grumbling on the way), and even then she's lifting up off her heels and resting her chin on your thigh to make sure you can watch when she spreads the mess along her slender throat and back behind her ear, almost shy, drawing strands of cum into her mouth with her long-lashed eyes locked onto yours.

"It really hasn't been that long," and she says it with some exasperation, with a bubbly little bout of laughter that has the same weight as her pecking kisses along the muscles of your abs, cleaning her cum-hand against the patchy wetness across the flat plane. "Geez - you must've been so pent up -" and she stops for breath, for another suckle to your shaft; your cock twitches in her grip, the sensation too much, but it makes Sana give the most self-satisfied smile. It'd be unbearably irritating if she wasn't your entire universe - she is, so you try not to move as she steadies herself on your thighs; presses her messy face into the side of your throat and mewls. "All mine," Sana decides, sounding quite content about it. "Do you need a few minutes?"

She asks this like she isn't pumping you still, using her delicate fist to keep you upright for her while she speaks into the line of your jaw.

"Um," you say, before anything else. Before thinking about her clinging, wet heat around you. Before anything else: "yeah."

She purses her lips. Presses her free hand to your chest with a needy arch of her body. Pants for you, lashes falling shut - and, there's the problem, she's so much more fuckable like that. She's painted red from her cheeks all the way down her tits and you're just realizing how much drool fell off her chin, how much of a mess is between her tits, how much she revels in it - getting her face-fucked until neither of you can survive the fallout.

"How about," she huffs against you, all breath and the curve of a whine, "I clean this up," her hand's still tight at the base, where your nerves are singing with all sorts of new sensory input - "and god, your heart," she whispers, and her chin hooks over your thigh. She's looking up at you, ruined, flushed and dewy. "-is beating so fast for me -" she says, almost wistful.

That's the point, probably. It's the entire problem: she has a few ideas of how beautiful she is, the kind of destruction she wreaks.

Her breath catches in her chest when her hips shift back and that thick, fake cock pops out of her cunt; it sounds fucking filthy, and the softest of keening moans escapes her - it has the weight of your existence and she probably knows it; her amber gaze fluttering shut as she doesn't move for a second.

You don't either, can't really; Sana sliding up your body as graceful as ever, even naked and used-looking, leaves you barely functional and running on over-stim. "I mean," she starts, like the two words just tumbled out of her cunt with the rest of the mess and that's a great explanation; Sana's moving around in your lap anyway, dropping that nice, hard dildo on the seat beside you, still dripping. "I can't let you cum in my pussy," she says, all gentle matter-of-fact, while her mouth opens across the arch of your jaw and she gets cum down her wrist. "Well," she amends, "-not yet anyway, not right now," and she does look guilty, for some reason.

It makes your smile twist wry and unattractive, probably. "I'm good at controlling myself," you manage.

"Liar," says Sana, which is a reasonable reply. You'd laugh, but her cunt's wet and hot against you, already sinking, settling, just an inch deep into her cunt. It's easy to take in hand - you grip her hips, thumb her little pink clit.

Sana's response is to rut against it, rubbing all over where the swollen head of your cock rests between her thighs. Her smile goes a little blissed out, dreamy.

"There's another place," she's saying, while her hair spills down your arm, between you, sticking in the space between her tits, "that would be a perfect home for this thick, gorgeous cock."

"I think you should let Woody and I sort that out," and, shit, that doesn't make her stop moving, dragging her soaked slit over your shaft. "Maybe he'll be your valentine after all, huh, babe?"

Sana narrows her eyes, tilting her head forward in her best attempt at threatening. It's cute, almost, if your dick wasn't trapped between the wet heat of her body and your belly. You pick her up so, so easily. And that's hot, you think: your strength, her whole lithe-waisted petite-tits everything.

"Hey," her lips part against yours, a protest there - until you move her by the hips, pushing up and watching her spread for it.

And if that doesn't go straight to your ego.

Sana huffs, playing aloof, petulant - a character you draw out when she's really hoping and praying you'll fold her up and show her what the good parts of worship mean. "You think you can share?" she's asking you, voice already growing rough. She's trying to fuck back, take her hips again, but you still her with your palms, fingers sinking tighter and her ass spilling out between your knuckles.

"Get your knees back on the table for me, pretty girl," and you lift her as she squirms; set her down, until her body is arched forward, tits pressed punishingly to the hardwood.

You think you're maybe spending next-century's savings on a wet-dream made real; maybe being too rough, too mean about your hand twisting through that mess of golden-strawberry curls at the base of her spine and making her spine curve deep as she breathes out a heavy, messy curse.

"Give me what I deserve, then," and she can't reach under her body and tug at your cock, but she gets the words out. The order. "I'm aching, it's sore and empty and, it's so fucking tight," and that's not a demand but a whine. She wants you, that's the real point. "You know, I want," and she doesn't finish that, but:

She's blinking at her reflection in the glass, watching it. You really fucked up that pretty painting, and she's appraising the art, tilting her chin just a bit to appreciate the effort: how she's made to be wrecked.

You grab Woody, attach it to the table without thinking; the weight's warm, solid; he's hard-used and wet enough from her body that it's not an issue; there's enough lube leftover to slide your palm once or twice over and drag it wet across Sana's ass, around your length, even over Sana's pink cunt, wet and swollen and bunched with the toy she'd used, stretched deep as you'd seen. She whimpers out the softest sound, then, and you think: what a miracle, and maybe she does too because her hips arch into it like she's begging for praise, for your touch, anything; there's a few seconds of pressure, just enough time for you both to realize what's happened.

"This'll get messy, you know," you tell her, which isn't fair. "It won't feel the same in there," because your baby needs her explanations.

"Want to feel you both in my guts," is what she offers instead, and- yeah, it's so not fair for her to say stuff like that either.

You touch the silicone head to her puffy folds, ease him up and down - just how you would for her, only taking care to feel where she's pinkest. Where's the pressure on your fingers? There, probably, but there, too. Where does she gasp the softest when she's full and tensing in anticipation? Oh.

Her cunt is so slicked she sinks on it, opening fast and beautiful and dirty.

The sound Sana makes is unreal; no way to measure her reaction otherwise. You don't know whether it's good or bad; all you see is the way her reflection dips into nothing, into pain, but: her head jerks up in time to watch and she moans like she's begging - loud and pretty and shocked, eyes fluttering. Her hair falls like curtains around her face, a wildfire behind her. She's stunning; of course you think it.

"See that," she says, through clenched teeth, "the pretty way it pushes out of me-"

"Makes room for me," because yeah, fuck, okay. You know it too.

She's perfect for this: a body like she's the centerfold in a dirty magazine and then a disposition that says yes, you do want me like that. Or, she's asking for a pounding. That's the least you can do - straddle the surface with her, line your cockhead up, push just barely to the resistance - force Sana's hips down until Woody's bottomed and her legs shake for the first time.

"You good, baby?"

"You can," and-

Oh, man. "Let me do it," you tell her, sliding your hand up her back to grab her hair, winding it between the thick of your knuckles. "I'll take care of you, I promise-"

That's another shot in your veins: her lips bitten red, her expression ruined; the way her face falls for you like she's meeting you in that elevator for the very first time, the straw of her iced coffee between her lips, her nose wrinkling for the cliché.

She blinks at you again, nods and keens and oh-

Your cock works in that next fraction of an inch, just the head spreading Sana open.

"Holy-" but she chokes it back, so you'll keep doing this, making her think, fuck- "oh my-fuck-okay," is what she gives you, breathing in pants; what her expression tells you, the lines cutting over her brows and between her nose.

"Sana," is as far as you get, and Sana's grinding, gasping. She'll sob. She'll get loud. You can see from your angle; just feel how much it burns, the way Woody's working inside her, splitting her to the core.

You watch the line of her back work, tense, clench - where it's just that simple and base and human.

And the mirror's got the full story: it all comes up with the same obscene details - Sana's mouth a deep open pink, her eyes rolling closed as she swallows thickly - as she's wetting the air down and relaxing her whole body for it: her toes curling. She sinks another inch onto the toy, you figure, and she makes this fucked-up mewling noise, half-cry, half-begging. Your cum is tacky all over her front, drying sweaty; her makeup's runny. She's a disaster and so pornographically stunning.

You sink deeper, and she bucks, takes her time riding. "Feels- fucking incredible, doll, I'm going to start fucking you, ok?" and you groan; you are. You pull back, seeing where her cunt is creamed out and ruined, where there's the ghostly wet lube smeared on your cock, all sticky like her.

Sana nods, looking back - she finds your face, doesn't falter; she'll see her tits spilling against the table; the dark shade of her nipples. Her cunt's sliding over the toy in a rush; she's shimmying her whole body, impatient. You let go of her hair and touch between her shoulder blades to the base of her spine, marvel in the stretch of it, the pretty flush you're fucking into over and over.

"It feels-" Sana's talking, her forehead bowed against the table, her mouth hanging loose, "feels-good. Good. Amazing. Feels-" and she can't breathe, you know, but fuck, neither can you- "so. Full. Full."

You nod; know. She knows.

She's saying it for herself, in a slur, the words on the edge of a gasp: "I'm-holy-"

Your fingers pinch her ass, just gentle; enough to spread her, catch a view of her stretched asshole. Her teeth knock together - she's trembling for this. She'll cum.

"Trying to kill me," you tease, but fuck- it's good; so fucking good.

You've been brushing your cock to the back of this girl's throat and it's still the hottest thing you think you'll ever see; her personal toy buried to the hilt beneath you, just the tight little opening of her pussy fucked-out and slicked-up, raw and red and utterly ruined-

"Shh, sweetheart," you manage, burying yourself in as far as possible, leaning over. You move the hair falling into Sana's face and trace her features with the tip of your index finger, smudging a fingerprint of eyeliner. You're kissing her hair, her skin, tasting salt, sweat, cum: "Such a slut, taking that big fat toy all in you, opening you up-" and the last you get out isn't her name, it's a murmur- "look what a whore you're being," and her cunt is fucking throbbing-

You lean back, catch a sight of it; her thighs trembling and pinkish and oh, fuck, no. She's got one of her hands worked back and on her clit, stroking it feverishly-

"Baby-"

"I need you," is what she cries out; not an explanation. "So," and it's something mangled- "God, please. Come on."

She tells you twice; she can't help herself. Sana's ass is unbelievably tight. So pretty; so the little fucked-out cocksleeve you always needed. All her eyeliner's fucked to hell and her hair's still a knotted disaster; you've got all your inches inside her, she's pressing the heel of her hand to her clit and drawing patterns over her face with her fingers like she can't remember-

"My pussy, jesus-fucking-christ." Her mouth is falling slack again. "God. God. Harder, it feels too good, don't stop-"

"Such a good fucking girl," and there's this picture-perfect moment-

She cums. You're all up in her guts, spilling to the tight space, that she's fucked beyond the stretch and that's got to burn, paradoxically making her go all crazy with this feeling. Your cock's making space - you'd hate not fucking her until she's overfull and all those slick muscles are clenched and bruised-

"Does my princess need something?" you ask her, while your palm teases the flare of her hips. It's teasing; she won't stop; she'll cum again. You're pounding her ass and that toy's still there, buried to her cervix, her pussy's a mess and it's almost an itchy pleasure, too much stimulation, too sensitive; she's slick, sodden.

Sana is nodding furiously. One hand's doing it again, and the other's got the thumb trapped in her mouth; she's trying for silence; it won't last. Her throat's loud and filthy and you've always probably known, since the very beginning, that Sana loves taking you in whatever gorgeous, wet, tight hole she can.

"Please," she manages. Her hand's moving quicker- "Let me. Let me." And she's grinding against you, taking in every inch you have for her, arching her back; her clit is raw and throbbing and she's a fucking genius. A natural at begging. She deserves the win. She's being good. She's letting you fill her with cum.

You're not even fucking her into particularly fast, particularly deep, just grinding, using the tight ring of muscle, the heavy, bruising press.

"Tell me," and she can't focus- "Tell me when you're going to cum, princess. Can't wait to feel you-".

Oh. And, then-

You want it to last.

Her feet are tapping, toes curling into the hardwood, and it's over: she's tightening her grip against the table and making sure to keep the vibrations direct, her cheek pressed to the wood, drool drenching the corner of her lips. You've seen enough dirty shit, done enough kinky stuff. This - this might actually have you dumbfounded: watching her convulse; watching her bring her hand away, just touching. Her cunt's all milky and soft.

"Stay still, sweetheart," you're saying; as if she can move. You're holding her steady by her hips. You're massaging lightly; taking all the rest you can. "That's it, come here, you're so-" and your cock's easing its way out- "fucking."

She gasps when you slip all the way free; your cum slides back down. Sana's languid and fluid, skin sweating, hair everywhere. She's not crying, but it's the closest she's been in ages; the closest, most pure you can get a girl: your cum spilling out and all over you, and you're telling her it's alright, telling her she's gorgeous; saying it's okay she's already stretched herself so thin, exhaustion pooling, seeping out of her mouth, the line of her thighs and-

"Thank you." It's that genuine, melodic cadence, the honesty - it's that the first time she's looking down and she's blinking tears- "Want you to- right here," and she's moving forward, slowly.

You're cupping Sana's thighs before you can even think; lifting, bending them to her chest, her lips bitten, kiss-swollen. Her tongue darts to the corner of her mouth: Sana knows where this is going.

You can taste her. You can taste your own sins - the vanity, the hubris, the glutton, the greed - taste how wet, how flushed. She's putting that expert mouth to good use and keeping quiet again: a pant, a whine, an ahhhh, a whimpered half-curse. Her chest is flushed the prettiest, sweetest, lightest shade of red.

It's too intimate. You could lie in it, keep her warm like this until the very earth rotted. All the rough, dirty things you could do to her; it's almost sacrilegious that this is what brings the closest feeling of bliss, peace.

You don't realize how still everything is, all stilled, until Sana's small, quivering legs hook your shoulders; until the end of her toe brushes the shell of your ear, presses. Her spine arches into your mouth and the scent of her cunt - the taste. You could stay here, in your hands, and take, and - and give it right back: take, take, and take.

You eat her cunt until her voice is wrecked raw, your tongue dragging across her ass, over your lower lip, smearing her slickness, tasting her from your fingertips. She doesn't beg and she doesn't tell you what to do, she just spreads her pussy and rides her clit against your lips, moaning unashamedly as she rocks herself on your face, coming on your tongue in two, three hard, heavy pulses.

"Good fucking-"

"-God," you finish for her, and it's all the most sacred kind of silent. Your face buried back in between her thighs, just breathing. Just loving her, and holding her steady, because aftercare's a bigger part of the game than either of you let on, and you know she's ready and safe in your arms by now.

Sana pants and heaves, eyes shut. Bites her lips red as she smiles.

The lines of her face relax as if you're soothing her, tucking her in: good job, I've got you. When she isn't such a tender wreck, it'll happen all over again.

"You know," you say conversationally to Sana, who's lying in the fetal position at the foot of the bed, "you look cute right now."

It's another day, same time-zone, different house, same game. You've never stopped in your pursuit of what exactly a muse looks like: perfect, empty, caught in the bright white exposure of her hotel room lamp; all hard black-and-white, tonal range; in the scratch of the pen and the haze of the film developing, on the translucent material of the photo you'll print. There's the image, there's her breathing-

(There's all the ones you don't even know you'll find: her belly growing large, skin smoothing with child, a birth, a growth, a transformation; the dreams.)

-she's told you as much, but you can never know for certain if she really, truly-

"I'm dying," she grumbles. "You fucked me to death."

"You're bad for my ego." You plop down next to her and rub a hand between her shoulder blades. The curve of her back makes your fingers ache and your throat close up. "How do you feel, really."

Sana takes a moment before she replies.

"Hurt," she finally murmurs, quietly. You hum back a soothing noise. "But good. The best. Everything I've always wanted." She pauses. "Also: dead."

"You said that already." You're rolling your eyes, fondly.

She doesn't reply, just pushes herself up, legs crossing, one hip propped up. She's in a hotel bathrobe and she's supposed to be at a runway in an hour. "Hey."

"Yeah?" you're already tilting your head. She's sitting in the middle of the bed now, legs crossed under her; this is definitely a hotel robe, you've never been around her this long. "What's up?"

Sana just tucks her hair back, bares her shoulders and moves the fabric down the curve of her side.

"I told you," she starts, and her teeth snag on her bottom lip, "I think you're good," and she's suddenly shy: this little fuck-off of yours, of yours. "For me."

"You-" you start, and there's a way that things are and you have the gut instinct, the conviction of it, but-

(Then again, a girl with hair the color of a caramel confection and eyes you could be lost in for eons told you the other day without having to say it, eyes widening in the haze and light and gloss, that she could love you forever.)

"Yes," she answers, because it's your question, that slow smile making her features draw inward, the wrinkle of her nose: yes, it's your decision. That she's telling you the truth. "Exactly."

Actually, to frame this right, you probably ought to have started with her, at the girl with idyllic, copper-spun hair and a thousand-watt smile. It reads main-character energy from fifty feet away: you should've pulled the curtain back and simply said, meet Minatozaki Sana.

Your significant other, sorta - few people on earth know that, for a lot of reasons, and depending on the day, you can't be entirely sure if she wants it that way or if she'd rather scream it from the rooftops; Sana is - well, it's tricky. She's beautiful in a way you never got to conceptualize before, that nobody probably does. She's magnetic. It's effortless. It's gravity, and it's only natural that you'd always want to pull yourself back to her, to orbit her; she'd ask and you'd die, right?

She assumes you'll ask to marry her, someday - you're starting to suspect she's probably right.

And there's a pattern of nuance to how you know her, all the definitions of her - you bring her fresh-cut flowers, you call her princess, you fuck her until she begs, you hold her while she rinses her hair in the shower. You run your mouth, you eat her cunt until she can't walk straight. It's a big role, a broad palette to capture.

Sana, in the morning for example:

Can't drink her coffee black; steals sugar packets from cafes and slips them into her pocket; sleeps so still and so quietly that sometimes it almost scares you, worrying that she’s slipped off into a coma. She likes being doted on, likes getting compliments, likes melting under someone’s full attention as if she's waited for that from you her whole life. She says it directly: listen, okay, don't laugh at me, I get needy.

Or, beneath starlight:

Flitting across hotel balconies, grabbing you by the arm and pulling you into open bars.

She'll buy you a drink and loves when you buy her another, her glass never half-empty. She climbs on top of you and presses her mouth to your ear, sings the song in her head for the next five minutes, hips jolting when she sways a bit too far - a light bulb over a diner counter. Tips the waiter extravagantly, rolls her eyes when you lecture her for spending your money. Smiles at you anyway and takes your hand in hers on the way out the door.

Sana Minatozaki, on herself:

A nightmare. I don’t even know. Seriously. An absolute mess. Completely nuts. (You said you were a 'total fucking catch.') Oh, yeah. I guess that's true too.

(Or maybe, Sana, on you:

Well, when you ask on the flight out, she says something sweetly innocuous. When you press her again, she blushes. When she might be feeling especially adoring, she'll look at you and say, with utmost certainty and uncharacteristic lack of sarcasm, 'I mean, it's you. What more can I say?')

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