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Summary
Fyodor inhaled through his teeth. The temptation to shove Dazai bodily to the floor bloomed sharp in his chest. And he could. Easily. Dazai was thin like him, post-orgasm boneless and pliant. It would take nothing to shove him back and wipe the last ten minutes off the map with force.
But it was futile. Because he had already let it happen. Because he had already pulled Dazai in, kissed him, spoken to him like that, climaxed beneath him—and no amount of punishment afterward could erase that fact.
So instead he sat still, spine straight, face blank, and said: “You are not real to me.”
Dazai grinds into him like prayer. Fyodor comes apart like penance, as if absolution could ever follow what they do.
or: it’s not sex, not love, not even hatred. it’s whatever happens between them.
Series
- Part 7 of A Hunger With No Mirror