i would’ve done anything

thinking about shane coming too fast and ilya reaching back to hold his hip and rasping, “is okay. is what i need, shane. you feel it, yes? how deep you are inside me? right where I need you? fuck, shane, I cannot believe you take me like this so easily. you open your hips and let me dick you so fucking hard. I bet there is an ache in your stomach after I pull out, ah? my cock bumping right against your womb. trying so hard to close and keep me out even though you would let me crawl inside you if I could.”

thinking about shane gasping and dropping into subspace faster than he ever has, teeth fitting over the back of ilya’s shoulder as he rolls his hips against ilya’s ass. how the movement isn’t helping him sink any deeper, but ilya’s moaning in encouragement, anyway. praising him and telling him what a good man he’s being, how ilya can’t wait to be full all because of shane. “all because you mounted me, lyubyov. people will see my belly and know. do you like that, hollander? do you like knowing people will think I bend over for you like this all the time?”

thinking about shane breathing out a sob, fingers trembling as they curl over ilya’s hips to pull him back, pulling him onto his cock as he slumps across ilya’s body and breathes in the familiar scent of sweat from ilya’s curls.

“good boy, shane. that’s it,” ilya praises, smile hidden against the pillow beneath his head. “so good to me. you will only need one try, yes? and then i can fuck you again like you need. watch you ride me while your hands hold my swollen belly for balance.”

the sound shane lets out is closer to a cry than a moan. ilya laughs, reaching a hand up and threading his fingers through shane’s hair, scratching at his scalp.

(it takes more than one round. ilya isn’t complaining at all. but the moment they’re holding a positive test over the sink, ilya is bending him over the porcelain. “look at what you did, shanya,” he rasps, hand splayed firmly over the side of shane’s face. “say it. tell me what you did.”

“ilya….”

“say.”

“….. fuck, I put a baby in your belly.”

except that I do, because it’s my mother’s. it’s added weight in the same places she carried, built the same way she was before she started shots.

I am now in a body that I recognized as the strongest woman I knew, but what she saw as the body of a woman she despised.

and now she is in a new body, one that she loves, one that I don’t recognize, and I am in hers.

i am a size that she hated and could not find beauty in and desperately wanted to change.

I do not recognize the body I’m in because it belongs to a woman who did not believe it beautiful enough to keep.

and now I wonder if perspective has changed anything, or if she looks at me now and still sees the size of a body and not the woman beneath

the body I am in doesn’t match the woman I am, but it matches the woman she was.

there are old knots, fresh wounds, dead flesh, frayed nerves.

i cry out for a miracle, i beg for it to work. let it work. let this be the time. are you not a god that performs miracles? can't my story be one where a night of asking gave me every victory i ever wanted?

(but my darling, you say, you do not believe i can save you. not like that. not all at once. not in a miraculous renewing in the body and mind that was designed to move and live exactly this way from the very beginning. you hear these stories and deny them. not the power in them, but the possibility of them. you strive and you struggle and you continue and that is the story that needs to be told. that is the story someone like you would believe. someone who was designed to move and live exactly this way from the very beginning.)

but i am angry. i am hurt and aching and exhausted and so fucking angry that the body divinely created and scientifically superior is also one that struggles and struggles and struggles.

what if i don't want the process?

(what if you trusted that the progress is made through the process?)