#coefficience

" my dear catherine. "

an affectation is placed on those three words, empty eyes sparking with interest after so, so long. it's laced with poison (careful, dear cath, for a beautiful thing can hide deadliness so easily), teeth ready to sink into her flesh. here she is, a devoted follower on her knees, asking a god to mold her into his image. he's brought her back to life— eternal devotion is the least she can ask of her.

two fingers reach from their fist to cup under cath's chin. all she wants is for her to look at him (that is, only look— never see). her touch is soft, like he's asking her to take communion. the image is tempting, of course, though ... perhaps that can come later. a smile presses to her mouth, faux comfort in its manner.

SO THE COUNTESS DETESTS HIM. To Dolokhov, this matters very little—just as he would insist the vague apathy (at best) or ignorant revulsion (at near-worse) of polite society—that polite society whose adoration Countess Bezukhova so intensely covets—matters very little. If he allowed himself to be impacted by the opinions of small-minded people, how would he stand up in battle? Against men, their bullets? Against bears? Against the permanent nature of reputation itself?

"As the lady of this house," he smiles thinly, "Perhaps you have every right to suggest what I shall do in it. But consider, instead, that I have concerns about your wellbeing, and I only wish the best for you."

A beat.

𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙰𝙱𝙾𝚄𝚃 𝙷𝙴𝚁 𝙸𝚂 𝙳𝙸𝙵𝙵𝙴𝚁𝙴𝙽𝚃 𝚃𝙾𝙽𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃  ,  𝚂𝙷𝙴 𝙸𝚂 𝙰𝙽 𝙴𝙼𝙿𝚃𝚈 𝚁𝙾𝙾𝙼  -  𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝙾𝚁𝚃 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃𝚂 𝚁𝙰𝚁𝙴𝙻𝚈 𝚄𝚂𝙴𝙳  ,  𝙻𝙾𝙽𝙶 𝙵𝙾𝚁𝙶𝙾𝚃𝚃𝙴𝙽  . the sort of room touched only by the longing arms of headlights drifting through drawn blinds  ,  a room where only the memory of a person remains a vague imprint on a naked mattress  .  loneliness basks in akane’s fleeting stare as she gnaws nervously at the edge of her lip  ,  ginozas eyes are cutting  ,  all of her cleaved  &  peeled on a steel table for his knowing eyes to inspect  ,  he saw through her with an effortlessness that remained unmatched  .  akane turns to him  ,  the unspoken depth of feeling clenched tightly in her quaking jaw  ,  the brush of her fingers against his wrist is hard  ,  demanding  ,  the need to be known  ,  to be seen rattles her with a ferocity  ,  only ginoza sees her this way  ,  stripped of pretense  ,  overcome   .   ❛       touch me . .      ❜

it happens, then: not a pivot but a rupture. the reversal is not learned, it is rehearsed into the marrow: bone-born, twitch-fast. his hand arcs with obscene precision, index & thumb finding the groove in @coefficience wrist like muscle memory. with his other hand, a strike lands just beneath the sternum, collapsing breath & balance alike. childe reels. staggers. the contact is surgical, but the aftermath is theatrical: space torn open like a slit curtain. a wound between them, not just absence but negative presence: saturated, pulsing, wet with the charge of dislocation.

dante’s body is already smoothing back into itself with a shoulder roll, he watches childe recalibrate, watches the body remember how to hold itself upright. childe’s machinations remain unimpeachable — sharper than the garbled bellowings of devils he dispatches on habit alone. childe thinks, and that makes the violence honest.

❝ you always this handsy? ❞ dante drawls, timbre dragging across exposed nerves, stalking forward. ❝ if you wanted me on my knees — you could’ve said. ❞

for all intents and purposes, my relationship with marcella is not a marriage. sure, we act in the way a married couple does (that is to say, pick and pull at each other's extended nerve endings until we're naught more than a tangle of a nervous system threaded together on the floor). there are no legal documents. there are no shared rings. instead, what we share seems to be more primal, more instinctive. it's as if she's in my marrow and i in hers.

" my darling. " it's ever-presently smooth, my eyes turning to look at her as if i genuinely care. my tongue presses to the roof of my mouth in thought. " certainly you out of anybody would know how i would be feeling. " i should find it more uncomfortable that ella can read me like a book.

then again, there is another part of my mind (oh, how curious a mind and its processes can be!) that thinks i don't mind it all that much.

i sit up to look her in the eyes, knees pressing into the mattress. to an outsider, it would look as if a wild animal was about to strike. ella knows, of course, that i could never take her down like prey. i respect her too much for that.

that's all i literally have to say bc it just feels like we just ... kinda picked up from where we stopped talking!! it feels so right and natural!! i love you infinitely!!

29.

it's probably a terrible thing to tease childe, especially with the way he can't keep from whining against her neck, the way he keeps pleading please, please, lucy please i'm begging you in a tone that makes him grow wetter. there's something mocking on her lips as she turns her head to capture his mouth with hers, accompanied by a whimper as he rubs against his cunt.

" what, ayaks? " it's teasing, almost, as her eyes meet his. " you want to come in me? want to knock me up? i don't think you even deserve that. it's a privilege to even be inside me, darling. " lucy nips at his bottom lip, tongue soft against the bitten flesh. it's not an apology.

" you have to earn it, baby. " she hears a loud whine against the side of her neck, the warm feeling of his cum splashing against her pussy as he ruts against her. instead, he laughs at him, his eyes closing at the sensation. it feels good, even if she hasn't come yet. the friction of his cock against her wet folds sends sparks up his spine, though despite everything, he's trying to keep his composure.

there's a low sigh, then she kisses him again. " you'll have to settle for— for rutting against me like a lap dog. you got to come, didn't you? " a grin. " maybe if you make me come, you'll get a point in your favor. want to ... mh, want to try? "