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Plenty has changed for Fyodor since she has returned home from her detainment. She abides slow mornings by the window, poised stiffly at her dining table. The skin around her nail beds sting more than usual, as her tension over the last few weeks has been taken out on her poor fingers. She resigns the morning as time to think, indulging in the droning silence of her apartment until Dazai calls for her.
Dazai hasn’t quite returned to routine just yet, and her reliance on Fyodor’s care has seeped into her every insecurity and laid it bare for Fyodor to digest as she pleases. Dazai is unable to even reach her crutches most mornings, silently afraid to peel back the sheets and gaze at the lack of herself. It was a routine she usually had to face in the mirror, her shrinking soul never quite meeting the eyes that she hails in her reflection. Now, she is unable to look away from her physical destitution.
“Fedya,” calls a voice suffused with exhaustion and the gentle swaddle of morning acquiescence, lingering down the hall from their bedroom. Fyodor leaves every door within the apartment open these days, in case Dazai may be in need of her.
Fyodor abandons her tea at the table, half finished, as well as a shot glass with a stained rim of deep reddish-black substance that she finished hastily upon pouring it.
Fyodor regards her sleepy lover with an amused coo. Dazai is in a state of disaster, hair strewn across her sticky forehead and arm haphazardly thrown over her face. She has not been sleeping well since the incident, and often joins Fyodor’s company later and later into the morning. Fyodor is merciful in helping Dazai from their bed, retrieving her crutches and acting as her bolster. In the short time they have been home, Fyodor has found a new meaning in being a devoted disciple. For all of the patience Dazai has had with her through the last few weeks, she would bend herself to Dazai’s every wish.
It has been a week since Fyodor performed an operation on Dazai in the comfort of their home. After Dazai’s traumatic tumble down an elevator shaft, her foot was rendered useless past the ankle. She clung to the limb like a threatened mutt, spewing obscenities at Fyodor for her mere suggestion of amputation. It took plenty of coaxing, and Dazai’s reluctant agreement only came under the oath that Fyodor would amputate it herself. Dazai was not congenial with being under general care for induced anesthesia. It was an easy procedure for Fyodor, a total lower extremity amputation. As far as she was concerned, Dazai was recovering beautifully.
“What have you made for breakfast?” Dazai wonders, moseying on her crutches as she follows Fyodor’s path to the dining room.
“I’ve made you muesli. Will that suffice?” Fyodor beckons her to the table, drawing the creaky chair out for her to take. Dazai hums in agreement. She hasn’t felt keen on stomaching anything too heavy in the morning, the medication she has been taking to stave off her phantom limb pain often keeps her in a nauseous limbo until dinner.
Dazai stretches herself out on the table, elbows anchoring to the linen napery. She’s as slinky as ever, despite her intrinsic privation. Fyodor’s breakfast was still cooking on the stove. She would not be having the same meal as Dazai this morning, and has not shared the same meal in the past week. Not that she has not tried to convince her lover.
“Are you positive that you don’t want to try it?” Fyodor probes as she saunters towards the stove.
“I’ve told you, I am most definitely not interested,” Dazai hisses plainly in response, the tinkering of her spoon against porcelain irritating Fyodor’s ears.
Dazai has told her, on several occasions, that she was not interested in indulging Fyodor in this little diversion. She kept peaceful spirits about it regardless, and had not once shamed Fyodor with maliciousness.
The first time that Fyodor offered was around six days ago, during dinner. Fyodor brought herself to the table where Dazai had busied herself with a plate of lamb. Fyodor had been feeding her well since the incident, fawning over the thinness of her hips after their months-long detainment. A modest slab of well-cooked meat sat on the porcelain dishware, and Fyodor sat herself across from Dazai with a glass of Cabernet Franc.
“Would you like to try it?” she had asked.
“My own foot? No thank you, Fedya. No thank you.” Dazai had regarded her with scoffing laughter.
The first bite of the meat was unpleasantly tough. Fyodor had, to much surprise, never cooked human meat before. Poorly versed and a little too exhilarated, she had cooked it for too long. The pale skin of her nose scrunched in distaste, and Dazai had laughed so hard that she sprung tears in her eyes.
“Oh, so I don't taste good, Fyodor? You are unbelievable,” She had howled.
Fyodor had scowled at her between her chewings.
Sighing wistfully at the recent memory, Fyodor resumes plating herself another meager bit of meat and returning to the table alongside her lover. She had gotten better at preparing it over the last few days, and every meal sat comfortably in her stomach without much disruption. Fyodor quietly utters grace to herself, and Dazai watches silently as she always has.
There is a subtle twitch in Fyodor’s index finger as she poises her knife and slices into the cut of meat. It has become increasingly difficult to ignore the physical sensations that accompany her meals. A low, simmering heat in her gut that only twists and curdles when she tears through muscle with her teeth. She had even learned how to remove the tendons, leaving the bite more buttery. She observes Dazai as she plays with her muesli, forking at a strawberry chunk. The sight of Dazai always makes it worse, and Fyodor’s thighs shift together into a firm press as she chews through the meat of Dazai’s cooked limb.
There is an oddly comfortable tension that greets them at the dinner table every time they converge there. Fyodor figures it must be one-sided – fueled by this sinful heat that she has gotten quite familiar with over this past week.
Dazai swings her fork around jadedly, eyes set on the small shot glass that sits next to Fyodor’s lukewarm tea. Fyodor swallows a little harder, throat closing tighter, as she eyes the glass as well. She had been enjoying her habitual morning tea alongside another gift that Dazai had graciously allowed her, a simple shot of her blood that she had been storing in the fridge in a jar. It was a bit too congealed to stomach easily, especially for Fyodor, but she managed through pinching her nose upon tilting the glass. Dazai’s sigh is light and wistful like a coo, and her lips curl up in simple interest.
“What will you do when I’m all eaten up?” Dazai wants to know, meeting Fyodor’s eyes. Fyodor’s abdomen clenches harder, the droop of Dazai’s eyelids not overlooked by her.
“It’s a short-lived delicacy. I wouldn’t be so cruel as to totally rid you of walking.” Fyodor insists, knife tearing swiftly through the bit of meat left on her plate. Fyodor has entertained it momentarily before, musing over what she could possibly do when she’s eaten all of her lover up, but she has never come to a sound conclusion. More often than not, the thought ends with her discreetly guiding her hips over the surface of whatever space she is occupying until the heat subsides and she can think straight again.
Dazai experiences vicissitudes of emotions throughout the week. Sometimes she is bedridden with pain, other times she is indulging in attention at Fyodor’s feet in the living room. Dazai had occasionally enjoyed sitting between Fyodor’s legs before, but as of recently she assumes this spot more often than not. The act almost sings like submission, with how she curls up between Fyodor’s legs and plants her palms on either of her ankles, stroking the length of her ankle to her sole. Fyodor regards it with wonder, feeling as though those cold fingers have reached into the cavity of her chest and seized the strings of her heart only to tug unkindly. Dazai does not like to be pitied, and being forced into Fyodor’s care has caused her to retaliate with purposeful submission. As if it may return her soul a sense of control.
Dazai’s strange acts of primal submission have also fueled unwanted sensations for Fyodor. It is the closest she has come in her life to slipping a hand into the softness of her cotton panties – to treat the sticky ache that has never before consumed her this ferociously. She feels questioned, as if God has given her a great power and waited patiently for her to fall from her grace and abuse it. She has always longed for Dazai’s skin, but she had little qualms about waiting for it faithfully until recently. She wills herself into thinking of the little girl that has suffered the wrath of God’s disapproval once before, and decides that she never wishes to feel that lost again, even if Dazai has been considering her strangely as if the lust reeks from her very being.
It did not take long for the wretched creep of rebellion to rot Fyodor’s mind. She found herself dispelled from faith, lost in its order. To delve so intimately in ownership and worship, feasting on Dazai’s being before even breaching true intimacy with her. Fyodor wishes to regard Dazai as her equal once again, something she has yearned for from the start. There is a empyrean superiority that Fyodor resides in every time she bites into the flesh that she rid Dazai of, and her loins ache to kick herself to Dazai’s feet and service her with devotion that would level Dazai’s head and impassion her to fight for superiority between them again.
On nights that Dazai requests her touches, to soothe a palm over her ankle and reassure her that blood still flows throughout her despite such a crucial inadequacy of her own body, Fyodor has to bridle her feelings in the study until dawn. She looms over her papers and tabs, writing nonsensical ploys until her loins cease their heated bites to the sanctuary of her purity.
Dazai weeps to her sometimes, though the tears are dry and it is a silent grieving. Something has always been missing within the depths of Dazai’s existence, but physically lacking a fragment of herself proved treacherous on hard days. Fyodor wishes to touch her, to kiss her with an intentional heat, to remind Dazai that what she misses so badly is not lost but rehomed, interwoven into Fyodor’s existence forever, tying their existence together as close as it may ever get.
It takes Fyodor one week and two days to fully deplete what she had taken from her lover. Her morning tea greets her blandly without its accompanying fare, and she finds herself longing for the slight ache in her jaw that comes from chewing on tough muscle and tendon. She feels insatiable, despite occupying her time efficiently. She has never been one to hunger, and is familiar with staving off the pain of hunger and desire for fullness. She plays her cello and writes for hours. Dazai has recovered exponentially and regained her charm, to Fyodor’s slight chagrin, as she uses her renewed wit to treat Fyodor like an insatiable beast most days. Maybe she is not far off, she thinks.
Fyodor is meandering by the sink this morning, letting fatigued limbs drag a toothed comb through her hair. Dazai lets herself in, hardly in need of both crutches anymore. They’ve invested in a knee-braced scooter that Dazai is reluctant to acclimate to, claiming the crutches are more charming because Fyodor rushes to her aid whenever she becomes unbalanced. She’s humming, buzzing around Fyodor to peak into cabinets and drawers.
“You’re looking for..?” Fyodor acknowledges her gently, sleepy brows set low in disinterested confusion.
“Pads. Tampons. Something.” Dazai responds, preoccupied in her search. Fyodor scrunches her nose, and continues to comb her hair until heat settles like a blanket over her spine when she thinks about the implications of Dazai’s cycle for a moment too long.
Fyodor has been chewing on the skin around her nail beds relentlessly, tugging on her hair and restlessly shifting her feet ever since she finished what she had of Dazai’s amputated limb. It wasn’t that she was craving the taste, or the texture, or the fullness – she was eager to be close again. The intimacy that kissed her on every swallow and resided in the pits of her abdomen long after her meals had been replaced with an unkind desperation. Fyodor was hardly able to kiss Dazai these days, not without trying to suck her tongue out or chew on her lips. Dazai had never minded it, of course, but Fyodor was still twirling her finger around a dwindling thread of faith and a promise of purity. The opportunity to indulge in the insides of her lover again left her queasy.
Dazai hums in displeasure, to which Fyodor acknowledges her again.
“I’ll have to go out for something later. I think we’re out.”
Dazai sighs at her, hobbling herself out of the bathroom moments later.
Fyodor rests her temple on the cold surface of the wall as she finishes combing through her hair, stomach restless and brain muddled for the day.
As sufficient as Fyodor has become in the art of abstinence, even she cannot always resist the urge to thinly finger at the veil that separates her from desire. As she lies to rest with Dazai that night, she truly has no intention of wavering in her faith.
Dazai’s eyes are perfectly fashioned for a fawn, her fingertips busy with smoothing out the strap of Fyodor’s babydoll gown. There is something sinful in the glittering yellow of the lamp behind Dazai’s shoulder, light kissing down to her hip.
“I feel like I’m dying,” She sighs at her, plagued by cramps in her abdomen. “It’s worse than the battered foot, really.” Dazai murmurs, her voice full of a blasphemous flirtatiousness. It’s an easy fix, Fyodor thinks. There are too many solutions and all of them are indulgence. She could strap Dazai to a metal table and slice the source of pain right out of her being, feast on it like she has no sense. Or she could quench both of their aches by eating her in a more socially acceptable manner. God and Faith proves to be disagreeable with all of her presented options.
“I can help you,” Fyodor murmurs, the sound of her voice like betrayal to her ears. She rests her hands against Dazai’s hips, fingers skating the waistband of her boyshorts. Dazai mimics her movements, instead feeling the soft lining of the cups in her babydoll top – tracing them with cautious fingers. Dazai casts her eyes upon Fyodor like she knows that she's luring her into a sticky webbed trap, but Fyodor’s lack of resistance keeps her pressing forward.
“Oh, you’ve helped too much. I believe that only the release of death could save me from this pain.” She muses in a petal-soft tone, lashes dipping over her eyes as Fyodor palms at her hip. The subtle acknowledgement of Fyodor’s help, even as a tease, made Fyodor swallow as her chin dipped slightly. Though amputating her lover’s foot was no easy feat, she did spend most of her recovery unable to stave off arousal every time she was reminded of what she had done to Dazai. The gentle affirmation makes her restlessly carnivorous. Fyodor simply huffs at her ineffective humor.
“This is what finally takes you out?” Fyodor responds dryly, dipping her index past the waistband of Dazai’s briefs, softly tracing around the fraying edge of a bandage.
“There’s no sweet adrenaline to save me from the pain, now.” Dazai indulges her in a dramatic sigh. “You should just eat me while I’m fresh. I’m already rotting,” she whines, causing Fyodor’s brow to twitch in gentle annoyance. “Eat you, hm?” Fyodor’s top lip quivers slightly as she murmurs. Her heart hammers in a sickly rhythm, like a dog hounding for blood.
“You want me to eat you?” Fyodor mutters, letting Dazai slink up against her and guide her head to the pillow.
“I want you to eat me.” Her wicked grin is stifled enough to keep her looking innocent, but the fever in her eyes is hardly dimmed.
They melt together like fluid not even a moment later, sharing the heat of their mouths in a debauched excuse for a kiss. It is not their first, but the intentions that rest like molten lava in Fyodor’s gut makes it feel wildly sinful. Fyodor sucks on her tongue like it’s nothing more than another edible chunk of meat, drawing a depraved noise out of Dazai’s throat. They grasp at each other’s jaws to stay tethered, every break for breath met with thrashing teeth and bruised lips.
Dazai is already handsy, groping gently at Fyodor’s hips, giving her panties a little tug.
“Let me,” Fyodor grumbles against her eager mouth, reaching for bandaged wrists and rejecting their path. Fyodor had no intention to resist her satiation.
Dazai is quick to laze on the bed, fingertips tracing down the curve of Fyodor’s forearm to tempt her in. Fyodor follows easily, slotting between the thinness of her thighs. It's an easy descent down the welcoming valley of Dazai’s breasts, mouthing at the flesh that peeks out from the hem of her tank, letting her lips linger with lazy suckles on raised scarring.
Fyodor’s abdomen feels heavy, like it's dragging her down towards the bed. She can hardly stomach a sufficient amount of foreplay, but Dazai does not seem too interested in that either. Every moment she spends on thinking is another chance to shame herself out of everything her carnality has been praying for when she’s weak. With her nose pressed to Dazai’s panties, she shudders, inhaling the scent of metallic heat and soft cotton.
Fyodor timidly mouths at the fabric, brows pinching as she swallows. Her throat feels unbearably tight as she processes the taste of tangy iron. Somewhere in the back of her heat-muddled brain she curses her lack of discipline, suckling indulgently on the fabric of Dazai’s panties until her cunt has wet them in a slurry of blood and slick. Fyodor is panting by the time she peels Dazai’s panties back, a creeping nausea greeting her like she's some sort of overly excited mutt.
“That’s nice, Fedya,” Dazai murmurs, propped beautifully upon pillows. “You’re getting so excited,” She coos, to Fyodor’s intense embarrassment. She had been hoping that it had not been so obvious how truly insatiable she was. Fyodor resumes her task with devotion regardless, tentatively leading her tongue through sticky folds that leave tangy tastes on her tongue and cause her hips to gravitate towards the bed. She moans into Dazai’s cunt, unabashed and gluttonous, nipping at her flesh.
Fyodor’s mind has resigned to mush the moment that metallic sweetness was on her tongue again. The cavity of her chest ached, the reminder that she was already full of Dazai and was continuing to devour down another fill, that Dazai was letting her – that she had asked her to. Fyodor’s palms are clammy, and she blindly gropes down Dazai’s leg until she's met with thick bandages under her fingers. She shamelessly traces her fingertips down the missing lower extremity, groaning into the sticky sweetness that she’s now nose deep into.
“Grossly insatiable,” Dazai comments scandalously, lifting her knee towards her chest. Fyodor apologizes in a breath between her swallows, and breaks from Dazai’s cunt with a quivering sigh. She kisses over Dazai’s bandaged leg, leaving bloodied kisses all over the white gauze that protects what she has lost. What Fyodor had taken from her and devoured so selfishly. The thought has Fyodor rolling her hips against the bed, grinding towards the sliver of friction she’s able to gather on their bedsheets.
As she returns, she circles in on Dazai’s clit with her tongue, close to suffocation by this point. She is not gentle as she nips it, and she does not let up even as Dazai’s hips jerk and she brattily whines at her. Dazai’s thighs close around Fyodor’s head, the pleasant squeeze inviting her to sink deeper into her devouring. Her own hips canter needily into the bundled bedsheets under her hips, distracting her from the task at hand until Dazai is lacing fingers into her hair and tugging on her scalp.
“You know how to eat on your own,” Dazai snips at her, grinding her hips over Fyodor’s mouth. Fyodor swallows against her, hips jerking giddily as breaches the waves of her orgasm from the taunt alone. She soils the soft cotton of her panties as her hips come to a quivering hault. There isn't a second left to feel an ounce of humiliation when Dazai is humping her tongue so devotedly. Fyodor’s brows pinch softly as Dazai’s tug on her scalp does not relent, and in indulgent retaliation she nips cruelly at her clit. Her jaw aches deliciously, just like it had when she was chewing bits of Dazai between her teeth. Dazai’s hips jerk against her face from the sparking heat that courses through her abdomen, and she nearly suffocates Fyodor between her thighs. “God–” Fyodor’s nose scrunches in distaste at the squeak, and Dazai jerks as she topples over into her orgasm. Fyodor is not polite in the way she swallows up every ounce of it.
Fyodor's body remains boneless on the bed as Dazai frees her from the confines of her thighs, her nose tucked to the velvety skin of Dazai’s pelvis. She can hardly catch her breath, chest heaving with the thickness of so much taste on her tongue. Her jaw aches, and a warmth crawling up her throat wants to gnaw on Dazai’s hip bone until she’s sucked her clean of flesh and meat. She adorns her skin with a little nip instead, staving off her greed.
“I’m sorry Fedya,” Dazai huffs through her heavy breaths.
“Hn?” Fyodor regards her with a tired tilt of her head.
“I must have already been rotten. I fear I tainted you from the inside out.” She nudges Fyodor’s side with her shorter leg, the action eliciting a shiver through Fyodor’s shoulders. Fyodor indulges her in an unamused grunt, rolling herself off of Dazai’s hips. She’s uncomfortably sticky between her thighs, and strangely enough, a warm hunger has sprouted in her abdomen.
“What a mess,” Dazai comments as she sits up, still heaving softly, Fyodor’s mouth stained in a sensual carnage that adorns her like lipstick.
Dazai watches fondly as Fyodor brushes off her attention with a sleepy huff and flutter of her eyelids. Their anniversary was coming up soon, she muses to herself as she brushes a thumb over Fyodor’s mouth, smearing a bit of her blood. Maybe an at-home hysterectomy and a romantic dinner was in order.