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A head of white hair, and painfully dismissive eyes. A voice, calm, with an answer to your every question. A disarmament for your every argument, and a grandstanding vision that dwarfs you to stand next to it.
This feeling of ugliness was all too familiar to Rodion, even if she knew it wasn’t fair to compare Faust to him.
Now, though…
“Ya look so cute down there, Fau! Cmonn~ pretty please?” Rodya ruffles the genius’ hair for what must be the third time in the past twenty minutes, as if trying to scrub away her dignified impression.
“There…” Faust shuts her mouth briefly as it gently nudges the side of her face, “is little point mimicking fellatio to a harness. You will not feel it,” she states the obvious.
“But you're already on your knees, aren'tcha?"
“For, what Faust was led to believe, would be pleasing you.”
“But it does please me~”
The quiet back-and-forth continues in the warm buzz of the room. Rodion had never complained about the cold, but her thermostat was always cranked up to max, as if basking in a luxury she couldn’t have back home. A closed bag of trash was neatly tied in the corner, Rodya likely having swept up all the mess, or at least, the mess she found intolerable, before letting someone like Faust into her room. What was allowed to stay were things like sets of cards, unopened containers of food, loose coins, magazines, perfumes, cosmetics, and accessories scattered in a comfortable disorder. Ultimately, though, it didn’t seem like a place she was meant to stay, only to rest briefly, then abandon. Faust notes with interest in the corner of her eye, on the desk, a vanity mirror that is turned to face the wall.
“There are a variety of technologies in the city that would allow you sensation via phallic-like accessories, if such was your intention,” Faust explains, talking towards the strap that spilled from the fly of Rodya's trousers. She remains in her work clothes, as her nakedness is not required yet, while Rodya stands topless in her black lace bra.
Faust was a little more antsy today, a little more insistent on correcting tiny errors, and impatient to cut away all excess. It was only natural, when she had been forced to grovel and endure the belittlement of the Geschelshaft yet again, for just a hint of intel. But she knew it wasn’t fair to drag Rodya in with them.
“Hmm, then the city’s got no imagination, yeah?” Rodion cups Faust’s chin with her thumb and forefinger to tilt her head up. “Didn’t have anything fancy like that in the backstreets, Fau, so I think I’m more used to this. ” Those haughty, hungry eyes meet cold, indifferent ones. She pauses for a moment to consider her next move, as if Faust is just another game. “Unless you don’t think you can make me feel good without your little tech?”
“Faust easily can.” She sighs, knowing her pride is being leveraged. “Only, Faust would like to know what you get out of this. Is it comforting, in the way some find having their lips lock prior to coitus?”
“Sure?” Rodya purses her lips together before breaking into a small, affectionate laugh. “That’s cute, but you don’t need to think so hard about it, Faust,” she says, not knowing that this was Faust was thinking rather soft. She strokes her thumb along Faust’s temple. “Ya said you’d do it if it were real, so you might as well, right?
“Mm. But you’ve neglected to answer still.”
“Details…” Rodya huffs, fingers drifting down Faust's collar. “I just like the view, y’know? Having the smartest girl in the city get my strap all messy just ‘cause I told her so? ‘Cause she wants it?” She speaks with the tone often relegated to showing a dog a treat.
Faust nods stoically, as if that fantasy weren't referring to her. “So, your pleasure comes from the psychological thrill of my submission. You seek emotional validation via my physical humiliation.”
Cheeky. Faust was usually quite aloof, but, when she catches something, she can extrapolate to its source. The precision of her jab sends a crawl of heat up Rodya's neck.
She pauses, her voice quieting to tell a lie she hoped to speak into reality. “Although, Faust doesn’t see how this is meant to be degrading.” Her clinical breakdown effortlessly distances her from the vulnerability of the idea, uncaring for the offense it may cause.
“Ya really know how to take the romance out of it, Fau~ So I'm guessing that's a bust? I wouldn't want ya to do something your heart’s not in.”
“Quite the contrary; I've explained precisely why I'm interested.” She stares sharply into Rodya, unblinking. “Your need for validation intrigues me, and as such, Faust doesn't mind acting as the material for such an experiment.”
“Geez..” Rodya's brows furrow in disbelief, at just how someone on their knees could view the world so high and mightily. “If you can say all that with a straight face, then it’s better to get going.” She nudges the tip again, to Faust's chin.
“In the same way does your defensiveness feigned with anger trigger, making Faust wonder to what end you will stop performing and simply push yourself in.”
Now Faust had to know what she was doing. Her head tilts, mouth parting just slightly around the tip as her hand wraps around the base of the silicone strap, but her eyes only watch Rodya in wait for her next move. It’s almost coy. Almost impatient, the way her knuckles brush along the side of Rodya’s fly, rubbing, teasing the heat she wasn’t yet permitted to.
“Yeah, yeah~” Rodya’s breath catches at the pressure; the little high at now having Faust’s undivided attention. “You’re a real freak, you know that?”
She pushes forward, gently easing to the accommodating lips. Doesn’t want to seem too desperate. Doesn’t want to play Faust’s game, when Rodya was the one who’d set the stakes.
Faust accepts the intrusion without a sound, her mouth running methodically over the length, maintaining that critical, upwards gaze as if to imply she was right, and that this was the most useless action in the world. It wasn't very hard to swirl her tongue, or taste a little rubber. Run her hand along the shaft, kiss the head, all technique, no passion. But staying still wasn’t Rodya’s initiative, even if it was a pretty sight. Neither was going easy. Her hand tangles in Faust’s hair, knuckles pressing tightly into the genius’ scalp in warning. She did not pull, nor did her expression darken, not yet, but the message was clear— if Faust went off course, there'd be consequences. Only then did Rodya begin to move her hips.
A muffled, involuntary sound is forced out of the genius as she’s made to take more and more of the length. It could certainly stand to be louder.
“All good babe?”
Faust nods, the motion awkward and restricted with what’s in her mouth.
“Yeah, ha, I can tell.” Her thumb tenderly caresses Faust’s scalp in sharp contrast to the vice grip her other fingers kept. “You're pretty good. Got a lotta experience with this?”
Faust almost tries to recede, so she can speak, but Rodya buries herself deeper at the attempt, making Faust's eyes widen slightly. Technically speaking, ‘Faust’ possesses an infinite breadth of experience, however, Sinner #9’s phrasing insinuates as though this behaviour is a regular pastime for Faust, which she’d rather not associate with.
Unlike herself, she communicates by waggling her hand in a tentative ‘so-so’ motion. It is tedious to provide concrete answers without being granted the verbosity to do so. The excitement that flickers across the gambler's face makes it increasingly clear, though, that their ‘communication’ is not meant to be informative at all, only part of the play. It was a game, and Faust was losing her lead.
“We can change that, baby.”
With a soft, pleased sigh, Rodya drives her hips forward once again, and sets a measured, punishing pace. Faust’s hands jump up the clutch at Rodya’s warm thighs, fingers digging in the skin, but her own efforts to steady herself are nullified by the motion she’s locked into. She has to forfeit some of her own observations just to keep up with the greedy rhythm.
Her often sharp, icy eyes begin to glaze under the sensory stimuli, oxygen in her brain being replaced by the smoldering friction and heat forced into her. It usually wasn't so difficult to stay afloat; with genitalia, at least, there was a certain trust the receiver had for Faust to be gentle with them, and in kind, for them to be courteous to Faust. But all Rodya could feel through the silicone was exhilaration and power. Faust was trapped.
She softly grunts around each push of the strap, without the mind to think about it. A thing Rodya would call moaning, and Faust would refer to as common involuntary bodily reactions as result of performing oral sex. It doesn’t matter who says it, though. It’s a filthy, hair raising sound— of the city’s genius getting her mouth fucked for some backstreet gambler’s amusement. Rodya knows she would’ve come by now if it were real, or if she’d obliged to one of those silly inventions. She wouldn’t have had the time to appreciate the finer things like this. Any chance to have Faust on her knees was one to remember.
Rodya’s expression had shifted to a predatory thrill, fixed not so much to Faust’s eyes, but to the shape of her curled on the ground, shoulders trembling, and forced to abandon decorum. Breaths are shallow, mouth hanging open. The pressure on her sex, little as it is, is driving her mad, but rather than take care of it, she just bucks harder to chase that satisfaction. Faust was beginning to understand the merit of this. She uselessly tries, and succeeds, to sharpen her technique, pulling another groan out of Rodya.
“You like that, Fau? You like doing this for me?”
A ‘so-so’ hand-motion. Before consideration, it shifts to a 45° thumbs up.
“Mm, I think you like it more than that, lemme see!” Rodya angles herself slightly, and slides her right work boot between Faust’s knees. “Open,” she nudges.
Faust’s eyes flick down, not given much time for hesitation or processing, before the boot slides past her thighs, pressed snug against her heat. The shoe’s top is nice and high; no part of Faust will be neglected this way. Rodya pushes and grinds the shoe up into, where she assumes her clit would be through her pants.
“Mff!” Faust is unsure if the muffling of her groan via the strap is helping or accentuating her embarrassment. Her posture dips for a second before rising with wide eyes. Her expression, the most emotion she’s shown all night, is sheer offense. Faust will not buck into it. Faust will not be reduced to riding Rodya’s boot, of all things. But it’s not her choice; it’s the choice of the woman who gets off on watching her squirm to the continued pressure. Faust’s legs begin to shake.
“Thaats it,” Rodya sighs, biting her lip. She resumes her pace and watches with keen interest as Faust forgets to even move her mouth, as if the doll-like rocking of her head back and forth had become their new baseline. Her hands no longer try to grasp at anything, sweaty palms staying pressed at Rodya’s thighs.
Both hands move to hold Faust’s head, the grip lazier, but the movement more insistent, soft groaning with each deep thrust. It’s awfully strange for her to make these sounds, or for Faust to think Rodya will make more of them if she just tries harder.
Faust has come to take it so deeply, her hair brushes against Rodya’s abdomen with each pull. In these moments, she hunches forward, just slightly, again pushed against the terrible boot, and the tiny reward dispels her concerns.
“You're doing so well, Fau~” Rodya bends slightly to talk to her in a low voice, the ends of her long hair tickling Faust's head. It smelled nice, Faust could discern, even as her eyes began to water and her jaw throbbed in protest. “Don't stop till I tell ya to, kay? Just wanna see this a liiittle longer.”
Stopping wasn't really on Faust's mind, locked in the push and pull inertia of this motion. Only at its mention, did it become a tickle at the back of her throat, the tickle of her beginning to choke. Her hand instinctively pushes against Rodya's thigh, frantic, trying to make space.
“Mph!”
Rodya goes still, receding enough to let Faust gasp. “Easy, easy.” Rodya's voice is soft yet hot. Her smile is awfully pleased against the aggravated Faust, thumb stroking the cheek that still bulged. “That's it, I've got you. Had enough?”
Faust meets Rodya's eyes in a wordless plea. Yet what sees on her face, she could not quite call care. It's superiority, and then pity for a thing smaller than her. Even if Faust could see past the farce, damn if Rodya wasn't good at it. She feels refreshingly, shamefully, pathetic. That aspect was the most fascinating result, however— not how Faust feels beaten down herself, as odd as it is, but how Rodya, short of breath, thrives on her degradation.
“Mhm.” Faust sounds, words difficult. If she weren’t asked, she wonders just how much she would’ve indulged. But obliging to give Rodya more would have implied Faust enjoyed this useless activity. Faust prefers to manage the territory of her pride with a little more care. Such, it was better to say it was too much, than to say I want it like this. This is likely for the best. And, more accurately, Faust was getting impatient.
Rodya finally slides out, leaving Faust’s mouth cold, the two of them catching the sight of a long line of spit that connected mouth and harness, dripping to the floor. Rodya gives Faust a grin, who averts her gaze.
“Alrighttt, up we go.” Rodya’s hands slip under Faust’s arms. “Unless you wanna make a mess on my shoe.”
Faust lets herself be hoisted up, knees aching from standing again. Her glazed eyes struggle to make sense of anything concrete, swaying, save for the small flash of panic on Rodya’s face.
“Shit,” she mumbles under her breath. “I– You gotta tell me if it’s too much, Fau,” Rodya frets guiltily, knowing just how much pleasure she’d taken in shutting Faust up.
Faust’s voice comes out weak and strained. “To what do you ref–” Her voice gives out to a series of sharp coughs.
“Okay, okay.” Rodya pulls Faust in, rubbing her back gently. “Just breathe for me.”
“F-faust does not… need to be told to breathe,” she wheezes, still sinking to the warmth and softness and Rodya’s chest.
This is the Rodya that Faust knows. The one that takes care of the sinners, and whom they look to in moments of weakness. The one that is, for lack of a better term, beautiful as she is—not needing to burn to share her warmth, nor step on others to stand tall. Faust looks up into those eyes and relaxes, knowing the expression is hidden from Rodya’s view. It is a shame she loathes Faust to such an extent, Faust concludes.
They separate, Faust held fast by the shoulders.
“Ha, your mouth’s all red, Fau..” Rodya’s thumb ghosts over Faust’s tender, swollen lip, making her shiver in sensitivity. “Should I kiss it better?”
“That likely won’t…” Faust drones before her logic becomes bored of itself and she just leans forward. Rodya takes the sign to pull her into a slow and sloppy kiss. Faust’s cold, precise edges have become hot and soft as clay, a shaky trust between their lips that Rodya will not press too hard and hurt her. She makes good on that promise, with the perfect pressure to make Faust tug at her clothes, but not sting her mouth anymore. Embarrassed, Faust realizes the majority of the spit travelling between them comes from her, along with the breath and heat. It was fair to conclude, Rodya was simply a good kisser.
Rodya winds them down slowly. “I’ll get you some water, kay?” She pats her on the shoulder and crouches down to her minifridge for a bottle. Faust massages her jaw. It really was burning up.
“Here you are..” Rodya hesitates to hand it to Faust, before loosening the cap, and then handing it. “Careful, it’s pretty cold.”
“Naturally. It was in a fridge,” Faust replies, confused as to why someone would think she wouldn’t discern this.
All she receives is a chuckle. “Yep.”
“Additionally, Rodion,” Faust clears her throat, “it was not too much for Faust. Faust anticipated the risks and rewards of this, thus why she felt no need to stop. It was you who prompted such.”
Rodya walks back to stand over her, incredulous. “Fau…”
“Mhm?”
“Are you saying you’re for sure up for more? Cause’ I already got plenty.”
“Essentially, yes, Faust is asking for such a thing.”
“Ahh, you got your mouth back, neat,” Rodya's eyes darken. She nudges Faust's hand with a soft flick of her wrist and takes the bottle herself. “Drink your water then.”
Stepping into Faust's space, her shadow frames the smaller genius. She reaches out, palm cupping the back of Faust's neck, the sudden pressure tilting her head up, lips pursed in a question.
“Open up,” Rodya answers.
She presses the rim of the bottle against Faust's sensitive lips, cold plastic forcing them apart. Rodya pours the water past them rudely, water spilling at the corners of Faust's mouth in her efforts to keep up. Offense, is the expression again. Offense, without the ability of speech.
After Faust is done, Rodya takes a generous swig herself, and sets it on the table. “I’m guessin’ we should make use of this thing,” she holds and thumbs the silicone strap in her hand, “since you so nicely prepped it for us. Ya think you’ll need lube?”
Faust’s wet lips press together. “Unlikely.”
“Oh really?” Rodya backs her up to the bed, entrapping her between her legs. “Why’s that?”
Faust shrinks away a little, thinking it should be obvious.
Rodya presses the strap between Faust’s pantlegs—a crude, insistent pressure. “Cause’ you did such a good job with it? Or cause’ I did?” The low husk of Rodya's voice, like a well tuned frequency, gives Faust jolt of arousal.
“Faust’s has… an active, efficient imagination, thus, she can easily self-lubricate.” Her face scrunches as Rodya leans her further and further, holding her back so she won’t yet fall to the bed. “Though, who knows, perhaps Faust does need lube.”
“Let’s check~” Rodya breathes, hot against Faust’s neck, before unbuckling Faust’s belt. She should’ve done this from the start—but maybe seeing Faust do this for her fully clothed was a turn on though.
“Y’know, I like safe bets. I bet your undies are stuck to you right now.”
Faust does not reply. Her trousers slide off to the floor, and the sweat on her skin is hot and cold, finally exposed to the air.
Rodya pulls hem of Faust's briefs and lets go snapping it against her stomach. The bottom half stays exactly where it was, stuck. “Aw, look Fausty, I was right!”
“.. No one was betting against you.”
“I still like winning.” Rodya shrugs, sliding the briefs off of Faust. “Y'know what, take off your top too. I wanna see how you strip for someone, Fau!”
“Do temper your expectations. Faust is not a performer.”
She undoes her button up as she’s done a thousand times before, mechanical and efficient, then slides it off. Then, her fingers hook under the band of her sports bra, pulling it up and over her head fluidly. Rodya feels a twinge of insecurity, standing currently in her prettiest black lace bra for tonight, while Faust came in the one she used for battle, but she tries to brush it aside, knowing it's not Faust's thing anyways.
“See?” Faust shrugs when she's done. “You'll have to hold your applause,” she deadpans.
Rodya can't help but grin at the dry joke. Oh no, she thinks. She might be starting to lose it, if she's becoming endeared to Faust's humor of all things.
“Yeah, it looked like ya couldn't have cared less,” Rodya chuckles.
“Mhm. As you may have surmised earlier, when you attempted to strip off your top for me. Your effort was duly noted, however.”
Rodya rolls her eyes and shuffles onto the bed, putting a soft pillow between herself and the headboard. “Alright, alright, c'mere.” She taps her thighs. “Let's break you in.”
Faust nods and tentatively crawls over. As much as she prized her own aloof, level headedness, she couldn't deny the enticement of sitting on the lap of someone like Rodya. It's a fresh rush of endorphins to her brain, or as most would call, horniness.
Faust tugs at the edge of Rodya’s pantlegs in contemplation.
“Aww, you want em off, Fau?”
“Naturally.”
Already opened at the fly, Faust drags the trousers off and neatly sets them aside. Then, she assumes her seat.
Rodya looks her up and down, hands wandering from her legs to her chest, then back down, not taking action, but clearly imagining just what she’ll be able to do. It is a delicate balance of pride and embarrassment to be seen like this, that regardless makes Faust wet.
“Ohh,” Rodya's hand ghosts along Faust’s inner thigh, “you're gushin’ all over my leg, Fau. We shouldn't keep you waiting, should we?”
“Faust is… not doing that. That is an exaggeration–” Faust’s protest was promptly silenced as a finger dipped into her.
“Ah. Dripping, then?”
Faust’s head shot down, her hands perched on Rodya’s thighs, which, with their heights, puts her level with the gambler's chest. Rodya only laughs and pulls Faust flush against her as she pushes her finger a little deeper. A finger, exploring, then in and out, and then, two, just as easy. She seldom asks for confirmation at each step, preferring to go with the flow and tailor her rhythm to Faust’s body language. To her credit, she was doing pretty well.
“Hey now, Fau.”
“Mhm?” Faust meets her gaze amidst shallow breaths.
“Don’t cum too fast. We still gotta lot to do, right?”
“Faust isn’t going to…” She denies it, but at the mere suggestion, almost like a placebo effect, she feels her tension’s gentle build. “If that is your concern, then go slower.”
Rodya complies easily, and makes every thrust deeper, curling, and more rewarding. “Ahh, it really would be embarrassing, huh? To cum before you even got to ride me?”
“It’s not embarrassing. You’re…” Rodya’s thumb found Faust’s clit, making her brows knit with a sharp gasp. “Being cheap.”
“Cheap?” Rodya doesn’t like that word. “Fausty, wasn’t it you who wanted to jump straight into things? I think I’m playing very nice.” She leans into Faust, breath hot against her ear. “I think what you’re trying to say is that I’m doing too good, right?”
“You–”
“I am, riiight?”
Is she seriously trying to get compliments while Faust is about to burst?
“Ff-ine, you’re doing good. Great. Now–” Faust strains to force the words out. “Do badly. Faust doesn’t wish to finish yet.”
Rodya giggles at her words as she slows down, and down, but not to a stop. In the silence between her fingers sliding in and out, she keeps eye contact with Faust, her expression as if watching a puppy do a trick. Then, she finds what she's looking for; a flicker of fear, touchable, and made real, that she will come early if Rodya pleases, and there's nothing she can do about it. Just before the ghost of a ‘please’ can leave her lips, the preparation ends.
“Okayy,” Rodya takes her fingers out. “I think… you’re almost ready.”
“Almost?”
“Yup!” Rodya smiles cheekily, reaching into the bedside drawer, before raising her hand up. “Just clean me off, yeah?”
Faust frowns to exaggerate disinterest. “You must have some obsession with Faust's mouth.”
“Ha! You might be on to something.”
Faust accepts it anyway, taking Rodya’s hand into her own and, in a quick, efficient suck, taking every trace of her away. “Satisfied?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Rodya grabs Faust’s rear, smearing the rest of the mess back on, leaning back, and centering Faust by her hips. “Ya ready? It’s a liiittle big. Fine for me, but..”
Hovering over it, Faust begins to see what she means. “Mm.”
“Scared?”
“No, perhaps,” she backs off to sit back down on Rodya’s legs, “lubricant may be in order. This is silicone, correct?”
“Yep!” Rodya reaches for the bottle of strawberry scented lubricant in her drawer. “Shame you didn’t get to suck on this— it’s pretty tasty!” She slathers it generously over the toy. Good planning, Faust notes.
They return to the hover. Rodya holds the base, teasing Faust’s entrance with the tip. “Kay, now ya ready?”
Faust answers by action, and cautiously sinks into it. The fullness takes her breath away.
“Slow, slowly…” Rodya holds her hips steady.
Even with preparation, the stretch was undeniable. Faust shuts her eyes, breathing through the fullness before she gets it all in.
“Good girl~” Rodya scratches under Faust’s chin, the genius too occupied to fight against the patronising gesture. She pushes herself back up just as slowly, and sinks back down. A little more confidence; up, then down. Up, and down. Up-down, then, to a steady, sliding rhythm. Enough practice until Rodya sees fit that she can start joining in.
“It’s–” Faust exhales through her teeth after a particularly deep thrust, “quite large.”
“It isss, right?” Rodya takes one hand off Faust’s ass to brush the loose hair behind her ear. “Girls like you are always biting off more than they can chew.”
Like before, Rodya relishes the lack of witty opposition, meeting Faust’s descents with a slow upwards tilt. She watches the tightness of Faust’s expression, the articulate mind, slowly fall to pleasure with each thrust, teeth digging guiltily into her lip. Yet, perhaps on principal, or on Faust's inclination towards observation, Faust's refuses to look away.
“You don’t always have to get the last word in, babe. I’ve got it,” Rodya coos, hand running down her side.
“And let you–ah– say something asinine?”
“Let me?” Rodya scoffs, expression darkening. “ ‘Asinine’, Faust, babe, you’re lucky I’m lettin’ ya go slow! You’re lucky you’re so tall so I can just…” Rodya dips her head, takes one of Faust’s breasts in her mouth, and bites, making Faust yelp, fingers dug into shoulders, then grins after a wet pop, “give em some attention! You really think you’re above this? You’re humoring me?”
“Sure–surely, Faust is above this, because,” her voice, even stumbling, continues to apply pressure, “it hinges on your infatuation. That you regard Faust so highly so as to.. haah… need to use her like this to feel whole.” Her thesis stutters out, her mind focused only on defense, defense, distance.
It wasn’t quite like Faust’s usual corrections or jabs— it was a precise, painful strike that dug deep into Rodya. You’d only feel big if you were standing on top of someone you considered ‘great’.
The fucking slows to a languid grind between hips; the hand on Faust’s waist might tighten to bruise. Rodya’s other hand travels to Faust’s neck, trembling in anger, not squeezing or pressing, because no, Rodya has class, she’s not some backstreets animal, but by God does she want to be one.
“You need Faust,” she asserts, her eyes, Rodya imagines, glazed as if looking over some hideous, fascinating experiment. “Just as Faust needs you, your unfiltered results, by discarding this facade of ‘romance’ that holds you back. Fau… mm, needs this. Not placating your jealousy, or raw hatred… stop performing.”
To punctuate her point, she raises her weak legs up and descends on the strap, forcing a whine out of herself.
Rodya’s head spins— couldn’t tell if the saliva gathered at her lips was drool or snarl. The genius had landed on her lap, all but begging to be broken, but what was she? The gambler? Nobody? Just some nameless pedestal in her story?
“Is that meant to be an order, Fau?” Rodya growls.
“It’s permission to all manners of intensity, Rodya.. and an implication.” She raises a shaky hand to trace over Rodya’s lips and hold her face, not by the soft flesh, but the bone of her jaw. “That you are afraid of taking what you need.”
Rodya laughs humorlessly. Offense, is the word.
“Okay,” she sneers, exasperated. She leans into Faust’s hand that guides her mouth, and overturns the invite, claiming Faust’s lips in an aggressive outpour, fingers pulling at the ends of her of white hair to move Faust’s head as she’d done before. She’s burning hot with anger, but it feels so good to see it realized. Maybe that Faust makes it feel so good pisses her off too.
Rodya roughly grabs the flesh of Faust’s hips and slams her back down. It doesn’t matter. None of this matters. Nothing that Faust says fucking matters when she can’t stop moaning. That's why it was easier when Rodya got to talk. She was good at it. Faust wasn’t.
“Get on your back,” Rodya commands, practically shoving Faust into position anyways.
“If you require it,” Faust offers. Rodya’s biting anger does not seem to bother her in the slightest.
“You arrogant, fuckin…” For a moment, her lip quivers on the word, looking down at Faust. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She was gonna show Faust how good she could be. Wasn’t some hard-and-fast backstreet prick. That she was worth coming back to. She cleaned everything up, she wore her favorite lace, she—
The word slips out anyways, reduced to a tremble, “...bitch.”
Rodya holds Faust's legs, lines herself up, and drives herself in. She’s never heard Faust this loud, cept’ for maybe in battle, so it's probably not because she’s doing a standout job, but that doesn’t change things. All that matters is that she can, and she will.
Her thumb roughly circles over Faust’s clit, fingers splayed on her abdomen, making the genius knees rise and kick briefly, hands white knuckling the sheets.
“Ohh, is that too much Fau?” Her kind voice is pierced and bleeding with mockery. “My bad~” She leans down to suck hard on her nipples, drinking in Faust’s cries up close.
“Ah! Rod– Rodya..!”
“Gonna cum?” Her thumb circles faster. “Alreadyyy, is Faust coming for me?” These were the praises Rodya had planned, the ones she might have said when taking care of Faust, but they’ve been warped by her harshness.
Faust nods, mouth and eyes clamped shut. Rodya leans to her, bringing a hand to Faust’s jaw, and nudges it back open, letting the soft moans spill back out. Silenced, easily, by a brutal kiss. Rodya is not being careful anymore; she’s greedily taking everything she wants, and Faust can only moan into her mouth.
“It’s no biggie if you cum early babe,” she whispers, her voice dark with excitement, “I’ll just make you do it again. And again. Okay?”
She backs off so she can see this expression more clearly. To burn it into her mind if for the next time she was condescended to.
Faust’s head thrashed back into the pillow, her legs shaking, and even through the strap, Rodya feels just how tightly she clenches. “Come– Going to, ah!” Faust scrambles and heaves, fucked through her orgasm till her voice gives out.
Rodya presses down on her sternum, possessively, to feel the way she buzzes like a struck bell. “Such a good fucking girl,” her breath shakes.
Yes, if she was gentle, she wouldn’t get to enjoy this so much. It wasn’t about hearing Faust finish the Faust always finishes— in the way unique to the genius, normal to her, or dignified— it’s about dragging Faust down, making her claw and writhe and whine just like Rodya would, until she stops sounding like herself. Like painting a red, ugly streak over a portrait of perfection.
From all angles, Faust is trapped and beaten down—she’s drooling into the pillow— but what feels so good to her is how finely her ego has been stroked. This was not submission to Faust, not in the slightest. Out of control, in a perfectly controlled way. Because no matter how needy she becomes, there will always be someone who needs her more.
And her smile— Rodya had never seen Faust smile. Not at any joke, or any good news, or victory— but she grinned at Rodya now, smug and fucked out, eyes drooping, but in defiance. I was right, they meant to say, to the gambler still panting over her. Just look at the monster I made.
This was the haunting image that was going to burn into Rodya’s mind. She would rather she sobbed.
“Hey, hey...” There's no luxury of a cooldown. Rodya’s hand trails down Faust’s body, still racked with aftershocks, before her hips snap, and she starts pounding into her again. “This isn’t your day, dummy~ It’s mine. You’re mine right now.”
Rodya holds Faust down by the wrists, close enough for Faust to discern her sweat and perfume in the same breath. She claims Faust’s neck in a series of bites and kisses less like a romantic, and more like she's trying to leave proof she existed at all. Finally, finally, when Rodya presses her hand into that sensitive bundle of nerves, Faust’s smile falters, eyes rolling back in that agonizing, jagged look of overstimulation, a quiet, high gasp. She tries to wriggle from the painful pleasure.
Rodya moans at the sight. It's must be the first win that's all hers. “That’s it,” she croons, eyes hazy and dark, “just give me that cute face of yours. Scream for me.”
Rodya’s hand senselessly circles, presses into Faust through her peak, until her body jumps and Faust begins to babble uselessly. This is the way it should be. Getting taken to the base, with Faust crying and shaking under her. She didn’t need to be good, or sweet, or for this to be sustainable. She just needed to remember this till the day she died. Like any good gambler— all or nothing.
“Heya, Faust?” Rodya grins.
Those wise blue eyes manage to meet Rodya's in recognition, despite the chaos, and her own mouth that hangs open, a strand of hair stuck to her lip.
“Just wanna hear you say it— who’s fucking you right now?”
“Y-you presently a-are,” Faust manages, all breath, no voice. “Rodya…”
“Mhmm,” she slows slightly, thrusts deeper, purposefully, needing to feel this surrender down to the last detail. “And you’re a smart girl?”
“F-faust is the smartest.”
“I betchya are,” she smiles warmly down at the genius, raking her nails down her hot neck. “Tell me your ‘experiment’ failed. That you’re really mine.”
Faust shakes her head, frantic, as she does towards anything illogical. “Faust cannot lie– ah!” Still, through grit teeth, she pushes herself to finish her point, so quiet Rodya couldn’t notice. “Even if… I’m pu-presently yours.”
Rodya cuts in. “Heh, you had your chance.”
Rodya’s not sure what she was expecting. You never let Faust talk. Her words enter you like an anxious parasite. They make your hips move, until you’re stupid, and you don’t even know why. Until you wake up in the morning with your sheets ruined. And they’re never, ever for you.
“Please!” Faust’s voice gives out, nails digging into Rodya’s arms. “Rodya, ah, please, please.”
They’re not for her. They’re for her to keep punishing this needy little clit. They’re to prop the genius up, as her back arches off the bed. No matter how much Faust squirms and coats the silicone with cum, it’ll never be enough. Rodya is lightheaded. She needs more. Or she doesn't know what she needs anymore, but she knows that she's so infuriatingly hungry for the validation that keeps slipping through her fingers.
If Faust just cried for her to stop, or to slow down, or for Rodya to take care of her, or anything, if there was anything to prove Rodya needed to be here, maybe this useless feeling would resolve.
At some point, she finds herself simply prodding at Faust for her own entertainment, her hand listlessly stroking up and down Faust's clit, watching in interest how prettily the pain racks across her face.
After a particularly high groan, Faust's fingers instinctively wrap around the wrist of Rodya's torturous hand.
“Aww, Fau, is it too much?” She slowly slips her fingers under Faust's, undoing their grip.
Faust nods.
“But you're still gonna do it for me, right? You can do one more for me?” She only realizes once she speaks, that her voice is bordering begging.
Faust nods, the motion hardly indistinguishable from her trembles.
“Tell me you want it, then. Don't you like havin’ all your words?”
If Faust had better control of her body right now, she would roll her eyes. But Rodya doesn't like giving up much control. Another jolt of sensitivity sends her back first into the mattress.
“Faust wants it..”
“Wants to…?”
“Come again.”
Rodya snickers.
“Pervert.”
She slaps her clit, listening for the breathy cry, then twice more, firmer, for a reprise. She whispers lowly. “Doesn't it hurt?” She does a long, hard drag across Faust's clit for emphasis. “You just like being treated like that?”
Faust sighs to keep control of her breath for at least one uninterrupted moment. “You are far more of a pervert, wanting to see Faust like this.”
Rodya’s eyes and mouth light up in a genuinely frightening manner, one Faust has only seen in her corrosion.
“Aren't I?” Rodya laughs. In every way but verbally, she states her utter glee to Faust being dragged down with her— to the genius admitting, implying she herself was perverted, that they owned something of the same.
Rodya licks her own fingers, coating them in a cool saliva, and returns slowly to that swollen clit.
Faust's hand clamps to muffle herself. Rodya leaves her with this dignity, as she gropes and kisses the tits she’s unlikely to feel again. Now, Faust really sounded stupid, an ‘involuntary response to overstimulation’, Rodya knows. Every sharp connection of their hips was another pained gasp of air. Every word was in the first person, if it made sense at all. Rodya dials down, gentler, to a rhythmic grind that still makes Faust buck up and writhe, the tremor between her thighs lost, replaced with a tense, needy panting.
“Say it again,” Rodya’s breath hitches, murmuring against Faust’s lips.
“Pl-ease,” Faust gasps into her palm, barely audible.
“You're a smart girl? Is that what you are?”
“I am!” Faust relishes in the oxymoron that is being smart while being fucked senseless.
“Mmm, that's right. Don’t fight it.”
Her last orgasm comes on quicker, in a violent, broken shudder, hips chasing after Rodya’s, bliss carrying her through the pain of stimulation. With one final, grounding thrust, almost coming undone herself, Rodya pulls out and collapses over Faust, arms barely holding herself up, pinning her to the damp sheets. They become a jambled duet of breathing. Faust’s is logically intense. Yet Rodya’s is similar, high and blissed, as if she still hadn’t stopped. She kisses down her forehead, wrapped around Faust, until,
“Rodya, Rodya–” Faust pushes, fingers frantically drumming at Rodion’s shoulder, “please, off.” This was the only time the genius had sounded truly troubled the whole night.
“Huh? Oh yeah, my bad.” Rodya rolls away quickly. Right, it wasn’t unthinkable that Faust could take care of herself.
It was only now that Rodya could really feel how hot it was in here. Sweat cools against her skin in the sauna like air. Faust is on her side, turned away, breathing in a calming pattern of her own design.
Rodya lays on her back, stares to the ceiling and shuts her eyes, warm regret washing over her, for how deeply she must have screwed things up. At least Vergilius was more of her boss than Faust.
The gambler replays the images of the night in her mind, trying to find her big ‘win’. There’s a few good ones. She’d seen Faust beg. And break. And that pleased smile, that knew Rodya was going to lose herself like this from the start—it wouldn’t leave her. Faust, even now, didn't lose at all. She only indulged Rodya's whims. In the end, it was on Rodya for trying to use sex to break someone down in the first place, and she'd failed at even that. The silence, the idleness of it all, easily lets her cold shame creep back in.
Whatever. Not many people can say they got to see Faust like this. That she asked them to do this. Should be good enough. Got something, in the end.
She rubs her legs together, so infuriatingly close. But she can't reach it alone, on her own swimming thoughts.
Rodya hears a shuffle. When she opens her eyes, she finds Faust turned on her side, staring intently at her in slight concern. They both jump back slightly.
“Mm.”
“Faust?”
“Faust was observing. Take this.” Faust scoots back, hands the bottle of water to Rodya, and unlatches the toy from the harness.
“Ah, right.” Rodya slips out of the harness herself.
“And Faust has one final request.” She regards the toy in her hands for a moment, like appraising a weapon. “Would you trust Faust if she says her tests came back clean from just yesterday afternoon?”
“...Sure?”
“Would Faust be allowed to use this on you? You seemed rather close.” Her pupils are dilated. She comes to sit atop Rodya’s shins, almost in the way she’d imagine a cat crawling over her at night. “It would be a shame to let it go to waste.”
Rodya's heart flips. “You wanna touch me? After I put ya through the wringer? Faust, babe, your knees are shaking.”
Faust tilts her head, as if the observation was irrelevant. Her hand slowly slides into the waistband of Rodya’s shorts, absorbing the radiant heat of her body. “Faust is not known for long recovery times. In fact, Faust is rather stimulated.” Hesitating to pull the fabric down, she asks, “Do you trust Faust?”
Rodya exhales through her nose, her chilled body heating up again when it thought they were done. “Hmm, if you really wanna, I can’t argue with that after the night I put ya through.”
“Mm. This response is not satisfactory.” Faust notes a subtle presumption in the sinner; trust is something one does, not possesses. She crawls closer, looming face to face with Rodya, a hand on the pillow beside her head to support her hover. “Please state such with a simple yes or no, and a brief summarizing sentence of your intentions.”
“Eh, yeah?” Rodya’s head shrinks back, a helpless smile painted across her face as the genius gains on her. “I just wanna cum, Fau.”
“Good. Faust was thinking the same.” After the delay, Faust sits back, Rodya lifts her legs, and Faust slides her shorts and underwear off in a clean motion. She looks at the lace underwear in her hand, soaked, and says to herself, “pink,” before tossing it aside.
“C-careful,” Rodya laughs, as the silicone glides along her slit, and circles her entrance. “S’all sensitive now~”
“Hm, but that did not matter much when it was Faust's turn, did it?” At the slight fear knit across Rodya’s eyebrows, Faust only releases a faint puff of breath, the ghost of a laugh. “Kidding. Faust will be nice.”
“Ff–Thank you,” Rodya breathes, back arching as the toy is methodically pushed into her. A few minutes and she’ll be gone. Maybe then, she’ll finally be in control of herself.
It didn’t feel like this when she played with it alone. It was a wrong sensation, in that it was too right. The slender, gentle hands that broke her apart inch by clinical inch were nothing like her own. Not desperate at all; they knew their exact desire, their exact effect, and the exact result of every centimeter gained. And it was Faust. Faust was touching her, Faust was looking at her, and pinning her in a pleasurable limbo; the one who makes her most insecure, whose influence she wishes to escape, is the only one who can make it feel this good.
It feels bad to feel good.
“Slowly, slowly,” Faust mimics Rodya’s words from earlier.
Rodya’s eyes drift briefly to the vanity mirror in the corner. It had been annoyingly turned to face them at some point. But all she can see in the glass is the top of Faust’s head, looming over her, overshadowing, bobbing with a slow, hypnotic rhythm. It sinks in now, that she’s ended up how she feared it’d always be; beneath Faust again.
“Fuck–” Rodya gasps, half pleasure, half in a sudden, odd regret. “I- I bought this thing. I bought it for myself,” she babbles.
Faust pauses, in an expression reserved for miscalculations and unaccounted variables, placing a cool, steady hand over Rodion’s forehead. “And?”
“...”
Faust’s hand drifts down, and covers Rodya’s eyes, plunging her into a private darkness.
“It was mine…” Rodya whispers into the palm of Faust’s hand.
“It remains to be yours.”
“Girls like you, ya don’t get it…” Rodya moans, hips beginning to chase the hot friction of Faust’s hand. “What am I gonna think about next time? It’ll all be you,” she whines. “You’re t-takin this too?”
“Hm.” As enticing as her impression on Rodya was, Faust feels her pride has overstepped. “What do you think will happen the next time Faust is treated so roughly, Rodion?”
Rodya only lets out a helpless sound to signal ‘I don’t know’.
Faust finishes the thought. “She will find herself bored, because they will not satisfy Faust like you have.” Faust picks up speed.
The barrier between their sights, all in her palm, was not dissimilar to the shutting of her mouth Rodya so craved earlier. All of it, a greedy plea to hear the sound of your own voice.
“Rodion, you may be pleased to hear Faust has made a mistake.”
“H-huh?”
“Perhaps, what your ego needs is not Faust’s degradation,” Faust murmurs, her soft voice clear against Rodya’s ear. “Perhaps what you need is praise.”
“You can’t be serious…” Rodya was a sucker for validation, for being told she was good. This was no secret. That’s why she didn’t want to imagine it going this way. Anyone could say it— anyone but Faust. This was the night to prove she didn’t need it from Faust.
And all her aspirations for this night were thrown into ruin.
“You did so well tonight Rodya,” Faust whispers. It was a simple belief, yet Rodya still shook her head to it. “You took everything you wanted in perfect greed. Your brutality is like worship.”
“Don’t…” Rodya wheezes—she’s too easy this way. Praise has a way of hitting harder, peeling further than any rough handling could, exposing an ugly, needy heart.
“Faust thinks you look good like that; confident, driven, highly competent. Do you think the same?”
Rodya doesn't reply. She's waiting for the drop, the biting insult, the betrayal of her pride.
“Yet Faust also likes this side of you, soft and deferring to any and all touch. Faust apologizes for critiquing your ‘romantic’ side. It is quite endearing.”
“Khh–”
The absurdity of Faust doing this immediately after being ‘ruined’ by her only amplifies Rodya’s shame. She should be taking care of Faust, not being reassured. She doesn’t deserve to be handled so kindly now, not with her angry, envious thoughts. Not by the girl who has only ever stood above her, after she put everything on the line to challenge that, just for a night. Rodya has not earned it. She's not become the person she wants to be, that can take it without flinching.
It's a jarringly inappropriate overturn of their dynamic. But Faust has little care for what is considered ‘proper’, only for how she thinks this should end.
“No. You are taking Faust so well. There is no room for counter-argument; you’re being very good for Faust.”
“No– no, no…!” is all Rodya can speak, as her body twists with pleasure, closer and closer to spasm. Almost, as if against the clock, she tries to delay the inevitable, fingers knotting the sheets. Faust slows, and Rodya’s grip loosens, fingers trailing back to the toy to beckon to beckon Faust to keep going. “I'm sorry, just–”
Faust does, contemplatively.
“Why ‘no’?” Faust leans in, as if she’ll miss something. “You’ve made Faust come five times tonight, without break. This is supported by the texture you feel, and wetness that was pre-affixed to the toy.”
Five?! I could’ve sworn it was three!
“You deserve this, and Faust needs you to have it. There is nothing wrong with wanting this..”
“Damnit,” Rodya hisses, trying to simmer a guilty enjoyment she cannot hide, legs shaking uselessly under Faust, body jerking up. She’s terribly close. “I-it’s always girls like you,” her jaw quivers.
“Girls like Faust?”
Faust removes the palm covering Rodya to find a pair of desperate, watering eyes.
“No matter what I do, how bad I fuck up, it never gets to you. Like you knew I would from the start.”
It wasn’t just ‘girls’ like you. The weight of every undoable mistake, and the grace of a hand reaching out anyways. There is only one simple word for it. Ugly.
Faust’s expression softens in guilt. She covers the gambler's eyes again.
“You didn’t…” Faust trails off, confused. “Faust has not seen this outcome. She only wants it, because she wanted you.” Unsure what to do, she plants a soft kiss on Rodya’s lips. “If you do not believe me, would you believe yourself?”
“Faust…”
Rodya's body tenses, sheets creasing by her hands and feet. But Faust slows her pace to a terrible, burning edge, eliciting a quiet whine from the gambler. She has never seen someone so at odds with their body.
“You earlier directed Faust to repeat that she was ‘smart’, a rather obvious compliment, although not unappreciated. Faust will do the same. Say it: Tell me that you have broken Faust.”
Rodya feels her scattered brain melting as Faust takes the hand away from her eyes again, cups her jaw in her hand and cranes her face up.
“No…” The vestiges of her sense try to relent. “Come on, Fau, I– I didn’t, I’m just…”
Faust’s body presses into hers, just as hot, the toy’s motion an afterthought compared to her pleasant weight, scent, and the serene wisp of her voice.
“I will not let you say something asinine, Rodion,” she urges into her collarbone, steadying the one shaking under her. “Tell me you are the only one who has seen Faust like this. Tell me you have won. Please.”
Rodya barely opens her eyes, to the top of Faust’s ruined hair, to the hot breath pouring in and out on her shoulder, to her precise hands whose movements had begun to stutter and tremble, and for a fleeting moment, she thinks she can believe it.
She looks further down, to the bits of Faust's expression she can catch. And even if she can't believe she's proved herself, or that Faust wants her in the same way she wants her, she sees it— the focused, sentimental brow of someone who so badly just wants her to feel good tonight. She sees that too, in the mirror, in the hypnotic motion of the body protectively encircling her.
“I did,” Rodya squeaks, beginning to feel the warm rush of her reward already, “Haah, I won. I… made you look like this, you looked so good– Fau, please, shit, I–”
“I know,” Faust soothes coolly, as best she can. “Do enjoy yourself.”
She doubles down to a luxurious, deliberate pace, primed for intensity and cries at its start, then shifting to deep, slow thrusts by the orgasm’s end. And it lasts long. Long enough for Faust to find herself watching in fascination for just how long Rodya can squirm, legs locking around Faust’s hand, in a desperate, needy bucking that lasts a full minute. But what comes after is not quite a fixed or confident woman like she hoped; it is a silent Rodya, who hides her face in the pillows.
Faust finally removes the toy and falls completely into Rodya, strength spent. Her ‘recovery time’ may have been over exaggerated.
“Can Faust stay here?” She says, muffled.
Rodya wraps her arms around Faust, fingers tangling in her hair.
“Noted.”
The bus rocks on its path, and the heater buzzes once again, now that they’ve returned to earth.
The embrace is intentionally loose. It is not meant to convey Rodya’s desperation. It is not meant to convey to Faust how badly she is needed to close the abashed heart she’d left open. If it was, Rodya would hold the genius in place and kiss her until she was pushed away in disinterest. It would twist itself, bowing to her own dismay, in the hope Faust could whisper her the cure to her shame. Instead, it does as they’ve done all night, circling and licking her conscious wound in silence. As it has all night, it falls at its crux.
“Right, what was it you said after this?” Faust’s lips awkwardly flex around the crass phrase. “ ‘Such a good fucking girl’?”
Rodya snorts, the vibration felt through both of them.
“Mm. Maybe Faust should not be trying to steal all your techniques,” she muses.
“Faustyy…” Rodya groans, in awkward exhaustion. “Stop being cute.”
“Faust may as well request you stop being tall now too.”
Rodya giggles, pressing lazy kisses into Faust’s shoulder. After the adrenaline dies down, true somberness creeps into her expression. “I’m real sorry about what happened there, I… I don’t even know what happened. I’m not usually like that.” Faust rolls off of Rodya and onto her side so they can speak.
“If you refer to the harshness of your performance,” Faust scans Rodya's eyes before speaking, as if trying to gauge the correlation. “...You have not fallen even close to short in that regard. It was conducted under pre-negotiated and ongoing consent, no?” A small flush creeps up to her face. She wasn't as invulnerable to the memory as she planned.
“It’s not just that, I was.. thinking some awful things about you, too. And myself. And then, you felt like you had to take care of me. It’s, ahh…” Rodya sighs, painting on her regular, foolhardy smile. “Not very pretty of me,” she chuckles wryly.
“Correction: Faust has not done anything out of obligation, only interest; your interpretation is likely to be linked to a bias of shame. I did not disenjoy it. Otherwise..” Her gaze becomes distant for a moment, as if reminiscing on a fragile crack that existed in her own mind. “Confidence can be as fickle as a stray leaf,” Faust says, unconsciously echoing Yi Sang’s verbiage. “Faust has seen it before. Fixating on such will yield worse results in the future, so Faust advises against it.” She chooses not to comment on the ‘awful’ thoughts about herself.
“Strange to hear this from you, Fau, honestly.”
“Faust cannot sit idly when there is error in your thought.” Faust purses her lips, the idea sinking in that word choice like this has been sapping at the esteem of her partners. “Rather, you wished to dominate Faust, correct? But you found her to be indomitable.”
“Preetty much.”
“Ultimately, such fantasies will not transfer to real life; they are meant only to be enjoyed here.” Faust zones out for a few seconds, referring to the Gesellschaft. “Such, I have concluded a supporting logical syllogism for you, Rodya.”
“Not sure… what that is?” It sounds like something Yi Sang has said. Maybe?
“You do know. Simply;
- Faust can be dominated without losing her power.
- You are, at least as you perceive, ‘dominated’ by way of pleasant and tender care.
- Therefore, Rodya can be dominated without losing her power.”
“Woah,” Rodya can’t help but laugh. “You’re really trying to work through this for me?”
Rodya smirks at a small lapse in Faust's judgement; the idea that Rodya felt she lost her control the moment she was pleasured. But the truth was, she lost it long before that. In a strange way, the academic effort almost circles back to comfort her once again though—the thought that maybe, they shared something of the same. That they could be equated.
“Faust’s honesty is only natural recompense… as she must seriously request you do not shoulder the weight of this result alone, when Faust has meddled with its variables haphazardly.” She shifts nervously at this point, unsure how detailed she should speak of it. About how she pushed.
In the end, she got the sick vindication she wanted, held up by Rodya’s insecurity. First, by prodding it apart, then suturing it with her own hands, like saliva traded in a messy kiss. Faust did not much like upsetting equilibriums, even if her own side was favored.
“So complicated..” Rodya groans.
“Particulars can be discussed in a more suitable setting.” Faust's voice speeds up, a sign of her nervousness, wanting to make her point known before it's too late. “But Faust only means to say, do not withdraw from this experiment, Rodya. You have not even seen the fathoms of what Faust's mouth can do yet.” In her tone, is a monotone wanting, or pleading.
“Are– are you trying to entice me or something?” Rodya laughs. Her hand cards through Faust’s hair, gently untangling the mess she'd made of it. “Babe, even if ya do that, it's still a me-problem.”
Faust grumbles. She initiates a series of warmly welcomed kisses, enthusiastic, followed by another and another, all gentle, weary, and deep. They initiate, but they deliberately give themselves to Rodya's motion. There is no more honest form of her submission than this. “Are you convinced yet?”
Rodya regards the girl, covered in red marks up her chest, to her neck, with the entirety of Rodya's lipstick smudged randomly across her.
“Maybe.”
Faust.. pouts? “In a sea of compliments, Faust suspects you are the type to fixate on a single negative drop.”
“Ah, no way! I'm plenty more positive than the rest of the guys, just, y’know… it's a different deal.”
“Faust thinks Faust is a different deal.” Her feeling towards this stipulation is unreadable. It's only to insinuate that a Rodya with this little confidence must simply not be the norm. “No matter. Where you have learned my propensity towards being roughhoused, I have learned yours towards being tenderly cared for. You cannot escape Faust now,” Faust thinks, before correcting sheepishly, “unless you truly wish to.”
Rodya’s perplexity shifts to a soft affection. “You’re being very insistent, Fau…” She grins past her lingering shame, because joking through it is better than sitting in it. Even if, despite all evidence, it’s still hard to believe,
“Do you like meee?”
“Faust-”
“Do you have a crush on me, Faustyyy?”
Faust sighs. “You must be turning into an epistemic philosopher with the way you question basic truths.”
“Oh my God,” Rodya rolls her eyes, “such a nerd. Just get over here,” Rodya pulls Faust into her shoulder. Her scent is intentionally cold and neutral, and Rodya is beginning to think she wouldn’t expect any less.
If Faust's mounting word count was her version of aftercare, then so be it. If Rodya's version was for them to just act kindly for a moment, then it would be so. They have, and will go on to survive together, surely.
“You’ve likely heard it before, but there’s a certain encouraging phrase in times of turmoil in academia,” Faust drones, chin propped on Rodya’s collarbone.
“Hmm?” Rodya listens with her eyes closed.
“If at first you don’t succeed…”
“Soo cheesy.”
“Do say it…” Faust eases, and Rodya truly cannot tell if she’s being serious or not.
“Try, try, again,” she whispers to the top of Faust’s hair.