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hcneymooners · 6 months ago

Note

best friends mom ambessa? perchance? love ur fics 🤍

⋆ you made me crazy, you made me wild.

best friend's mother!ambessa x curvy!f!reader. men & minors dni.

synopsis: a psychic once told you you'd have the kind of love that would mark you for the rest of your life. did it have to be with your best friend's mother?

cw: milf!bessa, age difference, older woman/younger woman, modern au, you and mel are best friends, long rich people vacations, curvy!reader, reader is implied to be a woc but you can still read regardless, forbidden love, sneaking around, vaping bc i have an oral fixation however i have never once smoked i just like the vibe i fear, non-sexual intimacy, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, overstimulation (bessa!receiving, r!recieving), multiple orgasms, tribbing, cunnilingus (bessa!receiving), you go to town on her my god, squirting (bessaaaa does it), tender sex, floor sex, manhandling, light angst, friendship breakups, angst with a happy ending.

notes: perchance is killing me. thank you so much for being so sweet mami. hope you enjoy. also, don't vape kids!

you and mel haven't spoken in three weeks.

the thought sits heavy in your chest as you perch on the window seat of your boutique, one leg tucked beneath you, the other dangling lazily. your cream silk camisole rides up your belly, catching on the velvet cushions behind you. outside, venice beach awakens like a lioness stretching in the sun, all languid and golden.

the brass bell above your door chimes softly in the morning breeze. your fingers find your vape – a delicate thing of gold, engraved with climbing roses – and bring it to your lips in a motion as natural as breathing.

the sweet ghost of vanilla mango curls around you like a familiar lover. you've always needed something between your lips, a fact that amuses your friends and once made ambessa raise an eyebrow in that way that sent heat flooding through your body.

the recent mornings have been sadder and slower than most, though objectively one wouldn’t be able to tell. you keep waking in fits, your body heavy with mourning. your reflection in the shop window shows what you've become in her absence: curves nestled in vintage, mussed hair tumbling past your shoulders, lips stained the color of crushed berries.

a crystal pendant nestles in the soft valley between your breasts, and your rings catch the light as you fidget with the hemline of your denim cutoffs. there's nothing calculated about your appearance today – no performance or intention. it's as honest as you can muster this morning.

the wooden floor creaks beneath your bare feet as you move to arrange a display of moonstone rings. your own fingers are adorned with gold bands, each one telling a story of who you were before that summer in england. before mel, before her mother and that library with its leather-bound books and muggy afternoons, before you watched her, endeared as she peered at her phone with those sunglasses perched on the top of her head.

before you realized that the soft animal of your body had found its home in the worst fucking lineage alive.

your phone lights up again – another message from mel. her name on the screen sends a fresh wave of guilt through you, but not regret. never regret. not about the way her mother’s hands felt on your waist in the conservatory, not about the first kiss that tasted of chlorine and whiskey, not even about the screaming match that ended with you on a plane back to california.

you take another long drag from your vape, watching the morning light fracture through hanging crystals into rainbow patterns across your skin. the salt air mingles with your perfume – something expensive and european that ambessa had picked out because she liked to dress you like a little doll, build your body up.

a customer pushes open the door, sending the brass bell into a symphony, and you unfold yourself from the window seat. your reflection shows a woman who knows exactly who she is – soft-bodied but steel-spined, tarnished but holding out for healing.

you tuck the vape into a vintage ceramic dish beside your register, next to the rose quartz crystal your psychic insisted would bring your true love back to you. you're not sure you believe it, but you keep it close anyway, just in case the universe is listening.

the customer's voice hits you like a wave – crisp, cultured british vowels discussing the merits of different pieces. it's nothing like ambessa's voice, really, but it's enough to send you tumbling back into that summer, that first day when everything changed.

𓇼

mel had been waiting at heathrow, practically vibrating with anxiety, her locs spun into a tight chignon at the nape of her neck—a nervous habit since childhood. you'd fallen into each other's arms like you always did, all tears and high laughter, ignoring the disapproving looks from passing businessmen. it was the same way you'd hugged since you were five, sharing grape juice boxes and childish fantasies on the playground.

"it's just a little cottage in the countryside," mel had said on facetime, twisting her initial necklace. "very quaint, very english. you'll probably think it's charming." what she hadn't mentioned was that her "cottage" was actually a sprawling estate that made downton abbey look modest.

honey-colored stone stretched towards the sky, windows gleaming like diamonds in the afternoon sun. the gravel drive seemed endless, winding through gardens that swallowed the sun within their towering walls. it must’ve been a dream to grow up here, small feet tumbling through the mazes and nothing but the entire world before you. your hand was still clasped in hers on the gearshift of her vintage mercedes, just like always, but you could feel her fingers trembling slightly.

"mom's probably in the library," mel said, killing the engine. "she's got this thing about afternoon light."

she chewed her lip, a habit you recognized from exam days and first dates.

"just… don't take it personally if she's a bit… well, you know. she can be kind of intense. dad always says she's an acquired taste."

you remember adjusting your dress, a red-and-white gingham number that clung delicately to your stomach. the bow at the bust had come undone at least three times that morning, and the skirt, airy and flared, fluttered in the slightest breeze. it felt a little too simple, too worn for the looming grandeur of mel’s childhood home, but you hadn’t thought to pack anything else. besides, something was grounding about it—the way the cotton pressed against your skin, the familiar weight of the straps on your shoulders, like it was trying to remind you who you were.

you followed mel through halls lined with oil paintings and antiquities. your sandals clicked against marble floors, echoing off high ceilings. everything smelled overwhelmingly of jasmine and time passed, the atmosphere practically bloated by money’s touch.

and then there was ambessa.

she stood in a shaft of golden light, tall and elegant in a cream linen suit that probably cost more than your entire wardrobe. silver threaded through her dark hair which was braided down into a neat, long plait and when she turned, her eyes caught yours with an intensity that made your knees weak. your psychic's words echoed in your head – "your palm reads of a love that will shake you. stand fast, girl." – and something in your chest shifted, like tectonic plates realigning.

"mom, this is my best friend," mel was saying, but her voice seemed to come from very far away. you noticed how she shifted her weight from foot to foot, how her fingers twisted in the waistband of her maxi skirt. "the one i've been telling you about."

ambessa's handshake was firm, her skin warm against yours.

"welcome to our home," she said, and her voice – god, her voice was like honey over gravel, like smoke and leather. "i trust you'll find everything… adequate."

you managed to say something appropriate, probably, though you couldn't remember what. all you could focus on was the way ambessa's eyes lingered on the wide basket of your waist, the delicate line of your collarbone, the pearl drop nestled between your breasts. it felt like a cigarette dragged slowly across your skin.

later, sprawled across mel's massive bed like you used to do at sleepovers, both of you tipsy on expensive wine stolen from the cellar, mel talked about her latest boyfriend drama – some posh boy from oxford who couldn't commit – while you traced patterns on her linen sheets. but your mind kept drifting to the library, to ambessa's knowing smile, to the way she'd looked at you over dinner like you were a deer she very much wanted to fell.

you didn't know then that those looks would become your undoing.

𓇼

you couldn't sleep that first week, your body stubbornly running on pacific time. the massive house creaked and whispered at night, all those endless corridors filled with shadows. you'd taken to wandering, padding through the halls in your cotton shorts and an old guns & roses tee, your thick hair piled high in a silk scarf that your grandmother had taught you to wrap just so.

that's how she found you the third night, curled up in the window seat of the informal library (because of course there were multiple libraries), reading the beautiful and damned by phone light. your bare legs were tucked up under you, painted toes peeking out, a half-eaten peach leaving sticky fingerprints on the pages.

"fitzgerald at three in the morning?" her voice was rough with sleep, but still commanding. ambessa stood in the doorway in a black silk robe that made your mouth go dry, her hair loose around her shoulders. "how terribly american of you."

"can't sleep," you drawled, your accent thick and lazy in the quiet. "time zones are, like, totally brutal."

the ghost of a smile touched her lips at your exaggerated californian lilt, and something warm unfurled in your chest when her eyes lingered on your face, studying you with a naked interest that made your skin prickle.

it became a ritual after that – you in your sun-faded pajamas, her in sophisticated sleepwear that probably cost more than your rent. she'd pour two fingers of sherry ("none of that silly wine you girls keep stealing." “yeah, sorry about that.”), and you'd talk about everything and nothing.

you told her about your boutique—at the time—dream, about learning to make jewelry from an old hippie who read tarot cards on the boardwalk. she spoke of art acquisitions and board meetings, but sometimes, when the night grew soft and heavy around you, she'd share pieces of herself that felt like an easy glimpse into your future.

mel noticed, of course she did.

"mum’s different with you," she said one afternoon, watching you apply coconut oil to your sun-warmed skin by the pool. her voice was careful, measured in a way that made your stomach twist. "she actually laughs at your jokes. she never laughs at anyone's jokes."

you hummed noncommittally, pretending to be absorbed in moisturizing. but you could feel mel's eyes on you, the same sharp gaze she'd inherited from her mother, taking in how you'd started wearing your nicest pajama sets to your nighttime wanderings, how you'd borrowed one of her expensive face creams "just to test it out."

during the days, you'd lounge in the massive gardens with mel, your skin deepening to further in the english sun while she talked less and less about her boyfriend's drama and more about how strange it was to see her mother so… present. but at night – at night you belonged to the library, to raspy-voiced conversations and loaded silences, to the way ambessa's eyes would trace the crescent of your folded body, the arch of your neck, the fullness of your lips.

"you're nothing like i expected," she said one night, two months in, her voice low and intimate in the darkness. you were sprawled on the persian rug, head tipped back against a leather armchair, humming some alternative song under your breath. your skin glowed warm and rich in the lamplight, a sharp contrast to the pale marble and cream walls surrounding you.

"oh?" you looked up at her through your lashes, feeling brave from the whiskey and the late hour. "what did you expect?"

"someone more like mel's other friends. polished. proper." her lips curved around the words as if they amused her. "not this beautiful little creature in threadbare pajamas, so full of freedom and self-assuredness. you hold your own."

beautiful. the word hung in the air between you, dangerous and flickering. like the growing tension you felt whenever mel watched you both at dinner, her eyes narrowing at each shared glance, each lingering moment. you sat up slowly, your movements sluggish and dream-like.

"i don’t. not really. you make me nervous, but i learned early on how to fake it."

her eyes met yours in the dim light, and the air flooded with something thick and heady. your body felt electric. behind you, a floorboard creaked – mel, you'd realize later, watching from the doorway with dawning understanding.

but in that moment, all you could see was ambessa, all you could feel was the weight of what was building between you, an avalanche you were both choosing to let bury you.

in a matter of minutes, she had her hands on you, your back against her firm chest with two fingers tucked inside of your cunt. your legs sprawled open, your pussy blossoming with arousal like rain on roses.

she was softer than you’d imagined, but it was almost relieving. the tenderness did more for you anyway, sent your pulse more freely throughout your body.

you bucked your hips as heat spiraled up from the base of your spine. ambessa pressed you back down, fingers gripping deeply into your thighs.

“no,” she murmured. “stay down.”

you were nestled into her lap, her fingers milking you gently as you arched. your voice seemed caught in your throat, your neck extended in expectation of a kiss. she indulged you, mouth capturing yours while her thumb slipped past your thatch of curls to play with your clit.

the kiss was wet and sloppy, uncoordinated as a result of your jerking body. still, she fed from you reaping kiss after kiss, suckling at your tongue. she groaned into your lips as you threaded a harsh hand into her hair, pining her face against yours.

in response, she inserted a third finger. you let out a high moan at the added stimulation, rooting a hand around her neck to better fuck yourself down. she laughed lightly at your desire, pumping faster until your cunt dribbled gratitude down her knuckles.

“there you go, sweet girl,” she cooed and you shivered.

you suddenly understood cults and their leaders, how special you could feel when their attention was laved over you. you were trying your best to remain quiet, thick thighs trembling as she fucked you a little harder. your tits were bouncing as you met her thrusts and she hid her face into your neck, sucking and biting lightly.

with a muffled squeal you came, squirting lavishly all over where the two of you were locked together. true to her nature, ambessa didn’t give you a moment. with an efficient maneuver, she slid you around and on top of her. it was then that you realized she was naked, robe hanging open at her sides. you weren’t given a second to admire her.

instead, she tucked you into her and kissed you as she extended her legs out and settled you onto her warm cunt. you collapsed fully into her, face buried in the soft crevice of her heavy tits. she let out a slight hum of satisfaction as she slotted your clits together, hooking a leg over you to better increase the spread of your puffy pussy. eventually, you understood the intention and began to rock steadily against her.

the friction was heavenly and you clutched her tightly, burrowing into her broad body as you chased your pleasure. ambessa was just as frantic, snapping up with a hand anchored into your hair. your silk scarf had fallen long ago but you didn’t worry about it. all that mattered was her deep groans of pleasure and the way she kept fucking up against you.

“fuck, honey,” she murmured and you wanted to tell her that you knew, that you understood.

but you couldn’t. you were rendered pathetic by the threat of your second orgasm and settled for cumming inside of her with a wet wail. you could feel her legs shaking but you knew she hadn’t finished, and with a great groan you slid off of her.

stumbling slightly, you stood and rearranged so that you were kneeling in between the apex of her legs with your ass high in the air. as you dripped onto the carpet you began to lap at her and reached a hand up to twist and pinch at her nipples, alternating between her tits.

her breath began to shudder, her chest heaving as she ground down on her tongue. it only took a couple more broad strokes up her pussy and a relentless circling of her clit for her to finish, the liquid dowsing your nose and chin. the spray was thick and warm.

pleased, you hummed into her and started the whole thing up again. she cried out, legs closing around you in a suffocating crush.

not once did you let go.

𓇼

the fight had been brutal. even now, the memory makes your stomach churn—leaves you flinching, sick, and unsteady.

“jesus, [name],” mel’s voice had been sharp, cutting through the quiet. “you’re playing house with my fucking mother.”

“mel—”

“no!” she snapped, her words laced with disbelief and venom. “i can’t believe you. what? are you just desperate? taking whatever scraps you can get? ‘but i love her, melly!’”

her voice pitched high, mocking, cruel in a way you’d never heard before.

“i mean, my god, just go to therapy. don’t go fucking my mother!”

your hand cracked against her cheek before you even registered the motion.

“fuck you,” you spat, trembling, the tears hot and blinding.

she staggered back a step, wide-eyed and disbelieving. you mirrored her shock, your palm still stinging. the silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the harsh sound of both your breaths. ambessa had stepped out moments before—it was just the two of you now, suspended in the aftermath.

her lips parted as if to say something, but no words came.

your ticket was booked that afternoon, your bag packed by evening. you were gone before the sun had fully set.

𓇼

you close the shop early, your hands moving automatically as the weight of the day presses down on you.

the steady drag on your vape blurs the edges of your thoughts, a small comfort that does nothing to ease the growing ache in your chest. by the time you arrive home, the haze has lifted, but it leaves behind a sharp clarity: you’re alone. sadder than anything. the kind of heartbroken that settles deep in your bones and brings you down, quiet and constant like a low hum you can’t escape.

so you’re surprised when you’re met with a sleek range rover loitering in the parking lot outside your apartment complex.

you didn’t expect to see her this soon. or ever. didn’t want to. three weeks of silence, of space between you both, and you thought you were okay with it. you’d been fine with the quiet, with the absence. but there she is.

mel is right outside your building, sitting pretty and cross-legged in the backseat, the car’s headlights casting long, soft shadows over the cracked pavement. ambessa is sitting in the passenger seat, her face illuminated by the glow from the dashboard, and something about the way she holds herself makes it clear that she’s on the edge. she probably didn’t even want to do this. maybe she’d flown here for mel. maybe mel had flown here for you.

your chest tightens as you stand there, frozen for a moment, caught between the impulse to walk away and the need to understand what’s brought them here. you don’t move, just watch.

the undiscovered truth is that ambessa’s done this for both of you.

mel’s been struggling without you. she’s noticed it; this is her daughter after all. mel hasn’t said it outright, but ambessa can see it in the way her shoulders slump when she talks to anyone else, the small, tired smiles that don’t reach her eyes. she’s miserable without her best friend. and then—gradually—ambessa realized how much she needed you, too. wanted you.

the air between you and the car is heavy with guilt and longing. you can see it in mel’s face, too—how much she loves her mother, how she wants this to be different, even if she doesn’t quite know how to fix it.

and you? you feel a bit numb. maybe it’s the dredges of your vanilla buzz. the sadness in your chest, the loneliness, the quiet hope that maybe—just maybe—this could still work? it’s half dead, half living. you can’t tell if you’re ready to talk, to face what’s been left unsaid for so long. but you know one thing for sure: you’ve missed them both.

you keep standing there, rooted to the spot, watching the car like it’s some kind of omen. the silence feels louder than anything you’ve heard in weeks. ambessa remains in the passenger seat, her gaze distant, like she’s trying to work through something too. you don’t know what it is—whether it’s the weight of her possible regret or the silent pressure she’s putting on her daughter.

mel shifts in her seat, and then, before you can even brace yourself, she’s out of the car, the door slamming shut behind her. she’s standing in front of you now, her eyes wide with something that looks like hesitation.

“i didn’t know where else to go,” she says, her voice quiet but raw.

you don’t know what to say. the words that have been sitting in your throat for weeks suddenly seem impossible to spit out. you want to scream, to ask her why she didn’t come sooner, why it took so long. but all you can do is stand there, your chest tight and aching.

“you don’t have to say anything,” mel continues, her eyes darting between your face and the ground. “i just… i didn’t know what else to do. my mom’s…” she trails off, and there’s something in her voice—something that sounds like both love and frustration.

“she’s been miserable without you. i’ve been miserable without you.”

the admission hangs between you, thick and vulnerable. your breath catches in your throat. you didn’t know how much you missed her until this moment. you want to reach out, to pull her close, but you don’t. the ground between you both feels too fragile. finally, you speak.

“you deserve an apology too,” you croak out. “i shouldn’t have gone behind your back and i sure as hell should have never fucking hit you. it was unacceptable and i’m sorry, melly.”

her eyes grow bright and glassy with tears. she nods.

“i’m not going to say it’s fine because it’s not. but thank you for apologizing.”

you nod, resigned to another night of crying yourself to sleep.

i realized,” mel says wetly, “before this whole thing i’d never—i’d never seen you in love. i’ve never seen you that happy. i’m sorry for mocking that especially since you’ve never had that before, and it’s all you’ve ever wanted.”

you shrug, looking away.

“it’s how i’ve been living.”

before mel can say anything else, ambessa opens her door and steps out of the car. she’s quiet, her movements deliberate, but there’s something gentle in the way she walks toward you. she stops just a foot away, and without a word, she closes the gap and cups your face in her hands, her palms warm against your skin.

you blink, the shock of her touch overwhelming.

“i can’t believe you’re here,” you tell her, your voice cracking down the middle. “have you even been to california before?”

and it’s so stupid to say when you haven’t fucking seen her in months, haven’t stopped loving her for days, but ambessa only smiles. her eyes soften as she leans in, her lips brushing your forehead in a delicate.

“i’ve only ever tasted it,” she murmurs, her breath warm against your skin.

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#ambessa x you #ambessa x reader #ambessa x y/n #arcane ambessa #ambessa medarda #ambessa league of legends #ambessa the chosen of the wolf #ambessa smut #wlw smut #lesbian #sapphic #arcane smut #arcane fanfic #arcane x reader #wlw #female!reader #fem!reader #mine ; 🐎.

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ihopeinevergetsoberr · 3 months ago

Text

playing with this bow (and arrow)

— chapter 1

author’s note: we’ve made it, folks. i’m writing yet another all-vibes meagre plot erotic thing. everybody act surprised!modern au (well, the 90s, since i’m so very consistent). classical musicians au set in beautiful brno. both viktor and reader are pushing 30. lots of longing and unresolved issues. reader is kind of insufferable, but oh well. you know exactly how i usually write her, don’t you? and, of course, my favorite thing to dabble with: failed marriages. also. i took it upon myself to give viktor a czech last name.

pairing: viktor x fem! reader

rating: mature. mildly nsfw-ish (some bitter masturbation), but expect explicit chapters in the future.

word count: 5k

—

Your bow plows through the strings like a thin dagger, wieldy in the hand of its swordswoman. You drag it to and fro, frenzied in a sweaty-templed convulsion. With your nyloned calves cramping from itchy tension, you almost leap swinging off the edge of your seat, pulling the cello south. The high-pitched finale of Saint-Saëns’ longest concerto finally perishes.

Your bow comes to rest on the A-string, idly fleeing away; the strain of your mouth relaxing, the flutter of eyelids ceasing. And when they spring up, unshielding your blown-out pupils, you have to flinch again—away from the scorching chandelier and its dozen artificial suns, struggling through the white patches in your retinas.

You hold a breath and bask in stunned silence, counting precisely four heartbeats before the audience erupts into a standing ovation. One. The air returns to their lungs, charging for a screeching Bravo! Two. They jump out of their seats, the rustling of their clothes merging into one big swish. Three. The silence finally perishes. Each pair of palms, no matter the size, joins in on the frantic clapping. Four. Someone demands an encore. The others pick it up like an obedient hive, yelling, cheering, impelling you to grab another hold of the bow. You turn towards the orchestra, crooking your best fake smile, and the cycle repeats until everyone runs out of lungfuls to request resumption.

Then there would be flowers, hearty shoulder pats, and countless impressed gasps preceding wide-eyed dithyrambs: colleagues, students and occasional admirers all producing repetitive praises—the things once catering to your ego, yet long failing to fill the void now.

‘You were marvelous, Professor.’ Of course they would say that. They could never quite catch your foibles, the way you shamefully strangled allegro moderato’s briskness, delivering but a decent-ish con-brio instead.

But you’ve always known your etiquette. Turning down praise, no matter how generic, is bad manners. So what if marvelous hardly suited your performance? So what if you were after life-changing, masterful or flawless—everything you've been chasing and failing to seize, a distant idyll that kept slipping through your calloused fingers?

So you’d shrink your shoulders and bob your head, returning the affectations, and the world would spin in a blur of your suffocating mediocrity until the afterglow of the concert had burned out, leaving you to your doleful tread down the reticent conservatory halls. Marvelous will have to suffice. You’d never call your skills something half as nice, after all.

You slid the cello onto your hunched shoulders and its weight thumped against their blades, bending you in half. One last adjustment of the strap, and you were out of the dusty building—the heavy door budging under your shove, trading its carved whimsy for the wet, pitch-black grains of tarmacadam under your oxfords. You wanted to tumble right there, to rest your heavy head against the scabrous ground, drunk on the clean smell of ozone. August had no intention of overlapping with September this year, and Brno was drenched to the marrow nearly as soon as your tear-off calendar revealed a big two in fancy cursive.

You stared at the streetlights, contemplating getting a taxi. The humidity couldn’t be any good for your Klingenthal—the mere thought of slackened plates and lax strings made you feel nauseous, and suddenly, the weight of the instrument in its shiny case had quadrupled. Taxi it is. There’s no chance you’re climbing the Golgotha with a cross that massive.

The Golgotha was what Viktor had dubbed the uphill walk to the bus stop—a spindly street, malicious with bumpy pavement—more so now that it was soaked with slick raindrops. The nickname would reach a twelve-year mark soon—an intimate inside joke that you still found hilarious. It reminded you of the better times, of the first flicker of rosin-colored eyes in the very cool halls behind you, back when neither of you was bound by the same last name or troubled with the title Professor.

You gently laid your cello on the backseat, stroking its downward slope; that, too, was Viktor’s doing—a fifth-anniversary gift, pricey as a fine vintage tends to be. You sighed and crawled into the passenger seat, tiredly announcing the destination to the driver. The man looked spent and drowsy, and you bit your cheek, cautiously staring at the instrument in its lacquered carapace. Your right hand found the ring on your left, anxiously teasing the metal warm.

“Please, drive safely.” You sank into the soft headrest. “My cello is very expensive.”

The driver gave you a lazy nod and took off, slowly struggling up the Golgotha. The world had sagged under your eyelids.

It was hard to tell when exactly things went wrong with Viktor. They say young love is bound to ruin you. There’s an inherent danger to it, a gamble of will it-won’t it. But even when it doesn’t tumble right away—there’s always something waiting to be discerned—a crack in the foundation that had been overlooked or deliberately ignored for years, a cancerous tumor surreptitiously waiting to reveal itself during the autopsy. The question is: who will be the first to reach for the scalpel in this marriage?

You preferred ostracizing Viktor from his omissions. The trick required guile—a self-subjected mind game of believing that he could do no wrong. It was easier that way. How else were you supposed to bask in self-deprecation, to find more excuses for delving into your obsession? You picked a tale old as time—the sinner and the saint, the neglector and the neglected. I am the indiscretor, you chanted. The selfish wife. The bigamist, simultaneously married to man and music. There’s no redemption for me. And I shall make my heart bleed on the fingerboard.

Dr. Talis didn’t like that approach. Matter of fact, he detested it, always trying his hardest not to roll his eyes at your weekly spirals into hypocrisy.

“Don’t start, Mrs. Knirsch.” He’d tap his pen against the notepad—a brisk staccato of condemnation. “It’s hardly ever productive.”

Productive. You winced at the word and sliced the condensate with your finger, watching a pivot of sodden city lights creep into the dripping gash. It looked harsh: a cut of black and dazzle in the foggy car window, a mini starry night. You proceeded to carve more amorphous lines into the dusky glass: they dribbled into corpulence, crawling everywhere like thick oak roots. There were five of them—precisely the number of times Jayce had uttered ‘productive’ the last time you saw him, and so you added the sixth crooked mark—a struck-through one, prison tally style.

Dr. Talis was recommended to you by a concerned upstairs neighbor. She was a darling spinster, nosy—but benevolent. When Viktor bid his indefinite farewell, her motherly shoulder was the first (and only) one to welcome your puffy face.

The next morning you were dragging up Petrov Hill, looking an utter mess—all laddered tights and tear-sodden cheeks. The shrink had taken you in before his opening hours, no questions asked. He hovered above you in the bulky stance of a weary, kind man, and you hit the wall, choking on whines.

But, as it often happens, that first impression was nothing short of mutual deception. His—of you crying all over his parquet. Yours—of him understandingly nodding along. Every session following that one was spent strictly within your confines. You quit sobbing. He quit being patient. A professional relationship built on a vulnerable mishap that had rarely occurred ever since.

And yet, you had nowhere else to go. This bespectacled, large therapist had become your only friend—a paid-for one, no less (and even so, you still confided in him quite selectively). Every Monday and Friday, you were sitting on his vintage couch, pondering anything but the issue at hand. All while he was trying to crack you again, confused by the loss of a miserable woman who had crawled to him at seven in the morning two months ago.

For all it’s worth, you quite liked the man. There was an ineffable comfort in his mild incompetence, ridiculous height, motley ties, and expensive woolly sweaters. He always looked tired, browline glasses hanging low on a big nose, dark hair glinting with too much gel. His face was sheer jawline and perpetual morning shade (another ridiculous feature, considering you only ever booked evening sessions). You wondered if he’d worn the glasses just to sharpen his big eyes: light and perceptive, they stared right through you with tender, glassy might, clashing with his virile angles.

His office resided in a moldy Austrian building—a two-story, worn-down thing flanking the cathedral, with its dusty Biedermeier windows staring right through the pretty lancets.

The place was hoarding all kinds of contentious trinkets—Tiffany lamps, fake flowers, checkered cushions, and little mockeries of classical masterpieces strewn across every wall. Mona Lisa smoking a cigarette. A frame from The Simpsons recreating The Last Supper. Venus boldly flashing the viewer instead of shyly covering her breasts with a dainty palm.

Your only grievance with the place was the window. Such a clear view of the church’s insides made your sessions feel like soft-spoken confessions, supervised by Christ himself; the distant crucifix always dwelling somewhere in your peripheral, creeping in the bleakness of gorgeous neighboring windows.

You’ve only properly visited the cathedral once: when Viktor volunteered to introduce you to Brno, utterly enraged by your scarce route of choice.

“How dare you disrespect us like that!” he murmured, shaking his head in earnest disapproval. “How come you’ve spent an entire year here, in the heart of Moravia, and yet the only walk you ever take is from the dorm to the conservatory? No, that won’t do! I have this thing,” he nudged you with his cane, earning himself a chuckle, “what’s your excuse?”

So he showed you picturesque at its finest, from Old Town Hall to St. Peter and Paul’s—an entire day of labyrinths, ossuaries, and bunkers, a palette of Czech beauties guided by the main one—lanky, well-spoken, and dressed in corduroy head-to-toe. Too bad your most vivid memory from the church was Viktor’s nape, dissected into a dozen square watts of light and drowning in not-yet-overgrown hair, its prickly ends sunbleached—the pipeline of umber to ochre. You didn’t mind, though. ‘In a room full of art, I’d still stare at you,’ or however that cheesy saying goes.

And now that swivel of maudlin was intruding on your attempts to fix the irreparable: twice a week, like clockwork, Jesus was poking his pierced-through legs into Jayce’s window, disturbing your therapy session.

“Stop ogling Jesus’ feet, Mrs. Knirsch.” Jayce snapped his fingers at you—a dull, sweat-spoiled sound. You bolted and met his eyes, scrunching your nose in sudden awareness of some mawkish whiff in the room. The culprit—a reed aroma diffuser the color of cough syrup—was glowering at you from the coffee table, emitting stifling vanilla.

You pulled at a stick, watching the oil dribble down the thin trunk. It made you smile, meek and lopsided—a shaky omen of inevitable distraction. The therapist clicked his tongue, drawing your attention back to his scorn. The clock above his head showed a quarter past six, meaning there were forty-five more minutes of confession left at your disposal.

“I don’t like his feet.” You abandoned the reeds, pushing the bottle away. Jayce caught it just in time, sucking a furious breath: right before the essence had the chance to spill all over his Turkish carpet.

“Mrs. Knirsch.”

“What? They’re pale and disturbing. I don’t know how you can just sit here, having them stare at you all day.”

“Mrs. Knirsch!”

“I told you to stop calling me that.”

“Because it reminds you of your ex-husband?”

“No, because I prefer to be addressed by my first name. And he’s still my husband. We’re merely going through a separation.”

“Oh, believe me, with that attitude, you’re definitely going to end up divorced.”

“Are you sure you’re a real therapist? Can I see your license again?”

Jayce didn’t react to that. He sighed and nosed his notepad, looking up at you from under his crooked glasses. The whimsy of bickering never lasted with him. It always dissolved when Jayce would return to the very thing therapists were meant for.

Probing.

“Please, remind me, why are you here?” Jayce coughed and propped his chin on a sturdy fist, taking his signature cross-legged interrogation stance.

You pondered his impressive knuckles, swallowing a lumpy gulp. They were thick digits of a stern man—digits that could’ve easily pulled classified information out of terrified KGB agents. You wondered if that was his occupation before he decided to become a shrink.

You pulled your skirt over your knees, straightening into a defensive sapling.

“I’m here to figure out why my husband wants to leave me—“

Jayce didn’t let you finish. His pen (that infuriating bauble!) loudly tapped the notepad again—like a makeshift incorrect buzzer. You wanted to tear the thing from his grip and throw it into Mona Lisa’s mouth, wincing with rage. But that option implied being ejected out of this quaint place.

So you decided to budge.

“I’m here because I work too much.”

The pen stopped mid-strike, hanging in the air.

“And?” The therapist trailed off, tongue running over his palate in pregnant anticipation.

“And I’m obsessed to the point of neglecting everyone around me. Myself included.”

Jayce smiled. The pen-guillotine withdrew from the blow, limply landing on the table.

“Correct.” He nodded, looking very pleased with himself. “Figuring out your Viktor business is but a bonus point. Speaking of the devil—“ Jayce licked his fingers and flicked the page, preparing a clean sheet for his observations. “How is he doing?”

You stared at the clock, drawing a nasal breath. The dial foreboded forty more minutes of this torture.

“I don’t know. He’s in London, playing Schubert.”

“Ah.” Jayce clicked his tongue. “So you do know. Is the separation not going as planned?”

You scoffed, tumbling against the couch, limbs flailing boneless in resignation. “The separation is going just fine. We haven’t spoken in two months. I just know he’s touring in Europe this time of the year.”

“But have you seen each other?”

“We work at the same conservatory. Go figure.”

“How’s that, by the way?”

“Fine. My students think I’m their local Yo-Yo Ma, or something. The usual.”

“And what do you have to say about that?”

“I think they ought to go see a doctor for an ear irrigation.”

Jayce huffed, quickly scribbling something down. “I see. Self-deprecating as ever. Well done, Mrs. Knirsch. No productivity in that capacity. But that’s all right. It’s a… process. Have you been following the curfew, at the very least?”

You chuckled at the wording, squeezing the hem of your skirt. ‘The curfew’ was a newly imposed restriction to help you overcome your compulsive rehearsing—no coming near the cello first thing in the morning (brush your teeth and have breakfast first, for god’s sake!), no playing it past eight PM, either.

Now, this part of ‘the process’ has been rather dreary. If anything, you found it damaging to Jayce’s beloved productivity—it hardly did anything except make you count the torturous seconds until you were allowed to pick up the instrument again, fingers itching like those of an addict in urgent need of a fix.

Anyhow.

“It’s okay,” you acquiesced, throwing your head back. The rippled ceiling gazed back at you, threatening to crumble into your eyes. “God. You really need to refresh this place. Am I not paying you enough?”

“As a matter of fact: yes. I don’t get paid nearly enough to catechize you like this twice a week.”

“Ha!” You pointed your shaky finger at Jayce, smiling an accusatory grin. “I see what you did there. Catechize. You have a cathedral rearing your windows. Well done, Mr. Talis. Have you considered becoming a stand-up comedian?”

“Define okay for me, Mrs. Knirsch.”

“Okay is okay. What’s there to define?”

“Everything needs definition with you. I’m going to ask you again: please, define okay.”

You sat up.

“Well, I’m following it. I have an alarm set for eight PM. I still think it’s stupid, though. It accomplishes nothing but my misery.”

The KGB interrogator melted back into a smiling man.

“Excellent!” He affirmed, almost sing-songy. His pen followed in a sequence of happy scribbles. “That’s the aim.”

“What is? My misery?” You sneered, curtly eyeing the dial. Only thirty-two minutes left. Thirty-two endless minutes until you can finally play your guts out—if you make it home in time, that is.

“No. The process. That’s how you treat an addiction.”

“Addiction? Please. Music is not heroin.”

“I beg to differ. In your case, it might just be opium.”

You sipped your bottom lip into your mouth and chewed on the soft tissue; tongue and teeth grinding over little wounds, tasting bronzey guilt. Dr. Talis pointed to his mouth, urging you to stop. You spat out your mangled lip and he watched it become plump again—all swollen skin dribbling with fresh bloody crescents. The incident was immediately reported to his little dossier.

“You’re doing that thing to your lip again.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t help. I always do that when I feel attacked.”

“Oh. Admission. That’s nice, for a change. What made you feel attacked? Was it something I did?”

“It’s not you, per se. It’s Viktor. He said something similar about opium once. It’s a shrewd metaphor.”

“Shrewd enough to make you eat yourself alive like that?”

“Don’t be a smartass. I’m contemplating cracking here.”

The minute hand shuffled, and you were reminded of the remaining half of the torture. You skimmed over the selection of Jayce’s caricatures, only to invariably linger on the voyeur-Venus, squinting for a better look. Ever since you first started coming here, she’d become a scapegoat for your telltales. Who could possibly be more vulnerable than a woman with her soul out? That’s right. A woman with her tits out. Though, you’d rather reveal the latter than the former. And the voyeur-Venus looked vastly more comfortable anyhow.

Jayce hurried to intrude, shielding the painting as his head emerged from the notes. You groaned, having been reduced to the only bare person in the room again.

“Do you think of him often?”

He regretted the fumble right away. Your eyes had regained their bludgeon glint, aiming for his throat.

“My partner of twelve years, seven of which we’ve been married, had just requested a separation. Take an educated guess.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll rephrase the question. How often do you think of him?”

“My every waking moment. And, considering that I get six hours of sleep on a good night, that adds up to a rather pathetic sum of… about eighteen to twenty hours a day. All the time, Jayce. I think of him all the time.”

“Once again, I’m so, so sorry. This separation—how long is it supposed to last? And, if it doesn’t help your cause—which, let’s hope it never comes down to that, yeah?” He shot you an apologetic smile, shakily clicking his pen. “What’s the plan in that case?”

You glowered past him, tiredly seeking Venus again, and Jayce hunched, aiding the fervent pursuit of your beacon. But when the frame sprang up from above his head, you rejected it, squeezing your eyes shut. Temples full of pulsating blood, short nails deep under bleeding cuticles (Dr. Talis had put that down, too, by the way), and in a second you were recoiling at your embarrassed “I don’t know”—all dry throat and taut calves, charging as if to snap.

Jayce blinked: once, twice. The third one must’ve been staged, just to match your three-syllable answer. He huffed, at last, wiping his glasses against his cashmere sweater.

“Don’t know…to the separation deadline or the plan in case you go through with the divorce?”

“All of it.” You whined. “Any of it. I live in willful ignorance.”

“But why? Hasn’t it occurred to you to… at least request some ephemeral due date?”

“You’re judging me. Proper therapists are not supposed to do that.”

“Well, I’m no ‘proper’ therapist. I’m just the kind you need.”

A giggle had rippled through the tears—a brief exchange of pathetic things coming in and out of your mouth. You tasted salt now, prickly, raw, and sizzling, a mess of wailing and mascara chunks, all dribbling down your chin and onto the mohair skirt, its saddle brown now speckled with wet carob. You tried to stop it, to push those shameful things back into your waterline, and yet they rolled, and rolled, and rolled, flooding the quaint office. Dr. Talis got his miserable patient back.

He offered you his handkerchief, lamenting the decision as you loudly blew your nose into the shiny white.

“I just… I felt like I had no say in it. I hurt him. He wanted a break from me. I simply went along.”

“It’s not a question of who hurt whom. You’re supposed to make those decisions together, as a couple.”

You looked up from the ruined cloth, blinking the blur away. “I thought you were on his side.”

“There is no side.” Jayce tsked, mentally calling the dry cleaning. “You’re hurting too. It’s time you embraced it.”

“Nonsense. I have no right to feel hurt.”

And then it came. The third pen-thud of the session, the weary frown, the infamous “Don’t start, Mrs. Knirsch. It’s hardly ever productive.”

The hour hand was practically licking the chunky Franklin Gothic seven on the dial. It’s truly unsettling how much time one can waste sobbing.

“Tell you what.” Jayce set his notepad on his lap, and you instantly arched, trying to sneak a glance. But, to your utmost disappointment, the thing was laid report-down, irrevocably classified.

You flicked the last parched tear and shrugged, rolling the mascara crumbs between your thumb and index. “Tell me what.”

“By next Tuesday, I want you to prepare me a list of all the reasons why you feel hurt by this separation. Could be minor, inconsequential details. Could be something more tangible. Your choice. Anything but the absence of a due date, since we’ve already established that much.”

You sniffled, peering at your hands. Black stains of makeup were drying on your calluses, enhancing the scabs of your labor. These were pockmarks of a true cellist—one-of-a-kind, immaculate, sensual. Suddenly, you were yearning for the instrument, to hell with curfew—your only desire was to have the beloved four strings cut through your fingertips, merging with the marrow.

You quit picking at your dirty skin. “That’s just weird. I’m here to stop hurting Viktor. What you’re suggesting is just gloating in poor-me’s.”

Dr. Talis gripped his nose bridge, twisting it as if to snap the cartilage. “How do you expect to un-learn your hurtful ways when you hardly even know what hurt is?”

“What if I discover something I hate about him?”

“So be it!” Jayce rose to his feet. His knees made a crunchy sound, screaming for a long walk. “Any scenario where you feel anything but pointless guilt is a win in my book.”

“Can I read it?” You nodded to his notes.

“No chance.”

“What about the handkerchief?”

“Keep it. I’m not interested in catching some weird, wailing disease.”

“Failed marriages are not contagious, you know.”

“And thank god for that!”

You lumbered out of the car, spilling a bunch of korunas. They jarred onto the slippery pavement out of your loose pockets—a downpour of fives and tens, all swiveling in between sandy joints. The driver murmured a rhotic profanity, tutting at his scattered tip, and the cab trundled away, bobbing on the pebbles.

“Sorry,” you offered into the alley, watching the plate number canter into the smog of the awry Veveří district. The curious upstairs neighbor gawked out of her window, hunching over the ledge; her frantic Einstein-blowout parted in twain, out like a greying halo. You tipped your head backward and waved, cracking your last smile of the night. She waved back and lolloped inside, heavy slippers shuffling around. You watched her disappear under the citrusy light of her lamp, swearing to never take therapist recommendations from sweet old ladies again.

You conquered three flights of stairs with breathy effort, hanging on to the straps of your cello case. Then came the habitual array of jingling keys and wan grips on the doorframe—inevitably through stinging, agape pants as the instrument gently thumped to the floor, the hum of strings an eerie vibration in between plates. It’s an unwieldy position: back—pressed against the jaundiced wallpaper, legs—tangled in a frenetic kick-away of clunky oxfords, and, finally, you were free of your confines: stockings, scarf, and skirt, all divested of into a limp heap. The heavy coat plopped over the mess, leaving but a dirty shoe to glint from beneath the huge leather sleeve—a single unshielded thing, waiting to be swept to the side.

The apartment greets you with a damp smack of bare feet against the saggy hardwood, the wallpaper daffodils becoming the cheery color of mustard when you roughly flicker the switch and idly grope your way through the half-lit rooms. You bump into the bathroom door—all awkward brushes of naked thighs—and the world cuts itself into dozens of paper-white tiles, their glint ghostly, almost asylumish. You yearn for the mirror, bending above the slippery sink. The reflection shows you a weary, barely clad woman. Her underwear slides down her legs, scrunching into a skimpy fold of—yet again—paper-white. Her tile-counterparts copy the sentiment: a bunch of flyweight-yous, all peeling the final layer of their dignity.

This used to be Viktor’s job. The thought follows you into the glass door, refusing to vaporize even when you blast hot water into your mouth—like you expect it to somehow reach your brain and melt its austerity into obtuse condensation. Sick from chlorine, your capillaries pop like a bloodshot spill. The stream persists, crawling under your prickly lashes. Viktor’s face emerges from the froth, urging you to add some salt into this whirling cocktail, and the tears oblige, goading their way out of your waterlines.

Viktor bled kindness from his fingertips. You mourned the feeling of his hands, their slothful, caring glide over the gorges of your hip dips—gently peeling the lace from those pretty dents and dragging it over your darling convexities. An exciting, albeit not-yet-erotic dance. A sweet routine, every night before shower—a blessing long forgotten.

You hold the soap under the steaming water in a vain attempt at feigning a human’s touch, its flit foreign on your back—a mushy lick that could never compete with the real thing. It pours in between your toes, thick and foamy; splits your body with milky rivulets, and lingers there in a murky trace—a study in things unfinished, a desperate search for whatever little hatred you’re allowed.

Your options assemble into the shittiest hand one could be dealt—a measly two-seven offsuit where two stands for the torturous months of his absence, and seven for the number of pathetic highs you dryly rode out around your sore fingers. Oh the miserable repercussions of sexual frustration. You contemplate upgrading it to two-eight, wet forehead tightly pressing against the glass, the squeak of clean skin a wince-igniting high-pitch.

Your hand falters. The dirty double-down stops mid-slope, coiled under your breast—a skittish tug and drop, half-hard nipple seized mid-thumb and index. You try to blow on it as Viktor-esque as you can—a stupid, vicarious stunt, but your breath gets lost in the vapor, failing to land home. You quit the thing with a strangled groan, tepidly going straight for the main ache. The itch between your thighs welcomes one awkward finger, not nearly enough to make up for the loss of him—the painful opposite of a tight fit.

Viktor. A two-syllabic, tender torture. You murmur the name like a breathy chant, the third reiteration half-assed and stumbling over the consonants. Your molars grind into powder when you claim your first head-to-toe shiver, the balls of your feet suddenly unsturdy. You think of his mouth, chapped lips upturned in a cruel denial of a kiss. The smell of him, now banished from the sheets with detergent. But you could still make it out: clean skin and the faintest whiff of piney soap. The very one slithering out of your grasp, the closest you’ve come to touching him in months. His button-down, forgotten on the shabby piano stool—the one you don’t dare move, as if trying to conjure him bent over the keys and vehemently taping out Beethoven. His penciled-in partiture, thrown all over the place—kitchen counters, desks, shelves and floors, a map of minuscule scribbles and serendipitous choices for countless coituses.

Your high slips through your fingers, escaping down the drain. You change the angle, but the chase proves fruitless: your every inch both sensitive and senseless, a stubborn ache refusing to be tamed. With your lips bitten bloodless and your hair a wet sheet of cold strands, you screw the faucet, catching your angry face in its warped reflection.

The strange, tired woman comes back, now smudged with runny mascara. You ponder her, naked and afraid, wrapped in the terror of her-your sudden revelation.

You didn’t hate Viktor for leaving. To that, he was fully entitled. For that, you could even forgive him if only you tried hard enough.

The culprit lay deeper. Uglier. Out of all his grudges, no matter how thoroughly you went over them, you always failed to find a single valid one. Hell, you failed to acknowledge there were any grudges to begin with.

All along, you didn’t hate him for the separation. You hated him for finding a reason to separate.

For being the first to reach for the scalpel.

You stumble out of the shower, staring straight ahead. Viktor’s piano glints at you from the bedroom, sad and lacquered, with no fluff of hair darkly hovering above it. You linger in the doorway, wrinkled fingers damply groping the wall, and the naked staring contest lasts a few long minutes. That is, before you grow bored. That is, before you pivot into the hallway and drag the expensive tumor of your marriage out of its shiny case.

At one in the morning, the sweet upstairs neighbor banged on your door with a noise complaint.

But you couldn’t hear her. Not over the maniacal squeaking of strings. Well, what did she expect? Dvořák’s cello pieces are known for crescendos.

—

-> chapter 2

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