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Don Quixote turns to Heathcliff from where she’s pressed her ear against the wall. He’s fidgeting with an action figure of some sort that she’d purchased a while ago from a hobby shop, moving its articulated joints around into funny poses.
“Dost thou believe…”
He stops moving his hands to look over at Don. “What?”
“Is it possible that… despite their shared erudition, they overlooked the fact that I am Sinner number three, to their number one and number two? Regardless of which of the two had gone into the other’s room, this fine knight would still be just next door to either one of them, or across the way… by habit, of course, as we are listed in a certain order…”
“If it weren't for his squeaking and shite, and her growling, I would’ve thought they were showing each other little science projects or something, not…” Heathcliff reaches up to grip his hair with both hands, sighing and gesturing in the air when he’s through mulling over thoughts he’s upset about having. “I’d no idea two people could talk so much doing that… I would’ve gone and hopped out the window myself halfway in. What is this, a business meeting between them? With proposals and deals and whatnot?”
A few moments pass by. He titters once more. “The two biggest loonies, boinking. I expected one of them to snap at some point, but who would’ve thought it would be at each other?”
“‘Loonies?’” Don snorts. “No, no—they might be the complete opposite! And it is preposterous to assume they are the only two not in their right mind! Look at us: why art thou here, listening to them alongside me? If thou states ‘curiosity’ as a reason, thou art as insane as they are!”
“That’s the same reason you have, you idiot; I’d have left you to be mental on your own if you hadn’t been so—”
“Ah”—she lifts a finger—”you mean, if I was not one of Sir Heathcliff’s most beloved associates in this company, to the extent that he doth not mind spending time with me despite his grumbling about how much he wishes that was not the case?”
He squints. For a while. Grits his teeth and slides his hand down his face.
“Sure. Go wank off your ego with that, which is a lie as good as any; you’re also forgetting the fact that you wouldn’t let go of me even when I wanted to leave and stab my eardrums through with a sword. I only bothered coming here in the first place ‘cos you stuck your head out into the hall as I was passing by. You called me in to talk about Dante standing around near the doors for a little too long, and about it being Faust and Yi Sang in particular who hadn’t come back this way after work hours…”
“Sir Heathcliff wished to eavesdrop!”
“You say it like it’s the worst thing I could have done; sure, I wanted to eavesdrop, but only on that, and only for a second or two. Not on the sex,” he corrects, flopping backwards to lie flat on Don’s bed. “It would’ve called for less of an eyebrow raise if the two of them were anybody else. One second of Yi Sang and Faust yakking on and on? Ten years for the rest of us. Trying to figure out what they’re talking about is enough of a pain as is; poor Dante, that screwball, trapped in oblivion for a century.”
“Yes, yes! I agree entirely!” Don bounds over to her bed, where Heathcliff is now picking at a loose fiber on her sheets. “And the ‘something worth Dante’s worry’ mentioned was Yi Sang’s virginity being thrown into the fray! Perhaps—ah—how poignant it is, that he was deflowered by a woman he seemed to hardly want to concern himself with at all! Or, maybe mine assessment is completely wrong, given the evidence!”
“Not even the slightest bit surprised. He can’t even look people in the eye; what made Faust think he could handle tits in his face?” His head shakes as Don grabs at his shoulders and rocks him around on the bed. “How can he even deal with her on any other day—oi, keep still or I’ll rip your tongue out; do you always have to be so bloody wiggly and loud?”
“Yes! And—and Sir Heathcliff, dost thou reckon that they might… continue this… arrangement?”
“If they haven’t already broken each other’s twig and berries, then maybe. But at this point, I’ve no answer; it could go either way, and I hardly give enough of a—”
She’s so close to his face he could headbutt her. “But, but—what if they do something more… sordid?”
Heathcliff rolls his eyes at her, squinting and rubbing the space between his brows. “Wh—does that matter to you?”
“There is no better way to relieve boredom than to be entertained! It is not as though I truly care about what they do, per se, but this is just so interesting! It is like watching two droplets of rain coalesce on the glass and race down to the sill of the window together! Nothing more!”
“Your idea of entertainment is other people’s”—he struggles to find a word, rolling around several of them on his tongue before he settles on one that tastes a bit too off—”relationships?”
“Only in this case; I simply cannot explain enough the extent to which I…” She squeezes her eyes shut, leaping up to pace around her room. “I have never been more intrigued by a pairing! Two great minds from entirely different factions, meeting for a grand collaboration for the sake of nothing else other than the expansion of knowledge, not only regarding themselves but also each other! Two dragons, entirely immune to the other’s fiery breath but masters of their own magical powers, agreeing to share the same hoard knowing they will gain nothing because they already have everything of their own, but still doing it anyway!”
She makes motions with her hands to supplement her explanation, forming the mouths of two dragons and making them collide into each other over and over. “Why are they interacting in this way? What is not interesting about that, pray tell?”
Heathcliff turns onto his side, covering his ears as her voice grows louder; even though she quiets down when she realizes Yi Sang and Faust may be able to hear her, she’s still just so—
“Alright, alright, I get it! You talk big for a lass who sounds exactly like the people she’s on about, you know—”
Turning on her heels, she races back to choke him out with two hands. “I could never! They are leagues above and ahead of me in many ways!”
He kicks the blonde in the legs, causing her to reel back and come at him from a different angle. “Better go look in Yi Sang’s mirror to prove it; your hair’s already gone black!”
“You jest!”
*
It’s a while later, on some fine afternoon, when Yi Sang and Faust make noticeable eye contact from their own seats.
Don is the only one to notice.
She’s about to doze off, Sinclair already cuddled into and drooling against her shoulder in the ambient warmth, when she begins a quiet and quick game of scanning her environment in hopes to find something to keep her awake; she hates falling asleep during the day despite being one of the most likely Sinners out of the group to do so during a road trip.
While looking about, her eyes land first on Outis, who is across from her, facing the front of the bus and wide awake, sitting with one leg crossed over the other at the knee. Nothing of note there—just Outis being Outis, as always.
Don Quixote keeps going to catch Ishmael using a pocket knife to scrape something out from under her nails, Meursault intently watching. When a particle flies out from between her hands, he’s quick to swipe it off of one of their legs or the space between them.
Then there’s Heathcliff, who is not currently antagonizing anybody. In fact, he’s looking out the window nearest to him, an almost wistful look on his face—or maybe that’s just his usual expression. Don can’t tell.
Her eyes whip around more to the right. To the empty seat next to Heathcliff. To the empty seat next to Ryōshū. To Ryōshū, whose eyes are closed. Her arms are crossed, and her head looks to be in a rather awkward position…
Safe to say, even with all the signs, Don Quixote can never truly determine when the other is asleep or merely resting; even if Ryōshū looks like she’s asleep, Don can look away for one moment and then the very next, she can catch Ryōshū staring right back at her as if her eyes were never shut at all. It’s downright scary. It’s also why Don Quixote looks away as quickly as possible.
Hong Lu is usually interesting to look at or interact with in times like these; if he’s not asleep, he’s listening to music, reading something, or talking to someone around him if he feels chatty; despite their differences, even him and Don have been known to have the occasional conversation if either of them are in the right mood.
But right now, he is asleep.
Most of the time, he does so with his mouth wide open, and she’s not sure if his eyes are even closed all the way. Now is no different; the sight offers a humorous contrast to the stuffy and affected air he tends to sweep up around him when he’s conscious. His hair is stuck at the corner of his mouth and he’s hardly even noticed.
It’s not as though his seatmate would be willing to do anything about it, though. She’s currently engaging in non-verbal fifth-dimensional communication with the side of Yi Sang’s head, and he’s not even looking at her.
Luckily, Faust doesn’t notice Don Quixote’s wide, golden eyes, either. Somehow.
If one was not paying close enough attention, they would think that Faust was merely staring past Yi Sang; her eyes are unfocused, her expression unstirred… but after what Don literally heard of her (read: from her) once, she’s not willing to let this slip.
She’s invested now, even with her consciousness leaving her and with Sleep—yes, the very concept itself—practically squeezing lemon juice in her eyes to make them want to shut faster.
The reward for her patience comes a few seconds later, when she’s barely capable of actually comprehending what’s going on.
Yi Sang’s dark, ashen gaze flicks from the swinging grab handles across the aisle above Outis and Meursault’s seats to Faust. Don can only tell he’s changed targets because his head shifts the slightest degree to his right. Did he notice that Faust was staring, or was it his own curiosity that led him to her…?
Against what normal people would do when seeking to keep their sexcapades secret, Faust continues to stare right at the person she’s engaged in such sexcapades with.
Well, it’s a good thing nobody else knows; as long as Don stays quiet about it, then Faust and Yi Sang’s reputations are safe. Heathcliff certainly won’t say anything, so that’s not a problem.
In any case, Don thinks for a few moments that she might actually be dumb—like, maybe Faust actually is just staring off into space.
But then she moves. The tiniest bit. Takes her arms from where they’re folded in her lap and crosses them after rolling up her sleeves.
She’s wearing a thinner turtleneck today; Don can see the tops of the cups of her bra through the gray cotton. Not that it matters to her, of course. Don doesn’t keep track of anybody’s outfit on a day-to-day basis; Faust is not an exception to this rule.
Yi Sang likely doesn’t either—if his (typical) lack of comments is anything to go by—but apparently there’s never been a better time for him than now to turn over a new leaf.
His eyes flick down briefly to Faust’s chest. Don watches the back of his neck flex and move with the effort it takes for him to subtly and inconspicuously comprehend her… uh…
Faust adjusts. Her body makes the slightest impact against the back of her bus seat.
Something moves.
Yi Sang blinks at it—er, them. He looks away a little faster than a poet like him should from a beautiful sight.
Don’s muscles hurt from side-eyeing.
Faust looks away right after he does, but not before making eye contact with Don.
The blonde can’t pretend she was asleep, because she wasn’t. But her eyes were kind of tired and so maybe it looked like she’d just woken up or something. She tries to make it seem that way by blinking as tiredly as possible. Once. Twice. She even rubs her eyes for good measure.
Faust doesn’t seem entirely too panicked about the situation, which… actually helps Don in feeling confident about being able to play off her mistake.
Oh, well. She still tries to hide her expression as her face heats with mortification. Closes her eyes with finality to actually try and sleep off the fear that Faust will hound her about what she saw—that is, if she even saw anything worth noticing at all.
Of course she didn’t. Nothing she’d tell Faust about, anyway.
The question, dear Faust, revolves not around the details of the painting, but around the fact that the painting exists in the first place.
*
“I hereby confirm today's close of business for the Sinners.”
Dante’s voice shakes Yi Sang out of his stupor. Not that he was asleep, but he was, well…
He had some other business to attend to, let’s say.
Sinclair immediately jumps up and races out of his seat, citing something about “having to pee so bad” that he was “going to die before he got to the restroom.”
Yi Sang gets up to follow him because he also needs to go to the restroom. “Is there a reason you waited for so long, Sinclair? You had every opportunity to use the facilities prior to now; it is not as though anybody would ever seek to restrict you from doing so, aside from a cruel joke or something or other.”
“School habit,” Sinclair sighs. “The idea of missing out on stuff sometimes stops me. I know it doesn’t make sense. But considering that you’re following me, though, Mr. Yi Sang… I could ask you the same question.”
“Professional habit.” Yi Sang echoes Sinclair, looking away as the other halts to unbuckle his belt two doors away from the master bathroom. “When I did work with the League or otherwise”—he trails off for a moment, wondering if he should really mention something about this—”my personal needs often went neglected. I am accustomed to… depriving myself of that sort of thing for long work hours for the sake of productivity.”
“Eh, it happens to the best of us,” Sinclair shrugs. “Anyway, I’ll be back in a bit. If anybody needs me to hurry up, they know to bang on the door really hard.”
“Yes, because as you once said, it ‘scares you into going faster.’”
“Yup.” He walks away, barging into the master bathroom and locking the door quickly.
Yi Sang stops before its door. “Ah.”
He was going to use that. The shower in it, too, more specifically. Because it was nicer and more relaxing to use than the other one, and he was actually a bit… on edge. For the first time in a long time.
The Sinners, at any point, could have easily made a new bathroom, but it’s just been easier to just use one (with a strong emphasis on one) of the main two in the hall for multiple reasons.
(1) Despite the simplicity of the process, it takes time for a conceived room to form and nobody’s ever been able to pinpoint how long it takes.
If someone had to wait for the bathroom to form every time they needed to use it, they would probably end up Corroded before it was even done baking.
(2) It’s more convenient than going into one’s room; not only is it more effort to leave the corridor, but a Sinner’s room may have warped since the last time they entered it due to the shift in mental state.
One time, Ishmael had gotten so upset that the entire inside of her room had turned into a massive deluge of water. Obviously, the restroom was nowhere to be found. While theoretically okay to take a piss in, anything else would not have been ideal. There was also the incredibly high risk of getting lost. Who the fuck would want to deal with that? Or the possibility of drowning? Or the possibility of encountering a giant whale?
She just said, “I’ll come back later,” and banged on the door of the master bathroom until Sinclair came out dripping with water, a towel wrapped around his waist, repeating, “Sorry!” until he made it to his room.
(3) The master bathroom was incredibly nice in atmosphere, form, and function. It was nicer than everybody else’s bathroom because there was actually a great deal of thought put into it from the start. It really, truly was a room. Huge one, too.
Hong Lu was one of the first ones—if not the only one—to invent and tweak it; as such, it turned out incredibly well-stocked with just about everything anybody could ever need—spa towels, hair oils, hyaluronic acid, snail mucin toners, ginseng serums, a crazy shower, an ornate stone bathtub, you name it—and designed to be a luxurious space. Despite a lot of the Sinners not telling Hong Lu outright, they all loved that thing. He’s still always smug about it anyway.
(4) The second bathroom was made in an emergency while Gregor was having a panic attack.
In a literal sense, it works because he was thinking of a bathroom, but there’s a nonzero chance of encountering more than the average number of insects crawling around in it. Rodion has tried multiple times to correct the issue but the problem is that all she’s been able to do is paint the walls a different color. Nobody knows why it’s always like that—maybe because Gregor’s never honestly in a great mood—but anyway, it comes fitted with everything in a normal bathroom… with some military-grade accents (like rust and scuffed tiles) to match.
Yi Sang is not fond of it, but he’s slightly put off by the idea that if he goes into his room anxious like this, then there might be an undesirable surprise waiting for him.
The only thing he goes back to his room for is a change of clothes… Aside from that, he begins to brace himself for cockroaches.
…At least the shampoo in there smells nice.
*
The inside of the Mephistopheles is usually always dark after work; the only way it ever gets illuminated is if Charon turns on the overhead lights above the seats or if light comes in from the Sinners’ surroundings. Fortunately, they’re currently parked in some high-income residential area in a Nest; questions about how they got access to its interior aside, the many street lamps placed there for the residents’ peace of mind cast a warm glow on the interior of the bus and on the two of them left therein.
“You kept me waiting for quite some time, Yi Sang,” Faust says, standing beside her and Hong Lu’s seats near the back. Yi Sang is currently occupying hers, wearing a simple T-shirt and a random pair of sleep pants he’d found in his dresser. Faust is still mostly in her work attire, though she’s taken off her outer jacket and inner vest.
“I apologize. Sinclair had taken Hong Lu’s bathroom, so I had to make use of Gregor’s.”
“You did not heed Sinclair’s advice.”
“To ‘bang on the door really loud’ in order to remove him from the bathroom faster, you mean?”
“Yes.”
Yi Sang’s eyes move to a passerby outside the nearest window, tracing their footsteps as they walk past the bus.
“I did not wish to interfere. He is a good friend of mine, after all… I do not believe ‘friends’ would force each other out of the facilities in such a way if not necessary, which it was not; it is not as though I had anything incredibly urgent to attend to, during or afterwards… Not that I particularly rushed or took an excessive amount of time attending to my needs, that is.”
Faust blinks at him. “...At that, Faust is not offended; she was simply making an observation. And as for your implicit question, perhaps you would be surprised to know that the answer is yes, but I figure that is not the case as you likely knew this already; necessity, a desire to increase group security, establishing peace of mind… for these reasons and countless others, plenty of individuals often visit bathrooms together to use multiple stalls at once, two people can share one bathroom, etcetera. The options are innumerable. You have simply taken one of the more considerate ones.”
Standing up straighter, she crosses her arms. Just as she did earlier. In the exact same way. And Yi Sang responds in the exact same way he did the first time: by staring.
“In any case, it was somewhat difficult for Faust to find her way back here without drawing attention; had she only needed to bathe and meet you in one of our two rooms, there would not have been any issues. However, because it had been previously established that we would reconvene in this particular location rather than another, Faust needed to put in additional effort to ensure that neither Don Quixote nor any of the other Sinners would act on any suspicions or develop any new ones and attempt to do things like spy on us.”
She pauses to yawn… Yi Sang finds the sight charming in its naturalness.
“Safe to say, while Faust has attempted to lower the probability of such things happening, there is still a non-zero chance that they may occur. After all, for all Faust can do, she cannot control other people’s actions.”
Yi Sang’s lip twitches. “...Don Quixote…”
“What about her?”
“Why did you mention her in particular? I only ask because she is the only anomalous factor in your comment; I understand everything else completely. While it is true that we proposed this kind of scenario rather… mindlessly, I maintain we were both well aware of the risks associated with such an activity when we conceived of it in the first place. Truth be told, if we are exposed, we are exposed; it is not… the worst thing that could happen, I suppose.”
He pauses once to wet his lips.
“It will likely pass, regardless; regarding the legality of this, I am not entirely sure that this is necessarily against any established codes of ethics as we are not a traditional company; logically speaking, it is impossible that relationships between Sinners are entirely implausible; furthermore, if I am to speak more generally: we are all emotionally mature enough to both separate on considerate terms and prevent any lingering feelings of regret, guilt, or otherwise from interfering with work… In fact, if I may say, appropriately dealing with negative emotions and coming to face our deepest wounds is the nature of our business here; if any of us performed badly in that regard, it would be rather ironic.”
“Indeed. There is nothing you have said that I have not already considered and accepted. Additionally, regarding Don Quixote: I mentioned her in particular because she has become aware of what we are doing with each other.”
Yi Sang’s gaze hardens for a moment before he exhales slightly with the mildest feeling of disquiet. “...I see.”
‘I see’ is Yi Sang’s catch-all response for everything. It encompasses an incredible range of emotions from, “Oh, fuck,” to, “Okay,” and everything in between across every perceivable dimension; as such, trying to tease out what he means by those two words is often difficult—
“This afternoon, I had raised my gaze from your countenance only to meet her eyes; she attempted to hide the fact that she had been observing us, pretending to have just woken up from sleep; unfortunately, she has previously never been able to successfully suppress her immediate feelings or observations and that did not suddenly change as of today. She is almost as easy to define as you are… although, now that Faust mulls over the thought more, she supposes that her comment just now could not be farther from the truth.”
—he is the one of the easiest puzzles Faust has ever assembled and taken apart despite being so complex, however, and every possible thought he could have about the matter has already become part of Faust’s calculations.
“In any case... Faust believes that despite what you say, you find that sexually arousing. The fact that Don Quixote knows, that is.”
His eyes widen a fraction, but he quickly steels his expression.
“...I do not.”
He crosses his own arms, and now they both look as though they are on edge. Because of course they are. “As I said previously, I did not wish—and still do not wish—for anybody to come into knowledge about our behavior and actions. That has not changed.”
“Ah.”
Faust blinks. Looks to the window. Ponders for a moment.
Two.
Three.
“Faust has misspoken; she has jumped from hypothesis to conclusion too quickly and did not begin with an appropriate definition—one out of many—for a certain word. Apologies.”
Yi Sang’s eyes meet hers. “...You are human, after all. I accept the mistake.”
“...If you would allow her to continue, Faust wishes to correct herself.”
His brow twitches. “Again with this… You do not require my permission to speak, Faust. There are no courtesies necessary here.”
“I simply wish to confirm that you are still comfortable speaking about this, as you seemed… startled by what I said.”
“It…” He slowly reaches up to swipe a stray hair from his face. “You had forwarded a rather bold claim… But if it is any comfort, very little of what I perceive truly outright discomforts me so much as it prompts me to consider information to a degree that I may not be accustomed to, hence my hesitation or immediate defensiveness. You may continue.”
“I see… then I shall go on by saying that after acknowledging what I said previously, I concede that there is no direct causational relationship between Don Quixote’s knowledge—in this case, defined as a basic cognitive perception, awareness, notice, understanding—of our ‘relationship’ and any possible sexual arousal on your part. Rather, your arousal, if you were to have any in this situation—which, you have already established that you would not—would come from the fact that you—and not your deeds, remember—are being ‘known’ intimately by another to whom you have not wished to make yourself ‘known’.”
Yi Sang blinks slowly. This is…
“...In summary, you are proposing the idea that there are different forms of someone else’s ‘knowing’ that one may be aroused by. Only one, rather than the other, is relevant here.”
“Yes: in reference to a kink or fetish, such a thing is only natural. One thing enjoyed has infinite ways of being enjoyed; for example, someone who enjoys feet in a sexual context may enjoy the ankle, the toes, the callouses, the scent of one’s feet… Supposed exhibitionism—although that is not exactly what we are doing, as we did not want anyone to discover us—is not an exception.”
“...That seems rather indisputable, yes.”
“So then, if I am to repeat myself before advancing, merely to emphasize a point: ‘knowing’ a person by name and physical details and knowing a person by experiencing them subjectively—their concern, their anger, their feelings for you in a subjective sense, for example—are completely different things.”
“I agree that this is the case; I know your body in both of these ways, for example. While I have comprehended the texture of your skin and the softness of your… bosom with my senses, there is another dimension of ‘experience’ that eludes description, and this can only be something other than cognition. To call it a ‘deeper knowing’ is crude, and that term in itself is ill-defined, but…”
He leans forward, shifting in Faust’s seat to properly explain himself. Why is such a discussion exciting him so?
“As another example, I find—and have found—that it is impossible to describe one’s sexual pleasure as merely something to be cognitively ‘aware’ of. It is… a deep and human sensation that, again, eludes proper description. If something ‘feeling good’—being pleasurable in a literal sense—was all that there was to it, it would be far less seductive.”
“Indeed. Then, if you consider this ‘subjective knowing’ as something most—if not all—humans can have of others, then it is not so outlandish to suppose—again, referring to what I had said previously—that what Don Quixote ‘knows’ is something far greater than our mere physical actions. She is aware of us in a deeper sense.”
Allowing the words to sink in, she pauses for a moment to sit down at the edge of Hong Lu’s seat.
“Her prying eyes and ears have bored into not only the results of nerve impulses jolting our muscles into place, but also the nature of our true selves bared before each other in coitus. She is human, subjectively experiencing two other individuals’ subjective experiences of each other in all of its raw beauty… I mean to say that it is artful. Of course she would be drawn into it. And you, Yi Sang, are overwhelmed by that interest.”
She scoots closer to Yi Sang, cupping his face between both her hands gently enough as to not distract him. It has the undesired effect. “There is another dimension entirely that we have not discussed. Do you recall what you said of both pleasure and my body?”
“That”—his eyes flutter closed as she strokes his skin—”regarding those two subjects, I experienced both kinds of knowing: one cognitive, and one subjective.”
“Tell me, Yi Sang”—she starts, leaning into his ear—”what do you require to ‘know’ a person, in terms of either of those definitions?”
“Time,” he breathes, inches away from her chest. “And at least one of five senses, or perhaps one’s intuition—I wish to one day discover whether it is still possible to sense a person if all of the known senses are entirely non-functional, but I will never be able to do that…”
“Indeed… you must be able to perceive another directly, in some form, over time—at least one zeptosecond, but likely longer, as there is considerable time lag between when one ‘senses’ and when one truly ‘knows’ they are sensing something.”
Touch at the back of his neck.
Gentle kneading at his skin.
He relaxes marginally into her touch, slipping.
”What about the subjective time?” She begins quietly. “Do you think it is possible to ‘know’ a person so well without enough time?”
“No.” Yi Sang’s breath hitches as Faust leans incrementally forward, a professor speaking to another professor. “I-It does take a considerable—though the exact definition of ‘considerable’ varies for individuals—amount of time to know a person in such a way. With direct contact, if you wish, or some other form of mutual interaction…”
“And in the process of ‘knowing’ or ‘being known’ in such a way that ‘eludes definition’, is there not vulnerability and rawness? Is there not the horrifying ordeal of being perceived, of expressing the deepest parts of self to another?”
“Yes... Indubitably.”
Faust slips both of her hands onto the back of Yi Sang’s head and pushes his face forcefully into her chest, sliding him entirely between her clothed breasts. Immediately, he gasps.
“See, now, that you and I have created something, not willing to share it or have it be known—in either definition—with others. Your immediate response of upset to my original hypothesis means you—on top of having to ‘hesitate’ to process such a claim—may feel some level of mortification. Not only is this from being ‘known’ unwillingly: it is also because you have realized something without being able to explain it... do you happen to know what that is?”
Yi Sang’s hands are shaking.
The soles of Faust’s shoes clack softly against the floor as she repositions. She presses her breasts together, squeezing the sides of Yi Sang’s reddish ears against them.
“N-No. I do not. I do not know with certainty. Not—”
“Somebody besides me has already discovered everything of you without needing to spend much time with you directly at all. They have leapt onto you, ripped you from your chrysalis before you have formed. You have already been naked before them in an instant. You have shown them what you find fantastic, what you find glorious, what you find ugly. You have skipped over every human norm, bypassing the seconds upon minutes upon hours of discussion and intimacy you would have to have with them to finally reveal these things to one another. You are mortified at being human before another human…”
When she pets his head, antagonizing him all the while… she hears his shuddering breath, damp and feeble, against her top. “The only reason why it hurts you so is because you have been forced to do it, is all, with no time to hide yourself away.”
He shifts in his chair, whimpering, shaking as she pours words into him, as she lifts her shirt and pulls it over his head. Perhaps it is a rather childish thing to do, but underneath her top, Yi Sang is panting, breathless, as she kneads him into her cleavage. She drowns him in her. Her scent. Her skin. Everything.
“The most famous paintings and pieces of great work have been appreciated most after death, long after the creator has passed, long after they could have ever perceived the effect of such work on others. They did not have the luxury of being known in such a way that we can know one another today; just like you, they have become the victims of many a voyeur. Whether that is bad or not… we cannot say for ourselves. What do you think?”
She pulls him out from underneath her shirt, letting his head fall away from her before she hugs him close. “I-In that”—he starts, half-demented, voice thick with unrest and loss of composure—”there is a… double-edged sword: without that exposure, we would never know of the beauty of their souls, but we have also bypassed their volition—”
“You concede that it is not so wrong; that is the nature of human interest in one another. We seek out one another’s creations, by any means necessary.”
“I do—I, too, have been a victim of such a thing, but also was grateful for it, in the League, with Yeonsim—”
“Precisely. The things a creator experiences, impresses onto a canvas, paper, another person: these works are worthy of value despite having no audience, and yet when they do find an audience the value of such pieces tends to increase exponentially because they have resonated with the people in that audience. Any and all artwork is a soul, touching another soul… whether wanted or not, it often happens anyway.”
Faust leans down to palm at his crotch and his whole body jerks in her arms; a hand comes up to grip at the side of her shirt.
“We become beautiful by being known by others; it just so happens such beauty is occasionally thrust into others’ hands without us needing to do any work, and vice-versa… That is the thrill of it all, some may say. Did you not feel that, when your compatriots came to ‘know’ you more, through your work that you shared?”
“Yes, F-Faust, it is as you say…”
“It is not that I am saying our activities are some inherently masturbatory material for others; rather, it is not so terrible if they are known. All I am saying is that perhaps you do find it arousing to know that what you are doing is so genuinely raw and human that others have naturally taken a great interest in it, and you are the definite source of that interest. Others have found you so arresting that they seek out more of you… does that not please you so?”
“Your chest, Faust—I cannot breathe—I agree, yes, finally, at the end of this convoluted discussion—it is true—”
“Hm… Have you been listening to Faust at all?”
“I have, I have—”
His eyes dart, unaware of how to land, from her face to the seat in front of him.
“I understand everything you have said, and I c-concede that I do find such a thing divine; truly, I have not wished for anybody to know of me”—Faust watches as he places his hands in his lap, unsure of what to do with them as she continues stroking him agonizingly slowly—“you may be one of the only exceptions, although I wish for you to know that you do not make me feel as vulnerable as I expect you would, as there is nothing you do not already know of me; somehow, I feel more of this horrible nakedness in the eyes of others—”
When Faust pulls back, Yi Sang’s face is red. She cannot tell if it is from a lack of oxygen or mere arousal. “Go on.”
“The truth of the matter”—he stutters as she lifts up her shirt once again, massaging her chest inside of her bra—“is that I am more mortified at the fact that someone knows you are a part of this…” He stops to wheeze.
“Is that so? Do tell me more.”
“I… am not one to reveal myself to others so easily; there is no other who understands me as well as you, though even you cannot comprehend me in my entirety—as such, it is as though you are the sole swan gentle enough to rest on the frozen lake, capable of seeing everything below the frost, of seeing through it, of seeing your own reflection in the ice… and yet, another person has encountered you—you and I together—and thinks they ‘know’ me, the essence of me, through you or because of you; what they have is a misunderstanding, a misinterpretation, and I, with no mouth to sing outside of the boundaries of my shore, cannot explain myself…”
“Do you enjoy being brought to silence, then? Do you enjoy being somebody else, other than you, in somebody else’s eyes? Turned into a puppet in their mind while you exist outside perfectly well and whole outside of it?”
She punctuates her line of questioning by lifting the underwire of her bra above her bust, allowing the swell of her breasts to fall downwards to Yi Sang’s waiting gaze.
He cannot look directly at them, at first.
His eyes dart.
To. From.
To. From. To. From.
Nipples.
Cleavage.
Montgomery glands. Her rib cage, expanding and contracting with stilted breath.
His thighs are close together, the beginnings of a thin mist of sweat forming on his head and neck.
“It is… it is that… in seeing us like this, they only witness a slice of me; they do not know the whole picture… and yet, I am convinced that the picture they do see is me; I am different in their eyes from the ‘I’ that I know of myself, and I am immediately fragmented, separated from myself, a piece from all other pieces—”
She grabs his arm and forces him to place it on her chest, and he jumps. “I-I find it thrilling, to be turned into a puzzle: one unsolvable in this way; they believe they know me, but they truly do not, and yet I cannot prove myself for them. I b-become a mystery: I crave completion, I am completion, whole within myself, yet I wish to disassemble myself in—and am disassembled in—their eyes into something lesser.”
He bites his lip as Faust grips his other arm, too—yanks it from where it’s covering his groin and places it on her other breast. “I am at odds with myself, and it… it somehow makes me feel more human. I am thrilled by it, and confused by it, and perplexed—it arouses me mentally. Why it translates to a physical response is…”
“Because you have already been misunderstood in the past. You are already unsolvable to others, and they already see you as a cipher; this just adds onto it, and it twists you within as some form of agony; the human brain has a strange way of transmuting negative experiences into things that are sexually arousing. It is nothing but biology.”
“How do I…”
She nudges Yi Sang into her once more and he begins to hesitantly lick and suck at her chest. Despite knowing he’s holding back, and wishing to get him to stop doing so, she shivers in the air of the bus as she grips Yi Sang’s shoulders. “T-There is no ‘how.’ It does not harm you, does it?”
“No, it does not… but it is… crudely put”—he pauses to moan around her nipple—”embarrassing.”
“Rightfully s-so. But did you forget that nobody else will know you in the way I do unless you allow that? You are, in all logical terms, Yi Sang in his entirety with me... And I am making no attempt to take you for myself, again—it is simply the truth.”
“I know. I-I know, Faust. This… this witness truly means nothing; whatever they do with their own ‘knowledge’ pertains to nobody but themselves…”
*
“Do mine eyes deceive me, or are the two of our compatriots engaging in some form of coitus in their seats?!"
“Do you want someone to hear us?!” Heathcliff smacks Don upside the head, looking away from the corridor doors as Yi Sang reaches up to mouth at Faust’s neck while he squeezes her nipples. “You were right again about something being up, but—”
“Yes, and the something that is 'up' is both of their penises, likely! How fascinating! I did not know this of Faust; I feel enlightened! And Yi Sang as well: I did not know he was capable of making such an expression!"
*
The expression in question is one that Faust will likely not forget in a while.
He looks like he might cry. His hair is completely mussed from the amount of times she’s forced him to choke in her breasts, and his eyes are prickling with tears. His lips are wet with saliva from sucking on her, too, and yet he still seems to want more.
“Are you sporting an erection, Yi Sang, or is that simply a crease in your pants?”
“Both.” He winces as he moves his legs. “I have been hard for quite some time… It is your fault—it is making a multitude of creases in my pants, and removing many more from pulling the fabric taut…”
Faust pulls her top back over her breasts, her bra having been tossed to the floor under Hong Lu’s seat. “Would you like assistance with that?”
“You…”
“What did Faust say before, Yi Sang, about requesting things from people?”
He is a piece of paper from an ancient manuscript. You may call him weak and thin and easily folded, but he is still scrawled in gorgeous and curling calligraphy, stained with gorgeous inks in every color and gold leaf from every mine; yes, his edges are torn, with chunks worn away and weathered, but it is from people attempting to read him over and over, and from him writing in himself. He is wondrous, even if he is not. She wishes to preserve that, and he is allowing her to read between his lines. It is… enchanting, what she can find in the spaces he has left—deliberately or not—for the both of them.
“P… Please… Faust…”
He looks away.
Faust grabs his face so he cannot do so any longer.
“What is it that you want, Yi Sang?” She asks, forcing him to stare. The sound his hands make as they scrabble against the seat of the bus in shock is the sound of a rabbit kicking against a bear’s paw. Tiny and scared. Thrumming with animal panic, just like she wanted.
“I-I wish for what you offered…”
“My breasts around you, is it?”
He nods once. Twice.
“You want them, Yi Sang, around the throbbing, pulsing thing between your legs. Say it.”
“Yes. Please…I… want them around my… penis, the t-throbbing, pulsating flesh”—he pauses to shudder at his own words, and Faust sees him twitch in his pants—”I have been plagued with thoughts of you for days now, and I have done a decent enough job at suppressing the desire, but now with you in front of me…”
“Are they so irresistible?” She dares not comment about herself, because that is a given.
“I did not wish to give in so easily… I feared the man I would become…”
“You do not need to be scared of yourself, Yi Sang. Not now, when it no longer matters. Open up.”
“I… Yes, I will…”
“Or do you wish for Faust to do it for you? Are you so stunned motionless that you cannot remove your own clothing?”
He shakes his head, moving his hands, but then one flies to clap over his mouth as she sighs, kneeling before him, spreading his legs in the process.
Gazing up at him through her lashes, she pulls at the waistband on his pants, only to snap it against his cock—
“Ah—!” he breathes, jolting. “You did not have to—”
“...But you offer Faust rather entertaining reactions,” she notes, pulling his pants from his hips and settling the bunches of fabric somewhere on his upper thighs. “If she may say that.”
“I-I was not under the impression that I could be anything like that,” Yi Sang mumbles, the cool air of the bus hugging his shaft through his underwear. “I understand that to be an observation rather than a compliment.” He scoots forward in the seat as Faust touches his hips, guiding him into… “Faust, how do you plan to do this? Your top is still on, and—”
“Have you forgotten?”
“Forgotten what, exactly—?”
She reaches both of her hands underneath the fullest part of her bust, gripping some fabric in her fingers and tearing—
Crows flutter forth and obsidian heats, cools at the sight of her arms: Yi Sang’s eyes blow wide as he witnesses her brachioradialis, her brachialis, the veins in her hands—they flex as the gray rips, and all his thoughts are torn with the fibers.
“Do you prefer that Faust wears a bra for this?”
He cannot respond. It doesn’t help that she leans forward, mouthing at him through his clothes.
He’s transfixed by the sight of her lips wrapped around him. He has not seen this before—not from this angle. Not like this.
He never wants to forget. He wants to paint her onto every surface he can see, and yet he knows nothing will properly capture her.
Every thought one can possibly have about anything and everything in the world becomes immediately warped beyond repair upon one’s attempt to express it, and so here she will stay: in his mind, forever, until death, locked in a grand impressionist exhibit of a museum that will never see the light of day.
The round plumpness of her skin, the ivory of her hair, the white jade of her in the flesh—
She is nothing like an angel, everything but an angel, nothing but an angel—wingless, without a halo, with and without sin—is it trite? Is it banal? Yes, yes, yes, of course—of course not—
What else could she be, but whatever she is?
She is typical to Heaven, and far removed from it if she is to still be on this plane. She eats at him, a devil given holy form, and as she nibbles her way up his length he starts to breathe harsher.
“You… I am not ready to… experience… I want, but—”
“You will never be ready like this,” she whispers, having it within herself to smile at him and kiss him through his underwear. “You simply have to take the leap.”
She lifts a hand, placing it on his knee to silence him. The other free hand comes to remove the waistband of his underwear; she pulls it down, deliberately dragging his bent and tense shaft along with the piece of clothing until it snaps upwards, free of the elastic.
“Tell Faust,” she says, two fingernails gently stalking their way up and down him. “Again. Details. In the way that Faust suggested you share them. She will not bite; do not worry about exposing what you wish to feel.”
He squeezes his eyes shut as she parts her lips, pressing them to the tip.
“Between your t…tits…”
His jaw locks open as she begins to lick, and he has to pull away in order not to immediately cum; still, he's being forced to talk if he wants to get anywhere, and so he parts his lips again. “B-Between those two soft, supple swells of flesh—I know they must feel divine on my m-manhood—I would like to thrust into them, rubbing against the inside of your top, and…”
Yi Sang swallows thickly around words he will not say. In her mouth, Faust feels the meat of his cock pulsing with his heartbeat.
“Mm?” Faust prods, lowering.
Lowering.
Lowering.
Yi Sang watches in awe and ecstasy as Faust takes him all the way to the back of her throat, as his cock hardens further in her mouth. He immediately feels his mental acuity decaying. It only rots away faster as her throat spasms around him.
This is just as divine as the last time, and everything more. Her eyes, vast salt plains under the burning sun, draw him in as the ocean recedes from the shore. He cannot find the end of her, and yet she has no beginning. She exists, clothed around him like a veil—
“And—though I wish only to concentrate on the present moment, I wish to fi—nish inside…” He bucks involuntarily as she retreats, dragging her tongue up the underside of his shaft.
“Here?”
She does not ask with a word, but rather, with a motion: she takes him again in until her nose nestles in the clumps of black hair at the base of his penis, until she can reach the bottom of her lip out to lick at the seam between his length and his pelvis—
“Oh, I—ah—this is…! Y-yes, this is so deep inside your mouth—how are you—so capable of—”
She grabs his legs tighter, chest pouring out so close to his cock, beginning to bob her head up and down on him.
He bites down on the side of his hand to stop the squeal that threatens to leave his throat. “F—aust!” He ends up hissing, voice still near-echoing off the walls—
”Yi Sang,” she replies, mouthing around him soundlessly. She reaches up to tangle her fingers in the fabric of his drawn-down pants.
The fabric of her top is rubbing against him every now and then; the threat that he will soon be inside of it sends him into a frenzy, and he—
“I—apologize”—he stammers, gripping the back of Faust’s head and pulling her even deeper down onto him—“f-for doing this, and for my volume—someone will hear, someone will hear, but I cannot help it—you are drawing me from myself like water from a well, and I want to find the end to you—I want to thrust against something, grind against a surface—your mouth is so… pleasurable; it is sending me into ecstasy, but I need—!”
She chokes on him as he thrusts into her mouth; her eyes water incessantly, his alongside hers—he can't do anything but chase his own pleasure, and there is nobody, nobody, nobody who could possibly understand what beatific landscapes are gracing his eyes, his body.
In a flurry of movement, she manages to rip a hole into the top of her clothing as well; it's difficult to do when her oxygen is getting cut off by a man fucking her throat with reckless abandon, but with enough sharp, shallow breathes the deed is done.
When she eventually pulls away to adjust them both, Yi Sang cries out at the loss of contact. He flusters deep, grabbing at the base of his cock to stop himself from thrusting any more, or potentially making a mess on the seats; however, his body betrays him.
Once. Twice. He twitches like he's being controlled by something greater; thick, webby strings of saliva and precum draw themselves between the inside of her slobbering mouth and his weeping shaft.
“—Close,” he says around chattering teeth. Somehow, he's cold. So cold even though everything burns.
“You—can't finish yet,” Faust coughs, drool slipping from the side of her precum-crusted, filthy lips. “Not before you get inside.”
With little warning, she slides him finally into the hole she's made under her tits, and his back arches up immediately as he—
”Ah, s-sh—it!”
Faust pinches his thigh between two fingers to get him to quiet down, to no avail; he won't stop thrashing, cursing quietly, feet repeatedly kicking at the seat in front him and shifting on the ground as Faust jacks him off.
She squeezes herself together around him, lifting her breasts up and down on his cock with enough vigor that it's starting to wear her out; still, she's thrilled by the way he's white-knuckled against her seat and near to sobbing, and it only makes her want to keep going.
When the tip of his cock breaches the soft tunnel of her breasts, it finds purchase against the cotton of her top: the scratchy, silky fabric that sticks to him as he bucks down and up and down and up—
Upon every upward grind of his hips, he practically mashes himself against her sternum and the inside of her clothing, frantically and essentially crying and whining from the, “Too much, I—hngh—!”
“You should be grateful that I am not—f-forcing you to clean up after yourself, or you would have your hands full—fuller than they are now, that is—!”
Not one to forgo making comparisons, Faust finds herself grinning as she continues to speak. “You—are acting as though—hff—a lightning bolt has gone through you on its way to the ground, and the process you are suffering through —Lichtenberg figures, coursing their way through your body, impressed on your skin—the sight of you thrashing this way, like none of the cells in your body can multi—ply— fast enough to contain and ground the megawatts I am discharging into your senses—”
Yi Sang shakes his head so hard, unable to respond; Faust worries briefly that it will fall off the rest of his body; sweat drips from his hairline and there’s the sound of it, sticky and wet, as he lifts and replaces his hands helplessly against the slippery tops of the bus seats—
“Mmph—! It—gah—so good, Faust, I’m losing my mind—y-you're—so good, I can hardly—!”
His head raises, and if Faust did not know him to be so soft and outwardly sullen, she would have thought him to be furious. Teeth clenched, eyebrows drawn so tightly together they might snap—Yi Sang glowers, entirely unfurling as he fists a hand in her hair and drags her mouth onto him—
“L-Let me cum,” he pleads as Faust whimpers from the sudden intrusion into her throat, fingers so tense and tight he tries to squeeze the blood back into them by shakily clenching and unclenching his one free fist. “Please, let m—me finish inside your mouth—I am so close—my completion—”
From whom is he asking for permission?
Faust knows who it is.
It is not that he is asking her so much as he is asking himself; to orgasm is to entirely sacrifice one’s greater self for the purposes of hedonism, overindulgence, immoderation, all things Yi Sang has been so hesitant to chase for a good part of his life.
Faust looks up to meet his gaze, planning to drive the answer into him: “You can do anything, here; do not be shy.”
It comes in the form of her grabbing at his sides, clawing for his hands, and he grasps one of her arms with iron force; the subsequent frenzy that overtakes his features before his eyes roll back brands itself into Faust’s mind and immediately shatters her will.
He looks miserable, eyes huge and doe-like; it makes her rock-hard—even more so—and when he climaxes, it is unstoppable. His fingers end dangerously close to Faust’s eye sockets, barely-bitten nails digging into her scalp; Yi Sang’s throat skips around a moan once, twice—
The third time, Faust jumps as he makes a noise unlike a bleat, so human that she feels her heart soften until it is tender, joyous, winged like a seraph—how could one not love a sound like this, when the one in question is the one who brought it out of the other? Even the most hardened of souls can be shaken by a tone so beautiful, so euphonious; Yi Sang’s climax is paired with him reaching up to sob into his own hands, to bite into the heels of his palms, to squeeze his eyes shut and throw his head back against Faust’s seat, inevitably sullied with the mess from the both of them—
Faust’s mouth falls open as Yi Sang spurts endlessly into it, his semen spraying upwards and outwards all over her chest, her top, her face; she manages to get most of it in her mouth and throat, but he convulses so heavily there is no way she is able to keep him entirely inside.
She reaches up to fix her hair, and to pull a strand or two away from her mouth; Yi Sang’s load drips from her tongue as she drools part of it back onto him, using it to stroke the part of him still poking out from her breasts until he’s completely soft in her hands.
And as for her: she cannot wait. This is what they both wanted; she will ensure they are both satisfied. One of them already has been.
Her trousers had been unzipped in the middle of her work on him, and she’s so desperately aroused that she intends to fuck his mouth until he wails a second time. She does not care any longer if anybody is watching. Not that she did in the first place, either.
Rising from where she’s kneeled for so long, she cannot quite unlock her knees instantly; in this half-leaning position, she moves forward to kiss him, and he is not expecting it all: the taste of himself, and the taste of her; sex swirls between both of their mouths as Faust grips the top of her own seat, and Yi Sang groans as she advances into him so far his head knocks against the seat.
“Now that the matter of you has been solved, Yi Sang,” she starts when she pulls away, Yi Sang still chasing after her lips, “Faust requires you to bring her to completion… S-She has no patience left. She cannot be petitioned to finish elsewhere but your mouth—not after what you have done.”
He wipes his hand across his mouth, breaking a string of spit, lips kiss-bitten and red like hawthorn berries; he’s still attentive and alert even though his expression tells otherwise. Still shaking deliriously, nodding, easily pliant and boneless as she moves him off of her seat and sits where he once did.
Now at her feet, he watches, enraptured as she works the copious amounts of pre-cum onto her shaft.
“Suck,” is all she says, and Yi Sang moves forward, maladroit—
“...I have not done this before,” he remarks.
Of course; he is a person too genteel to know how to do such a thing, but as Faust sees it, he is trying actively to corrupt himself—or “expand his knowledge”—for the sole purpose of pleasuring another; she finds that favorable, and something more.
She tells him this softly. “You will figure it out quickly, as it is within your nature to do so… regardless, Faust will teach you, in the same way that someone teaches another how to walk, how to speak, how to wield a weapon.”
Leaning back, she pushes her cock forwards until it is closer to him. “Anybody can do this, though whether they can do so well is a different question entirely. I believe you will be the best out of everybody Faust has ever laid with, though this has yet to be proven.”
“I will do my best to please you, Faust; it is the least this man could do after what you have done for him.”
“Faust will tell you all of the information at once, because Faust knows you can handle it.”
“Yes…” Yi Sang reaches out with a hand tentatively, settling onto his knees as he surveys her in front of him with his fingers. “I will. For you.”
“Place the shaft in your mouth; it is not necessary to voluntarily take it further than you can manage. On that note, Faust cannot promise that she will be able to completely avoid penetrating deep into your throat, as when the pleasure becomes too great humans tend to gain a temporary, terrible disregard for the wellbeing of another’s body in their search for climax… but she will try. She does not wish to harm you.”
“Yi Sang understands. I am paying close attention to your every word.”
“You may find your best results if you lick gently at Faust’s frenulum, or at the top of her corona. Use your hands to squeeze, pet—whatever you please. Wrap your lips subtly around your teeth to avoid unnecessary harsh friction. Hollow your cheeks as you suck. Breathe through your nose and tap Faust’s leg if it ever becomes too much. She will immediately understand.”
“Is that all?” He rises to ask properly, as though he might be missing something—that secret ‘knowing’ beyond knowing—and she leans forward to press her fingers to the edge of his lip.
“Faust knows you to be an incredible poet, Yi Sang, in the way that Faust knows herself to be an incredible engineer and many other things. You, of a gifted and inventive mind, know how to draw images and connections from nothing in the same way Faust can, and in a completely different way that Faust cannot. You will improvise, and you will be able to fill in the informational gaps that Faust has left open. Faust knows this of you, and you know this of yourself; do trust yourself, as it would be foolish not to do so.”
His answer is a nod, body moving a bit as his gentle hands—calloused from holding a pen, his saingeom, his wounded self—wrap around her and squeeze gently, keeping her straight as he descends.
He watches her the entire time, black on blue, swirling into a marbled mess; he gets about halfway down before Faust notices him swallowing over and over—
“Are you about to gag?”
Yi Sang shakes his head as she rubs tenderly at his cheek; she narrows her eyes, watching as…
Ah. He’s drooling profusely. Purposefully, that is.
He won’t respond to her verbally, trying to keep himself focused on the task at hand. One breath in and out through his nose. He tries to go further.
Three-quarters of the way down, and he stops.
“You’ve done very well, Yi Sang. Do not force it any further.”
His brows knit together in frustration, briefly, before she pets his jaw and placates him.
”Mmph,” he keens softly, one hand already reaching underneath to knead at and massage her scrotum. He keeps curiously feeling, exploring, blushing in a hint of plum red as he feels her pressing his cheek inward with a few fingers, the curve of her shaft palpable against the inside of his mouth—
When he begins to move, she realizes that this is how Yi Sang must have felt when she was giving him a blowjob (though that one was aborted partway through for him to experience climax through penetration).
She cannot help the groan that leaves her lips; he was right, now that she realizes, about being sucked off feeling something like an incandescent scratching and rubbing sensation. That is the most basic way of putting it, but it describes it best; she rolls this description around in her head as Yi Sang continues to service her, and she finds herself becoming intoxicated by its meaning.
Make no mistake about it: Faust has experienced this before. But there is something about the way Yi Sang is that titillates her to the point that she is willing to admit that he really might be the best fuck she’s ever had.
He pays incredibly close attention to every millimeter of skin, seeming to hope he might be able to learn her reactions to every new twitch of his tongue and mouth like a language; he stops to suck and lick every part, wondering if it might reward him, and he moans in pleasure when he finds a texture he particularly likes in his mouth.
Yi Sang is weird, she thinks. Delightfully so. Strange, and odd, and very much wonderful in the way all creatures are. He is one she would not mind watching for a lifetime, if only to track any and every one of his behaviors; if some of those behaviors came from making him interact with another person, she would not be averse to participating in such studies.
And despite her being the more talkative one out of the two of them in public, she is the slightest bit less wordy in a sexual context, though it is because Yi Sang does all of the emotional expression for her; everything he says he feels, she does too.
He is better suited to things like this; his words are as exquisite as he is, intricate and full and never-ending. While the two of them may both mean the same things, they excel in different methods of explanation.
In this case, he is saying nothing but meaning everything; she wonders what could be commanding him so, to the point that he has been rather silent, just like her. She is opposed to having someone so similar, when he is much better because he is different. “You are not going to hurt Faust if you apply more pressure, she promises…”
He is too responsive for his own good.
It turns out that he has been quiet because his poeticism has found a home in his task, and now he is expressing himself in his actions. He is still as quick to say things as he always is; he simply isn’t saying them outright.
At once, he’s beginning to actually suck, and the slurping noises are immediately filthy. He moves on her like a crane bowing to hunt, shifting fluidly; as he goes down on her his hand follows, and when he rises he’s sure to prolong the movement of his head upwards until she naturally falls from his mouth.
“Your taste”—he begins the next time he pulls away—”is unique, if anything; I am already used to it, and it was intriguing at first. There is nothing offensive of note, but…” He presses the flat of his tongue against her slit, flicking the tip of his tongue against it as though he might be able to dig the semen out of her fossa navicularis before it is ready to reach his tongue.
As he wraps his lips around the very end of her head, he kisses at it like it could give him affection back. “It tastes of you, I suppose… I do not mind it in the slightest.”
“You are the first…to make any comment about my flavor.”
He asks, “Are you offended?” with his mouth full, teeth barely sinking against her shaft with his attempts to speak coherently.
Part of her wishes he would go quiet, and another part of her hopes he never stops talking. She cannot quite decide on what she wants more. “No… No, I am not.”
She is graced with a smile of his. And he’s on her again, sucking harder this time, repositioning himself to grasp at her thighs. “Good,” he mouths around her.
Yi Sang is so close she can smell the shampoo in his hair. A heavy note of artificial coconut and some tropical smell, it seems. With one hand scratching at her nipples through her top, Faust moves the other to keep his head stable.
Sweat pools beneath her thighs as Yi Sang works her closer to orgasm, his breath stuttering as he eventually gets so far down her shaft that she can feel the vibrations of his voice around her head in his throat.
The further down the path to climax she barrels, the harder she’s biting her lip and the faster she’s exhaling; still, this far gone, she has an idea, and she wants to act on it.
“D-Do you ever wonder what everyone else might think—mm—if they could truly see us? If they could s-see evidence of the fact that we were together like this, before each other, and not only hear?”
Yi Sang’s half-lidded, reddish eyes lift as he nods. ”I have thought of it occasionally, but not enough to matter. We would never show them anything of the sort, after all, unless we agreed to.”
“What about—ngh—if I ensured that could happen in secret?”
”In secret?” Yi Sang blinks once. Twice. Three times, as his eyes dry. He chokes a bit as he drives her in too deep, and again when she bucks helplessly into his waiting mouth.
“I want to—hff—climax onto your face, and get it in your hair, and on your eyelashes—anywhere it may go. I want to show you your face in the window, so you can see what everyone else might of you. Nobody else will know, unless you want them to. It is… it is a selfish thought, Faust is aware. Indulge her—ngh—would you, Yi Sang?”
Faust notices that his ears have reddened considerably. There’s a flush crawling down his neck, barely-there, as he exhales shakily around her. Nodding, he tells her, "...Anything you want, Faust,” because he knows himself in her and he has never once been led astray. "If it is agreeable to you, the same is true for me in this case; I would not be opposed, as I have already stated my favor for this sort of play—”
He begins to twist his wrist around her; she tilts her head back against her seat, spreading her thighs farther apart as her climax approaches in the subsequent moments.
“Close,” she pants out a bit later, thighs quaking uncontrollably, hips aching from being trapped in this seat for too long, and Yi Sang’s mewling as he removes her promptly from his mouth.
At once, he begins to stroke her to completion, lips puffy and spit-soaked, sticking his tongue out as she arches her back forward.
“W-was it satisfactory?” He huffs as his wrist works, and she nods furiously, offering him an, “Of course it was—!” though she halts him halfway into an upstroke to groan and buck into his face—
Yi Sang winces as Faust climaxes onto him and into his mouth, an aborted howl ending on a half-moan as she grips herself and bears powerful contractions. One. Two. Three. Four. Five—
She loses count as the pleasure keeps mounting, and as it goes on forever; Yi Sang keeps stroking her, pressing her everywhere she could possibly land.
Faust feels herself going boneless with every second that passes, her cum not stopping; a rush of oxytocin and dopamine numbs her near-completely as she paints Yi Sang in various shades of opaque white. Strings of cum suspend themselves across the length of his nose. His cheeks. One lands across his closed eye, and a few more soak partway into his hair. Faust watches as he opens one eye, looking over to the covered one, before he shuts it and allows her to finish tainting his skin.
She's milked dry, eventually. But she still has to finish the job. Another one, anyway. She has to do something other than this, address an issue... She has to, she has to, or else she won’t be able to live with herself…
“Stop,” she growls out against her will when Yi Sang won’t stop kissing her through the remainder of her orgasm, pushing his head away when she’s soft and overstimulated; he whimpers as he realizes she’s done, but plants his hands on the ground in acquiescence to recover.
*
“...I hope it was to your liking,” he mumbles out when he manages to get himself composed a while later, and after helping her get her pants back on in the seat he adds, “I… enjoyed myself thoroughly.”
A hand comes up to wipe at the semen on his face, as he’s apparently forgotten what she wanted to do with him.
“Don’t. Let me do something. Remember what Faust said? About showing you your own face in the window?”
He halts in place midway through placing the backs of his knuckles on his dirtied cheeks, looking away in (aroused) wariness. “What are you planning to—”
He’s still hard—he’d somehow gotten that way while sucking her off—but he’ll just… deal with that later… Is this what this is about? Will he be rewarded for obeying her whims?
Without warning, she steps up and away from her seat, dragging Yi Sang out by the front of his shirt. “Ah—” he begins, startled, unsure. “The window is—”
Electric, white-hot horror courses through his veins as he realizes something. It dawns on him as she holds them so they’re nearly chest-to-chest, dragging them further into visible light.
“Here,” she says plainly, coldly, turning him so he can see his reflection in the glass of the corridor doors.
Completely plastered in semen, his face morphs as he comes face-to-face with Don Quixote, whose jaw is dropped so far from her skull that he thinks they’re going to have to get Dante to rewind it back onto her face.
“You said so yourself, Yi Sang, that you are thrilled that someone else knows you, that you are not bothered by such a fact, that it is only you in the mirror. Say hello to a version of yourself for Faust, then, would you?”
The blood drains from his face at the sight then surges back into it as Faust grips his jaw and kisses him, exhibiting him fully to the world’s most staggered audience.
The answer, dear Yi Sang, does not revolve around the fact that you are the painting, but around the fact that you are best admired only by those who can truly know you in your inhuman, human, incomprehensible, obvious beauty.