Work Text:
“He did it over text?”
Alina rubs her eyes until she sees fluttery rings of static; skin still puffy from the night prior spent crying, nose unstuffed thanks to the burn of increasingly vile tequila shots. Her phone is passed around like a hot coal before the council-of-breakup-judgement: corner booth of their usual bar, her friend’s heads knocking together, risking concussion in their haste to scroll through the incendiary screenshots, faces lit up in LED horror.
The end of her relationship with Mal, all neatly showcased in a few quick swipes. Missed calls, location turned off. Another hey girlie I’m so sorry to tell you this message from a stranger across town. A tinder profile he swore he deleted last time. (And the time before that.)
The conversation dances through the emotional waltz of any breakup: denial (“what if she’s trying to sabotage your relationship?”), anger (“well fuck him, fuck his stupid fucking haircut, I always hated him”), acceptance (“you’re better off, seriously, congrats—you lost about a hundred and seventy pounds of ass”), and then, of course, anger again (“I heard on this podcast the best way to dispose of a body is hydrofluric acid in a bathtub—“ “thanks, but some of us actually need our security deposits back.”).
“It’s fine.” It wasn’t. She hadn’t eaten in two days, much less showered, though her friends were polite enough not to mention the over-application of deodorant and dry-shampoo as a stopgap measure. “It’ll be easier once I move out. He even offered to give me the jade plant.”
Nik whistles. “And they say chivalry is dead.”
Genya hums, gold bracelets jingling as she pulls Alina once more into a hug. “Well you’re sleeping at my apartment—ow, Zoya— kidding, Nazyalensky and I will share custody of you. Every other weekend until you can get a new place.”
“A new place,” Alina repeats, sullen, the napkin in her hands already torn to shreds; her cuticles likely next. The phrase is the goodbad tenderness of a bruise; a familiar hurt, something her body has visceral memory of. She eases into it like a warm bath.
Too many houses, too many and this will be your rooms, too many layers of chipped, impersonal paint. Sitting cross-legged in front of a half-unpacked or half-packed schrodinger’s suitcase, clothes wrinkled, socks mismatched. Thinks, warily, that if she moves somewhere new, again, and has to smell one more store-brand misty-mountain laundry detergent on unfamiliar sheets instead of something that smells like home—
And that’s when Nik brings up Aleksander.
She ends up sleeping over at Genya’s anyway those first few days; doesn’t even cry in the shower anymore, a milestone which should make her feel better than it actually does. And to be honest, Alina does abuse the privilege; sitting in her misery-cocoon on the couch, playing truant from class, the redhead bringing her tea and fresh bagels before forcing them both giggling to the floor to follow along with a Yoga With Adrienne video.
Alina had forgotten, in the months her relationship had begun to dwindle—how lovely it was, to come home to music playing, something bubbling on the stove, hips bumping in the kitchen. Someone to wash, someone to dry.
By the time the weekend rolls around: girls poured on the living room rug, high on edibles. If I could make a religion, it’d be this.
What? Weed brownies?
Fuck—no; Alina rolls the rug fringe between her fingers. Thinks about before; with Mal, going through the motions, the sterility of routines—yes, plural, because their lives had ultimately been bisected to the bone. Dolls in a dollhouse, who happened to sleep in the same bed because it was what people did. That unknowable distance between them; and Alina had blindly believed: yes, that’s all there is.
What she wants to say to Genya is that when people talk about church, about faith—this is like church, to me, being here with someone, in a home we made, our shoes piled at the door. Sharing the same roof, it’s like sharing communion. But that’s stupid, right?
Instead: she blinks, slow, remembers too much at once. Reprimands herself: that Genya has David, that Genya does not like mess. Almost wishes Mal were here—so he could see her now, happy, happier—feels him like a phantom limb yet to be amputated, a double-sided coin: grief on one side and relief on the other.
Your religion? Genya prods, hair flipped over her shoulder.
Just this album you put on, Alina hedges, rolling over for more twizzlers. I really like this album.
But at some point; between pour-over coffee on a sunny, blue sky Saturday, the kind where windows are unlatched from rusty hinges and it becomes impossible not to feel human again in the crossbreeze; hair still damp and smelling like Genya’s fancy imported soap—Alina finds herself escorted-slash-dragged a couple stops downtown on the train. Vague promises of a farmers market with the finest pickles in the city, winks traded over her head. It does not go unnoticed that Nik and Genya hold her between them firmly enough that she can’t make a run for it.
Because—the brownstone they’ve stopped in front of is nice, in a nice neighborhood, next to the park on a quiet, shady street. Matte-black numbers on the door, freshly sweeped-stoop, blue irises just starting to bloom in heavy cement planters. The first-floor windows are open, letting in the light, linen curtains billowing in the wind.
“Nik, when I said apartment hunting, I didn’t mean this, “ Alina says slowly, a number of frightening Zillow calculations in her head. She could hardly afford to grab lunch in this ten square block radius, let alone rent.
“Lina, have I ever failed you?”
“Sorry, have we already forgotten about the cowboy hat incident?”
“Ok, other than that.”
“How much time do you have?”
“Enough,” Genya adjusts her sunglasses, sliding them back into her curls. “Morozova already knows we’re coming. It would be so rude to no-show,” her tone is sickly sweet. “ Right, Alina?”
Her mouth snaps shut, irritated by her own predilection for manners. “Fine. We can say hi, but I’m serious—I said affordable, you ass. We’re wasting his time as it is.”
“I think I’ll decide that, Miss Starkov.”
Alina jerks, nearly stepping on Genya’s red-polished toes. A voice (deep, graveled) behind them, attached to a man (tall, annoyingly attractive). White button shirt, dark tailored trousers—decidedly not jeans, even though it’s the weekend, so probably a weirdo. He’s got a nondescript coffee cup in one hand, a large paper bag in the other.
He’s older. Creases at his eyes, flecks of grey in his beard.
Every hair on the back of Alina’s neck stands up as she shoves down her extremely normal reaction to being within arm’s length of an older man. What a fucking cliché you are, Starkov, girl-with-no-dad. Pull it together.
The man continues: “You must be my godson’s friends. The ones who came about the apartment?”
Nik beams. “Your favorite godson’s friends.”
“My only godson,” he corrects swiftly, nodding. “Would you like to come in?”
He is thirty-nine years old to Alina’s twenty-two; a fact that rolls around in her proverbial shoe like a pebble. The kind of pebble that you swore you shook out five steps ago—but oh, there it is again, underfoot, insistent, surprisingly merciless.
Nikolai’s godfather has known him since he was a baby, which rustles some awful joint loose in Alina’s brain that she pries back into place through sheer will and lots of mental duct tape. A lawyer for a real-estate company conveniently owned by the Lantsovs, and has lived in Manhattan for seventeen years—which he states with an odd, choked laugh, adding almost as long as you’ve been alive.
He assures the three of them that it’s no trouble—that Alina is welcome to stay with him as long as she needs, anything for one of Nik’s friends, that sleeping on Genya’s couch is probably terrible for her back, a smile when he says no parties past bedtime, of course. The paper bag he’d been holding is full of pastries to share, which is surprisingly thoughtful for some soulless corporate lawyer, and he even seems genuinely amused when Alina snatches up the strawberry crème cinnamon bun instead of the plain croissants.
He is thirty-nine to her twenty-two, and has a spare room on the second floor with a Juliet window that overlooks the backyard and it’s own en-suite bathroom. Rent is allegedly seven hundred dollars a month, and Alina writes him a check because he “doesn’t know what Venmo is”.
He places the check face-down on the counter without even glancing at it, asking about her studies (graduating in the fall—an extra semester since she switched majors so late) any allergies (no) and pointedly, nothing about her family (Alina will probably need to thank Nikolai at some point for that).
The check sits on the counter, untouched, uncashed—until Alina tapes it to the fridge—then the coffeepot, when she finds it collecting dust in the junk drawer.
After that, it vanishes all-together.
The weight doesn’t go all at once—the first week she spends restless, constantly hyper-aware in bed, door locked. Adjusts slowly to the sounds of the pre-war building, her new normal—surprisingly quiet, save for the neighbor’s dog or the distant laughter of children at the park on saturdays. Aleksander doesn’t slam doors or cabinets (or rather, does it once, clearly absentminded, and even when Alina forces her flinched shoulders into a more relaxed position—
Even then. It doesn’t happen again.)
In fact, it more or less starts—as nearly all roommate conflicts do—with groceries.
It’s late, and Alina is perched on the floor of the living room, textbook open on her lap, a slew of tabs open in her browser, cursor crawling across the page. Her nails are bitten to the buff, angry and red where she’d chewed at them in the hopes it might spark something other than the vague sense of dread building in her belly. Had promised herself one more paragraph tonight, but the words are elusive, slipping through her fingers, sentences like vanishing willowisps.
And then the door opening, keys tossed in the bowl, a shuffle as Aleksander removes his coat. Eyes doing that irritatingly attractive crinkling thing when he spots her: “Same place I left you in, huh kiddo? What did you eat today?”
Her eyes close—burn a little, awfully dry from hours spent staring at a screen. She should get a humidifier for her room. “Oh. Um—I had some cereal.”
A white lie, and he immediately looks unconvinced. Her heart thumps, sparing a glance at the clock. Nearly 7pm, which seems impossible, seeing as her word count is the same as it was two hours ago.
He pokes around in the kitchen—the sound of the dishwasher opening, the rack pulled out. Alina watches as he takes in the empty appliance—clearly lacking a cereal bowl, a spoon—before nudging it closed with his hip, arms crossed over his chest, raising a single eyebrow.
“Try again for me.”
Alina gulps, smiles back. Here is the part where she’ll make a joke about how she’s a mess, how dysfunctional she is—how it’s actually quite funny that she’s made it this far, don’t you think? And he’ll laugh and agree and privately think her a little stupider for it; that she’s too old to be this irresponsible, but some people are just hopeless.
Instead, he rudely tosses the script; taps at his phone. “Do you like Thai food?”
And it’s—pleasant; stammering Aleksander, I’ll pay you back, seriously, you don’t have to do this, and his reply but I want to, in that end-of-discussion way that only men who make final decisions can. And when Alina can’t pick between the endless menu of noodles, too flustered by having to lean up on tip-toes to see his phone screen, trying to see which one is cheapest, casts the least burden on this man she’s already taking advantage of—he narrows it down to three choices for her , picks up extra sides of steamed bok choy and rice for your lunch tomorrow.
It’s nice, if she’s being honest. Having to think a little less—her brain shakes off a smidgen of weight, an animal coming in from the rain. She turns back to her laptop—
He tugs at the hood of her sweatshirt. “No, no, no—you’re taking a break. It’s nice out; let’s go pick it up.”
So Alina pulls on a clean hoodie and sneakers, and his hand brushes her back each time they cross the street, curving himself between her and the traffic—she’s forgotten what the outside world was like in a few short days of thesis writing, the late sunset polishing the sky hazy shades of purple, the city cooling off for the evening.
He tips cash and doesn’t allow her to hold the greasy plastic bag—nods to the napkin dispenser when she complains of not being useful, even though they have plenty back at his house. Aleksander’s strides are slower as they meander back, taking the long way around under the claim he wants to point out a new bakery to her; keeping pace with her shorter legs instead of asking her to keep up, as if he doesn’t even mind —
“Alina!”
A zippy Audi too close to the curb; Aleksander grabs her wrist and yanks her back against him, glowering fiercely at the driver before softening, turning his attention to her.
“You okay, honey?”
Alina nods, stares, shocked at the sight of her hand clasped in his—tiny, in comparison, holding onto just two of his fingers—for the seven long steps it takes for him to herd her to the other sidewalk. Has to bite down a disappointed whine when he releases her again. The remainder of the walk, Alina crushes the napkins in her palm, rendering them sweaty and unusable; frightened by the itching, unbearable need to keep holding his hand when they cross the street.
They eat, and share a bottle of lemonade in the backyard until the streetlamps flicker on and the bugs begin a chattering chorus. Alina scarfs down her flat noodles, licks brown sauce from her fingertips, suddenly starving and full all at once, the words of her thesis beginning to bubble back up to the surface, knocked free by this satiation he’s provided for her.
“Thanks for dinner,” she says, chasing a slice of pepper with her chopstick. “Again. I know you said you won’t let me pay you back but I will, so deal with it.” She sticks her tongue out.
“Do you do that often?” He asks softly, hands folded across his stomach, plastic food container already empty. “Forget to eat?”
Lead weight. Old shame.
Alina stares down at the remains of her noodles, which is preferable to looking him in the eye. “Yeah. Sometimes.”
While her little-girl words hang in the air, she spares a glance at him: but he’s just watching her—quiet, taking in her admission, leaving room for it. He gives her a small nod to continue—
“I get… really in the zone with my work, I guess? I tend to feel…overwhelmed—like, I cope poorly with the workload because I get so distracted thinking about how much there is, and then I can’t relax because I have to double down to make up for the procrastination. I have a hard time managing…other things. Especially since everything happened with Mal— stupid,” she blows out an angry breath, embarassed. “It’s not life or death, it’s just schoolwork. I’m being awfully dramatic—sorry.”
“It’s not,” he says immediately, sitting up straighter. “You aren’t stupid, Alina.”
Now it’s his turn for a sentence to linger in the air; Alina catches a quick inhale, surprised—by his assertiveness? The determined set to his mouth? It conjures some old emotion that pricks hot behind her eyes, fills the space between them for a hundred doubts forged in foster homes.
Again, more gentle, but also more expectant this time. “You aren’t stupid, honey.”
Deep breath.
“I—I’m not stupid,” she repeats quietly, toes curling in her sneakers, white frilled socks.
“Sometimes we just need help, is all. It’s not a bad thing.” He pauses, taking another sip of lemonade. “We don’t use those words here, alright? From what I’ve seen, you are an intelligent, clever girl who works very hard. You should be proud of yourself.”
That night, Alina makes herself come laying on her tummy, three fingers stuffed inside, the ones he held, playing clever girl in his old-man voice over and over and over.
A package arrives addressed to her, which is odd, because she hadn’t ordered anything: inside a calendar, a set of stickers, matching gel pens. Alina puzzles over the supplies, cross-legged on the floor in the living room until Aleksander comes down the stairs, sipping his tea and smiling. A gift—for her. To keep track of her meals, he explains. Three times a day, every day.
He tucks the stickers—little illustrated baby animals; ducks and bunnies and kittens—into his front pocket. Says she can ask him at the end of the day—to text pictures of her meals if he’s not home.
Alina wants to protest—the stickers are a little juvenile, right?—but he hands her the first one when she finishes her blueberry oatmeal; a puppy with floppy ears that she must admit is paralyzingly adorable.
And—it’s okay to ask for help.
Aleksander said so.
So when breakfast is cleaned up and put away, Alina finds the pleasant buzzing under her skin remains. She showers—washes her hair even, combing through the conditioner with her hands. Finds a skirt and sweater rather than sweats, wiggles her jewelry box out from under the bed for some earrings—goes to class almost eerily alert, using one of her new gel pens for notes. Thinks about being good and being herself in the same sentence: a strange interruption of the usual self-doubt breaking news broadcast, provided free of charge by her brain for the last twenty two years.
Hesitates for several agonizing minutes before sending him a picture of her lunch; butternut squash soup and a thick slice of bread.
Five minutes and one bitten fingernail later; the text changes to read, 1:17pm.
Aleksander writes back well done.
The rest of the day glides like silk.
At dinner he shows her the right way to dice an onion—how to curl her fingers away from the blade, hold the papery skin with her knuckle. In a pan with oil, chopped garlic, tomato paste, a splash of vodka, a glug of heavy cream. Is tasked with carefully slicing neat, tiny strips of basil, setting the table, lighting the candles.
No ice cream or cookies tonight, he says—just strawberries on a plate of whipped cream, the juice staining her fingertips pink.
When she lies drowsy and full in bed, she stares at the calendar pinned above her desk with three new stickers—proudly displayed next to candid Polaroids from Zoya’s camera, postcards from the Met—even her thriving jade plant seems to be enjoying how much sunlight it now gets in Aleksander’s south-facing windows. Fresh verdant buds unfurling, stretching towards the glass pane, growing stronger each day.
“Want to watch a movie?”
Alina looks up, one of her gel pens from Aleksander uncapped, glittery ink smudged on her fingers. She’s laying on the floor—on her belly, throwpillow under her chest—socked feet kicked up in the air as she organizes her new planner. A pretty one, with large margins, the perfect size for her bag. She likes it because the borders of each page are made of spiraling inky designs—flowers, stars, rainbows; meant to be colored in, made bright. The mindfulness of it is soothing; concentrating on making the perfect stroke of a pen instead of letting ever-present anxiety twist her up in knots.
“Oh—like….together?”
“I thought…you’ve been doing so well with the stickers—I’d make some popcorn, maybe turn on the fireplace,” his face flickers, a shade of uncertainty. “You’re busy, though. Don’t let me interrupt. I’m sorry.”
“No!” She sits up, waving a hand over the drying page. “No, I’m done with this anyway. Yeah, let’s watch a movie. That sounds, um. Good.”
Aleksander insists that proper movie nights require every lamp shut off, save for the candle in the kitchen; soft, flickering light in the dark, a bowl of popcorn between them, huge fleece blanket in their laps, phones facedown on the coffee table.
She bites at her nails as Aleksander scrolls through endless dramas and grey war movies, shyly shaking her head. Certainly not horror—with those she makes a face, unable to mask her distaste; he laughs, quickly moving down the list.
“I don’t like scary things—ghosts, demons, things like that. Or um, violence. Blood and guts gross me out. Sorry,” a tense giggle. “I’m boring.”
He nods pensively, seems to consider something; a few clicks more with the remote.
“What about these?”
Alina tries not to light up at the new set of titles splayed across the screen, taken from the kid’s section; princess and magic swords, witches and kings and talking animals. Would he be able to tell, if she smiled too big? That she was just a cotton-headed little girl wanting to watch a sweet, uncomplicated fairytale?
But—he doesn’t think that about her, does he?
Sees how hard she studies, textbooks lugged home each night, piles of notes at her elbow for all 18 credits. Knows about her internship, the hours she spends preparing data for nitpicky supervisors. Her toes curl into the fleece blanket—clever girl, he’d said, and might’ve even meant it.
And if Aleksander knows this—that she is capable, that she is responsible, that she’s a grown up—maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.
To not be.
“I like Totoro,” she announces, swallowing the nervousness out of her voice. “We could watch that—I promise it’s good, and not too long,” she scrounges for something to deflect, keep the conversation moving so he won’t linger on why she’s so familiar with a children’s movie. “Won’t keep you up past your bedtime, old man.”
“Or yours,” he retorts, hitting play.
It does something odd to her insides—that flippy, fuzzy sensation coiling under her belly button as she tries to concentrate on the film, squirming her legs beneath the blanket during the title sequence.
A hand falls gentle on her ankle, his thumb rubbing along the bone, once, twice. “Sit still,” he murmurs, still facing the screen.
She does.
It’s the first hour mark when her eyes start to droop; Alina shifts, head back on a throw-pillow, blanket pulled to her chin. Normally when she watches movies, it’s with a hundred rat-meet-lever distractions at her fingertips—texts and emails and Instagram scrolling, focus razor-split from one app to the next. But Aleksander had said no phones—and Alina must admit, he has a point; watches scenes she’d never really appreciated before, colors she’d never noticed, expressions on characters she’d missed.
And her mind; blissful tranquility, freedom from the next notification—it would all be there in the morning—
She falls into that bone-deep exhaustion, still listening to the words, the music playing from the speakers, letting it carry her off to that quiet place with a vague sense of home.
“Sweetheart,” a voice, rough and low with disuse, the way Aleksander sounds before dawn, sweatpants low on his hips. Good morning, Sunshine. Would you like some coffee? “Movie’s over. Can’t sleep here.”
“‘S Okay,” she mumbles, eyes lead-heavy, snuggling into the couch. She’s so comfortable, to make her move would be mean. Aleksander’s not mean, right?
“No,” he chuckles, and Alina wonders if she’d said the last part out loud. “Cmon—arms up.”
She makes an irritated huff as she’s gathered into his arms, blanket and all, tucked against his chest, beard tickling her cheek. Carried carefully upstairs on his hip, already-familiar creaks in the floor as he treads a path down the hallway.
“Wait,” her head lifts, some distant alarm bell ringing, warning of danger, attempting to shake off the dregs of sleep. “My—“
He stops immediately, grip loosening. “You want down, baby? Put yourself to bed?”
“Nuh-uh,” she whines, curling up tighter against him, clutching at his sweater, because that sounds horrible. “No, I—my bedroom,” she rubs at her eyes, too tired to fight it. “Jus’—don’t laugh, okay?”
He pauses. “Nobody’s laughing at you, I promise.”
A bleary look (Mal had, she wants to tell him, calling her silly and strange and too old for toys, shouldn’t she toss it out? ), but she nods her assent as he nudges open the door; darkness alleviated only by a frog-shaped nightlight plugged in at her desk. Aleksander hums, crossing the room to lay her gently in bed, gathering up the covers—
“Oh,” his breath catches when the source of her concern falls out from the fold of the duvet where she’d hidden him that morning—bunny, a tiny grey stuffed rabbit. Soft fleece fur, body a tad worn from nights spent clutched in her arms for comfort.
“‘S that it?” He turns the stuffed animal over in his hands, inspecting it. Sounds a little reverent, out of breath, afraid of shattering the air, something special in it. Like church. “You sleep with your bunny in bed, honey?”
She yawns, sluggish, makes weak grabby hands at her oldest, smallest friend as she kicks her way down into the sheets. “Yeah,” teeth chattering as she stretches. “‘S stupid. I know.”
“No.” He tucks the stuffie into her arms, smoothing the blanket over her shoulders. “Not stupid, baby. Give him a kiss goodnight for me.”
She wiggles, pressing her lips to bunny’s cheek, squeezing him tightly. “Okay,” she slurs, already halfway asleep again. “Your turn, Aleksander.”
He kneels at her bedside, clicking knees belieing his age; bends his head to kiss the other side of bunny’s face, affectionately tap his threaded nose. “Goodnight, bunny. Goodnight, Alina.”
“‘Gnight,” Alina hums, one foot in a dream, snuggling into her bed—and for once, doesn’t wish she was somewhere else.
“I um—I wouldn’t change anything permanently, of course, like the paint. But maybe some string lights…or I could command-strip some art prints? And a bookcase? I can get everything cheap, from Craigslist—“
It’s been a few weeks of this clinical arrangement morphing into something else; landlord and tenant to roommates to friends. Making Sunday dinner together, working in the garden, planting for spring, arguing over if Queen, or as Alina called it, old man music, was appropriate for a mulching playlist or not. Alina finds she genuinely likes Aleksander: his presence solid and sure, much like his house—a place to curl up and feel safe. Protected.
(And if all her wet dreams lately are of a hand that holds; of someone older and stronger, keeping care of her—well. It’s really none of her business, what her subconscious wants.)
He likes to talk in the evenings, handing her dishes to dry and put away, teasing when the shelf is too high, asking if she needs help—and for once in her life, Alina doesn’t feel that clawing pressure to say the right thing, the likeable thing, the normal thing.
And she thinks—hopes—that this is working for him too. He hasn’t mentioned her moving out even once—and yes, he’d insisted it was perfectly fine to stay through graduation in a few months, so difficult to find short term leases this time of year—but surely he’d mention if he’d changed his mind?
But her room.
Meant to be a guestroom—one of two, the bedding comfortable but impersonal, the walls bare, the curtains grey. And she’s so, so thankful, but—
(Memories of dingy, mismatched sheets, windows painted shut at the foster homes. Keep your belongings together in the bag, Alina. You can only take what you can carry .)
It spills out of her, this half-truth: “It’s just—the calendar. I love it so much. I wish I had the room to match.”
He makes an indulgent noise, glasses sliding down his nose. “You know my credit card is in the basket on the coffee table. Order whatever you’d like—I don’t mind secondhand if you want to shop at that thrift in Chelsea, but I don’t want you meeting up with strangers.”
She swallows. Knows exactly where his credit card is because he makes her use it for grocery runs. Pick me up some of those crackers and red wine while you’re there, darling—no, no I insist. Use my card. This way we’re even.
“I know, but Aleksander…you haven’t—um.” She toes the rug, hands clammy. “My rent checks, remember? None of them are cashed. I owe you. A lot of money, actually.”
“Alina,” he snorts, waving a hand. “Be serious. Besides—I think it would be nice for you to decorate, get as comfortable before you buckle down for your finals. You’d be doing me a favor anyway, hm? A house is hardly a home with just one person in it.”
She can’t help the next question, a knee-jerk reaction to hospitality. “You’re sure?”
“Alina, come here.”
She steps forward automatically at the command; he grabs her hand, squeezing. “No, don’t shy away—look me in the eye and listen. You can decorate however you want, because this is your home too. I promise. Do you understand?”
“Yeah,” toes curled again in her white, lettuce-edge ankle socks—a common theme, where he’s concerned. “I understand, Aleksander.”
“Good girl. Now, how many stickers did you earn today?”
As it turns out, she does end up needing his help with the string lights she wants draped over her bed—making his height useful, pencil behind his ear as he measures where to add the next hook into the wall. He calls her good girl when she hands him the tape measure, the hammer, the nails. Tells her to be careful with his toolbox, it’s heavy, darling, let me carry it.
It makes her stomach lurch, standing this close to him with a ribbon in her hair while he takes care of it.
What she wants to say when they finish, collapsing on the new, cotton-pink bedspread bed is this: I never had a room like this growing up. All on my own. And every time I say thank you, you look at me like I deserve it—I’ve never had a friend like that before either.
So instead, rolling over to face him: “Thank you, Sasha,” her hand flexes, closing the space between them, pinky brushing his own. “I’m really glad we’re friends.”
His pinky curls over hers, and his eyes crinkle at the corners, lines earned from decades of laughter. “Me too, milaya.”
Since friends go out together, Alina insists he accompany her to the bar that Friday; Nik is nothing short of gleeful when she texts him the news. The group makes room for them at the usual booth. It’s a tight squeeze, with one more person—but Alina fits puzzle-piece perfect into his side, thigh to thigh, his arm slipping around her shoulders after two beers, another hand on her knee after the fourth, pulling it over his thigh, practically in his lap as she smothers her giggles into the sweat-damp divot of his neck.
(She almost forgets this booth is the scene of the crime just three months ago where she’d told everyone about the breakup—rotten text messages between Mal and the other girl, about the hysterical, ugly sobbing her ex had done on the couch after coming clean, promising he just needed one last chance—that only now he understood what she meant to him.
Growing pains Aleksander called them, these heartbreaks. Which is funny, because Alina swears she feels younger now.)
It’s pouring by the time they step outside—Alina pressed in close, under the wing of his coat, eyelids drifting closed, letting the sounds of the city rock her to sleep still-standing: tires spinning on wet pavement, the hiss of radiators, the steady beat of Aleksander’s heart. Her fingers worm into the gaps of his button-down, finding the barrier of his soft cotton undershirt—and Alina whines, because she wants, and doesn’t Aleksander know about attachment theory, about skin to skin for babies, and isn’t she his—
He’s a little drunk too, she realizes; wordlessly scooping her up over the little river of rain-water runoff next to the sidewalk. Your shoes, he says by way of explanation, helping her into the cab. Pretty and pink and not stupid, which he’d promised hours ago when she’d showed him her outfit, kneeling down to buckle the ankle strap himself. Alina slides magnetically to his side of the backseat, babbling about stopping at the corner store for Gatorade and hot sandwiches; and he laughs like it pains him, closing the door, reaching for her—
Arm up and over, caging her in, faces close; sit still, baby—okay, daddy, she chirps, bubblegum bright, and he laughs again, that sparkling sound that makes her whole—but it’s just to grab her seatbelt, buckle her in, hold her hand, thumb rubbing over her knuckles.
And when the driver asks where to? It’s Aleksander who tells him home.
“That’s new.”
At Zoya’s question, Alina glances into her tote bag; chalk pink water bottle sticking out the top. Something big and durable, stainless steel. She’s supposed to refill it twice a day to get all her ounces in, Aleksander said. A bonus sticker if she’s successful, the puffy gel-filled kind that are ridiculously satisfying to squish—which she knows, because she earned three already this week.
“Aleksander got it for me,” her face warms. “He um—accidentally melted my old one in the dishwasher and felt bad. It’s cute, right?”
“Yeah…you guys are like, close now, huh?”
Alina is acutely aware of Genya and Zoya sharing a look over her head. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you both live together obviously, but don’t you guys like…hang out, now? He takes you to dinner all the time, the farmers market on Sunday—don't deny, I see the stories you post—took you to the spring ballet showcase, too, Balanchine opening night, and I know those tickets cost a fortune.”
“Those aren’t dates! We just go as friends.”
“And he came to drinks with everyone last week, Alina. He never does that. It was like he was trying to make sure everyone approved.”
“Paid our entire tab,” Zoya interjects. “So he’s good with me, if he ever wants to come again.”
“He’s Nik’s godfather! He wanted to see him before he went upstate for the summer.”
“Yeah, but… you seem to be his new best friend.”
Alina stares down at her hands—fingernails painted pinky-white. It had been so hard to stop biting up until a few weeks ago, until Aleksander had suggested—
Well.
She chews on her margarita straw instead. “Is that bad? If we are best friends, I mean.”
Genya laughs. “No, sweetheart, god! It’s kinda…cute, you know? The pair of you, the way he trails after you like a puppy—or a guard dog, I suppose. I think you’re good a good fit for each other.”
“As long as you’re happy—which is totally cliché, gag, but I get why people say it now,” Zoya adds, nodding.
Alina blinks—knows this question well, nearly fires off the dress-rehearsal answer out of habit: yes, of course, nothing to complain about.
“I am, actually,” she says, mind bright, present; how clear the sound of her voice is, when she means it. “Happy with him.”
The conversation soon veers off; a shared Google doc for a beach weekend itinerary, Genya’s new gallery opening—sculptures made by hand (a couple lewd jokes about other hand-related skills thrown in for good measure), followed by promises regarding a CrossFit class that Alina has no intention of keeping before they close the tab.
The weather keeps, so she walks home that afternoon, belly sore from laughter, taking swigs of water every few blocks to keep pace with Aleksander’s request. Arrives with a flush from the summer-sun, hanging up her tote and keys, plugging in her phone at the counter.
“How was lunch?” Aleksander is long-legged on the couch, glasses low on his nose, typing away at his laptop.
“Good. Great, actually.” She sits on the floor, letting her head flop on the cushion next to his hip. “I walked home over the bridge so my hair is a mess from the wind, though.”
“Mhm,” he shuts his laptop, presses the power button. “Go get your brush.”
She settles in again at his feet, quiet as he turns on some documentary—something calm and colorful, unlike that night they’d watched true crime and he’d had to scavenge up an extra night light, promising to stay until she fell asleep. Alina closes her eyes as the narrator starts to describe the Alaskan wilderness, feels Aleksander’s hands gather hair up from her neck and start to section off, bristles against her scalp.
She feels small here—but safe, arms around her knees, body between his feet. Big wide world, little girl, a man between the two.
“Sasha,” she asks, not knowing when her voice got so high and sugary and girlish, when it became second nature to speak to him like this. “Are we friends?”
“Of course, Alina.” His hand crosses over her throat, tilting her head back so he can see her face. And god, the way he looks at her—if she didn’t know better—
“So I can tell you anything?”
“Mhm,” he nods, thumb at her throat, stroking, careful.
“I like this,” she whispers, eyes wide, and knows he knows what she means.
And there it is—between them now, full stakes. betting the house. This thing that’s been rising higher and higher, the enormity of it now impossible to ignore, to pretend it’s coincidence. And Alina has to find out—if this is something real she can wrap herself up in, or if it’s something she’ll need to prepare to let go of, let it become just another story—that time she became the monster lurking in the closet; just another girl with daddy issues.
She’ll be okay, either way. Was okay before him, could carry on without, if she had to.
But it would be nice, to stay. Because she likes this.
Aleksander is very still. Like he’s stumbled upon a deer in the woods, afraid to frighten it off, holding his breath, no sudden movements.
But finally, he exhales—and looks so, so relieved.
“Me too, baby.”
The symptoms first show up on a Wednesday—feverish as soon as she leaves class; Alina ends up walking home to avoid infecting anyone on the train. The house is empty when she arrives, blearily dumping her stuff at the door, heading straight to Sasha’s bedroom to collect one of his giant hoodies and then back to the kitchen for a can of ginger ale. She only means to sit on the couch for a minute, get her bearings, send a few texts before taking a nap—
—but suddenly it’s Sasha jostling her awake, hand on her forehead, a worried frown creasing the line between his brows, the daylight outside completely faded.
“Hi, pretty girl. Did you take your Tylenol like I told you to?”
She whines, curling back into the couch, tries to recall if she’d made it that far.
“Sasha, ‘m head hurts.”
He hums. “I’ll be right back, okay?”
He returns with a damp washcloth, cold water and two pills that scrape her sore throat. Checks her temperature with a thermometer and hisses the sort of bad word she’s not supposed to use anymore. He wipes most of the sweat from her neck and chest, which she hates, because it makes her shiver and all she wants is to be warm and sleep.
“I know, I know,” he consoles with each irritated moan, “But you gotta let daddy do it, okay?”
Alina sniffles, eyes still closed, headache tearing behind her skull. Nods, even though it throbs every muscle in her neck, because it’s easier than speaking. At some point she’s bundled up, lifted off the couch, shifted carefully into the bulk of his chest. Carried up the narrow stairs, his bad knee clicking with the extra weight.
But the bed is not her bed.
Bigger—vast, really, in comparison. Waffle-weave cloud duvet and lux sheets, the blackout curtains pulled closed, cold fingers spreading vaporub on her collarbone, thick socks on her feet.
“Daddy,” she grabs at him weakly, met with more shushing. “Don’ go. Please.”
“I’m gonna go get bunny, baby. I’ll be right back. I promise.”
It seems like a reasonable excuse, so she curls up as best she can beneath the covers to shiver and wait. Aleksander reappears before she can fall asleep; bunny’s velvet fur tucked under her chin, smelling faintly of her bergamot perfume.
She catches his fingers, clumsy with her grip. Manages to wrap her whole hand around his index finger and hold on.
“Lay with me, daddy?”
And she wants this so bad her teeth ache—like how she wanted sweets for breakfast and a pink bedroom set and a patch of blue irises in the backyard, all of which he gave her, and she knows he’ll give her this too, because it must mean something, this thing they’re doing—where he takes care of her, where she fills up his house the way he fills up that impossible emptiness inside her—and they might be just friends, and she’ll take that, because being just friends with him is better than she deserves—this fresh softness, this gentleness learning to grow between her ribs that has finally set the constant deluge of bespoke self-loathing to rest—
—to be little and cherry-sweet again—and this time around, nobody can hurt her, because she has daddy—
—And she will tell him when they wake up—because it was him that taught her the magic of saying things out loud, making them real—that she used to be scared of this, of making space within herself, for herself. But not anymore.
“Hey, pumpkin, can you open your mouth for me?”
Alina cracks one eye with restraint, dutifully parting her lips—it’s daddy asking, so of course she can.
Two more white pills pressed onto her tongue followed by water from her pretty pink bottle.
“Swallow— good girl.”
“Not stupid,” she mumbles, squeezing bunny, burrowing under the blanket.
“No, of course not. But we have to take your temperature again.”
Thin plastic this time, slipped under her tongue. Hair smoothed out of her face.
“I’m gonna run you a bath, okay? It’ll help you feel better.”
She dozes off to the sound of him puttering around the bathroom, the faucet turned on. Eventually coaxed out of bed, sticky hoodie pulled from her body, still shivering when he turns around so she can get fully bare into the tub.
Head on her knees, slow seconds as the nausea fades, glad for the opaque fizz of bubbles. Her favorite soap, and she’d been sure she’d ran out weeks ago, but he must’ve grabbed more. It’s pink—makes the whole bathroom smell like shortbread cookies, the kind with candy sprinkles. Bunny is propped on the counter, dutifully keeping watch as Aleksander soaps her back, up her neck, washcloth behind the ears.
Brings her a towel warm from the dryer when he’s done; has her sit on the counter as he combs, blow dries her hair. Brushes her teeth, holding her mouth open, humming as he works. Brings her a box of scrunchies and ribbons to pick from (pink, of course) before braiding her hair back, out of her eyes.
“Feeling better, honey?”
He’d given her a clean t-shirt to wear; one of his, so the oversized collar dips low across her shoulders. Socks, too—hers this time; embroidered with tiny white hearts.
“Yeah,” she sniffles, thankful that the tacky film of sweat had been washed away, albeit exhausted from having to be upright for so long. “Can—can we cuddle? Watch tv in bed?”
He makes her eat first—steamy spoonfuls of chicken and ginger soup from the Thai place, a bottle of water, toast. By the time she’s full, Alina just barely crawls into his duvet, prepared to curl up, too fever-spent to even fluff the blankets. Aleksander slides in alongside her, dressed in pajamas, a furnace as she snuggles into his side, cheek to his chest, hands wandering under the hem of his shirt to find his belly, mumbling about skin to skin. Aleksander puts on some soft-hearted baking competition, turns the volume down low, slowly rubbing her back.
“Thank you, daddy,” she mumbles into his side, rubbing her face into his ribs. “‘Fuh tak’in care ‘uh me.”
“Close your eyes, sleepy girl.”
“Alina?”
She nearly drops the cabbage she’s inspecting—Aleksander wanted to show her a recipe for golubtsi tonight now that she was feeling better, his heavy metal credit card in her purse bumping up against the pink hydroflask she’d taken to yoga with Zoya that morning.
Mal.
Mal, saying her name in the aisle between the marinated olives and the smoked salmon.
Holding a bundle of geranium flowers, cheap plasticky chocolate apology heart under his arm—meant for someone else, this time around. Hair freshly buzzed, a new pair of sweats she’d never seen before.
“Hi—hey. I thought that was you—the hair,” he gestures vaguely to the pigtails Aleksander had tied that morning. “You never did that before. It’s um. different.”
I’m different. Alina stares; flowers. Seven of them, if you didn’t count the stems of greenery.
“Well, heard you got a new place. Downtown?”
She nods.
“You—you like it?”
Nod.
“That’s good then,” he licks his lips, nervous habit. Did it, often when lying. “I mean, that it worked out for both of us.”
She stares down at the cabbages, pale green leaves blurring in front of her eyes, unable to speak. Both of us.
“Alina,” exasperation in his voice, daring to say her name like he always had: some obligation, unwanted weight. “Forget it—I’m just trying to have a conversation—I thought we could be adults about this, but you proved that wrong when you dragged my name through the mud, didn’t you? You know—I really thought you were better than that— What? You always do this, you get caught, get all quiet, like a little fucking kid—“
Alina kicks off her sneakers at the door, messing up the laces Aleksander had tied into pretty bows that morning, dumping the contents of her purse, stumbling to the kitchen.
“Hey sweetpea, did you get the—“
Alina doesn’t hesitate—yanks him down by the collar, leaning up on tip-toes to close the space between them—
—kisses him, kisses him , a real kiss, the way grown-ups do—with her head tilted back, his arms wrapped around her, eyes closed, insistent, consuming, sure—
“Daddy,” she pants into his mouth, kissing along his jaw, dainty socked feet on top of his shoes, letting him sway them both into the embrace. Magic, magic words that make him hold her tighter, safer, the edges between them like gossamer.
“Daddy—I forgot the carrots,” breathless, arching up, up to impatiently catch his lips again, “‘s that okay?”
Hands at her waist, lifting her up; her legs around his torso—a yelp as he shoves her so hard against the wall the china rattles.
He groans: “Christ, Alina, be kind to an old man; What did you say?”
“The carrots I—oh, that tickles—I forgot—“
A burst of uncomplicated giggles as he rubs his beard into the crook of his neck like an over-large cat; Alina tugs at his hair in protest, swinging her feet, high off the ground.
“There she is, my sweet girl. Did you come home, baby?” He murmurs, tender, as if talking more to himself, kisses along her shoulder, eliciting more squirmy laughter. “You run home to daddy for a kiss, huh?”
“Yeah,” she sighs, rolling her hips, feeling the press of his belt buckle just beneath her skirt, metal edge against the puffy part of her pussy. “Kiss me, kissmekissme, daddy I’m gonna die—“
A puff of air that could be a laugh, rustling the hair against her head, nodding as he cups her chin, angling her face up, holding her still; a chaste, quick peck for good measure before his mouth chases hers, wet and heavy, pulse frantic, the slide of his tongue into her mouth turning her insides to snowmelt in spring—taking from her what’s his, what’s his.
“I’m sorry—” a half gasp as he re-knits the flutter of her heart.
“Shh, oh, there you go, let it out, It’s alright—“
“I’m sorry it took me so long, I didn’t realize—“
“Don’t be sorry, sweetheart, daddy can wait—“
“No,” a high pitched, angsty whine, tugging at the buttons of his shirt. “No daddy, don’t wanna wait anymore. I need—fuck.”
“Hey, what did I say about big girl words, darling?”
“They’re not nice,” she mumbles the oft-repeated rule around the finger he’s pressed to her lips. “But Daddy—I want you to—“
“Little girl needs kissed,” his mouth, warm and perfect, on her forehead, her nose—spilling them both down onto the couch in the next room, using the weight of his body to press her down, a personal weighted blanket. Alina keeps puffing—tiny, anxious noises, thighs squeezing his sides, trying to pull him closer, closer as he yanks up her tank top, furious that there’s still some barrier between them when she clearly needs skin to skin.
“Skin to—?“
“—skin, because I’m your baby—“
“Oh, yes, yeah, of course, darling—“
“Yeah,” and it feels good to want this instead of the things she supposed to want, voice coming from that soft, sugar-sweet place inside her, “yeah, daddy—special kisses, special snuggles, please, please pleaseplease—“
“Special snuggles, Christ, Alina,” and he chokes, big hands sliding up her bare ribs, “perfect, perfect tits—look at me, you gonna let daddy come here?”
“Nghh—noo,” she draws the word out, arching as his thumbs rub circles at the tips—god, she hadn’t known it could feel like that, unbearable, horrible—how similar torture feels to love—
“No?” He laughs, another circle, more hush, Alina, one more for me, you can do it, “You want to lick it up, swallow? Want me to come on your ass?”
“No!” she twists in his arms, thinks about how strong desire is, how sometimes fear can be stronger, if you let it. “No—inside, daddy, do you promise?” her eyes well up, “you—you make sure I take my pills in the morning, isn’t that…isn’t that why? So you can fill me up?”
He’s gulping air, sinking as far as she is. Clasps his hands over her ears, muffling sound—the way he does when there’s something scary on tv—and she watches his soundless lips take the shape of fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Where,” he gathers himself, nearly wincing; pets loose strands of hair from her face, “do you want daddy to kiss you?”
Coy grin as she turns her head, nipping at his finger. “Everywhere.”
“Use your words,” his thumb brushes her mouth, slides between her lips; Alina gives an experimental suck before it retreats, painting her own spit across her lips.
“My—neck.”
The slick thumb drags low over the column of her throat, already covered in beard burn and welts that will turn to hickies. “Mhm? Where else.”
“My tits,” she squirms, blush rising hot on her cheeks.
His hand splays across her belly, nearly the width of her; head bending, hair tickling her skin, eyes on her as he sucks one nipple into his mouth, tongue working on the underside. Shiny and wet when he releases it.
“Where else.”
Not a question. “And—you know, daddy,” she replies, a self-inflicted helplessness.
Finds her yet-untouched breast with a free hand, pinches the poor nerves until she squeaks when Alina remains stubbornly resolute.
Face turned in the pillows to hide, burning, embarrassed. “ Ah—Ah, m—my kitty, daddy—she needs kisses. Will you?”
“Special kisses, right?” His fingers slide up her thigh, stopping just at the hem of her cotton underwear; lowers his voice, nuzzles at her nose. “Does it—feel funny, down there? All shivery?—look how you keep wiggling, baby. Maybe….maybe daddy should check what sort of shivers you have.”
She moans, covering her face with her hands, peeking out at him between her fingers—he’s glowing, triumphant, so pleased with every reaction from her body.
“Yes. Please.” Quiet, nearly a whisper.
Lifts her hips obediently when he pulls her underwear down to her knees— oh Alina, he inhales, cracking just a bit.
“Is it—is it okay?”
He seems unable to speak—pupils blown, intoxicated by the sight. For a moment Alina worries over when he last went in for a cardiac checkup—but then he comes back to himself with a shudder. “Honey—you’re all drippy. What were you thinking about?”
Alina bites her swollen lip, feigning sweetness; rocks up on her elbows, allows her legs to fall open wider. “You, Daddy. I need help. It’s all sticky. Will you—will you kiss it better?”
“Made such a mess,” And his eyes are so, so dark, knuckle dipping into the wet split of her, inspecting, drawing out until a thin strand of her arousal snaps, filthy, filthy—
“Okay, okay, don’t cry, baby, let me take care of it—here, spread open so I can take a look—Christ, needy girl with all that excited wiggling, hm? Stay still—“
A soft keening noise when he kisses her nub; white socks bobbing in sinful contradiction in the air, her chanting turned to a warbling daddy daddy daddy. He hovers there, tongue slipping out to lick and curl; sucking her clit back into his mouth and oh—
She’s underwater, and he’s speaking, special little button here, look at that, you like being touched there?—so pretty, let’s edge you a bit, gonna put some fingers in you angel, but daddy’s gonna take care of you—just the first knuckle, honey, I know, I know it’s tight—
“More,” her hips thrust up. “No, more, I can take more daddy, I promise,” wobbly lip, big eyes—
“No, that’s—that’s for daddy to decide, isn’t it? And I’m not gonna hurt you—look—look baby, look how tiny you are, it barely fits.”
“I wanna,” he gasps as his finger crooks, a deep pressure in her belly, seizing a muscle. “But I wanna be good—“
His thumb rolls over her clit, a pleased groan when she clenches up. “My good girl wants to be all filled up? Wants to be broken in by her daddy? You think you can be good, take all my cum and keep it safe in your cunny?”
Clenched teeth, sweat dripping down her neck. “Yeah, yeah—“
A second finger pressing in and she’s gone, with embarrassing ease—strangled little noises as her body convulses, thighs tight over his ears, kitten licks on her clit drawing the sensation out, pleasure a clenched fist cascade that closes in and around her—orgasm blotting out everything except the sound of his voice urging her on, let go baby, it’s alright, let it happen, perfect. Time stretched thin, shaking and trembling beneath him, until her limbs finally go lax and sated.
Big hand, petting her thigh, her belly. “Oh, there she is, good girl, Alina. That was a big one, huh?”
A weak nod, a sob as he kisses her damp cheeks. Clutching at him in the vast, dark sea as she drifts back to her body.
“You must’ve needed that, baby. Poor little thing.”
His cock, heavy and dripping onto her leg, the weight of it intimidating as he kisses her weepy sighs away. “Daddy,” her hand squirming between them to clumsily grasp the fat head, rub a thumb over the tip, pushing it to lay flat against her belly, eyebrows rising as it stretches a path all the way to the divot of her belly button. “‘S big. Look .”
“Mhm,” his hips drag out, sliding through her slit, coating his length in her release. “We’re gonna make it fit, right kiddo? Can you—you wait just a minute while daddy gets a condom?”
“No,” she whines, already making a grab for the slippery tip, trying to angle it in herself. “No—You promised you’d come inside my tummy.”
“Jesus, Alina,” an aggrieved, long-suffering groan. “Alright, alright—let daddy do it.”
His fingers are still keeping warm inside her, slowly moving now, thoroughly slick. Aleksander pulls them out only to grasp the head of his cock—
—Blunt head notching in, and Alina squeaks, scrambling away from the splitting sensation, escape hindered by hitting the dead-end back of the couch, no more space to move—and she needs help, to do hard things, needs him to make her—
Bunny, stuffed body soft and familiar, taken from his spot where she’d left him that morning after breakfast, bravely clutching his ears as Aleksander pressed her daily blue pill into her mouth—now pressed into the crook of her elbow to squeeze, bringing back with it that fuzzy-pink fog to her brain. Aleksander’s thumb in her mouth, something to suck on, keep busy while he takes on the task of working in, inch by inch.
“Only a little more, honey, I know you’re all stretched out—give bunny a hug.”
“Oh-kay daddy,” lips closing around his thumb as the burn persists, her whimpers cooed at, fretted over.
A final thrust—his body, stone-rigid above her, restraint painted across his features. Alina lowers a trembling hand over her belly, palm flat, pressing in with slack-jawed wonder over the slight hardness in her center, the tightness in her gut.
“Daddy, I can feel it,” she moans happily, better soothed than a milk-drunk baby. “‘S all inside, see? Are you h-ah-appy?”
“Why don’t you touch your little button for me?” he gathers up her legs over his shoulders, settling in, bracing himself as he begins fucking her open. Alina curls her toes at the stretch, knees up by her ears, dainty feet behind his head, small in the cradle of his arms. “So fucking cute, aren’t you, begging to be fucked without a condom by your daddy? Little socks and ribbons and skirts, fuck. Alina—wanted to put you over my knee for so long—yes, just like that, squeeze your kitty for me—going to bend you over in every room of this fucking house and stretch your pussy open, baby, would you like that? You look so adorable when you cum, Christ—daddy’s gonna make you do that all the time for him, okay?”
Each thrust makes her breasts bounce, and Alina just cries—soft-spun Ah Ah Ahs, body straining with the bleach of another impending orgasm. He grunts, grabs her hips to slide her towards him, the angle deeper—
“D-daddy,” her teeth chattering, fingers digging into his biceps. Loves this, loves it so much she could burst, that she could do it forever, spreading her legs for this man, letting him fill her up. “ Daddy, feels so good—“
“My poor little baby just needed cock in her cunny,” he’s panting, cupping the back of her head, tucking her carefully into his chest so her head doesn’t smack against the boning of the couch.
Her mouth finds bunny’s ear, whimpering into the fur, sucking on it, watching him under her lashes as his face begins to pinch and oh— oh he’s really going to come inside her, isn’t he? Deep inside, bare cockhead at her cervix, some irrecoverable space inside her he’s claimed as his, will brand with his cum—
“Daddy, I’m gonna—“ an anxious whine, spine drawing tight, thighs starting to shake—
“What’s wrong, princess? Gonna cream on daddy’s cock? Go on, pretty girl.”
A distressed nod, teary, choked up—doesn’t know if her body can take this; the animal of her already worn out, pushed to the limit, starting to twist and fight in his arms for relief—but he doesn’t mind, just keeps fucking into her, each brutal stroke trying to break her apart, make her into something new just for him—some bespoke, wet plaything for him to toss around, to tend; like this was all decided since the moment she stepped in his door, licking strawberry frosting off her fingertips. A sweet girl made for her daddy.
He grabs her jaw, pinches, lifts her head. Aleksander’s teeth flash sharp, voice practically a growl. “Look at me. Nobody else, do you understand? You belong to daddy, and you’re going to take my cum. My fucking house, my fucking rules.”
A sniffle, just as her orgasm starts to pinch and flutter, nearly squeezing him out. “Yours, daddy, ‘m promise.”
She’s floating, warm, perfectly held aloft by the grace of shivery starlight under her skin, an ache in her bones—but good, a sated pain, something well worth the effort. Comes to, snuggled into Aleksander’s neck, his chest hair tickling her chin, thumb drawing little circles into her spine.
“You okay, sweetpea? You knocked out for a bit.”
“Mhm,” nuzzles deeper, rolling fully onto his tummy, tangling their legs. His cock twitches with interest between them, but his hands stay a polite distance from anywhere questionable—even reaches up to comb her hair behind her ears, humming quietly. “Do I get a sticker for this, daddy?” She gives him a sly, teasing grin.
He chuckles, pinches her ass. “Yes, little girl, you get a sticker for all that—god, I think it qualifies.”
She giggles into his collarbone as they settle into comfortable silence, into bare nakedness, her hands sinking into his hair—grey flecked at the temples, silver at her fingertips. Never wants to move—wants to live in this moment, here on the living room floor of the home she shares with him.
“I wanted,” he clears his throat. “I wanted to do this right, I suppose. Wait until the fall, help you find a new place, so it wouldn’t be—complicated, I guess, so nobody could accuse me of—god, I don’t know. Taking advantage, I suppose. Ask you out to dinner properly. Bring you flowers, a slice of that vegan chocolate cake you like from the deli on eighty-first…but I couldn’t…I was selfish. Couldn’t bring myself to ask you to leave because I wanted you here. I liked it too much. You. With me.”
“Oh,” Alina blinks sleepily at him, letting the words curl around her. “That’s nice, but it’s ok, daddy. I can’t go to that deli anymore anyway.”
He pauses, careful. “Why not?”
Her voice is dreamy, still orgasm-drunk. “I saw Mal there today and threw a jar of gefilte fish at his head, and now I’m banned for life.”
“In that case,” he laughs, kissing her forehead like he intends to do it forever, “two stickers.”