Work Text:
The thinking was wrong. Or the math was. Sandrone hadn’t made up her mind yet. Something was wrong because the numbers and symbols swimming in her vision were not adding up. Sandrone pressed two fingers to the bridge of her nose and stared at the screen until the numbers stopped meaning anything to her anymore. She’d made an error, she’d decided, somewhere in the last three pages, and it would be a nightmare to comb through what she’d written. She was tired. That was the problem. She was tired, and she’d made a lapse in judgment, and now it was going to take her twice as long to fix it.
Sandrone had been sleeping poorly for weeks; she’d been plagued with migraines so bad she’d started a new prescription, which had helped with the pain but left her feeling just slightly off frequency, wrong in a way she couldn’t place. Sandrone glanced at the corkboard installed above her desk. Somewhere in that mess of reminders was a Post-it note that read: "Look into triptans and cognitive processing latency”. She returned to her screens and paused to roll up her sleeves; somehow, it was warm in her apartment. She was sweating.
Sandrone stood and checked the thermostat. It was 62 °F (or 16 °C or 290 K they were all just numbers at the end of the day), which was what it was always set to and yet... She turned the temperature down another four degrees. Back to her work. Line four. The error was in line four. She fixed it and then sat back and rolled her neck until it cracked satisfyingly. She reached for her coffee.
It was cold.
Of course, it was cold; it had been sitting on her desk for hours. Logically, she knew it would be cold, and yet, wrapping her hands around the mug, she felt a spike of irritation so profound she paused. She wasn’t usually this irritable. Well, she was frequently irritable but usually for more deliberate reasons. Recently, it felt as though her baseline of irritability had been raised; it was more of a humming background static that permeated through her emotions. Sandrone had chalked it up to thesis stress, and it seemed only to be getting worse. She needed a breath of air.
The cool air of the rooftop was like a salve against her skin. It was a clear, calm night, the perfect night for a smoke, if she still smoked. Instead, she leaned against the rail, stared out into the sky, and tried to decide if the few twinkling dots she could see were stars or planes. She decided two of them were stars, the others were planes tracing slow blinking paths toward the airport, and the city’s light pollution ate everything else.
Sandrone had her elbows on the railing and her chin on her folded arms and her socked feet on cold concrete, and she was trying to simply feel the temperature. To let the cool fall air wash over her and chase away that static of irritation and warmth in her body.
It helped, marginally. The static was still there, but the rooftop air had reeled it back from the foreground, turned it from a noise into something she could ignore. Sandrone was also aware that she was still running hot; a swipe of the back of her hand against her forehead confirmed this. She frowned. Was she getting sick? That would be unacceptable.
Her thoughts briefly scattered as the sound of the door swinging open caught her attention. Sandrone didn’t bother turning around. Only a handful of people in the apartment complex came up to the rooftop, especially this late at night.
“Columbina,” Sandrone said, not quite a greeting, more of an acknowledgment. Dark-haired and calm with a strange ethereal vibe, somewhat off-putting to others. She was also a grad student, studying something odd like the intersection of Nod Krai moon worship and folklore. Sandrone always seemed to bump into her. It was a matter of chance at first, then Columbina invited her to her book club (which turned out to be just her, Columbina, and another woman, Arlecchino, who only came sparingly). Columbina was one of the few people Sandrone could tolerate. Tolerate, yes, that was how she felt about Columbina and nothing more.
“Sandrone,” Columbina replied, her tone light and carefree. “Isn’t it a beautiful night?”
Sandrone glanced again at the darkened sky and the two stars she’d found. The night sky looked as plain as it always did. “What makes it beautiful exactly?”
Columbina joined her at the railing and considered this question with seriousness. She smelled like winter iceleas with a trace of her own sweetness, a smell reminiscent of the peppermint tea she sometimes brewed at her book club. The scent bled through even when she wore blockers, which wasn’t often. Columbina wasn’t the type to restrict herself, something Sandrone secretly admired her for.
“The clouds,” she concluded. “They have a nice texture and the way the lights from the city reflect off them, like they’re lit from inside. I think that counts. And I like that star,” she said, pointing out towards one of the two stars Sandrone had identified. “You can tell it’s a star because of the way it flickers.”
Sandrone glanced at the star again; it was flickering, fractionally. “Atmospheric scintillation,” she said. “The light refracts through thermal layers in the-”
“Yes,” Columbina agreed pleasantly. “The tail of Lacerta, I would guess, or perhaps a leg of Pegasus.”
Sandrone blinked, trying to decipher what nonsense Columbina was speaking now. “Are you... Trying to identify a constellation based on one visible star?”
“Hmm... yes.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Not impossible,” Columbina asserted. “On a night like this in my hometown, you could see all the constellations across the sky. They follow a pattern night by night if you’re observant. It’s a shame the city lights wash the stars out. I could show you.” There was a shift of fabric as Columbina turned to look at Sandrone. “You should come with me someday; I think you would like it.”
The invitation landed with a silent weight between them.
“I have a thesis to finish, I don’t have the time to gallivant in the countryside and stare at stars,” Sandrone said.
“Of course.” No sarcasm in it. Columbina rested her chin in her hand, elbow on the railing, and looked out at the flickering star with the focused tranquility of someone who could do this for hours and be content. The city lights caught the curve of her cheek, haloed her profile. “When you’re done.”
“After that, I’ll have more projects, my schedule is not-”
“You don’t have to decide now,” Columbina said. “The offer stands. It’s only a few hours by train.” There was a shift as Columbina turned to look at Sandrone, and Sandrone could feel the weight of her gaze as she examined her. She frowned slightly. “Have you been taking care of yourself, Sandrone?” Columbina asked. “You don’t look like you’ve been sleeping well.”
“I’ve been sleeping fine,” Sandrone replied, sounding far more defensive than she expected.
Sandrone looked pointedly away, and Columbina tilted her head to duck into Sandrone’s field of view. This close, Sandrone got a strong whiff of Columbina, winter icelea, sweet and cloying with an unmistakable musk of alpha. The warmth underneath her sternum lurched, spread, filled her body with an unmistakable heat.
Oh. Oh no.
It was a type of heat she hadn’t felt in almost seven years, one she’d eliminated with a careful formula of her own creation, a suppressant strong enough to let her masquerade as a beta. Heat. Or rather, the nagging warmth of preheat. She flinched back, resisted the urge to clamp her fingers over the bridge of her nose. She couldn’t let Columbina know anything was wrong.
“Are you sure, Sandrone? You look a little pale; there has been the flu going around lately. I hope you’re not getting sick.” Columbina said, she reached and brushed the back of her hand against Sandrone’s forehead, and the touch alone sent another lurching wave of heat through her. “You feel warm. There’s that awful flu going around lately, let me brew you a cup of tea-“
“I’m fine,” she said, stepping back from the railing. The words came out harsher and more stilted than she intended. “I sleep fine, and I am not sick, and even if I was, I could power through it. My thesis is at a demanding stage, nothing I can’t handle.”
Columbina paused, regarded her with those pale eyes of hers. “Is that so?” Columbina mused; she clearly didn’t believe her.
“It is,” Sandrone insisted. “I should go.” She turned and escaped back inside before Columbina could catch on.
The door to her apartment slammed shut behind her, and Sandrone sagged against her. She was uncomfortably warm, her forehead just slightly damp, her hair stuck to it. “Fuck.” She hissed under her breath. How could this happen to her? She’d been so careful, so meticulous, she hadn’t made any changes to her routine. Why would her body betray her like this? Sandrone could practically feel another migraine coming on; there was no chance she’d be able to keep working like this. Absentmindedly, she reached for her medication, the new one, and paused.
No. No.
Off-label synthesis: heat-onset acceleration in subjects using non-commercial suppressant analogs concurrent with serotonin agonist therapy — three unreported cases
Sandrone stared at the title of the research paper as a cold feeling sank into the pit of her stomach. This was the problem with formulating her own suppressant therapy with components rarely used in commercial suppressants. This paper was nearly a decade old, and she had not been able to find a single other paper on the interaction between triptans and her suppressant formula, yet the three case reports included in the report matched up with her current symptoms.
In all three cases, omegas had been using suppressants with a similar biochemical profile to the ones she’d designed. In all three cases, initiation of triptan therapy for migraines induced preheat symptoms, followed by full heat within less than 24 hours, which was shorter than the usual preheat duration of 2 to 3 days. The paper concluded that this was due to triptans acting as complete antagonists at the receptors targeted by the suppressants. Sandrone had done the mental math; sumatriptan’s half-life was 2-3 hours, her body would clear 94% of the drug in 4 to 5 half-lives. She’d just taken a dose two hours ago; this gave her six to eight hours to fully clear the triptans and restart her suppressants. Would that be enough time? When had her preheat symptoms started? She wasn’t sure; she’d been irritable for a while, how was she to know which irritation was from the thesis project and which was a biological sign of preheat?
No, she would not be a victim of her own biology. She was Sandrone; she had been masquerading as a beta for seven years, and she had made it this far, and she would not let this ruin her. A plan quickly formulated in her mind. Ice, commercial suppressants, scent-neutralizing spray, and candles to drown out any competing scents. She made a mental shopping list as she grabbed her keys to go to the pharmacy.
The pharmacy smelled of antiseptic and the sickly-sweet artificial scents of the candle display near the front door, which seemed to bother her more than usual in this state. She kept her head down, moving through the aisles with speed, the last thing she needed was to run into someone as she was perusing the ‘heat management’ section-
“Sandy?”
Sandrone went very still at the sound of the familiar voice.
“Pulonia, I have told you a sufficient number of times that Sandy is not an acceptable nickname for me.”
“I like it,” He replied, appearing at the end of the aisle with an easy smile. He was a big guy, broad-shouldered, with warm, easygoing eyes, which was strange because they were their father’s eyes and Sandrone never recalled their father being warm or easygoing. Though there were many strange things about their relationship, she and Pulonia, considering they were not aware of each other’s existence until three years ago at their father’s deathbed.
He had a plastic shopping bin, filled with granola bars and energy drinks with ridiculous flavors like ‘motor oil’ because that’s what he survived on, and of course, he just had to be picking up snacks at the pharmacy near midnight at the same time Sandrone was here.
“Late night?” he asked.
“Is this late for you?” Sandrone replied with a little bit of snark, hiding her own basket as carefully as she could behind one leg. She was not sneaky enough or fast enough.
He glanced at her basket and then looked back at the label for the aisle they were standing in (Omega products), and then stole another glance at her basket. “Hm,” he said. “How bad?”
“Manageable,” she answered quickly.
“Sandy.”
“I said it’s manageable,” she repeated, more firmly. “Are you questioning my capabilities, Pulonia?”
“Of course not,” he said. “Is there anything I can help with?”
“I doubt it.”
“Hm,” he made another thoughtful noise before reaching over her and snatching her basket from her and unceremoniously adding it to his. When Sandrone made an undignified noise and reached for it, he held her at arm’s length, using his massive frame to his advantage. “At least let me pay for these.”
It was risky coming out to the library when Sandrone had just had such a close call with her heat, but she’d done the calculations, and the triptans should be cleared from her system, and she’d already taken another dose of her own suppressants. Her bootleg interventions from the pharmacy had staved off her heat through the night, and now she could already feel her head clearing.
Sandrone had found a quiet, secluded spot in the library to spread out her documents and work on her project. It was fine, she was fine, and she was getting good work done, and all she had to do was not take another triptan, and she would be fine.
There was a shifting noise behind her and then the smell of peppermint and winter icelea.
“Columbina,” Sandrone said, her chest tightening. She waited for that spike of heat, the panic, and was relieved to find nothing. Her plan was working.
“Sandrone,” Columbina said. She had in her hands two cups of coffee, which Sandrone quickly identified as the source of the peppermint scent. “I thought you might be here. I got some extra coffee; you look like you might need a pick-me-up.”
“I like my coffee black,” Sandrone said, peering at the cup. “And why is it peppermint flavored? It’s spring.”
“You don’t have to drink it.”
“Give it to me.”
She took a sip, and it was... tolerable.
“Well?”
“It’s fine,” Sandrone replied.
“High praise.” Columbina smiled, and Sandrone glanced away, cheeks warm. “Can I join you?”
“You’ll disturb my workspace,” Sandrone grumbled.
“I’ll be quiet.”
“...Fine.”
Columbina made a soft, satisfied sound as if the conversation went exactly how she expected it to, and Sandrone was only a little irritated at that. Columbina settled in the seat across from Sandrone and opened the book she was carrying. It was a thick book on folklore, dotted with dog ears and tabs. They fell into a comfortable silence punctuated by the ruffling of pages, typing, and brief pauses as Sandrone stopped to sip at the coffee. It was too sweet for her personally, exactly something Columbina might favor.
The migraine introduced itself about thirty minutes in.
It started with the light; the brightness of her own screen had taken on a quality that Sandrone could only describe as loud. Then there was the scent, always something burnt and metallic. The muscles at the back of her neck tightened, and Sandrone knew she probably had about forty minutes until she would be forced to crawl back to her room and curl up in the dark under her sheets. This is when she would take a triptan, that miracle drug she’d thought could save her and keep her focused on her work. A beautiful lie.
Sandrone packed her stuff up with efficiency; she’d have to go home and fight that losing battle against her migraine with an NSAID and an ice pack. “I have to go,” she told Columbina.
Columbina blinked. “Ah. Okay.”
Sandrone made it back to her apartment in record time, and she had already discovered that her lights were agitating her eyes. She flicked them off and then crawled under the sheets with one of the leftover icepacks from the night pressed against her forehead. She was going to ride this out; she was not going to take a pill; she would not go into heat.
She lasted maybe forty-five minutes, and the pill took another hour to work its magic, so she had plenty of time to lie in bed and let the dread build. She had traded a few hours of pain for potential days of heat. She was an idiot, an idiot, and she had to make it worth it, get good work done in the hours before her heat and then lock herself in and ride it out. She’d be fine, surely.
Five hours of productivity, and it was now well into the evening, 8:37 pm to be exact. Sandrone had done good work on her thesis, and only just now was she beginning to feel the slight feeling of warmth through her body. It was not unbearable yet. She popped a drug store suppressant and lit some candles, determined to wait it out.
It didn’t become unbearable until 10:04. She was sweating enough to wet the front of her sleep shirt. It was still okay, though, more ice packs, another candle, she could do this. She was sprawled out over her bedsheets, pajama shirt pulled up enough for her to stuff two ice packs underneath, when there was a knock at her door.
Sandrone didn’t answer, only burrowed her face deeper into her pillow and prayed whoever was on the other side would move on. No such luck.
“Sandrone?”
Columbina, of course, it was Columbina.
Reluctantly, Sandrone stood, kicked the icepacks under her bed, and fixed her shirt.
“What is it?” she asked, injecting enough irritation in her voice to try to scare Columbina away without alerting her that something may be wrong.
“I brought some tea, you didn’t look well today, Sandrone,” Columbina said through the door. The smell of her seeped in from the cracks beneath the door, icelea, peppermint, it sent a spike of want through Sandrone.
“You can leave it at the door,” Sandrone replied, trying to keep her voice steady. “Thank you,” she added quickly. There was a long pause, and Sandrone’s heart beat harder in her chest. Had Columbina caught on? Smelt her? If Sandrone could smell her, Columbina could probably smell Sandrone. The silence drew on even longer. "You can leave it at the door," she repeated.
“Sandrone,” Columbina said. “Are you in heat?”
The question hit Sandrone like a bucket of cold water.
“W-what?” Sandrone balked; the word came out sharp, her voice cracking at the end. She steadied herself and continued in a flat tone. “I’m a beta, Columbina. I don’t go into heat.”
“Sandrone,” Columbina repeated. “How long have you been in heat?”
“Did you hear me at all?”
A pause. “Open the door, please.”
Sandrone debated this for a couple of seconds before she did. There was Columbina, standing with a teapot in her hand.
Columbina took a step closer, and the heat of her, the scent of her, sent Sandrone reeling back, her hand pressed over her nose. She was warm, too warm. She reached for Sandrone and then hesitated when Sandrone recoiled further. She tilted her head as if to say: See. “I don’t have to stay, Sandrone. But you’re going to hurt yourself like this. You can’t suffer through heat without at least suppressants.”
She opened her mouth, thought of a thousand things she could say to refute Columbina, to lie to her, and decided that Columbina was far too intelligent to fall for any lie. Instead, what she said was frighteningly honest. “You can’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t,” Columbina replied, easy and with no questions. “Let me run to the pharmacy for you.”
“That won’t help,” Sandrone started. Gods, she did not have the time to explain everything right now; she was burning inside, and if Columbina didn’t leave soon, Sandrone was going to do something reckless. “Why did it have to be you?” she said finally, frustrated. “Of all people.”
“Ah, I’m sorry,” Columbina said, innocent and bewildered. Sandrone could tell from the furrow of her brow, though she was trying to hide it.
“You, I actually...” she couldn’t finish the thought; it felt too much like giving something up. The silence stretched between them as Sandrone fumbled for words, trying to find the least pathetic way to convey her message. “I actually care about your opinion of me.” Admitting that felt like losing something, and immediately, Sandrone wanted to take it back. “Forget it, actually, forget I said anything.”
It was too much having Columbina in front of her, looking at her like... that. She couldn’t think straight. “You should leave. Please, I don’t want you to see me so... so pathetic...”
Columbina took a step forward and grasped her hand. Her scent flooded Sandrone’s senses, and she let out a pitiful noise that she quickly stifled.
“Sandrone, something like this could never change my opinion of you,” she said. “I just want to help you. Tell me what you need.”
Sandrone bit her own tongue hard before she could say something stupid like: ‘you’. Sandrone's jaw worked. She was Sandrone, she had two degrees and a thesis due in mere days, and she had never in her adult life asked for help from anyone without exceedingly good reason, and her body was making a desperate argument against all of that. Her hands curled at her sides.
"I need," she started, and stopped. Tried again, through her teeth: "I cannot think. I cannot work. I have been..." Her voice frayed at the edge. She hated it. "I have a deadline, and I need to be able to think. Clearly.”
“I know.”
“Don’t be smug about it.”
“I’m not,” Columbina replied, genuinely. Her face held the same expression she always seemed to have, a patient attention, but there was something beneath it now that Sandrone clocked and could not look away from. Something warm, and specific, and focused on her. Columbina raised one palm, slow enough for Sandrone to track, and settled against the side of her face. Columbina’s palm was devastatingly cool against Sandrone’s heated flesh; the touch alone made Sandrone shudder and let out an unguarded exhale of air.
Then Columbina leaned in to kiss her, and all her rational thoughts dissipated.
Her lips were soft, Sandrone thought, she had imagined they would be. Sandrone’s fingers fisted into the front of Columbina’s cardigan, hauling her impossibly closer. Columbina pulled away, and Sandrone chased her, hazy-eyed and needy.
“Is that okay? Tell me I haven't read the signs wrong, tell me you don't actually want me, and I will leave-“
Sandrone resented the idea that she was easy to read. That her want for Columbina was transparent. She was not some simpering, lovestruck fool. “Shut up and kiss me, Columbina.”
Columbina smiled faintly and kissed her again.
They made their way across the room to Sandrone’s bed in steps. Her shirt hit the floor somewhere near her desk. Columbina’s cardigan went over the chair. Sandrone’s fingers found the hem of Columbina’s dress with more desperation than she’d intended, and she heard the soft sound Columbina made against her ear. Columbina’s mouth found her jaw, her throat, the spot below her ear that made Sandrone grab a fistful of fine dark hair and make a sound she would not be thinking about later.
Then they were on her bed, with Columbina above her.
Sandrone looked up at Columbina, at her flushed face, just slightly undone, and felt her own cheeks heat.
Columbina leaned in, and Sandrone became suddenly aware of an anatomical fact of her that she had not thought about before tonight (well, perhaps only thought of a little). She could feel the length of Columbina against her thigh, and she was already hard, her body responding to the pheromones Sandrone had been giving off. Sandrone reached between them and touched, tentatively. She was curved and thick enough that Sandrone’s fingers barely closed around her, and it sent a spike of pure want through her.
“Breathe,” Columbina said.
“I am breathing,” Sandrone replied, a little too fast.
“You stopped for a moment.”
Sandrone took a deliberate breath. Columbina settled between her thighs, her touch light against the inside of her thighs. The first press of her fingers against Sandrone had her hips twitching forward.
“Mhn- fuck,” Sandrone hissed out. She was already achingly wet; one swipe of Columbina’s fingers came back slick. Columbina slid two fingers in, and Sandrone replied with a whimper, an actual whimper. Columbina’s touch was slow, exploratory. When Sandrone looked at her through half-lidded eyes, she looked almost entranced. But it wasn’t enough; she was too far gone for just fingers now. “Columbina... I- I need.”
“Tell me, Sandrone,” she said, calm, too calm.
“You. Inside. Now,” Sandrone said, far beyond the threshold of feeling any shame. Columbina looked at her for one long moment, as if committing something to memory. Sandrone could only imagine how she looked now, flushed, needy in a way she would never allow herself to be normally.
Columbina reached down, wrapped her hand around herself, and lined herself up. The first push swallowed her protest whole. Sandrone’s head dropped back with a strangled whine, her hands fisting into the bedsheets by her hips, knuckles white. Columbina pushed in slowly, and Sandrone’s heat-sensitive body felt every inch with an intensity, the stretch of her, the fullness, the way the slight upward curve of her caught at something that made Sandrone’s stomach muscles seize.
“Hh- you’re-” She couldn’t finish the sentence, breaking off in another bitten off whimper as Columbina bottomed out.
“I know,” Columbina murmured. Her free hands found the bend of Sandrone’s knees and spread her open enough for her to press in impossibly deeper. She folded herself over Sandrone until her face filled her vision and her scent was everywhere, winter icelea and the heady scent of an alpha.
“Move,” Sandrone hissed. “Please,” she added.
Columbina obliged. She rolled her hips experimentally at first, a pull back and press in that had Sandrone bite off another moan. Her back arched off the bed as Columbina found a steady rhythm. One of Columbina’s hands pressed down on her sternum, holding her in place as she continued that devastating roll of her hips.
“Stay,” she said, and Sandrone made an indignant sound. How dare- Columbina bottomed out again, and the sound it produced was wet and obscene, and Sandrone’s face went hot. Sandrone’s hands scrambled for purchase, her fingernails found the curve of Columbina’s shoulders, and dug in. Her thighs trembled where they bracketed Columbina’s hips. “Let me take care of you.”
“Fuck- Columbina-“ She whimpered, her hips shifting forward, and Columbina gave her what she asked for, a deeper angle, the slight curve of her finding a spot that made Sandrone’s body go liquid. Her nails found better purchase in the slope of Columbina’s shoulders, each press of them urging Columbina on. The world narrowed to the feel of Columbina inside her, the exact fullness her body had been begging for. She was making sounds, whines, and little whimpers that would embarrass her if she were able to think at all.
“Ah- there- please-”
“Yeah?” Columbina sounded undone too, a little breathless, like she couldn’t believe this was happening. “You take me so well, Sandrone.” She leaned down to kiss her. The kiss muffled whatever noise she made next; her mouth moved slowly and unhurried against her, a stark contrast to the way the rest of her body moved against her. Sandrone made a helpless noise against Columbina that she gladly swallowed.
Columbina lifted her head, her teeth dragging against Sandrone’s bottom lip just right.
“I’m going to knot you, Sandrone, have you ever-?”
“No, but I want it, please-“ Sandrone gasped, her heels digging into the back of Columbina’s thighs. She could feel the swell of Columbina at the base of her, and the sensation of it made her body decide before her brain had weighed in. She bore down, tried to take it herself. Columbina’s hands on her hips held her in place.
“Careful. Tell me if it’s too much,” Columbina murmured, her voice a soothing whisper against Sandrone’s lips.
“Columbina. I swear on every god named in those folklore books of yours if you don’t-“
Columbina pushed forward with a steady roll of her hips, and the knot pushed into Sandrone with a pressure that her heat-ridden body read as overwhelming relief. "Haaah—oh- fuck-"
“Okay?” Columbina’s hips were flush against Sandrone now, the knot inside and swelling more, locking them together.
“Yes- please-“ She couldn’t get the rest of it together, she just knew that she needed Columbina to move, to finish this desperate need building in her.
“I know,” Columbina said, soft, too soft for how devastating she felt. “I have you.” She moved in short thrusts, using what range the knot gave her, each movement grinding against Sandrone in a way that sent sparks of pleasure up her spine. Her back arched off the mattress, seeking more contact, more pressure, more of the solid weight of Columbina above her. "Don't stop- please don't-"
"I'm not stopping." Rougher now, Columbina's voice. The composed surface had gone somewhere, filed away temporarily, and what was underneath was attentive, focused, warm. Her mouth found Sandrone's throat, teeth dragging lightly against her pulse, and the combination of that and the knot and the relentless small movements of her hips built something in Sandrone's lower belly.
She came with Columbina's name on her tongue and her nails scratching reddened lines down her back. The orgasm tore through her in waves that the knot extended and extended, every clench of her body around it feeding back into the next. "Columbina-" Columbina worked her through every second of it, those careful, devastating hip rolls continuous, her mouth at Sandrone's temple now, murmuring something low and wordless.
Columbina followed her over with her face pressed into the curve of Sandrone's neck, a broken exhale, hips stuttering into stillness. The warmth of her spread through Sandrone’s body, quieting that burning heat from before.
Her weight settled over Sandrone’s body like a weighted blanket. They would be stuck like this for a while. Sandrone felt clearer already, more level-headed, and knew that if she stayed silent for too long, she would start to overthink and regret. Columbina’s hand found the damp mess of Sandrone’s hair, and she pushed back, fixed it.
“Stop thinking so loud,” she murmured.
“Asking me to stop thinking is like asking a fish to stop swimming.”
Columbina made a soft sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. She settled against Sandrone. “Twenty minutes,” she said. “For the knot to go down. And then I will have you sleep before you think about touching that thesis again. The world will not end if you take a rest.”
Sandrone considered arguing, but then Columbina’s face turned into the crook of her neck, and the tickle of her breath sent a shiver down her spine. She decided to herself that perhaps staying in bed with Columbina for a while longer was not the worst fate to be sentenced to.
“That remains to be seen.”
A small laugh vibrated through Columbina’s chest.
“Columbina,” she said.
“Hmm?” A sleepy sound answered her.
Whatever words she intended to say next died in her throat as Columbina lifted her head to make eye contact. Sandrone changed the trajectory of her next comment. “Don’t move too much,” she muttered, her eyes fluttering shut. “I’m comfortable like this.”
Columbina’s smile was audible.