Sex.

The sex was frequent after that night. She didn't have to ask and neither did I as we migrated from shower, testing how well those sound-proof walls worked, to the garden's secret openings, smelling the sweet scent of flowers and incoming rain, and to the countertops where old jelly residue stuck to already sticky skin.

Day in and day out, one of us would have our fingers crammed inside of each other like children sneaking cookies, but there was nobody to catch us. No one to tell us it was wrong. And maybe that was our problem- we had no mother or father or family member to scold us for being so relentless with each other, giving no space to breathe or reflect that maybe something was wrong. Not once did she ever ask how I felt and I never had the courage to ask her. All I could do was to bite her and mark her and hope her bruised skin would hurt enough that her body would alert her heart of my pained teeth, my hitched breath, and my fluttering heart. If she ever knew I didn't know. All she ever gave me was the fulfillment of her fingers in my vacancy and the coaxing of her tongue. Sometimes when we were caught in our own heat we'd kiss. Rarely, but, honestly, kissing her was like drinking flames, and maybe swallowing the sun was best in moderation and that's why we didn't kiss so often.

"Historia?" I could hear my sister's muffled voice on the other end. Her vacation was finally coming to an end. "Are you still there?"

"Oh, yeah, sorry," I was naked, sprawled against Ymir's chaise with plush pillows and a wispy piece of cloth of a blanket, "Ymir was distracting me."

Those mischievous eyes were on me as a pleased grin swept over her lips. She had her head in my lap, nuzzling the slickened skin on the inside of my thighs. Daintily, she lapped away at it, keeping my attention and gaze on only her.

"Oh, I see… well, has father called? At all? Isn't he the least bit worried?" She asked, careful and afraid at the same time. It was a touchy thing, it really was.

"No, he hasn't… but it's alright." I knew what she was going to say so I cut her off because I didn't want Ymir to know. "I will see you soon, then, right?"

"Ah… yes, soon, soon," she agreed, "I must go now. I will talk to you tonight. Be safe."

The phone call ended and Ymir dug her face deeper into my core, moaning into me, trying to call me out of my languid disposition, but I only smiled at her, lowering my hand and running it through her hair and resting it at her cheek, holding her face, admiring every freckle adorning her face.

Ymir shifted from her seat on the ground, hoping to find a way closer to my sex.

"Historia," she was laying it on thick, indirectly begging me to react to her seductions, and I really did want to, but it would be too easy, right?

Ymir didn't like easy. Not that I knew. Not from what I saw in the darkest corners of her mind.

I lifted my foot to her collarbones, firmly and slowly prying her away from my sex. She loved to feel vulnerable and without control. She couldn't stand the idea of being in the position of pleading. It was everything that got her off.

Her golden eyes were wide like a priest who saw the flickering of angelic light, waiting in fear and awe of what I'd do.

I stood up, letting that silky blanket fall so she could see me all over again as I stared down at her.

She wrapped her arms around my legs, keeping me there as she closed her eyes, nuzzling my sex, and I could feel her hot breath drown it, covering the wetness with desire as she parted her lips, pressing her tongue between my folds but not quite reaching.

Images of self-care posters, stereotypical therapists, and watered-down feel-good pictures flooded my mind.

I could say it all. I really could but she didn't want that. She already knew, she already declined, and I knew she already made her decision of already wanting me.

Those depression pamphlets that were tucked away in her sock drawer were old and the way my hand ripped at her hair, yanking her down to the floor, causing her to cry out in pain and arousal was a new pain she took into her collection- a collection of things that fueled her heart, art, but never a relationship. At least not these days.

Loneliness was at her heart as she laid on the floor, panting, and then grunting as I lowered myself onto her mouth, feeling her hands jolt up to my hips, scratching at them, and anchoring me there as she passionately serviced me.

All I could do was rock my hips. The sounds from my lips were easy.

This was easier.

To Ymir, being sad and depressed and hiding it was a lot easier-even better, maybe- for her life.

"An artist needs to suffer sometimes. It's good for your work," she would say an hour after sitting on her face. She'd smile like she meant it, too, believing every word she spouted.

I was easy, then. I was a fool, too.