Canapé

"That fucking Murgo..." It's under your breath in a room purposefully isolated, but the words are intended all the same. "What a load of shit."

Your head shakes at the memory of the old merchant, those crooked teeth in that disarming grin. The chocolate... It's the only thing on your mind. The only thing that's ever present in your life.

"My mystical wares only work if they are truly wanted," you mockingly echo. You pull up the heavy trunk, dragging it into position beside your bed.

"The magic is a reflection of your heart's desire," you mimic again, handling the camera you purchased months ago from him and setting it in place atop the trunk. "You peddle mostly useless junk, and yet this is my best shot. Damn you, Murgo."

It's been too long. Without her... It's like a fog has settled over your mind, and nothing makes sense anymore. The days have blurred together into one long passing of light and dark.

You no longer work, not in the traditional sense. You used your meagre savings to rent this cheap room in the middle of nowhere. It's run down, but it offers what you need.

Isolation.

You spend each day researching, reading myths, lore, tales of fantasy and magic, and you have searched high and low for some way to bring back Moka. Some way to understand that mystical power that created her. All of it led you here.

A long shot - to understate it - but it's your only remaining choice.

The room is sparsely furnished. Just a bed, a desk, and a single grimy window. Outside is nothing but desolate wasteland, the perfect environment for... whatever this may be. On the desk, an ancient-looking journal sits open. Its pages are filled with scrawled notes, sketches of arcane symbols, and desperate attempts to replicate the recipe. Failed attempts. Testimony to your shortcomings.

One more experiment, you think. A final try. If this fails, it's over. You're done. You will walk into the wasteland and never look back.

You glance at the small, carefully wrapped object on the trunk next to the camera. It's a piece of chocolate, shaped like a star. You followed the trail: from Murgo to a remote chocolatier rumoured to dabble in the arcane. You paid him a small fortune for it, ignoring his warnings.

"The one that girl came from... Murgo said… he bought it from me," the old man had whispered, his eyes wide with fear. "It was not bought, it was stolen. Those five pieces should never have left their vault. Each is an echo, a sliver of a soul trapped in confection. To eat one is to dream them, but to capture them? You are playing with fire, boy."

You don't care about the danger. You only care about the possibility, the hope, however faint, that you can see her again. You take a deep breath, unwrapping the chocolate with trembling hands. It smells rich, decadent, of dark chocolate and something else... something faint and floral.

"It's now or never," you mutter, your throat hoarse from disuse.

You sit in the camera's gaze, and your research tells you it should work. A moment stretched long enough to bargain. You place the chocolate on your tongue.

This is it.

The world dissolves around you, just as before, but this is different. A harsh, biting cold replaces the comforting darkness. You're no longer in your room. You're standing on a vast, frozen lake, a mirror of black ice under a sky devoid of stars. The air is still and heavy, pressing down on you.

"Hello?" Your call echoes in the oppressive silence, swallowed by the void.

The ice cracks. A jagged fissure races toward you, stopping just short of your feet. From the darkness within the fissure, a figure rises. Not Moka. This one stirs those same feelings, hits those same notes, but she is different. Face cute and rounded, with button cheeks, framed by dark hair that falls in neat layers.

Her eyes meet yours, and they are filled with the same soul-deep sorrow you see in the mirror every morning. You shake your head, put on the facade of confidence.

"Who are you?" you ask, feigning strength.

"Wonhee," she says. Her voice is softer, more delicate than Moka's. "You tasted me. You brought me here." She gestures vaguely at the endless desolation. It collapses around you, and you find yourself falling, through ice and darkness, back into your room. But you are not alone.

Wonhee is standing by your bed, looking around with a curious, detached sadness. She traces a finger over the dusty covers.

"So this is your world," she says, her tone laced with a melancholy you find too familiar. "It's... grey." She climbs onto the bed, a simple linen gown replacing the rags she wore in the ice realm. She sits on her knees, a delicate feline grace to her.

"I need your help," Wonhee says, "I need your desire." She slips the gown from one shoulder, revealing the flawless, creamy skin beneath. Your gaze is fixed on her shoulder, the curve of her neck, the hollow of her throat. You have not seen anything like it since her... Since her dust had scattered.

"My desire?"

"Your desire," Wonhee whispers as the other shoulder is bared, "is all that tethers me here." She lets the dress pool at her waist, and you draw in a sharp breath at the sight of her small, pert breasts.

She crawls across the bed toward you, her eyes locked on yours. She sees the hesitation, the conflict in your soul.

"It is okay," she says, her hand coming to rest on your thigh. "It is not a betrayal to find comfort. It is not a sin to seek warmth in the cold." Her fingers inch higher. Her large, dark eyes are wide and imploring. She looks so much like Moka, yet she is not Moka. She is something else: another flavour, another pain.

You want her. You know it would be easy to lose yourself in her, to forget, if only for a moment. You lean in, your lips finding the delicate curve of her shoulder. You can smell chocolate. The taste is sweet, but with an unfamiliar undercurrent. It makes your head spin, a sweet vertigo.

You pull back. This isn't right.

Wonhee's hands are on your chest now, pushing you gently but firmly onto the mattress. She straddles you, her weight a familiar comfort. Her dark hair falls around her face, a curtain shielding you from the world.

"You're not real, either," you mumble, more to yourself than to her.

"Is that what matters?" she purrs, her hips rocking slowly against yours. The friction, the heat, it all comes rushing back. "I am here. I am warm. I am willing. Isn't that enough?"

"I..."

You can't finish the thought. Her lips are on yours, and the world falls away again. The kiss is different. More timid, more questioning. It's like the memory of a memory. You kiss her back, a desperate, frantic thing, a drowning man clutching at a piece of wreckage.

She breaks the kiss, her chest heaving. "Just let go," she begs. "For a little while. Just let go."

She guides your hands to her breasts, and your fingers close around the soft flesh. Her back arches at your touch, a soft sigh escaping her lips. You are losing yourself in the feel of her, the scent of her.... the taste of her. "Wonhee," you whisper as you rise to meet her breast with your lips. Your tongue laps at a hardening bud, pulling it gently between your teeth. She shivers in your arms.

"Yes..." she moans, her fingers tangled in your hair. "That's it..."

These cute little swells on her chest fit so perfectly in your hands. You squeeze them, enjoying her soft little whimpers - they're different from Moka's, higher-pitched, more fragile. She arches her back, pushing her breasts more fully into your grasp.

"You're so beautiful," you hear yourself say. A betrayal. Yet as you say it, you know it to be true.

"And you are so sad," she replies. "Let me help you forget."

She slides down your body, her hair tickling your skin. Her lips leave a trail of fire in their wake. She settles between your legs, her hands tracing patterns on your thighs. Your cock is hard, straining, a silent testament to your need.

"All those years I have been trapped," she whispers. "To have waited so long for a man like you."

Her hands are at your waist now, tugging at your pants. You lift your hips, and she pulls them down, your erection springing free. Her eyes widen.

"It's... it's even more beautiful than I imagined," she says. Her breath is hot on your shaft. She looks up at you, her big brown eyes wide with a mixture of awe and desire. "I need to taste you," she says, her plump lips sitting slightly apart. 

She lowers her head, and her tongue darts out, flicking against the tip. A jolt of pleasure shoots through you. She smiles, a shy, little thing that doesn't quite reach her eyes. She takes you into her mouth, slowly, just until you're nestled into her mouth. The wet warmth is overwhelming. She looks up at you as she begins to move, her head bobbing in a slow, steady rhythm.

Her movements are hesitant, almost innocent. She sucks and licks with an increasing urgency, her soft, little moans vibrating around you. You can see the desperate desire on her face, the need to please, to be wanted. And in that moment, you see Moka. You see the same longing, the same hunger. But then Wonhee does something different. She hums, a low, melodic thrumming that resonates through your entire being. The sensation is new, unexpected.

You place a hand on her head, not to guide her, but simply to feel her. She responds by taking you deeper, her throat opening to welcome you. The tip hits the back of her throat, and she gags slightly, but doesn't pull away.