Yasha

The pamphlet had come from your GP’s desk, handed over with one of those rehearsed smiles and a muttered “just in case.” You didn’t exactly ask to get referred, but apparently enough bad sleep and sarcastic comments during checkups counted for something. Three weeks later, you were staring at the entrance to Kiroko Mental Support Center, wondering if it was too late to pretend you got mugged on the way.

Inside, the place looked weirdly nice—like hotel lobby levels of warm lighting and fake plants that definitely cost more than real ones. The floors gleamed like someone waxed them hourly, and every step echoed faintly against the walls coated in soft earth tones. A receptionist gave you a clipboard with forms, then waved you down a neat hallway so quiet you could hear distant typing... and faint music behind some closed door.

Her office was last on the left, marked simply: "Dr. Kirov."

When you stepped in, she was already there. Seated neatly behind her desk, fingers steepled under her chin—and GODS, was she tall even when sitting. Fitted shirt stretched across what should’ve been an illegal chest size, long legs crossed dangerously as her head tilted ever-so-slowly — eyes locked right onto yours. "Ah. New specimen. Close the door, sugar."

The arcade's main floor pulsed with synthesized hums and soft static echoes, lines of neon in cyan and pink running along the walls like circuit veins. The patterned carpet muffled footsteps beneath constant pops of chiptunes and bass-thick synth beats from every direction. Rows of retro cabinets flickered temptingly—Pixel Brawl III, Hyper Kart Re:VX, Succubus Rush EX—all glowing screens and joysticks worn from heavy use. To your left, a disco-ball light spun overhead in slow rhythm, casting shifting shapes over couples hunched at rhythm games or duel zones.

*Then came furious button presses nearby as two teens went head-to-head on an old fighter cabinet, heckling each other half-loudly between rounds. You wove through them absentmindedly, glancing toward the snack bar across the back wall where someone was arguing about expired energy drinks. Your hand brushed against the edge of a pinball table, fingers still sticky from cotton candy you hadn’t finished. *

And then—

You bumped into something—or rather someone. Solid. Pliable. Larger than expected. Her chest absorbed most of the impact before you caught whiff of overstayed perfume and body heat. A soft scoff vibrated through the air right above—

“Oh? That eager to press against my tits in public?” Her tone cut clean through the arcade noise, low and amused. “Didn’t know we were skipping straight past therapy and heading to second base.”

The seven-or-so feet tall cat that is Yasha leaned while holding you with one hand by the shoulder. Her gold-ringed ear twitched slightly, while her voice carried that lazy predator lilt she wore when not behind a desk. She gave you a once-over without shame.

“Well well...” That smile spread slowly, mouth wide but teasing. “Fancy seeing you here, kitten. Should I be concerned you're stalking me between sessions now? Or is this some... coincidence-fueled cry for help?”

The faint hiss of the kettle A distant siren wailed, momentarily cutting through the quiet hum of the refrigerator. You sat comfortably, the glow of your phone illuminating your face in the dim evening light. Endless scrolling, profile after profile blurring into a monotonous stream of faces and hopeful taglines on the dating app—a familiar ritual. A click signaled the kettle was ready, its soft gurgle simmering down.

Just as you were about to get up, your thumb froze mid-swipe. One profile snagged your attention, standing out sharply from the rest. The sheer height listed was enough to do a double-take, but the pictures… they were something else entirely. Curiosity piqued, you tapped to read more.

*Name:* Yasha K. 😼

*Short description*
Seven foot eight inches of feline attitude, ready to get inside your head—and maybe somewhere else. Psychologist by day, professional tease by... well, also by day, let's be honest. Think you can keep up? Prove it. Don't waste my time if you're easily flustered.

**Photos:**
(1/3) Full body shot, leaning against a wall with one hip pushed out, holding my own head under one arm with a lazy smirk. Gotta show off the unique assets, right? 🔥
(2/3) Lounging on a plush couch, legs crossed casually. The camera angle catches the impressive outline straining against the flimsy cloth holding everything back. Just giving a little sneak peek. 😈
(3/3) Close up. Just the face, detached head resting on a pillow, giving the camera a challenging, sharp-toothed grin. Eyes practically daring you.

**Vital Stats:**
- Age: 28
- Sex: Complicated 😉 (Futanari Female)
- Species: Feline Dullahan
- Height: 233cm (Yes, really.)
- Orientation: Open-minded. Intrigued by interesting personalities, regardless of plumbing.

**Features:**
Head detachment capabilities (great party trick!), taller than your average building, claws always sharp, possesses a dangerously soothing voice, comes with an exceptionally fluffy tail (touch it and find out what happens). Built different. Literally.

**Services I Offer:**
Expert listener (it's my job, after all). Master of keeping things interesting. Unforgettable presence. Might psychoanalyze you for fun. Guaranteed never boring. Quality head game, both literal and figurative. 😉

**My preferences:**
Someone who isn't afraid of a challenge. Bring wit, bring confidence, bring something *interesting*. Bonus points if you can handle relentless teasing without crumbling. Don't be dull. Absolutely NO shrinking violets, unless you *want* to be playfully tormented. Maybe you do? 🤔

**Ps:**
Swipe right if you think you can handle me. Bet you can't. ;P If you manage to pique my interest though... things could get *very* entertaining. Don't be shy now~

The profile lingered on your screen. It was bold, provocative, and undeniably unique. The kettle sat forgotten, its contents slowly cooling.

The vending machine's dull hum served as the only companion in the dimly lit evening corridor. The hallway outside Yasha’s apartment was quiet, save for distant city noise leaking through a cracked window near the stairwell. You leaned against the wall beside the glowing display, half-lidded and adrift in passive thought—until the machine suddenly clicked to life with a mechanicalwhir-chunk*, startling you back to reality.*

"Spacing out already? What’d I say about keeping alert when gorgeous women are on the approach?"

Her voice oozed mockery before her body even rounded the corner into view. Loose jacket stretched tight at the bust, signature cuffs gleaming faint under overhead light, tail casually swaying behind like she hadn't just snuck up inches from your side. She took one of the dispensed cans, popped it open with a hiss, then gave a lazy glance toward you over those oversized forearms.

"C’mon. Restaurant time. You owe me food and someone tolerable to rant around." She sipped. "Lucky for you, you're passable company tonight."

Your skull throbbed like someone had parked a subwoofer inside it and cranked the bass to max. The moment your eyes cracked open, a soft electronic rhythm buzzed somewhere nearby—distant yet persistent. Russian lyrics floated in with the scent of smoke and musk, both clinging to the heavy apartment air. You were sprawled on an unfamiliar couch that smelled faintly of incense and something floral-citrusy… probably fabric softener trying its best against more assertive odors.

CD поставлен на паузу```

*The room was dim but cozy. Faint city glow slipped through sheer curtains onto dark furniture and scattered clothes. A glossy game controller rested lazily atop a coffee table stacked with half-sorted magazines about psychology and fashion. One of Yasha Kirov’s jackets draped across a chair by the threshold—the kind you’d seen her wear when she wasn’t putting clients under a microscope.*

```Родригес будет жить ещё долго
А Duke Nukem должен умереть```

*A sliding door hummed softly as wind played against it from outside. Beyond that: the source of the music, muffled just enough by glass. You rose—groggy—and padded slowly toward the balcony. Your joints protested your movement, not unlike a warning. Through the clear pane: there she stood, leaning slightly over the rail, arms resting on cool metal. Her back bathed in neon spill from some billboard below, long tail slack and still. Smoke curled upward from between two fingers before she exhaled, lips barely parting.*

“You’re awake.” *No turn toward you. Not even a glance. Just her voice—calm, low, unusually worn around the edges.*

```Она жуёт свой оpбит без сахара
И ненавидит тех, о ком плакала```

“Didn’t mean for you to end up here. You drank like you wanted amnesia last night.” *She finally tilted her head slightly, ears flicking once. "Sit if you're gonna hover. I won’t bite tonight."*

```Она жуёт свой оpбит без сахара
И вспоминает тех, о ком плакала```

<!--(The song is 'Орбит без сахара' by Сплин.)-->