And now I'm gonna flood gurochan with a whole one new story in a quarter of a year.
I mean if that's enough to flood gurochan, that's gurochan's fault for being so empty.

=Uncle Sveta's Celest Studio=
==Nelya==
(original, loli, bit of shota, no sex, yes nudity, casual guro, guro as art, hopefully adequately edited machine translation)

The bell rang to announce the end of the last lesson, and Nelya, having packed her bag in advance, immediately jumped up from her seat. Not that she had any dislike for school, but still, there was nothing more pleasant than breathing freely after the lessons end. Especially on Friday, with the weekend ahead of her. In fact, Nelya was in no hurry to go anywhere, except to enjoy the very feeling of freedom, so after getting up she did not go straight out into the aisle, but just stretched herself sweetly, while the rest of the class passed by in a frantic jostle. Only her deskmate, Kostik, did not hurry out, but stayed in his seat, looking at the stretching Nelya in fascination. Her bob cut slightly wavy brown hair, her sparkling brown eyes, her charming bright smile... and her belly button exposed from under her slipped up blouse. Noticing his gaze on her, Nelya only mentally smiled, thinking that some other girl in her place might have felt awkward and angry at Kostik, and how stupid it would be to react that way. Even though Kostik had jokingly groped her a couple of times since they’d been seated at the same desk, the fact that it had been in joke showed her that he would never really lay his hands on her, because as soon as Nelya let him know she was uncomfortable, he did stop. And the way he looked at her with fascination should rather be regarded as a compliment. In fact, Nelya probably would not mind if Kostik confessed his love for her and asked her out. But would he have the courage to do such a thing? She adjusted her blouse and looked at her fellow classmate with an appraising glance. And instead of turning away nervously as usual, ineptly pretending he hadn’t been staring, he went and blurted out looking her straight in the eyes:
“You’re beautiful.”
It was so sudden that, out of surprise, Nelya at first went into a stupor and then laughed.
“What’s so funny?” now the boy was embarrassed.
“I’m sorry, nothing”, Nelya said, trying to fight the laughter. “Thank you.”
Kostik just started packing his things in his bag. Well, good job, Nelya, finally the boy has ripened for at least a compliment, and you just laughed at him. That way he’s never going to confess his love to you.
“Wait,” Nelya called out to Kostik, when he was ready to leave. “Here,” she said, handing him a piece of paper. “My address.”
“Address?” The boy was puzzled, looking at the beautiful handwriting, which stated not an email but an actual post address: street, building, apartment.
“It’s my birthday on Sunday,” she said. “Come by ten o’clock.”
“In the morning?” Kostik automatically clarified.
“Why would you come in the evening?” Nelya grinned. “Or are you already thinking of spending the night at my place?”
“No, I... I just...” Kostik’s eyes were running around nervously.
“Anyway, see you on Sunday,” concluded Nelya, deciding not to prolong this already awkward conversation. “Don’t forget to bring a present,” she concluded and left.

“Why did I have to add about the present like that?” thought Nelya on her way home, “now he’ll think I’m mercenary”. However, the weather outside was sunny, and there was the weekend ahead, not to say about her birthday, so the negative thoughts were soon replaced by positive ones: “I wonder what kind of present Kostik will get me?” He doesn’t know Nelya well enough to get her something based on her taste. So he’ll just have to choose based on his own. But that’s not really a bad thing, it’s also a good thing, because it will allow Nelya to get to know him better. And then, before you know, relationship, wedding, children... hmm, what name would go better with the patronymic Konstantinovich? Maybe Sergey Konstantinovich... or Lev Konstantinovich...
“Girl!”
Exactly, it could be a girl, a Konstantinovna. And then how to name her...?
“Girl, wait!” repeated an unfamiliar male voice.
Ripped out of her dreams about the future, Nelya turned around puzzled.
“Yes, yes, you,” the owner of the voice nodded, approaching hurriedly.
It was a slender man, whose age the girl could only define as an adult, wearing a plaid gray-blue suit. He had light-brown hair, blue eyes, and a very spirited face.
“What’s your name, girl?” he asked.
“Nelya.”
“Nice to meet you, Nelya,” the man said, holding out his hand to the girl. “And I am Svetozar Celest. Perhaps you’ve heard?”
Nelya cautiously responded to his welcoming gesture. He wouldn’t grab her in broad daylight, in front of people, to drag her away by force, would he?
“I have not,” she said in response to his question.
“Well, that’s all right,” the man said. “It’s a pseudonym anyway.”
“Then what’s the real name?” Nelya asked.
Not that she was very interested, it was just a question that was begging to be asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” the man answered. “You can call me Uncle Sveta.”
“Uncle Sveta?” Nelya laughed, but this did not embarrass Uncle Sveta at all, on the contrary, he took her laughter as his success.
“Look, Nelya, have you ever been told that you are beautiful?” Uncle Sveta asked, adding: “Parents don’t count.”
“Just today, I have,” answered Nelya, slightly embarrassed. “By a classmate.”
“So that’s why you’re all glowing!” Uncle Sveta understood. “I could see it right away.”
“Why, is it so noticeable?” Nelya got more embarrassed.
“Of course,” said Uncle Sveta. “As soon as I saw you, I knew: this is the girl I want!”
“Want for what?” Nelya became alarmed.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I haven’t told you,” Uncle Sveta apologized. “You see, I’m an artist. More precisely, a photo artist”.
“So you want to take my picture?” Nelya understood.
“Only if you don’t mind,” Uncle Sveta answered.
“Sure, why not?” Nelia agreed.

“Oh, so that’s the kind of pictures you take,” Nelya said a little bit caught out.
Uncle Sveta’s studio was just a specially equipped room in his frankly poor apartment. But the examples of photographs that Nelya was looking at were not in there, but in the bedroom on the wall above the photographer’s bed. Each photo was captioned with the model’s name and age.
For example, the photo captioned “Alyona, 9 years old” depicted a girl with platinum curls crucified on a cross. She was wearing a wreath of barbed wire on her head, which was deeply digging into her skin, causing copious but neat trickles of blood to run down her face. And the face itself had such an angelically tranquil expression on it that Nelya immediately imagined her as her and Kostya’s potential daughter. Although, of course, how could she and dark haired Kostya have a platinum blonde daughter? No, this Alyona is no Konstantinovna.
The next work, judging by the caption, was a picture of “Margarita, 11 years old”. The girl was depicted curtsying, but instead of a skirt was holding her own pulled out guts. And if you looked closely, you could see nails driven into her heels instead of stiletto heels. Framed by long, straight black hair, Margarita’s brown eyes looked through the camera at the viewer flirtatiously, as if inviting them to a dance of death. Quite gothic... Margarita Konstantinovna, huh?
The other picture was of eight-year-old Stepan, who looked like another of her classmates, Andrey. Maybe it was just because they were both redheads, though. The boy in the picture was performing keepie-uppie, only with his own detached head in place of the ball, his face expressing his enthusiasm and pleasure at the game. How in the world did Uncle Sveta manage to set up such a picture? He obviously knows his job. This photo also reminded Nelya that she had not yet decided on a name for the boy. So, Stepan Adreevich... ugh, Konstantinovich!
Next came a picture of a pair of twins: “Pasha and Masha, 10 years old”. Hanging with their backs to each other, they firmly held hands, so that it didn’t feel like they turned away from each other, but quite the opposite: by looking in both directions they could together embrace the whole world. And the gaze of their blue eyes staring off into infinity, at the same time both deadly empty and cheerfully optimistic, was simply mesmerizing. Combined with their light-brown hair, the twins reminded Nelya of Uncle Sveta himself. And though there was no sign of the man’s family in the apartment, this only allowed Nelya to fantasize a dramatic story of how the still novice photographer used his own children as his first models, and his wife did not accept his new hobby and left. Although Nelya herself understood that her wild imagination had hardly any connection with reality, but these twins just turned out so very cute and soulful. And by the way, she and Kostik could also happen to have twins. She should think of names for that case, too.
There were many more pictures with accompanying names hanging on the wall. There was a six-year-old girl Varvara, kindly holding out her own heart, torn from her chest, in her little baby hands. There was a seven-year-old boy Dima, curiously assembling his disassembled into organs body like a construction set. There was a twelve-year-old girl Lena, lovingly stroking her two-year-old sister Nina, who was stuffed into her disemboweled belly. But all these pictures had one thing in common.
“Will I have to strip too?” Nelya asked uncertainly.
“If you’re embarrassed, I can undress you when you’re already dead,” suggested Uncle Sveta.
“I don’t mean like that,” said the girl. “I just have a scar from appendicitis.”
She pulled up her blouse and let the scar be seen by the photographer.
“Wouldn’t it look unpretty?” Nelya asked, disappointed that the picture wouldn’t turn out.
“Oh, it’s no big deal,” Uncle Sveta assured her. “The scar can be made a part of the composition.” The artist thought for a moment, and then brightened up: “There, let’s do a seppuku!”
“What?” Nelya didn’t understand.
“A harakiri,” Uncle Sveta explained. “You’ll cut your belly open, and I’ll cut off your head.”
“And who will take the picture?” the girl wondered.
“I have a remote shutter release for that,” explained Uncle Sveta. “I’ll cut off your head and press the button at once”.
“Okay then,” Nelya agreed and took her blouse off entirely.
“Listen, I forgot to ask you,” said the artist, looking at the bra under her blouse. “How old are you?”
“I’ll be thirteen on Sunday,” answered Nelya.
“Well, no you won’t,” grinned Uncle Sveta.
“True,” smiled Nelya. “It’s good that I won’t be thirteen,” she concluded, “after all, thirteen is an unlucky number.”
“That’s good indeed,” agreed Uncle Sveta. “Because from thirteen it’s already a teenage picture.”
“So what?” Nelya didn’t understand, taking off her bra after her blouse.
“Only children can be freely photographed naked, because their nudity is innocent,” Uncle Sveta explained. “But naked teenagers are considered by law to be sexual content, which you can’t show at a regular exhibition.”
“What nonsense,” said Nelya, taking off her skirt. “As if one can tell the difference between twelve and thirteen years old from a picture.”
“I absolutely agree with you,” Uncle Sveta nodded. “How can you make a clear distinction between innocence and sexuality anyway? Finding the sexual in the innocent and the innocent in the sexual is what makes it art!”
Here Nelya had nothing to say; the artist would know better. At the age of thirteen, she had little understanding of sexuality.

After stripping naked, Nelya followed Uncle Sveta into the studio room. The photographer told the girl to stand in the center, in front of the white canvas, and began to aim the camera and adjust the light. It was quite boring to watch this without understanding anything, so Nelya immersed herself in her own thoughts about how well everything worked out. After all, Sunday will be the third day, so all the preparations for her birthday will be just in time for her funeral. Just how surprised Kostik is going to be when he comes! And will he put his gift in her casket? Ah, maybe he will even kiss her goodbye! Somehow, the thought of the kiss echoed in Nelya’s heart even stronger than the thought of children, so that she even got goosebumps. Either because the kiss was so much more real, or because she has just gotten cold by standing there naked and doing nothing. But finally the preparations were over, and Uncle Light handed Nelya a Japanese dagger and a piece of cloth.
“Why is the katana so short?” Nelya asked in confusion.
“The katana’s over there,” Uncle Sveta pointed at a weapon rack at the wall, which had a sword of normal length. “I’ll use it to cut your head. And the stomach is cut with a tanto.”
“Ah,” Nelya nodded understandingly, “and I was wondering how one cuts their stomach with a katana, must be unhandy. And what’s the rag for?”
“Even the tanto is too long if you hold it by the hilt,” Uncle Sveta explained. “You only have to cut your belly open, not cut yourself in half. That’s why when you make seppuku you hold the tanto by the blade through the cloth, like that,” the man wrapped the cloth around the blade.
“Wow, everything is thought out,” Nelya remarked. “So shall I cut?”
“Please do,” allowed Uncle Sveta, “from left to right,” he said, just in case.
Pointing the dagger’s tip at the left side of her abdomen, at first Nelya thought how apparently the direction also matters, but then she realized that being right-handed it was just more convenient. The girl pierced her skin easily and continued to press slowly and gently, but still cried out when all too suddenly the blade stopped just pushing into her muscles and sharply pierced them.
“Does it hurt?” Uncle Sveta asked.
“It does,” Nelya admitted.
“That’s good,” said Uncle Sveta. “It’s more pleasant to die when it hurts.”
“How so?” Nelya didn’t get at first.
“Because when you die, it doesn’t hurt anymore,” the artist explained.
“Oh, in that sense,” Nelya nodded. “Makes sense.”
The girl pressed sideways and began to make sawing motions with the dagger, cutting through her stomach. It was even more painful than just thrusting it into herself, but following Uncle Sveta’s advice, she took the pain with enthusiasm. After all, the more painful it was now, the more relief death would bring. Maybe that’s why everyone in his pictures is so happy.
Meanwhile, Uncle Sveta took his katana from the counter and pulled it from its sheath.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“Wait,” answered Nelya, “there’s still the scar.”
When she got to the right side of her stomach, she tried to bring the cut to one edge of her appendicitis scar, and then she ripped it open lengthwise. That way it was just an extension of the cut, though the cut itself became uneven. To disguise it somehow, Nelya reached into her abdomen with one hand and pulled out a couple of gut coils, pleased to note how it made the pain become totally unbearable. Death is going to feel great.
“Now I’m done,” she reported through her labored breathing. “What kind of face should I make?”
“Don’t think about what face to make,” said Uncle Sveta, standing at her side with his katana so he wouldn’t be caught in the picture. “Think about... when I stopped you back then, what were you thinking, all glowing?”
“What to name the children,” embarrassedly answered Nelya.
Fortunately, the artist did not inquire what children she wanted to name.
“Then think about that,” he simply said, putting the remote to the handle of the katana so that he could keep his thumb on the button, and began to aim for the swing.
Nelya nodded and tried to return her thoughts to her and Kostik’s future children. But it was hard to think about it purposely, on command, especially as she was distracted by the maddening pain and the cold that only increased from the loss of blood. And what future children could she and Kostik have anyway, when she was about to die?
Suddenly, without any warning, something whizzed right through her neck, and the world around her rapidly flew by. The realization that this was her death made Nelya feel so light and pleasant in her soul that the epiphany came by itself. Of course: Alexei and Alexandra! Alex and Alex, aka Lyosha and Sasha. The girl didn’t even get to think what great Konstantinovichs they would make, when her already dead head fell to the floor, followed by her body.

Svetozar Celest put aside his katana and walked past the corpse to the camera. Even though he had no idea what children Nelya wanted to name, he knew from the picture that she had obviously succeeded. And so he succeeded too. Succeeded in capturing the most beautiful moment when, in the brief flight of Nelya’s head from her neck to the floor, in the very moment of dying, her face beamed with the most pure and sincere inspiration. And it is capturing such fleeting moments that is the magic of photography.

Svetozar took the flash drive out of the camera and was just about to sit down at the computer for processing, when a phone rang. For a moment, the artist was confused, because it was not his phone. But he immediately realized that it had to be Nelya’s phone. Svetozar found it among the girl’s things and saw that it was her mother calling. The man picked up the phone.
“Hello,” he said.
“Oh,” answered a woman’s voice on the other end. “And where is Nelya?”
“Nelya cannot answer, I’ve cut off her head,” said Svetozar.
“What do you mean you’ve cut off her head?” Nelya’s mother was horrified.
“I am an artist,” explained Svetozar. “A photo artist.”
“Ah,” she sighed with relief, “you mean for a picture. And I already thought you were some maniac!”
“A hundred years ago I’d have been a maniac,” grinned the man. “And now I’m just a photographer.”
“Well, that’s very convenient,” Nelya’s mother rejoiced. “We were just about to hire a photographer for Nelya’s birthday.”
“I’m afraid there won’t be a birthday anymore,” Svetozar grinned.
“Well, a funeral then, what’s the difference,” the woman brushed him off. “Her friends will come anyway, so you take their pictures.”
“Just some commemorative photos or artistic ones?” clarified Svetozar.
“Well, since you’re a photo artist, let’s make artistic ones,” decided Nelya’s mother. “We’ll discuss the price later, now write down the address.”
Isn’t life’s getting better, thought Svetozar, looking for a piece of paper and a pen right here in Nelya’s things, not to go far. Maybe at this rate even his wife would come back? After all, you can always make new children, but art is eternal.