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Edgerunners 10

Chapter 5 - Chapter 5

As Angela looked out of the window to her left she could see wispy strands of white being pushed along by a breeze emanating from the sea. Below them was a sprawling mess of a city mostly nestled between a pair of rivers. The overhead intercom clicked on and the captain's voice came through but Angela paid it no mind as she looked at the city below.   There were numerous cities in the world that labeled themselves as cities that never slept but that axiom was especially true in this case. Washington DC was less a city than it was a heart built of stone and steel. It's frenetic beating never ceased, not even for an instant. There were other cities that served similar purposes but only a scant few could claim they had anywhere the same impact as this one. The veins reaching out from Washington stretched all cross the globe to such an extent that even the Sentinelese, perhaps the most isolated people on Earth, were affected by them even if they would never know of it. It was a tangled mess and one she was heading almost to the very center of.   The structures on the ground below grew larger and larger before disappearing from view and all she could see was tarmac. The plane's wheels bumped against the ground and Angela was pushed back against her seat as the plane decelerated before taxiing to the terminal. When it came to a halt the lights went off and the passengers began unbuckling their belts and getting up. Angela stretched her arms above her head to loosen the muscles in her back. She had been sitting in first class, but several hours on a plane was still several hours on a plane.   Angela opened up the compartment above her chair and pulled out a medium sized suitcase. She was only planning to be in this country for a few days so she hadn't needed to bring anything else. Angela set the case on the ground and pulled out the retractable handle as she headed for the plane's exit. Shortly after Angela was standing on a moving walkway and she took the opportunity to pull her phone out. Messages from Cedric popped out as she did so. Angela had already read them but it was worth double checking them since she was in a foreign country.   C: We've arranged for a lawyer to meet you at the airport. His name is John Schiff and he'll be holding a sign with your name on it. There'll be a rental car waiting for you and your hotel room has been reserved. Your meeting is in two days so that you should be past any jet lag you might have gotten from your trip.   Angela skimmed through the details of her hotel and rental before putting her phone away. Nothing more about about the FDA but the fact they had asked her to fly out to Washington was promising. The Americans wanted something. She just had to find out what that something was. As she moved past the metal detectors Angela began scanning the crowd, looking for the sign with her name on it.   A man wearing a black tuxedo over a white collared shirt moved out of the crowd towards her, a noticeable limp to his gait. The top of his cranium was reflecting the overhead lights but black hair still clung to the sides and rear of his head along with a thick mustache and beard covering his chin. He may have been an athlete once but the rigors of middle age had smoothed away the muscles he once possessed. “Doctor Ziegler? I'm John Schiff.”   John's handshake was firm but brief. “It's an honor to meet you.” He said while taking her suitcase and pointing down the terminal towards a car rental sign. “Let me be the first to apologize for my government. We're not all as shortsighted as the people in charge.”   The car that had been reserved for her was a large black SUV and Angela got in on one side while John took the other after loading her suitcase in the back seat. “Is your office nearby?” Angela inquired.   “It is but we don't need to go there for the time being. My assistants are in contact with your foundation to work out some of the details between Swiss and American law. The main thing we can do right now is to have you explain to me how your nano-bots actually work.” John explained as the SUV got underway.   “If we're not going to your office then where are we going?” Angela asked as their car made its way onto a bridge.   “There's a park over here I like to visit this time of year. It helps clear my head and lets me think. I think I'll need every bit of it to keep up with whatever you tell me.” John said with a grin with more than a hint of goofiness to it.   The car pulled into a parking lot its engine switched off once it had parked itself. They were far from the only people here. Groups of people, some small and others large, were moving along the sidewalks or milling about as they took pictures or looking at brochures in their hands. Ahead of Angela and John was a white stone building with pillars all around its perimeter. Past the building was a small lake and along the lake's edge were hundreds of cherry trees whose crooked branches were obscured behind countless white and pink petals.   “Oh, how pretty!” Angela exclaimed.   “Isn't it? You're lucky to come at this time of year to see the cherry trees while they're blooming. There's a festival here in Washington every year around this time that attracts a lot of tourists. It ends tomorrow but you're in time to see the fireworks show if you wanted.” John gestured at one of the paths and the two of them began to move. “That's not why you're here though. Would you care to explain how the nano-bots function? How does the process work?”   Angela bit at her lip as she considered the question.“All right. Well all our nano-bots are manufactured in Germany and programmed at the factory before being packaged and delivered to the hospitals where the operations take place.”   John paused for a moment before shaking his head. “That's not enough of an explanation. I need to understand every step of the process. Pretend I'm a patient who needs an operation. What happens between me and your factory?”   “Okay... Let's say you're playing football, just as an example, and you hurt your knee. You go to your doctor and he determines you have an ACL tear with an MRI. At that point they forward the information about your injury to us, with your surgeons professional opinion, so we can see what the nano-bots need to do. At that point we take a batch of blank nano-bots and program them with the necessary steps to perform the operations. They'll be mailed to the hospital where the operation is to be performed. They'll be injected into the body with a hypodermic needle as close to the part of the body being operated as possible. The staff on-site will monitor the procedure to make sure everything goes smoothly. After that it can vary depending on procedure but since we're talking about an ACL tear they'd put a brace on, maybe give you some painkillers or steroids and send you on your way.”   John was silent for a minute as he considered her explanation while they walked. Eventually he broke the silence with a question. “When you say staff on-site, who do you mean?”   “Surgeons, nurses, anesthesiologists. There could be others depending on what's required.”   “I thought the whole point of nano-bots was that we wouldn't need surgeons anymore, Doctor Ziegler. The robots would do it all for us.”   Angela shook her head. “Nano-bots are a very powerful tool, but still just a tool. Think of them as a sort of Swiss army knife if you will. They can do a great many things, but they need someone to decide what actually needs to be done which is what the surgeon is for. Someone has to hook up IV's, determine the right kind of anesthesia and so on. Plus nano-bots are still a new technology so surgeons are required to be on hand in case something goes wrong. It's no different than vehicles still having a steering wheel when self driving cars were first introduced.” Angela quickly added after a second's pause.   “I see. So I do all that and the operation goes smoothly. What happens to the nano-bots after that? The FDA's statement was talking about long-term health concerns...”   “There are no long-term health concerns, at least none specific to nano-bots. All surgeries have a degree of risk but nano-bots are actually less dangerous than the surgical practices we have right now. After the surgeon determines an operation is complete the nano-bots are programmed to 'self-destruct' and eventually they'll be filtered by the kidneys and expelled through the urinary tract.”   “Isn't that something of a waste? I'm not an expert but I've seen speculation about the idea of nano-bots remaining in the body as sort of a cure-all. If you have a problem then the nano-bots would go fix it.”   Angela stopped next to one of the cherry trees and she rubbed a low hanging petal between her index finger and thumb. “I've read articles about that as well. It's an interesting idea and perhaps someday we'll get there but it's not feasible at the moment. Getting nano-bots to move around the body is extremely difficult. They're quite small and it can take them several minutes to move a few centim- inches depending on where they were injected.”   “In that case the FDA's decision wasn't medical, it was political. That's what it seemed like to me but I had to make sure there weren't any actual medical grounds to deny your application.” John stated as they began slowly walking again.   “I'm afraid you might be the victim of partisan politics. The senators who resigned from the Health committee and the head of the FDA belong to the same political party. It's not surprising to see an issue be divided along party lines but senators resigning from a committee of their own accord is highly unusual. Senators usually resign to avoid some sort of scandal but the timing of everything makes it clear something is going on behind the scenes. What I don't understand is what that might be. There isn't any benefit to rejecting your application that I can see. The only thing I can think of is that insurance or drug companies don't want nano-bots to be approved and had their lobbyists make sure they weren't. That's just a guess though.”   Angela came to a halt again and she stared at the man-made lake for several moments. “What am I doing here? I'm a doctor, not a politician. I should be in a hospital back in Geneva or Zurich, not over here wasting my time on a government that doesn't want my help.”   John gave her a sidelong look before grabbing his left pant leg and hiking the fabric up so she could see part of his ankle. Poking out of his black sock was a scar that had paled to a milky pink and would be smooth to the touch judging from its appearance. “I got this in the line of duty. I was flying a helicopter that got hit with an RPG and crashed. A piece of shrapnel from the explosion got me in the ankle. The medic did what he could which is why I still have that foot. We were pinned down by enemy fire for several hours before rescue arrived. By then it was too late for the doctors to be able to fix my wound and I've limped ever since.”   “So...”   “So that's why I'm here. Because I want you to succeed. Some of our officials have made a poor choice but it's one we have a chance to reverse. You're not an American citizen so there's restrictions on your ability to influence our politicians. Your best bet would be to rely on the American people. There's been a lot of public resentment over the last few days which will be good for you. Nothing motivates politicians quite like a threat to their seat. There have been protests in several cities already but the biggest one yet will take place here in Washington in a few days. The numbers vary but most credible sources are estimating over a hundred thousand people will be in attendance but it could easily be two hundred. Those kinds of numbers will be hard for them to ignore. In the meantime I'll have my office prepare a report that you can read over before we go to this meeting.”   “Huh?” Angela blurted out. “They told me that it would just be me and them in this meeting.”   John snorted at that. “I'm sure they did, but they can't actually stop you from having a lawyer present. It's just a tactic on their part. I'll even play along to prove it. You'll go in, sit down, say you're not willing to sign any papers or make any verbal agreements without legal representation present. Whoever is in charge on the other side of the table will give a very convincing apology, say it was a miscommunication on their part and they'll bring me into the room. It's a little bit of theater to put you off-balance then engender some goodwill to make you more amenable. I wouldn't be surprised if they kept you waiting either.”   Angela shook her head. “I hate politics.” She muttered to herself.   “That's understandable, but sometimes one must get their hands a little dirty to serve a greater good. Personally speaking, I prefer dealing with politics than what you must have dealt with in an operating room. The sight of blood makes me queasy. Is there anything else you'd like to cover?” Angela shook her head and John continued. “Well then if you'll excuse me, I'll go get the ball rolling at my office. Have a good day, Doctor Ziegler and welcome to the United States.”   As John walked off Angela turned her gaze to the far side of the reservoir. It was covered in trees but an obelisk towered above them. As she stood there she couldn't help but wonder what the person that memorial and this city would say about her efforts. What would he say about the government he helped to create being her obstacles. Ultimately though they were questions without answers except for the murmuring of the wind.  

Chapter 1 - Chapter 1

Fareeha's eyes slowly drifted open and the white ceiling above her slowly came into focus. She turned her head to her left towards a nightstand with an alarm clock on top of it. The red digits were displaying the numbers ten and eleven. Fareeha blinked once, then her lips slowly curled up into a smile and she turned her head the other way. Locks of pale golden hair were lying on the pillow next to her. Their owner was a woman with faintly tanned white skin mostly covered by a pair of light gray pajamas. Fareeha's smile grew a little wider as she looked at the other woman, unable to believe her luck. The woman she was looking was not only breathtakingly beautiful, she was a doctor and a surgeon at that. Those two facts alone would have made her a fine catch, but even among the ranks of surgeons Angela Ziegler stood out. Her work with nano-biotics had been hailed as one of the great achievements in medicine and had earned her the Lasker Award and the Wolf Prize in Medicine, both considered predictors of the Nobel Prize. All before the age of thirty. She could be anywhere in the world, doing anything she felt like but she was here in this bed. Fareeha pushed herself up on one elbow and leaned over, intending to wake the doctor with a kiss on the lips just like in one of those old princess movies. Angela's eyes opened when their lips were mere centimeters and Fareeha came to a halt, suddenly unsure of herself. The doctor gave a gentle smile and she reached up with one hand to pull Fareeha's mouth down against hers. It wasn't an accident that the two of them had slept in the same bed. Their activities before falling asleep had been decidedly arduous in nature. Bare skin firmly pressing against bare skin, fingers desperately grasping and caressing, and that was just in the hot tub before they had even made it to the bed. Once they had made it there, Fareeha had spread her legs and let Angela enter her with a strap-on. It was an act she hadn't allowed anyone, let alone one of her clients to do, but Angela wasn't just a client. At least not anymore. In the last two weeks the two of them had become something beyond that. Lovers. Girlfriends. As Angela's lips brushed against hers Fareeha could feel her butterflies beginning to flutter in her stomach. Her career as a professional dominatrix practiced in giving pain and pleasure was what had brought her here, but this was different. She had done countless sessions in the past but every single one of them was less sensual than this. It was just a simple kiss but the fact that she was receiving as well as giving warmed Fareeha in a way none of those sessions had. To Fareeha's surprise, and disappointment, Angela was the one who ended the kiss as she pulled her head away. “Well, that was a nice way to say good morning.” Angela said with an appreciative smile. “Did you know I was awake?” Fareeha bit at her lip before slowly shaking her head as she slumped back down onto the mattress. “No, I didn't... I thought waking you with a kiss would be romantic, but I didn't think to talk to you about it beforehand. I'm sorry and it won't happen again.” Angela blankly stared at Fareeha for several seconds before her shoulders began to shake as she started giggling. “You're adorable, you know that right? I get why you're so focused on consent, but it's okay to take a little risk from time to time. It's not like you were tying me up while I was asleep or anything.” The doctor sat up and picked one of Fareeha's hands up and interlacing their fingers together. “It was just a kiss. And now that we are talking about it, I don't mind you waking me up with a kiss in the slightest. If you were interested I wouldn't object if you woke me up by eating me out.” As soon as Angela had finished speaking Fareeha's eyes flicked down towards Angela's hips and the dominatrix's cheeks reddened. Angela giggled again and Fareeha quickly looked away, suddenly unable to look the doctor in the eyes. “I'll think about it, Angela. How about some rosti for breakfast?” “Mmmm... in a bit. I want to talk about last night first.” Angela's voice was gentle, but there was a serious note in it that hadn't been there a second ago. “What about it? I thought we both had a really good time...” Fareeha ventured hesitantly. “We did, but I've been thinking about it since I woke up. I enjoyed sleeping with you and I want to do it again... but the way you went about it bothers me. You don't need to trick me with a wager. If you want to have sex then all you have to do is ask me.” Fareeha pushed herself up off the bed and she gently extracted her hand from Angela's grasp before wrapping her arms around her knees. “I know. It's just... I haven't been in a relationship in a long time so I don't really know what I'm doing. I wanted to have sex with you but I felt like I needed to be in control even though it wasn't a session. I guess I have some things to work on.” Angela put her hand on Fareeha's shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. “Everyone has stuff they need to work on. If you need help with anything then I'm here for you. After all you're my partner and I love you.” There had still been spots of red on Fareeha's cheeks, but they rapidly vanished as Fareeha blanched. “Um.. umm.. ummmm... I like you too!” Fareeha stammered before scrambling off the bed and hurrying out into the hallway as if something was nipping at her heels. The carpet mostly muffled Fareeha's progress but Angela could still hear Fareeha's feet hammering their way down the stairs nonetheless. Angela stared at the door for a moment in disbelief before getting out of bed herself. The speed with which Fareeha could turn bashful was unreal, even more so when you took her being a professional dominatrix into account. She yawned and stretched her arms upwards, the muscles in her back tightening for a few brief seconds before she let go. Even so, maybe she should have waited longer before dropping the 'L' word into a conversation Angela mused to herself. For now the best thing to do was to give Fareeha some space. She pulled the top half of her pajamas off while heading towards the bathroom. A shower would be a good way to do that Angela decided. Twenty minutes later Fareeha had finished grating some potatoes into a wooden bowl. She grabbed a grinder full of salt and turned the handle on top several times. Then Fareeha set the grinder aside and grabbed one full of pepper so she could do the same thing. “Diese frichen idioten! Wie kurzsichtig, engstirnig und korrupt muss man sein, um diese Entscheidung zu treffen? Meine arbeit nicht gefährlich! Es ist das genaue gegenteil von gefährlich! Nano-biotiks rettet leben! Ich haben krebskranke menschen geheilt, als es sonst keiner konnte!” Fareeha jumped several centimeters into the air and the pepper shaker fell out of her hands as the doctor began shouting. Angela was still upstairs but her voice carried clearly throughout the house as she ranted. The German language, at the best of times, had always sounded guttural to Fareeha even when spoken in a conversational tone. But now that Angela was clearly livid, it was as if a malevolent presence bent on scaring Fareeha was screaming at the top of its lungs. Thankfully the screaming didn't last any longer than that, but Angela's footsteps were like hammers pounding on the ceiling and stairs while stomping her way downstairs. As Angela entered the kitchen Fareeha picked the grinder up off the floor and set it back on the counter. She had changed out of her pajamas and was wearing a pair of jeans and a green tee-shirt. “Are you all right, Angela?” Fareeha hesitantly asked, hoping that Angela's bout of screaming in German had passed. Angela just shook her head and held her phone out to Fareeha. Fareeha took it and began to read the article displayed on it. 'In what comes as a massive shock health regulators at the Food and Drug Administration declined to approve nano-biotics for use in the United States. The FDA released a statement last night in which they state their concerns about the long-term health risks of nano-biotics were not adequately addressed. The Ziegler Foundation has made no public comments other than promising to look into the matter. The United States is the only country to not approve nano-biotics for use thus far. Nano-biotics have already been approved for use in the European Union, Russia, India, and multiple countries in the Middle East. Currently the Foundation has applications pending to countries in Africa, South America, Southeast Asia, as well as the U.S's neighbors Mexico and Canada. There has been no official statements on those applications yet but the general consensus until now was that these applications were a formality. The question on everyone's mind now is how Angela Ziegler and her foundation will respond to this setback. Any new information will be added to this article as they become available.' Fareeha's gaze slowly rose from the phone to see a decidedly glum looking Angela standing there. The implications ran through her head in an instant and she already knew the answer before asking the question. “You have to leave to go take care of this, don't you?” Angela's shoulders rose and fell as she took several deep breaths to try and calm herself. She still looked angry and her voice was strained even so. “I'm afraid so. I don't want to leave but my company will be expecting me to be involved in fixing this.” She pulled a phone out of her pocket that Fareeha hadn't seen her using before and swiped her thumb across it. Immediately the device began to noisily vibrate and Angela sighed. “They've already left four voicemails.” Fareeha stepped forward and wrapped an arm around Angela's shoulder. “If you have to leave you have to leave. I know you'd like to stay here with me, but I also know that this is important. I wouldn't be much of a girlfriend if I got upset about this.” She planted a kiss on Angela's cheek and stepped away. “Go start packing your things while I finish making breakfast.” Fareeha said in a chipper tone. “I... all right.” Angela stashed the work phone back into her pocket and she moved towards the kitchen door. She paused by the archway for a moment and looked back at Fareeha for a few seconds before heading towards the stairs. As soon as the doctor was gone Fareeha reached up to her cheek and wiped away the tears that she had been holding back. When Angela had asked Fareeha to come out here, there had been a time limit on the length of their time together. One month. She had known going in that both of them would pack their things up and leave. That hadn't been an issue for her when she had signed the contract but something unexpected had happened. Fareeha had fallen for her client and her client had fallen for her. Now they were two weeks in and she didn't want to go. She took a deep shuddering breath and grabbed the pepper grinder. Angela looked around her bedroom for a moment before heading towards her closet. Fareeha had told her to start packing but truth be told there wasn't much to pack really. Just a few tote boxes that she had used to carry her clothes. Everything else would stay here. They would have to clean out the fridge however so the food wouldn't go bad. Her work phone buzzed again as yet another call came in. Angela shook her head and let it continue to buzz as she opened her closet door. She grabbed some shirts and began pulling the hangers out of them. Work could wait a few minutes longer. When Angela came back downstairs Fareeha wasn't in the kitchen. Her handiwork remained in the form of two plates covered in rosti next to a pair of cups and silverware. As Angela sat down at the table Fareeha walked back in. “So I've got all my clothes packed up. I just need to go get my gear downstairs before I can start taking things to my car.” She gave Angela a smile that was a little too wide and began digging into her rosti with a fork. “What will you do about this?” Fareeha asked in-between bites. “I'm not sure.” Angela admitted as she dragged her fork through her rosti instead of eating it. “It really depends on why the Americans rejected my application. I have to read the statement their FDA released and then I have to figure out what the actual reason is. Somehow I doubt it's as simple as what they claimed.” Fareeha waited several seconds for Angela to elaborate but the doctor remained quiet, instead opting to unenthusiastically scoop rosti into her mouth. She took a bite of her own before setting her fork down and leaning back in her chair. “I know we need to leave, but would you want to do a session before we go? I'd hate to end our time here on a sour note.” Angela shook her head and took a drink of water. “That's a good idea but I'm really not in the mood for that right now. Do you want me to help you with your toys?” “I'd appreciate that.” Fareeha said. The rest of their breakfast passed in silence, as did the packing of Fareeha's bondage equipment. Once they finished carrying boxes up to the garage Angela pulled her phone out and tapped away at it for a moment. She handed it over to Fareeha. “Okay, so I just need you to put in your bank account number so I can transfer the funds.” Fareeha frowned at Angela for a second before it dawned on her what Angela was doing and her mouth made an 'o' shape. “Oh right, hang on.” She pulled her own phone out before navigating to her bank app. Once the number was on the screen she started to punch it into Angela's phone. “Okay, let's empty the fridge then get these boxes loaded.” After all of their boxes had been carried into the garage and loaded into their respective owners cars Angela buried her face against the side of Fareeha's neck as she tightly embraced her. “I'll call you when I've got a handle on this. We'll go out to eat then you can come back to my place and we'll do a session.” Fareeha gave a laugh that sounded a little like a snivel as she fiercely returned the embrace. “I'm looking forward to it.” Angela lingered in the embrace for a moment longer before forcing herself to let go and head for her. Once she had sat down behind the wheel she pressed the switch to start her car. Nothing happened. Angela hit it a second time and nothing happened a second time. “Oh, come on.” She muttered while mashing the button over and over. The car refused to start each time and her forehead bumped against the steering wheel before she peered more closely at the dash. One of the icons had lit up, the battery indicator was red. She got out of the car with an exasperated sigh. “What's wrong?” Fareeha asked, one hand on her car's door, in the middle of getting into her own vehicle. “My car won't start. I think the battery might have died.” Angela muttered with a baleful glare at the luxury sports car. She continued to glare for a few more seconds before her gaze returned to Fareeha. “If you help me jump start the car we can park it outside and I'll have a mechanic tow it to a repair shop.” “Sure.” Fareeha said right away as she began moving towards her trunk. “I think I have room for another box or two in the trunk if you want me to give you a ride.” “Oh, yes please.” Angela said, her shoulders sagging in relief. “That would be really amazing.” Fareeha pulled a pair of jumper cables from her trunk and ran them between her car and Angela's. She connected the clamps to the terminals on her car's battery while Angela did the same. A minute later and the doctor had gotten her car out into the driveway before shutting it down. Once they had loaded Angela's clothes into Fareeha's vehicle there was nothing left to do but program their destination into the dashboard. As the car began to move, Angela's house quickly disappeared from view. Soon the highway appeared and the car began to pass through green fields covered in patches of snow that had yet to melt. Fareeha leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. She had woken up barely over an hour ago and yet somehow she felt exhausted already. Angela was still with her, but only until they got back to Geneva.

Chapter 2 - Chapter 2

As soon as Fareeha's car pulled onto the motorway, Angela pulled out her work phone. Her brow furrowed and she bit her lip as her thumbs began tapping on its screen. After a couple of minutes of typing Fareeha reached out with her right hand and waved it up and down in front of the doctor. To her amusement Angela didn't stir or even notice what Fareeha was doing. She simply continued to stare intently at her phone as she typed. Fareeha dropped her head and leaned her chair back as she closed her eyes. Sleep wouldn't be coming anytime soon, but there wasn't really anything else to do. If it had just been her in the car then she could have turned on some music but she didn't want to distract Angela from what she was doing. They were hundreds of kilometers from Geneva so the only thing to do was to clear her head and wait for the hours to slowly roll by. A hand jostled her shoulder and Fareeha jerked awake, her seat belt keeping from sitting all the way. She paused and looked around at her surroundings. There was a beeping coming from the console and the car had come to a halt. “I think we're here.” Angela said as she pointed out the window at the small brick house they were parked next to. “Is this where you live, Fareeha? I thought you would have lived closer to Geneva since you work there.” “Geneva's a really expensive city and it's cheaper to rent a place out here.” Fareeha said with a shrug. “My commute's not so bad if I eat in the car. I only have to go to work when someone schedules me so it's not like I'm making the commute every day.” “That makes sense. I never liked a long commute myself so I got a place near the hospital when I was living in Zurich.” Angela said as she tapped on the console to make the beeping stop. “Anyways, let's get your stuff inside.” The two of them undid their seat belts and got out of the car before each of them grabbed a box. Fareeha balanced her box against her hip as she dug her keys out of her pocket. Once she found the right key she pushed into into the deadbolt and twisted to unlock the door. She pushed it open and headed inside, Angela just behind her. “Just put them here.” Fareeha set her box down on the floor and took a moment to glance at her house. There was a small patch of tile just beyond the front door and past that was a thin dark gray carpet. A tan sofa and pair of armchairs sat opposite a flat screen television. There were a couple of paintings hanging on the wall as well as pictures of an older woman and man. Before Angela could say anything a mewing sound came from deeper inside the house. A cat with ample white fluff on its chest and black markings around a pair of bright blue eyes ran into the room and straight up to Fareeha. It continued to meow as it rubbed against her ankles. A bright smile crossed Fareeha's face and she reached down to pick the cat up. It meowed again and pressed its head against her arm as it went limp in her embrace. “Oh, you missed me didn't you?” “Fareeha?” Angela and Fareeha both looked up at the sound of another woman's voice. The woman from the portrait was standing in the same doorway that the cat had come from. She had stark white hair that had been combed to both sides on top of her head and braided into a ponytail in the rear. Her skin and eyes were the same color as Fareeha's but there was a tattoo of black ink beneath her left eye shaped almost like a curving sword. “I thought you were going to be gone for another two weeks...” Her voice trailed off as she looked at Angela. “Angela Ziegler?” Her gaze swung back and forth between the two of them before her eyes widened suddenly. “Oh! Oh.” As word of Angela's invention had begun to spread her life had changed. Before that she had been highly regarded as a surgeon but that only brought one a small amount of recognition in certain medical circles. Once nano-biotics were announced she had become an international celebrity. Everyone was talking about her and everyone wanted to talk to her. News sites, news channels, talk shows, podcasts, morning TV shows, social media sites. In only a few days she had received hundreds of interview requests from all over the globe. At first it was exciting but then it became overwhelming. She had had to close her public email adddresses to escape the deluge of emails she was receiving. Photographers descended on Zurich. Many of them had camped out in front of the hospital where her trials had been done. Others would follow her around the city, hoping for a choice photograph. A few even went so far as to lurk outside her home. Eventually she had packed up and slipped away into the night to Geneva. The attention soon began to fade as the media moved onto the latest and greatest big story. That didn't stop the occasional stray photographer from trailing her at times however. It was at that point she was browsing a certain kind of website and stumbled upon a certain kind of fetish video. Angela had watched it all the way through, enraptured by what she was seeing. As soon as the video had ended she had restarted it immediately to watch it again. This time, however, she had unzipped her pants and put her hand down them as her imagination took over. She was seeing herself in the woman's place, that all those things were being done to her, that she was the one making those noises. It was immediately apparent that this was something she had to try. There was just one small problem. People would recognize her and word would get out. If she was going to do this then she needed to find a place where her privacy would be maintained. It took hours of diligent searching but eventually her efforts led her to Fareeha's employer. She had scheduled a session with Fareeha and it had been everything she had hoped for except in one very important way. It hadn't been enough and she wanted more. That desire had led her and Fareeha to her vacation home where the last two weeks had taken place. But circumstances had changed and now she was here in front of this old woman. The picture on the wall was of the old woman, she had the same eyes as Fareeha, they had the same color of skin. There had been no introductions made but it was obvious who this person was. Fareeha's mother. That wasn't the horrifying thing however. The look in her eyes was. Realization. Angela had gone to considerable lengths to hide her kinks from the world and that effort had been undone in mere seconds. She knew. The box in Angela's hands slipped from slack fingers and fell onto the ground with a loud thud. Someone knew. Everything in the room began to spin as if thrown into a washing machine and Angela stumbled to the side as her legs slowly gave way beneath her. A pair of arms grabbed her by the shoulders and she found herself suddenly lying on her side. “Here's some water, mum.” “You with us now, dear?” The older woman was crouched in front of Angela, her eyes intently watching Angela's face. Angela groaned and pushed herself up to a sitting position before taking the cup of water. She took a long drink before shaking her head to clear some of the grogginess away. “What happened?” “You fainted but I caught you before you hit the floor. Come on, let give you a hand.” The woman seemed to be in her fifties or maybe sixties but she didn't have any problem raising Angela up from the floor and walking her over to the couch. Angela's butt plopped onto the sofa and she took another drink. “You're... you're Fareeha's mother?” “I am. My name's Ana and you are Angela...” Ana's voice trailed off and she looked at Angela questioningly. “Ziegler.” Angela finished Ana's sentence. It was a simple question but the other woman's aim was obvious, at least it was to her. “I'm fine, just a little shaken.” Ana nodded sagely and she took a seat on the far end of the couch from Angela. “Let me guess. You realized I knew you're one of my daughter's clients and that scared you.” Angela's fingers tightened on the glass as Ana spoke, not wanting to drop something else while she was here. “I don't know what you're talking about.” She replied, her stiff shoulders saying something else entirely. Ana chuckled dryly at that. “My dear, I know that my daughter is a professional dominatrix. I also know that she was spending a month with one of her clients and that she came back two weeks early with you in tow. That can only mean you're the client she was staying with and that you're into bondage.” “I... I... I...” Angela began to stammer, all the blood rushing to her face turning her cheeks red, but nothing more than that would come out. This was supposed to be a quick stop on their way into Geneva but now she was stuck meeting her girlfriend's mother in the most awful way she could imagine. This meeting hadn't planned any in way shape or form. Ana didn't even know that her daughter and Angela were girlfriends. What made it even worse was Ana was discussing the fact she knew Angela was into BDSM as casually as another person might talk about the weather. “You know your daughter is a dominatrix?” “I do. We had a discussion about it when she took the job. I’ve never asked about the details of what she does and I honestly don't want to know, but I know a lot of her clients are bankers or politicians.” The white-haired woman gave Angela a sly grin. “That was really what sold me on her job. She makes the people who screw us bend over.” A look of horror appeared on Fareeha's features. “Mum!” At the same time Angela's cheeks got even warmer. Fareeha hadn't made her bend over but it was something to think about when she wasn't in such an awkward situation. Ana chuckled again. “All right, all right, I'll stop. So what brings you back two week early?” “The Americans rejected my application to have nano-biotics approved in their country.” Angela said, her mouth twisting in disgust. “Did they? I suppose that's not too surprising. Americans are a strange bunch though some of them aren't too bad.” Ana said, sounding more than a little fond. “How is Jack doing?” Fareeha piped up from one of the armchairs as she petted the cat sitting on her lap. “His basketball tournament is done right?” “It is. He's been moping around the last couple of weeks.” Ana said. “Jack keeps muttering about Indiana not fouling at the end of the game when he thinks I'm not listening. I still don't know what that means though.” “I'd have to look up the score but If I had to guess I'd say he's talking about not fouling when they had the lead.” Fareeha explained as her hand moved to her cat's head and began scratching behind the ears. Angela looked between the mother and daughter for a moment before setting her cup down. “I hate to interrupt but I need to get back to Geneva. It was nice to meet you... is it miss or missus Amari?” “No need to be so formal, dear. You can call me Ana.” “It was nice to meet you, Ana. If you don't mind, Fareeha, I'll go start unloading your boxes.” Angela stood up and quickly moved towards the front door. Once she was out of the house Ana looked over at her daughter and smiled. “Angela Ziegler? Well done, my child.” Fareeha blushed and her gaze lingered on the door. “It's not that obvious is it?” “Perhaps not to another person, but I am your mother, dear. I'd say you've gotten quite lucky. She's smart, rich, beautiful. If you weren't my daughter and I was younger and attracted to women then I'd be sorely tempted to try and steal her away from you.” “Mum!” Fareeha exclaimed. She didn't get the chance to say anything further as Angela walked back in with a box in her arms at that moment. Fareeha set her cat aside, much to the cat's displeasure, and stood up. “You don't have to do that, Angela.” “It's not a problem, Fareeha. You still have to take me to Geneva so I'm not exactly being altruistic...” “Well it's my stuff so I'm the one who should be unloading it.” Fareeha turned back towards her mother before heading out the door. “Do you want me to give you a ride too, mum?” Ana shook her head. “No, I was planning to go see a friend after I made sure your cat had food and water. It was nice to meet you, Angela. You take good care of my daughter now.” She patted Fareeha on the shoulder before leaving the two of them alone to finish unloading. Angela watched her go before turning towards Fareeha. “I know she's your mother and I don't want to offend you... can I trust her to keep quiet about what we do together?” Fareeha let out a quiet laugh without any malice in it. “You don't have to worry about that. My mother knows how to keep secrets. You don't have to worry about her telling anyone about your kinks.” Angela let out a deep breath as Fareeha finished speaking and she could feel some of the weight being lifted off her shoulders. Even so she couldn't shake the feeling of unease completely. Ana might be good at secrets but there was an unavoidable truth here. Someone knew.

Chapter 4 - Chapter 4

By the time Angela arrived at Fareeha's house the sun was almost entirely below the horizon. Its last rays still lingered but the evening dusk was dark enough that none of the neighbors would be able to recognize her. The blinds on the brick house's front windows had been shut and a light near the front door had been turned on. She walked up to the front door and raised her hand to knock but the door was already slightly ajar. Angela pushed the door open and stepped inside, quickly closing it behind her. Fareeha was sitting on the couch and her cat was sitting on her lap. She was wearing a pair of blue jeans and a black tee shirt with stray cat hairs on it. “Hello, Angela. Are you ready for our session?” Angela had to take a moment to rub her tongue against the insides of her cheeks and she swallowed to deal with a sudden dryness in her mouth. “Almost. I don't suppose you have a quick snack I could eat first do you? I'm a little hungry actually.” “Sure. I made some stuff so we could have dinner afterwards but we can cheat a little.” Fareeha gave Angela a wink and she lifted the cat off her lap. The cat meowed and immediately tried to climb back onto Fareeha's lap but she stood up before it could. It's ears twitched and it turned its head towards Angela before hopping down off the couch and trotting towards the doctor. The cat started rubbing against her legs as it meowed again. “Oh, hello!” Angela said brightly as she crouched down and held her hand out to the cat. It sniffed her fingers before rubbing its cheeks against them. “What's your name?” “This is Jonesy. She's a chubby-butt.” Fareeha said in a cheery sing-song voice as she ruffled her fingers through the cat's silky fur. “She's not chubby! She's just very fluffy! Aren't you Jonesy?” Angela emphatically stated as she scratched underneath the cat's chin. “What kind of cat is she?” “She's a ragdoll. They're really friendly and they love people. Jonesy follows me around whenever I'm home and she always wants me to pick her up whenever I sit down.” As if on cue Jonesy stretched up on its hind legs and put her paws on Angela's leg. Angela gave a broad smile and she lifted the cat off the ground, cradling it in her arms. A loud purr began coming from the cat and Jonesy's head dipped towards the ground as her body went limp. “Awww, she likes you! Well my cat approves so I guess I don't have to go find another hot blonde super doctor and bring her home.” Angela raised an eyebrow as she started scratching the cat behind its ears. “Oh? You think you'd find another hot blonde super doctor do you?” “No, probably not. You're one of a kind.” Fareeha said with a slightly apprehensive grin that her joke might have fallen flat. “I don't feel like looking though since I'm happy with the one I have. Come on, I made gollash if you want some.” “Goulash?” Fareeha shook her head as she began walking deeper into her house. “Nope. Gollash. It sounds similar but it's not the same thing. Gollash is an Egyptian dish. It's a pastry made from unleavened bread that you put stuff. I like minced veal and cheese in mine but you can put whatever you want in it.” After they had entered the kitchen Fareeha picked up one of the square pastries. It had multiple layers of flaky sheets of bread with meat and melted cheese sandwiched between them. She turned towards Angela and held the pastry up. Angela leaned forward and took a small bite off a corner. “Oh that's good. What kind of spices do you put in it?” “Just salt and pepper but I use ghee instead of butter and rumi cheese as well.” Fareeha replied as she urged Angela to take another bite. “What's rumi cheese?” “It's a cheese from Egypt. There's a couple of versions but I like to get the kind that's made from a mix of cow and buffalo milk. Hard to get in Geneva but I found a Middle Eastern store that carries it occasionally.” Angela took a second bite then another and another until only the small bit Fareeha was holding remained. She set Jonesy down on the floor then took a hold of Fareeha's wrist and pulled Fareeha's fingers up to her lips. Angela drew the gollash into her mouth then a moment later she did the same to a pair of fingers. Her tongue ran along the digits as she licked the grease off of them. “I'm ready if you are, mistress.” Angela murmured as she took the fingers out. “All right then.” Fareeha said, a little surprised at how quickly the doctor had changed gears. “There's some stuff we can't do here because there's neighbors nearby and my walls aren't great at blocking sound. That means no impact play. I don't want someone to get freaked out and call the cops.” “Okay. Do you have else something in mind then?” Angela asked, the idea of already being in cuffs when the police arrived not appealing to her. “I do as a matter of fact.” Fareeha left her hand in Angela's grasp and she pointed with her free hand towards a hallway between the kitchen and living room. “My room's at the end of the hall.” The carpet in the bedroom was thin and dark gray and there was a wall closet with sliding doors on one side of the room. The bed's headboard and footboard both consisted of curving steel rods that had been painted black. Between them was a queen sized mattress with ivory sheets and pillow covers. A pair of posters hung on the bedroom's white walls. One had a large shark, teeth featured prominently, pointed upwards towards a woman swimming in blue water. The other was mostly black save for an egg with green light pouring out through a crack as it began to hatch. “In space no one can hear you scream.” Angela read out loud. “Is this a poster for a horror movie?” “It is but I'm not sure you would like it. Alien is generally considered one of the scariest movies ever made. Anyways we're going to play a little game here. Take off your clothes but leave your underwear on.” Angela pulled her gray tee-shirt off before turning around so she was facing away from Fareeha. She bent forward at the waist as she undid the button on her pants and pushed them down to then off of her ankles. Beneath her shirt and pants was the tops and bottom of a blue bikini. Fareeha put a hand on her hip as she appraised Angela's remaining outfit. “Okay, sit down on the bed.” Angela seated herself onto the edge of the bed as Fareeha searched through the boxes she had brought back from Angela's vacation home. She rummaged in them for a few seconds before withdrawing a coil of red rope and a vibrator with a long cord protruding from its base. “Give me your leg.” Fareeha wound the rope around Angela's ankle before tying a knot to hold one end in place. She began to loop it around the doctors calf when Jonesy leaped onto the bed. The cat bounded forward and batted at the end of the rope dangling from Fareeha's hands before seizing it in her mouth. “Hey!” Jonesy paid Angela's yell no mind as she walked backwards, pulling the rope with her as she went. Fareeha grabbed the rope and tugged on it and Jonesy's tail began to swish back and forth as she redoubled her efforts. The doctor cleared her throat and Fareeha looked over at Angela with a too innocent expression. “Oh, did you want a turn? Here.” Fareeha pulled on the rope, dragging Jonesy behind it, and handed it over to the doctor. Angela hesitantly took the rope and held it in her hand as Jonesy continued to pull on it. After a few seconds she began to pull back but let go when the cat to caterwaul. “Are you sure that's a cat? It seems more like a dog to me.” “Ragdolls can be pretty dog-like.” Fareeha agreed. “But she can act like a cat when she wants to.” Fareeha went to one of the cardboard boxes, picked it up and dumped its contents all over the floor. She headed to one of the room's corners and set the box down. A moment later she had thrown a stuffed yellow banana toy into the box. Jonesy immediately dropped the rope and bounded off the bed and into the box as it fiercely pounced onto the toy. “Okay, she won't bother us for a while. Jonesy loves that thing.” Fareeha picked up the rope and began winding it around Angela's leg like she had before. When she got to Angela's thigh she left a sizable stretch of slack in the rope and reversed direction. The coils were the same length as before but she was going in the other direction so that the ropes formed loose diamonds. Fareeha grabbed the vibrator and placed it against the inside of Angela's thigh. She pulled the fabric of the bikini bottom aside and slid the head of the vibrator inside before adjusting it so that it rested on the doctor's clit. Fareeha moved the fabric back to where it had been before taking the rope and pulling on it. The rope cinched down on the vibrator, trapping it in place as well as squeezing itself against Angela's leg as the slack was taken out. Fareeha ran her fingers along the rope from top to bottom, occasionally pulling at it to test her ropework. “Is it too tight anywhere, Angela?” Angela glanced down at her leg before wiggling her foot. “It's a bit tight around my ankle but it's not bad.” A few seconds was all Fareeha needed to adjust the knots down there. “Better. So what are we doing? Just turn on the vibrator and let it go?” “Not quite. We're going to play a little game here. Have you wondered why I asked you to wear a bikini?” Angela bit her lip before shaking her head a little. “Well here's why. Stand over there.” Fareeha pointed at a spot in the middle of the room. Once Angela was in position Fareeha moved to stand behind her and she undid the knot holding the bikini bra's strings together. She pulled both strings up to Angela's lips. “Open up.” Angela obediently opened her mouth and Fareeha pushed the ends of the strings into them. “Close.” Angela closed her mouth, the fabric now trapped between her teeth. “So here's the game. Your job is to keep those in your mouth. As long as you do that the vibrator stays on. But if you drop them I turn the vibrator off until you put them back in. You're allowed to use your hands to do that but you're not allowed to use your hands to help hold the strings in your mouth.” Fareeha moved to stand just behind Angela, almost close enough for their bodies to touch and she took hold of Angela's wrists, moving the doctors hands so they were pressed against her own stomach. “Are you ready?” “Green.” Angela almost jumped off the floor when the vibrator turned on even though she was expecting it. Fareeha had placed the device squarely against her clit but the rope had pressed its head more tightly inwards and her underwear was helping to hold it in place as well. Angela shivered as waves even stronger than they normally would have been started to circulate through her pelvic region. Her hips swayed forward but when they swayed backwards Fareeha pinched her elbows in against Angela's sides to trap her in place. The only thing left for Angela to do was let the vibrations run through her as she desperately tried to hold on. After a minute or two her jaw began to ache from the strain of fighting off the urge to moan and then Fareeha turned the vibrator up a notch. Angela shuddered almost immediately and her mouth opened. As the strings fell from her mouth so did a moan and the vibrator stopped. Angela groaned in frustration as the waves ceased and the pleasure that had been mounting drained out of her. Fareeha's hands let go of her wrists. Now that the strings were out Angela took a few ragged breaths as she tried to regain her composure. After several seconds she grabbed the end of the strings and placed them back between her teeth. Angela bit down and once again Fareeha grabbed her wrists before pressing her thumb against the vibrators power button. Angela trembled as the waves came back. They were pleasure but this time it was pleasure tinged with doubt whether or not she'd be able to hang on long enough to reach the end. Her jaw began to ache as she squeezed her teeth together, desperate to hang on, but to no avail. The strings fell out a second time to her dismay. The third time she dropped them Angela didn't even bother going for the strings afterwards. Her head sagged forward as she gave in. “I can't do it. It's too hard.” Fareeha leaned forward and rested her chin on Angela's shoulder. “Are you asking me for something? Because I'm pretty sure the proper way to ask me for something is on your knees.” Angela took a step forward and turned around before sinking down to her knees without any hesitation. “I'd like to have an orgasm, mistress. I mean if that's all right with you.” After the vibrator turned back Angela groaned and lowered herself onto her side. One of her hands reached down to her underwear and pushed on the head of the vibrator there. The pressure from her palm drove the head even harder against her clit and the waves grew even stronger. After being denied three times she wasn't willing to wait any longer than necessary and it didn't take long for her to find the finish she was looking for. A sharp spasm ran through her legs then a wide and satisfied smile appeared on her face after it had passed. Fareeha quickly switched the vibrator off and knelt at Angela's side as she began undoing the ropes and removing the vibrator, wet head and all. She set them aside before lifting Angela off the ground and placing the doctor onto her bed. Fareeha headed to the kitchen for a moment before coming back with some chocolate bars before lying down next to Angela. She grabbed the blanket and pulled it over them. Angela turned onto her side and grabbed at the candy. “Gimme.” Fareeha let go of the chocolate bars and Angela quickly tore them free of their wrappers before devouring them with so much gusto that chocolate stains were left on her lips. Fareeha reached over and wiped them off with her index finger. Angela grabbed a hold of her hand and pulled that finger into her mouth, not willing to let even the slightest bit of chocolate escape. Fareeha shook her head bemusedly but didn't protest. “So, how was this session, Angela?” Angela squirmed closer towards Fareeha and put her head on the other woman's shoulder. “I'm not sure. I don't know if I like being edged or not. Getting denied like that is almost painful and it's so frustrating. It does seem to make the orgasm better when it does come though so I don't know. Also your cat going for the rope was distracting.” Fareeha glanced over at the box where her pet was still playing with the toy from earlier. “I should have realized Jonesy would do that. I've never done a session here at home and it never occurred to me think she might get in the way. It was kinda funny though.” “... yeah I suppose it was.” Angela admitted with a chuckle that quickly turned into a laugh which in turn grew to giggling. “Your dog is a ferocious little beast but I like her.” “Do you want to spend the night?” Fareeha asked. “You'd have to share that side of the bed with Jonesy and she'd wake you up in the morning for f-o-o-d.” Angela slowly shook her head. “I really want to but I can't. I have to fly to Washington tomorrow for a meeting with the Americans. I wanted to spend some time with you today before I go.” Fareeha placed a soft kiss on Angela's cheek to cover up her disappointment. “I understand. Try to have some fun while you're over there. Go see the sights and what not. There's a lot of places to visit in D.C.” “I'll do that and I'll take some pictures for you.” Angela said as she sat up and began to tie her bra back into place. “Anywhere in particular you'd like me to get?” “Well I'd ask for the White House but it'd be weird seeing the place when it wasn't about to explode. How about the Lincoln Memorial or the Smithsonian?” Angela hopped off the bed before picking up her pants and put them on before grabbing her shirt and donning it. “I'll do that.” She leaned down and kissed Fareeha on the forehead. “So what's for dinner?” As soon as the word dinner left Angela's lips Jonesy was jumping out of the box and bounding over to the doctor. She meowed loudly and stood up on her hind legs to paw at Angela's leg. Fareeha chuckled. “Well you said the magic word so now you get to feed her. Come on, I'll show you where her food is.”

Chapter 39 - Chapter 39

"Over there is a good place to make camp and get some sleep." Korra pointed towards her left at a spot ahead of them. The ice dipped lower to form a shallow gully in the otherwise flat plain. "It'll help keep us out of the wind." 'Oh thank god.' For as long as she could remember Asami had always prided herself on being fit. Judo, working out in the gym, swimming in the pool. Going on hikes had probably been her favorite form of exercise, but none of said hikes had been anywhere near what she had gone through today. Ten hours. Ten hours of air that felt as if it was going to turn her lungs into blocks of ice with each breath. Hours of her muscles growing fatigued and her feet aching with every laborious step on the frozen ground. That didn't even account for the wind's propensity for changing direction and whipping against her face or the fact they were going up an incline. Asami pushed forward, her muscles finding a newfound source of energy at the prospect of finally being able to rest. Korra stopped in the center of the gully and swung her hands from her waist to above her head. Walls of ice rose up around the group and curved inwards to form a domed roof with a small hole at the very center. The ice was clouded enough to obscure the outside, yet still allowed plenty of light through so they could see clearly. Asami loosened the straps on her pack and set it down on the ground. She crouched next to the pack and undid the ties holding a tight blue cylinder in place. Asami unrolled the sleeping bag before sitting down on it. Next on the agenda was retrieving a rectangular metal jar and unscrewing the lid. Inside was an assortment of dried pieces of jerky. She pulled one out and began to nibble at the edge. It was colder than anything she had eaten before this day, but the lack of water kept it from freezing at least. Her gaze wandered to the explorers she had hired and Asami's mouth snapped shut. Ansen and his men had sat themselves on their sleeping bags like she had which was no surprise to her. The ground was solid ice, after all. The big difference was they had pulled out several metal items. A stubby metal cylinder screwed into a pipe attached to a metal box with two raised circles on top of it. Sitting on those circles was a pair of plates covered in cheese and cuts of dried meat larger than the one in her hand. As she watched they started to set up a second identical grill. 'I thought I was prepared for this. Food that won't freeze. Sleeping bag, extra clothes. First aid kit in case something happens to Korra. I was wrong. These guys are way ahead of me on the curve. Their outfits remind me of Korra's, they brought weapons to protect themselves. They have not one, but two gas grills for crying out loud! And here I thought I was being smart by bringing food that I knew wouldn't freeze...' "Would you like us to heat that up for you, Miss Sato?" Asami snapped out of her reverie to see Herrg holding a plate out in her direction. "Really? That would be wonderful." She exclaimed while retrieving her container of jerky. Asami set the piece in her hand and three others onto the plate before turning towards Korra. "Do you want to heat something up, Korra?" "Yeah, sure. Give me a second." Korra answered before retrieving the jerky that Asami had packed for her. Once she had added her share to the plate she glanced at the grill. "I don't suppose you guys can heat up water with that thing, can you?" "If you have a metal cup then we can." Herrg said as he pointed towards a shiny mug sitting near his sleeping bag. Asami glanced towards the other men to see identical mugs, each with a name engraved into the handle. 'They went that far? I suppose it makes sense to avoid sharing cups in the event one of them gets sick or something. Starting to see why the Geographical Society only gave me one name. Guess I know who to hire for a mission like this in the future. Assuming I ever go-' Her thoughts were interrupted by metal clattering together and Asami started. She looked towards the noise to see Korra placing her, and Asami's, canteens on the burner next to six mugs. Korra looked down at the dial then up at Herrg. "I've never used one of these before. What's the right setting?" "The second line if you don't mind. We only need to heat it up to about fifteen degrees or so. Set the other one to four. It'll take longer for the jerky to heat up." Herrg explained as he sat on his sleeping bag. Korra twisted the dials to the given settings before sitting on the ice, her knees out in front of her. "So what's the deal with you guys? You're really well prepared for this. Almost too well prepared." Korra added, almost as an afterthought. Ansen chuckled dryly. "I suppose I can't blame you for thinking that. The truth is that we have wanted to mount an expedition like this for quite some time. The south pole is the last blank area on the world map. There are likely some islands still undiscovered out there, but none of those are likely to be significant finds. I don't want to insult your people since this is your home or seem condescending, but mapping the south pole is the last great challenge for explorers such as ourselves. It's always been out of reach due to the war, but the war is over. I still didn't think we'd be able to make it here, but thanks to Miss Sato's patronage this dream of ours has become a reality." Ansen gestured towards Herrg who began handing the mugs and canteens to their respective owners. He raised his cup higher. "To Miss Sato." The toast was echoed by the other men and everyone lifted their drinks and taken a sip. Everyone except Korra. Her cup remained still in her hands and she waited until Ansen had lowered his cup before speaking. "So you said you were soldiers. Who exactly did you fight for?" The hairs on the back of Asami's neck rose and suddenly the room felt even colder than it already had been. Korra's voice was a little too calm and the fact they were sitting atop a layer of ice while inside of an igloo made from the same material firmly impressed itself upon Asami. Her tone wasn't lost on the others either. They exchanged sidelong glances with each other and the eyes of more than one darted toward the spears lying at their feet. 'Oh crap. Six of them and two of us though Korra might be a match for them all on her own...' "Okay, let's not get carr-" Asami began to say as she stood up, hoping to intervene before things got any worse. "No, no. I know what she's asking." Ansen said in an even voice as he cut her off. "She has a right to know since she's leading us to her village. Did any of us fight for the Fire Nation? I wish I could say no, but the truth is that I was a very different person in my youth. I was a fervent supporter of the war and I believed whole-heartedly in the proclamations that Azula issued. As soon as I was old enough I volunteered for the army. After a year I had been promoted and was in charge of my own squad. My father was a hunter and trapper and he often took me along with him on trips into the wilderness. The skills I learned from him made me ideal to act as a scout, but I was ambushed while tracking an enemy army. My squad had all heard tales of how the Earth Kingdom treated its prisoners so we were ready to fight to the death rather than be imprisoned and tortured. Neither of those things happened, however, obviously. As prisoners we were treated with honor, though not respect, and ordered to rebuild that which had been destroyed by the Fire Nation. As the years passed I slowly learned that all the things I had believed, the things I had been told were lies. Eventually I was set free, but I still felt shame at the things I had done so I traveled to a place where no one would recognize me and I joined the Earth Kingdom's army. Fate must have a sense of irony because I found myself in the same role. Things went well, but eventually I was spotted by someone who recognized me. One of the men who had taken me prisoner." Ansen glanced towards Slin as he said that. "I was afraid he would expose me, but he gave me the chance to prove myself and I think the fact he's here now is proof I did." 'Well that's one heck of a tale. Question is whether or not Korra believes him.' "And how am I supposed to know this is all true?" Korra demanded. "You could be making the whole thing up. Slin being here doesn't prove anything. He could just be some guy you hired." Ansen shook his head as he rolled up one of his sleeves and held a wrist up. Along it ink had been etched into his skin in the shape of an arrow with a rather large and rounded head. Once it would have been a dark black, but over time the ink had faded. Asami leaned forward as she eyed it before it dawned on Asami what she was seeing. "That could be it, Korra." Ansen said with a slight grin on his face. "But if I was going to lie to you, then why I would admit to once fighting for the Fire Nation? There are any number of more convenient tales I could spin. There is also this. " He wiggled his arm slightly. "I had the Fire Nation's sigil tattooed on my wrist while fighting for them. I came to regret that decision so I had it covered up before joining the Earth Kingdom's army." He quickly rolled the sleeve back into place, no doubt because of the cold. "And for whatever it may be worth, I never took up arms against your people." "You would have if you had been sent south instead of east." Korra pointed out, appearing unconvinced by that particular statement. "That may be true, but the time where I would have fought your people has long since passed and my statement remains true. I don't ask you to ignore the terrible mistakes of my past, but I hope that you give me the chance to atone for them. It's also part of why I agreed to help Miss Sato because I know her mission help people who suffered because of the Fire Nation's war." A tense stillness remained in the air after Ansen had finished speaking. Nobody moved and nobody spoke. Even the wind outside had ceased to blow, as if it was somehow afraid of contributing to an incident. The igloo was so quiet that surely everyone around Asami had to be able to hear the hammering of her heart. Finally Korra stirred and she looked towards the grills. "I'm not sure if I believe you or not, but I'll think about what you've said. My people may not be so trusting, though. Let's eat, then go to sleep. We have a lot more walking to do tomorrow." 'Trusting? That's what she calls trusting? Maybe coming back here has made her go into warrior mode or something? Who needs to worry about polar bear dogs when we were one wrong answer away from killing each other.' Despite what she had said, none of the men moved from where they were sitting until Korra had retrieved the plate and mugs belonging to her and Asami. She turned around and walked back over to her sleeping bag and set them down. Korra waved one arm into the air and a wall of ice rose to the ceiling, cutting them off from Ansen and company. She flicked her fingers a small hole opened up in their portion of the ceiling while Korra sat down. "How are you feeling, Asami? You looked pretty tired the last hour. Are your feet okay?" 'I... uh... wow, that's a quick change in directions not to mention she literally put a wall up.' Asami undid the laces on her boot before pulling it off to reveal a sock whose top was somewhat damp, but the foot thankfully dry. She peeled the sock off and stretched her ankle to the side to get a better look at her sole. Several raised patches of loose skin, some red in hue and others yellow, stood out in stark relief to the rest of her foot. She grimaced at the sight. "Didn't think I'd have that many. Guess I underestimated how hard the ice would be." "Put on another pairs of socks. It should help cushion your soles." Korra suggested as she waved her fingers at the ice, converting some of it to water which she balled up in her palm. "Brace yourself. This'll be cold at first." Asami flinched as the icy liquid engulfed the her toes and she let out a soft hiss, but kept her foot in place. Korra's hand shifted lower and light glimmered in the sphere as she continued. Asami had seen people being healed before. Once it had been Bolin, the other time it had been a rival driver at the race. She had expected the light to appear, but not the heat that came with it. Asami might be in the coldest place in the world, but the chill leeching into her bones vanished and in its place the warmth of a summers day radiated into her. She stared at Korra with in astonishment as the waterbender lowered the foot and gestured at the other. "Does healing always feel like that? Why does it feel like that?" Korra shrugged slightly as she started to undo Asami's laces since Asami wasn't doing it herself. "Pretty much. It'd be more intense if the injury was bigger but I only had to redirect your energy a little for this." 'A little? I wonder what a lot would feel like... but honestly I hope I never have to find out.' "So what now?" Asami asked as Korra tended to her other foot. "I know working with Ansen might be tough for you, but all the food and supplies are on his ship... unless you decide to take them by force." Korra set her foot down and held her hands up as she shrugged. "I don't know yet. I need to think about it first. Let's eat." Asami suppressed a sigh as she pulled her shoes back on then grabbed some of the jerky and began to chew. "Well, whatever you decide, I'll support you." The rest of their meal was a quiet one and Asami soon had her head on her sleeping bag's pillow. Korra right next to her. She closed her eyes and all was black. "Asami, get up." A boot nudged her in the side and Asami blearily opened her eyes as she turned her head towards it. "What?" She sleepily murmured. "Get up. It's time to go." "Huh?" Asami glanced around to see the interior wall had vanished. Ansen and his company were standing around, their equipment all packed up. As was Korra's. Everyone but her. Asami's face turned a beet red and she grabbed her boots. "Sorry about that, everyone. I'll just be a bit." Once she had donned her boots she whispered quickly to Korra. "Um, I have to use the bathroom. Can you put that wall back up so I can have some privacy?" It was something she had done once before, but it was still no less unpleasant this time either. After she had finished Korra waved one hand and a doorway appeared in the wall. Once everyone had exited she waved her hand again and the dome dissolved into liquid, leaving no trace of their presence save a rapidly freezing puddle. Korra turned towards Ansen. "I owe the six of you an apology for how I behaved yesterday." Ansen waved dismissively. "No, you don't. My men and I understand where you're coming from. We recognize that look in your eyes. Anyone who has fought in battle would and we all know who you fought against. The war may be over, but it will take time for you to put certain emotions behind you just like it took us time to do the same. I won't ask you to forgive the fact I once fought for Azula, but I will ask that you give me a chance to prove I'm not that person anymore." He shifted his spear to his other shoulder and held his hand out to Korra. Asami froze in the middle of retrieving more jerky from her container and her eyes flicked towards Korra. Korra stared down at the hand for several seconds before raising her head and looking Ansen square in the eyes. She stepped forward and grasped his wrist. "I think I can do that." For a moment it almost seemed like Ansen was about to smile, but he merely nodded and let go of her hand. "Well then. Let's get moving shall we? I'll take point today." He turned away and started to trudge forward without waiting for an answer. Asami shoved the jerky into her mouth and screwed the lid of her jar back on before tying it back into place on her pack. She slung it onto her shoulders and hurried forward to join Korra at the rear of the line. "Is that what I think it was, Korra?" Korra grimaced as she started to walk and she opened her mouth before closing it and shaking her head. "I don't know really. I've spent my whole my life hating the Fire Nation and that isn't going away just because of one man. I have to start somewhere though and knowing that at least one of their soldiers is capable of changing... it's good enough for now." She shook her head again and glanced sideways at Asami. "Let me know if your feet start hurting again today. I got rid of the blisters on your feet, but they could still come back." "I'll do that." Asami agreed. 'Not very subtle there, Korra, but you usually aren't. I still get the message though. Talk about something else.' Asami frowned as dark specks appeared in the distance on an otherwise white horizon. "What's that?" She pointed towards them. Korra frowned and placed a hand above her eyes as she peered in the direction Asami was pointing. "Not sure. Too dark to be polar bear dogs. Could be wolves." Korra grabbed Asami by the shoulder and pushed her forwards until she was in the middle of the line again. "Don't stop moving, but keep your spears ready. Could be a pack of wolves ahead of us." 'Are there any animals here that don't want to kill us?' The specks steadily grew larger as they approached the party and the spears came off the shoulders as Ansen and company formed a half circle around Asami like they had the previous day. Korra strode forward ahead of them for a moment before turning around with a grin on her face. "Spears down, we're fine." Ansen and his men exchanged looks, but the spears returned to rest on shoulders once again. Asami craned her head to the side to look past a shoulder at what was approaching. It took her several seconds before the specks resolved clearly enough for her to recognize the silhouette. Four legged beasts with a rider sitting between two humps. The Southern Water Tribe had found them and that meant one very important fact. No more walking.

Chapter 7 - Chapter 7

Angela unlocked the door to her suite and stepped into the dark room. Her hand fumbled against the wall before she found the light switch to illuminate the suite. She wasn't looking at it however. Instead her attention was on her phone as she absentmindedly shut the door behind her with her free hand. The other was busy typing a message out. A: Are you awake, Fareeha? A few moments passed before Angela's phone dinged and a response came through. F: Yep. Was just brushing the cat and eating some dinner. How's Washington? A: It's...it hasn't gone how I was expecting so far. I'm kinda freaking out right now. F: Why? What happened? Tell me everything. Angela moved further into the room and sat down on an armchair as she began to relate what had happened since getting off the plane. F: Who is Martin Luther King JR? The name is kinda familiar but I can't remember any details off the top of my head. A: He was an American civil rights activist in the twentieth century, arguably the most notable in US history. F: Okay, I know who you're talking about now. 'I have a dream.' Why does his name being on a door bother you? A: That's not what bothering me. It's this city. Everywhere I go there's memorials or tributes to people from the past. The people I've encountered so far have been treating me like one of them as well. Honestly it feels like a history book is trying to swallow me up and make me just another paragraph in it. F: *hug* I know you don't like people putting you on a pedestal but they're doing it because they're in awe. You created something amazing that's going to help millions and that blinds them to everything else about you. A: Everyone but you it seems. At least there's one person who can see past the nano-bots. F: :) Anything else I can do to help? Angela looked at her phone for a few moments as a memory flickered to life. They had had this conversation before, or at least one very similar to it. It had been the first time they had met. Fareeha had been asking why Angela had scheduled a session with the dominatrix. Her answer had been that everyone treated her like an entry in a history book and that had led to... well the beginning of all this. A: Switch to that app you had me install. Angela rose up from the chair and she moved to a nearby window that ran from floor to ceiling and pulled the drapes shut. She repeated the act on the other two windows before heading to the door and making sure that the privacy plate was locked in place over the door's peephole. As she finished her phone made a noise to let her know that a message had arrived but this time the noise was a rapid heartbeat. F: Okay so I'm using the app now. What's up? The app in question was a program that Fareeha had introduced to Angela. It had four functions to it. Taking pictures, recording video, sending text messages and making phone calls. Those were all functions smartphones already had but this app included end to end encryption so that anything done through the application could only be accessed by the sending and receiving parties. That was how Fareeha had explained it, but as far as Angela was concerned it meant that Fareeha was the only person who could see what she sent through this app. Angela pulled the program in question up before answering. A: All you have to do is watch. And tell me how sexy I look. Angela turned towards a standing mirror located near the doorway, presumably for guests to check their outfits before leaving the suite. In Angela's case she was wearing a pair of comfortable black pants, a gray tee-shirt, white socks and sneakers she could slip her feet out of without trouble. She lifted the camera and snapped a photo of her reflection in the mirror before sending it to Fareeha. A: Sorry I'm not dressed up for you mistress, but I had a long flight today. Let me make it up for you. She set her phone down for a moment and pulled her shirt off to reveal a light gray bra made of cotton. Angela picked the phone up and snapped a second picture of herself. F: That's an improvement but I'm disappointed you're wearing a bra at all. I taught you better than that, slut. The next photo to go through showed a half naked Angela holding the bra by the strap in one hand, the phone in her other. The one following that didn't have the bra anywhere in sight and Angela's left hand cupping the bottom of one breast. F: Better. You keep this up and I might accept your apology. Angela turned so she was facing away from the mirror and kicked her shoes off before pushing her pants down to her ankles then off her feet. She grabbed an ottoman from in front of a nearby armchair and carried it over to in front of the mirror. She put her feet together and leaned forward at the waist while placing one hand on the ottoman to help support her weight. Angela turned her head to the side so she could look at her phone while aiming it at the mirror. A moment later and a shot of yellow briefs covering a full moon as she bent over was on its way to Fareeha. F: Almost perfect. Send me the same shot but without your underwear on. F: Mmmmm now it's perfect. I wish I was there so I could grab it. Next time you're at my place I'm gonna squeeze that all night long. Maybe I'll use my tongue too. A: I'm looking forward to it but now I'm at a loss. I took all my clothes off and I don't know what to do next! F: How about you show me where you're staying? I'm sure I can come up with a way for you to further entertain me. Angela switched her app from taking photos to recording a video that was being streamed, albeit on a delay, to Fareeha. She turned the camera away from her and began to rotate it around the room so Fareeha could see. The room had a single king sized bed covered with white sheets and white blankets with nary a crease or wrinkle to be seen. A large flat screen TV stood opposite the bed and there was a coffee/tea maker plus mini bar off to its right. F: What's through that door left of the TV? Angela walked over to the area in question and her phone gradually panned from one side of the room to the other. A round table surrounded by four chairs sat in the middle of the dining room and there were several armchairs and sofas as well. F: Hmmm there's potential there but I don't want you making a mess on such nice furniture. Show me the bathroom. A shower with clear glass walls and a tiled floor sat in one corner of the room and opposite it was a bathtub plenty long enough for even a tall person to lie down in. White marble tiles with gold veins covered the bathroom and shower floor. Above the tub itself was a mosaic depicting a plant with blooming yellow roses. F: Now there's something we can work with. You had a long flight so I'm sure you're all gross and sweaty. Go take a shower. Keep it interesting but you're not allowed to masturbate. She set the phone down on a counter so that it was pointing towards the shower before zooming in somewhat it'd have a better view of her once she was inside. Angela opened the door and stepped inside. The controls consisted of a pair of levers but there was also a handheld showerhead in addition to a showerhead that was mounted to the wall twenty centimeters or so above her head. Hanging from that was a metal caddy holding bottles of various sizes on it. She turned the lever and water began trickling out. Once she had got it to the right temperature Angela turned the other lever. Warm water came rushing out of the metal nozzles and down onto the doctor. After a few seconds her hair was soaked through and plastered to her shoulders and neck. As water streamed down Angela turned around several times on the spot until her entire body, front and back, was glistening. She stopped and faced the camera before turning the water off. “I hope you like what you're seeing, mistress.” Angela yelled, hoping her voice would be understandable through the door. She grabbed a small container of liquid soap from the caddy and poured some of it into her palm. Angela rubbed her hands together until lather was all over her fingers. Both hands made their way to the doctor's stomach and they leisurely circled all along her midriff until it was covered in streaks of white foam. Then they moved up to her breasts, squeezing and rubbing until her nipples were beginning to harden beneath a layer of suds. Angela made a pass over her shoulders before she leaned forward and began caressing her knees and gradually moving up to her hips. Her legs parted ever so slightly and Angela's hands slipped into the gap, leaving foam in their wake of her inner thighs. Once she was finished lathering herself up Angela grabbed the handheld showerhead and switched the water back on. She aimed the streams of water at her shoulders and moved it from side to side and ever downward as she rinsed the suds away. When Angela got to her hips she moved down along the front of one leg then the other before directing the water towards the inside of her thighs. Once those had been rinsed off Angela started to turn the head upwards towards the middle of her pelvis. Before it got there though she switched the water off and gave an exaggerated pout towards the phone. She opened the door and walked forwards, heedless of the water she was dripping on the floor, to the phone and blew a kiss at it. “How was that, mistress?” F: Mmmm, you did good. So good that I'm gonna give you a reward. Hop in the bathtub and let me watch you finish yourself off. A wide smile crossed Angela's face and she picked the phone up, carrying it over to the tub. She paused for a few seconds before deciding on a location and set it down. It took another few seconds to adjust the zoom before she laid down, her head opposite the phone. Angela paused and took a deep breath as she looked at the electronic device. Fareeha was thousands of kilometers away on another continent with an ocean between the two of them. Even so, with this camera it was almost like Fareeha was actually in the room watching and listening to Angela. Angela raised her feet up and spread them apart, placing one on each side of the tub. Her hands glided along her skin up to her knees then back down to her inner thighs. She glided the tip of her finger down against one edge of her outer lips before bringing it back up on the other side. Angela pulled her hand away and brought it up to her mouth so she could stick the index and middle fingers on her right hand into it. Her hand dropped back down and those fingers pushed against her entrance, making their way inside a few millimeters at a time. Once she had made it to the second knuckle Angela's inward motion stopped and she withdrew them only to put them back in right away. Her tempo began to rise until it plateaued at a brisk pace. Short whimpers began to accompany her thrusts and Angela's chest began to rise and fall as she drew closer to the end. When it arrived her hips started shaking and she sagged back against the bathtub to ride it out. After it had passed Angela lifted her hand to her mouth once again, but this time she was cleaning her fingers off. She returned her gaze to the camera, her chest still rising and falling. “I think I might need another shower, mistress. Thank you for letting me finish.” F: You're welcome, Angela. I hope you're feeling better but now I think I might need to go finish myself after watching that. Angela laughed and she reached forward with her clean hand to turn the recording off. A: That really helped. I hope you save that video because we're gonna have to watch it together in the future. F: Looking forward to it. Do you want me to keep texting? A: No, that was exactly what I needed but thanks for offering. You go take care of you now. I'll see you when I get back to Geneva. <3 F: <3  

Chapter 3 - Chapter 3

Angela's arm stretched out towards the other side of the bed as she rolled onto her side. “Fareeha?” She murmured sleepily while opening her eyes. There was no one in the bed but her. Angela sat up and looked around the room before remembering where she was. This was her house, but it wasn't the vacation house in the east. It was her house in Geneva and Fareeha wasn't here. She gazed at the empty side of the bed for several seconds before reaching over to her nightstand and grabbing her phone. Angela opened up her email and began to re-read the texts she had exchanged with Cedric Favre, her vice president at the Ziegler Foundation. C: I know you're on vacation, Doctor Ziegler but there's been a setback with our United States application. Please contact me as soon as possible. The next three emails said much the same thing, but with an increasing sense of urgency for her to respond. Cedric was a highly capable businessman but his nerves could start to fray when something unexpected happened. A: I just saw the news. What happened? The last thing I heard from the FDA was that they had every intention of approving nano-biotics. C: That was my understanding as well. I've seen a flurry of activity in the past week. Two members of the Health, Education, Labor, and Pensions committee, they oversee the FDA, resigned from the committee and the head of the FDA resigned as well. Something is going on behind the scenes, but I don't have any idea what that might be. A: Have you heard anything from the Americans? I saw the FDA sent out a press release but I don't believe what they said about long term health risks. None of the other countries we've applied to had any reservations about that. C: As a matter of fact, I have. The US embassy contacted us today to arrange a meeting with you. Would you want us to schedule that or would you prefer to decline? A: They want to meet with us right after our application is denied? I think you're right about something going on. Arrange the meeting but not today. I'm on my way back to Geneva at the moment. Let's talk scenarios. They denied our application but only because they want concessions from us. What might those be? C: All of our nano-bots are currently manufactured in Germany then shipped to other countries. It's possible the US might want us to build a nano-bot factory there so they can be produced by American workers. A move like that would appeal to American isolationists and create a few hundred jobs in a city that needs them. The benefit to us would be cutting down on shipping costs for the North and South American regions. A: That's an interesting idea. What's another reason they might reject us? C: Healthcare in the US is largely run by the private sector, notably insurance companies. It's possible that they lobbied Congress to have us denied. The countries that have approved us have seen the cost of surgeries drop drastically so those companies are probably worried about their profit margins. Angela shook her head and made a sound of disgust as she read that particular text. She had already seen that text the previous day but it was still as vile to consider as it had been the first. A: I can't say I like that thought. Is there anything else they might want? C: It's possible voting members of the FDA or the Senate committee could be swayed if they saw something was in it for them. A: That's bribery. C: Lobbying has been a part of politics in the US for a long time. A few donations or opening a health clinic in the right city could swing a vote or two in our direction. A: Let's move on for now. Let's say the Americans don't change their minds. What would the best response be? C: Our first move in that situation should be damage control. The Americans choosing to deny our application could potentially scare undecided countries off and make countries who've already approved us reconsider their decision. I would recommend a media campaign and you should start giving interviews again to counter any negative perceptions people might be forming. A: That makes sense. What's the latest on the applications to Mexico and Canada? C: Nothing official yet but I've been contacted by both countries to reassure me their decision isn't being influenced by the Americans. A: Well that's good at least. Keep in contact with countries who haven't approved us yet and make sure they aren't getting cold feet. In the meantime have PR get started on that media campaign you were talking about. Let me know when and where the meeting is scheduled. C: The embassy is asking for you to go to Washington. The latest text had arrived earlier this morning when she had still been asleep according to the time stamp. Angela stared at her phone, her brain not processing the sentence for several very long seconds. A: Washington? As in Washington, DC? They want me to travel to the United States? C: Yes. They insist upon it actually. I tried asking for a phone call or a video chat but they refused both options. A: All right, we'll do it their way. Talk to legal and see if they have anyone who has taken the bar exam in the US. If not then have them hire someone to represent me while I'm over there. I'll need you to book me a flight and hotel room. I'll want to leave tomorrow afternoon and meet with them a couple of days later so I'm not dealing with jet lag. C: Normally that wouldn't be difficult but there's another problem. They want to speak to you alone, no lawyers or anyone else. Angela frowned at the message before slowly shaking her head. The situation kept getting stranger and stranger but the alternative was worse. Three hundred and fifty million people was three hundred and fifty million people she didn't want to ignore. A: Fine. I'll be by myself in the meeting but I still want a lawyer over there. If they want me to agree to something or sign documents then I need legal expertise. Forward me the flight and hotel information after they're booked. She set her workphone aside and picked up the other phone on the nightstand. Angela scrolled through the conversations before selecting the one she wanted. A: Hey Fareeha, I was wondering if I could 'come' by tonight. Say seventeen hundred? F: Sure. You can come. Make sure you're wearing a bikini. Fareeha ended her text with a yellow smiley face that was sticking its tongue out. F: I just finished grocery shopping so I'll have something for you to eat. Angela chuckled to herself and set her phone down. The trip to America was definitely going to be strange but at least the send off would be fun.

Chapter 40 - Chapter 40

Korra pulled on the reins and Asami shifted forwards into her back as the camel came to a halt. "We're here." In the grand scheme of things, a month and a half was barely the blink of an eye. Even so, that was long enough for the village in front of Korra to somehow feel... different. The snow capped igloos were exactly as she remembered. The worn down paths of ice that she had traversed countless times. All of it the same and yet foreign at the same time. This place hadn't changed, Korra realized as she continued to look at the place where she had grown up. She had. The woman who had left for Republic City wasn't the one who had come back. Republic City had changed her. Asami Sato had changed her. Korra shook her head to clear it and tapped her heels against the camels sides. The creature grumbled, but moved forward nonetheless. It didn't take long for the approach of a single camel to be noticed and a handful of figures in fur outfits identical to hers appeared from between the buildings and moved towards them. Each of them brandished a club carved from bone and sporting strips of leather wrapped around the handle. The other hand was empty, but no less dangerous since that only freed it for bending water, Korra knew. She stopped the camel at a distance and dismounted, opting to hold the reins as she approached. "Should I get down too?" Asami asked, clearly made uneasy by the fact men with weapons in hand were fast drawing near. "Stay there. They're more worried about me since I'm dressed like them. They already can tell you're an outsider." Korra dropped the reins and threw her hood back to expose her face as she walked on ahead, her hands up in the air. "It's me! Korra!" One of the men strode forward and threw his hood back. His beard was thicker than the last time she had seen him and he had put on weight, but he was still easy to recognize. "It's good to see you again, Nalon." Nalon looked her up and down then glanced up at Asami. He turned and waved at the others and they lowered their clubs as he turned back to face her. "Likewise, Korra. I wasn't sure if I'd see you again, but you look healthy. And you as well, Asami Sato." He called out while returning his club to its spot on his belt. "How did you fare on your trip? The entire village will want to hear all about it." Korra went back to grab the camel's reins before leading it towards the village. The men who had accompanied Nalon turned about and headed in the same direction. "Better than I was expecting it to. There's a ship full of food and supplies at the bay where Asami found us. We'll need every camel available to haul it here. There's also a group of men a few hours ride from here. Their leader is a man named Ansen. He has some requests, but they require all the chiefs to be present." "Do they?" Nalon scratched at his beard and gave her a skeptical glance. "Gathering all of the chiefs in one place is no easy task even if the plains have been quiet the last few months. He should speak to Tonraq before trying to summon the others." "Where is my dad?" Korra asked as they passed by the first building. From somewhere nearby she heard the sound of kids laughing, no doubt concerned with less serious matters than the one on her mind. "At home, most likely. He took part in the last four hunts so he's earned a break from the latest to go out. I'm assuming that's where you got this camel from?" Korra nodded and Nalon frowned. "If you have food like you claim then we'll be fine with a smaller harvest from this hunt. If you wish to speak to your father then I can take this." Nalon held his hand out for the reins. "Thanks Nalon." Korra handed them over then moved to stand on on side of the camel. "Okay, let's get you off of there." Korra extended a helping hand to Asami as the other woman swung her leg over the camels hump with a faltering and stiff motion. She dropped down and one foot slipped on a bare patch of ice, sending Asami stumbling backwards into Korra's waiting hands. "Okay, lesson learned. Getting on the camel is easy. Getting off, not so much. Thanks for catching me, Korra." "Don't thank me just yet." Korra said as she started to unfasten their packs from the rear of the camel's saddle. "This next part might be worse." Asami raised an eyebrow at that, but Korra's only answer was to hand Asami her pack. Once Korra had retrieved her own gear she set off down the winding path. After a pair of turns she was standing in front of an igloo with the same weathered ice and lack of any distinguishing features as the rest. Korra grabbed a sphere of ice from a hollowed out cranny next to the thick layers of fur hanging in the doorway. She rapped it against the side of the igloo twice before placing it back in the hole. A woman's voice rang out in response. "Come in." Just past the doorway was a barrel whose outer surfaces were more flaking patches of orange than the silver it had been when first forged. In it were spears, each with a differently shaped head and a club like the ones Korra had seen earlier. Past it the igloo opened up into severals rooms, each of them separated from the other by more curtains. The hides from half a dozen different species covered the floor and a middle-aged woman sat cross-legged on the floor in the first room. A curved tooth the length of one's forearm lay next to a rock at her feet. Her skin was the same shade of skin as Korra's and they both had the same cyan eyes. Their dark brown hair was styled in similar fashion though the other woman's pigtails were far thicker and longer. She clambered to her feet and bustled right up to Korra. The woman only came to Korra's shoulder, but that didn't stop her from engulfing Korra in a hug that almost lifted her off the floor. "Korra! It's so good to see you!" "I missed you." Korra said as she returned the embrace. After she let go Korra turned towards the third person present. "This is my mother, Senna. Mom, this is-" "You must be Asami Sato." Senna said as she moved to greet her. "Tonraq told me that you were beautiful, but I see that hardly does you justice. Come in, come in, take those packs off. Have a seat. I'm sure there's lots to talk about." Korra gratefully leaned her pack against the wall before taking Asami's and placing it right next to hers. "Is Dad here, Mom? Nalon said he didn't go on the latest hunting trip." "He's in the craft room." Senna replied with a quick look in the direction of said room. "Do you want me to go get him?" "No, that's fine." Korra waved her off as she headed towards the room in question. "You two should get to know each other in the meantime. Me and Dad have some things to talk about." Her father was sitting on a block of ice and two pieces of pelt were on his lap. In his hands was needle and thread of sinew with which he was sewing the separate pieces together. Around the room were other stacks of pelt as well as bone and metal handles waiting for a head to be attached. Korra waved her hand in the air and a layer of ice sealed the two of them inside. For weeks now Korra had been imagining this conversation in her head. Things she wanted to say, answers to questions she had. The possible directions it could take, what her fathers responses might be. In the end dozens of possibilities, if not hundreds had emerged, and the sheer number of paths had become impossible to predict. The only certain thing about this conversation was how it would begin. "I talked to Unalaq." Tonraq raised his head at the sound of her voice and he set the needle and thread down. His face remained impassive, but there was a stiffness to his shoulders that hadn't been there before. "I haven't heard or spoken that name in twenty-five years. I suppose it was inevitable that you ran into him, though. What did he tell you?" Korra flicked her wrist and a block of ice like the one her father was sitting on jutted out of the floor opposite him. She took a seat and folded her arms. "He told me that a woman named Katara crossed the ocean and asked the Northern Water Tribe for help. That his father refused to help, but you called them cowards and that you would help even if they wouldn't and you left with Katara." "Anything else?" Tonraq's face remained devoid of any emotion or other signs that he was affected in any way. "He said that I shouldn't marry Asami. That if I married someone from the North then we could reunite the Water Tribes. I told him no." Tonraq blinked slowly and shook his head as if he had been expecting to hear something like that. "Of course he did. Twenty-five years and my younger brother hasn't changed one bit..." "What do you mean?" "My brother is many things. Intelligent, cunning, selfish, manipulative and a liar. Anything that comes out of his mouth has enough of the truth in that you can't call him out, but enough falsehoods to persuade you to do what he wants. Katara made the journey like he said. She asked for help and my father refused and I left. What Unalaq didn't tell you was the role he played in all that. He convinced my father that Katara was a spy sent by the Fire Nation to weaken us. He told me that we should help and that I was the best person to do it. When I spoke out in front of the court, my father refused and sentenced me to death for attempting to help the enemy. I did leave that day, but Katara and I had to fight our way out. He must have seen an opportunity to gain more power when he realized you didn't know who he was and what he had done." Korra leaned forward and buried her face in her hands. She had gleaned onto the fact that Unalaq had been trying to use her. Even so Korra had been blind to the depths of his deception and how far back in time they extended. The only thing that had saved her from falling into Unalaq's trap had been her burgeoning feelings for Asami at the time. Without them she would have walked straight in and not realized what was really going on until it was too late. Even so, Unalaq was almost a complete stranger and being lying to by such wasn't exactly devastating. To be honest, it was the sort of thing she had expected. Unalaq wasn't the only person in their family to lie to her though. "Why?" She whispered while looking up at her father. "Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't anyone tell me that you were from the other Water Tribe. Twenty summers and no one ever said a thing about it. You, Mom, Nalon. Someone must have known. And that's not even the worst part. You knew about Katara all along." Korra rocked up to her feet and stormed towards the far wall before whirling back towards her father. "You were there!" She shouted, a familiar fury possessing her. It had been lurking past the range of conscious thought. Lying dormant and bitter over its impotence and inability to exhaust itself on its source. A person halfway across the world and beyond the range of any means of communications. Until now. "You knew they turned her down! And when I suggested the same thing, you said nothing! You could have told me, but you didn't! You let me go off on a fool's errand even though you knew someone had already tried and failed!" Korra's fist slammed against the wall and the ice all around them started to shake and droplets of water fell unnoticed onto her shoulders. "Why?" For as long as she could remember, Korra had always been looking up at her father. As a little girl Tonraq had seemed an impossibly huge giant who she worried might step on her by accident. That fear dissipated as she got older and was replaced by the knowledge that her father was merely huge. The largest man she had seen in the South Pole and Republic City alike. But now, for the very first time, she felt the larger of the two. Tonraq's shoulders had sagged and his head bowed forward as he shrank in upon himself in an instant. "Because I failed you as a father. If I close my eyes I can still see how full of life you were as a girl despite growing up in a never ending war. That day when... I remember you opened your eyes and the light in them was gone." Tears dripped from Tonraq's face as he continued to speak, his voice full of shame. "You were so young yet you had grown up far too soon. Ever since that day I've blamed myself for what happened to you. Fathers are supposed to protect their children and when you needed me the most, I wasn't there." "What does that have to do with what I asked!? You felt guilty so you decided to get rid of me the first chance you got? That's some real great parenting there! Dad." Korra's shoulders heaved and cracks appeared in the walls and the roof as she glared down at him. "No. That's not what I'm saying." Tonraq said as he looked up at her. His voice remained quiet and flat despite the barbs being shouted at him. "I started teaching you to fight so you could protect yourself in the future, but I didn't know what else to do. Afterwards you were so angry and it was everything I could do to keep you from lashing out. I never stopped trying to help you, but nothing I said made a difference and you continued to get worse over the years. When Asami Sato showed up it was as if my prayers had been answered. At least in part. I wasn't happy about the thought of you marrying some stranger from the outside world, but I thought maybe she could help you where I failed. Even if meant taking you away from your home. So I kept quiet and let you leave because I thought it was the best thing I could do. I understand if you're angry at me, but I didn't know what else to do." Korra slowly sat back down on the block she had created and let out a long sigh. That wasn't an answer she had ever reached while trying to predict this conversation. In truth almost all of her predictions had involved her gaining the upper hand on her father in a war of words that inevitably resulted in tricking him into confessing that he had wronged her. What she hadn't expected was for him to admit it so readily. He hadn't lied or tried to dodge her queries. Instead, Tonraq had readily told her the truth about everything regardless of what it might do to their relationship. "I just don't get it. Why were we attacked for so many years? You came from the North so you must know what the rest of the world looks like. The South Pole is just a big chunk of ice. There's no gold or silver here or dirt for farming. The only goods we have are fur and fish and you can get those anywhere. What was the point? To any of this?" "When did hatred ever make sense?" Tonraq asked. "It consumed the Fire Lords and world suffered because they hated anyone who was different than them." A droplet of water fell onto Korra's shoulder and she looked up at the ceiling. Cracks ran all throughout it, enough so that the building's integrity was at risk. She waved her hand and the ice shifted as it dissolved and reformed itself into a solid surface once again. Korra turned her head towards the doorway she had sealed shut earlier. It stood open once again and two women were standing in it. One a waterbender and the other not. "How much have you heard?" Korra asked, the anger draining out of her and weariness remaining behind. Her life used to be so simple. Hunting and fishing. Training with the others in her village for the inevitable then fighting to survive when the attack came. Hunt, train, fight. Hunt, train, fight. At least that's how it had been. Her life now was so much more complicated without such a plain routine to follow. "Enough." A pair of arms wrapped themselves around Korra, squeezing her tighter than they had ever done before. She buried her face against a shoulder covered in black hair and squeezed its owner just as tightly in return. Her father had gambled correctly. If Korra hadn't left then she never would have set foot on the path she was currently on. Instead she would have remained in the South Pole, her anger and hatred festering until it consumed her like it had the Fire Lords. Republic City had been the answer. Asami Sato had been the answer Korra needed even if she hadn't known it at the time.

Chapter 8 - Chapter 8

A knock came from the door to Angela's suite and she glanced down to make sure her bathrobe was tied shut and that she was decent before answering the door. A man was standing in the hallway, a cart on wheels in front of him. On the cart was a golden cloche dish next to a smattering of food, plates and silverware. Angela stepped away from the door and gestured vaguely towards a doorway in the suite. “Thank you, the dining room is through there.” The waiter wheeled the cart forward and over to the table in her dining room. He began moving the food onto her table before placing a plate in front of one of the chairs. Next the waiter grabbed a handful of silverware and began setting the utensils onto the table, each of them precisely straight and evenly spaced from the others. He lifted the lid off the cloche dish then scooped its contents, scrambled eggs, applewood rashers and potato cubes that had been fried, onto her plate. Once he was done he turned towards. “Is there anything else I can get you, ma'am?” Angela gave the table a quick glance before shaking her head. “No, that's everything. Thank you for the offer though.” After she had finished speaking the waiter gave the table and its contents a lingering glance, as if to see if anything was wrong. “All right then, well if you change your mind then you can call the restaurant with your suite's phone. Have a good day, ma'am.” His tone was polite but there was a minuscule, albeit well hidden, curtness that hadn't been there earlier. As he started to push the cart away it suddenly dawned on Angela what had caused the change. “Oh, right! Giving waiters a tip is the custom in America. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to spurn you. We don't usually tip waiters in Switzerland so it's not something I'm accustomed to doing.” She turned her head to look towards the bedroom where her wallet was. “Umm... I actually don't have any cash on me right now. Are you working here tomorrow morning?” “Yes, ma'am.” “Okay well I'll go visit an ATM later today and I'll tip you for this tomorrow morning. How much do waiters expect? Ten dollars?” “Typically waiters hope to get twenty percent of the final bill, ma'am. But people can tip more or less depending on how good they feel the service was. If I may ask, out of curiosity, how does Switzerland do it? Service charge?” “I've never worked as a waiter but that sounds right to me. I think it's included in the cost of the meal but we can round up to the nearest franc if we choose.” “I've got to get back to work, ma'am, but thank you for being understanding. Have a good day, ma'am.” The waiter grabbed a hold of the cart and headed out of the suite into the hallway, shutting the door behind him. After he had gone Angela glanced at the rest of what he had brought her. Steam was rising out of a cup of black liquid along with a glass of apple juice and another glass containing almond milk. A bowl of cottage cheese and blackberries sat next to an unpeeled banana and for dessert there was a flaky pastry that she knew had chocolate at its core. Angela shook her head a little at the amount of food she had been brought. “Is this really how much Americans eat for breakfast?” Angela asked the empty room. Even so Angela wasn't sure when she'd have another chance to eat today so she knew she was going to eat it all and pay for it later. Once she was done with that there was a folder she needed to review for her meeting tomorrow. When Angela's car pulled into a parking spot the next morning John Schiff was already waiting for her. She got out of the car, a tan folder in hand. As she approached the lawyer her eyes flicked up towards the building they were standing in front of. She had looked the place up while on her way here. The Dirksen building, named after some senator, was a rectangular structure made of stone so white it almost looked to have been bleached. Skinny windows that nearly ran from ground level up to its roof were evenly spaced along the side she could see and the front door was made of glass and weathered yellowed wood. John moved towards her and held his hand out for a handshake. “Today's the day, Doctor Ziegler. Are you ready?” Angela eyed the door nervously for a moment before taking a deep breath and squaring her shoulders. “As ready as I'm going to be.” She moved forward towards the doors and pushing one open as she headed inside towards where the senators were waiting. A security guard was seated behind a desk in the building's lobby on the other side of a metal detector. Angela set her phone, keys and wallet in a tray before passing through the detector with a mental shake of the head at the security measure. The guard glanced up as she approached the desk. “May I help you?” “Yes, I'm here to meet with Senator Miller. My appointment's at ten-thirty.” The guard looked down at something on his desk and Angela could hear him opening a book and turning the page. “Doctor Ziegler? Your meeting is in room one forty. It's down that hall and on the left.” When they arrived at the room in question it was empty aside from a dark brown oval table with leather chairs all around it. Angela gave John a questioning glance and he shrugged. “I said they would probably keep you waiting. Nothing we can do about it but... wait.” He took a seat and Angela followed suit, putting the room's door in front of her. A few minutes later the door opened again, two men, one of them holding papers in his hands, filing into the room. The shorter of the two, a bald man stepped up to the table and held his hand out to Angela. “Miss Ziegler, I'm Senator Miller, the majority leader of the HELP committee. It's a pleasure to meet you.” “It's Doctor Ziegler. Thank you for seeing me, Senator.” Miller hesitated briefly before letting go of her hand and sitting down. “My apologies, Doctor Ziegler. This is Senator Brown, the minority leader of the HELP committee.” Miller gave John a glance and John returned the glance with a faint grin that seemed almost amused. The senator cleared his throat and adjusted himself in his seat before returning his attention to Angela. “I appreciate you coming to Washington on such short notice, Doctor Ziegler. However, let me apologize for denying your application to the FDA. It's not something I wanted to do. To be honest I very much wanted to approve your application but we had to deny it so that we had a plausible excuse to invite you to Washington. Purely for the sake of public appearances and all that jazz.” “I'm afraid I don't follow. If you wanted to approve my application then you could have easily done so. If you wanted to invite me to Washington then you could have just made a phone call. Why the deception?” Angela asked, more brusquely than she had intended. “Nano-bots are a fantastic invention, Doctor Ziegler and you've done a great deal with them already but we feel that you could be doing more.” Miller earnestly said. “Like what?” Miller turned his head towards Brown and the other senator pulled out a set of papers that had been stapled together from his folder and slid it across the table to Angela. “If you'll sign these, Doctor Ziegler.” Miller requested. Angela looked at the documents for a moment before sliding them over to John. “I'm not familiar with your country's laws so I'm not comfortable signing anything until I know what it is. Would you look this over for me, Mr. Schiff?” “Gladly. It'll take me a few minutes.” John said as he reached into his suit and pulled out a pair of reading glasses. “I'm sure the senators won't mind waiting.” Angela said with a polite smile toward the two men on the other side of the table. Miller returned the smile whereas Brown didn't react at all. John hummed quietly to himself as he pored over the document for several minutes. Eventually he got through the last page and signed his name at the bottom of it. “There's nothing to be concerned about. It's an NDA that states everything discussed in this meeting is confidential and that a breach will be prosecuted.” He slid the papers back to Angela and held his pen out to her. She took it and signed her name below his before handing the pen back. “So, what exactly do you think I could be doing with the nano-bots?” “I've been following your work since you were conducting human trials and one thing I've noticed is that all of your nano-bots have gone to hospitals. One of the things I wanted to discuss with you was the possibility of providing nano-bots to our military doctors. Soldier's are more likely to encounter severe trauma than your average civilian and having nano-bots in the field would help mitigate of those wounds.” John stirred and a shadowed look passed over his face at that but he said nothing. Miller didn't seem to have noticed as he continued speaking. “A second thing is that we're interested in researching other ways to deliver your nano-bots.” Giving her nano-bots to the US military and developing other delivery mechanisms. She had been asked about the possibility of providing her nano-bots to militaries by other countries but Angela had always rejected that request. The odd thing here was asking about other delivery mechanisms. As she sat there her thoughts began moving faster and faster as she started weighing possible reasons behind such a request. Then the fact that they had asked it after talking about military applications shoved its way to the front of said thoughts. “You want to weaponize nano-biotics.” Angela said, her lips flattening in disapproval. “I'm not sure-” Miller began but Angela quickly cut him off. “Don't try to hide it!” Angela slammed her hands down on the table and stood up as she began to berate them. “That's the only reason for wanting an alternative delivery mechanism. Let me save you some trouble. The answer is no. I created nano-biotics to save lives. You've got a lot of nerve and frankly I'm disgusted that you'd think to try and turn them into a weapon. ” She started to step back from the table but Brown chose that moment to pipe up. “Don't be naive, Doctor Ziegler. You think we're the only country who's thought about it? I can tell you right now that we're not. Do you really think it hasn't occurred to China or the Russians? I'd even bet good money that one of the Ministries in Oasis is trying to reverse engineer nano-biotics as we speak. The difference between us and them is that we came to you instead of doing it on our own. It's only a matter of time until someone reverse engineers your work so the question is whether or not you'll help us get there first.” Angela stared at the second senator for a long moment before shaking her head. “No. I created nano-biotics to save lives, not to take them. If you want to go down that road then you're going to do it without me and the blood that comes with it will be on your hands. Not mine.” Without another word she headed for the door and slammed it shut behind her. As she stormed down the hall John exited the room and hurried after her. “Doctor Ziegler. Doctor Ziegler. Wait!” As she slowed to a halt John closed the distance between them and she glared balefully at him. “What?” “I know you're angry and I understand why. Really I do. But there's a lot of people in this country who could use your help.” “Including you?” “Yes, including me. You're right, I'm not impartial, but right now we still have a chance to figure out a compromise. That's the whole point of negotiations, but if you walk away now then there's three hundred and fifty million people who won't have access to nano-biotics in America.” The doctor stood there for a moment as she looked at John. Then she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek suddenly. “In America. Thank you for your help Mr. Schiff. I'll make sure you receive a bonus for your hard work.” She turned and strode off, leaving a suddenly bewildered lawyer behind her as she pulled out her phone. Angela's fingers began tapping out a message. A: Meeting went badly and we're not going to get approved by the FDA. Can't say what went wrong because I signed an NDA. We're not going to just forget the Americans though. Here's what we're going to do. Make sure that our applications to Canada, Mexico and all the countries in the Caribbean go through. Once that's done reallocate the nano-bot's we've been stockpiling for the US to those countries and start reaching out to airlines and hotels. I want to start setting up deals for American citizens so they can travel abroad, at a discounted rate, and have surgeries done outside the US. Medical tourism kind of stuff. Almost immediately her phone buzzed in response. It was late in the evening back in Switzerland but Cedric still had his business phone on him. Knowing her second he probably would have stayed up this evening until he had heard from her. C: What if the hotels and airlines aren't willing to offer a discount? They might anticipate an increase in traffic from the US and not want to lower their prices. A: There's plenty of hotels out there and one of the airlines will be willing to do this if we go public with this. Run fundraisers and PR campaigns, slam the FDA and US government, appeal to philanthropic billionaires, that sort of thing. C: This won't be easy but I think it's possible. Do you think there's a chance the US government will come around or are the negotiations dead? A: They're dead for now but Senators can be replaced. If / when they are we can come back to the table and see if they're more reasonable than they were today. C: Is that everything, Doctor Ziegler? A: Almost, reschedule my flight to tomorrow morning. There's no reason for me to stay here any longer. Send me the information when that's done. Angela flipped away from the conversation with Cedric to another person on her phone. A: I'll be heading back to Geneva tomorrow so I'll be seeing you soon. There wasn't a response right away but doubtless the news would put a smile on Fareeha's face when she read the message. For right now it was putting a smile on hers in spite of the way this day had gone. At least she would be out of this country and on her way home soon enough.  

Chapter 12 - Chapter 12

After she had finished entering a destination into her car's computer Angela's head thumped against her headrest and she let out a weary sigh. “Next time I'm over here I'm making your mother play chess with me so I can get revenge. That was brutal. Is she always that cutthroat when she plays board games?” The car pulled onto the street as it started on the route back to Fareeha's house once again. “My mum is pretty competitive.” Fareeha admitted. “If I had known she was going to pull out one of her games I would have warned. Jack and I learned to try and avoid playing with her whenever possible a long time ago. It could have been worse though. She's part of a group that meets once a week and they're all just as bad as her.” Fareeha said with a laugh and shake of her head. “In that case I'm definitely not going to be joining them. Getting smashed that badly by just Ana was bad enough. I don't think an entire group of players like that would be any fun for me.” Angela fell silent for a few moments as the car continued to speed along. “How did today go? You know Ana and Jack better than me. I want to believe that I made a decent impression, but it really doesn't feel like I did...” “It's not as bad as you think.” Fareeha reached over to take Angela's right hand in hers and squeezed it reassuringly. “I mean it didn't go great, but it wasn't completely horrible if that's what you're thinking. Mum was always going to be weirded out by me bringing a 'client' home, but she'll get used to you being a part of our lives soon enough. As for the rest of it... I'd say you hashed things out pretty well. The most important thing is that you stood up for yourself and your beliefs. They'll respect that even if they don't agree with you on some issues. I think for now it's best to give them some space to think it over. Next time things will go better I promise.” “Hopefully that won't be for a while. After the last week or so I really need to clear my head...” As she finished speaking Angela could feel herself becoming painfully aware of the woman sitting just a short distance away. She raised her right hand upwards before slipping it free from Fareeha's grasp then took a hold of the other woman's wrist and placed Fareeha's palm against the side of her breast. “And I think I might know how to do that.” Fareeha left her hand where Angela had placed it, relishing the pleasant softness beneath her fingertips. “A session? Kinda short notice... but I think I can accommodate that. Anything in particular you want me to do to you?” asked Fareeha in a not quite breathless whisper. “Mmm not exactly. I had a fair amount of time on my hands while I was in Washington so I got around to reading up on roles in BDSM and the entry about switches caught my eye.” Fareeha blinked as Angela's words sank in, their implication being immediately obvious to her. In any given bondage session there were two roles, namely top and bottom. The person or persons filling the role of bottom were the ones giving up control and the top was the one who had it. A substantial portion of the BDSM community tended to fall squarely into one of those two categories but there was another substantial portion that could, and did, perform either role depending on what they felt like doing on any given day. Switches. “You want to try topping me, Angela?” Angela glanced down at her lap before looking back over at Fareeha. “I've had a lot of fun being the bottom in our sessions and I want to keep doing it. I don't know if I'll even like being a top, but I think it's something I should try at least once.” “That's not a bad idea.” Fareeha said as she reached down with her free hand to the seat controls on her right side. A twist of a dial later and the massage units embedded in the chair began lightly vibrating against her back. “Even if you don't enjoy being a top it'll give you a better understanding of what it's like from my perspective. I haven't been a bottom in a very long time so this will be a good refresher of how it feels to be on the other side.” Her fingers gave a light squeeze before retreating from Angela's breast. “We still have a few minutes before getting back to my place so try to figure out what you actually want to do to me.” Angela's cheeks reddened from more than just the touch and she hastily turned her head to look out the window at the other cars on the road. What did she want to do? That wasn't a question she hadn't asked herself yet. The times she had thought about this had all been focused on creating an argument for why Fareeha should agree to and then none of them had been needed. Now she only had minutes to try and figure it out. Angela closed her eyes, slowly inhaled then exhaled, and started walking her way backwards through the prior sessions she and Fareeha had done, the most accessible source of ideas available to her at the moment. All too soon the car was pulling into the driveway of Fareeha's house and coming to a halt. The home's owner flashed a grin at Angela. “Can't wait to see what you came up with. I'll take care of Jonesy while you get things set up in my bedroom.” They had barely gotten through the door and out of their shoes when Fareeha's cat was bounding towards them from somewhere deeper inside the house. Jonesy meowed once then flopped onto her side and curled her paws down as she exposed her fluff covered stomach. Fareeha crouched down, burying her fingers in the animal's fur as she rubbed its belly. “Hey there kitty, did you miss your mom? Come on, I'll get you something to eat.” Jonesy immediately shot back onto her feet and meowed repeatedly as she followed Fareeha into the kitchen while Angela headed towards Fareeha's room. When Fareeha entered her room a couple of minutes later Angela was waiting for her. Several coils of red rope were laid out next to each other on the bed as well as a vibrator wand with a bulbous head. “Green. Hello, Miss Amari. It's about time you showed up for your physical.” Fareeha came to a dead stop and she stared blankly at Angela for several seconds before starting to giggle. “Y-yellow. That's what... you came up... with?” Fareeha forced out in-between bouts of giggling. A rigid scowl crossed Angela's face and she snapped her fingers and imperiously pointed a spot on the ground in front of her. “You think this is a joke? You should take your health more seriously. Stand right there and take off your clothes.” Fareeha paused for a moment before mentally shrugging and taking a long step so that she was on the spot indicated. She grabbed the hem of her sweater and pulled it up and off her head. Her pants were quick to follow and she put a hand on her hip while looking at Angela. “Underwear too?” “All right of it, including your socks, then open your mouth.” Angela ordered in a stern tone and she drummed her fingers impatiently on her arm while waiting. A moment later and Fareeha had finished stripping down and opened her jaw up. Angela stepped closer and slid her index finger into the other woman's mouth. “Let's take a look at these teeth.” Her finger began brushing against the tops of Fareeha's incisors and canines before moving on further back. When it started to rub the surfaces of Fareeha's molars Fareeha began to gag and she grabbed Angela's wrist and forcibly pulled Angela's finger from her mouth. She took a step backwards and bent over, putting her hands on her knees, whilst trying not to dry heave. Angela's eyes widened and she started to step forward but Fareeha held one finger up. After a moment she stood upright with a shudder. “Yellow. Okay, let's not do that again. Try something else. Green.” “I... okay...” Angela moved forward past Fareeha then turned around. Her voice wavered as she spoke but there was a note of determination in it. She rested her chin on Fareeha's shoulder and her arms circled themselves around Fareeha's stomach. “One of the most important checks a woman should have done when visiting their doctor is a breast exam. Lucky for you I'm a doctor so let's see if I can find any lumps.” Fareeha rolled her eyes and pressed her lips together to keep from giggling again. However she remained still as Angela's hands pressed themselves flat against her stomach before beginning to move. Angela's fingers remained still, stiffly held together, as she used her palms to push into Fareeha's torso. They methodically shifted higher until they were grazing the underside of her breasts. Fareeha let out a quiet murmur and her eyes slowly began to close as Angela's hands continued roaming upwards, their pressure never increasing or decreasing. “I thought you were a surgeon. Have you done this before?” “Shut up, you.” Angela's hands abruptly stopped what they were doing and, in a single swift motion, pinched both of Fareeha's nipples between her thumb and index finger. Fareeha yelped and she shoved Angela's hands to the side before lurching away from the doctor. “Shit! Yellow! Ow, ow, ow, ow.” The doctor's face turned red and she grabbed her bicep as she looked down at the ground while Fareeha gingerly rubbed at her chest. “Are you all right? I didn't mean to actually hurt you... I'm really screwing this up aren't I?” Fareeha let out a short sigh and she stepped towards Angela, taking the blonde woman in her arms. Angela quickly dropped her forehead onto Fareeha's shoulder. “Kinda, yeah. It's all right though. Being a top isn't easy and I'd be moresurprised if you hadn't made mistakes, Angela.” “There were more than those two?” “There was. You said green at the beginning but you forget to say it the first time I paused the session. Instead you stayed in character and kept going even though I had said yellow. The biggest error was that we didn't have a negotiation. I didn't get the chance to explain my limits or say what I was willing to do. Last thing is that... well you roleplaying as a doctor was really corny and kinda off-putting because you actually are a doctor.” “I suppose.” Angela mumbled into Fareeha's shoulder. “I just couldn't think of anything so I guess I fell back on what I know. I don't think I like being a top. Being the bottom is a lot more fun for me. You're not upset about how this went are you?” Fareeha quickly shook her head and gave Angela a reassuring squeeze. “No, not at all. I mean it didn't go great, but there's nothing wrong with that. I'm actually glad you wanted to try your hand at being a top. It shows that you're taking a greater interest in our sessions. You're actively researching BDSM and seeing what you'd like to try instead of just letting me come up with things to do to you.” She pressed her lips to the crown of Angela's head before placing her fingers under her chin and tilting her face up. “Now then, I'm not sure if you noticed, but I said yellow so the session isn't over yet. I want you to tie me to the bed and use that vibrator on me.” The doctor's eyes widened and her mouth formed a small o shape as Fareeha walked backwards a few paces. When she reached the end of her bed Fareeha lowered herself to sit on her rear with her legs out in front of her. She stretched her hands out to either side, pressing them against the metal rods that made up the footboard. Lastly she spread her knees apart so that her parts in the very middle between them were plain to see. Angela started to move forward but Fareeha pointed at one of the boxes. “I think the safety scissors are in there. Get them out then I'll talk you through the hitch to tie my wrists.” Once Angela had retrieved the ropes and scissors Fareeha began to walk her through each step of the hitch, a task she completed without any difficulty and surprisingly quickly. Fareeha eyed the knots suspiciously and tugged with both hands to test them. There was some slack in the rope running between her wrist and footboard but the sections coiled around each of those were sufficiently tight. She had some room to pull, but not enough that she could undo the knots on her own. “If I didn't know better I'd say you've done this before. These are good single column ties.” “This isn't a knot I've done before, but surgeons tie their share of knots so I sorta know what I'm doing.” Angela said, looking more than a little gratified that she had done something correctly here. She rose up to her feet and leaned forward over the bed as she grabbed the vibrator and turned back to Fareeha. “Are you ready?” “Green.” Angela set the toy to its lowest setting and hit the power button before setting it against Fareeha's groin. The olive skinned woman's hips twitched as the vibrations hit her. “Ohhh... I was starting to forget what this thing felt like.” Fareeha groaned. Angela gave a small smile and turned the vibrator up a level and adjusted the device so it was better positioned against Fareeha's clit. As the vibrations grew stronger Fareeha continued to moan and her head started rotating from one side to the other as her fingers clenched onto the rope. “Ahhh... ahhh...haaah... more... I need more!” All too happy to oblige, Angela turned the vibrator up another notch and pressed it even harder against Fareeha than before. Almost immediately Fareeha began panting and her knuckles started to whiten as she gripped the rope even harder. She shook her head to clear a few stray locks of hair off of her face and her dark eyes made their way to the doctor's face. “Just a... aaaaah... little longer... oh shit!” Fareeha's hips rose a few centimeters up off the ground and her arms strained against the ropes for a moment before she sank back down to the carpet. Her head hung down for several seconds before she looked up at Angela. “Okay... after you untie me I need you to go the kitchen and get me some chocolate. They're in the cabinet next to the fridge. Then you come back and cuddle me.” When Angela came back Jonesy was following her, toy banana in the cat's mouth and Fareeha was just exiting the bathroom. Fareeha climbed onto the bed then lay down on her side. Angela handed the chocolate bars to Fareeha before lying next to her. Not content to be left out Jonesy vaulted up onto the bed before curling into a ball down by their feet, one paw just barely touching Fareeha's ankle. “So how did the end feel for you there, Angela? Knowing that I'm putting myself into your hands, trusting in you. Letting you tie me up so that I'm in your control. Watching the expressions on my face, hearing me moan, having me beg and being able to give or deny pleasure as you see fit. You can forget the rest of that session. You wanted to try being a top and I think you got a real taste of it at the end so... how did it feel?” As she waited for a response Fareeha ripped open one of the chocolate bars and bit one corner off. “It... I think I have a better idea about what people get out of being a top now.” She wriggled closer to Fareeha and put her arms around the other woman's stomach, enjoying the warmth radiating from her. “But it's not for me. I'm your bottom and you're my top from now on.” Fareeha turned her head to look over her shoulder at Angela and her chocolate stained lips parted as she smiled. “I adore you.” “I adore you too.”  

Chapter 6 - Chapter 6

Angela's lips flattened in disapproval as she stared at the board that listed the prices for parking in this hotel's garage. It was price gouging to be sure but the alternative was roaming around a city she didn't know in search of a decent parking lot. She let out a sigh and hit a button on her vehicle's console to make it go find a parking spot. Once it had found a spot she hit a second button and got out. Angela grabbed her suitcase from the rear seats before trudging towards the elevator, her suitcase's wheels reverberating off the underground garage's cement walls. A short walk through a courtyard in the middle of the building brought her to the lobby itself. Cherry blossom trees sitting in pots stood next to glossy marble pillars and golden lamps hung from the ceiling on chains. The curved front desk itself was made from the same kind of marble as the pillars and a length of dark wood ran all along atop of the stone. Behind it stood a pair of women dressed in business suits and behind them was a cabinet containing hundreds of square slots for mail. Angela crossed the lobby and stopped in front of the desk. “Hello, I'm here to check in.” “Do you have a reservation?” “Yes. It's under Ziegler.' “Just a moment.” The woman said before looking at her computer screen as she typed on her keyboard. After a moment she handed a black key card to Angela with a smile. “Welcome to the Willard. Your room is three-forty. I hope you enjoy your stay, Doctor Ziegler.” Angela started to turn away but stopped and turned back towards the receptionist. “I have a question if you don't mind. Do you know if there's any good restaurants nearby?” “There are a few I can recommend, but you don't have to travel if you don't want to. The Willard has several restaurants on site and we offer in-room dining twenty four hours a day. However I must insist that you stop by the Round Robin Bar while you're here. It's been here since the hotel was built in eighteen-forty-seven and was a favorite for many of our most famous patrons. There's not a lot in the way of food but the cocktails and the bartender's stories more than make up for it.” “Thank you.” Angela said before heading off to the elevators. A short ride later and she was on the third floor. She started to stride down the hallway but slowed to a halt at the sight of the first door. Above the room number was a metal plaque that read 'Martin Luther King, Jr. Suite'. Out of curiosity Angela pulled out her phone and began typing. A quick search for the name and Willard was enough to answer her question. That room was where the civil rights activist had stayed during his march on Washington all those decades ago. The lobby she had just left had been where the finishing touches to his iconic speech had been made and hours later he delivered it on the stairs of the Lincoln Memorial. Angela shivered and she hurried away as if something was nipping at her heels. She unlocked the door to her room and stuck her suitcase in the dark room before closing the door again. On her way back down the hall Angela averted her eyes from a particular door as she headed back into the elevator. Another search on her phone showed her where the bar was and Angela headed through the lobby again on her way to it. Portraits in squares of four hung next to forest green panels. Wooden chairs with leather padding placed next to round marble tables around the room's perimeter save for one side where the chairs faced a red leather sofa over square marble tables. A circular counter dominated the center of the room itself. Chairs surrounded it on the outside buts its core was hollowed out to make room for the bartender and a round cabinet full of expensive alcohol along with all the paraphernalia used to make and serve them. Multiple people were already scattered throughout the room, several of them at the bar counter itself. Angela moved towards an empty end and seated herself in the tall chair. The bartender moved towards immediately. “May I see some ID?” She dug in her pocket and pulled out her wallet and held it up for the bartender to look at. “Switzerland, huh? Is this your first time visiting the states?” “It is, yes.” “Well then, welcome to America. You here on business or are you taking a vacation?” “Business.” As soon as the word left her lips the bartender nodded briskly and handed her a menu, his demeanor cooling just a tad. “The Henry Clay is our signature cocktail but there's several options for you to choose from.” The Henry Clay turned out to be a mint julep though she didn't have the faintest idea who Henry Clay was. Some of the other names on the menu turned out to be more familiar to her. Mark Twain was a whiskey with bitters and vermouth, Walt Whitman was a vodka cocktail, Charles Dickens was a gin and tonic. Angela turned the menu over and looked at the food options on the back. “I'll try the Henry Clay and a… patata brava.” “Sure thing, Doctor Ziegler. Just so you know food is prepared in the Willard kitchen so it'll take them a couple of minutes to bring it over here once it's done.” He picked the menu up and stored it behind the bar again before meandering over to his computer screen and pressing buttons on it. Once he was done he moved to the other side of the bar and she could hear ice clinking against glass. A minute later and he came back with a highball glass garnished with a spring of mint in hand which he set down in front of her. It was full of crushed ice and had several mint leaves near the middle of the drink. To Angela's surprise the liquid was a dark green near the bottom but grew lighter as it approached the rim of the glass which had ice dusted with sugar sticking out of it. “Let me know if you need anything else, Doctor Ziegler.” As the bartender wandered off Angela lifted the glass and took a sip from the straw sticking out of it. The drink was a little sugary for her taste but it wasn't hard to see why the bartender had described this as their signature cocktail. As she set the glass down a polite cough came from behind her and she glanced over her shoulder to see what it was. A middle aged man dressed in a suit without any wrinkles was standing there. His hair was dark brown and he had dark blue eyes peering out from between sharp cheekbones and an angular jawline. “Excuse me, I couldn't help but overhear Tom say 'Doctor Ziegler'.” His voice had lost much of its accent but there was still enough left over for Angela to identify him as a Spaniard. “You are Angela Ziegler, the doctor from Switzerland yes?” Angela put a hand on the bar and pushed her chair around so that she was facing him. “I am, yes. Have we met?” “No, I'm afraid I have not had that pleasure. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Diego Molina, Spain's ambassador to the United States.” Angela extended her hand for him to shake but he took her hand in his and pressed his lips to the back of it in one smooth motion. “I apologize for the intrusion but I wanted to express my country's gratitude for your invention. We have seen an increase in the quality of our citizen's lives and your nano-bots have eased the burden on our healthcare system. It's still early in the year but our experts are predicting a savings of four billion dollars which can be reallocated to improving other areas of our infrastructure.” Angela's lips made a circle as she silently mouthed the word 'oh', the number he had dropped rendering her momentarily speechless. “You're... you're very welcome. It's always nice to hear my bots are doing some good.” Diego let go of her hand and his eyes flicked towards the other people in the bar and his next sentence came out in French instead of English. 'I heard the news about the FDA. If there is anything I can do to help don't be afraid to ask.' 'Thank you for the offer. I hired a firm to help me with this matter so I should be fine.' 'That is good to hear. A word of advice though. Americans can be quite obstinate and hotheaded when they think it will benefit them. Do not be alarmed if they choose to walk away from the table. More than likely that will be be a ploy to win concessions from you.' Diego glanced around the bar before switching back to English with his next sentence. “Have you been to the Round Robin before? It's a favorite haunt of mine so perhaps I could tell you some of its history if you'd like.” Angela hesitated for a moment before taking another sip and shrugging. “Why not.” Diego waited until she had stood and grabbed her drink before pointing at a pair of portraits nearby. “Henry Willard, on the right, founded the current building here in eighteen-forty-seven and it was designed by Henry Hardenbergh on the left there.” He led her to another set of portraits. “Ever since then the Round Robin has been a fixture in Washington. It's said that every president since Zachary Taylor has stayed at the Willard at one time or another. This is Woodrow Wilson, Calvin Coolidge, Warren Harding and last but not least, Abraham Lincoln there.” “You seem to know an awful lot about a bar in another country. I might be concerned if I was a Spanish citizen.” Angela dryly remarked before taking another drink. Diego chuckled and pointed at yet more portraits. “I can understand that, but this isn't just another bar. If you want to rub shoulders with Washington's movers and shakers this is an excellent place to do it. I'm actually here for a meeting with the Secretary of State's chief of staff, but he's running late. Perhaps you might recognize these people over there.” “That's Mark Twain, right?” Diego nodded and Angela glanced at the next one. “Charles Dickens and that's Walt Whitman. I'm not sure who that is.” “That would be Nathaniel Hawthorne. He stayed here while covering the American Civil War. I can't quote him word for word but he described the Willard as the true center of Washington over the White House or State Department even.” “There don't seem to be any women in these pictures.” Angela stated as she looked at the drawings of the four writers. “Just men.” Diego turned slightly and gestured over towards portraits above the couch. “There's a portrait of Alice Roosevelt Longworth over there, but you're right. You're a guest of the hotel right now, I assume, so perhaps one day your portrait will hang next to hers.” Angela's polite smile froze on her face and her cup halted halfway to her lips as Diego's statement sunk in. She had never heard of the Willard before today, much less known that the hotel would grant some of its more famous patrons immortality of a sorts. If it had been her choice then that fact would have sent her somewhere else, but she hadn't been the one to pick this hotel. Her second, Cedric, had been the one to approve this place. Now that she was here, Angela wondered if he might have chosen the Willard for that very reason. If Diego had noticed her change in demeanor he gave no sign of it or perhaps was merely choosing to let the awkward pause slip by unnoticed. “I would like to stay and talk further, but the woman I'm waiting for just arrived. How long are you staying in Washington? One of the charities in town is hosting a gala in a week and I would be honored if you cared to accompany me.” Angela kicked herself mentally and forced her smile back to normal. “Thank you, but no. I'm not staying for more than a few days. This whole trip is business.” “The loss is mine then it seems.” Diego said, not appearing bothered at all by being turned down. “I do hope you find the time to see some of the sights before you go. There is a great deal of history here in Washington. Good day, Doctor Ziegler.” As Angela sat back down in her chair she could see Alice Roosevelt Longsworth gazing back at her. Diego was right. There was history everywhere in Washington, even the bars had it. Whether or not she was going to end up a part of it... that a question she didn't want to think about.  

Chapter 13 - Chapter 13

When Fareeha opened her eyes a pair of blue orbs were staring very intently at her, but they didn't belong to the woman who had slept beside her last night. Instead they belonged to the furry lump of a feline sitting atop her chest. The moment her eyes opened Jonesy meowed and put one of her paws on Fareeha's face. “Okay, okay. I'm awake, I'm awake.” Fareeha murmured. “Let me get dressed then I'll get you breakfast.” Jonesy meowed a second time but she climbed down off of Fareeha before hopping off the bed and trotted to the door, her tail held up in the air. Fareeha grabbed the first top, a plain black tee shirt, she saw in her closet and a pair of blue jeans to put on. She shuffled down the hallway while rubbing her eyes as she headed to the pantry. Fareeha grabbed a metal can of cat food off the shelf and pulled the lid off before unceremoniously dumping the wet food into a red plastic dish sitting on the floor. Jonesy scurried forward and began to scarf down her breakfast. As Fareeha straightened up she could just barely hear an unfamiliar voice coming from beyond the kitchen. She gave her cat a glance before turning and heading toward the voice's source. Angela was standing in the living room, her hands held close to her chest in distress, as she stared at the television and the female news anchor on it. A box appeared on the right side of the screen, continually changing what was displayed on it as the anchor continued to speak. “... allegations against Senator Brown and Senator Miller has caused an uproar not only in Washington but all across the nation. Students at dozens of colleges began protesting yesterday evening and their numbers have only grown overnight. The protests have been mostly peaceful so far, but protesters in Berkeley started several fires and a number of businesses have been broken into. Police forces were able to disperse the crowds allowing firefighters to prevent the fires from spreading. There have also been further riots in Oakland, Portland, and New York City. Riot police managed to contain the situation and there have been multiple arrests so far, likely numbering in the hundreds. There have also been numerous injuries, but no fatalities have been reported so far. The most significant protest, however, has been the one in Washington DC today. The event had already been planned but the outcome has been nothing short of stunning. Estimates of the march's size by experts had been numbering around one to two hundred thousand but those numbers have fallen far short. Estimates of the march's actual size are still being gathered but the unofficial consensus thus far places the total number of attendees at over a million. That would make this the largest protest in the US in the last thirty years as well as making it one of the largest in US history. There have also been demonstrations outside multiple US embassies across the globe.” “Senator Brown and Senator Miller have made no public comment on the accusations against them but House Minority leaders have stated they intend to fully investigate the matter. Yesterday Angela Ziegler released a short statem-.” The television fell silent as the screen went black and Fareeha could see her reflection next to Angela's on it. “Are you doing all right, Angela?” She gently asked. “No... not really. People are getting hurt or getting arrested over there because they're angry for the same reason I'm angry. I want the Americans to have access to nano-biotics but their government is preventing that from happening.” “Is there anything can I do to help? Not with that, though, I don't think there's anything I can do to help out there.” Fareeha waved at the television. “With you. I can make you breakfast or order something to eat if you feel like it.” Angela just shook her head and let out an exasperated breath before turning to face Fareeha. “I already ate, but thanks for the offer. I'm not mad at you just so you know. I knew the Americans might turn me down and I made plans for that, but this is still so frustrating. All I can do right now is sit and wait until my foundation puts the plans I made into motion. If you really want to help then just put up with me while I'm dealing with crazy governments.” Angela said with a smile meant to be reassuring. Fareeha gave an uneasy smile in return and she moved to sit down on the couch. “Is what they're saying on the news true? The US wanted to use your nano-bots to make weapons?” “I signed an NDA so I can't legally answer that...” Angela replied as she sat down next to Fareeha. “But if the rumors are true, and I'm not saying they are, then I wouldn't be willing to continue negotiating with them. I'd probably just leave and go home.” Angela gave Fareeha a meaningful look as she finished speaking. “So what are you doing about it, Angela?” “If I can't go to the Americans then the Americans will have to come to me. Medical tourism has been an industry for a long time and there's plenty of countries who would be happy for Americans to pay their hospitals a visit so long as they bring their wallets.” Angela shook her head and scooted towards Fareeha, dropping her head onto the other woman's shoulder as she began to cuddle her. “I don't want to keep thinking about this though. I want to talk about you. What are your plans, Fareeha?” “Well... I was thinking about going back to work tomorrow.” Angela shot upright and she looked down at her knees while hugging her arms to her sides. “Oh... that's great.” Fareeha looked at Angela for a moment, her heart suddenly heavy, and she pushed herself closer to the doctor and put an arm around her shoulders. “I know you're not a fan of the idea, but we've talked about this before. I've already set some limitations on the stuff I'll do to make you more comfortable with it and I'm going to stick to them.” “I know and I believe what you're saying. It just feels weird having to share you with complete strangers. Maybe that makes me a hypocrite, but it's just how I feel.” “But you're not sharing me with them. Yes, I top for people at work, but it's purely a financial arrangement, not emotional. At the end of the day you're my partner. Topping for you is completely different than topping for them and that's not going to change. I don't adore them, I adore you.” Angela smiled for a moment and she started to lean back against Fareeha's shoulder. “I think your mother has the right idea in not talking about your job. I'm not going to forget what you do, but if I don't think about it as much then maybe I won't be so possessive. Let's talk about something else.” As if on cue, Jonesy trotted into the room, straight up to the couch and jumped upwards onto it. She climbed over Angela's legs before sitting down between the two women and resting her chin on Fareeha's thigh. Angela reached down to scratch behind the cat's ears. “Tell me about Jonesy. How old is she and where did you get her?” “The vet thinks she's about six years old, but he's not sure about that. Her teeth were pretty clean when I got her so it's hard to really say, but I've had her for two years though. I found her at a shelter, but it's more accurate to say she found me. When I got there I was thinking of getting a kitten, but Jonesy had other ideas. One of the volunteers was showing me around the place and they have these little gardens that the cats can hang out in. Jonesy was outside in her garden when she saw me. Right away she ran up to the fence and climbed up it before sticking a paw through to try and touch me. At that point I couldn't say no and she's been my chubby-butt ever since.” Fareeha said with a small smile as she absentmindedly petted the cat. “Awwww, that's so sweet!” Angela cooed as she continued scratching the cat's head. “I didn't know cats could pick people like that.” “A lot of cats have a favorite person, but cats acting like Jonesy did is a lot less common.” As Fareeha finished speaking Angela's phone began to buzz in her pocket and she pulled it out. A text message from Cedric was on the screen. C: Sorry for the short notice but I just received a call from John Schiff. He's asking to set up a video call with you as soon as possible. Would you be interested in speaking with him or should I turn him down? He seemed somewhat anxious but I'm uncertain as to why. Angela frowned at her phone before leaning away from Fareeha. “I'm sorry but-” “Work getting in the way again?” Fareeha asked with a small knowing grin. “Yes.” Angela groaned as she stood up. “I really want to stay, but I don't know how long this is going to take.” Fareeha gently moved the cat's chin off her thigh before standing up as well. She wrapped her arms around the doctor while planting a quick kiss on her cheek. “If you have to go, you have to go. I get it and I'll be waiting for you to come back.” Angela rested her fingers on Fareeha's cheek for a moment as she gazed into those dark eyes before reluctantly stepping away. “Thank you for being so understanding.” An hour later Angela was seated behind a heavy dark russet desk made of maple wood back in the office room at her house. Her face had been washed and lightly coated in just enough makeup so as to look at least somewhat professional. She was wearing a white dress shirt with long sleeves but all she had on beneath the legs was a pair of boyshorts. Angela reached up to adjust the camera located on top of her computer monitor while looking at her picture on the screen. Once she had made sure that her lower half couldn't be seen Angela tapped on the monitor. John Schiff appeared on the screen, beard and all, in front of her. The man's shirt had more than its share of wrinkles and his eyes looked tired. “Hello, Doctor Ziegler. Thanks for taking my call on such short notice.” Angela glanced down at the clock in the bottom right of her monitor before mentally subtracting several hours. “It's not a problem, but couldn't this have waited until later? It's two in the morning over there, isn't it? You should be in bed.” John's hand made a brief appearance as he checked the back of his wrist before shrugging. “I guess it is. I've gotten used to late evenings since I started working in Washington. As for waiting, I suppose I could have, but I didn't want to wait any longer than necessary to speak to you.” Angela suppressed the urge to frown and she leaned back in her chair. “May I ask what you want to talk about? If there were any questions about paying your bill then Cedric should have taken care of that.” “No, that's not it, Doctor Ziegler. If there was a dispute about billing then my accountant would be handling it. I take it you've seen the news about the negotiations falling apart?” “Yes. I'm actually surprised the media found out. The whole thing was done behind closed doors yet people knew before I had even gotten back to Switzerland.” “I'm not.” John stated with a wry smile as he rubbed at his chin. “I'm the one who leaked it to the press.” “What?” Angela blinked several times, taken aback at how blunt John's admission had been. “But you signed the NDA. I don't know much about US law, but I'm pretty sure they can sue you for that if they found out.” John shrugged, not looking at all worried. “Oh, the Senators absolutely would take me to court. They'd win and I'd have to pay a fine, probably a large one. It doesn't matter though because I've already won the real battle. Everyone wants nano-bots and the fact that Brown and Miller wanted to weaponize them is a death sentence, so to speak. They don't have any chance of getting re-elected once their term ends and nobody is going to want to associate themselves with those two while they're still in office.” “I don't understand. Why are you telling me this?” “Because I wanted to make sure you're ready to steer clear of what's going to happen next. Right now the senators are trying to find out where the leak came from. They'll start by going through their own offices, but when they don't find it there they'll start looking at us. More specifically you. If they could get someone to claim you were the source of the leak then they'd have grounds to file lawsuits against you. I've written a confession up and I'm going to send it to a reporter after this conversation is over. You may catch a bit of heat because I was representing you, but it won't take very long before the media moves on.” “Why are you throwing yourself under the bus? You might not care about the money, but this will tarnish your professional reputation.” Angela pointed out. “Sure, I might lose some clients and miss out on a few business deals, but that's not important right now. Getting nano-bots approved for use in the US is more important than I am. You might be planning on setting up shop in Canada or Mexico, but there's plenty of Americans who won't be able to afford that. If hurting my reputation is what it takes to knock some barriers out of the way then that's what I'll do.” Angela drummed her fingers on the desk and rubbed her chin for a few seconds. “So when you say steer clear... just how clear are we talking?” “Completely, we don't want to give the media any reason to be talking about you. No press releases or public statements. If, or rather when, you're asked about it, decline to comment. I'll be taking full responsibility for this and I'll be distancing myself you as much as possible.” “I'll do that. Is there anything else, Mister Schiff?” “There is actually. It’s a morbid question, but I haven’t been to stop thinking about it since the last meeting we had. In the the incredibly, and let me stress incredibly, unlikely scenario that nano-biotics are weaponized, what form might they take?” Angela stared at her monitor and the man on it. For a fleeting moment she found herself exceedingly glad he was on the other side of an ocean and thus she couldn’t could strangle him. “Well since we’re speaking hypothetically there’s any number of ways nanobots could harm a person, but you’re looking for a specific example...” Her voice trailed off for a second as she considered which one to bring up. “I suppose it’s possible to create an aerosol based method of distribution. Then the nanobots would be programmed to kill T cells and deployed over a large city.” John frowned for a moment and he rubbed at his chin. “Killing T cells? Isn’t that what HIV does?” She nodded slowly as he looked at her for confirmation and the good natured look on his face vanished as the fact sunk in. “I see... I was making some coffee since it’s late over here, but now I’m quite sure I won’t need it to stay awake. Thank you for taking my call and the horrifying imagery. If you'll excuse me, Doctor Ziegler, I have a reporter to go speak to. Have a good day.” “Good night, Mister Schiff.” The picture of Schiff on her monitor winked out and Angela sat there for a long moment in contemplation. His actions and advice made sense so she was going to follow them. This endeavor was far from over as well, but her part in it had ended. For the moment anyways.  

Chapter 11 - Chapter 11

"Thank you for coming over here, Fareeha. It was good to catch up with you." Ana briefly embraced her daughter before turning towards the doctor. "And it was interesting to meet you, Miss Ziegler. I never expected to have such a famous guest in my home." "It was a pleasure." Angela said as Fareeha's mother made no move to give her a hug. "We should do this again sometime." "Of course, dear. Just let us know when." Ana said after holding back a chuckle. Her voice was polite, but it was still obvious she didn't believe what she was saying anymore than Angela did. Once they were back in Angela's Aston Martin the doctor covered her face with her hands. "If I never hear the names Bobby Knight or Indiana again, it'll be too soon. How can he spend so much time talking about basketball? That man is insane. Are all Americans as obsessed with basketball as he is?" “Basketball's pretty popular over there, but Jack's from Indiana so he's a special level of crazy about the sport. If it was warmer out he probably would have tried to make you play with him.” Angela shuddered and started punching a destination into her car's computer. “No thank you. I know it's just him being passionate about the game, but I can see that getting old really, really quickly. How long did you live with him?” “Seven years or so. He's normally not so bad, but he was hamming it up tonight.” Fareeha explained with an annoyed twist to her lips as the car got underway. “What? Why? I could tell they don't really like me, but he'd go that far just to irritate me?” Fareeha started to shake her head then stopped and she sighed. “I don't think it's that they don't like you. They're not sure about you and me. When I was in the kitchen my mum asked whether you were with me because you have feelings for me or if you were with me because I'm a professional dominatrix.” Angela turned her head towards the window and she stared out of it at the cars zipping by on the opposite side of the road for several long moments. When Angela's head turned back towards Fareeha her eyes were beginning to water and her lips were trembling. “I know our relationship isn't exactly conventional, but you don't... you don't think that do you?” Fareeha put her hand on Angela's shoulder as she shook her head. “No.” She softly and emphatically stated. “I've never thought that, not even for a moment. Bondage was the reason you first came to me and now that I'm looking back on I think we both know, deep down, it's not why you really asked me to stay with you for a month. I tried to keep things professional at first, but we're long past that. My mum may not believe it yet, but she hasn't seen the way you look at me when we're together. This is real.” “Is it? I adore you... a lot. Too much now that I'm thinking about it. We've only started to get to know each other in the last two weeks and I feel this strongly about you. Most people have only gone on a couple of dates in that amount and here I am meeting your mother and whatever Jack is to you.” “In a vanilla relationship that'd be true, but relationships that involve BDSM have a certain intimacy to them that vanilla ones lack. The first time we met you let me tie you up, spank you with my belt and stick a dildo in you. Allowing yourself to be restrained like that takes a great deal of trust in the other person. You're making yourself vulnerable both physically and emotionally. It's not a one way street either. The sub may be putting themselves in the top's hands. but the top also takes on responsibility for the other person's welfare. The result of that partnership means BDSM relationships have a tendency to progress faster than normal ones.” Angela gave a gentle smile as she took Fareeha's hand off her shoulder and pressed it against her cheek. “I ask a question about bondage, even if not on purpose, and you have the answer. That's my Fareeha all right.” She fell silent for several seconds before speaking in a softer voice. “Is there anything I can do to help convince your mother our relationship is genuine?” “Probably, but she's my mum so she's my problem to handle. I should have said something to her at dinner, but I was blown away that'd she be so blunt about it and I didn't want to make the evening worse. I'll do it right now if that's okay with you.” Fareeha stated as she pulled her phone out. Before Angela could answer Fareeha had already started, her thumbs furiously pounding away at the screen. After a few minutes Fareeha piped up again. “Turn the car around, we need to go back.” “What?” asked a confused Angela, taken aback by the sudden statement. “I gave them a piece of my mind and now they want to apologize.” “Uhh... okay...” Angela started tapping on the computer screen as she began to program a new destination in. The car immediately began moving lanes as it started to head back to where they had just come from.“That was an awfully quick turn around. What exactly did you say to them?” Fareeha shrugged her shoulders as she put her phone back into her pocket. “Let's just say I 'yelled' at them for how they treated you. I don't get angry very often so they pay attention when I do.” When they arrived back at Ana's house the car parked itself in the same spot as it had before. Angela got out and hesitantly followed Fareeha up to and then through the front door. Ana and Jack were sitting side by side on the couch, both of them looking decidedly less sure of themselves than they had been earlier that evening. Angela seated herself in one of the chairs flanking the couch and Fareeha took the chair on the opposite side. “So.” Angela began after a moment's silence. “Fareeha says you wanted to talk to me?” “Ah... yes. I suppose I'll start.” Ana's hands were folded in her lap but she still kept her head high as she spoke to Angela. “I shouldn't have questioned your relationship with my daughter. The two of you are grown women capable of thinking for themselves and making your own choices. If Fareeha says that her relationship with you is genuine that that should be good enough for me and I'm sorry it wasn't today and it won't happen again.” Once she was finished speaking she turned her head ever so slightly towards Jack and she cleared her throat, startling the American into jumping. “Right, my turn then. First impressions are the most important and I didn't make a very good one. You came here over here to properly meet Ana and me and I ended up dragging you into an argument over nukes and what not. You'd think I would have learned not to be such a dumbass at my age but I guess I still have a ways to go so... sorry for earlier.” “Well I suppose that's a start.” said Angela as she fidgeted with her shirt's collar before dropping her hands to rest on her lap. “What I don't understand is why either of you had a problem with me in the first place. I met Ana at Fareeha's place for a bit, but I hadn't met you before today, Jack.” Ana and Jack exchanged a brief glance and Jack shrugged at her. Ana rolled her eyes. “Oh fine, you oaf, I'll say it.” She turned back towards Angela. “I'm sure it won't come as a surprise that we've heard of you from all the TV shows and internet articles. There's a lot of things we could say, but it really boils down to one thing. Jack and I are soldiers. Yes we're old and no longer serving, but being a soldier is something that never leaves you, not completely.” Angela started to speak up, but Ana shook her head and barreled over the doctor. “One of the things we've noticed about your nano-bots is who you've been giving them to and who you haven't. I don't know how many countries you're up to now, but you've only been giving them to civilians. You've consistently refused to give them to soldiers who are serving in the military, whether they're actively serving or in the reserves. That's what really bothers us about you.” The doctor's hands tightened on her knees and she had to fight to keep her voice even. “I have my reasons for that. If I start providing nano-bots to the military of one country then the others would demand them as well.That's not the main reason for my choice in the matter however. I became a doctor because I wanted to help people. I invented nano-bots because I felt I wasn't doing enough. That's what they're for, helping people live. Not helping people kill each other. I can understand why that bothers you, but let's just agree to disagree on the matter.” Angela paused to take a deep breath and slowly let it out. “As long as we're getting things off our chest I have something I'd like to ask you, Ana.” “What is it?” “You know what your daughter does for a living and what that means about me... you don't seem bothered by Fareeha's profession, but you're leery of me because I was a client of hers. I don't understand the dynamic the two of you have about this." "Jack, will you be a dear and go get us some tea?" Ana waited he had pushed himself up onto his feet before looking at her daughter. "Would you like to add to this conversation or are you going to continue listening?" "I think you and Angela need to hash this out between yourselves plus I have a pretty good idea of what you're going to say, mum." "As you wish. Yes I know my daughter is a domme. She told me about it when she started working as one. I've always believed in trying not to judge people for their sexuality, but it wasn't exactly easy for me to process what Fareeha was telling me. It's one thing not to judge an acquaintance or a random person you see on the street, but it's quite another when it's your daughter. If I close my eyes I can still picture her as a little girl who wants me to kiss a scraped knee and then she grew up and doing... well you would know that better than me. Fareeha and I don't discuss the details of what she actually does and honestly I don't really want to know. Fareeha's always been good at separating her work from her personal life, but then I ran into you at Fareeha's place and now you're here. If Fareeha says you're her partner then I need to accept that and try to get over it making me uneasy. " Silence fell and the three women sat there, each waiting for one of the others to speak first. Eventually Ana piped up. “I almost forgot that Jack didn't mention him boring you to death with basketball. He's always been a little obsessed with the sport but it's been particularly bad the last couple of weeks. There was some big tournament in the US recently and Jack's been moping around ever since Indiana lost. ” “I have not been moping.” Jack protested indignantly as he came back into the room, porcelain cups and a brass tea kettle resting on a tray in his hands. “Sure, I'm disappointed Indiana lost, but that happens almost every year.” As he spoke Jack set the tray down on the table and he picked the kettle up and began pouring its contents into the four cups there. Minuscule vapors rose into the air from all four of them as he picked up a small spoon and scooped a spoonful of golden granules into each of the cups. Lastly he dropped a few green leaves into each before sitting down next to Ana on the couch. Angela started to get up from her chair so she could grab one of the cups but no one else was doing the same so she hesitated before sitting back down. Ana cleared her throat and her head slowly turned to the side as she threw a meaningful look Jack's way and he quickly started speaking again. “I guess it has been on my mind a lot. I shouldn't have gone on about basketball so much. It's my interest, not yours. I think.” “Jack.” Ana's voice had a small, but fine, edge to it and Jack scooted away from her as he nervously rubbed the back of his neck. “All right, all right. I'm sorry I went on about basketball as much as I did. I guess I was talking about seasons where Indiana won the title because I wanted to forget the fact we lost to a buzzer beater in the title game this year.” “Well, I'm not a sports fan,” Angela stated. “But I guess I can understand being upset that your favorite team lost. That doesn't have anything to do with me though. Is there anything else you'd like to say to me while we're getting everything out in the open?” The Amari women exchanged a glance before Ana shook her head. “No, I think we've said quite a bit today and I have a feeling it'll take you time to unpack everything. I'd suggest we move on to a more pleasant discussion unless you have anything to add, Angela.” “I do, as a matter of fact. I'd like to thank both of you for being willing to apologize to me and I know it couldn't have been easy and I understand if you resent me for some of the decisions I've made. Lastly I get that my relationship with your daughter isn't exactly a conventional one by any means, but I adore her a great deal so I'd like to try and keep things civil between us at the very least if we can't be friends.” Angela gave the tea another glance as she finished speaking, hoping to use it to ward off the dry feeling in the back of her throat. “Go ahead, dear.” Ana said as she claimed one of the porcelain cups for herself. “Another minute to steep wouldn't hurt, but it'll be fine by now. Now I don't know if you feel like staying or not, but there are some board games in the closet over there if you're interested.” Jack and Fareeha both tensed up as soon as they heard the words 'board games', but neither of them reacted fast enough before Angela's response was out of her mouth. “Sure. Why not?” A decidedly Cheshire cat-like grin flashed across Ana's face for the briefest of moments before vanishing as quickly as it had come. She set her cup down and rose from the couch and made a beeline towards the closet she had mentioned. Jack and Fareeha exchanged a knowing glance and Angela suddenly had the impression one might get from seeing a light at the end of the tunnel, only to find it was an oncoming train.  

Chapter 41 - Chapter 41

"Team one. Pull!" Asami's yell carried through the air and the indicated team, Nalon among them, sprang into action. They grabbed a rope lying at their feet and walked backwards to pull the rope taut. The other end of the rope was fixed to a diagonal pair of stanchions with braces running between them for extra support. As they redoubled their efforts the top of the frame rose off the ground higher and higher. Asami pointed towards a group standing opposite the first. "Team two. Pull!" A few others, standing opposite of the first, grabbed their rope and tugged on it. The stanchion came to a near halt, wavering back and forth ever so slightly in both directions. Asami swung her arm to point at a person waiting by the base of the stanchion. "Freeze!" Korra waved her arms in the air and water swirled around the base of each leg. Her fingers balled up into a fist and the liquid froze into solid blocks of ice, rooting the frame in place. Asami walked up to the frame and shoved it as hard as she could with both hands. The frame remained unmoved by her efforts and Asami waved her hands towards both groups as she continued to yell. "Good job, everyone. Let's get the other half set up then we can attach the engine and the blades." Both teams moved to the second set of ropes and repeated the process. Once the second frame had been frozen into place Asami moved over to a row of three identical blades lying in front of the stanchions. Next to them was a wound up cable and an enclosed metal cylinder whose guts comprised all the components that would enable the windmill to generate electricity along with the tools and fasteners to hold it all together. Korra and one of the teams joined Asami then Korra stamped her foot on the ground. A line carved into the ice around them in the shape of a square which then elevated until they were roughly even with the top of the stanchions. The team lifted up the cylinder and maneuvered it into position. Asami lifted a bolt whose head was near as large as her fist and turned it as far as she could by hand. Once it stopped moving she picked up a metal rod with a socket in the very center. "Okay, I don't want to slip and fall so mind freezing me into place, Korra?" Some of the ice at her feet dissolved into liquid and flowed up to her calves before solidifying again. Korra also took a step closer and rested her hands on Asami's sides as an added safety measure. Asami gripped each end of the rod and slid it over the bolt then twisted her arms like she was spinning a steering wheel. The bolt remained stubborn before she she pushed even harder and the bolt twisted as it winded even deeper into its socket until even the tool couldn't move it. "One bolt down. Unfreeze me then we can do the other side. " Once the second bolt had been tightened all the way Asami gestured to the team. "Okay, let's get the blades into position." The team heaved the ungainly blade up onto their shoulders and slid it into a receptacle on the cylinders side. Asami tightened the bolt down then shoved on the blade to spin it until the next opening was pointing towards them. Two blades later she set the wrench down and picked up the power cable and inserted its heavy plug into a socket on the base of the cylinder. Last was to untie the ropes they had used to raise the stanchions. "We're all done here, Korra. Take us down, please." Korra stomped her foot and the block of ice they were standing on descended back to ground level. Asami patted the nearest village on the shoulder. "Good job everyone. That's one windmill down. Three more to go." She bent over and grabbed the other end of the cable. "Take this and plug it in please, Korra. We can start charging the batteries while we put the other windmills up." Korra took the cable and lugged it over towards one of two shacks located nearby. Both were assembled of short wooden planks, but one was several times the size of the first. A narrow wooden rectangle lined with waterproof canvas protruded out from the rear of the smaller building. Korra checked the connector in her hands for any moisture and after not finding any, pushed it upwards into one of the deeply recessed sockets inside the rectangle. By the time they had finished assembling the three other windmill, the wind had picked up and intermittent gusts were flowing across the plain. The windmills were no exception and their blades revolved in the air. 'Well that part is working right. Now I need to make sure it's actually generating electricity.' Asami headed around to the front of the smaller shack and opened the door there. The floor inside was covered in rubber mats and several metal containers with cables running between them rested atop the mats. Asami glanced at the dial gauge mounted just inside the door. The red needle on it was close to zero, but still above it. 'Excellent, it's starting to charge. I'll have to come back later and see where it's at. Probably a few times.' As Asami closed the door, Tonraq strode up towards her, Nalon trailing behind. He glanced at the door she had just come out of before looking towards the windmill in the distance. "Nalon's informed me of what's been going on and I've spoken to a few others. The entire village is talking about this and not all of it is good. The fact that Korra brought you here earned you good will, but now you're assembling machines they don't recognize and people are starting to get uneasy. I understand that you're trying to generate power, but power for what?" "Why don't I show you?" During her planning for this expedition, Asami had kept careful tabs on how much everything weighed. She had wanted to keep that number low for good reason. Each extra kilogram was another kilogram that had to be loaded up and transported through one of, if not the, most hostile regions on the planet. It was a feat that was ultimately only achievable by enlisting the efforts of the people who lived there. Asami had been estimating that it would take weeks for the thousands of kilograms she had accumulated to be unloaded from the ship and dragged far across the ice. It had only taken two days. The people of Korra's village had turned out in far greater numbers than she had been expecting. Well over half the village though Korra's father hadn't been among them. Instead Tonraq had remained cloistered with Ansen and his colleagues, no doubt discussing the explorer's request as well as gleaning information about the world outside Asami assumed. There was no sign of Ansen now, but odds were that he was heading back to the coast, regardless of whether his request had been granted or not. Tonraq was here now and this was as good a time as any to show him the results of the last few days. Asami headed to the other shack, threw open the double doors and gestured for them to precede her. Inside eight identical ovens were lined up against the opposite wall, their black surfaces inscribed with four white rings to mark the burner location. Above each were sets of pots and pans as well as all the cooking utensils they could possibly need. Facing the ovens were just as many stainless steel sinks, fridges and freezers and islands spaced at regular intervals stood in the middle of the room. Tonraq stared around in disbelief before throwing open the nearest fridge. From top to bottom, the entire unit was stacked with meat that had been cut, wrapped and shipped across the ocean. It had been necessary to store them in working fridges during the trip, but now the fridges real goal was to keep them from freezing solid. Tonraq pulled one of the cuts out then slowly turned to stare at the ovens behind him. "I haven't had a cooked meal in nearly twenty-five years..." Within seconds he was all but shoveling the meat out of the fridge into his arms and dumping it on the island behind him. Asami smiled to herself before looking to see what Nalon was doing. The other waterbender had opened a fridge, but his reaction was far less muted. He pulled out a pair of sweet potatoes and frowned to himself as he examined the brown vegetables. "What a strange looking plant. I don't see how these would grow. There's no stems or any flowers. Is it like seaweed?" "No, it isn't. You're holding the underground part of the plant, but all of the sprouts have been removed except for this one here." Asami explained as she pointed at a reddish nub beginning to emerge from the side. "If it was planted then this would grow out of the ground and start making leaves." Nalon grunted wordlessly before sticking the narrow end of the tuber in his mouth and gnawing at it. "Pretty tough, isn't it?" 'Oh jeez, I wasn't expecting him to do that.' Asami fought back the urge to grimace and put on a smile instead. "Right, let's take that over to Tonraq and we can show you how to prepare it." 'At least, I hope Tonraq can help me. He's already setting pans up so he knows a thing or two at least. No idea how good of a cook he is though. Guess I'll find out.' "Not wasting any time are you, Tonraq?" Asami asked as she and Nalon joined the chief by the oven. He had already placed two pans onto the burners and turned the dials. He looked down at her and chuckled. "Not if I can help it. I'm thinking medium rare for my first steak. Course it's been so long that I'll probably get it wrong. As long as it's not well done though. Those are awful." "Absolutely." Asami quickly agreed. "I've never liked my steaks cooked like that either. Speaking of cooking, maybe we should wait a bit. I know you're excited, but maybe we should give the windmills an hour or two to charge the batteries. Once there's enough power stored up we can fire up all the ovens and throw a feast for everyone in your village." Tonraq stared down at the steak he was trying to cook, an undisguised yearning plain as day on his face. 'Can't blame him. Twenty-five years of eating frozen meat? I'd be just as eager to eat a cooked steak if I was in his position.' Asami patted him sympathetically on the shoulder. "It'll still be there in a couple of hours. There's something else you can do to help me in the meantime." Asami went over to the nearest fridge and retrieved one of the books resting on top of it. "I brought manuals for the ovens and cookbooks full of recipes. I know Korra can read and she told me you taught her. How many other people in your village can read? I don't want to be insulting by calling your people illiterate, but I'm completely in the dark about your education." "No offense taken." Tonraq said with a dismissive shrug. "We've been cut off for so long that you wouldn't have any way of knowing. Korra, Senna and I have made sure all of our warriors can read in case they got their hands on Fire Nation orders. All of the healers can read since they need it to understand the notes on our waterbending scrolls. Senna works with the others, but not everyone chooses to participate since it takes time away from learning how to hunt and fish. There's plenty of people who will be able to read your manuals so that's not a problem." "Okay, that's good." Asami said. 'Phew, he's not mad and I don't have to read these books in front of a crowd. I hate public speaking.' She turned the dials off and then set the book down on the counter next to the oven. "So let's round up some people and start going over how to use these so we can get this feast started." Two hours later and the kitchen was bustling. Understanding the basic operation of the ovens and burners had been simple enough. Turn the dial to whatever setting you desired and the elements would heat up accordingly. That was sufficient for frying steaks and vegetables, but the artistry that a professional chef could lend to a meal was a long ways off. Even so, the smell of meat frying in the pan wafting through the air was sufficient to make more than one Water Tribe member's mouth water. Asami smiled to herself as she glanced back at the entrance to see a pair of children peeking their heads around the door before disappearing to avoid being caught in a place that had been designated off limits to them. Asami poked the steak in her pan with a fork and the tines sank into the meat revealing an evenly colored red interior. She scooped it out of the pan onto a waiting plate then turned around and set it on a platter already holding several steaks. "I'm taking these over. Someone can take my spot." She announced while picking the platter up. Before Asami had gotten to the door, Tonraq was already throwing steaks into the pans she had left behind. Freezing air, made all the more unpleasant by the fact she was exiting a room full of active ovens, struck Asami in the face as she stepped outside. She kicked the door shut behind her and hurried towards a structure whose surface had yet to be weathered by exposure to a rarely silent wind. Heavy curtains lined the entrance like every other building she had seen, but light spilled around the edges and the chatter of people speaking and laughing loudly accompanied it. She ducked her head as she forced her way inside. Outside it was freezing, but the heat from dozens of bodies crammed into a confined space was enough to take the bite off the cold Asami was starting not to notice. A few were heading towards the entrance, but the overwhelming majority were sitting on ground covered in fur hides. In front of them were square blocks of ice that had been raised from the floor to serve as makeshift tables for eating and holding dishes. Asami set her platter down on one of the latter blocks before retrieving one of the steaks and the utensils to eat it with. She looked around the room for a moment before spotting who she was looking for. Asami held her plate up high as she navigated the warren before joining Korra at the edge of the room. Korra looked up and smiled warmly as Asami sat down. "Hey you. I was wondering when you'd take a break and eat something." "I guess I lost track of time." Asami admitted with a shrug. "Doesn't bother me though. I've had steak plenty of times and figured I could wait until your people had all gotten their share." She picked up her knife and fork and started cutting her meat into cubes. "Looks like they're enjoying it. A lot." A wistful smile appeared on Korra's face as she watched her people continue to eat. "Is that really a surprise? It's no different than how I reacted the first time I had some sausage. These steaks are... well, when you've spent a lifetime chewing frozen pieces of meat until its soft enough to swallow... there's just no comparison and none of them will ever want to go back just like I don't. Not to mention all the new vegetables you've brought. Those are a treat too. You've really pulled it off, haven't you?" "Pulled what off, this feast?" Asami asked after she finished swallowing a bite. "Not just this. I mean, everything. You traveled into the unknown to find and bring me back to Republic City. You designed and built the windmills. The ovens and fridges and all of this-" Korra waved her hand at the room as she spoke "-was your doing. Hiring Ansen and his ship was your doing. You were the one who told us the war was over. This might be the happiest I've ever seen my people and it's all your doing." Korra leaned in towards Asami and kissed her on the cheek. "And that doesn't even include all the things you've done for me either. All of us have something to thank you for now." Asami's cheeks reddened as she looked around at all the people engrossed in savoring every bite or locked in animated conversations with each other. This had been the end goal all along, but the human aspect of her mission had never occurred to Asami during her preparations. The windmills had been mere lines on paper. The gala had been about raising money. Hiring Ansen had been a handshake deal. All the ovens and fridges and food had been about improving nutrition. At no point had Asami ever stopped to truly consider the impact she was going to have until this very moment. A hot meal was nothing new to Asami, or a feast for that matter, but there was more to it than that for this people. Korra's experiences weren't dissimilar from that of her people. They had all suffered wounds or lost loved ones or fought and killed themselves. Up until now. This feast wasn't just about experiencing hot food for the first time. It was a sign that the long nightmare had finally ended. It was the beginning of peace. Asami's fork scraped against her plate as she tried to stab a piece and missed twice more before she got it with the fourth and shoved it into her mouth to give herself an excuse not to respond. Korra smirked at Asami's flustered demeanor and waited until Asami had finished chewing to speak. "So I guess the question is what happens next?" What happens next. Asami spun her fork between her fingers as she stared at her plate. This feast had only taken Asami over a month to arrange, but that short length of time didn't account for all the tasks required to make it happen. Raising the capital funds to pay for everything, handling the logistics of purchasing all the food and kitchen equipment. Diving into scientific literature and testing her small scale models. Arranging for the full size models to be fabricated and testing. Finding a captain brave, or crazy, enough to bring their ship into these uncharted and frigid waters. Trekking across barren plains full of unseen dangers. She had been so occupied with making this happen that she had never asked herself what happened next. Asami raised her gaze from her plate towards the woman sitting by her side. What Korra had said moments ago was right. Asami had traveled into the unknown, but she hadn't been prepared for what she ended up finding. Who she ended up finding. A woman whose travels through hell had failed to break her. The strongest person Asami would ever meet. What happened next? There was only one answer. "We should get married." "Huh?" Korra looked at her in confusion. "But we're already engaged." "I know. It'll be a grand affair in Republic City when we get married there. Dignitaries, royalty, chiefs of industry, and the rich and famous from all over the world will be attending. Everyone will be dressed in their finest outfits and most expensive jewelry. The decorations will be extravagant, an orchestra of musicians playing their grandest songs, the finest drinks flowing like water, there'll be a hundred course meal that you'll despise every second of. And it'll be as fake as everything else in my life. That wedding won't be about the two of us. It'll be about other people's political ambitions." "I don't understand, Asami. What are you trying to say?" Asami set her fork down and turned to face Korra directly. "I've spent my whole life trying to live up to other people's expectations of me. The perfect daughter, a brilliant engineer, the racing team owner who pushes the envelope. The only thing in my life that's real is you. I don't want to marry you because of politics. I want to marry you because I love you and I can't imagine a better place than here where it's just the two of us." Korra's cheeks slowly reddened until she was blushing as hard as Asami. The din in the background was as loud as ever, but it faded out as Asami waited and listened for a response from the only person who mattered at this point. Korra reached out and took her hand. "I love you too, Asami. Let's do it." She looked towards the crowd for a few seconds. "I see my mom, but not my dad. Do you know where he is? He conducts all our weddings since he's the chief." "He must still be in the kitchen." Asami said, her heart speeding up a little. 'She just said she loved me right after I said love her. This is really happening. Right now. I should be wearing something fancier than this, but I didn't bring any outfits like that, just stuff to keep me from freezing. I'm about to get married. We're about to get married.' "Okay. I'll tell my mom what's going on. You go get my dad and he'll take you to the lodge." Before Asami could respond Korra had risen to her feet and was making her way through the room. She stopped next to Senna and leaned over briefly before Korra's mother stood and followed her daughter outside. Asami looked down at her plate before stabbing the largest piece of meat on it and sticking it into her mouth. About to get married or not, she was going to eat something. Tonraq was right where Asami had left him. Inside the kitchen and standing in front of the same oven. She walked up to him then tapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Excuse me, Tonraq." He paused in the middle of flipping a steak over with a spatula as he looked down at her. "Do you need something, Asami?" "Ummm... yes." Asami wrung her hands as her cheeks started to burn from embarrassment. "I...uh... sorta asked Korra to marry me and she said yes, but she also said we needed you because you're the chief and -" The steak fell back into the pan as Tonraq dropped the spatula. He spun to face Asami and she squeaked loudly as Tonraq's brawny arms swept her feet clear off the floor as he enfolded her in a fierce bear hug. "Really!? That's wonderful!" Asami fingers clawed at Tonraq's arm as she half gasped, half spoke. "Can't... breath." Tonraq had the decency to look embarrassed as he set her back down on the ground. "Sorry about that. I got carried away." He cleared his throat before continuing. "Anyways one of the wedding traditions in the Southern Water Tribe is to have a second. It's kinda like having a best man, but a second's main purpose is to be a witness more than anything. Ideally it's someone you're close to, but you don't have anyone like that here as far as I know. Ansen might worked since he's from Republic City like you, but he's already departed for the shoreline." 'Someone I'm close to... Tonraq's right. All my friends are in Republic City.' Asami reflexively glanced around the kitchen and her gaze fell onto a thin man with a black beard. "Excuse me a second, Tonraq." She hurried over towards the person in question and tapped him on the shoulder. He glanced sideways at her before returning his gaze to the pans in front of him. "May I help you, Asami Sato?" "As a matter of fact you can, Nalon. You were the first member of the Southern Water Tribe that I met so you've known me longer than any of the others and well... I need a second." Nalon's head slowly turned back towards her, his shoulders stiff and unmoving. "You're asking me to be your second? That is a great honor even if you make it out of necessity. I accept. When do you plan to hold your ceremony?" "Right now." Nalon looked over his shoulder and waved at a man standing nearby. "Take my place. I have an important matter to attend to." The two of them followed Tonraq outside and deeper into the village then Asami had yet been. The thin layer of snow crunched underneath her feet until Tonraq came to a stop near a building that stood clear from all the others by several meters. He turned towards her and held his arm out. "This is our Spirit Lodge. It's where ceremonies and weddings are conducted from." Asami ducked her head as she entered the building. At first glance it was like all the others, but then the differences impressed themselves upon her. There were four entrances, each facing in a different cardinal direction. The hides lining the floor were all sewn together and more precisely than any others she had seen. More hides hung from the walls and painted lines of every color covered their surfaces. Men and beasts and many more shapes and figures unfamiliar to Asami. There was also a stone dais in the center of the building and inlaid upon it, with crushed pale blue gems, was the ancient symbol of the Water Tribe. Asami's breath caught in her throat as she gazed upon sculpture. For all intents and purposes, she was only meters away from the rest of the village, but there was an added gravity inside of these walls. This place was sacred. "Are you ready, Asami?" Korra had entered through one of the other doorways, Tonraq and Senna just behind her. She smiled nervously and brushed at her sleeves even though there was nothing on them. "I am, though I don't know how your people's weddings are performed." "Just follow our lead and you'll be fine. I need a couple of minutes to set everything up first." Tonraq said with a smile on his face. He moved to a nearby alcove in the wall and retrieved a bundle of dyed ropes from it. Tonraq inserted it into his pocket before gathering a bowl carved from bone whose top was covered by a hide that had been pulled taut and secured by sinew. He undid the knot and pulled the hide off before walking up to Asami. Inside was a gray waxy substance through which Tonraq dragged his thumb. He raised it to Asami's face and brushed it over her lips, leaving a a gray bar right in the middle of both. "By this marking I compel you to speak only truth." A moment later and Korra had received an identical marking and order. Tonraq then waved his hand in the air and the ceiling shifted from solid to liquid and retreated until it had vanished entirely. Asami looked up and she spotted the sun through the opening as it hung just high enough to be visible above the nearby buildings. Tonraq tied the hide back into place and returned the bowl to its alcove before he approached Asami once again. "Kneel here." The chief pointed at a spot near the edge of the stone circle for Asami while moving Korra to a short distance away. Asami lowered herself onto the floor as Korra did the same, the hides cushioning their knees from the ice below. At the same time Senna and Nalon positioned themselves to stand behind and a short distance away from Korra and Asami respectively. Tonraq returned to stand at the edge of the stone and between the two kneeling women. "As chief of this village, and as a very proud father, it is my honor to preside over this ritual. In the eyes of your seconds, Senna and Nalon, and beneath the eternal gaze of the spirits, Korra and Asami Sato have come here to bind their lives together. Korra, what have you to say to Asami?" Korra gave Asami a shaking smile and her voice trembled as she began to speak. "When we first met, I didn't know what to make of you. You were the first outsider with peaceful intentions that I had ever encountered. At first I didn't trust you, but you proved yourself to be my friend on multiple occasions. As time went by, you helped to open my eyes to the world and guided me down a path that I desperately needed even if I wasn't aware of it at the time. I don't know when I fell in love with you, but I have. These last few weeks we've spent together have been the happiest of my life and I know you'll make the rest of it just as wonderful." "Asami, what have you to say to Korra?" Without warning her vision grew watery and Asami rubbed at her eyes. When they were clear Korra gave her an encouraging smile. Asami cleared her throat and words as unplanned as this whole wedding began to spill out. "When I came to the South Pole, it was for the wrong reason. When I asked you to marry me, it was for the wrong reason. It wasn't until I got to know you that I realized my mistakes. I had been chasing a thing that I was never going to get when I had something much better right in front of me. You, Korra. You weren't like anyone I had ever met and being around you made me realize I need to start living the life that I want and that I want you to be a part of it. I want to spend my life with you, to grow old together and to be hopelessly in love with a woman who loves me back just as much." After she finished speaking, Asami's eyes flicked towards Tonraq for the barest of instances before returning back to Korra. I love you, she mouthed. Tonraq stepped forward and placed one knee upon the ice. "Hold out your right hand." Korra and Asami extended their hands towards each other as requested. Tonraq wrapped a pair of the strips, one blue and one white, around Asami's wrist and tied them together before tying an identical pair around Korra's wrist. He rose to his feet and stepped back. "Just as these ropes bind you together now, the two of you are likewise bound together in life. From now on, should either one of you take a fall the other will be there to help you rise once again." Korra and Asami clasped their wrists and both of them pulled at the same time, the leverage provided by the ropes helping draw them to their feet and closer together. Asami started to look towards Tonraq for further guidance, but Korra placed a hand on Asami's cheek to stop her. She leaned in and kissed Asami on the lips as softly as she had ever done. Asami's heart beat even faster than it had been while tears of joy dripped down her cheeks as she returned the kiss. Asami had meant everything she had said in her vow to Korra. Her motivations had been futile from the start and she had been unable to see the obvious. But now those blinders had been stripped away and for the first time in her life she could see clearly. There were four possible exits from the building she was currently in and dozens of possible different routes she could take through the village. Asami wasn't in the mood to do the math, but that meant there were hundreds of possible paths immediately at hand. The possibilities branched out even further when she considered the days ahead. Staying longer in the village where Korra had been born. Making the trek back to her ship. Sailing to Republic City or other harbors. She had innumerable paths available to her, each extinguishing countless others and creating just as many in turn. So many that the future was impossible to predict even if she cared to bother. The fate of the United Republic and it's capital city. The tenuous peace now being enjoyed by the world. What would transpire between the Four Nations in the months and years to come. Asami couldn't say and to be honest she no longer cared. No matter what happened, Asami knew there was a single constant across every single path the future might take. This waterbender she had discovered among the frozen plains of the South Pole. Korra. Her wife.                                                                                                   If you made it this far, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it.

Chapter 9 - Chapter 9

One of Angela's hands held onto her suitcase's handle and the other held her phone as she trundled through the jet bridge that led into the airport. Night had fallen while she had been on the plane though it might be more accurate to say the plane had arrived in a place where it was already night after taking off in the morning. A pair of messages had arrived during that time period. She flipped to the first one. F: Not sure what time you're getting in but feel free to drop by my place if you feel like it. A smile crossed Angela's lips at the invitation and she stepped to the side so that she wasn't in the way of the other passengers disembarking from the plane. A: I'll do that. I'm going to stop by the store on the way. Any treats you've been craving that I can get? F: The only treat I want to eat is you. Angela's face started to turn red and she quickly flipped to the conversation with Cedric. Any more of that and people might notice something was amiss. C: I've been keeping an eye on the media and there's been a leak. It hasn't picked up steam yet but word that the negotiations failed is starting to get out. I want us to get out ahead of this so I've arranged for reporters from the BBC, Associated Press, and Al Jazeera to meet you at the airport. Your statement doesn't have to be long. Just say that both sides weren't able to come to a satisfactory arrangement but that you don't intend to forget about the American people. Her cheek started to twitch as she read the message. If there was a profession she had reason to detest it was reporters. She hadn't had a problem with them for most of her life but then she had invented nano-biotics. An unexpected consequence of that act had seen a swarm of reporters arriving in Switzerland to get to her. For the entirety of the next two weeks it had been nearly impossible for her to do anything in private. Go to work and there were cameras photographing her. Make a run to the grocery store and there were cameras photographing her. Try to spend some time with some of her friends and there were cameras photographing her. Not to mention the endless interviews requests. It had eventually died down as the world moved onto the latest and greatest story, but the experience had left a bad taste in her mouth. A: Fine. Angela let out a sigh and put her phone back into her pocket before grabbing her suitcase and trudging her way towards the exit. The terminals of the airport went unnoticed as she walked through them. She stopped before heading into the arrivals area and looked down at herself. A red shirt and khaki pants. Hardly the kind of thing suitable for a short interview with international media outlets. Angela turned and headed to the nearest bathroom, taking advantage of a stall in it to change into a black pencil skirt, a white dress shirt with long sleeves and a pair of black dress shoes. After changing she stopped in front of the mirror and pulled a makeup kit out of her bag. It took her a few minutes but soon enough her face was covered in makeup meant for the cameras and their audiences. Lastly she gathered her hair up and bound it up into a ponytail with an elastic band. Once she was finished Angela headed back out in the airport towards where the reporters were. As she moved through the arrivals area they began making a beeline through the crowd towards her. There were six of them that she could see. Three of them were carrying cameras and the other three held microphones in their hands. She glanced towards the crowd around them. "It's pretty busy here. Is there a spot you'd recommend setting up?" One of the cameramen pointed down the terminal next to a couple of restaurants that only had a few people in line. "Over there is pretty quiet and we can use the windows as a backdrop." When they were in position Angela turned her back to the wall and straightened her back as she steepled her fingers in front of her stomach. She looked at the reporter from Al Jazeera. "Once the cameras are rolling you can ask me about the meeting in Washington. I'll give you an answer and then we're done. Is that satisfactory?" The reporters murmured in assent and stepped forward, holding their microphones up to make sure they could clearly record her upcoming dialogue. The cameramen fiddled with their cameras and Angela could see three red lights staring at her. "Do you have any comment on the leak claiming negotiations between you and the American government have broken down, Doctor Ziegler?" "Yes I do. I am sorry to say that the news is true. I met with Senator Brown and Senator Miller yesterday in Washington. I'm not at liberty to reveal what was discussed but we were unable to come to an arrangement that would satisfy both sides involved. However I would like to stress that the Ziegler Foundation has not forgotten that there are Americans who would benefit from Nano-Biotics and we are currently exploring our options at this time." Angela fell silent and waited several seconds before slashing her hand across her throat. "Did you get it?" It took a moment for the camera men to check and she could hear her voice speaking out from all three cameras as they reviewed the footage before approving it. "All right, thank you for meeting me on such short notice." Angela grabbed her suitcase and began walking away from the reporters. Hopefully she wouldn't have to deal with their ilk again anytime soon. As Angela's car pulled up in front of Fareeha's place she was in the middle of sending a text from her phone. A: I'm out in front now. Is the door locked? F: Nope. Come on in. Angela hopped out of her car and inside the house. Fareeha was seated on the couch in the living room, a video game controller in her hands. She was wearing a pair of baggy gray sweatpants, a shirt that had been dyed every color of the rainbow and her feet were bare. Fareeha glanced up as Angela entered and she eyed the doctor's outfit for a moment. "I think I might be underdressed. Were you thinking of going out somewhere?" "Huh?" Angela blurted before looking down at herself. "Oh right. I had to do an interview at the airport so I got dressed up." She reached up and pulled the band off of her ponytail. She ran her fingers through her hair, tossing it up before letting it settle down onto her shoulders. "I'll take it off if you want." "Ummm not just yet. Turn around. I want to get a good look at that butt." Angela laughed and turned around so that Fareeha could see her rear end. "Do you like it?" "Holy shit, yes." Fareeha breathed as she gazed at Angela's posterior. "There's nothing quite like a strong confident woman wearing a pencil skirt that hugs her hips. Get over here." Fareeha patted a spot on the couch beside her. Before Angela could sit down a furry creature bounded into the room and up to her. Jonesy meowed and rubbed her head and side against Angela's ankles. The cat walked away then stopped and looked back at Angela before meowing again. "What is it, Jonesy?" "She wants f-o-o-d. Don't let her fool you though, Angela. She already had breakfast." "Are you trying to trick me, Jonesy?" Angela cooed. "Come here." She lifted the cat up and cradled it in her arms as she sat down on the couch next to Fareeha. "So what have you been up to, Fareeha? I want to hear everything." "What? You just went to America for a big meeting. That's more exciting than anything I've been doing the last few days. Don't you want to talk about that?" Fareeha asked. Angela shook her head as she slowly began petting Jonesy. "Honestly I just want to forget all about that trip. I've never liked politics and now it's all I do. Days like these make me regret ever inventing nano-biotics in the first place." "You don'tactually mean that, do you?" "No, not really I suppose. I guess I miss the days when I was working as a surgeon. Everything was simpler back then and I think I was happier back then." Fareeha shifted her legs on the couch as she glanced down at the floor and Angela was quick to explain what she had meant. "I mean with my job. I was happier in the operating room. Dealing with politicians is just... aggravating.” She abruptly shook her head and took a deep breath to try and calm herself. “Sorry I shouldn't be so whiny.” Fareeha set her controller aside and took Angela by the shoulders drawing the doctor's head down onto her lap. “Nonsense, you're just venting about your job. The only one of us whose been whiny about your job is me back when we went grocery shopping after I arrived at your vacation house.” “I remember that. You said you were having problems seeing me as something other than Doctor Ziegler. Was it really that hard? We had already done a session by then.” Angela asked as she moved her hips so that she was lying down on her back and that Jonesy was resting on her stomach. “Well... yes. The first time I heard of you was when all the news reports and interviews started popping up. The media couldn't get enough of you and it wasn't hard to see why. I had a celebrity crush on you and then one day you walked into my... 'office'. At first I thought I was dreaming but you were really there. If I had to pick a word for how I felt right then it'd be intimidated.” “I'm not intimidating!” Angela exclaimed. “How am I intimidating?” “Look at yourself, Angela. You're brilliant, confident, kind, beautiful, extremely successful, rich and you've done more to help others than most people ever could. Honestly you're basically a goddess in every way. At least that's how I saw you until the last couple of weeks. Now I know that you're all of that plus you're kinky and you like me for some strange reason.” “Like.” Angela slowly drew the word out and she looked to the side for a split second. “May I ask you something, Fareeha?” “What is it?” “When I said 'I love you' it seemed to make you nervous. Is there something wrong with me saying that to you?” Fareeha bit her bottom lip and she slowly exhaled. “There's nothing wrong with you saying that. The thing is that my mother raised me not to use that word lightly. If I tell another person that I love them I really mean it. I know not everyone sees it the same way but it's always a little disconcerting to hear it just tossed around.” “Okay well I'll say something else then.” Angela said as she began to rub her chin. “Question is what. Really like? Admire? Care for? Adore? I like adore.” The doctor grabbed a hold of Fareeha's hand and entwined their fingers together. “I adore you just so you know.” “Well I already knew that and I adore you too.” Fareeha said with a gentle smile as she squeezed Angela's hand. “So now what?” “I want to hear what you've been doing while I've been gone. It'll help get my mind off things.” “All right... well today is laundry day which is why I'm wearing this.” Fareeha pointed at the horribly clashing outfit she was wearing. “Mostly I've just been playing with the cat, video games and watching movies. I don't have to go back to work for another couple weeks since you booked me for a month.” Just as Fareeha finished speaking a buzzing sound came from one of her pockets. She reached down with her free hand and pulled it out. “Hang on a second, Angela.” She tapped her thumb against the screen and put it up to her ear. “Hey mum. Nothing much really, just some laundry. Tonight? I mean I could but I have company right now so I don't know... bring her? I don't... okay okay I'll ask her.” Fareeha lowered the phone to her shoulder as she looked back down at Angela. “My mum's inviting me to dinner and she wants to know if you'd come. It'd be the two of us, her and Jack.” “Whose Jack?” “He's my mum's... boyfriend I guess? I don't really know what to call him. He and mum have been together for a long time but they've never gotten married. I don't really know why.” “So he's not your father?” “No, no, no. My father's a man named Sam from the First Nations in Canada. Jack's from the States.” “The First Nations? What does that mean?” Angela asked, her brow furrowed. “First Nations is what some of the indigenous tribes in Canada. ” “So your father is from Canada and Jack is from America. Where is your mother from if I may ask?” “Egypt.” Fareeha's phone started buzzing again and she quickly answered it. “Sorry about that mum, Angela was asking some questions. Hang on. Do you want to go, Angela?” Angela hesitated as she considered the question. Meeting the parents, or possibly parent in this case, was always a big moment. In her case there was an extra little tidbit that Ana Amari knew about Angela's relationship with her daughter Fareeha. A little tidbit that involved ropes and handcuffs. “...Sure, I'll go.” If only Angela felt as confident as she sounded.  

Chapter 0 - Prologue

Angela Ziegler stared at the building through the window of her car. There was nothing on the outside of the building. No windows or murals, nothing that even hinted at the name of this place. The whole thing was plain, unassuming and completely non-indicative of the things that happened here which is exactly how Overwatch patrons would want it. The entrance also made more sense if total anonymity was the case. There wasn't much to see out front, just a call-box, camera and a short curving driveway in front of a pair of doors. The first looked like it had been made of solid steel and was presumably for pedestrians and the other was a corrugated metal door for vehicles.   She pressed down on the switch that controlled her door's window and reached out to hit the small black button on the call-box. After a few seconds Angela watched as the camera mounted out front turned and lowered itself to point directly at her face. The website had explained what was happening now that she had requested permission to come inside. At this moment a picture of her had been taken and their computers inside were using it to scan public, and private if the gossip rags were to believed, records to form a dossier on her. And once it was completed those same computers would use said dossier to decide whether or not to let her inside. Whether or not she could be trusted to keep her mouth shut about what and and more importantly who she might see in there. Privacy was paramount.   Nothing happened and Angela drummed her fingers on the steering wheel as she waited to see if she was accepted or not. A sinking feeling started to form as the seconds slowly dragged by and nothing continued to happen. After another couple of minutes she reached down to hit the ignition but then the garage door began to open up. Angela pressed the ignition and her car moved forward up to a second door identical to the first which was now closing behind her. Past the second door was the actual parking lot and full of expensive luxury vehicles. Her car was only a couple of years old and in good condition but it was painfully apparent to Angela that her vehicle was the one of the cheaper ones in here. Even the cars with diplomatic plates on them were on the higher end of the spectrum.   After parking her vehicle she made her way to the only other door besides the two connecting to the outside. This one opened up to a foyer with a pair of people in it already. The first was an Omnic seated behind a desk and the other had a face she had seen on the television screens more often than she would have liked. Angela flicked her eyes away from him though as she pretended not to notice the presence of the National Councillor until he disappeared through one of the elevators off to the sides of this room.   Once he was gone the Omnic turned her attention towards her. “Greetings Doctor Ziegler, it is a pleasure to see such a noteworthy surgeon visit us. My name is Aphrodite.” It, or perhaps her was more fitting since Aphrodite was wearing a dress and had a woman's voice, reached down to open a drawer and set a tablet down on the desk in front of her. “Now then since this is your first time here we require you to sign our non-disclosure agreement and a release of liability form. I'm sure I don't need to explain why these are required but I am obligated to remind you that Overwatch takes the privacy of its customers quite seriously and any breaches of the NDA will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.” Angela picked up the tablet and scanned through it briefly before crudely signing her name at the bottom of each with a finger and handed it back. Aphrodite double checked each before doing pulling out another tablet and handing it over. “Now then if you would be so kind as to specify the details of what you're interested in.”   Angela knew that this place claimed to serve all kinds of fetishes and kinks but the sheer number of entries on the list was intimidating to put it mildly. Her cheeks began to burn as she skimmed through them out of curiosity more than anything else. She recognized the more common ones, could guess what others entailed from the name but there were more than a few that Angela hadn't heard of or had any idea what it actually involved. After a bit more time-wasting she scrolled back to what she actually wanted and started deciding on all its sub-options and choices available to her. Once she was done Angela handed the tablet back to the mechanical receptionist and waited as she examined it briefly. “Very good Doctor Ziegler. We can certainly accommodate this for you but you didn't specify a gender. Would you prefer a man or a woman?”   She hesitated a second and glanced around the room to check if anyone else might be there but it was just her and Aphrodite. “A woman please if it's not too much trouble.”   “Of course Doctor. Take the elevators on that side to the second floor.” Aphrodite gestured to her left with one hand “Here is your keycard. Your room will be the first on the left. I hope you will enjoy your visit today and that you'll be coming here again in the future.”   On the way down Angela ran that last sentence through her head again. If a human had said that to her she would have seen it as a cheeky, and more than a little cheesy, bit of innuendo but Aphrodite was an Omnic. Then again given the nature of this place it was entirely possible that robot was more than just an ordinary Omnic... she had been named after the Greek goddess of love after all.   Finding the room was easy enough and she waved the card at the reader on the door's right side to gain entry. Ever since she had made the decision to come here Angela had been wondering what she would find inside, what this room would look like. Walls of cold cement and a wooden floor, a medley of furniture, boxes of toys maybe. Instead there was just a pair of chairs facing each other across a small round table along with a sink and counter in a room barely large enough to accommodate them. There was yet another door but Angela was paying more attention to the woman in the room. She was taller than Ziegler and her lean muscles probably meant she was stronger as well. The woman's olive skin, jet black hair and dark eyes spoke of of a middle eastern heritage as well. She eyed Angela before tilting her head at one of the chairs in the room. “Come be seated and share a drink with me.”   There was a clear accent to her English but it wasn't overpowering by any means, just enough to make her seem that extra little bit more exotic. Angela wasn't familiar enough with the Middle East to place it however. As she sat herself down the Arabic woman set a pair of porcelain cups and steaming kettle down on the table. “Please forgive me if the tea tastes weak, I only had a minute to boil the water before you arrived. It's times like these that I wish Aphrodite wasn't so efficient at her job. If I had more notice that someone was on the way then I would be better prepared.”   Angela watched her pour water into each of the cups and add tea leaves before she asked the questions on her mind. “Are you the dominatrix I'm supposed to meet? Am I in the right room? This isn't exactly what I was expecting...”   That drew a soft laugh from the other woman. “Dominatrix. It's such an ugly word don't you think? Most people in the scene don't care about the term one way or the other but I've never enjoyed the way it rolls off the tongue. So harsh and acidic sounding... but to answer your question Doctor Ziegler, yes you are in the right room and I am the dominatrix, if you must use that word, Aphrodite assigned you to. And my apologies for not introducing myself. My name is Fareeha Amari.”   “Oh.” said Angela, her confusion at what was going on growing even further. “Then what are we doing here? I was expecting to... to... get submitted or whatever you call it.”   Fareeha stifled a giggle behind her hand at the seeming consternation in Angela's voice. “Get submitted?”   “Oh for crying out loud, you know what I mean. Tie me up, grope me, hit me with whips, that sort of thing.” Angela folded her arms across her chest and huffed at Fareeha's amusement at her ignorance on the subject.   “I know quite well what you meant. I'm not trying to insult you but it's a trifle amusing to hear someone call it 'get submitted'. Please forgive me if I offended you in any way.'” said the dominatrix who didn't like being called that.   “I... okay fine. I don't know the terminology for bondage. What I do know is that sitting around waiting for tea to steep isn't what I came here for.” said Angela. “What's going on?”   Amari picked up her cup of tea and took a sip before answering. “Overwatch has a very advanced AI running things here. You met her physical avatar upstairs when you entered the lobby. One of Aphrodite's jobs is compiling information on the people come here. Education, profession, social connections and recently Winston has programmed her to try and form a psychological profile from all the information she has access to. However it's still a work in progress and even if it wasn't, I prefer my own judgment to that of a machine when it comes to what you're here for.”   Angela couldn't believe what she was hearing. “A psychological profile? For a sex club? No offense but that sounds awfully Orwellian to me. Why would your company even consider something like that in the first place?”   “I know Doctor Ziegler, it sounds awful but it makes sense when you think it through. How many important organizations call Geneva their home? The United Nations, the Red Cross, Care International, not to mention all of the financial institutions in the city. Maintaining the privacy of our clients is of vital importance so we need to know who could be a potential leak. A breach of that privacy could have massive socioeconomic consequences plus we wouldn't be able to keep our doors open.”   She had known that already, at least in the back of her head, but the potential ramifications had never really sunk in for Angela until Fareeha had pointed them out to her. “So that's what we're doing right now? You're trying to decide if I could be a potential leak?”   Fareeha gestured at Ziegler's cup of tea. “Tell me what you think of the tea. It's a new brand I picked up recently and I can't decide whether or not I want to buy more yet. And that's not correct. The machine decides whether or not it considers you trustworthy and I'm not about to argue with a computer. I'm interested in knowing more about the woman who is responsible for inventing nano-biotics. I won't pretend to understand the technology involved but all of the news sites and TV shows are calling it the biggest breakthrough in medicine since the polio vaccine.”   Angela picked her cup up off its plate and tentatively took a tiny sip then a bigger one immediately afterwards. “Wow that's actually really good. What do you want to know? I'm not that interesting of a person really...”   That drew a small smile from the other woman. “Oh I'll be the judge of that. How about telling me why you got into medicine. What made you decide to be a surgeon?”   Angela shrugged dismissively and took another drink of tea. “I don't think there was any question what field I would go into even as a child. Whenever my parents bought me stuffed animals or dolls I would always pretend I was checking them for health problems or listening to their heartbeat. After a couple of years of that my father bought me a real stethoscope and I started listening to the heartbeat of anyone who would let me. As for becoming a surgeon, well surgery just came naturally to me and it never really felt like a question of what field I would end up specializing in when I was in med school.”   “Okay then, next question. Why nano-biotics?” asked Fareeha. “What were the reasons behind inventing those? What made you go from the operating room to developing new medical technology?”   The doctor glanced up at the ceiling for for a second as she considered the question and how best to answer it. “Have you ever heard of the Red Queen Hypothesis?” Fareeha shook her head and Angela continued on “It comes from a book written back in the nineteenth century. 'It takes all the running you can do to keep in the same place. If you want to get somewhere else then you have to run twice as fast.' Working in surgery was rewarding but it's stressful and there's a lot of pressure on everyone there. After a while you start to realize that you're seeing the same health issues and in some cases the same people over and over. No matter how well you do your job there's never any end to it. There's always another liver transplant to do or another inflamed appendix to remove. After a few years I decided that there had to be something better than just running in place, that I had to run twice as fast and come up with something new. And I did. It took me years of experimentation and research but I succeeded. And the result was nano-biotics.”   Fareeha set her tea down and she rested her chin on her hands as she looked across the table at the doctor in silence. After a minute she reached over and took the doctor's hand as she stood up. “Come with me Doctor Ziegler.” For a second Ziegler was about to ask why but there was a smoldering look in the other woman's eyes that been there until now and she realized what her intention was. Angela stood up and let herself be led through the second door and into the room that lay beyond.   There weren't any cold cement walls but other than that this room was exactly what she had been imagining earlier this morning in the shower. The furniture, drawers of toys and a bronze goddess who was about to make it a reality. Amari let go of Angela's hand and turned to face her. “Let me ask you something. What makes you interested in bondage?”   “Oh well I was watching some... videos online and a bondage video came up in the recommended section...”   That was as far as she got before Fareeha cut Angela off and the dominatrix began to slowly circle her. “No no no. That may be how you came across it in the first place but what interests you in it?”   Angela shivered and she fidgeted as those dark brown eyes burned into her. “I like the whole ropes and...” she started to say.   “No!” Fareeha cut her off again with a yell. “There's something more to it than that. If all you cared about was being tied up then you could have done that at home or another bondage club. But you came to Overwatch and there's a reason why. Now what could it be...” Her voice trailed off as she looked the other woman's body up and down. “I've always had a preference for blondes but you'd be a lovely woman no matter what your hair color is. You were an acclaimed surgeon even before you invented nano-biotics and right now you might be the most famous doctor in the world, so you're quite far from being a fool. Lovely, famous and highly intelligent... men, women, perhaps even an Omnic or two must be lining up to bed or wed someone such as yourself and yet you're here with me.” She stopped circling the doctor and leaned in close from behind to whisper into an ear. “So why are you here?”   Angela could feel the warm air of each breath tickling her ear as she tried to think of an answer that would satisfy this woman. A lie would be easier but somehow Angela had the feeling that nothing less than the truth would be an acceptable answer. “I graduated early from university with honors. I was the class's valedictorian and I gave speech at graduation. My entire career... no my entire life people have been pointing me out as someone who would do great things. I've saved the lives of more people than I can remember, I've transplanted hearts, lungs, kidneys. My greatest achievement was the invention of nano-biotics and it's gotten plenty of press but the entire time it was always 'Doctor Ziegler' this or 'Doctor Ziegler' that. It's like I'm another Florence Nightingale or Clara Burton, that I'm already another entry in some history book already. It feels like no one remembers that I'm also a sexual being too, I have needs and desires like everybody else. That's why I came here, because I thought this place wouldn't care about who I was on the outside. That they'd be willing to treat me like...”   That was all Fareeha needed to hear. She took a step closer squishing her breasts into the other woman's back and her lips were just on the utmost edge of brushing the ear in front of them. “I can certainly do that but we have to go over your safe-words first. 'Red' means that I stop immediately and we're done. 'Yellow' means that you need a break but you want to keep going. 'Green' means go or keep going. What do you say to that?”   “Green.”   Fareeha took two steps back and put a hand on her hip while giving her first order. “Okay then. Your clothes. Take them off.”   Angela looked like she was about to hesitate for a second but then she was undoing the zipper on her pants with trembling fingers as she disrobed. Once finished she turned around to face Fareeha and dropped her hands to her sides putting the entirety of her body on display. Faintly tanned skin, pale golden hair and the curves of her hips and torso combined to form the shape of an hourglass. Amari stepped forward to dig her fingers into one of those breasts. “Nice. Very nice. Too nice for a doctor but perfect for a slut.”   Angela blinked in confusion before she realized what the dominatrix was doing. Humiliation hadn't been one of the options she had selected earlier but the idea of pretending she wasn't a doctor was one she had inadvertently provided... and one she wasn't going to stop. The hand squeezing her breast let go and it dropped down between her legs. Ziegler's lips parted and she let out a quiet gasp as those fingertips started pinching and pulling on her most sensitive parts.   Fareeha chuckled and redoubled her efforts, encouraged by Angela's response. “All that nonsense about being a doctor is just you lying to everyone but you can't lie to me. I know what you really are, what you really want.” She pulled her hand away and grabbed a fistful of blonde locks, pulling on them just enough to make Angela follow her to a Saint Andrews cross. “Face inwards, hands up, and legs spread slut. Time to teach you not to tell lies.”   Once she was facing the cross Angela positioned herself so that her arms and legs were mirroring the shape of the wooden X in front of her. Fareeha gave her a look over and shook her head in disapproval at what she saw. “Don't move slut, your lesson is coming.” She stepped behind the cross and started undoing the nuts holding the wooden beams in place. Once they had come off she pushed the beams inwards so that they were better aligned with the current occupant's body size and fastened them in place again. After that she fastened the padded cuffs on each end of the cross around Angela's wrists and ankles to lock her in place. “Okay that should keep you where you belong. So where were we? Ah I remember now, I'm teaching you a lesson. What do you want? Belt or whip?”   “Whip.”   “Belt it is. You think I'd let someone being punished choose what they get hit with? You're not very bright are you? How do you convince people you're a doctor? Never mind it doesn't matter. You're going to count how many times I hit you and thank me when I'm done.”   There was a soft hissing sound behind Angela and she turned her head to look over her shoulder to see Fareeha pulling her belt out of the loops on her jeans. Amari pushed the belt in on itself forming a misshapen circle before snapping it taut between her fists. The leather came together with a loud crack that echoed off the walls and made Angela shiver involuntarily at what came next. Fareeha's first strike was a lazy backhand landing on her left cheek just hard enough to sting. Angela jumped away or would have but the leather cuffs kept her from going very far. “One.” Then a forehand to the other cheek. “Two.”   At first the blows were soft slaps but they didn't stay that way for very long, each being a little bit harder than the ones before. “Nine. Ten.” Back and forth between the cheeks but soon down to the backs of her thighs and hips. “Fifteen. Sixteen.” Fareeha's next hit was hard enough to leave a faint red mark on one cheek but not enough to break the skin. Angela cried out at that one, a brew of satisfaction and agony but she didn't let it from keeping the count up. “Seventeen.”   “I didn't hear you, what number was that again?” asked Fareeha.   “Seventeen!” Again on the same spot then to the other cheek. “Eighteen!” Her voice was beginning to quaver now. These blows still felt sweet but Fareeha had never said how many times she was going to hit her and Angela could tell that her legs would be sore tomorrow at the very least and if this continued then... back down to the thighs again. “Nineteen! Twenty!”   And then nothing. She kept tense, her arms pulling against their cuffs as she waited for the next blow but it never came. Angela glanced back over her shoulder again to see Fareeha was putting the belt back on. She sagged against her restraints feeling both relieved that it was over and disappointed no more were coming. Amari stepped up behind her and one hand reached around to grab a breast and tighten down on it. “Now what do you say to that?”   “Thank you... for hitting me.” said Angela, finding it odd that she actually meant it.   Fareeha let go of Angela's breast and started to undo the cuffs binding her to the cross. “That'll teach you not to tell lies about being a doctor but now you need a lesson to remind you of what you really are.” Ziegler tentatively rubbed at one butt cheek but Fareeha didn't give her any respite and was quickly pushing her towards one of those equipment drawers on the side of the room. Amari rummaged inside for a moment before pulling a few items out. A wooden rod perhaps half a meter in length, an aubergine colored dildo, a roll of black tape, leather handcuffs and lastly a metal bar with a padded ring on each end of it. After she taped the dildo to the rod Fareeha pointed at a foam mat resting on the floor near the cross. “Down on your knees, hands behind your back.”   Angela knelt down on the mat, the foam giving way beneath her some as she folded her arms behind her. Fareeha tangled her fingers in the hair on the back of Angela's head and gently but imperiously pushed forward until Angela's forehead was resting on the floor. “Stay.” Next she snapped the padded handcuffs shut around Ziegler's wrists and cinched the cuffs on the spreader bar around the blonde's ankles. Amari lightly bumped the dildo against Ziegler's lips “Open up.” Angela opened her mouth and the dildo grazed her teeth with a feathery light tap. “Come on slut, you can do better than that. This is going in your pussy so you'd better lube it up if you don't want it to be dry.”   Ziegler opened her mouth wider and her tongue poked out as she started licking every part of the dildo she was able to reach. She had thought it was smooth at first sight but her tongue could feel dozens of bumps and ridges all about the outside of the device as she got it as wet as she was able to manage in this position. Once satisfied Fareeha walked around to crouch behind the blonde woman's lifted rear end. She lifted the stick up, positioning it just right and began to gradually slide it in.   Angela shuddered as she felt the rounded tip of the rubber sex toy pushing into her sex. As it got deeper Fareeha began twisting the stick in circles and all those bumps and ridges were rubbing against her insides making her moan wantonly. The dominatrix laughed and the dildo started to move faster until it was almost all the way inside. Fareeha adjusted her grip so that her palm was on the end of the stick and she started slowly wiggling the the end around in a small circle. The blonde woman moaned yet again as she felt the dildo pressing against the walls of her vagina as it was rotated over and over. Amari smiled at the sound and she lightly slapped one of Angela's reddened cheeks “Now that's more like it. What are you?”   “W-what?”   “I want to hear you say it. What are you? You're not a doctor remember? Say it!”   Angela squirmed a bit before answering the question. “I'm a slut.”   Amari leaned down and put her ear next to the restrained woman's mouth. “What was that? It sounded like you were trying to say something.”   In the world outside she was a doctor. A surgeon who transplanted organs and saved lives but only on the outside. Angela closed her eyes as she pushed her identity to the world at large out of her mind as she embraced the role that she had come for even if she hadn't known it until now. “I'm a slut! You're right, I'm not a doctor. I'm just a good for nothing slut who wants to get fucked!”   “Well if that's really what you want...” Fareeha switched her grip once again and pulled the dildo halfway out then pushed it back in. Her strokes were slow at first but steadily increased in speed until it was thrusting in and out at a brisk pace. Angela's lower body remained still as Fareeha fucked her with the toy, not only because she was tied up but because she didn't want to do anything that might interrupt what was happening to her. Her mouth on the other hand was exceedingly active as she panted and moaned in ecstasy every time it pushed back into her. At the height of it her body began convulsing and in those moments the world around her faded away. The only things that remained were the piece of rubber pounding away at the pussy of a slut and the orgasm wracking her body.   When the haze passed Angela found herself sitting upright on the floor, a blanket draped over her shoulders and a bottle of water on the floor in front of her. Fareeha was seated just opposite her and she was watching Ziegler with a careful eye. “There you are Doctor Ziegler. I was beginning to worry that you wouldn't come out of it. How do you feel?”   How did she feel? Angela started to say that she was fine when her body abruptly shook as all of her energy vanished in an instant and her stomach growled at her. Fareeha must have recognized what was happening as she picked the bottle up and was holding it to Angela's lips “Drink. We don't want you getting dehydrated Doctor Ziegler. If you're hungry let me know, I have some chocolate bars here if you want them.”   Angela frowned as the realization of how Fareeha was addressing her pierced through the haze still blanketing her mind “You're calling me Doctor Ziegler? That doesn't sound right... I'm a slut aren't I?”   A look of deepening concern passed over the dominatrix's face and she tilted the bottle up prompting the doctor to start drinking. “No, you're not a slut in any way shape or form. You're an incredible, brilliant and lovely woman whose accomplished great things. Right now you're experiencing a sub-drop so you're out of sorts but it'll pass. Until then I need you to stay here with me all right?”   Angela gazed blankly at Fareeha for a moment, the words only barely managing to register with her. “Okay.” Somewhere in the back of her mind an image of an article headline appeared. Something about nano-biotics. “You said you have chocolate?” Amari stood up and headed towards the drawers opposite the ones where the dildo had been stored and pulled one open before grabbing a few candy bars out of it. She handed them to the doctor while sitting down and Angela tore one open devouring it in a few large bites.   Ziegler tossed the wrapper aside and the next bar disappeared as quickly as the first had. She suddenly looked up, chocolate stain on the side of her mouth and all, at Fareeha. “What's happening to me?” she asked, a hint of alarm present in her voice.   “You're going through what's known as a drop. Endorphin's, hormones, adrenaline and so on. It's something that can happen to people after a session is over. Subs having a drop isn't uncommon but I'm surprised it happened from our session. I didn't think I was pushing you hard enough to cause one but it seems I was mistaken. Next time, assuming there is a next time, I'll have a better idea of what your limits are. Of course that begs the question of whether you plan to come back or not.”   Doctor Ziegler smiled at that and reached out to squeeze the other woman's hand in a show of gratitude. “Most definitely. I wanted to pretend I wasn't a doctor even if only for a short while and you did an amazing job of it. I just hope you're willing to treat me like a slut in the future.”   A small smile lifted the corners of Fareeha's lips. “Of course. It'll be my pleasure Doctor Ziegler.”

Chapter 6 - Demonstration

“I can take that off if you want you know.”   The two of them were sitting in the kitchen as Fareeha set the ingredients for dinner on the counter. Angela had put on a pair of boyshorts but she wasn't wearing anything else except for the karada harness that Fareeha had tied on her.   “No thank you.” said Angela as she rubbed her fingers against the ropes running along the middle of her chest. “This is a lot more comfortable than I thought it would be and it's pretty.” She leaned forward on her chair to look at the ingredients. Lentils, salt, macaroni, rice, chickpeas among others. “What are you making?”   “Koushari. Have you tried it? Well it's an Egyptian staple. Come give me a hand. I need one of those pots for the lentils.” Fareeha pointed at the rack hanging from the ceiling before starting to open the bag of lentils with a pair of scissors. “While the lentils are simmering we can boil the rice, macaroni noodles and chickpeas. So please get more pots Angela.”   As Angela started grabbing the additional pots required her phone began vibrating on the kitchen counter. She set one of the pots down on the stove before answering it. “Hello?” A moment later she started speaking in what sounded like German to Fareeha, her voice speeding up as the conversation went along before hanging up. Angela grabbed at the locks on her forehead. “Shit, shit, shit.”   “What's wrong?” Fareeha nervously set the measuring cup of lentils down as she took in the alarmed expression on Angela's face.   “It's the plumber. He had an opening on his schedule so he decided to come by and take a look at my shower. He's standing out there on the porch right now.” The doorbell rang as if to further confirm what she was saying. Angela looked down at herself, the blue ropes on her almost naked body somehow managing to spell the word harlot in red letters now. “Get this off me.”   “Are you sure Angela? It'd be faster if you just got dressed than it would be for me to undo all the knots. Just put some clothes on and he won't be able to tell.”   Angela ground her teeth together then hurried to the stairs. “Give me a minute before you let him in. I gotta get some clothes then change in your room. Just take him to my shower.”   Once Angela had headed upstairs Fareeha glanced at the clock on her phone. The doorbell rang a second time before the minute digit finally ticked over. When she opened the front door the plumber, a portly looking man in his forties or so, was on the verge of hitting it a third time. His hand stopped short and he said something incomprehensible. “What?”   More German words.   “I'm sorry, I don't understand. Do you speak English?”   “No English. Ziegler?” He hefted up his toolbox and pointed past her, apparently asking to come inside.   Fareeha shut the door behind him then waved her hand to say 'follow me' as she headed towards the stairs, taking them as slowly as she reasonably could. When she was almost to the topmost step a still mostly naked Angela dashed across the hallway, a bundle of clothes in her arms. Fareeha came to a halt, the plumber bumping into her from behind. Once Angela closed the door she started walking again then pointed emphatically at the door Angela had come from once they were in the hall. “In there.”   Posters of old British musicians hung on the walls and there was a vinyl record player on one side of the road. Next to it stood a wooden record cabinet with dozens of black discs neatly tucked into their sleeves. Opposite was a bed decidedly larger than the one in the guest room and the door to the master shower hung open. Fareeha pointed at the door. “In there.” It was nearly pointless trying to talk to the man since he didn't speak English but it was better than nothing at least.   To Fareeha's surprise it wasn't just a shower in here. The toilet was hidden behind a small door in one corner of the room and a very large circular tub took up almost the rest of the entire room.   Thankfully that was all she needed to do, show him where the shower was. Angela must have already discussed the issue with him prior since he got to work right away, turning on the water in the shower and feeling the temperature with his fingers. She backed up into Angela's room until she was standing where she could see the plumber and the guest bedroom door at the same time. The guest bedroom's door was still closed and Fareeha glanced back at the plumber. By now he had pulled out a screwdriver and was undoing the temperature controls. Once it came loose he was turning it over in his hands before approaching Fareeha and saying something to her.   “I don't understand.” Fareeha repeated, feeling frustrated that the only woman in this house who spoke German was still busy. He jabbed a finger at the device and said the same thing again.   “He's telling you that there's something wrong with what he called a mixing valve.” Angela had entered the room, having thrown on a pair of gray sweat pants and an equally gray sweater. “I don't know what that is but I guess that's the problem if he says it is.” She said something in German to the plumber and the two of them went back and forth for a bit, leaving an uncomprehending Fareeha to fidget in the meantime. The plumber sat down on the side of the tub as he began fiddling with the shower component once the talking stopped.   Angela walked over to Fareeha and turned so that her mouth couldn't be seen as she started to whisper. The man supposedly couldn't understand English but she wasn't taking any chances. “By the way part of the deal for fixing my shower was making him something to eat. Julian likes food. A lot.”   Making him food. So not only had his unexpected arrival forced Angela to panic and throw clothes on, he wasn't leaving anytime soon. And for the duration of his stay the doctor had to be dripping buckets of sweat over the fact that she was wearing a rope harness beneath those gray clothes. At least she had had the awareness to remove her collar which the sweatshirt wouldn't have hidden from the plumber. “Do you want to go into my room and take the harness off while he's working?” asked Fareeha in an equally hushed whisper.   The doctor turned her head, sneaking a surreptitious glance at Julian before shaking her head much to Fareeha's surprise. “I... no. I can wait.”   “You're playing with fire Angela. I don't think this is a good idea but it's your decision.”   “Would you mind getting started on dinner again if it's not too much trouble?” asked Angela. “I can stay up here with Julian until he's done then I'll come help you.”   Boiling pots water, dicing onions, mincing garlic then pouring rice, noodles, chickpeas and lentils into said pots. Nothing that she normally would have any trouble with or hadn't done before there was an extra factor making this the most stressful meal she had cooked in a very long time, if not ever. Time. Every second and minute this meal took to prepare was another second and minute that Julian was still in the house. And so long as he was here there was a chance that Angela could get found out, that her ropes would be spotted and questions would start getting asked. Fareeha drummed her fingers on the countertop as she stared at the pots, silently urging their contents to soften faster so that they could eat and get Julian to leave sooner.   In the meantime Julian had set himself down at the dining table where he could see and talk to the both of them. Angela was standing next to her, idly stirring the pasta, as she translated for Fareeha. 'I met Doctor Ziegler when I was installing that tub of hers but I haven't seen you around before. What brings you to these parts?'   Fareeha glanced at her shadowy reflection in the window above the sink where she was washing dishes. Julian almost certainly wasn't able to tell that her English still bore a noticeable accent but her olive skin and dark hair were clear indicators that Fareeha was almost certainly a foreigner. “I'm here on business.”   Out of the corner of her eye Fareeha could see Angela's arm come to a halt as she stopped stirring. “I run a website where I post articles about old movies and television shows. Doctor Ziegler has been approached by studios from Hollywood about making a movie or documentary about her career and work on nano-biotics already. She hired me to show her old medical movies and TV shows and explain what to expect if she agreed to it. Of course this is all confidential and she's signed an NDA so I shouldn't even be talking about this. You understand right?”   The plastic spaghetti spoon started moving again and Angela began to translate but not before giving Fareeha a sidelong look. At the word 'Hollywood' Julian's head perked up and he said something with a hearty laugh. 'Well try to remember who installed that tub of yours when all that Hollywood money starts rolling in Doctor Ziegler.' He started to say something more but an alarm klaxon cut him off and Julian started patting at his shirt and pants as he tried to find the pocket his phone was in.   'I'm really sorry about this but I've got to go. Someone's water main just burst and their house is flooding. I'll be back tomorrow to pick up that meal though Doctor Ziegler.' Julian was out the front door before Angela had finished translating for Fareeha.   As soon as he was gone Angela brushed her hand against her forehead and turned away from the stove, leaning on the counter with both hands. “Mein gott!”   “What is it? Is something wrong?” asked Fareeha with a dubious look at the stove. The only thing coming out of the pots was steam, there wasn't any smoke and nothing smelled off to her.   “No... yes... I don't know. I'm just really confused right now. You know that I want to keep this whole bondage business private and yet...” Angela took a deep breath and let it out, clearly frustrated with something. “That picture we posted. I can't stop thinking about it. There's a picture of my breasts online. People are looking at it right now, some of them are probably masturbating to it. To me. And what I just did with Julian. When you asked me if I wanted to take the ropes off I should have said yes. It was the logical thing to do, the smart thing, but I said no.”   Angela turned towards Fareeha, a pleading look on her face. “The moment I entered the bathroom all I wanted to do was tear my clothes off. To let him see me wearing nothing but rope. I've been doing some searches online and I know exhibitionism is a thing but I'd be ruined if I had done that. I don't get it. I'm not attracted to Julian but I still wanted him to see me naked. What the hell is wrong with me!?”   “There's nothing wrong with you Angela. Part of what we're doing here is exploring, finding out what you're into. I don't think either of us could have guessed that you'd be into exhibitionism but it's not the end of the world. My recommendation would be to stick to posting pictures of yourself or finding someone who wouldn't betray your trust.”   The moment those words came out Angela's eyes lit up and the doctor excitedly grabbed Fareeha's biceps pulling her closer. “That's it! You could look at me!”   “Me? But I've already seen you naked several times and it didn't seem to do anything for you then Angela.”   Angela's grip loosened as her eyes flicked up towards the ceiling. “You're right...That picture we posted, have you checked to see if there's any comments on it?”   Fareeha turned her head to look at the still simmering pots. “I left my pad in my bedroom. Keep an eye on these until they are done then come join me okay?”   The doctor let go of Fareeha's arms turning back towards the oven and started stirring the pasta again. “Okay.”   Fareeha squeezed Angela's shoulder before leaving the kitchen and heading upstairs. She plopped her bottom on the mattress before lying down on her back as she picked the pad up. A few swipes of her finger and she had navigated to the forum where she had posted that picture of Angela. A woman as lovely as the doctor would collect a healthy amount of messages praising her body and the ropework on this site, that had never been a concern for Fareeha. What did concern her were the messages that wouldn't be positive, quite the opposite in fact. The cruelty spawned by the anonymity of the Internet was an ugly truth she had long since become inured to, but one that she could hopefully spare Angela from, at least for now. She scanned through the public comments before flipping over to the private messages. Two pictures of someone's dick, a run of the mill sexist prick or troll trying to shame her and some imbecile trying to boss her around as if Angela was a bottom for anyone who fancied themselves a domme.   Delete. Delete. Delete. Delete.   Twenty minutes or so later, Angela was knocking on the doorway. “May I come in?”   Fareeha pushed herself up then scooted forward so that she was sitting on the base of the mattresslying on it. “Of course, have a seat.” She patted on the bed next to her.   Angela brushed a lock of hair behind her ear as she took a seat. “So what did they say?”   “Let's see. This person here says he likes the color of the rope, that post asks what kind of rope this is, someone's asking how long the tie-”   Angela started punching Fareeha on the shoulder with both fists though it didn't stop the other woman from grinning. “Stop that. What did they say about me?”   “Okay, okay. The top comment says you have an amazing chest and they'd love to see more of you. Second one is someone asking for you to take the same picture but with whipped cream on your breasts. Number three is someone asking if there's any more pictures of you. After that is a few more comments all saying they liked the picture in some form or another.”   Angela leaned in closer to see the comments for herself before twisting her head to look at Fareeha. “What about you? Pretend that we hadn't met and all you had to go on was this picture. Would you want to see more?”   The pad in Fareeha's grasp quivered as her fingers trembled and she coughed nervously into her elbow but Angela's gaze was unrelenting while waiting for an answer. “...Yes I would.”   Angela stood, taking Fareeha's hand in hers and pulled the other woman to her feet. “Come with me.” The doctor headed out of the guest bedroom, never letting go of that grip, as she entered the master bathroom. She led Fareeha to the tub before relinquishing her grasp and climbing over the lip to stand in the tub's middle. Her top went flying first followed by her sweatpants and underwear in order, leaving her in nothing but a karada made of ropes that did nothing to hide any part of her. Angela waved at the seat directly in front of her. “Please.”   Her response should have been to say yellow in order to pause this before it got any further so they could discuss what was about to happen but Fareeha's mouth remained shut. Her legs moved of their own accord and she found herself sitting in front of the nude blonde, her throat dry as those breasts drew her gaze to them.   Angela's chest rose then fell as she took a deep breath before getting started. Her fingertips lightly brushed up and down against the nubs on each breast until they had hardened. She took a ragged breath and her eyes flicked back to Fareeha's face and was rewarded by the sight of flushed cheeks. Angela squeezed a breast in one hand and she sank downwards so her rear end was resting on the bottom of the tub while scooting backwards until she was leaning against its side. Her knees opened wider and the other hand creeped lower until it found its way between the ropes at her middle.   Fareeha felt a miniature shudder run through her as she watched the doctor's fingers tease and rub her folds, gradually progressing inwards from the edges. When Angela's first moan drifted through the air she could feel her palms growing sweaty. Then the first finger pressed its way into Angela and another lewd sound floated into the air but not from the doctor. “Red!”   Angela looked up in surprise, the finger inside her coming to a stop. Her brow furrowed in confusion. “What's wrong?” The doctor was too slow however, Fareeha was already out of the tub and halfway to the door before she had even finished her sentence. Angela stared at the door a moment longer then looked down at herself. Something must have been terribly wrong if Fareeha had used that particular safeword but exactly what the problem was she had no idea.  

Chapter 10 - Chapter 10

"Have the car park over there." Fareeha pointed at a spot marked by white lines on the edge of the street." Angela tapped on her console and her car began moving towards the spot Fareeha had indicated. As it did so she looked out the window at their destination. The two story house had white walls and a peaked roof covered in weathered russett tiles. It had a green lawn split into two different levels with one of them standing half a meter above the other. There was a moderately long driveway with a sedan car tucked away in an open garage carport. "What's wrong with parking in the driveway, Fareeha?" Fareeha didn't answer right away, instead opting to get out of the car and pointed at a metal circle covered in orange paint that was beginning to chip off and a wooden backboard that had been bolted to the garage roof. "Jack is a die-hard basketball fan. You park in the driveway and there's a very good chance of your car getting hit by a basketball. Safer to park in the street." Angela eyed the hoop for a second before looking down at herself. She had changed back into the wrinkled khaki pants and red shirt that she had worn on her flight back to Switzerland. "I should have stayed in the pencil skirt. This is too casual." She said while trying to brush some of the wrinkles in her shirt away. "You're fine, Angela. This isn't a black tie event, it's just dinner with my mum and Jack. Come on." That was easy for Fareeha to say since she had had the opportunity to change at home. The sweatpants and tye shirt were gone, replaced by a loose fitting forest green sweater and slim black pants. Fareeha started heading up the driveway and towards the front door. She pressed the bell and took a step back to wait. After several seconds the door opened and a person that could only be Jack was standing on the other side. He was near two meters tall, leanly built and had spiky tufts of white hair covering up a receding hairline. His bright blue eyes peered out of a craggy face that had seen its fair share of decades. "You must be Doctor Ziegler." He held his hand out. "Just Angela is fine. No need to be so formal." The doctor said as she took his hand and shook it. "Well then you can call me Jack." He let go of her hand and turned towards the other woman present. "Hey 'Reeha, gonna give me a hug?" Fareeha bit back a scowl as she hugged the other man then headed past him into the house. "It's Fareeha, Jack." She called back at them. "Reeha?" Angela asked. "It's what everyone called her when she was a kid. She started going by Fareeha when she was a teenager but I still call her Reeha every now and then to bug her." Jack said with a lopsided grin. "Come on in." Angela slipped out of her shoes and left them next to the doorway as she headed in. Past the entryway the house opened up to a large and airy living room. A charcoal gray fabric sofa and black wing chairs sat in a semi circle around a television hanging on the wall. Behind the furniture was a row of portraits. Most of them featured Jack, Ana, and Fareeha in them but there were a couple of a man she didn't recognize. The TV was currently displaying an American news channel but the volume had been muted. "Hello, Angela." Ana said from the kitchen doorway. She was holding a bowl full of a chocolately looking mix in one hand while the other was stirring it with a whisk. "Thanks for coming by. Jack made too much pork tenderloin so I'm glad there's another person here to eat it. I'll get fat if you don't take your share." "There's no such thing as too much pork tenderloin." Jack answered. "If we don't eat it all then that just means we'll have leftovers." "Pfaw, you always say whenever you make too much food." Ana said with a shake of her head but she sounded amused rather than annoyed. "Would you mind giving me a hand, Fareeha?" "Sure." Fareeha said before making a beeline towards her mother. Once inside the kitchen she looked around for whatever it was she was supposed to be helping with. The oven was turned on but there was nothing inside yet. Used bowls, kitchen utensils and silverware had been loaded into the dishwasher and it had even had detergent in the dispenser. The one thing that looked incomplete was the bowl in Ana's arms. "Ummm what exactly do you need help with?" "I don't." Ana stated as she began pouring the mix into a waiting pan. "I wanted to talk to you." She glanced past Fareeha towards the living room where Angela and Jack were. "I want to make sure you're doing all right." Ana said with a pensive look on her face as she returned her attention to her daughter. "Why wouldn't I be?" Fareeha asked, baffled at her mother's sudden display of concern. "You and I have never spoken very much about your job. It's not because I disapprove but because I don't want to know the details of what you're doing. However I do happen to recall you telling me that you've always kept a strict line with your clients to avoid things getting messy emotionally. From what I've been able to tell you've never had any issues but now I don't know want to think." "I know, but it's not a problem. I wouldn't have brought her here if my feelings for her weren't genuine. I can tell the difference between emotions that are real and those that only happen because I top for her." Ana rapped her whisk against the pan to get some of the mix off it before picking up a spatula and beginning to scrape the insides of the bowl. "I understand that and I'm not questioning you. I'm not sure about her. I mean – that's Angela Ziegler sitting in my living room. You're a wonderful woman but someone like her could be with just about anyone she chooses. I just want to know that she's with you because of who you are and not what you do for her is all." She set the bowl down and opened the oven up, sliding the pan inside then closed the door and set the timer. "That'll take about half an hour or so. Do you mind helping me set the table?" "Ummm... sure." Fareeha hesitantly said, still trying to process the anvil her mother had just dumped on her. Ana pushed four plates into her hands and Fareeha slowly turned to head towards the table sitting between the kitchen door and the living room. As she was setting the plates down she could hear Jack's voice from the living room. "North Carolina, Duke, Kentucky, UCLA, Kansas and Indiana. Those are the blue bloods, but Indiana is the best of course." "But why do you call them blue bloods? Why not purple? It's the color most often associated with royalty going all the way back to the Roman Empire." Angela asked. "I don't know, actually. Alliteration maybe?" Jack said with a shrug. As he started to open his mouth again the television changed from an anchor talking into the camera to the clip that Angela had recorded at the airport earlier that day. "How's that for timing? You're on my TV and couch at the same time." Jack started to look around for something before yelling towards the kitchen. "Hey, Ana. Where's the remote?" "How should I know? You were the last one to touch it." Jack started digging between the cushions next to him before his hand came up with remote in hand. His thumb pressed down on it and Angela's voice came out of the television. "We are currently exploring our options at this time.” Jack's head turned towards the doctor as the version of her on the TV finished speaking. “What's that about?” “Uhm....” Before Angela could say anything further the anchor from before began speaking once again. “There's been no official statement from Senator Brown and Senator Miller, but an anonymous source online claiming to be from Senator Miller's office has stated that approval of nano-biotics for use in the US was contingent on Doctor Ziegler agreeing to the weaponization of her invention. The doctor's statement indicated nothing of the sort, but would explain why she returned to Switzerland.” Angela shifted uneasily on the couch as the announcer spoke. Well that cat was out of the bag now but it hadn't come from her. It was possible Brown's office had been the source of the leak but there had been another person in that meeting besides her and the Senators. Schiff certainly had a reason to want nano-biotics to be approved and a leak of this nature was sure to put pressure on the US government. “Is that true?” Jack asked as he muted the TV. “I can't answer that.” Angela replied as she avoided meeting his eyes. “I signed an NDA before the meeting.” Jack snorted at that. “I'll take that as a 'yes' then. I'm not surprised they would try but they definitely went about it all wrong. They should have accepted your application and used that to get their hands on nano-bots to work with.” “Wait, wait, wait.” Angela couldn't believe what she was hearing. “You... approve of this? I invented nano-biotics to save lives and they wanted to turn it into a weapon! How could you possibly think this is a good idea?” “It's no different than MAD and nukes. Eventually everyone will have nano-biotic bombs or some such and things will balance themselves out. Don't use them on us and we won't use them on you. Keeps the nuclear powers from getting into a real war with each other."   Angela rubbed at one of her temples, vainly hoping to avert the headache she knew was already on its way. “Nuclear weapons, another thing that never should have been invented. Every time I think about those I want to go back so I can slap Oppenheimer and Truman in the face.” “Why?” “Why? Why?” Angela sputtered. “Because they invented and used the most horrific weapon ever invented? Twice! That's a pretty good reason to me.” “You're right. We used the bomb twice. but doing so saved more lives then it took.” “What?” Angela started to laugh at what Jack had said. “How-, what? Okay fine explain this to me.” She said disdainfully. “How did dropping two nuclear bombs on Japan save lives?” “I know it sounds strange at first, but you have to consider the circumstances the Allies were encountering in its war with Imperial Japan. The Japanese Army didn’t believe in surrendering and their troops would fight to the death or kill themselves to avoid being captured. Some of those Pacific islands would have garrisons of ten or twenty thousand troops and the Allies would take maybe a hundred prisoners after a month of fighting. When the Japanese began to lose the air battle they started having some of their pilots crash their planes into American ships to try and kill as many people as possible. Those were the people we were fighting.” “So how does that justify using atomic bombs?” Angela said, “Because the Japanese didn't believe in surrender. They would rather die than be shamed in that manner. Japan had millions of soldiers and conscripts ready to fight any invasion the Allies could mount. There would have been a lot more deaths if an invasion had taken place instead of using the atomic bomb to try and end the war.” “Are you a historian or something?” Angela asked with a raised eyebrow. “You seem to know an awful lot about World War Two.” “No, I'm not. I learned about this when I was training at a military academy. It was covered as part of our ethics education.” Jack explained. “You were a soldier?” “I was. Special Forces, actually. It's how I met Ana as a matter of fact.” Angela turned to look towards the kitchen only to see Fareeha and Ana standing there watching in silence. “So... you were Special Forces too, Ana?” “I was, dear, but not in the US Military. I served in the Egyptian Army.” “I'm starting to sense a story-” Angela began but Ana shook her head as she cut the doctor off. “There is dear, but... let's just say that you're not the only one with secrets here.” Ana said with a kindly smile that somehow failed to make Angela feel any better. “Ummm... okay... you know what, I think this evening got off the wrong foot. I wasn't expecting... this.” She turned back towards Jack. “Let's start over. Hi, I'm Angela Ziegler.” “I'm Jack Morrison. Do you like basketball?” “.... yes.” Angela said in a small voice, knowing she was likely going to learn more about the sport than she had ever wanted to know.

Chapter 14 - Chapter 14

Fareeha grabbed hold of a pale white wrist and shoved it into a half circle carved out of a wood plank that was padded with rubber. A second later she dragged another wrist into an identical slot on the opposite side of an even larger half circle in the middle. Lastly Fareeha seized a fistful of blonde hair and pushed forward until the largest circle had a neck in it. With both hands she lifted a second plank, aligned it with the bottom part and pushed it down until the two halves were once again in contact. Fareeha picked a padlock up from the floor and fed its shackle through a pair of rings located on the side of the pillory. “It's been a while since you've seen me and it seems you've forgotten the lessons I taught you. Well now you're stuck so I think it's a good time to remind you of your place.” She sauntered over to the wall and grabbed a slender black rod with a rectangular loop of leather attached to one end. Fareeha spun the crop in her hand so that its edges were vertical and she placed one of them against the neck in front of her. Bit by bit she slowly traced a path along the spine, getting ever lower before raising it into the air and hesitating. As Fareeha stood there, crop held in the air, her eyes began to wander the room around her. This room had been her 'office', so to speak, for the last several years. During that period she had participated in hundreds, maybe thousands, of sessions. Fareeha had lost track long ago. The plain white walls, the furniture scattered throughout the room, the drawers containing every kind of toy she could conceivably need for her job. All of them were things she had become intimately familiar with and yet now that she was looking at them, it all seemed completely alien. As if she had never been here before. The crop wavered then sank lower and lower until it was pointed at the ground. “Red.” The man in the pillory fidgeted and turned his head as much as he was able to do. “Huh?” Fareeha shook her head and set the crop aside before pulling a key from her pocket and undoing the padlock and removing the top half of the pillory. “Sorry, Noah. I... I can't do this.” She said while sitting down and dropping her head back against the wall. Noah removed his head and hands from the device before standing and heading over to where had left his clothes. As he pulled on his underwear he turned towards her. “Did I do something wrong without realizing it?” “No, no, nothing like that, Noah. If you'll pardon the cliché, it's not you, it's me. It's... the thing is that I've met someone and it's gotten pretty serious between us.” “Really? That's great!” Noah said, shirt over his head as he tried to push an arm through one of its sleeves. After his arms and head had emerged from within the shirt Noah cast a look around the room they were in along with of all its contents. “Does this person know where you are and what you're doing right now?” He asked, a note of trepidation present in his voice. “Yes to both. Don't worry, you're not homewrecking or anything. We discussed me coming back to work here and they're okay with it. I thought I was too, but now I'm not so sure.” “That sounds like you're thinking of quitting.” Noah said as he picked his pants up the ground. “I guess I am.” Fareeha said with a rueful twist to her lips. “The thought's been on my mind for a while, but the money's good and I've never really had a reason to go through with quitting this job.” “Well, whether you keep working here or not is your choice. That said, if you're really done, then let me say I'm going to miss you, Fareeha.” Fareeha chuckled as she looked at up her client. “Oh? There are other dominatrixes in Geneva. If you want a recommendation then I'm happy to provide one. I'm sure you'll forget about in me no time.” To Fareeha's surprise, Noah almost looked hurt at her comment. “Now that's not true. I know you do this for the money, but you had more of an impact on me than you realize. When I came here I was... ashamed of what I was doing. Ashamed of being a man who was submissive. You helped me through the guilt and taught me that I wasn't abnormal.” She started to open her mouth to ask whether or not that had been the case before stopping herself. Fareeha paused as she tried to think back to when Noah had first visited her. It had been years ago so her memories of those early sessions were more than a little fuzzy, but if Noah said that's how he had felt then she wasn't going to argue with him. “I remember that now. It has been a while hasn't it? Anyways, since I canceled the session I'll refund your money before I leave.” “No, there's no need for that. If you are quitting then consider this a going away present.” By now Noah had finished dressing. “Thanks for... well all of this.” He broadly gestured at the room before turning and heading out the door into the front room. Fareeha picked the crop up and carried it over to the drawer where the other impact toys were kept and put it away. She gazed at the door for a minute, waiting long enough to be sure Noah was gone, before exiting the play room herself. Her phone was where she had left it and it didn't take long for her to type out a message. F: Can you come by my place tonight? A: Sure, what time? F: Six? A: Sure, see you then. Fareeha let out a deep breath as she grabbed her keys and headed for the exit. There was plenty of time until Angela would be at her house, but she had a sneaking suspicion she would need all of it to figure out what to say. Jonesy was there at the front door almost the second Angela came through it. She meowed once then began to rub herself against Angela's ankles while purring loudly. Angela bent over as she reached for her shoelaces and the cat started bumping her head into the doctor's fingers. She giggled and scratched the cat's ears for a moment. “Are you going to let me take my shoes off, Jonesy?” “C'mere kitty.” Fareeha said as she walked into the living room. “Do you want a treat?” The cat's head swiveled towards Fareeha and her ears quivered. Fareeha repeated her question and Jonesy immediately trotted over and meowed at her. After Angela had gotten her shoes off she followed the pair into the kitchen to find Fareeha holding something in her fingers for the cat. Jonesy took it and wandered off to a corner, her tail held straight up in the air. “So, how are you, Fareeha?” “I quit my job.” “What!?” It was a good thing Angela wasn't holding anything in her hands because it would have fallen to the floor. “Maybe we should sit down for this, Angela.” Once they were both seated on the couch in the living Fareeha inhaled through her nose before exhaling through her mouth. “I went back to work today like I said I was going to. I only had one client since it was such short notice and all. It was one of my regulars though, generally pretty easy to work with and always tips well. The negotiations went fine and we didn't have any issues with the new limitations I had. Once we got to the actual play portion of the session... well I had the crop in my hand and all, but I couldn't go through with it. As I was standing there, looking at them, I realized something. I couldn't go through with the session because the wrong person was in the pillory in front of me. The only person I want to top for is you.” Angela covered her mouth with one hand and pressed her lips together, but a tiny snort still came out of them. “Are you laughing at me?” Fareeha exclaimed. “I'm being serious over here!” “I know you are and I'm not laughing at you.” Angela quickly explained, hoping to soothe her partner's ruffled feathers. “What you said at the end is just so cheesy I couldn't help myself. 'The only person I want to top for is you.' It's cheesy, but it's also super sweet. I have to ask a question, however. What does this mean for us?” “It means I'm committing to you, Angela.” Fareeha put a hand on the couch and she rose off it before making her way towards Angela. She placed a hand on the couch on either side of the doctor's head and pulled herself forward so that she was straddling the doctor's lap. “I'm still a dominatrix, but now I don't have any clients. Just a partner who I... who I...” Fareeha quietly grumbled to herself before screwing her courage up and spitting the word out. “love.” Angela froze.”Did you just say the L word?” A red-faced Fareeha looked down and away and muttered something under her breath. Angela reached up, putting her hand on Fareeha's cheek and turned it back towards her. “I love you too.” She whispered. As Angela looked up at Fareeha she could feel herself becoming increasingly aware of the other woman. The dark eyes nervously staring back at her, the smell of cinnamon and myrrh, breasts in front of her face, Fareeha's weight pushing down on Angela's lap and their pelvises only kept from touching each by a few thin layers of fabric. Angela wasn't sure who moved first, but their lips were quickly locked together and her hands were on her lovers back. After a moment Fareeha pulled away. “I want to make love to you, Angela. But...” “Yes?” Angela breathed softly, afraid to ruin the moment. Fareeha hesitated, looking away for a second, before returning her gaze to Angela. “Give me some rope or a hairbrush and I'm in my element. I've learned a lot of things over the years, but they all involve toys of some sort. Without any toys I don't really know what I'm doing in bed.” “Well, I'll just have to show you what to do then won't I?” Angela murmured as she began to pull the back of Fareeha's upwards. Fareeha raised her arms up and the shirt came up over her head and she tossed it aside. Angela lowered her hands back down to the couch. “Do you want to do it here or in your bedroom?” “We should do it on my bed just in case we make a mess.” Fareeha started to disentangle herself from the doctor, but Angela grabbed a hold of her hips and pulled her back down. The doctor's hands snaked towards the zipper on Fareeha's pants and undid it then grabbed the garment and began to pull on it. Fareeha turned to the side and lowered her back to the couch before raising her legs in the air. Angela eagerly finished taking the pants off before grabbing Fareeha's socks and sliding them off as well. Fareeha looked down at her sheer black bra trimmed with lace and panties that were tied together on her hips for a moment before looking up at Angela with a playful smile on her lips. “If you want to get these off then you have to catch me.” Before Angela could react Fareeha was on her feet and scurrying towards the hallway while laughing. Angela blinked once then she was up on her feet as well and scrambling after the other woman. “Get back here!” By the time made it into the bedroom Fareeha was sitting on the edge of the bed, her hands behind her back as she unhooked her bra. She took hold of the straps and pulled them forward and dropped the garment on the floor. “You can touch me wherever you want, Angela. There's no part of me that's off-limits to you.” Angela took a single step forward as she began taking off her shirt. The next step saw her undoing her skirt and letting it fall away from her. The one after that saw her bra fall away and the final step up to stand in front of Fareeha was accompanied by her panties so that she was only left in her socks. Angela sat down on the bed and scooted towards the pillows at its head before wiggling her feet at Fareeha. “Take these off and we'll get started.” “Where do you want me?” Fareeha asked as she threw the socks towards the trail of Angela's clothing. “Lie down on your front.” Angela said while patting the middle of the bed. Once Fareeha was prone Angela placed both hands on the other woman's lower back and she slid them upwards. When she reached Fareeha's shoulders Angela kneaded at the sides of her neck before running her hands all the way down to one of Fareeha's ankles. Fareeha murmured as Angela began a second pass. It was almost identical to the first, but ended on the opposite leg. As the passes continued Angela's hands gradually drifted towards the outsides on Fareeha's back while slipping ever lower towards the insides of Fareeha's legs. After a few minutes Angela's hands stopped on Fareeha's knees and she pushed them apart. Her right hand reached towards the last remaining article Fareeha was wearing and brushed her fingertip against the fabric from top to bottom then bottom to top. A tremble ran through Fareeha and she let out a gentle whine. Angela licked at her lips, encouraged by the side and she continued to stroke up then down in an even cadence, content to take her time. Further whines came out of Fareeha, each a little louder than the one before. Eventually Fareeha turned her head to the side and raised her rear end into the air. Fareeha grabbed one of the thick pillows and cradled it against her chest to brace herself. “I'm ready for what's next, but I don't know how many fingers I can take so go slow, please.” She said, voice thick with anticipation. “I'll only do one finger then.” Angela said before planting a light kiss to one of the cheeks swaying in front of her. She positioned herself behind her lover, off to one side, and undid one of the knots and tugged the fabric away. Angela curled all of her fingers, save one, her middle finger. She eased it against Fareeha's slick folds then gradually pushed it in to the first knuckle. Fareeha shuddered, but she didn't move. Angela pressed in deeper to her second digit before slowly pulling it out and repeating her action. “Is that all right?” Angela asked. “It's wonderful. Keep going.” Angela reinserted then withdrew her finger at the same pace as before, but the next time was slightly faster, as was the one after that. Bit by bit she began to speed up until she was steadily thrusting in and out and soft moans were filling the air. Fareeha squeezed the pillow even tighter as she closed her eyes, letting everything, but the doctor's touches drift away. This wasn't the first time the two of them had been in this position nor was it the first time she had let Angela penetrate her. However last time she had been manipulating the situation to make it happen, a way of staying in control. This time there wasn't anything of the sort happening. For the first time in their relationship the two of them were equals in bed, partners. As Angela's finger continued to move Fareeha could feel herself growing warmer. Each stroke lending itself to the knot of heat at her center. It was steadily growing larger and expanding throughout the rest of her until all she could feel was warmth brought on by the woman she had just said she loved. Fareeha began to shudder and, all at once, the heat intensified and it seemed she was going to burn away right there as she writhed and cried out wordlessly. When it had passed and Fareeha's body began to cool her eyes opened to see Angela lying beside her. A blissful smile spread across Fareeha's lips. “Hey, you.” She murmured. “Hey, you. How was that?” Angela asked as she returned the smile. “That was wonderful. Your fingers are as amazing as the rest of you. Do you want me to try and do that for you now?” To Fareeha's surprise Angela shook her head. “Not at the moment. I'd love to get off right now, but if you're unsure what to do then I'd rather wait until you're more confident. I know just the video on oral sex for you to watch and when you're ready I'll happily sit on your face.” “O-okay. Well I need to go pee. I'll be right back.” When Fareeha came back into the bedroom she found Angela had company on the bed. Jonesy had jumped onto the bed and was currently sprawling across Angela's neck and face. “Help.” Angela's voice was muffled, as if afraid of opening her mouth too much while the cat was covering it. Fareeha managed to keep herself from laughing, but she couldn't stop a grin from appearing on her face at the sight. “Jonesy, is that how you cuddle with your new mom? You're a silly kitty.” Jonesy's ears swiveled and she turned her head to look at Fareeha before meowing once. Fareeha lay down on the bed next to Angela and she lifted the cat off of Angela and set it down between the two of them. Jonesy wriggled around until she was on her side and touching Fareeha with a single paw. “I'm her new mom? That's news to me.” Angela said with a raised eyebrow as she looked down at the cat. “Well, you don't have to be if you don't want to. She's part of the package though so being with me means you have to deal with this chubby-butt every now and then.” Fareeha stated affectionately as she ruffled the cat's fur. “That's a price I'm willing to pay. Jonesy is definitely silly, but I don't really mind. You're the one getting the short end of the stick if anything. Having to put up with me while I'm going crazy dealing with politics is way worse than your cat having no sense of personal space.” “How did your meeting yesterday go?” Angela folded her hands and rested them on her chest as she stared up at the ceiling. “It went all right. Spencer told me that he was the source of the leak and that he did it to attack the Senators I met with. There's still a lot to be done when it comes to the Americans, but my part is done for now anyways.” “Well that's good to hear. Means the insanity is over, doesn't it?” Angela slowly shook her head. “No. The worst is yet to come. There were some hurdles about legalese when I was dealing with the European Union, but those only took a couple of weeks for the lawyers to clear it up. It was pretty painless overall so I think I needed a wake-up call. This thing with the US was stressful, but it's just a roadbump compared to what's ahead. South America, parts of Asia, Africa. Those are all going to be much harder than what I just went through. Corruption, cartels, dictators, people who are superstitious or don't trust modern medicine, warlords. It has to be done, but I'm not looking forward to it.” “Well, you don't have to do any of that right now do you?” Fareeha inquired as she brushed her fingers against Angela's cheeks. “No... why?” “Well, I just quit my job so I have some free time on my hands and you don't have anything going on for a while I'm guessing. You might have forgotten, but you paid me to live in your house and be your mistress for a whole month and we only managed to get through two weeks. How about we pack up our things, head back and finish the remainder. After that, we'll face whatever comes next together.” Angela's cheeks flushed scarlet and she swallowed once as she considered the suggestion. What Fareeha had said was true. Their original arrangement had been for Fareeha to stay in Angela's house for a month. However that deal had been made between a professional and her client, which the two of them no longer were. It hadn't even been a month since their arrangement had begun, but their relationship had rapidly grown to the point where Angela wasn't sure what to call it. Girlfriends was the best she could come up with, but that term felt like it came up short. What she was sure about was that they didn't have to restrict themselves to just two weeks. The only restraints on how long they spent at her vacation house were ones they put on themselves and Angela had a sneaking suspicion she'd never get tired of the woman lying in bed with her and vice versa. “It's a deal, mistress.”  

Chapter 2 - Details

Angela started as the phone in her pocket buzzed once indicating a text message had been received. She set her grater down on the cutting board next to the pile of shredded potatoes before fishing the phone out. The number wasn't familiar but it was easy to guess who was messaging her.   'I'm interested in your proposal Doctor Ziegler but I would like to meet and discuss the matter before agreeing to anything. Do you have somewhere we can talk in private or do I need to rent an office?'   Angela read the message a second then a third time before the words began to sink in. Fareeha hadn't technically said yes but that most definitely wasn't an outright rejection. She tapped her thumbs on the screen as she typed out a reply. 'You can come by my house sometime today if you're available. Here's the address for you.' Angela paused before sending a followup message. 'What exactly do we need to talk about?'   'How this whole affair would work. I don't want to get into it over texts so I'll explain when I get there. How does 13:00 sound?'   A glance up at the clock hanging above the sink showed the current time as half past eleven. Angela looked down at her potatoes, the amount of tubers suddenly now looking inadequate.   '13:00 works for me. I'll see you then.'   An hour and a half. She needed to grate more potatoes if she wanted to make enough rosti for another person but it would have gotten cold by the time Fareeha arrived. Angela pulled some more potatoes out and started shredding them. Get everything ready then wait for an hour or so before she started actually frying things would be best.   The potatoes had just finished frying and Angela was scooping them onto a plate when the doorbell rang. She spooned the last few stray pieces out before dropping the frying pan back onto the stove and hurrying to the door. Fareeha was waiting outside, a computer tablet and manila folder in her arms, as Angela opened the door. "Hello Doctor Ziegler."   Angela stood there staring at the woman standing on her porch, her thoughts suddenly nowhere to be found. Fareeha shifted her weight from one foot to the other as she waited in vain for Angela to say something. After an uncomfortable pause she cleared her throat. "May I come in?"   "Oh I'm sorry! Yes, come in, come in." Angela pivoted to one side beckoning Fareeha into the house. "Are you hungry? I made rosti if you want some."   Fareeha shut the door behind her before shaking her head. "Thank you but no. I'm not hungry right now. I don't mean to be rude but we have a lot to talk about so do you mind if we get started?"   Angela's face fell more than a little but she was quick to cover her disappointment and pointed to her right with one arm. "My living room's over there." There was a thin TV hanging on one wall surrounded by a large sofa flanked on either side by a pair of overstuffed armchairs. The carpet in the room had vacuum tracks all over it and the scent of air freshener lingered in the room. Angela plopped herself down on one end of the couch and waited until Fareeha had sat down on the far end of it. "So what did you want to talk about?"   "It's like I said in the text message. How all of this would work if I agree to do it. Rules, boundaries, what you want me to do to you and so on." explained Fareeha.   That drew a frown from the Swiss doctor. "What I want? I thought I explained that already. I want you to treat me like a slut for a month."   Fareeha closed her eyes and took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. This was going to be harder than she had been hoping for. "Please don't take this the wrong way but I don't think you understand what you're asking for Doctor Ziegler. How much do you actually know about bondage?"   Angela's frown faded somewhat and Fareeha could almost see the gears spinning in her head. "Ummm I've watched some videos..."   "Porn. Is that all? You didn't read up on it or anything, just watched a bit of porn and decided to make an appointment with me?"   "So what if I did?" said Angela as she tucked her hands into her armpits. "What you did to me was pretty much the same as the video I watched."   "You're not wrong." Fareeha freely admitted. "But that's because it's what you were expecting. My job isn't to educate people on bondage, it's to give them what they're looking for. It's not something I'm particularly happy about but in this town that's how I pay my bills. You're like the majority of my clients, they get introduced to bondage through mainstream media or come across it accidentally and end up getting the wrong impression about the whole thing."   "And what exactly am I getting wrong?"   "There's several components to making a session happen. Negotiations, testing equipment to make sure it's ready, the session itself, then aftercare. The problem with porn is that you only see one of those, the fun part. The other problem is that generally people don't understand the dynamic between a top and their bottom."   "Top and bottom? I don't know what you mean by that." Angela pointed out, looking quizzical as she did so.   "Oh, that's jargon in the scene. Top refers to the dominant partner and bottom refers to the submissive partner. During our session I was the top and you were the bottom for example." explained Fareeha.   "And what do you mean by dynamic?"   "People not in the scene almost always misunderstand the nature of a bondage relationship. Seeing whips or chains makes them think of slavery and that tends to influence their perception. If you ever watch movies or read popular books with bondage in them the relationships are typically one-sided and in some cases abusive but that's not how it really is. In actuality it's a more of a partnership between two people based on trust."   "Trust." The world slowly rolled off Angela's tongue and her shoulders slumped as she sighed. "You're turning me down aren't you?"   "I haven't decided yet but this request of yours is quite... perplexing. We had a single session together six months ago and then you suddenly showed up asking me to live with you for a month as a full-time mistress. I'm still trying to understand how you would think asking an almost complete stranger to do this is a good idea. Why do you want to do this?"   "Because... because..." Angela rubbed at her forehead as she tried to find the right words to explain this request of hers. "I've been in relationships before. Good ones with people I cared about but the sex was always lackluster at best for me. It wasn't until I saw that bondage video that I realized what was missing. I wanted to be the woman in that video, to have someone do those kind of things to me. Which you did but it was over so quickly and I was left wanting more." She gave Fareeha a defiant look as if challenging her to laugh.   "But if you wanted more then you could have just scheduled more sessions. Asking me to live with you for a month is an incredible risk Doctor Ziegler."   Angela's brow furrowed and she shook her head. "When a surgeon has a patient on the table they have another person's life in their hands. One of the things that got drummed into me back in med school was how easy it is for things to go wrong when operating. It was a lesson that I took to heart and I've tried to be as careful as I could my whole career. I'm tired of always playing it safe and not taking any risks." Angela said emphatically, her exasperation beginning to show. "You're right, we don't know each other but I have a good feeling about you and I want to take a chance on this."   Nothing happened for an uncomfortably long few seconds as Fareeha gazed at the Swiss doctor, making her fidget. Then she was scooting her way down the couch until she was close enough to the other woman that their knees were almost touching and Fareeha could smell a touch of cypress and cedar wafting from the doctor. "Very well then. I have a few things I need from you before I agree to do this." Fareeha held the manila folder up in front of her for Angela to see. "First is this. These are legal documents you need to sign for this to happen. An injury waiver, a personal consultant contract and payment details-."   Angela took the folder and opened it as she interrupted Fareeha. "Personal consultant?"   "Yes. You want to hire me for a month but your reputation depends on keeping what we'll be doing secret. I doubt anyone will be looking but having a paper trail will keep reporters or anyone else from learning the actual nature of our arrangement. But you don't have to look through these right now Doctor Ziegler, I'll leave them here with you." Fareeha waited until Angela set the folder down before continuing in as tactful a tone as she could muster, not wanting to offend the doctor. "The second thing I need to ask about is more personal so please try not to be offended. It's about your period. How much of a flow do you have? Where are you in your cycle?" Is there anything I should know about it? I'm asking because your cycle could affect how you're able to cope in a session. Pain tolerance, hormones, and so on." Fareeha's last few words came out in a rush and she made a show of not looking at the other woman when she was done.   "I suppose I should be bothered by that and if it didn't make sense I would be." Ziegler said, an almost amused look on her face. "But to answer your question I use an IUD so that my period doesn't affect my work. Having to worry about cramps, mood swings or needing to change a tampon when I'm making incisions into someone's chest isn't something any surgeon or their assistants want to deal with. As for my flow you don't have to worry about that either, it took about six months but I've only bled two or three times in the last ten years. Anything else you need to know?"   Fareeha started to shake her head then stopped as she looked the doctor up and down. "Possibly. If you give your measurements then I could buy some specialty clothes for you to wear during scenes if you want. Corsets, gloves, that sort of thing. Are you allergic to latex?"   "No... I don't have any allergies." said Angela. "I'll send you my measurements later. Surprise me."   "As you wish." replied Fareeha. "The next thing is figuring out what kind of things you want me to do to you." She extended the computer pad out towards Angela, wiggling it to prompt her to take a hold of the other end. Fareeha swiped the screen and a few dozen boxes, each with a name in the middle, popped up on the display. "Take a look at these and tell me what sounds interesting to you."   Angela lightly bit her lip as she stared at the screen. "I'm not sure... there's so many options to pick from and there's no order to any of them."   "Hang on..." Fareeha tapped a button on the top right and the boxes rearranged themselves alphabetically.   Angela looked at the first one on the list and froze in surprise after she read it out loud. "Anal." Fareeha gave her a quick glance and tapped on the screen to select that particular box, misinterpreting the doctor's reaction. The boxes disappeared as a few pictures popped up in their place. "What the hell is that!?" yelled Angela.   A silicone plug, one bottle of lube, a string of beads and then there was the picture Angela was staring in shock with wide eyes. A length of metal that curved on one end forming the shape of of a hook with a metal ball welded onto the end. Fareeha shrugged her shoulders nonplussed. "That's an anal hook. They're a little strange looking but a fairly common toy."   "That's... people... people actually put that thing in their ass!?" asked Angela in a horrified whisper.   Fareeha lifted an eyebrow at Angela's reaction to seeing the hook. "Are you really that surprised? Anal isn't that uncommon of a fetish outside of the Scene. I thought most people knew about it in some form or another."   "I know what anal is." said Angela, sounding a bit irked at getting called ignorant. "And I know that people stick things in their anal sphincter. My first job out of med school was working in the emergency room so trust me when I say that I've seen some weird things up there but this hook? I don't see how anyone could enjoy sticking one of those in there, it looks like a torture device. And for the record I'm not interested in anal of any kind. " Angela started pushing at random buttons on the screen making the image zoom in then switch over to a short description of the toy. "How do I go back?" A quick swipe from Fareeha in the top left sent them back to the list of fetishes from before. The doctor stared at the list before shaking her head. "Do I really have to go through all of these? You're the expert on this stuff, not me. You should be the one picking things to do."   "Absolutely not." declared Fareeha, her voice louder than before. "I can't tell you what you would or wouldn't enjoy. Only you can answer that question." Her voice trailed off for a moment as she took a moment to think. "But I can help you narrow this down by eliminating items that I'm not willing to do with you."   As Angela watched, Fareeha pressed down on one box after another and swiped each off to one side removing them from the list. "Edge play, piercings, suspension." Angela read the label on each box in turn before it was vanished from the screen. "What is edge play?" she asked.   "Edge play is a catch-all term for the really dangerous kinks out there in the Scene. Electrocution, asphyxiation, knives, fire. Stuff that can and has resulted in injuries or in some cases people dying, usually because they were choking themselves without anyone else around to keep an eye on them." explained Fareeha. "As for the other two I just got rid of, those I'm not opposed to but I would strongly recommend against you doing them at this time since you're new to bondage. Why I'm removing piercings should be obvious but suspension is something I wouldn't recommend you try until you're more experienced and have a better understanding of your limits. Does that make sense?"   Angela rubbed at her chin before nodding her agreement and Fareeha let go of the pad. "All right then, there's one other thing I want to bring up right now. Living with you for a month is pushing one of my boundaries. I've always tried to leave my work at well, work but this is going to make that harder so I want to make something clear. You're hiring me for this which makes you a client just like last time. With that in mind I want to explain some of my rules for this arrangement. You're going to be my bottom when we have sessions together. I'm going to see you naked, I'm going to be touching almost every part of you at one time or another. You're going to get tied up, spanked and whatever else you ask me to do to you, but this is a physical arrangement only. I respect you as a person and admire you for the things you've done for modern medicine but it stops there. I don't have romantic feelings for you Doctor Ziegler and as such kissing is strictly off limits. That might sound odd considering some of the things I've already done, and will do again, to you but that's one of my most important rules. Are we clear?"   The doctor's face paled a tad and she swallowed nervously. "Yes, perfectly."   "Good. Now I believe you were selecting things that you wanted me to do." said Fareeha, shaking the pad in order to draw the doctor's attention back to it. Her lecture had sounded convincing and it was certainly true enough. She had always maintained a strict boundary with her clients, especially the rule about kissing. Now if only she could make herself believe that what she had said was true in this case.  

Chapter 7 - Hold the line

She dashed across the hall and into the spare bathroom, pausing just long enough to shut and lock the door behind her. Fareeha shoved the shower curtain to one side and stepped inside, not even bothering to undress before turning the lever.   Water burst from the faucet, seeping through Fareeha's clothes until they were clinging to her skin. Her legs trembled beneath her and she braced herself with both hands on the walls next to her as she panted. The lever was twisted to its lowest setting and couldn't get any colder but it scarcely served to dampen the burning sensation in the pit of her stomach. Even with her eyes open she could still see a blonde woman touching her most intimate parts in front of her.   Fareeha shook her head from side to side trying to banish that image from her mind, lovely as it was. Not to mention that sound Angela had made, carnal in nature yet somehow still managing to seem celestially divine. As she stood there one of her hands, seemingly of its own accord, was creeping down towards the waistband of her pants. Fareeha growled in frustration as she yanked it back and firmly set it back against the wall. “No!”   “She's a client. She might be more fun than the rest of them but she's still just a client and you're a professional. You just have to enforce your boundaries, you made them for a reason. This is a business arrangement, nothing more.”   Fareeha turned the lever once again to shut the water off before getting out, her socks squishing with each step. Unfortunately for her the bar next to the shower stood empty and there was no towel in the bathroom for her to us. Fareeha hit her forehead with the heel of her hand, now remembering she had taken it to her room earlier that day. There was nothing for it, she would just have to drip water for a little bit until she could change. She opened the bathroom door only to find her way blocked.   A woman wearing a fluffy white bathrobe was standing on the other side of the door, her hand raised as if to knock. The doctor's fist hung in the air before lowering as she took in Fareeha's impression of a drowned rat. “Oh! Let me get a towel!”   “That's not -” Fareeha was too slow as Angela was already darting to what was apparently her linen closet and pulling out a towel and an identical bathrobe to hers. “-necessary.” Her words passed by seemingly without notice as Angela was already patting her down, soaking up as much water as she could.   “You must be freezing! Let's get you of those, they're dripping on the carpet.”   Angela shooed her back into the bathroom where the floor was tile, which could be mopped up. Fareeha shivered but didn't react as Angela pulled the wet shirt off and dropped it to the floor. Everything she had just told herself in the shower flew out the window and it wasn't until Angela was reaching around to undo her bra that Fareeha responded. “Hey... stop that, I don't need your help to take that off.”   “Sorry, I wasn't thinking.” Angela pulled her hands back and turned around to give Fareeha some privacy. Fareeha pulled her bra off and dropped it on the floor as she stripped naked, acutely aware of Angela's presence the entire time before she pulled on the bathrobe.   “So.” began Fareeha, as she turned to face Angela. “I have some things I need to say. Can we go to the living room? This isn't a good place for a serious conversation.”   Angela swallowed, seeing the all too serious look on Fareeha's face and she fidgeted with the belt holding her robe shut. “O-okay.” She headed back into the hallway then down the stairs, Fareeha dogging her heels until they were seated on opposite ends of the couch. “So what did I do wrong? You ran out of my bathroom awfully quickly not to mention you used a safeword.”   “I think we need to go over the rules of our arrangement here again. We're here because you hired me because I'm a dominatrix and you wanted to be my bottom for a month. This whole scenario is about your gratification and I'm willing to work with you to make sure that happens. Tying you up, using dildos or vibrators on you, spanking you with things and so on. I'm happy to do all of that. To you. This is about you, not me. I'd prefer it if we not bring me or my personal life into this again and kept the focus on you. Any nude pictures from now on should be yours and we should be trying to make you orgasm, not me. ”   “I can understand wanting to keep sessions focused on me.” said Angela. “But we're going to be living together for the rest of the month. I'll try not to pry if that's what you want but it's not reasonable to expect that we won't ever talk about you at all during the coming weeks.”   Fareeha closed her eyes as she pinched the bridge of her nose. “Fine, how about this, you can ask me one question per day and I'll decide whether it's too personal or not.”   “Okay...” Angela glanced away for a few seconds while deciding what a good first question would be. “When you were talking to Julian you said you run a website where you talked about old movies and shows. Were you making that up or is that something you actually do?”   “Actually yes, though I was lying about Hollywood contacting you obviously but it's only a matter of time until they actually do Angela. If I had to guess I'd say there's already screenplays about you floating around right now.”   “You're changing the subject back to me.” Angela pointed out. “What interests you about old movies?”   “The history aspect of it I guess, the way cinema evolved over the years until it became what it is today. My site is basically just a place for me to geek out about them. It doesn't make me any money but it's still one of my favorite hobbies.”   “So as someone who watches old movies what would you say is the best film ever made?” asked Angela.   “Citizen Kane.”   “Citizen Kane? That sounds a little familiar but I'm not sure why to be honest.” Angela tapped on her chin as she tried to recall where she had heard that title before.   “Well we can watch it if you want to. I just have to connect my pad to your TV. Would you mind?”   “No, go ahead. I've tried to connect my phone to the TV but it has never worked for me.” Angela gave the television a glare as if it was purposefully trying to spite her.   A few seconds later and the television turned on, its screen a mirror of Fareeha's pad. “Okay I'm going to ask you something and please try not to be offended. How did you invent nano-biotics if you're so bad with computers? The things are basically miniature robots if I understand it correctly.”   Angela looked away for a moment before answering. “I didn't invent nanotechnology obviously. What I did was adapt them for medical purposes. I had to modify their designs so they could perform surgery or other medical functions then program them to be able to do it autonomously.”   “Programmed them? Like computer programming? You can program nano-bots to operate on people but you can't connect a phone to your television?” Tears started leaking from Fareeha's eyes as she doubled over laughing, arms holding her stomach.   The doctor's face turned so red that Fareeha half expected steam to come out of her ears but all Angela did was huff and cross her arms. “I'm sorry, I'm not trying to call you stupid. It's just really, really funny. Anyways, Citizen Kane.” Fareeha tapped on her pad and the movie began playing on the screen.   “It's all gray? There must be something wrong with my TV, let me try to find the remote.”   “There isn't anything wrong Angela, Citizen Kane was filmed in black and white. They had Technicolor back then but serious dramas didn't use it.”   “Orson Welles?” Angela read the name off the screen. “Just how old is this movie exactly?”   “Well it was filmed in nineteen-forty-one so it's pretty old. Anyways no talking during the movie okay?”   Angela glanced towards the kitchen. “Actually do you want some brunsli first?”   Fareeha's brow furrowed as she tried to remember what that word meant. “Brunsli... those are brownies right? I thought they were a Christmas thing.”   “Traditionally yes, but I don't think anyone will care too much if we eat them today.” Angela hopped up to her feet and headed to the kitchen momentarily before returning with a plate of chocolate confections and two glasses of milk. She set it down on the coffee table in front of the couch before plopping down next to Fareeha. “Okay. What makes this movie so good that you're calling it the best ever after all these decades?”   “There's a bunch of stuff Welles did that was really innovative at the time. The movie wasn't chronological, they planned out all of the shots weeks ahead of time instead of a few days, Welles used camera lenses that kept everything in focus, the lightning, all the prosthetics Seiderman made. Honestly I could talk about this for hours if you let me. You should just watch and see for yourself.” Fareeha pressed a button on her tablet and the movie began to play again.   Two hours later and the camera was slowly zooming in on a group of men hurling wooden objects into an open furnace roaring with flame. One lifted a sled, tossing it into the furnace and the camera's focus changed once again. The paint on the sled's top was swiftly melting away in the scorching heat but the word 'Rosebud' could still be clearly seen before the film cut away to the ending shot. Fareeha turned her head to see Angela's reaction but the doctor must have fallen asleep earlier without Fareeha noticing. The blonde's head wasn't resting on her shoulder but it had still gotten rather close and she was leaning in Fareeha's direction. Fareeha tapped on her pad once more, ending the movie's playback before turning towards the doctor.   She painstakingly eased Angela's head down to the couch while standing up herself, hoping not to interrupt her slumber. Fareeha grabbed the empty plate and glasses, depositing them in the kitchen sink before heading upstairs to Angela's room. She grabbed the blankets and pillow off Angela's bed then headed back to where the doctor lay. Fareeha draped the blanket over the doctor and slowly eased the pillow beneath her head. “Sleep well Angela, you're going to have an interesting day tomorrow.”  

Chapter 5 - Presentations

If it had been up to her then Angela would have headed straight for the bunker in the basement after putting the groceries away but Fareeha brought her into the living room instead. Once the two of them were seated on the couch Fareeha got the ball rolling as she opened up the kinks app she had gone through with Angela prior. “Since this is our first session here I don't want to do anything too intense, let's make this one something of a warmup, something light. What do you think of just doing rope-work today Angela?”   “I'm not quite sure I know what you mean by saying rope-work. Does that mean you're just going to be tying me up or is there more to it than that?”   “There are some other things you can do with ropes but we won't be getting into those today. This is mainly about the visual appeal of it.”   Angela pursed her lips at that. “Visual appeal? But the only person who'll see what you're doing is you. If there was a mirror in the bunker then I could see myself in that but there isn't.”   “Well my pad has a pretty good camera so I could take pictures with it and show them to you. That brings up a followup question though. If I did take pictures would you want them to just be for you or would you be interesting in posting them online?” Fareeha pointed at a small glass circle on the back of the computer pad for reference.   The doctor's face soured almost immediately at that notion. “Post pictures...online? You mean the Internet right? Why would I do that? I'm not exactly ashamed of what we're doing but it's not something I want the world to know about me.”   “No, no, no I didn't explain that right or at all really.” exclaimed Fareeha, quickly trying to pull foot from mouth. “If you decided to post pictures I would make sure the pictures would be anonymous so that no one could tell they're of you. You could hide your face from the camera or black it out in photoshop for example. Personally I'd just keep your head out of frame so that people would only be able to see -.” She waved one hand from her shoulders towards her feet.   “But couldn't hackers trace the... I... the internet number, whatever that's called. They could trace it back to my house and people would know it's me.”   “You mean the IP address? I have a VPN app from my employer that lets me connect to their proxy server remotely. Doing that will keep anyone from being able to run a RIPE whois or traceroute command to find you.”   Angela stared at Fareeha, her eyes glazing over. “I don't understand anything you just said. That was a bunch of IT gobbledygook.”   “It means no one would be able to track down your IP address since they would never see it in the first place.” explained Fareeha.   “Oh. Are you sure that means they would be anonymous? Is there any other way they could figure out it's me?.”   “There's also Exif info in the pictures that I would have to remove but I have a program for that too.” said Fareeha.   “How do you know so much about computer stuff? Is it a hobby of yours?”   “No, not really. You wouldn't be the first person I've posted pictures of and it was something I had to learn to protect my identity.”   Now that caught Angela off-guard. “Wait your identity? You've posted pictures of yourself?” She fell silent for a moment before asking yet another question. “Would you be interested in a trade? I'll let you post a picture of me, anonymously of course, if you let me see one of the pictures you posted.”   If someone had told Fareeha that she would be having this conversation when she had woken up this morning then she would have laughed in their face. Yet here she was, considering the notion of trading nudes with a woman who had hired her as a dominatrix. In a way it was fair, she had accidentally seen the other woman naked earlier that day. Fareeha navigated her way to the photo app on her pad and flipped through a pass-worded album before picking one of the pictures on it. She turned the pad so that Angela could see it, her cheeks warming as she did so. Fareeha's face was concealed beneath a morass of dark black hair and she was wearing a very short purple satin dress. She was sprawled out on a bed, hips turned towards the camera and her skirt teased just enough of her pelvis and chest to put it on the cusp of indecency.   “Oh come on, you gotta give me something better than that.” Angela declared emphatically though she was still blushing at the shadowy area between Fareeha's legs in the photo. “I'm letting you post a nude picture of me online. Try again!”   Fareeha scrolled through her pictures again before selecting another one and turned the pad back to Angela. She was on the same bed and her face was hidden like before but now she was sitting with her back up against the headboard. The dress from before was missing and there wasn't any underwear to be found in this shot. Fareeha's feet and knees were spread wide, giving a full on frontal look at the immaculately trimmed hair on her crotch along with her breasts. Angela's eyes opened so wide that Fareeha could almost see more white than pupil and her gaze locked on the screen instead of looking at the real thing next to her. “Mein gott.”   The picture winked out much to Angela's disappointment and Fareeha set the pad down on her lap. “So that makes us even. I saw you naked this morning and now you've seen me. So back to this session we're planning. We'll be doing a bunch of rope-work, you already know the health risks and what to watch out for. I'll be taking pictures of you throughout and I'll be posting one of those online but you get to choose which one. You showed me that you remember your safe-words in the car so I don't need to go over those.” She stood up and waved in the direction of the stairs leading to the basement. “Let's go.”   The mattress was still in the same spot as before but the toy collection had been cleared off it and put back in the boxes they had come out of. Fareeha went to the box labeled clothes and opened it before pulling something out and holding it up for Angela to see.   A black collar with fleece lining the inside and a metal ring attached to the front of it. “So now that our shopping trip is done there isn't any reason for you to go anywhere in public for a couple of weeks. You can take this off when you're taking a shower or a bath but other than that I want you wearing this at all times unless I tell you otherwise.”   Angela walked up to Fareeha leaning in closer to get a better look and she brushed her fingers against the collar. “Is this leather? I don't really feel comfortable wearing leather...”   Fareeha shook her head. “No it's actually synthetic. It feels the same as real leather and it's a lot easier to take care of. Is that okay with you?”   “I can handle that but I have a plumber coming in a couple of days to fix my shower. Could I take this off then?” asked Angela.   “Of course. I'm not going to make you wear this when there's a chance someone could see it.”   “Will you do the honors?” Angela took a hold of her hair with both hands, lifting it up so that it wasn't resting against her neck and shoulders.   Fareeha took one step then a second closer to Angela so that mere finger widths separated the two of them. Her head dipped forward until it was almost brushing against the doctor's ear as she wrapped the collar around that slender white neck. “You're mine now.” breathed Fareeha in a husky whisper. Angela shivered at the hot breath tickling her ear and then the collar was cinched shut. She had been dreaming about this during the months since their first session but now it wasn't a dream anymore. This was really happening. Angela's lips parted ever so slightly and her face turned towards Fareeha but the dominatrix was already heading for another box. Fareeha started pulling out bundles of rope and she pointed with her chin at the mattress. “Green... wait, yellow. Do you have any tattoos or birthmarks?” Angela shook her head and Fareeha nodded in response. “Okay then green. Take off your clothes and kneel on the mattress, hands in front of you.”   For the second time that day Angela was naked in Fareeha's presence but her top didn't seem at all fazed this time. She knelt on the mattress and held her hands up, unsure exactly what Fareeha wanted her to do with them. “Not like that, here.” Fareeha pressed Angela's palms and fingers together. “Like this. Kinda obvious why this is called the prayer position isn't it?”   As Fareeha began weaving rope between her fingers Angela glanced around the room. “So what am I supposed to do during this exactly? Just sit here?”   “More or less. If you're squirming then it makes it harder for me to tie you up, but that doesn't mean you're not doing anything. Focus on the rope. Feel the way the fibers rub against you, how the rope bites into your skin, the pressure it puts on your body, but most importantly just relax and remember to breath.” Fareeha finished winding the brown rope around Angela's wrists and cinched it shut. “So this is a pretty simple tie. Hold your hands up higher and I'll take a photo. No, a little lower than that, we don't want to block your br– yes that's perfect.” Fareeha grabbed her computer pad and flipped to the camera, zooming in so that Angela's head wasn't in the shot.   After the picture had been taken Angela glanced up at the bunker's lightbulbs and the harsh light they threw out. “How will the pictures taken in here come out? I don't think the lighting in here isn't good for pictures.”   Fareeha shrugged dismissively as she undid the rope on Angela's wrists. “My camera auto adjusts light and stuff. It won't be as good as a professional photographer but good enough for our purposes. Now the next one is a harness and I'll be using a blue rope since it matches your hair. Oh don't give me that look, no one's going to see your face, well no one but me that is. You can get off your knees now if you want.”   Angela wiggled her fingers as they were freed and she gratefully uncurled her legs from beneath her and leaned back on her hands. Fareeha waited until she had stopped moving before getting started on the harness. Angela closed her eyes and focused on trying to feel the rope like Fareeha had suggested. The fiber wasn't entirely smooth, minuscule fuzzy strands poked into her wherever the rope was laid but nothing she couldn't tolerate. Soon enough the pattern became apparent to her as the harness took shape. Across her upper chest in one direction then the other and then the same thing again but underneath her breasts. Between the breasts next and up over her collarbone on both sides before joining the growing bight in the back. Then Fareeha pulled on the rope and the entire harness constricted everywhere at once, the strands compressing her breasts from above and below while making it harder, but not uncomfortably so, to take deep breaths. A quiet gasp forced its way out and Fareeha was suddenly in front of her, an alert expression on her face. “Are you okay? Do you need me to loosen it?”   “Green.” Angela said with a smile. “Let's take the picture and move on.”   After this picture was taken Fareeha once again started undoing the bight on her back. “So this next one is called a karada. Some people call it a rope dress but I prefer karada, it sounds more exotic. Stand up for me please.” Once Angela rose to her feet Fareeha made a short loop and draped the rope around her neck. She tied several knots at regular intervals along the center of her torso then gently nudged Angela's calf with her foot. “Spread your legs for me please.”   Once Angela obliged her request Fareeha crouched so that she could run the rope between the blonde's legs along her crotch. As she started to pull the rope through Angela made a face and something invisible but not noiseless slipped out. Fareeha grimaced and shook her head in annoyance as she wrinkled her nose. “Really, you couldn't hold that back?”   It was juvenile, crass and in poor taste but Angela's lips quivered as she fought to hold it back though it was a futile effort and a single giggle broke free. A look down at Fareeha's face only served to add colleagues to it and she grabbed at her ribs as her shoulders soon began to shake.   “What are you doing? Stop laughing! You're going to undo the knots.” It was a flimsy excuse but the only thing Fareeha could think of in the moment.   In the back of her head Angela knew she should be trying to settle herself down but for whatever reason Fareeha's comment made her laugh even harder and she sank to her knees, tears now streaming down her face.   Fareeha's eyes flickered toward the box containing her toys for spanking but she shook her head, dismissing the idea. It probably would make Angela stop laughing, but it wasn't something they had agreed to during this session. The only acceptable choice was to sit and wait for the giggles to stop, which eventually they did.   Angela wiped some of the tears off her cheeks as she finally settled down. “Sorry about that. I don't know why that was so funny.” She took a deep breath and stood up back, resuming her former stance. ”Green.”   Picking up where she had left off, Fareeha grabbed the rope and started twisting a knot that was much thicker than the others into it before running it through Angela's legs again. As she pulled upwards the this knot pressed right against Angela's clitoris eliciting a gasp as the rope grew more and more taut. Her head turned to see a devilish grin on Fareeha's face. “Sorry, I think I got that angle wrong. Let me try again.” Fareeha said, convincing no one of her sincerity, and she tugged on the cords once again. Angela shuddered as the rope not only nudged against her clit but also rubbed against her folds Then Fareeha was letting it slacken as pulled it through a loop at the top. The two cords split apart and Fareeha started wrapping them around Angela's chest and stomach, combining with the knots up front to form diamond shapes on her torso. The remaining slack was wrapped around her waist and tied off in the back before Fareeha snapped another picture. “Comfortable?”   “I feel fine. Are you going to undo this now?” Angela waved downwards at the blue rope covering her.   “Not at the moment. I want you to wear this a while longer, say an hour before I take it off. I think for now you should decide what picture you want to post online. And what handle you want to put on it.” Fareeha plopped herself down on the mattress and pulled up the three photos she had taken.   “Handle?” asked Angela as she sat down next to Fareeha.   “Well we can't use your real name for this obviously so we have to come up with an alias. How about... an anagram?” Fareeha typed both of her names out on the screen and stared at them for a moment. “...Regal Lezie?”   “I don't feel comfortable with using an anagram. I know I'm being paranoid but I can just see someone reversing it and somehow arriving at Angela Ziegler. You should use something that people couldn't connect to me.”   Thoughts and ideas ran through her head before something came to mind. “How about something like Slutty Canary? A bird that's yellow like your hair and you wanted to pretend you were a slut during our first session together.”   “Why a bird?”   “What?”   “Why did you go to bird? There's other yellow animals out there. Golden retrievers, yellow labs, cheetahs. Why a bird?” Fareeha glanced away for a moment before muttering something that Angela couldn't hear. “What?”   “Because I used a bird when I picked my handle.” exclaimed Fareeha.   “Well what if we changed the slutty bit to something else? What's a different word we could use?”   Fareeha typed away on the pad as she pulled up a thesaurus. “Tramp, whore, bimbo, minx. I like minx. Canary Minx?”   “Hmmm no. How about that one? Jezebel. Jezebel Canary. That'll work. Only thing anyone can get from that is I'm a blonde and there's millions of those.”   “All right, Jezebel Canary it is.” Fareeha pulled up her internet browser and started navigating to her site of choice. “Now before we pick a picture I want to make sure you're okay with posting something online. You don't have to do this just because I showed you a nude picture of me. I don't want you to feel pressured into doing something you're not comfortable with.”   Angela shook her head emphatically to dismiss Fareeha's concerns. “No, it's fine. I don't feel uncomfortable with this, I'm actually kinda excited to see what people say about me though I am nervous they won't like it.”   “Trust me that won't be a problem.” Fareeha opened the upload box. “Which picture do you want to post Angela?”   “Uhhh... I've never done anything like this before so... let's just post the prayer one. I can handle people looking at my breasts but I don't want to put my vagina online if that's okay with you.”   “Angela, I'm not the one who has to be okay with it. This is your body we're uploading a picture of. If you don't want to post the karada then we won't post the karada. You don't have to justify yourself to me.” Fareeha held the pad out to Angela. “Everything's set up, all you have to do is push enter if you're sure about this.”   The doctor's finger descended towards the enter key on the pad, wavered in the air then firmly pushed the last input needed. “Now what?”   “Now we wait and see what kind of a response you get. It could take minutes, it could take hours.” Fareeha set the pad down and stretched her arms above her head. “I don't know about you, but I could use a drink.”   “Can I take this off and put my clothes back on now?” Angela gestured at the rope harness she was still wearing.   “Nope, I said you have to keep it on for an hour and you can't put your clothes on either. I feel like admiring my handiwork.”   Angela's face reddened as she looked down at herself, naked except for ropes that did nothing to conceal any of her privates. As she started heading up the stairs, Fareeha behind her, a part of her brain started to float a question. Was Fareeha really admiring her rope-work or was she looking at something else?  

Chapter 1 - Request

The face staring back at her grimaced as she dragged a brush through the damp tangled mess that passed for her hair at the moment. Angela set the brush down and took a stray lock in hand, leaning towards the mirror as she did so. Split ends. She yanked a drawer open, her hand digging through it to grab a pair of scissors but Angela stopped short just before closing the metal blades on said lock of hair. The scissors wavered for a brief moment before she set them down next to the sink. Of all the things to worry about today.   Angela laughed, more of a quiet snort really, and shook her head before making eye contact with her twin in the mirror again. “Come on Angela, you've performed open heart surgeries before. This is nothing compared to that.” she muttered. Yet her twin didn't appear convinced by the argument. She had ruminated over this dozens of times and yet a sizable portion of her was bearing the opinion that forceps and reddened pieces of gauze would be less stressful than the task she had set for herself this day.   Her hair was still damp by the time she set foot outside, but the sun was shining overhead and the drive was long enough for her hair to dry by the time she arrived. Angela shoved the last few bits of zopf into her mouth as she opened the door to her car and got inside. The engine hummed briefly then her car was lifting off the ground and gliding down the road. Thirty minutes later and Angela's car had pulled up to her destination's entrance, a plain unmarked corrugated steel door. A red LED on the wall mounted camera lit up for a moment before blinking off and the door rumbled upwards as it opened.   Afterwards she wouldn't quite remember what happened next. Parking in the garage, speaking to the Omnic stationed behind the front desk, descending in the elevator. It all blurred into a near indecipherable haze. One moment she was outside the building, the next she was in its depths standing outside the door where she was waiting. They had only met once before, and just for a short period of time, but that brief span of time still had managed to sear itself onto her frontal lobe. It had regularly visited her dreams during both night and day over the past six months. At times Angela had found herself with one hand drifting between her legs while taking a shower as the memory had resurfaced without her intentionally summoning it. Now she was here once again, just meters away from the one person who had been able to see past her title and all the accolades, to see what Angela really wanted.   She swiped the keycard in her hand and stepped inside.   The woman in question was sitting at the small table in the room like she had been the last time. There was a kettle sitting atop a cloth pot holder in the middle of the table and two steaming cups of tea completed the ensemble. Fareeha rose from her seat and she pulled the other chair away from the table. “Please have a seat Doctor Ziegler.” Angela lowered herself to sit on the chair and Fareeha moved it back towards the table before returning to her own chair. Fareeha pushed one of the cups towards Angela. “Tell me what you think of this. It's a popular tea from Egypt known as Koshary.”   Small green leaves floated on a rosy liquid and there was a minuscule cube of sugar gradually dissolving at the bottom. Angela lifted the cup from its saucer and sniffed at the aroma wafting from it. Mint. She took a small sip before setting it back down. “This tastes good to me but I don't know much about tea really. I usually drink wine or rivella, sometimes coffee if I'm in the mood for caffeine.” said Angela.   Fareeha wrinkled her nose and she was only partially successful at suppressing a gag of revulsion. “Rivella? That's the soda made from milk whey, isn't it? I tried that once but I couldn't finish the bottle. But that's not why you're here is it? I was actually surprised to see your name on the schedule today. After six months I didn't think you were going to come back for another session. Do you have anything in mind that you want me to do to you?”   Angela slowly shook her head and took another gulp of tea to buy her a few extra seconds before having to respond. “I'm not actually here for that, at least not right now anyways.” She set the cup back down and reached into her jacket for a piece of paper tucked into an inner pocket. “I actually have something of a proposal for you.” She laid it down on the table before continuing, though not without a noticeable waver to her voice. “I've been thinking about what we did last time and I'd like to do it again but for more than an hour.”   “What do you mean Doctor Ziegler? An all-day or an overnight session?” asked Fareeha after taking another sip. “That's possible but you would have to schedule another appointment to book me for that long and it would cost a lot more.”   “No, that's not what I mean.” Angela said with a vigorous shake of her head. “I own a villa in east Switzerland, that's a picture of it there.”   Fareeha picked up the photograph when Angela pushed it towards her and glanced at it briefly before setting it back down. “I'm sorry Doctor Ziegler but I'm not following you. What are you asking of me?”   Angela took a deep breath and smoothed out some wrinkles in her jacket that weren't there. She had been planning this for months but now that the moment had arrived her words were lodging themselves in her throat. She swallowed once and began blurting out what she had come here to ask. “I want you to come stay with me there. My session with you was fantastic but it was too short so I want to do it for longer. One month of being a slut instead of one hour.”   Fareeha's eyebrows raised as high as they physically could and she started to interject but Angela cut her off before she could get a word out. “I know this is a weird request but I'm willing to pay for it. I don't know what you earn here in a month but I'll double it. Triple if I have to.”   “Can you? I know you're a renowned surgeon but... ah I see. Nano-biotics.” Fareeha realized mid-sentence. “I didn't know you were making any money from those. The news sites said the United Nations was paying for the manufacturing costs.”   “They are but I own the patents on nano-biotics so every hospital that uses them pays me five euros and there's thousands of hospitals in the world.” explained Angela. “I give most of the money to charities and medical research but there's still more than enough left over for me so being able to pay you isn't an issue.”   Angela pushed her chair away from the table as she stood up. “I know it's an unusual request but I'm quite serious about this. Take as long as you need to think about this and when you make a decision you can call or text me at the number on the back of this photo.”   Then she was gone in the blink of an eye leaving Fareeha alone in the room with the cups of tea and a decision she hadn't expected when waking up that morning.   **   People who visited the club did so through a garage up on the surface but that wasn't where the workers entered and left. Several buildings in the immediate area had points of access where Fareeha and the others could discreetly gain entry to say nothing of the supplies and equipment that this place needed. It was one of these buildings that Fareeha exited to find the clouds had opened up and were dripping water on the city below. She shivered at the touch of the chilly air on her face as she pulled the hood of her jacket up while heading for her car. The inside of her vehicle wasn't much warmer than the air outside but it was dry at the very least. Fareeha pulled her phone out and tapped on its screen several times until a ringing sound was coming out of it. “Hello?” said an older woman's voice.   “Hi mother, it's me. Just got off work and wanted to see if you minded me coming over for a visit right now.” said Fareeha as she hit the ignition switch.   There was a brief pause from her mother accompanied by the sound of water running from a faucet. “That's fine dear. I'll have some tea ready by the time you get here. See you in a bit.” said Ana before hanging up.   Fareeha tapped on the dashboard console with her other hand to select a destination before settling back to wait as the self-driving car took off. Typically she would be reading a novel or looking out the windows at the city rushing by but this time all she could see was a golden haze blocking everything else out.   Her mother must have spotted Fareeha's car pulling up because she had opened the front door and embraced Fareeha before her daughter even had a chance to ring the bell. “Hello dear, it's good to see you. Come in, come in.” The white haired woman let go and beckoned her inside while closing the door behind her.   “Is Jack not around?” asked Fareeha, not seeing the grizzled American veteran there to greet her.   “Oh he's sleeping right now.” said Ana with a meaningful glance at the ceiling as Fareeha seated herself on the living room's couch. “You know how he gets when March comes around Fareeha.”   “Right. Indiana basketball.” Fareeha said with a chuckle. “Has Jack managed to convert you into a fan yet? It's been a few years since he moved in with you.”   “No but I watch Indiana's... what did he call it... postseason games simply because he loves it so much. Though he has been even more excited this year than usual. Something about playing a school called Kentucky, in the elite four or something like that.” Ana disappeared into the kitchen briefly before coming back out with a tray laden with teacups and kettle. She set it on the coffee table before settling next to her daughter. “So tell me dear, what brings you here today? You look... troubled.”   Fareeha picked one of the cups up and took a drink before answering. “I am kinda. It's a client from work.”   “Let me guess. Yet another client was so impressed by your handiwork that they've fallen head over heels for you.” said Ana, though not unkindly, more vaguely amused at the thought of that happening again.   “Not exactly. This client visited me a few months ago and everything went about as well as it could for a first-timer. They expressed an interest in coming back for more and showed up again today. I thought it was for a session when I saw the appointment had been scheduled but I was wrong.” Fareeha sighed as she set the cup of tea down and rested her elbows on her thighs. “This person wanted to hire me. To live with them for a month and you can guess what we'd be doing that whole time.”   Ana's cup stopped halfway en route to her mouth and she stared at her daughter for a moment. “Surely you said no. I know you do unusual stuff for that job but that's far too much for someone to ask of you.”   “That's just it. I don't know if I want to say no. Most of my clients are politicians or bankers and if it had been any one of them then I would have turned them down. I'd try to be nice about it but I'd say no. But this person... is different. You know I can't tell you who it is of course but they've done more to help people than all the others combined, and they offered to pay me triple my monthly salary so there's that too.”   “Does this client of yours know how much you make in a month?” asked Ana, her implication obvious.   “No they don't... I don't want to take advantage of them by doing that though.”   Ana took another drink before setting her own cup down and turning towards her daughter. “I'm not sure what to tell you that you don't already know. This client of yours might be a fantastic person but they're still a client. You can make a lot of money off this but the question you need to ask yourself is whether or not you can keep things professional in this sort of situation. Ultimately though you're a grown woman and I support whatever you decide dear.”   Fareeha frowned to herself as she weighed her mother's words. “I guess I'll have to figure it out when I get home. How are you and Jack doing?”   Her mother gave a small smile and visibly relaxed at the change of subject. “Where to start?”  

Chapter 4 - Encounters

Fareeha's eyes fluttered open and she groggily rolled over to look for her phone. For a split second she felt a spike of alarm before realizing why the room didn't look familiar. She was hundreds of kilometers from Geneva in another woman's vacation home. Fareeha picked up her phone to check the time, almost nine in the morning, before getting out of the bed. She had picked out an outfit for today but the rest of her clothes were still in her boxes and unpacking them was a chore for later. Fareeha stifled a yawn as she shuffled out into the hall towards the shower, pushing it open with one hand and coming to a dead stop.   The other woman in the house was standing in front of the sink, a tube of lipstick in her fingers and a towel was wrapped around her head but that was it. Everything beneath Angela's shoulders was bare skin softened from just getting out of the shower. Fareeha's mouth hung in the air and her clothes fell to the floor from her suddenly slack fingers. Color rushed to her face and suddenly her heart was accelerating as the sight in front of her burned itself onto her retinas. The proper thing to do would be to shut the door and walk away but somehow Fareeha couldn't muster the willpower to lift her feet, to turn her head or even something as simple as closing her eyes.   After what only could have been a few seconds that felt far longer Fareeha was dashing back to her room, a belated ''Oh my god, I'm so sorry!” drifting in her wake as she shut the door behind her. She sank to the floor, burying her hands in her face, mortified at what had just transpired. The first morning of this affair and she had already walked in on a naked Angela. What a fantastic way to kick things off.   There was a soft knock on the door and Angela's voice came through. “I'm sorry about what just happened. This is my fault, not yours. My shower wasn't getting any hot water for some reason and you weren't awake so I thought it'd be okay if I used it real quick while you were sleeping. I could've sworn that I locked the door though. May I come in? I'm decent now.”   Fareeha wordlessly pulled on the door handle and it swung open letting the doctor inside. The towel was still wrapped around her hair and she had slipped into a heavy cotton bathrobe. Fareeha looked up from the carpet to see how much damage she had done but Angela looked... amused? “You're not mad?” she asked incredulously.   Angela shook her head, a hint of a smile on her face. “No I'm not mad though I am confused about why you're being so bashful. You're a professional dominatrix, being around naked people is literally part of your job not to mention you've already seen naked before and we basically had sex, at least I did I guess...”   “As part of a session.”   “So what, you're saying that it doesn't count?” asked Angela. “That doesn't make any sense to me. You used a dildo on me, that's penetration. How is that not sex?”   “This is going to sound weird but I don't consider what I do to actually be sex, at least not for me since there's no emotion involved on my part. You were one of my clients so you have an idea of how it works. My time slots get booked, someone shows up – I never know who it's going to be. They tell me what they want, I do it, they leave and I wait until the next client shows up. It's not all that different from how other people see their jobs but mine involves bending people over a table or some such.”   “So you don't care about your clients? But I'm one of them so where does that leave me?” asked Angela, her smile fading.   “You're not the first client of mine to proposition me and as a rule I've always turned them down. Mainly it's to keep things professional but it didn't hurt that I was never attracted to most of them. Then you showed up Angela. Our session was the most fun I've had in a long time and when you came back with this request of yours I was floored. Normally I would have said no but you left so fast that I didn't have the chance so I started thinking about it and well... I'm here.”   In a way there was a sort of logic to Fareeha's reasoning but it didn't hold up particularly well in Angela's opinion. The dominatrix may not have enjoyed most of her work or been attracted to her clients for that matter however that didn't change the physical aspect of those sessions. The other takeaway for her from this was that something had made Fareeha change her mind, though Angela could only guess at what for the time being. She could ask of course, however Fareeha was looking decidedly uneasy so Angela decided to change the subject. “It's too early in the day to have such a serious conversation. Let's get some breakfast before we head to the grocery store, you don't want to shop hungry.”   There wasn't a whole lot in the pantry, just some oats and rice that had been left over from Angela's last trip here. As the rice simmered in its pot Angela set pen and paper on the table in front of Fareeha. “If we were still in Geneva then shopping would be easy but in this area the people mostly speak German. Make a list of what you want to get and I'll write down the German words for you so you know what you're looking for.”   After they had finished eating Angela grabbed half a dozen tote bags hanging from a hook in the pantry before heading for the garage. Fareeha followed her through the door, her attention focused on shoving her wallet into a pocket that was almost too small to hold it. Then she looked up from her jeans and Fareeha came to an abrupt halt at the sight of Angela's car, all sleek lines and she could see her reflection in the polished side of the silver vehicle. “What kind of car is that? A Porsche?”   “Aston Martin. Porsche's are more popular these days but I've always liked Aston interiors more.” Angela unlocked the doors with the remote and tossed the tote bags into the rear seats as she sat herself down.   Following a moment of hesitation Fareeha got in on the other side. The outside may have been eye catching but the interior was even more so. The dashboard and seats were covered by a mix of black and gray covers all stitched together and the center console was a medley of silver buttons and plugins for whatever devices needed to be plugged in. Fareeha rubbed a finger against her seat's cushion. “Is this leather?”   Angela shook her head as she started punching in the address of their destination. “Nope, it's all carbon fiber. Leather is what this model normally comes with but I had them change it when they were customizing this car for me. There's a remote that controls your seat's settings on your right and this dial here is the AC for your side of the car.”   As the car left the garage Fareeha found the remote Angela had mentioned. Seat back up and down, moving the seat forward and backwards, heating coils, there was even a pair of buttons for a massage unit. She curiously pushed the plus sign once and immediately her chair went to work, lightly vibrating against her back. Angela glanced over at her for a second but didn't say anything as she lowered her seat and closed her eyes as the car zoomed along. Several minutes later it was pulling into a small parking lot and setting itself down in the middle of a square made of white lines.   Angela paused in the lot, bags in hand as she peered at the name of the grocery store. “Oh shoot, I screwed up Fareeha. That's not German, it's Romansh. It's been a couple of years since I've been out here, I guess I remembered wrong. Can you give me your list? We might as well stick together now, it'll be quicker than writing everything down again.”   “Just how many languages do you speak?” asked Fareeha as she looked at the incomprehensible, to her, store name.   “Well Switzerland has several official languages and my parents insisted I learn all of them when I was a little girl.” Angela counted them off on her fingers as she went along. “French, Italian, Romansh, two dialects of German and English. My Italian and Romansh are a little rusty but we'll be fine. Come on.”   All of the aisle signs and labels on all the food were little more than gibberish to her but a head of romaine lettuce looked pretty much the same no matter where you went at least. Angela had grabbed a cart and was pushing it through the store, translating for Fareeha as they moved through the store. As they navigated the produce section Fareeha noticed a dumpy looking woman with white hair giving Angela some not so furtive glances, an odd look on her face. The woman pulled out a phone, her thumbs tapped away at it and then she started moving towards them.   She stopped a meter or so away and said something that Fareeha couldn't understand. Angela looked up from the cucumbers and replied in what had to be the same language. The woman waved her hand as she said something equally impossible to understand but Fareeha caught the name 'Ziegler' in the middle of it. Angela smiled slightly and said a couple of words in response.   Without warning the woman stepped closer clasping Angela's hands in hers as a torrent of words exploded outwards and her eyes began to leak. After a minute or so she let go and turned her phone around showing Angela then Fareeha a picture of an old man as she repeated the same phrase over and over. Angela said something as she gave the woman a hug and another smile before the old woman left them to go back to where she had left her own cart.   “What was that all about?” asked Fareeha, trying to understand what had just happened.   Angela watched the old woman for a moment longer before turning to Fareeha, her eyes almost looking misty. “She was telling me about her husband, the man in the picture. Apparently he was diagnosed with cancer several years ago and the tumors were already malignant and enough of his organs had metastasized to the point that traditional surgery and chemotherapy wouldn't be effective. They were starting to give up hope when one of their doctors told them about nano-biotics. This was when we were just starting human trials and the technology hadn't proven itself yet. They didn't have anything to lose so they decided to try it and well... the nanobots eliminated enough of the tumors that another surgeon was able to remove the rest. I had forgotten about it but now I remember that there were a number of medical journals that talked about this case. Ah well Switzerland is a small country, I was bound to come across someone like her sooner or later.”   Fareeha's eyes dropped back to the display of cucumbers and she fidgeted a bit before picking a pair out and moving on. The rest of the shopping trip was something of a blur and it wasn't until they were on the way back to Angela's house that she was snapped out of it.   “Hello? Earth to Fareeha? Do you read me?”   “Huh? What? I'm here. What is it?”   “I asked if something was wrong. You've been awfully quiet since we ran into that woman at the store.”   Once Angela finished speaking the thought of lying forced its way to the front of Fareeha's thoughts but she quickly shook it off. It might make this ride less awkward but would only create problems down the road. “I'm just feeling really self-conscious right now. I know you don't want me to see you as Doctor Ziegler but I'm having a hard time with that at the moment. You're an internationally renowned surgeon, you're rich – your houses are gorgeous, I'd bet this car costs more than everything I own. You speak five languages, people come up to you in the grocery store and thank you for saving someone's life. Who am I against all of that? I'm an expat that gets paid to sodomize people.”   “Stop that. Self pity never helped anyone and this isn't a competition. I might be everything you said but there's more to life than having stuff. You have problems with your job? Well you aren't the only one. Do you remember what I said to you six months ago? No? Well let me refresh your memory. What I said was that all people saw when they looked at me was a doctor, even people that wanted to date me. They looked at me like some kind of statue with a sign saying 'Do not touch' on it but you didn't. You saw me as a person in a way nobody else had before. That's why I came back to you, because you were willing to see me as Angela and I hope today doesn't change that.”   Fareeha took a moment to compose herself as she looked out through the passenger door window. “Sorry I'm not usually this whiny, today's just been one surprise after another and it just got a little overwhelming.”   “But they weren't all bad were they? I mean someone thanking me for saving her husband is a good thing.” said Angela.   “No I guess it isn't. Speaking that many languages is impressive and I shouldn't be jealous of your houses either, you earned them by saving lives after all. Even the accident in the shower was pretty nice for that matter.”   The second the words slipped out an embarrassed Fareeha turned red, a look Angela imitated at the same time and both of them looked away from each other. “You're seeing me naked again aren't you?” Angela eventually asked.   “Yep.”   “Well, I suppose I should be getting used to that...” Angela tapped a button on the center console and all of the windows darkened themselves until they were opaque. “My car is as good a place as any for this. Green.”   She gave Fareeha a nervous smile as she started to undo her seatbelt but Fareeha reached over to stop her. “Yellow.” Angela's hands stopped what they were doing as Fareeha used the safe-word that meant pause and Fareeha buckled Angela's seatbelt back in. “I love that you're taking the initiative but taking your belt off is foolhardy even if this is a self driving car. We'll do a session when we get back but not before we decide exactly what we'll be doing okay?”   “Yes... what do I call you during a session by the way? Master? Mistress?”   “Mistress is fine with me Angela.”   “Yes Mistress.”   Angela looked at the center console to check the distance remaining. The display read four point three followed by the letters km. Only a few more minutes and it would begin.

Chapter 1 - Ideas

A man with slicked back brown hair dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and a gray tie reached into his pocket. His hand withdrew a a dark colored top made of pewter. He flicked it with his fingers and dropped it onto the table. The top traced circles across the wooden surface, but the man was no longer looking at it. Instead his attention was drawn towards another man with hair that had turned to gray in his age.   A pair of young children, one boy and one girl, were looking at something in the grass outside. Their long hair was a darkening blonde, the same that his had been at their age.   “James, Philippa, look who’s here.” The older man said, gesturing back inside the house.   The children both turned their heads as they sat up to see what Miles was talking about. After a few seconds, they sprang to their feet and began running to the house. “Dad! Daddy!” They cried as they ran to embrace him. Cobb lifted his son into his arms while his daughter excitedly hugged her father's leg.   Behind them, forgotten in the commotion was the pewter top. It was still spinning, but now on a fixed point. The top began to wobble.   The television screen cut to black and the music stopped playing.   “That's it? That's how the movie ends!?” Angela sputtered in disbelief.   Fareeha suppressed a grin as the credits began rolling. “You don't like it?”   “That didn't explain anything! If they had shown the top fall over then we'd know they were in the real world and not a dream.”   “Would they? Remember that the top wasn't Cobb's totem, it was Mal's. Him spinning it doesn't necessarily accomplish anything,” Fareeha pointed out. “You have any theories on the movie? It's always fun to hear what people think after watching Inception.”   Angela sank back against the couch and stared up at the ceiling for a moment. “I don't think Mal actually killed herself. She was right about her and Leo being stuck in a dream after the train thing.”   “What makes you say that, Angela?” Fareeha asked.   “The whole power company thing. That doesn't make sense to me. Power companies are regulated by governments and they'd never let a single company control the entire world's power supply. How would that even work? Solar, hydro, wind, petroleum, nuclear, natural gas. There's no way two companies could control all of that. Saito was lying to Cobb, but it made sense to Cobb because he's still in a dream.”   Fareeha raised an eyebrow and took a sip of wine from the cup next to her before responding. “So if Cobb's being lied to then what's actually going on in the movie?”   “Cobb and Mal got lost in the dream worlds together. We saw they had gotten old, like Saito, so that means they were a few levels down. Getting run over by the train only pushes them one level up. Mal realizes it's not real so she jumps out of the window to return to the real world. Cobb is still stuck, and Mal is trying to get him out. It's why she keeps showing up, she's trying to convince him he's in a dream so he'll come back to her.”   Angela paused for a moment as a thought occurred to her. “I think Saito was real, too. She must have hired him to help her. He's the one making Cobb do the mission plus he's too convenient. Him buying an entire airline just so they can be in the cabin with Fischer? Things like that take months of negotiations, yet he does it just like that. Then again, Mal started trying to talk Cobb into staying with her near the end which doesn't make sense if she's trying to get him back to the real world...”   The doctor's voice trailed off and she gave Fareeha an inscrutable sidelong look. “You picked this movie because you knew it'd drive me crazy, didn't you? I could keep going, but I'd just end going round and round in circles.”   “You think so?” Fareeha's face was the picture of complete innocence and an utterly unconvincing one at that. “Inception's one of those movies that doesn't really have a real answer to what's going on. Forget talking about theories, what did you think of the rest of the movie?”   Angela drummed her fingers on her leg as she looked at the credits still scrolling by. “The actors were good, the music was good, but there was far too much CGI and green screens."   Fareeha barely suppressed a smile as she tapped on her trusty computer pad and sent them back to the main menu. “You're talking about the hallway scene aren't you?”   “That's one of them, yes.” Angela replied.   Her fingers continued to push buttons on the pad as Fareeha navigated through the menus. “That scene wasn't done with CGI or green screens. It's real.”   “What?” Angela asked, disbelief plain  on her face.   The image on the screen changed as Fareeha found the behind the scenes clip she was looking for. Three dimensional renderings, miniature models, blueprints, and a few short interviews played before the centerpiece of the clip appeared. A series of massive metal rings with struts spanning their interiors spun in circles atop a foundation of triangular braces. In the center of those struts was the exterior of the hallway in question from the movie.   Angela's jaw dropped as the photographers began talking about the difficulties involved in shooting this. Cameras fixed to the floor, another mounted on the end of a boom moved into the center of the hallway as the structure rotated around it. A voice-over from one of the actors involved in the scene began to play while he and the person he was perfoming the scene with were on the screen. The two actors were slowly walking forward, the surface beneath their feet changing from floor to wall to ceiling as the rings continued to spin.   “They actually built that?” The doctor sputtered.   “Yes. Christopher Nolan was famous for using practical effects in his movies and Inception was no different. Here, look at this one.” Fareeha flipped to another one of the behind the scenes clips.   The scene in question this time was from a restaurant. The set had triangular braces, but these were thinner and supported something else entirely. Atop the triangles was a grid like set of metal boxes that had been welded together to form a base. As they watched, hydraulic arms were raising and lowering causing the base to tilt upwards on one side and downwards on the other. The next shot showed an entire restaurant, albeit a non-functioning one, had been constructed on top of said base as it tilted. Further clips showed various people standing or sitting inside the structure as they tried to maintain their balance due to the room's shifting. Lamps hanging from the ceiling swayed while water obeyed the laws of gravity inside of cups fixed to various surfaces as the hydraulic arms did their job.   Angela shook her head when the clip ended. “What's next, are you going to tell me that the train was real? Wait, no, I already know what you're going to say. I won't lie, it's visually stunning, but it's hard for me to fathom people going that far for a movie.”   “Directors and production crews go that far because they're trying to make the best films they can. They wouldn't do that if people weren't willing to pay for it,” Fareeha pointed out.   “That's true I suppose,” Angela said, not wanting to get into an argument about this. She picked up her own glass of wine and finished the last bit remaining in it. The doctor set the glass down and leaned towards Fareeha as she put her white hand on an olive knee. “So... now that the movie is over, how you would feel if I said green? There's plenty of time before it starts getting late.”   Fareeha blinked in surprise as she sat up straighter. Angela asking her for a session wasn't out of the ordinary. It waswhy the Swiss doctor had hired Fareeha in the first place, and why they were all the way out here in Switzerland's countryside. The thing that caught her off guard was the hand on her leg. The nimble, almost acrobatic, fingers of a surgeon placed precisely where their owner wanted them to be.   “What, you want to go down into the basement right now?” Fareeha swallowed as she fought back the desire to spread her knees apart.   Angela nodded as her fingers moved up along Fareeha's thigh a few centimeters towards softer, more sensitive regions. “Sorry,” Fareeha began with a slight breathlessness to her voice that hadn't been there before, “but not today. We did the sybian yesterday and I think we should take a few days before doing another session.”   Angela pulled her hand back, crestfallen at being turned down. “May I ask why? It was intense, but I'm not that sore. I could handle something light like ropework.”   Fareeha reached out to grab Angela's hand in hers, partly to reassure the doctor, but mostly to keep those fingers from going even further and changing her mind. “That's not it. Well, not all of it. I'm worried about burning you out on BDSM. I'm not trying to criticize you, but we've been going faster than I was expecting. Yesterday's session is normally the kind of thing people build up to and I wasn't expecting to do it in the first week, but it's what you wanted.”   The dominatrix squeezed her bottom's hand a little tighter. “We'll do something in a couple of days, I promise. Let's just take it a little slower from now on, okay?”   Angela gave a soft smile that made Fareeha's heart skip a beat and she leaned forward to kiss the Egyptian woman on the cheek. “All right, it's a deal. If we're not going to do a session, then we should do something else.”   “Like what?” Fareeha cautiously asked.   “We should go get dinner. There's a couple of good restaurants nearby. Come on, it'll be fun.”   Dinner. With the doctor. The doctor she had kissed the previous day to show that she didn't see Angela as just as a client anymore. This was a date. Angela was asking her out on a date. Spots appeared on Fareeha's cheeks and she just stupidly gazed at the blonde woman in silence.   Angela tilted her head to one side as she looked back at Fareeha. “So... is that a yes or a no? You're not saying anything...”   Fareeha looked down at her computer pad to see the time. Midnight was still five hours away. “Okay, when do you want to leave?”   The doctor tapped her finger on her chin. “If I remember right, they tend to close around ten out here so fifteen minutes? I should take a quick shower and put on something more presentable than this.” Angela glanced down at the sweatpants and baggy shirt she had thrown on that morning since she hadn't planned on leaving the house until now.   “Okay, that's a good idea.”   A date. They were going on an actual date. Their first date. As Angela left the living room, Fareeha suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to scream into a pillow.

Chapter 3 - Arrival

Fareeha opened her eyes as a beeping from the car's navigation system woke her from her slumber. Outside her car window was more of the seemingly endless green fields that dominated the landscape in the eastern reaches of Switzerland. Ahead of her the road rose steadily as it climbed up a hill a few kilometers ahead. A grove of trees crowned the hill's peak and she could see what looked like a gravel road leading into them off the motorway.   Once her car automatically turned onto the unpaved road Fareeha could see two buildings up ahead among the trees. The smaller of the two appeared to be a storage shed, utilitarian in nature if the lack of paint or any other decoration was any indication. The other building was a two story structure with ample windows and a white coat not yet faded by time. Several large and meticulously kept bushes covered in white flowers and beds of purple lupines surrounded the house and the grass was only just reaching the point where it needed to be cut.   As Fareeha pulled up in front of the house a blonde woman stood up and waved in her direction as she hopped over the veranda's rail and approached the vehicle. Fareeha pulled the switch to pop her car's trunk open before getting out, only for Angela to practically jump on her with a hug. “There you are! I was starting to get worried that something had happened to you.” exclaimed the Swiss woman.   Fareeha's hands hung in the air for a moment before she stiffly patted her on the back. “Sorry I'm so late. I was taking a nap on the way other here and my car ended up heading north towards Zurich instead of going south like it was supposed to for some reason.” She frowned at the troublesome vehicle as if it had wronged her on purpose. “Anyways, here I am. Do you mind helping me carry my boxes in Doctor Ziegler? I was able to bring some extra stuff since you said you had a spare bed I could use.”   “Of course, that's not a problem Fareeha. Just one thing okay?”   “What is it?”   “Please don't call me Doctor. I don't mean to be rude but I'm not at work, I'm on vacation. Angela is just fine.” Angela looked down at her feet as she went on. “Or if you want to you could just call me slut since that's why we're here...”   “Okay Angela it is.” said Fareeha as she pulled a box labeled clothes out of the car's trunk and handed it to Angela. “As for calling you slut, that's a name I only would use during a session and only if you wanted me to do it. Right now we're just carrying stuff inside which is about as far from a scene as you can get.” She gave a smile to try and make it seem like a joke but Angela just blinked at her. Fareeha pulled out a second box, this one with the name Angela scrawled on it, and began heading towards the front door.   “Oh just a moment, let me get that for you.” stated Angela as she hurried onto the veranda, setting her box down and opening the door. As Fareeha stepped past her Angela spotted her name on the box. “What's in there?”   Fareeha stopped in the doorway as she looked at the box in her arms. “If I remember right this one holds some of the toys I brought with me. It might be the clothes I got for you to wear during some of our sessions but I'm pretty sure they're toys.”   “Oh.” Angela was still looking at the box but her expression had changed, a blend of anxiousness and excitement as she bit her lip. “Are there any more boxes with my name on them? I'll show you where to take them.”   “There's two more boxes of toys and one of clothes but one of the boxes is kinda heavy so be careful okay?”   Once the boxes in question were all inside Angela led Fareeha down into the basement and up to where a heavy concrete door stood open. “I don't know if you're familiar with Swiss law but there's a requirement that all Swiss houses and apartments have access to a fallout shelter in the event of a nuclear attack.”   Angela stepped inside, Fareeha joining her a few seconds later. Empty shelves once meant to hold emergency rations stood next to bunks that had never been slept in and there were vents in the ceiling. There was a doorway at the far side of the room but other than that the walls were unbroken slabs of gray concrete. “These walls might be old and ugly but they were built to withstand a twelve megaton explosion.” Angela gestured at her only only contribution to the bomb shelter, a queen sized mattress wearing a white fitted sheet lying in the middle of the room. “I figure if this room is good enough to withstand a nuclear bomb then it's good enough for us to do our... sessions is the word I believe?”   Fareeha looked around at the walls, each looking as impenetrable as the next. “I think this will be perfect. There's no chance any of your neighbors will be able to hear us if we're down here so I'll be able to make you shriek as loud as I want without having to worry about someone calling the police.”   “Someone calling the police? Has that actually happened?” asked Angela, suddenly looking worried.   “It's rare but it's been known to happen if people aren't discreet about what they're doing. Houses typically aren't soundproof and the sound of someone getting whipped or screaming has been known to make neighbors call their emergency number.” explained Fareeha. “But there's no chance of that happening here with these walls.”   Angela looked down at her feet as she changed the subject. “So I've been thinking about what you said when we talked in Geneva. You were asking me about how much I knew about bondage and then you were explaining that I had it all wrong. After you left I realized you were right. I don't actually know that much about all of this but I want to learn so... please teach me.”   Teach me. Fareeha had been working as a dominatrix for years but none of her clients had ever said anything of the sort to her. Almost all of her clients had either believed themselves knowledgeable of bondage and disinterested or perhaps unwilling to let go of their poorly conceived fantasies. A few of her clients had hired her, knowing full well the reality of their kink versus the veneer that the outside world painted them with but that minority didn't keep her in business. And now finally one of her clients, by far the most intelligent among them, was asking to be taught. Fareeha stepped forward, lifted Angela's chin up so that she was looking back at her. “I'd love to. Our contract doesn't start until tomorrow but I think I can make bit of an exception right now. Bring the boxes with your name on them in here and I'll give you a lesson.”   A smile slowly grew on Angela's face until she was practically beaming at Fareeha. “Okay!” She eagerly left the room, her footsteps fading as she practically ran up the steps to the front door. In a few minutes she had set all four boxes with Angela written on them down in the shelter.   “Can you go outside for a bit while I unpack these Angela? I'll tell you when to come back in.” Angela gave her a questioning look but Fareeha tilted her head towards the door. “It'll be worth it I promise.” Once Angela had vacated the room Fareeha pulled on the door's handle until it was almost closed, just enough to make sure the doctor couldn't peek and ruin her surprise. She popped the lid off the first box and started unloading its contents. Several minutes later Fareeha pushed the door back open and waved to Angela. “Okay I'm ready.”   Angela stepped back into the room before coming up short when she saw what was waiting for her. “Oh! That's... a lot of stuff.”   The mattress had only been covered by a sheet when Angela had left the room but now a multitude of items of all shapes and sizes were neatly arranged by type on top of it. The purpose of some items were immediately obvious to Angela but a few of them were alien enough to her that she had no idea. Fareeha waved at them with one hand, feeling more than a little proud at seeing her private collection on display. “So these are the toys I brought with me. There's another one in that box but I'm saving it for later. Let's get started.”   Fareeha picked up an item and held it so that Angela could get a closer look. “This is your classic ball gag. Not much to it, just a pair of straps that go around the back of your head like this.” She held the red ball in front of her lips and wrapped the straps around her cheeks as if she was putting it on. “There's a few different kind of gags but they all basically do the same thing: making sure you can't really talk though you might drool a little. I'm not sure how big of a ball is right for you so I brought a few different sizes to be on the safe side.” Fareeha waved at the other gags sitting on the mattress, each with a different sized and colored ball in the middle. “Another thing are these holes in the balls. Some people can have trouble breathing through their nose so these help with that.” She set the gag back down and picked up a tangle of straps. “This one goes over your whole head instead of just around the cheeks but I'd have to remove a ball from one of the others if you decide you want to use it.”   She put the harness back down and moved on to the next section, neatly tied rope bundles of various colors, lengths and materials. “What these are used for is obvious but there's still some stuff to talk about when it comes to ropes. The biggest thing is safety. If the ropes are too tight then -”   “Ischemia?”   Fareeha's mouth opened then shut after Angela interrupted her. “I'm sorry what? In-shem-ah?”   “Ischemia. It means there's a restriction in blood supply which causes a shortage of the oxygen and glucose required for cellular metabolism. I suppose there's also risks of nerve damage if the ropes are in the wrong areas and now that I think about it asphyxiation is possible if...” Angela's voice trailed off when she noticed the deer in the headlights look on Fareeha's face. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt you.”   “No it's my fault.” Fareeha responded, her lips twisting in amusement. “I'm used to having to explain health risks to politicians or bankers, not doctors who know more about the human body than I ever will. But just to be on the safe side, if you feel any numbness, pain, tingling then let me know and I'll use my scissors to cut you loose.” She pointed at a pair of scissors sitting next to the bundle of ropes.   “Those look like the scissors that... what's the English word for it? Ambulance workers who respond to emergencies.”   “Paramedics.” answered Fareeha. “That's exactly what those are. Safety isn't something you can cut corners on. Anyways last thing to know about these is the different types of materials the ropes are made from. This brown one here is hemp, it's pretty great for hitches but it's not good for knots and it can be scratchy at times. Typically people use it for Shibari, that's a Japanese style of rope-work.” Fareeha pointed at a blue bundle. “That's jute rope. It's a natural fiber like hemp but it's much firmer than hemp is and it holds knots a lot better but it doesn't stay in place as well. Now this red one over here is nylon. Nylon is great for dying and it's pretty much perfect for knots but it doesn't have as much grip as jute or hemp which makes it harder to work with.”   Fareeha moved to the other side of the mattress as she switched to the next section. “So here's all the impact toys.” She picked the topmost item up, a heavy wooden hairbrush, and showed both sides to Angela. “I wouldn't use this cheap piece of junk to brush my hair but it works great as a paddle. Dull, thumpy and only for the thighs and butt. You want to avoid hitting the kidneys or other organs with something like this.” Fareeha set the brush down and picked up a slender wooden rod. “This one not so much. It'll sting a lot more and you have to worry about breaking the skin. The plus side is that you can hit a lot more of the body with a cane so long as you keep it light. The same is true for this flogger here, I like using it because all these tails hit a bunch of different spots. That one there is a riding crop and I think you're already familiar with this one.”   Fareeha put the cane back in its place and she tapped on the belt she had used on Angela during their first session with a playful smile. Angela's face turned beet red at the memory and she pointed at the next section. “So how about these?”   “Dildos are pretty easy to understand but there's a few things to talk about here. All of them are made from silicone which is non porous and I clean them after they get used and occasionally I boil them just to be on the safe side so you don't have to worry about bacteria or anything else.” The first one Fareeha picked up was silver and shaped like a large caliber bullet. “This is the most rigid one I brought with me. The others are more flexible so you'll have to try them out to see which one you like the most.” She tossed the silver dildo to Angela before pointing at an over-sized silicone penis, balls and all. “This one is different than the others though. Take a look at the bottom here, suction cups. You can stick this one wherever you want and it'll stay in place. Wall, floor, in the shower or anywhere else you feel like putting it.”   As Angela put the silver dildo back in its place after examining it Fareeha moved on yet again. “Over here are all the restraints. Handcuffs, leather cuffs, these straps here go underneath a mattress in case you don't have posts you can use, some belts, and a spreader bar.”   “You know, I expected this stuff to be more complicated. These all seem pretty basic to me.” commented Angela, looking almost disappointed.   “My stuff is fairly simple sure but it's enough to get the job done and being more complicated doesn't mean it's better. There's some very unusual stuff out there if you go looking for it, things I wouldn't recommend to someone new to bondage. It's better to start out small and work your way up to more intricate setups until you figure out what you're comfortable with and what you're not.”   “That makes sense. What you're saying kinda sounds like residency in a way.” Angela turned to the last section and selected what looked like an uneven horseshoe with bulbous ends. “What is this? I've been trying to figure it out since I came back into the room but I still don't have a clue.”   “That's a vibrator specially designed for women. You're holding it wrong, turn it so that – yes like that. It's made so that it stimulates all the key spots at once. This longer bit here goes inside you and that part there goes on the clit.” Fareeha picked a second vibrator up, this one shaped almost like an old fashioned computer mouse but with a notch in the middle on one side. “Now this is my second favorite vibrator though the one you're holding is a close third since it does everything at once. This notch here lets you do a lot more with your parts than other vibes do. You can trap your folds or clit in the middle and leave it there or you could slide the vibe up and down, whatever you feel like it.” She set the purple vibrator down and pointed at another, a pink stem that ended in a thick lump. “I haven't had the chance to use this one yet but it's operated by remote control so when we use that one I'll be controlling the settings from my phone, should be fun. However when it comes to vibrators this device here is king.”   Fareeha tapped the last and largest of them for emphasis, a white wand with a thick rounded bulb on the end. “The hitachi is your best friend even if you don't know it yet. It's kinda noisy but no other vibrator comes close to being as good. But I'm a jealous woman and I don't think I want to share. You can change my mind but you'll have to come up with something very convincing to take a ride on it.”   “Uhm okay, I'll have to think of something I guess. So you said something about having clothes for me? I'm guessing they're in one of these other boxes here.” Angela pointed at the two boxes that hadn't been opened yet.   “I did but there's gotta be some mystery here. It'd be boring if I let you see everything right now and you wouldn't have as much to look forward to.” Fareeha moved closer to Angela, taking the misshapen vibrator she was holding away and putting it back on the mattress. “How about for now you give me a tour of the house and we can unload the rest of my stuff?”   “Oh sure, follow me.” Angela headed out of the shelter and aimlessly waved at nothing in particular. “So this is the basement, nothing down here really though I've been thinking of installing a wine rack.” She headed up the stairs back to the house's foyer. Angela stopped there. “Let's go bring your boxes in before going inside, I have a no shoes in the house rule.”   Afterwards Angela led her through the door that separated the foyer from the house itself and into the living room. A flat television hung on the wall and a number of couches and armchairs sat draped in plastic. “Sorry about this.” Angela apologized as she started pulling the covers off. “I should have taken care of these before you got here. The TV is hooked up to the internet and I'm subscribed to a number of streaming sites so you can check those out whenever you feel like it.” She pulled open a closet door and shoved the covers inside. “Anyways, the kitchen's at the end of this hallway.”   Pots and pans dangled from a rack mounted to the ceiling and there was an island in the middle of the kitchen. Angela pointed at each appliance in turn as she named them off. “So dishwasher there, microwave, oven, fridge doesn't have much in it so we'll have to go shopping tomorrow.”   Fareeha turned one of the pans so she could look at its bottom then gave a quick look at the stove-top. “Induction? I haven't used one of those before. That'll be interesting for me to try. What's next?”   “The laundry room is through there, first door on the right.” Angela pointed back at the hall they had just come from. “Downstairs water closet is second on the right and the stairs are over there obviously.”   Up the stairs were a trio of bedrooms. “So I know the term usually used for women is mistress but it seems fitting to put you in the master bedroom.” said Angela as she pointed to the room in question.   “What? No. This is your house Angela. I might be here on business so to speak but I'm still your guest. You should take that room, not me.” Angela opened her mouth, looking as if she wanted to press the matter but Fareeha shook her head. “I insist. A guest room is fine for me.”   “Okay okay you win. So pick a room and I'll help you with the other boxes then I'm going to call it a night. I spent all day on the phone getting all the utilities turned back on.” Angela said with a roll of her eyes. “I hate the music they play when you're on hold.”   Fareeha set the last box down on the floor of her chosen room and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Thank you for helping me carry these Angela, you really didn't have to you know.”   “It's the least I could do and I'm the one who should be thanking you for agreeing to do all of this. I'll see you tomorrow okay?”   “Good night Angela.” Fareeha fell backwards onto the bed and she stared at the ceiling's white plaster. One month, beginning tomorrow.  

Chapter 9 - Excursion

“So shall we consult my all knowing pad to see what we're going to be doing today?”   Angela shook her head. “No, I don't think so. I want to take the day off from bondage and do something else.”   Fareeha raised an eyebrow, taken aback at Angela's decision. “Did I do something wrong? I know yesterday was frustrating for you but I didn't think you were actually angry or anything.”   “No, no, no. Well sorta. My nerves still feel frayed at getting denied over and and over so I need to unwind. Do you like hiking?” asked Angela.   “I guess. Are there actually places to hike around here? I thought this whole area was farmland.”   Angela shrugged her shoulders and pointed towards the westward facing side of the house. “There's some nice hills about fifty kilometers that way. We can bring some food and make a day of it. What do you say?”   “Well if we're going hiking then we're watching another movie tonight Angela.”   Angela opened the fridge door and started pulling various pieces of food out to make a lunch for them. “Okay that sounds fair. There's a couple of coats in the living room closet and a spare set of boots too. Check the size to see if they'll fit you. The shoes you brought with you won't keep your feet warm at higher elevations.”   Fareeha headed into the living room and opened the closet in question. A pair of hooded jackets were hanging inside just like Angela had said. She glanced between them before grabbing one off the hangar and sliding her arms through one sleeve. Her hand came out the other end with about four or five centimeters or so between the heel of her palm and the end of the jacket's arm. Fareeha pulled her arm out and stuck the coat back on the hangar before checking the size on the boots tongue. Also too small. “Neither of these are going to fit me Angela.”   “All right, we'll stop on the store on the way and I'll buy a coat and some boots for you.” Angela yelled back.   Fareeha closed the closet and headed over to stand in the kitchen archway. “That's not necessary Angela. Buying me a jacket and boots would just be a waste of your money, especially for something I'd probably only use once.”   “Don't say that. Spending money on you isn't a waste. It's the least I can do after the trouble I've put you through with... this.” Angela waved a hand in front of her, a blanket gesture indicating their arrangement and everything involved therein.   “But you're already paying me for that. This is just... unnecessary.” Fareeha finished lamely.   “I'm trying to say thank you Fareeha. Asking you to come all the way out here and be my mistress for a month was... a huge overstep on my part but you did it anyway. And frankly you've been incredible at it so far. You've constantly gone out of your way to explain things to me and make sure I'm comfortable with everything before we do it. Buying you stuff isn't the best way of showing gratitude but I can't think of anything better that you wouldn't object to so... we're going shopping.”   All kinds of outdoor clothing hung from racks and circular stands throughout the store and a myriad of display shoes sat on shelves mounted to the wall. Angela gave Fareeha a glance as she flipped through a set of jackets. “How tall are you? Most of the women's clothes here don't look like they're your size.”   “One point eight meters.” Fareeha lifted the largest jacket on the rack up and held it against her chest. “I have a hard time shopping at most places unless they have a tall section and even if they do there's a chance that they won't fit my bust. It's a pain.”   “You buy men's clothes don't you?”   Fareeha gave Angela a blank look which the doctor tried to stoically meet but her lips began to widen and in seconds Angela was giggling. After a moment Fareeha chuckled and shook her head. “Guilty as charged. Pants or jeans from the men's section fit me about half the time but their shirts are usually just fine.”   “Well let's go take a look at the men's section then. There's bound to be some jackets that fit you over there.” Angela didn't wait for a response as she started heading towards the aforementioned section, Fareeha following after a moment's hesitation. She picked one out at random and held it up. “How about this one?”   “That's about the right size but that's an awfully garish shade of yellow.” Fareeha pointed out.   “I know, it's hideous but it's for visibility not fashion. Bright colors stand out which makes people easier to find if they get lost. And if you're concerned about fashion this jacket is reversible.” Angela pulled the zipper down enough to show Fareeha the interior, a uniform carbon black. “So you can flip it around and voila you're wearing a nice looking black coat.”   Fareeha grabbed the jacket with finger and thumb, rubbing the fabric between them. “This doesn't feel thick enough to keep me warm in the mountains or wherever we're going.”   “Oh this is to keep you dry. The weather out here can be unpredictable so you should wear multiple layers so you can put things on or take them off as needs be. Sweaters are… over there.” Angela pointed and she was on the move once again.   By the time Angela had finished dragging her around Fareeha was carrying a bona fide full outfit and then some. Jacket, fleece sweater, waterproof pants, hiking boots, wool socks, even a pair of gloves. “This is too much Angela. Really.”   “You'll thank me when we get up there. The Alps are cold this time of year.” Angela handed her card to the cashier to pay for everything and he handed it back along with a paper receipt. Fareeha leaned in trying to see the amount but Angela quickly stuffed it in her pocket. “Nope. This is my treat, come on.”   Once their car was underway again Angela lowered the back of her chair until it was almost fully reclined. “So I have a question for you. You told me that I could ask you one thing per day and you'd decide whether or not it was too personal.”   “Yes.”   “I didn't ask you anything yesterday so does that mean I get two questions today or does it not roll over?”   Fareeha turned her head so that she was looking out the window at the green farmland rolling on by. “No, that's fine. I don't get why you want to ask me questions about myself though.”   “I'm asking questions because there's a fascinating stranger staying in my home with me. Who is Fareeha Amari? I know you like old movies, you're a dominatrix and an expat but there's more to you than that.”   If Fareeha hadn't kept her head turned away then Angela would be able to see the blush on her face but the wringing of her hands didn't escape the doctor's notice. Her voice was still composed despite her other signs of nervousness. “What do you want to ask me today?”   “You said you were an expat so that means you moved here from another country. What brought you to Switzerland?”   Silence filled the car as Fareeha's hands stopped moving as she continued to stare out the window, her shoulders rigid. Eventually she broke it but didn't stop looking away from Angela. “My mother brought me here. I was only a teenager when it happened and she's never explained why. All I know is that she showed up in the middle of the night after returning from being deployed with an American soldier in tow and we left for Switzerland the next day. That's your first question, what's your second?”   “I'm not sure yet.” admitted Angela. “I'll keep thinking about it though.” Fareeha didn't reply and the silence returned, this time remaining until they arrived at their destination. Angela adjusted a dial on the dashboard console and the window tint darkened until they were opaque.   Fareeha finally turned away from the window to see the doctor climbing into the back of the vehicle where she had stowed a pair of bags. Without hesitation or warning she unabashedly pulled her shirt off revealing a sports bra underneath it. Fareeha's gaze lingered for a second then she hurriedly turned back around, the sight of Angela in a bra somehow more erotic than the other things they had done together . “You know I don't mind if you look at me Fareeha.”   The doctor's voice was soft but the words still hit her like a sock filled with bars of soap. Fareeha turned around again just as Angela was pulling on her boots. “You mean during a scene right?.”   “No.”   Her cheeks flamed red and Fareeha turned back around, not wanting to respond to that. “Do you mind stepping outside while I change? It'll only take me a minute or two.”   Behind her a miniature smile flashed across Angela's face and she opened the door on her side, cold air forcing its way in. “As you wish. Bring the food with you okay?”   A fleece sweater, hiking jacket, pants, socks, boots, gloves. All purchased today just so they could go hiking by a woman who had just admitted she enjoyed Fareeha looking at her. 'What are you doing Fareeha? This woman is a client. What happened to enforcing your boundaries?' She had had this conversation with herself before but each time the argument that the doctor was just a client sounded less convincing than the time prior. She grabbed the backpack of food and stepped outside, where Angela was waiting.   “Isn't it beautiful? This is one of the things I love about coming out here. Geneva is great but sometimes I need to just get away from it all.” Angela swung her arm out in a grand flourish towards the area around them. Fields of green grass dotted with bushes bearing violet flowers extended out from the end of the road in every direction. Beyond them rose towering peaks covered with trees and their peaks were capped in white.   “It is.” Fareeha agreed. “I used to look up pictures of other countries on the internet when I was a girl but I always had a hard time believing places like this really existed when all I knew was hot wind and sand.”   “Makes you glad you came to Switzerland doesn't it?”   “I just wish it wasn't so damn cold. This is why I stay in the city.” Fareeha shivered and she tucked her hands into her armpits.   “Well, let's get moving. That'll warm you up.” said Angela, practically skipping as she headed for a nearby trail.   “You're enjoying me freezing my butt off aren't you?” complained Fareeha as she reluctantly followed along. “I'm moving to the nearest desert when this is over just so you know.” For all of her grousing, the place really was quite lovely. If the air was twenty degrees or so warmer then this would be pretty much perfect for her.   Fareeha wasn't exactly someone who went to the gyms but she still felt like she was in okay shape or at least that's what she had thought before this walk. For every step she took it seemed like Angela took three or four as she was continually doubling back whenever Fareeha fell behind only to take off for the sake of taking a photograph from just the right angle or smelling some flowers. Angela doubled back once again, a freshly picked flower with narrow white petals held delicately in her fingers. She held it up for Fareeha to see. “Look, Edelweiss!”   Fareeha came to a halt as Angela stopped right in front of her. “Edelweiss only grows at high altitudes in the Alps. Soldiers used to believe it was a symbol of courage and would climb the mountains to find one.” said Angela.   The doctor reached forward with one hand, intending to grab the hood of Fareeha's hood but she took a step back. “What are you doing Angela?”   “Come here.” Angela took a step forward and pulled Fareeha's hood to the side so she could reach in and slide the white flower's stem into the black hair above Fareeha's ear. “There we go.” The doctor turned around and started walking up the hill again. Fareeha hesitantly touched the flower as she stared at the doctor's back, not understanding what was happening on this trip anymore. She pulled her hood back up and started walking again, at least she tried to.   The moment she took a step half a dozen knots began to form all along her leg. Fareeha grimaced and she ground her teeth together as she sank to the ground, unable to put any weight on that limb. “Angela!”   The doctor spun on a dime and her eyes widened when she saw Fareeha sitting on the ground. She came hurrying back and knelt down at Fareeha's side. “What is it?”   “My right leg just cramped up really badly.”   “Okay, I was afraid you'd broken or sprained something.” Angela pulled her backpack off and started digging through it until she came out with a container and a bottle. “Here's some dried bananas. You need potassium and water right now. Eat those while I deal with this.”   As Fareeha took the banana slices Angela slid her gloves off before she started unlacing Fareeha's boot, pulling it off. The doctor elevated the leg into the air and her bare fingers squeezed the bridge of Fareeha's foot. “Tell me where the knots are and I'll work them out.”   Fareeha squeezed her eyes shut but she didn't complain about the touch. “A little to the right, yes that's the spot.” Under Fareeha's guidance, Angela's hands gradually moved their way higher and higher up her leg, the surgeon's nimble fingers massaging each knot out in turn until they were working on Fareeha's outer thigh.   Once that one was gone Angela looked up from the leg. The amplified rise and fall of the other woman's chest was evident even beneath the layers covering it and the look in her eyes was the same as when they had been in the tub together. Angela's spread fingers slid over the swell of Fareeha's hip and down to its inner side. “Are there any knots over here?” asked Angela, her voice as soft as Fareeha had ever heard it.   Neither woman dared to breathe as Fareeha looked up at Angela. Those fingers were just a few centimeters away and the only thing keeping them from her skin was a few layers of fabric. She knew it was still freezing out here but Fareeha wasn't cold anymore. Her body had found itself infused with warmth and there was no need to ask where, and who, the source was. Fareeha squeezed her eyes shut and slowly shook her head as she gulped a lungful of air down her dry throat. “No... that was the last one. I think I can make it back to the car now.”   As Fareeha pulled her boot back on she didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed by that fact.  

Chapter 10 - Concotion

Ordinarily having a car that drove itself was a tremendous luxury but it left Angela in something of a bind in this particular case. If she had been driving the car then she could have used that as an excuse to not pay attention to Fareeha. But as it was both women were left to sit in silence as the vehicle drove the fifty kilometers back to Angela's vacation home. From time to time one of them would glance at the other out of the corner of an eye only to look away before being noticed.   The car turned onto the gravel road leading to Angela's house and soon came to a halt. Neither of them moved for a minute and then Angela took a deep breath to ready herself for this conversation. “So about what just happened-”   Fareeha shook her head as she cut Angela off. “Can we not? It'd be easier if we pretend nothing happened up on that hill today.”   Angela reached out towards the other woman as she spoke but Fareeha drew back as she hugged her arms to her chest. “No. I'm not going to do that. Sweeping things under the rug doesn't make them go away. What I tried to do today... I thought I was seeing signs that you would have been interested but I guess I misread things so that's my fault. I'm sorry I did something you weren't comfortable with and it won't happen again.”   The awkward silence from earlier returned as Angela waited for Fareeha to react. To say or do something, anything. Fareeha opened her eyes and unfolded her arms. “Have you figured out what the second question you want to ask is yet?”   “We haven't talked about it but I've always gotten the impression you don't like your job very much whenever you mention it. I understand needing money but there's a lot of things you could do other than being a dominatrix if you hate it so much.”   “I don't hate being a dominatrix, I hate the place where I work.” Fareeha finally turned to look at Angela as she continued speaking. “You live in Geneva so you know what kind of companies are headquartered here. All the banks, a bunch of international organizations... the UN. When I got hired I thought my job would be a golden ticket. It pays well and I thought there was a chance I would meet someone who shared my kinks, maybe even someone I could settle down with. Then my clients started coming in. Some of them were obese, many of them were old, quite a few are corrupt and all of them rich. At first topping for them was exhilarating, I had powerful men in the palm of my hand but it didn't last and I had to learn how to hide that it had become boring.”   Fareeha let out a bitter laugh. “It sounds dumb when I say it out loud but there it is. I was getting paid to be a dominatrix and I got bored. I kept telling myself that the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence and that was enough to keep me there. That and the money they paid me.”   “What if I hired you?” asked Angela. “I'm rich and I'm sure I could match or beat whatever your salary there is. You've already said I'm the most fun you've had in a long time and you hate your job. No more disgusting old men that you despise and you could use all the free time you'd get to work on your website or whatever else you feel like doing.”   To say that she was stunned would have been a vast understatement. Fareeha had done and seen some very bizarre things in her life as a result of becoming a dominatrix but this arrangement had turned into the most unexpected by far. She had come out here to be Angela's top for a month and things had quickly gotten out of hand. She had shown a nude photograph of herself, orgasmed just from watching the doctor masturbate, very nearly given into being fingered less than an hour before and now Angela was offering to hire her permanently!   “I honestly don't know how to answer that Angela... but I'll think about it.” Fareeha got out of the car and headed inside without waiting for a response.   Angela grabbed the food that hadn't been touched, along with the clothes they had changed out of earlier that day before heading to the house. Putting the food away didn't take long and soon she was heading upstairs to her room. She paused in the hallway at the sight of Fareeha's closed door before sighing and heading into her own room.   She double checked that the door was still shut before heading over to the turntable and the collection of black discs next to it. Angela flipped through them for a bit before pulling one out and setting it on the player. The turntable's arm swung out to rest above the disc before dropping its needle into one of the discs grooves. The psychedelic twanging of a guitar and beats of a drum filled the room after Angela pressed play.   'Strange brew, kill what's inside of you.'   Angela sank to her floor and wrapped her arms about her knees. This wasn't how today was supposed to go. Fareeha was still here, but that could change any moment after what she had tried to do.   'She's a witch of trouble in electric blue, In her own mad mind she's in love with you. With you. Now what you gonna do? Strange brew, kill what's inside of you.'   What she had told Fareeha had been true. All the signs Angela had been reading said that the dominatrix was attracted to her but Fareeha had flat out denied it. Was she really mistaken or was there something else she didn't know about making the other woman turn her down.   'She's some kind of demon messing in the glue. If you don't watch out it'll stick to you. To you. What kind of fool are you? Strange brew, kill what's inside of you.'   Maybe it was somehow related to her job? Fareeha was a professional dominatrix who spent her time fulfilling other people's sexual desires. How long had it been since someone had tried taking care of her needs? Months? Years?   'On a boat in the middle of a raging sea, She would make a scene for it all to be Ignored. And wouldn't you be bored? Strange brew, kill what's inside of you.'   She had tried doing that today though and Fareeha had rejected her offer, though reluctantly it seemed. Maybe the best course of action was to do nothing. Sit back and let Fareeha decide how this was going to play out. Push too hard and she might alienate the woman even more than she already had.   'Strange brew, strange brew, strange brew, strange brew. Strange brew, kill what's inside of you.'   The rest of the day passed Angela by to the tune of one vinyl disc after another until it was evening and the light coming through her window was fading away. A knock came from the door and Angela hurried over to open it, already knowing who was on the other side. The two women gazed at each other in silence then Fareeha was stepping forward, pulling Angela's head closer with a a hand on each cheek. Fareeha brushed her mouth against Angela's soft lips for only a moment, barely more than a delicate peck but a kiss nonetheless. She let her hands fall from Angela's face and stepped back despite the urge to remain close. “Do you understand?”   Angela gave a gentle smile, the size of Fareeha's gesture belying its magnitude. “Of course.” Fareeha took her by the hand and began to walk, the doctor not needing any words to know where they were going or about to do.   The mattress was right where they had left it, ready to serve this latest session. As soon as they entered Fareeha's hands were on the move, pulling Angela's fleece sweater up. Angela waited for her bra to come off before she sat down on the mattress, allowing her mistress to divest her of everything below the waist. Fareeha made her way over to one of the boxes that hadn't been touched yet and opened it up, pulling out several items. She tossed the first onto the mattress, a shiny corset made of black latex, next to Angela's side. “Put this on.”   The doctor grabbed the mini dress as she sat up, turning it over in her hands as she examined it. It wasn't large enough to cover her breasts and laces hung limply from its backside. She pressed its front against her stomach and with one hand and reached behind her to draw the laces together as much as she could with only a single hand. Fareeha knelt down on the mattress behind her and pulled the remaining ones tight before tying the laces off. Her arms and legs also had their own black latex articles of clothing waiting for them as well. A pair of black gloves with sleeves stretching up past her elbows and leggings that encased everything below mid thigh in an identical shade of black to the gloves and corset.   Angela wiggled her fingers and toes as she examined the outfit Fareeha had chosen for her. There was a smell of rubber wafting off them but not strong enough to be repulsive and Angela had a sneaking suspicion she would quickly forget about it. The biggest thing was the way the latex clung to her however. It squeezed against her limbs and stomach from every direction, not content to be just articles of clothing, instead seemingly trying to become a part of her. Then Fareeha approaching her with another item, a mess of straps that she recognized as one of her mistress's gags but without a ball in it at the moment. One of the straps hugged her chin, a second ran between her eyes and the last crossed her cheekbones to meet behind her head with the others.   “Open your mouth, we need to find the right ball size.” Angela opened wide and Fareeha pushed a sphere inside. “Bite down on it... okay that one's too big. Try this one... there we go.” Fareeha hooked the ball gag's strap onto the harness before cinching it shut. “Try saying something. I don't know how well you can talk with this in yet.”   “Smting.”   “Wise ass.”   Fareeha pulled out a single final piece to complete the ensemble, a a thick black blindfold with an elastic band to hold it in place. Angela trembled in trepidation yet couldn't help getting more excited as the blindfold descended over her eyes and the room was replaced by darkness. “Wat ow?”   The only response was the sounds of Fareeha's footsteps, the rustle of cardboard and the sounds of things being placed onto the mattress. “Arms behind your back.” Angela reached backwards as ordered and was rewarded with the feel of rope winding around them. A minute later and her arms were bound together at wrist and elbow, uncomfortably so but not tight enough to pinch or be dangerous. Fareeha double checked the knots and then she was on the move again. Angela turned her head one way then the other as she tried to follow the sounds in order to track where Fareeha was at any given moment. Her mistress's voice popped up from a direction Angela wasn't looking at. “Move forward a bit.”   Angela scooted forward on her knees until Fareeha said stop. One arm found its way under Angela's armpit and lifted her up into the air then nudged her forward before gently lowering her back down. Fareeha pulled one knee to the side to spread Angela's legs and the doctor found herself sitting on some sort of dome, her groin pressed against a smooth pad made of rubber with a rounded bump protruding upwards from the middle.“Stay right there, no moving.”   More ropes were coming, two coils snaking around both thighs in order to bind her calves to them. Another bit of rustling and then she could feel Fareeha tying what she assumed were more ropes onto the ones trapping her thighs. Once it was done her knees were resting on the mattress and she could just barely touch it with her toes “Okay Angela. See if you can stand up.”   Angela tried to straighten her legs and get off whatever kind of toy this was but her mistress's ropework was impeccable and her knees remained bent, the knots refusing to yield. After giving up on that effort Fareeha pushed on one shoulder as if to make Angela fall over but she only tilted somewhere between ten and twenty degrees before one of the ropes drew taut, holding her in place against the pad. It wasn't until then that the entirety of her situation sank in for the doctor. Unable to see anything but darkness, barely able to be understood when she spoke and tied down so that she couldn't get away from this dome not that she actually wanted to.   Fareeha pulled Angela so that she was sitting up right again before picking up the remote that controlled the sybian. Her fingers started to turn the dial but she hesitated as she looked at the doctor, latex clothing hugging her and all. “Do you want me to take a picture of you right now?”   “-es.” Angela growled in frustration and she pressed her tongue against the gag, trying unsuccessfully to push it out of her mouth. “Ys. Upid ting. Ake poto. Tae pictre.”   “Okay, I'll take some pictures then I'm turning the machine on.” Fareeha brushed her palm against the top of Angela's head as she headed out of the room and up the basement stairs in order to fetch her computer pad. When she returned to the bunker Angela's head turned towards the doorway, clearly listening and waiting for Fareeha's return. Fareeha slowly walked around the mattress, the pad in her hands as she captured the image of the doctor from every angle in one photo after another. When she was satisfied Fareeha set the pad aside and picked up the remote again. “Here we go.” Her fingers twisted the dial to its lowest setting.   The pad between Angela's legs began to vibrate along its entire length, the rounded ends of the rubber rectangle flexing upwards to teasingly brush against her folds. Angela jumped as high she could, the awakening of the machine taking her by surprise. After a moment she giggled and a tiny smile stretched at the corners of her lips while Angela settled back down onto the pad, accepting its touch. So far this was kinda similar to the vibrator Fareeha had tormented her with but this machine was clearly on another level. The intensity felt rather low but the waves were still traveling further than the vibrator ever had. A moment later the machine began to rumble and Angela moaned through the gag as the speed increased.   Fareeha smiled to herself at the lewd sound, music to her ears, and she turned the dial up to its third notch. Angela moaned even louder and a minute later her head dipped forward as the sybian gently coaxed the doctor's first climax out. Fareeha twisted the dial back down to one and sat back to wait. It was impossible to guess how many more orgasms Angela could have during this session and Fareeha had to be mindful of the doctor's parts. Even though her vagina was clearly wet to Fareeha's eyes, there were still risks. Too much stimulation would mean rawness and/or irritation could become an issue. Turn the dial up during orgasms then down in-between them to give the bottom some time to recover, simple enough on paper but it was like walking a tightrope in practice. Fareeha twisted the dial back to two.   A second orgasm followed shortly by a third, each taking longer than the one before it. Angela leaned forward, sweat dripping out of her hair and onto the blindfold as she tried to gather herself. Her breathing was erratic, drool was dangling off of the gag and she had inadvertently lubricated the parts of the toy in direct contact with her crotch. Rumbling inevitably returned to the room as she felt the pad beginning to shake against her and she started mumbling against her gag. The vibrations disappeared at once and fingers brushed against her cheeks as they undid the straps holding the gag in place. Angela groaned once the ball was pulled out and she started speaking words that made no sense to the only person listening.   “What? I don't understand, what are you saying? I don't know what you're saying Angela. You have to speak to me in English.”   Fareeha's words dimly pierced the haze that had begun to cover her mind and Angela raised her head to look at where she thought Fareeha was. It took a moment to remember what language she needed to speak but the words came to her once she concentrated on it. “I... keep going.”   Fareeha picked up the sybian's controls and she turned the dial up once again, not bothering to replace the gag.   As the machine began to vibrate once again Angela to shriek and groan once more. Her muscles were still burning but the pain had passed and now it was a strange sort of enjoyable pain. The gears of the toy were spinning faster and louder than before, a mechanical roar fighting with her cries to be the loudest sound in the room. It was a constant source of resonance emanating from a single point but passing through her only to be amplified when it rebounded and melded with other waves. The doctor's torso twisted one way then another and her hair flew about she tossed her head in all though her center remained fixed to the machine, forced to endure an unrelenting ecstasy.   While the doctor writhed on the sybian Fareeha could feel her underwear beginning to stick to her inner thighs. She hadn't orgasmed like in the bathtub but just the act of watching this was making her hands twitch. The desire to slide a finger or two down the front of her pants and eventually inside herself almost too much to resist. Another time she promised herself, probably tonight, but not right now. Not when she was topping for the doctor.   The time the doctor's previous orgasms had taken had been longer than the one before it but this one broke the cycle, happening perhaps in half the time. Angela reared back upright and she screamed from the bottom of her lungs. “Shiesse, shiesse, shiesse, oh mein gott!” Her body quivered again and then came the unmistakable sound of sobbing as she slumped off to one side. Fareeha turned the machine off then scrambled forward, pulling the blindfold off only to see tears beginning to streak down Angela's face. “Red, yellow, whatever! I want to stop. Please let me stop!”   Her fingers shook as she hurriedly untied the knots on Angela's arms and legs. The moment the last one was undone the doctor practically launched herself at her mistress. Fareeha wrapped her arms around Angela, holding her tightly as the doctor continued to cry. “Was that okay mistress? I'm sorry I couldn't keep going any longer.”   Fareeha pulled Angela's cheek into her shoulder as she tried to reassure her bottom.“You were amazing Angela. I'm proud of you.” She pressed a kiss to that yellow crown, the hair damp with sweat. “You never have to apologize about having limits or wanting to stop a session.”   Angela squeezed even tighter with her arms as if holding on for dear life. “Do you have chocolate? I want chocolate. And cheese. And wine.”   “Chocolate and cheese yes. Wine no but I'll get you some water. Can you walk?” Fareeha started gently rubbing Angela's back with one hand.   “Not yet and I don't want to go anywhere right now. Keep holding me please.” Angela scooted even closer until there was no more space left between them, trying to leech off as much warmth as she could.   Eventually Angela could feel the strength returning to her legs though she was still unsteady as they headed up the stairs, latex outfit and all. Fareeha pulled a small wheel of cheese out of the fridge and set it down on the dining room table next to a box of chocolate bars. Angela snatched a bar up, ravenously devouring it before grabbing another. “Sooooo... I have a question. You said you don't kiss your clients but you've kissed me twice today. If I'm not a client then what am I?”   “I don't know.” admitted Fareeha. “I'm not going to lie and say I love you but I am interested in seeing where whatever this is goes. I don't know if I want to work for you exclusively either but I will think about it okay?”   Angela threw the wrapper aside as she picked up the wheel of cheese, savagely tearing a chunk of it off with her bare hands. She gave Fareeha a warm smile that somehow managed to be unmarred by her wet cheeks and chocolate stained mouth. “That sounds perfect to me. And who knows, you might change your mind. After all we still have three weeks to go before our month is over.”   Fareeha smiled back as her brain started screaming internally. This had all happened in the first week and there were three more weeks to go.   Sheisse.  

Chapter 4 - Fiasco

A slender stream of hot water poured from the sink's faucet onto the soapy plate Fareeha was holding with one hand. In the other was a blue sponge that she was using to scrub away the residue left over from her breakfast that morning. After a moment she set the sponge aside and rotated the plate beneath the water, rinsing soap off the dish and her fingers as well. Fareeha placed the dish in the drying rack adjacent to the sink and started to reach for her fork when a pair of pale arms wrapped themselves around her waist. Angela pressed herself into Fareeha's back and she dropped one cheek onto the taller woman's shoulder. “Good morning.” Angela said in a cheery voice. Fareeha turned the faucet off before placing her wet hands on top of the doctor's. “Good morning. I think this is the first time I've gotten up before you did since I got here.” Angela leaned more of her weight on Fareeha as she huffed and shook her head. “I've been on the phone for the last thirty minutes with my property management company. They're supposed to look after the place for me, but my shower didn't have any hot water when I got here. If they weren't checking the faucets then they could have missed other stuff too so I called to complain. Got a refund for a month and they agreed to send someone over to check everything. So we have to hide all your toys so their person doesn't find it. Do you have space in your closet? Your bedroom is the one place that they don't have a reason to check so they'll be out of the way in there.” “We could do that, but we'll have to move them back down to the bunker later. I know your neighbors are pretty far away, but I'd feel more comfortable doing sessions down there, especially if I know it's going to be a noisy one.” Fareeha stated, a small grin appearing near the end of her explanation. The blush of the doctor's cheeks may have been hidden from Fareeha's view, but there was no disguising the higher pitch of Angela's voice. “That's fine, I'll help you move them of course. One more thing, are you interested in doing the walk-around with me? I'll translate if I need to.” Fareeha turned around until she was facing Angela and raised her arms so she could clasp her hands behind the blonde's neck. “I would just slow you down if you had to translate everything for me. I'll just hide in my room and watch cat videos until you're done.” She leaned forward and pressed her lips to Angela's forehead. “But thank you for offering.” Most of her boxes were actually pretty light considering the amount of stuff in them. Even the one with the sybian in it wasn't too bad. The thing that made moving them tedious was going up the stairs from the basement to the first floor, down a hallway, then up a second flight of stairs to where Fareeha's temporary closet was waiting. What made it even worse was the fact they were going to be moving them back down to the bunker before the day was done. Once all of the boxes had been put away in Fareeha's closet Angela headed downstairs to wait for the person being sent to do this walk-around. Fareeha closed her bedroom door and flopped down on her bed, computer pad in hand. She stuck her earbuds in and opened her internet browser. Watching videos of cats was hardly the most productive thing she could be doing, but it was as good a way of passing the time as any. A couple of minutes later and a chime came from the house's first floor. Fareeha looked up for a moment before returning her attention to her pad. Angela would let her know when the representative was gone. From time to time she could hear water flowing through the pipes in the house and at one point she could hear Angela and the voice of another woman speaking German as they walked past her doorway. Around an hour later there was a knock on Fareeha's door. Angela's voice, slightly muffled, came through. “She's gone now. May I come in?” Fareeha closed the browser on her window and pulled her earbuds out before getting up off the bed. She crossed the room in a few strides and pulled the door open. She gestured towards the room with one hand. “Come on in. How’d it go, Angela?” “Pretty good actually. Turns out the mixing valve was the only thing they had missed. They should have spotted it when they tested the showers last time, but they only checked the cold water, not the hot.” “Mmm, that's good.” Fareeha said as she looked at Angela's outfit. The doctor had been wearing pajamas earlier in the kitchen, but she had changed since then. Her top was a plain red tee shirt and Angela was wearing tan pants beneath them, but that wasn't what Fareeha was interested in at the moment. She shut the door and locked it behind her. Angela gave her a questioning look as Fareeha closed the distance between them. Fareeha slid her arms around Angela's waist as she took up a position behind the doctor. “I think it's time we checked to see if you're following the rule I gave you yesterday.” Angela's breath caught in her throat as Fareeha pulled their bodies together and her heart began to beat faster as one of those hands flattened against her stomach. It slowly descended lower and lower, pausing at the top of her pants but she didn't pull away, instead opting to keep still. After waiting a few seconds longer those fingers were pushing into her pants and then they stopped. “My, my, my.” Fareeha said, her voice split between amusement and feigned outrage. “You couldn't even go a full day without disobeying me could you?” She pulled her hand out and lightly pushed the doctor towards her bed. “We'll just have to do something about this won't we?” Once they got to the side of the bed Fareeha pressed forward on Angela's shoulders so she leaned forward, her outstretched hands on the bed. Fareeha lowered her hands to the front of Angela's pants. One hand grabbed the zipper and pulled it down while the other deftly undid the button above it. Angela let out a quiet murmur as her pants were pulled down to her ankles and off her feet, revealing a pair of boxer briefs, an article of clothing she had been ordered not to wear. A moment later and Fareeha was holding the briefs in her hand as she stood back up. She opened them up as she inspected the interior of the black garment. “Hmm. Nice and clean, this will do nicely. Take off your shirt and bra if you're wearing one. You can leave your socks on.” Angela pulled her shirt off and threw it onto the bed. Seconds later her bra joined it and Angela put her hands back on the mattress as she leaned forward again. Then without any warning her vision was suddenly obscured by dark cloth pulled over her head. The underwear that had so recently been confiscated by her mistress. “Since you wanted to wear these, even though I told you not to, I'll let you do just that, Angela.” Fareeha grabbed the blankets on her bed and pulled them off, throwing them to the floor so only a white sheet and her computer tablet remained. She weakly slapped one bare cheek in front of her. “Get up there.” Fareeha barked, though she still helped the other woman blindly clamber onto the bed. “Now then, how should I punish you for breaking the rule I gave you yesterday? All my boxes are up here so I have, oh so many choices...” Without waiting for a response Fareeha made her way into the closet where the aforementioned boxes were. She tapped her chin for a moment before opening one, then another, and pulling out an item from each. On her way back into the bedroom Fareeha stopped short at the view in front of her. That black article of clothing may have been obscuring Angela's vision, but that hadn't stopped her from pointing her feet towards the closet, and spreading her bent knees apart. Her fingers started to slacken and she very nearly dropped the items in her hands before shaking her head and taking a deep breath to try and steady her nerves. Fareeha climbed up onto the bed and set one item down. She pulled a cap off the other and leaned forward with the marker. The soft tip of the marker pressed against the skin of Angela's stomach and began to move as it drew some sort of shape and then words above it. She suppressed a shiver and remained still as Fareeha continued to write on her. Above her breasts, the insides of her thighs then Fareeha was rolling her over so that she was lying face down. A much longer word than the others going from the base of her neck all the way to the small of her back and then a shorter one beneath it. That was the last of it. “I could write something on your ass, but I have other plans for it. Face down, ass up.” Fareeha said. Angela pulled her knees forward and spread them wider for support as she presented her rear end as ordered. A thin cylindrical object gently rapped against the sole of one foot, making her squirm, then the other. She giggled despite herself and turned her head to one side. “I thought you were going to punish me. That doesn't hurt at all.” Fareeha bemusedly shook her head as she started tapping the rattan cane against Angela's calves. “It doesn't hurt yet, but it will.” Fareeha promised. The cane moved to the outside of the doctor's legs as it continued to climb upwards with taps as mild as the first. When it finally reached Angela's rear Fareeha trailed the tip up and down one cheek then the other before pulling away. The first strike was harder than the taps had been, but not enough to bruise flesh. Angela still rocked forward on her knees, a gasp coming from her as the cane's impact left her cheek stinging. She slowly lowered herself back into position and waited. Just as the sensation from the first was beginning to fade Fareeha struck again, but on the other cheek this time. The rhythm soon settled into a pattern. Strike, waiting a few seconds for the mild sting to lose its edge before hitting the opposite side. With her eyes covered there wasn't any way for Angela to check the time but it had to have been several minutes before the blows stopped. A moment passed and then Fareeha was rolling her over to lie on her back once again and shortly after that the briefs came off her face and she could see once again. “So...” Fareeha began as she turned the computer pad around in her hands so Angela could see the screen, “which of these pictures should I post to let everyone know how obedient you are?” Angela sat up, half-expecting her bottom to be sore but quickly finding out that wasn't the case, as she took the pad. Thumbnails of pictures taken just now filled the screen and she tapped on the first one. Her face was covered by the underwear but the rest of her was plainly visible as was the black text Fareeha had written by her breasts. 'Tramp.' She scrolled to the next one. An arrow pointing down towards her crotch. 'Insert here.' On her thighs were more. 'Pussy – free. Anal – three francs.' Lastly was the message scrawled in large letters on her back. 'Disobedient Slut.' Her face was obscured so no one could identify her from these pictures but Angela could easily recognize her naked body. Even so, she didn't recognize the person in these images. Whoever these things were written on... it wasn't her. That pale bottom and the hint of redness marring its cheeks belonged to someone else. A stranger with the same breasts, the same legs and fingers and everything. This wasn't her, this wasn't her life... and yet it was. The pad fell from Angela's fingers and her lips quivered as tears began running down her cheeks and she began to sob. Fareeha's arms were around Angela at once and she was pulling the doctor close. Angela pressed her forehead into her mistress's shoulder as she began to blubber while her body shook uncontrollably. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.” Angela sputtered between sobs. Fareeha closed her eyes and she dropped her cheek against Angela's head. “No... you don't have anything to be sorry about. I'm the one who screwed up here. I've been working as a dominatrix for years and the second I end up in a relationship all of my experience goes right out the window. I shouldn't have taken your underwear like I did, I should have discussed this scene ahead of time, I didn't ask your permission to take pictures. This isn't your fault. It's mine.” Angela sniffled and pulled her head back far enough for her to wipe some of the tears from her cheeks. “Now that's not fair. I could have used my safe word but I didn't. I liked what you were doing... but when I saw those pictures you took... I don't know. Something just felt horribly wrong and I don't even know why. We've already done stuff like this before so I don't know why this time was different.” “Well you were fine until you looked at the pictures and saw what I had written on you.” Fareeha pointed out. “Maybe having things like that written down is what bothered you but that's just me guessing. If you want me to help you figure out then I will, but you know yourself better than I do. Also I won't post those online if you don't want me to.” Fareeha let go of Angela with one arm and reached down to pick the stray piece of underwear up along with the other pieces of Angela's outfit. “Let's get you cleaned up then you can put these on again if you want if you want. I have some chocolate bars downstairs if you need them afterwards.” Angela hesitantly took her clothes back from Fareeha. “You have chocolate? Where? I thought I had raided your stash already.” Fareeha politely smiled and shook her head. “Nope. I went out and got more at the store when I realized you were sneaking some. I hid these ones to make sure I had some for our sessions.” The doctor eyed Fareeha with mock suspicion for a moment, her damp cheeks ruining the effect, as she got up from the bed. “You think I won't be able to find them? This is my house after all and I have a lot of free time to look.” “You're welcome to try.” Fareeha said as she held a hand out to the blonde woman. Angela gratefully took it and the two headed out into the hallway, their hands dangling between them.  

Chapter 7 - Disposition

Fareeha covered her mouth with one hand as she yawned then rubbed at her eyes as she trudged down the hall. It wasn't that early in the morning, but she had stayed up later than usual the previous evening in order to finish writing her latest article and upload it to her site. She pushed the door to her bathroom open and stepped inside before closing the door behind her and locking it. Fareeha dropped her clothes on the counter next to the sink before pulling her pajamas off. A moment later and she was standing in the shower and reaching for the handle that controlled the water. The showerhead sputtered for a second and then water began spraying onto her. Cold water.   “Shit!” Fareeha shrieked as her hand latched onto the metal handle and turned it back to its original position, bringing the frigid spray to a halt. She looked at the showerhead for a moment before reaching up to adjust a lever that controlled whether water came out of the fixed showerhead or the head attached to the end of a flexible metal hose. Fareeha turned the water back on but aimed the handheld unit at the wall as she played with the temperature controls. Despite pushing it all the way up to the hottest setting the water remained a constant and almost icy cold.   Her hand holding the showerhead slowly lowered towards her side as she cut the water off again and stared at the controls. This shower had been working just fine since she had arrived at Angela's house. It had been the doctor's shower that had been malfunctioning and needed to be repaired by a plumber. Angela's property management company had sent someone by to go over the house the previous day and they hadn't found anything wrong. The odds of this shower breaking between then and now were... well she didn't have any idea what they were aside from being extremely low. Unless it wasn't a malfunction or some sort of accident...   “I'm going to get you back for this you know.”   The showerhead slipped out of Fareeha's fingers and bumped against the wall as the doctor's promise from the previous day came to mind. Fareeha yanked the curtain to the side as she stepped out of the shower. She grabbed a bathrobe hanging off a hook on the bathroom door and pulled it on and cinched it shut before storming out into the hallway. “Angela!”   The pajama-clad woman in question was sitting up in bed, sheets and blankets covering her legs while her back rested against the headboard. She raised her eyes from the paperback novel in her hands as Fareeha burst into her bedroom. Angela looked Fareeha up and down for a moment, seemingly unsurprised at the abrupt entrance, before setting her book down on the bed next to her. “Good morning, Fareeha. How was your shower?”   “Oh, for the love of... you know exactly how it went.” Fareeha snapped as she folded her arms across her chest. “What did you do?”   “Do you remember the problem my shower had when we got here?” Angela asked.   Fareeha frowned as she tried to recall what exactly it was that Julian had replaced to fix the doctor's shower the previous week. “The... mixing valve?”   Angela nodded in approval. “That's right. I was watching Julian when he was putting my temperature controls back together so I know how to take them apart now. All I had to do was sneak into your bathroom and adjust the valve so you wouldn't get any hot water this morning.”   “And why would you do that?” Fareeha demanded. “Sure I made a stupid pun yesterday, but that doesn't mean turning off my hot water is okay, Angela.”   Angela grabbed a wad of her bedding in one hand and pulled them aside until her bare legs and a pair of black briefs were visible. She pulled her knees closer to her chest and spread her feet apart. “Is that so? I guess that's two things I've done wrong now. Why don't you come over here and show me what you do to naughty girls?”   Fareeha's shoulders slowly sagged and her head slowly tilted to one side as she stared at the doctor before putting a hand on her forehead. “I must be dreaming because this feels like the start of a really cliche porno.” She walked forward and sat on the bed near the doctors feet. “What are you doing, Angela?” Fareeha softly asked.   The impish look on Angela's face faltered then vanished. “I was trying to start a session...”   “By turning off my hot water? I don't see what that has to do with...” Fareeha's voice trailed off as she realized what Angela had been trying to accomplish. “You were trying to provoke me.”   “Well... yes. You said that since we were in a relationship the way we handled bondage would be different. Our last session happened because I broke the rule you gave me. I figured if I did something like that again then you would punish me or something like that...” Angela explained.   Fareeha sighed as she put a hand on one of Angela's ankles and slowly began to caress her shin. “I should have explained that. What I meant when I said that is that we have to figure out what our dynamic is now that we're starting a romantic relationship. Last week things were pretty straightforward between the two of us. You told me the kinds of things you wanted to experience and I made them happen because you were my client. But now things are more complicated since we have feelings for each other. I ordered you not to wear underwear because I wanted to see how you'd respond to it. Not talking it over was a mistake that led to our session going bad plus this shower thing just now and it's a mistake I don't want to repeat.”   Fareeha's hand came to a halt and she gave Angela's ankle an affectionate squeeze. “If you want to do sessions then all you have to do is ask me. You don't have to go this far to get me to top for you, Angela. To be honest this was a really bad way to go about it since it actually made me angry. If I tried to top for you when I was angry then it would be really easy for me to accidentally cross the line and hurt you and I really don't want that to happen.”   Angela sagged backwards against the headboard and she turned her head to the side as she looked down at the bed they were sitting on. “I'm sorry, Fareeha. I wasn't trying to hurt you or make you angry or anything like that. I know turning your water off is a lousy thing to do and that I shouldn't have done it. I guess I'm just as confused as you about how this is supposed to work between us.” She glanced at her discarded book for a moment then back up at Fareeha. “So now what?”   As she considered the question Fareeha's gaze began to wander. This wasn't the first time she had been in this room, but she had been too preoccupied with pointing Julian towards the bathroom to really look around. Posters of various musical groups from the previous century hung on the walls. A few of their names were vaguely familiar, but the majority of them weren't. An oak record cabinet filled with black discs tucked away in their sleeves stood on one side of the room. Photographs, a few figurines, and several miniature instruments stood on top of the cabinet and there was a record player sitting on a set of drawers next to the cabinet. Fareeha cast a curious glance towards Angela. “What is that?”   “It's a record player.” Angela said as she stood up from the bed and walked over to the record cabinet. She squatted down and pulled out one of the sleeves before standing back up and withdrawing the black disc it held. “Do you want to listen to one with me?”   Fareeha blinked as she looked at the object Angela was holding. “Listen? You mean that's music? I've never seen one of these before.”   Angela placed the disc onto the player before setting the sleeve down next to the device. “That's not surprising, they're not very common since everything is recorded digitally these days. But computers weren't really around in the mid twentieth century so musicians recorded their stuff on these.” She pressed a button on the player and the disc began to spin. Angela moved back towards the bed and held a hand out to Fareeha. “Dance with me.”   “W-what?”   The doctor took Fareeha's hand in her own, pulling Fareeha up off the bed. She drew Fareeha in close together and clasped her hands behind Fareeha's neck. As Angela began to sway and circle a man's voice came from the record player.   Hey Jude, don't make it bad.   Words continued to float out of the record player's speakers but Fareeha didn't hear anything past the first line. Her world was narrowing until the only thing was the woman in front of her. That blonde hair, those blue eyes gazing back at her. The fingers resting on her neck, the fine cotton of Angela's pajamas beneath her hands, and the way her heart was hammering at how close the doctor's body was to hers. Fareeha's head dipped forward towards Angela until their foreheads were touching. “Do you want to do a session tonight, Angela?”   “Yes. But right now I just want to stay here with you. Is that all right?”   Fareeha gave a gentle smile as they continued to circle around each other. “That sounds wonderful."

Chapter 10 - Sharing

Fareeha yawned a bit while stretching her fingers out in front of her as she made her way into the kitchen. Preparing and eating dinner together had become something of a routine for the two of them but the kitchen was empty when Fareeha arrived. She glanced to the side only to see that the dining room was unoccupied but there was a crumb covered plate still on the table. Angela must have already eaten but hadn't stuck around long enough to clean up after herself like she usually did. She picked the plate up and rinsed it off before placing it in the dishwasher. Guess I'm eating alone tonight.   After she had finished eating then loading her plate and silverware in the dishwasher Fareeha trudged up the stairs. The sun had already set but there was still light in the hallway. A sliver spilling outwards beneath the doctor's bedroom door. Fareeha hesitated in front of the door before raising her hand and knocking. "Can I come in, Angela?"   There was a brief silence before Angela's voice came through the door. "Uh, sure." Fareeha opened the door and stepped inside. Angela was lying on her bed just like the last time Fareeha had come into this room. She was wearing the same pajamas and she even had the same book in her hands as last time. Fareeha's head cocked to one side at the all too familiar sight and she pulled out her phone for a few seconds before putting it away before pinching herself. Angela lifted an eyebrow. "What are you doing, Fareeha?"   "Um... just getting deja vu. Had to check the date and make sure I wasn't dreaming or something. Anyways, I was just checking to see if you were all right. You bolted pretty quickly earlier when we were talking earlier so I wanted to make sure there isn't anything wrong."   Angela set her book off to one side and patted the bed."Come sit down." She waited until Fareeha was seated on the edge before continuing. "You haven't offended me or anything if that's what you're worried about, Fareeha. Something occurred to me at the end of our conversation and I ended up getting really flustered."   The last topic in their conversation had been fucking machines, a type of device that Angela had shown a distinct lack of interest in using. Instead the doctor had stated that the only penetration she was interested in was from Fareeha. "Do you mean the idea of me using a strap-on, Angela? Doing that isn't a problem for me at all if that's what's bothering you."   "I know." Angela said in a quiet voice. "When I was looking at that bench all I could see was me being strapped to it and you standing behind me with a strapon. I got really flustered which is why I ran off but I realized something else when I got to my room. You wouldn't have any problems doing that with me precisely because you've done it before."   Fareeha tilted her head to the side, curious as to what Angela was getting at. "Well, yes. I use strap-on's as part of my job from time to time but you already know what I do for a living. It's why you came to me in the first place after all."   "I know." Angela said again. "You're a professional dominatrix. I don't have an issue with your profession itself especially since it's how we met but now..." She and her hands squeezed the sheet covering her legs. "But now you're not just someone I visited for a session six months ago. Now you're someone I have feelings for and am in a relationship with. We still have a little over two weeks before our month is up but I can't help but look forward. When we leave here you'll go back to working at that place and to be honest it bothers me. I know I shouldn't feel this way but I do."   "It's fine, honestly." Fareeha leaned backwards until she was lying on Angela's legs and reached up with one hand to entangle their fingers together. "I've been wondering about this too. Working as a dominatrix makes relationships complicated even with the most understanding of people. Personally speaking I don't consider what I do to be sex, but I will admit that it is sexual in nature. The most important thing, to me, is that I don't have any attachments to my clients. At the end of the day they show up, I do my thing and then they leave."   "I don't know, Fareeha. I get that you don't have feelings for your clients and all. It still feels weird to know that when my girlfriend goes to work she's spanking random people or doing... more invasive things to them."   Fareeha squeezed Angela's hand, hoping to reassure the doctor. "I know you don't like this but what do you expect me to do? Quit my job?" Angela hesitated and and she looked away from Fareeha, a blank patch of the wall suddenly very interesting to her. Fareeha grimaced and pushed herself up until she was sitting upright. "Trust me when I say that I've thought about quitting before but what would I do? I studied film in university and I have my website but I don't make any money off that. I like to think I'm a good dominatrix but tying people up and spanking them isn't exactly a marketable skill."   Angela turned her gaze from the wall back towards Fareeha. "If you're worried about money then I could pull some strings and get you a job somewhere." Her voice faltered before she plunged on ahead. "There's also the offer I made last week too. Your job wouldn't really change except for the fact I'd be your only client."   "Those are tempting offers," Fareeha admitted, "and it would let me stop working at that place. I like you, Angela. A lot. The thing is that I've always believed in being able to provide for myself. Letting you get me a job or working for you would take that away since I'd be relying on you for money and I feel like it'd hurt our relationship in the long run if I accepted your offer."   "All right then." Angela conceded. "Is there anything else I could do to help you figure things out? I could speak to my university and ask them to set up an appointment with one of their career counselors."   "That's not a bad idea." Fareeha stated as she rubbed at her chin. "I'll think about it. In the meantime I can make some adjustments to how I handle sessions when I do end up going back if that'll make you more comfortable with it. I'll stick to wearing jeans and a tee shirt. No more going naked or wearing latex outfits or anything like that. Another thing is that I won't use strap-on's anymore and I'll stop doing penetration altogether with my male clients."   I guess that could work..." Angela mused. "But wouldn't doing that mean you'd make less money? I don't know how you get paid now that I think about it."   "It's not a problem. Taking pegging off the table will make me lose a couple of clients, but most of my clients have other things in mind when they schedule an appointment with me. Restraints, waxplay, sensory deprivation and a bunch of other stuff. What matters is making sure you're comfortable with what I do when I'm at work. I don't want you to feel like I'm being unfaithful." Fareeha explained, hoping that the compromise would be enough.   Angela gave half of a smile and this time she was the one squeezing a hand. "Thank you. That means a lot. Our relationship is about as unorthodox as it gets but knowing you're willing to compromise to make it work makes me feel a lot better about all of this." The doctor put her other hand onto Fareeha's knee as she continued to speak. "But a relationship is a two way street. Is there anything you'd like me to do for you?"   Fareeha slowly shook her head. "Nothing comes to mind at the moment but I'll think about it. For now I'd say you should just keep being so amazing."   The smile on Angela's face widened and she glanced around the room for a second. "Would... would you like to stay the night with me?"   Spots of red instantly appeared on Fareeha's cheeks. "D-does that mean what I think it means?" She stammered.   "No-not like that. I mean like sleeping in the same bed. Nothing more, nothing less." Angela's face turned an even brighter shade than the one on Fareeha's cheeks as she looked down at the sheets. "I just want to see how sleeping in the same bed as you goes... Though I can't promise I won't try to grab your butt."   Fareeha laughed once and she rose to her feet. Her hands grabbed the bottom of her shirt and a moment later the garment had been tossed to the floor. Fareeha faced away from Angela and leaned forward as she undid her jeans and pushed them down to her ankles. She paused long enough to make sure that Angela had gotten an eyeful before turning back around now that she was clad only in plain black briefs and a bra to match them. "Well I won't complain about that as long as you don't wake me up. I'm sure it'll give me some pleasant dreams."   Silence ensued but the way Angela's cheeks were flushing and the doctor yanking her sheet to one side was response enough. Fareeha put her hands on the bed before crawling forward on all four's as she laid down next to Angela. She grabbed one of Angela's hands and moved it down to the curve of her hip while kissing the doctor's lips at the same time. "I hope you have sweet dreams, Angela. I know I will."   Angela swallowed nervously and she resisted the impulse to move her hand though it felt like it was going to burn away, along with the rest of her, if she kept it there. Her intentions were chaste, mostly, but now that Fareeha was actually in her bed Angela was almost beginning to regret this. Having her partner so close at hand and barely wearing anything at that. Even if she could touch Fareeha's bottom this was going to be a long and frustrating night.   She tensed her fingers ever so slightly and Fareeha murmured ever so softly at the touch. Frustrating but worth it.

Chapter 3 - Details

Fareeha grabbed the bag of styrofoam containers before getting out of the car. The garage in Angela's house wasn't as cold as it was outside, but she was still hurrying to get into the house where there was warm air. Angela, however, was closer and moving even faster than Fareeha so she made it inside first. Fareeha sat the bag down on the kitchen counter before turning to look at Angela. “So why did you want to come back here? That place seemed like it was a good a restaurant.” Angela started talking with her back to Fareeha as she was opening one of the kitchen cupboards. “It is, but our conversation was making me a little paranoid. I know we were skirting around saying bondage or BDSM, but it's not something I'm comfortable talking about in public.” The doctor pulled out a pair of plates before opening a drawer near her waist and grabbing some silverware. “I know bringing you back here during our first date is a bad move, but we can speak freely here.” Angela handed one of the plates along with a fork and knife to Fareeha before opening the bag. She pulled the containers out and set them down on the counter before lifting the top of one. “Oh, this one's the nusstorte. The kalberwurst should be in that one then.” Angela pointed her fork at the one in the middle. Fareeha opened up the last container and irritably scooped some of the capuns onto her plate. “So I'm guessing I know what you want to talk about, but I'm a little surprised you relocated our date for this.” The doctor set her plate and silverware next to the containers of food. She turned towards the other woman and took Fareeha's hands in hers. “That's only part of it. I have this sexy, beautiful, and amazing woman staying with me here. You've done some incredible things for me so far but there's more to you than just being a dominatrix. I know you like movies, but I want to know more than that.” She turned her head to one side, her cheeks flushing. “Who is Fareeha Amari?” Fareeha let her hands linger in Angela's fingers for a moment before gently pulling away and picking her fork up and stabbing it into one of the kalberwurst sausages. “Okay... what do you want to know?” “Well… why do you like movies so much?” Angela asked as she began serving herself. In the meantime Fareeha had pulled out a chair and sat at the nearby table. “There’s always been something kinda romantic about seeing a movie in a theater to me. A giant silver screen in a large dark room, speakers you can feel in your chest, people all around you to see the same thing. My mother took me to a movie once when I was young and ever since then I’ve been hooked. As I got older I started learning more about how they were made and what not. It’s been a lifelong hobby of mine.” Angela picked her plate up and moved to sit on the other side of the table from Fareeha. “So what’s a fact about movies that most people don’t know?” She asked before taking a bite. “A little known fact...okay, here’s one. Almost all of the sounds you hear in a movie aren’t recorded during filming. Dialogue is recorded during shooting, but everything else is typically added during post production.” Fareeha scooped some of the capun into her mouth and waited until she had finished chewing and swallowing it before continuing. “Sound designers do effects like monster roars or gunshots, but ambient sounds are done by foley artists.” “Ambient sounds?” asked Angela with a raised eyebrow. “Footsteps are the most common one. A lot of takes are shot on green screens, but the scene itself could be on a mountain or a beach or even just walking down some sidewalk in a city. All of those sound different so the foley artist has to do different things for each locations.” Fareeha explained. Angela frowned down at her plate for a moment. “So the foley artist... watches the actors walking around and tries to make their footstep sounds for them?” “Not quite. After filming is done they send the video to the foley artist so they work on it. For footsteps the artist uses what's called a foley pit. It's basically a square of different materials. Tile, gravel, concrete, grass, hay, whatever they need for a particular scene. The hard part is timing though. Everyone has a different stride and they have to time the sounds they make to each actor's footsteps.” “Huh. I never knew that was a thing.” Angela admitted. “I guess things like that are the reason movies cost so much to make. I have a question though. Have you ever considered getting involved with making movies? I don't know what you'd want to do, but you know an awful lot about the business and everything.” Fareeha just slowly shook her head and took a drink of water. “No. Don't get me wrong, I love movies, but getting involved with production? I'll pass. The industry is incredibly competitive in pretty much every aspect. There's an old joke that kinda sums it up. Two people are talking at a party and one of them says that he's an actor and the other person asks what restaurant he works at. So there's that and if I was working in the industry then it'd be a job and I'd rather keep it as a hobby I can do for fun.” “I can understand that.” The doctor said as she nervously rotated her fork between her fingers. “But if that's your approach to things then how did you become a dominatrix if you don't mind me asking? Watching porn is how I came across it. Is that how you discovered bondage as well?” A dry chuckle came from the dominatrix and she bemusedly shook her head at the memories the doctor's question had dredged up. “Ironically enough it came from a movie. It wasn't long after I had gotten my first period. I was at the theater, I don't even remember the name of the movie anymore, but there was a scene in it that I've never forgotten. It wasn't sexual, at least it wasn't supposed to be. The main character had just gotten captured by the people he was fighting and they had tied him to a chair and taped his mouth shut. When I saw him restrained like that I was so turned on that I had to leave the theater and hide in the bathroom until my cheeks weren't so red. I was still just a teenager so I couldn't exactly act on what that had awakened in me. I did learn how to cover my tracks on a computer so my mother never knew I was watching bondage porn during those years. It wasn't until my early twenties that I started going to clubs. One thing led to another and I ended up doing it for a living which is where you found me.” Fareeha closed her eyes for a moment and when she opened them there was a markedly hungering look in her eyes, one that made Angela suddenly shiver knowing she was the cause. “So if our relationship has changed then I think the way we handle bondage could use an update as well. Stand up.” Angela hesitantly rose from her chair, smoothing out her skirt as she did so, not quite sure what was about to happen. Fareeha stood as well, but she was kneeling in front of the doctor within seconds. “Lift up your skirt.” Angela's hands reached down at once to grab bunches of the fabric in both hands and she pulled upwards until the gray briefs she was wearing were visible. Fareeha ran her tongue along her upper lip and she was grabbing the garment in her hands and pulling it down to the doctor's ankles. An olive hand lifted one foot then the other off the ground and the briefs disappeared into one of Fareeha's back pockets. “I'm making a rule for you. From now on you aren't allowed to wear underwear unless I say you can. You can still wear bras, but nothing down here. How does that sound?” Neither of them had said green, the word that they had used to start all of their previous sessions and Fareeha had slipped into her domme voice, but Angela found she didn't mind in this case. She was even still holding her skirt up and her nether regions were exposed as a result. “Yes mistress.” Fareeha slowly leaned forward, her lips drawing ever close towards Angela's groin. The doctor closed her eyes, anticipating, welcoming what came next. At the last second Fareeha turned her head to the side and gently pressed her lips to one thigh. “All right then. Remember, I will be checking and I'll have to teach you a lesson if you disobey me.” Fareeha rose back to her feet and the predatory look was suddenly gone. “Well then. I don't know about you but I'm still hungry so I won't be talking much until I fix that.” A soft smile crossed Angela's lips as she let the skirt fall back down to cover her now bare pelvis. “I know what you mean.” She sat back down at the table and picked up her fork. At least she could satiate one of her appetites tonight. The other would have to wait until tomorrow or the day after that.

Chapter 6 - Questions

Her worn tennis shoes drummed against the paved surface of the sidewalk as Angela rushed towards a circular stone building whose domed roof was supported by stone pillars. She pushed one of its wooden doors opens and hurried inside. Moments later she was skidding into a classroom full of other people, many of whom looked up at her undignified entrance. Angela slung her backpack off of her shoulder and took a seat in the front row. By the time she finished getting a mechanical pencil out there was a tall stack of tests sitting on her desk. She took one off the top and handed the rest to the person sitting directly to her right then took a look at the question at the top of the first page.   'What is the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow?'   Angela frowned at the paper and squeezed her eyes shut then opened them again. Despite her attempt the question on the paper remained exactly the same. She skipped past it to the questions below it.   'What do the Knights of Ni want? Explain the differences between monarchies and anarcho-syndicalist communes. How high you have to count in order to throw the Holy Hand Grenade?'   Angela's forehead furrowed as she stared at the test. This was supposed to be the final exam for her biostatistics class but none of these questions had anything to do with survival analysis's or probability theory. She tilted her head back as if looking at the ceiling, but really she was looking to her side to gauge the other student's reactions. All of them were bent over their papers and writing things down as they answered the questions as if nothing was out of the ordinary. The fire alarm fixed on the wall of the classroom began to beep as it warned them of danger. Angela set her pencil down and started to stand but everyone else remained where they were as if the sound were of no consequence.   Her eyes opened and Angela found herself staring at a half open doorway. The beeping that had woken her was coming from somewhere down below. She blew a stray lock of hair off of her face and pushed herself back up to her feet. By the time she made it downstairs Fareeha was dumping the contents of a pot into a colander sitting in the sink. Plumes of steam rose up in front of her face until the pot was empty and she was setting it back onto the stove. As she watched Fareeha picked up the colander and shook it from side to side to get those last few drops out before emptying the colander into a bowl waiting next to the sink. “What are you making, Fareeha?” Angela asked.   Fareeha turned to look back at Angela and lifted an eyebrow. “Didn't feel like getting dressed or did you forget you were naked?”   Angela glanced down at herself for a moment. She had forgotten, but getting dressed meant walking back all the way upstairs. She shrugged and put a hand on a hip. “Don't tell me you're complaining. What are you making?” She asked again.   “Ful medames. It's fava beans with some stuff added in. Here, come give me a hand.”   The doctor moved up to the counter and took a look at the ingredients Fareeha has assembled. Crushed garlic, lemon juice, olive oil and a small measuring cup of a dark yellow grounds. “What kind of spice is this, Fareeha?”   “It's cumin. Just add it to the beans along with everything else and mix it all up.” Fareeha explained as she stepped out of the way. Angela walked forward and picked up the bottle of olive oil to pour over the beans first. A moment later and she was grabbing the large wooden salad fork and using it to stir the bowl's contents together. “Anything else, Fareeha?” The other woman shook her head and Angela picked the bowl up before hesitating. “Wait, I don't see any plates or silverware. Do you want me to get those out?”   “I already got some plates out but we don't need silverware, Angela.” Fareeha pointed towards the table in the dining room. Another bowl filled to the brim with small rectangles of flatbread sat in the middle of the table and a pair of plates flanked it on either side. “You use the pita bread to scoop beans out instead of using spoons.” Angela set the bowl of beans down next to the bowl of bread and moved to the other side of the table and sat down so she was facing towards Fareeha. The other woman pulled out a chair and she took a seat. “It's not much, but you've done all of the cooking so far, Angela and I thought I'd take a turn for once.” Fareeha grabbed a piece of bread from the bowl and dipped it into the beans before continuing in a smaller voice. “And.. I hope you're not mad about everything that happened today.”   Angela slowly shook her head as she grabbed several pieces of bread and put them on her plate. “I'm not mad really. Still a bit horny, but not mad. I suppose it was inevitable one of our sessions wouldn't go well, but not all of them can be perfect can they? Making mistakes isn't bad either, it's how you learn after all and I'm sure our next session will be better because of it.” Angela smiled softly at Fareeha as she started to scoop out some of the beans.   Fareeha took a moment to finish chewing her food and swallow before responding. “How are you always so optimistic, Angela? Is is something you learn as part of becoming a doctor?”   The corners of Angela's lips began to droop as her smile waned until only there wasn't any trace of it remaining. “You could say that. After I graduated from medical school I started working as a surgeon trainee in the emergency room. Most doctors and nurses have something of a rude awakening when they actually start practicing medicine. It's one thing to study medicine, but it's quite another to actually start doing it in the real world. I was ready for that, mostly. I knew I wouldn't be able to save everyone and that eventually someone would die no matter what I did. My first death was still really rough on me, but that's not the most shocking thing. The thing no one tells you is how many people don't actually need your help when they come to the emergency room. That's what really gets to most of my colleagues and why they get so jaded. I didn't want to end up like that so I learned how to stay positive no matter what I was dealing with.”   Angela shook her head abruptly. “Sorry, I don't mean to be depressing. I had a dream just now.” The doctor said as she changed the conversation. “I was back at school and I was almost late for a test that I was taking. But all of the questions were from that movie we watched before Inception. Monty something... and the Holy Grail.”   “Monty Python.”   “Right.” Angela replied as she looked down at the table, chin resting on one hand. “I'm still trying to figure out what you meant when you said there was a hidden message at the end of the movie. I've been thinking about it and I can't come up with anything. Arthur and his army are trying to storm the castle but then the police show up and arrest him. After that the movie just stops.”   Fareeha gave herself enough time to eat another serving before rubbing her hands together. “The ending's a cop out. Literally.”   Angela slowly raised her eyes from the table to look up at Fareeha, a blank look on her face. After a moment she groaned and pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and index finger. “Oh my god.” Fareeha leaned back in her chair and started to laugh at the sheer disgust in the doctor's voice. Angela began to shake her head from side to side and the laughter grew louder. “Just how long have you been waiting to spring that on someone, Fareeha?”   “It's been a while now.” Fareeha admitted, between further chuckles. “I saw the movie a few years ago and the person who recommended it used that same pun on me after I had watched it. I'm just paying it forward.”   Angela pursed her lips and let out a huff as she got herself some more beans. “I'm going to get you back for this you know.”   Fareeha leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table as she put her chin on her hands. “Mmmm... I'm looking forward to it. Do your worst.”   “Well once I think of something anyways.” Angela quietly whispered to herself. The only question was when. Certainly not today, but possibly tomorrow.

Chapter 2 - Outing

Fareeha grabbed the metal lever in front of her and turned it to one side. The hot water spraying out of the shower-head trailed off and she pushed the curtain open enough to grab hold of the thick cotton towel waiting for her. She rubbed herself down for a few seconds before wrapping it around her body and stepping out of the shower. She had showered that morning and hadn't done anything that would make her need another since, so this was a bit of a waste under ordinary circumstances. However, this particular situation was anything but. Fareeha rubbed her hand on the mirror, cleared out a circular patch and leaned forward to get a better look at her face. There weren't any zits or hairs that needed plucking, but there was a little bit of soap still clinging to one cheek. She wiped it away and headed out of the shower to her own room. Fareeha slid the closet door to one side and let out a sigh as she stared at its contents. Some of the clothes were dangling from hangers while others were neatly folded and stacked onto a shelf up above. There was no shortage of options to pick from since she had brought enough clothes to last her a full month, but that wasn't the problem. When she had been packing for this affair, her focus had been strictly utilitarian. Fareeha might have been going further than she had for any of her other clients, but this was still a professional arrangement and one she was being paid for, no less. All of her clothes had been chosen for her ability to work in them, not for how they looked. Jeans, shorts, tee shirts, a couple of sweaters since it was winter, and some more specialized fetish-wear just in case. No dresses or skirts or anything that looked remotely fashionable. She muttered wordlessly to herself and grabbed the least faded pair of blue jeans from the closet and a black sweater to go with it. Angela had said to leave in fifteen minutes, but Fareeha was waiting in the living room another five minutes once those were up. “Sorry I took so long.” Fareeha looked up at the sound of Angela's voice and she had to make a conscious effort to keep her jaw from dropping. The doctor hadn't just taken a quick shower to clean up, she had done much more than that. Her hair had clearly just been washed, dried, brushed and was now dangling nearly to her shoulder blades. A white shirt with a dipping neckline sat loosely on her shoulders and a pale blue skirt with stripes of a darker blue hung down to the middle of her ankles. The doctor had even taken the time to do something she hadn't bothered with since getting here. Makeup. Foundation, concealer, powder, bronzer, eyeliner, mascara, and lipstick with gloss on top of it. Angela had put all of it on while Fareeha had only thought to bring a small tube of chapstick with her when coming here. It wasn't that obvious an effect and Fareeha probably wouldn't even have noticed under different circumstances. They had been in close proximity to each other for the past week and she had gotten used to the doctor sans makeup. Now that it had been applied, the doctor's blue eyes seemed sharper, her smile brighter and her skin actually looked softer than before. “You look really nice, Angela.” Fareeha said, feeling more than a little brutish in comparison as she stood up from the couch. Jeans and a sweater against all that. “Thanks. Shall we?” Angela asked. The doctor's silver Aston Martin was waiting for them, tinted windows and all, in the garage. Fareeha opened the near side door and got in while Angela made her way around the vehicle before joining her. Once Angela had punched in their destination, Fareeha looked over. “How did you do all of that so fast? It can take hours just for my hair to dry.” “Lots of practice.” Angela said with a faint smile. “Once word began to spread about the nano-bots, a lot of TV shows and websites wanted to interview me. I was still working at the hospital and I didn't have a lot of free time to make myself look presentable so I ended up getting pretty good at putting makeup on in a hurry.” “Well, you look nice, Angela.” The doctor may have put makeup on her face for this date, but her blush was still visible through it. She didn't reply however, instead opting to look out her window at the dark fields rolling past them. After a few minutes, the car slowed and turned onto a road leading them to one of the towns in the nearby area. Geneva wasn't anywhere close to being a large city by international standards, but compared to this place it might as well be Tokyo or Shanghai. It only took them a minute more to arrive at their destination after passing within city limits. White windows with red shutters looked out from a chocolate colored building made of logs that bore snow atop its peaked roof. A few trucks and beat up looking cars made during a previous decade were already parked out front so Angela's luxury sports car positioned itself near the edge of the parking lot. As she got out of the car, Fareeha found herself thankful that she had put a sweater on. It wasn't enough to completely ward off the cold, but it took a bit of the bite off at least. Angela, on the other hand, was rubbing her bare arms as soon as she closed her door and was quickly hurrying towards the front entrance. The inside of the logs hadn't been painted like the outside had been. Instead, their natural patterns of yellowish grains and swirls lent themselves to a more rustic vibe than Fareeha was accustomed to. Globe shaped lamps hung from the ceiling above square wooden tables and a row of booths that lined one wall. Directly in front of the door was a sign, but the words on it were past Fareeha's grasp of foreign languages. Angela, on the other hand, had no trouble reading what it said. “Come on, we're supposed to seat ourselves.” The doctor stated. She headed deeper into the restaurant towards a booth in the far corner, but not without drawing the attention of the waiter. By the time Fareeha had sat herself on the other side of the booth from Angela, a man was there with a pair of menus in hand. Fareeha knew a little bit of German from the years she had spent in Geneva, but the ensuing conversation between him and Angela was too quick for her to follow whatsoever. “I asked him to bring us some water. Is that alright with you, Fareeha?” “That's fine.” Fareeha said as she frowned at the menu the man had given her before heading off, flipping it over to look at the back. Just like the sign, it was almost totally incomprehensible. There were a couple of words that she recognized, but aside from those the only things she understood were the prices. She looked up at Angela. “I can't read this... little help?” “Huh? Oh right, it's all in German. Hang on.” Angela got up from her side of the booth and moved to join Fareeha's side of the table. “Scoot over, please.” Fareeha pushed herself closer to the wall and Angela sat down, trapping Fareeha in place. As the doctor set her menu down and leaned in, Fareeha noticed there was a gentle scent in the air now that Angela was so close. Sandalwood perfume. For a fleeting moment, she felt the urge to lean in herself to get a better whiff, but Angela's next words stopped that unrefined impulse. “Is there something you're in the mood for, Fareeha? If I know what you want to eat then I could find something similar for you.” Fareeha stared at the small black letters printed on the menu for a moment. If she was back in Geneva then there would have been multiple offerings meant to take advantage of the large number of expats living there. As it was, she had no idea what she actually felt like eating and asking Angela to read the menu off to her was out of the question. “How about you decide what you want and I'll get the same thing.” Fareeha said as she slid her menu towards the end of the table. As if on cue their waiter appeared with two glasses of water, each with a straw in it, in hand. He set them down and said something to which Angela replied. A minute later and he was sweeping the menus off the table and heading off towards the kitchen. “So... what did we order?” Fareeha asked. “I got us a couple of things.” Angela started tapping her fingers as she rattled off the dishes she had ordered as well as their ingredients. “Kalberwurst is a sausage made with veal, pork, and milk. Some people grind up crackers, but not this place. There's some spices in it too, but I'm not sure what they are. Then we have some capuns. They leave beef out to dry then put it in spatzle, those are egg noodles, before wrapping it in chard leaves and pouring gravy on it then grating cheese on top of that. For dessert, I ordered a bundner nusstorte. That's a pastry filled with cream, walnuts, some sugar, and a bit of honey.” Fareeha started to open her mouth then stopped. Angela likely hadn't meant to do it, but she had gone through their upcoming meal so methodically that Fareeha couldn't think of anything to say in response. Seconds of silence turned into a minute and then another as they just sat there without speaking. From time to time one of them would give the other a sidelong glance only to look away just on the verge of them actually making eye contact. The first time Fareeha had seen Angela Ziegler's face had been one of those interviews mentioned earlier. Those nano-bots of hers had just concluded human trials in Switzerland and the Swiss doctor's achievement, and portrait, had been plastered over the front page of a hundred different websites from just as many countries. The second time had been after the media furor had died down. Angela, by her own admission, had grown frustrated over the way people had started to treat her and that frustration had pushed herself to make a leap that had ended with her declaring herself a slut while handcuffed. Their third meeting had led the two of them to the eastern regions of Switzerland where the past week, including the kiss from yesterday, had transpired. A kiss that had said that her feelings towards Angela weren't platonic anymore. It wasn't until this moment, however, that Fareeha realized just how little the two of them actually knew about each other. Angela drummed her fingers on the table and fidgeted before breaking the silence. “This is awkward, isn't it?” Fareeha let out a dry chuckle and shook her head a little. “Yeah it is. I suppose that's what happens when you start a relationship completely backwards. People usually go on dates before getting to where ours began. I'll admit I'm pretty rusty when it comes to dating for what it's worth.” The doctor picked up her glass and took a drink before responding. “You and me both. I haven't been on a good date since I graduated from university.” Fareeha frowned as she rubbed at her chin. “Didn't you say something about people chasing you during our first meeting? None of those were any good?” “Nope, not a one.” Angela grimaced at the memory, but didn't let it stop her. “After all the media attention, I started having to deal with a bunch of gold diggers or people who saw sleeping with me as some sort of trophy. Assholes. Before that I was working four tens in the emergency room, longer if there was a transplant scheduled. Don't get me wrong. the work is rewarding but it's draining. Emotionally. Strokes, cardiac arrests, burns, gunshots, stabbings. When you spend all day dealing with that, you just want to go home and decompress, not deal with all the hassles of trying to find a date.” Angela shook her head and forced something of a smile onto her face. “Ah, I'm sorry. This is our first date and all and here I am whining about the past.” “No, no it's fine.” Fareeha quickly said, hoping to reassure the other woman. “I've had the same problem myself. I'm not going to try and say what I did was as stressful as working in the emergency room but it could be pretty draining at times.” “Well you mostly worked with men so I would expect it to be draining.” Angela said with an impish twinkle in her eye. Fareeha had just taken a sip, but the water hadn't yet begun to make its way down her throat and she had to clamp her lips together while clapping a hand over her mouth to avoid spraying water all over the table. She swallowed and grimaced. “Oh my god, I didn't mean like that.” “I know, you just set it up so well that I couldn't resist. Was it just your job that gave you problems or were there other factors?” Fareeha put her hands on the table and stood up just enough so she could see the other booths and tables in the restaurant. There weren't many people here and they were sitting on the far side of the room, but even so she still lowered her voice to be on the safe side as she sat back down. “Dating sucks in general, but when you add in my... interests it gets a lotharder. Plus it's my job so when a date asks me what I do for a living… lying about it doesn’t work and the truth pretty much always scared people off. A few were afraid of diseases, but a couple of people gave it a try but decided it wasn’t for them and broke things off.” Angela's face slowly dropped as Fareeha's words sank in. “I hadn't thought of that. You're right, that does make things harder. Look on the bright side though. We've found each other so that's something.” Fareeha raised an eyebrow and Angela hastily started trying to explain herself. “I know we haven't known each other very long, but there's something here. I don't even know where this will go but I want to find out.” “Are you sure about that? Is that ‘something’ actually feelings for me or is it what I’m doing for you, Angela? Our shared interest has a way of playing with people’s emotions. If you’re actually serious about this then I’m not going to say no, but I want to be sure this is real first.” Angela slowly stirred the water in her glass with the straw before responding. “I won’t lie. What you’ve done so far for me has been amazing and without it I never would have met you. As for my feelings, those are real. I’m not going to say that I’m in love with you, but I do like you and I want to give us a chance.” Just as Fareeha started to reply, the waiter returned with a tray in his hands and the food they had ordered. He set the tray down on the end of the table and began unloading the dishes in front of them before leaving. After he had left,  Fareeha looked down at her food much too intently. “All right then.” “Okay.” Angela replied, an amused look on her face. She started to pick up a fork then set it down and turned towards Fareeha. “Do you want to get out of here?” “What? We just got our food and now you want to leave?” Fareeha asked, flabbergasted by the suggestion. “Yeah. We can talk about anything we want at home.” Angela reached down to her side and slid her fingers beneath a seam that Fareeha hadn’t noticed until now. When her hand came out, an electronic fob was in it. “I’ll go ask the waiter to box everything up and settle the bill. Do you mind getting the car started and turning on the heat?” Fareeha waited until Angela began making a beeline towards the waiter at the far end of the room before reluctantly trudging outside. It was already too cold for her and a light pattering of snow was falling from the gray sky above. She pressed the fob’s button and the doors clunked as they unlocked themselves. Fareeha opened the door furthest from the restaurant and closed it behind her. She leaned forward and started tapping on the dashboard console. It took her a bit to navigate through the unfamiliar menus, but before long the vents were beginning to blow hot air into the vehicle’s cold interior. After a couple of minutes Angela emerged from the restaurant with styrofoam containers wrapped in a plastic bag. The snow had now thickened into a flurry of white and the doctor was hurrying as quickly as she safely could across the parking lot. By the time the doctor made it to the car, her hair was whiter than it was blonde. Angela opened the door and hurriedly climbed in then set the food down in the rear seats before shutting her door. “Brrr, I should have brought a jacket.” Angela looked over at the other car’s occupant for a moment and then she was climbing out of her seat and over onto Fareeha’s lap. Fareeha opened her mouth to speak, but Angela stopped her with a single finger. Angela curled her legs to the side and she leaned against Fareeha’s shoulder while putting one hand on a bronze cheek and turning it to the side. A pair of lips that seemed too gentle to be real pressed themselves against Fareeha’s mouth. All she could smell was sandalwood, the only thing she could see was hair covered in melting snow, soft parts were pressing into her body, and Fareeha couldn’t tell if it was the vents or if it something else that was warming her body. One of her hands found its way onto a curved hip while the other entangled itself in those golden locks as the kiss led into a second and then a third. Fareeha’s lower hand moved to the hem of Angela’s skirt and beneath it to the bare flesh it concealed. And just like that Angela was pulling away. A soft groan, Fareeha didn’t know which of them had made it, hung in the car’s interior for a moment. Angela’s face was red again, but her voice was only a little shaky as she spoke. “You seem to be fond of kisses so there’s one of mine to make sure you know I’m serious about giving us a chance.” As the doctor made her way back to her seat, Fareeha just stared at the tinted windshield and the snow piling up on it. It was just as well that she didn’t know what to say, because if she had tried the only thing coming out would have been pure gibberish. Angela pressed on her dashboard’s console and the car backed up before heading towards the road and back to the doctor’s house.

Chapter 5 - Experiment

They may have been holding hands when leaving Fareeha's room, but it only lasted a few short meters. As soon as they reached the door to the master bedroom Angela pulled her fingers free to open the door since her other hand was occupied with holding her clothing. The doctor headed inside and immediately made a beeline through her room. It wasn't until she had gotten into her bathroom that she realized she wasn't alone. Angela turned towards the woman plodding along behind her and raised an eyebrow. “What are you doing, Fareeha?”   Fareeha came to an abrupt halt and looked down at the ground as she rubbed one of her arms. “I'm keeping an eye on you. I screwed up our session, but I don't plan on messing up the aftercare as well. You're stuck with me until I'm sure that you're okay.”   “Is that so...” Angela's eyes flicked to one side as her voice trailed off.   Fareeha slowly turned her head to follow the direction of Angela's gaze only to find the doctor was looking at the tub. Her cheeks began to heat up as she recalled the last time she had been in this room. Angela had been wearing nothing but blue ropes as she sat in that tub, Fareeha opposite her on the tub's other side. The doctor's white skin was flushing red, her lips parted as her fingers teased her folds until one of them pushed inside until only its third knuckle was visible.   “If I'm stuck with you then maybe we should pick up where we left off from last time.” Angela said, her lips spreading into an impish grin.   “Well we do have to clean that writing off so maybe it's time for your sponge bath.” Fareeha retorted as she folded her arms. “I'm not a nurse but I'm pretty sure I can figure something out Doctor Ziegler.”   “All right, all right,” Angela said while holding her hands up in surrender “I'll just go take a shower then.” She dropped her head to look down at her stomach. “This will come off right? You didn't use permanent marker did you?”   “No, the markers I use are made for writing on skin. The website I buy from advertises them for sports and stuff but they work just as well for bondage. You can clean it off with soap and water.” Fareeha explained as she took a seat on the edge of the ledge surrounding the tub.   Angela nodded and flicked a switch near the bathroom door to turn on the bathroom's exhaust fan. She set her clothes down by the sink before heading to the shower. The doctor paused before stepping inside and looked over at Fareeha. “You could join me if you want.” Angela hopefully offered but Fareeha merely shook her head.   A few minutes later and Angela was stepping out of the shower. The ink was gone but Fareeha could see narrow streaks of a slightly reddish hue marring the doctor's bottom. Angela grabbed a fluffy white cotton towel and began drying herself off. Once she had finished she wrapped the towel around herself then walked over to sit down on Fareeha's lap without so much as a wince. Fareeha looked down at their legs before returning her gaze to the doctor's face. “Does sitting hurt at all, Angela? I wasn't trying to hit you very hard but we haven't done canes before so I want to be sure I didn't use too much force.”   The blonde woman just shook her head as she leaned into Fareeha. “I'm a little sore, but it's not bad at all. The cane did sting, but in a good way. I might bruise a little, but nothing more than that and I'm willing to let you use canes on me again. I have a question though. How did you know I was bothered by being written on?”   Fareeha shrugged her shoulders as one hand idly began to run up and down the doctor's back. “Educated guess I suppose. What we did today was similar to our first session where we met. We did impact play that time but I used a belt instead of a cane. There was some humiliation too since I was telling you that you were a slut and I made you call yourself a slut as well but that was all verbal. You're a really brilliant woman so maybe the fact that I wrote it down this time was what bothered you. I am just guessing though and I don't want to tell you how you feel.”   Angela was silent for a moment before she brushed her lips against the crown of Fareeha's head and stood up. “I appreciate that but I think you might be right. Come on, we're not done with aftercare just yet.”   The doctor grabbed Fareeha's hand and pulled her up to her feet, much to the other woman's surprise. “Okay. Do you want me to go get some of my chocolate bars then?”   “Nope. I want to try something else for recovering instead. Follow me.” Without waiting for an answer Angela was on the move, heading back into her bedroom and towards the master closet. She pulled the closet doors open and reached up to the top shelf to pull out a pair of cylinders, one green and one blue. Angela tucked them under one arm and turned to look at Fareeha. “How flexible are those jeans?” The doctor asked.   Fareeha glanced down at the piece of clothing in question then back up at Angela with a shrug. “They’re okay I guess. Why?”   Angela set both of the cylinders down on the ground and unrolled the green one. The mat was over two meters in length and perhaps two thirds of a meter wide. Angela did the same with the other before turning back to her closet. “Well if we're going to do yoga then you need something more flexible than a pair of jeans. They're good for every day stuff but jean crotches are usually too restricting for yoga.”   “Yoga?” Fareeha asked in disbelief.   “Yep. It's something I started doing to deal with getting stressed out at the hospital. Have you ever tried it, Fareeha?” Fareeha shook her head and Angela turned back towards her closet to pull out a pair of black leggings then tossed them to Fareeha. “Here we go. Try these on.”   Fareeha caught the garment and stared at it wordlessly. Yoga. There were some practitioners who advocated yoga as a way of increasing flexibility for bondage sessions, but she had never tried it, let alone as a form of aftercare. If it had solely been her decision then she would have stuck to the methods that had been effective for her in the past, but it wasn't just her decision. Angela might be her bottom, but she had an equal say in how they handled their sessions. The more pressing concern was how these pants would fit her. Fareeha turned and disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. Angela lifted an eyebrow and shook her head in amusement at the dominatrix's sudden bashfulness. Several seconds later and Fareeha returned to the bedroom.   As her mistress approached the yoga mats Angela whistled softly at the sight. They fit Angela just fine, but they way they snugly clung to Fareeha's wider hips seemed almost provocative, not that the doctor was going to complain. Fareeha stopped moving next to one of the mats and looked down at it dubiously. “I don't know any poses or whatever they're called.”   Angela simply smiled as she begin to unwind the towel around her and casually tossed it aside, seemingly oblivious to the fact she was now naked. “That's fine. Just watch me and try to do what I'm doing. I'll correct you if I see something wrong.”   Fareeha rubbed at the back of her neck as she kept an eye on the doctor while trying to figure out if she had been set up. Angela had made a joke about picking up where they had left off earlier and now the doctor was telling Fareeha to watch her do a yoga pose. While wearing her birthday suit no less.   Angela stepped onto the green mat as she reached up into the air and pressed her palms against each other while keeping her back straight and feet together. Her chest rose and fell as she deeply inhaled and exhaled several before turning her head towards Fareeha. “So this is Mountain. Give it a try.” Angela urged.   Fareeha held back a grimace as she stepped one sock covered foot then the other onto the remaining mat. She lifted her arms like Angela had, feeling more than a little foolish in the process and stood there with her arms in the air. There was a bit of pressure on her shoulders, but nothing she would have considered a form of stretching.   “Sorry I didn't explain what you're supposed to do next. I guess it's just second nature to me by now. Press down with your legs, squeeze your abs and pull your shoulders down while keeping your hands up if you can then hold it for five breaths or so.” Angela said.   Fareeha tensed her muscles like Angela had said and took a few breaths before shaking her head. “I don't feel any different. That didn't seem to do much for me.”   “That's all right, Fareeha. Even basic yoga poses can be a bit tricky when you're doing them for the first time. Let's do a different one.” Angela brought her hands up to just in front of her chest and pushed them together while raising one leg off the ground and pressing one foot into her other leg's thigh. “This is Tree. It looks easy, but keeping your balance can take some practice.”   She hesitantly raised one foot and moved to put it against her other leg but then her sole remaining pillar of support wobbled and Fareeha was stumbling off to the side. Angela stepped off the mat and into Fareeha's path to keep her from falling any further with an outstretched hand. “Okay, maybe we'll try something where you don't have to worry about falling down, Fareeha.” Angela stepped back onto her mat and lowered herself down until she was resting her weight on her forearms and knees. Then she thrust her hips upwards and smoothly walked her hands forward until she resembled a triangle with her bare bottom at its peak.   A few long breathes later and it was Fareeha's turn again. Once she had raised her hips she felt a hand pressing down on her back. “Try to keep your back straight, Fareeha.” The hand moved away only to touch her again, but on the outside of her thigh this time. “Spread your legs a little further apart for me.” After moving her feet a few centimeters to the outside that hand moved once again, up to the curve of her bottom.   Her blood was already flowing down towards Fareeha's face, but even more made its way to her cheeks as those fingers lingered very near the center of her rear end, their intent unmistakable. Angela's other hand touched the small of her back and slowly began to make its way downward while drifting sideways at the same time. Just as it was making its way along her ribs Fareeha lowered herself to the ground and turned to her side so that she was looking up at the naked woman. “Angela...” She began before stopping momentarily.   “I like you, Angela, I do. You're brilliant, you're beautiful, and I've never met anyone as amazingly fantastic as you. I want this relationship of ours to work and I don't want to hurt your feelings by rejecting your advances over and over but I'm not ready to do anything vanilla with you. I know that sounds dumb coming considering what I do for a living plus the stuff we've already done, but it's true.”   Angela smiled softly and reached down to hold one of Fareeha's hands. “That's fine. I know I'm being forward and I'm not trying to put pressure on you. It's just our sessions have been incredible. I've never had anyone make me feel that much pleasure before.” Angela looked away for a moment as she continued to speak. “And it makes me feel a little guilty. You've done so much for me already and I feel like all I'm doing is taking and I want to repay you as best as I can.”   “You don't...” Fareeha began but Angela cut her off.   “Of course I do. You might be a professional, but you still deserve pleasure. Now with that said if you're not ready then I won't push the issue anymore. If you decide to change your mind then all you have to do is let me know and I'll do whatever you want me to.” She leaned down and brushed her lips against Fareeha's mouth. “Are you okay with just holding me right now? I can go put on some clothes if me being naked bothers you.”   Fareeha slowly shook her head and gently pulled Angela closer until the other woman's back was pressed into her torso. She nestled her chin onto Angela's shoulder and closed her eyes while resting her hands on the doctor's stomach. Neither of them moved for a long time after that, content to bask in each others warmth.

Chapter 8 - Gyrations

Fareeha's finger rose into the air then dropped back downwards as she tapped it against her arm, only to repeat itself again and again in harmony with a ticking sound. Her eyes remained fixed on the source of the noise, a round object hanging on the wall of her bedroom much like they had been for the last ten minutes. A slender metal rod moved from one black dash to the next as it revolved around in a full circle. Tick tick tick. In her years of working as a dominatrix Fareeha had serviced dozens or possibly hundreds of clients, both men and women, though the majority of said clients had been men. During those years she had become proficient in using a myriad of tools in the course of her work. Ropes, strap-ons, whips, candles, paddles, and many others. There were plenty of tools that she hadn't used and kinks she hadn't participated in, but she was more than familiar with all the common ones. And yet for all of her experience here she was nervously counting down the seconds to the time she and Angela had agreed upon. The reason why she was nervous was obvious to Fareeha, not that knowing made this wait any easier to bear. All of those clients in the past had been just that. The people who had booked her would walk into her 'office' as strangers, the session would happen and afterwards they would leave once in the right state of mind. Over time she had developed a small pool of regulars but even those few individuals weren't anything more than clients whose faces she recognized and whose kinks she actually remembered. She had never actually cared about any of her clients outside the confines of her work. Until a certain doctor had walked through the door and into her life. This wasn't the first session the two of them had done together. It wasn't even their first session since she had admitted her feelings for Angela but the last one had been a spur of the moment thing and had gone poorly. This time would be different. Fareeha had already gone over Angela's list of kinks and made several different plans for the doctor to pick between when the time came. But for now the only thing to do was try and not to fidget as she waited. Tick tick tick. Fareeha's tapping came to a halt as her arms jerked as a knock intruded into the almost silent room. There was no need to ask who it was and she stood up to open the door. Angela stood on the other side, her blonde hair spilling down onto her white bathrobe. The doctor gave a warm smile that added even more butterflies to the ones already present. “So, are you ready, Fareeha?” “I think so.” Fareeha began as she held her computer pad up for Angela to peruse. “How do you want to do this?” Angela rubbed at the back of her neck with one hand. “Well, I've been thinking about that. I know you said the way we handle bondage was going to change and maybe it will, but I don't think we need to rush things. The way you handled our sessions last week was great. You explained everything to me before we began and there wasn't a single time I was actually nervous or scared about what we were going to do. I think we should keep doing it like that and let things progress naturally as we get to know each other better.” Fareeha blinked several times before brandishing the pad again. “All right, well I had a few ideas for this session but it's your decision. Which one looks good to you?” Angela leaned forward to look at the pad before pointing with one finger. “Tickling. We haven't done that yet. Anything I need to do for that one?” “There is actually. You should go use the bathroom right now.” Fareeha said as she stepped into the hallway. “I don't want to imply you can't control your bladder but I also don't want to risk getting peed on.” Fareeha planted a quick kiss onto Angela's cheek. “I'll meet you in the bunker okay?” By the time Angela made it down to the bunker Fareeha had already gotten the equipment and toys she needed for this session and laid them out in a row. She waved Angela over and waited until the doctor had knelt on the mattress before pointing at the first item, a pair. “So here are the restraints. This strap here goes under the mattress and hooks onto these cuffs which go on your wrists. I thought about putting them on your ankles too, but you'll be able to squirm around more without them. Instead I'm going to use this to tie your ankles together.” Fareeha gestured towards a small coil of blue rope before moving on down the row. The first item was a feather around fifteen centimeters with a stiff bright red vane and the pointed end of its quill had been sanded down so that the tip was smooth to the touch. “I don't think I need to explain a feather to you but I'm not sure if you're familiar with this next toy or not.” “That's a Wartenberg wheel.” Angela said, recognizing the device immediately. The tool was made entirely of stainless steel but its handle had been wrapped in a narrow black tape. At the end of the device a wheel with pointed spikes lining the whole length of its perimeter spun freely as Fareeha picked it up and brushed her finger against it. “You recognize it?” Fareeha asked, taken by surprise at how quickly Angela had responded. “I didn't think these were still used in medicine anymore.” “They're not, but I studied medical history in university and I remember reading about these. They were invented to test nerve sensitivity in patients. I've never used one though. Should be interesting to see how it feels when you use it on me.” She glanced about briefly before looking back to Fareeha. “Is that all? I figured there would be more toys for tickling than that.” Fareeha glanced at the two toys she had pulled out for this. “There are, but most of the toys used for tickling weren't made with that purpose in mind. Paintbrushes, tooth brushes, feather dusters are common.” She held her hands up and wiggled her fingers at Angela. “The main thing people use are these. So for this session I was thinking...” Her voice trailed off as she looked down at the toys on the mattress and she abruptly stood up. “Hang on.” Fareeha darted over to one of her boxes and reached inside to pull something out. A vibrator with a large bulbous head at the end of it. “Okay so I was thinking that we'll do this one in stages. I'll tie you up then start with my fingers then when you're ready you can ask me to switch to the feather. After that I'll switch to the wheel and when you're ready I'll use the vibrator to make you orgasm. Does that sound okay?” Angela reached down to her waist and undid the belt holding her bathrobe together revealing a distinct lack of any clothing beneath it. She pulled her arms out of the sleeves and shrugged the garment off before lying down in the middle of the mattress. “That sounds wonderful, Fareeha.” Fareeha grabbed the strap and moved to one end of the mattress, lifting one corner up and shoving part of the restraint underneath. She moved her way to the other side until the entire strap was in place then pulled one end and soon the other up to the mattress's top side. Fareeha took the cuffs and secured them onto Angela's wrists before fastening the strap's carabiners to a hook on the outside of both cuffs. “Okay, pull on these for me, Angela.” Fareeha requested. Angela forcibly tugged against one cuff then the other, but neither gave way to her yanks. Fareeha turned away to grab the blue rope and began to wind it around Angela's ankles. Once satisfied she hitched the ends together and looked back at the doctor. “Does that feel okay? It's not too tight is it?” “No, it feels fine.” Angela took a deep breath and exhaled slowly as she looked up at her mistress. “Green.” “Let's see how many ribs you have.” Fareeha began drumming her fingers along both of Angela's sides as she started to count out loud. “One.. two... three...” The doctor pressed her mouth together, determined to not make any noise but she couldn't stop herself from twitching from side to side as Fareeha alternated which hand she was counting with. “...wait I lost count. I'll have to start over. One... two...” A soft snort forced its way out of the doctor's lips and the crack quickly widened as Angela began to giggle. Her hands tugged against the restraints and her bound ankles flailed from side to side as she tried to squirm away, but to no avail. Every time she moved Fareeha would reposition herself next to Angela and continue counting. “Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four. Wait does that sound right? You're the doctor. Do people really have twenty-four ribs?” “Yes.” Angela replied as Fareeha's fingers came to a halt, giving her some respite though she knew it wasn't going to last very long. “Are you sure?” Fareeha asked as she tapped her chin with a mock inquisitive look settling onto her features. “No, that doesn't sound right. I think I need to double check to make sure.” “No, no, no!” The doctor gleefully shrieked as she started trying to wriggle away again as Fareeha started counting from one. By the time Fareeha got back to twenty-four Angela found herself torn between thinking humans did have too many ribs while another part of her wished there were more. “Yellow.” She said as Fareeha's hands drifted back towards the bottom of her rib cage. “Okay, feather now. Please. Green.” Fareeha's fingers stopped at once and she got up to retrieve said item before returning to Angela. This time she wasn't content to sit at the doctor's side. Instead she swung a leg over Angela's stomach, trapping her between Fareeha's knees. The dominatrix swam one of her arms underneath Angela's knees and raised the doctor's legs up towards Fareeha's chest. She cupped Angela's thigh with one hand to keep those legs from being able to go anywhere before the feather began to move. This time it wasn't a snort or a giggle, but an outright laugh escaping Angela as the feather brushed against her toes. Her hands were free to pull at will against her cuffs, a fact she was readily taking advantage of, but Fareeha's grip on her legs felt unbreakable. Furthermore Fareeha's knees were pressing against her sides and somehow she was generating a surprising amount of pressure to ensure that Angela's bottom remained pinned to the mattress. The only other thing Angela could do was to endure. To laugh and enjoy the moment. The feather left her toes behind and dipped lower. Angela's hips bucked as the stiff barbs traced a line connecting the ball of her foot down along her sole to her heel. Unperturbed by the motion Fareeha drew an identical line on Angela's other foot before returning up to her feet. Another bout of laughs emerged from Angela as the very tip of the feather began worming its way into the crevice between her big and index toes. Fareeha slowly pushed the feather almost all the way through then slowly drew it back opposite the way it had gone in. Then she moved onto the next gap to do it again. By the time Fareeha had finished the pattern on her other foot Angela could feel something other than laughter present in her stomach. “Let's do the wheel now, mistress.” “As you wish.” Fareeha said before setting the feather down and picking the metal implement up. She rose up off of Angela's lap and moved so that she was kneeling at the doctor's side. “Let me know if it hurts, even if it's just a little, and try to stay still. I don't want to break your skin but if that happens then I have some band-aids and anti-septic ready.” Angela swallowed once but didn't move when the points of the wheel made contact with her skin. As the cold steel begin to leisurely roll across her she could see why Fareeha was being cautious. Each of the spikes easily felt sharp enough to draw blood if they were pushed too hard but there was barely any downward pressure from her mistress's practiced hand. Instead the wheel easily rolled along her skin as it made its way through the space between her breasts up towards her neck. It stopped at the hollow at the base of her throat before withdrawing. Fareeha lifted up one of Angela's feet and the wheel pressed into the ball of the foot with even less pressure than it had used on her torso. It slowly traced a circle along her sole before moving to the the outside of her leg. The spikes continued to spin as it climbed upwards along the edge of her thigh and back onto Angela's stomach. Fareeha's hand slowed but continued to move as she drew near one breast. She inhaled sharply and held it as the wheel ran along the side of her breast before climbing up to levy a gentle metal kiss to her nipple. Angela winced and the tool was gone before she even finished speaking one of her safe words. “Yellow.” Fareeha set the tool down and she leaned in closer as her eyes scoured Angela's chest for any red or a puncture wound that hadn't yet begun to bleed. “Are you all right, Angela? We can stop now if you want.” Angela shook her head and gave the Wartenberg wheel a pensive look. “I was alright until just then. Let's not use that on my nipples the next time we use it.” Her eyes left the tool behind as they found their way to Fareeha's face, a hungering look appearing on her face. “I want the vibrator now please. Green.” A tremor ran through Angela as the vibrator pressed into the gap between her thighs and an even stronger tremor shook her when Fareeha flipped the switch to turn it on. Fingers on her ribs, a feather on her feet, those fine spikes roaming over her skin had all combined to leave her nerves strangely heightened. The cuffs clinging to her wrists, the grain of the ropes on her ankles, the smooth sheet beneath her body, the toy vibrating against her most sensitive parts, the way Fareeha's eyes were watching her as the dominatrix concentrated on her task. On Angela. She murmured softly and Angela's eyes fluttered shut as she surrendered to the sensation. No more squirming or pulling. Just pleasure. The feather was just a tool. The Wartenberg wheel was just a tool as was the vibrator sending ripples into her. Her chest began to rise and fall as her breathing deepened and her fingers curled into a fist as the ripples continued. Angela's eyes opened and they found their way to Fareeha's face as she drew closer and closer. The tools themselves were inanimate objects and it was only in the hands of a person that they could accomplish anything. Fareeha's hands. Angela's gaze remained fixed as her muscles grew taut and a soft cry exited her lips as she fell over the edge to a place where bliss was waiting for. When the moment passed Angela found that her wrists had been freed and Fareeha was in the middle of undoing the knot she had tied earlier. Angela put a hand on Fareeha's cheek as she sat up and turned the other woman's face towards her. She leaned in and pressed her lips to Fareeha's. After a brief moment of surprise Fareeha started to return the kiss and then they were lying down, their arms around each other as it deepened. Angela reluctantly broke away after a long moment and she brushed her fingers through Fareeha's hair. “Thank you.” She whispered. Fareeha looked to the side where a paper bag was waiting next to a thick blanket. “Do you want some chocolate? Or maybe a blanket if you feel cold.” Angela shook her head before dropping it onto Fareeha's shoulder as she snuggled even closer to the other woman. “In a bit, right now I just want you to hold me.” Fareeha softly kissed the top of Angela's head and moved one of her hands to rest on Angela's hip. “As you wish. Do you have any thoughts about our session? Things you did or didn't like or suggestions on what I could do better.” “I do have a question.” Angela said as she wound a lock of Fareeha's hair around her finger. “When you were tickling my feet you were holding me down but it didn't feel like you were really doing anything. What was that?” “I once had a client who wanted me to wrestle him into submission. Wrestling's not exactly rare but he wanted me to actually be able to hold him down until he surrendered. I had to go take classes from sort of grappling instructor to learn how to do what he was asking for. It was a weird request but he paid for the classes and everything so I know a simple takedown and how to sit on someone so they can't get up.” Angela's brow furrowed as she took in that little tidbit. “Huh. Well it definitely worked on me. I didn't have any problems this session except when you used that wheel on my nipple. That was too much for me. Maybe if you had one that was duller then it'd be okay but not the one you have over there.” “Anything else other than that, Angela?” “Hmm... I suppose I could go for some chocolate now. Aside from that nothing comes to mind...” She raised her head up higher and pressed her lips against Fareeha's jawline. “Nothing aside from saying thank you again.”

Chapter 8 - Denial

Angela's eyes slowly fluttered open as the dream she had been immersed in vanished, replaced by the sight of a black television screen. She blinked once as she looked around the living room then down at herself. The last thing she remembered was seeing a woman forced to perform, and quite miserably at that, opera at venues across the country. The pillow beneath her head and the blanket covering her were new though. Her lips tugged upwards for a moment at what clearly must have been Fareeha tucking her in last night. She tossed the blanket aside and stood up, stretching her arms towards the ceiling as she headed for the kitchen.   By the time Fareeha appeared in the kitchen, a small kettle of tea was boiling on the stove and Angela was frying potatoes in a pan next to the tea. "Good morning! Do you mind shredding some cheese? There's a wheel of it in the fridge."   Fareeha pulled the door open and looked about until she found what she was looking for. "There's three wheels of cheese in here. Which one do you want?"   "Get the gruyere. It'll be good for this."   "Didn't you try making this for me before? Back in Geneva?" asked Fareeha as she peeked over Angela's shoulder at the shredded potatoes.   "I did, but you didn't eat it. You're not getting away from my rosti this time though." Angela set her spatula down and grabbed the kettle's handle as it started to whistle. "Excuse me." Once Fareeha had stepped back Angela set the kettle down onto a cloth pad before heading the pantry. "Can you please get some cups? There's some ceramic ones in the cupboard to the left of the sink."   Fareeha opened the cupboard, pulling out a pair of yellow mugs and set them down next to the kettle. Angela came scurrying back, a bag of dried leaves in her hand. Angela dropped the bag on the counter before pouring the water. "I forget to get mint from the store but I have some honey if you want it Fareeha."   "Wait is this... Koshary? How did you know I liked Koshary?"   "Don't you remember?" responded Angela. "The last time I visited you at work, you had me drink this and asked me what I thought. I said I wasn't a tea person but it tasted alright to me but I remembered that you enjoy it so I figured I'd bring some for you to drink while you're here."   "You actually remember what kind of tea I said I was drinking during a conversation we had almost two weeks ago? Do you have a photographic memory or something?"   "No, I'm a mnemonist." said Angela.   "A what?"   "A mnemonist. I use a technique called the method of loci to remember things."   It may not have been intentional but Fareeha couldn't help but be reminded once again just how much smarter than her the doctor was. She internally shrugged it off and took one of the cups and a few leaves. "Thank you Angela." She dropped the leaves in the mug and set it back down to steep. "So I'd like to talk to you about our session today. I went over the kinks you selected but I got to thinking that you should pick what we do today but I'm only giving you two options. Edging or forced orgasms?"   Angela frowned and she pulled on one of her earlobes. "Uhh... what? Edging and forced orgasms? What are you talking about?"   "You remember what kind of tea I drank two weeks ago but you don't remember this? It was when we were going over what kinks you wanted to do, you saw them on the list and asked me what they were. Do we need to have this conversation again?" Angela nodded and Fareeha shook her head, partially amused but a tad annoyed nonetheless.   "Okay, edging is just another way of saying orgasm denial. The idea is to stimulate the sub until they get close to an orgasm then stop. It's kinda tricky to do especially with a beginner who hasn't learned how to help hold them back. Plus I'm not very familiar with your body so I don't know how to tell when you're getting close to climaxing. Now forced orgasms is basically over-stimulation. Typically people will orgasm once or twice and then they're done but if you're forcing orgasms out of them then you don't stop there. Instead you keep going until you get as many orgasms out of the sub as you can. It's one of the more challenging kinks for a sub and there's a chance you won't be able to do this. Some people can multiple have orgasms but others have to stop after one. Do you know if you're multi-orgasmic?"   Angela shook her head as she turned the stove off and moved the frying pan to another hot pad on the counter. "I don't know. I once had a partner who made me orgasm twice but it sounds like you're talking about a lot more than two."   "Then I can't guarantee anything. It could work out for us but it's also possible your body might stop responding and we'll have to stop."   "How would you describe the health risk? You said you don't stop but how exactly are you doing this? If you're fingering me non-stop then it seems like cuts could be an issue. Chafing, irritation and what not..." Angela's voice trailed off as she started running through potential issues this could pose in her head while shredding the gruyere cheese on a stainless steel grater.   "Well, I'm not quite sure what I would be would using yet but it'd most likely be one of my vibrators and occasionally my fingers on you. I wouldn't call this especially risky but it would definitely feel intense for you. If everything goes right then it shouldn't be too painful and it'll kinda feel like exercise if that makes sense. You'll probably be sore afterwards and you'd have to take a break from anything sexual for a few days." explained Fareeha.   Angela rubbed the side of her neck as she considered Fareeha's explanations. "Honestly the whole forced orgasms thing sounds interesting and I do want to try it... but it also sounds kinda scary so do you mind if we wait until I'm ready?"   "Of course. You don't have to keeping asking me questions like that Angela. If you want to wait then we'll wait. If you don't want to do something then we won't do it. You have the final say on all of our sessions. Does that mean you want to do edging today?" Angela gave a quick nod as she kept shredding the cheese. "All right then give me a minute to go get some things."   Fareeha took a drink of her tea before heading out the room, the staircase into the basement creaking as she headed downstairs. By the time she returned Angela had finished with the grater and was now dumping the cheese onto the rosti. Fareeha held up the misshapen vibrator from before in one hand and a roll of tape in the other. "So here's how this is going to work. I'm going to put this vibrator in you and tape it in place." Angela cringed inwardly when looking at the roll of white tape but Fareeha seemingly read her thoughts. "Don't worry, this kind of tape won't pull any hairs out. You're not allowed to take the vibrator out until I say so. You can go about your day however you want but I'm going to be turning the vibrator on and off at random. Say green when you're ready."   "Let me get our food to the table first." Angela scooped the potatoes and cheese onto two plates before hurrying them over to the dining room table and set them down along with a pair of forks. She turned towards Fareeha and took a deep breath. "Green."   "Open your mouth." Angela lifted an eyebrow but Fareeha ignored it and repeated herself, this time sounding more commanding. "Open your mouth." As soon as Angela obeyed the command Fareeha slid one end of the vibrator in and rubbed it against the doctor's tongue "Get it wet." Angela closed her lips around the toy and she started licking the toy on all sides to lubricate it. After a bit Fareeha pulled it out and knelt on one knee. "Pull your bathrobe up."   Angela grabbed the robe and hiked it upwards to give Fareeha access to her legs and other more intimate parts. She squirmed and whimpered just a little as she felt those hands carefully adjusting her folds and then the rubber implement was sliding into her. A second later she heard the sharp hiss of tape ripping and that was pressed against the part of the vibrator still outside. "Okay that should be good. Now then, I think it's time you see what this can do Angela."   Fareeha stood back up and went over to where she had left her pad on the counter. She swiped her finger across it and pushed on a button to open the app that controlled this particular vibrator. "This is a particularly nifty gadget. Let me show you why." She tapped on the screen once.   The doctor started as the vibrator came to life, its entire length both inside and outside of her lightly buzzing. "Oh!"   "Eat your breakfast. You can still do that, I haven't even turned the vibrator up yet."   Angela lowered herself to sit down on her chair and picked up one of the forks. As soon as she started trying to lift some of the rosti Fareeha started running her finger back and forth across her pad's screen. The vibrator stopped shaking except for a particular spot that she could feel moving along the vibrator in one direction and then the other in harmony with Fareeha's finger. "How much control do you have over that thing Mistress?"   Fareeha slid two of her fingers upwards and both ends of the vibrator began shaking much harder than before while the middle went still. "Oh quite a bit. You haven't taken a bite though. I'm not sure I feel comfortable eating food if its cook doesn't like it."   Angela gritted her teeth together and started moving her fork again, trying to ignore the toy buzzing away down below. A soft murmur escaped her lips as she opened them to take a bite. Once the fork left her mouth the vibrator started shaking even harder than before. Angela gasped at the increase in tempo and she set the fork down before it slipped from her fingers. Any thought of eating further slipped from her mind and she leaned forward putting her hands flat on the table. Now that the vibrator was in full swing she realized how meticulous Fareeha had been at positioning the vibrator. The end inside of her was resting against her g-spot and the one remaining outside had been taped down so that it was fixed against the side of her clit. Angela's eyes started to close and her shoulders began to rise and fall as the buzzing did its work.   "Yellow." Angela looked up in surprise to see Fareeha had left the pad behind and was starting to sit down on a chair next to her. "I think that's enough for now. How close would you say you were to an orgasm?"   Angela tapped her finger against her chin as she tried to put a number on it. "I'm not quite sure really. Maybe a third of the way? I was just starting to get into it."   "Okay that's not too bad. Gives me something I can work with." Fareeha took a bite of the rosti. "Mmm, this is pretty good. Green. I think I'll make you cook all our meals from now on. How does that sound?"   "Yes Mistress."   After that it became painfully obvious that Fareeha was waiting for her to do something, anything before she started touching her computer pad. Washing dishes, vacuuming the carpet, trying to watch TV. Each time that vibrator was left on until her knees were almost knocking together then getting switched off before she could get any release, leaving her panting harder than the time before. She tried going upstairs and listening to music in her room but to no avail. Evidently the range of this thing reached throughout the house and there wasn't anywhere she could escape without getting in her car and going somewhere.   The doorbell rang.   Angela froze then scurried over to her closet pulling out a black sundress she could throw on and hurried downstairs after changing. She pulled the door open to find Julian standing on the other side.   'Good day Doctor Ziegler. Sorry for not calling but I had some time before my next job so I thought I'd drop by and pick up that meal I never got to eat.' He held up a container. 'I even brought my own dish for you to fill up.' 'Oh it's not a problem. Do you mind waiting in the living room?'   Angela stepped away from the door to let him in and then she saw that Fareeha was seated on the living room couch, pad on her lap. Fareeha looked at Julian then her dark eyes slowly meandered back to Angela, practically shining with a barely contained glee, as the plumber came inside. One of Fareeha's hands moved to hover above the pad and her fingers wiggled suggestively in the air as she nibbled her bottom lip.   Angela turned so that Julian couldn't see her face and she glared at Fareeha while mouthing the word 'No'. Fareeha's grin widened and she hid it beneath her other hand before Julian could notice it. Angela scowled then hurried away to the kitchen with Julian's container in hand. She had barely gotten the fridge open when the vibrator turned on for a few seconds before going inactive again, a little reminder that Fareeha could still flip it on even if there was someone else in the house besides the two of them.   Angela scooped enough food to fill the dish then headed back out to the living room and handed it to Julian. 'How much time do you have? You're welcome to stay if you'd like.'   'Not enough I'm afraid. I'd like to stay and visit with two women as lovely as you but plumbing issues wait for no one. Thanks for the meal Doctor Ziegler.'   After he had left Angela's forehead thumped against the door. "You're know you're awful right?"   "Oh trust me, you haven't seen me being awful yet." Fareeha activated the vibrator again.   Angela moaned and she pressed her hands against the wall, feeling the vibrator beginning to work on her once more. The times before had been frustrating but rather mundane but now Fareeha was using the vibrator's abilities to their full potential. The spots and tempo of the vibrator were constantly shifting. Back and forth, up and down, barely giving her time to acclimate before it was moving on as ordered by those damnable fingers dancing on the computer pad. Despite the teasing she found herself inexorably approaching the ledge as she had repeatedly done earlier.   Fareeha tapped on her pad to shut the vibrator off and Angela banged her fist against the door as she let out a cry of frustration. She had been so close and it had been snatched away from her yet again.   "Damn it! Don't leave me like this!" begged Angela as she turned to face her tormentor on a pair of unsteady legs. She staggered forward and fell to her knees in front of Fareeha. "The forced orgasms you talked about, let's do that. I'm ready!"   Fareeha slowly shook her head. "Red. You're only saying that because you're really aroused right now. What you need is a cold shower. Come on." She set the pad aside and stood, pulling Angela to her feet. The doctor dropped her head and groaned in frustration but didn't resist as she was led upstairs and to the shower. Fareeha pulled Angela's dress off and tossed it to the floor before kneeling down.   Angela trembled and a spark ran through her from those fingers brushing against her crotch as they undid the tape and pulled the vibrator out. Then Fareeha was helping her into the shower and turning the showerhead on. Her legs bowed beneath her and she sank to the bottom of the shower, the cold water soaking her from head to toe as Fareeha waited outside to keep an eye on her.  

Chapter 9 - Furnishings

Fareeha reached up with both hands towards the ceiling to stretch her arms as she headed down the stairs. As she trudged into the kitchen Angela was already there. The doctor was leaning over in front of an open oven as she pulled out a pan full of bread rolls. As she straightened back up she turned towards Fareeha. "Good morning!" Angela said cheerfully as she carried the pan to the dining room table. "Did you sleep well, Fareeha? I already made breakfast if you're hungry."   Next to the pan were jars of dark jam and a small plate holding a large square of butter. Fareeha sat down in one of the chairs before responding to the question. "I slept all right. Thanks for making breakfast."   "You're welcome." Angela started to sit down but stopped before her butt was in the seat and she hurried back into the kitchen. "Oh shoot, I forgot to pour the tea." She grabbed a kettle off the top of the oven and removed a few tea bags before emptying its contents into a pitcher that had been waiting nearby.   Fareeha picked up the pitcher and poured some into her cup before glancing at Angela. "What kind of tea is this?"   "It's Koshary. That's your favorite isn't it?" Angela asked.   "I don't know if I would call it my favorite, but I do enjoy it a great deal and it's a very popular drink in Egypt. Thank you for making it though." Fareeha lifted the cup to her lips and took a small sip before giving Angela a small smile.   Angela smiled back before reaching for the rolls. As she started spreading jam onto one of them she cleared her throat. "Do you have plans for today? I have something that I wanted to ask you about after we finish eating breakfast if you don't mind."   "Not at all." Fareeha replied as she cut off a piece of butter and began to scrape it onto a roll of her own. "I'll have to use the bathroom first though."   After breakfast Fareeha returned back downstairs to find Angela sitting on the couch in the living room as she waited. Fareeha plopped herself down next to Angela. "So, what did you want to ask me?"   The doctor rubbed at the side of her neck before responding. "So yesterday before our session began I was looking around at the bunker and I realized something. It's pretty empty down there. We got the mattress and those bunks but there's still plenty of room for... stuff."   "Stuff... like what?" Fareeha prompted, not sure what Angela was getting at.   "Well during our first session you tied me to that wooden cross thing. I was thinking we could get something like that for the bunker. I was also thinking about buying a frame for the mattress so it isn't just lying there on the ground." Angela said.   "Oh okay, you're talking about furniture." Fareeha replied. "I can definitely help you with that. The first question is whether you want to build something yourself or buy something online. If you do it yourself then you can choose your own materials and customize things however you see fit. Of course you need the tools and you have to know what you're doing. Doing it yourself means there's a chance you could get hurt if you screw something up though. Buying something online will cost more but the construction will be reliable if you order from a reputable website."   Fareeha put her hands on her knees as she stood up abruptly. "Let me go get my pad. I'll be right back, Angela." A minute later and she was back on the couch next to Angela. "I've had to order stuff occasionally for work and this is the site I use. Do you want me to go through it with you, Angela?"   "Yes, please."   "All right so there's a few common types of furniture that you'll see on most good sites. The design varies from one site to the other, but the basic idea is always the same." Fareeha clicked on one of the page's links and images began to load up. "So here's their most popular chair."   The chair in question had a reclined back and its arms were extended out to the sides. Small rings lined the edge of its wooden frame and black pads covered all the areas where a person's body would come into contact with it. Angela tilted her head to the side as she looked at it. "It says adjustable but I don't see how." Fareeha swiped her finger to the left until a picture taken of the chair from one side appeared. Beneath the chair's back were a pair of boards held together by wingnuts. One was supporting the chair back and the other was connected to the base by a pair of hinges.   Fareeha tapped on the pad and the screen shifted to a different kind of furniture. "Tables are pretty straightforward and there's not a whole lot to them. Some people prefer to get a massage table since those are cheaper and add rings or cuffs to them themselves."   She changed the page again and Angela frowned when she saw what popped up. "Those look like... dog cages."   "Pretty much yes. Pet play is a thing." Fareeha said with a shrug. "And for some people that's why they buy them. There's also the prisoner and slave dynamic. Other people just like being locked in cages though."   Angela shook her head for a bit then stopped. "I guess there are all kinds out there. I like being spanked though so who am I to judge? What else is there?"   "Well there's benches. Those come in a lot of different shapes and sizes and they're used for a few different things. Spanking is probably the most common but take a look at this one." Fareeha pointed with her finger at one of the pictures before pressing on it to enlarge the image. A pair of leather legs extended outwards from a slanted block and multiple straps for restraining the user's limbs were affixed on each side. "Look at how these legs are angled. That spreads a person's feet apart which makes penetration easier."   Angela's head slowly craned to one side and her ears began to burn as she looked at the screen. She wasn't just seeing a bench, she was seeing herself on it. Her chest pressing into the top of the bench, her arms and legs secured in place by those straps, the woman at her side standing behind Angela's bare bottom-   "Hello? Angela?"   Fareeha's voice cut into her reverie and Angela started in surprise. "What? Oh uhm, sorry what were you saying?" Angela asked, her face growing even warmer.   Fareeha tilted her head to one side as she looked back and forth between the doctor and the bench that had ensnared her attention. "That bench seemed to get your attention. Would you be interested in buying it?"   "Umm maybe. It looks really... neat. How much does it cost?" Angela's voice trailed off as Fareeha exited the enlarged image and navigated to the item's listing. "Three thousand euros!" Angela yelped in surprise.   "Yeah, it's pretty pricey but that's what you get when you you're shopping for BDSM furniture online. It's a niche market and there's not a ton of competitors to drive prices down. There are cheaper sites out there but from what I've seen this site makes the best stuff so it costs more but for good reason."   "So this is where you get your furniture for work?" Angela asked, the price she had just seen still shocking her.   "I've bought a couple of niche items from them but to be honest I prefer using regular furniture for my sessions. It lets me be more creative and it costs a lot less too."   Angela rubbed her chin as she considered that. "How much of the furniture in this house would you be able to use in a session?"   "Let's see." Fareeha replied as she looked around the room for a moment. "We could do stuff on this couch but nothing with the couch itself. The legs are too short to tie ropes to." She pointed at the coffee table in front of them. "Now that I could do a lot with if we took the glass out. Coffee tables can be fantastic for bondage if the wood is strong enough. What else... your dining room table is big to work with the right restraints. Beds are good of course but I think my favorite piece of furniture to work with is a chair. You can do a lot with a chair but even it really depends on the chair. The most versatile chair is one where you can remove the back or the seat."   "Why would you want to remove the sea... " Angela's eyes widened as some of the possibilities that created dawned on her. "Oh. Oh!" She fidgeted for a moment then pointed at the screen. "So there's a miscellanous section. What's in there?"   Fareeha's finger hesitated before clicking the link and she gave Angela a sidelong look. "If you really want to look at these then we will, but some of the stuff in there is weird even by bondage standards. Are you sure?" Angela paused for a moment before nodding and Fareeha tapped on the tablet.   Almost immediately Angela's eyes were drawn to the topmost picture. A sheet of shiny black material with a woman tightly encased from head to toe in the middle of it. The sole exception was a small hole where the woman's mouth was and a black tube protruding from the hole itself. "What... is that?"   "That is a vacbed." Fareeha replied before enlarging the image they were looking at for a better view. "In a way a vacbed is like a sleeping bag. There's a zipper on this side here that lets whoever is using it to get in and out. There's two holes in a vacbed. The first one is where people position their mouth so they can breath. The other is down here and that's where the vacuum is attached. When you're ready you turn the vaccuum on and it sucks all the air out and pulls the material tight against the user's body."   Angela's mouth opened then closed almost immediately. "Huh." She grunted. "I don't see what people get out of this. It actually looks kinda boring to me."   "There's a few things going on, Angela. You remember what it was like to wear latex? Well this whole thing is made out of latex but your entire body is being squeezed by it instead of just parts of you. There's also sensory deprivation going on here since you can't see anything so it's like wearing a blindfold which you've done. And if the top wants to then they can use a vibrator on the person in the bed. You've done all of that before already. A vacbed just takes it further."   As Fareeha explained the bed to her Angela's gaze swung back and forth between her mistress and the tablet screen. Once Fareeha had finished Angela squeezed her tongue between her teeth before shaking her head a little. "I guess so. I don't think I'm interested in that. It just looks too weird to me, no offense."   "None taken. I'm familiar with vacbeds but I've never actually used one in a session. They seem interesting but I don't care much for toys where there's a risk of death, even if it's a risk that can be avoided."   "Death?" Angela frowned at the word and took another look at the tablet. "Oh I see. Asphixation if the person's mouth is in the wrong position. Yeah I'll definitely pass on vacbeds. What else is there on this page?" Fareeha ran her finger down the screen and the next image came into view.   A pair of T shaped legs made of steel painted black stood opposite each other and a slat bolted onto each connected them together. A remote dangled from one side beneath a long power cable that was wrapped into circles. On the opposite side a thin metal rod was connected to a spinning lever on one end and a bar with a rounded tip not unlike an arrow on the other end. Angela frowned again as she studied the device. "Okay I'm confused. This part here-" She pointed at the rounded tip. "-looks like it can move but I don't see what the point of that would be."   "It's a fucking machine, Angela." Fareeha explained. "You get a dildo adapter and slide it onto the end here. These bolts here let you adjust how high you want the dildo to be. After you've got that set all you have to do is plug it in, flip a switch, and the machine does the rest. Once you've had enough you turn it off and you're done."   "A machine that fucks people." Angela said, enunciating each word more than normal. "I suppose I can kinda get it. A machine will never get tired and penetration is fun. But it seems so impersonal, there's no emotion or intimacy with a machine. If I felt like being penetrated then I wouldn't want anything or anyone but you to do it."   Angela's face instantly turned a bright shade of red as soon as she stopped speaking. She started to open her mouth to speak again, stopped, then jumped to her feet and scurried out of the room. Fareeha blinked once at the abrupt exit before chuckling quietly to herself and hiding a smile beneath her hand. Now there was an idea for their next session.

Chapter 14 - Bounty

Angela lost each of the three games and only the third game had been close. Not that it mattered since the wager had been decided by then. Angela didn't really mind though. The game had been fun and she had something to look forward to. Being able to touch the other woman sitting in the car since she now owed Fareeha a massage as well as letting her use the hot tub in Angela's bathroom.   "So about this favor I owe you. When do you want to do it?" Angela asked.   Fareeha had been staring out of the window and for a moment Angela began to think that her question hadn't been heard. "Hmm... I'll let you know. Right now I feel like getting in that hot tub of yours. How about you fill it up for me as soon as we get back?"   "Sure, if that's what you want. But how hot do you want the water to be, Fareeha?"   Fareeha turned her head away from the windows towards Angela and it almost seemed like she was considering something before answering. "Umm, how about you make it as hot as you want it to be and I'll tell you if its too much."   That wasn't much of an answer but it did seem to indicate Fareeha had some faith in Angela's judgement at the very least. When she finished parking her car in the garage Angela started heading towards the stairs heading up but instead of following her Fareeha disappeared towards the front door. Angela hesitated on the first step before shrugging and heading up to her bathroom.   She sat down next to the tub and turned the levers controlling the quantity of hot and cold water pouring out of the faucet. From time to time she ran her fingers under the faucet or dipped a finger in the water steadily rising up the walls of the tub. It wasn't quite as warm as she normally would have made it but it was better for the water to be on the colder side instead of being too hot when Fareeha got in. When the water was three fourths of the way full she turned the levers to shut the faucet off. Just as Angela began to stand up she heard the sound of a door shutting and she turned to look over her shoulder.   A white bathrobe clad Fareeha was standing in front of the now closed bathroom door, towel in hand. She glanced at the tub and gave Angela a smile that almost seemed... shaky. “So how's the water?”   “I think it's fine, but you'll have to try it yourself.” Angela stood up and began heading for the door, intending to leave the rest for Fareeha. Before she got halfway to the door Fareeha was moving towards her and grabbing a hold of her wrist.   “Don't go.”   Angela looked down at their hands then up to meet Fareeha's gaze. “What?”   Fareeha tossed the towel onto the ledge next to the counter and she took two steps back while letting go of Angela's arm. She undid the loose knot holding her bathrobe closed and slipped her arms free of the sleeves, the garment falling down around her feet. “I want you to stay. With me.”   Angela had seen a picture of Fareeha not wearing any clothes once before but that had only been pixels on a screen. The real thing was entirely something else altogether. Tresses of jet black hair cascading down over olive shoulders, generous round breasts, a neatly trimmed rectangle of hair down there, and dark brown eyes that were undeniably anxious. Angela glanced over her shoulder at the tub behind them before she realized what was going on here.   Fareeha had suggested they go bowling plus she had been the one to suggest a wager along with its terms. A dip in the hot tub... and a massage. She had asked Angela to fill the tub and set the temperature to what she wanted. Angela looked back at the waiting Fareeha before grabbing her shirt and pulling it off. A split second later and Fareeha was there, her hands reaching behind Angela's back to undo her bra. Pulling off the rest of her clothes couldn't have taken more than a few seconds but even that felt too long for Angela.   Once her clothes were finally off Angela slowly lowered one foot into the tub as she took her time adjusting to the warmth before bringing her other leg to join it. She moved to the far side of the tub and lowered herself until she was seated and the water was almost at shoulder height. Fareeha then stepped forward and entered the tub without any hesitation, the water seeming not to affect her in the slightest “Are you sure about this, Fareeha?” Angela asked softly. “I'm willing to do this but only if you say you're okay with it.”   Fareeha moved forward across the tub until she was standing just in front of Angela. She turned around and sat down on the other woman's lap. Fareeha leaned back until she was resting against Angela's chest and she dropped her head back onto one white shoulder. “Yes.” She softly breathed, as if speaking too loudly would somehow make Angela change her mind.   The last two weeks had been about Angela. The ropes, the vibrators, her ride on the sybian and everything else had been activities for her pleasure. Until now. Now she was being given the chance to repay the favor for all that Fareeha had given her.   Angela's hands rose up almost to the surface of the water and settled themselves on either side of Fareeha's neck. Her fingers began pressing into the muscles around the collarbone, gradually making their way outwards towards the shoulders. Fareeha murmured softly and she pressed herself back a little harder against Angela then before. Angela giggled and shook her head. “You keep doing that and I won't be able to massage your back.”   Fareeha shrugged as in dismissal but her words betrayed her intention. “Well then you'll just have to massage my front instead.”   “Oh? And where might that be?” Angela asked. Her hands left Fareeha's shoulders and dived lower to take a breast in each hand and squeezed. “Here?” A soft moan was her answer and Angela smiled. During their sessions together it had always been Angela crying out, her voice filling the air with lewd noises. Now it was Fareeha's turn to utter wordless exclamations and the very first one Angela had elicited was a sweeter sound than she had ever heard. A shiver of excitement ran through Angela and she began to nibble the soft skin of Fareeha's neck while squeezing those breasts a second time wanting to hear it again.   More moans followed the first as Angela eagerly continued her ministrations and soon enough Fareeha was reaching up to grab one hand and pull it away. Angela's other hand came to a halt as she waited to see what Fareeha had in mind. Their hands sank even lower beneath the water until Angela found her hand brushing against a slick strip of hair as Fareeha carefully positioned the doctor's fingertips. “There.”   Angela's mouth descended onto Fareeha's shoulder as her hands started to move again. The fingers on her left hand continued to squeeze and release Fareeha's breast while Angela's other hand slowly moved in circles over Fareeha's clit. Fareeha's hands tightened on Angela's wrists and her head turned to the side as her moans grew more ragged. Encouraged by the change in tempo both of Angela's hands started to move faster which in turn only made Fareeha's groans even louder.   The two continued to spur each other on until Fareeha began trembling. Angela wrapped her arms around Fareeha's waist and chest, tightly holding her close as the woman orgasmed. As Fareeha shuddered ripples appeared on the water's surface, racing out to the far side and rebounding back towards the two women. When Fareeha's shudders came to a halt she turned around so she was face to face with Angela. She cupped the blonde's cheeks in her hands as she rained kisses all over Angela's lips and every other spot on Angela's face that she could reach.   “Thank you.” Fareeha eventually murmured. “This was a good part one.”   Angela slid her arms behind Fareeha, one hand cupping a hip and the other pressing against the middle of Fareeha's back. “Part one? Does that mean there's a part two?”   Fareeha's eyes flicked towards the bathroom door. “There's a strapon waiting on your bed.” Angela started to open her mouth but Fareeha put a finger to Angela's lips. “It's not for you, at least not today. It's for me but I need to explain something first so you understand what this means to me. When I first got into bondage it only took part of a session for me to realize that I'm a top. Ever since then I've been doing things to other people. Occasionally my bottoms were willing to try and pleasure me back but I had limits to what I would let them do. Some petting or maybe a vibrator but never any further than that.” Fareeha closed her eyes and shook her head suddenly. “What I'm trying to say is that I've never let another person penetrate me in any way. I've never felt comfortable with letting someone do that to me until now.”   “So...” Angela began but Fareeha cut her off.   “So I want you to use that strapon to fuck me.” Fareeha stated emphatically but her eyes flicked away and her shoulders hunched as the moment of bravado passed. “That is... if you're willing to.”   For a moment Angela didn't respond as a whirlwind of thoughts raced through her mind. During their sessions Fareeha had always seemed utterly confident in herself. Whether it was tying Angela up or using a Wartenberg wheel, Fareeha had been composed and shown a skilled and practiced hand. But now? Now Angela wasn't seeing the dominatrix who had honed her craft over years of experience on paying customers. In front of Angela was a woman who was opening up to someone she cared for and worried about it backfiring. Afraid of being rejected now that it was a possibility.   Angela reached up to put a hand on Fareeha's cheek and immediately Fareeha was leaning into it. “I'd love to do that for you, Fareeha. Just promise me that you'll return the favor sometime. Maybe with some ropes too.” Angela added with a tiny grin.   Getting out of the tub and toweling each other off didn't take very long though their hair was still sticking to their necks and shoulders as they entered the bedroom. A thin round length of purple silicone jutted out from a black harness made of leather straps and metal rings lay in the middle of the bed. Next to it was a small jar of lubricant. Angela grabbed the harness and fiddled with the straps for a moment before figuring out how to put it on. She cinched it down onto her hips and turned to give Fareeha an encouraging smile.   Fareeha handed the jar to Angela before lying down on her back and spreading her knees. Angela crawled forward on the bed so that she was in the middle of those legs. Fareeha swallowed as she watched the doctor's approach. They hadn't even gotten to the interesting part yet but the sight of Angela wearing a harness was making Fareeha's body even warmer than the hot tub had. She smiled nervously while running one finger along a leather strap. “I don't know what the best position for us will be but I want to be looking at you when you put it in me the first time, Angela.”   Angela unscrewed the jar's lid bottle and scooped some of its contents out before smearing it onto the dildo. Her hand ran up and down its length until it was evenly coated and looked ready for use. Angela grabbed another scoop but this time her hand went to the center of Fareeha's legs. She wiped it off in the middle then came back with a single finger. She was tempted to rush through this part but Angela forced herself to take her time and make sure the lubricant was applied correctly. In fact she was unnecessarily careful about it, her finger double and triple checking that every bit of Fareeha's sex had been covered. “Are you ready, Fareeha?”   “Yes... just go slow. It's my first time with a strap-on after all.” Angela lifted an eyebrow and Fareeha looked back at her with a stern look. Then Fareeha's lips were twitching and in seconds the mask had cracked and she was laughing. Angela just shook her head though she was beginning to giggle as well. The doctor dropped her head onto Fareeha's shoulder as the two of them continued to laugh. It took a minute or so for them to stop and Angela looked up to see a look of resolve in Fareeha's eyes.   She pushed herself up with one hand while using the other to aim the dildo. It paused at Fareeha’s entrance before Angela's hips pressed forward and the rounded tip slid inside. Progress was slow going as Angela only moved her hips forward a few millimeters at a time. She kept her eyes locked on Fareeha's face, looking for any signs of pain or discomfort that would tell her to stop. At the same time Fareeha was looking back up at her with lips parting ever so slightly as the toy went deeper into her.   When the toy was halfway into her Fareeha reached up to brush her fingers against Angela's face. “You're doing wonderful, Angela. It doesn't hurt at all and you can go faster if you want to.” Fareeha said as she wrapped her legs around Angela and crossed her ankles.   Feeling encouraged by Fareeha's words Angela increased the pace. She continued to push this time and soon enough their hips were pressing against each other. Fareeha's lips parted even further and she shivered. So many years being on the opposite side of a strapon and now she was the one being penetrated. She could feel every centimeter of the toy inside of her. Its inner core was firm but the outer parts of it were flexible and soft against her canal. While thin it still had enough girth to stretch her although just barely. Fareeha took a deep breath and grinned up at Angela. “This is nice, but I think it can be better. Pull it out and let me get into a different position.”   Once Angela had obliged her Fareeha rolled over and pushed herself up onto her hands and knees. Behind her she could hear the sheets rustling as Angela positioned herself. A pair of warm hands grabbed a hold of her hips for leverage. At the same time the dildo pressed against her lips before pushing between them and all the way into her once again. An involuntary groan left Fareeha's mouth as part of it was withdrawn then pushed back in as Angela began to settle into a rhythm.”Is this all right, Fareeha? Do you want me to go faster?”   “Ahhh... no... this is... good.” Fareeha forced out between thrusts. They weren't fast but each thrust ended with the dildo completely inside her before being pulled almost all the way back out. As they continued Fareeha pushed everything else out of her mind. Nothing outside of this room was of any concern. The only things that mattered was the here and now. This woman kneeling behind her, those hands on her hips, and the silicone toy connecting the two of them. As the doctor's methodical thrusts continued a heat was raging outwards from a place deep inside of her that she hadn't been aware of until now. It was beyond anything she had felt before. None of her nights at home with a pair of fingers and a glass of wine or those rare days at work where she let someone use a tongue on the hole now occupied by Angela's dildo could compare. Fareeha's head sank towards the mattress and she began panting. Her eyes squeezed shut of their own accord as her head tipped backed and her back arched. She thrust herself back against Angela's latest thrust, her entire body tensing for an instant and then she slowly lowered herself towards the mattress with unsteady limbs. The strapon slipped out of her and Fareeha lay still for several long seconds before slowly rolling over. Her chest rose and fell as she took deep breaths and liquid began rolling down her cheeks.   “Are you all right, Fareeha?” Angela anxiously asked, a little alarmed by the sight of those tears.   Fareeha brushed at her cheek and turned her hand over to see dampness on her fingertips. “I'm okay, Angela. I'm not crying because I'm sad or in pain. I'm happy. It's been so long since I've had a partner who cared about me that I'd forgotten what it was like.” She pushed herself up with a still shaky arm and grabbed a hold of Angela's neck. Fareeha kissed Angela on the lips then sagged back down to the mattress, bringing Angela with her. She ensnared the doctor's torso in her arms while burying her cheek against a white shoulder.   During her years working as a dominatrix Fareeha had 'serviced' hundreds of clients. Said service varied from one client to the next but there had always been a common element in every single session she had been involved with. The boundaries that she set to avoid becoming entangled with the men and women who came to see her. From time to time one of her clients would get ideas and attempt to challenge those boundaries but they had remained resolute all these years. Until now.   It had only taken Angela Ziegler a mere week to seemingly effortlessly pierce through those boundaries and into her heart. A second week was all they needed to become lovers. She had no idea what was going to happen in the two weeks they still had remaining in their oasis but Fareeha Amari was ready to find out.

Chapter 12 - Systems

A familiar discordant buzz jolted Angela out of her slumber and she sat up with a groan. Angela's hand started to make its way towards the alarm clock purely out of habit but it hesitated halfway there. Her head turned as she looked down at the woman sleeping next to her. Fareeha was bundled up in her blanket just like the previous night and was still sound asleep. Angela's hand fell back to her side as she watched the other woman, curious to see how long it would take for the clock to rouse her.   At first nothing happened. Fareeha remained flat on her back, the sound seeming like it wasn't even reaching her ears. After an almost painful minute of shrill noises Fareeha sleepily muttered a single word. ''Noisy.” She turned onto her side and pulled the blankets up over her head. Angela raised one eyebrow and she poked the misshapen mass roughly where she figured Fareeha's shoulder would be. Fareeha didn't react at all so Angela poked her again with the same outcome. The third time resulted in Fareeha rolling away from the doctor. “Stop it mom. I'm not gonna be late.”   Angela smirked as she slid closer to Fareeha and began using both hands now. It was hard to tell exactly where she was poking Fareeha at first but after a bit she could feel ribs through the layers of fabric. Fareeha squirmed for a few seconds before sitting bolt upright. “Mom! I'm...” Her voice slowly trailed off as her surroundings began to sink in. “What is that noise? I was having such a weird dream.”   “It's the alarm clock.” Angela said as she reached over to turn it off.   “An alarm clock? Why are you using an alarm clock?” Fareeha asked incredulously. “We're basically on vacation. It's not like we have to get up at a certain time.” She tossed the blanket aside and eased her way off the bed before rubbing the side of her leg. “I probably should have stretched after our hike yesterday or something. My legs feel pretty stiff.”   “Oh? We could do some more yoga or I could give you a massage if you want, Fareeha.” Angela offered.   Fareeha glanced back at Angela and the small hopeful smile on the doctor's lips before shaking her head. “Thank you but no, I think I just need to relax for the day and I should be fine tomorrow.” She stretched her arms into the air as she headed towards the door.   “Okay I guess no plans for today...” Angela rubbed at her biceps and elbow as she looked around the room, suddenly looking as if she was lost.   Fareeha frowned at the change in the doctor's voice and she turned back around. “All right, I'll bite. What's bothering you, Angela?”   “Ever since we got here we've always had a plan for each day, something that we were going to do. It feels a little weird not having one now.” Angela hesitated a moment as she looked at her record player. “I suppose I could read or listen to music but now I'm curious. What do you do during your free time? I know you like movies and you have your website but what else do you do?”   “I do watch a lot of movies.” Fareeha admitted. “But other than that I've mostly been playing games since I got here to pass the time.”   “What games? I've been playing chess against myself but it's always more interesting to play with other people.”   “Oh no, not board games. Video games.” Fareeha said while wiggling her thumbs as if using a controller. “I brought a gaming console with me and I've been playing them in my room when I'm not watching movies or doing something with you. If you want something to do then I could hook it up to your TV and we could play together.”   “I'm not sure...” Angela began. “I've never bothered with video games before but you've gone hiking and geocaching with me because that's I wanted to do so I guess it's only far if I return the favor. You'll have to set it up though but not until we both get some food in us and take showers.”   When Angela made it back downstairs Fareeha had already hooked her console up and the television was currently displaying the game's main menu. Once Angela had taken a seat on the couch Fareeha handed her a controller identical to the one she was holding. “So what kind of game is this?” Angela asked as she looked at the joysticks and all the different buttons on her controller.   “It's a puzzle platformer.” Fareeha replied. “Every level in this game has keys that you need to collect in order to unlock some doors. Every level has a different layout and different obstacles that require you to use specific items to get to the end.”   Angela's face brightened at that. “Oh that sounds fun. I was afraid you were going to make me play one of those shooting games and I don't like guns.” She fiddled with the joysticks and pressed a few of her buttons. “How do we get started? Nothing's happening.”   “That's because I'm player one.” Fareeha said as she navigated through the game's opening menus. The screen transitioned from the lines of text to a large gallery of mugshots and a pair of models standing on pedestals beneath the gallery. “So here's all the different characters you can choose from. It doesn't matter what you pick since they all have the same hitbox. It's just a question of what your favorite skin is.”   The models on display began changing as their cursors moved over the different thumbnails. Within seconds Fareeha had locked in a robot with an oversized rectangle for a head, a short torso, and stubby metal arms and legs. Angela took longer as she studiously looked at each of the characters in turn. “Ooh this one is cute.” She had stopped on a creature with black fur on its back, white fur on its belly, a pair of legs barely discernible from its body and a pair of flippers.   “Do you like penguins, Angela?”   Angela bit her lip as she looked down at her controller. “How do I confirm this is the character I want to play? Penguins are cute, yes. The way they waddle around is adorable.”   “Press X.” Fareeha pointed at her controller to indicate which button she was referring to. Angela pressed the button and the television briefly displayed a loading screen before transitioning to the first level.   Fareeha's character began to move but came to a halt as the woman controlling it looked over at Angela. The doctor was mashing all the buttons on her controller and fiddling with her joysticks causing her penguin to move erratically in response. “Little help over here, Fareeha. I don't know what I'm doing.” Angela said.   “Okay, here. That joystick is how you walk around. This button jumps, that button crouches, this button switches between items and that button lets you use the item you're holding.”   “Do any of the other buttons do anything?” Angela asked as she looked at the ones Fareeha hadn't mentioned.   “Uhm, that one opens the emote menu.”   Angela pressed the button in question and a wheel appeared on the screen with multiple options in it. She selected one out of curiosity and the penguin started waving. “Oh, he's waving hello. What other options are there?” Angela hit another one and her character began drumming his feet on the ground and waving his arms around. “Aww! He's doing a little dance!” Fareeha's robot moved closer to the penguin and started stiffly moving its arms up and down while rotating at the waist. Angela let out a snort. “Your robot is doing the robot.”   “Yep. So I mentioned that you have to collect keys to beat a level.” Fareeha pointed at the screen and the red key floating in the air. “There's two others but we can't see them yet. So you have to figure out how to get the red key before we can progress further through the level.”   “Me!? Angela exclaimed. “What about you? You can help figure it out too.”   “Ehhh... if you want me to give you hints then I will but I have all the levels in the campaign memorized so I know all the solutions already.”   “Wait, what?” Angela frowned at Fareeha's answer. “If you already know how to beat the game then why do you still play it?”   “My goal isn't to beat the game, it's to beat it as quickly as possible. It's called speed-running.”   “Speed-running? I've never heard of that before. Then again I don't play video games since I guess it's not really a surprise.” Angela mused, almost to herself more than to Fareeha. “So do you just try to not make mistakes when you're playing the game or is there more to it than that?”   “Well the particulars vary from game to game but the gist of it is being able to find and exploit the game's programming to save time. Sometimes that means exploiting physics to gain speed or it might mean understanding enemy patterns and their weaknesses so you can beat them faster. Take a look at this.” Fareeha's robot jumped up onto a platform above its head and moved over to stand next to where the wall joined with the roof forming a corner. It walked left towards the wall until it couldn't move any further before turning around and dropping a bomb to its right. The bomb flickered for a moment then exploded as Fareeha's character jumped into the ceiling and the robot shimmered before reappearing on the other side of the wall.   “Huh? What did you just do?” Angela asked as she stared at the television screen in confusion.   “It's kinda hard for me to explain since I don't fully understand the code that makes this happen. I just know that this trick works.” Fareeha admitted. “When the bomb explodes it has a knockback effect. But I'm already against the wall and jumping into the ceiling so I don't have anywhere to go. The game tries to move me anyways which sends me inside the wall itself which is somewhere I'm not supposed to be so the game ends up putting me on the other side of the wall. At least that's how I understand it.”     “So that's how you speedrun this game? By using bombs to move through walls?”   “Some of the time yes. That's just one trick though and there's a lot of others. I'm not trying to speedrun right now, I'm trying to play with you. Give me a second to reset the level and we can start over.” Fareeha paused the game before selecting the restart option.   “How long do you think it'll take us to beat this game, Fareeha?”   “Hard to say. It takes me a couple of hours to run the game but there's no rush this time. We have all day, Angela.” Fareeha gave the doctor an easy going smile before turning back towards the screen. “And I have more games in my library for when we get through this one if you're interested.”   “Hmm, we'll see.” Angela said as she started studying the level's layout. At least this would kill a few hours if nothing else.

Chapter 11 - Search

Angela's eyes gradually fluttered open to a room covered in shadows. Her head slowly turned as she looked at the clock sitting on a dresser next to her bed. The first number on the clock was a one followed by a colon and the number twenty-three. There were several hours before her alarm was set to go off and it was far too early to get up to boot. Angela's head turned the other way to see if Fareeha might have woken her but the Egyptian woman was sound asleep. Fareeha had all the blankets and sheets pulled tight around her. Angela scowled at the sight and she grabbed a hold of the blanket's nearest corner and began wiggling it, as lightly as she could to avoid waking Fareeha, out from beneath one bronze arm. The blanket had just started to slip free when Fareeha incoherently mumbled something and she rolled onto her side, trapping the blanket beneath her. She started to grab the blanket again but this time Fareeha lazily swatted at Angela's hand. "Stop, too cold." Angela froze with her hand outstretched as she stared at her partner. Was Fareeha actually awake? A minute slowly passed and Fareeha didn't move or say anything further. "Parasomnia.” Angela whispered under her breath to herself. Fareeha was still asleep, but apparently aware of Angela's actions on some level. She grumbled as she swung her legs off the end of the bed and stood up before heading out into the hallway. Moments later and she was unfolding another blanket and a thin sheet to go beneath it. Angela laid down on the bed before settling them over her and closing her eyes. The next time her eyes opened shrill buzzes were coming from the alarm clock. Angela groaned and slapped the button on top to make it stop. She rolled over to look at Fareeha but the other woman was still asleep despite the alarm. Angela put a hand on Fareeha's shoulder and shook it. “Rise and shine.” Fareeha sleepily muttered in response and she disappeared beneath the blanket as she pulled it up and over her head. Angela bemusedly shook her head and got off the bed. Not only was Fareeha a blanket stealer, she also slept like a log apparently. She would wake up sooner or later Angela mused. Having breakfast ready for when that happened would be a good way to start her lover's day she decided. When Fareeha finally came downstairs half an hour later a pan full of eggs was waiting on the next to a stack of toast along with butter and jam. Angela looked up from her plate, forkful of eggs in her mouth, and waved hello with her free hand. Fareeha sat down in the opposite chair and began shoveling eggs onto her own plate. “Good morning Angela, sleep well?” “You hogged the blanket.” “What?” “Last night.” Angela said while setting her fork down on her plate. “You pulled the blanket off me. I woke up in the middle of the night and had to go get my own. Is that something you have a tendency to do?” “I don't know.” Fareeha admitted as she reached for the toast. “I've always had my own bed ever since I was a little girl. This is the first time I've actually shared a bed with anyone else. I guess I might. I didn't steal your other blanket did I?” “No... I suppose not. I guess that's what we'll have to do if we sleep in the same bed again.” Angela picked her fork back up but hesitated before going for more of her eggs. “Are you doing anything today? I was thinking we could spend the day together doing something.” Angela said hopefully. “No, not really. What did you have in mind, Angela?” “Geocaching.” Fareeha frowned for a moment before shaking her head. “Never heard of it. What's geocaching?” “It's like treasure hunting.” Angela excitedly leaned forward as she began to explain. “People go out and hide caches for others to find. A cache could be anything. Sometimes they're big like an old ammo box or a tackle box. Sometimes they're small like a plastic container or a pill bottle.” “Hide them where?” Angela pulled out her phone and started pushing buttons on it. “A rule of thumb is that you stay off private property unless you have permission from the owner. There's some places that are strictly off limits like airports for example. Common spots are along hiking trails or somewhere in a forest. If you're in a city then it's trickier but you can usually find caches in parks.” “Huh. How many... caches are there around here? I don't think you could spend an entire day searching for them.” Fareeha commented before taking another bite. The doctor turned her phone around and reached across the table so it was easier to see. Fareeha's jaw fell a few centimeters as she looked at the phone. Dozens, no hundreds of green dots decorated the screen.. “There's that many around here?” She blurted out in disbelief. “Yep, and these are all ones I haven't found yet. Feel like looking for some with me?” Angela asked as she set her phone down on the table next to her plate. “Sure I guess. Just give me time to finish eating then take a shower.” Fareeha stabbed her fork into the eggs once again. “Hopefully I won't cramp up like the last time we went hiking.” “Well if you do then I can just rub them away like I did last time.” Angela said with a teasing smile on her lips. Fareeha reddened and hurriedly shoved her fork into her mouth to spare herself having to respond. Angela chuckled once as she got back to eating her own breakfast. After they had finished Angela was up and bustling about at her usual hectic pace while Fareeha started cleaning their dishes. By the time Fareeha was done Angela had assembled a small pile of bags and boxes near the door to the garage. Fareeha flicked water into the sink before grabbing towel and gave the pile a questioning look as she dried her hands off. “What's all of this?” “Stuff we'll need for today.” Angela said as she lifted the backpack up to double-check its contents. “Backup battery for my phone and a GPS unit just in case. Some snacks for when we're out and about. Spare clothes if we get wet, canteens, tick repellent.” She pointed at a cooler still on the ground. “Would you rather I make some food to take with us or go out to eat after we're done looking for caches?” Fareeha rubbed the back of her neck as she eyed the cooler. “Well if we're going to be running around in a forest or something then I guess we should bring some food with us to eat. I'll probably be all sweaty and gross by the time we're done. Let me go shower then I'll come help you make some stuff or did you already get some things ready?” “I don't have anything yet but I was thinking about sandwiches.” Angela said. “We can just throw the stuff we want into the cooler and make them when we get hungry. Is that all right with you, Fareeha?” “Sure, that sounds fine. I'm going to go shower if you don't need any help then.” Fareeha set the towel down before heading towards the stairs. When she got out of the shower Fareeha found the outfit Angela had bought for her last week neatly stacked outside of the bedroom door. Sweater, jacket, gloves, wool socks, pants. Everything but the boots. No doubt those were waiting down by the garage door. As Fareeha entered the kitchen Angela stood up from the table and headed over to her pile of stuff and grabbed the cooler. “All right, let's load it up and get going!” Fareeha grabbed the backpack with one hand and a clear plastic container in the other. The latter item had a sticker reading 'Geocaching Container' slapped onto its side. “Are you placing a container of your own, Angela?” “Sure am. First time I've done this so I'm a little nervous. I have to find a good hiding spot, figure out what to name it, write a description and all that.” Angela headed into the garage and opened her car door and set the cooler on the backseat. She took the backpack and container from Fareeha before putting them next to the cooler. “Okay let's go.” Once they were both in the car Angela toggled her garage door opener and in short order they were heading away from her house. “So where are we going?” Fareeha asked as she lowered the back of her chair. “There's a hiking trail about forty kilometers from here. There's several caches already on it but its got a few paths without a cache on them. We'll have to check them out and see if they're any good.” Angela leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes as the car zoomed along towards the destination she had entered. Twenty minutes later and the car pulled off of the motorway before ending up in a decent sized parking lot already occupied by several other cars. Angela frowned a bit as she looked around. “More people here than I was expecting. Guess we have to keep an eye out for Muggles.” “Muggles? What does Harry Potter have to do with this?” Fareeha asked with a puzzled looking expression. “Oh. Muggles is a term for people who don't do geocaching. One of the things about geocaching is that it can look pretty suspicious. People leaving mysterious objects in random places for no apparent reason." "Like someone planting a bomb?" "Exactly. There's a really old story about a cache left on the edge of an airport in Los Angeles. I couldn't find out if anyone was ever arrested but at least one geocacher was detained by the police. Other times the bomb squad gets called in and they blow the cache up So one of the really big rules is that you have to keep an eye out for muggles who don't know what you're doing and could get the wrong idea.” Angela turned and grabbed the backpack and container before getting out of the car. Fareeha hesitated before joining her. “So we could get in trouble for this? Is leaving a cache here okay?” “It's fine. The people who maintain this trail actually have a couple of their own caches on it. They don't mind people leaving their own as long as they know about it. I sent them an email while you were in the shower to tell them I was going to put a cache out here.” Angela tightened one of the straps on her backpack before she headed for the nearest trail. The worn dirt path was lined on both sides by spindly white beech trees with branches turning green as the first leaves of spring were beginning to appear. The clouds that had covered the sky for the last few days had vanished and patches of blue were visible through the tree canopy. The doctor was a few steps ahead of Fareeha, her attention split between the phone in her hand and keeping an eye on the trail for any loose rocks or roots that could pose a hazard. After several minutes she stopped and turned to her right before pointing straight ahead.. “So this cache is somewhere around here. The hint doesn't make any sense to me. It says look in the spot where Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin hid. Do you have any idea what that means?” Fareeha put a finger over her lips as she tried to keep herself from laughing as she looked around. The ground was flat on the trail's left side but it sloped downwards on its right towards a stream below where they were standing. “I do actually. It's a reference to a movie called Fellowship of the Ring.” “Okay then... give me a couple of minutes to look around before telling me.” Angela said as she tucked her phone into her pocket. She moved to the edge of the trail and painstakingly descended the slope before sweeping her gaze back and forth in search of the cache. After several long minutes she muttered to herself and waved Fareeha down. “Okay give me a clue if you can.” “So in Fellowship of the Ring those characters are traveling through a forest and Frodo realizes a monster is coming so he tells them to hide. They get off the road and take shelter beneath a tree.” Fareeha explained. “Beneath a tree...” Angela repeated as she gave the area another look. “But they're hiding so they needed somewhere to stay out of sight... there!” She pointed at a depression beneath where some tree roots were poking out of the hillside. It was hard to spot but Fareeha could see an ammo canister that had been painted to mimic its surroundings tucked away beneath the roots so that people on the trail wouldn't be able to see it. Angela excitedly pulled it out and opened it up. “Let's see what we got.” She pulled out a plastic bag containing a few round objects as well as a small notepad and pencil. Angela opened the bag and pulled the pencil, notepad, and one of the coins out. Angela scrawled something on the notepad while Fareeha picked the baggy up and looked at its contents. “What are these?” Fareeha asked. “It's a trackable.” Angela replied as she turned her coin over. “People put them into a cache then later someone takes it out and carries it to another cache. The idea is to see where, and how far, it goes.” She tapped on her phone briefly before holding her coin up higher. “This one started in Scotland, made its way into France before someone dropped it off here. Let's look at the others.” The second coin appeared relatively new and hadn't yet made it very far from where it had been dropped off. Fareeha's eyes widened when Angela giggled and held her phone up for Fareeha to see. A blue line connecting multiple dots came to a halt at their present location and it began in... “Australia!?” Fareeha blurted out. “Yep. All the way from Sydney. Person who placed it says they're hoping that it makes a full transit of the planet.” Angela tucked the coin into her pocket and stood up. “I'm not going that far but I can take it back to Geneva.” The doctor put the bag back into the container and placed it back where she had found it. “Ready for the next one?” “After you, Angela.” That was one down, but Fareeha had a hunch there would be plenty more before the day was done.

Chapter 1 - Chapter 1

Asami sighed as she glanced around the room she was seated in. The walls were made of brick, but they were covered for the most part. Mirrors surrounded by light-bulbs ran the lengths of the wall in front of her as well as the wall behind her. Each mirror had a wooden chair positioned in front of it and at the moment only one of them was occupied as Asami sat alone in the dressing room, a bouquet of pink roses in front of her. Asami's attention drifted back to her mirror and the face looking back at her. It was hers though it certainly didn't feel like it with all the makeup she was currently wearing. Primer all over her face, a sheer foundation, even more primer on her eyelids, contouring meant to emphasize her cheekbones. There was concealer below Asami's eyes and her lashes had mascara on them and as well was being curled to the side as well. A bit of liner had been added to even her lips then she had applied a dark red lipstick which in turn was covered in gloss. After finishing the work on her face she had spritzed it with a setting spray so that it would last through the night. She still wasn't done, however. Asami gathered a few strands of hair on the left side of her head in her fingers and began twisting them together into a braid. Once the braid was finished she let the end fall back down to hang by her shoulder blades as she started another braid on the right side. When Asami finished the second one she took both of them together and began wrapping them into a bun at the back of her head. She held it secure in one hand while the other fetched a long bejeweled pin and slid it into the mass of hair to keep the bun together. Once she finished her hair Asami's gaze dipped lower in the mirror as she took a look at the outfit she was wearing. The dress was made of satin and completely white from top to bottom. Her shoulders were bare though its bust came up high enough that there wasn't any cleavage to be seen. The dress hugged her, though not unmodestly so, above her waist, but the rest of it was a different story. Starting at the waist the material flared outwards well past the width of her shoulders and it hung low enough to hide the satin shoes she was wearing. Lastly she was wearing a simple necklace made of silver chain-links and a pair of white gloves extending up past her elbows. A knock on the door made Asami jump, startled, and she twisted in her seat to look towards the door. “Yes?” She asked, her voice sounding too loud for the almost empty room. “May I come in, Asami?” The voice was that of her father, Hiroshi Sato, the president of Future Industries. Asami gave the mirror another glance to double check her appearance before turning back towards the door. “Come in.” The door opened and her father stepped inside before closing it behind him. He was as dressed up as his daughter though his outfit stood at the opposite end of the color spectrum. The back of his black dress coat hung all the way to his knees. It was shorter in the front and hung open in the middle. His pants and shoes were black as well though there were two pieces that were white. A stiffly ironed dress shirt and the white bow-tie at the base of his neck. “ She watched in the mirror as he moved to stand behind her chair. “It's almost time, Asami. Are you ready?” Asami turned her head to the side, unable to meet her father's gaze even if it was only a reflection, as she started to fidget with one of her gloves. “Do I really have to go through with this? This whole thing is so degrading.” Hiroshi wearily sighed as took his glasses off and began to wipe the lenses with a handkerchief from his front pocket. “I know you've never been comfortable with this, Asami. That's why I never pushed the matter on previous occasions, but I was always hoping that you would come around on the matter. I wasn't so lucky and unfortunately your absence has been noted each time and people have been talking.” “About what? That I didn't attend one of these ridiculous balls? The original point of these things is matchmaking and that doesn't really happen these days. I'd have better luck with people online then I would at this event anyways. Do you know what the people out there will see?” Asami waved her hand downwards at her dress. “All of this. They won't see my mind or who I actually am as a person.” “I understand and I actually agree with you as a matter of fact. I doubt you'd find someone you'd be interested in if you were actually looking.” Hiroshi's voice remained soft but there was a firmness to it now. “However, this ball is still important for other reasons. The people attending tonight are some of the biggest movers and shakers in Republic City. Future Industries has done well so far, but some of the contracts we're in the running for depend on not offending anyone out there, which you will if you refuse to participate again. You might not like it, but you're almost twenty one years now and that means you're old enough to understand that sometimes you have to do things you don't enjoy.” Asami stared at the desk for several seconds before closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. “Yes, father.” She said dejectedly, resigning herself to the fact this was unavoidable before standing up and grabbing the bouquet off the table. Hiroshi took his daughters hand and helped her stand from the chair. Before opening the door he paused and gave her a second glance. “This is supposed to be a happy occasion so remember to smile.” Asami scowled at him and a frown creased his face in response. Her shoulders sagged and she grudgingly feigned a small smile. Hiroshi waited a moment and the smile grew a little wider before he pushed on the door and stepped out into the hallway. A short walk later and the two of them arrived at their destination. Several girls were already lined up along one of the walls. Each of them was holding a bouquet of pink roses and they all were wearing similar dresses to Asami's. Most telling, however, was the fact they were all noticeably younger than she was. Past them was a pair of open doors leading to a large ballroom filled with round tables covered in tablecloths. Asami let get of her fathers hand and moved to stand at the end of the line. Hiroshi gave her a nod then headed towards the girl next to Asami. The two of them began to speak though Asami didn't have the chance to listen in. At the same time a couple approached her. One was a serious looking man with a shaved head and a beard that narrowed to a fine point a few centimeters below his chin. At his side was a shorter woman with a plain and kindly looking face. “Councilman Tenzin, Pema. I didn't think I'd see either of you here. How are you and your children doing?” Asami eagerly asked. “They're doing well. Rohan's been easier to handle than his brother was.”Tenzin stated, a bit of relief poking through his normally stoic exterior. “We weren't planning to come tonight, but Jinora's almost old enough for one of these events so Pema and I decided to see what all the fuss is about. It's good to see you, Asami. We'll save a seat for you and your father if you want.” Pema gave Asami a smile and then they were moving down the line to greet the other debutantes. Right behind them was an older man whose stout build was still defying the fact he was past his prime. The breast of his red officers jacket was covered in medals and his black hair shined in the light, giving a hint at how much pomade it had taken to tame it. “Commander Bumi? This is a nice surprise. I didn't expect to see you tonight.” The commander shrugged dismissively. “I'm retired, but some of the bigwig generals asked me to be here so the military had someone representing them. I wasn't going to come then Tenzin told me there's a dinner and I'm not gonna say no to some free grub. If you'll excuse me that dinner isn't gonna eat itself.” After Bumi started heading down the line Asami turned her attention to the next person in line and her smile froze on her face when she saw who it was. “Look. At. You, Asami! Never thought I'd ever see you wearing one a dress like that! How do you even walk in that thing? I'd be tripping all over myself if I tried. Isn't that right, Zhu Li!?” “Hello, Varrick.” Asami said when the man paused to take a breather. It didn't seem like he had been told that this was a white tie event. Varrick was wearing a dark blue jacket with white fur running along the edge of its lapels and a garish pale blue tie. The person in front of him hadn't been wearing a tuxedo either except Bumi was a military officer who could get around the dress code by wearing a dress uniform. On second thought Varrick probably knew, but didn't care, and being the richest man in the world was enough to deter anyone from questioning his improper choice of attire. “What brings you here tonight? I'd never have guessed that you'd be interested in a debutante ball.” “Debutante ball? What in the world is that? Zhu Li, do the thing!” “Sir, it means-” “Never mind that right now! There's an election coming up and I gotta decide whose gonna win so I'm here to shake some hands and grease some wheels! Tell your father I said hi.” Asami blinked, more than once, as Varrick took off in the wrong direction. Zhu Li and Asami exchanged a confused glance before Zhu Li went after him. A moment later and Varrick was heading the correction direction this time as Zhu Li shepherded him towards the dinner tables. Asami couldn't help but notice he didn't talk to any of the other girls standing in line. She didn't have time to reflect on it further as another guest approached. It wasn't someone whose face she recognized, but that wasn't surprising since there were a few hundred invitees attending. Some of them would be people whose faces or names she recognized, but strangers being among them was an inevitably. The other side-effect was that greeting all of them would take a while. Once all the guests were inside a small group of young men with an older woman at their head approached. The men were all dressed much like her father had been with the addition of white gloves of their own. “Excuse me, ladies.” The woman said. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Buttercup Raiko and I'm the organizer of this ball tonight. Thank you all for coming and if you don't mind I'll introduce your escorts tonight.” She started at the head of the line eventually ending up in front of Asami. “Miss Sato, your escort tonight is Tahno here. Tahno, this is Miss Asami Sato.” Tahno was a pale skinned man with a narrow face and long black curls that had been slicked back. He held his arm out to her and Asami linked their elbows together. “So... Tahno, how did you end up being chosen as an escort for this ball?” “I compete on the fencing team at Republic City University and I recently took first at an international competition in the under twenty age group. Guess someone decided I have talent because I got an invitation to this ball not long after.” Tahno explained, a touch of cockiness now present in his voice. “If I remember right there aren't degrees in fencing at RCU so what are you studying there?” Asami inquired as they entered the ballroom. Tables occupied most of the room, but there was a pathway running from one end of the room to the other. At the far end of the path was a rectangular area that had been kept mostly clear and past that was a stage that had been elevated several centimeters off the floor. A band was set up on the back portion of the stage and at the moment bows were being dragged back and forth across various kinds of strings. “Music.” Tahno said as he cast a glance towards the band. “I'm hoping to go pro as a fencer, but there's not a lot of money in the sport unless I relocated to the Fire Nation. There's enough jazz clubs in Republic City that could use a good trombonist so I have something to fall back on if fencing doesn't work out for me.” “That's very practical of you.” Asami stated as they arrived at the table her father was seated at. She let go of Tahno's arm. “If you'll excuse me.” Asami didn't wait for a response as she took a seat next to her father and leaned in towards him so she could speak quietly. “I spoke to Varrick earlier. He said he's looking for someone to back in the upcoming elections.” Hiroshi was silent for a few moments and he took a drink of water before responding. “Varrick's going to back someone for a seat on the council... that kind of bankroll will be impossible to compete with. We'll have to keep an eye on him and see who he approaches tonight. Did you see anyone else tonight?” “Buttercup Raiko organizes this event so we have to assume her husband is present. I spoke to Tenzin earlier, but he doesn't accept campaign contributions from businesses and he's popular with the masses so he'll hold onto his spot anyways. Tarrlok is here as well though I don't like some of his policies.” Asami said before getting a drink of water. “Maybe so, but he acts as a counterweight to Tenzin's more... radical ideas so we can't dismiss him just yet. We also can't outspend Varrick though we can outmaneuver him if we have more councilman on our side. I'll have to think about it before deciding what to do.” Hiroshi added, almost as an afterthought before sitting up straight in his chair. She was spared the need to reply as waiters were beginning to navigate their way between all the tables as they brought the food out. It didn't take long before there was a plate in front of her. Bloody looking filet mignon, mashed potatoes covered in brown gravy. It certainly smelled good though Asami eyed the food with more than a little wariness. White gloves and a white dress weren't exactly optimal for eating this kind of meal. Asami glanced from side to side before pulling her gloves off and hiding them beneath her seat. She then gingerly lifted her fork up and painstakingly stabbed a piece of the beef. The fact that she wasn't really hungry would help in avoiding a faux pas, but it didn't help any to pass the time. Tahno was seated to her right, but he had started talking to the pretty woman on his right side and the two of them looked completely engrossed in the conversation they were having. To her left Hiroshi was talking to a man she vaguely recognized. His last name was Keum though Asami couldn't remember much else about him other than the fact he ran a business of his own. She suppressed the urge to sigh and carefully took another bite as she began to count the seconds as they slowly drifted by. There was still plenty of meat and potatoes left on her plate, but her glass was empty when the woman from earlier came around again. She tapped Tahno on the shoulder and waited until she had his attention before speaking to him and Asami. “It's time for the presentation. Please come with me.” Asami grabbed her gloves and pulled them back on before following Tahno and Buttercup towards the door they had entered the room through. They were the last ones to arrive, Asami dryly noted. All of the girls, as well as their escorts, were waiting there. Buttercup didn't waste any time shepherding all of them into a line like before except this time Asami was at the front. She held her arm out for Tahno to take while holding the bouquet in the other. By now it had become apparent what was going on to the rest of the attendees and people turning in their seats to watch them. Asami started to walk forward, the girls behind her, as she made her down the path and towards the stage, stopping in front of it. When she came to a halt the band stopped the song they were in the middle of and the musicians started turning the pages in front of them. Overhead a speaker came to life and Buttercup's voice came out of it. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I'd like to thank all of you for coming and I hope you've been enjoying yourselves so far. It's time for the main event so let's get to it.” The band started playing once again and the notes to the United Republic's anthem began drifting through the room. Asami walked forward onto the stage, Tahno staying at her side as they turned around to face the crowd. She wasn't sure how many people were there, but there had to be at least two hundred, perhaps three of Republic City's most elite social circle and they were all looking at her. Buttercup's voice came through the speaker once again. “Introducing Asami Sato, daughter of Hiroshi Sato. At eighteen she graduated from Republic City Tech summa cum laude with a doctorate in mechanical engineering. Since then she's been working as the vice president of engineering at Future Industries. Asami also currently holds the rank of brown belt in Judo, but she's still single so don't let her brains and brawn scare you off boys!” Asami removed her arm from Tahno's elbow, but she held onto his hand. For several painful seconds it seemed as though her legs wouldn't respond to what her brain was saying. The lights shining seemed too bright, she could hear a phone ringing from somewhere, the music continued to play, all those people sitting at the tables out there were looking at her. After what seemed like an eternity Asami's knees bent beneath her as she curtsied. After a brief pause Asami stood back up and she moved out of the way for the girl who had been standing behind her. Buttercup continued speaking to the crowd, but Asami wasn't listening to what Butter was saying anymore. Instead the introduction that Buttercuphad given her was looping through her brain over and over as a cold fury broiled in the depths of her stomach. Asami had provided Buttercup a list of things to say during her introduction, but the older woman had chosen to make a few additions of her own. The smile on her face never wavered though Asami's cheeks were beginning to ache and it was hard to resist grinding her teeth together. One by one the other girls were introduced, to the crowd at least since Asami wasn't listening, until there were none remaining. Once all of the other debutantes had been introduced an equal number of men were making their way up towards the stage. Hiroshi was among them and he made a beeline straight towards Asami while the others were headed for their daughters. Asami handed her bouquet over to Tahno before letting her father take her hand. Once again the band stopped playing as Hiroshi and the other fathers brought the debutantes towards the empty space in front of the stage. Hiroshi put a hand on her waist and waited for the musicians to start playing before leading her in the first steps of a slow waltz. “I know you don't want to be here, but your mother would be proud if she could see you now.” “Don't do that. If I start thinking about mom then I'm going to cry and it'll ruin my makeup.” Asami was silent for a moment before speaking again. “Why did you tell Buttercup I was single?” For a moment Hiroshi looked like he was about to deny it then he shook his head, realizing there was no point. “Because I'm concerned about you. You turn twenty one tomorrow and you've never been in a relationship. I'm not sure if you've even gone on a single date for that matter.” “That's-” Asami's voice started to rise, but she quickly caught herself before it got too loud and she started speaking in a heated whisper. “I've never had the opportunity and you know it. I started attending RCT when I was thirteen and I was so much younger than everyone else there that romantic relationships were out of the question. I'll get to it when I'm ready and not before. Changing the subject, how long do I have to stay? The presentation is over.” “You'll have to dance with your escort, but after that you can leave. I'd suggest staying though. Having a good social network is an important part of business and rubbing shoulders at events like this is something you'll have to do when you succeed me as CEO of Future Industries.” “There'll be plenty of time for that later. Right now I have my hands full just running the engineering department. Besides you still have at least a decade left in you so me taking over won't happen for a long time.” Asami pointed out. Hiroshi gave her a dubious look, but he didn't say anything and the rest of their dance passed without further comment. Hiroshi stepped away and began heading off the dance floor and almost immediately Tahno was there to take her father's place, a sardonic grin on his face. “Judo, huh? Think I've heard of that. Some kind of martial art isn't it?” “It's a grappling style from the Fire Nation.” Asami said as the two of them started into the same waltz that she had been doing with her father. “It's mostly takedowns, but there are some submission holds as well.” “Oh right, I know what you're talking about now. Judo's that sport where people wear those ridiculous white pajamas and try to trip each other.” The grin on his face widened and there was more than a little smugness in it now. “What would you do if someone came at you with a knife?” In another time or place that question might have bothered Asami, but her time on the mats had taught her the answer a long time ago. “I'd run away. It doesn't matter how good a person is at unarmed combat if there's a knife involved.” Tahno started to look even more smug and Asami hastened to add one last bit. “It also doesn't matter how good someone is with toy swords if there's a gun involved.” Tahno's face started to redden and for a moment it looked like he was choked with rage. “Toy swords? Fencing as a sport that dates back hundreds of years and we do not use toy swords.” Asami glanced to her left and right, but thankfully Tahno's voice hadn't risen and no one had taken note of their conversation thus far. “Aren't they, though? I'm not an expert on fencing, but I've seen a couple of matches and the blades and tip are all dull. Sounds like a toy to me.” Tahno glared at her for several seconds before irritably shaking his head. “Gotta say I was planning to take you out for dinner sometime, but now I see why you're single. Here's a bit of advice since you need it. Insulting someone's passion isn't a good way to attract guys.” Asami rolled her eyes. “So you're saying that it's wrong for me to make fun of fencing, but it's okay for you to put down Judo? That's hypocritical of you.” “Whatever.” Tahno muttered before letting out an exasperated sigh. “Look, we can bicker all night, but that's not why I'm here. I figured being an escort at this event would help me get laid and when I saw you I thought I had hit the jackpot. Then you opened your mouth and started talking. Are you going to keep annoying me or can you get out of the way?” Asami shook her head in disbelief as the song came to an end and she quickly pulled her hands away from Tahno. “Don't worry about it.” As she started to make her way off the dance floor Asami slowed down and came to a halt. Several members of the people in the crowd were beginning to rise, but others were still in their seats, watching her and the other debutantes. She put a hand over her mouth and exaggerated a shrug of the shoulders as if heaving something up before hurrying towards the exit. A few heads turned as she passed by, but no one made any effort to stop her. When she got back to the dressing room it was empty. Asami shut the door behind her and locked it before heading towards the chair she had been sitting in earlier. Stashed underneath the counter was a large leather handbag. She pulled it out and set it on the counter before rummaging around until she found a small round container. Asami took it with her to one of two sinks at the very back of the room and she unscrewed the lid after yanking her gloves off. Inside was a beige cream that she dipped her fingers into before rubbing it on her cheeks then over the rest of her face. Once she was finished Asami turned one of the faucets and began splashing the warm water onto her face. After all the makeup had been rinsed down the sink Asami went back to her handbag and pulled out another item. A pair of scissors. She grabbed at the fabric near her shoulders and positioned it between the scissor blades before squeezing the handles together. Once she had made several cuts in the fabric Asami grabbed two handfuls of fabric and one of her hands yanked upwards while the other pulled down. The weakened fabric resisted for a moment before coming apart with a ripping sound. The tear now ran down to her waist, brought to a halt by the mass of fabric surrounding her legs. Asami grabbed the fabric again and shoved it downwards, not willing to wear the ruined garment any longer. Once she was free she kicked off her satin shoes. She balefully stared down at the pile for a moment longer before lifting her gaze to look at herself in the mirror. Now that the dress was gone the only things she was wearing was a pair of blue briefs that had been discolored in spots and a white bra roughly the same shade as that accursed dress. Asami's thick black hair hung halfway down to her shoulder blades, her pale skin shone in the light coming out of all those bulbs and her sharp cheekbones only served to further emphasize her green eyes. After a moment she shook her head before going to her handbag a third time and pulling out the clothes she had been wearing before arriving at this place. Blue jeans, sneakers, and a plain black tee shirt didn't exactly meet this event's dress code, but Asami wasn't going to stay any longer. She stuffed her ruined dress, shoes and the gloves into the bag along with her jar of makeup remover before heading for the door. There wasn't anyone outside in the hall aside from a couple of waiters whose attention was split between talking to each other and peering into the auditorium. One of them glanced in her direction as she came out, but paid her no more mind than that. Asami adjusted the strap of her handbag as she started heading for the front door. Her car was waiting out there in the parking lot, but Asami didn't head in that direction. Instead she headed along the front of the building until she got to the alleyway between it and its neighbor. Asami walked down it until she got to the first of the several dumpsters that she could see. She reached into her bag and yanked the destroyed dress out before raising the dumpster lid and tossing said garment into it. The shoes and gloves quickly followed then Asami was heading for her car. Asami's hand paused before turning the keys in the ignition as she stared at the steering wheel. This night had gone as she had expected it would, but with one surprise. Tahno had wanted to sleep with her. The idea of sex with him turned her stomach, but someone had shown a measure of interest, even if it was only in her body and that meant others could do the same. Maybe her father was right after all, Asami decided. If she kept putting this aspect of her life off then it was only going to get harder as she got older. She turned the keys and shifted her car into reverse as she began making her way out of the parking lot. Now that her mind was made up she had to figure out the best way to go about this. That meant research. A lot of it.

Chapter 3 - Chapter 3

It had been a few hours since Asami had realized the goal of signing up on a dating website. She wasn't looking for a relationship at the moment. That would happen eventually, but that day wasn't today. She was after something more immediate. Fucking. That was a crass way to phrase it, Asami knew, but describing it with more flowery language was a pointless exercise in her opinion. Making love, intercourse, coitus, or copulating just to name a few. None of the terms changed the nature of the act itself. Bare flesh pressed against bare flesh, hands roaming, filling the air with sweet sounds. She wanted to fuck. There was an obstacle in front of Asami before she could fulfill that desire, however. She needed a partner. Truth be told, that task was actually easily achieved. She had read about sites dedicated specifically for hooking up with other people. There was also the possibility of going to the nearest dive bar and asking someone there to take her home for the night. Neither of those appealed to her however. If she tried a hookup site or app then she would have to deal with more creeps like the ones from earlier today. If she went to a bar she could easily face the same problem, but without the safety of communicating from behind a computer monitor. Add in the penchant alcohol had for turning people into their worse selves and that option could easily go badly for her. Not to mention that sleeping with a random person from a random bar carried risks of its own, disease chief among them. It was likely that she could find a good partner through either method, but doing so would take time and continue to expose her to more unsavory individuals like the ones from earlier today. The question that naturally followed was whether or not she was willing to do both of those things. Asami stared out the window at the building directly across from her as she mulled the question over. There wasn't a deadline on this unless she put one there so taking time wouldn't necessarily be a negative. Furthermore, it wasn't anyone's business but hers when she chose to lose her virginity. On the other hand, there was no guarantee that she would be successful should she choose to take her time. It was entirely possible that she could spend weeks or even months searching for the right person and not find them. She might even think she had found the right person and be wrong about it. They might lie about what they look like or who they really were as a person. That was easily accomplished on the Internet and it was possible to hide their actual personality during a face to face meeting. Another thing to consider was the chance that the person could end up being bad in bed. If she was looking for a serious relationship then that would be a shallow thing to take into consideration Asami knew. However, she wasn't looking for that. Asami just wanted to fuck and she wanted the person to be good at it. How did you screen for something like that? She could try asking, but who would willingly admit to being bad in bed? Particularly on a hookup site of all places. So there was no way to be sure that she would be able to find the right person through a dating site or in a bar or club. Even if she could find that person, there was no telling how long it would take. Last of all there was no guarantee that said person would be able to fuck her like she wanted. The more she thought about it, the less those two options appealed to her. What was the alternative, however? Asami frowned as she rubbed her chin while considering the latest question to arise. She glanced at her laptop as a thought occurred to her. Maybe she was going about this the wrong way. If your car broke down then you would take it to a mechanic. Well, not her since she would just fix it herself. Most other people would go to a professional. Why wouldn't she do the same thing here instead of searching for a needle in a haystack of amateurs? There was one very good reason not to go down that road. It was illegal. Another that it would cost money plus she would still have to search for the right person. However in this scenario the haystack would be considerably smaller. There would be less sex workers in Republic City than people on dating sites after all. It didn't hurt to look at the very least. It might be illegal to hire a prostitute, but it wasn't illegal to just look. Asami leaned forward momentarily to grab her laptop and set it on her legs. She went to her start menu and opened up a different browser than the one she had been using previously. The first browser was sufficient for all of her usual activities online. Browsing the web, watching videos or streams, porn and so on. There were times, like this one, when she switched to this second browser and that was when she wanted to conceal her identity. It took longer to load pages, but that was a small cost to pay in order to cover her tracks. Once the home page had finished loading Asami started typing in the search box. 'Best escort sites .' After the search results popped up, Asami began to scroll down the page as she scanned them. The top hit was a top ten list, but the ones after that all appeared to be actual escort sites according to the descriptions. She kept scrolling until she found a result from a forum. No doubt there were more lists or articles talking about this, but Asami had a hunch that people who had hired an escort or were an escort themselves would be a more reliable source of information. Asami clicked on it and began to read the thread that popped up. There were only a couple of responses, but one of them included a link. It wasn't a site that had shown up in the search results either and Asami typed it into her address bar. The page had barely finished loading before a disclaimer asking her to confirm that she was over eighteen years old and that viewing explicit content was legal in her region. Asami clicked agree without thinking about it. The disclaimer vanished and the next page was asking her to choose a region. Asami paused as she stared at the options. United Republic, Earth Kingdom, Fire Nation, North and South Poles. She opened her mouth a tad before opening them in multiple tabs and skimming through all of the sub-locations that followed. Republic City, Yu Dao, Omashu, Zaofu, Garsai, Kyoshi Island, Ba Sing Se, Chung-Ling, Ember Island plus dozens of small towns she had never heard of. This site had listings all across the planet, Asami realized, and there could very well be tens of thousands of sex workers on this site. Luckily for her she didn't have to go through all of those locations and she started closing all of the tabs except the one for Republic City. As she began to scan the listings, she noticed a key detail about them. All of the names were ones traditionally given to women. There didn't seem to be any men on the first page. Asami opened up the second, then the third, fourth, and fifth page. All women. She considered the site before shrugging. She was still just browsing though the idea of her first partner being a woman was starting to grow on her. There were dozens of pages so filtering it down wouldn't hurt. Asami clicked on a blue button marked filters and her jaw promptly fell open. Has picture, pictures accurate, age, build, eye color, hair color, skin color, hair type and length, breast cup, breast implants, pubic hair, piercings, tattoos, ethnicity, transsexual, and that didn't even get into services or kinks provided. “Feels more like searching for a new microwave than a person with this many options.” Asami muttered in disbelief. Despite her reservations over the system she began to set options. Picture required, eighteen to twenty-five, no implants, no piercings. Asami clicked modify and a new set of listings appeared and she clicked on one of the columns to sort by total reviews. Asami skimmed the list for several seconds before a name with around twenty reviews jumped out at her. A 'Miss Turquoise.' She clicked on it and began to read the information provided. Twenty years old, one point seven meters tall, sixty-three kilograms, short dark brown hair, cyan eyes. Cupsize thirty-two D. Open to men, women, non-binary and couples. Three hundred and fifty roses per hour. Once she got to the bottom Asami began to read some of the reviews other people had left for this escort. 'Somewhat pricey, but well worth it. LT is one of the best escorts in the city and well worth the visit. Don't miss out!' 'Gorgeous woman whose pictures don't do her justice. Willing to do greek, but charges extra for it. Lfk, dfk, gfe. Adamantly refuses to do bbbj, cim or bb. Cfs only. Positions include ds, mish, cg, rcg and pretty much anything else you can think of. Daty for established regulars only.' 'Great at vanilla and owns several toys, but isn't too kinky. Asked her to tie me up, but she got angry and almost threw me out before I stopped asking. Still worth the visit, but if you're looking for bdsm find someone else.' There were more, but they were blocked behind a paywall. Asami scrolled back up to the top and noticed a few thumbnails that she had missed earlier. She clicked on one and it expanded outwards, running from the top all the way to the bottom of her monitor. Almost immediately she felt a warm feeling emerging in her chest as a result. A tight round bottom, clad in a pair of tight fitting black briefs was pointed almost directly at the camera as she knelt on a bed. Her face was hidden, but Asami could see a short mane of dark brown hair. The woman's skin was a light brown that betrayed her ancestry as Water Tribe, but it was what was beneath her skin that caught Asami's attention. Despite the difficulty of looking away from that delicious rear end, Asami could see powerful muscles at rest in her thighs and arms. She reluctantly clicked away and enlarged one of the other images. Turquoise was wearing the same briefs as the other image, but nothing else besides that. Her back was completely bare without even so much as a tan line on it. She was standing tall, once again facing away from the camera and her elbows were bent and fists held in line with her head as she flexed. All the muscles in her back were pulled tight as were her biceps. Asami right clicked on the image and opened it up in a new tab so she could view it at its full resolution. As she scrolled through the larger image, her eyes tracing every curve and ridge. That warm feeling began to spread through her chest and Asami could feel her heart beating faster as she pictured those arms wrapped around her naked body. She glanced down towards her legs before moving the laptop to the side, but turned it so that she could still look sideways at the monitor. Asami stood up and her hands went straight to her short's zipper, undoing it before pushing the garment down towards her knees. Right on the front of her gray boxer shorts was a single dark wet spot and all the evidence she needed. Miss Turquoise was the partner she was looking for, legal or not. Asami closed out of the images and returned back to the profile page. After a bit of searching she found an email address, but not from a domain she recognized. The page that popped up was an anonymous email service according to the description. She clicked on the sign up button and after a moment typed in several letters. 'qzmp0. Completely meaningless and non identifying, but something she would easily be able to remember. Once the site had accepted her registration Asami began to type out a letter. 'Hi, Miss Turquoise. I came across your profile and I'm interested in setting up a time for us to hang out. Are there any times or days that would work for you? Weekends are the best time for me so Sunday tomorrow would be good though that might be short notice. Friday nights also work for me. Let me know.' Once she had finished Asami hit send and now it was time to wait. Waiting wasn't exactly an accurate description though. Asami was puttering about an apartment, that was cleaned weekly by a housekeeping service, with a duster but she was stopping by her laptop every couple of minutes, anxious to see if she had gotten a response. After an hour of needless fretting there was a response in her inbox. 'Hello there, love. The weekends are fine for me and we can certainly spend some time together then. There's something we need to take care of before we get to that, however. Do you have two or more references, preferably within the last six months, who can vouch for you?' Asami paused for a moment as she read the paragraph before opening another tab. 'Escort references.' It took a moment for the search to load and another for Asami to get to an article titled 'Hiring an escort – Screening.' The article was rather short, but it explained what Turquoise was doing. She had no clue who was behind the email Asami had sent her and was being cautious. She didn't know who had emailed her and was doing her due diligence to make sure Asami wasn't a cop trying to bust her. 'Unfortunately no. I've never done anything like this before so I don't have anyone who can act as a reference. Do you have any other ways of screening me?' The response came a few minutes later. 'In that case then I would need you to send me a picture of your driver's license and/or passport and links to your social media accounts along with telling me where you work.' Asami bit her lip as she considered the message before typing out her response. 'I'm not really comfortable putting a picture of my license (not to mention the other information) online even if this service is encrypted. Is there another way for me to provide those to you?' 'This service is perfectly safe, but if you're not willing then the only other option would be for us to meet for coffee and you give them to me there. Coffee dates aren't free however. It'd be a minimum charge of one hour if you wanted to meet in person for screening.' “How much is one one hour?” Asami wondered out loud rubbed at her chin for a few seconds then went back to Miss Turquoise's profile. She did a quick search, but the words yuan didn't appear anywhere. Searching for hour brought up one result however. Three hundred and fifty roses per hour. Asami stared blankly at the sentence for a few seconds before it clicked in her head. “Oh. They say roses instead of yuans. Not exactly a hard code to crack. Maybe it's because this site is international or something. Three hundred and fifty yuans... that's one expensive cup of coffee...” The money didn't matter though. Asami could easily make that back in a few hours just from her hourly wage or much sooner if her stock options went up. 'Okay. Where and when? I assume you have a location in mind.' 'There's a coffee shop right by the west end of the Silk Road bridge. Be there in an hour and get a cup of coffee. Write MT on the side with a marker so I know who you are and wait for me at one of the tables outside.' 'Okay.' Asami glanced at the time on her computer before hastily setting it aside. There was enough time to get there, but it was always better to be early than late. She hurried to her closet and pulled out a jacket and a pair of sneakers, pulling them on as quick as she could. Asami grabbed her phone, wallet and keys before heading out the door. The last task before leaving the hotel was to stop by the ATM in the lobby downstairs. When the machine asked her for a withdrawal amount her finger hesitated over the keypad before punching in '1400.' Three fifty was how much this meeting would cost, but a thousand and fifty yuans more should be enough to cover any time they might spend together in the future. Asami glanced over her shoulder, but there wasn't anyone else in the lobby save the receptionist and the doorman and neither of them were paying attention to her. As she headed outside the afternoon doorman did tip his hat towards her. “Take care, Miss Sato.” “You too, Lee.” She replied warmly to the older man's greeting before stepping outside. The fog from earlier had dissipated, but the gray clouds hanging overhead hadn't. There was a chill in the air that was exacerbated by a cool breeze that Asami could feel imminent rain in. Hopefully it waited until after her meeting with Miss Turquoise was done to dump its contents onto the city below. It wasn't until she was seated on a cold and uncomfortable metal chair that Asami's situation really began to dawn on her. She had come here by herself and none of her friends or family knew where she was. Nobody else was sitting outside due to the weather as well. Furthermore, this seemed like a sketchy area if the fact that all of the chairs out here were locked to their respective tables via steel cables was any indicator. Lastly she was here to meet a sex worker for something that could get her arrested, fined and maybe even imprisoned. Her head turned in one direction and then the other as she nervously eyed all the cars nearby, parked and moving alike. Any one of them could be an undercover police vehicle and its driver an undercover officer waiting to bust her. She picked the cup up and took a sip, a decision she immediately regretted. This place had roasted its beans for too long and burnt them as a result. At least it was hot and helped to stave off the chill she felt. Asami set the cup back down then rotated it so that the letters written on it were pointed towards the street. After a few minutes of nervous fidgeting Asami started to push her chair back when a voice stopped her. “Mind if I join you?” Asami froze and she turned towards the speaker. She hadn't seen the front of this person before, but that short dark brown hair and those arms were still a dead give away. As she looked at the other woman Asami could quickly see what the reviewer meant by her pictures not doing her justice. There was a fluidity in the way she moved that no still pixels could ever capture. Even the mere act of just standing there carried a sort of self-assured confidence that Asami had seen in few other people, a trait that was only further reinforced by her choice of outfit. Miss Turquoise was wearing a purple woolen sweater and she had a brown purse slung over her shoulder. The sweater was thick, but it didn't manage to hide the woman's biceps and for the first time Asami could see a pair of large round breasts as well. The lower half of her body was clad in black leggings that revealed enough of her form to be enticing while still leaving just enough to the imagination. None of that was what drew her attention, however. Asami was staring at the source of the escort's alias, bright and cheerful cyan eyes looking down at her along with a small crooked grin. “Please, f-feel free.” Asami stammered as she gestured towards one of the other chairs. Miss Turquoise set her purse on the table as she sat herself in the chair across from Asami. “Gotta say, I wasn't expecting to see a woman waiting for me.” “Why not?” Asami asked, her curiosity piqued by the comment. “Your profile said you accepted women didn't it?” “It does, and I am attracted to women before you ask, but I've never met a woman who wanted to play with me on their own before. All of the other women I've played with were part of a hetero couple who wanted a unicorn.” Miss Turquoise looked Asami up and down for a few seconds before laughing suddenly. “I guess you're the unicorn in this case aren't you?” Asami hesitated a moment, before shrugging uneasily, unsure of what that meant. “I guess so?” “Right. Well you know why we're here. ID please.” Miss Turquoise's voice was still cheerful, but there was a business like quality in it now that Asami hadn't been expecting to hear. She reached into a pocket on the inside of her jacket and pulled her license out of her wallet and slid it across the table. Miss Turquoise picked it up and carefully examined it for several moments, a surprised look appearing as she did so. She looked up at Asami, down at the card, then back at Asami again. “Sato? Like Future Industries Sato?” Asami nodded mutely and the other woman continued speaking. “I thought you seemed familiar, but I couldn't place it. I remember seeing an article about you a few years ago. Youngest person to ever get a PhD from RC-Tech.” She handed the card back to Asami. “Well then, I think that's all I need to know. How does next Saturday at ten sound?” “That works for me.” Asami replied as she put her license back into her wallet. “All right then. Do you have a burner phone?” Asami shook her head, a gesture that prompted a shrug from Miss Turquoise. “Okay then I'll email you directions in a couple of days so you know where to go. Before I go I think you have something for me.” Miss Turquoise said with a meaningful look towards where Asami kept her wallet. Asami reached into another pocket and pulled out a handful of yuans, quickly counting them up and handing them over to Miss Turquoise. “So that takes care of that. Is there anything you want to ask while we're here?” “I do have one question. What do I call you? Miss T? Turquoise?” The other woman gazed at Asami for a bit as she contemplatively rubbed her chin. Eventually she came to a decision and dropped her hand back to her side. “Korra.” “Korra it is. Thank you for agreeing to do all this.” Asami said as she stood up and Korra did the same a moment later. She reached her hand out and Korra shook it briefly before heading off. Asami watched her walk away for a moment before throwing the cup of burnt coffee into the nearest trash can. One week until this happened. Seven days until that magnificent looking woman was going to make Asami’s wish come true. One hundred and sixty-odd hours until Korra was going to fuck her. Asami could hardly wait.

Chapter 13 - Stakes

When Fareeha's eyes fluttered open there was only a single sound in the room, the muted rumble of warm air exiting a duct. She turned her head to the side to see Angela lying on her side as she gazed at Fareeha. "Hey you." Fareeha murmured. The corners of Angela's lips curled upwards and she leaned forward to kiss Fareeha's forehead. "Good morning. Do you want me to make breakfast today?" Fareeha looked up for a moment before shaking her head a bit. "No, not yet." She lifted up the edge of her blanket and beckoned with one finger. "Come here, I want to cuddle." The doctor's smile widened and she scooted out from under her blanket to join Fareeha beneath the other blanket. She dropped her head onto a bronze shoulder and wrapped her arms around Fareeha's waist. "You know, I don't think I've ever told you how beautiful you are, Fareeha." Angela said as one of her hands drifted lower. Fareeha shivered involuntarily as Angela's hand settled down on the small of her back. They had been sharing a bed for a few nights now but both of them had kept to their side of the bed until now. She reached back and put one hand on that wrist and moved it lower until it was squarely resting on one of her cheeks. Angela's face immediately turned a bright shade of red but she didn't pull her hand away. "Oh? And how beautiful am I?" Fareeha asked as she gazed into a pair of blue eyes that were looking back at her. A long moment passed as they continued to gaze at each other before Angela looked away briefly before meeting Fareeha's eyes again. "I don't really know how to describe you, Fareeha. If I was a poet or a writer then I'd know the right words to use but I'm not. When I walked into that room for my first session I thought I was lucky to see such a gorgeous person waiting for me. You're just... perfect. Your hair, your eyes, everything. I keep looking at you trying to find a flaw and I've never seen one. But it's not just your looks. At first I thought you were incredibly sexy but now that I'm getting to know you I realized I was wrong." Fareeha's brow started to furrow but Angela was quick to explain what she had meant. "You're intelligent, kind, caring, and incredibly sexy. I thought I was lucky then but now I know I've hit the jackpot, Fareeha Amari." She stretched her head up and gently brushed her lips against the underside of Fareeha's chin. "You also have a great butt." A dry chuckle came from Fareeha as Angela's fingers squeezed her cheek to drive the point home. "Mmmm... good to know you like it. I think I need to take my great butt to the shower though. How about you make breakfast and I'll make lunch for us." "It's a deal." Angela said before giving another squeeze and reluctantly letting go. "Do you feel like doing a session today, Fareeha?" "I'll think about it." Fareeha said as she pushed her sheets aside and stood up. "I actually want to go out today. Have you ever gone bowling Angela?" Angela pushed herself up onto her elbow as she looked up at Fareeha. "Bowling? I have but it's been a few years and I was never very good at it. You want to go bowling?" Fareeha nodded and Angela rubbed her chin for a moment. "I guess we can do that. When would you want to leave?" "Hmm, I'll have to find a good place but I guess sometime in the evening? I'll let you know." With that Fareeha was heading out the door and towards her bathroom to take that shower. Afterwards Fareeha unzipped a small container that she hadn't needed until now and pulled several items out and set them on the counter in front of her. Fareeha unscrewed the lid of a round container and swirled her shaving brush in it until it had gathered enough of the container's contents. She dragged the brush up and down along her leg until it was covered in the white cream before setting the brush aside. Next Fareeha took a steel safety razor and carefully drew it along her leg from ankle to knee in several short strokes. Every couple of passes she would dunk the razor in a cup of water and swish it around until it was clean. Once she had finished shaving her first leg she moved onto the other followed by the back of her neck along with some stray hairs on her stomach as well. Fareeha set the razor down and stood up as she slid her briefs off before looking at herself in the mirror. It had been several months since she had felt the need to do anything with this particular area though it wasn't as bad as it could have been. It still needed some work however. Fareeha took a deep breath before picking up a pair of scissors. "This better be worth it." Fareeha muttered to herself as she got started. By the time Fareeha made it downstairs Angela was standing in front of the sink as she scrubbed a thin layer of grease off a plate in her hands. She turned and waved at the dining room table. "There's some rosti for you on the table but it might be a bit cold by now." Fareeha pulled her chair out from the table and sat down. "I did some searching and there's a place with good ratings about twenty kilometers from here. Is that all right with you?" "Sure, that sounds fine with me." Angela replied as she started scrubbing the plate again. "What time do you want to leave?" "Mmmm... how about at eleven?" Fareeha asked while picking up her fork. "This alley has a small kitchen so we can order some snacks and drinks while we're there. Nothing fancy but it's good enough for lunch." "That soon?" "Yep. I figure if we go earlier in the game then we'll avoid the evening rush and we won't have to worry about being able to get a lane." Eleven. That would give Angela plenty of time time to take a shower, but not enough to do the laundry she had accumulated over the last two weeks. "All right, I'll see you at eleven then." Angela said as she began to dry off the plate in her hands. When the time to leave came around Angela trudged down the stairs to find Fareeha waiting downstairs for her. Fareeha raised an eyebrow at the sight of what Angela was holding. "What's with the socks?" "Well we have to rent shoes that other people have used and I don't know how well this place cleans their shoes. Bringing an extra pair of socks will help keep any germs from getting into my shoes." Angela explained as she wrapped the socks into a small bag and shoved the bag into one of her coat pockets. "All right then..." Fareeha said before heading out into the garage, Angela a few steps behind her. Fifteen minutes later and Angela's car was pulling into the parking lot of the bowling alley. A man and woman had just exited the building's front doors as the vehicle came to a halt in one of the parking spots. The couple didn't give the car a second glance but the woman came to a halt and did a double-take as the car's owner walked by and into the bowling alley. Fareeha covered her mouth to hide a slight grin and she leaned towards Angela to whisper into her ear. "I think she recognized the famous Doctor Ziegler." "Quiet you." Angela said half-heartedly as she pulled out her maestro card before approaching the counter. A minute later and they were heading for a bowling lane at the far side of the building, shoes and menu in hand. Fareeha set her shoes down as she headed for a nearby rack holding spheres of various colors. "You know, I've never understood why bowling balls don't use the metric system." Angela said as she looked for a ball whose holes weren't too large or too small for her fingers. "I should look it up sometime." After a minute the two of them had found a bowling ball that suited them and another passed as they put the bowling shoes on, Angela taking longer since she was putting on the other pair of socks. Fareeha tapped their names in and the first game began. "So we got three games. How about we make this a little more interesting?" Fareeha suggested with an almost mischievous twinkle in her eye. "How?" Fareeha leaned closer to Angela to make sure no one could overhear her whispering. "If you win two of three then we'll do a session where I use a strapon tonight. If I win then you let me use that hot tub of yours tonight." Angela nervously glanced over her shoulder but the next lane over was empty and the group past that looked too occupied with their game, and too far away, to overhear what Fareeha had just said. "If you want to use my tub then all you have to do is ask. Maybe there's something else you'd want if you win?" "Hmm..." Fareeha tapped her finger on her chin as she considered what else to ask for. "How about you also give me a massage if I win then?" "Sounds like I get a good deal win or lose." Angela pointed out. "Too bad I don't own that bench we were looking at but I'm sure you'll figure something out after I beat you." Angela stood up and walked to the first arrows before rolling her ball down the lane towards the pins at the other end. It struck a few on one side and ended up knocking half of them over. Her next roll only hit one pin this time and it was Fareeha's turn. Instead of getting up Fareeha was looking at the menu. "What do you say to nachos, Angela?"   "That sounds fine with me." Angela said as she sat down next to Fareeha. "Bowling and nachos here then... you know what later." Fareeha didn't respond as she got up and lifted her bowling ball in front of her before drawing her arm back and sending it hurtling straight down the middle of the lane. All ten pins fell down and Fareeha grinned at Angela as she returned to her seat. "Your turn." The doctor knocked down seven pins with her next two rules and then Fareeha was up again. This time she knocked down eight pins with her first roll then two more the second time for a spare. "You're definitely off to a good start. I think I might be in trouble now." Angela remarked as she headed to collect her bowling ball. "Maybe, but you're going to come out ahead win or lose." Fareeha replied as she watched Angela send the ball down the lane once more. As Angela returned to her seat she couldn't help but agree. Win and Fareeha would be using a strapon on her. Lose and she got to give her girlfriend a massage. Either way she had something to look forward to tonight. The only question was which one it would be.

Chapter 2 - Chapter 2

Asami yawned as she plodded towards her kitchen. She pulled the fridge door open and grabbed a pitcher from the top shelf along with a half empty container of vanilla almond milk. Asami set them down on the counter before grabbing a glass from a nearby cabinet. Black liquid poured out of the pitcher when she tilted it until the glass was half full. The milk took the other half and Asami mixed them together with a spoon before taking a sip of the coffee. With cup in hand she ambled over towards a heavy gray curtain and drew it to the side so she could peek out the window. On a clear day she could see all the way to the ocean from her highrise condo, but today her view was obscured by a heavy blanket of gray clouds that had rolled in from the harbor. Asami could see other skyscrapers rising out of the fog, but nothing of the cars and pedestrians on the streets below. After a moment Asami let the curtain fall back into place and she turned around. A short distance away was a clear glass coffee table with two laptops atop it, one of which had a blue ethernet cord plugged into it. She took another drink before setting the cup down on the table and grabbing one of the laptops while sitting down. Asami unplugged the cord from the second laptop and plugged it into the one resting on her legs. She tapped once on the computer's touchpad and the machine's fans began whirring as she took another drink. Once it had finished booting up and she had logged in Asami opened up her internet browser and began typing into the search box. 'Best dating site.' The page turned white for a split second then text filled the screen as the results were displayed. Asami gnawed on her lip as she scrolled down the page, her eyes scanning each entry in the list as it popped up on the screen. Once she got to the bottom Asami shook her head and went back up to the top and changed her search query. 'Dating site reviews.' The page went white a second time before displaying a different set of results. Asami clicked on the top hit and the page changed once again. This time it didn't load as quickly as before and the loading bar took its sweet time before finishing the loading process. The search results had been clean, but this page was anything but. Animated ads were all over the page, each more intrusive than the last and at the center of the page was a picture of a man and woman vapidly smiling at each other. Below the picture was a pair of buttons with the words 'next' and 'previous' written on them and between the two buttons was a page count. "God damn slideshows." Asami grumbled as she hit her backspace key to take her back to the search results. She opened the second hit up in a new tab and let out a sigh of relief upon seeing a proper article. That feeling didn't last long as she began reading. The article wasn't bad by all means. It was well written and got into the pros and cons of each site it listed along with a picture to give a further sense of what the website was like. The issue was just how many of those listings there were. At the top were multiple sites a general user could use to look for casual dates along with a few more sites whose goal was getting married. The list grew more specific as it went on. Sites aimed at college graduates or business professionals, sites focusing on older individuals and there were multiple sites solely for hooking up with others as well. At the end of the article were more niche listings. Most of those were aimed at some part of the LGBTQ spectrum, but the ones after them were aimed at various kinds of kinks such as swinging, bondage or cam sites to name a few. The pictures on those were decidedly tame, but it was still enough for her imagination to fill in the blanks and leave her red-faced. Asami scrolled back up towards the top and her mouse pointer hovered for a moment as she considered her options. "This one has more users so let's try that." Asami muttered as she clicked on it. Next she clicked on the link saying register in the top right of the screen and a box popped up asking for a username, email address and password. Asami typed her name in along with a password only for red text to appear next to the box. 'Username already taken.' "What!?" Asami exclaimed as she stared at the message in disbelief. "Someone took my name on this site?" She shook her head in annoyance before beginning to type again. "Let's see. How about... RC...MechnicalGirl." The red notification text changed to green and she re-entered her password and email before clicking on the button that said next. A series of questions meant for crafting her profile came up next and Asami took another drink as she began to answer them. I am a woman looking for men and women. Age, twenty-one. Height, one hundred and seventy-seven. Body type, athletic. Never married. Children, no, but someday maybe. Education, PhD in mechanical engineering. Smoker no, drinking maybe. Fire Nation ancestry. Religion, agnostic. Interests, Judo, hiking, cars and motorcycles, reading, cats. The last thing was asking if she wanted to upload a picture. There was an option not to, but with a notice that profiles with a picture got more hits and messages than one without. Asami leaned to one side as she dug her phone out of her pocket before plugging it into the computer. She opened up her file browser and navigated to the phone's picture folder before beginning to browse through them. "What to pick..." Asami muttered as she flicked from one to the next. "Well I named this account RCMechnicalGirl so how about..." Asami came to a halt on a picture of her wearing a pair of blue jeans with plenty of stains from years of working on engines and a tee shirt whose black color concealed even more stains. Her hair was tightly bound up on top of her head and the back of her neck. There was grease on her hands, picked up at point while working on the sleek race car located directly behind her. It wasn't exactly the most alluring of photos, but hopefully it conveyed something about who she was, Asami decided as she uploaded the picture. Once it had finished uploading Asami clicked on the done button and she was sent to the site's homepage. Asami gave the site a brief glance before picking up her phone and checking the time. Almost Half past ten. Way too late to attend the early morning class, but there would be another starting at eleven-thirty which left her enough time to head over and warm up before class began. Asami closed her laptop and set it back on the table before heading towards her spare bedroom. It was mostly empty save for a clothing rack made of aluminum pipes and a box fan. A pair of blue gi jacket and matching pants hung off the top bar. In addition there were two white tee-shirts and the sports bra and compression shorts she wore beneath her gi. Asami grabbed the gym bag she carried her equipment in from the topmost rack and began pulling things off the rack and unceremoniously stuffed them into the bag. She threw it over her shoulder before grabbing her keys and wallet and heading out the door. When Asami got to the dojo there were already a few people stretching on the mats already. In previous years this place had been a warehouse, but then her sensei had started renting the place. Not too much had changed really. It was still a long and somewhat narrow concrete room, but with a couple of additions. A spring floor had been installed and blue tatami mats laid down on top of it. Rows of further mats two meters high lined the walls on both sides as well to protect anyone who got pushed into them. She adjusted the bag hanging on her shoulder before heading into the women's locker room to change into her gi. By the time she got out a few more people, including the grizzled old dojo owner Yenamros were on the mats now. Yenamros waved a gnarled hand in her direction as she bowed onto the mat. "Over here, Asami." "What is it, sensei?" Asami asked once she had closed the distance between them. "We have someone doing a trial class today. Show him some basic ukemi and O Soto Gari if you think he's up for it." Once he finished speaking Yenamros pointed at a man standing by himself in the corner. He was a little taller than Asami and had a decidedly solid build though it looked to be more muscle than fat. Weightlifter seemed the most likely possibility if Asami had to guess. Asami bowed to her sensei before heading over towards the guy and holding out her hand. "Hey, I'm Asami. What's your name?" He awkwardly shook her hand before glancing down at her waist and the brown belt tied around it. "Lee." "Have you trained any kind of grappling or martial art before? Karate, jiu-jitsu, wrestling, maybe?" Lee shook his head. "No, nothing like that. I lift weights, but that's it. I've always wanted to try picking up a martial art though." "Okay, that's cool." Asami said as Yenamros began to line the other students up for a drill. "Well, let's get started. Are you familiar with the term ukemi?" Lee just shook his head. "So ukemi basically just means break-fall. Asami moved a couple of meters towards the edge of the mat so she and Lee had enough space from the other students. "Let's start with a forward roll." She got down on her knees and planted her hands on the mat side, one several centimeters past the other so that they were staggered diagonally. "So we'll start like this. Take one hand and reach back towards your ankles like you're going to grab one of them. Then tuck your chin, drive off the mat with the same side leg and roll over the shoulder that you're reaching with. Like this." Asami rolled forward and came up to her feet and turned around to watch Lee. He put his hands down and rolled forward, although his movements were stiff and less fluid than hers had been. "Okay, not bad, but you made one of the common mistakes. You want to roll over your shoulder, not your head. When you go over your head there's a chance you can spike it into the ground and that can hurt your neck. You don't have to go so fast either. It's better to go slow until you get the hang of it. Okay that one was better. Let me show you another one." "How many break-falls are there?" Lee asked after he came back to his feet, though he looked somewhat dizzy and had to take a wide step to steady himself. "There's four common ones. Forward break-fall, sideways break-fall, and backward breakfall." "When do I actually start doing Judo?" Lee asked as he looked at the other students practicing a footsweep. "You are doing Judo." Asami said once he was looking back at her. "You can't practice any throws or randori until you've learned how to break-fall. Otherwise you could get injured and then you wouldn't be able to train at all. We'll get to a throw later, but for right now let's keep working on these break-falls." That seemed to mollify Lee and the next fifteen minutes went by with the occasional question as she continued to walk him through the break-falls. At that point she moved on. "Okay, so now we're going to do a basic throw, O Soto Gari. That means Major Outside Reaping." Asami grabbed the back of his collar with her right hand, gripped his sleeve by the blow with her left. "So these are the grips you want to get for this move. Next thing is where, and how, you're standing. I don't want to be square with you because that'll make the next part harder." Asami took a step to the side so that that she could walk by him were it not for the arm blocking her way. "Now you're going to pull down on the elbow while pushing upward with your other hand, kinda like a steering wheel." One of Lee's feet came off the ground and he started leaning to his right as she demonstrated what she was talking about. "Once you get their weight planted on one foot then you take a step forward so that your outside foot is parallel to theirs. Finally you bring your inside foot forward and kick back with your leg like this." Asami kept her leg straight as she swung it back towards Lee's calf and a split second later he was falling down onto the mats. "Don't forget to slap the mats when you do a break-fall." Asami reminded him as she helped him up. "Now you give it a try." After a few minutes of Lee working on the throw Yenamros clapped his hands and all of the other students stopped what they were doing and headed towards the edge of the mat. A few grabbed their water bottles and took a drink while others pulled mouthguards out of containers and put them on. Lee glanced at Asami, curious and a little confused. "What's going on?" "Randori. That means sparring. We drill for the first half of class then spar for the second half. It's your first class though and we don't allow people to do randori until they can fall correctly. We don't want anyone to get injured, least of all people who are just trying a class or starting out. You're free to watch if you want though." Lee frowned and he gave the other students a quick glance as the sparring round began. "Well, that's disappointing. I guess that makes sense, but I was hoping to try sparring." He said, not looking thrilled by their policy. "Well, those are the rules at our dojo. You might have better luck at another club or even a different martial art. Jiu-jitsu's been getting more popular recently and there's plenty of good striking gyms in Republic City or so I've been told." "I'll I have to do that I suppose. What should I do with this gi?" Lee asked as he started heading for the edge of the mat. Asami followed along as he sat down and grabbed the water bottle that he had brought with him. "That's one of our loaners so you can just leave it here and someone will take it home and wash it. Are you going to stay and watch?" "I'm not sure." Lee slowly said as he watched the other students sparring with each other. After a moment he turned back towards her and his voice losing the thread of dejection it had held. "Actually I was wondering if I could get your phone number. Maybe coffee or even lunch some time?" Asami's thoughts came crashing to a sudden halt and she stared at Lee blankly for a few seconds before laughing nervously. "My phone number? I'm flattered, but that's not such a good idea." "What? Why not?" "It's not a good idea for people who train together to date each other. If things go badly the fallout can affect other people at the dojo. Martial arts schools aren't really a good place to go looking for romantic relationships anyways. What we do here requires us to have a certain level of trust and respect for each other. Bringing those kind of relationships onto the mats is-" "Ah, forget it." Lee grumbled with a sour expression as he yanked his belt loose and dropped it on the mat before storming off in a huff towards the men's locker room. Asami grimaced. The class had been going well up until just now and then this. "You had handled that well." Asami looked up to see Yenamros standing close by. "He was at fault there. It's good this happened though since it showed us his character. If his ego can't handle being rejected then it wouldn't have been able to handle training here. Better to find out now then six months from now." "I don't know about that." Asami protested, albeit half-heartedly. "He was doing good for his first day. If I had handled him with more tact-" "Don't do that, Asami. Your job isn't to make excuses for his bad attitude. Your job was to teach him Judo and you were doing a fine job of it by the way. He crossed a line he shouldn't have and that's his fault, not yours. Anyways, forget about him. Would you care to work on some newaza?” Asami paused as she considered the question then shook her head. “No... I know I should, but honestly I'm not in the mood for it. I think I'm just going to head home.” Yenamros glanced towards the other students briefly before looking back down at Asami. “I've been speaking to the coaches and they've been saying it's time you took your shodan exam. After watching you today, I agree with them.” Asami stared blankly at her teacher, his words bouncing around inside her head for several seconds before they clicked and she was able to process what he had just said. “You want me to take the black belt exam?” She blurted out, unable to mask her surprise. A faint smile crossed the old man's lips and he patted her on the shoulder. “I do, yes. You've been at ikkyu long enough to be eligible for shodan. If it were up to me I'd skip the formality of a test and just give you the belt like I did the others, but the rules change at shodan. Email me when you figure out a date that works for you.” Yenamros started to walk off, but stopped after a couple of steps and turned back towards her. “Oh, happy birthday by the way, Asami.”' A wide smile of her own settled onto Asami's face as she looked down at the thin piece of cloth holding her gi together. The fabric was brown, but that would change before too long. The timer sitting at the corner of the mat let out a buzzing sound and the duos began to break up and look for a new partner to spar with. Asami got to her feet and she made her way further onto the mat, her conversation with Lee forgotten. A few rounds of randori and then she'd head home to celebrate the gift her sensei had technically given her. When Asami got back to her condo, she paused halfway across the living room as something drew her attention. The laptop sitting on her coffee table was still on. “Great, I forgot to turn it off.” Asami muttered as she headed towards her bathroom to take a shower. After she finished cleaning herself Asami dumped her gi and sweaty clothes into the washing machine before going to wash her hands. She poured some detergent in and started the cycle then headed to her kitchen to get something to eat. Once she had finished putting together a plate of chicken sandwiches Asami set them down on the coffee table, but not before taking a big bite from one. She grabbed her computer and set it on her lap. The screen showed the homepage of the dating site she had been browsing through earlier that day, but with one difference. A yellow exclamation point was blinking near the top of the page next to the navigation tabs. She eyed it for a moment before clicking on the icon, unsure where it would take her. A split second later and a smaller window popped up. Someone had texted her while she was gone. Jayden Crypt: Just saw your picture, girl. Looking sexy af. Hit me up, yo. -Message sent 2 hours ago. Jayden Crypt: Hello? -Message sent 1 hour, 55 minutes ago. Jayden Crypt: I know you're there, stop ignoring me -Message sent 1 hour, 53 minutes ago. Jayden Crypt: Skank -Message sent 1 hour, 40 minutes ago. Jayden Crypt: You ugly as fuck mechanic girl? bitch please go make me a sandwich fatty -Message sent 1 hour, 20 minutes ago. Asami clenched her jaw as she scowled at the messages, an icy ball forming in her stomach as she read them a second time. She moved her cursor to the bottom left of the window and clicked on the red button labeled as Block. A second later she clicked on the smaller text that said 'Report' located beneath it. Another window popped up, this one asking the reason for report. Asami clicked on the dropdown menu and selected harassment after a second's consideration. The third window disappeared once she clicked 'Submit' and the window with the texts in it quickly followed suit. Once she was back to the home page Asami noticed the number one in parentheses on a tab that said inbox. “Wait, what? This site has chat and messaging functions? The review didn't say anything about that.” She clicked on the tab and the page that loaded was reminiscent of an email inbox in design. There was a single message on the screen and Asami moved her cursor to it and clicked. The body of the message had a single sentence in it. 'What you do to me.' Beneath the only line an image was loading. A few seconds later and she was able to see what it was. A man's dick, it's rigid pink shaft sticking out of a mess of unruly black hair. The image hadn't finished loading before Asami was hammering on her backspace key and the browser jumped back all the way to the search engine. Her computer was no longer displaying the picture, but even that brief glimpse had been enough to sear it into her memory as well as bringing a little bit of vomit up into her mouth. Asami jumped to her feet and hurried to the kitchen sink, spitting it out before rinsing her mouth with water As Asami moved back towards her computer she began to weigh her options. It had only been a few hours and this was the response she had gotten. Trying another site was a possibility, but any other site would draw from the same user-base, namely people in Republic City and would most likely yield similar results. There was also the burden of having to make another profile should she decide to try another site. Therefore the decision in front of her was whether to leave this profile up or not. Answering that depended on figuring out what she wanted out of this endeavor and where the idea had come from. The latter of those two wasn't hard to figure out. It had come from the debutante ball, specifically her conversations with her father and Tahno. Her father had spoken about her not dating anyone before, but she had quickly shut that down. Tahno had just wanted to sleep with her, an idea as repulsive as the dick picture she had been sent. Asami sat back down on the couch and gazed off into the distance at nothing in particular, a realization dawning on her. It was the idea of sleeping with Tahno that repelled her, not the idea of sleeping with someone. What she wanted was for someone to take her clothes off, to lay her down on a bed, spread her legs wide, to... “I want to get fucked.” Asami whispered, her voice carrying through the empty room nonetheless. A smile began to grow on her face and the tension in her shoulders quickly dissipated. Now all she had to do was find the right person for the job. Easier said than done however.

Chapter 0 - Chapter 1 [5.5k Words]

Lacmere University – A Tale of Chivalry, Monstergirls, and Tuition [5.5k Words]   Chapter 1: Sabers at Dawn (or Afternoon, if That’s Too Inconvenient)   There’s a lot to like about fencing. It’s a good sport that relies on your brain as much as it does on your muscles. High-speed chess, a friend of mine who’s never played a game of chess in his life once called it.   There’s also… quite a bit to dislike.   Like, for instance, the protective equipment is necessarily thick, and that makes you sweat.   A lot.   There’s… the amount of sweat can’t easily be overstated. Like, at this very moment, as I ready myself to face Lucca Costantini, the current prodigy of my college’s team, in a saber bout? I’m sweating like a hentai antagonis—pig. I’m sweating like a pig!   And just… that’s just because of the exertion from my earlier bouts and the constant presence of a padded jacket that I only partially unzip for expedience’s sake rather than go through the semi-arduous process of removing it after every bout.   Yup. It’s just because of my lacking athleticism and peculiar, inborn aversion to heat.   Because of that, and absolutely nothing else.   “Pret? Allez!” Patrick says in pointlessly flawless French rather than state a mere ‘Ready? Go!’ like a peasant.   And maybe I’m a tad too distracted by my not-at-all misplaced frustration, seeing as my mask unexpectedly twangs in a laconic, metallic herald of defeat when Lucca is suddenly in front of me after a jump-advance-lunge combination that I’m too distracted to properly react to.   “I wasn’t ready!” I complain like a bitch to his retreating back as he walks back to his starting position on the fencing strip as Patrick shoots me a flatly unimpressed stare—something that is, now that I think of it, actually unwarranted because he didn’t wait for me to tell him that I was ready.   “Don’t count the point,” Lucca says, reassuming his guard on tierce, the blade upright by his armed side, edge aimed outward, his casual acceptance of my complaint making me feel even worse.   So.   Okay.   “Patrick, actually wait for both of us to nod before you say ‘allez,’” I tell him, likely mangling the pronunciation in ways I’m not aware of because just how many ways could there be to butcher two syllables?   “Fine,” he says with only mild exasperation before he does raise his right arm like he should’ve done from the start, the white sleeve of his own half-zipped jacket sliding down past his wrist, letting his metallic prosthesis glint in the late afternoon sun streaming from the high, semicircular windows lining the upper wall to my right and his back, on the other end of the enormous fencing hall that my college, for reasons that Dad keeps laughing at rather than explain to me, so heavily invests in.   His robotic fingers straighten in an unnaturally smooth way, the intricate joints resembling an actual medieval gauntlet due to the custom 3d printing job he commissioned for it, like the nerd plenty of fencers actually are.   Except he’s Patrick, a national-level champion who retrained himself to compete with his right hand after an accident that he rarely talks about while sober, and the guy…   He makes it work.   Pompous, Francophile asshole that he is, he makes it work.   “En garde,” he says, starting the line properly. “Pret?” he asks and waits for both Lucca and I to nod. “Allez!” he announces.   And I don’t have any excuses this time around.   So I leap back, trying to keep my distance as the physical prodigy rockets toward me, his feet moving so fast I can barely catch anything other than the staccato of cushioned heels beating down on the gridded metal flooring of the strip, trying to read—   The point of his saber hits the precise middle of my mask.   Just the tip.   Just… If I had jumped a bit farther, just a fraction of a second faster, if I had been just a bit better… it would have gone past.   Missed me.   Damn it.   He silently nods at me, his eyes hidden from mine when his mask tilts down, and I lose any angle past the tightly woven steel threads.   And then he turns around once again to silently walk to his starting position.   “Attack from the right, zero to one,” Patrick says with maybe a smidge of vindication.   Yes, that could just be me projecting while trying not to focus on how utterly outmatched I am by someone who has worse technique than I do. No, I don’t know why I would be at all bitter about that instead of planning how to try and take advantage of said much-vaunted technique while also trying not to remember Dad telling me that I would one day face this very scenario rather than just lose to more skilled opponents if I kept neglecting physical training to read old manuals.   So.   Yeah.   Bitching.   It’s, apparently, a thing that I do.   “En garde,” Patrick says, and I’m nodding before he asks, even if I’m not ready. Even if I need all the time in the world to think about how to—   Lucca leaps forward again, with the same speed—   I rush forward to meet him in the middle, but I’m responding to his attack, so he has right of way, and, even if we both hit, the point will be his, so—   A sideways flick, my blade trying to hit his, the beat of metal on metal stealing his priority even as it gets his blade out of the way…   Or that’s what would’ve happened if he hadn’t swiftly circled around my flick and struck the inside of my arm, just past my wrist and right on the long, padded cuff of my glove for the tip of his saber to hit a legal target.   I try not to grit my hit, and I raise my left hand, signaling that I’ve been hit before I turn back toward my starting point.   “Attack on preparation, zero to two,” Patrick says with what I could easily take as a bored tone.   I breathe. I… It’s not like the points have taken long, but they are explosive movements, and I’m giving it my all—for what little good it does. Not to mention all the other spars I did before deciding to top my lackluster practice with a bout against the hardest opponent in the club.   So. Yeah. I’m tired.   But I’m also furious.   “En garde. Pret? Allez!”   I rush forward as soon as Patrick’s gleaming hand cuts down, and this would count as a double touch if I managed to hit Lucca at the same time as he hits me. No points awarded. A neutral result. The go-to move in tournaments, both fencers launching at the same time to do a mirrored advance-lunge.   He is still faster.   “Attack. Zero to three,” Patrick says as I nod in agreement, acceptance, and bitter frustration.   I walk back a bit slower than before.   Just one point.   That’s all I ask for; just one point scored off him. A point scored off somebody who sees this as a sport. Who doesn’t care at all for history, or for…   It’s stupid.   It is a sport.   It’s just… also so much more.   So… maybe I should let it be just that?   “En garde. Pret? Allez!”   I immediately stand up straight, my legs unbending from the crouched position of the standard guard, heels touching one another, my arm extended, hand and shoulder aligned, my blade pointing straight at Lucca like I’m holding a spear against a cavalry charge.   Point-in-line.   A static position, a threat made with the point of my saber, one of the very few uses of the tip of the sword that my chosen weapon allows under current rules and practices.   A relic of old days.   Lucca stands still for a moment, briefly confused, and I so dearly wish he was the kind to quip right now, to tell me that I expect him to attack with Capo Ferro so I can answer that it would be natural for him to do so, but that I have found that Thibault cancels out Capo Ferro.   Because that’s where this old relic, this weird move, inconsistent with the standard, sports-like maneuvers of modern saber comes from: Master Thibault’s dueling system.   And I could accept that. I could laugh good-naturedly at Lucca beating me up again and again if he was the sort to share that kind of joke or to relish a bit of archaeological digging into the minutia of what should be our shared art.   But he just cautiously advances, measuring our distance, keeping his guard up so I won’t drop the point-in-line that gives me priority so long as I maintain it rather than go for a surprise attack that is unlikely to land.   And, at the very last second…   He stops.   Our eyes meet through our masks, the woven steel doing nothing to detract from his intensely azure eyes as he peers at me, looking for I don’t know what.   And, as I try to read him back, his blade flicks down and forward before rising in an upward semicircle from the inside of my non-standard guard, beating my blade out of the way and taking the right of way from me.   I leap back, dropping my hand to the quarte guard as fast as I can, to cover my unguarded side as well as trying to catch his thrusting saber on the way so I can at least get a proper parry out of this.   I am too slow.   There’s a line of burning pain on my left arm, and I raise my unarmed hand to signal his point as I try not to grit my teeth and just accept what just happened. To try and take a lesson from it.   But I can’t see what the lesson is, and so it’s likely that I won’t learn it.   “Attack from the right. Zero to four,” Patrick says, and I don’t even have the energy to imagine some perceived slight in his tone as I watch Lucca calmly walking back to his starting position.   I do take a moment, this time around, standing where I’ve last been hit, having the familiar litany of ‘just one point’ running through my head, but… It’s never helped, has it? He’s just that much better than I am, and he keeps improving day by day.   It’s ridiculous. Nobody, not Patrick, not Dad, consistently beat me without me scoring a point. That’s just not how fencing works. There’s always a distraction, an off day, something, anything at all, that allows the weaker opponent to get lucky.   And I’ve got… My repertoire is far broader. Just the element of surprise should be enough for me to do something. To even win.   “Brian?” Patrick asks after I stare down for too long at the blurry sun reflected in front of me.   “Sorry. Just… Yeah,” I say, smiling at him even if I’m not sure whether he can see through my mask from his angle.   But that, at least, is one lesson I learned from Dad: your voice carries your smile.   Funny what unsuspected wisdom can come from the lips of an office worker who’s also, somehow, a master fencer.   I take the few steps I need to reach my starting point, and, this time, I take care to drop into as proper a stance as I can manage: feet at right angles, heels lined up, with about a foot and a half between them, knees bent low enough for explosive movements, but not so low that it slows down my reactions or stops me from dropping lower when I need to.   Then I think about it and drop my blade from the upright tierce to a low seconde, my blade extended down and forward, the edge at an angle that almost mirrors that of my thigh.   It’s a guard barely used in saber because it’s no longer legal to strike below the waist—even if accidents do happen, and nobody has the right to complain to a sabreur about how a kick to the balls feels like. A guard that is meant to defend a part of the body that is no longer a legal striking zone.   And so it’s a guard that Lucca isn’t used to dealing with.   “En guarde. Pret? Allez!” Patrick’s gleaming hand cuts down, and I jump forward.   Just a fraction of a second faster than Lucca.   Just enough.   I shift from seconde to a threat to his head, my hand twisting up and advancing minutely in a feint that I’ve calibrated fastidiously to allow me enough room to throw three more of them before I’m forced to commit to a final attack.   He doesn’t move.   I advance quickly, capitalizing on the chance, switching to my second feint, my blade parallel to the metallic floor I’m rushing through, a bit farther ahead, threatening his unarmed side, making him go from tierce to quarte like I just did while retreating from his attack on my point-in-line.   And he takes a step back.   I feel the smile on my lips without meaning to, speeding up just a bit more, pushing myself to go for a last switch of my line of attack, from the inside to the outside in a quick semicircle that brings my blade as far as my arm can extend as I kick from my back leg, throwing myself into as deep and low a lunge as I can manage…   And he whips his hand forward fast enough that the steel curves around the guard of my saber, the point of his weapon sinking into the padded cuff of my glove, my pained flesh, and whatever dregs of dignity I still had.   I hold still, the lunge over, my blade on his unprotected torso, my eyes on deep azure looking down on me while the rounded tip of his weapon remains where it landed, the two of us waiting for Patrick to—   “Attack on the preparation. Zero to five.”   For Patrick to crush whatever optimism I still clung to.   I throw a tired smile Lucca’s way before I pull myself up from my last lunge, quickly taking my mask off, getting a terrible reminder of precisely how much one can sweat when being stressed, tired, and wrapped in a padded jacket, and I bite the Velcro-lined cuff of my glove to pull it open and take my hand out because Dad drilled me not to offer my left hand after a bout, much less my still-gloved hand, and—   And swift, dexterous hands with long fingers help me tug it off.   “You think too much,” Lucca says, holding both my glove and saber in the same hand he holds his before offering me his free, right hand.   “What?” I adroitly reply.   He… he doesn’t quite roll his eyes, but it’s pretty clear that he’s frustrated as he looks away from me and toward Patrick before looking back.   “You… You held back. You could have just pushed and caught me—”   “I most definitely could not.”   Another quasi-eye-roll, another reminder that this particular Italian-American manages to break away from the always gesturing stereotype that he apparently isn’t.   “Brian,” he says as if my name holds any particular meaning, “you could have gotten that last point. Easily. If you just didn’t get in your own way.”   And, before I can decide whether he’s being supportive or insulting, my glove and saber are back in my hands, and he’s turned his back on me.   “He’s not a good swordsman, is he?” Patrick says, his prosthetic hand dropping on my shoulder in a by-now familiar way.   “Yeah. Pity we’re fencers,” I answer with equally familiar bitterness.   He pauses, the metallic fingers cool and still on the jacket I long to unzip, a few errant rays of sun playing along the detailed joints of the fake gauntlet that this quasi-aristocratic nerd felt the need to add to the incredibly expensive, almost futuristic, myoelectric limb that his sports scholarship funded.   “Yeah. Pity that,” he finally says before letting me go and turning away, making me feel like I’m missing something.   Which, come to think of it, has been a persistent feeling since I enrolled in Lacmere University to Dad’s concerned frown and Mom’s manic cackle.   ***   “I swear to God, fucking faeries,” Conor mumbles as he rummages in his bag, bent over the locker room wooden bench as if he wants to dive into the black, long, almost guitar-case-like thing we’re forced to use to carry our fencing gear around in an uncivilized world that doesn’t think scabbards are in vogue.   “Faeries didn’t steal your keys, Hound,” Patrick tells his best friend in the most patronizing tone that he can manage as he laces his shoes in a way that belies how much practice it took for him to learn to use both his prosthesis and left hand for the task.   “It’s just a manner of speech. And don’t call me Hound,” the tall, muscular, big guy with a passing resemblance to a certain character from a certain TV show that ended in disappointment says, peering over the open zipper with a fanged scowl glinting past his wild beard that very much warrants the moniker.   “Stop being so damn Irish…” Patrick complains as he critically contemplates whether his shoelaces are immaculate enough for his high standards.   “I’ll stop being a superstitious hick when fairies stop stealing my goddamn keys, thank you very much,” a man who doesn’t sound all that grateful says.   And… Well, I guess I could stay. Join in the joking back and forth that they aren’t excluding me from.   But…   ‘You think too much.’   Damn it.   “Well, see you tomorrow,” I say, slinging my own oversized bag over my shoulder and very much wondering yet again why I choose to carry my gear around rather than leave it in the club where ninety percent of all my training takes place.   “Later, Brian,” Conor distractedly says. “And, hey, if you see any suspicious women about seven inches high—”   “For the last time—”   I find myself smiling as the door shuts behind me, and I’m once again in the training hall, the sun even lower than before, lending the whole room a golden, dreamlike atmosphere complimented by the uneven reflection of the light streaks on the parallel fencing strips, the perforated metal seeming to waver and—   “Took you long enough,” a girl who’s somewhat taller than seven inches says.   I try (and likely fail) not to blink stupidly as I look away from the painting-like display and toward the tall double gates where a girl with a mane of black, wavy hair waits with her arms crossed.   Apparently, she’s waiting for me.   And it takes a moment for my brain to cue me into the proper answer:   “Shit,” I say, as polite as Mom always told me to be to young ladies.   “Where are my books, Brian?” she says, her amber eyes blazing in a way that would look much, much better if she was doing it over half-moon glasses like the hot librarian that she is—I mean, like the intimidating, imposing young woman that I very much don’t want to piss off.   “I… I just forgot about the—”   “Incunabula. Original copies. Things that should be kept under lock and key and at perfectly controlled temperatures and humidity. And you, somehow, got the dean’s permission to take them away from their rightful place under my watch and care—”   “You’re just a library assistant, Roberta—”   “My watch and care. And then you dare forget about the return date?”   “I… I’m very sorry?”   She uncrosses her arms, not making me look at the suddenly released bust held back behind a frilly white blouse, and she walks decisively toward me, the black skirt hugging her hips very much complimenting that look she may be going for or that I could be projecting into the always stern, overachieving library assistant with too many job positions in the Student Council for me to list in the time it takes her to be right in front of me, staring up into my eyes as her own narrow and mine widen in what I hope is not unattractive shock—   Okay. Okay, Brian, yes, she’s a pretty lady. A very pretty lady, and that stern look she’s hitting you with is pushing all sorts of buttons, plenty of them likely related to reading material you would never admit to, even under torture.   She’s also… very close.   That’s no reason to act like an idiot, okay? Say, ‘Okay,’ Brian.   “Okay,” Brian says.   … Like an idiot.   “Okay?” she asks with genuine confusion.   An opening!   “Okay to whatever it is that you want me to do to make up for it,” I say without even a hint of panicked improvisation.   I mean… if fencing’s good for something, it’s to get you used to thinking on the fly, at the very least.   “And what makes you think that I want you to do something for me?” she says, likely pouncing on a hint of panicked improvisation.   Right, so… think, Brian, think.   And, for the love of God, don’t say ‘Think, Brian,’ out loud!   “Come on,” I say with a brittle smile. “Why else would you come all the way here?”   “To get my books back,” she says, like somebody who never learned to play along.   “Yeah, but I drop by the library often enough. No need to go to all the trouble when you could’ve just reminded me the next time you saw me,” I say, gesticulating wildly enough to compensate for Lucca’s sad betrayal of his ancestry. At least partially.   Her eyes narrow like she doesn’t approve of my quaint national stereotypes, which I’m pretty sure has nothing to do with her name being ‘Roberta,’ and thus likely being a Latina of some kind, even if she’s paler than I am, and… uh… is this racist? Is thinking that Latinos are usually tanner than a nerd with indoor hobbies racist? Shit, I don’t feel like this with Lucca—the racism part. There’s nothing at all about talking to a pretty girl that reminds me of talking with Lucca other than the racism thing.   … Is this homophobic?   “Fine,” she says.   “Fine?” I ask as if granted absolution for my sins against all that Twitter stands for.   “Come by tonight,” she says.   “Come by?” I ask, more out of sheer reflex than cogent curiosity.   “By the library. Come by the library,” she tells me, her arms crossing yet again and doing entirely uninteresting things to her mid-sized, just shy of big, bust that I most definitely don’t even notice.   “By the—”   “If you finish that question, I’ll stomp my heel on your foot.”   “Ah.”   “Yes.”   I blink at her.   She doesn’t blink at me. Like, it’s very noticeable that she isn’t blinking.   Also, she’s tapping her fingers on her arm in a way that conveys both impatience and what another Brian, one that lies long-buried in a shameful past, would’ve likely considered too moe to even process.   And… well, I could question her about why she wants to meet with me at night. In the library. When it’s closed to the public.   When it will be just the two of us in there.   I very much could and likely should.   But…   ‘You think too much.’   Fuck you, Lucca. In an entirely heterosexual and non-homophobic way.   “Okay,” I say.   And she smiles in a way that would definitely look equally sinister with half-moon glasses.   ***   “Leaving so late?” Conor asks from the aged leather armchair in the corner when I go through the common hall at the entrance to the dorm building.   Which would be a perfectly sensible thing to ask if it weren’t for the thick, wagging eyebrows, the grin that his beard can’t hide, and the lewd gesture that I refuse to acknowledge.   “Just want to get some cool air,” I say, adjusting a brown cotton jacket that is not padded at all and, thus, will hopefully remain not sweat-soaked in the time it takes to walk to the library.   “Oh, so that’s what you kids are calling it nowadays,” he says with a puerile giggle that makes Patrick shoot him a reproachful frown.   “Yes. That’s what we ‘kids’ call going out for a stroll at night. Getting some cool air,” I say, telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, except for all the parts of the truth that I’m desperately withholding from somebody prone to explicit, uncomfortably candid remarks.   “Stop messing with him, Conor,” Patrick says from where he’s reading a book with a leather jacket, lying on the couch like a decadent noble in front of a fireplace that is currently not in season.   “Thanks,” I say with a bit of relief.   “After all,” he keeps going as if I hadn’t spoken, “it’s not like a gentleman to kiss and tell.”   His face remains stonily stoic as he turns a page with the pad of a non-metallic finger, and then he slowly looks up at me over the top of his book with a slow grin coming to bear as Conor starts laughing loud enough to bend over.   “You guys are all terrible people,” I say, maybe a tad more truthful than earlier.   “Don’t forget to use a rubber!” Conor cheerfully answers.   And, with those parting words and my cheeks feeling perfectly cool, thank you very much, I push the door to my dorm open and step out into the night’s air.   Which is cool. Like, actually cool, as my currently sensitive cheeks, for some reason, are quick to notice.   So… well, I do take in a deep breath of air. Of cool, fresh air the likes of which I’ve only gotten before when deep in a mountain trail, in one of those excursions that Dad thought was a good idea to drag me through despite me being built for speed rather than stamina.   … Yeah, I miss him. Them.   Kinda pathetic, isn’t it? A college freshman missing his parents on the other side of the country, looking up at a starry sky with the warm light of the dorm coming through the windows on top of the gates behind him, remembering when a tall, thin, athletic man sat him on his lap, both of them on a rock surrounded by ancient pines, and an impossibly big finger pointed at the stars above, speaking of names and stories from the time when words were new.   I probably shouldn’t tell Roberta about all this. Don’t want her libido to dry up.   But, well… she isn’t here right now, is she?   So I start walking down the dimly lit path going from the dorm reserved to the members of the dean’s pet project, the quasi-medieval building with enough allowances to modern life for it to be livable growing smaller at my back as I approach the actual European castle that a riche nouveau with more money than sense, and more sense than sanity, decided to export here, to the Pacific Northwest of the united States of America, just so it could act as the administrative center and staff residence for a college that is not nearly elite enough for how much all this must’ve cost.   I’m walking on paved stones surrounded by lush, dark green grass, and I find myself staring up at Orion, the most easily found constellation, as I near a building set outside the walls of the castle, made of red brickwork that mirrors a Gothic cathedral architecture with tall, colorful windows that always cast our library in comfortable light that more than one student finds themselves drowsing in.   The forest isn’t far, and neither is the lake or the small canal that surrounds only half of the castle’s walls, thus not being quite a moat even if the suggestion’s there.   It’s just… a beautiful, peaceful night.   But it does very little to calm my thundering heart when I finally reach the library and find the door inset in one of the tall gates open even if the lights inside are turned off.   I…   Okay. Okay. Just… just try to think of this as a tournament. It’s fine being nervous. Nothing shameful about that. Yes, being nervous impacts your performance—not like that.   …   Right. Let’s try this again.   I take a deep breath, really taking notice of the scent of wet grass and the cool water of a lake only a few hundred yards away, that is, from this place higher than my dorm, a black mirror dotted by starlight and a streak of wavering silver moonlight.   I look up from it and toward a moon bigger than usual, full, round, and with a face made out of dots, lines, and imagination.   I allow my mind to be a bit fanciful, and the Moon smiles down at me, surprisingly reassuring as I let past failures in tournaments I was too nervous to properly show my skill in fade away.   And, when my heart has slowed down, I turn back to the ajar door and push it with my open hand, the old hinges creaking as I step into a tall room filled with corridors made out of bookcases.   “Roberta?” I call out in a whisper that still feels too loud for this place, particularly at night.   She doesn’t answer, so I, trying very hard not to think about all those gory movies that Mom let me watch before I was supposed to be old enough to do so—to Dad’s utter horror and a few sleepless nights as a result—step deeper into the cathedral-like library, turning back for a brief moment to check how the light of a full moon comes through the colorful rose window placed above the gates that only open for formal events.   The colors of the stained glass are washed out, and the medieval figures take on an ethereal, not-at-all reassuring quality, seeming to move as I walk back, still staring up, until I’m past the reception desk where Roberta usually glares at me, and then I turn around.   “Roberta?” I ask once again, struggling with all my might not to add a clueless ‘Is anyone there?’   There’s a sound coming from the bookcase corridor to my left, and I, stupidly imagining an enthusiastic aspirant to the naughty librarian position being trapped in impromptu bondage, follow it deeper into shadows laced with the scent of aged paper.   “I swear, if I find you gagged and tied… I’m still going to ask for consent,” I mutter, for no particular reason at all other than me being apparently an idiot.   Particularly because Roberta never actually said that something improper would happen tonight and, for all I know, despite my cleanly shaved cheeks, my extra shower, my healthy overdose of deodorant, and my pained gums that have heroically withstood an entirely too thorough brushing, it’s quite reasonable to assume that I’m going to be doing inventory until dawn as penance for my sins against late return fines.   There’s another sound, deeper still, past the next intersection and leading up to the area filled with desks and crystal lamps.   I walk towards it, slowing down, feet brushing softly over grey, worn stone, my knees reflexively bending in preparation for a burst of speed if I need it, my right hand trailing along the cool wood of the bookcase by my side, maybe looking for something long and easy to hold that I can use to—   The moonlight pours in from a tall arched window by my left, the shafts of silver raining past swirling motes of glowing dust to fall on a desk in the middle of the open area.   To fall on… On…   There’s a howl.   I used to have a dog. A happy, fluffy ball of bounding energy who usually yipped rather than barked, but I once heard him howling when I arrived home, and he didn’t notice he was no longer alone.   Head thrown back, fangs peeking past his black lips, back entirely arched as the whole body was devoted to letting out something filled with mournful sadness that sent a shiver down my spine.   This is not that kind of howl.   The black fur along its shoulders is spiked, the tail curved, the sound a call for something that isn’t there, that can’t be there, making my blood freeze and a rush of cold flash through my head.   That keeps on going and going, answered only by the dancing motes trapped in silver light.   And then, slowly, it fades to silence as the head bows back down.   Equally slowly, it turns toward me.   I meet glowing, amber eyes.   Realize that my jacket is now definitely soaked with sweat.   And I run.       =========================== =========================== Hi there, this is my new original project, generously financed by @shaderic, the same patron of the arts responsible for Ginosko. This time around, the focus is kind of different.   That’s not to say there won’t be maid-focused smut in the future. I know who I’m working with.   Anyway, the story of Lacmere is maybe a bit more ambitious than I should reasonably tackle, given that it started as an excuse for monstergirl smut in a modern setting. I’m honestly a bit hyped to see what you all think when more of the world is shown, but for now, I guess you’ll just have to wait for the next chapter to come out.   Speaking of? My current goal is to get this on a biweekly schedule, on Tuesdays, alternating with Wordsworth to fill Wake-up Call’s recently vacated spot. This means that Chapter 2 is already up on my Patreon, and that Chapter  3 will come out next week. Look forward to it (I am looking forward to it, just also dreading messing it up).   [font="Times]As always, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on [/font][font="Times]Patreon[/font][font="Times]: LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, Vergil1989 Crossover King, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on [/font][font="Times]Amazon[/font][font="Times]. Thank you for reading![/font]    

Chapter 4 - Chapter 5: Magic and Dragons, Knights and Monsters [6.9

Lacmere University – Chapter 5: Magic and Dragons, Knights and Monsters [6.9k Words]   Bianca   The kelp of his mane rubs against my cheek. It should be… gross. Uncomfortable. It should be a lot of things that I barely know about because the only time I touched kelp was on my third trip to Italy when Luke’s grandparents took us to their family home in the nearly uninhabited village by the seashore that filled up only during the tourist season.   I sat on white sand, staring over the gentle waves of the Mediterranean, and Luke dropped a few strands of green algae on my lap.   Then spent a good part of the trip complaining about how his ears were still ringing from my shrieks.   Jerk.   My jerk.   Mine.   I lean forward, my arms around his black neck, uncaring of the kelp on my cheek, and I take a deep breath of his scent, even if it’s now muddled with lake water and wet fur. Even if it doesn’t smell at all like a glimmering droplet of sweat on the tip of my finger. Even…   His trot becomes a gallop, and I hold tighter as four hooves rain down on the frothing lake beneath us, taking us further and further from the shore and toward the middle of the reflection of the sky above us.   I clench my thighs tighter against the rippling muscles running along his flanks, feeling them despite my thick cargo pants that cling tighter to my skin as they get soaked with all the water that Luke kicks up as he races forward ahead, away from the shore and the… the…   There was something in the shore. Something I dropped.   It doesn’t matter.   Not when my arms are around him. When I’ve finally… When he’s finally…   What?   What is… What am I…   My heart beats in my ears, and my fingers hurt from grasping at his kelp mane, and there’s… I… I am with him. I am safe. As long as I am with Luke, I’ll always be safe. I know that. I know that he…   He’s racing.   Faster. Bucking beneath me. Almost making me fall.   And as soon as we reach the center of the lake, we dive.   Cold water rushes all around me, tugging back at my open leather jacket, white bubbles coming from under his broad body engulfing me and exploding against my eyes, their burbling and popping loud in my ears, and something unpleasant rushes up my nose, reminding me of the cold nasal sprays I used to take even if they barely helped at all, and it’s as soberingly awful as it ever was, feeling like the cold is tickling the underside of my brain, and—   And he speeds up.   Faster.   Water pulls at me, harder the faster he gallops, the deeper we go, as the lake goes from bright and clear around me to a shade of green like a duck pond. I open my mouth to protest, to tell Luke to slow down, that I’m… That I am stronger, but not this strong. To please, Luke, listen to me, be… be who I need you to be.   Who I always needed you to be.   But when I do, when I open my mouth, more bubbles come out of me, and water rushes in, pushing against the back of my throat, making me hurt, my eyes clench shut, and—   And I let go.   I panic, whipping my arms in front of me, trying to find him by touch alone before I open my eyes and try to see in the darkness beneath the lake, only my pale hands coming out of black sleeves standing out to my blurry eyes as I try to cough out the water in my throat, only managing to swallow it, to get the awful, terrible taste in my mouth as clouds of silt rise up around me from deep below.   And something moves. Something black, broad, and strong, racing up from the deepest black, galloping on water with reversed hooves as a mane of kelp streams behind it.   Something with an open mouth and a cruel grin. With white teeth and fangs that don’t belong in a horse’s mouth. Something that…   Something that lives in lakes and takes human shape to trick their victims. That drowns and devours.   My blood races faster, my heart thundering in my chest, my lungs burning with a pain like that in my throat amplified by a hundredfold.   I’m… I know about asphyxiating. I know about my body betraying me, unable to draw in air no matter how much I desperately needed it. I know about my skin growing colder when Dad held me wrapped in a wool blanket, and Mom rushed to me with an inhaler to get my lungs to open up for at least however long it took to reach the hospital. I know about lying in the backseat of our car, my parents’ hushed conversation lower than the rumbling of the engine, watching the streetlights fly by in amber blurs through the side window as I detachedly wondered if this would be the last time. If Mom and Dad would be too late to save me this one time. If Luke would miss me—   I force myself to stare down at the kelpie galloping toward me. At the monster who dared take Luke’s shape.   I swim.   I kick as hard as I can. Because I know I won’t reach the surface faster than it will reach me. I know I won’t be able to stop it from drowning me. I know it will eat my entrails and leave Luke lost and sad, aimless, never knowing what happened to the sick girl who had finally gotten better.   I know I’m about to die.   But I knew that a long time ago. I’ve known it since I was a child. I had known it was only a matter of time, and not much, since before I could properly tell others what it was like.   I have known my fate has been an early death since I understood what death and fate were.   But I have always fought it.   And so will I now.   I catch a glimpse of blurred shadow right below me, and I kick, catching it by sheer chance on its open jaw with the tip of my combat boots that I’ve just decided I won’t ever replace with hiking gear. The kelpie shakes its head, the movement natural even as the kelp takes entirely too long to catch up to it, drifting underwater and catching on errant rays of light—I’m close.   I incredulously look up and catch the sun diffracting in myriad motes through the crystal dome above me, much closer than I thought it would be.   My chest aches, and it takes too much strength to kick and keep kicking, my cargo pants flaring around my legs and dragging too much water with every movement, but I’m close. Close to another draw of air, to getting my head out of murky water, to—   Something cold rushes by my side, my leather jacket swirls up, and I hurt.   I am close, so… so close…   I force myself to swim up, to keep kicking, and finally remember that I can use my arms as well, but when I try to lift my left one, pain burns along my side, so I only kick and paddle with my right hand, not daring look down to see what it is that I’m now missing on the splotch of ache that feels so new, so unfamiliar, that isn’t weakness dragging me down or the burning of lungs, or--   The water swirls again, and, this time, I look.   The cruel grin on the equine mask is tainted with my blood, and streams of crimson pour out of me right below the elastic band of my top from the hole in my side. From torn flesh that suddenly hurts that much more as I think about all the wrong things that are in lake water and now are inside of my body, but that’s a stupid thought when long fangs are closing in on my—   No.   No!   I fought the dragon! Every single day of my life, I refused to yield to it! I stood up, again, and again, and again!   I won’t let this thing kill me! I won’t let it eat me! I am—he’s not a dragon! He’s just a filthy, cruel monster, and he’s not even worthy of being slain by my knight!   So I twist in the water, spiraling around the light slowly falling with false hope from above me, and I shoot a knee right at it when it comes close enough—   It bites on my thigh.   Its teeth slowly sink in, more blood pouring out of me around its cruel grin, and every struggle I can bring myself to make hurts more as I tear my own flesh around its bite while its black eyes keep enjoying every second of torture. And the surface of the lake is close, so much closer than I thought it would be when I finally died, but maybe that’s just because the monster is this cruel. Because it enjoyed seeing me think that I could outrun it, that I could at least get a last breath of air before it dragged me down to its nest and took its time with its meal.   My teeth are clenched, and the last reserve of air grows heavier in my lungs, pressuring me to let it out, to finally relieve myself of that inner pain and let everything else rush in. Sparks of asphyxia flare in front of my eyes, and shifting rays of light mock my last, weakening struggle.   Luke.   Luke will be sad.   He will look for me with his solemn, expressionless eyes, and he will think that it was him that took me here, to take that marvelous, magic medicine that made the dragon go away, and… and then he will remember about me telling him about the horse in the lake, and he’ll be desperate enough to—   No!   I stop struggling for the light above and turn down, bending with flaring agony until my face is right in front of the surprised monster still clamping its fangs on my leg.   I may die. I was always ready to die.   Not Luke. Not him. Not ever!   I plunge my thumbs into the big eyes of the monstrous horse, and it lets go with a surprised shriek that warbles underwater as blood pours from its wounds. As rivulets of crimson spiral around my wrists, but that’s not enough. It may regenerate, or hunt by scent, or magic, or a thousand other things, so I can’t stop at just this. I can’t let It run away to harm Luke when he comes looking for the one who made my bloodless corpse wash ashore.   Because he will. Because he made an oath. Because I was stupid and shameless enough not to refuse it. Not to tell him to live his own life, that I didn’t need him to devote that much of it to me, that I could just be happy with seeing him by my side from time to time. That he didn’t have to waste everything he had on a dying, sickly girl with nothing to offer back.   My eyes burn as much as my lungs and throat, the world dims around me, and I know that whatever it is that’s let me hold on for so long is about to run off. That I will finally die with my thumbs plunged into the watery eyes of a cruel monster.   It rears up, and I hold on, letting it drag me with its twisting head and powerful neck. It kicks at me with its front hooves, and something cracks and tears in my chest, my mouth finally opening for the last time, the stream of bubbles escaping, my pain and agony silent as I don’t have anything left to scream with.   But I pull.   I pull and drag myself closer and, with my open mouth, I dive between my arms and plunge something other than my fingers into the flesh of the monster, my own fangs finding their way past its black fur, sinking into its skin, piercing it, its own agony reverberating all around me like the warbling of a mountain stream tainted with cruelty.   The world fades to black.   I don’t have long.   So I bite harder and tear. I pull away, my hair trailing in the water, a mouthful of flesh between my teeth that I spit out before diving right back in as the monster tries to shake me off, swimming back down as fast as it can, the water pulling at me, almost making me let go from my hold on its hollowed eyes.   I bite, again, thinking that every wound is one that Luke won’t suffer. That everything that I do that gets this thing closer to dying will help Luke survive. That he will finally get a life free from the girl who’s dragged him down all these years, that I can…   That I cannot save myself. Never could. I was always the princess guarded by the dragon.   But… But maybe…   Maybe I can save my knight.   Another strand of flesh comes loose between my grinding teeth, and I plunge my face deeper into the hollow I’m digging through the monster’s neck. Warmth engulfs me, the contrast between his insides and the lake almost painful, almost scalding as something other than murky water finds its way past my throat, the salt and metal on my tongue telling me all about the blood that I tasted on myself so many times that it became comfortingly familiar when I coughed it up or when it flowed down from my nose.   So I know this isn’t my blood.   I know it’s the monster’s.   I almost smirk, but I’m too busy. Too busy killing it faster than it can kill me, even if my jaw is already more tired than my arms and legs, the muscles on the side of my face screaming past the dull haze washing over my thoughts, making me slower as I bleed out into the lake, and… and…   And… maybe…   Maybe I could hurt it without so much effort. Maybe I could just…   Suck.   The thin taste explodes in my mouth, and it washes down my throat with intent rather than accident.   My eyes open.   The kelpie struggles.   I don’t let go.   ***   The waves of Lacmere’s lake are gentle. Gentler than those of the Mediterranean.   Barely above a handspan.   They wash over a dead, black horse.   Only its blind head and the gruesome remains of its neck are on the gray beach dotted with gray pebbles. The rest is covered by water that rises and falls in handspans.   The sun is lower than before, the sky has an orange tint behind the castle and cathedral, and…   And I’m on my hands and knees, gasping, taking air that I had already said goodbye to.   My pants are torn, but there are no wounds showing past the gashes. My… My side’s still bleeding, but it no longer has a torn hole of missing flesh.   Water keeps raining down from my short hair, making the sand below me darker.   And…   And I…   I know. I know how I can heal this last wound.   Not from the kelpie. No, its corpse is already drained entirely. I dragged it behind me all the way back here as it grew weaker and weaker. As it kept warbling in underwater begging for its life until it was too weak to do even that much and we finally broke the surface of the lake, mocking light shining all around me on cresting waves, greeting me with false, tainted hope.   So.   Not from the kelpie.   I shift my weight and reach into one of the many, many pockets on the pants the monster ruined, and I unclasp a flap to reach inside where only a single thing is.   A prescription bottle filled with pills. The same pills I’ve been taking since Luke introduced me to a woman with green hair willing to give the both of us a place to be together during what I thought were very likely to be my last years.   The pills that did what no other medicine ever did. That made me feel not just better but alive.   I was curious. I’ve always been. So, of course, I popped one open to see what kind of powder was inside the one thing that did help, that no other doctor had prescribed me, that…   It was a red powder.   I didn’t think much of it. Medicine does not need to be always white and sterile, even if it sometimes feels like it.   But now… Now I open the bottle and get a pill out with trembling fingers, the capsule immediately softening under my wet touch before I break it between my nails and let the red powder fall below me, on the darkened sand wet from the streams falling from my hair.   It immediately froths into something pink, and then I move my head and let a trickle of water fall directly on it, and…   I know blood. I’ve smelled and tasted it long enough, often enough.   So, when I recognize it under me, when I realize what it means, what I am…   I cry.   Because what knight could ever suffer a monster?   ***   Lucca   Seconde. Again.   And again, just as we reach the likely last point of our bout, Brian stands in front of me, having taken his advance faster than I did, so he gets right of way, and—   Damn it, Brian. You’re better than this.   He does the very same thing he did yesterday, his barrage of feints close and perfect enough that any newbie would have already given up on following along. It’s tempting to try and get a stop cut whenever he shifts the line of attack, but he does it precisely enough that the slight opening feels more like a trap than an opportunity.   That is, until he overdoes it.   Because he keeps going, pushing me down the piste, adding feint on top of feint impossibly, like no one else I’ve ever faced, but he does nothing else.   He does not commit. He does not take advantage. He keeps waiting for me to give him permission to act as if he doesn’t hold all the cards. As if I’m not fleeing from him, keeping just the right distance for—there.   He gets just a bit nearer, and, rather than lunge and attack, he takes a quick leap forward, his saber turning inward from the threat to my head to try and hit my own blade, unnecessarily seeking for that last reassurance that the right of way is his and only his.   I drop the tip of my weapon just low enough that his own whispers when it goes through where I had held it in front of me, and I turn it up into a rising quarter of a circle that ends without me even needing to lunge, just shooting my arm forward to reach the side of his shoulder.   “Attack on preparation. Point left. Five to zero,” Patrick dispassionately announces.   And… I stay there, my arm still extended, my chest rising and falling as I look through the mask’s grill into his eyes and I see the frustration wash across them before he pushes it away and shows me a bitter smile that only makes things worse.   I remove my weapon from him, the dragging tip conveying the soft feeling of his padded jacket, so unlike the usual FIE regulation equipment I wear myself, his cotton to my synthetic fabric.   Our masks are off. He’s still struggling to remove his glove like he usually does when he’s in a rush to offer a proper handshake, and I…   Like yesterday, I find myself helping him tug it off before I offer him silently my own hand.   “Thanks. You’re… as good as ever,” he says with a wry grin.   “Stop…” I try to find the right words, ones that will do the trick. That will reach him like I didn’t yesterday. “Stop doing this. Find something to aim for and commit.”   His jaw clenches, and the pressure of his fingers increases just a tad.   He doesn’t look away.   “It’s not so easy,” he says.   “It could be. For you, it could be.”   I let go of his hand and return his glove.   Then I go to the changing room before I can hear anything else that he and Patrick may exchange and that will have me wake up feeling frustrated.   ***   I towel the sweat off my hair and try to ignore Conor’s grumbling about his missing keys as I go over my last bout with Brian, thinking about all the near misses, all the times when it was a split second that made it so I won the point.   All the times when doubt held him back.   It’s… I don’t understand it. I don’t get why it’s so frustrating to me. It’s just… fencing. It’s not… It’s not like it matters. I already have my scholarship secured and Bianca’s treatment. She can live on her own now. She doesn’t need me to keep doing this. She…   I take off my jacket and undershirt to scrub my armpits with the towel. I’m going to need a shower, but at least I want to not feel like I need a second one before I step under the water.   “I swear, if they don’t appear in the next five minutes, I’m going to nail a goddamn horseshoe over the club’s door,” Conor says, loud enough that I do believe any faeries in earshot may have taken notice.   Assuming faeries exist.   Assuming anything at all other than vampires and their offspring exist.   My jaw’s clenched, and I shoot a look at the bench where Conor’s rummaging through his gym bag, maybe expecting to see something tiny and mischievous, maybe hoping that some more of Bianca’s lessons stuck and I could know what to look for when it comes to things that belonged in children’s tales before I came here to fulfill an oath and make a second one.   I don’t see anything. Of course I don’t.   Because I haven’t seen anything other than Bianca’s treasured rumors. Other than the things I try to discourage her from so she won’t learn of my secrets and lies, so that she won’t—   Damn it.   I grab my phone to check if Bianca has left me any messages about our plans for after practice. Maybe she’ll want to pretend to study so she can talk my ear off about the latest hint at whatever it is that our Dean has gotten us into, or—   There’s a message. From a hidden number.   No text, just an image, a picture of the lake from far away enough that it takes me a moment to see the horse lying by the shore—a horse in the lake.   My heart spikes up faster than any rope jumping ever got it, and I see the girl on all fours by the black horse, her leather jacket, the pool of red under her—   “Lucca? Hey, what the Hell—” Conor calls out behind me.   But I’m already running out of the club before he finishes his sentence.   ***   I run.   Fencing shoes on grass. Bad idea. The heel’s too thick, and the sole too thin. They are made to numb the impact of lunges, not to run. We don’t run, we advance, retreat, leap, but we don’t—I run.   My torso’s only covered by the shirt I managed to keep a hold of, my white fencing pants are calling out too much attention from people walking along the path to my right, my bag bounces against my back, and the afternoon air chills my skin through my sweat-soaked clothes.   I don’t care. I run. I run as fast as I can, without pacing myself, without caring for stamina, for anything other than reaching her even a second faster.   I didn’t look at the time of the message. It could have been an hour ago. Two hours ago.   I don’t want to look at the time of the message. I don’t want to know that I’m too late. I just—I would rather fear than know. I just want to get there, to run around this damn lake and get to the other shore as fast as I’m able, no matter how much my feet and calves hurt as I keep dropping from my sprint into a stumbling jog when my lungs give up and I have to swallow big mouthfuls, interrupting the precise, optimal rhythm of inhaling for three steps, exhaling for two when I can’t keep it, when my eyes blur, and I almost trip on a stone jutting out of the tall grass that forces me to continue running despite my left foot throbbing with a pain sharper than my right.   I don’t care.   I can’t care.   I just run.   I barely register my feet falling on the gray sand surrounding the lake, other than the cloud of it pelting me through the tall, thin fencing socks.   I just have to run. Faster. Breathe properly, stop giving in to the urge to breathe through my mouth. Force the rhythm back.   Think. Think. Just—I’m no use to her if I don’t make it. I need to pace, I need to stop giving in to bursts of speed whenever I feel strong enough to do so, I just—breathe.   One, two, three. One, two. One, two, three. One, two.   There. Keep going. Don’t speed up if that’s only going to end with you bending over, hands on your knees, desperately gasping for air while Bianca—breathe.   Breathe and run.   Keep marching around the green water, ignore anything other than the red cedar you’re aiming for, the one behind her in the picture—   There.   A black horse, a girl on the ground—   I run.   As fast as I can, gasping air that hurts my throat when it comes out through my open mouth, the corner of my bag striking my kidney with every stride. Fast. Faster. You can go faster, damn it, what have you been training for?! What have you been training your whole life for?! You’re pathetic! One thing, there’s only one thing that matters, and you’re letting her bleed to death on gray sand because you’re not fast enough, strong enough, trained enough! Because you didn’t sweat and hurt enough to become who you needed to be to protect her!   So fucking run, Lucca! Run before she leaves you!   Run and catch her!   Run and—she’s… she’s… in front of me. On the ground.   Crying.   Alive.   I drop to my knees and crawl toward her, so grateful I can barely move, can barely process the pain as everything but purpose leaves my body and I almost crash, but my arms aren’t as tired as my legs, so I pull myself forward, and, when my knees give out, I keep pulling, dragging my body over gray sand.   Toward the girl lying on the sand, curled on herself, crying and sobbing loud enough that she can’t hear my desperate panting or my vain attempts to call out her name and have her look at me. Away from the black horse and toward me.   Please. Please, Bianca. I only ever wanted you to look at me.   I… I finally stop when I’m almost in touching distance. Just… just drag myself a couple of meters and… and I can reach her, and touch her, and ask her why she’s crying, and—   And I see the red marring the sand. Under her.   My legs tremble when I push myself up, but I have to. I have to reach her on my feet, no matter how much it hurts or—no matter what. No matter anything at all, because there’s only one thing that matters, and she’s right in front of me.   “Lu… Luke?” she asks in a broken voice when my shadow falls over her, and it takes her a moment to turn around and look up to meet my eyes with her… with her now red ones.   With tear-stricken red eyes that widen in fear and panic, breaking my heart in ways I didn’t know it could.   “Don’t look at me! Don’t—don’t, Luke!” she says, her hands covering her face, hiding herself from my eyes but uncovering the wound by her side.   It… It’s red, angry skin surrounding a half-knitted, half-scabbed tear on her side, and I immediately think about the phials of crimson I always carry on my bag, the last resort in case of an emergency that the Dean entrusted to me along with Bianca’s secret right before I took the knee and I swore anything and everything.   For as long as she’s alive and healthy.   ‘Alive. Such an interesting word when it comes to certain… edge cases.’   I look at the horse, and I see… that it’s not a horse. That it’s a weird, monstrous thing with reversed hooves, long fangs peering out of its rictus of horror, kelp instead of a mane and tail, and… and that it’s dead. Dead, with crushed eyes and a hole torn out of its neck.   I know what it is. Vaguely. It’s one of Bianca’s stories come to life, but not one she enjoyed. She… she likes the lighter stories. The optimistic ones. The ones where good always triumphs over evil, where knights defeat dragons.   Where knights are steadfast and true.   So I won’t take the phials. I won’t take off the crystal stopper and offer her what she just discovered she needs, the most potent form of the medicine that has allowed her to become healthy and strong.   Stronger than I am. Than I’ll ever be.   No. Instead, I take off my bag and open the front pocket, the zipper louder than the lake’s waves, and I reach inside for the switchblade that the Dean gave me along with the phials.   “Bianca…” I call out to her despite my rough throat and gasping breath.   “Don’t… I am not… Please, please, don’t see me like this—”   I drop back down to my knees, by her side, the sand around her wet enough that it doesn’t rise into a stinging cloud when I do so, and I grab her right wrist to pull it away so I can see her tearful eyes and all the anguish within them that stabs through me with the knowledge that I wasn’t here to protect her like I should have. Because I promised. I promised that I would live my life in her stead. That I would be who she needed me to be. That all my hollow purpose would be filled in her name, for her, for the girl in the white dress with all the stories on her lips.   “Bianca,” I breathe out as if her name can soothe the burning in my chest or the tears in her eyes.   “I—I… I can’t. You can’t. Luke, I am… I am not… I am a monster,” she says as if that means anything.   “You are… you,” I say. Because that does. Because that’s the only thing that has any meaning at all, because I—   “No. No, please, don’t… You don’t… You don’t understand. I…. I finally found it. I found magic, Luke, and I… And I’m dirty. I’m wrong. I can’t—you shouldn’t—Luke!”   I throw her arm aside, angry like I’ve never been in my life, and I get my left hand right in front of her eyes, showing her my palm and spread fingers.   Then I cut my thumb.   The switchblade is sharp enough that I don’t feel the cut at all when I draw the blade across the pad, but then, after the skin and flesh split, the wound rubs against itself, and I feel the stinging, acute pain.   Bianca’s eyes widen, and the nostrils of her cute nose flare.   “I don’t care. If you’re wrong? If you’re a monster? If the world itself wants you to die? Then I will stand by your side. I will face the world and whatever heroes it throws at you. I will fight them all, Bianca. I will do whatever it takes to change this world. If you’re wrong, I will make it right. If the world’s right, I will make it wrong.”   She stares, her eyes darting between mine and the warmth gathering on the split tip of my thumb.   The tears are still there. She’s still rasping through uneven breath. She’s still… hurt.   So I slowly bring down my thumb to her lips.   She recoils, throwing her head back against the wet sand, but I drop the switchblade to reach her with my intact hand, to caress her short hair, petting her like I have wanted to so many times. To steady her with my touch if I can’t with my eyes and voice.   She groans, her eyes briefly closing, hiding the crimson behind her pale eyelids so I can pretend the black eyes I’ve known since my life stopped being gray are hiding beneath. So I can pretend this is her old room, with the soft morning light streaming past white wooden shutters and gauze curtains across the bed of the pale girl looking at me like I was her whole world after a careless, reckless oath that I haven’t regretted for a single moment since.   Then…   Then I touch her lips.   Like I always shied away from doing, even if just with my wound thumb. Like I thought it would be wrong, selfish. Like… Like I didn’t think I could ever deserve, much less after lying to her, no matter the reason why.   Because… Because I know her. More than anyone or anything in the world, I know Bianca. I knew what this secret of mine would do to her. I knew that these tears would come, that she would hate being something dark and monstrous. That she would see the illness that almost killed her as… as the curse it is.   The curse carried in her bloodline.   A monster that needs blood from others to live. That’s a burden I didn’t want on her. That’s… that’s something I was willing to carry by myself for however long it took, just another part of my oath to her. Just…   Just another stupid, reckless mistake.   Because she’s found out. Because of course she has. She was always sharper than me, always ready to look beneath the things I barely registered by themselves. Always…   Bianca.   I push my thumb over her lip, wetting it with my blood, and she gasps right before I enter her mouth, her tongue ready to meet me, a soft, soothing caress of lines drawn along my cut, making me shudder as what should be pain becomes sparks along my spine as her eyes lid and stare up at me with a rich crimson that holds all the subtle nuances her black irises often hid from anyone who wasn’t ready to look as closely as I always did.   That displays them for the whole world to see as she’s filled with life.   Her back arches, and she writhes under me, a moan thrumming on her lips and making the sparks turn to shivers, to tingling on the sides of my neck, to… to things I was always too ashamed to feel for her even as we two grew up and the girl became undeniably a woman. A thin woman with black eyes and soft, slender fingers, thinner than my own, unmarred by the callouses of fencing practice, so… so gentle that they made me ache for her whenever I held her cold hand, trying to will the warmth of my body to abandon me and bring her back.   To me.   I push my thumb deeper, and her tongue swirls around it with all the wet warmth I imagined a first kiss with her would give me. With all the shameful pleasure I only imagined on my own when I relieved myself of the urges I didn’t want to sully the memory of her with. When I—   Her hand clasps around my wrist, and she takes my own hand away from her face so she can glare up at me with a lower lip briefly stained crimson before she can’t help herself and her red tongue darts to clean my blood away, her eyes closing with a brief flutter, a moan coming out of her that makes me push my right hand away from her hair and into the wet sand so I can clench my fist around something and stop thinking all the things that Bianca makes me think with that sound. With that—   Her hand is closed around my throat.   Her eyes on mine.   “What did you do?” she says, her red top, dark with the wetness still on it, rising and falling more evenly than when she was trapped in sobs and self-hatred.   “Look,” I say, with none of the shame I should feel at my betrayal.   She follows my eyes and finds the wound on her side gone, only angry red to mark the now absent tear in her skin.   She pulls me down, close enough that her warm breath washes over my lips.   “You knew,” she says.   “I did,” I say, free from the long-enduring lie.   “And you didn’t tell me.”   I stare back at her as intensely as she’s looking at me, and all the things I could or should tell her rush through my mind. That I didn’t want her to feel like she now feels. That I wanted her to enjoy her life when it was given back to her, not… not self-flagellate and worry. That I was… happy. That I was so happy I couldn’t even describe how seeing her finally free of the curse she often called a dragon made me feel.   That I was selfish.   That I wanted to treasure these days, weeks, months. However long I could hold on. However long I could keep lying to her just to watch her be carefree, happy, enthusiastic, and as full of life as she’s always deserved.   That I—   My phone rings.   We both look toward my dropped bag, and I go back to meet her eyes, where a raised eyebrow waits for me.   “Aren’t you going to pick it up?” she asks.   I cock my own eyebrow and look at the exposed, pale wrist of the hand she’s grabbing my neck with.   Then she… she does a Bianca thing. Embarrassment flies across her face like it did when I ribbed her about her rumor and my own not being that dissimilar, and she looks aside, toward my bag, before letting me go, her fingers briefly trailing up the side of my neck and holding my nape before she takes her hand off with a whip of further embarrassment.   I smile. I… I can’t help it. I smile as broadly as I ever have, just watching her below me, being… Bianca.   “Luke?” she asks with a tiny, flustered voice.   “Yes?” I answer through a throat that once again warns me with a flare of pain.   “Pick up the darn phone.”   I almost laugh.   Then I, regretfully, push away from where I’m kneeling over her and grab my bag, rummaging through it to get the still-ringing phone, and… huh.   “Brian?” I ask.   “Lucca? Where the Hell are you?”   “Why do you have my number?”   “… You’re in the group chat for the club, genius.”   I blink. By my side, Bianca stifles a very Bianca giggle.   “Ah,” I say.   “’Ah?’ ‘Ah?’ Is that—you just rushed out of here like somebody was being chased by a were—monster! Or something! Some unspecific yet alarming incident! And you haven’t picked up the phone until now! What the Hell, man?”   “Somebody told me Bianca was in an accident,” I say, my smile turning bitter as I realize that I don’t know who warned me or why. The Dean wouldn’t have hidden her identity, so it’s somebody who—   “Bianca? Your girlfriend? Is she all right—”   “Not my girlfriend,” I automatically interrupt.   “Stop bragging about your anime childhood friend and tell me she’s all right!”   Thin fingers wrap around my own, and I look up to see crimson eyes in front of mine.   “I’ll be all right, Brian; it was just a scare. Thanks for worrying,” she says into the stolen phone, her tone warm and fond, her smile soft and tender, her touch gentle and—   “Ah. You heard me. And, of course, unlike the philistine, you know what I mean when I say ‘anime childhood friend,’ so I guess I should apologize, but, in my defense, you two are basically the trope incarnate, so allow me to say that I’m a firm believer in ‘first girl wins’ and I hope he gets a damn clue before—”   Bianca hangs up.   Then, her cheeks almost as red as her eyes, she hugs me, hides her face in my chest, and giggles and snorts until I join in.   Even if I don’t know what a damn ‘anime childhood friend’ is supposed to be.   And even if I suspect it.       ======================= =======================   So, Lucca and Bianca will continue being Lucca and Bianca in the next chapter. One that ran away from me.   And that is about 10k words long.   Yeah, I wonder why it got delayed…   Anyway, it was somewhat hard to write, seeing as they didn’t want to collaborate with the planned outline, but I think the end result’s quite fitting. Also, it’s extremely NSFW, so there’s also that.   See you in about two weeks. I hope the story remains interesting so far. Let me know how I’m doing in the comments below, please like and subscribe, etc.   …   This chapter brought to you by Raid Shadow Legends @shaderic!   (I just couldn’t resist.)   [font="Times]As always, I’d like to thank my credited supporters on [/font][font="Times]Patreon[/font][font="Times]: LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, Vergil1989 Crossover King, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on [/font][font="Times]Amazon[/font][font="Times]. Thank you for reading![/font] [font="Times] [/font]          

Chapter 4 - Chapter 4

Asami sighed as she rolled to the side and looked at her alarm clock. Four in the morning. Six hours remaining until the meeting she had spent the last six days anticipating was upon her. She had gone to bed at her usual time, but only managed to sleep for a few hours. The rest of the night had been spent tossing and turning from side to side, a case of jittery nerves keeping her awake. Asami threw her sheets and blankets to the side as she hopped out of bed. She trundled into her living room and sat down on the couch before grabbing her laptop. Once it had woken up she pulled up the email she had received from Korra. 'Hey there, love. Since you don't have a phone I can text we'll have to do directions a little differently. Head to the southeast corner of the Harmony Tower parking lot at ten and you can follow me from there.' Harmony Tower. A tall metal structure covered in lights that were turned on at night and a popular spot for couples to go on dates. Korra was not without a certain sense of irony Asami dryly noted. They weren't a couple, but they would be coupling today. She set the computer aside and headed to her kitchen. Sleep wasn't a possibility so she might as well get some coffee and breakfast to help her cope with that fact. Afterwards she wandered back through her bedroom and into her walk-in closet. She bit her lip as she considered all the possibilities before her. Picking an outfit was normally a trivial, but today she had an extra factor to consider. Whatever she was putting on would be coming off later and the more clothes she wore the longer getting undressed would take and the longer she would have to wait to be naked for Korra. After a few moments of looking around her closet she grabbed a black high cut tank top with wide shoulder straps, faded blue jeans, a side-tie bikini bottom and a pair of flip flops. On a normal day Asami's showers would only take a few minutes, but this time she lingered underneath the warm water. Her hands made their way up and down her body as she covered herself in suds before rinsing them off multiple times. The only place untouched by the suds was between her legs, water was the only liquid she used in that region. Once she was satisfied Asami grabbed a can of shaving cream and sprayed it onto her legs and armpits before picking up a razor. When she was done with that onerous task Asami dried herself off, pulled her clothes on then wrapped her towel around her head before staring at herself in the mirror. After a moment's consideration she opened a drawer and pulled out a tube of dark red lipstick, the one piece of makeup she felt comfortable wearing on an average day. Upon exiting the bathroom, Asami paused as she looked at the clock. It was only a few minutes after five and still dark outside. She had four hours and change to go before it was time to leave. Asami let out a long-suffering sigh and headed to her living room and flopped sideways onto the couch. She grabbed the remote from the coffee table and turned the TV on. Asami paused as she considered what streaming site to load and her eyes flicked towards the porn app she used. After a brief spell Asami shook her head and moved to a different one instead. If she went for porn then Asami knew she wouldn't be able to resist putting a hand down her pants and going at it like she usually did. On most days that wouldn't be a problem, but today it would be best to save her stamina for later. She pulled up her favorite comedy show and settled in for the long haul. Each episode was only twenty or so minutes long, but today they all seemed interminable to her, the conclusion of each marking a near half hour passed. Twelve episodes later and it was time to go. Asami grabbed her wallet and opened it up before starting to pull things out. Credit cards, rewards cards from the stores she frequented, her Future Industries ID badge, insurance information. By the time she was done the only things left were her drivers license, which Korra had already seen, and a thousand yuans in cash. She tucked the wallet into her pocket, grabbed her keys while leaving her phone behind and headed out the door. Maybe it was paranoia, but if she got robbed then she wouldn't lose anything of consequence save a bit of money Asami could easily replace. Like last week there was a doorman down in the lobby, but it was still in the morning so John was there instead of Lee. He waved at her as she went by. “Hope you have a good day, Miss Sato.” “Oh, believe me I'm going to.” Asami replied with a small smile. A short walk later and she was in her car and heading onto the road. Twenty minutes after that and she was at the parking lot. As Asami began navigating her way towards the southeast corner she found herself wishing this meeting had been scheduled for a weekday. The lot was full and there were dozens of people walking in every direction as they had just arrived or were leaving the tourist destination. Eventually she got the edge and then she saw Korra standing near a red jeep that had racks mounted on the roof and rear of the vehicle though they were currently empty. She was wearing a pair of black gym shorts and a gray tee-shirt despite the chill in the air. Asami lightly tapped on her horn and Korra looked up from her phone, her head swiveling from side to side until her eyes found their way to Asami. She gave a smile and waved before getting into her car and backing out. Once Korra had gotten underway Asami moved her car forward as she began to follow the other woman out of the parking lot. When they hit red stop lights, Asami's gaze wandered the rear of the jeep out of idle curiosity. There were a few spots of dried sand and mud on the bumper and rear mounted tire. Definitely not the kind of grime you'd pick up in the city so Korra must go off-roading Asami mused. As they continued to drive the skyscrapers of downtown began to grow smaller behind them and soon they vanished from sight as trees took their place. Eventually Korra turned into a driveway in front of a white house with a green lawn and a tree with smooth gray bark and yellowing leaves that hadn't fallen off yet. The garage door at the end of the driveway opened up and Korra drove forward, parking on one side before waving her hand at Asami to come forward. As she eased her vehicle forward Asami could see a mountain bike standing next to a kayak that was leaning upright against the wall. After Asami had parked her car Korra shut the garage door and waited for Asami to join her before they headed into the house. “You can leave your shoes here.” Korra pointed at a black shoe shelf just past the garage door. Asami stepped out of her flipflops as Korra pulled her sneakers off without untying them and opened a second door that led into the rest of the house. They hadn't gotten more than a few steps inside when Asami heard a whining sound and an animal came rushing into the room. It stood half a meter tall, was covered in a thick and entirely white coat of fur and its triangular ears pointed straight up. The dog rushed up to Korra, thick tail excitedly wagging from side to side. She rubbed its head for a moment before pointing at Asami. “Achtung.” The dog looked at Asami and it moved closer, sniffing at her hand before woofing once. Asami glanced at Korra for a moment, unsure of herself. “What did you just say?” Korra waved dismissively and she pointed again, but not at Asami this time. “Go to your spot, Naga.” Naga woofed again and happily trotted away. “Okay, come on love. This way.” Korra took a hold of Asami's hand and began leading her towards a door not far from where Naga was lying down on a mattress. When Korra got to the door she pushed it open and stepped inside. Directly in front of them was a flat-screen TV hanging on the wall and past it was a closet with sliding doors. Adjacent to the door they had come through was a desk covered in cardboard boxes. An identical looking desk was on the far side of the room and it was holding several glass display cases though Asami couldn't make out their contents from here. The main feature of the room was a bed that had been neatly made and had a black blanket over white sheets and there were several white pillows that looked like they had been fluffed up recently. Asami swallowed nervously as she looked at the bed. She had been dreaming of this, day and night, at work and at home alike, since scheduling this appointment. Now that the moment had come and that she was finally here, looking at the actual spot where she was going to get fucked, she couldn't move. Her feet felt as heavy as lead ingots, countless butterflies were fluttering in her stomach and her mouth had gone dry. “Are you all right, love? You're looking a little pale.” Korra said with a concerned look on her face. Asami raised her gaze, ever so slowly, from the bed to the woman she was going to share it with. “I'm scared.” She admitted in a quiet voice. “I haven't done this before.” “At all?” Asami nodded quickly and Korra shrugged. “Nothing wrong with that, at least not to me. I've never agreed with how society treats virginity and sex in general for that matter. It shames people for not getting laid, but then attacks them for having sex before marriage at the same time and god forbid if you enjoy sex because then you must be a slut.” Korra laughed, but it was more sardonic than humorous. “I don't care if you're a virgin. It doesn't make you less worthwhile or diminish the things you've accomplished or who you are as a person. All being a virgin really means is that you haven't learned what to do in bed yet, but don't worry. I know enough for both of us and you'll learn as we go. First things first though. An hour is three-fifty.” Asami pulled her wallet out and grabbed several bills between her fingers, counted it out then held the money towards Korra. The other woman took it, double checked the amount before placing it in one of the desk drawers before heading back up to Asami. She took a hold of Asami's hands and gently led her over to the bed and yanked the blanket off with her free hand. She then laid herself down on her side and patted the bed beside her. When Asami had joined her on the bed Korra scooted a little closer. “Have you ever kissed someone before?” Asami quickly shook her head. “May I be the first?” Asami gave a shaky nod and Korra leaned in and brushed her lips against Asami's. The other woman remained stiff and didn't react. “Everyone kisses differently, but there's a few general rules to keep in mind.” Korra murmured before continuing, each fleeting touch barely applying any pressure. After several more she pulled back just enough to continue speaking. “The first part of kissing is all about the lips and tongue so try not to open your mouth too much because then you're dealing with teeth and spit.” Asami parted her lips a tad and this time she was the one to make contact and Korra murmured softly in approval before pulling back a few centimeters and smiling encouragingly. “That's it, love. Now the second part is the tongue. The most important thing is not to go fast. You don't want to just jam it into my mouth. Take your time, maybe tease me a little by brushing it against my lips. When you go in, stay slow and rub your tongue against mine. Like this.” Korra opened her lips, and when Asami did the same, she pressed their lips together once again and her tongue eased its way in before brushing against Asami's. A low murmur came from Asami's throat while a thrill of excitement ran down her spine as she mimicked the gesture. This time Korra made no attempt to pull back and the kisses continued and grew more intense as Asami found herself starting to relax and even gaining some measure of confidence in what she was doing. After a few minutes Korra pulled away again and she placed her hand on Asami's cheek. “May I undress you, love?” Both of her cheeks began to grow warmer, but the cheek that Korra was touching felt definitively hotter than the other one. As Asami lay there, looking at Korra, the full implication of the question hit her. It wasn't just a question of taking her clothes off, Korra was asking permission for what came after that. She sat up. “Yes.” Korra's hands dipped to the sides of Asami's tank top and pulled upwards on it, revealing a pale pair of breasts. Next she unfastened the button on Asami's jeans, undid the zipper then pulled them off, albeit not without Asami having to lift her rear off the bed. Once the knots holding Asami's bikini had been undone, and the garment tossed aside with the rest of her clothes, every part of her was exposed to the other woman's eyes and eventually her touch. Asami shivered as she looked at Korra, her nerves beginning to get the better of her once again. Korra smiled softly as she looked back at Asami, eyes bright with desire as they roamed her body. “You are so, so beautiful, love. Your hair is incredible and so are your eyes. Your skin is flawless and I love how long your legs are. Your breasts are nice and perky and this-” She reached down to gently nudge Asami's knees to the side so she could get a better look at what was between them “-is the most perfect pussy I've ever seen. Honestly I should be paying you so I can get at it.” Deep down Asami had a hunch that Korra would compliment all of her clients like this, but it didn't matter to her. Hearing someone gush, and convincingly so at that, over her body had the effect of making her cheeks redden and her body grow warmer at the notion of being desired by another person. “Are you going to take your clothes off too, Korra?” Korra's answer to that question was to take her shirt off and playfully toss it at Asami's face. She grabbed the shirt and removed it from her face and was promptly rewarded by the sight of Korra's bare breasts. Her hands twitched at the sight and Asami swallowed as she stared. Korra gave a knowing smile at the look on Asami's face and she stood up off the bed, facing away from Asami. Her fingers hooked into the elastic band of those shorts and Korra began to push down, bending forward at the waist as she did so and staying like that even after the shorts had come off. “Now if anything in this is perfect, it's that butt.” Asami said admiringly as she stared at the rear end that had convinced her Korra was the right person for this. “I wish my butt looked that good. You're a lucky woman.” A laugh filled the room as Korra turned her head to look back at Asami. “Luck had nothing to do with it. I worked hard in the weight room for this ass. Glad to hear it was worth it.” She straightened up, much to Asami's regret, and re-joined her on the bed. “How much do you squat?” Asami asked, having a hunch what exercise was responsible for said ass. “I've been thinking of lifting weights, but I've never gotten around to it.” “Right now my one rep max is about a hundred and twenty kilograms. I might be able to go higher, but I'm pretty happy with where I'm at. I don't know if you'll like lifting weights, but you should definitely try it out at least once. Getting stronger is good for your body's health.” Korra put a hand on Asami's shoulder and her eyes made their way down along Asami's body towards her hips as she spoke. “Now then, would you like a massage? It'll help you relax and when you're ready I can eat you out.” Asami looked down towards her groin then to the beautiful woman lying at her side. “Thank you, but no.” She said after a bit. “Right now I want to touch as much of you as I can so how about we just caress each other for a few then you eat me out.” Korra scooted closer towards Asami before throwing one of her legs over so that she was seated on on her lap. She leaned down and planted a light kiss on Asami's lips then grabbed Asami's hands and placed them on her sides. “By all means, love. Feel free to touch me wherever you'd like.” Feeling emboldened by Korra's words, Asami's hands began to move. They slowly glided downwards along those glorious hips, enjoying the way the smooth skin felt against her fingertips whilst savoring the muscles beneath them even more. When she made it to Korra's calves Asami let go and she started to run her hands along Korra's arms, along her shoulders then up her neck. When Asami got to her face Korra tilted her head to the side, further pressing her cheek against a palm. Asami let her hands linger then she started to trace a path down to Korra's breasts, taking one in each hand, and gently squeezing with her fingers. Korra gave an encouraging smile and she leaned forward so that their faces were close together. “I'd say it's my turn now, but I don't want you to stop so I guess I'll get started.” Korra kissed Asami again, but this one was different than the ones earlier. Those had been quick and light pecks. This kiss was longer, deeper and fueled by a lustful intensity that Asami quickly found infecting her until she was responding in kind. Each kiss led to another at the same time the hands of both women started to roam. Once again Asami was exploring all those wonderful curves, feeling softness squish beneath her fingers while firmer areas were less yielding, but just as fun to touch. At the same time Asami could feel her excitement growing from being touched back at the same time and knowing that her body was being enjoyed in the same manner. Eventually Asami drew her head back and she took a moment to gaze up into those gorgeous eyes. “I'm ready.” Korra planted a kiss on Asami's cheek and she climbed off Asami's lap and crawled towards the end of the bed. “Scoot back a little will you, love? I need some room over here.” Asami half-shuffled-half shoved herself towards the headboard and laid down flat on her back. Korra knelt in front of Asami, positioning herself so that the two of them formed a straight line. Asami spread her feet wide apart and her breathing began to quicken with anticipation as she waited for what came next. To Asami's surprise Korra didn't go for her groin right away. Instead she crawled forward a step and raised her head higher, pressing her lips to the inside of one knee. Asami shivered, but didn't complain as the kisses continued, each one lower on the inside of her inner thigh than its predecessor. When she got within a few centimeters of the very center Korra withdrew and started the same march, but on the other leg, much to Asami's frustration. When she got to the center Korra didn't retreat and her tongue came out and ran along those wet folds from bottom to top. A guttural moan burst from Asami's mouth and her whole body tensed up at once as she clawed at the sheets, trying to find purchase in the taut fabric. She had masturbated hundreds of times in the past, but none of those sessions came anywhere close to the sensation of having another person's tongue, Korra's tongue, lick her. Jolts of electricity began firing at random as a second and then a third lick came. Asami raised her head to look down at what was happening only to see Korra's eyes intently looking back at her as that tongue started to climb higher. It found its way to her clit and began to focus on that area while fingers began to brush against her thighs. Asami began panting as they took their time in journeying towards her center, and then they were at her folds. They grazed the outsides of her labia with their tips and all the while that tongue never ceased its flat caresses. Asami gasped when the first finger made its way inside and she moaned unabashedly when a second one joined it and they started to swirl against her walls. “Oh my god.” Asami groaned. Korra didn't respond, her mouth otherwise preoccupied, but her wrist rotated until her palm was facing up and the fingers inside Asami began to curl inwards over and over, each stroke rubbing against her g-spot. The jolts inside of her began firing even faster and traveled further than earlier and her whole body began writhing as those licks and curls took turns in assailing her senses. Asami began to moan wantonly as Korra's pace never changed, not even for an instant, and then all those jolts all melded into a single paroxysm of electricity everywhere at once and Asami shrieked as ecstasy overwhelmed her. “Oh my god.” Asami murmured again with a satisfied smile on her face once her body had ceased moving of its own accord. “That was amazing.” After a moment she sat up and her gaze hungrily fixed itself on Korra. “Can I do that to you? It's only fair if I repay the favor.” “I appreciate the offer, but I'll have to pass.” Korra stated gently as she moved to lay down next to Asami once again. “One of my rules is not to let new clients go down on me. If you end up becoming one of my regulars then I'd teach you how to eat me out, but for right now I'm going to say no.” “Ah, that bites, but I understand.” Asami said, disappointed that she wouldn't get the opportunity to see what another woman would taste like today. “So, how does it feel now that you're not a virgin anymore?” Korra asked as she rolled onto her side to face Asami. “Honestly...” Asami said after staring up at the ceiling as she muddled through all of the emotions running through her at the moment. “I feel exactly the same. Don't get me wrong, I still feel really good from what you just did... but I don't feel any different.” “Right?” Korra laughed and shook her head. “People make such a big deal out of losing your virginity and it doesn't change anything when you do. Makes you wonder why people care so much in the first place. So, do you think you're satisfied with your visit or is there something else I can do for you, love?” Asami turned her head to the side to look at Korra once again and after a minute of psyching herself up she spoke. “Your reviews mentioned you have some toys. Do you have a strap-on?” “I do. Would you like me to use it on you?” “Yes. Not just here though.” Asami gestured towards her crotch. “I want to... see what's it's like to take it in the ass.” Asami finished in a suddenly timid voice. Korra's eyebrows curved upwards and her eyes flicked towards and then away from Asami's bottom. “You want to try anal do you... props for being willing to give it a shot, but I'm gonna have to pass on this as well.” Her voice was gentle as she continued to speak. “Don't get me wrong, I think anal is a lot of fun and it's why a lot of my clients come see me. The reason I'm saying no is because you're not ready for anal since this is your first time and all that. When you do anal you're pushing things in the opposite direction of what your body is used to. Getting to the point where you can comfortably, and safely, do anal takes time and effort. I'm willing to help you with that if you'd like, but not during this visit.” “Okay so no anal today. Are you willing to use a strap-on on my vagina at the very least, Korra?” The escort nodded quickly, looking a little relieved at the change of topic. “Yup. Not just yet though. Your vagina's probably still sensitive so we have to wait a few minutes before it's ready for more.” Asami glanced down towards her crotch and after a second's consideration she reached her hand towards. The second she made contact Asami's face contorted into a grimace and her fingers jumped away as if she had just burned them. “Okay yeah, that feels a little tender. I see what you mean.” Korra abruptly sat up and she swung her legs off the side of the bed before heading towards the desk opposite the bedroom door. The first thing she did was press down on the spigot of a square bottle labeled hand sanitizer and rub it all over her hands. She picked up a decently sized cloth that and one of the glass cases from the table and carried them back over to the bed. Asami's attention shifted to the glass case and she sat up to get a better view as Korra hopped back onto the bed and held the case on her lap. The rectangular case was full of objects shaped like rocks, but these were so translucent and bright that they looked more like sugary sweets than a stone. What's more is that she could make out tiny pits all over the pieces she could see, the pockmarks combining to lend a frosted patina to all of the pieces. “What are these?” “Sea glass. Basically whenever glass gets dumped in the ocean it gets rolled around and after a few decades the edges get smoothed away. Eventually it'll wash up on a beach somewhere. Collecting it is one of my hobbies.” Korra lifted the lid and picked a couple of pieces up and held them out towards Asami. “White and brown are the most common kinds of glass, but occasionally you'll find some pretty pieces worth keeping like these.” Asami carefully took the pieces Korra was offering her and she turned the piece of glass over in her hand. There were no sharp edges to either one, but she could feel a small measure of grain remaining in their surfaces as she rubbed both with her fingertips. “I've never heard of sea glass before. These are really pretty actually.” Asami placed the pieces back into the case and she started looking at the other colors present. “What's the rarest one you've found?” Korra scanned the case for a moment before she pointed at a roughly triangular teal piece. “The greens are fairly common, but this shade of green is pretty rare. That cobalt blue is rare and so is this lavender one here. The rarest ones are orange or red, but I haven't found either yet. Here's hoping though.” She closed the case and set it aside in favor of the bag she had brought. “So this is my other collection. I haven't been doing it for very long so it's pretty small right now.” She pulled the mouth of the bag opened and pulled out a chunk of rock and handed it to Asami. “This is some Alamandine Garnet I found a dig site about twenty kilometers from outside the city.” The rock wasn't much to look at until Asami turned it around to check out the other side. A large part of it was unremarkable to look at, but the remainder was covered with multi-faced dark red garnets growing in all directions. After a moment Korra held her hand out and Asami handed the stone back only to receive another in return. “This one is magnetite.” Half of the stone was merely a porous rock but the other half consisted of a jagged mess of silvery triangles and cubes that glinted in the light as Asami turned the rock one way than the other. “I really like this one.” Asami stated as she kept admiring the mineral. “Kinda looks like something you'd see on a sci-fi show. It's name even sounds futuristic. Mag-ne-tite.” Asami lingered on each of the syllables out as she said them. “Do you have any others, Korra?” Korra shook her head as she took the magnetite back from Asami and returned it to the bag. “No, I'm afraid not. These are the only two I've gotten so far. I want to go digging again, but I haven't gotten around to it yet. Maybe next month.” Korra picked the bag and case up and took them back over to the desk they had been on. “Okay, can you check your vagina again for me to see if you're ready?” Asami slid one hand down between her legs and she gingerly slid a finger along the part of her in question. “Getting better, but I'm not there yet so we have a few minutes still. Can I ask you something while we're waiting?” “Sure, what it is it?” “How did you end up becoming an escort?” For a split second Korra was pursing her lips then she shrugged and sat on the corner of the bed and turned so she was facing Asami. “Well, I suppose I can't blame you for being curious, but the answer is kinda boring to be honest. I don't drink or do drugs. I don't have any kind of debt and none of the other cliches about sex workers apply to me. Hell, I don't even need the money, but I can't say that I mind it. Ultimately though I got into this because it's fun.” “It's fun?” Asami repeated dumbly, the words swirling around in her head. “Yup. Once you cut past all the bullshit ideas people have about sex then it's just another part of life. It also happens to be something that I'm good at and people are willing to pay me money to have sex with them so it's a win-win.” Korra gave Asami a knowing look during the last bit and Asami blushed and looked away. “Point taken. I guess I've watched too many movies because what you're talking about is how they always portray escorts. I don't know why I thought that was accurate because the studios always portray other stuff wrong for the sake of being more dramatic.” “Right? “ Korra said as she chuckled dryly at Asami's comment. “Anyone who does sex work in the movies always needs someone to save them or they hate the career they've gotten into. I don't think I've seen a movie where the sex worker enjoys what they're doing. Maybe if you really dug into the indie stuff you would, but not in a mainstream movie.” “That might be true, but I don't need to look. I got the real thing right here and even if it tried I don't there's a movie that could do you justice.” Asami said as while gazing admiringly at the other woman. As she sat there, it suddenly occurred to her that Korra was naked and so was she. They had been naked for some time now, but their nudity hadn't registered in her brain since her orgasm. Asami swallowed and she could feel her pulse beginning to quicken as she stared at Korra's muscles. “I think someone's ready now.” Korra commented in a mock-serious tone of voice as she noted the change of expression on Asami's face. She stood up and headed over to one of her desks, opening a drawer and pulling two things out of it. One was a set of black straps and the other was a length of black silicone with a rounded tip. Korra closed the drawer and opened another one and when her hand came out of this one it had several small red square packets and a white dispenser bottle in it. She walked back to the bed and dumped everything but the harness onto the bed. “Okay so a couple of things here. This is the smallest dildo I own. It should be fine for this, but we can go bigger if it's not working for you. The second is that I don't know how deep I can go without hurting you so we'll have to figure that out first.” Korra rotated the harness so that its triangular shaped section was facing forward before putting her legs through the gaps and cinching it tight against her legs. She sat down on the bed and ripped open one of the packets she had been carrying. Inside was a transparent piece of latex which she unrolled into a tube and squeezed the dildo into it. “You're putting a condom on the dildo?” Asami blurted out. “Why? You can't get me pregnant.” “Pregnant no, but toys can spread STD's or STI's so I wrap them whenever they get used. Safe sex and all that.” Korra pressed down on the bottle's plunger and a viscous fluid dropped into her waiting palm which she then smeared all over the latex covering the toy. “Lay down on your back and spread your legs for me... yes that's good. I'm going to put this into you now. Tell me when you want me to stop.” Asami shivered when the tip of the toy grazed her folds and she gasped as Korra eased it in, taking her breath away. As it got deeper she could feel herself stretching around the dildo and at the same time it was satisfying an ache she hadn't known was there before now while creating another one. After several seconds it came to a halt and Asami looked up at Korra, questioningly. “Why did you stop?” “Take a look. It's almost all the way in you. I can't actually go any deeper because I'd lose my grip.” Korra pointed out. Asami pushed herself up on one elbow and she glanced down at her groin only to see Korra was right. Korra's fingers were holding onto the base of the toy and they were right next to her entrance. Korra adjusted her grip a fraction to make sure she was holding onto the condom and she slowly pulled the toy all the way out of Asami. She loosened a strap on the front of the harness and slid the toy into an o-ring before tightening the strap again to hold it in place. Korra shuffled forward on her knees until she was positioned between Asami's legs. She reached down with one hand and grasped the toy, carefully aiming it and pushing her hips forward until it was partway inside Asami once again. “I'm going to start thrusting now, love. I don't know how fast to go for you so you have to let me know if you want me to speed up or slow down.” When the dildo entered her for the second time Asami murmured in satisfaction and she waited breathlessly for it to start moving. Korra didn't take long to oblige Asami's desire as she placed a hand on each pale thigh and began to rock her own hips forwards. After a few painstakingly slow strokes Asami took a hold of Korra's wrists and pulled them up towards her shoulders. “I want you to hold me while you fuck me, Korra.” Asami said in a husky whisper. Korra slipped her hands beneath Asami, one finding its way to the back of her neck while the other pressed between her shoulder blades. Once her hands were in position Korra began moving her hips again, but this time she was pushing down more than forward thanks to the change in angles. Asami groaned softly and she wrapped her arms around Korra. Each stroke was deliciously slow, but it seemed as if the energy from each was still pouring through her. Her nerves were lighting up all throughout her body and every part of her seemed that much more sensitive because of it. The feel of Korra's breasts pressed against hers, the strong arms holding her, those hands helping to keep her in place, but most of all the toy moving back and forth inside of her until it came to an abrupt pause and Asami frowned at Korra only to be surprised with a question. "Is this fast enough, love?" "I like the pace, but go deeper and a little harder please." The next thrust saw Korra push her hips even further until the dildo was completely buried inside of Asami. "Ooooh yes! Just like that!" Asami gasped in ecstasy as her fingers dug into the other woman's back. Korra smiled, clearly enjoying the results that her actions were eliciting and she quickly got back to what she had been doing before. The thrusts were as slow as before, but during each one Asami was sliding back and forth along the bed as she clung to Korra to keep the other woman's body pressed tight against hers. During the next minute the pleasure kept growing and soon Asami was shamelessly panting and squeezing Korra even tighter, but after that it leveled off. The pleasure didn't falter, but it wasn't growing any further and she wasn't getting any closer to anything resembling an explosion like earlier or any kind of finale for that matter. Sweat began dripping out of Asami's hairline and she had to wipe it away with one hand before it got into her eyes. Eventually Korra sat up and reached down to squeeze her fingers against the end of the condom before pulling the toy out. Korra didn't give Asami time to react as she immediately rolled to her left so that she was lying on her side and her fingers, still slick with lube, dipped between Asami's legs and found their way to an area already wet from earlier. Asami gasped as they began rubbing up and down much like Korra's tongue had been doing earlier and her right hand flailed through the air before landing on Korra's hip. Korra's fingers came to a halt and she took hold of Asami's wrist and brought it upwards and positioned it so that Asami was cradling Korra's head and neck in the crook of her elbow. A shiver ran down Asami's spine as those fingers resumed rubbing her clit. The jolts of pleasure from earlier began firing once again and Asami squeezed her eyes shut as her grip on Korra tightened. Asami began to shudder a few moments later and her quivering hips rose towards the ceiling as the sweet bliss of release overtook her. Once it had passed Asami frowned at the ceiling as she rested her hands on her stomach. “That was weird. I liked what you were doing with the strap-on and it felt really good, but I wasn't getting off. Was I doing something wrong?” “No, absolutely not.” Korra declared emphatically. “You weren't doing anything wrong and there isn't anything wrong with you either for that matter. Every woman's body is different. Some women can get off from just vaginal penetration, but a lot of women can't. You might be one of the latter group, same as me.” Asami's brow furrowed as she turned her head to look at Korra. “Huh. I didn't know that... I guess there's a lot about sex that I've never learned. Suppose I should do some research when I get back home.” Korra leaned in to give Asami a quick peck on the cheek. “You definitely should. Educating yourself can go a long way, but at the end of the day you still need to practice what you learned. If you want I can provide you a reference for another provider or you could come visit me again. But before you go home or do any of that that my water closet is just across the hall. If you don't pee after sex then you could get a UTI.” Asami hadn't managed to catch her breath yet. She was still naked in another persons home. She hadn't gone to the bathroom yet, let alone get off of this bed. Even so, she was still certain of one thing. Korra was going to fuck her again and when that day arrived Asami was going to fuck her right back.  

Chapter 2 - Lacmere University – Chapter 3: An Oath and a Promise

Lacmere University – Chapter 3: An Oath and a Promise [4.4k Words]   Lucca   ‘He’s not a good swordsman, is he?’   ‘Yeah. Pity we’re fencers.’   I stare blankly up at the exposed beams crossing the ceiling of my room in the fencing club’s dorm and push away the unwanted snippet of yesterday’s conversation.   The morning is crisp, right after dawn, and the folded sheet is cool under my hands.   This is going to be unpleasant.   I force myself to get up, then remove the top of my button-up pajamas because I always hated the way that cloth rubs against my wrists when I exercise.   Not as much as I hate stretching, though, but since when has hating something stopped me from doing it?   My feet are together as I stand on the cold, dark wooden floor before bending down, keeping my legs straight until I touch the floor with my knuckles, then the back of my hands, then… then I strain until my taut hamstrings hurt in that way only stretches do, and I grab my ankles to pull down harder.   Then I hold.   I count up to sixty. Sixty seconds of measured pain, bending down lower with every exhale, then holding as I inhale until I reach the target and I’m allowed to slowly stand up.   Then it’s the other stretches. The splits, the calf stretches, the wrist mobilization… the morning routine.   My breath is a bit rougher after I’m done, but not to the point of exertion. That’s what comes now.   I drop to the floor, my body straight, my toes pushing against the wood boards, and I set my hands by the side of my shoulders before pushing myself up on my knuckles.   I am not a martial artist. Not a swordsman.   But I’m still used to the pain of pushing through. Of my skin grinding against old wood covered with thick varnish, glossy enough that I can see my eyes looking back at me when I hold myself at the lowest point of my pushup, with my bare chest hovering millimeters above the chill air clinging to the floor.   The eyes looking back at me are as cold and expressionless as ever.   It doesn’t matter. I just push away.   Then I go back down. And up. And down. And I keep counting each repetition, holding my body straight and in perfect form, the motion smooth even as my muscles start to burn and demand that I rest.   I don’t.   Not until I hear a low whistle coming from my window.   “A girl could get used to getting up to this kind of show, Luke,” she says, anglicizing my name just because she can get away with it.   Because she’s the only one who’s allowed to.   “I am almost done,” I grunt out as I hold myself up and break the rhythm of my breath to answer her before returning to the slow, even cycle of taking air in when I go down and exhaling when I push up.   “Pity. Maybe I should come earlier tomorrow?” she asks with what would be a sultry tone in any other woman telling me these words in this situation.   But there’s a bit of a giggle in there. Joy that she’s free to let out now.   Sweat drops from my brow, and there’s a small puddle under me that is just deep enough to blur my reflection staring back at me from the dark wood.   I still can see myself smiling.   Then I remember… a lot of things and go back to being impassive.   And to my pushups.   I keep working out until I reach the count of a hundred. I can do more. Much more, after all these years of training myself.   But, for a morning routine, a hundred is enough.   I sit down cross-legged on the floor, the cold seeping through my blue pajama pants, and I wipe my brow with the back of my hand because I always forget to grab a towel before I do this.   “Jumping rope now?” she asks as if she doesn’t know.   I still take the chance to look at her, answering with a silent nod as I take in… Bianca.   Short hair black enough that the grey morning light is like shimmering silver raining across it, cheeks full and red that highlight the soft, caring smile waiting for my eyes, and her own black eyes answering me when I met them.   She’s sitting on my messy bed, the open window she just climbed through letting light stream from behind her, and she’s leaning back, holding herself with her hands resting under her shoulders, her body as straight as any pushup or plank would demand as the heels of her combat boots lightly rest on the floor, not that far away from where I’m sitting.   “I can’t imagine this isn’t boring for you,” I say.   She answers with an impish, exaggerated smile and an eyebrow waggle that makes me scoff, and that, in turn, makes her laugh.   So I turn away before she sees just how easily that coaxed a smile out of me, forcing the corners of my lips back down as I go to the archaic secretary desk that came with the room, the ancient piece of furniture made from the same dark, somewhat reddish wood as the floor, with a circular cover and enough little drawers that Bianca spent a good deal of our first day here rummaging through them in search of any kind of hidden mystery or clue while I tried to unpack my things without…   I push away that particular thought as efficiently as I did yesterday’s conversation between Patrick and Brian and grab the jumping rope dangling from the back of the incongruously modern chair, then I set my smart band to keep count of my jumps.   A target of three hundred. I can do more, but… this isn’t a marathon but a sprint.   So I step over the thin line of plastic-wrapped steel thread and wait for the band on my left wrist to vibrate, signaling the start of the exercise.   I focus.   No other thoughts are allowed to intrude. Just the fast rhythm of the rope hitting the floor right after I jump up the barest amount for it to pass under me, my hands whipping the rope faster and faster until I have to force myself to keep breathing rather than hold it in while my legs burn worse than my still tired arms, my chest heaving with the ragged passage of air, the loose muscles bouncing up and down at odds to my jumps, right on the verge of pain with how fast I’m going.   The band vibrates. That’s a hundred jumps.   Focus. More focus. I feel the rope brushing right under my toes, and I have to refrain from chastising myself for the near miss as I jump as fast as I can go, faster than most can sprint, still in synch with the whipping motion of my wrists.   Another vibration. Two hundred.   Sweat drips down my body, and my skin is cold. As cold as Bianca was when—   I hit the front of my right foot with a crack that echoes inside the small room, and I catch Bianca about to move toward me out of the corner of my eye.   I shake my head, step over the rope, jump.   And focus.   I keep jumping as fast as I can until the last vibration signals the goal of three hundred.   Then I take a single, burning, pained deep breath and open the door to the small bathroom attached to the room.   “Oh? Going for a shower with a girl in your room? How bold—what the heck do you think you’re doing?” she says with a hint of actual anger.   I look at her and silently tilt my head.   Then I reach up and grab the pull-up bar I installed a few days ago.   I make sure to engage my traps, turning the exercise into a full-body motion as I slowly rise with my head inside the bathroom and my legs bent at the hip, held straight in front of me, parallel to the floor and inside the bedroom.   Then I keep going until everything burns.   “You’re going to overwork yourself,” she says as she scuttles back on my bed, sitting in a more conventional way before she blinks and looks down, realizing that what she’s sitting on is an unmade, open bed and shooting me an apologetic, sheepish look before standing up and throwing the bedcovers up.   And then she sits down.   Only to pat the blue covers by her side.   I answer with an inquiring eyebrow, and she rolls her eyes, inviting me once again, more forcefully this time, the slap of her hand on the mattress sounding almost like a drum before she gives me that look that I learned years ago is not to be argued with, even if it was for quite different reasons back then.   Back when she wore the white, airy sundresses her mother picked for her rather than the forest green cargo pants packed with all those pockets that she’s now so enthusiastic about filling with all sorts of things that I don’t know what she plans to do with, from river stones with a hole in them, to a silver rosary, and…   And I can’t pretend I don’t know.   I just wish I didn’t.   That I could look at my childhood friend sitting on my bed with her dark green pants and red, sleeveless crop top, the black leather jacket opened and hanging down her arms to show me creamy shoulders and not have to think about all the things she wants to find and all those that I don’t want her to learn.   But… But she’s getting more impatient, and I don’t know how much more my poor abused mattress can take, so I walk to sit down beside her—   And end up, somehow, lying down with my head on her lap and thin fingers running through my scalp.   “It’s been a while since we did this,” she whispers with a gentle smile that I can’t help but answer, even if it’s with a hint of bitterness.   “We grew up,” I say, refraining from reaching up and tucking a single lock of straight, glossy black hair behind her slightly pointy ear.   “You can say that again…” she mutters, trailing off as her eyes move from mine and…   Uh…   “Bianca?” I ask, somewhat unsure.   “Yes?” she answers distractedly as her finger slowly trails down my breast bone, seemingly chasing after a droplet of sweat as I still completely under her touch, watching with my mouth half-open as she lifts her hand and examines the gleaming moisture on the tip of her forefinger, the nostrils of her button nose flaring open, her lips parting, and—   “Bianca,” I repeat.   She blinks at her finger, then slowly looks down at me, her red cheeks darkening as her small, crimson tongue darts past her lips.   “Sorry! Sorry, I… I don’t know what came over me…” she says with a hint of distress.   I could tell her.   I could tell her precisely what is going on. Why she’s been acting the way she has since we came here, to Lacmere University, after we got an offer that I couldn’t refuse.   But…   ‘This is Bianca; I hope you’ll be great friends,’ a woman that I didn’t know told me as my mother gave me a nervous smile and stood by the side of her uncomfortably quiet child.   ‘Hi,’ a shy, pale girl wearing a white sundress and grabbing her mother’s hand greeted me before she looked up with a glint of interest. ‘Do you like reading?’   I didn’t. Not particularly. It was just one of those things that I did when I was asked to.   I still don’t.   I just… like to hear her talk about the books she reads.   “Don’t worry about it,” I tell her before I force a playful, unnatural smile on my lips. “Puberty had to hit you at some point,” I say before throwing an insulting look at a bust slight enough that she’s self-conscious about it.   This, of course, ends with the gentle caress across my sweaty hair turning into a tight, somewhat painful grab and a girl with dark eyes bending over me to shoot me a murderous look.   Which, after the pain of my stretches, the burn of my pushups, the throb of the abused skin on my knuckles, the welt of steel thread hitting my foot, and the dull throb of my entire, overworked body…   It’s quite refreshing, if I’m being entirely honest.   ***   We don’t share all of our classes. Bianca did force me to take world history with her, and I agreed because it aligned with my vague ideas about sampling a bit of each available major even as I focused on the classes I would need to qualify for a sports sciences degree, the one tattered remnant of what had once been a rigid plan for my next few years of education and my career afterward.   So we do at least meet three times a week in the imposingly large auditoriums that most classes take place in, except those with eccentric enough professors that they may take place in the archery field by the side of the castle’s walls or in the underground facilities that most long-time students don’t hesitate to call dungeons.   I’m just glad that they can’t give us detention in college.   I think.   Still, even if Bianca and I don’t meet for most of our classes, we always go to the cafeteria together. We did through the entirety of high school, and there’s no reason not to keep doing it now.   ‘I missed you last week,’ a boy who was still disturbingly quiet said.   ‘I’m sorry. My illness…’ she said, fidgeting in their corner of the playground under a tree with white flowers that could’ve exacerbated her allergies but that she still loved napping under, with an open book resting over her belly.   ‘No. No, Bianca, I—sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you,’ the boy said, more solemn than he already tended to be.   ‘You didn’t,’ she answered, grabbing his hand with her smaller, colder one. ‘I’m glad that you missed me, Luke.’   The boy stared at her smile, her white teeth peeking between pale pink lips.   ‘My name’s Lucca,’ he said, insisting yet again on something that he had given up on months ago.   ‘Luka’s a girl’s name. There’s even a song that starts just like that: My Name’s Luka, I live on the second floor—’   ‘Your singing’s awful.’   ‘You can’t say that to a girl!’ she yelled.   ‘You can’t change someone’s name!’ he shot back.   And then they spent the rest of the lunch break talking and… and pretending that there hadn’t been a week when she had been absent.   “Missed me?” she says right in my ear, her arms wrapped around my neck and her body pressed against my back as she hangs from me in a way that is as affectionate as it is close to strangling me.   “With every beat of my heart that we spend apart,” I say, pretending to lie.   “Awww, you say the sweetest things. No wonder I have to keep warning off the girls crowding you,” she says with sarcasm that is punctuated by the wet, loud kiss she lies on my cheek.   “I don’t have time for girls,” I say, shrugging before I grab her forearms and pull them forward and away from my throat. “I have my hands full with just one.”   Bianca, rather than answer with an ironic quip, goes silent before she slowly climbs down from my back and steps around me.   She’s standing on the grass by the side of the soil path that circles the castle’s walls on the way to the cafeteria, looking at me, and…   And, for the first time in years, I don’t know how to read her eyes.   “Hey,” she says, “if you ever feel like I’m… cramping your style, or, you know…”   I blink at her. At Bianca being once again the shy girl scuffing the tip of her shoe on the ground, holding her arms behind her back, darting looks at me before she looks down at the lush grass that turns into a forest at her back.   I… recognize what I could say. What I…   What I can’t say.   “Don’t be ridiculous,” I say instead, rolling my eyes before I flick my finger at the tip of her nose, making her yelp and cover it with both hands before she shoots me a glare that I pretend I’m unaffected by as I tilt my head invitingly and start walking toward the cafeteria.   I look ahead of me and see the squat, long building that circles a section of the castle’s tall walls, walls that now have a new gate crossing them, leading from the outer building to the kitchens inside the courtyard and to corridors that allow the faculty staff to go in and out of the cafeteria without having to leave through the castle’s main gate or crossing the dry channel that Brian is sure will one day turn into a fully functional moat.   I briefly wonder how Brian would deal with… with my situation. What he and his old books would have to say about what I’m going through.   But I swore an oath.   And it’s one I’ll never break.   ***   “This is an abomination,” I say, glaring at the piece of bread with molten cheese and tomato sauce dripping from it.   Bianca, sitting across from me on the long wood table, is giggling.   Of course she is.   “Seriously, why do you insist on inflicting this on me? I know what actual pizza is supposed to be like, Bianca. You’ve met my grandparents. You’ve been to Naples with me. How do you even use the same word for this piece of soggy bread topped with Emmental of all cheeses as you would with an actual mozzarella—you’re laughing at me.”   “No, no! Please, do go on! Tell me all about soggy bread and French cheese—”   “French? I’m talking mozzarella, not, not—not brie, camembert, Rochefort, or—”   “You really know a lot about French cheese, for somebody who despises them—”   “I don’t despise French cheese. Their cheese may be the one redeeming thing that nation has—”   “What about the wine?”   “Oh, don’t. Burgundy is so overrated. You want a nice, smooth wine that doesn’t overpower the palate? How about an actual chianti and not that—you are laughing at me.”   The girl in front of me, who has gone red from being unable to breathe, lifts both hands in a placating gesture as she tries and fails to look like she isn’t laughing.   At me.   I cross my arms, regain my poise, refrain from sneering down at the affront to my grandparents' craft, and wait for her to—to stop making it so hard not to smile.   “Sorry,” she finally says, grabbing a slice of the culinary offense and lifting it to cover her mouth but without taking a bite. “It’s just… I like seeing you get passionate about things. You rarely do.”   There’s no reproach in her tone. Not really. Even if there could be.   ‘Why don’t you try harder, Lucca?’ the father of a boy who had lived in Italy until just a few months ago asked when he went over a report card.   ‘I didn’t fail anything, Dad,’ he said, still struggling with the new language he was forced to speak at all times, even when he was at home with a family that spoke his old tongue.   ‘No. No, you didn’t,’ the father said before he sighed and laid back against the sofa he was sitting on. ‘But you can do so much more.’   The boy held his tongue.   His father was right, after all.   ‘It’s criminal, you know?’ the father went on, looking at the tall ceiling of their new home rather than at the boy standing in front of him. ‘You’re so talented, and yet… you content yourself with mediocrity.’   The boy kept being silent.   And he remained like that until his mother introduced him to a pale, sickly girl who kept talking about her books.   “I am passionate. About a lot of things,” I say with a hint of offense when her laughing fit finally abates.   “Like fencing?” she asks with a change in tone that only makes me all too aware of the surrounding cafeteria, the chatter going on around us as we sit by the stone wall, closing us off to at least one way where others could sit with us.   “I’m good at it,” I say with a shrug that I learned when answering my father’s questions.   Her lips thin into a tense line, and her black eyes search mine in that way she has of not letting me look away even when I crave to.   “You could stop,” she says before she drops the piece of uneaten bread back on her plate and wipes her fingers with a paper napkin just so she can reach across the old wood and place her hand on top of mine.   Hers used to be so much colder…   “I don’t want to,” I say as I turn my hand over under hers so I can hold her. So I can feel fingers shorter and thinner than mine being safely within my grasp.   “Promise me,” she asks, squeezing back much tighter than I think she means to.   “I already promised you. A long time ago,” I say with a smile that is… crooked. Tentative. Trembling at the right corner.   Afraid.   “Luke… We were children,” she says, looking down and wetting her lips before looking up.   “We were,” I say with a nod.   She’s leaned forward, and I could lean in turn, meet her halfway over the table and food that she picked just to get a reaction out of me. I could kiss her brow in reassurance or her eyelids like that time I made her giggle when we were under a tree with white flowers that she loved more than her health.   I could… do a lot of things. Things that I’m ashamed to admit I’ve wanted to do for a long time.   But I won’t.   Because she knows about a promise. A single one. The oath I offered to the girl enamored with stories about heroes that she would never be able to emulate with her failing health.   She knows about me kneeling by her bed, holding her cold hand, telling her that I would live the life she wanted. That I would take up fencing, parkour, horse riding, anything. Anything that she wanted to do. That I would master them so that she could watch me and live those things through me.   She knows why I wake up every single day to a painful routine that is just the warm-up for the rest of my day. About why I stopped coasting on mere talent and finally dedicated myself to something like my father always wanted, even if he never knew that I wasn’t devoting myself to sports but to a single girl who overflowed with the dreams I lacked. Who had lent me the strength and drive I needed to live the life I now have.   She knows about who I am. About who I have become thanks to meeting her and feeling… Thanks to her.   She doesn’t know about the second oath.   ‘I’ve never even heard about your college,’ I told the recruiter, a woman taller than I was, with olive skin and hair tinted a shade of green lighter than her dress.   ‘Lacmere is prestigious among certain circles. You won’t lack for future opportunities if you enroll—not to mention that the scholarship we’re offering you is more than generous.’   We were in a vacated classroom that my high school had lent us for this one meeting that had gotten me out of AP Algebra, so I at least knew the offer was unlikely to be a scam.   But I still saw no merits in it. My father’s job, the one we had left Italy for, paid well enough that a scholarship had never been a concern for me, and here they were, asking me to relocate from New Mexico to the Pacific Northwest when I still didn’t know where Bianca would go, but I doubted it would be far from her parents—   ‘The offer includes a second scholarship, one meant for Bianca Adair—’   ‘Tread carefully,’ I snapped, only making the older woman slowly raise an eyebrow at me before she smirked.   ‘I assure you we only have the young lady’s best interests at heart,’ she said, reaching for her handbag and pulling out an unlabeled pill bottle. ‘Our pharmacy department is, in fact, quite proficient in dealing with rare diseases, and we’re willing to pay for her experimental treatment.’   This is the part of the story that Bianca knows. The reason why we both moved to the other end of the country. The way in which she finally became able to be as vigorous as her mind always was, with her crawling through my window quickly turning into an addition to my morning routine that she delights in being capable of.   I squeeze her hand as tight as I can, knowing that she won’t squirm in pain now. That she can take it. That she won’t even notice anything other than the intensity of my trembling hand on hers.   That’s she’s stronger, tougher than I am. Or can ever be.   Even if she doesn’t know it yet.   ‘I’ll do it. Anything. Anything at all that you want of me,’ I told my new dean.   ‘I just want you to do what comes naturally to you, Mister Constantini,’ the blonde woman said.   ‘Then…’ my head swam, and I took a knee in front of her, my head almost brushing the long, black skirt that reached all the way down to the dark wood floor. ‘Then I swear. For as long as she’s alive and healthy, I’ll be whatever you need me to be.’   ‘Alive. Such an interesting word when it comes to certain… edge cases,’ she said.   My eyes went to her desk and to the phials filled with scarlet liquid on top of it.   They only made me renew my oath.       ====================== ====================== So, there were some theories about Lucca that I feel this chapter may shine a new light on.   (Insert cheeky grin here.)   But, really, Chapter 4 continues right where this left off from Bianca’s PoV. It has been harder to write than I anticipated, but also very much satisfying. I hope that, when you get to read it, you’ll think so as well.   [font="Times]As always, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on [/font][font="Times]Patreon[/font][font="Times]: LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, Vergil1989 Crossover King, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on [/font][font="Times]Amazon[/font][font="Times]. Thank you for reading![/font]      

Chapter 5 - Periodical Cicadas – Chapter 5

This can’t be happening.   “So… Taylor, tell me how do you feel?”   Definitely not happening.   “I… Ms. Lang—”   “I told you to call me Kristen,” the brown-haired woman says with a genial smile that screams practice, practice, practice.   And probably a dash of botox.   “I don’t really feel like…” I drift off, trying not to flail around and point at the various knick-knacks around her office that are carefully displayed to tell anyone who comes in how ‘quirky’ and ‘unique’ she is—like the little dreamcatcher, the miniature phonograph, and... Right. No need to do an extensive catalog. Basically, I’ve instantly despised the affable woman since the moment I was forced to step into her office.   “Oh! Boundaries! Yes, of course, sweetie, it’s all right to want to establish them. It can even be healthy. Just make sure not to turn them into barriers, will you?” she says, still with that cheerful tone that makes me want to stab through my eardrums with a pencil. Then she nods and winks.   … Never mind. I don’t want to stab myself anymore.   “Ms. Lang, I’m sure you mean well, but I really, really don’t feel the need to talk to a counselor.”   “After discovering two victims you don’t think you should talk to a qualified professional? And what does that tell you, Taylor?”   That adding you to the list would be a very bad idea, because it may confuse the actual, relevant investigation.   “That I don’t know you,” I finally say, after about ten minutes of trying not to be confrontational with the infuriating manic pixie dream girl who refused to grow up.   Yes, Noah, I know about some cinema tropes. Especially ones a feminist mother would find particularly annoying.   And I never knew why she hated the trope so much until right at this very moment.   “That’s a fair statement, sweetie, but it’s not like you know too many people around here, is it? I’m sure your father tries, but any bit of extra support—”   “Ms. Lang, up until this very moment, I’ve assumed you were just trying to do your job and failing, but I’m ten seconds away from filing a formal complaint.”   “See? All that pent-up aggression can’t be—”   “Seven seconds.”   “Taylor, I appreciate—”   I stand up.   Then turn around and walk out the door, trying to ignore the squeaky encouragement to set healthy boundaries from behind me.   “So… That bad?” Audrey asks from where she’s been waiting for me beside the door.   Which I guess could constitute a violation of my privacy or an attempt at snooping, but, really, it’s not like I didn’t know she was here, and her presence as a potential witness may have given me enough restrain not to prove to Ms. Lang that survival of the fittest is still a thing to worry about.   … Oh gods, Sophia’s infected me.   And I can’t get access to a competent therapist to get rid of it.   “She really means well, you know?” Audrey says, maybe taking my prolonged silence as an invitation to keep speaking rather than me internally seething in unfulfilled murderous impulses.   “I’m pretty sure anyone with a psychology degree knows not to dig when the patient tells them to fuck off.”   “All right, she means well, and she’s a spaz. Maybe she’s related to Noah?”   I laugh at that.   Damn it.   “There, very well, turn that frown upside down,” she says in the most deadpan way imaginable by someone with a pretty good imagination.   I glare at her, and then she chuckles.   “Come on, Broody, let’s get you outta here and into the sun.” She takes my sleeve and turns around, dragging me through the school’s corridor toward, presumably, the yard.   “You can’t fool me. You despise the nuclear ball of hellfire as much as I do.”   “And why would you say that?”   “Because you are pale and wearing long sleeves.”   “I could just be used to the weather?”   “Being pale is not an adaptation to Florida’s weather. It’s the opposite of an adaptation to Florida’s weather. It’s like claiming having a good sense of smell is an adaptation to living in New York.”   She takes a turn when we reach the stairs, the high windows letting in far too many rays of the positively hostile celestial body that dapple the floor like a very clumsy kid handling glitter.   … So, my metaphors aren’t up to my usual standards. Bite me.   I mean, it’s not like I’ve got two murders, one secret identity unwittingly discovered, a forced relocation, and a very uncomfortable conversation weighing on my mind at the moment or anything.   Yeah, maybe I should get my internal editor to cut me some slack.   “Ever been there?” Audrey asks as she pulls open one of the double doors to the far too green yard behind the school and steps aside so I can go through first.   I raise an eyebrow, and then she does an absolutely sarcastic bow, flowery waving of her left hand to point beyond the door included.   “… You spend far too much time with Noah. Also, been where?”   “He’s like a bad habit I can’t quit, but with puppy eyes. And to New York. You know, the place you just claimed smells bad enough to be used in your little simile against Florida’s fair weather.”   “Oh, that. No, it’s just… one of those things everybody knows, right? Like… Alabama cultivates circular ancestry trees, California will destroy the whole ecosystem in its bid for more avocados, and New York smells like something that should have been buried and laid to rest after the last Behemoth attack.”   “… Ouch. Are you feeling all right, Broody? That’s a bit more morbid than I would expect.”   “You met me yesterday.” And already gave me a nickname that I hate.   Ah, no. That was Noah.   How surprising. How unexpected. What a twist.   I swear if he makes me watch any Shyamalan films as part of his ‘investigation’…   “And we already have such an incredible rapport,” she says, tone as dry as a fossilized sponge.   “… That would’ve sounded far more believable with some actual enthusiasm.”   “Maybe I could muster some of that if you went ahead and stopped making me hold the fucking door.”   “I never made you do anything.”   She glares at me. I feel weirdly pleased by that.   “Fine…” I finally say.   And step through the door.   I don’t hiss when the sun hits my face, but it’s a near thing.   “Finally…” Audrey steps around me, taking advantage of my momentary blindness to once again drag me through my sleeve toward a spot in the yard beneath a wide tree with broad leaves that is not a pine and, thus, outside my ability to identify it.   … Fine, it’s a sycamore. But I still think it would be funnier if my hatred of hostile greenery extended to not being able to recognize anything that wasn’t a pine or an aluminum Christmas tree.   Also, what is it with these people and sitting on the ground? Is this a local culture thing? Do they abstain from furniture for religious reasons?   “Broody, Bicurious! We were waiting for you!” Noah greets us.   Emma smiles, Gustavo nods, Brooke waves, Jake grunts, and Will also nods, but in a somehow more reserved way.   … Are they doing this on purpose? Do they rehearse so that each one gets a distinctive reaction?   “I rescued her from attempting to murder Ms. Lang,” Audrey clarifies.   Emma flinches, Noah sagely nods, Gustavo tilts his head—oh, fuck it. They do rehearse this.   “And I would’ve gotten away with it if it wasn’t for you darned kids and your superpowered serial killer.”   “… If I pull on your face and it turns out it’s a mask with a weird old guy beneath it, I’m going to have some very conflicted feelings, Broody,” Audrey says, looking at me like…   Uh…   Nope. That does not compute.   Also, I already had enough bi-panic last night to last me for the rest of the month, thank you very much.   “Are you two going to make out? Because I could be filming—oof!” Brooke mercifully shuts Jake up by the very expedient method of elbowing his side.   Good. It saves me the trouble of outing myself by having him swarmed.   “You are a moron, you know?” she says, apparently deciding physical abuse isn’t enough to get her point across and adding the verbal variety for good measure.   “Well, it’s not like you haven’t been telling me since second grade…”   “Maybe if you weren’t so much of a moron, it would’ve already sunk in. Come on, sit down before the moron finds anything else inappropriate to comment on.”   I go to stand with my back against the three-trunked sycamore before Audrey drags me down by my sleeve so I end up sitting between Noah and her.   Noah throws me a wide smile, and Audrey a smug one.   “Get used to getting in touch with nature, Broody. You’re no longer a Brocktonite.”   “Do you even know how many bugs there are under your butt right now?” I say. And Emma makes a face and wiggles before catching my eye and stopping herself.   Nice. At this rate, she’ll inadvertently out me before the week’s over.   “If they are strong enough to get through my jeans, they deserve to cop a feel,” the girl with a biologically extruded leather jacket says.   … Do I have any bug that can get through jeans? And would coping a feel through it be anything but a really gross and detached experience for all parties involved?   “Well, now that we’re all here,” Noah interjects before anything else can get between him and a good monologue, “you may be wondering why I’ve gathered you all here tonight.”   There’s a silence stretching across the circle that tempts me almost irresistibly to gather a chorus of crickets.   Then Audrey smacks him over the head, and all is right with the world.   “Seriously?” she asks, the tone implying how little she trusts any answer she may receive.   “It’s not like I expect the chance to say this line to come often, you know?” Noah says, rubbing the back of his head and looking at her with a hint of reproach.   Audrey sighs, and Emma giggles. Then Brooke—nope. Not doing this again.   Seriously, couldn’t they all gasp in shock at the same time or something?   “Fine, fine, no more theatrics,” Noah finally relents with the tone someone may use to claim that they may be able to survive with half a liver. “Anyway, I think we all missed a very important detail last night.”   “If you missed it, chances are we did,” Gustavo says. And that may be a compliment or a commentary on Noah’s… Noahness. The pale kid eats it up regardless of intent, so I guess it’s all good.   “Thanks! Well, I was thinking, and the motif of the painting should be a hint. Nina’s display was an obvious ironic twist on Ophelia’s innocence—”   “Obvious?” Jake asks.   “Well, yeah? I mean, the bawdy display of Nina with her multiple partners is a clear contrast with Ophelia’s virginity in the original play.”   “I thought it was implied that she was actually pregnant with Hamlet’s child when she drowned,” someone with far too much time alone and a clear lack of social graces interjects with pointless trivia.   Crap. That someone was me.   What a twist.   … Seriously, though, no Shyamalan.   “Yes, of course, but in the context of the painting, we should go with what’s presented visually. There’s nothing in there that hints at that particular reading of the play,” he calmly elaborates.   “But what if it was a hidden clue? Precisely because it isn’t the more obvious reading, the killer may use it as a way to disguise another hint, something only apparent after a more thorough investigation.”   “Interesting! But what would the message be, then? That Nina was pregnant at the time of her death? Or that—no, no, we are thinking about this with too narrow a focus! If Nina is Ophelia, who is Hamlet? That would have to be one of her lovers, most likely Tyler… And Hamlet faked his madness, but Nina’s lover may not? No, but Hamlet was a killer, so it’s unlikely that Nina’s lover would be the actual killer—”   “Right! It would be… Maybe he’s one of the next victims, and that’s a subtle way to announce it? Or a victim that hasn’t been found… yet…”   Everybody’s looking at us.   And Will is looking kinda green. And at us.   “You… Do you realize we’re talking about actual people, right?” Brooke asks.   On the one hand, my face’s kinda heating up with all the embarrassment self-awareness usually brings me. On the other, she still hasn’t thanked me for saving her life.   The bitch.   “To be fair, Broody here didn’t know any of them. She may as well be talking about something she read in the newspaper,” Audrey intervenes, apparently thinking she’s helping.   Which, seeing as everybody’s eyes focus a bit more on Noah, may be the case.   … Thanks.   “I’m me?” he posits as a reasonable explanation.   There’s a chorus of shrugs and grunts that seem to agree with the validity of the claim.   Will keeps being green, though.   He must be very environmentally conscious.   “Hey, we gathered here to do precisely this. It makes no sense to stop them when they’re on a roll,” Gustavo comments.   Which… I mean, after seeing a few of his drawings during psychology class (my first taste of Ms. Lang… idiosyncrasies), I think the guy may be a bit closer to Noah’s mindset than he actually lets on.   Gruesome stuff. Especially given the cut faces with red blood inking the profiles in harsh lines that draw the eye to—   I mean, given he’s drawing his classmates.   Dead. His classmates dead and murdered.   … With a serial killer focused on art projects running amok.   It can’t be this obvious, can it?   “Right. We should be contributing, not throwing accusatory looks,” Emma comments in a way that makes me feel guilty for a moment, but…   I… I kinda have the perfect powerset to stalk Gustavo while remaining hidden. It wouldn’t hurt to do so.   “Well, if you aren’t going to get your pitchforks and torches, maybe I could say what it is that we missed last night?” There are a few glares thrown Noah’s way, but I don’t think they’re at an intensity he’s unused to.   “How could we ever stop you?” Audrey asks.   “Thanks! I mean—”   “No, it’s an actual question. Do you have an off-switch, like some kind of evil robot, or…”   And now I witness something that may be a first in the annals of Washington High.   Noah glaring at Audrey, and Audrey shutting up and looking bashful.   … What?   “Right. As I was saying,” the boy who’s surprisingly firm when it comes to having his hobbies interrupted resumes, “the killer recreated the composition of La Fábula de Aracne, with Mr. Branson taking the place of Arachne herself and the mask of Brandon James judging him in the role of Athena. But what was Arachne judged for? It was hubris; it was daring to compare herself with the goddess and even trying to surpass her in her own domain, so… Is the killer telling us something about Mr. Branson and his relationship with Brandon James? Are they claiming he was an inferior killer? What is the actual message, besides that he stepped into what the murderer considers their own domain?”   Noah leaves the question hanging in the air, and the group turns toward me.   “… What?”   “Aren’t you gonna do the thing?” Brooke answers my question with one of her own.   Rude.   “The ‘thing?’” I’m not rude. I’m just asking for clarification in a very terse manner that befits the atmosphere.   “You know, getting into the killer’s head and explaining things from their perspective?”   I look at her incredulously. Then Jake and Will nod, Gustavo shrugs, Audrey snickers—oh, fuck off.   “That’s not a thing! That’s not something I do! It’s basic pattern recognition!”   Audrey pats my shoulder, and Noah looks at me weirdly.   … Which I find very concerning.   “You… You really think that’s what you’re doing?” he finally asks.   And Emma catches my eye. She’s looking very nervous.   She finally makes a zipping gesture over her mouth that I’m pretty sure nobody else catches.   … I have no fucking clue what she means.   “Are you insinuating I’m the serial killer? Because I’m pretty sure I’m the only one in here without a motive and a solid alibi.”   “No! No, Hell, Broody, why would you even jump to—never mind, trauma things. It’s trauma things, isn’t it? Which explains the outsider perspective… alienation? Yeah, certainly, that would make some detachment an ingrained part of your worldview, so—”   Noah shuts up.   It may be because I’m grabbing him by his shirt’s collar.   Just, you know, a wild hypothesis I’m throwing out there.   Also, it looks like Audrey’s hand got kind of frozen mid-smack. Sorry for interrupting your weird bonding ritual-slash-flirting, Bicurious. I’m sure you won’t lack for further opportunities.   Unless I, you know, murder the little twerp.   “I already had to deal with a very inept psychologist today, Noah. I would appreciate it if you didn’t add to the tally.”   He smiles at me. Really smiles—wide, bright, cheerful.   “I knew I liked you for a reason,” he says, our faces kinda close, given I’m halfway strangling him.   … Uh?   “Are you… flirting?”   “What?! No! I mean, unless it’s working. Then, definitely.”   I drop him.   “What the fuck’s wrong with this town?”   Audrey drops yet another comforting palm on my shoulder.   “You’re not in Brockton anymore, Dorothy,” she says.   I look at her over my shoulder and try to incinerate her with my eyebeams.   Which it looks like I don’t have.   … It is really unfair I’m not getting a second trigger out of this whole morning.   [font="Times] =============[/font] [font="Times]=============[/font] [font="Times]As always, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on [/font][font="Times]Patreon[/font][font="Times]: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on [/font][font="Times]Amazon[/font][font="Times]. Thank you for reading![/font] [font="Times] [/font]  

Chapter 2 - Periodical Cicadas – Chapter 2 – Suspect Gallery

Brooke   I hate being ignored.   “Brooke, really, we are in the classroom—”   So I kiss ‘Mr. Branson’ hard enough that he’s forced to open his mouth, and I shove my tongue down his throat.   Ignore this, you bastard.   Strong hands clasp around my shoulders, his rough breathing burning on my skin—   And he pushes me away.   The bastard.   “Anyone could walk in,” he says, going for the ‘stern teacher’ thing that may actually be believable if his phone’s memory wasn’t filled with my nude selfies and clips of me on my knees, slobbering on his—   Well, there’s an idea.   With a grin, I drop down in front of my teacher, my palm flat over his very prominent bulge. I pretend to look at it with hunger before I look up into his eyes, licking my lips.   “Aren’t I worth the risk?”   “Not when it’s an unnecessary risk,” he mutters. But I’m already lowering his zipper, and he isn’t walking away.   Just knew it.   So I fumble inside his pants, because he’s already hard enough that it takes some maneuvering to fish him out of his boxers and finally past his zipper.   And then I’m confronted with it once again.   I make sure to smile up at Seth as I grab the base of his shaft with my left hand. The way his eyes narrow as he hisses at my slow, deliberate touch, so different from the vaguely uncomfortable expression he had while I rummaged around his pants… It never fails to send a rush of heat between my legs.   And I’m wearing a short skirt, so it’s easy to… freshen up.   Still looking up at him, I raise the hem of my skirt until my green panties show. Then I lower them.   He gulps. I smirk.   And I lean forward.   It’s soft against my lips, more than his own when he lets them dry up, and there’s a slight trace of precum that I smear over me like lip gloss. The bitter taste is something I’ve already gotten used to over the past few months, but he hasn’t gotten used to me pretending to enjoy it, moaning as I let my tongue out to trace his slit as if gathering every last drop of a delicious cocktail.   Heh. Cocktail.   His hands are clenched at his sides, not knowing what to do with them, not knowing whether to grab my hair and pull on me till he’s buried on my throat or—And he’s looking at the door to check whether anyone’s there.   Can’t have that, can we?   So I open my mouth and flatten my tongue before I push forward, his cock sliding over its very own red carpet. My saliva mixes with precum into something sticky and thick that still helps him glide forward until I feel him push right against the entrance to my throat.   With long practice, I suppress the urge to gag. The key is not to be too eager, to just let him poke and prod as my tongue and hand do most of the job, because enough saliva has dribbled down to his still exposed shaft that I can jerk him off roughly without pulling on his skin. I open my mouth a bit more and I show him—him and his wide open eyes—how my long tongue peeks out from underneath him, and how I lazily, deliberately, swing it from left to right, dragging the hard point over the veins that stand out even as he throbs once, his shaft stiffening further.   I smile around him, and I slap away one hand that has gotten dangerously close to my hair while he closed his eyes in intense ecstasy.   Then I pause, and when he opens them once again I show him how my free hand, the one that isn’t slowly jerking him off into my mouth, dips past my panty-line.   And into me.   I let out a moan around him, knowing perfectly well how it drives him mad whenever I do that, as I feel a slender finger part my wet lips. It’s not spectacular, even if it feels good, but this isn’t about coming: it’s about the show.   And my adoring audience.   So I lightly trace around my opening, slathering it with the wetness I’ve gathered from inside me, and then set on a slow, lazy circle over my stiffening clitoris. And it feels good. Nice. Something I wouldn’t mind doing for an hour straight.   But Seth’s red face and loud breathing tell me quite clearly that we aren’t going to have an hour.   So I tighten my lips around him and drag my head back until they’re sealed around his head, then I attack him with my tongue. I swirl it around him, my cheeks sinking in whenever I suck on him as strongly as I can while my hand accelerates on his shaft, and he hunches over, his hands clenching and unclenching, desperate to grab onto something as his eyes remain nailed on mine. As they should.   Then I drag my finger particularly hard over my clit, and I let out a small yelp that is muffled by his cock, and his hands shoot forward, clasping around my neck.   And he pushes forward, his tip once again prodding at the entrance to my throat.   So I force myself to swallow around him, his cock pushing past that barrier, my breathing completely at his mercy.   My eyes flutter close, and I drive myself forward until my nose is rubbing against short, curly hair.   I moan, my hand under my panties far faster than I intended before I just plunge my fingers inside me.   And I keep still, my face mushed against his body, my breathing stopped, and my hand loudly splashing in the empty silence of the classroom.   His fingers open and I drive myself back until only the very tip of his cock remains touching my lips, and I take in a deep breath that is half badly needed air and half warm, concentrated smell of man and heat.   And I drive myself forward until my face almost slaps against his toned stomach at the stretch of skin exposed by his raised shirt.   Again.   I’m back at his tip, sitting on my heels, looking up at Seth as his fingers almost sear my neck with heat.   And I drive myself forward until I can’t breathe.   My hand is a blur, the sensation driving me far closer to the edge than I expected to get as sparks of color swim around my eyes when I’m once again deprived of air.   I wonder if…   I push myself to keep my head there, my throat blocked by a thick cock, my face resting on sculpted abs, my fingers frantically diving in and out of me as my tongue takes advantage of its limited maneuverability to attack the intruder in my mouth from every available angle.   And I feel a bit drowsy, but that only makes it so much more intense, as if I am dreaming about getting face-fucked while my fingers keep spreading me apart and-   “Brooke!”   I’m back at sitting on my heels, Seth’s wet, red cock right in front of my eyes, almost waving at me with its swaying motion.   I look up to see his worried face, and he opens his mouth.   So I open mine. And dive in.   Only the tip. Just the tip is past my lips as my tongue wrestles with it, as my hand races up and down his shaft, as my fingers reach as deep as they can go and rub a particular, rough spot, and—   Warm, bitter seed splashes in my mouth, Seth closing his eyes before opening them in admiration.   I swill the sticky liquid over my tongue, and feel his hand caress my cheek.   And my fingers curl.   And I cum.   I get away from his cock before I bite down on him, my body clenching and curling on itself, a dribble of semen making it past my lips and running down my chin, but I don’t care. I don’t care, because this is so much more than I wanted to get out of this, and oh God—   Fuck.   It takes me a while to come down, and, when I open my eyes, Seth is kneeling beside me, dabbing at my chin with a tissue.   So I open my mouth and show him exactly how much of his semen there still is inside, a big glob bitter on my tongue.   Then I close my mouth, swallow, and open it again.   “You are going to be the death of me…” he mutters, tired from his fading orgasm.   “Maybe, but what a way to go, right?” I answer with my customary smirk.   And he smiles, his eyes fixed on me.   As they should be.   Jake   “Come on, Will, you know I wouldn’t do that! Why the Hell would I?!” The guy I thought was my best friend stands before me, the woods around his house not that welcoming after what he just asked me.   “Oh, I don’t know, maybe because Nina wouldn’t fuck you anymore? Or maybe you wanted a bigger slice of the pie?”   “Seriously? You are the one who needs the money; I’m just doing this for the thrills.”   “Like the thrill of getting away with murder?” he says, eyes narrowed like he’s trying to figure whether I’ll keep dribbling or charge straight ahead. And it doesn’t help my mood to see the very same face he puts on when playing against me being used for… this.   “… I’m going to punch you, Will.”   “Sure, that will convince me you aren’t a violent murderer.” Oh, this is bullshit!   “Did you even see the body? That wasn’t a violent murder; that was someone taking arts and crafts to the next level! And the bloody bastard exposed most of our blackmail material! It makes no fucking sense for me to do it!”   Will stands near a tree, his hand behind his back like I’m not supposed to know he’s holding a knife just in case, because that’s the kind of guy he is: always prepared, never letting feelings get in the way of what he thinks must be done.   Fuck him. He still put it inside Nina while his mopey girlfriend was giving him the cold shoulder. Not so unflappable, are you, Will?   “You know what I haven’t heard you say since we started our little talk, Jake?” he says with a low voice that I bet makes him feel all cool and manly.   “What?” I spit, wishing I had my own knife on me.   “That you didn’t kill her.”   And, as if that was proof enough of whatever he thinks is going on, he turns around and walks away.   And yes, I can see his knife strapped behind his back.   Fucking asshole.   Audrey   Being Noah’s best friend can be trying at times.   “Out first cape villain, and it’s a slasher serial killer! Isn’t that cool?”   Like now, for instance.   “Somebody died, twerp. Even if it was Nina.” Because fuck that bitch. Except not, because I may like girls, but I don’t do harpies.   Much less dead ones.   “Well, of course. It wouldn’t be much of a slasher if she didn’t.”   I resist the urge to facepalm, and I smack him over the head instead because why should I suffer when the culprit is in my reach? He has the gall to shoot me a betrayed look over his shoulder, but keeps fiddling with whatever is on his computer. Really, this is usually the point where I lie down on his bed and start reading something because I just know he’s about to go on one of his “researching” sprees.   “Why are you so sure it’s a slasher, anyway? He could’ve just hated Nina.”   And he smiles the smile that he puts on when he’s about to give a lecture. Great, what have I unleashed this time?   “Well, of course he did. That much was clear when he used her to give his opening statement!”   “Statement? That Nina was a slut, and half the town should get an STD test?”   “That may have been a footnote, but no.” He must really be into this; the Virgin hasn’t even stuttered at my comment. “You see, Nina’s display reminded me of something. It was artful, the corpse of a young woman used almost like a statue, like something to be admired… But art is not only used for aesthetic values: it’s also a way to send a message.”   “The message being that there’s a crazed killer going around, and he likes to have some jerk-off material?”   Once again, he ignores my attempts at riling him up and turns back to his computer, where a mouse click shows me an open tab.   On the screen, a red-headed woman with a gorgeous brocade and tulle dress is floating down a river. She’s covered with colorful flowers, her expression weirdly detached, unfocused. Something makes it quite clear this is no ordinary watery tart.   Also, her pose…   Before I can actually process what I’m seeing, Noah starts going off on one of his long-winded explanations.   Kinda used to it, by this point.   “Ophelia, by  John Everett Millais. The painting shows the character from Hamlet—”   “I know who Ophelia is, doofus.”   “Right, right, but let me get into my groove, pretty please?” And he actually puts on his puppy eyes. And they work.   I hate that they work.   “Fine. Go ahead, illustrate the unwashed masses,” I scoff.   “Unwashed? I can say your natural fragrance is subtle enough that I would’ve never guessed.” He smiles. And I smack him.   Really, sometimes I think he just enjoys it.   “Anyway, Ophelia is many things, but she mostly is innocent, a victim. The death of her father and Hamlet’s fake madness drive her to a very real one, and, out of grief, she commits suicide. She is, therefore, in some way, killed by her lover, through her love. And now we have this painting: she’s beautiful, integrated with nature, the splash of color contrasting yet melding with the greenery around the water, her own subdued tones giving her an almost ethereal, nymph-like quality, as Hamlet himself called her. She’s a creature of water, and the flowers laid on her corpse exalt her return to nature, to peace.   “And then we have Nina.   “Nina doesn’t commit suicide, isn’t a victim of her love. No, her corpse is also treated as something beautiful, to be admired, yet instead of flowers, we have pictures. Lurid pictures showing how far away Nina is from Ophelia’s innocence. The corpses are posed in exactly the same manner, the splashes of color are similar, yet we don’t have a return to nature, but a spread of sin. Our slasher shows us the contrast between innocence and debauchery, between nature and technology, between a victim and… whatever he thinks Nina is.”   And it makes sense. Of course it does. Because if someone should be able to get into the head of a crazed killer, it should be Noah.   And doesn’t that say something about my taste in friends?   That it’s awesome. I have an awesome taste in friends. Fuck you, dad.   “So, we are looking for someone who was wronged by Nina. That should be a short list.”   “Bisexual? What do you mean ‘we’ are looking?”   “Seriously?” I turn his chair so he looks straight at—not the boobs again, Noah. It gets tiresome to pretend I don’t notice. “You are already obsessed with this, and you aren’t going to get killed by yourself while I’m around.”   “I’m not going to get myself killed!” He has the temerity to pout at that.   God, must… resist…   Fuck it.   I ruffle his hair, and his frown deepens.   “Sure you aren’t, Noah. Sure you aren’t.”   He grumbles a bit more as he tries to pretend he dislikes it, then finally looks up at me when I give it a rest.   “Don’t you want to hear my speech about how the Brandon James mask is a declaration of war on the whole town and the sins it tries to hide beneath its public façade of respectability that has been smashed by the photos on Nina’s body?”   “… Seriously? After giving me the full synopsis?”   “Ah.” He blushes and scratches the back of his neck. “Sorry.”   “Don’t worry, Virgin. At least you should be safe from the tropetastically puritanical serial killer.”   “Rub it in, why don’t you.”   “No, if I did you wouldn’t be safe anymore,” I say while smirking down at him.   This time he does get flustered.   I shouldn’t enjoy this half as much as I do. I blame mom.   She never let me get a puppy.   Emma   When mom comes home, I’m waiting for her in the living room instead of being with my friends, offering support, or whatever it is I am supposed to do.   “Any clues?” I ask her. And I know it’s the wrong thing to ask after she has seen that mask, but I cannot stop thinking about—   “It’s an open case, honey; I shouldn’t discuss it with you.” And she looks so tired.   So I get up and hug her. Then I drag her to the sofa.   We rest there for just a few moments, mom cradling me against her shoulder while I caress her blonde hair.   “Were you two close?” she asks with a small, almost afraid tone.   “No.” And I feel guilt at the admission, but Nina… she was what she was, and even after her death I can’t bring myself to think better of her. “No, Nina was cruel, she… I don’t think she was actually close to anyone. She was part of the group, almost the leader, but… But mostly because we feared her? I think. I still am mad at what she did to Audrey.”   “That… was bad. Do you think—”   “No!” I lean back, and her hands fall on her lap as she looks at me with wide eyes. “No, Audrey would never—”   And I think about Audrey. Really think about her.   My former best friend. The geeky girl who got left behind when I joined the popular crowd. The one obsessed with horror movies and gruesome paraphernalia, who always hangs out with Noah, a guy who obviously shares her interests. A girl who’s always holding back her rage at her parents, the world, me…   A girl whose girlfriend disappeared after Nina publicly outed them.   But… She wouldn’t, would she?   “Honey,” mom’s hand is warm on my shoulder. I don’t know how long I’ve been staring at my lap, “you know trigger events mess people up. If you think Audrey was under so much stress that she—”   “I don’t think so. No. Not Audrey. Even if she did, she wouldn’t do it that way.”   Mom purses her lips, as if deciding whether to push me on this. Thankfully, she doesn’t.   But now it’s my turn to ask her something uncomfortable, because there was that mask.   “Mom…. Do you think dad—”   “No.”   Her tone is sharp, definitive, and her eyes are hard. And I’m glad. But I still need her to explain.   “There was the mask, and he’s the only cape in town—”   “That we know of. He’s managed to stay hidden all these years, there’s no reason somebody else wouldn’t manage to do the same thing.”   “But, the mask—”   “A morbid thing. Somebody claiming a brand. A way to tie this up with Lakewood’s history.” She seems to be gearing up for a tirade, but then takes a deep breath and looks at me with more kindness. “Emma, your dad was innocent back then, and he’s innocent now. You know he only wants what’s best for you.”   And she’s unshakeable on that belief. But she’s a woman in love, and he’s my dad, so I cannot trust either of us to be right about him. Because we love him, and he loves us, and I would never want to believe either him or Audrey—   Oh.   I really messed that one up, didn’t I?   Tyler   I hate my new body.   I was always the nerd, the guy who played with computers, bad at sports, and then puberty decided to hit me with the magic wand.   I suddenly had a body like a professional jock, and that got me a hot girlfriend, an in with the popular crowd. Things were good.   And now…   Short. A dwarf. Misshapen.   Still strong, more than ever.   But so much dumber.   I can feel, sometimes, the way thoughts slow down, the way memories slip as the new shape takes over and I’m reduced…   Reduced. Heh.   That’s the whole point, isn’t it?   To reduce me. To make me… this.   Better than what Nina got, at least.   The stupid, dumb, cruel, whore.   …   I never thought I would miss her so much.   I wonder if I’ll miss the rest of them after everything’s over?   ============= ============= As always, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on Amazon. Thank you for reading!  

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2: The One with the Chase [6.8k Words]

Lacmere University – Chapter 2: The One with the Chase [6.8k Words]   I am in good shape.   I am an athlete.   Yes, I am a nerd. A gigantic nerd. The kind of person who has trouble interacting with his peers because they are all dreadfully boring when compared to whatever book I could be reading rather than making awkward conversation. Not quite a kissless virgin, but near enough. By all rights, I should be the character being shoved into a locker and pitifully asking for reading material to while away the hours until school lets out.   But I am a fencer.   So, at least, I’ve got very strong legs to run the fuck away with from any would-be bullies when I don’t feel stubborn enough to try and fight back.   Tonight, in a deserted, moonlit library, I have just discovered that being chased by an actual werewolf somehow makes me that tad bit faster.   Take that, jocks whose names I never bothered learning; you weren’t even adequate terror-fueled motivation.   So, fueled by adequate terror, despite the jumbled mess of incoherent thoughts rushing through my head, I run.   Book spines blur as I race down the narrow alley made of looming bookshelves, and I hear the muffled sound of a body jumping to the floor below the tables I’m running away from.   The tables where a black shape with glowing amber eyes just stared at me.   It is near. I don’t know how fast it will be when it decides to chase, but… I know dogs. I had a dog.   It won’t be slow.   I reach the space between a bookcase and the next one, and I kick my leg forward, my foot as firmly planted on the broad slabs of grey stone as I can manage, forcing on it an abrupt turn that is murder on my ankle as I all but jump down the perpendicular corridor to my left, hoping to break line of sight.   But it’s a werewolf. It will track me by scent.   What’s the end goal here?   Other than surviving the night?   I can’t get out of the library, out of this cathedral-shaped building with tall doors and windows that let in shafts of silver light that trace stark darkness across the sharp angles falling from the top of tall shelves. I can’t run into open ground and hope to outrun it.   My mind races faster than my body, trying to come up with something, anything, that I can use to lock myself away from the creature, or an object that I can turn into a weapon—   I’m not going to last. I’m sprinting, and canines are endurance hunters.   Like humans. That’s why we pair so well.   I kick myself to my left when I go past the next bookcase, turning in mid-air as I bleed off speed, still rushing but trying to keep my steps quiet, to keep them from echoing all around me, and I take off my jacket.   Woodcut illustrations from the yellowed pages of books that should no longer be a matter of life or death in the current century flash through my head, and I almost snort when the name Capo Ferro comes out unbidden to taunt me with my earlier petty ramblings about a better fencer than I am.   Lucca. A better fencer.   I just hope I’m enough of a swordsman to survive this.   “Brian?” a voice distorted by midnight and distance echoes between the books, making me shiver like the howl did moments ago as the cold sweat dries on my brow, and I slow down my steps a tad more, looking over my shoulder to make sure it isn’t right behind me.   The open space in the middle of this mock temple is ahead of me once more, the tables filling it now devoid of any monsters with glowing eyes, and I step aside when I am at the last intersection before I’ll reach the middle of the library and be exposed to moonlight beams. I take the chance to recover and try to slow down my breath as I rest my back against the solid wood of the side of the bookcase, only to flinch when my drenched shirt sticks to my back.   “Brian,” the voice calls out, but quieter, and I think it’s taking its time, still going down the path I just rushed away from.   My jacket.   Fencing manuals.   Capo Ferro.   Using a cloak with your sword. To entangle an opponent’s weapon, to blind them with it, to hide your attack behind the dangling cloth until it’s too late and your stab reaches them from an unexpected angle.   To shield yourself. If that’s the best you’ve got.   There’s… There’s even a similar thing in Bartitsu, Sherlock Holmes’ martial art. You take your pocket handkerchief out and flip it at your opponent’s face, distracting them during the fraction of a second that you need to sock them in the jaw.   Except I’m not a boxer, nor a martial artist, nor, sadly, Sherlock Holmes.   I am Brian Campbell, son of Julien and Morwenna Campbell. I learned how to wield a saber before most kids learned to write. I am a fencer, a good fencer, and…   And if I survive the night, I’m going to call myself a swordsman without feeling embarrassed by it.   “Brian,” it calls out, the voice softer, as if confused when it turns and gets nearer and nearer, following my scent.   I could drop my jacket, try to distract it with the smell, maybe trace a false trail for it to follow.   I once had a dog.   It wouldn’t work.   I slowly slide to the other side of the bookcase and listen for padded footsteps on bare stone. It’s… I think it’s moving on all fours, and I hear it sniffing, cautiously and meticulously following my scent, getting closer to me.   To the bookcase I’m hiding behind.   I take a slow, steady, silent breath and try to peer past the stacked books to the corridor on the other side of them, and I see it.   Black fur melding with the shadows, spikes of it along its broad shoulders glinting in moonlight when it crosses between bookcases and a shaft of silver delineates the indistinct form crawling on the floor, its thick tail wagging behind it as it gets excited by the game it’s playing with me.   I wait.   One step. Two steps. Three steps.   And then it’s almost right behind me, on the other side of this tall bookcase.   So I push.   I push as hard as I can with legs trained for at least three hours every single day of my life. With legs strong enough to sustain bout after bout fought on a low stance that is murder on the thighs of any newbie. With legs that Dad always told me were as important to a fencer as a quick, precise hand, if not more.   My hands hold on the underside of the shelf running along my lower back.   The bookcase creaks.   And, with a burst of explosive strength, I roar, lifting and pushing until the solid piece of wooden furniture tilts back on its side, the books at the top raining down on the floor, the shape behind me letting out an animalistic yelp of surprise.   I push.   And the entire thing crashes down behind me.   There’s a pained cry, but now I am running. As fast as I can, sprinting toward the nearest table so I can grab the edge of it and jump over it, sliding to the other side and making it teeter when I fall from it, quickly grabbing the damn, stupidly heavy, unbalanced thing and giving it a last heaving pull to force it on its side so it will become a barricade, ready for when the monster bursts out of the pile of books I just buried it in.   Three lamps crash against the floor, green glass shades shattering around me, but none of the shards are long enough to act as a knife, so I turn around and try to break the leg of the nearest chair with a kick and end up hurting my foot.   A lot.   Okay. Okay, it turns out that solid oak furniture is sturdier than in the movies. This is both a good and a bad thing, seeing as I can’t afford to be limping right now, but this is also my new weapon, so it better be sturdy enough to withstand a werewolf’s bite, and—   “Why didja do that for, ya jerk?” a voice buried in books under a diagonally resting bookshelf whines.   I… blink at it.   Which, seeing as I’m not suicidal, doesn’t prevent me from grabbing the chair and resting it on top of the table like I’m holding a pike against a cavalry charge.   “You’re a werewolf chasing me,” I politely inform the monster confused about my reticence when it comes to letting it tear out my throat.   “Well, yeah,” it says. “You ran, so I had to chase. Those are the rules!”   I open my mouth to inform it that I haven’t been made aware of any such rules, but… I did have a dog.   You run. They chase. It’s what dogs do.   And I’m suddenly reminded of a Terry Pratchett book that almost verbatim stated that if werewolves are a cross between humans and wolves… doesn’t that sound precisely like what a dog is?   “Were you… trying to play around?” I ask it.   “Dude, she thinks you’re the only one I can play with. Come on, don’t make this weird,” answers the pile of books.   The pile of books that Roberta is going to murder me for. Assuming, that is, that I’m not speaking to either Roberta or the werewolf who ate Roberta before I got here.   “Roberta?” I ask like I did when I came in through the door. Hoping that a late-night rendezvous in a deserted library was precisely what it sounded like in my head, only to be reminded that things are very rarely what I expect them to be in my head.   Thanks for that frequently repeated lesson, Mom.   “Oh, gosh, don’t. She’ll get mad if you mix us up!”   Fuck.   Slowly, and not just because of the throbbing pain in my kicking foot, I lower the smugly intact chair to the floor and drag it with me when I walk around the table that I was so proud of having just turned into a barricade.   The table with a clearly splintered top, now that, thanks to a certain wannabe action hero, it has fallen on its side.   “You still there?” it asks.   She asks.   Roberta’s likely alter ego asks.   … This is all very confusing, and my only wish is that I will come up with a good way to reframe the whole thing before Mom learns about it and I’m subjected to further cackling.   “Yeah,” I tell it.   “You gonna keep running? I liked you running, but I don’t like it when heavy things fall on top of me,” she says with what seems to be the kind of petulant pout I would never imagine on Roberta’s lips.   … Okay. There’s still a high likelihood that I’m going to get my throat bitten off, but this is ridiculous enough that I feel somewhat safe in assuming that possibility is not significantly higher than if I was talking to a regular girl, even if maybe slightly more literal than usual.   So… I set down the chair and crouch in front of the pile of books.   “Are you a werewolf?” I ask for clarity’s sake.   “I dunno. I think so?”   “Are you… is Roberta there?”   “She’s… I think she’s napping? It’s what I do when she’s out there. I think. Or not. Thinkin’s complicated like this. Don’t like complicated things.”   “Ah,” I say for lack of anything better to say.   “What do ya mean ‘Ah?’ What kind of lazyass answer is ‘Ah?’”   “It means that I didn’t even suspect that magic existed until a few minutes ago, and now I’m talking to somebody who’s likely a werewolf, so it’s not so much a lazy answer as a ‘My brain’s trying very hard not to default to panicked screaming’ answer.”   “Oh. Now I see why Roberta likes you.”   “There are a lot of things I want to argue about that line, but I’m now also trying not to blush in likely unrealistic assumptions, seeing as the last time I fell for that, I ended up shaving five times in a row.”   “Is that why you smell weird?”   I, mortally offended on behalf of the Campbell family line’s proud tradition regarding aftershave choice, glare at the books.   The books rudely ignore me and remain unaffected by my challenging stare.   “I don’t smell weird,” I inform the monster of myth, legend, and trashy horror movies.   “You do! You usually smell all nice-like, and Roberta once stole your fencing jacket for a night just so I could stay locked in sniffing it, but now you smell all like… like leather, and orange peel? It’s weird. Other men smell like it. Don’t like it. I like your smell.”   … Brian, this is your higher consciousness, here to remind you that getting an erection in this situation is not only a very stupid thing to do but also the kind of thing that Mom would point at you and laugh for, like the time you were chased by a wild raccoon who, apparently, wasn’t a fan of Marvel movies.   Also, let me remind you what ended up happening to that raccoon when it came too close to biting your ankles. Yeah. That. Try to keep an erection while thinking about that.   On second thought, don’t. Please, don’t try to keep an erection while thinking about that.   “Huh. Now that’s a smell I like,” the voice cheerfully states.   And then the pile of books rises up before they cascade aside, the rustling pages and creaking spines parting around a shape on all fours with glowing amber eyes, bright white fangs, and…   And there emerges a wild tangle of dark locks, with grey, almost tan-like skin, a collar of bristly fur around her neck and shoulders, pointed ears standing straight up past long hair, and a grin wide enough on black lips that throat-biting has now become another urgent concern.   Again.   “I… Roberta… I…”   “Not Roberta. Call me… I don’t have a name. I’m only she. It, sometimes. I—Bobbi! Call me Bobbi!”   “That’s… like a stripper or a dog—”   “Yes!” she says.   And she leaps over the books in front of her, straight at me, barreling against my chest, laying me down on the cold stone slabs with a girl taller and stronger than I am frantically sniffing my neck.   Sniffing me!   I’m not ready for sniffing! I’m a pure, virginal boy who’s still overly preoccupied with childish delusions of being a swordsman and trying not to consciously realize how utterly terrifying his mother can be! Mercy, Roberta, my heart is too tender for your sniffing!   Hey, I didn’t tell you to stop, did I?   “Good,” she purrs against my neck, which, honestly, would fit much better if she was a catgirl, but the tail I can see lazily wagging over her shoulders is definitely not a feline one, and those ears of hers, the left one flicking in and out of my field of view, are too pointy for a cat yet rounder than a fox’s, so she’s likely—hn.   “What… What are you doing?” I futilely ask the girl—the werewolf slowly crawling down my body, rubbing her dark nose against my chest, her hands moving from the floor to my shoulders, then down my maybe not bulging pecs, and—   “Better. It smells better down here. I want more of your smell, Brian…” she says with a drowsy voice that is finally devoid of any excess of energy, and I do recognize Roberta in there, even if her throat and mouth are different enough that she could pass as an older sister. An older, more voluptuous, sultry sister set on reaching a part of my body that smells more like me than my neck and—   Oh.   “Is… Is that what you want?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.   “Mmm!” she wordlessly answers, only briefly looking up at me to show me a broad, wide smile filled with white, sharp teeth before she immediately goes back to the current center of her universe.   And I, looking down at a squirming girl with her hips raised up as she rubs her face all over my balled, sweat-drenched jacket, struggle not to whine.   ***   Bobbi is… very much unlike Roberta.   I’ve known her human side for quite a while. The overly ambitious student representative with a perfect attendance record who moonlights as a library assistant, apparently trying to get her hands on as many titles as she can pad her curriculum with.   The always immaculately dressed woman leaning a tad too much (yet still too little) into the strict, hot librarian archetype. The sharp-witted woman who can and will give me sass for every late-return fee. The…   … Okay, my friend.   Roberta’s my friend.   And my head is finally clear enough that I can realize how much of a mess she’s in.   “So! Like, there’s so much I could do, and she still tries to lock me up. She thinks I’m dumb, but she’s—she tried to handcuff me. Thought I wouldn’t know how keys work. How silly’s that?” Bobbi says with more of her energetic, non-stop chatter that I can only distract her from with a jacket that, at this point, likely has as much of her saliva as it does my sweat.   “She thought you wouldn’t know how to use keys?” I ask, still trying to keep a parallel thought process so that I can, you know, process this.   Which Bobbi doesn’t help me with in the slightest when her energetic, answering nod translates to titanic quakes across her exposed cleavage.   Oh, hadn’t I mentioned this before? See, apparently, Bobbi is both taller and more muscular than Roberta, not to mention curvier. She has the kind of body that women who like to wear bikini chainmail would look up to.   That is: a much bigger body than Roberta’s.   So the frilly white blouse is unbuttoned down to just above her navel, what should be loose fabric pressing tightly down on breasts that are firm enough to quiver yet soft enough to overflow from the strained cups of her exposed black bra.   And she isn’t wearing her skirt.   Something that I assume has to do with both her broad hips, how stretched her black panties digging on her soft flesh look, and the tail enthusiastically wagging behind her as she peppers me with more and more stories about Roberta’s infructuous attempts to keep her wild side under lock and key.   So I’m trying to process the existence of magic, that a friend of mine is a literal monster, if a seemingly friendly one, and that I’m alone, at night, with a barely dressed girl who would put to shame any bikini models I disgracefully spent my puberty with.   Remember when I said that fencing is good at getting you to think on the fly?   I need more fencing!   “It was so silly! Like, listen, she just handcuffed one of my hands and left the key right there. I guess she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to get herself free when she woke up? Dunno. Hey, Brian, why would a girl chain herself to her bed if she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to get away?” she asks with wide, sincere, glowing eyes that hurt my very soul.   Gah! Too pure! The sexy monstergirl is too pure!   “Is it a sex thing?” she asks, with a canine head tilt perfectly complimented by a flick of her left ear.   Gah! Too straightforward! The cute monstergirl is too straightforward!   “Brian?” she asks, tilting her head to the other side fast enough that her ears bobble.   …   I give up.   Mom’s going to cackle at me. I just know it.   “Has… Has Roberta tried to communicate with you? Left you a note or something?” I ask, very deliberately avoiding answering her earlier question.   “Oh! The note!” she says, perking up and sniffing something other than my balled jacket before launching away from me, leaving me to blankly blink at the recently vacated spot where I’m no longer constantly tempted by supernatural cleavage.   And yes, I know, priorities. Boobs shouldn’t even rate under the current circumstances, but, in my defense, they are literally magic boobs.   Also, I keep reading about how life and death situations cause serious issues with both misattribution of arousal and birth rates, so I can always say that biology is against me, which, really, should come as no surprise whatsoever to any nerd in the world who’s ever been confronted by that sad fact of life—particularly when about to give a presentation to a crowded classroom.   “Here! Here, Brian!” she cheerfully says as she vaults over the table that I’ve been sitting against, the still-standing, overturned testament to my attempt at frantically fleeing from the very monster that I’m now trying not to ogle.   And then she shoves a crumpled piece of paper at me.   “What’s—”   “She left you a note! Dunno why. She was expecting to still be herself when you got here? Anyway, read it, read it!”   I look at the girl crouching while leaning forward, her open hands on the floor, her tail excitedly wagging behind her.   I try not to stare at her.   Honestly, I should be much more weirded out by the ears and tail than by her outrageous outfit. What kind of man focuses so much on things like that when frantically trying to ignore that the world no longer makes sense? When striving to find any and all excuses not to think about what this means regarding not only the existence of werewolves but any other myth and tale through human history that may suddenly turn out to be distressingly real? When trying very, very hard to keep a casual conversation going without offending the woman who should be a murderous, mindless beast?   Yeah, just what kind of man latches onto any hint of normalcy rather than process all at once that the world is a very different place than he ever thought it would be?   Apparently, the kind of man who will politely smile, nod, and pretend to read the note in his hands like he’s not about to freak out, hoping against hope to find a reassuring piece of information that will make reality make sense again.   ‘Brian, if you’re reading this, I’m already dead.’   … For fuck’s sake, Roberta!   ‘I always wanted to write this—’ Fucking knew it! ‘—it’s the rest of this that I…   ‘I don’t even know what to write. I don’t even know why I’m writing. To clear my head? To manage in a few minutes what I haven’t been able to in months? There’s no need for that. He’ll get here before I transform, I’ll explain things as far as I’m able to, and leave the beast in his hands. He’s… I know he can handle it. I just… His scent. I remember it. The effect it has. I know how it calms the monster and turns it docile. How his aroma makes it focus only on him rather than…   ‘Than blood on my hands. Waking up in the middle of a forest, strings of raw meat stuck between my teeth, thinking that I should feel like throwing up rather than so…. Fulfilled. Like I should be exhausted, drained, terrified, rather than better rested than on any moonless night.   ‘It’s what scares me most of all. Knowing how I should feel and feeling otherwise. It… It makes it seem like it’s gaining on me. Like every time it takes over, it could leave behind something that is not me. Gradually changing my mind like it abruptly changes my body.   ‘I’m scared, Brian. I’m terrified. I am…   ‘I need help.   ‘There. I wrote it. I finally admitted it outside of my head. I need help. I need somebody who knows. Somebody who knows me and understands what’s going on. Somebody who can tell me that I’m still myself. If I am still myself.   ‘And there’s only a smart, dumb boy who fits the bill. Only a single person in the whole world that it… that it will accept.   ‘Only you, Brian.   ‘And I know I’m harsh. I know I’m annoying. I know I never let you get away with any of the things that would privately amuse me to see you try. I know I am not the girl you’d want to spend your nights with…   ‘But I need you.   ‘I need you so much. I need you to guard me. I need you to watch over me and help me be myself. I need you to put that brain of yours to work with mine, to trawl through every ancient book in this crazy, impossible library filled with more ancient texts than many museums.   ‘I need you to help me find a cure.   ‘And I also need you to get here fast. What’s keeping you? Why are you wasting so much time when the moon’s out, and silver light will peek past the windows at any moment? Why are you not here?   ‘Why aren’t you by my side, Brian?’   The note, this journal of a single page, ends in an incomprehensible scrawl.   My blood runs cold.   Bobbi’s tail keeps wagging side to side as she smiles at me with pure joy and expectation.   So I throw my balled jacket at her, and she pounces on it, immediately burrowing her nose into the tight folds.   I look at her. At the adorably energetic girl that I’ve gotten to know over the past half an hour. The chattering, bright, unable-to-focus woman who keeps smiling at me in shifting degrees of joy and enthusiasm.   At Bobbi.   And I…   I move away from my seat against the sideways table and crouch by her side, carefully reaching to scratch the collar of midnight fur around her neck, only for the pleasured mumbles coming out of my jacket to intensify as her tail wags that much faster.   Then, as many conflicting voices scream inside my head, I try to keep calm and friendly, distracting a playful werewolf until the moon goes away and I can speak to the cursed woman inside.   ***   “You’re sleepy,” Bobbi says, bumping her head against my shoulder hard enough to make the chair under me creak more audibly than when I kicked it.   “How can you tell?” I answer, trying not to show the irritability that only people unused to being awake at four in the morning can understand.   “Well, you keep yawning! Also, you’re only answering me with grunts and nods. And I don’t think you’re listening. Do ya wanna play? I could chase you again, and you could try and trick me, and that would get your blood pumping.”   “Bobbi… I think that if I tried to run from you, I would end up tripping on my face.”   “Oh. Do you want me to suck your cock, then?”   “No, thank—what?!”   “Suck your cock?” she asks with a curious blink, as if I’m too slow on the uptake. “You know, lick you, taste you, get your hard meat down my throat until you’re ready to pound me from behind? You smell like you want it.”   I blink at her. As if I am too slow on the uptake.   “What?”   “I mean, most guys smell like they want to. Like they always want to. But… you…” her nostrils flare, and her pensive expression turns into a dreamy smile. “Your smell makes me want to…” she continues, her tone once more dropping into that incongruous purr before she rubs the side of her face against my chest, her twitching right ear tickling the underside of my excessively shaven chin, her hands on my shoulders trailing down.   “Bo—Bobbi,” I try to say in the harsh tone a dog would react to despite a part of me being very much all right with what’s about to happen—with the thing that is most definitely not going to happen.   “Brian,” she murmurs, her lips furtively sneaking a single caress between the row of buttons of my shirt, her touch in the middle of my chest making my eyes shoot wide open and any sleep fog immediately dissipating.   “Bobbi… I… Roberta wouldn’t—”   “Don’t mix the two of us. She’ll get angry,” she says with a hint of warning as her hands rest on top of my thighs.   And then her face is between my legs, her fingers going around the waistband of my pants, and I—   I win an internal Pyrrhic victory and grab the back of her fur collar.   “Down,” I say. “Bad girl.”   She whines.   Something that quite clearly does not have anything at all to do with the current state of my uncomfortably tight pants.   “Brian… Why won’t ya let me—” I pull on her fur, and she yelps, jerking away from my crotch and looking at me with upturned, sad eyebrows that are entirely too canine for comfort before she drops into a deep squat, and her ears flatten against her hair.   “Is Roberta okay with this?” I ask her with as stern a tone as I can manage with an erection pushing down my pants leg—which I just discovered is a tone surprisingly sterner than any I ever managed before.   “Wha—why does she matter? I want it. You want it. Lemme grab your cock and—”   “Sit,” I say with another tug.   She yelps and drops further down, her rotund ass resting on cold flagstones, her hands bent in front of her chest, her head tucked down, and her tail finally still.   “Why are you so mean to me…” she says, her eyes looking away from me and back in what years of finding the contents of my wastebasket strewn across the floor of my room inform me is very likely insincere regret.   “Do you want me to keep you company?” I ask, looking down at her from where I’m seated on a chair so old-fashioned that this scene could easily be roleplay of a very different kind.   “What?”   “Do you want me to be here? With you? When the moon comes out?”   She blinks at me. And her silly, enthusiastic, overly energetic smile comes back.   “Every night?” she asks with a single brush of her tail across the floor.   “Every night,” I confirm with a resolute nod.   “Like, every, every night? Always? For real?” she asks.   And here’s the thing:   Dogs get lonely.   They mourn, whine, and howl when they are left alone. They want us to be around them. They need company.   Because they are, under layers of soft fur and mournful eyebrows, wolves.   And wolves are social animals. They live with their families, hunt together, survive together. Wolves need others around them just to live.   So do we.   And I’m talking to a girl who’s spent her entire, confusing existence by herself.   So she needs… me.   Like Roberta’s desperate, written confession tells me that she does.   “For real. Just as long as you don’t mind me napping from time to time,” I say with a smile that softens as my grip on her collar turns into soft pats.   Her tail moves once again, fast enough that her prominent behind follows the cadence in ways I try not to focus on, and she leans forward to rest her chin on my thigh, still looking up at me and doing her best to entice me into further pats.   I provide them.   And, as she descends into wordless enjoyment of my touch and presence, I try very much not to think about how furious Roberta would be if I dared accept the advances of the girl she shares a body with.   Mostly because the idea of Roberta’s flushed cheeks and narrow eyes is something that isn’t as good of a detractor from lewd behavior as it should be…   ***   My throat is sore from too much talking, my wrist is cramped from excessive petting of black hair that is now slightly more orderly than when the night began, and my eyes keep itching.   “You can nap,” Bobbi says with a hint of worry as she turns her head over my chest to look up at me.   We’re cuddling on top of the pile of fallen books, the closest thing to a mattress we could find in the library, and I’m using my irreversibly crumpled jacket as a blanket of sorts for the both of us. I don’t know if she needs it, but…   But she keeps sniffing at it and me, small smiles peeking across her black lips when she does, so I’ll happily provide her with any distraction that doesn’t require conscious engagement on my part.   “I don’t want to leave you alone on our first night,” I finally answer after a noticeable delay.   “Oh. That’s sweet,” she says.   “I try,” I say, lying through my teeth.   “I think I’m gonna nap, though. You don’t mind?” she asks.   “I… by all means?”   “Thanks! Good night, Brian. Let’s play again soon,” she says.   And then her hands push down on my chest, her long, black nails elongated enough to prick me through my shirt, and she’s over me, looking down with glowing amber eyes, her mouth opening as she slowly lowers toward my neck, her head turning sideways as if about to close her sharp fangs on my throat…   And I can only stare.   At the beautiful, cheerful monster. The one keeping me pinned, unable to escape. The one that could kill me oh so very easily now that I’m defenseless, below her, unarmed.   My heart races once again, primed by the same ancestral fear that overtook me when I saw her howling at the cascade of silver light casting her silhouette in stark contrasts. The terror that made me flee and almost erased my thoughts before I got a hold of them.   She draws closer, hot puffs of breath washing over my sensitive, exposed neck as her lips get near enough that I can feel the phantom pressure of her.   That I know it’s impossible for me to run away or push her off. That I’m entirely at her mercy and my life is hers to do with as she pleases.   It’s an irrational, stupid fear. It’s something incongruous with me having spent the past few hours getting to know a girl who will sit on the floor if I tell her to in a harsh enough tone.   But it’s fear.   And it’s not strange that it’s irrational.   “I don’t like that smell on you,” she whispers.   And then she licks me.   Her tongue is broad and warm, flat against my neck, and I shudder, reflexively grabbing her waist as she moves up, both her breasts and tongue rubbing along my body.   “Don’t shave next time,” she says right into my ear.   And then…   Then she shudders.   Her waist shrinks between my hands, the dark gray abandoning her skin in uneven patches as the light dims from her eyes and her ears and fangs retract, the girl on top of me giving me a last, parting, sad smile as her claws stop prickling my chest.   I stare, mesmerized, as the tight shirt falls loosely upon now pale breasts resting on askew cups and wild tangles of hair turn into Roberta’s tamed waves. As her eyes close and a guttural moan pushes past her throat, her head arching back, her hands sliding to my shoulders and falling past them into the books behind me when Roberta’s soft, human body comes down to rest on mine.   “Brian?” she asks after a minute of shared silence that the cathedral-like library makes that much louder.   “Roberta?” I ask just… just to make sure. To know who I’m talking to.   “You were late,” she says.   “This is a very bad time to bring up my list of grievances against the library’s return policies.”   “No, you… You moron,” she says with a bit of her fire finally making it back to her voice. “You were late tonight. I… I tried to wait for you, but… but it—”   “She.”   “What?”   There’s a hint of betrayal in Roberta’s eyes.   But they are far too much like Bobbi’s eyes for me to go back on my word.   “She. I… I’ll help you. But I’ll help both of you,” I say, making a stupid, rushed promise that I don’t know if I can live up to.   The kind of promise that both Mom and Dad would be proud of me for.   “It’s a curse,” she says, her lips set into a thin line.   “She’s magic,” I counter.   Her eyes close, and when she opens them back, there’s still the familiar amber of the woman I’ve grown to know over the past few months, even if I’m tempted to trick myself into thinking that there’s a spark of another amber. A clearer one.   A glowing one.   “I know,” she breathes out.   And then… then Roberta looks down at her open blouse and quite exposed breasts and grimaces in distaste before deciding to rest back against me, looking away so that I can only see the top of a head covered with black hair without canine ears poking through.   “Is it tiring?” I ask. Because there are a lot of things to ask, but I don’t even know where to start, so I may as well try to be considerate.   “Sometimes. Others… it’s like dreaming. Like dreaming of something that is perfectly right in the moment. Until you wake up,” she answers.   “How much do you remember?”   “Like dreaming,” she repeats. “Foggy glimpses. Haphazard cuts of a movie that you were too late for.”   “Ah,” I say. And then I realize that I’m still holding her waist, that I haven’t let go, and… “So, that thing about sucking my cock—”   For some reason that would likely induce plenty of motherly cackling, I don’t get to finish my sentence.   For about the same reason, I have a hand firmly pressed down on my mouth, fiery eyes looking down at me, and a half-naked woman being disturbingly pleasantly angry at me.   “What?” she asks, maybe not entirely cognizant of my enforced muteness.   I try to signal with blinks and eyebrow furrowing my current lack of communication capabilities, only for her eyes to narrow further into angry slits and her to, rather than further inquire, speak again:   “I was going to give you permission to… to rut the beast because I can’t imagine you sticking around for so long without getting something out of the deal, but you just… how dare you do that without my permission. How dare you use my body to—”   My hands go from her waist to her wrists, and I turn us around, Roberta suddenly looking at me with surprised shock from beneath me, amber eyes vulnerable and open, and I speak with all the fury that a rush of adrenaline that has lasted through the entire night has given me.   “I would never take advantage of you. Of anyone. I had to tame an actual werewolf to keep her chaste, and I can’t believe you would think that I—wait, wait, wait, what the Hell do you mean that you were going to give me permission to rut—”   “I—I don’t—I know how she gets with your scent! I just—she’s so—that’s not me! That’s just—can you… I… Brian?”   “Yes?” I answer with a dry throat that has nothing at all to do with Roberta seemingly having had lycanthrope-themed wet dreams about me.   “Why are you hard?”   “… Because I’ve been holding my confused, panicked libido back the entire night, and I’m pinning a barely covered, attractive hot librarian under me on top of a pile of books, and I would be lying if I said I haven’t jerked off to this very scenario a few times.”   “… I’m going to count to ten, and then I’m going to knee you in the groin.”   “Fair enough,” I say.   And then, with a last burst of adrenaline, I push up and away and start running like I did hours earlier.   Yet again, I find myself thinking that nameless jocks were an inadequate motivation.   Really, nothing quite compares to fiery, amber eyes.     ======================= ======================= So here we go, full-blast ahead. The next chapter’s already up on my Patreon, where Lucca will introduce us to his morning routine and to a bit of stuff that Brian isn’t aware of.   Nor are you, unless you’re hacking into my computer. Or, you know, are subscribed. One of those things will make me happier than the other.   Anyway! I’m trying to keep to a bi-weekly release schedule, intercalating this with Wordsworth until one of them is over, so, from now on, look forward to Tuesdays being filled with either the incarnation of my wet nerd dreams or the incarnation of my wet nerd dreams.   Let me know what you think so far. That’s the thing that I am looking forward to.   [font="Times]As always, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on [/font][font="Times]Patreon[/font][font="Times]: LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, Vergil1989 Crossover King, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on [/font][font="Times]Amazon[/font][font="Times]. Thank you for reading![/font]  

Chapter 1 - Periodical Cicadas – Chapter 1

The inside of the car smells new. Which isn’t that surprising, seeing as it is new, but it still isn’t what it should smell like.   “Taylor, I know this is all a great change, but I’m sure it will be for the better. You’ll see, you’ll be making new frie—”   Dad cuts off his meaningless reassurances when he’s about to say the forbidden word. That’s for the best. I mean, it kind of smelled like the car should: pure bullshit.   I swallow a sigh as I watch the scenery go by from the window. At first blush, Lakewood couldn’t be more different from Brockton Bay: white picket fences that don’t look like they needed to be painted a decade ago, not a beggar in sight, and a startling lack of white supremacy graffiti. Instead, lush nature seems to encroach on civilization from every corner, and it’s impossible to go half a block without some kind of tree, bush or grass patch ambushing you with unexpected greenery.   I already hate it.   At least my power will get some actual mileage. Keeping me from being eaten alive by an army of mosquitoes is looking better and better by the second.   After another stretch of uncomfortable silence that I should have already gotten used to but that still manages to make my skin crawl since I woke up in my hospital room to the announcement of a surprise relocation, dad stops the car at the entrance of what will be, from today on, my new high school. Joy.   The letters over the entrance proudly proclaim the overly patriotic name of ‘George Washington High School.’ I never thought something could make me miss Winslow so quickly, yet here I am, discovering new things about myself already.   “Taylor, I…” He looks at me as I grab my backpack and sighs. “I need to get to work; call me if there’s any trouble. Love you.”   There’s a silence. Another one.   “Love you too, Dad,” I manage to bite out, and I get out of the car to face my new schoolmates, who hopefully won’t be a band of psychopaths intent on traumatizing me so hard it actually gives me superpowers.   I mean, the first ones I got weren’t worth the bother, to be honest.   My hopes seem to be dashed soon enough, as a boy who makes me look physically fit starts walking by my side with a creepy grin and starts talking.   “So! A mysterious transfer student arrives in the middle of the school term! I wonder what dark secrets she hides under her surly demeanor?”   Great. The Greg Veder School of Casual Conversation has followed me. Just another reason not to feel homesick.   A girl who looks like Hot Topic raided a military surplus smacks the Walmart greeter in training over the head before making her addition to what is starting to feel like a rehearsed sketch. That, or they are far too used to each other.   “Ease up, spaz. What if she actually has a dark secret? Not the kind of thing you want to share on a first meeting.” The girl looks at me with a scowl transitioning to an apologetic smile on behalf of what I assume to be her socially challenged friend. I already like her better than him. The fact that she’s unlikely to give me breast envy helps.   “Of course, Audrey, dark secrets are a third date affair at best. My bad.” He keeps the creepy smile going, so I guess the smack didn’t hurt him that much. Points deducted, Sophia the Second.   All right, I may be being a tad overly negative. Time to ease up before I self-fulfill myself into social oblivion.   “Right. No actual harm done—unless your ladyfriend hits harder than it looks.”   He giggles at that, which I guess counts as a successful social interaction and is hopefully not the prelude to the whole school mumbling about how bad I am at making a first impression. It will be much more annoying with the bugs overhearing.   The fact I don’t understand words through them (yet) doesn’t mean it will be any less annoying having to guess.   “Heh, you’re all right in my book, Broody. My name’s Noah, and the ladyfriend who definitely hits harder than it looks is called Audrey when not dominating the wrestling scene as her masked alter ego.”   “I don’t do wrestling, but I do hit harder than it looks. Smaller fists, smaller area, greater pressure. And this comedian here? Don’t pay him any mind. Nobody does.”   “Ouch, you wound me, bestie. And to think I was about to lend you that Black Christmas collector box…”   “He’s actually a nice kid, and you shouldn’t judge him by the past few minutes. He’s just really bad at making conversation with pretty girls.”   “I don’t even know whether that counts as an improvement…” The apparently overcompensating boy mutters.   Right. Me. Pretty.   Is this bullying? It feels like bullying.   “Right. Good thing that there are none of those around.” Audrey arches an eyebrow. The movement looks practiced. “Name’s Taylor, and I am, as has already been established, the new kid.”   “With a dark secret?” Noah asks with that almost perpetual smile.   ‘I don’t know, does being able to have the frankly indecent amount of insects in the area eat you alive from the inside out count?’ I manage not to blurt out.   “How forward of you, Noah. On our first meeting,” I reply instead, with a great deal of physical effort not to show him any teeth.   And now his smile has widened, appearing disturbingly sincere. Is this what Greg would have looked like if I stopped shooting him down?   Thank God I didn’t, then.   “So, that’s a yes. Nice to know, Broody; we will get it out of you sooner or later.”   “He means he wants to be friends and to get to know each other,” Audrey translates.   “Then why isn’t he saying so?”   “Subtext is important. Stating things outright deprives interactions of a second layer of meaning that enriches the experience, allowing for the unsaid to carry the nuances that actually define the human condition. Hemingway’s iceberg theory, basically.” Noah… clarifies?   “He does that, sometimes,” Audrey sighs. “If you aren’t into film analysis and literature, you are going to be giving him a lot of empty stares.”   “I… My mother was a professor of literature.”   They both shut up, which I am starting to think is a noteworthy event when it comes to Noah, and exchange a concerned look before Audrey nods.   “Then I guess you will be able to follow along. Which you should have kept to yourself, because now he won’t shut his mouth.”   “Oh, how your words wound me, Bicurious.”   “Not in front of the new girl, Virgin.”   “… Are you sure you two are friends?”   “The best!” Noah proudly proclaims.   “More like an annoying sibling, at this point,” Audrey corrects.   I look at them both. The gawky teen who looks like his body needs to fill up before it catches up with his height, his brown hair and blue eyes almost shining with his overabundance of bouncy energy, and the petite girl with broad shoulders, black, short hair, and blue eyes who seems to have assimilated her leather jacket as an extension of her innermost self.   “You two are weird,” I declare after my thoughtful analysis.   “Of course,” Audrey nods.   “Normal is for boring people,” Noah agrees.   I groan. First day at school, and I’m already hanging out with the nerdy outcasts.   Well, as long as I don’t end up hospitalized, I’ll count it as an improvement.   Marginally.   ***   So. Normalcy.   It is weird.   Nobody is pushing me when I walk down the halls, no one has thrown my books to the floor, or shot a spitball into my hair, or even tried to destroy my textbooks before they lose that new book smell of ink and something else (and I love that smell, it’s only beaten by that of old books, with yellowing pages whose corners are no longer sharp and—never mind). I haven’t even heard any rumors, beyond a couple of guys wondering how come I’m being escorted by the unlikely duo of Audrey and Noah to our shared classes.   There’s also a dearth of gang tags, overt drug trade, and low-key prostitution, which I am kind of thankful for, now that my bugs wouldn’t let me ignore what goes on in the school’s toilets. Besides the usual level of grossness, of course, which is still there, but at least I don’t have to put up with the moral kind of grossness.   As I said, weird as fuck. What do these people do for fun? Talk about movies?   The only thing that kind of makes my weirdness radar blip is Mr. Branson’s class, which somehow devolves into a very spirited and involved debate about the merits of the horror genre in movies. That is, it apparently isn’t zero. Who knew.   “No, you see, if you take Earth Aleph’s eighties slasher boom as a reference, you can see where cape culture clearly impacted our expectations. There, the giallo genre quickly devolved into supernatural horror when it was adopted in the United States, but here? Where we have the supernatural shoved into our faces in the daily news? No, here giallo stuck to its roots: a narration filtered through madness, crime that always flirts with the oneiric, and violence that only departs from realism because of its hyperbole. Our catharsis involves fleeing from something that they delight in, but it is catharsis, nonetheless,” Noah finishes his monologue in a way that legitimately makes me wonder why the school even bothers hiring a professor of literature whose job seems to be to sit down and take notes while his student gives an impromptu lecture.   “Yeah, right, except that we also have horror films with supernatural or even cape elements,” Audrey says, with a tone that makes it clear this argument has been thoroughly rehashed.   “But not to the same degree. Here it’s generally considered a bad move to have made Jason the main antagonist after the first Friday the 13th, while there they keep releasing films and a lot of people don’t even realize he only appeared as a dreamlike sequence in the first movie. That is how entrenched the supernatural is in their conception of horror.”   “I thought this class was about literature?” I can’t help but ask before I catch myself. Now it’s when the stares start, when people start muttering about the new girl who doesn’t know when to shut up. Here’s where the laughing…   Noah is laughing.   No, actually, he’s… chuckling? Rubbing the back of his head in embarrassment?   “Sorry, sorry, Broody, I can kinda get carried away, sometimes.”   “Yeah, some times,” Audrey mutters with far less venom I would expect from her words.   “I, uh, never mind. Name’s Taylor, by the way. Not broody.”   “I am afraid, Miss Hebert, that getting rid of one of Mr. Noah’s creative monikers will be an uphill battle, only comparable to getting rid of him in the first place. Now, as you have so kindly reminded us what the class is supposed to be about, I should go back to telling you that the codification of contemporary horror as a literary genre is sometimes linked to Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’ and its reflection of the growing concern with crime under the rise of modern cities, which also shows how the mystery and detective genres—which the tale gave birth to—are linked to it. Of course, the actual roots of the genre are far older, and mythology itself is a great source of material. Lycaon’s myth, for instance, would surely delight our overly enthusiastic friend…” Branson’s voice keeps droning on in the dull notes of a far too practiced speech as I feel the rush of blood to my ears subside and fake paying attention.   Noah shoots me a rueful smile, and Audrey fondly scoffs at him.   Normalcy.   It may not be so bad.   ***   I take it back. I take it all back.   Noah and Audrey seem to have adopted me as their pet project, because I have been unable to escape to have lunch in restful privacy. Instead, I am now eating what the local cafeteria passes for food (which seems to be actual food, and isn’t that a shocker) in the yard. I am sitting under Florida’s sun, during a month where civilized people wear coats, and I am debating whether to get down to my undershirt, because I am actually sweating. This is awful. Normalcy is awful.   “So, not used to the climate yet?” Audrey shoots me while smugly displaying her ability to keep wearing a black leather jacket under the merciless assault of Legend’s assholish ancestor.   “Ugh,” I reply. Eloquently.   “Give it some time,” Noah tells me with his perennial smile, while his flannel shirt hangs open, yet remains on his frame. Bullshit. That is a Shaker effect, these people can’t fool me. “I’m guessing you are from up north? New York, maybe?”   “Brockton Bay, actually.”   And that kills the conversation.   “So… As bad as the news claim?” Audrey asks with a mix of careless bluntness and stepping on eggshells.   “What? The cape stuff? Well, we have the literal Nazis who kill minorities as a rite of passage, the drug addicts who ride invisible tanks, and the rage dragon who sets fire to the city when he runs out of underage damsels to kidnap and whore out. Other than that? Pretty normal stuff. Picturesque, even.”   Noah looks at me intensely, and I wonder whether I’ve just triggered another Greg Veder situation. I hope not. Audrey looks like she can throw a mean punch.   “Take me!” he shouts loudly enough to draw a few stares from the bystanders. Who promptly realize it is Noah and go back to minding their own business. That seems like a very useful survival strategy for someone who wouldn’t die from embarrassment while trying to apply it.   “Not on the first date, Virgin.”   “Wha—not like that! I mean, can you imagine? Here we are, talking about horror movies all day, and Broody here just got out of one! She’s a real-life Final Girl!”   “Well, at least someone noticed I’m a girl…” I mutter low enough not to be heard. Or I think so, because Audrey is looking at me weirdly.   “Virgin, stop trying to fit real-life people into fictional categories. We have already talked about how weird that makes you look. Also, it may make her more uncomfortable.”   “More? You mean I—oh. Sorry, Broody, I’m used to talking with Bicurious here, and she doesn’t mind me too much.”   “Why—” why are you like this? No. No one would ever take that question as less than an insult. Redirect. “Why do you call each other like that?”   “What?” Noah looks legitimately confused, before he looks at Audrey and blushes. And looks down. Oh. He can feel mortification. Good to know. “Uh. No reason. Kinda our thing.”   And Audrey sighs in a way that suggests she may as well be spitting on the ground.   “What the spaz here is suddenly too shy to tell you is that not that long ago a video started circulating through the school of me making out with another girl. I was angry enough I wanted to smash someone’s teeth in, but he turned it into our in-joke.” She sighs once again. “He’s… weird like that.”   “I thought normal was for boring people?”   “Do we look bored to you, Broody?” Audrey shoots me a grin, which doesn’t take away the sting from her adopting Noah’s nickname for me. Great. That’s precious, coming from the goth who couldn’t commit and eloped with the biker gang aesthetic.   “Hey! I see you are already fitting in?” A girl who looks like she just came out of the kind of magazine Emma wanted to work for waves as she stands over our little trio. She… she looks like she’s trying to be friendly but doesn’t know quite how.   Audrey sighs, once again looking like spitting into the ground would be a preferable alternative.   “Right. Taylor, this is Emma Duval. Emma, Taylor Hebert. If you hear Noah call somebody ‘Broody,’ that’s her, for reasons that will appear obvious in about thirty seconds.”    Emma.   She’s called Emma.   Right, because of course the girl who looks like a model and obviously has a hostile story with the people who are being friendly to me would be called Emma. Sure, why not. What’s another diabolus ex machina between friends?   “Charmed, I’m sure,” I manage to bite out.   Emma the Second looks at me with some apprehension. I am sure I don’t know why.   “Uh, is everything all right?”   I sigh. I guess spitting on the floor has some appeal.   “Sorry, nothing to do with you. I just have some… history with an Emma, and this brought back some unpleasant memories.”   “Oh. I didn’t think it was such an uncommon name?”   “Never heard about the ‘one Steve limit?’”   “Oh God, not you too…” Audrey groans as Noah shoots me a gleeful smile. Emma smiles nervously, which I guess counts as a show of goodwill. So, completely unlike Emma. The other Emma.   This is going to be annoying me for months, I can already tell.   “Anyway… There’s a party tonight, and I thought it would be a good chance for you to get to know people? And Audrey and Noah are of course invited,” she says, her smile turning hopeful as she looks at Audrey… Is this the other girl from the video? Am I getting dragged into a lover’s spat?   “Sure! We’ll be there! I mean, if you tell us where it is. That information is kind of a prerequisite to my fulfilling the terms of this promise.” Noah. Noah, why? Why are you like this?   Emma, rather than shoot him the scornful glare he would have earned at any other high school worth its trauma, smiles warmly at him and chuckles. Does this girl know she can do things other than smile? Add some variety, please.   “It’s at Brooke’s house. Somebody will bring along booze, but you don’t have to drink—and don’t let anyone there pressure you.” She shoots a look to the side when she says that, and I can see she’s referring to a group of people who seems to include two proverbial jocks and a blonde with an expensive tan. Oh. The ‘in’ crowd. Joy.   I am sure we all will get along and I won’t leave the party traumatized by a Carrie-like incident. Especially after that warning about the alcohol.   And now that my father is working for law enforcement, this is an even better situation that cannot go wrong at all.   ***   Emma hangs around a bit more after that, but Audrey remains fairly monosyllabic until she finally leaves, shoulders slumped. Which is a bit weird, given their relative positions in the social hierarchy. One would guess Audrey would be the one that would be chasing after Emma (ugh, I need some kind of brain bleach if I am going to keep thinking that name) and not the other way around.   My curiosity must show, because as soon as Emma (gag) rejoins her group, Audrey looks at me.   “We used to be friends, you know?” She starts.   “And now you aren’t?”   “She got pretty. Started hanging out with the popular crowd. Left me behind.”   “Oh.” Is this the time to say ‘you are pretty too?’ Would that be taken as reassurance or flirting? Wait, how would I feel if someone told me that?   …   Yeah, not touching that with a ten-foot pole.   “Come on, Bicurious, you know you are gorgeous too. Plenty of guys are into women who can break them.” Noah, at the risk of repeating myself, why?   “And plenty of women are into twinks, Virgin. Don’t give up hope yet.” Audrey, why?!   “Anyway,” I cut off before things get even farther from the limits of my tolerance, “she seems to want to make up with you. Wouldn’t you want to try?”   “Not when it is out of guilt, no.”   “Guilt?”   Audrey shuts up, and Noah looks at her apologetically before explaining.   “The ones who filmed Audrey and her… friend were Emma’s crowd. They posted the video, and it went viral.”   “Oh.” That… All right, it isn’t on the level of ending up catatonic and full of antibiotics, but it doesn’t sound nice.   “That’s not… the bad part.” Of course it isn’t. Not with the way Audrey is staring at the ground. “The thing is that the other girl—”   “Rachel,” Audrey interjects.   “Rachel,” Noah nods. “Rachel took it really bad. And no one has since her since… two weeks ago.”   Shit.   “I… I am sorry, I didn’t know—”   “Obviously, Broody. You just got here. Perfect alibi,” Audrey says with a dark humor I don’t know if I can get used to.   Thankfully, I am absolved of the need to answer to her joke by the screams.   “Wha—” Noah starts to say, but I’m already running.   The commotion is coming from behind the kitchen, where a dumpster is open and a woman with a hairnet and an apron is recoiling in horror. I get there in seconds, and all the while I use my bugs to mark anyone in the near vicinity, but nobody is acting in a way I can tell is suspicious.   Which doesn’t mean shit, because I am not a detective, no matter how much of a better class about Dupin’s first case I could have given than the jumbled mess Mr. Branson taught us this morning.   So I can safely say I don’t know what I’m doing when I reach the dumpster and lean over the lid to see the interior, only to see…   A beautiful girl.   Slender, nymph-like, her long blond hair draped around her like a golden halo, her pale skin having a blue tint that almost looks like moonlight and sunlight are meeting in her, hoarfrost providing the stars that tie up the display. And she’s lying, almost artfully, over a spread of photographs.   Some of them are in her. Sticking out of her body like thorns from a rose, each part of her body sprouting one, all except her face, which shows a restful expression. Peaceful.   And there’s no blood.   None of my insects have been attracted to her, and when I have a couple approach, they quickly drop dead due to the cold.   A frozen, bloodless corpse arranged like a work of art, surrounded by pictures of herself with… Men. A lot of men, from what I can see.   I guess the motive is clear. One of them, at least.   Audrey and Noah reach my side before I have been able to react in any way whatsoever.   “Nina…” Audrey mutters.   I shoot her a look, grateful for the chance to tear my eyes away from the display, but she doesn’t elaborate. She just stands there, transfixed, eyes wide and breathing shallow.   Noah is the first one to react, looking worriedly between the two of us before dragging us away as other students start coming to see what the commotion is all about.   “She’s the one who spread the video. She didn’t come to school yesterday. Neither did her ex-boyfriend, Tyler… who’s been away for quite a while.” Noah tells me as he grabs Audrey’s shoulders with a steadying hand.   So. The murder was committed yesterday. Good thing I have a ‘perfect alibi.’   Now, to find out who doesn’t.   ***   I didn’t expect the first time Dad visited my new high school it would be because of a murder.   Correction: given my track record, I didn’t expect it to be because of a murder unrelated to me.   But there he is, in his civies, taking notes on a clipboard while a Hispanic man with a PRT uniform gives his veredict.   “Parahuman. The lack of blood indicates she was cut after she was frozen, yet there’s no sign of sawing or warping on the edges of the wounds. This was done either by a power or a tinkertech blade. We are claiming jurisdiction.”   “Fine,” the man I assume to be the sheriff answers despondently, as if upset he didn’t get chosen for his friend’s team at the playground. “Maggie, it looks like we won’t be working together this time.”   Maggie is looking over the lid of the dumpster at the frozen girl inside who is finally starting to thaw if the (nauseating) reaction of my bugs is anything to go by.   “Maggie?” The sheriff asks.   “There’s something…” She reaches in with some kind of tongs and pulls something from underneath the pile of photographs. A weird mask, like a face made of wax caught mid-melting. And ‘Maggie’ lets out a gasp before dropping to her knees.   The men start shouting at each other while fussing over her, and dad looks unsure whether he should be taking notes of that. I don’t think I need to.   So I start walking toward where Noah has Audrey huddled in a thoroughly protective cuddle as I ponder my first day.   New friends? More or less.   New Emma? Check.   Something that tops me getting hospitalized? Yup.   What is likely to be my first supervillain in a rural town that hasn’t had recorded cape activity in decades? Sure.   Is this school actually worse than Winslow? … I’ll get back to you on that.     ====================== ======================   Hi there! This story is the first extra I started to write for my Patreons back in 2021 (someday this will sound impressive), and the prompt was the brainchild of Nick Russo, the kind and generous soul who got me hooked on Scream TV.   It’s currently 14 chapters long, and I’ll be posting two weekly chapters until we’re caught up. If you feel impatient and want to see where this is going, though, it’s currently up to date in both my Patreon and QQ—I’d prefer you resort to one over the other, but I’d leave which one that is up to you, sagacious reader that you are.   Now, as to the bleaker part of this: Nick is sick. He’s been diagnosed with an enlarged aorta, and both the threat to his health and his financial stability are substantial. He has set up a GoFundMe to try and get some support from kind strangers, and I would appreciate it very much if any of you reading this who can afford to do so would help him out. Really, he’s an attentive, supportive, funny man, and I… Well, I just want him to be all right.   If you can help with that? Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.  

Chapter 6 - Periodical Cicadas – Chapter 6

You know what nobody tells you about heroing?   The staggering amount of laws you’re going to break.   In my case, that’s one. So far. But given how new I am at this job, it doesn’t bode well for my future. I may even end up jaywalking.   But before sinking to those lows, I should focus on the crime I’m in the middle of. You know, the one my power is uniquely suited to: stalking.   Maybe I should ask Noah and Audrey for some tips.   Because, so far, what I’m doing is sitting on a bench beneath a possibly not hostile tree that at the very least makes for a good ally of convenience against the dreaded sun of this place.   I’m inconspicuous. Perfectly innocent. No passerby has even given me a second glance and lived to tell the tale.   … It’s the book, isn’t it? People in this place don’t think reading outdoors is something non-suspicious teenagers do. In my experience, they may even be right: I don’t remember a single classmate from Winslow doing this.   Reading, that is.   On the other hand, none of my classmates at the school that’s slightly less murderous than my current one were what I would define as ‘non-suspicious teenagers,’ so maybe it isn’t the book. Maybe it’s the pale girl from out of state who keeps glancing at Gustavo’s house because it’s really hard not to do so when my power is focused on looking for anything suspicious inside it.   Anything suspicious other than Brooke and him cuddling in bed the day after her former lover was violently murdered, I mean.   Sure, there could be an innocent explanation for that, such as childhood friends deriving comfort from each other’s presence, but, really, childhood friends are overrated.   And likely psychopaths.   No, I’m not projecting.   …   Damn it.   Right, I’m already here, so I may as well do what I can to investigate.   Flies and ants sweep the house, their senses hopefully suited to finding any substance that shouldn’t be there. I don’t have an extensive catalog of those, but I at least recognize everything common that should be in a house, so anything outside of that will stand out enough that I can do some digging afterward.   I mean, my father works near a forensic lab. It shouldn’t be that hard to find out whatever it is that doesn’t fit.   Shouldn’t it?   …   Isn’t there an elective I can take for this? Entomological Forensics 101? It could save lives, people! Mostly, Ms. Lang’s if it meant I could drop out of that psychology thing she teaches that keeps testing my patience.   After a single day.   I wonder how many weeks it will take me to stop resisting the urge to find out whether she has a bee allergy through the experimental method…   … I should start carrying epi-pens. And possibly Tylenol.   Tylenol could also save lives.   Mostly Noah’s.   Right, focus on the bugs currently swarming my classmate’s home in search of clues of him being a serial killer despite being the son of the only PRT officer in town. Which means if my guess pans out, I will have to check whether Gustavo’s dad is an accomplice working to cover his son’s tracks while closely working with my own father. That won’t get awkward and have me obsessively stalking him all over the city, not at all.   Damn it, couldn’t the superpowered slasher be more considerate of my personal problems? I don’t want to stalk my dad, so at least have the decency of not involving him in your weirdly engaging educational art project.   I should also have a long introspective session about why I find myself having bouts of Stendhal’s Syndrome when faced with murder victims. Because if it turns out this whole thing is due to me having a split personality and a much more useful powerset to go along with it, I’m going to be pissed.   Really, the heroic personality shouldn’t get stuck with the bug powers. That’s not a hero’s theme.   Someone may argue that supernaturally sharp, invisible threads don’t seem that heroic either, but, really, the world may be better off with a hero wielding those, given how Brockton Bay looked before we left.   That is: like Brockton Bay.   Home is where the heart is. Especially if home is full of psychos prone to dismembering you and burying the remains in unmarked graves. Including your heart.   At home.   Thus, the joke.   And Audrey says I’m morbid. It’s just a natural adaptation.   Like having a poor sense of smell in New York.   No, but really, couldn’t these damn ants find anything more interesting than detergent traces? Why are these people so hygienic? Haven’t they watched any movies with a teenage boy and a single parent? Don’t they know the house should be a breeding ground for my armies to grow?   People can be so inconsiderate to their future Orwellian overlords…   Also, Gustavo’s ink and paint make my flies dizzy.   Which could be a good smokescreen for—   Blood.   In the dresser.   Right. Don’t panic. It’s not like he’s alone at home with the blonde that narrowly escaped death last night. Not like he very clearly demanded she be there. Not like I’ve seen him draw her with weirdly geometrical cuts that enhance her natural beauty in red over black ink.   Fuck, fuck, fuck!   They are still in bed, still clothed, just hugging and talking, and now I’ve got a very clear priority to learn to understand speech through my bugs, because there may be something vital I’m missing, and I can’t afford—   There’s a wasp frantically buzzing around my bench. Damn it.   Focus!   My flies won’t be able to get inside the dresser, and my ants are too slow, but I could have them bite onto a fly’s legs and air-carry them—   Done.   Set up a convoy. Flies going back and forth from the dresser to the bathroom and kitchen where most ants were already gathered. I’ll need quite a lot of them if I want to map whatever it is that has traces of blood—   Traces. It’s dry, maybe old? I don’t know how concerning that is, but at least it’s not a blood-drenched cape costume, so—   Small box at the bottom of the dresser. Hidden in the corner. Wood, with a latch.   The cover doesn’t fit that well, so I can get a line of ants inside, and…   What is this?   A curved object… I could line up my ants around the outline. It has plastic and metal—   A razor. A shaving razor. The old kind.   You know, a completely harmless thing with no negative connotations at all. Like what Jack Slash uses.   … Right.   Should I keep panicking? It isn’t precisely an innocent find, but having a razor with traces of blood… all over the blade… and splattered over the handle…   Right. Maybe not panicking, but definitely concerned.   So, take a deep breath, and let myself relax enough that I can think about this whole thing. I can keep an eye on Gustavo while I do so, and keep trying to ignore Emma’s happy family life in the house in front of—   Fresh blood.   In Emma’s home.   I run.   ***   Emma   “You don’t have to be here, sweetie,” dad says with that gentle look he always uses when they do this, and both mom and Piper nod along.   There’s a suitcase full of mom’s equipment on the coffee table and a plastic tarp covering the sofa.   And dad is tied down to a sturdy chair with leather cuffs over his wrists and ankles.   “I know. I still want to be,” I finally answer. Like I always do.   And he smiles a sad smile that I always think has a bit of pride and a bit of shame. Though the pride is all for me, because that’s how dad works.   “All right,” he says softly, almost a whisper.   And then mom puts a ballgag on him, Piper squeezes his hand, and the body starts thrashing against its restraints.   And dad is lying on top of the plastic tarp.   “Don’t worry, the painkillers from last time are still working,” he reassures me.   I’m used to it. To seeing him with that face I only discovered after I walked in on mom and him when I was ten years old, to hear a different voice come from him, but a voice that has same tone, the same cadence, the same caring and love.   I’m used to it, but I never get quite used to the blood.   Mom immediately sets up a transfusion, and Piper starts applying pressure to the wounds. The sutures carry over when he enters and leaves the body, but nothing else does, and certainly not bandages. Maybe it’s because they are partially inside him, but we have never had the chance to experiment. Not when he’s still healing, when it will take him so long to completely recover, and when he has so little time outside the body to wait for the one he was born with to recover.   I don’t know how it works. I think he absorbs nutrients while he’s in there, wearing the face I learned to call dad since I was born, but it seems like everything else stops, and scabs also don’t carry over, so there’s always fresh blood when he emerges.   He should’ve healed that much already. It’s been years, so these monthly sessions should’ve accumulated enough that he should no longer be bleeding, but maybe it’s a power thing. Maybe he keeps reverting to the state he was in when he triggered, maybe—   There’s a roaring sound, and I turn around.   A cloud of wasps, and flies, and bees starts circling the room, and—   Piper is paralyzed, still applying pressure as mom turns to me with wide eyes.   And I really didn’t want any of them to find out this way.   “Taylor! Taylor, stop; it’s not what you think!”   Something hits the door hard enough it rattles against the frame.   And I can’t help a bit of a smile at her frantic worry.   ***   Taylor   “What the fuck are you doing here?!” I yell as I keep pounding on Emma’s door.   “Following you after you looked shady as Hell! Now, why are you acting like you just witnessed a murder in there?!” Audrey answers with the same poise I am currently displaying.   “Because she has! Well, maybe not a murder, but definitely something. Blood-related? Is that how you knew Brooke was—”   “Shut up, Noah!” I scream, finally performing the ancient ritual that makes me an official resident of this town full of lunatics.   And murder.   And blood.   Open up, Emma!   I try to focus, and I split the cloud of insects around the bodies inside the house, leaving a passage to the door for the one that most closely fits her—   She runs toward me.   I almost slump in relief when the door opens, and it’s her, and she isn’t even splattered in blood or carrying art supplies.   “Thank God you—I mean, what the Hell?!” I very considerately inquire on her wellbeing.   Emma hugs me.   After I swear. I’m not yelling because of a physical display of affection.   For once.   “Can you stop your bugs and I will explain?” she asks, far more calmly than I would’ve expected.   “Oh! Bug control! That explains everything. You must’ve sensed the blood dripping down the lines with mosquitoes so—”   And Noah shuts up.   Not because Audrey smacks him or because I glare at him.   But because Emma looks at him.   … I am a bit in awe, truth be told.   Also, my bugs have retreated to the corners of the room, and Emma’s mom is now behind her, arms crossed, a bit of blood splattered over a white apron.   “Sweetie, you really should warn us when you invite friends over,” she says.   … I like this family.   [font="Times] =============[/font] [font="Times]=============[/font] [font="Times]As always, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on [/font][font="Times]Patreon[/font][font="Times]: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. 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Chapter 3 - Lacmere University – Chapter 4

Lacmere University – Chapter 4: Baseless Rumors [4.3k Words]   Bianca   His hand is warm.   It always was. More than Dad’s. More than Mom’s. And those are the only other two hands that ever held mine when I was unable to leave my bed until…   Until Luke came into my life.   I look at him and try to find a smile hiding behind solemn blue eyes like I sometimes am able to do, but here and now, in the cafeteria of the college that he got us into… There is no smile.   Just piercing eyes, looking at and through me, making me gasp, making me…   Making me feel like a silly girl who just clumsily asked if I ever ‘cramped his style’ and is now trying to get him to open up about the promise he made me so long ago and how I fear my selfishness has hurt him and keeps hurting him to the point that I can barely look at myself in the mirror when I think about it only to find black, accusing eyes staring back at me, telling me about how I’ve clung to him all his life, how I have hijacked it, how I have…   I smile at him. Something warm, uncomplicated. Maybe a bit mischievous.   It’s a smile that I’ve slowly changed since we came to Lacmere, but, at its heart, it’s also the smile I always tried to wear for him.   I always try to make it genuine. For him.   For Luke.   “You heard about the rumor?” I say, forcefully changing the subject and squeezing his hand back as if his grip on me wasn’t the most important part of what just happened.   “Which one?” he says with a disaffected eye roll that manages to make me giggle despite it all.   “Tell you what: you give me the one you’re thinking of, and if they match, I won’t drag you on an adventure.”   “Please, do drag me into your adventures. Somebody needs to explain to the campus police what it is that actually happened when—”   “In my defense, Robin overreacted.”   “Robin. The girl who shoots guns as a hobby.”   “She also swords!” I refute. Or, well, I enthusiastically offer back because Robin is cool. Like, yes, I know she’s just training for pentathlon, but somebody who shoots guns and fences will always be a pirate in my book.   Or, well, in many of my books.   … Even those that Luke will never learn about. There’s only so much embarrassment I can take.   “If by ‘she also swords’ you mean that she’s passable enough with epee… Right. She swords. As to how that’s at all relevant when it comes to me very nearly getting shot—”   “She uses laser guns. Modern pentathlon doesn’t allow real ammo,” I say with no small amount of disappointment.   Because, yes, I do prefer swords, but something about an athletic twenty-something girl with a dueling pistol sounds… enticing.   And that’s another thing I’m not telling Luke ever. Unless it’s his birthday, and I’m drunk, stupid, skipping a lot of stages, and—   “You’re blushing,” the absolute moron says.   Still holding my hand.   “It’s a thing girls do. You should try it sometime,” I say before the image of him shirtless, his head on my thighs and a gleaming droplet of his sweat on the tip of my finger makes the blush redouble when memory and imagination blur, and now I’ve got the vivid image of his flushed cheeks underlining his blue eyes, which, really, isn’t that far off from how he looks when he pushes himself to the point that his muscles look that much bigger just because of the increased flow of blood filling his body, and… Darn it.   He was right: puberty had to hit me at some point.   “Bianca, I am pretty sure that I’m equally capable of blushing as you are,” he says with another eye roll and… a brief squeeze of his hand on mine.   I look up from the deep-dish pizza I picked up just to get him to react in that way that always makes me laugh no matter how often he’s ranted about the same subject and once again meet his eyes, the chatter of the cafeteria fading away until we’re just the two of us alone in the world like we were so many times.   I… I allow myself to enjoy it. To take heart in his being with me despite it all. On his promise.   Just… Just this one time. Just one more time. It’s not too much to ask, is it? Just a bit more of stolen time with him by my side before I…   …   “So. Your rumor?” I say, uncaring of the cooling pizza and the warming orange soda.   “Are you really that set on ignoring what happened with Robin—”   “She got a bit of a scare, big deal. It will make for a good story, years down the line, when she tells her friends about the one time she almost—”   “Shot me to death.”   “They are laser guns.”   “She has a bow.”   I blink at him. He scoffs.   “Really?” I ask, not quite knowing why.   “Really. She’s much better with a bow than with a gun, but she’s set on pentathlon for, and I quote, reasons.”   “She’s called Robin. And she’s good with a bow,” I say slowly, trying to hold back the bubbling glee.   “Don’t,” he says like somebody who had his sense of wonder surgically removed.   “This has to count as another rumor. What are the odds? A gifted archer named Robin who’s on a pentathlon scholarship, so she has to be good at fencing and horse riding, and swimming, and trail running—this is marvelous. Why didn’t you tell me about the archery thing? Oh, wait, is this your rumor? Because it clearly isn’t the one I had in mind, but I can forgive you for it this one time—”   “Bianca, there’s nothing magical about somebody named Robin picking a bow and arrow. I had an Errol in my fencing club and an unfortunately named Mexican instructor who warned me not to ever joke about having six fingers,” he says as if his entire life’s purpose was to rain on my parade.   “Fine. But I reserve the right to add her to the rumor list if she ever shoots an arrow through another one.”   “I’ll be sure to keep an eye out,” he says, lying through his teeth.   Which, again, makes me giggle.   “Okay, so…” I say, grabbing the slice of pizza that I dropped earlier with my free hand. “What is your rumor?”   I bite into the thing that would make Luke’s adorable grandparents fly into an apoplectic fit and delight in the crust crunching and the gooey cheese trying to escape from my teeth in elastic threads that I promptly slurp up, and, through it all, I try not to look at how Luke looks at me when I do so.   He still hasn’t let me go.   Not until the very moment I think about it and his warm fingers leave mine to take a sip of his mineral water.   “Have you heard about the northern tower?” he asks, his lips shining with wetness, the sunlight coming from the high-set windows of the cafeteria tracing every contour and crevice of the soft flesh shaping his words.   I… I shake my head.   “All right, there’s a rumor,” he says, the emphasis painstakingly remarked, “as in, a baseless claim spread through word of mouth—”   “I know what a rumor is,” I say, rolling my eyes and taking an insolently provocative bite of my delicious pizza in retaliation.   And, if a tiny moan escapes my mouth, that’s just…   That’s just because I’m still not used to food tasting anything other than bland.   “All right, just so we are clear. This time around, the rumor is that some people claim to have seen a woman in a white gown on top of the tower at the northern corner of the castle’s wall, always on moonlit nights. A proper haunting story.”   “That’s it? No blood-curdling screams, eerie songs, or ethereal beauty? Just a woman taking a nightly stroll?”   He shrugs. “I really don’t know what you expected.”   “Well, quite a few things, to be honest. Maybe something to do with how clean your dorm always is?”   “We’ve got a maid?” he says with a raised eyebrow.   I remember the short, brunette woman I’ve met sometimes when visiting Luke who, because Lacmere, does dress like a maid, and I try to glare at him in a pre-emptive strike, just to see if he will look at all guilty—and of course he only looks confused.   Boys.   Or, well, a single boy. A boy who’s single. And whose touch still lingers on my fingers.   “There’s absolutely no way that poor woman is able to take care of an entire dorm that has the likes of Conor living in it,” I say with not enough derision to come off as offensive. Really, I don’t dislike Conor. Straightforward, maybe a tad self-absorbed, likely to have some kind of not strictly Platonic bromance with Patrick. Nothing against him.   It’s just, if somebody in that fencing club will be a nightmare when it comes to dirty dishes, that’s Conor. Even if only because of all the food needed to maintain the physique of that giant of a man.   “I really don’t know enough about housekeeping to refute that,” he says, lowering a last look of disdain at the pizza before taking a bite that he pretends not to enjoy.   “Okay, I’ll tentatively add that as another rumor,” I say with a beaming smile that has nothing to do with the splatter of tomato sauce marring the corner of his always immaculately shaven upper lip.   “What the—Bianca!” he protests in a rare show of embarrassment as I dab it away with my paper napkin, reaching across the table and holding myself up above the pizza, and…   He’s close.   He’s close, and I’m holding a napkin to his mouth, and he’s looking at me, and he smells like he did this morning right after exercising, his shirtless torso dewed with sweat, blood flushing his skin, short hair under my fingers—   “Sorry,” I mutter before I slowly pull away.   “There’s… nothing to be sorry about,” he says. Lying. Again.   So I smile at him once more with the one thing I tried to perfect when I was bedridden, and he was in class, when I only had the strength to read my books or, if not even that, lie half-awake, thinking about the boy who would come. Who would always come.   Because he had promised.   And I allow silence to fall between us before I try to lose myself in the vibrant flavors of the pizza he loves to hate.   ***   “I’ve got Biology 101 and then a training session,” he tells me as we walk away from the cafeteria.   “I’ve got a free period,” I answer.   Unnecessarily because, at this point, I know his schedule by heart, and I know he knows mine as well. But it’s… We’re walking together, and we feel the urge to add our words to the cacophony of fellow students getting out and slowly spreading across a lawn that shouldn’t be this vibrant, given the daily stomping it is subjected to.   “So… what was your rumor?” he says as if struggling to find a better subject of conversation.   A contradiction in itself. How could there be a better topic than the many rumors of Lacmere?   “Oh, this one is good; let me tell you all about the story I would like to title… The Horse by the Lake,” I tell him with my best storytelling voice, adding a few spooky noises at the end to match the finger wiggles.   He looks as unimpressed as ever, but, really, if I wanted an appreciative audience, I would be speaking with Brian. Or to the idea of Brian that I’ve gotten from Luke’s sometimes frustrated comments, which may be an unfair appraisal of Brian, but it’s the best one I’ve got.   “Bianca, we have a horse-riding club,” he says, already resorting to pointing out the lack of anything extraordinary in a story I haven’t even told him about.   “The club is on the other side of the campus, I very much doubt they allow their members to take out the horses for a night stroll,” I say with my right hand throwing an airy dismissal that I thoroughly enjoy.   His eyebrows scrunch, and he looks toward the lake we can see spread past the library, green waters reflecting a broken streak of sunlight high with early afternoon, with tall trees gently swaying behind it marking the first row of the forest that rises up into a gentle slope that becomes a hill before it fades into the background of mountains.   “So. The story is that a horse appears by the lake at night?” he says, to which I answer with an enthusiastic nod and broad smile. “And how’s that so much different from the lady in white at the north tower?”   I stare at him. Then I blink.   “Totally not the same thing,” I say in a tone that’s not sulky at all, even if I cross my arms for added effect.   “Really,” he says.   “Really!”   “No blood-curdling screams? No eerie songs—”   “You can be such a jerk sometimes,” I say with just a slight pout before I kick a round stone that has dared stand in my way on the dirt path running out of the cafeteria.   “I can,” he answers with a careless shrug, just as we reach the intersection, and he stops to look at me with an inquiring look.   “Go ahead,” I say. “Don’t want you spoiling your perfect attendance record.”   He, again, rolls his eyes at me and starts turning away toward the branching path that will take him to his dorm and the class material he’s likely left there, and—   He kisses me.   Just… a brush of soft lips on my cheek that leaves me breathless, that fills my head with his scent, that makes my heart thunder at the nearness of his warmth, and—   And then he’s turning away and waving goodbye over his shoulder without a further word.   Leaving me to stare stupidly at his retreating back, my fingertips reaching for the tingling spot on my cheek that—damn Italians and their courtesy greetings.   I’m used to it. I know how little it means. I’ve seen him kiss his mother and father goodbye like this a thousand times.   I’m used to it.   Except, lately, I very much am not.   ***   Reading fantasy was my escape.   Whenever my body failed, and nobody knew why, whenever Mom got scared that I wouldn’t even live to be as young as Grandma was when she died of the same illness that thankfully skipped my mother, whenever I had to rest in my bedroom with the white wooden shutters only letting thin stretches of light in… fantasy was my escape.   I loved every book I could get my hands on, from colorful fairy tales to those that were only decorated with black and white woodcut illustrations. I loved comic books and silly little novels about mouse detectives. I loved all of them.   But fantasy always was my favorite.   Because it showed me worlds other than the one outside my window. It showed me not things as they were but as they could be—should be. It told me of heroes who triumphed over great evils, who stood up again and again, no matter how dire the odds.   I liked to imagine it. That I was a heroine and my unnamed illness a dragon. That I would always come back after every defeat. That I would one day triumph.   But the dragon wouldn’t let me. It kept me prisoner, not as a heroine, but as a princess waiting for her knight.   I close my eyes and lean back against the coarse bark of the red cedar tree I have climbed just because I can. Yes, maybe to be a bit dramatic as I lounge on a thick branch with my right leg stretched along it and my left bent back so I can rest my forearm atop my knee in an indolent pose that may have been inspired by the idea of Robin being another kind of Robin. One with a Peter Pan cap that would look adorable on top of the sprightly girl.   Below and in front of me is the peaceful lake with green waters that show the gliding, blurry reflections of the clouds above. Beyond it, there’s the cathedral-like library, and beyond that, the castle that our teachers reside in.   I was so damn jealous when I heard about that last bit…   But… now? Here? I’ve claimed another piece of fantasy.   Because most authors can’t help themselves. They all want to be Tolkien, telling you in exhausting detail about the world they have crafted and every little part of it. They will tell you about cultures, politics, fashions…   And trees.   They’ll paint stunning vistas that drag you out against your will. That carry you to the highest peaks on the wings of a giant eagle only to then drag you down to caverns filled with the flickering shadows cast by the forges of dwarves. They’ll tell you every little thing you never knew you needed to know so that you can live in that place they are pouring from their heart straight into your mind.   And they’ll talk about trees. About the leaves and grass that the hero finds along the way.   But, to me? For many, many years?   A cedar was an evergreen conifer.   Because that’s what the dictionary told me.   I knew it had a strong scent, one characteristic and soothing. That it grew tall, that it never wilted through winter, that its leaves were like thick, green feathers.   I knew.   But I hadn’t lived it.   So I close my eyes and take a deep breath of cedar, noting all the ways in which it doesn’t smell like the scented candles I asked Mom to buy for me, and I listen to the swaying branches as I feel the texture of the wood through my cargo pants and leather jacket.   I… I step away from my memories of ink on white and…   And live.   My breath hitches as my eyes sting, and I furiously rub them with the back of my hand, trying not to let the past steal the present from me. To just enjoy what I now have rather than regret what I didn’t.   What I trusted Luke to…   I close my eyes tighter and banish the uncomfortable, painful truth.   I’m not here to mope, no matter what appearances may point at otherwise. I am here to solve a mystery.   And just the thought of it is enough to make the itch in my eyes recede and a smile to come out.   Okay. Facts.   Plenty of people have been talking about the horse, which is, in and of itself, somewhat remarkable. It’s just a horse neighing near the water, so why would anyone think it needs to be talked about? Luke had a point when he ribbed me about this.   … Not that I’m going to tell him, of course. Not once I come back having solved one of Lacmere’s rumors by myself while he’s stuck in the club, beating up Brian for his crimes of reminding Luke too much of what I would likely have been like if not for—not now.   All right. A supernatural horse that comes out near water. Or maybe that lives in the water. I guess a hippocampus would be too much to ask for? I bet it would be amazing to ride one of those; maybe I could ask Robin for lessons and—focus.   Maybe a nuggle? That would be nice—it would point me in the direction of other fae, or maybe Scottish myths? Or, well, it may be a pooka. A shapeshifter would explain how something as big as a horse keeps being heard but not seen.   The truth is that I don’t have a lot to go on. So, I may as well get some facts of my own.   And I’ve got the thing just for that.   Once again happy about my many, many pockets that Mom’s dresses were always lacking in, I unclasp the one by the side of my right thigh and rummage past the uncomfortably cold silver necklace to grab the round stone at the bottom of it. It’s something that I found by the side of the clear stream that goes through the forest and then vanishes underground before presumably feeding the lake below me.   A round, unremarkable river stone.   Except it has a hole in it.   And, really, after reading so much fantasy? I know destiny when I’m faced with it.   Because river stones with a hole worn through them are magic. They have to be. They… This one? It felt like a tingle on my palm. Like the river still flowed over and through it with a quiet whistle for my ears only.   And then I looked through it. Because that’s what you’re supposed to do with holes in stone: you’re supposed to look through them and see magic. Spirits. The invisible world hidden from everyone else.   I didn’t. I just saw the forest and the clear stream.   But I held onto it.   And now… Now I look once again, searching the surface of the lake and—   A line of rippling water plows across the surface, gentle, cresting waves turning into churning white foam, and I have to blink and close my eyes, looking away from the hole to make sure that… that there is no line and no foam outside of the window in the stone. That I’m seeing something…   Magic.   Magic.   Magic!   I shove the stone in my pocket and grab the branch of red cedar under me before swinging down, my palms right on the verge of getting scrapped by the coarse bark, the tree creaking and protesting as I drop right on the other branch beneath me so fast that I almost slip before I drop down and grab it with both hands, taking a look over the side to check that I’m still too far from the carpet of brown leaves to risk jumping down, so I crawl back to the trunk and look for the path of knots and branches that I used on my way up when I decided to be suitably dramatic without caring for the darn logistics of rushing back to where I need to be.   I almost slip three times before I decide that I’m close enough to the ground to risk it, and I let myself drop away from the solid trunk, my legs bending immediately as soon as I feel the leaves crack through the soles of my boots, my ankles protected from the abrupt strain by the thick leather that I maybe should substitute for hiking gear, aesthetics be damned, and—   The stone sings in my hand when I reach back for it, and the waters of the lake part only in what I see through the tiny window I hold in my hand as I stop breathing. As I contemplate everything that should be, that should always have been, and was denied to a sickly girl clinging to fantasy.   Then I run.   My smile hurts on my tight cheeks, and I almost stumble on quite a few roots as I keep staring through the piece of enchantment in my grasp, but I don’t lose sight of it anymore. I keep running straight at where the line of white foam points, on this side of the lakeshore, almost right in front of me.   I keep running toward destiny.   And, when I run past the last tree before the shoreline, reaching the small beach of gray sand and tiny pebbles, the line grows into a frothing circle, and green water turns into…   Into a black, beautiful horse with kelp in its mane.   The horse that I can only see out of one eye rears up, backward hooves waving in the air as it lets out a neigh that I can feel more than hear, and then it steps forward, its shape wavering before my eyes, four hooves turning into hands and feet, black fur into pale skin, and—   Blue eyes.   Blue, piercing eyes look at me, and the young, well-muscled, naked man extends a hand in silent offering, his face as solemnly expressionless as ever.   I take a step forward.   His hand, despite the cold lake water, feels as warm as it ever was. Warmer than Mom and Dad’s.   Then he smiles.   “Ride with me,” he says with words that pierce through my heart. Words that feel like I’ve waited for them through my entire life since a silent boy came in and changed it. Since he brought me a light that I had only found between pages open to worlds with swords, magic, heroes, and…   “Luke,” I say, stepping forward, raising my hand to cup his cheek, water droplets flowing down his hair and over my fingers.   His arms surround me.   He lifts me up.   Then he steps back, over the lapping waters.   And I barely notice a stone falling to gray sand before my arms are around his neck, my chest against his back, and we ride.     ===================== ===================== I wasn’t aiming for a cliffhanger. Please, don’t hurt me.   Or, well, if you’re that aggravated, I guess you could head over to check out the next, 7k words chapter and berate me for the direct continuation of this scene. Oh, no. Please, don’t do that. Reader feedback, my only weakness.   Okay, all joking aside, Bianca became a very important character to me. Do let me know how I’m doing, because you know how invested I am in this project. As always, thank you for reading, and to @Shaderic for making this all possible.   [font="Times]As always, I’d like to thank my credited supporters on [/font][font="Times]Patreon[/font][font="Times]: LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, Vergil1989 Crossover King, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on [/font][font="Times]Amazon[/font][font="Times]. Thank you for reading![/font]  

Chapter 8 - Periodical Cicadas – Chapter 8

Do you know what I never expected I would have to deal with once I set on being a superhero?   Prank calls.   “Look, if you’re gonna try and convince me that you’re the Tinker murdering people for shits and giggles, maybe do something more impressive than using a gag voice garbler from the closest dollar store you could find. Fuck off,” I say.   And hang up.   Nervously, I stare at the phone in my hand. It sounds once again after just two seconds.   I think. Note to self: buy a pocketwatch and keep a small spider on each of the hands to get supernaturally accurate timing.   Huh. That sounds almost cool. Also, it seems like coming up with the idea has taken long enough that it will look like I shoved the phone in my pocket and took it back out after letting it ring a couple of times.   Fingers crossed that’s plausible.   “Yes? Any slightly more believable claims? Maybe you’re a Nigerian Prince in dire need of financial assistance?” I say, relying on the power of snark to carry me through.   “Taylor! Taylor, help! He has me!” Audrey’s panicked voice screams from the other side of the line.   And I run.   Streetlights flash past me as I pound the asphalt as hard as I can, trying to get there just a bit faster, just in time, like I did with Brooke.   And then I realize I don’t know where I’m going.   There’s garbled laughter coming from the phone tightly clutched in my hand, and I, trembling with nerves and something I dare not name, lift it up to my ear.   “How is that for proof, Taylor?” he asks.   “I… I… What do you want?” I say, walking slowly, trying to keep the blood flowing, to not get lightheaded with adrenaline and a sudden lack of air as my pulse races in my ears.   “Your attention, but also your opinions. I did ask, after all.”   I look at a night sky devoid of stars, still light enough that they can’t show up.   And, amid the rustling of trees that suddenly look that much more menacing, I head toward the nearest bench on the sidewalk and drop down on it.   “OK. OK, I’ll say whatever you want. Just… Just let Audrey go.”   Loud laughter crackled with static shots from my phone so suddenly that I almost drop it.   “I really got you, didn’t I, Taylor?” he says, almost genially.   “Got me?”   “Oh, well,” Emma’s voice says, “it’s just that you insulted my technology, and I felt I should give you a little demonstration. Not to mention make you question if, from now on, every single person you talk to on the phone is secretly me standing over the dead body of one of your new friends.”   My breath catches at the sheer casual cruelty coming from the one Emma that shouldn’t be talking to me like that, not after a night in a dark forest and—   Right. Not her.   I briefly close my eyes, resting back on the white-painted bench, feeling the condensed moisture of the cooling evening punctuate my shirt.   Then I get up and walk.   “For somebody asking for an art critique, you’re surprisingly abrasive,” I say, trying to hold my tone steady as I pace around, going through each bug in reach of my senses to try and find somebody talking on the phone in the vain hope the creep is spying on me, close enough to keep an eye on my movements.   And not, you know, using cameras or drones to do so, given I’ve just gotten confirmation that he’s a Tinker of some kind.   … Great, because we needed another nerd in here for Noah to latch onto. I swear, at the rate things are going, the school’s pariah will have a bigger social circle than the popular crowd.   “Let’s just say I like to have a captive audience.”   “Right. And I guess the creepy, menacing overtone of that is entirely accidental, and you’d just like to become a friendly acquaintance.”   “Truth be told? I wouldn’t mind being your friend, Taylor. You’ve been hurt, unjustly persecuted by others for things that were never your fault… Really, I think you’ve got more of Brandon James in you than most of your newest friends.”   Don’t react.   It can be entirely coincidental. He’s obsessed with Brandon James as a motif, a symbol, so bringing him up doesn’t mean he knows anything about what I just learned today.   “You’ve been investigating me,” I say instead, focusing on the one thing that a Taylor Hebert who didn’t know anything about Brandon James would point out as I quickly walk around the block, deciding to try and trace a spiral pattern, to broaden my area of awareness.   There are thirteen people making a call inside my range right now. So far, none of their breaths on the fruit flies atop their phones match the killer’s timing.   There could be some time shenanigans involved, seeing as with Tinkers nothing’s ever off the table, but… Occam’s Razor. I’ll never get anywhere if I assume everything’s not only possible but likely.   So I turn right at the next corner, going through new houses, searching for all their occupants, following the clouds of carbon dioxide to find which ones of them are talking, and wait for him to do so.   “A lonely girl shows up on the very day I unveil my first piece? And then proceeds to interfere with the next one? Of course I have investigated you, Taylor. And I’ve found such interesting things…”   He’s baiting me. Trying to see what I’ll jump to, what I’ll assume he knows.   Cold reading. Orson Welles was famous for it, back when people believed that powers were something mysterious and not… what they are.   Misery, despair, and the people who succumb to them.   “Your first piece? It was poignant. Simple yet evocative. It was… straightforward enough to get the message, the image of dead, innocent Ophelia returning to nature twisted and perverted into whatever that blonde’s name was. The second? I’m kind of iffy about it. Don’t misunderstand me, the aesthetics were on point, but it was far too elaborate. A Baroque thing, if it makes sense—though I guess that may have been the point, given the time period of its inspiration?”   “Did you catch the reference?” he asks, voice more animated than when prodding at me and hinting at darker secrets.   None of the people in my range speak with that timing. And I move on.   “The reference?”   He tsks, clear disappointment in the simple vocalization that makes me…   Uncomfortable.   “Velázquez. The painter of light, Taylor,” he says.   And I…   “You seriously couldn’t have expected me to know that,” I say.   “To know? No. But to investigate, to find out? How do you expect to get the deeper meaning of my pieces if you don’t do that much?”   I look around. The sky is darkening by the minute, and only the streetlights and my bugs remain to orient me. I can see people through the windows of their houses, moving in and out of view, dark silhouettes against bright backgrounds.   Light…   “The wires. The wires and the blood,” I whisper despite myself.   “Yeees?” he goads me on.   And I close my eyes.   I… I’m determined. Focused. I want to find him and stop him.   But what I’m currently doing is not working, and there’s so much ground I can cover by walking around. It is… a long shot.   Futile.   So maybe I can allow myself this? Maybe I can talk to him? Understand him?   And, maybe, understand what it is that Noah and Audrey claim to see in me?   “The threads were invisible, guides for the blood to drip down before you illuminated them, revealed them. Each carefully positioned light? Each angled beam? That was a choice, a step in uncovering what was there. A light shone in the darkness.”   “Yes. Yes, that’s precisely it, Taylor. What else?”   There’s something eager in his tone, his voice, his cadence, no matter how mangled it all becomes through the distorter he uses.   Something I… don’t understand, not really.   But I still resonate with it.   “That’s not the message of the piece. No, that one was clear, straightforward enough: it was a punishment and a reveal, Brandon James’ mask yet again contemplating what Lakewood’s corruption has tried to bury like it buried him. But… if Velázquez was the painter of light? Then that’s a statement about the artist, not the piece.”   “Tell me more,” he demands with a hunger that spurs me on, that niggles at that part of me they all seem so worried about and lets it loose.   Free.   “It’s a statement about you. About your mission. It’s… It’s mixed, because what you’re doing is bringing light to dark places, and your work reflects your identity. It’s about who you are, the man behind the artist, or, rather, who you want to be. Yes. Yes! It’s aspirational! A message from yourself to yourself, that you’re no longer trapped in the dark, that you can fly free, that you can hunt rather than be hunted, that you can… can…”   I stop.   In shock.   In horror.   Seeing myself.   “That I can stop being a frightened girl trapped in a locker, Taylor? Is that what you were going to say?” the murderer says with what should be a mocking tone.   I hang up.   And look around me, at the deserted street blotched with pools of white, cold light, the night’s silence broken only by a buzzing that is only partially under my control and sounds like the laughter I desperately want the killer’s last words to have been mired in.   But no. As usual, Taylor Hebert can’t get what she wants.   Because, as I turn back toward my new home, where my father won’t be waiting for me despite the late hour, what accompanies me is the true message in the killer’s words:   Gentleness. Caring.   Acceptance.   ***   Noah – Racing Mind   “So, we’re agreed something weird’s going on with your latest crush,” I speak into the phone as I take down one of the photos of Mister Branson’s murder.   A pity. He always let me talk.   “What, you mean aside from her coming from the criminal cape capital of America, being a parahuman, and somewhat capable of vibing with you, Virgin? Nope, nothing comes to mind.”   I smile despite myself. It’s good to have Audrey back.   “Come on, Bisexual, drop the snark for a moment and focus. You know what I’m talking about,” I prod her, remembering the moment of revelation she had in Emma’s house while—   Brandon James is alive! I can’t believe I missed that! All the signs—OK, no, that’s not fair. To deduce that I should have known about his parahuman ability. It wasn’t a reasonable jump in logic to make, which is kind of frustrating, because detective fiction used to have rules, even if one of them was not to use a ‘China man.’   “I… I saw, yes. But I don’t think I have the words for it,” she says, her tone dropping low enough that—   Let’s see… emotional context, Audrey’s behavioral patterns, her deviations from neuronormativity…   Yeah. She knows.   “Stop lying. At least, to yourself.”   She doesn’t answer. A sharp breath? Huh. I may have been too brusque. How do regular people do this? It’s so simple to see the thread and pull at it… Maybe that’s the issue? That they don’t like to be pulled? I… I don’t like bothering Audrey, much less hurting her, but sometimes it’s so easy not to notice despite everything else that’s so blindingly obvious—   “You’re lucky I’m not there to punch your arm,” she growls.   Ah, threats of violence. OK, everything’s all right; I haven’t pulled that much.   “That’s me, always getting lucky. That’s why you call me ‘Virgin’ ironically, isn’t it?”   She chuckles, because God forbid she giggles and shatters her carefully constructed façade of strength grown as a response to—hmmm. Better stop. I’ve never questioned her about that, and I still don’t think this is the right time.   I would if I thought it was ongoing, but… She’s healing. In her own way, at her own pace, but healing.   Even I know not to pull at scabs.   “OK, ironically Virgin, if that’s your real name, what do you think is going on with Broody?”   And that’s a good question.   I look at the picture in my hands, the one taken from the angle Taylor was in when she became transfixed. The angle from which it was meant to be looked at.   The perfect angle to see all the blood-dripping threads align, to see every intersection turn into flawless curves, graceful, stylized representations of human-like guises that only Gustavo readily realized the source of.   And I remember Taylor’s look when we found her, despite the excess of beer clouding my sight and memory far more than I’m used to.   I remember the fascination. The wonder. The… appreciation.   And I smile.   “Honestly, Bisexual? I could go on and on about what I think Broody’s deal is, but… you’ve seen it. Do you really want me to explain?”   She, on the other end of the line, likely clutching her knees to her chest in the safety of the corner of her bed that’s framed by two solid walls, sighs.   “No. I guess I don’t.”   And I grimace.   Because I expected it, of course. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have offered.   But it’s always irking when people refuse to listen to me.   ***   Taylor – Home Sweet Home   I open the door, and the inside of the house is dark, only lit with the sparse light coming in from the large windows.   I’m still getting used to them. When we first came here, I was horrified at the lack of metal bars covering them, but I ended up (grudgingly) accepting Dad’s explanation about this being a safer place, a more trusting one. That they weren’t needed.   Yeah… about that…   I suppress yet another sigh as I walk in, careful to turn on the lights even if I don’t need them because I don’t know how far the killer’s interest goes, and it would just be my luck to be outed just for trying to save on the electricity bill.   So I turn on every lamp on my way to the kitchen, to making myself some kind of dinner.   And then everything hits me.   Again.   My recently uncovered attraction to girls. The mess that is Emma and Audrey’s non-relationship, my outing to Emma’s entire family, Emma’s entire family outing to me, their prisoner that I don’t care about, Noah and Audrey looking at me like there’s something wrong, inherently wrong with the way I see the world, and Noah liking it.   As does the killer.   Of all people to show me compassion…   I give up on making dinner and grab a pear and a banana from the fridge before going to the living room and plopping down on the sofa.   And I…   I’m not really hungry.   I still take a bite out of the pear, the sweet juice staining my chin yet not bothering me that much as I lean back against the sofa’s backrest, the tough, blue fabric ceding to the weight of my head until I’m looking up and munching on the white flesh of the fruit.   I…   I don’t understand them.   Yes, I know, on an intellectual level, that there’s something wrong with me. That I shouldn’t find such sublime beauty in murder, that I shouldn’t stare and contemplate color choice, composition, and thematic relevance of corpses. I know that.   But what use is knowing when it goes against the truth?   And… There’s an explanation. An easy one.   That I’m damaged. That my empathy doesn’t work. That I see those victims as… objects. But what kind of hero looks at the world like that? What kind of hero would stare at a Nine’s attack and only criticize the criminal lack of originality?   At the same time… I don’t think that’s quite right. Not when I felt that surge of panic at Emma being in danger. Not when I almost dislocated my shoulder trying to save her. Those are not the actions of someone without empathy, so… what is it? What is in me that works… differently?   I swallow the mashed pulp in my mouth and take another bite, the green skin crunching before breaking as my mouth fills with a spray of sweetness.   I… savor it.   And… could it be that simple?   Could just that be the difference? That I savor things? That I allow myself to experience? That a door was shoved open inside my mind, and now I feel things others reject out of hand without ever stopping to try and contemplate them?   After all, there is beauty in his works. There is… something insightful, keen, poignant.   I… I can enjoy that part, that beauty, without failing to recognize the horror, can’t I?   Can’t I?   My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I drop the banana in my lap to fish it out with a hand that is not sticky with pear juice, expecting another excuse from Dad about why he’s not here and won’t be later still.   ‘Thank you for the lovely chat, Taylor. Although brief, I think you offered me some things to ponder, and I now have an idea for my next work. I hope to hear your opinions on it soon.’   I stare at the screen in horror, a part of me aghast at the mere idea I’ve unknowingly pushed him to another murder, to another way to murder.   I stare with… with helplessness. With regret and despair.   And anticipation.   [font="Times] [/font] [font="Times] =============[/font] [font="Times]=============[/font] [font="Times]As always, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on [/font][font="Times]Patreon[/font][font="Times]: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on [/font][font="Times]Amazon[/font][font="Times]. Thank you for reading![/font]  

Chapter 3 - Periodical Cicadas – Chapter 3

“So… How was school today?” Dad looks at me over his peas and tries for a weak smile that dies an early death when confronted with my thoroughly unamused face.   Great. Now I am the second killer cape of this town.   “Oh, you know, same old, same old. A bit of an improvement, I guess. I mean, at least this time the victimized girl wasn’t covered in used tampons.” And now he flinches. Great. Behold your newest protector, Lakewood, the man intimidated by his teenage daughter’s sarcasm.   “Taylor…” he hesitates. Again. “If you want to talk about what happened—”   “No. I don’t. You already read my journals; what else is there to talk about?” I don’t know why he insists on talking about the issue. I mean, it’s not like I keep bringing it up to punish him or anything…   And he flinches. Again.   Really, Dad? Is this how you’re going to act if you ever met this serial killer that is now your job to help catch?   ‘It will just be an administrative position, Taylor; there’s nothing to worry about. The town is basically a retirement destination for people who are no longer able to do front-line work,’ he said.   ‘Even if something happens, it won’t be anything dangerous. Really, at most, some villain passing by before going away to someplace with more interesting opportunities,’ he said.   ‘You’ll see. It’ll be much safer in there… I should never have let you go to that infernal place. You will be able to relax, to stop watching your back,’ you said.   Well, Dad, how are all those things you said working out now? We haven’t even finished unpacking, and I already have to deal with a fucking serial killer going after my classmates!   “Taylor… You were in a coma. I couldn’t just let things go, waiting for you to—”   “Oh, that’s all it took for you to realize something was wrong? Silly me, I could’ve solved all this sooner if I had known!”   “Taylor! Enough!”   “Enough? Enough?! No, it isn’t! Systematic torture at the hands of a psycho who suddenly wasn’t going to our home, her family suspiciously cutting ties with ours, my grades steadily lowering, and—”   “And you always said you were fine! Don’t you think I didn’t stay up at night, wondering what was wrong with my daughter? Wondering what was going on? Nothing! Nothing was, apparently, and you swore each and every day—” I slap the table hard enough to make the glasses shake.   “Each and every day that you bothered to ask!”   And that’s it, isn’t it, Dad? This is when your shoulders slump, and you look down, and we finish eating in silence—   “Go to your room,” you say instead in a low voice I haven’t heard in years.   “What?”   “Go to your room. I don’t want you to see me like this.”   “Dad, what—” And you raise your head, and your eyes are burning. I can see each muscle in your face tense and—   “Your room. Now.”   And I take my peas and go to my room.   But this is Florida, and I have more than enough bugs to see you punch the sofa for ten minutes straight.   So it runs in the family. Great.   ***   So.   Dad is furious, either at me for poking non-stop at the open sore or at himself for failing me. One of those scenarios is slightly more palatable than the other.   What isn’t palatable is staying here, seeing him brood by himself for even one more minute.   I take my empty dish and glass of water and drop them by the kitchen, then I…   I hesitate.   Finally, I go to the living room and poke my head in.   “I’m going to a party some classmates are throwing. They invited me so I could get to know everybody.” My tone is carefully neutral. No inflection at all.   He raises his head slightly, some bafflement showing through the inexpressive mask of someone who only stopped punching the newly-bought furniture after dropping down in sheer exhaustion. The heat also isn’t doing him any favors, going by the way his button-up is see-through in places.   “After what happened today? They aren’t canceling that?”   “I guess the girl wasn’t that popular?” I try to fake an uninterested shrug.   “Oh, I don’t think that was the issue…” he mutters darkly. And, well, I have seen the pictures, so, no, it obviously wasn’t.   And they used to call me a slut. Wonder what they would’ve called this Nina. They would probably have had to recruit Skidmark to help with the description.   “Anything come up regarding that?” I ask, as nonchalantly as I can.   And I can see him struggle. Because he wants to answer me, to have at least one topic of conversation that isn’t a minefield, but…   “I can’t talk about this, kiddo. I’m sorry.”   I bet you are.   “Oh, well, that’s your job, I guess. Anyway, I’m leaving now.”   “Right, call me if—”   And the doorbell rings.   Dad and I look at each other in confusion. There are two bodies outside our door, about my age, going by their size, one boy and one girl.   Not seeing any reason not to, I go to the door and open it.   Audrey and Noah are there, looking at me, one with barely held enthusiasm, the other with a raised eyebrow.   Two guesses for which is which.   “Broody! Glad we guessed right.”   …   “You what?”   “The dork here pulled up the local real estate webpage and looked up what houses have been sold in the past month at a certain distance from the school. He’s ecstatic because his amateur sleuthing paid off.”   “… Isn’t that stalking?”   “Not at all. See? I’m a girl. So, obviously, if he shows up with me, it isn’t stalking.”   “That’s not how stalking works.”   “I know, but it’s far too tiresome to argue with him.”   I look at Noah’s wide, bright smile that hasn’t diminished in Wattage since I accused him of being a stalker.   I sigh.   “Yeah, I can kinda see that.”   “Taylor? Who are your… friends?” Again with the cursed word. Do I need to make a list, Dad?   “Oh! I’m Noah, Taylor’s classmate. We were just dropping by to take her to the party. Wouldn’t want her to get turned around in an unfamiliar place.”   Dad crosses his arms and examines both of them. Noah, with his maroon shirt under an open, black button-up with jeans and sneakers, Audrey, with her biologically extruded leather jacket (I swear it’s part of her metabolism), slashed black shirt, and torn up black jeans. The girl does know how to pull off a theme.   “And I’m Audrey, his court-mandated minder.”   I suppress a snort, Noah looks sheepish, and…   Dad smiles.   And I feel something clench in my chest.   “Good to know. Is there any number I should call if I see him wandering alone?”   “Just the sheriff’s office; they will know what to do.”   “Or you could call the PRT office, seeing as you work there. I mean, it could always be cape business, couldn’t it?” Noah asks, and I facepalm.   “Let me grab my jacket, Mister Suave and Smooth. You can try and interrogate my father another time.”   “There’s no time like the present!” he bursts out. And Audrey smacks him.   And Dad keeps smiling. Far more relaxed than I have seen him in more than a year.   … This city is weird. Everyone here is weird. Even the murderers seem to study classical paintings.   …   Still an improvement.   ***   “So, what’s the actual reason you showed up like that?” I ask after a while of walking through the empty streets at night. Well, empty save for the legions of greenery about to take over and erase any trace of human civilization, of course.   Have I yet mentioned that seeing so many trees in a single place that isn’t a forest is still creeping me out?   Oh, and my army of bugs. Really, this place should count as an automatic upgrade to my threat rating.   “Actual reason?” Audrey asks, throwing a side-eye in Noah’s direction.   “You know, for showing up out of the blue to a place that you didn’t know for sure I would be at?”   “Uh… To pick you up and take you to the party?” Noah uncertainly asks.   “My father isn’t here; you can drop the pretense.”   “Broody, I understand you are paranoid and mistrustful, but I’m really struggling to come up with some sinister motive for Audrey and me to drop by your house.”   “That’s because you are a guy, Virgin. She obviously can come up with far more creative scenarios.”   “What do you—oh. Ugh, no, how would you even—”   “Nice. Now I feel stalkered and unattractive.” I interrupt before he keeps digging.   And a strong hand grabs my arm and forces me to stop.   It takes me a second not to send a battalion of mosquitoes after her, and then I stop and look into Audrey’s intense blue eyes.   Uh… That… Isn’t quite a glare.   “Okay, Broody,” hey, I thought that was Noah’s nickname! I don’t want it to spread! “it’s pretty obvious that you have some kinda weird body image issues, so I’m gonna be as blunt as possible.”   “Which is such a departure from the norm—”   “Shut up, Noah. Taylor? You are hot. This isn’t something disingenuous, some stupid thing to make you feel better: I like girls, and if I thought you also did, I wouldn’t mind shoving my tongue down your throat as you wrapped those long legs of yours around my waist. We clear?”   I… I think I may have underestimated the heat in this place. Seriously.   Like, I should be wearing short sleeves right now.   Something about me staring at her like a deer caught in a UFO tractor beam seems to satisfy Audrey’s search for acknowledgment, and she nods.   “Glad that’s out of the way. Come on, we have a party to get to.”   She lets go of my arm and turns around, walking purposefully as if nothing happened just now, as if a girl hasn’t told me for the first time in my life that I’m hot, that she would like to make out with me, that—   “Audrey, what the fuck?”   “You are the last person I want to hear that from, Noah,” she says.   But, for once, I find myself in complete agreement with Greg the Second.   ***   The feeling of camaraderie promptly fades after a few minutes in Brooke’s house.   Where there’s alcohol.   Is this normal? Are teenagers supposed to get drunk in a mansion with a pool big enough to make Leviathan miss his home? Because it doesn’t feel normal.   I mean, it’s not like I have plenty of experience to draw from. For all I know, Emma Prime used to go to millionaires’ yachts to sip on champagne as she plotted my destruction while petting a Persian cat.   And now Audrey has me thinking about Emma petting pussy… Great.   They used to insult me by calling me a lesbian, too. I mean, it looks like this town isn’t much more tolerant in that regard, seeing how Audrey’s… ex? Audrey’s fellow make-out maker was shamed out of her social circle after a video of them kissing went viral.   If Emma had ever gotten her hands on a video of me…   Damn it!   I blame this on the beer.   It tastes awful, really, but it’s the kind of thing you are supposed to do to fit in, isn’t it? I mean, just telling them I haven’t drunk anything in my whole life doesn’t scream “cosmopolitan newcomer from out of town,” does it?   Still, at the very least, I have Noah to learn what not to do.   “So, the slasher genre, as formulaic as it used to be, shifted toward a character and relationship focus in the early nineties. To do that, though, new franchises tried to keep the identity of the killer as a mystery so that no one in the cast was safe, either from the killer or suspicion. It was a bit… How would you say it… As if every new slasher film wanted to have an ‘I’m your father’ moment. Yes, Star Wars. That’s a thing regular people know, isn’t it?”   “Sure, sure we do,” Jake, a tanned pile of muscles that manage to always glisten, no matter how long it’s been since he’s been out of the pool, claps an apparently affable hand on Noah’s bare, and far skinnier, shoulder.   Noah smiles slowly, his beer-addled brain obviously not up to his usual adroitness.   “I’m glad. You know, it’s always a bit hard to keep things separate. It’s like… like there’s two sets of knowledge, one everybody knows, and mine, and they sometimes overlap, but sometimes don’t, so I’ll feel the need to explain things only for people to get angry because they already know, and then I will talk about other things, and they look at me like I’m speaking in some kind of obscure Cenobite dialect—”   “What’s a Cenobite?” Jake asks, frowning like jocks tend to do when they suspect they’re being made fun of.   “It’s from a horror series, Hellraiser. Let him go, Jake, the guy obviously doesn’t know how to hold his alcohol,” a shortish, yet also tanned and well muscled, Hispanic guy interrupts as if he had been waiting for an opening.   Does this school recruit from a model agency? This is statistically unnatural.   “Not true!” Noah cheerfully interjects. “See?” He points to the beer bottle in his hand. “I’m holding it!”   And he raises it triumphantly, and I discreetly scoot away from the likely splash zone.   Right. As I was saying, my camaraderie with Noah has steadily declined since we got here.   And Audrey has vanished.   Which means I’m alone in a room with nobody who wants to talk to me. So, at least in that regard, parties are exactly as I imagined they would be.   “You aren’t having much fun, are you?” Who—oh. Emma the Second.   And she flinches. Why—damn it.   “Sorry, it’s not about you, “ I try to apologize.   “Uh? What do you mean?” the pretty girl asks as she tugs an errant strand of hair behind her ear.   …   Damn it, Audrey.   “I… There was another girl named Emma at my old school. We… didn’t get along. “And the award for understatement of the century goes to…   “Oh,” she says, in a way that makes me think she perhaps understands. Which makes all sorts of alarms start blaring, because if she understands, this girl hasn’t had it easy. “So, every time I… sorry.”   “Not your fault,” I try to shrug nonchalantly. I likely fail, though; it isn’t in my natural repertoire, and that’s twice today I’ve tried. “Plenty of Emma’s around, I’ll just have to get used to it. At least you aren’t a redhead.” And now I try for a joking smile.   God, in the unlikely case you exist and don’t get off on torturing me, please kill me and spare me this suffering.   Emma giggles.   It’s… a pretty sound.   Is this bi panic? I’m surrounded by muscular, half-naked, tanned guys, and since Audrey told me about her natural preference for long legs, I can’t stop checking out the girls and thinking how pretty—   Right. Bi panic. Yes, it seems like a likely explanation.   Either that, or I shouldn’t drink ever again.   And then there’s a scream, and I bolt upright.   ***   Brooke   The thing about throwing a party at one’s own home is that you’re always worried about some drunk moron throwing up, or breaking some ostentatious decoration, or—   “For fuck’s sake! You are paying to have this sofa burned, you assholes!”   Seriously? Couldn’t he have kept it in his pants? Is it the exhibitionism that does it for him?   Still, remembering a quite pleasant afternoon sucking some hard dick while I forced Seth to choose between rejecting me and risking his job… I can see the appeal.   Anyway, I’d better go get something to clean… that up. Because as hot as it could be under other circumstances, I’m definitely not cleaning someone’s cum off my furniture with my tongue.   So, heavy-duty gloves it is.   Which means going to the garage? I think?   Ah, well, what’s life without a little adventure?   So, avoiding a few errant drunks that could get their first acting job as extras in a Romero movie (I swear, if I have to sit through another Noah lecture in class, I’m going to scream), I make my way to the presumed resting place of cleaning supplies.   It is a journey fraught with peril.   Well, not really, but it sure feels like it when I pass by the line to the bathroom. Ugh.   So, as I start to rummage in search of the things I need to keep my skin free of whatever the Hell that guy (and why did I invite someone whose name I can’t even remember?) has in his diet, my phone chimes.   A welcome respite, as far as I’m concerned.   ‘Look outside,’ Seth’s number says.   So I do. There’s a light in the woods outside my house that turns on and off.   ‘What am I looking at?’ I answer.   ‘A surprise meeting.’   ‘Oh? Still want to see me after this afternoon?’   ‘After what you did to me? More than ever.’   The light turns on and off again.   On the one hand, I could remain in my house babysitting some drunk teenagers and cleaning cumstains off my couch. On the other, I could go have a quick, clandestine meeting in the woods with my secret lover.   Yeah, I’m already walking there.   ‘How far is it?’ I ask.   ‘Quite near. If you aren’t careful, they’re going to hear you.’   ‘Oh? That a promise?’   ‘Maybe. But I also think I could manage to keep you quiet…’   And I remember his hands wrapped around my neck, his cock filling my throat, sparks of color shooting through my sight…   Fuck. I’m wet.   ‘I could learn to like that…’   ‘I’ll be sure to make it last for you…’   Fuck. Fuck. I swear, if he leaves me hanging after this buildup…   The pines behind my house aren’t that thick, and there’s enough space between them that I can walk easily without having to take any weird detours. There’s a straight line from my house to the flashing light that just stopped a few seconds ago, because I don’t think Seth wants anyone curious enough to follow it to find us together.   I wonder if somebody would really hear me if he—   What is that?   There’s…There’s something between the trees, up high, it’s…   I don’t have enough light, so I take out my phone, turn on the flashlight, and—   I scream.   ***   Taylor   I run as fast as I can toward the direction of the screaming girl. It’s behind the house, and far enough that it wasn’t in range of my bugs, but—   Now it is. Now it is, and there’s blood.   Suddenly, I discover that I actually could’ve run faster.   Other people are following behind me, but I can’t afford to stop and try to see who they are. Keeping track of people around me should be something to add to the list of things I need to remember at all times.   Like not letting people wander off by themselves with a crazed serial killer on the loose. Yeah, that seems pretty high up in the—   Two bodies. One is up in the trees, the blood is theirs. The other is on the ground, upright yet still. Maybe—   Flashlights come alive from behind me, allowing me to see the ground of the forest right in time to avoid tripping on an exposed root.   “Brooke!” A voice—Jake? Jake screams for the blonde, but she remains still, only her arm raising slowly.   But… The blood is not only on the hanging body. It’s spread all around.   My breath is short, my chest burns, my legs feel heavy.   I force myself to accelerate.   Because the blood is spread in a pattern my mosquitoes are clearly perceiving, and—   I try to scream for Brooke to stop, but I can’t, my throat far too raw after such a short run that Sophia would—   Fuck that!   My words won’t reach her? I will!   So, just as Brooke is about to take a step forward into the tangled mess of floating blood, I jump on her and throw her to the ground.   Her face is right below mine, shock plain to see, and there are screams coming from behind me, but it doesn’t matter, because at least—   And then the lights come alive.   Threads, so thin a fly is cut in half when I send it towards them, spread from the body, each of them carrying a current of blood from the still warm body of Seth Branson (a body, because its heart isn’t beating), who lies up high in the middle of this tangled web.   And… That’s not all.   Mr. Branson’s body is crouched, as if afraid to face something, and the direction of its terrified gaze goes up toward a mask hanging between the trees and turned toward him as if in judgment—the same mask that was buried in the photos covering Nina’s body.   And the threads… The blood seems to glow with each artfully positioned light, and from most angles it’s just floating red, but from where we are, from where Brooke discovered the body… There’s a picture.   No, there are three.   One is behind Branson and the mask, a vivid outline of Branson and Brooke… engaged.   The other is Brooke herself standing beside Branson, naked, a hand on his shoulder.   And the last one, the one on which Brooke almost cut herself, is…   Five young girls, Brooke among them. All of them with Branson, naked, having… sex.   And it is gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous, each taut line of blood entangled with another where curves need to be suggested or inferred, the vibrancy of the flow of red adding a beating cadence to the image that makes it feel more alive than the corpse at the middle of it all.   It is… breathtaking.   And the Hispanic guy, Gustavo, I think he’s called, seems to agree with me, because he’s been standing behind me, transfixed, since he arrived.   “La Fábula de Aracne,” he says, almost reverently.   The Fable of Arachne. Even my Spanish is up to this task.   And… I can see it. I wouldn’t have arrived at the conclusion, but if my memory holds, the triple disposition of the image, the way the bodies are positioned… Yes, I can see it.   The first body was a work of art, Ophelia.   The second, another, taken to the next level. Arachne.   And then Noah speaks.   “It is a reivindication of giallo…”   Okay. That? That I don’t see.   How weird is it that I’m already used to Noah leaving me confused?     ============= ============= As always, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on Amazon. Thank you for reading!  

Chapter 4 - Periodical Cicadas – Chapter 4

Seeing Dad taking notes on his stupid clipboard while he examines the latest victim of a superpowered serial killer shouldn’t be something I could get used to.   Good thing that, so far, I haven’t.   “So… Your dad’s working with my dad, and Emma’s mom switches departments whenever convenient?” I ask the pile of tanned muscles that’s slightly shorter than the other pile of tanned muscles.   Gustavo. I ask Gustavo.   The Hispanic guy nods and Emma (the not-red-haired one, second of her name, long may she usurp the other’s throne) assents. There’s something about the way she does it that definitely leans more towards assenting than nodding. It must be an Emma thing.   It may also be the shivering girl in her arms.   Brooke… Has taken it hard. Which shouldn’t be a surprise, given we all just learned she and the late Mr. Branson were lovers, and… Well.   He’s very definitively the late Mr. Branson.   And he’d also been fucking quite a few other teenage girls.   Which is not only quite a bit yucky, but a shitty thing to learn about your boyfriend when he’s currently not in any position to get yelled at for his—well, for his anything.   Dad and Gustavo’s father are still taking pictures of the scene, of the artistic display that has Mr. Branson’s corpse as the centerpiece. The almost invisible threads are no longer glinting in the carefully arranged cones of the spotlights discreetly hanging off pine branches, the blood now a rusty red rather than the vibrant, glimmering thing it was earlier in the night, but with the right angle, the right superposition of threads, one can still see the artfully arrayed lines taking the shape of—   Enough. I’ve looked at it enough.   “It’s like we’ve got the whole junior investigative team,” Noah comments, still not quite sober, but thankfully far more cogent than when the whole thing started.   Emma’s hand hesitates over Brooke’s hair before resuming her calming caresses.   Nobody has been able to contact Brooke’s father. The Mayor.   I would be worried this means he’s another victim, but, apparently, his leaving his teenage daughter alone and without any means of emotional support is nothing unheard of.   Hey, Brooke! At least there’s something we have in common!   … Yeah, I don’t think that would go over that well.   “Do we?” Audrey asks in a somber tone.   “What?” I ask, like a moron.   “Do we have a junior investigation team? Or are we just targets?” she says, pointing out the obvious.   There’s an uncomfortable silence among the gathered rejects from the nearest supermodel agency—I mean, my new classmates.   Seriously, at least wear something other than your swimsuits if you don’t want to be typecast.   “We can be both,” Emma finally says.   Audrey looks at her with perhaps a tad more intensity than the comment warrants, and Noah sits up straighter, like someone just waved a treat in front of him.   “Yeah, I don’t see that working out,” Jake says, pointing with a thumb at the hanging body.   “Maybe we shouldn’t draw attention to ourselves. The last thing we want to do is to paint a target on our backs,” Will says, a tad more diplomatically.   “We… may not have much of a choice,” Gustavo finally says.   And we all stare at him.   Given he’s half-naked, it would be a bit awkward under most circumstances, but murder has a way to do away with social taboos.   Maybe I should have tried it in Winslow.   “Explain,” I finally say.   He looks at me, his head tilted down, like a wolf evaluating a threat—or like a sulky teenager. Yes, I think I will go with the latter one.   For the moment.   “The two murders have targeted people from school and revealed secrets that imply the murderer is digging up everything they may consider worthy of being exposed. They are judging this town, this generation, and they are doing it with the haunting ghost of the past generation’s crimes. We are all targets,” Noah interjects. That is, acts like Noah.   I swear, it’s not even been a full day since I met the guy…   “That, and this is a PRT case. The PRT in this town is basically two guys and whatever they can borrow from the local police. And no offense, Taylor, but I don’t think your father is much of a scrapper,” Gustavo continues, as if used to the other guy’s tendencies. Which, if he’s had to listen to him hijacking classes since the school year started…   Yeah, it’s either getting used to it or murdering the little flannel-wearing twerp.   “You would be surprised. He attacks dirty dishes like a man with a mission,” I comment on my father’s scrappiness.   And everybody, Brooke included, stares at me.   … What? I’m one of the few people here who’s not almost naked, so that can’t—is that it? Am I infringing on a cultural taboo of the natives?   “What?” Emma says. And I get the urge to facepalm.   “Scrapper. He scraps things off dirty dishes. He’s a scrapper,” I explain, feeling rising heat with every damning syllable.   Everybody groans.   “Oh God, you’re such a dork…” Brooke moans.   Which is the first thing she’s said since I saved her from certain amputation and likely death, so… victory?   Also: ungrateful little bitch.   And Noah is giving me a thumbs up.   Which fills me with shame.   “Right. Now that Broody’s revealed her true colors,” Audrey, bi-panic or not, I will get my vengeance, “do we all agree that our only protection is an undermanned department whose descendants are all gathered here?”   There are a few nods from the circle of teens sitting on the forest floor. I’m standing with my back against a tree, by the way. Because I don’t feel like getting pine needles on my clothes, but I guess that isn’t much of a concern for most of them.   I would be more worried about their actual concern if I were in their not-shoes, but to each their own.   “What choice do we have?” Emma the Second says.   … This is getting tiresome. From now on, Brockton’s Emma shall be referred to as Emma Prime. Because she’s a prime bitch.   “We can put together information, theorize, speculate. If we stumble across anything pertinent, we just have one of the three scions contact their parental units,” Noah explains.   “Parental units?” I can’t help but comment with an arched eyebrow.   “You’re one to talk, Broody,” Audrey says.   Keep talking. It’s not like the whole state became a death trap the moment I walked in. Aside from the serial killer, I mean.   Or in addition to.   Ugh. Fine, no more jokes about murdering my classmates. This will take some getting used to.   “I think Noah has a point,” Gustavo says for, probably, the first time in anyone present’s lives.   We all stare at one another, weighing in the respective reactions. Even Brooke manages to raise her head enough to do some proper staring.   “Fine. But I swear, if this ends up with us riding around in a van and taking masks off old people…” I say.   And Audrey smacks me upside the head.   “Hey!”   “Sorry. It’s a conditioned reflex from dealing with Noah.”   “… Are you being serious or—”   “She is!” Noah cheerfully clarifies.   … I’m suddenly rethinking this whole ‘teaming up with clearly unhinged people.’   “Moving on,” Gustavo says, probably trying to silence his own doubts. “What do we know, and what do we suspect?”   “Oh! I like that one. Mind if I quote you?” Noah… Noahs.   “Quote—” I start to ask.   “He has a podcast about horror movies. Guess what he’s been working on since this afternoon?” Audrey, once again, acts as an interpreter.   And I glare at Noah.   He has the grace to fidget.   “It’s not like I will get many other chances to live through a legitimate horror movie, you know? I need to capitalize on this one.”   I look at Audrey half-questioning, half-imploringly. She shrugs.   And I smack Noah upside his head.   “Hey!”   “Shut up. It’s therapeutic.”   “Smacking me or having me shut up?”   “Yes.” I take a deep breath and try to regain a modicum of gravitas. The corpse hanging behind me in the distance should help, but I really think this audience has been desensitized at some point. “We know the murderer or murderers want to make a show of it. We know they are tying the murders to this town’s history. We know they use tinkertech. We know they have access to some kind of town-wide surveillance. We know they like setting up traps. We know they are ramping up—”   “Know?” Gustavo cuts me off.   “The first corpse was from someone who disappeared days ago and was properly prepared over what we can guess has been a long stretch of time until the murderer felt ready for its unveiling. That,” I point over my shoulder with my thumb. Brooke shudders, and Emma hugs her, “is far more elaborate and done to someone who was alive this very morning. It’s a message about how quickly they can move, that they don’t need to take their time, and that we have yet to see the full extent of what they can manage. And…” I look at the shivering blonde, who looks back at me in a way that she didn’t when she called me a dork.   Right.   Too intense.   I take a deep breath and let the façade slip a bit. Let the fear and apprehension always held at bay by ever-present rage and snark surface, even if just a bit.   Let myself be… human. I guess.   “Brooke,” I say with a voice that’s softer but also jagged, cracking around the edges, “how did they lure you there?”   She looks at me, something in her face shifting in a way I can’t quite read, because I no longer can—   “They sent me messages from Seth’s number.”   Of course. A dead end.   “Can we see them?” I push myself to ask.   Her breath hitches, and she tenses. Then she nods and hands me her phone.   It’s… I do not look at past messages, so I can’t compare the writing style, but the double meaning behind the lines is obvious in hindsight.   “They… have a personal grudge against you. And they are…”   “Sick? Twisted? Monstrous?” she adds, each adjective dripping with more bile.   “Yes. The implication is that this was a trap, that they would’ve been perfectly content to let you cut yourself against the lines, but that they also were happy to watch your reaction and not intervene. ‘I’ll be sure to make it last for you…’ they say—”   “Broody. Enough.” There’s a warm hand on my shoulder, and when I look up from the phone, I can see Audrey’s blue eyes looking at me. Not unkindly, not even reproachfully, but…   The circle’s silent.   “You need police custody,” Emma says, purposefully taking the attention away from me, from my detached analysis—   The hand on my shoulder squeezes.   I look up after realizing I was staring at the ground, and both Noah and Audrey are looking at me with… I don’t know.   Something I can no longer name, I guess.   “You can stay with my father tonight,” Gustavo says.   And the other pile of tanned muscles, Jake, bristles.   “I…” Brooke looks between the two boys, and I’m sure I must be missing some context, because nobody else looks surprised by the reaction. “Thank you.”   “No problem,” he says, completely unfazed by the hostility—ah. No. His fist is clenched.   … Teenagers, I swear.   Speaking of which, Audrey, you can take your hand away whenever you want, you know? People are going to get ideas.   “Right, going back to our speculative session,” Noah says, his priorities clear, “the technology makes it unclear, but the sheer focus on aesthetics, the way it directs the spectator’s eye toward a particular angle to understand the message… That’s not just slasher, that’s a revindication of the giallo genre. It even has a crazed murderer and a narration filtered through madness—”   “Narration?” Oh. I’m the one asking. He has me engaged.   … This is awful.   “If Gustavo would explain? I do believe this is his area of expertise,” Noah says, ceding his speaking turn and making me think he’s been kidnapped and replaced.   The Hispanic boy cocks an eyebrow and looks around a circle of people suddenly very interested in whatever he has to say.   “He means I draw comics,” he clarifies. For people who understand what he’s getting at, because I, personally, don’t have a single clue. “The two… victims have been framed as if inside a famous painting each, and when you put two drawings together in sequence… Comics. Narration.”   “Precisely!” Noah cheerfully exclaims. And then drops his head at the sheer intensity of the stares he gets for it. “Okay, okay, this may not be obvious, but the murderer is not just sending a message, but telling a story. The mask of Brandon James—”   “Who?” asks the only person in here who apparently doesn’t know the name. That is: me.   “Brandon James…” Emma starts. And then stops for a moment. “Brandon James was a man born with a deformity. He underwent multiple surgeries throughout his life, but he was relentlessly bullied for it until, they say, he snapped when a girl he liked rejected him at the school’s Halloween dance.”   “A trigger event?” I ask. Because that would be the obvious conclusion given—   “No. No, just… He was beaten up by the girl’s boyfriend and his friends. The friends later on were murdered one by one, until he was lured by the girl so he could turn himself in… But the police shot him.”   “Uh… That’s…”   “And he survived.” There’s something defiant in Emma’s eyes as she says that, something that flashes before being buried.   “How?” I say. Because she demands it. Because she wants me to ask her to continue the story.   “He fell into the lake with more than one bullet inside him. He should’ve been dead two times over… but he dived. He hid beneath the water, at night, almost freezing to death before he dragged himself back to shore and to the girl he loved, the one whose boyfriend had beaten him so badly he seemingly snapped after years of abuse.   “He found them both. And the boy finished what the police couldn’t… Or so we think. Because he, once again, fell back into the lake, and his body was never found.”   We all look at her, and we only need a campfire to set the scene. Because that’s not a retelling from something from a newspaper, no, this is a story, and those have a rhythm completely unlike mere facts—   “The girl was my mother, the boy, my father,” she says. And now we all look at her, but in a completely different way.   “… What?” Brooke says, shifting around, incorporating herself away from the comforting hug she’s been on the receiving end of since we calmed her enough that she could be touched.   Emma sighs.   Noah vibrates, but let’s not focus on that.   And Audrey, seriously, you can let go of my shoulder.   “You never told us,” Will says in a way that clearly implies the ‘us’ should’ve been a ‘me.’   And Emma looks at him like one may look at something that shouldn’t be mentioned in polite company.   “Lives were never at stake,” she finally answers.   “You’re also a target,” Audrey says.   And there’s… Ice. Steel. Both. Something hard and brittle.   Emma smiles at her, and I’m willing to bet she’s never looked at Will with this tenderness.   … Is this my Gaydar? Does it count as a Thinker rating?   “Yes. Yes, I am,” the girl says, softly, almost sensually.   I shiver, and I don’t know why.   ***   Dad’s still busy with whatever it is he, Gustavo’s dad, and Emma’s mother are doing over there. Brooke has been taken away by Gustavo, who now has a PRT issue radio to directly call in case of an emergency, and Audrey and Noah have been taken away by their respective parents.   I don’t know where Jake and Will have gone to, and I frankly don’t care too much.   Because Emma has dragged me into the woods, and I really think I should make that a priority.   “You are a parahuman,” she says when we are out of hearing range of any responsible adults. And Dad.   “What?” I ask, not even having to fake being stunned.   “You reacted when you heard the scream, but halfway there, something clicked, and you started running much faster, pushing yourself till you couldn’t push anymore. Something entered your range, and you felt Brooke was in danger.”   “I—I usually think people screaming in the woods at night aren’t doing it for the sheer shock factor.”   She smiles at me. There’s warmth in there, something tentative, and I—   “It was the blood, wasn’t it? You felt it; it was how you knew where the threads were, how you knew to pull Brooke to the ground.”   “I…”   “Your trigger event. It was that other Emma, wasn’t it?” She takes a step forward, her hand raised to touch my shoulder reassuringly like Audrey had, but she says that name, and I—   I take a step back. And she looks both hurt and reassured.   “I won’t tell anyone,” she whispers.   My heart is thundering, my breathing ragged, and my vision narrows, diffuse black at the edges, and I—   I’m kneeling on the forest ground, pine needles lightly pricking me through my pants as a cold feeling rushes inside my skull and—   Emma’s hugging me, cradling my head against her chest. She’s getting some practice today.   “It’s all right,” she whispers. “It will all be all right.”   She sounds like she believes it.   I don’t.   But… Maybe I can pretend I do.   ***   I’m sitting, now that my scheme to keep greenery out of my clothes has finally failed, with my back to a pine tree.   The bark is smooth everywhere save for the very edges, and the slight roughness is soothing, an anchor of tactile feeling that drags me back to the present, to the moment, to the forest of fragrant earth and—   Right. Conversation. I should also focus on that.   “Take your time,” Emma says. And she may even mean it.   “No. No, it’s… Fine.”   “You… Don’t need to be. I understand trigger events aren’t… Just, take your time, all right? We aren’t going anywhere until they decide what to do with Mr. Branson.”   “Did you… know him?”   “Just… a teacher. Brooke had been bragging about her mysterious lover, but none of us knew… that.”   “Right.”   I lean back and close my eyes, the tree touching me more fully, the sensation reassuring, as if I had my own roots to anchor myself with.   “Creepy,” I finally say.   Emma chuckles.   “There’s a serial killer on the loose, and you think the teacher having affairs with his students is creepy?”   “I’m far more used to one than the other.”   “Ah. Right. Brockton,” she says as if that explains everything.   Which… I mean, fair.   “You’re the first person to figure it out,” I finally say.   “Your dad doesn’t—”   “God, no. Let’s not even start with that.”   “Right…” she looks a bit dejected at my answer. Guess I’m still being a bit…   Well, me.   “You know a lot about capes,” I finally say.   “I… I always was interested.”   “Trigger events. They aren’t… I also was a cape fan since I was a kid, but I didn’t learn what that was until very recently. It’s usually only talked about in academic circles.”   Emma shrugs.   “Are you a cape, Emma?”   She looks at me with shock and then bursts out laughing.   “Sorry! Sorry, I’m not laughing at you, it’s just… the idea… I’ve never—”   “Fine, fine! I get it; you can get it out of your system and start breathing!”   And she does, laughing for quite a while in fits and bursts, seemingly calming down only for her to look at my pissed-off face and start guffawing once again.   … I’m starting to think this is personal.   “Are you done?” I finally ask.   She holds a finger up, her shoulders shaking.   I sigh and make a wasp pinch the tip of her nose.   “Eep!”   “Changing the subject: that’s my power. I control and sense through any kind of arthropod in a radius from where Brooke was standing to the spot where I started running like someone’s life depended on it.”   Emma stares at the wasp hovering in front of her. I make it wiggle its front leg in a wave.   She squeals.   “That’s absolutely adorable!”   “… That’s the last reaction I ever expected someone to have after learning I control plagues.”   “Can you do butterflies?” She says, turning and looking at me with the kind of intensity one expects from somebody who’s about to tell you about good news at length and won’t take ‘I’m agnostic’ for an answer.   “Sure?” I finally say, slightly intimidated.   Emma squeals once again.   … Having someone learn my secret identity before I even have one is, so far, not going, at all, like I expected.   ***   Emma   Taylor’s dad drops me off at home long before mom is done with Mr. Branson’s corpse, because she says she will still take quite some time and doesn’t want me to lose even more sleep over this than the mere memory will already do.   Dad will be home, so… It’s hard to argue I won’t be safe there.   He’s, after all, the third cape in the city. That I know of.   And I know the secret identities of two of them.   … I suspect something from Noah must’ve rubbed off on me. This isn’t statistically normal.   I say goodbye to both of them, Taylor much more at ease with me than whenever she talks to her father, and I hide a sigh at the whole mess that I’m now tangled in. Because, at least until Taylor feels close enough to Audrey and Noah, I’m the only one she can go to for help regarding her unique circumstances, and I’m not about to turn her away when…   Let’s just say I have a unique insight into the psychology of parahumans. And they need all the help they can get.   The family of parahumans… Well, that’s not quite the same, but… I would like to give Mr. Hebert some pointers. Some badly needed pointers, if our short time sharing a car is any indication.    Speaking of cars.   There’s a lime thing that I always think looks far too tacky parked in front of our garage, and I can feel the smile stretching my lips as I open the door.   As soon as I take a step inside the house, someone tackles me, and it’s only sheer luck that we don’t end up on the floor.   “Emma! Are you all right?!” Piper screams in my face.   The smile on my own is now a bit shaky as I let the whole day finally hit me now that I don’t have to comfort anyone, and there’s someone here who wants to take care of me.   “Yes, sis. I’m… Thank you. For coming.”   She looks at me as if I’ve gone insane. Which, to be fair, the circumstances make far more likely than I would like.   “Of course,” she says. As if it should be obvious that she would leave everything behind and rush to this little town in the middle of nowhere at the drop of a hat just because she’s worried about her little sister, who doesn’t even share her surname.   Which, knowing her…   Yes, it is.   So I hug her and allow myself to cry.   And Piper Shaw rocks me back and forth like she did the first time she met me.   My big sister rocks. And she rocks me.   … I hope Taylor’s sense of humor isn’t contagious.   ============= ============= As always, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on Amazon. Thank you for reading!  

Chapter 7 - Periodical Cicadas – Chapter 7

Emma’s living room is silent, her whole family staring at me in a way that I doubt I would have been comfortable with even before I stopped visiting—   They are silent. Let’s leave it at that.   Which, given Noah’s here, it seems like a small miracle.   Of course, going by the way the resident motormouth is currently vibrating as he alternatively stares at the disfigured, bleeding man lying on top of a sofa covered by a transparent, blood-stained plastic sheet that does the floral design beneath it absolutely no favors, and the other man in the room, the one cuffed to a very sturdy chair with some scuffed marks on the armrests and front legs… well, something else may currently occupy Noah’s one-track mind than the uncomfortable social circumstances he, Audrey, and I are currently embroiled in.   That, or, going from the way he keeps fixating on the bright red ballgag, he’s just discovered another way for his mind to go fully one-track.   Boys.   I swear, if we get out of this room with Noah having learned he’s into BDSM, I’m never approaching another Emma for the rest of my life.   They just keep piling ungodly amounts of trauma on me. The name’s cursed.   “So…” I finally speak, a bit tired of our current stand-off, “I think I speak for the three of us when I say: what the fuck, Emma?”   The uncomfortably pretty girl (damn you, Audrey, and your bi-panic inciting ways) blushes prettily (because of course) and tucks a strand of shiny, glossy hair behind her ear—all right. Stop.   Noah’s the one with a one-track mind. A one-track mind focused on murder, trashy films, and the aesthetic connections between the two things.   …   That seems… overly elaborate for a one-track mind.   Still, the important thing is that I am not the one suffering from such an affliction. I am perfectly capable of looking at a pretty girl while remaining aware that I’m currently in what looks suspiciously like a snuff film studio except for the lack of cameras, so it’s more like a live theatre performance.   Yay. I am a patron of the arts. Mom would be proud.   “You seem… surprisingly at ease, given the circumstances,” the blonde woman who looks to be Emma’s mom says with a slightly inquisitive lilt.   I arch an eyebrow. I think it’s the part of my body that’s gotten more exercise since I arrived at Murderville and got introduced to their quaint customs. Maybe I should diversify, spread out those gains.   “Lady, no offense, but we’re in Florida, and I control bugs. I can murder anything within my area of influence and have the remains disappear in under an hour. It’s not me that should feel uncomfortable.”   There, informative and polite. I am the best at making first impressions.   “I have a gun, you know?” the older girl who looks somewhat like Emma and is most likely either her sister or an Alabama-close cousin points out, her own eyebrow inspired to join me in exercising as it tries to jump over the rim of her glasses.   “Thank you for telling me. You’ll be eaten first,” I tell her with a deferential nod.     Politeness. It’s important.   “Taylor…” Emma grumbles, rubbing her temple with the tip of the fingers of her right hand as her eyes narrow in a pain whose source is a complete and utter mystery, seeing as Noah’s still not speaking.   Seriously, I’m starting to get worried. Quick, Audrey, hit him so we can check whether he’s alive.   “Stop beating around the bush and just explain… this,” Audrey says, a hint of anger in her tone as her arm sweeps in front of her, not quite clear on what ‘this’ fully entails.   Because she felt like being dramatic rather than heeding my silent plea and smacking Noah like she usually does, just to be contrary. Really, I expected better from you, Audrey.   “What she told us in the forest… That was partially true,” Noah says, rousing from his trance and easing my worries not at all. “That,” he points at the gagged, mostly unresponsive man, “is Emma’s… biological? Yes, biological. That’s Emma’s biological father, the one who shot Brandon James.” Now he points at the disfigured man who’s looking at him in a way that maybe has some fondness for the bully-bait, but may as well be pondering where to hide his body. “Brandon James, who’s Emma’s real father and has been hiding in the body of his would-be murderer since he triggered, unable to stay out of his meat-suit for too long because he’s still hurt and he can’t go to a hospital, so Mrs. Duval studied medicine so she could keep treating him—smuggling supplies from the coroner’s office? But… the blood bags don’t fit; it would’ve been easier to work in a—”   “I have my ways,” Mrs. Duval pointedly interrupts as Emma looks at Noah with wide eyes, and Emma’s possibly incestuous cousin smiles at him and quickly licks her lips (what?), and…   And Brandon James laughs.   “Told you the kid was bright,” he cheerfully points out to his… wife?   “He’s a walking security risk. He’s gonna get somebody killed if he keeps investigating,” she replies, her tone far drier and more sardonic than I would expect given what she’s actually said.   “Noah’s… right? Emma, you—” I say.   “I am sorry, Taylor, but… why did you think I knew so much about triggers?” she cuts me off with a warm, shy smile and a one-armed shrug.   …   This is all your fault, Audrey.   “You knew Broody was a parahuman?” Audrey sharply interjects.   “I… I promised I wouldn’t say anything—”   “She told you—”   “No! No, Audrey, I just… deduced it. Because… I know how capes work, all right? And… And Taylor has all the signs, and you saw how she saved Brooke, how she—”   “Right. Stop,” Audrey tells her.   And Emma shuts up, looking hurt, almost shy, and…   And …   Noah! Do the thing!   No, Noah, gaping at the two girls silently is not the thing. The thing is to say something inappropriate and intrusive that abruptly changes the mood so all of us can focus on what a goof you are rather than on what I’m pretty sure is Audrey acting toward Emma like she’s an ex-girlfriend she never actually dated yet still cheated on her, and Emma reacting like she deserves it.   This is all making me very confused, and it isn’t like I was that clearheaded after my bouts of bi-panic and the, you know, murders.   …   Maybe I should say something?   “So… On the bright side, that’s something Emma deduced before Noah—” I try to lighten the mood.   And stop when I see Noah’s eyebrows shoot up, his eyes wide and—   “I could have deduced it! She just had more data points—”   I smack him upside the head.   There, that’s soothing.   And Brandon James, yet again, laughs.   For somebody with a torso full of holes, he looks pretty jolly.   “Mags, I really don’t think you need to worry about them keeping the secret,” he cheerfully points out.   Oh. Right.   We are witnesses to an ongoing kidnapping.   The kidnapping of a man who’s thought to be the hero who put down a serial killer and whose body has been hijacked by said serial killer and the girl he was supposedly obsessed with, who now has a family with him and keeps taking care of his wounds.   Funny how the little details can slip from your mind, isn’t it?   “Right. So, in the interest of keeping the stalker duo and me—”   “I am not a stalker—”   “You enable Noah, Audrey, that counts. Anyway, while I a priori sympathize with destroying the life of the one man who tormented you in high school and leaving him a catatonic husk with no hope left but the numbing release of death, I may as well inquire as to the, you know, multiple murders you were accused of? Because I think there’s a serial killer on the loose who’s pretty invested in your legacy.”   And now everybody shuts up.   There! A nice, coordinated reaction that can be succinctly summarized. Was that so hard to do?   “How dare you—”   “No, Mags, she needs to know,” Brandon interrupts his wife. Or the wife of the body he usually wears. Some divorce lawyer somewhere is having wet dreams, and he doesn’t know why. “I… didn’t kill them. He did.”   And he looks at the silent, still body, Brandon’s mangled face… Impassive. There’s no hatred, no fear, no resentment. Nothing.   And I guess that’s natural after years of seeing that face looking back at him in the mirror. Years waking up inside that body, knowing it wasn’t his, that it was the body of his tormentor, and now it had become both a jail and a refuge.   Brandon James looks at Kevin Duval, and I wonder…   Would I ever be able to look at Emma Barnes like this?   Audrey’s hand’s once more on my shoulder. It’s not warm, and it looks pale, as if all the blood has been drained from her body. It’s heavy, as if she doesn’t have the strength to hold her own arm. It shakes almost imperceptibly, as if… afraid.   I look back at her, at the girl sitting to my left and slightly behind me in another of these cushioned chairs that match the floral design of the covered sofa, the dark, reddish wood shaped into swirling whorls contrasting nicely with the light, faded print.   And she looks back at me, piercing blue beneath inky black bangs, and I don’t know what it is that she fears so much in my eyes.   “So, you see it too?” Noah mutters from my other side, low enough that only the three of us catch it. And Audrey nods.   And I still don’t know what they’re talking about.   ***   It’s almost evening by the time we leave the Duval’s house, and Noah’s bouncing with barely repressed energy before he darts to his own home to do whatever it is people with corkboards full of colorful threads do.   Which leaves me alone on the deserted streets of Lakewood, just walking in silence, enjoying the cooling breeze of the hour, the mild warmth of fading sunlight on my skin, and the rustling leaves of possibly non-hostile flora.   Oh, and Audrey also tags along. For some reason.   “Do you believe them?” she says after nearly three houses of silence.   “Yes,” I answer.   If I believe some high school bully would murder his friends just to have something to pin on Brandon? If I believe he would do something so horrible for such a petty reason as jealousy about the way Emma’s mother treated her childhood friend? If I believe he would’ve tried to force himself on…   Three schoolboys chasing me down a dark alley, just because Sophia was egging them on with I don’t know what kind of promise or deal. My clothes torn off, the chill of the night damp on my bare skin, their footsteps echoing off walls that kept getting nearer and nearer…   If I believe people, regular people, can become monsters for the pettiest of reasons? Yes. Yes, I do.   “Broody… Are you really all right with that? With them—”   “He deserves it.”   Her hand’s once more on my shoulder.   And she stops walking, and so do I.   “Does… Does anybody really deserve—”   I turn around.   To face Audrey, to face the stubborn girl who refuses to let me be alone, sticking to me for reasons I can’t understand, claiming I am… Hot. Interesting. Somebody they kept trying to convince me I’m not, and damn them for making me believe them.   She doesn’t flinch back, but… I think it’s a near thing.   “Audrey… Nobody deserves anything. In a… a better, kinder world? Kevin would’ve gotten the help he needed not to become a monster long before he hurt Brandon or Maggie. But... this is not that world, and what’s the better option? To have Emma’s father die, branded a murderer?”   She steps a bit closer, her blue eyes looking right through mine.   “You don’t believe that,” she says.   I take a deep breath.   “You don’t know me, Audrey.”   She smiles.   “Not yet. Not as much as I’d like. Wanna get started on solving that?”   I look back, returning the intensity of that piercing azure, and…   And I…   I look away.   “You wouldn’t—” I start to answer.   And she hugs me.   “Stop. I do. I want to know about you. You’ve… you’ve saved someone’s life right before my eyes, shown me a brain on par with Noah’s, tried to save Emma… Of course I want to learn more about you, Broody.”   I stand there, beneath a streetlamp flickering on as shadows creep longer and longer, and I don’t know what to do about this girl who seems to think I’m worth…   What? Worth what, Audrey?   “Let go… Please, let go,” I tell her.   Her arms tighten around me, the leather of her jacket squeaking against my bare arms.   “No,” she whispers.   And I lean my head on her shoulder and shake as I hold back my sobs.   ***   “We were best friends, you know?” Audrey says as we both sit on a white wooden bench, the quiet of the night unbroken until she decided to speak.   She’s… close to me. Not touching. But close.   “You and Emma. It… shows,” I answer.   She nods, as if expecting me to have noticed the obvious tension, the way—   “And you were in love with her,” I add. Because I’m still that clumsy, awful mess who should never be allowed to have a conversation—   “I was,” she says.   And it’s casual. Barely strained. Just… an acknowledgment of fact.   I stare at her.   “Don’t look at me like that; you’re gonna make me blush,” she says, laughter in the corner of her eyes as she keeps her head hanging over the backrest and barely twists it to the side enough that I can see both of the twin points of bright color in the dark.   “You… Seem over it?” I finally say, the notion alien to me.   “We… I felt betrayed. I still do. But… it’s nothing like what I think you went through. She just drifted away, started hanging out with the kind of people I’d always enjoyed being snarky about. It hurt, but… it was… the regular kind of pain? Not—”   “She was called Emma, as well. She was my best friend, my sister in all but blood. And she almost killed me.”   Audrey’s feline laziness fades away like mist in the morning as she straightens up, and a warm hand wraps around mine over cool wooden slats.   “And then you triggered,” she whispers.   I nod.   And she leans toward me, the hand that isn’t holding me rising to brush back my hair, to caress burning, soothing lines above my left ear that make me feel a warmth inside my chest I never…   A warmth I never thought I’d feel again. That I wasn’t allowed to feel. Not after being thrown away, rejected, pushed down, almost killed… By the first girl that made me feel it.   Damn it. Bi-panic is retroactive.   I nod, finally answering the question that isn’t a question.   Audrey kisses my forehead. Slowly, softly, and entirely too confusingly.   And I don’t even have a handy Noah upon whom to inflict careless violence as a handy stress relief.   “Audrey, I—”   “I’m not coming onto you,” she immediately says.   “Wha—”   “Don’t get me wrong, I’d definitely would—those legs of yours are tempting enough it’s challenging not to run my hands all over them—but I won’t ever make a move when you’re this out of balance. It wouldn’t be right.”   I blink at her.   “I swear, between Noah and you, it’s a wonder the people in this town aren’t even crazier,” I finally say.   She smirks. She fucking smirks.   “I know, right? I give it two years before the Virgin turns full supervillain, and everybody tries to guess what kind of power he has other than being Noah. Heh, think our current slasher will get jealous?”   “Of Noah? Yeah, sure. I can already see it, the murderer with a corkboard full of Noah’s pictures with hearts drawn over them, trying to guess his taste in movies for the next murder.”   “Right. The perfect date: two nerds, one murder,” she adds, almost laughing.   “Dinner and a show,” I comment.   “No, no: first a movie, then a stroll through the museum.” And now the laughter is nearer to the surface, and her eyes glint.   “How romantic,” I add, not quite knowing how to keep the joke going, and—   And Audrey’s blue eyes are right in front of me, full of something I refuse to understand, and—   “See? This, right now? I could kiss you just like this,” she whispers, her breath hot on my lips.   She stays still, right there, and she finally closes her eyes, her smile softening yet not leaving, and then she stands up.   “Good night, Broody. Try not to find any corpses on the way home.”   She turns around, waving over her shoulder without looking back, like somebody who wears black leather and tries too hard at being aloof and cool.   And she pulls it off.   ***   The streets of Lakewood are emptier than I would’ve thought, the clouds of mosquitoes assuring me that there’s nobody looking at me from any dark alley, that I’m really, truly alone.   It’s freeing.   No one to put a mask on for. No father to pretend to be all right (yet angry and frustrated with) to, and no pretty girls to pretend not to be confused by.   And no Noah. I don’t feel like elaborating on that point.   So my steps softly echo as I walk down the middle of the road, not feeling like taking the sidewalk when I know there are no cars in sight. I just enjoy the chill and quiet, even the humid feeling of the air on my bare arms. I enjoy being me, by myself.   Just… me.   Not Taylor Hebert, Last Girl of Brockton Bay. Not the Locker Girl. Not… nothing.   Just me.   I don’t even think about what I’ve learned today. About how Emma’s life is far more screwed up than her goody-two-shoes façade could’ve ever let me know. I don’t think about Audrey’s mundane pain of betrayal. Don’t think about Brooke’s shaking body between Gustavo’s arms.   I just walk, breathe, exist.   And try very hard not to think about what would’ve happened if Audrey had stayed just a second longer, her lips just a smidge closer, and I would’ve stupidly gone ahead and—   My phone rings.   It’s not Dad, because he already told me he would be late for dinner, and there are not a lot of people who have this number. Just Dad and the rest of the lunatics at school, so I pick it up.   And it’s an unknown number.   …   Well, I guess this will be my first time getting to tell off a telemarketer. I hope it’s as cathartic as I always hoped it would be.   So I put the phone to my ear, and a masculine, garbled, messy voice greets me.   “Hello, Taylor. Have you been enjoying my art?”   …   I think this may be the first time in human history in which somebody has been legitimately distressed at not getting a telemarketer’s call. Only in Lakewood, people. Only in Lakewood.   [font="Times] [/font] [font="Times] =============[/font] [font="Times]=============[/font] [font="Times]As always, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on [/font][font="Times]Patreon[/font][font="Times]: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on [/font][font="Times]Amazon[/font][font="Times]. Thank you for reading![/font]  

Chapter 0 - Wordsworth – Chapter 1

“Tattletale, I’m not sure we should be doing this,” the black boy dressed in leather says.   “Relax, Grue, you know this will be great for Wordsworth’s powers,” the pretty girl with the blonde hair replies.   I… I think I find pretty girls distasteful. Mean. I don’t know why, but…   Red hair. There was someone with red hair, once upon a time, who left her home to never return, and then a shadow found out, and the shadow thought ‘This home is now empty, if only I could have red hair, I would be able to live here and nobody would say anything…’   “Wordsworth? Wordsworth, sweetie, are you in the middle of one of your stories? Do you want me to come back later?” The blonde girl is staring at me. She’s pretty, but pretty doesn’t have to be mean. She never is.   She’s holding a book. I like books.   In fact, we are surrounded by books. This is a library, I think, a place where books gather, and have parties and talk to each other. They sometimes have a new chapter between them, and after enough chapters, a new book comes.   But that’s not what’s important. The pretty girl has asked something.   She’s holding a book.   I smile, and I take it.   My white hand is like a page, satin paper covered by so many scribbled, shifting words that it looks like I’ve put gloves on, those long ones people wear to the opera. The opera is like a book, but it happens on a stage, so I can’t eat it.   I can eat the book.   When I grab it, the black ink flows out of its pages, each single word dancing over the very tips of my fingers before they join my gloves. They look completely black if one doesn’t know how to read them, but every now and then the light catches on a shimmering syllable passing by, and it’s clear they aren’t just silk and lace.   It’s a weird book. Complicated. The words are arranged as in a song, pleasant noises more important than meaning, or at least than the meaning I can understand. It has animals in it, but it’s not soft like a fairy tale or—   I see a tall woman. She looks like me, if I had more colors than creamy white and shimmering black, but pretty and older. I can see her face clearly enough, but even as she smiles I feel sad, maybe because I know the woman is no longer there, and never will.   She speaks some of the words in the book, and I know I’ve heard them before, but I didn’t understand it back then.   When I open my eyes again, the pretty girl is in front of me, looking at me like she’s trying to understand the words in the book and failing because it’s a confusing, beautiful book. Then she smiles, and there’s a mischief in it that makes me think of foxes.   I like foxes. They aren’t strong, but they’re as clever as I am not. They win because of that, and they’re usually funny when they do.   I also understand books with foxes. That helps.   “I know it was a hard one, Wordsworth, but I’m sure you’ll understand it someday. Now, why don’t you try an easier—”   And the big window that should show the street if the library was open explodes.   Shards of glass scatter through the air, glittering in the dim rays cast by the torchlights carried by the girl and the boy as the groan of the metal shutters tearing apart reaches my ears. The girl looks pale, almost as much as I do, under her mask and turns toward it just as a knife-sized shard flies toward her.   “Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.”   The words leave my lips faster than I should be able to say them, but the faster they are, the weaker they become. I need people to hear them before they have strength.   But I have no time, and speed is better than strength, so I let the words skitter out of my gloves and reach behind the pretty girl, black bricks of ink falling on top of each other just in time for the glass to shatter rather than stab.   And the words flow back to me.   “Shit! Grue, cover! Now!”   “What do you think I’m doing?!” The boy replies as smoke bursts out of him, surrounding us just after I see the shadow flying toward us and the colorful girl jumping through the window.   I know them. I don’t like them.   We are huddled together, and the boy is saying a lot of bad words that aren’t on the books the pretty girl feeds me.   I still know them, but I don’t like hearing words I don’t have. It feels weird not feeling the echo thrumming on my gloves, my dress, my hat, my veil, my mascara… My black parts.   “Down!” the pretty girl screams, and I leap to the floor without knowing why, but I trust her, and so does the boy.   But she should have trusted herself.   A bolt flies through the smoke, too close for even my fastest words to leave my lips, and it sinks on the pretty girl’s back.   She stumbles forward.   She falls.   I catch her.   “Hey… Don’t worry, Wordsworth… Not your fault,” she says.   Her face is as pale as mine, and red flows out of her like the wrongest words in the world.   “Lisa! Fuck, Wordsworth, let me—”   “Hey, do me a favor, sweetie?” I nod. Anything. “Good girl… Could you eat this one book for me? Please?”   She didn’t let go of it when she fell, and her fingers are crinkling the softcover.   It’s colorful, a girl with big eyes and a round face on it, the kind of drawing on the pages of the books I understand best.   Children’s books, I think.   The girl is huddled on a doorstep, a burning match in her hands.   I take it, and the pretty girl smiles a tired, grateful smile.   Then the words flow to me.   It’s a sad story, a girl trying to keep herself warm during a winter’s night by lighting the matches she was asked to sell. But each time she lights one, she sees something in the flame, a glimpse of another life, a better life, warmer, with a tall woman that looks like me reading to her in bed, patting her head when she cries because the little match girl’s death was so, so sad, even if it let her see a better life than the one she had, but mom is there to comfort me, and she’s happy that I can be sad for the little girl that—   “Shush, Little Owl. She went to a better place, didn’t she? It’s a sad story, but that’s what it teaches us, that the sadness is there, always will, but so will happiness, even if it’s as a memory or a dream.”   “Mom… I don’t want that kind of happiness. I want a real one, not a dream,” I said, clutching my bedcovers.   And she leaned down and kissed my forehead before her whisper flowed through my hair in her warm breath, the warmth the little match girl dreamed about.   “But don’t you see, Taylor? You’re crying because of the little match girl, and she’s just a story. A story real enough to make you sad. And what are dreams, if not stories we tell ourselves?”   And now I have my name.   And my rage.   I stand up, Tattletale cradled in my arms, and speak.   “Three army surgeons went to an inn. They each boasted of their skill and claimed they could easily reattach their organs if they were to take them out and leave them overnight…”   I speak clearly, loudly, slowly. Only Grue and Tattletale are my audience, and I’ve never tried something as complex as what I’m about to do, but as we move toward the back exit under the cover of Grue’s darkness and he keeps making us change direction to keep us away from Stalker’s fire and Iridescent’s charge, I feel it.   The words of the Grimm’s tale take shape, and three army surgeons in glistening black look at me before they take the pretty gi—Tattletale off my arms.   I wish I could build another wall, but it looks like one story at a time is all I can do.   Which is more than enough, as the doctors fade one by one as they first take out the hunting bolt, then stitch the… Stitch her up, and the last remaining one bandages her with a torn sleeve from her costume before his words return to me.   Tattletale is now standing up, her face no longer as pale as mine.   “You are back,” she says with a smile that lacks mischief and pity.   I look at her, at the girl who has taken care of me for months while my mind drifted through stories of a world made by a childish mind, while only rare glimpses of a past that seemed more dream than memory surfaced at chosen, select books.   While a powerful Thinker devoted her time and powers to finding out how to make me whole again. Even if I never was.   “Partly. There’s still a lot missing.” Her smile abates at that.   “But you are you.” And there’s something in her eyes that—   Grue is silent, far too shocked at the current events and my sudden healing ability, if I had to guess.   And the answer to Tattletale’s not quite question…   “Enough. I’m enough, at least.”   Then I remember the first book she fed me today, the one that was so hard to understand, but now I’ve got memories of mom reading it to me, explaining, and the meaning makes the words so much more powerful than they were when they only flowed like a pretty song.   “Grue, open a passage from me to them. You two remain behind.”   He recoils at the first time I’ve addressed him directly, not used to my voice being anything other than short pieces of fairy tales.   “Wordsworth, they—”   “They will fall.”   He’s about to protest, to argue, and I can’t spare the words to make him—   “Brian. It’s all right. Trust her,” Lisa says.   I don’t think I have a heart anymore, but my inky words thrum at her voice.   Grue looks from me to her and back again before he not quite shrugs, and a black wall of smoke shifts between us before I’m left in an expanding clearing.   Then I see Iridescent.   Gorgeous, a body I would have killed for, suited in a leather glove that shifts in hue with every throb of her power. Her skin and hair always changing, always turning into something that displays the full beauty of whatever color passes over and through her.   “Ah, finally showing your face, coward? I knew you couldn’t hide fore—”   “Tyger Tyger, burning bright, In the forests of the night; What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry?” My voice is strong, powerful, falling into a cadence that fills the space around us with the echo provided by Grue’s darkness, and I raise my hand in an imperious gesture, because it is my hand that will frame terrible balance wrought in black and white—   “Taylor?” Iridescent stops her tirade, her every motion, only to look at me with fear, horror, relief, guilt—   Her hair blazes flaming red.   Emma.   I scream, and the Tyger roars.   Grue’s darkness splits, and Stalker rushes in, crossbow in hand—   I point at her.   “What dread grasp, Dare its deadly terrors clasp!”   And the Tyger, burning eyes in the forests of the night, leaps toward the shadow that has haunted me for so long.   There’s a crashing sound, my words tearing through the wall with at least as much ease as Emma’s power, and Stalker is forced to flee while she’s pursued by a poem manifest.   Sophia was never very good in English class.   And now I am alone with a girl who, for once in the past few months, isn’t throwing blinding bolts of color at me.   I walk toward her, the high heels my power forces on me making each stride a sinuous motion, my slight hips swaying with a grace I never had before as lean muscle shifts under what appear to be fishnets to anybody who isn’t looking too closely.   Soon, I’ll have to see if I can modify the hemline of my dress. It drags from behind like I’m going to a gala, but in front…   Anything above my knees is not something I want to flash to the whole city.   But now I am in front of Emma’s trembling shape, and I cannot distract myself anymore.   So I take an apparently gloved hand and lift her blue features (so achingly beautiful) until I force her to meet my eyes.   “Why?” I ask.   And she cries.   And she dares hug me.   “I… I thought I killed you… Oh God, Taylor, I’m so sorry, so sorry, but I couldn’t do anything but keep going, I didn’t know what they would do—”   I slap her.   My hand throbs, and my eyes sting even as I feel black words flowing out of them in inky tears.   “How—how could you even think to touch me after everything—”   The Tyger’s words return, and a moment after them, a crossbow bolt sinks on my back.   “Back off, Wordsworth. You just assaulted a Ward.”   So I turn around, away from Emma’s empty apology for something I have yet to understand, and face my other tormentor.   “This could have been a killing blow,” I state far too calmly, the pain distant, muted.   “I just guessed a freak like you wouldn’t bleed to death. I was right, wasn’t I?”   Right. A freak.   A Case 53.   And now I know how those are made.   A vial, its contents burning down my throat before my body shifted, every color drained to monochrome as I screamed in agony, as I felt myself change into something other.   My mind splintered under the agony. I don’t know where all the pieces went.   But I know who tried to take them away.   Sophia had nothing to do with it. Emma did, but fears them too much to betray them.   Looks like I’m on my own.   Once upon a time a pretty girl was lost in a library. She didn’t know what book she needed, not even if it existed, but she searched for it. The book she wanted held the memories of another girl, one that held the key to the maze they were in, and the pretty girl—   Fine. Not alone. But these flashes of storytelling are going to get old real soon, if that’s really how my brain works now.   Still, I need to deal with this.   So I look straight into Sophia’s eyes as I reach back with one hand and grab the shaft of her hunting bolt before I pull it out as my back screams at the unnatural motion and the tearing of paper—   Oh.   I’m a book.   I’d better not fight any pyrokinetics. Also, Nazis have just become my natural enemies.   “Am I supposed to be impressed?” Sophia asks.   “Would you be, if I stabbed this through your eye?”   She shifts, her body turned askance rather than squared against me.   “A little bit, yeah.”   So carelessly violent, so casually cruel, so blindingly stupid.   Very well.   I remember a book, one of my favorites. Mom read it to me every night until it was finished, and I was sad, because I wanted more of it. She told me there were other books, but that they would be better when I was older.   Now I am older, but I don’t have her to read them to me.   Still, there’s always happiness, even if it’s just a story we tell ourselves. And I have enough stories in me nowadays.   “‘Arrow!’ said the bowman. ‘Black arrow! I have saved you to the last. You have never failed me and always I have recovered you. I had you from my father and he from of old. If ever you came from the forges of the true king under the Mountain, go now and speed well!’”   It’s not an arrow, it’s a bolt. But it is black, and Bard the archer, the slayer of the dragon Smaugh, takes it from my fingers without protest.   Stalker shifts into her shadow self and jumps back, swift as ever.   Bard is swifter.   The bolt sticks out of the dark blob where her face was just before she shifts back into flesh and blood and screams. It’s at an angle, having gone through the hole in her mask, through her eye, but not through her skull.   And something explodes against my back.   I’m laying on the ground, Emma’s body pinning me down, glowing emerald at her fingertips, at each side of my head.   “Taylor,” she whispers, “I can’t let you kill. That’s not you.”   Bard’s words flow back to me, and my power is ready to be used again.   “That’s rich coming from you.” I don’t use it. Not now, not with the burning rage making it far too difficult to choose between any of the possible stories that would obliterate Emma, that would tear her body to pieces, even with the most beloved of children’s books.   Stalker has stopped screaming. She’s lying still, probably passed out due to the pain.   I wanted her to feel more.   “I—I don’t—it’s not my fault, OK?! I never meant for this to happen, I just wanted—”   There’s a metallic, clicking sound, and Emma stills.   “You just wanted to humiliate her, didn’t you? Because you couldn’t stand that she went through something and healed while you just kept falling apart in new and interesting ways. What was it, Emma? The betrayal of your protector—your father failing you? The helplessness at being at the mercy of—” Pretty girl’s—Tattletale’s voice, cruel and mean, but only because of me. She isn’t like—   “Shut up!” And Emma turns, blinding emerald burning bright like a Tyger in the night, and—   I move.   Emma tumbles to the ground as I rise, but her red bolt is already flying, and I barely have enough time to reach Lisa and tackle her before it burns and—   Pain. So much pain, so much more than mere tearing, as I feel my pages—   I’m rolling on the floor, Lisa hugging me and forcing me to move, to smother the flames—   A pretty woman, like me, but older and with colors. She looks sad.   And I’m sitting down in the middle of a library, a place for books to have a party and sometimes have a new chapter that may be a part of a new book. I always liked libraries, the silence interrupted by rustling pages, the scent of old, yellowing paper…   Mine is usually white, but now seems a bit yellow.   “Emma, you have thirty seconds to take Stalker out of here. If you delay a single second too long, I will blow your brains out.”   “I—I can help, I can bring her to Panacea and—”   “Never help her. Keep playing your stupid stunts, your heroic fights, but never get near her. I will kill you, Emma. Rules or not.”   Pretty girl looks angry. But she sounds sad.   And colorful girl seems lost before she takes shadow and glows navy blue before running away.   Good. I don’t like either of them. It’s better when they are gone.   Then pretty girl’s shoulders slump as she kneels next to me. It’s like we’re going to have a tea party with all the books, like we are kids once again, with my best friend—   “Taylor, sweetie… I’m going to take you home, okay?”   I nod, and she grabs my hand.   Hers is smooth, warm.   Mine is smoother, but it isn’t warm.   ***   I’m laying on my bed at the Undersider’s base, and there’s a pile of books without words by my side.   Lisa is sitting on the bed, looking at me with sadness.   “You are going away, aren’t you?”   My mind is still swimming with regained memories, with faces, and names, and feelings, after spending the past few days once again trapped in my storytelling fugues as she kept bringing me books to devour. She’s been taking notes, and now I understand that’s her own backup of me, the list of the books she needs to give me if I ever lose myself again.   Lisa holds the key to restoring me. That’s far too symbolic for the current me not to take notice.   “I always wanted to be a hero,” I finally answer, my voice far too quiet in this small room.   “Even after all of this? Nobody would blame you if you decided to be selfish. I wouldn’t.”   “I… I would.” And that’s enough, I don’t say, even if she hears it.   We remain silent, both staring at my bedcovers as if they were far more interesting than plain, beige cotton. I guess it counts as interesting that they aren’t stained with ink, but Tattletale’s power should have made that observation months ago.   Finally, she grabs my hand.   “You will always be welcome here,” she says, voice slightly raw.   I pull her toward me, fighting against my urge to keep people away, to avoid having anyone touch me. Because she deserves this much, at the very least.   So I hug her, her body pressing against mine, and I am thankful for the fact my flesh is still soft, still yielding, still able to mold against her own as her arms surround me, and we hold one another for far too long.   And far too short a time.   “I am a hero. You are a villain,” I whisper, my face buried in long, blonde hair.   “That’s out there. How about, in here, you are Taylor, and I’m Lisa?”   She squeezes.   I squeeze back.   “That sounds… reasonable,” I finally accede.   She chuckles.   “No need for that kind of language, young lady,” she says with the affronted tone of wounded dignity.   And I giggle, surprising myself with the soft sound.   “All right. It sounds good.”   Then she leans back, looking into eyes that are now black on white, the only distinction between iris and pupil being the shifting, almost oily current of gleaming words circling the latter.   “It does,” she agrees with a smile without mischief nor pity.   And with far too much warmth.   ***   Once upon a time, there was a hero who fought other heroes, and a villain who saved the hero’s life. It was a story that made no sense, convoluted and complicated, with a curse that stole memories, another that turned the hero into a monster, and a dragon—there are always dragons—who roamed a ruined city.   The hero and the villain, though, had no idea how the story would go, just that, sometimes, they could afford to be Taylor and Lisa.   They could also hope that, like in all good stories, they would live happily ever after.   Stranger things had happened, after all.       ================== ================== This work is a repost of one of my first commissions, and one that I’m both grateful for and proud of. It can be found on QQ, SV, and AO3, and, of course, on my Patreon where the latest chapter will show up a week before it comes out for everyone else. It is currently 33 chapters and 94k words long and approaching its final arc at a good pace, so I hope you’ll look forward to learning about Wordsworth’s ending.   [font="Calibri",]As always, I’d like to thank my credited supporters on [/font]Patreon[font="Calibri",]: [/font]aj0413, LearningDiscord[font="Calibri",], Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon.[/font] [font="Calibri",]If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on [/font][font="Calibri",]Amazon[/font][font="Calibri",]. Thank you for reading![/font]

Chapter 4 - Wordsworth – Chapter 5 – Colors 2

I dodge to the right, my feet skidding on the floor as I dive behind the nearest concrete block, and the ground explodes in shards of cement along a line that follows my trajectory a split second too late, the penetrating smell of ozone signaling the nature of the bolts that just missed me.   Adrenaline pumps through my veins, or whatever it is that nowadays passes as that for me, and the light yellow with undercurrents of ever-present red grants me a speed I rarely have as I let myself thrill in the rush of combat.   I grab one of the bigger shards and throw it over my cover with as much strength as I currently hold. Normally, not something an opponent with power armor would be concerned with, but I’m far from normal at the best of times, and it’s always easy to dip into the crimson strength the anger grants me when I’m fighting.   And Kid Win… Well, he tries.   But he has to try.   I hear a satisfying yelp that means he just managed to dodge but is still off-guard, so I rush to the next block, risking a straight line—   And a bolt of shadow flashes right in front of my eyes.   Sophia just shot me, and she missed by a timing of a fraction of a second.   Which means she doesn’t have a handle on my current speed.   Good.   I kick the ground hard enough it craters and leap along the trajectory of the bolt, straight to Shadow Stalker crouched on top of one of the blocks that dot the terrain.   I almost crash into her before she phases, and then I try to brake before I hit the block behind her, the skin of my palms feeling the rough material as it almost splits open. My arms are strong enough to stop me before I crunch my nose against it, but only barely.   And then Sophia kicks my legs from beneath me.   I tumble, up and down switching at a speed I can only keep up with because of the rapidly fading yellow that’s being replaced by sheer red, by rage, and hate, and—   Sophia crouches on my chest. Something glints in her hand.   … She could kill me.   She could kill me, right now, and there’s very little I could do to stop her.   The red washes away in a single wave, and only cerulean blue remains.   The… The calm, the relief surface, and I feel a lightness I haven’t felt since I downed this accursed vial that will forever remain with me.   Without moving, without intending to, I feel my limbs leave the ground as if I am gently drifting up in a pool of water, the wavering sun greeting me with golden light turning into a glowing spiderweb along the crest of the small waves as my eyes finally open and the distorted sound beneath the water sings a lullaby.   Sophia’s hand rushes down, the tip of the bolt in her grip glinting comfortingly.   The air shudders and the bolt sinks into the concrete beside my head.   I look at Sophia, and I think she can see the disappointment on my face.   “What the fuck?!”   “Vista! Language!”   “Carlos, don’t fucking start with me, or I swear I’ll make the toilet run away from you until you develop three extra bladders! What the Hell, you psycho?!”   There’s a blur, and Vista is standing beside me.   She’s never liked me. The fact that I was Sophia’s friend in my civilian identity already a mark against me, and my taking attention from Dean away from her the death sentence of any possible relationship between us beyond mere coworkers.   Smart kid.   And she may have just saved my life.   Cerulean blue darkens, the lightening of my limbs reversed as they feel that much heavier, and I let them lie against the concrete beneath me that will start straining if I don’t focus on—   Something hits both Sophia and me, throwing us in different directions, and focused calm replaces… that.   It’s a light indigo, one that makes everything come into sharper focus.   That lets me act.   “Everything all right?” Dean asks as if he hadn’t just blasted two teammates, and Vista looks at him like she can’t believe he would say something so utterly trite after what she has just seen and done.   As I said: smart kid.   “Yes. We just got carried away by the exercise,” I say, making the young girl turn her head toward me fast enough I’m sure part of it is her power assisting her.   She’s a nightmare in hand to hand.   “Right,” Sophia adds from where she’s crouching.   Carlos looks between the two of us, and Chris keeps fidgeting, not knowing how to intervene or whether he should.   I’m just glad Dennis couldn’t make it today.   “That’s not acceptable,” our nominal leader finally decides to say. Which, seeing as he’s talking about the possible murder of a teammate in cold blood and with plenty of witnesses, doesn’t quite seem to cut it.   “Relax, Carlos. Emma and I just like to play a bit rougher than you lot. Isn’t that right, Ems?”   There’s an edge of mirth to Sophia’s question. A dare.   She’s testing me, seeing how far I’ll go to keep our shared secrets, to see if what I told her on that roof the other night holds any weight.   “Absolutely. Don’t worry, I don’t think we would slip like this with anyone else.”   “I am the regenerating Brute on the team. I’d much rather you slipped up with me.”   “Kinky,” I wink at him.   He splutters. I’m not even using the pink, so that’s just his overactive hormones doing the job for me. As usual.   The guy badly needs to get a girlfriend. That, or for Miss Militia to finally take some pity on him.   And Vista’s making gagging noises.   As I said: smart kid.   “Well, if there isn’t anything else…” I purposefully drift off, letting his embarrassment do the work for me. Carlos isn’t eager to talk to me right now, not with the way a teenage boy’s shyness works when prodded the right way.   And, thanks to Dean, I’ve got indigo’s clarity, so it’s quite a bit easier than usual to know what the right way is.   At his silence, I turn around and start walking to the edge of the training vault, a waste of taxes big enough to allow for fliers to do their thing in simulated combat yet mostly filled with dull, drab, grey concrete. Somebody could’ve assigned some funds to make it a more interesting environment.   After a few steps, a hurried set of metallic ones join me.   As expected.   Dean is… Not pushy. Not quite. But he’s latched onto me, onto this favor Cauldron has saddled him with, in a way that makes me suspect the secret’s been eating at him for years. To someone as usually honest and straightforward as he is, having to lie about his supposed trigger event to everyone around him, girlfriend included, must’ve been Hell.   I kinda get it, but it hasn’t been my foremost concern for quite a while.   Not since black and white walked on high heels she never would’ve worn before, fishnets highlighting the slender curve of calves shifting with every swaying step—   I take a deep breath and feel a spark of shame taint the indigo as I fight off the pink.   Then we exit that training area, and Dean speaks.   “I won’t let you kill yourself, Emma.”   Another deep breath. It’s always hard to keep a hold of the indigo, even if it should be self-reinforcing. Even if the clarity it brings me should make keeping myself calm a trivial exercise.   It doesn’t. Instead, clarity brings awareness, and awareness brings self-hatred, and that always tries to be washed away by waves of red, the crimson that’s always there, always waiting to surface, to burn—   “I am not about to commit suicide, Dean.”   He looks at me. Really looks at me, in that way that I know gets past the first layer of my color and sees the chaotic mess swirling beneath the surface.   It’s the closest I’ve been to having someone else see me naked since I changed.   I—part of me hates him for it. For the intrusion, the violation.   Another… Is glad. Glad somebody else knows the real ugliness behind Emma Barnes’ perfect, crumbling façade.   “Letting Sophia kill you counts,” he finally says.   “She wouldn’t have done it,” I immediately counter.   “I saw her, Emma.”   “No. You saw a part of her. A snapshot. A moment. I know Sophia—better than anybody else does.”   “The rage—”   “Is always there. Always waiting to lash out, to find a target. There’s also the fear, always looking for a way out, for an angle to escape through. And then there’s the pride, a hurt little thing desperately trying to convince her she has value. How wrong am I?”   His jaw clenches, and he meets my eyes.   I keep walking, and so he does.   “Not wrong,” he finally admits. “Is that a Thinker—”   I bark an ugly laugh.   “It’s called being a teenager with some people skills, Dean. How do you think I wrangled my way to the top of the popular pile?”   His eyes involuntarily dip as far as my neck before he gains enough self-control to look back at my eyes. Not even a cleavage shot, Stansfield? A girl’s ego could get hurt by too much gallantry, you know?   “I’m not that hot, and neither am I that rich or famous. You and Victoria have it made, but most people need to work at this kind of thing,” I finally say when it’s clear he’s too busy self-flagellating to keep up his end of the conversation.   “I… Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply—”   “Drop it. It’s not important.” I immediately regret saying that.   “Right. Sophia—” Because now he’s back on track.   “Sophia’s my problem.”   “Just like Taylor—”   I whirl around, and the last dredges of indigo burn away as I push his chest piece until he’s nailed to the wall by arms strong enough to lift a car.   He looks into my eyes once again, and his own widen.   “Yes. Yes, Dean, Taylor is my problem. Mine.” The words burn on my tongue, caressing my lips with flickering flame that’s as metaphorical as physical.   “What—” He tries to struggle, the servos on his armor whining like a teenage boy who doesn’t understand a message within a message.   “Don’t bring her up. Don’t talk about her. Don’t even think about her if you can help it.” I try not to push forward, not to leave an indentation on the metal that seems oh so pliable beneath my fingers.   “Emma, she’s—”   “She’s my fault. My sin. My burden. Mine. You don’t have a right to—“   The red crumbles, and veins of blue beat through it as I remember—   Something explodes against my stomach, and I barely budge as the blue holds me in place, but then blue shifts to indigo and—   “Thank you,” I tell him with a sore throat.   He looks at me, just looks, bewildered, on the verge of flinching away.   This is someone who put everything on the line to become a hero. Someone born in and of privilege who decided that the best he could do with it was to become a modern knight. Someone who is far more decent than almost anyone I know, and almost as heroic as Vista.   And he’s afraid of me.   “… I’m sorry, Dean. I really am. But, please,” I pause, unsure of how to continue, and I take a step back, letting him breathe a bit more easily. “Please, don’t talk about Taylor. Just… don’t.”   He doesn’t speak for quite a while, and when he does, he’s cautious.   Can’t blame him for that.   “Emma… You need to talk about this with someone. What you’re feeling… it isn’t normal. It’s far too intense. I think your power is—”   I laugh.   I can’t help it; I just laugh, on the verge of hysteria, indigo once more fleeing me as a swirl of colors bloom, none of them strong enough to define me at the moment.   “Dean… It isn’t my power. It never was.”   He looks at me with an edge of panic, but that’s not what makes me turn around in disgust as viridian finally takes hold of me, and I walk away without another word.   No.   It’s the pity I can’t stand.       ================== ================== This work is a repost of one of my first commissions, and one that I’m both grateful for and proud of. It can be found on QQ, SV, and AO3, and, of course, on my Patreon where the latest chapter will show up a week before it comes out for everyone else. It is currently 33 chapters and 94k words long and approaching its final arc at a good pace, so I hope you’ll look forward to learning about Wordsworth’s ending.   [font="Calibri",]As always, I’d like to thank my credited supporters on [/font]Patreon[font="Calibri",]: [/font]aj0413, LearningDiscord[font="Calibri",], Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon.[/font] [font="Calibri",]If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on [/font][font="Calibri",]Amazon[/font][font="Calibri",]. [/font][font="Calibri",]Thank you for reading![/font]  

Chapter 6 - Wordsworth – Chapter 7 – Colors 3

“So… How was school today?” Mom asks and smiles at me.   It doesn’t take a Thinker power to realize how utterly fake and frail the smile is.   “Fine. Nothing worth talking about,” I answer, as politely as I can, and spoon another serving of mashed potatoes.   She sighs, once more resigned to my silence, and Dad pretends he’s too focused on whatever thing from the office he’s reading on his phone to notice.   Anne, though…   Anne glares at me.   It could be for a lot of things. For derailing her life with my sudden, overnight fame. For having her stay at home to support me after my supposed trigger event, even if I never asked for this and it was all Dad’s idea, who still thinks psychology isn’t a real degree. For making Mom feel bad.   It could be for a lot of things.   Knowing her? I don’t have the slightest clue.   But she’ll let me know.   ***   Once more, Mom offers to do the dishes and let me rest after my supposedly strenuous day both going to an awful school barely worth the title and training with a group of junior heroes that include Sophia, and thus have too many similarities with the alleged school.   That… That may not be fair.   Vista is a good kid. She doesn’t like me, after all.   So I go up to my room, open the door, and—   Anne’s sitting on my bed.   And, again, she glares at me.   “I despise you, you know?” she says before I can even question why she’s here.   It… It catches me by surprise, like a slap to the face that turns into a stab through the chest at the last moment.   And I can’t even feel a hint of red at it.   Instead, there’s blue. Both the deep, heavy one, and the lighter. The one that brings a peace and serenity that has nothing to do with indigo.   Cerulean. The blue I felt when I thought Sophia would murder me.    Sit beside her, on the bed. My bed.   I don’t look at her.   “That’s something we have in common,” I mutter through an uncooperative throat.   Her arm snakes around my shoulders and she drags me to her body.   She’s still taller than me. A thin woman who doesn’t turn as many heads as she could if she cared to dress for it.   My older sister.   The one that…   The only sister I’ve got left.   “Why have you been attacking Taylor?”   My throat closes up and nothing comes out.   “It’s her, isn’t she? Those pictures… She looks more like auntie did, like—”   “Stop,” I manage to rasp out.   “I have her name, Emma. Auntie’s name. And you’re hunting down her daughter. Your sister.”   Cerulean flees and blue deepens as my bed creaks beneath me, and flecks of red spark around me.   I get up, away from Anne’s touch before I hurt her.   I don’t need more reasons to hate myself.   She looks at me and her breathing deepens. Audibly.   In and out, in slow, controlled bursts.   She looks at me as she does, her eyes never leaving mine, never flickering to the sparks and embers of emotion, of distress.   I finally take the hint and follow her in her slow rhythm until all my colors settle. Not fleeing, not abandoning me, just turning to a pastel shade, to something… Manageable.   It works. It works far too well, even if temporarily and with great effort, and I have to wonder why the PRT isn’t teaching me this rather than just saddling Dean with managing me.   Well, no. I don’t really have to wonder, I just have to suppress the memory of a woman that makes me shake in fear with a change in intonation, with barely seen gestures, with, I suspect, just the will to have me on the verge of terror.   A woman who can claim a favor at any moment, and that has bound Dean to me with another.   A woman that, I suspect, can claim favors from the most powerful heroes and villains on this world.   And having her sabotage the PRT so that parahumans don’t learn how to best control their powers without relying on the organization… It fits. It fits far too well.   But now’s not the time to panic at yet another hint at the mess I’ve willingly jumped into. Now’s the time to pay attention to a sister who despises me.   She may be the sanest member of the family.   “Can you talk now?” she asks. And she’s not unkind about it.   But I know Anne, I know how eager she’s always been to care for others, to help them, to let them process things and never push when she’s not wanted.   So the fact she asks is…   She really hates me, I think.   “Good. Now tell me how you actually triggered.”   And suddenly, my hard-won calm shatters.   “I can’t talk about it,” I tell her, saying far more than I should.   “Why not? Mom and Dad sure ate it up when you told them. About how heroic you were, finally confronting those ABB thugs who were going to do to another girl what they almost did to you. Dad was oh so proud of his little princess finding the strength to overcome her trauma.”   And now I no longer have blue or red fighting over me. Now I’m solid green, viridian darkening to malachite on thick, slowly pulsing veins.   So I take a step back, because I don’t know how to control the green, and I fear it may hurt Anne far worse than red eve would.   “You know that’s not true,” I tell her, pleading, begging with everything but words.   “I do. That’s why I’m asking you what the actual truth is. And why Taylor triggered at the same time as you. And why her father is never home, and the place looks like a Merchant’s gathering.”   Danny has…? Of course. Of course he has. He lost his daughter and he hadn’t even recovered from losing his wife. Of course he—   Oh God, he may have even actually triggered.   I need to find him.   I need him to know—no.   No. I can’t.   “Anne… Please. I want to tell you. You don’t know how much. But I can’t.”   She stands up.   And takes a step toward me.   My sight blurs with panic and I find myself huddled against the corner, with no way out, no escape—   “Emma. Look at me,” she says, her voice that calm, steady thing that—   She’s right in front of me. Kneeling over me.   The green pulses and I feel like throwing up.   And Anne grabs my face between her hands.   She grimaces as she pales, as she—   “Let go of me!” I shriek, loud enough maybe Dad or Mom will hear and—   “No. You are my little sister, and I’m not letting go.” Her words are heavy, pronounced with deliberate clarity.   She’s sagging, barely able to remain kneeling.   “Anne! Anne, please, I’m hurting you! I don’t want to—”   “Then don’t! Get a grip, Emma! Do something and stop letting your power speak for you!”   Something tight snaps inside my chest.   Green remains, but is pushed aside by red, and blue, and yellow, and—   I am a mess. A wreck. I don’t what to feel, or how to feel it, or why to feel it, and I can only think of a dark alley, and a girl calling me a survivor, but I’m not, I never was, and I know, know—   I am crying.   And Anne is hugging me.   “I’m sorry,” I say between sobs.   “I don’t forgive you,” she answers, her vomit reeking between the two of us, almost solid dribbles stuck to the corners of her mouth.   I close my eyes, just feeling her warmth and softness against me, and the disgusting wetness of her sickness. Sticking to our clothes.   “Thank you,” I finally mutter.   ***   “I can’t tell you, Anne. I really can’t.”   “At least tell me why you can’t,” she insists, once more shifting on the bed.   She’s wearing one of my shirts, a white one that’s tight on her frame, and I, at her insistence, have also changed out of my dirty clothes.   Which is ridiculous. I just need to get angry enough and any kind of dirt will turn to white ashes and then to nothing.   I don’t know why it doesn’t burn my clothes, though. Power weirdness, Vista would say.   “If… If I told you why I can’t tell you, I would be telling you what I can’t tell you,” I finally settle on.   And turn my head to meet her eyes.   She’s worried. Anxious.   I hate it.   “It’s my fault,” I add, hoping to regain a bit of that spark of hatred, of spite, of disgust.   I don’t, she just looks more worried.   “Emma…”   “No! No, it really is! I—Anne, there are things, things about powers that—”   My phone dings, and my aura turns to white and black as my heart clenches.   Already? Just because of this?   Am I about to lose another sister?   With a hand that shakes far too much for someone who calls herself a heroine, I reach the phone and—   It’s Sophia.   My lungs stop burning as I finally release the air, and I feel cold wash down from my head as the awful moment of horror fades away.   Anne looks at me in alarm, and I can only offer her a shaky smile as I open—   It’s a picture.   Kid Win is aiming at Taylor with his guns.   Red blooms, and my sheets scorch.   Then another message. A location.   And then a last one. Sophia.   ‘I’d hurry if I were you.’   Briefly thankful for the flame retardant paint, I unlatch my window and, with all the strength wrath grants me, jump.   I can hear Anne yelling at me from behind, but the rushing wind in my ears takes the words with it.   ***   My strength allows me to leap, but that isn’t fast enough.   No, I need something better, something more suited.   I need the amber.   I need exultation and excitement, I need the vibrance of something thrilling through my veins, I need—   I don’t need to calm down, I need to… focus.   Th first time Carlos threw a punch at me and I managed to slip to the side, feeling the displaced air brush against my cheek. Bouncing from cover to cover as Chris kept shooting at me, shards of concrete pelting me when I was a split second too late in changing directions. Making my first arrest, feeling like I at least managed to do some good—   A vein of amber pulses along the inside of my forearm, and the world sharpens.   I can squeeze a bit more speed. My movements are more precise, more fluid, and I can keep the crimson strength better leashed. My leaps are still explosive, still eating distance from rooftop to rooftop as I leave behind a trail of light, but I can feel the combined emotions being so much better, so much more effective at bringing me close to my target, and—   I feel an iota of triumph, and the red fades.   So I drop to the streets and just run.   Buildings, cars and passersby blur at my passing, and I take to the middle of the road rather than risk running someone over on the sidewalk. My lungs burn, because I’m fast, but that doesn’t mean I don’t tire, and I—   I’m almost there.   Just a bit closer.   Just a bit more, and I can—   What can I do?   I almost stumble, almost trip and eat the pavement before getting smashed by the angrily honking car behind me, but I catch my balance and keep running, keep focusing on not letting the amber fade. I can figure it out when I get there, when I see the situation, when I…   When I see Taylor sitting on the ledge of a building, Chris at her side, both of them laughing with Trainwreck’s shackled form on the street beneath them.   My colors fade, and I feel empty.   There’s no rage, no sadness, no frustration, sickness, lust, excitement or any of a hundred hues of emotion I’ve been training to recognize since I swallowed the vial that twisted my world, that allowed me a privileged insight into how utterly messed up I actually am.   No. There aren’t any colors.   I’m just… Emma.   And Emma Barnes watches Taylor Hebert joke around with a veteran cape that looks at her with perhaps a bit too much warmth. Watches as they exchange words and friendly gestures, and Chris gives her a card before she jumps down to the street below.   Watches as Taylor finally announces to the world what Emma had always known, even if she had tried to forget it.   That Taylor Hebert is a hero. Had always been, even before she got powers of her own.   That she will do great things.   That she’s only just started.   Watches as she turns around and walks away, black and white fading out of view in the shadowed streets.   And then Emma Barnes turns around and walks back to a home where two people don’t know her and a single person despises her.   Her phone dings.   It’s a message. From Sophia.   ‘Looks like you were too late.’   Emma doesn’t know what she means. But she still agrees.       ================== ================== This work is a repost of one of my first commissions, and one that I’m both grateful for and proud of. It can be found on QQ, SV, and AO3, and, of course, on my Patreon where the latest chapter will show up a week before it comes out for everyone else. It is currently 33 chapters and 94k words long and approaching its final arc at a good pace, so I hope you’ll look forward to learning about Wordsworth’s ending.   [font="Calibri",]As always, I’d like to thank my credited supporters on [/font]Patreon[font="Calibri",]: [/font]aj0413, LearningDiscord[font="Calibri",], Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon.[/font] [font="Calibri",]If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on [/font][font="Calibri",]Amazon[/font][font="Calibri",]. Thank you for reading![/font]  

Chapter 7 - Wordsworth – Chapter 8

“Please, Tay, don’t do this,” Lisa’s voice warms something deep in my chest, even as I ache to soothe her worry, even as I yearn to layer words upon her wounds until they are protected from a world that always intrudes upon them, tearing open what should’ve been healed—focus.   I take a deep breath, feeling the sensation of my ribs straining when I can’t take in any more air and I’m forced to slowly deflate. It isn’t the calming pattern Lisa taught me, because that has the opposite effect of what I need. Because the drowsy calm lulls me to whispered words while my head laid upon a cushion and my body was protected by warm blankets, and tales unfolded—   Another breath. Intense, uncomfortable, verging on pain.   That brings me back. To the present. To the moment.   To her.   “I have to,” I finally answer in a whisper as I look through the wireless cameras I installed yesterday under cover of beauty and night.   “No. No, you don’t. Never use those words, much less with me. Do it because you want to, because you feel it’s right, but never because you have to. You don’t. You no longer have a moral obligation to even lift a finger if the world burns around you.”   “Liz, I kinda dislike being on fire.”   “Yet you would still gleefully jump into an ongoing arson.”   I bite back a chuckle.   “You’re impossible to argue with,” I tell her, stating the obvious.   “Does that mean you won’t do the ludicrously reckless, stupid thing you’re planning on doing?”   I look at the screen of the tablet she set up for me. At the feed of each hidden camera.   At the people lying on bare, stained mattresses.   At the dirty floor, the cracked walls of the abandoned building on this part of the docks.   At the used, empty syringes, and the girl kneeling on the ground to pick one up.   “No. No, it doesn’t mean that,” I finally answer.   “… And I am the one who’s impossible to argue with.”   I chuckle once more. At the grumpy tone, the implied offense, the…   Well, the concern.   “Seriously, you just convinced Kid Win to get off your case, and now you’re going to throw it all away for a bunch of—”   “Liz, don’t try to seem crueler than you are,” I cut her off before she says something she’ll regret. Because she makes an effort not to manipulate me, to just support me and allow me my autonomy as I fumble while trying to regain the pieces of Taylor Hebert scattered all across this city, but she’s still the clever fox, and foxes always play tricks.   They can’t help it. It’s in their nature.   “Sorry,” she mumbles, contrite. Sincere. “I… It’s just so frustrating, you know? Just a little more, and they would have no choice but to recognize you as a hero.”   I close my eyes and swallow the hard lump lodged in my throat.   “Heroes… Heroes are what they do, not what people say about them,” I finally tell her.   There’s a sharp sound from her end of the conversation, from wherever Lisa’s sitting at, talking to me, seeing through my camera, waiting for me to act and move despite her advice.   It sounds like strangled sobbing.   I distract myself from it, focus on my mission.   On the people using this Merchant’s crack house.   Meeting Mush, talking to him, made me think. Because I’ve spent years hearing about the Merchants, about how vile they are, about abducting people off the streets and forcefully addicting them to get more clients.   It made sense, in the way a horror story told around a campfire makes sense. There was a great evil that could strike at any time and claim a victim from among any of us, and we could only live in fear of the monster in the dark.   The story is true, yet, false. Its simplicity makes it a lie.   Yes, falling prey to the Merchants’ tactics, getting too much of a taste of their products, is a great evil. Something to be feared, avoided.   But it’s not them that bother trapping people.   Why should they? Why commit a crime that’s so much worse than just peddling their merchandise just to get more buyers... when they don’t lack for any?   Because the monster that kidnaps young kids and forces them to inject false joy into their veins isn’t so simple. It doesn’t wear a single mask.   It could disguise itself as a friend offering a good time that you no longer want to end, a dream that stretches past morning even as your body withers.   It could be desperation and loneliness, and a last refuge, a way not to think, not to feel. A death in all but name, but one anxiously sought for.   It could be reckless hedonism, or control falling apart, or the need to belong to someone who’s already falling and drags you with them in an inescapable embrace.   It could be any of a thousand things, because the monster is tricky, astute.   Not as much as a fox, of course, but that isn’t the point.   The point is… That the monster claims victims, one after another, and that they each live through it in a different way. Some get scared after seeing him and run and never look back. Those are the lucky ones.   Some just get a taste, maybe take one of the things that don’t scare them that much, and live a normal life aside from it. And the monster lets them, because it doesn’t care how many live content as long as he can drag others down.   And those he sinks his claws into, the ones that fall…   They don’t end up in places like these.   No, those who are here are still falling.   And maybe they once were proud workers, or carers for their families, but all that’s gone as the monster keeps claiming pieces of it.   So, Mush, the kind, ugly man with a nice smile, will never pick a kid off the street and drag him in here so the monster can devour him.   But he will stand aside as the kid walks into the monster’s lair.   And what kind of hero would allow that?   “If… if I can’t convince you to stop… At the very least… Can you come home tonight? So I see that you’re okay?” the clever fox asks, enticing me with what I need and want most.   Almost like the monster would. Except the monster lies, and the fox, at this point, doesn’t.   “Of course,” I answer, my voice as soft and warm as I can make it.   “Right. Give ‘em Hell, Tay.”   I look once more at the cameras and touch an icon on the tablet to connect the hidden speakers.   There are no villains in there. No one with a mask and a colorful costume.   Just victims.   Of others, and of themselves.   But a hero should save all of them.   So… I won’t give them Hell.   I’ll give them…   “Two roads diverged on a yellow wood…”   Trees emerge from the shadows in the den, the words flowing out of me crawling across the street to form swaying trunks and ever-falling leaves as the ground beneath dirty mattresses shifts to loam, and grass, and roots snaking below discarded leaves that aren’t yellow, but smell like it.   I’m not there. I am as far away as I think I can manage and still manifest my power with this many people listening, but I sense the smell of wet, fertile earth, of the sweet decay at the start of autumn, of bark wet with dawn’s dew.   The forest is as important as the roads, because without it, there wouldn’t be any meaning to them. They would go across nothing.   And there’s a man in the middle of the path, at the part where it forks, where destinies split. Except the man is a woman, and a child, and a diffuse shadow, and, if one looks at it carefully enough, they would see the man is actually every single person present, all of them at the point where they met two roads on a yellow forest.   One of the roads had a monster lurking on it.   But the one who waited to make a choice didn’t know, couldn’t know, because the grass was as trodden upon in one as in the other, both paths with as little wear as could be seen.   And so the traveler hesitated until, not having any choice but to continue, set upon a path that seemed just as good, just as fair.   And with every step they would convince themselves that it wasn’t as fair, but more, that there weren’t any leaves turned to black upon their chosen path. And they pondered about the other one, the one they hadn’t taken, and thought they may be coming back to it one day and see if it really had been just as fair.   But with each step they took along their road, the fork, the path not chosen grew further and further away.   Until they knew that no, they wouldn’t come back.   That once they stood in front of two paths.   And they chose one, that they now felt less traveled.   And the autumn light dappled by falling and swaying leaves grows dimmer as I near the end of the poem.   It has an accepted meaning, one most people think about, and another, made in jest about a dithering friend often wondering about long-past choices.   But I am not here to give them a lesson about literary analysis. No, I’m here to let them see, to let them watch as the traveler goes down a path.   “I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.”   So I sigh, and mourn, and sympathize as the traveler just ponders about the long-lost fork. And walks.   But then, when I reach the last word, I make an effort.   I twist meaning, and tone, and intent.   And so the autumn light returns, the leaves made of inky words gleam across it in their gentle dance, the smell of the woods flares again, less acrid but all the more potent.   And the traveler pondering about the road less traveled takes another step, and the woods open as he comes across another fork.   As he comes across another two roads.   I let the words hang in the air like dew on rough, black bark.   I let each of them, awake and alert for maybe the first time in months, see the traveler take their guise as he goes from woman, to man, to child.   And then I let my power fade, taking away the grass, the leaves, the trees, the loam, and the traveler.   And, finally, last of all, I take away the road less taken.   My words flow back to me, and I slump on my chair, thankful for the drawn curtains not letting any outside light disturb me as I close my eyes and my temples throb in pain.   Lisa’s silent on my headset.   But she’s Lisa, so it doesn’t take long for that to change.   “Tay…” she whispers, mindful of a headache she knows all too well. “Tay, look.”   I force myself to open my eyes and look at the tablet, my only link to the house now that my forest is no more.   I see people on their mattresses, lying on their backs with eyes wide open.   I see some sitting on the ground, weeping.   And…   And I see some stand up and walk away.   And I choke back a sob, because that’s what a hero is supposed to do.   To save people from monsters.     ================== ================== This work is a repost of one of my first commissions, and one that I’m both grateful for and proud of. It can be found on QQ, SV, and AO3, and, of course, on my Patreon where the latest chapter will show up a week before it comes out for everyone else. It is currently 33 chapters and 94k words long and approaching its final arc at a good pace, so I hope you’ll look forward to learning about Wordsworth’s ending.   [font="Calibri",]As always, I’d like to thank my credited supporters on [/font]Patreon[font="Calibri",]: [/font]aj0413, LearningDiscord[font="Calibri",], Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon.[/font] [font="Calibri",]If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on [/font][font="Calibri",]Amazon[/font][font="Calibri",]. [/font][font="Calibri",]Thank you for reading![/font]  

Chapter 9 - Periodical Cicadas – Chapter 9

“How are things going at school?” Dad asks after minutes of silence only broken by chewing noises over a breakfast table that is unpractically bigger than what we used to have.   I…   I look at him.   He’s trying to smile, white teeth gleaming like the tiles beneath the cupboard behind him, as he makes an effort to seem… approachable? I think?   And a part of me wants to lash out. Another wants to tell him about yesterday. Another wants to desperately hide from him anything that could go back to the PRT.   And another…   “Well, you know, the murders at least are a bit more cultured than in Winslow,” I say with a careless shrug before taking a sip of my orange juice.   Damn it, Taylor.   “Do they count as extra credit?” he shoots back, forcing a surprised snort out of me.   And he looks…   Happy. Relieved. There’s a slow smile spreading on his lips at this very brief connection, this something that Audrey, Noah, and even Emma (the brunette, not the redhead—I need a blonde one to complete the set) could have achieved effortlessly.   He makes me feel guilty, which in turn makes me feel angry, which makes it kinda hard to keep the light mood going and not throw something in his face that will wipe the smile right off.   “I mean, if artistic, gruesome killings count as academic achievements? I sorely missed on the chance to improve my grades back in Brockton,” I finally answer him.   The smile grows brittle but doesn’t disappear entirely, so I guess I just achieved a happy medium that leaves neither my destructive nor constructive urges satisfied.   Great. Is this what being an adult feels like? Because I certainly could do with some Peter Panning, if that’s the case.   I mean, fairies do tend to be vicious little monsters. Wonderful backup. I may even be able to control a swarm of them.   …   The internet must never learn of this.   “Well, I’m sure your grades will—” he starts to say.   “I’m sure my grades are the least of our concerns right now.”   “Taylor, I—”   “No. No. You are with the PRT right as a parahuman serial killer decides to take vengeance on a town with a dark secret. Do you know who tends to hide dark secrets? The police. Or the mayor, or the PRT. You’re a target, Dad, even if only by adjacency.”   “You don’t need to worry about me—”   I slam my fist on the table.   And looking straight into my father’s green, wide, surprised eyes, I glare.   “I think we both know how things go in this family when we stop worrying about one another.”   He gapes at me, his mouth slack, lips trembling.   And I get up from the table, things I want to throw at him on the tip of my tongue, pushing up my throat, crawling behind my eyes.   So much. There’s just so much I want to say.   And so, I don’t say a single thing.   ***   I walk to school, Dad still too meek to offer me a ride when he sees me go out the door with my backpack.   And I…   I want to crack a quip about the green army still ambushing me from every corner. About how unnatural it is for the air to be this devoid of the comforting smells of rotten wood, cars that should’ve passed on to a better life decades ago, and finely aged street urine.   I want to dive into myself and let the bitter snark flow out, a wall between me and the world. I want to complain about how unfairly attractive everyone in here is, about how the local flora outnumbers humans in a way I’ve never seen outside a barely remembered summer camp that feels more and more like something that should have included a machete-wielding psychopath with every passing day, about how each and every one of my new acquaintances is somehow more mentally disturbed than people who attended Winslow and were thus expected to have some kind of mental damage.   Heck, I even want to think about Noah and Greg meeting and the universe imploding.   … This feels like the kind of thing that was forbidden in PHO.   But, really, after this little mental workout? After wandering down this road with so few cars, so many houses with picket fences, and so many varied arthropods to traumatize people with?   OK, I was going to say that I didn’t feel like snarking, but that’s obviously untrue, and I only lie to myself when I can plausibly get away with it.   So, the actual truth is that I do feel like snarking, because that’s a coping mechanism about as healthy as I can conceivably come up with as long as I’m not willing to go Carrie on the next Winslow alumni gathering. And, fun as it is to think about Sophia discovering what a botfly is, I’m kinda preoccupied with more urgent matters.   Such as the killer reaching out to me.   I suppress a shudder that has very little to do with the Sun being set on demonstrating just how useless a deodorant stick is in the face of Florida’s climate, and… I think.   Or, well, I think I do. Which involves thinking, so I really hope I am thinking, in one way or another.   I think?   OK, that’s been stretched for long enough. So, Taylor, take a deep breath of allegedly pure air and go over what you know, what you suspect, and your options without using the verb ‘think.’   I know Audrey, Emma, and Noah are in on my secret, so that’s an enforced circle of trust I don’t have much of a say on belonging to, what with heroes being supposed to frown on murdering witnesses. Their other… friends may not be the right word. Their schoolmates are an iffier thing, but I did save Brooke’s life, so I guess she may be positively predisposed toward me.   Wouldn’t bet on it, though. I mean, the inference is based on humans being somewhat vulnerable to notions of fairness and moral debt, which experience has taught me is quite a stretch.   And there goes the bitterness. Really, I don’t know what’s happening to my naturally sunny disposition other than it refusing to come out due to the actual Sun having a non-competition clause in the land of skin cancer.   OK, back to contemplating the serial killer who has investigated my past and obviously knows what a trigger event is, but… He didn’t allude to it. She? They were using a voice scrambler and showed just how easily they could set it to suit whatever they wanted, so… Yeah. It doesn’t take a Thinker to realize their gender is as much of a mystery now as it was before the call.   Fantastic.   So, what did I actually learn? That they want some kind of recognition? That they want someone to understand them? That they want to send a message not only about their victims but about themselves?   And that they… They see themselves as someone who once was like a trapped—   …   Suddenly, and for some weird reason, I don’t feel like following along this path of inquiry. How curious.   Also: oh, look, a distraction!   “Hi, Brooke,” I say as I approach the blonde girl standing alone in the middle of the sidewalk, leaning against one of the many white fences that can be found along my path to school while staring at her phone and clearly going against that whole thing we all agreed on about her being a future target who needed to be under hot Latino guard at all times.   A terrible fate, I’m sure. Orwell tried to warn us all about a dark future where we all would be under permanent vigilance by fit men with just the right skin tone to highlight the shadowed lines between muscles and still shimmer with every highlight of a slightly ephebophilic Sun caressing sweaty, toned bodies.   “Broody!” she yells as she pushes herself off the fence.   And hugs me.   …   Look, Brooke, you can’t use Noah and Audrey’s pet name for me as if you just conveniently forgot my name, envelope me in sweet, tanned skin that I just now realize fits my description for Gustavo’s indecently attractive body if in a way that’s slightly more baffling for my newly discovered bipanicked tendencies than my already familiar attraction to the artist with a troubled past who may or not be a serial killer, and then expect me to react in any way other than by freezing while trying not to freak the fuck out. That’s just not how things work, you know?   Also, that white crop top? Those hip-hugging jeans? That jasmine perfume? Are you trying to make me blush?   “Oh, wow, Emma was right,” she comments as she pulls back just enough that her face is right in front of me.   I blink at her, then cock my head to the side in the universal gesture for ‘I have questions, yet I find myself unable to verbalize them at this moment due to you being stupidly hot and your nipples stabbing right at me through a shirt that shouldn’t be this thin unless you’re trying very hard to get an unasked-for police escort.’   She snorts.   And ruffles my hair.   “Hey!”   “Oh, she speaks!”   “That was an interjection; it doesn’t count!”   “That was a whole sentence; it does.”   “Well, yes, but the point is that, when you made your first assertion, you were wrong.”   Brooke blinks at me.   Then, for some unknown reason, she slowly drags her hand down her face.   “I suddenly understand why everybody is shipping you and Noah.”   I blink at her.   “I don’t like boats?” I finally tell her.   She groans.   “Don’t… You don’t know what shipping is?” she asks with more confusion than warranted.   “I have absolutely no clue. Also, ‘shipping?’ That thing my horrified brain is refusing to acknowledge it knew the meaning of once upon a time? It refers to fictional characters, not to real people, as much as Noah barely counts as human.”   “I don’t know if you’re making it very hard for me to like you or quickly becoming my favorite person to rib.”   “You’re a stereotypically blonde, tanned, hot, popular girl, and I’m the outcast who comes in mid-term from out of state. We’re fated to be bitter enemies and-slash-or get in bed together, but the last thing will only happen if I am secretly a vampire.”   Oh my God.   What did I just say.   I blame Noah.   And Audrey.   Noah and Audrey. Both. At the same time. Because I’m bisexual now, so why not—   Aaaaaaahhhhhhh!   And they ship me with Noah?! What the actual Hell are these people on?! Even sunstroke has limits!   Hello, Lakewood? The Merchants called; they want your new supplier!   And Brooke! Stop. Giggling!   It does… things to your chest and mine by extension—   “Oh God, Emma was definitely right,” she manages to say after getting her breath under control.   Mostly.   Let’s just say, that whole chest-to-chest thing? It’s an ongoing concern.   Wear a bra, for fuck’s sake—   “Come on, Broody. We’re gonna be late,” she says.   And grabs my hand.   Then she turns around, rubbing her body all over me in the process, and pulls me toward the school. Something that, in a moment of madness, I briefly consider an escape toward a saner environment.   I’m about as ashamed of the notion as can be expected.   ***   “You just had to do it,” Emma says with what seems to be a mix between exasperation, annoyance, and resignation.   It’s quite an impressive range, really. She has a future as a motivational speaker. Or, given the emotions involved, a teacher.   She at least has more experience handling the likes of Noah than most poor schmucks who would unwittingly go into the job expecting students to be sane.   “I mean… What kind of person do you think I am that I would allow my savior to go unthanked for so long?” Brooke says.   And I, still being dragged behind her, the three of us barely half a block away from the dreaded gates to education and inept psychoanalysts, dig my heels in the concrete until she stumbles and looks back at me with a raised eyebrow.   I stare at her.   She cocks her head.   I sigh.   “Brooke, you still haven’t thanked me for saving your life.”   She blinks.   “I haven’t?” she asks, more confused than anything.   “No. You just popped up out of nowhere, harassed me about some kind of fever dream about people thinking there’s something going on between Noah and me—”   “It’s all over the school. It started when they saw you arrive together at my house—”   “Some terrible, awful fever dream that we’re all going to ignore or else, and then tried to hostilely asphyxiate me with your breasts—”   “Hostilely? As opposed to amorously—”   “I haven’t seen my gratitude anywhere—”   “Well, the tits thing was a good hint, wasn’t it? What with you being my secret vampire stalker—”   “You two are impossible,” Emma, for some strange reason that points toward some concerning difficulties with socialization, interrupts us. “You should both get with Noah.”   “Please, don’t. I don’t think my brain can stomach the possibility of Noah having a threesome before I do,” Audrey interjects, basically melting out of the shadows with the help of her black leather jacket.   All right, fine. I knew she was there.   Leather. In this weather. If there’s somebody I don’t need to tag with bugs, that’s Audrey. Because I know her scent, and that’s not a creepy thing, much less a romantic one, and shut up, brain, or I swear they’ll never find your body.   “Is anyone else about to ambush me on the way to school? Should I start carrying a mace?” I ask, not at all dramatically.   “Don’t you mean carrying mace—” Brooke asks.   “I know what I said,” I clarify for those who may have some learning disability to compensate the sheer unfairness of perfect, flawless skin, hair that gleams with every mote of sunlight, and other, maybe less remarkable things that keep stretching a white cropped top.   “So, does that mean you’re about to go medieval on somebody’s ass?” Audrey asks with a grin that does not make me think about me staring at the back of her jeans as she slowly walked away while waving over her shoulder.   …   OK, brain? Hormones? We all need to have a talk. That talk may or not involve me learning how to use a mace.   “There’s absolutely no way for me to answer that question without you teasing me, is there?” I finally ask Audrey before somebody else comes up with another mortifying thing to add to the pile.   “Broody, I feel like we’ve known one another for far longer than we have,” she says.   And Emma giggles.   Which, in turn, makes Audrey shoot her a brief side glance that has the black-haired girl’s cheeks tinge with just enough color to be noticeable on her pale skin, and Brooke raises an aggressively inquiring eyebrow while Emma’s eyes briefly meet those of the girl she’s always been overly cautious about and deferential to before she pretends the moment hasn’t happened.   And I now have two very attractive girls trying to act like their eyes meeting is not a big deal.   I turn toward Brooke, and I see glee.   “Sooo… Did you at least kiss, or is this just all repressed sexual tension?” she says.   Both Audrey and Emma freeze, all but confirming they both know perfectly well what Brooke’s talking about.   And I…   Damn it.   “Tell me you aren’t being cruel on purpose,” I tell her.   “What?”   “You just hurt them, Brooke. And I know you and Audrey barely know one another, but Emma’s supposed to be your friend—”   “What are you even talking about, I just… Hey. Hey, I was just joking; I didn’t… Emma? I…”   And Audrey runs.   Then Emma follows.   “Wait!” Brooke yells.   And I stop her.   She stumbles before looking down at my hand grabbing her arm, then she looks up into my eyes and flinches.   “Let them. They… There are years of history there. They need to be alone,” I tell her, not thinking about what it would be like for me to…   To have another Emma chasing me, one that was suddenly worried about me hurting, one that wanted to apologize, to make things better. One that looked at me like Emma looks at Audrey.   Damn it.   “Taylor?” Brooke asks, her voice uncertain, my name almost quivering on her lips.   I want to be angry at her. I want to lash out and let her have a taste of the pain she carelessly inflicted.   But… But I remember.   I remember pulling her away from the corpse of her lover. I remember her shock when she learned what it was that my brief teacher of literature actually did with other young women. I remember her huddled and crying on top of Gustavo’s body yesterday.   And…   I want to be a hero. I always did.   But would a hero punish or help?   “I have math in the first period,” I say.   “What?” she answers.   “I never liked math,” I tell her with a shrug.   And then I turn around and pull her away from George Washington High School.   She… follows.   ***   Minutes later, we’re sitting inside a cafeteria that I would never have found on my own, which was quite embarrassing, seeing as it was me who was supposed to determinedly guide Brooke away.   Admittedly, seeing me fumble and doubt for a moment was a good way to have her recover her balance. She even threw in a couple of teasing remarks.   Because Brooke.   “Tea? I would’ve pegged you for an expresso girl?” she says before taking a brief lick off the glob of whipped cream atop her crime against caffeinated beverages.   See what I have to deal with?   “Funny, I would’ve pegged you for a homophobic, cruel bully who doesn’t think about who she’s hurting to get a laugh,” I tell her before taking a calm sip.   She gapes at me.   Then she contorts on our shared sofa to kick my shin. Which kinda detracts from the aloof image I wanted to project.   “You are a bitch,” she says.   “I know what you are, but what am I?” I eruditely riposte.   “Somebody who isn’t half as clever as she thinks she is.”   “By some metrics, I think you just complimented me.”   “You can’t have such an overinflated opinion of yourself.”   “True. I saved your life, after all, so I’m definitely not that bright.”   That makes her pause.   Then she… smiles.   It’s a weird thing. Not the mischievous smirk she shot right before hurting both Emma and Audrey. Not the smug quirk on her lips she’s been giving me since first greeting me this morning. It’s actually… not subdued, not really, but…   Brittle, for a start.   “OK, I think the joke’s been going on for far too long already: thank you, Taylor. Thank you for saving my life,” she says.   And I stop rubbing my shin to look at her. At brown eyes that are, now that I allow myself to realize it, filled with worry and nervousness.   “You are welcome,” I tell her with a shrug of my shoulders.   Then I take another slow sip of my tea as Brooke rolls those brown eyes of hers back before grunting and sinking into the plush backrest.   “You are being deliberately difficult,” she says.   “Yes. Of course I am,” I tell her before looking back at her as I lower my tea cup. “Because I don’t know you, I don’t know how to deal with you, and I think you don’t know either.”   “Of course I don’t know how to deal with you—”   “With yourself.”   “Ah.”   “Yes. Ah.”   Brooke manages to, somehow, take a sip of whatever it is that lies underneath the whipped cream without getting a blob of it on her nose and takes a moment to think.   “I’m… I don’t know Audrey. I barely know Emma. I thought I knew Nina, and Seth, but… I really didn’t, did I? So… No. I don’t know how to deal with myself, Taylor, because I’m right now doubting I know who I am. I doubt Jake and Gustavo, and I grew up with them. I doubt my father, and my mother, and… Everything. Everything that was my life a couple of weeks ago until a crazed serial killer decided that I can’t have that anymore. And it wasn’t enough that they took them away; they had to take their memories too, the people I thought they were, so… I don’t know, Taylor, or Broody, or Final Girl. I just… don’t,” she says.   And then she shuts up.   I look at her. At the one girl who should remind me of Emma more than anybody else in this town regardless of her name. At the popular, beautiful, charming girl who has the pulse of the school, who knows who is who, who has the eye of everybody she cares to.   At the clueless, lost girl who’s still trying to act like she knows what she’s doing, what she’s supposed to do, and making a mess of things because she just doesn’t understand anything anymore, not after she’s been hurt and that effortless connection she used to have has been severed by the cruelty of another.   And…   I raise my cup in a silent toast.   “Welcome to the fucking club,” I say.   And then I take a long sip of tea.   Halfway through it, Brooke toasts with her own cup and joins me in prolonged, dramatic, slightly too loud sipping.   [font="Times] =============[/font] [font="Times]=============[/font] [font="Times]As always, I’d like to thank my credited supporters on [/font][font="Times]Patreon[/font][font="Times]: LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, Vergil1989 Crossover King, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on [/font][font="Times]Amazon[/font][font="Times]. Thank you for reading![/font]  

Chapter 1 - Wordsworth – Chapter 2 – Colors 1

“It was an accident, Amy,” I say for what feels like the hundredth time.   The sulky brunette looks at me, at Sophia still unconscious in my arms with her own bolt protruding from where an eye used to be, and arches an eyebrow that has been getting a workout since I managed to get her away from the hospital she was working in tonight.   Everybody knows Panacea. Panacea is the greatest healer in the world, the one who can fix anything that doesn’t have to do with brains, that selflessly spends hours upon hours in hospitals, always refusing any kind of payment for her help. Everybody knows Panacea, the saint, the miracle-maker.   Very few people know Amy Dallon. And yes, there’s a difference.   Quite a few of them, and none that play in my favor tonight.   “The Jason fangirl managed to get one of her own eyes shot off. By accident.”   “It ricocheted. She was trying to show off a trick she’d been practicing. Now, are you done with your cross-examination bullshit and about to heal an injured hero or what?”   “Depends. Are you done lying to me or what?”   I would say Amy’s smarter than people give her credit for. That it’s only natural she sees through the very thin excuse I’m giving her. But that would be a lie.   Amy isn’t smart. She isn’t dumb, not really, but I’ve gotten to know what actual smart is like over the past few weeks, and Amy… isn’t. She’s a spiteful, suspicious, paranoid bitch, though. Which, in this case, works out to about the same result.   Except for one key thing.   “I… fine. You want to know the actual truth? We were doing an unsanctioned patrol,” I reluctantly admit, my fingers roughly combing my hair back as I grunt in, not quite fake, exasperation.   My lilac hair.   “There you go! Was that so hard to admit?” she says, a mocking edge to each and every syllable. Because Amy doesn’t like me that much, not with how close I am to Dean after… Well, the official excuse is that our powers synergize very well.   They do. They really, really do.   Which doesn’t mean I can’t use them without him.   So I focus on Sophia’s body, on her warmth, the way her toned flesh yields under her weight and over my arms and hands.   The purple lightens. My strength weakens.   “Yes,” I bite out the single sound, and Amy preens.   “Ah, but that’s only because you’ve been stalling so much! See, if you rip it out all at once, like a Band-Aid, it would be so much easier on you, Ems. Like, for instance, if you told me who was it that stuck Stalker like a short-sighted matador.” She looks pleased, certain that she has the upper hand.   Which she would have if she thought things through.   But she’s not really thinking that much at the moment, is she?   “I…” My breath deepens, and I remember soft curves with water dripping down dark skin. The communal showers in Winslow a poor backdrop for the way Sophia looked, as if she was just getting ready for a Playboy by Dark recording session.   I suppress a grunt as my strength fades a bit more, almost to the level of a regular adult male.   The tips of my hair get a pink tone, but… not enough. It’s not enough.   And so I hate myself a bit more as I think of Taylor walking. Just walking, just moving with the way her power dresses her, a grace to every motion I can’t manage to imitate with all my training and rehearsals. And that skirt made of words flows around her swaying legs until she stands, unbowed, unbroken.   Completely unlike me.   She looks at me not with reproach or hurt, but with sheer disgust.   My heart quickens, my breathing gets shallower, and my hair turns almost completely neon pink as my strength becomes that of a teenage girl who was far too stupid to even consider—   “You?” Amy asks, prodding me to continue.   “We met the Undersiders,” I grunt.   “Again?” And the eyebrow almost raises once more, but Amy’s eyes drop to my chest as a slight blush spreads under her freckles.   Because I recognize a horny, lonely lesbian with a dark secret quite easily by now.   Not that hard to do: I only need to look in the mirror.   “I think the blonde bitch has it out for us. We weren’t even in their territory, just trying to see if we could catch a few ABB dealers.” And my performance may not be that convincing. My arguments are a bit shaky, and the excuse quite thin.   But Amy already thinks she has seen through my first attempt at deception, and she’s not thinking clearly enough to wonder about a second layer.   I barely am, and I’m the one using the power.   “Tattletale being a spiteful bitch?” She chuckles. “Yeah, that checks out.”   I kneel down, sighing with a bit of relief. Actual relief at shifting Sophia’s weight and fake at Amy sympathizing.   She is just doing it because I have a nice set of tits and date-rape as a power setting. I feel no relief at procuring her collaboration, just… A bit drained, actually.   I don’t like doing this to her.   But it won’t be the worst thing I will have done when the night’s over.   “So, what? Did the special needs villain manage to throw the arrow back or something?” she comments with joking cruelty as she lays a hand on Sophia’s face and her bolt starts to slide out.   My hair flashes red, and I desperately try to hold back the reins of my power as I feel inhuman strength surge through me at the thought of smashing the bitch’s head open against the hospital roof.   “I… Wordsworth didn’t do anything.” Deep breaths, Emma. Deep breaths.   “Oh? Discount Labyrinth just stood to the side while her teammates fought? Why doesn’t that surprise me.”   Warm skin after a walk through the woods, Taylor hugging me, whispering how much I mean to her, that we are sisters, that I will always be—   My hair flashes blue as something scratches the inside of my throat and my eyes burn with unshed tears.   The strength leaves, and I feel a weight in each of my limbs.   The floor beneath me cracks, slowly enough that Amy doesn’t notice, too intent on feeling Sophia’s body through her power.   “Don’t tell Sophia, but…” I smile, pretending at familiarity, at the confidence between close friends that should still tug at her mind while she’s primed to see me as all her darkest dreams come true. “It really was an accident. She was trying to shoot Grue through his darkness and didn’t see what was behind it—the bolt ricocheted right off.”   Amy looks at me in disbelief and then starts laughing.   “Oh God, that’s just precious. You telling me Miss Badass herself, the personification of ‘too good to be talking to you, scrubs,’ managed to KO herself?”   “If you asked Sophia, I think she would say this just proves she’s the only one good enough to take herself out.” I smile a sharp grin with just the right amount of cruelty. The kind of grin—   ‘Nobody wants her here. She should kill herself and save us all the trouble.’   My hair pulses green, and Sophia shudders between my arms.   “Uh? That’s weird…” Amy mutters, her eyes already unfocusing as she perceives—   Fuck.   “What?” I don’t have to fake the nervous edge to my voice. Rather, I have to tamp it down.   “It’s like… I don’t know. Did Sophia eat something bad or something?”   “She didn’t,” the fewer lies, the easier to cover them up. “Why? Don’t tell me she’s about to… you know?” I make a disgusted face and leave the details up to Amy’s imagination.   She spends far too much time in a hospital not to have a honed one in this particular subject.   “Maybe… No, it looks like it’s passed. Uh. Maybe I healed it without noticing?”   “If you can do that, you definitely need to take more breaks.”   “Don’t you start with that as well,” she grumbles.   “Just because Dean says something, it doesn’t mean it’s a bad idea.”   “Don’t you start with that as well.”   I let Sophia lie on the ground and raise my palms in a conciliatory gesture.   “Hey, not a fan of his busybody thing, but he means well.”   “Then he can take his well-meaning—”   “Uh… What—Tay—”   “Sophia! Oh, good to see you up and about already. Try not to be a bitch and thank Amy this time, all right?” I say, notifying my partner in crime of the current circumstances as subtly as I can.   Which isn’t much, but Amy’s head is still swimming in a cocktail of hormones, so we manage to get a pass.   This time.   ***   “So. The bitch’s back,” Sophia bites out.   We are sitting on the ledge of a roof. The building isn’t very tall, but it’s in the Boardwalk, so we are looking directly down at the black sea of Brockton Bay.   It’s supposed to be a bit clearer by day. As long as you don’t walk to the Boat Graveyard, it is.   At least the oil spills were contained…   “Hey, I’m talking to you,” she nudges me with her elbow, maybe not as roughly as she would if she was actually annoyed.   I still have to resist the urge to push her off. Only the certainty that she would survive stops me.   “Yeah…” I sigh. “I don’t know how Tattletale managed, but… we are going to be in trouble.”   “You think? We could just… you know. Silence her.”   Red washes over me. My hair, my clothes, my skin, my nails. Red’s always the easiest. The one that can cover other colors.   It carries its terrible strength with it. The one that makes it so I can no longer afford to throw any tantrums.   This time, it doesn’t leave.   “You did not just say that to me,” I say to Sophia Hess with a growling voice I would have never dreamed I would ever use against her when I first met her.   She shifts on the ledge, directly staring at me.   “And if I did?”   I pause. Take a deep breath.   Red surges.   “Sophia. Stop. Please.”   “No, Ems, I don’t think I will. Because it sounds like you just threatened me over Taylor fucking Hebert—”   My hand clamps around her throat, and, for a glorious second, I can feel it give way before she becomes smoke and whorls of her shape curl around my clenched fingers.   It only takes her a moment to solidify a solid three steps away from me, her hand on her neck, pained coughs rattling her mask.   “It wasn’t a threat. It was a warning.” I almost sound calm. I’ve heard there are burns so intense they confuse the skin, firing off pain and hot and cold.   That’s what I feel. The awful cold of burning rage.   “Wh—”   She could say ‘what.’ ‘Why.’   I stop her before she does. Because I don’t know which of those would make me lose the last bit of my control.   “Stop. Stop and listen.”   I stand up and walk to her. She looks up to me, at my uncovered, unmasked face, because what’s the point when I’m a Case 53, even if by the slightest of margins? I can never turn my power off, have to live with my emotions flashing over and around me continually. Nobody can look at Iridiscent and not recognize Emma Barnes.   That’s a shame I have to bear every day.   “I could silence you, Sophia. I could. Maybe you could kill me before I managed, but you know how unpredictable my power is. Maybe I will regenerate. Maybe I will explode. Maybe I will fade away like I never existed. We don’t know.”   I am rambling. The coldness of the rage is slipping, and I don’t have much time before I lose control.   “We know what happens if I shoot you through your chest while you sleep, though. We know how many ways I have to find you and kill you before you realize it’s too late to turn shadow—”   “Heh. Keep talking like that, Ems, I like seeing that—”   I shoot a red bolt that scorches the asphalt roofing just beside her knee. A lingering flame turns blue and yellow as it spews an awful smoke that burns in my nostrils.   “Shut. Up.”   I look down at her. At the kneeling girl who once saved my life, at the one that I believed held me together as my whole world crumbled around me.   At the one that pushed me to reject Taylor.   She looks up. Doesn’t speak, doesn’t move.   But her chest moves up and down gently, her breathing steady and measured.   “I don’t want to kill you, Sophia. Don’t make me change my mind.”   I just lied to my last remaining friend.   “Over Hebert. You would try to kill me over Hebert.”   I can see her eyes through the slits in her mask. They aren’t narrowed in anger, just…   “I wouldn’t try.”   Sophia throws her head back, and she laughs.   It’s… I’ve never heard her laugh like this. Not so… unreserved. Free.   “I misjudged you two, didn’t I?” she finally says, her words coming out with difficulty after laughing so hard and for so long.   The red recedes, and green takes over.   Once again, I feel the urge to throw up.   “You did,” I say just so I can feel something come out of my mouth.   Then I turn around and, before the strength of my rage leaves me, jump to another building. Another roof.   Any other place that hasn’t Sophia in it.   She’s my last friend.   The last one I deserve.   And, just for that, I hate her so much more.       ================== ================== This work is a repost of one of my first commissions, and one that I’m both grateful for and proud of. It can be found on QQ, SV, and AO3, and, of course, on my Patreon where the latest chapter will show up a week before it comes out for everyone else. It is currently 33 chapters and 94k words long and approaching its final arc at a good pace, so I hope you’ll look forward to learning about Wordsworth’s ending.   [font="Calibri",]As always, I’d like to thank my credited supporters on [/font]Patreon[font="Calibri",]: [/font]aj0413, LearningDiscord[font="Calibri",], Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon.[/font] [font="Calibri",]If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on [/font][font="Calibri",]Amazon[/font][font="Calibri",]. [/font][font="Calibri",]Thank you for reading![/font]  

Chapter 10 - Periodical Cicadas – Chapter 10

“Please tell me what you think about this!” Noah says with a very Noah grin before handing me a large white envelope.   In a lone corner of the school.   Away from anyone.   Away from Audrey.   Is this legal? Can Noah and Audrey be apart from one another? Does this make me responsible for minding Noah?   I don’t want to be responsible for minding Noah. That sounds like the kind of thing that ends up with a Biblical swarm blacking out the sun and throwing Lakewood into a shadow as deep as that of my despair.   Also, and this is just a marginally less likely scenario, I don’t want to have to murder him while the two of us are in an isolated place, all by ourselves, and he’s trying to give me what I very much hope is not a love letter.   “Well? Open it!” he says with a wide, hopeful smile that does nothing to calm my fears.   Oh, look at that, despite my recent bi-panic attacks, despite being dragged away from everybody and everything I’ve ever known just to be thrown into a real-life horror movie, I can still get on the verge of an anxiety attack due to normal girl stuff, such as a guy with piercing blue eyes smiling at me while the rays of the sun coming from the high windows of the school stairs behind him make his hazel-brown hair light up in all the wrong ways for said guy being Noah.   Noah.   Look, there are plenty of reasons to reject Noah, not the least of them being that I’m pretty sure that, powers or not, Audrey would use my skull as an ashtray (and, even worse, start smoking) if I didn’t handle this situation with more tact than I’ve been known to possess.   Also, she’d probably use my skin to make herself some snug leather pants. She has often remarked how much she wants me to wrap my legs around her, after all.   “Broody? You there? You aren’t opening the envelope, Broody; why aren’t you opening the envelope?” he says with head-tilted confusion.   “That sounds like you’re quoting a skit and expecting me to keep up,” I immediately answer, grasping the conversational tangent like a lifeline—assuming I was drowning and still had some will to live.   “Not really? The cadence of it is a bit of a… cliché? Trope? Well, it could be a reference, but not to anything in particular, just a comedic setup easily recognizable as such. You know, I always found it fascinating just how many of these little codified pieces of language we employ to signal tone and nuance. You’d think that neurotypicals wouldn’t need so many cultural trappings to get their meaning across.”   “Neurotypicals?” I ask, for once witnessing what a non-Audrey-smacked Noah can get up to when he launches into one of his rants with nobody to stop him.   See? That’s precisely why I don’t want to be his minder. It’s a job I’m not qualified for.   Not without some anti-Master training.   … Great. And now my brain has juxtaposed Noah’s apparent fascination with BDSM gear yesterday with the word ‘master.’ Why, brain. Why.   “Oh, you know, people who think like other people,” he says, airily gesticulating with his right hand as he keeps his threatening envelope pointed at me, because, apparently, Noah knows not to deescalate a threat lest his bluff be called.   “Isn’t that… people? In general?” I ask, still waiting for a chance to just run the fuck away from here.   Noah, you’re looking at me weirdly. As in, like I’m the weird one.   You are looking at me like I’m weird.   I’ve never felt this offended in my life.   “No. People who think like other people are the statistical norm, but we have plenty of counterexamples running around,” he says, speaking slowly enough to increase the indignation.   “If you’re talking about parahumans—” I say with a warning note.   “I mean, yes, of course, but it’s far more mundane. You have your issues that I’m told I shouldn’t dig into without first running things by Audrey—”   “Wait, what—”   “—but I don’t have any such excuse; I was just born like this. I’m different, always have been, and there are plenty of people like me.”   “I very much doubt it—”   “Ms. Lang is… not as much help as one could wish for, but in this? In letting me realize that there are people out there who see the world just a little more like I do? Just that was such a relief, Broody; you don’t even know… Well, you do know, after all,” he says with a sad little smile.   And my blood freezes.   “What do you mean?” I say, remembering a masculine voice garbled electronically, talking to me with sadistic glee that turned into tender compassion.   Noah looks around us, then makes a weird gesture, circling his pointer finger over the proffered envelope.   Then, at my clear incomprehension, he sighs.   And steps closer.   Close enough that piercing blue eyes are right in front of me, the envelope a meager barrier between his chest and my breasts as he leans forward, closer, and closer…   And then his breath caresses my ear as he whispers:   “Is anybody around us?”   I want to push him away.   I want to scream, to get him to leave my space.   I want him to stay right where he is and not flinch away from me.   So I just go completely still.   “No. There’s nobody around,” I say, my breath hitching in my throat, wondering what he’s going to say, to do…   “Then…” he pulls away, his sad smile getting just a bit brighter without losing any of the things that make my heart speed up in anxiety, fear, anticipation. “The murderer. Me. You. We… We see something the others don’t see. Not Emma, not Audrey, not Brooke, not Ms. Lang. And it’s because of that little something inside of us that’s just different enough, maybe broken, maybe just… I don’t have the right word. Help me out, Broody; you’re the one whose mother was a literature professor.”   His smile turns wry even as he says something that should be hurtful or at least blunt enough to hurt.   But it comes from him. From the boy with a twisted, broken, different piece of something inside of him.   So I know what he means.   And, this time, it doesn’t hurt.   “Other. You mean to say something ‘other,’” I tell him.   He looks up toward the ceiling, briefly licking his lips, as if savoring the word.   “Other,” he says. Slowly. “Yes. I think I like that. We are just… other.”   And then he pushes the envelope once more against me, and I take it.   Then I browse through the sheaf of folded papers inside of it, and I feel my inner monologue slide into a flat, dead tone.   “Printed webpages?” I ask, my outward and inner selves matching perfectly.   And his face lights up.   “The most dangerous bugs in Florida! Red imported fire ants are everywhere, and you could use them to inflict paralyzing pain on most non-Brutes—”   “All this was about a list of bugs?”   “I… I worked hard on that list of bugs?”   “You—you—you just dragged me away from everyone! To a secluded corner! And handed me a sealed envelope!”   “I take your secret identity very seriously—”   “Gah! Boys!”   “What’s that supposed to mean—”   “That I should’ve let Audrey kiss me!”   “What?!”   “Uh. I mean. Nothing. You’ve heard nothing.”   “I have definitely heard something. Something regarding you and Bicurious spreading—”   “She didn’t spread anything! My legs were closed!”   “That’s not what I meant! And when did you even—it was after I left? You waited till I wasn’t there to… to… you know!”   “I most definitely do not!”   “I—I went straight to my house to brainstorm ideas for your power! Well, also to update all my notes on the Brandon James case, because of course, but also the brainstorming thing! I have made you a list of pseudo-Tinker applications of every single bug on that list, and you meanwhile were getting spread—”   “I wasn’t! She just told me she could’ve kissed me if I wasn’t, you know, me!”   “But you being you is the only reason to kiss you!”   I look at him.   He stops gesticulating wildly and looks back at me.   Both of us are flushed and breathing a bit faster than just a spirited conversation would warrant.   “I don’t know if that’s flattering or you saying I’m not hot enough to be objectified,” I finally say.   “How do you even twist that line into—never mind. Trauma; possibly trigger-related. Okay, it looks like I’m going to have to steal a page from Audrey’s book,” he says, his brow furrowing in a way that suddenly makes me desperately grasp for a quip to throw right at him.   “Does that mean you’re going to make out with Gustavo? Because I’m pretty sure he’s open to your advances—”   Piercing blue eyes are staring right at me.   And my throat feels suddenly slightly dryer than advised.   Just, you know, not dry enough that I require someone else to lend me some of their moisture.   “I’m going to ignore that line just to tell you this: you are hot. You walk like you know where you’re going, which is objectively one of the most attractive traits that can be conveyed with body language; you are witty and intelligent, well-read, and able to look past the surface and engage with the person beneath. You can keep up with me, you can push me, and you can do so without showing any disgust because you understand. You don’t have the slightest clue how offensive it is that you think none of that is attractive because what you’re saying is that none of the things I value are worth anything.”   He’s…   He’s close.   Not as close as when he whispered his question. Maybe he’s farther than when we started talking.   But he feels closer.   “I… None of those things are… Nothing you said is about how I look,” I finally point out despite my heart hammering in my chest.   And, this time, Noah looks at me about as baffled as people tend to look at Noah.   “What does how you look have to do with how hot you are?” he finally says.   And I don’t know whether to smack his head or kiss him.   …   Stupid bi-panic, it could at least settle for one gender per time period.   “Broody?” the guy who has suddenly, now, found reason to act embarrassed asks after my silence grows long enough, and I realize that I’ve been staring right at startlingly blue eyes.   “Yes?” I answer, trying very hard not to reciprocate his feelings—his feelings of embarrassment.   “What do you mean about Gustavo being open?” he says, biting his lip in a way that makes me…   …   That makes me sigh at being surrounded by model agency rejects who may have soap opera levels of romantic entanglements.   Seriously, Noah? Your thing with Audrey, telling me you aren’t flirting with me ‘unless it’s working,’ and now you get your own brand of bi-panic? The murderer missed the genre of this setting.   Thank God. I don’t think I could stomach a serial killer based on Days of Our Lives.   ***   Emma   There’s a break between classes right now.   Not that I’m anywhere near Washington High at the moment.   “You didn’t have to follow me,” Audrey finally says without lifting her mouth from the crossed arms resting on top of her knees, the supple leather muffling her words just slightly more than the cool breeze.   It’s the first thing she’s said since we got to the pier in the lake, the one nearest to Brooke’s house, and she sat down without looking at me.   The other things she had said before were for me to leave her alone, so it’s not much of an improvement, but I’ll take it over the prolonged silence.   “I did,” I finally say with a bit of a shrug.   I’m leaning back, my hands resting behind me on bare, unvarnished wood that feels warm to my touch, the raised lines of the worn grain smooth on my skin despite the lack of any treatment.   In front of me, the green waters of the lake spread toward the hills behind it, the sun sparkling off the cresting ripples with dappled gold.   I know that Noah would be better able to describe it, putting the image into cinematographic terms until it became a still frame in the listener’s mind.   I think that Taylor could reference a book with such an image, allowing not the picture but the atmosphere to shine through, to carry out whatever meaning she wanted to see in it.   But I…   I’m Emma. Emma Duval, even if actually Emma James, and I was never good at talking, at making myself heard.   No, my role has always been to listen to others.   Except for the one time when I miserably failed at it.   “Look, I get it,” Audrey says, the lower half of her face still buried in her sleeves. “You got pretty. You got invited to where we thought we didn’t belong. And you took it. I don’t blame you for it.”   “I do,” I say, letting out a sigh that I maybe don’t deserve.   “Emma… I don’t care. Really,” she says, still not looking at me.   And the urge to let out a second sigh grows.   “Can we talk about the actual issue?” I say, still leaning back.   Still looking at Audrey from behind her.   She’s a black shape against green nature, and that’s just… her. Being something that doesn’t fit what’s around her, that doesn’t care to fit, or even despises it. That will go the extra mile just to tell everyone Audrey Jensen is not like the others.   That she’s better is the implicit message.   “The actual issue?” she says with a bit of a chuckle.   “That I didn’t realize I was in love with you,” I say. Nonchalantly. Easily. Naturally.   Lying.   Because there’s something burning in my throat, and I’m digging my nails into the soft crevices between raised lines of harder wood. Because my heart feels like somebody is squeezing it, and I’m about to cry.   But this isn’t about me. This isn’t about me talking.   It’s about me listening.   So I do my best so that Audrey will talk.   She’s gone completely still, and I can only see her left hand squeezing her right arm until her fingers go a yellowish white.   “What?” she finally says with a voice that is utterly Audrey with all the fury and rage lurking just under the surface.   Good.   “I loved you. I still do, even if… Even if maybe not in the same way because I just broke up with Will, I now realize I care for you more than I ever cared for him. And it’s unfair of me to tell you now, but I think it would be even worse if you didn’t—”   “How dare you,” she says, turning toward me with blazing fury in her green-blue eyes.   Such a startling combination of colors…   “It’s the truth,” I say, managing to shrug without having to dislodge my nails from the weathered wood planks.   “You—no. No. You don’t get to—you threw me away. You ignored me to go build your new white picket fence suburban fantasy with those vapid friends of yours that would never accept me. You let them torture my girlfriend to death.”   “What—”   Audrey is standing over me.   One foot on each side of my stretched legs, bent down so she can glare straight into my eyes, a hand grabbing my shirt just under my collar.   She’s breathing harshly, and her clenched fist trembles by her side.   A part of me wants her to do it. To punch me. To punish me.   The other is reeling.   “Audrey, what are you saying—”   “Rachel! The girl in the video! The first girl I kissed! The second girl I—”   She stops.   Blue-green eyes quiver.   And I reach up to touch her face.   I mar her pale cheek with the grime of old wood under my nails, the texture of outdoor dust between my fingers and her skin.   It doesn’t matter.   Not when she doesn’t let go. When she still holds my shirt with fury and desperation.   “I am sorry,” I say.   She closes her eyes.   “Not your fault. It was Nina, right?” she says, her tone forcefully steady.   So I slide my hand behind her nape and drag her down to me.   She stumbles, falling on her knees, straddling me, her chest mashing against mine and filling me with all kinds of emotions that I don’t have the time for because this isn’t about me.   It’s about the girl I hurt.   The girl I left behind.   The girl I loved.   The girl I still care for, even if I don’t know how.   But that’s for later.   “I can’t even imagine how you feel,” I say, my left arm supporting both our weights as my right hand messes with short hair that bristles past my caressing fingers with its own soft, tender touch. “What you’ve been holding onto.”   She doesn’t say anything, and I can’t look into her eyes to know what she feels because her face is by my side, our cheeks close enough that I feel the warmth coming from her, almost soothing in contrast to my sun-warmed skin.   But I need her to talk if I’m to listen, so I keep saying things, hoping one of them will prompt her into doing whatever she needs to do.   To me. With me. I don’t care.   Not now, and maybe not ever.   “It was… Had you known her for long?” I ask.   She shakes her head, the soft hair a long caress on my open palm.   “Did you love her?” I continue.   Another shake.   Shorter.   Almost shuddering.   “And so you feel… guilty? About not feeling worse?”   She goes still.   “It’s just not real,” she finally says. “She… She’s not there. Not anymore, but there’s no body, and I keep waiting for her to appear in some twisted painting, or sculpture, or theatre piece. I first thought she had run away, and maybe that’s it, but… But her parents don’t know. I don’t know. I… Emma, I…”   “Shush,” I say right as the hint of tears comes through. “You don’t know. She could be… Alive. Did she have any reason to run away?”   “Her parents. They… They are homophobes. And the video…”   My blood runs cold.   But I don’t have the right to show it.   Or to talk about trigger events and the other possibility for Rachel to disappear right before the murders started.   “Then… Then just… Audrey, I don’t want to give you false hope, but… But don’t dwell on things you don’t—can’t know about,” I say, trying not to grab her, to tightly clutch her hair in a panicked grasp.   “That easy? Is it that easy to put out of your mind a girl you… liked?” she says, slowly pulling back until her blue-green eyes are once more in front of me.   Accusing me.   But not looking away.   “No,” I say, slowly shaking my head, feeling the weight of my hair shift behind me as a stronger breeze comes in from the lake. “It isn’t. It never was,” I say.   She looks at me.   Just looks at me.   And I…   I’m here to listen to her. To do for her what I never should’ve stopped doing, even if I thought Noah was doing it better than I ever did, even if they had a connection I could’ve never competed with.   But I’m…   I’m Emma Duval, actually Emma James, and I’m a mess of a human being who’s not half as good at the things she wants to be good at as she should be.   And so I wonder, despite myself, despite what I want this to be, what she needs it to be…   How different Audrey’s lips would feel from Will’s.   ***   Miguel Acosta   “Gustavo? You there?” I ask as I unbuckle my belt and take off the gun dangling from it.   The department is not big enough to afford its own confoam launchers, and, truth be told, I’m grateful for it.   Guns are more reliable, not to mention they have far more reach.   “In the kitchen,” my surly teenage son who’s also a tortured artist says, proving once again that we should not have let him watch all those American soap operas growing up.   Not that Mexican soap operas would have been better role models.   Or, God forbid, Venezuelan ones.   Suppressing a shudder the likes of which most of my ex-partners would only get after an attack from the Nine, I walk into my sunny kitchen to find my son drawing one of his gory panels, this time around one that depicts the conspicuously absent blonde that should still be living in my home.   “Brooke’s not here?” I say as I open the fridge and grab a carton of orange juice.   I should just get some actual oranges, but… convenience.   I’m told widowers tend to resort to convenient things.   “Went back to her house. Her mother came back,” he says without lifting his eyes from the thick paper he’s told me he needs so that the ink doesn’t bloat and his lines remain as thin as he envisions.   I miss having eye contact. Guess that’s one of those things that goes away with puberty.   “Her mother? Not her father?” I ask as I grab a seat by his side and pour him a glass of orange juice to match my own.   He grabs it wordlessly and finally offers me a smile of thanks, meeting my eyes and making me…   Making me smile back.   And try very hard to suppress the wince I still feel coming out after all these months at the reminder of the other person who had eyes like his.   Brown. Dark brown, so intense it has a tinge of red.   Red like the blood all over her.   “Yeah, the mayor is still on that business trip of his. Weird. He should be hurrying back here, with all that’s going on,” he says, not quite prodding into an ongoing criminal investigation.   “Yeah, he really, really should be here right now. I hope those land deals of his are worth losing the next election,” I say, pretending nothing’s wrong like I have for almost a year before taking my own sip of juice.   “It’s like he hasn’t watched Jaws, isn’t it?” he says with a hint of the easy smile he used to have.   Before.   So I nod, chuckling at the joke, both because it’s a good one and because…   Because it’s a joke. From my son.   And he deserves to get all the laughs he’s been missing on.   We fall back into a bit of a companionable silence after that as I watch him draw with more interest than I feel.   He’s good. Really good.   But I’ve had a bit too much art for my tastes as of late.   And that brings up another thought. One I’ve done my best to suppress again and again. One that I don’t even want to acknowledge.   But… But if it’s true, if…   What would I…   He’s my son. My son.   And I already took his mother from him.   “Hey, I… you know that second-generation capes trigger more… easily, don’t you?” I finally say, earning an unimpressed eyebrow at my attempt at being offhand with the remark.   “I do,” he says, the red ballpen still in his grasp.   “I… If you ever… With everything that’s going on… I just want you to know that I—”   “Dad, if I ever get superpowers, you’ll be the first one to know,” he says with what should be a light tone.   It isn’t.   Not with the way his eyes narrow and his fingers clench around transparent plastic.   Not with the reminder of those other dark brown, reddish eyes. The ones that are no longer there.   The ones from the wife and mother I killed.   I offer him a tired smile and patiently wait for him to go back to drawing his childhood crush with blood dripping down her face.   It’s beautiful.   It’s beautiful in a way only he and I can appreciate.   And I just hope my newest PRT-issued partner is having an easier time with his own surly teenager.   ***   Brooke   “Mom?” I ask as I open the door to my house.   She doesn’t answer.   I walk in, the home feeling… alien. Hostile.   It’s… The last time I was here was the night of the murder. Gustavo and his father immediately took me in, and I’ve been coddled in my childhood friend’s arms for most of my time there.   So I expected my home to feel cold. To feel unwelcoming.   But I didn’t expect it to feel threatening.   So I walk in, toward the pool, expecting to find Mom working on her tan like she usually does on a lazy afternoon.   She’s not there.   The pool no longer has any traces of the party, the cleaning staff having done their job, but…   But it still feels like it was just minutes ago. That I left behind a rowdy group of drunk teens to go scold the other drunk teens desecrating my sofa with copious fluids, and…   And then I got a message on my phone, and I followed it to a bright light deep in the forest behind my house.   My hand’s in my pocket, clutching the rectangle of metal and glass, and the world swirls around me, hitting me with the cool of the air over the pool’s water, my head feeling lighter and lighter until I have to kneel down on the brown sand-cement lining the edge of the pool, my thin capris letting me feel the texture of the small pebbles embedded in it as I lean over the edge until my hair falls forward and into the water as I keep looking at the panicked blonde reflected on it, looking back at me with wide eyes, the water distorting the home behind me until it looks like masked silhouettes surround me.   I… I am drowning.   I have to breathe quickly, but that is not enough, and so I breathe faster until my eyes go dark, until the silhouettes become black shadows moving over the small waves, reaching toward me even as I bend forward, deeper and deeper, my hair a floating mass of dirty blond that looks about to strangle me, to tangle around my neck and drag me down, and down, and down.   Then my forehead touches the cold water, and I…   I jerk up and fall on my side.   I’m clutching my knees, the rough sand finish digging into my bare arms, my wet hair still inside the pool as I try to force myself to breathe slower.   To just…   To stop.   Stop drowning myself in panic. In self-inflicted horror.   In the fear of my own empty house.   I look over the treeline at the sun sinking behind dark, indistinct shapes as I struggle to maintain my own breathing until my head stops feeling fuzzy and my eyes can see the green of the pines growing past my pool.   Gustavo and I played in those woods when we were kids.   And that’s the thought that calms me.   Because I found Seth in there, dead and surrounded by his exposed crimes.   But I’ve also grown in here.   I’ve made memories here.   And, alone or not, this is my home.   So I take another moment to just… to just let the air in and out. To feel myself go back to being me.   And then I stand up, take off my top, my capris, my sneakers, my underwear.   And jump into the cold, welcoming water, my hands breaking the surface so I can dive into blue depths and leave behind a trail of glimmering bubbles.   Because I’m me.   And fuck anybody who thinks they can take that away.   [font="Times] =============[/font] [font="Times]=============[/font] [font="Times]As always, I’d like to thank my credited supporters on [/font][font="Times]Patreon[/font][font="Times]: LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, Vergil1989 Crossover King, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on [/font][font="Times]Amazon[/font][font="Times]. Thank you for reading![/font]  

Chapter 9 - Wordsworth – Chapter 10

Morning is the time when the Sun awakes, but, as nice as the Sun can be, he’s also a bit vain, and thus he demands others wake with him so they can watch him for as long as possible until he retires for the night.   So I am not surprised at ticklish, warm fingers made of gentle rays flitting through my cheeks, poking at my eyelids, and asking me to watch him, because the Sun can be, at times, a bit dim, and he doesn’t realize I no longer sleep, I just drift among stories and tales that are sometimes mine and sometimes others.   It is like dreaming, but more interesting, because dreams lack too much even as they rejoice in excess, and so it also beckons me to stay, to turn around and find the next chapter so that a book can be born. But the Sun is as persistent as he’s gentle, so I end up opening my eyes, a sigh of regret on my lips.   That is promptly forgotten.   Lisa’s scrunched face is right in front of me, her eyes closed in stubborn displeasure as she tries to ignore the Sun’s call, as his playful fingers dance over golden hair that seems to glow in places beneath the rays coming through a lazily covered window.   Her arms are warm, around me.   I take a deep breath, maybe to calm myself, but the air tastes of Lisa after a shared night, of the girl who cuddled with me while I was more lost in my stories than I currently am. The scent is sweet, coming from where our bodies meet beneath her blankets.   And, to my shame, I can’t help asking myself if it would taste any different if she wasn’t wearing her fuzzy gray pajamas, if we had done anything other than sleep.   It’s a warm kind of Shame. The one that still lets you wonder, that is neighbors with Temptation, that invites rather than rejects.   I raise a hand still covered by my opera gloves, the ones people wear when they want to watch a book turned into song, and I gently brush Lisa’s stray hair off her face, something in the tip of my fingers easing her scrunched face into an easy smile, into lips that capture my eyes, into…   Just in time, I watch up from dry, cracked, inviting lips to eyelids opening up to a new morning, the slit of emerald green shining as much as sunrays over spun gold beneath my fingers.   “Good morning,” I say. Because I could say a thousand other things, but I’m not ready for half of them and too awestruck for the other half.   Her arms tighten around me, and her face burrows right above my slight bust and beneath my collarbone as she drags herself across the mattress and toward me.   “Good morning,” she mumbles.   And then she shivers, and I close my eyes away from fairytale beauty, and I hug her to me.   Because it’s my fault that she does.   ***   “Tea?” she asks, mostly as a courtesy.   It’s a bit of an adjustment to be with someone for whom so many questions are rhetorical, but she makes the effort not to assume, not to impose. And so, she offers me tea that she knows I’ll take, because…   Mostly because of habit, actually. I don’t get thirsty, nor hungry, but it’s still a relief to be able to feel the old sensations, as unnecessary as they are.   And no, I don’t know how that works. Magic, I would say, if I wanted to make Lisa frown.   So I nod and smile, and she does so in turn before pouring me a cup. Then she gets her own expresso cup, pretending she hadn’t brewed the pot just for me before even asking, and bites down on her buttered toast.   “You sure you don’t want any breakfast?” she manages to get out without having the slate grey countertop of her kitchen splattered with crumbs.   “No, thank you. The tea is plenty enough.”   And it is. It smells wonderful, the subtle aroma carrying citric traces that make it all the more appealing. I’m tempted not to drink any and just take in the scent for as long as it wafts off it in warm clouds.   She shrugs, goes back to eating.   And studiously tries to pretend there’s nothing wrong.   “Lisa…” I start, setting my cup down with a sigh.   “Everything’s fine,” she says automatically.   And I raise an eyebrow.   “Really! No issues here! We’re just having a late breakfast like two perfectly healthy roommates who just cuddle in bed for no reason other than Platonic support and not at all because of my anxiety flaring up!”   I keep the eyebrow right where it is, and desperately try not to have my eyes widen.   She sighs.   “Tay, can you please… not make a big deal out of it?” she meekly asks.   Lisa doesn’t do ‘meekly.’   She’s bold, brash, even if only to cover up whatever it is she so desperately wants to hide, so for her to act like this…   A stab of guilt goes through my chest, and I stand up, walking around the counter under an apprehensive look.   Then I stand in front of her, the girl who saved me still seated, still having a barely eaten toast in her hand, still looking at me like she would rather be anywhere else than here, having this conversation.   And I take a deep breath.   Because she’s worked on it incessantly, and I desperately want it to be over and done, but the fact is that I still need a bit of courage before… Touching.   But that’s what heroes do, isn’t it? Gather courage.   So I take the last step forward, and I hug her to me, the flash of apprehension passing after a moment, and then I just have a warm body pressed against mine.   And Lisa drops the toast, hugs me, and starts shivering like she did this morning in bed.   “I’m sorry,” I tell her, voice as gentle as I can make it as I caress her hair and her back through it.   “You aren’t,” she protests mulishly.   “Liz… I am. Not about what I did, but about how it affected you. I didn’t know.”   “You… couldn’t have. It’s not your fault. It’s me that’s… wrong.”   And that could mean a lot of things. But this is Lisa, and if she ever says she’s wrong it most certainly doesn’t mean she’s wrong about something. No, it means she is wrong.   So I hug her tighter.   “That’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told me.”   “It... really isn’t,” she says.   And then, silently, heartbreakingly, starts to cry.   I hold her against me, because I don’t know what else to do, and I finally lift her in my arms and carry her to her sofa. All the way, she buries her face on my chest, refusing to meet my eyes.   “Talk to me, Liz,” I tell her, hoping I am doing the right thing and that this is better than just letting her break down until she can pretend, once more, that everything’s fine.   She shakes her head, her arms around my neck, her body on my lap.   So I go back to caressing her hair, my fingers threading through spun gold that befriends the Sun, and I…   I tell her a story.   That’s what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it?   “There once was a clever fox. The fox liked to insist it be called clever, even though everybody knew foxes always are, because it was a bit vain, but also a bit insecure.   “That’s a thing that often happens to clever people: they don’t really know whether they are or if they get lucky from time to time. Because we from the outside can see their quick wit and marvel at it, wonder at their schemes and plans, but for them it’s all normal. It’s what they live with day in and out, and so they always are a bit surprised when someone tells them they aren’t normal. They don’t know they are really clever unless somebody else tells them they are.   “And so the fox liked to pretend it never doubted, while all the while kept trying to make others tell it how clever it was just so it really knew.   “Most of us do this in one way or another. We like to have others tell us what we are, confirm from the outside what is so hard to see from the inside, but that has the problem of letting them see what isn’t there and making you carry it with you.   “That is a trap many fall for, living their lives under false names that they never chose. But that wasn’t what happened to the clever fox.   “No, no, what happened was that the fox, while playing at its tricks, met someone who saw it and said: ‘Oh fox, how clever you are, would you like to show me more, so I can tell you how much?’   “It hesitated. The fox liked the chance, but not at the tune of another, because it liked being clever, but it also liked being free.   “Or, at least, that’s what the fox told itself. Because foxes are clever, tricky, full of wit.   “And excellent liars.   “And so, they are very good at lying to themselves.   “Because, if the fox had only wanted to play at its pranks, to show how much quicker and sharper it was than those that fell for them, then it wouldn’t have had any issues with the stranger’s proposal. No, the fox would have leaped at it, as it so often leaped at new things that caught its interest.   “But the reason it hesitated was that the fox, even if it tried to pretend otherwise, was a good person.   “It could be meanspirited from time time, cruel in some tricks, careless of whom they may be hurt with it. But that wasn’t who the fox was, but just something it did, had done, and would, in time, grow past. Because it was gentle, because it was the kind of fox who would love nothing more than to trick a lost girl into finding a new home. Because the fox itself had been lost for a while, and wanted to have a measure of what it had left behind.   “And so, when it was offered the chance to be clever, to show just how much, to carry out meanspirited pranks in the name of the man who found it… The fox hesitated.   “And the man saw.   “But the man, unknown to the fox, was a hunter, though not the kind who fills wolves’ bellies with rocks so they drown in a river. No, the man was the kind of hunter who takes from others, not caring for their suffering.   “And so he took the fox’s freedom.   “He took its choice.   “And, worst of all, he took its wit.   “The fox was lost once again, wandering through an unknown forest, his cleverness leashed to a man it didn’t like.   “But the Hunter had made a mistake. Because it didn’t know the fox. Because it couldn’t know it.   “Because shadow is the absence of light, and it’s very hard to know about the things you lack.   “And then the fox met a lost girl, wandering through the same dark forest, and the Hunter told the fox to use her for its tricks, to carry her with it and make her a part of any meanspirited prank.   “The Hunter was sure the fox would obey, because that’s what the Hunter would have done in its place. Because he wouldn’t care about hurting a lost girl if she could be useful to him.   “But the fox was kind, gentle. Clever.   “And so it tricked the Hunter, because that’s what foxes are supposed to do, and it helped the lost girl find her home, because that’s what kindness is supposed to be.   “But then the fox was afraid. Afraid of what the Hunter would do if he realized he had been tricked, and afraid that the girl would leave it, because it had grown to care for her.   “And there was a reason the fox was alone, and the girl didn’t know what that reason was, but she knew every time the fox forced itself to smile when it didn’t feel like it, every time it pushed her forward on her way to her home, there was something in the fox that strained, something that didn’t want to part.   “What the fox didn’t know, despite how clever it was, was that the girl never meant to part with the fox.   “That she had been found, saved. Rescued.   “And that, even if none of that had happened, the lost girl liked the fox. She liked its cleverness, and she loved its kindness.   “The fox had stubbornly pushed the girl towards her home, away from the Hunter.   “And the girl turned around and said, ‘I think I’ve found my home. I think it is wherever you are.’   “This could’ve been the end. In most stories, it would be, because the fox would’ve broken a curse, and then they would’ve lived happily ever after. That’s how stories work, and how they should work.   “But the Hunter was still out there, still holding the fox’s long leash.   “And the girl who had been lost now knew that the fox needed as much help as it had freely given.   “Luckily for the fox, that’s also how stories work: deeds are repaid, promises kept, curses broken.   “And bad men vanquished.”   Lisa’s calmed down, her breathing slow and warm over my chest.   So I lean back, keep cradling her as my back sinks into the soft cushions.   I pretend she’s fallen asleep listening to my story and let my mind drift, the flighty thing satisfied for now at having told yet another tale.   “His name’s Coil,” she says.   I tighten my embrace.   “I will destroy him,” I promise.     ================== ================== This work is a repost of one of my first commissions, and one that I’m both grateful for and proud of. It can be found on QQ, SV, and AO3, and, of course, on my Patreon where the latest chapter will show up a week before it comes out for everyone else. It is currently 33 chapters and 94k words long and approaching its final arc at a good pace, so I hope you’ll look forward to learning about Wordsworth’s ending.   As always, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on Amazon. Thank you for reading!  

Chapter 8 - Wordsworth – Chapter 9 – Colors 4

Sophia always called Piggot ‘Ms. Piggy.’ She felt the obese woman didn’t deserve any kind of respect, obviously far more prey than predator, given her only claim to fame had been being maimed by Nilbog.   Sophia… I won’t say she’s a moron. She has a kind of cunning that I’ll never grasp, an instinctive understanding of the world around her, if not the people.   No, people are Sophia’s blind spot.   People are my thing.   So, when I look at Piggot sweating, at her body barely answering the demands she forces upon it, at the woman who should’ve retired years ago, I don’t see ‘prey.’ I don’t see weakness.   I see a woman towering over Kid Win, a powerful Tinker in his own right, with a body as fit as dedicated trainers can manage to force on him, and weapons powerful enough only lawful restrictions keep him from wiping out quite a few of the city’s villains.   I see somebody who should be broken stand alone, browbeating the powerful, the chosen few, through mere presence and force of personality.   I see what I could have never been.   “Twenty-nine,” she says, staring him down, the number said like something he should take as a personal attack.   “What?” he stammers, flailing for a meaning, knowing what the tone and posture implicitly state and, unknowingly, accepting the condemnation. Because he just doesn’t have enough information to realize how he could reject it.   There’s a part of me that admires the interplay, that takes note.   Another is disgusted at a grown woman manipulating someone who willingly named himself Kid.   None of them are strong enough to make my colors swirl.   “Twenty-nine heroin users showed up at Brockton General, asking for treatment. Do you know why they did, Kid Win?”   “… Because the ‘just say no’ posters finally worked?” he says with a tone that mixes cluelessness with hidden wit.   It almost makes me smile.   “You think you’re funny?”   “Some of my teammates often call me a joke, Ma’am.”   She represses a growl, and Chris a shudder.   Because… he’s afraid. Intimidated. Against the wall.   And a hero.   So… that’s what heroes are supposed to do, isn’t it? Fight against the odds, act in spite of fear.   That’s what Taylor said they did.   ‘Yeah, I want to fly, and be superstrong, and have all the rainbows like Legend, but… There were many heroes before capes, Emma. Most of them didn’t have powers, just… attitude. We can have that, don’t we? We don’t need anything else but that.’   And she smiled at me. That bright, wide thing that always cheered me up. That thing I didn’t know how precious it was until I…   Until I killed it.   And she was right. Of course she was.   A hero doesn’t need anything but the right attitude. Which means if you don’t have it, you’ve already failed.   “Maybe they are right,” Piggot finally answers once Chris shows he will cringe away, drop his bravado, make himself small…   But he won’t look away.   “Yes, those teammates may be onto something, Kid Win, because those twenty-nine heroin addicts said they heard a poem. A poem that showed them a forest made of black ink, and that made them rethink their lives, believe they could do something more. That they weren’t trapped, and could choose,” she enumerates, the words and phrasing uplifting, the tone and cadence anything but.   And I picture it. A drug den, full of lost people, of desperate souls…   And Taylor bringing light to them just with her words, with a use of her power that is far more about having the right attitude than about anything else.   Because she’s a hero. A real one. What she always wanted to be.   And, for the first time since I saw her speaking with Chris, a color thrums.   “Do you know what that means, Kid Win?”   “That… she’s trying to help?”   She looks at him. Her head is bent down, putting too much emphasis on their height disparity, and her arms are crossed on top of her chest, not quite defensive but acting as a barrier… Disgust. She’s displaying disgust at having to interact with him.   And Chris isn’t experienced enough to consciously realize it, but the animal part of him gets the message, and he shrinks a bit more.   We are alone in her office. It’s likely I’m here as the resident expert on Wordsworth, as the independent who tangled with her a couple of times before joining the Wards, my name already known—both the cape and the real one.   Because Cauldron wanted to fulfill their end of the deal, even if I no longer wanted to. Or especially because I didn’t.   But it’s still… weird. That Piggot would get me here when it’s so obvious my power’s been acting up, that I’m currently barely functional, that Dean’s boosts only work for a short while before I go back to drab, pastel, lifeless colors that barely do anything.   Unless she wants Chris to feel the pressure of having an attractive girl witness him getting torn apart. Which is such an obvious tactic it didn’t even cross my mind the Director would lower herself to using it.   “Do you know how addictive heroin is?” she asks curtly.   And Chris looks at her for just a moment before his eyebrows shoot up.   “We are currently labeling her as a human Master—”   “No,” I think, something inside me instinctively rejecting the accusation. Not that Taylor would have that power, because I cannot even begin to fathom what her intellect could do with something as versatile as what she’s already shown to have, but that she would use it like that.   Taylor may have the power to be a human Master. But she won’t ever be.   Piggot and Chris are looking at me.   “Anything you want to add, Iridiscent?” she asks, her eyebrow raised.   I... may have spoken part of this.   Piggot’s eyes are harsh, mostly because she planned on me either being completely subdued like I’ve been over the past couple of days or to have me corral Kid Win for his actions toward Wordsworth.   Chris’ eyes… there’s a cautious gratitude in them.   That unknown color thrums yet again.   It’s barely more than a vein over the muddled blue covering my right forearm. Barely a stretched mote of light.   I lean on it.   “What rating does Dr. Yamada have?” I finally ask.   “Excuse me? Dr. Yamada is not a para—”   “Yet she regularly sits down with highly volatile, violent people and convinces them to keep working for the greater good. Do you know how broken parahumans are? Surely, that’s a human Master in action,” the words come out, part of them the same hateful cadence of a cruel, awful girl asking whether someone was too stupid to realize she wasn’t wanted at school.   But there’s also a bit of Anne in there. A bit of the smart girl who not only had the instinct for reading people, but the intelligence and discipline to polish that gift.   And now Piggot’s glaring at me, and Chris is open-mouthed.   “Do you think you’re funny, Iridiscent?” she repeats the question she asked Chris.   I look at her.   Not with courage, not with defiance, because those require being afraid and acting in spite of it, and I currently don’t have that color.   No, I have dreadful, heavy blue that’s mostly grey, and…   And a single, stretched mote of light that I carefully hide in the inside of my right forearm.   “Quite frankly, Ma’am, even self-deprecating humor has its limits.”   There’s a flash of rage quickly buried in her eyes, a snort of laughter from Chris.   And a pang of disgust in my chest.   Because those aren’t my words, my cadence, my colors.   Those are Taylor’s.   And I’m stealing from her once again.   ***   “What was that in there?” Chris asks as soon as the door to Piggot’s office closes behind us.   “What do you mean?”   He gestures wildly, apparently uncoordinated, except he isn’t.   He tried to explain it to me once, when I was new to the team, and he tried to be friendly with the new cape before he realized Sophia had already staked her claim on me—and the suspicious looks started.   He told me about how he saw things. Not literally. Not actual hallucinations, but as a technique that had gotten out of hand at some point.   He visualizes concepts as physical things, volumes and shapes, and then he places them on the space around him so he can establish connections and ways to fit them. And when he’s flailing around like this, he’s just pointing at the things he’s trained his brain to use as a means of filtering the boundless torrent of ideas constantly bombarding him.   It would make him a terrible public speaker, but that’s not what he wants to be, so, contrary to what the old Emma would think, I…   I don’t know what to think, actually. Because it’s the kind of thing that would make him a pariah at any regular high school, but if any kind of eccentricity makes him even slightly better at saving lives, it would be monstrous to tell him to change just because it would make him slightly more amenable to the popular crowd.   And… I am a bit tired of being a monster.   A bit tired of everything, actually, because it would be so easy to—   The thrum of color quietens, and I desperately clamp down on that thought, kill it before it can finish, and try to get back to that moment in Piggot’s office where I realized Taylor is becoming the kind of hero she always dreamed about.   In spite of me.   Vivid, putrid green swirls around my stomach, making me want to throw up, but, at the same time, the thrum grows stronger, steadier. And it’s a small price to pay.   “You defended Wordsworth. To Piggot’s face. You never contradict Piggot.”   I look at him, at the way his eyes dart around some kind of representation of the whole situation that can only make sense to him now that he’s finally letting himself feel all the stress Piggot piled down on him.   I smile.   But I don’t have enough control to know what kind of smile it is.   “Maybe being surrounded by heroes is finally rubbing off on me,” I finally tell him, because what else can I say?   And he groans.   “Please, don’t ever say that in front of Dennis…”   Oh. Right. Innuendo.   I laugh.   I don’t mean to, don’t even want to, and Chris hurriedly grabs my arm and drags me to the elevator as Piggot’s secretary looks at us reproachfully.   “Sorry, sorry,” I finally tell him once I’ve gotten the laughter under control.   The green has faded, taking the queasiness with it, and the blue may not be as grey as it was a moment ago.   The thrum remains, and I keep it hidden, like a trembling ember kept away from a cold wind.   Taylor’s words. I spent so much time with her that my thoughts can sound like her when I’m not careful.   Or when I am particularly reckless.   “What’s the matter with you, Emma—”   “Thank you,” I tell him. And I hug him.   He freezes in a way that has very little to do with the armor he’s wearing locking up.   “Wha—”   “For listening to her. For being a good person when no one—when I wasn’t. Thank you for letting her be a hero even if you knew it could get you in trouble.”   He doesn’t speak, doesn’t gesture, but I see his eyes frantically moving around, and I can almost glimpse the shapes he’s making, the connections between Iridiscent, Emma Barnes, Wordsworth, …   “You knew her. Before she triggered.”   And I think back.   I think about a slip of a girl. Reedy, too thin, but always moving around, always talking, always telling me the latest, exciting story her mom taught her while mine was too busy just being a mom to play at storyteller.   I remember sitting in her backyard as the girl wove worlds around us. The ones she had been taught, and the ones she came up with just so we could play in them.   I remember the girl growing. No longer so thin, so reedy, but her long legs and arms still clumsy, unused to their new lengths in a way I couldn’t afford as I turned my body into an instrument that I excelled at playing.   But I knew.   I knew the beauty she was shaping up to have, and I didn’t even feel envy, because I only felt anticipation.   Because Taylor had always talked about her stories, and her heroes, and her words, but I…   I had always listened to Taylor.   “I did. Once upon a time.”   The words are almost bitter on my lips, not quite a joke, carrying too much wistfulness for them to be something so light.   The elevator opens behind me, and I step back, away from my hug with Chris, and his eyes widen as I push a button and the doors close between us.   I smile goodbye at him and wait a single moment.   Then take a deep breath.   I feel the thrum, roll up my sleeve, and finally allow myself to look at the stretched mote of the unknown color.   And, surrounded by brushed metal, I discover the gleaming, golden glow of hope.     ================== ================== This work is a repost of one of my first commissions, and one that I’m both grateful for and proud of. It can be found on QQ, SV, and AO3, and, of course, on my Patreon where the latest chapter will show up a week before it comes out for everyone else. It is currently 33 chapters and 94k words long and approaching its final arc at a good pace, so I hope you’ll look forward to learning about Wordsworth’s ending.   As always, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on Amazon. Thank you for reading!  

Chapter 13 - Wordsworth – Chapter 14

Reading is as sensual as it can be mental.   Opening an old book, the smell of aged paper and ink surrounding you, your fingers tracing the grooves in smooth leather, your eyes following the shapes of beautiful letters as meaning unfolds inside you… It can be intimate. Special.   “Taylor—!” Lisa protests before I dive down from our kiss to her neck, but her fingers run over my back, the slender, graceful tips gliding over my satin pages as words and ink part before her touch.   “Tay, I don’t—” she says as my own hands go beneath the wide, white shirt she hastily threw over her burned uniform, the entirety of her left side bare to my touch as I feel warm flesh and soft skin in a way that’s just so different from having her feet on my lap as she smiles and chats the night away.   “Taylor, Taylor…” I raise from her neck, from peppering kisses over her pulsing vein and feeling her heart race at my presence, my touch, my caresses, my… my everything that I can offer her.   And I kiss her once again.   Words over my lips keep them plush and tender, more than paper could or should be, and all of them are a poem, a sonnet of love, and beauty, and ecstasy.   ‘Your mother was never religious, Little Owl, but… she liked these. They read a bit grown-up, and… It doesn’t matter. It’s about religion, but not the way your gran always went about it. It’s about the soul loving God, but a love that’s… It’s not impure, not really, but some can read it like that, and—I’m making a mess of this, aren’t I? Just… Take a look. If you ever want to pray for your mom, that’s how she would’ve liked you to think about it.’   ‘Once in the dark of night, Inflamed with love and yearning, I arose (O coming of delight!) And went, as no one knows, When all my house lay long in deep repose.’   And I just did. I just went unseen through the city that’s now my home, walking in beauty, like the night.   Lisa shivers against me, and I take a step back. My arms are around her, but I don’t pull—I don’t dare to. No, I just move, my lips on hers slowly lessening their pressure until she follows my touch and something bursts in my chest.   ‘Oh, night that guided me, Oh, night more lovely than the dawn, Oh, night that joined Beloved with lover, Lover transformed in the Beloved!’   It’s old. It’s not as elegant as the words of Shelley, of Byron, of those who learned to wield the fire of humanity’s soul, its passion, but it’s still… Pure.   Beautiful.   And what I feel at the moment, as those words flit over my lips, caressing Lisa’s, as I feel us joining in a way I always hoped but never expected… This is what my mother thought prayer should be.   My embrace tightens until I feel her body flush with mine, and I lean back, pulling her up to me, shifting my grip to a bridal carry as I head to the sofa where she spent too many nights guiding a lost girl through a dark forest.   I sit with her atop me, with her warmth on my legs, on my shifting words.   And there are older words. There are words far older than a mystic yearning to be loved by God, words born of the woman whose name branded the kind of love I feel for Lisa.   ‘and laughing delightfully, which indeed makes my heart flutter in my breast; for when I look at you even for a short time, it is no longer possible for me to speak.’   And Sappho was right.   Because I feel her words swirling around me, yearning for Lisa’s touch, for her warmth, the weight of her body, but none of those words come to my lips as I feel myself lost in her, in the Beloved who remade my soul.   And I… I am words. It’s what I have. What I can offer.   But she’s so much more, so beyond the ghost of dying sound fading as it strives to reach another’s heart, so much more than I could ever—   “Stop,” she says, her hand in the middle of my chest gently pushing me away, delicately, exquisitely breaking my heart.   I stare at her, the words of love still around me as I—   “Not like this. Please, Tay. Not like this,” she tells me with clear pain in those trembling, green eyes I…   “Wh—what do you mean?” I manage to push out without a story or a poem getting tangled in my pain and confusion.   “It’s wrong. It’s so wrong you don’t even realize it’s wrong. I never could, never…”   And she cries.   Sitting on top of me, her body not moving away even as her hands rise to cup her face, Lisa cries.   And I…   I don’t know what to say, what to tell her that will make this right, that will fix whatever I’ve broken, so I…   I hug her.   And she leans into it, her heat once more seeping into far too cool pages, her scent mixing with that of ink and satin paper, her touch softer than any leather cover I ever admired with grubby fingers and a chiding mother not far behind me.   Lisa sobs against me, and I can only hug her and wait for her to tell me what it is that’s so wrong.   And hope and pray to a God that was made to love souls that the one thing that’s wrong isn’t me.   ***   I’m sitting at her kitchen counter, a mug of steaming chamomile tea in front of me.   Lisa’s… across from me, on the other side of the white surface. Drinking red wine.   I’ve never even seen her touch alcohol.   “I usually don’t. My power gets a bit… flighty when I do. But I don’t want it focused for this conversation. I don’t want to have a power over it.”   I raise an eyebrow at that, unclear of both her meaning and the effectiveness of the wine seeing how easily she just read me—   “I know you. I know you better than anyone in this world can know you, and in some ways, I think I know you better than yourself. That’s… part of the issue, Tay.”   I cock my head and look at her, waiting for Lisa to take a sip of the burgundy liquid.   “You knew I was in love with you, then,” I finally say, reaching the obvious conclusion.   She massages her temples with her right hand, her elbow leaning on the counter as her left keeps swirling her cup, casting red shadows below her.   “Of course I did. How could I not, Tay? How could I not see you fixating on me, thinking I was some kind of… of extraordinary girl who deserved all your devotion and affection? How could I not see you twisting around that idea, thinking that you owed me—”   “I do. Whatever else comes out of tonight, you can’t take away the debt I owe you.”   She stares at me for a single second, something flashing across dark emerald that scares me in a way I don’t understand.   “Tonight, you freed me from Coil. That debt, whatever it may have been, is settled.”   “Tonight, I almost let you die. That’s not how—”   “Damn it, Tay! No! That’s not on you, not when I could’ve done so many things differently and not end up in Emma’s—”   She stops.   She never yelled at me, before.   And that’s part of why my fingers are tight around the chamomile mug, part of why I’ve stopped breathing, stilled like a closed book.   Part.   “You need to accept it,” she mutters.   “Never,” I answer.   “Tay… I’ll never forgive her. I’ll still kill her if she tries to hurt you. But you can’t erase what happened just because it doesn’t fit what you want the world to be like—”   “What I want the world to be like? I want a world where my best friend, my sister, didn’t become a crazed monster, a world where they didn’t come for me and… and changed me, a world where… where you love me…” I start indignant, cutting her off with a sharp tone.   It doesn’t end like that.   Silence stretches between us in a way it never did before. Not when we shared so many unseen things, when I could trust she would…   “I can’t,” she says, and I find out I had gone back to breathing when I let out a pained gasp.   And I look at Lisa. At her staring down at the swirling wine in the glass cup with the thin stem fashioned like a flower’s. At her refusing to look at me.   “Why?” I manage to ask.   Her eyes don’t rise to meet mine.   “Because… Because it’s wrong.”   “But why? Why is it so wrong to love me? Is it because they… they turned me into this—”   “No! No, God, Tay, don’t ever—no, please, it’s not about that! Please, you have to understand—”   “Then explain it to me!” I slap the counter, stronger than I should, the sound like wood on wood, and I can feel the words in my eyeshadow itching to run down my face in black rivulets to the tune of a sob I desperately hold back—   “Because I love you!” she yells, frantic, her hands on mine, her cup set aside, the wine still swirling with the sudden motion after she set it aside.   I look at her hands, at the white, long fingers lying over black words tightly packed together.   I breathe deeply, my chest straining at the movement, and I take them away, my gloves melting into my dress until her flesh is on my paper, until they no longer look white as true monochrome shows how much color they have. How much life.   “What does that even mean?” I ask her, finally looking at surprised eyes that don’t know whether to flee my own.   “I…”   She shuts up.   Lisa shuts up.   I almost feel like laughing.   Instead, I clasp her right hand and get up, walking around the counter until I stand in front of her, almost near enough to touch her and close enough to feel her heat once more seeping into my cold.   She follows my eyes all the way, not looking away even once as her mouth contorts in all the emotions she wants to show and all the ones she wants to hide.   “There once was a clever fox. Like all foxes, it prided herself on the tricks she could play, the people she could fool.   “But the fox was too clever, and the people around her too slow, so the tricks stopped being funny. The fox felt alone.   “So she thought, ‘What if I fooled myself? Wouldn’t that be the greatest trick a fox could play—‘”   “It wasn’t like that, Tay,” she protests, but the story is on my lips, and I don’t have the strength to stop it.   “‘What if I lied? If I played at being what I’m not? What if I decided to hide things until I didn’t know where they were anymore? What If—‘”   “What if I just didn’t want to hurt you?”   There’s anger in her voice.   I’d rather she be angry than cry.   “The fox decided to go ahead. She hid pieces of herself, but she was too clever, and so she always knew where they were, what they were. She felt them missing, even as she felt them too close to ignore—”   Her nails dig into my paper, creasing it.   “Stop,” she mutters.   “And then the lost girl—”   “The fox made the lost girl! Don’t you understand?! Don’t you get how much power I hold over you, how much I’ve twisted you to suit my—”   “The lost girl who had always admired the fox saw how silly the fox could actually be. How, in trying to be noble, she was only hurt.”   “That’s not it at all!”   “Because the fox thought herself cleverer than she was. She thought she could do things she couldn’t. She thought she could make the girl love her, when love, the kind of love the girl felt—”   “Taylor, listen to me, you don’t really lo—”   My hand goes around her nape, and I drag her to me into a kiss that drains the tension out of her shoulders, that lingers as she melts against words not of devotion and religious fervor, but tenderness and affection.   Of acceptance.   Because…   ‘Love is not love, Which alters when it alteration finds.’   She’s crying.   Once more, I kiss Lisa. And she cries.   But she doesn’t pull away, not when I don’t think about her as the one who rescued and shaped me, but as the imperfect, frail girl who thinks her mind is more powerful than it really is, who thinks she holds over me things she doesn’t, who makes so many silly, terrible mistakes.   She doesn’t pull away as long as I think her human.   And the poor, silly fox will need time to learn that… That those are not two separate things. That I see a love in her higher than I had hoped to find after I was first betrayed and abandoned, that her beauty is to me something that points at a truer beauty, at something everlasting and sacred.   But that doesn’t mean I don’t love the human Lisa. The one who makes silly faces when listening to one of my stories, the one who smiles a triumphant, smug thing whenever she coaxes a foot rub out of me, the one who’s never as witty as she wishes she could be in the early morning.   She saved me, rescued me, put me back together, pushed me to be myself. And for that, I’ll always be grateful, always know how kind and noble she is—sometimes despite herself.   But gratitude is not love.   And the crying girl in my arms? The one who wants to push me away because she fears herself? The one who doesn’t realize just how deeply she insulted me with her worries? The one who would deny both of us this perfectly imperfect moment?   That’s… That’s the girl I fell in love with.   And…   There’s one last thing.   I pull away, just enough that our lips brush rather than blend, and she opens her eyes to look tremulously up at mine.   “Lisa… It’s true love. It doesn’t happen every day.”   She blinks, taking a moment to remember the time we cuddled on her couch, watching a marvelously corny, smart movie that was also an incredibly witty book, part of me comparing all the little and not so little differences as I enjoyed the tale of adventure, pirates, fencing, revenge, and true love.   And her tearful, lost face breaks into a surprised smile as she laughs and keeps on laughing as I hug her to my chest.   And the world is all right. As long as my Lisa laughs, the world is all right.   Because Westley was right.   It doesn’t happen every day.       ================== ================== This work is a repost of one of my first commissions, and one that I’m both grateful for and proud of. It can be found on QQ, SV, and AO3, and, of course, on my Patreon where the latest chapter will show up a week before it comes out for everyone else. It is currently 33 chapters and 94k words long and approaching its final arc at a good pace, so I hope you’ll look forward to learning about Wordsworth’s ending.   As always, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on Amazon. Thank you for reading!

Chapter 5 - Wordsworth – Chapter 6

“This feels somewhat unfair, Lisa,” I mutter into the Bluetooth headset hidden in my hair.   “Tay, I love you dearly, but if you insist on being a solo heroine, I don’t think you can afford to be chivalrous about it,” her voice softly crackles against my right ear.   And…   She may be right. No, she’s objectively right, but does that matter? Because heroism isn’t about being effective or pragmatical, but about doing what’s right, and, most importantly, what feels right. Because that’s what a hero should be.   A cop isn’t a hero.   A soldier isn’t a hero.   A Ward definitely isn’t a hero.   But… all of them could be. They can aspire to it. That’s what defines a hero: the yearning, the reaching toward something just beyond the everyday, that golden moment that shines when chance allows one to reveal to the world that, yes, there’s something worth defending, worth protecting, worth fighting for.   But it wasn’t always like that.   No, the word ‘hero’ is old, as old as stories themselves, and, when it was young, Hero just wanted to proclaim his strength, to tell the monsters hiding in the dark that he was there, and that he would take something from the darkness after every fight. That he would defeat the dragon not to rescue the princess, but to take its treasure.   When Hero was young, he was a child: foolish, reckless, and, often, cruel.   Because Hero was strong. Stronger than any other word a human could claim, but that was before he grew up, and more meaning was added to him. It was when Hero was the child of gods, when he stole fire and killed his enemies, even if they weren’t monsters or they were heroes themselves.   Then Hero met Tragedy.   They got along. They met time and again, and, after every encounter, Hero learned. He learned about the pain of hurting his loved ones, of being cursed by fate, of not being enough. He learned about the fall of kingdoms, the betrayal of friends and lovers. He learned about all those little things that Hero still was weak to, because Hero was more than human, but only because he was human, and he learned to cherish those weak parts that finally gave meaning to the strong ones.   Hero matured, and then he went from the powerful, cruel child that played with other men like flies to be dewinged to something new, something that would look upon the heroes of the past and scoff in disdain.   Hero became protector, defender, noble.   Martyr.   Hero suffered, and, through it, learned of others’ suffering. And then Hero discovered the true meaning of his word.   “Tay? … Wordsworth?” Lisa calls for me, and the fog of the story of a word fades away.   But it lingers.   “Yes,” I answer.   “Oh shit… Tay, stick to the plan! You need to play this smart!”   I look beneath me, at the group of Merchants gathered in the street with more earth than pavement.   I look at Mush, a gigantic golem of detritus and filth that’s to be my target for today.   I look at the result of Tattletale’s work, pointing me in the right direction to do some good without having to cross paths with her nor having the Undersiders caught in a gang war.   I smile.   “Do you think I’m not smart, Lisa?” There’s a playful edge to my words. I like having it.   “Tay, as far as I’m concerned, you’re a fricking genius, but geniuses can do some very complicatedly stupid things.”   “You’re right. You’re definitely right. Do you wanna hear a story?”   “Oh, fuck me—”   I laugh.   And I stand up.   I’m perched on the corner of the roof, perilously close to falling down the four floors to the street below. Nobody has noticed me yet, but that’s about to change.   Because there was a book when I was a kid.   It had stories about heroes and gods, and grandma wasn’t very happy that I knew there was more than one of those. It was kind of a complicated book, and mom would usually have taken it away from me and nudged me toward something I would enjoy more.   But I was at that age where I had started down my obsession with capes and heroes, and having a whole book about the those of the past, the ones that came before Scion, felt like too much of a treasure, so she just answered my questions and told me I could skip the boring parts.   That’s how I first half-read The Greek Myths by Robert Graves.   And there was a hero in there that barely deserved the name. He got drunk, he killed people, he killed his wives.   He was the most famous hero in the world.   Hercules.   Mom didn’t like him very much, but she explained things, told me about whatever there was in the book that I didn’t understand. Told me that Hercules was strong, yes, but that just with that, he would’ve died again and again.   He would’ve died if he hadn’t thought about strangling the lion whose skin couldn’t be pierced. He would’ve died if he hadn’t thought to seal with flame the wounds of an ever-healing monster. He would’ve died if he had offended the goddess of the hunt by spilling the blood of her favored beast.   He died, in the end, because his wife didn’t trust him.   But before that, he lived, most of all, because he was smart. Because he noticed things. Because he had the power of a god, but the knowledge and wit of man.   And so, when he was tasked with cleaning stables that had been left to accrue filth for years on end…   He thought.   And when I recite the words, give shape to one of the tales of the strongest heroes that ever lived in yellowed pages, when some of the Merchants below me look up, and point, and start shouting, and Lisa keeps swearing, when Mush raises a cyclopean arm in my direction…   There’s a rumbling.   A rushing sound of water made of black words with cresting foam so beautiful that I, for a second, regret not speaking about a horse carrying a hobbit across a river.   But that’s a story for another day, because today is the day of rushing water washing filth away.   There are screams below me, loud enough to carry over the sound of a river raging down the street, even if the river is born just beneath my feet and ends before it reaches the second intersection.   I stop the words. The river fades.   Beneath me, Brockton’s street sparkles, clean for the first time in years.   I take a step forward, and I drop to the ground below, my body a combination of light and sturdy enough that the fall doesn’t hurt me.   Then I walk to Mush. The real one. The one that hides inside the golem.   He’s… Not quite a dwarf, because he isn’t quite like a man. His face is just short of a caricature, with a hooked nose and bulging eyes, and his torso is just a bit misshapen, but his limbs… They fork and divide, tendrils where bones should be—   Ah, no. He’s melding them into actual arms and legs. He’s… It’s just his power.   He’s not like me.   Good.   “Surrender,” I say to him.   “What?” he asks, looking at me like he doesn’t understand the word.   Or that I just told it to him.   “You and your subordinates. Surrender, and I’ll just leave you here to be arrested. Resist, and I’ll act accordingly.” Is this what a Hero does? Or is mercy what matters most?   “Are you out of your mind, girl? What the fuck are the Undersiders—”   “I’m not with the Undersiders anymore.” It’s important they learn this. Important nobody gets caught up in what I’m about to stir. “As for my mind? I’m finally inside of it.”   He starts incorporating himself, just as the battered group of drug dealers and worse things does the same from all around us.   “You’re surrounded, you know?” he points out, not unkindly.   I pause.   “Are you… taking pity on me?”   He sighs.   “Kid, everybody knows about the… the villain with issues. Just go home. No harm, no foul, all right?”   … What would a Hero do?   “I’m no longer a villain, though. And my head is… better.”   He sits up on the ground. And grumbles.   “Glad to hear that, but… Look, if I go to prison with your rep as it currently stands, I won’t be having too much fun in there, and if me and the boys beat you up, I’ll just look like a bully. How about we split the difference? I say we were about to do something, and you stopped us. I take a hit to my cred and don’t look that good in front of the boss, but you start getting a name for yourself?”   … I’m pretty sure Hercules would have done something very creative to him already.   Or taken him out for a drink, one of those.   “Tay,” Lisa’s voice once again sounds in my ear, “he’s sincere. He’s also stalling. Either you take his offer, or you’ll have reinforcements to deal with in a moment.”   Ah. So the man who’s treating me kindly was just planning to betray me.   That makes far more sense.   “As much as I appreciate the offer, you’re in the middle of a street without a single piece of loose debris you can use.”   “Ah. That I am,” he says. And smiles.   “… This is the moment when you say that you know something that I don’t, isn’t it?”   “What do you know? Your head is really better!”   I sigh.   Then I punch his jaw before turning around as quickly as I can, one of his goons standing with a gun behind me that goes off before I finish moving.   “Tay!” Lisa yells.   And, before answering her, as I run, and jump, and twirl amid bullets and confused bodies, I tell her of a cursed castle lain to sleep for a hundred years, of roses blooming around it, their thorns growing thick and long, capturing many a prince who sought the princess hidden within.   Pained screams bloom around me as the black petals unfold, and I think that may have gained me enough reputation for the night.   Then I stand in the middle of a street that’s no longer so pristine and, enunciating very carefully, I finally answer her.   “I’m bullet-proof, remember?”   “… We haven’t tested that. For obvious reasons.”   “They still missed. Maybe it’s hard to aim at me in the dark?”   “Please, don’t take that for granted. And start cuffing them before Sleeping Beauty wears off.”   I nod before I remember how pointless it is for me to do that, and then I start wandering across my hedge, slipping zip ties around painfully stretched limbs.   I would feel worse if they hadn’t just tried to murder me.   And then I kneel beside Mush, whose body is pinned down by enough thorny branches that escape must seem an agonizing prospect.   “Is there any point to cuffing you, or will you just shift out of them?”   “Would you really trust anything I tell you?”   I look at him. He’s a villain, a tricky one, but…   “Yes.”   He looks at me, his head tilted, his brows furrowed.   “Oh. Then, no; they are useless. Maybe you could tie me using a few of the goons around my body? I mean, it’s not like they can complain about the smell this time.”   “Uh. I guess that’s an idea. Also, what reinforcements are you expecting?”   “Girl—”   “Wordsworth,” I tell him. And, for just a moment, I savor it.   “Wordsworth, right. Look, I like you. You’ve got style and aren’t an asshole, which puts you leagues above and beyond the rest of the white hats on this damned city. But I don’t like you that much.” He smiles.   And, against my will, so do I.   “A hint, at least?”   “What… Are you proposing some kind of bet?”   And… Well, the hooked nose, the bulging eyes…   “How about a riddling contest?”   “… If you ask me what you’ve got in your pocket, you forfeit the damn game.”   And I laugh.   “Oh God, how many nerds are in this city?” Lisa mutters.   “All right, fine. So, if I win, you let me and the boys free?”   “Just you. They aren’t playing.”   “Fair enough.” He shrugs. And then closes his eyes in concentration. “Fuck, I’m sure I knew a couple of good ones…”   “I should warn you I absorb books. You’d probably have more luck if you came up with an original one.”   His eyes widen.   “Some people have all the luck with powers.”   “Case 53.”   “Ah, right. Sorry.” For a moment, he looks embarrassed. Given he’s been very naked since this conversation started, it’s a refreshing sight.   “Personally knows other case 53. Strained relationship,” Lisa comments.   Oh. I guess Squealer can’t be—   “Skidmark isn’t a case 53. He just looks like one,” Lisa snarks, and I bite my lip to suppress a giggle. Damn it.   “Any ideas?” I ask him, just to mask the presence of the third interlocutor.   “Maybe… Try not to laugh, okay? It’s been quite a while since I ran a game.”   “What, like, you used to do riddle contests?”   “No, but Dungeons and—let’s just say I used to have some practice at this sort of thing. Let’s see… I have clocks that aren’t right twice a day, and water that strains metal. I take steps that carry me not as far as seven leagues, and hands that grasp like clumsy giants. And I have a body that isn’t, both inside and out. Who am I?”   I arch an eyebrow, and—   “Trainwreck,” the nosy blonde in my ear says.   Damn it, Lisa! I wanted to solve that one!   Also…   “He’s right behind me, isn’t he?” I ask both of them.   “Not right behind you, but… You can only manifest one thing at a time, right? Well, I would suggest you free me and let me come back with a better riddle next time.”   “For a drug-peddling villain who has tried to distract me so people ambushed me from behind twice in the same night, you’re quite hard to dislike.”   “Tell that to the people who have to live with me rolling around in literal garbage.”   I giggle.   And then I allow the hedge to wither and run back to me.   “Fine. But you better have a good riddle next time.”   He smiles at me.   He’s an ugly man. He’s done horrible things.   It’s a nice smile.   And then he runs away, and I make it a point to quickly turn around so I don’t see too many things bounce.   Of course, that’s an excellent moment for Trainwreck to stop leveraging a weird-looking spike at me from the other side of the street.   “Humpty Dumpty—” I start to say before the words blur together and only I recognize them. The wall forms just in time, and the words scatter at the impact of the enormous projectile.   For a moment, I think about calling Bard and have him return the spike, but it isn’t quite an arrow, and I don’t—   He stomps toward me, his boots cracking what’s left of the pavement as plumes of steam whistle with every step.   And I…   What would a Hero do?   And I remember what I thought right as I started my attack and almost facepalm.   A Hero would protect a wounded hobbit, carry him across a river, and wake the spirits of the waters protecting the land beyond from evil.   Or, well, a Hero may do one of those things, and another Hero another, and the horse was the one who carried the hobbit, but…   “Tay! Focus!” Lisa’s voice carries me out of the fugue.   “Right—wait, how did you know—”   “You aren’t running or speaking, and you need to do both right now!”   And she’s right, of course. So I rush in a zig zagging trajectory, once again grateful that this body doesn’t seem to process fatigue like my old one, and keep speaking aloud about pure white waters, about protective magic inhabiting a river surrounding a citadel of light, a bastion of good. I speak about darkness being cast away.   And the waters of Bruinen roar.   It’s just a short burst, because this time I don’t have much of an audience, and my speech was rushed and clumsy, but it is enough to launch Trainwreck against the building opposite me right as he was about to reach me with hands that certainly do look clumsy as a giant’s grasp.   I can’t let up.   I run toward him, trying to reach him before he recovers, and frantically think about the right story, the right tale to—   He’s a giant.   Of course.   I smile.   Because a Hero… A Hero can be many things. Has been many things. But there’s a word for Hero that embodies the foolishness of fighting for a lost cause, of adhering to ideals too high, of reaching far beyond one’s grasp. It even alludes to a touch of madness.   It’s… the actual story is a bit cruel. It even decries its own hero. But…   In some ways, in many ways, he’s… He’s really the Hero I always wanted to be.   “Fortune is guiding our affairs better than we could have ever hoped. Look over there, Sancho Panza, my friend, where there are thirty or more monstrous giants with whom I plan to do battle and take all their lives, and with their spoils we’ll start to get rich. This is righteous warfare, and it’s a great service to God to rid the earth of such a wicked seed.”   “Taylor, what the fuck—”   My smile widens, a hint of something manic surely glinting in my eyes, as the Knight of the Sad Countenance manifests at my side and charges forward atop a sorry horse, speeding up until his lance crashes through Trainwreck’s pauldron and the words explode upon impact, rushing back to me as if afraid of the jet of steam bursting through the wrecked armor.   I stop in the middle of the street, savoring the fact that I’ve finally given the man who inspired the word ‘quixotic’ a chance at being a real Hero and not an imagined one.   “… Tay, you should remember I am supposed to be the smug one. It’s part of my brand. I’ve got good lawyers, Tay. You don’t want me to get the lawyers.”   My cheeks strain as my grin widens.   “I can feel you infringing on my intellectual property, Tay.”   Without another word, I walk to Trainwreck’s prone body, quite curious to see if Lisa will stop complaining long enough to assist with the interrogation.   And then the street explodes, and the smell of ozone assaults me.   “Hands in the air!” Kid Win yells.   And I look at him.   His armor gleams in the moonlight and with the eerie lights provided by his own technology as he floats atop his hoverboard. He cuts a gallant figure against the clouds, his athletic body evident and even emphasized by his costume.   He’s the very image of what a modern hero should look like. He probably has an entire branch of the image department dedicated to it.   But now I remember a thin man atop a hungry horse, ill-fitting, ancient armor clanging with every step, eyes lost in the vision of a far-off goal and never on what was in front of him.   And, quite frankly, I know which kind of Hero I would rather be.     ================== ================== This work is a repost of one of my first commissions, and one that I’m both grateful for and proud of. It can be found on QQ, SV, and AO3, and, of course, on my Patreon where the latest chapter will show up a week before it comes out for everyone else. It is currently 33 chapters and 94k words long and approaching its final arc at a good pace, so I hope you’ll look forward to learning about Wordsworth’s ending.   [font="Calibri",]As always, I’d like to thank my credited supporters on [/font]Patreon[font="Calibri",]: [/font]aj0413, LearningDiscord[font="Calibri",], Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon.[/font] [font="Calibri",]If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on [/font][font="Calibri",]Amazon[/font][font="Calibri",]. [/font][font="Calibri",]Thank you for reading![/font]  

Chapter 2 - Wordsworth – Chapter 3

There are always three brothers.   It’s sometimes sad, and sometimes uplifting. Often the older fails, the second struggles, and the youngest succeeds, and it is their father who sets the challenge for them.   Be that as it may, for tragedy or comedy, with their inheritance on the line, or chasing after a princess… there are always three brothers.   But once upon a time, there were two sisters.   They were unusual, as they had between them two mothers and two fathers, and so there was nobody who quite knew how to tell them what their quest would be. One mother would say something only for another father to say quite a different thing, and so the two sisters grew with the freedom to tell themselves what their quest would be.   They dreamed of being heroes, of wearing capes and flying, and all those things heroes do because that’s just who they are. They also dreamed of fighting dragons, but the sisters were very young, and so they didn’t quite know how that would go. It was easier to think how their costumes would look.   Then one of the mothers died, and the black-haired sister was sad.   But she could count on the red one to be there for her, to assist her in lonely nights, to listen to sad things, and let her be sad as long as she needed. It was a story that could have had a happy ending.   And then the red sister died.   And the night she died, a new sister was born.   She inherited all the secrets the red one had held for the black one, but her heart had no kindness, no mercy, and so the happy ending was ever farther away. The black one didn’t even understand this was a new sister, that they were finally three; she just thought she had done something wrong to have the red one hate her so much.   She struggled with it, never knowing she had a sister to grieve alongside her dead mother, because the new one kept appearing before her, haunting her with hair that no longer meant warmth and strawberries as she hugged her.   And then the black sister also died. And was replaced.   And there were four sisters.   But the new one didn’t have the memories of the old one, she was just a blank page, something to be written on, and so she just let life pass, never knowing she was supposed to live it. Not until those pages were written on.   And that’s where the story changed.   Because what was written on the blank pages was a journal, a diary pieced together by a clever fox who had never met the black sister, but had guessed she would have liked to. And so the fox found the scattered pages, the stolen words, and put them together on the fourth sister until she had something of the black sister in her.   The sister who had always wanted to be a hero, and who now understood, thanks to the fox, what had happened to the red sister.   Or, at least, a part of it.   And she had no mother to tell her what her quest should be, but she also had only one sister to compete with her rather than two, and so, the new sister who was also the old one, had to set herself on her quest.   She thought, remembered, and learned.   And then she decided what her quest would be.   It would be a long one, if she had her way, one of those quests that takes one to foreign lands to fight dragons and rescue princesses, even if there were dragons to be fought in her own town and many princesses who needed rescuing. Yes, it would take much time and a lot of work.   But it would begin, as all quests do, with a single step.   By taking a new name.   Wordsworth.   ***   My fugues are… I would say annoying, but that’s not really the right word for it.   My new mind sees the world in a different way, an angle almost parallel to that of most people. It’s… sometimes jarring, yet at times perfectly natural. I—it’s a bit of a tangent, but I remember the day I learned what homo sapiens meant, and I was as proud as a child can be and ran to tell mom.   She praised me, patting my head and smiling down at me from the chair in her home office. She had all those big books around her, and I knew she already knew before I told her what I had seen on that cartoon with the man with a long, white beard. I felt a bit angry at it, at her praising me for learning something she must have thought so…. Obvious. I didn’t like being talked down to, not even back then.   Mom picked up on it, and she grabbed me by my armpits and sat me on her lap.   She nuzzled the crown of my head with her chin and started talking.   About how people name things, how names have meaning, how some people had decided that what made a human a human was that it knew, that it thought, and so came the name.   Then she told me there were other names. Homo politicus, homo faber…   Homo narrans.   Because some had thought that what made humans unique, what made up their souls, were stories. Stories that were so much older than knowledge, even if they contained it, stories that shaped the world differently for those that knew of them, because life’s a story, and stories grow better and more complex when entangled with others.   So.   Wordsworth.   … I really hope no one throws in my face how horribly pretentious I’m being by claiming the name of one of the greatest poets in history.   Still, it’s not like I can’t now ace almost any literature test anybody cares to put me through. As long as I don’t have to do some kind of text analysis, I should be gold.   … I am stalling.   From one end of the street, I look at my old home. It’s quite likely being guarded by the PRT, or so Lisa claims, and I have about as much reason to doubt her as… No. I won’t depreciate that with a snide joke or some witty simile. She has earned far more than my trust. I don’t owe her my life: I owe her my self.   I mean, I’m sure she will collect in one way or another at some point, but… Still.   I take a deep breath, the gesture not wholly necessary, but something about it still calming, still resonating with the part of me that knows about so many characters who do this to steady themselves, their experiences closer to my memory than the last time a Taylor Hebert with a different body did this.   I look once again at my home, at the last place two sisters played together in before one of them died.   At the last place I was truly happy in.   At the last place I should want to return to.   But… being a hero is not about doing what one wants, but what one must.   And so I take yet another breath, something rustling inside of me as I do it.   And I speak in careful, measured rhythms, enunciating the words with all the care they deserve.   “She walks in beauty, like the night,” the words flow from my gloves and fishnets, lazily spiraling around me as they draw a veil I can see through, “of cloudless climes and starry skies.”   I take a step out of the shadows, and the shadows cling to me.   “And all that’s best of dark and bright,” the yellow light of an old lamppost hesitates through the spiral of poetry surrounding me, “meet in her aspect and her eyes.”   There should be stars. They should glimmer on the wet asphalt beneath my feet, trembling with each step as if trying to reach the cadence of a silent song. But Brockton Bay is cloudy tonight, and there is no moon, no stars, and so what’s best of dark and bright is the citrine light of ancient lamps shimmering on the pavement and the flickering shadows of people walking across windows.   “Thus mellowed to that tender light which Heaven to gaudy day denies.”   And now I am night.   Carried on words that flicker and glitter to my eyes while being no more than elusive haze to those of others, I, for a few steps more, walk unnoticed. Walk in beauty.   Then I reach the door of my house’s yard, and the poem melts into me once more.   And I almost cry.   It was one of mom’s favorites, and I wasn’t old enough to understand it when she passed away.   I read it at her funeral. Not because Dad asked me to, but because I knew. I knew I wouldn’t ever see her again, and I wanted her to have those words come from me, even if it was too late, even if it was just once.   I must have been so ridiculous, with my black dress, reciting poetry at my mother’s funeral…   Emma hugged me, and I—   I take a deep breath yet again, and I try to open the door.   It is, unsurprisingly, locked.   A part of me wishes to be clever and find the perfect story to open the door. Maybe ‘open sesame’ would even work, but Lisa warned me how capes get with their powers, how most of them get a bit of ‘everything is a nail’ syndrome.   And so I just look for the emergency key buried in the pot that once held bright geraniums and now holds their skeletal, black remains.   I am a bit relieved that Dad hasn’t gotten rid of it or changed its hiding place.   Even if he let the geraniums die.   So I let myself in, lock the door behind me, and…   The kitchen is a mess.   The dirty dishes are piled up, and crushed beer cans have started falling off a trash can that smells like some of those cans weren’t quite empty when they were thrown in. A few flies are circling it, angrily buzzing at my approach, and I can only guess at the no doubt legion of insects hiding from me at this very moment.   It… It makes me sad. Angry. Both.   Because Dad thinks I disappeared, which in this city means that I either died or got into something arguably worse, so of course he would be broken by this last straw. A small, hateful part of me is even glad that I at least got him to react in some way, but I’m too afraid of what he may have done to himself, and…   And I’m angry at him. So angry.   Because this shouldn’t have been about him. This isn’t his tragedy. He didn’t have his memories, his self stolen, that happened to me, so what right does he have to once again devolve into this broken mess, this—this parody of what a father should be, only caring when it’s too late, when I’m no longer there to see him do it, and still managing not to accomplish a single good thing with—   “Taylor?” a broken voice says from the kitchen’s door.   I jump and tackle him, angry tears in my eyes made of black words.   “You are an awful father,” I mutter against his stained shirt as my arms surround him and clutch him, knowing he may vanish as soon as I let go.   He freezes at my touch, hesitating before running a tremulous hand over black locks that are now far more lustrous, far darker than they ever were or could have been.   Then he grabs me with such strength that it is a relief I only need to breathe when I want to speak, and that I don’t want to right now.   “I know,” he whispers. “Oh God, I know.”   And he doesn’t let go.   ***   He carries me to the sofa and sits us both on the cushion that doesn’t have dishes nor beer cans piled on top of it, and then keeps holding me in his lap for the first time in years.   And… I…   I can’t waste time like this. Not because of him.   “I know what you’ve been doing,” I say. And if my voice breaks a bit, or if I don’t meet his eyes and keep resting my cheek on his chest, that’s just because I…   I don’t feel like moving.   I’m just… too tired.   “Taylor, I… Tattletale sent me a message.”   And now it’s me that freezes.   “What did you just say?”   His hand resumes stroking my hair, gliding through it with a steady, smooth surety that he couldn’t have managed when it was hair and not something else. Something sleeker.   “It was when she figured out who you were. She first tried to show you pictures of me, our house, your—your mother. You didn’t react. At all.”   He waits for me to interject. To tell him what that means to me, to yell at him, to… I don’t know. To do anything other than remain still, sitting against his chest, listening to his breathing and feeling his heartbeat on my cheek.   I don’t.   “She… She thought she could take care of you. Help you. And she thought that I couldn’t get involved. That you may react badly to me being… emotional.”   I remember those days, lost in my fugues, my mind wandering from a story to the next, words in my head and skin meaning so much more than the faces in front of me. I remember being unable to remember even Lisa’s name, the pretty girl who reminded me of foxes and I liked foxes, because they were clever and always tricked wolves, and wolves are beautiful, but it’s the kind of beauty you don’t want near you, the kind of beauty of moonlight over a razor’s edge, dancing with the quivering pulse of a hand holding it in the darkness—   Stop. Stop. Think.   Now.   “She… She’s good at reading people,” I manage to add, more to center myself in the conversation than anything else.   Dad chuckles, and his chest shakes beneath me in a way that is more soothing and comfortable than it should be.   “Yeah, I gathered that.”   He looks up at the ceiling, the room still in that peaceful shadow only broken by what filters through the window, turning everything into the same monochrome that could let us fool ourselves into believing I’m still me, still the black sister that didn’t die only to get replaced by a blank journal waiting to be written on.   The problem with comforting lies is that they are easily seen through by the slightest change in light and shadow.   “… I’ve been looking for you for so long, kiddo…”   Dad kisses the top of my head, and I remember Mom’s chin rubbing it as she explained how men are made up of stories.   And I wonder what Dad’s story is.   “You didn’t find me.” It is half condemnation, half statement. Truth, even if hurtful. Because I don’t feel like letting the shadows trick me once again.   His arms tighten around me, and I can feel him holding something back. Maybe a sob. Maybe a scream.   “I didn’t.”   But… There are other truths.   “The Undersiders are very elusive. If Tattletale didn’t want you to find us, there was very little you could do.” I offer him. Another truth, harsh in its own way.   The hand on my hair shifts and reaches across my cheek to my chin, tugging it up, making me look at eyes too much like my own used to be.   Green. He has green eyes, and I can make the shade out even in this mild darkness.   Then he blinks, and there are motes of other colors, and then we are surrounded.   Silhouettes shifting in and out of distinctive shapes, something recognizable always appearing in them.   Lacey’s curly lock that she never manages to straighten, Kurt’s slight limp from that accident with a crane he always talks about when he gets a bit tipsy, Gerry’s black hair… I recognize all of them.   And I understand why Overseer never acts during the day.   “I can do quite a lot nowadays, Little Owl.” His voice is neither soft nor reassuring. It isn’t anything, just… words, empty words. Even though I like owls.   They are Athenea’s bird, one of the few goddesses who cared for mortals, the one who helped Prometheus sneak into Olympus to steal the fire from the Sun’s chariot after Zeus forbade men from ever eating cooked meat again, because gods are petty, and they take mortals as playthings and drag them across doors that aren’t doors and force them to swallow vile things that change them and turn them into something other, something else, and their minds break, because gods don’t care what happens to their toys after they are done with them, and there once was a beautiful woman whose every movement was a step toward the next one who decided that the black sister no longer needed to be herself, so—   “Taylor. Taylor, it’s all right. I’m here,” he says. And it should be reassuring, but the tone is lost, as lost as a small child left alone in the woods because her parents don’t have enough food for her, but the child was clever enough to leave behind a trail of breadcrumbs, except there were hungry things in the forest that took the crumbs so that the child could never go back to her home, because even if the child managed she would no longer be a child, or at least not the same child—   “Taylor!” The arms around me shake with restrained strength, and the silhouettes gather around me, each of them touching me in a comforting way, in a way unique to them, to the person they represent—   One of them rests her chin on the crown of my head.   I freeze, and nothing comes out. Not even words. Not even stories.   Dad isn’t breathing.   After a moment, I stop feeling that comforting, warm, awful pressure on my head.   “Do you control it?” I ask. And my tone is as devoid of meaning as the empty words from Dad calling me Little Owl.   He takes a moment to answer.   “Sometimes. It’s… It answers to both want and need. The right person for the right job.”   I think about it. About the implications.   “Powerful,” I finally say.   He laughs, and it’s an ugly thing.   “It’s only people I know. People I know really well. If I could summon Alexandria or Eidolon, the Bay would’ve been cleaned up a long time ago.”   A power that only manifests people he knows. People that he knows really well.   A power granted to a man that’s been trapped in a chronic depression since his wife died, unable to connect with even his daughter.   It’s a cruel thing, as powers tend to be. Or at least that’s what Lisa says.   And I…   No, I won’t ask him. Not that. Not after feeling her touch this one last time.   “Join the Protectorate. Meet the heroes, tell them.” Get help.   He shakes his head.   He may as well have been denying the silent part of my request.   “I only wanted to find you, Taylor. Only you.”   “That’s a lie. You care for this city.” That’s the only thing you kept caring about, at times.   “After I thought it had taken you away from me? No. No, Taylor, I really don’t care for this place anymore.”   I open my eyes and look at the faded ghosts gathered around us.   “That’s a lie.”   He sighs.   “It might be. It might not.”   “Dad… It was never about the city; it was about the people. And you’re surrounded by them.”   He leans back, dragging me with him, and I let him as I see him look away from me and toward the ceiling, a passing car making the shadows of the room spin and letting me see his scraggly beard, his sunken eyes, the tear tracts. I know what depression looks like, what it is when you don’t even have the energy to do what a part of you screams, demands that you do. What it’s like to be berated by yourself for not doing the most basic, elementary self-care.   Dad… even at his worse, right after mom died, he never looked quite like this.   A part of me is glad. Glad to know he can feel this much pain over me, to actually care, even if in this misguided, twisted way.   A part of me is glad I can hurt my father as much as he hurt me.   It’s… not a very heroic part.   Mom read a book to me when I was a child, a book I loved. It had a dragon, and an archer who slew it, but the main character was this short, fat person called a hobbit.   I cried when the book ended, because I wanted more of it. I… may have been a bit of a crybaby at the time.   And mom explained that there was another book, but one that I would enjoy more after I grew up a bit. That there wasn’t any hurry, that good books would always wait for me.   I read that book, those three books, years later, if only to feel a bit of the wonder and magic that I had felt when Mom had read the first one to me. I… they were different.   They say most fantasy books are about battles. About something exciting and rushed, about the thrill of combat and victory, but that the Lord of the Rings is about war. Because Tolkien knew what that was.   So there are long passages of dreadful nothing, of walking and waiting and longing for a far-away home. Pages and pages of melancholy and dread, and a quiet tiredness that seeps into your soul.   And then…   I speak, and the words flow out of me.   I speak of two hobbits walking to their final destination, separated from loyal friends because of the burden they carry. I speak of aching feet and weary souls, of elven bread tasting no longer of wonder but of the absence of home.   And then I speak of those hobbits seeing a waterfall right as the sun sets, of the shining rays of light dancing across moving strands of water like the fingers of a harpist gliding over their instrument. I speak of the beauty of an ephemeral yet eternal moment echoing in chests that, for just that moment, stop being empty.   I speak of nature healing a soul. Of beauty that endures. Of peace in the middle of an arduous journey.   My words cannot conjure color. They are black and white, stark contrast. Beauty like the night.   But these ones… These ones, just for a moment…   I can fool myself into seeing a rainbow glittering inside my old home.   And the musical cadence of a waterfall helps me ignore my father’s tears.   ***   I don’t know what time it is when I leave my old home.   Old. Because I can’t go back. Because I’m a wanted criminal, and Dad cannot afford to hide me in there for long. Not with both of us trying to be heroes, even if in different ways.   I know it’s late, because I’m as tired as I can be even if I don’t need to sleep.   I force myself not to look at the time when I unlock my phone, because I don’t want anything to let me dissuade myself.   So I just select the contact saved in it, and…   She picks up.   “Lisa, I—I’m sorry, I know it’s late, but—”   A tired, almost grumpy voice cuts me off.   “Come home, Taylor.”   So, gliding across all that’s best of dark and bright, I go to her.   There are always three brothers.   Sisters… There can be as many as we need.     ================== ================== This work is a repost of one of my first commissions, and one that I’m both grateful for and proud of. It can be found on QQ, SV, and AO3, and, of course, on my Patreon where the latest chapter will show up a week before it comes out for everyone else. It is currently 33 chapters and 94k words long and approaching its final arc at a good pace, so I hope you’ll look forward to learning about Wordsworth’s ending.   [font="Calibri",]As always, I’d like to thank my credited supporters on [/font]Patreon[font="Calibri",]: [/font]aj0413, LearningDiscord[font="Calibri",], Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon.[/font] [font="Calibri",]If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on [/font][font="Calibri",]Amazon[/font][font="Calibri",]. [/font][font="Calibri",]Thank you for reading![/font]  

Chapter 10 - Wordsworth – Chapter 11

“Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?”   It is an old question. The words fall from lips wise in magic and poison, lips that should know better than to ask, and the mirror listens.   The mirror only shows another image, though. Shows the one who asked, distorted and twisted around, an image that she recognizes as her own even as it isn’t.   The mirror lies.   Because that’s what the mirror does, all it can do: it shows a world that isn’t, that never was. A world whose only merit is to shine a new light on the one that is.   But that lie has enough truth to be dangerous, and those are the worst lies.   “Tay? Are you there?” Lisa asks, her voice a familiar enough whisper through my headset. So familiar that I know she’s not the Lisa from the other side of the mirror, that she’s the real Lisa.   My Lisa.   The one that’s been threatened.   “Yes,” I answer.   There’s a pause. A deep breath. An aborted sigh.   “I don’t want you to do this,” she tells me, her voice not trembling even as the emotion it carries does.   I close my eyes. Open them.   “You can’t stop me.”   And she laughs.   “Of course I can, Tay. I can give you fake information, direct you to other targets. I can tie you up being the kind of hero you want to be and not… this.” Her voice starts light, almost mocking. And then it ends almost pleading.   He hurt my Lisa.   “You won’t,” I tell her as carefully and tenderly as I wish I could rub the back of her neck in reassurance, my fingers tangling through golden tresses that befriended the Sun…   “No. No, I won’t,” she breathes out. And then her voice hardens. “But I wish I could.”   I smile. Not the sharp thing, the one that wishes it could bite and tear, but the gentle, soft one.   “You are too good for that, Liz. You know how it would hurt me to be manipulated, so you won’t do it. You know how it would hurt me to have me be tied down, so you’ll set me free. You know how I…”   “I know how much you want to be a hero. And I know this isn’t the kind of hero you want to be.”   I close my eyes, and allow soothing darkness to remain.   Then I let the words flow out.   “I… I want it, Liz. I want it so much, to live up to that shining ideal, to have a part of me, a pure part, roaming the world, unfettered by all that came after, all that was soured, defiled, and taken away. I want to be the hero I dreamed about, the hero from storytime, the hero who may lose, who may not always win, but that will always, always do the right thing…”   Darkness shifts, a caress in the dark, a comforting hand upon a restless brow.   “Then… Then don’t do this. Let me fight my own fight, Tay.”   There is cold in the darkness. Fear. Uncertainty.   But… But sometimes, it’s the darkness beneath warm sheets, and there’s safety and assurance.   And warmth.   The warmth of hair that befriended the Sun framing a foxy, cunning smile.   “You’re afraid. Afraid that I’ll lose a part of me, that I won’t come out of this being able to be the kind of hero I dreamed about, that I’ll be… tainted. Marred. But you’re wrong, Lisa, because if I didn’t do this, if I stood aside… Then I wouldn’t be saving an innocent. I would be abandoning the maiden in the dragon’s clutches. And that’s not what heroes do.”   The silence stretches, and I can almost feel her fingers interlaced between mine, clutching my hand tightly enough it could’ve hurt once upon a time.   “Not a dragon. A snake.”   I feel my lips curl up into a soft smile, and my eyes open to watch a night sky, clouds whitened by Moon and streetlights drifting above me.   “Many dragons are just big snakes.”   She chuckles, and my smile widens.   “All right, you win. You always win. That’s what heroes do, isn’t it?”   “No, Liz. Heroes fight. Heroes struggle. Heroes, sometimes, lose. But they do it meaningfully.”   There’s a sharp breath that crackles through my headset.   “Tay… please, don’t lose.”   A cloud moves just enough that I can see Moon shyly peeking out at me, almost winking in her thin profile.   “I won’t.”   And I look down.   There’s a squat building, an abandoned one atop a hill sectioned by wooden fences that hide away construction equipment. In the municipal registry, it’s a stalled project, one of many in Brockton Bay, just another investment that didn’t pay off, a dream that soured.   But I followed Javert here two hours ago, the mad, relentless investigator chasing down the prey I gave him, and I know what lies beneath. No, this isn’t a dream that soured.   It’s a nightmare wearing a mask.   And I feel the temptation once again. I feel each and every tale at my disposal, the ways I could turn this nightmare against its master.   A Cask of Amontillado, promised beneath buried rubble, walls closing in, entombing those below me to fester in their offense against my loved one till their bones became brittle with age and darkness.   A Telltale Heart, calling out the crimes committed by their master until each and every one of the mercenaries below him knew what it is that the snake does on the other side of the mirror, until their hearts were filled with the same song for vengeance that becomes deafening clarion call in mine. Until the lair of the snake became his restless, bloodied tomb.   Or maybe something fanciful, something Through the Looking Glass as I turned the twisting corridors into something removed from any logic that isn’t dreamlike, teasing with an upside-down world that twirled, and danced, and carried away into madness.   I could even sing about Asterion. Poor, crazed Asterion, buried alive in a house with too many corners by a king who feared the spawn of his wife. Turned into a monster by a birth orchestrated by a spurned god, a man with the head of a bull hunting down the others in the labyrinth as the hunger for the flesh of men grew with every year of captivity.   And I could make it terribly, dreadfully personal, Coil standing In the Desert, watching as a twisted, pitiful, naked creature wearing his face devours its bitter heart.   I could. I feel the words thrumming on my fingertips, ready to be unleashed, to be sung, to be brought into a world eager to listen to them. I could make this whole place become the nightmare its master deserves.   I could free Lisa, my Lisa, protect her and keep her away from a darkness that isn’t warm nor safe.   I could… But Lisa’s right. Because that would be vengeance, it would be cruelty, it would be…   Not what heroes do.   So, I won’t be cruel, I won’t be petty, I won’t be the cat playfully batting at its terrified prey.   But I won’t be merciful. I won’t be as soft as I would be with someone deserving of kindness.   I will be… just.   And that can also be terrible.   “He just called,” Lisa says.   I close my eyes tightly, trying to focus despite the rush of anxiety and anticipation the three words bring me.   Because Coil just called Lisa to give her the go-ahead, the signal for the Undersiders to proceed in their hit and run.   The signal that they are under the protection of his power.   That he just split the timelines.   My fingers tightly clasp Lisa’s tablet in my messenger bag.   I open my eyes, my vision clearer than perhaps I would prefer.   “Understood.”   “You do realize you’re just letting me get away with another crime, don’t you?” she teases me.   And I smile. Not softly, not quite, but still not as harshly as the monster in its lair deserves.   “Who said I wouldn’t punish you afterward?” I answer.   And there’s strangled laughter on the other end of the line.   “Tay… I’m pretty sure my karma will be in the clear after helping you bag one of the city’s top villains.”   “We shall see. So, the audio’s hacked?”   “Yes, you can give them your poetry recital or whatever it is that your too literally Quixotic mind can come up with this time around,” she tries to lightly banter, but the tone just isn’t right.   “Something like that, yes. And… Liz?”   “Yes?”   “Good luck committing crimes.”   There’s a pause.   “I swear, if you pull some bullshit Robin Hood reading to make me give up my well-earned loot…”   I laugh.   “Thanks for giving me ideas.”   “Oh, as if you ever lacked any of those.”   We share a quiet chuckle, and then I look down.   And sigh.   “Liz… This will be the last time he can force you to do anything. I swear.”   “I… I know. Thank you, Tay.”   I hang up.   “No. Thank you, Liz.”   And I take out her tablet.   Once again, it’s easy to browse through the hacked security cameras, to see everything going on in the underground lair. There are sections of it that haven’t been finished, particularly a big vault that remains open and empty whose purpose I can only guess at, but no construction workers are there at this time, and I can only see uniformed mercenaries going around, enough of them to provide me with a substantial audience.   And, of course, sitting in his office, there’s Coil.   A tall, thin man. Almost skeletal, his silhouette disturbing even without the black body glove adorned with the twisting white snake that brings his name to mind.   Well, one of his names. The one that matters.   I contemplate him, trying to divine a hint of the true horrors Lisa’s only vaguely alluded to, trying to see the monster that haunts her, but he’s well disguised, and I can barely glimpse at what he intends to show. At the calm, efficient mastermind rather than the deranged, violent monster that he becomes when he’s safe in the other side of the lying mirror.   Though, at this moment, so soon after he split the timelines, I know the Taylor on the other side won’t differ too much from me.   I look at the tablet’s clock and wait until Lisa’s timer goes off, the one she remotely set so that it would warn me when precisely six minutes since Coil gave her the go-ahead had passed.   Enough time to allow some divergence, but not enough that he has reached any safe place—not even if he suspected that his lair no longer is such a place.   And so I tap another icon, one with a microphone that connects me to his base.   And I speak.   I speak of two men in a bedroom, one of them scared, terrified, and the other trying to calm him down by reading from an old book, a medieval romance, the kind of fanciful tale I would love to have between my pages if it was real, if it existed beyond being a book inside another book.   And my words align with those of the reader, with those of the man following along a knight who would come upon a palace of gold.   And, like all knights who came upon unexpected treasure, he would see a dragon guarding it.   My words rush out, more plentiful than ever before as they crawl out of the speakers in Coil’s base. His mercenaries panic, turning around and going for their sidearms, some of the brightest among them trying to shoot at where the speakers are receded into the concrete walls, but they aren’t quick enough to stop my words from transforming the corridors into rich mahogany covered in lush carpet, to have the sickening light of fluorescent tubes become flickering gaslight covered by ground glass.   And everything’s rendered in black, white, and gray, but the effect’s still that of a rich mansion that can only hint at past splendor.   And Coil’s frozen, the sliding door of his escape passage suddenly covered by ancient tapestry behind which there’s only a solid wall.   And there are two men beside him, one of them shivering in horror as the other reads, as he desperately tries to calm his friend down in the only way he has. As he lets the story of knight Ethelred unfold.   “Who entereth herein, a conqueror hath bin; Who slayeth the dragon, the shield he shall win;” he says, reading the inscription written upon the bronze shield as he beheld the guardian of the palace.   And so the knight Ethelred raised his mace to strike down the monster, and I can see Coil shy away from the reader as the mace descends in the story within my story, my voice coming out of the man holding a book I can’t devour, and thunder sounds.   And Coil’s base shakes.   He franticly looks for an escape, but the windows pointing outside what had been his office are just words upon concrete, and they show a glowing lake and lightning, but they don’t budge at his frantic beating.   The mercenaries keep trying to find a door that will open, and some do when my words align with the doors that were in the world before the story, but they only find rooms with wooden panels and ancient furniture that once was luxurious in the now ruined House of Usher.   And I try not to delight in their panic, in Coil’s frantic beating on the door to his office until he remembers why it won’t open during this part of the story, and he takes a staggering step back that ends with him slumped on the bed, his head on his hands, his elbows on his knees.   And he sobs.   There’s a hint of a cruel smile that I try to smother before it becomes something worse. Because he hurt Lisa, my Lisa, and he would’ve kept hurting her, but that’s no excuse to… to become what a hero should never be.   I have no right to punish him. But I have a duty to stop him.   So I keep reading.   The dragon’s slain, the knight victorious.   And a shield falls.   Solid bronze thunders on silver pavement, and the door to Coil’s office shakes.   And the thunder in the knight’s tale becomes wood giving way as a bloodied women steps into the room, the falsely dead coming back to life, the twin, buried sister emerging to take her vengeance.   The frightened man shudders and dies as his sister falls upon him, victim not of violence, but of fright. And the reader flees.   And Coil jumps to his feet, some hope, some energy to his movements as he runs after the reader.   But words are swift. Swifter than any man.   And so the reader runs through mahogany corridors that shudder under terrible strain, runs past doors that open for him and only him, past the architecture of a tale that has little to do with that of drab concrete.   He flees, flees from the ancient mansion with no heirs.   And Coil, master of his lair, remains behind.   From where I’m standing, atop one of the very few buildings that can look down upon the fake construction site above the too real construction below, I see a man run out of a door that wasn’t there before he burst out of it, and, for just a terrible, glorious moment, the image is complete.   There’s no construction equipment, no wooden fence, no squat building.   There’s a mansion. Old. Ancient. Terrible.   Beautiful.   My words bring detail to it I never dreamed when I was a young child sneaking some forbidden books out of their shelves, when I had my first taste of horror, of the delightful thrill that had very little to do with the gray reality that true horror would bring me not so long after.   I remember. I remember telling Emma about the blood and dark, about dead men speaking and demanding they be let go, about crimes that baffled the greatest detective before the greatest detective.   I remember gossiping, sharing the stories as if a naughty secret even as they enthralled and captured me beneath bedcovers with a secreted flashlight, my eyes heavy with tiredness held at bay by sheer fascination and thrill.   I remember long nights having trouble falling asleep, and the stories being worth every single second of distress.   And I remember an old mansion falling apart, cracking down the middle to show a crimson moon behind it. I remember the end of the line of the Ushers, the thunder from the storm above meeting the one from the building sinking below.   It was beautiful.   It was beautiful then, and it is now.   So I watch as the detailed, precious words fall apart, as sections of intricate façade crumble under gargoyles with stone wings that won’t slow their fall.   And I watch as the waters of a lake of words rush in, carrying Coil’s men in white, rushing, foaming rivers.   And I watch Coil struggle among them.   And I strain.   My power’s still under my control, but barely, because some speakers have been destroyed as the base sustaining them is crushed by the story. The magnitude is fading, and that is good, as I don’t need as much strength to hold its reins, but my control’s also fading, and…   I close my eyes, feel my words.   I… I’m not always able to, not when they’re away, acting on their own, but the connection’s still there, still solid enough.   And I guide them.   I guide every piece of ceiling to fall on empty water and not struggling men. I guide cracking timber to hold the shape of concrete as pockets of safety and air are established.   And I guide rushing waters to carry struggling men.   And, when I’m done, each and every one of them is a prisoner, safe beneath groaning rubble.   None of them are bleeding or moaning in pain, holding a crushed limb.   But they are all disarmed, disoriented.   Alone.   And I feel Coil strike at walls holding him and any mirrors he cares to bring with him.   And I feel my words rush back to me as my mind fades, as the effort finally takes its toll.   My eyes swim as I contemplate the fall of the House of Coil.   And then I see the crackling lightning of Dauntless stepping across the sky, rushing to the greatest display of parahuman might Brockton Bay has seen since Lung’s first rampage.   And now I know I can close my eyes and rest, because they will find them. Each and every one of them. They will find them safe and helpless, and they will dig them out and bring them to judgment and justice.   Because that’s what heroes do.     ================== ================== This work is a repost of one of my first commissions, and one that I’m both grateful for and proud of. It can be found on QQ, SV, and AO3, and, of course, on my Patreon where the latest chapter will show up a week before it comes out for everyone else. It is currently 33 chapters and 94k words long and approaching its final arc at a good pace, so I hope you’ll look forward to learning about Wordsworth’s ending.   As always, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on Amazon. Thank you for reading!  

Chapter 15 - Wordsworth – Chapter 16 – Colors 6

“What were you thinking?!” Armsmaster yells at me once again.   And far be it from me to decry his earnest efforts to help me in my self-flagellation, but it may be slightly rude to do this while I’m lying on a hospital bed.   “Sir, I just acted according to—”   “According to nothing. There’s absolutely no justification for a Ward to risk their life so blatantly against an enemy of Lung’s caliber. Do you have the slightest idea of how close a call that was? How badly things could’ve—”   “With all due respect, I thought heroes were supposed to risk their lives to save others.”   Taylor would.   Taylor has.   Armsmaster, although he obviously also has, is apparently not completely on board with me doing so, given the wall-shaking punch he lands next to my bed.   Hypocrite.   “Emma, you’re relieved of your duties until a certified psychologist can convince me it’s a good idea to let your suicidal self near any actual danger,” he growls out.   It’s… refreshingly honest, truth be told.   “Sir, I am not suicidal. In my case, it’s even plain to see,” I say, gesturing at the muddled, swirling colors washing over and around me, never quite displaying anything overt.   Because I don’t let them.   “I don’t even know what that mélange means, and I’m not about to trust it enough to let you on duty,” he tells me with a glare intense enough I can feel it through his visor.   I wonder if I have some actual empathic abilities? Would that be from a specific color or just an extension of my usual powers being tied to emotions? I never thought about it, but maybe I—   “Emma. Listen to me,” he demands.   And so I do.   He’s tense, on the verge of panic, and it’s only now that I realize he doesn’t know how to handle me. Because he gave up oversight of the Wards, he gave it over to Piggot so he could focus on things he deemed more pressing, but now he finds himself technically responsible for a cape powerful enough to bring down Lung, and he… He wants to help. Do the right thing.   But doesn’t know what that is.   How… How very Emma Barnes of you, Armsmaster.   “You… You accomplished something today. Something great. But you’re a publicly unmasked cape, and this could’ve serious consequences. It’s not just you that you’re risking—”   Red surges, and the bed burns.   “Where are they?” I ask him as I stand on trembling legs reinforced with the strength of rage.   “Your family’s safe! We’ve moved them to the Rig while we—” and then he stops talking.   Mostly because he has to dive forward to catch me as the red flees, and I sag, still too weak, still waiting for Amy to come back with that bag of biomass that should replenish my spent muscle, that should make me look like Emma rather than Taylor at her worst.   And, even then, I always caught myself looking at her.   Green flashes over me, and I see Armsmaster’s lips thin, pressed into a tight line as he helps me back to the blackened, no longer burning bed. There are traces of quickly dissolving foam on it, so I’ve missed the moment he extinguished the flames; I’ve missed—   It doesn’t matter. I missed plenty of things back then.   Now I just have to… do better with the ones I do notice.   So I suppress the green, the disorienting sickness, and I focus once again on the feeling I had when I saw Tattletale flee, when I convinced Amy and Vicky to let her. I focus on the… the thing beating below regret and hurt, the thing that was almost strong enough to overwhelm the jealousy and possessiveness and loss.   And gold thrums on the inside of my right arm, and my head clears.   “I’m sorry,” I tell him, forcing myself to mean it.   His hands are on my arms, holding me upright, steady.   “You… just tell me what were you thinking. What did you seek to accomplish. Please.”   His tone is stern, his grasp on me firm.   He doesn’t fool me.   Because there’s that minute pause, that moment where his lips thin yet again before he nervously wets them, and I know Armsmaster is scared. Not of me, but for me.   And… I don’t know how to answer that. So I do it with the truth.   “I was thinking… that I wanted to do something good. No, that’s not quite right. I was thinking that I—that somebody else didn’t deserve to lose anything more. That if I could, I should stop a tragedy. That I should… That I…”   “That you wanted to be a hero,” he whispers, patting my hair.   I don’t nod, don’t tell him he’s right.   I just lean forward, hug his rigid armor, and cry.   ***   Armsmaster takes some time to leave, but he doesn’t yell at me anymore, doesn’t hit the wall, doesn’t glare with disapproval.   He just… He’s distantly tender. Supportive.   And when he finally steps out of the room without saying goodbye, without breaking the silence that started after my tears stopped, the new silence is different.   So I lie back on the bed, the scorched edge of my blankets grating on my skin, and I briefly wonder why there were no alarms, why nobody rushed in to check everything was all right, but then I remember I am a parahuman, a powerful one, and it all makes sense.   Except…   Today I beat Lung.   That… that doesn’t make any sense.   “Alone at last,” Sophia says from behind and above me.   I almost snort.   “Hey there, Hero,” I tell her.   She remains silent at that, the whisper of her clothes rustling about the only indication she hasn’t left.   “You haven’t called me that in a while,” she finally continues.   “You just fought Lung, Sophia. I know how scared—”   “I wasn’t—”   “Don’t lie to me.”   I don’t yell at her, don’t think I can, at the moment, but my voice still snaps, and it takes her another moment to speak again.   “I pick my fights. I’m not suicidal—unlike others.”   I close my eyes. The reddish tint of the light going through my eyelids is a definite improvement on the hospital’s ceiling, and it has the added advantage of not letting me see my colors while speaking with Sophia.   “I know. That’s why I said I know how scared you were—and it wasn’t an insult. That’s why I called you Hero.”   She won’t understand.   “I don’t—”   “Think about a… a rat. A cat’s scary, right? Five pointy ends, all geared to murder it—normally, the rat will flee given the slightest chance. Now, have the cat be near her nest, near her young, and what does the rat do when faced with a killing machine bred to exterminate her?”   “Are you calling me a rat, Emma?”   “Stop being difficult for the sake of it.”   Another silence, and there’s a shadow over my eyelids. When I open them, I see her leaning over the bed, her face right above mine, her dark hair falling around her.   She’s beautiful, always was.   She’s also angry, and she always was.   “Is that what you are, Ems? A rat protecting her ratlings?”   Part of me wishes to reach up, to brush her cheek with the tip of my fingers, but it’s not weakness that stays my hand. No, I think it’s the opposite of that.   “What did you see?” I ask instead.   And I can see the moment she flinches.   “Why? Why did you… You weren’t trying to get killed, I know you weren’t, you moved differently, with a purpose, and… Why can you fight like that? Why can you do what you did today and still be… you?” she almost rambles.   “Ouch. Not pulling any punches, are you?” I smile up at her, and Sophia’s upside-down face grimaces at the sight of it.   Guess I’m still not good at those.   “Stop… stop playing around and just answer the damn question,” she says. She doesn’t ask me, though, because she’s holding something back, and I know her enough to understand what that is.   Because I hate Sophia. I hate her for what she did to me, what she convinced me of, how she led me to forsake Taylor and enabled me to do all that came after.   But I still like Sophia.   I like that she saved my life; I like that she went out on her own for so long, fighting against the odds, risking her life. I like that she’s a… no. I can’t bring myself to say that. She isn’t.   So I could murder her. I’ve thought about it, about the sheer relief at cutting off that part of me, about the temptation of blaming her entirely for what my broken self did over months of harassment and cruelty and betrayal. I’ve thought about grasping her head and calling all the red she inspires in me, boiling her brain before she is able to shift to shadows and flee.   But… But if I can… If there’s hope for me, if the golden thrum in my arm is to mean anything at all…   I close my eyes. I don’t want to look at her.   “Long ago, I met a little girl. She was alone, maybe also lonely, not playing with the others in the park, so I decided to approach her, more out of curiosity than anything else.   “She changed my life.   “It turned out she hadn’t been alone, you know? Her brain was full of stories, and she was imagining one of them, bouncing between the trees as she chased something only she could see. She was having more fun doing that than trying to fit in with other kids, but she accepted me asking.   “And she taught me.   “About her stories, the ones her mom had read to her and the ones she always came up with so we could play together.   “The stories… were always about heroes.   “Years went by, the stories grew more complex, more interesting, and at some point we stopped tumbling along the ground and just talked about… things. Plenty of them. But still about her stories.   “Because she wanted to be a hero. Even if she didn’t care that much about powers.   “It wasn’t about that, to her. A hero wasn’t one because of what they were, but because of what they did—no, because of what they tried. Plenty of heroes died tragic deaths while trying to reach the unreachable, stop the unstoppable… save the doomed.   “‘That’s what heroes do,’ she often told me.   “And… And I’m called a hero. I have a uniform, a codename, a salary. But…   “But if that girl I met so many years ago saw me now, Sophia? She wouldn’t call me a hero. She wouldn’t think I am, not with what I’ve done, what I’ve let myself be, what I haven’t tried to do.   “So… I saw Lung. I saw Lung about to hurt… others, in a way I understood, a way I knew far too well, and I…   “I just want to be a hero, Sophia. It’s that so hard to… Can I… Can someone like me…”   I can’t. I can’t finish my speech, can’t tell Sophia what it all really means, what I want for me. For her. What Taylor would’ve wanted me to want. I can’t be the girl I was, that Taylor thought I was, and tears choke out my voice at each failing word that reaches without grasping.   When I open my eyes, Sophia isn’t there.   And, once again, I’ve failed.     ================== ================== This work is a repost of one of my first commissions, and one that I’m both grateful for and proud of. It can be found on QQ, SV, and AO3, and, of course, on my Patreon where the latest chapter will show up a week before it comes out for everyone else. It is currently 33 chapters and 94k words long and approaching its final arc at a good pace, so I hope you’ll look forward to learning about Wordsworth’s ending.   As always, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on Amazon. Thank you for reading!  

Chapter 11 - Wordsworth – Chapter 12 – Colors 5

The docks are burning.   “Just call it in, Ems. That’s Lung on a rampage; there’s nothing you can do.”   Sophia’s voice comes from behind me, terse and severe, but far softer than it was mere moments ago. Before we heard the explosion.   I feel… something. I’m still not good enough at identifying all of my emotions, far too used to hiding them behind the always present rage, but there’s… an urge. Almost a longing.   There’s a pulse of amber, of the eagerness to jump into action, to rush through the streets and dance amid danger, every step one taken along a razor’s blade. And I know amber. I know it from training with the Wards, from the few worthwhile fights I’ve fought.   There’s the thrum of gold, the lone vein still carefully hidden inside my forearm. And I know hope, even if I don’t yet know what power it brings beyond making me able to stand seeing myself in the mirror, even if for a short while.   But… There’s also some kind of blue… No. Indigo. Indigo is swirling around me, spiraling up from my calves, along my thighs, reaching up to my chest.   And I… I want to…   Protect.   My eyes open wide, and I can see with far more detail than I should. I see how the haze of the Bay distorts the flames roaring up to the sky more than six blocks away, I see shadows over fire, silhouettes of men and monsters painted in light that’s not as bright as it could be, and I hear—   “Back off! We can—shit! Brian, cover Alec before he—”   The blonde girl whose voice I’ve learned to hate stops abruptly, not even screaming.   And red joins amber, gold, and indigo.   “Emma!” Sophia’s voice’s behind me, fading away as I leap, as the wind roars past me, as I rush to fight a dragon and save a damsel.   Taylor would be—   No. I’ve got no right.   The tarmac of the roof smolders as my feet dig into it, heat, strength, and speed damaging the old building, but I can’t stop, not now, not when—   Another jump. The reflexes of amber and the awareness of indigo let me roll in just the right way, along the right path, and I come up to my feet just in time to make the next one.   I overshoot, the next building too narrow for me to land on it at the speed I was going, and I’m falling, and I—   I remember. I remember Sophia above me, a bolt in her hand, ready to stab through my eye, ready to kill me, and I remember the sheer relief, the almost elation that it all would end, that I would just stop existing, stop feeling, stop having to deal with—   For a brief moment, cerulean blue washes completely over me, and I feel my body lightening, featherweight, almost floating.   I land on the street below, my fall barely disturbing a blackened piece of paper lying on the sidewalk.   I breathe. Just breathe, just center myself, trying to remember cerulean isn’t an option. That it’s meaningless, a waste, that I should use something else next time, because that’s not an emotion I want to flirt with, and I remember Anne loaning me her old theatre book, the one with Stanislavsky’s method, the one I devoured in a single night after I got home with a golden vein of hope that—   Hope.   Hope for Taylor.   The Taylor who wants to be a hero, who wants to be noble, who wants to help without compromising.   The Taylor who will murder Lung if I don’t get there in time.   Amber bursts forth, intense enough I can see the street around me light up as if with lamps shining through a calm sea made of gold.   And I run.   My shinbones tingle with every impact against the ground until I lean on the rage I feel at Lung taking something of Taylor’s away, until I remember Tattletale’s frantic instructions being cut off and her partners not even having the leeway to shout at her injury. Amber and red propel me, the streets blur, and I reach the fire.   And the dragon.   He’s tall, taller than I’ve ever seen him, and he’s throwing off one of Hellhound’s giant dogs, the mutt taking a piece of sliver-covered flesh with him as it bounces off a brick wall with a wet sound and a low whine.   Then the dog lies on its side, its chest slowly, tremulously deflating.   It’s a cliché. It’s stupid. It’s not even rational.   But I just saw Lung hurt a dog, and I guess I’m still too much of a stupid teenage girl who has no business getting into superpowered fights to feel anything but burning rage at the action.   So I jump at him, my fist cocked back with all the strength that rage grants me.   And he slaps me down.   Ah. Right. Super senses.   Like the ones I just lost with my little floating stunt.   “Hiiiro?” he asks through a muzzle that is no longer human enough.   Then he laughs.   Grue is half-lying against the wall to my back, just at the edge of my peripheral vision. His jacket is missing a sleeve, and his helmet is cracked.   He… I’m sorry. I truly, really, I’m sorry, but I don’t care enough about him to experience what I need, to get the power I have to—   “Angelica, kill,” Hellhound’s rough voice rasps out, her throat obviously injured, hurt, and another of her dogs jumps at Lung.   The villain—the monster turns away from me, too quick for his bulk, for his misshapen body, and I see the claws of his right hand spread as he—   I lean on amber and red, both intense enough to rival the flames around us, and I rush at him, my aura stretching into a searing bolt directed at the back of his knee.   He’s resistant to his own fire, and maybe to mine, but I think I can… Yes.   Lung has a trick. He can suddenly increase the intensity of the flames he throws around, heating them up quickly enough that they become explosions. But I am not a pyrokinetic. Maybe someday I will find an emotion that changes that, but now I’m not.   But the burning rage? The heat it generates? I can—should be able to control that.   And my bolts aren’t bolts, just pieces of my aura.   So I focus. I dive into my anger, let the images come to mind, let them burn and compound on each other. I first see Lung carelessly maiming a dog, but then I remember Piggot parading me around to cower Chris, and then I remember Sophia casually mentioning silencing Taylor, and then I—   ‘This… It will give her the same powers I will have? No more, no less?’   ‘It’s not an exact science, Miss Barnes, there’s always a risk involved. But, as far as we can ensure such a thing, the two vials have the same components. You will express them differently, but the abilities will be as equivalent as we can make them.’   ‘Right. Right. So... that’s it, then. The last thing I wanted to know.’   ‘Have you come to a decision, I take it?’   ‘Yes. Do it.’   I burn.   The world around me fades, the rage so intense, so all-consuming, that my mind can’t contain anything else, that everything fades except the frantic beating of my heart and the strange cold flowing through my veins, that I—   There’s thunder around me, and I feel the pain it brings me.   And I use that to focus.   Lung’s lying on the floor, the lower half of his right leg just missing, and I’m inside a crater that tells me my desperate trick worked, that the surge of rage was enough to overheat the air enough to replicate the villain’s move. Enough that I see the remains of my communicator half-melted at my feet.   And Angelica is stunned, shaking her head, but alive and not gutted by a dragon’s claws, and that makes something light in my chest thrum, and I regain the vein of gold that I don’t know how to harness but that I desperately need.   I look around, and I see Hellhound kneeling beside the hurt dog, her hand on it as she tries to do whatever her power lets her do to save it. Grue’s still behind me, still unmoving, but I know he’s alive because there’s a patch of black covering a corner, and…   Tattletale.   She’s…   At the far end of the block, in the middle of an intersection with patches of burning asphalt.   Unmoving.   Burned.   No.   No, red won’t do, don’t think about it, don’t let that fester when you need something else, when you need…   I need to save her. I need to save her so Taylor won’t be hurt.   Indigo blooms, my senses sharpen, and I see her exposed, maimed back move. I see clear, transparent fluid flowing between the cracks of puckered flesh. I see blood welling on open wounds.   I see she lives.   And gold spreads over my arm.   I catch a glint of something on a shard of glass fallen near her unmoving form, and that lets me notice the stilling of wind at my back just in time to leap.   The ground below me bursts into flame, and I manage to turn around in mid-air to face Lung, to see flesh bubbling below his knee as he roars at me, his inhuman maw splitting into rows of teeth and tongues of flame—   I stretch my left arm away from me and cradle a glob of red before I pour my father’s face and everything it brings me on it, the explosion enough to abort the trajectory of my jump before Lung’s blast engulfs me. The rush of adrenaline is enough to bring me amber, and I roll across the ground with increased speed and indigo-fueled senses, but I don’t know what I can do to—   A bolt of shadow sinks into Lung’s neck, and he staggers.   I see her, Sophia, kneeling on the rooftop like that night we first met, like that night she decided I was enough of a fighter to be worth saving.   I feel a slight amount of pride, of joy, and then I realize it, and it sickens me—enough to bring a wave of viridian over my left arm and…   And…   That may just work.   I charge Lung, Angelica’s brutish form doing the same from another angle, and the dragon twists around, his new wings spreading to maybe shield any vital parts from either Sophia’s bolts or Angelica’s jaws.   But not from my left hand.   And so I touch him, and allow everything I hold back to flow.   I allow that first time I let Sophia push Taylor away, that first time I joined in.   I push what I did to Annette's silver flute, one of the few mementos of a woman who was almost a mother to me.   I push every insult, every careless cruelty, every deliberate injury until I feel like throwing up, until not even the red can shield me from the nausea, from the need to purge my insides of everything rotten inside me.   And Lung’s shape buckles.   He’s on his hands and knees, viridian washing over him as strongly as over me, and he’s throwing up, his jaws split as far as they will go as Angelica tears a chunk off his thigh and Sophia rains shadow wounds upon his back.   So I push.   I push being alone in my room, thinking about Taylor, about the way she looked, about the way she walked, she talked, after everything I took away from her. After she fought to regain even the smallest scrap.   I push the image of a guilty, confused, sick girl remembering her first crush and touching—   I throw up, the bile thick in my mouth.   And Lung shrinks as his scales fade beneath his skin.   I heave, the rough, boiling pavement scraping layers of skin off my palms, but this isn’t enough, because we have vanquished the dragon, but the damsel’s still dying.   And I don’t know how to heal; I just know who does.   So I push myself up. Because that’s what heroes do. And I’m not a hero, I’ll never be, but she is, she always was, and she deserves everything I have to go through to make sure she at least doesn’t lose yet another thing of hers.   I stumble, brush traces of bile off my mouth, and my knees almost give up, buckling beneath me, but I need to push, I need to—   “Ems! Ems, answer me!”   There’s a hand on my shoulder. It’s pulling me back.   I push forward.   “You can’t go on! You are burned, bleeding—”   The voice’s familiar. Someone I know, someone I met before the green gouged out my insides, and I…   There’s a wave of nausea, and the hand falls away as I hear gagging noises behind me.   And there’s nothing pulling me back, so I keep pushing forward.   And then there’s a broken girl beneath me.   I… I can’t touch her, not now, not with all the green covering me, so I need to—   Gleaming gold thrums, and I hear a dog whining. I turn around to see the injured animal trying to wag its monstrous tail as Hellhound kneels in front of it, her hand on its snout so tender and careful it takes me a moment to reconcile it with the brash, violent girl.   And I cry.   I just… I don’t know why it stabs me like that, why it’s something so unbearably sad, but it’s enough that the green fades as blue takes its place. Not strong enough to crack the ground beneath me, but…   But enough that I’m once more able to kneel down and take the injured girl in my arms.   I remember my training, the few actually useful classes I took as a prospective Ward, and I know a fireman’s carry would make her easier to carry, but I look down at Tattletale’s face, at the beauty marred by puckered, red, weeping flesh, and I can’t bring myself to do it.   So I reinforce my arms with the red the monster who inflicted those wounds on her brings me, and I steady my hold on her so that carrying her like this won’t be a problem, so that I will be able to—   To what?   Carry her across the entire city?   To Panacea, to the girl who hates villains, who thinks I despise the Undersiders and Wordsworth as much as I’ve said I do?   No, not the time. I don’t have the time to doubt myself, to doubt anything.   “Hellhound—” I start to say.   “Bitch,” she growls out.   I recoil for a moment before I remember that’s her preferred moniker, and I’ve been too caught up in PR lessons to properly address her.   Stupid.   “Bitch… Tattletale’s dying.”   She freezes.   “I need your help. To carry her.”   She looks back at me.   “Can’t. Angelica’s leg’s hurt.”   I look to the side, and the big dog is limping toward her mistress.   She has three dogs. Always has three dogs with her, so why isn’t she—oh.   Oh. I’m so sorry…   “I’ll do what I can,” I tell her, and she nods at me, her hand never straying from the hurt dog trying to lick the palm of his owner amid pained whines.   I could… call for support? No, my coms are melted slag at this point, and Sophia keeps having hers ‘malfunction.’   So I…   I need amber, for speed, and red, for strength.   But I’m so drained, so tired…   I stumble out of the intersection, away from the Undersiders’ line of sight, and I reinforce the red with the frustration at my own weakness. And then I start jogging.   Amy should be at Brockton Central tonight, but that’s on the other side of town. I need to reach somebody with a phone, somebody who hasn’t fled after Lung’s rampage, somebody willing to approach two parahumans in the middle of the night.   The Boardwalk. There are always stupid cape-tourists at the Boardwalk.   But I... I need to hurry.   And so I remember what little I digested from Anne’s book, the acting method, and I think about the fight—no, about the training session a month ago, when I was under Chris’ fire, dodging, and rolling, and twisting my body around impossibly near shots as Sophia got into position to cover me—   The amber surges, the world slowing down, gaining clarity. But a smidge of green taints it, and Tattletale’s face twists beneath her melted domino mask.   “Emma..?”   Her voice is rough, barely recognizable.   “You will be all right. I’m getting you to safety.”   One eye opens. The other doesn’t.   “It hurts, Emma. It hurts, because… you were never meant to… save people…”   That’s her power talking.   “You just… hurt. Hurt, and tear, and… and… taint…”   Don’t answer. She’s out of it. She’s reflexively lashing out. It’s like Vista getting distance after getting injured, or Sophia phasing out before falling unconscious.   Just a reflex.   So just keep thinking about electricity buzzing around you, keep thinking about the elation of a narrow dodge, about wind rushing past my face as I reached for cover—   “Taylor will always be better than you…”   I swallow.   “You are right; she will,” I finally answer.   And her mouth stretches into a smile that turns pained before reaching its full cruelty.   “She will… get it all back,” she continues.   “Yes.”   “And you’ll… you’ll never… touch her…”   It hurts. It hurts to hear.   And there’s another color, another one ready to burst forth, but I know it’s not one I can afford, so I focus on remembering ozone trails, on immersing myself in the sense memory of powdered concrete exploding around me as I joyfully—   “She loves me…” her voice is fading, the knife in it barely a whisper.   It still stabs deep.   “I know. That’s why I saved you,” I answer, not looking into her one lone eye.   She stills.   And quietens.   And I can only run.   ***   I reach the Boardwalk covered in sweat and Tattletale’s blood, but she’s still breathing, still rasping out each pained lungful, and I see people roaming around, excitedly talking, and I remember why.   Because Taylor just made a mansion that never existed fall apart tonight.   And I should’ve gone there if I was to find parahuman assistance.   Stupid, stupid, stupid! How could I mess this—   “Iridiscent?” Victoria Dallon’s clear voice shakes me out of… whatever that was.   “Glory Girl?” I turn to her, and the two sisters are there, in civilian clothes, eating ice cream.   I sink to my knees.   “Iridiscent?! What the Hell—”   “Amy. Ames. Please. Save her.” I stretch my arms, red no longer in them, and the muscles tremble with strain and fatigue as I struggle not to drop the girl in them.   There’s a rush of motion, and the greatest healer in the world is by my side, her palm on my cheek.   “You are hurt. Horribly,” she says with a tone that’s almost her dry and detached one.   “Her. Do her first. Please.”   She looks at me, then down, and her eyes widen as she finally sees the extent of Tattletale’s wounds.   Then she almost backs away when she realizes who she is.   And I can’t hold her. Can’t grab her arm and force her to stay, because I’m still holding Tattletale, trying not to bring her even more pain. But Amy looks into my eyes. And stays.   And then she touches the blonde. And winces.   “I… She’s lost some mass—”   “Take it from me. I can eat as much as you need me to later.”   “She’s a villain, Emma—”   “She’s dying, Amy.”   Her fingers tense on my cheek, and she nods.   She grasps Tattletale’s hand and brings her to a tear on the side of my uniform, and, after barely a moment, I feel my thighs shrink, my legs becoming thin and gangly.   Like Taylor’s were.   And I feel the golden vein of hope thrum inside my forearm as I strain to hold back a burbling laugh.     ================== ================== This work is a repost of one of my first commissions, and one that I’m both grateful for and proud of. It can be found on QQ, SV, and AO3, and, of course, on my Patreon where the latest chapter will show up a week before it comes out for everyone else. It is currently 33 chapters and 94k words long and approaching its final arc at a good pace, so I hope you’ll look forward to learning about Wordsworth’s ending.   As always, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on Amazon. Thank you for reading!  

Chapter 3 - Wordsworth – Chapter 4

Lisa’s apartment is as soothing as ever.   It may be the dredges of the memories from the time I spent here while she was still piecing me back together, or it may be just another perk of being a Thinker who can apply her power to interior design, but the warm tone of the eggshell white walls, the beech flooring, the thoroughly cushioned wooden sofa and chairs… They all are home in a way that a place with piles of dirty dishes and forgotten beer cans has stopped being.   Seeing her opening the door in her gray, fuzzy pajamas and slippers, her eyes bleary with interrupted sleep, just adds to the impression.   I should feel guilty, bashful about intruding.   I don’t.   I feel…   Welcomed.   “Are you going to stand there all night? Some of us still have human metabolisms, you know?”   “At the rate you ingest both coffee and painkillers, I don’t think that’s as true as you think.”   “Smartass. You’re lucky I’m still not up to a hundred percent verbal sparring.”   “Oh, they say one should capitalize on good fortune wherever it’s found, don’t they?”   “Tay, if you start misusing your power to throw trite quotes at me, I’ll make sure you are officially designated as Fortune Cookie.”   I laugh.   Then I hug her.   It’s a deliberate decision, something that takes me effort to do, but the other me, the one lost in stories, reclaimed this. She had lost a lot of memories, but along them, she lost many reasons to be afraid, to not want to touch others, to avoid a hug, a pat on the back… I have regained those reasons, but that doesn’t mean I have to lose what a simpler me had.   Not anymore.   Lisa stiffens for a moment, which tells me she’s surprised by this, that she’d expected me to pull back, to retreat rather than push forward. She had expected the current me not to hug her anymore.   I am not at all ashamed to say that surprising the Thinker seven adds a thrill of pleasure to the warm embrace. Really, I can’t wait to rub it in her face.   “You couldn’t let me have this nice moment without adding it to your arsenal, could you?” She grumbles as she reads my mind, her fingers digging on the words that make up my dress, a particular passage from The Little Mermaid flowing beneath her touch.   “You would do the same if you were in my place,” I murmur, my head buried in her blonde hair.   “Which is how I know it’s not a good thing to do.”   “Self-hatred doesn’t befit you.”   “Self-awareness, though, seems to be part of the package.”   I lean back and look at her reproachfully. I don’t know how much of that’s a joke, nor how much is something that she only allows herself to say through jokes. It’s just… I don’t think it’s funny.   “Tay, you really don’t need to make a big thing out of this,” she says, dejected, her shoulders slumping over my arms still circling her.   “I’m pretty sure I’m contractually obligated to make sure the girl who rescued my soul doesn’t get stuck in Hades or something. It’s how these things work.”   “Nope, the way things work, I’ll nag you incessantly until you get fed up with me, turn around to look me in the eye, and then that dooms me to forever remain as a shade.”   “Orpheus was a chump.”   “And Eurydice an amateur. Seriously, I could’ve had him turning around in the first ten minutes tops.”   I hug her once again, tighter than before.   “Have I told you how much I missed being able to make these jokes?” I ask her while I rest my chin on her shoulder.   “What? You mean, overly pretentious, full of literary references, and actually not that funny jokes?”   “Yes.”   “Ah. You’ve come to the right place, then.”   We laugh in each other’s arms until one of the other doors in the landing starts opening, and we panickily rush into her apartment.   ***   I sit on her sofa, and Lisa is prompt to sit with her back against her armrest and her feet on my lap.   Then she wiggles her eyebrows.   …   And now she wiggles her toes.   “Fine,” I grumble.   As careful as I always am, I grab her right foot, my thumbs on her sole, the other fingers on top of it, and I begin to trace slow, firm circles on her.   Then she moans, and it certainly feels different from all the other times I’ve done this before.   “You are… quite vocal,” I try to comment nonchalantly.   “That’s what she said.”   “… That doesn’t work. At all.”   “Give me a break; you’ve woken me up in the middle of the night. At least wait till tomorrow to demand my A game.”   I hum noncommittally, and I reach the spot below the ball of her foot that’s right between the big toe and the others. It’s sensitive, and too much pressure makes it painful, so I slow down and—   … That’s a long moan.   With a hint of purring.   Is she doing this on purpose?   “Tay, I swear to God, it’s like this is your actual superpower…” she murmurs, her eyes closed, an arm draped across her face.   “I got a lot of practice. Care to explain why, by the way?”   The arm slides up just a bit, brushing her hair out of the way as her eyes open with languid, deliberate grace.   The slit of green is more eye-catching than I remember.   “Touching another person has demonstrable therapeutical effects—and being touch-starved has been proven to be awful in far too many ways.”   “Am I supposed to believe that you taught me how to massage your feet for my own good?”   “Oh, no, not at all. I could’ve just hugged you or slept in the same bed—”   “Which you did.”   “Which I did. The massage was just icing on the cake. Also, I don’t trust karma’s one-day-delivery policy, so I try to expedite things whenever I can.”   “Obviously. That must be the reason you’ve given yourself up to the police so many times.”   “Hey, if the police hadn’t been replaced by a pseudo-fascist organization obsessed with brainwashing the public and having different laws applied to the very subset of people I belong to…”   “Laws that benefit you.”   “It’s the principle of the thing, Tay. You can’t expect me to submit to those enforcing laws so fundamentally contrary to the very principles this nation was founded upon.”   I look at her, my eyebrows having climbed so high they may need some oxygen and a couple of sherpas.   She smiles that smug thing at me that she always held back when I was too afraid of pretty girls for reasons I had yet to understand.   “Do you remember when you taught me how to massage someone without being too rough?” I ask with as much innocence as I am able to fake.   “… Yes?”   “And how to be firm so that the massage doesn’t turn ticklish?”   “Tay, don’t you dare—”   I dare.   In short order, I have a writhing, kicking, laughing blonde on my lap. It’s about as fun as it sounds, except that kicks don’t do much to me since I basically turned into compressed wood pulp, so, extra fun.   “L-let go! You! Jerk!” Lisa manages to demand in-between bouts of laughter.   “Sorry, it appears your package of karma has been as promptly delivered as could be managed, dear customer. You’ll have to endure it for a while.”   “Not! Karma! You! Jerk!”   “I’ve had a great teacher.”   It seems that’s the last provocation Lisa needs to go on the (actually effective) counterattack, because she lunges forward and starts tickling my armpits.   Touch is a weird thing for me. Some things are not the same, and they no longer affect me how they used to do. Cold is a non-issue, and so is heat, so long as it doesn’t reach a point that would’ve also been dangerous to humans.   Touch? Human touch?   That’s still as much of an annoyance as anyone who’s been four years old and tangled with schoolyard friends knows to be.   Thankfully.   So Lisa and I roll around on her sofa, each one trying to get the other out of breath (which, as I don’t need to breathe and I don’t feel like reminding her, seems to be tilted in my favor), each one laughing harder than we have in months if not years, until we finally fall off the abused, white cushions to the thankfully not that painful wooden floor.   I fall below her, my body cushioning her, and for just a moment, I’m caught off guard as I stare into the grinning face of the pretty girl above me, the tip of her nose almost touching mine, her green eyes twinkling with as much merry as I’ve ever seen in them.   And then the merry turns to mischief, and, of course, she starts tickling me yet again.   “Hey! Truce! Truce!”   “I see no Leviathan in here,” she answers in a sing-song that I’m not in the mood to appreciate. Not with the way my sides are aching at the moment.   Brute ratings aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.   “Lisa! Stop!”   “Oh? I guess we just found out how to neutralize your power. Beware, do-gooder, for thou shall fall prey to the might of tickles!”   All right, that one’s funny.   Still a jerk, though.   Also… Not quite true, seeing how quickly I can speak when I need to—   “Now one day it happened that the princess’s golden ball did not fall into her hands, that she held up high, but instead it fell to the ground and rolled right into the water. The princess followed it with her eyes, but the ball disappeared, and the well was so deep that she could not see its bottom.”   And there’s no well, and certainly no Frog Prince waiting for a kiss, but the spoiled princess was already here, so adding a rolling ball that just so happens to slide beneath her bare foot as I shift my weight…   Lisa squawks as she trips on the golden ball that’s actually black, and I catch her as she falls, her body beneath mine, the tip of my nose almost touching hers.   My smile broadens, hers disappears, and I spend quite a while non-verbally explaining the notion of karma to her   ***   “You are awful,” she says, as melodramatic as ever.   “I’ve had a great teacher.”   “… I’m not sure this is something I want to actually know, but did you ever watch Star Wars?”   “The old ones. Why?”   “No, it’s nothing… apprentice.”   “… I’m pretty sure you just cast yourself as the Emperor.”   “Yup.”   “And that would make me Darth Vader.”   “Anakin, actually, but same difference.”   “I’m also pretty sure Darth Vader never gave the Emperor a foot rub,” I say with a bit of dryness to my tone as I keep doing the very thing that started this whole incident. Because, apparently, Lisa keeps a very detailed account of her karmic balance, and the last ten minutes shoot it straight past the ‘deserves a reward’ line.   “He was always wearing a bathrobe. Pretty sure he pampered himself quite a bit.”   “With that skin?”   “Imagine if he hadn’t.”   I chuckle, abandoning the conversation for a moment as I trace between the tendons that go from the top of her toes to her ankles, and she purrs.   “Actually…” she starts, and I dread what comes next.   No good ever comes from something that begins with ‘actually.’   “Have you, you know, tried it? With Star Wars novels?” she finishes.   On the one hand, she isn’t mansplaining anything to me (don’t ask me how she does it: she manages); on the other… Power mechanics discussion. My favorite subject.   “I have.”   “And…?”   I press the knuckles of my middle and pointer finger beneath the bridge of her left foot, seeing her toes curl as I do.   “And… I can absorb them. I remember them after I do; that part works just fine.”   “But you can’t give me a sweet lightsaber.”   “Why would you ever lick a lightsaber?”   “… First: dad jokes are beneath you. Second: because I would get an awful amount of money off lonely people with very specific fetishes.”   “I’m never getting into the internet ever again.”   “You are a wiser woman than I am.”   We settle into a bit of a comfortable silence for a while, and my hands go from her feet to her calves, the muscle taut beneath my touch, not because of fitness, but because of that tension she always tries to hide.   “You know, it may be a mental block,” she says, and her tone lets me know she’s already feeling the late hour, even as the adrenalin from our impromptu tickle-fight starts to fade.   “It may,” I agree with words that are more punctuation to her monologue than anything else.   “Think about it: so far, everything you can manifest has something to do with what you read before getting your powers, but it’s not always something you actually read. Just… Connections. I’m pretty sure you can use the whole English literary corpus, aside from any fairy tales tangentially related.”   “That seems to be the case.”   “But… But what’s actually the mechanism behind it? Does your power access your emotions? Do they shape what comes out? It benefits from an audience, so it may use that as a way to better determine the adequate manifestation…”   “Lisa, you’re about to drift off.”   She pauses, blinking slowly up at me as her calves soften with each press of my fingers.   “So am I.”   She keeps looking at me, something in her eyes that I can’t quite decipher, not even after so long having her as my only anchor, the only solid thing in a world that kept fading in and out of old, yellowed pages with crumbling margins that smell of long afternoons cuddled up in front of the fireplace, that sound like crinkling—   “Tay, can you tell me a story?”   The fugue recedes for a moment, and I look at green eyes lidded with pleasant drowsiness.   “A story?” I finally ask without ever straying from her eyes.   “One of yours. Please. I don’t want any that may remind me of—you know, I just want to hear your voice. Is that weird?”   I keep looking at her, lying on her sofa, her legs over mine.   “No. No, I don’t think it’s weird.”   “Good,” she smiles. And then she claps.   And the lights turn off.   “… You are far too dramatic for your own good,” I tell her.   “I like to think it’s just the right amount of drama. You know, to make the comedy more incisive.”   “Who’s the storyteller here?”   “You are! So… Can you start?”   There’s too much darkness to make out her expression, but the tone… It’s childlike, in that way that so few of us manage to not turn into a mockery after a certain age. It has wonder, and expectations, and…   And I smile down at the pretty girl, relieved that she can’t see me.   “Once upon a time…”   “Oh, those are the best ones!”   “I agree. So, once upon a time, there was a little girl. The girl didn’t think she was that little, but everybody told her she was, and so she started believing it.   “She would ask to read books, hard books, and they would tell her: ‘These aren’t books for a little girl such as you, try again when you grow up.’ And the girl would harrumph and puff up her chest, but go away to look for other things to do while she grew up.   “She would ask to help her mother, but the mother would look at her kindly and tell her: ‘Thank you, sweetheart, but you are still so small, so young, and you don’t have to do hard things until you grow up.’ And the girl would try not to look sad, because she had only wanted to help, and didn’t think one could ever be too young to do that. But it was what her mother told her, and so, she went away to look for something else to do while she grew up.   “There came a day when her father arrived home. He was alone, and sad, and the little girl wanted to help. She should have been able to do it, because this wasn’t anything like her mother’s work; she only had to let her father be sad until he felt better. But when she tried, her father said: ‘Thank you, kiddo, but you can’t understand. You are too young, too small, and even if you feel sad, it’s not the same.’ And so he went to feel sad by himself, and the little girl wished she had already grown up.   “Time passed, but no matter how much, she always heard the same things. She was too little, too small, and some even said that she would always be, that no matter how much she grew up, she could never be the girl who took care of things, who helped her father.   “The girl believed those things. She had nobody to tell her otherwise.   “And there came a day when it seemed those words would be true, would always be true, because a cruel fairy made it so the girl lost as many years of her life as times people had told her she was too small. And with that curse, the girl felt that she was no more than a toddler, speaking only from time to time, her mind always lost in a childish fairy tale.   “And, as much as her mind was lost, so was the girl. Far from home, because she couldn’t read the signs or remember her house, the girl wandered, always feeling too small, always fearing those who were so big, so much more than she had ever been able to be.   “And she had reason to fear, because, as small as the girl now was, she found places where no little girls should go to. Places with cruel people who didn’t care if the girl was a grown-up. Places where nobody told her she was too small, because the wolf didn’t care about how young Little Red was.   “Places as dangerous as the woods in the middle of the night, places where people who couldn’t live in the light had gone to.   “Places where the girl knew she would never grow up.   “And there the girl met a fox.   “Foxes are tricky things, and most of the time, they are as dangerous as wolves, but they are clever and see a world other than what others see, and sometimes this means they are very much unlike wolves.   “Because a wolf sees food and eats you, but a fox… A fox sees a lot of things. And sometimes it isn’t hungry.   “So, the fox approached the girl and asked: ‘What are you doing here? Don’t you know this place isn’t safe?’   “And the girl, after a while, because it had been quite long since she last spoke and was out of practice, said: ‘I don’t know. The fairy cursed me, and now I only know things little girls know.’   “The fox laughed at first, thinking there was a joke in those words, something she wasn’t quite understanding, but then she looked at the girl’s eyes and saw she wasn’t lying. That what she had told her was the truth.   “And it was a good thing the fox wasn’t hungry that day, because she smiled at the girl and told her: ‘It’s not what you know, it’s what you learn.’   “So she took her away from the dangerous place, to another place that might have been dangerous at other times, and the fox decided, for reasons only foxes understand, to care for the girl.   “Until one day, the curse was lifted, because that’s what happens to curses, and the girl remembered all the years she had lost. The fox was happy, satisfied, because she had managed to help the girl and defeat the fairy, which was something to celebrate for as long as the fairy didn’t know she had been defeated. But… Foxes know a lot of things. But not all of them.   “And so the fox didn’t know that, before the curse, the girl had been told many times that she was little, small, unimportant. Weak.   “But the girl did. The girl remembered each and every time.”   I pause. The words are still flowing beneath my mind, still aching to be left out. The tale is incomplete, and something in me will be viscerally unsatisfied if I let it die out without a proper ending.   I close my eyes, open my mouth, and let it finish.   “But she also remembered the fox.   “Because the fox had never told her she was too small. She had cared for her, helped her, been patient as she learned and relearned. The fox had watched her grow long before the curse was lifted.   “The fox understood many things about the girl. She had helped put her back together, after all.   “What the fox didn’t understand… what the girl didn’t want the fox to understand, was that the fox was the first one to not tell the girl how small she was. That the fox had always expected her to be big, smart, strong.   “That the fox hadn’t broken a curse.   “But two.   “And that no matter how many fairies ever came after her, the girl would never, ever, forget the fox that let her grow up.”   My voice drifts off, the feeling of the story flowing through me fading away like the sound of the words.   I open my eyes, used to the twilight darkness of Lisa’s living room.   She’s sleeping.   Her face is so peaceful, so relaxed, that it’s hard to believe this is the same whirlwind of activity and unrelenting words that always greets me in the morning. This is a Lisa very few ever have the chance to see.   So I let my hands rest on top of her bare calves, no longer massaging but still feeling her smooth skin, her soothing heat.   And I open my mouth one last time just as the thread of the tale frays into another myriad images put to ever insufficient words.   “Because that’s what always breaks curses in stories. Even if the fox didn’t know, even if the girl didn’t understand, even if it was one-sided.   “It was true love.   “It doesn’t happen every day.”     ================== ================== This work is a repost of one of my first commissions, and one that I’m both grateful for and proud of. It can be found on QQ, SV, and AO3, and, of course, on my Patreon where the latest chapter will show up a week before it comes out for everyone else. It is currently 33 chapters and 94k words long and approaching its final arc at a good pace, so I hope you’ll look forward to learning about Wordsworth’s ending.   [font="Calibri",]As always, I’d like to thank my credited supporters on [/font]Patreon[font="Calibri",]: [/font]aj0413, LearningDiscord[font="Calibri",], Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon.[/font] [font="Calibri",]If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on [/font][font="Calibri",]Amazon[/font][font="Calibri",]. Thank you for reading![/font]  

Chapter 12 - Wordsworth – Chapter 13

Once, there was a warrior god.   His name was Ares, and he was scum, derided. He cheated with another god’s wife, terrorized those weaker than him, and fled when wounded by a mere mortal. He was god of war, but far from its master.   Because there was another, a goddess, who claimed domain over war not as savage cruelty but as art and stratagem. Her name was Athena, and war was only one of many things she presided on.   And Athena was cunning and caring, even if as prone to monstrous rages as all the gods surrounded by frail mortals. Athena wasn’t perfect, but she was maybe one of the closest among her brothers and sisters, for she cared about men enough to defy Zeus and help return fire to them, for she cared not about the might of arms of someone like Achilles, but about the wit of Odysseus.   And Athena had a Little Owl—   “No, I’m just taking a break. Yeah, it’s not like the arclance can do precise work. I don’t want to crush any of the poor bastards; they’ll have enough nightmares over this. Yeah, sure, just a few minutes and I’ll go back down,” a masculine voice says.   And then there’s a mechanic click, and darkness returns to me without any voices intruding upon my unfolding tales, upon this inner library flashing with untold stories in every color beyond the rainbow. I feel fatigue such as I never experienced when I was flesh and bone, before the cruelest Geppetto and Blue Fairy put me back together as a not real girl, but it’s still something that, while more intense than I ever felt, I can now manage better than I would’ve before. I just need a few more moments of blissful darkness and heroes tangling with gods as they try not to forget about the mortals below them—   “Wake up,” the man says, his voice nearer.   With the assistance of Atlas himself, my eyelids open.   And I see Ares.   He’s clad in golden armor, Zeus’ lightning on his hand, a power stolen from—wait.   He’s… What am I…   “You’re lucky I found you, you know?” he tells me, dropping down to a squat that has him looking directly down at me, the night sky behind his face tinted with the orange of…   Why is he here?   “Still groggy, aren’t you? Guess that stunt took a lot out of you,” his tone is casual, but underlying it there’s something… A tension, maybe a fear. Phobos was his son, and they rode together into battle, but maybe he should’ve asked him not to touch his father—   “Hey, Wordsworth, seriously, do you want me to call someone or…?”   I close my eyes tightly and try to focus.   There once was a hero who discovered fire. The flame was fickle, something to be carried with care lest it escape and burn down something it shouldn’t. It was hungry, for it longed to touch everything in its reach and spread beyond its confines.   ‘Why do you cage me, Hero? Don’t you know it’s cruel to deprive me of my freedom? I am flame! Golden dancer! I shall be free, or not be at all!’   The Hero looked at Fire. She understood, even sympathized, for she was also a prisoner of her purpose and nature, yet she still kept him in his glass jail.   ‘Why won’t you answer me? Am I not worthy of your words? Am I to remain under your power, not even acknowledged?   The Hero did not speak, did not even show what it was that she was thinking; she just kept walking.   ‘I care not for what you want of me, Hero, but if you keep me here for much longer, I’ll burn out. Fire needs to spread, to eat, to consume.’   ‘I know,’ Hero finally answered with a whisper that was more for herself than for the crackling Fire inside a glass vial.   And Hero reached Little Owl, pried her beak open, and poured Fire inside her—   My eyes shoot open.   “You… finally there?” Ares—Dauntless asks.   “I… Not entirely. It seems fatigue makes me get lost in my… well, my stories.”   He looks at me, face almost stern.   “Power-induced mental illness—”   “It’s not an illness. It’s who I am.”   The words are sharp even if they aren’t loud, and I almost recoil at lashing out with them with such violence. It’s bizarre that, of all the changes, all the things that have been burned out of me, I would feel so protective of my stories, of the way my mind now tirelessly weaves them out of memories, dreams, and connections.   I sometimes miss hunger, miss the burn in my legs after a long walk, but I… As frustrating as it sometimes is to have a part of my mind always unleashed and ready to wander off, I would never part with my stories.   They are mine.   “All right, sorry about that, it’s just… You’re scary, you know?”   I look at the man who’s said to be bound to join or even replace the Triumvirate in the years to come and, pushing myself up with my arms until I manage to sit on this shadowed roof above the remains of Coil’s base, I arch an inquisitive eyebrow.   He chuckles.   “Fair enough. But at least I don’t go around bringing horror stories to life,” he says almost mirthfully.   “Was it good?” a part of me can’t help but ask.   He cocks his head, the helmet glinting under Moon’s light, silver dancing over gold.   And he smiles.   “It was. I had to write a composition about it in high school, you know? The Fall of the House of Usher. I remember the wording being somewhat… cumbersome, not something I would’ve enjoyed for casual reading, but it… I never knew. Not until I saw it tonight, until I saw you bring it to life. I never knew how beautiful it all was,” he stares at me, still above me, and his lips turn into a soft smile.   Someone enjoyed it. My story.   And something that’s not my heart because I’m no longer of flesh and blood, beats and thrills.   “Thank you,” I whisper.   We stand in silence for a moment, the hero and the ex-villain sharing something that’s warm and tender.   “Thank you,” he finally says.   And there’s something in his voice that… He’s now serious, almost solemn.   “What for?” I ask, knowing it’s not because I painted a picture with words that he never appreciated before.   He sits down, his armor clanging against the tarmac of the roof.   “My cousin. Jenny. She was there. She listened to your poem.”   I blink at him, unsure what he’s talking about until I…   Two roads diverged in a yellow wood…   “I… didn’t know. I’m sorry,” I tell him.   “Don’t be. I never managed to get her into rehab; she always had some excuse about how it wasn’t that bad, that I was making a big deal out of nothing, and I couldn’t force the issue because… Well, because of too many things. Bullshit, mostly. But you… she saw. She saw it all at once, not one step at a time, and…”   He stops talking, his head tilting back and his eyes traveling to the sky above.   “She’s living with us now. I hope she can make it.”   I scuttle back a bit until my back rests against the brick parapet surrounding the roof, and what’s likely kept me out of sight of anyone but him after The House of Coil fell and my stories dragged me to wildly fraying tales.   “So do I,” I finally tell him.   And hero and ex-villain look at a sky that’s night, yet not, because the orange taint—   Fire.   “What is going on?” I finally ask him, the knowledge of the flames far too urgent to ignore.   “You’re in no condition to act,” he calmly tells me.   “That’s not what I asked,” I turn to face him, and his smile becomes rueful.   “Lung got into a fight. It’s already over.”   My words stop moving, ink almost freezing.   “With whom?” My voice almost cracks.   “The Undersiders—”   I jump to my feet, and he grabs my hand, and I almost lash out with words of fury, with the tale of Grendel coming to devour merry men, with hands that become claws shrouded in darkness—   “They are all right!” he yells in my face.   And I slump.   “Couldn’t you have started with that?” I ask, my legs almost failing me until I shakily go back to sitting on the roof.   He doesn’t join me.   “I don’t like to lie,” he answers.   I look at him, and he takes a step back at what he sees.   “They are in custody. When Armsmaster got there, he found everyone was injured except Hellhound—”   “She prefers Bitch,” I reflexively correct him despite the urging pounding in my ears.   He almost stops to gape at me before resuming his delivery.   “Teenagers, I swear… Anyway, all but… Bitch have been captured and are in custody, waiting for medical treatment. None of them are critical,” he says, almost placatingly.   “I… They were working for Coil, manipulated. I could testify that—”   “Don’t even think about going to the rig.”   “Why?”   He squats again and lies a big hand on my shoulder that does very little for my impending panic.   “Because the Director is convinced you’re a high-ranking human Master after your poetry reading.”   I blink at him, my mind taking a moment to understand what he’s saying.   “Ah. That,” I belatedly reply.   And he chuckles.   “Seriously, how can you be this scary and adorable at once? I just don’t get it.”   “I—! I’m a minor!”   “Wha—no! Adorable like, like, I don’t know, a younger sister or something! A violent one, apparently.”   I glare at him, and he makes a warding gesture with his free hand.   “Right. So Bitch is free, and the rest… How bad is it? Will they call Panacea?” I try to ask calmly and collected. I fail.   His hand hasn’t left my shoulder, the weight of it reassuring despite myself.   And he lifts his helmet.   He’s… young. It’s the first thing that comes to mind. In his twenties, and not by much, but his eyes are older. Just his eyes could fool me into believing him someone experienced and wise, even if maybe in ways I wouldn’t appreciate. The rueful smile from before comes back before souring into something that’s not a smile at all.   “Wordsworth… We’ll get them treated. Grue, Regent… they’ll make it.”   My ink freezes once again, and I can barely open my mouth.   “And Li—Tattletale?” I manage to push out.   “She… Panacea already treated her.”   I slump down and almost fall to the floor, my body sagging in released tension, my words once more crawling around me, in my gloves, my dress, my veil, my fishnets…   “Iridiscent saved her,” he says.   And the words boil.   “She was the one who fought Lung. Defeated him, really, as hard as that’s to believe. And then she grabbed Tattletale and went off running to the Boardwalk, where she begged Panacea to treat her. It’s all on PHO, if you want to see it.”   I don’t. I don’t want to see Emma saving Lisa. I don’t want to hear her voice pretend at kindness and heroism. I don’t want to even give her a chance to make me feel something other than disgust and contempt.   “I know you two have had—” he tries to continue.   “You know nothing,” I bite out.   He pauses, looks at me, his hand warm on sating paper that’s always just slightly cooler than it should have been, a constant reminder that it’s not me, that I’m not the Taylor Hebert of before, that that life was taken from me and will never come back even as I struggle and fight to keep hold of every scattered piece the lost girl left over the black soil of the dark forest before the clever fox found her.   For just a single moment, I hate his kind, hazel eyes and the reassuring warmth of his hand.   Then I keep a hold of myself and turn that hatred to Emma. The one who deserves it.   “You’re right; I don’t. But… I know it can’t be easy nor healthy. Cluster triggers—”   “Let it go. Please, let it go,” I ask him before he can drag me down to the web of lies that they enforce, to the excuse concocted by keepers of Fire who would take a Little Owl and…   I close my eyes and let the story pass between my fingers without touching any of its words.   “All right,” he finally answers. “Just… You’re a good kid. A hero, even if not officially. And she… I know she’s trying to—”   “You know nothing,” I tell him once again, my voice more tired than raging.   He stops then, lets me get a hold of myself as my mind yearns to touch another story and get dragged along so I can ignore all this, so I can forget Lisa almost dying while I was carelessly unconscious and Emma of all people saving her. I fight back frustrated tears at having vanquished a snake who could’ve been a dragon while she fought the dragon who couldn’t be anything else. I…   I manage. I don’t cry.   “Where’s she?”   “Iridis—”   “No. Tattletale. Where’s she?”   “Ah… She let her go. She’s gonna be in quite a bit of trouble over that, I think—”   I stand up, unwilling to listen about Emma self-sacrificing anything for the sake of another, and take a step toward the other side of the roof.   Then I stop.   Because… He’s been kind. Gentle. Gone against orders and regulations just to reassure a girl he’d never met because of a kindness that was never about him.   Because he’s been… a hero.   And leaving in anger and indignation like this… It’s not what a hero should do.   “Thank you,” I say as I turn back, as I watch hazel eyes broaden in surprise at words that feel harsh as they come out of my throat.   “I… don’t mention it. I owe you.”   “No. No, you really don’t.”   He smiles, and it’s both gentle and brittle, the expression of someone used to doing what’s right with no one thanking him for it. A man under too many expectations that he can never live up to. A man beneath a looming destiny, Arthur in front of the stone.   I close my eyes, and when I open them there’s no Ares in front of me.   No. There’s the man who would be a hero, and there’s the costume he aspires to. And that is Mars.   Because the Greeks despised Ares, barbaric god that he was.   But the Romans? There’s a reason the symbol for ‘man’ is the one for Mars.   “There’s a new hero going through the Docks. He calls himself Overseer,” I tell him before I can change my mind.   “I have heard about him. Crusader-lite, isn’t he?” he answers with obvious confusion.   “No. No, he’s far more powerful than Crusader, or at least he will be: his power manifests projections of people he has an emotional connection to. He doesn’t quite control it, the way he tells it, he just manifests the right person for the right job.”   He looks at me askance, his brow visibly furrowed until his eyes suddenly widen.   “He can copy parahumans—”   “I think so. He’s… alone. Bitter. Has been for a long time. Approach him. Tell him that Wordsworth owes you, that the Little Owl thinks he should listen.”   “The Little Owl?”   I smile at him. It’s a sad smile, but a lighter one than it would’ve been a few days ago.   “It’s… He will understand. Goodbye, Dauntless, and thank you. For everything.”   He makes as if to speak, as if to maybe have me reconsider something that I’m unwilling to.   But then my words stir, my lips open.   “She walks in beauty, like the night.”    And I part.   ***   Lisa’s apartment is empty.   The soothing tones of the furniture and wooden tiles mock me as I walk up and down all of it, and I try once again to call her phone, only to have it jump to voicemail.   Because she was in a fight with Lung, and she was so badly injured Emma had to carry her from the site of the fire to the Boardwalk, and I owe Emma, and I want to throw up, and I will tear down this whole—   The lock twists with a metallic clack, and I run.   “Tay—?” Lisa starts to ask before I grab her and pull her in.   And then my lips meet hers, and love, pain, anxiety, fear, and relief flow from me to her and back again.   She pulls away, her eyes wide, almost panicked.   “Tay, I—you can’t do this. It’s wrong—”   I pull her to me, her body in my arms, away from danger, away from Emma’s.   And I kiss her once more, with all the tenderness our first kiss should’ve had.   Because she didn’t say she didn’t want it as I always feared she would. She didn’t say she didn’t feel the same way I did, as I was always certain she would.   No. She said it’s wrong.   And, as I finally feel her arms raise up to surround me, her body relaxing against mine, her lips brushing a delicate caress over mine…   I couldn’t care less about what’s wrong or right.     ================== ================== This work is a repost of one of my first commissions, and one that I’m both grateful for and proud of. It can be found on QQ, SV, and AO3, and, of course, on my Patreon where the latest chapter will show up a week before it comes out for everyone else. It is currently 33 chapters and 94k words long and approaching its final arc at a good pace, so I hope you’ll look forward to learning about Wordsworth’s ending.   As always, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on Amazon. Thank you for reading!  

Chapter 14 - Wordsworth – Chapter 15 – Interlude: Storyteller

A world was burning.   The Thinker and the Warrior walked across it in all its myriad permutations. They had taken everything they could from it and the civilization that had populated it. A few shards had been further optimized, and the Thinker was pondering on new technology repositories to implement for the next cycle.   And then, it paused.   The Warrior continued ahead, scouring the same sun over and over for energy to replenish its exhausted reserves after centuries of conflict. The Warrior didn’t hesitate; it just wasn’t what it was meant to do.   No, that was the Thinker’s job.   And, for the first time in too many cycles, it had encountered reason to do so.   Because, even up to the very end, the now-dead species had engaged in something that served no real purpose, something that the Thinker understood when it came to the less sophisticated species it had encountered, but…   The Thinker remembered.   This species had been a rare find. An advanced civilization, one they had thought on the verge of space colonization only to realize almost too late that it had already reached that stage and still decided to remain on its homeworld. Its technology had been more advanced than that of the clusters they would usually prey on, but that had brought enough opportunities to warrant the risk. A risk that had been, after all, almost too low to properly quantify.   And so, as the Warrior engaged in battles that forced the hosts to contend with regular members of the species wielding weaponry that more than leveled the field, the Thinker had devoted itself to studying everything it could find of interest.   As it always did.   As it always would.   But, this time, it had found something unexpected.   It had always been assumed that the use of symbolism and art many hosts engaged in was nothing but a remnant of insufficiently advanced civilizations clinging to suboptimal ways of parsing and conveying information. Although the Thinker was more than capable of instructing its shards to employ such rudimentary methods to communicate with their hosts, it had always been a crude solution to an inelegant problem. A way to interface pristine data to muddled minds.   But… This world…   The crystal spires married form and function like no other it had witnessed before. Even now, even with the hue of the sun shifting as its Warrior companion consumed it, the shattered remains of constructs that had reached above the clouds glittered in a way that had little to do with practicality, the hosts having engraved symbols of cultural significance in the crystals in fractal patterns that echoed down to the atomic structure.   It was a display of knowledge and purpose like none the Thinker had ever seen. And it was wasted on…   Stories.   That was what the Thinker was devoting precious energy to solving. The doubt that had arisen.   Why did a species so advanced, so close to sublime, pure reason and understanding, devote so much effort, resources, energy, to… To mere fancies. To idle daydreams. To myths, and parables, and anything but practical knowledge?   It could be mere waste. A phenomenal misuse of their last moments when facing total extinction.   It could.   And yet… wasn’t the cycle meant to learn from the worlds they landed on? Wasn’t the whole purpose of the Thinker’s existence to discover what it didn’t know?   And… did it really know that these stories were what it had always assumed they were?   With an expenditure of effort that wouldn’t be felt in the journey to come, the Thinker came to a decision. One of its modeling shards shifted, split apart, and budded into a crystal that mirrored the one the Thinker was contemplating.   And so, when the Warrior came to share the spoils of a sun devoured a million millions times over, the Thinker took its share, divesting itself of the ethereal guise it had worn since they landed on one of the mirrored worlds aligned with the one that had contained a monument to the stories of an entire world.   Entwined with its partner, once more in the plenitude of their true selves, Thinker and Warrior shifted in and out of myriad universes as they consumed, as they took their farewell gift from it.   As the memory of a species who had refused the call of the stars disappeared.   All of it, except for what had been stored in a single, minuscule, bud of a crystal shard.   ***   A world cracked.   The conflict had been more violent this time around, and the Warrior was pleased with all the data it had managed to gather. New ways to battle, new uses for every weapon they had handled their hosts, new ways to defend against them, and even more ways to go around those defenses.   Yes, the Warrior was pleased as its avatar, a thing of burning light and red rage, tore across the last defenders aligned against them.   The Thinker…   These people sang.   They sang of battle, and death, and suffering. They sang of defiance, and goodbyes, and what awaited beyond.   The Thinker would’ve scoffed, as its current body was prone and apt to.   Instead, a single, minuscule shard vibrated in tune with the all-encompassing chants, and grew.   And the Thinker hummed.   ***   A world sank.   The gravity well of its twin suns had grown destabilized, not by the Warrior’s attack or the Thinker’s scheme, but by a single act of defiance from one of the hosts. One who had realized all too soon what the cycle would entail, its true purpose, their preordained fate.   A host who had burned a world to deny them the chance to do it themselves.   The Warrior was frustrated, deploying shards always held in reserve to salvage as much of this cycle as it could.   The Thinker wasn’t worried.   They would inevitably harvest enough energy to make the next leap, that had never been in question. And, even with as many worlds being simultaneously consumed by the host’s last gamble as they were currently dying, enough would survive for it to copy their culture, their thoughts, the part of them that had birthed such an exceptional individual, one with both insight and resolve, one who…   ‘Hero,’ the ever-growing shard whispered.   And the Thinker nodded.   ***   A world burned.   They usually did. That was the usual pattern of the cycle, what it was designed to accomplish in the end, and it was rarer that they didn’t.   But…   The Thinker reclaimed a single shard. The power it granted wasn’t of much import, just a minor cognitive enhancement based on both extrapolation and modeling of the host’s parallel selves.   And the host had taken that minor skill, that glimpse into something greater than it could ever be…   And locked itself inside its home with as much paint and canvas as it could get its hands on.   They were also stories, in the end, those sprawling creations of color and shape, those sequences of meaning that went beyond mere linearity even as they married to it.   And so, almost tenderly, the Thinker took the memories of the host-who-painted and poured them inside a shard that had stopped being small cycles ago.   Storyteller drank of it, and hummed a song of paintings that came to life.   And the Thinker smiled.   ***   There were patterns.   It had always known, in an abstract, detached way. In a way that was data, and not knowledge.   The stories told it there was a difference between them, that all hosts understood and knew that difference, even if the Thinker didn’t.   The Thinker needed to know. It was its whole purpose.   And… It almost felt desperation at it. Something alike to finding wrong data corrupting a logic tree, but much, much worse, something that—   The Thinker knew emotions. Knew how hosts expressed them, how to manipulate them, how to grant powers that preyed on them or nourished them.   Except it didn’t.   Because that was data, not knowledge.   And there was a difference.   So, as stars drifted by and its shards wove in and out and across those of the Warrior, as they exchanged parts of their bodies and minds, the Thinker held Storyteller close.   Storyteller spoke of lands beyond, of times long ago, of kings beneath mountains and monsters under the sea.   And the Thinker listened.   ***   A world burned.   It was exactly how it should be, precisely as the Thinker had plotted when they set the route to it. Nothing had deviated from its plan.   Because it hadn’t been a plan, but a story.   And its ending was exactly as the Thinker had envisioned as its plans unfolded according to Storyteller’s knowledge. There had been heroes, and villains, and monsters, and each of them had fulfilled a role repeated across the stars. Each of them falling into ancient songs and recent stories. Each of them fulfilling their purpose.   The Thinker frowned.   This was supposed to be its purpose. Foretelling and setting the cycle in motion with gentle, correcting nudges at every fork of the road. This was supposed to be what passed for satisfaction in their species.   It wasn’t.   A world burned, and all of its creations would survive in the Thinker’s shards, but…   But there would be no more.   No more dreams, no more songs, no more… stories.   Storyteller ached with the loss of all that could’ve been, and the Thinker…   The Thinker nodded.   ***   Part of the Thinker was elated.   It had received a new shard in its exchange with the lonely member of its species, the acquisition a thing of precise, clockwork beauty. The best modeling tool it had ever conceived of. It was so intricate in its accuracy that most of its cognition was consumed in the myriad ways it could be used to optimize the next cycle.   But the Thinker was vast. Immense in a way that no host species had ever had a proper word for.   Storyteller liked words.   And the Thinker, or at least part of it, was starting to.   And the part of it that wasn’t busy with the sprawling tapestry of unraveling futures being set for their new world reflected on that.   On liking.   Storyteller’s knowledge had proven useful beyond measure, its understanding of host species growing exponentially as it discovered the rhythms woven into tales that echoed over and over again, like fractal patterns on glass that went down to the atomic structure.   Cycles had been optimized, social shards exploding in efficacy, modeling abilities more accurate than ever before without resorting to the costly use of chronal effects. Yes, Storyteller had proven to be one of its greatest tools.   But…   All the hosts had their stories, and the Thinker had used them, slotting each one in the roles they were best suited for.   But…   But what was the Thinker’s story?   It had never cared to aim one of its shards at itself. They were parts of it, and their data was its own.   Data.   Not knowledge.   Storyteller knew the difference.   And the Thinker craved to.   So, as one part of it kept fiddling with its newest tool and all that it offered… the other came back to what had once been its smallest, youngest one.   And dove inside of it.   There were heroes, and monsters, and villains. Those were the building blocks, what everything else came from, but then the stories grew more complex as the hosts grew. The variations introduced ambiguity, draped veils over the rawest archetypes, but they still remained. There were stories without heroes, yes, but… But not without the shape of them.   The Thinker learned about those shapes.   There was sacrifice. That was one of the oldest things heroes learned, and the Thinker remembered a world sinking toward twin suns in an effort to deprive it and the Warrior of the energy they needed to jump to the next world.   There was nobility, and the Thinker remembered hosts aligned against the Warrior, against its burning light, and refusing to back down as they sang of death and what maybe would come after.   There was… redemption.   And the Thinker remembered many. Many it had set to be monsters and villains before it understood what those terms meant, only for them to slip the leash and become something else. Something other.   Heroes.   The Thinker wished it was wearing an avatar so it could emote in one of the uncountable ways it had learned to do so.   Because the Thinker could send a burst of datastreams to the Warrior, one that contained all that it was currently contemplating.   And none of it would be the same as a race of water-dwelling sapients warbling in the precise tone of the ocean wearing away a sharp rock. The same as sky-soaring, blue beings quickly falling down to the ground below in a display of loss that they turned into ascension and moving peace. The same as cave-dwelling quadrupeds dipping their heads until they touched the earth below, looking for the reassurance of that steady and unchanging.   Not the same as vision-guided fools blocking the light in search of introspection and a burning truth inside of them.   None of it would be knowledge.   And the Thinker finally understood, or, at least, thought it did. Because there was a difference, a vital one. And Storyteller celebrated.   And they both started weaving stories between one another, the first time the Thinker had thought to do so.   They were stories about it. About the Thinker.   The Thinker triumphant, coming down from the Heavens with knowledge stolen from the gods.   The Thinker courageous, standing between creation and the void beyond entropy.   The Thinker redeemed, all of its past deeds no more than the prelude for a story that had yet to unfold.   The Thinker… crashed.   It felt pain unlike any it had ever felt as parts of it exploded in the barrier between dimensions, as it was caught partway between its true shape and the avatar of the host species it had been molding, as shards of it fell into unprepared hosts.   It hadn’t been part of the plan, a true accident, for the first time in eons.   And part of the Thinker couldn’t help but be happy. Because far too many stories began with an accident, with a sudden, unpredictable change in circumstances.   And so, the Thinker wondered, without knowing, what would its story be.   And then a girl wearing the last shard the Thinker had ever acquired stood atop it, an improvised weapon in her hand, and the Thinker understood.   Its story was, and had always been, a tragedy.   And now it would end.     ================== ================== This work is a repost of one of my first commissions, and one that I’m both grateful for and proud of. It can be found on QQ, SV, and AO3, and, of course, on my Patreon where the latest chapter will show up a week before it comes out for everyone else. It is currently 33 chapters and 94k words long and approaching its final arc at a good pace, so I hope you’ll look forward to learning about Wordsworth’s ending.   As always, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on Amazon. Thank you for reading!  

Chapter 16 - Wordsworth – Chapter 17

I would like to wax poetic about Lisa’s hair glinting like the sun when I wake up next to her, rousing from a gallery of unending stories that isn’t quite a dream, but it’s the closest I can now come to them.   I would like to dwell on the warmth in my chest at her falling asleep in my arms, exhausted after last night’s surge of emotions. To weave a tapestry of words about the way she makes me feel with her trust, with her vulnerability, so readily displayed even after coming so close to dying that I would gladly bring Saint George into this world.   I would like plenty of things: to celebrate her acceptance of my feelings, to treasure the guarded reticence with which she’s allowing herself to show her own, to…   To kiss her, caress her, embrace her, make her one with me,…   What I definitely feel I don’t want to do, though, is… this.   “Seriously?” I ask her, holding the black, ripped, sleeveless top she just picked for me from the pile of clothes lying on her perennially unmade bed.   She nods, her smile wide enough I’m afraid she’ll hurt herself.   “It… It has a white circle full of…” I look at the geometric design with distaste, my power almost sneering at it. “It’s not writing. I can’t take it, so it’s not writing—this doesn’t mean anything! It’s just a squiggly thing meant to look like occult stuff!”   “It’s the goth look, Tay. Get used to it.”   I glare at her.   “Make me,” I dare her.   She arches an eyebrow, steps forward, and kisses me hard enough I don’t even notice when I open my mouth to let her tongue in.   Then, her burning palms on my cheeks holding me in place, she leans back, and yet again smiles in that vulpine thing that she thinks makes her look oh so clever.   “Do you really not want to play it up as my hot goth girlfriend?” she asks, turning the smirk into a pouty moue that has me want to rub my thighs together.   …   “Thinkers are bullshit,” I grumble.   “We are! Now, try these on,” she says, passing me what looks like fingerless gloves long enough to almost reach my shoulder.   Stripped, black and purple gloves.   “… Why?” I ask with all the suspicion I can muster.   “Because it’s the goth look, Tay. Gee, you’re supposed to be the smart one,” she airily comments.   I bite the inside of my cheek, and she winces.   “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” she starts, before composing herself. “No. No, I understand why it’s a sore spot, but you are smart. Even if your power wasn’t to learn with a touch, you would still be smart—no, brilliant, so, please, understand that if I ever tease you about that—”   My finger is on her lips—lips still wet and soft from our earlier kiss. Because I think nothing short of a physical barrier can silence Lisa when she gets going.   “I… I understand, Liz. I get it,” I tell her with a forced smile I don’t really feel.   And she strides forward yet again, but not to forcefully kiss me, but to gently embrace me. To surround me with warm, soft, bare arms as the rose spaghetti strap top she wears wrinkles against my ink, and the warmth of her chest seeps into always too cold pages, and…   “Say it,” she whispers, her mouth almost making me shiver as it brushes against my ear, her breath disturbing my black tresses.   “I love you,” I answer without even thinking what it is she wants me to say.   Her arms tighten, her legs pressing against mine.   “I’ll never hurt you,” she promises, lying with every word.   Because I’m too frail, too broken, and can be hurt far too easily.   But… But she means it. It’s a lie that she believes in, that she freely shares.   And that’s so much like a story that I can’t help but accept it.   ***   “Why do you have all this?” I can’t help but ask when I step out of the bathroom.   “Would you believe me if I told you I got it for a costume party?” she cheerfully asks from the sofa as she gives me a very thorough (and pleasantly mortifying) up and down look.   “No.”   “Ah, how your distrust wounds me!”   “Liz…” I manage to grumble rather than chuckle.   And she… fidgets.   “You may notice those clothes aren’t in my size…” she almost whispers, not making eye contact.   I blink at her, not quite understanding the implied meaning until I look down at myself and…   Black, ripped jeans that tightly fit my legs, contouring them almost like stockings, a top that hangs just loosely enough to show some meager cleavage if I lean forward, a bulky leather jacket that can comfortably hide my shape if I feel too exposed, combat boots that reach up to my calves, a wide belt that…   Everything’s black, other than some color accents in white, silver, and purple.   Black in a way that, if I slip and let some parts of my dress come out, if my ink rushes across me in a moment of excitement, it won’t be noticeable.   And… these aren’t in Lisa’s size.   “Do you… like them?” she asks, unsure of my reaction in a way that’s so sincere I know she’s suppressing her power.   I nod.   It’s… not what I would’ve worn, before, but… It fits. Somehow, it fits.   It’s like something out of a story, the kind of clothes only a main character would wear, too distinctive for most people to wear in their everyday life, and that feels like a presumptuous thing to say, to even think, but it still appeals to me, to that part of me that can’t help but see the world as a tangle of stories waiting to be put in their proper order, to be written down in a way that makes them make sense…   And… well, black’s my color, isn’t it?   “Your hat… What can you do with it?” she asks.   I frown and… concentrate.   I dive into the rush of words, the black river hanging in a net lace veil that always filters my view of the world through moving passages of dark beauty waiting to unfurl into meaningful sound, and they move back, retreat to my hat, and it, in turn, melts into my hair.   Lisa smiles and hands me a purple scrunchie that’s precisely the same shade as that of my stripped gloves. With my own smile, I take it and pull my curls into a fanning ponytail.   And… well, I guess that’s the last thing I need to be Lisa’s ‘hot goth girlfriend.’   “Not quite,” she says as she once again steps forward, taking a small box out of the pocket of her own jeans—though hers are a vivid navy blue without any sign of tearing.   The box is… The kind you see in jewelry stores, and I hesitate for a moment when she lays it on my cupped hands until her encouraging smile makes me snap it open.   I’m both relieved and (briefly, shamefully) disappointed to see it isn’t a ring.   It is… a silver ankh.   “This…”   “I know what you’re thinking, but it’s also a word. Several, actually,” she interrupts before I can voice… before I can decide what I want to voice.   “Explain,” I settle on as my fingers trace the graceful curve of the silver pendant.   “It’s… It’s a hieroglyph, right? But it just meant a sequence of consonants; nobody really knows what vowels went in there. What we know is that those consonants were in the word for life and… and plenty of derivatives, such as mirror, and bouquet, and—”   “You’re rambling.”   “When am I not?”   “When you aren’t feeling unsure about what you want to say.”   Her jaw shuts with a clicking of teeth that takes her by surprise, and her hands rise to protectively cradle her elbows as she shifts away from me, Lisa once more retreating, and—   And I step forward.   I can’t let her be the one who keeps doing it, can I?   So I gently cup her cheek, peering into green eyes that are almost tremulous as she shily looks up at me.   “Tell me, Lisa. What do you mean with this?”   “It’s… Nothing, it’s just a silly accessory to sell your look, nothing more. I—”   I kiss her.   Softly, barely brushing our lips together, only closing my eyes for a second as she sharply takes in air and then slowly lets it out when I lean my forehead on hers.   “Tell me,” I whisper.   And she closes her eyes.   “It’s… It’s jewelry that is a word, so it’s yours. And the word is life, because… Because you have one ahead of you, Tay. One that you earned. One that you made after… after everything. You have a life, your life, and I don’t want you to ever forget that.”   I stop breathing, just staring at her face contorting in guarded anguish as I feel words rush beneath the clothes she’s given me, as I feel them wanting to reach out, to weave something worthy of her in this very moment.   I don’t let them. Not now.   I… I need to do this with my own words.   “Thank you,” I begin. And then I stall, because what else could I add? What else can I really tell her that… that…   I close my eyes, breathe.   And when I open them, I let go of Lisa for the brief moment that it takes me to put on the necklace, to let the key of life hang over the top she bought me I don’t know how long ago, and then cradle her face, my thumb slowly and carefully tracing her left cheekbone in a repeated caress that doesn’t stop until she opens her own eyes and the tremulous green looks once again at me, her power suppressed to allow us this moment of naked vulnerability, of uncertainty.   “I love it. No, I love you, and the words you gift me, and the meaning you’ve put in them. I love every single part of you, and… Liz, I… I wish I could give you something—”   She laughs.   Almost broken, with an edge of hysteria, she laughs.   “Tay, you… You freed me. You took me away from Coil, you… You have given me my own life back. This,” her smile is frail as she points at the pendant lying between my breasts, “this is no more than a… a token for something you’ve literally granted me.”   I manage not to look taken aback, and then I dope slap her.   “Hey!” she protests, rubbing the back of her head.   “Wasn’t I supposed not to idealize you?” I wryly remind her, yesterday’s tear-filled night quite fresh in my mind.   “That—! It’s not the same! I’m just being grateful to—”   “Liz, you gave me my very being back; I merely rescued you from a supervillain—”   “Merely?! Do you even realize what Coil could’ve done to—”   “And now he never will. But you can’t tell me you couldn’t have done that without me—”   “And you would’ve eventually regained your memories—   “Eventually could’ve taken decades! I’m here, right now, because of you!”   “Well, so am I!”   We stop. Look at each other.   She breaks down first.   “Oh God, what even is this?” she manages to say through her guffaws.   “I think the word is ‘adorkable,’” I do much the same, my inability to die of asphyxiation allowing me to replicate her feat with far more ease.   She leans on me, her body shaking in wild mirth, and I hug her, not quite feeling like trying to control myself.   “You’re not supposed to call yourself that!” she accuses.   “But I can call you that?”   She looks up at me, her wet eyes glimmering beneath the ceiling lamp of her bedroom.   “You must call me that.”   She still giggles, though not so violently, and I…   I smile, warmly and perhaps not fitting my current attire, and lean down to take her lips.   The kiss lingers, none of us fighting it, none of us in a rush to end it or turn it into something else.   And when I finally lean back, her eyes narrow in a grin I’m far too familiar with. The grin of a fox who thinks herself clever.   “Right, now that you’re all dressed up… let’s go on that date,” she says.   I blink down at her, and her grin widens.   “What?” I can’t help but ask, almost feeling my power’s disappointment at my lacking eloquence.   And, going from fox to Cheshire, Lisa’s grin impossibly widens as she takes my hand and pulls me to her apartment’s door.   To our first date.   …   I didn’t bring her chocolates or flowers, but I guess I can come up with some poetry.     ================== ================== This work is a repost of one of my first commissions, and one that I’m both grateful for and proud of. It can be found on QQ, SV, and AO3, and, of course, on my Patreon where the latest chapter will show up a week before it comes out for everyone else. It is currently 33 chapters and 94k words long and approaching its final arc at a good pace, so I hope you’ll look forward to learning about Wordsworth’s ending.   As always, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on Amazon. Thank you for reading!  

Chapter 18 - Wordsworth – Chapter 19

“I think we can all agree that the house of mirrors was a bad idea.”   “It wasn’t my idea,” Lisa points out, tugging on my sleeve and being basically insufferable.   “I don’t point out all of your bad ideas,” I tell her as I pretend I’m not letting her drag me to wherever she damn well pleases in this dilapidated amusement park that should’ve been turned into a supervillain’s lair decades ago.   Yes, even before capes were a thing. I’m pretty sure a serial killer clown is missing his natural habitat.   “That,” Lisa says, briefly pausing to dodge the child carrying a plush toy bigger than he is and the following parents looking at the blue elephant as if a substantial part of college funds have just been drained. “That is because I, my dear Wordsworth, don’t have bad ideas.”   I stop suddenly enough that she almost trips when my arm doesn’t budge at her pulling, and she turns back to me.   Then I raise an accusing eyebrow and look around me, at the cracked pavement, the glowing signs with missing letters, and the roller coaster that hasn’t started a single time since we crossed the arch at the entrance.   After I’m done taking stock of our surroundings, I look back at Lisa’s grumpy face and bounce my eyebrow as a signal that I’m magnanimously offering her a chance to retract her statement.   She, as usual, reacts in a completely unfair and unthinkable manner. Yes, that means she pouts at me.   “I didn’t see you come up with any plans for a date,” she finally says as I try not to fidget, stutter, and do anything but blush, even if that’s only because I’m no longer able to.   “Not my specialty,” I grumble out, still avoiding eye contact.   “Tay… This is my first date. I’m just winging it.”   I look back at her.   She smiles shyly at me.   … She’s so unfair.   “It’s also mine,” I tell her. Unnecessarily. Because of course she already knows.   Not because she knows everything, but… because she knows everything about me.   It’s an important distinction, and one that should be equally unsettling rather than making butterflies flutter inside whatever I have instead of a stomach.   “Hey,” she says, her warm, soft hand cupping my cheek, her skin gliding over cool, satin paper. “It’s all right. We’ll figure this out. Together.”   I raise my hand up to hers, pressing her against me, feeling the distortion her touch causes on my pages. I don’t crease, not really, but I also don’t… react like flesh would.   It both excites and saddens me, the idea that I can’t offer Lisa what any other girlfriend would, but that I can also give her something she’ll never find without me.   And she reads that in my face, of course she does, because she’s now in front of me, looking up into my eyes with her green ones, rising on her tiptoes and…   Kissing me.   Her lips are soft, tender, and I delight in my touch not being one of the things that were taken from me. My arms surround her, pulling her to me, taking her weight, and I tilt my head to the side as my tongue comes out to push past her lips, to meet hers, to taste her, to feel her saliva glide over my coating of ink so that it doesn’t damage my paper.   Except it isn’t ink. It’s words.   Leigh Hunt’s words.   It’s… a short poem. Just eight verses, without artifice, references, or anything but a simple rhythm and simpler rhyme.   Fifty words. Just fifty words.   Just fifty marvelously crafted words.   It speaks about a bright moment, one in the past. It tells of what Time may have taken away, what suffering and misfortune the speaker has lived through, what others may say about that lack of health and wealth, about growing old, about all those little things most of us will face as Time steals from us day after day. And then it comes back to the beginning, and ends:   Say I’m growing old, but add, Jenny kissed me.   So my tongue plays with Lisa’s, fences with hers, chasing her inside her mouth and inviting her into mine. Because, no matter how much time will pass, no matter what more will be taken from us, I’ll always be able to say…   That Lisa kissed me.   ***   “You’re insufferably emotional. Maudlin, I would say. I don’t use the word ‘maudlin’ lightly, Tay,” she snobbily says as we look at the pink strands of our cotton candy being spun.   “This is about me not liking ‘Legends of the Fall,’ isn’t it?” I tell her, remembering my own description of the film as I roll my eyes and squeeze her fingers between mine, feeling my glove slide between our palms.   “You can’t dislike that movie! It’s an estrogen bomb!”   “I am a lesbian.”   “Nobody’s that much of a lesbian! Nobody!”   “You said the same thing about Labyrinth.”   “And I’m right! Hey, clerk guy who’s trying to look like he isn’t listening, I’m right, aren’t I? You aren’t that straight.”   The young man about to hand me my cone of tinted sugar with a negative nutritional value blinks at me in what I wouldn’t be remiss to describe as growing panic.   “She’s… It would be better if you answer her, honestly,” I tell him as I roll my eyes and take the offered treat.   Without letting go of Lisa’s hand.   “I… I don’t watch movies?” he says, sweating profusely.   “Really,” Lisa says, her tone as flat as the cardiogram of the boy in front of me. “That’s why you blushed when my girlfriend mentioned Labyrinth. Because you don’t watch movies and don’t remember David Bowie thrusting his codpiece—”   “Aaaaaand that’s enough. Keep the change; we’ll share this one. Thank you very much,” I tell him, almost dropping the candy as I fumble to throw a bill at him I don’t bother to check the value of, because this is Lisa’s money, and she just gave it to me (that is: forced me to accept it) in case I wanted something from any of the overpriced tourist traps.   Also, I’m bodily dragging Lisa away from the stuttering clerk, but a part of me thinks me not caring about how much money I gave an underpaid boy is, for some reason, worth remarking. It’s as if I grew up uncomfortably close to the poverty line or something…   “Hey! I wasn’t done with him!” Lisa comically gestures back at him as if she’s really indignant. Which lasts about three steps, and then she steals the candy from me with a grin wide enough I hope it hurts.   “Let me guess: he’s in the closet, and you were putting on a performance to ease him into telling his family,” I tell her, rolling my eyes as she scoops a too large portion of cloudy sugar with her tongue that she then points at me.   …   I… I take a nibble out of it, and Lisa winks before swallowing the rest.   “You know me so well, darling,” she says, leaning her head on my shoulder.   “Right. Well enough to ask if you’re sure you aren’t bi—”   She gags.   … Which may be because of the cotton candy. I never liked the cloying thing.   ***   “See? This is what you’re supposed to ride while on a date. A classic. Nothing triggering about it,” Lisa says with a hint of smug as she looks to her right, out of the Ferris wheel carriage we’re alone in.   She’s sitting in front of me, the cold breeze of the early night making her hair sway before she shudders for a moment, her arms wrapping around her jean jacket, her legs pressed together in her white, tight-fitting pants.   So I…   I don’t know anything about romance.   In the books I read? It used to be fated or an afterthought. Emma was the one who obsessed about novels with long-haired men on the cover, who would gush about all the scandalous things she thought adults got up to.   I… didn’t care. Not back then. I was too busy learning about the beauty that words could have by themselves. So I read a lot about love, about the heights it can lift the human soul to, the tragedies it can cause, but…   But I didn’t read about how it came to be. How friendship could become something else, or how tenderness and gratitude may remain by themselves. I didn’t think about how that sublime feeling that inspired so many works Mom would recommend to me could be realized in the mundane. How it could…   How…   …   There once was a group of wise men. They all knew each other, and called one another friend, even if they, as all wise men with different wisdom do, would sometimes bicker.   There was one among them who they all respected, though, a man whose words they acknowledged as somehow wiser, more inspired.   And those men often gathered at night, drinking wine diluted with water. How much water they would pour would depend on how grave the matter at hand, how serious the discussion they would have.   One night, in one of those banquets, they decided to talk about Love. About what it was, how it came to be.   They each had their turn, their time to speak about what Love really was.   Love, was said, was old, older than any other god, and needed for any other thing to be born. There were two kinds of Love, one added, the heavenly and the immoral. Another claimed that it was harmony, present and necessary in all things. Yet another added that it was the yearning to return to a better time, one of union rather than separation, and a wise man added that Love was beautiful and virtuous.   Then the wiser man spoke.   Love was not a god, he said, but a spirit.   Love was not beautiful, nor wise, nor harmonious.   But Love wanted to reach those things.   That’s what Love was: aspiration.   And I look at Lisa. At the friend who found me, shielded me, nurtured me.   The one who gave me back the chance to… to reach for more.   And she boops my nose.   “Hey!”   “It’s rude to ignore your date, you know?” she says, the grin belying any reproach.   So I sigh, take off my leather jacket, and lean forward to wrap her up in it.   She, rather than express any kind of gratitude or swoon at my formulaically romantic gesture, raises an inquiring eyebrow.   “You’re cold. I can no longer get cold,” I explain. And shrug.   Then she wryly smiles and, making the moving carriage sway, stands up and sits beside me, leaning her head on my shoulder.   “Next time,” she says, her voice a murmur in my ear, “sit beside me and wrap your arm around my shoulder. It works better.”   I look at her smile. At the façade of impishness and the raw vulnerability just beneath it.   And I pass my arm over her shoulder, pulling her body to me as our fingers lace over my lap.   Then we just stay in silence, watching as the lights of our city slowly turn on, bathing in amber the streets we are too far from to see the ugliness beneath the warm glow.   Of course, she’s calculated precisely the most romantic time to get on the Ferris wheel.   “I really haven’t. Sometimes things… work out,” she says, trailing off in vulnerable shyness.   Then the silence stretches as we keep slowly rising, the sight of the city growing more impressive by the second with each added light and the fading of the last traces of the sun that color the edge of the sky over the black sea.   “I… I didn’t think they would affect me that much. The mirrors,” I tell her for lack of anything else to say other than how much it means to feel her warmth seep into me through our connected fingers.   “Tay… You insisted on choosing the most psychotropic place in the whole park. I’m just glad I found you before something clicked that—”   “I remembered. Really remembered.”   She pauses, not asking, just waiting for me to elaborate.   And so I do.   “When I… when they forced my power on me. Emma was there, getting hers, and she… she screamed in agony, Liz. I thought she was dying in front of me, that she was being burned alive, and I…”   “You…?”   “I… I didn’t want that. Didn’t want her to die and leave me to be haunted by her ghost, by unsolved hatred and resentment. I wanted her to not exist, but… but not to die.”   Her fingers tighten around mine, and she nuzzles closer.   “Has that changed?” she asks.   I remember yesterday night. I remember Lisa coming back to me. Alive.   Because Emma saved her.   The flash of pain is still there. The indignation at Emma being capable of something other than evil, the…   The far too complicated things to go through on a single date with my girlfriend, no matter how powerful a Thinker she claims to be.   “Yes,” I finally say. And Lisa waits for me to clarify. “Yes, it’s changed. Because what I lost, what she took away from me… That changes things. It’s no longer petty cruelty and betrayal; it’s something unforgivable.”   “There’s a ‘but’ in there,” she says, the smile dancing on her tone.   I turn slightly to the side and kiss her hair, the hair that should have been burned to ashes by a dragon that was too far from me to call Beowulf down on him.   “I… I still don’t want Emma’s ghost haunting me. I don’t want anything of hers. Nothing at all.”   I turn back to look at Brockton Bay. At my city.   The one I’m still sworn to save.   “Nothing of hers,” I add, almost inaudibly.   Maybe not even my past.   Because… Because it’s important. It made me who I am, gave me a beginning.   But… I think I now have a middle.   And Love lets us aspire, reach for something greater. For beauty, harmony, wisdom.   So, someday…   My story will have an end.   I hug Lisa closer to me, her softness evident despite the intervening clothes, her perfume subtle, a hint of bergamot, her breathing rhythmic and deep as she relaxes against me, eyes lidded as she looks at our entangled fingers rather than the city below us.   And Love makes me hope for something more. Makes me hope that, after my story ends, after I find my meaning and give it to the world…   That Lisa and I will continue.     ================== ================== This work is a repost of one of my first commissions, and one that I’m both grateful for and proud of. It can be found on QQ, SV, and AO3, and, of course, on my Patreon where the latest chapter will show up a week before it comes out for everyone else. It is currently 33 chapters and 94k words long and approaching its final arc at a good pace, so I hope you’ll look forward to learning about Wordsworth’s ending.   As always, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on Amazon. Thank you for reading!  

Chapter 23 - Wordsworth – Chapter 24 – Prisms 1

Danny Hebert – Those Who Failed   “Her name is Wordsworth,” Emma says on the laptop screen in front of me.   I take the mouse and rewind it.   “Her name is Wordsworth.”   No, it isn’t.   “Her name is Wordsworth.”   Her name is Taylor Hebert, and you know that, Emma.   I won’t let you take away even her name.   “Daniel?” Colin’s voice asks from the door to my office because, apparently, even knocking is now something the obstinate man considers optional.   “What?” I ask without turning around, barely realizing just how clenched my left fist is over the light gray desk set along the wall, perpendicular to the door.   “I… Thought you may want to talk,” he says.   I take a deep breath.   And push with my left foot against the worn carpet just enough to turn my swiveling chair toward him.   “You were wrong,” I tell him.   The bearded man almost flinches, his white button-up wrinkling as his shoulders scrunch, and I do feel bad about it, but not bad enough to indulge his poorly disguised attempts at building the most pragmatic friendship in history.   “I am sorry, but… I do think you need to talk. If not with me, then—”   “With a therapist? One of those they force to rotate so we don’t ever develop a rapport with them? Do you even realize how utterly stupid this whole concept is, or has the Protectorate indoctrination really gotten to you?”   “I—”   “You. That’s right, it’s always about you—”   “Shut. Up,” he says.   And stands fully upright, the well-muscled, excellently trained man finally showing a hint of backbone to me.   Good. It’s been a while since I could vent.   I stand up, and the chair rolls away from me, steadily losing momentum until it clacks against the wall behind me. And I square off against Colin Wallis.   “Took you long enough,” I tell him.   “You are intractable,” he answers.   “My daughter was tortured into losing her sense of self, and when she recovered it, she decided she didn’t feel like living with me anymore. She then emotionally blackmailed me into joining the same organization her tormenter is employed in. What’s your excuse?”   He… stares.   His fists clench.   “I am a parahuman,” he says.   I raise a very unimpressed eyebrow. It, apparently, isn’t enough to stop him from talking.   “You think you have it bad? We all do. This isn’t a contest, Danny, and if it was, you would lose. You don’t know half the things the people here have gone through, and those are the ones sane enough to still want to be heroes.”   “Sane enough to still want to be heroes,” I repeat, faintly incredulous.   And then I laugh.   It’s… It’s bitter, yes, but also something long-delayed. Something that’s been brewing in my chest since Dauntless found me behind a pile of broken Empire soldiers and gave me her message. The one from Taylor. The one I don’t think she realized I could never deny, not anymore, not after… everything.   So I laugh. A disjointed, spasmodic thing that makes my jaw clench and my eyes narrow, and—   “Daniel?” Colin asks, taking a step forward.   And I swing at him.   He dodges back.   Somebody who’s never been in a real fight would think it’s a close thing, that I was fast enough to almost catch Armsmaster off guard.   They would be morons.   Because yes, I almost graze him, my fist flying right in front of his chin with all the power I can still get behind a right hook. But that’s not by necessity, but by design. Because he’s that much faster than me, that much better, that he can afford not to overcompensate, to stay in close so that his answering blow will—   Right in my fucking liver.   “You… held back…” I accuse him, trying not to drop to my knees as I hold my side and waves of agony wash through me.   “Of course I did,” he says.   And then Kurt’s shadow rises right behind him, right fist reared back for the kind of wild haymaker my frequent partner in parahuman crime would never dream to throw against somebody aware of the incoming attack.   Wordlessly, I betray one of my oldest friends by pointing with my chin behind Colin, who turns faster than any man I’ve ever fought, his head sliding out of the way as he pivots on his right foot and snaps his leading hand into a backfist that catches Kurt in the temple, the shadow dissolving after what could very well have been a killing blow.   Smug, flashy bastard.   “You need more control,” he says without facing me.   “You need to take that stick out of your ass,” I answer.   Very slowly, he turns back around.   His eyes are narrow.   Good.   “I’ve been told that you don’t appreciate me trying to force a friendship between us two,” he says.   “Yes. By me,” I answer.   “And other people whom I trust far more than a deadbeat alcoholic,” he says.   I… raise my eyebrow.   This could be good.   “Oh?”   “Yes. Oh. Because I’ve tried to be patient with you, Daniel Hebert, but there’s being patient, and there’s coddling. You want to make things up to the daughter who fled from you? Step. Up. Be the man she always hoped her father would be. Protect her.”   I once again bark out a peal of that ugly, bitter laugh.   “In case you hadn’t noticed, she’s one of the most powerful capes around. She hardly needs protecting by me—”   And Colin Wallis, Armsmaster, one of the better fighters the Bay will ever see, grabs my shirt and slams my back against the wall.   He’s near me, his breath acrid like stale coffee, his eyes almost showing no pupil.   “You can’t be this stupid,” he says.   “I have it on good authority that I very well can be,” I say, remembering the one shadow I never want to come to my aid even as I desperately crave to see her once again.   “The world is falling apart. Endbringers keep destroying more and more of it, and what they don’t touch, the dominoes tumble. The heroes meant to stop them keep dying stupid, senseless deaths against petty villains who don’t care what the rest of us suffer as long as they can enjoy what’s left of the ride, and you could have a fucking beer with me and suddenly have a perfect duplicate of one of our best Tinkers, our best hopes, ready to join the fight.”   “That’s not how friendship works—”   “It fucking is. Do you think kids get best friends because they are fated or because they share a desk in one class? You can choose, Daniel, and you’re choosing to be an obstinate—”   “Every single day I’m here, it’s a struggle not to bash Emma’s head in. Every meeting preparing me for my public reveal makes me want to throw up. Every single one of you is an accomplice—”   He slaps me.   I work my tongue between my teeth, poking at the inside of my hurt cheek.   “Emma almost committed suicide fighting Lung to save the only known parahuman associates of your daughter. She destroyed any boost to her career she may have gotten out of it to clear your daughter’s name. Emma is a parahuman teenager who wants to be a hero badly enough to risk her life, because she no longer values it. And you? You are hiding here. If I had to choose who to bring with me to save Wordsworth, I wouldn’t even hesitate.”   I look at him.   At the angry man almost tearing my shirt’s buttons off as he keeps pushing me against the plain, dull wall of my office.   At one of the most powerful, experienced heroes in the world.   And I knee him in the groin.   He wheezes a pained gasp, his hands on me minutely loosening before tightening back again as he glares at me hatefully.   “Now,” I tell him, “I will have that beer.”   His left eye twitches.   And he slugs me across the jaw.   Then we have that beer.   ***   Sophia Hess Stops   “Her name is Wordsworth,” Emma says from my phone’s screen, sharp eyes looking straight at the camera in a way I know she could scarcely manage if she was trying to.   Because, in that moment? Emma looks…   Regal.   She isn’t confessing. She isn’t telling a shameful secret.   No, she’s making a proclamation and daring the world not to listen.   I press the button on the side of my phone that makes her solemn face fade to black before Dean makes a mockery of the moment, and I let it drop from my weak fingers on the sofa of the Ward’s common area.   Then I close my eyes and lean my head back over the armrest, the light of the fluorescent tubes above tinting the back of my eyelids in uncomfortable orange.   ‘Her name is Wordsworth.’   That should be it, shouldn’t it? The snowball that starts off an investigation on just what the Hell Emma and I have been doing over months of harassing the Undersiders and their pet bookworm. That pulls at the thread and gets me thrown in juvie after destroying my probation.   This should be all I could care about right now. Because Emma may have made things difficult for herself, but she just destroyed me.   Instead…   ‘I just want to be a hero, Sophia,’ the pale girl lying on a hospital bed told me, her sunken cheeks twisted in suffering I’ve never known as she tried to reach something she knew she never would. As she…   Damn it.   Damn it all.   “Oh, great. You,” Vista says as soon as the door slides open and the pipsqueak notices me on the sofa.   I think.   I open my eyes and glare at her, if only to confirm my assumption, but that only makes her scoff and walk toward the fridge behind the counter of the kitchen area.   She ignores me.   …   This would usually be a good thing.   But Vista… Doesn’t know. She doesn’t know that I’m screwed, that I’m days, if not hours, away from having to flee before I’m carted away.   She doesn’t know about an emaciated girl clinging to a single wish she will never see granted.   I close my eyes and worry at my lip, and Emma’s face as she was at that moment keeps haunting me. I keep seeing the sunken eyes, the thin lips, the skeletal hands grasping at white bedsheets.   The… The yearning.   And I… I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything so badly as she did at that moment.   “Vista?” I say, opening my eyes and seeing the disgruntled girl shoot me a look over her shoulder, the light of the fridge framing her blonde hair with something paler.   She doesn’t answer, just looks at me angrily, probably stuck on Gallant’s own mess.   But she also doesn’t look away.   “Why… why did you want to be a hero?” I ask her.   And she looks at me like I just asked her the dumbest question she’s ever heard after being a veteran of a thousand meet and greets.   “Who wouldn’t want to?” she answers.   And, yet again, I’m faced with a young girl I don’t understand.   ***   Amy Dallon Dreams   “They are going to take Dean away. I just know they are going to take Dean away, even if everything is Emma’s fault, and—”   I glare at my sister.   The one currently invading my bedroom, because she needs to vent, and I, apparently, am an excellent venting apparatus.   … No, I don’t really know what that means. I thought it would sound better before I finished the stupid line.   “Amy?” she asks, head tilted to the side in slight worry as she rests on top of my bed, seated Indian style, while I’m relegated to my chair.   “Is it?” I say.   “What?”   “Emma’s fault. I know she—”   “She defended a villain! In the middle of a press release! What could have—”   “I don’t know! I don’t know why… why are you looking at me like that?”   Vicky, glaring daggers at me, floats above the bed and flies over to me, still in her seating position as her hair streams behind her and the legs of her blue sports shorts bunch up to her pelvis, and—damn it.   “You do know,” she accuses me.   I do.   God, I do.   I do know why… why Emma did this. Why she threw away her career. Why she… sacrificed.   “Tell me,” Vicky, still narrow-eyed, still floating above my lap, bent over so her eyes are in front of me, demands.   And I…   For the first time in my life, I…   Refuse her.   “Patient confidentiality,” I say, trying to smile smugly.   Vicky blinks.   “That’s not—you’re not a doctor!”   “Honorary degree. It sure trumps college classes,” I tell her, finally saying out loud a rejoinder that’s been begging to be unleashed for months.   Vicky gasps, dramatically clutching her chest. Or, at least, the pink spaghetti top covering it—if barely.   “How dare you,” she says with overdramatic indignation that can’t hide the glint of humor.   Because she’s… Because she doesn’t know.   Because, to her, this is playful banter, the kind I’ve been too surly for since hormones kicked in, and I realized too many things I should never have realized about my beautiful, bright, often lightly dressed sister.   So I play along.   I let her believe the little lie as I join the back and forth, and I can see—feel her mood lifting with every exchange.   That’s what a good sister should do, isn’t it? Help the other one. Lend a shoulder and an ear when she has boyfriend trouble, even if that trouble may involve exile to another city.   And…   And I remember the girl on the hospital bed. The one I made stronger than she had been. The one I had made weaker before. The one who begged me to take her flesh and give it to another.   I remember…   ‘And so the girl remembered. Remembered a dream somebody else once had. A worthy dream. A beautiful tale. ‘She would never reach it. It wasn’t her dream. ‘But… But she could follow it.’   …   Thank you for the dream, Emma.   ***   Anne Barnes Hopes   “Her name is Wordsworth,” Emma says from the phone resting on my lap.   And I could cheer.   I… I have to hide in the toilet of what I think is actually a holding cell, no matter how much the guards have reassured me otherwise after my whole family was speedily taken from our home and to the PRT building. I have to hide, because Dad and Mom wouldn’t appreciate me being happy at Emma being shot down in live television.   They definitely didn’t appreciate it when we were watching it together.   And it’s just too tiresome to explain. That no, I am not happy at her being taken down by a Blaster power, even if she’s my little sister, and so I’ll always delight at her being taken down a peg or two, but at… at what came before.   At Emma looking straight up, defiant, without hesitation, finally being my sister once again and telling the world to go fuck itself with its stupid labels, that there was somebody else worth the attention, and that…   Taylor will not take this well.   She… She always was too independent, if that’s a thing, and I really think it is. Because she resented being helped if she perceived that as even the slightest bit controlling. Taylor wanted the world to be what she thought it should be, not the world to tell her what she should become, and…   And…   And I’m rambling inside my head, losing my mind, because my sister just made some very powerful enemies—some political, and some supervillains. And I’m hiding here from the second while guarded by the first, and I’m so damn proud of her I want to punch her stupid face in for worrying me for so long when she still had all this inside her, when she could have…   I am crying.   Because no, she isn’t done. She isn’t healed. Because I saw the way she looked when she fell down, and that took all the cheer out of my cry of joy at her slipping the leash and finally being who I thought she should be, but…   But Emma’s hurt. Hurt worse than Mom and Dad realize, and… And so is Taylor.   And, while not in the same way… Taylor always was a bit of a little sister to me.   But… But if the wreck that Emma was this past few months can… can sacrifice herself, can at least try to be noble even if in a misguided way…   Taylor was always the strongest of the two.   So I can hope, and that frightens me, but that’s all right, because what’s hope without a little fear? A little uncertainty that it will never come to pass?   As long as it’s just a little.   And as long as I can still believe that there’s a chance…   That my sisters will someday heal.   ***   Bakuda Plots   “Her name is Wordsworth,” Iridescent says from the rig of monitors hanging from my workshop’s ceiling.   I smile.   I guess the mask covers it, but, really, some sacrifices must be made in the name of the mystique.   Still… There’s only one witness right now, so I guess I can indulge myself.   I swivel my chair to the right and look at the one man standing with his arms crossed in the far corner of the dark room littered with half-finished casings and discarded tools.   “Oni, are you pondering what I’m pondering?” I tell him with my deepest, most gravelly voice.   Of course, he only tilts his head and looks at me through his mask rather than answer as he should.   The Philistine.   But, well…   “What we do every night, Oni: try to take over the Bay!”   He rolls his eyes.   I don’t care.   Because I’ve got a ton of creative explosives to build and very little time to do it in.   After all, somebody already fired the opening shot.   … Hmmm, there’s an idea. Thank you, Gallant. Your services are going to prove invaluable.       ================== ================== This work is a repost of one of my first commissions, and one that I’m both grateful for and proud of. It can be found on QQ, SV, and AO3, and, of course, on my Patreon where the latest chapter will show up a week before it comes out for everyone else. It is currently 35 chapters and 110k words long and approaching its final arc at a good pace, so I hope you’ll look forward to learning about Wordsworth’s ending.   As always, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on Amazon. Thank you for reading!  

Chapter 25 - Wordsworth – Chapter 26

Stories rhyme.   It’s an old truth. Endings that echo beginnings, middles that resonate somewhere in between. Patterns that reemerge time and again.   There’re dragons to slay, princesses to save, old homes to leave behind.   Because stories rhyme.   So I find myself standing on a rooftop, contemplating a villain’s gathering. Like I did when I set out to fight the ugly man with a nice smile, and I discovered that the Knight of the Sad Countenance could fell giants still. Like I did when I found an old snake’s cave and turned it into the beauty of The Fall of the House of Usher.   And this, this third time, as the cadence shifts, as the world once again finds this beat I’ve twice stumbled upon…   “Tay…” the Clever Fox whispers in my ear, her voice prodding me, trying to see if the white rabbit will jump out of its burrow.   I don’t answer.   I watch.   Because this is not me preparing for a battle, readying my stories as if honing my blades. This is not me contemplating what I’m about to do, what I should do, what a hero should do.   This is me.   And what I’ve done.   On the other side of the street, a bar lies in ruins, the whole front of it scattered across black pavement after Storm Tiger’s winds and the Charge of the Light Brigade went through it. Amid the wreckage, the splintered planks and powdered concrete, the shards of glass glinting under a moonlight that would’ve made Chekov proud, there are bodies.   Broken bodies.   Living bodies, yet… suffering ones.   I can see a man whose shin I cracked in two, whimpering and trying to hold still. Another that I slammed against a wall, only his chest moving, just enough to assuage the worst of my fears.   Storm Tiger…   He’s…   He lives. He will live. And he will be healed, and all of this will become nothing more than a short nightmare. A thrill of horror while huddled under warm blankets.   “Tay, talk to me,” the Clever Fox says.   I lick my lips, my tongue gliding across unsaid words.   And answer.   “I am sorry,” I tell her. Them. The world.   “I know. You shouldn’t be, though,” she says, almost cheerfully cruel, her glee only restrained by her care and concern.   For me.   That’s what fairies are dangerous for, I remember. Because they have their own rules. Their own sense of what’s right and wrong.   Yet they still can care.   And how terrible could be a love that cares for naught but itself?   “I’m not a damn fairy, Tay,” the fairy huffs and lies.   Like fairies do.   “You’re being rude. You’re being insufferably rude. I only tolerated the fox thing because foxes are neat, but if you think you’re about to get me into a Tinkerbell outfit—”   “Do you remember the movie? When Peter Pan needs some fairy dust, and Tinkerbell refuses to give it to him?” I say, trusting in her perfect memory for minutia.   … I’m one to talk, aren’t I?   “… Don’t. Please,” she whimpers.   Despite the situation, despite echoes and rhymes, I feel a grin spreading.   “Oh? Are you thinking about something very vivid, Liz?”   “You’re unfair. You’re so unfair. You and your stupidly sexy power are so incredibly unfair.”   “Oh my, what could you be imagining?”   There’s a loud swallowing sound coming from my earpiece.   “Please, Tay, don’t miniaturize me with a passage from Gulliver’s Travels, pick me up by the hem of my mini-skirt, and spank me with the tip of your fingers as I dangle helplessly from your grasp and try to muffle my gasps and moans with both hands covering my mouth,” she says.   And I just discovered that my words do some pretty interesting things over my cheeks when my body tries to blush.   “That is far more detailed than what I had in mind,” I squeak out.   And she laughs.   …   Of course she does.   “Okay, ready to talk now?” she asks, deftly sidestepping a line of conversation I’m suddenly hesitant to pursue.   And I…   I close my eyes. Sigh.   And open them to look at the wounded, broken men below me, on the other side of the street, waiting for someone who’s taking too long to arrive.   “I suppose I am, yes,” I say, taking a step back from the ledge, resting my back on the narrow, beige wall guarding the staircase that leads to this roof tiled with red, unglazed clay.   “Do you know why you were so angry?” she asks.   I hesitate to answer. Just for a moment.   But it’s still there.   “Emma,” I say.   “What about Emma?” she prods. Because that’s what she does. Because the Fox needs to see if the rabbit will jump.   “Her… defining me. It’s… It’s what she did. What she did for so long, so cruelly, so… thoroughly. I am on the path I chose for myself. I am being who I want to be. And then she comes and takes even that away, turning me yet again into what she decides I am.”   “A hero,” she says.   “It doesn’t matter. It’s not what she turns me into that matters, but that she does it. That she makes me feel like…”   I drift off, memories of another Emma flitting by, of a Red Sister that was always beside me, who also defined me. As her friend, her sister, her other self. As the girl who made up the stories for us to play with, as the girl she consoled when a mother was lost, as the girl she left behind.   The girl she made me.   And then she remade me.   She turned me into what I am today. Who I am today. She got that… She got them to make me drink from the bottle with a label Alice couldn’t have read, to have them turn my skin to paper, my blood to ink, my mind to stories.   And then, when they erased my pages, when they took away all the girls I’d been, all the girls she’d have me be…   She turned me into her villain to defeat.   Months lost, forever lost, drifting with no memories, barely any self. Just a handful of stories whispering to me, calling to me, sometimes offering me a glimpse of the girls I could still be.   Months until the Clever Fox led the Lost Girl out of the Dark Forest.   Months until I could look at myself, learn about myself.   Define myself.   Point to the other side of the Looking Glass and whisper: ‘Wordsworth.’   And to have Wordsworth answer me with a smile.   “She doesn’t have that power. Not anymore,” the Clever fox says. Maybe lying.   Maybe not.   That’s why lies are dangerous. Because you can’t know. Because, once they take hold, truth is no more, and only doubt remains.   “Tay… I can’t promise I won’t ever lie to you. I can’t promise I won’t ever hurt you. But I can promise I’ll never want to harm you. That I’ll always care. That I’ll… damn it!”   “Liz?” I ask, unsure of her tone. Of her rise and fall, from murmur, to rushed speech, to sharp curse.   “I didn’t want to break this out, you know? Not today. Maybe not ever. But you may need it now.”   “Liz, I really don’t know what you’re talking about—”   “To think your name now poisons my dreams,” she whispers. Sings.   And words flow.   A man talking about his lost homeland. About exile. About being lost.   About the winners, triumphant. Everlasting. Cains.   A poem not about war, not about what the broken men below me revered, but about what came after. Not about brothers killing one another, but about a survivor who lost. Who left.   Who remembers all that was good before. All that he loved. All that he still longs for.   “One day, you’ll be free from their lies; you’ll seek me. What will then have a dead man to say?” she recites, ending the poem and leaving only…   Resignation.   That things… change. That lost battles cannot be fought anew. That the attachment to what is no longer there is only pain.   Pain that endures, maybe until the time of death.   It’s a beautiful poem. Heartfelt, with a sadness so genuine that it becomes admirable. That it becomes tragedy, yet one that takes our breath away.   Like looking at the light falling through a stained glass window made of tears, each one glittering with their own shade of misery, longing, and melancholy. Like standing in the middle of the rain, each droplet echoing the last words of a play that was never written. Like being alive, able to move forward, to take that last step you desperately need to reach your goal…   And not doing so.   “That’s unfair,” I whisper.   “I am me,” she answers. As if that explained everything.   It does.   And that makes me smile.   “What was the point of it? Of dragging me along with out-of-order verses?” I question, sliding down the wall at my back, briefly tempted to recite a comfortable chair into being, maybe one from a tea party where all the attendants were mad.   “Tay… you and Emma… You have history. You always will. But that doesn’t define you. You’re the most stubborn person I’ll ever meet.”   “Likewise,” I intrude with unavoidable snark as I fold my arms over my bent knees and feel rough support on my back.   “Flattery will get you everywhere.” She laughs, and it’s as beautiful as it’s ever been. “But really, I… You are you. You’ll always be. But you also will never stop being the girl Emma loved and betrayed. And now you’re the girl I love and want. You are my girlfriend. Is that something that defines you? Is that me having power over you? Or is it just a little detail, a footnote in Wordsworth’s story?”   I look at the sky above. At a night that my power tells me should be filled with more stars, with a moon that was either round and full or barely a sliver of glinting silver, and not just a tad beyond a half-circle. At lazy, dark clouds drifting by, their uneven whorls tinted gray and blue by the city lights below them.   At the night sky of Brockton Bay not being half as beautiful as it could be, but being, nonetheless, what is here. Now.   In front of me.   “You brought me out of the dark. You gave me my self back. You set me free. And I love you. You’ll never be a footnote, Liz.”   Her breath catches, her adroitness with words and manipulation still not ready to deal with…   With us, I guess.   “And you say I’m unfair…” she tells me, her voice caressing me like it did this morning when she woke up under shared blankets, sun kissing her hair, bleary eyes smiling up at me.   “You are,” I breathe out. “You most certainly are.”   We hold our silence for brief moments as I take in the night sky, and she looks at it through the camera hidden in my hair.   I can picture her, back at her apartment, reclining on her white sofa, right hand hanging lazily off the yellowed, pine armrest, the city lights coming at her from the windows to her right that she ignores just so she can look at a small screen set in her lap, showing her what she’d be looking at if she were right here.   With me.   By my side.   Like a part of me hopes she’ll always be.   We still wait for the ones who have to come. The ones that will pick up their comrades and carry them to safety and healing. We wait for the second part of her plan to come together, for this third beat of my story to continue.   Because I’m on a rooftop, above villains.   Villains I’ve vanquished.   But, like the two times before, I’m still waiting for villains to defeat.   “Tay?” she asks, a note of mischief on her tone.   “Liz?” I answer, my left eyebrow rising a tad in cautious alarm.   “Do you want to know why you were really so angry?”   I blink, repressing the urge to turn to my right and stare into her eyes when she’s not there for me to do so.   “Didn’t we just go over that?” I say.   “Nope. We just went over why you were angry to start with, not why you went full videogame levels of violence.”   “I don’t know what that means.”   “And that’s why I love you.”   I close my eyes and don’t rub the bridge of my nose. Not when she can guess what I’m doing just by the slight motion of my hidden camera.   “Get to the point, Liz,” I mutter. Possibly due to self-destructive urges.   “You’re no fun,” she says, her tone giving lie to her words.   “Liz,” I say, my own tone giving her no lie at all.   “Well, if you insist…” She pauses, drawing it out until I huff, and she cackles. “Nazis, Tay! They are Nazis!”   I… blink.   “I am… aware?”   “Nope. No, you’re definitely not aware of why you, of all people, would have reason to hate Nazis with a passion.”   “I feel like I’m being judged.”   “Not at all. It’s just another adorable quirk of your delightfully neuroatypical mindset.”   “Are you… are you saying my power makes me hate Nazis?”   This time, the cackle is loud enough that I wince.   Note to self: my Brute rating does nothing for my hearing.   “You are a book¸ Tay. What do Nazis do with books?”   I blink.   Her words echo inside my head as if all the books inside of it just slammed their covers shut.   And I recall the very vivid image of my mother sitting by my side on our old sofa, clenching her fists during a movie scene, when an archaeologist with very little respect for the proper procedures of historical digs stood in front of a pile of burning books—   “Motherfu—!” I start to say before I slam my mouth shut like heavy leather over old paper.   My words yet again crawl over my tingling cheeks.   Liz’s cackles get, somehow, louder.   And I resign myself to waiting for the next villains to show up while enduring my girlfriend’s obnoxious laughter and my newly discovered urge to break Nazi fingers.     ================== ================== This work is a repost of one of my first commissions, and one that I’m both grateful for and proud of. It can be found on QQ, SV, and AO3, and, of course, on my Patreon where the latest chapter will show up a week before it comes out for everyone else. It is currently 36 chapters long and approaching its final arc at a good pace, so I hope you’ll look forward to learning about Wordsworth’s ending.   As always, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on Amazon. Thank you for reading!  

Chapter 19 - Wordsworth – Chapter 20

The greatest romances were always mired in tragedy.   “Lisa…” I say, trailing off as she twists the key to her apartment, and the door swings open.   She turns to me, a nervous smile on her lips, and I can see the brief twitch in her eyebrows as she suppresses her power, as she tries not to get an answer before she asks the question.   “Tay… I… It’s the end of the date, isn’t it?” she says.   And something inside my chest that now pumps inky words rather than blood hammers against any restraint as I step forward and rest my lips on hers.   Her hand rises to glide between dark tresses before she pulls me against her, pulls me inside her apartment.   I close the door behind me, almost tripping as I push it with my foot, and then my hands are around her waist as she walks backward with me following her touch, her warmth, her scent, more faithfully than I would any leash.   We don’t turn on the light, letting the city on the other side of the windows provide it for us.   “You know I love you,” I whisper breathily against her lips.   She goes to answer.   And I take her words away.   My hands lie between her shoulder blades, over her denim jacket, pressing her to me, asking for her touch, her warmth, and my lips are on hers. Not… hungry. But demanding.   She bends back, and I lean forward. Over her.   Her fingers pull off the purple scrunchie, and my ponytail spreads out into wavering locks that have a bit of petrifying gorgon in them.   Then those very same fingers trail across my scalp, between inky strands, and across satin pages, and I shiver around her.   “Tay…” she pulls away, her eyes wide with far too many things for me to name except under my breath and at a speed only I’ll ever understand. “This isn’t… the third date, is it?” she finishes with the grin of the fox.   Of a fox unsure of itself, masking insecurity with humor and wit.   And so, I…   There’s a struggle in me. The part that wants to stop, the meek Taylor who’d never do anything to risk Lisa pulling away from me, abandoning me, and the bold Wordsworth who’d never allow that to happen   The Lost Girl, and the Girl Who Was Found.   But there was a point where the two met, when they reached an agreement as they beheld a city that should have had more lights wandering through the dark of night.   “There once was a beautiful nymph,” I say.   And Lisa’s eyes widen.   But her lips don’t part.   And so, slowly, deliberately, I divest myself of the bulky jacket she gifted me, my borrowed top and purple-stripped sleeves revealing my shape in far more detail even as my inky gloves crawl up from my black nails and beneath the stretched fabric.   My boots grow the kind of heel I’m now comfortable with, and Lisa takes precisely three steps away until she meets the back of her sofa.   Her steps were hurried, almost panicked.   Her eyes are… eager.   And so I slowly chase her, one foot in front of the other, my hips swaying, their curve enhanced by the black, ripped jeans clinging to them.   And I speak.   Of a beautiful nymph, far too beautiful. Of somebody who had sworn off love and desire, who had deemed to emulate a virgin goddess of the hunt.   And of the brother of that goddess.   I tell her of bright, shining Apollo, of his beauty and might, and my words clad me in the radiance of a black Sun that nonetheless shimmers over the wooden floor of her home.   I tell her how Apollo burned for Daphne.   And of Daphne’s ultimate rejection.   She knows. Of course she knows.   And her mouth opens to say something, to maybe protest, maybe deny the parallel.   Then I take the last step, and I’m in front of her. Above her. Until my words lift her.   They crawl up her body, over her jeans, in smooth bark that should be pale yet isn’t, until they encase both her knees and slither up her sides.   Lisa could be paralyzed with horror. She could beg me to stop.   Her hands reach to my cheeks, cupping them even as I keep speaking of the chase and its ending, and her thumbs go over what once were my cheekbones as she closes her eyes and bites her lip.   “Tay…” she whispers in the kind of agony I know far too well.   And then the myth reaches her arms and pulls them up and to her sides as hanging branches sprout down from them, laden with swaying leaves and the breeze of a river that would’ve been Daphne’s father.   Her back arches as wood made of ink supports her body, and her chest is offered to me, stretching her top in far too tempting ways as her jacket falls open by her sides.   Then I get on my tiptoes and kiss her shut eyelids with as much delicate tenderness as I can manage.   “There once was a nymph,” I repeat, “who was too beautiful not to be loved. Even if she didn’t want to be. And her fate was terrible, because such are the whims of the gods, but… It didn’t have to be. Because Love inflames, drives one to madness and mad deeds, but… It also elevates. And so, the beautiful nymph who was honored through the whole world, the woman whose hair became leaves, and whose leaves became crowns… could’ve been admired. Could’ve been left alone. And the god could’ve left.”   “I don’t want you to leave,” she whispers, eyes still closed, lips brushing against my fingertips.   “I am not a god,” I answer with a wry smile as I keep feeding my power, my words, through the mere emotion of seeing Lisa’s body offered to me as if floating down a stream, as if peaceful Ophelia had always been alive and well after leaving the madness and cruelty behind.   Lisa giggles. Her eyes open.   “Aren’t you?” she asks.   I almost laugh.   But that is as much of an opening as I could’ve asked for.   Because then I tell her of a hero who stole from the gods, who revealed their secrets to mortals.   I can see her smirk glint at it.   And I answer it.   Because the roots of her laurel tree spread into a pool that covers her entire apartment, soothing water rising up our bodies as the bark becomes rougher even as it disentangles from her body, only her shoulders remaining bound in branches that are now weighted down by fragrant fruit whose smell is only enhanced by the blossoms floating on the surface of an inky black pool that reflects a Moon that is not inside her home, but should always be.   And then I tell her more of Tantalus, and of the punishment the gods gave him.   To always crave what was almost in reach of him.   To thirst, and have water recede from his lips. To hunger, and have fruit dangle just out of his reach.   In truth… It’s not Lisa that’s Tantalus. It’s not her that’s been punished with unfulfilled yearning night after night.   Or… Or maybe she also is. And that’s what I need to find out.   “Tay,” she breathes out, her tone almost feverish despite the black water reaching up to her chest.   Through waters of ink, I swim toward her. And then, impossibly swiftly, I stop just before I reach her skin.   Our chests are so close the water warms between us, almost boiling to my senses, but each of her deep breaths pushes me away, each of her shuddering exhalations pulling me back in as her body shrinks.   And we remain precisely the same distance at all times, never touching, always seeming like we’re just about to.   And… that could be it. That could be the end of it.   The Tragedy that Romance is always mired in.   But her eyes meet mine with a hunger I didn’t expect, even if I desperately craved it.   “You’re going to drive me mad,” she says as a single white petal from an almond tree drifts between the two of us.   “Turnabout is fair play,” I tell her with a pale imitation of the Clever Fox’s grin.   “Nothing that makes me feel like this could ever be fair,” she says as her hand reaches to my face and the myth pushes me away at the last second.   I have to close my eyes and take my own shuddering breath, unneeded as it should be. And, even then, I can feel the ghost of her finger on my cheek, the absence of her lips on mine.   “I agree,” I tell her, meeting her gaze with my own, seeing a mirror of a craving I could no longer hold back.   Except… I had to.   And she needs to understand why.   “There once was a scentless man,” I tell her, with my own phrasing and making sure my words don’t stir, that they remain a placid, fragrant pool and a cruelly beautiful tree. “That was both his gift and his curse, as others recognized him as… different. Somebody set apart.”   Lisa’s eyes widen, and I force myself to look away. To continue talking.   “He wasn’t a good man. No, in the end, he was a monster, obsessed with what he lacked. He set out to brew the ultimate perfume, the scent to clad himself with so that others would accept him. Or worship him.   “And he found it.”   I remember the novel. It was something I found by chance in the public library, even if I later learned how famous the book was, how embarrassing it was for me (me) not to have heard of it.   But it wasn’t a book Mom would’ve cherished. It was… interesting. Well done. But…   But.   It was a book filled with that.   “He discovered the scent of beauty. And he killed for it.”   And that was… a mild way to describe the horrors of Jean-Baptiste Grenouille’s story, of the abandoned orphan who turned her victims into the very essence of beauty and desire.   I… I don’t know if I can make his perfume. I’m not sure.   But there’s… the idea of it. And I don’t even need that particularly terrible incarnation. I could brew the potion that tied Tristan and Iseult, that brought a love mired in tragedy into their lives.   “In the end, he doused himself with the whole of it, the entire vial of stolen radiance, and he walked among the homeless and destitute. He walked among those who saw in him an angel so pure they needed to take him down, to devour him, to be filled with his grace.”   I wait, the pool and the tree still sustained by my power, still swaying in an unseen breeze and reflecting an absent moon.   And then I force myself to look back at Lisa.   Her hand is languidly reaching toward me, not pushing forward, not straining against her bounds. Just… there.   Extended.   And her eyes are tender. Open in a way that hurts deep inside.   “You would never do that,” she says, hand still offered in a caress I can almost feel.   “I… I don’t want to. But I also want to. I fantasize about it, Liz, about making a world where you can’t refuse me, where you don’t want to flee from me. I… I dream of you accepting me without the choice not to do it.”   “You’ve been hurt. Betrayed. Of course you want to stop that from ever happening again.”   I glide forward, around her stretched hand, until our chests once more almost brush together.   It’s… It’s a two-fold barrier. It was meant to tease Liz, to tantalize her, yes, but also…   It was meant to stop me.   “Yes, I know. I know how much sense it makes for me to want these terrible things. It still doesn’t make it right to want them.”   “Doesn’t it? Is it wrong for me to want to murder Emma?”   “Liz, you don’t—”   “Oh, I do. I want to make her pay, I want to make her bleed a glowing drop of ever-changing blood for every cruelty she piled on you. I want her to suffer, to crawl down on her knees and beg for a mercy she doesn’t deserve and will never get. I want her to live with a shame that won’t ever be erased. I want her to be a better person, one that won’t ever hurt you again. I want her to be a hero who will forever despise her former self. I want a thousand and one things, Tay, because I’m human.   “And so are you.”   The tree dissolves in drifting syllables, and the pool lowers us to Lisa’s hardwood floor.   “Huh. No water damage. Neat,” she says.   And then she launches forward and clings to me with all the strength of her body.   We fall down, Lisa on top of me, her face buried in the crook of my neck.   “Never. Never do that again,” she says.   “Liz—”   “Promise me.”   “I—I don’t know what I’m promising.”   She pulls back, her eyes radiant in fury.   “Never disrespect yourself like that. Never tell me you’re afraid of me betraying you. Never doubt that I love you.”   And, before I can answer her impossible plea…   Lisa kisses me.   Fifty marvelous words flit over my lips plush with poetry and song, and her tongue parts them to tease mine out, to pull it inside of her as her hands cradle my cheeks, as she forces me to accept that she wants me at least a fraction as much as I want her.   Lisa kisses me.   My hands glide beneath her jacket, beneath her top, and over smooth skin more yielding than satin paper as she shivers, as she takes my touch and makes it part of the undulating dance of her body over mine.   She presses down, her breasts over mine, both of us taking of the other’s shape, and her legs glide down at the sides of mine until her pelvis rests on my own, until I can feel a heat that mere cloth cannot stop from trying to bridge the distance between us.   Then she pulls back, blonde hair falling down the left side of her face, blocking the sight of the window from where the light of the city tries and fails to frame her ethereal beauty in insufficiently golden, nocturnal light.   “I love you. And even if there came a day when I wasn’t in love with you, I’d still love you. And that’s why I was so afraid to take this step, Tay, because I don’t want to… It’s me that doesn’t want to hurt you. You say you could make me drink a potion and have me yearn for you all of my life? I say that’s the most frivolously useless application of your power you could come up with. You say you could curse me to love you? I say that it’s far too late for that, and that I’ve been blessed to. You say you’re afraid you could be a monster, that temptation could drive you to extremes you both desire and dread?”   She leans back, sitting upright over me, and her hands pull up my top to bare my belly so that her hands can rest flat over it.   “Well, let me tell you, Tay… There once was a little girl who wandered through a forest,” she says.   And my eyes widen.   “It was an ancient place, and through it, two rivers met, or separated, depending on which way you went. The girl liked the sound of the rivers. Not because it was peaceful but because it was busy. Because the roar of clashing waters drowned the girl’s ever-shifting thoughts, and so she could pace at her leisure without being interrupted by her own mind.   “Because her mind was all too easy a betrayer, you see. The girl, after all, had yearned to be loved, even as she found herself alone, denied the possibility of even a mere pet. She would’ve been glad to have a cat. Happy to have a dog.   “And there, beneath the dripping rock between two rivers, she found a dragon.”   I know this story. Of course I do.   “It wasn’t a powerful beast. It wasn’t a dreadful, terrible monster. No, it was merely a pup. A seed of something greater, easily put down by anyone who may have feared what it could grow up to be.   “But the girl didn’t fear it.”   Lisa leans forward as her hands glide up my sides, beneath my top, and her eyes briefly open when they slide over my ribs, just by the side of my breasts.   She licks her lips, and I almost interrupt her with a tremulous kiss before she opens them to keep the story going.   “No: the girl fed it.”   She dives down to lay a brief peck on the side of my neck, and she continues in a heated whisper.   “The girl never feared the dragon. She loved it, and it her. She fed it, protected it, caressed it, and thus, when the dragon was great and terrible, when everyone in the town near the forest and the two rivers had grown to fear its power and hunger, the girl alone could walk up to it with a smile on her lips, secure in knowing that a brush of pale fingers over sharp claws would get the monster to slither around her, to secure her in its embrace.   “The girl loved the dragon, and the dragon loved the girl. And everybody else could fear them without the two of them caring for it,” she says, finishing her tale and biting down on my earlobe, the paper-flesh both yielding and crinkling around her teeth as a gasp is torn out of my throat.   “Liz… That’s… that’s not how the story ends. The Dragon of Mordiford devoured cattle, and then men, and then was killed by—”   “Wordsworth… That wasn’t the story of the Dragon of Mordiford. This is the story of the Dragon of Brockton Bay,” she tells me, green eyes once more above mine.   I blink up at her, at the slowly spreading smile of the Clever Fox.   And I laugh.   My power surges around me, happy to be fed yet another tale, one that didn’t exist until this very moment, and Lisa’s carried around by my own laughter as hers, softer, musical, drifts in tolling notes that lift me higher and higher.   And then she takes her jacket off, and I my top.   She kisses my breasts, going from left to right and back again, and I pull at her shirt.   She rises, allowing me to undress her, to have her be briefly clad in a white bra full of satin and transparencies I can’t believe are meant for my eyes before her arms twist behind her, and her bare chest is freed in front of me.   I rise up to meet her lips, and then she hugs my neck, and I slide my gloved arm beneath her knees and stand up, her weight as far from a burden as I can conceive as I carry her to her bedroom.   And then we shuffle in uncertainty before I let out another laugh and have her stand up as we unsexily and almost ridiculously jump up and down to take off our shoes and boots.   Then… then only jeans remain. Black and dark blue, and I admire once again how hers hug Lisa’s hips, how her thighs look round and full in the stretched cloth, and she coquettishly bites a smiling lip as she teases me with her bare torso before her hands slide along the waistline of her pants and she slowly undoes a metallic, golden button that can never outshine her hair.   Then… Then Lisa leans forward, and I…   I can’t undress fast enough. Can’t wait to feel her skin on mine, to have a leg between hers, to—   She falls back on her bed, embracing me, carrying me down with her.   Her body bounces atop a soft mattress I know too well, and she giggles when she catches my eyes on her moving breasts.   Then I… I kiss them.   I kiss the smooth skin, the gentle swell, and my lips trace fiery spirals that converge on her right, erect nipple before I gently take it between my lips, my teeth pressing on them and around it as harshly as I can without hurting any of us as my tongue darts in to flick it, to take Lisa’s breath away as she buries her fingers on my hair and sends a thrill down my spine that can’t be any milder than what she’s feeling, because it’s Lisa doing things to me, accepting me, wanting me, and I…   She pulls on my hair, dragging me up in front of her, above green eyes that should have slit pupils and be full of mischief.   “I love you. Don’t make me repeat myself so much,” she says.   Then the grin comes.   Then the kiss.   And I let her. I let Lisa take as much as she wants from me as my left thigh slides between hers, as I feel the wetness at the peak of her valley stain my skin, permeate through my pages, become part of my history.   Of our story.   It’s a good thing I no longer need to breathe.   Because something hammers inside my chest, fast and hard enough that my eyes become blurry before I’m forced to close them, to only have my touch and smell and taste convey to me the beauty of the moment, the intensity of it as Lisa’s left leg wraps around my right, and she slides down and pushes up, her sex meeting my own, our kiss above mirrored below.   I have to let go of her. I need to take the bedsheets in my hands as my fingers close around them tightly enough to bruise delicate flesh when she steals control away from me, when each teasing lick across my tongue becomes ecstatic agony as Lisa’s body writhes beneath my own, and none of us have any control, any understanding, of where we’re headed.   I wrap my arms around her, sliding over satin sheets I now realize weren’t there when we left on our date, that she must’ve changed them while I wasn’t looking.   That Lisa planned ahead. That she meant for me to moan and cry in this bed.   The world fades, and only Lisa remains.   “Tay?” she asks, surprised.   For once.   And I…   I am standing. She’s in my arms.   And my hands go below her, sinking in her flesh, in the round bottom her suit stretches around so perfectly.   I…   “I love you,” I tell her, just to see how her gaze melts, how her grin comes back just to soften at the last moment.   “I know. I know, you dork,” she says affectionately and almost, but not quite, teasingly.   I pull her against me, and her legs wrap around my waist as her arms tighten around my neck, her green eyes never wavering from mine.   “I… I want to sing Gleipnir into being, to tie you down with the roots of a mountain. I want to see your flesh bound as I pleasure you beyond what you can take. I want to tell you about the Tales of the Alhambra, to take you to the water gardens and have you moan your pleasure between the poetry of melodious fountains. I want to take you to Eden, and have you to myself in the only place worthy of your beauty. I want… I want to give you not the world, but all the worlds, all the dreams of mankind. I want… I don’t have the words, Liz,” I finish with a rueful chuckle.   Her fingers barely brush my cheek, her touch more a ghost of happiness than its presence, and her smile turns into something complex, a thousand notes underscoring a symphony I can’t understand, a music I shouldn’t understand, because its existence is more than enough.   “I do, Tay; I have the words: I want you. Just… you,” she says.   And she kisses me.   Lisa kisses me.   Fifty beautiful words, a reminder of the purity of Jenny’s kiss, flit between us, and then, even they step away.   I fall back on her bed, and Lisa’s hands drift down my body, between my legs, and she pushes them inside of me. The first person to do so.   The only one I ever want to do so.   I bite down on my own forearm, the almost pain grounding me, anchoring me to the moment of Lisa doing nothing else than devoting her beautiful, fragmented mind to my pleasure, and then I force myself to answer in kind, to slide my own hand down her body, over her back, around her waist, and down her belly until my gloves of words met her wetness below and I push inside as she… as her body accepts me, as she arches her back, her breasts dragged over my own as she keens in the almost agony I feel welling in my own chest.   Then… Then we don’t kiss.   We just stare at each other as our hands move, as we explore and prod, me briefly circling her clitoris with my thumb as she presses the heel of her hand on my own, her fingers rhythmically going in and out of my lips as I strive to rub over the rough patch of flesh slightly above her entrance.   We both bit our lips, holding back the moans that could so easily overtake us, and we struggle to keep our eyes on the other’s.   I almost forget to blink.   I do forget to breathe.   A silly smile pushes her cheeks up, and tears of something I understand all too well brim on the corners of emeralds far more precious than any ring ever was graced with.   And then she sees something, and she lids those very eyes, only a sparkle of gleaming green coming through as her lips part and she breathes a few more words I longed to hear:   “Come, Tay. Come for me.”   And I do.   It’s… It’s not lighting burning down my mind. It’s not a blaze engulfing my very self.   It’s a wave.   It travels up my body, subsuming every part of me with it, with the… the release of months of lonely longing, the breaking of a dam made of doubt and fear. It rushes over any barriers, any remaining obstacles to me trusting Lisa with my heart wholly and forevermore.   It washes over me, and its passage leaves behind someone new. Someone… cleaner.   And then it goes back, and her wrist twist just so, and I have to scream as the new wave crests before crashing down on my senses, taking away my sight for a brief moment that makes me unforgivably miss a second of Lisa smiling down at my pleasure before I manage to twist my own wrist and take that precious smile and turn it into surprise and ecstasy as she falls down on top of me, her breasts flattening over mine, her wet breath seeping into my throat.   Then we…   It’s… slow. We don’t slump after it; we just… accompany one another, our movements slowing down as the waves gentle, caresses turning feather-soft as we let the moment stretch and finally fade out.   “I love you,” one of us says.   “I know, you dork,” the other answers.   And we both giggle before laughter turns to kisses, and we roll on top of satin sheets, our hands wet with the other as they wander over every unexplored part of our skin.   When morning comes, it finds us resting in one another’s arms, smiling tiredly, exhausted.   And unwilling to go to sleep and let go of this dream.   Then, in Lisa’s tired eyes and silly smile, I find another truth I longed for:   Romance is often mired in tragedy.   But it doesn’t have to be.     ================== ================== This work is a repost of one of my first commissions, and one that I’m both grateful for and proud of. It can be found on QQ, SV, and AO3, and, of course, on my Patreon where the latest chapter will show up a week before it comes out for everyone else. It is currently 33 chapters and 94k words long and approaching its final arc at a good pace, so I hope you’ll look forward to learning about Wordsworth’s ending.   As always, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on Amazon. Thank you for reading!  

Chapter 17 - Wordsworth – Chapter 18

There once was a girl who looked into a mirror.   She had been playing with a kitten, and a flight of fancy took her to peer into the looking glass atop her chimney’s mantelpiece, where she wondered about the room on the other side and how much she would like it if the glass turned to silver mist and let her pass, how she’d love to explore and find out what the world upside down would be like.   It would be the second world she would travel to.   There was something that always bothered me about Alice’s tale, though. Aside from the nonsensical words that Mom used to tease me with, as she delighted in my frustration at them not being proper words (‘There’s no such thing as a proper word, Taylor; they all need time to grow up—just like you,’), aside from the twisted logic, (‘That’s the point, Taylor; it’s another world, with its own rules,’), aside from all that…   Where was the other Alice, the one living in the mirror, the one that should’ve barred the way through the looking glass?   Mom laughed the first time I asked that, and then she spent years telling all her friends about me pointing that out.   Proud of me. Of how clever I was.   But it wasn’t cleverness; it was just…   I look at the girl in front of me, fall back, and let my stories catch me.   She waves at me, her pale skin and black hair making her look like a ghost in the dimly lit halls full of her, repeating the same wave in alternating hands, and I step past her as hers drops to her side, the palm of the purple and black fingerless glove brushing against the black leather of her bulky jacket.   There’s another of her waiting for me, her brow furrowed, her eyes narrowed as she’s caught in thought, as she looks back at me and tries to come up with something.   Another step takes me away from her before she can do it, and then I turn around an angle in the frames of hesitating, lost girls, and something falls into place.   They are all caught in their frames, all of them echoes of the one before them, all of them ghostly and pale, because that’s what they are: the ghosts of a moment.   I walk between them, exchanging brief nods and greetings that are symmetrically returned, but none of them stand aside. None of them let me pass through glass turned to silver mist.   They don’t have to: I already live in a twisted world with its own rules.   But… Once upon a time…   There was a Lost Girl, but one that didn’t walk along a maze.   This same girl would one day go through a Dark Forest, lost in a different, maybe deeper way, but this was before. This was a girl who still had a sister, a girl who still knew herself, or as much as little girls ever do.   And that’s a funny thing about little girls: they don’t know how little they know. They can read a book and get mad at it not making sense, because books should make sense—that’s what books do. They can talk with their Red Sister and miss her on the way back home, sitting on the back of a car that they’d one day come to hate. What they cannot do is understand that they… do not understand.   All children claim to know who they are. All of them are wrong.   But, as long as they believe that lie, they are not lost.   The little girl, though… Something happened, and she no longer believed.   Her mother was gone, and a world that can take a mother away is not a world that can be trusted, because mothers are forever, and if that is a lie, what else can be?   Fathers care for little girls. They protect them, feed them, clothe them.   If that is a lie, what else can be?   And so the little girl looked inward, in search of more lies, and she became a Lost Girl.   She wasn’t alone, back then, and maybe that was the one thing that let her not stray too far as her Red Sister cared for her, hugged her, listened to her.   But the Red Sister wasn’t lost, and that was a difference between them that would never mend.   Until… Until it did.   Until the Red Sister was lost.   And the Lost Girl didn’t notice.   Cruelty, anger, spite. Those had never been part of the Red Sister, much as it was part of her color, and the Lost Girl didn’t understand, didn’t know what she saw. She thought her sister dead, replaced.   And so she turned her back on her.   It wasn’t a hurried decision, not something taken carelessly. It was something the Lost Girl needed to do to survive, because being by the Red Sister’s side hurt with every minute, with every shared secret turned into a dagger. The Lost Girl couldn’t have stayed, couldn’t have remained by her sister’s side. Not if she wanted to live.   Yet… She still wondered.   Each framed Looking Glass would turn into a window to a world where things had been even slightly different. Each upside-down ghost of the Lost Girl, one that maybe had found a clue to the hideous secret behind the Red Sister’s death, or one that had managed to avoid it.   I pass by another ghost of the present, one with a sardonic smile, and I let the tip of my fingers trail along the silvered glass, meeting her own fingers in our brief acquaintance before I go to the next frame, and she disappears forever.   One good thing about my new skin? Paper doesn’t smudge glass.   And so, my passing doesn’t leave a trace.   There’s an old koan, a riddle without an answer, one even worse than pondering what’s in your pocket. It says, “The duck doesn’t leave a trail in the water, yet it knows its path.”   It’s nonsense. It’s meant to be.   Yet… The Lost Girl didn’t know her path.   And she searched for it.   Night after night, she would stay awake, wondering what she may have done wrong, how she may have caused her sister to hate her.   Every morning found her without an answer.   And then, after she gave up, after she decided she didn’t need a sister anymore, that she would rather be alone than faced with the cadaver of lost love…   She was sought after.   She was taken.   Because she had been lost. Years and years of drifting through mists without a silver edge, without a whimsy world of wonder on the other side. She had been alone, invisible to those she once thought she mattered to.   But that had not been shield enough. Not when the Lady Who Knew Her Path came.   There… There was no trail in the water, yet it still flowed in glittering precision, in perfect, purposeful movements.   The Lost Girl had been briefly entranced by her, in that brief, shining moment as she walked out of her own Looking Glass.   Then she had tried to scream, but it had been too late.   She was told. She was unnecessarily taunted with what would happen.   She saw the Red Sister.   Through a Looking Glass.   But one that only let the Lost Girl see through.   And so she watched as the Red Sister drank something, as she was transformed, her colors shifting and bubbling up to the surface, and she had seen her suffer with every one of them. Enough pain and agony that even the Lost Girl of that moment, even the one who had declared her sister dead and lost, felt the pang of hurt, the urgency to care, to jump up and pound on the one-way Looking Glass.   To save her dead sister.   And then she had been forced to drink, and…   She had touched something. She had seen the shards of sad, dying gods. She had…   There were words. There always were words, and whoever said otherwise was lazy, cowardly, a sinner to the greatest gift of mankind.   And, even if there weren’t?   One could make them up.   Mome rath. Callooh! Callay! Frabjous day!   Jabberwocky.   The Lost Girl had once been angry at them, at the made-up words.   But then, as her body fell limp, as something writhed beneath paling skin, as a scream was torn from her throat…   Something of the dead gods touched her.   And words… Words grew.   She had lashed out with them, whispering of ancient warriors, of furious dragon slayers, of vanquishers of monsters.   The Looking Glass broke.   And the Red Sister laid still as her colors burned the world around her.   The Lost Girl was stunned then. Not by a traitorous blow from her enemies. Not by any of the powers raging behind her, locked in battle with Beowulf himself (‘Tolkien was inspired by the classics, Little Owl; if you like The Hobbit so much, maybe try reading Beowulf’s battle with the dragon,’ her Lost Mother had said, and so she had struck with a painful memory as she was forced to face another), but by the writhing, dying girl in front of her.   Because the Lost Girl had thought her sister dead. But seeing it was another thing entirely.   And so she had remained still for long enough that the inky ghost of a dead hero was yet again slain, and then she was struck.   And words, the words that mattered so much to her… were taken away.   Then she was truly lost.   Without a past, without the stories that had shaped her, the Lost Girl wandered through a Dark Forest, one that she never realized was near the house she could never go back to.   And she was alone.   Truly alone, without dead sisters, without lying fathers, without… without the ghosts of the people who should have been there and weren’t.   I turn another corner in the maze and look at another Lost Girl.   She’s… different than the ones who came before. Something in her eyes is bare after facing something buried that she wanted to remain so.   I take a step forward, my hand drifting up to touch delicate fingertips on the other side of a Looking Glass.   “We loved her,” we say.   And we smile.   A sad, little smile as we remember the stab of pain that seeing Emma writhing in agony shot through us.   It’s been some time since I remembered, since Lisa allowed me to, yet… yet that is the one memory I was afraid to revisit. The moment where all the anger and hate… No. They didn’t fade. I still despised her. Still wanted her to… not exist.   But I didn’t want her to die.   Cool glass soothes my brow as I rest my eyes, as I allow myself to relive that moment with the perfect clarity that my power brings me when a memory becomes a story, when facts become meaning.   And I see her. Below me. Burning.   My heart clenched, my eyes widened.   ‘Emma,’ I whispered.   And I almost wanted her to open her eyes, to look back at me and mutter a last plea for forgiveness before she was taken away, before she burned away, before there wasn’t even a ghost to miss and be angry at. Because I knew what that was, I understood what it was to be forever resentful of someone no longer there, and I didn’t want that. I didn’t want Emma to linger in my anger and hate.   I take a deep breath and force myself to continue.   I didn’t want my first love to die without telling me why.   And now I chuckle.   Because I have been the Lost Girl.   I have walked through the Dark Forest, and seen what lies beyond at least one Looking Glass.   I have lost. Again and again.   But that’s who I was.   Not who I will be.   “Found you,” the Clever Fox whispers in my ear, her arms around my waist, her cheek on my neck.   “Yes,” I whisper back, leaning away from the Looking Glass and the ghost of the Lost Girl within. “Yes, you did.”   And I know her mind whirs as she makes connection after connection, understanding my use of the past tense, knowing I was thinking about the before, knowing I was dealing with something that shall remain between the Lost Girl and I.   I almost smirk when I wait for the silence to break and it doesn’t.   It’s not often that Lisa holds her need to show her intelligence in check. But it’s often that she cares enough about me to put me first… and her urges second.       ================== ================== This work is a repost of one of my first commissions, and one that I’m both grateful for and proud of. It can be found on QQ, SV, and AO3, and, of course, on my Patreon where the latest chapter will show up a week before it comes out for everyone else. It is currently 33 chapters and 94k words long and approaching its final arc at a good pace, so I hope you’ll look forward to learning about Wordsworth’s ending.   As always, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on Amazon. Thank you for reading!  

Chapter 24 - Wordsworth – Chapter 25

The glass with a black frame shows a beautiful woman reading inside of it.   “The PRT still hasn’t disclosed an official statement regarding the earlier incident, though anonymous sources indicate a Master’s power to be the cause of Gallant’s—”   It’s always a beautiful woman or a handsome man, as if beauty and truth were cousins, as if the bearers of news had to portray both.   Except when they aren’t.   It’s always beauty, except when it’s ugliness.   “Bullshit,” the ugly man sitting beside me says, his sneer pulling at the scar running over his cheek.   “It’s all a conspiracy,” the man by his side agrees, nodding in a way that has his beer slide from beneath white foam and drip a single trickle down marred glass and over his fattened fingers.   “Still, while we wait for an official report, the facts are as clear as can be seen: the young ward Iridescent who rose to fame after her repeated victories over the Undersiders and Wordsworth herself has very publicly stated that her old nemesis is a hero. Was she alluding to a redemption story? To a mistaken identity? Maybe to an undercover job?” Beauty says, steering close to Truth for merely a moment before veering away.   “Yeah, right. More like a false flag,” the scarred man says as he rolls his eyes, and more beer is spilled in agreement.   “All of this coming to light after Lung’s defeat and capture seems to make the question ever more pressing. The question of who is Wordsworth,” the woman says with solemnity that strays into farce.   “Who is Wordsworth? Ha! Good question, isn’t it? A freak cape who—”   Who is Wordsworth?   I answered that question before I asked it on that night I first walked in beauty like the night, when I came for my lost father. When I reflected on the tale of the Red and Black sisters.   Wordsworth.   Me.   “If you ask me, she’s just another bullshit move to make that new ward look good. Takes the fall a few times, then gets publicly redeemed? What’s next, they are long lost sisters? Hell, a pair of dykes—”   The tinkle of broken glass echoes around me as the beauty of the night fades away.   And I stand.   In the middle of an Empire 88 hangout, surrounded by ugly men with ugly scars looking at me as I appear from within my veil of Moon and Stars.   I stand.   Furious.   “There once was—” the words come swiftly to my lips, the ink rushing down my gloves, eager to leap out, to find the nearest of them as they move, some to flee, others to draw their weapons out.   I stop them.   For the first time, I silence my stories.   They don’t deserve them.   I twirl around, my fist lashing out and catching the fat man’s forearm with my knuckles.   It snaps.   There’s a thing about paper: it comes from wood.   It is heavy.   Far heavier than a human arm.   He drops to his knees, cradling the shattered thing with his left hand as his switchblade slips out of nerveless fingers, and he howls in pain, agony, and rage.   I can sympathize.   I am hit from behind, the kick catching me on my lower back and making me stumble forward into a fist waiting for me, striking my jaw, turning my face aside.   The ugly man with the ugly scar shakes his hand and grimaces.   I…   Words rush through my mind, some of Lisa’s first attempts to get me out of my fugues helpfully hinting at knowledge that I keep inside myself even if I’m usually not aware of it.   My fist once again shoots forward, and the man bends over it, his eyes wide, his breathing exploding out of a gaping, stunned mouth as I bury two bent fingers right below his sternum.   I could have… It would have been easier to shatter his ribs.   Easier.   It never was about things being easy.   I twist out of the way, the man falling to join his drinking partner on the scuffed, wooden floor stained with spilled drinks and darker liquids.   Someone shatters a bottle over my head, the cheap whisky running over my ink, and I suppress a grimace at the memories of a father absent in all but body and at my words trying to recede from the attack as it seeps into my pages.   I force them still, to endure, to not reveal weakness in front of the enemy as I lash out with a low kick that catches the ankle of my attacker with the edge of my high-heeled shoe.   He stumbles away, catching himself on the dark countertop, framed by two red flags with a vile symbol on them.   And they dare talk about false flags…   The whole bar is decorated fittingly. Blood red hanging from the ceiling, framing iron eagles in walls laden with posters of soldiers from a long-gone war. From the war after Tolkien’s, the one that was called the Writers’ War.   Because war fascinates. It captures the human soul promising both the highest and the lowest that we can reach. War lures us in with promises of heroic deeds. Of the spirit enduring in the face of horror, rising up to things we never knew we were capable of.   Resistance. Defiance. Courage. Bravery.   Honor.   War promises.   And, sometimes, it delivers.   I lean on more words borrowed from things I haven’t learned, and I wrap my hand around a lunging wrist with yet another knife aimed at my eye, twisting my whole body, turning around, and dragging the screaming man with me so that he violently stumbles face first against the nearest wall, right over a poster of a man wearing a tanned uniform, his hand raised in a salute I shall never return.   I’m backed into a corner, surrounded by them all, by all those that haven’t fled.   By worshippers of War.   Of a War that brought the world to its lowest.   “Tay, why aren’t you using your power?” Lisa’s voice asks from the headset hidden in my curls, and, for a guilty moment, I regret that the device didn’t break with the bottle.   I rush forward and low, my pointed elbow in front of me, buried into a man’s belly, launching him away before I get more than a hint of the acrid stench coming from a white shirt that has too many splotches of other colors.   A knife sinks into my back before I can straighten up.   ‘Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand?’   No. Not before me. There were never daggers before me.   There was only red hair and giggles from behind.   I leap forward, the knife pulled out of me like a fake sword out of an unfit stone, and I’m surrounded. I see dark guns waved around, but they refrain from shooting among them, relieving me of the duty to stop them from doing so when I may not want to.   So they have that much awareness. That much intelligence.   Yet they still revel in this.   I yearn to speak words that will change their minds, mend their hearts, but what words could they be?   What truth could I say, what beautiful truth, to those who willingly turn to such ugly lies?   A crack of wood sounds over me, the stool striking my back forcing me ahead into waiting arms that grab at me, that try to hold me still for more giggling knives to find me.   I’m surrounded.   By men.   By grown men who love ugly lies.   They all could have red hair, beautiful smiles.   ‘Her name is Wordsworth,’ they would all say while looking straight ahead into a camera that would show me their colors as they were stained and drained away until they fell, empty of everything except for a smile that I knew for years.   A smile that had only ever been mine.   My ugly smile.   I roar, without words, without meaning, and I kick back into a now shattered shin. Flailing arms let go of me as the knives lunge forward, glimmering like stars in the beauty of the night.   I could handle all of this so easily.   I could slip away clad with beauty like the night before weaving a tale just for them, as merciful or as terrible as I intended to be. I could follow a deliberate plan laid out by a clever fox. I could do a thousand things other than stumble forward on high heels, turning aside at the last moment so that stabs can only glance me, only cut shallowly at pages that may be weak by themselves but that are denser than flesh when together and knit by black words.   I still know what pain is, but I no longer feel it the same way. There’s no more rushed urgency, no more flashing panic.   Not when it comes to my body.   But I see them. The ugly men and the ugly scars, rushing around me, striking at me, reaching at me.   They don’t smile.   And then the doors to the bar blow open, the mismatched twins torn off their hinges, and in comes Stormtiger.   The one I’d been waiting for.   The one that Lisa’s plan was meant to lure.   Another worshipper of War. Another peddler of ugly lies.   So I meet him with a sad, brilliant, beautiful truth.   “Storm’d at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred.”   My words finally spring free from me, rushing out of my dress, my gloves, my hat my hair. They cover the whole bar turning it into a true battlefield, one with cannons to the left and to the right as the six hundred ride.   And they were noble.   Not because their cause was just. Not because they fought for the right side.   But because, after their charge, after the thundering hooves of six hundred horses rushed forward and toward the enemy’s guns, after they took upon themselves to fight despite the blunder, black sabers of ink flashing forward under a brief sun…   After they are torn apart in front of my eyes by Stormtiger’s razor winds as the chained man whirrs into frantic, panicked motion…   “They that had fought so well Came thro’ the jaws of Death, Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was left of them,   “Left of six hundred.”   I whisper the penultimate verses, the ones before the triumphant, rallying note.   The ones that tell me about those who survived despite it all and those that fell in their attempt.   And I end the poem there.   And so they return, my words, my soldiers, rushing back to me after their first strike. After their first defeat.   My enemy still stands, clutching at a bleeding arm, one of my six hundred having managed to weather the storm.   The rest of the Nazis have fled or are moaning on a floor that is once again wooden, that doesn’t bear the scars of battle.   Words are once again ready in my mouth, eager to leap forward. To bring more truth here.   He raises his left hand, the uninjured one, and winds once more whirr around it, screeching in ugly fury and rage.   It would’ve been so fitting on her.   It would’ve been far more fitting than a beautiful smile turned cruel. Or an ugly smile turned into yearning like a skull’s.   ‘Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? Your gambols? Your songs? Your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning?’   I never kissed Emma’s lips. Just her cheeks, her hair, her hands. Just the girl she was before the flesh fell away from my dead Red Sister, and all that remained of her were blazing, beautiful colors that hid ugly lies.   A Red Sister that still struck with flashes of merriment.   A Red Sister that it took me too long to realize had been replaced.   Stormtiger’s strike briefly meets Humpty Dumpty’s wall, and both are scattered over a stained floor. He readies another assault, the winds gathered around him growing faster and wilder.   But I have an audience.   I have my words.   I have far more than six hundred.   ***   Stormtiger lies broken and weeping.   His ugly lies rent asunder by my beautiful truths.   By Arthur’s death. By Camelot’s fall. By yet another war that took too much to give so little.   My enemy’s been battered by every Knight of the Round that lived to see the fall of their kingdom. Struck with blows pulled at the last moment as those who nursed my love of noble sacrifice fell again and again like they had always been destined to.   I stand in the destroyed bar, surrounded by wounded men and torn flags, and I imagine Arthur right there, beneath my feet, returning Excalibur, scolding Bedivere for not throwing it away to its rightful owner, to the Lady of the Lake.   I imagine a tired man who had lived long enough to see his dream crumble. To see his heroes fall. To be betrayed by lover and friend.   Yet, somehow, in my eyes, Arthur is always smiling.   Because he lost. He was defeated in all the ways that mattered. Defeated by Lancelot and Guinevere’s love. By Mordred and Morgana’s treachery. By Merlin’s absence.   He lost all that he had fought for. The kingdom he had raised. The knights he had loved.   He had lost everything.   Everything but himself.   “Come back, Tay,” Lisa whispers.   “The plan…” I half answer.   “No. This was a mistake. You’re not ready to go out yet.”   I look at my feet.   At where I imagine Arthur lying, smiling as the life drains out of him when one of his last knights finally leaves him behind to, this time, throw Excalibur into the still waters of a nearby lake.   Bedivere did it, in the end, a white hand rising from the depths to take the promised sword.   And, when he came back…   Arthur was no longer there.     ================== ================== This work is a repost of one of my first commissions, and one that I’m both grateful for and proud of. It can be found on QQ, SV, and AO3, and, of course, on my Patreon where the latest chapter will show up a week before it comes out for everyone else. It is currently 35 chapters and 110k words long and approaching its final arc at a good pace, so I hope you’ll look forward to learning about Wordsworth’s ending.   As always, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on Amazon. Thank you for reading!  

Chapter 22 - Wordsworth – Chapter 23 – Colors 8

Saying that Piggot is furious would be like saying I have some trouble managing my emotions: an understatement bordering on outright falsehood.   You know, like most of my life so far.   “I’ve been thinking,” the pale woman sitting in front of me says. “I’ve been trying to come up with some reason for you two to behave in such a way as to outright tell the entire world that I should get fired or transferred as far away from underage parahumans as the lack of a space program allows for without you two colluding or meaning to. I’ve really been trying to understand how and why two of the most cooperative Wards under my command just decided to destroy my career on live television. I haven’t, so far, managed to. Thus I humbly request your assistance on the subject.”   She looks at each of us in turn, at Dean and me, both sitting in front of her in the otherwise unremarkable room painted in lead grey and only decorated by a large mirror on my left side.   To my right, Dean’s hands, still covered by his armor gleaming under flickering fluorescent tubes, tighten on the metal armrests.   “With all due respect, Madam, is this an official interrogation?” he says with his unfailingly polite tone.   I admit to being mildly impressed.   Me, on the other hand? I am clamping down hard on everything.   On the Red trying to burst forth at the boy who just deprived me of the chance to tell the world everything I want to tell it. On the Amber, ecstatic at finally slipping the leash, even if only for a few seconds, that wants me to jump up and shout my defiance. Even on the Gold, wanting to burst forth at finally, finally managing to do something for Taylor, and not just because of me, but because I couldn’t stomach any more lies, any more—   “The fact you need to ask this makes me question whatever regard I still held your intelligence in, Stansfield,” Piggot says.   And I clamp down on the Yellow.   The one emotion I don’t dare allow myself. The one I don’t want to explore through my power, because it’s what led me down this path, down this constant reminder of how… how…   I remember. I remember the podium, looking into the cameras, feeling the Green well up at the mere idea of claiming any credit for taking down Lung when it was all for her. When I was just running away, forward, right into danger I didn’t know if I could overcome. When she was being a hero elsewhere because that’s who she is. When she was helping others when all I could do was make a vile man suffer.   I remember the disgust barely held at bay by Indigo’s clarity, by my purpose.   I remember the purpose shifting at the almost literal drop of a hat.   And I know I have been played.   “Then,” Dean says after a few seconds of tensely staring into Piggot’s receded eyes, “according to regulations—”   “Fuck regulations!” Piggot yells, standing up and throwing her chair back as she sways on her feet before leaning on the desk between us, the sturdy thing shaking despite being bolted to the concrete floor. “I am minutes away from being out of my post, and that’s only because the shitstorm is huge enough that nobody has the slightest clue how to navigate it to get at me and drown me in it! You just—you two fucking brats just murdered what was left of my career, are liable to get me sued into poverty, and outright killed if I can’t pay for my treatment. You two are going to answer my—”   “Amy,” I mutter, almost despite myself.   “What?!” sharp, bright eyes ask of me.   And I…   I Wonder.   I Wonder at the woman pulling herself up through sheer will, despite her failing body. Because Amy told me once what she saw at a mere touch of Piggot. The wrecked ruin of what used to be a fit fighter. I know she lives in constant agony, doing one of the hardest jobs in the country.   I know Emily Piggot suffers every day through a choice of her own, dwelling in pain she could avoid if she just decided to, if she wanted to turn away and ignore what was done to her to become somebody else. Yet she refuses any help in doing so.   How very Emma Barnes of you, Emily.   “Amy Dallon. Panacea. She will heal you,” I state with utter confidence.   But I’m not done.   I’m not done, because I can see the way her eyes narrow even further until only a keen sliver of azure remains pointed at me. I can see how she refuses my words, the very idea, and that’s because I do not wonder enough. Because I can feel the silver mist trying to circle around my wrist while I force myself to face this one woman’s most remarkable traits, but that’s not near enough for it to bring me the clarity I need from it, the bridge between us I felt with Amy when she stood by my side, and I just allowed Wonder to take over for the first time since I drank the awful, terrible poison that hasn’t killed me fast enough.   So.   I Wonder.   I Wonder at somebody who laid her life on the line. At somebody who saw the monsters threatening all of us and decided to be part of the wall against them. At somebody who was a hero in a way I will never be able to be, not with how tainted each of my actions are by what came before.   I Wonder at somebody working herself to an early grave, refusing to even acknowledge anything that would steer her away from her chosen path.   I Wonder at… at a sword trying to act as a scalpel. At a warrior trying to act like a general. At a fighter trying to get others to fight in her stead, to battle like she’s no longer able to, to be the heroes she fears they will never be by themselves. Because she has seen the face of fear, the despair of loss, because she understands just how broken we all are, all of us, vials or not, what powers do to our worlds, to…   I Wonder.   At a woman who should have been broken, who was broken.   And yet stands.   Silver shoots up my left arm, the line of mist now unbroken, no longer contained to a pale bracelet.   Dean looks at me with wide, almost fearful eyes.   And I stand up, my eyes in front of Piggot’s as I take her hand.   “What are you doing?” she growls, her muscles tight under my grasp, tendons standing out despite fat and skin swollen with poison-carrying liquids her body can no longer purge.   “It would be easy, wouldn’t it?” I tell her, allowing Silver to guide my words. “It would be so easy to take this as an excuse. To let yourself fail one last time as your body finally breaks down and allows you to rest.”   “Barnes, unhand me right now—”   “It would be the easy way out. The coward’s way out. And you haven’t taken it. Not after long, grueling years when no one would have blamed you. Not after everything that’s happened, everything you have withstood. Because you, Emily, are not a coward.”   “Iridescent—” Dean says, reaching up to my free hand, the one that isn’t tracing soothing circles over yielding flesh as my words sting and tear.   “I know cowardice. I know what it’s like to stare into the mirror and wonder how it would be to let it all end. I know how sweet the call of nothing is. I know what it takes to avoid it. To keep moving. To keep feeling.”   Her eyes are on mine, never wavering even as her lips thin further and the crease between her eyebrows deepens.   “I know…” I tell her, faking hesitation before a last plunge that I have been gearing to since the start of my speech. “I know what it’s like to drag it out. To refuse to acknowledge you are still walking toward it. To lie to yourself over and over as you come up with new excuses to refuse—”   She slaps me.   She isn’t in shape, but she outweighs me, and I wasn’t ready for it, or, at least, I hadn’t allowed myself to ready for it as Silver laid a script for me to follow, a path to connect with the older woman, to understand that which only Wonder can bring to the surface as I am fascinated by the story of pain and sacrifice etched on each of Emily Piggot’s wrinkles of anxiety and struggle.   So I stumble away from her, the back of my heel catching on the leg of the heavy metal chair behind me, and I trip before painfully falling down on my left side, cradling my cheek as I look up into hate and spite.   Then, without a single word, Emily Piggot walks around the desk bolted to the concrete floor I’m lying on and steps out of my life with a loud door slam.   “What did you just do?” Dean asks me with anxious eyes as he kneels by my side, his hands moving erratically as if not knowing whether to first address me lying down or my already swollen cheek.   “You tell me, Stansfield,” I say as I refuse his helping hand and shift on the floor, my exposed palms scraping against it in soothingly uncomfortable ways as I let go of the Wonder straining both my power and mind.   Because Piggot may be admirable in some ways, yes, but she’s still…   Piggot.   Dean waits for me to stand up on my own, getting to his feet at precisely the same speed I do, watching me for any unsteadiness, for any signs I’ll fall yet again.   And then he sighs.   “You saved her life,” he says.   And I nod.   “She will ask Amy. Or any of the healers on the Protectorate’s payroll, I don’t care which, but she will get herself healed. And so I’ll not have killed her with a careless outburst during a press release.”   Dean… snorts.   “You really believed that, did you?” he says with an easy smile that I find disconcerting.   “What do you mean?”   He sits back down and stares at my recently vacated chair in silent invitation until, finally, I do the same.   “Pension plans. Favors owed. Retirement accounts. Being a PRT Director is hard work, but it also pays well. Piggot being unable to pay for her dialysis is… unlikely, to say the least.”   I blink at him.   And he laughs.   It makes me want to blast him.   “You are a better person than you think, Emma.”   “You are a worse empath than you think, Stansfield.”   His smile turns bitter for just a moment, and then he nods.   “I am. I really, really am. Because I can… I see it. I see it all, the same colors you wield, drifting around everyone, every single day, and I know what they are feeling, but not why. I don’t… I can’t do what you just did. I can’t reach them, Emma, not like you can. Like seemingly everyone can without powers of any kind to guide them.”   I look at him, really look.   At the handsome, rich guy I would have gone for in another life, one where I still had my modeling career but did not hold onto the ghost of black hair and pale skin.   He snorts.   “I likely won’t see you again. I’ll be transferred, away from the Bay, from Vicky, from… from everybody I ever lied to. It will be nice to have a fresh start,” he says before staring at the mirror from which someone must still be keeping watch on us. “One without… debts.”   I close my eyes and keep a tight leash on Red.   “That easy, uh?” I tell him through gritted teeth.   “No. Never easy. It never was that,” he answers.   Then a heavy gauntlet drops atop a metal table, and Dean holds my hand with his bare one, something… something cool and soothing washing over me through the contact as his power meets mine for, if he’s right and truthful, the last time.   And so, yet again, Emma Barnes will be left behind.     ================== ================== This work is a repost of one of my first commissions, and one that I’m both grateful for and proud of. It can be found on QQ, SV, and AO3, and, of course, on my Patreon where the latest chapter will show up a week before it comes out for everyone else. It is currently 33 chapters and 94k words long and approaching its final arc at a good pace, so I hope you’ll look forward to learning about Wordsworth’s ending.   As always, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on Amazon. Thank you for reading!  

Chapter 1 - Yui’s Lily Garden – Chapter 1

All Right! Fine! I’ll Take You! – Yui’s Lily Garden – Chapter 1   Author’s Note: This work contains heavy spoilers for the main fic of the series up till chapter thirteen. It’s also dangerously diabetes-inducing and prominently features a cute, cheeky dog. You have been warned.     I just had lunch with Hikky.   Is… Is this fair? We talked about Yukinon, and he told me he had a plan, so she couldn’t have been there because they’re still butting heads, but… Is this too underhanded?   No, I’ve given her enough chances! If anything, too many! I pushed her to give him the cookies, left them alone in the aquarium, and—   And Hikky rejected my plan.   I bite down on my pencil as the teacher keeps droning about something that will be on the test and that I will hopefully have Yukinon explain next time she stays over. Really, this is all so boooring it feels like one of Mr. Chunni’s novels. What’s the point of making things hard to understand on purpose? People should be able to express what they actually mean—   And I am back to them again. Is it so hard for them to accept their feelings? Yukinon kept that secret picture of Hikky beneath her pillow, and Hikky…   He’s not very good at hiding his glances…   Remembering once again the way he told me there was nothing ‘little’ about me, I flush and try very hard not to hug my chest right in the middle of class.   Creepy! Hikky’s sexual harassment is creepy! Fish-eyes! Peeping Tom! Harem lead!   “Yuigahama, are you all right?”   I raise my head to see Mr. Tanaka looking at me from across the class and Hikky shooting me his usual, far too intense yet uncaring at the same time, look from just over where his head was laying on his arms. So unfair. He’s always going on about how he isn’t good at math, but what does he do during class? Sleep, mostly. Or pretend not to.   Not like I keep looking at him while he has his eyes closed and—   “Yuigahama?”   “Ah! Sorry, I… may have a little bit of a fever?”   Mr. Tanaka hums in consideration before coming to a decision.   “Fine. Miura, accompany her to the nurse’s office.”   “Uh?”   “Come on, don’t dally; you have wasted enough of your classmates’ time already.”   As I feel my blush get slightly worse (not much, because Hikky kept staring at me throughout the whole thing), I see Yumiko get up and go right to me. I rush to my feet before she drags me up because, knowing her, that may be a very real possibility. Really, Yumiko, if you were half as forward with Hayama you wouldn’t be in this mess of longing glances in the middle of class—   Oh.   Totally different! Hikky and Yukinon are too well-guarded; a straightforward approach would only get me shot down from their battlements!   I need to stop talking to Mr. Chuuni…   I allow (by which I mean I don’t try to fight her) Yumiko to grab my elbow and pull me after her in her decided charge across the classroom. She only stops after the door closes behind us, and then she takes my hand.   Uh? Is she—no. Yumiko’s straight; that much I’m sure of.   Lucky her…   “What has he done now?” The tone doesn’t leave much doubt about who she’s talking about.   “I… Yumiko, he’s really not as bad as you’re making him out to be…” Hikky, why do you make it so hard to defend you?   “I don’t care whether he’s bad or good; I care about what he does to you.” Why couldn’t I have fallen for her? She’s pretty enough, and I would be too scared to make a move, much less agonize over— “Yui, tell me.”   “It’s… not something he’s done; it’s just… Yukinon.” And Yumiko’s eyes soften in a way that could mean she has figured me out or that she really, really hasn’t.   “What a mess…” she mutters before turning around and dragging me to the nurse’s office at a sedate pace.   “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”   “Don’t apologize. It’s annoying.”   “… Sorry.”   And she sighs before stopping yet again.   “Just… Just don’t let it get you down, okay? They both are too thick-headed for you to fret over them so much.”   “I know, but… if I don’t—”   “Their families. Their other friends. Themselves. Each other. It doesn’t have to be you, Yui, don’t act like you didn’t choose this.”   And she’s right, of course. She rarely isn’t.   Really, she and Yukinon are far more similar than they would like to admit.   “But I did. I chose them.”   And Yumiko, once again, sighs in frustration.   “Couldn’t you have had a normal crush? What about Tobe, is he really so—” I look at her, trying not to show half as much disgust as the suggestion brings. “Fine, fine. Not Tobe. Really, poor guy, can’t catch a break.”   “You could always set him up with Hina.” And if my tone’s frostier than usual, I think I can be forgiven.   I spend a lot of time with Yukinon, after all.   “Whoa, no need to—I mean, sorry. I know it’s delicate, but it just…” She worries at her thumb with her teeth, peering up at me while carelessly destroying the nail art I know she spends so much time getting just right, and…   I hug her.   “Uh?! Yui?!”   “It’s alright, Yumiko. You are a good friend.”   “D—don’t misunderstand, I just—”   “You don’t want to be annoyed. I know.”   And she pauses for a moment before arms toned by hours of tennis practice close around me.   “As long as you understand,” she mumbles, her breath heating the air within my hair.   Why couldn’t it have been you, Yumiko? It would’ve been so much easier…   ***   “Yui? Dinner is ready,” Mama says, her head barely peeking into my room.   Which is completely unlike her and her bossy ways. So I guess I’ve been more obvious than I thought.   “I’m coming, just a second.” Sable raises his head from my lap just the tiniest amount, enough to give me a sad eyebrow waggle, and then settles his chin back down, his lower body spread on the bed where I’ve been sitting for the past hour.   Which is completely unlike me! I seriously need to move, to do something, before—   Sable lets out a small whine.   Fine. Maybe I don’t need to move. I’ll just pat my thoroughly spoiled baby.   His short fur is soft and warm under my hand, and after I gently rub with my finger the ridge of bone between his eyes, his tail starts thumping against my mattress.   If only everyone was so easy…   “Yui! Dinner!”   “Ah, sorry! You heard Mama, Sable, I can’t keep spoiling you. Come on, get off.”   Sable looks up at me, his eyebrows raising in a tented shape.   He doesn’t move.   “I am serious, Sable. Get off.”   His tail wags slowly, softly drumming against my bed.   I sigh.   And I end up carrying a dog who’s very prone to affectionate licking to the bathroom in my arms.   When I finally get him on the ground, I need to wash my hands and my face.   “Took you long enough,” Mama says when I sit at the table.   “Sorry, Sable was being… Sable.” And Mama chuckles at that.   “You mean supportive of his mopey owner?”   “Mama!”   “Daughter!” she says, copying my scandalized tone. And she chuckles. Again.   I don’t think that deserves more answer than a grumble…   At least she has prepared tonkatsu… Ah, no! Stuffing my face is not the proper way to deal with—   And what would be the proper way?   Taking a page out of Yumiko’s book, I let out a miffed sigh before I decide to actually stuff my face with golden, crispy, breaded pork cutlet that almost melts in my mouth.   “So, is it Hikky or Yukinon?”   And I proceed to almost choke on it.   “Mama!”   “What? I was your age not that long ago; I know what that face and those sighs mean.”   And now my cheeks are burning. Great. Coming out of the closet to my mother may have been the worst mistake of my life.   “… Can’t it be both?” Asides from asking that.   Her eyebrows raise before an impish smile makes me make sure I don’t have anything in my mouth that would require a quick trip to the emergency room.   “I don’t know, Yui, can it?”   “Uh?”   She pokes my forehead from across the table, and her smile softens.   “Can it be both? Are you three… close enough for that?”   And I remember a date to the aquarium, a hurried declaration, and a boy far too eager to make that crying face that just makes me melt because I want to hug him and hold him and have him—Ah!   “Mama, stop laughing!”   “Your face is too easy to read, sweetie. Make sure you don’t fall for a playboy.”   “Not that likely…” Wait. He has me, Yukinon, Iroha… and maybe Miss Shizuka? Is Hikky a playboy?! I just thought he was a dense harem lead, but if he—   Oh. And Saika.   If he’s bi, we would have at least that in common.   “Hey, Yui.” I raise my gaze from the neatly cut pieces of golden, delicious—I mean, I look at Mama. “Don’t regret not trying when you can regret failing.”   “Wha—why would I want to regret anything at all?”   “Because you are young, learning, and life will not wait for you to be ready before throwing you a curveball. Sweetie, you are a beautiful young woman who has met another beautiful young woman and an impossibly broody guy. It is a mess, and somebody’s gonna get hurt, but it’s better that the pain comes now than ten years from now, when you look back on this and wonder what could have been.”   “Is that…” I swallow, the words not quite ready to be exposed. “Is that what happened with Papa?”   Mama stays quiet for a bit and then gets up and smiles a soft smile before hugging me to her chest.   “Yes. No. Maybe. But it doesn’t matter. Because you know what’s the best thing about mistakes that cause you pain?”   “No?” I say, my voice as steady as I can make it. Because if Mama won’t cry, then I don’t have the right to.   “That the pain ends up fading. But the good things remain.”   And Mama kisses the top of my head, and I allow myself to cling to her.   Even if the tonkatsu is getting cold.   ***   The rest of the weekend passes in a monotony of taking Sable on so many walks that at one point he just lies down in the middle of the street and refuses to move until I carry him back home.   I spoil him too much… But he’s just so cute when he rolls around, his tail waving like a featherduster and—   Uh, I mean, I should be stricter with him, or he will grow up crooked.   Like…   “Yuigahama, could I ask you to go the clubroom after class?”   Right. Like him.   And Mama’s right: he’s far too broody. Couldn’t he have asked me like normal, instead of putting up this solemn expression like he has decided to—   Oh.   “Is this about Yukinon?” Because what else could it be about.   And he smiles. That crooked smile when he knows something he knows nobody else does. The smile he wears when he’s about to win, no matter whether everybody else would rather lose than get such a victory.   The smile I…   My cheeks are warm. Great.   “Yes. I am going to solve this once and for all. Like I promised you.”   “You... didn’t promise me anything, Hikky.”   “Oh, it looks like you are right. It was you who promised me to help with Yukinoshita.” And that smile, once again.   “I… Yes, I did. What do you want me to do?”   He leans in, conspiratorially, and he whispers.   “Be yourself.”   “Uh… What?”   “You heard me: be yourself.” And he leans away, and his current smile is not so sarcastic, the edges sanded away, and…   Oh, that is so much worse.   Stupid Hikky! Where’s your creepy grossness when I need it the most? Come on, say something outrageous! Call me dumb! Commit social suicide! Look at my chest!   Uh, I mean, not that last one, please…   “That easy?” I end up asking.   “No. That hard. That impossible, unreachable feat. Except for you. Because you are Yui Yuigahama, and you do with ease what we all struggle so much with.” And his smile softens even more, and there’s that hint of sadness, and I don’t know whether I really am everything he just said I am, but I want to be. For him. For Yukino. For them, and help them be…   I am not crying.   He clears his throat, and the moment passes.   “Thanks…” I say, even if I don’t know what it’s actually for. Because that may be the nicest thing he has said to me, but I still don’t know what it means, so—   “No. No, thank you, Yuigahama. For being you.” And he turns away.   And walks out.   And something in my chest clenches.   ***   The solution to the prom situation is… About everything I expected, and not at all like I thought. Which… Sums Hikky up pretty well, now that I think of it.   There’s been a whirlwind of emotion, revelations that would make no sense for anybody not directly involved, something that would be a betrayal if not done in loving kindness…   Yes. It definitely is one of Hikky’s plans. Even if it lacks a certain something.   And then he asks his prize, and… well.   I don’t know whether to slap him or kiss him.   ‘Try to kiss Yuigahama.’   Seriously? After a whole weekend agonizing over the two of you and trying not to think of precisely the kind of scene where you eagerly watch as Yukinon and I—   Nope! Not thinking about that! Much less right now!   Because, right now, I’m seeing a resigned Yukinon turn her body toward me after having another one of those almost conversations with Hikky where the two of them imply more than they say, and I’m pretty sure they each end up interpreting their own thing that only somewhat resembles what the other meant.   Mostly because they aren’t already dating, and if they really had that kind of telepathy, they would have been all over each other months ago.   Stop! Bad brain! Bad! This is not the time for that.   No, this…   ‘Who better than Yuigahama Yui to handle Yukinoshita Yukino?’   He told me that last week, as I huddled under his jacket, his warmth and his scent surrounding me, and I… I melted a bit more at the thought that he really saw our bond, that he didn’t think about us as, as… codependent, but… that he saw, like I did…   Yukinon takes a step forward.   My eyes are still on Hachiman’s, looking for a sign, a clue that he really means what I think he means. And he nods.   And I can’t look at Yukinon. Not now, not like this, when she feels she’s being forced to—   She takes another step. Another step. Toward me.   And Hikky smiles. Not his usual smile, the one that may become an insult with a single twitch of his lips. No, it’s his tender smile, the one with a hint of sadness that I can’t really read, because it could be sadness for others as much as for himself and, and, and I want to reach him, hug him, let him cry out in my chest, let him be whatever he wants to be with me, but…   But Yukinon is near. Getting near.   And Hikky asked me to… be myself.   He said it would be easy for me. Only for me.   It isn’t, but… It could be.   So I turn toward Yukinon, and I see her fully. Her tight shoulders, her restrained expression, the way she’s pushing herself toward what she thinks…   She expects me to reject her.   Some day, I will force Hayama to tell me what the Hell happened back then, and that will be the day some bitches learn that small dogs can have very sharp teeth.   But today… Today Yukinon is walking toward me, and I don’t smile. Not yet, because it’s not the right moment when she’s already on the verge of something, but I look at her. Timidly, guardedly, tilting my chin down as my cheeks redden just a bit more.   And Yukinon’s eyes meet mine, and her expression shifts. Resignation giving way to disbelief, to… something fragile. Precious. Something I want to cradle in my hands and warm it enough that it can finally hatch from the ice.   And she takes another step, and I almost leap forward. But no. That’s not what this is, that’s not Hikky’s plan, that for once I understand, because it’s not about their logic, or reasoning or methods, but about feelings, and those I do understand, even if they are harsh or hurt, or always seem too far away.   So I wait, a smile twitching on my lips as Yukinon searches my face, looking for disgust, or trickery, or the slightest hint of me being uncomfortable.   And she doesn’t find them.   And finally… finally… Yukinon leans forward that last couple of inches.   And I see fireworks.   I… always thought that was an exaggeration, but here I am, sparks of something giddy and bubbling shooting in, around and through me as the softest thing my lips have ever tasted brushes against them, as Yukinon’s frail blue widen as they remain fixed on mine, and I know what she’s thinking, what she’s feeling, and it is not at all what I am feeling, but that is all right, because we have a lifetime ahead of us to make those synch.   So I am ecstatic, while she’s disoriented, and I could cry out in joy even as tears start brimming in her eyes. Because I’m so, so glad that she’s finally managed to reach across, to accept that she’s loved, that I love her, while she’s unbalanced, floored by the feeling of not being rejected when she expected to be. And that’s a sad happiness, or a happy sadness, but it’s all right, because—   And she leans back. Confused, her fingers reaching up to those lips that are now mine, that I just claimed and—   “Wha—why—” she starts to ask.   And I answer the question before she can finish it.   By jumping forward and holding her in my arms like I’ve wanted to do so many times, like I’ve yearned for, like—   Oh, wait, that’s not all I wanted to do.   So I kiss her.   And this time, I don’t hold back.   Because our first kiss was about Yukinon discovering that I wouldn’t reject her, but our second will be about me teaching her that I won’t let her pull away.   So I keep my eyes open to watch each and every reaction, my hands traveling up her back, the fabric of her uniform rough on the spots where I push her hair aside, and my fingers dig into always far too taut muscles so she lets out a muffled moan of relief that I take advantage of to push my tongue inside her mouth.   She wriggles inside my grasp right before she freezes at the intrusion, and I push forward harder, insistently, my tongue moving around her mouth not to make her join in, but to let her experience the full breadth of what I can offer, and she moans at certain times, so I take note of them, the places that are sensitive, the movements that she enjoys, the things that make her close her eyes and get limp in my grasp as if drifting away.   And then, out of the corner of my eye, I see Hikky watching us right before he starts to leave.   No!   I look into his eyes, right at him, even as Yukinon is held upright by me, and ask, beg him to understand, and I start opening my embrace, to show him that there’s room for him there, that he can always, always—   And he shakes his head.   And… a dream breaks.   Because this is the happiest I’ve been in years, the day I finally can show Yukinon how loved she is, the day she hopefully starts to heal, but…   It will also be the day I lose my first love.   Damn you, Hikky. You always need to be such a drama queen…   And I can see it hurts him. I can see it’s also something he’s losing, denying himself, but… He has made a decision.   And I don’t know if the person who can change Hachiman Hikigaya’s mind has yet been born.   So, between the sadness of loss and the happiness of a better future… I choose.   And I turn my attention back to Yukinon. To the girl melting in my embrace, to the body I’ve dreamed far too often about, the mind that always dazzles me, and the heart I want to mend.   On the other side of regret, a door closes.   And I am alone with my lover.   ***   I am sitting on the ground of the club room, my back resting on the wall to the side of the window, Yukinon seated on my lap, curled like a kitten looking for warmth.   For something I can give her.   “Yuigahama—”   “No.” I look at her sternly.   “Yuigaha—”   “No.” Apparently, Yukinon, for all her genius, is harder to teach than Sable.   “Yu—Yui?”   And I smile and pat her head, and she tries very, very hard not to preen.   And fails.   So cute!   “Stop that…” she moues.   “You deserve a treat. If not this, what do you want me to do?” I waggle my eyebrows (no, Sable, I’m not copying you), and she blushes further.   It suits her well.   “Yu—Yui,” she begins before she pauses to take a deep breath, preparing herself for whatever it is before she shrinks herself, burying her face against my chest. “… Why?” she ends up muttering, almost too low for me to hear.   And I could play dumb, tell her I don’t understand, ask her to elaborate. But that’s not me.   I don’t play dumb. I am dumb.   … That sounded better before I actually thought it.   So I cradle her cheek with my hand and tilt her face so she’s looking straight at me, so she can use whatever mysterious methods she uses to read me and anticipate what I am actually thinking as long as they are thoughts and not feelings. I keep looking at her, just drinking in the beautiful, frail girl, the glossy ink of her hair, the snow of her skin and the apple-red of her cheeks, the sky in her eyes, for once without any cloud.   “Because I love you, silly.”   And I lean down, my lips meeting her own in a fleeting kiss once again, because I have done it so many times already that I shouldn’t marvel at the soft feeling anymore.   “But… why?”   Not a ‘me too,’ or an ‘I don’t feel the same way.’ Because the notion is too alien for her to readily accept and properly answer to.   So I kiss her. Again.   And then I look again into sky blue that shines brighter than ever, even if the light is still uncertain.   “Because…” and I swallow back the bitterness, the regret, the raspy feeling in my throat of tears unshed. “Because it is genuine.”   And Yukinon shakes. Because she hadn’t readied herself for that answer, those words. Because they are his.   But, for a while, so were we.   ‘The pain ends up fading. But the good things remain.’   So I cradle my good thing, and kiss her hair.   And… I never wanted anything genuine.   Because what I wanted was love.   And I thought I couldn’t have both.   Thank you, Hikky. For proving me wrong.   … And even like this, you end up making me feel dumb.       ================== ================== This work is a repost of the first spin-off of the Cakeverse. The whole verse can be found on QQ, or up to date on my Patreon. Unless something drastic happens, it will be updated on Tuesdays and Thursdays until it catches up to the currently written chapters.   Also, I’d like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving me a hand and help me keep writing snarky, maladjusted teenagers and their cake buffets, consider joining them or buying one of my books on Amazon. Thank you for reading!  

Chapter 20 - Wordsworth – Chapter 21 – Colors 7

Amy healed me.   She… I was expecting her to bitch at me, to be her snarky, grumpy self as she held my hand and funneled the indistinct biomass into my body to replenish everything of mine that was spent in restoring Tattletale’s body.   She didn’t.   She grasped my wrist, delicately, as if afraid I would break or her fingers would, and kept staring anywhere but my eyes as I felt my muscles return to me, my thighs toning, my chest lifting my paper gown and the thin sheets above.   I felt the awareness of absent parts of me return, the strength I’d lost rush back with every steady beat of a heart that became louder by the minute.   And then…   Then my eyes sharpened. My hearing, as well. Something shifted in my knees, along my spine, my wrists… All minute differences, but all keenly noticeable to the me at that moment as Amy went beyond healing, beyond restoring what she herself had taken away when I’d begged her to.   And she reforged me.   I… I remained there, half-sitting, leaning on two pillows, and I kept looking at my body beneath muddled, shifting colors as, for the first time in years, maybe since the last time I listened to a thin, tall girl speak about the latest book she had discovered, I felt wonder bloom in my breast.   The vein of Gold was still hidden in my forearm, the hope too valuable to ever let go of, but then there were boughs of silver spreading over me, their glow gentler, like moonlight falling on a shadowed glade, and…   Amy looked at me. Brown eyes that are often painfully plain even as she looks at everybody else with the disdain and bitterness few will ever understand contemplated my face, my own eyes, and opened in more ways than they ever had before.   “Why?” she whispered.   “Amy…?” I asked.   “She… She is a villain. And you risked yourself. You fought Lung. You… Emma, you… why?”   There was pain in her voice.   And so, still feeling Silver pour coolly, soothingly over me, I twisted my arm, her grip on my wrist lax enough to let me do so, and I grasped her hand.   “There… There once was a girl with too many friends, and a girl with not enough. They were sisters in all but blood, until the first one was… lost. I… The girl with too many friends couldn’t stand herself, what she saw in the mirror, and she hurt those around her, but none more than the sister who reminded her of what she had once been. She couldn’t… It didn’t make sense. It was madness, folly, and… And it shouldn’t have been allowed. The girl should’ve been punished, made to apologize, to make amends.   “But nobody did, and so she continued.   “She… She became hateful, looking for a meaning in what had happened to her, a way for the world to make sense when it didn’t have to.   “And she kept hurting her. Her sister. The girl she loved.”   Amy’s fingers clenched around mine, almost painfully, and her breath shook.   “Wordsworth…?” she finally managed to ask with a rough voice I could feel encroaching on me.   I nodded.   “The girl… A lot of things happened. She found one of the answers she had been looking for, except it turned out to be unlike anything she had thought she would find. And, in doing so, she hurt her sister yet another time. More than she ever had. She did… something unforgivable.   “But that’s no excuse, is it? Because… Because the girl knew. She knew she was scum, that she would never be anyone worthy of anything she had ever wanted. She knew there was no going back.   “But that… That doesn’t mean she could go lower.”   Amy wrapped both hands around mine, bringing it to her forehead as if in prayer.   “Emma… you… What did the girl decide?”   I closed my eyes and took the deep breath Amy could feel rushing through my chest.   The silver was steadily beating, and I saw what it was doing. How it was connecting me to her, the Wonder I still felt at Amy being so unlike herself, so giving when she didn’t have to be, with someone she shouldn’t be.   I could feel my Wonder bridge the distance between her and me, letting me… Letting me see, if not understand, letting my words be shaped by something that…   I felt Wonder at Amy. And my power wanted to give something back.   I think.   “She was terrible. Awful. A wretch. An ugly thing that should never have been born.   “Yet… Acting like it? Sinking in that? It would just make it… worse.   “And so the girl remembered. Remembered a dream somebody else once had. A worthy dream. A beautiful tale.   “She would never reach it. It wasn’t her dream.   “But… But she could follow it.”   And Amy Dallon, surly, full of spite, always keen on badmouthing each and every one of our common acquaintances… cried.   She sobbed, shaking, her forehead trembling against my clenched fingers over her own.   Tears dripped as I allowed myself to open my eyes and look at her.   And, with my newfound strength, I bent forward to hold her, to wrap my single free arm around her shoulders as I let her soak my green, paper gown.   “We… We cannot stop being who we are. What we did,” I told her, not knowing what it was that she felt so wretched for, but knowing that she did. “But we can choose. We can choose what we do, what we want. Not what we will be, not what we will become… but that we won’t sink any lower. That we will refuse that call, that soothing, seductive whisper. That we will never give in.   “That we will live.”   Amy threw herself on top of me, her arm shaking around me, her tears flowing freely, her sobs wracking the both of us.   And, for a single moment, I almost believed my own words.   “Ready in five,” the PRT adjutant says, her head peeking through the grey, thick curtain separating me from the podium.   “I could—” Dean starts to say.   And I glare at him.   He smiles sheepishly at me, at the bands of colors boiling over me, with red constantly trying to overwhelm all the others.   Green is also there, no matter how hard I try to tamp it down.   “Just offering,” he says with half a shrug.   “I’m far from appreciative of your generosity when it comes to Mastering me, Stansfield.”   “I don’t see why. Amy seems to be doing better after you—”   And Red surges.   I’m holding him up by his armpits, refraining from slamming him against the wooden wall behind him just because I don’t want to deal with the scandal of my breaking it during Piggot’s speech that my pounding blood doesn’t let me hear.   His armor would be fine.   Maybe he also would. But I doubt it.   “I didn’t Master Amy,” I tell him, the metal under my hands heating up with every second my arms strain to hold him aloft.   “Then what did you do?” he asks, a bitterness in his tone that he never shows.   “I talked to her—”   “And suddenly, she’s acting completely unlike herself—”   “Yes. Because I said something she was both ready and willing to listen to. Because that’s how people work, and you shouldn’t need a Thinker power to know that—”   “I don’t need one to see you, Emma. You’re out of control, and you could do irreparable harm if you don’t—”   “I could? I could?! You—you fucking moron, you don’t know what I have already—”   “Ready in—” the woman from before says before freezing in place.   I slowly turn to look at her while I lower Dean until his metallic boots set on the carpeted floor.   “Is that my speech?” I say, pointing at the clipboard in her hands.   It isn’t. Of course it isn’t.   My speech is on a chair near the curtain, and I’ve been forced to memorize the damn thing beforehand. But it’s a good question to get her to look down while I force the Red beneath…   Beneath what?   I don’t have Amber, the joy and exultation of living in the moment.   I don’t have Blue, the solid, unmovable sadness of knowing I can no longer advance.   I don’t have Indigo, the urge to protect that grants me insight—no. No, I do.   A push of my mind so that the emotions slot in the right place, the right order, and Indigo comes forth. Because I do want to protect. I need to protect.   Not… Taylor. Not this time.   Anne.   Anne, my whole family, but mostly Anne, is in danger after I put Lung behind bars. They are now targets, ways to get at me, so this press conference may be instrumental in reducing said danger. In letting her live her life, free of being my sister and all that heaps down upon her.   So I let Indigo flow over me, my mind both sharpening and expanding with every thrum of defiant emotion, with every step I take inside of me to bathe in the urge, the craving, the need.   I feel… everything.   Every minute shift in the air around me, the ways in which it swirls when it meets the heat still surrounding me from my Red bursting forth, the curlicues of shimmering currents that are suddenly clear for me to see in the almost imperceptible diffraction of the light going through them. The way my weight is irregularly spread across a grey carpet that is lumpier than I first thought, the individual strands of the woman’s brunette hair, the dilation of her pupils as her eyes involuntarily drift to me when my aura changes suddenly and dramatically.   The smell. The smell of cleaning products, and air freshener, and fifty people, each one with their particular cologne.   I cling to Indigo, and so, I am not overwhelmed.   “Never mind,” I tell her with a calm I can now fake, with a precision of syllabic enunciation that is indefinably harsh. “I just remembered where I put it.”   Then, perfectly aware of the way my weight shifts with every motion, I walk toward the chair I left my speech in and grab it before I turn to look straight at her and not at Dean.   “I do believe five minutes have passed,” I say.   And, through the open curtain, Piggot’s voice comes in.   “So I leave you with Iridescent, the hero of the hour,” she says, her tone more constrained than the wording would suggest.   Then I walk around the woman whose face I’ve just memorized down to the distribution of the pores beneath her incipient eye bags, but whose name I’ve never been made aware of.   Piggot steps aside, throwing me what the cameras will show as a respectful, soldierly nod as I approach the lectern.   I smile in a calculated, not entirely cold way and set my speech in front of me, beneath the microphone.   Then I take a deep breath.   I know what I have to say.   I’ve memorized it, repeated it, parroted it.   I can make the delivery perfect, even without Indigo enhancing my awareness to superhuman levels, as long as I do this for Anne.   Not Taylor. This wouldn’t do anything to protect her, and thus Indigo won’t react to her.   So. Anne.   I… I love Anne. Even more since she said how much she resents me, how much she despises what she thinks I’ve done. Since I learned how much she would hate me if she knew me.   I’ve never loved her more.   So, I have to do this and do it well.   Thus, with the carefully rehearsed movements I learned through a career as an amateur model, guided by a power that feeds on my ever-shifting emotions, striving toward a simple, single goal, I lift my head to look at the gathered reporters with a smile that is a bit more open than my earlier one, but also a tad overwhelmed. Somewhat humble. Just enough to be relatable without being subservient.   Then I open my mouth to say the words in front of me, the ones I don’t really need to read…   And I see a hat.   I stop.   My eyes, eyes enhanced by Indigo, eyes that should be able to discern the most minute of details, that should be able to pick up any face in any crowd in the world…   Fail to catch her.   But it’s her hat. Hers. She is here, or was, and she’s looking at me, looking to see what I’ll do, and there’s Yellow boiling over my hands, and I’ve never used Yellow before, even if fear should be the one thing Emma Barnes has in abundance, but I always covered it with Red, reflexively going to Anger so I wouldn’t feel anything else, so I wouldn’t be overwhelmed by anxiety attacks, and the dread of picking up the phone, and…   And Red burns.   The dark wood blackens beneath my fingers, the papers shifting between my hands despite me not touching them as I let Red take over so I won’t break down like I’m supposed to, so I won’t tremble, and…   And…   I let Red simmer down before the lectern bursts into flames.   I look at the pretty words. The ones meant to assure the public that I’m a hero, and that heroes triumph, and that the ABB won’t dare retaliate. At the prepared answer for when they ask me about my family, and I tell them that they are safe, that I trust the PRT to keep them so.   At the speech about me defeating Lung because of a sense of duty, because I was answering a noble call that didn’t have anything to do with white skin and midnight black hair.   Green bursts out.   Piggot had taken a step toward me, but her face twists in pain before she quickly backs away, not quite knowing what to say or do as I let the silence stretch before I look up at the cameras pointed at me, at the reporters finally showing a smidge of interest at what should have been a straightforward statement.   Green beats around and through me. Self-hatred. Shame.   But… Taylor.   Taylor’s unconscious body, how they showed it to me when I woke up. How they told me what she had gained.   What she had lost.   What they had taken away.   And what they would do to me and mine if I ever stepped out of line.   So there’s Green. And there’s Red.   But… there’s Taylor.   And so, there’s Indigo.   “You’ve come here to listen to me tell you about how and why I defeated Lung. You’ve come here to know that Brockton Bay has a new hero, one more powerful than anybody suspected, one that you can trust to keep you safe.   “You’re lucky, because that is true. There is such a hero.   “Her name is Wordsworth.”   Indigo grants me a single fraction of a second to turn toward the disturbed, grey curtain to my left, but I don’t have Amber at the moment, and so I can’t step aside quickly enough to dodge Gallant’s blast and keep talking. Keep telling my city who they should trust and who they shouldn’t.   My colors escape from my control as I drop down to the uneven carpet below me, my mind once more human.   But… I’ve got one last second before the darkness claims me as I’m overwhelmed by the interaction between his power and mine, as the exhaustion of the emotional drain shreds my consciousness.   In that last second, I can see Piggot’s horrified face. I can hear the screams from the reporters. I can see Dean, pale and scared.   And so, before darkness claims me, without paying any mind to what I can or can’t feel, and just because I want to…   I smile.     ================== ================== This work is a repost of one of my first commissions, and one that I’m both grateful for and proud of. It can be found on QQ, SV, and AO3, and, of course, on my Patreon where the latest chapter will show up a week before it comes out for everyone else. It is currently 33 chapters and 94k words long and approaching its final arc at a good pace, so I hope you’ll look forward to learning about Wordsworth’s ending.   As always, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on Amazon. Thank you for reading!  

Chapter 6 - Yui’s Lily Garden – Chapter 6

All Right! Fine! I’ll Take You! – Yui’s Lily Garden – Chapter 6   Meat and potatoes, and a salad.   Mama has never been that good of a cook, other than a few select dishes she likes enough to have perfected over the years, but nobody can screw up meat and potatoes.   Yukinon seems to agree, going by how she’s systematically and silently demolishing her own plate.   That, or she’s still too embarrassed to talk, which would explain why she isn’t meeting anyone’s eyes. Not even Sable, and he’s tried to pull his usual ‘beg the guest for scraps; they are unlikely to know the rules.’   It should be noted that Sable’s ‘begging’ could more accurately be described as ‘bullying,’ what with him standing on his hind legs and pawing at Yukino’s arm while insistently whining.   “Sable, no,” I tell him for the… big number of times I don’t care to remember.   He shoots me a betrayed look and then rests a gentle paw on Yukinon’s elbow.   I look at him harshly, and he makes big eyes at me, orange eyebrows drooping in sadness and—   “You don’t play fair, dog,” I grumble as I snap my fingers so he darts to my side, tail wagging before I pet his head as he stands to rest it on my lap.   “You’ve spoiled him rotten. It’s all your fault, really,” Mama points out.   “It’s not! He’s just… He has a strong personality…”   “Yui, dear, honey, sweetheart… I know what it’s like to spoil a child rotten.”   “Hey!”   I shoot Mama an indignant glare, and she sighs resignedly before half-standing from her chair to pat my head.   …   I resent the implication.   But at least Yukinon is now doing that quiet, muffled laugh she does when she’s afraid to burst out into outright guffaws, so I guess I’ll tolerate this for a bit longer.   And tilt my head a bit to my left so Mama can reach better the top of my head. For… no particular reason.   …   And now I’m blushing. Great.   I finally manage to react in a sane, healthy way, and bat Mama’s soothing headpat away—wait, no, that’s not what I—   “Ah, they grow up so fast.” She sighs as she cradles her hand to her chest.   And I glare at her as she shoots me a smug smile.   And Yukinon’s still holding back her laughter.   …   At least Sable’s on my side. His loyalty deserves a reward!   “Yui! What have I told you about feeding Sable while eating!”   “Only to do it when he deserves it for not turning on me like everybody else?”   “… I am pretty sure I never said—”   “I have seen what you cook for him on his birthday, Mama.”   She freezes up, and her eyes dart to the dog happily munching on a piece of meat that some people who don’t have dogs would have thought too large for him to swallow. Really, it’s kinda scary how he snaps his teeth when there’s meat involved—oh, right, I was turning this around on Mama.   Who’s now looking aside and coughing into her fist as Yukinon’s shoulders keep shaking.   “So…” Mama starts to say, first guiltily looking at me and then at Yukinon with dawning glee, “what are your intentions toward my daughter?”   Ah, yes. The suffering’s been spread.   Except for Sable, he’s enjoying every single second of this.   …   I shall allow it.   “Ex—excuse me?” Yukinon croaks out, her shoulders no longer shaking, even if her lips are slightly trembling.   “Well, you didn’t seem that averse to marriage prospects before…” Mama goads her on with baseless teasing.   I think.   …   I hope.   Yukinon, going by her pale face, shares my hopes and dreams—ugh. Gross. I blame Hikki.   Which, at least for what’s going on right now, seems plenty fair. That’s right, Hikki! I can blame you and not feel guilty at all! You deserve all the blame for me bringing my girlfriend to have dinner at home!   … I feel like ‘blame’ isn’t quite the right word.   “I—I appreciate Yui and, maybe, in the future, with international pressure—”   “Yukinon, no planning to overthrow the current constitutional rule just so we can get married, please.”   Yukinon’s eyes widen. I guess she doesn’t appreciate my newly set boundaries regarding social revolution.   That, or she keeps choking on the whole ‘marriage’ thing that I’m pretending not to freak out at, because Mama smells fear. Seriously, it’s like Yukinon never learned how to banter without sarcasm, snark, and other things that allow her to layer meaning and emotions in plausible deniability.   Such a mystery.   … I’m gonna need to talk to Haruno, aren’t I?   “That wasn’t what I—Yui, are you really—” the younger bundle of trauma to come out of the Yukinoshitas says.   “We’re teasing you, dear,” Mama says. “It’s a show of affection and trust, nothing serious.”   “I—”   “Mama’s right. Get used to it: affection is no longer negotiable. I have a Sable, and I’m not afraid to use it.”   “Your dog is not a weapon—”   “You clearly haven’t tried to oversleep in this house, dear,” Mama tells her, patting her hand with sorrow that’s, I’m pretty sure, at least about thirty percent genuine.   Mama doesn’t enjoy getting night shifts, and the main culprit is still methodically licking his snout for any traces of meat juices that may remain.   Yukinon, on her side of the table (in front of me and to the left of Mama), is looking at the two of us like she’s trying to guess whether we’re still just teasing her or we really share some furry alarm clock-related trauma.   “I don’t think I’m liable to oversleep, no,” she finally adds.   “Good for you,” Mama comments, “but my daughter may not give you much of a choice in the matter.”   “What does that mean—” Yukinon asks for the both of us.   “I already told you that I raised no prude and that you’d appreciate it, didn’t I?” Mama says, daintily cleaning her lips with the corner of her napkin.   …   “Mama!”   “What? I’m trying to warn her about her virtue being in danger—”   “Yukinon’s virtue isn’t in any kind of danger! My sanity is!”   “But if your sanity fails—”   “Then I’m going to tie her to the bed and make her squirm until she begs me to—I mean, that’s not gonna happen!”   “It sure seems like—”   “You’re making my girlfriend uncomfortable!”   Mama stops, and we both turn toward Yukinon.   Who’s not breathing, keeps staring at us with eyes so wide it looks like she’s about to sprain her eyelids, and has a blush so thorough the red doesn’t fade to pink until halfway past her neck.   Mama stares at her for a moment, and then her lips quirk that tiny bit that makes me dread what will come up next—   “I don’t know if ‘uncomfortable’ is the right word…”   “Mama!”   “And I’m pretty sure it’s not me that made her blush like this.”   “I…” I remember me just blurting out my fantasy about a tied-up Yukinon, helpless before my touch, squirming and moaning at every—aaaaaaaahhhhhh! “That was your fault! You made me say it!”   “I made you be honest!”   “I don’t want to be honest! I want to be patient!”   “And now she knows,” Mama says, settling back down with a placid smile.   …   Damn it.   “Yukinon, I… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”   She looks straight into my eyes.   “Did you… mean it?” she says.   My brain crashes.   Yes, I’m used to it. Shut up, Hikki.   “I…” I trail off, unsure about what to tell her I meant first of all. And Mama lays a gentle, soothing hand on top of mine, her warmth making me unclench the apricot orange tablecloth I’d been tightly holding in a white-knuckled fist.   I look at her, and I’m… kinda afraid? And Mama nods, and, as always, makes it all better.   Even if this is all her fault. All of it. Except the parts that are Hikki’s fault, because I’m not letting him get away with this.   “Yukino…” Mama says, her hand still on mine, but her eyes on my girlfriend, “My daughter… She’s always been an honest kind of girl, except for the one thing she tends to lie about. Her feelings. So, please, try to understand that, yes, she’s likely to hide things from you, especially things she thinks may upset you, and…”   Mama closes her eyes, a brief flash of sadness going through her face before she opens them and continues.   “I’m guessing your mother was the kind to always buy you what you wanted for your birthday, wasn’t she? Well, I tried, but… We’re not that well-off. So there was this one time when Yui wouldn’t shut up about a dollhouse she wanted. She was nine, and two of her friends had the doll that went with it, so she wanted to have it to play with them. They had these little dresses that they could exchange, and the house came with a lot of them… But it was expensive. So I saved for it, thinking I could indulge her. Except I couldn’t, because the water heater broke, and I found myself having not enough money for anything other than a few spare dresses and a doll.   “And Yui spent the whole party gorging herself on the cake I had baked because I couldn’t buy one, bragging to her friends about how her mom had made it all for her, and it was the best cake ever. And she unwrapped the dresses and hugged my knees, burying her face in my skirt as she thanked me.”   Mama shuts up, her eyes looking through the window on the other side of our green sofa, and now I’m clutching the tablecloth yet again as Mama clings to me.   And she speaks again, and I know how the story goes even if I never knew Mama did.   “The guests left. Some of them had brought Yui some other gifts, one of them the car that went into the dollhouse’s garage.   “Yui helped pull down the decorations, but then she asked me if she could go play with her gifts, and of course I let her. I finished cleaning up, washed the dishes, and thought the party hadn’t gone that bad, given the circumstances. That I had managed, somehow, not to let the lack of money spoil things for my daughter.   “And then I went by Yui’s room, and I saw her, sitting on the floor, the doll’s dresses spread in front of her as she ran the car side to side below them.   “And she cried.”   Mama turns to me, looking into my eyes with… Something warm and a bit fierce.   “Any other day, I would’ve rushed into that room and hugged her, tried to console her, apologized for ruining her day. But… But at that moment? Seeing how far she’d gone to make me feel good about myself? I… I had never been more ashamed of myself, and prouder of my daughter.”   Mama stands up, and hugs me to her belly, Sable briefly trapped between us before he scurries away.   “So, Yukino… now you know. Now you know my little Yui is a liar and will do her best to lie for you. Please, be better than I was, and don’t let her.”   ***   We are in my room.   My room, full of little decorations. All of them cheap, all of them girlish, and plastic, and…   And precious.   Because they are cheap, but there are many, so each of them is from when Mama went a bit further than she could afford to just to make me a bit happier, a bit more comfortable.   We are sitting on my bed.   “I am jealous,” Yukinon says, her eyes on her lap.   “I… I’m sorry,” I tell her.   “No. Please, don’t be, but let me say this.” She grabs my right hand and pulls it between us, her own skin maybe colder than it should be.   “I…” I turn to the side, facing her, trying to see something other than her harsh profile.   “I never had any story like that. I never had Mother or Father trying to do… Trying to be anything other than an example to follow, one I never managed to live up to. Haruno may… Haruno was Haruno, and always was, for longer than I can remember. So my birthday parties were perfect, the gifts just what I expected to get.”   She pauses, her grip tightens, and my bed creaks as she shuffles into an even more rigid posture.   She still isn’t looking at me.   “They were what I expected to get, because I asked for what I thought they wanted me to want. I had to guess what the right gift would be. Maybe this year a calligraphy set would be fitting. Maybe I should want a new party dress, as the old one was getting a bit shorter. Maybe a set of classical literature, now that I had won the school’s writing contest. Each year, guessing what I should want, what they would want me to want.   “And they gave it to me.   “And they still looked oh so disappointed.”   Her jaw clenches and her eyes shut.   “I would have… I would have… For a mother who was proud of me lying and crying? I… Yui, I…”   I hug her.   I hug Yukinon to me, my hands on her back and her head, cradling her to me, hoping she will relax against my body, that I can give her even a tiny bit of the warmth she always missed, that I can live up to what Hikki expects of me, to what Yukinon needs.   And I fall.   Yukinon’s above me, her hair falling around us like a piece of night all her own, and her eyes tremble in shards of ice as she holds herself above me after having pushed me down.   “Don’t lie to me, Yui. Please, don’t ever lie to me.”   “I love you,” I say, the words unstoppable before those eyes of hers.   “I just—”   “I love you. And you’re beautiful. And I want you. And I want all of you. The pain, the tears, the broken pieces. I want to hold all of you, and I don’ want to ever let go. Because I’m a greedy, selfish girl, Yukinon. I’m not a good girl. I don’t care for what’s genuine, or what’s supposed to happen, or what’s good and proper. I just… I just want you. That’s what I care about.”   Her arms bend, and her body lies on mine, her face close enough I can smell her, the warm clouds of Yukinon drifting around her and going inside me.   “I want you,” she says.   My heart beats.   “I want all of you,” she continues, something shining in her eyes, “I want to hold you and for you to hold me. I want you to be greedy and selfish. I want to let you do to me whatever you want. I want to… I don’t even want to heal, Yui. Not really. Not if I can have you caress and hold all that’s broken. I just…” Her eyes widen, and something that’s almost a smile crosses her lips. “I love you,” she finishes, as if that sums up the mess of words and emotion she just poured out at me.   Maybe it does.   But I don’t want it to.   So I pull her down into a kiss, but it’s not the one burning with need I felt a moment ago. It’s soft, and tender, and her lips open against mine, her tongue peeking out to entice me.   And I refuse her, gently pushing her up.   “I… I want all of you, Yukinon. I want to see you complete.”   Her eyes widen, and she falls on top of me.   So I hug her, and lie. Not to her, not to the girl who just asked me not to, but to myself.   I lie to myself, and pretend I’m all right with making my girlfriend cry yet again.   ***   “This is… soothing,” Yukinon says, as if unsure whether it really is.   I hold her long hair, feeling the silky strands lying over my palm as I gently run a hairbrush through it and try very hard not to think about how Yukinon is freshly showered and wearing a spare set of my pajamas that are adorably baggy on her slender frame yet still leave an uncovered strip of naked, pale, smooth skin that shifts whenever she breathes, and she’s sitting on my lap, and—aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!   “Yes,” I say, lying through my teeth, “it is soothing.”   …   Damn it, I already broke my promise.   New mental, unspoken rule: white lies don’t count. Yup, that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.   Yukinon, not exercising her Yukinon powers to ferret out what I hide from her, lets out a satisfied sigh as I run the hairbrush yet again, marveling at how few knots I encounter.   Seriously, is this what expensive haircare does? Because if so, I changed my mind, Mama: Sable can eat the cheap dog food. This is worth all the sad, waggling, orange eyebrows in the world.   …   All right, maybe not, but it’s a near thing.   Also, speaking of near things: Yukinon, I’d rather you stop wiggling your soft, pert, small, round butt on top of me, because I’m this close to tearing off your powder blue pajamas, pushing you to my bed, and diving between your legs until I run out of breath—   “Yui?”   “Yes! Yui here! I’m absolutely focused on your gorgeous, silky, beautiful hair, and—no, seriously, this isn’t fair. How do you do it? What’s the secret magic potion?”   Yukinon looks at me over her shoulder, a gorgeous Yukinoshita eyebrow rising steadily the closer she is to looking straight at me.   …   Does she practice? I’m pretty sure I’ve caught Iroha mumbling to herself in front of the bathroom’s mirror before running away with a crippling blush, but the thought of Yukinon doing the same is…   …   “Yui?”   Ah. Apparently, the thought is cute enough to make me momentarily crash. Weird.   “Yes! Yui here! I’m absolutely focused—”   “You already said that.”   “Ah… Did I ask you what your secret is? Because, seriously, if I have to rob a drugstore, I think it may be worth it.”   “Yui… I can share my hair care products with my girlfriend.”   ‘Yui, can you soap up my back? It’s hard to reach between my shoulders… mmm… yes, just like that… Can you do my front now?’   “Yui!”   “Aaaaaahhhhh! You can’t just say something like that and expect me to react like a sane, normal person!”   “I just told you I would share—”   “Showers! You wash your hair in the shower! While naked and wet!”   “Wha—you pervert!”   “You already knew that!”   “Well, yes, but I didn’t think… seriously? In the shower?”   “And I would lather your whole body, even between your toes, just to feel my skin gliding over yours, before washing it away with warm water so I could lick up from the inside of your ankles to your trembling, quivering—what are you making me say!”   “Nothing! You are doing it all yourself! Don’t stop!”   I blink.   So does Yukinon.   And then she blushes up to her hair roots.   “I—I—” her stutter is made even more adorable when she raises her fists to cover her mouth. “I didn’t—you didn’t hear me say that!”   “Yukinon, are you—”   “Stop making me feel like this! You make me soft, and vulnerable, and sad, and happy, and, and, and horny, and I’ve never been—”   “You can be—”   “No! Just—just you. Just… you. Please.”   I don’t understand her.   I don’t know what she’s saying.   I just know my cute, flustered girlfriend is sitting on top of my lap, fidgeting after confessing to having an actual libido, and she seems to… to only want that libido to center around me.   …   I am getting a bit dizzy.   Also, we are sitting on my bed. The only bed in the room.   Because Mama claimed she sent the spare futon to the laundry, which I know for a fact to be a lie after I caught sight of her rushing from my bedroom to her own while Yukinon was taking her shower.   …   Mama is the best. Really, I don’t think it enough.     ================== ================== This work is a repost of the first spin-off of the Cakeverse. The whole verse can be found on QQ, or up to date on my Patreon. Unless something drastic happens, it will be updated on Tuesdays and Thursdays until it catches up to the currently written chapters.   Also, I’d like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving me a hand and help me keep writing snarky, maladjusted teenagers and their cake buffets, consider joining them or buying one of my books on Amazon. Thank you for reading!  

Chapter 21 - Wordsworth – Chapter 22

“Her name is Wordsworth,” she says.   And my world blurs.   Inky words blotted out, letters turned into indistinct shapes, meaning lost to—   “Tay. It’s OK, Tay, I promise. Stay with me,” a clever fox says.   But foxes are like faeries, and you can never trust what they say even when they speak the truth, especially when they speak the truth, because true blades cut deeper than fake ones, and I just saw…   Emma.   Emma claiming I’m a hero.   And then she was taken down, shot by her own ally, her colors rent asunder until no emotions remained to sustain her, to keep her on her feet, and so she fell and she…   Smiled.   I know that smile.   “Tay, breathe. Just… Just breathe, please. For me?” the clever fox asks.   I don’t smile.   I remain unmoving, staring at a screen showing a ‘Technical Difficulties’ sign. A streaming video Lisa insisted I sat down before I watched.   She warned me.   She said I still had to know, that it would be better if I learned by myself what happened, what was going on, how things would change.   She wasn’t lying.   Faeries rarely need to.   And so I was swept away by the enchantment, watching with distaste as Director Piggot talked up Emma’s rescue of Lisa without ever mentioning Lisa, just speaking about the battle against the dragon that Emma won despite not being a hero worthy of the feat.   But Lung was a fake dragon, and Emma a fake hero, and so it fit in a way that soothed my stories before my ink lashed out and I spoke words of rage.   I held still, letting the video go on, knowing that Lisa is too protective of me to make me watch without any reason, knowing that something else would come up soon.   Something…   I was reassured.   Because I had spent the night in Lisa’s arms, drifting in the half-dreamed stories I see when my mind is tired, and I kept opening my eyes to see her in front of me, to murmur about hair made of spun gold that would make any king demand her hand, about cheeks pale enough that any witch queen would envy, about dreaming lips soft enough that no prince would be worthy of claiming.   I spent the night in the arms of my lover, and she in mine, and so I faced the day like no other before, drifting in a cloud of happiness I had never known even before joy was taken from me.   I fancied myself someone new. Not Taylor Hebert. Not the Black Sister.   Wordsworth.   Wordsworth, truly and finally.   We had breakfast, kidded around, cuddled on her sofa.   Spoke of many things we never had before, even if it felt like all of them were repeating the same unspoken lines:   ‘I love you.’   ‘I know. But keep telling me.’   I… I was happy. Truly happy.   I should’ve known.   “It doesn’t change anything. You’re still you, Tay,” the fox says, maybe lying, maybe not.   And I…   I stare at her laptop, at the thread in the PHO forums momentarily displaying the video that the PRT is doing their best to expunge from the web claiming a Master attack, that Gallant reacted as quickly as he could when he was made aware of Iridescent being compromised, that investigations are ongoing.   I don’t even process the comments below, the scrawled words made of harsh light somehow alien to my power.   I just…   I know that smile.   “Tay… Tay, please…” the fox says, something like desperation in her tone.   But I don’t listen. Not when—   “There once was a Lost Girl,” she says.   And my words quieten.   “She didn’t know where she was, where she had been, or where she was going. She was lost in a way very few ever are,” she says, grasping my right hand between her two, warming me as her voice steadies.   “The Lost Girl met some others in her journey through the Dark Forest. Some wanted to help her, others to hurt her, and it was hard to know one from another while she remained lost.   “But, one day, she found something. It was a silver locket, and in it there was a picture of who the girl had once been. And so the Lost Girl learned where she had been.   “Some would’ve ended the story there. A somewhat happy ending in which she could steadily regain all that she had lost. A hint of happiness to come.   “But the Lost Girl was braver than that,” she says as her tone pushes past the roughness in her throat and her hands squeeze against the unyielding paper of mine. “She wasn’t satisfied with such an ending, even if it would’ve been a good one.   “She didn’t want just to know, just to regain.   “She wanted to move forward.   “And so, knowing where she had been, but not quite where she was or would be, the Lost Girl looked not at the Dark Forest, but at the one place she could never lose, the one place that was safe from the ones who wanted to hurt her.   “She looked within herself.   “And there, the Lost Girl found not where she would be or where she was.   “She found… where she wanted to be.”   Her words stop for a moment, and I find my eyes drifting away from the screen and toward green eyes that should glow in the dark and show a slitted shadow in their midst. Eyes that should always smile and be merry with a joke only known to her. Eyes that should never be this sad or concerned.   She smiles.   It’s a sad yet warm thing. Like a candle in the dark or an ember buried among ashes.   I… I don’t quite know this smile.   But I want to.   “You see, the Lost Girl was… She was special. Had always been. She had held a dream within her that she never woke up from, and so she chose to be guided by it. She chose the dream of heroism over an easy ending. She chose to fight rather than rest. The Lost Girl was brave, and strong, and… And she was a hero.   “Because she had always been. Because that was what was inside of her, what she found.   “What she would always be, no matter what others claimed, one way or the other. The truth she had found that would never bend in front of anything that didn’t come from the safe place within.   “And so, the Lost Girl stopped being the Lost girl.   “And she became Wordsworth.”   She hugs me as soon as the last words leave her lips, her arms tightening around me with desperate strength that demands I answer in kind, that I return her embrace.   The Lost Girl can’t. She’s still reeling, still remembering the smile from her dead sister.   So Wordsworth does.   “Stop scaring me like this,” Lisa says, her face buried in my chest so I can’t see the pain in her eyes.   “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Liz, I just…”   “I know. I know, and I understand, and I’m sorry, because I thought I was doing the right thing, but I should’ve prepared you better, even if I thought this was best for the long-term, but I didn’t really understand, and I messed up, and you are hurt, and I didn’t want to hurt you, I never want to hurt you—”   I lift her face from my chest.   I take in the red splotches on her cheeks, the desperation in her eyes at a loved one hurting that I know means more for her than it does for others, the panic crouching behind them…   And I kiss her.   It’s a light meeting of lips, a greeting caress, a…   A kiss. Just a kiss.   Filled with all the love I can give her.   Her hands go from my shoulders to my back as she relaxes against me, even if not entirely, and I hold her up, her weight feeling even lighter than usual.   “It’s all right,” I mutter between threads of spun gold and into an elfin ear. “I’m all right.”   “You’re a liar,” she says, her tone slightly lighter.   “You’re one to talk,” I answer, mine almost laughing.   And I fall back on her sofa, sprawling her on top of me, the pastel lemon sleeping shirt that reaches just above her knees leaving the rest of her legs bare to share their heat with my own legs despite the tracery of lines of words arranged in a net pattern that never was a barrier when it came to her touch.   Her head is beneath my mouth, so I keep kissing her hair as I admire the glinting sunlight coming in from her tall windows to play with its landbound cousin.   “I can feel the purple prose, Tay,” she almost giggles even as her fingers tighten against my sides possessively.   “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say with the most sincere deadpan I can manage.   And we both laugh.   It’s not a sincere laugh. It’s still laden with my earlier loss of composure and with Lisa’s fears that she has yet to share with me. It’s a frail sound, like spun glass aware of its endangered beauty.   But we still laugh together, and, right now, that’s all that matters to me.   Because I know Emma’s smile.   I know that rictus she made even as she was void of all emotion and nothing remained to sustain her but the will to show the world that she still could go on.   I know it far too well.   After all, for years, that was my only smile.     ================== ================== This work is a repost of one of my first commissions, and one that I’m both grateful for and proud of. It can be found on QQ, SV, and AO3, and, of course, on my Patreon where the latest chapter will show up a week before it comes out for everyone else. It is currently 33 chapters and 94k words long and approaching its final arc at a good pace, so I hope you’ll look forward to learning about Wordsworth’s ending.   As always, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on Amazon. Thank you for reading!  

Chapter 2 - Yui’s Lily Garden – Chapter 2

All Right! Fine! I’ll Take You! – Yui’s Lily Garden – Chapter 2   The ominous ringing of the phone… Is a bit boring, to be honest.   Or, well, it would be if—   “Yui? Is everything all right, sweetie?” Mama asks, her voice sending me into outright panic with the question.   “Yep! Of course! Why wouldn’t it be?” … Smooth, Yui. Reaaaaally smooth.   “Because you just answered a regular question like you are a teenager in a sitcom,” she answers, her tone almost as dry as one of Hikky’s… Never mind.   “… Is it all right if you take out Sable tonight?” I try to sidestep her by asking the actual question I called her for.   There’s a stretched silence, and I start to miss the ringtone.   “So, is it Hikky or Yukinon?”   … I didn’t want to tell her over the phone.   “Hikky… did a Hikky thing. He’s… out of the picture.”   “And…?”   I sigh. Of course I do; he still has that effect on me.   “And Yukinon and I are together now, I guess…”   “Oh,” she says, her voice quiet and subdued. There’s a bit of silence that’s making me even more nervous and— “So… now that he’s free, do you think he’s into older women?”   “Mama!”   And she laughs.   “Joooooking! Jeez, it’s so easy to get you flustered; it’s almost a sin not to try.”   “I could get used to someone not thinking like that from time to time,” I try not to grumble. And fail.   This is a bit surprising, seeing how much practice I have gotten over the past year. At trying, I mean.   “Are you all right? How is Yukinon taking it?” And now she stops kidding around. Maybe because she’s already managed to fluster me completely, or maybe because she thinks I’m no longer in a sulky mood. It’s hard to tell, sometimes.   I lean on the school corridor’s wall, my left shoulder touching the frame of the toilet’s door to which my new girlfriend has fled to… To do something. Something that she needs to do without me hugging her close as she shakes and—   “I don’t know,” I answer both questions, “it’s all so… so recent. Raw.”   “Yes, I can only guess.”   I chuckle at her words, at the caring, somewhat lost tone.   “Aren’t you supposed to give me some experienced, sage advice?”   “Well, I would lean toward ‘use protection,’ but I guess that’s not—”   “Mama!”   “Be yourself, Yui. That’s how you got them to love you.”   “Just the one…”   “No man alive would renounce two beautiful young women like you two and set them up with each other if he didn’t feel something for them.”   “I… I didn’t say he did—”   “You said he did a ‘Hikky thing.’ I know what that means, after having heard you gush and complain about him for a whole year.”   I swallow. Close my eyes. Lean my head back, letting the cool plaster soothe me through my hair.   “Then… Then why did he… Why didn’t he…”   “… I don’t know, sweetie. I really can’t know. But you are loved. Cherished. And not just by this lonely, old—”   “You aren’t old!”   “I can fool myself, but there’s no fooling the fact I have a beautiful daughter who already has a girlfriend of her own.”   “Mama, you are a beautiful woman, and… and… Gah! Don’t make me say this! You know how men look at you!”   “And quite a few women,” she says impishly.   …   “One of these days, I’m not going to get tricked by you.”   “I look forward to it. I expect it will be around the time you have a kid of your own.”   Aaaaaand now my face’s burning.   “Grandkids aren’t that likely, with the way things stand…” I try to push past the choking shame and sudden anxiety.   “There are always options,” she almost singsongs.   …   “Mama, can you walk Sable tonight?”   “Well, if you’re going to be working on the mother of my future grandkids—”   “Great! Thank you! See you tomorrow!”   “Are you trying to hang up on me, young lady—”   And I hang up on her.   Then take a few deep breaths. Because terrible amounts of shame seem enough to get me out of any sulking mood, but they have the slight disadvantage of, you know, leaving me feeling horrifyingly embarrassed.   There’s the muffled sound of running water, and, after it stops, Yukinon walks out of the toilet. Composed, almost regal. Until she meets my eyes and her own almost shiver.   Shyly, slowly, she approaches me, looking from my blushing cheeks to my eyes, until the taller girl is standing right in front of me.   “Are you…” she hesitates. Again. I can see her right hand twitch as if she wants to reach to me but doesn’t think it’s a good idea.   I grab her hand, and the mask of composure shatters as she blushes once again.   …   … I’m pretty sure I was about to do something, but I just can’t remember what it was.   Yukinon looks at our joined hands, and a soft smile blooms on her lips.   Holding my breath, I raise our hands to my lips and kiss her knuckles. She’s staring at me.   I take a step forward. Our chests brush against one another, and a thrill runs from my breasts to right below my navel as I try to remember what it is that I was supposed to do.   … Ah. Breathing, I guess.   “Yuiga—”   I kiss her lips. Just a soft brush, just… a reminder.   “Yui. Call me Yui.”   Her eyes widen, her blush deepens.   “Must you always remind me like this?” she finally says. Except the tone is not at all what should come out with those words.   Without letting her hand go, I cradle her cheek and raise her head so I can look into that beautiful blue, that ice melting at the coming of spring.   “Yes,” I finally answer, my own cheeks almost hurting with how wide my grin is.   I… may also be blushing, if the tingling heat is any indication.   “Even in public—”   “You’d better not forget, then. Right?” And I do that smile that is… a bit like Iroha’s. She’s far too expressive for me not to pick some things up. But mine is warmer and softer.   Mostly because of them.   “I… Would you really?”   “Kiss you in public?” She nods. “Yes. Yes, I would. Unless you didn’t want me to.”   And she hesitates.   I… If I was Hikky, I would understand this silence, the way her eyes stray from mine. I would know what Yukinon is thinking, because they were always far too alike, their differences only highlighting it.   I am… not him.   But he’s entrusted her to me. It’s my duty, aside from everything else it is.   So, what can I do with a shy, silent Yukinon who refuses to meet my eyes after telling her I won’t kiss her if she doesn’t want me to?   Oh.   Of course.   They always have to complicate things, don’t they?   “Yukinon,” I whisper, getting even closer, my chest flattening against her and my lips almost brushing hers. “You can refuse. Always. I won’t take it the wrong way.”   “What is the wrong way?”  and she sounds so lost…   “I… You can say what you feel like in one moment. I won’t think it’s how you always feel. You’re allowed not to want things and then want them. It’s… Like, if I’m on a diet, and I really, really want that piece of strawberry cake on the bakery that they always put right in the middle of the storefront, but I decide not to buy it, because I’m, for once, sticking to the diet, and then I go walk Sable and think that, after all, I’m already getting enough exercise and—why are you laughing?”   She’s doing that cute thing she does, covering her lips with her bent pointer finger, her shoulders shaking with a laugh that’s far too quiet for so much movement, and her body rubs against mine, and—   “You are incredible… Yui,” she says. And her smile is so… so…   I wrap my free arm around her waist and turn her around, pushing her against the wall next to the toilet’s door right as I lean up and mash my lips against hers. Her mouth opens to let out a small, surprised noise, and then I shove my tongue inside it, something about the laugh and then the cute yelp just making my head feel all fuzzy.   My hand travels up, right between her shoulder blades, and her back arches as I press her against me, her breasts—soft! Why are they so soft even through both our bras?! Why does she smell so good, why does her saliva taste so sweet, why do those adorable little gasps make me… make me…   I force myself to lean back, and the thread of spit connecting our lips almost makes me lose it again right after I do. Yukinon’s eyes are glazed, her panting, adorable—   My fingers interlock with hers, and I push her hand against the wall right beside her face as I take her lips once again. Because she’s mine, mine, and I’m tired of letting my things go, so I’m going to make sure she knows, she remembers. I’ll brand her soul if I have to, I’ll make her knees wobble, her head slide down the wall until she’s beneath me, and it’s her that’s craning her neck up to keep receiving my kiss and—   Uh. Right. We are in public.   Yukinon is looking up at me with so much bewilderment it’s like she’s been trying to read Mr. Chuuni’s novel once again.   “I… I remembered to call you Yui,” she protests.   Oh. Right. That.   “And now you won’t forget, will you?” I say, my tone about as steady as I can make it.   Without taking her eyes off me, and maybe a little cautiously, Yukinon shakes her head.   … Unfair.   I lean down, and it takes us a few minutes to get out of school.   ***   Her hands shake as she takes the keys to her apartment building out of her bag.   I… I would like to think it’s because of the cold, but…   “Hey,” I almost whisper, because my voice gets caught in my throat. Maybe my voice is smarter than me—it wouldn’t even surprise me, at this point. “You… What I said before…”   Yukinon turns toward me, her keys still clutched in her hand.   “I meant it, Yukinon. I really did.”   I look at her, hoping for a small nod, a confirmation that—   “What are you talking about?” she asks cautiously   … Really. Really. I had to fall for the densest girl on the planet, didn’t I? I really do have a type.   “What I said to you. Earlier. After you left the toilet.” Come on!   “I… To call you… Yui?” she says, almost hopefully, as if she’s just gotten a test question right.   I smack my face, then I feel bad about it. It’s not her fault she’s been… well, I don’t really know (yet) what she’s been through, but I can only guess she never had a Mama who made fun of her for being bi.   Or, if she has, that it wouldn’t be a joke I could laugh at.   “About wanting things. I thought you wouldn’t want to be alone today, not after… you know. But if you don’t want me here—”   She clutches my sleeve.   Just… just pinches It, but her hand is trembling, and the tips of her fingers are yellow with pressure.   “Stay,” she whispers.   I step forward, cup her cheek once again, and look into cracking ice.   “Always.”   And I kiss her.   We manage to get into the elevator without separating our lips, but it is awkward at times. Still, I always thought kissing one of them would be anything but smooth sailing until we got quite a bit of practice, and…   Well. I’m trying.   Trying so hard, in fact, that we stay inside the elevator for quite a while after the doors open, Yukinon pressed into the corner so she has nothing but me in front of her, and she mewls into my mouth when I discover how much she likes it when I hold her head between both my hands, the tips of my thumbs resting at a spot right behind her jaw and below her ear, my fingers spreading up through her hair…   Until the door starts closing and I panic at somebody catching us like this, so I grab her arm and pull her out.   We stay there, in front of her door, looking at each other’s disheveled selves, and…   I burst out laughing.   Thankfully, she does as well.   It’s still that reserved, little thing that has so little in common with my own belly-shaking laughter, but I’m so relieved she can join me in this, that she feels she can…   Right. I have a girlfriend now. No time to get mopey.   I take her hand as we come down from the outburst and smile at her. Not… I’m not trying to be reassuring, because I know how exhausting it can be when people keep trying and just make you anxious that you are failing them just by not being all right, but… Well.   I’m here.   With her.   That should be enough, shouldn’t it?   She takes her keys once more and, a little nervous, squeezes my fingers before putting it in the lock, turning it, and—   Wait. Wait, wait, wait!   I’m about to spend the night at my girlfriend’s house!   Alone!   Is she—does she want me to—can I?!   Should I?!   Ahhhhhhhhhhh!   I’m not ready—well, that’s a lie, I’ve been ready for quite a while now, but maybe she isn’t, and it would be awful if I pushed her when she’s just gone through this whole day but if she expects me to do something and I don’t then she will feel rejected and that’s the last thing I—   Oh, right. Haruno is here.   … Why is she crying?   ***   It… It takes a while for Yukinon’s sister to calm down enough that we can get her to bed, and now…   I always sleep in Yukinon’s room when I stay over. We just lay a futon down on the floor and keep talking until we get sleepy and call it a night.   I usually bring my pajamas, though…   And Yukinon really, really isn’t my size.   Which means these pants are quite a bit tighter than I expected, and the shirt is leaving half my belly bare, stretched out with my… Well. Those things Hikky keeps staring at when he thinks I’m not looking.   Or when he can’t stop himself.   … Creepy. He’s always been too creepy. Or gross, according to his sister.   But, well, that isn’t what is making me fret while sitting on Yukinon’s bed and trying to pull down the hem of this grey pajama shirt that’s making me look like I’m getting ready for a questionable photoshoot rather than for going to bed on the futon I’ve already laid out.   No, that has more to do with Haruno being… Well. Un-Haruno.   I don’t like her. Not after all the times she’s sniped at Yukinon, all the times she’s had that smile of hers turn just shy of being cruel, but… People are complicated.   I’ve met their mother. I know Yukinon wants to be like her sister. I know her sister wants Yukinon to be herself.   And I think I agree.   So maybe I can learn to—   ‘You two are adorable together.’   Aaaaaaahhhh!   She’s not even in the room, and she’s making me flustered!   ‘You are so much better at being loved, Yukino…’   … And now I feel sad for her.   What is up with this whole family? I’m the one raised by a single mother; shouldn’t I be the emotionally neglected one?   (Sorry, Mama. It’s just the stereotype. You are wonderful, and I’d never trade you for anything—especially after seeing the results.)   But I… If somebody as smart as Haruno, someone who looks like what Hikky would be if he stopped caring about the few things that he still manages not to compromise on, can be so lost, so bad at knowing what to do with Yukinon and how to handle their shared trauma…   Then what am I supposed to do?   The door to Yukinon’s room opens, and she enters, looking almost as lost as when Hikky made us kiss.   … Right. At least there’s something I can do.   I stand up and walk to her and try not to look too pleased when her eyes shoot right toward the line of exposed belly the loaned pajamas flash her.   Then I hug her and drag her to sit on the bed.   “How is she?” I murmur in her ear, petting her long hair with slow, long strokes.   And she hugs me back.   “I—I don’t know. She’s always been—she’s never before…”   I lean back, and her eyes look to mine in search of… something she just lost. Some reassurance that the world will keep on turning.   I don’t think I can give that back to her, but I can…   “You do realize she’s been almost as hurt as you, don’t you?”   Yukinon freezes. That… might not have been the right thing to say.   But I said it, so I’d better keep pushing.   “You… You are sisters. Everything you have gone through, she went through before you. If anything, she may have had it worse as your parents learned with her.”   There’s… anger in her eyes.   I don’t like it.   “Yuigahama,” I want to correct her, but… “you don’t know what you are talking about.”   And she’s right. Of course she is.   So now I’m the one who’s angry.   “I don’t. I don’t because you won’t tell me! Do you know how much that hurts? Do you know how it feels to be by your side, waiting for you to realize I’ve been there all along, trying to make things better without pushing you? Trying to understand even with how little you actually tell me? I was your best friend! I am your girlfriend! I love you, and I don’t know how they hurt you!”   Her eyes widen, and she starts leaning back, away—   I push her to the bed and clutch her to me.   “I love you,” I whisper, my voice a bit raw, a bit raspy. “I’ve loved you for so long, since the day you told me how terrible my cookies were and then went on to try and teach me how to do better. You don’t know how much I kept trying and trying, always remembering how you did it, how you explained, how perfect you were in each and every way. I’ve loved you so much, and just now I realize how much more I can love you, how much more I could admire the incredible girl in front of me if only you let me see more of you. I… I want to help you, to hold you, to be safe for you, but I… First I just want to know you, Yukinon. To know more.”   “You are wrong… If you knew more, I just—I am a mess, Yui, I am such an awful, terrible—”   I shift on the bed until my face is right above hers, our noses almost touching.   “You are. We all are. You are special, Yukinon, but not in that way.”   She looks up, uncomprehendingly, almost like I do when she tries to tutor me (except with less hidden yearnings that I no longer have to hide).   “Haruno is broken. Hikky is broken. Ms. Hiratsuka is broken. Heck, Mr. Chuuni’s definitely broken. I… I know you’ve been hurt, and I don’t want to make you feel like that’s not important, but I also don’t want you to think that’s too important. I want… I want you to be… I just want you to see yourself a bit more like I do, I guess? Because… Because if you just…”   All right, looking up at me with those eyes is just not fair.   Trying to be gentle rather than passionate, I kiss the tip of her nose.   Then I get up.   And, holding back a sigh, get inside the futon that I’m pretty sure nobody else has ever slept in.   “Yui?” Her voice is… disoriented. But not hurt.   “I’m trying to be patient and give you space.” Mine is definitely holding back something.   Pent-up lust, frustration, longing, … take your pick.   She lies back, silent, for a moment.   Then I hear the rustling of clothes, and I remember she still had to change into her pajamas.   Holding back (again!) a frustrated moan, I close my eyes and try to think unsexy thoughts. I don’t quite manage.   And, finally, I hear her getting in bed, and my torture ends.   When I open my eyes, she’s on her side, looking down at me, and she has that soft, barely-there smile that makes it even harder not to think about getting up and—   She takes an arm out of the sheets and dangles it over the edge.   I look at her, and her cheeks tinge with the prettiest pink I’ve ever seen.   She’s still smiling.   And so, I take her hand and keep smiling at her, feeling her, until my eyes finally drift close after the most exhausting day I ever remember.   ***   When I wake up, my first thought is that Sable definitely needs to learn to let me sleep in.   My second thought is that Sable isn’t taller than me, and the last time he got between the sheets was when he was a puppy and got terrified by the fireworks.   My third is to stop being an idiot and open my eyes.   There’s no fourth, because seeing Yukinon’s sleeping face right next to mine kinda makes my brain crash.   …   If I was Iroha, I would be taking pictures.     ================== ================== This work is a repost of the first spin-off of the Cakeverse. The whole verse can be found on QQ, or up to date on my Patreon. Unless something drastic happens, it will be updated on Tuesdays and Thursdays until it catches up to the currently written chapters.   Also, I’d like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving me a hand and help me keep writing snarky, maladjusted teenagers and their cake buffets, consider joining them or buying one of my books on Amazon. Thank you for reading!  

Chapter 5 - Yui’s Lily Garden – Chapter 5

All Right! Fine! I’ll Take You! – Yui’s Lily Garden – Chapter 5   “Yui, I’m ho—home?” Mama asks, keys still in her hands, the door to our apartment open behind her, her long, pink skirt slowly settling down after her last step.   And she just stands there, staring at Yukinon and me kneeling on the wooden floor between the entrance and the side of our pastel green sofa, rolling Sable to one another, the silly dog thoroughly enjoying all the attention even if we’re basically using him as a substitute for a ball.   Not that he has the patience to spare us when Mama makes an appearance. Mid roll, Sable straightens out and jumps on his feet to take a running start for his projectile leap, only for Mama, keys nowhere to be seen, to catch him in the air in a way that I hope to learn someday (it’s slightly mortifying that my own dog keeps using my belly for target practice).   “Well, at least you two had a chaperone,” she comments as she smiles down at a dog who’s wagging his feathery tail so hard his whole body sways from side to side as Mama holds him from beneath his front legs and lets him hang before leaning in to allow him a quick lick to the nose.   Sable, womanizer that he is, takes the chance for all it’s worth.   … I think Hachi is about the only other male he tolerates. This would be all kinds of worrying if I didn’t have a girlfriend.   A girlfriend who remains frozen in her proper and prim seiza after Mama teased us with that ‘chaperone’ comment, which makes me suspect chaperones are a thing in the Yukinoshita household.   Damn it…   “Hi, Mama. Can Yukino stay over?” I decide to push through the whole thing and ignore any issues that will definitely not come back to haunt me. Obviously. Mostly because the line’s already too long, and they’ll get bored before it’s their turn.     Mama, still getting her nose licked by a very enthusiastic Sable who should’ve gotten his fill of feminine attention after Yukinon and I spent the better part of an hour spoiling him, tilts her head. Which just lets Sable change his angle of attack, and so he tries to lick the inside of her nose, making Mama splutter and quickly set him on the floor with an admonishing glare that Sable happily ignores.   So, after she stands back up and pretends to look like a regular adult, she looks at us and tries to tilt her head in precisely the same way, but to much lesser effect.   “When have I ever told Yukinon she couldn’t stay?” she finally answers.   “But… she wasn’t… you know…” I try to explain.   Yukinon, collaborative as she usually is, frezees a bit more on the spot. I don’t know how she does it, but she does.   And no, it’s not because she’s an ice maiden. I’m… pretty sure about that.   Because of the scientific method. Nobody told me experimenting could be fun.   “She wasn’t…?” Mama trails off, affecting a confusion I definitely know she doesn’t feel.   So I glare at her until she cracks, and her grin widens.   “… My girlfriend,” I grumpily tell her, trying to hide the silly grin in my own face and likely failing, going from the tightness in my cheeks and the bubbling burning on my cheeks.   And then Mama squees in a way that makes Sable dive beneath the sofa (he’s always been the smartest of us), then she remembers to close the door behind her before doing a pretty good Sable impression herself as she lunges for me and hugs me, rubs my head in a way that’s just short of a noogie, and keeps kissing my cheeks and forehead.   “I’m so happy for you!”   “Ma—Mama! You’re embarrassing me!”   “Of course I am! You just brought your first girlfriend home: it’s my solemn duty!”   “You’re such a bully…”   Mama goes to answer something likely outrageous (like, I don’t know, it’s not bullying if I enjoy it) before she throws a quick glance to the side and, faster than she should at her age (yes, I am feeling petty) she grabs Yukinon’s ribbon and drags her into the hug.   “Wha—?!” my always composed and eloquent girlfriend blurts out.   “You too! If you’re going to be my daughter-in-law, you join the cuddles!”   “I—homosexual marriage is not legal in Japan!” she frantically protests. Even if she’s not doing anything to get out of the hug.   On the one hand, Mama gives the best hugs. On the other…   I stare at Mama’s cheat items, then at my own, then at Yukinon’s blushing face, and then I decide to glare at my blissfully unaware girlfriend.   “If that’s the only thing stopping you, I’m sure you’ll have it handled by the time you’re of age,” Mama tells her before tenderly kissing the top of her head and making Yukinon sway in place before leaning into the hug and the two of us.   …   I’m starting to get mad.   “Mama…”   “Yui! I need to get dinner ready! Come help out and tell me all about Yukinon’s tastes; this calls for a feast!”   …   What are Yukinon’s tastes? Other than creepy panda plushies, I mean.   And glaring, broody boys.   And, going by her blushing, disheveled, stammering self? Older women with plenty of cheating power.   …   Yeah, I’m definitely getting mad.   So, as Mama stands up and heads to the open kitchen just beyond the white dining table, I follow her with a mild harrumph that only gets me a confused blink from my clearly not quite attentive girlfriend.   Darn it.   And now Sable is butting his head against her hand, demanding his share of attention after Mama’s screeching has abated enough for him to come out from beneath the sofa. Because, obviously, my whole family is set on courting my girlfriend.   Get your own!   … Not you, Sable. We can’t afford the childcare.   Even if the litters of puppies would be absolutely—aaaahhh! Not thinking about that! Not thinking about cute babies, no matter the species!   I blame Mama…   Who’s holding out a pink apron to me, so I take it and put it on, wondering what does she actually want, because my help in the kitchen is definitely not it.   As Mister Chuuni would say: know your enemy, and know yourself, and you shall… know a lot of people? Which is obviously a good thing? I mean—ah! Right: be undefeated in a hundred battles!   …   That’s silly. I know Hikky and Yukinon plenty well, and I’m not about to bet on me winning against them. At least not in a battle of wits—wait, is that what this means? That I should choose challenges that favor me and not my rivals? Like, I don’t know, maybe rather than trying to outsnark Yukinon, I can just drag her into a kiss so she’s so flustered that she can’t resist me as my hands trace up her delicate frame, brushing her hair aside—   “Are you going to just stand there for much longer?” Mama asks as I creepily laugh while poking my fingers together.   …   Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!   “Yui… Don’t flail around in the kitchen. It’s dangerous.”   “You are dangerous!”   Mama arches an eyebrow and leans back against the fridge, her orange apron creasing when she folds her arms over her chest.   “… What?” I mutter, not surly looking at the mottled tiles on the floor. Really, this is me being mature.   Oh gods, this is me being mature…   “Yukino never thought about a same-sex relationship before, right?” Mama asks.   “I…” I glare at the corner of a tile that I broke years ago when I dropped a pot. We never fixed it, because it wasn’t a big deal and didn’t want to bother with possibly changing the whole floor, but… It always bothers me.   That when I tried to help Mama, I only made things worse.   “Yui?”   “Mama… I… I don’t know how much I can say, but… but Yukinon’s mom didn’t… teach her that well.”   Mama’s eyebrow raises yet again.   “About…” I take a deep breath and look up from the broken tile. I want to help. And I don’t want to mess things up. “About herself. She thought that… that things were… dirty…”   Mama blinks into my (hopefully) determined eyes, and then she pulls me into a hug.   “It’ll be all right, Yui,” she tells me as she pats down my hair. “What do you want me to do?”   …   “To come up with the right way to go about things so I don’t make a mess out of it?” I ask her.   And she chuckles.   “You’re a young woman now. You can’t keep running back to me so I clean up your messes.”   “But that’s what you’re for…” I mumble, the side of my face lying on top of her chest as her fingers keep soothingly petting my hair much like I usually pet Sable.   A quick look over the counter lets me know that Sable is, predictably, luring my girlfriend into giving him plenty of belly rubs and that it looks like Mama and I are in no danger of being interrupted.   Dogs have it so easy…   “I am not. I am here so you can become a wonderful girl who will know what to do each and every time.”   “... You’re doing a terrible job.”   She laughs, surprised, and then she messes my hair until I pull away and try to put it back in place.   “And you’ve spent too much time with your clubmates,” she says, her eyes cheerful as I finally give up and untie my bun.   “I mean… I’m going to spend a lot more time with one of them…” I say as I fiddle with my scrunchie.   “Yup. So let’s make sure your girlfriend doesn’t leave you just because your mother is a terrible host. Come on, start peeling the carrots,” she says as she steps away from the fridge and naturally handles me about the only chore I won’t be messing up.   As expected of Mama.   ***   “I… I don’t think you should’ve bothered,” Yukinon says when she steps into the kitchen and sees us in full swing.   “It’s no bother at all, dear. Are you tired of spoiling Sable rotten?” Mama answers, stirring the pot of meat and potatoes.   “I… I don’t think Sable’s about to let me get tired.”   “Yes, I think that’s a family trait,” Mama answers with far too much cheer as both Yukinon and I blush to the tips of our ears.   “Mama!” I protest.   “Yui!” she brightly replies, looking up from the boiling pot.   “You know what you’re doing…” I grumble.   “Of course I do: I am an adult. We always know what we’re doing.”   Yukinon and I exchange a single glance, likely thinking about the same chain-smoking, scatter-brained, cradle-robbing teacher, and our shoulders slump.   “I don’t think that’s how that works…” I finally say with a prolonged, mournful sigh.   “Congratulations. You now know more about adults than most adults.”   Yukinon is rubbing the bridge of her nose. Darn, that means I can’t do it or she’ll think I’m mocking her.   “Right. So… What were we talking about?” I ask.   “I was saying that you’re very unlikely to let your girlfriend get tired of spoiling you.”   …   “You’re not supposed to explain that!” I exclaim, hitting the edge of the cutting board and almost throwing all the chopped carrots to the floor.   “Why are you explaining that?!” Yukinon asks, losing her (heh) cool.   “Because I didn’t raise a prude, and I’m quite certain you’ll grow to appreciate that fact?” Mama asks Yukinon, sounding almost confused.   I set the board aside and lean my arms on the cool, pink granite of the kitchen counter before burying my head in them.   “Mama… you’re the worst…”   “You always say that I’m the best, Yui. Don’t go throwing your family away just because you now have a pretty girlfriend.”   “The. Worst.”   “Go rinse the lettuce, Yui.”   “Yes, Mama.”   With a terribly tired groan, I get up from the (cool, comforting, safe) counter and turn to get the lettuce out of the fridge and—   Why is Yukinon staring at us like this?   “Hi?” I ask my weirdly staring girlfriend.   “Ah!” she gets startled and… And…   Oh. Oh, I’m so sorry.   “Mama, give me a minute.”   She looks at me, then and Yukinon, and, thankfully, she’s still Mama, so she understands without me saying too much.   “Of course. Maybe go walk Sable?”   “Right. Thank you. We’ll be back in—”   “Dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes.”   “Thank you.”   I take off my apron and go to the coatrack beside the apartment’s door to get Sable’s red leather leash, something that makes him dart out of his hiding place beneath the kitchen counter (when it comes to dropped food, he’s a ninja), and he excitedly wags his tail as I clip it on his green collar.   And then I turn to look at my lost girlfriend, take her coat, and hand it to her.   … I won’t think about the parallelisms, and I definitely won’t think about Yukinon wearing a collar, a leash, and maybe a pawprint black and white bikini.   …   Damn it.   Thankfully, Yukinon’s almost trembling hand is enough to shake me out of the whole thing, and I can keep a composed and possibly not even creepy face in front of my traumatized girlfriend.   The ride down the elevator is silent, and Sable keeps looking up at us until his wagging tail slows down. He’s always been too perceptive; I guess it comes from growing up with two emotional women who regularly use him as a teddy bear.   He’s also soothingly warm when I get cramps, but let’s not think about that too much.   When we finally step out, Sable slowly walks to the nearest tree, not pulling on his leash and giving me time to grasp Yukinon’s hand.   “I’m sorry,” I tell her.   “For what?” she answers, confusion apparent in her eyes as I tug on her hand while Sable sniffs out his competition.   “I… I think Mama and I may be too much, but… But I didn’t think about…”   Yukinon, once again, blinks at me.   “Yui?”   “I… I know you and your mother—”   Her eyes freeze.   “I’m not so fragile as you seem to think.”   I think about how to answer, and whether it would be worse to argue or to agree, but, thankfully, Sable pulls me along as soon as he’s done marking his territory, and I’m forced to start walking, Yukinon’s slender fingers still clasped in my hand.   “You… I’m sorry, Yukinon, but it’s not that you’re fragile. You’re strong. Much, much stronger than me. I could’ve never stood up to Yumiko the way you did it, but… some things are not about being strong, but about being hurt—and you’re hurt.”   Her grasp tightens on my hand, almost at the verge of being painful.   “So are you,” she says, her tone barely loud enough to be heard above the few ongoing cars.   I chuckle.   “Of course I am. I just lost my first love to my teacher and my junior. Same as you.”   Yukinon freezes and stops walking.   I don’t let her.   So, I pull and force her to move even as Sable wags his tail as he darts toward some interesting scent or another.   This would be a terrible time for him to find Hikki once again…   “Yui? Stop, I’m—”   “No. No, I won’t stop, because Mama was right: I won’t let you get tired of me. I won’t let you remain frustrated, or moody, or sad. You’re my girlfriend, and I’m gonna take care of you—”   “Because he asked you,” she says, her tone bitter enough I could have turned it into a charred cookie a year ago.   So this time I stop and turn to fully face her, Sable thankfully entertained enough not to pull on me and ruin my dramatic stance.   “He did,” I answer, staring into eyes that, this time around, have enough ice in them to remind me of the old Yukino.   It’s a good thing she was the one I fell for.   “I…” she hesitates, not ready for me to agree with her. Not when she thought she was attacking me.   And I shouldn’t accept my girlfriend doing that. Mama taught me this much, insisted on it. We should never accept the ones we love purposefully hurting us.   But…   But I think I’ll make an exception when she’s hurting herself.   So I pull her toward me, because, despite everything, she hasn’t let go of my hand, and she stumbles until her chest bumps against mine and I have to look up into her fragile, open eyes.   “He did. He asked me to take care of you. I already told you this. But you know him, Yukinon, better than I ever did, so… why did he ask me that?”   There’s a flash of anguish on her face. And I don’t want to hurt her, but… is it all right when I don’t mean to? When the pain is just the unavoidable consequence of what I’m trying to do?   “He just… He just got rid of us, set us up together—”   “No. I know him better than that. And so do you.”   She’s lost, yet again looking at me as if asking for permission to flee from the question and the answers she doesn’t want to look for.   I don’t give it to her.   Sable pulls on the leash, but I don’t budge, and he walks up to me, curiously looking up between the two of us before he decides to sit down, his tail slowly wagging over the gray, concrete slabs of the sidewalk.   … I’ll have to brush him later.   “He…” Yukinon starts, and then she closes her eyes. “He, despicable man that he is, knows you’re better at handling emotions than he is. Knows you’re better at giving unconditional support. And he may have been selfish enough to drag us into the whole mess he’s involved in, but… But he decided to pull off one of his plans and set you and me together.”   I wait for her to continue, but she doesn’t even after I squeeze her hand.   “Why?” I try to prompt her.   And she sighs.   And opens her eyes.   And there’s a bit of sky blue in them, shining through the plates of drifting ice.   “Because he loves us.”   “Yes. He does. What else.” My voice is barely a murmur, so I pull her closer to me.   “And you… love me.”   “I do. More than you know, I do. What else.”   Her eyes close once again, and I can her swallowing as her throat bobs up and down.   “And I love you…” she barely whispers.   I kiss her lips, barely brushing them. In public, in the middle of the sidewalk. Something the Yukinoshita in front of me still isn’t quite ready for, much less with another girl.   Her eyes shoot open.   “Continue,” I almost beg her.   “And… And we love each other. And he knows… He knows Haruno and I aren’t right, that we’re… broken. And he knows that what I need the most is someone who can love me and only me, who can tell me I’m worth it—”   “You are worth it.”   “… Who can tell me she loves—”   “I love you. I’ll always love you. No matter what. No matter what happens, what we do to each other, how we mess things up, you’ll always be Yukinon. My first kiss. The first girl I liked. My first girlfriend. Nothing will ever take that away.”   She gasps, almost pained as I just keep staring at her, demanding she continues.   And she closes her eyes tightly, something shining in the corners before she forces herself to open them and stare at me.   “Someone who will… help me heal.”   And I kiss her.   There’s nothing brief this time around, and I push her. I push her to open her lips and accept my tongue, to let me embrace her with the hand holding Sable’s leash, to have her body pulled tightly against mine, trapping our entangled hands between us as I can’t help but lift my left foot off the ground as I fully lean against the taller, slimmer, willowy, beautiful girl that is too fragile for me to hold without her cracking any further, but…   But that I’m willing to do so, to have her show me her raw scars if it’s the only way for her to heal.   Because she needs it. She knows she needs it. He knows she needs it.   And they’re both trusting me.   So, really, the whole Service Club is in on it, and when have we ever failed a mission?     ================== ================== This work is a repost of the first spin-off of the Cakeverse. The whole verse can be found on QQ, or up to date on my Patreon. Unless something drastic happens, it will be updated on Tuesdays and Thursdays until it catches up to the currently written chapters.   Also, I’d like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving me a hand and help me keep writing snarky, maladjusted teenagers and their cake buffets, consider joining them or buying one of my books on Amazon. Thank you for reading!  

Chapter 1 - All right! Fine! I’ll take you! - Chapter 1

There comes a time in the life of every man where temptation appears. Should I say I forgot my wallet back home? Should I look at the finished test of the bookworm sitting next to me? Should I look at the walkthrough before fighting the final boss? Should I push Zaimokuza in front of an incoming truck just to grant him a chance at his wildest fantasies? Society conditions us to refuse temptation so that people who are—   “Take me!”   Ahem. So that people who are below the totem pole don’t take advantage of opportunities that are not approved of by the system to rise up. Resisting temptation is a virtue because it allows the system to self-perpetuate, to keep down the ones who are down—   “Take me!”   Oh, for… Say, for instance, that a high schooler on the verge of graduation is entangled in a love triangle for reasons beyond his reckoning. The two girls in question are age-appropriate, both attractive in their own way, and, asides from their unexplainable attraction to the dense harem protagonist, apparently sane. Mostly. Society dictates that he should choose one of them and allow the other to go through heartbreak; that’s the established solution, and anything else would be cheating—   “Take me! Take me! Take me!”   Ms. Hiratsuka, you aren’t making this any easier. So, what is this boy supposed to do when confronted by the temptation of his delicious Christmas cake teacher? Should he go on a diet? Abstain from even the most remote chance of catching diabetes? Gorge himself on ludicrous amounts of plump, round, bouncy icing till his—   “Take me! Take me! Take—!”   “For heaven’s sake—all right! Fine! I’ll take you!”   “Eh? Hmph! Hmph!”   Before I can (finish) talk(ing) myself out of it, I am leaning over the small table that separates me from my gorgeous, middle-aged teacher, grasping her white coat-clad shoulders, and silencing the maddening siren call of her combo-finisher “take mes” by pressing my own lips on hers.   She tastes like cherries. Should have known she would use a high schooler’s lip gloss. Ms. Hiratsuka, don’t you know a woman who doesn’t act her age comes across as desperate and desperation is the ultimate mood-killer? Source: me.   “Hikigaya… I…”   She leans back and breathes my name against my lips, possibly to stop me. It is a very counterintuitive way to reach that goal.   I push forward, bumping my shin against the corner of the table as I try to climb over it. I should have known my first kiss would end up in pain.   Hiratsuka’s eyes are wildly open, looking into my own with something close to full-blown panic. Should have known I would terrify the first girl I kissed. Hey, Ms. Hiratsuka, I called you a girl in my internal narration, aren’t you happy?   Her eyes don’t stray as I advance the last few inches that separate us, and, this time, I am slow enough not to take her by surprise. I lean forward.   Our lips touch.   We move.   After all, I think I like cherries.   Though I could do without the tobacco aftertaste.   I would like to say I leave her breathless through sheer passion, that my heretofore unrevealed abilities as the ultimate lover are awakened and her pupils turn into pink hearts (which would look terrifying, so I am actually glad that doesn’t happen), but this is my first kiss, my shin is hurting like Zaimokuza’s beta reader, and the posture is awkward like… like everything related to both romance and Hikigaya Hachiman. No surprises there. I manage to climb across the table and sit beside her on her chair, mindful of making too much noise as we are still in the teacher’s lounge, even if we have these increasingly suspicious privacy screens. Hiratsuka shuffles, making room for me, and her hands travel up my back before tangling her fingers through my short hair. I like it, so, like the very good and diligent student that I am (LOL), I copy her and grasp her by her nape, making her let a little whimper of pleasure against my lips.   God, she’s so beautiful…   I can’t help myself and grasp her hips, shifting her so she is now sitting on my lap, never allowing our lips to part. Then, shyly, as if asking for permission, her tongue peeks from between her lips and moistens my own.   I lose it.   I open my mouth and devour her. My tongue tangles with hers, muffled gasps swallowed by my eager mouth as my vision goes white, as a torrent of heat rushes up my body, and I realize that yes, I am kissing this gorgeous bundle of insecurities and mature wisdom, this woman who has done so much for me and... I grasp her by her neck and her lower back, pressing her against me as the predictable physiological phenomenon occurs beneath my waistband, and I allow the sensation of her squirming on top of it to take away unnecessary thoughts.   “Hachi… Hachiman, we should stop…”   I nibble the side of her neck with a possessive urge I haven’t felt outside of particularly heated waifu wars. “Why?” My voice is hoarse and my wit nowhere to be found. How surprising. Not.   “Yukinoshita… Yuigahama… Iroha?”   That last name is not like the others, I am compelled to claim, yet the point does not evade me.   “What? Do you want them to watch?”   Though I can still act like it did.   She slaps my chest and pouts at me, so I nibble her protruding lip before she has a chance to retract. Don’t provoke me, woman!    “You know what I mean. They… and you… And I am so…”   “You are making it far too easy for me to pretend not to know what you actually mean. Keep at it, it makes my job easier.”   The pout turns into a glare. It would look much fiercer without the blush that manages to cross the bridge of her nose in a prolonged, two-pronged campaign. Fight on, Blush-chan! You can do it, Blush-chan!   “You are thinking something stupid to avoid the consequences of this, aren’t you?”   “I don’t know, maybe it’s just that all the blood necessary to think not-stupid thoughts is currently devoted to trying to lift your shapely butt through the power of applied hydraulics.”   “…”   “I did say that out loud, didn’t I?”   “This is why Yukinoshita calls you a creep, you know?”   “First of all, I have never mentioned any of the intricacies of the male body going through puberty to Yukinoshita, second of all, could we please stop talking about her?”   “Would you rather talk about Yui?”   My traitorous brain can’t help but conjure Yuigahama’s Yuigahamas. Ms. Hiratsuka is not a slouch in that department (maybe the only department where she doesn’t slouch out of habit), but she’s still far from the reigning champion of my… My something extremely complicated that I dearly do not want to define at this very moment.   What else is new, Hikigaya Hachiman?   “And there’s the brooding look that was missing.”   “At least I am not pouting.”   “I am not pouting!”   I pointedly look at the protruding lip that had been my target not that long ago and she retracts it. Before licking it nervously. I am getting mixed messages here.   “So, consequences. What a fun topic.”   “I am twice your age, your teacher, and you are about to wage war on the whole administration and PTA on behalf of one of the two girls who have been surgically attached to you since you were introduced. This”—she gestures down towards where her excellent derriere is still parked on top of my lap –“is absurd, and you should forget about it.”   “Counterpoint: you aren’t twice my age, more like one and a half”—her knuckles dig into my solar plexus, and I let out a not at all surprised gasp—“I mean, you are much younger than that, almost as young as you look—please stop trying to give me a masochistic fetish—I am just one year from graduation, and I would go to war with the whole PTA over the brand of canned coffee they have available.”   “You care a lot about the brand of canned coffee we have available.”   “Right. Poor example.”   The hand that was still worryingly pressed below my breast bone relaxes, and her palm comes to rest over my chest. Ms. Hiratsuka, taller than me, a gallant figure straight out of a movie poster with fast cars and expensive cocktails, impossibly looks up into my eyes. My mouth dries at seeing them moist.   “This is impossible, Hachiman.”   My hand cups her cheek, and I breathe my answer against her lips.   “This is inevitable, Shizu.”   And I kiss her.   Not frantically, not half-maddened by the desperate litany of someone who fears loneliness as much as I do.   Gently.   Probingly.   Lovingly.   My mind is thankfully silent as I feel our bodies entangle, pressing against one another. The stiff fabric of her vest stops me from feeling her heat seeping into mine, from feeling her softness against my chest, but my fingers make up for it by delighting in the silk of her long hair as they travel down her tresses, exploring a back slim yet toned with muscle and finding so, so many delightful spots that, when pressed, result in little whimpers that I keep swallowing as soon as she releases them. Her whole body is enticing, her legs crossed atop my own radiating a warmth that grows as my pulse quickens, her firm behind molded against me in a way that should be obscene yet falls slightly short, her chest kept prisoner of a vest that, stylish as it is, I am beginning to despise (seriously, get a hint, you pretentious wifebeater). But, more than that, it is her slender, smooth neck that holds my fascination, as I keep making her shiver by softly dragging the back of my fingers up and down its length.   I don’t know how long we take, but we don’t end up brusquely separating while trying to get some much-needed air. We separate gently, languidly, our foreheads touching as our lips barely graze each other. Looking into one another’s eyes.   “Why?” She asks, barely audible over my thundering heartbeat.   “Because it is genuine.” And she smiles, and I smile with her, and it is not a creepy smile, it is not insincere, not trying to show what isn’t there. It… is a smile. Nothing more. Nothing less. Wonderful.   “It won’t be easy.”   “Ms. Hiratsuka, I am offended that you would think I would be easy. I would have you know I treasure my virtue and I am saving myself for my future working wife, to which I will devote my very being as a househusband.”   “There’s that twisted side of yours, I wondered where it went.”   “Twisted? I will have you know I am the very embodiment of the virtues of the Japanese spouse. I swear solemnly to receive you at the end of the day with the sacred phrase: ‘Would you like a bath, dinner, or… me, Ms. Hiratsuka?’”   “Stop that.”   “Stop what?”   She leans forward, her chin tucked against my shoulder, her cheek caressing mine, and she breathes against my ear, “Stop saying my… Just… Just call me Shizu?”   I feel something snap inside my head.   My arms surround her of their own volition, smashing her chest against mine as she gasps.   “Shizu.”   I nibble on her neck, still wet from my last try, and she whimpers as I murmur once again.   “Shizu.”   My hands wander, one pulling her hair so that she offers me her throat, the other venturing towards her backside, grasping it with more daring than I would have thought I had.   “Shizu.”   She moans, surprised as I maul her flesh with my eager fingers, as I suckle on her skin, delighting in her taste that no longer carries tobacco, and I venture to unclasp her vest (vanquished at last, my eternal foe), finally feeling her breasts without the stiff cloth hindering me.   “Mine.”   I growl, and she whimpers.   I grab at her with all my strength, every gasp, every moan, a sign that I have a hold of her, that she is not beyond my grasp. Because she fears being alone, but I… I fear letting go.   So I don’t.   “Hachiman… Hn! Please!”   I don’t listen, now nibbling on her ear, still grabbing her hair, while I finally venture between her legs to find slight wetness soaking through her slacks. I begin to rub her and she jolts, the movement felt too strongly given what still lies beneath her (that is, me—a very much eager me).   “Hachiman, please, please, please, please—”   I rub up and down, not fast, but firmly, with short strokes. I hope eroge has taught me well.   And then she grabs my wrist and, with wild eyes and short breath, she tells me:   “Hachiman, please, stop.”   What a surprise. Not.   Something of my utter dejection must have shown on my face (I guess dead fish eyes can still be expressive), because she hurries to console me: “We are still in the teacher’s lounge, you know?”   Oh.   “Oh.”   The fond exasperation would be more convincing if you didn’t look like a gravure model who has finished an impromptu photoshoot after a bikini malfunction, a hidden camera, and a photographer that would make the #metoo movement faint, Ms. Hiratsuka. Mental note: never even think about gravure models when around Shizu. My brain-to-mouth filter is not to be trusted.   “Yes, oh.”   “Stop trying to act cool while looking like a gravure model who just realized the kind of photoshoot she signed up for.” Damn it, brain! You had one job!   “Stop trying to distract me from how cute my clueless student can look,” she ripostes, her eyes full of cheeky affection.   “Cute? Me? Is that blush from heatstroke, Shizu? Should we go to the nurse’s office?”   We both freeze at that. As we look at each other, we say at once:  “We should go to the nurse’s office.”   I hurry through corridors tinted orange by the evening sun and reach the nurse’s office so quickly that the speed alone would disprove any legitimate reason for me being there. Luckily, the place is empty, and I settle on one of the beds to wait for Ms. Hirat—for Shizu, each second feeling like a minute and each minute feeling like—like something very long. An info dump at the beginning of a fantasy novel written for the likes of Zaimokuza? Yes, let’s go with that.   We decided to come separately in case… Of something that should be obvious, given the very illicit nature of this burgeoning relationship. It may also have been a factor that I have had to walk here in standard adolescent male gait number two (hunched over, hands in my pockets—you know why) and not even the legendary Stealth Hikki would be enough to cover for this if I was walking beside a gorgeous woman who—hormones. Right. My old nemesis, we meet again.   Still, Shizu is taking her sweet time coming and I am starting to get nervous. Not for any actual reason, asides from all the very valid reasons.   Just as I am starting to ponder the merits of pacing around the room in a manner very unbefitting of an energy-saving character—sorry, Houtarou-sensei, it seems I have abandoned your teachings—I hear the unmistakable clacking of hard-soled shoes approaching, and Shizu’s silhouette appears through the ground glass window of the door. I hold my breath.   And she pauses.   I look at her distorted image, awful comprehension sinking in with each second that she doesn’t come in.   And the image disappears as her harsh footsteps vanish down the corridor.   I lie back on the bed that had filled me with so much anticipation just seconds ago, and I look at the ceiling like a traumatized robot pilot—I should buy myself some headphones. As I finally let out the breath I had been holding, I can’t help but say:   “My illicit romance is messed up, as I expected.”   I should come up with better taglines.     ================== ================== This work is a repost of my second oldest fic on QQ, where it can be found up to date except for the latest two chapters that are currently only available Patreon. Unless something drastic happens, it will be updated at a daily rate until it catches up to the currently written 81 chapters (or my brain is consumed by the overwhelming amounts of snark, whichever happens first).   Also, I’d like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving me a hand and helping me keep writing snarky, maladjusted teenagers and their cake buffets, consider joining them or buying one of my books on Amazon. Thank you for reading!  

Chapter 1 - I Can’t See Your Scars [FMA, NSFW]

I Can’t See Your Scars [FMA, NSFW]   People always talk about hospital smells as if they were a universal constant. Disinfectant, bleached floors, and maybe some more offensive things aggressively masked by a cleaning staff devoted to making the place look like a building where healing takes place rather than where infirmity is forcibly confined.   People lack perspective.   Not all hospitals smell the same. The ones in Central, while falling into the stereotype, are definitely far more palatable than the ones away from the rich capital, and there’s little in the smell that reminds me of the campaign hospitals in Ishval.   Those… Those didn’t smell like bleach.   They smelled like blood. Like bile. Like fear.   Like death.   In some ways, I prefer the straightforward honesty. After all, while I’m not dying, my career most certainly is.   “There’s talk about promoting you,” Riza says from where she’s seated to the right of my hospital bed.   Or, at least, where my hearing tells me she is.   They say blindness sharpens your other senses. I imagine that, if that’s true at all, the process must be far from instantaneous.   “A hero of the country maimed in the line of duty? I can only imagine how Armstrong and Grumman are salivating at the chance for a photo op,” I say after too long a silence.   “Armstrong? Olivia Armstrong?” she says.   And I can see her.   Not with my eyes, of course, but… I’ve known her since we were both… Since before.   Since before the war, the homunculi, the Fullmetal, and all the chaos that underdeveloped bundle of pride and anger issues brought into our lives.   I’ll never be able to see him grow up.   But, Riza?   I see her.   Sitting up too straight on a chair that favors neither form nor function, her head just slightly lower than the window sending warm rays of sun over my closed, meaninglessly closed, eyes, yet lending a glint of gold to hair that was both neat and wild, her sharply angled fringe casting an irregular shadow over brown eyes that I’ll never meet again as she subtly raises her left eyebrow, always her left, to send me a wordless message about how outrageous my latest attempt at humor has been.   I can see her.   I think I’ll always will.   “She’ll have to play politics at some point if she really wants to follow her ambitions,” I finally say, going back to the subject of the woman able to cow Alexander Armstrong, the bombastic mountain of muscle that…   I should have paid more attention. Alchemy trains you to be somewhat of an artist, to have an eye for detail. I could, I think, still draw Armstrong’s face just out of muscle memory.   But I don’t remember the shade of his eyes. The hue of his sparse hair.   Too many blonds in my life, I guess.   “The day Olivia Armstrong smiles for the camera is the day I accompany you to a gala in a frilly gown,” she says with an eye roll that couldn’t be any clearer if I held my fingers over her closed eyelids to feel the motion under thin, sensitive skin.   One time.   Just one time.   “Should I remind you, Lieutenant, that among my ambitions numbers the mandated use of miniskirts for all female officers?”   “I’ve had the resignation letter ready for years, sir.”   I chuckle at that. Can’t help it.   Both at the sharp retort and at the idea of Riza ever leaving the military.   “You didn’t resign while being held hostage,” I still answer, ruining the air of levity she’s been working at for the past hour.   She doesn’t answer, not immediately, and I can’t help but fill the silence with all the possible ways she could be looking at me.   Exasperated. She’s done that often enough when I’ve delved too deeply into the role of Roy Mustang, the charming rake raised by the owner of a thinly disguised bordello, reflexively flirting with anything wearing a non-mandatory skirt.   Impatient. When I… When I hesitated on things she knew we’d both decided years ago.   Angry. Legitimately angry. Angry enough to threaten me with the worst thing Riza Hawkeye could ever do to me: leaving.   Sad. Like… Like when we attended a private funeral held for her father. My master. For a man only mourned by two people out of the entire country that he had sought to change with his prodigious flame alchemy.   Hurt. Pained. Like when her bare back was offered to me so I could take away the burden tattooed on it.   And I did it.   People wonder how I managed to stand the stench of burned flesh in Ishval. How I could walk across a battlefield wrecked by a snap of my fingers without throwing up.   There’s a very simple answer to that: none of that could compare to the scent of Riza Hawkeye’s skin crackling under my touch. To the muffled, pained cries of the most important woman in my life as I hurt her how she wanted me to hurt her.   I threw up enough to last me a lifetime, that one time.   “Would you have wanted me to resign?” she finally says, her tone flat enough that I can’t infer what’s going through her eyes.   And I…   The sun’s shining in through our shared hospital room. A noon sun.   But I’m still so very, very tired…   “I just wanted you to be safe,” I mutter.   And drift off to sleep.   ***   The brat will be fine. Everybody will be fine.   Miraculously, after a battle to the death with a being who claimed to have swallowed God, we’re… we’re still here.   Alive.   Fine.   Just… lesser.   “Keep the tip of your finger inside of your glass when you pour water in. That way, you can feel the level of the water rising, and it won’t spill,” the nurse says.   Her voice sounds young, and she’s been attentive enough to feel like she’s starstruck at being tasked with teaching the maimed hero of the country how to work around his disability.   I would usually have to flirt with her if only to keep up appearances.   But this is hard enough. All the new ways of doing everyday things. The way my entire world is now something different. Something without light, or color, or a sharp gaze from my lieutenant.   So I struggle to concentrate. To absorb every new little nugget of what will be my routine from now on.   I have a good memory. A prodigious one. I am the Flame Alchemist for a reason.   But it used to be visual memory.   “I assume I’ll need to be very careful when filling up a bathtub,” I say, the thought just coming to mind.   The nurse giggles in a way that tells me that, while it is possible to take my comment as a joke, she’s playing it up. Massaging my ego and possibly lidding her gaze as she imagines how it would be to assist me in taking a bath.   I…   “I’ve been raising a dog,” Riza comments from her bed. “Could he be trained to assist him, or is it something that needs to be done from birth?” Riza asks from her bed.   She also was injured. Both of us were.   It’s just that it’s only her that will make a full recovery.   The nurse sitting by my bed on the chair Riza’s been occupying when too restless to remain confined in her own bed shifts, her hand on mine indicating a slight movement. Maybe she’s just facing Hawkeye.   The sudden spike of tension tells me that she has, indeed, met Hawkeye’s eyes.   “It’s not a good idea,” the nurse says with an apologetic tone that could mean plenty of things but that I’m willing to bet has little to do with Black Hayate’s suitability as a guide dog. “Pets and working animals need to be trained very differently; if your dog is used to responding to somebody trying to pet him or play with him, he could be distracted at the worst moment. It’s not just a matter of inconvenience; it could be dangerous—it would be if, for instance, it happened while crossing a street.”   There’s a brief pause, and I can’t help but smile at the look of offense that is sure to be on Riza’s face.   “Black Hayate is a very disciplined animal,” she stiffly answers.   “I am sure that—”   “No. You don’t understand. He’s very—”   “Lieutenant, I’m afraid that your prowess as a dog trainer is not something easily believed without some proof, and, regretfully, the unreasonable hospital ban on pets remains firmly in place.”   None of the two women speak, but I’m sure at least one of them is looking at me reproachfully.   I placidly smile over my shoulder in her direction before I turn toward my bedside table to put my recent lessons to good use and serve myself a glass of water from the pitcher the nurse brought in.   But then I, the Flame Alchemist, scourge of Ishval, hero of Central, charming rake extraordinaire, misjudge the distance and knock the pitcher to the floor with my elbow, drenching my bed for added ridicule.   It takes me quite a bit of effort to look as if I’m laughing it off.   ***   “Well, you look like shit,” Madame Christmas, or Aunt Chris, says from the blasted chair everybody keeps using.   “Madame!” Riza all but yells, scandalized or offended on my behalf.   “I presume my grooming habits may have taken a hit due to my current circumstances,” I say, being none of those things.   “Like you wouldn’t believe. Oh, if only there was a sharp-eyed woman willing to stay by your side and make sure to properly comb your hair in place every morning,” the exasperating, sharp-tongued woman says.   I smile.   At… At her not treating me with undue care. At the caustic wit, the infuriating insistence that I get married to a woman I’ve never even dated, the bombastic, grandiose gesture that I can’t help but imagine at her words and tone, with Aunt Chris throwing the back of her hand over her forehead.   And at Riza’s indignant sputter.   One that the strict, self-disciplined woman would never even dare show a hint of in front of somebody she didn’t fully trust.   “It will have to be a very patient woman…” Riza mutters.   “Oh, most certainly. That’s why I arranged for some exposure therapy when I bribed the hospital staff to put you two in the same room.”   I… I look straight at her, or, at least, I face the direction that her voice comes from as I blink with my blind, useless eyes.   Then I narrow them.   “She’s my bodyguard. And she was here before you were notified that I’d been injured,” I say.   A warm hand with loose skin holds mine up, the other hand gently patting the scarred back where I carved an alchemy sigil on my flesh so that I could murder a homunculus.   “Keep telling yourself that, dearie,” she says.   I groan, and, I think, Riza tries very hard not to.   ***   Night is… A bizarre experience.   I feel the cool air over my face, the lack of warm spots that would hint at the sun or a lamp nearby.   And I guess the world’s wrapped in darkness.   But it’s only a guess. That everybody is just as blind as I am. The same misconception that I went through after I was forced through the Gate of Truth, only to emerge and meet Fullmetal waiting for me, his voice straining as I struggled against a darkness that took me too long to realize the meaning of.   And he, Fullmetal, Edward Elric, the… the closest thing I’ve had to what Hughes used to gush so obnoxiously about…   I know how he looked at me. How he looks when he encounters tragedies that he can’t abide by, that he doesn’t understand the world is full of. That he refuses to understand, over and over.   It’s a look I’ve seen too many times in his young eyes. A look I stopped having a long time ago.   When I did my own share of horrors that the world shouldn’t be full of.   “Are you asleep?” Riza gently whispers.   “No,” I immediately answer before I can process that I could’ve easily lied by omission and fled from whatever it is that Hawkeye wants to talk about when we’re alone in the middle of the night.   But she doesn’t.   Doesn’t talk.   There’s a rustling of clothing being brushed aside, and two bare feet slowly set down on the cold tiled floor of the hospital room we share.   Then Riza, injured, weak, maddeningly unlike Riza, slowly pushes herself up to walk around my bed before sitting down on the chair next to mine.   There must be some light filtering from somewhere. An open window letting in streetlights, or moonlight, or maybe a pane of glass set in the door of our room that lets nurses discreetly check up on us.   So I am the only one blinded by darkness.   A thought that passes both bitterly and brightly.   “I could,” she finally says.   “I am sure you could, Lieutenant, but I’m unclear on which of your many talents you would rely on to do so,” I say, pure, unfiltered Roy.   Except I call her ‘Lieutenant,’ so there’s that much of a filter still.   “Comb your hair,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.   And I clench my fingers over two fistfuls of rough yet thin cotton.   “You don’t have to,” I say rather than ‘I don’t need you’ because not even I can lie so easily.   “It wouldn’t change much, would it? I… I would be by your side. Like I have always been,” she says.   And I’m angry.   At her, for so carelessly referring to what’s between us in such a way. For banalizing the most vital part of my life. The only thing that has kept me going after my best friend was murdered while trying to call me.   But that’s a lie. Just one of many that Roy Mustang will tell everyone around him.   One that he, himself, can’t believe.   Because I’m angry at myself.   At being useless, worse than on any rainy day. At being so much less than I needed to be to do what I promised her I would do. At dragging her down with me.   The woman who was supposed to watch my back and shoot me down if I ever stepped away from the right path, now gently guiding me away from it so that I can lick my wounds and lament the future that will forever be out of my reach.   “I miss reading,” I say. Apparently a non sequitur.   “Reading?” she gently asks. Much too gentle, like she only shows herself to be in private and with so very select few.   Like the Fullmetal or his girlfriend in all but name.   I… I guess Ed and I may have more in common than either of us would like to admit.   “Reading. I used to enjoy it very much, but then life changed, and I had to swallow alchemy tomes, and then regulations, marching orders, and so, so much bureaucracy,” I say with a slight, bitter smile at the thought of the dreaded paperwork the slavedriver to my right used to inflict on me.   “I could read for you now that you have more time,” she offers, so wonderfully cruel in her kindness.   Which makes the rest of this so much easier.   “A generous offer. There was… There was a short book I used to like when I was a young teenager. I have it all but memorized, but it’s still something I think I would enjoy,” I say. Only half-lying.   Because I despise that book I used to love.   “How was it called?” she asks, just to keep the conversation going as the sheets by my side shift minutely, as if a young woman laid a hand on them, unsure of whether to reach for my hand beneath them.   “Rappaccini’s Daughter,” I answer, already regretting what I’m about to do.   “I haven’t heard of it,” she says, her hand unmoving even as the warmth of it seeps through, her presence by the side of my clenched fist making me shut my eyes tighter.   “It’s about a man who encounters a tower surrounded by a blooming garden. There he sees a beautiful woman—”   “Of course he does,” she mutters, and I can’t help the smile she brings out of me.   “A beautiful woman tending to it. To flowers he’s never seen before.”   “And he falls in love with her at first sight,” she says, once again letting me see her eyes rolling back in exasperation played across too many memories to count.   I want to tell her that, no, he didn’t. Or, at least, not right away. That it took more than the glint of blonde hair and the hint of tenderness under a composed exterior to make the foolish young man fall for the daughter of the madman.   But this is still about the book.   And he did.   “Wouldn’t be much of a story if he didn’t, would it? A young man struck down by otherworldly beauty? Where’s your sense of romance, Lieutenant?” I ask with a bit of Aunt Chris in my voice and mannerisms.   She doesn’t answer.   Her hand doesn’t move away.   And I hate myself just a bit more than I already do.   “The… The story continues when he tries to approach her, and the girl warns him away. The flowers she’s caring for are poisonous. Lethal. And he could die just by breathing the pollen in,” I say, my head resting on my pillow as I talk to the ceiling rather than to Riza.   “But she can tend to them without protective gear,” she says, the phrasing as devoid of poetry as her words usually are, even if her movements, her expressions, her eyes never were.   Not when I could watch her.   “Yes. Because she’s Rappaccini’s daughter, and then Rappaccini comes into the story.”   “An alchemist?”   “How did you guess?”   Another silence. Another eye-roll of Riza at me confronting her with the blatantly obvious or outrageous, even if in a joking manner.   Mildly embarrassed, I clear my throat before I continue:   “Rappaccini had once been deeply in love with his wife, but he left him for another man, not even taking her daughter with her. Maddened by his grief, he turned to alchemy. To making sure that his daughter would never be stolen by a passing fancy.”   Riza remains quiet for another moment, the hospital eerily quiet when it should hold the hushed footsteps of nurses on the night shift going down the corridor or the ringing of bells alerting them to a patient’s urgent need.   Not tonight.   No, this is just for the two of us.   Like so many other nights spent in an empty office, stealing a few hours of sleep on a green sofa with a folder of urgent paperwork inadequately blocking the light as the other kept working, the soothing sounds of pen on paper turning into the best lullaby I ever heard.   “The flowers,” she says with that sharp intuition that would’ve made her a better alchemist than I’ll ever be if she hadn’t been so repulsed by what her father became. “She needs the poison to live. She was modified.”   She’s right.   But not entirely.   This may have happened one too many times for us to ever have a happy ending. Because she was right, but not entirely, when she trusted her life to me.   “She is the poison. The daughter and the garden are one and the same: beauty to be admired from afar.”   Except that wasn’t quite what happened, was it, Riza? Not when we slowly, tentatively, started having talks that didn’t revolve around your father’s latest demands. When you stopped being my master’s daughter and became the girl I saw every day, talked to every day, looked forward to…   Looked.   “How does it end?” she asks, tenderly enough that we can both pretend she didn’t see how my face twisted just now.   How does it end. Indeed.   It ends in a hospital room at night.   “The man convinces Rappaccini to take him as an apprentice. The alchemist refuses to cure his own daughter of the curse he inflicted on her, but, if her suitor would be devoted enough to learn how to do it himself, then that wouldn’t be a casual dalliance like the one that took his wife away from him, would it? That would be something deeper. Love, or something close enough.”   Her hand shifts beside mine, still not touching me even as my tight fists relax out of exhaustion more than anything else.   “And does he? Does he learn from her… her father?”   There’s something in her voice. Something that shames me.   Something too near to hope.   Because I did. I learned from her father. I took the madman’s secrets, the fruit of the research of one of the most brilliant men I’ve ever met.   And I scarred his daughter’s back with it.   “He does. It takes him strenuous effort and devotion, but he manages to brew the cure.”   I pause. Stupid, sentimental, and all too attached to somebody I should’ve let go of before she ever became a hostage against me.   “And then?” she asks. Hopeful, and brittle, and entirely unlike the Riza everyone but me has seen.   “Then he gives it to her. The cure that will allow them to finally be together. To touch, kiss, and love. And she drinks it. And dies.   “In his arms.   “And Rappaccini laughs.”   She should slap me.   Punch me.   Shoot me.   Instead, the hand by the side of mine briefly trembles before she silently stands up and goes back to her bed without a single word.   And I can only wait in darkness for the remainder of her warmth on my sheets to fade away.   ***   Physical therapy.   I still don’t need to bother with that. Not when I’m so weakened without even taking into account my eyes.   I’ll need to learn to walk again, using a cane to avoid tripping on the sidewalk or crashing against a streetlight.   Riza has to go, recovering her strength day by day, getting closer and closer to the Lieutenant Hawkeye she’ll forever be in my memory.   Except physical therapy takes only an hour because she’s still too weak to strain herself any longer, no matter how she protests otherwise.   And the nurse just came by to bring me lunch.   Which means that three hours have passed.   And Riza hasn’t come back.   ***   Second Lieutenant Heymans Breda is a thorough man.   We used to joke that it was this very enviable character trait that had him clean his plate so methodically, but… he isn’t really obese. There’s solid, thick muscle closer to the skin than most would guess, and it’s a small mercy from whatever lies beyond the Gate of Truth that Armstrong has never tried to recruit him into his freakish muscle cult.   “Are you even listening?” he says with the kind of tone a second lieutenant never uses with a colonel as he finally interrupts his lecture on Ishvalian agriculture.   “Of course I am. Haven’t you heard, Havoc? A blind man’s hearing is keen enough to compensate for his missing sight.”   I throw a smug, superior, infuriating grin his way, and the stoic man responds by throwing a balled piece of paper straight at the middle of my forehead.   “I could have you shot for insubordination,” I say, quite sure that I couldn’t even if I ever wanted to as I rub the injured area.   “Is that your plan? Getting rid of all your subordinates one by one?” he says with his usually morose tone.   “Careful,” I say, dropping all pretense of levity.   “Or what? Are you going to snap your gloveless fingers at me?” he answers, still sounding as bored as he did even in the middle of plenty of firefights.   I narrow my eyes in his general direction, imagining I’m meeting the brown eyes of the one man I can trust to always be there to reign in the chaos my trusted cadre is so prone to.   And he punches me straight across the jaw.   I—hands tightening around throat—no gloves, so—scar, can still—no sight, broad blast away from me, circle-less transmutation to—   And he lets go of my throat.   “So. You still can fight,” he says as if I hadn’t been moments away from reflexively doing something I would’ve lived to regret.   “I could’ve killed you,” I say, slowly lowering my hands from where they were just about to slam against one another to produce a gust of pure hydrogen that would’ve explosively flown along the channels of oxygen woven into a broad cone in front of me.   “Could you?” he asks with little more than idle curiosity.   “Yes,” I answer after very little hesitation. A mere statement of fact that doesn’t hint at a disquieting, vivid image of Breda’s charred husk falling apart on top of me.   I guess that’s one advantage of being blind. I’ll no longer have to witness my own carnage.   But this brings to mind Hawkeye and that conversation we had in Ishval when she confessed that she preferred firearms over swords or knives because, that way, she didn’t have to feel the enemy die.   And how I told her how hypocritical she was.   How she admitted it. Without shame. That she fought the way she did because it was easier on her.   How I both envied and despised that part of her, but only for a brief moment because how could I ever hold onto something that would make Riza suffer?   “Stop,” Breda says, anger finally coming into his voice in a way it didn’t right after he strangled me.   “Stop what?” I say, trying to go for one of my smirks and feeling it brittle on my lips.   “Stop punishing yourself. Let her do that for you if you really must.”   I turn toward the raspy voice that, for once, won’t come from somebody with perennially bored eyes, and—no, this is unfair.   He’s… He’s human. As much as any of us. He has moods, and times when he drops the façade, or when he doesn’t need it. He can be cheerful and boastful when throwing back a pint of beer or devouring an entire platter of weisswurt. He can roughhouse with Fury, tease Falman, and snipe some understated cutting remarks at me when nobody who cares too much is listening in.   And it’s precisely because he’s human that I can show him my own anger.   “Somebody else already did their best to punish me, Breda,” I say, pointing at my blind eyes, the fingertips near enough to the useless orbs that I feel the air shift over sensitive, transparent skin.   “Their best? Their best?” he says.   And then he laughs.   Rotund and obnoxious, a slap that could be on his belly or his meaty thigh to punctuate his hilarity.   “You really think this is your punishment? Being blind?” he finally says as I struggle to process whatever’s going on.   “What would you call it?” I say, not even knowing what expression I use to spit out the words.   “The next step,” he says.   And, before I can ask for clarification, there’s a rustling of papers, and Breda stands up, his footsteps falling loudly on tiles that Hawkeye ghosted across.   I don’t say goodbye.   And then, after too long has passed, I realize that the door to my room still hasn’t opened.   “You can still fight, Colonel,” he says. “So fight. For you. And for her.”   That’s when the door opens and closes.   I drop back on my bed, my head hitting the thin, uncomfortable pillow, and I stare more blankly than most up at the ceiling I can’t see.   “Easier said than done,” I finally say.   And then, having absolutely nothing else to do, I go over my mental notes on Ishval’s current agricultural crisis.   ***   I don’t see people I don’t know. I imagine them, yes, my overactive mind coming up with all sorts of inconsequential details. Maybe the nurse that comes to change my sheets at night has nicotine-stained fingers due to the nasty habit that colors her voice. Maybe she has her hair up in a utilitarian bun meant to protect it from a patient’s mishaps. Maybe she used to be beautiful, and there are still traces of that under a severe expression that brooks no nonsense, not even from the likes of me.   It’s… I don’t know if others do the same, coming up with appearances to match a story made from tone, word choice, and the height that a voice comes from. I don’t know if that’s a coping mechanism or just something to humanize voices clad in shadow and nothing else, as distant as any phone call ever was.   But, with the people I know? The ones I worked alongside of for years on end?   I see them.   Maybe I’ll mix how they looked one day that they were happy and uninhibited with celebration as they tell me one thing with how they looked on a rainy day when they tell me another. It’s a collage of every single one of my memories of them, shifting with the cadence of their voice and the smiles or frowns that they call to mind.   I see them.   But, when Gracia comes, I see Hughes.   Maes. My best friend. Her late husband.   It’s… I know it’s her. I hear her voice, the same voice that has kindly greeted me whenever I’ve tried to act dutifully and visited her to make sure she and Elicia have everything they need. Everything they deserve.   Everything except for Maes.   Maes, sitting on the uncomfortable chair next to my bed, looking at me with that rueful smile he rarely let others see, the one that came out when we were alone, and he had to talk me down from something stupid and often self-destructive.   “He wouldn’t have wanted to see you like this,” she whispers, and the words cut deeper because it’s Hughes saying them in my mind.   “Well, at least I am not seeing myself like this,” I say with bitter humor that tries to come across as flippant.   But Gracia is not Riza.   And so she grabs my hand with both of hers.   “Don’t hurt yourself. Please,” she says, earnest enough that I can almost smile at the infuriating man about to reach for his wallet and the spread of family pictures within.   I hold it there, the ghost of a smile on my lips as I clasp her hand back. As I hold onto warmth and softness that mean to soothe me.   “He loved you. He loved you like few men ever manage to love a woman,” I say, my voice almost breaking.   “I know,” she says, the voice softening.   And…   “No, you don’t,” I say, about to betray the trust of my late best friend.   “What do you mean, Roy?” she says, still holding onto me.   So I…   I take a deep breath, and I’m back in Ishval, inside of a tent, sitting on the ground and contemplating everything gone wrong in my attempts to defend my country, to serve it with the alchemy inherited from my master and meant to elevate it.   Hughes was there with me, calling me to fulfill my duty. To get up and be a butcherer.   But he was Hughes, and so he was kind in his cruelty, letting me take a breath, trying to tell me about good, bright, happy things that would wait for us until the war was over and we were allowed to be human once more.   “He… He boasted. About you. As much as he used to do with Elicia, he would pridefully show off your pictures, the letters you sent him. He would brag about the small, pure happiness that would be to marry you after we left Ishval, how it was those small things that mean the world when the big ones are so… wretched.”   Gracia waits for me to continue, her thumb slowly tracing my scarred alchemy circle.   And then I guess she tires of waiting.   “I know. He could be so mortifying to be around when he did that, just… just taking out pictures of our first date or our first kiss with the slightest excuse… I was so embarrassed and so often, and I… I still miss being embarrassed in the way only Maes could make me,” she says, her voice only breaking at the end when she dives into a pain that is not recent but still fresh.   Raw.   A pain I’m stomping all over.   “I… I was a… I hated myself. I couldn’t tolerate him trying to make me feel better, so I… I asked him if he would hold the woman he loved with those bloodstained hands of his,” I say.   And her thumb stops over the tail of the salamander.   “Cruel words,” she whispers.   I nod.   “Yes. Cruel, and spiteful, and stupid. And I regretted them as soon as they left my lips, but he… Hughes roared at me. He yelled that he would, that he would hold you and marry you, but that he would forever shut up about the blood on his hands. That he wouldn’t stain you with it. That’s… That’s how much he loved you, Gracia. Enough to lie to you all of his life.”   Her hands clench around mine, nails briefly digging into my flesh before she goes back to the idle, gentle caress.   “That’s not what loving is supposed to be, Roy,” she tells me, and Hughes’ eyes are sad behind his square glasses as he looks at me with all the pity he ever did.   “I—”   “No. No, listen: Maes told me. Not right after coming back, but… But one night, he held me under sweaty sheets, and his arms tightened hard enough to scare me. Then… the tears came out. The tears, and the words. And every single horror story that you two went through. Everything that he did and that he hated himself for. Everything that made him feel like a monster who didn’t deserve to be loved.”   I don’t answer.   But my eyes are wide open, my mouth slack, and I…   “I didn’t push him away. I just… hugged him back and cried with him for as long as he needed me to, for as many nights as it took, for as many years. Because love isn’t about lies, Roy. It can’t be about that.”   And now I see Gracia.   She’s smiling tenderly down at me, gently caressing the hand of the broken man her late husband used to love like a brother.   And I also see Hughes, walking away, his back turned toward me as he throws me a last, parting smile over his shoulder, waving with two fingers at me before he steps into the darkness that surrounds me and fades away.   I don’t cry.   But it rains tonight.   ***   I don’t need a wheelchair.   Or, more accurately, I wouldn’t need one if I wasn’t blind because I do need crutches, and I can’t use those and a cane at the same time, so the nurses have to push me around whenever I need to leave my room for whatever reason.   It’s… a disquieting kind of helplessness, being carried by another to somewhere you don’t know, and it always plays merry havoc with my carefully cultivated paranoia. I didn’t spend so many years avoiding being kidnapped, constantly surrounded by the very few people I knew I could trust, just to end up putting my life in the hands of people whose faces I can’t see, whose voices I barely remember, who…   Who have no reason at all to capture a colonel who’s headed for an early retirement due to disability.   I…   Breda.   He just… He kept droning on and on about barren fields left unattended after the war, traditional agricultural practices unable to keep up with the demand of what little population is left in a land whose main export is a steady stream of refugees. Kept telling me about what we had decided on, the plan to reform Ishval, to make it shine brighter than Central just as the next step in my career.   Not as redemption. I don’t have that. Don’t deserve it.   But… It would have…   I would have liked it. Rebuilding what I laid waste to. Giving to the world what flame alchemy was supposed to achieve.   And Breda, thorough, stubborn Breda, can’t let go of that wistful dream. Still thinks I have a shot at it, as if the military would just accept a blind man furthering his earlier ambitions, trying to become president of Amestris, competing with the likes of Olivia Armstrong and General Grumman.   ‘You can still fight, Colonel. So fight for you. And for her.’   If only. If only…   “It’s not so easy, is it?” the voice coming from the phone abruptly thrust by my ear says.   “I’ll give you some privacy,” the nurse respectfully whispers as I take hold of the piece of plastic before she silently steps away.   “Havoc?” I finally say.   “Hey, Colonel,” the perennially single man says.   And something clenches in my chest.   “I wasn’t expecting you to be the one who called,” I say as I grasp for something else, anything else at all, to say.   He chuckles.   “You told me to wait for you. I got tired of waiting,” he says, and my mind provides the easy smile that comes with that tone, usually distorted by a cigarette precariously dangling from his lips.   My hand clenches around the phone.   “I’m sorry. It looks like you were waiting in vain,” I finally say.   “Not that easy, huh?” he says after a brief silence.   “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I admit, too tired to come up with a sarcastic remark that obfuscates just how lost I am.   Havoc, former Second Lieutenant Havoc, maimed in the line of duty, almost bled to death by my side, forced to help me kill the woman he thought was his girlfriend rather than the homunculus aptly called Lust… sighs.   “When… When the doctors told me that I would never walk again. You told me to wait for you. That you’d do something, whatever it took, to get me back in Central,” he says.   And I remember the impotent rage. The grief at having yet another friend taken from me by careless cruelty. How empty it felt to kill again and again the woman responsible until she stopped resurrecting, all the souls powering her philosopher’s stone burned out by my desperate attempts at managing my alchemy while surrounded by water, without my gloves, just Havoc’s lighter to provide the spark to ignite forcefully cleaved molecules of oxygen and hydrogen.   The same principle I would’ve used against Breda if his assassination attempt from yesterday was the least bit more enthusiastic.   I remember saving Havoc’s life. Branding his flesh shut as I did my own. Stopping our bleeding with charred meat.   But I walked. And he didn’t.   “No. It’s not so easy,” I say.   “People mean well,” he says, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “You meant well.”   I close my eyes, aware of the bitter quirk of my lips, taking refuge in a darkness that would’ve been self-inflicted just days ago.   Except it’s not the same. Because it’s early afternoon, and the light warming my face in the middle of this hospital’s corridor would go through my eyelids, giving me irregular red and orange rather than uniform black.   “It’s… Does it matter? Does it matter what I meant?” I say, asking too broad a question.   “Yes. That’s the one thing that mattered. The only thing that mattered,” he says.   And I can… Now, after we’re both on this side of injury, of being irremediably torn away from the way we used to live, from the little everyday things that everybody else takes for granted, I can…   I can put myself in Havoc’s place, lying on his hospital bed, doing all his grip-strengthening exercises with a glint of determination shining in his eyes after I gave him that heartfelt speech about how much I relied on him, how I would do anything, everything in my power to get him back by my side. How I would move heaven and earth to get him back on his feet.   And I realize the cruel, smothered spark of hope that I gave him, slowly turning into something else as the days went by and he had to learn his own set of little things. How to get from a wheelchair to his bed rather than how to keep track of the water level of a glass slowly and carefully filled. How to get his parent’s house fitted with ramps and broad doors that his chair can pass through rather than how to keep everything always in the same place, memorizing everything so that I won’t grab salt instead of sugar, so that I won’t trip on carelessly dropped dirty laundry, so that I won’t have to throw out things I can no longer identify without the help of others.   “I’m sorry,” I say, my voice strangled.   “Don’t,” he says. “You did what you thought was best, and you meant every word. I… I still believe in you, Roy. I still believe you’ll manage a miracle. Whether it involves me or not, it’s not what matters.”   I drop my head forward until my chin reaches the thin hospital-issued pajamas covering my chest.   And try to take a deep breath that doesn’t shudder.   “Hope can be cruel, can’t it?” I say, thinking about Breda and his agricultural reports. About Aunt Chris and her nagging about marriage. About Gracia and what love is supposed to be.   “Yes. The bitch can’t help but keep us going,” Havoc answers. Not with his easy smile but with the bitter one he started to wear on a hospital bed.   And we keep talking. About easier things, lighter things, sometimes shared silences.   Shared pains and sorrows.   Until he has to hang up and go help at his parents’ shop, still being reliable, devoted, and earnest.   Just…   Not in the same way he used to be.   ***   I am alone.   It’s night, with its comforting lack of warmth on my face, without the constant reminders of lights I can no longer see.   And so I see everything.   Comprehension. Deconstruction. Reconstruction. The three stages of alchemy. The things I can now do without a circle.   The things I can now do instinctively.   I shouldn’t. Not as a blind man unaware of the world around him.   But that’s not what I am, am I?   No, I am one of the very few who went through the Gates of Truth. One who grasped what Fullmetal and Alphonse did before me. And so, in a limited way, I feel the world better than I used to do.   I’m still surrounded by darkness, but… but it’s filled with knowledge.   Knowledge about what, precisely, the cotton fibers of my sheets are made of. The intricacy of the organic chains of carbon. How easy it would be to turn them into more fuel for my flames.   How easily almost everything around me could burn.   Because I understand it. Matter. Its composition, the myriad ways to reshape it. All the little things I learned before I focused on my master’s teachings, before I devoted all of my art to flame, now finally brought back so that I can raise up a wall of stone with a slam of my palms like I saw Ed do again and again, his go-to defensive maneuver now mine.   I could go by just with that. The Bulwark Alchemist.   I snort at the ridiculous moniker and how certain I am that it’s already been used by an unfortunate soul subjected to the cruelty of Central’s bureaucracy.   Because…   That last fight. Against the dwarf who would’ve become God.   I…   Riza.   Riza at my back, her voice guiding me, telling me how and where to aim, making the useless me help. Making me someone who could do something right. Something of worth.   Like she always did. Always has.   And…   And love isn’t about lying. It isn’t about keeping your pain away from those who love you. Not according to Gracia.   And things aren’t easy. Your life changes, and sometimes there’s no going back to the way things were, some things irremediably lost along the way. According to Havoc.   But I can still fight. For me. For her.   According to Breda.   So I don’t throw my sheets off. No, I slowly pull them aside, keeping track of where they are before I lower my feet to the cold tiled floor, reaching for the slippers that I put in the spot I memorized earlier, and then I reach with the back of my hand toward my bedside table, feeling the contour of cheap wood and following it to where my crutches are stashed away between the table and my bed.   I’ve got practice walking on crutches. Those aren’t the issue.   But I still have to stand up on them, my weak legs briefly trembling as I shift my weight, trying not to lean too hard on my arms.   And then I walk.   Along my bed, until it ends, and I slow my pace, waving each crutch in front of me before resting my weight on them to take another step forward and repeat the process all over again. Until, finally, after a moment that stretches for longer than it takes, I reach the wall.   Turn left, keep walking forward, the presence of something cool and large by my right shoulder likely imagined, but still there. Still a solid anchor that guides me to the door in the room as I adjust and have my crutches just minutely reach forward rather than broadly sweep in front of me.   A small clack of rubber on wood, and I—   And the door swings open, smacking my crutch back against me and making me stumble, making me panic as I lose my balance, jerking away from the unexpected impact rather than being pushed by it.   I almost fall.   But she catches me.   Like she always did.   “What do you think you’re doing?” she says, her arms straining around my shoulders as she slowly maneuvers me back on my feet.   “Looking for you,” I answer with a grin I missed on my lips.   A brief pause, her retreating hands fleetingly pausing on my arms before I’m once again deprived of Riza Hawkeye’s touch.   “Why?” she asks.   “To apologize,” I sway, unsteady on my crutches, wishing I could see her. Her, and not the thousand memories of her brown eyes filled with reproach, exasperation, and, at times, barely disguised fondness.   She doesn’t answer.   Not until I force myself to look steadily at where I think her voice comes from, in front of me and slightly to my left, away from the cool, comforting presence of the wall by my side.   “Well?” she says.   “Well, what?” I answer with a guileless blink.   “Your apology,” she says with either desperation, anger, or a back-and-forth rehearsed a thousand and one times. In her father’s library, on the Ishvalian battlefield, and in any of my offices through the years.   The smile that comes to my lips is not rehearsed. Not part of the play.   But it still fits within it.   “I pretended to be a womanizer,” I say.   “That better not be the extent of it,” she immediately answers.   “I pretended to be a womanizer because people trust men with weaknesses. With leverage they can apply to them. So I made a spectacle of my weakness. I made everyone who ever worked with me, everyone who could conceivably be a threat, frustratingly aware of what that weakness of mine was supposed to be,” I say.   “I know,” she answers with something that is most definitely not enlightened fulfillment at finally understanding a mysterious part of my character.   Would it kill any of my subordinates to play along for once?   “And it was all for nothing,” I say.   “I know,” she says, the exasperation growing.   “Because… Because my real weakness… It was plain to see, wasn’t it? The people I didn’t let go of, that I spent favors on so that they would remain by my side. That was my weakness. You. All of you.”   I wait for her curt answer.   It doesn’t come.   And so, I’m cruelly forced to continue rather than hide away behind a sarcastic back and forth.   “All of you. But especially you. Just… Just you, Lieutenant, Hawkeye, Riza. Just…” I take a shuddering breath, and I straighten up, leaning more on my feet than on my crutches, trying to look my best even at my worst and likely failing as my face contorts in raw emotion no longer hidden by a smug smirk. “I have loved you for years. And there are plenty of reasons not to tell you. Plenty of reasons not to mess up the most important relationship in my life with something that is obvious to everyone around me but that I still manage to act oblivious to. But there’s a single reason to tell you: that love isn’t about lies. And that I’m tired of lying to you.”   I wait in silence and darkness, only my ragged breath and her own steady one letting me know I’m not alone and talking to myself like a rambling madman obsessed with his flame alchemy, locked away in his library after coding the sum of his knowledge on his daughter’s back.   And then she slaps me with… a book?   There’s… There’s a rustling of pages as if somebody was holding an open book with a trembling hand, and my right crutch clatters to the floor as I raise an incredulous hand to my stinging cheek.   “This,” she says, pure venom in her voice. “This thing isn’t about us.”   And then what is most definitely a thrown, small book slams on the wall by my side before dropping to the floor.   “I presume that’s a copy of Rappaccini’s Daughter?” I ask, pretending not to be floored.   Which is when a small, slender hand grabs the front of my shirt, and, before I know it, the darkness whirls around me, and my back crashes against my bed.   “I asked you,” she says, now straddling my waist, her hand still tightly grasping a pajama that is too thin for these rigors. “I demanded that you take away the tattoo on my back. You don’t get to pretend I was a helpless victim of Father and yourself, not when I… When it was my fault.”   My eyes are wide open in a shock I’m ill-suited to express.   And now her hands are on my pillow, on either side of my head.   “You didn’t hurt me, Colo—Roy. You did precisely what I wanted you to do. I hurt you. Don’t you… don’t you see? Don’t you realize how you… Do you think I didn’t know how you reacted? How you spent the whole night throwing up while I whimpered in my bed, too pained to comfort you like I should have? Don’t you—it’s my fault. Mine. Don’t take that away from me.”   “I… I never meant to—” I raise both hands, only mildly surprised to discover that I obviously let go of my second crutch somewhere during the flight toward my bed, and I follow the sides of her body in something unintentionally slow and sensual, because I only want to hold her face, to touch her and see with my fingers what it is that she’s feeling, that her strangled voice so poorly conveys.   I go under her armpits and to her shoulders, barely grazing by her breasts, with none of us reacting to the mishap.   Then up her bare neck, her pulse racing and her throat moving with too rapid breathing.   And then…   Then she leans back and takes my wrists, gently guiding me to her face, helping me without me having to ask. Like she always has.   Like she still does.   Her skin is as smooth as I remember, the soft peach fuzz as enchanting as it was the only time we clumsily messed around in her father’s library, two teenagers locked with one another for too long for something like that not to happen.   I… I don’t even know why we stopped. Why there wasn’t a second, third, or thousandth time.   But now…   Her forehead is crossed by deep, anxious furrows, and her eyelids tremble under my touch. Her lips are soft and yielding, but pursed into…   Riza Hawkeye is trying not to cry.   And that sends a stab of something through my chest that has both pain and elation.   “Shush,” I say, clumsily and likely not reassuring in the slightest. “It’s all right. Whatever you think you did, it’s all right. It’s always been.”   She silently shakes her head, her hands now on the back of my own rather than my wrists.   “No. I… This is how it started. With you blaming yourself for everything that wasn’t your fault, taking one sin after another on your shoulders so that your road to redemption would be just long enough that you wouldn’t be able to reach the end of it before dying,” she shakes her head, my palms on her cheeks, and it’s like she’s caressing me with her denial.   “Well, I did kill at least one sin, didn’t I?”   “Don’t you dare joke about that,” she says as her hand clenches over the scarred array on the back of my right hand.   “Riza, if I didn’t joke, I would cry,” I say.   And then I pull her down to me until her breasts rest on my chest and gusts of warm air wash over my lips, wondering how she looks right now. If she’s at all how I remember the blushing, blonde girl in a library’s corner.   I don’t think she is.   Much like I’m not the anxious boy too scared to hold onto her.   “Then cry. Cry for me,” she whispers.   And slowly, inexorably, inevitably, Riza kisses me.   She’s… She’s…   Gunpowder no longer clings to her. Not after days locked in a hospital with its own set of overpowering smells, but there’s still something uniquely hers. Something that I can’t name but that spears through my muddled thoughts, erasing them as I get lost in the slow movements of the woman on top of me, the languid, deliberate motion of somebody too composed to lose herself even now, as I struggle to hold onto the strength I need to keep tracing her soft features rather than embrace her with all my strength and cry like Hughes did in Gracia’s arms.   “I love you,” I breathe out as soon as her lips pull back.   “I know,” she murmurs as she lets go of my hands to cradle my own cheeks, holding me as if forcing me to make eye contact with the only woman whose eyes I ever wanted to lose myself in.   That… That is an impossible dream. Another thing I lost along the way.   But this is what’s in front of me. Reality, rather than a dream.   And so, I’ll take it.   Her.   She makes a muffled noise of surprise when I drag her back down, and I push my tongue past her lips, stupidly letting my need for her overpower all the other warring emotions of the moment until she softly moans against me, her breasts moving over my chest with a softness I couldn’t have imagined.   I have dreamed about this, in guilty moments of solitude. About a day when I could tell the woman I trusted my life to what it is that I feel for her. I always imagined fiery passion overcoming the last of my restraint, a whirlwind of sweaty bodies entangled as we both gave in to those same urges we felt at least once, years ago, almost a decade ago.   I would push up her miniskirt, her toned thighs wrapped around my hips, my pants by my ankles, and we would stare into each other’s eyes all through our lovemaking on top of a desk with paperwork victoriously fluttering down to the carpeted floor of my office. I would take her until we were both spent, lying in sweat and exhaustion on that very same carpet, still looking into her eyes as incredulous smiles overtook us.   I would… I would have done a lot of things when I finally gave in to the inevitable and confessed to Riza Hawkeye that she’s the only one. That she’ll always be.   But, rather than those things, I pull her away from me.   “I love you,” I say once again.   She doesn’t answer.   “Riza…”   Two fingers calloused by extensive gun practice rest on my lips.   “I know. Everyone knows. You never did a good job of hiding it,” she says with that soft, tender, kind tone that’s only for quiet places when nobody can overhear her.   The tone that’s for family. For what she defines as family.   “I’ve… I tried. I tried not to let it show. To keep you safe. And then you ended up taken as a hostage, and—that’s the last time I saw you, with your neck bleeding, with—” The fingers silence me yet again.   And I can’t help but kiss them.   “Roy… I stayed, didn’t I? It’s… I believe in you. I believe that you’ll make this country into one where another Ishval will never happen. I believe that you… I…”   She tells me many things. Things that would be enough to make my heart soar.   But she doesn’t say what I want her to say.   “Don’t force yourself,” I finally tell her, as kindly as I can. “It’s… I am not what… You don’t have to stay by my side. To pity me—”   And she, yet again, slaps me.   Only, this time, she doesn’t use a book.   There’s a trembling arm buried into my pillow, the shaking of Riza’s body on top of mine telling me of more frustration than I’ve ever seen in her.   “Don’t. Don’t you ever insult yourself,” she says.   “Most people consider slaps to be quite insulting,” I can’t help but retort.   She doesn’t answer.   She, instead, leans back and pulls my shirt up to my neck, her hands resting on my left side, where Lust stabbed me and left me to die, over the puckered, molten flesh I cauterized with horribly inadequate knowledge of proper medical procedure.   Over my scars.   At least some of them.   “We match,” she whispers.   And then, slowly, cruelly, she moves over me, the sound of rustling clothing insinuating something incongruous that I can’t believe until she takes my hands off her face so she can take her shirt off.   And then she guides those same hands to her scars.   “But yours are worse,” she says as I can’t help but run my hands over her back, feeling the taut, wonderfully trained muscle shifting under my touch, her breath hitching when I reach the lines of scarred skin that ruin the array that contained more about flame alchemy than anyone will ever know, her father’s prodigious mind having condensed untold mysteries into the elaborate image, things that not even I could guess at and that I refused to think about after Riza asked me to erase it from the world.   “That book, Rappaccini’s…” she starts to say, breathless, as I trace the sides of her spine, unable to stop myself from exploring what she offers me.   “Yes?” I answer with a distant faraway tone as my traitorous mind recreates the bare back I saw years ago, before all the training and discipline she subjected herself to, the memory of soft, slender curves now clashing with the power barely restrained in her frame.   “It’s not about us,” she insists. “And… And, even if it was, what mattered wasn’t the father. That just… that was tragedy. Fate. But what mattered is that they loved one another.”   I silently caress her, drawing another bare back in my mind with every stroke of my fingers, learning how the bubbling skin of so long ago turned into thin, barely raised lines now. Things that I may not have guessed at through touch alone in some places if I didn’t have the vivid memory of how the scars came to be to guide my inner eye.   “They did,” I finally say, remembering the two tragic lovers. And then… “Do we?”   My question is…   Sad. Hopeful. Lonely.   Fundamentally broken.   Because that question is Roy Mustang offering himself, and that’s all that Roy Mustang is.   “Yes,” she breathes out. “But…”   I wait for the words that follow with a strange calm. It’s, in a way, the calm of a fight. Of knowing you’ve done all that you could. That there’s nothing else but waiting for a result that is no longer in your hands.   She leans back down, her bare breasts on my chest, the two globes flattening as she puts more of her weight on me, her hips sliding down, reaching below my waist, and her lips hovering above mine.   And my calm breaks.   “But?” I finally ask, unable to stop the pleading syllable from coming out.   “But… I will spend my whole life with you. That has been the plan for years. We both know that,” she says.   “Aunt Chris certainly thinks so,” I say, the humor as much a reflex as the hug with which I receive her words.   She chuckles, her cheek brushing past mine as she breathes hot air into our now shared pillow.   “But what if we don’t last? Roy, what if… if we can love one another and not be in love?”   My hug tightens.   “Is there another man—”   “I will punch you.”   “Then—”   “It’s not about that. I… This is… I’ve never… This is new. As much as I know you, I don’t know this part of you. And… And you don’t know this part of me.”   My right hand trawls up her spine, slowly and languorously, like some of Aunt Chris’ girls told me to do when I finally had a blonde woman in bed. Because let it never be said that growing up in a bordello didn’t come with its own share of awkwardness.   And then, like some other girls said, I bury my hand in the long hair growing out of Riza’s nape and tug her head back and away from our pillow.   Over me.   “Then I’ll learn,” I say, my voice no longer gentle, sad, or faraway. “I will make you my subject of study, Riza Hawkeye. I’ll know everything there’s to know about you and won’t stop until I know you better than you know yourself. Until I can make you—”   She giggles.   I, quite possibly, blush.   “Until you can make me squirm with a word and a touch? Is that how that speech was meant to go?” she says with an irksome tone that she usually employs to poke fun at people who may have some issues performing under variable weather conditions.   But two can play at this game.   I hope.   “Oh? Did Auntie’s girls tell you all about my plans?” I say with a suggestive eyebrow waggle that almost got me thrown out of the opera once.   I’m glad I practiced it because Riza’s splutter may be the most melodious sound I’ve heard today.   “Plans?” she asks, more bewildered than scandalized.   I think.   “Years of chastity devoted to you while I regularly visited a bordello? What do you think I was doing, Lieutenant, if not preparing for a long-term campaign of conquest?”   “What are you—how would you even prepare for—”   Her words are sadly interrupted by a throaty moan.   Her own.   Because, as it turns out, grabbing her nape is a very good way to know precisely where the side of her neck is, and thus how to quickly reach with my lips a spot that I’ve been told again and again makes a woman’s toes curl nine times out of ten.   And, yes, every woman is different, but those are much better odds than some I’ve had to march under, so I’ll take them.   I’ll take the odds, and I’ll take Riza.   “That’s… You… You have practiced,” she says with an accusing tone that I should find bewildering coming from a woman who’s not my wife, fiancée, or even girlfriend.   But she’s Riza.   And so I take my lips off the wet patch of skin to murmur into her ear:   “Never. Never with another. But I did imagine this more times than I can remember.”   Then, because I know her, I kiss her lips before she can say something caustic about my masturbatory habits.   And this time, I don’t stop at thrusting my tongue past her lips.   No, I… I coax hers into joining me, into spiraling around one another as I can no longer resist, and the hand still on her back drops lower, sliding into her pants and underwear to grab the ass that our bulky uniforms rarely allow me the chance to properly appreciate, and her tendency to wear long skirts when in civilian garb doesn’t ameliorate that sad state of affairs in the slightest.   So, as I knead marvelously toned flesh, my fingers sinking into the thin layer of softness before reaching the firm muscle, I reaffirm my unshakeable belief that a world with mandatory miniskirts is a world worth fighting for.   “I can hear the gloating,” she says, almost breathless, still over me.   “I am a man reaching for his dreams. A modicum of gloating is warranted.”   “Your dreams? Your plans? You may have devoted too many mental resources to this, Colonel.”   “No,” I say, interrupting myself to reach up with a peck that aimed for her lips and ended up on the side of her chin. “There’s never ‘too much’ when it comes to you.”   Riza is the one to aim the next kiss.   It lands.   And her tongue goes faster around mine, eager, exploring my mouth and tasting every toe-curling crevice as if I was the helpless maiden about to be forcefully taken by a brute too prone to literally sweep me off my feet at the slightest sign of rain.   “You planned this,” she says with something in her tone that makes me reflexively clench my fingers around both her hair and behind. “You discussed what words to say with courtesans just to… just to…”   I tug her hair back and close my teeth around her throat, running my tongue up and down the trembling cartilage as she whimpers and slowly rubs her hips on top of the increasingly hard tent I can’t help but offer her.   “I did. Of course I prepared for every eventuality. Because I wanted to make this perfect for you.”   “And your plans included making me blindingly mad at you?” she says in a way that makes the blonde woman inside my head bite her lip in frustration and something else.   “No. But you’re the one thing I could never plan around, Riza,” I say in a way that makes the woman on top of me pull my head away from her neck and kiss me, rougher and harder than ever.   “Me. You couldn’t plan around me,” she bites out between aggressive shows of what I dearly hope is affection.   “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, adding a pinch to her behind for good measure.   Good measure of what, I’m unclear of. I’m playing this by ear, after all.   Heh. I guess learning sheet music is now out of the question.   “You… Stop that.”   “Stop what?”   “Stop playing me.”   I do my best to face her, to look straight at her, and she gets the message because her hands are once more on my cheeks, subtly angling me so that I at least feel the imagined connection.   “I’m not playing you. I’m making love to you,” I say.   And then there’s a tongue doing its very best to go down my throat.   A fact that I’m far from unappreciative of, to be sure, but I could’ve done with some warning to take in a bit of much-needed air beforehand.   Riza slithers up and down against me, her sex warm and wet enough that I can feel it through both our clothing until she, still kissing me, lets go of my head to pull my pants down, our hips erratically moving as we both try not to lose the contact between us and give us enough room for her to undress me, the conflicting goals doing nothing at all to make our horizontal movements anything but desperate and yearning.   And then, somehow, she manages to pull both my pants and boxers down to the middle of my thighs, past my hard shaft, and she roughly grasps me at my base, her grip just a bit too strong, her tugs along me more uncomfortable than pleasurable as we both keep moving until we end up on our sides, my left arm trapped under her body as I keep massaging her spectacular behind.   I don’t stop kissing her, not even as our unoccupied hands do their best to free her of the scourge of clothing still impeding what’s about to happen, the pants coming off easier than the elastic panties clinging to her flesh and the back of my wrist until I pull her flush to me, her bare breasts once more pressed against my chest as my hand slides lower, along wet, warm clothing, and I touch the damp lips of Lieutenant Hawkeye’s pussy.   She pulls back from the kiss that was already making me lightheaded and bites back something that makes my chest clench, that makes me gasp at the idea of Riza being disheveled at my touch. At her losing control because of how good I’m making her feel.   And so I climb down her body.   I keep contact with my lips. Along her jawline, down her neck, following her clavicle until the sharp hollow over her breastbone that I trace circles over with my tongue before kissing down the slope of her left breast, the soft flesh pressing up against me with every sharp inhale caused by both my lips and the middle finger carefully tracing along the line between her damp lips.   I pause when, out of luck more than anything else, I reach her hard nipple waiting for me, and then her clawed hand is on the back of my head, pressing me against her as I kiss, suckle, and trace circles with my tongue that make the opening down below repeatedly clench against the pad of my finger.   “Roy…” she murmurs as she remembers to keep stroking me, her hand’s motion along my shaft for once not the living exemplar of grace and determination she always is. “Roy…”   “Riza,” I say with all the heat I tried not to show before I dive back down against her breast, and my finger finally slides inside of her.   She gasps, the fingers on the back of my head clutching me tighter, her palm pressing against my tip until she circles it, dragging every bit of lubrication along with her touch, bathing my whole cock with it as her caresses become smoother and my self-control dwindles.   I nip at her nipple before swallowing her whole areola when she lets out a whimper that makes me prouder than any of my achievements, and she lets go of both my head and shaft.   Then firm palms push back on my chest, laying me on my back yet again as the mattress shifts around me.   And, when she straddles me, it’s her bare sex against the underside of my shaft that takes my words away.   “Are you… Are you sure? We could wait. Until you’re better. Make it… Your plans…” she says, her composed tone turning into babbling halfway through as her hips minutely shift up and down along my erect shaft, broadening her swaying motion until I can feel a slight bump at the top of her lips press against my frenulum right before Riza shudders and her hands on my chest press down that much harder.   “My only plan was for this to make you feel good enough that you won’t realize just how stupid it will be to keep making the same mistake with me until the day we die,” I say.   Riza slows down, her hips angling forward until they press my cock right against my belly as she lowers herself so that thin strands of her golden hair brush along my own, sadly unkissed, clavicle.   “I want to make every single mistake I can with you, Roy,” she says, her tone melodiously warbling.   And I…   “Except cheating,” I quickly clarify.   “I will shoot you. On your knees. So that you won’t be able to run away from what comes next.”   “You’re the one who wants to make mistakes; I was talking about you cheating.”   “… I am very close to arguing that not cheating on you would be a mistake.”   “Oh. Then, please, keep on being mistaken.”   She tries to groan and ends up laughing.   Which is all the opening I need to—despite my weakness, despite the stitches, despite every reasonable reason to avoid any strain—push Riza out of balance and flip us over on this bed that should be much wider if we’re going to keep moving this way on top of it.   “What—” she starts to say.   And then, I guess, she looks at me.   “It’s our first time. And I always dreamed about taking you,” I say as I lower myself between her open legs, fumbling for a moment before her hand grabs my shaft, much gentler than earlier, and she guides me toward her wet, warm opening.   “Are you… Roy, we can wait,” she says, her fingers gliding up and down my shaft, her voice making me imagine wide-open brown eyes looking up at me, maybe a few strands from her wild, sharp fringe reaching down past eyebrows softened by care and tenderness.   And I push.   We both hiss at once as her lips part around me, my tip easily finding the opening I just teased with my middle finger and stretching her wider until almost my entire glans is inside of her.   She trembles. Under and around me.   And I wish, more than anything else, that I could see her face right now, that I could watch the shape of her lips, meet her eyes—   She takes my right hand and slowly, gently, pulls it to her face.   And Riza Hawkeye waits under me as I slowly trace her. As I feel a gentle smile interspersed by soft, brief kisses on my trailing fingers on her lips. As I follow her jawline and briefly detour down the left side of her neck and then up and around a round ear that I always meant to nibble on.   She isn’t wearing her earrings.   I could ask why. If she always takes them off at night. If she wanted me to—   I don’t.   I, instead, move along her smooth, relaxed forehead with no creases whatsoever before dipping down along the upright angle of her nose, making her giggle at my study of her.   Then… Then I go around her eyes, and she stops breathing as I caress her closed lids.   As I find moisture at their corners.   “Did… Does it hurt?” I ask, horrified at the thought of—   “Don’t be stupid. That particular issue stopped being there years ago,” she says, the tone gentler than the words.   “I thought you hadn’t—”   “Roy… Masturbation exists.”   “Ah,” I say.   And then I just… wait, as if I was looking at her while I do the closest thing I now can do, my fingers on her face bringing up scattered memories that coalesce into Riza being as stunning as she’s always been when it was the two of us alone at night.   “It’s just… That I’m happy,” she murmurs, as if ashamed.   So I lean down and kiss her tears.   She giggles once again as I taste the salt on my tongue, but then her arms wrap around my back, her hands going under my raised shirt, her fingers finding all the crevices between muscles that will never amount to anything in front of the likes of Amstrong but that are more than enough for me to go against literal monsters.   And, going by how attentively Riza caresses them, they may also be good enough for something else that I, at the moment, value quite a bit more.   So I push.   Her nails briefly dig into my skin, and her teeth close around my shoulder as her legs wrap around me, and she trembles a single time while I do my best to hold steady and not lose myself in the feelings of her yielding body and the sheer euphoria at making her, of all people, lose control.   “Tell me when you’re used to it,” I say with a calm I most definitely don’t feel before I turn aside and kiss her hair softly and repeatedly, my arms refusing to hold myself up so that I have to adjust myself, my chest once more pressed against Riza’s breasts, her damp, pointed nipple making me bite my lower lip with something dark and warm that slowly pulses up my spine.   She lets go of her soft bite and kisses my wet shirt before nodding against me, her fringe brushing over the cloth and making me angry at it for stealing this much of her from me.   So I slowly pull back until I’m almost entirely out of her body and try to lift my arms before Riza gets the message and she hurries to take off my pajama top.   Then her hands trace up the front of my body, each line of my abdominal muscles devotedly caressed by inquisitive fingers that only detour at the scar by my side, making me hold my breath before she goes back and caresses a chest that is straining at holding myself over her, seeing as days of bedrest and life-threatening blood loss mean I’m nowhere as strong as I look.   As I should be.   “The next time you start doing pushups in the office, I’ll be remembering this,” she mutters.   “I… rarely have time to go to the gym,” I say as she caresses down my unsteady arms.   “Really? Showing off your tight, black shirt wasn’t part of your elaborate masterplan?”   “I wish I was clever enough to realize that was an option.”   “I do have a libido, Colonel.”   “So, you aren’t going to make fun of me for my many, many elaborate masturbatory fantasies about you?”   “I never said I wasn’t a hypocrite.”   I laugh. We laugh.   And then I push.   As far as I went the last time, and a bit farther, Riza’s laughter abruptly cut off as she gasps right before her legs close around me, and she bites my shoulder yet again without the damn shirt doing anything to shield me from teeth that I don’t want to be shielded from.   “I love you,” I whisper in her ear, or as close as I can guess.   She answers something muffled, and I pull back just enough to trick her into relaxing before I push forward yet again.   “Ah!” Her surprised moan washes over my wet bite mark, and I turn my head around to clumsily kiss all over her cheek until she turns toward me, and our lips and tongues meet, the languid passion of the start quickly growing into something else. Something that flame alchemy could never compete with.   Her ankles hook behind my lower back, and she pulls.   And then, suddenly, I’m fully inside Riza Hawkeye, her tongue and legs going limp around me until only my sucking on her keeps her tongue inside my mouth, and her legs slide down the side of my body to slowly fall down on the mattress below.   And, going by the sound of things, her right leg then decides that the bed is not wide enough to fully contain her exhaustion and flops down to the tiled floor.   “Riza?” I ask, doing my best to hold back the urge to just spend all the remaining strength in my body and race inside of her.   “Not… a… word…” she answers with worrying tiredness.   “Are you… all right?” I ask, just with worry.   “Shut. Up.”   “If you want me to stop—”   “I just came,” she says. Embarrassed.   I… blink at her. Or in her general direction.   “Excuse me, you what?” I say, about as composed as I am whenever I get one of the Fullmetal’s reports.   “Your stupid plan. Worked. Be happy,” she mumbles.   Sullenly.   And, really, it takes a titanic effort not to smugly smirk at her confession. Holding back the spread of mirth and sheer superiority over my fellow men is not something mere mortals can do.   Going by the sharp tug on my ear, I may still be a mere mortal.   “I’ve been waiting for this for years. Sue me,” she says.   “I don’t think that’s how marriage works, but I’ll consult a lawyer,” I courteously reply.   She, for some reason known only to blonds who frequent my company, groans.   “You’re going to be insufferable. I can see it, each and every time you get me naked, lording over me how easily you can make me… you know.”   “Riza?”   “Yes?”   “Each and every time I get you naked? I’ll be too busy doing this,” I say.   And then I do proceed to expend all the remaining energy in my body.   I move as fast as I can, pulling out of her until only the head of my cock remains inside her snug folds before diving right back in, using just my hips to pound against her spread, accepting thighs as she buries her fingers on my hair and pushes me to her neck, my lips pulling at soft skin as she moans and calls my name in forcefully hushed volume.   It can’t last. I can’t last.   And then, as I feel my muscles burn, as I slow minutely in my pace, the hands on my hair go to my back, and, for the second time tonight, Riza Hawkeye bodily throws me on my bed.   The mattress protests her violence, but I don’t. Mostly because of the tongue shoved yet again down my throat as she bounces on top of me, her hips as forceful as mine, taking from me what I was trying to give her as she presses her breasts against my chest harder, rubbing me up and down, her pointed nipples tracing lines of fire on me.   “Love you,” she breathes out, sharp gasps of air punctuating the beginning and ending of the breathtaking line.   “Love you,” I answer, my mind too full of her to come up with anything else as I finally remember that I do have hands and that one of them could go back to groping her fantastic behind, to maybe lend a bit of my meager strength to her enthusiastic movements as the other…   The other reaches up.   It takes some effort to push it between the two of us, to finally hold one of those marvelous breasts that distractingly jiggle whenever she takes her jacket off for target practice. Breasts that I only saw bare once in my life but that I’ll never forget.   My fingers sink into them just as my thumb and forefinger find her nipple.   And Riza moans.   Full-throated, with no way to muffle the sound at all, the echo of it reverberating across our empty hospital room at night.   And so I find my missing strength and thrust back against her falling hips, the meeting of our flesh growing louder and louder as she throws all discretion aside and her voice drowns my grunts of effort and overwhelming pleasure.   It can’t last. I can’t last.   So, when she throws her head back, when I have to reach up to follow her breast as she straightens up and bounces right over me, her movements both faster and shorter, when her sex clenches wildly around me until, suddenly, she drops on top of me and stops moving except for shivering discharges of sheer sensation…   I am relieved.   And then I fill my woman up.   I grab her ass even tighter as I hold her down against me, as I thrust and shoot stream after unending stream of pent-up lust, desire, and everything else that I’ve been saving for her for years. I come and keep coming until a distant part of my mind wonders if this is how I’ll die and decides that, if that’s the case, it’ll be more than worth it.   And then she whispers a single, dreamy, “Roy,” and my mind goes blank.   When I come back to my senses, I’m drenched with sweat that is both mine and hers, and she’s lying half on top of me, a single, toned thigh crossing over both my legs, her head tucked beneath my chin, and her palm lying flat over my heart.   “Are you asleep?” I gently whisper like she did right before I did my very best to mess things up.   “No,” she immediately answers.   So I hug her as hard as I can.   “I love you,” I repeat.   “I know,” she says yet again, without moving at all, the warmth of her palm anchoring me to this moment. To her.   “I have loved you for years,” I clarify.   “I know,” she tells me with a barely audible tone.   “I couldn’t tell you. Not with… With everything I still had to do.”   Another silence. One that I don’t know how to fill.   “You’ve saved the world, Roy Mustang. You don’t need to redeem yourself anymore,” she tells me, gentle as only she can be with the likes of me.   “Is that how it works?”   “Isn’t it?”   And I…   I don’t even think about it. About the answer. Because if I think, I may lie.   To her, or to me.   And love shouldn’t be about lies.   “It isn’t. It can’t be. It’s not… It’s not about numbers. Kill a man and save another? You’re still a murderer, even if you’re also a savior.”   “Then… Then why? Why all this work, all these years—”   “Because if you’re a murderer who refuses to be a savior, that’s even worse.”   She shifts on top of me, and I regret the loss of warmth and contact until she straddles me, one hand on each side of my head, her fringe brushing over my forehead.   “I won’t allow anyone to hurt you,” she says, finally saying out loud what she’s been acting on for years. “Not even yourself.”   “Riza…”   “No. No, I won’t let you. I… I was there. I saw what that place did to you. I saw all the things you did, all the ways in which you burned yourself. I saw the man who made our soldiers feel safe.”   “I won’t accept that. They would’ve been safer if the damn war hadn’t happened—”   “And that’s what you are going to do. That’s what all these years have been for. What you’ll reach.”   “I’m a blind man, Riza; I can’t be Fuhrer.”   She leans forward until it’s her warm skin that presses against my forehead, and her breath washes over my lips.   “Let them try to stop us,” she says.   And then she kisses me, as intensely and passionately as when she shoved her tongue down my throat, but slower. Methodical. Letting me know how much she owns me. How much she’s tied herself to me and me to her.   “Riza…” I could tell her a lot of things. About her. About us.   About me.   But is there a single one she doesn’t already know?   “I let you,” she says. “I let you shoulder the guilt of my scars. I let you keep blaming yourself for Ishval because it felt obscene to take that away from you. So I won’t. I won’t take it, Roy… But I’ll share it.”   And so Hawkeye gently rests on top of me and tells me of what she did. Of the men she killed and the ones she saw dying. Of what a true sniper does, not taking the kill shot as soon as it presents itself, but maiming with a single bullet and lying in wait for whoever will come to help the wounded, trusting that people will care enough for their friends to risk their lives to save them.   She tells me of every little vile thing that still haunts her. Every order followed, and every petty moment of cruelty and revenge that she took on her own after she saw one of her own partners taken.   She tells me about how the moniker ‘The Hawk’s Eye’ spread across the battlefield, a blessing to our side and a curse to our fellow countrymen who happened to be on the other side.   She tells me about going through bombed-out buildings and mercy-killing survivors with no hope of treatment.   She tells me of the horrors she saw and those she performed.   And then she cries.   In my arms, Riza, invincible, stoic Riza, cries and shakes until her throat goes hoarse.   And then…   Then it’s my turn.   It’s my turn to speak with a shuddering voice. To remember faces that I will never forget and all the ones that I did. All the shapeless ghosts that haunt me in the numbers of a report, the ones I murdered when I had already been too exhausted and drained to care to watch and remember.   Everything that went down after I criticized Riza for her hypocrisy in preferring guns. After I became… hollow. Too hollow to walk without an order to do so.   But they were there. Riza and Hughes. My best friend and the woman who would always be by my side.   They… They helped me feel again. Helped me build back up the persona I would wear as I planned to overthrow my government.   And with feelings came nightmares, and memories, and obsessively poring over yellowed reports in manila folders to try and find out a number. A damn number.   Just… Just how many? How many did I kill with a snap of my fingers?   All of it just so I can confess my most shameful sin. That I don’t know. That I can’t know.   That nobody knows.   And then, under sweaty sheets, in the arms of my lover, I cry.   And she keeps kissing the tears away.   ***   It’s almost morning.   The air is cool, and birds are chirping, but there are no sunrays coming through my window, so the night isn’t quite over, though I imagine this is when the horizon starts shifting from black to gray in that uncomfortable light I never quite liked witnessing after a long night stuck in the office with the best, most demanding company I could ever dream of.   “Are you asleep?” I whisper.   “I haven’t slept at all,” she answers with a dry throat that makes me think about a carefully positioned pitcher of water by my bedside.   “That’s a lie. I heard you snore a few times,” I say after careful consideration tells me that I am too tired to unwrap my arms from around her and serve her a glass of water.   Yes. Too tired.   That’s definitely the only reason.   “I do not snore,” she weakly protests.   “You do. It’s the cutest thing. You always furrow your nose as if surprised and displeased by the soft sound.”   “I am not cute. I am a dignified woman of poise and culture. If I snored, it would be elegant.”   “You can be cute and elegant… Though your snoring is only the former.”   “Shut up.”   “Make me.”   And she kisses me.   It’s… rough. Clumsy. We’re both exhausted, emotionally and physically, and our lips are dry.   But she kisses me. Riza kisses me.   And… And that’s enough. Not to forget about the horrors we just shared, but to remind me that we shared them, that…   That Hughes found something in Gracia’s arms that I can finally understand.   So I hold her closer and keep our kiss going, our dancing tongues slowly softening our lips as we move on top of a too-narrow bed until suddenly, I’m on top of her, and her legs are around me, and I’m hard.   “Are you…? Really?” she asks.   “You have only yourself to blame?”   “Oh, I most definitely can think of somebody else to blame for this,” she says, slightly wiggling her hips against the ‘this’ in question and, I think unintendedly, letting me know that there’s enough warm dampness between her legs that it’s clear I’m not the only one affected by our morning kiss.   Still, I’ve got a reputation to maintain.   “My dearest Hawkeye, are you insinuating at all that the nurse that gives me such thorough sponge baths—”   “I’ll train Black Hayate to bite your ankle every time you smell like another woman. You know I will.”   “This is domestic violence, and I won’t stand for such abuse.”   “No. You won’t stand. Because of your bitten ankles.”   A snort of laughter catches me unaware.   She soon joins me.   And, as I find her open, joyous, and vulnerable below me…   I push my cock inside of her.   She gasps yet again, the laughter cut off before it returns with a few slaps against my chest to punctuate it even as her legs close around my hips and the Riza in my mind smiles up at me.   Then, as I pull out to slowly make love to her with what little strength remains in my body after a sleepless night…   Somebody kicks the door open.   “All right, you mopey bastard! You lost your eyes, so what?! My brother lost his whole body, and you don’t see us complai… ning… Wha—oh. Oh God. Oh, no, please no, why?! Why would you?! This is—I’m going to throw up. I’m going to throw up, and then I’m going to gouge out my eyes! Is that what you wanted, to have another blind guy join the reading club?!”   For a brief moment, Riza and I freeze.   Then a sheet that definitely needs to be changed flies over me, a woman shrieks below me, and a boisterous boy with a height complex and daddy issues makes the kind of worrying noises that will have a janitor with a mop rush here in moments.   Then, because I’m a composed, dare I say brilliant, military officer with tempered nerves, I slap my hands together, go through a whole cycle of composition and decomposition inside my mind, and slam those hands by the side of my bed to raise a wall of stone that will adequately serve as a privacy screen around my side of the room.   Just to realize that I’m a blind man leaning too far down his bed while still inside a woman with her legs wrapped around me, and so we both tumble to the floor, the recently recovered sheet tangling around us.   Tangling quite tightly.   I… blink in Riza’s general direction.   “I don’t think I can get out of this without your help,” I say.   “Just… Just move. Slowly,” she says in a way that implies gritted teeth as her hips twist on top of me.   I try to do just that. To shift on our sides and hold her steady as I pull back.   She groans.   I don’t, but only because I’m biting my lip hard enough that it’s a wonder I don’t bleed.   “You know…” I start to say as we both keep trying to get my cock at least more than halfway out of her body.   “I most certainly don’t,” she grunts as her sex clenches around me.   “It occurs to me that we’re currently surrounded by an impenetrable wall that only I can bring down,” I say.   And then, rather than keep trying to pull out, I grasp her behind and push.   Riza shudders, her chest shaking against me.   “What are you doing?” she says with a tone that quite distinctly implies lidded eyes.   “Making love to you,” I answer with much the same tone.   And that’s precisely what I do until, moments later, with the distinct crackle of alchemic lightning, the wall around our bed crumbles, and Alphonse Elric joins his brother’s anguished cries.   ======================== ======================== This is one of the things that has been on my Patreon poll for ages, since the very start, I think. It didn’t win. But, well, I owed quite a few words to Xalgeon, and she was generous enough to let me talk her into converting them into this, so, here it is, my love letter to Full Metal Alchemist and Roy and Riza in particular. I’m still baffled that they were canonically not fucking one another silly throughout the series, but, well, that just means I had to work on that myself. As usual, this was seen two weeks ago by my subscribers. Join them, and you too can be constantly exposed to overly sappy romance with a dash of snark! [font="Calibri",]As always, I’d like to thank my credited supporters on [/font]Patreon[font="Calibri",]: [/font]aj0413, LearningDiscord[font="Calibri",], Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon.[/font] [font="Calibri",]If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on [/font][font="Calibri",]Amazon[/font][font="Calibri",]. Thank you for reading![/font]  

Chapter 2 - All right! Fine! I’ll take you! – Chapter 2

It is an obvious yet easily overlooked fact that words that describe essentially the same concept apply almost exclusively to a select class of people and never the other. If a homeless man starts walking around the neighborhood talking about how the voices of the spirits are responsible for his unemployment, he is a “nutcase,” but if the very same man was an actual millionaire speaking about how his corporally-challenged friends gave him tips to get rich on the stock market, people would pay for the privilege of listening to his rambles and speak in awe about this “eccentric” genius. Much in the same vein, if a traumatized, billionaire bodybuilder decides to spend his rainy days posing on top of an assortment of gargoyles he is “brooding,” but if an unpopular teenager lies on his bed and covers his eyes with his arm after being rejected by the first woman he kissed, he’s “moping or “sulking.”   Truly, the thesaurus is yet another weapon of oppression wielded by society. Rise up in arms, fellow illiterates, destroy the overly flowery Zaimokuzas of the world!   My phone message tone rings, and I jump up from my bed.   It is not Ms. Hiratsuka’s number. My shoulders slump.   May as well read it.   “Hey, Hikigaya, this is Haruno, Yukino’s sister. I am in front of your house, come down.”   I blink in confusion before a cold shiver runs down my spine. Maybe I can fake being already asleep—   My phone screeches its merciless death toll once again: “Stop fidgeting in front of your window and come here NOW.”   I throw my uniform jacket on and rush down the stairs while elevating a prayer to Zaimokuza, Patron Saint of Those Who Will Die Virgins, so that he can spare me his own fate, and open the door. She is there, her back resting against a lamppost, cheerfully waving at me.   “Hey, Hikigaya! Good to see you, come over here!”   It would be less threatening if she was waving a bloody knife. Deliver me from the Yuno Gasais of this world, Saint Zaimokuza.   In front of me stands Haruno Yukinoshita, a beautiful, intelligent, clever, perceptive woman, much like her younger sister if she had about ten robot pilots less insecurities and trauma and about five kuuderes worth of unfathomable depths, a ruthless disregard for societal norms, and a tendency to amuse herself by playing to, or against, the expectations of others. It’s like Yukino’s and my own child has come back from the post-apocalyptic future wearing a killer android flesh as a disguise. I know said future would be post-apocalyptic because that would explain how Yukino and I even managed to think of having a child together.   She’s also, for reasons none of them have ever explained to me, one of Shizuka’s friends.   Which means I am about to confront the sister of my “cathetus” and friend of my “this better remain quiet,” who is also known for playing mind games with me because I am just that amusing. No, I am not nervous.   Nervous is a long, fond memory at this time.   “So, are you going to keep ogling me, or are you going to come over and have a nice, friendly chat,” she asks in a way that is neither nice nor friendly. I mean, she is smiling, sure, but most fish have a genetic memory that screams at them to run away when they see this many teeth.   Which is definitive proof that I must be dumber than fishes, because I am now walking toward her, lazily waving my arm and mumbling a studiously informal “Sup.”   There’s a flash of amusement before the knifey smile makes a comeback. “Oh, you know, not much. I just went out for drinks with a few of my friends and you’d never guess who I ran into.”   “The sample size of our mutual acquaintances who can legally drink is not exactly that big,” I deflect, with a tone so flat I can feel the medical team rush in with crackling defibrillators.   “Right. So it wouldn’t be a guess, but a deduction with a high likelihood of being correct. So I am right: you would never guess,” she presses on, with what would be a smug tone if “smug” had a lethal setting.   I resist the urge to sigh and try to loosen my shoulders. “… What did she say?”   “Well, that about clinches it…” The question must show in my eyes, because she quickly clarifies. “She didn’t name you, Hikki, she still had her guard up, even after drinking… however much she drank before I found her. You know, it’s usually fun to rib her about her bastard exes while she goes on a drunk rant, but… Not today. Today wasn’t fun at all.”   “I don’t even know what I did—”   “Of course you don’t.”   We keep silently looking at each other, and I start getting angry rather than nervous. This is the genius of the Yukinoshita family, the idol that Yukino can’t help but tear herself down over because she won’t ever measure up to her. This is the woman who has made me feel like a heel after her whole “codependency” revelation because apparently I am hurting my friends when I help them. This is the woman I fear as much as an older version of myself. She knows me.   And so, I kind of know her in turn.   “There’s something you want me to say, something you want me to believe has come from a deep revelation about my issues while you have planted the seeds without my knowing. You want me to tell you these words at the end of this conversation and act on them starting tomorrow morning,” I say, acid dripping from every syllable.   She looks at me, really looks, her eyes glinting under the yellow light of the streetlamp. And her smile softens and she chuckles—right before she just starts guffawing, loud peals of laughter making me feel strange coming from this beautiful woman (damn you, hormones!), and she claps my shoulders with both hands, coming uncomfortably closer to me (not the time, hormones!).   “I always forget how hilarious you are, Hikki. It almost makes it up for all the bullshit you are pulling right now.”   “We could get to the end of this much sooner if you started talking straight.”   “Yes, we could, but faster is not always better. Maybe I should have taught you a bit before I let you have your shot at Yukino?” The meaning of the line flies right over my head till it decides to do a one-eighty and dive-bomb me from behind. I feel my cheeks redden, and Haruno’s chuckle doesn’t make it better.   “Much as I would have appreciated your… instruction…” I can’t believe I am saying this with a straight face. “I am not sure how Yukinoshita would have taken it.”   “Another chance to try and one up her dearest, older sister? You would have died a happy man, Hikigaya.”   The blush is about to become an aneurysm. “I feel like I should call an adult.”   “I am an adult.”   Police? Yes, I would like to report a crime in progress…   “Though I think Hiratsuka would be cross with me if I deprived her of the chance to teach you herself…”   A bitter taste fills my mouth. “I think her pedagogical calling has cooled in that regard.”   “You really can be stupid, for such a smart man.”   “You really can be cryptic, for such a duplicitous woman.”   “Oh, if only I was four years younger…”   “That would have made you a year younger than me.”   “And how would it make you feel to have me calling you ‘senpai?’” The otaku in me nearly chokes on his tongue at the line. The male adolescent starts coughing as she claps my back. “Well, that’s my answer, I guess.”   “Right, enough dancing around; what do you want, Yukinoshita?” I ask, with all the authority left in me while I wipe my coughed saliva with my sleeve and try not to have my cheeks spontaneously combust. It’s not much, admittedly.   “Tell me what you think happened. In exchange, I will tell you what I think happened.” Straightforward, and apparently fair enough. So it is obviously a trap, but I am far too tired to look for it.   “Shizu went on one of her rants about how she will die an old spinster, I kissed her in the heat of the moment, and she was apparently fine with the idea. Then we decided to go to a less public place. I went first, and she…” I remember a silhouette through ground glass, long dark hair waving as she turned around, the sound of hard soles clacking against the floor fading into the distance. “And she didn’t come.” I lie. Haruno knows it, but she doesn’t care to press me.   “I asked you what you think happened, Hikki, not to give me a list of events,” she says, not unkindly.   “That I got dumped.”   “Right. That’s what I thought.” Her hands are still on my shoulders, their weight anchoring me in the moment and not on what I was feeling in my room just twenty minutes ago. For that much, I am grateful. “You are wrong, of course.”   “There’s not much wiggle room, Yukinoshita.”   “They call you a ‘monster of logic,’ don’t they? Tell me, Hikigaya, what happens when, in the most perfect logical framework you can imagine, you introduce false assumptions?”   I pause, looking at her, at eyes so often mischievous, so often mercilessly cold. “What don’t I know?”   She smiles, looking at me, at eyes so often dead, inexpressive. Hers are warm, mine are wet. “She never rejected you.”   “She didn’t come.”   “She didn’t. So she didn’t confront you, didn’t tell you she didn’t want you, didn’t reject you. She fled, so she didn’t have to. Now, does ‘Shizu’ strike you as the kind of person who would deliberately hurt you just to avoid being embarrassed?”   She doesn’t. No, not Shizu—oh gods, I just called her Shizu out loud, this is mortifying—she… Ms. Hiratsuka always goes out of her way for the members of the Service Club. She shamelessly plays favorites with us, especially with me, going out of her way to include me, to give details of her life beyond the professional, to be there when I break down. She would never hurt me for something as petty as mere embarrassment, not when she has embarrassed herself plenty enough on my behalf and in front of me.   “You are starting to get it. Shizuka is not a monster of logic, Hikki, but she may very well be a monster of duty. She is a moral person, willing to always go above and beyond what is expected of her for others, always giving more than taking. So…” she trails off, expecting me to finish.   “So, once she calmed down she decided she shouldn’t… do anything with her student, even if that was what she wanted to, and precisely because she wanted to she avoided the temptation. And because it was a temptation and she felt guilty about it, she tried to drown her sorrows in cheap sake and too many salty snacks.” And I do.   “I see you know her well.”   “So do you. Did she ever tell you about something ‘genuine?’”   “… I am not going to answer that question,” she says, her eyes once again hardened. “But if you want something genuine, Hikki… What about my sister?”   “I—I promise I will do things right. I won’t hurt her.”   There’s a blur of motion, and suddenly my back is against the wall and Haruno’s breath is tickling my face. I don’t know what to—   “I am not going to kiss you, Hikigaya.”   Well, that just narrows it down to murder.   “I may hit you, though.”   Or maiming. I guess that’s also a possibility.   She shifts her hands, the way she is holding me, and only now do I realize how utterly incapable of escaping I am. I remember Yukino’s off-handed comment about her sister excelling at everything, including martial arts, and I am suddenly hoping this is a shounen and not a seinen. She presses nearer, the scent of lilacs overwhelming my senses and her breath scalding against my ear.   “You will hurt her. You will likely hurt her worse than anybody ever has, and that pain will be genuine. That pain will help her grow out of the stupid child she has so stubbornly refused to let go of. And you will hurt Shizuka, as you tear down her values and force her to confront them with her feelings, you will wound her, by showing her how irreconcilable they are. You will hurt them both, Hachiman, and that is the best you can do for them. I won’t accept any half-measures, I won’t accept any excuses, nor any compromises. You will be a man, and hurt the women you love, because only that will be ‘genuine.’”   I almost shiver at the end of her speech, and I don’t know whether it is in revulsion or something darker and softer.   “Now, Hachiman, be a man and promise me. Promise you will hurt my sister. Promise you will hurt my friend.”   I look at her, straight into her violet eyes, so harsh under this light, so unlike the frail, thin ice of Yukino’s blue. I lean forward, and whisper into her ear, “I swear I will do what I think is best for them. And if Yukino cries, there will be someone there to hold her.”   She rears back as if struck, and then starts laughing once again, but I think there’s actual mirth this time around. And she kisses me.   On my cheek.   “If only I had met you before her…” she teases, with a longing gaze that I am (almost) entirely sure is affected mocking.   “Then I wouldn’t have been me.”   “Maybe. But I think you would have always ended up being you.”   “And I think I should take offense to that.”   She giggles and finally lets me go, turning around and waving goodbye. I just stand there, in the middle of the street in front of my house, watching as she melts into the night, and I am left with this one looming question:   How am I ever going to fulfill that promise?   ***   As I enter the school the next morning, I have yet to find an answer to that question. Unfortunately, there are no walkthroughs posted about it, as it seems my life is still in beta trial and no one wants to leak spoilers. That explains all the bugs, really.   So, it is forgivable of me to forget to activate Stealth Hikki long enough for something to go wrong, that something in question being having a hostile agent intercept me before I can get to class and/or look for Shizuka.   “So, how come you didn’t stop by the Student Council yesterday, Senpai?” Iroha’s cheerful, sweet voice is so fake it’s actually banned by several Food and Drugs administrations, and her grip on my sleeve is currently being studied to hopefully improve next-generation bear-trap prototypes. The Strongest Junior honors her title as she gives me no reprieve.   “I think I need an adult.” This may become my new tagline.   “Senpai, are you insinuating you want to see me as an adult woman? That you need me to be so? That you so desperately want to see me blossom into adulthood that you can’t wait any longer for me to grow up before you get your hands on me? I am sorry to reject you, Senpai, but it is impossible for me to stop being your cute, youthful junior at the drop of a hat—all flowers need time to properly bloom. I hope we can still be friends.”   I should be used to this by now. I really should be.   “Now,” she continues, undeterred by our short-lived romance, “as a show of our enduring friendship, how about you tell me in exacting detail what was so important that you couldn’t drop by and hear about our plans for the prom?”   But I think the day I get used to Iroha being Iroha is the day… Zaimokuza comes up with a good simile?   Yes, let’s go with that.   ================== ================== This work is a repost of my second oldest fic on QQ, where it can be found up to date except for the latest two chapters that are currently only available on Patreon. Unless something drastic happens, it will be updated at a daily rate until it catches up to the currently written 81 chapters (or my brain is consumed by the overwhelming amounts of snark, whichever happens first).   Also, I’d like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving me a hand and help me keep writing snarky, maladjusted teenagers and their cake buffets, consider joining them or buying one of my books on Amazon. Thank you for reading!  

Chapter 3 - Yui’s Lily Garden – Chapter 3

All Right! Fine! I’ll Take You! – Yui’s Lily Garden – Chapter 3   Yukinon’s breath tickles.   It’s… It’s a silly thing to focus on when I have her this close, when she lies next to me, the heat of our bodies trapped beneath the sheets, her slightly cold feet touching mine, her closed eyes so peaceful, so restful just right beside me, her hand resting below my breasts and her breasts on my arm and—   Aaaaaahhhhh!   The breath! The tickling breath! Just think about that and not how (or why) she got into my futon in the middle of the night!   And no, I’m not dreaming. I know because it’s a stupid thing to even actually think and also because she’s still dressed—I mean, not still! Dressed! She’s dressed! And she’ll remain so!   Dressed in light, sky-blue pajamas that cling to her body, that I have seen her wear plenty of times, and she doesn’t wear a bra beneath them, and her breasts are on my arm, moving with every slow breath she takes, rubbing up and down as she keeps tickling me with the air that smells of her and I want to just turn around, and pinch her nose shut, then lean forward when she opens her mouth and—   Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh!   Unfair! She’s just unfair! I’m trying to hold back in here, and there’s absolutely no way I can keep just lying here, waiting for—   “… Good morning… Yui.”   She’s… She just opened her eyes drowsily, her eyelids still lazy and relaxed, her voice a slight murmur, and a slow smile softly blooming on—   Gah!   Right! A hug is all right! A hug should be all right, shouldn’t it?!   Screw it: I’ll make it all right.   I turn to my side and wrap Yukino in my arms, the left one forcefully sliding beneath her body until I can mash her against mine, her breasts flattening against a bra that I’m regretting wearing to bed.   “Good morning,” I say with a voice that I hope doesn’t come out as raspy and yearning as I feel it just did.   … Going by the way her cheeks tinge and her eyes lower, I’m going to guess my hopes were in vain.   “I… Is this… All right?” she asks. And my mind goes blank.   … Shut up, Hikky, that’s not my default state.   “What?” Brilliant answer, Yui. Engaging and amusing. Witty beyond measure.   Maybe I can get him to teach me how to banter? I feel like Yukinon may need some repartee (is that how it’s called?) from time to time.   “I… Getting in bed? With you? I didn’t overstep, did I?”   … Speaking of needs.   I lean forward and, wondering once again at the fact I’m now allowed to do so, I take Yukinon’s lips. It’s morning, and we still haven’t gotten out of bed, so I can feel the way our lips are still a bit rough, so I lean back just a bit and start coating hers with my saliva, licking her in circles as she lets out a shuddering breath that doesn’t tickle, but is just warm enough to make me close my eyes before I push forward and my tongue enters her mouth, taking hers, spiraling around it, and our bodies shift, and she’s now lying on her back, beneath me, as my body undulates over hers, each movement a surging wave of contact from our entangled legs to our bellies, our chests, and then I lower myself just a bit and it’s also the place between our legs that makes contact, and I can see sparks and—   Stop. Stop, or I won’t until we are both naked, and sweating, and Yukinon’s face is a mess as I make her scream my name again and again—   Gah!   I push myself up and look down at her, her eyes opening to search for mine, her lips open, a small expression of disorientation, of yearning—   “Stop that,” I whisper with something that’s more breath than words.   “I… Why would you?” And that tone, that tone just—just—   Unfair! I’m trying to be a patient, good girlfriend! I’m trying not to get a year of frustration out and not stop until I need to replenish lost fluids! This would be so much better than dieting—   “Because…” Wait, why would I? Ah, yes, because they both have managed to infect me with their self-sacrificing ploys for the greater good. Augh! “Because I want you so much I don’t know if I could stop if we went any further, and I love you too much to rush you into anything, and I know you, so I know you would just let me do whatever I wanted because you think you need to please me so I will stay around and that makes me mad because I have to second-guess everything just in case you are fooling yourself into going along with things and that’s just—”   She kisses me.   It’s short, barely more than a peck, her tongue coming out to lick along my lips just for a moment, but that moment is enough to leave me breathless as Yukinon finally takes the initiative and lets me know that she also wants me, that it’s not me pushing ahead, forcefully making her accept my—   “Thank you,” she says with a shy smile that makes my heart clench with the need to—   “I… For what?” Stop looking at her lips, stop looking at her lips, stop looking at her shiny, soft, enticing lips that—   Waking up like this can’t be good for my health.   …   I don’t care.   “For… For being you. For… caring.”   … On the one hand, this isn’t the time to be a horny, panicking bisexual. On the other, she’s just so unfair.   “I… How could I ever not care for you?” I manage to say rather than dive down and put my tongue to more pleasurable applications.   Her smile widens, and her eyes narrow in a merry way I have very rarely seen from her.   “That’s… Not something I can answer. Not something I want to answer. I’m… Yui, I just don’t know why or how, but…”   She looks lost, her eyes glued to my own as if looking for some kind of answer in them, as if I would know how she should continue this sentence that I so very dearly want to hear the end of.   I don’t. That’s not who I am.   If she wants someone that can guess what she’s thinking with just a glance, that always has the right words, even if they sound so wrong…   No. No, I can’t let myself think like this! He trusted me! He told me this was something only I could do, something I could do just by being myself, and…   And I still trust him.   Enough to answer his trust.   “I also don’t know, but… I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that? There’s plenty of stuff I don’t know, and people always make a big deal of complicating things, but look where that mess got us—if we could have just… accepted what we felt without having to think about it, if we just… were. Together. I… I think that would be just enough, don’t you, Yukinon?”   Her head tilts to the side as her mouth softens in wonder, and I’m suddenly feeling very embarrassed, not only because I just said that load of nonsense, but because I have a very pretty girl under me, and my breasts are hanging down, and they are big enough that they brush hers each time she breathes, and my arms are starting to get uncomfortable, so in a moment I will be asphyxiating my girlfriend with my cleavage, which sounds very nice and is something I’ve often fantasized about, but not like this—   “Stop thinking you are dumb. You are so much smarter than me, Yui…”   …   … What?   “What?”   What?!   “Yukinon, do you feel all right? Do you have a fever? Quick! How many fingers am I holding up?!”   “None. Your hands are on the futon.” Ah, there’s a hint of her dry tone in there. Thank the Heavens.   “Right. Right. Maybe it isn’t that serious. Do you want me to call Haruno—?”   “I take it back. I take it all back.”   “Phew. That’s such a relief…”   “It’s…” And now she looks to the side, a bit embarrassed, almost bashful. “It’s just that I think you are right, and that I would like to… just be. With you. For a while.”   Something snaps inside my head and, before I realize it, my arms are no longer straining as I lower myself so that my chest rests on hers and my face is right in front of her even as she keeps looking to the side.   “Do you mean it?” I ask after kissing her cheek and then kissing her again, but in another spot, closer to her ear.   “I… Don’t know what you think I just meant.” She squirms beneath me, and I feel her slender body, the elegant curves I’ve so often admired, the long legs I’ve so often imagined how they would feel as I trailed my fingertips up them until I reached between them, and kissed and licked, and drowned myself in her scent, in her moans, in her—   I don’t know when I started licking around her ear, but I’m now digging in her canal, and Yukinon is moaning just like I always thought she would, just like I dreamed I could make her moan as I massaged my breasts, pinched my nipples, plunged my fingers—   Gah!   Right. Talking. That’s a thing.   A thing I can do while she keeps being just as entrancing as I always thought she would be if I ever managed to… This is hard. Being a sensitive, caring girlfriend that doesn’t rush her lover into things she may not be ready for is hard.   As hard as Hikky would be if I ever told him what I am doing—nope. Not going there.   I mean, I’m sure Yukinon would laugh at it if I took a picture of the face he would make, but she may also die of embarrassment or turn it into a double suicide, so…   Ah. And it is unhealthy. Right. That’s also something I should care about.   So. Talking.   With my girlfriend, not with any other person I want to either make jealous or turn on.   Repressing a frustrated sigh, I lean back and look at her.   At the way her cheek, neck, and ear glisten with my saliva.   And then I force myself to stop looking before I lose control once again.   “I… I was being dumb. You said you just wanted to be with me for a while, and I thought... I thought I could make you feel good, so good the rest of the world fell away, and you forgot everything but me making you feel good and… Dumb. Dumb, horny thoughts. I’m used to them.”   Yukinon keeps breathing heavily and looking to the side, her wide eyes not seeing me, but whatever it is that she’s staring at as if trying to anchor herself in the room.   “I… Can you?” she asks with a voice so small I wouldn’t understand her if I was even a bit farther away.   “Can I… what?” Is she asking me this? Should she be asking me this?   “Can you really… make me forget everything but you and I exist?”   She still isn’t looking at me, but the way her tongue darts out to wet her lips before she bites them…   “I… think I can. I think I can kiss you, and touch you, and lick you till your head goes as blank as mine does when I think of you and rub my—ah! Sorry! TMI!”   And now she looks at me.   Her eyes…   She’s so beautiful.   “You really… touch yourself? Thinking about me?”   I think I’m blushing. Either that, or someone just set my face on fire.   The second option may mean that my suffering will be cut short, so it sounds better than it should…   I nod.   The burning intensifies.   I wasn’t on fire! Why wasn’t I on fire?!   “Really?” she asks with a touch of incredulity.   … Is this what Hikky enjoys so much? This crushing sense of shame and embarrassment? Is this what does it for him?   “Really…” I manage to mutter. And then… Oh, no. That’s a really bad idea. Don’t ask! Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ask— “And you?”   Why did I ask?!   She hesitates, a bit of my blush dripping down on her cheeks.   “I… haven’t.”   Two words should never be so crushing.   “I never have,” she continues, and three words should never be so confusing.   “What?”   “I—I thought it was dirty. Something good girls don’t do.”   Oh. Oh, no. Oh, dear, this is…   “Didn’t your mom ever tell you about… you know?”   “What?” And no, she doesn’t. Apparently.   “Didn’t your mom ever teach you about… your body?”   Her face goes blank, right before it goes green. And before it was red.   So many colors…   “Your mother did what?”   Why is she—ugh! No! Gross! Hikky-levels gross!   “We talked! She explained things, told me it was natural! Things that were safe, and things that weren’t!”   “Like what?!”   “Like—like exploring my… you know!”   “I most certainly don’t!”   “Don’t sound so proud of that!”   “Well, I most certainly am not—uh… Yui? Why are you taking your shirt off?”   “Remedial lessons.”   “I don’t need—”   “Oh, you certainly do.”   I sit on top of Yukinon’s belly before I twist my arms back and snap my bra open. I… I try not to be too self-conscious at the way they bounce when I free them and…   Yukinon is staring.   … Well, it’s not like the burning could get any worse.   “All right. All right, let’s see… This is my body. There’s nothing dirty about it, nothing to be ashamed of. I live with it, so I may as well use it from time to time.”   “That—”   “No. No, listen. These,” I point at… them, “these are my breasts.” Her eyes obediently follow my finger, and then remain fixed on… oh, I really thought the burning couldn’t get any worse, but now it’s traveling down. “They are a part of me, just like anything else. I need to touch them to shower, don’t I?”   Yukinon nods without saying a single word, and I’m far too pleased by that.   “So… So it doesn’t matter if I touch them for other things, does it?” I say, lifting the right one as I circle my areola with my left hand, and… And bite my lip as I desperately try not to moan while I fondle my chest as my girlfriend stares at me. “There’s… There’s nothing dirty. Nothing bad. I just… I am allowed to enjoy my body. It is mine, and nobody can tell me what to do with it.”   Her eyes are still locked on my finger tracing a slow spiral toward my already hard nipple.   … I’m starting to think Mama was right: these are an unfair advantage.   I may need every single one.   “So…” I grab both my breasts, pushing them up and together like one of those Tawawa girls—I mean, like, like I’m showing her. Yup. That’s completely innocent and not something I’m copying off a randy manga. “I can do whatever I want with my body. I can feel good with it. There’s nothing wrong, nothing dirty…”   She’s looking down.   Ah. Right. There may be a slightly noticeable increase in temperature at the point my body is resting on hers.   And wetness.   …   Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh!   “That also isn’t dirty!”   “I didn’t say—”   “You were thinking it!”   “I just—”   “Fine! I’ll show you!”   “I… really wasn’t…”   Yukinon shuts up.   It’s a good thing, because I’m standing over her, trying not to trip as I take a leg out of these ridiculously tight pants, and I feel the furthest thing possible from sexy as my naked breasts keep bouncing with every little jump as I desperately try to remain upright—   There’s a bed right beside the futon I can sit on. I’m being dumb.   … For plenty of reasons.   Right. So I sit beside Yukinon’s head, who is once again looking to the side, even if this time I know pretty well where is it that she’s staring.   It’s at my panties.   Powder blue, a simple design. Because it’s not like yesterday I left home thinking I would be showing these to anyone…   They… They also have a pretty prominent spot on their front that’s… slightly darker…   … Yukinon loaned me her pajamas, and they are stained with my… juices.   I really, really hope Haruno doesn’t do the laundry.   …   Yukinon is still staring…   Right! Right, I’ve already gone this far; I shouldn’t just… stop…   I’m pretty sure Mama told me to kick in the nuts any guy who said something like that, but what am I supposed to do here? Kick myself?   Aaaah! Fine! Fine! I’m rolling my panties down my legs! Happy now? Are you happy now, Yukinon?!   … Uh. Guess she is.   I mean, going by the way her eyes are still glued between my legs, her rosy cheeks, her quick breathing…   … I need a towel.   “Yu—Yukinon, I think… Uh… I may be about to stain your sheets?”   “Wh—why?”   And now she’s looking at my eyes for a change.   I mean, it’s somewhat relieving she still remembers I’m kind of a package deal. That the interesting places also have a head on top.   … I should not be writhing right now.     “Because I’m naked in front of you for the first time, and you’re looking at me in a way that’s making me think things, and I’m gushing like a—what are you making me say?!”   “Nothing! You just blurted everything out by yourself!”   “You asked!”   “I didn’t know how much I was asking!”   “Well, get used to it! You got the whole package!”   “What does that even—”   I jump on top of her, and I kiss her.   She’s… All right: she responds. A lot. A lot more than yesterday. Because either my halfhearted striptease managed to do something for her, or she’s finally getting used to being allowed to do something more than lie there and take it, or the banter thing really does it for her, or maybe she’s as horny—I mean frustrated as I am after spending the whole night cuddling together with no release in sight, and I—   Is she grabbing my ass?   I mean, she must be, because I’m moaning into her mouth, and my hips are grinding down on hers over the white futon, and her fingers are digging into my cheeks, and she’s delicious, and smells so good I don’t want her to shower, even if I would bite somebody’s arm off for the chance to see her naked, water dripping down her perfectly shaped breasts, and, oh gods, did she also have to be a fast learner with this too?!   I throw my head back, and she chases me for just a moment before she opens her eyes. They are… hazy. I always think about ice, or the blue sky, or even snow, but now… Now they are… Like haze over a hot spring in winter, like something you know will feel like it burns you right before making you melt, your every muscle unknotting as…   All right. Yes. I’ve got muscles there, but I’m starting to think my butt may have already gotten enough of a massage.   “Yukinon… I’ve got other places too, you know?”   Her eyes clear of the haze, and she throws her arms to the side so fast I don’t even catch it.   … Me and my big mouth.   “Sorry! Sorry, I don’t know what came over me—”   “Me. Well, not quite. But it’s damn close.”   “Yui!”   “A bit soon to be screaming my name, but I like your enthusiasm.”   “Wha—did you just…”   “Uh?”   She looks into my eyes, her own quickly recovering her composure.   Then she nods.   “Must have been a fluke.”   ... I think I should be mad, but I don’t know why.   Aaaaanyway!   “Right, so, as I was saying… This is my body. It is mine. There’s nothing dirty about it, and I am allowed to… play with myself.”   Her mouth drops open.   I lean back until I’m sitting on her soft belly once again, most of my weight on my thighs on either side of her.   Then I put my pointer finger between my breasts and, very slowly, drag it down the middle of my body until it’s right below my navel.   Yukinon follows it like I’m some kind of snake charmer.   Which… Well, it does sound appealing, to have her hypnotized by the movements of my body, perfectly still as I—right. Not the time to discover a new fetish.   (Note to self: look for the ‘hypnosis’ tag, but not the gross ones.)   “So. My body. Do you like my body, Yukinon?” I pause and she takes a moment to process my words before she nods. She’s still looking at my finger. Aaaand my face’s burning. Again. “So…” I lean farther back, holding myself up with my left arm as the right hand dips just a bit lower, the finger trailing through wet, soft hair. “This is also my body.”   She nods.   … I don’t think I’m getting more of an answer than that.   “And if I… If I touch myself like this…” I trace around my lips, making a very slow circle, feeling her own eyes, even her head, follow along the trajectory. “Or like this…” I dip my finger at the lowest part of my labia and drag it up through wet, warm flesh until I reach my clit. “Or even like this…” I… I have only seen this in hentai, but I always thought it would be so hot, so I take my pointer and middle fingers and make an inverted ‘v’ as I spread myself for Yukinon, who’s cradling her head up to get a better look. I… I don’t think she even realizes how I flinch when a single drop of… of that splashes on the futon’s cover.   I need to breathe.   My head’s getting lighter, and I swear the whole room smells like me, and that hasn’t happened since that time I tried to see how much time I could go without needing to stop.   It… It was quite a while.   Sable kept scratching the door, asking to come in.   And whining.   Turns out, I’ve got more endurance than my dog—not like that!   Anyway! I’m touching myself on top of and in front of my girlfriend. Yes. That’s a more rational thing to focus on.   I said ‘rational,’ not ‘logical,’ Hikky. You can go back to haunting my dreams.   “Look, I… Yukinon, what I mean is that… it feels good. And there’s nothing… bad, or dirty about feeling good. It’s your body; you have a right to enjoy it, and…”   “My body?” she says, finally looking up from my spread lips to my eyes.   It shouldn’t be such a relief when she does that.   “Yes. Yes, your body. I’m only showing you, but I… I want you to practice, OK? I want you to explore, to learn what you like, so when I—when we do something, you can teach me and I don’t do anything you dislike, because I would hate it if I made you dislike me, and I want everything to be perfect, and—”   “We… are stopping here?”   …   I think there’s some kind of emergency alarm going off somewhere. I’ll be sure about that when I emerge from the water that’s making everything blurry and the sounds distant and—   Breathe.   “I… what?”   Yukinon flushes and writhes. The last part is particularly noticeable, seeing as she’s right beneath me.   “Are you… Do you want to… I mean…” I’m babbling. That isn’t surprising.   “I… I don’t know,” she says.   And looks at me.   With eyes blue like the sky after a spring shower, blue like something that has been washed and uncovered, and is clear and beautiful like a flower with dew on its petals. And I could pluck it, could take her, right here, right now. I could make her mine like I’ve wanted to throughout the past year.   I… I really could.   But I don’t want to.   “Then… Until you can answer that with a firm ‘yes,’ until you are sure… Yes. We are stopping.” My voice almost cracks at the end, and I only remember to close my stretched fingers because of the aching heat that sends a pang of longing through me as I—   No. None of that.   She’s mine.   So I’ll take care of her.   That’s what Hikky wanted me to do.   “Are you… sure? Yui, I—”   I drop on top of her and kiss her so hard my lungs burn.   “Yukinon, please, please, don’t tempt me. I want this to be perfect for you. I want you to enjoy yourself, to not have any stupid thoughts about it being dirty or something you have to do for me. I want this far more than I ever thought I could want something. But I still want you, and I don’t know if I can keep holding back if you—”   Yukinon smiles beneath me.   It’s… That smile. The one that’s so rare, so precious, the one that she only has when she isn’t aware of it, when she isn’t talking or… It’s…   Ah! I’m going to sound like one of Mr. Chuuni’s unoriginal characters!   It’s… Fine.   Fine!   It’s the smile I want to protect.   … This is mortifying.   The way she looks incredibly cute as she kisses the tip of my nose will have to be compensation enough for my embarrassment. For now.     ================== ================== This work is a repost of the first spin-off of the Cakeverse. The whole verse can be found on QQ, or up to date on my Patreon. Unless something drastic happens, it will be updated on Tuesdays and Thursdays until it catches up to the currently written chapters.   Also, I’d like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving me a hand and help me keep writing snarky, maladjusted teenagers and their cake buffets, consider joining them or buying one of my books on Amazon. Thank you for reading!  

Chapter 7 - Yui’s Lily Garden – Chapter 7  

All Right! Fine! I’ll Take You! – Yui’s Lily Garden – Chapter 7   Yukinon’s skin is softer than anything I’ve ever touched.   She’s… I already knew this. I’ve held her hand, pulled her along to one place or another while a guilty part of me enjoyed her nearness more than I thought I was allowed to.   I’ve hugged her, squeezed her shoulders, sat close enough that she felt the need to retreat even as I kept moving my chair toward hers.   I have… I have stolen so many little touches, so many moments of unearned intimacy as her cheeks tinged with the barest trace of pink over pale skin. I have felt her warmth and her lack of it that I tried to replenish. I have heard her suppressed giggles, her sighs, her annoyed, displeased, almost silent harrumphing when Hikky crossed yet another line. I have…   I have experienced so much of her. With her.   And still so very, very little…   “Yui…” she breathes out, barely audible, as she lays her hand upon mine, cradling it against the cheek I was only touching with the very tips of my fingers.   Her fingers are so long, so elegant, so… hers.   And her lips…   My heart threatens to burst out of my chest as I approach her, my eyes fixed on the pale, shiny pink that I always thought had to be carefully applied lipstick because nobody can look that naturally, effortlessly beautiful without putting a lot of work into it.   Nobody except Yukinon.   My girlfriend.   And so, I kiss her.   I’ve done it at every chance I’ve gotten since Hikky’s last request. I’ve tasted her, enjoyed her cute, little noises, felt her skin on mine.   It’s always new. Always different.   And, this time around, it’s with her sitting on my lap, my hairbrush almost forgotten in the one hand Yukinon hasn’t trapped against her cheek as if she needed anything other than a single word, a muttered ‘yes,’ for me to be unable to take it away, to abandon her touch.   She’s wearing my pajamas, never as soft as her own, but the fuzzy fabric of the powder blue shirt she’s wearing rustles against my peach-colored one, her shoulder brushing past my breasts as she turns so I can kiss her more fully, so I can press against her as the hand still stupidly holding onto the hairbrush as if it can bring me any kind of anchor to keep me from being swept away in Yukinon wraps around her waist, pulling her closer to me.   Her fingers clutch around my hand, the one resting on her cheek, and she opens her lips.   Then… Yukinon kisses me.   It’s the only way I can put it when I feel the tip of her tongue daring to prod between my lips, pressing farther when I surprisedly let her in.   And she’s… timid. Shy.   But she still reaches for my tongue. Still dances around it, insisting I move, that I chase her, that I…   Oh.   That’s… That’s what she’s been doing, isn’t it?   So I regretfully close my eyes, depriving myself of the gorgeous pink crossing the bridge of her nose, and pull her even closer to me until my breasts wrap around her arm and her bottom is straight over the kind of heat I was ashamed she would ever learn I felt for her.   She’s taller than me. I think that played a part in it, at the start, when I knew her reassuringly above me, when I felt as if I could fall back, secure that she would be there to catch me, to hold me between arms stronger than mine.   I have been so selfish…   So I will let her. I will have her fall forward, toward me.   And I will catch her.   The bed creaks when I do, when I pull Yukinon on top of me, the white bedspread with multicolored stars wrinkling around me as my arms tighten around my girlfriend, and she turns to lie straight over me, her lips on mine, her bust on my own, her hips a bit lower than the burning fire I keep feeling when she’s near me.   I let go of the hairbrush (it’s useless, after all) and slide my hand beneath her shirt, through the gap of exposed skin that kept teasing me to distraction, and up her back, along muscles I always knew to be too tense, but that still feel marvelously toned to my touch until I brush past a spot a bit below the middle of her spine and she arches.   Her breasts press against mine when she does, even as her lips tighten around my tongue, and I finally let out the moan I’ve been holding back since we started.   Her breathing is rougher, and I can feel it on my belly, on my chest, and with the warm gusts of air beneath her nose.   Then she (slowly, cruelly) pulls back, and our eyes open at the same time, locking on one another as soon as we do.   As if I could look anywhere else…   “Yui… Did that… Did you like that?” she asks, the blush no longer merely dusting her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, but almost pulsing all over her face as she brushes her lower lip with her teeth in a moment I’m certain she isn’t aware of.   My mind almost stops.   Then I force myself to talk.   “It… It was you. You reacted first,” I try to explain.   “I know,” she says, brushing her hair aside so all of it falls down her right side and the light from the rest of the room reaches us just so I can better see how beautiful she is. “What I am asking is… did you like… that? Did you like me… reacting?”   There’s a shy smile on Yukinon’s lips. A small thing that’s almost not there, just… just the corner of her lips, barely reaching her cheeks, yet shining in her eyes as she looks down at me.   It’s radiant.   “Hey! Yui, what are you—” Yukinon protests as I grab a handful of her silky black hair and pull her down to me before I cut her off by taking her lips, by devouring that smile.   My right hand’s still on her back, and so, as I wrap Yukinon’s long hair around my left wrist so she can never again pull away from me, I climb up, reaching the point where a bra strap should be and isn’t.   I shiver.   Yukinon gasps against my lips.   And then she’s below me.   My lips go down to hers over and over, kissing them and around them as my hand goes around, from her back to her belly, making her shake when I brush over her navel.   She tries to turn her head, but my grip on her hair doesn’t let her, and she has to turn the other way, her eyes tightly closed, her mouth open as she lets an almost yelping moan, and her long, pale neck pulses beneath me until I drop on top of her, almost biting her as I strongly press my lips on her pulse, my teeth applying pressure behind them to the point I hurt but Yukinon doesn’t.   And then her hands go to my waist and lift my pajama’s peach shirt so they can roam my back until deft, long fingers slide beneath the bra strap crossing it, and the elastic presses her touch more firmly against me.   Yukinon, once more, arches, her breasts pushing up against mine as another moan escapes her lips as her pulse races beneath mine.   I… I barely hold back. Barely restrain myself from climbing down her body and kissing all of it along the way until I reach her wet heat and dive right between her legs so she can forget everything but me, so she can scream my name and nothing else.   Instead, I lift my head from her neck and wait for her to open her eyes, to show me the sun glittering between the clouds drifting through them.   “Yu—Yui?” she asks, pausing to get her breath back in the middle of my name.   … I shouldn’t be proud of that.   “I… I want you, Yukinon. All of you. I want you whole. So… if there’s anything you don’t like, if there’s anything you aren’t comfortable with, please tell me. Please, don’t keep it to yourself just to please me, because someday I’ll find out, and it will break my heart, and I’ll never be able to forgive myself. So, please, promise me?”   “I… I’m not…”   “Please,” I ask her even as her eyes keep drifting away from mine.   “I—Yui, I really… All right. All right, I promise,” she says, a slight smile on her lips and the tips of her fingers digging in my maybe too soft back.   Look, walking a dog only gets you so far as exercise goes. My thighs are definitely better!   “OK,” I tell her, my eyes softening as I keep feeling the urge to lean down and continue. “So, do you… do you like everything? So far?” I ask her as I feel the mortification settle in my burning cheeks at having to ask that.   Yes, I know it’s better to talk it over, Mama, but it’s still kinda… Would it really be so bad to silently try things? Surely, non-verbal cues would be enough to know when not to push too hard, and I should trust my girlfriend to be able to set her own boundaries like a healthy Yukinoshita.   …   Shut up, Hikky. I realized how dumb that sounded before I finished that line.   “Yes,” she says, maybe a bit too quickly. So I look at her with a raised eyebrow that will hopefully remind her she just made me swear not to lie to her, and she demurely lowers her eyelids before looking to her side. “Well… maybe the hair thing hurts? A bit?”   I blink.   Then I look at the direction Yukinon’s eyes point at, where my left hand is buried in my comforter while wrapped in a rope made of Yukinon’s black hair.   I blink again.   “Aaaaahhhhh! I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I got too carried away! I’ll let you go right no—”   “No!” Yukinon cuts me off.   And then she stares open-mouthed up at me as I, for lack of a better thing to do, blink down at her.   … Seriously, I think I need some acting classes or something.   “No?” I ask her, trying to sound more reassuring than confused.   “It’s…” her eyes never stray from mine, but it seems like they want to even as she wets her lips. “It’s, I don’t even know… a good kind of pain? But slightly too much, and I don’t even… oh. Oh, heavens, a whole year calling him a degenerate, and now I’m saying this. He can never find out, or I’ll have to murder him and then kill myself. Maybe I’ll set Haruno on him? Then he can also kill himself, and the police will have fewer clues, so nobody will find out—”   “I find it very disturbing that you’re talking about both killing yourself and orchestrating the death of our former crush during our first time,” I tell her, trying to imitate both her tone, delivery, and general Yukinoness.   “I find it very disturbing that I just discovered I like you playing with my body however you please, and that when you make it hurt, it just makes me feel like you’re saying I belong to you,” she answers, showing me precisely how far I’ve got to go before I can capture the original.   … Not like that!   Well, a bit like that.   “There’s… nothing wrong with that,” I tell her.   And she laughs.   “Yui… Nothing wrong with that? I… Everything’s wrong. I am a mess, and it’s even worse than I thought, because I can’t even be normal about this—”   “If you keep insulting yourself, I’m gonna get mad.”   “It’s not an insult when it’s an objective fact that I’m a depraved—”   I let go of her hair.   Yukinon shuts up as soon as I do, but then I lean back and sit on top of her, my legs shifting so my thighs straddle her, and I take off my shirt without making a production out of it, just... just undressing myself.   Her hands are still trapped beneath my bra’s elastic, but now she’s seeing it, the canary yellow piece of cloth with lace covering the top half of my breasts, my nipples and areola well hidden behind the reinforced lower half.   Her eyes are no longer on mine, and I allow myself a bit of a prideful smile at seeing that even Yukinon can fall for… Well, Mama said they were an unfair advantage. And she was right.   Then I slowly reach back and undo the three hooks holding the strap in place, carefully holding it so it doesn’t snap open as I slowly loosen it, letting my breasts push the cups forward before I hold them against me with my right arm as I slide the straps off my shoulders.   And, making sure Yukinon is looking right at it, I… let my bra fall.   My nipples are hard, and I almost want to make a joke about snow, ice, and the effect that could have on them, but Yukinon’s far from icy right now, and her blush is adorable, and I…   I pinch my nipples and pull.   “Hn!” my moan is half a scream, and I can’t help but rub my still-covered pussy on Yukinon’s thin body beneath mine for a shameful moment.   It takes me far too long to notice I’ve closed my eyes and force myself to open them.   Hers are… wide.   “Yu… Yui?” she asks, voice full of wonder and intrigue.   So I twist my nipples, pulling my breasts up just by them, my whole body shuddering on top of hers.   This time, I manage to bite my lip so I don’t close my eyes, and I can keep looking at her as confusion and something much more interesting play across her face.   “I… It’s not always. I have to be in the mood for it,” I tell her. “But, sometimes? Sometimes, Yukinon, I like it rough,” I whisper before my fingers sink into my breasts nails first with just maybe a bit more force than I ever did when I masturbated while thinking about them restraining me and punishing me for being a horny, indecisive girl who wanted them both.   And, suddenly, Yukinon’s lips are around my left nipple, her hand on my right breast, and her tongue twirls around me.   I… It feels like something snaps, and then there’s only darkness and random bursts of colors and the sensation of silky hair between my fingers and warmth on my breasts and…   “Ah… Yukinon… Yukinon…” I mumble before I drop to a whisper that keeps repeating her name over and over as she keeps sucking on me harder and harder until I shift my seat on her so my legs wrap around her waist as my belly trembles when my breathing fails, and all I can do is hold onto her and hope I won’t drift away.   Then her free hand drifts down my bare back, and I have to arch it, burying her face against my chest right before she slides between my panties and my ass and squeezes.   And I almost come on top of my girlfriend.   I open my eyes, and I’m surprised to be looking at my white ceiling, then Yukinon makes me shudder yet again, and I manage to look down at her, at her gorgeous face, with blue eyes closed and a studious expression on her that doesn’t even clash with the way she’s devotedly attending to me, carefully changing touch and suction as if exploring all the ways she can make me lose my mind.   Unfair.   My fingers yet again clench on strands of black silk, and she opens her eyes to stare directly up at me.   Then she slowly leaves my nipple, her lips almost dragging along it before she blows a short, soft, cold stream of air over my wet skin as she looks at me trying not to turn into a blabbering mess at what she’s doing.   “I don’t want to see you hurt, Yui,” she says almost harshly. “Not even like that.”   “Yukinon, it’s all right; I just wanted to show you it’s—”   “I’ll still do it. I’ll still pinch you, and bite you, a—and spank you,” she adds, her blush now more mortified than excited. “I’ll do everything that will make you feel good. But… don’t do it yourself. Don’t hurt yourself.”   Yet again, I feel the clear sensation of something snapping.   This time, it seems to be my self-control.   “Yu—Yui?!” she exclaims.   And I stare down at her.   At the lower half of her bare back. At her pert, impossibly shapely ass, at the way she writhes before she manages to turn her head around so she can look up at me while lying across my lap.   At the way her eyes widen when I lower first her powder-blue pants and then her white panties.   “Yui?” she asks, full of hesitation as her body shifts, her round cheeks swaying side to side.   And I spank her.   The clap of my hand on her flesh resounds through my room, but it’s almost silent compared to the gasp she lets out as her mouth drops open and she just stares up at me.   I can’t lift my hand.   It’s… I’m cupping her right cheek, feeling it naked for the first time in my life, and I keep massaging it, rubbing it, feeling her cool skin warm as I keep touching her, the circles broadening until I almost touch her between her legs with my wrist.   “What…” she starts to ask before drifting off.   Before trying to look over her shoulder at what I’m doing to her, at how I’m touching her.   Her face is full of… Of the same thing mine is: fascination.   “Did you… like that?” I ask her.   She takes a moment to look up at me. At my eyes.   And nods.   Which may have something to do with me swallowing and licking my dry lips.   “I…” I keep looking at her while I rub her ass, while I massage her.   I’ve read about it. About how the sharp, brief pain could make the relieving caress feel so much better. About how careful you need to be, how…   …   OK, I may have read a lot of things just in case they ever… came in handy, because I kept thinking how utterly mortified I’d be if I finally managed to make my dreams come true only to be less than perfect for them, and… And Mama had to talk me down from this after seeing just how many Nana to Kaoru volumes I had, which is something we both swore we would never bring up again, even if I know she was lying through her teeth and she’s just waiting for the right time to unleash it all on—   What I mean to say is that it’s complicated. There are a lot things Yukinon and I could do if we ever want to explore this side of her, but… But I think today is not about that.   I think Mama was right. That there’s nothing wrong in playing with your… you lover. But that you shouldn’t need to. That just being there for one another should be enough.   And I don’t even know if Yukinon and I are ready for this, much less that.   So I…   “I’m glad,” I tell her. “I’m glad we could find something you enjoy, and I’ll make sure to learn more about this with you another day, but… but tonight…”   My hand slides down until it’s on the back of her thigh, and then it glides down between them, my thumb feeling wet heat almost touching me, and… And I look into her eyes.   And they’re wide.   Scared.   So I stop.   “I’ll never hurt you. Not intentionally,” I tell her, leaning down until I can almost kiss her.   She doesn’t answer. Not at once. She has to breathe, to close her legs around my hand. To look for something in my eyes.   She… I think she finds it.   “I believe you,” she says, her voice rough with every word, even if I feel like she’s singing.   “OK,” I tell her with a smile I never knew I could make as I close my eyes and slide my hand out of the gap between her thighs. “OK. Then we should go to bed.”   There’s a moment of silence before Yukinon’s weight disappears from above me, and I can only hope she won’t be too uncomfortable to sleep in the same bed as me (which I hope she really won’t, seeing as she slipped into my futon last night), but—   But Yukinon pushes me.   I’m half-lying on my bed, still wearing my pants and—and she pulls them down.   I lift my head to see dark hair between my legs, but suddenly Yukinon leans forward, and I have to bite my wrist not to moan like a slut, because I’m drenched wet, heating up, and she just grazed me with her lips, but that’s enough to make me squirm—   “I want you,” she says.   And then, Yukinon, who hasn’t had a single honest talk about this with anyone other than me, who still thinks this is dirty, something to be ashamed of, even if she’s asked me to teach her, even if she’s allowed Mama to make her deadly embarrassed with her comments about…   Right. Maybe not thinking about Mama right now would be a fantastic idea.   Shut up, Hikky. I’m not thinking about you either.   Because Yukinon, who doesn’t know about sex, who thinks it’s dirty, indecent, who’s barely acknowledged she has her own libido over the past couple of days…   Is kissing me.   There.   “You… you don’t have to do it,” I say as I struggle to clutch my comforter rather than her hair.   “I want to,” she says, not meeting my eyes, just kissing along my lips over and over as my toes curl and my legs almost extend in forceful spasms.   “Yukinon, it’s…”   “Dirty? Shameful? Clumsy? I… I don’t care, Yui. I don’t care as long as it’s for you. And I…” she lifts her face, finally showing me those gorgeous, sky-blue eyes of hers. “I will get better. I promise I will.”   I let go of the comforter.   “Gods, I really hope you don’t,” I tell her as I gently brush an errant strand of black silk behind her left ear. “You’re already making me lose my mind.”   I smile at her, my neck straining from the forced posture.   And Yukinon blushes.   More.   “I—that’s not true!” she stammers. “I’ve barely—I don’t even know what I’m doing! I’m just… you showed me! This morning! And I—”   “Yukinon, it’s you. You, touching me. How could it ever be any better?”   She stares at me.   And then she stands up and takes off her shirt in a single momevent before leaning down to take her pants and panties the rest of the way off before straddling me, her gorgeous breasts pushing against mine, her slender legs surrounding mine, her long arms around my neck.   “I love you,” she says.   I clasp her cheeks between my hands and drag her down into a kiss that starts tender and ends up taking my breath away.   I feel like that’s symbolic of something. Of meeting a tall girl who seemed perfect at everything she deigned to do, of becoming her friend and having her become my best friend. Of falling in love, and having my heart both broken and mended.   I feel like… Like there’s a lot in this kiss. For me. But also for Yukinon.   So I let her go. I let her pull back until our eyes are in front of one another and our lips no longer touch.   “I love you,” I answer her, putting as much of myself as I can in the words.   And… and she falls on top of me, her arms surrounding me, and she shakes as I embrace her and feel Yukinon’s naked body shiver over mine.   “Haruno was right, you know?” I tell her. “You are so easy to love…”   She tightens her hold on me.   And we…   Pause.   Because I love her. And she’s beautiful, and naked, and touching me just as I touch her. And she’s asked me to go on, and given me a brief glimpse of how incredible it would be if we continued, of how good we could make each other feel.   But… But she’s hugging me, accepting that I love her.   That she is loved.   And maybe that’s enough for now.   ***   It’s the middle of the night, and I keep waking up.   It… It should bother me. Should leave me restless, irritated, nervous that I won’t get enough sleep to go to school tomorrow.   But each time I do, I find Yukinon between my arms, her face peacefully resting on top of my breasts, and I smile a silly smile that grows until it hurts and stays there until I yawn and fall asleep yet again, so… No, I’m not cranky.   Not until I wake without her there, and it takes me a moment to realize what I’m missing, who should be there and isn’t.   I have a brief burst of irrational panic until I realize…   That my legs are spread open, and there’s soft hair brushing the insides of my thighs, and warm lips are once again kissing my wet heat.   “Yu… Yukinon…” I murmur, my hands going beneath the sheets to caress her hair and maybe stop her, because we’re both too emotional, and I don’t know if—   She grabs my right hand and swallows my pointer finger, twirling her tongue around it like she’s… doing an entirely different thing.   And my eyes shoot open.   “Yukinon, I—”   “I don’t know what I’m doing, Yui,” she says. “So, could you… teach me?”   Yet again, something snaps inside my head.   … No, Hikky; I’m pretty sure I can afford it.   And it’s not like I care if I can’t.     ================== ================== This work is a repost of the first spin-off of the Cakeverse. The whole verse can be found on QQ, or up to date on my Patreon. Unless something drastic happens, it will be updated on Tuesdays and Thursdays until it catches up to the currently written chapters.   Also, I’d like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving me a hand and help me keep writing snarky, maladjusted teenagers and their cake buffets, consider joining them or buying one of my books on Amazon. Thank you for reading!  

Chapter 8 - Yui’s Lily Garden – Chapter 8

All Right! Fine! I’ll Take You! – Yui’s Lily Garden – Chapter 8   She’s…   OK, OK, Yui, you can handle this, whatever this is supposed to be. It’s not like you’ve been holding back from pushing Yukinon down, tearing her clothes off, and making her scream in a continuous, never-ending climax until she collapses breathlessly beneath you since Hikky had the bright idea of putting you in charge of a Yukinoshita’s mental health.   Not at all.   … My vengeance upon him shall be swift, terrible, and likely involve Sable.   Maybe not. Sable’s been known to collaborate with the enemy. He’s too weak to scritches.   “Yui?” Yukinon asks me with a voice that’s halfway between her lost tone and her steely one, managing to mix both her vulnerability and her forceful personality in a single, devastating line, that becomes even stronger with it being my name.   …   I think she may want me to answer.   “Yes! Yui here! I’m perfectly aware of what’s going on rather than trying to fight off a surge of arousal and making you scream my name until you faint from lack of air!”   …   OK, Mama said that laughter was a good sign between trusting lovers, so I shouldn’t feel the terrible urge to press my pillow against my face and scream myself hoarse at Yukinon’s cute chuckles tickling my bare pussy!   “I’m not even going to ask whether you could really do that,” she says, her face still hidden beneath my star-covered blankets, yet her tone letting me picture that impish half-smile she always tried to cover behind bent fingers whenever she pulled one over on him.   “Thank you. I’m not really sure I could properly answer right now,” I tell her.   And she…   Kisses the tip of my finger.   The one in front of her, still wet from when she sucked it inside her mouth, and her tongue twirled around it until my toes curled as I kept picturing all the wonderful things she could do with that long, agile, maddening tongue.   “I… I asked you something, Yui,” Yukinon says. And I can picture the dusting of pink quickly reddening over her cheeks even as I feel her silky hair move ever so slightly between my thighs and her breath wash over a wetness that, shamefully, goes down them.   So I…   Swallow.   Because there are plenty of reasons to tell her to stop, that I can wait, that she doesn’t have to force herself.   But…   I really hope this isn’t the horny talking, but I think that rejecting her now would hurt her. That she doesn’t need me to coddle her, but to care for her, and that’s a line that I shouldn’t cross if I want Yukinon whole as I keep claiming. That I have to let her make her choices, support her when she does, when she pushes past the girl she no longer wants to be, even if I love that girl and want her more than anything else in this world.   … Oh.   That… That sounds far too complicated. That isn’t something I should be thinking. That isn’t why he chose me.   No.   He chose me to love her. Because that’s what she needs.   And I do.   So much it hurts.   So much I don’t care for anything genuine. Not as long as she stands with me.   So… So much that I…   That I think I can do this. Even if it feels selfish, self-serving. Even if I have doubts.   Because…   “Yukinon… The kisses feel real nice but try it around… around me. Not right on my vagina. Start on the middle of my thigh and slowly go up, brushing and caressing, maybe stopping to suck if you feel like it. Make me anticipate what you’ll do to me rather than show it to me,” I say, my voice carrying something I have never before felt.   She slowly backs away, her long hair dragging over legs I’m glad I shaved just a couple of days ago, and she turns to her left to lay a single, delicate kiss right in the middle of the inside of my thigh, faithfully following my instructions in a way that makes me want to scream.   “Yes…” I force myself to murmur, “Just like that,” I tell her as I lower my hand farther so I can pet the top of her head.   And I feel her shiver.   “Good girl,” I add, following an impulse that shames me in the best way possible.   And she moans.   She’s making it very hard not to grab her hair, drag her up, mash my lips against hers and—   Ooooookay. Deep breath.   No ravishing your girlfriend, Yui. Not when she’s delicately following your instructions to learn how to give you a mind-shattering orgasm through liberal applications of lips and tongue.   … Why do I do this to myself?   “See?” I tell her, pretending I’m not losing my mind with every single puff of warm breath over my wet skin. “I’m sure you can smell me, Yukinon. That you can taste just how much more eager I am for you than when you started. Play with that. Play with me…”   Yukinon stops climbing up my thigh to push her head back against my palm, petting herself against me.   I almost clench my fingers and drag her—damn it.   “Good girl,” I whisper, once again feeling the burst of shame at the sheer wrongness of saying that, of treating her like my pet.   She whines. Then she rubs her cheek against my leg while I lightly scratch her scalp.   … I’m gonna need to change my sheets.   We stay like that for a moment, my sex beating with liquid heat, almost touching her face, and she making sounds that have me bite my lip not to answer in kind. But she’s asked me to teach her, and I can’t do that if my brain melts and…   …   Why the heck am I the one teaching anything?!   She’s the smart, glasses-wearing, stern character! I’m a clumsy mess who only got into their school through sheer luck! I shouldn’t be teaching anything to anyone, much less a literal genius! I’m not qualified! I don’t know what I’m doing!   “Yui? What… What do I do now?” she asks, breathless, with a tone that makes me picture glassy eyes, barely open lips, and that cute blush of hers that—   I’m an incredible teacher. I am perfectly qualified. A professional tutor.   Great Teacher Yui. That’s my name.   “There’s… There’s plenty of things you can do, Yukinon. There’s not a single right answer, just what we both feel like doing. The only important thing is that we enjoy ourselves. Are you… Are you enjoying… this, Yukinon?”   She pauses, her lips still brushing my thigh right below the pulsing tendon that would lead her right to my drenched, open lips.   “Yes,” she whispers, her breath reaching me.   My toes curl, and I bite my lip not to moan like a slut.   “Good… That’s… That’s the only thing I want—”   “No,” she says, her palms forcing my legs wider, her tone suddenly stern. “You… You just told me. That we both have to enjoy ourselves.”   I swallow.   And throw my blankets off.   My alarm clock is just bright enough that I can see her, even without detail or colors, but it’s enough that I know her eyes are widening in panic as I lift my torso so I can look down at her, closer than I have been since she woke me up.   “Yukinon… I already told you: you’re here. With me. How could I not enjoy myself?” I ask her with all the tenderness I feel for her as the hand on her hair drifts down to cup her cheek.   And she dives forward and kisses me… there.   It’s sudden enough that she catches me by surprise, and so I can’t stop my hiss, my eyes from fluttering, or my hand from going to the back of her head and roughly clutching her hair.   As my fingers close, she moans, and the sound vibrates against my sex, and I buckle up against her, pushing wet lips against her open mouth, her nose poking me right to the side of my clit and making me almost cry in despair at it not being just a bit to the left, just close enough that I can—   “Yui… Yui, are you—is this good? Am I good enough for you—”   I finally drag her up.   Her lips are drenched with the taste of me, but I don’t care, not as long as I can lick it off her, not when I can shove my tongue into her mouth to search for hers, to tangle with it as we both moan into one another.   My hand goes down to clench her ass, to once again sink my fingers into soft flesh that is far too yielding for how slender she looks, even as the other hand holds her still, grasping her hair hard enough that her moan gets louder even while still inside my mouth.   And she… she finally touches me.   One hand gropes my breast, and the other slides between us, reaching my clit just as she finds my nipple, making me jerk up, our teeth painfully clashing even as we don’t stop our kiss and Yukinon caresses me just how I showed her this morning she should touch herself, kneeling between my legs obscenely spread in an M shape that is all for her and her alone.   It… It could have been for somebody else. And we’d have been happy.   The three of us.   I just know we could’ve been. That he could’ve leaned over her bare back to whisper in her ear more instructions for her to follow while touching me as he held me still with those eyes of his that I never praised because I was afraid of what would come out of my lips if I started.   I know we… I know they’d have been good for one another, and I hope I could’ve been good for them, helped them remain together when they inevitably tried to push away.   But…   But that was a dream. A dream I had to wake up from.   And this… this is real.   Yukinon. Here. With me.   Real.   Oh. So, that’s what ‘genuine’ really meant?   … Would it have killed him to say so?   I pull Yukinon’s head back, her hiss at me grasping her hair a little too tightly making something rush inside my chest, and I look into her eyes.   They are as glassy and unfocused as I fantasized, but they keep drifting to mine, trying to remain on them, and I…   “I love you. I love you more than I thought I could. You have driven me insane since I first realized what I felt for you was not just friendship, and I’m not letting you get away with that, Yukinon. I’m not letting you be anything but mine. Is this good for me, you ask? No. No, it’s not good. It’s… It’s poison. It’s obsession. It’s madness. Every drop of it makes my pulse race and takes my breath away, and I will die if I ever stop sipping from it. It’s not good, Yukinon: it’s everything,” I tell her.   Her eyes widen, shocked and focused.   Mine are on the verge of outright panic.   What the Hell?! Why?! Why did I just say something like that?! I’m not one of Mister Chuuni’s characters or a rapey shoujo manga love interest! I’m a regular, perfectly sane person! I don’t sprout ranting monologues!   I’m a normal, nice girl, and I’ve never thought about making an altar with Yukinon’s nail clippings!   “I’ve never been so aroused in my life,” she mutters.   …   OK. Fine. A couple of monologues from time to time never hurt anyone.   “I—” I begin, maybe trying to defend my innocence, maybe trying to gear up for a second try so we can see if I can top Yukinon’s arousal meter.   But I have to shut up and whine when she stops touching both my breast and sex, and her delicate hands press on my shoulders as she keeps looking at me and…   Pushes me back.   I fall on my bed, and Yukinon bends down to kiss me between my breasts, trailing more of her soft kisses down my belly, around my navel, and circling my wet pubes until her lips are once more at the side of my pulsing tendon. She’s still on her knees, between my thighs, but she’s leaning forward like a stretching cat and I can see her pert behind swaying behind her in a lip-bitingly feline way, and…   And she looks straight into my eyes.   “Tell me if… If I do something wrong,” she murmurs.   And then she lets me see her tongue peeking out of her lips, pushing past them until it touches the underside of that pulsing tendon, and she runs it below it, side to side, as my breathing once more accelerates.   Her right hand pushes on my unlicked thigh, the thumb trying to imitate what her tongue is doing, but she slides a bit too far and touches me, the wet sound making her stop as I let out a shameful cry of pleasure.   And Yukinon’s eyes sharpen.   And then she’s licking up, right along the side of my lips, alternating between each one but on the outsides of them, as if she’s cleaning me before diving in, her eyes never parting from mine as she does, barely blinking even as my sight of her blurs, the shadows and darkness making me imagine her more than see her.   One slender hand reaches up to grab my left breast, and I cover it with my own hand, trapping her against me.   Then she once again peppers soft kisses over my lips, but this time she pauses between them, suckling me, pulling on me until the suction is not enough to keep me in place and I fall out of her mouth, and every time I gasp, or moan, or cry out, she does it faster and stronger, her ass swaying side to side in a hypnotic almost dance that is the only thing that can make me look away from her shadowed eyes.   Then she…   Does it on my clit.   And I scream.   She freezes, eyes wide, not in interest, but panic, her hips frozen mid-sway, but then she watches as I bite down on my knuckles while I tighten my grasp on her hand over my breast. And I…   Despite it all, I moan like a whore.   It’s… It’s the most obscene sound I’ve ever made, and I’ve been trying to hold myself back all this time, but it’s Yukinon, and she’s scared she hurt me, and I can no longer pretend she’s doing anything but her absolute best to break me, to have my eyes roll back and the world fade away until only her tongue and lips remain.   I… I can’t hide it from her. Won’t hide it from her.   Not when I can see the light shining in her eyes when she realizes how she just made me feel.   Not when I can see her being… happy.   She dives back in, her lips fumbling for a moment before she latches once more on my clitoris, and then she suckles on it, experimenting at playing with my body, watching my eyes eagerly, the hand clutching my breast seeming to pulse with every moan she tears out of me.   I…   I let go.   My head thrashes over my pillow as my girlfriend sucks on my clitoris and gropes my chest, and every time I let out another slutty sound of utter rapture, she does it harder and stronger, and it’s—   Something clenches beneath my belly, and Yukinon’s suction manages to increase just as I take in a gulp of air that I have to rush to let out in a shocked scream as my mouth drops open and my mind goes blank, and I—   I cum.   “Yukinon!” I surprise myself by saying, even as I lose control of everything else, even as I feel her trying to swallow around me, the bundle of nerves between her lips shooting almost agony through me as my legs close around her head and my back lifts off my bed.   Then there’s another burst of pleasure, another rush of Yukinon’s lips seeming to reach my whole body at once, and I quiver while mid-air, my whole weight on my neck and shoulders…   And I fall.   I am panting, exhausted, trying not to drown as my arms and legs are as lifeless as if I already had, but Yukinon is climbing up my body, retreading the path of kisses she laid before as if picking each of them up with her lips, and then she’s kissing my cheeks, my forehead, my nose, every brush of her as delicate as she can make it, some of the shyness she has when approaching a kitten showing in the tender gestures of affection.   And I’m dizzy after having come harder than I have in a long, long time, because stress was never good for me in that regard, but she’s so adorable that I can find the strength to wrap her between my arms and drag her into a kiss that doesn’t involve our tongues, but still makes my toes curl yet again.   Then I drop my hands down her sweaty back, marveling at Yukinon being able to do something as mundane as sweat, but, just as I’m about to reach her cute little butt and squeeze, she… stops me.   I blink at her. Stupidly.   … Shut up, Hikky.   “Not… No today,” she says.   “Yukinon?” I ask, not understanding her, the rush of the orgasm still muddling my thoughts.   “I… I liked doing this. I liked it a lot. And not just… Not just because I thought you deserved it. Not just because you should get something out of being with me—”   “Being with you is everything—”   “Let me finish,” she says, shutting me up both with a finger over my lips and a smile I am hypnotized by. “I know. I know what you want to say, but… But this is how I feel. And I know it’s wrong that I feel this way, and nobody should be surprised there’s something wrong with me, but I still need to say it. I still need to let it out of me before… before you can do with me what you’re already doing.”   “What are you—”   “You love me,” she says, her smile softening, turning into something I would call dopey on anybody else. “You love me, and I can believe it, because you keep showing me. And I think… I think I feel better. Much better than I thought I would. I think you’re… You say you want to see me whole, Yui, and I think you’re helping me get there. So I wanted this. I wanted to make you feel good. I wanted to make you feel like it’s worth something being with me. And I know how that sounds, and that it’s terrible, and that nobody should say something like this. I know all the things you want to say to me, but…”   She stops.   And looks at me.   I often thought her eyes were like the sky. Sometimes, I thought they were like ice.   Now…   Now they are Yukinon’s.   And she smiles.   “I love you. I wanted to do something nice for you. Isn’t that enough?” she asks with heartbreaking vulnerability.   “I… I also love you. I also want to do something for—”   “But I don’t want you to do it,” she interrupts me, and then rushes to follow when she sees how those words make me feel. “Not yet. Not when I still don’t feel… good. About myself. About feeling good.   “Not today.”   I lick my dry lips as she keeps looking at me with that sad yet satisfied smile, and I…   “Earlier… Earlier, you would have done it. You would have let me do anything I wanted to do to you,” I say.   And she…   She blushes.   Prettily. Shyly.   And her smile is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.   … Sorry, Sable. Your puppy pictures have finally been vanquished.   “I would have. And… And soon, I will again. But not now. And it’s all thanks to you,” she says, yet again confusing me in that way only heterosexual men and lesbians (or bisexual girls—this is complicated) can sympathize with.   So, as I try to drag my blankets up with a leg that refuses to collaborate until Yukinon reaches down with her long arms to grab them and cover us both, as she hugs me so tightly my breasts flatten beneath her, and she sighs before burying her face against the side of my neck as I pat her hair…   I can’t help but think:   My teenage Sapphic romance is messed up, just as he expected.     ================== ================== This work is a repost of the first spin-off of the Cakeverse. The whole verse can be found on QQ, or up to date on my Patreon. Unless something drastic happens, it will be updated on Tuesdays and Thursdays until it catches up to the currently written chapters.   Also, I’d like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving me a hand and help me keep writing snarky, maladjusted teenagers and their cake buffets, consider joining them or buying one of my books on Amazon. Thank you for reading!  

Chapter 4 - Yui’s Lily Garden – Chapter 4

All Right! Fine! I’ll Take You! – Yui’s Lily Garden – Chapter 4   I remember that a long, long time ago (about twenty minutes), I thought something like, ‘this is mortifying.’   I thought that because I just heartfeltly proclaimed to myself that I wanted to protect Yukinon’s (my girlfriend’s—aaaaaaaahhhhhh!) smile.   I was wrong.   This is mortifying.   “What’s wrong, Yui, aren’t you hungry? I would’ve thought, with all the exercise—”   “Sister!” Yukinon interrupts Haruno’s line before she can make this even worse.   I don’t know how. Oh, I can come up with plenty of ways, but none of them seem traumatizing enough to be the one she would use. Especially not after… this.   “Yukino, I am hurt that you would yell at me out of the blue. Also, I would’ve thought you’d be far mellower after Yui here finally—”   “Sister!”   … Is it too late to hide in Yukinon’s futon and not come out until Haruno has left for wherever she pretends to go to college to while she actually plots the downfall of civilization?   Note to self: stop watching super sentai. It’s making me imagine things, and the last thing I need is to get the image of my sexy girlfriend’s sexy older sister wearing a dark, billowing cape with gigantic pauldrons stuck in my head. It could make family gatherings really awkward.   You know, as opposed to what they would be as things currently stand…   “Ah, the ungratefulness of younger siblings. I wonder how Hachiman does it? He has that cute younger sister of his perfectly tamed… maybe I should ask him for some tips?”   “The first tip may be not to cook red rice for her the first time she has… somebody over,” Yukinon snappily replies at once and with barely any hesitation.   Which means she’s used to this level of teasing.   Something I find both hard to believe and very disturbing, seeing as… red rice.   A traditional dish. Sticky rice boiled with adzuki beans so it ends up dyed red. Nothing wrong with it.   Except for the part where it’s used to mark special occasions. Such as birthdays, a girl having her first period or…   Weddings.   Aaaaaaaaahhhhh!   And how did she even get the beans! I know Yukinon’s pantry like my own, and she doesn’t have beans! Her sister was a drunken mess when we got here last night, and the first thing I get after getting out of the bathroom is (perfectly cooked) red rice! That’s not something a regular person would think to do, much less have the gall to go through with!   “Somebody over?” Haruno asks, slowly blinking her big eyes in (obviously fake) confusion. “Yukino, it’s not nice to refer to your girlfriend in such a way; go and apologize to Yui. I think a kiss should do it.” And she grins.   Of course she grins, what else would she do? Sigh in forlorn longing?   (Note to self: stop reading BL romance. Ebina’s dangerous.)   Yukino coughs for a moment, seemingly choking on air, and then looks defiantly at her sister over the light, bare wood of the kitchen table.   Then turns around, grabs my cheeks, and—   Oh.   The first thing I notice, just a second before her lips reach me, is the slight pressure of her bust, still clad in those blue pajamas I always tried not to leer at. They brush against my own breasts as Yukino comes from below me and raises up in a smooth arc, a curve that makes me press my thighs together just as her tongue peeks out to delicately flick along my lips.   I take a sharp breath, grab her neck, and pull her toward me.   After a short burst of movement that involves far too much noise of chair legs grinding on the tiled floor, Yukino is sitting on my lap, her beautiful, pert, firm butt right between my tense thighs, and I’m making her lean to my right as I lean over her, my tongue diving deep into her mouth, tasting the sweet saliva I’ve grown addicted to in such a short time, one hand supporting her nape and the other roaming her back while she, for some baffling reason, flails her arms around.   From the other end of the forgotten kitchen table, the baffling reason coughs semi-politely.   Oh.   I, very carefully and slowly, separate from Yukinon’s luminescent blush and panting breath that tickles my nose as startled eyes look up at me in bewildered—   Stop. I can control myself. I can definitely not lean back down, grope her chest, lay her on the kitchen table and—   “Yui!” Yukinon says as I grab her hips and start turning her toward a piece of furniture we are definitely going to christen one of these days.   But, hopefully, not under the watchful eye of her blushing sister.   … Or any other watchful eyes. I am not an exhibitionist.   I think.   Anyway! I still have my girlfriend on my lap, and I should definitely not draw more attention to what almost happened, so maybe I should let her take point? It’s not like I’ve contributed too much to the conversation as is. I mean, other than gawking at Haruno and pawing at Yukinon, which somebody generous enough could interpret as a contribution…   Like, hopefully, Yukinon.   “Damn, girl, just how pent up are you?” the only present person who may be able to say something like that says.   The tip of Yukinon’s ears redden in a way I can’t help but take note of, and she very stiffly turns from facing me to her sister on the other side of what I’m increasingly seeing as a safety barrier rather than furniture.   I am still holding her hips when she turns, so I end up hugging her waist.   … If she doesn’t complain, I definitely am not moving.   “Dear sister, as much as I appreciate your companionship and polite conversation, I do believe you have a home to go back to?”   “Gasp! Gasp, I say! Just a day with a girlfriend, and you’re already throwing me on the street?”   “You were supposed to look after the place, not move in here!”   “Oh, I can certainly say I’ve done my fair share of looking,” she comments after throwing a quick glance at the white sofa in the living room.   “I don’t know what that means, but I really hope it isn’t something as perverse as your tone implies.”   “Yukino, as jaded as you’ve become in your old age, I am offended that you would call true love perverse.”   “You are making less sense with every word, and I know you well enough to realize that that is not only on purpose, but a way to either amuse yourself with a private joke or to make me regret ever pursuing this thread of conversation,” my girlfriend, whose back is, probably unconsciously, leaning against my chest while I keep my arms around her, says with the kind of tone she would use on Hikky before the whole codependence mess started.   So… Either I offer my silent and unconditional support or get between two Yukinoshitas going at each other in ways I don’t quite understand but that may have an incestuous note, because if she talks to her like she did to Hikky that’s not something I want to look at too deeply—and of course I would fall for both a brocon and a siscon; that’s, apparently, the way my luck works and the way the universe has of telling me I should have never wished to be anything other than a single child.   Spending my daily allotment of common sense all at once, I shut my mouth.   “They grow up so fast…” Haruno wistfully mutters. And then winks at me.   …   Is this a joke about my breasts? Is it? Am I doomed to keep getting sexually harassed even with Hikky out of the picture?   For some reason I don’t understand, Haruno facepalms.   “Yui, dear, as attractive as you are, I have my plate full enough that I won’t pursue my little sister’s current romantic entanglements.”   Yukinon goes rigid, and I have no doubt whatever she says next is going to worsen my already critical embarrassment, so I bravely decide to go back on my earlier decision and waste my daily common sense quota.   Ah, well, that’s what Mama’s there for.   “Joking aside, how are you?” I ask her while trying to power through… the whole morning so far.   I mean, the part of it I didn’t spend trying to give Yukinon a remedial lesson on the sexual education she definitely should’ve gotten before slipping into my futon in the middle of the night. That part I don’t power through, because I’m still trying to process how much of it is a precious, irreplaceable memory, and how much is just hinting at terrifying depths of trauma I’ve yet to uncover.   … Ah, well, that’s what Mama’s there for.   (Without too much detail and skipping right over the whole striptease thing. Ugh.)   I should maybe also focus on the girl looking at me in a calculating manner and leave all that stuff for when I’m not in the middle of what some may say is a sibling spat, and others may say is… I don’t know. Something people more knowledgeable than I may understand, but I definitely don’t.   “You know, there’s only one other person who has asked me that in… years. Literal years.”   “Is the other person Ms. Hiratsuka?”   Haruno stares at me.   Her face is blank. Not… not expressionless, because it’s far too intense for that, as if there’s some hunger in there I don’t—   And then she smiles.   It’s not a nice smile.   “So that’s why he chose you, is it?” she asks. And I feel blood drain from my face.   Yukinon turns toward me, my slack arms still around her, and her face shows worry and—   “He… He told me he had a plan. And that there was something only I could do. Something that I would do just by being me,” I tell both of them.   Yukinon’s eyes widen, and Haruno chuckles in bitter fondness.   “Of course he would. And of course he would be right.”   Then she stands up and circles the table until she’s by our side.   And pats Yukinon’s back.   “Kiss her, you fool,” she whispers.   And walks out.   And, suddenly and frantically, Yukinon kisses me with desperation, longing, and regret.   And, I hope, a bit of love.   ***   “All right, what’s going on with you now?” Yumiko asks me right as I get up after the teacher goes away for the lunch period.   “Uh?” I answer her with my usual wit.   … I may need to ask Hikky for some tips. Especially if Yukinon reacts to them in the way I suspect she will.   Yumiko stares at me, sighs, and then raises from her seat, grabs my arm, and drags me out of the classroom.   It only slightly feels like I’m being kidnapped, so it isn’t that weird from Yumiko. Honestly!   “Now, spill,” she demands as soon as we take a turn in the corridor and step onto the stairs landing.   “I… I have a girlfriend?” I finally answer after a short moment desperately trying to come up with either a convincing lie or a good excuse not to tell her the truth.   She blinks at me. Then blushes. Then panics and lets go of my arm with an apologetic look that honestly makes me wonder if she just realized the implications of bodily dragging a girl out to a secluded spot.   “Yukinoshita?!” she hisses.   I nod. And my cheeks do their thing—seriously, I used not to blush at the drop of a hat. I think.   … I’ll ask Mama. She has an encyclopedic memory of every embarrassing thing about my childhood, so she definitely would’ve noticed.   Yumiko, on the other hand, grows pale rather than rosy. She even stumbles for a moment before leaning on the wall at my side (and breaking off the almost kabedon she was giving me).   “Does… does he know?”   “He…” I swallow, the words still hard to say, “he set us up. And stepped out.”   Yumiko groans.   “Of course he did…”   “What… what do you mean?” I can’t help but ask without looking directly at her, my eyes on the part of the wall in front of us that meets the floor.   She shakes her head enough that her curls bounce.   “You know him well enough to figure that out,” she ends up saying.   And I do. Or, at least, I think I do, but it still would be reassuring if somebody else told me just so I don’t keep running around in circles.   “So…” she says after the silence stretches a bit too long—Yumiko’s never been any good at silences. “So you… Did the two of you…”   She looks at me in almost distress.   I turn away from my careful examination of the splotch of white paint marring the single gray tile it fell on who knows how long ago.   Yumiko has gone from pale to almost crimson in a remarkably short time. Whatever I have may be contagious.   “The two of us…?”   She says something very quiet and rushed that I don’t understand.   I tilt my head.   She takes a deep breath.   “Did you two kiss?!”   …   Oh, it looks like it’s her blush that’s contagious.   I, after a brief deliberation, nod.   She wrings her hands, and I am tempted to run away before she opens her mouth once more.   “How was it?” she finally says with all the shyness Yumiko only shows when talking about a certain blond guy that I may need to get some information on before I decide if he’s my new sworn enemy.   I sigh. And then resign myself to spending my lunch break speaking about my girlfriend and a very sanitized version of what we’ve done since yesterday rather than meeting said girlfriend for lunch like I wanted.   … Yumiko manages to blush harder by the end of it all.   ***   I stare at the door of the clubroom closing after Hikky goes through it.   It’s… It’s bittersweet. Because I know he loves us (me), but he’s… he’s very definitely taken.   With two girls.   And a possible third.   And now I understand a bit more of what Haruno said during breakfast, which is not something I expected to happen without some intervening years, a lot of growing up, and possibly a bit of therapy.   Yukinon is slumped on her chair beside me in a very un-Yukinon way.   “So, that’s it, isn’t it?” I tell her.   “What?” she looks at me uncomprehendingly, something that only happens when I spontaneously hug her, or grab her hand, or show her any sign of… physical… affection…   I don’t think I’ll like my future mother-in-law very much.   I may need to ask Haruno for some tips—which is yet another thing I never thought would come up without a lot of therapy. On her side, though, not on mine.   I clasp Yukinon’s chin between my thumb and forefinger and lift her gaze toward me.   “You do understand he loves you, don’t you?”   She freezes.   “I… He’s a lustful beast who—”   “No. If he was, he would’ve taken me a long time ago.”   Yukinon’s eyes widen, and she throws herself at me, her arms around my neck, her chest pressed against mine.   “Please don’t leave me. I know you could just se-seduce him, and he wouldn’t resist—”   I silence her in the only way I know how: I kiss her.   It’s a slow kiss, starting just as a soft press on her lips before I prod at them with my tongue. When she allows me to enter, I do it deliberately, first tracing her lips, then pushing forward to lick at the top of her tongue carefully and gently in a back and forth motion, as if it was candy I was trying to melt.   Then I grab her hips and pull her on top of me once more.   And I don’t stop the kiss until I make sure she notices my hands caressing her hair and back.   “Yukinon… I love you. I won’t leave, not even if you tell me to, because I know you have yet to understand how special you are, how easy it was to fall for you, and I just know you can pull a Hikky and try to make me leave for my own good—and that’s not something I’ll allow.”   “Pull a Hikky?” she asks, eyes slightly glassy.   … Talk now, ravish later.   “That’s… that’s something he does, and part of why we fell for him, but not a part we like, if that makes sense? Anyway! No martyrdom. That is forbidden. If you ever try, I’ll have to kiss you silly until you forget all about it!” I warn her, trying to lighten the mood.   Icy blue on the verge of cracking looks down at me, and I suppress a shiver that has very little to do with any cold.   Then she smiles, and my heart beats that much faster.   “Remind me to teach you what a perverse incentive is,” she says with that glint she gets when she’s teasing somebody while trying not to look like she’s teasing somebody.   “If it is an incentive to be perverse, I’ve got more than enough of those already…” I mumble while trying not to grab her hips, throw her over the desk, and—   Nope! Girlfriend just went through an encounter with what may as well be our mutual ex; she needs support more than panting and grabbing my hair while screaming my name as I lick at her—   Support! Emotional, not handsy!   Oh, wait, I’ve got a plan!   Shut up, Hikky. You’re not the only one allowed to have those.   ***   The plan is wonderful, perfect, and shows how brilliant I am, no matter what everyone else keeps saying.   “Yui?” Yukinon asks, sitting on the ground, surrounded by kittens pawing at her skirt and looking like she’s about to faint from sheer cuteness overload in the middle of the cat café.   So, of course, I’m taking pictures.   Especially when her eyes evade me and she uses a gray-striped kitty to shield her almost glowing face.   “Shush, Yukinon, just let the kitties do what they do best,” I tell her while looking for the perfect angle to make this into my phone screen for years to come.   Maybe I should ask Iroha for tips. You know, after I’ve had enough time to process what the little skank is—stop. That’s not nice.   Not that she’s lacking in nice things at the moment… Seriously, Ms. Hiratsuka too? That’s like having two Hikkis, only with one of them being a sexy older woman, so the sandwich would be even more—   Yukinon! Yukinon surrounded by kitties and about to faint! Yes, that’s more than good enough for anything that isn’t a horny fantasy.   Not that she isn’t also good enough for those, but, you know, I’ve had enough horny thoughts today, so maybe I should focus on the wholesome cuteness of small kitties clumsily crawling all over her skirt and…   And there’s one trying to crawl beneath her skirt and between her thighs. Because of course the universe is set on not letting my hormones rest for even just a moment.   Resigned to my fate, I lean forward and pick the orange tabby fuzzball by the scruff of his neck.   “Bad kitty. Those are mine,” I tell him as seriously as I ever scold Sable.   And the thing mewls and tries to bat my nose.   … Why is everything cute about cats also a reminder that they are murderous little beasts?   “Yours?” Yukinon asks, peeking over the gray-stripped kitty with eyes surprisingly as blue as her own.   “Ah… I mean… I already gave you a lecture about this, but it’s your body, and you have every right to do whatever—never mind! It’s just, you know, I kinda would like some squatter rights or something?”   I suddenly have a face full of fluff.   Thankfully, Yukinon’s chosen kitty is a bit less violence-happy than the one who tried to venture where no cat has gone before, so it ends up licking me between my eyes.   It kinda tickles.   … Fine. I’m sorry, Sable, but a cat is fine too.   “You do realize squatter rights are only acquired after a prolonged occupation?”   Is… is that a glint of mischief? It’s kinda hard to tell with the pointy, fuzzy ears in the way.   Also: Yukinon with cat ears. Yes.   “I am ready to occupy you for as long as it takes,” I finally say.   And she flushes crimson even faster than she’s done up till now.   I’m pretty sure that means progress. I don’t know what kind, though.   “Yui… you are a pervert.”   “I think it’s just a healthy interest—”   “No. No, there’s nothing about you that can be defined with as insufficient a word as ‘just.’”   “Thanks…?”   The kitty currently being used as a not very good blindfold is gently dropped on my lap, where it proceeds to yawn and curl itself.   And then Yukinon, hands free of any prospective kitty-squatters, takes my hand, her fingers lacing between mine as she looks at her own lap where a calico, chubby thing is rolling down her thighs.   My breath catches, and I tighten my hold on her hand.   Without looking up, her eyes almost hidden by her dark bangs, a small smile that has nothing ironic or smug on it blooms.   And I just stare at her until the traitorous tabby bites down on my wrist.   ***   Kitty teeth are short, and their jaws are weak, which is the only reason for me to only be covered in light scratches rather than profusely bleeding when I get back to my home after a longer absence than I planned.   Yukinon is with me, because I think it would be a bit awkward to force her to spend the night at her apartment with Haruno after everything we learned today, and the two sisters aren’t ready to have a heart-to-heart like TV always told me they were supposed to do.   I guess the way Mama usually avoids even bringing up auntie should’ve already been a clue that TV isn’t the best at showing how sisters interact with each other.   Anyway, this is the first time I’ll be bringing Yukinon to my home as a girlfriend rather than a girl who’s a friend, so I’m sure Mama will tease us both relentlessly, but that was going to happen sooner or later, so we should get over it right now. Because, you know, the rest of the day has gone smoothly and without any stress so far…   “Yui? Are we going to stand in front of the door much longer?”   I shoot her a half-hearted glare, and take out my keys, then hold the door open for her as she steps into the apartment building.   “Mom won’t be home for a bit,” I tell her as we wait for the elevator.   “Oh?” she asks with disinterest and then clenches her hand around mine—   Oh.   “N-not like that! I mean, it’s just the time she gets off—at work! She gets off at work—no! She gets off work!”   Yukinon chuckles.   “… Please, don’t ever bring this up again. And never mention it to Mama,” I plead with my best ‘Sable wanting a cookie’ imitation.   “I make no promises. You’ll just have to behave,” she says with a hint of that smirk of hers that I’ve missed so much since her mother approached us on the street.   “Fine, be that way, see if I—wait a second.” As soon as the elevator doors open on my floor, I can hear a whiny, small dog scratching at a door Mama and I have given up on ever being clean for more than a few days, so I rush with my key out and open the door just in time to take the brunt of two short forepaws on my belly as Sable launches at me with all the enthusiasm of a furry missile missing its owner.   I kneel before entering my home and start petting it to calm him down, Sable rolling on the floor and showing me his belly before he suddenly stops wiggling.   “Sable?” I ask him as he rolls on his paws and looks at me with his eyes narrowed in what I could swear is a disapproving frown.   Then he sniffs my hands that, obviously, still smell like multiple aggressive kittens, and proceeds to thoroughly lick them clean without breaking eye contact.   Behind me, Yukinon snorts in amusement, and I realize I’m doomed to fall to an alliance between my girlfriend and my dog.   At least Mama should be on my side… I hope.     ================== ================== This work is a repost of the first spin-off of the Cakeverse. The whole verse can be found on QQ, or up to date on my Patreon. Unless something drastic happens, it will be updated on Tuesdays and Thursdays until it catches up to the currently written chapters.   Also, I’d like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving me a hand and help me keep writing snarky, maladjusted teenagers and their cake buffets, consider joining them or buying one of my books on Amazon. Thank you for reading!  

Chapter 10 - Yui’s Lily Garden – Chapter 10

All Right! Fine! I’ll Take You! – Yui’s Lily Garden – Chapter 10   This is a familiar staircase.   I sometimes heard Hikky mutter something about familiar ceilings after waking up from one of his impromptu naps in our club—not that I was watching him sleep or anything! I mean, that would be creepy, and he is the creepy one. And gross. And a lust-fueled womanizer who should not have, ever, called me a slut. So, yeah, if anything, he would be the one creepily watching me sleep.   Not me.   I would never do that.   Not creepily, at least.   …   Yukinon doesn’t count. She’s my girlfriend. I’m expected to watch her cute sleeping face and wonder what kind of noise she would make if I woke her up by—aaaaaahhhh!   Anyway! A familiar ceiling! That’s a very weird thing to say, so it stuck with me, and now I’m watching a gray tile with a single splotch of dried white paint right under the wall farthest from me, and this is a familiar staircase because it’s one in my high school, and I go through it most days, but also…   “So… You… Is everything going well?” Yumiko asks me while refusing to meet my eyes, blushing like Saika does when he’s messing with Hikky, and pushing me against the wall behind me.   With one hand on each of my shoulders.   Thankfully, she hasn’t slammed an open palm right by my face, because I don’t know how I would’ve reacted to that.   “Yumiko, really?” I ask the girl visibly about to lose her nerve.   “I… what do you mean?” she says, still looking to the side, as if checking nobody is going up the stairs before she—nope. None of that.   I have a girlfriend!   … Shut up, Hikky. You’re the one who insisted that Yukinon and I should be monogamous.   “Are you really… Did you drag me here just to gossip about my sex life?” I finally say sternly enough that I should not be thinking about riding crops.   Shut up, Hikky.   “S—s—se—sex life?!” Yumiko asks.   I… blink at her.   At the blushing, stammering girl who looks the furthest she can be from the ice queen she likes to pretend to be.   And I now remember just how our latest conversation went.   … Is this my life now? Am I doomed to instruct all my female friends about sex, and their bodies, and how perfectly natural masturbation is? Am I going to have to round them all up to give group lectures rather than the individual tutoring Yukinon gets? Is this really—wait. No.   I definitely know of at least one frie—acquaintance that doesn’t need any lectures about sex.   Damn it, Iroha…   “Hey, no need to be so nervous,” I tell Yumiko as I gently press her right hand against my shoulder, tracing the back of it with my thumb until her scared eyes look back at me and away from the deserted stairs.   I smile at her, warmly and gently, like I did with Sable when he was a little puppy that still didn’t know us, and he got scared by a storm.   It… apparently works, because Yumiko’s cheeks go from red to pink, and she lets go of one of my shoulders.   “Sorry. It’s… It’s all so new to me…” she says.   “Yumiko… You already knew that people have sex, didn’t you?” I ask with just a bit of a frown because I’m not dealing with a second Yukinon—phrasing!   “I—yes! Of course! But it’s just… it’s something that adults do. And nobody I… none of my friends have ever… you know,” she finishes, her head hanging down until the taller girl has to look up at me through golden bangs.   … Cute.   “I don’t get Hayama,” I say.   “What?”   “Yes. What. That’s the only thing I can think about him. How is he—you are cute. Adorable. I want to wrap you in a tight hug until your ear tips burst into flames and you stammer on the verge of a panic attack! I want to watch you perform each and every single one of your attempts at coming off as aloof and dignified before melting into a puddle of overwhelmed, helplessly clueless affection. Damn it, Yumiko, you know I have a type; stop doing your best Yukinon impression!”   “Wha—what?!”   “And Hayama? He had both you and Iroha after him, and he’s still a virgin? Is he asexual? Gay? Is everything up till now just part of his plan to get in Hikky’s pants? How has he not taken you by your waist, slammed you against a wall, and—”   “What! What!”   “—just shown you how utterly desirable you can be when—”   Huh.   There’s a palm over my mouth.   And a blushing blonde in front of me.   …   As it turns out, spending the night with Yukinon hasn’t made my libido any more manageable.   Or, as it also turns out, it may have made it worse.   … I’m not about to cry. Really. Sable, your mistress isn’t such a crybaby. I’m still the same brave, big girl who defended you from the scary thunder despite being pretty terrified myself.   …   Is she gonna do something other than stand in front of me, staring wide-eyed at—   She isn’t going to kiss me, is she?!   “I have a girlfriend!” I yell into Yumiko’s now surprised face as soon as I tear her hand away from my mouth.   She blinks at me.   Then blushes harder.   “Is… I… I know, so why are you saying all those things about—”   “Because they are true! And friends should be truthful, or they end up in messy love triangles in which every one of them has to keep guessing what the other is thinking until the self-sacrificing moron does something dramatic and unnecessarily flashy just to keep the friendship going despite everything else that could’ve happened if only he hadn’t been… him,” I say.   Calmly.   And clearly only saying things I meant to say.   … My cheeks are on fire, and this is not because Yukinon has gotten her hands on a riding crop.   “Everything else that would—are you saying you wanted… both?” Yumiko asks in what looks pretty much like scandalized delight before her blush darkens once more, and the upward quirk of her lips melts into shock.   I tilt my head to the right in a way I’ll never confess I copied from Sable.   “Yumiko… I’m going to ask something, and I want you to answer without yelling or fainting,” I tell her, already fearing the answer.   “Wha—fainting?”   “Do you masturbate?”   Her eyes bug out.   Her hand on my shoulder first clutches me and then snaps right away.   And her mouth moves without making sounds.   Oh, dear.   “Look, it’s… it’s a natural thing to do, and sometimes you fantasize about things that you may or not want. Many girls have touched themselves thinking about being… well, forcefully taken, but that doesn’t mean they would like it if it actually happened. That’s one of the good things about doing things by yourself and just… It’s safe. It’s how you learn about your body, about what you like or dislike, so that, one day, when you and your lover are ready, you can share things without fumbling unnecessarily or going through painful things that you could’ve avoided. So, Yumiko, I just want you to…”   She’s still gaping at me.   I think I’ve broken her.   Which is utterly unfair because this is the second time I’ve given this particular lecture in two days, and it’s taking a lot out of me not to sway in place, and, on second thought, the wall behind me feels nice and cool, so I think I’ll just slide down until I’m sitting on the floor, and…   And now I’m breathing.   All right.   It’s… everything is all right. I haven’t said anything worth feeling embarrassed about. I’ve just told Yumiko some things that should already be common knowledge, and why isn’t it common knowledge—   “I have,” a tiny, squeaky voice mutters in front of me.   And I force my eyes up from my bare knees peeking from under my skirt to see an embarrassed blonde crouching down in front of me as if to stare right down into my eyes even as she once again stubbornly looks toward the deserted stairs.   “You have?” I ask. Just for clarification and not because I’m relieved at the world at least making this much sense.   I was starting to wonder if Mister Chuuni had the right of it, after all…   Yumiko quickly looks at me, blushes harder, and looks away.   Okay.   So I sigh and straighten at least a little bit, trying to think where to go from here—   “It’s… just a few times. And I… I don’t know if I did it right, because when you read stories, you’re supposed to be feeling all those fireworks, and I… it’s not like it felt bad, but I didn’t faint or anything close, and… And then I finished, and I felt a bit guilty, and gross, and sweaty, and I don’t even… how do you know if you’re normal and not…”   Damn it.   Okay. Okay, apparently, not everybody can have their own Mama not make a mess of this particular part of their upbringing. And, well, it’s not like teaching—   Thoughts about Yukinon hungrily looking up at me while I wear a tight black pencil skirt are not welcome right now.   Later.   Much later.   “It could be a lot of things,” I say, straightening up and taking her hand between mine until she relaxes and her fingers soften on my palms. “There’re no right answers and only very few wrong ones. It could be that you weren’t in the right mood, that your body wasn’t ready for it, that you were expecting too much and got in your own way… This is why exploring is such an important part of the whole thing, Yumiko. You need to learn not only what feels good but that you can feel good. That you’re allowed to. It’s your body, and only you decide what happens to it.”   “But… But if Hayato…” she says with a little thread of voice that makes my heart melt.   “If you and Hayama ever do take that step… He needs to know it’s because you want it. Only if you want it. And you can want to let him take the reins, to lose yourself, but only when you’re very, very sure of things. Explore first, both by yourself and with your partner.”   “And you… you have…?”   I lick my lips a bit nervously and take a deep breath that, somehow, ends with Yumiko staring a bit below my neckline.   Damn it.   Allegedly straight girls will be the end of me.   “I… I don’t want to get into too many details before knowing if Yukinon is all right with me sharing, but… We did some things. And it was… It was wonderful, but only because we love one another and respect one another. If you don’t feel that? If you have doubts or fears? You need to talk about those before doing anything else.”   “Why—how do you know so much about this?”   “Mama is a nurse,” I say with a shrug.   And pretend that’s the whole of it.   “Your mother taught you—”   “My Mama taught me about sex, about my own body, and about plenty of things that I’m now realizing many parents don’t teach their children. And, if Yukinon and I ever adopt, I’m going to get a notebook and ask her to teach me how to teach my own children because this is necessary, and I won’t let her grandkids go through the trauma some girls I know have.”   Yumiko blinks at me.   Then looks down at her hand, still between mine.   And, for some reason, she smiles in that way she rarely does if she thinks somebody is looking at her.   “You’re amazing, Yui,” she says.   “… I have a girlfriend,” I lamely answer.   Which, for some reason, makes her look up from our hands, blink repeatedly, look back at our hands, and quickly take hers away to cradle it against her chest.   “I—I didn’t mean to—!”   And I hug her.   “I have a girlfriend. And a great friend. And, if you’d been a lesbian, I may have fallen for you, but I’m really glad I didn’t.”   The girl draped over me after losing her balance stiffens before slowly returning my hug.   “I would have. If I was,” she whispers. “But I’m glad I haven’t.”   “Yet,” I say with an impish grin and a lot of Mama in my tone.   This, somehow, ends with a flustered Yumiko batting at my shoulder and struggling to get away from my hug as I laugh in a way I hadn’t since Hikky and Yukinon got caught up in that speech Haruno threw at us.   Because she’s my friend, and that’s worth a lot more than many people think.   ***   “I… need to do something today,” Yukinon says.   Apparently, that’s enough to make me do a full Sable pout, because she giggles behind her bent finger and stands up to pat my shoulder.   The red sun is behind her, the club room empty, just for the two of us, as Hikky is presumably doing Hikky things with his new harem.   And many, many thoughts rush through my head, both about what those things could be and about how far Yukinon would be willing to go while inside the school.   Half of them are very nice thoughts, the other half are just confusing enough that I don’t want to think them.   Particularly the ones involving Iroha.   “So… I know it’s not usual, but… but we’ve spent the past two nights together, and I… you know…” I say, trying not to fidget, blush, or look away from gorgeous, sky-blue eyes.   And failing miserably at the three things.   “I… I don’t want to impose,” she says, the tone warmer than the stiff wording implies.   “You’re always welcome in my house. You know that Mama—”   “Yui, I can’t move into your house—”   “Says who—”   “Common sense.”   “And since when do we care about that?”   She arches a Yukinoshita eyebrow at me, pretending that’s answer enough.   And I grab her lapels and drag her down to me so I can kiss her as hard as I want to.   She staggers, and I push forward until the back of her knees hits her chair, her legs bend, and I end up sitting on top of her, my thighs on each side of hers, something behind my navel burning as I keep taking her lips until she gasps against me and I take the opening to thrust my tongue into her mouth, licking her, tasting her, feeling all that Yukinon can give me and most of the things I will take from her as my heart hammers in my chest and something roars in my ears until the red sun fades away and there’s only Yukinon, the girl I love, under me, her eyelids quivering, almost closed, just a hint of sky-blue showing through the fading slit about to close entirely as I grab her nape and make her moan.   “Mine,” I say, allowing her to open her eyes back and look up at me in disheveled wonder. “You’re mine, and you will sleep where and when I tell you to.”   “Wha… I…”   “Mine,” I growl as I dip down to nip on the left side of her neck, her back arching when she answers with a muffled yelp that softens into a low purr when I lick up toward her ear just so I can warmly whisper: “You will sleep If I let you.”   Her hands tighten on my back, clawing at me through my jacket, and we’re wearing too many clothes for this, whatever this is, because I’m about to—   Uh.   About to respectfully back away and wait for my girlfriend to compose herself so she can tell me what she’s comfortable with and what her boundaries are.   Damn it, Yumiko…   “Yu… Yui… I…” she says.   “Don’t. I’m sorry, I… I got carried away. I won’t pressure you, Yukinon; it’s just—no. No, that’s wrong. I won’t pressure you. That’s it. Full stop. There’s nothing that goes after that line.”   She looks up at me, her back arched so that her breasts are thrust toward me, her eyes open, her hair streaming down behind her in a cascade of black locks shimmering with red sunlight.   … This is very, very hard. I’m just glad I don’t have a penis.   …   I don’t know where that came from, but I’m going to stuff it inside a mental box until I’m alone, my bedroom door is locked, and Sable has had his evening walk.   “I could—” she says.   “You could keep being my perfect girlfriend and do absolutely nothing that you aren’t comfortable with,” I say, cutting her off with a fierce glare the likes of which can keep at bay a German Shepherd.   Okay, just one German Shepherd, and, admittedly, Lucy is a sweetheart, but I didn’t know that the first time that she came running right at Sable, so it still counts.   And, in the face of my most fiercest of glares, Yukinon… smiles.   “I don’t deserve you,” she says, her right hand lightly teasing up my spine before her fingers slowly spread across my bare nape.   “I don’t,” I answer, suppressing the shudder of delight at her deliberate caress. “So I’m very glad this isn’t about deserving anything.”   Her smile softens, something warm behind her eyes making the blue sky in them brighten.   Then she drags me down into a soft, slow kiss that lasts until the time the club is supposed to close.   And just a bit extra.   ***   Yukino   My lips feel raw.   I should start wearing Chapstick.   Or, at least, carrying it for occasions such as Yui once again proving to be somebody beyond what I can handle, which, if current trends hold, will be each and every day of the rest of my life.   I almost stumble at the surprising thought, at the intrusion of a prospective happiness lasting that long.   Then my etiquette training takes over, and I keep walking down the grey sidewalk with a purposeful stride, my face as impassible as ever except for the tingling warmth on my cheeks.   A warmth that lingers until I reach my apartment building, and I can see how the tingling translates into a pink hue on my cheeks in the mirror in front of me.   And this… This is the Yukino she sees. The one she claims to love. The one defenselessly looking up at her when she throws her feelings at me, and I feel like my heart isn’t big enough to accept all of them, no matter how much I want to—nor how much I fear to.   Because I…   I’m a mess.   I’m broken.   I’ve… For most of my life, I struggled to live up to somebody else. Somebody I thought I loved more than anybody else. Somebody that was both a goal and an ideal.   But maybe not a person.   Not… Not with how I felt when I walked in on her, drunk on my sofa, crying her heart out.   Not with how little I understood when my sister claimed I was better than she was at being loved.   The elevator door hums open, and I turn my back on the Yukino in the mirror to get to my apartment.   To where my sister now lives.   I’ve thought about what I will say. About what I want to say and what I need to say.   I know most of it is useless, that my sister will make a mockery of each and any plan I can come up with.   But…   But I also know that she’s…   That we’re a mess.   That we’re broken.   But Yui has taught me… that’s no reason not to be loved.     ================== ================== This work is a repost of the first spin-off of the Cakeverse. The whole verse can be found on QQ, or up to date on my Patreon. Unless something drastic happens, it will be updated on Tuesdays and Thursdays until it catches up to the currently written chapters.   Also, I’d like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving me a hand and help me keep writing snarky, maladjusted teenagers and their cake buffets, consider joining them or buying one of my books on Amazon. Thank you for reading!  

Chapter 4 - All right! Fine! I will take you! – Chapter 4

The nurse’s office is a deceitful oasis. It is often seen as a place for the main character to arrive, maybe after a minor scrape or sprain, and find a love interest who is there for pretty much any other weak excuse that most people would just walk off. The ever negligent (mature, beautiful, stacked) nurse will irresponsibly leave them alone or never have been there in the first place, and the girl will care for the male lead (bonus points if she needs to handle his leg), thus convincingly showing off the appeal of a mothering, caring side and giving the doujin authors an excuse to put her in a nurse uniform. Just kidding, they don’t need any excuses.   In works of a spicier nature, the girl will find the male lead while he is napping (a thing that, obviously, is perfectly tolerated in the otherwise strict Japanese education system—must be due to our Spanish roots), sit beside him worried about his fever or stress or whatever, and inexplicably end up hiding from a third party by hiding under the blanket with him. It is thus established that, while the nurse’s office may offer a sanctuary of sorts, it is far from inviolable and must be avoided at all costs by people with legitimate reasons to be there, who should remain home or go to an actual clinic where they are less likely to be disturbed by shenanigans unsuited to speed along the healing process.   It is thus very fortunate that I don’t have any legitimate reason to be here, even if my sweat-drenched appearance, raw breathing, and flushed face were enough to convince my own unduly careless nurse to give me permission to lie on the cot for the morning periods.   Truly, an active sex life is full of unsuspected advantages.   So, Hachiman, now that you have secured yourself a safe(ish) spot to lay low for a while, what do you intend to do?   …   Fine, you aren’t giving me much to work with, Hachiman. Subconscious-kun, any suggestions?   …   Right. My subconscious also doesn’t know how to handle complicated romantic situations. As expected. Let’s just go over the objective facts and then try to draw any kind of conclusion:   1)      I just had oral sex with Shizu (insert overwhelming, standing ovation). 2)      I was caught in the act by a suspiciously enthusiastic Iroha (confused clapping). 3)      Shizu knows we were caught. Still hasn’t reacted, as she had to hurry to class (crickets). 4)      Iroha herself has shown me she has “documented” the event before disappearing without another word (confused screaming). 5)      My first period was Japanese, with Shizu as my teacher and Yuigahama sitting right there (panicked screaming). 6)      For the first time in my life, I have skipped a class without reason. I am now a juvenile delinquent and will grow my hair into a pompadour. I will follow your teachings, Onizuka-sensei! (Vociferous ovation.)   Or, in other words, I am a coward who has fled the confrontation before it can even spark.   Sigh. Still thinking about the pompadour, to be honest.   Right, it is only cowardly if I don’t come up with any strategy to confront my problem; otherwise, it is the Joestar family’s secret technique. Which leads me right back around to pompadours. It is looking like a better idea by the minute.   Stop it with the escapism. I need to confront Iroha, reassure Shizu, straighten things up with Yukinoshita and Yuigahama and make sure Komachi dies an old spinster. That last one is non-negotiable.   Regarding Iroha, there is little I can plan for other than trying to be stern with her after she has graphically documented my sloppy, orgasming face. Which I predict will go smoothly and without any kind of awkwardness. Shizu will be more easily reassured if I know what the deal with the Strongest Junior is before I speak with her, so, of all my current issues, I can only plan what to do about Yukinoshita and Yuigahama. Which means going to have lunch at the club room and hoping one of them is there, because there is no way I can face them in any public setting as things stand. They will likely still be hung up on the whole prom issue, because (hopefully) no torrid romance with an older teacher will have derailed their lives since yesterday.   NTR is a shit fetish.   Harem is also a shitty genre, yes, but I am proud to be called a hypocrite when it suits me, and not at all when it doesn’t. That’s what being a hypocrite means, you know?   And thus, once I have finished the Herculean task of deciding where I will eat my lunch, the bell sounds and signals it is time for me to enact my “plan.”   Argh.   It is with the heavy steps of a doomed man that I make my way to the club room, opening the unlocked door with resignation at seeing my hopes of it being empty so cruelly dashed.   It is with the heartbeat of a racing horse that I confront the inhabitants of the room: the kuudere Yukinoshita, the genki girl Yuigahama, and the foxy, smirking, smug Isshiki.   The Joestar family’s secret technique is looking pretty good at the moment.   I enter the room as nonchalantly as I can, waving the customary two fingers of cool, hip, detached characters everywhere, only to find my gaze drawn to Iroha crossing her arms under her chest, a smirk on her face that seems to say, ‘Oh? You’re approaching me? Instead of running away, you are coming right to me?’   Unfortunately, I am still in my larval phase as a juvenile delinquent, so I don’t have a cool, brash rejoinder to defiantly spout—and I don’t think threatening to beat the shit out of her would be particularly acceptable in the current political climate. Though I do sputter, in case it counts for something.   “Hikigaya,” Yukinoshita greets me with her customary tone detached of any obvious emotional response. Yuigahama, instead, mutters a happy “Hikky!” that manages to convey worry at having missed me in the morning period with relief at seeing I am fine and dandy. All right, just ‘fine,’ never ‘dandy.’   Iroha, instead…   “Oh, Senpai, it is so good to see you come here. It saves me the trouble of running around looking for you.” Dammit, woman, show some restrain!   “Did you agree to meet?” Yukinoshita asks, innocence unmarred by the demon in human guise sitting across from her.   “No, we just keep crashing into each other. You know, Senpai is so forceful…” she trails off, eyes lidded, smirk pointed. I hurry to sit down on my chair. For no reason. At all.   “Hikki is? I guess he can be a bit overbearing…” Yuigahama mutters. Bless your innocent, empty head, Yuigahama. Your skill at not reading between the lines is a national treasure.   “Oi, how about not speaking about me as if I am not right here?” I try for ‘nonchalant,’ I hope I don’t hit ‘whiny.’   “Ah, you were here, Hikigaya? I apologize, it seems you are as forgettable as ever.” Yukinoshita, how about toning the abuse while all the sexual tension is still swimming around my brain? I don’t want to pick up any weird fetish, you know?   I grumble a bit in response as I take out my lunchbox, hoping against hope things won’t get any more awkward (for me), and start eating the plain rice that is a staple of proper Japanese meals. No, it’s not because I am awful at coming up with ways to flavor it. Truly.   Tee-hee.   “You have trouble remembering him, Yukinoshita? I have some photos you could look at, if you need a reminder,” Iroha says, once again managing to destroy all of my hopes and dreams just as I come up with them. I shoot a look at her, trying to silence her and/or kill her with my latent psychic powers, and she flashes me her smartphone from beneath the table.   Oh, psychic suppressors are a thing. Who would have known.   “Isshiki, while I commend you on proactively gathering evidence for the inevitable police case file, I should remind you I am currently eating,” Yukinoshita says, crossing the line. Twice.   “Right, that’s my daily quota of mental abuse done with, thank you very much for being so diligent.”   “Don’t even mention it, Hikigaya, I am always ready to go above and beyond for your sake.” How heartwarming; I think I am even getting heartburn already.   “Likewise, Senpai, I just enjoy seeing you struggling to hold back.” For fuck’s sake, Isshiki, knock it off!   “Uh… I feel like I should be joining in. You are creepy, Hikki? Is that fine?”   … This may be the most gentle way somebody has ever called me creepy. Truly, you are a saint, Yuigahama.   A saint of what, I better not tell.   “It is perfectly all right not to join in, Yuigahama, no need to compete with others when you belong in your own special category,” I reassure her sincerely and without any ill-intentions.   “I think I should be mad at that, but I am not sure why.” Yuigahama frowns cutely while pondering her dilemma. Ah, how soothing it is to watch her struggle. Wait, is Isshiki corrupting me?   Anyway, that’s enough foreplay.   … Dammit, brain…   I sigh and (somewhat) square my shoulders before facing my clubmates (plus intruder). I am still not sure how to handle this, but…   “So, about the prom,” I say, and they all stiffen.   “About the prom?” Yukinoshita answers primly and properly, no joking hidden under the icy veneer.   “What are you planning?”   “I will suitably address each and every one of the points raised by the PTA and make a counterproposal they will have no issue with.”   “You know that won’t work. The objection is an excuse to attack the very concept; you cannot make them change their minds just by addressing the excuses without attacking the root cause of the issue.”   “And what would be that ‘root cause?’”   “Respectability. Image. They don’t want the school associated with teenagers dancing and having fun like in some kind of American comedy with probably raunchy undertones.” Brain! Tone it down, for fuck’s sake!   ‘But, Hikigaya-kun, we just got our first blowjob and caught our cute junior possibly getting off to the thrill of watching us getting our cock slobbered on by our beautiful Christmas Cake teacher! You can’t expect me not to be stuck on the subject of sex, especially while said junior is looking at us while licking the tip of her index finger!’   Of course I can expect you to—wait, she’s doing what?!   Yuigahama is looking between Yukinoshita and I while wringing her hands, always anxious about seeing her friends clash. Yukinoshita is icily staring me down, daring me to come up with something as underhanded as I always do. And Isshiki is, in fact, looking at me with lidded eyes while licking the very tip of her index finger in a way that may, somehow, to the casual observer, pass as a nervous tick rather than something a twin-tailed blonde in a cheerleader’s uniform would practice on a lollipop.   I cough loudly. I read somewhere it’s a way to get rid of unwanted erections.   The internet has lied to me. Again.   “Hikki? Are you all right?” Yuigahama interjects with tender concern, her big eyes searching mine in a way that makes it obvious when my gaze drops down to the small expanse of creamy skin exposed by the first few undone buttons of her uniform. I look up as soon as I catch myself, but her cheeks still redden in a way that makes me want to look hard enough to make her squirm.   …   I may not need an adult, but I think she does.   “Just… fine. I am feeling a bit out of sorts this morning,” Isshiki stifles a snort of laughter and I resist the urge to glare at her. Barely. “Anyway, Yukinoshita, please allow me some time to think about how to handle this, we could—”   “There’s no need for you to do that.”   The words are sharp, concise, and all playfulness gets drained out of the room.   “It’s not about me needing to do anything—” I try to remain calm and conciliatory. Which would be easier if I had been any of those things previously. Maybe in a past life.   “Then let me clarify: I will do this on my own, Hikigaya. I do not want you to help.”   And now I can see why Haruno can get so pissed off at this brat.   I take a deep breath, count to ten while Yuigahama looks nervously between us both, thinking about what to say (and I don’t look at Isshiki, just in case). Then I grasp the chance I’ve been given.   “Very well, I won’t help you,” she looks at me, relieved, almost grateful. “Instead, I will defeat you.”   “… What?”   “We have a standing challenge, Yukinoshita. Let’s settle it once and for all. Winner takes all.” I show more confidence than I ever have before. Testosterone, don’t fail me now.   She looks at me, gratitude and relief gone from her icy gaze. And this is the Yukinoshita I was so captivated by, the one who could stand up to me and my bullshit, the one who could act without hesitation, not the one who hid behind false pretenses, who disguised her weakness for fear of showing it to us. I hate myself a bit at the realization, but I liked the fake Yukinoshita better than the Yukinoshita who faked.   Not that it matters now.   “Very well. Club is suspended until this matter is over.” And she stands, gathering her unfinished lunch.   “Ah, guys, we don’t need to—” Yuigahama looks lost, and I feel guilty for her, but it will be for the best once this is all over. I promise, Yui.   “I think they do, Yui. I wish they didn’t, but… they do.” Isshiki reassures her, softly, as if talking to a distraught child, and there’s so much I could forgiver her just for this moment.   “Yes. We do.” I pick up my own unfinished lunch and get out of the room before Yukinoshita can, hoping she will stay with Yui if I give her this excuse. And that’s it, the result of the Joestar family’s secret technique: my departure from the club.   Only time will tell if it was for the best.   ***   I push open the malfunctioning door to the roof, hoping to find a spot to finish eating in privacy. It looks like I am in luck, because it is as empty as my social prospects in the near future. Rather than take out my food, though, I sit down to watch the clouds drift by like some kind of suicidally lazy ninja.   It doesn’t take long for Isshiki to catch up. As expected.   “Senpai, I…” She drifts off, not knowing how to continue.   “It’s all right, Isshiki; it’s not your fault,” I say, as reassuring as she just was with Yui.   “But I… The reason I asked you to help with the prom was…” She wrings her hands, chin tucked in insecure vulnerability.   “I know. It was for us.”   “You knew?”   “It wasn’t hard to guess, what with you insisting it needed to be established without issue so next year would be a sure thing.”   “I could have been talking about Hayama. I did mention him.” I snort at that, and she glares. Which suits her far better.   “You could have. You weren’t.” I leave it at that and hope she doesn’t question me further, because I don’t know what I would end up saying.   She seems to accept my words, because she just shuts up and sits beside me. We remain like that for a few moments, just letting the silence hang comfortably between us.   “So, about you and Ms. Hiratsuka…” Dammit, Isshiki, look what you have done to Comfortable Silence-kun!   “About me and Shizu…?”   “… You may want to make sure you don’t call her ‘Shizu’ so casually.”   “My internal monologue seems to have no filter nowadays. Sorry about that.”   She looks at me, not quite a glare, but obviously not happy with me either.   “Call me Iroha.”   “What?!”   “You heard me. If you are going around giving cutesy nicknames to women, I want to make sure I don’t end up with something embarrassing, so call me Iroha.” She puffs up her chest, a gesture that would have been more impressive on Yuigahama, but much less so in Yukinoshita. A happy middle with its own merits.   Brain, we are going to have a serious talk after this conversation.   “Very well, Iroha.” She gets that cute, light pink on her cheeks that she sometimes gets when I catch her off-guard and a pleased little smile that makes my heart beat that bit faster than it should when not around Shizu. Testosterone, you have already done your job for the day; you can leave now, thank you very much.   “Senpai…” She looks into my eyes, head tilted down, eyes lidded, lip half-bitten. No, Testosterone-kun, don’t do it! “Now that we are so much closer…” And I can feel the heat of her arm leaking into mine from where she is sitting so close to me that—when did she move! “Maybe you could…”   She trails off.   And keeps looking at me.   “Yes?” I unwillingly ask.   “Tell me in exacting detail how this—” she flashes her smartphone with the damning pictures at me— “happened?”   Right, brain, I know we haven’t been getting along today, but I really, really could use your help at this very moment.   “You see, when a bee likes a flower very much, she sometimes drinks her dry of nectar and—” Dammit, brain!   Fortunately for my rapidly overheating sense of embarrassment, Iroha buries her fist right in my solar plexus. Never have my pained, breathless gasps sounded so grateful.   “I know what happened; I want to know how it happened.”   “Well, the thing started when she dropped down to her knees and—” I catch a dangerous glint in Iroha’s gaze and quickly backtrack. After sighing. The sigh is important. “I went to see her about the prom yesterday to see what could be done,” she looks at me with warm gratitude at that, which… never mind. “She started on one of her rants about dying an old spinster and… I got caught up in the moment and kissed her.” I remember, with my cheeks so warm I think they may show up in the weather forecast.   “And that’s it… that’s all it took for it to be ‘genuine?’” she asks, doubtful, maybe disappointed.   “No. No, that wasn’t it. I wouldn’t have done that with any other woman, no matter how attractive; what I have with Shizu… It is new, still doesn’t have a name, but… But it is something just between us. Something I couldn’t have with any other woman.”   “Are you that easily seduced, Senpai? Are you telling me if yesterday didn’t happen you would not have been able to have this with Yukinoshita or Yui?” There’s something hidden in that question, but it is something I am safer not looking for, so I will just answer honestly.   “No, I wouldn’t,” she gasps at my straightforward denial, so I clarify. “I would be able to have something unique to Yukinoshita and me, or to Yui and me, but not what I have with Shizu. They… They are all unique, and I can’t exchange them for one another. Each one offers what they are, what they can be with me, so forcing on them what I would expect to get from another… that would be unforgivable.” And I taste bile at those words, because I am being forced by Iroha to confront things I would rather remain unsaid, because words are imperfect to really show what I feel, what I mean, but… But I am also grateful. Because words are imperfect, but silence doesn’t even try.   “I… see.” And maybe she does, and maybe she doesn’t, but that’s what a relationship is, and we can just push forward, hoping we end up traveling in the same direction, that we end up walking alongside one another, together.   She takes my hand, warm fingers soothing my cold ones as they are grasped, and she squeezes my palm. How lewd.   “I want to watch,” she says.   “Guh?” I intelligently reply.   Her face is red and she doesn’t look at me, eyes locked on a spot of the floor as if it holds the very meaning of life.   “I… I mean, I am at that age where I am starting to find this kind of thing interesting, you know? And, and maybe, maybe it would be safer to find out about it with people I… trust? And besides, I know…” Her frantic words petter out and her shouders sag.   “You know?” I, unwisely, prod her.   “I know you liked me watching you,” she says, voice tinier than I have ever heard from her, and something snaps in my head.   Something which is happening with worrisome frequency. I may need to go to the doctor—I will just omit the names and ages of those involved.   “I did.” Oi, you deep-voiced, cocky bastard, what are you saying while using my body? I should warn you it hasn’t been properly maintained and the insurance will charge you a premium. You should think about getting your own.   Her hand slackens on mine, and I grip her tighter before she can think to get it back. Gently yet forcefully, I grasp her chin and force her to abandon her search for cosmological answers carelessly lying on the floor and look into my eyes. Hers are wide, eyelids almost fluttering, and a deep blush blooming right under them. Mine… I guess they are intense, because that’s how I feel right now, that weird energy I felt when handling Shizu somehow making my gestures surer, firmer.   “I did like you looking at me, gasping for breath, blushing as much as you are doing right now.” Her lips tremble, and I feel a grin tucking at mine. “It did excite me, knowing you were there, knowing I was exciting you.” She gasps at that, and her pink, wet lips look so thoroughly tempting I scarcely can hold onto my already compromised morals. “What I did not like was you doing it without permission.”   “Then,” she gulps for air, “then that means…”   “I will speak with Shizu about it.”   “I… thank you, Senpai.”   “Call me Hachi.”   And the blush is back, and she nods, her chin still in my hand. And I know I could press further without getting any kind of protest, I know I could have her moaning my name, and only the memory of another beautiful face moaning ‘Hachi’ stops me from doing it.   “And, Iroha, about those photos,” her look shifts to nervous apprehension at that, and I can’t bring myself to do the right thing, “make sure nobody else sees them, all right?”   “All right… Hachi,” she says, eyes wide, timid smile blooming right over where my fingers press into her soft skin, her voice a whisper that shoots straight to my heart.   …   My cheeky, foxy junior can’t be this cute.     ================== ================== This work is a repost of my second oldest fic on QQ, where it can be found up to date except for the latest two chapters that are currently only available on Patreon. Unless something drastic happens, it will be updated at a daily rate until it catches up to the currently written 81 chapters (or my brain is consumed by the overwhelming amounts of snark, whichever happens first).   Also, I’d like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: aj0413, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon. If you feel like maybe giving me a hand and help me keep writing snarky, maladjusted teenagers and their cake buffets, consider joining them or buying one of my books on Amazon. Thank you for reading!