#at least reality remains ridiculous enough that I shouldn’t be this embarrassed about my very public brand of insanity now

[erytherion]

Oh, the mortifying ordeal of being known through your writing on a very personal level

#can’t believe I actually posted that piece #I have psychosis #AND NOW EVERYONE KNOWS A BIG PORTION OF MY DELUSIONS #because like the psychotic bitch I am #I shared it with the internet in my fandoms #specifically #the fandom known for making people mentally ill over it #they truly have no poster child for a reader like me #hey get over here and make fun of me with me #ORV #orv side story #how to be a star writer #lee hakhyun #he’s not my blorbo #he’s sang-sang-ui’s #I’m just the current packaging #at least reality remains ridiculous enough that I shouldn’t be this embarrassed about my very public brand of insanity now #(unintelligible internal flailing gestures) #first fic on ao3 too #yikes

[magioftheseas]

I don’t actually have a specific bingo square in mind, but what I’ve always wanted to see in komahina (or, like, any komaeda ship) would be komaeda dealing with trauma involving planes. It’s just an easy to exploit thing that I feel is underutilized. I guess an easy one would be Survivors Guilt?

Alright another one for the @badthingshappenbingo and cross-posted to Ao3 here.

It’s as short as the last one but I like to think it’s much sweeter.

Warnings: trauma and mental instability. Self-explanatory.

“...mae...da...! Komaeda!”

“Mm...?”

It was still dark out save for the bedside lamp they had, which was now illuminating Hinata’s stricken face.

“Hinata...kun?” Heavy with sleep and confusion, Komaeda squirmed and struggled to push himself up. With a yawn, he gently touched the other’s shoulder. “What’s wrong? Aha, don’t tell me I kicked you.” He smiles easily, head lolling to the side in a tilt. “I’m sorry. You’re a kind person, so you’ll forgive me, right?”

“Komaeda.” Hinata’s expression remained grim, his tone urgent. Komaeda’s smile widens, yet he still flinched when Hinata grabbed his hand and squeezed tightly. “You were having a nightmare.”

“So I did wake you?” He can’t help but laugh softly even as bile threatened to rise up his throat. “That’s really embarrassing.”

“You started crying.”

And to Komaeda’s dawning horror, Hinata’s fingers brushed against his cheek and came back damp.

“You were crying for your parents,” he clarified solemnly. “Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” The words came before he even needed to think. Even someone as useless and wretched as him could get this right. “Oh, no, Hinata-kun. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to bother you about something so insignificant as...”

Hinata covers his mouth. He cuts himself off immediately in response. Hinata grumbles at him, no surprise there, especially when he pulled his hand away as if burned.

He’s disgusted. From someone like mine, he’s definitely—

“Stop.” Hinata’s firm reprimand does get him to pause. Grimacing, Hinata added, “I know what you’re thinking. It’s not like that. It’s... It’s just urgh.” He trails off into an inelegant sputter. “Urgh.”

“Urgh,” Komaeda repeated with slight amusement. He watched with growing amusement as Hinata’s cheeks burned red and Hinata himself got so much more flustered, burying his face in his hands as he let out a beleaguered groan. Komaeda chuckled at this. “You don’t like it when I talk badly about myself, but you still react like this around me. You’re so funny, Hinata-kun.”

One might call it hypocritical, but... In reality, it’s because Hinata-kun’s so kind.

Hinata even flinches. How he wanted to soothe those worry lines on the other’s face.

He remembers how fearful his parents had been, too—

“Ah.” Komaeda swallowed, hearing his heart thump erratically in his ears. Had it been like this since he woke up? How troublesome. “I, um. I’m kind of thirsty. I think... I’m gonna go get a glass of water.”

“Yeah?” Hinata does turn to look at him, and he has a serious look of concentration. Honestly, under normal circumstances, Komaeda would’ve fawned over him but right now—he just wanted to get away.

He’s fortunate enough not to trip. Though, his stomach sinks when he hears Hinata rustling and padding after him.

“Me, too,” Hinata offered pretty lamely. “I’m thirsty, too.”

He pats Komaeda’s shoulder as he passes by, taking the initiative and fetching two glasses. Notably, he gets ice for one and forgoes it for the other. Knowing that Komaeda always preferred his drinks ice cold while Hinata preferred it a little lukewarm. Done without a word, because catering to him had just become routine to Hinata at this point.

I don’t...

“You’re white as a sheet,” Hinata said, setting the iced glass in front of him and feeling his forehead. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“What even is there to talk about...” The words slip before he can think. Komaeda just twists away, stricken. “I’ve become enough of a burden already.”

“You were dreaming about your parents,” Hinata said, making him stiffen. Hinata sipped at his own water coolly. “When I asked you out, I did consider the fact that you’ve been through a lot. It wasn’t a burden so much as a responsibility I took... Hell, I wanted you to rely on me long before that, too.” He takes another sip, and his cheeks are tinted red again. “When you asked to be friends, I wanted...that.”

Hahaha. He’s so cute. So cute it hurts.

“It’s silly,” Komaeda murmured, tracing the rim of the glass. The chill comforts him, because it had been so warm in the wreckage. Too warm. Actually, it had been so hot he thought he was scorching. When he was discovered, he almost died of dehydration...how funny was that? “I accepted my parents’ death years ago. To still have nightmares about it is... Ridiculous.”

I even have nightmares about my dog. Pathetic. And...

He dare not even think about what happened in despair.

“I shouldn’t have survived,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t have survived that. I shouldn’t have survived the riots. I shouldn’t have survived the simulation. But I did. Because I have Ultimate Luck.”

“I shouldn’t have survived the Kamukura Project,” Hinata pointed out bluntly. “But I did. And you did. We both did, even when others didn’t. We’re alive and that’s...”

“A burden,” Komaeda said.

“Not a bad thing,” Hinata corrected, albeit awkwardly. “I’m...glad you’re still here.”

Haha. Hahahaha. Ahhh.

“I’m glad that you’re here, Hinata-kun.” How utterly ridiculous. Why was he now—? “D...Did you know? While in despair I... I would... I would sometimes watch videos. Videos upon videos of...aircraft vehicles...”

“Oh.” Hinata sighed, setting his cup aside. “Oh, Nagito.”

“Sometimes there’d be survivors,” he whispered, snuffling as he rubbed at his eyes. God, they stung. “But survivors usually got mauled soon after. At least Naegi-san’s sister...” He laughed weakly and pitifully before his breath caught. “I... I asked for those videos to be made... Those videos were...gifts...”

Hinata embraced him tightly and fiercely, squeezing him as he fell apart.

“I was so lonely. So, so, lonely. I never got to see Mama and Papa very often. I saw so many ads for island resorts. I thought, for my birthday, wouldn’t it be nice if we all...?” He wheezed, choking on a sob. “It was nice... It was such a beautiful, beautiful place that when it came time, I didn’t want to leave...”

“It’s okay,” Hinata murmured into his ear, stroking his hair. “You don’t have to carry this alone, Nagito.”

Hinata holds him, doesn’t even complain when his shoulder gets soaked through. Just keeps petting him and whispering gentle reassurances. What a wonderful idiot he is.

Komaeda hiccups when trying to laugh.

“I... If you die, too...”

“It’ll be hard,” is Hinata’s response, and it’s sardonic as it is kind. “One of Kamukura’s talents is Ultimate Survivor.”

Survivor...

Sniffling, Komaeda does peer over Hinata’s shoulder. Their shadows stretch out, entangled into one entity.

“Survive with me, then,” he found himself saying, gripping Hinata’s back. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

Hinata Hajime didn’t hesitate for a second.

#Magi answers #anonymous #Magi fics #KomaHina #bad things happen bingo #bad things bingo

[lumen-adstrum]

Hi! I read your works and I really really like them! So I would like to make a request! How about a felix × fem!reader pre-timeskip? Felix is so in love with her but he tries to deny it and he avoids her a little for this purpose. However, he gets really jealous when a suitor is pestering the reader non-stop so he pretends to be the reader's boyfriend to scare away the suitor? Thank you! And take care please!

A/N: Aww thank you so so much!! I’m so happy you like them! I’m sorry it took me a while to write, but I wanted to make this one a bit longer than my other works! I hope this is to your liking! Please stay safe and in good health! -Evelyn

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ABSENTION

Two months had gone by, the Verdant Rain Moon had settled in full with plenty of showers and rainbows making an appearance. [Y/N], like many other students, attended the monastery with intentions of growing not only in power but as a person too. Along the way, she met many new faces, some familiar ones too. Felix was among the many she had made acquaintances with. 

He was prickly, blunt, and beyond harsh in the eyes of many, those same people constantly ridiculed how she could stand trying to talk to him. All he ever did was scoff and brush them off. Perhaps he did those same things to her as well, but she could tell he was listening even as he pretended not to. After all, Felix had a little quirk: nodding his head subtly to himself as he pondered her words. His stubborn facade of aloofness had always struck her as cute rather than hurtful. 

However, she had noticed as time passed… he seemed more and more avoidant, and their conversations were more one-sided than ever, hardly even a nod to himself now. [Y/N] wouldn’t lie, it had begun to sting the longer the dynamic continued, having grown attached to him. She had extended the concern to his friends, Ingrid and Sylvain, but as far as they knew, he was the same Felix they had always known. 

Even during lectures, he no longer sat in the same row as her, instead settling for a seat on the opposite side of the room in the very front. Any time the professor paired them together for an activity or job, Felix didn’t even bother to spare her a glance. It was disheartening in ways and in others it was utterly infuriating. 

Today was no different. She watched with a silent glare as they both tended to the horses, her hand dragging the brush gently down the stallion’s mane. Felix made silent work of cleaning the saddles and reins, not once did he say anything! Not even a scoff! “Felix?” Her voice was borderline accusatory just saying his name and he paused in polishing the leather briefly, but still, he didn’t look at her or reply. She at least knew he had heard her. 

“I thought you had gone deaf, glad to see that’s wrong. However, this outcome is irking me a lot more.” Open with her thoughts, Felix finally looked at her with a rather pointed expression on his face.

“Whatever are you talking about? Can we get this done?” His reply is curt, turning back to the saddle to continue with his work. The girl grits her teeth, knowing he wouldn’t budge. It was unheard of for Felix to avoid confrontation… but for the time being, she was exhausted constantly trying to corner him and pull an answer out. At this rate, perhaps it was time to just let Felix do his own thing, after all, plenty had warned her about how he treated people as if they were the plague themselves. Some truth certainly rang in it now.

With the stables looking sufficient, the horses cared for and the riding gear repaired and polished, [Y/N] was the first to turn and leave, unlike in the past where she would try to get some sort of response from Felix at least. The man remained behind for a moment, watching silently as she walked away before releasing a quiet sigh of his own.

He hated upsetting her, truly he did. However, the last thing he needed was a distraction or something he viewed as an unnecessary quality of life. Felix had always and continued to put logic first and his feelings behind him. This was no different. He would lie to himself, saying things like; “I can do without. She and I weren’t that close anyway. It will be easy to forget.”

Except, he couldn’t do without. They had been close and she had been on his mind at every waking moment of every single day that passed. He felt as if it would drive him mad, but Felix seemed adamant that time would erase his fickle feelings. Days went by where the girl no longer spared him a glance, and if their eyes would meet by chance, her face would turn stern before quickly looking away as if he now repulsed her.

Sylvain was quick to notice, blowing a long whistle as his cheek laid in his hand during a lecture. “Didn’t think she could make those kinds of faces at you…” His voice seemed surprised, but in reality, both he and Ingrid knew Felix had a talent for stepping on toes. “I guess you finally chased another one off.” 

“Sylvain, shut up. I am trying to read.” The exasperation was clear in Felix’s voice, flipping his pages wildly before stopping at random. However, even with his face turned down at the book and his brows knitted in concentration, Sylvain picked up the key clue the man wasn’t reading just because his eyes didn’t move from their spot. Ever the observant student deep down, the man sighed and rolled his eyes.

“You call me stupid at every possible chance yet can’t even admit to yourself how you’re feeling. It’s kinda sad really.” Before Felix could even jump at the opportunity to start a fight over the exchange, Sylvain perked up a considerable amount with clear curiosity. Turning his head to try and spot what the other was looking at, Felix spotted the sight of interest. [Y/N] was accompanied by a student sitting in on their lecture, one from the house of the Black Eagles to be exact. The two were getting along well despite the house rivalries, and the man seemed to certainly be enjoying himself. 

“I forgot about him, Callun Forge, I heard their fathers are good friends. Apparently [Y/N’s] pops is trying to marry her off. Guess it makes sense he’d be first in line, looks like he’s been waiting for an opportunity like this.” Sylvain’s words pulled again at Felix’s temper, slamming the book closed and standing to pardon himself from the room. The redhead faked shock, looking after the swordsman before snickering to himself with a shake of his head.

“You really shouldn’t rile Felix up like that Sylvain, you know how angry he gets.” Ingrid’s lecturing from behind fell upon deaf ears. The slam of the door caused [Y/N] to jump briefly, glaring at the spot Felix had been just before the noise. However, her ‘lovely’ company continued merrily chatting her head off.

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It went on for days, the man’s incessant talking. It never ceased! At the rate things were going, she could feel annoyance boiling just at the sight of him. She knew her father meant well, and that she couldn’t upset the suitor considering the bonds their fathers shared… but he was making it harder and harder every day. Even now, Callun was following her around the monastery as she went to have lunch. “-You should have seen it, [Y/N], I was a true hero that day. The Goddess herself would have been enamored.” She rolled her eyes in secret.

Felix sat with Sylvain and Ingrid, a typical arrangement, but hearing the babbling fool coming from a mile away, his eyes stared at the entrance of the dining hall with an intense glare. Soon enough, [Y/N] walked through with the same man attached to her hip. He’d had enough of seeing him. Callun showed up to every lecture, every job and even accompanied them on their latest mission. He’d heard rumors that he would be asking to join the Blue Lions soon. Over his dead body. 

Every tale he spun had Felix scoffing, and today was no different, but the second his hand bravely took her’s, he was practically fuming. “Felix?” Ingrid’s voice was cautious, leaning into view. “Why do you look so upset?”

“I’m not.” His reply was venomous, enough to prevent her from asking further questions, but the second he watched the man lean in to whisper something into [Y/N’s] ear, a Cheshire like grin on his face, Felix snapped. The way he shot out of his seat, hands slamming on the table before he paced their direction caught the attention of a few students. The closer he got, the more he could tell that her companion’s advances weren’t appreciated. Possessively, one of his arms found it’s way around her waist as his other hand smacked the offender away with a pointed glare.

“Hey, what the hell is your problem man?” He had guts, that was sure. Perhaps he hadn’t understood the fact Felix was more than just bark. Even [Y/N] looked bewildered, but he didn’t miss that small glimpse of relief.

“Do you make a pastime out of courting ladies that are already committed?” Felix sneered out the words, and the man’s face contorted into confusion at first before a slight trace of fear hit his eyes. His glare hardened further as he pulled the girl closer to his chest as if to prove his story. “What are you standing around for? Scram.” On command, Callun turned tail and ran. It wasn’t long after he could feel [Y/N’s] head tilt up against his chest. When Felix looked down, he was met with a pointed stare, unreadable at first but it soon turned into a devilish smirk.

“I get it now!~” Her voice was sing-song, tauntingly sweet as her finger jab against his chest accusingly. “You don’t seem like the type to get jealous, Felix. Or the type who runs from his problems. I guess you’re full of surprises, huh?” She had every right to embarrass him right now, after all the unnecessary pain he put her through, she felt he deserved a little punishment. “You know, you could’ve just said you liked me.”

“I like you.” Her teasing quickly backfired. Felix admitted it, unwavering with an honest intensity in his eyes. “Let’s… talk about this somewhere more private… please?” His eyes strayed to peering eyes uncomfortably, and the girl was quick to take his hand and pull him outside and into the unoccupied greenhouse. 

“Spill it Felix, you spend weeks not talking to me and acting like I’m a nuisance. Then all of a sudden Callun shows up and you’re quick to jump up and make a scene. I’m not here to be wanted just when there’s competition, you know?” Her voice is accusatory at first, but by the end, it softens almost sadly. It pulls at his heart and he finds himself regretting his choices in the past.

“I don’t want you just because another man does, I did like you before that. It’s the whole reason I avoided you. I don’t need that commitment. It’s a distraction.” His voice is laced with frustration before it also softens but in a defeated mannerism. “Or at least I tried to convince myself it was. [Y/N], you confuse me. I’ve never felt this way before. I don’t like not knowing what will happen or how I’m feeling.” He shows vulnerability, something he tries to never do.

It’s silent for a moment before she gives an exhausted sigh and then pouts. “You’re no fair. It’s hard to be mad at you, you know?” Her body leans against his, and hesitantly he wraps his arms around her before dropping his head gently atop of her’s. 

“I mean it… I like you.” His repeated confession is met with a hint of a giggle before the girl nuzzles into the crook of his neck to sneak it a simple kiss. 

“I like you too, but you’re the one who has to explain this to my father. After all, he’s going to be very confused about why I never mentioned you.”

“Don’t talk about that right now.” Felix’s lecture sounds stern, but there’s a hidden smile placed on his lips and an expression of fondness washed over his face. He was lucky to have someone who understood his irrational ways and would accept his flaws. He wanted to do better in the future, he’d promised to himself he wouldn’t neglect her. [Y/N] meant so much to him. He wanted to make sure he expressed that through his future actions.

#felix x reader #fe3h felix #felix fire emblem #fe3h #fire emblem #Fire Emblem Three Houses #x reader #x reader requests #fire emblem x reader #felix fraldarius #felix fraldarius x reader #fe3h x reader #fe x reader #requests #request #requests open

[op-peccatori]

The Spider and the (Butter)fly | MLQC Lucien | Kinktober: October 20th

Prompts: Deep-throating || Roleplay || Object Insertion 

THE THIRST IS ALIVE! Submission number 5 for @alloveroliver​’s Kinktober celebration!!!! 

Fandom: Mr Love: Queen’s Choice

Pairing: Reader/Lucien

Rating: 18+

Word count: 3700

Warnings/tags: explicit smut and language, oral sex, deep-throating, fingering, role-play, teacher and (college) student 

a/n: I forgot they were role-playing halfway into it. also I made a moodboard!!

You stand outside the office, eyes squeezed shut and folders clutched to your chest with nervousness.

There aren’t many people in the building at this time, but it isn't completely deserted. There are students who pass you by, some flashing you sympathetic smiles and others not seeing you at all. A professor looks quite puzzled at the sight of you. 

Technically, you shouldn’t be here. But, the thought of going back home with your failure terrifies you and you have to at least try to avoid that. So you’ll stand here for the next two days if that’s what it takes, and use whatever weapon is available to you. 

With a quick glance around, you whip out a compact mirror to check on the state of your lipstick, deciding it was a good idea to forego the highlighter after all.

The echo of his footsteps reaches you before he does, and you look up at him with a sheepish smile. “Professor!” He blinks at you, giving you a quick once over, the suspicious glint in his eye immediately giving way to comprehension. . You keep your expression innocent, even as fear makes your heart dance to a terrible tune.

“Ms. ___. Still here?” he asks. His expression is neutral, but slight exasperation bleeds into heliotrope eyes. His dark hair stands out against the pale walls, his thin lips pursing at having to delay his departure for the day.

“Yes, Professor. I was uh, wondering if I could talk to you about something,” you say meekly. Your eyes remain glued to his cap-toe derbies, still a shiny black after the long day. It says a lot about the man himself. You have never seen him lose his composure, not even when a student tries their best to get under his skin - which is uncommon. Most students adore him, or as you like to put it, they're happy to linger in his web. You can't blame them.

There's an intimidating man behind the smiling eyes. Brilliant and charismatic yes, but there's an unnerving quality to him, in your opinion. Being in his presence, on your own, is intoxicating. It always leaves you on edge, feeling guilty for the filthy thoughts it brings. You glance up at him for a moment only to see him peering down at you, eyes cloudy with tiredness behind clear glass.

He nods and goes into his office, closing the door behind him. You wait for a whole minute before it opens again. 

“Come in.” You watch him take a seat behind his desk as you walk through the door. His office is always clean, his things stacked neatly and in their places. His jacket is draped on the back of his chair, leaving him in a simple white button-up, sleeves rolled up to the forearms. You’re very aware of your own carefully selected outfit, the makeup applied with painful precision, the confidence you weaved with your own tongue in anticipation of this meeting. He barely gives you a look, however, and it leaves disappointment swirling in your stomach. “Take a seat.” 

You hurry to do so, sinking down into the chair across from him, the safety of his desk between you both. The first two buttons of his shirt are popped open, and you have to put more effort into not staring at the patch of milky skin than you'd like to admit. A glimpse of his collarbones is enough to dry your mouth, and you curse yourself. 

“I’m so, so sorry, Professor. I know it’s getting late–“ He waves of your words with a careless wag of his hand, and your eyes dart to his long fingers before you exercise some of the self-control you pretend to have. 

“Yet, you’re here anyway. So, what can I do for you, Ms. ____?” He laces his fingers together and rests his chin on them. You’re struck silent by the exquisite picture he makes, for a long moment. 

“It’s about my grade,” you say weakly. He does not look surprised at all. “Professor, I’m not the first student to come talk to you about this, I know. But I really, really must ask if you can reconsider.”

“I understand, Ms. ____. However, maybe you should’ve studied harder instead of giggling during class with the captain of the basketball team. Perhaps then you wouldn’t have to be here, hmm?” He doesn’t even look at you, seemingly studying an open file in front of him. 

You sputter, a mortified blush painting your cheeks. It’s true, you usually partner with Kyle in his class. Cute, funny, charming Kyle who always tries to make you laugh and succeeds most of the time. But to think Professor Lucien has noticed it enough to point it out like this...it’s embarrassing, yet something to consider. Once you're home.

Ugh, and he’s getting snappy. Maybe it was a bad idea to try this now. It doesn’t seem like it’s going to be any easier to convince him just because the man is tired. 

“It’s just – I did work really hard on this assignment. I don’t understand how I...” 

He sighs heavily at the flustered response. “It’s not the end of the world. You still have time to make up for it.” 

“But Professor, it's still going to affect my overall–“ He snaps the file shut. 

“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do. Just work harder next time.” The tone of finality freezes your heart. You feel lost, scrambling to think of something, anything to persuade him.  How do you convince someone like him? Unfazed, poised, formidable are the words thrown around when he's the topic of conversation. You're an average student barely passing his class. The idea comes to you in a burst of desperation, something you laughed at when Willow suggested it as a joke, something you only dare to think of in daydreams, where he usually comes to you with seductive words and clever fingers as his primary weapons. You never do resist too much even in those reveries, always too quick to drop your skirts, eager to feel him touch you where you allow no one else.

But you’ve come here with a plan; if you think back to all the times you’ve caught him looking at you, it doesn’t seem that ridiculous. You know the difference between wishful thinking and reality; there's no way you imagined the cold glare flashing on his face when he saw you giggling at Kyle's antics, his lingering stares when you wear that white sundress. Or maybe you’re just flattering and digging yourself a cold grave...but it’s worth a try. 

Your back straightens, shoulders rolling back in an effort to relieve tension.

“Nothing?” The way his brow cocks should be branded as illegal. 

“Ms. ___?” 

“There’s really nothing I can do?” you ask, voice dropping low and suggestive; you bite your lip, gazing at him beseechingly. He swallows, following the motion and you smell blood. “I'll do...anything you ask, Professor.” 

“Ms. ___.” His voice is sharp with a warning. But he hasn’t asked you to leave. His eyes grow darker, framed by inky bangs and square frames that he takes off to fold and place on his desk.

“Professor Lucien, please.” You stand up, eyes wide and all too ready. “Just-I’ll do anything, I will! Whatever you want.” 

He looks at you slack-jawed, your breath quick and anxious. You’ve crossed a line, you know that. But will it get you what you want? The question of what you really want grows more muddled with every second, distorted by the flashes of darkness slipping past his composure and your own desire.

He watches you from beneath thick lashes. “Anything, you say?” You nod with slight hesitation. “Do you realize what you’re suggesting?” 

“I do.” 

His eyes slip down to the bare skin of your thighs before he, with visible effort, shifts them back to your face. “Ms. ___, I understand that you’re desperate. It makes us do stupid things. Which is why I’ll forget this ever happened. Now, leave before I...find myself less inclined to be so kind.” His eyes close in a clear dismissal. But he doesn't look angry, he looks like a man who can barely control himself, barely restrain himself from touching something he shouldn't.

He’s going to have to let you be the judge of that.

Nodding to yourself, you don’t say a word as you walk to the door, your thoughts assembling in place like a round of Tetris that you’ve just won. You hear him sigh and lean back in his chair, thinking you've come to your senses. You don’t say a word when you turn the lock, your heart pounding in your chest, the want now outweighing the desperation. 

There’s a heavy silence in the room, punctuated by more glimpses of something wild behind his mask.

“Alright then. Come here.” Your stomach clenches at the command; his pupils are blown, his hand patting his thigh. He rolls his chair back to put some space between him and the desk as you walk over to him, this time to stand in front of him. Your knees brush his. “Sit.” 

He parts his legs so you can sit delicately on his thigh, his hand coming to rest on your waist. Neither of you looks away from the other. You feel as if you’ve walked into the spider’s web, ready to be consumed. 

“You’re a lot bolder than I thought, Ms. ___,” he murmurs, husky enough to send flashes straight to your groin. The smirk curving along his mouth is knowing, and your hand curls over his shoulder, broad and real. "I never took you for a risk-taker."

“I’m...sorry, Professor. I had to try,” you say, timid and unsure but privately turned on. You’re entranced by the effect his low chuckle has on his face, squirming slightly on your seat.

“It’s not a bad thing,” he assures you. But he doesn’t do anything. His other hand just rests on your leg, rubbing small circles into your skin, your mind going into overdrive at the touch. “Just pleasantly surprising. Tell me...are you really that desperate for a better grade?"

You can't bring yourself to form a response.

"We could find another way. Or maybe, just this once, I could change it..." he suggests, withdrawing his touch, much to your displeasure. "You're a hard-worker, I know that."

"No! No, Professor, I...I want to. Work for it. Like this."

"I see." He looks pleased by your hidden admission.

You adjust yourself on his lap, watching him watch you. He's patient as he weaves a net of desire around you, but you don't feel trapped. He waits for you to make the first move, the butterflies in your stomach fluttering chaotically at the thought of finally touching him.

Your hand cups his cheek, thumb tracing a sharp cheekbone. It traces the slight curve of his lip, and then you lean in, breath stuttering as you press your lips to his chastely. And again and again, in light brushes - it feels like the slow rush of a sweet drug, a fog settling around your thoughts before his fingers tangle in your hair, and his tongue begins to chart the lines of your mouth. You moan and your lips part to invite him in. You taste coffee and something that is very intimately him, flicking your tongue against his with increasing enthusiasm. His arm winds tighter around your waist as he holds you to him, plundering your mouth with more greed than the pirates of legend. 

You have no thoughts to spare for grades, only for ways to make him touch you more.

"You taste so sweet, Ms. ___," he breathes, hot and damp on your lips. Your teeth graze his lower lip in response. 

He turns you around so you’re facing the desk, now sitting between his legs, his firm chest pressed to your back and buries his nose in your hair. He inhales deeply, a low sound hitting the back of his throat. Your legs are wide open, falling on either side of his, his arm around your stomach strong to keep you upright against him.

The vulnerability crawls in, at your legs spread wide like this, the Professor's body moulding itself to yours, caging you in his arms.

Professor Lucien tugs down the neckline of your top low enough to unveil your breasts, adorned with baby pink velvet that he clearly fancies if his pleased hum is any indication or the curious swipe of his finger against the soft material. He fondles a breast experimentally, just to hear you moan, and pulls it out of the cloth. A roll of your nipple has you arching into him with a whimper, your ass dragging against his crotch. You don’t miss the quick suck of his breath, the helpless buck of his erection into you before he’s back in control. 

The tiny crack in his composure thrills you, makes you want to turn around and roll your hips until you make him come in his pants, until he calls you by name and all the other sweet nicknames you've imagined him saying. You know you can. But you’re not in charge here, you remind yourself. The soft but lethal brush of his fingers on the inside of your thighs help with the reminder. 

“Tell me, Ms. ___, did you select this outfit just for me?” he asks, voice surprisingly even, his breath warm against the shell of your ear. His hand caresses the soft curve of your waist, relaxing you. His hand bunches up your skirt carefully, and you jerk in his grasp when he cups your mound. “Shh. No need to be nervous. I won’t hurt you.” His palm grinds into you and your hips buck away, but you have nowhere to go. “I asked you a question.” 

“Ah, Professor. I...I thought you might like it,” you admit with flaming cheeks. He laughs into your neck, nuzzling it gently. 

“I do. Very thoughtful of you. And convenient,” he purrs and you’re confused for a second. “So you like being a little tease, do you?”

“I-Professor-“ you whimper, struggling harder when he presses firmly on your clit, just for a second. He sighs deeply next to your ear, faux disappointment evident in his exhale. 

“Use your words, Ms ___. Do you enjoy tempting me, testing the limits of my control in every class? Tormenting me with little peeks of the temptress you keep hidden?” 

"No, no..."

"Liar," he breathes, his tone more wicked than angry. "But I'm flattered you went to such lengths just to have an excuse to do this."

As an accompaniment to the disclosure, his finger slips past velvet and slick folds at the same time his other hand covers your mouth, muffling your loud cry at the intrusion. He fingers you deftly, a long finger sliding in and out of your tight heat as you squirm and moan on his lap. “Pretty, pretty girl. You’re so wet already. How often have you thought about this?” 

He plays you like a devoted musician, a tireless conductor to the orchestra of your combined passions. It’s a delicious burn, and you want to share the sheer agony of it with him. The second he slides a finger into your mouth, intent on imitating the one down below, your lips latch onto it. You suck softly, tongue caressing and gliding, his soft groan needy and weak in your ear. Arousal thrums through you harder, the power you have over this extraordinary man making you tremble, giving you strength and ideas.

“Professor –“ you moan and he bites the lobe of your ear, another finger sliding in to torment you.

“I’ve thought about it too, you know. Bending you over my desk, taking you, tasting you, marking you.” His voice is gruff with desire and you moan incoherently as his fingers curl, rubbing your velvety walls roughly. You clutch at his wrist helplessly, tilting your neck and widening your legs to give him more access. All you can do is come apart in his arms, inch by inch, your fingers twitching with the urge to help him get you where you need to be. Once again displaying his ostensible talent for telepathy, his thumb presses down on your swollen nub. "Unraveling you."

You can just barely process his words, the pleasure coiled so tightly it's on the verge of combustion, aided by his thumb working your clit slowly, then furiously as you rock frantically into his hand. Your orgasm bursts with blinding stars behind your eyelids, your body bowing and writhing as if you can barely fit in it, before you go boneless in his arms. “Brilliant. That was beautiful, Ms. ___," he coos, fingers sliding out of you, settling your skirt back in place. Your head tilts back to lean on his shoulder and you watch him lick his fingers clean with a satisfied smile. His erection is hard against your ass, and you want to touch it, spoil him. 

“How do I taste, Professor?” you ask, your smile coy.

The answering look in his eyes is predatory. “Divine.”

Turning to face him completely, you end up straddling his thigh, and the firm pressure of muscle against your sensitive sex sends something electric climbing through your veins. It scrambles your brains for a moment and you have to pull yourself together, allowing him to place a lingering kiss on your lips.

“Professor,” you plead. He looks like...well, like someone who just spent some time with his mouth glued to yours, with messy hair and your favourite lipstick on his mouth. It’s a good look on him. “Professor, tell me what to do.”

“Are you sure?” 

"Please. I want to touch you, please you.” You palm the bulge at his crotch, delighting in the way he hisses. Your mouth quirks up before you continue. “I’ll work hard. I’ll be a good student.” 

Lucien swallows heavily. “Get on your knees.” You’re more obedient than you’ve ever been in your life, slipping off his thigh to kneel between his legs. “Unzip me.” He lifts his hips to help you out, and you’re embarrassed to feel how your mouth waters when you pull his briefs down to slip his cock out, licking your lips at the sight of the glistening tip. 

You look up at him through your lashes, your finger tracing a line down his shaft.

“I've wanted this for so long, Professor,” you whisper before giving a slow lick along his length. And it's way better than the fantasy, you think, pulling the head into your wet mouth, your tongue circling and rubbing. He groans, petting your head gently.

“Alright then. Hands behind your back.” Your eyes fly to him in surprise and he gives you a lascivious smirk. “This isn’t a reward. You’re working for something here, sweetheart. You need to work hard.” You try to nod as best as you can, clasping your hands behind your back. “Good girl. Now put that mouth to good use.” 

Each bob of your head slides his swollen cock deeper into your mouth, your tongue running up and down the stiff length. You find joy in each hiss and grunt you manage to coax out, pleasure in every praise he showers upon you. Your jaw aches but you soldier on, determined to see your unruffled professor break. He looks far from it right now, the vein on his neck popping and his muscles coiled with iron, barely holding onto the leash he keeps himself on.

“Deeper,” he rasps. You try to relax your jaw,   tensing up when his cock brushes the back of your throat. The next slide of your mouth on him is slow, trying to get used to the sensation. Your eyes water and he smiles fondly at the sight of you struggling. “Need some help, baby girl?” You whimper and he reaches over to cup the back of your head, twisting your hair around his hand. He murmurs a warning softly before he snaps his hips into your mouth and you gag, spit running down your chin as he starts fucking your mouth with swift thrusts, cursing and praising you in turns. His eyes glaze over with the force of his pleasure, the breathy sounds escaping him lewd enough to fuel a hundred wet dreams. “Good girl.   Relax your jaw. Yes-yes, just like that. I’ve spent hours thinking about fucking your pretty mouth, you know? It’s better than I ever imagined.”

The sound that leaves his lips when you cup his balls is obscene, and your scalp stings from how tightly he pulls your hair. Your tongue massages the underside of his cock, and you swallow, pulling him deeper. He gasps, a filthy curse escaping and you're going to remember it forever. “I’m – coming.” You brace yourself as he stills deep in your throat and comes in heated spurts. His thrusts get weaker as he keeps coming and you choke as you try to swallow all of it. Lucien pulls out of your mouth, nimble fingers hurriedly pumping the last of his seed out onto your lips and chin instead of inside your occupied mouth.

You’re still coughing when he hands you a glass of water, pulling you up and back onto his lap as you drink gratefully. He wipes your face clean with wet tissues, thorough and gentle, and you lean against him, drained. His fingers massage your scalp tenderly, pulling a content sigh from you.

“Hmm. I believe that’s an A+,” he declares, making you laugh and wack him on the shoulder. He kisses you gently, achingly slow, breath mingling as his face hovers close to yours. His expression is open, affectionate, his eyes soft with love and contentment. Your lips still feel raw when you kiss the underside of his jaw, curling up in the enclosure of his arms with satisfaction seeped into your bones. “Are you okay?” 

You can’t hide a smile at his concerned tone, planting a quick kiss on his cheek. He tilts his head to brush his lips at the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your temple. “Mhm. Just tired.” 

“Let’s go home, baby girl. I’ll cook.” 

#alloverkinktober #mlqc #mlqc lucien #mlqc fanfic #mlqc smut #mlqc xu mo #mlqc x reader #mr love queen's choice #mr love: queen's choice #love and producer

[bluesunsdusk]

In the world’s hands

Unable to communicate while lying on the hospital bed was not the direction Siebren thought his life would have taken at the mere age of fifty two. There he lay, staring into the ceiling, reality waxing and waning in a body nearly as unmoving as rock, his mind at an impasse on the decision of whether this mental drifting was beautiful or horrific in the rare moments that it could coherently register anything at all. 

A younger woman, likely by just ten years, looked him over. Her head was wrapped tightly in a baby blue headscarf with pins around the side, hiding her hair away. She seemed familiar, but Siebren couldn’t recall from where. He twitched ever so slightly in and attempt to follow her movements. Even something as small as this took tremendous effort on his part. She bobbed in and out of his line of sight, muttering to herself about his brain activity while things shuffled out of view and he felt the connections on his body being readjusted to keep them secured.

After a quick warning, a small light flashed into his vision. It practically blinded his left eye in its intensity, shrinking his pupil, and migrated to his right soon after. This was repeated once before the light paused. He could hear her utter something about it. With some effort, he thought he could make out something regarding a change in his condition. She clicked the light off and left his still recovering vision once more. The scratch of pen on paper followed.

More tests. He knew they had to be done, especially after procedures, but they were unpleasant and he wished he could shut his eyes. 

“Alright, Dr. De Kuiper. That should do,” his doctor stated, his bedding denting from her pushing herself back into his view, deep dark eyes meeting his pale blues, a slight smile playing on her lips. “Thank you.”

You’re welcome, I suppose...

A hard click or thud of a small metal object. Familiar. Someone entered. At least, he thought someone entered. The sound had to have been door hinges turning. Who he had learned to be his doctor in the time confined here, turned her head towards the source of the sound.

What was her name? What was her name? He knew that he’d heard it in the past. She must have introduced herself, her uniform was Lucheng, there were a myriad of reasons he should have known her name. Why was it eluding him? 

D... Dunes... Dune...

Dunia! 

Her name is Dunia!

The pang of excitement at this small victory was short lived with the introduction of yet another voice, tearing the attention of his mind into another direction. 

“You're still working on him, huh?”

Masculine. Rather young, compared to himself and Dunia.

Dunia did not pull away from Siebren while she listened, and he could see her brows furrow and nose crinkle as a crooked smile tugged at her lips.

“That would be my responsibility, seeing as he’s my patient.”

“He's not made any progress, has he?” came the unwelcome question, to which Dunias brows lowered and eyes narrowed into a glare, her smile dropping just as quickly. “You need to consider that he may never-”

"Don't-” Dunia snapped, dropping from Siebren’s vision, accompanied by what sounded like someone sitting onto a firm cushioning. “If you have suggestions or complaints, my office is not next to my patient."

There was hardly a moment for Siebren to mentally chew this ignoramus out for bringing these concerns to his attention and completely disregarding that people have come back after far longer than he was certain he’d been there, before his doctor had made her objection of the ridiculous statements they’d just been treated with very clear. Siebren was glad to hear at least one other person in this room had some sense, though he shouldn’t have expected any less from her.

Besides, this person’s claims were baseless. He had indeed made progress. He knew as much. There was a time he wasn’t even able to register he was lying down or even existed.

A sigh escaped the stranger. "We’re simply worried. The readings... You’ve seen them. They-” Something was put down in between what they said. “Maybe, you’re too emotionally invested to view this objectively."

There was a soft noise of fabric over fabric and the soft rumble of thin rubber wheels turning.

"Leave what you came here to give me, and go," Dunia stated, her voice seeming slightly farther away than before.

"Okay. I was just being honest. Everyone’s thinking it."

So, the other doctors thought he should have the plug pulled on him? Was he even plugged into anything that was keeping him alive? He couldn't tell. Obviously, he'd be on an IV if he couldn't drink, but was there anything else? Breathing he did on his own, his heart beat as it should.

The door closed, and there was more rolling of wheels. Siebren could hear Dunia utter a soft sigh of her own. She was frustrated. He wished he could do something to ease it, but there was nothing other than a proper autonomous movement which would do that. He was far from capable of such a thing just yet. Hm...Just yet. At least she kept his hopes up.

"Don't worry about him, Siebren,” her voice assured, warm and calm, gentle as a breeze. Papers tapped twice against a hard surface, and wheels rolled closer to Siebren, the very top of Dunia’s head eventually entering Siebren’s field of view. “As long as I'm here, I’ll let nothing happen to you."

It was almost enough to ease his concerns, but he knew better.

What of when she wasn't there? She couldn't be around him at all times, and her colleagues clearly took issue with her being assigned to his care. How could he let them know he wanted her to stay? He couldn't. She was the only one who still tried in this god-forsaken place, and she was being questioned. She was the only one with a single modicum of hope. Everyone else would brush him off as a lost cause, let him whither into the endless night without a second thought. Even if his family wanted them to continue in their efforts to wake him, there was no guarantee they'd respect their wishes. 

These small moments of lucidity would diminish. They would fade farther and farther from his grasp with every passing moment. He knew it. He only remained because of her. He couldn't truly respond, only half aware at any given time, but she spoke to him when his family wasn't able to keep him company. She helped anchor him to the world with small interactions, with questions. He was treated like a person in her care.

She returned and pushed herself slightly from her wheelchair to lean over him and shift his head in a more comfortable position, after which she reached for something outside his vision. A tissue. “Let me just get that for you,” she uttered before brushing the paper it around his lips.

Was he drooling?

Embarrassing...

Her other hand rested next to his while she tended to him. Their finger were so close. He wanted to reach out to them, try to use the touch to ground himself further, but he couldn't so much as manage more than a tremble of his digits.

Dunia’s eyes shifted to the side and she backed away once again.

"I need to go. I'll be back in a bit, I promise."

She pulled her hand away and rolled out of his field of view once again.

Where was she going? How long was a bit? He didn't want to be alone. His mind retreated further into the unknown the longer he was isolated. He needed an anchor. He wanted an anchor. How could he share anything he learned from this ordeal if he was lost at sea?

He heard a soft click. 

Not the door... 

Music... Soft, slow, classical. A track he was familiar with, and one he liked quite a bit. She had played various tracks for him whenever she left the room many times now. It helped. It kept him occupied. Though, she never told him how she knew this was the type of music he listened to. Had she asked his colleagues? 

He would offer his gratitude for the extra effort she put into his care, if he knew how. Perhaps, some day, he could... 

...as long as he remained in her hands.

#drabble #siebren de kuiper #drabble: sigma #about sigma #ooc #ok to rb #ic: sigma #long post #oh wait by extension it's also #about najma #it's not much but it's honest work #there's probably mistakes in it but whatever #i have to post it some day it's been in my drafts for literally months #we weren't even in quarantine when this shit was drafted

[impracticaldemon]

What to Expect When You’re Expecting (Sengoku version)

Ikesen fanfiction by impracticaldemon

Author’s Note: a sequel to Impurely Political (both take place after Masamune’s Romantic Route); slice of life, fluff, banter, and sexy times ^^

Also:  Happy Birthday Masamune! ♥ September 5

Words: ~ 2000  |   Rating:  M   |  Read Also on  AO3

What to Expect When You’re Expecting (Sengoku Version) (Impurely Political, Part II)

“About this trip to Azuchi we had planned…”

Masamune’s tone was light—nonchalant, even—but he couldn’t fool me.  I’d been wondering how and when he was going to broach the subject.  I looked up from the letter I was writing, and turned so that I was facing him.  He’d just finished changing for bed, and his sleeping yukata draped nicely over his lean, athletic form.  I paused to enjoy the view, taking in broad shoulders, a glimpse of muscular chest, and narrow hips defined by a neatly-tied obi.

“Oi!”  There was a hint of laughter in my lover’s voice.  “My face is up here, lass.”

It was a standing joke between us that I tended to overlook his brains while ogling his fine form.  Usually, it was embarrassing to be caught at it, but today I’d been deliberately giving myself time to marshal my arguments in favour of making our fall trip to Azuchi, and was just happy my distraction had worked.

“Huh, so it is!”  I grinned up at him, feigning surprise.

Masamune gave me a knowing look, and shook his head.  He crossed the distance between us in two strides, and sat down facing me, taking one of my hands, and pressing a soft kiss to my forehead.  I found myself leaning toward him, ready for more caresses, and forced myself to sit up straight again.

“We really do have to talk about this, Kitten.”

“I know, Masamune.”

“It’s a long ride, and in your condition—”

“The second trimester is as good a time as any for travelling, and the midwife agrees with me.”

The problem, of course, was that I was pregnant, and Masamune was having second thoughts about visiting Azuchi.  He’d been very good about most things—I’d been as active with my usual sewing and drawing and teaching as three months of annoyingly persistent ‘morning’ sickness had allowed—but the projected trip to see Nobunaga and his band of merry warlords was something else entirely.

“You know it’s not just the pregnancy I’m worried about.”  His tone had shifted from cajoling to deadly serious, and I felt the smile fade from my face.

“I know.”

One of the many things I appreciated about Masamune was that he was honest with me, and did his best to keep me up-to-date on the state of the world both within and without Aoba Castle.  It didn’t come as naturally to him as I’d expected, when I’d first moved here with him.  As straightforward as Masamune was in many respects, the constant scheming and planning that went into managing and maintaining a domain the size and importance of Oshu required a mind geared to subterfuge, and he’d been raised on intrigue and the need to keep secrets as a matter of course.  The reality hadn’t sunk in for me until the first attempt on my life, several months after my arrival.

“You’ll be safer here, where the castle staff is devoted to you, and an unfamiliar face will stand out a mile—”

“And I think it’s worth making the trip now since it will be even more difficult with a very young child.  It’s been almost a year since we were last there.”

Masamune’s expression matched his grim tone.

“I know how much you want to see everyone—”

“And Nobunaga has sent for you!”

“—But I’m not going to risk your safety for the sake of a social call.  No matter who is calling.”

“This kind of fear isn’t like you.”  I knew immediately that I shouldn’t have said that.

“Yes it is.  This is the me that knows exactly how much danger you’re in as my fiancée and the soon-to-be mother of my child and possible heir.  This isn’t five hundred years in the future, Kitten—”

“I know that!”

“Sometimes I wonder.”

There was a brief stillness, as we both instinctively drew back from saying any more pointless, hurtful things.  I discovered tears in my eyes, which was frustrating.  I decided to blame pregnancy hormones, rather than loneliness for the modern world and the family and friends—and non-murderous potential in-laws—I’d left there.

“…Sorry…”  I hated the slight burr of self-pity I could hear in my voice.

“No, it’s my bad, Kitten.”  Strong, warm arms wrapped around me, as Masamune pulled me into his lap.   A contented sigh escaped me as I leaned into his chest, and the tears receded almost as quickly as they’d come.  “You’ve been amazing—you are amazing—and I’m the one who said you could be you.  Right?”

“Yes… but I know you’ve had to work pretty hard trying to keep me safe, thanks to my ‘future-person’ ideals and stuff, and ignorance of local politics.”

Masamune dropped several firm kisses on the crown of my head, and gave me a gentle squeeze.  “And I know how hard you’ve worked to adjust to a world so different from where you grew up.  I guess I still lose sight of what makes you you when I get caught up in domain politics.”

“…Current-person stuff…”  I mumbled, trying for a lighter tone.

“Uh-huh.  Just remember that my ‘current-person stuff’ involves marrying you and figuring out how to raise kids who are as great as you, but still ready to take on the world.  I mean, if we have a son, you’re going to have to live with him learning how to fight—”

“How about teaching a daughter how to fight?”

Masamune laughed.  “I don’t have a problem with that—you’re the one who doesn’t like fighting!  Sure… my—our—daughter can learn to use a sword if she wants.  You going to try to teach our son to sew?  Good luck with that!”

“There’s nothing wrong with sewing!  But, yeah, I’m guessing I’ll have trouble selling the benefits of sewing over the joys of running around with wooden swords and playing—I mean training—with Dad.”

For some reason, talking about kids—about our kids—was making me very aware of Masamune’s body cuddled around me.  It was getting distracting.  When Masamune started to nuzzle my neck with his lips and teeth, I felt my eyes close and my head tip sideways to give him better access to my skin.

“Does—mmmm that’s nice—does this mean you’ll rethink Azuchi?”

One of the hands around my waist slid up to caress the round contours of a breast.  “Mm-hm.”  I twitched, and probably moaned aloud, when strong fingers began to tease my nipple. “Consider it reconsidered.”

“Masa-mune…”

“Yes, Kitten?”  He spoke softly right beside my ear, before nipping gently at my earlobe.

“We… nnnnngh… I suppose… we don’t have to go.  I’m probably being unreasonable—oh!”

The world tilted suddenly, as Masamune pinned me against the tatami, hands on my wrists.  He was straddling my upper thighs, his arousal evident despite his yukata.

“Let’s decide tomorrow.  I have a much better idea for what we could be doing now.”

“Oh?  Maybe… mmmmm… you should explain…”

His mouth found mine, and my lips parted of their own accord to admit his tongue.  Our kisses quickly became deeper and more urgent, and it became difficult—impossible, almost—to think.  His hands found and loosened my obi, and began to stroke the bare skin underneath the light garment I’d put on to sleep in.  I tried to reach out and pull him down to me, but he resisted, lifting his mouth from mine, and taking the time to fully open my robe and caress my body.  His touch was especially tender—but also possessive—as he stroked the soft skin of my belly.  The first, definite signs of my pregnancy were visible, and my body heated even further as he admired and caressed and kissed the slight swelling.

“If we do go to Azuchi,” he muttered, sliding strong hands under my hips, and placing hot, wet kisses along the opening to my core, “then you’ll have to stay right beside me the whole time.”  I was squirming with the desire to rub against him, and to feel him deep inside me.

“I can do that,” I said—or rather, gasped—as his tongue suddenly swirled across the sensitive, hidden spot near the top of my mound.

“And you’ll only eat or drink what I give you myself.”

“Seems a bit—nnnnnnngghhh—a bit much…  I mean—”

He raised his head and leaned forward enough to suckle hard on the tight nub of one breast.  My hips moved under him, seeking friction where it would feel best.

“… You’re never careful enough…”  I could barely make out the words as he moved over to the other breast, first teasing the nipple with his teeth and tongue, and then marking the soft skin above it with a love bite.

I dug my fingers into his tousled brown hair.  “Huh—fine words—from—aaaahhhh—the man who—defines—oh gods, Masamune!—defines 'not careful'!”

Masamune sat back on his heels at that, his open yukata revealing skin every bit as flushed as mine.  I longed for us to be closer—as close as we could get—and saw that longing reflected in his bright blue eye and wide-open expression.  He grinned at me, and it was such a fierce, wild, Masamune grin, that my heart leapt at the sight of it.

“All right then, Kitten.”  His voice was low and confident, and his fingers touched and stroked me just where I wanted them most; for a moment all I could hear was the blood pounding in my ears.  “Azuchi it is.  You be you, and I’ll keep you safe.”

“Thank you…”

“No need to thank me, lass—at least not yet.”  His eyebrows rose to a ridiculous angle, and I laughed.  The laughter changed to a moan as loving, lustful, knowing hands slid over my body.

“You’re the best—”

“And you’re so smug when you get your way.”

“So are you!”

In between kisses, Masamune managed to divest us both of any remaining clothing, and carry me over to our delightfully soft futon.  Not long after, we both breathed deep sighs of satisfaction as he entered me, his hard length sliding deep within my tight, quivering body.  If I could sense an edge of—anxiety? possessiveness?—in the way Masamune kept me cradled close to his body throughout our lovemaking, it just made the experience all the sweeter.  As I floated happily in the euphoria of sweet release, still trying to catch my breath, I realized that Masamune, who was lying beside me, was softly stroking my belly again.

“Excited? Pleased?  Worried?  How are”—my mouth suddenly split open in a wide, embarrassing yawn—“how are… you?”

“All of those things.  Excited to be sharing this with you—this creating of a family, and maybe one that can better balance personal affection with the duties of rank and honour.”  I knew he still struggled with that—the concept of parents and children whose family ties were beyond politics.  I chose to hope we could manage it, somehow.  “I’m pleased that we’re together, pleased that we’re going to marry, pleased—probably more than I should be!—that we’re going to have a child.”  He paused, and laughed ruefully.  “No, pleased can’t possibly described how happy I feel about any of those things—but that’s why I worry.  And I’ve tried all my life to avoid worry, because it’s pointless, and just uses up energy better spent on other things.”

“It’s normal to worry about your family.  Even if it’s not really productive.”

“Your concept of family is… different from mine.  But I’ll adapt.”

“Mmmmm.”  His hand was warm, and my body was sated and sleepy—I hadn’t realized being pregnant could be so tiring.  Another yawn threatened to engulf my face.  My eyes were closing despite myself.  “Thank you… for taking us… to Azuchi… Masa-mune.  It’ll be okay, you’ll see.”

I think he said good night, but I didn’t really hear it.  His arms were around me, and that’s what mattered.  After all, he was the one who’d taught me to enjoy life to the fullest in the here and now.  Which is exactly what I was doing.  And would do again tomorrow, gods willing.  I could tell that I was smiling, even as sleep claimed me.

[END]

Screencaps for Impurely Political:

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Tags:  @sabinasanfanfic @shell-senji @nalufever @vespeshadowmoon @coffincreep @midnightmagicx (hi, I’m so glad you liked the original story!) @ihavenotfallenyet @masa-little-kitten @under-sengoku-skies (despite the lack of ground-spikes) @rierru  @eliz1369 @ieyasukenshinsandwich @shrimpalompa  @lu-uesugi

#ikesen #ikesen fanfiction #ikesen masamune #date masamune #impracticaldemon #imp writes

[bulbpix]

If You Just Listened - Part 8

After the amazing performance, you and Arthur headed inside towards the old rickety elevator, chatting about the day. Although your eyes were still red, and your nose was still runny, you felt much better. You had Arthur to thank for that.

Your conversation was briefly interrupted by the elevator abruptly stopping, causing the lights to flicker. Neither of you were surprised, it was a common occurrence in your building. You stood there together in a brief but peaceful silence before turning to him.

"Hey," you began. "Hm?" "That was really nice of you. What you did outside, I mean." "Oh, that was just my routine," he chuckled. "It was nothing, really." "Well whatever it was, it meant a lot to me," you retorted, your volume a little louder than you meant for it to be.

Arthur stared at you, startled by your mini-outburst. You sighed, placing your hand on his shoulder. You didn't mean to take that tone with him. You were just stressed right now. Hopefully he understood that. You ran your thumb along the fabric of his over-sized blazer, noting the amount of bright colors on it.

'What a ridiculous jacket.'

You smiled.

Arthur's mind was racing. Your hand was right there, right on his shoulder. Your hand was on his shoulder. Your hand was on his shoulder! Should he say something? Was this just a normal thing people do? The only person that had ever left their hand on his shoulder for this long was his mom. He looked at you closely.

Yep, you definitely weren't his mom.

Should he put his hand on your shoulder? At work he saw the guys patting each other on the shoulders but they never just left their hands there. Was it a good thing to hold people's shoulders? Was it a bad thing to hold people's shoulders? It definitely didn't feel like a bad thing to have his shoulder held. And you were smiling, so surely that meant it was a good thing. He wondered when you would hold his shoulder like this again. He wondered when he would have the chance to leave one of his hands on one of your shoulders! Oh god, his heart was pounding so hard he was sure he would die. But if he died right now, with your hand still on his shoulder, maybe it wouldn't be so bad...

"Arthur?"

He shook himself out of his trance.

"Yeah?"

"Isn't this your floor?" you asked, a bit concerned. He had been staring at his shoulder for a quite a while now, although the elevator had already arrived at his level. "Oh..." he began, embarrassed by his obvious stupor. "Right." He took a few steps out of the elevator, walking towards his apartment.

"Arthur?" You asked, stopping the elevator door with your foot. He turned to you, still trying to come down from his nerves and greatly attempting to hide it. "Yes?" You looked at his face, and the clown makeup that covered it. "I just wanted to say... you're a good friend. See you for breakfast tomorrow?"

His face turned into a smile so big you were sure it was stretching his skin. He tried to speak, but only a few unintelligible stutters came out.

You giggled, his strange tendencies were just so funny to you now. "I'll take that as a yes." You brought your foot back in the elevator, waving to him as the door closed.

Arthur was overwhelmed in the best way possible. He stood there, staring at the elevator and unable to move.

His hand reached up, slowly resting on the spot of his shoulder that you had held. He squeezed it, wishing your hand was still there. A small laugh escaped his lips, followed by another, then another, until he was in a full blown laughing fit. This was the first time he laughed this hard and actually enjoyed it. He laughed his entire way into his apartment, finally stopping as he closed the door.

He pulled off his clown wig, plopping down on his living room couch. He couldn't stop thinking about you. Especially not now. He touched his shoulder again, staring blankly into the TV that his now-asleep mom had left on. Tomorrow you would have breakfast together, but tomorrow was so far from now.

He rested his chin on his hand, sighing. He just had to see you one more time. Just once. Then he could sleep. At least, that's what he told himself.

You took a deep breath as you closed your apartment entrance, trying to brush away any thoughts of money problems. You just needed a minute to relax. You kicked off your heels as you approached your small TV, squatting down to switch it on. The Murray Franklin Show was practically over, but that was fine. You didn't watch it much anyway.

You stood up, moving your head and shoulders to the beat as the show's band played the closing music. You reached behind you, tugging on your skirt's zipper as you approached your bedside mirror. You let it fall off your hips, and kicked it to the side as you whistled along to the melody. You snapped your fingers, laughing at yourself in the mirror as you did an exaggerated dance and slowly unbuttoned your blouse.

Arthur knew this was wrong. He didn't bother asking himself what he was doing or why he was doing it. His hands were pressed against the cool glass of your window, watching through the narrow blinds. He smiled once he saw your channel selection, ecstatic that you had something in common. He wanted so badly to tell you that, but he couldn't. He bit his lower lip, trying to stop himself from blurting out anything stupid.

As you continued walking closer to the window, he grew more and more nervous. What if you saw him? What would you think of him then? The risk was high, he knew that. But still he remained, unable to rip his gaze away from you.

He could feel his chest tighten as your skirt hit the ground. He sighed, his fingers pressing harder against the window. And you danced! You danced! Oh god, he loved it. He quietly hummed the tune of That's Life, moving his shoulders just like you, wishing so desperately that you were dancing together.

And then, he stopped. He was motionless, with the exception of his quickly rising and falling chest, as your delicate fingers un-did the first button of your shirt. Was this real? Was he just dreaming? His eyes were wide in disbelief as it slid off your shoulders.

Your shoulders. They were beautiful.

His breath hitched as they came into view. He closed his eyes, picturing himself there - with you.

You turned to him, smiling so softly. Your hand went up, touching his cheek. "Arthur," you whispered, pushing a strand of hair from his face. "I'm so glad you're here." He smiled back at you, nudging his cheek into your touch. Your gentle, warm touch. "I'm glad I'm here too." You giggled your adorable giggle. Arthur could feel himself melt. You took his hand in yours, guiding it up to your shoulder. He could feel your smooth skin under his fingers. You watched his face as he felt you, and he watched you right back.

Arthur let out a deep exhale, lost in his imagination. His forehead hit the window with a blunt THUNK.

'What was that?!' You grabbed a glass bottle of perfume off your vanity, holding it up as a weapon. Your breathing was quickened as you slowly backed away from the window beside you.

Were you being watched? The thought was terrifying. You had managed to avoid being a victim of any crime in Gotham so far. Would this be the night your streak ended?

You were breathing even faster now.

Your entire body was trembling with fear as you took a step closer to your window. No one had broken in yet, so maybe that was a good thing.

You took another step closer.

Nothing still. Maybe this was your imagination. Surely if someone was there, they would have smashed the glass by now. Or maybe you were just rationalizing to come to terms with your quickly approaching demise.

You made your final step towards the window.

Slowly, you reached for the rope on your blinds. This was it. If someone was there, you would have to be ready. You tightened your grip on the glass perfume bottle, and took a deep breath.

'3... 2... 1!'

You yanked the rope, making your blinds shoot open. You flinched, shutting your eyes as tightly as you could, shivering and hanging on to the bottle in a quite pathetic display of self defense.

Nothing happened. You opened one eye, making sure the coast was clear.

Sure enough, no one was there.

You approached the window, looking side to side. Nothing. You sighed in relief, shutting your blinds. That was strange. You were so sure you heard something. Then again, you did just have a very stressful day. Maybe it was best that you just went to sleep.

Arthur couldn't believe himself. He was panting, his back pressed tightly against the wall by your window.  Thank God you didn't see him. He pushed his hair back, smacking his face a few times to bring himself back to reality. He was ashamed. He knew he shouldn't have done that to you. Especially not after everything you had done for him.

The wave of guilt hit him like a train, and a small chuckle escaped him. Then another. He quickly covered his mouth, and ran down the fire escape steps back to his apartment.

A/N - nsfw but also not nsfw??? IDK. also i just realized all my bold and italic stuff wasnt copying over from wattpad, ill be more attentive of that now

#joker #arthur fleck #joker x reader #arthur fleck x reader #slow burn #slowburn #joker x you #arthur fleck x you #joker x y/n #arthur fleck x y/n #if you just listened

[musicallisto]

Hi! May I please have a marauders, MCU and blades of light and shadow match-up? I'm straight, she/her. I'm a ravenclaw and an INFP, I'm introverted but pretty friendly and outgoing once you get to know me. I love reading,my favorite genres are fantasy and poetry. I tend to daydream quite a lot and have a tendency to overthink stuff, I can also be a tad melodramatic at times. People often come to me for advice or to vent! (1/2)

I Ship You With...

Remus Lupin

okay you two would be the cutest and most affectionate couple - also the most blushy one

it wouldn’t help that the others (James and Sirius, especially) would spend the first days teasing the hell out of Moony for finding himself a girlfriend

“oh, he’s all grown up now” “Sirius” “look at our baby, James! can you believe how fast time flies?” “Sirius Black” “shh. let me pretend you’re still a little boy” “SIRIUS”

(they’re obviously incredibly happy for the both of you. you deserve & love each other so much, and you’re a pair of nerds that they love to watch snuggle together by the fire when you think no one else is looking)

you’d exchange books that you love and have the other read them, then discuss them - most of the time it would end up in frenzied conversations until two and a half in the morning where you gush about the characters and the worldbuilding and you sigh dreamily at the romance and the magic of it all, until he slyly reminds you that nothing is imaginary in the magic world

you’d shyly come to him one day and ask if he knows any reliable and truthful books about his... furry little problem (as you’ve learned to call it with the other boys, but really you don’t like that denomination because it implies that Remus is problematic), because you want to learn more about how to deal with it when it arises and how to keep him and everyone around safe, and you mostly trust books to give you this kind of knowledge. he’s deeply touched by your request, and although he tries to keep his composure and give you a list of works that resonated with him (though he doesn’t read too much about werewolves. it’s still difficult to handle the reality of it all), you can tell by his reddened cheeks and his fumbling words that it’s the most thoughtful sign of affection anyone has ever shown towards him

dates in Hogsmeade! what was at first strictly a friendly gathering for the entire group in the period preceding christmas remained a friendly escapade when you got together with Remus... but also the rest of the Marauders learned to give you a little space every time you go down to the village and leave you to frolick, as Sirius abjectly calls it, in the colorfully-lit streets.

you grab butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks (it will invariably be way too sugary for your liking, but seeing Remus’s white, creamy mustache after he dipped his lips in the drink is always worth it), as many sweets as you can carry in Honeydukes (most times it requires more than one bag and a few magic tricks to be able to transport them all), and end the day walking hand in hand in the main streets of the village, snow gently covering your hair and shoulders and engulfing the two of you in a winter wonder. his fingers and yours always tense when your steps bring you closer to the Shrieking Shack; but you press his hand, and when he’s more restless than usual or the full moon approaches you press a few feather-light kisses to his knuckles. you’re here and you’re not going anywhere. for that day and for that night, at least, everything is going to be okay.

Bruce Banner

it takes him more than ages to ask you out. decades. centuries! MILLENIA

and meanwhile absolutely everyone with a pair of eyes can see how dumbstruck he gets whenever you walk in the room, and how his every internal organ stops when you talk to him. in his eyes, you’re a paragon of confidence and coolness (which actually you’re convinced you aren’t, because you’re also a blabbering mess whenever you have to talk to him), and he’s... well, he’s only himself. some kind of STEM nerd. also, on occasion, the Incredible Hulk. no big deal? YES VERY BIG DEAL

but in reality, it is not big deal for you. he seems to forget every so often that he is a doctor and that someone with several PhD’s doesn’t exactly qualify as a STEM nerd in your mind (maybe at least its most powerful form). and even beyond that, he is an incredibly caring soul who’s constantly putting others before him, and it’s mesmerizing and refreshing to just sit on a chair in his lab, reading a novel, with him working on some new solutions, listening to the buzz of the kilns and the lapping of distilled water and peroxides in their testing tubes. you get a sense of peace when you watch him work that you never seem to find anywhere else, and in no one else’s presence.

now obviously Tony (it always has to be Tony) can’t BEAR anymore all this tension between his two best associates (that’s how he calls his friends when he’s not drunk enough), and is practically begging the both of you to make a move or at least talk it out and resolve all of this electricity. which you’d rather die than do, because he’s Tony Stark, he can’t imagine the immensity of the humiliation that would slap you in the face if you attempted to confess your feelings to anyone (especially Bruce!), but you can and you know.

after a few more failed attempts, Tony decides to take the matter in his own hands. nothing in this world will ever get done without his help, he swears!

at first he tries to convince the both of you, separately, to go to a mystery blind date at Luna Park, on Coney Island. you both vigorously decline. Tony has had brillian ideas in the past, but putting yourselves out there to spend a day with a stranger and possibly find love with them? ridiculous. that’s when Tony changes plans: now he’s inviting the both of you (still separately, without mentioning anything jointly) to spend the day with him at the fun fair. it will be fun, he says, just an afternoon eating cotton candy and rifle shooting with his friend. that sounds fishy enough coming from him. it’s a miracle (or maybe a consequence of Tony’s incessant supplications) that you both accept.

when you see Bruce, and Bruce sees you, arrive from both sides of the street to the meeting point you both agreed on with Tony, you start to smell the con-trick. obviously, you shouldn’t have put this past Tony Stark. now you’re both stuck with the other and you have nowhere to look at to distract yourself from his shy, adorable eyes and timid smile. of course.

well. now that you’re here, standing like idiots, not daring to say anything to the other, in front of the entrance of Luna Park, you’d rather make the most of it. chase the butterflies that pierce your throat whenever you catch a glimpse of his excited voice, extinguish the flames that arise through all your body when he puts his hand on the small of your back - then promptly moves it.

the ferris wheel seems to call you. tugging on bruce’s arm, you lead him to the attraction with more enthusiasm than you imagined you would have when the day started. New York City is always a wonder to look at from the heights. Bruce lets out a nervous laugh, but follows you anyway. it’s not like anything is bound to go wrong, right?

but of course. you both were carefree enough to forget that the entire ordeal had been orchestrated by none other than Tony Stark. when your cabin reaches the top of the wheel, and your face lights up at the sight of the sea, Tony’s voice rings out from the speakers at the exact same moment as your cabin comes to an abrupt halt.

“your attention please. due to regrettable circumstances, the ride will be stopping for approximatively thirty minutes. please enjoy the view, whether it is the bay or the person in front of you. later.”

suddenly you want to grab him by the collar and throw his smug little smile out the cabin, headfirst into the Atlantic.

“I’m so sorry,” rings out Bruce’s voice in the tightness of the cabin, his embarrassment true. “I shouldn’t have agreed to this and now I got you in this mess...”

“You didn’t get me in any mess. I agreed too. I guess...” you swallow hard, the faintest of smiles coming to rest on your lips. “I guess we’ll have to make good use of this time, then.”

Tyril

it takes a lot for him to open up to you: patience, efforts, gentle smiles and light touches on his shoulder, good manners, and respect of his past, privacy, and boundaries. a little like approaching a wounded animal in the woods. you have to gain his trust, first. it’s not the easiest task you’ve ever had to tackle, but hey, it can’t be harder than recollecting the evil shadow shards to stop the harmful influence of the murderous, evil, shadow court over your world, right?

(it’s almost harder, actually! you never would have guessed. but that elf has so many walls around his soul, and you have to scale every one of them with your bare hands.)

it’s worth it, though. it’s always worth it to see his smile light up the forest like a thousand fairly lights, and the tenderness of such a beautiful soul, that has lost so much, come alive every time you embrace him.

you see the blue flame of sadness in his eyes when he looks at you, and he sees the image of Kaya, the one he cared for so deeply and he lost so much time ago. it still pains him because he feels like it might be his fault, that he didn’t work hard enough to save her from the evil of the shadow court. his worst fear, although he will never admit it, is that another of the innocent people he loves most will succumb to the darkness and he will watch it unravel, powerless. but you assure him that it will not happen. you are too strong-minded to be corrupted.

he teaches you how to fight, and it’s an unexpected moment of intimacy between the two of you, getting to know each other better than ever, with each other’s strengths and weaknesses

you only ever see him be truly happy when he’s surrounded by the lights of the fae, that you randomly stumble upon in the middle of the deadwood, and that reflect a thousand colors on his beautiful, upturned face. at that precise moment, you can swear you’ve never seen someone more radiant, and someone more in love

when his eyes finally fall onto yours, his look of utter adoration does not disminish, quite the opposite actually; and he holds your gaze as if you were much more of a wonder than anything that’s happening in this kaleidoscopic clearing. your breath hitches in your throat, and a pink fire blossoms in your chest; it is here, in the most desolated of places in the entire country, that you discover love and love discovers you for the first time

#long post #ship request #harry potter #marauders #remus lupin #marvel #mcu #bruce banner #playchoices #blades #tyril #mywriting

[ruminativerabbi]

Poway

At the end of the Yizkor Service last Saturday, I invited the congregation to join me in widening the scope of our prayerful focus as the cantor chanted the twenty-third psalm to include not just our co-religionists murdered while at prayer at the Har Nof synagogue in Jerusalem or in Pittsburgh, but also the members of other faiths who have been similarly killed in their own houses of worship. Foremost in my mind, obviously, were the dead in New Zealand and Sri Lanka. But I also had in mind those poor souls executed in Charleston in 2015 by an individual sufficiently depraved to have been capable of murdering people with whom he had just spent an hour—his victims’ last hour on earth—studying Scripture, as well as the twenty-six innocents murdered during Sunday prayers at the church in Sutherland Springs in Texas in 2017 and the six killed at the Sikh Temple in Oak Creek in Wisconsin in 2012. Little did I know that another such outrage would be perpetrated on the Pacific coast in California just a few hours after I was done addressing my own congregation as part of the same Yizkor service at which I was speaking. Or how personal it would feel to me—and neither because Poway is just an hour or so down the road from the town in California in which I used to live nor because Yom Hashoah just happened to be falling this week.

It’s hard to imagine a less likely place for an attack like that than Poway. It’s a quiet place, a suburban/rural community of fewer than 50,000 souls north of San Diego and south of Escondido off of Interstate 15. And although I’m sure many Californians—and certainly most Americans—couldn’t have said exactly where Poway was last Friday, it now joins Sutherland Springs or Oak Creek in our national roster of places people previously hadn’t heard of yet now speak about as though they’ve known where they were all their lives.

Nor was the storyline unfamiliar, at least as the police have pieced it together so far. A disaffected young man, in this case just a teenager, falls under the sway of white supremacist doctrine and concludes that his personal problems—and the problems of his fellow travelers—are being inflicted upon him and them by some identifiable group of others—in this case Jews, but the role also fillable, as we all know all too well, by black people, gay people, Hispanic people, Asian people, or any other recognizable minority. A manifesto—in this case really just a letter—detailing the specifics is composed and posted online or otherwise distributed to the media. And then the young man—almost never a woman although I’m not sure why exactly that is—gets his hands on the kind of gun that can kill a lot of people very quickly. The screed is posted. The die is cast. The killer gets into his car and drives to what he must realize could just as easily turn out to be the site of his own death as well as that of the people he is planning to make into his victims. And then he opens fire and kills none or one or some or many. (For a very interesting analysis posted on the Live Science website regarding the specific theories proposed to explain why so few women become mass killers, click here.)

The next part too feels almost scripted. The police issue a statement and open an investigation. The following day, the front page of America’s newspapers are filled with statements of outrage by public officials of various sorts. A day or a week later, there’s a follow-up piece about the victim’s funeral or the victims’ funerals. The nation shudders for a long moment, then moves on. Except for those who actually knew the victims, the matter dies down and eventually someone shoots up some other place and the cycle of outrage followed by getting over it begins anew. For most, the moving on part feels healthy. And it surely is so that the goal when someone we love or admire dies is precisely to move through the initial shock that almost inevitably comes upon us in the wake of unanticipated loss to a kind of resigned acceptance, and from there to true comfort rooted in a new reality. But can that concept rationally be applied to incidents like the murder of Lori Gilbert-Kaye in Poway last Shabbat?

What surprised me the most about the California shooting is how inevitable it all felt. Indeed, to a certain extent, it felt like we were watching yet another remake of a movie we’d all seen before. There were the expected presidential tweets lauding Rabbi Yisroel Goldstein, whom the President has surely never met, as (of all things) “a great guy.” And there was the expected tongue-clucking by the leaders of Congress and by the chief executive officers of every conceivable Jewish and non-Jewish organization, all of them decrying the fact that this kind of violence directed against houses of worship is slowly—and not that slowly either—taking its place next to school shootings and nightclub shootings and military base shootings and concert-venue shootings and movie theater shootings as part of our American mosaic, and that there doesn’t seem to be anything at all to do about it. The traditional debate about repealing the Second Amendment then ensues. Would such a move prevent this kind of incident? I doubt it—but it’s hardly worth debating, given that the chances of the Second Amendment being repealed in any of our lifetimes are exactly zero.

Last November, after the shooting in Pittsburgh, I wrote about a science experiment I recall from my tenth-grade biology class, one in which our teacher demonstrated that you can actually boil a frog alive without restraining it in any way if you only heat the water slowly enough for the rising temperature to remain unnoticed by the poor frog until it becomes paralyzed and thus unable to hop out of its petri dish to safety. (To revisit those comments, click here.) Is that where we Jewish Americans are, then, in an open-but-slowly-warming petri dish? It hardly feels that way to me…but, of course, it doesn’t feel that way to the frog either. And yet the degree to which we have all become inured to anti-Semitic slurs, including in mainstream media, makes me wonder if we shouldn’t be channeling that poor amphibian’s last thoughts a little more diligently these days.

Just last week, the New York Times published in its international edition a cartoon that could have come straight out of any Nazi newspaper in the 1930s. The cartoon, by a Portuguese cartoonist named António Moreira Antunes, was picked up by a service that the Times uses as a source for political cartoons and apparently approved for publication by a single editor whom the Times has not identified by name. Its publication too triggered a storm of outrage from all the familiar sources, but the response the whole sorry incident provoked in me personally was captured the most eloquently by Bret Stephens, himself an opinion columnist for the Times, who wrote that the cartoon—which features a Jewish dog with Benjamin Netanyahu’s face and wearing a big Star of David necklace leading a blind and obese Donald Trump whose ridiculous black kippah only underscores the extent to which he has become the unwitting slave of his wily Jewish dog-master—came to him (and to most, and surely to me personally) as “a shock but not a surprise.” To read Stephen’s piece, in which he goes on to describe in detail and to deplore his own newspaper’s “routine demonization of Netanyahu,” its “torrential criticism of Israel,” its “mainstreaming of anti-Zionism,” and its “longstanding Jewish problem, dating back to World War II,” click here. You won’t enjoy reading what he has to say. But you should read it anyway.

I’m guilty of unwarranted complacency myself, more than aware that I barely even notice untruths published online or in print about Jews or about Israel. After the Israeli election, for example, I lost track of how many opinion pieces I noticed interpreting the Netanyahu victory as a kind of death knell for the two-state solution. (One example would be the headline of the Daily, the daily New York Times podcast, for April 11: “Netanyahu Won. The Two-State Solution Lost.”) The clear implication is that the Palestinians will only have an independent state in the Middle East when Israel finally decides they can have one. But is that even remotely true? Palestine has been “recognized” by 136 out of the United Nations’ 193 member states. If the Palestinian leadership were to declare their independence today and invite the neighbors in (and not solely the Israelis, but the Jordanians and the Egyptians as well) to settle border issues, and then get down to the business of nation building, who could or would stand in their way? But the Palestinians have specifically not moved in that direction…and surely not because the Israelis haven’t permitted it. That much seems obvious to me, but how many times have I just let it go after seeing that specific notion promulgated as an obvious truth? Too many! Just as I haven’t always responded when I see other ridiculous claims intended solely to degrade Jews or Judaism or to deny historical reality. (When the Times published a piece by one of its own reporters, Eric V. Copage, a few weeks ago in which the author denied that Jesus of Nazareth had been a Jew and suggested instead that he must have been a Palestinian, presumably a Palestinian Arab, I didn’t run to my computer to point out that  there were no Palestinian Arabs in the first century C.E. since the Arab invasion of Palestine only took place six centuries after Jesus lived and died, granting myself the luxury of leaving that work to others. Many did speak up and a week later the Times published a “revised” version of the piece that omitted the offensive reference. But my point is that I personally should have spoken out and now feel embarrassed by my own silence.)

It’s true that the Times published a long self-excoriating editorial about the cartoon episode just this week in which it acknowledged its own responsibility for fomenting anti-Semitism among its readers. (Click here to read it.) That was satisfying to read, but it should remind us that the only useful way to respond to Poway is to resolve to speak out more loudly and more clearly when we see calumnies, lies, or libelous untruths in print about Israel or about the Jewish people…and not to just assume that other people will do the heavy lifting while we remain silent.

#Poway #The New York Times #anti-Semitism

[lsds-blog]

Erin

The man looks at her with undisguised hatred. She symbolises everything the state makes him endure, she's the face of institutional Islamophobia. She tries to put his rancour out of her mind and do her job, but it unsettles her. She's not tough enough. That's what everyone is always telling her. Don't be so emotional, it will destroy you, that's what her sergeant said. But she is who she is, and she's not prepared to compromise herself to fit in. She opens the man's rucksack and peers in. Clothes, a tube of toothpaste, a toothbrush. “That's fine,” she says and let's him go on his way. Her smile fades as she sees his stare. She wants to apologise, but she knows this wouldn't be appropriate. Police don't apologise for doing their work. Even when the work is as useless as this. Some politician has forced this, posturing as tough for an upcoming election, spinning the idea that a terrorist attack can be avoided by checking bags at tube stations, taking resources away from where they might actually do some good.

She can't possibly check every bag; the volume of people here makes that impossible. Everyone in London is always rushing and being selected for a bag check almost universally causes ill-feeling. She sees a young woman carrying a large black leather bag and asks her to come over to the checking area. The woman turns and she sees her clearly for the first time. She has very long black hair, but her fringe is cropped to a blunt line high on her forehead. She's dressed in black: tight ripped jeans, boots, a leather bike jacket. Despite her short stature and her slightness, she's rather intimidating. She has dark make-up around her eyes, her eyebrows are thin, pointed arches, utterly unnatural, drawn in, since not a hair remains on her brows. Her full, sensuous lips are painted deep red and rings penetrate the flesh at either side of her lower lip. Her nose bears a large black ring through the septum and her smooth cheeks are pierced by round, shiny studs.

Erin is relieved to see that this young woman wears a faint smile as she accompanies her to the table. There's no malice or impatience that she's been selected, only a slight ironic amusement. Erin makes her statement, the standardised justification for these checks. The woman nods, still wearing her arch smile. She hefts the bag up onto the table. The bag looks like an oversized doctor's bag, an archaic design, but beautifully made. Clearly expensive.

“Can you open your bag please, Miss?” Erin requests.

“Oh, I'd be delighted. I love it when people call me Miss.” She opens the catch and pushes it toward Erin.

There's a set of handcuffs in the bag, the chain and rings covered with a thick coating of black rubber. Erin removes and places them on the table, better to see the rest of the contents. Then she feels her face reddening as she sees a large dildo, a butt plug, other sex toys she can't name and whose function remains obscure to her. She feels a sense of embarrassment as she has to take out these objects. She glances up to see the woman, whose smile has now broadened. She seems to take a delight in Erin's reaction. “You're blushing,” she says, incredulously. “I didn't think anyone in the Met would blush at the sight of a dildo.”

Erin tries to assert herself and puts on her most serious face. But the woman stares at her, smirking and Erin's nerve fails her. She grows flustered, blushes more. She returns to the contents of the bag. There's a coil of rope, leather straps, a flogger. There's also a smaller leather case which Erin makes to open.

“Careful,” the woman says. “There are sharp things in there. Want me to open it?” Erin nods. The case contains two pairs of scissors and a straight razor.

“Why are you carrying these?” Erin asks.

“I'm a hairdresser,” she replies with a sly look. She also lifts a set of chrome plated clippers from the bag to provide more evidence.

“And the... other things?” Erin asks. “Why does a hairdresser need handcuffs?”

“Well,” the woman smiles, “I'm seeing a special client. I'm going to tie her up so she can't move an inch, fill her holes very roughly,” (she lifts the dildo and violently prods it forward) “and cut off all her hair.”

Erin can't mask her astonishment. “Really?” she gasps. “Why would anyone want that?”

The woman shrugs. “I could give you a convoluted explanation about her need to expiate her guilt by being punished, but the short version is that it makes her cum over and over.”

“Getting her hair cut?”

“Shhh!” she says gleefully. “She doesn't know about the haircut yet. I'll surprise her with that once she's tied up.”

Erin's look of shock seems to delight her companion. “How are you going to cut it?” Erin is no longer focussing on her job, she's now overtaken with curiosity.

“I might give her something very short, a bowlcut or a flattop. Maybe shave her completely.”

“That's awful!” Erin gasps. “You can't, it's assault.”

“I'll pass her your number and you can come and arrest me.”

“I'm serious,” Erin says. “You can't just cut someone's hair off without their consent.”

“I won't. She'll sign a release to consent to everything I want to do to her. I do it with all my clients. Do you want to come and watch to make sure I stay within the law?” Erin seems to blush more every time this woman talks to her. She tries to get out a reply but remains tongue-tied. “You do want to come and watch, I bet. You're intrigued aren't you?”

Erin dismisses her. “Go and get your train. I'm sorry to have delayed you.” She frowns as she acknowledges her weakness in apologising.

“Not at all. It's been a pleasure to meet you, officer. In fact I'd love you to keep in touch. Maybe you'd like to call me and ask about what I do to my victim today.” She goes into her pocket and pulls out a card. It reads: Miss Avarice, domina.

“I do work as a real hairdresser too.” She takes another card and passes it to Erin. “I work a couple of days in a salon and I do house calls. I bet there's a lot of hair in that bun. I could give you a nice professional makeover. Make you look tougher, at least. Now put those cards in a safe place and make sure you give me a call. I'll be very disappointed if you don't, and you don't want to let me down, do you?”

Erin doesn't know how to respond. She waits for the woman to vanish but she holds her gaze. “You'll call me, won't you?” she asks, more seriously now. “You do want to know what happens with my client this afternoon, and I'll tell you everything. Call me, OK?”

“I'll call,” Erin says hastily. She wants to be rid of this strange woman.

As the long shift proceeds Erin tries to put the encounter out of her mind. That's easy during the rush hour; the station is overwhelmed with commuters and the levels of resentment increase as she makes office workers miss their train home. But then the rush dwindles and there's hardly anyone in the station, which relies on those office workers for its business. Now she has lots of time to think and she can't stop thinking. Somewhere in London is there a woman who's sobbing as she looks at herself in the mirror, her hair savaged into a humiliating new style which will take years to grow out? She feels guilty imagining this. But why is she guilty? She has had no part in this act. She realises she feels guilty because these thoughts excite her.

Erin drives home, the business cards now transferred to her purse. At home she takes them out to study them. The same mobile number on both cards, but on the hairdressing card the name is different: Ava P. She finds herself wondering if Ava is her real name or if it's a contraction of her dominatrix persona. Miss Avarice, how ridiculous to use such a name! She muses on whether there are another six dominatrices who call themselves after the other deadly sins. She smiles as she imagines a Miss Sloth, a Miss Gluttony.

But then her mood changes as she remembers Ava. She was very sexy! Not the type of woman who would usually attract Erin, but there was something about her look. Her eyes, her lips, even with those piercings. That beautiful long hair, so shiny, silky, black. Erin thinks it was probably not even dyed, she had quite dark skin. She can't shake the image of some poor innocent being bound and shorn. An unexpected haircut. Her fingers fidget nervously with a strand of her own long, pale hair as she imagines those evil-looking clippers being forced over the poor woman's head. She imagines Ava wearing that same ironic smile as she taunts her victim. “Won't this be a surprise? Imagine all the whispering when you go to work tomorrow.”

She imagines herself as the victim, how her colleagues would tease her if she suddenly appeared with a brutally short haircut. She'd be called a lesbian, a dyke, for sure. Is that any worse than how she's viewed now? The ice queen, bloodless, sexless. Prim little Erin who blushes when she sees a dildo. But this isn't about her. She was only thinking of the other, Ava's victim. She could call her now and Ava would provide every detail of her encounter. Would she be truthful? Erin imagines she'd embellish reality. Still, she wants to know. She adds the number to her phone but can't bring herself to call. She thinks how crazy she is to dwell on this inconsequential encounter and goes to bed.

She wakes from troubled dreams of which she can only recall being in a village hall which she remembers from her childhood. She feels nervous, edgy but the details of the dream are fugitive, evanescent. Almost immediately her thoughts turn to Ava and her victim. She touches herself, not without some hesitancy. She doesn't want to encourage these thoughts, they're dangerous. But she's too weak to resist. She brings herself to a delicious climax as she imagines watching Ava torture a beautiful young woman.

It's two days before she acts on her impulse to call Ava. She knows she shouldn't but the thoughts of Ava keep coming to her vividly at unexpected moments. Finally she has a day off and decides she will call. Her heart is racing as she makes the call. She takes a sip of water as her mouth feels dry and she's afraid her voice will fail her. There are only two rings before a voice says “Hello?”

“Uh... Hi.” Erin says. “Is this Ava?”

“Who is this? I don't recognise your number.”

“It's Erin. Erin Hume. We met the other day in the tube station?”

“I don't remember,” Ava says. She sounds distrustful, aloof.

“I did a bag inspection.”

There's a pause before recognition. “Ah, our esteemed Met officer? Is that you?”

“Yes, that's me.”

“I'd forgotten about you. You took so long to call. I think that's rather rude.”

“I'm sorry. I have a very busy life.” Erin feels defensive already.

“And since you're addressing me as Ava, that must mean you want to book a haircut.”

“No, I just wanted to chat.”

“I have a clear division in my life. Ava is a hairdresser, Miss Avarice is a domina. Did you want to discuss my activities as a domina?”

“Well... yes, I suppose so.” Erin feels cowed by her directness.

“Then you should call me Miss Avarice.” There's a long silence. “Do it,” Ava says with some vehemence.

“Miss Avarice,” Erin begins, feeling the ridiculousness of her situation intensely, “I've been wondering about your encounter the other afternoon. You said you'd tell me about what happened.”

Ava chuckles. “Have you been thinking about me all this time?”

Erin feels naked. “To be honest, yes, I have been thinking about you a lot.”

“That's so sweet. But to be honest, I can barely remember you. You had brown curly hair, cut in a bob?”

“No,” Erin says, reddening. She's sure Ava is teasing her. “Long blonde hair, worn in a bun.”

“Ah, OK. You were wearing a hat?”

“I was wearing a police uniform.”

“And what are you wearing now?”

“I don't think that's...”

“Erin, don't be rude!” she says mockingly. “You'll address me correctly and answer my questions. In return I'll answer yours. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” A long pause. “Yes Miss Avarice.”

“Better. Now what are you wearing?”

“Just a big t-shirt. I've not long got out of bed.”

“No underwear?”

“Panties, no bra.”

“That sounds lovely. Now do you want me to tell you about my Tuesday client?”

“Yes Miss Avarice,” Erin says guiltily.

“And are you going to touch yourself?” Erin pauses, ashamed. “You need more direction, Erin Hume. You are going to touch yourself. You'll use your left hand and you'll rub yourself through your panties. With your right hand you'll violently fondle your breasts. Put your phone on speaker so your hands are free.”

Erin does as she's told, but reluctantly. She slides her hand under the t-shirt and presses at her firm left breast, which is shapely but not overly large. She seems sensitised. Her left hand slides between her thighs and feels the heat and moisture of her cotton panties. “Are you doing as I told you?” Ava questions.

“Yes Miss,” Erin says, her voice cracking with nerves, making her sound, she fears, like a slut.

“The client was a woman in her late thirties. A professional woman I'd seen a couple of times previously. She has a job in the city, divorced, wealthy. She's a little overweight, which is a source of embarrassment for her. In the pictures of her in her apartment she's slim. She's always well dressed and perfectly groomed. Or she was,” Ava laughs slyly.

“She loves to be bound and taunted, humiliated. I'd threatened to make her submissiveness public in the past, which was a huge fear and a bigger turn on for her. As soon as I got there I stripped her naked, forcefully. She daren't struggle against me any more. I made her display herself and examined her pussy, which she'd had fully waxed the previous day, as I'd instructed. It was lovely and smooth and as soon as I ran my fingers over it she started to moisten. And is your pussy getting wet, Erin?”

“Yes Miss Avarice,” she admits bashfully.

“Keep rubbing your lips, press the panties right into the cleft, I want them nice and wet. Anyway, I looked her up and down and it was clear that she'd gained weight. I asked her how this could be so. Seems she has an eating disorder. When she's stressed, which is often in her job, she binges on chocolate or cake. I told her she's getting a double chin, which makes her very ugly. She was already close to tears.

“I pulled her arms behind her back and cuffed her wrists. She makes little sighs when she gets excited and the cuffs made her do it. Then I put a thick dog collar on her fat neck and fastened it too tightly for comfort. I told her this collar isn't going to be let out any further so if she's gained more fat on her neck next time then she'll be unable to breathe. I tied the cuffs to the collar, pulling her wrists up her back until her shoulders were aching.

“She was whimpering and sighing constantly by now. I had to tell her not to cum, because she was already on the brink. By the way, that applies to you, too. Don't you dare cum or I'll have to punish you. I made her bend over as I penetrated her anus with two lubed fingers. You remember the big butt plug? She sucked that as I opened up her tight little hole. She's never liked anal and the pain helped to restore her control, although the humiliation made her more aroused still.

“I eased the plug in, which she didn't like. Then I made her stand and take the dildo. She was so wet by now that it went in easily, despite its size. I made her stand with her feet apart and press her thighs together to keep the dildo in. She looked so awkward in this posture, knock-kneed, all pretence of elegance gone.

“I took some photos of her, telling her that she was starting to look old and that if she didn't lose weight that no one would ever see her in a sexual way ever again. That really hurt her. She started to cry, which pleased me. I pretended it made me mad and took out my feigned anger with the flogger on her big spongy buttocks. I made them glow before I made her sit on a kitchen chair. I shortened the rope between her collar and cuffs to make her more uncomfortable, then spread her knees.

“I tied her legs to the chair so that she wasn't able to move. She was hardly able to breathe with her sobbing and sighing. I decided it was time to break the news to her. 'When a woman is over thirty she need to start thinking about her hair. You can't get away with long hair at your age.' Her hair was past her shoulders, quite thick, healthy, dyed auburn. She probably thought her hair was her best feature. At least she'd looked after it, which is more than I can say for the rest of her body. Once she saw me unload the scissors from my bag she started to panic. But what could she do?

“'Please Miss Avarice, I'll go and get it cut shorter. A nice neat style. Please don't cut it now.' She sounded like a whingeing little brat and I could hardly contain myself. I told her if she didn't stop it I'd shave her bald and ban her from wearing a wig. She was trying her best to get her panic under control but her hopes that I was just taunting her were becoming frayed. I kept snapping the blades together in her face to make her cry. Then I chopped a big chunk of hair away from the top of her head and she cried more than I'd ever managed to make her sob with the flogger.”

Suddenly there is an interruption in the flow of the narrative. Erin is disgusted at herself for her response to Ava's cruelty, yet she is completely absorbed in the telling of this tale. “I think that's enough, Erin,” Ava says coldly. “If you want to hear any more you can buy me lunch.”

“You want to meet?” Erin is suddenly alarmed.

“Not if you can't be better mannered. Address me correctly, for a start.”

“I'm sorry, Miss Avarice.”

“That's better. There's a nice Italian, Il Giardino, by Kensington Gardens, I'll expect you to be there by one to meet me.”

Erin glances at her watch. It's just about feasible to make the journey in time. “I will be, Miss Avarice,” she says impulsively. She's told that she'll receive a text with some instructions.

For the umpteenth time Erin fusses with her skirt. It's too short for her, she only wore it once previously, and now she has worn it without any underwear. She glances around the restaurant. She's under-dressed for such an expensive place, just the skirt and a little t-shirt which exposes a little midriff. At least it's only lunch time. The patrons are dressed less formally and her appearance doesn't attract too much attention.

She's sure that this place is too expensive for her means, equally certain that Ava will expect her to pick up the bill. That's if she turns up. She's already twenty minutes late, and since Erin arrived ten minutes early she's had a full half hour to allow her anxiety to ferment. She keeps telling herself that this is a bad idea, that she should leave now. Ava has made her believe she has dark desires, but why have they never troubled her before? The sensible course of action would be to withdraw and keep busy until this chance encounter is forgotten. She looks to the door, visualising her escape. But she sees a dark figure silhouetted against the sunshine and realises that escape is no longer an option. Ava has arrived.

“Hello, Miss Avarice,” Erin says softly as her guest seats herself.

“Do you always speak so quietly or are you just ashamed that someone will hear you? Speak up and greet me again.” Erin does as she's told. Ava is correct, she feels absurd addressing a lunch companion by this name. She feels her discomfort growing.

Ava is dressed similarly to the last encounter: the same jacket, tight black leggings, boots, although these are more elegant, with sharp heels. Her long hair is loose, the fringe as crisp as ever. Is it perhaps even a touch shorter, freshly trimmed? The make-up is different today, her eyes outlined in thick oily black, Cleopatra-like, her lips stained a purple so dark it's almost black. Her features are perhaps a touch sharper than Erin had remembered.

Erin takes all this in with fleeting glances. She's being examined by Ava's intimidating gaze, checked to ensure her compliance with the instructions. “You know I said I didn't remember you? Now we're together I see that's true. I wouldn't have recognised you again. You have quite a forgettable face, Erin Hume.”

She's unable to respond to this apparent insult. A waitress arrives to pass menus. There's a lunchtime menu with more reasonable prices and Erin suggests they order from this. “No, à la carte,” Ava insists. “I want the lobster, it's divine here. You should try it.”

Erin declines, explaining that she doesn't like seafood. She looks on the menu and suppresses a groan as she sees how much Ava's lobster will set her back. As the waitress takes their order Erin mentally totals how much this lunch will cost her. More than she would spend on food in a month. She feels angry with herself for getting into this position.

“Stop pouting,” Ava says sternly. “You should be happy to spend money on me. I love being given expensive gifts and when I'm happy I'll make you happy. You don't resent spending on me, do you?”

“No, Miss Avarice,” Erin says. “I want you to be happy.”

Erin is now asked to sketch some details of her life. She answers honestly: she's an only child, she grew up in a comfortable home with good parents who she visits as often as she can given that they live two hundred miles distant and that she works long hours. She's never had a relationship that lasted more than six months. She's had relationships with men and women although she feels a better fit with women, to the point where she no longer thinks of herself as bisexual but rather lesbian.

Now Ava starts to go deeper into her psyche. Erin admits that people always seem to regard her as a “good girl”, that at school she wanted to be friends with the cool kids but they never trusted her. As an only child she became comfortable with her own company, so having few friends bothered her less than it did most of her peers. She's not got close to anyone since arriving in London; she has good enough relations with colleagues, but hardly ever socialises with them outside work.

“So you wanted to be a bad girl but no one ever let you?” Erin laughs, but admits there's some truth there.

“And you saw me, and I was everything about bad girls you'd ever dreamed of?”

Erin nods. It's true, and maybe explains why she's so attracted to Ava. “You want me to bring out your bad girl, but it'll cost you. I have to feel special, and only lavish gifts make me feel loved. That and obedience.”

“That's not easy. I don't have a lot of money. Living in London isn't easy on my wage, Miss.” Erin feels upset to think that she'll be rejected because she's not wealthy. Is she so devoted to this woman already, even though she knows how badly she treats her lovers?

“I know you're not rich like some of my ladies. All I want to know is that you'll make sacrifices for me. It would make me happy to think of you going without for my sake. Or exhausting yourself working long hours of overtime so that you can buy me a nice pair of shoes. Will you do that for me?”

“Yes Miss Avarice,” Erin says. She can see that her new friend's name is no accident.

“You wanted to hear the rest of my story, didn't you?” Erin nods, but she'd prefer to hear it in private. Ava picks up a knife and polishes it with the linen napkin, paying attention to the broad, chased handle. “You can use this to stimulate yourself.” Erin looks at her with a mix of disbelief and incomprehension. “Put the handle in your slit until only the blade juts out. No one will see you, these table cloths hide everything. You'd be very surprised at what goes on under these tables.”

She pushes the heavy knife into Erin's hand and looks at her expectantly. Erin pauses, then lowers her hand beneath the edge of the table. Ava shifts her chair a little closer and her hand slides over Erin's thigh, guiding the knife toward her sex. Erin pauses, her cheeks reddening. “If you don't do it I'll never tell you. You have to trust me. Push it in.”

Erin touches the metal to her lips and tries to be courageous. She feels Ava's fine fingers slide onto her labia, parting them. “Ease it in, baby. Back and forth so you get nice and wet and it goes in easily.” Erin can barely sit still as she feels the cool metal entering her, Ava's fingers delicately probing at her. “I don't like hair on pussies. We'll get you waxed after we've eaten.”

“Yes Miss Avarice,” Erin gasps, her voice strained as she's been holding her breath. Now Ava takes hold of her hand and makes her push the handle in deep. She's unable to remain silent and a soft, high squeal passes from her mouth. Ava moves the blade from side to side to make sure the knife is embedded deeply in her.

“Oh my, what an image. A girl with a blade instead of a penis. Every boy's worst nightmare.” She resumes her story as if the gap in the tale was seconds rather than hours. “I decided it was time to introduce my little fatty to the clippers. She really begged when she saw me plugging them in. I told her that if she gave in I'd put a guard on but any resistance and I'd be shearing her to the scalp. She was very panicky and I knew that calmness was beyond her, but at least she stopped wriggling. I gave her the mercy of a guard on the clippers. It was a small guard, a two. I told her that this would leave a quarter inch of hair. I told her to bow her head without delay if she didn't want me to reconsider. I felt so powerful seeing her drop her chin to her chest, knowing that her beautiful hair was about to go.

“I started at her neck. I lifted up her hair and put the blades on her neck. She jumped when I flicked the switch. These clippers make a very loud noise when the motor engages, and I love how that crack makes subbies jump. I pressed them tight to her skin and moved them up nice and slow, savouring the drop in pitch as the blades met her hair. I told her that they were cutting away her locks and that what was left behind showed how grey her hair was now. She's very vain and the idea of showing that she's old and grey now was hard on her. I ploughed the clippers right up the back, right up to her crown. The shaved path only showed off how thick her hair was, or, a few minutes later, had been. The whole back and sides were quickly sheared down to a nice even buzz. All the dyed hair was cut away and what was left was salt and pepper stubble.”

There's a brief pause as the waitress brings the starters. Erin is made to refer to Ava as Mistress Avarice in the waitress' presence, since the latter can see that she's been uncomfortable about using this name. As the waitress retreats, Ava slips off her bike jacket. Her left arm is almost entirely tattooed. Erin starts to comment but is immediately silenced.

“Don't talk until I finish the story. You may eat and you will touch yourself under the table. If you need to cum, raise your hand.” Erin acknowledges the orders with a nod.

“At this point I decided it was time for my little piggy to see a mirror. I set one up in front of her. Of course, her hair was still long on top so when she saw herself the extent of the buzz was concealed under the long hair. I lifted her tresses clear and let her see what I'd done. I limited her ability to express her despair by gagging her now. I would have done it earlier but the strap would have interfered with buzzing her nape. I stuffed the ball into her teeth when she wasn't expecting it. I loved the look of shock as I pressed it right in, then fastened it so tight that it would make her cheeks ache.

“I wet her hair with a spray. Ice cold water, to add to her sensory feast. I combed the hair flat over her head and started to snip a nice blunt line right around her head, leaving the fringe till last so that when I cut it she finally got a good view of her new look. I'd set the weight line well over her ears, about half an inch of the buzz visible over the top of each ear. Even with the undercut her hair is so thick that I knew it would give a very heavy line so I did some texturing through the ends to soften it. Then I blew it dry, curling the ends under and getting the hair nice and smooth, so she had a nice, full mushroom bowl. She looked so weak and submissive now, and I made sure she knew it.”

Ava reaches into her pocket to get her phone to show Erin the evidence. She sees a woman who looks barely into her thirties, hardly the woman she'd imagined. She's not slim, but she has a good figure, not the obese woman Ava had suggested. In the first photographs she displays her nakedness awkwardly. Erin is shocked to see the next images, where her long hair has been severely shorn into just the style Ava described, the sides grey and clippered close. She's gagged, her make-up smeared and smudged by the indignities she's borne. Erin feels awful for her, but she can't control her excitement. She starts to gasp and holds her hand up. Ava's fingers work at her clitoris, the knife jerking up and down inside her.

“Just hold on a moment, you little slut,” Ava says affectionately. “Wait and see how she'll present herself to the world now.” Another picture of the same woman, now with her hair swept back on top, the natural wave apparent. Her face is now scrubbed of make-up and she's wearing a pair of black framed glasses. She looks much older than before her makeover, androgynous. Her expression can't hide her sadness at the look that's been forced on her, but Erin thinks that she looks beautiful.

“Please Miss Avarice, I need...” she moans, looking about anxiously to see if her shameful conduct has been observed. Is there a tiny sense of disappointment that it appears that no one is staring at her?

“Cum, you little whore,” Ava purrs in her ear. As the orgasm starts to fill her body, Erin feels Ava take hold of her jaw. She smudges her mouth with lipstick, applying a thick layer. Erin feels helpless, unable to resist, paralysed by the delicious climax. “Do you want to turn up for work tomorrow with your hair cut like hers?” Ava teases.

“Oh, no, please, Miss Avarice,” Erin wails.

By the end of the meal Erin has orgasmed three times and still holds the knife inside her. Ava has continued to work on her make-up which has been noticed by a few of the patrons. Erin has become tipsy with the prosecco she's drunk but hasn't been allowed to visit the bathroom. She has no idea how she looks any more, but Ava tells her she looks hot and that pleases her.

She pays the bill, horrified to see how much it is, sure she'll not have enough money to make it to the end of the month. But then Ava takes her to the bathroom (the knife blade jutting out under her skirt) and all worries are forgotten. She giggles as she sees herself. Her eye make-up is the same as Ava's, her lips painted a shiny black. “Oooh,” she gasps. “I look so goth. We're like sisters!”

“But there's something not right, isn't there? What is it?”

“My eyebrows.”

Ava nods, reaches in her bag. She holds out a safety razor. “Shave them and I'll draw you new ones just like mine.”

“I don't know,” Erin says. This wouldn't be something she could wash off when she gets home.

“Did you think that was a request? I don't make requests, I give orders. Shave them or I'll pluck them and I'll make it hurt.”

Erin is allowed to wet her brows before she shaves them. Ava distracts her from her task by slowly extracting the knife from her and licking it clean. Erin is suddenly confronted by her new image in the mirror. She's not herself any more. She loves it when Ava leans in close to her and draws on the new brows. They're even more dramatic than her domina's own, making her look angry and depraved.

“Aren't you a sexy little thing?” Ava demands.

“I am, Miss Avarice,” she says drunkenly, delighted with the attention.

“I'm going to take you to a spa now to get your pussy waxed. They'll think you're such a whore, won't they? You're all slimy and smelly from cumming.”

“I don't care what they think. I only care what you think, Miss Avarice.”

“Which is exactly how it should be. I think you're going to make me very happy, Erin Hume.”

Erin wakes the next day with a hangover. She doesn't know where she is, can barely remember the events of the previous night. She's slept on the floor, but she lies on thick rugs which mean she isn't uncomfortable. The room is unfamiliar and she winces as she thinks how stupid she's been to let herself get so drunk.

She sees a hank of long, black hair across the floor from her. She thinks that Ava must have cut her hair. It's not enough hair to indicate that all of her hair has been cut; perhaps, she fantasises, Ava now has a sidecut. She reaches down to stroke her sex, recoils as she feels how chafed and bruised she is.

She notices an open door which lets onto a bathroom, stumbles through to the room (en route sees that Ava is asleep in the large bed across the room) and sits on the toilet to relieve herself. Rising has made her head throb with pain, inducing a pulse of nausea, and focusses on the bathroom cabinet where she hopes she may find analgesics. She goes to the cabinet but is shocked into immobility as she catches her reflection. The hair she saw lying on the carpet is hers. Her hair is dyed black, a heavy fringe cut ridiculously high on her forehead, even shorter than Ava's. Her make-up has been scrubbed away and she has to regard herself without brows. She looks awful, she thinks. It makes her forehead look too big, her eyes look too far apart. She's weird, ugly even, with no brows, and her fringe won't allow her to hide it. She pulls the band out of her hair to let it fall free and examines her black mane. She curses. How will she ever explain this? She has to work today and she'll arrive looking like a goth?

Erin finds some painkillers in the cabinet, swallows them, drinking greedily from the tap to slake her dryness. She slumps back onto the rugs and feels herself becoming tearful. However, once the painkillers start to act she falls asleep again.

Her second return to consciousness is caused by Ava, who has lain alongside her on the floor and now presses her naked body close against Erin, kisses her lovingly on her neck and cheek. “Good morning, sleepy,” she whispers.

Erin smiles at her, despite feeling awful. Her head still aches dully, the nausea is now compounded by heartburn. Ava looks so different without make-up. For the first time Erin realises that she's very young; her cosmetics had made her look older. Erin is sure she is, at twenty-three, the elder. She looks into Ava's dark eyes, seeing her anew; her fine, short eyelashes give her a look of vulnerability. Her absent brows give her face something of the strangeness Erin remarked in her own feature, but knows that Ava pulls it off better. She tries, unsuccessfully, to guess her ethnicity. Her features and skin tone suggest some extra-European heritage. The piercings add to her exoticism.

“We're like sisters now. I love you with black hair. And that fringe is super.” Ava's fingers smooth down the short hair over her forehead.

Erin feels her pride grow, feels a thrill of lust too, despite her malaise. She glances over Ava's body which is heavily marked with tattoos; in addition to the sleeve on her left arm she has an incomplete chest piece which reaches from shoulder to shoulder, a large design on each thigh, and a smaller tattoo on the back of her right shoulder. She's tattooed more heavily that Erin should like, but then her tastes seem to be shifting very rapidly. The tattoos are suggestive of the abandonment that Ava embodies, and Erin delights in kissing her smooth, inked skin. She even imagines Ava tattooing her, which simultaneously induces horror and exhilaration.

Ava's gentle attentions make Erin feel ecstatic, her caresses and kisses. For a full hour they are wordless, savouring and treasuring the fusion of their bodies. Finally Ava falls onto her back and groans. “Oh, baby. We need to get up! I wish we could stay here forever, but the world won't wait for us.”

“Can I call you Ava?” Erin asks meekly.

Ava smiles mischievously. “Do you think you're my girlfriend now? That we're equals?”

Erin nods. “I'd like that. I really like you.”

“Well... I like you too. But I still demand that you call me Miss Avarice, because I know that you think it sounds ridiculous and I want to make you uncomfortable. And you have to understand things about me before we go any further. I make a lot of money from seeing other women, and I enjoy it. I won't stop that and if you're going to get jealous it will destroy our relationship. I think the best way would be that I'm totally open about what I do, that I tell you all about my encounters, That seemed to please you yesterday.”

There's a reddening of her cheeks as Erin recalls her shameful conduct in the restaurant. “I think I'd like that,” she admits. “Thank you, Miss Avarice.”

“I can't wait to meet some of your colleagues.”

“I don't really socialise,” Erin says.

“You will now. I can't wait to see your little cheeks glow as you tell them your girlfriend is called Miss Avarice. And then, of course, there's the fact that we're going to look alike. Same hair now. We should start on your piercings today. Get your septum and cheeks pierced.”

Erin looks at her in horror. “I can't do that!” she says. “I'd never be allowed those piercings in work.”

Ava looks at her fiercely. “But you said... Last night you promised.”

“I don't remember anything of last night. I really shouldn't drink so much.”

“It was more than drink,” Ava snorts.

“Oh God, really?” Erin feels a dread as she imagines that she could be selected for a random drug test. “I'm sorry if I promised things but I can't have facial piercings and do my job. Please, Miss Avarice, try to understand my position.”

“Cheeks and septum,” she says sternly. “You can wear something discreet in your septum on duty, it would be invisible.”

“The cheeks wouldn't be!”

“True. Either we go with the plan for you to look like me or else we go a different route. And that means haircut.”

Erin looks at her pleadingly. “Please Miss Avarice. It's just because of work. There are strict rules.”

“I gave you a choice. One word answer: piercings or haircut?”

Erin feels terrified. Is she going to be wearing the awful bowlcut that Ava inflicted on her last victim if she declines the piercings? She looks at the studs which decorate Ava's cheeks and knows that she would never be allowed on duty with these. “Haircut,” she says, defeated.

“OK, let's do it.”

“Now?” Erin is unprepared for the haste with which this is unfolding. Moments later she's in an adjoining room which is fitted with a large, antique barber chair upholstered in shiny black leather, the edges of each pad lined with silvery pyramidal studs. Erin climbs awkwardly over the footrest to take her place in the chair. She looks at the unfamiliar girl in the mirror. At least she still has long hair, but even that consolation is about to be withdrawn.

“Is Constable Hume allowed to wear make-up?” Ava asks as she fixes Erin's wrists with broad leather straps which she fastens with laces.

“A little make-up is allowed.”

“But not your eyebrows like they were yesterday?”

“Maybe if they were more naturalistic..?”

“No. I prefer that you'll wear no make-up in work.”

Erin grimaces as she imagines facing the public with this browless visage. Ava continues to immobilise her. Now she pulls leather bands around her knees, which are now attached to chains to spread her legs. A belt is fastened around her chest, just below breasts, pulling her tightly against the upright back of the chair.

Ava holds up two clips, rubber tipped with powerful springs. She snaps them menacingly before Erin's face. Are these to be applied to her nipples? In fact, the reality is worse that Erin's imagination had conceived. Ava fixes the clips to her outer labia. Despite her wish to endure her torment with stoicism, Erin groans. They pinch horribly, unbearably, and yet she has no way to remove them. Now Ava increases her suffering; fine chains on the clips are tugged so that Erin's sex gapes, and the chains are fixed to the frame of the chair. Ava licks her finger and begins to stimulate Erin's clitoris.

“Poor baby. Do you want something inside you to console you from all this pain? And the despair you'll feel at getting your long hair cut off?”

“Yes, Miss Avarice,” Erin sobs. “Please, it hurts too much.”

“I decide what's too much, don't I?” Erin nods. Ava crosses to a cabinet which is opened to reveal numerous dildos of mostly unfeasibly large magnitude. She lets her fingers stroke over each in turn as she muses on which would best suit Erin. She selects one of wide girth (it must be two and a half inches thick), maybe ten inches long. “Is this too much?” she says, teasingly.

Erin nods, but Ava remains mute, expectant. “That's for you to decide, Miss Avarice,” Erin says humbly.

Ava covers the latex phallus with a generous layer of lubricant, obviously becoming aroused as she playfully runs her hands over the shaft. “Feels so good,” she murmurs, then lets the dildo slide up and down between Erin's breasts.

The pleasure of this sensation is short-lived. Moments later the head is thrust against her sex, twisting and burrowing at the strained opening. Erin moans as she tries to imagine how this thing could ever enter her. Brute force is applied and Erin screams as she stretches to accept the huge head. “Please!” she gasps over and over. She sees the thing slide into her until more than half of the shaft is buried inside. The pain is intense, dwarfing the pinching of the clips.

“Good baby. You'll soon take things far bigger than this without difficulty. Soon I'll have your backside stretched to take this dildo,” Ava laughs.

“Now are you going to be a good, compliant little kitten while your Mistress cuts your hair?”

“Yes Miss Avarice,” Erin groans. She just wants to be released. If her hair needs to be cut to accomplish this then she must accept it. She'll do nothing to slow Ava's work.

“Mmmm, clippers.” Ava displays the same set that Erin previously saw during the bag check. “You'll soon love the feeling of these. I'm an artist with these, but today I'll keep my work simple. I think you should appreciate the sensation of a short buzz though. I'll take you to a number one. That's an eighth. Head down!”

Erin bows her head. She's always had long hair but now it's about to be almost shaved. Ava continues to provoke her. “You remember the pics of the fat woman? Hers was a number two. Yours will be half the length hers was, and your hair isn't as coarse. It's going to look pretty much shaved. Probably just as well I dyed it last night. If you were still blonde it would look bald.”

Erin feels her muscles jolt as there's a loud crack just by her ear. She remembers how Ava delighted in this, the noise making her victims jump. Sure enough, her reaction induces a cruel chuckle. “Here goes!” Ava proclaims triumphantly.

The long hair is lifted free of Erin's neck and the clippers come to rest at the base of her nape. They vibrate teasingly, hypnotically. The sensation is lulling, reassuring, but Erin knows that their seductiveness disguises their true purpose, to ravage her hair, still beautiful despite the new shade.

Ava lets the blades rise, slowly, so slowly. There's little to indicate that they are shearing away Erin's tresses. Then suddenly she makes a rapid upward stroke, high up Erin's nape. There's a dip in the tone of the hum but the clippers slice through the hair effortlessly. Erin's vain hope that this was all mere teasing crumbles as long black hairs fall over her naked body.

Ava returns the blades to her neck and makes another up-thrust. Her left hand is holding the bulk of Erin's hair in place at her crown, so that only a few strands fall free after each pass. Soon Erin's entire nape has felt the passage of the clippers numerous times. Ava concentrates her attention at the top of the clippered area, which is only, Erin estimates, two inches below her crown, intent on tidying, neatening the line which separates the near shaved area from the long hair on top of her head.

Finally Ava releases her grip on Erin's head, allows her to straighten her neck which is aching from its constrained posture. As the grip relaxes a mountain of hair spills free, covering Erin's body and forming a dark corona around the base of the chair. Ava lifts the long hair again, this time to kiss Erin's nape. There's no soft silk covering any more, just a prickly layer of stubble, and a scalp irritated by the actions of the blades. And yet Erin swoons to feel the pierced lips of the woman she adores on her shorn head. Her wrists push against the tight straps, desperate to touch herself, to push her arousal further until she tips into climax.

Ava breaks away and moves to Erin's right. She grabs her hair and forcefully pushes her head to the side. The clippers gnaw away at her sideburn, then higher, turning her temple to a ruin. The shiny black locks are reduced to an ashen stubble, her scalp easily visible. Erin winces as she sees the side being shorn above her ear. Ava is cutting as high as the line of her fringe. She starts to feel tearful as she imagines the line of the fringe being extended right around her head. That would give a much more extreme bowlcut than the woman she saw on Ava's phone. How humbling this haircut will be! She'll have to face her colleagues in a few hours time, transformed into a girl who is undeniably a submissive lesbian.

As Ava starts to shear the left side, Erin momentarily believes this is what she wants. She wants to be humbled, wants Ava to control her and humiliate her. She stares at herself in the mirror, her ears jutting out more than she ever realised they did. She feels something melting inside her and she shrieks as she reaches climax.

Ava reacts with delight to Erin's loss of control. She pauses from her work to caress Erin's nape. “I didn't think you'd learn to love the clippers so soon, baby. Maybe I should just run them all over your head right now. You'd look so pretty with a crew cut.”

“Please, Miss Avarice,” Erin moans, still shivering in the grip of her orgasm, “let me keep the bowlcut.”

“Oh, my little baby, is that what you want? I was going to give you a pretty bob, but you want a bowlcut?”

The enchantment subsides and Erin is suddenly facing a more realistic view of her situation. “Oh, I got carried away,” she groans, now aware once more of the agonies that torment her. “Please, Miss Avarice, a bob would be very nice.”

Ava laughs. “Maybe too nice. I don't encourage niceness. You're going to be a bad girl now, aren't you?”

Erin sees the last of her long hair snipped away. She has a sharp bob now, the tips forming sharp points at chin level, the back angled up slightly to expose a little of her tightly buzzed nape. Ava cuts beautifully, carefully shaping the style, then smoothing it with dryer, brush and straighteners to a gleaming helmet of a glossy perfection. Erin is astonished to see herself with such a dramatic new style but any doubts she had about its suitability are eclipsed by Ava's evident ardour.

She expects to be released now, but is made to wait a little longer. Ava combs back the bob and fixes it in two stubby tails, either side of her crown, fully exposing the high undercut. Only the little fringe is left free. She tells Erin to be very still as she shaves around the hairline of her nape to give a hard contour. The straight razor drags at her dry scalp, chafing and reddening the skin, but somehow the sensation is nothing but pleasurable to Erin. Ava carves the short hair of her nape into a trapezoid, all hard, straight lines. Then she shaves away Erin's sideburns, high up her cheeks. “When you tuck your hair behind your ears it'll just expose bald skin,” Ava tells her. “I like how that looks.”

When Erin is finally released from the chair she's been heavily made up, black lips, eyes decorated with sharply pointed wings, thin arches serving as brows. She can't take her eyes off her reflection. She cums again as Ava slips the huge dildo out of her abused sex.

Ava tells her that she'll wear her hair like this for the entire day. She'll keep her make-up until just before she enters her workplace. Erin nods her assent as she strokes her buzzed scalp, still in disbelief that she's been transformed so spectacularly. She loves her new look.

But, soon after, Ava is gone to work, and Erin has to face the world. Suddenly she's alone and confronted by the unwelcome stares of strangers as she makes her way through the town. She's filled with regret for what she's done. How will she ever face her work mates, how can she possibly explain this metamorphosis? She goes to an ATM to withdraw some a few pounds to buy lunch, checks her balance as she does. She's horrified to see that she'd almost emptied her account on the previous day in her wooing of her mistress.

Erin is unable to eat now, her stomach twisting in protest at the abuses of the previous night, additionally provoked by the anxiety she feels about her imminent arrival in work. She realises that the journey home would take so long that she'd have to leave again almost immediately to get to work, so resolves to stay out. It's a pleasant spring day and she goes to a park where she drinks copiously to compensate for her dehydration. Her scalp feels light and cool, but every time she touches it she feels regret intensely. She had such lovely hair and now it will take her years to grow it back.

She enters a department store near to the station and visits the toilets. She faces herself in the mirror and can barely stand to see what she's become. Her hair is almost shaved! She hates how it looks tied up like this. And her make-up, it's designed to make her look like a slut. She takes out the moistened tissues that Ava provided for her and starts to erase her mask. The pale, odd creature that is revealed is perhaps even less appealing. She flushes as she sees once more how her ears jut. She considers releasing her bob from its constraint to cover up her ugly ears, to conceal the extent of her undercut. But she can't bring herself to go against her orders from Ava. She daren't risk upsetting Ava. Despite her regrets, she knows that Ava has made her experience joys of which she couldn't have previously conceived. She won't risk Ava ending their relationship by trying to ameliorate her appearance. She takes a last, lingering look at herself, trying to fix in her memory how she will look to her colleagues, to the public.

It's late in the following week before Erin hears once more from Ava. She'd been told not to contact Ava without good reason, to expect to be contacted when Ava chooses. The call comes when she's catching up on sleep after having worked a strenuous double shift. She wakes in confusion at the ringing tone, takes a few moments to realise what woke her. Then she looks at the display of her phone and is fully aware in a moment; she's been longing for this call.

“Miss Avarice, hello!” she gushes. “I've missed you so much.”

Ava sounds aloof. “Erin, how are you?”

“I'm tired. I was sleeping after a long shift. I've been working so much, and it's been really difficult...”

“I don't care to hear the details of your mundane life,” Ava interrupts. “I'm sure my job is infinitely more interesting than yours.” Erin adds a word of agreement. “When do you get paid? I'd love you to buy me something nice from your earnings. If you did that I might see fit to provide you with some more days of excitement.”

“I'd love that, Miss Avarice,” Erin says, delighted by the thought of seeing Ava again. “But I'm awful at choosing presents. And your tastes are so different to mine, I'm sure I'd choose something unfit.”

“My tastes are better. That's what you mean, isn't it, Erin?” Erin agrees with this assessment. “You had such a boring hairstyle before we met, didn't you? I bet even since you got your nice bob you've been imagining it growing long again, haven't you?” Erin admits that Ava is right. “I need to save you from yourself. Did you ever have such a sweet orgasm from trimming your long hair as you did when I clippered you? Of course you didn't. The first thing we do when we meet is to get your undercut nice and sharp again. I'll shave away all the dyed hair. I can't wait to see how it looks. Almost bald with your blonde hair. Maybe we should try a wet shave. It might suit you better. Do your friends like your new look?”

“My sergeant isn't very pleased with me. He says I look like a punk and it's not suitable for a police officer.”

Ava laughs. “Does he think something more military is appropriate? I could give you a nice buzz or a US marines flattop.”

“Please, Miss Avarice, don't. They've been encouraging the men to get away from shaves and short buzzes. They think that it helps to have a slightly softer image.”

Ava starts to laugh uncontrollably. “You think you'd look too tough with a flattop? Erin, it would take more than a haircut to make you look tough! You're so soft and girly. That's what I like about you. I can't imagine you dealing with hardened criminals. I bet they all laugh in your face.”

Erin feels herself growing hurt by these taunts, because there's some truth in Ava's accusations. “I do have problems with imposing authority.” She feels herself getting emotional as she admits to her difficulties. “I'm better when someone empathetic is needed. I'm good at supporting victims.”

“Well that's nice. You're a very likeable girl, Erin.” Ava is sincere in her statement, Erin is certain. “I liked you immediately. But you need to be liked. You can't please everyone. If you try, the one person who'll never be pleased is you.

“I like that you'll antagonise your sergeant. He'll start to have more respect for you. Have you been wearing your bob down?”

“I have,” Erin states. “I wear a hat most of the time and when I have my hair up it looks like I have a buzzcut.”

“Oh, but that sounds heavenly. “I'd love to see you in your uniform again. I bet you look so sexy. Put your hair up for the next shift, baby. I want you to look like a punk, although I bet that undercut is getting too soft already. I can't wait to clipper you again.

“I've been neglecting you, haven't I? I can see you need guidance to stop you from reverting to the boring little girl that fear had made you. I need to issue you with orders on a daily basis to keep you on your toes.”

Erin's hand is on her pussy now, stroking it with excitement. She knows that Ava will make her life difficult, that she'll endure humiliations frequently, yet imagining this loss of control, not to mention regular attention from Ava, makes Erin grow extremely passionate. “Thank you Miss Avarice,” Erin groans, her voice betraying her mood.

“Run your fingertip over your eyebrows, Erin. Do you feel stubble?” Erin confirms that she can feel soft points of hair sprouting. “ Do you want to grow your eyebrows back?”

“I do,” Erin confirms. “I look weird without them. It would be for the best.”

“There's that will asserting itself again. You don't know what's for the best, Erin. You need me to decide. Go and get a razor right now and shave them smooth again. I might make you get them permanently removed so that you can't backslide. Actually, I'm disappointed that you've not maintained them with your razor. Do I have to tell you everything?”

“I'm sorry,” Erin says, feeling a deep hurt from this criticism. She goes to the bathroom and wets her brows with a dab of shampoo. The stubble is only noticeable to a close observation but despite this Erin is reluctant to shave it. She hates how she looks without brows, has been drawing them in, getting a little better each day as she hones her skills with making them look even and more natural. Even so, she would rather her brows were allowed to grow in and now the little progress that had been made will be erased. She drags the blade over the skin, feeling a bristling scrape as it passes. A second stroke meets no such resistance. She dabs a towel over her brow, the skin seeming to tingle. It looks so clean now it's freshly shaven, beautiful in a way, even though when Erin takes in the effect it has on her features, she still feels despair. She tells Ava that her brows are gone.

“I'm glad to hear it. Just sorry I had to tell you. I think you should be very generous with your tribute. You never did tell me when your next payday is.”

“It'll be next Tuesday. I'll try to think of something nice to get you.”

“No need. I think your imagination needs a rest. You can go to my favourite tattoo shop and buy me some gift certificates. I hope you can find your way to spend a good amount. You know how much it pleases me when you spend so much that you have to go without. I'll text you the address later. Once you've bought the vouchers you can call me and we'll arrange a rendezvous. Until then you're to shave your brows every day and wear your hair up. Try different styles every day and get pictures to show me. Goodbye, Erin.”

Erin enters the tattoo shop. She's never been to a tattooist's before and she feels out of place here. It's in a area of the East End that she barely knows, that's reputed to be an up and coming area. The dilapidation of most of the buildings is in contrast to some of the people she sees, clearly striving to be noticed for their ability to keep up with the latest fashions. There are strange art galleries and voguish coffee shops. The tattooist is on the second floor of a rehabilitated seventies office block, now incongruously home to a hair salon and various creative enterprises. A bell rings as she passes through the fluted glass door. A young woman sits at a counter glancing idly at Erin. Then her features brighten as she looks more closely at her visitor.

Erin feels a little peak of pleasure, assuming that she's been judged to be attractive. She's curled her hair today and pinned it up quite chaotically. It's not a style she would ever have worn for work, and despite feeling a little ridiculous, she thinks it looks quite good. She's made an effort with her make-up too, her brows looking better than they have, she's sure, since they were shaved.

“You're Erin,” the woman says with certainty.

“I am. How did you know?” This recognition has taken her by surprise, made her feel wary.

“Ava told me to expect you. She said I should make sure you don't stint on her gift.”

“I won't. I wanted to buy some vouchers. Maybe...” She'd calculated that she could afford two hundred pounds but now she feels pressured to spend more. “Two fifty?” she says hesitantly.

The woman looks at her sternly. “Just two-fifty. You couldn't even go to three?” Erin tries to calculate how spending such a big chunk of her earnings will affect her. She would be able to cover her bills but her food budget will have to suffer. And there'll be no savings, no new clothes. She can't resist giving in.

“Yes, three hundred,” she says, glumly. She counts the bills out from her purse and is rewarded with a bundle of vouchers in a gift card with an image of a facially tattooed Blessed Virgin Mary.

“That's better. We might get that chest piece finished now. She'll look so good.” Erin gives a forced smile, places the card in her handbag, turns to leave.

“No, you need to come through the back,” she's told. She looks at the woman with puzzlement. “Ava's orders. She said I'm not to tell you anything except to tell you that you do exactly as I say.”

As she sits in the leather chair, Erin is feeling sick. There's a tattoo machine next to her. She's going to be tattooed, she's certain. Her thoughts become confused, out of control. Her concern is that the tattoo will be visible with her uniform. In her dress code it states that no tattoos should be visible, although her colleagues take this with a pinch of salt. Many of the male officers (and her colleagues are almost all male) have tattoos which show when they wear short sleeves. Occasionally they're told they should keep them covered but there are no consequences when they disobey.

Erin imagines being scolded for her new tattoos. But what if she gets something on her hands? She imagines holding her hand out to this woman, who is even now scrubbing her own hands in preparation to work on Erin. Tattooed hands, that would be unacceptable, she's sure. Or a big tattoo on her neck! Please not that...

The more she thinks about the trouble tattoos will cause her, the more excited she becomes. She feels a trembling in her loins, she wants to be tattooed horribly. She imagines Ava looking over her body and nodding in satisfaction that Erin is now a bad girl. Tattoos that can't be hidden or removed. Her breathing is becoming fitful, excited.

The tattooist comes over. She has a tray with a needle, swabs, clamps. She's to be pierced, not tattooed. She feels relieved, yet disappointed. It's the latter which shows more on her face.

“Did you think I was going to tattoo you?” the piercer laughs. “I could if you want.”

“No,” Erin says, tries to justify herself but finds no words.

“Not today, but soon, hey?”

“Maybe,” Erin concedes. She blushes as she realises that this conduct will be passed on to Ava. How will she react if she knows that Erin was disappointed not to be tattooed?

Erin's contemplation of her future is suddenly eclipsed by the events unfolding in the present. Her nose is being cleaned and she realises with panic that she's being prepared to receive a septum piercing. A ring dangling from her nose would never be allowed in her job and she starts to protest.

The piercer silences her. “Ava said you'd try to talk your way out of this. You do have a choice. Either you walk out of that door and never see Ava again or you sit like a good little girl and accept what needs to be done.”

She closes her eyes and remains silent. She will passively accept what Ava desires of her and try to find some way to avoid being sacked. For now the competing demands of her life with Ava and those of her job seem incompatible.

She feels a clamp fixing on her, inside her nose. Her sad passivity is suddenly replaced by a feeling of panic. She recalls the big needle she saw on the tray an imagines it being forced through her flesh. This is going to hurt! She feels sick as the piercer moves her head back, makes a series of tiny adjustments.

Then she's punctured. The pain seems to increase in steps. Initially she feels it's less than she expected but then it grows as the needle pushes deeper. The cartilage is tough, resistant and the sensation of force is unbearable. She feels sick, wails quietly, more from the dislike of the feeling of the cartilage being distorted than the terrible pain.

Her ears are ringing now and she can feel sweat trickling over her icy brow. More wailing as she feels the fresh wound being manipulated. “Please stop,” she moans childishly.

“No,” her tormentor says curtly. “It's best to just get it over with. You'll thank me later.” More fiddling, every movement causing pain and threatening to make Erin lose control and vomit. Finally there's space between her and the nightmarish figure of the piercer. Erin sighs as she realises that her ordeal is finished.

A mirror is passed to her and she looks at herself. She's terribly pale, her features covered with glistening beads of sweat, her upper lip suffused with a stain of crimson. Her nose now bears a little horseshoe through the septum, silvery beads hanging from each of the limbs, which are at least two millimetres thick. She stretches down her upper lip to get a better view, but immediately regrets it: the strain on the skin makes her nose sting.

“It looks good,” the woman tells her.

“Thanks. I'm just worried about work. They don't really like piercings.”

There's another ache to be endured as the new jewellery is manipulated. Now the arch is rotated so that it's contained within her nostrils, only visible if she tips her head back. “There, is that better?”

Erin smiles with relief. She might be able to get away with this after all.

Erin's pride in herself for coping with the piercing is dented as she pays for it. She hadn't prepared for this, had thought that Ava would have taken care of it since she ordered it. Now she's pushing her budget even further into stress. Still, she's now met the criteria to allow her to call Ava. She makes her way to a nearby coffee shop, orders a soft drink, takes out her phone and, with trepidation, makes the call.

“Erin, I've just been hearing about you!” Ava gloats without preamble. Erin makes a nervous greeting, expresses her wish that her mistress is in good health. “Thomasina said you thought you were going to get a tattoo. Is that right.” Erin confirms her misunderstanding. “And you wanted it?”

“I thought it was what you wanted, Miss Avarice, so I'd have accepted it.”

There's a long pause. Erin wants to say something to fill the void but can think of nothing to utter. “Erin Hume...” Ava begins, her tone that of a teacher scolding a dishonest child, “I think that you're being less than truthful. I asked if you wanted it. I know you have too much ego to accept my wishes as your own. I'll ask you again. Did you want a tattoo?”

“Miss Avarice,” Erin sighs in a soft voice, afraid of being overheard by the young woman who's just occupied the table behind her. “It's very confusing for me. I was terrified by the idea, but something about it excites me. It was the excitement I craved, not a tattoo.”

Ava laughs long and hard. “The excitement is what should guide you now, not your desire to be a nice bourgeois lady. It's so nice that I know about this. I can't wait to see you getting inked by Thomasina.”

Erin tries to respond but her mouth dries. She knows that Ava will fulfil this threat. She presses her thighs together tightly and feels a gorgeous sensation grow inside her, fear and arousal and helplessness combining to stir a sort of abject bliss. She knows she shouldn't allow herself to be overtaken by this inclination, it's dangerous and will only lead her to ruin, she's sure, yet she's too weak to fight it. “You do want it, Erin?” Ava asks coolly. Erin can only make an inarticulate croak which makes Ava laugh. “Mmmm, so excited that you can't even speak. You'll look such a slut when Thomasina is through.” The call is wound up with an instruction for Erin to visit Ava's apartment immediately.

The journey, though only a few miles, takes more than an hour on the hot and overcrowded underground. Erin's hands are shaking. She's full of nervous energy, thrilled to see Ava again but fearful too. Can she really want to be in a relationship with a woman who scares her so much? But then, perhaps Ava is right and she should pursue the things that turn her on, and Ava excites her like no one else she's encountered.

Ava opens the door to Erin and she feels like throwing herself on her knees. She looks more strange and beautiful than Erin's memory of her. Her fringe has been reshaped, angled down from her temples, a wide point forming at the centre of her forehead. Her long mane is tied back at the top into a messy bun, allowing Erin to see her ears. The lobes are stretched in loops around discs of dark, polished wood, at least an inch and a half in diameter. Erin can only barely recall having seen these modifications, presumably when she was drunk. She wears a black vest which shows her tattoos and Erin thinks of her as an exotic matriarch from some lost tribe, a powerful priestess who must be obeyed.

“Oh, look at you!” Ava groans. “You must stop trying to look conventional. You look like an off-duty cop. I know you are, but that's no excuse. You're not going to keep me satisfied looking so boring, are you?”

“I'm sorry Miss Avarice,” Erin whispers. She holds out the gift vouchers as a peace offering. Ava examines them and Erin glances up looking expectantly for a glimmer of gratitude or happiness. Ava doesn't show anything. Is she disappointed that Erin didn't spend more?

“Go to the bathroom,” Ava instructs. “Undress and leave your clothes in there. Scrub that awful make-up off too. Then come back to me.”

Erin obeys her, takes a long look in the mirror at her face. She still can't get used to having no eyebrows, but has shaved them every day since Ava ordered. She goes to the living room but there's no one here. She calls out and is summoned to Ava's bedroom.

“On your knees, slave,” Ava giggles. She pushes Erin's head down and rubs at her nape. “This hair has grown so much. You must have a good constitution; it's a good sign when your hair grows fast. I guess it means I'll have to see you more often to maintain your hair. Does that please you?” Erin nods happily. “Do you want me to neaten up this fuzz, get it nice and sharp again?”

Erin feels drunk as she looks up into Ava's deep, dark eyes. She still feels a shock each time she touches her head, the absence of her long hair still stings her. She'd love Ava to tell her that her hair will grow again, as long as Ava's own. But her mistress has other desires. “Your friends the clippers, you want to feel them, don't you, baby doll? I haven't forgotten how you liked them last time.”

“Mmmm, clipper me,” Erin groans, unable to resist.

“Maybe we'll try you shorter now. Would your sergeant like that?”

“Nooo,” Erin wails. She feels like she's regressing as Ava talks to her, really becoming baby-like. “I'll be in trouble,” she pleads, her voice becoming high and girlish.

Ava pushes her head down firmly and starts to kiss at her nape. “Don't be silly. I can always make things right, can't I? We'll take your nape nice and short and cut your bob too short to tie up. You can wear it down to keep you out of trouble with your boss. But you'd rather make him mad than me, wouldn't you?”

“I need to make you happy, Miss Avarice,” Erin sighs. She raises her head and sees Ava gazing lovingly into her eyes, expectantly. “Please clipper me,” Erin says.

Ava doesn't have to rise. She reaches to her side and she's grasping the chrome clippers, already plugged in. “There's no guard on the blades so they'll cut you very close, Erin. That's going to be a very special feeling, the most pure experience of being clippered. I'm really going to give you a treat today, baby.”

“Will they shave it all?” Erin asks. Her fear is starting to gain superiority over her desire.

“Absolutely,” Ava smiles. “Just a little sandpaper to remind you that you had hair once.” She flicks them on and Erin, despite knowing the noise was coming, jumps at the crack of the motor engaging. Ava slices a path through the soft bristles in front of her right ear, then presses Erin's fingers to her scalp. She groans as she feels the bared skin. The sandpapery stubble that Ava described is only tangible when her fingers rub upward, against the direction of growth. A downward stroke feels only smoothness.

“Doesn't that feel divine, so erotic?” Ava's joy is palpable, and it infects Erin. Her breathing becomes laboured, so intense is her arousal. She remembers her fresh buzz, how severe it looked. Now there will be no softening from soft dark bristles, just stark baldness. The more scared she becomes, the more Erin slides toward elation.

Ava tilts Erin's head down again, her temples now resting on the inside of her lover's thighs. The clippers whirr up her nape, her short hair flying from the irresistible march of the mechanical blades, becoming a dusting of short fibres which shadow Ava's knees. The blades are pressed tightly to Erin's scalp, disquietingly, irritatingly so. Ava's intention is clearly to cut as short as possible with no concession to Erin's comfort. Erin doesn't complain; there's something thrilling about this harshness in her treatment, a unknown need is fulfilled. She imagines her bald nape looking red and blotchy, imagines how soon she will be made to display it, sees, in her vision, how those behind her will see that she's just been shaved. She'll be proud to show off her raw, bare scalp, as long as Ava is beside her, but knows that once she's alone this demeanour will evaporate and she'll be left sad and regretful.

Ava turns her head so that her left temple is exposed, her right ear now resting on Ava's thigh. She can smell Ava's excitement. “You're a very bad girl,” Ava whispers.

Erin smiles, she wants to be a bad girl, that's what Ava loves turning her into. But then she looks up and sees she's misunderstood; Ava is admonishing her. “I get your nose pierced and you have the temerity to hide the jewellery! Are you ashamed of my ideas?”

“I'm sorry, Miss Avarice,” Erin says. She'd meant to turn the loop downwards before her arrival but in her nervousness she's been forgetful.

Ava is deliberately heavy handed as she manipulates the curved bar into its more visible position. “I think I should fit you with something you can't hide.”

Erin's eyes are watering as the wound sends little sharp bursts of agony. “Please Miss, the piercer said I should let it heal for a while before changing the jewellery.”

“That's so, is it? You know, Erin, I really don't care. Take it out while I get something suitable.”

Erin rocks back on her haunches as Ava rises. She reaches up to remove the bar but is at a loss to know how to remove it. She tries to twist the beads, groaning as the metal turns against the injured septum. She manages to unscrew one of the beads then tries to ease the loop of metal through the piercing. She winces and groans at the pain.

Ava takes the bar from her and puts it aside. She roughly brushes some clippings from Erin's face before pushing her head back as far as possible and forcing a ring through her septum. Erin's determination to meet this challenge with dignity and courage instantly fades. The edges of the metal tube which forms the ring snag at the cartilage and she cries out in pain. She has real tears coming from her eyes now and can't pretend it's merely an automatic response to pain which is causing her eyes to water. The relief as Ava finally releases the ring, now fitted to her satisfaction, makes Erin give an embarrassed giggle. Ava looks unimpressed.

“Erin Hume, that was disgusting. Your nose is all snotty when you cry and I have it on my fingers. Lick!” She holds out her fingers which Erin cleans with her tongue. The little hairs which have stuck to Ava's fingers are transferred to Erin's tongue, which disgusts her. She wants to spit them out but knows she must put up with this insult until Ava allows her to rinse her mouth. For now she places her head on Ava's tattooed leg once more and sighs as the clippers rush across her temple. Ava folds her ear down and shears all around it.

“Your ears stick out a little, don't they Erin. I bet you've always tried to hide that.”

“Miss Avarice, I was hardly aware of it when my hair was long. I only noticed it when you cut it short.”

“Did it please you?”

Erin feels herself becoming a little upset. “No Miss, I don't like it. My ears look awful.”

Ava strokes at her ear beguilingly. “I think it's very cute. You've always been a pretty girl, and your vanity is wounded when you realise you have an imperfection. But I'm going to celebrate your imperfections. You'll show off your jug ears whenever we're out together. I think we should get lots of new piercings to draw attention to them. Wouldn't that be nice?”

“Please Miss Avarice, I'd willingly do it, but in my job... We're only allowed to wear studs because there's a risk that rings could be pulled and injure us.”

“Does that apply to nose too?” Ava takes the septum ring in her fingers and tugs gently, but even this makes Erin squeal.

“Yes Miss,” she says through gritted teeth.

“Your job is an excuse to make you look more conservative. I'm really starting to resent it. But then if you were on the dole you'd have no money for me and then I'd soon get bored with you!”

Erin makes an apology. Ava remains wordless as she shears away more hair. “Tell me about your thoughts when you imagined Thomasina was going to tattoo you.”

Erin feels uncomfortable. She knows that to admit what she really imagined would be an invitation for Ava to cover her in nasty, gothic tattoos. She also knows that she's a bad liar and any attempts to make up some story will be immediately obvious to Ava as deception.

“It's hard to put into words,” Erin says, shivering as she feels the clippers rise up her scalp, the sound changing as they shear away some of the longer hair on the top of her head. “Oh, Miss, you're cutting higher?” she says anxiously.

“Obviously,” Ava says impatiently. “Keep on subject. The tattooing!”

Erin feels herself getting too excited as she feels the clippers edging up into her longer hair. It's too alluring to ignore and she has difficulty speaking at all, let alone negotiating precisely how much she can tell Ava without giving her license to unleash Thomasina's needles on her flesh. The words start to come unbidden, automatic, as if it was a stranger speaking with Erin's voice. “She told me I had to come with her and accept what you'd instructed without question. I sat in the chair and I could see the tattooing machine. I immediately thought that's what she intended to use.”

“Did that make you excited?”

“At first it was just fear. But yes, I started to get excited soon,” Erin admits.

“What tattoos did you imagine?” Ava's voice is breathy, seductive. Erin loves to hear this voice, so sexy, promising endless pleasure.

“I kept thinking about how tattoos would get me in trouble at work, tattoos I couldn't hide, anyway. I imagined being reprimanded for tattoos that were visible.”

“How awful!” Ava whispers as she caresses Erin's temple. The sensation of bald scalp right up the side of her head makes Erin gasp. She has to struggle for a few seconds to take control of her excitement. “Oh, baby doll, you nearly cum then, didn't you? Was it the thought of tattoos you couldn't hide?”

“No,” Erin says defensively. “Well, partly,” she admits. She knows her secrets can't be hidden.

“Where did you imagine Thomasina tattooing you?”

Erin wants to cry as she feels that she's betraying herself. “On my fingers and hands.” Her voice is dead and leaden, it's barely recognisable as her own. Ava lifts her hands as she puts the clippers aside momentarily.

“You have such pretty little hands, Erin!” She kisses them lovingly. “Did you imagine big black roses covering the back entirely? And writing on your knuckles?” Ava's pointed nails trace patterns around the soft skin, pressing enough for Erin to imagine a needle following the same course. “And where else were the tattoos you imagined?”

Erin is shivering at Ava's attentions. She doesn't want to say any more but she wants Ava to keep treating her like this. “On my neck,” she sighs.

“Oh my!” Ava says with some sarcasm, yet still seductive. “Here?” She pushes Erin's head to the side and kisses her long neck, moving her lips slowly upward behind her ear. “More tattoos spreading up onto your bald scalp too?” she whispers in Erin's ear. Now the kisses balm her newly mown skin, taking away the rawness that the chafing blades have created. “You can cum right now,” Ava whispers. As Erin lets her control subside she adds the proviso “If you want these tattoos to become real one day.”

Erin wants to stop but it's too late. Like a glorious fire, the release takes over her body, urged on by the kisses that Ava lavishes on her baldness, the pinching on her breasts and nipples. She feels an ecstasy of an magnitude she's never known before, as if she's risen through a sea for her entire life and is finally breathing pure, clear air.

The orgasm seems to fill her forever, prolonged by Ava's fingers stroking roughly over her bald head, her devouring, ringed lips pressed to Erin's. She feels Ava pull the clips out of her hair, letting it fall over her bare scalp as her body still smoulders with the fire of ecstasy. Ava lifts her fringe, pulls it back tightly to expose Erin's forehead. And then the clippers are chattering again, the blades, hot from prolonged use, pressed to her hairline. Erin can't believe this is happening, reflexively tries to buck away from the clippers, but Ava holds her firm and cautions her about moving again. A second wave of pleasure erupts from within Erin as she imagines that soon she'll be bald. Bald! How can she get so excited by this torture? Even as she imagines having to be in public, stared at for her pale, bare scalp she feels her orgasm deepening. She loves this submission, this helplessness.

Is it relief she feels as it becomes apparent that Ava isn't going to take all of her hair? The blades move in small, controlled strokes, not the long  manoeuvre from forehead to crown which Erin anticipated, perhaps craved. But then she imagines that Ava is shaving away her fringe. She imagines her bob parted in the middle to expose a ludicrously large forehead, a look no less humiliating than a bald head.

The clippers are turned off and Ava roughly pushes Erin down to the floor with a playful laugh, then drops on top of her, pinning her down and kissing her. “You're gorgeous, Erin,” she whispers. “I love that you turn every test into a pleasure. I've got such plans for you. If you keep turning me on like this I might even consider letting you live here with me, and I thought I'd never allow that.”

Erin beams with pride that Ava's feelings are beginning to reciprocate her own. She used the word love! “I love you, Miss Avarice,” Erin says with the utmost sincerity. Ava smiles warmly, no malice, no sarcasm in her eyes. She tenderly kisses Erin.

“Does my lover consent to having her scalp shaved properly? Nice smooth razor job?” Erin sighs, closes her eyes and nods.

She's sent to take a shower. “As hot as you can bear,” Ava demands. “It will make the shave nicer.”

Erin has hoped that in the bathroom she'll be able to see how her clippering looks but Ava accompanies her and doesn't allow her to take a close look in the mirror. She does take a glance though, sees that her fringe is still there, sees her still unfamiliar bob covering the undershave, sees her features dominated by a thick black ring dangling over her top lip.

Ava pushes her into the shower cubicle, turns on the water which is initially shockingly cold but soon becomes uncomfortably hot. “Turn it higher,” Ava says insistently. She's undressing now and Erin doesn't dare disobey her. The jets burn at her, her instinct is to pull aside but she endures it. Suddenly Ava is pressed behind her, naked. She pushes Erin's head under the scalding jets, making her groan. Ava seems unaffected by the temperature, her hand moving Erin's head under the stream.

Erin winces as her head is made to take the blast. A blob of shampoo is smoothed over her hair and worked to thick suds. She's moved back so that now the burning water is directed onto her breasts. Ava works the shampoo into her scalp which would feel delicious except that Erin isn't allowed to tilt her head back and her eyes sting as the soap trickles constantly over her face.

Now Ava smooths the hair back and exposes Erin's cropped scalp. She smears the bristly skin with the thick lather and massages it, almost violently, with her nails. Erin feels weak at the beauty of this feeling, so enchanted that even her burning eyes seem to add a frisson to her pleasure. “Your roots are showing,” Ava says tetchily. “We need to get those fixed before you're allowed out.” Erin agrees that this would be for the best.

Now, instead of Ava's pointed nails, a razor goes over Erin's lathered head. Ava pulls the multiple-bladed head up Erin's nape, causing a soft scraping as the last vestige of hair is stripped. Erin bows her head, despite meaning that the scalding water courses over her face, to allow her mistress to more easily make her scalp hairless.

The razor slips through the suds over and over, scraping away the stubble. Soon Erin can feel no resistance as the keen blades make another transit. “Feel it now,” Ava orders. Erin sighs as she feels a truly bald nape. The removal of the tiny coating of hairs seems to have made a miraculous difference, so smooth, soft, sensitive is her head.

Erin's head it pulled back onto Ava's shoulder. Now the razor makes upward motions at the top of Erin's forehead. She's closed her eyes, the better to savour the feeling of the blades making her smooth. She dreams of a time when she's braver, when she will ask Ava to make her completely bald, but then she also supposes that Ava may well inflict this hairlessness on her before she's able to accept it willingly. She wishes that Ava and she were alone together eternally, when she could show her adoration by allowing Ava to make of her what she desires, with no other commitments to limit her obedience. She tries to shut out the dark shadows that communicate to her that she is becoming someone that will soon no longer be able to continue the previous trajectories of her life. At some point, hard decisions will be made.

Ava lathers the sides of Erin's scalp and uses the razor to render the scalp of her temples as hairless as her nape. She teases Erin as her ears are folded forward to allow the blades unimpeded access. “I think someone must have done this to you before!” she mocks. “Your ears stuck forward permanently.”

“Please, Miss Avarice, they're not that bad, are they?”

“Don't look to me for consolation,” Ava says defiantly. “You love to be humiliated, don't you? You're a pretty girl but these ears look silly. That's the truth.”

The shaving is completed by the razor pressing hard over Erin's eyebrows. Although she had shaved them only hours previously she can feel a scraping as Ava shaves closer. Finally the scalding water is turned off.

Erin groans as her head is vigorously dried with a thick, soft towel. The ring in her nose is pulled to the side by Ava's actions and the pain is shocking, making Erin feel a pang of nausea. “My nose!” she moans, bringing a laugh from Ava.

She's seated now as Ava combs through her hair. “Sit still, baby doll. I'm going to mix the dye now.” Soon Erin is staring up at Ava's tattooed chest, imagining how soon it will flourish into dramatic colours under Thomasina's needle. She tries to imagine Ava as she was before she transformed herself, free of tattoos and piercings, hair untouched by dye. She would have been such a pretty girl, Erin thinks, and so brave to let herself become this. She knows that her metamorphosis will not be so untroubled, that she will have periods of regret and shame. But for now, she's delighted by everything that Ava has made her become.

The application of dye happens more quickly than Erin had anticipated, but then she has far less hair than she's used to. Ava has twisted her hair into little twirl atop her head and fixes it with a clip. As she divulges herself of her gloves she studies Erin intently. She seems to have formulated a plan and as soon as she's washed her hands she takes a pair of surgical scissors, the blades not much longer than an inch and lifts them to Erin's eye. “Look up and don't blink,” she says softly.

Erin can't suppress a gasp as she feels the blades nip away the lashes from her lower lid. This is unexpected, unwelcome, something that can't be hidden. She has long lashes, thick, dark, has always been proud of them. She prays to some unknown force that it will only be her lower lashes that are taken.

But her prayer is unanswered. Ava is soon cropping away her upper lashes too, ordering Erin to hold her eyelid open as she does. It soon becomes apparent that this is impractical. The touch of blade to flesh induces a blink reflex which Erin is unable to master despite Ava's exhortations. “Close the damn thing,” Ava finally concedes, frustrated by the eyelid's refusal to conform to Erin's will.

Ava's frustration is quenched as she realises that she can now slice away the lashes so much more easily. She rests her hand on Erin's cheek to steady it and cuts with the blade touching the delicate flesh of the eyelid. She repositions herself to work on Erin's left eye, then has an inspiration. Erin feels her eye being pulled open by tweezers which grip a group of lashes.

“That's better,” Ava says triumphantly. “Now you can't blink.” She snips at the long lashes, some of which fall, irritatingly, onto Erin's exposed eyeball. Erin groans despairingly at the unbearable sensation as Ava shears away the hairs to left and right of those gripped so forcefully.

Now Ava strips her of her lower lashes, finally releases her grip. Erin rubs at her eye which is gritted with fallen hairs. Her eyes feel alien without the familiar stiff fringe; all that remains is a clump of long hairs in the centre of her left lid, the hairs that Ava had gripped with the tweezers.

“Want me to get rid of those hairs?” Ava asks, and Erin, blinking, nods her consent. She immediately regrets her decision as her eye is once more jacked open by the tweezers. Ava leans in and protrudes her tongue, letting the tip touch Erin's eyeball. Erin can't bear this, pleads her mistress to stop, has to fight an urge to push her away. Her tears start to flow as she feels the tongue licking away the vexatious hairs. She sighs with relief when Ava is done, blinks her eye, which is now comfortable once more. Ava spits in the sink to clear her mouth.

“Let me see you,” Ava says. She stares at Erin's eyes admiringly. “Such lovely blue eyes you have. Pale and lovely, and now there's no hairs to get in the way. Except... I seem to have missed a few.” She reaches in once more with the tweezers. Erin sobs a tearful plea. Of all the things which have happened today this is the one she can't endure.

She expects to see the gleam of the scissors enter her field of vision but that isn't Ava's plan. Instead she takes a single hair and plucks it with a sharp tug. There's a little sting but less than Erin would have expected. Ava plucks the handful of remaining hairs with speedy efficiency.

“All done!” she says cheerfully. “You look just gorgeous. You're becoming more like my vision of you.” To preserve the memory of this moment she photographs Erin on her phone, framing the portrait with considerable care. She turns the phone to allow Erin to see herself.

The top of her head is out of frame, only the shaved sides of her head visible. She appears completely bald; more than that: hairless. She's still unwilling to accept her image without brows but now she sees her eyes looking small and odd without their dark framing fringes. Only the ring in her nose ornaments her brutally exposed features. She makes a long low moan of despair. She looks pleadingly at Ava. How can she have been so cruel? Erin feels her tears well, lamenting her lost beauty.

“What are you snivelling about? You look beautiful, far more lovely than that boring cop I met a few weeks ago,” Ava says, evidently with sincerity.

Erin wants to protest, that Ava is more conventional in her hair, still has her brows (albeit in painted form) and lashes intact, and doesn't rely for her income on a profession which expects a certain conservatism in appearance.

“Miss Avarice,” Erin says, hesitantly but barely knows what to say. “I don't know how I'll ever be able to feel confident looking like this. And if I'm self conscious people won't take me seriously. I'll have no authority.”

“Then I suppose I'll have to show you that I believe in you. If that doesn't give you confidence then I don't know if I can trust you. Now, stop chattering and wash your hair!”

Erin is made to kneel beside the enamel bath, which she can now see is an antique rather than a retro new model. She cranes her head over the side and waits expectantly as Ava adjusts the shower head. Cold water powers over her head, making her utter a shivery gasp. “It's cold, Miss Avarice,” she murmurs, but her friend pays no heed. She's put on another pair of latex gloves and now agitates Erin's hair to facilitate the purging of the dye. Erin can see the water in the bath run black. Only when it runs clear is she allowed to rise.

Her wet hair is wrapped in a towel and now Erin is taken to the room with the barber chair. Ava takes hold of her head and forces her to look at her image. “Sexy, gorgeous girl,” she says. She pulls the towel free and the wet black locks spill over Erin's bald sides, but not for long. Ava twists them into a top knot and ties it so that a spiky lock juts up above Erin's head. Erin smiles uncomfortably at the ridiculous style but Ava seems intent on demonstrating that Erin appeals to her. She starts to kiss at the silky nape, becoming ever more enraptured. “Keep looking at yourself and finger yourself hard. You'll cum when I demand it.”

Erin blushes at Ava's instruction but her embarrassment does nothing to make her resist the orders. Ava continues to explore her scalp with her lips, then moves her attention to Erin's ears. She withdraws as Erin seems to be slipping toward climax.

The clip is removed and Erin's hair is combed down, the strands cold and sticky on the newly bared scalp. Ava separates the top section, fringe included, and pins it up, making Erin face her reflection with her shaved forehead revealed. She has her scissors now, plays with her comb to smooth the right section, and teases Erin by moving the open blades up and down across her cheek, as if unsure how short to cut. Finally the blades snap shut, cutting Erin's bob at nose level. This seemed to be the shortest that Ava had considered and Erin gasps to see how short her hair will be. The scissors transit across her cheek, across her ear, cutting a precise horizontal line. Almost half of her ear is visible beneath the black hair.

“Is it too short, baby doll?” Ava taunts, gazing at Erin in the mirror. “If I took it just another inch and a half shorter you'd have a bowlcut. Or is that what you still want?”

Erin grimaces as she imagines a harsh bowlcut on herself with bald scalp visible on nape and sideburn beneath the cap of black hair. She imagines her embarrassment going to her job looking so, but she feels something in her that wants Ava to demand it of her. “No, not that,” she whispers, but her fingers work more quickly despite her attempts to show Ava that she wants her hair longer.

“It can wait. For a bit,” Ava smiles. “You can cum when you're ready. If I said that soon you'll have a very harsh bowlcut, would that help you? I'll keep all this shaved and take it so there's a nice band of clear skin on display over your ears. Shorter than the cut I did on my fat sub, and much bolder with the shave below.”

Erin is gasping, filled with a perverse desire for her fears to become reality. “Give in to it, baby doll,” Ava whispers. “You want it so there's nothing to be ashamed of. You were afraid that I'd guess how it made you feel but I already know, so when I count down from five you'll say you want a bowlcut from me and then cum.”

Ava makes the count agonisingly slow. Erin has pushed herself to the brink and can now barely hold herself as Ava pauses for ten, twenty seconds between numbers. Finally she says “Zero! Now say it or no orgasm.”

“I want a bowlcut,” Erin says. Her self-discipline crumbles, rewarding her with a delicious consummation of her desire. Her joy is prolonged by Ava, whose fingers are now reaching forcefully, roughly inside her. A large ring presses inside her, causing some discomfort but a lot more ecstasy.

Ten minutes later Erin has finally calmed. She feels exhausted, wants nothing more than to fall asleep in Ava's arms. But her hair needs to be finished. She sits passively as the scissors snip her bob to its new brevity. “I love how easily I can control you, Erin. Your sex drive makes you putty when I'm with you, doesn't it?”

“Yes, Miss Avarice,” she admits. It's true, she thinks. Ava is able to get inside her head, make her desire the things she most fears. “It's hard for me when you're not around though. Then I start to worry.”

“You'll learn. You just need to be a good girl, baby doll, then you can spend more time here and start to become my beautiful willing sub all the time.”

“I'll be good, Miss Avarice,” Erin smiles. Right now her love for Ava seems far more important than her career.

The top layer of hair is released and carefully combed to lie over the shorter layer. Ava's scissors are once more on Erin's cheek chipping away three inch strands to sculpt the new style. Now they continue their work high on Erin's nape. She shivers as she realises that shaved skin will be visible at the back. She tries to tell herself it won't be so bad. Perhaps, since no hair remains there'll be no way to judge where her hairline was and people will just assume that the bob is cut to her hairline.

Ava makes a few minor corrections to the line of the bob, then nods to herself in satisfaction. “Your fringe now, baby doll. I was going to cut it daringly short. Would you like that?” She moves her scissors, poised to cut, to somewhere around where Erin's hairline used to be.

“I don't know, Miss,” Erin mumbles. She thinks it would look awful but knows that Ava would soon convince her that it was beautiful and necessary.

“But then I thought... Erin wants a bowlcut, and a bowlcut looks best when the fringe is the same length as the sides.” She snips away the ends of the fringe, just a few millimetres of hair falling, just enough to make the ends conform to a hard line once more. “So for now we might let your fringe alone.”

Erin stares at her new bob. Ava has styled it to perfection, using straighteners to make the hair gleam as if burnished. It sits close to her head, the volume reduced by the higher undercut which was inflicted earlier. Ava passes Erin a hand mirror and spins the chair to allow her to examine the back. She feels a fearful chill as she sees what's been done. How could she ever have believed this could look normal? Her pale neck and nape, uncharacteristically bald, are so exposed by the line of the bob that she knows that she'll draw attention everywhere. She can't avoid groaning as she thinks about how this will impact on her life away from Ava.

Soon her doubts are temporarily forgotten. Ava has transformed her features, working a spell with her cosmetics. Erin has pale, powdery skin, her cheeks subtly brushed with a grey blue shadow. Her lashless lids gleam with an iridescent white with a cool blue shading the socket. Her pallor is accented not just by the glossy helmet of hair, but by her lips, just as dark, covered with a liquid oily black. Erin no longer doubts that Ava's desire is to make her beautiful. But the girl she has become is alien, unrecognisable, even from the girl she was a few hours before. She's been dressed in a red dress of Ava's, which would have been too small at the waist except that her waist is now tightly compressed by a corset. She wears a tiny black leather bike jacket and now Ava makes her wear a pair of lace up black shoes with absurdly high heels. The discomfort they cause (in addition to the absurdly oversized heels they're at least a size small) her seems irrelevant given how much they excite Ava.

“Baby doll, just look at you,” she purrs. “So sexy, so beautiful. I want to ravish you, but first I need to show you off to the world. You can be patient, can't you? It'll makes me so horny to see all the admiring glances you'll get, and all because you trusted me to make you so lovely.”

Erin feels elated to be seen with her love and pledges her eternal obedience.

As she walks along an urban street, Erin reaches up to ensure the curved bar in her nose remains hidden, checks her hand before doing so. She has to stop this, it's becoming a habit. She knows that the bar almost always stays in place and that the more likely reason her new piercing will be noticed is that she can't stop touching her nose. She feels sad, vulnerable this morning, Ava having angrily ended their telephone conversation late on the previous night. She had told Erin that at their next meeting she would make Erin receive more piercings. As soon as Erin expressed her concerns that it wouldn't be allowed in her job Ava cut her off. “Call me tomorrow at this time with a better attitude or we're done!” she said, then ended the call.

The life she lives with Ava seems dreamlike; anything is possible. She remembers their night out during the previous week, showing off her dramatic new look, how happy she was to receive such admiration from Ava's friends. But now she's returned to this mundane, grey world where her colleagues titter and whisper when they see her, all the more so as she can't hide how it distresses her. She feels their distrust and is more lonely than ever when she's working.

She's patrolling an area which is home to small factories, many of which are now disused. As she passes a narrow cul de sac she notices a van which looks in poor condition. The front number plate is broken and missing the end of the registration number. She makes her way to the back of the van to see the complete number so that she can radio it in.

Now that she's passed further into the alley she's able to see to the end, having passed the dog leg in the street. She sees two young men, who start to show nervousness as soon as they register her presence. She sees one of them furtively thrust something into his pocket. He's constantly in motion, his legs moving in a spasmodic dance, seemingly out of his control. She's uncomfortable; confronting someone who's high is always risky, and they outnumber her. Regardless, she has to tackle them. She calls out and identifies herself as a police officer. The men are both young, both wear caps and dark glasses (despite the gloomy weather), black anoraks. She asks them what they're up to. “Nothing, we were just hanging,” says the larger of the two, the one who seems more controlled. As she turns to talk to him, his companion starts to sidle sideways, trying to slip out of her field of vision. She's anxious about this, all of his body language suggests that he's going to become aggressive. She tells him to keep still, trying to sound calm, knowing that a confrontational approach would almost certainly make him snap. He can't stay still though and he continues to edge, seemingly without willing it, toward a skip.

“Stay still,” she says insistently. A movement from the corner of her eye makes her look toward the larger man. His hand has reached into his pocket and before she can act he squirts her face with the canister he's drawn from the pocket.

Erin instantly knows it's pepper spray. She closes her burning eyes and they refuse to open again. The shock of the pain incapacitates her. She reaches for her radio, desperate to call for back up, but then something hard and heavy crashes into the back of her head. She stumbles forward, thinks she's regained her balance but then feels her arm heavily impacting the ground. She pulls up her knees, puts a hand over her face and again reaches for the radio. It's torn away from her and she hears it being stamped into pieces. She pulls herself tighter into a ball, still blinded by the pepper spray, her head spinning from the blow. Now she feels kicks and punches raining down. She thinks she's going to die. She thinks of Ava, how she made her want to be helpless, and now she is helpless and it will kill her. There's a stamp on her ribs and she knows immediately that some serious damage has happened. Another kick slides between her hands and impacts her face, making her eyes flash with white. She tries to pull her arms more tightly to her face, but the injury to her side means she can't exert any force with her right arm. As she endures another kick to her torso she can feel bone against bone in her shattered rib cage.

She's turned onto her back and one of the men straddles her body. She's in too much pain to resist. “Not this,” she thinks. “Please not this!” She won't beg though. She tries to open her eyes so that she can see her assailant but the lids refuse to open. A hard slap across her cheek. Another. Her arms are pinned to her sides and she can't defend herself. Her mouth is filled with blood. More slaps, so hard that she's sobbing. She hears the voice of the smaller man urging his companion to go. “That's enough,” he says. “Let's get out of here.” The one who straddles her reaches into her pockets and finds her phone which is treated to the same destruction as the radio.

She feels a huge gob of spit land in her face. “Fucking freak!” the man says venomously. “Ugly dyke! Just be grateful I didn't kill you.”

Erin can't stop crying with relief as she realises they've gone. But as she tries to rise she feels faint. She's in shock, she knows, shivering all over. She knows that she has internal injuries and that she has to get help. But every attempt at movement brings agony. She knows she has to get help. If she lies here no one will see her and she'll bleed out. She manages to get onto her hands and knees and tries to crawl. She's still blind, she feels breathless, the rib damage compounded by the insult to her lungs from the spray. She can bear no weight on her right arm, but her left hand is useless, surely broken. She crawls forward, agonisingly slowly. She cries with pain and frustration and fear. She thinks of Ava, thinks of how she loves her and how she must force herself on to see her again. She calls out but no one hears her and she inches forward again.

Her determination starts to diminish. Every movement hurts her and she's getting more dizzy. She knows that she has only to give in and all the pain will go away. Then she hears a voice. “Are you OK?” she says. “Oh Jesus!” The distress in the woman's voice scares her. “I need an ambulance,” the woman says moments later. “Police too, it's one of your officers.” Erin drops to the floor and loses consciousness.

Erin wakes feeling confused. She looks about her and remembers she's in hospital, in a room by herself. She feels a little more alert than she has been. She can barely remember anything since she's been here. She coughs and feels a convulsive pain in her right side. Don't cough again, she thinks. There are cards and flowers on the cabinet beside her. With her bandaged and splinted left hand she awkwardly lifts the cards one after another. None from Ava. She feels despondent.

A nurse comes in, smiles at her sympathetically. “How are you feeling today? You look brighter.”

“I'm OK,” Erin says. “It's embarrassing, I can't really remember anything. I don't know what's happened. Do I keep asking this?”

“It's the meds”, the nurse says. “We've reduced the dose of pain meds so you're going to be a bit more alert. You were pretty beaten up when you got here. Do you remember what happened?” Erin nods. “I'll ask the doctor to come in and have a chat about it. And your boss wants a statement. Do you feel up to that today?” Erin nods.

She sees her sergeant waiting outside the room talking to the doctor. She tries to smooth her hair down, realises with a shock that her nose piercing is gone. He enters, forces a smile, asks how she is.

“I'm OK,” she says. This is the platitude she thinks people want to hear. But she was mistaken. He actually wants to know about her injuries. “I had a blow to the head that caused concussion, broken ribs, collapsed lung. That's what the drain in my side's for. Broken left hand and fingers. Lots of bumps and bruises.”

“We've all been very concerned about you,” he says, “but the investigation has got nowhere in three days. We need your statement.”

As she recounts the events she can sense his irritation. She knows he doesn't trust her, thinks that anyone else would have handled the situation better. He's annoyed at her vague descriptions now. “Would you know them again?” he asks.

“No...” She starts to cry. It's all come back to her. How she thought she was going to die, how she thought she would be raped. “They wore dark glasses and hats, black jackets. They looked like thousands of lads. I'd never know them.” Her tears make him look uncomfortable.

“There, there,” he says and reaches to touch her hand but stops as he sees the bandages. “I'm sure you've done your best.” Which isn't as good as anyone else's best, she thinks bitterly.

“I need to rest now,” she says. He nods. “Can you arrange for the stuff from my locker to be brought in? There are clothes in there that I'll need to go home in, and my phone's in there. I haven't been able to tell anyone I'm here.”

Later that day a young guy, who always needles Erin at the station, comes in with her belongings. He sits and chats to her and she's surprised to see that he's genuinely concerned. His normal attitude is gone and he's visibly upset to see how badly hurt Erin is. “When I get my hands on the little shits...” he says angrily.

“Tom, that's not likely,” Erin says. “They dressed the same as all the little gangsters, they wore caps and dark glasses, so I could barely see anything of their faces. One had a beard but he could have shaved it off. I'd never know them so unless something comes up on CCTV...”

“There's nothing,” he says, despondent. “It eats me up to think they can get away with this.”

“Shit happens,” Erin says stoically.

As soon as Tom leaves Erin trawls thought her bag awkwardly. Her right arm is still incapacitated, her left hand rendered clumsy by the injuries and dressing. She manages to extract her phone, turns it on and sees with relief that there's still some power in the battery. She immediately calls Ava, her heart racing as she hears it ringing.

“I don't want to hear from you again,” Ava says angrily. “You were told that you would apologise or we were through. You're missing me now, but it's too late...”

“Please, Miss, I'm in hospital,” she interrupts. “I was badly hurt days ago... I don't even know what day it is now. I only really woke up today and as soon as I got my phone back I called you.”

“What happened?” Ava gasps, sounding contrite about her diatribe.

“I got attacked. I'm going to be OK but I got some broken ribs, broken hand, concussion.”

“And..? You'd be home by now if that was all.”

“The ribs are pretty bad. Collapsed lung.”

“Oh Erin. Oh... You poor thing. All this time I was angry with you and you're really hurt. I'm going to come right in to see you. Which hospital, which ward?”

For the first time since she's known her, Ava sounds flustered. She tells her the information. “But I'm not sure of visiting hours.”

“I'm sure they'll let me see you and if they don't I'll wait at the door until the minute they let me in.”

An hour later and Ava bursts in. She looks at Erin and smiles weakly, but then begins to sob. “My poor baby doll! What have they done to you?” Erin can't hold back her tears and soon they're both crying helplessly.

“I haven't even seen myself yet. Do I look awful.”

Ava tries to smile and reassure her, but then her tears come with renewed force. “Oh, Erin, your pretty face is all bruised. Your nose, it's not broken?”

“No, just badly bruised.”

“You don't have any real cuts, I'm sure it'll all heal fine,” Ava says, examining her closely. “Oh, your lips! I want to hug you but...”

“I want that too but I'm too delicate.”

Ava composes herself and asks Erin to tell her what happened. She tries to recount the events again but feels panic as she makes herself recall the incident again. Her tears return and she apologises. “I'm sorry, I can't go through this again. I had to make a statement to my sergeant earlier and every time I think about it I feel like I'm living it again. I thought they were... rape,” she whispers, sobbing.

“But they didn't?” She shakes her head, which Ava now cradles, hushing her. She falls asleep with Ava humming to her and caressing her brow.

Ava spends every moment that she can with Erin. The next evening she asks about the absent piercing. “No idea what happened. I meant to ask. I suppose they must have taken it out when I got here. My nose must have been very swollen.”

“We need to get it back in. The hole will close, if it hasn't already.” Ava immediately leaves to locate the jewellery and returns ten minutes later, happily holding the little bar aloft.

“It's probably going to sting a bit. Why don't you have a couple of clicks of your morphine? That'll make it all easier.”

“But it makes me all confused and sleepy. I hate how it feels.”

“The nurses have been telling you to use it more.” She moves Erin's finger to the button that administers a measured dose of analgesic into her IV. “Two clicks,” she insists and Erin reluctantly obeys.

Ava washes her hands and scrubs at the beaded bar with alcohol rub, allowing the morphine time to act. She puts Erin's head back against the pillow and smiles reassuringly. “Just take slow, deep breaths.” The end of the bar is pressed to the wound and Ava pushes, dislodging some scabbing which has formed, partially closing the opening.

“Oh, Miss Avarice,” Erin wails. Despite the pain relief she still feels a sharp pain, and her nose is still so tender that the least pressure makes the entire septum ache. “You're being too rough.” Ava isn't to be gainsaid. She continues to increase Erin's discomfort but after a few seconds there's no force, just the careful actions of closing the jewellery by screwing the bead into place.

“There, all done. If it closed you'd get a scar there and your nose is so small that there probably isn't room to pierce your septum anywhere else. I wouldn't like to see you without a septum piercing!”

Erin winces as she waits for the pain to fade. She looks at Ava who's looking uncharacteristically serious, sad even.

“I don't want this to happen again. I don't want you to put yourself at risk.”

“Well I don't want it either,” Erin says, trying to be flippant to relieve the mood. “I don't go looking for trouble.”

“I don't want you to continue in this job. I'd never really thought about how dangerous it could be. I'll never stop worrying about you now if you're out on the streets. You're too precious to be putting yourself in danger.”

Erin nods. “I need to think about it,” she says with emotion. “I'm scared, Ava. I keep thinking about going out again and every time I do I start to panic. But I need time to decide. I've put so much into it that I can't just give up.”

“Don't call me Ava,” she's told, a warning that even in moments of intimacy the correct form of address must be maintained. “I'm really upset that no one contacted me. I wish I was your next of kin. Then I'd have to be informed. Your mum hasn't exactly been here to support you.”

Erin gloomily shakes her head. “Once they told her I wasn't dying she decided she wouldn't come. She has phoned the ward each day though.” She's unable to hide her hurt, her disappointment in her mother's lack of concern.

“So make me your next of kin.”

Erin shakes her head. “I can't just do that. It's a legal thing. It can only be a parent, a sibling, a spouse.” Ava nods. Suddenly Erin's head is swimming. She feels like she's fainting as she realises what Ava is suggesting. She can't breathe, let alone get words out. “You mean..?” she splutters.

“Will you marry me, baby doll?”

Erin closes her eyes. Is this a dream, a delusion from the morphine? She's seen things that she knows can't be there when the dose has been increased but this is surely real. Ava has openly talked of her reluctance to settle down, has always been ambivalent when discussing the prospect of a closer relationship. And now a marriage proposal. Now she talks, some unconscious part of her mind taking charge, since her conscious thoughts come in a confused, overwhelming flood. “Nothing would make me happier,” she says proudly. “I love you so much.” She laughs and sobs.

Ava holds out a velvet covered box, too large to contain a single ring. Inside, arranged in a lozenge are four rings. There's a beautiful ring, an oval emerald set inside a halo of tiny diamonds on a wide band of silver, much heavier than any traditional engagement ring. Then there are three titanium rings, one small and delicate, and a pair of larger, more robust hoops, all three closed with a metal bead. The emerald band is slid onto Erin's left ring finger and she looks at her hand with astonishment. She will be Ava's wife! The idea fills her with delight, fear too. She imagines how her life will be if she abandons herself completely to Ava's will, if she cuts herself free from her existing life and leaves her career behind. She imagines herself as a young bird, a fledgling who has imagined that the cosy nest where she has spent her existence is the entire world. Now she has emerged from a cleft and finds herself staring at a beautiful bright day, an open sky into which she may fly. But she has to take a leap into the void, and there's no certainty that she won't plunge to disaster.

“And I love you. I never thought I'd ever want someone to share my life, but I want to be with you forever, Erin. You've made me so happy to wear my ring. The other rings will have to wait until you're a bit better. But soon you'll wear them forever, won't you?” Erin nods, trying to imagine where she will be pierced to accept the rings that will prove her commitment to her fiancée.

Three days later and Erin is discharged from hospital, into Ava's care. She's still very delicate, unable to walk without pain. She's barely been eating and she looks pale and thin. She has avoided looking at herself during her stay in hospital but as she visits the bathroom she stares at herself in the mirror. Her eyes are still ringed by dark bruising which is spreading and yellowing at the margins, her nose is swollen, her lips are distorted by the injuries (inside her lower lip she can still feel stitches binding together a small gash). She feels upset to see herself like this; not merely the bruises, she looks emaciated, prematurely old. Her hair is dirty and dishevelled and even her eyebrows are faintly visible. The undercut has sprouted a covering of tawny stubble. When she runs her hand up her nape she can still feel a bump where she was struck.

As she returns to Ava she can't conceal her distress and begins to cry. “I look so awful. How can you bear to look at me?” Ava sits alongside her on the sofa and strokes her arm.

“You'll soon be better, you already look much better than when I first saw you. You just have to rest and eat better!”

“I just feel sick every time I eat. I just wish I was well again. Will you give me a haircut, Miss Avarice?”

Ava shakes her head, looking at her mischievously. “No haircut till your wedding day. No dye, no shaving. Just a little incentive to make you speed things up.”

Erin giggles. “But I like my hair long. Maybe it'll make me want to stall the wedding for ages.”

Ava runs her nails over Erin's fuzzy temple. “Don't lie, baby doll. You adore feeling the clippers. And I've seen how excited you are when you get a makeover. Don't pretend having a grown out bob with roots showing will make you happy. You'll be begging me to get you in the chair soon.”

“Well... maybe,” Erin concedes, as she recalls how every time Ava attends to her hair she becomes delirious with pleasure.

“But I'm serious, Erin, I'm not going to marry Constable Erin. You have to leave the force. I can't live with worrying about you every time you go to work. If anything like this happened again I just couldn't bear it.”

“Please, Miss Avarice, I need to think about it. I've put so much into this that I can't just abandon it. It's very unlikely that I'd get so badly hurt again.”

“I know that. But it is dangerous. And I don't want that for you.”

“I'm really struggling, to be honest. I'm scared, panicky if I even think about going out on my own. But I want to overcome this. I want to show that I can overcome my fear. Please support me, Miss Avarice.”

Ava nods indulgently. “I will. But I won't marry a police officer. You'll have to choose sooner or later.”

Ava's relationship with Erin seems to change over the following weeks. She's a patient, supportive nurse. There's little of the sensuality that previously defined their trysts, necessarily so since Erin remains very sore as she recovers from the assault. She visits a counsellor, at the expense of her employer, to try to help her emotional recovery. She soon agrees to return to work, although initially she will be working only within the office and for limited hours each week. Erin can sense that Ava is unhappy about this, but she doesn't try to force the issue. She's told Erin that she must decide what's right for her. She returns from her first afternoon back and is welcomed home by Ava.

“I feel exhausted,” she admits. “I don't think I'm strong enough yet.” Ava nods, but resists the urge to say I told you so.

“You look so thin. You're still not eating and you can barely manage a ten minute walk in the park. You're rushing too much.”

“Please, I have my reasons,” she says. “I need to go back out on the streets. If I quit now I'd always think I was a coward, that they'd beaten me. But I spoke to someone from the Union today about leaving on medical grounds. He says if I show I've tried my best to recover from the assault it will help me to get a better severance. Although he did say that I can't expect a big pay off and I'll get hardly anything from my pension.”

“Well then, there's not much to lose if you just quit, is there? But I do see why this is important to you. I promise I'll be supportive and not do anything to undermine you. If this will make you healthy and strong again then you need to do it. But I won't stop worrying.” She kisses Erin gently.

Months pass and Erin's wounds have healed, yet still she fails to thrive. She's forced herself to return to real policing. She initially seems to cope with her anxieties but as the weeks pass she feels panic whenever she's alone. She starts to cry when she returns home after each shift and Ava can't bear to see her distress any longer. She makes an ultimatum one night as Erin lies sobbing after a difficult shift.

“Erin, I can't take this any more. You're not getting better. You've been really brave to return to your job but it's killing you. You're not eating, you're having panic attacks daily, you're depressed, anxious, and you don't take any pleasure in life. I haven't seen you smile in weeks. You have to quit. If you go into work tomorrow we're through. I can't bear to see what this job is doing to you.”

Erin is astonished, deeply hurt that Ava would make such a threat. There's little sleep that night as Erin tries to argue that she can get better, but by dawn Erin has accepted just how badly the assault has affected her. She makes a call to her superintendent telling him that she is emotionally unable to cope. She agrees to visit her doctor, to schedule another meeting with her counsellor. A week later and Erin has been told that she will be medically discharged from the police.

“I don't know what I'll do now!” she complains sadly.

“You'll marry me,” Ava smiles. “Let's say... about a month? For a week before we marry we'll live apart. You'll get a big makeover so you'll surprise me on the day.” Ava ruffles Erin's hair, which looks unlovely and in need of attention. Inches of blonde roots have grown in and her undercut is now grown to straggly short locks.

“So soon?” Erin gasps.

“Soon?” Ava snorts. “I've been far too patient with you, Erin Hume.”

“I know you have, Miss Avarice,” she smiles, kissing her. “Will you be Mrs Avarice once we're married?” she giggles.

“Hmmm. Maybe I'll make you legally change your name to Slave Erin. How do you like that?”

“I... don't,” Erin whispers. “It's scary.”

“But it's making you wet, isn't it?” There's no use denying it, Ava is feeling for herself the effects of her threats. “Today you're going to be fitted with the engagement rings and then we'll book a date for our ceremony. You have to agree to anything for your wedding makeover. A week will allow for big changes.”

“Tattoos?” Erin says.

“Yes, tattoos. I won't recognise you when you walk down the aisle.” She kisses Erin's neck and then her hands. Erin trembles as she recognises that Ava is letting her know that she'll be tattooed here.

“Miss Avarice, will you get a makeover too?”

“I will, baby doll. Would you like that?”

“Maybe. Nothing too shocking though?”

“If I told you then it wouldn't be a surprise,” she says with a mischievous smile.

Later that day Erin is taken to see Thomasina. It's been so long since they met that Erin could hardly recall her features, but as soon as they meet she recalls the pretty young woman who pierced her septum. In contrast to her ironic amusement that day at Erin's discomfort, now she seems friendly and compassionate.

“Ava told me all about what happened to you. It's so awful. Look at you, you poor thing. You look so pale and delicate.”

“She's not been looking after herself,” Ava says. “We're getting married in a few weeks and she's going to put her health first until then. Eating properly instead of leaving half of every meal.” Erin knows that Ava is right, that she has to live more healthily, despite her lack of appetite.

“Wow, you're really getting married?” Thomasina laughs. “I never thought I'd hear you of all people decide to tie the knot, Ava. You've always been the most free spirited, independent girl I ever met.”

“Did you hear that, Erin?” Ava asks her. “No one else has ever made me want to settle down. I hope you appreciate how much I'm changing for you.” Erin feels herself blushing, smiling incredulously that she could have inspired such a change in her beautiful fiancée. “Speaking of changes, Thoma, little Erin is going to get a makeover before our big day. I want you to do some changes on her the week before. How much can you free yourself up to work on her?”

Thomasina stares at Erin, smiling. “What sort of things did you have in mind?”

“You've pretty much got carte blanche. We'll have some discussions before. There are some things I want done, that I have a detailed idea of the exact look I want, and some things you can pretty much decide.”

“Erin's getting tattoos?” Thomasina asks, seeming to be surprised and delighted by this opportunity. “I could do a hell of a lot in a week.”

“That is the idea,” Ava nods. “I want a tattooed bride.”

“Why don't you let her come and stay with me for the week? That way I can still keep up with my work here and fit in my work on Erin during the quiet times and at night.”

“Well that would be just perfect!” Ava smiles. “You will have to lock her away at times though. I need your services too and I don't want us to see each other for the entire week.”

“Of course, hon. You know I'm always happy to work on you.”

“Erin, baby doll, why don't you undress and let Thoma see what she's going to have to work with?” Erin looks bashful at the request and pauses. “You have to undress anyway. Your new piercings can't be done when you're dressed.”

“Oh, she's so delicate,” Thoma says as she sees Erin's naked form.

“Yes, I'm going to make sure she fills out a bit before the wedding. She's turned into a little waif over the last few months. I got her four engagement rings and I want you to fit those for her now, at least the three she's not wearing.”

Erin reclines and steels herself to be pierced. She's not been told where the rings will be fitted but has guessed. She thinks back to how awful it was when Thomasina pierced her septum, how she almost fainted. She prays for courage today, for the ability to bear this trial with strength and grace.

Ava and Thomasina say almost nothing but it's immediately apparent that Erin's first assumption is correct. The larger rings will pierce her nipples. As Thomasina swabs her flesh, Ava takes Erin's head in her hands and kisses her. “Just a few weeks and this awful hair of yours will finally be beautiful again. You've missed the clippers, haven't you?”

Erin feels her anticipation growing. She thinks back to her last haircut, when the back and sides of her head were stripped of hair. “Yes, they feel good,” she whispers, but she's fearful of her hair being cut short again too.

“And now there's nothing to stop you wearing your hair however I choose. There's no job that demands conservatism in your appearance any more. You can be as daring as I choose.”

Erin cries out in distress, not just because she realises that she will soon be changed beyond what she can imagine, but also because Thomasina has stabbed a needle into her clamped nipple. Her complaints are stifled by a kiss from Ava. She presses her scarlet lips ravenously to Erin's mouth, her tongue forcefully pressing at Erin's, more like an assault than an expression of affection. Nevertheless, Erin feels herself borne upward by ecstatic currents. Ava's urgent attentions are just what was needed to transform the pain of Thomasina's work into something pleasurable. She's relieved to feel an end to the pain, the weight of the ring discernible on her right nipple now. However, her attempts to disengage from Ava, to see her new piercing are frustrated. Ava continues to violently kiss her as Thomasina turns to the left nipple.

The second needle entering her seems to inflame a greater ague than the first, as if the addition of the first ring had only made her more sensitive to this new insult. Her moans go unheard as Ava continues her attentions, Erin's pain evidently inducing a greater level of arousal. Erin is breathless when Ava finally lifts herself, looking back admiringly at her newly pierced love. Erin gazes lovingly into Ava's black eyes, only with a great effort ending their eye contact. But she must see what Thomasina has done. She sees her blunt pink nipples are now desecrated by thick bands of titanium, crimson oozing where flesh and metal meet. She's unprepared for this vision, a small foretaste of what she is to become. In spite of her determination to meet her challenge with resilience she feels weak, nauseous, faint when she sees the rings.

She wants to rest but knows that there is a final ring to be ensnared in her flesh. She is aware that Thomasina is examining her pubis, confirming her suspicion that it will decorate her clitoral hood. She shivers as she's cleansed, her hairlessness easing the process (in contrast to the neglect of her hair, Ava has insisted that the regime of waxing should be maintained, as it was most recently only the previous day).

Thomasina and Ava consult briefly in whispers, although by now Erin is so distressed that even had they shouted their communications she'd have been hard pressed to discern meaning. She feels tearful as a cold clamp is manipulated onto her most sensitive flesh but now Ava starts to ruffle her hair and remind her of the significance of her new piercings, how they are extensions of Ava and how they will remain forever in her flesh as a reminder of her commitment. Each statement is punctuated with a delicate kiss, her cheeks, her eyes, her neck anointed.

She's relaxed, but Erin has hardly returned to a normal state, rather a sort of torpor descends on her, but this mood is jolted away from her as an agonising thrust is inflicted by Thomasina. Her entire pelvic region seems to burn, so intense is the shock. She whimpers miserably, looking to Ava for solace, her big eyes wet and pleading. But there is nothing to hope for. Thomasina has to complete what she has set in motion and soon Erin's quest is completed for this day at least.

Or perhaps not quite. She still has to endure the sight of herself punctured and ringed. She bends forward to examine her genital piercing and realises that the ring has been introduced through her clitoris, not the hood as she'd expected. She is repulsed by the image, even more than she was (in truth, still is) by the sight of the larger bands which occupy her nipples. She's allowed to dress, which she does with difficulty, her body seemingly overcome with a sudden fatigue. Raising her arms above her head to replace her top seems an almost insuperable task.

“You have to eat,” Ava insists. “You're exhausted from getting a couple of piercings. When Thomasina has you for the week before the wedding you'll be getting more than this done. We need you to be stronger or we'll end up getting married with you in a hospital bed.” Erin joylessly swallows another mouthful of her salad. Ava is a good cook and the salad is just what she needs, light, tasty and nutritious, yet she can't take any pleasure in her food. She's become so rooted in the anxieties her job had induced that she can't free herself from her negative thoughts. She can't allow herself to take any delight in the prospect of her impending wedding, constantly dwelling on her fears about what will become of her now that she's abandoned the career she'd mapped out.

Ava sidles alongside her and feeds her the remainder of her meal, silencing Erin's complaints and not allowing her the options of feeding herself or leaving part of her food. She's told that until the wedding she'll conform to Ava's strict timetable. A schedule has already been drawn up and she sees that the main events planned are four times each day when she will eat. She's also to take a walk for at least an hour each day, longer at weekends.

The day for the ceremony is set for a Saturday five weeks hence, a little longer that Ava would have liked, but nevertheless soon enough that organising everything will be a challenge. Ava is ruthless in ensuring that everything will be provided to her satisfaction becoming angry and frustrated at any setbacks. However, each evening she puts all thoughts of the planning aside and makes time for Erin and herself to rekindle their sensual relationship, which has become dormant during the long preceding months. Despite the pleasures they explore, they've agreed that until their nuptials they will both remain chaste.

By the time their final week together has arrived, Erin has started to laugh again. She's hardly noticed how she's overcome her long months of anxiety, but everyone else can see it. She's even taken on responsibility for organising numerous services for the ceremony, and by the time she's made to say her farewell to Ava, everything seems to be in place. Ava delivers her to Thomasina late on the Friday afternoon and silently holds her tightly. She takes a long look at Erin, and kisses her tenderly. “See you on our wedding day,” she says with a bright smile, but her eyes are gleaming with emotion. Erin's emotions are less well contained, and it's all she can do not to sob. She can hardly speak and mutters a broken farewell before watching Ava depart in her car.

She takes a deep breath and rings the bell to let Thomasina know that her victim has arrived. She knows that in a week she'll have been changed beyond what she dare imagine.

The changes happen more quickly than she had imagined. An hour after arriving, Thomasina (who's been cleaning the shop) tells her that the most intrusive work will be completed first since it needs most time to heal. “Do you want to eat something now? You won't be much in the mood to eat later.” Erin's nervousness has made her stomach move in weird contractions and this news does nothing to calm her. She admits that she has no appetite.

Thomasina gives her two pills and a bottle of water. “These will make you a bit confused, but they'll also make the pain a bit easier to endure. You'll be glad of both, I guess.” Erin obediently swallows and waits for the drugs to do their work.

After half an hour she feels sleepy and intoxicated. Thomasina's voice seems distant and she often has to repeat herself before Erin complies with instruction. When she awakes the following morning, Erin can barely recall the events of the evening. She's in her room and reaches up to feel her ears. The lobes, she recalls as if remembering events from a fading dream, have been sliced with a blade and laboriously stitched. She nervously touches them and feels that they're now stretched around big metal rings, unable to guess the diameter, but sure that they're huge.

But more distressing is that her tongue is mangled and useless. She can barely remember Thomasina working on her tongue, a few fragmentary memories coming to her consciousness. Her tongue feels swollen and scalded and she can barely move it within her mouth. She feels dry and hungry but dreadfully tired. She rises with an effort and makes her way to the bathroom. She seeks out the mirror and grimaces as she sees her earlobes are now stretched around discs which appear to be two centimetres wide. She opens her mouth (a small gap in her lips is all that she can manage without pain) and tries to force her tongue forward. She feels sick as she sees two tips emerge, the inner surfaces bound with tiny black stitches. Dear God, Thomasina has split my tongue, she thinks, appalled that this has happened to her.

She returns to bed and wakes crying. She's sure that this is a mistake now. She doesn't want to go through her life with a tongue like a snake's. She's hurt that Ava wanted this for her. But, now she wonders, was this Ava's idea? She's given Thomasina a lot of license and this may have been her decision. What other crazy ideas does this woman have? She starts to wonder if maybe Thomasina isn't jealous of her, secretly desires Ava. Is her purpose to turn Erin into a repellent freak so that Ava will jilt her when she sees her on the day of their proposed marriage?

Her paranoia starts to lift once she dresses and goes to the living space she'll share with Thomasina for the next week. Thomasina couldn't be more sympathetic, issuing Erin with painkillers and examining her wounds. “The tongue is a tough one. It'll be sore for a week, but once the stitches come out it'll feel a lot better.”

Erin manages to ask “When?” but even saying that single word is a struggle.

“In a week.”

“Weddin' day..?” she manages to slur.

“Yes, I'm afraid so. Don't worry, I'm sure you'll be healed enough to kiss Ava. You do need to look after yourself though. You'll probably struggle with solid food for a few days but I'll make you nice smoothies.”

Erin is treated to the first of these for her breakfast, which she manages to drink with difficulty. To allow her to communicate she installs an app on her tablet which allows her to write notes with a stylus. She's delighted to have a voice and asks Thomasina what she'll have done today. “More big mods?” she asks.

“These are the things that are going to take longest to heal, which was why they had to be done first. I'm not going to give too much away but I'm going to concentrate on your piercings first to allow healing. The tattoos might be a bit scabby on your big day but hopefully they'll look fine. First thing you're getting is a haircut. We're heading out right now for your appointment.”

Erin arrives at the salon, the one she saw on her arrival at the building on the first day she met Thomasina. She hasn't had her hair cut in months and is ashamed of how it looks. The dark ends and blonde roots look awful, the lack of any shape no less so. She's sure that Ava has issued clear instructions, and as they wait for the stylist scribbles a note to Thomasina to confirm this.

“No, Erin, she left the cut up to me. She's given me a lot of freedom to make you beautiful.”

“Was split tongue Ava's idea?” she writes.

“No, that was mine. She did want your lobes scalpelled though.” Erin wonders how shocked Ava will be to see what's become of the Erin she was.

The stylist is clearly a friend of Thomasina's, probably responsible for the style she wears (a choppy shoulder length cut with a blunt, mid forehead fringe) and her vivid red colour. She consults with Thomasina, the loud electronic dance music hiding their conversation from everyone else in the salon, Erin included. She now comes to Erin, looking delighted with her instructions to restyle her.

“I'm Helene,” she announces, a strong French accent noticeable. “Thoma tells me you can't speak, but she also says you don't want to be consulted. Is that right?” Erin nods sadly. “So I could do any cut I chose and you'd just be a good girl and accept it?” Another nod. “I could even shave you bald?” Helene asks, still seemingly incredulous that Erin is so willing to accept whatever is imposed upon her.

Thomasina is watching everything. “Helene, stop teasing her.” She takes Erin's tablet and puts it in her bag for safekeeping. “Now she can't speak so she can't tell you to stop. Just cut her hair exactly as I said.”

A long black cape is cast over Erin, the fine fabric coated with a plastic which makes it look shiny and wet. Helene fastens it at her neck, tucking a tissue in to protect her delicate skin.

“You've not been looking after your hair. I hope once you're a married lady you'll look after it better.” Erin nods guiltily. Her cheeks redden as she sees Helene lift a huge chromed set of clippers. Helene stands at her left side and pushes her head to the side. The crack of the clippers roaring into life, as it always does, induces a muscular jerk in Erin. As the blades slip up her cheek Erin realises that Helene didn't apply a guard to the blades. She stares in the mirror, hoping that perhaps the guard was already in place. The hair starts to fall free, but still she can't see how short the clippers are cutting. Only as the blades rise up the side of her head can Erin see that she's being cut with bare blades, shorn to the scalp. Helene draws the clippers away and now shears away the hair from above Erin's ear. She winces as she realises her awful, jutting ears will be revealed for her wedding day.

Helene shears high up the side, higher than Ava has ever cut. Thomasina has been called to assist, gripping the longer hair on top of Erin's head. The blades slice into the long hair and Erin's lap starts to fill with long strands which are part blonde and part black. Helene seems to delight in working with the clippers and her enthusiasm starts to affect Erin. The sight of bare scalp up the entire side of her head makes Erin lose her inhibitions and she's soon aware that she's very aroused. She hasn't climaxed in weeks (in fact not since before her clitoris was pierced) and she can hardly stop from touching herself. She knows that even crudely pushing at her clitoris ring through the fabric of her skirt would be enough to tip her into an orgasm, but she remembers her vow to Ava, desperately fighting her urges.

Soon Erin sees a reflected girl who is almost bald, only a narrow strip (not even three inches wide) of long hair down the centre of her head separating the shorn sides. She bows her head as Helene renews her assault, now shaving away the hair from Erin's nape. Thomasina is once more holding up Erin's longer locks as Helene shaves her to the required shape.

The clippers are silenced and Helene equips herself with scissors. She crops away the length of Erin's little remaining hair, cutting the top to an even length of perhaps one and a half inches. All of the dyed hair has been cut away and Erin is left staring at a girl who has a short blonde mohawk. Helene gives a blast of the dryer to rid her of the clippings before she covers Erin's scalp with a layer of fragrant white lather.

“You'll come back here exactly a week from now,” Thomasina explains to Erin. “Your cut will be freshened up, sides reshaved and you'll get the colour done then. Of course, you'll look so different by then,” she giggles and exchanges a knowing look with Helene.

Helene presses the razor firmly to her scalp, ensuring a close shave for Erin. “What about her brows?” Thomasina asks. “They need some work, don't they.”

Helene pauses as she washes away more lather from the razor. “Yes, they're very straggly. I know what would look good.”

She puts aside the razor and takes out tweezers. Erin patiently endures the pain of plucking (the powerful painkillers she's taken dull her perception), sure that Helene will return her to the bald brows that Ava prefers for her. But when she finishes she still has faint brows, though thin and sparse, the outer parts almost completely devoid of hair. Even these brows seem rather too full for Helene's liking. She reaches for the clippers again, now fitting them with a tiny guard. She zips the buzzing blades over the ruins of Erin's brows, cutting the pale brown hairs down to stubble.

Erin simmers in the chair as Helene tantalisingly completes shaving her. The sensation of her scalp being razored is almost unbearable to Erin. Once the shave is complete she's taken to be shampooed and her blonde mohawk is blow-dried into a stiff little ridge of hair. Helene snips at a few stray hair before announcing her done.

Erin sees the back of her head for the first time; the hawk extends halfway down the back of her head, ending in a sharp V, the lower nape being completely bald. She looks at herself in the mirror and realises how her features have been changed by recent events, and her near baldness exposes those features cruelly. Her face is thinner, her eyes huge, the skin pale and paper thin, barely hiding the skull. The angularity of her face has become more marked, her cheekbones protruding. She can't decide whether she looks gaunt and ill, or delicately beautiful. Just the possibility that it's the latter excites her, despite her displeasure at the exposure of her ears. The huge tunnels which hang in them now seem to make them even more prominent.

Back in her temporary home Erin takes a little time to relax with Thomasina. “Do you like your new hairstyle?” she's asked.

“I think so, but I look so pale and sickly,” she scribbles.

“No, you look wonderful. You're pretty as a picture,” Thomasina smiles.

“Not my ears!” Erin notes, blushing as she admits to her shame.

“You have lovely little ears!” Thomasina exclaims. “Ava said you're self conscious about them. They hardly stick out at all. Just enough to make them more cute. Anyway, now you're bald at the sides I can add some more piercings without any hair to snag in them.”

Erin nods her acceptance of being pierced, although the thought of more wounds to heal makes her think that it's more than her body can take.

“Why did you get my hair cut today?” she asks. “Why not wait till next week? It'll need cutting again anyway.”

Thomasina smiles. “Because I couldn't tattoo your scalp while you had hair.” Erin looks at her pleadingly, hoping this is a joke. “We might as well make a start now while the shave is nice and fresh. Your first ever tattoo is going on your head.”

Erin dares to believe that Thomasina is only teasing her as the pattern is drawn out on her temples and around her ears. But it is a very elaborate pattern and she starts to wonder at the determination of someone who would take such a long time to play a joke. Then she feels the inked needle start to bore into her skin and her disbelief that she's going to have large tattoos on her scalp finally fades. She's lying on her left side, trying to find a comfortable position as Thomasina jabs at her, refusing to use mechanical methods to produce her design. Instead she's using a technique that's been around for millennia, a long bamboo stick bearing a cluster of tiny points her only tool.

Erin is initially tearful as she realises how freakish she'll look, then it's the pain of the process that she finds unendurable. Then she wakes, astonished that she could have fallen asleep during such a terrible ordeal. She's now lying face down, her face supported by a padded ring as Thomasina works on the area behind her ears and onto the side of nape. She mutters a mute appeal to rest and Thomasina agrees, once she's completed the current element.

“Can I see it?” she writes across the screen as Thomasina wipes away blood and excess ink from her head.

“Not yet. When it's all done. Another thirty or forty minutes and you'll be finished. I need coffee though if I'm going to keep going. Hand poking is hard work.”

While Thoma drinks her huge mug of coffee Erin sips another smoothie through a straw, glad of the coolness on her swollen tongue. When Thomasina invites her back to complete her tattooing she asks to sit upright. This is agreed, Erin sitting on a low stool while Thoma stands over her tapping more dots into Erin's scalp. She focusses on the events a week in the future when she will be united with Ava, to pledge herself for the rest of her days.

Finally, she feels the last sting. Now she sits patiently as her head is cleaned, Thomasina taking care not to stain her hair with ink. “Looks good, if I do say so myself,” she says. “Ready to take a look?”

Dark fans circle the sides of her head, centred around Erin's ears. The minuscule black dots form spiked shapes, overlapping like the scales of a bristly pine cone, the most prominent of the spikes outlined around the perimeter with a dotted line. Closer to her ears, arcs of solid black curl across her skull, concentric with the radiating spines. The design seems to be contained within the area where her hair grows at the temples, but on her nape the outer edge spill onto her neck. Erin chides herself for thinking about how this beautiful tattoo could be concealed. She must accept that her appearance will never be acceptable in polite company.

“You look so badass,” Thomasina smiles. “Mohawk, split tongue and scalp tattoos. Not many of your colleagues would be able or willing to go for a look like that.”

“They're not so crazy!” Erin says.

“It's not crazy. It fits you perfectly. I very rarely get the opportunity to design a look for someone that I know is right for them. I've done some nice tattoos that just don't seem to sit right on the person. But this is perfect for you. Ava will fall in love with you all over again. She's very lucky to have met you.”

“I'm the lucky one,” Erin lisps. She imagines how her life would be now if she'd chosen someone else for a bag check. How would she ever have got through the aftermath of the assault? She'd have gone mad, she's sure, without Ava to restore her to health.

That evening Ava and Thomasina take an hour to stroll in the local park. Erin has acquired a large stud in the centre of her upper lip and she moves uncomfortably since Thomasina has recently added four studs to her outer labia. But now it's the visibility of her tattoos that makes Erin nervous. She tries to convince Thomasina that she shouldn't go out, since she may accidentally run into Ava, and she's very superstitious, adamant that they should not see each other until the ceremony.

“It's absolutely no risk. Ava is on the other side of London. She's given me clear instructions that you have to get out for a walk each day to keep you healthy and strong. She's on the other side of the city so no need to worry about accidental meetings.”

Thus Erin has no choice but to relent and accept her new image being promenaded amongst the denizens of the park on the long summer evening. She feels a nakedness: the little hair she has left seems to enhance rather than cover her baldness, and the tattoos still make her feel ashamed. She nervously gauges the responses of passers by, sees how so many people's eyes linger as they take in her appearance, but then, especially amongst the younger people, some seem to like what they see and smile at her. Certainly, her image arouses less hostility than the uniform she used to wear when she patrolled this area. She thinks how people would be astonished to see how she's been transformed from the shy, long haired girl she was before Ava invaded her life.

Erin sleeps well, though she has the painkillers and sleeping tablets which Thomasina provides to thank for that. The following morning is spent adding more piercings. A dermal anchor is added at the side of her left eye and now she has a jewelled stud permanently gleaming at the edge of her cheek. The rest of the session is spent adding new jewellery to her ears. Almost all of the new piercings go through cartilage and by the end of the hour Erin is weeping at the soreness. Every puncture seems more painful than the last and she weeps with relief when Thoma announces that she's done.

“I'd never normally do so many ear piercings in one sitting, but you need to be pretty for your wedding. I'm not sure you need more piercings, but I might add another one or two if I decide you need it. Otherwise it's your tattoos that we'll concentrate on for the rest of the week.”

Erin has the afternoon to herself since Thomasina has to work on some clients. She lies on her bed, and starts to become anxious about how fast everything is moving. But she's so exhausted, that she soon falls asleep. It's evening when Thomasina wakes her, pleased that she's managed to sleep.

“Your body needs to heal. All these little wounds add up and take their toll on your immune system. But sleep and eating well will make you recover more quickly.”

Eating, however, is a problem for Erin. Her tongue is still swollen and almost paralysed, so she takes her nutrients in liquid form, managing to consume all of the soup that Thoma offers. She unquestioningly swallows all of the pills that are provided. Most are nutritional supplements, she's sure, but the painkillers and anxiolytics are not unwelcome.

After dinner Erin is taken to the studio to allow her tattoos to grow over her pale, unblemished skin. She tries to be calm, but by the time Thomasina has completed the hygiene preliminaries Erin is almost in tears. The tattooist can see how emotional she is but doesn't acknowledge it. “Put your hands on the ledge,” she says calmly, but her instruction is not to be disobeyed. “Do you remember when you first came here, when you mistakenly thought I would tattoo you?” Erin nods. “Where did you fantasise about me tattooing you?” Erin blushes as she thinks of Ava and Thomasina discussing her secrets.

“My neck and my hands,” she mutters, ashamed of how her voice is hampered by her injured tongue.

“Do you want me to make your dream come true? To ornament your pretty little hands with dark tattoos that will be there forever?”

Erin is breathing deeply and feels a tear roll down her cheek. She thinks of the brash tattoos on her scalp, how she cannot see them, and how letting her hair grow would conceal them. But tattooed hands would be always apparent to her and to others. This is a huge step, she feels. Once this is completed she's going to be changed forever, an inner change. The tattoos will be a shadow, a symbol of what she's becoming. “Please, tattoo me for my Mistress,” she articulates slowly.

This time Thomasina is using a conventional tattooing machine. She begins on Erin's right hand, tattooing around the edges of her nails. The first touch of the needle to her middle finger makes Erin gasp. It's a very sensitive spot and the pain is intense. She knows she'll struggle to bear this as every finger will be marked. “It does hurt, and you may cry. But accept the pain gracefully. You don't have a high pain threshold, so if you accept what needs to be done then I'll admire your bravery all the more. Make Ava proud of you.”

Erin feels each touch of the needle keenly. She cries until her tears are exhausted, praying that at some point she'll become accustomed to the pain, but she never does. She fights the urge to ask Thomasina to pause and allow her some respite. Only once the fingers of her right hand are complete does Thomasina allow herself a pause to get a coffee.

Erin holds up her hand before her face and regards it with a mixture of fascination and despair. Her nails are surrounded with a dark rim which extends back in spiky arabesques, narrow spires extending back along each digit up to a wide dot in the middle of the second bone. She sees that Thoma is regarding her with amusement. “What are you thinking?”

“It's like a witch's hand.” Erin blushes as she says it, feeling her reaction is childish, absurd.

“Yes, I think you're right,” Thomasina says in all seriousness. “Ava has enchanted you and now her spell is transforming you. You'll be hers entirely soon.”

Erin sucks on some ice cubes to soothe her tongue as the fingers of her left hand are blackened and ornamented to mirror her right hand. She bears the pain slightly better, and starts to feel that holding ice in her mouth numbs her entire body. Thoma works with precision and focus, barely talking once she's involved in her work. Once her fingers are complete there's another pause, but Thomasina isn't happy to end her work there for the night. She only changes her tools and now the back of Erin's left hand is dotted with hand poked tattoos. A series of overlapping patterns form, initially marked to form skeletal outlines. An oval form appears at the back of Erin's wrist, as a centre for the radiating shapes which will enclose her hand. Now Thoma adds definition to the elaborately ornamented patterns, darkening them until there are extensive areas which are almost entirely black. By night time, when Thomasina admits she's too tired to work more, Erin's left hand is densely figured with luxuriantly detailed tattoos, the pale skin almost entirely submerged beneath the sooty ink. The oval on the back of her wrist remains clear, a white area in a frame, awaiting an image.

“Your entire arm will be tattooed like this by me,” Thomasina informs her. Erin nods, then starts to cry.

“I love what you're doing, but I can't help regretting leaving behind what I was. I'm so confused. I don't know what my future will hold.”

“You should trust in Ava. You want to be her slave, don't you? You won't have any more responsibilities. Obedience is so much easier than freedom for someone like you.”

Erin shakes her head, still sobbing. “I'll be her wife, not her slave. That's what we decided.”

“But she asked you about slavery. You didn't answer her but tomorrow morning you will. You'll tell me your decision. I hope you don't disappoint me.” She smiles and caresses Erin's bald temple. “I hope you don't listen to your fear and disappoint yourself. I could see what you needed the first time we met.”

Erin sleeps fitfully despite the tablets that she's swallowed. Her dreams are full of images of what her life would be like should she allow herself to be enslaved. In one dream she imagines herself bald and naked in a sort of stable with dozens of other women, reduced to the condition of livestock. All of these women bear a brand, Ava's brand, and she is no more important than any of the others. In another she attends an orgy where everyone is masked and she's been told that she must obey any order she's given no matter how demeaning. She catches sight of herself in a mirror, her mask more elaborate than anyone else's. She tries to remove it, then realises that it's no mask but a facial tattoo. She wakes with a start, for some minutes believing that her face has indeed been tattooed by Thomasina. She's so shaken by the dream that she has to look in the mirrored wardrobe across the room to ensure her face is still free of tattoos.

She's so shaken by this dream that she can't sleep and lies pondering what it would actually mean to be Ava's slave instead of, or rather as well as, her wife. She's already agreed that in the vows she will pledge her obedience but slavery implies more. She will become something less than human. Ava wouldn't have any limits. She imagines being taken, on a whim, back to Thoma, being made to endure the facial tattooing of which she dreamed. The fear she feels as she imagines her features concealed beneath a web of inked lines isn't the delicious fear she normally imagines as she contemplates being altered; this is something that terrifies her unconditionally. And yet, there is something in the feeling of this ultimate humiliation that draws her in, makes her desire an unlimited submission. Only this abandonment of self can ultimately satisfy her desires, something tells her, an inner voice which seems to betray all rational behaviour and will surely make her regret what she will become.

Nevertheless, the following morning she finds herself nodding to Thomasina as she quizzes Erin on her decision. “You decided?”

“I agree,” Erin mumbles, her tongue heavy and slow not only because of the injury.

“You agree to being Ava's slave? You agree to everything?” Thomasina seems delighted to be able to add to Erin's fears, to make this as difficult and humiliating as possible.

“I do.” Erin can barely bring herself to look at her inquisitor and immediately breaks her gaze, staring down at the breakfast table in despair. She feels like she's making the worst mistake of her life yet she can say nothing to change this. Despite everything reasoned, which informs her that her decision is folly, she has an unshakable intuition that this is her destiny.

She sits alone for fifteen minutes before the tattooist returns. “I called Ava. She will make all the necessary arrangements.”

“Is she pleased?” Erin asks. She feels childish asking such a thing. She has a desperate need for validation, but blushes with an immature pride as she hears the reply.

“She's beside herself. I've never heard her more excited.”

Erin is tattooed more throughout the day, but in irregular sessions which Thoma fits in around the schedule of her paying customers. Elaborate discs blossom across her upper left arm, intricate geometrical mandalas, kaleidoscopic designs which take hours for Thomasina to stab into her flesh. Erin has a lot of time to rest and contemplate. She can see why Ava values Thomasina's services, since she's raised her artistry to the highest level. But the design is so dense that she wonders how it will look if her entire arm is sleeved in these designs. She imagines that the effect will be of an almost black arm patterned with pale cobweb-like structures.

By the end of the day Thomasina has completed two areas of dark, abstract sunbursts, each roughly four inches in diameter, the details of the patterning utterly unalike. Thomasina informs her that her arms will be sleeved before her wedding, which induces a gasp from Erin. She cannot see how such intricate patterns can be worked over all of her flesh in the time left before the ceremony. In fact, she doubts that Thomasina's detailed work could even be made even to cover one arm in the allotted time. The following morning some of her doubts are resolved. As she takes her place in the tattooing room a stranger enters, introduced by Thoma as Stina. “Your right arm is now Stina's for as long as it takes her to ink.” Stina nods and sets to work, and soon Erin has to endure two people transfiguring her appearance. They work in near silence, the buzzing of Stina's needle the only sound to break the quiet of the room. Stina has a very different way of working to Thoma and by the early afternoon Erin's right arm has exploded in a profusion of fine floral outlines. Stina has a distinctive drawing style, her lines nervous and energetic, her imagery detailed yet stylised.

By the evening Erin is exhausted, having had only a short lunch break. For the rest of the day one or other of her tattooists has worked on her and her muscles ache from the constrained postures she's had to hold and her skin burns from the effects of the thousands of needle punctures she's endured. Thomasina will not hear of foregoing her evening promenade and after a late dinner the two young women make their by now familiar circuit of the local park. It's a fine, warm night and the little t-shirt that Erin wears exposes much of the fresh tattooing that her arms will now always carry. She feels the weight of the scrutiny of all that she passes, aware that she's now judged to be heavily tattooed, too heavily tattooed for the tastes of all but the most extreme.

On the following day the routine of her tattooing is interrupted by a fitting of her dress, the first sight she's had of the garment, although she did previously meet with the dressmaker to be measured. The dress is of soft white leather, the tight skirt composed of bands which overlap and encircle her figure, meeting in a downward V along the centre of her body. It fits so tightly to her thighs that it means she can only walk with slow mincing steps. The bodice is a corset which Erin thinks is rather too snug since she's gained a little weight since her last visit here. But then the lacing is drawn and she realises that the initial tightness was insignificant compared to this. She looks at her reflection, her waist pulled to an unbelievably small diameter, her smallish breasts pushed up to emphasise her cleavage. She feels disconnected from this image, this girl with vampish curves, too many tattoos and too little hair.

The dressmaker, Olivia, and Thoma look at her with admiration, the latter even appears slightly overcome by emotion. “The hips are a bit tight,” Olivia notes, “and I think the corset can go tighter. You can take an inch less around here, can't you, Erin?” she asks as her fingers trace over the tightly compressed hollow curves of the artificial waist.

“I can barely breathe,” she complains.

“That's just your excitement at seeing how beautiful you are,” Thoma smiles. “You'll be fine with a tighter corset.”

The days start to blur for Erin. She has to endure more tattooing each day. After a day's absence, Stina returns the day after the dress fitting. She covers Erin's arm in black lilies, drawn to look like they were composed of glossy liquid, with pale highlights of white skin making their form almost tangible. The blossoms extend from the back of Erin's hand up to her shoulder. In contrast to the density of the pigmentation of the flowers, the surrounding foliage remains drawn in open line work, fine but very detailed, the serrations of the leaf edges and their veining limned with great care.

Thomasina's work grows more slowly. Eventually Erin's arm above her elbow is covered in the mandalas; even her armpit bears one of the large geometric figures. The designs butt together without a gap, pressing together like cells which have grown to fill all available space.

At the top of Erin's forearm a black band signals the change in design. A series of heavy calligraphic marks are tattooed on her skin, one inside the open area which was left on the back of her wrist. Erin doesn't recognise them as any writing system she's ever encountered and asks Thoma about this.

“They're a form of Enochian writing,” she's told. “Ava thinks that these marks are not just decorations. They describe your new status, but they also cement it. Now that you're marked you can never be anything other than what you will pledge to become. What you've already vowed to be.”

Saturday arrives and Erin wakes early, filled with nervous excitement. She showers and meets Thomasina, who embraces her. A strong friendship has grown between them during the week. Erin's piercings are examined and Thoma nods, pleased that all are healing without adversity. Erin is fitted with a new septum ring, thicker than any she's worn before and she groans as it stretches the hole in her cartilage. Then she has to bear the pain of the stitches being removed from her ears. She sees the large holes which now open up her disfigured lobes, and winces again as Thoma forces the tender opening to hold wooden discs which are inlaid with mother of pearl crosses.

The greatest pain is yet to come: Thoma now snips and draws the sutures from the wounds in Erin's tongue. Each tug of a stitch makes Erin groan and yet once the last one comes free she feels a sense of relief. The stitches had become too tight, pulling at her flesh and now Erin can move her tongue much more freely. She realises with joy that it has healed more than she had realised and she can talk once more, although she still has a marked lisp.

Although it's still only seven thirty, Erin now makes the short trip to the salon where a tired looking Helene is waiting for her. She expresses her astonishment at Erin's now extensive and densely tattooed arms. “She's still got a lot of bare skin,” Thomasina smiles. “I do hope that Ava lets me work on her some more after she's a married woman.

Erin takes her place in the chair and prepares herself to be shorn. She's covered with the shiny cape, and despite herself, she feels a sense of relief that her tattooed arms are covered. But not all of her tattoos are hidden. Despite the week's growth of hair, the designs on the sides of her head remain very visible. Helene takes the clippers and oils the blades, which are, of course, free of any guard. She pushes Erin's head to the side and cleans a path through the stubble.

The sensation jolts Erin. It's almost too much for her, the vibration, the coolness of the shaved scalp making her feel a desperate need to be gratified with the climax she's so long denied herself. But on this day of all days she must maintain her discipline.

The clippers peel away the layer of pale hair and Erin blushes as she sees just how dark the tattoo on her scalp is. The layer of stubble had softened the pigmentation, had hidden the starkness of the contours. Now she sees the blackness of the design set against the pallor of her scalp. She feels anew her shame at being marked thus, and yet she feels a great excitement as she imagines Ava seeing these tattoos for the first time.

Ava! In a few hours she'll be reunited with her love, whose absence for the past week has at times been unendurable. How she longed to be in her arms as she endured the agonies of tattooing, as she lost her old self, never to be recovered. She will abandon herself completely, will devote herself to Ava, the love of her life.

The cessation of the noise of the clippers shocks Erin back into the present. Her scalp has quickly been deprived of the sandy stubble, and now her cheeks and neck are dusted with tiny, irritating bristles. Helene's fingers smooth a layer of creamy lather over Erin's head and let it sit in place to soften the stubble. Erin's scalp tingles intensely, not entirely pleasantly. But then, she thinks, much of her life now will be spent in experiences which will blend pleasure with discomfort, pain, humiliation. All too soon, Helene takes her razor and strips away the tingling. She moves the blades with practised strokes, firm yet precise. Erin fantasises that as the razor passes over her skin it will leave it clean and unblemished, yet as her eyes flicker upward to take in her reflection she can see that the tattoos look clearer than ever. She can't believe that she will ever look in a mirror and see these patterns as part of her, will ever see them without feeling regret and disbelief.

She breathes slowly and heavily as Helene's fingers palpate her skull to ensure that every millimetre of scalp is smooth and hairless. She closes her eyes as she imagines that those are Ava's delicately beautiful hands which are pressed to her head. Helene's inspection is completed and Erin realises that her scalp has been shaved perfectly, with the exception of the narrow crest of short hair which is now being doused in a creamy bleach. Time appears to race and it seems only minutes before she's being rinsed. The short hair is vigorously rubbed with a towel before being frothed with another coating of chemicals.

Erin sees herself with white blonde hair. All colour has been removed and her hair is gleaming, snowy. It seems to grow even more reflective as Helene dries it, using a brush to direct the hair into a stiff, vertical crest. It looks very neat and precise to Erin, but apparently Helene has other ideas. She uses the clippers to shape the mohawk, zipping off the ends over a comb to shape the top to a hard, flat contour. She takes it noticeably shorter, leaving little more than an inch over the top of Erin's head, and not even that much on the V descending over her nape. “It's very white. And short,” Erin says, not at all sure that she likes her new hairstyle. It's so short and neat that it looks very unfeminine, almost military.

Thomasina strokes at the short, stiff crop. “Helene, she sounds ungrateful! Maybe you should take her even shorter.”

“Maybe I should clear some more scalp. It's not too late to add some more tattoos on her head, is it, Thoma?”

Erin blushes at the threat. “I'm sorry, Helene, I do like it. It's just a surprise. You've done a wonderful job and I'm very grateful and pleased. I know Ava will adore it too.”

Helene and Thoma glance at each other, enjoying the power they have to scare Erin. “We'll see. If she doesn't adore it you can be right back here to get fixed up.” Erin nods anxiously, eager to placate her new friends.

As Erin is dressed she begins to panic, realising that there's less than an hour before the ceremony begins. She worries that she will be late, which would be disastrous. She mustn't do anything to ruin Ava's day, everything must be perfect. Yet her friends seem unconcerned by the passage of time. “You're almost done,” Thoma smiles. “And the trip to the hall isn't going to take more than fifteen minutes. The car is waiting outside.”

Erin nods but doesn't feel reassured. London traffic can be impossible, and she's still not wearing the dress. She's been fitted with white latex stockings which unbearably compress her legs and make any flexing of her knees uncomfortable, yet they look astonishing, glossy as polished stone. Now she's made to wear gloves of similar material, which are rolled up over her arms. The latex covers her up to shoulders where it will meet the leather of her dress. She realises that her tattoos will be invisible for the ceremony.

Now a headdress is placed on her, an antique of pale ivory silk. The cap extends down over her ears and her stretched lobes are now covered, as, of course, are her mohawk and tattooed scalp. Her head is surrounded by a halo of flowers, all of pale and cool colours to fit with the vision of her attire. Finally, the dress is pulled over her body, fastened and laced so that she feels like she will faint. Erin is allowed to take in her appearance. She looks at her reflection as if she were in a dream, a vision of a girl all in white before her. Her eyes look huge, outlined with blue and silver, her lips pale pink and her pale powdery cheeks suffused with soft rose. Her waist looks tiny, and she looks more curvaceous than she'd ever imagined she could be, despite being so slender. She wears soft kid leather boots with finely pointed toes decorated with chased silver, the spike heels adding almost five inches to her height.

And suddenly Erin is at the hall, where she sees a small crowd of people, few of whom she recognises, all of them (presumably) Ava's friends. She's been happy not to invite her friends, ready to start a new life. After all, she's hardly got close to anyone in London and has lost touch with most of her friends from her home town. Yet, even as she thinks of this she sees a group of familiar faces on the left of the hall. There are a couple of women who served with her in the police and three school friends. She blushes as they stare at her, smiling shyly. They look at her admiringly, but she wonders how they will react when her new appearance is fully revealed. She knows that Ava has invited them to embarrass her, to make her feel more keenly how drastically she's changed.

Now Erin has to stand at the front of the hall, awaiting the arrival of her bride. She's beside herself with excitement as she awaits the arrival of her love, becoming breathless as she anticipates seeing Ava. Her ribs are so compressed that she can barely breathe and she realises that her vision is suffused with bright spots from lack of oxygen. Only by concentrating on taking rapid, shallow breaths can she ward off a fainting spell.

An organ is playing softly, which is something Erin had hardly noticed until suddenly there's a swell in its volume and a strangely dissonant tune begins to play. She feels her skin prickling as she realises that Ava has entered and is slowly advancing toward her. She fights the urge to turn and look back. Somehow, she feels this is an Orphic test, that she must not look behind her, or else her love will be lost to her. It seems like hours before a dark form appears at her side and finally she allows herself to turn and look into Ava's face.

Erin's white attire, complemented with touches of blue and silver, is in contrast to Ava's dress, which is black with crimson ornaments. Erin's lips part in surprise as she sees her bride, for her hair has also been shaved from the sides of her head, and her fringe has also been razored away, giving a strangely high forehead. Her hair is stiffly fixed into a smooth, high crest, which for a moment Erin believes to be a short cut. But as she looks more closely she sees that her hair has been rolled and braided into this elaborate style, the form of which is delineated by stripes of red which have been tinted through the temples. She feels relieved, sure that she would feel mortified if Ava's long hair was cut short. It's enough to have to adjust to the bared sides, but she adores Ava's long mane.

The dress is composed of black lace which is bound tightly around Ava's tiny ribcage. Her décolletage and shoulders are bared and now marked with fresh, brightly inked tattoos. Even her throat has been tattooed, dark rays shooting up her fine neck. Erin can't help but feel that it's rather too much, yet she knows that she's utterly, helplessly turned on by these new modifications to her bold love. Ava looks at her in delight and draws back her lips in a delighted smile. Erin feels a shiver as she sees that Ava's upper canines are now capped with long gold fangs.

Ava glances quizzically at the latex opera gloves, at the headdress and smiles at Erin. “What the fuck?” she mouths silently. Erin grins back, enjoying making Ava have to wait to see how beautiful she's become.

Throughout the ceremony Erin can't take her eyes off Ava. She says her responses automatically, everything seeming dreamlike. Her gloved finger is fitted with a band of platinum to bind her to Ava and she's allowed her first kiss as a married woman.

Ava hasn't hidden her surprise at Erin's newly acquired lisp, unaware of the cause. Erin is keen to surprise her with the revelation of her modified tongue, but the healing hasn't progressed to the point where mobility has been recovered. As their lips meet, Erin tries but fails to extend her tongue any further than the margins of her own lips. Ava is initially surprisingly tender, but the heat of their mouths seems to gradually inflame her passion and soon her tongue slide into Erin's mouth, only to withdraw as it meets with unfamiliar sensations. Erin is on the verge of laughter, proud to have done something which appears to have shocked the unflappable Ava. But then she has a moment of fear as she considers that perhaps Ava dislikes her new tongue.

It is only a moment, however. Ava forces her tongue back into Erin's mouth, probing powerfully at the divide, unmistakably aroused by her new bride's most extreme new modification. Too roughly, as Erin feels pain from the tender wound being prodded and stretched. She endures the pain easily, too delighted by this wonderful kiss to let a little stinging distract; perhaps she even likes the hurt.

Now Erin has to make a circuit of her wedding guests, arm in arm with her new wife. She shyly thanks each for attending, dreading the moment when her guests will look at her. Finally she approaches them, unsure how they will react to her very gothic bride. And unsurprisingly they do look discomforted by Ava's rather extreme look, especially when she smiles and reveals her golden fangs. Erin kisses each of her friends and thanks them for coming on her special day. Despite her shyness she finds herself enjoying their reactions. Ava embraces each of them too, kissing them on each cheek. They look terrified by her, this weird, beautiful predator. Erin finds herself dreaming of her friends being seduced by Ava, fantasising her as a siren luring her victims toward a fatal bliss.

As they move away toward another group of guests Ava puts her lips to the cap covering Erin's ear. “Do you want me to take a peek under your headdress and take those gloves off? I hope there's something you're hiding that would shock those little vanilla friends of yours. Maybe it'll even shock me.”

Erin finds herself blushing at the thought of being revealed in all of her new glory in front of witnesses who knew her in what she now thinks of as being a former existence. Yet part of her wants it. Wants to show people she once treasured that she has grown to something that they can't understand or accept. “Do it, mistress,” she sighs.

She glances over at her friends who are still watching her and Ava. She closes her eyes as she feels Ava's fingers reach up her cheeks and lift the headdress free. “Oh dear god!” Ava mutters. “I didn't expect that. Did you really let Thoma tattoo your head? Those aren't just drawn on.”

“Of course they're not,” Erin says, giggling, but ashamed as she sees the disapproval of her friends. “They were my first tattoos, actually.”

“Oh, my, you're sexy,” Ava gasps. “I love the blonde. You look inhuman... ethereal. And if these are your first tattoos, does that mean you're hiding some more from me?” She can't stop caressing the smoothly shaved sides of Erin's scalp where the patterns of black dots will forever stain her skin. Then she lets her lips explore the heavy piercings which now hand in Erin's ears.

“I think you should explore for yourself, Miss Avarice. It will be more fun that way.”

“Miss? I'm a married woman now, baby doll. I think you should call me Mistress Avarice now.”

Erin nods her agreement. “And what's my married name to be?”

“Erin is just fine for my wife. But for my slave... We need to change it. After we leave here I've organised another ceremony to formally make you my slave. You do still want that, don't you?” Erin nods, but she can't hide her terror.

“I had so many things I wanted to ask about what it will mean but now I'm with you I can't remember anything.”

“All you need to know is that I'll still love you, more than I loved anyone ever. And in return you'll pledge total obedience. It's not really any different to what you pledged in our vows just now.” Ava looks over at Erin's friends and former colleagues. “Do you think we should invite them to your enslavement?”

“Remember some of them are serving police. They'd probably arrest us for some sort of indecency.”

“At least they're hardened by what they've seen. Your little school friends look like they'd end up in a psych ward if they saw what you've become.”

“They can't stop staring at me. I don't think they share your enthusiasm for my new look, Mistress.”

Ava laughs. “It's probably best they don't come to the evening do.”

It's only a select group of Ava's close friends who travel to a house on the Sussex downs where the second ceremony of the day will take place. Erin is still wearing her dress, her tattooed arms still hidden from Ava by the long gloves, but as soon as she enters the house Ava orders her to allow herself to be undressed. Ava starts by removing her shoes and then peels the tight latex stockings from her legs. “No tattoos here then!” she says with exaggerated disappointment. “I've seen how you look at my thighs and I know you love those tattoos.”

“I let Thomasina choose my tattoos,” Erin says. “You know I won't refuse anything you want in the future, Mistress. The only thing I disliked about the tattooing was that you weren't there.”

Thomasina, who has accompanied the party, shakes her head. “You were pretty bad at coping with the pain, Erin. But to give you your due, you were quite brave to put up with long sessions when you've got such a low pain threshold.”

Ava seems unconcerned by this debate and reaches under the short sleeves of Erin's wedding dress to take the tops of the gloves. As she rolls the tight rubber down over Erin's left arm she whistles. “So this is what Thoma spent all her time on.” She has to remove Erin's wedding ring temporarily to remove the glove, then immediately puts it back in place. “Thoma, you've done a great job. It's the best work I've ever seen you do.”

“I couldn't let you down,” she smiles, trying to react modestly to the compliments, but obviously pleased.

Ava lifts and turns Erin's arm to look at the extensive tattooing. She seems particularly pleased by the obscure inscriptions which figure the lower arm.

“Just one sleeve or two..?” she whispers to herself as she starts to expose Erin's right arm. The black flowers are soon revealed and Ava gasps. “You got Stina to work on her. Oh, Thoma, thank you. It looks just...”

She's filled with joy and what she can't express in words she does with kisses. Erin's head is swimming as she becomes breathless, overjoyed at Ava's attentions. She can't wait to be alone with her wife, to finally end the period of chastity that they'd agreed in the approach to this day.

Soon Erin is naked, ashamed to be displayed before strangers but relieved to be free of the painful constraints of the corset. Ava stares at her with undisguised lust. “I love your tattoos, but I think I'd imagined you'd have more.”

“This style is very labour intensive,” Thoma says, seemingly keen to defend herself.

“I know. I suppose it means it's going to cost me a lot of money to get her tattooed as much as she needs to be.”

Thomasina laughs. “That's you all over, Ava. Always thinking about money, even today.”

“You'll have to find ways to earn money,” Ava says to Erin. “You'll have to pay for good tattooists to get yourself covered, and they don't come cheap. You want to be tattooed all over, don't you?”

“Yes Mistress,” she says. “But please, not my face.”

“Oh, my poor little Erin. You're not allowed such vanity if you're to be a slave. I wanted to set you a test to make sure you're ready to be my slave. Now you've shown me what it must be.”

Erin is taken to the basement of the house and is told to get into the chair, which appears to be some sort of antique clinical equipment. Leather straps are fastened around her body, her wrists, her knees and ankles as screens are pushed back revealing an assortment of what appear to be torture devices.

She sees from the edge of her vision that a tattooing machine is present and she can see that Thomasina is preparing herself to use it. Ava holds up a sheet of paper with some writing on it. “Read it out loud if you want to proceed,” Ava says coldly. Erin stares at her wife, who look so beautiful yet so evil. She scans the writing and shivers. She closes her eyes and tries to find the courage to please Ava.

“'I, Erin Hume, wish to be enslaved to my majestic Mistress. I must obey fearlessly and without vanity or ego. To demonstrate my devotion and humility I request that a tattoo is marked on my face.'” She is tearful as she haltingly enunciates the last sentence.

Ava whispers to Thoma, who nods. She looks at Erin without any visible emotion. One of the assistants who strapped her in removes the make-up from Erin's face, scrubbing it clean. As soon as this is completed Erin, immobile and helpless, sees Thoma bend over her and feels a sting at her forehead. She looks up at Ava, smiling broadly, showing her golden teeth, which fascinate and horrify Erin. She imagines the sharp teeth gnawing at her skin, leaving indelible blackened tracks as a spoor, imagines that this is the sensation she can feel on her forehead. She recalls pictures she's seen of facial tattoos, but can't bring anything to mind that she can consider positively. She can only think of dark, disfiguring tattoos which will submerge her delicate features. She wants to beg Ava to have mercy on her but as she looks into her mysterious dark eyes she knows she must endure this, must trust that Thomasina will grant her something bearable.

She feels the needle pass from the bridge of her nose up to her hairline. The tattooing doesn't seem to take long and she feels relieved that the tattoo is evidently not large. Ava looks it over as Thoma cleans it to allow the form to be seen clearly. She nods. “Lovely work, Thoma. Are you ready to receive your Mistress's mark, Erin?”

“Yes, Mistress,” she says. She's shaking and tearful from the expectation of a more extensive tattoo on her face, but she still doesn't know where this mark will be placed. Her curiosity seems to be answered as the headrest is angled backwards and her head is violently thrown back. Her throat is exposed and moments later she feels the needle burning at her soft neck.

If her forehead tattoo was completed more quickly than Erin dared hope, then the mark she will bear for Ava takes far longer than she could have imagined. Thoma inks the centre of her throat with the tattooing machine, but then uses a hand poking technique to surround this design. The work extends from the notch between her collar bones to the lower margin of her jaw, and spreads far around her neck, almost reaching to the tattoos which cover the sides of her nape, Erin imagines.

Erin is in tears for much of the time it takes to complete the tattoo. As the needle jabs at her neck she has a dread, which she knows is irrational, that is will penetrate into some vital underlying tissue, her trachea or a blood vessel. It takes a long time for this fear to recede but even when it does it's largely because the pain is so insufferable that it comes to completely dominate her mind. For an hour she has to endure the stabbing, burning, itching that sets her neck on fire. Ava leaves her for a long time and reappears later in a tightly sculpted black leather dress, her hair now loose and curled, partly covering the shaven sides. Her make-up has also been redone, and she looks more lovely and intimidating than ever to Erin.

Erin passes into a sort of trance in the last stages of her tattooing and only becomes aware gradually of what is happening around her as she feels the tender skin being wiped clean. She sees Ava gazing down on her, smiling with tenderness and love and knows that she would endure this a thousand times if it were asked by Ava. Her head is brought to a more comfortable position and she's allowed to see what's been done to her. A narrow black trapezoid covers her throat and the sides are flanked with feathery wings, shaded with the small black dots which she has come to recognise as typical of Thomasina's style. Almost the entire frontal area of her neck is marked with tattoos. It takes a little time for Erin to realise that the trapezoid is a V, then to recognise that the winged designs are very stylised forms of the letter A. She blushes as she realises that she has Ava's name marked very boldly on her neck, shivers as she remembers fantasising about her neck and hands being tattooed. Now Ava has made this a reality, although the tattoos are more extreme than Erin had imagined in her vision. And her forehead is now decorated! A black ornament descends down the centre of her brow, fine filigree lines spinning out symmetrically. It's not as big or bold as she'd feared, but then its placement makes it unmissable.

“For as long as this mark endures you're my slave, with no will of your own and obedient to every wish I express and those of any agent to whom I give authority.”

“Yes, Mistress Avarice,” Erin groans.

A pen is placed in her hand, which is still trapped at the wrist. “You need a new name to cement your status. This is a document that was drawn up by a solicitor to legally change your name. Sign and date it please.” A clipboard is placed so that she can sign at the bottom of the paper.

“What will my name be?” she asks.

“Slave! I gave you an order. Don't make me punish you.” She signs and dates the document and Ava smiles. That's the last time you'll use your free woman name.” She holds up the paper and Erin scans it, finally sees that her name is now Slave Abject. She can't hide her embarrassment at this title. It's not even a name. She remembers how long it took her to be able to address Ava as Miss Avarice without feeling a keen sense of absurdity. Now her name is more absurd, more demeaning. “Say your name for me,” Ava says, taunting her.

“Slave Abject,” she says. She tries to put her old self aside. She must never think of herself again by any other name than Abject.

“Lovely,” Ava smiles. “Now we need to complete a few more formalities. Your collar, your number, registering you as a slave for all the world to see.”

The collaring is first. A titanium ring is held up for Abject to see. It's hinged in two parts. “Once the latch closes there's no way to open it, short of slicing it with one of those things firemen use to cut people out of car wrecks.” As she says it, Ava places the ring around Abject's neck and snaps it shut. “Now you're a collared slave,” she says, delighted, playing with the pierced block which is suspended from the front of the ring. “There's a number on the collar and we'll register you by this number. Then anyone who uses you can add their thoughts to your profile and everyone can read what you get up to.” She holds up the mirror to show her slave the nine digit number which is deeply engraved into the metal. “It might be easy to miss this number so maybe we should make it more noticeable.” She nods to Thomasina.

More tattooing to endure. Now the needle drills into the skin above her pubic mound, adding to her sense of loss of self. She finally is allowed to see that her mound is now marked with bold letters:

SLAVE

ABJECT

901-344-296

She's finally allowed to rise from the chair and would like to give in to her self-pity, to retreat into solitude and sob at what's been done to her, but instead, she sees Ava, sees her excitement, sees in her black eyes that she is madly in love with her slave. Ava dismisses all of the others and takes her slave to her bridal bed. Erin is lost forever, lost to the ecstatic pleasures of her new slavery.

Epilogue

Ava celebrates her first anniversary with an undiminished love of Slave Abject. Abject's appearance hasn't changed greatly from how it was on the day when she became Ava's wife and slave. Her hair is still white blonde, still shaved into a mohawk, although it's rather narrower and longer than it was for the ceremony. Not that it's always remained like this: for several months Abject was entirely bald, a look she came to accept and even enjoy. Her face has been marked with some tattoos around the temples and spilling onto her upper cheeks. The tattoos are dotted areas, of varied density, formless, almost like they only shade the skin without any subject. A few more piercings have been added: Abject's cheeks are pierced and her lips have large beads at the centre, upper and lower. Her earlobes are being aggressively stretched and the openings are almost twice as large as they were a year previously.

Her tattooing has proceeded more slowly than she had expected, largely because of the expense. Ava makes Abject pay for the work of the tattooists, and she earns solely from the services she performs for clients to whom Ava introduces her. She has the beginnings of a large tattoo on her right thigh (Ava has in mind that both of her legs will be completely tattooed) and she's booked in to have another session in a few weeks.

There are some regular clients who pay to be served by Ava and Abject together, although Abject receives only a fifth of the fee for such work. One of these clients is the woman who received a haircut on the day when Ava first encountered Erin, as she was then. Abject described to her how she acted as a catalyst in bringing them together in the course of one of their sessions, during which the woman was subjected to a particularly cruel makeover. By the end of the afternoon her hair (which is now entirely grey) had been permed tightly on top and cropped closely up the nape and over her ears. Ava fitted her with an ugly pair of glasses and the makeover aged her terribly, yet she was overcome with sexual excitement as she saw what she'd become. Abject particularly enjoys her encounters with this woman and looks forward to the next time Ava will torture and demean her.

Ava's appearance has changed rather more that Abject's, largely because she cut off her long mane soon after her marriage. Because Abject had been constantly telling Ava how much she loved her long hair she decided to deprive her of this pleasure, and arrived home one evening with a fanned mohawk, none of her hair longer than five inches, and most of her head razored smooth. Abject had cried to see the loss of her Mistress's long hair and remained sad for weeks after. Soon, Ava came to share her regret and is now growing her hair again, although she has for now decided to keep the back and sides shaved. The top is now almost to her shoulders, usually worn tied into a ponytail to expose the bares sides which were recently adorned with tattooed patterns, inked by Thoma.

Abject has come to accept her new status, though not without some initial difficulties. During the first few months of slavery she would on occasion suddenly sob without warning, unable to say why these episodes of intense emotion affected her. Ava would console her, and in recent months Abject has not suffered in this way. Ava has never stinted on showing affection and Abject feels closer to her than ever.

She looks back on her life as Erin as if it was a distant memory, perhaps even as the biography of another person. She has come to trust Ava entirely, has become a disciple, accepting her wishes without question, knowing that Ava will always act in her best interest, even when she can't immediately understand why her orders will lead to a positive outcome. She looks back on her first year as a slave and knows that is has been the most calm and content time in her life. She knows that her happiness will only grow as she allows Ava to shape her. They are complements, mirror images.

[braxarchives]

Safety Blanket ― CANON. (current verse)

Max’s emotions and insecurities finally reach a boiling point. They come erupting out in surprising ways, and in the process Brady has to learn to confront his own feelings. NSFW.

Things were… weird. Of course they were. Brady hadn’t expected anything less after he and Max had had their whole thing a couple weeks ago. It wasn’t like they could pretend all of it never happened, but they also didn’t seem anywhere closer to talking about it. They had to put all of it aside, though. Max still needed a cameraman, after all. So Brady would pick up his camera as usual, but there was a lot less of their usual lighthearted bickering. In fact, Brady wasn’t sure they’d done that at all in a while, at least not naturally. He’d definitely been trying to fake it for the camera so that no one would notice much of a difference. In any case, when the camera wasn’t recording, things were just plain weird. And ridiculously tense. Brady hadn’t realized how accustomed he had gotten to just touching Max and ending up in one of their beds until that wasn’t a thing anymore. He would think about it, then remember all that had gone down, the fact that they weren’t doing that anymore on top of the anxiety he felt about having let things go too far, and he had to force himself to forget it. Rinse and repeat every fucking time he and Max crossed paths over the last two weeks. Which was a lot, considering they lived together.

The tension was annoying, mostly, but it wasn’t like they were straight up ignoring each other, or even being particularly aggressive. It was almost like they were just roommates who barely tolerated each other, rather than best friends. Brady kind of hated the whole dynamic in the apartment, but he knew it was up to them to fix it. Or him, more accurately. When he was ready to talk. That day wasn’t today, even when he walked into the kitchen and found Max there and felt immediately on edge. Brady nodded at him to acknowledge that he was there, then made a beeline for the fridge. He was set on getting his leftovers from a couple of nights ago and then going to put on a movie. Except…he didn’t see said leftovers when he opened the fridge. His name had clearly been on the container. “Dude,” Brady said, looking over his shoulder at Max. “Did you eat my fuckin’ wings? There were like six left. The fuck, bro?”

After their fight a couple weeks back, Max had admittedly been keeping his distance. It wasn’t like he was intentionally trying to avoid Brady… it was just easier for them both this way. At least until Max got over himself and moved on from… whatever it was he was feeling. Their usual banter on and off camera had been painfully forced, and maybe it was his fault for not being 100% up for it lately, but it still sucked. He wanted so badly just to go back to normal, but every time he looked at Brady now, his stomach would still flip. Only, now it was accompanied by a hot rush of embarrassment, and he was brought back to reality again. Max pushed for too much from him, and it made things weird with his best friend. And while that was the last thing he wanted, he honest to God couldn’t help his brain from shutting down a little whenever they would interact. Because the truth was, he still felt a little wounded from the whole ordeal.

He barely looked up as Brady walked into the kitchen, nodding in return. His laptop was in front of him on the table as he sat perched with one of his elbows resting on the surface. But he didn’t turn back to him; didn’t smile or make a joke. He just minded his own business. Which truthfully is what he probably should have been doing from the start. Max wasn’t expecting Brady to say anything to him, really. So when he did, he lifted his head to see what was up. “Nah dude. Didn’t eat your crap.” Max rolled his eyes and glanced back at his laptop, busying himself at the screen. “I threw them out. They were getting little fuzzy spots on them. Sorry.” Max shrugged, and normally when he tried to tease it would be obvious, but his tone wasn’t quite up to par. “Didn’t know you wanted that for seasoning.”

Brady almost wanted to say that he didn’t believe him when he claimed not to have eaten them, but Max seemed pretty serious about having thrown them out. And honestly, that was worse. He could have at least let him know first. “God dammit.” Brady shut the fridge door and rolled his eyes right back. This was one of the bigger disappointments of his life recently. “Gimme a freakin’ head’s up next time. Or just worry about your own shit.” Was he being a little over the top about leftover wings? Yes. Was he going to stop being dramatic about it? Absolutely not. Truthfully, something in Max’s tone was off today. Brady couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He was torn between thinking it wasn’t his business, and thinking it totally was because Max was still supposed to be his best friend. The biggest issue from the very beginning had been making sure that didn’t get ruined. So dammit, Brady was going to see to it that their friendship remained intact, even in its current slightly fucked up state. “What’s up with you today?” he asked as he directed his attention toward one of the cabinets instead, reaching for a box of mac and cheese. He would just have to settle for now. “Maybe I’m just goin’ crazy but you don’t seem all that happy to see me.”

“You got it. Next time I’ll just let you eat moldy wings.” He should have maybe told him, like he usually did, but this time it hadn’t really crossed his mind. Which was a little weird and he knew it, because usually he told Brady everything and didn’t think twice about it. Max sighed and sat up a little straighter in his chair; he wasn’t trying to be off with him. He was just a little off in general today. “Just a little stressed out, but I’ll be fine, man. Just a bad day. It’ll be all good tomorrow.” He turned his head to look at him pointedly. “Jeez didn’t know I had to entertain you every time you walk into a room. What d’you want? A welcome party?”

Brady rolled his eyes again, and it was weird that it wasn’t particularly comforting or reassuring like it was typically. Usually it meant things were as normal as ever between them. But now there was genuine annoyance behind it. And that sucked pretty hard. Max said it was a bad day and while Brady stayed focused on finding a pot to fill with water to cook his pasta, it still registered with him. He wondered what was going on, but wasn’t sure if Max was going to want to tell him. And a likely selfish, admittedly still anxious part of Brady wondered if he had anything to do with it. So he didn’t ask because he didn’t want to have that conversation. “Yeah, here’s hopin’.” He put he pot on the stove and turned it on, shrugging with his back still to Max. “From you? Depends what kinda welcome party you’re talkin’ about.” He knew he shouldn’t be joking about shit like that. But it was his default when he didn’t want to get real with Max. He supposed he couldn’t help himself.

The conversation was short; clipped. Max wasn’t helping matters, he supposed, by not elaborating more. He just really wasn’t sure how to talk to him again yet, since they’d been so weird around each other. And it was mostly his own fault, but it just sucked because Max missed his friend. He smiled slightly, and it didn’t feel genuine, but he was trying. “Just YouTube drama. The puppy hasn’t been lettin’ me sleep. And Ratthew’s sick again. Just small things.” And things he didn’t want to get into right now. He was about to say something more, something that bordered on normal for them. But then Brady had to go and say that. And he tensed a little bit, the reply flying off his tongue before he could censor himself. “How about the kind where I leave the room and you can have your own damn party?” He looked at him over his shoulder, and this is where he tried to sound like he was joking. “I’ll put on some music for you an’ your hand to enjoy together.”

“YouTube drama,” Brady repeated, nodding firmly. He wasn’t sure what exactly that meant but he knew enough from doing this with Max for so many years that it was probably something stupid. YouTubers weren’t always very understanding people. “Puppy hasn’t been letting me sleep either.” And it was a joint decision, yeah yeah, whatever. Brady would get over it. “Do rats go to the vet?” he asked. He couldn’t remember what had happened last time he’d been sick, but he knew it probably made Max feel as shitty as Brady felt when it was Draco, so he was gonna try to be mindful of that. Max’s reply had Brady turning away from the stove with his eyebrows raised, surprised at his response. It didn’t feel like the usual playful kind and sort of threw him off. “Damn.” Brady shook his head, leaving the water to heat up on the stove and moving closer to the table where Max sat. He remained by to the counter, though, leaning back against it and crossing his arms over his chest as he faced him. “Tell me how you really feel.” He didn’t want to push his buttons, but it was easy for him to feel all bitter and resentful that things were so weird between them. It felt like they were both kind of trying but it wasn’t exactly working. And Brady just had that fleeting moment of wondering again why Max had to go and say anything. Which wasn’t fair, he knew. But he couldn’t help thinking it. “You don’t gotta be like that, bro. We have fun here.”

He’s glad he didn’t have to over explain himself about the YouTube thing. Few people would understand just from that, but Brady had been with him long enough to know the ins and outs. “Yeah, I’m taking him to the doctor tomorrow. Might bring Emmie along. It’s just a respiratory thing but she knows more about that stuff than I do.” Plus, moral support. She always did have the same love of rats as he did, if not moreso. As the conversation shifted from weird to weirder, Max realized that he’d maybe slipped up too much. But that comment got to him more than it should have; reminded him of things they were both currently trying to forget. So he was just a little bit defensive. But he wasn’t trying to be a complete asshole. He just felt… off. Uncomfortable, like he didn’t know how to act around him right now. So he was saying the first things to come to mind, blurting them out as they came. But part of him knew Brady could handle it. “‘We?’” He echoed with a raise of his eyebrows and leaned back in his chair, so aggressively that it tilted back a little, but his hands holding onto the table stopped him from going too far. His eyes deliberately looked at the empty space behind Brady, and he made a show of looking around. “Didn’t know someone else was here. Guess I’ll leave you to it, then.” He sighed and closed his laptop and standing up, kind of joking but also fully planning on going to his room. He looked at him as he stretched. “Enjoy your Mac n Cheese bro. Don’t worry. I won’t be throwing anymore leftovers away.”

“Lemme know how it goes, I guess.” Brady watched Max’s reaction, quirking an eyebrow in a mix of confusion and amusement. He wasn’t sure what sort of game Max was playing, or if he was even playing one at all. Brady had never really seen him like this before, honestly. Even when Max had had bad days throughout their time of knowing each other, Brady had never seen him be so… sassy. It was super obnoxious. For a moment he considered the fact that that was how he sounded, like, all the time. But Brady being some level of aloof was fairly expected of him at this point. The fact that he was getting it from Max just because he couldn’t give him what he needed right now was frustrating. They weren’t like this. They didn’t get on each other’s nerves just by being in the same room. But that was exactly what had been going on lately and Brady hated that things had to be all weird. Max standing up to walk away from him just like that was genuinely irritating. Brady rolled his eyes and dropped his arms to his side as Max started to stretch. “Okay,” Brady said simply, pushing himself off the counter. He had learned over the past few months how to shut Max up, and right now he wanted to do that more than ever. Old habits were hard to break, as it turned out, because Brady knew it was a bad idea, just like he had known it the very first time, when he came face to face with Max and grabbed him by the wrist, pulling him in so he could press his lips against his, hard. He had no idea how this was going to go. And maybe he’d regret it in just a few short seconds. But dammit, he was getting tired of this weird tension, and he was just agitated enough to say fuck it and do something about it.

Max just wanted to go to his room to get away from this weird tension. It was so strange to live with someone who you just had a sort-of-fight with. Max didn’t have a chance to fully process it, because everywhere he turned Brady was there. Not only did they live together, they worked together. Max was realizing now how messy he’d made things by saying what he did to Brady. But on the same hand, now he could get those thoughts out of his head once and for all and move on. Max would get over himself, eventually. He knew nothing would make him want to stop being Brady’s friend. Right now, though? He wanted to get the hell out of there.

But he didn’t even have a chance to grab his laptop before Brady was tugging him in by his wrist and kissing him like that. Immediately, Max’s thoughts went blank, just like they always freakin’ did when Brady and him were like this. Instinctively, Max began to kiss him back, lips moving against his before he could realize what he was doing. But after a few moments, Max shook his head. His hands found Brady’s chest, and he pushed him back enough for the kiss to break. “Fuck you.” He said quietly, not understanding what Brady was playing at here. But they were so close, faces just a breath apart. He just stared at him for a moment, a whirlwind of different emotions coursing through him. Mostly, Max was beyond frustrated, because he wanted to keep kissing him. That urge alone woke something up in him. His frustration boiled up, and suddenly he wasn’t in charge of his own actions.

A chant of ‘I shouldn’t be doing this’ ran through his mind as his hands twisted in Brady’s shirt, tugging him back to him despite the way he’d just pushed him away, eyes burning into his as he did. “What exactly do you want from me here Brady?” His voice was low; unrecognizable to his own ears. Max’s gaze dropped to Brady’s lips, but he didn’t kiss him like he wanted to. Like he would have before everything went to hell. Instead, he dropped his lips down to the side of his neck, not nearly as careful as he would have been normally. His teeth grazed his skin, sucking the spot briefly. But then he let go, breath fanning over Brady’s neck while he spoke. “Don’t wanna be playin’ games with you.”

Brady knew he had gone a little over the top here, but Max shoving him away and talking to him like that was entirely unexpected. Brady swayed where he stood a little but didn’t look away from Max’s face. Something had to give here, and since Brady had been the one to go for it in the first place, he wasn’t sure it was his call to say what happened next. He didn’t need to do anything, though, because before he could Max pulled him forward by his shirt. Brady held his gaze and fuck, Max was kinda pissed at him. Maybe it shouldn’t have been that hot, but…it was. “You know what I want.” Brady tilted his head back instinctively when he felt Max’s lips and teeth on his neck. He raised his hands to Max’s waist, pulling his body closer like he’d done a hundred times before. Jesus, this was probably the worst idea in the world. But Brady and Max were no strangers to giving in to how badly they wanted each other despite the consequences. “Shut the fuck up,” Brady told him quietly, his jaw tense. He wasn’t playing games and he showed it by dragging Max closer, pressing into him and sliding a hand up under the back of Max’s shirt. “You know you missed this.” He angled his head so he could pull Max’s earlobe between his teeth, and stayed close after he let go. “Still think about me fucking you every time you look at me?” Okay, so he kind of wanted to push him a little bit now. He was on a tightrope and he knew it, and Max could push him off at any moment. But Brady was holding out hope that Max was equally as blinded by desire to forget about the aftermath.

Max didn’t know what he was doing. Which, encapsulated most of his life, but particularly about Brady. His head was screaming at him to stop what he was doing and just walk away, but the rest of him was telling him otherwise. Because despite the weirdness, Max still wanted him, and he had a hard time controlling that apparently. “Do I?” He murmured, lips bumping against Brady’s neck. Max let his tongue brush over the spot he’d just given attention to, pressing himself even closer as Brady brought him in. The shut the fuck up only spurred him on; the tone of Brady’s voice encouraging him even if it should be sending him running. But the hand sliding up the back of his shirt was telling him to stay, and whatever resolve Max still had was broken. The fact of the matter was that Max did miss this. Way more than he’d care to admit to even himself. A small sound rumbled in the back of his throat as Brady’s teeth tugged at his ear, and he used his own hands to slide down Brady’s torso, ending up at the hem of his shirt. His lips dragged down Brady’s neck, only stopping when he lifted his head to look at him. ”What makes you think I still think about you?” He evaded the question almost too easily. His voice felt gravelly and Max didn’t feel like himself; he felt mean and defensive but fuck if he didn’t still want this. And that much was probably painfully apparent to Brady despite his words. His lips suddenly felt dry, and he licked them as he tugged Brady’s shirt roughly up and over his head. “Think it’s you who’s been thinking about me.” He breathed as his hands dropped to Brady’s belt, desperate to get his clothes out of the way and touch more of him. He leaned in close to his ear, brushing his nose against it as he spoke quietly to him. “Since I’m the best you’ve ever had.” If Brady was gonna throw things he said in his face, hell, right now he was petty enough to do the same.

“The fact you’re still here,” Brady replied, his eyes slipping shut at the mere sound of Max’s voice. He couldn’t believe the side of him that he was seeing. Brady knew it was only because shit was so bad between them, so he should have probably been upset about it, but the frustration between the two of them was fuel to the fire. Brady just wanted more. Brady let his shirt be pulled off and then looked right at Max, watching his hands immediately fall to his pants. “Never said I wasn’t.” Brady still stared at him, borderline challenging, waiting to see what Max would do without Brady directing him one way or another. For perhaps the first time since this whole thing between them started, he was willing to relinquish control if it meant seeing Max like this. The mere thought of it sent a chill down his spine. It didn’t, however, stop him from pressing his fingers against Max’s skin, maybe with a bit too much force, but Max didn’t usually seem to mind, and he figured especially not now. “You are,” Brady said with a smirk, intent on not giving Max the satisfaction of getting under his skin like that. So if he admitted it all himself, Max wouldn’t have the chance. “I’ve been fucking dying to touch you again.” Brady slid his hand up to Max’s hair, pulling it back to bring Max’s lips away from his ear so he could look him in the eye. “Since I’m your best ever too.” Brady brought their lips together again, his hand still tightly holding a fistful of Max’s hair to keep him right where he wanted him. “But if you want me to stop…” he said quietly between kisses, his free hand hooking a finger into Max’s belt loop in a desperate attempt to bring their hips even closer, but without accidentally forcing Max’s hands away from his belt. “I’ll stop.”

This whole situation didn’t seem real. It was hazy and weird and happening so quickly. Max wasn’t thinking, at all - and he should really know better by now. But he truly and honestly couldn’t bring himself to care. He was just so - frustrated. Angry at their weirdness, hurt by the situation. Annoyed by Brady’s fucking smugness. That last bit was usually a huge turn on, but right now it just got under his damn skin. Which, coincidentally, was also fuckin’ turning him on. The fingers biting into his skin were familiar; the grip stinging just the right amount. And right now he hated that he’d missed the feeling of Brady’s hands on him so much. “Aw. Sounds really hard for you.” He replied as his hair was pulled back, causing a pleasurable chill to roll down his spine, and he couldn’t help the way he bit his lip and automatically brought his body closer.  The way Brady would grab onto his hair always drove him crazy, and the press of his lips to his was always addicting to him. Too bad Max didn’t really wanna make out and stare into his eyes right now. Before he would have been all for it, but now it just kind of made his chest hurt and his defenses fly up. Max’s hands still worked to remove Brady’s belt, not pulling away from the kisses because he didn’t want to be a complete jerk. But he made a point to deepen them; to kiss him harder before they were breaking away. At his urging, Max’s hips pressed firm against Brady’s, giving away the fact that he was already half-hard. He rolled against him the best he could without stopping himself from his task, before finally freeing the belt and tossing it to the ground where Brady’s shirt already laid.  “Brady?” He mumbled, eyes darting back up to his briefly so he could see how serious he was. Max grabbed onto his waist firmly, thumbs grazing his sides, before backing him up and turning to press him against the counter. He dipped his head in toward him, mouth so close to his. “Shut the fuck up.”

He knew that was usually his move, but right now, Max literally couldn’t care less. He was so desperate for something; to touch him even if this was a bad idea. But there was no way he was going to let himself get all wrapped up again and make things even weirder between the two of them, so today he was going to do things his way. With that, he pressed one hand to his friends stomach with one hand, keeping him pressed against the counter, while he gave his pants a rough tug with the other. Max let him go to drag them down over and off his legs, lowering himself to drop down onto his knees in front of him in the process. He ripped his own shirt off of his head, throwing it into their haphazard pile. Not wasting any time, he gripped Brady’s hip in one hand, and looked up at him pointedly as he leaned in to mouth a kiss over the front of his boxers. He had half a mind to just go for it, but he got a better idea, and stopped abruptly. His own smugness was shining through this time, because he knew Brady wanted him like this. That much was obvious. “Do you want to stop? ‘Cause I’ll leave right now.” He meant it, too. “Not sure if you want it enough.”

Brady rolled his eyes when Max told him to shut up. But he couldn’t pretend it wasn’t still turning him on a ridiculous amount — Max talking to him like this. He let himself be backed against the counter, his hands instinctively flying back to brace against it and hold himself up. Max all but yanked down Brady’s pants and his own shirt and it made Brady a little dizzy. It had only been two weeks, but that was two weeks too fucking long since he’d seen Max on his knees in front of him like this, and the fact that he was giving him such a hard time just added to the anticipation. The feeling of his mouth caused Brady to drop his head back, groaning almost embarrassingly loud. He supposed he hadn’t realized just how much he had missed this until he was reminded of what it actually felt like all over again. “Now you need to shut up again,” Brady muttered, bringing his head back down to look at Max. “I’m not gonna fucking beg you, Cameron.” Brady needed it, though. He really fucking did. He had gone too long without feeling every inch of Max, but he wasn’t desperate enough quite yet to stoop that low. Still, he reached down to pull down his own boxers. “You just said you don’t wanna play games,” Brady pointed out, pushing the fabric down to his ankles and leaning back to place his hands against the counter again. “So cut the shit.“ He watched his face carefully. He knew Max was genuinely pissed and probably wasn’t kidding about stopping, but Brady was willing to take the risk. “Come on, Max.” One of his hands threaded through Max’s hair, not pushing him, but he gripped it just tight enough to urge him on. Brady swallowed, his throat dry, and got the closest he might ever get to begging as he said, “You know how much I fuckin’ want it. C’mon.”

Max felt a smug sense of satisfaction at the groan that escaped Brady. Hearing him react to what he was doing was always one of his favorite things. It just reminded him that he was the one making Brady feel this way. And despite how pissed he was right now, he couldn’t help but still feel proud about that. However, seeing Brady pull his boxers down quickly distracted him. The way Brady told him to shut up and grasped tightly onto his hair went straight to his dick; and his automatic instinct was to just give him what he wanted. Because fuck, Max wanted him too. And having his hands in his hair and hearing him being so demanding was always really fucking hot, but right now it just further annoyed him. If Brady wanted this to just be sex, he was gonna give him that. Max rose a hand up to grasp onto Brady’s wrist, tugging it up and out of his hair, pulling his arm to pin it against the counter behind Brady.  “No, I don’t wanna play your games.” He said, and his voice was sharper than he meant for it to be. “I like mine just fine.” With that, Max wrapped the hand that wasn’t pinning Brady’s arm to the counter around his cock. His gaze was defiant, but truthfully he wasn’t strong enough to really and truly deny him. Brady’s dick was literally right in front of his face and he was painfully hard by this point. His grip around him was firm as he stroked him, before letting his hand grip the base of Brady’s cock. Almost too slowly, he was leaning in wrap his lips around him, tongue sliding easily along the length as he inched him into his mouth. He shifted on his knees, a small moan vibrating over Brady’s dick as he finally let himself do what they obviously both wanted. They’d been weird and Max knew on some level he shouldn’t be doing this, but he’d missed being able to touch him like this.

His hand stroked where his mouth wasn’t currently reaching, the hand on Brady’s wrist tightening as he set his own pace. He only flickered his gaze up at him when he began to slide him deeper into his mouth; inching him into his throat and humming deliberately just to see his face when he did. His hand fell away from his dick to grasp tightly into his hip, steadying him so he could do exactly what he wanted. And only once he was satisfied that Brady was really and truly into it, Max pulled his mouth away. “Say please.” He managed to say, breathing a little labored and throat raspy. He licked his lips and leaned back a little bit, and he couldn’t help but smirk, so different from his usual grin. Because he knew that he had the power here, and honestly he was fucking smug about it. He wanted Brady to be the one who wanted him so bad he couldn’t think. “Do it an’ I’ll let you fuck my mouth. Let you hold onto my hair and everything.” The words tumbled out, brain clouded by lust. “You want more? You’re gonna have to do better than just tellin’ me.” For once, Brady was going to have to ask him outright. And Max wasn’t settling.

Brady’s instinct was to try to pull his hand away from Max’s hold. He wasn’t exactly used to Max holding him down like this. But Max was probably stronger than he was, or deep down Brady didn’t particularly want to pull his hand away after all, because Max’s hold around his wrist remained tight. Brady had to remind himself to trust him. And he did. Even if right now was the worst time to put all of his faith in Max to give him what he wanted, given the circumstances. He stayed quiet, though, and eventually Max gave in. Brady moaned instantly, his eyes fluttering closed until Brady forced them back open. He had wanted this so badly again and dammit, he was going to watch. Max looked right back at him and hummed. Brady’s hips threatened to jerk forward, but he didn’t get much further than thinking about it before Max’s other hand raised to hold him in place. Brady let himself get lost in it; all of it, the way Max felt and the sounds he made and all the things Brady had been desperate for since they’d stopped. He really did trust him, moreso than anyone else, and even when things were so fucking weird and tense between them Brady allowed himself to remember that as his eyes closed again, unable to fight it this time. If anyone else were trying to hold Brady down like this, he’d be trying much harder to break free.

And if anyone else tried to pull the shit Max was pulling right now, sliding his mouth off of Brady’s cock as he leaned back in one swift moment, he might have lost his patience. He looked down at him, mouth hanging open comically in disbelief. “Seriously?” Brady asked breathlessly. He had never been more annoyed with Max in his life, and that was saying something. Smug bastard. Brady’s pride told him not to give in, to find a way to regain the upper hand like always and get what he wanted in his own way. But Max was so different today from how Brady had ever seen him before and…he was lowkey worried it wouldn’t pay off. Brady ran his free hand through his hair and sighed heavily, closing his eyes again. “I fucking—” He stopped, shaking his head. “Please,” he finally said, eyes reopening to meet Max’s. “Fucking hell, Max. C’mon, please.” He hadn’t expected to be reduced to this, but god fucking dammit. Things were never so simple with Max. At least he had held up his end of the deal and given Max what he wanted, so Brady yanked his hand free to bring both up to hold tightly to Max’s hair. And when he had the go ahead, his hips rocked forward, another loud moan emitting from his throat as the warmth of Max’s mouth enveloped him again. As promised, Brady thrust into his mouth, jerkily until he managed to find some sort of rhythm, watching the mesmerizing slide of Max’s lips on his dick to match the way it felt. “Fuck yeah,” Brady choked out.

It was borderline embarrassing how soon Brady started to feel like he wasn’t going to be able to hold back. He squeezed his eyes shut, the movement of his hips becoming less rhythmic and going back to something much less controlled. A steady chant of curse words left his lips before he could stop them. As consumed as he was by Max Max Max, another sound managed to catch his attention, and Brady’s eyes flew open as he loosened his white-knuckled grip on Max’s hair. “Oh shit.” Brady ceased his movements and leaned back slowly, pulling Max off of him in the process. He carefully bent down to pull his boxers back up, regaining what he felt like was some semblance of dignity before rushing over to the stove. The water in the pot had boiled over. Brady had totally forgotten he was cooking. He quickly shut off the stove, noting his ragged breathing and the sweat that had slowly started to drip from his hair. Brady swiped the back of his hand across his forehead and then went back to where Max was. “We can do this your fuckin’ way,” Brady snapped, but still serious as ever. “I don’t give a fuck. But whatever the fuck it is we can’t do it here.”

Max and Brady might not have been seeing eye to eye over the past two weeks, but Max still knew his friend. He knew that he was stubborn; he knew that Brady liked having the upper hand. He knew that it was hard for him to let his guard down sometimes. He knew all of this, but he still wanted to get that one word out of him. Max didn’t know why it was so important that he bring Brady to that point, but it fucking was. Because he felt like he could, like Brady would let him if he played his cards right. And when Brady fucking said what he wanted him to in that wrecked tone of his, Max lost it. Time went by in a blur as he grasped onto either side of Brady’s hips, this time encouraging movement rather than stopping it. He relaxed his throat the best he could, struggling to remember to breathe through his nose as Brady took what was promised. And all he could focus on was how his best friend fucking looked and sounded as he lost all control, and Max couldn’t think. He just groaned into it; fully immersing himself in it, and he couldn’t stop watching him as he did it. Brady really was one of the most beautiful people he’d ever seen. But seeing him like this? It was next level, and Max wasn’t going to ever get this image out of his head. He gripped his hips tighter, pulling him in closer, guiding his thrusts because he could. He could feel him getting closer and closer and all he wanted was to see him completely lose it. To come undone because of him. But then as quickly as it started, Brady was up and gone. Max didn’t even rise from his spot on the floor immediately, just turned his head to stare after him. He felt possessed; the pot on the stove boiling over not even phasing him. His heart was still hammering in his chest and his eyes were blown wide. His hair was undoubtedly a wreck from the way Brady was tugging on it, and all he could fucking think coherently was that he’d never been this turned on in his whole life.

As soon as Brady turned back to face him, he was lifting himself off the floor and stalking towards him. It felt like he was on a mission, and suddenly maybe he was. Max breathed in sharply, licking his lips and still tasting Brady on them. His cock ached, still confined in his jeans, and he honest to God did not care in the slightest about the fact they could have set their apartment on fire. Max reached a hand out, fingertips dipping under the waist band of Brady’s boxers to tug him in closer. Brady was all sweaty and it shouldn’t have been as hot as it was. “Your room.” He finally said as he struggled to gain control of his breath and voice. He leaned in close, pressing a biting kiss to the side of his neck. “I’m fucking you.” His heart was racing at the thought, and he wondered if he was speaking clearly because his thoughts felt so muddled right now with how much he wanted him. “And you’re gonna like it so much it’s gonna be all you can think about when you look at me.” He tugged him hard towards him, and he told himself when this started that it was a bad idea to keep kissing on him. But right now he didn’t think twice about slamming their lips together in a rough kiss. It took all of his power to let go of him completely, turning his back on him to start making his way to their destination. And he knew with utmost certainty that Brady would follow.

Brady’s breath hitched as Max pulled him forward. He was so sensitive to every fucking thing Max was doing that the slightest movement made Brady’s brain all hazy. So it was no surprise that Max’s next words damn near knocked the wind out of him. How the fuck had Max Evans of all people reduced him to this? Brady didn’t want to think about it. He chalked it up to how unbelievably turned on he was, but he knew it had more to do with letting Max take total control for once, and the fact that Brady could trust him like that even when they weren’t particularly on good terms. Brady knew he had been selfish in a lot of ways he didn’t even want to admit, so it seemed only fair to let Max have his way this time around. Brady just hadn’t realized how much he could truly get behind it until Max started talking to him like that. Brady nodded, feeling dumb as fuck because he had no idea what to say. No usual sarcastic remark, no sassy response to Max’s words. He was so hard and so desperate to be under Max’s touch again that he simply couldn’t think. Brady instantly pressed his body against Max’s when he kissed him, and he was left leaning forward slightly as Max abruptly turned and walked away. Jesus Christ.

Brady trailed behind, anticipation and excitement flowing through him as they went. He couldn’t explain how hot it was as Max made his way into Brady’s own room. Brady closed the door behind them and then turned to look at him. Even through the weirdness and now this new side he had never seen before, Brady stopped to recognize that he was just looking at Max. The same Max he had known for three years, his best friend, someone who knew more about him than anyone else did. God, it was so fucking frustrating that things weren’t okay between them. The resentment bubbled up inside of Brady all over again as he stared at him, reminding him that this was all just because Brady wasn’t ready to open up. And it wasn’t Max’s fault either; he was hurt and Brady understood that. It just wasn’t enough to wipe away the bitterness between them. So instead Brady was going to let all of his frustrations manifest themselves in his desperation to touch Max again, and Max could take control of the situation however he saw fit. Lord knows Brady was into it, even if he never imagined he would be.

Still facing him from the door, Brady discarded his boxers once more. He certainly wasn’t going to be needing them from here on out. Instead of going to Max and kissing him like he might normally, Brady crossed right over to his bed, situating himself back against the pillows. “Well? What’re you waiting for, cowboy?” Brady prompted once he managed to find his snark again. Anticipation still coiled in the pit of his stomach as he watched Max and waited, but at least he was no longer standing there wordlessly, hopelessly waiting for anything to happen. Brady may not have the upper hand right now like he was used to, but he was still enjoying pushing Max a little, as he always did. “Come show me how it’s done.” Brady tilted his head, licking his lips. “Or did you wanna return the favor of fucking my mouth? Know how much you love that.”

Max didn’t know what had gotten into him, but he wasn’t in the right mind to question himself at all. He was just running on whims; the tension that had been circulating over the past weeks finally boiling up and over, just like Brady’s Mac ‘N Cheese water. Max was so desperate to touch him again, because despite his best efforts not to, he still couldn’t help but want him just as much as he did before their fight. It sucked, the situation sucked, but instead of being sad about it - Max was taking control of the situation, for once. Max ripped his own belt off on the way to Brady’s room, tossing it behind him right before he opened the door. He made eye contact with him as he yanked his pants and boxers down, shucking them off to the side. But he didn’t come over to Brady, now stretched out on the bed. Not yet. The familiar name cut through to his ears, and he fucking hated how it still sent a chill down his spine. Only Brady could call him Cowboy during sex; during whatever this was, and have him like it.  Normally he didn’t care that he liked it so much; normally he embraced whatever Brady threw at him. But right now it only served to add fuel to the fire, because everything Brady did to remind Max of just how lost he’d let himself get lost in him was setting him off. “Waiting for when I’m good and fuckin’ ready, Bradford.” He snipped back, eyes trailing down his body, and he wanted to just go over there right now. Give him just what he was asking for. Max’s gaze drifted to his mouth, and he pictured what he was suggesting so clearly. He felt his cock stir at the thought alone. God. Max really did love that, and it took all his strength not to go over there and take him up on it. “You saying you want me to shut you up? I can do that.” He tried not to let onto how much he liked that idea, but the way his words hitched while he spoke probably gave him away. “But I can do that without my dick in your mouth. If you’re good I’ll show you.”

He wasn’t going to be that easy. He wasn’t going to let Brady control this right now. So he stood up straight, regaining the angry sort of confidence he’d somehow gained this evening. He walked over to the table besides Brady’s bed, yanking it open and grabbing out the lube and condoms so he wouldn’t have to stop what he was doing just for that. Max tossed them both on the bed next to Brady. He gave him a pointed look as he leaned down over him, hands pressing against the mattress on either side of him, effectively boxing him in.  "These my condoms or did you finally buy your own for once?“ He’d never let onto the fact that he knew, because Max honestly didn’t care. But tonight he wasn’t holding any of his thoughts back. His tone was a little mocking before he brought his lips to Brady’s, the kiss a little too demanding. One of his arms fell down to wrap around Brady’s cock, giving it a couple of strokes while they kissed. Before it got too out of control, he leaned away and let go of him completely. "You really want this?” He fixed him with a serious look. Because as much as they were both clearly into this, he wasn’t going to do anything without his go ahead. “'Cause if you do.” He began, and his brain was all cloudy with a hundred different things he wanted to do. He felt kind of like he was malfunctioning, but trying so hard to hold it together. He couldn’t let Brady try to get the upper hand again, not right now. “You should get on your hands and knees for me.”

Brady wasn’t going to say it just yet, since Max was clearly getting a lot of his own satisfaction already, but how badly he wanted to reach out and drag Max onto the bed with him was borderline devastating. And maybe, if he tried, he would have won the battle, gaining control once again and getting just what he wanted from him. But Brady had to stop and think, where would be the fun in that? He’d never seen Max so aggressive before and was surprised by just how into it he was. He may as well just go with the fuckin’ flow. Brady swallowed, a smirk pulling at the corners of his lips but suppressed by how genuinely thrown off he was, still, by Max’s tone and the words he said. “I’ll be good,” Brady promised before he fully recognized the words he was saying. Christ, Max really was bringing out an entirely new side of him he’d truly never knew existed. Brady was so used to being the one who called the shots in every situation. It was weird to have someone he could completely let go with, someone he could let talk to him and direct him a certain way without feeling like he was making some sort of a mistake. Which, okay, maybe he was making a mistake sleeping with Max when they hadn’t taken the time to discuss anything going on, but what the fuck ever. Brady was far too horny at this point to think about it. The point was he could let himself give Max the reigns and still feel safe, and that certainly wasn’t nothing.

Max trapped him against the mattress and Brady just looked up at him, suddenly feeling smaller, but not hating it. “Fuck off,” Brady muttered, the smirk finally returning. “Yours are just closer sometimes.” Not that it had mattered within the past few months, given that they’d both been sharing with each other pretty evenly. The only times Brady had taken Max’s condoms recently were to fuck Max, so he was pretty sure he should stop complaining. One of Brady’s hands instinctively flew up to the back of Max’s neck as he kissed him hard. Brady wanted to hold him there, to keep him from doing his new thing and pulling away just when Brady wanted, needed it most. But he did just that, right when he caused Brady to lift his hips off the bed into his hand. Max left Brady wanting more and for a second he couldn’t believe that he had done this to Max multiple times before, yet he’d still come back for more. But then Brady considered the fact that he would very likely do this whole thing again too. Maybe that was just his aching cock thinking for him, but whatever.

Brady groaned, pushing himself up in his elbows to look at Max. He started speaking and Brady waited, listened, until Max made it clear what he wanted from him. Brady had had an idea when they’d made their way to his bedroom that Max would want to do things a certain way, so he couldn’t say he was necessarily surprised by Max wanting him to get on his hands and knees. And Brady… well, Brady wanted to do what the fuck Max told him to. What a concept. He didn’t argue or even particularly respond, just rolled over onto his side and then planted his hands on the mattress to get up onto his knees. He turned his head to look over his shoulder at Max, and holy fuck, Brady could feel warmth in his cheeks spreading down his neck and to his chest. Brady was fucking blushing. He thought he should be embarrassed, maybe even say fuck this and throw Max down on the bed to have his way with him. But, however surprising it was, Brady just wanted to wait. To let Max have his way with Brady. The thought of his kind, extremely generous friend continuing to speak to Brady in this far less than sweet tone to take what he wanted rather than giving was unbelievably fucking hot, mostly because Brady had to wonder if he was the only one who got this side of Max out of him; just like Max was the only person to see this less dominant part of Brady. The thought turned him on a ridiculous amount, despite the circumstances that brought them here. “Max,” Brady started, still looking at him from his new position on the bed. “I really fuckin’ need you. And I know how goddamn much you want me too. So…Jesus, dude. Please fucking do something.” A healthy mix of begging and demanding, Brady thought. He was going to have to find a happy medium between what Max wanted from him and what Brady was willing to offer in return if he was going to let himself relax and get used to giving himself over to Max like this.

Max almost didn’t expect Brady to go along with his request, but when he looked back at him after doing what he’d asked and said those words, Max had to take a moment to collect himself. The image of his face would forever be burned into his mind, he was sure, because he’d never seen him this earnest or borderline pleading about anything. And Max was the one to bring him to this point. Either Brady trusted him enough to just go along with it, or he was too turned on to care. Either way, his chest felt tight all of a sudden. Although, Max’s brain was literally not even in the equation anymore. He didn’t care at that moment how weird things had been between them, or how different they were being with each other right this very moment. He just knew he needed him really badly, even if he wasn’t going to let himself have that just yet. More than his own need to get some sort of physical gratification, he wanted to draw this out a bit more. He wanted Brady to completely lose his mind; to catch him off guard in a way that maybe no one had before. He wanted Brady to remember this. Pride and the overpowering need to prove himself to Brady took over him, and he finally crawled onto the bed beside him, coming up to hold Brady’s chin in his hand as he brought him in for another short kiss. “If that’s what you really want.” He said simply, pulling away, and for the first time that night he let himself visibly soften up. He ran a hand over the slope of his back, and kissed him once more before speaking quietly. “All you had to do was ask.”

Max pushed himself back, sitting up on his knees to for a moment. He swallowed as he let his eyes travel down the expanse of his form. Despite how angrily charged this encounter began, deep down he couldn’t help that familiar warmth from settling into his chest. And he was too worked up by all of this to really focus on it, but it wasn’t something he could just ignore every day like he had been doing and Max knew it. “You’re so fucking unbelievable,” he murmured as he pressed a kiss to his shoulder blade, not even thinking about his words. And he wasn’t even sure how he meant them right now anyway. “So hot like this.” Max made his way down his back, sucking small marks into his skin as he made his way down. His hands traveled down Brady’s sides as his lips glided down his back, his knees supporting him as he moved his own body downwards.

When he was where he wanted to be, Max’s breath caught in his throat. His hands slid over his ass, squeezing the flesh gently in his hands. Max knew Brady had just showered before they pushed each other to this, and even if they hadn’t hooked up in awhile, they were way past well accustomed to each others bodies now. There wasn’t an ounce of shyness left in him at this point, and he showed it by trailing kisses from his lower back and over his backside. He dragged his lips across the skin, before biting down gently, tugging at the flesh of Brady’s left cheek before letting it go. He suddenly felt that smugness rise up in him once more, something he wasn’t entirely used to, but right now he was embracing it. His hands squeezed tighter as he spread him open. “How’s this?“ He couldn’t help but edge him on as he leaned in, breath deliberately hovering over him for a moment. But it was only a moment, before Max let his tongue drag over him, almost a little too slowly. His hands still gripped either side of his ass, and he gave a few experimental flicks of his tongue, not going much further than that just yet. “This 'something’ enough for you?”

Brady took a deep breath, reminding himself to relax as Max slowly made his way down toward the end of the bed. Every touch and press of his lips on Brady’s skin was agonizing in the best way. He squeezed his eyes shut, focused on not tensing up because he knew what was coming. Max was unpredictable tonight, but Brady still knew him well enough to be able to tell where his mind was most of the time. He exhaled slowly, his body buzzing with anticipation as he awaited Max’s next move. Everything about the situation was uncharted territory for Brady, this especially. So he told himself once again that he could trust him. That was what mattered most at the moment. And it was the little mantra he had to keep repeating to himself as the feeling of Max’s lips and teeth and tongue completely threw him off. Brady’s breath caught in his throat. His arms threatened to give out for a moment until he regained his composure, staying steady where Max wanted him. That was the goal.

Brady had never done this, had never even really considered it, but the idea of Max wanting it and going for it was enough for Brady to further lose it. He let his head hang down as he groaned, fingers curling into the sheets below him. “Fuck,” he breathed out, hardly a response to Max’s question but one he was sure he would understand regardless. Max still seemed wary, probably because he wanted to make sure they were on the same page and feeling the same way about things. It was so Max. Brady reached a hand up to hold onto the headboard, pulling himself up a bit and giving himself just the right amount of leverage to rock back against his tongue, craving more in any fucking sense of the word. And Brady whimpered, the sound from his own throat causing him to grip tighter to the headboard and the bed below him. “Max, I—” He pressed his lips into a tight line, swallowing back a full on whine at the feeling of Max’s hands on his ass and his tongue working him open, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. “I need more,” he choked out, still surprised at how Max was turning him into such a mess. Brady was sure he had never been like this, or even close, during sex with anyone before. “Don’t… don’t tell me that’s all you got.” He gave himself a mental pat on the back every time he still managed to sound a little snarky tonight.

Brady twisted the hand on the bed into the sheets and shut his eyes tightly once more before both hands held the headboard, and Brady pulled himself forward a bit before completely twisting around to face Max. Even if he hadn’t like, told him to or whatever. Brady was desperate, made evident by his shallow breathing and the now very clear sheen of sweat. This was good, but it wasn’t enough. Brady’s cock was aching to be touched. What Brady cared more about in that moment, though, was that Max’s was too. “Let me suck your dick before you fuck me.” The words felt strange coming from him, more pleading than anything else, but Brady didn’t care, staring right at Max with a wide-eyed gaze. Brady reached for the lube and held it in his hand, figuring he could kill two birds with one stone if Max would let him do what he wanted. He swallowed thickly and realized what he was missing, what might help his case more than anything else; so he tacked on, “Please.”

Max couldn’t believe the sounds coming out of Brady’s mouth. They were addicting, and so unbelievably hot he couldn’t quite focus on everything he was giving him. The way he rocked back to meet his tongue as Max got braver and more insistent made him painfully aware of how much his own cock ached. He purposefully hadn’t touched himself yet, because he knew the moment he did he’d rush this. Brady was testing his patience every step of the way, though. But Max distracted himself by giving Brady more, working him open with his tongue and gripping onto him so tightly he was sure he was going to leave marks behind in his wake. He didn’t hold back then, wanting to pull more of those sounds out of him. He was so dead set on doing just that, that it took him a moment to realize Brady was flipping himself around. But once it sunk in, Max immediately straightened himself up, breathing a little heavy as he looked him over to make sure nothing was wrong. But one look at him told him all he needed to know. Fuck, he’d never seen that look on his face before or heard his voice quite like that. It made his heart pound in his chest so hard he could almost hear it in his own ears, and Max leveled with himself here. There was no way he could keep pushing this out; not when he wanted him this bad. “Fuck,” he said under his breath. The insistent please kept echoing through his mind and driving him crazy. His hand rose up to to push back the hair that was sticking to Brady’s forehead, feeling almost shaky as he did so. He didn’t think twice or mind the sweat, instead weaving his fingers into his hair. “Okay, yeah. Fucking suck my dick then.” He breathed as he gave his hair a small tug; letting go only as he leaned back. “What’re you waitin’ for?”

It was weird how Brady could feel totally out of his element, yet at the same time still comfortable enough to speak up and say things he usually only wanted to hear said to him. He almost felt like he had gone a little too far while Max just stared back at him, but then Max’s hand was in his hair and he was talking in that tone again, and Brady let out a breath as his eyes closed at the sensation. “You didn’t…” Brady trailed off, unsure of just how much he was going to manage to get out right now. He shook his head. It was easier to talk like that with Max leading him into it, he found. So he just reopened his eyes, licked his lips, and moved to a better position as Max lay back on the bed. He still had the lube in his hand, and he kept it there while his free hand wrapped around Max’s cock. Jesus, it was almost embarrassing how much he had missed touching him. Brady didn’t want to waste any time, but he was still Brady. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Max’s inner thigh, too close but not close enough to where he wanted him. Then he did the same on the other side, and he knew he shouldn’t push it, but that was what he always did. So his eyes flickered up at Max as he gave him a smirk.

He couldn’t play that game for long, though. Brady was desperate and Max knew it as well as he did. He wrapped his lips around just the head of his cock, then slowly slid down because he wanted to savor the feeling all over again. Brady moaned as he took more of him into his mouth, knowing Max wanted this just as much as he did, and that was the hottest part of it all. Brady didn’t bother taking his time, immediately finding a quick pace with his mouth and hand and letting his tongue slide along the underside of Max’s cock with each movement. He fucking loved this. He always had loved making Max feel good, apparently like no one else could, but all of that was heightened now that it was truly all this was. They weren’t in a great place emotionally, but they couldn’t physically keep away from each other. And it was really fucking hot.

It wasn’t long before Brady decided he couldn’t take it anymore. He pulled his mouth and hand away so he could sit back and snap open the lube in his hands. He could have let Max decide how this was going to go, but Brady still liked having some semblance of control. And he had always been a believer in doing things yourself. He tossed the bottle back somewhere on the bed and reached a hand between his legs  to get himself ready. He let out a shaky breath, his free hand reaching out for Max’s leg, but he pulled himself together quickly. He adjusted his position so he could lean down again, the hand on Max’s leg moving back to his cock and lowering his mouth onto it again. It was a little awkward, the angle he was working with, one hand squeezing the base of Max’s dick while the other was wedged between his body and the bed below him, but he didn’t give a fuck. He could move, it was working, and that was all that fucking mattered. The weight of Max’s cock on his tongue combined with the feeling of his own fingers pressing into him, getting ready for Max was almost too much. Brady tried not to think about how desperate he looked and felt, impatience bubbling over and making him feel the need to fucking multitask. What the fuck ever. As if Max wasn’t into it just as much as Brady was.

On any other day, Max would embrace the teasing. He was usually the one dying to see what Brady would do next. He was always so addicted to everything he did; every time he kept him waiting or would look at him with that signature Brady smugness that he couldn’t help to just gravitate to. But right now it was different. He was the one deciding where and how things went, and he’d pushed them both to the point where waiting or slowing down seem painful now. “Keep me waiting too long and I might fall asleep,” he said lowly, right before Brady smirked at him. And he kind of hated how something so simple could make him so goddamn horny. He lifted his hand up to tangle in Brady’s hair once more, fingers wrapping around the locks tightly as he wrapped his mouth around him. Immediately, a low, drawn out groan left his lips, his head tilted back as his eyes fell shut. “Jesus,” he hissed under his breath before forcing himself to look back down at Brady. The sight of him eagerly setting the pace on his cock along with the feeling of finally, finally being touched was completely overwhelming. His hips shifted up of their own accord, gaze burning down at Brady. The moan against him was too much, and seeing how much he seemed to like this and need this was making him feel overpowered by pure want.

“Your mouth—.” He barely managed to say, his words cutting off right as Brady was grabbing the lube. And it didn’t take a super genius to understand what he was about to do, but seeing him to do it was unbelievable. Fuck fuck fuck. “Fuck,” he said out loud, gaze growing all the more intense, and he was no longer thinking. At all. His hand dropped down to the back of Brady’s neck, holding onto him firmly as his mouth slid back over him. “You missed this.” He noted as his breath hitched; hips shifting as he lifted himself to get a better view of him. And he was going off pure desire; his thoughts materializing instead of being shoved to the back of his mind like normal. “You missed me, didn’t you?” His words fell out as another groan left him. He wanted more. More of his mouth, more of the sounds he was making, just more of Brady. But he couldn’t take much more of this lead-up. He needed him at this point. Max’s hand found his hair again, and he yanked his head away from his cock, although it took all of his will to do just that. His gaze didn’t leave his. “Tell me.” It felt demanding coming from his lips. “And I’ll fuck you just like you need me to.“

Brady couldn’t help how satisfied he felt by the way Max responded to him. The way he sounded and how he was looking down at him spurred Brady on further. The hand on his neck was strangely intimate and Brady really fucking liked it. Max was right; Brady had missed this a whole fucking lot. Touching him, hearing him moan, knowing he was the one making Max feel good. He’d missed Max’s hands on him everywhere, his lips on every inch of his skin, his teeth grazing his neck and his hands in his hair. All in such a short time. Brady didn’t answer at first, didn’t know if he even should, since Max was just sort of talking and Brady still had his dick in his mouth. And he was also a little overwhelmed because his head was going further than he wanted it to. He missed fucking Max, but he also missed everything else. Being in bed. Bickering during filming. Max’s head on his chest. The way his voice sounded right in Brady’s ear first thing in the morning. Every fucking thing Brady had selfishly taken for granted and treated like something so much less. It wasn’t right, because Max was more; more than just this, than just someone Brady wanted to get off with all the time. Max was his best fucking friend and that was shot to hell.

Brady couldn’t say any of that. Not now. It wasn’t the time, and his brain also screamed at him to keep that shit on lock. He was lost in his thoughts by the time Max yanked his head up and said to tell him. Brady couldn’t just look him in the eyes and say he missed him. That wouldn’t go over well for anybody.  He licked his lips, fully recognizing that Max’s words stemmed from the fact that they were both super fucking horny and nothing else. And that was valid. So Brady pushed all that other fuckin’ bullshit to the very back of his mind and held Max’s gaze. “I missed fucking you,” he said, his voice steady. “Your cock. My dick in your mouth. That’s what I missed.” Maybe it was a cop out and not exactly what Max wanted to hear. But it wasn’t like it was a lie. Just not the whole truth. “I missed this,” Brady repeated, going back to Max’s original statement rather than the one he couldn’t exactly acknowledge right now. “And I do need you.” Brady shifted again, pulling his hand away so he could sit up and scoot away from Max a bit. Brady looked down at him, now feeling a pit in his stomach he hated the feeling of enough to channel it into something more fervent. “So tell me how you want it.”

Max didn’t feel in control of his own thoughts right now, something he noted only after the words left his lips. He was purely going off instinct and what he wanted. He was in this weird haze where all he could really focus on was Brady and how hot all of this was; how much he wanted to keep this going while also wanting to just give them both what they wanted. Deep below all of that, though, he couldn’t help that sliver of frustration from projecting into the situation. What had happened still hurt him, more than he was letting on. Max wasn’t one to tell anyone what they did or didn’t feel. But fuck if it wasn’t easy to let himself believe certain things when he was with Brady like this. Even now, in these less than perfect circumstances. But his words served as a reminder to him and brought him back to reality. Sex. Just sex. That’s all it was now; all it ever was. And it was time Max start letting himself believe that instead of the dumbass thoughts that landed them both in this position in the first place. So he swallowed the fucking sting he still felt, even with as turned on as he was, and he shook his head with a huff of a laugh. “Yeah, well lucky you. You’re fucking getting it all tonight.” He let the hurt wash over him, giving way to frustration at himself, and fueling this whole situation further. Max sat up on his knees, grabbing the condom that still lay on the bed. “On your stomach,” he murmured as he ripped open the package, pausing to reach out with one hand and guide Brady closer to the center of the bed. If Brady wanted to be fucked, he’d give him that. But it didn’t mean Max had to look at him head on while he did it.  It was that shit that got Max in trouble to begin with. “Want your ass up in the air.” He just needed to fuck him and get this out of his system. This was ridiculous, and he was too hard to use common sense and just walk away. He tossed the packaging to the side and rolled the condom onto his cock as he spoke. “That okay with you?“

Max laughing humorlessly and the low tone of his voice reminded Brady that he was wasting his time thinking about all that other shit now. He had started this whole thing out of frustration and tension and to shut Max up, and Max was also coming at it from that angle, so Brady was just going to forget that any of that had ever come up in the first place. He stayed where he was and watched Max put on the condom, something Brady might have done for him otherwise. Max wanting him like that was possibly the least surprising part of all of this, and Brady himself was more than okay with the idea of only having to think about how it felt. He couldn’t help but roll his eyes as he pushed himself up on his elbow to face away from him again. "Sure thing, Maxy,” Brady muttered over his shoulder. He pulled his knees up and planted his hands against the mattress. He pressed his luck every time he teased Max, because for all he knew Max could just say fuck it and leave him there. But Brady knew when he needed it just as much, and the ridiculously smug part of him that knew Max wouldn’t just walk away kept wanting to be a little bit of an ass, as usual. Brady turned his head just slightly, so he wasn’t entirely looking at Max, but enough that he wasn’t just speaking to the wall. “Do I have to say the magic word?”

It had never quite felt like this for Max before; not with Brady. It was only now that he was starting to realize that maybe this whole thing between them had never been just about sex for him. Because now that it’s all it was, it felt like a completely brand new situation. He felt like a different person, almost. And Brady, the guy he thought he knew as well as he knew himself, felt like a fucking stranger all of a sudden. With his back turned towards him, body bent in the position Max had asked for, they could both pretend that nothing had happened between them at all. That they were just doing this to get off. But then Brady had to go and be Brady, and a weird feeling settled into his chest; a dull ache he vehemently ignored for in favor of positioning himself behind him. Without thinking, he lifted his hand to slap him on the ass, the action sharp but not forceful. “Shut up. My name is goddamn Max.” With that, he moved a hand to grip Brady’s hip tightly with one hand, as the other dropped down to grab the base of his own cock. He had to steady his breathing as he guided himself to where he wanted to be; pressing his cock firmly against Brady’s opening, but not pushing in any further. Not fucking yet. “Now that you mention it. Good idea.” He mumbled out, halting in his spot as he leaned down and over him to speak close to his ear. And he wanted him so bad, it hurt to do this. But Brady right now was good at pushing his buttons, and for once he wasn’t going to just give into him so easily. “Go on, Brad. I’m waitin’.”

Brady raised his eyebrows, but still didn’t turn to look at Max as he did so. He considered that maybe he should just shut up and do as he had been doing all long, give Max what he was asking for because Brady needed him so badly. But all the deeper thoughts that had been running through his mind a few moments before seemed to flip a switch again. Before that point he had only been thinking and responding with his dick — which was the entire point here, in fairness. Now, though, when he was more aware of this being nothing but sex, that they were both going to walk away from, and reminded that he had been the one to derail everything in the first place by losing his shit when Max first spoke up… it made him think about how much he hated not being in control of any part of his life. And he knew that this—giving in to Max’s demands instead of making his own—really wasn’t that serious, didn’t make a difference outside of the bedroom, and that was why he’d let it get away from him without first realizing that that was where it was headed. So he was going to let Max have this because fuck, it was hot and Brady wanted it. He wanted to keep hearing him talk like that and to give in to it. But he supposed he didn’t want to do it quite so easily anymore. Brady trusted him, but he also wanted to feel like he hadn’t completely flipped things between he and Max for good.

Max was teasing Brady, pushing him even further past his breaking point, which he was sure he’d reached some time ago now. He couldn’t stop himself from pressing back against him, biting down on his lip too hard as the anticipation within him that had been growing by the second reached its boiling point. With Max speaking right into his ear, Brady finally turned his head so he could meet his eyes. “Abracadabra?” he deadpanned, holding Max’s gaze. “Or accio cock? That’s more my speed.” They could stay here for a while, Brady knew, with him being difficult and Max staying true to his word. He didn’t doubt Max’s reserve, especially not now, and Brady was an expert at making things harder than they needed to be. He could drag it out for his own satisfaction and his whole regaining control or whatever. But he really did want Max to just fuck him already. He had missed it and he fucking needed it. So he wasn’t going to keep playing his stupid games. Still… if Max could do things his way, Brady could do things his own way too. “Pleeease,” he finally said, his tone clearly a little mocking as he dragged the word out a little too long. “Fuck me.” Max wanted to hear it, so he could hear it. Brady pressed his lips together, just the hint of a smile forming, but he managed to suppress it and lowered his voice just a little to add, “And your name is Maxwell.”

Max was honestly now expecting him to just go along with it; to continue on how this night had been going. But he didn’t do that, instead he replied just how he normally would have thought he would. It was all so freaking Brady, it took him aback for a second. God. He was such a nerd. That really shouldn’t have been as hot as it was, but Max always did like that about him a little too much. “Sorry, but your wizard powers haven’t come in just yet. Try that again.” He tried not to smile; tried to keep his thoughts solely on what they were about to do. And when Brady finally said the right thing, albeit sarcastically, it helped him do just yet. The smart-ass Maxwell remark only fueled him, and suddenly he wasn’t able to draw this out any longer. He began to push the head of his cock into him, head dropping back as he fucking finally did what he’d been dying to. He waited until Brady was used to it and ready for more before he continued. “M-ax.” He corrected, a little breathlessly hand continued to grip Brady’s hip all too tightly, drawing back a little so he could snap his hips forward. He guided him with his hand, rocking him back against his cock as he quickly worked set a pace. His other hand rose to glide over his back. “Am I really gonna have to get you to say it?” He felt so fucking good around him and he couldn’t think, but he had to get the last word out. “Fuck.” He groaned as his hips rocked into him with a little more force. “Little cliché, don’t you think?”

Brady might have added something else or tried to be snarky again, but then Max was pressing into him and he couldn’t do anything but drop his head down and groan. Even through the discomfort in the beginning, Brady couldn’t believe how downright relieved he felt to finally have Max inside of him again. Max’s fingers digging into his side with damn near bruising force was pretty fucking hot, emphasized even further when Max actually started to move and touch more of Brady’s skin with his other hand. “I… just said your name,” Brady breathed out, his whole body rocking forward with Max’s thrusts. It helped that Max was pushing and pulling him along too. “Don’t think I have to say it again.” Max could only get so much out of him, especially now that they were both getting what they had been wanting so badly all night. Brady gripped the sheets like he had been earlier, trying to keep himself steady as Max’s hips snapped into him relentlessly, but it was so fucking good, and Brady was trying to move with him to somehow get more of him. Always more. “Christ,” Brady said through clenched teeth. He reached a hand down to wrap around his own cock, stroking himself in time with Max’s movements. He knew he’d have to pace himself to keep from coming literally immediately (which he wouldn’t even be surprised by), because he wanted this to last. He didn’t know when or if they’d do this again and needed to rememorize every single feeling. But his cock also desperately needed attention, so Brady would just have to be careful about it. “Fuck. It’s so fucking good, man.” Brady closed his eyes, resisting the urge to turn around again and look at him. “Bet you missed this too.”

Max was finding it hard to think right now, let alone provide anymore complete sentences. So he just ignored that comment, instead choosing to rock his hips into him sharply. As much as he wanted to keep this drawn out; as much as he had been enjoying having the upper hand, his resolve pretty much crumbled the moment he pushed inside him. He was consumed with how Brady felt and looked and fucking sounded. And it took every ounce of his self control to not just get lost in it completely, but he was so crazily worked up by this point it wouldn’t last long at all. So he tried to pace himself the best he could. Max needed more of this feeling; was addicted to it right now and could only think of how good it all felt. “Fuck, Brady. Wish you could see yourself.” He managed to get out as he glanced between them, heart hammering in his chest and eyes glazed over at the sight. It looked as good as it felt and having Brady try to meet his thrusts was unbelievably hot. “So fucking hot. You feel so good.” He encouraged, rasping out his words as he stretched down and forward, forehead pressing against his back and breath brushing the skin as his hips thrusted into him with a little more force. “Yeah I fucking missed it.” He mumbled against his skin, the hand on Brady’s back sliding under his body to push his hand on his cock away. He wanted to touch him himself. He tried to ignore the traitorous voice in his head that told Max he just missed him. But he wasn’t going to mess himself up with those thoughts again. “Missed fucking you.” He breathed as he pressed a kiss to his shoulder blade, hand wrapping around the base of Brady’s dick the best he could in this position. “Missed being the one to make you come.” His words were punctuated by his fingers wrapping around Brady’s dick, stroking him almost too slowly. “Missed your cock. Your mouth.” He drawled out, breathing labored. The hand on Brady’s hip raised up to tangle in his hair, tugging his head back enough so he could drag his lips over the back of his neck. He continued to rock into him, his pace steady but threatening to grow reckless at any moment. “Such a good friend.”

Max was downright fucking intoxicating and right now, that was more obnoxious than anything else. Brady couldn’t even be annoyed with him correctly because he drew him right the fuck in. That was pretty clear the moment Brady decided to heighten their argument by kissing him. Could he really be blamed, though? Max was leaning over him and speaking right up against his skin as he fucked him and it was so hot it almost made Brady dizzy. His breathing was shallow as he tried to keep it together. He listened to Max tell him all the things he had missed about him, the same things Brady had just been saying before about Max. For a moment, a perhaps hugely hypocritical part of Brady considered asking ‘That it?’ But he didn’t know what that would prove, wondering if Max had missed more than just the sex at this point since their fallout, or if he would say so like Brady couldn’t. He didn’t know what he would even want to hear either way. So he kept it to himself, instead just giving an appreciative moan in response and letting Max’s hand take over for his. Brady started to slip, letting himself fall completely under Max’s spell as his hand moved in time with his thrusts, lips on his neck, and Brady’s eyes closed. He knew this wasn’t going to last. And then… Brady wasn’t sure exactly what the fuck Max was trying to get at there, but his comment had Brady’s eyes flying back open. He turned his head but couldn’t quite see Max’s face since it was pressed to his neck. “Yeah,” Brady managed to get out, his voice shot to hell at this point. “Damn good friend.” Although he hadn’t been, really, and that was the irony of it.

As soon as Brady started to feel like he might be getting close, he reached for Max’s hand, his own closing tightly around Max’s wrist to pull it away from his cock. “Wait, wait.” He reached back to touch whatever part of Max he could reach from that angle, a signal for him to slow down and listen. “I know you wanted to… fuck, just.” Brady stopped, taking a moment to collect himself with a deep breath and gathering his thoughts through his haze of unbelievable arousal. “I wanna fucking look at you,” he finally said, voice quiet. “When you come. I wanna watch you come for me.” He knew it had something to do with this stubborn thing he had going on, but Brady also just hadn’t gotten to see that expression on Max’s face in too long, so fucking sue him. The newfound part of him also felt like he just wanted Max to look at him when he came, too. “Lemme flip over.”

The phrase damn good friend echoed in his mind as he drew his hips back, snapping forward into Brady with newfound urgency. It was another reminder that Brady was just that, his friend. And while before it had bothered him, right now in this situation it just made him want this more. The sound of Brady’s voice made his whole body feel fucking hot; pleasant chills rolling down his spine as they continued to move together. All he could think was that this was too good, and before Max knew it, his pace became more erratic. He was so so so close, and he increased the pace on Brady’s dick to bring him right along with him. His face was completely buried in his neck, breath coming out in short gasps as he lost himself in the moment. It was only when Brady told him to wait that his trance was broken, and it took every ounce of strength he had to still his hips. Fuck. “What? What’s wrong?��� He inhaled as he tried to regain his breath and think clearly, trying to pay attention to what Brady was saying. When the words finally got through to him, Max didn’t move at all for a few brief moments before groaning low in his throat. Bad idea bad idea bad idea. But he didn’t fucking care at this point. He just wanted to come, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like watching Brady as he did too. Max silently withdrew, not even bothering with a verbal answer. His hands slid to Brady’s waist to help him move so that he was facing him.

For the first time, Max got a good look at him. Brady was flushed; the sheen of sweat over his skin and the look on his face just what he remembered from when they’d done this before. But for some reason, right now it stuck out in his mind even more. Max’s eyes flickered to his, and as much as he was trying to focus on the task at hand only, the familiar shade of his eyes made his chest hurt. He didn’t want to keep getting distracted by him, not when they were only here for one thing. But he honestly couldn’t help it, and before he could stop himself, he was muttering out a simple phrase. “Fuck. You’re so goddamn pretty.” And he’d thought it to himself countless times; since before they even started this mess. But vocalizing it was different, and Max quickly realized he should add onto that. Because God knows Brady didn’t like it when he said certain things, and right now they just needed to finish the task at hand. "Look so good. Gonna let me fuck you again?” He waited until Brady was ready before sliding between his legs, supporting himself with a single hand while his other slid down Brady’s torso, down until he reached his dick. His fingertips trailed down the side teasingly, but not for long before Max was dropping his hand to wrap around his own cock. He wasted no time in pressing against him again, eyes finding his face once more while he pushed back into him slowly. But he wasn’t going easy after that. They both wanted it, and he wanted them both to come. He wanted to see it. Max wrapped his hand around Brady again, not wasting any time stroking him while he tried so badly to find their original pace.

“You wanna come for me, Brady?” He managed to say, still looking at him as his thrusts became deeper. He loved this too much; missed the feeling of him too much. He just needed it now. He stroked Brady’s dick a little faster; a little more pressure as he continued to look down at him. And he couldn’t seem to look away. God he wasn’t going to last much longer himself. He could barely talk; barely think. All he could focus on was him and how good this was. “Tell me.”

The second Max looked down at him, watching him with the slightest hint of a look in his eyes Brady recognized from before all this, he realized he had probably fucked up by asking him to do this. Because now he was going to have to avert his eyes away from Max’s. Otherwise… it was gonna fucking hurt and that was some goddamn bullshit. That wasn’t what this was supposed to be and that helped piss Brady off again. That, and what Max said next. Because it hit him hard, made him remember all over again that Max had seen him that way all along and Brady had been using that. “Yeah yeah, I’m beautiful.” His tone dripped with sarcasm. He couldn’t focus on that, needed the subject to change, and maybe being his normal asshole self was the best way to do that. Thankfully Max didn’t hang onto it, and all Brady could do was nod when Max asked about fucking him again. God, it was all he wanted. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been so desperate for it.

He hissed as Max pressed into him again, hand right back on Brady’s cock and immediately picking up the pace. Brady had already been getting close and he knew this wasn’t going to take long. He also knew Max was close, and that alone caused Brady to moan and wrap his arms around Max. He pulled him in until he could feel the heat of Max’s skin against his, nails digging into his back in a frantic attempt at keeping him close. Jesus, Brady loved having Max so close to him like this. It set every nerve ending in him on fucking fire, made his heart pound, and really, really turned him on. But it was more than that. It always fucking was, every single time, and Brady mouthed at Max’s neck and let out a shaky breath against his skin. “I fucking miss you so much,” Brady told him, present tense, his voice little more than a choked out whisper against Max’s throat, all while Brady just clung to him and Max caused his body to move with every one of his steady thrusts.

Max’s hand was still wedged between them, bringing Brady right up to the edge in the way he had been craving. “Fuck. Fuck, I’m gonna come.” His chest fucking ached. He was so unbelievably close and could hardly breathe, standing on that same tightrope from the very beginning, the one he had been waiting for Max to shove him off of, and now it was about to snap with both of them on it. And Brady couldn’t look at him. “Oh fuck. Max.” Brady couldn’t help the sharp cry of his name as the tightrope snapped, but he could shut his eyes, and that’s just what he did, even which his forehead now pressing against Max’s shoulder. He only tightened his hold around Max as his hips arched up into Max’s hand and he came really fucking hard, over Max’s hand and his chest and Brady’s own stomach. Brady realized he’d fallen—or they had—when he started to catch his breath. He didn’t open his eyes yet. He dropped his arms down to his side and worked on pulling himself the fuck together.

Max didn’t have time to dwell on the brief, weird moment that was honestly his own doing. When he had time to think about this later, he’d hate himself for how many times he’d slipped up this evening when he was the one who was supposed to be in control for once. But Max didn’t feel in control of even himself right now, especially when Brady was clinging onto him like that. The nails digging into his back had him choking back another groan as he rocked into him with force; body feeling as though it were on fire. He couldn’t talk anymore. Max could barely breathe, he was so wound tight it was painful. Brady was completely surrounding him right now. He could smell him all around him; could feel his breath and tongue and lips against his skin. Could hear his sighs as they both got closer and closer.  And he most definitely didn’t miss what he said. He didn’t have time to let that sink in, just react. “God. Brady.” He whispered under his breath, and tried to brace himself with the one hand on the mattress as he chased what was so close now. “I’m right here. Right here.” He managed to get out in return, his own voice a hoarse mess. He wasn’t sure he made sense. “Miss you.” Not much longer after that, they were both so dangerously close. He leaned his head back the second he felt Brady tense, and seeing him completely lose it was the final thing that sent him over the edge. He’d never heard Brady sound like that before, and he’d been the one to bring him to that point.

The fact that he could feel him come between them made it hotter, and he suddenly had no reason to hold himself back anymore. He dropped his hand from Brady’s dick to his hip, holding tight as he rocked his hips once, twice more — and then he stilled completely. “Fuck.” His eyes screwed shut as he dropped his head down, face angled towards Brady’s as a low hiss sounded through his mouth. “Fuck yes.” His hips rocked forward of his own accord as he came, hard. His muscles and shoulders were so tense; his body had ached so much. But it had been so worth it; every muscle in his body now felt like it had been melted. Max stayed slumped over him for a moment, breathing so hard he would have thought he sounded stupid if not for how unreal that all had just been. And neither could deny that they’d liked it. He tried so hard to gain his breath; to regain conscious thought.

A long few moments passed, with them still pressed against each other. It was warm, and familiar, and didn’t feel out of place at all. It was just Brady and him and he wasn’t stressed or worried about anything. He just felt good. But the minute reality began to sink in, and the second he realized he was still inside of him, Max was slowly rolling off of him and to the side. He laid there for another few long moments, silently looking at the ceiling while his heart pounded rather erratically in his chest. “Well.” He finally said, voice feeling shot now. Max licked his lips and sat up slightly. He felt like he was having an outer body experience. But he still did what he needed to do and quickly made work of removing the condom, tying it off and leaning to the side of the bed to toss it away. Usual habit, as was grabbing the tissue box to set it between them. He grabbed a few tissues from the box before nudging it towards Brady. And he was almost afraid to look at him, not knowing exactly why. After wiping his own chest clean and tossing the tissues away, he finally rolled his head over to look at him. And the reality of the situation dawned on him. He’d really just fucked Brady after swearing off of it. All because he let him get under his skin. And now, he wasn’t sure what to do. It’s not like he was going to roll over to him and cuddle with him. That’s not what friends did. So what did they do?

Max swallowed and turned on his side to fully face him. That was intense. To say the least. They’d never been like that, ever. “You good, dude?” He pushed back the need to press himself closer to him, to kiss over his bare skin and just lay there with him and soak in what they just did for real. He forced himself to stay on his side of the bed, hand falling to twist in the blankets as his eyes surveyed him carefully. “Wasn’t too rough, was I?”

Brady was pulled from his trance by Max finally speaking. It was just one word, but it caused Brady to open his eyes and actually try to focus back in on the world around him. He saw Max moving from the corner of his eye and knew what he was doing, but kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling until he had to worry about cleaning up too. But once he’d done that, he lay back again, staring straight up. What the ever loving fuck had he done? Had they done? Well, it was pretty obvious what exactly they had done. But Brady couldn’t for the life of him figure out why he had thought it was a good idea, or why neither of them stopped it. Because now he couldn’t stop thinking about what it meant, and that was entirely out of character for him. Since when had he worried about what the fuck this shit meant? They, or rather he, had really fucked things up.

When Max spoke again, Brady still didn’t dare to move. “Yeah,” he said simply in response. “’M good.” It felt so fucking weird, answering Max in his usual worn out voice but having him on the other side of the bed, not wanting to look over at him, and knowing they couldn’t close the distance this time around. Or just shouldn’t, he supposed. Brady shook his head. “Nah. You were fine.” It was all fine, despite the pit in his stomach and the fact that Brady felt more vulnerable than he had in a long time. He brought his arms up to cross over his chest. Finally, he turned his head so he could look at Max, who was lying on his side. “You good?” It had become second nature to make sure they were both on the same page after the fact, especially when things got a little over the top. It had never been quite like that before, though. Brady had an aching desire to reach out, but it wasn’t like that anymore. And he’d probably end up regretting it in like ten minutes anyway. He needed to remind himself why they were even fucking here in the first place. “Sorry,” Brady mumbled, looking away once again, “for what I said. At the end.” He hadn’t meant to pull that shit. It wasn’t like he’d planned it. Things just slipped out in the heat of the moment. Lord knew they both understood that. He didn’t want Max to feel like he was just trying to fuck with him or something.

Max had never felt quite this awkward around Brady before. It felt wrong; weird to feel like a stranger all of a sudden. Especially after being such close friends for as long as they had, and after what they just did together. It was the same feeling of detachment he’d experienced over these past few weeks, but right now it somehow felt even worse. This was never supposed to be like this. He never wanted to lose his friendship with Brady, or even risk it. If he’d just put his curiosity out of his head and hadn’t have kissed Brady in the first place all those months ago, none of this would have happened. But now it had, and they were used to gravitating towards each other physically now. And it was all wrong, because Max couldn’t get his fucking brain and heart and body on the same page. What they just did was new, and he knew that Brady maybe wasn’t used to not being completely in control. So it felt really bad to just act unaffected afterwards.  He was glad to hear Brady was good, but was no more relieved or comforted by it. “Yeah, man. All good.” He dropped his gaze to the bed, away from Brady and half-smiled, although there was nothing behind it. It just felt empty, until Brady spoke again. And that emptiness gave way to the hurt he’d been trying not to feel this whole time. For a second, it kind of kicked him in the chest, making him feel short of breath. Brady was sorry for what he said. And Max would have maybe pretended to forget about it had Brady not pointed it out; made it worse by making it clear he hadn’t meant them. His lips stretched into a line as he rolled back over on his back, eyes flickering up to the ceiling for a moment.

And once again, he just felt so stupid. He was never like this over anybody. If they didn’t want him, he’d let them go. No questions asked. But Brady kept accidentally pulling him back in somehow, even if he didn’t mean to. Tonight, Max hadn’t expected this all to happen, although he was fully aware of what he was getting himself into when he’d grabbed Brady. At the time, though, he didn’t want to get ahead of himself again and let his weird out of place feelings get in the way. But apparently he couldn’t do that. “It’s fine, Brady.” He said, making sure his voice sounded steady, but he felt a little nauseous. He didn’t want to have to apologize for what he said too, because he’d meant it. And it felt wrong to just take things back, even if he blurted them out in the middle of sex. “It happens, right?” Max finally sat up, gaze ahead of him as he shrugged. “Didn’t mean anything.” That shouldn’t have hurt him as much to say out loud as it did. Max’s resolve began to harden at that moment. He really needed to snap himself out of this. As much as he wanted to stay; to repeat the past and roll up next to him, he knew he couldn’t. “Okay, dude.“ He sighed. "I don’t wanna take up your space for too long.” He tried to regain a semblance of his normal teasing tone, and it might have even worked. Max slid to the edge of his bed, feet planted on the ground as his body slumped forward, not leaving just yet. Something in him was still tugging at him to stay. But he knew if he listened, he’d probably just be making another mistake. “I should go check on the puppy anyway, you know? She gets lonely if she’s by herself for too long.”

Brady wanted to say that he hadn’t thought he was going to feel so off after the fact. The truth, though, was that he hadn’t actually thought about it at all. He had first kissed Max because he was annoyed and tired of playing games, and he knew all throughout it wasn’t a good idea. But he hadn’t stopped to wonder how he would feel when it was over. And he still couldn’t quite pinpoint what this was — whatever he was feeling now. Sleeping with Max had become such a natural thing in large part because of how comforting it was. It felt safe, being with his best friend, knowing they would enjoy each other’s presence afterward and make it clear all was well. They didn’t have that now. Brady still felt secure, because he knew Max was literally never gonna judge him or anything like that. But he had opened up in a way he hadn’t before and now he was all tense, not being able to just relax with Max’s head on his chest, or to talk about what had just happened. Which… he could do that, except for the fact that he was Brady, and he most certainly could not, realistically.

Brady wondered just how monumentally he had fucked everything up when Max let him know it was all good, it didn’t mean anything. He sounded sure of it. Like he knew Brady was telling the truth about not meaning it, even if that was twisted as fuck, because it wasn’t the truth. It made Brady feel really shitty. He’d thought that was what he wanted, for Max to believe the sex didn’t mean anything so they wouldn’t have to deal with any feelings. But after Max opened up to him and subsequently called Brady out on his bullshit, the thought of Max actually starting to believe it because Brady’s bullshit carried on sucked more than it probably should. Deep down he knew he should say something. It could be his chance to speak up and help Max understand why he couldn’t be what he wanted. But Brady just… couldn’t. “Yeah.” He didn’t know what the fuck else to say when Max said he was going to leave. Brady knew he wasn’t going to stay, and maybe he didn’t even want him to at this point. Brady sat up to get the fleece blanket bunched up at the end of his bed to pull it over himself and lie on his side, facing away from Max. He reached for his phone on the bedside table, where he’d left it charging before going into the kitchen earlier. And he was even hungrier now, but fuck if he was gonna get up with the mood he was in now. “Go for it.” This fucking sucked. He didn’t know how long he and Max were going to be mad at each other for, but he had no doubt this had changed things, and he wasn’t totally sure how. It just… was not for the better.

#CANON #safety blanket #current verse #010

[spiderridersftw]

Theme 10- Immediate Continuation

I got caught up on my own idea, so here’s a fic based on the “immediate continuation” theme, set in anime-verse. I am basing this on the Japanese version, and including some dialogue from the last scene, just because the ending is a bit different in Japanese, and I know most people have only watched the dub. This is Buguese x Aqune heavy, because that’s how I operate. With a shade of Hunter x Corona.

I might do more themes eventually. I was even kind of debating repeating the same theme with the manga (although probably continuing chapter 9 rather than 10, because I’ve never even been able to find 10 and I don’t want to make stuff up.)

      “Who do you choose? Corona-chan or Aqune-chan?” Those were the Hero Brade’s parting words. Well, he never quite had his priorities in the same place Hunter did.     Hunter stuttered, but did give an answer.     “That’s obvious.” After saying those vague words, he took off.     The question took Corona and Aqune by as much surprise as it did Hunter. Naturally, they followed after him, curious to know what such an ‘obvious’ answer was. In a moment, all the Spider Riders were following him, waiting to hear what he had to say.     “Didn't I say it's obvious?” Hunter finally answered again. “There's still places I don't know about in the Inner World. Lots of them! Adventures are number one to me. And so, the adventures of Hunter Steele continue!”     Not a very fair answer. But if Brade’s priority was romance with a cute girl, Hunter’s priority was exploring the Inner World.     Corona’s cheeks were puffed in a pout, and she glanced at Aqune. But Aqune was simply giggling. She didn’t seem at all deterred.     “That’s his answer,” Aqune replied. It didn’t particularly surprise her.     “But adventure wasn’t even a choice,” Corona said. She took a heavy sigh.     “Don’t worry,” Aqune said. “Adventure might be number one, but you’re number two.”     “Huh?” Corona flinched back. “How do you know?”     Aqune shrugged.     “It was never a competition.”     “But you got excited when Brade asked,” said Corona. Her hands were clasped together, and she watched Aqune  with baited breath. “Didn’t you want to know?”     “Of course,” said Aqune. “It sounded fun. You guys are always so much fun, that I get caught up in it. I’ve never really had much fun with the Insectors.”     “But I mean, youlikeHunterdon’tyou?!” She spoke so fast and nervously her words started to melt together. It was while she was speaking, she realized Hunter might be listening. That made the whole thing even more embarrassing to say. But maybe he wasn’t. Adventure was his top priority, not dating.     “Hmm…” Aqune smiled playfully before answering the question. “Kind of.”     “Kind of?” Corona tilted her head. “What do you mean by that?”     “He isn’t number one to me either,” Aqune replied. “Hunter has a point. I’d like to explore the Inner World. Maybe even Hunter’s world too. And this time, I want to do it with everyone. Of course, I would be especially happy to go on an adventure with the person I like most.” Her eyes shifted away.     “Wait…” Corona still wasn’t entirely sure what Aqune meant. She seemed to be giving mixed messages.     “Why don’t you ask Hunter who his number two is?” Aqune responded with another question. “Tell me what he says when I get back.”     “Wait… you’re going somewhere?” Corona asked. But Aqune had already gotten off of Portia’s back.     “I won’t be long,” she said. “I think. I need to take care of something now that I can. Something I was afraid I would never get the chance to do.”     “Can’t you tell me what?” Corona asked. Now she was certain Aqune was being purposely vague.     “Sure,” Aqune said. “If you go and ask Hunter. I think it’s only fair that way.”     “Uh… sure,” Corona said. “Good luck.”     “Thank you,” Aqune replied. In truth, she needed luck. Of course Aqune knew it would take Corona courage to ask Hunter if he liked her (though the answer was probably obvious to half the Inner World at this point) but she needed some courage as well. Aqune’s objective was to confront the person that she liked. She had feared that he died confronting Mantid. But he’d saved her just before. And he returned and saved her once again when the fight against Mantid looked hopeless. Thinking of the man who was her true hero, despite dedicating his life to destroying the Spider Riders, who were called the Inner World’s heroes, her heart skipped a beat. Aqune never thought of herself as a lovestruck maiden and she knew her feelings were complicated, the object of her affection all the more complex. But at the very least, if she could thank Buguese now that she had the chance, she would.     Buguese stayed behind by the rocks, when Aqune and the others went chasing after Hunter. Stags and Beerain had been there as well. When Aqune returned, Buguese was standing apart from the other two.     “Aqune…” Buguese spoke her name, he voice trailing off just as he began. He was surprised to see her approach, and alone no less.     “Buguese,” Aqune replied. She smiled at him and walked closer. She thought she would be more nervous, but she felt calm right away. He often had that kind of effect on her.     “I didn’t expect you to be back so soon,” Buguese said. He was trying his best not to look at her directly.     “I had to come,” Aqune said. She noticed that he’d quickly turned away, and was curious as to why. “I needed to see you… and thank you.”     Once she was close enough to Buguese, Aqune wrapped her arms around his body, simply leaning on him. Her body moved on its own, sooner than her mind could think. Then suddenly tears began to fall from her eyes.     “Aqune, what’s wrong?” Buguese asked. He wasn’t certain why she was there to begin with, but her sudden actions, her tears especially, made him even further concerned.     “Nothing,” Aqune said. She started to rub at her eyes. Buguese took her hand, however, and softly pulled it away from her face. Aqune flinched, and stared into his eyes.     “You have no reason to thank me,” Buguese spoke. “To watch you force yourself is too cruel. You belong with the Spider Riders now, and never returning here again would be the best arrangement for both of us.”     At first, Aqune was too stunned to say anything in reply. She could only gasp.     “Buguese… d-do you really think that?”     “Yes,” he replied. “I would not have said so if I didn’t think it.”     “I see,” Aqune said. Her chest felt tight hearing those words from him, but she did her best to remain composed. To at least keep from crying any further. “If you would rather not see me again, I will respect that. But that wouldn’t make me happy at all. Buguese, I wasn’t forcing myself to thank you. I truly meant it.”     “And yet, you were crying.” Buguese almost wanted to believe what she told him. Yet it was difficult for him. He wouldn’t cling on to any false hope. All despite the fact that he’d been staring ahead watching, waiting for the moment she… and the other Riders too… rode past them again. To catch at least one final fleeting glance of her.     Aqune nodded. As she tried to speak once again, she could only choke, as more tears came.     “Not all tears are of sadness, Buguese. But now I’m not sure what they mean. I was truly happy to know that you were alive. And… that you saved me. I want you to know that much, at least.”     Buguese said nothing. But he reached out and started to brush the tears from her eyes. Aqune could notice that even through such simple movements, Buguese was cringing with pain. She saw that his arm was bandaged. Just what had he gone through? It was a true miracle that he was even alive.     “Please… let me try and heal you,” she spoke. It was a change of subject, but perhaps a necessary one. She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear why Buguese thought it best if they never saw each other again anyway.     “No,” Buguese answered immediately, flinching away from her. But he realized a moment after he’d said it how foolish he sounded. “Well… I suppose. But my wounds are not as bad as they seem.”     “They seem pretty bad to me,” Aqune replied. She took a deep breath, and just as soon as she finished, she summoned light around her. Buguese cringed internally, but physically, he was frozen in awe. Aqune looked divine as ever. From all the days he would watch her chant, and from their many quests to find the Oracle Keys, he was well acquainted with her powers. Yet even now he had to marvel at how divine she looked. Would he ever get the chance to see her this way again? Or any way?     “Please stay still,” Aqune said. She started moving her arms over his body. As she did, warm light made contact with Buguese’s wounds. The pain was beginning to dull, at the very least.     “I have already had Beerain and Stags fuss over me enough,” Buguese thought out loud. He was just waiting for the opportunity to remove the ridiculous bandage he wore. “And now you as well. But I suppose I should have expected as much from you.”     “Buguese, that’s what it’s like to have friends,” Aqune replied. She was smiling at him now, despite the remaining tearstains on her face. “At least, I think so. I’ve never had many friends. But I hope to make a lot more now. And I hope you do as well.”     “Friends…” Buguse echoed her. The word seemed almost dirty to him. But he knew she was right. Much as Buguese tried to deny it, he did have friends now. Friends who would probably fuss over him a lot, but who also would be the reliable allies he would need for the future. But what of Aqune? Could he really call her a friend? He supposed she was like one at times, especially now, but it wasn’t quite the word he would choose. Aside from that, Aqune’s actual “friends” were the Spider Riders. The people who were his sworn enemies until earlier in the day. That made it all the more complicated.     “Speaking of which, shouldn’t you go back to your friends? To Hunter Steele, that is. You thanked me. Isn’t that what you wanted?” Buguese realized how cold that sounded. But he couldn’t help but feel that way, thinking once again of the reality.     “Right…” Aqune said. She still wasn’t sure how to proceed. “You know, Buguese, Hunter didn’t choose Corona or me. Not yet, at least. He chose adventure. And I would like to go on an adventure with them. But I’d also like to adventure with you.”     “With me?” Buguese was taken aback.     “Yes,” said Aqune. “I take it you’re not really fond of adventure. Now that your land was restored, you can finally rest. To be honest, I’d also like to rest. I’m done with fighting. But there’s still so much more to do. So much more to learn about the world, and about my own past. And isn’t there more for you to do as well?”     “Yes,” replied Buguese. “Much as I would like to rest, that may not happen for a very long time. There is so much work to do in rebuilding the Insector empire. And on top of that, I also must work to improve ties with the human world. That will mean travelling to other countries, building connections with the people there.”     “That’s what I thought,” said Aqune. “There’s so much more the both of us still need to do. And I want to help you. I want to share my own adventures with you. Whenever I think about it, I imagine you by my side. That’s why, Buguese, I don’t want to never see you again. Please tell me you don’t truly mean it!”     “Is that honestly how you feel?” Buguese knew Aqune didn’t shout very often. It was uncharacteristic for the girl who was always so quiet, so apprehensive. He couldn’t believe she was lying now, or saying she wanted to thank him just to be kind. But still, it was that hard for him to trust that the girl he loved, the girl he was prepared to lose, truly wanted to stay.     “Yes.” Aqune nodded. Her voice was as soft as usual again.     “Then I must be honest as well,” replied Buguese. “Listen to me.” He reached out, putting his hands atop her shoulders.     Aqune made a noise of acknowledgement. She stared up into his eyes.     “The truth, Aqune, is that I want you to stay.” He sighed. It was difficult to put his thoughts into words. Thoughts he had spent years simultaneously building up and pushing away. “For the years I have known you, Aqune, I always told myself a day would come when you would no longer be mine. In the beginning, I almost anticipated it. That is, the day our sunlight was restored, and there was simply no longer a need to rely on the Oracle’s power. But as time went by, it became clearer that the sunlight would not return any time soon. And you remained there, chanting as always, for the meager amount of light you could bring. You became something not to loathe, but instead, a symbol of hope. I became further drawn to you, despite who you were… and eventually, because of who you were.”     Buguese paused. He looked to see Aqune’s expression. She was watching him intently, still.     “I will admit to this much. It was because of Mantid’s orders that I controlled you and forced you to battle. But I ultimately can not lay all of the blame on Mantid. The truth is that I grew possessive of you, dreading even further the day I would lose you. And it only became worse when Hunter Steele arrived. When you were drawn to him and not me. I wanted you all to myself. If you find that repulsive, you would be right to.”     “Buguese… it’s not-” Aqune started.     “I could not bear it when Brade took you away, and I thought I lost you to the Spider Riders for good. I was too blinded to realize then how I truly felt about you, so I only made things worse. I let Mantid control you, and turned you into a monster. Finally, I let you go, but only when it was nearly too late. Because the only thing I want now is for you to be happy, even at my own expense. Despite how wrong it is, I fell in love with you!”     He released his grip on her shoulders, returning his hands to his side. Buguese felt shamed to say all of this. Even if Aqune had genuinely wished to stay a part of his life, now she would surely change her mind.     “Then we feel the same,” Aqune said. She held her hands together, over her chest.     “You…” Buguese stopped himself from saying any more. He had to know, exactly, what Aqune meant, before he made a bigger fool out of himself.     “I’m glad that you were able to tell me that. I can finally understand a little better.” She stepped up closer to him. “It’s true that you’ve hurt me. You’ve done many cruel things, not just to me. But the reason these things hurt is because of how much you’ve always meant to me. I didn’t understand completely, all those times when I craved for your affection, and felt at ease with you. I think I didn’t really want to understand. But when you freed me from Mantid, it was all clear as day to me. I truly love you Buguese, and I never want to lose you. The past has been difficult for both of us, but I hope that we can have a great future, full of many new adventures and experiences. Living in a world of darkness, there’s so much that neither of us understand about the world of light.”     When the other Riders returned to the spot where they’d come from, it was instantly clear to Corona what Aqune was up to and whom the person she really loved was. The Insector she was too busy kissing to notice their arrival.

#spider riders #fanfiction #buguese #aqune #buguese x aqune #hunter x corona #corona #writing challenge #fanfic