#the fugitive doctor's clothes are around somewhere also

[yesokayiknow]

okay so you know how it goes: fourteen comes to life in thirteen's clothes. and they're both too short and too loose and entirely too bright for his frame of mind. they worked with a doctor who hid everything behind a too wide smile; not so much with a doctor whose pain and tiredness is written across his face

he needs to change. obviously

and then the star beast starts, and fourteen leaves the tardis, and he's still in thirteen's clothes

he just. he doesn't know. how does he choose new clothes? he feels wrong. how will wearing something else change that?

(donna tells him that it's christmas, mate; it's bloody freezing. maybe wear longer trousers, yeah? also he's both too young and too old to wear braces. just a friendly note)

he doesn't have to explain who he is to the unit scientist, not with those clothes. instead he talks about how he doesn't understand why he looks like this. why he is this. why this face? why isn't he someone new?

actually. maybe he is someone new. was he ever this open before? hm

why do you look like that, sylvia hisses, trying to hide him from the daughter he destroyed ruined left

it's a lottery, he replies, purposely ignorant

he still has his thirteenth self's screwdriver. it's too small in his hands

(the whole time they were her, her hands were too small. she didn't like touching anyway, but whenever someone took her hand, it felt wrong. they were too small. sometimes it felt like if she worked fast enough, tinkered about without stopping, she wouldn't have to look at them)

everything goes wrong. his fault, like always

(blimey. of all the things to carry over from the first time he had this face, it had to be the guilt, didn't it?)

you shouldn't look like that, the doctordonna says, and he runs a hand down his face with a tired laugh

no, the doctordonna says, not the face. a hand reaches out to grasp at the collar of his shirt, at the dangling earring chain. this isn't you. who are you, doctor?

like he knows. like they've ever-

she dies.

she lives. he doesn't deserve it. it isn't about him. he still doesn't deserve it

we're letting it go, donna says, and he looks down at himself, at another him's clothes, another him's screwdriver

well, she never was subtle, his donna

the tardis is gorgeous, though when isn't she. he tries to show off his new console to donna, and she rolls her eyes, and drags him off to the wardrobe

unlike normally, where all the clothes are scattered about, the new tardis wardrobe now also has a line of wardrobes stood against the wall. fifteen of them, to be exact

the last wardrobe is open. and empty

he goes to the second to last, and opens it to reveal a wide array of rainbow patterned shirts. she probably would've hated for her things to be organised like this. always creating mess so she wouldn't have to think about anything important. he laughs. and he takes off the sky coloured coat and the worn boots and the earrings and gently places them inside. tag, he thinks, as he closes the doors

and then he moves down to the eleventh wardrobe, full of brown coats and blue suits and neatly pressed shirts and pairs of converse. and he stands in front of it. and he wonders

after a moment, donna's like wait do you want me to leave?? you never cared about nudity before, did you? and he's like oh actually i do feel more self conscious. huh. weird.

he doesn't have to say, i think i'm a different person. not to donna. she just gives him a smile, and a shoulder nudge, and tells him she'll see him in the console room

the last wardrobe is empty

he takes a breath, and then goes to rummage about in the rest of the clothes

#13 🤝 14 (🤝 12) -> dysphoria 😔 #doctor who #the doctor #fourteen #my fanfic #i mean ig #the tardis is including war. and so am i #the fugitive doctor's clothes are around somewhere also #then he leaves the wardrobe and donna's like literally all you've done is change your colour palette #and he's like oi i've only been me for a few hours! give me time to get a fashion sense! #and she's like well how long were you your last face #and he's like idk. bout a century? #and she's like i saw your clothes before this. that one had decades & never found a sense of fashion so i'm not holding my breath with you. #it's the new year i've decided to write about things only i still care abt probably dsakjlaskjl #why isn't this a proper fic. because i can't be bothered. hope that helps #bye im gonna go make brownies

[helpinghanikan]

Public Enemy

X-men x Reader

Sum:  Powers don’t always obey their masters. Sometimes they have their own minds, making problems and causing destruction that you’re left to deal with. When that happens, you’re going to need some help finding a sanctuary. 

an: It’s not specified what Reader’s power is but I was thinking force-fields. I just think Force-field powers are neat. 

Charles Xavier:

Charles’s office, specifically the couch, has been your home for some time. Although it has only been a few days, two at most, but it felt like years. Hours spent sitting specifically in the couch’s corner where anyone entering wouldn’t notice you right away. Reading and taking your place as secretary more seriously makes time move in a slower fashion.

“Would you grab that book for me?” Charles asks, slapping you out of whatever deep thought you were currently drowning in.

At first these little tasks he asks you to do seem to come randomly. As if he just remembered you were there and felt bad. In reality he’s probably been in the outer layer of your mind for longer then you’ve been in the office.

Ignoring these facts, you focused on your work. It had spread quickly through the school that you were open and able to grade anyone’s homework or papers. Like the rest of your current life, these were taken care in Charles’s office. A place you’ve been bent over for hours until a phone call held your attention.

Charles is a pretty decent liar. Between his history with authority and with children, he speaks with enough confidence that it’s not worth thinking about. Obviously he still had his tells, even if the person he was lying wasn’t in front of him, he still looked down and go quiet for a second.

“No, I’m afraid we haven’t heard from her.” When he starts his lie, his tells are typically gone. “Yes, we will absolutely contact you if she comes here. And, in the event of that happening, I ask that consider our relationship before deciding anything.”

You don’t say anything when he hangs up. Instead deciding that to grab that book before he asks you to.

Erik Lehnsherr:

Erik was nice enough not to say or ask anything at first. Your few items in a bag, and all your savings spent on bribing a boat captain to take you here. All this was written on your face, practically screaming that you don’t want to talk about it.

“Is anyone going to be coming?” was the only thing he asked.

Instead of a verbal answer you shrugged with a shake of your head. Maybe…

Erik uses the excuse of an escort to keep a hand on your back, around your shoulders. Even gently on the back of your neck to ask his question in a whisper. Although Genosha was supposedly a sanctuary to all mutants, you were still an outsider. An outsider who had, not only, caused destruction but just might bring down the anger of the world onto them.

“You came here quickly, then.” Erik says, in leadership mode. Sitting across from you, elbows on his knees, looking almost into you.

“You guys aren’t exactly hiding,” It wasn’t a good joke but still you blow air out of your nose, trying to force a tiny laugh.

“Then why come here to hide?” He asks.

When the answer you give is another shrug (I don’t know…) he sighs. Standing and returning with a hot cup of beverage. A kettle had either been set before he stepped out to greet you, or one was constantly kept a little warm. Either way it was somewhere between tea and coffee, but definitely not both.

“What did you do?” he asks.

It took some time to tell the entire story. Skipping too many details about the fear and anger that all came at you at once. Erik has heard it all before in much worse amounts. Only admitting that you were wanted, so many were hurt or completely destroyed by a lapse of control.

He doesn’t interrupt or ask any other questions. He just listens and keeps an ear out for helicopters.

Raven/ Mystique:

At some point you were taken to the hospital with the other survivors. The journey was hard to remember; being placed on a bed and tossed around in the back of an ambulance. Pretending to be just as out of it as the others, really just avoiding eye contact with the paramedics.

It’s nice to think that you had a plan for when you got to the hospital, and you kinda did. With all the people coming in at once there was the chance you’d be left in the hallway or an open area to wait for a bed. In the event of that happening you could just roll over and walk out. Just walk with confidence and make it out the door.

That you were now restrained in a bed in your own room meant that plan was out the window. Laying back and letting the nurses check you out with shaking hands. Just enough to check you over but not enough to pretend to be doing their job.

“It’s fine,” The nurse says, practically slamming the room door shut behind him. It wasn’t a thick door; you could still hear through it. “Please don’t make me go near it again.” He says to someone in the hallway, probably a doctor or some other superior.

It isn’t until their talking has mostly stopped that you bother trying to escape. Your restraints were soft but also tight, something that you couldn’t slide out of easily. Rocking the bed, trying to tip it over, would just leave you dangling off the side. Still strapped in but with bruises and staring at the floor.

While thinking of another dashing escape plan the door opens again. A nurse steps and gently closes the door behind her. This one was a woman nurse, so far you’ve only been dealing with males. It was likely because of the threat you posed that it had only been men. Specifically, the biggest nurses and orderlies that were available.

Because of this you watch the woman as she walks over. She was a small woman with brown hair in a bob cut, the white uniform and a smile she held while pulling the curtain around. You were smart enough not to say anything until she did. Or until she shifts entirely from white uniform into blue skin, immediately pulling at your restraints.

“Hey, Hi. Babe, I’m sorry…” You have a million things to say at once.

All the words fighting to be the first to be said. All ignored by your girl, who just places a gentle hand over your mouth and whispers a shhh. Going back to the restraints and whispering:

“Don’t say anything,” She says, opening the first and reaching over to get the next. “Let’s just get out of here.”

You quickly pulled the faded green scrubs over your clothes. Raven placing a surgical hat on your head and mask over your face was the best she could do. Raven quickly becoming the bobbed hair nurse again. She nods at you, as if to say, “everything will be fine.”

Peter Maximoff:

So much energy coming out at once has to take it out form somewhere. What was a splitting headache a second ago became a massive weight. One that dragged you down from the standing position and towards the floor. Only to be caught by arms that were not there a second ago.

It wasn’t that Peter was “harboring a fugitive,” or was “obstructing justice” he was just helping out his girlfriend. Something that he has argued about with several people.

“I don’t believe this was done on purpose, Ser.” Professor Xavier says into the phone, staring at Peter as he did. “No, she still has yet to reach out to us. To any of us. The moment she does we will tell you.”

Peter makes a face and shrugs when the phone is hung up. “I don’t see why they need her. It’s was an accident, she said sorry, I don’t see what else there is.”

Professor Xavier doesn’t seem to bother asking where you are. Peter wouldn’t tell him, and he could easily find you with cerebro.

“Is she safe?” He asks, wanting whatever truth Peter was willing to give.

“I mean, I don’t know where she is, but she safe. I think, yeah, she’s safe.” He says. Smart enough to help you vanish but not enough to know better then to lie to a telepath.

Hank McCoy:

Like a little kid you’ve chosen the staircase banister to hide behind. Either hand holding onto a separate bar, looking out between them. Your spot was strategically placed far enough away from the door that they wouldn’t see your details through the banister. As far as they were concerned you were just a curious kid. A very big curious kid.

“They” were the people Hank was currently handling at the door. It had been only two days since the incident and it’s amazing it took them this long to reach your door. Three men in suits and a woman in a white coat knocked at your door just after lunch.

Sending the students from the hall Hank took control of the situation. Never outright telling you to leave the main hall but did make a similar “shoo” gesture that he gave the kids while telling them to make their exit.

Although the distance gave you an advantage it also kept you from hearing what was being said. The men on the other side weren’t giving enough body language to tell if they were upset or not. Only one seemed to be talking, the others were moving side to side on their feet. If Hank were to move too far to one side or the other they’d try and make their way inside.

“They don’t have a right to take you, not legally or in anyway.” Hank had reassured you hours earlier.

It started to get tense on the other side of the room. One of the men giving up on waiting for an opening and trying to make one himself.

Hank’s change can happen slow or it can happen so fast you don’t even realize it. The friendly approach of a regular human at the door was abandoned the moment they showed aggression. Blue arms and baring teeth made all three jump, reaching for their hips. The woman in white, the seeming bravest of the group, steps forward. A hand reached out, but the door is slammed in her face.

Jean Gray:

Life is confusing and everyone is screaming.

At first their screams were sympathetic; they were screams of fear and pain. But after hearing them non-stop for several minutes it’s hard to feel bad. It was almost like they were doing it on purpose. Like, if they just shut up for one second you could figure what was happening.

They didn’t, though, they wouldn’t shut up. Distracting you from the indestructible bubbles creating and growing in the walls, machines and skin. Expanding and tearing everything apart.

There’s two other voices among the screaming that stands out: the first is the loudest. It’s the purest form of anger and fear that could ever be made. It was also the most annoying, if that one person would just shut-the-fuck-up you could probably think. The other voice is the only one not screaming. It wasn’t sweet or kind like it was before, it was harsh and stern. Power behind the voice making it louder then a scream ever could be.  

It was pretty obvious whose voice was yours and who’s belonged to Jean.

Jean’s voice was like that. It was powerful, it was a strict father’s and a commanding mother’s combined. If she wanted to, she could make it impossible to escape her voice. She uses this power of voice now: Where your ears can’t take any information, but your mind was burst open and unprotected.

You never understood what she was saying completely. Only that it was nice, and that it made everything go black.

Logan/ Wolverine:

More than half the population of earth is smarter than Logan. He’s more than willing to admit that, but what he did know was not to poke an already agitated bear. That’s all you were in that moment. A very pissed off bear sitting in the corner of a glass square.

It honestly wouldn’t have been that bad if Peter hadn’t compared it to the cages Magneto had been in. That was when everything seemed to become real for you.

This was only way that there wouldn’t be an absolute hunt for mutants. Your containment in exchange for a lie told by the Secretary of Defense to the entire world. That, no, there was not “mutant attack”, this was an unexplained, isolated incident. One that was now being held in the basement of a government building until your fate is decided.

“Are you allowed to smoke in here?” You ask, picking at the bottom of your white scrubs.

“I didn’t see the signs.” He says, waiting for someone to dare and yell at him about the cigar.

Instead of asking for the cigar verbally you raise a hand towards one of the small breathing holes. He slides it towards you, butt first. Only giving a little direction on how to puff the thing instead of straight up inhale it.

Smoking anything while stressed was a good way to start a bad habit. Something Logan tried to keep you from. Given the situation, he allowed the nicotine high you were gonna get from working on the thing. It was another test for this place. A test to see just how long or how many little rules he could break before someone yelled at him.

Not that he would ever use this knowledge for selfish means. It was just good to know when things would start to go south. Not that the Professor gave him permission, he just didn’t tell him not to.

Kurt Wagner:

Any pictures or footage taken of you during the incident were stolen straight from hell. That was the only aspect anyone cared about; the ones where you were wild and there was nothing in your eyes except for uncontrolled power.

No one thought about the few seconds after the incident. That instead of power there was confusion and fear. Staring at your hands and into the world looking for answers.

That scene only lasted a few seconds. Long enough for the blue devil to match your hell appear and disappear with you.

Like a child you went to bed without dinner. Although it was by choice, and this wasn’t your bed. It was a hiding place in the same building that your seekers were searching. But with a protective layer of blankets, and an extra layer of your boy sitting in front of the door, you could enjoy these last few minutes before your life goes to hell.

#kurt wagner x reader #Kurt Wagner #logan x reader #logan howlett #Charles Xavier #charles xavier x reader #Erik Lehnsherr #erik lehnsherr x reader #raven x reader #mystique x reader #jean gray x reader #hank mccoy x reader #beast x reader #X-men #X-men x reader #Powered reader #Mentions of death #Aftermath of chaos #Only barely edited #x-men imagine

[pagingdoctordevorak]

What would bee’s route be like if they were a playable character in The Arcana?

i think it would be pretty boring tbh (^▽^;) i don’t do much except eat, sleep, and write. my canon around bee goes off the game canon more than i thought it would, and she’s obviously taking the place of the MC, but maybe i could give you a little taste of what her prologue/introductory interactions would be like with someone else (you) as the MC?

————————————–

Asra left. He told me he had to go somewhere I couldn’t follow. My Master’s always been cryptic, but this time it feels harder… sadder.

I can feel the weight of his tarot deck in my pocket as I walk along through the market. It’s busy today, which isn’t very surprising. Everyone is out trying to get supplies and food for the weekend.

As I peruse some herbs for the shop, I bump into a girl with a small notebook and pen clutched to her chest. 

“Oh, sorry!” Her eyes squint behind golden, circular glasses as her freckled cheeks bulge with an apologetic smile. I stare in awe as the crowd tears her away, only to see her distinctive light pink hair fade into the masses.

bee.

I’d seen her around but only met her once before in passing. She’s been here for about three years trying to examine and write about the culture of the city, described to me as an “ethnographer.” I don’t know a lot about her. Every Vesuvian who knows her says the same thing; she keeps to herself and watches from the outside.

She and Asra have a relationship of which I don’t know the details. He doesn’t tell me much, but he did say she was smart, kind, and selfless, but shy, which only piqued my curiosity more. It sounds like they’ve been close, but he never talks about her as more than a friend.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A knock on the door to the shop interrupts me from blowing out all the candles. The floorboards creak as I step over to it. It’s late. Did I leave the lantern on?

“Hi, (y/n),” she greets, taking in my appearance. “Can I talk to Asra?”

“He’s not here.” Her face visibly falls in disappointment, and she tugs her sheer scarf tighter around her shoulders.

“When will he be back?”

“I don’t know.”

She seems to understand without a second of hesitation that he left the city.

“Well, can I talk to you? You know how to read tarot, right?” Her question shocks me, but perhaps it shouldn’t. She’s Asra’s friend–of course she believes in tarot. “He wouldn’t have left you here if you didn’t… unless it’s like the time—never mind.” She shakes her head as if to shake away the memory… a memory not meant for me. Pink waves fall into her eyes, but she shoos them away behind her ears.

I usher her inside, and she seems to breathe easier in here. She already knows where to go as if the shop is familiar to her. I follow her into the reading room and light the candles as she sits at the small card table.

“What’s troubling you?”

“I’m looking for some guidance… I have a difficult choice to make.”

“What kind of choice?” I ask as I shuffle the cards. There’s something off about the deck. I can feel magic pulling away from me and toward bee.

“I’d rather not say… It’s a little embarrassing.”

“You can trust me.”

A tight smile spreads over her lips as she watches me. Her gaze is soft, but I can tell she’s examining the differences in how I handle the cards compared to my Master.

“There’s someone from my recent past who I never thought I’d see again… He’s here in Vesuvia. I thought…” Her voice catches in her throat, and I can tell she’s about to cry. “I thought he was dead.” She sighs to center herself, and I feel the cards pulling toward her again. My brows furrow, and she notices. “Are they speaking to you?”

Of course she knows the bond between magician and deck.

“Yes. Can you tell me more about him?”

She tenses slightly, clearly uncomfortable, but I don’t know why.

“He… he was a good man… is a good man. Smart. Charming. He got into trouble and left. Now I have to decide whether or not to leave, too.”

There’s only one person she could be talking about.

Before she can continue, my hands fumble, and the deck scatters across the table. A single card faces up. She smiles bitterly.

“The Hanged Man. That’s fucking great…”

“It’s upright,” I say, trying to alleviate the tension in the room. “That points to letting go… breaking an old pattern or changing.”

“I don’t think he could ever change.”

A draft blows out the candles. Darkness consumes us.

“You certainly haven’t, honey bee.” 

Doctor Jules. The same fugitive doctor who broke in the other night. bee lets out a shaky breath.

I search blindly for the matches and strike one to light the table candles. The yellow glow illuminates the doctor’s tall figure dressed in the same dark clothing and over-sized coat from his first reveal to me. He stands at the curtain to the reading room, leather-gloved arms crossed over his chest. His face is uncovered this time; the beaked mask hangs from his long fingers

bee stands and reaches out to him with a trembling hand.He takes it in his own and brings it to his lips. Her gasp is almost inaudible, and I watch as they discover each other again.

“You left me…”

“I had no choice. I was protecting you.”

“Such a stupid, dramatic asshole.”

He pulls her to his chest and she buries herself in him. His arms wrap around her and fall into what seem to be familiar places on her sides.

I clear my throat. “Breaking in again, Doctor?”

He laughs.

“I had to be sure you weren’t harboring the magician. But I see you’re hiding this little scholar from me.”

bee snickers into his chest. “I’m not hiding. And apparently, neither are you, you idiot.”

Something doesn’t sit right with me about this. Why would Doctor Jules come back to Vesuvia? He’s wanted for the death of the Count—an act of treason. Only a crazy man would show his face in a city that wants him dead.

“I missed you so much, Juli…”  bee squeezes herself tighter to him, and he cranes his neck down to press a kiss to the top of her head.

Or a man in love.

“I have to go before the guards find me.”

“Come see me before you leave the city. I’m living above the old clinic.”

“I can’t promise anything.”

“Try, Ilya.”

His eye squeezes shut in pain.

“I’ll try.”

As soon as he appeared, he leaves again. It’s just me and bee. She turns to me and smiles sadly.

“Sorry about that… But… I guess now you know who I was talking about.”

I step forward and reach for her hand to reassure her.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “But think about what the Hanged Man symbolizes.”

“I will. Sorry for keeping you.”

“It’s no problem.”

She offers me a smile, brighter this time. 

“Make sure you lock all the doors tonight,” she jokes as she pulls back the curtain and leaves.

SORRY THIS GOT SO LONG KSDJFNSKDNFKS. also WHOOPS julian can’t keep his nose out of anything i write

#the arcana game #the arcana #julian devorak #asra alnazar #apprentice bee #fanfic #long post #ask #Anonymous

[sasha-whos-askin-racket]

BTHB - Arm In A Sling

Bad Thing Happen Bingo - Square 10 Square - Arm In A Sling Fandom - Ritchieverse Sherlock Character  - John Watson Ship - Holmes/Watson and platonic Irene is SUPER important in this one. Requested by - N/A.

A/N: Here it is, the long promised 3rd part to what I’ve decided to call the “Wharf Trilogy”. I was going to call it the “canon correction” and then realised most of these are corrections of canon. Anyway, enjoy!

John Watson opened his eyes to darkness. As he tried to find something to anchor himself to, something to focus his vision on, he became aware of two things. One, he wasn’t in his room - or Holmes’s room - in Baker Street; and two, his left shoulder burned with the fierce feeling as if he’d been run right the way through with a rusty lifting hook. He swallowed down the instinctive feeling of panic that came with waking up both in pain and in unfamiliar surroundings, trying to piece together how he’d managed to get to this point. The slaughterhouse, Irene, Blackwood, all of it flickered at the forefront of his memory as he tried to sort the events into chronological order. Pulling Irene away from the band saw was the last clear memory he had, and then nothing after that. Nothing until now.

His eyes had somewhat adjusted to the gloom now, and he could vaguely make out the outlines of several objects around him. There was a window slightly above his head and somewhere to the left judging by the shadows it left, and a shaft of moonlight shone through. There was a door opposite, slightly ajar, and the light of a paraffin burner trickled through from the corridor beyond. He still didn’t know where he was, those two factors not being enough to fill the hole of the last goodness-knows-how-long. There was a chair next to his bed, he noticed as he turned his eyes gently in that direction. He wasn’t entirely sure who he’d been expecting to find sitting in that chair, but New Jersey operatic singer turned world-class criminal Irene Adler certainly wasn’t anywhere near the top of his list. She was very possibly asleep, but also maybe not, legs crossed, wearing the same practical outfit she’d had on the last time they’d seen each other, though it was slightly more scuffed. He hadn't been unconscious for that long then, though he noticed she did have an almost healed cut on her face that he was fairly she didn’t have the last time he saw her.

Almost as if she could feel his eyes on her, Irene looked up expectantly and slid forwards on the chair, resting her elbows on her knees and her chin on the palms of her hands. “Evening, Doctor.” Watson’s heavy tongue tripped repeatedly over itself as he tried to force himself to remember how to speak. “H-Holmes?” His voice came out of his dry throat more strained than he’d expected, but Irene seemed to hear and understand him anyway. “Why am I not even slightly surprised that’s the first thing out of your mouth? He’s hiding out in an attic above a bar because Lord Coward has a bounty on his head. He’s okay. He’s worried about you, but he’s okay.” “And I’m…?” “Royal Veterans.” Irene replied with a curt nod and slightly forced smile. “Nice place. Lax on security, but high quality interior design.” “Mary?” “I’ve only just managed to convince her to go home. She’s worried as well, but surprisingly not as much as Holmes. He’s been practically tearing his hair out.”

Watson stayed quiet for a moment, closing his eyes and trying to work out exactly what hurt. Now that he was properly trying to focus on it, everything ached. Every bone, every joint throbbed dully, and his head pounded in a way that probably would have concerned him if he’d been even a little more alert. His chest and back stung all over in tiny pinpricks, but it was his shoulder that hurt the most. It burned fiercely, and the constant waves of pain that radiated from the site were enough to send him dizzy. “What-“ he swallowed, took a deep breath and tried again. “What-“ “Explosion.” Irene cut in gently, saving him from having to try a third time. “At the wharf. You remember?”

Watson started to shake his head, then winced and stopped. “N-No.” He raised his right arm gently, running a hand along the side of his head. “A few scratches, a couple minor burns, your face got it easy compared to the rest of you.” Irene told him reassuringly. “Don’t worry, you’re as handsome as ever.” “Not my face I’m worried about.” He tried to shift himself slightly, but fell back with a yelp, losing all aura of composure as the pain in his shoulder tripled and spread down his arm and across his back, furiously blinking spots from his vision as he tried desperately to cling to the last shred of consciousness. He groaned involuntarily through gritted teeth and tried to curl inside himself, but could barely move, tears of pain blurring his vision. Irene lay a heavy hand on the centre of his chest to keep him still. “Don’t.” She warned him, her voice commanding but somehow still gentle. “You’ll only make it worse.” He fought for a moment to control his breathing, swallowing down a wave of nausea as he started to tremble. “Holmes.” “He’s okay, he’s hiding from the members of the yard, but we’ve got a plan.” “Holmes.” Watson insisted through gritted teeth, and a moment later he was able to make himself understood, though the pain clouded his head and made it hard for him to think enough to form a complete sentence, leaving him only able to stutter out fragmented attempts at words. “Want...Holmes.” “...Watson.” “Please.” Watson’s voice cracked, and for a moment Irene caught a glimpse of the scared soldier that still existed somewhere deep within him. “Need...Holmes.”

Irene studied him in concern for a moment. His body was tense with pain and trembling, and he was curled up the best he could, having shaken off Irene’s feeble attempt at keeping him still. His eyes were screwed up tightly, chin tucked to his chest,  his breathing hitched. Irene tried to find a way to calm him without hurting him further, and in the end held one of his hands, tracing circles on his palm with her thumb. “It’s not safe for Sherlock to be out right now. It was dangerous for him to come after the explosion.” Irene tried to tell him, but he moaned feebly, and only gripped her hand tighter. “Do you think…?” Irene paused for a moment to consider exactly what she was about to do. “Do you think you can sit up?”

Getting John upright was a slow, delicate process, but eventually he was sat on the floor, resting his head on the cold iron bed frame with his eyes closed while he waited for the room to stop spinning. Irene was crouched in front of him, examining his shoulder under the lamplight. “It’s better than it was. There was a piece of wood the size of your fist embedded in it when they first pulled you out.” Watson didn’t answer, and Irene gave him a weak shove, careful not to jar his shoulder while still trying to make it effective. “Are you listening to me, Doctor? I am doing this for you, you know?” Watson made a quiet noise but didn’t open his eyes, and Irene decided that was good enough for now. “Can I trust you to stay alive and conscious unsupervised for a minute or not?” Watson made an incomprehensible sound between his clenched jaw that she took to be a confirmation and she stood up, watching him carefully as she made her way across the room.

Bandaging his shoulder was a laborious and far more painful process than sitting him up, and he sat with his head braced against his knees, breathing raggedly and occasionally letting out a pained whimper. Irene apologised quietly to him each time he flinched, but if he heard; he didn’t answer. “Ready?” She asked, after she’d give him a minute to recover, and at his shaky nod had lifted him up so he was sitting on the bed. Turning to his clothes that were draped over the chair, she decided it wasn’t worth the hassle and pain it would cause him just to put a shirt on, and satisfied herself with pulling his good arm through the sleeve of his suit jacket, leaving his bad one tucked to his chest in a sling and just drawing the front of his jacket closer around him. “I just want you to know-“ she told him, “-this is probably a bad idea.” He lifted his head and opened his eyes, looking at her through eyes glassy with pain. “No idea that leads me to Holmes is a bad idea.” “Not so sure I agree, but we’ll go with it.” Irene told him, and slid his good arm across her shoulder.

Watson was surprisingly light, despite the fact Irene was taking most of his weight, and their movements were slow but deliberate. Watson was limping heavily, but she and Holmes hadn’t found his walking cane at the wharf, meaning it’d been picked up by Scotland Yard. They wouldn’t be able to get it back, not with Holmes considered a fugitive, but it didn’t seem to Irene like Watson was going to be doing a great deal of moving between now and then anyway. The hospital was relatively quiet, and Irene was surprised to see there were no members of the Yard stationed anywhere, which seemed to solidify what Holmes had told her before about them not particularly wanting to bring him in. The back entrance by which she had met Holmes the day before was the best way to avoid getting caught, and it seemed worth dealing with the few extra steps to avoid detection.

Watson winced with every step, and occasionally stumbled, but Irene kept a firm grip on him, at times almost pulling him along. Under the pale yellow glow of a street lamp she could see the patch of blood slowly growing against his grey jacket and cursed under her breath. “Turn around. You can’t do this.” John tried to pull away from her feebly and staggered, Irene instinctively wrapping her arm around his chest to support him. “Back inside.” She told him gently. “Come on, Watson.” He strained against her, taking shaky steps but not actually gaining any ground as Irene held him. “I’m a soldier. I can handle this.” He insisted, though Irene could feel him trembling against her, and felt for sure her grip was the only thing keeping him upright. “You’re a doctor, you know the dangers of pushing yourself too hard.” Irene countered, trying to think of a way to placate him. He pushed weakly against her again. “I want Holmes. I need Holmes. Irene, please.” Irene thought for a moment. If she insisted Watson go back inside, he’d probably only try and get to Holmes on his own when he was left unattended. Of the two options, this was decidedly the more preferable, not that she particularly wanted Watson’s well being on her hands when Holmes was already as irate as he was.

“Fine.” She said, and relaxed her hold on him, though having to tighten it again as he slid forwards against her. The bloody patch was spreading down the sleeve of his jacket, she could feel it against her fingers. Deciding that since she was already aiding and abetting a government fugitive, she might as well go the extra step and straight-up steal a patient from the hospital. Not as if she could get into any more trouble for it. Maybe she’d rob a man in the street as he passed; she wasn’t sure yet. Watson made a quiet noise of pain that reminded her of the urgency of the situation, and she pulled his arm over her shoulder again, practically carrying him, making a point of not listening to the sound of his blood drip against the cobbles as they walked. It was hard to navigate the city in the light, and even harder in darkness with a barely-conscious army doctor clinging to her as if she was the last person on earth.

It was only when they reached the end of Fleet Street that Irene first began to suspect someone was following her, though a quick glance over her shoulder didn’t reveal anyone obvious. She knew somebody’s eyes were on her, though whether it was Moriarty, Moran, Blackwood, one of the yard members, one of the Irregulars or someone else entirely, she wasn’t sure. She stood for a moment, the wind blowing through her hair, looking through the darkness for any sign of movement from the side-roads beyond. “Blackwood…” Watson murmured drowsily, though his eyes were closed and his head was buried in Irene’s shoulder. “What?” She kept her voice gentle as she continued to look around her, trying to work out if he’d realised something important or if he was just rambling. “At the wharf....Blackwood…He...He tipped his hat at me.” Watson’s voice was getting weaker, but there was an urgent tinge to it, as if he’d realised something important that he was terrified he’d forget forever if it was left unspoken much longer. “What do you mean?” “It was... “ Watson made a pained noise somewhere deep in the back of his throat and coughed weakly, his voice noticeably fading out for a moment. “It was like almost….almost a ‘thank you for your service’...kind of thing. As though he...he was expecting me to die.” Irene didn’t say anything in response to that, but held Watson closer to her, feeling how heavily he was shaking against her, his breathing coming painful and harsh next to her ear, though shallow. His skin was covered in sweat and she could hear his teeth chattering although the thick night London air was far from being cold enough for that. Deciding if there was anyone out there watching her, she and Holmes would be able to fend them off if they tried to follow her too far, she turned her attention back to Watson, who’d lost consciousness and whose head was now lolling against her shoulder, and she cursed loudly.

It only took a couple more minutes for Irene to reach the bar, and she took the stairs a few at time, finding it a bit easier now she’d gotten used to supporting Watson’s weight on her own. Unable to knock on the door due to the fact both of her hands were keeping Watson in place, she gave the base of the door three sharp kicks, before bashing her knee into it with enough force she was surprised it hadn’t swung open on its own. When nothing happened, she kicked it a bit harder, and a moment later, the door creaked open and Holmes was watching her with narrowed eyes. “I told you to stay with-” He stopped, eyes widening at the site in front of him. “Take him. I need to check no-one followed us.” Holmes obliged, trying to ignore the blood on Irene’s hands as he slung Watson’s arm across his shoulder.

Irene raced back down the stairs and to the doorway of the bar, looking out across the open streets. Once she was satisfied there was nobody out there, she allowed herself to relax against the doorframe, though her heart was beating painfully in her chest. ‘As though he was expecting me to die.’ Those would not be Watson’s last words. They wouldn’t. Taking a deep breath of the warm night air to calm herself, she made slow work of ascending the stairs again, listening for the sounds of Holmes’s pacing the floor. The last thing she wanted was to anger him further; the look on his face when he’d seen Watson had been enough to convince her he wasn’t in a mood to be trifled with. She knocked on the door again as she approached, then tried it and found it was open. She stepped into the room then locked and barred the door behind her, running a hand down her face before she turned around to face Holmes.

Watson’s grey suit jacket and the scrap of fabric she’d been using as a sling had been tossed haphazardly to the dirty floor, though it was now hard to see any large sections of grey material left because the thick wool was soaked all the way through with blood. Watson himself lay on a makeshift bed Holmes had constructed in the furthest corner of the room from the door, and Holmes was busy unwrapping the bandages on his shoulder. “Why did you bring him here? What purpose did it serve other than almost killing him?” He asked angrily without turning to face Irene. She’d made no noise as she entered, but knew better than to ask him how he’d known she was stood there. “He insisted. He wanted you.” “I don’t care.” Holmes threw aside the bloody bandages and studied the wound carefully, venom in his voice. “He was infinitely safer there than he is here. Look at him. He’s half dead, Irene.” Ah, so he wasn’t angry. He was scared. She could hear it, that tremor in his voice. It was obvious now. It all made sense. “I thought it was better me bring him than he try and make it on his own. And he would have tried. You know he would, Sherlock.” Irene’s voice trembled slightly. She didn’t need to justify her actions to him, she reasoned. Watson had wanted Holmes, and against her better judgement, she’d listened to him. 

Holmes turned on the bed, glancing from the half-drawn attempt at a pentagram he’d been working on to Irene who was now staring guiltily at the floor and then finally to Watson, stained heavily with an outpouring of his own blood, face pale, and ragged feeble attempt at breathing filling the whole room with its strained and shallow rasp. Sherlock allowed his head to hang slightly as he crossed the small room to fetch a roll of bandages he’d insisted Wiggins bring him earlier in the day.

Blackwood would have to wait; his Boswell needed him.

#bad things happen bingo #square: arm in a sling #fandom: sherlock

[rain0205-blog]

Terminal State

Summary:  She tried leaving, submerging herself in work to escape the horrors she had seen. The horrors she kept seeing. She never wanted to go back to that life. But when the Empire takes her home, she’s forced to face her past. Can she move on? Can she cope? Or will she require a bit of help? still bad at summaries, still working on it. ever so slightly more than slight AU gadioxoc

Talia’s Widow

...

Athenacia had managed to get some sort of sleep during the night before shaking awake at one of her usual nightmares, happy that she hadn't disturbed Iris in the process. Carefully, she rolled over and had a look at the window. The sun was just starting to peek up over the horizon. Perfect, the world was asleep. The girl got out of bed quietly and walked into the bathroom with her bag, shutting the door behind her before turning on the light. Wincing at the sudden brightness, she was able to adjust quickly and placed her bag gently on the ground, noting her dirty clothes still on the floor. Running a hand through her hair, she released a sigh and then stood in front of the mirror to observe her wounds.

Nothing had changed since yesterday and she couldn't do a full heal until she was far away from the others, however, she could at least help things along until then. Athenacia brought her left hand to her swollen eye and let the golden lights flow about it. She didn't take down the swelling too much, not wanting to arouse suspicion, and did the same for her other contusions and lacerations. Despite there being no notable difference, she felt a lot better, pain medication doing wonders. Quickly she pulled out clothes for the journey, black tights with a tiny pink skull on the bottom of them and a thin purple long-sleeved shirt to hide most of her wounds. There would be no way for her to hide the puncture in her left forefinger without full-on gloves but people would be staring more at her face than her hands. Not for long anyway. Fussing with her hair, she pulled it back into that braid over her shoulder to hide that ugly scar. It exposed her face a little more but with the beating she took she was a little unrecognizable. Unfortunately she would have to waste time grabbing supplies before she took off.

Satisfied, she threw out the old bloodied shorts she was wearing yesterday and hung up Noctis's shirt for the sake of it being found and returned, guilty that it couldn't be cleaned first. Athenacia packed up all of her things, turning off the light and carefully opened the door. Those sensitive ears listened intently and heard the soft and even breaths of Iris still sound asleep. Carefully, she padded toward the rest of her things, putting on her boots that only reminded her she needed new ones and slowly zipped them up. The gladius was strapped to her back, coming over her left shoulder instead of the right so as not to agitate her stitches on her scapula. Then, she put on her med bag, leaving that over one shoulder as well. Sighing, she took a final look around the room, making sure she had everything. Athenacia walked toward Iris's bed and placed a ball of grey and black fabric on the night table beside her, feeling terrible but it had to be this way, she could not risk anyone's life.

Athenacia walked toward the exit, opening the door slowly without making a sound before through it, looking up and down the hall and noting it was clear. She held the door as it automatically closed, heart in her throat at the soft click that echoed loudly in her ears. The doctor lingered only a moment before walking on noiseless feet to the stairs that would lead down to the first floor and out into the city. As she passed the door that Gladiolus and the others were staying in, she hesitated, feeling guilt eat away at her. The girl really didn't want to leave him just yet but he had a duty to the Prince and she wasn't going to be a burden on him. Heart heavy, she slowly continued to the stairs.

"Going somewhere?"

The physician nearly jumped out of her skin just as she reached the top of the stairs, whipping around immediately to confirm who had spoken to her. She was met with Ignis standing just outside of the door, arms crossed and a brow raised. He looked ready for the day despite it being so early in the morning and she heard the door close with a soft click much like the one she had sounded on her own door.

"Don't do that!" she hitched her breath.

"Apologies."

"It's fine, I'm just a little jumpy."

"Understandable given what you've been through. You have failed to answer my question."

"I was just going to get some new shoes, these ones are bloody and broken," she lied quickly.

He looked unconvinced, "You seem overdressed for a short shopping trip."

"What do you mean?"

"I see no reason your weapon must accompany you."

"Well, last time I was here wasn't exactly a positive experience."

"Fair point. In that case, I shall escort you."

"That's not necessary," she began her protest.

"I insist. As you said, your last excursion to the city was a trying time. You're feeling a little unsafe and I'm happy to offer my services."

Shit. There was no way she could refuse. The girl could only nod helplessly at him, having no choice but to accept his offer. This was not what she wanted at all.

"Splendid. Then there's no need to overburden yourself with your extra belongings."

"No, I guess there wouldn't be..."

Athenacia forced a smile and began walking back to the room she was sharing with Iris, using her key to open it slowly and was not surprised that Ignis stepped in the doorway behind her. The young girl was still sleeping so Athenacia was careful about putting her clothes bag back in its former position, placing her med bag on top of it and then carefully unhooked her weapon from her back. Frowning, she laid it gently flat on the floor underneath the bed and pulled the bed skirt over it. So close, she was so close! Guess it would have to wait until tonight. Internally sighing, she turned back to Ignis and stepped through the door he held open for her.

The two of them made it down the stairs side by side without saying anything and out into the quiet streets of Lestallum. The city was still asleep, only the night dwellers heading toward their den to await the sight of the stars once more. Athenacia actually preferred it this way, knowing that her face was still a mess. Despite this being her shopping trip, Ignis had led them to the food vendors. Figures he would try to force food on her. Truth be told, she still wasn't hungry but at least now she knew it was the pain medication she was taking. Ignis pulled out her chair and she smiled slightly as she sat down. He ordered himself an Ebony while she only drank water, and he took the liberty of ordering her some breakfast to which she just kept her gaze on her hands. The sun was rising higher and with it, her window to disappear. Even though she had resolved to leave tonight she was still hoping to make it out before anyone else had woken up.

"You're looking well, compared to yesterday," said Ignis lightly.

"Thanks, I heal fast," she replied.

They were silent again as their meals were placed in front of them. Athenacia poked at her egg with a fork and took one bite. Immediately she blanched, definitely not into eating right now. Instead she stuck to the bread, which was a bit easier on her nausea.

"I do hope you change your mind," said Ignis suddenly.

"What?" she looked at him confused.

"Do not play coy, Dr. Virum, we are both far too intelligent for that. You know leaving is not the best course of action."

"I wasn't-"

"Athenacia please," he gave her a stern look, "I saw the plan in your eyes the very second you were ordered to remain with us."

The physician sighed in defeat, looking down at her hands again. That overbearing guilt that she had been trying to repress since she was ordered by Cor to go with them to Caem burst within her and she was unable to face him, ashamed that she was caught in the first place.

"I have to leave," she said finally.

"I'm inclined to disagree," he replied with his calm and even friendly voice.

"You can disagree all you want, it has to be this way."

"The Marshal gave you a strict order. Do you truly mean to disobey it?"

She looked up at him with a frown, "I'm not a Glaive anymore. Cor can't command me to do anything."

"That set aside he has been a touch out of sorts with you in the wind."

"He'll survive."

"And Gladio?"

Athenacia looked away again. The guilt just kept eating away at her. Ignis was smooth, she had to give him that. He saw everything, even when it seemed he wasn't even looking - sneaky about it too because he knew what she was going to do before she even thought of it. Obviously she was going to have to be careful about this. Still, there was no harm in telling him some of the truth.

"He's part of the reason I need to go. I can't be around any of you," she replied in a low voice.

"Elaborate."

"You saw what happened to that base. They'll be looking for me, a huge target painted on my back. I can't put you all at risk."

Ignis only smiled, "Dr. Virum, we've been at risk the second we stepped out of the Crown City. Noctis is a fugitive, already hunted by the Empire. They would show up whether you were to remain or not."

"Yet another reason I should go, two of their targets aren't in one place. You're a strategist, you should know this already."

"Indeed, but I also know strength in numbers. You're in no condition to be wandering about the wilderness on your own."

"I'm a doctor, I'll be fine."

"Perhaps and I am not doubting your abilities. Consider also that the people here that have come to care for you, myself included, require your presence and peace of mind concerning your health a lot more than you think they do."

"Athenacia," she heard the King call to her. Curious, she turned to him, "Take care. The world needs you more than you think it does. The people who have come to care for you, need you more than you think they do," he offered her a small smile.

Teas welled within her eyes as the words rang in her head. They were the last ones spoken to her by King Regis before that fateful day. Ignis was right, the Prince and everyone else were already being hunted by the Empire. Cor already knew this and wanted her somewhere safe. After all, she had caused him enough grief as it was. The man had even burst into an Imperial base just to save her, had come back for her after her terrible ordeal and kept her alive and running to this point. The more she thought about him the more she felt bad about going rogue and doing her own thing. There was also Gladiolus to consider. Had Ignis not caught her just now, she would have been a long way gone and it would have been a slap in all their faces. Athenacia owed them more than this piss poor behaviour. They had risked their lives to come and save her as well and this was not the way to repay someone for doing that. This man before her was right, there was no reason to run. Ignis was clever, he read her like a book, playing on all her fears and weaknesses and then crumbling them until she had no choice but to comply with his wishes. So much for all of her past training, she was slacking.

"Okay," she said finally.

"Yes?" he inquired.

"I won't leave until we're ready to go to Caem."

He smiled, "That is by far the most intelligent decision you've made in a while."

"Don't gloat, okay, it's unbecoming," she held her hand up, but still returning his smile.

The rest of their shopping trip consisted of the young doctor procuring things that she would need for yet another transformation. Ignis understood her need to change her appearance and offered her a better solution than the last time. Her last stop was buying some new shoes since the boots she wore had a massive drill hole in them and were still covered with her blood. Although it was cleaned up on the outside, she could still feel the sticky dried liquid on the inside through her tights. In the end she settled on two sets of boots just in case something happened to the other pair. Ignis took the bill of her excursion with violent protests on her end.

"I do hope you enjoyed your time on the outside," said Ignis as they came back to the hotel.

"You're going to keep me bedridden aren't you?" she raised a brow.

"Indeed. Until at least your appetite returns."

"I'm sure you'll find another excuse after that. I have issues sitting still, consider that while trying to keep me in bed and recovering."

"I shan't waste time conjuring a solution to your problem."

The physician returned to her hotel room to find that Iris was stirring. Ignis remained in his own room, appearing a lot more relaxed knowing that she wouldn't be running away from them. Athenacia would stay true to her word and travel with them to Caem, but only after she recovered from her injuries. It would be a slow process, however, she could use some of her magic to speed things along at least once a day. Ignis would notice it was going a little quicker than normal but she could wave that off to proper treatment and entice his ego a little. While was sure that he would see right through that, he would at least have no other option to pursue.

Athenacia took one of her shopping bags into the bathroom with her, closing the door behind her. Sighing, she pulled out the braid in her hair, having no trouble with the silky locks and let it fan out. It was already in a soft wave, which she wasn't overly unhappy with. The shirt was next, tossing it aside before she mixed up her bottles of dye. Once they were ready she applied them, keeping her hair away from the lacerations on her scapula and cheek. That was a mess she did not want to deal with should an accident happen. The doctor repeated the process the first time, covering her hair with a plastic bag and leaving the room. Iris was there on her bed, nose in her phone. The young Amicitia looked up at the doctor with a smile despite her appearance while Athenacia walked toward her bed and grabbed her bottle of water. More in the nature of something to do, she took her medication for pain and then another long drink. Iris didn't say anything, could smell the dye and knew what was happening.

"You look a little better," she said politely.

"I feel quite a bit better," Athenacia smiled.

"What colour this time?" Iris sat up in her bed.

"You'll see."

Iris only nodded and placed her phone down on the bedside table. Then, she frowned at the black and grey striped ball that wasn't there before she had gone to bed. The teen picked it up carefully and untangled it. What she was left with was a pair of fingerless gloves. Carefully, she slipped them onto her small wrists and then looked at the doctor expectantly. Athenacia smiled as she saw them finally back in use after holding onto them.

"They look good on you," said Athenacia.

"Thanks. Aren't they yours though?" asked Iris.

"Yeah. I got them when I was about your age. At first, it was to hide my bloody knuckles from my training with Cor but they grew on me, sort like a trademark. After I was done using them to hide I would use them to fight when I wasn't using a weapon."

"They're so clean though."

Athenacia laughed, "I haven't fought in years. They aren't much but they have sentimental value. I want you to have them."

Iris looked shocked to hear that, "Are you sure?"

"Yeah. It's about time they found a different home."

The young girl smiled, "Thank you!"

Athenacia nodded at her. The two of them didn't speak while she waited for her hair to finish. Once the clock had finally clicked over, she returned to the bathroom to take out the bag and rinse her hair. Once all the colour had washed away off of her scalp she wrung out her hair, towel drying it and got a good look at herself. The girl smiled, giving another point to Mr. Scientia. That man sure knew his stuff, even if it was something as unlikely as hair dye.

Athenacia took scissors and began to cut where necessary, careful to keep all the bits of hair from spreading all over and only getting into the trash can. When she was finished her grooming she pulled out the blow drier and began to run that all along her head. Finally, after what seemed like hours her hair was falling softly against her skin. It was a deep red, making her look far less pale than the black did. It wasn't nearly as long either, the longest layer stopping at her elbows. She cut herself blunt bangs as well, reaching from her forehead all the way down to her eyebrows. It actually brought some attention away from that swollen eye she had and she was thankful for that. Given that she only had one good eye she would have to examine herself once she could see out of both of them in order to make sure she hadn't cut anything crooked. After all of that extra work today she felt exhausted. Pain medication or not, she was overexerting herself after the abuse she sustained. Maybe being bedridden wasn't such a bad idea after all. Athenacia cleaned up her mess and exited the bathroom, intent on sitting in her bed and not moving the rest of the day.

"I love it!" said Iris, running towards her.

The young woman had dressed and donned her new gift, carefully grabbing the hair with a big smile on her face and then let it fall from her fingers. Athenacia just smiled at her overly happy demeanour and continued her journey to her bed. Quickly she changed, something more comfortable, and got under the covers. Just in time it seemed, the door to her room had swung open.

"Knock, knock," announced Gladiolus as he came. He smiled once his eyes reached her, "Hey Doc! You going to change every time I see you?"

"I'm a chameleon."

He let out a small laugh, "Looks good."

She blushed slightly, "Thanks."

"Thought you might want a visitor."

"A visitor?"

Gin pushed past the Shield just then, nearly knocking him over despite the way he towered over her. Gladio only laughed as the extremely pregnant nurse was at her friend's side in an instant, on the bed and nearly fell over with her awkward shape. Once she got herself balanced she pulled the young doctor into a fierce hug, only keeping her arms around her neck.

"I'm so happy you're okay," said Gin before releasing her grip and having a look, "Gods you look terrible."

Athenacia laughed, "Thanks, I think."

"Seriously girl, that is a nasty hematoma."

"It'll go away."

"Where did you want this?" asked Gladiolus from the door.

He was holding a small bag that looked like it had a fair bit of weight to it. Gin looked over and just pointed to the ground beside her, in between the two beds while Iris looked on curiously.

"What is that?" asked the young girl.

"A surprise, help me with it," replied Gin.

Athenacia looked on with mild amusement as Gladiolus took a seat in the chair next to her bed. Once Gin had somehow managed to pull out all the tools she began to set it up with Iris's help. The injured doctor recognized it instantly once it was finished.

"You stole a portable ultrasound from the hospital?" asked Athenacia with a raised brow.

"No, no, borrowed," insisted Gin.

"Do they know you have it?"

"No."

"Then it's called stealing."

"Oh hush you. I'm going to bring it back I'm just borrowing without asking."

"Stealing."

"Stealing is when you don't bring it back."

"The line isn't that thick."

"Do you want to see my child or not?"

Athenacia only laughed. Gin handed her the tube of jelly and turned the machine on. The wand was placed in the doctor's hand and Gin lifted her maroon scrub shirt, waiting. Athenacia administered the jelly and then placed the wand against the woman's skin. Immediately the image of a very cramped baby came up on the screen. The physician wanted to tear at the sight, keeping her hand still as she watched the small hands move and the heartbeat at a steady pace.

"Wow..." said Iris in wonder, sitting down on the other side of Gin's feet.

"Would you look at that," said Gladiolus from behind her.

"It's so big now!" exclaimed Gin.

"He," corrected Athenacia.

"You're going to be sorry when it comes out a girl."

"Gin, the penis is right there," said Athenacia, pointing at the monitor.

"That could just be a finger."

"Yes, an eleventh finger."

"Hey what are we looking at?" asked Prompto as he stepped through the door, cutting off Gin's retort.

"It's her baby!" said Iris.

Ignis and Noctis had also joined them, both coming to hover around the monitor to get a look. Athenacia moved the wand a little so that she could observe the baby from all angles and make sure that all was healthy. There were no abnormalities nor signs of stress so that was a relief. Gin had the most healthy pregnancy the young doctor had ever seen, not sick a day since she had found out.

"Hard to believe we were all that small," said Noctis.

"Smaller even," said Athenacia, "The cells you began as are hardly the size of this baby's fist."

"Seriously?!" said Prompto in shock.

Athenacia nodded, "Absolutely."

"The wonders of the human body," mused Ignis.

"I don't buy it. The big guy couldn't have been that small," said Prompto.

"Believe it or not, Iris was bigger than I was when she was born," replied Gladiolus.

"By three pounds no more!" retorted Iris.

"Makes all the difference," he teased.

The chatter about the upcoming child provided a warmer atmosphere in the room. It was nice to speak about happier things and Athenacia welcomed the distraction. Gladiolus hovered near her but didn't actually make any physical contact. It wasn't that he didn't want to, merely hesitant after everything she had been through during the time they had been apart. The girl wasn't talking about it for a reason, largely ignoring her trauma's and keeping to herself. Gladio didn't want to push her so soon after reuniting with her, she would open when she was ready, he was sure of that.

As things wound down into yet another night, Gin packed up her "borrowed" portable ultrasound machine and got ready for her shift. The nurse promised to come by tomorrow and try to speed up the healing process, awkwardly carrying her bag out of the room. Ignis took it upon himself to have food brought up to the room, giving a sizable portion to the recovering doctor. Her pain medication was still blocking her appetite, however, she did manage to squeeze in a few more bites than this morning so he didn't press the issue too much.

"Gin is almost done her term," said Ignis.

"Yeah she's got about eight weeks left," replied Athenacia, her meal abandoned on the night table.

Gladiolus was still in the chair beside the bed, Prompto taking Gin's vacated spot. Iris remained on her bed while Ignis and Noctis had moved the sitting area furniture to be apart of the social group. Everyone else had finished most of what was on their plate, the young Prince still a picky eater it seemed. Athenacia only smiled at the tireless argument with Ignis about vegetables.

"She's all alone?" asked Prompto.

Athenacia nodded, "Her husband died fighting the war. Connilo Talia."

"She's Talia's widow?" asked Gladiolus incredulously.

"Yeah."

"I had no idea..." said Ignis.

"Talia?" asked Noctis.

"One of the higher ranking Glaives. He won many battles while he fought," supplied Ignis.

"He was on his way to Cor's stats," added Gladiolus, "But in the end, he didn't make it out. Still, he went out like the best of them."

"That's rough," said Prompto.

"About two weeks after the news of his death Gin found out about the baby. I remember those weeks very vividly. But she didn't miss a day of work, not even to mourn. She knew what she was getting into when they married," said Athenacia.

"That's so sad," remarked Iris.

"It really depends on how you look at it. Maybe she feels pain in her own time, but she carries his child and she does so with pride. She gets to raise that child to know his father gave his life for the best cause. She'll never truly be away from her husband while she raises their son."

...

The streets Lesallum were mostly quiet in the evening. Most of the nightlife patrons were in the mass of the streets, drinking, eating, dancing, whichever they chose. The woman passed them with little attention, having no desire to partake in their festivities. She walked down the less crowded streets until she got toward the parking lot, going even further, the warm wind blowing her hair out of her face. Down the stairs to the overlook, she could only spot three people staring out where the Archeon used to reside. She didn't go near any of them, instead, she went to sit on the bench and look up a the stars.

An hour later, a man sits beside her, keeping his distance and staying on the other side of the bench with no intention of even looking at her. A hood obscures his face from any onlookers, appearing busy on his phone. More couples have made their way over now that the night has grown later, but the two on the bench paid them little mind. She was still fixated on the stars, her eyes filled with wonder at all of them. It never ceased to amaze her how vast the sky truly was. Just hanging up there without a care in Eos about what went on beneath it. Everything in this world was much bigger than her.

Sighing dreamily, she brought her head back down to look around her. The warm wind blew again, bringing with it the scent of a bad omen, something she picked up on immediately. So many negative things had been happening lately it wouldn't make much of a difference. Standing up slowly, she decided she had enough of her time in the night air. Stretching a little awkwardly, a couple walked by with a strange look on their faces in her direction. She began to walk away, no longer needing to stay here.

"She's gone red this time," said the woman as she passed by the hooded man on the bench.

#fanfic #finalfantasy15 #final fantasy xv #ffxv #ffxv fanfiction #ffxv oc #ffxv gladio #gladio x oc #gladiolus amicitia #action #adventure #romance #fluff #love #doctor #female #patient #angst #tragety #complex ptsd #fluff and angst #medic #medicine #physician #hospital #emergency medicine #noctis lucis caelum #prompto argentum #ignis scientia #cor leonis

[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.

[twbfics]

Bar Sinister (pt 1)

Summary: You make a deal with Negan to save your friend Daryl’s life. But when you can’t give Negan the child he wants, you ask Daryl to help make it happen.

Pairings: Daryl x Reader, some Negan x Reader

Chapter: 1/?

Word Count: 2,020

Warnings: Language, threats of violence

It was stupid of Daryl to return to Alexandria. You knew it. Rick knew it. Everyone knew it. But fuck if he wasn’t a stubborn asshole. Even Rick couldn’t talk him round. You knew there’d been no chance of him staying at The Kingdom in the middle of their endless LARP game but you thought he’d at least have the sense to go to the Hilltop.

But he hadn’t. He’d come back to the place he felt he never fit in. He’d come home, to the house you shared with him. It was quieter now, with Eugene and Carol gone, Maggie at the Hilltop and Glenn… well, you were glad to have Daryl back.  He didn’t talk about what happened with Negan – of course he didn’t – but you could see that whatever it was had taken a massive toll on him. He’d stayed strong and fought Negan relentlessly but there was an exhaustion to him. A loneliness.

He should’ve gone to the Hilltop. The thing he needed most right now was Maggie’s forgiveness.

But he was here.

And the familiar sound of Lucille banging against the gates told you that Negan was here too.

“Shit,” you whispered under your breath, running towards the main gate to see Daryl running in the opposite direction. “Hide good,” was the only thing you had time to say as Rick tried to stall a few more seconds for him. But the sun wasn’t on your side. Eric’s shadow formed a silhouette against the gate and taking any longer to open it would have seemed suspicious.

You slowed to a halt by Rick’s side, looking over your shoulder to see if Daryl had made it somewhere safe. You couldn’t see him anymore, so you had to hope so. “They can’t take him back,” you whispered, as Michonne, Carl and Rosita joined you. Negan’s presence was like a beacon, calling everyone to line up before him. Tara and the others weren’t far behind.

“They won’t,” Rick promised, as Negan marched into Alexandria with the Saviours in tow. Simon was with him and in your limited experience, seeing both of them together meant one thing. People were going to die.

“Now we have a BIG problem!” Negan bellowed, swinging Lucille before resting her on his shoulder.

“What problem?” Rick asked, like he didn’t have a care in the world.

“That day when I was kind enough to bring your son back after he killed three of my men and then one of your people tried to shoot me? Well it just so happens that while I was here showing mercy on your people Rick, Daryl managed to find his way out of his cage.”

The tension was suffocating, or perhaps that was just because you scarcely dared to breathe. You wouldn’t realise until later that your body was so tense it was painful. That your stiffened spine and wide, unblinking eyes would’ve given the game away if everyone hadn’t been so focused on the exchange between Negan and Rick. Negan walked right up to him, so their faces were only an inch apart and stared him down. Every silent second was a beat closer to death.

“Where is he Rick?”

“I don’t know,” Rick answered, but Negan just continued to stare. No – glare. He wasn’t fucking around today. “We thought you had him. We didn’t know any different until just now.”

“You know if I find him here,” Negan started, his words slow so that everyone hung on them. So that the gravity of the situation would sink in. His last words were a whisper: “I’m gonna have to kill him.”

Rick stared back, taking his own time. Measuring his words; keeping his voice steady. “He’s not here.”

“Then you won’t mind if we take a look around,” Negan said with a tight smile but there was no humour in his eyes. He was furious. He barked at Simon to take the others and search everywhere. They swarmed Alexandria like a plague while your group stood silently, not even daring to glance at each other in case Negan noticed. In these moments, you were scared he’d read your mind.

Negan was staring through Rick like he was trying to do just that. Rick’s gaze never faltered, for better or worse. He’d changed since the shitstorm that happened the last time Negan was here, when Olivia and Spencer were murdered. You couldn’t tell if Rick’s steely gaze made him look more guilty or less, but soon it didn’t matter.

“WE’VE GOT HIM!”

It was a few seconds more before Negan dragged his eyes away from Rick’s. He had one of those looks like, I’m not angry, I’m just disappointed. But also I AM fucking angry and you’re ALL gonna pay.

You could hear Daryl thrashing and yelling before you even turned the corner, running alongside the rest of the group. Daryl hit someone but three more guys were on him in seconds and fought him until he was on his knees. He’d been hiding in the infirmary, where Denise used to work.

“DO IT THEN YA PIECE OF SHIT!” Daryl screamed at Negan.

“Do not make me angrier or I’ll have to take it out on one of these people and make you watch it,” he grinned – but it wasn’t Negan’s usual cocky smile. It was like he was on fire inside.

“We didn’t—” Rick started, only to fall silent when Negan pointed Lucille at him.

“No.”

You were shaking. Seeing Negan’s version of justice wasn’t something you ever wanted to witness again. But with Daryl? He was one of the few people left in this world still worth a damn. Negan had taken away so many people, but he couldn’t take Daryl.

You wouldn’t let him.

“Negan, wait,” you cut in, moving between Daryl and the rest of the group so you were face to face with Negan.

“What did I just say?” he said. What did he just say? Something about the next person who talks… Fuck.

“Don’t—” Rick started, but you cut him off.

“You don’t need to do this. We can make a deal.”

“We already had a deal and as your people have proven time and time again, you just can’t listen!”

“I’ll be your wife,” you said, trying and failing to stop your voice from trembling. Daryl had mentioned he had a bunch of wives. Maybe he’d want one more.

It was your turn to be stared down now and you had no idea how Rick looked so calm while it happened to him. For a few harrowing seconds before he spoke, you felt possessed by him. And then he breathed out a laugh. “You’re pretty. You’ve got a pretty face. But next to my wives you’d look like the ugly duckling went for a swim and ended up in some poor asshole’s toilet!” he said loudly, and some of his cronies laughed along with him. You scowled as he walked up to you, putting his face close to yours. “So tell me why I’d want to spend my valuable time screwing you when I could be screwing any one of the wives I already have?”

“Because I’ll give you a child,” you answered, and this time your voice didn’t tremble. You were pissed and this wasn’t about Daryl being in the firing line anymore. Negan had turned it around onto you. This was about winning his shitty little games.

He chewed his lip, intrigued at the way you’d raised the stakes. But he didn’t speak, so you continued. “You want all your beautiful wives getting fat and covered in stretch marks? And that’s just before the baby comes. It’ll never feel the same afterwards. Their tits will leak all over their pretty clothes and they won’t have time for you anymore. That what you want?”

“What makes you think I even want a child?”

“Because you’re still listening. Because you need someone to take over everything you’ve built,” you answered, but you knew those reasons weren’t good enough even as they were leaving your mouth. So you scrambled together something that once spoken, you were never able to take back. “Because with my baby in your arms, Rick will be powerless. He won’t do anything to put my child at risk. Alexandria will provide for you as long as it’s standing. And Daryl? If I’m pregnant, I’m gonna need help. We’ve had two women in this group get pregnant and both of them died from it. I’ll need a doctor. If I’m pregnant, he’ll do anything you ask.”

“Is that right?” he grinned, eyes full of glee. Rick didn’t dare speak again but you heard his sigh. The angry one reserved for when someone had fucked up and given him a whole new set of problems. It was a sigh usually spent on Eugene or Gabriel – never on you. Until now. You’d tied everyone’s hands in the space of a few seconds and given Negan the rope.

“Just don’t kill anyone. Don’t hurt Daryl.”

“See that I cannot do. Dwight, get over here!” Negan called, finally taking a step back from you and owning the space around him again. You risked a glance at Daryl and he looked livid. “Funny story, something similar happened to Dwighty-Boy here, didn’t it Dwight? See, Dwight thought he could run away with his wife and my fiancé but then he saw the light and came back to me. But he still broke the rules and to stop me killing him, his wife became my wife. You see his face? Dwight, show her your face.”

Dwight tucked his lanky blonde hair behind his ear, staring ahead with his back too straight. He looked dead inside. Is this what you were condemning Daryl to? Even if it was, it couldn’t be worse than being dead.

Right?

“See Dwight still needed to learn his lesson and RULES ARE RULES,” he bellowed, patting the side of Dwight’s head. Dwight’s eyes found yours but there was nothing there. He was just cold. “So he got the iron like everyone else. And now everything’s gone back to normal. Ain’t that right Dwighty?”

“That’s right,” he answered in a hollow voice. Negan couldn’t be enjoying this any more if he tried.

“So I can spare Daryl’s life and every one of the pitiful lives here but Daryl cannot go unpunished. And as for the matter of Rick hiding a fugitive—”

“He didn’t know,” you quickly interrupted. The memory of Rick almost hacking off Carl’s arm was burned into your mind. You didn’t need to see an amputation today. “He was telling the truth. I snuck Daryl in on my own.”

He stared through you and just when you thought he was going to call you out on your bullshit he grinned. “Daryl! You got a girlfriend you didn’t tell me about? And after we became such good friends; that’s just rude.” He walked up to Daryl and crouched down so their faces were level. In a quiet voice (but everyone else was so silent that ‘quiet’ still seemed like he was shouting) he said, “But I can see why you’d keep this one to yourself since she clearly has a fetish for assholes,” he was about to stand up but then turned back to Daryl with a shit-eating grin on his face. “Wait, was I just being literal? Well... I guess I’ll have to wait ‘til our wedding night to find out.”

Daryl yanked against the men holding him and started to yell something but before he could even get a word out Negan punched him to the ground. Then he took the same hand, without even unclenching his fist, and stroked your cheek.

“So does my new fiancé have a name?”

You thought about Abraham. You thought about the few horrifying seconds he’d left Glenn in agony before he finished it. And then you thought about Daryl. You couldn’t stand to watch the same thing happen to him.

So as much as you hated yourself for it, you stared him straight in the eye when you answered.

“Negan.”

#daryl x reader #negan x reader #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon fic #bar sinister #gif by thewalkingbucky #aka me #banner by colinhiddlestan