Kapitel 21: Wake-up Call – Chapter 20
If my life was a movie, Taylor and I would've come into our hotel room devouring each other with a hungry, unending kiss as we rolled along the wall, tearing our clothes off until we fell on the bed and had explicitly amazing victory sex that somehow managed not to show our nipples at any point.
Similarly, butts are more or less okay, but no hole should even be hinted at.
Maybe it's a good thing our lives [aren't] a movie (not until I sell the rights, at least—I was thinking '[I am a Thinker Seven, yet people keep trying to taunt me']). Asides from the pointless censorship, the fact we are both minors, and how little of my awesome dialog would make it past the lowest denominator of the test audience, there's the more immediate concern that I'm not sure the slightly faded wallpaper of our room would survive some enthusiastic, passionate, wall rolling.
All of this is just a long way to say that I enter the room with an arm draped over Taylor's shoulders, a hand covering my eyes so I can avoid the personally offensive light ([that] should get some censorship, not my girlfriend's delightfully, temptingly nibblable nipples), and a mouth dry after swallowing too many pills for my poor liver.
I don't get my superpowers from my liver, though, so he gets a lower priority. Brains over brawn and all that.
(I'm so going to regret this when Taylor gets in college and drags me to some binge-drinking parties with all of her jock friends— *[snerk*] sorry, couldn't even think that with a straight face.)
"And to think you wanted to go out to buy a bike…" she mutters with fond exasperation.
Well, I hope it's fond. I mean, I'm kind of invested in that, you know?
"In my defense, I was still riding the adrenalin high from defeating my archnemesis when I suggested that."
"Adrenalin numbs Thinker headaches?" she asks, a pondering note in her voice.
[Taylor Hebert propensity for tactical applications of—]
Right. No. No way. Absolutely no way. Also, would you do me the favor of shutting up when my brain already feels like it's been stuffed into a microwave with another, smaller microwave embedded right where my visual cortex used to be?
[Correlation between visual stimulus and migraines—]
Fuck you.
"Tay, sweetie, as much as I love you, if I find out you're coming up with ways to give me non-lethal heart attacks so I can push Power a bit further in the middle of a fight, we are going to have [words."]
"But… But think of all the utility! We could—"
"I don't think you quite got my meaning, sweetie: words. As in, Thinker-grade words."
"… Are you trying to intimidate me?"
"… Is it working?"
She ponders this for a bit as she finally drags me to bed.
"A bit. Quite impressive, seeing as I am absolutely certain you couldn't use your power to tell me how many fingers I have behind my back—"
"Three," I blurt out while she lowers me to the mattress. The one that's soft enough because I've furtively replaced it while no one (no one who wasn't willing to accept twenty bucks to pretend there was no blonde girl dragging a gigantic memory foam mattress up the stairs, that is) was looking.
"How—" she says, almost astonished, dropping me halfway.
"You were holding me, so I only had to guess for one hand. Anything that hides the thumb requires active engagement, and stretching the ring finger or the pinky without moving the other finger demands outright effort. Stretching just one or all five fingers is perceived as an extreme case, and people tend to think those should be avoided, as an intermediate option feels more obfuscating. Having the thumb, middle, and pointer finger extended is a relaxed, natural posture that fits all of the above criteria, while just having the index and the middle finger extended would make you feel like you're throwing a peace sign. Just playing the odds, really," I explain in my best Sherlockian while shrugging my white jacket off.
Nonchalantly, of course. Consulting detectives don't do things any other way when engaging with the Watson.
Also, dear God, did Watson get a bad deal in every subsequent adaptation! He was a badass! A cultured, illustrated man that outdid Holmes in certain fields—mostly any that related to general knowledge—and ex-military! He even applied Holmes' methods on those occasions they were separated, as shown in The Hound of the Baskervilles! Holmes regularly [praised] him. He should be lauded as one of the most well-rounded, interesting characters ever in his own right, not reduced to a drooling moron by scriptwriters so inept the only way they have to make someone appear smart is by dragging everyone else to the level of fucking Neanderthals—
[Neanderthal cross-breeding with Homo Sapiens suggest actual mental capacities not dissimilar from modern day—]
Not the fucking point!
"So, you have a debilitating migraine that barely allows you to speak, and that's only because of some weird quirk of your power that, according to you, makes an exception for talking. And you still couldn't resist the urge to try to show off by pointlessly deducing something that has absolutely no relevance. At all."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
She groans. Fondly.
I hope.
"Only you, Liz. Only you."
Ah, that's my pet name! See? Fondly!
"Come on, raise your arms," she says, as matter of factly as she always is when not snarking or doing other things with me that end in '-ing.'
"What—" I begin to ask, somehow raising my arms by sheer reflex.
She's the tactical leader. That's why I obey her instructions. That's the [only] reason why a part of me doesn't even question why I should do as she says when—
[Lisa Wilbourn's infatuation—]
Shut up. I'm not blushing. Nor flushing. Nor anything else that ends in '-ing.'
Sadly…
And then Taylor takes my pink top and rolls it up my body, undressing me like I'm a child in her care.
…
All right, [now] I am blushing.
"I can undress myself," I protest, in a tone that's firm, definitive, and [not] sulking.
"Doesn't mean you have to," she replies, her hands already undoing my belt.
And I... let her.
She lies me down on the bed, my body spread before her as she pulls my white jeans down my (shaved, both because I'm that fussy and because Lycra bodysuits require certain sacrifices) legs. When they are bunched around my ankles, she stops to unlace my sneakers rather than pull them off while still tied like I always do. Then the pants are finally dragged down, along with my socks, and Taylor's fingers trail up my legs until they reach my hips.
I'm not breathing.
She stands up, leaving me on the bed, and closes the curtain covering the window of our room just enough that every color fades to gray.
Then she comes back to the bed.
And rummages under my pillow before proferring my pajamas.
Oh.
She's getting me ready for bed. Not… you know, getting me 'ready for bed.'
Fine. I shall allow it.
She takes my underwear off, not even pausing to admire the sight offered to her (damn her stoicism, it really plays havoc with a girl's insecurities), then she helps me put on the shorts and shirt.
"Isn't it a bit early?" I halfway protest.
"It will be nice, for a change, to go to bed before three in the morning."
The tone implies she isn't even joking.
She pulls me beneath the covers, uncaring of my attempt to do it by myself because I have a migraine, but I'm still—
All right, I admit it: it's nice.
She wraps me up with the blanket, making sure it covers me up to my neck before she finishes tucking me in, and then leans down and kisses my forehead.
"Good night, Liz," she says, with all the fondness I could wish to find in her voice.
"Good night, Tay," I reply, without even thinking about adding a snarky twist to it.
Fine. She has me whipped. I don't think anybody will be shocked by this revelation.
***
Do you know what's the best part about dreaming?
Waking up to a pleasant surprise.
I… This wasn't an option not that long ago, but life has a way of throwing you right in the middle of the unexpected. Most of us settle down in almost comfortable, familiar routines. Think that's all there is, all there ever will be.
And then, one day, a leggy brunette walks into your life and…
Things change.
Unexpectedly, wildly, always on the brink of something other than what one would reasonably expect, life goes on, and it changes. And then… Well, I hope it's not too presumptuous of me to say that, as much as life changes, I have changed with it.
I'm no longer a villain. I'm no longer a slave. I'm no longer alone.
I'm free, loved, and, by the barest of margins, heroic.
So I can sleep, dream, with the relief of knowing that there may be something unexpected when I wake up, but that, lately, unexpected has worked out just fine for me.
Which is the only reason I don't flail around in sheer panic when I wake up to the feeling of someone sliding my shorts off.
[Taylor Hebert—]
Yeah. No need for the spoiler alert, Power.
I'm relaxed enough, cozy enough, that I pretend to be still asleep, because…
I don't want to ruin her fun.
So I open my eyes as little as I can, and I see an indistinct shape beneath the blankets and over my legs, and I very carefully keep my breathing steady as I feel soft, wet lips make gentle contact with my inner thigh.
I can't suppress the slight twitch, but I don't think that breaks the illusion.
Taylor's movements are gentler than usual, softer, and I know part of it it's that she doesn't want me to wake up until she's already in the middle of things, but…
There's something… Something about her being this careful with me when she thinks I don't notice…
It's sappy. It's sappy, and corny, and unbearably sentimental, but…
It makes my heart melt just that bit more.
Because I have Power. I know many things a girlfriend shouldn't, but this still is Taylor without any filters, unvarnished, thinking nobody will ever know what she's doing.
And what she chooses to do with this freedom, this moment of impunity, is to treat me gently. Lovingly.
I'm not crying…
Also, this proves hobbits are overrated. I would trust her with an invisibility ring any time.
Smaug would never forgive me. If he survived.
And yes, I'm rambling, but it's that or wallow in how overwhelmingly happy this simple gesture has made me, and she may get the wrong impression if she sees me crying like a little girl when she begins to eat me out.
[Taylor Hebert's familiarity with Lisa Wilbourn's—]
I'm not [that] emotional, Power.
Well, not usually.
But there's something about falling asleep in the arms of your lover, cradled and secured, only to wake up to her careful touches, her fingertips gliding over your legs with the delicate care of someone cradling spun glass…
Her hot breath washes over me, and I bite my lip.
She's… She's tracing every line, every sunken trace of skin between relaxed muscles, and I feel like her hands are drawing me, defining me, every touch making me more real, more hers, as if there ever could be a distinction between those two words.
And she's taking her time, not rushing, for once secure in the knowledge that we can afford this, this time for ourselves with no impending crisis that needs to be dealt with right now. She's… She's with me. Only with me, no shadows hanging over our moment. Our time.
She kisses my inner thigh again, right in the same spot that hadn't quite dried from her earlier kiss, and this time she doesn't lean back. Another kiss follows up the line of sensation that sends a quiet fire up my body.
I could burn for her, and I would only think she was making me into a phoenix.
And… Yes. Yes, it's sappy, corny, and all those other things the me from two years ago would have laughed at. The me from two months ago, even.
But she's here, with me, and that's something I can point to all my smug, judging selves of the past to make them shut up. Because it's far easier to make fun of things that are this important, this… this [sacred] when you don't have them.
Weird. Usually, my religious exclamations come when I am closer to orgasming.
I bite back a rueful laugh, because it looks like not even when I'm this open and vulnerable can I stop the sarcastic me from emerging and making light of things. I'm sure it's a survival mechanism; I wasn't this snarky before—
[Lisa Wilbourn's caustic sense of humor coping mechanism—]
I know, Power, but… It's such a big part of me, you know? Even if it was born of—
[Coping mechanisms not necessarily unhealthy.]
Right. Thanks. Still—
And I bite down [hard.]
Because it looks like Taylor's gentleness is pushing all sorts of buttons aside from the emotional ones, and now that her lips have finally reached my own…
[Damn.]
The whole situation is making me far more sensitive than I should be at this stage. It's not just the emotional vulnerability, or the sense of still being in Limbo after Coil's defeat. It's not even about the way my heart melts at everything Taylor does to take care of me without even expecting me to reciprocate (though we need to have a talk about that, because like Hell I'm letting her keep such a dangerous outlook on relationships). It's…
Okay, it's also sexual. Because trying to suppress my reactions, faking I'm still unconscious?
It makes me focus on each and every gentle circle Taylor's thumbs trace over my skin, on the way the warm air that comes out of her nose leaves twin trails of cold wetness behind, on the way my labia stretches when she licks me up with enough force, making my outer folds go taut until she releases them and she goes for another slow, deliberate, almost forceful, movement of her tongue.
So, I'm in love, relaxed, open, coddled, pampered, and trying not to moan like I'm losing my mind.
Yes, I can see why I'm [slightly] more sensitive than usual.
Taylor leans forward, her lips encircling my very exposed clitoris, and she lays a kiss on it that makes my spine tremble.
"Lisa?" Her voice comes from beneath the blankets, a soft whisper, as if she was afraid of waking me up.
My hands trail down my body until they reach gorgeous waves of dark hair. I grab them. She gasps. I [pull.]
Taylor resumes her handling of my clitoris with renewed vigor, her hair fetish once again making her lose that bit of control she always holds in reserve.
"I love you. I love you so much, Tay, you can't even imagine what you make me feel whenever you show me you may love me even a fraction as much as I do."
She grunts, trying to speak, to answer, but for once I can do it uninterrupted. So I tilt my pelvis up, my thighs around her head, and I feel every movement as silk gliding over my skin.
"And I know. I know you think you love me much more than I do, because you still can't quite believe it, after everything we've gone through. You still think we love each other, but that you don't deserve to be loved, so I must feel less for you than you do for me. And that's so wrong, so heartbreaking…"
She tries to lean back, and I hook my legs behind her, trapping her right where she is.
"Because… I've told you, haven't I? Again and again. How much I look up to you, how much courage you gave me, how desperately I needed the strength you gave me. And my life is new, and the future is bright, and everything is because of you, because you stood by my side when you didn't have to."
Taylor stops trying to wiggle out of my grasp and decides to counterattack in the only way I'm allowing her to. Her lips go back to mine, and her tongue twirls along my entrance until her [fingers] push inside me.
She… doesn't find much resistance.
I grunt, back to biting my lip to avoid something much louder, then I force myself to speak once again.
"But love isn't about debt. And I told you, didn't I? That in any other world, in one without powers or madness, I would have still wanted to meet you, to be with you, with the girl with gorgeous hair and a mind like a kaleidoscope made of diamonds. But telling is not enough. Not for you, because you've reason to distrust words, and you know how I twist them."
Her fingers are speeding up inside me, and she has found that slightly rough spot right in the middle of my passage. That alone makes me grab her abandoned pillow and bite into it as I moan as if I'm about to lose my mind, one of my hands letting go of her hair to accomplish the feat.
And that's a mistake, because Taylor promptly capitalizes on her renewed freedom of movement to latch onto my clitoris and suck on it as hard as she can while her tongue teases me from each and every direction, the change in intensity driving me wild with anticipation at every point, with the urge to know what she's going to do to my body to make it yield to her.
She drags her hand out of me, and I almost lose it at the very moment the emptiness mixes with the overwhelming pressure building up right above.
I let go of the pillow and take a deep breath.
Then I grab her hair with both hands once again.
"So, because all I have is more words to give you… Please, please, Tay, listen to these ones. Believe them."
My legs unhook, and I pull my lover up until her flushed face is staring in confusion at mine, her wide eyes barely visible in the yellow, sodium streetlight that manages to filter through our window like it did through mine what seems like a lifetime ago.
"Will you marry me?"
And her eyes widen even further, past the confusion she was feeling into outright emotional overload, her hands flying up to cover her wet mouth.
And now my lover is crying, and I, right on the verge of my peak, force myself to gently cradle her against my chest, my passion cooling as other emotions swell.
"Are you... Liz, if this is…"
I kiss her, tasting myself on her lips not for the first time, and I keep the pressure until her back softens beneath my fingers.
"I love you," I remind her.
"I… I know, you don't need to—" A gasp interrupts her protest as I pull her hair so she looks straight into my eyes, not much drier than hers.
"I want to. More clearly than I've ever wanted anything. So, Taylor Hebert, will you take me as your bride, in sickness and in health, heroism and villainy, until Death do us part."
She looks at me, still incredulous, still searching for a hint, any hint, that I'm just joking, just being my overdramatic self.
Then she kisses me, her soft lips pressing down on mine until I feel something clenched in my gut finally untangle.
"As if I would let Death ever take you from me."
And I should laugh. I really should.
But when my Taylor says it, when her eyes harden in that way they do when she has decided on a course of action that no force on this Earth will move her from…
It's far too easy to believe her.
A grin splits my face, because she's said yes, and I hadn't even planned on asking, not for years to come, if I was being sane at all, but…
She's said yes.
Power! She said yes!
[Taylor Hebert's infatuation—]
I know!
"I don't think a grin is the proper reaction to what's going on," she says, the corner of her own lips twitching with the effort not to reach back to her ears.
"I just asked you to marry me, and you accepted. That makes me the guy in the relationship. It's worth a grin."
"I never said 'yes.'"
Ah. She technically hasn't.
"It was implied."
"Yes, I can see the priest accepting implied vows. No problem with that."
"Oh, come on, Tay, you can't tell me—"
"Marry me," she does, in fact, tell me.
"What?"
"I know you. This was a spur of the moment thing for you, wasn't it?"
"Uh, whatever gave you that impression? The fact that I blurted it out while you were trying to sneakily wake me up with oral sex?"
"[Trying?"]
"Well, I decided to let you have your fun. It was heart meltingly tender."
"You condescending—"
"Not at all! It really was, I'm not being snarky!"
"You realize how snarky it sounds when you say something isn't snarky, don't you?"
"Fine, I do, but can you see these tear tracks? When have I ever been able to fake-cry?"
"Would I know if you could?"
"Taylor, I just asked for your hand in marriage. Could you drop the paranoia for just one second?"
"I also asked. You haven't said yes."
I look at her, at her smile, at eyes that have gone from determined to soft and warm. There's not much I can say to those eyes.
"Yes. I'll marry you."
Not much I can say. Asides from my whole future.
And she smiles, not even a hint of smug at having taken from me the spot of the man of the relationship (as if that would ever matter).
And I don't need Power to tell me—
[Lisa Wilbourn's and Taylor Hebert's infatuation—]
Right. Thanks, Power. Sometimes, unnecessary things are the ones we need the most.
And…
Well, this time there aren't any silk lines. She hasn't come into my room furtively, because this is, as far as I'm concerned, [our] room, and we don't need to talk about Coil other than to laugh at something that is still a bad memory, but that will soon fade and only leave the good we got out of it.
It's… It's so different from the first time we made love, from Alec interrupting with his stupid, puerile (somewhat hilarious) jokes, from…
Back then, she was free to leave, and I wasn't.
So she stayed.
And now?
I am free to leave.
And I never will.
==================
This work is a repost of my most popular fic on QQ (https://forum.questionablequesting.com/threads/wake-up-call-worm.15638/), where it can be found up to date except for the latest two chapters that are currently only available on Patreon (https://www.patreon.com/Agrippa?fan_landing=true)—as an added perk, both those sites have italicized and bolded text. I'll be posting the chapters here twice weekly, on Wednesday and Friday, until we're caught up. Unless something drastic happens, it will be updated at a daily rate until it catches up to the currently written 85 chapters (or my brain is consumed by the overwhelming amounts of snark, whichever happens first).
Speaking of Italics, this story's original format relied on conveying Power's intrusions into Lisa's inner monologue through the use of italics. I'm using square brackets ([]) to portray that same effect, but the work is more than 300k words at the moment, so I have to resort to the use of macros to make that light edit and the process may not be perfect. My apologies in advance
Also, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, Xalgeon, and aj0413. If you feel like maybe giving me a hand and helping me keep writing snarky, useless lesbians, consider joining them or buying one of my books on https://www.amazon.com/stores/Terry-Lavere/author/B0BL7LSX2S. Thank you for reading!
Wöchentlicher Energiestatus
-- Power-
Rangliste 
-- Power-
Stein