by Jade Alters
“Anyone down here at the end of visiting hours…” I hear the gaoler chanting already as he rounds the corner.
“We know, we know,” I tell him as Emery and I make our way back to the stairs. While we return to our rooms and classes, Darius remains locked in iron, beneath the Academy.
Human Touch
Bryant,
The Broken Academy, D-Wing
Supernatural-Human Dynamics. Now there’s a class I could use. I suppose Fey Rorelia was always more concerned with me getting control of myself first, before getting to know myself was even on the table. I suppose she could also have been preoccupied with her Kyrie agenda, in hindsight. Now that my caseload has passed to one of the other Councilmembers, all of whom are swamped with the VampKing and Fey Rorelia’s students, the inner-workings of my person have taken just as much of a backseat. To everyone besides Cece, that is. It seems to be a never-ending source of wonder for her.
It’s that reason that brings me to the outside of this particular classroom. Inside, students of the Academy listen to attempts at integration of Shadewalkers, Vampires and Dragons into the normal human population. Successes and failures are shared in equal measure, with detailed explanations. I wonder in what sort of integration my mother met my father. He was deemed too dangerous by the Academy to remain in this Realm. He’s long since been returned to Hell. How then, was he able to conceive a child with a human woman? If he was more destructive than even I was, when they imprisoned me beneath the Academy, how did my mother handle him?
I think about her more, now. Ever since Cece and I got talking about my heritage. About my origin. Once she takes an interest in certain things about me, it always strikes me that I never wondered the same thing. My mother… Was she frightened of me? Was she concerned I would be just like my father? Did she even survive labor? I can’t imagine the agony of a human body ejecting a Demon one.
These thoughts would never have crossed my mind when I first began classes at the Broken Academy. I was always just happy to be out of my cell. To see life in a new light, free of the destructive urges that drive many Demons at their core. Hell seems like such a distant memory now, almost like another life. That Realm and this one couldn’t work more differently. Destruction and creation were forms of art there, eternally intertwined. An innate understanding of how purely infinite everything is prevents Demons from forming what humans would call “civilization”, but also enables communities of them to erect and manipulate natural formations beyond this Realm’s understanding. The endless cycle of matter through its many forms is illustrated bare for all to see and enjoy in Hell. How confusing this was to humans is evident in what they decided to name it. The home of the Devil. And us Demons, his many servants. Ridiculous. Hell has no political structure.
“Bryant!” Cece snaps me out of my trance as she comes through the classroom door. I was so “zoned out” as she calls it, I forgot why I was lurking outside Supernatural-Human Dynamics in the first place. “Right, our date!” Cece remembers at the same time I do.
“Is something wrong?” I interpret from her tone. But the smile on her lips answers me faster than the words they form.
“Just surprised, is all. Sorry I forgot,” Cece tells me.
“Good surprise?” I test what I’ve learned.
“Good surprise,” Cece nods. She squeezes her hand under my arm and pulls me close to her side. As per her instruction, I wore my Academy polo with longer sleeves, so she could hold on to me without worrying about a corruption rash. I count the seconds as she leads me on down the D-Wing hallway. Six… Seven… That’s it. That’s the longest any human has ever touched me for. It’s oddly warm – even more oddly comfortable. The muscles under my dark outer bark begin to relax in her hold.
“What purpose does a date serve?” I ask when we’re about halfway to our destination, the courtyard. As is typical between us, Cece laughs, though I’ve intended no humor. I do, however, finally understand that it’s extremely uncommon for other humans to ask such things. Even if I don’t find them very funny, I rarely withhold my questions, just to hear her laugh. “And how does it differ from simply two friends eating together?”
“It’s a mutual expression of romance between two peo- er- beings.” Cece corrects herself. It seems I’m not the only one learning. I’ve pointed out to her many times that “people” is hardly an appropriate pronoun for Demons or Fey. “And it’s different because…well, it’s implied. Two friends can eat together without any promise of a more intimate relationship. A date has a different feeling to it.” Damn the humans and their implications. Anything implied is the bane of my understanding. I’ve found the best way for me to internalize the feelings that come with implications is simply to memorize them.
“Does this not perform the same function as kissing?” I ask. Cece’s sharp glance over her shoulders reminds me that such topics are not entirely appropriate to be spoken at full volume, in public. I lean in close to her to muffle my next words. “We’ve kissed many times to express romantic intent,” I remind her. The sensation is one deeply ingrained in my demonic brain for how very different it is from others. For just a few seconds before she has to draw away, Cece’s tongue massages the side of my own. Her lower lip sweeps between mine. Part of another being, one with my own. I’m never sure exactly what it is, but it always makes me feel something. “I fail to see the purpose of accommodating both.”
“Well…” Cece whispers back as she leads me into the courtyard, “There are different kinds of kisses. The kind we do is more spontaneous. It’s romance driven by passion and impulse. There’s a different kind of romance, too, that humans often share. The kind that implies commitment.”
“And a date…expresses that kind of romance?” I reason.
“Yes, in a way. It’s like a social contract. We agree to meet somewhere and be romantic in some way. Whether it’s getting to know one another, kissing, or…something more. With each date we both agree to go on, it’s more…consistent, which is important to most people. Then you’re in the next step. Dating,” Cece hums. She pulls me along by the arm through the closely-packed lines of flowerbeds to the center of the courtyard. She wraps a hand around both of mine and swings around to face me. She should know by now that she can’t hold them for long, but she doesn’t seem to care. She swings our arms together like a human child. My rocky lips awaken to curl up at the sight.
“And…is that what we’re doing? Taking the next step?” I ask.
“Oh, Bryant,” Cece sighs, “you don’t have to get so caught up in traditional human courtship.” Those last three words she dices up like the most boring phrase extracted from a dry lesson. “I’ve told you this before. Our relationship is pretty far from traditional.”
“Yes…but we are on a date,” I remind her. Cece plays with my fingers a little more before she swings her arms out. This pulls us closer together. I feel her breasts spread out across me as she puts her lips on the side of my jaw. Her soft tissue on my stony exterior jostles the muscle beneath.
“I haven’t forgotten,” Cece whispers. She lets go of my hands just before her skin begins to corrupt, and hooks my arm again. She leads me across the cushion of soft grass, between rows of bursting flower petals. The colors seem somehow more vibrant than they did even this morning. Perhaps this is what she meant by a different feeling?
“Have you been on dates with Lee and Serge?” I blurt out. The empty space inside me where those words resided feels like a vacuum in my chest, threatening to make me collapse. I’ve hardly ever spoken such a way, without first considering every word like Fey Rorelia taught me. I didn’t think. I just spoke. Where did it come from? Cece turns back to me with a look that only deepens my regret. Down-curled lips. Wrinkled forehead. I’ve upset her.
“Does that bother you?” Cece asks. But she doesn’t sound angry, or even irritated. It’s that look that alerts me to what’s happened inside myself. Why I spoke so candidly. Am I upset?
“I…wouldn’t say so
,” I decide, after considering all the factors. “The social contract we share isn’t exclusive. Correct? This is something partners discuss, to set parameters?”
“Co-correct,” Cece seems struck by how well I remember what she explained to me several weeks ago.
“We’ve never discussed being exclusive,” I tell her, “so no. I’m not upset.” I even force a little smirk to convince her, something I could never have done even last year. Cece lets out a long breath that lets me know she believes me. After all, I don’t find Serge or Lee unpleasant company. Above all, if it means tainting our first date, I won’t say a word more. “Where…are we going?” I ask, when I realize we’ve crossed the entire courtyard. Cece tugs my arm off towards the maintenance shed in the corner of the courtyard.
“Somewhere more private,” Cece murmurs, “for your lesson of the day.” I can tell from her tone that she’s trying to avoid attention. I creep along behind her with silently rolling heels to the outer perimeter of high shrubs that encloses the courtyard. Cece leads me through the space between them and the maintenance shed. Here, tucked in this back corner, we’re completely invisible to the last students lingering to eat their lunch outside. Just as soon as we’re out of sight, Cece grabs my shoulders and presses my back against the shed. I can see in her eyes it’s not a form of aggression, so I stay still. “How do Demons make love, Bryant?” she asks, eyelids fluttering halfway over her eyes.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” I tell her. I’ve heard the phrase before, but I’m not well-acquainted with its meaning. “How does one create a feeling?”
“No… Sexual pleasure. Arousal. Breeding. If two Demons were going to procreate, how would they?” Cece translates for me.
“Two Demons create a new Demon by joining their physical forms. In old age, particles become scarce and a Demon can either break apart into two new smaller life forms or join with a mate to become a new full-size lifeform,” I explain. The wideness of Cece’s eyes tells me this isn’t exactly what she had in mind. “But…my mother was human, and my father was returned to Hell. So I believe there is a form of sexual intimacy we can share.”
“Without…absorption?” Cece gulps.
“Yes,” I tell her. I sweep a tuft of her hair back behind her ears, something I’ve seen her do herself for calm. The effect on her is even greater from my fingers. She cocks her head to the side and smiles at the touch.
“Alright…well, let’s start with this,” Cece says. She slides her hands halfway down my arms. “Let me show you…the places a woman likes to be touched.” With expert dexterity, she pilots my hands to where they need to go. My stony palm glides up the cloth of her shirt, over the curved mountaintop of her breast. She uses her palm to walk my fingers through a squeezing maneuver. “Keep squeezing… If you feel like you want to do something with them, do it.”
“Alright,” I say. I search deep within myself for anything. An instinct. An urge. I slide my palms around the outside of Cece’s breast, out then back into the center. I feel her stimulated nipple poke through two layers of fabric, ever-so-lightly against me. I trap it lightly between my forefinger and thumb. A tiny gasp jumps from Cece’s lips.
“It’s alright… It’s good,” she assures me, when I stop in a panic. “I’ll tell you if you’re hurting me.” I resume the lightest pinch while Cece takes my other arm in her hands. She wraps this one around the back of her hips. “You’ve got big hands…which is good. Try to fit as much of one buttcheek in- oh!” Cece chirps when I grasp on. Where did that come from? I wonder. It was like my hand knew before my mind did. Without being told. I use my grip on her butt to pull Cece’s waist into mine.
“Is that…alright?” I ask.
“Better than alright…” Cece whispers. Her head hangs down next to mine, almost on my chest. “Go under my shirt, it feels even better.” My hand falls to Cece’s stomach and sweeps up her shirt. Her nipple stabs through her smooth bra into my flickering grasp. Every light turn of her breast sends tremors through Cece I savor against my plated skin. “Now…” Cece reaches behind to grab my hand from her butt. She relocates it around the side of her thigh. She unfolds two of my fingers against the center of her athletic shorts. “You feel that?” She pulls my fingers up, between the lips of a bulging channel. “That little bump at the top? Rub that,” she tells me. At my first performance of the instruction, Cece’s hands tighten around the back of my neck. She presses against me, and lets out a long, high note in my ear. She hasn’t told me it hurts, so it must be a song of pleasure.
I slide my finger down and in for another pass. Each one vibrates Cece’s frame. Each one encourages another as she presses up into me. I cup my palm around the curve of her vagina. I slide it in and down, then press up hard. Cece’s back rolls against the maintenance shed as she squirms from my touch. It’s a show to behold. The touch that disassembles and creates in such a way that humans can only interpret as “corruption”, also draws sounds of pleasure from the lips of a woman. It pulls her into me. It awakens a sensation in my own body I’ve never felt before. Excitement, untied to a particular event. Physical excitement. I feel it in my chest. I feel it race up and down my spine. I feel it between my legs when Cece pushes into me.
Then I push back. I pin her against the shed with my chest, firm but gentle. I hold her there while I rub her little bulbs of pleasure, one on her chest, one between her legs. Cece turns her flushed cheeks up to me. She puts her lips between mine. Their strangely pure vulnerability mush warmly between my own armored counterparts. Once I felt like I might break her, if I let myself feel it all. If I let myself try. And Cece Ford is the one thing in this world I never want to break. Nothing built from her atoms could be quite as beautiful.
I’m not worried anymore. I’m too entranced by the overwhelming touch of every part of her. The transformation of her body, stiffening, loosening and flopping in a way I didn’t know humans were so fluid. It’s all too much for me at the moment to focus on anything but how ultimately good it feels. The excitement heightens between my legs.
“Do you…feel anything?” Cece moans as her hips sway back and into me again.
“I do,” I tell her. “I couldn’t tell you what it is, because I’ve never felt it before.”
“Hm, good,” Cece laughs. Our mouths lock together again. But, in the short time I pulled away to answer her, my eyes caught something. Something powerful enough to break through even this new sensation. A little branch of discoloration spreads from Cece’s lip into her cheek. It climbs and spreads like the rapidly moving roots of a tree.
“Cece,” I murmur to let her know.
“Not yet,” Cece moans. “Don’t stop.” My hesitant hand twitches back into motion between her legs. It tightens the hold of Cece’s hand around my neck like a switch. Her other hand crawls down my plated frame, to the center of excitement between my legs. The pressing glide of Cece’s hand up and down the center of my uniform spreads tingles through my waist and gut. She mashes her lips into mine, pulling back only to tell me, “Faster!” My finger flicks double time.
The oh that she sings in my ear is almost enough to send me over an edge I didn’t know existed. Muscles tense between my legs, just beneath where Cece rubs. I almost mimic the sound she’s making as I rise up on my toes for some reason. I feel something rising up, like the bodily equivalent of the sun cresting an enormous mountain. Just before the burst of color, someone says:
“Oh! Sorry… I didn’t mean to… Oh God.” Cece pulls back from me to scream:
“Bart!” With the stop of her hand, the sun sets again behind the mountains inside me. She doesn’t let go of me completely, but her grasp shifts to less intimate parks of my body. Cece hangs herself from my neck. For once, I read the implications. We shouldn’t be doing this where other people can stumble upon us. I pull away to let Cece away from the shed. As soon as I do, I’m flooded with the most concentrated dose of regret I’ve ever experienced.
The entire right side of Cece’s face is r
ippled with black roots. Her eye on that side is tinged brighter blue, like a radiated gemstone. At the retreat of my lips, the dark stains of corruption begin to shrink and dissipate. I look away. I can’t stand to see what I did to her. What I would have done, if Bart hadn’t intervened. I can tell at least part of him is genuinely embarrassed, because his face matches Cece’s. But where hers is flushed, Bart’s is pale.
“I swear I didn’t… I asked Stephanie where you were and I… Well, you’re the ones playing rough behind the maintenance shed in the courtyard!” he declares.
“No… I didn’t-”
“It’s okay, Bryant,” Cece calms me with a hand on my rocky shoulder, “You didn’t do anything wrong.” How she can look at me with such genuine kindness and say that, I haven’t the slightest idea. Her face almost makes me believe it. It undergoes a frighteningly dramatic shift when she turns to Bart. “You asked Stephanie where I was? Besides being creepy- hello? Invasive? I’m sure she told you I was on a date!”
“She did,” Bart admits with both hands up in surrender. “And under any normal circumstances, I’d have left you alone.”
“But what?” Cece counters. “What unusual circumstance brings us together today, Bartholomew?” Bart frowns at the jab of his full name.
“Dragonlord Thise sent me. She has a mission for us.” The sound of the Dragonlord’s name acts as a safeword, a reminder that we are all on the same team, romantic interruptions aside. It cools some of the brimstone smoldering between the two.
“Us…like you and I?” Cece asks.
“The very same,” Bart confirms. Cece and I let out a long sigh together. We both know what it means. She turns to me with a somber tint in those giant blue eyes that hold all the consolation I could ask for.
“Reschedule?” Cece asks. When I look at her straight on, though, a flash of black roots jumps across her face from my memory. It takes a few blinks to dispel the illusion. The only thing worse than remembering what my touch did is seeing her frown at my hesitation.
