“If there's one difference I have noticed between the proverbial Us and Them,” I muse out loud, “it's that while they're entitled to their temper tantrums and the occasional mass execution, we've always been expected to sit back and take our abuse and eventual genocide with smiles on our faces. Like good little minorities, who dare to dampen their otherwise perfectly-groomed world. You aren't the only one to realize we can't all sit by and remain victims, even if you're the first one to say it.”
“Well, unfortunately, as I already pointed out,” Penny counters, “many of us turn into the very monsters we aim to destroy. We don't go down as martyrs—not in our own minds anyway, and definitely not in the history books. We go down as murderers.”
“You’re not a murderer, Penny,” I argue, taking it personally for some reason. “And nobody would ever remember you as one.”
“I hope not. I really, really hope not.” Penny leans against the door of the van, helpless in the thought of future generations thinking poorly of her, and all I can think when I look at her is what's wrong with me and I am so out of my depth and Oliver, no. No more waiting. No more putting it off.
“Penny,” I say. “Come here?”
“Oliver?” There's confusion on her face, and I want to wash it away. I want to replace it with what other guys give her—that mischievous smirk, ablaze with lunacy.
I want what she has with Duncan. But with her, not with Duncan. That's a first for me too. Before her? I thought the only gender I was into was strictly my own, and the only bodies that turned me on were like mine but twice the muscle and mass.
Now, I know that's not the case. Penny has reprogrammed my entire system. The way she's so passionate about our work, her fiery independent spirit, how protective she is of all of us. I want her to know how much that means to me. How much she means to me.
Just eat her out, OP, that's how you show a bird you love them, my mind says sarcastically, in Alfie's voice. I ignore it, because I know exactly what I want to do to her. I want to make her feel good, give her something. She's always giving to the rest of us, and now it's her turn to receive. Orgasms are a good gift, right? Alfie would definitely say so.
She comes closer and I take her by the hand.
“Here,” I say, and tug her down to the couch. She follows me to sit, a curious expression in her eyes.
“Oliv—”
I cut her off with a kiss, the way I like it when guys kiss me. Firm, severe, unrelenting. Her eyes widen in surprise and then fall shut and she leans into me, her lips parting under mine with a moan. She's soft in a way guys aren't, and my pulse is in my throat, my hands trembling as I wrap them around her slender hips. She's so warm, and I shiver, wanting to tug her right into my lap. But I'm thinking up other possible plans, further south then where my mouth is at current.
“Shhh,” I urge her, when I pull away from our kiss reluctantly. If she says anything I might lose my nerve. But I need this. I want to taste her, watch her shiver and shudder, all because of me.
It's complicated, when you want to make love to someone's mind and body at the same time, because she's just as beautiful on the inside as she is on the outside. Maybe that's how she got under my skin, getting me with her quick wit, catching me off guard when I realized I'd fallen in deeper with her than I'd ever thought possible. I plant a trail of nervous kisses across her jaw, listening for the way her breathing speeds up as I work my way down her neck.
I can feel the hesitation in her, like she wants to ask me what's going on, but doesn't want to interrupt me. She's right on the knife edge of needing to know, and also enjoying the mystery.
“Can I make you feel good?” I ask, my mouth hovering an inch away from the neckline of her shirt. She swallows hard and then nods, a short, sharp movement. Excitement churns in my stomach. “Lay down,” I tell her, and she eyes me with anticipation as she lays back.
I'm trying not to breathe hard through my mouth like an idiot, my hands running down her slight curves and honed muscle tone. She sucks in a lungful of wet air, my thumbs stroking along the bare skin where her shirt lifts up her stomach. I push the fabric up and bend down, letting my tongue curl out to lick a flat line along her tense muscles.
She exhales, her hand going to cup the back of my head. That's familiar, the thread of fingers through my hair. My eyes shut. This is like going down on a guy, but… but better. It's new, it's Penny, and I'm shaking so hard I can barely get her pants down around her hips.
“Oliver?”
“Please don't say anything or I'll—”
I'll lose my nerve. I'll run away. I'll avoid you for another five months, until we both nearly die again. I want this so bad that my body hurts, every inch of me aching. I've nearly lost everything, nearly destroyed everything good in my world. This could make it better. I can supplicate at her altar, and hopefully come out clean, new, purified. I'm not the same Oliver I was, but this new version of myself is incomplete. I need to make myself whole. I need to fix the parts of my world that I glossed over before. I need her, to make her feel good, to make her know how much I need her and want her.
She lifts her hips, helping me, and I go right in for it, dragging her panties right down with her shorts. My breath catches. Women are incredible. That's all I can think. The soft furl of her labia, covered in dark, downy-soft curls, and the curve of her thighs hiding the rest of her from my gaze.
I let out a noise, more of a moan, and slide my fingers over her. She moans, her hips pressing up to meet my seeking touch. Warmth radiates off her skin, warmth, and a hint of wetness as my fingers split the soft folds of her pussy.
Without another moment's hesitation, because life has already been filled with far too many obstacles for me to count, I dip my head, breathe over her, breathe in that earthy-honey scent of her, and slick my tongue over her wet, trembling flesh.
Penny groans, her fingers tightening in the hair at the back of my head, and I close my eyes. It tastes so good, hot and heavy on my tongue as I lick into her deep. It's exactly what I wanted, better than I ever imagined. A frisson of energy runs through all of my muscles as I stroke her slowly, teasing her labia apart so I can lick at every inch of her.
Minutes seem to stretch out as I tease her, learning what parts of her are more sensitive. Gaining my confidence. The edge of her clit, when I flick it, seems to drive her crazy, and she's marking up the back of my neck with her nails. I'll have crescent-shaped indents after this is over, and that idea makes me smirk and shiver against her.
I'm pushing her towards an end goal, to hear the noises she makes when she comes, her thighs trembling as she does. Slowly, determined, unrelenting, I focus on just making her feel good. She's gasping my name, her hips giving small, abortive little pulses toward me, like she doesn’t know if she should let it all go and just feel everything I'm giving her.
“Penny, you taste so good…” I tell her, knowing that some girls can be sensitive about that kind of thing. She moans in response, her fingers brushing the back of my neck affectionately. My heart squeezes hard and I lick into her hard, teasing down over her entrance before suckling firmly on her clit. Her muscles tense, thighs shaking, and I do it again, and again until she lets out a low cry, a tremble rocking right through her.
A quiet echo of her body's euphoria races through me, and I gaze up at her, resting my head on her thigh. I give her pussy an idle little pet with my fingers, tempted to see if I can get her through another one of those because she sounds so beautiful when she comes and I want to see her face when she does, but—
I swallow hard. This about her. Not me.
“Penny?” I whisper, as her shivers start dying down. Her face is flushed. Her skin is slick.
“C'mere,” she mumbles, airlessly, and she tugs at my hair, pulling me up the length of her body. I kiss her softly, my frame slotting alongside hers. “What was that for?” she gasps, her breath shallow.
“Thank you?” I shrug a little and give her a sheepish grin. “For saving my butt?�
��
She rolls her eyes, snorting a laugh against my skin.
“You muppet,” she purrs, the breadth of her affection clear as a still reflection in her voice. “It was my turn. Now we’re even.” Then, her mouth seeks out mine again, and there's nowhere else I would rather be, and no one else rather be with.
Epilogue
I'm walking on sunshine.
I never thought of that as anything more than a cliche or an annoying old lyric from long before my time. But now, I think I finally understand it.
Each step is cushioned, as if I'm planting my feet directly on sand, or silk. Or soft, fluffy clouds. Each breeze that blows by me ruffles my hair and my clothes pleasantly, no longer retaining its painfully wet and icy winter qualities. My brain is fogged with satisfaction, and it almost literally changes the lens through which I see the world.
Considering everything we've just endured, I think to myself, leaning against my van and surveying the hillside. It's not been a bad Hallowe'en at all, really. The convoy has made itself at home here, and while we will need to move on soon to avoid attracting unwanted attention, a couple days of normalcy while we recover from Elder Beaumont's betrayal is in order. For all of our sanity.
The sun is sinking, starting to meld into the treeline of the horizon. The sky is splattered with a mess of pinks and reds and oranges, warm and clear overhead. For the first time in a long time, I don't immediately equate the color to blood.
Change can be a good thing, I acknowledge, with a firm nod of my head. In many more ways than we first assume. And perhaps, if Juniper and Alfie truly see something in Novanism, it would be worth my while to expand my mind, open my heart, and try to learn a thing or two. Especially if, according to some bizarre fortune telling, my whole reason for being here may be related to the Sun Mother in some way.
I'm about to jog down the hill to join the rest of the convoy for supper when something causes the short, sensitive hairs at the nape of my neck to stand up on end.
Someone's there.
Aware of the thin core of ice chilling my bloodstream, I face the reality that I will eventually have to turn around. I inhale deeply. My hand goes to the pocket of my shorts, where several lug nuts are still wedged for safekeeping. For moments just like this one.
I whirl around on the spot, drawing my hand back with a single nut gripped between my fingers. My body hums with energy as I focus my Magick. But who I see standing there stuns me enough that I drop my makeshift artillery soundlessly to the grass, along with the bottom of my jaw.
It can't be…
At the apex of the hill with his back against the setting sun, a familiar suited figure stands, hands clasped politely and professionally in front of him. Dark, rich eyes stare out at me from pale, stony skin, beneath silvery locks of hair. Even at a distance, I can feel the signature chill coming off of his skin.
“Two days late, by my watch,” Illiam announces with a chuckle, spreading his arms out for me, as if expecting me to rush into them. “But alas, my dear. Better late than never.”
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About the Author
CIARÁN (n) [KEER-ehn] a funny little British bloke; you probably met him at a con one time
MUCH TO HIS AMUSEMENT, he’s been compared in the past to David Bowie, Tony Stark, Joan Jett, Ramona Flowers, Gerard Way, and Tank Girl – but I.R.L., we all know him as Ciarán James Strange, an eccentric and powerful LGBTQ+ artist who blends pop sensibilities, dynamic rock guitars, and high-energy live shows into his own brand of geeky pop-punk. At seventeen, he left his family, friends, and little English fishing village behind in order to chase his dreams to Vancouver, BC, where he now resides indulging in his passion for many different facets of performance including music, writing, voice-acting, acting, vlogging, and pro-wrestling.
ciaranstrange.com
Blaze of Heroes Page 14
