Periodical Cicadas – Chapter 2 – Suspect Gallery

[Brooke]

I hate being ignored.

"Brooke, really, we are in the classroom—"

So I kiss 'Mr. Branson' hard enough that he's forced to open his mouth, and I shove my tongue down his throat.

Ignore [this], you bastard.

Strong hands clasp around my shoulders, his rough breathing burning on my skin—

And he pushes me away.

The [bastard].

"Anyone could walk in," he says, going for the 'stern teacher' thing that may actually be believable if his phone's memory wasn't filled with my nude selfies and clips of me on my knees, slobbering on his—

Well, [there's] an idea.

With a grin, I drop down in front of my teacher, my palm flat over his very prominent bulge. I pretend to look at it with hunger before I look up into his eyes, licking my lips.

"Aren't I worth the risk?"

"Not when it's an [unnecessary] risk," he mutters. But I'm already lowering his zipper, and he isn't walking away.

Just knew it.

So I fumble inside his pants, because he's already hard enough that it takes some maneuvering to fish him out of his boxers and finally past his zipper.

And then I'm confronted with it once again.

I make sure to smile up at Seth as I grab the base of his shaft with my left hand. The way his eyes narrow as he hisses at my slow, deliberate touch, so different from the vaguely uncomfortable expression he had while I rummaged around his pants… It never fails to send a rush of heat between my legs.

And I'm wearing a short skirt, so it's easy to… freshen up.

Still looking up at him, I raise the hem of my skirt until my green panties show. Then I lower them.

He gulps. I smirk.

And I lean forward.

It's soft against my lips, more than his own when he lets them dry up, and there's a slight trace of precum that I smear over me like lip gloss. The bitter taste is something I've already gotten used to over the past few months, but he hasn't gotten used to me pretending to enjoy it, moaning as I let my tongue out to trace his slit as if gathering every last drop of a delicious cocktail.

Heh. [Cocktail.]

His hands are clenched at his sides, not knowing what to do with them, not knowing whether to grab my hair and pull on me till he's buried on my throat or—And he's looking at the door to check whether anyone's there.

Can't have that, can we?

So I open my mouth and flatten my tongue before I push forward, his cock sliding over its very own red carpet. My saliva mixes with precum into something sticky and thick that still helps him glide forward until I feel him push right against the entrance to my throat.

With long practice, I suppress the urge to gag. The key is not to be too eager, to just let him poke and prod as my tongue and hand do most of the job, because enough saliva has dribbled down to his still exposed shaft that I can jerk him off roughly without pulling on his skin. I open my mouth a bit more and I show him—him and his wide open eyes—how my long tongue peeks out from underneath him, and how I lazily, deliberately, swing it from left to right, dragging the hard point over the veins that stand out even as he throbs once, his shaft stiffening further.

I smile around him, and I slap away one hand that has gotten dangerously close to my hair while he closed his eyes in intense ecstasy.

Then I pause, and when he opens them once again I show him how my free hand, the one that isn't slowly jerking him off into my mouth, dips past my panty-line.

And into me.

I let out a moan around him, knowing perfectly well how it drives him mad whenever I do that, as I feel a slender finger part my wet lips. It's not spectacular, even if it feels good, but this isn't about coming: it's about the show.

And my adoring audience.

So I lightly trace around my opening, slathering it with the wetness I've gathered from inside me, and then set on a slow, lazy circle over my stiffening clitoris. And it feels good. Nice. Something I wouldn't mind doing for an hour straight.

But Seth's red face and loud breathing tell me quite clearly that we aren't going to have an hour.

So I tighten my lips around him and drag my head back until they're sealed around his head, then I attack him with my tongue. I swirl it around him, my cheeks sinking in whenever I suck on him as strongly as I can while my hand accelerates on his shaft, and he hunches over, his hands clenching and unclenching, desperate to grab onto something as his eyes remain nailed on mine. As they should.

Then I drag my finger particularly hard over my clit, and I let out a small yelp that is muffled by his cock, and his hands shoot forward, clasping around my neck.

And he pushes forward, his tip once again prodding at the entrance to my throat.

So I force myself to swallow around him, his cock pushing past that barrier, my breathing completely at his mercy.

My eyes flutter close, and I drive myself forward until my nose is rubbing against short, curly hair.

I moan, my hand under my panties far faster than I intended before I just plunge my fingers inside me.

And I keep still, my face mushed against his body, my breathing stopped, and my hand loudly splashing in the empty silence of the classroom.

His fingers open and I drive myself back until only the very tip of his cock remains touching my lips, and I take in a deep breath that is half badly needed air and half warm, concentrated smell of man and heat.

And I drive myself forward until my face almost slaps against his toned stomach at the stretch of skin exposed by his raised shirt.

Again.

I'm back at his tip, sitting on my heels, looking up at Seth as his fingers almost sear my neck with heat.

And I drive myself forward until I can't breathe.

My hand is a blur, the sensation driving me far closer to the edge than I expected to get as sparks of color swim around my eyes when I'm once again deprived of air.

I wonder if…

I push myself to keep my head there, my throat blocked by a thick cock, my face resting on sculpted abs, my fingers frantically diving in and out of me as my tongue takes advantage of its limited maneuverability to attack the intruder in my mouth from every available angle.

And I feel a bit drowsy, but that only makes it so much more intense, as if I am dreaming about getting face-fucked while my fingers keep spreading me apart and-

"Brooke!"

I'm back at sitting on my heels, Seth's wet, red cock right in front of my eyes, almost waving at me with its swaying motion.

I look up to see his worried face, and he opens his mouth.

So I open mine. And dive in.

Only the tip. Just the tip is past my lips as my tongue wrestles with it, as my hand races up and down his shaft, as my fingers reach as deep as they can go and rub a particular, rough spot, and—

Warm, bitter seed splashes in my mouth, Seth closing his eyes before opening them in admiration.

I swill the sticky liquid over my tongue, and feel his hand caress my cheek.

And my fingers curl.

And I cum.

I get away from his cock before I bite down on him, my body clenching and curling on itself, a dribble of semen making it past my lips and running down my chin, but I don't care. I don't care, because this is so much more than I wanted to get out of this, and oh God—

[Fuck.]

It takes me a while to come down, and, when I open my eyes, Seth is kneeling beside me, dabbing at my chin with a tissue.

So I open my mouth and show him exactly how much of his semen there still is inside, a big glob bitter on my tongue.

Then I close my mouth, swallow, and open it again.

"You are going to be the death of me…" he mutters, tired from his fading orgasm.

"Maybe, but what a way to go, right?" I answer with my customary smirk.

And he smiles, his eyes fixed on me.

As they should be.

[Jake]

"Come on, Will, you know I wouldn't do that! Why the Hell would I?!" The guy I thought was my best friend stands before me, the woods around his house not that welcoming after what he just asked me.

"Oh, I don't know, maybe because Nina wouldn't fuck you anymore? Or maybe you wanted a bigger slice of the pie?"

"Seriously? You are the one who needs the money; I'm just doing this for the thrills."

"Like the thrill of getting away with murder?" he says, eyes narrowed like he's trying to figure whether I'll keep dribbling or charge straight ahead. And it doesn't help my mood to see the very same face he puts on when playing against me being used for… [this.]

"… I'm going to punch you, Will."

"Sure, [that] will convince me you aren't a violent murderer." Oh, this is bullshit!

"Did you even [see] the body? That wasn't a violent murder; that was someone taking arts and crafts to the next level! And the bloody bastard exposed most of our blackmail material! It makes no fucking sense for me to do it!"

Will stands near a tree, his hand behind his back like I'm not supposed to know he's holding a knife just in case, because that's the kind of guy he is: always prepared, never letting feelings get in the way of what he thinks must be done.

Fuck him. He still put it inside Nina while his mopey girlfriend was giving him the cold shoulder. Not so unflappable, are you, Will?

"You know what I haven't heard you say since we started our little talk, Jake?" he says with a low voice that I bet makes him feel all cool and manly.

"What?" I spit, wishing I had my own knife on me.

"That you [didn't] kill her."

And, as if that was proof enough of whatever he thinks is going on, he turns around and walks away.

And yes, I can see his knife strapped behind his back.

Fucking asshole.

[Audrey]

Being Noah's best friend can be trying at times.

"Out first cape villain, and it's a slasher serial killer! Isn't that cool?"

Like now, for instance.

"Somebody died, twerp. Even if it was Nina." Because fuck that bitch. Except not, because I may like girls, but I don't do harpies.

Much less dead ones.

"Well, of course. It wouldn't be much of a slasher if she didn't."

I resist the urge to facepalm, and I smack him over the head instead because why should I suffer when the culprit is in my reach? He has the gall to shoot me a betrayed look over his shoulder, but keeps fiddling with whatever is on his computer. Really, this is usually the point where I lie down on his bed and start reading something because I just know he's about to go on one of his "researching" sprees.

"Why are you so sure it's a slasher, anyway? He could've just hated Nina."

And he smiles the smile that he puts on when he's about to give a lecture. Great, what have I unleashed this time?

"Well, of course he did. That much was clear when he used her to give his opening statement!"

"Statement? That Nina was a slut, and half the town should get an STD test?"

"That may have been a footnote, but no." He must really be into this; the Virgin hasn't even stuttered at my comment. "You see, Nina's display reminded me of something. It was artful, the corpse of a young woman used almost like a statue, like something to be admired… But art is not only used for aesthetic values: it's also a way to send a message."

"The message being that there's a crazed killer going around, and he likes to have some jerk-off material?"

Once again, he ignores my attempts at riling him up and turns back to his computer, where a mouse click shows me an open tab.

On the screen, a red-headed woman with a gorgeous brocade and tulle dress is floating down a river. She's covered with colorful flowers, her expression weirdly detached, unfocused. Something makes it quite clear this is no ordinary watery tart.

Also, her pose…

Before I can actually process what I'm seeing, Noah starts going off on one of his long-winded explanations.

Kinda used to it, by this point.

"[Ophelia], by John Everett Millais. The painting shows the character from Hamlet—"

"I know who Ophelia is, doofus."

"Right, right, but let me get into my groove, pretty please?" And he actually puts on his puppy eyes. And they work.

I hate that they work.

"Fine. Go ahead, illustrate the unwashed masses," I scoff.

"Unwashed? I can say your natural fragrance is subtle enough that I would've never guessed." He smiles. And I smack him.

Really, sometimes I think he just enjoys it.

"Anyway, Ophelia is many things, but she mostly is innocent, a victim. The death of her father and Hamlet's fake madness drive her to a very real one, and, out of grief, she commits suicide. She is, therefore, in some way, killed by her lover, through her love. And now we have this painting: she's beautiful, integrated with nature, the splash of color contrasting yet melding with the greenery around the water, her own subdued tones giving her an almost ethereal, nymph-like quality, as Hamlet himself called her. She's a creature of water, and the flowers laid on her corpse exalt her return to nature, to peace.

"And then we have Nina.

"Nina doesn't commit suicide, isn't a victim of her love. No, her corpse is also treated as something beautiful, to be admired, yet instead of flowers, we have pictures. Lurid pictures showing how far away Nina is from Ophelia's innocence. The corpses are posed in exactly the same manner, the splashes of color are similar, yet we don't have a return to nature, but a spread of sin. Our slasher shows us the contrast between innocence and debauchery, between nature and technology, between a victim and… whatever he thinks Nina is."

And it makes sense. Of course it does. Because if someone should be able to get into the head of a crazed killer, it should be Noah.

And doesn't that say something about my taste in friends?

That it's awesome. I have an awesome taste in friends. Fuck you, dad.

"So, we are looking for someone who was wronged by Nina. That should be a short list."

"Bisexual? What do you mean 'we' are looking?"

"Seriously?" I turn his chair so he looks straight at—not the boobs [again], Noah. It gets tiresome to pretend I don't notice. "You are already obsessed with this, and you aren't going to get killed by yourself while I'm around."

"I'm not going to get myself killed!" He has the temerity to pout at that.

God, must… resist…

Fuck it.

I ruffle his hair, and his frown deepens.

"Sure you aren't, Noah. Sure you aren't."

He grumbles a bit more as he tries to pretend he dislikes it, then finally looks up at me when I give it a rest.

"Don't you want to hear my speech about how the Brandon James mask is a declaration of war on the whole town and the sins it tries to hide beneath its public façade of respectability that has been smashed by the photos on Nina's body?"

"… Seriously? After giving me the full synopsis?"

"Ah." He blushes and scratches the back of his neck. "Sorry."

"Don't worry, Virgin. At least you should be safe from the tropetastically puritanical serial killer."

"Rub it in, why don't you."

"No, if I did you wouldn't be safe anymore," I say while smirking down at him.

This time he [does] get flustered.

I shouldn't enjoy this half as much as I do. I blame mom.

She never let me get a puppy.

[Emma]

When mom comes home, I'm waiting for her in the living room instead of being with my friends, offering support, or whatever it is I am supposed to do.

"Any clues?" I ask her. And I know it's the wrong thing to ask after she has seen that mask, but I cannot stop thinking about—

"It's an open case, honey; I shouldn't discuss it with you." And she looks [so] tired.

So I get up and hug her. Then I drag her to the sofa.

We rest there for just a few moments, mom cradling me against her shoulder while I caress her blonde hair.

"Were you two close?" she asks with a small, almost afraid tone.

"No." And I feel guilt at the admission, but Nina… she was what she was, and even after her death I can't bring myself to think better of her. "No, Nina was cruel, she… I don't think she was actually close to anyone. She was part of the group, almost the leader, but… But mostly because we feared her? I think. I still am mad at what she did to Audrey."

"That… was bad. Do you think—"

"No!" I lean back, and her hands fall on her lap as she looks at me with wide eyes. "No, Audrey would never—"

And I think about Audrey. [Really] think about her.

My former best friend. The geeky girl who got left behind when I joined the popular crowd. The one obsessed with horror movies and gruesome paraphernalia, who always hangs out with Noah, a guy who obviously shares her interests. A girl who's always holding back her rage at her parents, the world, [me]…

A girl whose girlfriend disappeared after Nina publicly outed them.

But… She wouldn't, would she?

"Honey," mom's hand is warm on my shoulder. I don't know how long I've been staring at my lap, "you know trigger events mess people up. If you think Audrey was under so much stress that she—"

"I don't think so. No. Not Audrey. Even if she did, she wouldn't do it that way."

Mom purses her lips, as if deciding whether to push me on this. Thankfully, she doesn't.

But now it's my turn to ask her something uncomfortable, because there was that [mask].

"Mom…. Do you think dad—"

"No."

Her tone is sharp, definitive, and her eyes are hard. And I'm glad. But I still need her to explain.

"There was the mask, and he's the only cape in town—"

"That we know of. He's managed to stay hidden all these years, there's no reason somebody else wouldn't manage to do the same thing."

"But, the mask—"

"A morbid thing. Somebody claiming a brand. A way to tie this up with Lakewood's history." She seems to be gearing up for a tirade, but then takes a deep breath and looks at me with more kindness. "Emma, your dad was innocent back then, and he's innocent now. You know he only wants what's best for you."

And she's unshakeable on that belief. But she's a woman in love, and he's my dad, so I cannot trust either of us to be right about him. Because we love him, and he loves us, and I would never want to believe either him or Audrey—

Oh.

I really messed that one up, didn't I?

[Tyler]

I hate my new body.

I was always the nerd, the guy who played with computers, bad at sports, and then puberty decided to hit me with the magic wand.

I suddenly had a body like a professional jock, and that got me a hot girlfriend, an in with the popular crowd. Things were good.

And now…

Short. A dwarf. Misshapen.

Still strong, more than ever.

But so much dumber.

I can feel, sometimes, the way thoughts slow down, the way memories slip as the new shape takes over and I'm reduced…

Reduced. Heh.

That's the whole point, isn't it?

To reduce me. To make me… [this.]

Better than what Nina got, at least.

The stupid, dumb, cruel, [whore].

…

I never thought I would miss her so much.

I wonder if I'll miss the rest of them after everything's over?

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