Wake-up Call – Chapter 94

"This is all your fault," I say to a still-blushing Taylor.

She of the anti-Thinker measures looks at me with a stony, inflectionless look only betrayed by her dilated capillaries and holds my gaze.

My clearly unimpressed, completely deadpan gaze.

Then she cracks.

"I wasn't expecting [that]," she says, sitting on my bed and burying her face in her cupped hands.

"And that's why I'm the Thinker, sweetie," I tell her in the most patronizing way I'm able.

It's… quite patronizing.

I've had practice.

A honed craft.

A [signature move].

It may account for Taylor glaring at me through her fingers while I keep patting her shoulder in a way that somebody with no Thinker rating could believe to be reassuring.

And yes, that's taking into account that [absolutely everyone] has a Thinker rating. Heck, [Amy], the least insightful human being this side of the Hebert household, has a Thinker rating. [Piggot] has a Thinker rating.

…

Piggot has a Thinker rating.

I think I need a shower.

"You're thinking something that will make me mad," the still mortified girl sitting beneath me—as in, she's sitting and I'm standing, so she's beneath me, no matter how long her legs are—tells me with resentment that struggles to gain ground on blushing cheeks and unsure lips.

"I'm thinking that Piggot has a Thinker rating, and that makes me feel like I need a shower. I would say there's absolutely no way for you to turn that into something to be mad about, but I know you better than that," I calmly enunciate.

"… This is your way not to think about Alec's diatribe, isn't it?" she ends up saying, holding my gaze for a few seconds before relenting and burying her face back in her hands.

Like a [coward].

"I don't know what you're talking about," I say, like somebody very brave and perfectly willing to face reality.

"The thing about paying to soundproof your room—"

"No clue. It's a mystery. Not even Power knows what you're trying to allude to."

[Taylor Hebert's reference to earlier conversation with Alec—]

Shut up.

"Then he had the gall to say he would gladly draw me a diagram of where your nerves light up when I—"

"Shut up. Shut up, please, shut up," I say, perfectly dignified and not at all on the verge of having the tips of my ears set on fire.

"Brian blushed! I thought he was too dark to blush! Oh, shit, is that racist—"

"Don't. Don't let those thoughts start; there's just no end to them."

"What the Hell are you thinking that you have to constantly ask if you're racist?!"

I blink at her.

She glares at me.

… Cute.

"Well, for starters…" I say, trying to come up with—[Hannah—]oh, right. Thanks, Power. "I had a very similar thought about a very cutely blushing, bashful Miss Militia that was… You know."

She does.

Of course she does.

And the softening of her glare coincides with my levity dropping as I once again think back to Colin trapped inside his own skull.

Because… That's the thing, isn't it? I can do everything right to distract myself, but it's still there. Waiting. Lurking. Just… Just on the other side of any random thought and memory that can be indirectly related to the man that should be here and isn't.

Well, not [here]. As much as I want to see him back on his feet? My bedroom when Tay has offered me an oil massage is not precisely the scene I had in mind for him to walk into.

After all, I'm sinuously anti-straight, but Tay is, very likely, cosinely bi, and she used to have [underwear] with his logo.

[NTR tag—]

Wha—oh, [fuck you]. God, how can you even—

"Liz?" the girl who had been looking worriedly at me asks when I burst out laughing hard enough that I have to bend over and clutch my belly.

"Power… Power did… Oh, God, that [hurts]…" I say between bursts of uncontrolled laughter.

Taylor blinks at me.

Then she stands up and, taking advantage of my moment of weakness, she pushes me onto the bed and starts taking off my shoes.

"Wha—" I, employing all the eloquence I'm widely renowned for, ask.

"Massage. It's clear that words aren't going to do the job," she says.

"I—"

"Shush. You've done it plenty of times to me."

I arch an eyebrow as I look at the girl kneeling between my open thighs.

She tilts her head inquiringly, realizes our relative positions, wording, and forceful undressing of me, and blushes anew.

Just… in a somewhat different way than she did while fending off Alec's CoD-worthy banter.

"Tay, I assure you I don't set out to embarrass you, but you make it very hard [not to]," I tell her, not at all with a provocative smirk that begs to be corrected.

Really.

At most, it [hints] at the possibility.

"This coming from the girl who loudly argues with the voices inside her head?" she asks with a raised eyebrow that, for once, doesn't do [things] to me.

It just… makes me smile.

"Pretty sure there's only one in here. Power, so far, hasn't brought any guests."

"I'm equally sure that your [libido] counts as yet another entity for you to argue with."

"Hardly. My libido and I tend to be in harmonious agreement," I say.

"Oh?" she asks.

As her hands slide up the outside of my legs, along the stone-washed jeans I was wearing today, ones comfy enough to wear around the apartment. That don't cling to my curves like a second skin. That are thick enough to dull her touch on me.

It doesn't matter.

Because… Because it's only her fingertips. Just the pads that I know to be both soft and unyielding, tracing the seam up to the side of my knees before she twists her hands, and, suddenly her warm palms are on the outside of my thighs, still gentle, still barely pressing down on me as they inch closer and closer to my waist.

My breathing stops as I stare at her, mesmerized, charmed. Enthralled.

Her answering smile isn't smug or provocative. It's just… this small, secretive thing. This shared… something.

Something that can be many things, and has been plenty of them.

Something that is, right now, reassurance.

Then her fingertips reach the edge of my waistline and touch my skin, briefly electrifying me to the point I have to let out a small gasp as she traces the thin line between my pants and my pink top as her hands hover over my thighs while she nears my button and zipper.

She touches them, and the smile gives way to inquiry.

I nod.

She… She undoes it. The brass button. The loud, too loud zipper, each susurrant, metallic teeth sending a shiver down my spine as the sides of my neck heat up and my breathing shortens.

Without saying anything, she tugs down.

I lean back on my bed, my weight on my hands, sinking into the yielding mattress, and lift my hips.

And she, slowly, almost reverently, slides my loose jeans off, only pausing to kiss the bare tops of my thighs when they are revealed by the passage of blue, faded clothing.

I find myself wishing I had worn sexy lingerie. Anything other than powder-blue cotton panties. Anything other than something mundane and comfortable rather than bewitching and alluring.

But Taylor doesn't even look, focused on my pale legs, her fingers tracing along the taut fibers of my calves before she slides my pants off entirely.

Then… Then come my short socks, just rolling the white things slowly off, one by one.

And she grabs my right foot.

And starts to knead it.

My heart is beating too loud, too hard, so it takes me a moment to get my breath back in control.

"What… are you seriously…?" I manage to ask despite the [everything] rushing through my head.

"I promised you a massage," she says, the small smile making a comeback.

"I… I thought you had a change of heart," I say, not [quite] whining.

Her smile widens, and this time, there [is] a trace of smug in it.

"I said that words weren't doing the job," she says, not clarifying anything.

…

This is when you insert yourself into my train of thought, usually derailing it, you know?

[Taylor Hebert's well-meaning…]

…

… Power, I haven't interrupted you. I [know] how it feels when I have to strangle your words so you don't overwhelm my limited tolerance to cognitive overload.

…

Power. Stop pretending you can't hear me. I [know] you can hear me, you little shit—

"Liz?" an eyebrow-arching Taylor, that is, the most dangerous variant, asks.

"Ah… Power just refused to tell me what you're planning," I quickly capitulate, possibly throwing the voice inside my head under the bus, which, come to think of it, doesn't imply good things for my head.

"Really," she says, eyebrow lowering more or less at the same rate that the left corner of her mouth comes up in something ruthlessly predatory.

"Yes?" I answer, not at all cowed and enjoying every second of it.

Which seems to be Taylor's cue to put her fingers over my foot and her thumbs on my sole, lines of pressure above holding me steady as she moves to rest my heel on her thigh before making me hiss when she presses both thumbs right under the ball of my foot, drawing deep circles under it that sometimes turn into vertical lines moving from heel to toes.

I groan, my eyelids fluttering.

When I regain my sight, a grin is waiting for me.

"And you haven't even worn heels today," she says.

"Don't make me think about wearing high heels while you're kneeling under me, Tay," I say with [maybe] a tad more of a suggestive bent than I meant to.

She blinks up at me, her fingers stilling as her eyelids speed up and her cheeks tinge with a color that is quite… [fetching].

"You've got a filthy, [filthy] mind," she mutters.

"You're groping me after sensually stripping my jeans. I [deserve] to be filthy," I answer with what may be the most righteously sensible argument I'll ever wield in this relationship.

"I'm massaging your [foot]. There's nothing sexual about this," she argues before gently letting go of my right foot and switching targets to my left one, resting it on her other thigh as I enjoy the warm tactile feedback of her stretchy black pants, the ones she said she'd never wear when I bought them for her.

Then her words catch up with me, and it's my turn to blink at her incredulously.

"[Really]," I say.

"What?" she answers, just curt enough to show me she's still thrown by the idea that I would consider my girlfriend kneeling between my legs at all erotic.

"You… You really need to spend some time on the Internet," I finally, out of all the things I could've told her, say.

It may not have been my brightest comeback.

"If being near you and Alec these past few days has taught me anything at all, it's that I should not only stay far away from the Internet but that I should convince Dragon to raze it to the ground," she says, proving both that my choice in banter may leave something to be desired and that Taylor herself may not be the greatest, most incisively insightful in that particular department.

At least, not while she's devoting so much of her attention to kneading the base of my toes, loosening any tension trapped in the muscles, making them wiggle out of my control with each upwards wave of pressure.

I, at some point, decide that arguing may not be in my best interests and drop back on my bed, my arms spread by my sides as I let out yet another groan when Taylor digs her thumbs deeply enough that it [almost] hurts in the best possible way.

My groan makes the fingers stop in a heartbreaking way before… before she moves to my calf.

And it's not like I've been exercising or walking that much. The most strenuous thing I've done as of late are my nightly rides while Power and I planned Amy's kidnapping and had to do some legwork to see about the places where Piggot could be persuaded to spend some more time than advisable.

So… everything that melts away as Taylor's thumbs trail along the edge of my shinbone and her fingers dance over the ball of tight muscle is not exertion.

It's just… stress.

And it's not a surprise, not really. I've been constantly under pressure since [before] Behemoth's battle, even if now it seems like such a stupid thing to be anxious about, preparing my presentation for Dragon's benefit while planning how to tackle the Machine Army just to prove to Tagg that I don't need to be sent away to the Wards. That I can handle S-class threats. That I'll be more useful if I'm given some leeway.

Yeah.

I guess I did prove that all right.

What I don't know is what Taylor is planning.

[Taylor Hebert's study of standard massage techniques…]

… You are a fucking tease, you know?

"I think I should've done some grip exercises," Taylor grumbles, her fingers on my calf shifting to reach deeper into the stubbornly tight muscle.

"You're doing wonderfully," I say toward the ceiling before I think things over and rest my right forearm across my eyes, letting myself drift and be carried away by her touch on me.

"Thank you," she says in a way that implies bashful, pleasant embarrassment.

I, of course, moan.

My left calf now has about the same consistency as a somewhat stubborn water balloon, and Taylor takes my moan as a sign to switch targets, to repeat what she just did on my right leg.

I try to help by breathing deeply, matching the flow of air to the gentle waves of fingers across my flesh, visualizing warm, golden light coming in with every breath, every downward motion of her hands along my leg, and letting out gray mist with every upward knead.

It's… irregular enough that I don't sink into a hypnotic rhythm, a pattern to let my weary mind rest.

But it helps me feel her more. To deepen the bond her touch establishes.

So I keep it going, shortening and lengthening the flow of breath at the whim of her touch, sometimes gasping out of my control, [definitely] moaning without meaning to when she reaches my thighs.

My soft, maybe a tad out of shape thighs that could be more toned, but not if that means Taylor's fingers couldn't sink into them with such a possessive undertone, making me feel her grip as deeper than it is as she pushes till she reaches the tense muscle.

Then she… she softens the touch, rubbing elongated circles that keep warming me up more and more as she presses down with the heels of her hands on both thighs only to lighten the pressure as she rubs with fingers and palms and I, without even noticing it until I'm done, spread my legs open for her.

She… She breathes, the warm air coming from her washing over the inside of my thighs and reaching up to my panties, to panties that should be thinner and lace so she could glimpse what she's doing to me even when she doesn't mean to.

And she stands up.

I hold my breath when she does, when I can feel the warm presence between my legs, and I [know] she's looking down at me, disheveled and defenseless under her eyes like I've been so many times.

Then I hear the rustle of clothing being taken away, and my heart, once again, hammers.

She leans over me, her hands sliding under my upper back before pulling up, moving me to the edge of my bed.

Then she moves away, and more cloth moves.

"Open your eyes," she says.

And she's…

She's wearing a black bikini with a golden ring holding the cups covering her breasts together, something that is more daring than she would usually be comfortable with but not daring enough to be outright erotic.

Not in any other context than Taylor looking down at me while she slowly and deliberately rubs rose-scented massage oil on her hands.

"Take off your top. Slowly," she says, warning me not to undo her work when I tense up, about to jump up to obey her.

So I manage to get a grip on myself and just sit up, noticing the white towel spread where I was before Taylor moved me, and…

And look at her.

At the slender, tall, overwhelming girl who just pulled her spectacular hair into a high ponytail that cascades behind her in a way that conspires with the black, shimmering cloth of her bikini to make her slender, pale shoulders seem to shine to the sides of where the cylindrical straps bite into her flesh while holding her breasts up and together in a way more complimentary than most bras she owns do.

And her belly is bare.

The belly moving with her breathing, showing me the indented, shadowed line between bands of muscle that lead down to her navel and…

And the black triangle below.

My head is swimming when I meet her eyes. The eyes staring intently at me while she keeps rubbing the oil into her skin, going further than just warming it up for me as her arms glisten up to her forearms.

I… I wet my lips with my tongue, wishing for maybe just a dab of cherry Chapstick before I slowly, almost fearfully, grab the hem of my short-sleeved top.

She nods.

I pull.

And, slowly, as slowly as she's done anything since we started, I uncover my belly, my powder-blue bra, the tops of my breasts, my collarbone…

She looks at me. Intently.

Without any expression other than sheer intensity.

I struggle not to rub my thighs together under her gaze and, regretfully, take the top off, the passage of pink, stretched fabric across my eyes breaking the contact with Taylor's gaze for a too-long moment.

Then, she nods.

And I drop the top on the floor before reaching back to snap my bra open.

I shrug, shifting my shoulders before holding the cups in place as the straps slide down my arms, twin, loose bands of satin-like fabric dangling down the front of my body as I, once again, meet Taylor's green eyes and lick my lips.

And I let it fall, baring my breasts to her.

She… She looks at me. Just looks.

And I feel something throb under my belly when she steps forward, the heat surrounding her hitting me like something tangible as she leans down until her eyes are right in front of mine, her hands on my shoulders…

And she pushes.

I fall back on my bed, on top of the new towel she's bought just for this, sinking into the unmistakable softness of something that has yet to be washed off the treatment that makes it envelop me like a warm embrace.

And Taylor…

She leans farther down and slides her oiled arms under my legs before effortlessly standing up without needing any of my cooperation, turning me sideways so I lie straight along my bed rather than across it, the flow of the moment only briefly interrupted when she straightens the now askew towel under me before she rolls me over so I lie on my front.

And she straddles me before sitting down on the back of my thighs, right behind my… well, my [behind].

My panty-clad behind.

She leans over me, trailing the back of her fingers up the sides of my spine as she does, and I shiver.

"Relax," she whispers right by my ear.

"I… I don't think you understand how relaxation works," I, maybe unwisely, tell her.

There's a pause in which she shifts her hands so that her warm palms are once more reassuringly on me, on top of taut muscle, below and behind my neck, her fingers reaching up and around the curve of my shoulders.

"Maybe I don't. But I know about grief," she whispers.

Warmly. Comfortingly.

And I…

I blink, not knowing what she means, not understanding where this is coming from until she sighs and sinks her fingers into rock-hard muscle.

She's leaning over me, her ponytail keeping her hair from doing what it so often does when it cascades over me and adds that thrilling something to her caresses, her body arched so that her held breasts won't trace circles of warmth over me.

She's… intimate. Yet not sexual.

Not [entirely] sexual.

And talking about grief.

"Tay… I… I am about to solve it. There's no need for—"

"Nobody solved my mother," she says in a slow, careful, kind tone that takes away the bite out of words that still steal my breath away.

That feel like a gut punch.

Taylor takes my silence as the invitation it isn't, even if it should've been, and, still slowly kneading my shoulders, still forcing the rose-scented oil to seep into my flesh and spread the warmth that accompanies the increased flow of blood around the area under her attention, still caring for me, speaks:

"I know. I know how you feel, and this isn't a critique. I know the obsession about what could've been, what you could've done differently, no matter how nonsensical any recrimination. I know the tunnel vision that you can get, blind to everything except the absence that should have never been," she says.

"Tay…" I say, not knowing what else to add other than my call for her. Maybe my apology.

"Ems," she says, her tone carrying a bitter smile as her touch remains gentle and reassuring.

"What?" I say, as disoriented as I can ever be.

"You called Piggot 'Ems.' To infantilize her, to get under her skin and get the reaction you wanted out of her."

"Yes?" I did. Of course I did.

"How did I call Emma, Liz?" she says.

And my blood freezes everywhere that isn't warmed by rose-scented oil and a soft, reassuring body lying on top of mine.

"I… Oh, God, I'm so sorry, I didn't even [think]—"

"No. No, you didn't," she says.

And it isn't a reproach.

"You didn't think, Liz, you [reacted]. And that's all right. That's… That's how you deal with your grief. And, this time, it was a good thing. A great thing. I know you're going to save Colin. I know you're going to get him back, and you did it by unshackling Panacea and turning her into what she should've been from the very start. I… I am [not] comfortable with how you did it, but I understand."

"I should've… There's no excuse for me to… I am the [Thinker], Tay; I can't overlook things like these just because… just because…"

I trail off, unable to put into words what it is that I should've… how I could've done anything other than what I've done.

And I guess that's the point she's trying to make. That I couldn't.

Even if I should've.

"Liz… I am not doing this so you can beat yourself up for being human," she says with half a chuckle.

"Then—"

"You are a hero. You… You have done more for this city, for the [world], than most of the big names, and you'll keep doing just that."

I struggle not to argue back, and then I struggle to come up with something that doesn't betray what Power and I arrived at yesterday night.

And Taylor just keeps talking and making my struggle all that much harder.

"You… You are extraordinary. And you'll grow to be much more as you keep learning, as you keep discovering new things not only about your weird pseudo-sibling, but about the people who can fight by your side. But… But you won't be alone. You'll [have] people by your side. And, one day, one of them won't come back."

Brian. What I just told Brian.

His eyes looking at me when I told him I didn't want him to be a hero, that I didn't want to risk his… his not coming back.

But that I was still proud of him.

And Tay knows. Without ever talking about it, without mentioning it, she knows that my fate will be to remain safe, away from danger, analyzing things and guiding those risking their lives on my say-so.

"You can't afford to fall apart when that happens. The world can't afford losing [you]. So… So, even if it's Alec or Brian who die, even if it's [me]… I want you to grieve. I want you to be sad, to be [human]. But I also want you to be able to find joy in life while you do so."

I am not breathing.

Not until Tay pauses and shifts to my right, reaching for the bottle of oil sitting on top of my bedside table, and she squirts a jet of it in a cupped hand, holding the oil above me until it's filled with her warmth and she slowly dribbles it down from my nape to right over my coccyx, the scent of roses growing stronger as my skin heats up.

Her hands draw long, consecutive circles along my back, sliding effortlessly each time they gather more oils from the reservoir at the base of my spine, the caresses steadily deepening as my flesh yields to her.

Always to her.

And I…

I want to cry. I want to let out not only the emotions I've held onto for this long, too intensely for the duration of it all, but…

But for the other thoughts.

That she's right. That, if somebody knows what it's like to lose a deep love and the life rooted in it without running away from the world, that's Taylor Hebert.

That it took far more than the death of her mother to break her.

When I was shattered by the death of my brother.

I clutch the towel with both hands, tight enough that if it wasn't there, my nails would dig into my palms to the point of hurting me with serrated crescents.

I shift my head to bury my face in the white towel, the scent of the new fabric replacing invigorating roses as I refuse to let the warm wetness slip from my eyelids.

Taylor keeps touching me, caressing me, kneading my flesh to the point she draws out the repressed shudders. The sighs. The sobs.

"I love you," she says, matter of factly. Not quite a reassurance.

"I don't want to lose you. I don't want to lose anyone," I say. Mulish. Childish.

"I know," she answers, the warm smile clear to hear.

She sets her hands on the base of my back, fingers pointing outwards, thumbs resting by the side of my spine, along muscle rather than bone.

And she, slowly, firmly, pushes up, my flesh trapped under her touch and rippling up as if a slow-moving wave as her thumbs keep drawing tight circles on the side of my spine.

It's firm enough that it hurts at times. That it makes me groan when something trapped in my flesh is released before unknotting.

It's…

It's her.

Her. Here. With me.

Knowing all my flaws. Knowing how carelessly I can hurt her when I don't realize it, when I focus on my own goals to the exclusion of anything else.

And she still stays.

"I love you," she repeats when she reaches my shoulders and lies down on top of me, the bikini top gliding over oiled skin as her fingers sink deeper into my shoulders than before, making me gasp as pain mingles with release.

"I… I love you," I say, unable to come up with better words.

Because maybe there aren't.

Because maybe words would never do the trick just by themselves, and you need actions. Time. And just…

Just being by somebody's side when they are at their lowest so that they'll learn what it is to have someone [stay].

I'm not putty in her hands. I'm not relaxed out of my mind. I'm not a ball of pure sensation drifting away from conscious thought.

I don't need to be.

What I need is to push myself to the side, the oil helping me slide along Taylor's body until I can look up at her from beneath her, her hands on each side of my face rather than on my shoulders.

She's… not as calm as she sounded. She's worried. Concerned.

For me.

And I…

I'm a mess. I know I am.

But I still smile up at her. I still reach to cup her face with both hands, holding her as if she was more fragile than she is even at her lowest and most wretched.

"I'm so proud of you," I manage to let out.

She… blinks in surprise.

"What?" she says, almost ruining the moment if that was possible at all.

"You… you're amazing, Tay. And you're going to change the world for the better, much more than I could ever have—"

"The scale doesn't even compare—"

"—because I couldn't have gotten this far without you. Because I couldn't… wouldn't have become what I am, much less what I'll be, if you hadn't been there. If I hadn't seen what… A better world."

Green eyes swim over mine.

And I could kiss her.

I could drag her down into my almost naked body, surround her with flesh she's made tender, wrap her in my arms and legs.

I could lose myself in all those warm, reassuring sensations a part of me was hoping to drown in when she slid my pants off.

And it would be good. It would be fantastic.

But, also…

It would be less.

So I do wrap her in my arms and drag her down, but only so I can kiss her left temple before I allow my strength to fade away, and I sink into my bed with my girlfriend held on top of me.

Taking her words to heart.

That… There can be both grief and life. That one doesn't exclude the other.

That she's here, with me, and, even if the day comes that she isn't…

I'll have something of her to hold onto until the day I join her.

==================

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 95 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: LearningDiscord, 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!