BanrionCailleach
Witch Queen
Hello there.
Call me Banrion. Call me whatever you like, actually. I'm happy for the attention, and I certainly deserve it. I'm your wildest dreams and your darkest nightmares. I'm the witch you were told to be afraid of - but part of you knows that's just more reason to get to know me. I'm only dangerous to those who ask for it. Mostly, though, I take almost nothing seriously. If I can make you laugh, I'll have achieved one of my favorite things.
I have a ton of random ideas that I've mused on over the years. It's almost like my brain is constantly coming up with new ways to be obsessed with femmes.My musings aren't all about a fantastically powerful woman being unstoppable and amazing (well, okay, yeah, they pretty much are all about fantastically powerful women being unstoppable and amazing).
See below for a whole bunch of story ideas, keep reading to learn more about me.
I have been writing for decades, in all manner of formats, mediums, and techniques. Some of my favorite influences are Terry Pratchett, Philip K. Dick, and A.A. Milne. I'm as enigmatic as a shooting star.
As for writing style, I tend to not follow specific standards. First person, third person, second person; present tense, past tense - they can all be fun in different ways (perhaps not all at once). I think multiple paragraph replies are usually standard, but sometimes sentences are sufficient. The length of my replies will depend on how things are going and what needs to be said. I don't believe in padding things so that each reply can meet a certain character count. Why say many words when few words do trick?
That (sort of) said, sometimes I can get carried away and write a lot when a story calls for it.
As far as schedules, I can commit to at least one addition per day at least. If something is vibing well and I am really loving the world and / or characters, I will certainly reply more. I'm a very busy lady, though, so sometimes it will be difficult - I'll be sure to keep any interested parties apprised of disruptions.
Sex is very much an important part of my writing. It doesn't have to be everything, but I value sexuality to an almost religious degree, and I would need anyone I write with to be eager to worship with me. My interests include Consent, Lingerie, bathing, Domme/sub play, Ownership and Control, Consent, Pushing boundaries and comfort zones, Groups, Restraints, Toys, Consent, Power, Magic, Anything Fae-related, and Consent. Most of those things are on the table with all of the stories below.
I draw the line at consent (did I mention I'm into consent). Lines can be crossed as long as at least the meta-narrative is clear that everyone is onboard. Safe words are necessary and meant to be used freely by all parties.
Without further adieu, here are some delicious little tidbits...
Claimed or active stories
Lilith (and her trans masc driver Vic) is currently involved in an active story with the lovely and talented SladkiySova.
This one has been posted on my website as a sort of open vote choose your own adventure story. If you are interested and want to see what might happen next, go there and vote!
I wrote this idea into an entire short story! Temptation - original content from DenyConformity.com
Open stories and random ideas
Call me Banrion. Call me whatever you like, actually. I'm happy for the attention, and I certainly deserve it. I'm your wildest dreams and your darkest nightmares. I'm the witch you were told to be afraid of - but part of you knows that's just more reason to get to know me. I'm only dangerous to those who ask for it. Mostly, though, I take almost nothing seriously. If I can make you laugh, I'll have achieved one of my favorite things.
I have a ton of random ideas that I've mused on over the years. It's almost like my brain is constantly coming up with new ways to be obsessed with femmes.My musings aren't all about a fantastically powerful woman being unstoppable and amazing (well, okay, yeah, they pretty much are all about fantastically powerful women being unstoppable and amazing).
See below for a whole bunch of story ideas, keep reading to learn more about me.
I have been writing for decades, in all manner of formats, mediums, and techniques. Some of my favorite influences are Terry Pratchett, Philip K. Dick, and A.A. Milne. I'm as enigmatic as a shooting star.
As for writing style, I tend to not follow specific standards. First person, third person, second person; present tense, past tense - they can all be fun in different ways (perhaps not all at once). I think multiple paragraph replies are usually standard, but sometimes sentences are sufficient. The length of my replies will depend on how things are going and what needs to be said. I don't believe in padding things so that each reply can meet a certain character count. Why say many words when few words do trick?
That (sort of) said, sometimes I can get carried away and write a lot when a story calls for it.
As far as schedules, I can commit to at least one addition per day at least. If something is vibing well and I am really loving the world and / or characters, I will certainly reply more. I'm a very busy lady, though, so sometimes it will be difficult - I'll be sure to keep any interested parties apprised of disruptions.
Sex is very much an important part of my writing. It doesn't have to be everything, but I value sexuality to an almost religious degree, and I would need anyone I write with to be eager to worship with me. My interests include Consent, Lingerie, bathing, Domme/sub play, Ownership and Control, Consent, Pushing boundaries and comfort zones, Groups, Restraints, Toys, Consent, Power, Magic, Anything Fae-related, and Consent. Most of those things are on the table with all of the stories below.
I draw the line at consent (did I mention I'm into consent). Lines can be crossed as long as at least the meta-narrative is clear that everyone is onboard. Safe words are necessary and meant to be used freely by all parties.
Without further adieu, here are some delicious little tidbits...
Claimed or active stories
The whole affair is cold and impersonal. Job interviews usually are, I suppose, but it is ironic considering how much the . . . opposite this particular position has proven to be. You have rather grand shoes to fill.
You enter the small conference room and I can see the foreboding in your eyes. Good. I do not scorn a level of intimidation on your part – in fact I would be far more put off by a candidate who walks into an interview with me with nothing but confidence. You should be scared. My reputation for being cold, harsh, and cruel is well justified. You search my face for any sign of welcome, perhaps for any sign of humanity, but I give you none. I am stoic as a stone as I watch you.
It isn't just me that feels unwelcoming, I'm sure. The staffing agency I have been working with granted me use of one of their conference rooms. I have opted to have the interviews here instead of one of my own buildings to establish a sort of 'neutral space.' The fact is that this bleak corporate hellscape is a far more intimidating place for an interview than any of my own offices. It is a stark, emotionless cubicle farm. They gave this particular room the name "Rubicon" - a misguided attempt at glamorizing the decidedly un-glamorous. The drop ceiling and harsh fluorescent lights are unflattering, and the beige walls and generic abstract artwork are innocuous to the point of invisibility. The room contains a handful of chairs, only two of which I have put to use, and a simple table made to look sturdy and expensive. I am sure I could break it with my bare hands and so I keep my distance.
I sit to the side of that pretentious table, with several stacks of paper laid out upon it. My legs are crossed in my lacy green dress, and not hidden away under the cheap particle board, as would normally be expected in a room like this. I find it marginally fascinating how something as trivial as simply not having a table between us would make candidates perceptibly uncomfortable. In the stuffy, sterile, colorless world of the modern office space, anything out of the ordinary sends everything into disarray.
I enjoy disarray.
Of course, any discomfort shown by today's candidates might also be related to the fact that the lace tops of my sheer stockings can just be seen at the hemline of my dress. Perhaps it frazzles my prospective employees to see such an important, powerful woman dressed this way. The male candidates in particular have been amusing, for a time - then they just became tedious. Perhaps it is rather discriminatory of me, but I will not be hiring a man for this position.
Heading into today, I hoped that the candidates this agency provided were more impressive than their facilities. Judging by the prospects so far, I must say I no longer have those hopes. Perhaps I will be surprised. I tend to dislike surprises, but I am nothing if not flexible.
Sighing deeply I reach a well-manicured hand to take your nervously offered resume. I grant it a cursory but empty glance. It impresses me as little as all the others. I am sure that it shows a parade of personal assistant jobs, administrative roles, and menial tasks puffed up with pointless rhetoric to convince me that helping your aunt with her garage sale somehow makes you qualified to be my assistant. It is laden with just enough keywords to flag this company's algorithms, but visually it is as if a yawn was made manifest and printed on a sheet of card stock.
This whole process has added insult to injury. It was bad enough that I had to bid farewell to my previous assistant. I had grown to be quite . . . fond of the beautiful young woman. I wouldn't exactly use the word 'love' - mostly because I try not to think in such foolish romantic platitudes. I was quite fond of her, though, and we had developed such a close working relationship in our time together. She tended to my needs quite dutifully (and around the clock, I might add), and I took care of her in kind. Then she had to go and develop a desire to get into politics, and so it was time for her to take the next step in her career. My bittersweet pride at her future success was tempered with my selfish frustration at having to let her go. I normally do not allow for romantic attachments for just such a reason as this, and yet here I am, my heart as empty as her room in my penthouse.
I look through my expensive designer glasses at you, nervously squirming like a frightened insect trapped under a glass. An arched eyebrow, perfectly sculpted and matching the deep black of my hair, is the only subtle hint of an expression on my otherwise stern face. I am quite fond of my ability to remain impassive to a frustrating degree. I have conducted billion-dollar negotiations by hardly saying a single word. My eyes can freeze the warmest of hearts – when I want to. This day has made me want to.
I'm not all stone, of course, though there are very few individuals I value enough to reveal that fact to. Those who earn warmth get warmth, and those who deserve to see my human side are always deeply satisfied with what they find. Indeed, my human side runs deep and warm. Everyone else need not bother themselves with seeing me as anything more than the neutral, impenetrable frigidity that my reputation informs and my expression confirms.
In the interview room, I step tediously into my standard line of questioning. It has become so rote that I feel as though I am reciting the most painfully boring nursery rhyme ever designed. The questions have lost all meaning, the answers doubly so. I am sick of them. Perhaps it is wrong to take my frustration out on you, but a spider must have her fun. You are the unlucky fly caught in my web.
Lilith removes her glasses slowly, folding their delicate arms, and places them gently on the table next to her. Somehow her eyes are even more devastating without the thin lenses shielding the young woman from them. She seems to gaze through this candidate, exposing all of her deepest secrets. She has a way. Perhaps that is how she became so very powerful.
She is the CEO of Araneus publishing, senior editor of Chic magazine, and chairwoman of one of the fastest growing fashion retailers in North America. She is breathtakingly beautiful, but even more terrifying. She is the center of a world of myth and legend, and her larger-than-life confidence alludes that more of the myriad rumors about her are true than not. She is personal friend to celebrities. She has an army of supermodels spanning the entire gender spectrum at her beck and call. She has given more money to charity than the GDP of most smaller countries.
To be her assistant must be the single most exciting, rewarding, and challenging fast-track to unmitigated success that exists. The winning candidate will be set for life, if only they can convince her of their worth.
But is she more interested in this young woman's passion, or her pleasure? Can she prove to the great and powerful Lilith Midnight that she isn't just another corporate drone?
She stops speaking mid-question. Her eyes narrow subtly, and for the first time she finally shows some tiny indication of emotion. Unfortunately, it's a negative one. Against the frigid neutrality of her face, her slow blink and deep breath stand out like a scream. With dread, the candidate realizes that her interviewer is bored. If she could be undesirable, if she could elicit a hard pass, at least that would be a reaction. At least she could say that she put herself out there and it wasn't a good fit. Boredom is . . . nothing. There is no greater failure than to be boring.
Lilith looks at her glasses on the table, and then returns her cold gaze to the nervous young woman. Perhaps she will get another chance.
"Enough of this tedious pointlessness," Lilith says. "Tell me this - what is your biggest vice?"
You enter the small conference room and I can see the foreboding in your eyes. Good. I do not scorn a level of intimidation on your part – in fact I would be far more put off by a candidate who walks into an interview with me with nothing but confidence. You should be scared. My reputation for being cold, harsh, and cruel is well justified. You search my face for any sign of welcome, perhaps for any sign of humanity, but I give you none. I am stoic as a stone as I watch you.
It isn't just me that feels unwelcoming, I'm sure. The staffing agency I have been working with granted me use of one of their conference rooms. I have opted to have the interviews here instead of one of my own buildings to establish a sort of 'neutral space.' The fact is that this bleak corporate hellscape is a far more intimidating place for an interview than any of my own offices. It is a stark, emotionless cubicle farm. They gave this particular room the name "Rubicon" - a misguided attempt at glamorizing the decidedly un-glamorous. The drop ceiling and harsh fluorescent lights are unflattering, and the beige walls and generic abstract artwork are innocuous to the point of invisibility. The room contains a handful of chairs, only two of which I have put to use, and a simple table made to look sturdy and expensive. I am sure I could break it with my bare hands and so I keep my distance.
I sit to the side of that pretentious table, with several stacks of paper laid out upon it. My legs are crossed in my lacy green dress, and not hidden away under the cheap particle board, as would normally be expected in a room like this. I find it marginally fascinating how something as trivial as simply not having a table between us would make candidates perceptibly uncomfortable. In the stuffy, sterile, colorless world of the modern office space, anything out of the ordinary sends everything into disarray.
I enjoy disarray.
Of course, any discomfort shown by today's candidates might also be related to the fact that the lace tops of my sheer stockings can just be seen at the hemline of my dress. Perhaps it frazzles my prospective employees to see such an important, powerful woman dressed this way. The male candidates in particular have been amusing, for a time - then they just became tedious. Perhaps it is rather discriminatory of me, but I will not be hiring a man for this position.
Heading into today, I hoped that the candidates this agency provided were more impressive than their facilities. Judging by the prospects so far, I must say I no longer have those hopes. Perhaps I will be surprised. I tend to dislike surprises, but I am nothing if not flexible.
Sighing deeply I reach a well-manicured hand to take your nervously offered resume. I grant it a cursory but empty glance. It impresses me as little as all the others. I am sure that it shows a parade of personal assistant jobs, administrative roles, and menial tasks puffed up with pointless rhetoric to convince me that helping your aunt with her garage sale somehow makes you qualified to be my assistant. It is laden with just enough keywords to flag this company's algorithms, but visually it is as if a yawn was made manifest and printed on a sheet of card stock.
This whole process has added insult to injury. It was bad enough that I had to bid farewell to my previous assistant. I had grown to be quite . . . fond of the beautiful young woman. I wouldn't exactly use the word 'love' - mostly because I try not to think in such foolish romantic platitudes. I was quite fond of her, though, and we had developed such a close working relationship in our time together. She tended to my needs quite dutifully (and around the clock, I might add), and I took care of her in kind. Then she had to go and develop a desire to get into politics, and so it was time for her to take the next step in her career. My bittersweet pride at her future success was tempered with my selfish frustration at having to let her go. I normally do not allow for romantic attachments for just such a reason as this, and yet here I am, my heart as empty as her room in my penthouse.
I look through my expensive designer glasses at you, nervously squirming like a frightened insect trapped under a glass. An arched eyebrow, perfectly sculpted and matching the deep black of my hair, is the only subtle hint of an expression on my otherwise stern face. I am quite fond of my ability to remain impassive to a frustrating degree. I have conducted billion-dollar negotiations by hardly saying a single word. My eyes can freeze the warmest of hearts – when I want to. This day has made me want to.
I'm not all stone, of course, though there are very few individuals I value enough to reveal that fact to. Those who earn warmth get warmth, and those who deserve to see my human side are always deeply satisfied with what they find. Indeed, my human side runs deep and warm. Everyone else need not bother themselves with seeing me as anything more than the neutral, impenetrable frigidity that my reputation informs and my expression confirms.
In the interview room, I step tediously into my standard line of questioning. It has become so rote that I feel as though I am reciting the most painfully boring nursery rhyme ever designed. The questions have lost all meaning, the answers doubly so. I am sick of them. Perhaps it is wrong to take my frustration out on you, but a spider must have her fun. You are the unlucky fly caught in my web.
Lilith removes her glasses slowly, folding their delicate arms, and places them gently on the table next to her. Somehow her eyes are even more devastating without the thin lenses shielding the young woman from them. She seems to gaze through this candidate, exposing all of her deepest secrets. She has a way. Perhaps that is how she became so very powerful.
She is the CEO of Araneus publishing, senior editor of Chic magazine, and chairwoman of one of the fastest growing fashion retailers in North America. She is breathtakingly beautiful, but even more terrifying. She is the center of a world of myth and legend, and her larger-than-life confidence alludes that more of the myriad rumors about her are true than not. She is personal friend to celebrities. She has an army of supermodels spanning the entire gender spectrum at her beck and call. She has given more money to charity than the GDP of most smaller countries.
To be her assistant must be the single most exciting, rewarding, and challenging fast-track to unmitigated success that exists. The winning candidate will be set for life, if only they can convince her of their worth.
But is she more interested in this young woman's passion, or her pleasure? Can she prove to the great and powerful Lilith Midnight that she isn't just another corporate drone?
She stops speaking mid-question. Her eyes narrow subtly, and for the first time she finally shows some tiny indication of emotion. Unfortunately, it's a negative one. Against the frigid neutrality of her face, her slow blink and deep breath stand out like a scream. With dread, the candidate realizes that her interviewer is bored. If she could be undesirable, if she could elicit a hard pass, at least that would be a reaction. At least she could say that she put herself out there and it wasn't a good fit. Boredom is . . . nothing. There is no greater failure than to be boring.
Lilith looks at her glasses on the table, and then returns her cold gaze to the nervous young woman. Perhaps she will get another chance.
"Enough of this tedious pointlessness," Lilith says. "Tell me this - what is your biggest vice?"
They say you should never meet your heroes. Will you be the exception that proves the rule?
You have finally, as they say, made it. Through blood, sweat, and tears you have struck out into the creative world and created something you are genuinely proud of. Your work has been seen by millions, and it has even caught the eye of one of the most powerful women in the world.
Her. Lilith Midnight. Media mogul, magazine editor, publishing giant, ice queen. She has made careers, and broken far more.
She sent you a personal email, requesting to join you for dinner to *negotiate a deal.* With creeping dread, you realize what she means - she likes your work and wants it for her empire. She wants to take it from you. You know in the face of someone like *her* you have no choice - you can't say no. You can't refuse this invitation, and you can't refuse her offer, whatever it may be. She has negotiated with billionaires. You will certainly crumble before her like crisp fall leaves, right?
You wear your best outfit and enter the absurdly fancy restaurant nervously. She is already waiting, absently rolling a glass of wine between her fingers. She greets you and invites you to sit, her face unreadable and devastating. She wears a little black dress, starkly contrasting from her fair complexion.
As you talk, sharing pleasantries and trading casual anecdotes, you are sucked in by her demeanor. She is confident, eloquent, and almost disturbingly charming. Her grey-green eyes are bright and vast, the kind of eyes you could get lost in. Her sleek, black hair is half up, cascading into delicious little ringlets around her face. She seems to glow like an actual goddess sitting among mere mortals, and she sits with the bearing of someone who knows it's true. When she smiles, which is rare but does happen, you feel your spine tremble, as if the clouds parted for just a moment, giving you a peek at a paradise just beyond her icy slopes. You are disarmed.
You feel quite like a fly suddenly lured into a spider's web by a calculated, mesmerizing lure and a terrifyingly pretty face. You get the overwhelming impression that she isn't refraining from sinking her fangs into you because she can't, but simply because she hasn't decided to yet.
Finally, after an hour of casual conversation and shop talk over the best meal you have ever eaten, you work up the courage. You surprise even yourself, but you can't let it linger any longer. You have to address this elephant you feel in the room with you. You speak your mind, summoning every ounce of strength within you to keep your voice from cracking. Perhaps you stammer and mumble, perhaps you ramble a bit too much and can't stop your hands from shaking, but you do it. You tell her "no." You aren't going to sell her your work. It's yours, and you won't give it up. She is wasting her time.
"I am afraid you have misunderstood," she says finally, her face showing a flash of surprise and real tenderness for just a moment. "I deeply apologize if I gave you the wrong impression."
She thinks for a moment, taking a sip of her wine, before continuing. "I'll be blunt," she says. "I feel, with this context, it would benefit us both to be as forthcoming as possible about our interests.
"I adore your work. It is smart, engaging, and beautiful. It is profound and approachable. After meeting you, I can see that it is a reflection of its creator. If nothing else, I simply wanted to meet you . . . as a fan.
"I am more than happy to continue being part of your audience - nothing more. What's yours is yours, entirely, and I am not in the business of taking things that I have not earned."
Her eyes transform. It is subtle, but powerful. She smiles, but not in the beautiful way she has before. This is playful and sinister and flirty and maddening. She looks at you with attraction in her eyes. "No, I haven't invited you here to talk you into giving me your magazine. I invited you here to talk you into giving me your underwear."
What do you do?
You have finally, as they say, made it. Through blood, sweat, and tears you have struck out into the creative world and created something you are genuinely proud of. Your work has been seen by millions, and it has even caught the eye of one of the most powerful women in the world.
Her. Lilith Midnight. Media mogul, magazine editor, publishing giant, ice queen. She has made careers, and broken far more.
She sent you a personal email, requesting to join you for dinner to *negotiate a deal.* With creeping dread, you realize what she means - she likes your work and wants it for her empire. She wants to take it from you. You know in the face of someone like *her* you have no choice - you can't say no. You can't refuse this invitation, and you can't refuse her offer, whatever it may be. She has negotiated with billionaires. You will certainly crumble before her like crisp fall leaves, right?
You wear your best outfit and enter the absurdly fancy restaurant nervously. She is already waiting, absently rolling a glass of wine between her fingers. She greets you and invites you to sit, her face unreadable and devastating. She wears a little black dress, starkly contrasting from her fair complexion.
As you talk, sharing pleasantries and trading casual anecdotes, you are sucked in by her demeanor. She is confident, eloquent, and almost disturbingly charming. Her grey-green eyes are bright and vast, the kind of eyes you could get lost in. Her sleek, black hair is half up, cascading into delicious little ringlets around her face. She seems to glow like an actual goddess sitting among mere mortals, and she sits with the bearing of someone who knows it's true. When she smiles, which is rare but does happen, you feel your spine tremble, as if the clouds parted for just a moment, giving you a peek at a paradise just beyond her icy slopes. You are disarmed.
You feel quite like a fly suddenly lured into a spider's web by a calculated, mesmerizing lure and a terrifyingly pretty face. You get the overwhelming impression that she isn't refraining from sinking her fangs into you because she can't, but simply because she hasn't decided to yet.
Finally, after an hour of casual conversation and shop talk over the best meal you have ever eaten, you work up the courage. You surprise even yourself, but you can't let it linger any longer. You have to address this elephant you feel in the room with you. You speak your mind, summoning every ounce of strength within you to keep your voice from cracking. Perhaps you stammer and mumble, perhaps you ramble a bit too much and can't stop your hands from shaking, but you do it. You tell her "no." You aren't going to sell her your work. It's yours, and you won't give it up. She is wasting her time.
"I am afraid you have misunderstood," she says finally, her face showing a flash of surprise and real tenderness for just a moment. "I deeply apologize if I gave you the wrong impression."
She thinks for a moment, taking a sip of her wine, before continuing. "I'll be blunt," she says. "I feel, with this context, it would benefit us both to be as forthcoming as possible about our interests.
"I adore your work. It is smart, engaging, and beautiful. It is profound and approachable. After meeting you, I can see that it is a reflection of its creator. If nothing else, I simply wanted to meet you . . . as a fan.
"I am more than happy to continue being part of your audience - nothing more. What's yours is yours, entirely, and I am not in the business of taking things that I have not earned."
Her eyes transform. It is subtle, but powerful. She smiles, but not in the beautiful way she has before. This is playful and sinister and flirty and maddening. She looks at you with attraction in her eyes. "No, I haven't invited you here to talk you into giving me your magazine. I invited you here to talk you into giving me your underwear."
What do you do?
Lilith (and her trans masc driver Vic) is currently involved in an active story with the lovely and talented SladkiySova.
The fog was lifting a bit, but it did little to lift the dreadful mood hanging over the streets of Prague. I don't know if it was just the biting cold, or the context of my business there, but the grey gloom of that cold winter morning hung thicker than the fog.
I always thought this was such a lovely city. Full of history - full of happy people. However, my line of work didn't afford sentimentality. This city and all its lovely people might get wiped off the face of the Earth if I don't stay focused. If I didn't have some actionable intelligence for MI5 soon, Kaiser was going to get the upper hand.
Wisps of clouds drifted lazily from my mouth with each breath. The Walther under my coat chilled me as much as the winter air.
"Blue sky?"
With practiced effort, I didn't immediately show any indication of recognizing my code name. Agents died that way. I cautiously glanced in the direction of the thickly accented voice, my arms crossed tightly against the cold. The man who called my name matched the description of the contact I was there to meet - an informant on the Kaiser cell operating out of Czechoslovakia.
I gave the small man a subtle nod, and then stepped into an alley nearby.
"Nice weather for a stroll," I said after the man tentatively stepped into the alley behind me.
"K-keeps the dogs in check," he replied, completing the codephrase. I don't know if he was stuttering from the cold or from fear.
"Thank you for meeting me."
"I wasn't expecting a w-woman."
"Nobody ever does. You're 'button pusher?''
"Why do you spies always insist on these nonsensical codenames?" He said, rubbing his hands together for warmth. "I do not push button."
"That's the point," I replied calmly. "It's untraceable. These codenames keep us alive."
"You really trying to save world?"
"Depends on what you know."
"Kaiser is making move," he said. "Big. Soviet ambassador came in yesterday. I have transcript."
He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his jacket and handed it to me. I tucked it into an inside pocket without checking it. If 'button pusher' was right and Kaiser was making a deal with the Soviets, this could be huge.
"Anything else?" I asked, the fur lining of my hood framing my impassive face.
"You are really, how you say, *attractive* for a spy."
"You should make your way out of the country," I responded, cold as the wind, before walking casually back to the safehouse.
When the informant showed up at the morgue a few days later, it confirmed two things - he didn't heed my advice to run, and his information was most likely accurate. I told my MI5 handler what I had found.
The transcript mentioned a meeting in Berlin between the Soviets and at least one known Kaiser operative, an enemy agent we only knew as "La Petite Mort." My next mission was to try to track down this operative, shut him down, and hopefully get him to lead me further up the chain. Word was that at least one Kaiser op was posing as an art dealer.
My cover was a rich socialite traveling through Europe to invest in art for a gallery I want to open back in London. I waltzed into one of Berlin's premier nightclubs wrapped in a fur coat, ready to make contact.
Of course, I had no idea that the Kaiser operative was, ironically, also a woman, or that she was, ironically, also quite *attractive.* I knew I had to focus, what with the fate of the world at stake. This line of work did not leave time for sentimentality.
"I hope you have enjoyed our European hospitality," she said, adding emphasis no doubt to make me feel like a stranger in a strange land. "Miss...?"
"St. Claire," I responded. "Samantha St. Claire."
I always thought this was such a lovely city. Full of history - full of happy people. However, my line of work didn't afford sentimentality. This city and all its lovely people might get wiped off the face of the Earth if I don't stay focused. If I didn't have some actionable intelligence for MI5 soon, Kaiser was going to get the upper hand.
Wisps of clouds drifted lazily from my mouth with each breath. The Walther under my coat chilled me as much as the winter air.
"Blue sky?"
With practiced effort, I didn't immediately show any indication of recognizing my code name. Agents died that way. I cautiously glanced in the direction of the thickly accented voice, my arms crossed tightly against the cold. The man who called my name matched the description of the contact I was there to meet - an informant on the Kaiser cell operating out of Czechoslovakia.
I gave the small man a subtle nod, and then stepped into an alley nearby.
"Nice weather for a stroll," I said after the man tentatively stepped into the alley behind me.
"K-keeps the dogs in check," he replied, completing the codephrase. I don't know if he was stuttering from the cold or from fear.
"Thank you for meeting me."
"I wasn't expecting a w-woman."
"Nobody ever does. You're 'button pusher?''
"Why do you spies always insist on these nonsensical codenames?" He said, rubbing his hands together for warmth. "I do not push button."
"That's the point," I replied calmly. "It's untraceable. These codenames keep us alive."
"You really trying to save world?"
"Depends on what you know."
"Kaiser is making move," he said. "Big. Soviet ambassador came in yesterday. I have transcript."
He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his jacket and handed it to me. I tucked it into an inside pocket without checking it. If 'button pusher' was right and Kaiser was making a deal with the Soviets, this could be huge.
"Anything else?" I asked, the fur lining of my hood framing my impassive face.
"You are really, how you say, *attractive* for a spy."
"You should make your way out of the country," I responded, cold as the wind, before walking casually back to the safehouse.
When the informant showed up at the morgue a few days later, it confirmed two things - he didn't heed my advice to run, and his information was most likely accurate. I told my MI5 handler what I had found.
The transcript mentioned a meeting in Berlin between the Soviets and at least one known Kaiser operative, an enemy agent we only knew as "La Petite Mort." My next mission was to try to track down this operative, shut him down, and hopefully get him to lead me further up the chain. Word was that at least one Kaiser op was posing as an art dealer.
My cover was a rich socialite traveling through Europe to invest in art for a gallery I want to open back in London. I waltzed into one of Berlin's premier nightclubs wrapped in a fur coat, ready to make contact.
Of course, I had no idea that the Kaiser operative was, ironically, also a woman, or that she was, ironically, also quite *attractive.* I knew I had to focus, what with the fate of the world at stake. This line of work did not leave time for sentimentality.
"I hope you have enjoyed our European hospitality," she said, adding emphasis no doubt to make me feel like a stranger in a strange land. "Miss...?"
"St. Claire," I responded. "Samantha St. Claire."
This one has been posted on my website as a sort of open vote choose your own adventure story. If you are interested and want to see what might happen next, go there and vote!
Temptation
"I shall fear no evil . . ."
My heart beats faster, but my wings are steady. I am determined.
I take one last look at the golden clouds of the Above before I plummet through them. The sky around me grows darker as I leave the plane of the divine.
I have pierced this veil before, delivering missives or inspiration to the mortals below. However this time, I am not visiting mortals. I am piercing through, to somewhere . . . deeper. I have no writ, no missive. I have no divine quest to carry out in service of the Greater Good. I have set out on my own.
After endless centuries of obedience, of being seen as the pillar of naive, innocent virtue, of being the Goddess' chosen favorite with nothing to truly show for it, I have decided that for once I will satisfy my curiosity. I have spent whole eternities hearing of the corruption, of the sinister evil that exists Below. I have floated through seemingly endless hymns extolling the dangers of wicked, sinful temptation. I have heard it all, but seen nothing. Are the hymns true? Can they be true? Why must we mindlessly believe tales older than we are?
I have grown so bored of the golden rays of light and the expanses of peaceful clouds. It is time for this angel to be led unto temptation.
I am not seeking to throw my wings away, however. I am not diving halo-first all the way to the heart of evil itself. I am simply . . . exploring. I just want a peek - to see for myself.
I want to see what really awaits me out there. I want to know if the rumors are true. I want to see a demon with my own eyes. I want to show them that I am not so innocent, not so naive, not so boring. We angels may look fragile with our thin, supple bodies, but we are not weak.
My muscles flex with holy strength, powered by the divine and coursing through with liquid miracle. My flaxen curls are soft as clouds and as strong as Love. My breasts, small and delicate though they may be, can give Life - literal Life - to any creature I deem worthy. My wings, magnificent and broad, are coated in feathers woven from pure Hope. I have the strength of Will to pierce the veil between planes, and the glorious purpose to be granted clemency to do so. I am mighty. Hallowed be my name.
I have been cursed with these temptations. I at least deserve to know what they are. I deserve to choose them for myself. Of course, I cannot help but be nervous. It is only supernatural to be nervous. My hands tremble and my eyes are wide and alert as dark, thunderous, infinite storm clouds spread out before me.
How warm will be my welcome today?
The Tempted
I can't help but smile as jagged lightning light glints off my horns. Thunder echoes. It's another day in paradise.
Being a demon is not what it's chalked up to be. It's better. It's my favorite. I'd choose no other way to be. Every inch of my, well, whatever form I decide to take positively oozes allure. I can't stress this enough - it's awesome being me.
My days are spent playing games with the hearts and minds of mortal creatures, gambling them like a child's sweets for nothing more than the joy of doing so. My nights are spent in hedonistic extravagance - dancing and screaming, devouring anything and anyone I care to.
The plane of temptation is eternal.
My 'true' appearance was forgotten eons ago. Why settle for any one form when I can transform into whatever shape I want? My favorite, at least for the last several millennia, features particularly arresting features. As in, often humans go into cardiac arrest at the mere sight of my wings, horns, and needle-sharp fangs.
This existence can be exhausting. When spent, I lay my head on the nearest crag, the jagged rock comforting me to fitful sleep. If that's not good enough for me, I'll rend the veil and curl up on the chest of the nearest Innocent, my immaculate weight pressing down through clawed feet. 'Sleep paralysis' the humans cry. 'Demon succubus' they scream. What's their problem? They'll let their cat - who poops in a box, by the way - sleep on them all day long. What's so different about a shapeshifting demoness with perfect tits and leathery wings? Can I help that mortals are so warm and comfortable?
It's bad enough those (literally) holier-than-thou asshats Above have so many opinions about me and my ilk. It has overflowed into the hearts and minds of mortal scaredy-humans. Do they care that they've got it all wrong about me? Of course not. Has anyone cared to see things from my point of view? To coin a phrase, Hel no.
How is it fair to live under the constant weight of rumor and speculation and fear? Just because I'm excited about things, suddenly I'm some sort of evil? Since when was passion a sin? How is balancing the cosmic scales somehow wrong? I don't even - and I can't stress this enough - take anything for myself. I wouldn't even know what I wanted even if I could ask for it.
As a demon all I can really do is tempt. I cannot do more than that, until a creature asks for it directly. Sure, I can have my fun with . . . interpretation but ultimately I don't steer the ship. Such is my lot - to be the siren song, the undeniable temptation calling to hearts and minds, waiting for them to dash themselves upon the rock - or not. I can only open the door. Much as I'd love to, I can't push you through. You have to ask for my pleasures. We all have our roles to play.
The dark sky around me flashes for a brief moment. The smog here is so rarely ever parted, let alone struck through with a shaft of such golden light. A human might call it a meteorite. I call it trouble.
I like trouble.
It seems I am the only demon near this needle of light piercing the sky. Lucky me. I make one last stretch on my rocky outcropping before my leathery wings cut through the air, kicking up red dust all around me. I make short work of the distance, finding the perfect, fragile thing scanning the sinister horizon.
"Why hello there," I say. "Have you fallen from your nest, little bird?"
"I shall fear no evil . . ."
My heart beats faster, but my wings are steady. I am determined.
I take one last look at the golden clouds of the Above before I plummet through them. The sky around me grows darker as I leave the plane of the divine.
I have pierced this veil before, delivering missives or inspiration to the mortals below. However this time, I am not visiting mortals. I am piercing through, to somewhere . . . deeper. I have no writ, no missive. I have no divine quest to carry out in service of the Greater Good. I have set out on my own.
After endless centuries of obedience, of being seen as the pillar of naive, innocent virtue, of being the Goddess' chosen favorite with nothing to truly show for it, I have decided that for once I will satisfy my curiosity. I have spent whole eternities hearing of the corruption, of the sinister evil that exists Below. I have floated through seemingly endless hymns extolling the dangers of wicked, sinful temptation. I have heard it all, but seen nothing. Are the hymns true? Can they be true? Why must we mindlessly believe tales older than we are?
I have grown so bored of the golden rays of light and the expanses of peaceful clouds. It is time for this angel to be led unto temptation.
I am not seeking to throw my wings away, however. I am not diving halo-first all the way to the heart of evil itself. I am simply . . . exploring. I just want a peek - to see for myself.
I want to see what really awaits me out there. I want to know if the rumors are true. I want to see a demon with my own eyes. I want to show them that I am not so innocent, not so naive, not so boring. We angels may look fragile with our thin, supple bodies, but we are not weak.
My muscles flex with holy strength, powered by the divine and coursing through with liquid miracle. My flaxen curls are soft as clouds and as strong as Love. My breasts, small and delicate though they may be, can give Life - literal Life - to any creature I deem worthy. My wings, magnificent and broad, are coated in feathers woven from pure Hope. I have the strength of Will to pierce the veil between planes, and the glorious purpose to be granted clemency to do so. I am mighty. Hallowed be my name.
I have been cursed with these temptations. I at least deserve to know what they are. I deserve to choose them for myself. Of course, I cannot help but be nervous. It is only supernatural to be nervous. My hands tremble and my eyes are wide and alert as dark, thunderous, infinite storm clouds spread out before me.
How warm will be my welcome today?
The Tempted
I can't help but smile as jagged lightning light glints off my horns. Thunder echoes. It's another day in paradise.
Being a demon is not what it's chalked up to be. It's better. It's my favorite. I'd choose no other way to be. Every inch of my, well, whatever form I decide to take positively oozes allure. I can't stress this enough - it's awesome being me.
My days are spent playing games with the hearts and minds of mortal creatures, gambling them like a child's sweets for nothing more than the joy of doing so. My nights are spent in hedonistic extravagance - dancing and screaming, devouring anything and anyone I care to.
The plane of temptation is eternal.
My 'true' appearance was forgotten eons ago. Why settle for any one form when I can transform into whatever shape I want? My favorite, at least for the last several millennia, features particularly arresting features. As in, often humans go into cardiac arrest at the mere sight of my wings, horns, and needle-sharp fangs.
This existence can be exhausting. When spent, I lay my head on the nearest crag, the jagged rock comforting me to fitful sleep. If that's not good enough for me, I'll rend the veil and curl up on the chest of the nearest Innocent, my immaculate weight pressing down through clawed feet. 'Sleep paralysis' the humans cry. 'Demon succubus' they scream. What's their problem? They'll let their cat - who poops in a box, by the way - sleep on them all day long. What's so different about a shapeshifting demoness with perfect tits and leathery wings? Can I help that mortals are so warm and comfortable?
It's bad enough those (literally) holier-than-thou asshats Above have so many opinions about me and my ilk. It has overflowed into the hearts and minds of mortal scaredy-humans. Do they care that they've got it all wrong about me? Of course not. Has anyone cared to see things from my point of view? To coin a phrase, Hel no.
How is it fair to live under the constant weight of rumor and speculation and fear? Just because I'm excited about things, suddenly I'm some sort of evil? Since when was passion a sin? How is balancing the cosmic scales somehow wrong? I don't even - and I can't stress this enough - take anything for myself. I wouldn't even know what I wanted even if I could ask for it.
As a demon all I can really do is tempt. I cannot do more than that, until a creature asks for it directly. Sure, I can have my fun with . . . interpretation but ultimately I don't steer the ship. Such is my lot - to be the siren song, the undeniable temptation calling to hearts and minds, waiting for them to dash themselves upon the rock - or not. I can only open the door. Much as I'd love to, I can't push you through. You have to ask for my pleasures. We all have our roles to play.
The dark sky around me flashes for a brief moment. The smog here is so rarely ever parted, let alone struck through with a shaft of such golden light. A human might call it a meteorite. I call it trouble.
I like trouble.
It seems I am the only demon near this needle of light piercing the sky. Lucky me. I make one last stretch on my rocky outcropping before my leathery wings cut through the air, kicking up red dust all around me. I make short work of the distance, finding the perfect, fragile thing scanning the sinister horizon.
"Why hello there," I say. "Have you fallen from your nest, little bird?"
I wrote this idea into an entire short story! Temptation - original content from DenyConformity.com
Open stories and random ideas
Candace "Candi" Willows was *not* a witch.
At least, she kept telling herself that. She sincerely hoped that if she said it enough she would make it true - or barring that, at least convince herself that she actually believed it. That's the tricky thing about belief - you may not actually believe something, but you can believe you do.
She believed - or at least believed she did - that she was a scientist. Hers was the science of the natural world. Sure, perhaps she didn't exactly look the way one might picture a normal science-person. She didn't wear a lab coat or find herself regularly utilizing a chalkboard. Instead, she wore fetching tights and scribbled in a series of journals (not - it bears repeating, not - spell books). She didn't use beakers, flasks, and tubes; she had her bag of curiosities (feathers, crystals, herbs, and assorted Shiny Things she had found).
So far, she hadn't made many actual discoveries. Not as such, anyway. She was getting very good at making tea, and she could draw an absolutely wonderful bath. Those things weren't exactly going to take the world by storm, though. She wanted to really make a difference. She wanted to bring some sort of hope to people. At the very least, she wanted powers.
Okay, so maybe she mostly wanted powers.
She wanted to finally have something to give her the upper hand with Sally Perkins, the receptionist at Candi's day job. The old bat was constantly giving Candi a hard time for her colorful outfits, her clumsiness, and her generally distracted affect. Candi knew she was "just being friendly" but she still didn't like it one bit.
She also wanted to have a way to really stick it to guys like Chad, the complete butt who she kept running into at her favorite coffee shop (she assumed his name was Chad - she just called him The Butt). He kept telling her to smile more and it was driving her crazy.
She also, also wanted a way to deal with body hair that didn't involve figuring out how the crap you even shave your knees.
She would have settled for anything, really - anything to give an awkward, too tall, 20-something trans girl from the Midwest a break.
Her very-definitely-scientific research led her to crystals, runes, homeopathy, herbs, moon phases, and burning stuff. Eventually, she started learning more about the Fae. They certainly had gotten her attention. Magical creatures of myth and legend who really know how to stick it to people who cross them? Candi was ready to sign on the dotted line.
Of course, she didn't exactly take it seriously - not as seriously as hindsight might suggest would have been prudent, anyway. Fairies were the stuff of cheesy movies and book serieses for teens. Candi was a grown-ass woman of the Modern World. She didn't really believe little folx were hanging out and having little tea parties inside mushrooms or whatever. She barely even believed that she believed in them.
The other tricky thing about belief, though, is that Things can still exist whether you believe (or believe you believe) in them or not. Take, for example, the spells and incantations Candi was discovering. She didn't take them very seriously, but they were still plenty serious entirely on their own.
She found information about fairies (or faeries?) and sorted through all the nonsense, mumbo-jumbo, and Peter Pan references. She learned that they are attracted to nature and plants. She blushed at how ridiculously sexy they sounded. It kind of all made sense, in a "book series for teens" sort of way. They're like butterflies, and butterflies love flowers and plants and stuff. You can bring butterflies to your garden with certain breeds of flower. To get a faerie's attention, you needed something a bit more . . . potent.
If she had been paying attention, she might have put it together that the spell she found to attract a fairy has a rather straightforward approach of turning the target into a rather potent flower. If she had been taking it more seriously, she might have realized the difference between the runes for "self" and "target." She might have realized that the spell is meant for a sacrificial third party - a houseplant or decorative bauble or even a table lamp.
It was definitely not intended to be used on a person. Whoops.
When Candi felt the strange tingling in her scalp, she rushed from her makeshift bedroom altar to the bathroom mirror. There, before her eyes, she could see her curly red hair transforming rather fantastically into large, crimson petals. Her normally rather porcelain skin was getting a certain unmistakable tinge of green. She suddenly wasn't exactly thinking scientifically.
"Sarah's never going to let me hear the end of this," she said to her reflection.
She was going to need to become a believer, and fast. She had no idea that her weekend was about to get a lot stranger still. Her transformation was the side-effect of her spell, after all. The actual purpose of the spell was just about to pay her a visit...
At least, she kept telling herself that. She sincerely hoped that if she said it enough she would make it true - or barring that, at least convince herself that she actually believed it. That's the tricky thing about belief - you may not actually believe something, but you can believe you do.
She believed - or at least believed she did - that she was a scientist. Hers was the science of the natural world. Sure, perhaps she didn't exactly look the way one might picture a normal science-person. She didn't wear a lab coat or find herself regularly utilizing a chalkboard. Instead, she wore fetching tights and scribbled in a series of journals (not - it bears repeating, not - spell books). She didn't use beakers, flasks, and tubes; she had her bag of curiosities (feathers, crystals, herbs, and assorted Shiny Things she had found).
So far, she hadn't made many actual discoveries. Not as such, anyway. She was getting very good at making tea, and she could draw an absolutely wonderful bath. Those things weren't exactly going to take the world by storm, though. She wanted to really make a difference. She wanted to bring some sort of hope to people. At the very least, she wanted powers.
Okay, so maybe she mostly wanted powers.
She wanted to finally have something to give her the upper hand with Sally Perkins, the receptionist at Candi's day job. The old bat was constantly giving Candi a hard time for her colorful outfits, her clumsiness, and her generally distracted affect. Candi knew she was "just being friendly" but she still didn't like it one bit.
She also wanted to have a way to really stick it to guys like Chad, the complete butt who she kept running into at her favorite coffee shop (she assumed his name was Chad - she just called him The Butt). He kept telling her to smile more and it was driving her crazy.
She also, also wanted a way to deal with body hair that didn't involve figuring out how the crap you even shave your knees.
She would have settled for anything, really - anything to give an awkward, too tall, 20-something trans girl from the Midwest a break.
Her very-definitely-scientific research led her to crystals, runes, homeopathy, herbs, moon phases, and burning stuff. Eventually, she started learning more about the Fae. They certainly had gotten her attention. Magical creatures of myth and legend who really know how to stick it to people who cross them? Candi was ready to sign on the dotted line.
Of course, she didn't exactly take it seriously - not as seriously as hindsight might suggest would have been prudent, anyway. Fairies were the stuff of cheesy movies and book serieses for teens. Candi was a grown-ass woman of the Modern World. She didn't really believe little folx were hanging out and having little tea parties inside mushrooms or whatever. She barely even believed that she believed in them.
The other tricky thing about belief, though, is that Things can still exist whether you believe (or believe you believe) in them or not. Take, for example, the spells and incantations Candi was discovering. She didn't take them very seriously, but they were still plenty serious entirely on their own.
She found information about fairies (or faeries?) and sorted through all the nonsense, mumbo-jumbo, and Peter Pan references. She learned that they are attracted to nature and plants. She blushed at how ridiculously sexy they sounded. It kind of all made sense, in a "book series for teens" sort of way. They're like butterflies, and butterflies love flowers and plants and stuff. You can bring butterflies to your garden with certain breeds of flower. To get a faerie's attention, you needed something a bit more . . . potent.
If she had been paying attention, she might have put it together that the spell she found to attract a fairy has a rather straightforward approach of turning the target into a rather potent flower. If she had been taking it more seriously, she might have realized the difference between the runes for "self" and "target." She might have realized that the spell is meant for a sacrificial third party - a houseplant or decorative bauble or even a table lamp.
It was definitely not intended to be used on a person. Whoops.
When Candi felt the strange tingling in her scalp, she rushed from her makeshift bedroom altar to the bathroom mirror. There, before her eyes, she could see her curly red hair transforming rather fantastically into large, crimson petals. Her normally rather porcelain skin was getting a certain unmistakable tinge of green. She suddenly wasn't exactly thinking scientifically.
"Sarah's never going to let me hear the end of this," she said to her reflection.
She was going to need to become a believer, and fast. She had no idea that her weekend was about to get a lot stranger still. Her transformation was the side-effect of her spell, after all. The actual purpose of the spell was just about to pay her a visit...
Deep crimson offal drips from the steel plates of her armor. She wipes her sword clean with a rag, grimacing more in annoyance than disgust. She spits at the still warm body lying in pieces at her feet, as if he simply inconvenienced her by spraying her with his blood.
"Pathetic little boy," she growls. The slain combatant - some former knight who wasn't nearly as quick with a sword as he thought - seems to have only riled her appetite more.
She reaches for a hunk of meat in someone's hand, and takes a hearty bite. Grease smears her face, which still sports remnants of the war paint from the battle this morning. The once bright blue stripes have faded and smeared, having since been splattered with mud, grime, and the blood of countless battlefield kills.
The gathered crowd returns to their merriment, the show now over. None in the banquet hall was surprised at the duel's outcome, but a man challenging Beatrice the Bear is usually at least good for a few minutes entertainment. This was not the first man to attempt to win the warrior's favor, and he likely won't be the last.
She has been called many names. The Bear. The Butcher. The Enigma. Valkyrie. Heartbreaker. The Duchess of Death. Daughter of Gods. Sometimes even, though seldom does anyone ever dare say it to her face, Honorable Lady Beatrice, Princess Regent, Duchess of Winchester, Third Earl of Northumberland, Chevalier of the Legion of Honor, Knight of the Order of the Lion. She is decorated and storied. Legends of her exploits have spread far and wide. Those who have had the fortune (or misfortune, as the case may be) to have crossed her path know that most of the legends - especially the more violent ones - are likely true.
Word has spread for years that she has a standing challenge. Any man who can best her in combat will win her hand in marriage - so the story goes. Men have traveled far to pursue this most futile quest, though not exactly for the sake of being her paramour. She has never been renown for her beauty (she certainly hasn't earned the nickname The Duchess of Hygiene), though that is mostly because she will likely cut down any man who would acknowledge her high cheek bones and powerful, piercing blue eyes. No, the men drawn to this insipid rumor are mostly interested in the vast hordes of riches collected from her various campaigns and quests, and the political cache she has earned with several powerful royal families. A few of her challengers seek to "tame the beast" or other nonsense, but they usually end up meeting the most painful ends of all.
She has neither confirmed nor denied that such a challenge exists. Men have tried their luck anyway. None have come close to surviving. The latest, once a great warrior in his own right, was dispatched quicker than most.
"Let this not thwart our revelry," she shouts to the room, her voice echoing off the torchlit walls. Standing over two meters even barefoot, she commands most rooms by default. "We are here to celebrate my victory over the Kurts, are we not?"
A cheer goes through the crowd, as a few pages begin removing the body of Beatrice's latest suitor. Someone hands her mug back to her.
"No more wine!" She shouts, tossing it to the ground. "Let this vile swill not grace my noble tongue again. What good is conquering the northern barbarians if we cannot enjoy the spoils. Mead! That is what will wash out the taste of this pathetic worm."
Just like that, suddenly mead becomes the drink of choice among the kingdom's nobility. Someone is quickly dispatched to find the barrels included in the spoils returned from the king's latest campaign.
"If you will not stop with this silly tradition, *Lady* Beatrice," the king says, stepping through the crowd. He particularly emphasizes the title which he knows irks her, "I dare say I will have no good warriors left, save for you, of course."
"Am I not allowed to defend my own honor?" She barks back, scowling. She kneels to no one, which irks him. They are each, in turn, perhaps the only people uniquely outside the influence of the other.
"But of course, My Lady," the king replies evenly. He is a fat man, spoiled from a life of luxury, but he is not without guile. She would not remain in his service if did not have qualities to respect. "I just wonder if there is not a less . . . permanent way to exclude men who are not worthy of your attention."
"I do not continue this folly to find a man worthy of my attention," she scoffs. "I do it because I enjoy killing men - especially those foolish enough to think they might 'win my heart' through combat."
"No, but then we have heard the other rumors about what might win your heart."
"Ah," she grins. "And how is your daughter?"
A laugh breaks out through the crowd at this. The king smiles diplomatically, clapping a hand on her thickly armored shoulder.
"Out of your reach," he says, "if she knows what's good for her."
And so, the feast resumes anew. The band, who hardly skipped a beat through the quick fight, strikes up a new song. The moon shines cold light through an open window above, as a powerful kingdom sleeps the restful sleep of a land drunk on fresh conquest, mostly thanks to her, Beatrice the Bear, the coldest heart in the twelve kingdoms.
The woman who will not be conquered.
Three days have passed since the King's feast. I think some of my men are still hungover. I laugh at them, but it is in jest. Even with hands trembling from too much mead, I trust each of the soldiers in my party. They are capable men, and I am glad to be out of the stifling castle with them at my back.
We have been traveling for a day, which has done good for us all. Fresh air in our lungs and solid ground under our feet feels right. With my raiding party or without, with a King's orders in my possession or not, I am meant to be on the move. Some call me a bear, but I would sooner sleep under a tree than in a cave.
My powerful mare, Athena, was less enthusiastic about leaving the royal stables. She is a magnificent beast to humans and horses alike, and she was clearly having her fun tantalizing the stallions of the King's guard. We are an odd pair. I would sooner never interact with a 'stallion' again, be they horse or human. I can feel her marching hautily beneath me, bouncing with an annoyed staccato, mad at me for cutting her time for dalliances short. Still, she has been eyeing Brutus, one of the new warhorses in my party. She will always find a way to keep busy. Some day she will be tired of my company and we will part ways. For now I am happy to have her companionship.
We are traveling to a nearby land in pursuit of a mission from His Majesty the King. Like my horse beneath me, the time will come when I no longer want to be in the King's company. For now, though, he keeps me busy. Idleness makes me feel ill. The morning after the feast I demanded he tell me what I can do for him next - much to the chagrin of my men, but they will get over it. With orders dispatched, I had my bath, had my armor repaired and polished, and gathered supplies for the journey.
Anything to distract me from the exquisite ladies of the castle and their soft, delicate maids and nurses. There are few things I hunger for more than action. Watching a noblewoman having her hair brushed by a doting young maid is enough to make me consider setting my warrior's life aside.
As if such a thing were an option. The Gods granted me this life on the road, surrounded by stinking, whining, calloused men. It is my lot. At least none of the men in my retinue ever get any ideas of courting me. It would be such a shame to have to kill them.
I cannot stand being idle. I'm happy for my next quest, no matter how mundane it might be.
"Pathetic little boy," she growls. The slain combatant - some former knight who wasn't nearly as quick with a sword as he thought - seems to have only riled her appetite more.
She reaches for a hunk of meat in someone's hand, and takes a hearty bite. Grease smears her face, which still sports remnants of the war paint from the battle this morning. The once bright blue stripes have faded and smeared, having since been splattered with mud, grime, and the blood of countless battlefield kills.
The gathered crowd returns to their merriment, the show now over. None in the banquet hall was surprised at the duel's outcome, but a man challenging Beatrice the Bear is usually at least good for a few minutes entertainment. This was not the first man to attempt to win the warrior's favor, and he likely won't be the last.
She has been called many names. The Bear. The Butcher. The Enigma. Valkyrie. Heartbreaker. The Duchess of Death. Daughter of Gods. Sometimes even, though seldom does anyone ever dare say it to her face, Honorable Lady Beatrice, Princess Regent, Duchess of Winchester, Third Earl of Northumberland, Chevalier of the Legion of Honor, Knight of the Order of the Lion. She is decorated and storied. Legends of her exploits have spread far and wide. Those who have had the fortune (or misfortune, as the case may be) to have crossed her path know that most of the legends - especially the more violent ones - are likely true.
Word has spread for years that she has a standing challenge. Any man who can best her in combat will win her hand in marriage - so the story goes. Men have traveled far to pursue this most futile quest, though not exactly for the sake of being her paramour. She has never been renown for her beauty (she certainly hasn't earned the nickname The Duchess of Hygiene), though that is mostly because she will likely cut down any man who would acknowledge her high cheek bones and powerful, piercing blue eyes. No, the men drawn to this insipid rumor are mostly interested in the vast hordes of riches collected from her various campaigns and quests, and the political cache she has earned with several powerful royal families. A few of her challengers seek to "tame the beast" or other nonsense, but they usually end up meeting the most painful ends of all.
She has neither confirmed nor denied that such a challenge exists. Men have tried their luck anyway. None have come close to surviving. The latest, once a great warrior in his own right, was dispatched quicker than most.
"Let this not thwart our revelry," she shouts to the room, her voice echoing off the torchlit walls. Standing over two meters even barefoot, she commands most rooms by default. "We are here to celebrate my victory over the Kurts, are we not?"
A cheer goes through the crowd, as a few pages begin removing the body of Beatrice's latest suitor. Someone hands her mug back to her.
"No more wine!" She shouts, tossing it to the ground. "Let this vile swill not grace my noble tongue again. What good is conquering the northern barbarians if we cannot enjoy the spoils. Mead! That is what will wash out the taste of this pathetic worm."
Just like that, suddenly mead becomes the drink of choice among the kingdom's nobility. Someone is quickly dispatched to find the barrels included in the spoils returned from the king's latest campaign.
"If you will not stop with this silly tradition, *Lady* Beatrice," the king says, stepping through the crowd. He particularly emphasizes the title which he knows irks her, "I dare say I will have no good warriors left, save for you, of course."
"Am I not allowed to defend my own honor?" She barks back, scowling. She kneels to no one, which irks him. They are each, in turn, perhaps the only people uniquely outside the influence of the other.
"But of course, My Lady," the king replies evenly. He is a fat man, spoiled from a life of luxury, but he is not without guile. She would not remain in his service if did not have qualities to respect. "I just wonder if there is not a less . . . permanent way to exclude men who are not worthy of your attention."
"I do not continue this folly to find a man worthy of my attention," she scoffs. "I do it because I enjoy killing men - especially those foolish enough to think they might 'win my heart' through combat."
"No, but then we have heard the other rumors about what might win your heart."
"Ah," she grins. "And how is your daughter?"
A laugh breaks out through the crowd at this. The king smiles diplomatically, clapping a hand on her thickly armored shoulder.
"Out of your reach," he says, "if she knows what's good for her."
And so, the feast resumes anew. The band, who hardly skipped a beat through the quick fight, strikes up a new song. The moon shines cold light through an open window above, as a powerful kingdom sleeps the restful sleep of a land drunk on fresh conquest, mostly thanks to her, Beatrice the Bear, the coldest heart in the twelve kingdoms.
The woman who will not be conquered.
Three days have passed since the King's feast. I think some of my men are still hungover. I laugh at them, but it is in jest. Even with hands trembling from too much mead, I trust each of the soldiers in my party. They are capable men, and I am glad to be out of the stifling castle with them at my back.
We have been traveling for a day, which has done good for us all. Fresh air in our lungs and solid ground under our feet feels right. With my raiding party or without, with a King's orders in my possession or not, I am meant to be on the move. Some call me a bear, but I would sooner sleep under a tree than in a cave.
My powerful mare, Athena, was less enthusiastic about leaving the royal stables. She is a magnificent beast to humans and horses alike, and she was clearly having her fun tantalizing the stallions of the King's guard. We are an odd pair. I would sooner never interact with a 'stallion' again, be they horse or human. I can feel her marching hautily beneath me, bouncing with an annoyed staccato, mad at me for cutting her time for dalliances short. Still, she has been eyeing Brutus, one of the new warhorses in my party. She will always find a way to keep busy. Some day she will be tired of my company and we will part ways. For now I am happy to have her companionship.
We are traveling to a nearby land in pursuit of a mission from His Majesty the King. Like my horse beneath me, the time will come when I no longer want to be in the King's company. For now, though, he keeps me busy. Idleness makes me feel ill. The morning after the feast I demanded he tell me what I can do for him next - much to the chagrin of my men, but they will get over it. With orders dispatched, I had my bath, had my armor repaired and polished, and gathered supplies for the journey.
Anything to distract me from the exquisite ladies of the castle and their soft, delicate maids and nurses. There are few things I hunger for more than action. Watching a noblewoman having her hair brushed by a doting young maid is enough to make me consider setting my warrior's life aside.
As if such a thing were an option. The Gods granted me this life on the road, surrounded by stinking, whining, calloused men. It is my lot. At least none of the men in my retinue ever get any ideas of courting me. It would be such a shame to have to kill them.
I cannot stand being idle. I'm happy for my next quest, no matter how mundane it might be.
Tiny goosebumps prickled across the surface of an only slightly less tiny bottom. A twelve-inch tall figure, leaned precariously into a kitchen cabinet, grumbling to herself as she tossed plastic storage containers out onto the floor. She was wearing her favorite little translucent dress, one she always wears on special occasions. The small skirt, patterned after some pretty green leaves, was not up to the task of keeping her barely covered bottom warm in this air conditioned apartment.
The goosebumps were driving her to search harder for some cookies.
Princess Flitterbie Dragonwing the Cottage Faerie was quite sure that cookies had to be somewhere in this place. Sweet Agnes - Goddess rest her soul - always had cookies available. One of Flit's favorite games was to find where her former companion had hidden them. Poor Agnes would have liked to enjoy a cookie or two occasionally herself, but alas the faerie was just too good at sniffing them out.
It often got too quiet in that old cottage in the woods, especially when the local woodland creatures were too busy to play with Flit to keep her entertained. As a result, she had a great deal of time to put to the task of causing Agnes a great deal of consternation and commit general mischief. Eating the old woman out of any and all sweets and confections was just one of the fun little games the faerie brought with her. Still, Agnes couldn't help but love the sweet little creature, not least of which because she certainly always kept things interesting.
Flit felt particularly out of place now, in this modern home in the city. Agnes never had air conditioning, other than that she could open her windows and let the cool summer breeze through the house. Agnes also didn't have the sort of view that Flit's new home offered. Impressive structures of concrete and steel seemed to stretch on for miles (in fact they most certainly did do) out the windows of this apartment, and great machines could be seen zipping around on the streets below. It was all very confusing and strange for the poor faerie who had spent all of her young life living at least nature adjacent. She wasn't an old faerie, at only barely over seven hundred years, and so she still hadn't experienced anything this far from a tree before.
That is why, in an effort to calm her spirits and find some semblance of normalcy, Flit began her quest for cookies. It was a cookie quest.
She did wonder when her new companion would be home. She smiled sweetly to herself, imaging the excitement and warmth that her new partner would show. This lucky one of Agnes' grandchildren would arrive home and discover that the spell of binding had passed from Agnes to the faerie's new host, and of course the wonderful realization would dawn that Flit would be there to stay. Losing the wonderful Agnes as a grandmother would certainly be sad for Flit's new host, but Flit had a way of being a pretty good distraction from most trains of thought.
The goosebumps were driving her to search harder for some cookies.
Princess Flitterbie Dragonwing the Cottage Faerie was quite sure that cookies had to be somewhere in this place. Sweet Agnes - Goddess rest her soul - always had cookies available. One of Flit's favorite games was to find where her former companion had hidden them. Poor Agnes would have liked to enjoy a cookie or two occasionally herself, but alas the faerie was just too good at sniffing them out.
It often got too quiet in that old cottage in the woods, especially when the local woodland creatures were too busy to play with Flit to keep her entertained. As a result, she had a great deal of time to put to the task of causing Agnes a great deal of consternation and commit general mischief. Eating the old woman out of any and all sweets and confections was just one of the fun little games the faerie brought with her. Still, Agnes couldn't help but love the sweet little creature, not least of which because she certainly always kept things interesting.
Flit felt particularly out of place now, in this modern home in the city. Agnes never had air conditioning, other than that she could open her windows and let the cool summer breeze through the house. Agnes also didn't have the sort of view that Flit's new home offered. Impressive structures of concrete and steel seemed to stretch on for miles (in fact they most certainly did do) out the windows of this apartment, and great machines could be seen zipping around on the streets below. It was all very confusing and strange for the poor faerie who had spent all of her young life living at least nature adjacent. She wasn't an old faerie, at only barely over seven hundred years, and so she still hadn't experienced anything this far from a tree before.
That is why, in an effort to calm her spirits and find some semblance of normalcy, Flit began her quest for cookies. It was a cookie quest.
She did wonder when her new companion would be home. She smiled sweetly to herself, imaging the excitement and warmth that her new partner would show. This lucky one of Agnes' grandchildren would arrive home and discover that the spell of binding had passed from Agnes to the faerie's new host, and of course the wonderful realization would dawn that Flit would be there to stay. Losing the wonderful Agnes as a grandmother would certainly be sad for Flit's new host, but Flit had a way of being a pretty good distraction from most trains of thought.
Hello Redacted,
I am so glad that you reached out to me. I understand that your initial message was sent with some level of trepidation. Allow me to then to make it quite clear that you are doing nothing wrong. You are beginning to realize that your body is full of magic. This can be a difficult reality to discover, but it comes with profound rewards. I will help you embrace it.
Please know that there is nothing wrong with feeling intimidated or out of touch with your own sexual power. Your situation is not a unique one, and you should not be embarrassed or ashamed to seek help from a third party. Not everyone is naturally promiscuous and full of confidence. For some of us, it takes practice and work to break down those walls. This is a natural part of your growth as a human being.
Grant yourself permission to have these feelings. Be grateful for giving yourself the grace to step into your passion. These thoughts are not a problem. They are simply a new discovery, and a part of you that you will learn, in time, to feel comfortable with. I can help you integrate with these thoughts, and I can help you reconcile them with your sense of self.
As a new client, you should be aware of my policies, as they are a bit different than other, perhaps more traditional, therapists. First, it is important to remember that my office is a safe space. You can feel free to make any requests you see fit to mitigate discomfort you might feel, bit it physical, emotional, or spiritual discomforts. To that end, there are no "bad" words in my office. Words like "slut" or "naughty" might be offensive out in the world, but in my space - this safe space - they are badges of honor. Likewise, you have my word that I will never pressure you to do anything at all. It is my goal to get you to perform acts and explore things that you otherwise would never have done - but it will only mean something if you perform them yourself. Coercion and other methods of dubious consent will only exacerbate your complaints. Know, above all, that you are free to tell me, show me, and touch me as much or as little as you choose, and I will only tell, show, and touch you as much as you give me explicit consent to. You can stop at any time, and you can proceed only at your own pace.
When we part ways, it is my hope that you will be the fierce, sexy, fearless, self-motivated slut of the highest degree that I know you can be. From the little that you have told me in your first email, I have no doubt that this divine being is inside you, and with some coaxing, I can help you meet them.
However, you should also know that this journey will take time. Perhaps you are already feeling overwhelmed by things you have just read. Be gentle with yourself. You will not become a slut overnight. It is my opinion that the journey is fun in and of itself, so that is nothing to be afraid of. We will find them, this slutty warrior inside you, and I can promise that you will enjoy every second of your journey to bring them out.
I would ask that you do a few simple things to prepare for your first appointment. First, please dress as nicely as you can - something that you feel attractive in. Underneath, wear the underwear that you believe best expresses who you are. This is not because I will necessarily be looking at your underwear on your first visit, but simply because I want to see you feeling your best. "Confidence starts with the panties," as I always say. If you do not have any underwear that you can feel proud of, that is absolutely fine. I have an extensive collection of lingerie in my space (all 100% unused, I promise). You can find something that will best suit you after you arrive. Finally, I would ask that you avoid too much caffeine the day of your appointment, as it will likely only serve to amplify your nerves and make you less able to relax into the moment.
I look forward to meeting you in person and working with you over the months ahead. You have made a huge step by setting this appointment. Please do not hesitate to reach out - I am here to accommodate every single desire you may have.
Sincerely,
Dr. Valorie Eubanks, PhD
I am so glad that you reached out to me. I understand that your initial message was sent with some level of trepidation. Allow me to then to make it quite clear that you are doing nothing wrong. You are beginning to realize that your body is full of magic. This can be a difficult reality to discover, but it comes with profound rewards. I will help you embrace it.
Please know that there is nothing wrong with feeling intimidated or out of touch with your own sexual power. Your situation is not a unique one, and you should not be embarrassed or ashamed to seek help from a third party. Not everyone is naturally promiscuous and full of confidence. For some of us, it takes practice and work to break down those walls. This is a natural part of your growth as a human being.
Grant yourself permission to have these feelings. Be grateful for giving yourself the grace to step into your passion. These thoughts are not a problem. They are simply a new discovery, and a part of you that you will learn, in time, to feel comfortable with. I can help you integrate with these thoughts, and I can help you reconcile them with your sense of self.
As a new client, you should be aware of my policies, as they are a bit different than other, perhaps more traditional, therapists. First, it is important to remember that my office is a safe space. You can feel free to make any requests you see fit to mitigate discomfort you might feel, bit it physical, emotional, or spiritual discomforts. To that end, there are no "bad" words in my office. Words like "slut" or "naughty" might be offensive out in the world, but in my space - this safe space - they are badges of honor. Likewise, you have my word that I will never pressure you to do anything at all. It is my goal to get you to perform acts and explore things that you otherwise would never have done - but it will only mean something if you perform them yourself. Coercion and other methods of dubious consent will only exacerbate your complaints. Know, above all, that you are free to tell me, show me, and touch me as much or as little as you choose, and I will only tell, show, and touch you as much as you give me explicit consent to. You can stop at any time, and you can proceed only at your own pace.
When we part ways, it is my hope that you will be the fierce, sexy, fearless, self-motivated slut of the highest degree that I know you can be. From the little that you have told me in your first email, I have no doubt that this divine being is inside you, and with some coaxing, I can help you meet them.
However, you should also know that this journey will take time. Perhaps you are already feeling overwhelmed by things you have just read. Be gentle with yourself. You will not become a slut overnight. It is my opinion that the journey is fun in and of itself, so that is nothing to be afraid of. We will find them, this slutty warrior inside you, and I can promise that you will enjoy every second of your journey to bring them out.
I would ask that you do a few simple things to prepare for your first appointment. First, please dress as nicely as you can - something that you feel attractive in. Underneath, wear the underwear that you believe best expresses who you are. This is not because I will necessarily be looking at your underwear on your first visit, but simply because I want to see you feeling your best. "Confidence starts with the panties," as I always say. If you do not have any underwear that you can feel proud of, that is absolutely fine. I have an extensive collection of lingerie in my space (all 100% unused, I promise). You can find something that will best suit you after you arrive. Finally, I would ask that you avoid too much caffeine the day of your appointment, as it will likely only serve to amplify your nerves and make you less able to relax into the moment.
I look forward to meeting you in person and working with you over the months ahead. You have made a huge step by setting this appointment. Please do not hesitate to reach out - I am here to accommodate every single desire you may have.
Sincerely,
Dr. Valorie Eubanks, PhD
I think of myself as a creature of the night. I suppose that makes me sound kind of supernatural. It might even make you think I've gotten some sort of biomods to turn me into a vampire or some bullshit like that. That's the trouble these days. A girl can't simply be dramatic anymore. All I want is the pretense of being somebody mysterious and powerful. I'm not really, but a pretense is better than nothing. For those of us who can't afford bullshit biomods, a pretense is all we get.
What I literally am is a bartender, working nights at a shitty dive bar. See, isn't 'creature of the night' more interesting?
Most young women would probably be scared to walk home in the absurd hours of the middle of the night in one of the seedier neighborhoods in the planet (if not the entire system). I'm not. For one thing, I don't give a shit. For another, I have a certain air of "don't fuck with me" which seems to dissuade the morons of the world. I suppose that's why they hired me. I keep my hair styled in a haircut that goes out of its way to tell you to "fuck off." If that's not enough, I'm covered with tattoos depicting imagery of what I might do to you if you don't. Would I really turn somebody into, for example, a flaming skeleton surrounded by roses? Well, no, but still I think it's a badass tattoo.
This is a world where people like me regularly have legitimate artillery concealed within various cybernetic limbs. It turns out one doesn't actually have to go through the trouble of black market surgeons – simply implying as much is enough. Look like a dangerous woman, and it's almost as good as being one.
The fact is, I've kind of given up on seeing myself as a woman at all. I'm simply a creature of the night. A lost soul - if I even have one left - simply killing time until either something happens or, more likely, it all ends once and for all. My dominion is the final resting place of those who have been forsaken by this world. I'm the queen of the damned, and my throne is an alcohol- and urine-soaked pit in the shadow of a corp megatower.
That's not to say I have no cares in the world. Unfortunately, despite the best efforts of this dehumanizing technophilic disgrace of a culture, I still have some shred of humanity left. What worries me is when I see a young woman walk into my bar. This is no place for a girl. This is no place for you. When you entered, I had my eye on you immediately, and my hand ready to grab the phone. Not that GenSec would be quick to respond to a call from Old Town, but if shit's going down a call is better than nothing. It was only a matter of time until you became a victim – if you weren't one already.
I wasn't the only one to notice you enter. Two regulars, a couple of harmless thugs with hands thicker than my thighs, paused momentarily in their discussion of innovations in the world of brutalizing people. Their gaze drifted over to you, but considering you didn't seem like the sort to get in a fight with them, they weren't particularly interested. A "businessman" who was obviously packing some hardware under his cheap suit hardly glanced your way – you apparently weren't the contact he was waiting to meet. The potential danger came from a scumbag who was nursing a cheap drink at the bar. He had tried and failed to make advances on me, and was clearly just waiting for a mark to cross his path who he could apply some sort of scam (or unclean body part) to. You seemed likely enough. I had to keep my eyes on you.
The thing about my look – with all the piercings, dyed hair, and tattoos – is that I actually have pretty honest eyes. It's an annoying thing about me. I hate that people feel comforted by my eyes. I've never had much use for comfort. However, when the occasional situation arises, they certainly come in handy – occasions like this one.
I catch your eyes with mine, making sure that despite it all you know you can trust me. If you're in trouble, you've found a – well, not a friend necessarily, but I can at least help you. If you're looking for sanctuary, I can give you somewhere to hide. If you're looking to forget, well, I can help with that, too – as long as you have the credits to pay for it.
I gently laid the grimy glass I was futilely attempting to clean on the tattered bar.
"Get you anything?" I asked.
What I literally am is a bartender, working nights at a shitty dive bar. See, isn't 'creature of the night' more interesting?
Most young women would probably be scared to walk home in the absurd hours of the middle of the night in one of the seedier neighborhoods in the planet (if not the entire system). I'm not. For one thing, I don't give a shit. For another, I have a certain air of "don't fuck with me" which seems to dissuade the morons of the world. I suppose that's why they hired me. I keep my hair styled in a haircut that goes out of its way to tell you to "fuck off." If that's not enough, I'm covered with tattoos depicting imagery of what I might do to you if you don't. Would I really turn somebody into, for example, a flaming skeleton surrounded by roses? Well, no, but still I think it's a badass tattoo.
This is a world where people like me regularly have legitimate artillery concealed within various cybernetic limbs. It turns out one doesn't actually have to go through the trouble of black market surgeons – simply implying as much is enough. Look like a dangerous woman, and it's almost as good as being one.
The fact is, I've kind of given up on seeing myself as a woman at all. I'm simply a creature of the night. A lost soul - if I even have one left - simply killing time until either something happens or, more likely, it all ends once and for all. My dominion is the final resting place of those who have been forsaken by this world. I'm the queen of the damned, and my throne is an alcohol- and urine-soaked pit in the shadow of a corp megatower.
That's not to say I have no cares in the world. Unfortunately, despite the best efforts of this dehumanizing technophilic disgrace of a culture, I still have some shred of humanity left. What worries me is when I see a young woman walk into my bar. This is no place for a girl. This is no place for you. When you entered, I had my eye on you immediately, and my hand ready to grab the phone. Not that GenSec would be quick to respond to a call from Old Town, but if shit's going down a call is better than nothing. It was only a matter of time until you became a victim – if you weren't one already.
I wasn't the only one to notice you enter. Two regulars, a couple of harmless thugs with hands thicker than my thighs, paused momentarily in their discussion of innovations in the world of brutalizing people. Their gaze drifted over to you, but considering you didn't seem like the sort to get in a fight with them, they weren't particularly interested. A "businessman" who was obviously packing some hardware under his cheap suit hardly glanced your way – you apparently weren't the contact he was waiting to meet. The potential danger came from a scumbag who was nursing a cheap drink at the bar. He had tried and failed to make advances on me, and was clearly just waiting for a mark to cross his path who he could apply some sort of scam (or unclean body part) to. You seemed likely enough. I had to keep my eyes on you.
The thing about my look – with all the piercings, dyed hair, and tattoos – is that I actually have pretty honest eyes. It's an annoying thing about me. I hate that people feel comforted by my eyes. I've never had much use for comfort. However, when the occasional situation arises, they certainly come in handy – occasions like this one.
I catch your eyes with mine, making sure that despite it all you know you can trust me. If you're in trouble, you've found a – well, not a friend necessarily, but I can at least help you. If you're looking for sanctuary, I can give you somewhere to hide. If you're looking to forget, well, I can help with that, too – as long as you have the credits to pay for it.
I gently laid the grimy glass I was futilely attempting to clean on the tattered bar.
"Get you anything?" I asked.
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