Miranda x Abigail ----The Song of the Crow Ch. 9 (NSFW)
Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5 Ch.6 Ch.7 Ch.8
Almost perfect is still not perfect.
It's still not good enough.
Even if she hadn't already found the one for the ritual, Miranda would yet deem Abigail an unfit vessel for Eva –and she doesn't want to acknowledge the bubbling relief that comes with that conclusion.
Personal affairs have no room in science's cold, faceless domain. Thankfully, she doesn't feel things so deep, anymore, that they would affect her judgement.
So she is being entirely impartial when she arrives to the conclusion that, for all of Abigail's extremely favorable disposition with the Cadou, her body yet holds an immense weakness;
Her human cells have mutated only partially, thus have a limit to how far they can be pushed. Too much speed and strength from her other side, an extended use or strain of the parasite before they have time to recover, can prove fatal. Miranda isn't even sure she can withstand a full transformation without being split down the middle afterwards.
The pains are there as a self-defense mechanism, a warning alarm for her to stop. It is a good thing she has learned to heed them.
Miranda pushes her chair back and rolls her shoulders, sore after being stuck in the same position over a microscope for the better part of the afternoon. Blue eyes do a quick scan of the lab until they settle on their target, seated in an old armchair on the opposite end, soundless as a phantom.
Abigail is idly scrolling through her phone, cheek rested on her fist, headphones on and the volume still very low, so she doesn't bother Miranda.
The priestess approaches. Dual-colored irises look up at her as she extends a claw to the base of Abigail's neck. Her finger moves up, slowly, drawing little goosebumps in its wake, until it tugs on one earphone.
“You waited, hm?”
“You told me to.” Abigail replies.
“But you hardly ever do as you're told.” Miranda counters. A wicked smile forms on her lips. “Well. In most cases.” Most cases other than the bedroom. She's very good at following orders there.
Abigail simply rolls her pretty eyes and rises. “I can go home if you're tired. No hard feelings.” she proposes after a beat.
The thing is, Miranda doesn't feel like going back to an empty stronghold. The evenings go by much faster with the brunette there. She has something to focus on rather than constantly overthink every little detail about the upcoming ceremony.
“No. Come with me.”
They leave the lab together.
Abigail's teeth are absolutely chattering by the time they make it inside.
“Can't handle a little cold?” she prods, dry and warm in her folded wings.
Abigail sends her a downright withering look. “Oh, you are one to talk, toasty in those wings that block everything. What does my arm do for me? Nothing!”
Miranda simply takes in the sight of her, frozen and drenched from the melted snow, like a puppy left out in the rain.
“Don't look at me like that.” Abigail growls. Then, in a smaller voice, “I hate you.”
“Even if I tell you I own a hot tub?” Miranda asks.
Abigail's jaw drops. “I...won't hate you as much if you show me where it is.”
The blonde considers, for a moment, making her work for it. Perhaps have her say that she loves her, even if the very notion of that is a joke.
A large part of Abigail probably does, indeed, hate her, she thinks. And that is fine. A lot of people do. Many more will.
Miranda motions for her to follow and leads them past a corridor Abigail has never stepped in. A spacious room with adjustable lighting awaits on the other end, sporting a bar filled with drinks for all tastes and a luxurious hot tub.
The blonde intended for it to help her relax after long, stressful days at the lab, but the hot water did little to calm her mind. The entire chamber eventually lost her interest.
But. Seeing Abigail gasp and light up at the sight of it, excited like a kid offered their favorite candy... the tub doesn't feel so useless anymore.
“Oh, wow. This. Is. Amazing.” Well, it must be, because the steaming water has all of her attention now.
Abigail removes layer after soaked layer of clothing. There is something quite eye-catching about the way her shirt clings to the lines of muscle in her shoulders and arms, but Miranda does not complain about watching it go. With far less enthusiasm, she removes her own clothes.
A soft, pleasurable hiss slips past Abigail's parted lips when she sinks into the bubbly water. It almost sparks a deep, predatory instinct in Miranda.
“You know, if you told me this was an option on day one, I would have been much more cooperative.” Abigail speaks, low and calm and sporting a satisfied little smile.
“Is that so.” Miranda joins her side.
The massaging sensation of hot water lapping at her back is certainly pleasant, better than she remembers, but it's not this which holds her attention.
“Mhm.” The brunette nods, eyes closed.
She doesn't think Abigail has ever been this calm around her, not even while she's sleeping. Right here, she looks innocent, a pretty girl every bit the twenty eight years of her age, rather than someone who spent most of their life at war.
Abigail carefully rolls her left shoulder, opens and closes the fingers of her left hand in the water as though testing out their sensitivity to the temperature, or lack of thereof.
“Does it hurt again?” Miranda asks.
“No. The sensations are just always so... dulled.” the brunette explains.
That sparks something in the priestess, in the scientist half of her. She moves in front of Abigail, inspired for a little experiment that will no doubt be much more fun than the rest for both of them.
“What? It's never good when you get that look in your eye.” Abigail states.
Miranda graces her with a small, you-know-me-so-well smile. Without speaking, she raises her hand to her company's ebony shoulder, letting it rest there.
“How about now?” she inquires quietly, gives a little press with her thumb to where she knows tension lingers in the human body.
Abigail makes a cute little sound in the back of her throat, eyes fluttering shut for a moment.
Success. Miranda doesn't really have control over her Cadou, but she has influence over the girl herself that's more than enough. Perhaps she shouldn't revel in that fact as much as she does, but, well. She brushes that stray thought aside for now.
Long, pale fingers then trail down, leaving a faint drag of nails past the nice contours of Abigail's black bicep, all the way to her wrist.
Dual-colored eyes glance away from hers and she doesn't need enhanced sight to tell the warm hue on the other woman's cheeks isn't just from the hot water bubbling at their chests.
Miranda brings a finger under her chin to command that darkened gaze back on her own. The unspoken experiment started as one thing, but it has turned into entirely another, now.
Because Abigail doesn't blush or get coy when they have sex, or when Miranda pushes her head between her thighs, or when she pins her down by the throat. But here she is, blushing from these little touches that aren't even sexual.
“Does affection do the trick for you, little raven?” she teases, lips close enough to accidentally brush.
“No? You know I can read the signals your body is giving, right?” Miranda trails her lips past the corner of Abigail's as she whispers, down the curve of her jawline, to settle on the curved black line at the left side of her neck that looks like a tattoo.
Slowly, torturously slowly, Miranda kisses the spot. Once, twice, until she feels Abigail lose the fight to supress a shiver in her arms.
“You won't faint on me, will you?” she asks, teeth tugging on the other woman's earlobe. Who knew taking her sweet time pushing the brunette's buttons could be so entertaining.
“Probably not...” Abigail huffs. “But maybe we should move this to the –ah— bedroom.” That little hitch in her breath towards the end does things to Miranda.
“Can you even wait until we get there?” she challenges, slotting their bodies a tad firmer together.
“Fuck, Miranda, I don't know.” Abigail breathes out the admission.
“Want me to take the edge off right here?” she husks in her ear, fingers hovering just above where the brunette needs them.
The little raven breaks. Succumbing to her was inevitable.
Miranda will admit that having her bedroom not be empty anymore is... good.
It's good for reasons beyond the bone-piercing cold in the heart of winter. Because not all nights are the same, even for someone who has lived for the time she has. Some are far, far longer than others.
Miranda may be woken by a happy, beautiful scene in a dream, like holding her smiling daughter in her arms and showing her the different types of flowers blooming outside their old home in spring. Equally frequent is the opposite, however; her standing over a colorless grave while everything freezes around her.
Dream or nightmare, it's all the same.
It hurts all the same.
Her subconscious never fails to remind her of the piece of her missing that she needs to get back whatever the cost, even if she dies trying.
But it's not death that terrifies her;
It is failure.
Even with the countless tests and experiments she has conducted over the years, determining that her selected vessel will be an almost certain success is still far from knowing it shall be so. Too far. Anything could go wrong during the ceremony and—
Miranda is broken free from the chains of her mind when Abigail shifts, beside her. The brunette huffs as if she's annoyed at whatever dared to wake her, then rolls onto her front, burrowig into her pillow as though trying to become one with it.
The prophetess cocks an eyebrow. She would have thought it an unspoken rule at this point that Abigail never faces her in bed.
“You're still up...?” her voice comes, thick with sleep, underneath the dark curtain of tousled hair obscuring her features.
Miranda gives her a you-should-see-yourself-right-now look.
“Too cool to sleep like the rest of us?” Well, someone's chatty tonight.
But it does draw a little smile from the blonde, the sentence and how she says it. “I am above such basic practices.” she replies, turning onto her side.
Her fingers absent-mindedly reach between them, to guide rich brown locks away from Abigail's pretty face. The fleeting thought crosses Miranda's mind that she's so glad the Cadou hasn't altered the brunette's looks –that would be such a terrible shame.
A strange sensation rises up within her, then. She doesn't have a name for it, but it urges her to touch Abigail more, to bring her closer and she doesn't know how to do that outside of provoking her or sex.
The second her hand lingers near Abigail's nape, after guiding her hair there, the woman's back tenses. It's subtle, but Miranda feels her muscles jump beneath her hand as if the possibility of having to defend herself cannot be ruled out even here.
“Relax. If I planned on murdering you in your sleep I would have done it the first night you hogged the blankets.” she says, laying her palm open on the middle of the brunette's back.
“...I don't hog the blankets.” she protests slowly.
“I can stop touching you if you want.” Miranda offers.
She will not be offended if her company agrees with that. She will even understand. Their arrangement doesn't include this... whatever this is.
The seconds it takes Abigail to reply feel a tad too long.
“...no.” she finally breathes. “It feels... good.”
Miranda traces little shapes on her shoulders and back until Abigail's breathing evens out once more. Watching her breathe in and out, so serene, the blonde's own eyelids start to droop.
When sleep takes her, there are no images to haunt her.
It is a peace she knows she doesn't deserve, but she will take it, anyway.
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