(A/N: Welcome, readers! Calamity Heart bringing you what I think is a little piece of brilliance, and I hope you all agree! I had the idea for this story not long ago, and it is actually based off of a freaky story one of my friends shared with me, only using Pokémon characters, a bit more developed, aaaaaaand M-rated. :3
Short disclaimer: I do not own Pokémon or any associated characters within this little tale of mine. That would be Nintendo. This two-shot is rated appropriately, and it gets a little strange; read at your own risk! Technical yuri ahead in this chapter. What do I mean by technical? Read on and find out! ;P
Not too good at the supernatural genre, as I haven't had much practice in it, but I still like this idea. Tips and criticism are especially welcome.
Now, without further ado! /flourish)
A chill wind passing over his nape was the absolute last thing the lad needed on the absolute worst night of his life. But so it went, that nature teased his heart and the boy jumps at the feeling of gaseous fingers of frost caresses his neck like a playful wanting lover. But nature was no kind and gentle goddess this night; rather she was a cold and cruel mistress of the dark, finding no greater joy and pleasure than to make her man - nay, her victim, her toy - squirm with utmost discomfort.
The proud young adult had been reduced to nigh more than a silly boy as he yelps and whirls around to find that there was no one there that he could see. What a silly boy. Searching through the darkness for something his eyes were not prepared to gaze upon. Silly, silly boy. Disregarding the pleas of his friends in his gallant mission to "rescue" his precious Misdreavus from the cursed woods that called to her, that welcomed her home. His Pokémon was gone. Absorbed and made one with the darkness, happily unified into the otherworldly consciousness of the Beyond. The silly boy would be, as well. Soon. Happily or not.
Determining that there was nothing behind him but more wrinkled grey trees and blank darkness, he turns back to continue his trek forward deeper into his demise, only to…
…
Shauntal stares at the half-filled page of her journal, having stumbled yet again into an impenetrable wall her uncooperative imagination has set before her. Five times now, she has discarded pages where her usual war-machine of a brain ground to a screeching halt and refused to proceed, and now she's about to do it again. An exasperated little snort precedes the now-familiar soft noise of paper being torn from binding and being deposited equally softly into the small receptacle hanging from the headrest of the seat in front of her.
Yes, Shauntal is in a vehicle. A limousine, to be precise. To be completely accurate, it's Caitlin's limousine. Shauntal's aristocratic friend and colleague in the Unova Elite Four generously lent her and the ever-sharp Grimsley the luxurious vehicle to ease their journey toward Black City. Shauntal's travelling companion chuckles lightly at the spectacled woman, which evokes a frown and a glare that appears comical behind such thick lenses.
"Stop making fun of me," snaps the Ghost-lover's soft and temperate voice, giving Grimsley a weak little push which does little but widen his grin.
"Of us all, you're by far the easiest to pick on, Shaun." The slick-haired Dark-master's response is accompanied by a teasing half-smirk. "It's clear you have a problem, one that this little trip is meant to remedy. Why you continue to try to fight past your writer's block when it's clear that you can't is bey-"
"Because it's never been a problem before, Grimsley." Shauntal cuts in. Grimsley perks a brow. The volume of her voice rose noticeably, but not by much. Her left hand's grip has tightened on her pink pencil, and the glare is no longer playful. She's getting angry.
A normal person might have stopped there, left it alone, spared her feelings. But Grimsley never was one to pass up on a gamble. He could come away from this conversation with as little to a slap to the face, or as much as one less face, as little as another exasperated sigh, or as much as the look of deep contemplation he is used to seeing whenever he catches her alone in her "Haunted Library". So many ways, preferable and not, for this conversation to go. He presses forward.
"But it's a problem now, yes?" Shauntal squints, her lips tensing into a line on her face, but doesn't speak. He presses forward. "And if you ask me, the problem doesn't begin at your writer's block. Oh, I lied, by the way. Why you continue is not too beyond me."
Shauntal's frown returns, and her eyes go back to her journal. "Just drop it, Grimsley."
"Ah, so it's not beyond you, either."
"Drop. It."
Though her voice didn't show it this time, this is about how angry Shauntal usually gets, more so recently than ever since Grimsley has known her. Ever-perplexed by her recent shift in attitude from mellow and melodramatic to frank and cross, Grimsley decides to drop it, but not before having the last word.
"It goes higher than your perfectionism, by the way."
Shauntal doesn't respond, and Grimsley's icy blue orbs glance over just in time to catch the bob-haired bookworm's eyes staring down at the frayed edges of the remains of her torn pages still left in the binding, her eyes clouded with something similar to depression. The look only lingers for a half a moment before Shauntal becomes neutral-faced again and removes her glasses, folding one of the arms within the last intact page to both bookmark it, and keep the two together, then setting them between her and Grimsley and leaning back into the seat, closing her eyes and falling still as she attempts to sleep.
Grimsley crosses his arms and stares a thousand yards ahead of him as he contemplates to pass the time, as he's prone to doing. Out of all four, he and Shauntal had the most intricate relationship, which is saying a lot. All of the Unova Elite Four are quite… intricate with one another. Caitlin and Marshal's unspoken 'relationship' is perhaps the closest second. No attempts are made to stay quiet at night when the two share a room, and Caitlin's less-than-suspicious limps following such nights elicit no embarrassment on the part of the psychic, who maintains a calm, benign, and polished demeanor around her fellow Elites, as if the raunchy swears she shouted at the ceiling just a night or two before had never been uttered. How nothing in Marshal's room implodes or shatters from Caitlin's potent psychic flux remains a mystery.
Though neither tries to hide it, and there's obviously something more to this affair, neither of them talk about it, also. Not to Shauntal or Grimsley, nor, presumably, to each other, as they are utterly casual with each other when seen. No blushing glances, no sly smirks, no winks. Typical of Caitlin, but bizarre none the less. More often than not, a greeting from Caitlin is followed by a grunt or gruff reply from Marshal, and the two part ways again. Less often are they engaged in actual conversation, though when they are, it seems as pleasantly neutral as Caitlin is typically.
Caitlin's relationships with Shauntal and Grimsley are perhaps the least complex of the quaternity. As any good wealthy person, Caitlin has the art of making friends, especially those like Grimsley, who also come from more distinguished backgrounds, down to a science, due in no small part, most likely, to her psychic prowess. The more who know you, the more powerful you are in this world, after all. Boiling it down to the inherent unconscious selfishness present in all human beings, Caitlin really only remains friends with the two of them to further her own societal strength. Such cynicism, however, is far more sour than the semi-sweet plainness that Caitlin outwardly displays (to her colleagues, at the least), so even those perceptive enough to be so cynical - barring the taste for it - like, say, Grimsley or Shauntal, don't dwell personally upon the subject and return Caitlin's friendliness. Simplicity by choice.
Marshal, on the other hand, prefers solitude over society. When not using his powerful Fighting-types to assist in the clearing of the Victory Road landslide or training with Iris, the reigning Champion, Marshal maintains a casual friendly relationship with Shauntal and an utterly neutral one with Grimsley. Being ten years her senior, Marshal is often sought out by Shauntal for advice or wisdom, more likely than not for the development of an older character in a novel. Marshal simply doesn't trust Grimsley as much as he trusts others. The Dark-master understands and respects his distance. Marshal's no fun anyway.
And then there were these two. They interact more with each other than they do with Caitlin or Marshal, and yet they don't seem to be friends, even though that's what they call each other. Neither are they mistrustful toward each other. Or particularly neutral. They were Shauntal and Grimsley. A little like Caitlin and Marshal, only with less sex (as in, none at all) and more mystery, like why the two of them were going on this short vacation together. Grimsley suggested it after Marshall mentioned that the pedantic bookworm's temper had been hotter than normal. It took a little persuading, but days later Shauntal agreed, and here they were, being driven in Caitlin's limousine toward a vacation home that Grimsley owns in Black City.
Grimsley doesn't remember closing his eyes, but when he opens them again, the first thing he sees is dark sky through the sunroof. He glances over and sees Shauntal nearly as still as death, save for the gentle rising and falling of her chest through her midnight purple travel gown. He looks out of the tinted window on his side of the lengthy vehicle and recognizes this particular dirt road. He smirks and reaches over to nudge Shauntal.
"We're almost there; start waking up," he tells her, to which she responds with a small twitch of the nose. Shauntal's eyes don't open until several moments later, bright rich brown and wide awake, despite having been asleep just moments before. Not that Grimsley found this odd, as he, too, was a chronic night owl. Shauntal reaches beside her without looking, placing her hand exactly where she had set her journal before slumbering. She opens her journal and slips her glasses free before dog-earing the page and closing the plain pink book again. When the glasses return to Shauntal's face, her eyes regain their signature magnified countenance.
No words are shared as the limousine finally slows to a halt at the door of a lone house close to the southwestern cliff of Black City, a nice ways away from the gloomy sprawling metropolis a few miles out from here. The chauffeur turns the vehicle off before climbing out and hastily making his way toward the right side of the limousine first, opening Shauntal's door and extending a white-gloved hand to help the author out of her seat and onto the soft dark grass just bordering the hard earth road. Shauntal's door is closed, and then the chauffeur walks to the other side to do the same thing with Grimsley, sans the hand extension. Grimsley climbs out of the vehicle himself and bends backwards for a moment with a small idle sneer as he stretches. The driver lifts the trunk and hefts both Grimsley and Shauntal's luggage in his hands, carrying them all the way to the front door of the property before coming back to close the trunk again. A true servant, this one.
"My thanks to you and your Lady," Grimsley says to the man with one of his signature smirks. "Safe return."
The chauffeur offers both Grimsley and Shauntal a practiced smile and a deep gracious bow before striding back to the driver's seat and starting up the car again, watching the two Elites to the door before making a left-hand three-point turn and driving away into the night. Grimsley smirks at Shauntal, turning to unlock the door.
"You've been holed up for far too long, Shaun. That, among your other issues, is sure to be remedied by a couple or so nights here," he assures.
"They'd better be," Shauntal sighs, seeming more weary than cross with Grimsley's teasing like before. The door swings open with a deep creaking noise, and what waits inside when the lights come on makes Shauntal perk up a little. Directly ahead of them was a grey wall where a vintage-style portrait hung of a young lady with navy-blue hair hanging freely, hiding her ears and tickling her shoulder. An enigmatic expression, the ghost of a smile, the matureness and age she (or the painter) manages to capture in her eyes makes the oil painting absolutely chilling to behold. The Mona Liza, by Leonard Vince.
To her right, the wall cornered and revealed a quaint sitting room, containing a glass coffee table, two black padded leather armchairs on either side of a similar three-cushion sofa. From here, Shauntal can't see it, but she suspects a television might be hanging from the wall. Farthest to her right is a glass wall that looks out onto the cliff that the house is situated on. To her left, more paintings, some more macabre than others, such as a Mightyena framed by a red moon in the distance, standing over the battered and bloody body of a challenger with one paw placed victoriously over the defeated Mightyena's throat. Others, in contrast, were dark, yet tasteful and alluring, like the portrait of Sinnoh Champion Cynthia upon a bed in all her pale naked glory, on her knees sitting on her ankles with her back turned almost three-quarters away, a black sheet held to her front, and her grey eyes casting an icy glare onto the observer.
Along the same wall was an entranceway into the kitchen, most likely, and along the leftmost wall, a spiral staircase ascended to the second floor. The house smells curiously vacant, as if it had not been lived in… or cared for… in some time. The dusty sour smell tickles Shauntal's nose the wrong way, but it remains secondary in her mind to the property's beauty. Grimsley on the other hand, takes immediate note of the odor and frets.
Shauntal turns her attention back to the Mona Liza, stepping as close as she dared. Grimsley retrieves a small disc from one of the front slots of his suitcase and slides his other hand into a pocket of his slacks, walking toward the sitting room, out of Shauntal's view. While the bookish Ghost-lover admires (possibly a copy of) one of the most famous portraits in the world, she perks an ear and turns her head at the deep purr of a bass guitar from a speaker.
"A little poison in your days…"
The music suddenly becomes a little more intense, the bass accompanied by an electric, as well as powerful rock drums.
"A little POISON on the stage!"
Roxie's iconic pumped-up shriek follows the spoken motto of Koffing and the Toxics that precedes almost every song of theirs. Shauntal normally doesn't care for rock music, but this particular song of Roxie's, 'Lethal Bite', has grown on the purple-haired author.
"If you're lookin' for a good girl, with an angel's kiss… (Heehee! Mwah!)
You must be blind, dumb, or naïve if you're lookin' at this!
My lips are sour as an Aspear; my heart is twice as hard…
My eyes are burning PITS, my nails like icy shards!
If you don't want my venom runnin' through your veins
Then you better stop playin', 'cause I'm dangerous game!
I'll make-make-make you see the LIGHT with my lethal BITE!"
Shauntal wasn't sure what made this particular song different from other rock songs, by K&T or otherwise, but it never failed to get her in the right mind for action or intense scenes in her stories. That Grimsley bought the Lethal Bite CD and brought it along with him is surprising, but thoughtful on his part.
Grimsley re-emerges, hands in pockets again. "Seems it's been some time since the keeper's done her job. None of the food is good, and I can't reach her for an explanation."
Grimsley shrugs as Shauntal frowns and furls her eyebrows suspiciously. "Some time indeed, if she's been absent long enough for the food to spoil. How… did you get this property anyway? Last I checked, you were-"
"It was a gift," Grimsley cut in, clearing his throat. "From my uncle, one of the only members of my family left with a shred of monetary frugality. Pizza's fine, yes?"
Shauntal pauses a moment, catching the grimace in Grimsley's voice that he didn't betray in his expression. She'd almost taken a shot at him, and very nearly feels bad about it. Recalling their conversation in the limo, though, withers her regret and only leaves her with less crossness with the Dark-type Elite. She nods. "I could go for pizza. A welcome change of pace from the nightly sample of Caitlin's exotic palate. Half cheese and mushrooms, half whatever it is you want."
Grimsley rolls his eyes. "Let's get our luggage upstairs so you can start getting settled while I'm out." Hefting Shauntal's suitcase and tugging him own on its wheels, Grimsley starts toward the stairs. Shauntal keeps an ear to the music as she slowly follows.
"My tongue is evil as an Ekans, pure mercury! (Mercury!)
So if you want to survive in this world of hurt with me… (HURT with me!)
Then you better bring a Pecha and an ANTIDOTE or THREE! (WOO!)
If you don't want my venom runnin' through your veins
Then you better stop playin', 'cause I'm dangerous game!
I'll make-make-make you see the LIGHT with my lethal BITE!"
The lyrics are still clear and audible even once they reach the second floor. Shauntal's pink slippers make a soft sound against the carpeted floor as she follows behind Grimsley into an opened door.
"This is where you'll be staying." Grimsley says with a sweeping motion. Shauntal peers with impressed thoughtfulness. Along the wall just in front of her sits a queen-sized bed dressed in simple yet lovely grey sheets. On either side of the bed, two large unfixed windows look out over the sea. To her right stood an oaken wardrobe against the wall alongside a long lowboy with a television mounted a couple of feet above it and a large full-body mirror beside that. Along the left wall was a doorway leading into what looks like a bathroom from where Shauntal stands. The walls were painted a dark rich grey, and the scent of soap wafted toward her from the bathroom, fending off the scent of vacancy from the rest of the house.
"I hope you find everything to your liking. There should be a second car in the garage, since I'm certain Carmelita has gone and taken hers for whatever reason. I'll return."
And with a departing grin, the dark-haired Elite closes the door, his footsteps fading softly as he makes his way back downstairs. Shauntal drags her luggage over near the bed, still faintly able to feel the bass of the music downstairs. Slippers and all, she climbs up onto the bed and lies down with hands folded across her middle, staring up at the ceiling and trying to think, running her current project through her head from page one all the way through, every image and detail floating clearly in front of her mind's eye. But no matter what she does, she always gets stuck at the same place. Her mind locks up, unwilling to proceed.
She should let this go. That's why she's here anyway. Maybe work on a little side fic about Koffing and the Toxics, rock band by day, roving band of superheroes by night. Or maybe villains. Yeah, a band of supervillains, and Roxie sees the light and tries to abandon the darkness, ending in a cataclysmic battle that leaves Roxie victorious and Virbank City in ruins, forcing Roxie to depart and live her life as a renegade hero. The kind of hero Unova needs, but doesn't deserve… What a great line; she should write that down.
This is what Shauntal should be doing, and the thoughts that should be running through her head. But instead she is staring blankly at the ceiling with a frustrated frown, helplessly hung up on not only this, but what Grimsley had told her during the ride here. He hit home when he mentioned her perfectionism in regards to her writing. She loved her Pokémon, and win or lose a battle, she was happy they were there for her.
Her writing, on the other hand, was a heartless beast she had sought to tame and master since she could hold a pen. Countless hours, days, weeks, years of writing, erasing, thinking, questioning… Starting out, she met her fair share of struggles, of course, but as she got older, better, the major turning point being the success of her first novel, she found those struggles spreading thinner and thinner, until Shauntal could just touch pen to paper without a second thought and weave gold onto the page. Her momentum had made her numb to the idea of failure, making it all the tougher on her when her seemingly unstoppable force encounters such an immovable object as it has now.
But what Grimsley said had also made her curious… He said it went past her perfectionism. Higher. She thought her perfectionism was the source of her troubles, but Grimsley is apparently more perceptive than she is, if he can see something in her that she can't see in herself. What could it be that's the true source of her troubles, and why would Grimsley think that a vacation here would remedy it? Her recent uncharacteristic temper? Her 'being holed up'? True, some time away from the League might do her a bit of good…
Shauntal turns her head to stare at the blank black television screen, wondering if TV would offer her some inspiration. She blinks slowly and turns her head to the right, locking eyes with herself in the bathroom mirror, visible from the bed.
…
Shauntal stares at herself for a long moment, feeling a tickle behind her eyes, as if it's the first time she's ever seen her reflection. Suddenly, her reflection starts to smile, even as Shauntal's own lips remain still. The author blinks, and the reflection perfectly mirrors her blank stare and neutral expression again. Must have been a trick of the light. Chills pass up Shauntal's spine as she sits up, and this time, she really does smile. As a lover of Ghost Pokémon, she equally loves every chill, skin-crawl, and gasp that she is struck by, whether Pokémon have any involvement or not. The haunted house in Nimbasa City Park, for example, never fails to make her laugh.
She swings her legs off the bed on the opposite side from where she climbed on, facing the bathroom and peering into the long mirror again. Deciding a shower would be more productive than just laying like a mummy in a Cofagrigus while she waits for Grimsley to return with pizza, she kicks off her slippers first, curling her bare purple-nailed toes into the soft carpet as she stands and starts to pull off the rest of her clothing.
She didn't bother wearing her full ensemble just to travel in, so her current outfit only consisted of a sleeveless violet knee-length gown and matching panties. Undressing is a short affair, and within seconds, her clothes are laid out on the bed and Shauntal is dressed only in her glasses as she walks into the bathroom, switching on the light and brightening the room.
Carpet gives way to laminate tile, and the smell of soap is certainly originating from here. A basket of shower products sits on the double-sink countertop next to the farthest wall where a porcelain toilet sits, and a large ovular mirror takes up much of the left wall above the sinks. Shauntal looks at the mirror again, eyeing up her own naked body.
The Ghost-lover does not fit the stereotype usually associated with the more intellectually inclined. She is not nearly as thin as Caitlin, who's positively twiggy beneath the clever illusion of her translucent wraps and her gigantic hair; on the contrary, recently, Shauntal has noticed herself plumping up slightly, definitely not enough to be considered fat but certainly adding to her curves. Small feet led to long sleek legs, just toned enough to be called toned, framed by shapely hips. Rising higher, her waist curved into gentle parentheses, and the rest of her form was filled out by a healthy bust. Long arms reached down to her thighs, slender fingers drumming idly against her flesh… according to her reflection.
Shauntal feels the gentle bounce of fingers against thigh, and is almost convinced she really is doing what her reflection is telling her she's doing, but Shauntal looks down and her hand is still. The feeling stops in the same moment. The perplexed Elite looks back up at her reflection, and its hands are still, as well, perfectly mirroring Shauntal, working as intended… Could she have been doing it subconsciously and willed herself to stop when she noticed it…?
Shauntal shakes her head. Her fatigue with her writer's block is making her weird. A good shower ought to clear her head. She turns and pulls the curtain aside to look upon the shower. A porcelain tub rises up from the floor and a chrome faucet, shower tap and head peek from the wall. It takes a moment for Shauntal to learn how to work the tap, but the hot water eventually runs, and Shauntal removes her glasses to set them near a sink before picking out a few products from the basket and stepping in under the tingling hissing droplets.
She washes almost mechanically, barely aware of her motions as her trapped mind continues to work in an aggravating loop around this singular issue that, no matter how hard she tries, she can't get past. This shower was supposed to clear her mind, but that was starting to seem like an impossible task. At some point during her bathing - she couldn't say how long she'd been in the shower, as her track of time had been lost sometime after she laid down -, she bends forward and bangs her forehead gently against the warm wet tile of the shower wall, letting the droplets run down and sting her back.
Shauntal turns her eyes to the right, toward the sound of a curious noise, and shrieks as she sees the shower curtain slowly pulling open.
"Grimsley, what the f-" she starts, but freezes mid-swear, her teeth still digging into her bottom lip to form the f-sound as she discovers that there's no one behind the seemingly-animate curtain. It looks like it's moving on its own, but Shauntal would discover that the cause is stranger than the effect. Focusing on what's past the moving curtain, she notices with an icy pang that while she herself is not touching the curtain, her reflection is. Mirror-Shauntal is moving on her own accord. Moreover, she is in control of both her own reality and the real Shauntal's.
The author can only stare blankly at her independent image as it releases her own curtain and becomes idle again, mirroring Shauntal perfectly except for the twistedly amused grin on Mirror-Shauntal's face. True-Shauntal's mouth is agape. She slowly lifts her hand, and her counterpart does the same in perfect unison. Then it begins to act on its own again. Turning and using the same hand True-Shauntal rose (which is still risen), Mirror-Shauntal casually twists the tap and turns off the shower. Lo and behold, the same thing that occurs in the reflection occurs in reality, and Shauntal watches as her own shower tap turns on its own, stopping the flow of water and leaving both girl and reflection still and dripping.
"W… What…" Shauntal mouths, hand lowering again. Her reflection does not mirror this, and continues to creepily smile at herself. Mirror-Shauntal moves on her own again, and just as Shauntal didn't think this could possibly get any weirder, Mirror-Shauntal takes one of her plump breasts in hand and lifts it, dipping her head to circle her tongue around the mound of her nipple.
Never before had Shauntal felt such an experience. While still a stranger to passion (she'd only had sex once, a while ago before now; another fun story for another day), she was sure she knew what a touch from another person should feel like. Not only was this touch disembodied, judging from the position of the invisible fingers, the way her breast rose near her mouth, logic would dictate that Shauntal was touching her own body. Reality implored, this was not the case.
She gasps in a shaky mix of shock and pleasure as her confused nerves react as if she really is touching and licking herself. Shauntal lifts a hand to the affected breast, but upon touching it, only feels her own touch somehow overlap with the shadow of a touch her reflection is somehow imposing upon her. At first glance, it seems she's helpless against this illogical adversary, but then she herself starts to think a little more logically, stopping herself from panicking. This is her reflection, something that only exists conditionally. All she has to do is step out of the mirror's range so she's not being reflected and her counterpart will cease to exist right? True-Shauntal tries to ignore the ghastly pleasure and hurriedly steps out of the shower and immediately notes the flaw in her rushed thinking: Her reflection is independent of her.
Mirror-Shauntal doesn't move, still standing in the shower and playing with her breast, all the while keeping her ominously sadistic brown eyes locked onto True-Shauntal as she presses on with her poor planning moving to press herself against the wall farthest from the door near the toilet in the faint hopes that her flub wouldn't matter and that ill logic would still counteract ill logic. No such luck. The image casually steps out of the shower and mounts the counter in her reflection-world, wet knees set on either end of the sink closer to the door and farther from where Shauntal is standing. Mirror-Shauntal's creepy grin persists as she sets her hands on her side of the mirror and edges forward, arching her chest forward to squeeze her breasts against the glass.
True-Shauntal gasps and yelps again as she feels cold glass against her hands and chest and sees her own palms and breasts compress and flatten as if they were really being squeezed against a flat surface. She shakily grabs her glasses and slips them onto her face so she can see what's happening to her in a little more detail. When things come back into focus, Mirror-Shauntal is now grinning as wide as a Sableye rather than merely smirking barbarously. Bringing her knees forward some more, she slowly settles her hips lower, pausing to wink at Shauntal before fully lowering herself and starting to press and slide her slippery folds against the tall upside-down J-shape of the sink faucet. No amount of love for ghosts and the supernatural could prepare the Elite for something so surreal, so illogical, so unlike anything she's even thought possible as to have the curve of an invisible, nay, a nonexistent cold chrome faucet sliding between her legs.
Shauntal blanches and folds her hands between her legs, whispering a groan at the chilling feeling as she slowly slides down the wall to sit before bringing her knees up as close as she can to her 'compressed' chest and squeezing her eyes shut.
"Stop... S-Stop it!" No matter how she twists, squirms, covers herself, or crosses her legs, she can't escape the chilling sensation, the undesired shadow of pleasure, that was slowly intensifying. Her blanch was quickly turning into a blush; her body had been tricked into believing she was really masturbating as her reflection portrayed, trapping her conscience in a twilight zone between pleasure and fear. She opens her eyes and stares at Mirror-Shauntal, whose face is twisted in pleasure both at her own acts and their effect on True-Shauntal.
Time to panic.
Shauntal fights her pleasurable paralysis and goes to try the worst-case scenario instead of thinking her options through a little more: she goes in to try to break the mirror. With nothing suitable in reach, Shauntal decides to use her elbow. Standing up and staggering toward the mirror as quickly as her panicking form can, she mounts the counter where Mirror-Shauntal is and tries to slam her elbow into the glass. That's when it gets even stranger.
Right before impact, Mirror-Shauntal's hand comes forward through her side of the mirror, the glass stretching forth like some sort of animate liquid, warping into the shape of her hand to catch True-Shauntal's elbow. The purple-haired Elite gawks, frozen in shock. She tries to wrench her arm from the mirror's grip, but the glass-hand is firm. Her reflection licks her lips and pulls her hand back through the mirror, bringing True-Shauntal's elbow with her and yanking the rest of her toward the mirror as well.
The author screams at the cold, unearthly feeling of her arm passing through the mirror, even more so as she sees it on the other side, feels it still being tightly clutched by warm flesh now instead of cool glass. What is going on..?
"Gaah! Help, someone!" she wails, playing tug-of-war with her reflection as a more sensible idea floats through her mind. She was on the right track with her first plan; just stepping out of the mirror's reflective range won't cut it. She's got to leave the bathroom so that she can't see the mirror at all. This can't fail, can it?
Of course, another flaw in True-Shauntal's perfect plan reveals itself as she begins to yank her arm back with renewed vigor. She's able to successfully tug her arm back into her reality, but Mirror-Shauntal's grip does not let up, and the glass manifestation of her hands warps the mirror and follows her into her reality again. What's keeping Mirror-Shauntal from coming fully through the mirror, even if True-Shauntal isn't there anymore to produce a reflection? She's already proven she's independent… The Ghost Elite is just hoping once again that poor logic will counter poor logic.
"Grimsley!" True-Shauntal shouts again, right before things get even stranger… While her head is turned to look at and try to trudge toward the closed bathroom door, Mirror-Shauntal's jaw drops in a chilling open-mouthed grin, tongue sliding against her lower lip before literally extending like a limb through the mirror, once again warping the glass into a manifestation of the… tongue-tentacle, which Shauntal doesn't notice until it suddenly slides into her mouth. Just when she thought this couldn't freak her out any more…
Shauntal nearly gags at the creepy taste of semi-solid glass sliding around in her mouth. The glass tongue wraps around her own and gently turns her head to look right into Mirror-Shauntal's eyes, bright with evil amusement. Shauntal blinks in surprise, trying to pull her head away. The glass tongue will not allow her, and begins to retract, dragging Shauntal's head forward and causing her to scrabble back onto the counter to keep from hurting her tongue. The frightened author tries her best to twist her head free, but fails before her head can pass through the icy sheet of the mirror, past the boundary of reality and into her reflections mirror-reality. The cold glass tongue is replaced by the warm wet muscle of an actual tongue. Half of Shauntal's body is pulled in as well, and glancing at her arm, she finds that she is now the creature made of glass flesh. She barely has time to freak out even more before Mirror-Shauntal's tongue drags True-Shauntal into a deep kiss with her doppelgänger.
This has to be a dream… She has to get out of here… If this is so strange, so supernatural and creepy… why is her kiss so good? Shauntal's breathing slows a bit, and her eyes start to flutter closed. Right before she can lose herself, she regains her clarity and thrusts her head forward, head-butting Mirror-Shauntal and causing her to draw back, clearly not expecting that. Shauntal crawls backwards back to her side of reality as quickly as she can, wasting no time in throwing open the bathroom door, stepping out, and slamming it closed.
By now, her body was still wet, but no longer dripping. She stares with wide eyes at the bathroom door, panting heavier than she ever has before. Slowly, Shauntal backs away from the door, the silence loud in her ears. Her mind races as she backpedals, wondering how she's going to explain to Grimsley that his vacation home is a madhouse… She only stop when she feels something cool and solid against her back. The full-body mirror she noted before.
"…Oh no."
No sooner than the horrified whisper leaves her lips, what Shauntal fears is about to happen, happens. Firm cool hands made of the glass she's pressed against grab Shauntal's hips and yanks her through the mirror, into the world of her reflection. Her body passes completely through this time, and as Shauntal fully emerges, she watches the mirror ripple like some kind of liquid portal.
Shauntal is turned around to face her reflection-made-flesh, and her scream is stifled by another deep kiss upon the lips, this one more passionate and ravenous than the last, and just as intoxicating. True-Shauntal blinks, and the yell wavers into silence as she is eagerly tongued by her reflection… Mirror-Shauntal's hands settle on her counterpart's nude glass waist, caressing the cool flesh-that's-not-flesh. True-Shauntal closes her eyes, briefly wondering how this could be possible before blushing and giving in, shyly returning Mirror-Shauntal's kiss.
The false Shauntal grins and wraps her arms around her counterpart, slowly pulling her backwards before turning them both and pulling away from the kiss, gently pushing True-Shauntal to sit on the bed. The incredibly warm feeling of the sheets beneath her make the glass-skinned author gasp. Everything seems to be so warm when you're made of cool glass… She watches with gentle pants of breath as Mirror-Shauntal sets her hands on her glass thighs and lowers herself to her knees, gently spreading her legs to set her eyes upon her folds. Mirror-Shauntal glances briefly up at True-Shauntal, who can do nothing but watch and pant, paralyzed by the warm sensation running through her body. The image-made-flesh winks up at her counterpart before lowering her head forward and running her tongue slowly up the length of her glassy folds, ending with a teasing encircling of her swollen hooded gem.
This sensation was much different than the other disembodied feeling of nonexistence she felt in the bathroom. What was between her legs this time was real… in a sense. She was, of course, apparently in a mirror-reality. None of what she's seeing right now, should exist. But the gasp and the subsequent wave of pleasure that passes over her assures True-Shauntal that what she's feeling right at this moment is real. This is an actual experience, an actual touch from another per- …Well, it's technically herself… True-Shauntal's mind, wild and flustered with pleasure, begins to ponder on the side as to whether having sex with your reflection counts as masturbation or incent or…some completely foreign sexual taboo unknown to her, or anyone… Her train of thought jumps the tracks as Mirror-Shauntal ravenously buries her head into her real self's crotch, tongue delving between her folds to tease and explore.
Sheer warmth powers up her spine and True-Shauntal tilts her head back and wails, curling her fingers into the sheets and lifting her legs to set them on her reflection's shoulders. Mirror-Shauntal's hands rise to tenderly caress her legs from knee to hip before dipping her hands between Shauntal's thighs and parting her petals even more, shaking her head slightly and rubbing her nose against her glass counterpart's tender clit as her tongue continued to dip and tease at her moist and twitching inner walls. The sweet scent of True-Shauntal's arousal urges the false copy on.
She falls back onto the bed with a shiver and an arch of her back. Her desperate moan reaches her reflection's ear, and the mirror image slowly runs her tongue up True-Shauntal's glass-flesh inner thigh before pulling away completely and climbing atop the bed, tugging her panting counterpart further up with her.
Why was she so freaked out about this? This is one of the best things Shauntal has ever experienced… She's nearly paralyzed with pure warmth and pleasure, grinning like an idiot as her reflection lifts one of her glass legs over her shoulder and straddles the other. Mirror-Shauntal smirks and turns her head to run her tongue briefly against True-Shauntal's knee before rolling her hips forward and gliding their folds against each other.
True-Shauntal lets her head fall onto the bed, closing her eyes and moaning out loudly at the almost searing warmth of her reflection's flesh against her own glassy flesh coupled with the genital-genital contact. Her mind is sent spinning, and she's hardly aware of what's going on, lost in the passionate daze and the incredible warmth creeping through her body and threatening to overtake her. Mirror-Shauntal wraps one of her arms around True-Shauntal's lofted leg and uses the other to mercilessly assail her closest nipple, tweaking and pinching the firm nub and sending even more pleasurable sensations through True-Shauntal's body.
Time abandons her; True-Shauntal does not know exactly how long it takes for her to cum, but soon enough, the sensation of electric ecstasy surges through her trembling legs, and Mirror-Shauntal slows to an agonizing crawl to draw it out as long as possible. The flow of her passionate juices slickens her own thighs as well as her reflection's, slightly, and a dark soaked spot sits beneath her on the sheets.
The last thing True-Shauntal sees before the unbearable heat within her forces her to lose consciousness is the face of Mirror-Shauntal. The reflection's grin is warm and amused, and it comes as no surprise that this grin mirrors her own.
(A/N: And that's the end of part 1 of this two-shot. :3 The concluding chapter will come up eventually, but for now, I'd just like to know how I did. Like I said, tips and criticism are appreciated and encouraged!
I'd also like to know how you think the two-shot is going to end and just you general thoughts on the plot and such~ Your reviews are my sustenance!
May all your Hearts beat with Calamity!)