I don't own Kim Possible.

So what?

I'm still writing this.


Kim

For five years, Bonnie Rockwaller had been the bane of her existance.

Making fun of her, belittling her in front of Ron, of Monique, of her friends and classmates; trying to steal her role as captain of the cheerleader squad; always tryin to hit a nerve, to make her angry, to fill her with shame.

Even that one time, after cheerleader practice, between the steamy clouds that filled the locker room, she had started again her ranting; and that time, it had burned in some way hotterthat before... and she had slapped Bonnie right in the face, with a thundering sound in the little room. It had seemed like the right thing to do, while she was looking at her with rage, her arm still raised, her hand bruising, her breath ragged with fury.

The other two cheerleaders run out of the room, sensing the volcano about to explode... maybe Hope and Tara, she couldn't really remember, she was just focused on the disbelieved look on Bonnie's face... on her veiled eyes, and her sweaty body, her scent filling her nostrils, coming closer until she managed to put a trembling hand on her cheek.

Bonnie's voice was shivering, and in between cracked syllables, she only accomplished to ask her one thing.
Did she hate her that much?

Kim, still with a ragged breath from the outburst, had been unable to answer, or to move, when the look in her rival's eyes had took a stern quality, and frowning, had put closer her face to her own; Kim had been startled, and into her chest panic had burst. Panic, and maybe... something more.

Because, had said her damn rival, the girl who had been sure to make every day she spent at school a raging hell, that tanned, brown-haired girl, with those blue-green eyes getting closer and closer, bigger and bigger like two pools into which dive, she had had the courage to say: because, she... she didn't.

And then those blue eyes closed, she had moved her generous lips on her own pinky ones, and had savoured the forbidden fruit. It had the taste of her lip gloss and of the sweat from the practice, the sheer energy of electricity and... and something like that... something that could make your lips feel so good and so warm, and so soft, and so moist, and she had started to close her eyes, when Bonnie had pulled back her mouth, looked at her with pure loathe in her face, and had spitted at her that she was a stupid, Possible!

Then, she had dashed out of the room, and Kim had been able just to move her fingers on her lips and feel the ghost of Bonnie's on her own...


Shego

The second time, too, had been with fashion.

It looked like it was a pattern.

She was proud of her appearance – the flashing catsuit, green and black, hugging her figure and menacing, in a way.

Nothing like the simple top and cargo pants of a certain cheerleader. It also let her midriff bare... a... lovely midriff for sure, but still, but still...

But still, she had found herself into one of the warehouses where all the Kimmie-like clothes were kept, during that brief period when everyone, from housecats to CEOs, looked into Pumpkin's look.

Not that she had wondered why. Or that she knew why – maybe it could have something to do with, say, the way that top hugged her curves and that lean...torso... or exposed that tight waist and that smooth skin... no, no, no: nothing like that.

And, a night with a full moon, she had tried on a few of those clothes – a few dozens actually, but a fewnonetheless -, watching her frame entering and exiting from a blurry of black tops, olive pants, utility belts, trying a few of the moves she had seen Princess try herself, even speking a few of her daunting catchphrases.

Stay right there, Shego!

I have you, Shego!

I arrest you for being too much sexy, Shego...

Bah, it didn't make sense.

How could Pumpkin wear such things, that left so much of her skin exposed? She was a young girl after all... someone could... be... appealed at that show?
It was... disgusting.

Tch.

A few minutes later, with a snarl of contempt, and a few bags full of black tops and cargo pants, she left the warehouse.


To Be Continued... thirteen it's the unlucky number, the one who brings misfortune.


Thank you thank you thank you!

The last chapter received a record of visits and of reviews, so I'm huggin' you all and filling the world with KiGoness!

Now, seriously.

There reference to the 14 as a lucky number lies in the deeps of the works of Tolkien – fourteen it's the number of the Valar, therefore... but good guess IdrewAcow!

Also special thanks to ledilettant, lognite and mauser1888 (who receives also my greatest praises for the pickelaube helmet; I think you will enjoy my KP steampunk short novel! :3), who wrote their impressions on the writing itself and if they liked the pace, and if they have read every word. That's exactly what I need, therefore, please keep it up and help a poor writer.

Also... I like KiBo (Kim/Bonnie) a lot; it's maybe my second favourite pairing, along with Ron/Shego and Kim/Anne... but who this Anne is, I let it to your fantasies to picture.

You perverts.
You will never trick me into writing something like that, ever!