After living most of her life in a war-torn and slightly – but only slightly and it could be reformed with just a little bit of Garden pruning – despotic nation, Yor was quite able to suppress traumatic memories. Application of the same kinds of techniques would surely be sufficient to purge the sight of Loid's chest and abs from her mind.
They weren't.
In the past, she had hoped to suppress traumatic memories, and no part of her had longed to sear the sculpted imprint of them - which, on reflection, took the form of an eight-pack dusted with fine blond hairs that dipped down below a belt-line - on her brain like a cattle brand that was, most assuredly, glowing white-hot like the radiance of Loid's alabaster skin in the piercing electric glow of a bathroom's lights.
But find success at distracting herself? That was another matter. She did, burying herself in the drudgery of her paperwork and the prattle of the ladies at work, wives and girlfriends who rhapsodized about the latest photos of some celebrity or plucked at their collars as they shared hushed and sanitized fantasies about movie stars.
Again it was confirmed. Husbands were not objects of sexual desire... unless they were another woman's husband, it seemed.
During one of her breaks, Yor slipped into one of the stalls in the ladies' room at city hall, only for Camilla to walk in a few seconds later, gossiping with some of her compatriots and veritably slavering over the thought of breaking through Loid's stoic façade and showing him what a real woman was capable of "unlike that shrew: Yor."
The repair crew that had to fix fifty knife holes in the walls of a stall in the women's bathroom were baffled at the peculiar vandalism, as much as they were mystified by the shattered brickwork sporting the imprint of a fist.
All of this was terribly confusing for Yor as she washed off the lingering concrete dust from her hands.
Just how was a woman supposed to feel about her husband's abs?
Apparently the same thing that she was to feel for his entire torso and other things, Yor learnt only that next weekend.
Due to her unqualified success on a recent test, and despite the chill in the air, Anya had pleaded to be allowed to enjoy a day at an indoor swimming pool. The minor indulgence for such a sweet child had seemed unobjectionable, so Yor had added the force of her voice to the request.
"It would really be such a lovely experience for her," Yor insisted with Anya clinging to the side of her leg, gazing up with expectant adoration and, for some reason that Yor couldn't fathom, a conniving grin. The little girl more than deserved a reward, though. "I can take her shopping for a suit after school on Friday when the stores are open late."
Loid appeared pensive, but his resolve was clearly weakening under the combined force of their pleas. Denying Anya anything was almost impossible when she'd been so thoroughly well-behaved.
"I'm simply concerned that it will disrupt her schedule of studies." Her husband's retort was a weak one, unbefitting of a man with musculature like that, but Anya did have that effect on people.
"Please, Papa," Anya simpered, clutching up on Yor's thigh in a way that had the assassin scrambling to placate her with gentle strokes to her back. "I promise I'll work extra hard on Sunday."
Said pledge, delivered with all the sincerity and humble submission of a witness being sworn in for testimony, was also accompanied by a lip-quiver and doe-eyes.
Loid folded like laundry.
Which in this house was folded very, very properly.
As per Yor's supposition, Anya had to pick up a bathing suit in anticipation of their Saturday excursion. Not that Yor knew much about shopping, but Loid had found an appropriate store in only a few minutes and her allowance, over and above her own salary, was quite exorbitant.
After Anya raced out of the main entrance to Eden Academy, tossing herself heedlessly into Yor's arms and crooning about her shopping trip with mamma – Yor's heart broke then rebuilt itself several sizes larger than before to accommodate all the love that was pouring into and out of it – the pair embarked on their spending spree. Of course, having to raise a younger brother on only an assassin's salary, Yor made frugal purchases as a rule. Try as they might, they couldn't find a simple article of clothing that was both economical and appealing to Anya in the high class boutique that Loid had recommended.
Firmly convinced of her own failings as a non-mother, and quite on the verge of tears that stung her throat and eyes, Yor had begun the slow death-march home, only for Anya to tug her over to a shop window, gesturing frantically at the displays of somewhat schlocky merchandise that was, at least, affordable based on the tags propped up underneath the manikins. Despite not being designer, the clothing did seem to be at least passably constructed. Once inside, they found an adorable little pink and cream one-piece with a puffy skirt. What had delighted Anya more than anything else, even the notion of going to the pool, was the image emblazoned on the fabric above the stomach: Bondman.
Friday evening, Anya had pranced about the apartment for an hour, just wearing her swimsuit, before finally tiring and having to be hefted up in Yor's arms for bed. which seemed to leave Loid slightly miffed – hopefully she wasn't interfering with his relationship with his daughter.
After Yor had put the squirming but exhausted child to bed, singing her into dreams with a faint lullaby she had used with Yuri when he'd woken from nightmares as a child, Loid joined her in the doorway to gaze on Anya. She had insisted on being put to bed while still wearing her swimsuit, curled up with her stuffed animals, but exhaustion had won out and Bondman pyjamas had been slipped over the near-slumbering child's limp form.
When Loid spoke, his voice a hush, rendering it guttural rasp, his breath washed over the side of her neck, prickling fine hairs.
"You know that you're a wonderful mother?" Loid said, putting a hand to her shoulder tentaitvely.
That was a very broad hand, possibly capable of encircling her entire bicep, and exceptionally warm, but any titillation died immediately. Yor plucked at the threadbare hem of her red sweater. How could he say that when she wasn't even a real mother? He had to be lying or feigning to spare her feelings, but when she turned to gaze at him, she bit back a gasp.
Rather than being stern or lacking affect, which was a nearly perpetual facade that Yor had realized he must have adopted for his profession, Loid looked... peaceful. His mouth was upturned in a faintly boyish smile that she never would have imagined passing over her husband's face and he appeared enraptured by the sight of the small girl in her bed, arms folded around the neck of a teddy bear.
"I don't think so," Yor responded just as quietly, clasping her hands together with such force as to nearly crush bone.
Loid just continued to smile but it was now tinged with something infinitely more ... mature that had Yor's toes squirming in her shoes as her breathing picked up.
"Perhaps," he conceded with a nod, "but I know it, and so does Anya."
Where techniques of repression and mental discipline had failed, the mountains of Loid's abs too steep for them to overcome, that smile succeeded, haunting Yor's mind as she lay in bed that night, staring up at the ceiling.
Then it haunted her dreams.
Then her next day, particularly the morning when she had to change her sheets because they were sodden with sweat.
Good that they were heading to the pool that afternoon.
No. It wasn't.
Obviously Yor hadn't thought through the prospect of an outing to the nearby indoor pool.
When it came to Anya, she didn't really tend to think at all. Just feel.
They found themselves at a sports complex, a rather drab but modern building only a few miles from their apartment. While Yor carted their bags into the pool area, Loid and Anya changed in the locker-rooms.
The muggy atmosphere of a heated pool had her fanning herself in minutes as she surveyed the scene and settled into one of the plastic chairs offered by the facility. A few other families had decided to indulge and were scattered about on towels or seats that dotted the rough concrete surrounding the pool proper, lined with yellow and black warning hashmarks that accompanied 'no running' and 'caution: wet' signs. Pungent chlorine wafted up, getting trapped in the sticky-humid room's low ceiling. The odour was somewhat familiar to Yor given that it bore a striking resemblance to the cleaning solutions that were employed after her missions.
Yor herself had no particular interest in joining Anya, holding it to be too much of an imposition on the father-daughter bonding time, so she wore a simple yellow sundress that hung loose and airy around her knees. It was surely better than pulling a ill-used and out-of-style one-piece from the moving boxes that remained unpacked, stacked up in her side of the bedroom closet. And she certainly wasn't going to go shopping for something... horrifyingly lewd as every bathing suit she'd seen in recent months appeared to be. Setting herself up with a good book, she contented herself to watch Loid with his daughter.
Now that they were at the pool, Anya had to be fully prepared. Still wearing a thankfully baggy tee-shirt along with his swim trunks, Loid blrew up tiny inflatable flotation cuffs, his lips, full and luscious and pink, puckering and wrapping around the transparent plastic nub so that he could heave air like a bellows through his nose while his mouth was occupied, leaving him- Yes. Him. Hot and breathless.
Yor attempted to look away, but her eyes were rather uncooperative.
Once Anya was safely prepared, her father escorted her to the edge of the shallow end of the pool and, to prepare himself to join her, shucked his-
And there went all of Yor's coping techniques again.
This time, they might not be able to recollect themselves for another attempt. Indeed, they were, well and truly, as dead as the coterie of corrupt politicians Yor had eliminated yesterday evening in an orgy of violence that only purged a minute fraction of her frustration.
Those coping techniques had taken a tumble off the eight mountains they'd once again been seeking to conquer, and plummeted to their deaths, right alongside Yor herself. Given the height of those peaks and depth of those valleys, it would be a wonder if anyone could survive.
It wasn't too bad, all things considered, as she buried her nose in her book and hyperventilated only a smidgen, hands itching to take hold of a nice, firm shaft.
Of her knife.
To eviscerate the assembled women around the pool who were currently eyeing Loid rather appreciatingly, to the consternation of husbands and boyfriends.
Really, she believed that she comported herself admirably, managing to keep herself occupied by refocusing on Anya herself, who was splashing about in the shallow end, wading in the water because she had yet to learn how to swim. Her safety was paramount, so as long as Anya was in the water, appropriate decorum could be maintained. No glancing at anything beyond Loid's wrists, supple and fine with straining veins and tendons that stood out against his peach flesh whenever he shifted his hands, joints bending in conjunction with his subtle attempts to assist Anya in the pool.
The low-cut neckline of her sundress grew a little tight as she squirmed on her deck chair.
Those were very lithesome wrists... and broad hands that held Anya's little fingers while Loid encouraged her to kick her feet while using him to stay afloat.
Yor nearly slapped herself.
What was wrong with her? What kind of degenerate woman would find such a thing attractive? It was just a father doting upon his adorable little daughter, taking time out from his fiercely laborious job, if the stacks of papers on his desk were any indication, merely to indulge her.
And he was laughing. Yor hugged herself around her waist, unable to stand the sight of his wrists even a moment longer while she ached for a set of earplugs to block out the sound.
It was Loid's laugh, of course. Nothing excessive or unrestrained, but very much genuine.
Moist air soaked through her suddenly clammy sundress, and she began to pick and pluck at the overly tight fabric that felt more like hessian than breathable linen. Given the environmental conditions, nothing was breathable, including the air itself as she tried, and failed, to suck down a nice gulp.
All she had to do was focus on Anya's safety.
Just keep her eyes on the lifeguards and conduct a thorough mental review of the first-aid techniques she'd learnt in anticipation of their excursion. She might also take a stroll around the perimeter of the pool to check the contents of the emergency kits that lined the walls. That kind of practicality would keep her grounded. No need to look in Loid's direction.
That kept her occupied, and her mind chaste, for a good half hour of play in the shallow end until, with a slosh and splash, Loid hefted himself out of the pool.
A cascade of water poured off his body as, after helping Anya up, he stood to his full height and carded a broad hand through the sloppy tangle of blonde hair, slicking it back as an opportune motion created hazy back-lighting that caused his entire figure to veritably sparkle. The motion sent new rivers and streams of crystalline water trailing down his cheeks and neck, the rivulets coursing their way around his collarbone and pectorals before getting lost in that bumpy terrain of his sternum and stomach. From there, the liquid ran straight into the vee of his hip-bones and rolled lazily down to the sodden edge of his bathing suit that was veritably plastered to ... that area.
Yor whimpered as if she was loosing a last desperate gasp for mercy. Much like that Ostanian traitor, who'd been selling state arms to terrorists, she'd taken out last weekend.
Never before had she believed herself capable of empathizing with such scum, but considering the concupiscence conjured forth by the cut calves and chest and vaguest imprint of a c-
She really had to go back to staring at his chest and abs.
Yor informed her eyes of this fact, but they proved obstinate.
Obviously, there was only one course of action.
Never see Loid shirtless again.
Or wet. Unless she was prepared to join him.
She could arrange that.
This time, Yor retreated to the locker-room for a quick cold shower, her face upturned into the stream so she could gulp down a few cooling mouthfuls.
It was very kind of them to provide that convenience.
She probably should have taken off her sun dress first, though, but emergencies did tend to cause one to forget the little things.