Rave read the file presented to her with quiet concentration. The first of the harettes sat in the corner of the Couch, holding the folder in one hand and a thermos cup in the other. John could hear the clacking of ice cubes, as she raised the thermos to her lips and took a gulp. A simple spring chanism sealed the lid again, preventing anything from dripping out when she let the cup dangle again.
A professional distance away, Nightingale was bowed over a roster of photos, located right next to a map of a restaurant. “Would it be beneficial to have iers and Antshill talk?” the harpy questioned.
“Dunno.” Rave flipped through a few pages, on the lookout for the files for both of these nas. “Well, one’s rich and looking to get into philanthropy and the other runs a settlent charity. Could work.”
Nightingale’s claws dexterously lifted two of the photos and placed them on the sa table. “I will make the call.” The harpy grabbed one of the smartphones placed between her and Rave on the Couch and tapped in a number. Skilfully, she lodged the phone between face and shoulder.
Rave took another sip of her drink. The ice cubes clanked against the bottom of the now empty container. Without looking up from her work, she raised the cup up. The Gar walked up behind her and took it from her hand. “Thanks, tiger,” she purred, sending him an air kiss on the way to the kitchen.
John caught it and put it in a non-existent pocket for later. Once in the kitchen, he shovelled so fresh ice into the thermos and then topped it off with iced tea. “I’m reminded that I live with a mutant,” the Gar said, at a moderate volu, when Rave was sipping from the returned cup. “You could just drink normal temperature water if we turned the thermostat down.”
That succeeded in making his cat-eared girlfriend look up from her file and stare at him. “That’s stupid talk. Ya gotta have it hot around and a cold drink in hand. That’s the best life.”
Even in the middle of her phone conversation, Nightingale managed to participate in the talk by shaking her head. “Most people actually prefer to live in a moderate temperature where they aren’t sweating.”
“I ain’t sweating.” Rave gestured at her exposed curves.
“Which is only part of what makes you-“
“Lovable? Best girl? Cute?”
“I was going with ‘weird’,” John finished his thought. Inactive hands were placed on his girlfriend’s shoulders. Slender and elegant, they were all that could be desired. The muscles of her neck were soft from everyday care. He would keep it that way. “Weird can be good though.”
Rave purred. A rolling, satisfying sound, that the human throat should not have been able to reproduce at this feline intensity. The pitch was higher than of normal cats, even bore a passing resemblance of his first harette’s voice. A delectable cadence that only grew louder when he scratched her behind the ears.
At that point, Rave’s hand went slack. The folder hit the Couch and she tilted her head back. Eyes closed, she entirely lost herself under the skilful working of the back of her pink, pointy ears. The soft, short fur at the base of them was the most satisfying to touch, for both of them.
Gazing to the side, John caught an envious gaze from Nightingale. Envy turned to pleading, once she had finished making the call. Swiftly, John hopped over the backrest. Between Rave and Nightingale, he kept scratching the ears of one and grood the wings of the other. Fingers parted feathers and a view of just how long each of them was in relation to the limb they were attached to. The quills were a pitch black, just a hint darker than the midnight purple feathers.
John found a bit of dryness to one of the feathers and rubbed it off with pinching motions. Nightingale cooed in appreciation. “Preening the back of my wings is difficult,” she apologized, as if John had demanded one.
“I find it more interesting that you still moult,” John confessed. Every now and again, typically while she was sleeping or showering, Nightingale lost a feather. A logical consequence of her extended bodily functions. The other girls also lost hair (except for the Artificial and Natural Spirits). On that note, it was certainly fortunate that they had a magically powered pipe system for their showers and slis to clean the pipes. If they had still been utilizing regular showers at their current size, Aclysia would have pulled a carpet out of the drain every week.
The feathers were gathered and kept in the Guild Bank. Funnily enough, what the harem regarded as a rude way to wake up was an item whose basic magic power so would kill for. They had long since crossed the point at which parts of their bodies were considered artefacts.
“It has lessened since I ascended. My gown went through complete changes every spring before,” Nightingale puffed up her wings a bit, to give John an even better view of the individual quills. It was easy to find the feathers where developnt had left behind a thin layer of dead cells. The colour difference was stark, a light grey on the black. It was like rubbing a bit of crusted dirt off a fingernail.
Not the part of hanging out with a harpy that people would think about, if they thought about hanging out with a harpy at all. “Well, we’ll see if it’s now reduced to singular feathers falling out sotis or if you just moult once a decade or century.”
Nightingale just humd in agreent, too distracted by him grooming her wings. An occasional, pleased hum would ring from her pale throat. Where he sat, John felt atop of the world. Each of his hands was caressing the animal parts of his gorgeous monster girls. He got to listen to their reactions, watch their attractive forms, and enjoy the softness of fur and feathers. It was the whole package of everything.
The lady of the night was the first to topple over and co to rest her head on his shoulder. Independently, too distracted to witness what was happening, Rave followed. It made John’s preening job harder, but with Possession the necessary viewing angle could be acquired.
ditative tranquillity settled on John’s mind. The simple manual routines of his hands relaxed his spirit. Elsewhere, other parts of him were working. Here, he was entirely relaxed. His world was the purring and cooing of the cat and the bird by his side.
Their trance ca to an end when one of the smartphones began to ring. Nightingale and Rave blinked back into reality and grumbled, pulling away from John’s hands. It was the feline Lightbearer that picked up the phone and the night goddess that then talked to him. “Your preening skill improves, my love.” She shook her wings out, letting the particles fall onto the Couch like dandruff.
John followed their gradual vanishing. It was like watching paint dry in an accelerated video. The grey sprinkles disappeared one by one, and before he knew it they had all vanished. “Only the best for my songbird.”
Nightingale glanced towards his crotch and gulped. What she was contemplating was evident in the forced and repeated clearing of her throat. When she spoke up, gooey strands stretched between her dark lips. “I shall reward that attention later.” She forced herself to return to her work.
John ran a hand through her hair one more ti, then stood up. They had a gala to plan and he had a short window to catch the next of his harettes.
_____________________________________________________________________________
Lydia spread cream cheese over her bread. The manner in which she did so was nothing short of artful. Even as a superhuman, it was rare to see soone spread a topping in a manner that was worthy of an advertisent shot. The amount was appropriately asured for the slice, the motion of her hand spread the cream cheese equally over the curved shape, and when she was finished barely any still stuck to the tal.
A contemplative look crossed the queen’s face, then she licked those remains off the tal. “How unladylike,” John jumped on the opportunity to tease her.
“I have bestowed upon you the privilege to see at my most unprepared, do not squander it with your addiction to banter.” Lydia put the knife down and took a bite of the slice of dark bread.
Whether this was her most unprepared was arguable and John was certain he would win that case. He had seen her in too many compromising positions, most of them caused by his own actions, to believe otherwise. That being said, it was true that she was not in her usual state.
The queen of Rex Germaniae wore only a pair of deep red panties and one of John’s shirts. It was too large for her and fell past her chest in drapes. Her hair was still dishevelled from sleep and all she did before sleeping. That it was bound up into a ponytail added a pittance of order to that.
“You look different with a ponytail,” John remarked. “It’s the extra loose strands that fra your face, it makes you… girlier?”
“Do you prefer my hair open, my love?” Lydia reached for the ribbon with which she had tied her copper hair up.
“I have no strong opinion one way or another,” John confessed. “I like you most with your braid, although I’m not sure if that’s a matter of personal preference or just knowing you like that.” He shrugged and grabbed a couple of the cherries on the table. “Certain is only that I love you.”
Lydia smiled mildly and poured herself a cup of tea. Even though it was of a moderate heat outside, the queen still needed her serving. On a table that had an otherwise simple breakfast on tal and undecorated porcelain, the teapot with its extensive painting stood out. Its soft fragrance dominated the room, as rejuvenating as the green trees, visible in the courtyard through the window.
Berlin in the early sumr was a sight to behold. The Abyssal side of it, at least. John had no high opinion of the mundane capital of Germany. There was too much concrete and business. Having been bombed to smithereens had robbed it of much of that old European charm. It reminded John a bit too much of the big cities of Arica, repainted in a different flavour.
“I admit it was pleasant to witness your face upon my awakening,” Lydia stated and took another bite of her bread.
John chuckled at the mory. It had been less than forty-five minutes ago that he stood bowed over the bed. The clock had closed in on the usual ti that Lydia awoke. Forty seconds before it was due, she opened her eyes and t his. She had groaned and stretched, taken his good morning kiss, and clicked her tongue when her alarm went off. Then she had placed a hand on one cheek and a kiss on the other and whispered sothing in her drowsy voice.
Adorable.
A pair of maids had brought the food while Lydia had been in the shower. Now he joined her for breakfast. The plan to visit each of his harettes during their work hours did not work entirely for Lydia. It was an outspoken agreent between the two of them that they did not ddle in the state affairs of the other, unless explicitly asked. Unlike the Gar, the queen ruled primarily through subjects, which demanded a lot more etings. John attending one would have created a great number of questions and could very well be understood as a threat.
“I hope I visit you often enough on this side,” John continued their chatter. “I feel like a bad lover for making you co out to all the ti.”
“Albeit, it is more convenient that way. Further, I do not visit you alone, my love. There’s a group that has my heart that deserves frequent visits.” Lydia finished her tea and put the cup down, only for John to pour her a new one before she could even reach for the pot. “Attentive as always.”
“Nightingale complinted the sa way earlier,” he pointed out.
“We have much in common, she and I.” Lydia enjoyed the fragrance of her drink. “An appreciation for the John Newmans in our life among them.” Without taking a sip, she put the cup back down and then slid it over the table. “Have a taste, my love.”
John reached for the cup and enjoyed the sll. Up close, the blend of jasmine and green leaves was apparent. He took a small sip, let the aroma fill his mouth. It was mildly sweet, with a bitter aftertaste. “You told the maids to use store bought leaves again, didn’t you?” he asked and slipped the cup back over. Lydia appeared mildly displeased. “Did you try to trap into going on about the exquisite taste of very normal tea leaves?”
“Perhaps.” Lydia brushed back her braid, even though she did not have one at the mont. “Damned be your intellect and the hurdle it plays to simple pranks.” A sudden chi made Lydia turn her head. “Damned be your gifts as well.”
Strimata laid on the floor, the only clutter in an otherwise perfectly tidy study. A tiny bit of the prismatic blade managed to peek out of the sheathe, stretching the wires that attempted to keep the weapon in place. With a clenching gesture, the wires tightened and the rapier was silenced. “You know it’s playing with you, right?”
“I have been exposed to its thousand whims many more tis than you,” Lydia reminded him. “If it wants to act as if the sheathe contains it, then I will humour it, for it takes the absurdity of its constant chiming out of my ears.”
“You’re cute when you’re angry.”
For so reason, at that exact mont, those exact words made Lydia blush up a storm. Red rushed into her face and she raised her cup, to hide as much of her face as she could behind the porcelain. “You and your swift and smooth responses,” she complained. “Could I have not fallen for a man whose honeyed words were less effective in dismantling my carefully constructed shell?”
“If my words are honey, then you must be my queen bee,” John humd.
“That one was terrible.”
John shrugged and smiled. “They can’t all be winners.”
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