Every Fucking Time

The meeting wasn’t until tomorrow morning. Chandra had a room of her own and an evening to kill, and she felt tired and restless, so—naturally—she lay back on her stiff mattress and beat one out.

She summoned Nissa in her mind’s eye. The scene usually took place in their old base on Ravnica, but today she framed them in Amonkhet—the chamber they’d shared, before everything turned sour. Their window opened to a sleeping city and a warm breeze. Nissa already looked ravishing, adorned in minimal nightclothes (on account of the heat, you see), her hair loose and free. Chandra undressed her slowly. A tingle ran up her arm each time their skin touched. Slower. Here in Kaladesh, her fingers trailed over the bedclothes; she willed herself to believe. Ever slower. Nissa raised her arms, and Chandra tugged off the sleeveless nightshirt, leaving her chest bare.

Her fantasies of Nissa were always so tame. Sure, it was sex, but so much of the hotness was bound up in simple physicality—kissing Nissa’s mouth and neck, running her hands along the elf’s waist, thighs, and breasts. She worked herself until it almost felt real: until she could almost feel Nissa’s weight on her lap, could almost reach out and touch the arch of her back. She rocked back and forth, surrendering herself to the illusion.

Then an image flashed in her mind, supplanting all else: Lili on her knees in supplication, almost choking on Chandra, a tear running down her cheek (or was it a bead of sweat?), Chandra’s fingers in her hair. She came to it, this image, this memory: the one fleeing second where Liliana had dropped any and all pretense of control.

“Fuck,” she whispered. “Fuck.”

Every fucking time.