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The clattering of Asta’s heels against the metallic floors of the Herta Space Station are like clockwork: rushed, concise and deliberate.
Still, it’s a melody few can hear, as her footsteps inevitably get swallowed up by the Space Station’s usual liveliness. Assistants bustle through the wide corridors, tablets and research papers tucked under their arms or cradled by their hands. Janitors mop the floors in pairs, exchanging snippets of conversation here and there. The occasional bark of laughter and shrill tones of conversation mingle with the metallic hum of machinery and the soft whirring of the small assistant robots passing by.
Dodging one such robot, Asta takes a sharp turn to her left, passing through another large door flanked by two guards. As a gift from the ever-opulent IPC to Madam Herta, it’s no wonder the Space Station sprawls endlessly in every direction. It’s vast—terrifyingly so, even—that, to many, it feels more like a city adrift in the cosmos than a research facility. Yet, despite the labyrinthine corridors and large halls, there’s no falter to Asta’s steps. Her feet move with robotical precision, sharp and sure, like she knows with precision where to go and when to arrive.
It’s a crafted skill, one she didn’t have back in her homeworld, in her family’s sprawling estate. There, she had never been the one to rush anywhere. Why would she need to sharpen herself, when the world around her bent to accommodate her needs, with the countless maids and butlers hovering around her, ready to abide by her every command? Back then, telescopes were probably the heaviest thing her hands had to ever touch.
But the Herta Space Station made her into what she is today.
Now, Asta moves like a cog in a machine, precise and unyielding, responsibility weighing like a heavy blanket thrown over her shoulder. One she wears proudly, nonetheless.
Being the Lead Researcher of this station is the greatest joy of her life, after all.
Sure, it’s far from being easy—from dawn to dusk, Asta has to manage researchers and their clashing opinions, reply to numerous correspondence meant for Herta, negotiate any affairs needed with the IPC, and evaluate the constant stream of equipment requests from every department. But even amidst the chaos, she’s never felt freer.
Today, however, the usual rhythm of her duties is completely thrown off course.
The news had reached her minutes ago, carried in by a breathless assistant with flushed cheeks and wide eyes: a ship had docked unexpectedly at the station. Not just any ship—a private one, unannounced and unregistered in their logs.
As the ship’s side doors slid open, one sole passenger stepped out: Madam Ruan Mei, member #81 of the Genius Society.
The report had Asta’s eyes as wide as saucers. Sure, it was general knowledge that the Genius Society members were known to be eccentric in their own way, but at least the majority of them always cared to follow the general courtesy of announcing their visits beforehand—at least those who came to visit the Herta Space Station.
This time, however, Ruan Mei had not so much as sent a message to inform her impending arrival.
Though she had immediately dismissed her assistant with a curt nod, her mind was already calculating the next move, the only reasonable route to take. The decision came swiftly and instinctively: inform Madam Herta directly.
The thought had drawn a sigh from her lips. She had long since mastered the art of communicating with Herta, and doing so no longer felt like walking on eggshells—Herta was surprisingly engaging in conversation, as long as she wasn’t in a hurry to shove her responsibilities onto Asta and get back to her own affairs.
Even so, informing Herta of an unexpected arrival was not a task to be taken lightly. Most of the time, Madam Herta preferred to remain undisturbed, buried in her endless work and research. But this wasn’t just anyone.
It was Ruan Mei. A galactic-renowned biologist. An illustrious member of the Genius Society. Herta’s colleague and close friend, if anyone could truly claim those titles.
And that is what brings Asta here, gliding through the Space Station as fast as a Warp Trotter.
The air feels cooler as she approaches the central wing of the station, where Madam Herta’s private office looms. The two guards stationed there straighten at her approach, their idle chatter giving way to polite nods. Asta offers them a kind smile in return before turning to the small panel beside the doors. With a few deft taps of her fingers, she signals her intent to enter, and the guards step aside, already accustomed to the routine.
With one last press of her fingertips, Asta opens the doors.
The metallic panels slide open with their usual efficiency, and Asta has half a mind to suck in one last breath to ground herself, before her eyes meet the one person she’s been looking for.
Inside the room, Madam Herta sits at a chair, long legs crossed over one another as she balances a thick book casually in her hands. Violet eyes flicker upward, catching Asta in a sharp, assessing gaze.
A moment of silence stretches between them, before Herta finally breaks it.
“Asta.” Herta deadpans, tone as flat as always. As she flicks to the next page of the book, there’s a faint flicker of surprise in her expression, though. “What brings you here?”
Bowing her head, Asta salutes, “Good afternoon, Madam Herta.”
She doesn’t think too much before greeting. In truth, Asta doesn’t even know if it’s already afternoon—it’s far too easy to lose track of time here. Her packed schedule and the Space Station’s artificial environment also don’t help. Without a sun or moon to guide the body’s natural rhythms, time becomes an abstract concept. The automatic system that made the lights dimmer at set timetables to mimic the passage of time, and the analog clocks scattered all over the station are of great help, of course—even if Asta herself sometimes doesn’t use them, and relies instead on an internal clock that’s prone to failure—but there, inside Herta’s office, with nothing to aid her, Asta can only pick one time of the day, and hope for the best.
But of course Herta, of all people, couldn’t care less about trivialities such as the time. She simply stares at Asta, waiting in silence for her to continue.
“You didn’t reply to any of my messages, so I thought it’d be better to deliver the news in person,” Asta begins, tone polite and efficient, even if she still feels that faint flicker of nervousness in her gut. “Are you busy, Madam Herta?”
“I was just starting to get involved,” she replies, gesturing lazily toward the pages before returning her gaze to the text. “Now cut to the point, yes? I assume you, out of all people, wouldn’t interrupt me unless it was important.”
Asta’s eyes flit to the book in Herta’s hands. The title catches her attention: The Aeons and the Immutable Laws of Quantum Physics. The thick tome looks heavy, its cover slightly worn around the edges, probably from countless hours of reading.
The choice of literature suits Herta perfectly—esoteric, erudite, and far-removed from what most people would choose to read in their free time. Of course Herta would be engrossed in something that sounds like a lecture that could bore half the cosmos, rather than a casual, relaxing pastime.
“It’s news you’d want to hear, Madam Herta. Trust me.”
“That’s a bold claim, Asta.” Herta’s lips twitch upward, a ghost of amusement passing over her face. She doesn’t look up from the book. “Go on, then. Impress me.”
Asta clears her throat softly. “A ship docked on the space station.”
Herta doesn’t even glance up.
“And…?” she prompts, flipping another page with deliberate slowness. Her voice is dismissive, as though she’s already decided this news isn’t worth her time, after all. “That happens all the time.”
“Of course,” Asta replies, measuredly. “If the ship wasn’t boarded by Madam Ruan Mei.”
The subtle sound of turning pages ceases instantly.
Herta’s fingers hover over the edge of the page, motionless. Her eyes freeze in place—just seconds ago, they had been following the lines of text with mechanical precision. Now, Herta stares at one point fixedly, much like her puppets do when they go off-line.
The silence stretches for a beat, then another. The only sign that Herta is still engaged is the faint press of her fingers against the edge of the book, resting there as if waiting to flip the page but never following through.
Asta takes the lack of a reply as an unspoken prompt to continue.
“But, hey, there’s no need to worry, Madam Herta,” she assures. “The researchers are already handling everything! We’ve already prepared the best room for her, and an afternoon tea is being arranged as we speak. Everything is under control—”
“What did you just say?”
The sharpness of Herta’s voice slices clean through Asta’s sentence, bringing her explanation to a halt. She hesitates for just a tad too long, before composing herself.
“I said the researchers are handling it, and there’s no—”
“No—not that.” Herta cuts her off with a sharp wave of her hand. Finally, assessing violet eyes lock on her again. “Before this.”
Asta blinks. “Oh. Well, the ship was boarded by Madam Ruan Mei.”
Silence instills again. Herta’s eyes are frozen on hers, the fat book she was reading suddenly forgotten. Slowly, her eyebrows raise; it’s a mild movement, but Asta catches it nonetheless.
“Ruan Mei is here…?”
“Yes, Madam Herta,” Asta confirms, keeping her expressions neutral. “As I said, it was quite the surprise, but everything is already being handled.”
“Handled,” Herta repeats.
“Yes.” Asta nods slowly. “We’re making sure her stay is as comfortable as possible. A personal room has been prepared, and the staff are—”
“Bring her to me.”
Asta hesitates, her composure faltering for the briefest moment. “Now…?” she asks, frowning slightly. “Perhaps she’d appreciate a meal first? The journey to here must’ve been a long one.”
When high-profile visitors like Ruan Mei or even Screwllum arrived at the Space Station, they’d be first treated with a carefully prepared meal, and luxurious private quarters. It was a rule that was set by Asta herself; protocol dictates that important visitors should always be treated with the finest food, the coziest rooms and the best of cordialities.
But Herta dismisses the notion entirely with a single sharp look and a raise of her eyebrow. The combination that means her word is final.
“She’ll have plenty of time to eat after we’re done,” Herta rebuttals. “Send her in.”
“Of—of course, Madam Herta.” Asta bows her head, smiling through her own confusion. Perhaps understanding a genius’ way of thinking will forever be an ability beyond her own expertise. “I’ll go fetch her immediately. Please, excuse me.”
Turning back around, Asta makes her way out of the office, her heels resuming their practiced rhythm against the metallic floor—the steady and deliberate click, clack, click, clack echoing faintly in the quiet hall. The guards resume their positions in front of the door, and the panels close behind her in a smooth sound.
On her rushed way out, Asta misses the wicked smile that tugs Herta’s lips upwards.
✵
When Asta finds Ruan Mei, she’s in the Supply Zone, quietly studying one of the many holographic portraits of Madam Herta’s face.
The projection flickers faintly, shimmering in the sterile air of the docking bay. The image itself is already imprinted in the back of Asta’s mind—and likely in half the researchers’ minds as well—from seeing it repeatedly. After all, this same portrait is scattered all over the Space Station, like a silent, omnipresent claim of power.
It’s a pristine recreation of one of Herta’s puppets, bearing the uncanny likeness of a young girl frozen somewhere between childhood and adolescence. Her face is hauntingly lifelike—smooth porcelain skin, wide violet eyes, and delicate features that seem human in their subtle expressiveness. Yet the illusion falters at her shoulders, where the artificial joints betray the puppet’s true nature. It’s a strange contrast: a face so carefully designed to imitate life juxtaposed with the exposed mechanics that serve as a constant reminder of its artificiality.
Madam Ruan Mei is unmoving as she stares at the portrait, gloved hands clasped loosely in front of her. There’s no visible reaction on her face—no surprise, no fondness, no judgment. Just a quiet, unreadable stillness and a relaxed complexion. Asta pauses a few paces away, her eyes narrowing slightly as she observes the biologist in silence.
Fetching her hadn’t been hard. Ruan Mei was waiting exactly where the staff had reported she’d be, calm and unobtrusive. It was almost unsettling—how easy it had been to find her. Despite her reputation as one of the more eccentric members of the Genius Society, Ruan Mei didn’t exude the chaotic energy of someone who ignored rules or strutted into places without regard for protocol. She was poised, self-contained, and polite. A far cry from the gossipy, ill-intended whispers that seemed to micro-analyze her every step.
A thorny reputation precedes her: cold-hearted, dispassionate, aloof, unsympathetic, reckless, you name it. People almost always have something to say about Ruan Mei, no matter whether they’ve met her in person or not. And yet, despite it all, here she stands quietly among the constant chaos of researchers and assistant robots passing by.
The pale light of the hologram illuminates Ruan Mei’s face. Her features are serene, but there’s something oddly pensive in the way her eyes study the portrait.
Ruan Mei looks so at peace that, for a moment, Asta hesitates, unsure whether she should interrupt or not.
At last, she clears her throat gently, stepping closer.
“Madam Ruan Mei?”
Ruan Mei doesn’t startle at the sound, nor does she flinch. Instead, she turns toward Asta with the same deliberate grace that seems to define her every move.
Her head tilts slightly as their eyes meet, and for a moment, Asta wonders if she interrupted something private. But then Ruan Mei smiles—a perfectly crafted smile, soft and polite, though it gives nothing away.
“Lead Researcher Asta,” Ruan Mei muses, voice even and smooth. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Likewise, Madam Ruan Mei,” as she replies, Asta inclines her head in polite greeting. “Welcome to the Herta Space Station. I hope the docking process went smoothly?”
“It did,” Ruan Mei answers, the faint smile never leaving her lips as she lets her gaze swim across the place, motioning silently at the researchers idling nearby. “As always, the staff were very polite and accommodating. I appreciate the warm welcome.”
She doesn’t apologize for anything—not the unannounced arrival, not the distress caused to said staff, not the disruption to Asta’s carefully managed schedule.
It should leave a bitter taste in her mouth; as prideful as Asta is, under normal circumstances, she might have been tempted to give Ruan Mei a piece of her mind in the form of a very pointed lecture about the value of proper etiquette and notice. But she’s learned not to care for it.
If anything, rather than irritation, the scenario feels so familiar that Asta has to hold back an amused chuckle.
Apologeticness is also absent from Madam Herta’s personal dictionary, for that matter.
It’s a trait the two of them share, it seems. Asta thinks it must come with the line of their work—the kind of unshakable assurance that comes from existing on a level of intellect, and perhaps even existence as a whole, so far removed from everyone else. This unapologetic approach can be maddening to some, but Asta finds it strangely impressive.
As such, she’s long learned not to feel the childish need to prompt an apology out of someone who thinks they’ve done no wrong in the first place.
“That’s good to hear,” she finally says, chest swelling faintly with pride. Despite the ups and downs, it’s gratifying to know that the staff are properly trained and willing to abide by every etiquette rule she’s implemented.
Ruan Mei watches her calmly, carefully. “So… to what do I owe the pleasure?”
Oh, right. She came here not to analyze Madam Ruan Mei’s ways of speaking and carrying herself, but to do what was requested of her—as a matter of fact, Herta is the last person in the universe whose orders should ever be dismissed.
Just the thought of Herta’s cold, expectant gaze, her lips curling downwards into a barely restrained scowl, is enough to make Asta quickly get herself together.
“Madam Herta is expecting you,” Asta starts, her tone measured, precise.
She watches Ruan Mei closely, anticipating a reaction—surprise, curiosity, perhaps even amusement. But Ruan Mei’s expression remains unchanged. If anything, she remained impassive, with the face of someone who had been expecting this kind of news all along.
“She seemed… eager to meet with you,” Asta adds, hesitating ever so slightly on the word eager . Saying it aloud feels strange, wrong even. Eager isn’t a word Asta would typically associate with Madam Herta—ever. The thought of her seeming “eager” for anything—or anyone—was almost unsettling.
For all her brilliance, Herta had a way of making people feel insignificant, like particles of space dust in the vastness of the universe. Herta doesn’t get excited over anything, save it for the Simulated Universe or the unresolved equations posed by the Erudition. Seeing Madam Herta that restless, far removed from her usual, detached way was odd, to put it mildly.
That, at last, drew a reaction.
Her faint smile remains, but there’s a flicker of something behind her calm expression—a subtle sharpening of her gaze, a hint of amusement curving the edges of her lips.
“Eager?”
The word comes out softly from Ruan Mei’s lips; her brow arches ever so slightly, and Asta feels the briefest tug of discomfort under her scrutinizing eyes.
The discomfort is unreasonable, of course. Ruan Mei’s tone wasn’t accusatory, and she doesn’t appear uncomfortable. If anything, she looked entirely at ease, her voice as calm and smooth as ever. But there’s something to the way she draws out the word—like a scientist dissecting an interesting specimen—that sends a wave of uneasiness washing over Asta.
After a beat, Ruan Mei hums softly, tilting her head just a fraction. “Mm.”
Her gaze drifts back to the holographic portrait of Herta, flickering faintly under the docking bay’s lights like some undeparted ghost.
“How quaint,” she murmurs, almost to herself. Then her gaze flits back to Asta, the corners of her lips lifting faintly. “I’d say the feeling is incredibly mutual.”
Her tone carried no mockery, yet her words felt like a private joke Asta hadn’t been let in on. Before she could dwell on it for too long, however, Ruan Mei was already moving on.
“Well,” Ruan Mei continues, her smile returning to its usual enigmatic form, smooth and impenetrable. “I suppose it’d be rude to keep her waiting, then. Shall we go?”
Forcing herself back into the present, Asta straightens her posture and nods. “Ah—of course. This way, please.”
She gestures lightly, motioning for Ruan Mei to follow.
They start walking in companionable silence, the rhythmic click of Asta’s heels contrasting with the softer, almost soundless steps of Ruan Mei. The faint hum of the Space Station’s machinery surrounds them, the cool glow of the overhead lights casting soft reflections on the metallic walls.
Asta sneaks a glance at Ruan Mei as they pass beneath one of the brighter panels, her eyes catching on the way the artificial lighting plays off the azure tones of her robes. The intricate floral patterns ripple faintly across the fabric, catching the light in a way that makes them seem almost alive, like water flowing over smooth stones.
It’s not just her appearance that draws Asta’s eye, though. There’s something odd in the way she carries herself. Asta can’t quite put her finger on it, but it’s there in the way Ruan Mei struts, shoulders exaggeratedly squared and the occasional tensioning of her jaw. More than her usual silent and composed front, Madam Ruan Mei looks… thrilled, though she still keeps it carefully bottled.
How odd.
Asta clears her throat softly, breaking the silence before it becomes awkward.
“We’ve already made arrangements for your stay, Madam Ruan Mei,” she starts. “A personal room has been prepared for you, and the researchers are ensuring everything is ready to accommodate your needs.”
Ruan Mei chuckles. “You’re very thorough, Lead Researcher. I can see why Herta values you so highly.”
“You flatter me, Madam Ruan Mei,” Asta replies, more meekly than she’d intended. Her cheeks heat up slightly, and she lowers her gaze for a moment. “I’m just doing my job.”
“A masterful one, at that,” Ruan Mei muses as they take a turn to the left. “You should take the compliment, Lead Researcher. I mean it when I say your guidance makes the Space Station a better place.”
Sincerity is both a blessing and a curse, Asta thinks, cheeks heating up further.
“Thank you, Madam Ruan Mei,” she manages, clearing her throat again as they walk. “Are you hungry? The chefs are already preparing desserts for you—special ones directly from the Blue. If it’s not to your liking, we can always rearrange the menu…”
“That won’t be necessary,” Ruan Mei replies smoothly. “If it’s from the Blue, it’s prone to be to my liking.”
Ah. The Blue. It’s impossible not to think of it now that it’s been mentioned, even in passing—the enormous, oceanic planet that the Herta Space Station orbits.
In the Supply Zone, where the docking bay looms large, the vastness of the Blue is always inescapable, displayed in breathtaking clarity through the enormous, floor-to-ceiling window that dominates the entire wall.
Through the spotless, reinforced glass, the Blue glimmers like a shimmering sapphire jewel, against the pitch-black fabric of the galaxy. Asta still remembers the first time she stood in front of the sprawling window, staring down at the endless expanse. At the time, she was but a newbie, fresh out of her luxurious life and starting to get used to the Herta Space Station. As an astronomer herself, getting a glimpse of the Blue’s marvel was a sight she’ll never forget, probably. Tablet clutched close to her chest and her nametag clinging on her neck, the newly appointed Lead Researcher Asta watched the marvelous, azure expanse of the Blue with a gleam in her eyes and a fire on her chest.
If it’s from the Blue, it’s prone to be to my liking.
As they pass through another door, Asta can’t help but think that Madam Herta, too, comes from the Blue.
✵
Asta isn’t sure if it’s some kind of placebo effect, but the closer they get to Madam Herta’s office, the colder the air feels.
Rationally, she knows it’s impossible. The temperature regulation aboard the Herta Space Station is impeccable—it has to be, considering it’s the largest space station in the known cosmos. Keeping a sprawling maze of cold metal corridors at a consistently pleasant warmth is no easy feat, but the system is maintained with a precision that leaves no margin for error. There’s no logical reason for the chill creeping into her skin, but the sensation lingers, and no matter how much she tries to brush it off, it refuses to fade.
It must be her nerves. And nerves, of all things, shouldn’t be a problem. Not to her.
Asta has walked this exact trail more times than she can count—at least once every day, sometimes twice. The way to Herta’s office is almost a routine, familiar and ingrained into her mind. But the tension tugging at her shoulder still persists the closer she gets.
Perhaps it’s the fact her meticulously programmed schedule has already been shred to bits. Maybe it’s the anxiety of being thrown into a situation she wasn’t prepared for in advance. But deep down, she suspects it’s probably the presence of Madam Ruan Mei, gliding silently beside her.
Asta sneaks a glance. Ruan Mei looks as serene as ever, but there’s still a glint in her eyes that feels too sharp to be considered usual.
Still, once again, Asta brushes it off before any thoughts can take root. It’s not her right to pry, much less overanalyze.
They round the final corner leading to the reinforced doors of Herta’s office. As they approach, the polished metal doors come into full view, their imposing surface gleaming faintly under the overhead lights. The two same guards are stationed in front of the doors like statues, but the slight widening of their eyes betrays their surprise when they see Ruan Mei. They bow respectfully, though their gazes linger on her just a fraction too long.
“We’re here, Madam Ruan Mei.”
Ruan Mei nods, smiling faintly. “After you.”
Asta steps toward the control panel beside the door and presses her fingertips against the surface. The system hums faintly as the panel lights up, and with two taps, it beeps softly and turns green. The text access granted flashes onto the small screen.
The doors hiss open; the guards step farther away; Asta holds her breath and steels herself.
It looks exactly how Asta left it just minutes ago, save it for the chair, in which Herta was comfortably settled on, now sits vacant. Only the thick book remains, lying abandoned on top of the cushioned seat. Now Herta stands at the far side of the room, tall and proud; her hat obscures half of her face, yet Asta can see her slender fingers poised over a holographic interface, shifting with precision through what appears to be the index of the Simulated Universe. Numbers, logs and reports flicker before her, vanishing and reappearing.
She doesn’t look up immediately, her attention seemingly fixed on the holographic projections, but Asta knows better than to assume she hasn’t noticed them. She motions with her hand, and she and Ruan Mei step into the office.
“Madam Herta,” Asta announces, just for the sake of it. “We’ve arrived.”
Herta pauses mid-motion, fingers hovering over the interface for long enough that the hologram vanishes into thin air. For a moment, the room feels utterly still, if not for the soft sound of the doors closing shut behind them.
Then, with deliberate slowness, Herta tilts her head, and locks her eyes onto them.
“Asta,” she says simply. A faint smile tugs at her lips—subtle, almost imperceptible. Her eyes flicker briefly to Asta before landing on Ruan Mei. “...And our unexpected visitor.”
Ruan Mei smiles back. “Hello to you too, Herta.”
Herta hums softly. The sound feels heavier than it should.
“Mhm. Long time no see, Ruan Mei,” Herta replies, half-amused, half-contemplative. “I wonder—what could possibly have piqued your interest enough to make you cross the galaxy to visit the Space Station? Don’t tell me…” Her head tilts slightly, violet eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “It’s me?”
Ruan Mei doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course. I’ve traveled across stars for the privilege of basking in your company, Herta,” she replies smoothly, almost teasingly. “Isn’t that what you wanted to hear?”
“Flattery doesn’t suit you,” Herta replies with a soft, unimpressed chuckle. “As always.”
“And yet it always seems to work.”
Asta stands quietly, taking in the exchange with a growing sense of unease. The words themselves are casual, almost teasing, but there’s an unmistakable tension in the air, like some kind of punchline meant just for the two of them to understand as Asta is left to navigate the awkwardness of being left out altogether.
Herta tilts her head slightly, violet eyes locked onto turquoise as they quietly study each other. The room seems to grow quieter with every second of silence, the faint hum of the holographic interface barely audible against the weight of the moment.
Whatever is happening here, it feels like Asta is not meant to see at all. She shifts her weight slightly, fighting the growing urge to just excuse herself and bolt out of the office as fast as she can.
For the first time in a long while, Asta feels like an outsider in the Space Station.
“Anyhow,” Herta says finally, her faint smile fading into something unreadable. Her gaze flickers briefly to Asta before returning to Ruan Mei. “We shouldn’t keep Asta here. I trust she has more… pressing matters to attend to?”
The sudden acknowledgment of her presence catches Asta off guard, though she recovers quickly.
She opens her mouth to offer her leave, but the words die in her throat when Madam Herta turns on her feet, hurling her body around so she can look Asta in the eye—and Aeons, will it take some sweet time until she can get used to this new version.
If she already felt pried apart under puppet-Herta’s gaze, with that small, frail-looking appearance, under this Herta’s piercing stare, Asta feels like a lamb caught between the jaws of a wolf. Maybe it’s her sudden change of height, from the childlike stature of the puppets to this now towering, statuesque woman. Maybe it’s the way the more mature structure of her face lends her eyes a sharper, more calculating edge, like she’s dissecting every move before it’s even made. Or perhaps it’s the weird tension crackling in the air from the moment Madam Ruan Mei stepped into the office—taut as a thread about to snap.
The researchers, too, always told her how they always felt small beneath puppet-Herta’s detached scrutiny. Now, Asta is certain they’ll feel as insignificant as cockroaches beneath the crushing weight of Herta’s human stare.
Purple eyes regard her, unblinking and sharp.
“Tell the researchers I’ll be out of reach for as long as I’m in here.”
Asta nods slowly, carefully. “Consider it done, Madam Herta.”
“Good. And tell them being anywhere near my office is strictly forbidden,” Herta adds in one single breath. Her tone is unwavering, as if daring the universe itself to challenge her. “I don’t want to be perturbed.”
Asta’s gaze flits briefly toward Madam Ruan Mei. She strutted further inside the office, now standing just off to the side of Herta’s desk like a marble statue, unmoving and silent but no less present. Strangely, beneath the once indifferent expression in Ruan Mei’s face, Asta catches a faint hint of amusement in the way her eyes follow the exchange.
Instead of probing further, Asta merely nods again. “Of course,” she replies smoothly, meeting Herta’s gaze head-on despite the prickling of her own nerves.
The smile she offers them is that overly-polite one. The one she practiced to perfection in countless interactions with the station’s researchers and staff.
When Herta doesn’t say anything else—her silence as commanding as any verbal dismissal—Asta takes the hint.
“I’ll get going, then,” she states, bowing her head slightly. “Should you or Madam Ruan Mei need anything, send me a message.”
Not bothering to bid her farewell, Herta turns back around, signaling without a word that their conversation is over. But before Asta can do what she’s been wanting to for the past few minutes and storm out of the office, Herta turns her head around.
The unusual motion stops Asta dead on her tracks once again.
Her voice cuts through the quiet like a knife, “Oh, and Asta?”
Asta claps her hands together and straightens her back. She pivots to face Herta again, going back to the perfect portrait of obedience and lenience she had mastered quickly under Herta’s no-nonsense personality.
“Yes, Madam Herta?”
“Make sure to lock the door on your way out.”
Asta swallows, nodding once. “Understood.”
With a final inclination of her head, she at last slips out of the office, away from the suffocating tension. The last thing Asta sees, before the iron doors of Madam Herta’s office close shut in a dull clack, is the sharp silhouette of Madam Herta, commanding and unyielding, and the wide, turquoise eyes of Madam Ruan Mei, locked onto her.
Despite being a professional sensitive, someone trained to pick up on subtle emotional cues, Asta had never been able to read Ruan Mei with precision.
Asta had learned, perhaps after their second meeting, that Madam Ruan Mei carried herself with a practiced sense of self-possession—an air of aloofness that shielded her from inquisitive eyes.
The cracks in her mask were subtle: well-crafted smiles that a lot of times didn’t quite meet her eyes, soft laughter she used to deflect awkward conversations and prying questions, and a sweet, measured tone of voice she employed whenever masking an information was needed. She’s a walking contradiction. A performer who had mastered the art of concealment, yet felt nothing but indifference toward others’ opinions.
Madam Ruan Mei was a concoction of antinomies—a woman who gave little and revealed even less. Asta, for all her observational skills, had never, not even once, been capable of reading her emotions.
But before the doors sealed shut, she saw it.
For the first time, as Ruan Mei looked at Herta, something raw, unadulterated, and unmistakable burned through her usually veiled gaze.
Hunger.
✵
Ruan Mei, for all her flaws, never considered herself a particularly impulsive person.
Sure, some of her decisions were morally questionable and fairly irresponsible, as countless Genius Society peers were quick to point out—some even going so far as to lend her the oh-so-flattering “mad scientist” label—but none of them had ever been made on a whim.
Every choice, no matter how reckless it seemed to others, had always been guided by logic.
Flawless or not, it was founded on logic. Her logic.
As such, she doesn’t quite know how to explain to herself why she suddenly rented a spaceship, charted a course without warning, and arrived unannounced at the Herta Space Station.
Or why, the moment the door clicks shut, she’s kissing Herta.
It’s far removed from the way she’d approach things, nowhere near elegant, much less presentable. She presses against Herta, wanton and greedy—lips moving together in a desperate, sloppy collision. Like second nature, Ruan Mei’s hands are already on Herta, fingers digging into the fabric of her clothes like it’s the only thing keeping her anchored to reality.
Herta seems surprised for a moment, inhaling sharply against her mouth, before she matches the pace—of course she does. The second she gets her footing back, Herta’s hands are clutched firmly at her neck, deft fingers threading into her hair and digging the nails in. She tugs on the hair at Ruan Mei’s nape just enough to make her involuntary sigh into the kiss, and it’s all the opening and invitation Herta needs to press further.
This is also not the way Herta would usually approach things herself. From Ruan Mei’s own experiences, Herta is the type of woman who likes to take her sweet time with everything. Rather than the quickened pace they’re at, Herta is all about making the seconds count. But it’s not like Ruan Mei was going to complain of the current pace they’re going at.
Rather than the slow kisses and tentative hands she’s used to, the sharp intakes of breath and the greedy hold on her nape are holding their ground.
Teeth graze against her bottom lip, and the drag of it sends a jolt of electricity straight down her spine, a familiar pressure starting to tighten between her thighs. Not missing the tempo, Herta nips one last time, and sinks her teeth in. As she pulls, the sound that escapes Ruan Mei’s throat is disgracefully embarrassing, but she can’t bring herself to care—not right now. Instead, she has half a mind to slide the palms of her hands up to the exposed part of Herta’s back, finding soft, pliant skin, warm under the touch, despite her gloved hands. Without a warning, she sinks her fingers on the supple flesh of Herta’s nape, dragging her nails down until they’re tracing a path down the exposed part of her back.
The reaction she gets is wonderful—Herta arches against her, fingers tugging her hair with more force, almost making her head tilt back.
“Fuck,” Herta breaks the kiss to let out a sigh, shivers rippling across her back.
Ruan Mei hums, pressing their lips against each other again. She feels like if she spends at least one second without kissing Herta, the universe might just end.
“Ruan Mei,” Herta’s voice is rough as she calls her name. “Fuck— what’s gotten into you?”
“What—” her chest constricts painfully from the lack of oxygen, and she has to cut herself off to take a sharp intake of air in. “What do you mean?”
“It’s just… I’ve never seen you this way before. You’re…” Herta breathes in, trying to find the right words to say. “Oddly needy.”
Instead of replying right away, Ruan Mei just lets her eyes roam through Herta’s face slowly, taking every detail in—the defined line of her jaw, the pretty slope of her nose, the feminine curve of her cheekbones.
Ruan Mei was right in her previous statement to the Trailblazer in one of their text messages.
A beauty as undeniable as her foul temper.
She blinks herself out of it. “...You’re not liking it?”
“I am liking it,” Herta counters quite aggressively, before adding, in a tamer tone, “I’m liking it way too much for my own good. Now quit talking.”
Ruan Mei could bite back with a colorful and very plausible argument that Herta was the one who was talking too much, but she decides to just dive in again.
As their tongues slide against one another, Ruan Mei motions Herta toward the big, fancy-looking chair. She doesn’t mind if the thick book Herta’s been reading is still sprawled atop the cushioned seat. Ruan Mei knows all too well Herta will probably throw it across the room the moment she catches on to her intentions.
It’s quite endearing, honestly—how involved Herta gets in moments such as these. To the point where she does reckless stuff she might regret later on, if it only means getting to kiss Ruan Mei for a little longer.
She steps forward, their heels clattering in an impromptu symphony as she urges Herta backward, setting a beeline to guide them step by step toward the cushioned chair. Their movements are fluid and effortless—like they’re following a honed-out dance routine. Unsurprisingly, Herta catches on to her intentions almost immediately. It’s painfully obvious where she’s being led, after all. The press of Ruan Mei’s body against hers leaves little room for ambiguity.
And yet, Herta doesn’t stop her.
She doesn’t break the kiss, either. Not even when the backs of her legs hit the edge of the chair, nor when her hands blindly fumble for the thick book sprawled atop the cushioned seat. Without so much as a glance, she grips it, fingers curling around the worn leather spine. Then, in a single thoughtless motion, she tosses it aside, the heavy tome landing on the floor with a dull thud .
Ruan Mei hums at the recklessness of it, lips curling faintly against Herta’s mouth. She finds every single one of Herta’s antics—as annoying as they might be—both amusing and charming; that should leave her with a couple of questions to ponder, but instead, she just presses herself more firmly against Herta.
The second the book is gone, Herta settles on the chair and grips at Ruan Mei’s hips, intending to guide her downward toward her lap. But just as smoothly as she’d led Herta here, Ruan Mei stops her.
Ignoring Herta’s frustrated grunt, Ruan Mei breaks their kiss, and takes a step back—just enough to be able to take a good look.
She sucks in a slow breath. This is a sight worth savoring.
Herta, for all her poised bravado, sits flushed and breathless at the chair. The redness on her cheeks spreads down to her chest, chest heaving up and down to match her quickened breathing. There’s a faint frown tugging at her face, as if she’s trying to discern what exactly Ruan Mei is planning.
She looks even more stunning like this.
Ruan Mei drinks it in, takes her time with it, before finally leaning down just enough to press the lightest of kisses to Herta’s lips.
Soft. Featherlight. Just enough to tease.
Giving her not enough time to react, Ruan Mei pulls away again, a quiet chuckle escaping her when Herta instinctively leans forward, following after her lips.
“Someone’s eager,” Ruan Mei muses, straightening up again and brushing a gloved finger along the curve of Herta’s jaw. “I don’t recall you ever being this impatient.”
Herta scoffs, violet eyes glinting sharply against the lightning. “I don’t recall you ever being this insufferable,” she grunts. “And yet here we are.”
“I suppose it’s never too late for surprises,” Ruan Mei rebuttals, the smile unfaltering in her lips.
“That look on your face is all too familiar, however,” Herta works her jaw, and Ruan Mei follows the movement—even if the grip on her hips seems to get stronger. “What are you scheming?”
Ruan Mei smiles. There’s no need in feeling surprised by Herta’s quick, logical thinking and her astonishing ability to read Ruan Mei like an open book—after countless endeavors such as these, Ruan Mei can say with property she’s almost immune to any bafflement Herta’s words might cause.
Instead, she just grabs Herta’s lean wrists, curling her fingers against it when the grip on her hips get stronger. “It’s something you’ll like,” she purrs. “Trust me.”
Silence is Herta’s only response. Her grip on Ruan Mei’s hips remains firm—unmoving, resistant. Ruan Mei doesn’t push, doesn’t try to pry her fingers off, either. She just lets her own hands slide lower, dipping her thumb under the soft fabric of Herta’s sleeves to feel the sharp jut of her wrists.
“Hesitating?”
Herta lets out a defiant little chuckle. “You wish.”
“Mm,” Ruan Mei hums, her voice all velvety amusement as she leans in. “Then why are you still holding on?”
Ruan Mei watches, feels it in the slight twitch of Herta’s fingers at her hips—the exact moment in which control slips from Herta’s hands. The moment resolve crumbles to give way to willingness.
There’s a beat of silence, charged and humming, before Herta finally decides to humor her. She exhales through her nose, releasing her grip on Ruan Mei’s hips to lean back into the chair, sinking into the plush cushioning like a queen would do to her throne.
“Alright,” Herta says, tilting her head. “Do your worst.”
Without so much as a word, Ruan Mei leans in. Her back bends down, hands propped up on the armrests to keep her firm and balanced, until she finds herself on Herta’s eye level. Violet eyes drink her in. Ruan Mei gets closer.
Her breath ghosts over Herta’s lips, pretty and pouty and pink, and Ruan Mei doesn’t know what exactly takes over her, but she suddenly wants to taste. So she does. Before she knows it, her tongue is flicking out, and Ruan Mei licks.
It’s as unexpect—to both herself and Herta—as it is indecent, the wet heat of her tongue dragging over the soft swell of Herta’s lower lip, leaving a molten track in its wake.
She feels it against her cheeks—Herta’s sharp exhale—then, against her mouth—Herta’s lips parting instinctively, the barest tilt of her chin signaling the attempt to pull Ruan Mei in for a proper kiss. Ruan Mei evades it, smiling at the frustrated grunt Herta lets out. She has other plans, after all, and kissing Herta does wonders to turn her mind into a blank canvas, until all she can think of is Herta, Herta, Herta. She can’t risk it. So she moves, before the pink, soft, pouty temptation can draw her in any longer.
Heart hammering on her chest and heat pooling low in her stomach, Ruan Mei sinks to her knees.
The hardness of the ground bites at the bone, bringing a sharp, uncomfortable throb to her knees. Ruan Mei adjusts herself properly between Herta’s parted thighs, moving her legs and angling her body to make herself more comfortable. When she finally settles on her calves, finding a steady position, she slides her hands over Herta’s legs. Firm muscle and plush skin awaits her beneath the dark stockings.
When she looks up, Herta is already watching her.
The sharp gaze she knows all too well locks onto her. She’s waiting. Waiting to see what Ruan Mei does next. Feeling defiant, Ruan Mei holds the gaze for just a beat longer. Something is brewing inside Herta the longer they stare at each other. She can see them clearly—the dark thoughts swirling on those violet pools of desire.
Silently, without taking her eyes off hers, Herta digs her purple fingernails into the nylon thighs, and rips the tissue apart.
The material gives away easily under her ministrations—maybe because of its fine material, but Ruan Mei has a feeling it was caused by the force Herta used, blinded by the torture of antecipation.
Either way, Ruan Mei holds her breath with the sight she’s granted.
From where Herta ripped the nylon, she can see it clearly: black lacy panties with a single small, lilac ribbon, and unblemished, milky white skin.
As she stares, Herta runs one hand over the top of her head, fingers threading through her brow locks. She digs her nails in and tugs firmly, and Ruan Mei almost lets out an indignant, whiny sound.
“Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking these are pretty panties,” Ruan Mei manages, voice more shaky. She bats her eyelashes up at Herta once, twice, before smiling slowly. “But you’d look better without them.”
Herta huffs out a chuckle. “Interesting. Why is that?”
“I can’t eat you out if your panties are on, can I?”
A beat. Herta looks down at her silently—her expression is frozen and strangely unreadable, and Ruan Mei’s toes curl in anticipation.
Without so much as a word, Herta hooks her fingers on the lacy waistbands, and lifts up from the chair just enough to slide it down her legs. When the garment reaches past her knees, Herta lets go of it, and it slides down to her ankles smoothly, catching on her ankle-high black boots. Still staring down at Ruan Mei, she steps one leg out of the garment, and with the other, kicks it away like it’s nothing to her but a nuisance.
As Herta leans back against the chair, a muscle in her jaw twitches. Her eyes look sharper, more impatient—daring Ruan Mei to make her wait any longer.
She wouldn’t dream of doing so. Not now, when that deep, aching pull is curling between her thighs, getting stronger by the minute.
Giving her no time to compose herself, Ruan Mei dives right in.
Herta’s hips jump in surprise when Ruan Mei suddenly gets so close she can feel her breathing fanning her exposed core. The first lap of her tongue is enough for Herta to jerk up in surprise, and Ruan Mei’s hands find purchase on her thighs, holding them in place.
“Ruan Mei,” Herta sighs, threading her fingers on dark brown locks of hair to hold her in place as she melts to the pleasure. “Ah— oh, fuck.”
Ruan Mei could tease just like Herta loves doing to her. Could take her time, indulge in the sweet aftertaste as she laps, and watch the great Madam Herta crumble on her lips. But Ruan Mei doesn’t have it in her—the patience to do so. She’s punctual, direct, straight to the point. So, rather than beating around the bush, she sinks further into it.
Herta sighs when she drops lower, tongue flattening against her folds as she laps and kisses and suckles. The lullaby of moans tumbling out of her lips are bewitching enough to distract Ruan Mei from everything else surrounding her.
For a long moment, it’s just pure static up in her head. She can’t think of anything besides the hypnotic feeling of wetness against her lips and the tangy aftertaste of Herta’s slick on her tongue. All she can hear, above the rapid beat of her own heart, is Herta’s moans and sighs. All she can feel, beside the feeling of Herta’s nails digging into her scalp, is how she’s so turned on it’s starting to hurt.
Ruan Mei clenches her thighs together at the same time she sucks on Herta’s clit, trying to not think about it. It distracts her wonderfully for the time being—the sounds Herta’s making, that is. Feeling a little boldened by the broken moans and whiny remarks, Ruan Mei drags her tongue all the way from her entrance to her swollen clit. Then, she closes her lips around the bud, and sucks. Hard.
Forget moaning—this time, Herta outright cries. Her back arches away from the chair from the pleasure, and Ruan Mei keens. Herta’s thighs tremble under her hold, and pride that swells in her chest makes her eat Herta out with even more fervor.
She can’t wait to see her fall apart.
Her scalp tingles under the force of Herta’s grasp, in addition to the soreness starting to set in her jaw, but still, Ruan Mei presses further—more insistently, more forcefully. She prods just the tip of her tongue against the entrance, tilting her head just enough to make the bridge of her nose catch against the underside of Herta’s clit, just to hear her cries once again.
Herta’s already close. Ruan Mei can see it—can feel it, just from the way her thighs are shaking under her hand to the mindless sway of her hips to chase the high Ruan Mei’s giving her.
She takes a peek upwards, and takes in the disheveled state Herta’s in. Her chest is heaving quickly, and a deep flush has descended to her neck. Her lips are ajar, panting out heavy breaths, and Ruan Mei’s focus zero on a single bead of sweat trailing down Herta’s temple. She wants to close her lips around it—stop its impending descent to take it into her mouth and taste the salt in her tongue. Eyelashes fluttering close, Ruan Mei presses her tongue flat down against Herta’s wetness, and licks up a long, strong stroke.
Herta jerks forward, gripping at her head and letting out a broken noise; she grinds against her face, and Ruan Mei eagerly opens her mouth wider to accommodate her needs. From this newfound position, her nose now brushes and presses right over that bundle of nerves, with each sway of hips. Ruan Mei slides the tip of her tongue inside the entrance, humming into it to send the vibrations through her folds, and Herta chokes on her own breath—too far gone to even remember how to swallow properly. At this rate, Ruan Mei knows she won’t last for too long.
As if reading her thoughts, Herta calls out to her, “R-Ruan Mei,” she gasps. “Mmhm, I’m close. Ah, please, I-I’m so close!”
Her voice breaks into a moan as Ruan Mei delves deeper. The entirety of her tongue slips inside the entrance in one smooth movement, thrusting in and out as best as she can. This time, when her nose presses against Herta’s clit, it’s deliberate, instead of a fortunate slip-up.
It’s the pressure, combined with the curl of her tongue inside Herta’s fluttering walls, that finally pushes her to the edge.
With a final scream of her name, Herta shatters.
When she comes, it feels like watching the birth and the death of a star. It’s fiery. Explosive. Herta arches her back and curls her hand around Ruan Mei’s hair into a fist, so hard the faint tingle turns into a painful throb, and she comes and comes and comes. Dazedly, not even registering the pain, Ruan Mei presses the flat of her tongue against Herta’s entrance and swallows.
She hums at the taste, not minding the sting of the hairpin digging into her head nor the burn of Herta’s well-manicured nails buried into her scalp. Tenderly, gently, she caresses Herta’s thighs, feeling the muscles taut under her hands, and lets the wetness spill over her lips endlessly.
It’s beautiful.
Herta shakes and jerks for what appears to be at least ten seconds, before she slowly slumps back against the chair’s backrest. Ruan Mei swipes her tongue over her folds gently, collecting wetness and riding the orgasm for as long as she can, but Herta soon pulls her out with a soft tug—when the high eventually wears off and oversensitiveness starts hitting.
Sitting with her back straight once again, Ruan Mei adjusts herself over her own calves, aiming for a position that eases the pressure between her thighs. The throb is almost unbearable, just a tad too torturous. Tortuous in a way that makes Ruan Mei mindlessly want to shove her hand inside her shorts and just get herself off, no matter how sloppy it might get or how humiliating it would be. She closes her eyes shut, hoping the darkness would keep her desires at bay for just a little longer.
A soft whimper leaves her lips as Herta suddenly eases the grip on her hair, running her hands over it to soothe the burn, using the pads of her fingers to massage the sore area of her scalp. She does it with a gentleness that makes Ruan Mei’s gut twist.
The weight of her stare is ultimately what makes Ruan Mei open her eyes again. Blinking back the haziness, she glances up. Herta looks like a mess, all sweaty and panting and flushed . Her violet eyes watch her quietly, pupils blown wide, violet swirling into turquoise as they silently look at each other. Ruan Mei runs a gloved thumb over a milky thigh, caressing the plush skin all the way to the sharp angle of a knee.
Breaking the quietness, Herta takes one last intake of breath to recover herself, and pants out, “C’mere and kiss me.”
Without hesitation, Ruan Mei comes up from her position, and leans in. She catches Herta’s bottom lip between her teeth, pulling the flesh just enough to coax a reaction—one she gets almost instantly. Herta’s breath stutters, her fingers twitch against Ruan Mei’s thigh, and a soft, bitten-off whimper spills from her lips. The sound is enough to distract Ruan Mei from the dull ache seeping into the bones of her knees.
A tongue prods at her lower lip, seeking entrance, and Ruan Mei parts her lips wider to grant it, humming at the eagerness in which Herta licks into her mouth.
“Was it good?” she leans away enough to ask—mockingly, just to spite. Ruan Mei thinks the answer to that question is very clear, if the aftertaste of Herta’s release in her tongue is anything to go by.
Herta huffs, unimpressed. Then she grabs Ruan Mei by the chin, yanks her back down for another bruising kiss. “Shut up,” she mutters against her mouth. “You already know the answer.”
The pace shifts quickly. Herta tilts her head to kiss her deeper, hungrier. Everything makes Ruan Mei feel hot—from the way Herta rolls her tongue to the deft hand that suddenly finds its place on the back of Ruan Mei’s thigh; her grip is firm, digging into the plush. Then, deliberately or not, Herta’s fingertips graze against her clothed sex, featherlight.
Ruan Mei shudders, biting back an indignant sigh at the fleeting touch. Tease.
Herta backs away to press an open-mouthed kiss to the underside of her jaw, grinning against the skin. “Your turn,” she rasps.
Bracing her feet against the ground, she moves to stand up.
Or tries to.
The moment Herta lifts herself from the chair, her knees wobble like jelly, still shaky and unsteady. Before Ruan Mei notices, Herta’s is dropping right back into the seat again with a dull thud and a curse spilling from her lips.
Ruan Mei barely manages to stifle a laugh.
“Well. I think you’ll need to stay seated for a while.”
Herta scowls, face flushed even darker—out of frustration or embarrassment, Ruan Mei isn’t sure. “And I think you need to shut up.” She jerks her chin toward her own lap, violet eyes dark and narrowed. “Get up here already.”
Ruan Mei could oblige her immediately. The ache throbbing between her legs is almost begging her to just climb atop Herta’s lap and get this over with. But before that, she needs to do something first.
She straightens and takes a measured step backward. Just enough to put space between them. Enough to make Herta watch.
And watch she does. Ruan Mei can feel the gaze seeping into her bones, sharp and analytical as they drink in her every movement.
Ruan Mei shifts, changing her stance. The turquoise hues of her robe gleam under the artificial lightning at every movement, embroidered floral details catching the light in an almost hypnotic shimmer. The high side slit of her dress shifts as she moves, revealing the pale skin of her thighs in fleeting glimpses, teasing without trying.
The slit is useful. It makes her task all the more easy.
She doesn’t need to fumble, doesn’t need to make a show of it. Wordlessly, Ruan Mei simply reaches beneath the flowing fabric, fingers hooking under both her shorts and the soft lace of her underwear in one smooth motion. The material is thin, weightless, gliding down the curve of her hips like water flowing down to a river bed. A flick of fabric. A whisper of lace. And then Ruan Mei is slipping her own underwear all the way down her thighs.
Herta stills. Her gaze dips, following the movement, drinking in the vision, before flicking back up to her face.
Ruan Mei rolls the fabric lower, letting the air kiss her newly exposed folds. She bites back a sigh; with the coolness of the office, she can feel just how wet she is without even having to look or touch.
The material hangs just below her knees, frozen in place. Balancing herself with practiced ease, Ruan Mei lifts one foot—the sharp point of her heel tilting up, the delicate arch of her ankle shifting as she frees the garment, and feels it slipping down lower. When it meets her ankles just to pool at her feet, Ruan Mei steps out of it. She bends down, seizes the material on her grasp, and lifts it.
The white lace gleams, intricate patterns and expensive tissue composing what was once the barrier between Ruan Mei’s core and the outside world.
She won’t need it anymore.
With two fingers, Ruan Mei tosses it aside, not bothering to look and assess where it landed. She treats it like what it means to her right now—a careless thing, insignificant and trivial. Already forgotten.
Ruan Mei stands, tall and proud. Graceful and effortless. Bare, just for Herta to see.
A muscle in Herta’s jaw twitches, but still, she says nothing.
Just watches.
Silently, Ruan Mei braces a hand against Herta’s shoulder, pressing down just slightly before swinging a leg over her lap. Effortlessly, seamlessly, Ruan Mei straddles her.
Her dress shifts with her movements, turquoise fabric parting over her naked thighs, pooling in soft folds where her legs frame Herta’s, the pale skin of Ruan Mei’s exposed thighs contrasting to dark, nylon-clad ones.
Ruan Mei smiles, slow and knowing. She lets the moment stretch between them, drinking in the way Herta’s eyes darken, flicking from her eyes to her lips then back to her eyes.
Then, finally, she sinks down.
She sighs heavily through the nose when her bare folds press against the warm, soft but firm expanse of Herta’s thigh. Herta’s brows shoot up slightly, lips parting in a sharp, almost soundless inhale. Then, just as swiftly, that initial surprise gives way to a cunning smile.
Her violet eyes gleam, and beneath the mockery, Ruan Mei can see the hunger. Herta hungers for her just like she hungers for Herta—primal and all-consuming. Ruan Mei rolls her hips once to test the waters, biting her tongue to hold back a moan when a spark of pleasure shoots through her. The pressure of Herta’s thigh against her throbbing core relieves her just as much as it drives her even crazier.
Herta’s hands are on her immediately, finding purchase on the flesh of her thighs, roaming over the skin, feeling up the softness. Her nails drag lightly over the skin, enough to make Ruan Mei press down harder, spreading wetness across the remains of nylon stretched over Herta’s leg.
“You’re soaking wet,” Herta huffs out, almost in disbelief, massaging the back of Ruan Mei’s thigh. The tips of her nails dig in, and she lets out something that sounds like a very aroused, very strained chuckle. “Did only eating me out turn you on this much?”
Ruan Mei rolls her hips again to avoid rolling her eyes instead. Such a foolish question—just those initial moments of kissing were enough to leave Ruan Mei dripping all over her underwear.
Still, she humors her. Grinding against Herta’s thigh with slow, deliberate movements, she exhales sharply, savoring the way heat coils deep in her stomach. The texture of the ruined nylon only heightens the sensation, the faint rasp of fabric against her swollen folds sending tiny sparks of pleasure up her spine. Wanting to chase the throes of pleasure picking up inside her, Ruan Mei presses herself down as hard as she can over Herta’s thigh, her jaw falling slack at the heightened sensation.
Every nerve in her body feels like it’s been set alight, and her pulse throbs with something needy, increasingly desperate.
And Herta notices. She must’ve, because her grip tightens, fingers pressing deeper into Ruan Mei’s skin, nails just shy of digging in.
There’s something different about her touch now, something more calculated, less idle indulgence and more exploration. Her hands roam with purpose, sweeping up from the dip of Ruan Mei’s waist to the gentle curve of her ribs, before settling at her thighs, bare and pliant beneath her fingers.
Without a word, Herta leans forward. Her lips find Ruan Mei’s collarbone, warm and unhurried. She lingers there for a moment, then presses one, two, three kisses, against the skin, before her tongue flicks out to trace the sharp line of the bone.
Ruan Mei shudders, and Herta hums against her skin, pleased by the reaction. She grazes her teeth over the spot—the faint sting of it sends a jolt through Ruan Mei’s nerves, and she gasps, her fingers twitching where they’re tangled in Herta’s hair.
The hands resting on Ruan Mei’s thighs start to move. Warm palms skim over silken skin, trailing higher, higher, until Herta’s fingers slip beneath the fabric of her robe. The dress is no obstacle at all—cut high at the sides, flowing freely over her form—and Herta takes full advantage of it, pushing it up and up, exposing her more and more.
The moment Herta sees it, she freezes.
Her eyes glaze over the sight of Ruan Mei’s folds pressed against her own thigh. Ruan Mei watches closely her every reaction, biting back a knowing smirk as Herta’s eyes get darker. Her lips part slightly, like she’s trying to commit the sight to memory.
A deep, shuddering breath fans against Ruan Mei’s damp skin. Another slow exhale, and then Herta finally drags her gaze up to meet hers.
Dazedly, without taking her eyes off of her, Herta murmurs, “Move.”
Ruan Mei obeys.
She rolls her hips, pressing down with more weight, more intent. The wet, slick heat of her against the firm muscle of Herta’s thigh pulls a sharp gasp from her lips. Herta watches every movement, every shift, like she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing. The left corner of her lips tug upward. Low and breathless, she exhales, “That’s it, baby,” running the pads of her thumbs over Ruan Mei’s thighs, aiding her in the movements—back and forth, back and forth. “Does that feel good? Mm?”
Ruan Mei’s head tilts to the side, and she grinds down onto Herta’s leg as best she can with the firm grip still on her hip. Herta whimpers, and the sound sets her skin blaze. Ruan Mei arches and bucks and moans, and suddenly she can taste iron on her tongue as her breath rattles in her throat. “Yes,” she groans, eyes almost rolling to the back of her head when Herta purposefully tenses the muscle just as Ruan Mei drags herself over it once again.
Herta leans forward again, lips hovering over hers just far enough for it not to be a kiss yet. “You’re so wet,” Herta sighs against her lips, She mutters again, “You feel so good,” before she places a firm hand over Ruan Mei’s core. Herta’s thumb finds the swollen nub, and suddenly, she’s pressing into it.
Ruan Mei wails, spine arching as her whole body tenses. Herta doesn't relent, doesn’t give her a moment’s rest—instead, she draws lazy circles on top of the bundle of nerves and swallows her incoherent noises with a kiss. Ruan Mei gives into her rhythm, rolling her hips with abandon and letting herself drown in the frenzy only Herta can give her, from the velvet of her voice to the softness of her lips to the want in her violet eyes.
With every grind atop her thigh, Herta brushes her clit, and liquid heat churns in Ruan Mei’s lower belly, burning into her insides like a branding iron. The tension builds and builds, and all she can think, beside how good it all feels, is Herta, Herta, Herta. Herta, who is pressing open-mouthed kisses to her jaw. Herta, who is moving her thigh to match Ruan Mei’s quickening pace. Herta, who presses the pad of her thumb on her clit, and bites down where her neck meets her shoulder.
The mixed sensations of pain and pleasure make Ruan Mei’s head spin—and mindlessly, she bends forward to bury her flushed face in the curve of Herta’s neck. Lavender body lotion and floral perfume take over all of her senses, anchoring her just as much as it drives her closer to the edge. Beneath her cheek, she can faintly feel the quickened thrum of Herta’s pulse—loud and unsteady, like her own.
Another wave of pleasure crashes through her when Herta wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her closer until their clothed chests press together, soft flesh moulding to one another as Ruan Mei rocks her hips.
“Are you close?” Herta asks her, angling her leg in a way that makes Ruan Mei’s clit catch against the skin of her thigh, and stars explode behind her closed eyelids.
Her hips falter as pleasure coils deeper in her gut, drawing nearer and nearer. It’s an answer in itself, though Ruan Mei is too far gone to respond with words.
All she can manage is a nod against Herta’s neck—she’s close. Aeons, she’s so, so close.
Fingers curl into Ruan Mei’s hair, and the sudden, sharp tug shoots down her spine. Herta pulls her back forcefully, until their eyes meet again.
“Don’t hide,” Herta breathes out. “I want to see it.”
The sting of Herta’s strong, possessive hold on her hair, the heat running from her face all the way down to her core, the delicious pressure of Herta’s fingers on her clit, and the drag of nylon over her most sensitive part—it all comes together so strongly that Ruan Mei feels like she’s about to pass out. Wordless cries leave her lips and she lets her body move, wild and frantic.
Ruan Mei clenches her teeth so hard she can hear the grinding even above the rapid thrum of her own pulse, pounding on her ears as loud as drums. Even more heat spreads over her body, traveling up her spine and making her shudder. The pleasure builds and builds and builds, until it almost feels like torture.
“Herta—” Ruan Mei manages to say, breathlessly, before she sucks in a lungful of air to try and steady herself. “H-Herta, I’m so close— oh, Aeons, I’m gonna cum…!”
“Do it,” Herta goads, amazed. She tilts her head to kiss Ruan Mei hard once again, before gasping against her lips, “Come on, baby, come on.”
Ruan Mei looks at Herta’s eyes to the pretty slope of her nose to the pink hue of her lips. Tastes the remains of Herta on her tongue. Feels the pressure of Herta’s thumb stroking her clit. And her orgasm crashes through her body all at once.
She doesn’t think she’s even screamed so high like that—her dry lips part wide, eyes closing shut and body tensing as a garbled moan falls from her lips. Herta places a firm hand against her lower back to hold her safely as Ruan Mei falls into the depths of her release.
Were Ruan Mei fully conscious, she’d think there’s absolutely no way the researchers wouldn’t hear that and come to very telling conclusions of what goes on inside the forbidden office. But now, all Ruan Mei can and wants to do is feel this way forever, hot and weightless under Herta’s anchoring hands.
White spots flash over her vision when Ruan Mei finally opens her eyes.
As she comes down from the high, chest heaving and throat dry, Herta’s thigh remains a steady, unyielding force beneath her, pressing insistently against her soaked folds. After meeting her release, she’d usually just want to take a breather and hold Herta closely—feel the beating of her heart and the warmth of her flesh as she waits for the exhaustion to wear off.
Now, however, Ruan Mei unconsciously sinks down further, hips shifting without thought, driven more by some weird, primal instinct rather than her usual cold rationality.
Her mind is still foggy, but she registers the sensation that follows. It’s a strange one, to say the least. Pleasure teeters over the edge of overstimulation, so sharp it borders on pain, and the feeling makes her want to jolt away and grind down harder all at once.
It’s intoxicating. It’s maddening.
She wants more.
“Herta,” Ruan Mei sighs, over and over—against Herta’s mouth, her cheek, her jaw, until her lips hover near the flushed shell of her ear. “Herta.”
Herta turns her head to the side just to let her lips ghost down Ruan Mei’s neck, brushing over the sensitive skin in a way that sends shockwaves down her spine. All the while, Ruan Mei keeps rocking.
“What are you doing?” Herta teases, sighing against the skin of her neck when Ruan Mei rolls her hips a tad harder. “You just came.”
Ruan Mei lets out a low, breathless laugh, her fingers tightening briefly where they rest on Herta’s shoulders.
“Shouldn’t it be obvious?”
“Oh, no, not really,” Herta retorts. Her eyebrows arch slightly as her lips curve into the faintest smirk. “I guess you’ll have to tell me.”
The challenge is thrown over her like a silken blanket. Ruan Mei wraps herself around it.
Without hesitation, not bothering to think before acting, Ruan Mei leans forward. Her body drapes over Herta’s, breasts pressed firmly against one another as she parts her lips, and runs her tongue over the pretty curve of Herta’s mouth once again.
She feels indecent. An action so very unbecoming of a proper lady. And the worst part is that Ruan Mei is not the least bit ashamed of it. Instead, a visceral thrill curls in her gut when Herta holds her breath and freezes beneath her.
She loves it.
“Won’t you fuck me again?” despite the heaving of her chest, the words come out clearly, with certainty as she whispers, “Come on. I know you want to.”
Bride blooms in her chest when she sees the faint smirk wiped clean from Herta’s face. For a moment, there’s nothing but silence as Herta stares at Ruan Mei, eyes wide and gaze flickering over her face like a deer caught in headlights.
Then, she snaps.
Herta inhales sharply, and surges forward in one, sure movement. She presses one last kiss to Ruan Mei’s mouth—forceful, bruising—before pulling back just enough to mutter against her lips.
“Get up,” Herta mutters against Ruan Mei’s lips—and she wastes no time in complying.
Her knees are unsteady as she tries to balance on her heels, and for a moment, Ruan Mei thinks she’s going to topple over and fall to the floor like a sack of potatoes, but Herta catches her by the wrist, rising from the chair to press their bodies flush. Their chests press together, and Ruan Mei barely has time to think before Herta is closing the distance and capturing her lips with hers once more.
This time, it’s Herta who presses forwards, guiding her backward as Ruan Mei slants her head to deepen the kiss. Sooner than later, her backside hits the edge of something solid and hard.
Ruan Mei barely has time to reach behind her and evaluate exactly what it is, because Herta suddenly whirls her around, presses the palm of her hand on the middle of her back, and forces her body down. It’s only when her chest presses against a hard and cold surface, that Ruan Mei realizes she’s being bent over the table.
Somehow, the realization makes her even wetter. Pleasure curls up in her gut, as if she hadn’t orgasmed just a few minutes ago.
Ruan Mei cranes her head to look over her shoulder. Behind her, Herta is eyeing her like she’s a feast for the eyes. One of her hands is still pressing Ruan Mei down on the table as Herta takes the other one up to her mouth. Wordlessly, she meets Ruan Mei’s eyes, parts her lips, and takes two fingers inside her own mouth. Her breath catches on her throat as Ruan Mei watches. Herta keeps the fingers inside her mouth until they come out wet and glistening.
Ultimately, Ruan Mei thinks the action is useless. She’s so wet— Aeons, Ruan Mei thinks she’s never been wetter in her entire life—that Herta could probably slip three fingers inside and she still wouldn’t feel any pain.
Still, as Herta brings those same fingers to her folds, her body shudders like a leaf in the wind. The muscles of her thighs clench, and Herta places her knee in between Ruan Mei’s legs to keep her open and pliant. The tip of a forefinger dips over the entrance, not entering her fully, and Ruan Mei bites back a groan.
Tasting iron on her tongue, she grunts, “Herta.”
Herta hums—melodic mockery, teasing lilt. She knows exactly what she’s doing when she asks, “Yes?”
“Put it in me already.”
A beat. Herta prods a second finger above her entrance, just to spite; then, she bends down, and presses an open mouthed kiss to the exposed section of her nape, running her tongue over it.
“Impatient,” Herta smiles against the skin, then stands up straight again. “But since you asked so nicely.”
The first finger ends up buried inside her in record time—without a warning, without a teasing remark, without any kind of allusion, Herta sinks inside her in one swift movement, gliding smoothly until she’s knuckle-deep inside her cunt.
Ruan Mei gasps into her forearm when Herta curls the finger inside her, and yet, it’s not nearly enough. She wants more.
A second finger teases her entrance, and Ruan Mei grinds back against it. A chuckle echoes behind her. Mocking, with a hint of something else. Pleasure coils deep in her gut, and she almost grinds back again, to try and slide that second finger inside her, but Herta beats her to it.
Ruan Mei shudders, balling her hands into fists atop the table as Herta pushes a second finger all the way into the burning, wet heat of her walls. She sighs, unconsciously clenching down around the digits as Herta bottoms out.
Herta picks up the pace smoothly, pushing into her, and Ruan Mei can’t resist the urge to look at her. She tilts her head just enough to peek over her shoulder and at Herta, walls fluttering and pulsing with every thrust of her fingers. Herta is watching her, dazed and transfixed, eyes traveling down from time to time to watch her fingers slide in and out, in and out.
Ruan Mei closes her eyes, and faces the table again, before the vision alone makes her come. It has happened before.
Her body moves in tandem to Herta’s thrusts, and from the drag of her clothing against the table, Ruan Mei can feel how her body is halfway drenched in sweat. The office’s AC is almost always on, and today is no different—but it’s useless when it comes to quenching the fire inside her. It’s the fire that makes her hot all over. It licks from the pit of her belly to the entire length of her spine to the pulsating heat between her thighs, and yet, goosebumps bloom on her skin when Herta’s skin brushes against her own. Thighs pressed against the back of Ruan Mei’s own, one steady palm on her lower back, fingers deep inside her. So impossibly deep she swears that, if Herta tries to, Ruan Mei could feel her in her stomach.
Herta’s palm slides from her back to her hip, then further down, until it rests just above her left buttchek. “Ruan Mei,” Herta pants out, nails digging into the skin of her ass. “You look so fucking good.”
Judging by Herta’s uneven breathing, the remark must be truthful. And the worst part is that Ruan Mei truly believes it. It must be a sight. Herta hovers above her, back straight as she watches Ruan Mei’s lean back and her ruined hair and her breasts pressed so hard that they spill out to the sides, while she lies there, being fucked into the table. Herta’s next thrust is so deep Ruan Mei feels tears welling up on her eyes.
Knowing that she’s the one making Herta feel this good—this turned on—just by being like this sends a jolt down Ruan Mei’s spine and a far too loud sound out of her lips.
In fact, the sight of her like this sends Herta into her own frenzy. Her thrusts grow faster, rougher. Ruan Mei can feel that same ungovernable, flammable pleasure building in her stomach, crackling down her spine.
Suddenly, Herta bends down to suck a hickey on the exposed part of her nape, relishing in the way she flutters around her fingers. Then she drags her lips up, nosing along her neck, reaching Ruan Mei’s ear. Lips hovering next to it, she murmurs, “Going to come again?” her voice sounds hoarse against her ear, and Ruan Mei’s panting gets faster. “Gonna be a good girl and come for me?”
Ruan Mei lets out a broken, helpless sound. “Yes,” she breathes out. With each thrust of Herta’s fingers, she moans, “Yes, yes, yes, yes,” until the word feels empty and the world starts to spin. She’s close again and, this time, her release feels like a monster rattling around in its cage, rather than a slow, steady buildup.
Herta fucks her relentlessly, wet sounds and ragged pants filling the place. Her back arches, hips snapping back, fucking herself onto Herta’s fingers. It’s not enough. It’s not enough.
“Her— mmm, Herta,” Ruan Mei moans, rocking back against the hand. “Ah! F-fuck me harder!”
Like a woman possessed, Herta grabs Ruan Mei by a handful of hair—what’s left of her intricate hairdo—and pushes her face down against the table. In a split second, she can feel the hesitation in Herta’s thrusts, the worry that she might’ve been a little too rough, but Ruan Mei cries out, exhilarated by it.
The hand in her hair holds tighter, and Herta pounds into her with renewed fervor—faster and harder, just like she asked. Ruan Mei feels like a mess, slurring out moans and unintelligible words as she grinds back to meet the thrusts, and when Herta tugs at her hair again, hard enough to make her scalp tingle, a long moan tumbles from her lips.
Herta’s hand on her hip aids her in the movement, back and forth, back and forth. The fingers inside her curl to hit that sweet spot, and Ruan Mei yelps in surprise, her entire body jerking forward with the stimulation.
Oh, Aeons, she’s going to come.
“Yes, yes, yes,” she moans into her own forearm, drool dripping into it as she struggles to form coherent sentences with how good Herta is fingering her. Her voice breaks, and all Ruan Mei can manage is the poor excuse of a, “Cumming! I’m, ah, I’m gonna—”
“Yeah?” Herta asks, breathing in staccato, drawing circles in Ruan Mei’s clit. “Do it. Let go for me.”
Screaming loud enough for the entire space station to hear, Ruan Mei lets go.
The moment comes crashing down on her once again—that fraction of a second where the world ceases to exist, and pleasure explodes within her. This time, it hits harder. The muscles of her body tense up so hard she can hear the gasp Herta lets out, scrambling to hold Ruan Mei closer, tighter, as she shakes and thrashes and screams. She’s never come this hard. It’s never been so intense before. Herta holds her close, rides her through it, and Ruan Mei feels her gums go numb, lungs burning in their pursuit of air as she clenches and spills over Herta’s fingers.
When she regains a bit of her consciousness back, she looks over her shoulder, barely registering the flush on Herta’s cheeks and the amazed look on her face. Soon, however, she bends down to hide it, burying her face on the crook of Ruan Mei’s neck and muttering, “I missed you.”
Through the teardrops clinging to her lashes and the tender laughter bubbling up in her chest, Ruan Mei lets the answer dance on her kiss-swollen lips, I missed you too.
✵
She’s not sure how they ended up like this again—how Herta managed to drag them all the way back to the chair, and Ruan Mei all the way back to her lap, to be precise. But she doesn’t have it in herself right now to prod for a rational answer.
She’s perfectly content staying like this, head nestled comfortably against Herta’s shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of their chests against one another. A dull, very telling soreness is already settling deep in her core, but that’s a matter for future Ruan Mei to worry about. For now, present Ruan Mei has far more pressing matters. Like how she’s supposed to walk out of this office without limping, or how she’s going to sit through afternoon tea without wincing.
A voice halts her thoughts—low, smooth, velvety.
“Are you hungry?”
Her tone is as soft as the hand that travels up and down on Ruan Mei’s back, fingers drawing patterns on the skin.
“The afternoon tea must be all set already,” Herta muses, so casually and unaffected like she isn’t the reason for the soreness in the first place.
“Mhm,” Ruan Mei hums softly, sighing through her nose, eyes still closed shut. “Let me stay here for a little while, and then we’ll go.”
“Cuddle all you want,” a chuckle vibrates through Herta’s chest. Like second nature, she’s back to knowing smiles and teasing remarks. “I know I’m irresistible, after all.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say,” Ruan Mei smiles, fighting back an eye roll—though she knows it’d be a fond one. “You’re so full of yourself.”
(Ultimately, Herta isn’t lying. She is irresistible. And a very good cuddler.)
Ruan Mei sucks in a deep, slow breath. Lavender soothes her into a mass of weightless limbs, and Herta presses a small, candid kiss to her temple. Her heart flips indignantly inside her chest. Yes, definitely good at cuddling.
Ruan Mei shifts, mouth brushing over the pulse at Herta’s throat, feeling the quickened pulse thrum faintly beneath her lips. “Can we go to my room after eating?”
“We can do anything you want,” Herta replies. “What do you want now?”
Ruan Mei goes silent to think, but the answer is already lying on the tip of her tongue.
“Hold me tighter.”
Herta doesn’t give any verbal response other than a quiet chuckle. Still, there’s no hesitation, no second thoughts in the way her lithe arms creep around Ruan Mei’s waist and pull her closer. She does it carefully, with meaning—like Ruan Mei is something precious, something treasured, meant to be held gently.
Ruan Mei hugs back just as tightly, burying her face into soft skin and the familiar scent of lavender body lotion.
Like the first bite of sugar-coated plum cakes, warmth spreads through her—sweet and slow.
Herta doesn’t let go.
It’s bliss.