Tipping the Scales (Just the Tip)

	"T-Time to tip the scales!" Lightning crackled, and the smell of burning ozone filled the air. A crash of thunder, and the prepared Thunder invocation leapt from Noire's hands, streaking towards the target dummy (barely a bundle of hay in the shape of a man, rather than the dummies they had starting out) and -- only singing it. The expected burst of petals and smoldering wreck were nowhere to be seen, and Noire let out a loud sigh. "Almost. You stumbled a bit on the upswing. Again!" Standing not but five feet from her was her father, Robin, entranced with the care required to teach his daughter a skill of his own designing. Shaking her head, she picked up her arms again, adjusted the Thunder tome, and began anew. But she just wasn't good at this, she knew. Not like her sister. Her sister wouldn't need her dad to teach her personally when Noire knew he had better things to be doing (like anything else). What kind of future tactician needed to be taught how to tip the scales?
	On about every fifth attempt, Robin would gently push her arm down and demonstrate for her, again, how Ignis was properly performed. (not that she minded. She loved watching him move with all the grace and confidence she lacked) It wasn't that she didn't know how it was done. She had seen him and her sister use it countless times in their long campaign. It was just that something was missing, inextricably part of the process of using it. The motions were almost perfect, and the occasional stutter aside or flare-up from her talisman, nothing was obviously wrong about her motions. Was it mental? He kept saying that tipping the scales required perfect focus and awareness of the situation. But she couldn't focus completely. Not with him here.
	He was, or rather, would be her father. It didn't matter that he was about fifteen years younger than she remembered him being when he died. It didn't matter that he gave her that warm and safe feeling she had felt so rarely in the ruined future. It didn't matter that he was, for all intents and purposes, stunningly attractive. He was her father, and daughters just didn't do that kind of thing. Noire blushed, and the incantation fizzled out, earning the first sigh she had heard all day from Robin. "Is something wrong, Noire?" There was a faint tone of disappointment in his question which burned her inside. "N-no. Sorry dad, I'm just distracted." A smile returned to his face all at once, like clouds parting on high. The rush of blood to her face was hopefully not too visible. "Well, I think that's enough practice for today. You're getting a lot closer! If you're diligent we should be done by the end of the week!" There was that infectious enthusiasm he was so famous for. She could feel the smile spread to her face like a pox.
	"Well then. How about we go and get some lunch? I'll bet you're hungry." She looked hungry, anyway. "Sure, father!" Ah, and there was the smile back on her face. She didn't look good while frowning. Not that he should care whether or not she looked particularly good at all. It just wouldn't do for a father to have that kind of interest in their daugher. Even if they hadn't actually been born yet. Even if he had been married only six months. Even if he had skipped the stage where she grew up around him and had jumped directly to the 'attractive teenage daughter' step. Robin forced those feelings down as she clung to his arm like a limpet to a boat (and probably for similar reasons) as they worked their way through the camp to the kitchen tent. Last call for the (partially hazardous) stew of what was probably bear meat, potatoes, and several unidentifiable greens was still fifteen minutes off when they had arrived, but lunch itself was a short affair. Nobody (Except Stahl, but he was always an exception) was in any particular mood to savor a meal cooked by Donnel, so by and large (and particularly for Noire and Robin) the meal was forced down as quickly as possible before getting back to whatever it was they needed to do.
	And what they needed to do, Robin decided, was continue working on her tactical training via study. She wasn't quite ready to follow in Morgan's footsteps as a tactician, but she was getting there. And sadly, to be a tactician you need to know tactics. Noire couldn't find a fault in this argument, and so to his tent they returned. Pulling open the flaps of the tent allowed light inside for the first time that day, and the smell of wax and dust immediately hit them. Chairs were retrieved, and one of the thick tomes on his shelf was handed to his daughter. She sighed, sat down in the chair provided, and opened the book to where she had left off. Minutes passed as she read and her father pored over maps and plans again and again. Minutes grew into an hour, then an hour and a half. And she couldn't stop glancing at her father. How his arms flexed as he wrote. How his brow furrowed at a particularly thorny problem. And above all, how she couldn't stop thinking about him, her father, pumping in and out of her like she was her mother. It would take a blind and deaf idiot to not see or hear her parent's escapades, especially given that their tents were adjacent. It was wrong. It was wrong, wrong, wrong. But she couldn't stop seeing her father sweating over her, a smile on his face as he pounded into her. Her legs involuntarily crossed in her chair, and she realized she'd spent twenty minutes staring at the same page.
	Now he knew something was up. The heavy breathing. The scent in the air, overpowering even the thick smell of wax from hundreds of burnt candles. The fact that a quick reader like her had spent twenty minutes going over the same page of Tactics, A Primer Vol 2. And most of all, the glances she took at him when she thought he wasn't looking. His heart pounded like a drum. It didn't take a genius to figure out exactly what was going on, but perhaps it would be better if he didn't jump to conclusions because of his own (wrong wrong wrong) desires. "Darling, is anything wrong?" His voice as level as possible given the situation (he hoped she didn't notice the shake) he stared into her eyes -- or tried to, as she looked around the room to avoid meeting his gaze. "I... Uh, I-i..." She trails off for but a moment before she snaps her eyes to his, manic gaze and raised voice a contrast to mere moments before. "INSOLENCE! WHY WILL YOU NOT TREAT ME LIKE A WOMAN, AND TAKE ME?!" Oh, gods above, he hoped nobody else heard that. He leaned back a bit in his chair. "Because, well, you're... my daughter?" "I'VE SEEN HOW YOU STARE. COME, TAKE ME, FOOL!" With one careless motion, Noire reached to her chest and tore the fabric of her top asunder, leaving it hanging loose -- before she reverted to normal.
	Robin had never seen anyone flush as fast or as completely as she did then, quickly covering herself with both arms, Tactics falling to the floor, forgotten. And he leaned forwards, staring at her as she tried to look anywhere but at him, with an expression that seemed like she wanted to just be swallowed up by the earth. "I-I'm sorry father, I didn't mean it, it just-" "Oh, I think you meant it. I've seen how YOU stare." The grin on his face was as wide as she'd seen in a long time. Robin stood quickly, papers scattering about, and quickly shut the entrance flaps to the tent. "And now we won't be interrupted. Now we have all the time in the world, darling." His voice smooth, he turned to look at her, shivering in her chair, almost clothed but completely exposed. A hand extended, a hand taken. Her other hand dropped to her side, where her fist clenched as she displayed her most prominent assets to her father -- him. He pulled her gently to her feet, and rushed all at once upon her, locking his lips against hers. She flinched and gave a muffled gasp of surprise, but the hand at the back of her head prevented the kiss from being ended by something so simple and so soon. As inexperienced as she was, the kiss itself was nothing special to him, tongue exploring her mouth, body pressed tightly to his as her arms remained locked at her sides, fists clenched as his constrained member pressed into her stomach. Then, the kiss ends, and Noire goes almost limp, eyes lidded.
	That is when he sweeps her literally off of her feet, carefully placing her on the desk which has recently been vacated of all paperwork. "Dad," she moans, unwilling to properly look at him as he quickly peels her clothes off. "Dad, this is wro-" "Shh. Father is going to make you feel better now." A finger against his lips and his soft voice, heavy with arousal, silences her as he pulls her smallclothes, the last of her clothes, free, revealing her lightly-fuzzed cleft, already beaded and dripping with her readiness, engorged by his actions. Noire has stuffed a hand into her mouth, so when he gently strokes his daughter for the first time, her whimper is muffled. His overcoat came off at some point (he doesn't remember when) but it doesn't matter, because touching her and watching her reactions is the focal point of the universe for him now. He circles slowly with his fingers, once, twice, thrice, her breathing growing ever heavier, other hand slapped over one eye as the other jitters over his face and body, unable to focus at all.
	Then, something snaps within him. She's ready, of course she is. It is time. He stands from his kneeling position, and begins the tedious process of unbuckling his belt and undoing the seventeen individual buttons on his clothing as his naked daughter squirms on the table, suddenly too-cold in the open air but not willing to move. After an agonizing minute of struggling with his uniform, finally the belt and all the buttons were undone, and he freed himself quickly from his constraints. The chill cut into him, naked as he stood, and the heat radiating off of Noire comforted him as he pressed against her. She murmured something under her breath (for what little breath she had left) as he rubbed himself up and down her lower lips, daubing himself in her arousal. "D-Dad? G-go slow..." she mumbled, partially obscured by the fingers she had in her mouth. Robin laughed a little, and smiled down on his eldest daughter. "Of course I will." He whispered, voice thick with lust.
	A moment of longing stares, a jink of hips and an intake of breath, and Robin was inside of Noire. Just barely, just the head of his length, but the warmth was overwhelming, like standing just outside a furnace. Her face was scrunched, the hand over her eye gone to assist the hand in her mouth muffling her noises, but a small squeal had escaped on this first contact. He waited for the ticking of an imaginary clock as an unreal hand turned, then slowly and steadily pressed onwards and inwards. Halfway down, his daughter flinched and arched upwards, scrabbling at his chest, pained sounds escaping her mouth. Hazy as his mind was, he knew pain when he saw it. He halted, and his arms hooked under hers to pull Noire to his chest. Her breasts heaved against him as she gasped and panted, breathing heavily but not speaking, eyes screwed shut and arms wrapped around his back. The invisible hands of the clock ticked, soundlessly. Her breathing slowed, and she carefully looked up at her father with adoring eyes. A smile, a kiss on her forehead, and he started moving again.
	His strokes were slow, long, and steady, driving her into the table that she was sitting on, legs spread around him. She was hot, incredibly so, clinging to him with a heat like fire and burning him, yet somehow he found that he didn't mind and even enjoyed her burning grip on him and his length. She was panting into his shoulder now, her hands too occupied with gripping his back to cover her mouth and face, and too overwhelmed to look him in the eyes. Gently, he steadied her as he pumped, stroking her back softly with one hand and murmuring sweet nothings into her reddened ear. She leaned back, away from him ever so slightly, trying to face him and stare him in the eyes. Then, something in her snaps, and he can see it in her eyes as she goes from blushing virgin to enraged terror in the blink of an eye. "FOOL!" she roars (quietly, for her Other Self, but still louder than her soft gasps and moans) "MOVE FASTER, I AM A TERROR, NOT A PORCELAIN DOLL!" And all at once she snaps back to being Noire, not the Other, and she tries to pull away from him again.
	Of course, she is unsuccessful, what with his arms wrapped around her and his length buried in her. He leans forward, face almost touching hers, one hand gently turning her to face him even if her eyes try to dart away and she is somehow blushing even brighter red despite being already so flushed. "Faster, hmm?" A toothy grin breaks over his face. "I'll see what I can do, darling." he whispers to her, trying his best at a sultry voice and hoping that it doesn't shake like he thinks it does. So he slowly build speed, rocking back into her, sliding her just a bit further back on the desk so he doesn't have to support her quite as much. She yelps, stifles herself with his shoulder but the moans still steadily build in volume as he builds in speed. And quite soon indeed he's moving much more quickly than he was at the start, his daughter unable to contain her noises anymore, all moans and half-sobs pouring out of her all at once. Her back arches and her moans build to a crescendo that he muffles with his lips as she crashes down all at once, noise that should be let out but, for both of them, cannot. And still he moves.
	Until the tent flaps are pulled open, and both of them turn to face it, still gripping each other.
	His other daughter stands there, book clutched tightly in one hand, mouth open wide, blushing deeply. Her mouth opens and shuts with no noise coming out, all of them frozen. Robin and Noire stood and sat there, eyes wide with an expression best described as "deer in headlights." Morgan covered her eyes with her book, stepped inside the tent and pulled the flaps shut. She turns to them, blush covering her entire face, and smiles. "So, dad, when is it my turn?" she says cheerily.