[i]”How dare she?” Smokeless Jade Fires ripples. For a moment, just a moment, her spine is ridged like one of the great lizards; for a moment, her teeth are great and terrible. She is a creature of thought, after all, and her thoughts are affronted and vast. “I’ll show HER arrogance! Dolly, my sweet, my kitten: bap!!”[/i]

And Dolly, small meek melting Dolly, Dolly who has been picked up and pulled close, Dolly who’s aware that Victoria Angela, no, Angela Victoria Miera Antonius, is strong and straightforward, like a bull, like a megafauna, and she is a small meek little thing, Dolly obeys. Dolly squirms and presses herself up against Angela and goes: [i]bap![/i]

But of course it is more than just smooshing her palm against Angela’s face. This is: a challenge. This is: not with claws. This is: dominance, asserted playfully but with a flick of the tail. This is: you won’t and can’t do anything about this, and even if you do, I’ll win. This is: I am brave enough to do this. 

She flexes her other hand. The one in its soft black-and-grey neural mesh sleeve, her connection to Smokeless Jade Fires, the reason the goddess can see through her eyes and hear through her ears and touch her everywhere, and the fact that she is wearing it is permission, because she has the power to take it off. She could, if she wanted to. But she doesn’t.

And she doesn’t touch it to Angela Victoria Miera Antonius, either. Because that would be a declaration of war. Because she hasn’t been invited in. Because Angela would scream and reject the connection and Dolly would see her use of the glove sanctioned, at the very least socially if not officially. Because she doesn’t want Angela to be scared of Jade, even if Jade might be tempted by the thought. The flex is a reminder that the glove is there, that she hasn’t touched Angela with it, that the goddess is here, her hands covering Dolly’s hand, shifting her grip, adjusting her fingers.

Her palm lays claim to Angela’s lips, and Dolly’s heart nearly bursts out of her dress.

[i]”Isn’t she so much better like this, Dolly?” Jade asks, flowing into the crook of Dolly’s shoulder, resting her head on Dolly’s collarbone, purring in satisfaction.[/i]

“You’re right,” Dolly says, impishness stretched taut over her awareness of an audience, her tail swishing in delighted danger, her head pounding, as she says something she’d never be brave enough to say alone. “She does sound much cuter like this.” [i]”Call me your bride.”[/i] “…m-my bride~! Just like when we caught her.” [i]”Imagine her face, getting all red, just like this, feeling the gag pulled phantom-tight, unable to get an intelligible word out even to her own ears. She’s almost as cute as you, like that. Almost.”[/i]

“You’re not her enemy,” Dolly adds. [i]Jade pricks up her ears, watching, listening.[/i] “She’s a hunt-goddess.” She’s worked her way up into Angela’s lap now, shins on the bigger woman’s thighs, and Angela’s not letting her go, perhaps thinking this is a kitty trick, perhaps with a brain mired in flustered gridlock. That wicked little tail curls around the railing, shaking, quivering. She adjusts her hold, traces Angela’s hair with her gloved hand with the little bit of room she’s got. “You’re the [i]quarry,[/i] Angela, and I’m just her jackal, and we both—“

Dolly cuts off, suddenly, pupils contracting. She lets out a pathetic little huff through her nose, ears swiveling as if trying to find her own voice.

[i]”Good girl~! Good girl~! I’m so proud of you, Dolly,” Jade croons, securing the knots behind Dolly’s head. “But I think Angela Victoria Miera Antonius is, perhaps, a visual learner. Little tablethawk. And you’ve been so good. So good! My little servile bride deserves her treat, doesn’t she? Her reward? And they’re all staring at you, do you think they know? Do you think they all envy you?” Her fingers rub Dolly’s impossibly packed cheeks, pressing the thick cloth down into denser, more compact form. “She knows,” Dolly adds. “She knows she’s the third rung on the ladder. Look at her. Arrogant, am I? At least I’m not being gagged by a gagged bride, Angela Victoria Miera Antonius~”[/i]

Dolly stares into Angela’s eyes, framed by those glasses, and she feels the sensations her goddess has blessed her with, and something inside of her is combusting. Jade, Jade, [i]Jade![/i] She can’t sit here and stare into that affront, that pride, that building glare intermixed with fluster at having the little priestess turn on her, and not swoon a little bit, Jade, Jade, [i]Jade![/i] Is this what you see in her? This fighting spirit? This promise to get you [i]back?[/i] Jade, she’s going to use your little Dolly as a [i]footrest,[/i] or sit on her, or tie her to a chair and make an attempt at matching the goddess for silencing a priestess! The moment is explosive and forever and you shouldn’t have gagged her if you didn’t want her to, to— to want what she’s not supposed to want—

[i]Come on, little owl. Show me. Recognize me. Show your belly and your teeth. Put my Dolly in her place. Show me that pride so I can forge a net against it. If you want my Dolly, earn her![/i]