Tatterdemalion

Breathless Dead

This is wrong.

Redana scrabbles with a monster. The world around them is blotted out, overexposed; it will be easy enough for Sagakhan to kill them both. All that matters is the wasteland beneath her, leverage to push against, and the monster above her. It is pitiful, vicious, and not her Bella.

Nothing about this creature is right at all. It howls, rages, thrashes, attempts to gouge out her eyes, tears into her flesh. It’s not her Bella. And that’s what gives Dany the strength to fight back. Because the heroine needs to set things right; because the damsel in distress needs to be saved. And there is so much distress, rolling off Bella’s heart like waves breaking on the shore, in her hot, heavy groans of wet breath, in the blood flecking on them both.

It hurts. It hurts so much. The Shepherdess’s blood is bright, star-flecked, refusing to be absorbed into the sand. The creature’s claws tear through her breastplate as if it was wet paper, laying her open, but Bella’s trapped behind those savage blows, and that’s why Dany is able to fight back.

She’s a wrestler, after all. Did you forget?

The Shepherdess lifts Bella off the ground, as Hercules lifted Antaeus, her back flayed to ribbons underneath the whip of Bella’s claws, and Redana does a little hop and spikes her back down to the ground, sand spraying up in great gouts, and Dany pounces to get Bella’s arms locked behind her, pinned between them.

“I never should have left you behind,” Dany says, pushing her weight down on the writhing, scrabbling monster trying desperately to break free. “I never should have left you with her.” Joints crack and pop; Bella tears herself free with a raw scream, pivots about with jerking limbs to keep hurting, keep killing, and Dany tackles her again, gets bloodied fingers into the place where the helmet meets the skin and she pulls. Osseous plating comes free with a sickeningly wet pop, sinew snapping, exposing blood-matted hair to the rain. “I wanted to share it all with you, you idiot!”

Bella lunges again, and Dany’s fist snaps out, but too slow, wrong place; teeth clamp around her wrist and crunch. Dany bites down the scream, because now she’s close enough, now Bella is distracted by the rush of her shining Olympian blood, because now she’s close enough to reach across Bella’s body with her other hand, her trembling bloodied fingers.

And the Shepherdess, who knows the secret words, who understands the shapes of unseen things, wipes Bella’s forehead clean with her star-clotted blood.

The coolness. The relief. The rivulets, flowing down, filling the thousand thousand names, drowning them beneath:

The confusing feeling of staring at Bella’s lips for too long. The thump-thump-thump of her soothing heartbeat while they napped in the garden. The most amazing creature in the whole world peering out of a Box. The fear of ruining everything forever. Yearning without a name. The guilt of imagining holo heroines with triangles and impeccable diction. The confusion, the betrayal, the throb of a cheek. The dream of sitting beneath strange skies and being alone and free and able to do anything. The mortification of waking up from a dream of dressing in each other’s clothes, Princess Bella Claudius and Good Little Dany. Screaming upon the deck of the Plousios because it’s too late now, because Bella will die alone and thinking herself unloved. The pain of Barassidar, of betrayal, of knowing that Bella never cared for her. Cuddling together while the Batrachomyomachia unfurls onscreen, buried beneath blankets. The horror of seeing the helmet crack and who was beneath, who was tortured, who was made a weapon when she never should be, when she could be a queen, an explorer, a scholar, more than just a Servitor, equal to any human Dany had ever met in her life—

Redana Epimelios crumples to her knees, clutching her brutalized wrist to her chest, like a Servitor waiting for execution. She tries to speak, but her clever words don’t have the breath behind them to be more than hoarse gasps for air; she can’t even lift her head to look Death Herself in the eye.

Redana awaits her judgment.

[Redana damages her Courage and expends the second use of her Healing for her Bella. 7 on a Finish with Wisdom.]

Breathless Dead

It’s a simple story at first. When you mistreat a lion, it always comes back to have its revenge by the end of the story, and here comes Sagakhan’s champion to do what the horrible owls never would. A very pointed critique of her leadership skills, coming back to quite literally bite her. But, no— this close, the Shepherdess can see the names written across the armor, Sagakhan painted in blood. Of course she understands what has happened. She is the daughter of Hermes, who taught the first humans how to write. What could be hidden from her?

What indeed, save for the identity of Sagakhan’s weapon?

If Sagakhan was not, for a moment, preoccupied with the gory wound in her side, that would have been the end of the Shepherdess, because Redana’s whole world is fury. When Bella’s name leaves her lips, a scream, her voice cracks, and the Shepherdess closes the distance between them, hand outstretched, ignoring the name that throbs against Bella’s skin. It doesn’t matter. She’ll figure out a way. She’s so very clever, after all.

But right now, there’s only one way that she can be. There’s only one path, all the possibilities becoming one, or else she would cease to be who she is.

Redana, the Shepherdess, reaches out, knowing that Bella will tear at her, that Sagakhan is already swinging a tail at her, that her world is about to explode into frantic struggle and pain. But that doesn’t matter. There’s a lost sheep here, and the Shepherdess knows her duty.

“I’m not leaving you behind this time,” the Shepherdess swears to the maid consumed by violence, to this bloody nightmare in front of her, to the girl whose past and future are entangled with hers from beginning to end. “No matter what you’ve done, no matter what happens here— I’m not leaving you again! Remember, Bella!”

She forgives you, Bella, for what you’re about to do. You don’t even need to ask. Everything else is where it gets complicated, but she won’t hold it against you. She knew what was going to happen when she offered her hand.

She can take it, Bella.

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Han!

Lotus touches your neck.

Not impulsively. Not aggressively. She looks you in the eye, silently asking you the entire time if she is allowed, and the answer (to everyone’s surprise) is… yes.

Her fingers are incredibly soft. She traces the welt, and makes a soft noise of distress and pity. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks, and it’s actually a question. “I can help,” she adds. She’s searching your face, looking desperately for permission, and the way she’s touching you is…

Her lips are so very red, painted in Agata’s color. You could drown in those lips. Maybe that’s why she’s supposed to hide them all the time. Because they’re so dangerous. And you can’t let yourself think about them too much, because otherwise you might get all overbearing and demanding like that wilting, rotten Cathak. She’s saying something and you’re just watching her mouth, and trying desperately not to do something about it.

Do you let her help you? You’ll clear a condition, but both she and Emli will take a String on you. Or do you do something about that tempting mouth? You’ll take two Strings on her right now if you kiss her, veil her, put a hand over her mouth, do something about the prettiest lips in the whole world, but you’ll give Emli two whole Strings on both of you.

It’s your choice, insofar as you can choose anything while drowning.

***

Giriel!

One evening, you find two prayer slips secreted inside of your nightrobe, pleas for spiritual aid from two beings even more lowly than your current station. It is your duty as a witch to provide aid where you can, both to the varied spirits of the world and to the mortals who try to live around them.

The first, written in an elegant hand, is simply: I am in love. My beloved has plucked me from the walled garden of my innocence, but I fear I am simply a novelty to her. That One ignores me, so I offer Her no prayers. Please, help me be hers.

The second, written clumsily, eschewing complex adult characters in favor of a child’s writing choice: I don’t like being little. Make me big, please. Give it back to me, please. Why did you have to make me so afraid? Why did you make me want to be ———

It is impossible to tell what the last word was meant to be, because ink has been overlayered on ink over and over again, a sodden mess that made the paper sag.

It is your duty to address these pleas. By asking for your aid, they have rendered themselves vulnerable to your judgment, both socially and spiritually. What do you make of these requests, Giriel?

***

Kalaya!

The noise is what hits you. The stamp of feet, the chime of bells, the raucous shrieking laughter. It’s like what some of your peers thought peasant festivals were like. The silk above your head is threadbare, yellowed, fringed with green light. You’ve been here before. But you were on Agata’s ship, weren’t you? Thinking through your plan to sneak in to see Uusha. And now you’re back. Back in Hell.

A figure cuts off your view. Their face is covered by a yellow veil; unlike that of a priestess, it hides her entire face from hair to chin. Beneath it, they wear a heavy, ornate collar, a gold chain leash snaking away out of sight, and rotting finery, the kind you’d find in a palace abandoned to the jungle. They place strong hands on your wrists, pin you down, loom over you. The chaos outside, just on the other side of the mouldering curtains, makes your head spin and throb.

Their voice is a crash of waves, a chorus in song, hoarsely whispered; if it was yelled, it would deafen you. And they say: Kalaya. Where are you? My snakes can’t find you, where did the knight take you? It’s impossible to tell where they are looking. Their grip is firm. The air smells like sweat and dying flowers.

You’re dreaming, aren’t you?

Did she hurt you, you idiot? I’ll kill her!

Sunshards

There’s a game that Chen likes to play when she has the opportunity, one which she knows (from experience) drives her little Rosepetal absolutely wild: “Why don’t you introduce yourself, Petal?” She’s in the spotlight, she’s meeting someone for the first time, and all she can do is mumble and moan through her fox-packed mouth, leaving her impish girlfriend to “interpret” for her. Why, yes, they are very pretty, I agree, Petal! Yes, you are a very silly handmaiden, but you’re also very gentle and kind and sweet, don’t sell yourself short! Petal, I can’t believe you’d invite them to do that— but if you say so~!

Today, she ends up bowing, showing off how good she is at balancing despite being so top-heavy, and then gracefully sits down on the picnic blanket so that she can end up as a seat for both a certain rambunctious vixen who’s so happy to see her old friend and a princess who looks so, so pretty in her suit, who can’t see the lingering, adoring looks her Petal gives her, but who can feel Petal’s strong heart when she takes a seat in that perfect lap. She’s safe, admired, flustered, and playfully demeaned; what more could she ask for?

Well, she does have more to ask for. She hasn’t worked up the courage to propose, but she’s been dropping hints. One day she’s going to just end up losing her patience and she’ll pick up Chen and carry her over to a booth in the market of the Sky Castle, one run by a grandmother who sells rings made from the treasures of the Burrows, and if Chen doesn’t get that her Rosepetal really, really wants to be hers for the rest of their lives, she’ll sit on the clueless little thing!

She’s decided that, too. For the rest of their lives. The thing that was created in the Burrows as a hunter of dissidents was functionally immortal, but being Rosepetal is something too tied up with Chen, the first Princess who showed her that she could live her dreams in this beautiful twilight world. One day, one very far-off day, she’ll stop being Rosepetal when she stops having her Chen. She’ll take a new shape, a new face, and she’ll always treasure the time she got to be darling, silly, beautiful, beloved Petal.

But that’s a very long way off. So far that there’s no use spending time thinking about it when she could think about becoming a Princess. There’s so much she plans to do, when Chen founds her kingdom; as an expert on change and transformation, she’ll have her hands full helping her subjects close the gap between who they are and who they want to be. (And she might keep the title even when she’s had children, just because of how much of a target it makes her.) Rosepetal the Gentle doesn’t yet know she’s going to be called that; that she’s going to be a legendary beauty, beloved by the populace, and a prize for any up-and-coming player in the game of Princesses; she doesn’t even know (but suspects) she’s going to transition gracefully into being a Hot Mom. One day, she’ll end up being saved by (or kidnapped alongside) her own daughters.

That’s a dream she didn’t have before. The first time she ever had it, she was in Sourcefall, curled up beneath a heavy comforter and a spoiled snow leopard, the big spoon to her petite girlfriend, awake in the middle of the night, luxuriating in the warmth of Chen, the rise and fall of her breath, the pulse of blood through her body, and that’s when Rosepetal knew she wanted to have children. That Chen was safe, could be trusted, wouldn’t leave her. That Rosepetal deserved to be a mother, to bring someone into the world who wouldn’t be tainted by the stain of the Burrows in Petal’s blood, an old fear she could finally put down. That she wanted to hold her child in her arms and look after them, to see them grow, to bring something even better into the world.

Chen leans in close, lips brushing against Rosepetal’s ear. “Would you like some tea, dear?” Petal considers for a moment, then shakes her head. She’s quite happy as she is, and isn’t ready to join the conversation instead of being a topic of conversation. Chen nods, then— with the wickedest little kitten grin— reaches one hand around Petal’s shoulders and covers her scarf-swaddled mouth with one hand, holding it firm, just so she can feel Petal jump and squirm and hear the scandalous little moan of delight and see her drum her heels on the picnic blanket. There’s a vixen kneading biscuits on her thighs, there’s a wicked little Princess holding her close and keeping her sooooo quiet, there’s a wolf giggling at her and a curly-haired friend snuggling up to rest her head on one shoulder and a new friend sharing tales of bringing Princessdom to the old deep places of the world, making them shine with the light of the suns and the love all around, and Rosepetal is safe and loved, and if danger looms it isn’t her responsibility to save everyone else and then leave them behind, and everything in the whole wide world is harmonious and full of love.

And Princess Rosepetal is so, so full of love, and so, so loved, more than she thought she could ever deserve.

Breathless Dead

Of course it does. It is one thing for Redana to fight a duel, where she can shine, where she burns with fury. It is another thing for her to pay for each swing with the deaths of her shining-feathered soldiers, her comrades-in-arms chanting the name of their beauty, and the swelling mouse-servitors who fling themselves at owls with fury. And Redana is not ruthless enough to spend the lives of her lessers for her own advantage. She never has been.

So she dives into the Kaeri, and her hammer is a great long-hafted sword that she swings about her with the muscles of an Olympian. If she will be surrounded by blood, it will be the blood of nightmares; if Sagakhan is willing to kill everyone standing around Redana, then let Redana be surrounded by the shadows of owls.

It is incredibly dangerous. Impossibly so. And yet, in the midst of it all—

A battlecrab lurches unsteadily. It was half-crushed underneath a heavy footfall, and all it knows is that it is in pain, that it is missing its mightiest pincer, that it is going to die hurt and confused and ignored by everything around it, save for a moment’s irritation from one of the Kaeri. And yet it still drags itself forwards, furious, snipping at the air defiantly.

And the Shepherdess clears space all around her with a swing that rips apart these silent killers, flips away from the fall of Sagakhan’s thunderbolt of a tail (one which would crush her instantly, were it to fall on her head, and that be the end of all this striving), and scoops up the crab, letting it cling to one shoulder as she keeps moving.

You are seen, even the smallest of you. You are important, even the smallest of you. You do not die here while the Shepherdess still has strength within her. And if she will do this for an injured crab, a hurt and confused animal, do you think she will do any less for the hearts and souls that believe in her?

It is impossible for her to win, unless something changes, doubly so now that her enemy has become great and terrible, the greatest of monsters, but the Shepherdess does not give up. This is the heart that saw the skies and dreamed of a world where anything could happen, where adventure was real, where she could be free with the girl who meant the most to her.

And she will never give up hope, even here in the dark, beneath Sagakhan’s shadow, using every trick she has just to stop more of her subjects from dying. She burns like a white flame in the deepest night, and though she flickers, she will not go out.

[Redana rolls a 9 to Overcome; she protects her army from Sagakhan, but only temporarily (and clears Grace in the process)]

Sunshards

Rosepetal learned so many lessons aboard the Sky Castle, and acting’s one of her favorites. Isn’t she perfect for the role? She squirms, she melts into arms and ropes, she groans and moans and makes indignant little squeaks, and she doesn’t come an inch closer to escaping, even as she makes it look like she’s trying desperately to break free. Her scandalized little squeaks as she’s changed into the perfect, most darling outfit, matching her Princess perfectly! Her demure head shakes and pleading looks as the foxes crowd around and tell her that she’s still simply just too loud, but how good of her to volunteer extra stuffing! Her refusal to keep trying to complain, even as the gag layers bulge out past her veil!

But what Chen likely appreciates most of all is how cuddly Rosepetal is on the palanquin. How she hooks Chen in with her big, strong legs and pulls her close, while still whining and struggling. How she rolls on top of her girlfriend and makes an attempt to plead for salvation, all while her heart races delightedly. How she acts like a perfect little damsel in distress who needs to be saved by her dapper, handsome, dashing, charming, curvy, amazing, incredible girlfriend, who will (eventually) be rewarded with much many kisses for saving her, no matter how long that might take.

As for what she’s thinking about, well, Chen will have to wait to find out about that, too…

***

End of the Line

End of the Line
by River_Risen_NO4

#NorthwindAndRoseblossom #MafiaAU #DiD #Citrus #18+ #PlotBunny #Foxes
Chapter Index: Chapter 3 - Songbirds and Cages

“Hey, badass! Drop the sword, or your little songbird here’s sung her last!”

Northwind didn’t drop her guard, and she didn’t make the mistake of turning her back on the enforcers of the Eight Tail Consortium. One of them tried to make a lunge, assuming that Northwind’s concentration would be broken, and got her sword knocked out of her hand and her nose punched with Northwind’s pommel for her trouble, which made the other five spread out, waiting for someone else to make the first move. But Northwind did spare a glance back over her shoulder, her bangs sticking to her forehead, her devil-may-care grin a shield to fend off whatever the world might send her way.

Desperately, Roseblossom tugged her face out of Darkflower’s grasp, gasping, filled with urgency. “Don’t do it,” she said, even as Priss’s switchblade pressed threateningly against her throat. “Please, just— hmmmph!” Darkflower clamped her palm tighter against Rose’s mouth, jerking her head back, letting Northwind get a good look at the peril the singer was in. Unable to speak, Roseblossom could only incoherently plead for this beautiful and dangerous woman to forget about her and run, her begging eyes hidden behind her fashionable half-veil. Even if the consequences for her were terrible, she couldn’t bear the thought of being the weapon the Consortium would use against the swordswoman. Besides, they’d only shared one torrid night of passion on the cruise— surely a woman like Northwind wouldn’t risk everything for a one night stand?

“You idiots,” Northwind said, her tone light and mocking. Roseblossom worked her hands into fists and closed her eyes, waiting for the worst. “What are you going to do for an encore, after icing a dame like that? Strip mine the Terrace Lakes?”

The sound of Northwind’s sword clattering on the deck was the loudest sound in the whole world. Roseblossom’s eyes slammed open just in time to see the mysterious, beautiful woman send a wink her way. Her knees buckled and her jaw dug painfully into Priss’s knife as she suddenly couldn’t breathe, her necklace of pearls clattering. Why? Why would Northwind risk everything for her?

“Do your worst, furbags.”

The thugs pounced, knocking Northwind to the deck, pulling out coils of rope. Roseblossom gasped and stamped her foot, but that only brought her captors’ attention back to her. “And what about the broad?” Darkflower sneered. “Pretty little miss. Do we let her go snitching?”

“Nah,” Priss leered, leaning in to give her neck a long, slow lick, chuckling as Roseblossom let out a muffled torrent of complaint. “Two’s better than one, right? Might as well show La Draconessa our regards by sending her a caged songbird.” Roseblossom’s mind reeled. Just an hour ago, her biggest worry had been trying not to think about the handsome girl who had driven her mind wild while trying to focus on her singing. Now she was a Consortium prisoner, headed for an uncertain fate.

Then Swifty grabbed her jaw and slowly pulled Roseblossom’s head down to her level. The enforcer’s fluffy face was still reddened from where Roseblossom had slapped her earlier. “I dunno, girls,” she said, showing off her wickedest of grins. “There might be other uses for a canary. Had time to reconsider my offer, sugarlips?”

“I’d rather kiss a Burrower,” Roseblossom spat, her cheeks darkening.

Swifty’s eyes narrowed, and she chuckled— the kind of chuckle that meant trouble. “I tried to be nice, Tits. You’re the one who asked for this.” Even as Darkflower held Roseblossom’s arms tight to her body, and Priss began pulling ropes around her torso from above her elbows downwards, Swifty forced Roseblossom’s jaw open and pulled out some of what the Eight Winds called Damsel Snacks: old, stained, musky vixen panties and sweatrags. Roseblossom, whimpering, couldn’t do a thing to prevent Swifty from cramming her mouth full of well-used stuffing, the same that had been used on so many helpless girls before her; the experience was like having a fox sit on her face, especially when Swifty rubbed them all over her nose and cheeks.

Soon enough, Roseblossom was absolutely helpless. Her arms were pinned close to her torso, her hands trapped above her rear, her bare legs like two columns bound together, one doubled-over rope disappearing taut between her thighs only to reappear lashed to her wrists. Her rose-gold dress, thin and outrageously expensive, was pulled taut and threatening to slip in multiple places. But all of that was nothing compared to the feeling of the final fox-scented bandana being knotted securely behind her head, silencing her.

Roseblossom wasn’t a daring swordfighter! Her greatest strength was her beautiful, melodious voice; she was proudest, always and ever, of her singing, and she was sure that if she ever found the right girl, they’d treasure her voice best of all. And here the foxes had taken it away from her! Now all she could do was let out tiny, muffled whimpers, which the foxes would be all too happy to very loosely interpret. Her mouth was packed with a heady mix, her own drool mixing with that of so many other victims of the daring Eight Tails Consortium, not to mention varied and potent fox fluids, and every deep, heaving breath she took through the muffling gag was like trying to breathe with her head pinned between some vixen’s thighs. She was completely, absolutely helpless, at their mercy, and from the looks the enforcers were giving her, she’d see little enough of that.

So why did that make her heart race, her thighs clench, and her eyes flutter? To her humiliation, her body was betraying her, reacting to her captivity just like it had reacted to Northwind’s touch in that cramped cabin. What kind of girl would feel like that?

As if that wasn’t enough, the three enforcers were taking their time exploring her body with their grabby paws. Squeezing, pinching, rubbing, toying with her, particularly now that she couldn’t cover herself up or bat their hands away. If she were able to speak, would she have begged them to stop, or would she have blurted out a desperate plea for them to keep going, to give her more?

“C’mon, bimbo,” Swifty finally said, clipping a leash’s lead onto the pearl necklace, the most precious thing that Roseblossom owned. “You’ve got a date all lined up, and I’d hate to see you miss it.” She tugged on the leash, and the horrible realization shot up Roseblossom’s spine: the wicked fox meant to make the singer hop her way across the deck!

She looked around, realizing that she was now the center of attention. Yes, even with her braids bedraggled, her gag bulging out past the veil over her eyes, and her dress bunching up and clinging to her, no, perhaps because of these things, the hungry eyes of every fox there were on her, mentally undressing her, drooling over her body, ready to snicker and revel in her helplessness.

But Northwind was staring, too, and the look in those dark eyes was an enigma. Was it shame at getting her dragged into this? Was it distress at seeing her pawed at and humiliated? Or was it, perhaps, with that girlish glance at her captors, that tinge of pink in her cheeks… was it, in fact, a guilty pleasure? Was Roseblossom as desirable— if not moreso— right now, the prisoner of the mob, than she was on stage belting her heart out? Did the mysterious girl wish that she was the one having her way with Roseblossom’s body?

She could have it, came the treacherous thought bubbling up from the quagmire of Roseblossom’s brain. She would be welcome to every inch. The singer would take twice the stuffing (and even stuffing elsewhere) if it meant that beautiful rogue was admiring her body, taking what she pleased, making Roseblossom feel like a prize— no, a treasure. A shining jewel. Worth more than just her voice: wanted as a woman, helpless to let propriety get between her and her deepest, darkest desires.

Roseblossom closed her eyes, conjured up Northwind’s beautiful face, and more than that, the way that the ropes pulled snugly around the smaller girl highlighted her own delicious curves, and hopped. It was difficult: the ropes dug into her as her muscles flexed, one in particular causing her to bite down on the mass of cloth in her mouth, and the lewd whistles and encouragements from the Eight Tails made her heart race. Besides that, it was hard enough to land perfectly with each hop, given the impracticality of her heels. It required constant focus, but that focus was continually broken by the sensations inflicted on her body.

By the time she made it to the waiting limousine, Roseblossom was a mess barely holding herself together, sticky and sweaty, her mind a howling void of mortification and fox musk, making incoherent and desperate noises into her sturdy gag. A fox— names hard, too tough to parse right now— smacked her, hard, on her barely-covered rump. “Try not to cream yourself before you get to La Draconessa, Tits~” Then the trunk swung open, and Roseblossom stared in exhausted horror at the space. No. No, they couldn’t possibly. How did they think she was going to fit inside? Northwind, maybe, but her?

She would soon learn that she could, in fact, fit in the trunk. She ended up crammed in, shoulders against one side, knees and feet pinned against the other, head pushed down almost to her chest. There wasn’t even room to squirm, and the pose would quickly become intolerable. But with her taking up all the room in the trunk, there was only one place for Northwind to go.

Directly on top of her, as it turned out. Face pressed into Roseblossom’s cleavage, bodies forced as close to each other (in some ways, even closer) as they’d been last night. Northwind’s face was hot on Roseblossom’s skin, where her cheeks peeled out over her own gag, and the two eyes peering up at Rose seemed very apologetic.

“Your mommies ain’t going to save you this time, Northwind,” a fox sneered, hand on the lid of the trunk. “You might be the daughter of the two biggest, baddest bosses in the underground, but once La Draconessa’s done with you, you’re gonna be nothing. A pretty pampered princess for the hoard, if you’re lucky; lunch, if you’re not.”

Roseblossom’s eyes widened beneath her veil. Northwind was the daughter of powerful mob bosses? For all that she’d tried to keep her nose clean and out of mob business, she’d gone and slept with the daughter of two of the most powerful members of the mafias, and now she was going to pay the price. And from the sound of it, the price she paid might be very high indeed.

Northwind tried to make some sort of retort, but all she managed was to crank Roseblossom up further, with the vibrations of Northwind’s muffled running through her chest, the hot breath on her sweat-slicked skin, and the impotent thrashing on top of her. The useless whimpering escaping from behind Roseblossom’s punishing gag became lower-pitched and needier as Northwind accidentally revved her up into high drive.

“Yeah, yeah. Save it for La Draconessa, shortstack.” The lid slammed down, barely missing Roseblossom’s head, trapping them both in the stuffy space. Not only was it poorly ventilated, but countless helpless victims had been where they were just now, and that added another layer to the sensations reaching through Roseblossom’s nose and clenching around her ovaries.

As the limousine roared to life, as the cramped trunk began to vibrate, as Northwind kept uselessly trying to talk while squirming and nuzzling into her, as she took shuddering breaths through her pungent and cheek-cramming gag, and as the most wicked rope dug inexorably into her, Roseblossom realized with blissful inevitability that she was going to fail.

Repeatedly.

<- Prev Fic: Slave of the Sirocco (24/?).

Hard Wired Island: The Future is a Foreign Country

Sirius!

3V takes a seat at a booth and flicks through the menu, before abruptly coming to the conclusion that it’s not time to eat yet. Not time to order a bunch of dishes and try a little bit of everything. Not time to try to figure out how she’s going to talk about this, especially because the most important aspect is missing. If this is a place that wants to be here for you from beginning to end, no matter where you are, then you must be the loadbearing concept. Besides, she’s always been a bit interested in the furries.

She ambushes Black as best she can, closing the distance and hooking one arm with an elbow. “Let’s check out the dance floor,” she says, all excited and self-assured cheer. She’ll yield enough to let Black work her arm out of her grasp, but she’s going to insist on the android accompanying her onto the dance floor. And once they’re there, well, there will be a challenge to “show me your moves,” as it were.

And Black? She knows the old “bob in place and do reload animations” trick. Just saying.

Breathless Dead

This is the very first time she’s ever lost. It’s cruel to give it to her after such a victory. But that’s what Sagakhan, the Master of Assassins is, isn’t it? Cruelty underneath the pretension of impartiality. Cruelty found in the complete absence of kindness. Cruelty because she is in no way required to be kind, because she has no obligation to it or reward from it. It is a horror that Redana Claudius has never truly seen before. Not like this. Not with such a loss.

(Platitudes about all soldiers being equal in death, about how everyone was at risk, they are drowned beneath the roaring of her heart in her ears.)

The cunning thing would be to run. Harry her at range, despite her incredible speed, her cutting of distance: be faster, lead her on the chase, buy time for everyone else. But she does not. Because Alexa’s head is still there, staring upwards at the relentless storm. Because Alexa was here in this battle because of her. Because Alexa was kind to her when she did not deserve kindness. Because she can hear the furious groan coming from the lips of the Coherents, a deep rumble growing in power, swelling, becoming a roar. And she is one of the Coherents, a member of her mother’s imperial cult, a sailor of the Plousios, and so that death-groan comes from her, too.

This time she does not come at Sagakhan with a sword. She spins, her skirt like the petals of a flower, and the terrible shape in her hands is for a moment obscured by her body. Then she slams the sledgehammer into the side of Sagakhan’s head, carries the momentum through, spins again, smashes a hip on the second approach. Again, again, again, rising and falling, Coherent hammerwork, an elegant dance, cold-burning fury.

Sagakhan will live through anything. Therefore, nothing is off the table; a hit anywhere counts. Sagakhan will live through anything. Therefore, no swordplay can stop her from closing the gap and killing Redana again. Sagakhan will live through anything. Therefore, the only way to stop her is to keep her off-balance and staggered. The shape of the hammer is light in her hands, impossibly light; it yields too easily to the strain of her muscles, falls like a meteor, allows her to chain attack after attack together. She does not stop, she does not relent, she sets her shoulder to the work as if she were performing before the Coherents as they made art out of the labor, sang their work-shanties, proved themselves both hard workers and more than just laborers.

Sagakhan tries to say something. The next blow takes her full in the jaw, shatters bone, caves teeth in, and the Shepherdess does not laugh as she does it, because she is not the Nemean. Her wrath is not a jovial sadism, a desire to meet challenges and tear them open. She does this because you have left her no choice, Sagakhan.

But she doesn’t let it disrupt the rhythm of blows, either.

The war-chant grows. Do you hear it, Sagakhan? Do you hear the name on their lips? The name drawn out of breathless lungs and between hot teeth? It’s not that of Redana, this champion of the cult, this avenger of the dead. It’s that of the beautiful woman you killed, strong and kind and surprisingly gentle, who gave the best hugs and didn’t deserve this, fighting a useless battle against a shitty old woman buying an extension for her miserable life, garden by garden.

The tears running down Redana’s cheeks burn. But she doesn’t stop. She doesn’t sob. She lets them flow freely, from cheek to jaw, and puts her hips into each swing.

This won’t work forever. Sagakhan is too skilled, too clever, too ruthless; eventually she’ll find the rhythm, she’ll twist to make a blow too soft, she’ll throw a Kaeri in the way of a blow. Then things will be bad. You can’t overcome a foe like this just through righteous fury. Something needs to change. Someone needs to join the fight. Redana doesn’t know who. All she knows is the work, the swing, the relentless advance.

Alexa. Alexa! Alexa!

[Redana keeps Sagakhan busy through the power of incredible violence and an 8.]

TSL: The Excess of Flowers

Giriel and Kalaya!

As signs go, it’s rather vivid— the culmination of smaller ones, such as flowers that symbolize marriage crowding on one bank, two crows raucously cawing as they chase each other (with a songbird caught between them), and a fox trotting along with the tail of a snake poking jauntily out of its mouth and roses draped around its shoulders.

They come into view suddenly, as the current moves the vast barge along: a stag and a monitor lizard, both unusually large for their species, chewing on the leaves of a Bride’s Lily. A brightly-banded venomous snake coils around the roots of the flower, hissing angrily at each in turn.

The stag suddenly startles. It drives its hooves down on the earth with terrible force, trying to crush the snake with a panicked fury that could shatter bones. The poor plant sees the worst of it, and in between stamps, the monitor lizard grabs at the flowering lilies and yanks the tiger’s share of it out of the earth, slithering off with its prize as the stag finally brings one hoof down on the snake’s head, then charges blindly into the forest after the lizard.

Giriel, the meaning is fairly clear (aided by the expansive gestures of the minor functionary spirits who have been arranging these signs for Kalaya). It is an excellent lens through which to view the other omens: the conflict between Uusha and Cathak Agata will eventually lead to the marriage of Agata and Kalaya, likely to gather Kingdom support, whether Kalaya likes it or not. It will also lead to the death of the warlock at Uusha’s hands.

Then, before you can explain all this to Kalaya, something almost as shocking happens: the clouds part. Just for a moment, the rain relents, and your keen eyes can catch sight of a bright star on the horizon. The flickering red light of Mars suggests that this is a war-fate, decreed by the General of Heaven, favored star of the Dominion. Venus’s opinion on all you have divined is a question for further study.

Bluntly: the Rakshasa’s power to twist and change fate might be the only protection that Kalaya has from Mars’ declaration, unless she was willing to run away and join Ven in the demon city, which is extremely unlikely. Right? And the roses on the fox! Kalaya might have an ally here— Venus might be satisfied with a tragic ending to their story, but Bright Rose Aching (as a more local god, and Kalaya’s patroness) might not be.

Oh, and Giriel? Agata doesn’t know this. While you’re naturally going to blurt all this out to Kalaya, you’re going to have to decide how much from what you’ve just seen you’re going to tell her. And you don’t have much time, either— you’re arriving at Tuberhybrida tomorrow, on the hinterlands of Chrysanth, where Kalaya, Han and Lotus will all be leaving.

***

Piripiri!

Uusha’s listening, yes. But you’re running a risk here. Not a physical risk, but one of the heart: if Uusha feels that you are making excuses for your service, you will be judged. For not being her, for not fighting back, for accepting the Dominion yoke meekly. Bringing up your family’s a good way to not be hated, incidentally.

***

Emli!

This is incredibly awkward. You are vaguely aware that your mistress has a very messy love life, but you are neither judgmental or assertive enough to have opinions on that. No, mostly you’re just flustered that guests are upset and that Han is blowing it, and more pressingly, that you might end up in trouble if you don’t say something. After all, anybody could come in and find you not defending the lady’s honor!

“There must have been a misunderstanding,” you say, smoothly, trying to slip it in while navigating the dire straits of being a good girl. There we go! You didn’t interrupt them, you defended the honor of your owner, and most importantly, you offered the priestess something she can cling to that doesn’t make it anybody’s fault. Because everything is much more pleasant when nobody’s getting blamed for mutual misunderstandings!

Your eyes flicker over to Han. You really wouldn’t want to be the person who made the priestess upset. Han looks like she’d declare war on the entire Dominion if she thought the Empress was responsible for breaking her heart. It’s really cute! It’d be nice to have someone look at you like that, you know? To think you were that important. But it’d be flustering and confusing, too, so it’s more comfortable to keep that as an idle fancy.

“Yes,” Lotus says, catching the line you threw out into the water for her. “Maybe it was just a misunderstanding?” She nervously wrings her fingers as she looks to Han. Come on, Han! She needs to hear it! You can defuse this entire uncomfortable situation by letting her think it was nobody’s fault, because it’s so much easier when it’s nobody’s fault and nobody has to be blamed, and also you won’t get disciplined for fomenting insubordination, so take it, Han! Nobody will end up getting spankies if you just let it go!

But she’s not going to, is she? She’s stubborn. And despite the risk of being punished, part of you can’t help but admire it. You always fall in love a little bit with your guests, and this scrappy, passionate Flower is no exception. She’d be less herself if she did. So even while most of your thoughts are clogged up with figuring out where to divert them— baths again? The gardens? Maybe tactfully suggest that Han could escort her, no, if the mistress is aiming for Lotus then that would get you in so much trouble— your heart flutters like a bird that knows Han’s just going to keep making things messy.

Sunshards

Harmony creates harmony.

Rose can’t help but smile when she catches today’s Daily Affirmation on Omets’s phone screen, before he stows the phone back in his robe so that he can accept the plate with biscuits and a strawberry dipping sauce. Everything is coming together. Everything is right, here and now. That’s what it means to live under one lonely sun in the long and beautiful twilight, in the shadows of the elevators.

Below, foxes are exploding out of the ship, which has navigated smoothly next to a little fishing jetty. The ship’s boarding ramp hasn’t been dropped, but they don’t need it: they swing down on ropes, float down on umbrellas, push each other into the shallow water, dash madly onto the grass, roll around shamelessly while scream-laughing, scamper up into trees to yell at their rivals, and scheme about what comes next. There’s rivalries to avenge, cuties to help, mischief to be done.

She sets down another plate next to Chen’s cup and curtsies. “Here you are, my Princess,” she says, almost formally enough to hide the fondness in her eyes, the pride swelling up inside her at how wonderfully her little Chen has done. In the light of the sunshard, her dark skin is vibrant, rich, shining. In the light of the sunshard, you can almost see the string wrapped around her little finger, leading to Chen’s delicate hand. In the light of the sunshard, she is simply Rosepetal, the Princess’s girlfriend, competent in her own way but not the kind of monster that could be used to shake heaven and send the gods rattling from their thrones.

Inside, her whole body is dreaming while awake. She inhabits it, she feels it, she knows it. It’s her finest creation, and her blood sings a song of love, of freedom, of finding a place to rest her head and stay. The world is big and has many problems, but how wonderful that she is allowed to be more than a tool in a toolbox for fixing them. How wonderful that she is allowed to be the love interest in this story, rather than the wandering ronin. How wonderful that she is loved, and wanted, and herself.

There’s a thump from outside the observation cabin, like one fox falling off the shoulders of another onto a third. Rosepetal notices, and she notices that Chen notices, too.

“If that’s everything, your radiance,” she says, eyes hidden under fluttering lashes, “may I return to my quarters to change?”

They’ll let her get that far, now that she’s brought it up, just so they can raid her closet in the process. She knows it, Chen knows it, Omets probably knows it, and only Prim, Quick Ji and Blackleaf think nobody knows. And only Chen knows how Rosepetal’s strong heart is beating hard, carrying her joy out to circulate through her limbs and her face, how she knows that she can walk into an obvious fox trap because someone will always, always come for her.

She proved it. And now Rosepetal never needs to worry again about being forgotten, about being abandoned, about falling back into the dark. Not with her own little sunshard shining her light through her life, every day, every night, filling her up.

“I’ll be some time,” she adds, demurely. Take your time, Chen. “Unless there is any other need you have of me?”