Pancho wakes you up in the middle of the afternoon just to tell you not to look at some videos. At first you’re just confused, but she’s your leafbro,...
(most rp text is going to be happening on the kintsugi forums from now on! go there for further adventures.)
The next evening you’re nudged from the slime, stuffed into a significantly more formal set of togs than the regular, and told to pack up.
“I’ve kept you hidden away in this hive for far too long, my pet. It’s starting to wear on both of us,” Cloris tells you, plucking fondly at your clothes, brushing out a wrinkle here, straightening a fold there. “A change of venue will do us good and it’s high time I showed you off! Especially since you look so utterly delicious in this suit. Everyone will be madly jealous.”
You nibble on some breakfast ham as you wait for the air car to come around. The trip takes a good long while, long enough for you to doze and wake once more, and you’re amused to find the car touching down in a vast expanse of sand and red rock. Rainbowdrinkers and their deserts... The wind blows hot against your fins when you climb out of the car, and the hardpacked sands still hold the day’s heat even this late at night. It’s pleasantly austere.
The hive complex carved into the nearest rocky spire is anything but austere. Once past the rough doorway hidden in in the stone, the tunnels branch and twist in a dizzying profusion of brightly-painted hallways and lavishly decorated leisure blocks, some small enough just for a pile of cushions, some enormous caverns with fairy lights strung all around like stars, and every size and purpose in between.
“Oh good, we’re early! I can show you around,” says Cloris, and hauls you off to one of the hive’s chief proprietors.
Introductions are made, drinks are poured— something fizzy for you, something thicker and more colorful for the ladies. Gossip is exchanged about people you’ve never heard of doing things you couldn’t care less about. You sit and fuss with your drink.
“But of course,” says Cloris’s friend, whose name you’ve forgotten already, “you and your lovely boy must be so excited for the party! There’s to be live music and everything, and I hear Lord Buttercup is bringing a chocolate fountain large enough to sit in.”
Cloris grins and nudges your shoulder with hers. “Lord Buttercup always gives the best presents,” she says. “Once for Lady Sunbeam’s wiggling day he had a caegar waterfall installed in her foyer! Can you imagine! It made the most dreadful noise, though.”
“Oh, look, he can smile,” says your host, and there’s a great deal of embarrassing giggling at your expense.
“Oh, he certainly can, although usually I don’t have to get him tipsy first. Darling, do lighten up,” Cloris admonishes you. “Drink the rest of that and let’s go mingle.”
You finish one drink, accept another, and trot off after the ladies. There are endless introductions that go in one side of your head and straight out the other, and you tip your horns politely and navigate your way cautiously through endless rounds of pleasantries. There is, in fact, a chocolate fountain, and everyone takes a moment off chattering at one another to admire it.
“Sit in it,” says your host to your Lady.
“You sit in it, Adelia,” says your Lady.
You are on possibly your fourth fizzy drink, though you don’t suppose it much influences your general resolution and decisiveness attributes. You are a bold and fearless explorer! You limp over and sit in the fountain. It is definitely large enough, and also delicious. There is cheering. Several more guests pile in after you, your Lady comes by to sit alongside and lick chocolate off your neck, and you’re given another drink. The day passes quickly and with an enormous amount of fun, after that, and there’s a lot of rolling about and candy and drinks and your Lady— her hands on your horns and your mouth between her legs— music and lights— pillows under your back, and fangs sinking sweetly into your throat— and everyone laughing, everyone gentle and smiling and you’re safe, here, to do whatever you like, to let anything happen.
*
You wake up with a blistering headache and a mouth that tastes roughly like hell itself. You moan, attempt to burrow further into the pillow pile, then unburrow fast and make a lunge for the nearest receptacle— a plant container?— to rid yourself of most of your internal anatomy by volume. It helps your headache situation not a bit, thought after you rinse your mouth out with a water skin and drink down the rest, your mouth, at least, feels somewhat less like a divine punishment.
Everything is bright and terrible, you’re covered in chocolate and feathers and glitter but not a stitch of clothing beyond your wrist cuffs, and the small cavern you’ve holed up in contains at least a dozen unknown trolls too many. Most are asleep. Three are still awake, and— er. You’re not sure. Performing some sort of physical intimacy. It involves a big floppy scalemate and a worrying amount of giggly purrs.
Then there is movement in the corner of your eye as your Lady drops next to you, chuckling. She takes your chin in one hand, smiling fondly, and you realize she’s as naked as you are, though much cleaner. Her hair is wet.
“What a beautiful mess you've made of yourself, my sparkly little toy,” she says, and kisses your forehead. There’s a smudge on her chin when she draws back, and glitter clinging to her lipstick. “Come along, I know a place you can clean up.”
Taking your arm, she escorts you past partygoers in various states of amorous recumbency, and leads you outside where there's a large fountain, and you bite back a groan. Oh god. No more fountains. The moment the overcast moonlight hits your eyes, your headache increases tenfold, but Cloris only coos pityingly at your miserable moan and pats your arm.
Several people are passed out on nearby benches, and someone’s bra is dangling from the fountain gargoyle’s fanged maw. Smiling, she urges you into the water. She only laughs at your reluctance to get near either chest-holster or gargoyle, then draws you close and scrubs you briskly with someone’s shirt until you’re as shining and soaked as she is.
“Are we going home now?” you ask once she stops pouring water on your head and lets you sit on the edge of the fountain to get some trousers on. Some of the sleepers are starting to kick and growl themselves awake, and you’ve prickles of apprehension all up and down your spine. You want very much to get out of here.
“Oh, darling, we can’t go home now!” she says, and she’s smiling as she says it, giddy even. You get a close look at her face for the first time and there’s something about her eyes that’s just a bit too bright and fierce. Her pupils are too narrow. “You’ll miss the pajama party! It’s the best part, I promise. Oh! I nearly forgot--”
She frowns in thought for a moment, then rummages briefly in a dozing guest’s purse, emitting a pleased sound as she finds what she’s looking for: a little packet of white pills. “Ah, here we are! Put this under your tongue, sweetheart.”
You shrink back, your fins flattening. Smokes and drinks are all very well, they’re just made from plants, they’re practically medicinal, but— stars only know what the harder stuff can do to a troll, you’ve at least had that schoolfeed. The harder stuff pulps a troll’s brain and renders them unfit for service to the empire. You get culled for the harder stuff.
“I want to go home,” you say thinly. “Please.”
You expect her to snap at you, but apparently very little can diminish her cheer at the moment. She only laughs gently, pityingly, as if you were a wiggler balking at a plate of vegetables. Nuzzling you, she cups your face, her palms smoothing over your ears. “Oh, my silly pet, my dearheart, it won’t hurt you! I’ve had three myself. It justs puts some spring back in your step, it’s no worse than a cup of coffee.”
You chew on your lip, unable to articulate your unease— your near-frantic desire to be gone from here, to retreat, hole up, recover somewhere no one’s looking at you— and her thumbs stroking your fins doesn’t help at all. She gently kisses your mouth, soft and sweet, until you reach for her, and then she steps back.
“I know it’s been an eventful day and you’ve done quite a lot already, but please stay with me for just a little while longer?” She blinks big imploring eyes at you. “You’ll thank me for it later, you know you will.” She pops out a little pill and holds it between finger and thumb. “I wouldn’t give you anything that would do you any harm, darling, don’t you trust me?”
Well, she has you there: you do. You have to. You duck your head in a nod, and let her slip the little tablet into your mouth. It’s sweet, which you hadn’t expected at all, and nothing particularly happens when it dissolves. You lick your lips, trying to consider whether or not your brain is liable to explode or whatnot, and glance up at her for reassurance.
“That’s my brave boy,” she says, and then she giggles delightedly and does an excited little skip, which makes her rumblespheres jiggle arrestingly. “Now come on, we’ll miss seeing if Ziggy found the millennium trout!”
“What the devil is a millennium trout—?” And why in all the world are you expected to care?
“It doesn’t exist, that’s the joke!” she says, pulling you along fast enough you nearly have to hop. “We just wanted to see if she’d freeze her globes off wading around in the pond.”
You laugh, startled, and when she laughs it’s rather hard to stop, and the two of you are giggling breathlessly when you tumble into a chilly, half-submerged cavern. Madam Ziggy has not found the millennium trout, though she’s apparently employed half a squadron of loudly quarrelsome trolls to help her look. They’re all handsome, and naked, and absolutely terrible at swimming.
“Show them how it’s done, darling,” Cloris urges, pushing you towards the water. It’s fresh, but certainly less frigid than the frozen rivers you traversed to reach her, there’s a mineral tang to subterranean lakes you’ve always rather enjoyed. You let her cajole you into joining the hunt without further fuss.
It turns out your Lady is possibly the worst swimmer out of all of them. For all she can hold you rapt with her elegant, effortless grace on land, she’s an utterly undignified mess the water, paddling and sputtering and laughing at her own incompetence.
You amuse yourself by pulling her under the surface by a shining ankle, then darting off before she can catch you. Her shriek alarms the other trout hunters, who take up the cry “There’s something in the water! Oh, fuck, a monster—” and you are not a gentleman to contradict so many fine fellows. You make quite a rout of it, dunking near everyone by heels or horns before the lot of them make it to the shore. When you slip out of the water and take a grand bow, afterwards, there’s a gratifying amount of cheering and booing. Someone throws a caveshrimp at your head, and Cloris, brightly delighted, grabs you up around the waist to kiss you silly.
After that there’s a break for tea and sausages around glowing braziers, and ornate smoking pipes are brought out for everyone, and after that Cloris leads you to somewhere small and intimate and the two of you amuse yourselves privately for a while. As you’re panting in the aftermath and entirely ready for a long lie-in, she produces the small packet of pills.
“Really,” you say.
She boops your nose with hers. “Oh come now, darling, this is only the beginning! We’ll have all the time in the world to rest later,” Cloris assures you, and her fingers stroke your jaw so tenderly. You don’t— you don’t feel so bad, really— and take one and then another, little sparks of sweetness in your mouth chased by kisses, and then you let her pull you up and off to some other wild event.
There are songs, none of which you know the words to, and performances you can’t manage to get the point of. There are elaborate shaggy woofbeast tales and horrible jokes and dancing. The dancing ends up being not so nice, what with you being passed from troll to troll in a long whirling chain, you breathing harshly and clumsy footed, your cane tripping others up if you try to use it and you tripping when you don’t--but before it becomes too much, you’re in Cloris’s arms again. Though she pulls you possessively against her and pets your hair as she sways you along, you’re nevertheless left worn-thin and shaken by it all even after the dance is over.
As game as you try to be for your Lady— as much as you genuinely do enjoy some of the events— unease builds up inexorably inside you, pressing you unhappily to your Lady’s side. Anxiety shivers through you with every chattering pulse of your over-worked heart, and the shadows start to flicker and pulse in the corners of your vision, awful things lurking in each scrap of darkness. As much refuge as you take in Cloris’s arms, under her protection, around you are so very many trolls, continuously, jostling you, competing with you, chasing and being chased with you, blurring in and out of one another. And your Lady does leave you to pursue her own interests so very often...
You catch your breath from time to time, you even curl up and sleep, here and there, but when you wake it’s to more noise and motion, more dangerous shadows and more painful lights and another endless piece of sport decreed by one shining rainbowdrinker or another. And your fellow guests don’t... they don’t stop tearing at you. They pull and prod, they trip you up. Knock you over. Your leg’s too weak, too raw, it’s hideously apparent that it pains you and everyone knows right off what to aim for when it comes to a scuffle. Trolls tease and sneer and display for you, crowding, baiting, and you realize, far too late, that nearly everyone present must know of you, must have seen you on your back for Kadros. They all must think someone might just pick up where he left off. It’s almost as insulting as it is frightening.
The next guest that has a go at you— a rainbowdrinker, no less! one of the hosts!— you turn sharply away from, breathless and unwell. Your skin crawls. She grabs your elbow.
“No,” you tell her, sharply.
“Scared, honeygrub?” she says, and digs her claws in. She draws blood, and when you wrench your arm from her grasp she holds her hands up in theatrical surrender.
“I play nice,” she says, sweet but poisonous, and then she licks your blood from her nails and goes “mmmmh,” and the involuntary thrill that hungry purr sends through you only serves to cement your revulsion.
“Go away,” you snap.
“Make me,” she shoots back.
You realize that everyone in the cavern is—looking at you, drawing closer, murmuring. Expecting a show. Oh, fuck, there’s a monster! You’re beginning to tremble, nerves rising up in your throat sour and choking. Your heart is going so hard it feels fit to dig its way free from your chest. But three steps backwards from the lady only brings you up against a hot-handed shove from an eager spectator.
“You can take her, bro,” someone says, tweaking your fin painfully, and someone else says “Twenty caegars says the Lady Lightflower tops,” and then it’s all noise, unintelligible, overwhelming. The glowing lady stands in a ring of bodies and grins at you and you wish more than anything in the world that you were wearing a shirt.
“Lottie,” says Cloris’s voice sharply, and the wall of noise thins, somewhat. Your bloodpump leaps in relief as you spot her slip between two onlookers and rake the host up and down with the most glacial, derisive stare you’ve ever seen. Though she’s as nude as most of the other partygoers in attendance, the way she rests her hand on her hip and glowers makes her look as poised and imposing as the Empress. “Lottie, there isn’t nearly enough alcohol at this blowout for me to be able to tolerate you embarrassing yourself like this again. My pet could rip anyone here in half, and you know it--why don’t you go torment something more your speed? Maybe a dead shellbeast?”
You back carefully towards your Lady, hoping that this altercation might resolve, that the shining girl glaring you down might turn away. It doesn’t and she doesn’t. Your Lady’s words only serve to ignite her pride and temper, and your unwanted suitor is on you before you reach Cloris’s side of the ring. She bowls you over and the two of you go tumbling painfully across the rough stone, all claws.
Rainbowdrinkers are preternaturally strong but it would take a lot more than the power they command to break your bones so instead she tears at you, rakes your flesh and spatters your blood with a terrifying passion and for your own part you mostly just try to get free. The circle of trolls closes in, screaming, and everything is noise and terror and pain. She sinks her fangs into your shoulder and you know— you feel— the quiet blooming out from the bite, the beautiful calm slowness pouring into you as your blood pours out. You squirm and whine beneath her and know she could lay you out like this, however little you liked it, there’s something in the fangs that would make anyone do nearly anything for them.
You shove, with everything you have left in you, every ounce of terror and madness, you shove her by her shoulders and her fangs rip out of your flesh. She goes sprawling. But she only rolls, and comes up laughing, and you’re shaking all over with weakness and sick wanting. When she lunges for you again you run. You charge the onslaught of screaming, grabbing spectators and you win through to a clear space on the other side. You get your legs under you properly and your cane out for balance and you run, everything left in you tearing down one corridor and up another, staggering through bedrooms and bathrooms and closets and kitchens. Oh, fuck, there’s a monster.
You get lost. You fetch up in some little dead-end tunnel no one did anything with, and you curl up at the very end and cry. The bite left in you grants neither peace nor comfort, only a terrible emptied-out weakness.
There are footsteps. You can hear them, when you swallow down your miserable snuffling enough to listen. Someone’s come after you and you swap cane for sword with clumsy hands. You can’t take on everyone who was there watching, everyone else who might want to take a turn. They’ll take you apart. They’ll eat you bones and all. The darkness is already licking in— itching at you, digging into all your scratches— tasting you—you can’t bear it, you moan and claw at yourself and grind your horns into the stone of the wall. You can’t stand it. You can’t stand anything that’s happening.
Someone crouches at the end of the tunnel and peers in. Silhouetted as they are, you can’t see their face or make out any identifying features.
“Erskin? Come out here, please. Erski--are you crying?”
It’s your Lady, but her tone sets you clawing further into the stone, torn between fight and further hopeless flight. The shadows you’re pressing into might chose to swallow you up but facing her is infinitely more dangerous.
“You really shouldn’t have let her knock you over like that, darling, she’s pathetic and everyone knows it. It’s frankly embarrassing you went down at all. Please come out.”
Coaxing. She’s coaxing you, and you pull yourself from the wall, slide incrementally towards your Lady, a low uncontrollable growl buzzing in your throat. You need— if she could just— her arms, if she could hide you—
“Yes, come here sweetheart. We can fix this. Just one good pop on the jaw and she’ll yowl like she’s dying--not that her looks were anything remarkable to begin with. She’ll avoid you like the plague after that.” She turns to lead you away, pull you out of the tunnel, and you snatch your hand back so sharply that she stumbles. You hiss at her.
“Erskin! Why are you acting like this?”
You scramble back, shaking your head— no, no, no, you can’t— your hands up to ward her off, you growl warning. You have no words, only angry noise. You’re mad, you’ve gone mad, you’re wildly off-balance and sinking into the crawling, hungry shadows and you’re so afraid. She glares at you and you’re afraid of her, and you’re even more afraid of everyone she wants to drag you back in front of. You want to tear yourself apart.
“What is wrong with you?” she growls, and then both hands clamp around one of the cuffs around your wrist, and she hauls you with all of her strength, gritting out between her teeth: “Get OUT HERE--”
You stagger and go, into stronger light, into her light. She’s blazing at you. “This isn’t going to be another repeat of the shopping incident, is it? You’re SURELY not going to flip your pan in front of all these people, not after I worked so hard just to get you here--”
She yanks you again, her arm so bright, her face so angry, and you are frantic for this not to be happening. You try to pull away again, baring your fangs, and she—
—she slaps you. The pain whites you out, the shock and betrayal of it, and all that is left to you is fear. You roar and lash out, horns and fists, and she’s driven back, driven away. To the end of the tunnel and then there’s more— there’s more trolls, you didn’t want— you can’t stand it, and they’re reaching for you— devouring—you have your sword and you strike out near blindly with it. It hits flesh, for a moment, you smell blood that isn’t yours.
“Oh, no you DON’T!” someone snarls— Cloris? is she— and your bad leg is kicked out from under you. You go down hard, you forgot about— you’re still not used to compensating, and you crack your horn on the rock. The pain sets you gasping for a crucial moment and someone’s got a boot on your wrist, your sword is— your sword, it’s gone, it’s taken, pried away— you roar and try to lunge but your Lady has a knee to your neck and a fist wrapped around your struck horn. You can’t get the coordination.
“Erskin, STOP IT! Erskin--mind his TEETH Dolora, you imbecile, go into the toy block and get me--no, no, give me his hand--” Cloris snaps, and your wrists are wrenched up to cross sharply, shockingly, behind your back before you can quite manage to pull free. They don’t uncross. They won’t. They’re stuck like that, they’re fastened together. You strain and all you can feel is the soft, solid leather of cuffs around your wrists. The rings in them, you can’t— you strain and scream and you can’t get free, nothing tears, nothing bends or snaps, you’ve wrenched loose from steel chains before but you’re trapped here, now, hands on your horns, a knee to your neck. You howl.
“Oh fuck, look at his eyes. He’s lost his shit.”
“Least they forget weapons when they’re this worked up—”
“Fuck off, he is a weapon, we’re all going to goddamn die.”
“Okay, okay, calm down, kid--” Someone touches your face, your cheek, they stroke you intimately and you leave off screaming to bite the hand down to the bone. There are fingers left behind your fangs by the time whoever touched you gets away, and you spit them out and try to bite again, you do your level best to get at whoever’s on your back.
A twisting lunge knocks them off, rips their hands from your horns to send them sprawling— green and white—who?— but before you can end them— pull apart the cage of their ribs, tear their head from their shoulders— your wrists are jerked painfully back and you’ve got to stagger backwards. Someone’s connected up a— there’s a bar— ? You’re held at the end of a pole you can’t break, not like this, held from behind, at a distance— you’re trapped, you’re stuck— and all your struggling accomplishes is your leg giving out again. You crouch on your knees in an awful ring of eyes and fangs and reaching hands, and all you can manage is to scream at them, fins flared, fangs bared, horns set to break someone’s face in.
“W-we gotta put him down. He’ll tear us to pieces, fucking look at him--”
“NO,” someone screams, and then you’re staring at burning-white legs as someone crowds in front of you, hissing. “No you CAN’T, he’s MINE.”
“Look what he did to Clarra!”
“Clarra is an idiot for getting in the way! He’s--he gets this way sometimes around large crowds, I can handle him, he just needs to calm down somewhere quiet--”
“That tunnel he holed up in was pretty fucking quiet before he happened to it— look at the goddamn rock, he cracked the goddamn rock, he’s gonna bring the whole place down around us!”
“Don’t be ridiculous--”
“Someone cut his damn head off already!”
“Shut your useless fucking mouth, Darrek. NO ONE’S CUTTING OFF ANYTHING.”
Cut him open. Cut him apart. You lunge against the hold on you and nearly gain your feet before whoever’s got you from behind wrenches you back. Your teeth snap close just inches from the flesh in front of you, the threat. They’re too close, you have to drive them back.
The troll yelps and skitters out of reach of you, her eyes wide— too bright, a horrible burning yellow— her long fangs bared.
“He nearly tore your achilles tendon out, Briarthorn, what makes you think you can--”
“I told you to be QUIET, Derrek! Tell me one of you has an injectable somnolent. He’s had too many stimulants, is all, he needs to come down.”
There is more arguing, more shouting, all the words a crashing jumble of meaningless daymare sounds. You have to get out of here but you’re just dragged, kicking, on to your side, and so many of the trolls crowding in have weapons, now, guns, poles, blades. By the time you’ve got your feet under you again the bright troll has slipped behind you, and you feel her hands grip your horns tight enough the world blanks out on you.
“Come on, Dolora, don’t turn gutless on me now, once he’s down we can--”
You toss your horns, roaring at her, but she holds on tight even as she’s dragged, and another attacker presses up close. Hands on your throat, under your jaw so when you try to bite you can’t get ahold of anything. Something cold and sharp sinks in under one of your fins and starts to burn and you howl, they’ve— they’ve started in on you— when you wrench at the grip on your horns you manage to shake free.
The trolls on your back leap away but when you round on them to give chase—finish them, get them before they take you any further apart— your legs give out, both of them, your good leg gone as weak as your bad. You crouch on the rock and gasp for breath and the burning in your neck goes through you like sunlight, red-hot, flaring with every frantic beat of your heart. Your horn-sense won’t collect back from where the hands had squeezed it useless, and you feel only a swooping, sugary dizziness when you close your eyes to concentrate.
You don’t think you can get up again. You’re going to die here.
“God, that was enough to knock out a dragon. This better fucking work.”
“It will work. He’d get drunk off old lemonade.”
“Why’d you give him fucking pepper pills then, you--”
You can’t manage to get your eyes back open, and, increasingly, it doesn’t really matter. The floor is very cool. The space around you feels vast and sweet and empty against your tingling horns, and you slump slowly over to your side. The noises are happening far enough away that you can rest now. You can stop. You’re safe.
*
When you wake you feel slow and heavy all over and your shoulders don’t feel right. Your hands are— your hands are still bound.
You’re still trapped. Cut him open. You’re caught, you’re tied and trapped and you can sense something, leaning over you, ready to— ready to start in on you—take you apart.
“Oh, Erskin. I’m very disappointed in you.”
Your eyes open the world is a pulsating, oily blur but there’s something troll shaped. Something troll-sounding. They’re too close and your hands are caught and they know it. You lunge for them and snap, and your fangs catch on fabric and cold meat. There’s a gratifyingly loud scream, and the metal taste of blood.
The troll shape gets away from you, flees across the room, and you see jade lace spilling along the outside of one limb. The figure crouches and stares at you, eyes as bright and round as coins. There’s a lot of noise.
You bare your teeth in warning and victory, and start struggling to orient yourself. It’d be easier if you could just— if you could figure out what part of the world was the bloody ground— but finally something you do gets you closer to the other troll, and it’s, yes, you’ve got at least one leg identified and it’s enough to pounce.
But your would-be attacker is too fast--she darts for a bright patch in the air, and the last you see of her is a dazzle of green and white as she slips through and slams the it closed. You ram your horns against where the brightness wasn’t and— it’s hard, it dents— a door? A door. You throw yourself against the surface, over and over, feeling it shake in its frame. Freedom, you could get out. You batter the door until you lose what little control you managed to gain over yourself, and you identify pain, you identify tiredness. You sink down against the cold surface to rest. You’ll go at it again as soon as you get your breath back, your bearings.
If there’s a door there’s something on the other side. Another place.
You take a while to pant and to rub your horns and to glare at the shapes and colors around you— in the room, there are walls, there’s a floor, you’re up against the exit, and then you struggle to your feet and throw yourself at the door again.
Erskin: resolve even more interpersonal conflicts.
After you wake from the nightmare you shared with Jethro, Your Lady spends the first part of the evening soothing away your anxiety over Jethro’s situation and all your dreams and visits and day horrors. She strokes your hair and assures you that he’s fine and so shall you be as well, though you never quite manage to settle on when to have him over or how to get him.
And then there’s a tour of the gardens she wants to take you on, and a series of increasingly irrelevant trees she wants to push you up against and— well. The next series of nights pass nicely. You lie around by pools and fountains in the moonlight, mainly, with pulp adventure novels and cool drinks, you take careful strolls through Cloris’s gardens as she tells you about one bloom or another. There’s as much meat as you care to gorge on: your Lady has ordered in meals to your specifications, and you start to smooth out some of your starveling edges. And, too, there are more refined delicacies, intricate candies and fruits cut in the shape of flowers and dosed with honey and syrupy liqueurs. You learn the difference between a dozen types of drink and more than a few sorts of recreational plant.
And you give her your body, gladly, your blood and your mouth and any other part she cares to enjoy, and you enjoy it, too, very much. You are subsumed in a hundred different sorts of pleasure, her fingers inside you first thing in the evening, her lips as she takes the first pull of an elegant hookah before leaning in to kiss you, her mouth dragging lines of fire across your throat, her soft touch as she leans over the back of your lounge chair and strokes your horns until you’ve read the same page six times over again, her lap as you drop dizzily into it and tuck your face under her chin, the whole world a golden blur of sweetness and love.
You don’t think you’ve ever been this happy.
It’s somewhere around midnight, somewhere around four or five days in, when Cloris gives you a lingering kiss and then strolls off to take care of some esoteric business or other. You employ yourself in packing yourself another pipe and enjoying the view of the small jewel-like birds and insects that flit about the gardens. You’ve your sketchbook on your lap, and are taking idle notes on a few flowers and an insect husk you were handed, but you haven’t made much progress and you don’t much care.
Cloris has left her husktop on the edge of a garden bench, and you think that it has been quite some time since you’ve talked to your moirail, hasn’t it, and you’d meant to... you’d meant... you’d left some sort of business with him unfinished, haven’t you? You should at least say hello, you think.
You help yourself to the sleek red device, stump back and perform the awkward navigation that is getting into a chair lately, and open it up on your lap. Squinting methodically at the screen yields a familiar icon, and you click triumphantly. Trollian opens up and is already working, so it’s not much of a problem to suss out how to send a new message to a new friend.
briarThorn has added new Contact!
briarThorn [BT] is trolling armchairDesperado [AD]
BT: Hello Jethro!
BT: IT’s me.
AD: = oh thank fuck
AD: = goddammit bro you said you was gonna meet me, it's been fuckin days
AD: = :(
BT: I Did? I don’t think I did. Did I??
BT: I’m very sorry.
BT: Meet you where?
AD: = in scorpius! shit, is your memory all messed up or sumpin?
BT: No! I’m Fine. But Scoripus was days ago, I haven’t been there since
AD: = i even let that one gossip blogger interview me so you'd see i was there!
BT: Well I certainly Don’t Know anything about Gossip Interview, I wasn’t at
BT: I would have remembered
BT: Why Are you still there, I’m not There
AD: = bel done got me a hotel room an then zoomed off lookin for you. i din't tell him i dream talked to you, but i ain't been sure that was the right call, cuz he tole me what he found in your hotel room an jEGUS DICK ERSKIN YOUR FUCKIN LEG I CRIED AN THREW UP YOU ASSHOLE please tell me you're ok
BT: I’m Alright! I’m perfectly alright. Better than ever, Shiny New leg and everything. But Very VERY Sorry.
AD: = i forgive you bro but i gotta see you soon please
AD: = ask? you need your ms's permission to see your moirail?
AD: = >:[
BT: I do when Bel Zoomed Off Looking For Me. I don’t even know where I am, let alone where he might be, or if any of this is
BT: But I’ll ask. We’ll figure it out.
AD: = meh ok, i guess that's fair. big blue sure does have a mad-on for cloris.
AD: = he's real fucked up over this, you know. i dunno if you even care bout him anymore, but he's damn near as worried as i am.
BT: I do miss him. I mean. I regret
BT: I wish he wasn’t Like THis.
AD: = like what, man?
AD: = wait, no, let's talk about it in person. we need a jam like whoa.
AD: = make it soon, ok?
AD: = here's where i'm at rn.
- armchairDesperado [AD] is sending a file: hotel_locator_map.img -
BT: Alright I’m Saving That
BT: To...
BT: The DeskTop?
BT: THe desktop.
AD: = yeah iffen you double click on it then it'll open up in whatever image app you got there
AD: = i got a lil extra cash so i can travel elsewheres or
AD: = yeah
AD: = just
AD: = don't leave me hangin again, erskin, this is fuckin killing me.
AD: = <>
BT: Yes, of Course. See you soon.
BT: <
BT: M>
BT: Hell! I love you. So There.
--briarThorn [bT] has signed off--
You wake from a light nap to a lovely sight: there is your Lady returning from whatever mysterious errands had called her away. You smile and move to rise--and forget entirely about the husktop warming your lap. She darts forward the last few steps to catch it, and with her assistance you just manage to keep it from hitting the floor.
“Oop! Sorry—”
“Erskin, dear, do be careful,” she says, not unkindly, though her smile fades when the screen flickers into view again. “... Darling, what’s this I see?”
“Oh, I got back in contact with my moirail,” you say. “See, that’s his handle, there. Can he come visit? Only he’s been fretting terribly, and I’d love to reassure him—”
“Your moirail?” Her sharp, incredulous tone is not something you were expecting at all, and she only looks more distressed the more of your conversation that she reads. “Erskin, did it not occur to you that using my pesterchum handle to contact someone who is in contact with the rest of your clade might not be particularly wise?”
You frown. “Well, but... it’s Jethro,” you say, doubtfully.
“Yes, it’s Jethro, but did you not warn me before that they were all a part of some sordid plot to take you from me?”
“Oh.” You scratch your horns. “That was before,” you say. “I just— I just thought— we talked, when I went to see him through that dream—”
“You did WHAT? How could you?” It takes you a moment to realize she’s actually asking you why you did it rather than how. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
“Hold up,” you object. “I did tell you! Didn’t I? Last week, there was a whole— a whole thing, what? I said, I talked to Jethro, it’s sorted, he’d like to come over, and you said yes of course, we’d pick some time or other, and then—”
“I thought you just had a daymare!” she cries. She looks on the verge of snapping her husktop in half. Instead, she sets it angrily on the table and rakes her hands through her curls agitatedly. “I wasn’t agreeing to any kind of visit, I was speaking hypothetically, in the far future, when I was certain we were safe!”
Groaning through her teeth, she sits on the edge of your chair and grips her own horns. You’ve never seen her do that before. “How could you see him without discussing it with me first? What other secrets have you kept from me?”
“It wasn’t ever a secret!” you say hotly. “I told you, and if you don’t care overmuch to listen to me I hardly see how that’s my fault!”
“It is if you deliberately misled me with half-truths so that you could do--do whatever it is that you did with your moirail! We are in danger, you made that quite clear, and here you go traipsing off—”
“So I could be safe!” you yell, exasperated. “No one can track us through dreams, you said, so I went to talk to him there!”
“Don’t take that tone with me. I said they were safe because they were MY dreams, Erskin! This is my life, my hive, and I’ve spent the last week fending off one incursion after another while you spent your own sweet time lounging around my gardens! The indigo’s been after us through dreams, the rest of your damn clade’s been harassing me through the internet, suspending my accounts, compromising my finances— your psycho ex-boyfriend’s been stalking his way through all my old hives! Just because sweet little harmless Jethro’s charmed his way into your confidence doesn’t mean that you can simply make him privy to everything I’ve been trying to protect!”
“Don’t talk about him like that,” you snap. You lurch out of the lounge chair, leaning heavily on your cane for balance, and stump three angry steps away from her and then back. “I’d have been on my feet in an instant to help you out with anything you liked, and Jethro could have—”
Cloris laughs humorlessly. “On your feet? You? Oh yes, I’m sure my assailants would have been petrified.” Sighing, she covers her eyes with one hand, shaking her head. “You can barely take care of yourself and you think you can take care of anything else? Wonderful.”
You are acutely aware of the numb weakness of your bad leg, the flickering pain through your hip, and you draw yourself up very straight and tall, your burning fins set angrily forward.
“Nonetheless, my Lady,” you snarl. “I remain at your service.”
She meets your gaze without flinching, her chin lifting. “Yes. Yes you really believe you do. And yet you behave like a wild animal come to den under my porch.” Her voice is soft and level, her eyes pitiless. “I can’t even take you out shopping without you pitching a feral tantrum, how am I to trust you with anything important? You are unreliable, unstable, and utterly self-centered. I feel as though I must watch you all the time to make sure you don’t go acting on whatever base impulse catches your attention. It’s enough to make me wonder sometimes if you won’t leave me as thoughtlessly as you declare your feelings for me.”
You feel sick with humiliation. “Well maybe I jolly well should, then! If I’m such a bloody imposition. I can go back out into the woods and fucking well die, shall I, and you can have your— your finances back.”
Though her complexion doesn’t show it, something about how her eyes widen and her mouth thins makes you think she’s turned very pale. Cloris crosses the space between you in two long strides and stands over you, speaking in that same quiet, merciless tone:
“Don’t be any more stupid than you can help, you exhausting little brat. You’re being ridiculous: of course that’s not what I want. I want you to commit to this relationship, in your thoughts, in your words, in your damn actions. I want you to stop pitching such an immature fuss and take a stab at behaving rationally for once in your irresponsible disaster of a life.” She moves even closer, and you can feel the coolness of her skin. Her fingers close around one of your horns and forces you to look up at her, her lips almost brushing yours. “If you love me, if you’re at my service, you’ll show me that you’re capable of acting as anything more than a poorly broken-in beast.”
You want, very badly, to bite her, and you think that with the way she’s looking at you she knows. Instead, you force your fins back, curl your claws into tight fists, and grit out, “Tell me what to do, then, my Lady. This humble gentleman awaits your command.”
“Trust me,” Cloris snaps, and then her mouth is on yours, all teeth and violently moving tongue. You reel back a step, unprepared for this ferocity, and her arm goes around your waist before you can stumble. She tears at you and you— you whine, and you take it, her hand on your horn still keeping your head tilted back, your throat bared. You shiver and hurt and surrender to her.
It’s a long time before she parts from your lips, and even then she doesn’t let you go, doesn’t release your horn. For a second you think she might take your throat, but the ghost of a kiss she leaves just under your jaw is somehow even more of a shock than if she had. You gasp as she presses slow, deliberate kisses down your neck, her body trembling against your own.
“Trust me,” she breathes, and this time there’s no anger in it, no condescending scorn--for all she’s in command of you, there’s this little catch in her voice that makes it almost sound like a plea. It cuts through all your hurt and anger and gets you right in the heart.
“Yes, I do,” you say shakily, “you know I do.”
“I know you do,” she repeats and loosens her hold on you, pressing close, and she’s all softness now as she guides one of your hands to unzip the back of her dress. “But show me anyway.”
You peel her dress off, fumbling, eager for her, eager to prove yourself, throw all this back in her face— you’re hers, you told her, how dare she doubt you?— and stumble after her when she steps back towards the lounge. She drops into it and you don’t kneel so much as your leg gives out on you with an awful pop, and you have to lay your forehead to her knee and pant for a moment.
You feel her lay a hand between your horns, a familiar possessive gesture, and when you look up, her brows are drawn together with rueful pity. She looks as if she expects nothing better from you, but— but hopes. She dares to hope you might prove her worst expectations wrong.
“My broken boy,” she murmurs, cupping your face. “My sad little prince.”
“My Lady,” you say, pressing a kiss to her wrist. And you mean it, you do, you really do. You climb up into her lap and give yourself to her again, and again, and for as many times as it takes for her to believe you.
You wake feeling groggy and muzzyheaded in the way that means you’ve slept for a very long time. Various parts of you are still screaming from your long walk, and you take a wincing itinerary: foot, knee, hips, lower back. Your right hand aches from clutching and leaning on that bloody stupid cane all night and the attached shoulder feels as if it’s thinking about fucking off altogether. You're also ravenous--the platter of pastries feels like it happened eons ago.
But all that aside, you feel considerably better than you did. Here in this block it is calm and quiet and safe, a gentle evening breeze rustling the silk curtains and sending all the fronds and flowers bobbing. You’re wearing soft, simple pajamas, and the slime smells fresh and clean. You could be well on your way to feeling like a normal troll again if you could get some breakfast in you— you’re just hungry enough to be slightly uncomfortable, but indolent enough that you don’t feel like climbing out of the medicupe just yet.
The sound of Cloris’s heels against hard floors is becoming familiar to you, and you feel your stomach clench as they grow louder. Is she upset with you? The events of the night before flip through your head like shuffled playing cards and you sink back into the slime in an agony of embarrassment. What if she's ashamed of your behavior? She’s called you brat, barbarian, beast, and those supposed endearments present themselves to you now from a mortifying perspective: you are supposed to be her prince, her knight, and instead you ended up huddled in some dressing room and snarling at the help like an ill-behaved animal in need of a muzzle. Didn’t Bel always treat you like that, too, didn’t you deserve it? You’re mad to have ever thought this would work, or that you could deserve her.
But then Cloris enters and stops just past the doorway, her hands folded in front of her. The hesitancy in her posture breaks your heart. Was she afraid of you? Did you hurt her?
When she sees you, her eyes widen, and she bites her lip. But before she can say what she’s obviously drawn breath to start in on— what if she asks you to leave? what if you’ve been too much to deal with? ungrateful, uncontrollable— she should, shouldn’t she.
“I’m sorry,” you blurt out, graceless and hoarse. You look away, down, to your fingers tensing on the rim of the ‘cupe, crushing the material. “I’m so sorry for making such a scene last— last night. I’m sorry. I’ll do whatever you want to make up for it, just— j-just give me a, a, another chance, don’t send me away, I’m sorry!”
She looks at you wordlessly for what feels like a small eternity. You’re on the verge of begging her to say something, anything, when she crosses the room in four long strides, and with an expression of vehement anguish on her face, kisses you so passionately that you’re dizzy when she parts. You’re surprised to find your cheeks wet with her tears.
“No, no, my darling, not another word, please, I should be begging your forgiveness--” she says, her voice choked. “You’ve been so unwell and I pushed you so hard, I just didn’t think, I’m so sorry--”
“Wh— stop, stop, no,” you protest, and she draws a little ways back, her fingers clutching yours on the cupe’s rim. “It wasn’t your fault at all. I could have— I, I, I could have held on. Longer. I should have been less— less— difficult. To care for. I should be.”
“Oh, sweetheart--” she says, kissing you over and over. “My brave boy, my prince, we’ll both work on it, won’t we? Only let’s never quarrel like that again, my heart couldn’t bear it--”
“Yes, I mean— no, certainly— I, I, I mean— oh!” one of her beautiful sharp fangs has caught the side of your lip, and the bright sweet sting of pain makes you shiver. You moan and clutch at her as she sucks the little wound, and then, absurdly, she is climbing in the cupe with you, slime and all, and you laugh as she straddles your hips and kisses you breathless.
You’re both gasping when she parts, and the tender, teary smile she makes when you cup her cheek nearly gets you going too.
“Can we—?” you ask breathlessly. “I mean, would you like— I’d like—” your aching arm chimes in its own opinion, and you amend that to “—if we were careful.”
Her brows arch and she rocks her hips against you once, twice, and you’re trembling in seconds. “Can we what, dearheart?”
“Hhhnnnh— can– I don’t—a-anything, anything you want, PLEASE—”
Her hips keep moving as she grins wide and looks upward thoughtfully. “Anything I want? I’m afraid you’ll need to narrow that down a little, darling, that’s an awful lot for a girl to ponder--” Your pan scrambles as she arches faster, chuckling at your increasing incoherence. “Well? What is it, my little toy? Tell me what you want, say it…”
“Please, please—” You keen, desperately, and claw furrows in the yielding slime. The combination of sopor all around you and your Lady above you has you reeling, all sense falling out through your loose fangs in a scramble of savage noise. You can’t— you want— you reach up to try and take her shoulders, bring her down to kiss you, but she bats your hands away, laughing.
“Oh, darling, you lose all coherency at the most vexing times!” But she’s smiling as she says it, running her claws down your chest through the fabric, and you moan for her and squirm. Soon you’re both moving in a dizzying rhythm and you are starting to fear she might derail you entirely and make you come without even removing your pants, but then your wicked tease slows down.
You squirm and grasp her forearms desperately, seizing the advantage of being able to take a full breath. “M-my Lady, please, do what you want, just take me--”
“You’re quite sure you feel strong enough to?” she says, all innocence.
“YES.”
She giggles, pleased with your wild impatience, and then she grabs the hem of her dress and pulls the entire garment over her head in one graceful movement, leaving her clad only in a pair of tasteful violet panties--violet. Your cheeks flush. She tosses the dress lightly onto the nearby side-table and regards you with a fondness so possessive it’s almost unbearable. She presses your hands to her breasts, much in the same way she had all those ages ago in your dreams. While you cup and stroke them wonderingly, she gets to work unbuttoning your shirt with deft fingers.
Her breasts are soft and strange and extremely nice to touch, and stroking them softly makes Cloris coo at you in a distinctly pleased way, her hips jerking when you try a gentle squeeze. You breathe a little huff of a laugh before she sits back on her heels and hooks her fingers in your soft pajama pants, and then it takes far too much concentration to get them off over your prosthetic and you end up ripping them in several places anyway.
“Myself and long trousers don’t get along,” you say mournfully, dropping the rags over the side of the recuperacoon. “Blast. Sorry.”
But she dips her head and laughs before she writhes out of her underthings and drops them on top of your ruined pants. Her eyes go half lidded as she runs her hands over your bare hips with a lazy, satisfied smile. “It’s a shame you have to wear any clothes at all…”
Then she’s pressing flush against you and there is her bulge twining eagerly around yours, and you wrap your arms around her and wail as she starts pressing hard, sucking kisses down your neck, and all at once you are desperate for her teeth. For the way she’s used you in your dreams.
“Cloris, Cloris, bite me, please, I want— I want to give you—”
You feel her make a single, violent shudder. She nuzzles you, breathing against your skin: “Oh, but Erskin, if I hurt you--”
You squeeze her tighter, ignoring aching hips and widening your legs to allow her bulge better access--damn this ‘cupe, you can’t spread out as much as you like, but it’s enough, it’s wonderful--and press the back of her head gently, encouragingly: “You won’t, you won’t, I promise, please, please have me, use me up—take me apart—”
“Oh, darling--” she moans and rakes her teeth down hard, and you can’t tell if she’s still genuinely hesitant or if she’s drawing it out to torture you--either way, it drives you utterly wild, and soon you’re keening for her, pleading mindlessly as she lavishes your throat with stinging bites just barely too gentle to break the skin, as if she can’t quite— can’t quite chose a spot-- then she makes a ravenous noise of her own and clamps her fangs deep into the side of your neck, the thick bundle of arteries below your fluttering earfin.
It hurts. It hurts, and you scream and lash out with your claws in horror and fear but she’s got you by the wrists and no one’s ever been stronger than you before like this and it hurts oh god oh god like every monster you’ve ever run from has caught up with you all at once. And
then it
...slows. Everything slows. Everything winds down, the pain and terror, your frantic howling, your struggles against her iron hands. You’re pressed to the slime and your breathing slows, the roll of your hips, the way you blink. There’s a roaring in your ears that drowns out all sound and it feels as if you are floating. A profound peace wells up all around you and leaves you soft and small and quiet.
“Oh,” you sigh. Your body is moved— her bulge is sunk into you as well as her fangs, you rock and jolt and as she uses you, and you feel the pleasure like the soft warm flicker of a candleflame but from very far away...
You’re drawn back somewhat closer to reality by the sensation of a cool hand patting your cheek. Your eyes drift open and there is your love above you, her lips stained purple and her eyes staring intently into yours, even as her bulge twists and curls inside you.
“Darling? Sweetheart, how are you feeling?”
You can’t reply, you just draw her down and kiss her with all the bliss and adoration and gratitude you have in you, licking your blood off her lips and rocking loosely, sloppily up against her. She makes an achingly lovely noise and then she’s rolling into you fiercely, overwhelmingly, her mouth on you and her bulge inside you harsh, demanding, everything gone fast and sharp and desperate and it’s all you can do to hold on--and then she parts her fangs from your flesh with a wet gasp and makes a breathless, quavering cry as she peaks, her hips jerking hard a final time--
And you come shortly after, your eyes locked on her face, how her eyes squeeze shut, how her brows furrow up in the sweetest way, the shape of her mouth as she gasps your name-- your color dripping from her lips— and you are simply lost, caught the spasms of a pleasure so intense it breaks you to pieces.
Cloris disentangles herself at some point, but only goes so far as to roll over, pull you atop her, and lick at the numbed flesh of your neck. You suppose you must still be bleeding, for she hums happily as she works at you. You melt against her, purring dreamily, sated in every way you could ever have imagined.
After some time, she draws back and kisses your forehead. “Thank you, sweetheart. You were even better than I dared to hope.” She stretches luxuriantly under you with a throaty groan and you smile and nestle into her, drifting as she pets your hair.
Soon her touches grow more rousing--she starts scratching your scalp and pressing little kisses all over your face. “Mmm, we should get up, get you cleaned up. I have breakfast for you, and you need it now even more than you did before, my eager pet…”
You don’t want to move. You could stay sprawled with her like this forever, as far as you’re concerned, but when she gently pushes you upward, you don’t protest.
She props you on the edge of the recuperacoon, the slime peeling off in blobs as you dazedly regard the floor. It’s a nice floor. Tiled.
“Here, sweetheart, I ordered this while you were still asleep. It’ll suit better than the wooden cane— you broke that one, in the, hmm... incident. And you did say you liked the color.”
A sturdy, heavy, iron-infused chitin cane is laid across your lap and you blink, refocus. It’s the same lovely black as your new prosthetic, and done up around the grip in thorn vines and rosebuds. There’s a little lizard crawled halfway out of the leaves where the grip joins the shaft. You stroke a finger over the tiny metal head and smile.
“It’s gorgeous,” you say. You weigh it in your hands. “I should allocate a cane-kind strifekind, I suppose. This seems as if it could put up a good show in a fight.”
She smiles, as if she wasn’t sitting naked in your cupe with mussed hair and multicolored thighs. “If you like, I could arrange to have it weaponized in some way, maybe install a blade…” She runs her hand down it thoughtfully, and you cover it with your own.
“Thank you. I couldn’t have asked for a better one, really.”
Her smile broadens and she kisses your cheek. “Well, I know you,” she says, and she does.
You think you could die of this soft joy, this gladness, the way when you limp along after her to a wardrobe block your body shambles and shakes and aches but your heart feels as if it’s pumping pure gold. You clean one another up and then you take yourself over to lean against the side of the wardrobe while Cloris fusses over whether peach goes with salmon, or some other such nonsense.
She dresses you up like a precious doll, smiling, covering you in kisses until you laugh, and you have to admit afterwards that you do look very smart—it’s some sort of pretentious wrapping-up with very brief shorts and at least three layers of shirt and vest and jacket and scarf atop. Too many buttons. But she hooks her fingers into the leather strap of a suspender and purrs over how gorgeous you are and, well, a fellow could get used to this sort of treatment.
“Oh, I nearly forgot,” she says. “I saw these while you were out and couldn’t help but order them. I know you favor simple decorations over too much gold, so—” she holds out a pair of handsome leather wrist cuffs, undyed and untooled, with a plain buckle to fasten them, and a dark metal ring set into the back as decoration. Your earfins perk forward at these.
“Very nice,” you say, taking them and admiring the make. Nearly as stiff as armor on the outside, but soft as felt on the inner layer. “Here, put them on for me? I’m all thumbs, and my— er—” you waggle your right elbow, where your arm’s braced on the cane.
“Of course, of course…” And something about watching her shapely hands clasp them around your wrists, it feels like she’s making you hers in yet another small way. She meets your eyes and smiles in a way that tells you she was thinking much the same thing. You wonder what it would be like if she collared you, like her hand to your throat always, if she took you to all her parties with such an intimate claim under your fancy ties and scarves. Maybe she’d forbid you to take it off unless she asked, not that you imagine you’d ever want to…
But then she’s drawing you close and kissing you softly. “Shall I take you to breakfast?”
You remember all over again that your digestive sac has been growling periodically for the past several minutes. “Yes, please.”
She seats you outside again, in a patch of lush grass, under a sky full of wispy clouds and a bright lime moon. The wind is soft against your skin, and if you weren’t absolutely famished you might be entirely content to just sit here and drift.
You perk up as Cloris returns with a covered tray of something that is definitely not broth. She sets it in front of you and lifts the lid with a flourish--and there are four huge behemoth steaks, seared lightly on each side just long enough to create a nice crust, and you are full of delight.
Shortly thereafter, you are full of steaks. You flop over on your side in the grass and gaze mournfully at the final fourth steak, which has defeated you.
“I’m going to carry this steak around until I can give it a proper seeing-to,” you grumble. “I refuse to surrender to dead livestock.”
Cloris snickers. “Aww, sweetheart, you put in a truly heroic effort,” She pats your hand and giggles harder at your exaggeratedly petulant pout. “I don’t think anyone will blame you if you put it in the thermal hull for later.”
“Never!” you contradict her. “I shall take it about on a plate held perfectly at eyelevel, so I can glare at it continuously. Intimidation is key, my dear heart.”
“I think I see it shivering,” she says wryly.
“Ah, see, it’s working already.” You inchworm over to where Cloris is reclining, and put your head on her thigh. “Goodness, it’s a beautiful night. Could we just stay in and enjoy it?”
She purses her lips in thought and pats your head. “I suppose I could pencil it in. It’s a good thing I managed to find so much for you yesternight, we shouldn’t need to get more outfits for you for at least a week…”
“A week?” you say, dismayed. “My Lady! We bought enough clothes last night to last the entire Fleet from now until doomsday!”
Grinning, she boops your nose. “The Fleet’s uniforms are notoriously hideous, my dearest. If I’m to show you off properly, I’ll need a big selection. Don’t fret about it, Erskin, I know these things. Maybe we could order off a catalogue while you recuperate…”
“Hmf,” you grunt. “I intend to malinger.”
“Oh, it’s best if you don’t, darling,” she purrs and strokes your neck with one finger meaningfully. “Think of all the fun we’ll miss if you’re not sturdy enough to really enjoy it? I have such plans for you.”
“Well, I suppose I might be persuaded away from death’s doorstep. With the proper incentive, of course.”
“Of course,” she says warmly, and kisses you again, and you don’t get much talking done, after that.
IN the course of some very crafty— and very private!— negotiations, Lord Aspera’s secret moirail has been coaxed out into the open for an exclusive sit-down interview with yours truly!
Jethro Makwa, a rugged greenblood, joined us in a private location looking positively cuddly in a thick sweater— hand-knit, we're told!— and unfussy jeans put together with a pair of evidently well-loved hiking boots. A blood-colored mohawk gives his sweet demeanor a delicious hint of sharp. Friendly enough to give us a look into the life of a modest troll with a royal moirail, but shyly protective of the intimacy the two must have built up between them, Mr Makwaa was a breath of fresh and adorable air in the ongoing doom and gloom of whatever business it is exactly that Lord Aspera is conducting with his kismesis. Interview below the cut.
So, what brings you here to our humble hivecluster, Mr Makwaa?
> I've been out hiking cross-country, but the weather turned, so I'm gonna meet Erskin here and hang out a while.
Sounds like a nice change of pace. So, first things first: how did the two of you happen to get together? It must be quite a story.
> Oh man, it's a real tangle. We got a lotta friends and outclade in common. My ash bros are his spade bro's pale and red bros. So we saw each other around a lot, and the feelings just grew.
How sweet and comfortable! But tell us: sources indicate that Lord Aspera favors a distinctly wide-ranging lifestyle. What effect, if any, does that have on your relationship?
> It's great. He's a real old-style explorer, and I love the outdoors. Our first date was on a boat, you know? We been road-tripping… we like to say, "Let's go get that horizon."
The two of you are really well-suited for one another, then. Does that synergy extend to the more intimate aspect of your relationship? Seadwellers are notoriously eccentric— how are you coping with his tastes and temper?
[Mr Makwaa makes as if to rise from his chair.]
> Hey now, getting a little personal there. Y'all wanna back off that line of inquiry.
Alright, what’s your favorite color?
> You know that light clear blue you get in sea ice?
We haven’t been formally introduced.
> Heh, well, of course I like purple a whole lot too.
You certainly must. So, what’s he like in a fight? Have you had to pull him out of any so far?
> We're a good team, and that's all I'm gonna say.
You’re very modest. If it’s not a private matter, could you talk to us about gifts you’ve exchanged? We’re very interested in what tokens of affection a regular troll might receive from one of the naval aristocracy— and what they could possibly give in return.
> I ain't big on material goods. I like to travel, you know? The last thing he gave me was a fishing trip. We wanted to see if we could get one of them big sturgeon. What I give him is mainly warm knits. I gave him a blanket before we were officially a thing, he just looked cold. In those pics of him you had, I think he was wearing a sweater I gave him, but I couldn't say for sure on account of the cloak.
Well I’m sure it— and you— keep him plenty warm. Another nosy question for ourselves and our readers: what’s your dream date? Would you want to go on another adventure, or have a more restful change of pace?
> Well, the last time we hung around my hive watching movies and drinking cocoa WAS awful sweet. Milk don't agree with him, I made his cocoa with cider. But there's so many places I ain't showed him yet, so I'd say exploring with him is definitely my dream no matter how much exploring we done already. You know what, I'm gonna say a combo of the two -- drive my prowler to someplace nobody's been for ages, so we're the only trolls from horizon to horizon, and sit by the campfire to watch the stars.
That strikes us as the very height of romance and we certainly wish you two well! One final question: do you do butt stuff?
> …Seriously?
Seriously.
> Wow. [Mr Makwaa leaves. He probably does butt stuff.]
Look, whatever the h*ll you’re up to with Lord Aspera you need to cut it the f*ck out. It’s killing him. Like, you’re winning, you won, he looks like complete shi*t. This tabloid cr*p wasn’t any of my lookout till the sorry b*stard had a grand mal meltdown in my store. Other shoptrolls say he wasn’t doing so hot in front of them neither. Back the f*ck off and let him catch his g*ddamn breath, you toxic, hyperaggresive nutjob, or I’m gonna have to make this personal.
F*cking fight me,
—Kohoal Staiem
[response sent within 5 minutes]
To: Kohoal Stalem
Re: Erskin Aspera’s health
What the hell was he doing in a store. Look, you’ve got the wrong end of this. I’m not about to explain the details of Erskin’s personal life to a stranger, that would be extremely inappropriate, but I give you my solemn word that I’m not the one endangering him. Considering the last information I had regarding his health, I’m appalled he was anywhere but a medicupe. And also baffled because he lost his prosthetic some time ago. Was he on crutches or what.
No, nevermind, what’s important is: when did this happen, how sick did he look, was there a large muscular jadeblood with him, and where did she take him. God, tell me she isn’t making him walk.
Like no one’s heard that before, huh! I bet he got that dinged up falling down some g*ddamn stairs, pal? Here’s the list.
-He’s got a prosthetic, black, about up to his hip. He was using a cane. Not well. Other guys in the salesring say he was out this way three, maybe four hours? Bought a lot, mostly clothes, mostly on Lady Vhines’ recommendation.
- This happened just about last night now. I thought I was gonna sleep on chewing your snobby blue b*tt off but I got too mad.
-Yeah, he was with Lady Vhines, looks like he’s gone to ground with her and I can’t say as I blame him. She’s a respectable client of this salesring and treats her boy toys pretty well from what I’ve heard. Let her alone for a while, would you.
-She took him off in an aircar. He was a mess. He was having just about the regular I’m Tired kind of tantrum rich assholes throw at their matesprits when they hit the end of their limited attention span, but somewhere along the way of trying to get him settled down in the changing rooms the kid goes off the g*ddamn rails. Red eyes, tore the booth up, took a swipe at me, whole It’s Murder Time kind of highblood deal, so thanks for that, me and my g*ddamn changing rooms really f*cking appreciate that you’ve scr*wed him over to the point he goes berserk at ties. Anyway, we got some food into him and he calmed his t*ts and Ms Vhines carried him off, presumably to recuperate in her hive, which I don’t know where that is and wouldn’t f*cking tell you if I did.
Message Sent To One Of Bel’s Moderately Obscure Inboxes
To: whichever d*ckweed it may concern
Re: your asinine f*ckgames
Look, whatever the h*ll you’re up to with Lord Aspera you need to cut it the f*ck out. It’s killing him. Like, you’re winning, you won, he looks like complete shi*t. This tabloid cr*p wasn’t any of my lookout till the sorry b*stard had a grand mal meltdown in my store. Other shoptrolls say he wasn’t doing so hot in front of them neither. Back the f*ck off and let him catch his g*ddamn breath, you toxic, hyperaggresive nutjob, or I’m gonna have to make this personal.
Four hours after your departure from the grooming hive, you are beginning to wish you never let your Lady pry you from your medicupe at all. Learning your way around a shop was fun, at first, and admiring yourself in different sorts of outfits, but it’s gone on, and on, and your stomach is an empty, gnawing hole. The drinks have rather gotten the better of you and you’ve a terrible headache, and every inch of the rest of you aches from having to walk from store to store and then stand around while your Lady holds up endless blazers and slacks and vests and ties up to you speculatively. The cane is helping less and less and your shoulder’s starting to twinge nearly as ominously as your hip. But your Lady is lost in her own private little bubble of fashion, and you are caught helplessly in her wake.
When you find yourself approaching yet another formalwear shop, you are having serious thoughts about lying down on the plush carpet and quietly expiring. You would die happy, you think, safe in the knowledge that you’d never have to button yourself into another fucking dress shirt ever again. Whomever invented fashion should be dug up and shot.
“Hurry up, darling, we’re almost finished,” she says without looking at you, gesturing impatiently, her heels clicking.
She’s been saying that at every new store you visit, and your nerves have been frayed absolutely raw.
“My Lady,” you say plaintively. “I’m tired. I want to go home.”
She glances back at you, balancing five shopping bags effortlessly on one arm. “Dearest, please don’t fuss at me. Just wait a teeny bit longer, this is the last store for tonight.”
“You keep saying that!” you snap, frustrated.
Her brows draw together in a way that shows you that you’ve made a dreadful mistake. Her eyes lock on yours and narrow as she approaches, her voice dropping to a rolling growl.
“Why are you being so difficult? Do you think I’m dragging you around to suit my needs, Erskin? I’m doing this for you. Now stop squalling like an ungrateful pupa and behave, and I promise we’ll be home after this store.”
You— you don’t cringe, but there is a significant drawing inwards that happens. You nod, not daring to speak or meet her blazing eyes, then limp quietly after her into the next shop when she clicks her claws at you, which apparently sells hats. If every hat in the world were to catch fire, you think, you would be very happy.
It takes blind, white-knuckled self-control to keep your feet through the mounting unwellness, and to suffer one stranger after another to fuss at your horns, your face, your hair, tilt you this way and that. But you manage. You don’t scream, or bite, or run, or be messily sick on anyone. You behave.
Cloris gathers various items into various bags, hooks her arm through yours, pops a kiss to your cheek. You are breathing shallowly through your teeth.
“My Lady,” you manage, stiffly.
“Yes, yes, dear, I know, you’ve been very g--” She stops abruptly, and you look up just in time to see her face light up. “Ooh, look, Crowly’s is having a sale!” She tows you across the way before you can think to dig in your heels and then you are staring in cold horror at racks of even more fucking fashion.
Maybe if you’re lucky, Bel will show up and shoot you.
“Cloris,” you say again, through the roaring in your ears, the painful tremble of your arm on the cane. “Cloris, I can’t.”
“Oh, don’t be silly, of course you can, we’ll only be a few minutes. I just want to see if they have any luna silk ties…”
“No, I mean. I. I can’t. I can’t.”
She looks at you, and you wince, expecting her to snap at you, but then her brows furrow up in worry. “Oh, sweetheart. Here, come along, I have an idea--”
She ushers you into the store, and you want to scream the moment you step inside, just let your legs collapse and pitch a howling wiggler fit right there among the mannequins. A lowblooded store assistant takes one look at you and recoils.
“Oh shit, are you all right? He doesn’t look all right--”
Cloris flashes her a broad smile. “Of course he is, now, would you mind checking your stock for luna ties? There’s a good girl--”
Then she’s walking again, leading you to a large, intimate dressing room far in the back and eases you on a padded seat. It’s quieter here, and when she shuts the curtains it feels like she’s blocked out the world. You look at her, your eyes welling up, and she cups your cheek and kisses you.
“You rest here, darling, just sit for awhile.”
She rises as if to go off and you catch her arm. You’re shaking. “Stay,” you plead, pressing her hand to your throat. “I— for, just for, a, just, stay with me for just a moment. Here. Please.”
Cloris looks at you, surprised, and to your immense relief she sits back down and slips her arms around you, pillowing your head against her chest. “Oh, honey,” she says, softly, kindly, and you swallow down a hot, sharp sob. You shiver in her arms for a long time, fighting for control of yourself. Everything is too bright and loud and painful right now, and you’re so tired.
“Shh,” she says, stroking your hair. “Shh, shh. There, now.”
Slowly, you calm. With your fin pressed against her chest you listen to the deep slow calmness inside your Lady, and you’re almost asleep when she shifts, and pushes you back upright.
You whine, confused, and then she’s moving, gathering you up and pulling you toward the door. “Come on, dearest, we can just get those ties for you and--”
“No,” you say, digging in your heels. “No.”
Her expression turns dark and dangerous. “Stop being so obstinate, pet, and cooperate with me already!”
“NO!” you yell, baring your teeth, and wrench desperately away. You can’t, you can’t go. Your back hits the far wall and you brace yourself in the padded corner, your arms raised over your head defensively. You can’t. Everything’s too much.
“Wow, ok, what the hell,” says a stranger, “Fuck, is that Lord Aspera?” says that— that— the, you don’t know. You don’t know them. You don’t know them! Why are they here, the one small quiet place you were put, you can’t deal with this. You just want to be safe, and done, and at home, and quiet, and they’re coming in to your SPACE—
You are going to kill them.
Cloris is staring down at you with narrow eyes and a terrible frown, like you’ve really fucked up, like she won’t protect you. When the intruder comes around her side and leans down to you—no, no— you howl frantic threat and lash out with sword and claws and teeth— but Cloris has pulled them away, she’s made them go, she’s closing the curtain.
You draw in deep, ragged breaths and grip your horns tightly, sinking down to your heels. For long minutes you just watch her back, the strong confident set of her shoulders as she defends your space. Defends you. You tuck your face to your knees and listen to the quiet, the stillness. Your shallow gasps are the loudest noise.
After some time, she moves to sit on the floor with you, fancy dress and all. She doesn’t touch you, and for once you’re glad of it as you peek mutely at her from over your knees.
She looks at you sorrowfully, saying things, your name, reassurances, but you can’t parse the noise into meaning and you can’t abide the thought of one more person— even her— touching you so you curl up again, pressed tightly to the corner. You focus on just breathing.
After a time, there is a discreet throat clearing just outside. She rises to her feet, thanks the attendant, and takes a large tray from her. Your bristle and growl, wildly dreading a tray of ties or socks or cufflinks— you will kill them— but then a wonderful smell hits you the moment your Lady turns around and your head snaps up.
She’s brought you a tray of some kind of savory pastries, some with mushrooms, some with red meat, some with chopped vegetable matter, all of it hot and rich and smelling almost cloyingly of butter and spices. Next to it, she sets two glasses and a pitcher of strong iced tea.
You wait a long, cautious moment, still coiled, but she doesn’t move to touch you. Just gestures at the food. You hook the tray closer and stuff one of the bits with meat in it into your mouth and gulp it down, then another, nearly choking with haste. You work your way through all the meat portions you can find, then, a little more methodically, through the mushrooms. When you’re pressing a cold glass of the tea against your pounding headache, Cloris speaks to you again.
“Erskin,” she says softly. “Are you with me, sweetheart? I’ve pushed you rather dreadfully tonight, haven’t I?” Her mouth trembles, and she blinks away tears. “You must think I’m horrible.”
You shake your head, unsure how to answer any of these questions, and slide the tray of vegetable bits back over to her. She should eat, too, shouldn’t she...?
She sniffles and cracks a smile. “No, dear, you eat up. I’m not hungry.”
You’re feeling better, too, but you manage a few of the vegetable pastries and both glasses of tea. But when you go to tuck your face back into your knees for some sleep she makes as if to touch you, take hold of you, and you snarl desperately and cram back as flat against the corner as you can. You’re so tired, can’t anyone let you alone?
Her hand is withdrawn quickly. “I’m going to take you home, Erskin,” she says, softly. “Home. Yes? We’re going home.”
Home.
“Please,” you manage. Your tongue is thick and your voice comes out half-growl. She rises and when she holds out her hand again you take it, cautiously, let her pull you to stand— oh, it hurts— and she guides you, flinching and whining with the strain, out through the shop and into the open and there’s an air car.
It’s dark and it’s quiet and when she pulls you into her lap you curl against her and close your eyes and finally rest.
The next evening, Cloris wakes you with kisses and toast and tea and the news that she is taking you out shopping.
You are not sure if you are up for shopping, to be honest. For all you slept deeply, you still feel worn and travel-sick, and the idea of spending the night hobbling along on your new leg doesn’t sound pleasant.
But your sweetheart is so charmingly excited, all smiles and sparkling eyes as she feeds you bits of toast and sips of tea, chattering about this shop or that market, and you find you can’t bring yourself to disappoint her. And they do sound nice, of course, and if you’re to be seen on Cloris’s arm you can hardly get away with looking like a vagabond anymore.
Heaving yourself out of the recuperacoon is an adventure in and of itself, and Cloris has to move the plates and cups and things out of the way quickly while you stagger and hop to keep upright.
“I don’t... it still... it doesn’t feel right,” you say, balancing on your good leg, your arms out awkwardly. The ankle’s stiff, the knee’s unstable, and there’s a sharp ache up through your hip that only gets worse when you put weight on it. “Are you sure it’s... it’s been, er, correctly installed?”
She gives your shoulders a squeeze, her good cheer undaunted by your complaining. “Quite! It’s as I said, you just need to get used to it! Which is why a nice walk and fresh air will do you a world of good.” Taking your chin, she smiles into your face and kisses your nose. “Oh! I almost forgot, I found a little something to help you adjust.”
The little something is a cane, retrieved from underneath your medicupe. It’s a dainty thing crafted from peach-pale wood, the handle carved to look like some tropical blooming flower that fits the shape of your hand. When you lean on it, it supports you well enough and eases the pain in your hip almost immediately, but you feel a little foolish using something that looks more appropriate for a frolicsome picnic party than supporting your worn-through collection of bones and bruises.
You wonder if Cloris has chosen it as incentive to get you out to the shops for a less flowery one. If so, it’s certainly effective. You dislike both the color and design immediately, and the wood’s too soft under your grip. It’ll splinter in your fingers if you’re not careful. Still: it will have to do.
A turn around the room with the light little thing is a clumsy affair, and Cloris follows closely after you as you figure out how to distribute your weight and manage the extra appendage. You’ve fashioned yourself rough crutches before when you twisted one ankle or another, and for temporary jams in your prosthetic, and walking sticks, of course, for crumbling mountainsides or treacherous marshland. But a cane is a different beast altogether, and it takes you a number of laps before you feel anywhere near satisfied with your balance, let alone confident. You’re certainly not taking another hundred-mile overland trek any time soon.
“Shops?” you say, gamely.
“Shops!” Cloris says brightly. “You’ll have a wonderful time, darling, I just know it.”
But once you wipe the day’s slime from your limbs and go to put on some proper clothes, a problem presents itself.
“Oh, honey, no--” she says, chuckling in dismay, but there’s no sting in it. “You can’t go out looking like that, they wouldn’t let you in the stores!”
You glance down at your worn, comfortable t-shirt and shorts and see them in an embarrassing new light as Cloris fingers a series of clawholes just under your collar.
“Don’t worry about a thing, I’m certain I have something suitable in your size. Give me just a moment.”
Something suitable ends up being a pair of dark green pants that end at the knee, a tall brown boot for your regular leg, the very cleanest t-shirt you can dig out of your pack, and suspenders. Suspenders! You look like a harnessed beast, and you keep a grimace off your face only out of concern that you might hurt her feelings.
Smiling, she pets your hair with brisk affection, trying to tame it but also lingering near your horns. She strokes one, impishly, and it sends a warm thrill down your spine and a bloom of heat into your cheeks.
"There,” she teases, “Now you're perfect."
“If you say so,” you reply, pleased despite yourself, and stump along after her to a waiting aircar.
*
The aircar takes you to a breezy, open-plan sort of establishment called the South Shore Luxury Grooming Hive, a place with winding paths and sternly managed plants. You’re greeted by an intimidating yellowblood who squeals and grabs Cloris’s hands as if they’re old friends.
“Back so soon, darling?” the new troll asks, examining your Lady’s claws intently. “Didn’t I just send you out to devastate the world a few nights ago?”
“Oh, sweetie, you have no idea how chaotic my week has been, and you know just how to treat me right," she says and slips a possessive arm around your shoulders. "But! That is not the only reason I've come to you again so soon: I have a new canvas for you to practice your art." She leans close, presses a kiss to your earfin, and grins at your blush. "My Erskin here is in dire need of pampering, so I was thinking a deluxe package for the both of us?"
“It’ll just be gilding the lily for you, sugar— but why not. I’ve got some copper paints I’ve been dying to try on your particular complexion. And as for your new boy toy— oh.” She looks you up and down with an expression on her face more suitable for a troll watching their hive burn down.
“Oh, honey, no,” she says. “Oh sweetie. Oh no. Oh dear. Ohhhhh dear. No. This is— no. God no.” She hovers all around you, plucking at your shirt, your hair, your horns, your fins. When golden psionics crackle across your skin you snarl and swat her out of the air on pure panicky reflex.
“ERSKIN, NO!” Cloris snaps, and yanks you back by a horn. “Hestia, darling, are you alright?”
The yellowblood just picks herself upright and brushes a few blades of grass off her shoulders, grinning.
“Sweetness, I run a grooming hive. It’ll take more than one tetchy customer to knock me out of the running.”
“I’m not,” you say, abashedly, your head craned a bit strangely by Cloris’s grip on you. “Tetchy. I mean. I’m sorry. I have a problem with, er, with psionics.”
“No kidding,” says the lowblood, and gestures at Cloris. She lets you go with a kiss to your cheek and a pat on your back.
“Don’t look so worried, love! Hestia is the best in the business,” she tells you brightly, and then draws back to look at her friend as something occurs to her. “Oh, Hess, I just realized. My sweetheart has likely never even stepped foot in a place like this, no wonder he’s so nervous! My poor pet.” She cups your face like it’s something precious, her brows furrowed upward in pity, a sweet smile on her lips. “This must all look so strange to you! Don’t worry, you are going to love this.”
You nod meekly, but you still can’t help feeling a flutter of dread in your bile sac as she leads you to a series of plush leather platforms with odd little pillows at the top. You see shelves and shelves of balms, oils, ablution soaps, powders, tools for polishing and filing, and as it all starts to blur together you have the strangest urge to run.
But Cloris puts a comforting hand against the middle of your back and gently nudges you forward. “Lie down, darling.”
The platform has a washbasin attached to the back, right behind where your head should lie. Climbing up awkwardly, you find the pillow is molded to cradle your neck while also allowing whoever’s going to work on you access to your hair and horns. You’re laid out flat on your back, your throat and stomach stretched bare to any blade, and there’s— there’s no leverage, you’re stuck like this, hideously vulnerable and you lose your nerve when Cloris exchanges places with the total stranger and she’s going to touch you again. You hiss warning and lash out, blindly, trying to get back upright—
—and Cloris catches you by the wrists.
“Easy, love,” she murmurs, settling on to the platform beside your hip, pressing your hands to the soft cushioning. “Shh. Settle down.”
You swallow a stupid, wordless, animal whimper, and bite your lip. “I don’t,” you get out. “I, I— I don’t l-like. This.”
She gathers both your wrists into just one large hand, and then with the other takes hold of your throat.
You freeze cold, and Cloris strokes her thumb against your neck.
“I have you, pet,” she says firmly, and squeezes just a bit. “No one else. You’re safe. You’re mine.”
You gape up at her, your breathing harsh and uneven. Cloris is wearing a strange expression on her face--not angry, exactly, but intent, her eyes locked on yours. If it was anyone else pinning you down--even Bel, you think--the cold pressure of those hands would have thrown you into a complete panic. Instead, you shut your eyes against her gaze and shudder, accepting it.
“Say it,” she whispers.
“I-I’m yours. I’m safe.”
Slowly, she lets your wrists go and strokes your hair out of your eyes, her hand still resting lightly on your throat. “There’s nothing to fear. I’ll be right next to you. Just lie still and let them take care of you. I promise nothing bad will happen. Do you understand?”
“Y-yes.”
You feel a pang of disappointment when she lifts her hand away, but you’re mollified some when she presses a kiss against your neck. “Good boy.”
Hestia is standing a polite distance away, her arms full of styling tools, looking amused. Cloris smiles brightly, as if nothing strange had happened, and lies back on her own platform with a content sigh.
“South Shore is staffed almost entirely by drones,” Cloris explains. “This makes for the best results, you see. Hestia will be guiding them while they treat your skin, fix your your hair, and groom your brows. Afterward, we’ll get our horns and nails done and Hestia will outdo herself once again with her knowledge of different makeups. Doesn’t that sound lovely? You’ll feel like a new person.” She sits up slightly and waves the young woman over. “Come on over, dearest, he won’t bite!”
“I don’t bite,” you agree, and give the lowblood a weak smile. She smiles back, clicks her fingers, and half a dozen small, apelike drones cluster around you. Mysterious tools and containers are passed out along with even more arcane instructions, and then your chin is grasped firmly and a warm, fizzing paste is applied to your face.
You relax all in one sharp, involuntary burst, and let loose a truly embarrassing gasp of pleasure. Cloris and Hestia giggle at you.
“High strung, isn’t he?” the lowblood remarks.
“You have no idea,” Cloris replies.
You might have something to say to that, but several drones are briskly washing and combing your hair and another is kneading the paste into your skin and a few more are starting to work on your hands, while the rest are just sitting around the basin and producing soothing buzzes. Instead of words you emit a throaty purr, and then decide to give up on being coherent for a while.
After some endless drifting span of time, a tug on your earfin rouses you to some sort of consciousness.
“Mm,” you complain, and wave a hand in vague menace at whatever’s bothering you. Cloris laughs and gently pulls you out of your fugue, nipping at your fin and jaw and mouth until you’re forced to open your eyes and take stock of reality.
She is more radiant than ever, her skin fresh and smooth, her horns polished to a high gloss.
“Oh,” you comment, and lift your chin to kiss her.
A tactful throat clearing reminds you that you are not alone together in this wonderful place, and Cloris grins as she parts. “Come on, my prince, time to pretty you up.”
“Right,” you say. “Yes, good,” and you limp along on her arm to a tidy bricked-in grove of fruit trees and sat on a very comfortable stool and given a golden drink in a tall glass. Hestia then proceeds to cut your hair, or, rather, hover around and give orders to the drones as they perch on your shoulders and snip and comb. You’re initially worried for your eartips but they don’t even hit them with combs, let alone blades.
“You drink that in between the trimming,” Cloris advises, lounging on some long pillowy bench and looking gorgeous. When you follow instructions the drink turns out to be something with honey and alcohol and a tremendous amount of sugar, and you finish it off eagerly and accept a refill. You aren’t going to face any more surprises sober, that’s for damn sure.
The droids fuss and pause, and Hester fusses and evaluates, and you work your way gamely through a second and third glass before you’re pronounced “Exquisite!” and pulled abruptly off the stool. You squeak and stagger, your leg buckling, and Cloris barely catches you in time.
“I think that’s enough mimosas for you, pet,” she says and gives your waist a squeeze. She is so wonderfully solid and comforting that you feel a reluctant pang when she moves behind you and steers you toward a full length mirror. “But look at you, you’re positively mouthwatering.”
Your breath catches in your throat and— you don’t know about mouthwatering but the troll in the mirror is indeed a different proposition than the last time you had cause to look at yourself. He’s— your horns are smooth and bright, your hair is sleekly trimmed and combed, even your sadly tattered fins have been made to look delicate and lacy, rather than just ill-kempt. You’re dark-eyed not with exhaustion, anymore, but a sort of sweet, self-confident indolence. There’s a lot of glitter.
“I look... pretty,” you say, surprised. “...Huh.”
“You are exquisite,” she says, brushing the lightest of kisses against your earfin. “Now everyone will know how darling you are, how utterly cherishable.”
She smiles into the mirror, and you notice that, during some point, Cloris got her makeup done. The effect is stunning. Hestia has done something, performed some miracle, to make her eyes look larger and her lashes seem fuller. Her eyeshadow, a brilliant golden red, blazes against her pale skin and makes the jade of her eyes even more striking. Her lips are painted a deep metallic red.
But what makes you forget to breathe for a few seconds are her horns. You have never seen anyone decorate their horns with lacquer before, but on Cloris it looks completely wonderful, dark little vines crawling up the length of them in mesmerizing patterns, with here and there a hibiscus blossom.
She sees you looking and squeezes your shoulders, smiling. “So what do you think, sweetheart? Shall we get you some nicer garments to go with your lovely face?”
“I’d rather have less clothes on,” you say, dazedly admiring her, and then flush and bury your face in your palms. “Sorry.”
Cloris lets out a delighted peal of laughter and hugs you, rocking you gently from side to side, and you stumble a bit. “Later, my wild thing, later I will take them all off and cover you in kisses, but we really should get you clad in something decent while we’re here. It won’t take terribly long, and then I can feed you lunch at my hive.”
“Lunch?” you ask, surprised. “We’ve, we’ve hardly had breakfast— I don’t— you—” you pause. “Have you eaten anything? Er. Anyone?”
She buries her face briefly in your hair and chuckles. “Not lately, not since before you arrived. I just haven’t had the appetite, I suppose.” She waves a hand dismissively and shrugs a shoulder. “But, darling, it’s been three hours, surely you must be getting hungry!” She tickles your belly and you gasp a laugh and squirm away— she catches one of your bracer straps, deftly, and reels you back to her side before you can get far enough to tip over and you can’t stop laughing.
“I’m positively starving,” you tell her, leaning hard into her side, kissing her shoulder, her throat, her chin. “Let’s go get all this done before I eat you.”
She kisses you long and hard, and you’re swaying and panting a little when she parts. She smiles at you in a way that makes you flame with heat from horns to heels.
You wake up in more pain, but feeling a good deal clearer for it. Your leg aches sharply in time with your pulse, and you can feel the itch of injection sites up and down your arms. There are... a lot. You really cut it finely this time, didn’t you?
Stretching the various kinks out of your spine, you swing your legs over the side of the shallow ‘cupe, lever yourself to both feet, and promptly fall over.
Unlike the sopor you’re accustomed to, this stuff doesn’t leave a residue-- or have much in the way of the surface tension you were expecting. Instead, the stuff just makes a sucking sound upon your abrupt exit, but otherwise stays firmly put. From where your face is pressed against the pale sandalwood floor, you hear the click of approaching heels.
“Sweetheart,” says Cloris. “You’ll scuff your leg.”
When you look up at her, embarrassed, she’s smiling in a way that tells you she’s joking.
“Right, well,” you say, essaying a smile of your own, “you may not have noticed, my Lady, but I’m a little hard on the furnishings.” You manage to stiffly collect yourself into something like a sitting position, and pat the bit of floor next to you in invitation.
Her impish grin turns lecherous, and you feel your fins heat. “I like a little roughness in a boy,” she purrs, and drops gracefully beside you. This evening she is wearing a pretty green dress with sunflowers all over it, and she’s wearing some kind of rose water behind her ears that, combined with the brush of her arm against yours, makes you forget all about your aches and pains. She kisses your lips once, teasingly. “Good evening, darling. Did you rest well?”
“Er, yes, thank you,” you say, thoroughly distracted, and maneuver to kiss her again. She allows it, turning her head and drawing you in closer, and you’re pressed against her and purring by the time your stomach lets loose an ungodly, ravenous growl.
“Eep,” you say, by way of explanation. You may also, with your fins, indicate that you would like to die now, thank you very much.
But your sweetheart only giggles and prods your belly with one elegant finger. “Goodness! It sounds like you have a cholerbear in there. Shall I take you to breakfast?”
“If you’d be so kind,” you say gratefully.
When you try to get to your feet again, it doesn’t— it doesn’t quite work, it’s slow, it hurts— and you grab your Lady’s arm in a flailing panic.
“Cloris?” you gasp. “I— my leg, it’s not—”
“Oop! Here, let me help--” She steadies you and offers you her arm, and your bloodpump settles and warms as she helps you limp haltingly along. “It’s not far, don’t worry.”
You expect her to take you to some dining room, but instead, she leads you step by step outside, where there is a pretty little iron table and two chairs. Cloris helps you into one of them, as gentle as a jade minder, and kisses your brow. “Poor thing. I’ll be only a moment.”
It’s nice out here, you think. All around you are tidy, trim little flower plots, and from somewhere you can’t see, a fountain gurgles. The night is calm and clear, with both moons bright against a starless sky--there must be too much light pollution here, wherever you are, for stars. Maybe one day you could take your darling somewhere dark and private and show her what they looked like.
You are contemplating how her skin would look like bathed in proper starlight when Cloris returns, a silver tray in both hands. You take one look at what’s on the tray and your bloodpump sinks.
“Oh,” you say. “It’s... broth.”
“Of course, silly! Organic free range cluckbeast broth with sea salt and rosemary.” She sets it in front of you, and you fight to keep your ears from drooping. Chuckling, she pats your hand. “Ooh, don’t look so glum, my dearest, pouts don’t suit you. I have steaks saved for later, once you’ve recovered a little.”
“How little,” you want to know, but you’re smiling despite yourself. You take the bowl, nod your thanks, and have a sip— then the taste is introduced to your cavernous hunger and you gulp it down eagerly, desperate for the salt.
She dips her head, lips pursed against laughing as you spill some, but her eyes are fond. “My sweet barbarian. I brought you a spoon, you know.”
“Right,” you say, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. The bowl is empty, so... “Er. I could use it for... seconds...?”
“Of course you can,” Cloris says, pouring you more from a little ceramic pot. She props her chin in her hands and simply watches you eat for a few quiet minutes. Privately, you’re dying to gulp down this bowl as well, but this way is nice too, you suppose.
“Mmh, it’s so hard not to simply throw myself at you right this second,” she sighs. “But I might break you, and then where would we be? You’re like a tender little bud just starting to open up.”
You choke on the last of the soup, awkwardly jam your spoon into the side of your mouth, and have to spend the next minute or so sorting out your respiratory system. Cloris just sits there with her chin in her hands and watches you, evidently pleased with the chaos, and you actually don’t know what to do with your hands after you have accomplished not dying from chicken broth.
“WELL then,” you finally say, settling for gripping the edge of the table. “Ah. Thank... you...?”
Under the table, you feel her bare foot stroke your shin. “You are going to be so much fun at parties,” she says gleefully. “After you’re well, I’ll show you off to my Society friends--” You can hear the capital S. That foot travels up your inner leg, and you freeze uncertainly. “--and the whole time I’ll whisper in your pretty ear all the things I long to do to you...”
Then she stops herself and laughs. “Oh, you must think me a terrible lech! I’m sorry you’re so easy to fluster, dearheart, I just can’t help it!” She takes your free hand between both of hers and cradles it. “Don’t worry, I’ll be very gentle with you. Tell me anything you need, and I will happily provide.”
It takes you a long moment to realize she means other things besides extended— and elaborate— concupiscent activity.
“Salt,” you squeak, and have to clear your throat a few times. “I mean. That is to say. I, I ran out. On the way here. Salt, and sleep, and raw meat— we’re, er, we’re very hardy. Seadwellers. We can take a lot of, of—” your fins are going to fall off, “—abuse.”
Cloris chuckles low and wicked. “I don’t doubt it. But you needn’t worry about that--I’ll make sure you’re well fed and well rested, and if I get lonely I can just visit you in your sleep.” She presses a kiss to your palm before releasing it. “Maybe that’s how we should start, at first. I could undress you in my garden, and then you wouldn’t wake up exhausted.” She locks eyes with yours, continuing on in a thoughtful, dreamy tone: “Or maybe I’d rouse you in the middle of things and make you mine in the afternoon, when no one would hear your cries.”
She tilts her head, as if assessing your opinion about what stemware to serve at a dinner party, and you, you are simply dizzy.
“I’d like that,” you say, breathlessly, aware of every stitch of clothing you’re not wearing, and your fingers tremble a little when you flatten your palms on the table. “Or— or, could— I offer— a suggestion?”
“What’s that, my love?”
“I could— er, that is to say—” you use the table, cautiously, to rise, and to make your way around to her side, and you settle very carefully to your knees in front of her, and gently gather up a handful of the flowing satin of her dress. “I could, er. Demonstrate. My, er, my, a-affections. Right now.”
Her brows lift, and you’re rewarded with the faintest hint of a blush along her cheekbones. “Are you certain you’re up for it?” There’s no trace of teasing in her tone now, just gentle concern as she brushes a lock of hair off your forehead.
“Yes,” you say, fervently. This close, the smell of her, the dazzling glow of her skin, the way she looks at you— you’ve wanted her for ages. You can’t think of anything you’ve wanted more. You slip a hand under her soft skirts and take hold of her ankle, and grin when her green blush grows more pronounced.
She grins back. “You scandalous boy. Well, then, by all means, give me a token of your appreciation.”
You gather her skirts up, careful not to snag the fine fabric with your ragged claws, and press a kiss to the inside of one pale knee— she breathes in sharply, and you nearly giggle, struck by a fit of shy self-consciousness. But instead of calling the whole affair off she merely lounges back in the chair, allowing you, and you press further between her legs, bravely, laying down a line of increasingly fervent kisses. One cool hand wraps around a horn and you shiver.
Her reaction when you set your mouth to her sheathed bulge is most gratifying: she makes a high, throaty noise that’s just short of being a cry, and then both hands are gripping your horns tight. She tastes different from Bel in a way you couldn’t properly describe—sharper, brighter, colder— and the sensation of her hands on your horns is overwhelming, as is how she uses them to keep your mouth exactly where she wants it, guiding you, controlling, and oh yes, this is—is love, is devotion, tribute, you could be wholly content doing nothing else with your life except earning from her those beautiful noises--
You take her emerging bulge into your mouth with a shamelessly eager moan, stroking it with your fingers and tongue, losing yourself to her desires. Soon it’s unsheathed all the way and thrashing so passionately that you actually lose your hold on it once or twice, afraid of nicking anything with your fangs, before you reestablish your earlier rhythm, taking in as much of her as you can till you can feel her in your throat, a wild thrill shooting through you as she cries out your name.
“Oo-oohh, oh my god, Erskin, ERSKIN, pet, faster, please--”
It’s the please that wrecks you, washes you up against her like a wreck against the shore and you shake and whine and take everything you can get. She’s grinding up against your lips with complete abandon, a leg over your shoulder and she’s desperate for you, using you, and you nearly sob yourself when she releases one of your horns to take your hand and guide it to her nook. You’ve barely fit two fingers inside her when her cries turn short and sharp and she’s quaking violently as she peaks, spilling herself into and across you as you attend her through the tremors.
When you part lingeringly, your Lady is a mess, her hair mussed as she sprawls, panting, lips parted, her eyes closed. Her dress is rumpled, and a trifle stained. She’s lost a shoe.
“You’re so beautiful,” you say, softly, slurred a bit, “and I love you so much.” You wipe your wet mouth with the back of your hand. You— you consider seeing to yourself but your equipment’s hardly roused, you’re still so tired. But this was everything you’d ever want to spend yourself on. You lay your head to a shining, slightly sticky thigh and purr when she strokes your hair.
“Ahhh, I know you do, my lovely boy,” she sighs, still breathless, and starts to groom genetic material off you with one of the table napkins. “And you’ll prove it to me again and again, won’t you?”
“As often as you like,” you assure her, then yawn. “Mmm. But possibly not twice in a row, I think I— I need—”
She finishes cleaning up but when you try to push up off her chair you sway dizzily, lose your grip, nearly fall right back across her. Exhaustion has its awful claws in you again and is apparently hauling you back to sleep whether you like it or not. But Cloris gets ahold of your shoulders and helps you to stand, her eyes soft and concerned.
“‘M sorry,” you murmur, stumbling along on her arm. God, your bloody leg. It’s going to get better, isn’t it? It has to, doesn’t it?
“My poor exhausted darling. It’s no wonder you’re still out of sorts, you only just got out of surgery! But don’t worry, really. I’m sure you’ll get used to everything in time.”
Soon you’re back in her respiteblock. Tenderly, she helps you out of your rumpled and somewhat ruined day clothes, running her fingertips over all your scars, your winter-starved angles, her brows furrowed as she helps you back into your medicupe. Then she surprises you by pulling her dress over her head and leaving it to hang on a nearby chair, and once again you’re rendered speechless at the sight of her broad, powerful frame and the shining silver glow of her skin and— when she turns around again— her breasts. Those are somewhat of a new event for you, even after dreams and whatnot, and merit further investigation. But some time later.
She crawls in with you and curls around your back with a soft sigh, dropping a few desultory kisses along your neck.
“Your flight stripped you down to the bone, didn’t it?” she says sadly, petting your ribs. Then she cups your cheek, her voice wry. “And now you have a sore jaw.”
You turn your face just far enough to nip the side of her hand. “You’ll just have to build me back up to strength then, won’t you?” you smile. “Especially my jaw.”
“Oh, yes. Mm, but I love you so,” she laughs, snuggling closer, her lips near your earfin. “You brat.”
You wake in the most comfortable cupe you’ve ever been in. You aren’t in even the slightest amount of pain, and the sopor cradles you in a way that makes you think of floating on your back in calm, rippleless water. You feel very fresh and clean, cleaner than you’ve been in weeks, and your skin is velvety soft and smells faintly of cucumbers. Even your teeth feel freshly scrubbed.
You turn your attention to the room you’re in. It’s not a medical facility, unless they’ve started decorating their sick bays with plush leather chairs and colorful wall hangings and gently swaying hanging baskets that have little tendrils of flowering vines dangling down to the floor. There are plants simply everywhere, on every available surface, many of them hidden in green shadows. There is a recuperacoon in one corner, a deep burgundy thing shaped like a large vase, with a hint of vivid green around the outer rim. You hear wind chimes, and trees rustling, and night birds.
Then it all comes rushing back, the reason you’re here, and your pump makes an unpleasant leap in your chest as you sit up.
“Cloris—?” you ask, but the room seems empty, for now. You force yourself to look down at yourself, at your leg, and the tension in your chest transmutes to soft wonderment. Instead of a rotten monument to your own fatal stupidity, there’s a gleaming new prosthetic set in nearly up to where your leg joins your hip— and such a prosthetic.
Gone is your battered, utilitarian, gunmetal-gray appendage, and in its place is a gleaming beetle-black masterpiece. Every plate is delicately carved and fitted to the next, whorled with cunning thorn-vines and leaves and blossoms and oh, there’s a butterfly tucked to the side of the knee piece, the dome of which is fashioned like a blooming rose. You’re overwhelmed, tracing the work, each hidden bud and bee along the greave and a small lizard near the ankle piece and the way each overlapping edge of the sabaton is fashioned like a leaf— and all of it an endlessly deep, gorgeous black, just faintly sheened with a green-blue-violet iridescence where the light breaks itself over the forms. You’d never have thought to commission anything so fine.
You’re so absorbed in it that you don’t notice Cloris’s soft step until she chuckles and says, “Good evening, honey.”
You look up, and there is your love, dressed in a floor length black silk robe with a riot of gold thread making ivy-shaped patterns. She is holding your lusus in an endearingly awkward way, as if she never learned how to hold a mewbeast, let alone one with wings and a beak. Reggie, who is considerably calmer than when you last seen him, has made himself comfortable propped on her shoulder. When he sees you, he lets loose an eager squawk and squirms out of Cloris’s arms to hop onto the table your new leg is resting on, sniffing the apparatus curiously.
She lowers herself into a chair nearby and crosses her legs, smiling tenderly as your eyes well up. “Do you like it? I’d hoped to make a gift of it to you under more pleasant circumstances…”
You dash the tears off your face with the back of your hand, and smile at her shakily. “It’s beautiful,” you say, and your voice is rough with disuse and emotion. “Incredible. I’d never... it’s a piece of art. Even the color is amazing— this slight iridescence, is that some property of the chitin composite or of the glazing?”
Cloris dips her head demurely. “Oh, you’d have to ask the artisan, dear, I wouldn’t know. I only saw it and knew it was for you.” She takes your hand, and oh, her touch— the sensation rips through you like a shot, leaves you breathless.
She says, “But you’re wrong about one thing, darling--your apparatus is a fine thing, no doubt, but you are my art. I’ve waited so long to be able to keep you like this, to actually have you.”
You pull her towards you, careful but— desperate, hungry— and wrap your arms around her, and cling, your long claws catching in the fine fabric of her robe. She cups the nape of your neck and you’re weeping, despite yourself, shaking all over.
“This is— this is real?” you ask her. “I— god, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It just— I just realized. You’re real, this time, we’re awake? We’re real?”
“We’re real, Erskin, this is real,” she murmurs. “And nothing is going to take you away from me.”
She holds you patiently and purrs reassuringly against your ear while you slowly regain some measure of control over yourself. Even after you manage, mostly, to stop shivering and sniveling, you still can’t quite let her go, though you pull back far enough to wipe your face and say, “Sorry, I’m— a frightful mess, I don’t mean to be, I don’t know what’s wrong with me— I’m sorry–”
“It’s all right, love,” she says, and kisses your damp cheek. “My brave boy. You’ve had quite a time of escaping, haven’t you?” and that rather sets you off again, her sympathy. Her kindness. She lets you take her hand and kiss each knuckle, and you can’t stop weeping, you’re ashamed. But she strokes your hair.
“Poor little toy,” she breathes. “All run down! It’s a wonder you haven’t shaken yourself to pieces.” She takes your hand and returns your kisses, one knuckle at a time. “You really should rest more, my darling, you’ll be simply useless to me later if you don’t.” She smiles widely. “I have such plans for you.”
You blush and hiccup a startled— a scandalized— little laugh, and she catches hold of your shoulders and eases you back down into the soft slime. Your lusus is bundled on to your chest, and she even pats him, a trifle stiffly, between the wings. Reggie snuffs and settles himself proprietarily on you and Cloris draws away, smiling still.
“You’ll be here?” you ask, pathetically, and she squeezes your fingers a final time before disentangling.
THE one and only Lord Erskin Aspera was spotted in Scorpius Hivecluster today, looking delightfully tousled and sporting a ferociously fey suncloak style: what looks to our eye like a whole hand-tanned wildcat hide fitted with simple bone toggle clasps at throat and chest. Savage chic— and we love it!
Everyone’s favorite spade-sexy seadweller had worked up quite an appetite during his long stretch away from the spotlight: you can see in the candid pictures that he and his darling guardian certainly don’t have their waistlines on their mind as they patronize the local street cuisine.
“I like meat,” the Lord Aspera explained when asked by yours truly about what sort of diet keeps him in fighting shape. And boy does he! In or out of the respite block the handsome highblood sure knows how to pack it away.
“Would you care for a portion?” he was kind enough to offer. Swoon! Who wouldn’t?
When grilled— pun intended!— about whether his pitch position was still occupied by the oh-so-formidable blueblood reenactormentor Belatu Kadnos, the Lord Aspera gave a charmingly shy shrug, and excused himself for a bit more sun-up shuteye. Ladies and gentletrolls, is blackened fish back on the menu!?
You don’t understand. Why would he suddenly break stealth like that? Is it a trap? It’s not like he couldn’t have begged, bribed, or threatened the gossip blogger into not posting his location. It’s got to be a trap.
You’re sitting on the wing of your rental flyer just outside Suncaster Hivecluster, which is, like it sounds, a bit of a haven for rainbow drinkers. You just had a conversation with the five surprisingly polite and pleasant drinkers occupying Cloris’s last recorded place of residence. Even finding that was harder than it should’ve been; she’s careful with text. Not so careful with photos, though, and you were able to identify some recurring faces in her blogging of elaborate high-toned dinner parties, dances, concerts, and fashion shows. Tracking those trolls down, you matched the details of the hive in the background of outdoor pictures with the hive a few currently live in.
And then you just marched right up and rang the doorbell.
This Season’s Hottest Ship All Washed Up? “Over my dead body,” Vows Passionate Pitchmate!
READERS, it appears that Lord Aspera isn’t the only notable to pass through Scorpius Hivecluster— and he didn’t just drop by on a whim! Blueblooded reinactormenter and zealous kismesis Belatu Kadnos was spotted hot on his hatefriend’s trail only days after our prior exclusive interview with the nobletroll.
Dressed to kill, Kadros favors a starkly minimalist wardrobe of black, black, and more black— could this be a romantic statement?— but he adds a touch of highblood flair in his choice of expensive combat boots and what looks to us like dragonhide gloves. Whether strolling down the runway or taking no prisoners on the battlefield, we don’t think anyone would like to cross horns with this tough customer!
The more articulate half of their ship by a nautical mile, Kadros was in fine form when pressed for comment on the state of his relationship with Lord Aspera.
““Blackened fish is not ‘back on the menu’,” swore the ardent blueblood, revealing himself as an avid reader of this very blog! “Erskin Aspera will not be on the goddamned ‘menu’ until I’m dead, and since I’m absurdly hard to kill, I suggest your readers try back in approximately two hundred sweeps. No more questions.”
With this delicious parting shot, he continued on with what now appears to be an excitingly high-stakes game of Sex Quest. While we’d ordinarily hate to see such a fine figure leave, we couldn’t help but appreciate the view from behind as he went. Good luck, boys, and godspeed! Whichever partner gets the upper hand of this spicy little battle of wits, if another video installment results then we’re all the winners.
snowghoul
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