Every Rose Has Its Thorns (Ambessa X Black Rose Spy! Reader C1)
Trying a new thing where I cross post on Tumblr and Ao3. (Ao3 link at end)
Everyone is sleeping with someone and beds can bury many secrets under the covers. Secrets like the Demacian lover of a famed Noxian assassin. Secrets like the Trifarix takeover of Grand General Darkwill. Secrets like the Crimson Circle’s leader planning another coup. These secrets stick to the thorns of those special redolent rose colored lovers tangled up in the sheets with generals, captains, and house heads. Those lovers whose special magics put the guile in beguiling.
Your job is a florist -- a host handing out roses and collecting the pricked off secrets those roses gathered. A job you do well. Not every flower at your shop is a rose. No. There are delusional daisies and desperate daffodils. There are illusions of irises and professional pansies. But those are all a cover for the sweet pollen of your roses. Rose roots, as most know, are everywhere once they're planted. They sap the nutrients from every other flower nearby -- they have the power to consume. To consume secrets of the rest of the garden.
One day about a month ago a daisy had earned the affections of a general so much so that she had begun buzzing about her life like a little pollinator. The rumors stuck to the rose roots within your brothel and thus came to you. You saw to it that the general’s lover was upgraded to a rose still suiting of her tastes. The daisy, you had said, was bought by someone looking for a bouquet in their home. The general had not minded in the slightest which was no surprise. If she'd have genuinely cared about losing the flower, you would have simply spliced the daisy in with a rose, given it thorns, and kept it pricking. Instead, your mother has taken it and all of its intel too.
So now, for a month, a rose has been sticking into those secret filled covers. A rose who is very good at his job. A rose who is…marching towards you with a bruise beneath his gold-lidded eye and a fuming gaze?
“What's happened?” You ask, quirking a brow.
“I'm done,” he snaps, his voice as pretty as his feminine face.
“No you're not. Where's the client?”
“In my room. Wants someone else.” He looks down the hall of doors and rooms before leaning in to you. “I pressed about the son, like you said. She wants nothing to do with me now. I'm burned.”
“And bruised. Go get some ice.”
He storms off to nurse his wound and you bite your lip, scanning through your mental inventory. All of your research says he's her perfect type. Skinny. Benign. Docile. Pretty. Your other effeminate male rose is currently assigned elsewhere. Though if she comes another day, he may do. You know she likes women as well. Ones with strength. No. Power. Weapons of women and flowers of men. But muscles alone won't do. You have many talented mages, sure. Perhaps one of them could peak her interest. But none of them have what she truly craves in a female lover -- someone with superiority -- someone chosen -- someone capable, with control and, well, power. Someone like…
You glance back at her room. It's an idea, but is it one you're willing to dedicate to? You grin, imagining how your mother will react to the news. She'll be amused more than anything. Impressed, you think. Proud. Guile means more to her than pride so to sell yourself as a flower, as a rose, someone so unobtainable that the general will feel oh so special to have you. Yes. You'll earn your mother's pride for this clever little play.
You switch the sign on the front door to closed and head back to the retired rose’s room. With a breath of confidence, you knock, a smile glazing over your lips already.
“Enter,” a voice like broken glass on a gravel path orders from the other side.
You open the door, heading inside but paying her no mind. Not yet. Something small first, a show of your magical power to aid your social power. You twist your hand absentmindedly around a healthy pothos hanging from a ceiling hook. A shadow creeps down its long vines, blazing a trail of withered brown and fallen crinkled leaves behind it until it slithers all the way to the new growth at the tip.
“You've given one of my top earners a black eye,” you say, still not facing her.
“Your whore ,” she growls the word, “was testing my patience and good nature. I pay for pleasure, not for interrogation.”
“I don't care for chatty.”
“Your last lover was chatty.” You toss her a look over your shoulder. Then sigh and go back to the pothos, killing another vine with darkness so deep it drains all the stored sunlight away with ease. “You liked him. I assumed this would be a good match for you.”
“I have been employing your brothel’s services for near a decade now. Yet, I don't believe we've ever spoken.”
You turn to her now. Your eyes trace the hem of red cotton that drapes over her muscled thighs. They slip up to her red painted lips on her glass of posca. They twist through curls of grey hair leaning against a headboard, twirling a strand by her scarred umber face. She really is attractive, now isn't she?
You glide up to the bed, taking your time. “We may have never spoken, but that doesn't mean I haven't kept tabs on you.”
As you reach her, you sit on the mattress, just out of reach, teasing the edges of her aura with your own. You bring shadows from the corners of the room closer. Snakes of black curtain around the bedframe and lurk on the floorboards. One tickles across her leg and she shudders, though she hides it. Her gaze falls on you, curious, interest piqued, but wary and ready for battle.
“You are strong,” you say. “Stronger than most. In will. In might. Ah, but you already know this. It makes you difficult to please. You've been unhappy with my business twice now. I do not wish to leave you dissatisfied a third time.” You lean just a bit closer, fingers tracing lightly around a scar by her knee. “So perhaps something off menu would better suit your unique tastes?”
Her gold flecked eyes darken a shade and she smirks. Humming amusedly, she asks,”Mm and what may you be offering, off menu, exactly?
A shadow follows your hand, reaching forward with you to brush hair from her face and tuck it behind her ear. “I've always preferred female lovers, and I've heard rumors that you enjoy both sexes.”
“Please then, allow me to apologize for the chatty whore. Have a night on the house. With me.” You lean closer still, your lips ghosting her own. You think for a moment to leave the choice to her, to allow her to seize you, claim you. But then you think about how attracted she is to women in control so you seize her instead -- kissing her before she kisses you.
And boy does she kiss you.
A calloused hand finds its way to the back of your head, fingers knotting in your hair. She chuckles, hungry mouth against your own, her tongue rolling along your bottom lip. It's not a fight for dominance. No. It's a test to see if you will yield it. You don't. Which spurs her to smile more. She pulls away from you, eyes finding yours with a bit of a glimmer.
“You are curious, little flower,” she says.
“As are you, general. Tell me, how does a wolf stalk its prey?”
She chuckles again, a low rumbling noise. “Deliberately.”
“And how does it attack?”
Her claims prove valid when she attacks, mercilessly, your lips again. Your neck. Your shoulder. You allow her to guide you to your back, pulling the darkness around you entirely so that the only light in the room is the halos you allow around her and around you. You keep the spell the entire night you spend together. With every talented curl of your finger or quivering shake of your orgasm she grows more and more intrigued by you. By your focus and your abilities. Good. Your roots are being planted. In time, your thorns will prick those secrets from her.
In time, turns out to be a patient six months. You've uncovered much of her story but only the outer shell. Her loyalty to family. Her desire for legacy. And just now, a few days after the six month mark, she finally gifts you the information your mother has so wanted.
“Daughter,” the voice greets you in the pale red darkness of her illusion. How can it be pale and dark? Well, how can anything be mutually exclusive when it comes to her? A woman with a million faces yet not known for a single one. The Faceless.
You take a knee before her, her silhouette shifting between heavy and light, brawny and slender, masculine and feminine. “Mother,” you greet, “I come with the information you sought from Ambessa Medarda.”
“The one whose love child is of our own kind? Now that is interesting.”
You stand. “The son, Kino, he is in Nava on a diplomatic mission for their house.”
“Would I lie?” You smirk.
She steps forth from her illusion, a pale face with a bob of blue hair and dark purple lips that smirk right back at you.
“You've done well, daughter,” she says, thin white fingers tilting up your chin. “I knew there was a reason I took you in that century ago. Just a bawling little infant then. Look at you now. All grown up and covered in thorns. Our agents in Nava will capture the wolf pup. He will be tested and, if potent, used. The Black Rose will bloom again.”
“What about the alpha wolf? Have we any further use for her?”
“Perhaps. The future is all smoke and mirrors. So play your part. Keep her leashed. Remember that there is still a second child we may require if this one proves to be the wrong one.”
She sighs, releasing you and turning to the warping edges of the nothingness around you. Turning to some door in some far off room. With a wave of her hand a magician’s staff appears between jeweled rings on her thumb and index finger. Without looking back at you she says, “I’ve got to go. The assassin’s are due at Swain’s doorstep any minute now.” She glances over her shoulder, a purr and a grin, “it's how he knows I care.”
With that, the void disappears and so does she. You're left alone in your bedroom with its stone walls and silk sheets.
You gaze out over the city through your window. Noxus Prime. All these years and it hasn't changed much at all. Then again, neither have you. Your looks are still that of your youth. Easier, then, with bright eyes and a light face, to manipulate the shadows behind Noxus’s big red curtains. All these banners and blood and war. How trivial. Those two men your mother works alongside on the Trifarix are nothing more than puppets in a big show. One day, they'll be gone -- bone and ashes -- just like the man before them and there will be another puppet and another. All marionettes, dancing by the pull of their strings. Dancing, by your mother's hand. Dancing, for the Black Rose.
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