A Doll's House (PoW: Angelina Tarrant x Madeleine Citronelle)

[Malkavia]

What if a bear swiped at Angelina's horned head and tore it off, as easily as if the rat were nothing more than a scarecrow? Madeleine imagined the fountain of blood, spraying high-pressure in all directions. Like a decapitated fire hydrant. The warm spray would splash against Madeleine's face while her body slumped over on the floor and drained, oozing in a wide, dark puddle—

Madeleine realized her hands were trembling. She stared at them. Willed them still.

Except she couldn't. Give it to the cats. God. Why do the people we care about always decide to hurt us? Here was Madeleine, literally sharing her pantry with her new kitten, and how did Angelina thank her?

Check yourself, Madeleine. Rage. Frustration. Those were signals to evaluate the situation. Empathize. How was Angelina feeling? Madeleine's eyes slithered up from her hands over Angelina's body, up to her face. She was defiant, chin on hand. Sneering like a child.

Madeleine tried. She tried real hard to imagine what Angelina could possibly feel to make her act like this. Well—why did any child throw a tantrum?

"...Give your weekend to Charlotte, sweet?" Smile, Madeleine. Not stretched this time. Make it comfortable, which is natural, which is sweet. She sighed and leaned back in her chair. She let her hand fall and the fork rest on the plate between them. "That's...an incredibly sad idea. It hurts my heart. Of course not. I would never give your weekend away, kitten."

"I just meant..." As her eyes drifted back down to the plate, she speared another crumb of meat. Then another. And another. Each on different tongs. "...Well, it's like C.S. Lewis said about Heaven and Hell. According to him, everyone goes to the same place when we die. One roof for saint and sinner. But..." Click. Click. Click. By now the fork was packed tight with over a dozen of Angelina's triangles of steak. "Some people know how to make Heaven heaven. And some people insist on making it Hell."

The Countess's eyes met Angelina's.

"Now I know you didn't mean it when you told me to give away this delicious food. This food I made special for you, in my special kitchen, to impress my special guest." She held the steak in midair—not quite drifting towards Angelina's face. Just hanging there, like a question. "Right, kitten?"

[Monsy]

She would never give it away?
Mm--
Yeah right.

She still listened to what Madeleine had to say, even if she already retreated behind her castle walls into a keep of her own thoughts. The keep was empty. Nothing but the winding chambers of cold stone walls and the echoes of Madeleine’s voice going through the chambers. At first, she wasn’t interested. C.S Lewis can kiss her ass. Blame it on God, blah-blah-blah.

When she was given the audience with Madeleine's eyes directly. My special guest. She wondered if Shimmer got the same chat when Madeleine got annoyed. She saw those hands. But she concluded that she’d be flat on her ass by now, if she was Shimmer. Although--They were sitting. A table between them.

When she finally focused on the steak, her stomach tensed and turned inside out. She was queasy, cringed, appeared downtrodden as she looked down at the fork directly, then started to pale. Then she put her lips to it, close to a kiss, but not quite. More like a kiss that was unwanted--to an ugly person you were dared in a game of spin the bottle. Then she opened her mouth, gripped the meat with her lips and pulled it in. It sat there, then went to one side of her jaws. She chewed it in her molars, closing one eye on each bite. Her forearms laid on the table. She looked between them, focused and chewed some more.

She tasted a thick paper. Its chemicals. An awful car smell. Her tongue was a sponge that soaked all of the gross. At the back of her throat, she imagined the taste of her stomach acids, iron and shit in this stench that used her mouth like a bathing pot. Then she swallowed it with a whine and finally opened her mouth to pant slightly.

“That enough?”

[Malkavia]

I wish I'd picked a bigger steak.

Madeleine didn't answer Angelina. Instead, she speared another piece of meat. Click.

Inside, her emotions roiled like magma—a hot, angry surface oozing through her chest, exploding occasionally int expressions of steam and plasma—because of a microexpression from Angelina. Her disgust. Her ungratefulness. And yet—she was swallowing, wasn't she? That counted for something, something vicious and triumphant that flushed in Madeleine's cheeks.

"Today was a hard day for both of us as athletes, and our bodies need to recover." Click. Click. Click. "I understand your body might not want all this fat and protein, poor bun bun. Buuuut..." Madeleine pushed the fork into one last particle of beef. Over twenty pieces had crammed onto the utensil, compressed like sedimentary layers into a block dripping with clear fats and red juice. "...that's why you're so lucky to have me here, making sure your body gets the fuel it needs. Don't you feel lucky, Angelina?"

Madeleine could sense Angelina recoiling. Shriveling. She could imagine her toes curling, her stomach heaving inside that custom tailored slip. It gave Madeleine's a glittering feeling under her skin and a warmth between her legs.

"Tell you what, though. I know it's no fun to have an unhappy tummy. How about after you finish this delicious food, I'll come sit next to you. You can lay back in that booth, put your head in my lap, and I'll give you a little massage to make it all feel better."

As Madeleine spoke, she steered dinner's last payload toward's Angelina's lips—to be dodged, brushed aside, or accepted into her obedient mouth.

[Monsy]

Why-Why-Why-Why-Why-Why…

So many unnecessary calories on that thing and it just keeps getting worse. How was she to burn all this off before nap-time? Does this place even have an exercise room? Oh probably, but she doesn’t want to exercise. She just wants a pillow. Going to sleep with a full belly is unhealthy. Doctor’s recommend at least three hours after eating to then sleep. That means they can’t rest and--

“Mm…” Angelina’s lips were curling into a deeper frown as she peeked at Madeleine pick up more and more. Twenty was twenty one too much. She was going to be stuck here, puke on her plate in about thirty seconds, no doubt. Then Madeleine would be pissed. She forced up a real smile, which was easy.

“Vvv…Very. Thank you, Madeliene.”

Angelina said, looking at her with strained eyes. The meat came soon after. Her mouth opened only just enough for reluctant passage. Then she bit down, leaned her head forward and got to work. She divided the pieces to be shoved towards either side of her mouth, away from her tongue. Then, like before, she bit with her molars. A tear formed in her eye, with the steak’s juice now tainting her tongue and the meat-leather now stinking up her mouth. Her heels banged on the booth seats four times. A hand squeezed until it sweat.

“M-Mhm!” She nodded.

Her shoulders flinched. She nearly retched. A hand went over her mouth, then she focused for a long time, slowly eating with chipmunked cheeks and staring off aside. It took about three swallows to get everything put down. Then she went for her remaining wine and drank it all with a tipped-up head.

When she was done, she put the cup down and now audibly breathed as if out of stamina.

“I feel… Owwww…”

She crossed arms over her stomach, leaned back into the seat and groaned.

“Thanks. For the food. It was…” Breathe in… Think. Then out. “The fuckin’ best.”

[Malkavia]

"Poor dear..." Madeleine glided out of her seat, then slid next to Angelina. She guided her into her lap, and when she was finally laid out with her cheek against Madeleine's thigh, the Countess stroked her hair.

For a handful of seconds, she held her like that, quietly sharing her warmth, brushing her forehead with a thumb. When she spoke, her voice was just over a whisper.

"One of my favorite memories from when I was young was like this." As she spoke, her hand brushed down the side of Angelina's arm. She squeezed her elbow, then moved up to her shoulder and squeezed again. Hard. Digging her fingers into the muscle. "It's one of those funny moments that get captured out of...all that everything else you forget."

"I was lying in bed, covers up to my chin. They were new covers, white and cotton instead of red silk because I'd..." And here Madeleine sank to a whisper. "I'd... Er. Well, I'd...Vomited."

"...Anyway." She lowered her hands down to Angelina's chest, where she kneaded in with her knuckles. Massaging her kitten's oh-so-tight muscles. Then she slid down to her belly. She was gentler here because the skin was more tender. More soft. She began with wide, circular motions, brushing over her belly button through her dress. "My dad joined me. I was...angry, I suppose, since my mother had yelled at me about the silks. I was very young, probably five or so, so there was a lot of shouting on my part I think. Or maybe not, since I was so sick. Either way. Dad—Dad knew how to handle it."

"We talked. He was a storyteller—thought he was, anyway. He loved fairytales, and I remember this particular night he told one about a tin soldier who came to life. And he massaged me...just like this. Sat on my bed and rubbed my belly. And, you know, when he started, I thought at the time a massage was the last thing in the world I wanted."

Was this the last thing Angelina wanted? Madeleine monitored the girl in her lap closely, feeling every breath in and out against her legs.

"But. It turned out. It felt nice. And I liked feeling like he was there, and he cared, and I could vomit on the sheets and scream at him and he'd still love me."

"Mmm..." A sigh seeped through Madeleine's nose, slow, as she turned her head up to the black, glass ceiling above. "Lights out Jeeves," she said, and the lights dimmed instantly. In the new dark, she could see stars through the skylights.

"Are you feeling any better, kitten?"

[Monsy]

Angelina let herself flutter in those moments. A sore belly couldn’t touch you if you just disconnect your being from your body. Let the brain float as it coaxes down and lays in Madeleine’s lap. Her legs stacked onto each other and the knees pulled up slightly, just enough to be on the bench itself, as awkward and comfortable as it was. Her hip bone was digging into the cushion. But she felt warm.

And to a degree, an extension of Madeleine herself. Here, she felt a weight over her eyelids. She fought them. Slowly, they drifted down, turning her world black. Then she opened them. Wide. And relaxed again at half-mast. The hand was invisible to her. She didn’t feel a particular need to care where it was. Just that her body felt a presence, the squeezes on the shoulders and the pinches of her tight muscle.

When it drifted to her belly, she sucked in, holding it and closed an eye. One hand shadowed over Madeleine’s grip. The tip of her middle finger touched the back of a knuckle. The other digits wrapped around the hand idly. She let go soon after realizing it didn't hurt, allowing Madeleine free reign. Her hand brought up and laid in front of her face.

She chewed her lip. It felt so very-very odd to just let someone touch her like this. Her instincts wanted to yank Madeleine’s hand away. A buzz in her nape didn’t appreciate it either. And her brain was telling her that something is about to turn for a prank, a gag, a switch or a punch. She, of course, suppressed most of it into whispers and adjusted herself every so often to be more comfortable. They did shower together, after all. But she wasn’t special then.
Was she special now? She ate the food, so the answer should be yes. And this. Wasn’t this special? Dunno.

She listened to the story while thinking it over. She smiled a bit, started looking at Madeleine’s leg and herself, then the hand, and then the sky. It was dark. It looked like a grape juice with these melting sugar cubes inside, dissolving and sparkling for the beholder. The skylight added a glisten. Distant moonlight was coming from the east. She imagined the night sky to fit inside a little coffee mug. The window’s frame was that mug. Their own little cup of universe.

Unfortunately, she hadn’t studied constellations in over eight years to point anything out. But she did have Madeleine to look to. "Can ya tell me more? About them. Parents. What are they supposed to be like? What I mean is.. Were they always so.. responsive, to you?"

[Malkavia]

"Of course."

Madeleine's eyebrows furrowed slightly. She picked up the silver-golden mixer and poured herself a shot of the sweet, but dry liquor.

She knew, of course, that parents came in all shapes and sizes—from the saintly to mummies who wind up on the six o'clock news and stand trial for keeping their children tied up in basements belonging to other people. Still, in her ear, Angelina's question felt like asking if sugar was sweet.

"Well, Dad was what in the 1970s in France was called a guest worker. He came from Poland for the silliest reasons—all these romantic ideas about Paris and how it welcomed art and beauty. He wanted a place where he could make his toys and find an audience."

As she sipped her cocktail, Madeleine felt the alcohol in her toes, buzzing. She always had been a lightweight. She rested her one free hand on Angelina's crown and let her fingers unfold against her scalp. "Mom thought he and his dreams were adorable—which was lucky, for him, since he could never have built his company without her money. It must have been scandalous at the time, since he was ten years her senior."

I wonder how long it took them to notice which bird really ruled the roost? Madeleine downed the rest of her glass with a long sip, dipping the fruity flavor down her tongue and throat in one long stream. Her head spun after that, so she sat the glass down. That's enough for tonight.

"But they had a vision. Well, the seeds of a vision anyway. A toyhouse to conquer the world. Then I was born, and it became my vision, too. We're a team, the three of us, and we've made marvels. They've trained me up, and in return...I keep them modern."

She did not add that Dad's hair was more white than gray these days, and that in time, she would have to step in for her parents and ensure that Jouets continued into the future, as alive and robust as the day her father conceived it. Nor did she ask the obvious question—what was she doing here, at LAW, if that was her mission? She did not say it, but her mind wandered as she lay her back against her seat and let the warmth of alcohol and Angelina's body lull her into a half-nap.

"What about you, buttercup? What kind of adventure have your parents set you on?"

[Monsy]

So she’s Polish.

That was neat. And what was she? She… Didn’t have the faintest idea. Angelina wasn’t even an American. She was her own country, with its own silly and romantic ideas. What Madeleine shared was a completely new script. Angelina simmered into it by letting her muscles completely relax. Her hands knitted on top of her chest. She looked up, doing nothing but staring at Madeleine’s movements in her periphery and the sky as her main dish.

Will we get to see them? Probably not, she quickly concluded. Not unless by accident. And now she wished seeing Shim was an accident. That would’ve made things much easier to digest. But now she was purring, eyes closed, moving her weight so her head pushed into the petting hand and she smiled idly.

So, the Citronelle family went out to make a paradise of joy. Such as the bumper sticker illustrates. She was in no position or desire to peer much deeper than the magic at this time. The glitter of the thought. It hardly matched her idea of family at all. A pack of rats forced to live together. She turned her head to face Madeleine’s body, then when asked, she stayed quiet for a long time.

When she did speak, it was after a deep breath from her chest. Fucking buttercup.

“Mom’s a teacher. Dad’s a personal injury lawyah. Back in the…” How old were they again?
“Nineties, my Mom was walkin’ down a pitch of stairs and the railin’ broke. She crashed, broke a lottah stuff and the school tried to say it was her fault for leanin’ too hard on the thing. So she called her future dad and he got so mad on the phone, he went to the school itself and handled it right then and there, so I’m told.” She lulled, making sure there were no tangles here. She masked it with a yawn.

“They started there. She managed to get on the school board about my time. As for Dad, he did Dad things and lawyah things. Golfs on weekends. He still does. Just with a grumpiah face and bald. Then between that injury and me, poof--” She shook her hands like dropping a thing of boxes. “An oldah brothah.” Then she relaxed her arms again. “So as a child of a teachah and a big-brained lawyah, I was pushed by them and my bro to do good in school. I geared towards computahs, then robots in my teen years. Bro was actually into it too and that’s how I made my first little bot. A co-Tarrant project that someway… somehow, smoked after five minutes. Their help and support along the way was everythin’ to me. Managed to graduate school early, get into a big college program and things were lookin’ great.”

How to end a story. Mm. “Then. I just decided I wanted a change. Found wrestlin’ outta luck. Saw a sign while I was out on the town. It was hostin’ a show -- and I watched, loved it. Gave it a shot, about a year or two ago. It paid very well against my student loans, so I got bettah at it. When I decided to make it my life, Ma, Pa and Brah didn’t like it at all. But they changed their tune once I got here. Now I give ‘em a call three times a week. And…”

She shrugged. “That’s it. Not nearly as interestin’ as your parents.”

[Malkavia]

The more Angelina opened up, the more she revealed about her home and parents, the more Madeleine sank, deeply focused on her massage. She wanted it to be just like the massage she remembered from her father. For long muscles, like the quads at the front of Angelina's thighs, Madeleine pushed deep with her palms, like a leather tanner unrolling straps of hide. She was careful never to let her concentration wander or to settle into a mindless pattern over her leg, hip, or belly. Better to find new skin, untouched muscle—to knead endorphins into her kitten's skin with every touch.

Reciprocity.

Give and take.

Tit for tat.

"I'm so happy to hear that your parents came to understand LAW." The room's darkness crep from black to dusky blew as Madeleine's eyes adjusted. She stared down at the woman in her lap, her gaze distant as she felt a smile creep onto her face. "I love all my fans, of course, but. Parents are special. They're the people I can never allow myself to disappoint."

As Madeleine pressed her knuckles into the sides of Angelina's arms, she bit her tongue with the point of a canine. "...I was thinking about them during our match. I could just...imagine the old cabal spectating. Mom would have a stream playing in her office while she sketched a plan for some dress or logo. Dad might have caught it at a bar over some pizza. And of course my sisters...Well. Unlike Mom and Dad, they would have been rooting for me to submit in the most humiliating fashion possible, I imagine."

There it was again—those images of the camera searing her skin while the rat in her lap plowed Madeleine from behind. The Countess swallowed and forced the cold sweat to roll down her back.

Don't worry, Madsy. We can send Mummy a Collar Photo.

As the silence wore on, Madeleine leaned down, lifting Angelina's head by pressing her toes into the floor and lifting her heels, so she could plant her lips on her forehead. She held it for a long beat, then kissed.

"I imagine your parents are very proud of you. You're an outstanding wrestler. Some...rough edges notwithstanding. "

Somewhere, a gong that was part of an elaborate clock sounded. The low, brassy sound filled the dark room. Bongggggg. Bonggggg. Eleven times for eleven o'clock. How the time flies.

Madeleine sniffed, then nuzzled her forehead against her kitten's. "Shall we go settle into bed, sweet, and hand off your present?"

[Monsy]

She tried to think of family like Madeleine did. Imagining being spectated by a tribesman. Was it supposed to give a different feeling than any other stranger? That they weren’t just trees in a forest, but some kind of special tree. The tree for you, that you’re meant to adore and stand for, stick out through thick and thicker as the trees grow. And based on their feelings of your performance and choices, it impacts your mood, future decisions and ambition levels. Because they deserve a say..

Meh. The image was grey. At the least, she didn’t need to tap Madeleine’s shoulder and tell her how wonderful of a sentiment that was. She did, however, need to keep her eyes open. They still wanted to fall, but she continued to wedge them open by what felt like using her cheek muscles.

When it came to siblings, her imagination also led to the match again. Her hand was Queen and Madeleine was the bitch. Madeleine broke for her in that moment, and now she can play that scene over and over. Byark… Byark-Byaaaaaaark.

She was fighting to not be smug about it, then turned her head, bit the inside of her cheek and was quiet too. Madeleine touched her forehead, and she felt a yawn build up. A smile peeped in the moment. A hand went to find Madeleine’s own, then tried to shuffle underneath it and softly grab.

“Can I have a moment alone, actually?” Her eyes opened, then she swung her legs over the seat’s edge and attempted to sit up. If she did, then she’d lean back into the booth’s back cushion. “I gotta call the fam. Tell ‘em I didn’t get captured by some sick psycho and they’re makin’ me drink’ watah from a dirty dog bowl. They’ll be worried sick othahwise. Just need two minutes. Is that… cool with you?”