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

[Malkavia]

Crrrrrrunch goes booze-brain's whole fucking face. Angie dearest started going off, hollering and flailing like there were coals between her toes.

Did she feel good? She felt fucking everything. The way every heartbeat was another moment for Angelina to pull the other knife. The way her shoulder was forming a big red angry sticky welt that burned hotter every second. But—yeah. Through all the head spinning panic, Shimmerlace felt a smirk coming on, because that crunch tasted like apple fucking pie on her birthday.

And then that thumb flew in out of nowhere—right into her eye.

"SHIT—"

It went deep, a sickening hook that made her aware—her eye wasn't just her pretty iris flittering on her face. It was a fat fucking BALL inside her skull, and it was getting squished until a white dagger of pain sliced to the back of her brain. She screamed, then roared, then grabbed the arm.

Pop! Out went the thumb, flinging wet down her cheek, and then she saw...things. Shapes. Diamonds. A million shades of black, dancing in space.

Shimmerlace found herself snarling, her face inches from Angelina's so she could smell the sweat on her neck. One hand pinned Angelina's wrist against the carpet. The other held a bladepoint against her cheek.

"You stop moving now, fuckhead." Her voice came out between ragged gasps. One knee rested in Angelina's gut, pressing down with her full weight. Her muscles tensed. Don't let your hand shake. "Or this goes through your God damn tongue."

[Monsy]

It felt like something had grown on her head. Something big, latching on with a mouth that induced throbbing on the whole side. There was a weight there, she knew it. Just couldn’t see the growing parasite. “Shim-.” And then she felt her arm grabbed from the ether, pinned to the ground and Shimmer’s breath padding her cheek and the warm blade edge that touched it. She can see the tip of Shimmer’s small nose. Eyelashes moving. The loose pink hairs hanging and curling.

The rest was a sightless mystery. She heard it. Deep snarling from the throat. She knew what was on her face, so let her arms go limp where they were. Even when still, she felt the universe moving her around in a flat circle.

She took a deep breath, thought about it the best she could, then gripped her own fists. “It bettah.” Said Angelina, feeding into a voice that wanted to bare teeth and bite the knife just to get this over with. A calmer, more sober voice was in the way. Our mouth is half our value, chucklenut. Just let it go. Eugh. I'd rather be arrested. “Or don’t expect--sssssshit from me.” She wanted to lunge. She was waiting. Why was this even a threat? Just-- “-Do- it. Or I'll do worse.”

[Malkavia]

Do it, she said, and it was like a ghost wanted to seize Shimmer's hand and thrust. Maybe I will, fuck-face.

And she did press harder—hard enough to see the skin split and a drizzle of blood crawl down her cheek. But then ice hit her veins, and she imagined what the tongue would look like sliced diagonally, the two halves flapping and bleeding and splatting while Angie down there grabbed at Shimmer's arms and moaned and choked. Would she bleed enough to bleed out?

She stammered out the only words that came to her, "You drunk piece of shit," but that was bullshit. Of course the fuckin' Marauder of the crimson sky and the violet magic would pull this. A sliced tongue was nothing. This cunt would charge down Death himself.

But before she could figure out a better move, the door behind Shimmerlace creaked open, casting a golden column of light down the room and over its two entangled combatants.

[Monsy]

Angelina wasn't sure whether to smile or frown. She lost the recipe to what makes her face, resetting to the flattest of stares as the knife split skin, and out poured a local red valley. The wet streak crawled for freedom, over the smooth jawline and just touching her neck before it dried. Then the next drip came. It hit the floor. Drop... Drop...

Something hurt. This damn day, man.

She closed her eyes, sinking into the edge. "Likely."

The door creaked. A golden obelisk slithered and grew from the door gap, opening one foot from her naked soles, then reached its way to her legs.

"M-M-Madsy, please--" Angelina used the spit in her throat to create a mouse's voice. She choked on it, made herself cough. Not once, not twice, but thrice. Her cheek turned to put against the floor, looking away from Shimmer at the door. She worked up her breath. Faster, faster... And began to sob by letting the pain of today take over apathetically, letting it leak from her eyes in pure small droplets that stung the eye and went the same way her blood did. "she's got a knife to me...--" She breathed faster. FASTER. Through the artificial panic coming out in short sobs, she cried out. "M-Madeleine, h-help!"

[Malkavia]

Back in the room, Madeleine had stumbled on her way to her walk-in closet—the certain first-stop on her way to whatever came next. Her insides felt like a live-pinball machine, and Miss Citronelle was not the player in charge.

"Blgh..."

First step, dear—

The first step had to be the closet. Charlotte musn't see the Mouse Queen in her torn-up cum-stained things. No no no. Her hands passed over her outfits.

Where is Kitten, Madsy?

The feeling of being alone crept up on Madeleine, a dull worry at first that then became a spark of panic, then a heart-thudding, teeth-grinding drag of anxiety. That Rat.

So when Madeleine — dressed in fresh clothes, still hunched and swaying from the booze and exhaustion — pulled open the door, the first thing she saw was the rat pinning down poor baby Charlotte with a knife.

No...? She blinked. Then blinked again and squinted. A part of her felt down to her bones that what she was seeing couldn't possibly right, had to be the stuff of a nightmare, but the rest of her felt that help!! Kitten calling for Mama. She didn't hesitate.

Madeleine bounded across the room and caught the bad woman, the one hurting her baby, by a fistfull of her pink hair. The bad woman was shouting something, but Madeleine didn't process the words. Crack. Her knee fired into her face, came away wet, and the bad woman fell on her back, limp. Madeleine stood over her and over Angelina, panting.

[Monsy]

Look at her.

Her knight in pungent ethanol. Golden and beautiful, striking like the way she smelled. Citrus scented chemicals. Did she change outfits already? WHAM!

And the bitch was gone. But was she? Angelina checked, finding her splayed out carcass to be satisfying with twitching and groans. Just what the pirate queen ordered. But—

My Madsy’s knee…

Shimmer’s face was going to mark it. Her imprint. Her DNA. Angelina cringed internally, but was too numb to make a face. She felt queasy trying to turn over, getting to all fours and crawling into the light on all fours, looking straight with a shake in her form. I’ll scrub her away. From Madeleine’s knee, that is. She hardly had a thought about how. Just that it meant going over, silently, then sitting on Madeleine’s foot with folded-in legs spread out, making herself low enough to rest her head against the knee and lower thigh.

She wrapped up the leg with both arms, squeezed herself close as she can, then gingerly touched the bone like stroking hair.

“I miiiiiiii-ised… youu.”

[Malkavia]

"You...need...to leave."

Shimmerlace tried to sit up, but that sent her head to twirling like a pinwheel, so she rolled on the ground instead.

"Sorry. What?"

"You need to leave now, Charlotte."

It was like a pain-balloon had inflated between two lobes of Shimmerlace's brain. As it inflated and deflated, her whole head pulsed. Need to leave? Shimmerlace squinted, then pulled her bloody palm off her chest and pointed it at the blonde towering overhead.

"The fuck I do—Mads...I'm fuckin...I'm bleeding out here!"

Her royal majesty up there didn't quite know what to do with that. Her eyes flit from the palm to Shimmer's face, and her lips parted. Got her.

"...So apply pressure on your way out."

Well—the fuck do you say to that?

Shimmerlace was quiet a long time. She felt pinned down, like a butterfly with a silver needle through its thorax.

"...Mads..."

"You're fine. It is painfully obvious that you are just. Fine."

By now, Shimmerlace had curled up to a seat, her knees against her chest. Her eyes were on Madeleine's, but she could see Angelina in her peripheral vision–the red-headed drunk. The fuck was she doing, anyway? But she didn't have long to think about it.

"Why don't you just...shut up, hm, sweet? A novel concept for you, I know." Madeleine swayed. She seemed to have trouble keeping her eyes focused on Shimmerlace, as if they wanted to wander to one side, but then she'd shake herself and hone in for another few slightly slurred words. "...This is not an argument. This is my home, and you have made yourself...an unwelcome..." Madeleine took a breath as she searched for the word.

"But Mads she stabbed—"

"—And I'm certain you deserved it."

Charlotte felt numb—from the tips of her toes to the nose lost in her face. As her skin tingled from the shock, her eyes drifted to Angelina. The Marauder was curled around Madeleine's legs. Like a fucking half-sloshed mastiff. And just as Charlotte's lips curled with disgust, Madeleine's hand drifted, all as protective as you could dream, through Angelina's damp red hair. Even as a dream, a nightmare, none of this computed. Two and two were making negative five. A disgusting, stomach crumpling negative five.

"I'm really sorry." What for? She couldn't quite say. But there must have been something. She glanced at the door, then back at Madeleine. She was intensely aware of Angelina's eyes and ears. The former were not pointed at her, but she knew this was being recorded. Memorized. Savored. A spout of righteous fury burned in her chest—and she pushed it down. "...When can I come back?"

Madeleine clenched her eyes like someone had just pricked her face with a needle. "You do not want to have that conversation right now."

And that, as they say, was that. Still in her pajamas, she fumbled her things together. A big pink carpet bag in one hand. When she picked up the Shimmerlace doll, she half expected Madeleine to bark for her to put it back. When no one said anything, she stuffed it under one arm.

Escorting her to the door took longer than it should have. Two drunks a rapid guard do not make. It would have been pretty simply, really, to slip away into the dark and cavernous building, but for once, Charlotte did not feel a mood for tricks.

The night, when she entered it, was still warm, the traffic still grumbled, as it always grumbled in Tokyo at all hours, and as she stepped away from Jouets D'Ors, it was quick to swallow her up—like a hungry bear.

[Monsy]

She hugged her leg with the tightest squeeze she could, putting her sweaty blood-stained cheek on-top of Madeleine’s mid-thigh and gradually finding the energy to squeeze, trying to call attention to herself as she peered up every few seconds with slow-moving eyelids. She heard every word. Shimmerlace was leaving. Booted. Out to the curb. It was amazing. Amazing in that, she could finally hold this leg with her fully depleted strength and there wouldn’t be a morning of having to defend herself against snakes. This could be a safe place. A colourful place. A magical one. A warm one. It had kittens. Two ugly ones and herself, with the shiniest collar out of all of them. It had all the gadgets and gizmos to play with. It had the world to steal, with dinosaurs, computers and details to absorb. She wouldn’t need a knife. Wouldn’t need to yell. Wouldn’t need to worry. The walls were too thick for the outside world to penetrate and see the pathetic skin she was wearing.

The itinerary she imagined didn’t fit the bill for a weekend. She couldn't bridge the thought into anything, just that the idea of only two days was making her queasy and clawing. She planted two more kisses on the leg, had an urge to say thank you, then purred when feeling her head stroked, freezing her head so the horns didn’t cut or touch. She leaned her head back, eyes closed, looking up with her cheek moulded against the thigh. When she saw Shim leave, she sank lower, feeling the strings tying her up go slack.

“Good riddance.” Angelina said in a quiet tone, fit for a room of silence. She put one leg down, placed weight on it and felt it numb from exhaustion and ill-coordination, gasping. It was like trying to balance with an unhinged ankle replaced by a ball-joint, which she could never keep still without holding onto Mads with two claw-grips. She made one big effort, then reflexed into grabbing onto Madeleine’s forearm, then pulled herself up. Without even taking a breath, she laid her head on Madeleine’s shoulder, with one arm hooked underneath Madeleine’s, the hand splayed across her back, and the other tracing her index clumsily down Madeleine’s arm muscle. “You are amazing, you know that? How ya handled her... Even when she tried to say I stabbed her. You… tolerated it. You were fair.” She took a deep breath, then hiccupped. "Did ya mean it?"

[Malkavia]

Good. Mope. Meditate on what you've done. It would have been easy to feel sorry for Charlotte, with her idiotic, stricken look, but sometimes people deserve to be hurt. Meanwhile, Angelina climbed back to her feet with Madeleine's help—a sensation she enjoyed, despite the threat it posed to her own drunken balance. Let me be your pillar, kitten.

"Every word." she said to Angelina's question, deciding it didn't matter which phrase Angelina was asking after.

Madeleine sighed, leaning into Angelina as she turned and wrapped both arms over her shoulders. She felt like a spring that had been tightened and popped a dozen too many times, now free, unburdened, but—stretched. Her knees, her elbows, her neck...Every joint was sore. Perhaps Angelina could massage them later?

Madeleine caught herself nodding off as she rested her forehead against Angelina's head. The smells were no longer distinct—her and me. The booze and the sweat and the sex and the strawberry and the citrus was all one warm, tangy cloud. Madeleine kissed her forehead once. Twice. She hooked her finger on ... that thing that had been hung on Angelina's neck.

"...Can you draw?" Then, without waiting for an answer— "Why don't we go sit down, you and me, and I'll get you something to draw with, and you can show me the collar you really want."

Madeleine's kisses drifted downwards, over the bridge of her kitten's sweet little nose. Then she lifted her chin with a finger and met her lips, and she kissed her—carefully. As if she might bruise. "Then we'll trade. Art for collar. A piece of you..." Kiss. "For a piece from me."

[Monsy]

Her head became heavy. She found the perfect spot. A soft, warm patch of shoulder she could lean her head against. Then when the arms came around, she straightened up, leaning against them, and feeling a sense of invulnerability in the posture she depended on. Even when sloshed, she stands, kicking ass like no pink bitch’s business.

“Good.” Angelina said quietly. She lost what she was asking about to begin with. It didn’t matter. They touched heads, with purple staring into red. For a moment, she thought Madeleine was staring right into the blue underneath her purple, so she averted downward, then rested and locked her ankles.

Mwah. “!” Angelina flinched. A flake of gold was pressed on her forehead and left behind. Her collar hooked, prompting her to look down. The piece of shit was worth no more than the shit in the lesser cat’s litter box. Why Madeleine would touch it, give a sense of value, or even give her anything while she had this on? It almost felt taboo. This wasn’t her best state at all, but the ugliest as Madeleine intended.

“Draaaw?” Angelina said, slurred. “Why—” !! She did it again. Her nose, which was peculiar. Did this mean something different? Her cheeks burned bright. Another flake of gold left on her snout. A million dollars on a ten-second chassis from a junkyard. Her heart was feeling a rhythm again.

A kiss on her lips was as good as the first. She met it, closed eyes and had an irresistible urge to smile as she gingerly gave what she got. Ten million left behind on her lips. Just -how- does Madeleine afford it? Is it a loan? It’s not stolen, but given, so it’s a loan. She thought of ideas on how to repay it, but couldn’t make the thought. “The kitchen.” Angelina said in a whisper between Madeleine’s golden sugar. Art for collar. The terms lopsided in her favour. And another kiss. Another ten million dollar loan.

“Lets.” Angelina shifted her hands to grab onto Madeleine’s collar. Her grin reached a zenith. Her cheeks hurt to stretch any further. “I’ll draw… for you… the best collah you’ve evah seen. Just…” We aren’t picasso or even a hobbyist? What trick do we have for this one, a hidden printer? Yah right. Oh… You know… She had it. “I need some things. Compass. Rulah. Protractah.” Then she had a small sly grin about the next suggestion. Her hand brushed along Madeleine’s toned arm down to the elbow. “Maybe some music?”