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

[Malkavia]

It was a sin to lose attention when in conversation, and one Madeleine usually found hard to forgive. In this one unusual case, however, she found herself wishing Angelina break the rules.

Go on, she thought, as she glanced out of the corners of her eyes, watching the kitten's eyes droop. Blink. Bliiiiink. Each time, her eyelids hung a little lower, a little sweeter. It would have been a beautiful moment if they had gone all the way. She would sit alone in the dark and the quiet with only the breathing of her pet to fill the vast space.

Would she snore? There was nothing quite as human as snoring. Madeleine hoped she snored.

“Can I have a moment alone, actually?”

"Ah..." Madeleine stopped stroking Angelina's head. No, said every instinct at once. Of course she wasn't going to leave this rat alone. Not again, not so later Madeleine could chase her all over creation, then find another "Sylvestah." Claimed and gutted.

But why not? She couldn't very well say I don't trust you to the sweet thing in her lap. She might as well pour anchovy juice into lemonade for what that would do to the evening.

The silence was dragging too long, and her body had gone a fraction too tight. She focused her attention on each muscle, forcing it to relax as she resumed petting Angelina.

"Of course, sweet. Yes, I imagine your poor folks are beside themselves." Madeleine shifted her wait, nudging Angelina to sit beside her as she stretched her toes out under the table and prepared to stand. "In exchange though, hopefully you can do me a favor when we get back to my room. I'll tell you about it when you join me there."

- - -

After she gave Angelina directions on how to find her when she was ready, Madeleine retreated to her bedroom. Leaving Angelina alone was stupid rattled around her head like a bat stuck in a glass box, but at least it meant she had some time alone in her bedroom.

Most of Chez Citronelle served some higher purpose. To serve. The customer, the visitor, the guest. The journalist, the employee. Sometimes even the politician or regulator. But Madeleine's bedroom was her castle—one whose crenelations and towers artfully hung with bouquets of stuffies.

Not that its privacy diminished the attention to presentation. Madeleine was, of course, her own most important audience, as belied by the effort put into lighting her favorite room.

The bed was the centerpiece—a king-sized canopy bed with crimson sik covers and pillows as black as obsidian. The canopy itself was thin as butterfly wings and gleamed golden under a red mood light projected from a ring-shaped light hung over the bed.

The rest of the room consisted of a series of "scenes," each bathed in light of different shades. Golds and reds. As beautiful as autumn, as Citronelle as Herbie 2. Each scene featured her favorite stuffed animals, posed for different phases of life. In the northwest corner, a series of mice lay on beach towels around a dioramic swimming pool, complete with blue plastic for the water, tiny toy inner tubes, and pool noodles the size of bananas; in the northeast, a series of bears and beavers were captured in the act of constructing an elaborate pillow fort of a tower. There were eight scenes in all, and Madeleine changed them with the seasons. Summer scenes for summer, autumn scenes for autumn, with special week-long scenes for holidays like Christmas. It was her universe, and even when she cut the lights, its lively still-life helped her sleep at night.

But tonight, there was an unusual circle of golden spotlight. Madeleine paced around its circumference, viewing her setup from every angle.

Three white pillars.
Three white mannequin heads (each with fuzzy cat ears).
Three dazzling collars.

[Monsy]

Angelina nodded to the sentence. Yes, they are beside themselves. And only my call can save their moods. It’s really sad, but that’s family. Was what she could’ve said, had Madeleine required an extra push. She sat up when prompted, leaned back into the cushion beside her, then reached up, wiped her eyes. She nodded again when asked of a favour, “Sure.”

They broke away in a hallway at the edge of the dining area. Angelina’s shoulder was against the wall, arms crossed, listening, then turned the corner with a roll of her back. She stared into the expanse of the room, soaking in a vastness of gold trinkets. When has someone turned bits of gold into a regular living experience? And it was quiet. Her footsteps carried a faint echo. A little thump, then thumps as she walked back to the lobby, sat on the rail and she thought about sliding down and around. But in the distance, she saw the fenced-off balcony. Her smile peeked, so she approached, sat on the rail and lifted her legs over then approached the bench.

Playing something will mean Madeleine will hear. So she resisted the urge. She walked the perimeter of the piano and the column. The view ahead was tall. Maybe eight to feet from the ground floor with all the patrons, guests and little bitches. On the wall, there was a black switch with thick buttons made of plastic. Beside that, a compact rectangle that had a maintenance panel, covered in a compact black case, blending into the wall.

She took her time understanding it, noting you need to flip a switch to show green before you can start fucking with buttons. For that, you need a key. One she did not have. So her mini-adventure stopped there. She got off the balcony and made headway for Madeleine’s room, stroking her hair to look cleaner.

------

“Hey, I’m done with the call. Sorry that took so--”

Holy fuck.

“Oasis.”

Is the first word she landed on for this room. It was warm-coloured, predominantly. The reds and blacks. The gold didn’t upset the palette, but finished the sense of regalia. A blue-blood house, she thought. What happens when you get a certain fuck you amounts of money. She walked by the scenes to pick up its details, found herself hardly able to focus, so hurried up to approach Madeleine and her pillars.

Her face warmed. She grabbed her opposite wrist in front of herself.

“Can I… touch one?”

Ears, collars. All of them.

[Malkavia]

Oasis, hm?

Madeleine had travelled the world while she grew up. Two years in Paris, one in Hong Kong. A summer in Vienna. After all, her parents expected her to inherit a company whose green shoots were then popping up all over the worlds.

She glowed while Angelina took in her room. It was her space. Not a permanent home, really—but something she could carry with her. Not the walls, of course, but all the arrangements of her friends, the dynamics with the lights, the sense of Citronelle-inflected life.

"I have a room like this everywhere I live," she said, proudly. "I'm so glad you love it, sweet. There aren't many spaces I enjoy showing off more than this one."

She slid behind Angelina and gripped her shoulders, her arms slipping over her bare collar-bone towards her throat.

"Of course you can touch them dear. In fact, I'd like you to choose one. Your favorite."

Madeleine remembered choosing the collars. It had been a team project for the Citronelle strategists, of course, but she had made sure to have the final say. All of them were based on different theories of what made Angelina tick.

First, there was the black collar. The black leather and gleaming silver spikes were designed to mimic Angelina's own aesthetic. Punk. Grunge. Dangerous, a little beat up, and covered in thorns. One of the ears was (artfully) torn, as if ripped through some animal's razor teeth. The leather strip itself was thick and scratched and connected to a long, silver chain. This was a collar that should belong to a well-loved but equally well-feared doberman or guard dog.

Then, there was the pink collar—representing, perhaps, an opposite philosophy. Here was the Angelina of Rei Tachibana. The pink in this collar precisely matched the pink in Angelina's panties, and the white fur lining along the seams was soft to the touch. The ears, meanwhile, could only be described onomatopoetically: POOF. This collar would have sat snugly on a spoiled lounging cat.

Finally, there was...Madeleine's collar. It was a thin strip of crimson leather. Golden threads formed a lattice across and around the leather, like vines growing through the holes. Along the front, these golden vines conjoined into a name, written in flowing script: Citronelle.

"Well? How would you rank my potential gifts, hm?"

[Monsy]

So a sentimental kinda gal. Someone who goes out of her way for memories and moments, kickbacks to show a rich life. It gave her some ideas on her wee phone. She wanted a photo of her time here, in this room. The kitchen, piano, the empty Jouets D’Ors, and especially these collars. When did she ever see a gift so dolled up? And when will she ever get this kind of treatment again?

“My favourite?”

Her gaze stayed fixed forward. To pick the right one for herself. She touched the black one first. An index and middle on the silver spikes, gliding down, spreading across the leather then pinching it. “This one seems used.” She commented, finding its imperfections and tears. While she never owned a ‘dog’ and therefore knew little what to expect, she imagined this one belonged to a biter. Why else have all those spikes? Not for her, she wasn’t the spiky type. Something with a softer message.

Elegant. Sexy. Striking. Kaboom.

The Madeleine one.

“Looks made for you.” Was the most-fitting of her criteria. Angelina put her finger on the golden lattice and threads. Her pupils dilated when they just didn’t feel quite like metal, but saw dollar signs flash and flicker in green neon and a bottle of expensive champagne when she traded it for cash. It had to be real, right? Yes-yes. This girl was fuckin’ president of toy-land and robots.

Maybe she can get that one later. No, she will get that one later.

“This one's the best.” Her hand didn’t touch the pink one. Her eyes set on it, chin tipped down, then placed her hands in-front of herself. The fur lining was a huge sell. White fur, fluffy and clean and comfortable. The pink spoke to her the calmest. It told of sleep, rest, copious rest and comforts. Rejuvenation and adventure without hitch. The weekend is candy with pink.

She turned head to face Madeleine. “Do I put it on myself?”

[Malkavia]

Do I put it on myself.

Madeleine smiled the way she might have smiled at one of her two cats if they had crawled through her room's kitty door and twisted themselves around her ankles. She had wide dimples that wrinkled the edges of her sparkling eyes.

She cupped Angelina's chin in both her hands, stroking her jawline with her thumbs as she appraised her soon-to-be pet. A real kitten at last.

"Actually, sweet, I thought I might slip it over your neck myself. I want to feel how snug it is against your throat when I latch the buckle. We couldn't have it squeeze you too tight now, could we?"

A happy sigh rose from somewhere deep inside the Countess. Then she glanced to the floor. Tapped her toe against the dark-red carpet.

"But, first. You did say you'd do me a favor." Madeleine's eyes flicked back to Angelina's. She watched those violet cat-slit eyes. Waiting to see the resistance inside them rise—and then break for her. Like a dam long overdue for demolition. "Sweetie. Trust is very important for us right now. We have to be honest with each other. Otherwise, this whole thing is false, isn't it?"

Her hands slipped from her kitten's cheeks, down to her shoulders, where they clasped her. Firmly. "I know you have Thistledown, Angelina. Everyone knows. So." She raised her eyebrows, as her smile faded to something more serious. More schoolteacher. The pupil must be disciplined. "Apologize for lying to me. Apologize for the lack of respect. Apologize for...daring to call me stupid when I have been nothing but good to you. And make it good, pet." A bit of the smile returned now, as Madeleine leaned in, like she was inviting Angelina into a secret confidence. "Do that, and the collar is yours to keep."

[Monsy]

Angelina’s chin tipped as told by the cup of Madeleine’s soft hands. They were warm, gentle and entrusting. Her face felt inadequate. Hot too. Her eyes darted for a sign that something was right as she lowered her chin down. Then some more. And a bit more. Letting the thumbs brush away—she purred, first with a shade of pink, then a prominent but content red.

“Mhm.” Angelina went, nodding to the statement. Too tight. She’d like to see that collar try to choke her. She smiled, lightly tugging at the corner of her lips. Pull-Pull. Pull-Pull. And it settled, faint as a wee quirk, looking back at Madeleine asking for a favour. She watched Madeleine touch her down, clasp, then ask. Her head stayed pointed at the arm. The smile was still.

“Madeleine.” Struggle. Her gaze flicked down. Madeleine leaned in, rushing Angelina to keep up. Lean in. Do and say what felt right without thinking about it. The collar is yours to keep.

She frowned intentionally, appeared downtrodden with lowered brows, a drooping face and wilted smile. Shame incarnate.

“Sorry for not payin' my respects.”
“And for name callin'. It won’t happen again, I promise, Madeleine. I'll be good.”

Her mouth made a noise. Ss. Ss. She paused, met Madeleine’s eye and finished. “But I don’t have Thistledown. Ok?”

[Malkavia]

Madeleine's hands were unfastening the collar, had the clasp unhooked, was loosening the strap when Angelina went and ruined everything with those last five words. It was as if she had stepped suddenly and unexpectedly into a cascade of freezing cold water. Her whole body tightened.

The Countess stood there in the silence, biting her lip, with that white and pink collar still between her fingers. To Angelina she might have appeared still in the low light, but her chin was working from the exertion. She sighed, then let her hands fall limply to her sides. She shook her head and paced away from the mannequin and from the rat.

There was another collar, stored in the drawer of her nightstand, out of the way where no guest might accidentally stumble on it. She forced the drawer open with one quick clunk, grabbed the collar, then pushed the drawer shut. CLUNK.

She sat on the bed with the new collar resting on her knees. The collar was a loop of drab olive nylon webbing, which closed via a black plastic side-release buckle. ¥600 yen at the local PetPlus. Madeleine lifted it like she was displaying a dead rat by its tail, letting the accessory dangle from between her index finger and thumb.

"This is mine," she said, her voice sharp enough to slice paper. "I have it in case visitors bring pets without a leash, and I decide I don't trust them to remain without a leash." The wear of that use showed on the collar's frayed nylon edges. Tiny fibers made the texture of the polyester's edges fuzzy, like moss. "I expect it back at the end of our weekend."

Madeleine looked up at Angelina, her face dark in the moodlight. She crossed her leg and began to swing her ankle. Up and down. Controlled. Tight. She licked her lips, then nodded to the space in front of her. "Get on your knees. Let's get this on you."

[Monsy]

Angelina’s chin took a noticeable dip. She caught herself, stood right. When Madeleine walked away, her head followed first, peeking at Madeleine’s hands, then up, then back down again. She knew what was wrong.

Thistledown, again.
Rabbits, again.
She called Madeleine a liar, again.

And there was something to pay, yes. She got that fresh from just last time ten seconds ago.

The green rough kelp-looking collar had her cringing. It belonged to Shepherds and Labradors, Calicos and Tabbys, the animals that really do roll around in mud. The type that makes for a companion against boredom, the bottom tier that was above guest and beneath regular or honoured regular. Wait fifteen years, shed a tear. Get a new one. Life moves on.

She wanted to blurt out that Thistledown was a joke or how mentions of other pets and or people are excluded from her special time right now. She instead stayed quiet, sucked in her lips, pursed them, tried to stay stoic while feeling her chest strain and her throat stretch. She dropped where asked.

We can earn a better one. Then she spread her legs, sat on the ground in-front of Madeleine’s feet. We can earn a better one.

Her hands went between. She gripped her thighs, then leaned over slightly. Her chest started to jog and climb. She was warm again. The more she looked at the floor between them, the more she wanted to scoot on-top of it. As puny as those gaps were.

This was fine, she had thought. We can earn a better one.

[Malkavia]

A part of Madeleine wished the floor was wooden instead of carpet and that she had sand to spill on the ground—something to cut into her knees.

Look at the awful way you're making me think, kitten.

Madeleine combed her hands over Angelina's shoulders, lifting her hair off her neck and over her back. Then she took the collar, unsnapped its latch, and closed it around Angelina's neck. Head cocked, she adjusted it like a bowtie. Left. Right. Centered.

The ragged, wretched thing put a pit in Madeleine's stomach. Although she tried to keep her face cold and still, a frustrated sigh whispered through her nose. The whole while, Angelina's slitted eyes were wide and hurt and kitten in a way that made Madeleine want to pull her into a hug and cover her forehead with kisses. She almost did.

But...no. Angelina had made it abundantly clear that she wasn't the type of pet to listen when you shout. No, dog, no. Treats and praise and scritching at her jowls only made her whine when she stopped getting her way. No, Angelina was the type of animal who needed her face pressed into the piss she'd made on the carpet.

"I'm going to take you to your bed now," she said in a voice clipped and distant. "I don't want to see you again until I come to get you in the morning. I suggest you spend tonight thinking what you want the rest of this trip to be like." Madeleine let her hands drift from Angelina's throat to her lap. Part of her wanted to look away from the needy, sweet thing kneeling at her knees. She forced herself to glare daggers down instead. "We're going to take breakfast with Charlotte tomorrow. She and you and I are going to have a chat about Thistledown. If you value our time together, be ready to talk about him before then."

[Monsy]

The collar she wore felt slimy, itchy, like something else had worn it. It didn’t smell like new or precious or shiny. It made the skin she wore feel imperfect. It was shit. She was shit. I am shit. That’s who wears collars like these. Shitty people that don’t deserve this view. And shitty people are the type you don’t want to see.

Till morning?!

Angelina measured the hours. For some reason, she took that as weeks or months, like some Doctor’s Appointment to fix a hole in her chest. It couldn’t wait that long. Angelina’s eyes changed. They got wet, opened bigger, looked up and she shuffled closer, now able to hear Madeleine breathe. All this prerequisite just so Shimmer can win Madeleine over for a weekend. No doubt after she handed over the rabbit and the apology, then she’d be tossed. Shimmer would get Angelina’s collar, Angelina’s special time.

Her face squeezed. Her shoulders bounced. She was going to cry, then whimper out in a tone, rub her eyes and say sorry. She’d beg for a little reset button. Her eyes stung with need and her face turned a mouldy frown that reeked of rancid rat. Hic… Hic… Sharp breaths in, none out. After a series of hics, she held her breath, readied a foot underneath her and pounced without a moment to think what she’d do afterwards.

But both hands acted on their own and deliberately clutched Madeleine’s throat. Pale, soft. A squeeze.

She pictured it like a zit. Squeeze until it pops. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.

“Put me in a dog bed. Feed me shitty steak. Put this garbage on me.”

Her tone was a bark, her face looked to have aged twenty years into an incensed gargoyle. The cogs of Angelina’s miniscule muscle turned into a steadily growing choke. Her knuckles went white and her nails pitched into the skin on Madeleine’s throat, wanting it to break as the ends stabbed. Her legs locked to Madeleine’s waist. Then she jerked Madeleine into the bed several times, pulling her back then throwing her into the blankets as Angelina teetered and shuffled from the thrashes of Madeleine beneath her.

“We’re not doin’ SHIT with Shim. This is our weekend, ya fuckin’ hear me, ya two-timin' cunt-fuck-shit-asshole son of a BITCH?!”