Still Struggling, Staggeringly Starstruck

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@strugglingstellarstorm

It's been a few months, and a whirlwind of them. Activity around Local 1 has gotten so frenetic, new faces, new problems, strays and principals and kidnappings and rendezvouses. She's pretty certain she found actual proof of intelligent alien life in this universe and that's not even her biggest concern right now. Oona Bluerose has had a lot on her mind.

And lately a name popped up, a reminder of the touch of someone she misses. A girl difficult to define, to the head maid. Not quite a principal, no, that'd be her rather soft hearted alter. No, Dame Nihilis is something else entirely.

Every time she comes by, she seems to end up entangled with Oona. Not that they're either the worse for it. Oona wishes she knew what makes her want to come back.

Maybe Nihilis is just a bad habit.

And you still texted her, didn't you.

Aye, she sure did. Come by sometime this week. Lots to talk about.

When she sent it, the Dame really did not know what to think of it. The head maid, the bigger fish, the Lady of Roses herself, messaging her of all people. Specifically. Not her alter, not the Marquess, but the unfathomable other spirit accompanying her. A plurality of precautions are to naturally be taken in this event, though she knows that the maiden won't harm her - once again, even when pacified that way, her own alter is still so useful... 9:00 AM approaches. The Dame hops onto her dependable bike and rides towards the still surging sun, clad in black and lilac colours. Her clothes are less flowing, more tightly fitted, so that none of them would get stuck during transit. Of course, she wears her black half mask, her great gaze made sharper by the crimson colouration of her pupils. She arrives at the Bluerose estate right on time at the front gate. Mentioning the name of her alter to the devoted damsels on duty, the Angstrom Marquess, they let her through. The bike's contact is removed, keys now kept in her purse, the Dame now marching towards the very core of the domain. Oona isn't someone that can be missed. A gorgeous giant that stands out both in height, pigmentation, and most importantly presence. It's 10:00 AM exactly, like her message announced, as the Dame stands about 10 feet away from the Captain, handling her bike.

The head maid herself comes down from the steps of the porch and offers her hand from her withering height in a long, low bow.

"Madame, Must I have a good reason?" The head maid smiles, glistening bronze statue and her obsidian curtain of hair, in regal uniform perfectly pressed and cleaned with obsessive attention. Of all the maids milling about this castle the head one proves to be so very many things at once. As the Dame would offer her hand, Oona delicately takes and kisses it.

"Oh you. Allying plain pleasures and business oh so effortlessly. Fortunately for you, the Marquess and I both had vacant time to spare." She slowly pulls her hand out of the formal salutations offered by the Captain.

Hearing this nickname for her intensifies her gaze on Oona's, a slight smirk forming on her usually blank face, her vulpine ears twitching lightly at its mention. One could even hazard the sight of a slight wag from her tail. "So, let us spend these seldom available moments together. Before that, did you come up with this one on your own, Lady of the Blue? Very clever in that case."

A dance most exquisite and smooth. The extended hand breaks contact as "Rienne" steps in close, and natural as snowflakes against a gentle slope the maid's hand falls upon the fox's opposing hip and waist with her thick arm supporting her tender curves to lean back into. And that arm tenderly squeezes the witch against the head maid's side, at once reflecting and amplifying the possessiveness of the claim Rienne's body language laid on the maid.

Oh, how she wants. Unable to let it spill nakedly from her lips. These silent and yet mouthy fingertips depress into Rienne's flesh to delicately goose her madame for an indulgent pulse as the handsome captain encourages her guest into the loving embrace of her castle walls, articulate knuckles pressed against the soft give of the cheek below them. Aye, let them all see where you've made yourself so comfortable. How easy the fox makes it for her maid.

A bold little smile answers her guest as the doors part and they walk together through the hall, the other maids bowing gently at the lady, some waving, familiar, others minding their business. An audience, which will not interrupt the playful dance. Aye, she knows the benefits of playing the game. And she knows how delicious it is to offer a princess-- though Rienne is loath to use that title-- the choice to play it.

"'Tis everything but a surprise, darling. You've already proven your culture and curiosity in our first meeting. And please, we both know you cannot stand being polite. Tell us the honest, absolute, terrifying truth."

There's something out parading around playfully like this that's enjoyable, even for the witch. She has no qualms showing off her ears and tail around, unlike the Marquess who would wear a shawl. Glances are given everywhere, taking the details of the resplendent mansion, from the floor so clean you can see your reflection it it, to the polished and ornate walls, to even the pillars and the ceiling. That is, until her little smile fades, that nickname echoing, amplifying in her mind.

"One thing does intrigue me however… Why Rienne of all things? It has a nice ring to it, of course, being a single hard consonant followed by softer sounds, but how did you come up with such a name?"

"If a wasnae mistaken, I'd think it sounds like a make you nervous, madame." A wily, tender grin sets across her lips, fingers combing up through her hair to the fox's fluffy ear, thumbing up its helix delicately.

A quiet follows, that notable compositional silence that represents the engine running, the gears clicking, the processors grinding, her lovely deep eyes fixed and distant, yet focused and alert.

"Nihilis, Nothingness is a beautiful concept, but has too many ugly cognates. Le mot 'rien', c'est beau, non? La plus belle des couleurs pour vous peindre, Mademoiselle Rienne." Her voice soft, smooth, her French smooth and provincial, easy on her tongue and sweet in the ear. Gently, she encourages the fox toward the nearest wall behind her, though ready despite it for a fight. Expecting it. Wanting it, even.

"As for what am plannin. A few things. Finding out what you're upty lately, who you're talkin ty, where you've been, who you've been killin lately. You know, jealous lover things, my signature." The maid chuckles softly. Her hand below squeezes, sliding around Nihilis's hip to grope around her rear, wherever the two may be, to take, boldly, insolently, her quiet tax of touch. Though she hasn't been so aggressive. "Though, mos' importantly among all those jealous lover nothins,"

"'Tis obvious I'd be nervous. There's that lingering taste in your vitals... One I know all too well. You thought through everything to not tell the entire tale, didn't you?"

Her gaze strengthens as her shoulders are slammed against the surface behind. Fingers slowly slide down the side of the bronze statue, still, rigid, sticking against her suit and skin. The witch seems to know something, but alludes to it.

The flirting flusters the usually frigid femme, her eyes frantically darting to different focus points of Oona's face. IN FRENCH, of all things? Where has she learnt to speak it with such clear elocution? Control over her voice? But, the sudden shock swiftly dissipates, as fast as it showed up.

"Souhaiteriez-vous danser vos plus sanctifiées sensations en ce langage si singulier ? Sachez seulement que cette valse ne s'achèvera que par votre simple et subite cession." Her tongue is refined, her words are hissing, cutting, digging against the tigress. Certainly, she knows something most hidden otherwise, a severe secret. The word "sanctifiées" feels out of place, almost as if it was stolen and splashed in an unrelated sentence to test, trigger a reaction.

(Translation: "Do you wish to dance with your most sacred feelings in this oh so peculiar tongue? Know that this watlz will come to an end only when you simply and suddenly surrender.")

"For a formal announcement on the recently slain, none that necessarily should be of concern to you. Plenty to conduct research on however. The usual cast of folks spoken to is the same as last time. Has "mum" been satisfied with these answers, or should I make my actions shout louder than my words?"

And, being called "mum" more and more often lately, it's starting to get on her nerves, and worse.

It's starting to turn her on.

Angel.

The grip tightens. Her hips buck sharply up against the fox.

"Oui, Rienne? Adorez-vous mon goût á ce point?♡"

The momentary fear and discomfort only makes her heart beat faster. It's not right, not at all. How enrapturing this being, a woman that will bury her in all this debauchery of hers, all the trickery in those eyes and the malice and the hunger and the hot, tight embrace in which she holds the Dame, breaths hot against each other, far from lust in her eyes but the silk wrapped iron of her daggered gaze complement to her guillotine tongue. Articulate to the point of menace sanitized of the slurred sanguine Scottish cadence.

With this newfound position, the claustrophobic closeness of it all, warmth isn't able to escape. It escalates… Just a few motions of the hands for now, rubbing against the other, as their gazes meet, greet and sing along, dancing privately in the dimly lit alley. Compassion melds with the compulsive lust for each other… And Nihilis drinks the words Oona dares to pronounce. The stepstool she still stands on sinks into the floor partially, lowering her head to be flushed with Oona's neck… So tantalisingly close…

"I know of your little spy amongst my group… She's proven to be a wonderful asset… And I gather that you tolerate that. However, those details matter not now… Let the feast begin first, let us quell our hunger for each other."

@strugglingstellarstorm

It's been a few months, and a whirlwind of them. Activity around Local 1 has gotten so frenetic, new faces, new problems, strays and principals and kidnappings and rendezvouses. She's pretty certain she found actual proof of intelligent alien life in this universe and that's not even her biggest concern right now. Oona Bluerose has had a lot on her mind.

And lately a name popped up, a reminder of the touch of someone she misses. A girl difficult to define, to the head maid. Not quite a principal, no, that'd be her rather soft hearted alter. No, Dame Nihilis is something else entirely.

Every time she comes by, she seems to end up entangled with Oona. Not that they're either the worse for it. Oona wishes she knew what makes her want to come back.

Maybe Nihilis is just a bad habit.

And you still texted her, didn't you.

Aye, she sure did. Come by sometime this week. Lots to talk about.

When she sent it, the Dame really did not know what to think of it. The head maid, the bigger fish, the Lady of Roses herself, messaging her of all people. Specifically. Not her alter, not the Marquess, but the unfathomable other spirit accompanying her. A plurality of precautions are to naturally be taken in this event, though she knows that the maiden won't harm her - once again, even when pacified that way, her own alter is still so useful... 9:00 AM approaches. The Dame hops onto her dependable bike and rides towards the still surging sun, clad in black and lilac colours. Her clothes are less flowing, more tightly fitted, so that none of them would get stuck during transit. Of course, she wears her black half mask, her great gaze made sharper by the crimson colouration of her pupils. She arrives at the Bluerose estate right on time at the front gate. Mentioning the name of her alter to the devoted damsels on duty, the Angstrom Marquess, they let her through. The bike's contact is removed, keys now kept in her purse, the Dame now marching towards the very core of the domain. Oona isn't someone that can be missed. A gorgeous giant that stands out both in height, pigmentation, and most importantly presence. It's 10:00 AM exactly, like her message announced, as the Dame stands about 10 feet away from the Captain, handling her bike.

The head maid herself comes down from the steps of the porch and offers her hand from her withering height in a long, low bow.

"Madame, Must I have a good reason?" The head maid smiles, glistening bronze statue and her obsidian curtain of hair, in regal uniform perfectly pressed and cleaned with obsessive attention. Of all the maids milling about this castle the head one proves to be so very many things at once. As the Dame would offer her hand, Oona delicately takes and kisses it.

"Oh you. Allying plain pleasures and business oh so effortlessly. Fortunately for you, the Marquess and I both had vacant time to spare." She slowly pulls her hand out of the formal salutations offered by the Captain.

Hearing this nickname for her intensifies her gaze on Oona's, a slight smirk forming on her usually blank face, her vulpine ears twitching lightly at its mention. One could even hazard the sight of a slight wag from her tail. "So, let us spend these seldom available moments together. Before that, did you come up with this one on your own, Lady of the Blue? Very clever in that case."

A dance most exquisite and smooth. The extended hand breaks contact as "Rienne" steps in close, and natural as snowflakes against a gentle slope the maid's hand falls upon the fox's opposing hip and waist with her thick arm supporting her tender curves to lean back into. And that arm tenderly squeezes the witch against the head maid's side, at once reflecting and amplifying the possessiveness of the claim Rienne's body language laid on the maid.

Oh, how she wants. Unable to let it spill nakedly from her lips. These silent and yet mouthy fingertips depress into Rienne's flesh to delicately goose her madame for an indulgent pulse as the handsome captain encourages her guest into the loving embrace of her castle walls, articulate knuckles pressed against the soft give of the cheek below them. Aye, let them all see where you've made yourself so comfortable. How easy the fox makes it for her maid.

A bold little smile answers her guest as the doors part and they walk together through the hall, the other maids bowing gently at the lady, some waving, familiar, others minding their business. An audience, which will not interrupt the playful dance. Aye, she knows the benefits of playing the game. And she knows how delicious it is to offer a princess-- though Rienne is loath to use that title-- the choice to play it.

"'Tis everything but a surprise, darling. You've already proven your culture and curiosity in our first meeting. And please, we both know you cannot stand being polite. Tell us the honest, absolute, terrifying truth."

There's something out parading around playfully like this that's enjoyable, even for the witch. She has no qualms showing off her ears and tail around, unlike the Marquess who would wear a shawl. Glances are given everywhere, taking the details of the resplendent mansion, from the floor so clean you can see your reflection it it, to the polished and ornate walls, to even the pillars and the ceiling. That is, until her little smile fades, that nickname echoing, amplifying in her mind.

"One thing does intrigue me however… Why Rienne of all things? It has a nice ring to it, of course, being a single hard consonant followed by softer sounds, but how did you come up with such a name?"

"If a wasnae mistaken, I'd think it sounds like a make you nervous, madame." A wily, tender grin sets across her lips, fingers combing up through her hair to the fox's fluffy ear, thumbing up its helix delicately.

A quiet follows, that notable compositional silence that represents the engine running, the gears clicking, the processors grinding, her lovely deep eyes fixed and distant, yet focused and alert.

"Nihilis, Nothingness is a beautiful concept, but has too many ugly cognates. Le mot 'rien', c'est beau, non? La plus belle des couleurs pour vous peindre, Mademoiselle Rienne." Her voice soft, smooth, her French smooth and provincial, easy on her tongue and sweet in the ear. Gently, she encourages the fox toward the nearest wall behind her, though ready despite it for a fight. Expecting it. Wanting it, even.

"As for what am plannin. A few things. Finding out what you're upty lately, who you're talkin ty, where you've been, who you've been killin lately. You know, jealous lover things, my signature." The maid chuckles softly. Her hand below squeezes, sliding around Nihilis's hip to grope around her rear, wherever the two may be, to take, boldly, insolently, her quiet tax of touch. Though she hasn't been so aggressive. "Though, mos' importantly among all those jealous lover nothins,"

"'Tis obvious I'd be nervous. There's that lingering taste in your vitals... One I know all too well. You thought through everything to not tell the entire tale, didn't you?"

Her gaze strengthens as her shoulders are slammed against the surface behind. Fingers slowly slide down the side of the bronze statue, still, rigid, sticking against her suit and skin. The witch seems to know something, but alludes to it.

The flirting flusters the usually frigid femme, her eyes frantically darting to different focus points of Oona's face. IN FRENCH, of all things? Where has she learnt to speak it with such clear elocution? Control over her voice? But, the sudden shock swiftly dissipates, as fast as it showed up.

"Souhaiteriez-vous danser vos plus sanctifiées sensations en ce langage si singulier ? Sachez seulement que cette valse ne s'achèvera que par votre simple et subite cession." Her tongue is refined, her words are hissing, cutting, digging against the tigress. Certainly, she knows something most hidden otherwise, a severe secret. The word "sanctifiées" feels out of place, almost as if it was stolen and splashed in an unrelated sentence to test, trigger a reaction.

(Translation: "Do you wish to dance with your most sacred feelings in this oh so peculiar tongue? Know that this watlz will come to an end only when you simply and suddenly surrender.")

"For a formal announcement on the recently slain, none that necessarily should be of concern to you. Plenty to conduct research on however. The usual cast of folks spoken to is the same as last time. Has "mum" been satisfied with these answers, or should I make my actions shout louder than my words?"