The Drow Queen of Glaley [Very NSFW]

[Varisia Primfana]

Varisia laughs again, then reaches out to grab Bull's neck. Pulling him closer, she kisses him, hard and punishing. The Iron Bull lives up to the middle of his name for once, his entire body rigid and unmoving the entire time. Pulling back, Varisia makes a 'tsking' noise. "We'll work on that," she purrs, patting his cheek. "Now come along, I'm horny and you're just the right toy to satisfy me right now."

[Coquette Blacquin]

Coquette stands, moving surprisingly gracefully given her state. She slips to the sidebar, picking up a large chef's knife. Is she planning to attack Varisia? That would be stupid, given the ways the other woman has to neutralize her. No; instead, she presses the tip against her stomach, narrowing her eyes at Varisia. 

"Leave him." 

[The Iron Bull]

Which means she's taken her eyes off Bull; before she can react, the imisy minotaur has grabbed the blade of the knife, his far superior strength ensuring that the weapon is made irrelevant. Eyes blazing red, he leans in so his face is right in front of Coquette's. "Don't you ever," he snarls. "Not for me, not for anyone." Leaning in even more, his voice drops to a bare hiss. "Get the fuck back and let your better sides take over right the fuck now, you stupid, egotisical dickstain."

[Coquette Blacquin]

Which is when she slaps him. Hard. "Get away from me," she hisses. 

[Varisia Primfana]

Coquette's arm goes numb, the only sensation remaining two sharp spikes of pain near the elbow. A glance to the side reveals an absolutely furious Varisia. "How-- how dare--" She can't even talk, instead dissolving into a wordless, snarling hiss. Even as Bull yanks the knife out of her useless hand, Coquette feels the numbness in her arm spreading rapidly to the rest of her body.

[Coquette Blacquin]

"Whatever it takes, until you mend your ways," she slurs. "I will not be disrespected. I will be your wife, not your slave." Her eyelids droop shut, try as she might to keep her consciousness.

[NPCs]

The last thing she sees before spiraling into a horrible kaleidoscope of nightmares is Bull's face, Bull's blazing crimson eyes overflowing with regret and sorrow.

[Coquette Blacquin]

The kitchen is usually spotless in the manor in Coquette's mind; there's a kettle, a small round table, canisters of flour and rice and whatnot. Today it's a mess: flour everywhere, rice all over the floor, the table overturned, the chairs smashed to pieces. As Madam Noire enters, she has to duck as a knife comes flying past her head to lodge itself in the door. 

"Someone's angry," she says, her tone cool, hard. 

"Fuck you!" screams Cedric, hurling another knife in her direction. "Fuck you and fuck Varisia and fuck you again!"

"Please, calm down," whimpers Cindy, tugging on Cedric's sleeve from behind him. 

"Fuck you too!" snarls Cedric, whirling to pull a knife on her. "You trusted her, and look where it got us! She's brought fucking slaves into our fucking home, for the sake of our fucking child!"

"We're getting rid of the bull," announces Madam Noire, moving to sit in a suddenly perfect chair at the suddenly righted table. "He's outlived his usefulness."

"The fuck you say!" screams Cedric. He runs two steps towards Noire before Cindy tackles him to the tiled floor, prying the knife from his hand. 

"Please, Cedric, we need her," Cindy whimpers. 

"The bull threatened us," snaps Noire. "He chose Varisia over us. He cannot be trusted."

Cedric stills, the room growing eerily silent. "He. What?"

"He chose Varisia over us," she repeats. 

"He would never!" Cedric begins thrashing again, trying to get free of Cindy once more. "He loves me!"

"Children," purrs a voice from the corner. A dark figure steps forward; a male figure, wearing a black-and-grey kilt that blends into his jet black skin tone perfectly. His ears are sharply pointed, his eyes deep red, his hair shocking white, and his voice is like a rumble of thunder in the distance. The only thing that marks him apart from a typical Drow male is the pair of ruined, shredded wings hanging limply from his shoulders. "Let's not fight."

The room grows still for a moment, everyone struggling to catch their breath but the newcomer. Cindy rolls off of Cedric, who leaps to his feet, putting himself between the newcomer and his girls. "Get back. Into. The basement," he snarls, the knife in his hand becoming a rapier. 

"Make me," the newcomer rumbles, a smirk on his face. "Let's face it, child: you've failed. It's my turn. Let me out, and I'll fix the situation so that it cannot be made this bad ever again."

"Over my dead body!" screams Cedric, and he charges the figure, raising his rapier. As he runs, a mask forms over his face, his cloak billowing out from nowhere, until he is The Silver Scale again, ready for a fight. 

For all his preparation, it would have been over quickly if Madam Noire hadn't joined in. The globes of fire she casts at the foe do little to distract him, but the way Cedric's outlines blur and the lights dim helps. Still, it's Cindy who beans the newcomer over the back of the head with a cast-iron frying pan, sending him to the floor in a daze. 

"Let's get him to the basement," pants Cedric. 

"And check on Little Bitch," agrees Cindy. "I haven't seen her in a little."

They tromp into the basement, where they find the iron-barred cell locked up tight -- with Little Bitch inside, whimpering in a ball. In here, the girl is a child, barely 7; she rushes into Cindy's arms, sobbing on her shoulder as Cindy rubs her back.

"I'm sorry, I let him out, I'm sorry, he said he wanted to help but he tricked me," she whimpers, and Cindy shushes her. 

"It's alright, little one. It's alright. I'm here. We'll just lock him back up and this time we'll hide the key better. It's okay, dearest. You're alright. We're going to be alright. I promise."

"I promise," echoes Cedric, as he locks the newcomer into the cage. 

"I promise," agrees Noire, moving to gently pet Little Bitch's head. 

[Varisia Primfana]

Even after the uneasy truce, forged against a common foe, things remain tense and awkward in the kitchen. Something no doubt made worse by how nothing can be done in the outside world for some time. Coquette is really sure how long she goes before waking, but based on how her body feels, she's sure it's a couple of days. Worse still, she's bound securely to an unfamiliar bed, her mind fogged and her limbs stiff and numb. Her awareness doesn't last long, minutes at best, and she has only a hazy recollection of warm broth being dribbled into her mouth. The next glimpse of the waking world is of a golden haired god, expression grave and sorrowed, gently wiping down her skin with a damp cloth. 

There are more glimpses, dozens more, but none last longer than a handful of minutes. None of them give her enough time to gather up words, all of them have her bound and weak, and none of them have her wife or bull in them.

When lucidity, true lucidity, finally arrives, it starts with the sound of soft gasps and whimpers. Low murmurs by a seductive, firm voice. As her mind warms up, thoughts starting to fire, she realizes she's sitting up slightly, propped up against pillows-- and that her ankles and wrists are bound. More, she can feel her collar tightly gripping her neck. Scent comes next; rosewood and lavender, Varisia's favorite candle, combined with a musky, almost salty odor that Coquette has been very, very familiar in the last half decade or so. Forcing her eyes open, she finds herself looking directly at-- 

at--

--at Blossom. A naked, flat-bellied Blossom. The elf gleams with sweat, and more than sweat in places, an expression of tortured rapture on her face. Her hair is tied back sharply, revealing the melted mess of her face as clearly as her mound is exposed by how her legs are forced apart by the wooden bar her ankles are tied to. There's another bar between her wrists, which are extended out above her head, and a third across her lower back, where a belt of sorts is the final support. All three of them serve to hold her aloft, above and in front of Coquette, at just the right angle to present the elf's entire body to Coquette. 

Just behind Blossom is Coquette's wife. Much of her is obscured by Blossom, but Varisia is a far bit bigger than her, so Coquette can see that her wife is mostly naked. The mostly being the knee-high boots Varisia loves to wear and some leather straps around her waist that are securing the faux-phallus she's just finishing up pegging Blossom with. Winded, she notices Coquette's eyes being open and smiles broadly. "Perfect timing, my wife," she purrs, pressing a kiss to the mewling elf's neck. 

[Coquette Blacquin]

--right in front of me!--

--slave, keep in mind that she must be--

--happening to me, what's going on, please--

She can't think, she can't focus. Bits and snatches of thought fade in and out of her disassociated mess of a mind. All she can do is fight for consciousness, try to figure out who she is, what she wants. And what's happening. 

"'sia?" she slurs, her voice thick and heavy. 

[Varisia Primfana]

"No, Little Bitch," Varisia croons, leaning heavily against Blossom, uncaring of how much strain that must be putting on her limbs. "Mistress Varisia, your wife. The higher wife and your superior." One hand slips around Blossom to tease and toy with the elf's nipples, causing a few drops of milk to bead on the peak. "Are you back together, my Little Bitch? Have you regained your sense and sensibilities?" 

[Coquette Blacquin]

"Fuck you," she spits, and again, she can't tell who is speaking, exactly. It feels like a jumble of all three: Noire's fury at being replaced, Cedric's fury over slaves, and Cindy's anger at being mistreated. 

[Varisia Primfana]

The coy, somewhat hopeful, look drops from Varisia's face and her eyes harden. "I see." Her voice is flat and wearied. "Then I suppose I need'nt really bother to ask if you're ready to beg my forgiveness." She sighs deeply, resting her forehead against Blossom's neck.

[Coquette Blacquin]

"Forgiveness for what? You wronged me," she sneers, and it's pure Noire this time. It seems the lady has gotten the upper hand. 

[Varisia Primfana]

"I thought you had gotten past this childish stagge," Varisia says, regret and weariness in her voice. "Blood and bile, girl, it's been five years. How have you not learned..?" She shakes her head, eyes closing as if to collect herself. "I broke no law, no vow, no promise or faith outside of your silly, girlish delusions." Her voice is still soft, filled with sincerity and sorrow, even as she continues to tweak Blossom's nipple idly. The elf seems nearly insensate with arousal and fatigue, the poor girl barely aware of anything but where Varisia is touching her, inside her.