Bella Donna Amongst the Belladonna
Title: Bella Donna Amongst the Belladonna
Author: darkfaerieclaw
Story Continuity: Battle For the Sun
Wordcount: 1339
Rating: PG-13 for language and references to sexy fun time
Summary: Cyprian has seen nothing like them since he entered the city.
It was one of those nights, and my girls knew it. They were girls in the very loosest sense of the word, of course - but what else do you call a plant, which has both female and male parts? They didn't mind, as long as I continued to treat them like the fine plants they were. In any case, it was a Saturday night, the kind of night most men my age would take into their heads to go find a hot girl and do...well, the girl, for starters. I always got along with the mages training in Eudora University for that reason, if nothing else - we all of us weren't getting any when others would, the mages because smelling like cloves and formaldehyde wasn't exactly an aphrodisiac, and me because...well, why damage the relationship I had with my right hand? Mom may not have liked it, but she was dead, and needed to learn to stay out of the affairs of the living. It's like this: do you have a relative that annoys you beyond measure, and you secretly harbor complex, utopia-like fantasies of what life will be like once he or she dies? For me, that was my mother. And then she died, and, me being of an ancient race of mystics, I was still able to hear her. My only hope to shake her off like the bad case of fleas she was was for her to decide to get reborn, which, I'm sorry to say, she hasn't yet done.
That night, I was watering the chives and garlic and trying desperately to ignore the roses' criticism of my hair (which, as an unfortunate result of my heritage, has always been an unnatural shade of pink which the more persnickety plants generally call “pretty princess pink”) when I heard shoes against the concrete of the floor.
“Come on out,” I sighed, turning in the direction of the scuffing. A kid of about sixteen or seventeen showed himself. His hair was curly, bleach blond, and sticking up in every direction in a failed attempt to spike it, a sure sign of a wannabe adventurer. His eyes were a strange shade of blue that were either the result of magical meddling or cheap contact lenses. I said, “What are you doing in my greenhouse at...what, eight at night?”
“I was just hiding,” the kid said. “We'll be out soon.”
“We?” I said, but he just looked away sullenly and blushed like a virgin bride. He said, “She didn't deserve her fate.”
“Ace,” I said. “So you're telling me my greenhouse has been turned into a temporary lovers' lane? Where are your parents?”
“Dead,” he said, sounding surprised and confused, as if it was common knowledge that the kid was an orphan. There was a knock on the door which led from this part of the greenhouse to the equipment room-cum-antechamber. I motioned for the kid to hide - I had to motion three times before he got it - and said, “It's open,” because you never say “Come in” in a city with a high population of vamps.
Don fucking Reynaldo walked through the door, along with three goons. The roses were more vocal than usual with their dislike of the visitors. Apparently, Reynaldo and his men were offensive to their very roots, and they suggested to me various ways to get rid of him. Don't know why people call roses romantic - there isn't a single romantic chloroplast in a rose's system. Don Reynaldo said, “This is a beautiful greenhouse...sir?” as if he was afraid he might have gotten my gender wrong. One of his muscle snickered.
“Keep it up,” I muttered. More loudly, I said, “Can I help you with something, Mr. Reynaldo?”
“Please,” he said, “Call me Franco. And as a matter of fact, you can. See, this guy, just a kid, really, he ran off with one of my, ahem, ladies.”
“One of your whores, you mean,” I said. “Ain't seen any action in a long time, sir. Don't plan on letting any come to me. You can see yourselves out, am I right?”
“Mr. Corvo,” one of the goons said, stepping a little too close to me, “I think you misunderstand. This place, that whore, you? All Don Reynaldo's.”
“This place is mine,” I said. “For as long as I want it and the plants'll have me, it's mine. Now, out.”
One of the goons pulled a gun out - damn rare to find guns - and I looked at it, and with a snap of my fingers it went flying across the room and smacked the back of the empty head of another goon, who was tearing into the tomatoes, and it hit hard enough that he hit the floor. The former gunman cried, “Marlon!”
“Lageostento,” I said, and the ironduke tree vines I kept in my sleeves shot out at my command and bound Don Reynaldo and the two of his men who were still conscious. Ironduke vines are usually tough to get out of, but when they have a mind to bind you, it's nigh on impossible with your bare hands to disentangle yourself, and the thorns don't help matters any. I said, “So now you have two options: leave in peace, or stay with an annoyed Cyprian Corvo and risk making nice with the flesh-eating plants which haven't been fed yet. Any questions? Comments?”
They agreed to leave, and did leave, with a promise to return to discuss business with me the next day. I didn't plan on staying long enough for that to happen. I leaned on the door after I closed it. “Come on out. Your lady friend, too.”
“Why didn't you turn us in?” The kid said, then called his girl in. The girl - whore, woman, whatever - was too old for him, but if I was her and someone - anyone - promised me freedom, I guess I'd follow him, too. She was beautiful, maybe two years younger than me, with long brown hair darker than a demon's soul bound at the middle with a red ribbon. She had wide chestnut eyes, nothing very spectacular with the makeup she had on, but if she didn't have raccoon eyes and a Lolita hooker uniform, I figured she'd be a looker. She walked straight past us into another room. The poisons' room. I hoped she could read.
“I don't know why I helped you,” I said. “But you and Miss Street-”
I heard the belladonna giggling. Belladonna don't giggle for no reason - they're hardly stoic, but they're not loopy like begonias, either. I walked away from the kid and went for the belladonna, which were planted by the rest of the poisons, and my heart stopped.
It was suddenly easy to understand why she was gussied up for the pedophiles. She had that childlike innocence about her. She petted the belladonnas, completely disregarding the sign on the wall that read CAUTION: POISON AREA in big dumb-fuck letters. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling like the sea at twilight; but that could have been the belladonnas' doing. The kid stopped bitching at me to go to his sweetheart's side and blush at her, looking as luminescent as the whore herself. The whore smiled and laughed at something the kid said, and angels sang, voices choked with joy. The two of them were so lovely, even in spite of the ridiculousness of their dress (and in the kid's case, hair) that one might have mistaken them for a pair of angels trying and failing to fit into a strange human society. I cleared my throat, as they were practically filling the room with unwanted pheromones, and the woman looked at me for the first time and said, pointing to the belladonnas, “What are these? They're so pretty!”
Her voice was neither the chiming of bells nor the song which inspired the muses, but-
Christ. There wasn't enough fresh air in the world to cool off from that.
Author: darkfaerieclaw
Story Continuity: Battle For the Sun
Wordcount: 1339
Rating: PG-13 for language and references to sexy fun time
Summary: Cyprian has seen nothing like them since he entered the city.
It was one of those nights, and my girls knew it. They were girls in the very loosest sense of the word, of course - but what else do you call a plant, which has both female and male parts? They didn't mind, as long as I continued to treat them like the fine plants they were. In any case, it was a Saturday night, the kind of night most men my age would take into their heads to go find a hot girl and do...well, the girl, for starters. I always got along with the mages training in Eudora University for that reason, if nothing else - we all of us weren't getting any when others would, the mages because smelling like cloves and formaldehyde wasn't exactly an aphrodisiac, and me because...well, why damage the relationship I had with my right hand? Mom may not have liked it, but she was dead, and needed to learn to stay out of the affairs of the living. It's like this: do you have a relative that annoys you beyond measure, and you secretly harbor complex, utopia-like fantasies of what life will be like once he or she dies? For me, that was my mother. And then she died, and, me being of an ancient race of mystics, I was still able to hear her. My only hope to shake her off like the bad case of fleas she was was for her to decide to get reborn, which, I'm sorry to say, she hasn't yet done.
That night, I was watering the chives and garlic and trying desperately to ignore the roses' criticism of my hair (which, as an unfortunate result of my heritage, has always been an unnatural shade of pink which the more persnickety plants generally call “pretty princess pink”) when I heard shoes against the concrete of the floor.
“Come on out,” I sighed, turning in the direction of the scuffing. A kid of about sixteen or seventeen showed himself. His hair was curly, bleach blond, and sticking up in every direction in a failed attempt to spike it, a sure sign of a wannabe adventurer. His eyes were a strange shade of blue that were either the result of magical meddling or cheap contact lenses. I said, “What are you doing in my greenhouse at...what, eight at night?”
“I was just hiding,” the kid said. “We'll be out soon.”
“We?” I said, but he just looked away sullenly and blushed like a virgin bride. He said, “She didn't deserve her fate.”
“Ace,” I said. “So you're telling me my greenhouse has been turned into a temporary lovers' lane? Where are your parents?”
“Dead,” he said, sounding surprised and confused, as if it was common knowledge that the kid was an orphan. There was a knock on the door which led from this part of the greenhouse to the equipment room-cum-antechamber. I motioned for the kid to hide - I had to motion three times before he got it - and said, “It's open,” because you never say “Come in” in a city with a high population of vamps.
Don fucking Reynaldo walked through the door, along with three goons. The roses were more vocal than usual with their dislike of the visitors. Apparently, Reynaldo and his men were offensive to their very roots, and they suggested to me various ways to get rid of him. Don't know why people call roses romantic - there isn't a single romantic chloroplast in a rose's system. Don Reynaldo said, “This is a beautiful greenhouse...sir?” as if he was afraid he might have gotten my gender wrong. One of his muscle snickered.
“Keep it up,” I muttered. More loudly, I said, “Can I help you with something, Mr. Reynaldo?”
“Please,” he said, “Call me Franco. And as a matter of fact, you can. See, this guy, just a kid, really, he ran off with one of my, ahem, ladies.”
“One of your whores, you mean,” I said. “Ain't seen any action in a long time, sir. Don't plan on letting any come to me. You can see yourselves out, am I right?”
“Mr. Corvo,” one of the goons said, stepping a little too close to me, “I think you misunderstand. This place, that whore, you? All Don Reynaldo's.”
“This place is mine,” I said. “For as long as I want it and the plants'll have me, it's mine. Now, out.”
One of the goons pulled a gun out - damn rare to find guns - and I looked at it, and with a snap of my fingers it went flying across the room and smacked the back of the empty head of another goon, who was tearing into the tomatoes, and it hit hard enough that he hit the floor. The former gunman cried, “Marlon!”
“Lageostento,” I said, and the ironduke tree vines I kept in my sleeves shot out at my command and bound Don Reynaldo and the two of his men who were still conscious. Ironduke vines are usually tough to get out of, but when they have a mind to bind you, it's nigh on impossible with your bare hands to disentangle yourself, and the thorns don't help matters any. I said, “So now you have two options: leave in peace, or stay with an annoyed Cyprian Corvo and risk making nice with the flesh-eating plants which haven't been fed yet. Any questions? Comments?”
They agreed to leave, and did leave, with a promise to return to discuss business with me the next day. I didn't plan on staying long enough for that to happen. I leaned on the door after I closed it. “Come on out. Your lady friend, too.”
“Why didn't you turn us in?” The kid said, then called his girl in. The girl - whore, woman, whatever - was too old for him, but if I was her and someone - anyone - promised me freedom, I guess I'd follow him, too. She was beautiful, maybe two years younger than me, with long brown hair darker than a demon's soul bound at the middle with a red ribbon. She had wide chestnut eyes, nothing very spectacular with the makeup she had on, but if she didn't have raccoon eyes and a Lolita hooker uniform, I figured she'd be a looker. She walked straight past us into another room. The poisons' room. I hoped she could read.
“I don't know why I helped you,” I said. “But you and Miss Street-”
I heard the belladonna giggling. Belladonna don't giggle for no reason - they're hardly stoic, but they're not loopy like begonias, either. I walked away from the kid and went for the belladonna, which were planted by the rest of the poisons, and my heart stopped.
It was suddenly easy to understand why she was gussied up for the pedophiles. She had that childlike innocence about her. She petted the belladonnas, completely disregarding the sign on the wall that read CAUTION: POISON AREA in big dumb-fuck letters. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling like the sea at twilight; but that could have been the belladonnas' doing. The kid stopped bitching at me to go to his sweetheart's side and blush at her, looking as luminescent as the whore herself. The whore smiled and laughed at something the kid said, and angels sang, voices choked with joy. The two of them were so lovely, even in spite of the ridiculousness of their dress (and in the kid's case, hair) that one might have mistaken them for a pair of angels trying and failing to fit into a strange human society. I cleared my throat, as they were practically filling the room with unwanted pheromones, and the woman looked at me for the first time and said, pointing to the belladonnas, “What are these? They're so pretty!”
Her voice was neither the chiming of bells nor the song which inspired the muses, but-
Christ. There wasn't enough fresh air in the world to cool off from that.