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cherry lips, crystal skies

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It is the sky that she notices first.

So brilliant and blue, it hangs like hydrogen ice diamonds over the neat curve of the Earth: perfect, and good, and thus — completely, absolutely, utterly abysmal. The ugly feeling refracts a thousand crystal shards down the disgusted shiver of her spine.

“Tell me, pretty-pretty,” the Black Queen leans over the console, the brush of blood feathers dripping with purpose from her extravagant sleeve to sweep over Barbarella’s hands. An extreme act of willpower keeps her blades sheathed against the wrist. “What exactly is this monstrosity I am being forced to bear? This commonplace, this tiresome, this most unworthy spectacle?”

“It’s the Earth,” Barbarella smiles wide, looks up from confirming their final descent destination, and the way her mouth quirks just so lights up the whole of Alpha 7’s bridge. Oh, the frisson it gives her — she feels such desire to steal it right off that enchanting face. Smear all that exquisite joy across the ground. Over her thighs. In the harsh cup of her hands, where she would be able to feel exactly how warm and quick Barbarella’s fluttering heartbeat can pulse against her fingers.

Barbarella’s eyes go soft. “Isn’t it lovely?”

They’re blue, the Black Queen thinks, eyes as blue as the Earth sky, and just as inescapable.






She lasts all of three days.

The people are impotent dullards, the stimulants entirely harmless, and when the temptation of the Varanus men had proven too much — that little enclave of broad-shouldered and verdigris-scaled visitors who had indeed screamed as deliciously as she thought they would, when she had carved their tails from their body with the razor-point of her nails — Barbarella had to plead her case in front of the Presidential council. It had been humiliating. It was one thing to submit to Barbarella; it was another to prostrate herself before the authority of such an insipid planet.

“Oh, this just won’t do, Your Majesty!” Barbarella’s voice is a whip. The Black Queen thinks she likes the sting of this one better than the usual lilting song of Barbarella’s words. They’ve been confined to Alpha 7 until the council decides what to do with her — most likely entomb her under clear lucite in the Museum of Conflict, a gorgeous dark nightmare to scare the children of futures to come. A frown dips Barbarella’s pretty brow, mars Barbarella’s pretty face; the Black Queen feels such contention at its very existence. “We are not on Sogo anymore. You can’t just do as you please!”

And yet— a thing dark and wonderful blooms inside the Black Queen. There it is: You can’t just do but all she hears is the unsaid We can’t just do.

“And what does my pretty-pretty suggest then?” The dark thing has thorns; her heart is a labyrinth and she means to completely ensnare Barbarella in its poison barbs. Today, liquid crystal encases the Black Queen in its mirror planes; in this sinuous bodysuit, she shines just as bright as Barbarella usually does, the red and orange glow of the galaxy monitor constellating over the soft curve of her breasts. She is a delight, in the silky line of her thighs the strength of a murder she keeps wanting to commit, in her smirking mouth the entire challenge of a fallen planet. The Black Queen luxuriates against the tawny-furred console, crystal straps pulling taut across her chest as they barely restrain the pertness of her nipples, and her eyes never leave Barbarella’s face even once. Let her watch. Let her come.

Her smile goes wide; the challenge is piling up at the corner of the Black Queen’s sharp mouth: wet, willing, ready to spill, and Barbarella’s eyes never leave her. Blue, so blue and piercing it’s like the very milk from a thousand angel fires flooding her veins hot and terrifying, and oh, the Black Queen purrs, “What does my pretty-pretty plan to do with me?

Barbarella doesn’t turn her beautiful golden head aside: “Alphy, set a course for Zeta Sagittarii 9.”

The confirmation of Alpha 7’s reply is lost in the glorious song of Barbarella’s fond laughter as she rises from her seat. “And you, my dearest Majesty! The council has finally decided that you are to bring peace and love to an outpost that has become a touch unruly. In the three hours of Earth time we have until we reach our destination, you are going to learn how to be good.”

“Oh, I am good. I’m very, very good.” The gossamer green tails of Barbarella’s uniform flutter over her backside, waving like the dismembered tails of the Varanus had under the hot sun, and the memory of such a divine agony makes her want so much to map that perfect skin — trace the warmth that flushes so prettily up the inside of Barbarella’s legs, leave a path of her own, red and unforgiving and lush. And so she does: presses a dangerous nail in between those thighs, feels Barbarella shiver under her hand as she draws a slow, careful x to mark her spot. “Does pretty-pretty want to learn from me? I could show you so many delicious things!”

“What does a tyrant have to show me?” But curiosity shines in her eyes, and the trapping of something so pure and lovely feels almost as good as that heartbeat that’s finally within reach, just there, hot and wet and ready; the Black Queen had always known that Barbarella wants nothing more than to please and be pleased.

“Not a tyrant,” and she pulls Barbarella toward her, over her, laughing triumphantly. “But a Queen!”






Barbarella is golden all over, just as she thought — fine golden hairs tickle her nose as she greedily laps up every drop that spills; the skin inside her thighs glistening golden as she clenches around the Black Queen’s jaw; the taste of her golden, too, like the salt honey of the death orchids that pours from the dark red flush of their stamens.

“Oh! Right there— right— good—” Her voice is also golden, shimmering like diamond bells at midnight, and the Black Queen grips the meat of her thighs just that much tighter, to make her truly sing.

The Black Queen is wet, too. She’s been slick and aching for a while now, every time Barbarella flows over her tongue, hot and thick with pleasure, and she moans just the same, with nothing to relieve her of the desire that’s been stoked inside except her thighs grinding and grinding and grinding against nothing but her own overheated skin. It’s frustrating. It’s delicious, this ache, this torture at the hands of a creature of peace. Oh, how she would love to crush Barbarella’s mouth against herself, make her swallow the whole of her, make her choke on the taste of her until she was making those golden noises just for her, too.

She cannot have that, not at this time; but she has Barbarella all the same. And her tongue licks slow and teasingly inside, tracing every fold to taste all of her, sucking when she hears Barbarella cry gently. There will be marks where her fingers claw against Barbarella’s thighs, and she nips the soft skin, adds another, and another, little red gashes that she knows Barbarella will feel every time her thighs rubs together as she floats across the pathways of Zeta Sagittarii 9. Under the Black Queen’s teeth and fingers and the suck of her mouth blooms a lovely amaranthine story she wants everyone to read; the spill of blood wine across a canvas pale gold and untainted, her Earth conquest.

Drips smear across her chin, her breasts; such a rich liquid weight that floods the back of her throat when the Black Queen pushes back, fucks her tongue deep and dragging where Barbarella sings highest and sweetest.

“More like this, pretty-pretty? More of that?”

Barbarella quakes; drags herself hard against the Black Queen’s mouth, keening gorgeously as the Black Queen tilts her chin to suck. Barbarella’s brow crinkles in apology at the force of it, even as all her hair shakes free under the glittering lights of the console, crowning her in a whirling galaxy. She looks so pure like this, a primitive angel riding a dark beast, and the Black Queen is greedy with it, heart completely aflame as she thinks of her array of translucent horns and mounts that she would have Barbarella ride, the great bars that would spread her apart, wide, even wider, until she was pleading for it; lock her there at the Black Queen’s mercy and taking all of her pleasure at the Black Queen’s hand and her whip and her toys and no one else.

The Black Queen laps tight and focused and intent with this thought; she is rewarded when she feels the tensing of those golden thighs before the break.

“And was that good, pretty-pretty?” The Black Queen licks her mouth like a panther who just got her kill; but she lets the wetness drip down her chin unheeded. She means for Barbarella to taste it.

Barbarella’s thighs shine sleek with her own wetness and it clouds the crystal straps of the Black Queen’s bodysuit where she sits perched on her chest. She is humming, floating, like air; and her song has changed.

“Your Majesty,” Barbarella murmurs, and she does go to taste, leans down to kiss gently at the Black Queen’s skin, thrumming in wonder at the taste of herself. The Black Queen feels a nip at her throat, teeth and lips looking to leave a mark; she can only hope to be claimed like this. “How can someone who knows so much of love know so little of peace?”

The Black Queen looks up at Barbarella; it’s like staring into a sun that is hers and hers alone to keep.

“A queen has no mercy,” the Black Queen laughs, and she smiles with all of her teeth as she slips two fingers inside Barbarella; warm, and willing, and oh, so completely, absolutely, utterly lovely in the way she clenches, thighs sliding against the mount of the Black Queen’s breasts, soaking them both with the salt of her sweat and the briny, heady slick of her want. The Black Queen muses that she is giving Barbarella everything that she wants, giving her every mercy possible, plied by the little pants Barbarella spills from those lips, hot little bites of air that she arches up eagerly every time to swallow down.

“Come close, pretty-pretty,” the Black Queen breathes, tongue darting out to lick a drop of sweat off the perfect arch of Barbarella’s throat. “Come even closer and I’ll show you how good you can be.”

Her fingers play like she’s finally cornered her prey in the dark maze of her heart; they fuck deep and strong and she holds them there, crooked to cage the desperate swirl of Barbarella’s hips as she meets her every time. It makes the Black Queen want to throw her to the ground, pin this fire under her so she can control it completely — Barbarella blazes on top of her, skin so hot against hers, she feels it striking electric down her spine, and the wildness of it takes her by surprise. She’s needy. She wants. She’s losing.

The Black Queen sometimes forgets the strength that lies under Barbarella’s skin.

Her back hits the floor so hard she thrills with pleasure.

“You forget,” Barbarella says as she pins the Black Queen by the wrists to the ground. The ship is soft under her back; Barbarella drips warm against her thighs and all the Black Queen can do is sink and drown and die in the blue of her eyes. “That you’re mine to teach. And don’t think I won’t show you a thing or two before the day is done!”

The kiss is soft; all of Barbarella’s kisses are soft, and as the Black Queen lets herself be taken by that wonderful mouth, she thinks she could render the entire galaxy to ashes if this is what they mean of peace.