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The First Annual Whitestone Harvest Masquerade

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Allura thinks she’s starting to understand how Kima usually feels about Council social events.

They’re typically very dry affairs, in conversation if not libations. They’ve gotten significantly less pretentious over the past few years – a necessity, after their civilization was nearly destroyed by the Conclave – but they’re still not exactly bacchanalian. No matter what outside threats may come, the important and the well-to-do of any society will likely never entirely give up trying to impress each other, be it with guests, food, or witty repartee.

Then the de Rolos joined the Council.

This has largely been a positive development, as Vex can deflate even the most pompous blowhards – including her own husband – with a glance. They’re more than just figureheads, both in Whitestone and beyond, and more than just heroes of the past. Not only that, but they’ve shaken things up, made everything a bit livelier, and Allura knows just how badly the Council needs it. At the same time, though, that refreshing desire to poke holes in tradition just to hear the sound it makes as it dies can be… grating.

That is to say: this is the de Rolos’ first time throwing the Council’s annual fall costume party, and not coincidentally, it is the first time a member of the Council has passed out face down in the punch bowl with his skirts up over his ass.

By now, someone’s pulled Greyspine out of the punch and tugged his costume down and taken him away to sleep it off, but that’s just the most obvious marker of the type of party it is. And Allura certainly didn’t mind the drinking and dancing and general revelry at first, but as the hours have worn on and it’s gotten closer to midnight, she finds herself just wanting to go the hell home. It’s made worse by the fact that Percival “I Spit on Magic until I Need It to Save My Life” de Rolo had insisted that all costumes be non-magical in origin. No Disguise Self, no Seeming, not even Hats of Disguise. There was even a dispelling charm over the threshold, not that Allura had been willing to risk it.

Masquerade isn’t typically her bailiwick, so she had just asked the tailor for something that would make her look reasonably respectable. The vital word that she apparently omitted was “comfortable,” because now she finds herself having to balance several layers of enormous hoop skirts that barely fit through the narrow doorways of Whitestone Castle. She’s not even sure what she’s supposed to be – some kind of generic princess, perhaps. The skirts, while stunningly beautiful, are so long that she was compelled to wear heels, lest the fabric drag on the ground, and her feet are fucking killing her.

Allura’s pretty sure she’s put in a respectable showing and can leave without offending anyone, except she hasn’t seen her wife in half an hour. Because of course Kima is loving every second of this madhouse, and last Allura saw her, she was leading a dance line into the kitchen to bring out another keg of ale. Allura keeps thinking about the piece of chalk in her purse, how easy it would be to step into a quiet room and draw a teleportation circle on the floor. But for all the times Kima has threatened to sneak out of one of their previous boring Council events early, she’s never actually done it and left Allura in the lurch, so it would be utterly unfair to do just that to her.

Whitestone Castle isn’t that big, but the party seems to be going on in nearly every room, so Allura has just given up searching for Kima and planted herself at one side of the Great Hall, which just about everyone seems to periodically wander through. Here, Allura can lean back against a wall, letting it support some of the weight of the ridiculous skirts. Her feet also don’t hurt quite as much when she’s not actively walking. She’s sorely tempted to take off her shoes, but she knows that once she does, they’re not going back on.

The strategy pays off – not five minutes later, Kima comes waltzing in. Her bald cap is askew, dark blonde hair starting to poke out from beneath it, and the gray makeup has smeared off the lower half of her face entirely. Still, it’s a bit disturbing to see her dressed as a three-foot tall Grog Strongjaw.

“Ally!” she cries and stumbles a bit, but Allura’s pleased to see once she gets closer that she’s more clear-eyed than her appearance would suggest. Not sober, certainly, but not completely soused, either. “Where’ve you been?”

“Looking for you, mostly,” Allura says, shifting her weight painfully back onto her feet. “I know you’re having fun, dear, and I hate to cut it short, but—”

Kima grins. “But you’re dying to leave.”

Allura nods sheepishly. “I feel I may owe you an apology for past events where our roles have been reversed.”

“Nah,” Kima snorts. “I know this is the exception that proves the rule. C’mere.” She tries to get her arms around Allura’s waist, but of course she’s prevented by the damnable skirts. “The fuck did you even get this thing, Ally?”

“Mistakes were made,” Allura sighs. “I need to find a new dressmaker – one who doesn’t hate me.”

“This is ridiculous,” Kima says, digging through layers upon layers of ruffles. “My armor weighs less than this.”

“Careful,” Allura laughs, trying to bat some of the fabric back down. “I do actually have legs under here somewhere, and I’d rather not show them to all of Whitestone.”

“Nope, just me,” Kima says with an eyebrow waggle. “Hey, is it hollow in there, inside the hoops? Whaddya bet I could actually fit under this thing?”

Nothing,” Allura tries to say, but Kima is already on the ground, crawling under the lowest layer of skirts. Allura glances around, but fortunately, no one seems to be paying them even the least bit of attention. After the musicians packed up and left, the party had splintered a bit, and the rowdiest crowd is elsewhere, though still within shouting range. So at least Allura doesn’t have to try to explain to any of her colleagues why her wife is currently creeping inside her clothing.

Kima’s voice is muffled by the layers of fabric, but Allura clearly hears, “Huh, surprisingly roomy under here.” There’s a rustling and the very strange sensation of hands climbing up her legs until the furthest hoop from the floor gets lifted about an inch. “Well, I can almost stand up straight. Does it look weird? Can anyone tell that I’m under here?”

“Kima, get out of there,” Allura hisses, shaking the skirts as though she could dislodge her somehow. “Not everyone is too drunk to notice.”

“But it’s warm under here,” Kima whines. “Grog barely wears more than a loincloth, and I’ve been freezing since the sun went down.”

“This is not the ideal solution to that problem,” Allura groans softly, trying not to look like she’s talking to her own clothes.

“I dunno, I kinda like it,” Kima drawls, and Allura nearly leaps in the air when she feels a wet pair of lips land on her thigh. “I’m comfortable, you’re comfortable, no one’s the wiser…”

“At what point did I say I was comfortable?”

“I can make you plenty comfortable,” Kima says with a chuckle, and suddenly there’s a cold nose nuzzling at the front of Allura’s smallclothes.

“What are you doing?”

“Exactly what you think I’m doing.”

Allura grimaces, glancing around again. “We’re in public.”

“Only kinda.”

And then a small, hot mouth opens over the fabric of her panties, and it’s only many years of diplomatic training that keep Allura from shrieking. “This is crazy,” she whispers angrily.

“C’mon, Ally, I’m just drunk enough to be super horny, and you smell so good.” Another nuzzle, followed by a lick. “And you know I can work fast.”

Allura should say no. She should take Kima home where they can do this properly and without worrying about being caught. Of the two of them, she’s supposed to be the sensible one, the one that reigns Kima in when she goes too far, the one that keeps things from getting out of hand. In other words, the stick in the mud.

Fuck it. She had to see Gradim Greyspine’s bare ass tonight, so she deserves a little fun. Besides, after that incident, there’s no way she’ll be the one at the center of all the gossip come tomorrow.

“Okay, fine,” Allura hisses. “But quickly.”

She can hear Kima’s chuckle as the halfling starts tugging her panties down her legs. Kima helps her brace to slide them off one ankle, then leans her back slightly against the wall. It’s awkward, of course, but no more awkward than how Allura had been standing before. She rucks the hoops up in the back a little so they don’t pop up in the front, revealing Kima’s feet and giving the game away.

True to her word, Kima wastes no time, burying her face between Allura’s legs. “Keep, oh—” Allura starts, biting back on a gasp. “Keep your head still. If you move too much, it bumps the skirt.”

Kima nods, jostling the skirt, but then she catches herself. If Allura widens her stance just a little, lifts one leg to be half on Allura’s shoulder, it puts Kima at just the right height, and her tongue slips easily between Allura’s folds. Allura herself hadn’t previously been in a similar semi-drunken state of arousal, but she’s finding that the thrill of it, the possibility of getting caught, of someone seeing, is affecting her more strongly than she thought. She has to bite down on her hand to keep from moaning as Kima’s tongue teases at her clit, making her knees tremble.

Allura’s faced with the twin problems of where to look and what to do with her hands. She doesn’t want to look at anyone, lest they think she’s staring and look back, but where is she supposed to look? Where does she normally look? There’s an ornate carpet on floor a few feet in front of her – she suddenly becomes very, very interested in that carpet, despite the fact that she could not, if pressed, have said what the design on it was, because Kima’s fingers have snuck up between her legs and are stroking lightly at the opening of her cunt.

And her hands – what is Allura supposed to do with her hands? She can only cover her mouth for so long before she’ll start look like she’s ill. She may look so already, with the way her cheeks are surely flushing. Kima’s steady, calloused fingers are pressing gently into her now, moving in rhythm with her tongue, and Allura finds one hand flying to the front of her skirt to rest on what she can feel of the top of Kima’s head. It’s almost certainly an odd height to place her hand, but Allura finds that one she’s set it there, she can’t move it. She needs that connection with her wife to keep her from losing her mind at the feeling of that familiar, beloved mouth without the sight of it.

It’s just going from good to very, very good when the worst happens, and a familiar figure darkens the doorway to the Great Hall. Fucking Percival de Rolo, still in his bird “costume,” which is little more than his usual mask and a stray feather or two. Of course he sees Allura, and of course he comes over to her. The only thing that keeps Allura from dying of embarrassment immediately is Percival’s gait, which shows that he’s substantially less than sober himself. “Stop, stop,” she hisses out of the corner of her mouth, tapping on Kima’s head. “Someone’s coming.”

“About to be you,” Allura hears her murmur and then giggle, but she does stop, her fingers stilling inside Allura.

“Allura,” Percival says, and if the walk hadn’t tipped her off to his inebriation, the too-wide smile certainly would have. “All by yourself in here?”

Under Allura’s skirt, Kima wiggles her fingers, but she thankfully keeps silent. “Ah, yes, Percival,” Allura says as imperiously as she can manage. “Just waiting for my wife. I don’t suppose you’ve seen her.”

“Not recently. She looked like she was having an excellent time, though.”

Another finger wiggle and a poke of the tongue, and Allura just barely stops herself from groaning. “Yes, she certainly was.”

“I hope you did, too?” Percival says, sounding remarkably unsure. He’s so rarely unsure about anything, even when he’s wrong. “I don’t gather that this is quite your type of party.”

“Well, you’re right about that,” Allura sighs.

“Mine either, to tell you the truth. Oh, it’s been fun to see the nouveau riche of Emon get sloshed and embarrass themselves, but it does become tiresome after a while.”


“In fact, I was just telling Gilmore the other day…”

With that, Percival crosses his arms over his chest and seems to get comfortable in front of her, relating a story about some Whitestone noble or other, and Allura wants to scream. She and Percival are cordial, but they don’t have the warmest relationship. It’s partially because of the man’s disdain for the arcane arts, but there’s also the irritating fact that he always clearly thinks he knows best. They often agree, and he’s always respectful of her, which is the reason they can work together well enough, but Allura occasionally catches a look or a tone of voice that makes her want to slap him and remind him that he’s not the only one who’s been around the world slaying dragons.

Which is perhaps why Allura’s first reaction isn’t disbelief or anger when Kima’s tongue starts up into motion again. It’s firm but slow, keeping Allura’s nerves humming without pushing her hard toward the edge, so she doesn’t try to stop Kima. But what can she do, really? She certainly can’t just walk away from Percival, not with Kima hidden. And she doesn’t want to be rude and turn him away, not in such a seemingly low-stakes situation as a winding-down party.

So if Allura’s wife happens to be going down on her right in front of Percival “I’m the Smartest Man in Every Room” de Rolo and he just… doesn’t notice?

That’s almost funny.

It is funny.

So funny that a laugh that’s at least half gasp makes it out of Allura’s mouth, but Bahamut is smiling on them today, because Percival just grins and says, “I know, I thought it was ridiculous, too!” and keeps on with the story.

Kima may be pushing her luck too far, though, because whether she’s aware of it or not, her movements are speeding up. Allura can feel herself starting to sweat – she doesn’t really think Kima will try to make her come with Percival six feet away, but Kima may or may not be aware of how much this is turning Allura on. After decades at the negotiating table, Allura can keep a straight face through nearly anything, but she’s never tried to orgasm without anyone noticing. She doesn’t tend to be loud, per se, but gods, Kima is good with her tongue, and she’s nothing but relentless when she wants to be, and Allura can feel the need for release start to coil tight in her belly.

She chews on the inside of her cheek, nodding senselessly along with Percival’s rambling. He seems too lost in his own story to notice that her legs are shaking, Kima taking more of her weight as Allura focuses all of her energy on remaining upright. Even her magic deserts her just now, as she can’t think of a single spell that will divert his attention effortlessly without requiring more concentration than she’s got. She can feel her cunt fluttering around Kima’s fingers, trying to keep them inside as she—

There’s a crash from another room followed by a roar. A bear’s roar.

Percival’s attention swings away from her. “Oh dear, I thought Trinket was in our room for the night. You’ll have to pardon me.”

The shock of the crash, of hearing a wild animal bellow from inside a castle, buys Allura a good ten seconds until Percival is out the door, until Allura can tilt her head into the crook of her elbow like she’s coughing and let out a long, silent scream as she comes. Kima is the only thing keeping her hips still and her body upright as she shudders inside her ridiculous skirts, rocked with simultaneous pleasure and the relief of not getting caught. It’s short, but it barrels through her like an explosion and leaves her slumping gracelessly against the wall.

Mercifully, Kima pulls away. Allura can’t tell exactly what she’s doing under there – she can barely keep herself standing – but she imagines Kima is probably kneeling as unobtrusively as possible. For a long minute, Allura just stands there and breathes, noticing that anyone who’d been left in the Great Hall must have followed Percival toward the sound of the bear. Hard to ignore that at a party.

Then, from under her skirts, quietly: “Is the coast clear?”

Allura sighs, “Yes, you can come out now.”

Kima crawls back out and smiles up at her, her chin wet and her face nearly devoid of Grog makeup now. Allura is pretty sure the insides of her thighs are now uniformly gray. “He didn’t notice a thing, did he?”

Allura groans and buries her face in her hands. Now that she’s not entirely preoccupied by Kima’s mouth, she realizes that she just got away with something she definitely shouldn’t have risked. “That was such a bad idea.”

“I know,” Kima says, sounding awed. “I’m impressed, Ally. I thought you were gonna try to smother me.”

“Let’s just go,” Allura says, digging in her purse for the chalk. “I can send them a message tomorrow.”

“And say what?” Kima cackles. “’Thanks for the invite, glad I came!’”

“You are incorrigible,” Allura sighs. “And I am seriously thinking about stealing that carpet on the way out.”