The feline stumbles through the halls of La Floraison Éternelle, his fur darkened and slicked with sweat. He clutches at his side, falling against the wall. “Ah… h… hold it together, Chance. You… you are Chance… you’re… you’re Chance.” He closes his eyes, swallowing, feeling that alien sensation gurgle. The match against the kobold had been fun, but something in it awakened something in him, desperate to escape.
He falls to his knees, gripping at his side, the bones poking against his flesh and fur. Slime oozes out from his throat, rolling down his chin. He tries to hold it in, but it flows between his fingers. His eyes are sunken, distraught. He coughs and groans, remembering the dark time when he had forgotten himself, when he was killed by that dragon, when…
“What is this?”
Chanda the Naga slithers up behind the distraught cat boy, looking down at the feline, contorted in unnatural positions and obviously in pain.
“Your balance is off,” Chanda says, “Perhaps, I can assist you?”
“No! Stay back! I’m… I’m a monster!” Chance says, stumbling up to his feet, his head hanging at an unnatural angle. “I can’t keep it together… I’m gonna tear myself apart!”
“Perhaps you should,” the erotic advisor says. “Let’s see this ‘monster.”
Chance yowls in some sort of pained fury, clutching at his chest, digging his claws inside, and ripping himself apart. The oozy shape spills free from the false flesh, and he sloughs down on the ground, a pile of slime and bones in a grotesque parody of a cat boy.
“Here, let me test you.” The lamia lowers himself, holding out his hand.
With a slime-coated bony hand, the feline grabs onto Chanda’s hand. The snake pulls him in close, pressing the goopy body against his own—the warmth of real flesh.
Chanda wraps his four arms around the feline’s distressing form, supporting the slippery body. “You are no monster. You are a champion in the Tournament of Pleasure. The gods have picked you for a reason.”
Chance curls up, wrapping his arms around Chanda’s body. The feline’s cold, gelatinous form sticking to the snake’s upper body’s smooth skin. “I can’t… hold on… to myself,” he whines.
Chanda’s tail coils around the form, “Then, allow me to stay close to you.”
The two stand in the middle of the hall, two champions, entwined in a deep embrace. Chance’s chin rests on Chanda’s shoulder, closing his eyes and purring through his complete form.
“There you go,” Chanda says. “Concentrate on this feeling of intimacy. Allow the squeezing of my tail and my arms to keep you from feeling you are in danger.”
“This… are we going to fuck?” The feline asks.
Chanda chuckles. “Only if you wish it. This is not a battle in the Tournament. This is me offering you my services as a student of Tantera.”
“T… Tantera…?”
“Yes,” Chanda says. “For Tantera teaches that all life comes from movement and rhythms. From the simplest of creatures to the most complex of minds, it is all about movement. The most powerful movement is from one life to another. Procreation is a part of that, but there is more. Warmth… gentleness, learning, teaching,” he presses against the feline’s shoulders, his fingers disappearing underneath, touching the bone beyond. “You have moved from one type of life to another. You’ve been given a chance that no one else has. You are you, and you are special, and I am honored to share a moment of intimacy with you. And show you the truth.” With Chance pressed back, Chanda leans in and locks lips with the slimy cat boy.
Chance sloughs off of him, falling back and reforming almost immediately. When he stands, he is no longer a melted monstrosity but a rigid structure. He lifts his hand, looking at the slimy thing with surprise. “H… how did you do that?” Chance asks. “You fixed me.”
Chanda licks his lips, slithering back a bit, his body glistening with the remains of the goop that had touched him. “I did nothing. I have merely shown you that you are a fluid being. In some ways, I pity your state. I’ve trained years to be fluid, and yet, you can be much more than anything else here. You should not hide it. You should use it to your advantage in your next match.”
Chance squeezes his fist shut. “Y… Yeah! You know what, you’re right! I’m not a monster!”
“Well, now, I never said you weren’t. Some of my greatest allies are monsters,” Chanda says, a smirk forming on his lips, “But not many of them are as tasty as you are.”
Chance sees the predatory glare on the snake and stumbles back. “H-hey, now, I’m not on the menu!”
“Not yet, but if you show me how skilled you are, I look forward to facing against you in the arena—to test my fluidity against your own. Does that not excite you?”
Chance steps forward, opening his mouth, beginning to complain, to say “no way,” but he stops, and he backs off, and he nods. “You know what? Yeah! And when we do meet in the arena, I will show you how much of a fluid monster I can be.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Chanda says.
Taking a deep breath, the snake continues, breaking the respectful silences. “So… do you know where the baths are? I need to clean myself off.”
“Uh, oh, that way?” Chance says
“Thanks,” the snake hisses, slithering away, leaving Chance alone.
The feline sniffs then looks down at his feet, where the pile of fake catflesh lays on the ground by him. “Eew…” He glances back and forth, and then tiptoes away, leaving someone else to clean up that mess.