#spine and leaf reading challenge

[andmaybegayer]

Last Monday of the Week 2023-10-16

Another year older. Stealing the Untitled Wednesday Library Series format from Morrak for an open Reading section and then we'll get to the normal post.

Reading:

Untitled Monday Wednesday Library Entry No. 0

Do you like a recipe book? Do you like an unbearably comprehensive and frequently incorrect recipe book? Well boy do I have an item for you:

It's Indian Delights, the de facto standard book of South African Indian cooking. Assembled in the 60's by the Durban Women's Cultural Group and in print ever since then.

The How

A birthday gift from my parents, who sent it from South Africa.

There are apparently places that carry this book outside of South Africa but I do not know what those are.

The Text

Dubious, but useful despite this. It was written in the 60's by a bunch of people who had never and would never again write a recipe book. You may note from the frontmatter that while it has had sixteen impressions since its first publication in 1961, there has only ever been a single revision of the book. There are numerous errors, omissions, and flaws. Recipes may list ingredients that are not used, call for ingredients in the method not given before, begin preparing components and never use them, or outright lie about the quantities of ingredients you need. A challenging exercise.

Any given individual's copy of this book is full of little pen notes, slips of paper, and scratched out experiments. I have a blank canvas.

It is absolutely stuffed to the brim with recipes from the then-almost-century of South African development on South Asian cuisine. It is intended as a one-stop-shop for cooking from a diaspora of extremely wide origins.

South African Indians arrived in South Africa as indentured labour for British sugar farms and could just as easily be from the relatively cold and mountainous North Indian regions or the low, rainy, hot coastal areas of South India. As a result you've had almost a hundred years of adapting to the locally available ingredients, intermarriages across wide geographic origins, and failing memories. There are frequently many duplicates of any given recipe, each with some unique variation of note.

It is also extremely dated. It still lives in an era where "adding an elachi (cardamom) pod to your rice" is a luxurious choice that requires financial considerations, and where meat was still expensive. It also has a delightful section on mass cooking, such as the above "Biryani for 100 people" which has an additional note on the ingredients for a "Biryani for 800 people" on the opposite leaf. These things come up sometimes, although the largest biryani I've ever been involved in was for about 60 people.

It is not really for beginners but it does have a lot of introductory matter, in part because it has to contend with the mishmash of languages and loanwords that exist. You don't know if the reader uses the hindi word for cumin, or the tamil word for cumin, or makes a formal distinction between roti and chapati. As a result, there are extensive opening tables of translations.

The Object

Big, blocky hardcover recipe book. Cheap but hardwearing coated pages. I have seen these in every imaginable state of disrepair, unfortunately I do not have a photo on hand of my mother's which is completely beat to hell.

I mentioned that there have not been many updates, and this continues to the outside. Not a single impression has, for example, corrected the misalignment of the spine and the cover that means it stands out on any book storage system.

Some damage to the cover from the rigours of air travel. It'll recover, or rather, it'll get beat up in ways that make that negligible.

The photography is antiquated, having been taken by a photographer who was certainly good but was operating a) with 1961 camera technology, b) 1961 photographic sensibilities, and c) no real experience in food photography. As a result the images can look somewhat alien if you're familiar with more modern food photograpy. Colours are not accurate, framing is flat, and composition is often packed.

In addition to the colour glamour plates, there are black and white instructional photos, which are much more timeless.

The Why, Though?

Indian Delights is a very important cultural reference for the South African Indian population, and it's a pretty standard leaving home/getting married/leaving home and getting married gift. I've bought a copy for many friends and now this one is mine.

Will I actually use this much? Certainly not that often. My mother and her sisters learned to cook from this book, so it is the root of my personal culinary tradition. That means I already know a lot of what can be distilled from this for day-to-day recipes. Where it is handy is for more technical dishes, which require some guidance, or as an ingredient reference for something new you want to try.

In particular Diwali is coming up and while both my mother and I are staunch atheists, we will also take any excuse to make a ton of sweets for friends. If you are in Prague in the week of the 12th of November you can probably hit me up for something.

Listening: Acheney is a shockingly talented synth designer for the niche softsynth tracker sunvox, available now on windows, mac, linux, windows CE, android, and iOS. I was tooling around with their Guitar synths and decided to check out their music, which is a couple albums of very high concept EDM inspired ambient and/or noise stuff. Here's Euler Characteristic Zero

Watching: @humansbgone is an animated sci-fi series about intelligent giant arthropods and their attempts to deal with invasions of pesky little humans

Big spec-bio focus with a lot of end notes on the arthropods in question.

Playing: Played the Trans Siberian Railway Simulator demo, which I recorded and put up here, with crap audio because it's authentic to what I had lying around after I forgot my headphones at work.

Also: the digital version of the D&D themed agent placement game Lord of Waterdeep with my family, which works quite well. It's weird to have the game handling the admin of moving points around and automatically deducting resources, but it does make the game go very quickly, even if your parents are still figuring out the interface.

Making: Big cooking experiment with a slow roast lamb shank. Came out very well. Lamb shank definitely one of the more animal parts of an animal you can cook. Smells intensely of lanolin and other hair smells. Real greasy. Big honkin' bone. Smooth and fine but sturdy musculature. This thing used to be a very specific part of something alive and that thing lived the kind of life that develops the very particular smells of the insides of a sheep that are very close to the outside of a sheep. You will find some wool fibers in your pan from where the follicles reach down close to the bone and sinew.

Tools and Equipment: Easyeffects is the successor to PulseEffects and is a very complete set of audio tuning and manipulation tools for Linux. You can use it to process incoming and outgoing audio with basically any plugin you care to imagine.

[lancedoncrimsonwings]

Augusnippets Day 27

Path of Whumperless Whump Prompt; "Chronic Pain"

Day 27 of @augusnippets August 2024 Whump writing challenge! (Augusnippets Masterlist)

Characters;

- POV; Gawain - The Green Knight

(Character Masterlist)

(Ao3 Link)

Wordcount; 366

TWs; Chronic pain, physical disability, broken bones

Gawain scowled at the page before him, covered in half written verses and scribbled out lines. Reading and writing was a rarity among the Fey, but he was one of few who knew how- taught by a learned man in Byzantium many years ago.

Poetry had quickly become not only a way to practice these skills, but to soothe his mind.

It was doing anything but that right now.

The never-ending pain in his spine was too persistent, too distracting, too forthright in his mind to focus.

"Curse these blasted vines!" Gawain hissed, rubbing his lower back with an ink stained palm against the low, itching ache of Nimue's magic. It kept him walking despite a shattered spine, at the cost of his sanity, apparently.

Gawain hummed softly, an idea beginning to form. Brushing the parchment he had been writing on aside, he pulled a new leaf from a pile beside him, dipped the quill again and began to write. Late did he persist by the light of a candle, until finally, at the darkest part of night did he set his quill down, cap the ink and lean back in his chair, satisfied.

These vines that snake through mine spine

To crack and ache and bend

Stitching up a devil's kiss

Not kindly do they mend

Burning like ice beneath mine skin

It sears through flesh and bone

And takes ahold of every thing

Oh these bitter seeds I've sown

Drag in air through burning lungs

Hearts beat through scorching blood

Limbs locked tight too sharp to move

Cheeks bare a broken flood

Skin so bruised without a mark

Mine scars too deep to see

Muscles torn asunder yet push and pull

As these weeds strangle all hope from me

I run along in circles now

No longer leagues or miles

Each day these vines weave deeper

Singing cursed wits and wiles

A once-strong spine is filled with rot

Trusted legs now weak and frail

A steel laced grip now falters

Beg for respite to no avail

Mine mind is trapped in a blanket haze

Memory failed me long ago

All that remains is this hellish pain

And shards of this life I must forgo

So, I have decided my Gawain enjoys writing poetry. The "healing" he's referring to are the aftereffects of the healing magic cocoon Nimue made at the end of Cursed.

I'll admit, some of these verses I pulled from one of my own poems about my chronic pain that I wrote a while back, but a good half of these verses are new, written for this! I'm not the best at it but I did sorta miss writing poetry. It's a good way to vent if nothing else!

As always, thank you for reading, let me know if you enjoyed this!

Onto the next!

[turnaboutwriter]

Safe Travels, Part 4: To the East of the Barrier, Chapter 2

Fandom: Pokémon

Pairings: Dawn/Paul, Brock/Holly, Lyra/Silver, Tracey/Daisy, Gary/Leaf (Implied)

Rating: General

Summary: Part 4 of the Safe Travels Saga. Disheartened by her recent losing streaks in contests, Dawn travels to Kanto to seek guidance from an old friend. To her surprise, she is reunited with Paul at the Pewter City gym, where he comes to challenge the gym leader. As Paul accompanies Dawn through the western parts of Kanto, they grow closer, sharing their vulnerabilities and finding strength in each other. — ikarishipping.

Notes: Very eventful chapter ahead - I am a little nervous but also excited to share it with you all! It is one of my favorites, though, and I hope you love some of these moments ahead as much as I do! Can never thank you enough, my dear readers! <3

(Below is an excerpt of the chapter — the full version can be read on FFN/AO3, which will be linked at the end of the preview).

.

As Dawn and Paul make their way through Viridian Forest, with the sunlight filtering through the dense canopy of trees overhead, Paul surprises Dawn with a newfound openness. He chats casually, even teasing her lightly when she jumps at the sight of a particularly large bug Pokémon scuttling across their path. 

"You're not afraid of a little Caterpie, are you?" He smirks playfully.

Dawn's cheeks flush with embarrassment. “ No. ” She grits her teeth. “I’ll have you know -” But before she can fully retort, Paul steps closer, his twinkling eyes meeting hers with an intensity that sends a shiver down her spine. 

"You look cute when you're freaked out by bug Pokémon,” he says with a chuckle.

Dawn blinks in surprise, her heart skipping a beat at the unexpected compliment. There's a lightness to his voice, a hint of something she can't quite place. Is he teasing her, or . . . flirting? It's a realization that catches her off guard, leaving her momentarily speechless as she struggles to find the right words.

CONTINUE READING: FFN | AO3

[airborn-potato]

Golden Eye's

Chapter 3

“What have I told you about drinking in here!” 

With a deep sigh, Alder finished his long sip of vodka and put the cap back on his flask. He got up from his seat on the break room sofa and stood to face his colleague. Short red afro complimented by dark skin and light makeup Ada Keita, the supervisor for the section of the lab he worked in, currently glaring at him with almost murderous intent. 

“You're supposed to be testing with the subjects!”

With another sigh Alder stepped up and towered over her 5’6 with his own 6’2.

“You can relax Mrs. Keita, there was an incident in my block and I was excused until the health and safety of myself and the specimens could be guaranteed” Was his reply with a bright smile to compliment it.

She shuddered at the sight of his smile. Anyone who didnt know him wouldn’t see any malicious intent, but she knew him so she did. Luckily a beep from his phone drew his attention away from her poorly hidden discomfort.

“Well that's my cue, I’ll bring you my report later Mrs. Keita” He punctuated his sentence with another long swig of his flask. As he made his exit.

Making his way down the hall, he could barely contain the excitement building within him with every step he took. Before the Bat attacked the Lupus, he had gotten a good look at the files of her specimen. 6 in total and 1 apprentice there for a close-up observation. A Golden Bat, the twin white mice, a koala bear, a greenish gecko, and the Nighthawk. His favorite little Nighthawk.

There used to be another one, a feline, but it was too small and frail and its deformity didn’t help its case. A minor spine deformity caused a permanent hunch in its posture that made moving around a visible and amusing struggle for it and it was put down a few years after. Fault could be partially put on the doctor who made it, but in the end it couldn’t adapt, so it died. That’s just the way things work in the real world. Maybe that's why he likes this Eagle so much.

This one was always changing, always adapting to the environment. It was entertaining watching it overcome every challenge that came its way, but he just couldn’t see why it bothered. Despite how wellmade it was compared to the other ones, its lifespan wasn't a guarantee. Even if it survived the tests, there was no promise that the Lupi wouldn’t kill it for fun, that the guards wouldn’t pull their triggers, that they wouldn’t just drop dead.

Alder’s internal monologue was cut short by the familiar door. With a smile breaking through the neutral expression he’d tried to maintain, he swiped his card and proceeded into the room for a second time. Shuffling was the first noise he’d heard upon entering, watching the creatures in the Six steel cages only widened his already present smile. After making his selection he crouched down and unlocked the door to one of the cages, and he was almost immediately lunged at. One of the mice had attempted to break free of its bonds and attack. Unfortunately for it, he had handled this exact situation more times than he can be bothered to remember, and a quick syringe to its leg was enough to pacify it.

“Lesson number one, you hesitate you die” he’d finally turned to address the final occupant of the room, who was cowering in the corner.

A pale and pinkish toned boy with pale vitiligo spots, light brown hair, and fern green eyes. His nametag read Caleb. He had his hands over his head and was quaking like a leaf in a hurricane. With a shake of the doctor's head, long brown hair waving over his shoulders, he checked the pulse of the mouse he had shot down. He rarely messed up sedative injections but he couldn't be too careful with his favorite play things.

“Grab the Bat, I’ll Grab the other Mouse and we'll begin the first round of pre-checks.”

“D-” The doctor turned and raised a thin brow at the frightened boy “Do I have to?”

A malicious smile graced the doctors face yet again, “No, by all means Caleb show these things some compassion” He stepped closer, towering over him “Just remember that I’ll thoroughly enjoy myself when you're strapped down, tested to your genetic limitations, and disposed just like the rest of them” His tone was so cheerful that chills raced down the boys spine. “The weak minded don’t survive around here, you should be grateful that your aptitude test deemed you capable of stem work down here Caleb, Are these things really worth your chance at a better life?” A vigorous head shake from the boy was the only answer he needed “Good! Now that that's settled, be a dear and grab the Bat.”

With a tremble in his gait Caleb began to examine the cages for the one labeled "Brown Fruit-Eating Bat", He finally stopped in front of the tightly restrained bat. He stared at it for a long moment. For every animal feature, he saw a human one, he didn't want to do this. But he was out of options, he wasn’t ready to die. A nudge on his hand revealed a tranquilizer gun being offered to him. With a deep breath he began to approach the cage, carefully reaching out towards the door. Red eyes bore deep into him, sh- it didn’t want this, neither did he, but he knew the truth. In this world you either adapt or die. And with that final thought he tightened his grip on his gun and pulled the trigger.

[polillastoryarchive]

The next morning started early. Something about finally having a lead about what was going on with the wolf inside of her was refreshing. Like turning a new leaf.

While doing some yoga, she almost allowed herself to believe that, maybe, if she 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 get the cure, things would be alright.

However, the thought was easily pushed aside. It was a good thing they were figuring out why she was different. But she would still be forever different if she stayed.

Heading up the tunnels, thanks to the knowledge she’d memorised from the partial map that had been given her.

They’d planned to meet at the library just before lunch and, although it was sunny, the wind blowing the doors to the underground shut behind her made her grateful she’d grabbed a cardigan before leaving the Den.

“Hi!”

Wolfgang looked up from his book, giving her a welcoming smile.

Pointing at the book he’d been holding, he started sharing his findings straight away:

“I’ve been reading most of the night. I think the second death might be another matter completely!”

Stopping in her tracks, Isidora’s only answer was a worried “Oh?”

Beckoning her to come read next to him, he shared a section about the duties of the High Members of the mer court.

“See here? Says they aren’t allowed to bestow death, or any other sentence really. Something about them not being judge, jury and executioner.”

Isi frowned.

“Also implies that if they did -kill someone- they would instantly be stripped of their position 𝘢𝘯𝘥 the relevant oaths.”

Wolfgang turned to her again, putting the book down.

“So if I kill someone, I’ll be able to change into a werewolf? Not sure I want it that bad if I’m honest…”

Slowly putting his hands together, Wolfgang said, his voice soft:

“It’s interesting how quick witted you are when we’re bouncing ideas together and yet, you don’t seem to understand the full-”

The door flying open stopped him mid-sentence.

“Fucking wind!” Rory swore, pushing the door closed again before glancing at Isidora: “Two days in a row?”

“We’re in the middle of something here, Rory?” Wolfgang’s tone was that of a teacher. A disappointed teacher.

“And I am so very sorry to interrupt” The alpha answered, voice amused.

Rolling his eyes, the librarian gestured for her to tell him what she needed and she jumped on the chance to do so.

“Can you call Marv for me?”

“Why?”

“Cause I need her help.”

“Then why don’t you call her yourself?” Wolfgang challenged, still sounding like he was teaching her a lesson.

Who was Marv, and why did Rory need her help so badly? Isidora recognised the familiar pinch of jealousy in her spine and schooled her expression. She did not have the right to feel this way.

“You know very well she would never pick up” Rory’s shoulders lifted.

The older wolf sighed.

“Come on, Bear, you know I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need it.” He threw her an unimpressed look at the sound of the nickname but walked away to make a call nonetheless.

And instead of waiting in awkward silence as Isi thought they would, Rory turned to her, a mischievous smile on her face.

“You are aware that this is my cardigan, right?”

Isi felt her cheeks flash red. She’d tried her best not to be noticed. But even if Rory didn’t remember its existence, she’d still be able to detect her own scent all over it. Just like Isidora had when she’d chosen it at the Den.

“I… ran out of clean laundry.”

The smile turned smirk on the alpha’s lips and Isi knew the lie hadn’t been good enough to even be half believed.

Thankfully, that’s when Wolfgang returned.

“She said she’s free tonight, she’ll be waiting for you.”

“Waiting-” Rory starts a question, annoyance flickering in her red eyes. She draws back slightly. “That’s all I get, isn’t it? I have to go to her for her to listen to me.”

A quick nod from the librarian, who started turning back to Isidora, probably thinking the matter resolved.

Yet Rory’s feet didn’t move. Isi couldn’t master the courage to look at her face, yet she couldn’t turn her back to her either.

“Bear?”

Wolfgang glanced back towards her, frustration making his nose wrinkle.

“What is it?”

“I need her.”

Isidora froze. Rory’s finger was pointed right at her.

“No you don’t! Isidora and I are discussing important things, she can’t go on a roadtrip with you at the moment.”

“She can” Rory looked like she knew she’d win this argument without effort. “And she will. Because technically, I’m still her alpha. She’s mine.”

Isi’s heart squeezed while her gaze snapped to Rory’s. She wasn’t anyone’s property. And she sure hoped no one had noticed how wobbly her knees had become when hearing that statement.

Sighing once again, Wolfgang gave up the fight and looked at her: “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, same time?”

[covenlcss]

──✦ gisela's demographics. ˎˊ˗

「  GENERAL  」

FULL NAME: Gisela Meadow de Valois NICKNAME(S): Gis, Gigi ALIASES: Petra O’Hara, Edith West AGE: 52  GENDER: cis woman PRONOUNS: she / her SEXUALITY: demisexual / demiromantic   STAR SIGN: Gemini CAREER: Business Owner  OCCUPATION: Owner of Little Red Barn Antiques & Shadow’s Curiosities EMPLOYER: Self-Employed

「  BACKGROUND  」

MOTHER: Malis de Valois (neé Pohl) FATHER: Laurent de Valois † ADOPTIVE PARENT: Vivian King † SIBLINGS: None SIGNIFICANT OTHER: TBA WC CHILDREN: Clover Fields PETS:  Thirteen (calico RagaMuffin) & Maleficent (Bombay) ETHNICITY: French, German, Norwegian, Swedish, English, and Irish descent NATIONALITY: Canadian BIRTHPLACE: Nova Scotia, Canada  BIRTHDATE: 11th June, 1939 LANGUAGES: French, English  EDUCATION: Homeschool Diploma

「  PERSONALITY  」 

LABELS/TROPES: the reticent, the anthomaniac, the black sheep, the façade,  ( + ) TRAITS: Hardworking, Quick-witted, Ambitious, Methodical, Productive, Trustworthy, Responsible  ( ~ ) TRAITS: Protective, Proud, Bold, Vain, Serious, Practical, Secretive, Cautious ( - ) TRAITS: Stubborn, Cynical, Demanding, Manipulative, Aloof, Unforgiving, Pessimistic ENNEAGRAM: The Challenger MORAL ALIGNMENT: Neutral Good MBTI: ISTJ CHARACTER INSPOS: Pru Halliwell  ( Charmed ), Mary Alice Young ( Desperate Housewives ), Wendy Beauchamps ( Witches of East End ),  Samantha Jones ( Sex and The City )

 「  APPEARANCE  」

FACECLAIM: Madchen Amick HEIGHT: 5’ 6”  HAIR COLOUR: Blonde balayage  HAIR TYPE: Wavy shoulder length EYE COLOUR: Blue GLASSES OR CONTACTS: Both DISTINGUISHING MARKS: scars - right knee, left elbow / birthmark - right ankle TATTOOS: spine - floral and leaf / left wrist - flower bracelet

 「  MISCELLANEOUS  」

MOTIVATIONS: thirst for knowledge and intellectual stimulation, the need for variety, social interaction, continuous self-growth CURRENT GOAL: reuniting with their child  FEARS: solitude  HOBBIES: hiking, crocheting, reading, swimming, knitting, pottery, scrapbooking, spell writing, pressed flower crafts  SECRET: Biological mother of Clover Fields

[oldthymefarm]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Call to Discipleship by Juan Carlos Ortiz 1975 HB Book.

[honorhearted]

"Hmm, such as?" Benjamin asked. "I know the fairer sex is rather elusive, but are you saying you can read minds, as well?"

Despite the jest in his tone, he was genuinely curious of her meaning, and once Bianca's coy gaze met with his own, he faltered as she turned and directed her attention out towards the dance floor. With barely any time at all, a young man met her gaze -- well-poised, fluid, naïve -- and his knees practically turned boneless once he all but tripped in his dance steps.

A titter arose at his expense, and with coyly gleaming eyes, Bianca returned her sly glance toward Benjamin. A distinct heat formed beneath his collar, harsh and white-hot before he breathed an uneasy laugh. "I see no discretion here," he volleyed. "You practically destroyed that man... Remind me to never get on your sour side."

Indifferent toward his reservations, Bianca inclined her head and indicated that he follow. Helpless but to obey, Benjamin relinquished his wine glass onto a passing tray, then followed her toward the library. The moment they crossed the threshold, his mouth dropped and he appraised the boundless shelves with visible delight.

"I've never seen so many books," he said. Overcome, Benjamin moved toward the nearest shelf, skimming his fingers along each spine with a hint of reverence. "You have the classics, as well as all the great philosophers...do you truly mean to tell me you've read all of these?"

Bianca plucked a tome from a neighboring shelf. Eyes feline and her mouth in a sultry curve, she laid down Vom Tode für das Vaterland and slid the book across the table, posing her question.

Stepping forward, Benjamin traced the gold leaf along the cover and nodded. "I've heard of the ideals," he replied. "Though admirable, I'm afraid American patriotism leans more toward works such as Cato."

"How far are you willing to go for freedom...Benjamin Tallmadge?"

All at once, his eyes snapped up to meet with hers, a distinct chill settling within his spine. "So you do know me," he replied, attempting nonchalance. "I'd been waiting for a sign all evening, but I suppose your earlier words proved true, after all: women really do hold all the cards."

Placing his own palms flat against the table, he leaned forward and mirrored her challenging posture. Eyes glinting within the flickering candlelight, he avowed, "I'm willing to go as far as it takes, madam. No sacrifice is too great -- I've already lost most of what I hold dear in this life, so to turn back now..." Here, his teeth gritted. "Well, I'd be a coward. And I damn well intend to see this through."

"Women understand things that need not be said out loud. That is where our power lies."

Her grey eyes gazed at one of the men on the dance floor, careful and measured in his steps. It was clear that he knew the dance by heart and had been dancing since he was a boy. Bianca kept her gaze on him, waiting for the moment when his eyes would meet hers.

And when it did, how quickly things unfolded--lips, soft and red as a rose flashed the sweetest of smiles; eyes that gazed upon him as if he were a secret lover moved to look away. Her laugh, soft and sweet were concealed behind her fan. The poor gentleman, heady from the most subtle of attentions made a wrong turn and fell, eliciting a gasp from the other guests, with some softly chuckling at the man's embarrassment.

Bianca looked up at Ben, satisfied with her little demonstration. "...and I pride myself in my discretion." she replied as they moved away from the crowd that did not even notice their hostess leave the room with her guest.

Her library was filled with the many books she had collected over the centuries, and there were a few that she had taken with her from her palazzo in Venice, remnants of the mortal life she had left behind.

"Have you read Vom Tode für das Vaterland by Thomas Abbt?" she asked as she carefully took out the book from its place on her shelf. Bianca set it on the table, her eyes meeting his. "He talks about dying for one's fatherland--How far are you willing to go for freedom...Benjamin Tallmadge?"

[televinita]

From their website.

[scifrey]

Keepsakes:

Caraway & Rosewater

Status: Ongoing Ficlet collection; unbeta’d

Series: the Hob Adherent series

Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022) Includes some comics canon, and some cameos from the wider Gaiman-verse (including the Good Omens and Lucifer television shows), but it’s not necessary to know to enjoy the story.

Rating: PG13

Warnings: Some fade-to-black sexytimes.

Relationships:  Morpheus | Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling, Eleanor | Hob Gadling’s Wife/Hob Gadling (past)

Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Hob Gadling, Delirium of the Endless, Death of the Endless, Dream of the Endless | Daniel Hall, Destruction of the Endless, Desire of the Endless, Despair of the Endless, Destiny of the Endless, Matthew the Raven, Eleanor Gadling, Harriet Butler

READ ON AO3 OR READ BELOW:

Caraway & Rosewater

Inspired by a prompt from @tickldpnk8 on Tumblr. Am I also specifically making this partially about food specifically for @carnelianmeluha  …. Maaaaybe.

Hob stops his horse beside the window of the hired carriage, which brought them north from London, in order to get a good look at Eleanor’s face. He wants to memorize her expression when she sees the house for the first time. 

Eleanor appears more than a little startled to arrive and be greeted at the door by no one. It shows on her leaf-shaded face, plain as the sun in the sky, and in the stiff set of her spine, and the way she folds her fingers together stiffly in on her lap, and rolls her lower lip in between her teeth. In short, she is displeased.

Hob’s stomach immediately sinks.

“Here?” she asks politically, as she takes in the cool glade where they’ve halted.

It’s a very pretty clearing. 

Hob had picked it out a century prior, when his banditry and sellsword ways had granted him enough coin to escape both the unsavory life, and the stink and press of London. He’d purchased the deed for a few small fields and this little patch of woods, and named the tiny farm “Glade Estates” in jest. And in hope. For he did hope, one day, to transform it into a mighty country seat, worthy of the aspirations and titles he worked toward.

He’d returned to London once the purchase had drained him of his money, and found a place as a printer’s apprentice. He’d intended to use what scant extra coin the profession provided to sneak away for a week here and there to lay foundations and design a grand mansion. But first he’d need a cottage in which to stay while doing said planning, laying, and building. Luckily he had all the time in the world to do so, and could afford to take the grand project slowly.

But the more he visited over the next few decades, the more he realized that he prized the simplicity of the little cottage he was creating here, and the peace of being alone with his thoughts and secrets in a way that he could not in London. When he took ill or was injured severely, it was a place of refuge and a haven from prying eyes who would wonder why he was not yet dead of his wounds. He could heal in private and return a whole man. Or as a different man, entirely.

With no hired hands or tradesman to get in his way or gainsay his notions, the glade became a place to work with his hands and challenge his creativity and mind. This became an ever-more valuable treasure as his ascent through the social order meant he increasingly spent his free time sitting on his bottom and drinking. And while he dare not leave behind anything too valuable or worse, tell-tale of his true nature, the little stone cache he’d hidden in the forest proved to be a dry and safe place to guard his few carefully hoarded mementos of the last two centuries.

Deciding to keep Glade Estate humble, Hob worked hard over the decades to build the four-room stone cottage by hand, whenever he needed a break from the stink and the plagues. Or, when hiding from London society long enough to return as his own son. 

Now completed, the cottage consisted of a small Great Room, with cooking hearth and bread oven against the wall in the centre of the cottage, surrounded with all the attendant tables, cupboards, and chairs necessary. To the left of that were two small rooms to act as pantry and dairy, and another room to the right was outfitted as best he could manage to mimic the incredible Turkish hammams he had visited as a sellsword. 

While he had no hot underground spring to tap into for water, the nearby river water could be heated in the great copper pot he’d installed in one corner of the room, over a stone basin to cradle the fire. A little bit of clever engineering saw the pot itself suspended on a pole with a handle, allowing it to be tipped into the soaking tub and mixed with cold water and bath oils until it was just right for a body to laze in comfortably. Above the washing room, to take advantage of the heat of the copper, was a loft containing a few low chests for clothing, and an equally low bed strung with rope and laid with an extravagantly overstuffed eiderdown mattress.

It’s been decades of back-breaking labour to collect, pile, mortar, and plaster the local grey slate into walls; to fashion and tar the timbers himself with all his shipwright’s tools; to white wash and thatch; to build fencing and train brambles into hedgerows, and plant all manner of fruiting plants and bushes in orderly rows beyond the kitchen door; to plane and joint the wood for each stick of furniture; to lovingly craft the hearth grate and fire tools at the local blacksmith’s; in short, to learn trade after trade, skill after skill, to turn this first piece of land he was able to call his own into a real and honest home.

Instead of funneling his growing shipyard wealth into a great country manor, he’d used it instead to purchase land on the unfashionable south side of the Thames. Let his gold be spent where it would be admired by his fellow courtiers. And let this haven remain modest. This cottage, and its glade, and its woods, and its two remaining small fields were his own personal project.

Today, the two fields were rented to the family whose own fields abutted them. In payment asked for no coin, but for the good maintenance of his garden, orchard, and house while Hob was in the city.

He is rightly very proud of his little retreat. It is not a fine house, all red bricks and glass, not like the one he’s having refurbished in the city as a surprise for Eleanor at that very moment. But it is his–theirs, now–and it is good.

And, if the neighbors have done their duty by the eccentric Sir Gadlen, it should also be scrubbed clean, filled with fresh bedding and linens, and stuffed full of all the best victuals, libations, and cookery ingredients good London gold can buy.

“Yes, here,” Hob confirms, screwing his courage to the sticking place. He swings down from his mare and walks her to the hitching post before the sweet little wood shed leaning against the stone wall of the cottage. This will stand in stead of her barn for the next month, and will be warm enough with the bathing room on the other side of the stone wall.

“Are you not a knight, my husband?” Eleanor asks as the lone coachman steps down to open the carriage door and set out the stepping stool for her.

“I am, my wife,” Hob replies, stripping off his thick leather riding glove to hand her down out of the carriage and onto the thick, mossy grass ringing the cottage garden.

With Eleanor safely on the ground, Hob helps the coachman and driver to unload their trunks, piling them beside her. He’ll bring them inside himself, later. He wants to show Eleanor what she is now mistress of, first. 

He thinks it a great treasure indeed. Eleanor, who has seemed amiable enough these four days' journey with their stripped-down comforts and service, seems unconvinced.

“And did you not tell me that you were wealthy, my husband?”

“I did, my wife,” Hob admits, a smile curling into the side of his beard when she offers him a displeased frown. Oh, how he enjoys teasing his sweet and canny lady.

As proof of both his wealth and his generosity, he digs out his purse and pops a gold coin into the palms of the coachman and driver. Along with this he adds a letter of instruction for them to return to Gadlen House, which confirms his instructions for the renovations, and his orders for them to return to Glade Estate in thirty day’s time for the return journey.

“And did you not tell me, my husband,” Eleanor goes on, throwing her arms wide to encompass all that she can see, sending the fan tied to her wrist gyrating in the air with the aggrieved gesture. “That we were to reside at your northern estate for this, our honeymoon?”

Hob sends the carriage and it’s intruding humans and horses on their way.

“Indeed I did,” Hob confirms jovially as he waves goodbye.

“Then why are we alone, standing beside a pokey little crooked cot, with no servants nor people of any sort to speak of, my husband?” Eleanor asks, with a look that might turn lesser (or mortal) men to stone in their tracks.

“Because, wife,” Hob says, and pauses as the carriage rounds a bend in the forest road and is completely out of sight. 

Then he whirls on her, grabs her fast by her bottom, and heaves her up against his chest. He cranes his head up to capture her mouth for a filthy, filthy kiss, the likes of which he’s been dying to gift her since they woke together in bed the day after the wedding. He has refrained until now, as they’ve been surrounded by fellow travelers, or servants, or busybodies for nigh on a week. 

Eleanor squeals first in surprise, then delight. She laughs and clings to him, arms around his neck, dainty feet kicking in the air as he backs them toward the cottage. Her lips meet his on the tiltyard of their lust, thrust for thrust, sally for sally. So consuming and marvelous is it that Hob’s back hits the planking of the door hard enough to drive the latch into his hip.

“Oof,” he grunts, and sets Eleanor down. He cinches her tight about the waist with one arm, should she get any ideas about running off after the carriage, and fishes through the pouch at his groin for the key to the door. 

If the motion makes the back of his hand press against the mound of her sex through her skirts, well, that’s a secret for just the two of them.

“Because what, husband?” Eleanor asks him with cheeky breathlessness, all ire gone as she pets her hands down his neck and shoulders. It makes it hard to fit the key into the lock, and he fumbles it twice before the door swings open behind him, allowing them entry.

Eleanor peers curiously over his shoulder, but he will not have her distracted now. He pockets the key and kisses her again to keep her attention where it belongs, guiding her inside as he does. He kicks the door shut behind her, then presses her up against it and gifts her with another of terribly obscene kisses.

When he breaks away for breath, Hob takes her by the very tips of her fingers and leads her slowly, step by backwards step, toward the ladder that will bring them to the loft bedroom.

“Because, wife, with people we are utterly, utterly alone…” He pauses at the foot of the ladder and leans in to nip the lobe of her ear and whisper directly against her plump cheek: “We are tucked away in our private bower with no servants to snoop, no neighbors to gossip, and no courtiers to spy.”

“And so, dear husband?” Eleanor bids him continue with a raised eyebrow.

“And so, dear wife,” Hob says, meeting her eyebrow with a competitive leer. “There are none about to protest when I make you scream.”

#

Hob was serious when he said that he meant to woo Eleanor Gifford properly. He set out to prove himself to be not only a wise political choice on her part for her husband, but also a doting and devoted man and life partner. 

To that end, he spends the first week of their honeymoon laying service to his wife in all the ways possible. 

Hob hunts and cooks what he catches for her, skinning and tanning the hides out back of the cottage to later make mittens and fur collars for her winter-wear. He tends the garden and feeds them both from the early-spring bounty—mostly sallets of tender new leafy greens and herbs, edible flowers, sugar mixed with olive oil, and boiled eggs from the hens he has procured for their stay. He kills, plucks, and cooks chickens. He washes their linens, and reattaches the buttons that carnal enthusiasm has parted from their clothing, and mends tears. He brews quick-beer, and serves cider and wine from the root cellar under the kitchen floor. 

He takes her on rambles or rides around the county, teaching her how to find the secret deer paths of the woods, and showing her off proudly on Sunday at the sleepy local church. He tells her stories and sings to her lute accompaniment to her at night, as they cuddle by the hearth, and bids her sleep late in the mornings. He brushes her hair, and tends her frequent baths, and makes little surprises of lavender and lemon soaps.

And of course, he beds her well and often.

Eleanor has never lived without servants. She’s always had someone else to do labor on her behalf, and while the lack of domestic help had perturbed her at first, within days she found his efforts quaint and charming. And romantic. Hob hadn’t expected his ability to serve a decent roast fowl to be an amorous endeavor, but Eleanor’s reciprocity that night had proved him wrong. And her ardor had yet to cool.

Soon enough, she was keen to become his helpmeet in turn, asking him to show her what small tasks she could accomplish to make his larger ones easier or more agreeable. 

And so, one gentle, sunny afternoon in their second week at the cottage, Hob has Eleanor stirring the dough for Prince Biskets.

It is May 1st, 1583, and Hob is two hundred and twenty-seven years old today, give or take a few weeks on either side. Hob has selected May Day as his birthday, for the calendars have changed often enough depending on who is in charge and (what country he is in) that he's quite forgotten what day he was really born—if anyone in his family had ever known at all. His mam had always called him her little Bobby Bunny, “born in the spring with hairy ears”, so May 1st had seemed appropriate.

He’ll be meeting his Stranger again in six years, and this time he’ll be able to share all of his joys of his newly married bliss. Perhaps even, by then, show the Stranger portraits of his children, if Hob’s strange nature allows for his seed to take root. Or introduce his Stranger to his family themselves, if their initial meeting at the White Horse goes as smoothly as the last one and his Stranger can be convinced to visit a second night in a row.

That morning, Hob had chivvied Eleanor out of bed at dawn so they could wade into the garden of climbing meadow flowers and harvest the first dew of Spring to wash their faces.

“No one does this any more, husband!” Eleanor had laughed, pleased with the old-fashioned bumpkin ritual.

“I do, wife,” Hob had said. “Make sure to wash behind your ears.”

“You make sure,” Eleanor had countered and tackled him into the verge. Whereupon they engaged in the most traditional and ancient of all the May Day festivities:‘gathering fresshe’ and staining their underlinens bright green with their activities.

After they broke their fast, Eleanor had presented him with his birthday gift—a handkerchief of fine white linen, which she had embroidered herself on the carriage ride north.

“This is a funny little design, is it not, husband?” Eleanor had asked, showing him a sketch. “I saw a whole row of these darling little squiggles on a letter one of the courtiers thought he was being discreet about, just before our wedding. Throckmorton, I think it was. When I asked him what it was, he told me it was a new pattern of stitching for his waistcoat, and that he thought it was to be all the rage quite soon. So I put it down on paper straight away.”

Hob thanked her for the delicate needlework with all the thorough appreciation that such beautiful thoughtfulness deserved, which kept them quite occupied until luncheon.

Now they are making prince biskets to take down into the village for the May Day celebrations. Their most colourful clothes are laid out away from the hearth, where they won’t get ashy, and the flower crowns Eleanor had woven for them that morning during the afterglow are waiting patiently on a hook by the door. 

His wife has told him that each of the flowers she’s chosen signify their ardor and attachment, but Hob’s already forgotten which each one is supposed to mean. He’s finding it hard to keep a lot in his poor brain this last fortnight, considering how well fucked-out it is.

“How long must I do this?” Eleanor whines playfully from where she’s seated on a stool by the hearth. Spring though it may be, the clouds are thick in the sky today, and winter’s chill has not entirely retreated from the English countryside.

“The whole of one hour,” Hob reminds her, again. He looks pointedly at the hourglass, where only one quarter of that time has slipped down the funnel, and bends to stoke the fire in the bread oven he’d built into the wall beside the hearth.

By the time Eleanor has finished, the fire should be well burned down and the embers ready to rake out so they can bake using just the heat absorbed by the stones. Normally he would preserve the glowing coals under the clay cerfew to use the next morning, but tonight they’ll be bringing back a torch lit from the May Day Bone Fire to heat the cottage.

As these biskets are for May Day as much as Hob’s birthday, he resumes grinding up the last of the winter-sown spinach to colour the little cakes green with the mortar and pestle. That finished, he perches on the edge of the table to mix the resulting paste with some of the leftover rosewater to liquify it, and then tips the whole lot into Eleanor’s mixing bowl.

She scowls at him for adding to her labors, but he softens it with a sweet kiss on the crown of her flaxen head. Leaving her to stir, Hob retreats to the bathing room to freshen up, and when he returns to the little great hall to relieve her of the bowl so she may do the same, Eleanor’s appreciative gaze travels the length of him more than once.

“I have fur enough to stay warm without clothes,” Hob demurs, flushing under the predatory way her cornflower blue eyes flash with mischief. “And putting my soiled clothes back on simply to finish the baking would defeat the purpose of washing up in the first place.”

“Careful your fur doesn’t catch fire when you rake the oven,” Eleanor murmurs, rising from her stool and raking her nails through the dense curls along his thighs. “I’d hate to see the pelt of so fine a woodland animal scorched. You are so much a faun I half expect you to have a tail.”

She pinches his tail-less bottom. Hob shivers delightedly. 

“When you dress,” he murmurs against the side of her head. “Leave off your braes, and I shall do the same. And then when we watched the play and cheered on Robin Hood and his Maid Marion, and eaten our fill, and drunk ourselves into delight, and have jumped the fire to purify ourselves for the coming year, your naughty faun may chase you into the woods and desecrate your temple anew.”

“Is that what this is?” Eleanor whispers, running her fingers now through the hair on his chest. “Foliage instead of fur? Are you the Green Man, come to pluck the last flowers of my virtue to wreathe your maypole?”

Hob feels himself flush deeper, and swats her arse through her skirts. “Off with you, wife, before you distract me and we end up burning our contribution. Then how will we ever show our faces in the village again?”

“Oh, you know the church will have ale and bread enough to buy without you arriving at the village square baring a fortune of caraway and rosewater, you louche spendthrift,” Eleanor teases. But she does make for the bathing room, where Hob has already left her a pitcher of hot water. She sheds pieces of her clothing along the way in a trail that any tempted tracker could easily follow.

Hob is very tempted. He is also very determined to make a good showing at the village this year, and steps stockingless into his boots and throws on an oiled canvas coat to protect himself as he rakes out the coals, butters and fills the baking cups, and puts the biskets in in the oven.

He may be immortal, but a red-hot ember would damage his skin as easily and painfully as any other mortal man. It would ruin the day, the honeymoon, and if it was a truly terrible injury, his plans to ensure that Eleanor really and truly loves him (and has done so for at least half a human lifetime) before he shares the truth of his nature with her.

The coals raked and left in the hearth to cool, the biskets in the oven, a cup of cider poured for himself, and fine clothes to don, Hob feels content and charitable. He loves his life. He loves his wife. He loves his home, and the fruits of all his labours.

And, he muses as he listens to Eleanor singing to herself over the splash of the water as she washes, he has so much to live for. The world is a good, good place, and there is nowhere to go in it but up.

#

A Couple Centuries Later…

It’s not a surprise party if Hob knows it’s happening, and Hob knows it’s happening because Delirium is terrible at keeping secrets.

But he doesn’t want to ruin her fun. So when he returns from the university early that evening, he allows himself to be redirected to the back garden by floating koi that only he can see, and laughs with genuine delight when Del pops out from behind his little brick-and-iron firepit and shouts “HaPpY BIrThDaY!”

A merry little blaze is already going strong in the wrought-iron bowl, not quite a bonfire to rival May Days of old, but a wonderful nod to the tradition. In place of a maypole, someone has decorated the Inn’s downspout with ribbons and flowers the likes of which the Waking doesn’t often see. But the tradition of a sideboard groaning under the weight of fresh, green food (either naturally green or not)

Hob can’t help but hope that someone is planning to put on the traditional Robin Hood panto. He’d sell a finger to see Matthew in green tights.

Hob relinquishes both his briefcase and a kiss to Morph, who was lingering in one of the shadows of the bramble hedge (old habits, and all that). Patrick hands him a can of London Pride, and Hob is hustled over to one of the loveseats parked around the fire to accept the congratulations of the partygoers. 

He’s perfectly happy to be steered around, and to let the party come to him. It was a long day of lectures and student meetings, including one poor student who’d burst into tears when Hob had assured them that he’d be very happy to offer learning accommodations if they’re struggling.

The outdoor sofas are comfortable, the food is good, and the company is wonderful, the strains for music coming through from the pub are mellow, the beer is cold, and Hob is a tired old man who is absolutely delighted to be sitting down.

All told, Hob’s six-hundred and sixty-eighth birthday party in the back garden behind The New Inn is significantly less of an ‘affair’ than his six-hundred and sixty-sixth had been. Lucifer, for one thing, has since returned to Hell so is unable to attend. But all of his in-laws are here this time (in varying degrees of believable mortal guises), along with his mortal friends from Elizabethan Manor. Harriet, Glenn, and Shami have all shown up with their partners and kids. 

And the Otherkind of London have stayed away, probably terrified to be in the presence of any of the Endless, never mind six of the seven (plus one former entity). Except for his former PhD mentee who is, apparently, currently dating Bod.

(Hob looks forward to a time when Daniel is powerful enough to step into the Waking as Dream. For now, he’s just started kindergarten in New Jersey, and it’s too long a jaunt across the pond  for just an afternoon’s celebration.)

He’s plied with well wishes and booze, flower crowns, kisses on the cheek, and a plate piled high with Dee’s beautiful culinary efforts. It’s a wonderfully casual party, people mingling, drifting in and out of his orbit, and no time freezes or Celestial sneering.

“Prince Biskets,” Harriet says, holding one up to show Hob as she plops into the seat right next to him, newly vacated by Shami. “Childhood favorite?”

“Oof,” Hob says, laying a hand over his heart. “I weep for your writing team if your math is that bad. Childhood. Robyn’s childhood, not mine.”

All the same, Hob takes one of the offered biscuits from Harri, and bites into it.

They’re softer than he remembers them being, likely due to Dee’s fiddling with the recipe, but the burst of caraway and rosewater against his tongue brings tears to his eyes with the sudden overwhelming sense memory of those glorious four weeks at Glade Estate. 

The little cottage, regrettably, is no more—just some stone walls slowly tipping over under the weight of climbing ivy and time, lost to Hob along with everything else that was stolen when Sir Robert Gadlen the Third was drowned. The fields have long since been absorbed into the nearby farms. The garden and orchard had grown wild enough to fill up the forest glen. 

That place is gone.

But the taste of it, right here, is heavy and sweet on his tongue.

He chews slowly, swallowing around a lump growing in his throat. The back of his eyes burn with emotion.

“The last time I had these,” Hob confesses softly, “I was on my honeymoon with El. We made these for May Day. She gave me a handkerchief that damn near got me hanged for my birthday.”

“Hanged?” Harriet asks, eyes lighting with academic curiosity. She’s the biggest fan of Hob’s hot tea, even more of a gossipmonger than Matthew, because she doesn’t care that the people in his stories have been dead for centuries.

Hob leans back against the loveseat cushions, cranes his head up to take in the rich splash of twilight colour lingering over the hedgerow ringing in the garden in an effort to keep the tears that threaten from falling.

“El was too clever by half for her role in court,” Hob tells Harri with a fond, faraway smile. “She got bored easily, which turned her into a bit of a magpie. She had a little notebook, and she’d write down snatches of song, or funny jokes and conversations, or pretty pieces of design.”

He catches Morph’s eye across the fire, knows his husband is listening in, and knows that there is no resentment or envy in the former anthropomorphic personification of the Human unconscious when Hob speaks of his first spouse. Only interest in Hob’s stories of her, and compassion for the way he loves and misses his mortal family. 

Hob beds forward and with a finger, makes some squiggles in the fine sandy gravel ringing the firepit. “She embroidered the design she’d overseen on the hanky herself. She was so proud of it, and she’d kept it a secret from me the whole journey. Throckmorton told her it was a new border for his waistcoat, and she’d believed him.”

Harriet’s mouth drops open. “That’s Mary Queen of Scot’s cypher.”

Hob brushes the code away with the bottom of his shoe and raises the remaining half of his biscuit to her with a lopsided grin. “And guess who rolled up to court five weeks after his marriage flashing it around every time he had to wipe his nose? Both sides wanted me dead for that. Elizabeth called me traitor, and Throckmorton knifed me in my sleep. Didn’t take, obviously.” 

Hob meets Morph’s eyes over the fire again, and finds his husband is smiling, affectionate and heavy-lidded.

“Dear lord, what happened?” Harri begs, breathless in her curiosity. “How did you talk your way out of it?” 

“Good Queen Bess’ spymaster Walsingham confiscated my snotty hanky and used it to break open the plot,” Hob says. “He never quite believed that El’s interest in the design was innocent, but it got me out of the noose, at least.”

Harriet whoops in delighted laughter.

Morph rises, skirting around the fire to drop himself right onto his husband’s lap. Human though he may be, Morph is still cool as night. “Today is a day of celebration, my husband,” Morph says. “No more tales of loss.”

“No,” Hob agrees, holding remaining bite of Prince Bisket into Morph’s petal-pink mouth. “You’re right, my husband.” 

Hob knows himself well enough now that he woos through acts of service, through cooking and feeding, through gifts, through quality time given. Through biscuits offered, and baths drawn, and workspaces built. Through solars and speciality drafting desks.

Morph rolls his eyes, but accepts the bite. “You are still so determined to fatten me up,” Morph complains after he’s swallowed. “One of these days, I will be too plump for your lap.”

“Never,” Hob promises, and grabs a handful of Morph’s skinny arse in pointed appreciation.

Harri laughs at the indignant expression that crosses Morph’s face, like a petulant cat, and all is right with the world.

There’s nowhere to go but up.

And Hob has so much to live for.

[not-a-space-alien]

Hi, everyone! I'm back with another piece of fanfiction for @whumpsday's characters Jim and Kane. (You can read my first one I wrote here.) This one is an expansion of this anon (written with permission.)

Same as last one: The needed background for this piece of writing is that Kane, a vampire, took Jim captive for years to feed on his blood. Jim escaped eventually, and Kane was later captured and brutally tortured by vampire hunters for the same amount of time (delicious irony and poetic justice.) Jim heard about this and asked the vampire hunters to give Kane to him, planning to kill him and get closure, but Jim ended up feeling too bad for Kane to hurt him (Jim is too much of a softie for his own good). So now they’re just sort of in this awkward place where reformed Kane is living locked in Jim’s basement and they’re both bogged down by horrible PTSD that the other keeps triggering.

This ficlet is rated M because it has graphic descriptions of gore and violence. The linked story that this is fanfiction of is also very graphic and may be distasteful to some readers, so please use your best judgement and mind the tags and CW’s.

“Wake up.”

Jim had felt this feeling before.  Very, very rarely.  Because Kane was not capable of persuasion, so he’d only ever felt it when a different vampire had used it on him.

He hadn’t missed it.

His eyes flew open, feeling some ominous, overwhelming presence completely consuming him, overriding his very will.  It was by far the worst way he’d ever woken up, and he’d previously woken up to Kane feeding on his neck.

“Stay still.  Don’t scream.”

It was called mind-control, but really it would be more accurate to describe it as body-control.  Jim was locked in his own body, unable to do anything except follow the directions from the voice.

“Stand up.” Jim’s feet swung off the side of the bed without his permission, pivoting him towards the window.

It was night out, and in front of the backdrop of stars standing in front of the open window was a cruel figure.  It was a vampire he had never seen before.

A vampire he’d never seen before had come into his bedroom at home, in the middle of the night, in the middle of human territory.  Dread dropped into the pit of Jim’s stomach, almost making him throw up.  He wasn’t safe, not even here, where he should by all accounts be safe.  He was doomed to be hunted, dehumanized, used for his body until he was broken and thrown out like trash.  If he couldn’t escape that fate even here, what hope did he have?

Tears welled in his eyes.

“Good,” said the vampire.  “Yes, just what I’d hoped for.”  The vampire moved closer and drew one claw over Jim’s cheek, wiping the tear.  “You must be wondering what I’m here for.”

Wondering was a strong word for Jim’s thoughts.  He’d thought it would be pretty self-explanatory.

The vampire put a hand to his chest.  “I like a challenge, you see.  And I learned recently that you’re somewhat famous in the human world.  There’s a book about you and everything.  Because you’re apparently impossible to contain.”

More tears slid down Jim’s cheeks.  He imagined this vampire reading that stupid book, reading the passages about his imprisonment and feeling not pity or horror, but challenged to do more.   It sent a shudder up his spine, like he’d been violated by this creature already in a way he couldn’t describe.

“So that’s why I came all the way out here to find you,” the vampire whispered.  “I think a proper vampire, one with persuasion, could break you.”

“No,” said Jim, his body now trembling like a leaf.  “Please…  I c-can’t go back there.”

“You can, and you will.  I caught you fare and square, so you’re mine now.”

“F-fuck off,” said Jim.  He could only speak quietly, because the persuasion kept him from screaming, but not speaking entirely.

He wanted to scream though.  Whatever accursed mechanism that persuasion used kept the sound caught in his throat, choking him.  He wept.  He hadn’t managed to sound threatening at all.

“But first,” said the new vampire, “before I whisk you away, I’m going to feed on you.  Right here, in your home, where you thought you were safe.  Just so you remember how it will always end.  You can think you’re sleeping safe and sound at home, miles and miles away, and someone will feed on you.  You exist for my benefit.  Now kneel down and tilt your head.”

Jim had no choice but to obey; his body did the motions for him as he whimpered and bit his lip.  “Don’t,” was all he managed to say, eyes glazing over, going somewhere else mentally, regressing.

The vampire brushed Jim’s hair aside, caressing his neck.  “Oh, so much scar tissue.  It’ll make your skin so tough and unpleasant.  But no matter.  I see your previous owner favored the right jugular.  I’ll simply take from the left subclavian.  Your skin is still nice and tender there.”

Jim’s chest heaved as the vampire’s talons slid the shoulder of his shirt down.  He opened his mouth and pleaded, his voice as loud as he could physically make it with the persuasion cutting off anything considered a scream.  “Kane.”  He tried to scream, but it came out more like a dying plea.  “Kane, help me, please.”

He wasn’t calling to the vampire locked in his basement, the one he clapped ankle cuffs onto each morning to let him come up and watch TV.  He was calling to a person who didn’t exist anymore, Kane de Sang, the fickle, violent vampire who considered himself Jim’s owner, the instinctual calling based on the reassurance that Kane could at least be relied upon to shoo others away from his property and his food.  Kane would tell this newcomer to leave not because he cared about Jim’s pain, but because he did care about being stolen from.

“You’re more well trained than I thought,” purred the newcomer.  “Still calling for your old master.  Adorable.”

He bit down, not on the side of his neck but on the top his shoulder, in the crook of his neck.  The chronic pain and nightmares Jim had about his neck had convinced him to only ever worry about his jugular, but this was so much worse.  It was deeper, the flesh tender and unscarred, and it felt like this sadistic new vampire had stuck a drinking straw straight into his very heart.

He sobbed, wailing as loudly as he physically could, which the vampire seemed to like.  “You have such cute moans.”

Jim’s head was spinning and his grip on his surroundings was fading, but he heard something downstairs faintly: a heavy, meaty thump, like a piece of meat being thrown against a wall.

“Please don’t,” Jim wept.  “I can’t—I can’t—not again—not again.”

His body shook again as the vampire lapped at the ragged wound, drawing out his blood—much more than he remembered Kane taking, more than he gave Kane willingly.  “Don’t be silly, you’re doing fine—and we’re only just getting started.”

There was another thunk from downstairs, followed by another, more frantic.  The vampire seemed to hear it this time, too, and pulled his head up, blood-drenched maw turned in a frown.

“Kane,” said Jim.  “P-please help, please help me, please stop him.”

There was an ear-shattering sound from downstairs, the squealing of metal groaning and ripping, and something enormously heavy falling flat on the ground.

“Don’t move,” the new vampire growled into Jim’s ear.  He stood, wiping his face.  “What the hell was that?”

Jim sobbed, eyes fixed on the door.

There was the sound of be-socked feet very rapidly pattering across the carpet downstairs, up the stairs—crossing the distance almost in the blink of an eye.

Kane swung into the bedroom door, out of breath.  Fresh burn marks—so fresh that some of them were still smoking, in fact—were scattered on his face and arms.

Jim’s scrambled brain snapped back into the present, slamming him back into his body.  “Kane,” he wailed in a strained voice.  “P-please.”

Kane’s wide, feral eyes snapped down to Jim.  A thrill of fear surged through the human, the human on the floor between two vampires, a situation which surely ended in the human being torn in half and devoured every time.

Kane’s eyes slid from Jim up to the bloody vampire, who was still licking his lips.  “Ah…” said the new vampire.  “I-I didn’t realize this human was—”

Kane cut him off.  There was no stoic speech, no impassioned ranting, no threats, no trying to intimidate the interloper.  There was only primal, bestial, uncontrollable anger.

Kane drew his lip back, exposing his fangs, eyes burning with incomprehensible madness as he lunged at the other vampire like a jaguar striking.  His hands extended into claws, which sunk into the other vampire’s shoulder meat, drawing blood instantly and sending them both tumbling to the floor.

It was like a cat fight, except both combatants had the ability to crush concrete with their bare hands.  Blood spattered the wall in a pressurized spray, the floor cracked beneath them, the snarling and cursing vibrated glass and shattered the windows.

Kane garnered an impressive collection of injuries in a matter of seconds, flesh on his arms shredded to ribbons, but he didn’t seem to notice, that wild-eyed expression never leaving his face.  His lip stayed curled up as he grunted and growled wordlessly with each blow.

Kane had never been a particularly strong or meaty vampire, but he had one crucial advantage in this fight: he was fighting for something he cared about much, much, much more than the other one did.  The interloper threw Kane off and turned to lunge out the window, apparently having had enough, but Kane used the opportunity to sink his fingers into his opponent’s throat, slammed him backwards into the ground, splitting the wood of the floor, and ruthlessly jammed his thumbs into his eye sockets.

The other vampire screamed.  “I yield!  I yield!”

Kane opened wide and bit through his opponent’s windpipe.  He growled savagely as he sunk his teeth in deeper and deeper.  As his opponent gave a gargled plea, Kane grabbed a fistful of hair and wrenched his head around, then drew back and lunged again, forcing his teeth in as far as they would go.

With a final shout, Kane twisted and snapped the other vampire’s head clean off, the ragged flesh spattering with the motion.  He sat there over the decapitated body, chest heaving, blood soaking his entire front, severed head still gripped by the hair in one hand.  Kane’s eyes wildly wheeled about the room, and he took a few steadying breaths, coming down after a few seconds.

His terrifying red eyes came up and met Jim’s gaze.  Jim was still kneeling on the floor, having watched this entire series of events with a horrified expression.

“Jim,” said Kane, voice already scratchy from screaming.  He let the head roll out of his hand and thunk to the floor.

“P-please,” Jim said, body starting to shake again.  “Please, K-kane, please please.”

Kane, still hunkered down, crawled across the floor, limbs trembling from exertion and adrenaline.  Kane reached out one gore-strewn hand towards Jim, and the human, finding his limbs suddenly functional again, scrambled back, blubbering and sputtering incoherent pleas.

“Jim, are you okay?”  Kane’s head was starting to spin, bogged down by exhaustion and shock from what he’d just done.  He’d never done anything like that before, ever.  He hadn't thought he could.

He wouldn’t have guessed he could get past the silver-lined basement door.  The door itself he couldn’t get through, but it turned out that he could snap the reinforced iron hinges completely off by throwing himself at it hard enough.  And he hadn’t had the motivation to try that until recently, when he’d heard Jim calling him for help, guessing what was somehow happening based on the sounds. He'd thought it a fruitless endeavor, but he had to try, he had to do something when he heard Jim in pain and danger.

Jim.  The fountain of every good thing Kane had experienced in years, the source of endless kindness and mercy when none was deserved or expected.  The only person Kane suddenly found it intolerable to think of losing.

Kane’s new life only had two goals, which were: Keep away from the hunters, and help Jim.  He’d had no idea how strong that second one had burned inside him until he’d heard Jim’s pitiful cries.

Jim didn’t deserve any bad thing to happen to him, but he especially didn’t deserve to be fed on by a vampire.  Nobody would hurt Jim ever again, not Kane, not anybody.  Maybe it could make even a single step of progress towards ever repaying Jim to make sure of that.  Kane loved him more than he loved his own family.

Jim scrambled away from Kane, huddled in the corner of the room.  “Don’t,” he whispered, horrified.  The gore, the scene in front of him was a violent reminder that this creature he’d brought into his house could snap him in half at any time, and his brain was currently swimming in visions of all the times Kane had used that strength for purposes less noble than protecting him.

Still on his hands and knees, utterly beaten and exhausted, Kane crawled forward, painting the floor beneath him with a smear of blood.  “Jim—Jim, let me help you.”

Tears streaked down Jim’s cheeks.  “Kane, please—Please don’t hurt me.”

Kane heaved a deep breath, trying to steady himself.  “I won’t hurt you.  Are you—are you hurt?”

“Don’t feed on me,” said Jim, his voice small, the voice of someone more defenseless from a long time ago.  “I’ll die.  I’ll die if you take more.  Kane.  Don’t kill me.”

Kane finally dragged himself up to Jim’s side, and the human flinched away from him.  Kane put a gentle hand on Jim’s elbow.  “Let—let me help you.”

Jim stared at him with wide, scared eyes.  Kane suppressed a guilty, overwhelmed noise as he tried to wipe the blood off his face, but only succeeded in smearing it everywhere.  “It’s okay, it’s okay, you’re okay.  I’m not going to hurt you.”

Kane slowly moved his hand to Jim’s injury, which was still disgorging blood at an alarming rate.  “Let me lick this to close it.”  Vampire saliva had a special property that accelerated the healing of wounds it was used to seal.  He’d offered this service to Jim once before, but the human had turned it down in a panicked manner.  But Jim clearly needed it this time.

Kane held the remnants of Jim’s torn pajama shirt to the side and leaned in.  “No,” said Jim with a sob.  “Don’t, don’t feed on me.  I’ll die.  Please, Kane.  Please.”

“I’m not feeding on you,” said Kane, on the verge of tears.  “I promise.  I promise.  I’m helping you.  I’m sealing the wound.  I’m not taking any blood.”

Kane flattened his tongue over the ragged wound and gently, in one smooth motion swiped it up the length of both puncture marks.  The wound immediately looked a little bit better, the trickle of blood ceasing.

Oh, but that left Kane with a delicious, delicious mouthful of Jim’s blood.  He wanted so badly to swallow it.  It wouldn’t hurt anything.  It was blood Jim had already shed.  It would just go to waste.

But Jim was crying and begging, and Kane had promised he wouldn’t feed on him.  He knew better now, that he could never, ever, ever feed on anyone unless they told him explicitly that it was okay.

It was so, so hard, it pained him so much, but he leaned over and spit the mouthful of blood out, ropes of pink saliva stringing down to the ground.

“There,” said Kane, wiping his mouth.  “See?”

Still huddling, Jim stared at him.  His consciousness seemed to be ebbing, both from blood loss and shock.  Kane leaned Jim onto his shoulder.  “I’ve got you.”

Jim wobbled.

“Where’s your phone?”

---

“I need you to drive Jim to the hospital.”

That was all the words Kane had to get out before Liz was putting on her jacket and out the door.

I swear to God.  You fucking monster.  If you’ve hurt him. If you hurt my brother.

She made the drive in twenty minutes when it normally took thirty.  She slammed the car into the driveway, barely remembering to turn it off before hauling ass up onto the porch and nearly breaking the door down.

Kane and Jim were both sitting on the living room couch.  All Liz could see instantly was red, both red in her vision from anger and the red all over both of the men’s shirts.  Jim had two distinctive, telltale puncture marks above his clavicle.  Kane had blood smeared all over his face.  And behind them, the supposedly vampire-proof door to the basement lay detached on the floor, metal that had kept it fastened to the wall twisted and broken.

Kane stood up as Liz entered.  “Liz, there was another vamp—”

He is not, Liz thought.  He is not going to try and claim there was another vampire.  He does not expect me to believe some other vampire broke out of the basement and attacked Jim.

Liz stopped him mid-sentence by drawing her gun and firing three silver-lined bullets into Kane’s chest, sending him tumbling backwards.  He stumbled over the couch, accidentally flipping over the back, legs up in the air, body broken and twisted, neck bent awkwardly as he hit the floor.

“You fucker,” Liz growled.  “I’ll deal with you later.”

She kicked Kane’s leg off the back of the couch and leaned over Jim.  He’d appeared to have fallen unconscious, but he was breathing.

“I’ve got you,” Liz breathed.  “I’ve got you, don’t worry.”

She slung Jim’s arm over her shoulder and dragged him out, down the steps into her car, smearing drying blood all over her upholstery.  She buckled Jim in and shut and locked the door.  “I’ll be right back.  Don’t you worry.”

Liz stomped back into the house, coming around, gaze burning into Kane.  “You’re done, fucker,” she snarled.  “You’re done.”

Kane struggled to right himself, torn body convulsing and twitching around the silver bullets.  Fresh blood poured from his mouth as he tried to speak.

I can’t believe I forgot a stake, Liz thought.  She’d come all the way here to kill Kane, and hadn’t brought a stake.

Well, no matter.  She knew Jim kept some in his bedroom.  She walked over to Kane and rolled him over with her foot, planting her boot on his chest.  She cocked the gun and aimed it right between Kane’s watery, pleading eyes.  He spat up more blood and writhed.

The final silver bullet spattered his brains on the floor under him.  Liz suppressed her disgust, both at the gore and at Kane’s betrayal.  Poor Jim, too soft for his own good, took pity on this monster, and this was the thanks he got?

Well, no matter.  Liz was about to end this once and for all, permanently.  A silver bullet to the head would stop a vampire for a while as their head reformed, but a stake to the heart would make sure they never rose again.  She just had to go upstairs and get one.

She climbed the stairs, noting more blood, the trail widening as it led back to the bedroom.  She came around the corner and stepped into a bedroom that looked like a crime scene.

Oh.

---

It was the second time Jim had woken up in the hospital after suffering at the hands of vampires.  It was an experience he hoped he could stop repeating.  The ache rolled over him as soon as he was awake to feel it, the pain in his neck and his shoulder.  But under it was the prickle of IVs and bandages and the numbness from pain meds.

He was okay.  He got ahold of his breath before it got away from him.  He was okay.  He was in a human hospital.

“Hey,” said Liz’s voice softly.

His eyes fluttered open, and he tiredly looked to see Liz sitting next to him.  A wide smile spread across her face.  “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” Jim coughed.  “Thanks for getting me here.  I thought maybe this was gonna be it.  How do I look?”

“Like shit,” said Liz.  “And when I brought you to the emergency room, the doctors said ‘Wow, this guy seems like shit.’”

“Ha-ha,” said Jim.  He sat up muzzily.  “What—Oh, where’s Kane?”

Liz bit her lip.  “Um, about that…Can you tell me exactly what happened?”

“It’s—it’s fuzzy,” said Jim.  “But a vampire I’ve never seen before came into my room…and Kane…I don’t know how he got out of the basement, but he killed it.”

“Goddamn it,” said Liz, face growing red.  “I was afraid you’d say that.”

“What?  Is that bad?  Why?”

“Because now I have to apologize.”

---

Kane’s head was throbbing when he woke up.  This was a natural consequence of being shot.

His torso was, too.  He could feel pinpricks of burning in his core.  The bullet in his brain had apparently gone clean through and not lodged in his head, but apparently he wasn’t so lucky with the ones in his gut.  He felt one lodged in his left lung, one sitting in a cracked rib, and the third one just barely grazing his liver.  His vampiric flesh had slithered on over to close the bullet wounds around the bullets.

As his consciousness started to return in earnest, he made a movement to try and take action to remove the bullets before they were in there for too long.  The silver hurt with every motion, every breath, every heartbeat, like three shards of glass inside of him.

But his hands didn’t budge.  Neither did his legs.  He craned his neck to look back.  His arms were stretched out behind him, locked to his ankles in a hogtie

Dread lanced through him.  Liz had been the last thing he remembered, and of course she wouldn’t leave him unbound or unconfined.  And since the basement door was gone, she would have to cuff him.  And of course, in the absence of anything sturdy enough to lock the cuffs to, the silver cuffs could only be secured to themselves to keep him immobile.

Kane pulled at the restraints, worming around, hissing in pain as the silver bullets rubbed against his insides.  He let out a pathetic whimper.

He made some attempt to roll over and succeeded somewhat.  He was on the concrete floor of the basement, at the bottom of the stairs.  It sort of looked like Liz had just cuffed him together and tossed him down the stairs. 

No, no, no, thought Kane wriggling growing in intensity.  No, please, not this.  The hunters weren’t here, but this was exactly like something they would inflict on him, to wedge silver bullets into his chest, cuff him, and toss him down the stairs, with no idea of when he might be released or get some help.

Kane slowly lowered his forehead to the concrete, breath quickening.  Where was Jim?  Liz had taken him to the hospital, surely?

Yes, surely.  Liz would make sure he got to the hospital.  He imagined Jim waking up surrounded by people helping him and caring about him and lessening his pain.  Jim deserved it.  Kane knew he deserved to wake up the opposite way, scared, alone, pain throbbing all over him with no way to help himself or get better.  He knew he didn’t deserve anything better, but he still let himself cry about it.  There was no one here to see him, after all.  He allowed himself a moment of self-pity.  His pain still hurt, no matter how much he deserved it.

He rolled back over, pulling at the restraints again, gritting his teeth at the pain from the bullets.  No, no, this couldn’t be it.  This couldn’t be right.  Jim wouldn’t torture him.  Jim wouldn’t let him be tortured.  He let out a frustrated wail, laying his head down and indulging in a terrified cry, rocking.  No, no, no.  Not back to this.  Not back to endless pain and lying on a cement floor.

“Hello?  Kane?”

His head snapped up as he heard a woman’s voice upstairs.  Liz.  Fear surged through him again—the huntress.  She’d restrained him.  She’d shot him, and then restrained him, and then left him here.  Why?  Why hadn’t she killed him? She'd probably killed the other vampire, right? Finished him off with a stake to the heart?

Why hadn’t she killed him?  He let out a fearful sob.  No, no, no, not Liz.  Liz thought torture was sick, too.  Liz was above that.  Right?

Liz appeared in the doorway at the top of the stairs.  Kane tried to control his breathing and failed, kneading the air with his cuffed hands as he hyperventilated.

Liz delicately descended the stairs, eyes locked onto him.  He had to look away after a few seconds, out of fear.

“Hi,” said Liz, with an audible grimace.

Kane’s chest heaved in panicked breaths, each one hurting more than the last as the bullet fell deeper into his organs.  He opened his mouth to say something, but a jolt of even more intense pain cracked through him as he did so, leaving him breathless.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” said Liz.  “Just listen.”

Kane tried to talk again, breath hitching in his throat as the bullet burned its hole there, entire torso feeling like it was on fire.

“I’m not going to apologize to you,” said Liz.  “Ever.  For anything.  But…I will thank you.  Thank you for protecting Jim.  And I will say…I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions, and I shouldn’t have shot you before hearing you out.”

Kane was barely listening.  Tears of pain welled in his eyes.  He tried to lay as still as possible, but it didn’t alleviate the growing pain.

She sighed, seeming not to notice.  “I know it’s kind of shitty to tie you up like that, but I didn’t have many options.  There’s nothing to tie you to, and I…well, I didn’t feel comfortable with you being able to move around with nobody home, you know?  You can’t run with the ankle cuffs on, but you can certainly walk out the door.  I had horror visions of you waking up and just walking out the door.  I’m sure you understand.”

Kane gave up and started to writhe again, hoping that maybe it would draw Liz’s attention to his predicament.

“Well?” said Liz.  “Say something.  Jim is fine by the way.  Not that you asked.”

Desperation growing, unable to cope with the idea that she might leave him like this without realizing, he used what little strength he had remaining to rear back slightly and slam his torso into the ground, hoping to dislodge something.  He felt all three bullets rattling, settling into new positions.  Two of them lessened the pain, but the one in his lung definitely got worse.  He cried out, raking yet more pain through his body and spitting up fresh blood.

“Kane?” said Liz.  “Can you not…Oh fuck.  The bullets.”

Yes, yes, god yes, please, the bullets, the bullets.

“I’ll get them out.”

No!  No!  Let me do it!  He shook his head, desperately hoping it wouldn’t be interpreted as leave them in.

“Fuck,” said Liz, sounding like she was giving a second thought to her I won’t apologize to you for anything, ever stance.  She knelt down, withdrawing a silver key.  “Don’t try anything.”

As soon as she unlocked the handcuffs, Kane rolled over, silver-laden lungs crunching at the effort of trying to supply his activities with oxygen around the intrusion.

“You’re not going to—” said Liz as he curled his hand around his chest, doing exactly what she was afraid he was about to do.

He plunged his hand into his chest, tearing the skin and muscle away, desperately clawing at it and re-opening the mostly-healed bullet wounds.  His fingers sunk in deep until he felt them burn on the tip of a lump of silver, which he grabbed and tore out, tossing it onto the ground.

“Fuck,” he wheezed, lungs still full of holes.  Liz looked like she wanted to offer to help, but had no idea how.

The other two bullets were easier to get out.  They tinkled to the floor, silver pips covered with blood.  Kane lay there gasping, but slowly recovering.  He lowered himself back to the floor, groaning.

“Did you get them all out?” said Liz.

He nodded breathlessly.

“Well…Jim’s supposed to come back from the hospital tomorrow.”  She shuffled uncomfortably.  “I don’t know if I trust…if…”

Kane wordlessly extended his wrists out to be re-cuffed.

Liz knelt and tightened a cuff around one wrist, then brought it behind his back to attach it to the other.  It was behind his back, but at least she hadn’t re-done the hogtie.

“Don’t try anything,” said Liz, climbing back up the stairs.  “I’m going to come back and check on you later.”

Where could I even go? Kane thought.

---

Jim was back the next day as promised.  Jim was back.  Safety was back.

He was a little unsteady on his feet still, but Liz was there to help him.  She supported him as he sat in the easy chair.

Kane was in the corner of the basement, not having worked up the energy nor the courage to climb the stairs in Jim’s absence.  But he lifted his head at the sounds from upstairs, Liz and Jim murmuring to each other.

“Kane?” said Jim’s voice.  “Can you come upstairs, please?”

Wow, that was a good question.  Could he?  He used the wall to support himself, inching his way up with his chest on the wall, legs wobbling underneath of him.

He deserved this.  Jim deserved to have Liz help him get around, and Kane deserved to have no one help him.  But that didn’t make it hurt him less.

With some effort, Kane managed to climb the stairs.  He was a bit unsteady on his feet as well, but with his hands behind his back, he could hardly use the railing.

He came up.  Jim was in the easy chair with Liz on the couch.

“Hi,” said Kane hoarsely.

“I think you can take those off now, don’t you, Liz?” said Jim.

“Fine.”  Liz came over and uncuffed Kane’s wrists.  Kane sighed gratefully and sat down on the floor across from Jim, not wanting to be near Liz on the couch and wanting to be facing Jim.

“I should thank you,” said Jim, after a moment of smiling at him.  “Both for saving my life, but also for…”  His chest rattled with chuckles.  “For not taking the fucking door off the basement to maul me, since apparently you could have done that any time you wanted to.”

Kane was stunned.  He hunched slightly, hands on his legs.  “Jim, I…I didn’t think I could do that before.  Couldn’t have done that.”

“If I hadn’t fed you, you mean?”

“No, if—if you hadn’t been in danger.”

Jim stared at him, brow furrowed together.  “Me being in danger gave you the strength to break down a silver-lined door?”

Kane drew his legs around himself.  “I-I had to help you.”

“Why?” said Liz, narrowing her eyes.

He drew his knees up to his chest and buried his face in them.  “I—I—I know I can’t ever make up for what I did, but maybe, maybe if I can keep Jim safe, it could be a start at least.  Keep him safe—he doesn’t deserve to be hurt by anyone ever again.  Jim, you’re—you’re so, so kind.”

Jim stared at him.  “Damn, I…”

Kane stiffened.  “I’m sorry—if that was wrong to say, or…”

“No, I…”  Jim rubbed his head.  “I mean, I know you always say all that stuff when I help you, but I guess I just kind of assumed you were saying that because you thought I wanted to hear it, and that at the first opportunity you’d overpower me again if you could. I figured you were just saying that stuff because you were scared of me.”

Kane looked up at him with horrified eyes.  He unfolded himself and crawled to sit next to Jim’s chair.  “Jim, I—I—No, I mean it, I’ve meant everything.  You—You’re…  The thought of you being hurt like that—the thought of—a vampire—the way you cried for help—cried to me for help.”

Liz’s gaze was steely.  “He did that because of the abuse you put him through.”

Kane lowered his head onto Jim’s hand and started sobbing.  “I know.  I’m sorry, Jim.  I’m so sorry.  I don’t know how to make you see how sorry I am.”

He felt a light touch on his head.  When he looked up, Jim was looking down at him kindly.  “Well, if you hadn’t been here, I might be toast right now, so I’d say you’re off to a pretty good start."

Kane beamed.

[flamingmirrorbookish]

Just One Word Book Photo Challenge September 2017

Day 19. Purple

[bonjour-rainycity]

Home Again

Prompt: Domestic bliss/a day in the life (Content Challenge Day 2)

Pairing: Haldir x Female Reader

Rating: T

Word count: 2164

Warnings: Maybe I pushed the ‘T’ rating a little. There’s nakedness but like...tasteful nakedness? Also lots of kissing. And suggestions. And so much fluff. 

A/n Welcome to Day 2 of my content challenge! You can find the challenge’s masterlist here and my personal masterlist here. Happy reading :) 

Light shines into my closed eyes, and, mumbling in annoyance, I roll over, smushing my face into the pillow.

The ellon to my left chuckles warmly, wrapping an arm around my waist. “No, no, meleth nîn. Now that I know you are awake, I shan’t let you escape my attentions.”

I laugh as Haldir leans over me and peppers my face and neck with tiny kisses, encouraging me to roll onto my back. After much giggling and futile attempts to return to sleep, I comply, allowing him to kiss me fully on the lips. I sigh into the kiss, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and pulling him closer to me.

“I’ve missed this,” I breathe, closing my eyes when Haldir places a gentle kiss on my collarbone. “Three months is too long.”

At this, he raises his head, showing me the apology in his eyes “I know. I am sorry for leaving you for such a time, but I cannot ask it of my wardens and not hold myself to the same standard.”

I take one of his hands in mine, fiddling with his fingers. “You are much too honorable for my liking, Marchwarden.”

His playfulness from earlier returns, and he wraps his arms under my back. “I take offense! I shall have to prove to you that I am no such ellon.” With that, he releases his knees, dropping his full weight on top of me.

“Haldir,” I laugh, trying to push him off of me. “You must move, I cannot breathe!”

He buries his face in the crook of my neck, and I feel his smile against my skin. “Now what were you saying? I doubt an honorable ellon would try to squish his wife.”

“I shall have you arrested for attempted murder,” I gasp, elbowing him in the ribs and kicking at his shins.

He grins languidly, but relieves the pressure on me slightly. “And who is going to carry out this arrest? I am, as you say, the Marchwarden of this realm.” He raises a haughty eyebrow. “And I have no intention of incarcerating myself.”

I bump my nose against his, earning myself a soft smile. “Then it seems I shall have to lock you up.”

Haldir’s lips drop to mine, and he kisses me with a passion that has me quite willing to stay in this bed all day. “Such promises she makes,” he teases, and then seems to reign himself in. With a final, much more innocent kiss, he rises to his knees, offering me a hand. “Would you like breakfast?”

I enjoy my first full breath in minutes and take his hand, following him out of the bedroom. “You have been at the borders for three months. Sit, and let me cook for you.”

He does as he’s bid and, while I gather ingredients, he perches on one of the high stools that faces into kitchen. He does not stay on his side of the counter long, though, and soon wraps his arms around my waist, holding me closely against him as I cook.

There’s a knock on the door and Haldir and I exchange questioning looks. With a raised eyebrow, he releases me and walks through the talan to the front door. It’s not long before I hear the jovial greetings of Orophin and Rumil, and, smiling to myself, I retrieve two more plates from the cabinet.

Haldir enters the kitchen, his younger brothers in tow. “Do you mind, my love?”

“Not at all,” I grin, pulling the ellyn in for hugs.

“Of course she minds,” Rumil laughs, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek before sitting on a stool. “Her husband only just got back last night, and now she’s got a kitchen full of guests. I’m sure she’d much rather be f—”

I hurry to interrupt the youngest of the three, carefully placing some fruit on his plate. “You know you are both welcome here any time, I—”

“Relax, Y/n,” Orophin laughs, holding up a hand to stop my protests. “Rumil and I do not plan to stay long. We only wanted to see our brother, make sure he’s in one piece.”

“And have breakfast,” Rumil declares, mouth full of bread. Haldir rolls his eyes and darts a quick hand out to shove Rumil’s head towards the counter. Rumil only just keeps his head from connecting with the wood, and ducks around Haldir’s outstretched arm to push at his chest.

“Enough,” I laugh, sitting down with my own plate. The two eye each other with amused suspicion, but otherwise obey.

The four of us inevitably get on the topic of Haldir’s time away, and he regals us with the more entertaining stories from the borders. Before we know it, the morning has passed us by, and Orophin and Rumil must rush away to attend to their duties.

Haldir closes the door behind them, then pulls me into his arms. “Thank you for putting up with them.”

I snort and lay my head against his chest. “You know I love them.”

We stay there for a few minutes, wrapped in each other’s embrace. Haldir eventually pulls back and pushes me in the direction of our bedroom. “Change into something suitable for hiking. I’m taking you to the woods.”

I do as requested, rolling my eyes as I go. “You ask so politely.”

“It’ll be worth it,” he calls after me, and, because I can hear the excitement in his voice, I decide to believe him.

{***}

Two hours later and we are still walking.

“You know, I was only joking this morning, but now I think you might actually be trying to kill me,” I huff, struggling up the millionth hill of our hike.

My husband only laughs, reaching for my hand. “We are minutes away, meleth.”

To his credit, Haldir was right. Not five minutes later, the ‘trail’ ends and we stand on a cliff, overlooking a deep pond. I glance between Haldir and the water in delight — he knows how much I love a swim. “How did you find this?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing, though his chest puffs out. “I came across it during a scouting excursion a few weeks ago. I’ve been thinking of taking you here ever since.”

“I’m grateful,” I smile, leaning my back against his chest and pulling his arms to encircle me. He tightens his grip and starts a trail of lingering kisses up and down my neck. “It’s the perfect day, too,” I mumble weakly. The sun is shining, the air is hot, and a dip in the cool, clear water is just what I need.

I notice, perhaps belatedly, that neither of us brought proper swimming attire.

But it seems Haldir has planned for that.

He doesn’t stop his kisses when he speaks against my neck. “Take off your clothes.”

I let my eyes flutter shut. The sound of his voice and the way he sucks on my pulse point leaves me with no desire to protest. I pull at the ties on my tunic, and he follows suit. Soon, we are both undressed completely, standing naked in the shining sun.

Haldir pulls my mouth back to his, and, absently, I remember that, though we are in a secluded area, the woods is not necessarily private. “This area is unknown?”

His lips twitch against mine, and he pulls back so I can see his assured smile. “No one is around. No one will know we are here.”

That’s good enough for me. I wrap my arms around my husband’s neck and move to kiss him again, but he scoops me up in his arms, grinning wickedly.

Oh no. “Haldir-”

With a confidence that’s both infuriating and wildly attractive, he winks…

And steps off the cliff.

The water is much colder than I imagined, and I shriek the moment it touches my skin. Haldir finds this quite amusing, though I note with a smirk of satisfaction that a shiver runs up his own spine.

Not so invincible.

With that in mind, I wriggle out of his arms and splash as much water as I possibly can in his direction.

For a moment, he looks so utterly betrayed that I feel a twinge of guilt.

But then he lunges me, and all sympathy disappears.

He grips my shoulders firmly and shoves me under the water. He lets me up almost immediately, but the damage is done.

He’s submerged me in the freezing water twice already, and I cannot let that go.

I jump at him, but his skills on the battlefield apparently apply also to water fights, and he is much too quick for me. He places one arm behind my back and the other behind my legs and brings me into his arms, cradling me against his chest—despite my struggles.

“There, there,” he laughs over my protests. “Deep breaths now.”

I glower at him and manage to get a hand free, splashing a spout of water into his face. He raises an eyebrow, replacing his carefree laughter with the trademark Marchwarden Stoicism.

“Is that the best you’ve got?”

I lift my own eyebrow, meeting his challenge. “Release me and find out.”

He opens his mouth to retort, but the wind rustles the leaves, and he tenses.

I freeze against him, knowing Haldir well enough to see that, in the slight noise from the moving greenery, he has found cause for concern.

“What is it,” I whisper, but he raises a hand, cautioning for silence. I purse my lips together and strain my ears, trying to hear the forest as he does. Centuries in the trees have made him hyper-sensitive to every rock, leaf, animal — and intruder.

I gulp, tightening my grip on his shoulders.

Without warning, Haldir plunges me into the water once again, and I sputter, finding myself pressed against the cool skin of his back.

“M-Marchwarden,” a voice stutters out.

Oh Valar.

I’m suddenly painfully aware of how naked I am.

“Erlan,” Haldir sighs, giving the young ellon a displeased stare.

I recognize the name. Erlan is the newest member of Lothlórien’s Guard, only just having come of age some twenty years ago. Haldir says he is inexperienced, but shows promise, and frequently does week-long stints as part of the forest patrol.

“I-I am so sorry, Marchwarden. I did not mean—” While the elf stumbles over his words, Haldir tries to discreetly lower his hands to cover the essentials, but the movement draws Erlan’s eyes. Realizing what he’s doing, Erlan jerks his head upwards, staring safely at the sky. “Oh my, I am so—”

“Just leave, Erlan,” Haldir grits out, the pink twinge to his cheeks slightly damaging his commanding tone.

Erlan tries for a respectful bow, but as he bends, his eyes lock with mine and he yelps, straightening quickly. Haldir shifts to block me completely from view, raising an arm in Erlan’s direction. “Go!”

Erlan nearly runs into a tree in his haste to escape, and the hilarity of the situation overrides any embarrassment I might feel. I laugh, wrapping my arms around Haldir’s middle, encouraging him to turn in my arms. He does so, though his eyes scan our surroundings suspiciously.

To distract him from his anger, I press kisses to his chest, and, eventually he relaxes in my arms. Once I know his ire has passed, I rest my chin against his sternum, looking up at him with a wide grin. “I thought you said no one would find us.”

He fixes me with an unimpressed glare, the redness returning to his cheeks. “I will be speaking with him first thing tomorrow morning. His observation skills are—”

“Still in progress,” I interject, dragging my hands up his chest until I reach his shoulders. “Go easy on the poor ellon.” Using my grip, I pull myself up, wrapping my legs around his hips.

This seems to put him in a much more favorable mood, and he hums softly, laying his head against my shoulder. “I suppose you’re right. It could’ve happened to anyone.”

“Exactly,” I smile, pleased that I still have the ability to distract him like this even after a century of marriage. “Though I do believe that no one will be intruding upon us now, since Erlan is there to warn them.” I brush my lips against his shoulder, hinting at my intentions.

“My, you are smart,” his chuckle rumbles against me, and I dip my head to meet the lips that soon quirk teasingly against mine. “I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

I pull back, leveling him with a glare that rivals his own.

He attempts to school his expression, though he retains a mocking glint in his eye. “Intelligent and terrifying. I think I’ve hit the jackpot.”

I dip a hand into the water and flick it back towards his face, effectively wiping away his smug expression. “Do shut up.”

Laughing once more, he pulls me back to him, picking up where we left off.

I love having him home.

Even if I definitely plan on half-drowning him before we leave.

A/n So does anyone else adore Haldir, or is it just me? 

Likes, comments, and reblogs mean the world to me! Let me know what you thought and if you would like to be added to a tag list :) If you have any questions about the challenge, feel free to message me/submit an ask!

Challenge participants*: @game-ofthe-company @grunid @themerriweathermage @errruvande

*As far as I know. Please let me know if I’ve missed someone!!! 

[missymallow]

Drarry: The Demon King's Cupid

---

Draco took a sip of his drink, eyes locked onto its current target; a young woman seemingly in her early twenties. She was wearing a tight short red dress that complimented her body magnificently as well as her long red wavy hair where she currently tossed the strands of those beautiful locks behind her shoulder gracefully. The action managed to capture hungry eyes that had been eyeing her in interest, but she delightfully took no notice of their attention.

Instead, she put her attention to her companions, clearly having the time of her life.

Draco couldn't help but smirked approvingly. He has been keeping his eyes on her from the moment she stepped into the place; her personal information has already imprinted behind his eyelids as he has finished reading her profile just before he entered the place half an hour before her and just by watching her, Draco had the feeling that this would be an interesting assignment. 

Ginevra Molly Weasley

It had been a rather peculiar day for Draco as he had never been sent two assignments in a week. In fact, it was not even a full two hours of his last assignment when he received another one. Draco, however, was not one to withdraw from a mere challenge and thus, here he was, currently working on his latest assignment. 

Draco snapped his eyes to the entrance when his detector chimed, just in time to see his next target of assignment walked through the door confidently, and he appeared to be accompanied by two of his friends. 

He observed his next target; a mid twenties young man with a rather obnoxious black hair that seemingly can't be tamed. He was wearing a simple black jeans, white t-shirt and a jean jacket and Draco involuntarily hummed in appreciation when the man turned to give the place a once-over, allowing Draco to see his face. The man was quite a devastatingly handsome young man.

Harry James Potter

Draco blinked when he tapped his wrist for their matching percentage, surprised to see the numbers that popped up onto his skin and he just had to give a small amused laugh. 

He understood now why he was given this particular assignment on a short notice, and why it was a compulsory assignment that must be executed as soon as possible; these two were a Perfect Match. It was rare for two individuals to become a Perfect Match considering that they needed to be matched above ninety percent, and these two individuals managed to exceed the expectation with the percentages over ninety-eight. 

Apart from that, a successful bond from a Perfect Match could produce enough Enhanced Magic for the entire department for a year and Draco understood now why the entire department had sent him off as if he was about to fight in a battle of the century. Perhaps he was, considering that ironically, a Perfect Match must be done within twenty-four hours or the match would be nullified. Hence why the department decided to give him the assignment; he was the best shooter with the perfect accuracy. He was known to finish his assignment within record time, and he was their best bet to pull up the job.

And he won't let his department down by doing a poor job at it. He has an important image to maintain after all.

He observed as the three men walked towards the bar, pleased to see that they were walking right towards Ginevra and her companions. When Harry was about a step away from Ginevra, Draco instantly waved his hand discreetly, and the effect was almost immediate when Ginevra suddenly stumbled off her seat right into Harry's arms who quickly caught her, hands dropped onto her shoulder and waist as he helped her up to her feet, giving Ginevra an amused smile. 

Ginevra appeared to be flustered, as she straightened up and Draco quickly snapped his fingers when their eyes meet, grinning when he saw his magic working right under their nose, making the two human locked their eyes in a dazed way, no doubt they were captivated by each other.

When Draco saw his golden sparks of magic turned pink, he heaved a satisfied sigh. He watched as Ginevra shyly invited Harry to sit together, watched as they started to speak to one another, their companions also decided to merge together and Draco let them be. His magic was working on its own and he only needed them to be interested deeply enough to give each other a kiss because that was when Draco needed to shoot them with the arrow.

He waved another set of magic towards the pair, another detector for Draco to detect their movement as he turned his attention elsewhere, preferring to let the pair work on the magic by themselves without him watching like a creeper.

He spend his time talking to a man for the past few hours, entertained with the way the human outwardly enthralled by his existence and tried to feel him by spreading his fingers to his thigh, getting higher by the seconds when his detector chimed for the second time that night and he subtly turned to see both Harry and Ginevra was already on their feet, already saying their goodbyes to their companions as they headed for the entrance.

Not wanting to waste any more time, Draco excused himself without waiting for the man's reaction, not forgetting to send a quick waved of a finger to erase the man's memories of Draco. Just in case.

He sighed in relief when he saw both Harry and Ginevra were just turning around a corner the moment he stepped outside, and he immediately trailed behind them as he put on an invisible charm on himself, not risking getting caught in the act. 

Draco found himself walking into a dark alley, eyes dropped onto the pair in an instant just in time to see them leaning to each other intimately with desire painted on both of their faces. Draco smirked, extending his left hand to his front and silently summoned his golden bow, right hand already holding an arrow.

He positioned the arrow on the bow, taking a good stance to line up his body to his targets for easier yet effective shots. He pointed his first shot towards Ginevra, seeing as she was the one who pinned Harry to the wall and she got Draco’s approval for her action. He released the bow string, launching the arrow into full speed and landed cleanly on her. She pressed her body closer to Harry as a result, and Harry's grip on her waist tightened.

Draco pulled out the second arrow and positioned his aim on Harry. As soon as he releases the arrow, the bond will take place and his job is done. Enhanced Magic for the entire year for his department. He grinned at that, enthusiastically pulling his bow string and launched.

He watched in glee as the arrow made its way straight towards oblivious Harry who had his eyes on Ginevra, giddy to see it landed on the young man.

The arrow was about to hit its target when he caught a devilish smirk upon Harry's face, and it was the only warning he received before Harry effortlessly plucked the arrow mid-air, inches away from his face and turned to lock his eyes with Draco.

Draco gasped at that, flabbergasted by the sudden change of event causing him to lose his balance and stumbled on his feet. He fell backwards, about to land on the dirty ground before an arm took a place around his waist and straightened him up. He was then pressed onto another body, the grip on his waist was strong and secure.

"Careful, love."

Shivers ran through Draco’s spine as a deep voice whispered down to his ear, hot breath tickling his skin. He carefully gazed up; eyes widened to see it was Harry who had his arm around him, and his body involuntarily gave a startled jolt at that.  

Harry gave an amused chuckle, a contrast to Draco who felt himself shaking. There's- There was no way- He dropped his gaze to where he had his hands rested on Harry's chest, frowning to see that his invisible charm was still in place. There was no way a mere human managed to see him, let alone-

He caught a movement on his right and gasped when he saw that Harry had the golden arrow between his fingers. Heavens, no other creatures can see the arrow except for Draco’s own kind. Harry however, did not only saw the golden arrow, he even managed to catch it effortlessly, and now he was playfully twirling it around as if it was a toy. 

"Y-you can't play arou-around w-with that." 

"Oh, this little arrow?" asked Harry innocently, and made a show of giving it a thought before he snapped the arrow into two with a smirk, successfully managed to plant a seed of fear inside Draco. The arrow was a sacred, unbreakable tool and Harry just destroyed it with his bare hand.

Draco felt his knees weaken.

"Who- what- what are you?" asked Draco timidly, he suddenly felt so small. There was no way Harry was a human, not with the power he had just displayed. He darted his eyes to where both Ginevra and Harry were before only to see that Ginevra was nowhere to be found. Heavens' luck, was he tricked?

He immediately brought his eyes back to Harry and shook like a leaf when he saw Harry smirked wickedly. A flash of red appeared in his green eyes for a moment, easily breaching through Draco’s magic as he revoked his invisible charm. Draco hitched a breath when he saw his body turned visible, fingers apparently clutching onto Harry's shirt.

"There you are." said Harry.

Panicked and scared, he shut his eyes tightly and couldn't help the words that stumbled out of his mouth, "Please don't kill me, please don't kill me!" 

Oh Heavens, if his colleagues saw the way he pathetically begged for his life, he would drop his reputation much quicker than getting demoted to a lower rank.

"Oh, my little Cupid." chuckled Harry, dragging a single finger across Draco’s cheek with a butterfly touch. "I'm not going to kill you." His words spoke with amusement. 

As if he would believe that. What kind of demon who would not kill their victims? He already had a hunch just what kind of creature Harry was, seeing his display of power and when he usually stumbled upon these creatures during his assignment, he would always stay away from trouble and avoid them. Low rank demons won't be able to detect a high rank Cupid like Draco, but having seen the way Harry handled the golden bow and the red flash of Harry's eyes was enough to break Draco’s magic, he knew that this man in front of him was anything but a low rank demon. 

He never bothered himself with the underworld, as he didn't think it was important for him to know. He was only a subordinate of the Heavens' Realm after all; he received his assignment and he executed them. He viewed demons as other creatures of another realm, best to ignore.

However, as far as he knew, the Demon Regime was currently ruled by a new Demon King who overthrew its previous King; Voldermort. He was not one for gossip, but the war of the underworld five years ago was quite a huge scandal that even managed to reach his ear. He didn't know much about this new Demon King, but one thing that he was sure of; the Demon King possessed a lightning bolt scar on his forehead. A fact that even the Upper Officials knew. Knowing his luck, this seemingly high rank demon might be the Demon King himself.

With that, he pulled himself together and slowly blinked his eyes open, and subtly dragged his eyes to Harry's forehead. He let out a sigh of relief when he saw it was free from the infamous scar.

He startled when Harry suddenly laughed, tensed when the man dropped his head on his shoulder, burying his face into his neck. He squeaked embarrassingly when he felt hot lips brushing his skin before his eyes met with a pair of green eyes full with mirth.

He blinked when Harry grinned at him. Fucking hell, what an attractive demon.

"I can practically know what you're thinking," said Harry, chuckling. 

"Let," tried Draco, and he took a deep breath before he put on a determined face. "Let go of me."

Harry merely hummed, not even bothered by Draco’s heated glare as he tightened his grip on Draco, pulling him even closer than before, closing all the spaces between them. Their bodies pressed tightly onto one another, and Draco felt his face hot all of a sudden, spreading down to his neck. 

"I'm not going to let you go," said Harry, smiling when Draco frowned at him. "Not when I have you in my arms now."

Draco’s heart started to beat into a mad rhythmic. He wasn't sure if it was because he was scared of this creature or because of his words. He decided to pull himself together, despite trying his best not to drop his knees.

"What do you want from me?" 

Harry's smile widened, eyes appeared mischievous as he answered, "You." 

"I want you."

And a lightning bolt scar appeared on the man's forehead before he was pulled into a heated kiss.

---

TDKL

[peachyteabuck]

lioness // natasha romanoff x reader

summary: they think I'm insane, they think my lover is strange / but I don't have to fucking tell them anything, anything

you get captured by the most powerful army after failing to flee their wrath. the queen decides to keep you as an act of mercy, but to you it’s an exercise of her power. 

pairing: natasha romanoff x reader

words: 1329

trigger warnings: fingering/face fucking, kidnapping

notes:  done for @fvckingavengers​ ‘s quarantine challenge! my prompt was ‘strange love’ by halsey

ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi

Natasha sits in a large, golden throne with deep red velvet forming a plush seat and something to rest her back on. Dressed in her formal, silken gown, with her fire-red hair and makeup done to absolute perfection, she looks like the archetype one pictures when one hears the word “monarch.” A strict ruler, she mercilessly commands her army to take whatever land she so pleases. Sometimes she perceives these lands as possible threats, other times she’s just bored. Either way, she always gives direction that includes the plundering of riches and looting of treasures.

Today, that includes you.

Trapped in a cage with your arms and legs bound as to keep you on your back, you’re presented to her in the dirty clothes you were kidnapped in. The previous hour she had been attending a meeting about crop rotation, a horrendously boring subject that had Natasha’s eyes glazing over and back slumped. As the royal spots you, though, helpless and scared, she perks up.

“And what is this?” She asks, fingers with long, pointed nails poking through the holes in the enclosure. “Hello, little thing,” she coos. You don’t move for fear of retribution. “What a cutie you are…”

One of the guards, a muscular and gruff man, clears his throat. “She, uh,” he coughs again. “We found her in a village we thought was abandoned.”

Natasha’s eyebrows furrow as she traces random patterns on your cold skin. “The one just outside the far-east forest?”

“Yes,” another guard confirms.

“Hm,” is all Natasha says back. For a moment she just stares at your shaking form, smoothing down your eyebrows with her thumb. “Take her to my chambers. I want her cleaned and dressed before I retire for the evening,” she tells one of the ladies’ maids. “Understood?”

“Yes, your highness,” she mutters, before directing the men who carry you into another large room filled with marble statues and grand paintings of flora. There, you’re thoroughly bathed and dressed in a sheer pink slip that barely covers your chest or ass. Another ladies’ maid instructs you to sit in the middle of the bed, legs folded under you with your hands palm-down and your back erect.

Petrified of all the possible punishments for not doing as you’re told, you abide by their commands. The position, while uncomfortable, seems to soothe the nervous energy in the air. Just as your spine gets tired of holding the rest of you up, they flee the room in a rushed, disorganized line. You don’t look up for fear of repercussions, but as a sea of footsteps and thick cloud of hushed voices becomes quieter and quieter a single pair of crisp steps can be singled out among them.

The first thing you can see are heeled feet. They’ve got rounded toes and look to be suede, the black fabric standing out against pale skin.

“You may look up,” a voice says, one you recognize. It’s the woman from the throne.

You recoil as your eyes meet, your body curling in on itself to protect whatever you can. You whisper, “Queen Natasha.”

“Yes, my pet?” She purrs, grabbing your chin and forcing your eyes to meet hers.

Your voice feels like a ball of sand stuck in your vocal cords, and none of your nervous swallowing seems to be able to dislodge it. “I..I um.”

The queen smirks. “It’s okay, baby. I’ve been known to leave many a cutie speechless.”

You don’t try to speak again, terrified of what would escape your lips.

“I’m a very busy woman, Pet,” she says, stepping near-silently to the other side of the room. “I am a very busy, stressed woman.  And stress can lead to a lot of bad things regarding one’s health.”

She takes a pause near her nightstand, grabbing the decanter and pouring herself a hearty glass of red wine. As she takes a sip it reminds you of blood.

“Did you know it can also make you wrinkle?” Natasha scrunches her nose. “Wrinkle! Me! It’s simply absurd.”

She puts the glass back down.

“Anyway, this is where you come in, Pet. I need to make sure there are no adverse effects of my reign onto my body.”

Natasha sits down in the deep burgundy chair, her hair blending into the fabric as she watches you.

“Come here,” she says simply, crooking a single finger. “Come to me.”

You nod, shaking as you try to rise to your feet – but are stopped before you can fully stand up.

“No, crawl.”

You can’t help but fall to your knees without hesitation, moving towards her as they and your hands meet the cold stone ground.

She watches you with eagle eyes the whole way, staring at you as you stop awkwardly in front of her.

Natasha pulls at the wide skirts, leaving enough room for another person under them.

Oh, you realize. You’re the other person.

With body shaking you nudge forward, only stopping when your nose brushes against the silk of her underthings. They’re simple, easily pulled down.

Part of you is feels you’re lucky it’s dark, blinding you from shame and the stare of your captor.

It’s not that you’ve never done this before, or that you’ve forgotten how to. There were plenty of mornings you went to the fields bone-tired because of nights spent in the barn with the other servant girls, their nightdresses hiked up their marked-up stomachs and stuffed in their pretty mouths to keep them quiet.

But you’d never been in the presence of royalty before, and suddenly anxiety surrounding your performance was joining the blood in your veins.

You hear the muffled voice of the woman in question, though her disappointment rings loud and clear.

“I’m not going to tell you again, Pet. Hurry up.”

You do as you’re told, moving to leave light, long licks against her soaked folds. Even through the fabric you can hear Natasha’s soft pants as you press your mouth against the most sensitive part of her, bringing one hand from the floor to tease against her opening.

A single finger easily finds its home inside of her wetness, another quickly sinking into her. Your other hand moves to her lower stomach, keeping her clit exposed to the cool air surrounding you.

She shivers a little, but nearly vibrates as you suck at the centermost part of her.

“God and Heavens above,” you hear her moan above you. It encourages you, drives you to insert another finger. “Oh Lord it’s been so long…”

Natasha trails off as you continue, stroking that special spot inside of her and feeling her tense under you. She’s close so quickly you fear you’ve done something wrong – like you should prolong the experience.

“Don’t stop!” the queen screams as if she can read your mind. “If you stop, I’ll behead you can keep you an example for the next captured girl!”

So, you don’t. You take her clit into your mouth once more and swipe your tongue over it in rhythmic strokes, timing it with the movement of your fingers.

Natasha hands move the heavy skirts to the side to grab as your hair, pushing you impossibly closer to her as she ruts against your face.

She comes with a moan, using her legs to keep you pressed against her sweet cunt as the aftershocks of pleasure roll through her. It takes awhile for her to let go, to slump against the large, gold-leafed chair.

It takes an even longer while for her catch her breath and let go of your hair, looking down at you with glassy eyes.

You gaze up from between the woman’s legs, face covered in her juices and dilated pupils begging for praise. If you had any dignity before, it surely is gone as she cradles your face with delicate hands.

“You will be very useful to me during my reign,” she tells you, tracing over your features as you swallow nervously. “Very, very useful.”

[bjy-on-ao3]

Kinktober Day 31

(As before, you can find a link to the AO3 version of this and the rest of my Kinktober 2020 prompts on the ‘Masterlist’ section of the blog.) 

I took so long to decide what this ‘Wildcard/Anything’ slot was going to be. Who knew freedom made for such hard decisions? Finally settled on Primal because I was trying to think of enjoyable prompts/kinks and this one seemed to fit well enough with a character I’ve been recently into.

Spoilers for the Astarion romance scene, as this lifts the first few dialogue lines from that because they worked well enough into it.

Kinktober Day 31: Primal (Astarion | Baldur’s Gate 3)

“There you are. I’ve been waiting.” Astarion began, his tone low and smooth. “Waiting since the moment I set eyes on you,” he continued, and you tried to suppress the pleasant shiver that fought to run down your spine. “Waiting… to have you,” he finished, crimson eyes boring into yours.

“You don’t have me yet,” you resisted, though your lips quirked impishly at the corners. That you wanted it as much as Astarion did was plain, but you wanted to make things a bit more fun.

“Don’t I?” He hardly sounded bothered by the denial. “You’re here. And I don’t think you want to talk. I think you want to be known. To be tasted,” he insisted, the pitch of his voice dipping seductively low.

Once more you fought the shudder of arousal that threatened to roll through you, determined not to cave to your desires - not quite yet. “Perhaps you’re right, but it’s no fun if it’s too easy,” you told him, stepping toward him and leaning in. You brushed your lips over his ear, speaking in a sultry voice barely above a whisper. “If you really want to have me, then come catch me,” you challenged him.

Leaving Astarion to process your words, you moved away, off at a brisk, swaying pace into the surrounding wilderness. You weren’t worried about the potential dangers lingering in the darkness. You had triumphed over much in the past few days and your confidence in your strength had grown unmatched.

Astarion watched you disappear into the undergrowth, what you had in mind quite clear. He would give you a little headstart before he came after you. It wouldn’t be difficult to track you, to hunt you down like the prey you wanted to play as. But still, he couldn’t deny the thrill of the hunt - even a mockery of one - would make your night together all the more delicious.

The sound of the night surrounded you. The drone of insects and the shuffle of various wildlife scurrying away from the disruption in the undergrowth. The sound of water thrashing and trickling over the bends and curves of nearby riverbeds. The soft crunch of your footsteps on the bed of sticks and dirt and leaves. The moon above provided a pale light, filtering in between the branches and foliage, barely illuminating the path before you.

You heard no sounds at first that indicated Astarion had followed, though you knew he couldn’t resist your offer. You felt alone in the darkness, heart pounding harder at the fantasy of being hunted than it had in the thick of any real danger. Your pulse raced and your body tingled and warmed at the thought of him chasing you down in the darkness and taking what you both wanted. You bit down on your bottom lip and worried it between your teeth, your pace slowing to a walk, all senses on high alert,

From out of the silence, the sudden crack of a branch drew your attention, and you whirled in the darkness, expecting to find the white-haired vampire there. But you saw nothing except the tranquil, shadowy scenery you passed by before. The night air was silent once more as if the noise had been your imagination. You let your gaze pan across the forest path before you, finding nothing out of the ordinary and turned back to face forward once more.

A second, similar noise rent the silence and you repeated your previous action, spinning and searching for its source. Again, nothing. Your heart drummed so loudly in your chest you wondered how you caught such subtle sounds at all. Maybe you hadn’t. Maybe you were so on edge you were imagining them.

“You’re far too easy to sneak up on, my love,” came Astarion’s smug words from behind you.

You felt the hair rise on the back of your neck and arms, taking his words as a cue to bolt into the darkness. Now came the peak of the hunt, the surge of excitement and fear to send your blood boiling or freeze it cold: the chase. As you dashed forward, you caught the lingering sound of an amused laugh and heard boots crashing through the leaf litter after you.

You weren’t sure how long you ran for. Seconds, minutes, all notion of time had left as soon as you burst into a sprint. You stopped, at last, hearing the footsteps behind you fading away and tucked yourself against the trunk of a tree. Your breath left you in half-pants, a little winded from your headlong flight through the forestry. Palms pressed flat against the bark, you peered out around the trunk into the shadows. The peaceful drone of the night was effectively drowned out by the blood roaring in your ears and your pulse pounding wildly. 

Fear and adrenaline weren’t the only sensations coursing through you though. The flush along your cheeks and face was hot, reaching down your neck and chest. Wetness pooled between your legs and you squeezed them together, trying to focus on anything nearby that might alert you to Astarion’s presence. Your body defiantly ignored your strain to focus, your cunt pulsing near in time with your racing heart. 

You waited for a quiet, tense moment that felt like an eternity, trying to soothe your labored breathing. Surely you hadn’t lost Astarion so easily. You frowned, wondering if you had overdone your flight or if he had simply lost interest in chasing you. Had you read him incorrectly?

A ‘tsk-ing’ sound shattered the silence behind you and a cool, tight grip seized the back of your neck, shoving you against the tree trunk. “And so easy to catch,” Astarion mocked, his breath tickling the back of your neck. “Now I have you. And oh, oh your heart is beating so fast,” he purred. His tone was just as smug as before, though laced with a new deep, hungry undertone. “So tempting. As if it were calling my name,” he said, pressing himself against you.

He trailed his lips along your neck to wear your pulse was thumping the loudest. You groaned at the sinful, wet touch of his tongue on your pulse, accented by the barest brush of his fangs. The shiver that had strived to race down your spine finally won out, something Astarion didn’t miss. “Hm, but I don’t think that’s all that’s calling for me, is it, my love?” He asked, smoothing a hand over your stomach and past the waistline of your breeches.

He slipped his hand past it and down until his fingers met the dripping lips of your pussy. “So eager to be hunted like a beast. So wet at the mere thought of being caught.”

His words against your skin in combination with the touch of his fingertips only made you tremble in anticipation, yearning for a deeper and even more intimate touch. “What else are you longing for in that sordid little head, I wonder?” Astarion asked, expecting no answer in particular. 

His fingers slid deeper, past your lips and stroking long and slow from your entrance up to your clit and back tormentingly. He scraped his teeth against your throat, pausing for a moment to suck a dark, aching bruise into your skin, marking his target. He teased your clit a bit more, rolling the pad of his thumb across the sensitive nub until your breathing started to shorten.

His hands pulled away abruptly, leaving you feeling disappointed, though not for long. You heard the clink and shuffle of buckle and cloth, though remained pressed against the trunk of the tree, waiting as if unable to move. When Astarion’s hands returned to you, it was to unfasten your pants and slip them down along with your smallclothes. Another more violent shiver shot through you as your heated skin was exposed to the night air, feeling even colder than his touch.

Then his body was back, forcing you against the scratchy bark, his cock hard and waiting against the back of your thighs. He hesitated for an instant, to make the tension more unbearable, you were certain, his head teasing your entrance and his lips mouthing at your throat once more. “Take me already, Astarion, all of me,” you beseeched in a moan.

A short huff of a laugh washed over your neck. “Well if you insist, my dear.”

He bucked his hips forward and his cock pressed up into you, at the same time his fangs pierced your throat. You jerked reflexively at the cold pain at first, blending with the cold feeling of him buried within you.