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Bowen, expanded.

Aug13

Yesterday, I posted a piece on Bowen over 6 years, in response to rix_scaedu‘s prompt “Fridmar and Bowen…” in this flash-fiction meme (LJ).

It didn’t feel like enough, but it was already over 250 (270, not counting date/time tags).

Then Rix sponsored more.

This is the whole story again; the new part is the 300 words in the middle.

Year Five, Week Six
Bowen sat uncomfortably in his Mentor’s office, fiddling with his collar. He had orders about what he could say and couldn’t, but going up against the edge of his orders was sometimes enough; his face twisted and his ears went flat, and people seemed to understand what that meant.

“There’s got to be a way,” he said quietly, not quite begging. Professor Fridmar shook his head slowly.

“Being Ellehemaei about being strong,” he said, in his thick Russian accent. “What doesn’t kill you, et cetera. Find ways to be stronger.”

Year Seven, Week Eight
Professor Fridmar frowned over steepled fingers at Bowen. “Shira has been talking to me.” His tone suggested he didn’t like Professor Pelletier talking to him about anything; Bowen could already guess what this was about.

“Yeah?” Never show your cards.

“She says Adannaya has seemed strange lately. The girl is not complaining…” His look said what they both knew, that Ada wasn’t going to say anything against Bowen. “But Shira does not think she is happy.”

Bowen met his Mentor’s gaze evenly. “What doesn’t kill you, et cetera,” he quoted.

Year Seven, Week Eight, Three hours later
Fridmar had let him go. What was he going to do?

He lay in bed next to Adannaya, tracing fingers over her fear-rigid body. Her face was blank, eyes closed. “The Professors say you’re unhappy.”

She shuddered, swallowing a sob. “I didn’t say anything. I swear.”

I didn’t say anything, Aggie. I didn’t ask for any help. His remembered shudder echoed Adannaya’s. “I know you didn’t. I ordered you not to.”

I know you didn’t tell them anything, Bowen. You’re a good boy. You wouldn’t want people to think ill of me.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.

Year Seven, Week Eight, Saturday
Bowen was a bit surprised to find cy’ree-mate Penny knocking on his door, but not at all surprised to find she was carrying food. “Ada’s seemed off her feed in the Dining Hall. I thought my shepherd’s pie might cheer her up.”

He eyed the tasty-smelling pastry. “No mutton?”

“No mutton. May I come in?”

He couldn’t turn her down; she’d know something was up. And the pie smelled very good. “Come on,” he grunted unwillingly. “Ada’s in the bathroom.”

“Crying.” She set the pie down in the kitchenette and began serving it out.

“What? No…”

“She’s always crying, Bowen.”

Year Seven, Week Nine, Sunday
Reheated shepherd’s pie made a decent breakfast. Bowen sat watching Adannaya, struggling with himself.

“You’re mine,” he rumbled, as much telling his suddenly-guilty conscience as her. She twitched, and nodded.

“I know,” she whispered, setting her spoon down.

“I can do what I want with you. No one will stop me.” Aggie had cut his tail off, starved him. Nobody had stopped her.

“I know.” Her voice was flat.

He took a deep breath. Power was strength. Power wasn’t kicking rabbits.

“That doesn’t mean I ought to.” He watched her jerk as if he’d hit her. “Or will. I’m sorry.”

Year Twelve, October

Bowen was unsurprised to find his old Mentor standing in his living room. They all knew, by now, that the professors stopped in on their former students, “to be sure they were all right.”

Sibil had let him in, pretty, doll-like Sibil, who ran his house. The Professor was sipping the tea Talitha had brought him, and studying the two women thoughtfully. When Bowen walked in with Kate, one bushy eyebrow rose.

Bowen couldn’t help but grin. The girls were happy, with or without orders. “Stronger,” he laughed. “And better.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/109021.html. You can comment here or there.

(no subject)

Aug12

To rix_scaedu‘s prompt “Fridmar and Bowen…” in this flash-fiction meme (LJ).

This is Addergoole, current timeline, 2 years later, and 2 years after that.

Short non-AdderHooligan summary: Bowen, at the time of the first snippet, badly-Kept by an abusive Agatha. Fridmar, his Mentor, is known for having as his Students the darker sorts (see Rozen).

Year Five, Week Six
Bowen sat uncomfortably in his Mentor’s office, fiddling with his collar. He had orders about what he could say and couldn’t, but going up against the edge of his orders was sometimes enough; his face twisted and his ears went flat, and people seemed to understand what that meant.

“There’s got to be a way,” he said quietly, not quite begging. Professor Fridmar shook his head slowly.

“Being Ellehemaei about being strong,” he said, in his thick Russian accent. “What doesn’t kill you, et cetera. Find ways to be stronger.”

Year Seven, Week Eight
Professor Fridmar frowned over steepled fingers at Bowen. “Shira has been talking to me.” His tone suggested he didn’t like Professor Pelletier talking to him about anything; Bowen could already guess what this was about.

“Yeah?” Never show your cards.

“She says Adannaya has seemed strange lately. The girl is not complaining…” His look said what they both knew, that Ada wasn’t going to say anything against Bowen. “But Shira does not think she is happy.”

Bowen met his Mentor’s gaze evenly. “What doesn’t kill you, et cetera,” he quoted.

Year Nine, October

Bowen was unsurprised to find his old Mentor standing in his living room. They all knew, by now, that the professors stopped in on their former students, “to be sure they were all right.”

Cybele had let him in, pretty, doll-like Cybele, who ran his house. The Professor was sipping the tea Tanith had brought him, and studying the two women thoughtfully. When Bowen walked in with Kate, one bushy eyebrow rose.

Bowen couldn’t help but grin. The girls were happy, with or without orders. “Stronger,” he laughed. “And better.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/106882.html. You can comment here or there.

Finding Comfort

Aug12

To [personal profile] clare_dragonfly‘s prompt “Rozen/Kai” in this flash-fiction meme (LJ).

This is Addergoole post-apoc, just after Retirement 2.

Short non-AdderHooligan summary: Rozen is, in main timeline, a Big Bad Wolf style bully of the Addergoole school, and Kai nearly becomes his victim. 50 years later, nearly 4 decades after the apocalypse, he becomes her captive and possesion after being starved and poisoned.

Kailani, Dean Storm, came home to her room, locked the door, and dropped her Mask, dropping with it fifty excess years of age, the weight of responsibility, the urge to solemnity.

Rozen was waiting for her, sitting on the floor by the door as if he’d meant to drape himself there, trying to hide with Mask and force of will how exhausted he was. His ribs still showed, his cheeks were still gaunt, but he was slowly filling out. Slowly. Hawthorne poisoning was a horrible thing.

Kai, looking at him, struggled with the conflict between her rage – he had had such a lovely body, and it would take such time to rebuild – and gratitude – every day he had to focus on rebuilding his strength was one more day for the Bond to work on him, make him more comfortable with the status quo and less likely, when he was up to full power, to fight her.

“I brought you broth.” She set the broth on the table, ignoring the small prickle in her spine at having her back to him, then came back, to present him with her hands. “Let me help you up.”

“I’m fine,” he grumbled, as he took her hands.

“I’m sure you are,” she lied. “I like helping you.” That part, at least, wasn’t a lie. She hauled him to his feet and shifted her hold to his waist. “You’re getting further along every day.”

“In a month, I’ll be able to make it to your office,” he quipped tiredly.

“By then, I’ll be ready for you,” she murmured back.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/106660.html. You can comment here or there.

Variations on a Theme – Genderfunky Giraffes of Two Varieties

Aug9

This is for twisted_times‘s prompt in my call for prompts (posted here:
Most media depictions of bisexuals are that they are:

1. always promiscuous
2. sexually greedy
2a. necessarily dating persons of both genders simultaneously
3. just going “through a phase”
4. actually going to end up reverting to just being gay/straight (delete as applicable) by the end of the story.

I’d like to see writing that deals with bisexuality without managing to make use any of the above incorrect tropes.

*throws down the metaphorical gauntlet*

This was trickier to pull off in 150 words than you’d imagine, so I took two stabs at it.

Shiva and Nikita are from my webserial Addergoole, and the icon is of her.

Basil is from Stranded World ((and on LJ); he’s in the theatre club with the guys from 14th Shot and, of course Summer, from Meet the Parents

Story One:

“Do you miss being with a girl?” Niki curled up against Shiva’s side, nuzzling sleepily at her shoulder. He’d been peaceful, quiet lately, and today he couldn’t keep his hands off her.

She rubbed his back sleepily. It had been a busy, stressful week and she’d been grateful for his quiet. Now she wondered if it had been on purpose. “Miss being with a girl? That’s… well, that’s an odd question.” She shrugged, and kissed him behind the ear. “I’m with you, now.”

“Yeah… but do you ever wish I was a girl?”

She propped herself up on an elbow to study him, and wondered what had brought on this rash of insecurity.

“No, my darling dear. You’re plenty of handful as it is,” she teased, and then, seeing his expression fall, hurried to reassure him, first with a kiss, and then with a hand wandering down his body. “I’m with you, now, and you’re all I need.”

Story Two:

“So.” Alex sat on the prop couch Basil was busily staple-upholstering. “Straight now?”

“Nope.” Basil resisted the urge to staple Alex’s pants to the couch. He was a bad enough actor to start with.

“I heard you and Summer…”

“Nope.” Thanks, in part, to Alex, but Basil liked being Summer’s friend.

“Damn. And she’s damn hot, too. So still gay.”

Maybe he could staple his leg to the couch instead. “Nope.”

“So that rumor about you and Caleb the Green…”

“Depends on the rumor.”

“You know, you two were…”

“In a long-term monogamous relationship?” He placed a staple precariously close to the actor’s calf. “We were.”

“And you’re not with Summer.”

“She’s kinda busy.”

“And you’re not gay.”

“Does this involve ‘Arsenic and Old Lace’ somehow?”

“Well, the blonde playing Abby is pretty hot, but I heard you and she…”

“Amber? No.”

“No, not her, um… Krista.”

“She’s playing Elaine Harper. And yes, we are. Since the close of Much Ado.”

“So like months. And still gay?”

“Nope.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/103207.html. You can comment here or there.

Gilding the Lily – Kink Bingo – Lady Alouetta’s Garden

Aug3

[community profile] kink_bingo – N-2 – Dressup – from my card.

Faerie Apocalypse setting – Landing Page Here or here; Lady Alouetta’s Garden sub-setting but I believe it stands alone.

“Stand.”

Julie’d learned by now to do what she was told, so she stood, but she didn’t bother to hide her surprise. She didn’t expect to see the Lady of the House – her kidnapper, her captor, her owner, although, to be fair, someone else had done the original kidnapping – here in the barracks, and it was supposed to be her night off the clock. She’d been reading, a small book of history filched from the library the Garden kept, like everything else, as a showpiece; she didn’t bother trying to hide it. If Lady Alouetta wanted to know, she’d know. She seemed to have eyes everywhere.

The Lady, at the moment, didn’t seem to care. She stripped off Julie’s cotton pajamas with quick efficiency, and sniffed at her shoulder and neck. “Good, you’re clean. Go rinse yourself down quickly – take no more than two minutes.”

She was back, shivering but cleaner and damper, one and a half minutes later, only now moving from “react” mode to wondering what the Lady wanted of her, so quickly, so randomly, and so urgently she’d come herself instead of sending the dresser, Mrs. Snips, to take care of matters.

The Lady pressed into her hands something not much different from the PJ’s she’d been wearing – a thin camisole and short bloomers, both trimmed with rows of soft lace. The cotton was yellow, the lace white, the ribbons a far brighter yellow. “Tonight, you are Jonquil,” the Lady declared. “And the gentleman in question likes dressing. He is not a big fan of conversation; you will speak when he tells you to speak, move as he positions you, and remember to smile.” With that, she slapped Julie’s ass hard enough to leave a mark. “Dress, and hurry to the Drawing Room. Vite, vite, girl.”

She vite’d, sliding on the tiny slippers and letting the Lady do something to her hair that looked far fancier than the allowed time should have made possible, and jogged across the lawn – gracefully, the Flowers in Lady Alouetta’s garden were always graceful – to the Drawing Room.

There, a dark-haired man sat in the large leather wing chair, staring out the window. A neat pile of clothes sat across the improbably large chaise lounge; the man himself was wearing knee breeches and nothing else. He had the body for it; the sort of trim, muscular trim she’d expect to see on another Flower, not on a patron; his tanned chest had just a bit of hair, and his muscular back had none.

He stood as she entered. “You’re late,” he scolded, in a voice to match the body, deep and rumbling, and a flutter of his hand that made her swallow a giggle. The Lady had told her not to speak, so she dropped a low curtsey instead.

“We’ll have to hurry,” he continued, as if she hadn’t said or done anything at all. “Come here, straighten up, in front of the mirror, that’s it. Smile.”

Julie, pushed and tugged into position in front of the antique standing mirror, smiled. It was what she thought of as her Garden smile, pretty and sincere and empty. It seemed to please the Patron.

“Good, good, stay.” He tugged her chemise straight, tch’ing softly. “Yellow, really? It doesn’t suit you. I have some blue over here…” Off went the yellow he’d just smoothed, and on went the blue, with no pause to caress or grope or even notice her high-set breasts or her smoothly-trimmed mons.

Julie-Jonquil swallowed the part of her that wanted to gape at him in incredulity, and stood where she’d been put. His hand slid down her back, smoothing the new chemise, almost a caress. “That’s better. Matches your eyes. Spread your legs a little bit for me.” He pushed his hands between her thighs to spread her, showing her where he wanted her; a firm, friendly touch but not getting near the split crotch of her bloomers. “Now brace.”

“Brace” was something every Flower in the Garden knew, although in this pose, with her pants still on, split crotch or no… oh. She swallowed an embarrassed chuckle as he wrapped a Victorian corset around her and began lacing it, and then swallowed a whimper as he pulled the laces tight.

“Just a bit tighter, hold on. There.” He patted her stay-encased back. “Lovely. You’re going to be the belle of the ball.”

Belle of the ball? She searched his face in the mirror: determined, focused, not really seeing her, just the lacings he was tying unbearably tightly. Her eyes trailed down lower; he was erect, bulging in the thin breeches. Whatever his story, he liked it quite a bit.

“Gloves now. Hand.” She’d been told not to move unless he positioned her, so she held still, and got smacked across her bare shoulders for her efforts. “Hand, I said. Tch, here, I’ll do it.” He grabbed her hand and held it out straight so he could slide the fine leather, elbow-length glove on and button it up. The fingers, Julie noticed, with a tiny hint of panic surging through her scene-calm, were sewn together. She’d have had more use of her hands in mittens than in these.

“And the other hand.” Now, he was smiling, and it wasn’t the nice sort of smile. This was the kind of guy she’d run away from, if she had the choice. If she had anywhere to run. “There you go. Stockings now.” He pushed a chair up behind her knees and pushed down on her shoulders until she sat, then knelt at her feet to work the silk stockings up first one leg, then the other. One hand lingered high on her thigh, his face just inches from the bareness between her legs. He smirked up at her, meeting her eyes for a moment. Amused. More than amused, sadistically pleased. It was going to be a long night.

He patted her knee and stood, the moment gone. “Stand,” he ordered, while pulling her up. “Yes. And the petticoat comes next…”

He’d left her arms sticking out in front of her; now he bent her elbows, folding her hands over the hard front of the corset so he could pull the fluffy white thing over her. Fluffy, but tight; the bottom of the skirt gave her almost no room to move. And, she noted, there was a slit down the back of it. Was he going to take her, or no?

“Gorgeous. You’re really taking shape, dollie,” he smiled, and pressed a wooden kiss to her lips. “The dress and the boots, and you’re ready to go.”

Go where? Julie licked her lips, wondering if she dared break her assigned role enough to say something. Lady Alouetta would be angry… the thought quieted her. The Lady angry was terrifying; this guy was merely creepy.

The dress was blue, too, tight against the corset, buttened so high up her neck and so stiffly that her chin was forced up, so tight around her knees and calves that she could barely stand. The boots, last, had ridiculously high heels, forcing her en point. He patted her back again. “There,” he murmured. “How do you feel? Speak,” he added, when she didn’t answer.

She licked her lips, not sure she could actually speak. “Helpless,” she tried. It came out thin and reedy.

“Good,” he smiled, that unpleasant, dangerous smile. “That’s how I want you.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/97177.html. You can comment here or there.

30 Days Second Semester: 9, Mourning Lost Gods, Fae-Apoc, Apoc Era

Aug3

For the 30 Days Meme Second Semester, for the prompt “9) prompt: mourning dead gods.”

Fae Apoc, in the time of the apoc.

December, 2011

They fell from the sky, one, then another, then another. I watched on the roof, silently standing vigil. I had been there, with twenty or so of my fellow just-plain-humans, since the battle began. Yesterday, I think it was, though by then it could have been two or three days. We ate, we drank, we caught what sleep we could, and we watched the creatures destroy what was left of our city.

Jason and Mandy had shotguns, and Carrie had a bokken; we could keep our building free of them, or at least chase them off. But we weren’t there, really, to fight them. We’d already learned that that took a mob, fire, iron, rowan, and a willingness to lose three-quarters of your people to death or severe injury to take down one of those. We had the first four, but no longer (there had been five hundred of us, a while ago) had the last and most important factor. So we watched, and if we could still believe in a loving god, we prayed.

And they fell. We couldn’t tell, from our vantage, which of the monsters claimed to be on our side, and which were the invaders. They shifted shapes, they twisted forms, and they twisted the world, smashing into buildings. Knocking out what was left of our power grid. Destroying parks and gardens it had taken a century to grow.

We buried their dead, when we were sure they were dead, and cried, not for them, but for the time when we’d believed in benevolent, distant deities.

Next: http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/714468.html

The List:
1a) the story starts with the words “It’s going down.” (LJ Link)
1b) the story starts with the words “It’s going down.” (LJ Link)
2) write a scene that takes place in a train station.
3) the story must involve a goblet and a set of three [somethings]
4) prompt: one for the road
5) write a story using an imaginary color
6) write the pitch for a new Final Fantasy styled RPG (LJ Link)
7) prompt: frigid (LJ Link)
8) write a scene in the middle of a novel called “The Long, Dirty Afterwards” (LJ)
9) prompt: mourning dead gods

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/96954.html. You can comment here or there.

Prevention v Cure, Year 9 Penstemon

Aug2

This is a short story in response to rix_scadeau‘s commission: Penstemon giving birth, after this story(LJ) and this one (LJ Link)

Penstemon is Rix’s character; for more on her read her fanfic adventures, starting here.

Icon by djinni on Rix’s request, duplicated here for LJ users (sooo many less icon slots than DW…

Luke hated having pregnant students in his class.

He hated having girls in his class – he wasn’t his son, to collect the young woman warriors – but there was nothing to be done for it and, besides, some of the young amazons were far stronger than their male counterparts.

But the pregnant girls were harder to work around, harder to include, and everything in his being wanted to protect them and wrap them in blankets and padding (four children of his own by three mothers had not come close to breaking him of this habit, anymore than eight years as a teacher at Addergoole). Just as bad were the badly-Kept ones; no matter how much rot they cleaned out of the school, there always seemed to be some new monster popping up to torment their Kept. Luke was almost glad for the stupid ones, the overboard ones; those they could catch and stop before their victims were too broken.

He had one in his class he thought likely to turn into that sort of moron, two he wasn’t sure where they were going, and one pregnant girl. Penstemon. His wings flared just thinking about her; heavily pregnant, carrying twins from the Nedetakaei rapist she’d killed, and still every bit as fierce (and, his tapes told him, as protective and hearth-mother) as she had been in her first year here.

He had her walking laps, and had herded the possibly-a-moron to keep an eye on her. This close to term, she could pop at any minute; he just hoped she decided to do it in Shira’s class or Laurel’s, not his.

“Uh. Sir?” That was the maybe-moron. Basalt. What were these people thinking, naming their sons “rock?” Especially “airy rock.” Currently, the rock in question was panicking. “Sir, she says…”

“It’s time.” Penny’s voice was far louder and far firmer than her cy’ree-mate’s voice; she was clenching the boy’s bicep hard enough to leave marks. Her feet were skidding a bit on the floor…

“Shit,” Luke muttered. He looked around his classroom, suddenly missing the Thorne Girls, and took assessment. “Willow, you’re in charge. If anyone acts out, you have my permission to do your worst short of killing them.” That ought to give them pause, at least. “Basalt, time to show you have as much muscle as you think you do. Pick her up and come this way.”

“But sir…!” the boy complained.

Penny seconded him. “Sir, that’s really not necessary.”

“Penstemon,” he grumbled, “there are times in your life where you really should shut up and let the menfolk be protective.” He ignored the momentary twinge; he’d said much the same thing to Will, once. And the girl deserved her own man, some day. “Basalt, if your objection is ‘she’s wet,’ suck it up and pick her up.”

“Sir, why can’t you?” He was, it turned out, not without practice at picking girls up, or at least he made it look rehearsed; Luke had a suspicion Penny was helping him out, maybe with a Working.

“Because I told you to. Brace yourself, kid, she’s going to have a…”

“Uuuuuunh!”

“…contraction.” Penny had gripped down on Basalt’s arm and shoulder with a hold that should have broken the kid’s bones.

Must have been more than lack of creativity to that name; he barely flinched. “Damn,” did escape his lips, though it was quiet, and followed quickly with “beg your pardon, ma’am. Miss. Ow.”

“Get moving then,” Luke snapped, to avoid laughing. He wasn’t sure which was more amusing, the look of outrage on Penny’s face or the nerves on the much-bigger Basalt’s.

They got her to Caitrin’s quickly – good planning more than good speed, as the doctor’s office was right next to the gym – and settled just as quickly into the maternity suite. “You stay with her,” Luke said firmly. “It’ll be good for you.”

“I… Aistrigh Tlacatl agkale…into… petros Eperu,” he gasped out. “Damn, woman, here, it’s okay.” He shifted, facing her, his face softening. “That’s got to hurt like hell.”

Satisfied, Luke nodded at the two of them and left. He hated dealing with pregnancy.

Want to commission your own story? Read how here!

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/96234.html. You can comment here or there.

30 Days meme Second Semester: 1b “Witness,” Addergoole Year 9

Jul24

For the 30 Days Meme Second Semester, for the prompt “1) the story starts with the words ‘It’s going down.'”

Addergoole/Fae Apoc Year 9 has a landing page (LJ Link)

“It’s going down.” Curry was breathless when he pounded on Thornburn’s door, his words coming out in ragged gasps. Ceinwen tried to pretend she wasn’t hiding, back in the little corner of the room He allowed her. “Kendon and Jeremiah, over that little carrotty Ninthie. What’s her name… Hoover?”

“Ahouva.” It was somehow unsurprising and yet still displeasing that He knew the pretty girl’s name. He knew them all. “I thought Jeremiah had his hands full.” He was sliding on his shoes as he spoke; Ceinwen, hesitantly, looked for her own.

“I thought he did, too. I guess he’s going for the greed factor. Surprises me… Kendon is no sweetheart, but I didn’t think the Prophet was the White Knight sort, either. I mean, he’s turned his back on a lot of shit in his day.”

“And we’ve turned our back on his shit, too.” Thornburn turned his attention to Ceinwen. “Stay here… no, you might as well come with. You can see what a challenge is like. But stay close to m e, and if I tell you to hide, no arguments.”

If he told her to hide, she’d have no choice in the matter, just as with any other order he gave her. She nodded mutely anyway, and then, pushed by some order she couldn’t even remember properly, whispered out a reluctant “Yes, Sir.”

“Good.” He offered her his hand while she tried to ignore the giddy stupid pleasure his praise sent through her. “Let’s go witness this mess.”

The List:
1a) the story starts with the words “It’s going down.” (LJ Link)

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/87150.html. You can comment here or there.

Arguments with one’s self

Jul20

This is a short story in response to rix_scaedu‘s commission in my Giraffe Sale: More of Ceinwen & Thornburn.

Addergoole Year 9, next in order with the rest of them – Dark Corners is a good pre-read to this for context.

By Tuesday, Ceinwen was beginning to get used to the collar, or, at least, to the way it felt around her neck. She didn’t find herself reaching up at every opportunity to touch it, and the movement it made, shifting with every move of hers, didn’t cause sudden, unwanted reminders of Thornburn and his arrogant, knowing smile.

She hadn’t yet gotten used to the way everyone’s eyes seemed to go to her throat, though. Sometimes it was other Ninth Cohort students, their own necks circled by something, looking lost, or still bare-necked and looking like they’d missed the memo. Sometimes it was upperclassmen and teachers with sympathetic looks.

The worst, however, were the other looks, the vaguely disappointed ones, especially from someone like Taliesin, who she’d really liked, who’d invited her to a poetry reading next weekend. Somehow, she didn’t think Thornburn would let her do that. Worse, she doubted the invitation was still open.

She didn’t mean to start crying about it – she’d been so good, holding in the tears, not letting Him see how upset he’d gotten her. She could have kept going, except the leer that Curry gave her as she walked into the Dining Hall, the whispered insinuation that he couldn’t wait until Thorn was ready to share her.

She fled before anyone could tell her to stop, relieved that He hadn’t thought to give her any orders about lunch yet, and kept running, choking on the tears she was trying to hold back.

She fell into the girls’ room almost accidentally, looking for a place to hide, somewhere He wouldn’t come looking. The bathroom seemed to fit the bill perfectly, so she slipped in, hiding in the last stall, and let the tears come.

She was his. She was a possession, and everyone knew it. Everyone who looked at her knew he’d marked her, caught her. From the leers some people were giving her, everyone thought they were having sex. And his friends thought, eventually, He’d get bored with her and share her with them.

Share her. The sobs bubbled up, and escaped, one after another. Things got shared. You lent your favorite CD, your favorite pants. Not your girlfriend. Not your friend. She gulped air, trying to calm down, and kept sobbing.

It felt as if every tiny thing since Saturday morning was coming out all at once. Basalt, who she’d thought was an okay guy, grabbing her arm and yanking her down a hole. Curry laughing and leering at her. Thornburn’s gentle, calm voice. “I’ll protect you. Be mine.”

His smirk, afterwards, as he showed her exactly what kind of power he’d given over her. The box where he’d locked a quarter of her stuff, then another quarter of it when she complained about the first bunch. The collar around her neck. The weight of it when she was naked, pressed against his clothed body for sleep. The darkness of his shadows, even in her dreams. The shadows all over this school. The light she’d shined on all of it.

She caught the next sob, swallowed it, and stood, slowly, remembering that light, and the warmth of it. She scrubbed at her eyes and stretched her back, talking herself into some semblance of calm. Curry was an ass, yes, but Thornburn had said, over and over again, that he Kept her (at least in part, and the “in part” worried her a bit) to protect her. Did she really think Thornburn would share her? Did Curry think it would happen? Or was Curry just trying to freak her out, to see how much he could affect her?

She scrubbed at her eyes in the sink, trying to work her mind around the uncomfortable feeling of being a possession, and the even more uncomfortable part of her that wanted to accept it, to accept Thornburn’s rule. She was so tangled in the internal argument, she didn’t notice the door had opened until, glancing in the mirror, she saw a face behind her.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/81915.html. You can comment here or there.

Devil’s in the Details

Jul18

Thisis a short story in response to [personal profile] clare_dragonfly‘s commission in my Giraffe Sale: “More of that Rozen and Aviv”

Addergoole/Fae Apoc. After Devil Deals (LJ Link) and before Into the Woods (from Sugar Cat) and the subsequent events in Retirement and Retirement 2

Fish Gotta Swim explains what Aviv is up to.

One year, six months after Devil Deals

Aviv left Rozen to the terrified girl, a lovely sorrel brunette, careful not to let his disgust show on his face. “I’ll take the other one back to her home, and see you next year.”

“Pleasure doing business with you.” Of course it was. Rozen delighted in making people uncomfortable. Aviv picked up the unconscious blonde, last year’s victim, and, carefully working an invisibility, carried her home. He left her on her father’s doorstep – her father who had sold her to a monster for a year of peace – tucked in a blanket, and went home, almost holping Rozen would break their deal.

One year later

Three refugees that had come through his camp had mentioned Rozen’s name; one, a tiny girl with lightning in her eyes, had been escorted the whole way there by the giant man. The beast having kept his end of the bargain, Aviv travelled back to his protectorate to keep his end.

The villagers tended to come up with an excuse to send the girls into the woods when it came time to pay the tithe; since the rest of the year it was safe, kept so by Rozen himself, the girls didn’t seem to suspect anything. This year, one had brought her friend, however.

They could handle two girls. Aviv Worked his invisibility and ghosted out into the path, the trees moving eerily around them, the path seeming to close in from behind. He’d used this trick before, when humans were hunting down Ellehemaei in his territory. But these were innocent girls.

They screamed, all the rumors of beasts in the woods, monsters who eat little girls, coming back to them all at once. One of them tried to run, and smacked straight into Aviv. He wrapped a tentacle around her and held her fast.

The other one was holding her head with fingers that seemed to be elongating and splitting, looking more like tendrils or vines than fingers, while pools of ink spilled out of her pants legs. Behind her, Rozen laughed and picked her up.

“Looks like we trade,” he joked. “This one’s got to be yours.”

Aviv held the girl in his non-arms tighter as he watched Rozen, wondering if the beast was going to go for a deal. But the big man was shaking his head, even as he hauled the weakly-struggling girl across the clearing. His voice was solemn. “The girl I dropped off with you? She all right?”

“Ashni?” He nodded. “We got her settled in. Seems she’s pregnant.” He kept any question out of his voice. He didn’t want to know.

“Good. Here, you take your cousin-niece-granddaughter-whatever here home. I’ll keep an eye on her family. You have my word on that.”

Aviv exchanged girls, murmuring a quick Working to put them both to sleep. “Thank you.” Balancing the sleeping maybe-a-relative on his shoulder, he wrapped invisibility around them and headed for home.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/81020.html. You can comment here or there.