Tag Archive | tirnacali

Kinkbingo: Sense-Dep. Cali Harem: awakening

[community profile] kink_bingo – N-1 – Sensory Deprivation – from my card.

Triggery, possibly: captivity, dubious-consent, sensory deprivation, kidnapping, bondage.

The world had been hazy for a while, it seemed, like he was floating, drunk, on a salty ocean. Stephen opened his eyes, slowly, wondering how he’d gotten here, and, more dimly, wondering where here was.

Nothing. He closed his eyes and opened them again, the haziness vanishing

Still nothing. Darkness, enveloping and complete. He blinked, wondering if he was dreaming, but he could still see nothing at all.

He wriggled, trying to sit up, and found that he was held down somehow, a pressure against his entire body that gave just a bit, a couple inches, then sprang back, pushing him back against… against, it seemed, nothing. He opened his mouth to yell and found that it was already open, blocked with something that had no taste and enough give to not be uncomfortable, but filled his whole mouth, pressing his tongue against the bottom of his mouth.

He shouted against the gag anyway, and heard nothing. Panicking, he struggled, and found that he couldn’t even really feel the substance he was laying in. They had taken everything from him except his fear. He struggled more, fighting, grunting against the gag although he couldn’t hear the sounds he made, pushing upwards although it did no good, kicking and fighting against an enemy that was implacable and intangible.

It was exhausting, and he was tired already, his shoulders and thighs sore. He welcomed the soreness, tried to work those parts more, just to feel something, but he had no energy at all. Enervated, he flopped back into nothingness.

Then, as he lay in the nothingness, his throat closing with panic, he felt something. Fingers? Fingers, maybe, wrapped around his shaft. Massaging, working upwards, convincing his organ into an erection. His whole body was focused on that. He couldn’t get away, and wasn’t sure he wanted to; if all he could feel was a lessening pain in his back and a hand around his cock, he would take what sensation he could get.

The hand was supplemented by a tongue, licking around the head, expertly finding every nerve ending. He moaned silently, trying to lift his hips up: more. More, please. The tongue vanished, and then the hand.

He could feel cold air across the moistness on his cock, and then an even colder feeling: something hard and chilly around the base of his shaft, around his scrotum, pressing against his hardness, holding it firm. The tongue came back then, licking, biting, teasing, and bringing him right to the edge.

Just when he thought he would burst with it, die with it, the mouth and hand went away, the cold breeze, the pressure, leaving him laying in nothingness with his organ throbbing against the implacable steel, trapped, nothing to do, nothing to feel except the pressure of his need.

He whimpered, although he couldn’t hear it, a low, keening sound, and lifted his hips against his bonds, trying to force out words he couldn’t hear anyway, trying to plead with the unseen hand, the unseen tongue.

Tir na Cali: Cali has a landing page (Lj Link.)

The harem triptych begins with
Gifted, continues on to
Keyed Up, and ends with

This story is a prelude to that triptych.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/61647.html. You can comment here or there.

15 minute ficlet: I Serve (Content warning: Implied abuse)

Originally posted here in response to the prompt “smear.” It’s, ah, um, fan-fiction for a roleplay in my Tir na Cali setting that [personal profile] kc_obrien is running for me.

Anascha smeared the lotion down Castor’s back in long, gentle movements, minding the welts and bruises, and the lacerated rough patches by his shoulders. “Damnit, Cass, what did you do this time?” she muttered into his ear. She didn’t think anyone was listening, but you never really knew. Not here. Not in the Lady’s household, where having friends was a luxury none of them could afford. Not when even the Lady couldn’t trust anyone… and if their owner wasn’t allowed that freedom, then her slaves wouldn’t be, either.

“I…” he groaned, and then put his face back on the pillow. “Gods below, Ann, that stings.”

“I know, but it will numb everything in a moment.” She worked with a quick and practiced hand, spreading the goo over his whole back, his ass, his upper thighs. She’d done this before, and damn the risk in helping others. Even Castor. “What happened? You didn’t…?”

“I’m not a complete moron,” he hissed, as the lotion touched an open laceration. “There’s no way out, and I’m not going to sell what little integrity I have at a bullshit attempt. No.”

“I know, I know,” she soothed, moving up to his neck and working in above and below his heavy steel collar. “I just thought… she’s going to be angry at you for a really long time, you know.”

“I know.” He flopped against the bed with a sigh. “She has every right to be. But I belong to her now, Anascha. We both do. And I’m going to serve her as loyally as I served her sister. My honor demands it.”

“Right up to the assassination attempts?” she murmured against his ear. He stiffened again, and shook his head.

“Of course,” he muttered tiredly. “I will do what my lady demands of me. I always have.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/40957.html. You can comment here or there.

15 Minute Ficlet: Hallowing New Ground

Originally posted here in response to the prompt “Hallow.”

I think it’s Fairies (Tir na Cali) in Spaaace

The ground was barren, without a place for the holy beings to call home, without a place of concretion where they could talk to their gods. Some worried that, so far from home, their gods would not hear them, even if they did the rites to hallow the proper land; others worried that the land itself would be improper, no matter what rites were done over it.

But they had moved to a new land before, and if this one was a bit further away (light years further, a whole different star system further) than the last one had been, those who kept the memories and those who kept the faith still remembered how to do things, and they knew that the gods would follow. The gods were of the people, their children, after all, and they had been more thorough this time than last in bringing all of the gods’ children with them.

The land might be strange, the ground and the sky devoid of the gods’ touch, but they knew what to do to consecrate the ground and call their deities home. The seasons might look strange underneath the violet-shaded moon, but they still turned, and they had landed as spring was about to pry its way out of the depths of an icy winter.

“Come to the hill with me,” the priestess said to a young noble, his eyes still glazed with cryo-sleep.

“Come to that valley with me,” the Lady said to her body-slave, to the slave she loved despite all rules to the contrary.

“Come to the grove with me,” the Priest said to the Heir, the woman who, here, would be queen, “and we will make love, and we will make children, and we will call the gods home.

“Lay here in the grass,” they called to their lovers, “and we will hallow this ground for our gods.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/33442.html. You can comment here or there.

So… (Beta readers wanted)

Someone (*cough*Hob*cough*) talked me into trying to write a Cali novel.

This is going to be slow going, worked in around everything else (aiming for approx 1000 words a week on it), but I’d like a couple few beta readers for it so I know if I’m going way off course.

It will be semi-erotic/romance/dubiousconsent/Stockholm. Which is like saying it will be Cali.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/32902.html. You can comment here or there.

3WW: Turning, Tables, and Other Things – could be rather triggery all over the place

Three Word Wednesday is a once-weekly 3-word writing prompt.

This week’s three words were Loud, Persuasive, Riches.

The naming conventions of the Tuathans in Tir na Cali, where this story is set, are … weird. Suffice it to say, it’s okay that he’s both ap Gwydion and ó Gwydion.

The ap Gwydion boy was loud. Not surprising in a line who had bought their title and position with riches; most ap Gwydions were loud. This one was young, barely an adult (but he was an adult, old enough to be tried; that was important), spoiled rotten, and had no idea how much trouble he was in.

“You have no idea how much trouble you’re in,” he shouted at Sulleigh-who-he-believed-was-Susan. “I don’t know what you were thinking, spilling that tea all over my favorite shirt, but you’re going to pay!”

“I’m sor…”

“Shut up! No-one said you could speak.”

Sulleigh/Susan hid her smile by touching her forehead to the ground. She’d made him lose face in front of a woman he was hoping to marry and a man he was hoping to sleep with. She wasn’t surprised he was angry. If she had truly been what she was pretending to be, if she had even been embedded long-term in the position, she would have been nervous, close to terrified. Tyrion ap Talbot ó Gwydion was known, not just in the household but amongst his peers and the press, as a hothead with a violent temper. He’d already hit Sulleigh more than once, and she’d only been in his mother’s household for a week. For this embarrassment… yes. She dared peek, to see him going for the strap.

“Hold still,” he snarled, “or it will go badly.” That it was going to go badly even if she held still went without saying. She held still. She had to time this properly, and that meant she had to take a little abuse.

He pulled her pants down around her ankles with a rough tug. She listened for the sound she was waiting for, but no, not yet. They’d wait until…

… the strap landed on the back of her thighs with a loud thwap, bringing with it stinging pain. Sulleigh swallowed a whimper; under the noise of the next stroke, she heard the bodyguards walking away.

She let another two strokes land, whimpering under each one. She didn’t have to fake it; the ap Gwydion had a strong arm and practice in dealing out pain efficiently.

“Stop,” she gasped, and he stopped. She could tell by the grunt he made that he was surprised, and by the second grunt that he was offended when she stood and pulled her pants back on.

“Silence,” she commanded, before he could draw a breath to shout. “Did you know,” she added conversationally, “that your bodyguards leave when they hear you start beating the house slaves?”

His eyes grew wide, but the boy couldn’t say anything. Sulleigh continued. “They can’t stand to hear it. I can’t say I blame them. Now, you and I, Tyrion, are going to have a little conversation. But not here.” She opened the drawer he kept his toys in, and dropped a few choice items into a bag. “Don’t attack me,” she added, without turning to face him, and was rewarded with the sound of him stopping abruptly.

“We,” she continued, turning now to look at her erstwhile master, “are going to take a drive. You’re going to drag me out to the car like you did with Judy last week, and we’ll take a little trip.” He was scared now; his eyes wide and his mouth opening and closing like a fish. He shouldn’t have been all that surprised by the word-of-command trick; his mother had a variant of the same power. Perhaps no slave had dared use such things on him before. Of course, Sulleigh wasn’t really a slave.

If he was a little extra-rough in manhandling her out to his car, she couldn’t really blame him; if she kicked him in this shin while fighting him, well, could he blame her for that? Once he’d stuffed her in the back seat and started driving the direction she wanted, she let him talk again.

He was, of course, rather predictable. “Why are you doing this?” he demanded.

“You’ve been up to some pretty questionable stuff lately, Tyrion ap Gwydion, and my employers want to know exactly how questionable, and with exactly whom.”

She could tell, just from the set of his shoulders, that she’d hit the mark. “I’m not going to tell you anything, you bitch,” he quavered, torn between fear and anger.

“I assure you,” she smiled, “I can be very persuasive.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/29214.html. You can comment here or there.

15-minute Ficlet: Anger

Originally posted here, in repsonse to the prompt:

“Anger is a killing thing: it kills the man who angers, for each rage leaves him less than he had been before – it takes something from him.”

I think it’s Tir na Cali –> Catpeople, but I’m not certain.

The rage was never as solid as it was that Wednesday, never as hot, never as silent.

The worst of it, for me, was knowing that no-one else would either see it nor care if they did. Anger, from one such as me, was /cute/, was adorable, pat-head and chuckle, like a kitten whose teeth aren’t a threat yet. No-one cared when I was angry, no one feared, no one worried.

I wanted them to worry, to quake, to run, but I’d learned to smile through the anger. I had learned, since my anger caused only amusement, to not give them the pleasure of being amused at my expense on top of whatever insult had angered me.

So I smiled. I smiled so they couldn’t see the teeth that their science had made sharp; I smiled so they couldn’t see the anger that they had bred, all unknowing, into me, the rage that demanded that I kill or be killed. I bowed, so very low, and I smiled, so very sweetly, and I did not acknowledge the insults with anything louder than a “yes, sir.”

That is what they expected, was it not? They expected a cute and defanged little pet, someone who would purr in their laps, someone who would snuggle against them and keep their bed warm, who would make cute little noises on cue. They had trained me for that. They had trained me to be domestic; they had forgotten, if they ever knew, that they had also bred me to be feral.

Though the smiles, through the bows, through the trained-animal dances that they put me through, through the day and into the night, the rage sustained me. Through the morning and the next day of the same. It had been, after all, a very great insult, and it would take a long time for the rage to build properly, while I bowed, while I danced, while I smiled.

When I slipped into his bed that next night, when my claws opened his belly from ribs to hip, I could see the surprise in his eyes as he gurgled out his last. I could see his confusion, that his good little pet had rebelled. That his kitten had claws that could rend flesh. That my anger was not to be head-patted and brushed off.

I left with his blood still wet on my claws, to find a master who would put no other pretty little thing before me.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/4344.html. You can comment here or there.