Archive | May 2015

Outrunning the Fireball, a story of Fae Apoc for the Giraffe Call (@jeriendhal)

May23

Written to [personal profile] jeriendhal‘s prompt here to my Giraffe Call.

Aiden is the grandson of Shahin and Emrys from Addergoole, via their son and daughter Morganna and Arturo. So when he thinks about his grandparents, ah, there’s only two of them. (And only three great-grandparents).

Year 53 or so of the Addergoole School, 2047

The problem with leaving the family business, Aiden was discovering, was that it didn’t really leave you.

He was trying, trying very hard, to be a good guy. Which, he supposed, his mother and grandmother and so on had as well, but let’s be honest, his grandparents were the sort of people who would take over a city for its own good and take ten percent off the top for living expenses and wardrobe before they worried about the starving children in the streets.

Aiden was trying not to be that person.

The problem was, when your only tool was a hammer, as the saying went — or, in Aiden’s case, a fireball — everything started to look like potential targets.

In this case, he had been moving through a small town when he found out that something or someone had been stealing livestock. “I can help with that,” he’d said, because right, that’s what he did, Mysterious Stranger who wandered through towns and helped fix problems.

And he’d found himself sitting up in a tree, watching for the something or someone, all ready to scorch a wyvern or tiger or whatever and save the city. He’d literally had a fireball to hand – well, of course he did. He was named Fire. He always had a fireball to hand.

The zip of motion that went by was too fast for him to catch. It was too fast for his fireball to hit; it had ended up lighting a portion of the pasture on fire, which had further delayed Aiden as he tried not to set the town alight. That would not be helping.

He was pretty sure the unknown… whatever… had come back twice more while he was doing that, but at least they’d only taken the one sheep. It was only when he was done with the fire and beginning to spin an actual tracking Working – dead gods alone knew if it would work on something that fast – when he actually saw her.

She was skinny, wild-looking, probably-blonde with a dark, burnt-in tan, wearing scraps of rawhide and not much else. She was staring at him, or, at least, he thought she was. She was also vibrating.

“Don’t follow me,” she hissed, and she was gone, very literally outrunning Aiden’s thoughtlessly-thrown fireball.

He stared at the streak where she had been, and thought, a little desperately, that he might be in love.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/944921.html. You can comment here or there.

Cya’s Printing Press, a story of Cloverleaf

May21

Johannes enjoyed his new job quite a bit.

The work was rewarding and just challenging enough to be interesting. His co-workers were pleasant, the pay was good, and it left him plenty of time to pursue his primary hobby.

What was more, in Cloverleaf, he and Adella didn’t have to hide. He didn’t have to keep a shop full of fabric and paper just in case someone wanted to see him making something. He didn’t have to Mask if he didn’t want to. He didn’t have to live in fear of a slip-up dooming both him and his sister. In Cloverleaf, people walked around un-Masked all the time. In Cloverleaf, if you said you were fae at the front gate, they asked you what your skills were.

Which was, incidentally, how Johannes had gotten his job. He’d been in the middle of the immigration paperwork when a red-headed woman had grabbed his hand. “You can Create. That’s what you said, right? Create and objects, and you can do cloth? Paper?”

“…yes.” The woman had the most phenomenal mink stole… no, it was her tail, wrapped around her leg.

“Good. I need a printing press. I hope you need a job.”

“…my sister.” he was not normally left this without words.

“We’ll find her a job too. You – you I have an immediate need for.” She’d hesitated for a moment, and then added, “I’ll throw in lodgings, a good two-bedroom house near work. But I really need you.”

Ad thus Johannes had found himself settled in a very nice office in a building called simply The Press, teamed with a woman whose power allowed her to take in the entire contents of a book and whose Words allowed her to download that information into someone else’s mind without utterly overwhelming them. Zayda didn’t talk much, but since she spent large portions of the day in Johannes’ brain, they didn’t need much conversation.

The most interesting part of their job came when the Press got its hands on a book – often borrowed-slash-requisitioned from new immigrants to the city. Zayda would absorb the text, and then Johannes would get the artistic task of reproducing the feel and heft of the book, although often in better shape than the original. There was a craftsmanship to it, and Johannes marked every book with their combined chop with pride and a sense of a job well done. The Press supplied both the Library and a book store, which, Johannes was given to understand, paid most of his salary.

The best part of his job, however, was that it gave him time to pursue his hobby, and it gave him plenty of practice with the Words he needed. In Cloverleaf, nobody thought it strange if he and Adella had a new outfit each day, or if Adella sold copies of their outrageous get-ups in her little shop. Indeed, a small, select group of people might know that he was one of the two people who made Cloverleaf’s money (as well as the city’s books) – but everyone knew him as the guy with the best clothes. And wearing a Johannes original was quickly becoming a status symbol in this little town.

Johannes was enjoying his new life quite a bit. And, on top of everything else, he got to make money.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/944884.html. You can comment here or there.

In Which Mieve Explains Some Things (FaeApoc, Amrit/Mieve)

May21

First: A beginning of a story which obnoxiously cuts off just before the description,
Previous: In Which Amrit is Confused.

Fae Apoc, approx. now.

Content Warnings: This setting, although not this ficlet, contains rape, mind control, and dubious consent situations.

This particular story contains kidnapping and slavery, bondage, violence, and will eventually contain Stockholm Syndrome.

Mieve

Dinner went quietly. Mieve was exhausted, and she imagined her new slave was as well. He ate slowly and steadily, spoon to mouth, scooping up the rice-and-beans she had made wordlessly, sipping the beer she set in front of him, not looking like he was tasting any of it.

He was watching her cautiously between bites, like he was trying to figure her out. That expression Mieve was used to. Most of the Kept she’d brought had that look in their face for at least a while. She kept her face neutral and non-threatening. Not that she probably wouldn’t have to hurt him again before he settled, but she wasn’t going to hurt him now. Hopefully.

They finished dinner in silence, with no catastrophes and no arguments. Mieve cleared the table, loading the dishes into a sink of hot soapy water.

Even with her back turned, she could hear when he pushed his chair back, when he stood up, and when he sat back down again, remembering, she assumed, that he was tethered to the floor. He cleared his throat. “I could — I could help with that.”

She hadn’t expected that. “If you do the dishes,” she said, thinking it through quickly. No knives in reach. There was another chain-loop by the sink. The skillet could be a weapon, but not a threat; you couldn’t hold a frying pan to someone’s throat. “If you get the dishes all done and put away, that gives me time to make a dessert.” She turned the oven on to pre-heat. It was a pity she didn’t trust him to use Words; he might have the right one to refill her propane tanks.

She used a thread of telekinesis to unlock his tether from the floor bolt and waited for him as he stood, looking surprised and cautious. “Just like that?”

“I like dessert, too, and I hate doing dishes. Why do you think I bought a slave, anyway?”

He nearly stopped walking; she could see the way his shoulders hitched. “Fuck you, lady.”

“Does that mean you don’t want to do the dishes?” She was level-voiced and calm; being sworn at might irritate her but it wasn’t going to break her stride.

“…Fuck it. You going to share that dessert?”

“Of course.”

“Then I’ll do the damn dishes.” It was a small kitchen; it didn’t really give him room to stomp, but he stomped the two steps to the sink anyway. Mieve relocked his tether and ignored him. There were apples to peel, there was pastry to roll.

“…Did you really buy a slave just to have someone to do your dishes?”

“Yes, of course I did.” She sliced the apples into broad chunks. “I bought a slave just for the dishes.” She dripped sarcasm into every word, and then regretted it. “No, but in a sense, yes. I need help with the farm. Firewood. Plowing. Hunting.” Not that she’d trust him with a weapon any time soon.

“Hunh. Why not hire someone – no, never mind.” He shook his head. “Makes sense.” He was washing slowly now, watching her. “What happened to your last Kept? You had one, didn’t you?”

“I freed him.” She’d had four, here in this cottage. “I Kept him for a year and a half and then I freed him.”

“Hunh. Wasn’t working out?”

She shook her head. “No, we got along all right. But a year and a half covers the cost of his purchase in terms of work, and people… people shouldn’t be collared for the long-term without getting a chance to decide that for themselves.”

“Hunh.” He thought about that, or at least was quiet, while he washed the last of the dishes. Mieve cut the rest of the apples and tossed everything in a bit of cinnamon she still had left. “I’m still not going to Belong to you.”

“It’ll be a long year and a half in the gag and leash.” She poured in a bit of honey and a bit of maple syrup. “Promise me you won’t use Workings?”

“No fucking way.”

“Promise me you won’t run off?”

“No way in fucking hell.”

She rolled out the crust and fitted it into her pan. “Promise me you won’t attack me?”

“…not likely.”

“It’s going to be a long year and a half then.” She poured the filling into the pie shell, making sure to get every drop. “But I think you knew that.”

I haven’t tried this recipe yet, but the pie is something like this

Next: http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/1180849.html

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/944469.html. You can comment here or there. comment count unavailable

More Brassica Planting!

May21

Tuesday, I put more brassicae in the ground!

This time it was a row of Brussels Sprouts, which despite growing like a tall stick of vegetation, require like 18″ of spacing. I like planting stuff close together – French Intensive Gardening or Square Foot Gardening style – so spacing things that far apart is weird. But they don’t seem to thrive without the space.

Then a row of cabbage. Cabbage! We’ll see if we actually eat it…

I’ve got room for one more row in this bed. I think it’ll be half kale and half broccoli.

Gooooooo Team Brassica!

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/944335.html. You can comment here or there.

I Should Visit, a story of Regine/Addergoole/Doomsday

May20

The one date reference in this currently sets it in 2053, year 59 of the Addergoole School and 11 of Doomsday Academy. However, I may move it a little later, to coincide with a project Inventrix & I are considering, one said Inventrix wakes up to consult. 🙂

Regine had a tendency to come to decisions slowly – not because she was in any way stupid, but because she liked to consider all angles of an issue and, on non-critical matters, saw no reason to go quickly. (In that, she was much like the old Grigori that had raised her, a fact Luke would not mention out loud or even think loudly where anyone might overhear it.)

Because of this, she often took long enough to reach a decision that Luke, having already gone through a much more blunt-object style of thought, was taken by surprise by the time she announced her results.

“I believe I should visit this ‘Doomsday Academy’, she announced, over a dinner shared between their crew.

Luke nearly choked on his beer. Regine raised her sculpted eyebrows at him.

“You have visited several times by now, haven’t you? And Michael here has visited so often that they have named a new drink after him. It is a project by an Addergoole graduate, and thus I have a vested interest in visiting.”

Luke looked to Mike for help. Mike was laughing too hard to even try. “It’s a lovely idea,” he managed. “I think Regine should definitely visit Cloverleaf. I think she’d find it very enlightening.”

“It’s not your territory, Regine, and you were not exactly kind to her. She’s not going to be patient with you.” You’re going to get your nose bent out of joint, and you’re going to ask me to do something about it. Or, worse, you’re going to try to do something yourself.

She simply looked calm and unflappable. Of course. “Cynara is hardly going to attack me and risk bringing the wrath of Addergoole on her descendants. Even Boom is not that unstable.”

Luke spoke very carefully. “The problem is, Regine, that Cya has never, ever, been unstable. And–” He felt mildly hypocritical, considering how long it had taken him to figure all of this out. But perhaps she could learn from his stupidity. “–they’ve had fifty-three years since they first attended Addergoole.”

“That’s hardly anything compared to three centuries. Or… more.” She nodded at Mike.”

Luke sighed. “No. But it’s quite a bit compared to sixteen years. Regine, you insulted Cya quite deeply. And–“

“Surely, if she’s so sane, she’s gotten over the insult after this many years?”

“Regine, how long did it take you to get over a minor slight?” He was beginning to get very irritated. It was beginning to show. And she was just watching him, as if she didn’t understand the problem. “Look. Right now, because Mike and I have been friendly and respectful, Doomsday and Cloverleaf do not entirely hate Addergoole and the Village. Do you really want that to change?”

“I simply want to see this school which a graduate of my school has managed. I really fail to see the problem.”

Luke glanced at Mike. The Daeva had mostly sobered, but he nodded, so very faintly. Well, thanks, that was a load of help. “You are purposefully ‘failing’ to see the problem. At least let her know you’re coming.”

“Well, then, it wouldn’t be a very good assessment, would it?” Curse her, she was enjoying this. What was wrong with the woman?

Having one straw left, Luke grasped it. “Then, if you’re going to pretend this is some sort of academic test, take her Mentor.”

“I cannot see any reason not to do that.” She nodded, as if she was giving some great concession.

“Good.” Luke left the room before he did something someone would regret. Hopefully, Drake could keep things from getting too out of hand. Hopefully, Boom really had grown up as much as he thought they had.

Hopefully, Regine would grow up sometime soon.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/943967.html. You can comment here or there.

Unless you see the Body, a story for the Giraffe Call (@InspectrCaracal)

May19

Written to [personal profile] inventrix‘s prompt here to my Giraffe Call!

This is at least in part due to watching Far Too Much Venture Brothers and contemplating a semi-Venture-Brothers-style webserial recently.

“Well?” Dragonfly looked around her minions. “Did you do it right this time?”

One of the more nervous minions stepped forward. Faceless in her smooth mask, featureless in her robe-and-loose-pants, the minion’s glove held her only identification. Seventy-two.

It had been a very bad year for henchwomen.

“She fell off the edge of Tanaron Cliff, ma’am. She doesn’t have flight powers, she doesn’t have super-science. She’s dead.”

Dragonfly sighed. “Take me there.” When they hesitated, she raised her voice. “Take me there!” The problem with henchwomen was that you either ended up with smart ones that betrayed you or loyal ones that just weren’t fast enough. “Come on. Let me see the place where she fell off the cliff.”

She was going to have to run Henchwoman Training School again, she could see. If this particular group survived their own mistakes.

~

“She’s gone! That blight on the face of femininity is dead!” The Matriarch did not often engage in ranting or raving, but she felt the situation deserved it this time. “She will never survive the death trap; nobody ever has.”

“Um, ma’am?” One of her perfectly-clad minions bowed cautiously. “The death trap is empty, ma’am.”

The Matriarch hissed. “Well, then, fix the problem! What happened to her?“

“I, ah, I’m not certain, ma’am. But we did find three of your Techniors naked and unconscious in the observation room by the death trap.”

The Matriarch hissed. “Next time, next time I’m going to put a bullet through her myself. No matter how male that might be.”

~

The Firebrand brought up the giant fireball that was her namesake power and most favorite trick. She flooded the room – the room which had one exit, which she was blocking – with her superheated flame.

When the flames died away, the room was empty, without even a charred bone remaining. She was gone. Dead. Eliminated.

~

“Well.” She pulled another, identical, super-suit from the closet and dusted off the charred remains of her last one. “Note to self,” she called to her computer. “Check up on the Matriarch next week. That death trap has to be completely dismantled before some other schmoe falls into it. And then send Dragonfly a sympathy card. She really ought to have better henchwomen.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/943402.html. You can comment here or there.

Revel, a beginning of a Fanfic (TPB) (MCU)

May18

“Friend Pepper, shall we revel?” Thor waggled his eyebrows playfully.

“Why, Thor, I think that would be a lovely idea.” Pepper poured two glasses of her favorite Norwegian Silvaner and returned the smile. “Why don’t we revel around this glass of wine, mmm?”

“Bah, wine. Pour me some ale!” Thor’s smile only grew as he sipped the wine. “This is a fine revel indeed, Friend Pepper.”

The first time he’d asked her that, Friend Pepper, shall we revel, the Avengers had just finished a successful raid on a Hydra facility. Tony and Bruce had disappeared into the lab, the way they did, and Pepper had been left minding the party, the way she did.

Three or four or seventeen drinks in – it was unlike her to lose count, but she’d been more than a little irritated with Tony and drinking let her pretend she was’t – she’d found herself wondering what a god’s lips taste like. Several more drinks later, she’d found out.

The second time he’d asked her that, she’d been sure to stay sober enough to remember every detail of what making love a god was like.

And now, when he asked it, she knew that he meant one thing. And she never said no to him, although on occasion, she would say “maybe in a little bit, Thor. I need to wait until the crowd thins out before I start drinking.”

Today, she raised her eyebrows at him. “Do have a drink, Thor. Bruce? A drink? It’s a very nice wine.”

“Maybe a glass,” Burce allowed. He was watching her shyly; he often watched her cautiously when he thought she wouldn’t notice. Pepper was more than a little practiced at working with erratic geniuses, however: she always noticed.

“The more the merrier,” Thor boomed. He met Pepper’s eyes and his grin widened even further. “If two people make for an entertaining revel, than three shall make it a wonderful party, no?”

“I’m not exactly the life of the party,” Bruce demurred.

“Nonsense! I have seen none more lively than you, when you seek to be.”

“That’s not me, that’s the Big Guy.”

“Well, perhaps at another time, friend Big Guy can revel with us. But tonight, Friend Banner, would you partake in the fruit of the vine and –” Thor faltered, and picked up again, “–and then the fruit of other vines, with the Lady Pepper and I?”

He really was. Thor was really propositioning Bruce Banner. With Pepper, or at least assuming Pepper’s consent.

No, not assuming. He’d met her eyes again, and for a moment he looked very serious. He raised his eyebrows. Definitely a question.

Pepper considered the answer for all of a heartbeat and a half. “Come on, Bruce, we’d love your company. Since all the others have gone off –” She pitched her voice just right to sound playful rather than petulant. “–and left me alone with you two wonderful men. We might as well have a good time.”

And, with any luck, a good time would once again morph into a very good time. She smiled charmingly at Bruce and waited for him to take the bait.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/942984.html. You can comment here or there.

Giving in, a story (beginning) of Tir na Cali as per @Cluudle’s request

May18

Involves slavery and discussion of corporal punishment

The woman who owned Zachary – thanks to the stupid, fucked-up legal system of this stupid, fucked-up country – spent every Saturday with her family. She left early in the morning, returned around six in the evening, and retreated immediately to her room, speaking to no-one until the next morning.

Zachary loved it. It gave him an entire day where he didn’t have to dance attendance on her whims. He usually helped out with the housekeeping and cooking a bit, spent the early afternoon helping with the groundskeeping, and then spent the evening lounging in the garden, pretending he wasn’t a slave.

Today, she was late. Zach had enjoyed dinner with the rest of the help, although they were all watching the clock, enjoyed a long stroll around the property (since he wasn’t allowed to leave said property without an escort), and gone back to his room (such as it was) to grab a sweatshirt, and she still wasn’t home. Phil, her cook-slash-housekeeper, who for some reason liked the bitch, was pacing. Zach found himself watching the clock. Maybe she’d finally had it out with her family. Maybe she’d died in a crash on the way home. What happened to slaves if their owner died?

The garage door didn’t open until nine. By that point, Zach had camped out in the kitchen with Phil, trying not to stare at the clock. She’d been late before, but never this late. What if she didn’t come back? He hated her. He really did. But he knew her. And Phil, for whatever reason, would be upset. And Phil was a pretty cool guy, for a Californian slave.

When the door between the garage and the house slammed open, Phil bounced to his feet as if he was on strings. Wine bottle, glass, a selection of sweet crackers, tray: his eyes were glazed but he was going through the motions. His hands were trembling. He was scared.

Zach had done his best to ignore the way the staff, such as it was, jumped to every time the lady slammed home like this. But today, he couldn’t ignore it. And he couldn’t ignore the sick feeling like worry somewhere down in his own gut.

“I’ll take it up.” He held out his hands for the tray. “Look, if she’s going to holler at someone, it might as well be me. She’s got a lot of practice, and I’ve got a lot of practice taking it.”

It had, in truth, been almost two weeks since the last time she’d yelled at him, and nearly three since she punished him. He was losing his edge. Letting her take out her anger on him again might help that.

“You’re sure?” Paul was a skinny thing, looking a lot younger than the age he claimed. Zach had a hard time not feeling all protective of him and the other slaves.

“C’mon, give me the tray before she gets impatient.” He held out his hands. “I can take it.”

He could tell Paul didn’t want to give in; just as much as he could tell Paul was going to, and a few minutes later, Zach was knocking on Her Ladyship’s door.

“Lady Kaelin?” Surprising how it rolled off his tongue after all these weeks. “I have your dinner.” Such as it was.

A pause. Another pause. “Bring it in.”

He swung the door open carefully. She wasn’t beyond throwing shoes when she’d had a bad day.

The room was dark. He said, “I’m turning on the light,” remembered at the last minute to add, “Lady Kaelin,” and turned on the light.

She was in her bed, the blanket wrapped around her. Her face was red, her eyes were puffy. From the looks of things, she was still crying.

“Shit.” You weren’t supposed to swear in front of her Ladyship. “Shit, shit.” Zach kicked the tray table into position with his foot and dropped the food on it as quickly as he could without spilling anything. “Shit.”

“You said that already.” There was none of the usual poison in her voice, just something tired and bitter-sounding. “That’s good, thank you. That will be all.”

So easy to leave. So easy to just walk away. Saturday was his day off, and, besides, he was supposed to do what she told him to.

Zach flopped down into a sitting position between the bed and the tray table. He grabbed a cracker off the tray and offered it to her like it was finest caviar. “Want to talk about it?”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/942707.html. You can comment here or there.