Character Shorts
Balian
Title: 24/7
Author Nuit
Rating PG13
Summary: Orlando muses on being Balian and frilly knickers
The dawn was blissfully chilled, bit like those mid autumn
days back home when you could feel the edge of cold at the corner of your
breath, except here it didn’t herald log fires and toasted crumpets. Here it
was a moments grace before ferocity. They would start shooting early this
morning, culminating in a battle scene to defy the elements themselves, before
a shimmering white cross would appear from across the dunes. A saviour. Aye well he needed his own – a cup of tea
before it was too hot to even think about it.
Orlando pulled the sheets back, Jesus this costume wasn’t
doing much for his all over body tan, dark hands and face and lily white arse,
but there wasn’t a sun cream to match this intensity. Be burnt to a crisp in
seconds and a burnt arse wasn’t what you wanted on horseback. Maybe those
flowing robes were the best thing after all; allow the air to circulate around
your bits, waft in and out of those tents sipping ice water while lying on
exquisitely patterned rugs. The Arabs seemed to have got it sussed, none of
that riding around in chain metal. His mind jumped back to the script and he
grabbed limp paper from the desk. A saviour, his saviour, sure Balian would be
pleased, fuck, over the crescent moon, to see that Cross, all the bravery
aside, those mad buggers were done for. The same cross that sent his wife to
hell.
“Orlando!
Tea’s up!” Alright, I’ll be there in a minute He stretched up pulling muscles
over his rib cage, flattening for a moment those pecs he had developed. He
wasn’t so sure about those if the truth were known and his hands rubbed over
his chest, feeling its fullness. Rather be a skinny sod really. The air was
already building up to simmering, a
stickiness to his skin that just never went, a scent of skin and male that
seemed to be part of the air. Fuck would be good to be really cold, just for a
minute. Instead he had to dress and go be an actor.
It felt sort of weird putting boxers on underneath these
medieval clothes, like wearing frilly knickers under a tuxedo. Orlando giggled to himself, not of course
that he knew what frilly knickers felt like exactly, but all the same.
Concentrate man…Balian wasn’t the sort of bloke to be thinking about underwear
at a time like this. And neither would Robert de Niro be letting his mind wander
- would be living, breathing, shining, perfect knight 24/7, or whatever that
American expression was. Not half day closing on a Wednesday anyhow that’s for
sure.
The cotton shirt was loose at least, that would do for now, and
though it’s rough weave tingled his nipples as he turned to reach for the door
handle, a sobriety descended. What was it he had to say as he led the charge? “For Queen and Country”? No that wasn’t it
obviously, Orlando
rolled his eyes that was the Scouts motto. “God save the King”? “For Frodo”?!
Something anyhow. Maybe just call her name and hope she forgave him.
The door opened on a wider landscape than the human eye
could encompass and his pupils shrunk to pin pricks. Jesus it was fucking hot.
Title: Salvation
Author: nuit
Rating: PG13
Characters: Sibylla and Balian
Summary: Just trying
to get into their heads a bit
A/N: My absolute favourite bit of the film is his face when
she arrives with her plea, to save her from Guy, and Balian wrestles with his
impulses.
“Leave me"
Outside the hardy creatures of the desert had been invited
out by the moon to engage in their nightly frenzy of scuttling, crawling and
singing for a mate, in the few short hours of grace before the ferocious heat would
send them back seeking earth and wet and cool. She might have heard them if she
had been listening in the darkness of her rooms, the only glow from candles
flickering in the incense soaked breeze, but instead her mind wrestled between
hope and fear. She had slipped down into jasmine laced water and let it relieve
her of the dust that seemed to find every pore. She had allowed and welcomed
the soft gentle hands that dried her, polished her, and scented her skin with the
oils of persuasion and hope while she sunk deeper still into sex drowsy
memories of sun baked Ibelin and his bed. Now with henna patterned fingers she
drew with kohl around her eyes.
He had smiled at her and loved her with an intensity she
could hardly bear to look upon. Surely he could not now refuse her, refuse her
brother, refuse a king? She would stand
before him naked in Queenly robes, layers of State and formality that barely covered
her raw exposed need for him. Her hands struggled with their duty, preferring
to remember the smooth hard of his body, tracing over his back and his belly
and down to where he wanted her most. If she shut her eyes she could still hear
him moan, feel him move to cover her.
The clatter and murmur behind carved wood screens broke his
spell and hers. Balian, Baron of Ibelin, would not do the Kings bidding and she
felt the ground fall from her feet. The horse was ready, trusted servants
averted their eyes from her as she swung her leg over the exquisite saddle to race
to the palace in a flurry of hard night hash breath and veils.
His love warmed soul leapt from his heart and into his mouth
as her horse panted into the courtyard “Sibylla”. The scent of her reached him
first as she crossed the arch bounded square, musk and desert flowers that
would have him fall again, but it was her stained mouth that demanded “Who are
you to refuse a king?” She was too close now, her lips and her fingers on his
skin pleading and offering the world, enclosing him in silk caresses and asking
him another question. His body strained to answer, to pull her to him, to taste
her mouth and her sex again, to find its salvation in her kisses.
And was his soul not already damned? Destined to writhe in
hell for eternity with his wife? Her sad death was no match for one blackened by
illegitimacy, murder, adultery and doubt. Jerusalem
had need of a perfect knight still.
He could feel her breath on his face, the quickening of his
blood through veins, the swell of his body seeking hers and he closed his eyes
to deny them both “May God forgive me…No”
Title: Good night Irene
Author: Nuit
Category: movie fan fic- KOH
Type: Romance, sex, piss taking
Rating: R
Characters: A couple of
women on a film set in North Africa and Balian, sort of
Warnings: None
particularly except for perhaps some swearing (imagine..) and alarming purple
prose. Knights do that to you. The French I am sure is substandard, but at least is fairly obvious to
non speakers. All corrections taken in good heart- should it be Vien or Venez at
the end there?? ;P
Good Night
Irene
“Do you think he ever keeps that costume on…while he…you
know…?”
Across the trestle table her lunch companion coughed a bit on a
mouthful of couscous and lamb “While he...you
knows?”
“Alright, while he” her voice lowered just a little as
she leaned forwards “has sex. Just for a change…to make things more interesting”
Two pairs of eyes squinted out from under the billowing canvas into the near
distance at the man sitting astride a handsome proud horse. His body encased in
chain metal despite the heat, sweltering as the bright light reflection from his
helmet half blinded his appreciative observers. His tall frame cast barely a
shadow in the midday sun, whilst around him the flags of competing cultures
billowed in what passed for a breeze. It was hard to imagine that he wasn’t some
kind of vision from the past as the air shimmered and wavered around him
The woman sitting across the twentieth century Formica grinned in the
here and now and shook her head “MORE interesting? Jeez Irene what sort of men
do you date back home, and more to the point how about you introduce me to some
of them?”
“I think you might be disappointed” Irene smiled back and put
a hand on her lunch mate’s forearm in a gesture of friendship that said all this
might be new but it had already sunk down deep “anyhow, I just meant, you know,
that he might consider it, to add a bit of fun”
“No I don’t know as it happens! Never been much of a
one for bedroom games truth be told, just a straight…Anyway yeah, lets think it
though, since you brought it up and we still got 15 minutes left of lunch hour.
Hmmm well that armour might make access a bit of an issue, and the neighbours
might be alarmed by the clanking, especially in this here tent city. Any
particular reason you ask?”
“Just wondering”
A snort came from
the other side of the table “Right Irene! Having nothing better to entertain
yourself other than tech assistance to the whole bloody film crew, scraping sand
out of every crevice 24/7, and I don’t mean the camera lens, and you are
wondering about whether he might consider shagging you in chain metal, just by
way of passing some time?”
“SSSH!” a giggle however undercut the
seriousness of the reprimand “…Maybe...There’s something about the gravity of
the task you know? The helmet hiding the face, all that manly warring honour
thing, not to mention needing a compliant young maiden to ease the aching
muscles and the sore heart of course. Takes undressing on to a whole different
plane right?”
“I should fucking say! CLUNK! “Hey mind my toe with that
bloody thing!’ springs to mind”
“Sheena!” Irene was holding her hand to
her mouth to try to contain the mirth “Alright alright. But take this Balian
fella. You read the script? He brings peace to the Middle East because of his own tortured soul in a way, he
is the only man who can because he is out on his own, an outcast from the
traditional knight. OK he does all that holding the sword up against his face
and killing indiscriminately at the behest of a imperialist war and all that,
but all the while wrestling with THE right thing, the moral thing for him as a
individual”
“Well except for the fact that he shags someone else’s
wife…that aside. Hang on one moment...I see a pattern emerging in these Knights
of yours” a wink accompanied the emphasis “what about that Lancelot? You think
it mentions that in the Code of the Brethren Knights (Shining) Subsection 3a) If
at all possible have tryst with Kings wife leading to much soul searching and
self flagellation before thinking ‘Ah Fuck it’?”
“Picky picky…it is not
all about lust. He is an honourable man- someone who acts for the greater good
and yet his own soul is up for grabs. AND he rides around in chain mail, his
hips swaying with the horses movement while his sword is dangerously and
portentously sheathed, just waiting for the opportune moment.”
Sheena
laughed and tapped the end of her cigarette into the tin ashtray “Thought you
said it wasn’t all about lust?! Ah well fair enough, but since you mention
opportune moments have you considered other variations? What about asking him to
get his shirt all salty wet, donning a large hoop earring, a moody downcast
expression and maybe a parrot on the shoulder for extra authenticity?” Sheena
leaned forward to add and extra “arrrgghh” for emphasis before her eyes sparkled
again “Hey now! Hold on a minute, I got a better one! Get him to dig out that
buttoned waistcoat and his pistol, scabby old hat and a smouldering glance
before he gives you one of those larrikin winks “Take a ride into the Bush with
me Lass” and you reply “Talk to me like an Aussie Irish outlaw, Babe, and I am
yours”
It was Irene’s turn to almost choke on the tagine as she laughed
out loud as she tried her hand at the desired accent “Well darlin’ that’s not
without it’s merits as a plan fer sure, fer sure”
“No shit” There was
another spoonful of couscous and a slurp of a little too warm water before
Sheena sat back into her chair and reached for the pouch of tobacco on the
table, shoving it back into her pocket without her eyes leaving the outline of
the man outside “You thinking of asking him then?”
Irene took a sharp
intake of breath “You are joking! He wouldn’t even look at me, never mind accede
to my demands for fancy dress”
“Well you never know! Might be a bit
lonely out here in the desert”
“Oh thanks! That makes me feel a lot
better” Both women however were still giggling as they stood and, having
negotiated the maze of tables and chairs laid out like some mad hatters English
tea party in the middle of the desert, scraped the remainder of lunch into the
plastic trays provided by the catering staff. With renewed vigour brought on by
a shared belief in their own ability to make the best of a bad job they braced
themselves to step out once more into the blaze of the Moroccan sun.
*
Truth was she always had had a thing for Knights in shining armour,
metaphorically at least. They didn’t need to have polished it with the elbow
grease of tradition, didn’t need to be Daz squeaky clean, well hardly clean at
all frankly. But they had to be honourable in a way that went beyond slavish
duty to Queen and country, or King and religion. Oh alright so that was
negotiable as well. Some of them were excused from anything very much and
allowed just to be dashing. Blame Robert Plant and his flowing locks galloping
across the ocean’s dunes on a white charger, climbing the large tower and
vanquishing the baddie with a swing of his not insubstantial knife…blade…hell
HUGE sword all in pursuit of a fair maiden in a nightdress, conveniently, and
shag on a deer skin in front of a roaring log fire
But in general they
had to have a valiant purpose in life and a passion to match. It was all a
little embarrassing to be frank. Irene was not one for a wistful gaze as her
love sailed off to vanquish the so called politically incorrect enemy. She was
more usually cast in her dreams as the full figured scullery maid, bidding a
last friendly, and very enthusiastic, 'Goodbye' from the homeland, rather than
the chaste virgin lamenting lost love while strolling around the windy turrets,
looking so thin as to be practically translucent. But even if she didn’t see
herself needing smelling salts and a someone to catch her in a full damselly
swoon, nevertheless a man with a mission, preferably requiring a horse, a large
weapon and not inconsequential facial hair was a hit every time.
So it
was with some delight that her afternoon passed, with frequent and lip licking
daydreams padded out, as it were, by the very real vision in front of her eyes.
To all intents and purposes, if she ignored the southern counties accent between
takes, a most perfect Middle Ages Knight. Christ, this was one hell of a job,
technical assistant to a film crew.
Though in fact there was never much
to stay up for in the evenings- they were too far from the nearest town, too far
from anywhere in fact, there was no alcohol and the actors kept themselves to
themselves- and since she was pretty much exhausted after a day in that heat,
she often retired after supper in the catering tent. Tonight was no exception,
apart from that, after a meal spent elaborating on some of her less embarrassing
fantasies with Sheena, she found herself hurrying a little more than usual to
the welcome cool of a night under canvas
Mostly she retired to her tent
to read or to write scribbled notes in a journal or to just lie there amid the
gradually rising cacophony of sounds from the desert animals. Who knew such a
place could hold such life? But tonight she found herself curling down into her
sleeping bag with something of a grin, glad at last to have some peace to let
her mind expand into dreams and some privacy to explore the thought
*
“Excuse the roughness of my hands, they are those of a blacksmith and a
knight” At least that was what it sounded like in her head, in fact the words
from his mouth so close to hers were whispering “Excusez la rugosité de mes
mains, ils sont ceux d'un forgeron et d'un chevalier, ah mademoiselle…” the warm
of his breath entering her own gasp, he was swaying with suppressed desire to
abandon himself, still surprised, reminded, reliving a gentleness softness of
white skin beneath his fingers and raising his eyes momentarily from the nipples
that tickled against his palms to look into her face, he focused on a question
she did not yet know.
“Ca va…” her own hands in his unruly hair and
pulling his mouth to hers in answer to whatever it was, stoking his fire, a
tinderbox of promised flame that she would have ignite her own. Under her own
hands the muscles of his body moved with ease, smooth with the efforts of
warfare and hard riding, and naked but for rough cotton. A stab of her own words
in some other place jolted her; here there was no chain mail, no hard iron, just
rough cotton which was damp from the desert and his exertions. Damp like his
skin. Her hands slid up inside the white shirt to find his body, a broad
hairless chest and shivering at her touch, held from pressing down onto her only
by the reserve in his arms. His head dropped, the strands of his hair covering
the dark in his eyes
“Mademoiselle…petite... J’ai besoin…”
“Oui,
mon Chevalier de la France” She didn’t need to touch to know his need, she could
breath it, hear it, feel it in her own belly and in the glance of his cock over
her hips, though perhaps he had desire for something else too. A dream of his
own to ride out into the desert for. “J'ai tous les deux aussi”
His hand
pulled at the material that lingered around her legs, allowing his hips to sink
against hers as his mouth did not kiss but a made a demand to open for him, to
make him imagine, remember, loose it all. The softer hide of his breeches slid
down over perfect thighs in the seconds that he moved from her, no clanging
metal nor unwelcoming steel, just warm silk limbs and insistent desire, hands
struggling to let him free before the caustic heat of penetration burst through
into the blissful soft welcome of her body. “Mon Dieu!” he moved steadily and
persistently, her body indenting the sand beneath her, his hips rocking against
accepting curves and her fevered cries. Outside the whinnying of horses and the
soft murmur of the guards patrol passing the tent had them hold still for a
moment, his cock deep inside her and his eyes shut tight to not let go there and
then, until the silence of the noisy desert returned in the dark. He took a
breath of steadfast resolve, the suggestion of his painful withdrawal making her
grab at the tensed ass between her legs
“Ma petite…it will be too late
to stop”
“Balian of Ibelin, C'est un rêve...a dream…n'est-ce pas? Venez
avec moi!” In one corner of her mind a voice winced at ordering around a Knight,
but his smile almost took her right then and he nodded in an acquiescent hope
that she was either right or perhaps his duty to a fair maiden overrode other
considerations, before he slipped deep and true into her body and into the
sounds of her ecstasy.
*
Irene stirred in the necessary amount
of thick brown syrup to make it drinkable and looked over the canteen tent to
where the actors were doing just the same, wincing at the way that their teeth
were melting in unison.
“Hey, what’s up?” Sheena plonked herself down on
the opposite chair and grinned “look like you’ve been up all night, don’t tell
me he turned up all clanking and rusty and asking you to oil his rivets?”
Irene may have spat out her coffee but she tried to compose herself
"Nah, maybe he didn't need the armour afterall"
Roux
Title: Olive Oil Sun
Author: Nuit
Rating:pg13
Summary: He is fucking beautiful, that's all
“Will that be a penny or a centime I will have to pay for them now? I have
both”
He always turned up when she had stopped thinking about him, when she least
expected- maybe that was just the definition of a River Rat, or maybe it was
simply that he had fixed the squeak in the door. “Your thoughts I was
meaning…the chocolate is mine for the taking” a deep Irish whisper kissed at
her ear and long fingers splayed over the round of her belly under the cocoa
powdered apron.
“Is that so? And you think I come for free also Roux?” her red mouth was
smiling all the same when she turned around to face him, the edge of the worn
wooden table against her back, his hips too close to ignore. Mon Dieu he was
beautiful. Returned from the south tanned and full of olive oil sun drips and
lazy boat days brushed through the lavender filled banks.
“Ah no...To you I owe a debt the size of Galway,
for whiling the hours with me on that boat. Ah sure you were there, did yer not
feel it? All that water trickling through the channels of reeds, and all the
while the planks creaking cool in the heat” his hands following their own
currents as he spoke. Well she could feel it now.
He would take her freedom and
tie it with his.
Jimmy Connelly
Title: Nothing is out of reach if you’ve got long arms
Author:
Nuit
Rating:R
Warnings: Language and Sex of a lonesome kind
(implied)
Characters: Jimmy Connelly and the film crew
Summary: Jimmy
reflects on his life, his Dad and Tracey in the front of his
float
Disclaimer: I own nothing, don't even like milk
A/N:Part of a Fiction Challenge at OL. It was a
delight to watch this again. I could have written a serious bit about racism and
community, ideas and fighting back, but I chose smut. Hey and forget 'is it the
fabric?' debate, watch him walk down the tunnel in his silk shorts. Banner by
Artanis- thank you!
'Nothing is out of reach if you’ve got long arms’
He is deep my old
man, though I don’t think he had this in mind exactly, more like reaching for
your dreams and grabbing your true potential in life. Never spoke a truer word,
mind I shouldn't think there’s much call for those in the nick. Deep thoughts
that is. Mr Holliday at school though…well he seemed to think the
opposite…oh… “Jimmy is one of the least promising students I have ever
had the displeasure to teach, Mr Connelly, one would like to say
‘he will go far’ but in this case I can only pray that it will be as far away
from my class room as possible” Yes those were his exact words…oh, yeah Baby,
yeah…Me old man took it surprisingly well I thought, just before he hit Mr
Holliday and we were escorted from the school premises. Showed him though didn’t
I? Got me own milk round now and Mr Bennet even says…Mum will hit the roof if
she has to wash my duvet another time this week...says I might be good
enough to be Regional Manager one day. Faster baby! Yeah like that! Jesus
that Tracey, she knows what to do with her hands, said she wanted a ride in the
float. Didn’t know she meant that sort of destination, all over me like jam on
yer pudding soon as we pulled out of the depot on to the High Street. ‘Keep yer
hands on the throttle and your eyes on the road Jimmy’ she said, well I tell you
it was a wonder we didn’t mount the pavement on the corner of Hawthorne Rise by
the flats when she got her fingers under my poppers...oh say my name! The
empties were all rattling in the back on the dual carriageway, wouldn’t be
surprised if some of the old geezers in the sheltered housing next to the
roundabout thought their time had come we took that curve so fast. I am sure Mr
Bennet won’t notice the rubber off the tyres That’s it! Right there! Christ
almighty! ‘Stop here’ she says, well was right under the flyover and I could
just about hear her over the rumble of wheels a few feet over our heads ‘Take me
Jimmy’ she says well was a bit of a manoeuvre, what with the gear stick and the
hand brake and that crate of gold top I had forgotten to unload. Still there she
was on the edge of the plastic seat waiting for me. Stan never said it would be
over so quick though! She’d hardly got her hands into my bobble hat. What the
fuck is that noise? Oh baby…I am gonna…
“Jimmy? Morning! We are
the film crew; we will be filming you 24 hours a day up to the
fight”
Shit! “Oh! Of course the fight! Who’d have thought it? Jimmy
Connelly fighting Jose Mendez for the Championship belt?” Bollocks! The film
crew! I wish me mum hadn’t put the spaceship cover on me bed; they will think I
am a right wanker.
“So tell us, how does Jimmy Connelly start his
day?”
“Erm…well…as you probably noticed, I normally start with a set of
50 sit ups...yeah, sit ups...49…50” Jesus
Legolas
TITLE: Sympathy for the Elf
AUTHOR: Nuit
RATING: R
WARNINGS: None really apart from being a bit bloody morose
SUMMARY:
Legolas goes home with a kiss from a friendly young
man. Nothing wrong with being friendly right?
DISCLAIMER: The Elf belongs to New Line Cinema. Thoughts of immortality to the human psyche.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I was thinking about
mortality and celebrating each day to be honest,
Kali's gift and all that. I am appallingly ignorant of Tolkien, and so I
apologise. I know that Legolas sailed off to Valinor eventually with Gimli after
Aragorn's death, I wondered what might have happened after Gimli died too (I
read that mortals were not given immortality there) shit it isn't canon! God forbid, but I was thinking about the power of emotion that Legolas felt in
Middle Earth and whether that would have pulled him back. Oh and the quote from
Bush is a real one- but from a radio interview not on the telly, so that bit
isn't real..heeh
Thanks to artanis for banner, a challenge over on OL, and a wink to Mick Jagger for the title.
Sympathy for the
Elf
Long thin fingers stroked down the sheen of condensation on the
outside of the tall glass. They had long since stopped tingling when he drank,
no matter how empty the bottle. A single gulp swallowed three shots, watered
down at least a little with tonic. Well it was early yet; the bar still only
half full in that in between time after the offices emptied and the serious
drinking began. The time when you good got served easily, without waiting.
Perhaps though he was always waiting for something.
“Same again is it
Sir?”
“I will take the bottle”
The young man’s faced screwed up a
bit “We don’t do take out” he leaned a little further forward conspiratorially
“any how you might want to try the Offy down the road- cheaper than buyin’ it
here”
“I will take the bottle and drink it here” a crisp quiet voice
answered him before a note of tenderness folded over the sentence; he had
learned that they liked that, even from strangers “but thank you. Keep the
change” and a confused but hopeful smile skittered over the bartenders
face.
Folding the note quickly in two he raised his eyes to wonder if
there was more “Anything you like mate, give me a nod. Bobby, that’s my name”
But the words bounced off the broad back that disappeared into the recess of the
bar, the straightest blonde hair just catching the swirl of warmed smoke
air.
By the Valar he hoped there would be no trouble tonight, it followed
him it seemed, men who took exception to his face, his unspeakable unfathomable
strangeness, the attraction he held for their women, or themselves. Men who
found themselves wishing they had left well alone in the dark alleys behind the
next pub or club or dive, within an inch of their lives and pleading for mercy
against silver spun knives and cold hard eyes. He was good at being merciful,
but he was tired.
Oh he had fought alongside men, filled with zeal to
carry on the alliance forged in Middle Earth, finding the honour, comradeship
and comfort that had caressed and warmed his return from the perfection of
Valinor into the mud and blood and tumult of the world of men. Here also he
could strive to remember the hero, friend and king that had commanded his
allegiance. And so his bow and his sword fell behind those who spoke of freedom
and justice, were called upon and paid for in the smarting hail of arrows and
the ringing crash of metal. He could hardly recall now, as the liquid finally
reached the cold of his blood, the names of those whose battles he had fought.
Harold killed by an arrow in the eye, Cromwell and Robespierre over the water
bringing down hallowed dynasties and building up their own, Bolsheviks and
freedom fighters and desperation in the centuries when the bow and sword gave
way to the cannon and the gun and atomic implosion, revolutionary wars to almost
Armageddon. Sauron perhaps had the last word.
A heavier clunk sounded as
the bottle touched the side of his glass. Empty. In the cool blue of his eyes
the light of a screen flickered, a half heard voice mouthed words above the thud
of the jukebox “And because we are committed to the God-given worth of every
life, we strive to promote respect for human dignity. Today, all who live in
tyranny and all who yearn for freedom can know that America stands with them.”
Photographer’s flashes and a man speaking on the 4th of July. He looked up to
the bar with a deep hard breath “I think that calls for another”
He had
slipped into company sometimes when fashion and trend allowed, ha, at least the
late 20th century had delivered him the Goths and the hippies and the
androgynous rebels so that he could walk unnoticed in a crowd of displaced
identities. If he took enough he could even forget, forget that he didn’t belong
even in a bunch of misfits. His silken slip of a body slid through gathering
crowds to reach the dark wood bar, now wet with early evening pre dinner excess
spills, and as he waited he could feel the gaze of many and the gasp of a few
“Another bottle please. Bobby...was that it? Your name”
The young man
behind the bar beamed back “Yeah. You sure? Well I suppose you are still
standing” a chirpy grin preceded a more serious look “I am not being funny…but
you might want to watch your back…there’s some blokes over there… ” Bobby didn’t
know quite how to turn his eyes away from the cloud of blue sad resignation
“listen, my shift ends in an hour; I have been here all day. We could go
somewhere more friendly…you know what I mean?”
Clear white lids covered
his eyes “Bobby, how far is it to the sea?”
A small grin crossed the
bartenders face and a spread of warmth that told him that he was right, perhaps
“what Brighton you mean? Be there before 10 if we bomb it”
“An hour
before you finish? Then give me another bottle”
****
Seagulls
cawed from the roof of the bed and breakfast as the thick sea weed sea rattled
over the pebbles. If the window hadn’t been open to the salt he might have slept
all day but cerulean blue eyes flickered and sighed. On the pillow next to his,
dark curls and the contentment of sex made him smile despite himself, and he
reached to touch the lips that had sustained and fortified him. The tangle of
boil washed sheets and limbs held him briefly as he contemplated the last
morning in the world of men but despite a small murmur of ‘yes’ twitching at the
corner of that mouth, still entwined in sleep and passing back into dreams, he
slid from the covers to walk to the window, deep and wide and open to the sea.
Far from the open desolate shores of Middle Earth he took in the pier and the
beach huts, the fun fair and the promenade, but in the roar of his ears the
unending tide pulled at the stones and his heart. He would find a boat.
“Will you come
back to bed?” a groggy voice filtered into his thoughts before he turned,
“Jesus” silhouetted in the first light he was perfection and unattained “who are
you?”
Stepping back to the bed he watched his own tender fingers follow
mortal contours that would sink and fall, muscles that would wane and skin that
would dry to the bone as he gathered the sound of sighs and moans to his soul.
“It doesn’t matter. Tell me Bobby, do you have hope?”
Lust laden eyes
cleared for a second to catch deep blue “it is just a matter of time mate” A wry
smile nodded back and Legolas opened his mouth to taste his last human kiss.
Jack Sparrow
Author: Nuit
Rating :A for
weird sex
Characters: Jack Sparrow and Tia Dalma
Summary: I always
wanted to know what Tia meant when she said "But you enjoyed it well enough at
de time" on the dunes of Davy Jones Locker, this is what my twisted mind came up
with.
I have never had peyote, but I imagine it to be pretty freaky –
shamanistic Jack however quite appealing , to me anyhow. I have always seen him
as a lion spirit
Animal Dreams
“Der’s no need to use in fightin’ it Jack. Is too late”. He grimaced a
little, what foolishness has persuaded him to take a sip of that foul smelling
concoction he could not now imagine. Well that was not be entirely true, he did
know the reason and she was sitting directly in front of him, watching him
intently as if she expected him to do something momentous, when in actual fact
what he was doing was feeling increasingly uncomfortable. Demeter’s damsons,
whatever it was; the stuff was already reaching its bony fingers into his
thoughts. Clearly the woman had addled his brain
He swayed a little at
the fuzziness that flurried across his eyes and was gone again in an instant, a
dare say worrying prelude to what was around the corner. If there were indeed
corners instead of round full brown…oh he wished she would either take that
dress off or cover herself, those breasts pushed up high were enough to drive a
man to distraction and he was having enough trouble concentrating as it was. A
fact she was evidently most aware of since she leaned to let him swim into her
aura, to let him taste the warm air around her body, oh this was most promising.
“I am not fighting it Luv” his own voice surprisingly low “on the
contrary. You forget I have been around this ocean many times…” his hand
demonstrated with a large arc, which seemed to leave a trail in the thick air.
Swallowing slightly he continued “In fact once on the island of Haiti, I had
occasion to drink something not unlike this…” What the devil was that? His eyes
turned quickly into the corner of the room to search for the source of that low
rumble of a snarl, only to find his eyes didn’t seem to follow his head and,
instead of clarity, a swirl of catch up colour flooded in to obscure his view.
She grinned, the blue black of her teeth revealed against a pink tongue
“Der’s nuttin’ like this you have tasted Jack Sparrow...but don’t you worry now,
Calypso she take good care of you…”
He had, that very afternoon, nodded
quite contentedly to himself when, during an entertaining afternoon of warm rum
and warmer boots-up-on-the table conversation, a small man had scurried into the
bar and, half bending to be certain of discretion, whispered into Jack’s ear a
request. Jack had nodded and lifted the heels of his boots back to the ground
with what might have been described as a rather smug resignation, before
grinning “Oh she does, does she?” and downing the remains of his tankard. After
all it wasn’t every man who was summonsed by a Goddess, albeit a one in human
form, never mind one who made her intentions on his body quite so clear Who was
he to deny such a woman? Maybe she had forgiven him at least for her
incarceration on earth.
The route had been somewhat tortuous to her
shack in the swamps, passing places that he seemed to see from all angles and
yet none at all, and since the boatman was less than communicative, his message
from apparently all he needed to convey, Jack had sat back and mused on what was
waiting for him. “Tia Dalma, she want the pleasure of your company dis night” he
had tipped his head this way and that weighing up any hidden hint of implied
threat to his person, alighting on whether it meant after this night he wouldn’t
be capable of any pleasure as a result no doubt of some hex or other, but
rejecting that with some hearty optimism. Surely she would know...he hadn’t
exactly embraced the idea of Calypso as mortal prisoner, if the truth be known
more from a concern about reprisal than ethics, but at the very least he had
insisted on a suitably decorative vessel, and for that surely she would be
appreciative.
The quiet lull of the rhythmic oars and the flicker of
flames through the mangroves however had left him in a state of relaxed
anticipation by the time a rope was flung out to secure the vessel to the jetty,
and he even found himself impressing the boatman with a rather generous coin for
his trouble before climbing the rickety wooden stairs and lightly banging on the
door post. That had been an hour ago, an hour during which she had allowed him
to slip into cosy warm expectations before she had offered him a sip of a most
potent brew. Now he was wondering if he would ever be leaving.
“Why
don’t you lie down wit me?” That seemed a simple enough request, if indeed he
could have moved his legs, but a jolt of fear surged as the muscles failed to
respond to his concentrated effort, the core of him slipping down into somewhere
else.
He screwed up his eyes and clenched his teeth together to gather
some thought in a straight row “I would happily comply, Tia darling, if I could
move-what was that concoction? I may just have taken a drop too much…I don’t
suppose you have an antidote about your person? Hidden somewhere? In those
skirts of yours perhaps” He leaned further forward, unwisely over estimating his
balance and almost sending himself face first into her lap, not normally
something to complain about except that here he was struggling to maintain
control. Well he thought he said that, could have sworn his mouth moved.
“Der’s no antidote known to man, nor mortal woman neither” She was
laughing, well not exactly at him, there was a small tinge of affection to her
voice, at least the bit of him that always held onto a thin strand of hope
suggested so. All the same her merriment filled the room somehow and he closed
his eyes to stop the movement of things that really should have been stationary.
“Jack Sparrow takin’ too much? Well dat runs against the laws of nature…You are
not going to disappoint me are you? And there was me thinkin’ you was made of
sterner stuff…”
A knot of fear twisted like the mating of snakes in his
stomach as the purring snarl he had heard a moment before prowled nearer, he
struggled against the desire to look, since in truth he wasn’t sure he wanted to
see. All he knew was that the hackles on the back of his neck were rising, his
body reacting instinctually while it seemed to be disobeying his express intent
and instruction, which at this precise moment was to move his legs and walk
directly out of this shack, fast, back to his little boat and back to the comfy
afternoon he had so lamentably left behind. Maybe he had been a little over
optimistic about her clemency.
What he could feel now was nails, sharp
nails on his face and hot breath that filled his nose. With a gasp of
determination his eyes sprang open. Almost surprised to see her face still so
close to his, he summoned at least his tongue to do his bidding “If perhaps you
could see your way to putting the cat out at least? Whatever it is that you have
planned, I am sure you will appreciate that a man might have pause in the
company of one of your little pets, or are we to have a tour of your menagerie
tonight? Had you mentioned we were to be comparing dangerous animals I might
have brought some of my own… ”
The ends of whiskers brushed his cheek,
coarse and sensitive both, before her voice chuckled and half whispered “oh but
you did - let ‘im come, wicked Jack…” and his head fell back against the carved
wooden chair.
If the walls of the shack were still there when he opened
his eyes, he couldn’t feel them-instead he sensed rather than saw himself
surrounded by the expanse of dark night and the hard earth under his back. His
breath suddenly stolen by the thud of huge black paws on his chest and the glare
of green cat eyes inches from his, he felt his throat constrict, only allowing a
growl of surprise and shock. Exposed fangs beneath curled lips weighed him up
him as the panther bent closer on it’s haunches- ‘supper or sport?’ and he felt
something else flood back into his veins. Desire
Let ‘im come wicked Jack.
‘Nice Kitty’
didn’t seem quite the thing to say, though he thought he should say something,
so he reached up with his hand to feel the blue black plush with tentative
slowness. The ships cat was not a million miles from this one in evolution, and
sometimes, just sometimes, a stroke behind the ears had her lay down in an
unseemly display of pleasure, a moment of gracious allowing altruism, that left
her momentarily off guard. Well it might just work. A low snarl though had his
hand in an instant, a graze of teeth over skin left him in no doubt that he was
not to be let off so lightly and he winced at the mix of his blood and her
saliva mingled in a drip down his arm. But the paws stayed still, her eyes
waiting for him to move, seeing what way her prey would chose.
But here
in this place there were no more muscles that defied him, here he could feel his
body filled with energy, burning almost with adrenalin and survival, and Jack
nodded with recognition just slightly before a split second took him to what
might not have been the wisest but was the most natural choice. With one
movement he grabbed the scruff of her neck and swung his body over pressing her
silk fur down against his chest. She flailed for a moment or two underneath him
before her claws caught hold of his naked back, a stinging rip of flesh that had
him growl, and in a flurry of tails and hair they twisted together wrestling
close and unaware of the distance they travelled, bound up only in their
struggle. Unholy wails and spitting fur she bit him and clawed at him and pushed
against his strength, his own limbs powerful dark golden and ferocious holding
her to him and against him all at the same time
I knew that he would come
She was
calming now, no less dangerous but not opposing him with such viciousness,
something about it being established who he was, and Jack for the first time
felt the rasp of her tongue over his neck. Coarse and rough but dipping into the
bowl of cream all the same, she licked him, perhaps Kitty would lie down after
all. She walked round in conspiring circles, her tail lifted and her legs
powerful, inviting him to try, to risk disappointing her, slipping in and out of
shadow, her scent pulling him. With a leap he caught her, heavy on her shoulders
to force her down to the ground
His thoughts extinguished Jack roared at
the moon, the dreads of his mane flying in the moment she submitted, a bite to
the back of her neck that held her still and rigid to take him, a yelp of
satiated acceptance all he heard as he came
~~~~~~~~
“I am I right in
thinking I am still in one piece?” his mouth tasted like the dregs of the
barrel, and his head like he had one land on it .
“All but a few lumps
of flesh dat’s missin’ but you enjoyed it well enough at de time” Jack turned to
where Tia lay beside him on the wooden floor, her mortal form softer now,
exposed, and her hands caressing the stinging scratches and marks on his chest.
Stretching forward a soft lick to a wound that still ran red raw made him wince
and her laugh, mixing with prophecy and dread both she took one last nip with
her teeth “Der’s no man made Calypso purr like that. But him part of you Jack
Sparrow, and you is going to need him”
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