[There is that mix of feeling again. She feels him come inside her, feels the lust and the passion in the way he growls and tosses her like she’s a rag doll. No one else treats her this way, no one would dare. She’s had other lovers, men who did as they were bid or women she could dominate entirely, but she’s never had anyone else who challenged her. Who threw her, who moved her body like it was just an extension of his own.
Maybe that’s why she kept such an interest on him.
It’s his beard the does it, the roughness where he hasn’t shaved in a few days brushing on the smooth, sensitive skin of her thighs. She arches up, her fingers in the thick furs, her thighs clamping against his head as she screams at the first touch of his tongue on her. She’s wet and messy and hot.]
Please, lion, please, please.
[Its gibberish, soon, her pleas falling in and out of accented English and desperate panting.]
[ Perhaps if he knew another way to be well enough, he might have become one of her obedient boys, and maybe she never would have cared for him as much. But it's as much in his nature to demand control as it is in hers, and from the start he thought nothing of demanding it from her as well. And she allowed him to do it. Because they both learned the value of a push and pull, of sometimes stepping back to let other, capable hands take the lead.
This is one of those times when he demands because he can't not, and the way he licks his own come out of her radiantly hot pussy is his form of obedience, because if it was up to him he'd keep everything inside her, fill her up with it and leave it like some kind of banner with his name on it. Charles Vane was here.
Every raw mark on his body from her claws and teeth says the same thing about her.
He adds his fingers to the work his tongue is doing, two fingers rolling her clit as his tongue keeps licking her out. He may not have a cat tongue to offer, but that doesn't mean he can't get her clean. ]
[She bucks against him, pressing her cunt against his face. Between the knowledge that he's doing as he's told and the snarl of his beard over her tender skin, along with his fingers, the memory of his dick in her just moments ago, the smell-
It's a wonder she lasts even long enough to scream his name, her eyes closing tight as she comes, her hips dropping down against the furs and her body loosening. She takes a ragged breath and reaches for him, to take his hand, his arm, anything to pull him up against her. She wants a kiss.]
Hold me?
[She asks as if he might say no. It takes a lot to make her vulnerable like that.]
[ He grabs her hip for the leverage to keep his face right where it is as she thrusts her spasming cunt against his face, but when she sinks back, he lets her go. One rugged cheek is just touching her thigh when he feels her hands grasping at him, and Charles lifts his head, pushes himself up, leaves a trail of worshipful kisses up the length of her body.
He kisses her, when he reaches her mouth, letting her taste herself mixed with himself on his tongue, and he draws her into his arms as he stretches out beside her. He'd never say no to this. She's vulnerable because she knows that so well.
[She watches him, her eyes dark as he kisses his way up her body, and then kisses him back with equal enthusiasm. He tastes like everything between them, and even with the two orgasms it sends heat pulsing down her body.
She's ignores that pulse to come in closer, tangling her legs around his and tucking herself close.]
I love you.
[She says it simply, as simply as she can manage it. She didn't say it, for so long, unsure of what she felt, and secretive. She almost never says it now, although he knows, of course he knows. She's not subtle; it's in how she turns her body his way, how she is always aware of where he is in a room when he's near, how her face lights up when she sees him. How much she loves to touch him.
But she doesn't say it. When they meet, after months. Before they say goodbye, when he leaves her in their bed to go to sea. That's it. Too much and it loses power, maybe. Or, worse; too much and it suggests something else.
[ He strokes her like a cat as they lie together, fingers in her hair that knead the back of her neck and trail down her spine, lingering in the spot where he's watched her sprout a tail from nowhere more times than he can now count.
They're both protective of those three words, and even now he doesn't say them back, because they're more than just a call-and-response. Like sharing the most precious gifts he choose for her out of every haul he brings back, they exchange the words out loud like gemstones, precious and finite.
But every action shows it anyway. ]
A gift?
[ Making her come twice before he's even gotten to shore is the gift as far as he's concerned. But this is interesting. ]
[She looks up at him, and reaches for her dress, hooks a finger on something in the waistband, and tugs. There's a little bag, and inside is a necklace made of thick knotted leather. She's not the only one who likes jewelry, and he likes pieces that are broad and loud.
This one comes with something extra.
At the end is a gold-capped claw, thick and the size of a blade, the end wickedly sharp.]
Here.
[She says it.]
It's mine. I pulled it out for you.
[It heals and is back, but that doesn't mean it wasn't a painful affair.]
[ If he wasn't so tangled up with her, it would have made him sit straight up, being handed this necklace with its unmistakable charm attached.
Charles takes it from her, holding it up by the leather thong to help it catch the faint light, just enough to make the gold gleam. It's viciously curved, and sharp as hell; he knows without a doubt that he could kill a man with this, if it came to it. ]
You ripped off a piece of yourself... [ He glances at her, eyebrow raised. ] ...just to give it to me?
[ Another lover might have gasped or cried or begged her not to hurt herself like that for his sake. But Charles isn't the type to worry about what's already been done, or what other people choose to do with their own bodies. He just looks at her with a kind of greedy awe, like he's amazed by her and it just makes him want her more, even while the heat only simmers.
He loops the leather over his neck, and settles the claw against his bare chest. And then he pulls her into a deep kiss. ]
[She knew that he wouldn't gasp or cry or beg. She knew that he would understand that ultimately, the pain was part of it, that it was her body and she would do what she wanted with it, including tearing a piece out for him.]
I did.
[She says it after he kisses her, her hand curved over the curve of his jaw. She leans over, and kisses his shoulder, his throat, soft and careful, and then the spot right at his clavicle. She stays there a while, quiet, her hands on his skin, pressing her mouth against him, nipping a bit, just for a small touch of pain.
She speaks again.]
I can take you again, now, or I can make it worth your while if you come ashore with me.
[ It really is. He keeps his hand in her hair, stroking the side of her face with his thumb, very aware of the tiger claw now resting over his heart. It feels like good luck. ]
But I'm ready to have solid ground under me, and something to eat that wasn't boiled in a fucking pot.
[ Let her be the queen again. This has been a long separation, and he's ready to turn control over to her. Let her be responsible for these men and their appetites for a while; her authority is solid enough to blunt their edges, and then he'll take them back to the sea and whet them to killing sharpness all over again.
Charles kisses her again, slowly sitting up with her so that the untangling can be the last thing that happens. Eventually he has to let go, with a satisfied sort of purr. ]
Oh, I'll have to tell the cook that his plan of boiled vegetables in salt water isn't a good idea.
[She's teasing; there's an entire roast goat, well-seasoned and spicy, and rice, and curried vegetables and other tender dishes. They didn't know he was going to be home until the sails set up, but it's been hours since then and the cook knows his business.
She tugs her hair back up as she stretches out, and reaches for her choli to slip it back one. There's the sweet ache of being well fucked that practically sings over her body.
When she gets up, there are wet streaks in her skirts, and she barks a laugh. She reaches for the shredded shirt and runs it between her legs to dry some of that, and then fusses over the silk.]
I hope you brought silk with you, you've ruined another one.
[Going ashore means coming home, in a way; they spend a glorious day getting reacquainted with one another, another day for Charles to have a real bath (that she interrupts) and to sleep in a bed that doesn't tilt (that she also interrupts).
And then the hunt starts; Daphne shifts, and Charles has his hunting party. Her jungle is sacrosanct for a reason; there's plenty of good game in it, but it's not for anyone who isn't hers. They keep it wild.
Finding the Portuguese isn't difficult, but it's only an hour in before things go pear-shaped. Daphne gets split up from the rest of the group, and while she can take care of herself, there are things even she can't come up against.
They have an elephant.
She could kill an elephant, but it's hard, and she doesn't like to do it. The Portuguese men were ready for a tiger too smart to be just a tiger.
She should have brought backup, another shifter, but tigers are solitary by nature and it starts to look strange when they're in a team. She wanted this to look as normal as possible; she wanted them to fear men, not supernatural beasts.
But she didn't.
There are shots in the depths of the jungle; there is the trumpet of an elephant in terror, there's her roar, cutting the silence. There's sound of shots, and men dying, and men trying to kill, and the death of an elephant, the crash of it.
When Charles' scout finds her, she's holed herself up in a shaded patch of forest. The wounds - bullets, a knife stuck in her shoulder making her unable to move a paw - have overwhelmed her healing abilities. There's a dead elephant and a man stuck under it, yelling for help.
When Charles shows up, the man is still alive, and Daphne is panting with pain, surrounded by mostly dead men, blood on her paws and her muzzle.]
Daphne's people were hesitant to accept him, which suited him just fine because he didn't come here to make friends - he came to be with Daphne, who pulled him from the grave a second time. They weren't his enemies, but they weren't his people, either. He's still not sure he'd call them that, as such, because in some ways he'll always be an outsider here, even though their queen is wilder than he is.
But they've accepted him, and that will always be something. What a fucking thrill that is, to be welcomed in among the tigers and their kin.
It's certainly helped that he's never disguised his own ferocity from them, and on that count the tigers are his only rivals. Daphne has his full attention well into his first night back among the luxurious cushions and open gardens of her villa, but the light of morning swiftly draws his mind back to the Portuguese hunters in the jungle.
If the party was smaller - if they didn't have a fucking elephant - maybe he and Daphne would have gone together, just the two of them, taken the party apart one by one. Instead he brings his best ambush fighters with him, their clothes dark and skin painted to blend with the leaves and vines and shadows. And in the end, it's the elephant that proves their worst mistake; when combat erupts, the massive creature panics, torn between trampling the men beneath its feet and fleeing the lethal tiger suddenly in their midst, and it's that chaos that sweeps him apart from Daphne, chasing down one hunter who thought he could flee to safety.
The fresh gunshots bring him back quickly, and when he meets his scout, it turns his blood cold.
All the death and gore he expected to see, and it gives him a rush of pride to see his lover's handiwork, but that sickening chill swallows the pride up again as soon as he catches sight of her. And when he does, he's at her side in a moment, ignoring the man who's still struggling under the elephant's corpse. She hasn't shifted back, and she's bleeding. ]
Daphne!
[ Approaching a wounded tiger would be suicidal in any other circumstance, and it might still come pretty close to it now. But that doesn't stop Charles from pressing a hand into her fur, and even before her pain-muddled senses have time to react, he grabs the knife and pulls it swiftly and efficiently out. Jesus, there's blood everywhere.
As he unwraps a scarf from his neck and presses it to the knife wound, he throws a wild, murderous look at the man under the elephant, and then turns nearly the same look on the poor scout. ]
[She hears him coming, and it's true that the instinct is strong to try and maul him, but she's not a creature of base instinct, not really. She smells him and it makes her calm, because the pain is intense.
He pulls out the knife and she screams, and huffs, her paw twitching. Charles' scout is one of Daphne's kin, not a shifter, but he knows enough. He kneels next to Charles, hands his sash over to tie it around Daphne's shoulder. She snarls and snaps, but he moves fast to get out of the way. She should. I'll run ahead, and tell her aunt to prepare, and get them to come here.
He gets up, and he's moving, because the important thing now is making sure that they know how to heal her.
Daphne, meanwhile, pants through her mouth, snuffles, her paw twitching. The hunter is still yelling, and the Portuguese is close enough to Spanish that Charles can likely make out not only his cries for help, but his screaming that the tiger is a demon, it's a demon and it came straight from hell.
She butts her enormous head against Charles, to let him know she knows who he is.]
[ The rest of his men appear in the trees, and one of them approaches the screaming hunter, drawing his sword. Immediately Charles snaps at him. ]
Get back!
[ The man does as he's told, carefully sliding his weapon back into its scabbard and falling back again. Charles turns back to Daphne, meeting her large yellow eyes as he rests a hand on her head, stroking just once. Then he gets up and approaches the Portuguese hunter lying beneath his elephant.
Those curses, or pleas, or both, whatever they are all direct towards him as he comes closer, but he ignores it. Not a single word matters. Eyes flashing with rage, he draws his own sword, and as soon as he's close enough to do it, his boot shoves the hunter's head sideways and then presses down, the cries turning to gurgles. Then Charles brings his cutlass down with a roar of fury, the blade slicing clean through the hunter's throat.
Instantly the jungle goes silent, except for the blood spurting from the crushed body. He reaches down and grabs the head by the hair, and then tosses it to one of his men, who catches it with only the barest flinching. ]
Take the heads. All of them.
[ The look he gives to them makes it clear that he's not joking. ]
Including the elephant.
[ Then he swipes his blade on the corpse's fancy coat, and quickly returns to Daphne's side. His men behind him have already gotten to work; now he doesn't see or hear anything else but her. He crouches beside her, sliding a hand into her fur again. This is going to be difficult for her, but it's either this or she has to suffer out here in the jungle, as the stench of blood and death rises like steam from the earth. ]
Time to change back, tigress. Let's get you the hell out of here.
[She watches, her eyes fixed on the man’s death. She can’t help but feel a lick of warm affection; this is her lover, this is the man she chose. Someone who would not let anyone else kill an enemy, because he wants to be the last thing they see. Because he knows the value in it.
The men start to work on his orders, low buzzing arguments about the best way to behead an elephant when he comes back to her, and her attention focuses on his words.
It’s going to hurt to shift back and she doesn’t want to. She knows she should. She knows he can carry her like that, that they must have done something, hit something when they stabbed her because she still can’t move her paw very much.
Still she stays a long moment, huffing her breath and trying to get ahold of herself.
The men are almost done, and she’s been a tiger the whole time. Ten, fifteen minutes have elapsed and Charles is still there with her, watching her, when finally her shape changes and she’s back to herself. The first thing she does is cry out as the pain screams through her.]
Charles-
[Her voice is so low it’s almost a growl. The blood and the wounds are still there, her hands smeared and stained. She reaches her good hand to him, her eyes closing to slits.]
[ He waits, prepared to do so for as long as necessary, because if she doesn't shift then she's not going anywhere, and if she's not going anywhere then neither is he. But Daphne is strong, and proves it yet again as her shape reforms from tiger to woman.
The sound of her pain rakes across his flesh like a knife down his spine, and Charles immediately grabs her hand in his own, giving her something to grip that's solid and won't let her go.
Without so much fur disguising her wounds, it's easier to see the ones left by bullets, which makes him grit his teeth so hard it nearly snaps his jaw, breathing hard at the sight of her so damaged. She'll heal, but this won't happen immediately. He wishes he hadn't killed the man under the elephant so quickly. He's thinking now that he'd have liked to flay him first, and hoist the man's skin like a flag just off the shores of Portugal.
Seeing her in so much pain makes him feel deeply, sickeningly powerless. But the only sign of it is the tightness of his jaw, the hard line through his brow. Charles reaches out, hooking one hand under her knees, drawing the other around her shoulder. It will hurt, but then they'll be on their way. ]
I've got you. Hold on to me if you can. One, two--
[ Before three, and as quickly and smoothly as he's able to manage, he pulls Daphne into his arms and stands up with her cradled against his chest. His men can do what needs to be done here, even if all they do is collect the heads and leave the rest for the jungle. He's taking Daphne home. ]
[She doesn't want to be moved, but what she wants and what she needs are at deep odds right now. The animal part of her brain - the tiger part - wants to hide somewhere safe and sleep and wait for the pain to subside. The human part knows that this is how she's going to get it.
Besides, there is no place on this planet safer than in Charles Vane's arms, because he would burn the jungle down and take himself with it before he let anyone hurt her more.
Her good arm comes up to grip his shirt, and she presses her face against his chest. There are more important things, anyway.]
You got the other half?
[She means the other half of the hunting party. One or two have to have escaped, to send the word back - don't go in that jungle. There are demons in that jungle.
Her voice is softer than she would usually like. One of his men, not her kin, but one of the men who would follow Vane to the ends of the world, is coming up behind them to keep an eye on Vane's back.]
[ Charles doesn't trust survivors. Survivors take information with them, letting the enemy return in greater force. He'll be delivering this particular message in a different fashion.
Hence the heads.
But right now his only priority is her. He knows his way through the jungle now, and takes her straight back to the village, where Daphne's aunt and the rest meet him before he's reached the first bungalow. He doesn't let them take Daphne from him. Wherever she needs to go, he'll be the one to get her there. ]
[They don't take Daphne from him; they know better. Instead they lead him into Daphne's room, and her aunt has him set her down on in an empty tub as she moves around her, speaking quickly, stripping her of her trousers and shirt to find all the bullets, scolding as she checks the wounds, tugging out iron bullets and checking the cuts, as Daphne holds her teeth together and growls, furious. It's the kind of medical care that made Daphne extremely popular in Nassau; she could remove bullets fast and without mercy, not caring if anyone screamed, but the men almost always kept their limbs. Daphne isn't even a particularly excellent healer, but they all some.
Priya is efficient; when she's done, she leaves Charles with a ewer of water to clean the blood off her. Better you than me, I am too angry to look at her for more than a minute.
It's the truest sign he's ingratiated himself with her family. They wouldn't leave him alone with her when she's injured and vulnerable otherwise. And don't let her shift, Priya snarls as she leaves. The stupid girl will aggravate her wounds.
Daphne looks at Charles, her hair stuck to her scalp from sweat, her mouth half open, and she pants a little.]
[ Once Daphne is in her aunt's care, Charles steps back to give the woman room to work, though he's certainly not about to leave the room; he only lingers on the other side of the bed, leaning against the wall with his arms folded across his chest, and says nothing as one bullet after another is pulled out of Daphne's flesh.
She will heal, but... god, that looks horrific. He's been shot himself, and wouldn't eagerly repeat the experience; Daphne took several at once, from bigger guns. Deciding what he wants to do with their trophies is a moderate distraction from her pain, but he indulges it until her aunt finally leaves them alone with each other.
Daphne looks like she's been to hell and back, but there's more life in her now than there was in the jungle, so. At least that's something. Charles pushes away from the wall and approaches the bed. ]
No. [ He reaches for her good hand, and brings it to his mouth for a kiss. ] These wounds speaks for themselves. But we also did what we went out there to do.
[She looks up at him, and tugs him down onto the bed with her, so he's at least on her level. She makes a little noise of pain, because she didn't quite expect the tiny shocks that hit her, and grumbles a bit. She's the worst kind of patient, too eager to be healed to let herself get better.
She dips her head to kiss his hand back.]
Weren't you supposed to leave one to go running home telling tales?
[She says it as she tries to get him close. Priya left the bowl she had dropped the bullets in next to them, and occasionally Daphne finds herself looking over at it.]
[ He sits down on the edge of the bed near the pillows, to be close to her, but if she thinks he's getting any closer just yet then she's angling for disappointment. He knows exactly how impatient she's feeling because he'd be feeling exactly the same way.
When she asks him that, he shakes his head. ]
A man who faces me at sea is fighting on neutral ground. We're all at the mercy of nature out there.
[ Noticing her glances, he tugs the bowl a little closer and dips his hand in to draw out a little sphere of lead, holding it for her to see. ]
But to come here, threaten our home and your life? They lost the right to decide how this story goes. I'll tell my own.
[She doesn't stop tugging but she does stop fussing a bit, her eyes big when she looks up at him. He looks like the sea right after a storm; fathomless and dark and like he swallowed a ship. Dangerous, but calm.]
They weren't supposed to threaten my life.
[She says it with a sigh, but okay. She holds his hand like it's an anchor and she's going to set sail otherwise.]
Who are you sending to give them the heads back, then? Better make it one of your men. We all know how the more European they are, the more likely they are to think mine are savages who don't know anything.
[She's getting bossy because she was scared; she was afraid she would die, but she can't say that so easily, not yet.]
[ Listen to her. Full of bullet holes and still trying to get feisty. ]
I will - if I send the heads back.
[ He's still undecided, which is what he was brooding over while her aunt Priya pried the bullets out of her body. Rage and vengeance tells him to carry the heads all the way back to Portugal and fire them from the cannons into the city, with her name carved into their sunken cheeks. But such a brazen act would demand action taken against it, and who knows what Portugal would send for the purpose? There's only so much he can do to protect her from his place at sea.
He toys with her fingers, watching her very carefully. ]
We could post them up, at the edge of the jungle. As a warning. Even rational men will think twice about ignoring a curse like that.
[She has an urge to fight with him, but she actually likes the idea. It would be smart - especially if it just showed up. Heads on pikes. She doesn’t say anything for a moment, but her silence is almost as good as an agreement.
Finally she nods a little bit.]
It would work.
[She says it especially carefully.]
You’re not going to go do it yourself, are you?
[She clears her throat. No, that isn’t what she wanted to say. That isn’t how she wanted it to sound, a little fussy.]
You could. I could order you to.
[She doesn’t particularly want to do that. She doesn’t particularly want to let him out of her sight.]
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chuffle) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
cribellate2022-02-27 11:31 am
no subject
Maybe that’s why she kept such an interest on him.
It’s his beard the does it, the roughness where he hasn’t shaved in a few days brushing on the smooth, sensitive skin of her thighs. She arches up, her fingers in the thick furs, her thighs clamping against his head as she screams at the first touch of his tongue on her. She’s wet and messy and hot.]
Please, lion, please, please.
[Its gibberish, soon, her pleas falling in and out of accented English and desperate panting.]
no subject
This is one of those times when he demands because he can't not, and the way he licks his own come out of her radiantly hot pussy is his form of obedience, because if it was up to him he'd keep everything inside her, fill her up with it and leave it like some kind of banner with his name on it. Charles Vane was here.
Every raw mark on his body from her claws and teeth says the same thing about her.
He adds his fingers to the work his tongue is doing, two fingers rolling her clit as his tongue keeps licking her out. He may not have a cat tongue to offer, but that doesn't mean he can't get her clean. ]
no subject
It's a wonder she lasts even long enough to scream his name, her eyes closing tight as she comes, her hips dropping down against the furs and her body loosening. She takes a ragged breath and reaches for him, to take his hand, his arm, anything to pull him up against her. She wants a kiss.]
Hold me?
[She asks as if he might say no. It takes a lot to make her vulnerable like that.]
no subject
He kisses her, when he reaches her mouth, letting her taste herself mixed with himself on his tongue, and he draws her into his arms as he stretches out beside her. He'd never say no to this. She's vulnerable because she knows that so well.
When the kiss breaks, their foreheads touch. ]
God, how I missed you.
no subject
She's ignores that pulse to come in closer, tangling her legs around his and tucking herself close.]
I love you.
[She says it simply, as simply as she can manage it. She didn't say it, for so long, unsure of what she felt, and secretive. She almost never says it now, although he knows, of course he knows. She's not subtle; it's in how she turns her body his way, how she is always aware of where he is in a room when he's near, how her face lights up when she sees him. How much she loves to touch him.
But she doesn't say it. When they meet, after months. Before they say goodbye, when he leaves her in their bed to go to sea. That's it. Too much and it loses power, maybe. Or, worse; too much and it suggests something else.
One hand rests on his chest.]
I have a gift for you.
no subject
They're both protective of those three words, and even now he doesn't say them back, because they're more than just a call-and-response. Like sharing the most precious gifts he choose for her out of every haul he brings back, they exchange the words out loud like gemstones, precious and finite.
But every action shows it anyway. ]
A gift?
[ Making her come twice before he's even gotten to shore is the gift as far as he's concerned. But this is interesting. ]
no subject
This one comes with something extra.
At the end is a gold-capped claw, thick and the size of a blade, the end wickedly sharp.]
Here.
[She says it.]
It's mine. I pulled it out for you.
[It heals and is back, but that doesn't mean it wasn't a painful affair.]
no subject
Charles takes it from her, holding it up by the leather thong to help it catch the faint light, just enough to make the gold gleam. It's viciously curved, and sharp as hell; he knows without a doubt that he could kill a man with this, if it came to it. ]
You ripped off a piece of yourself... [ He glances at her, eyebrow raised. ] ...just to give it to me?
[ Another lover might have gasped or cried or begged her not to hurt herself like that for his sake. But Charles isn't the type to worry about what's already been done, or what other people choose to do with their own bodies. He just looks at her with a kind of greedy awe, like he's amazed by her and it just makes him want her more, even while the heat only simmers.
He loops the leather over his neck, and settles the claw against his bare chest. And then he pulls her into a deep kiss. ]
no subject
I did.
[She says it after he kisses her, her hand curved over the curve of his jaw. She leans over, and kisses his shoulder, his throat, soft and careful, and then the spot right at his clavicle. She stays there a while, quiet, her hands on his skin, pressing her mouth against him, nipping a bit, just for a small touch of pain.
She speaks again.]
I can take you again, now, or I can make it worth your while if you come ashore with me.
no subject
[ It really is. He keeps his hand in her hair, stroking the side of her face with his thumb, very aware of the tiger claw now resting over his heart. It feels like good luck. ]
But I'm ready to have solid ground under me, and something to eat that wasn't boiled in a fucking pot.
[ Let her be the queen again. This has been a long separation, and he's ready to turn control over to her. Let her be responsible for these men and their appetites for a while; her authority is solid enough to blunt their edges, and then he'll take them back to the sea and whet them to killing sharpness all over again.
Charles kisses her again, slowly sitting up with her so that the untangling can be the last thing that happens. Eventually he has to let go, with a satisfied sort of purr. ]
It's good to be home.
no subject
[She's teasing; there's an entire roast goat, well-seasoned and spicy, and rice, and curried vegetables and other tender dishes. They didn't know he was going to be home until the sails set up, but it's been hours since then and the cook knows his business.
She tugs her hair back up as she stretches out, and reaches for her choli to slip it back one. There's the sweet ache of being well fucked that practically sings over her body.
When she gets up, there are wet streaks in her skirts, and she barks a laugh. She reaches for the shredded shirt and runs it between her legs to dry some of that, and then fusses over the silk.]
I hope you brought silk with you, you've ruined another one.
[Going ashore means coming home, in a way; they spend a glorious day getting reacquainted with one another, another day for Charles to have a real bath (that she interrupts) and to sleep in a bed that doesn't tilt (that she also interrupts).
And then the hunt starts; Daphne shifts, and Charles has his hunting party. Her jungle is sacrosanct for a reason; there's plenty of good game in it, but it's not for anyone who isn't hers. They keep it wild.
Finding the Portuguese isn't difficult, but it's only an hour in before things go pear-shaped. Daphne gets split up from the rest of the group, and while she can take care of herself, there are things even she can't come up against.
They have an elephant.
She could kill an elephant, but it's hard, and she doesn't like to do it. The Portuguese men were ready for a tiger too smart to be just a tiger.
She should have brought backup, another shifter, but tigers are solitary by nature and it starts to look strange when they're in a team. She wanted this to look as normal as possible; she wanted them to fear men, not supernatural beasts.
But she didn't.
There are shots in the depths of the jungle; there is the trumpet of an elephant in terror, there's her roar, cutting the silence. There's sound of shots, and men dying, and men trying to kill, and the death of an elephant, the crash of it.
When Charles' scout finds her, she's holed herself up in a shaded patch of forest. The wounds - bullets, a knife stuck in her shoulder making her unable to move a paw - have overwhelmed her healing abilities. There's a dead elephant and a man stuck under it, yelling for help.
When Charles shows up, the man is still alive, and Daphne is panting with pain, surrounded by mostly dead men, blood on her paws and her muzzle.]
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Daphne's people were hesitant to accept him, which suited him just fine because he didn't come here to make friends - he came to be with Daphne, who pulled him from the grave a second time. They weren't his enemies, but they weren't his people, either. He's still not sure he'd call them that, as such, because in some ways he'll always be an outsider here, even though their queen is wilder than he is.
But they've accepted him, and that will always be something. What a fucking thrill that is, to be welcomed in among the tigers and their kin.
It's certainly helped that he's never disguised his own ferocity from them, and on that count the tigers are his only rivals. Daphne has his full attention well into his first night back among the luxurious cushions and open gardens of her villa, but the light of morning swiftly draws his mind back to the Portuguese hunters in the jungle.
If the party was smaller - if they didn't have a fucking elephant - maybe he and Daphne would have gone together, just the two of them, taken the party apart one by one. Instead he brings his best ambush fighters with him, their clothes dark and skin painted to blend with the leaves and vines and shadows. And in the end, it's the elephant that proves their worst mistake; when combat erupts, the massive creature panics, torn between trampling the men beneath its feet and fleeing the lethal tiger suddenly in their midst, and it's that chaos that sweeps him apart from Daphne, chasing down one hunter who thought he could flee to safety.
The fresh gunshots bring him back quickly, and when he meets his scout, it turns his blood cold.
All the death and gore he expected to see, and it gives him a rush of pride to see his lover's handiwork, but that sickening chill swallows the pride up again as soon as he catches sight of her. And when he does, he's at her side in a moment, ignoring the man who's still struggling under the elephant's corpse. She hasn't shifted back, and she's bleeding. ]
Daphne!
[ Approaching a wounded tiger would be suicidal in any other circumstance, and it might still come pretty close to it now. But that doesn't stop Charles from pressing a hand into her fur, and even before her pain-muddled senses have time to react, he grabs the knife and pulls it swiftly and efficiently out. Jesus, there's blood everywhere.
As he unwraps a scarf from his neck and presses it to the knife wound, he throws a wild, murderous look at the man under the elephant, and then turns nearly the same look on the poor scout. ]
She'll heal from this. Right?
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He pulls out the knife and she screams, and huffs, her paw twitching. Charles' scout is one of Daphne's kin, not a shifter, but he knows enough. He kneels next to Charles, hands his sash over to tie it around Daphne's shoulder. She snarls and snaps, but he moves fast to get out of the way. She should. I'll run ahead, and tell her aunt to prepare, and get them to come here.
He gets up, and he's moving, because the important thing now is making sure that they know how to heal her.
Daphne, meanwhile, pants through her mouth, snuffles, her paw twitching. The hunter is still yelling, and the Portuguese is close enough to Spanish that Charles can likely make out not only his cries for help, but his screaming that the tiger is a demon, it's a demon and it came straight from hell.
She butts her enormous head against Charles, to let him know she knows who he is.]
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Get back!
[ The man does as he's told, carefully sliding his weapon back into its scabbard and falling back again. Charles turns back to Daphne, meeting her large yellow eyes as he rests a hand on her head, stroking just once. Then he gets up and approaches the Portuguese hunter lying beneath his elephant.
Those curses, or pleas, or both, whatever they are all direct towards him as he comes closer, but he ignores it. Not a single word matters. Eyes flashing with rage, he draws his own sword, and as soon as he's close enough to do it, his boot shoves the hunter's head sideways and then presses down, the cries turning to gurgles. Then Charles brings his cutlass down with a roar of fury, the blade slicing clean through the hunter's throat.
Instantly the jungle goes silent, except for the blood spurting from the crushed body. He reaches down and grabs the head by the hair, and then tosses it to one of his men, who catches it with only the barest flinching. ]
Take the heads. All of them.
[ The look he gives to them makes it clear that he's not joking. ]
Including the elephant.
[ Then he swipes his blade on the corpse's fancy coat, and quickly returns to Daphne's side. His men behind him have already gotten to work; now he doesn't see or hear anything else but her. He crouches beside her, sliding a hand into her fur again. This is going to be difficult for her, but it's either this or she has to suffer out here in the jungle, as the stench of blood and death rises like steam from the earth. ]
Time to change back, tigress. Let's get you the hell out of here.
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The men start to work on his orders, low buzzing arguments about the best way to behead an elephant when he comes back to her, and her attention focuses on his words.
It’s going to hurt to shift back and she doesn’t want to. She knows she should. She knows he can carry her like that, that they must have done something, hit something when they stabbed her because she still can’t move her paw very much.
Still she stays a long moment, huffing her breath and trying to get ahold of herself.
The men are almost done, and she’s been a tiger the whole time. Ten, fifteen minutes have elapsed and Charles is still there with her, watching her, when finally her shape changes and she’s back to herself. The first thing she does is cry out as the pain screams through her.]
Charles-
[Her voice is so low it’s almost a growl. The blood and the wounds are still there, her hands smeared and stained. She reaches her good hand to him, her eyes closing to slits.]
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The sound of her pain rakes across his flesh like a knife down his spine, and Charles immediately grabs her hand in his own, giving her something to grip that's solid and won't let her go.
Without so much fur disguising her wounds, it's easier to see the ones left by bullets, which makes him grit his teeth so hard it nearly snaps his jaw, breathing hard at the sight of her so damaged. She'll heal, but this won't happen immediately. He wishes he hadn't killed the man under the elephant so quickly. He's thinking now that he'd have liked to flay him first, and hoist the man's skin like a flag just off the shores of Portugal.
Seeing her in so much pain makes him feel deeply, sickeningly powerless. But the only sign of it is the tightness of his jaw, the hard line through his brow. Charles reaches out, hooking one hand under her knees, drawing the other around her shoulder. It will hurt, but then they'll be on their way. ]
I've got you. Hold on to me if you can. One, two--
[ Before three, and as quickly and smoothly as he's able to manage, he pulls Daphne into his arms and stands up with her cradled against his chest. His men can do what needs to be done here, even if all they do is collect the heads and leave the rest for the jungle. He's taking Daphne home. ]
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Besides, there is no place on this planet safer than in Charles Vane's arms, because he would burn the jungle down and take himself with it before he let anyone hurt her more.
Her good arm comes up to grip his shirt, and she presses her face against his chest. There are more important things, anyway.]
You got the other half?
[She means the other half of the hunting party. One or two have to have escaped, to send the word back - don't go in that jungle. There are demons in that jungle.
Her voice is softer than she would usually like. One of his men, not her kin, but one of the men who would follow Vane to the ends of the world, is coming up behind them to keep an eye on Vane's back.]
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[ Charles doesn't trust survivors. Survivors take information with them, letting the enemy return in greater force. He'll be delivering this particular message in a different fashion.
Hence the heads.
But right now his only priority is her. He knows his way through the jungle now, and takes her straight back to the village, where Daphne's aunt and the rest meet him before he's reached the first bungalow. He doesn't let them take Daphne from him. Wherever she needs to go, he'll be the one to get her there. ]
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Priya is efficient; when she's done, she leaves Charles with a ewer of water to clean the blood off her. Better you than me, I am too angry to look at her for more than a minute.
It's the truest sign he's ingratiated himself with her family. They wouldn't leave him alone with her when she's injured and vulnerable otherwise. And don't let her shift, Priya snarls as she leaves. The stupid girl will aggravate her wounds.
Daphne looks at Charles, her hair stuck to her scalp from sweat, her mouth half open, and she pants a little.]
I suppose I deserved that, didn't I?
Are you going to snarl at me too, lion?
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She will heal, but... god, that looks horrific. He's been shot himself, and wouldn't eagerly repeat the experience; Daphne took several at once, from bigger guns. Deciding what he wants to do with their trophies is a moderate distraction from her pain, but he indulges it until her aunt finally leaves them alone with each other.
Daphne looks like she's been to hell and back, but there's more life in her now than there was in the jungle, so. At least that's something. Charles pushes away from the wall and approaches the bed. ]
No. [ He reaches for her good hand, and brings it to his mouth for a kiss. ] These wounds speaks for themselves. But we also did what we went out there to do.
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She dips her head to kiss his hand back.]
Weren't you supposed to leave one to go running home telling tales?
[She says it as she tries to get him close. Priya left the bowl she had dropped the bullets in next to them, and occasionally Daphne finds herself looking over at it.]
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When she asks him that, he shakes his head. ]
A man who faces me at sea is fighting on neutral ground. We're all at the mercy of nature out there.
[ Noticing her glances, he tugs the bowl a little closer and dips his hand in to draw out a little sphere of lead, holding it for her to see. ]
But to come here, threaten our home and your life? They lost the right to decide how this story goes. I'll tell my own.
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They weren't supposed to threaten my life.
[She says it with a sigh, but okay. She holds his hand like it's an anchor and she's going to set sail otherwise.]
Who are you sending to give them the heads back, then? Better make it one of your men. We all know how the more European they are, the more likely they are to think mine are savages who don't know anything.
[She's getting bossy because she was scared; she was afraid she would die, but she can't say that so easily, not yet.]
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I will - if I send the heads back.
[ He's still undecided, which is what he was brooding over while her aunt Priya pried the bullets out of her body. Rage and vengeance tells him to carry the heads all the way back to Portugal and fire them from the cannons into the city, with her name carved into their sunken cheeks. But such a brazen act would demand action taken against it, and who knows what Portugal would send for the purpose? There's only so much he can do to protect her from his place at sea.
He toys with her fingers, watching her very carefully. ]
We could post them up, at the edge of the jungle. As a warning. Even rational men will think twice about ignoring a curse like that.
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Finally she nods a little bit.]
It would work.
[She says it especially carefully.]
You’re not going to go do it yourself, are you?
[She clears her throat. No, that isn’t what she wanted to say. That isn’t how she wanted it to sound, a little fussy.]
You could. I could order you to.
[She doesn’t particularly want to do that. She doesn’t particularly want to let him out of her sight.]
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