featherxquill (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
featherxquill) wrote2006-08-10 12:44 am
featherxquill) wrote2006-08-10 12:44 am
Entry tags:
Fic: Mistress of All He Had
You have a lot to answer for, dear flist. I WROTE the damn fic. You have no one to blame but yourselves ;).
Title: Mistress of All He Had
Pairing: Lady Mary Van Tassel/Horseman, Sleepy Hollow
Rating: NC-17
WARNINGS: Non-con, breathplay, bloodplay, perhaps a hint of necrophilia (or undead!sex, or something). It's all very dark and twisted, but more implied than explicity described.
Summary: He calls her ‘Bride’ and he drags her into their marriage bed by her hair.
He calls her ‘Bride’ and he drags her into their marriage bed by her hair.
She stands in an earthen cavern beneath the tree, damp and real, but she can still feel the rain against her hand, and the wet nose of a wolf as it sniffs her frozen fingers. At the same time she stares at her outstretched palms and fingernails gritty with dirt. This particular version of Hell is made as much by the Horseman’s imagination as by the earth and roots he dragged her into. She’s left her physical body behind, but she still feels.
Twenty years he has gone, he says, without the pleasures of the flesh. Twenty years as neither man nor ghost.
He likes the taste of her blood, and he uses those razored teeth to bite into the flesh of her throat, one hand tangling in the ratty tendrils of her hair and pulling her head back to expose the pulsing vein. In this nightmare world, the severed heads are smiling, watching her and laughing. They line the chamber and are lit by unearthly, pallid light.
We understand each other, he says, and those haunting blue eyes spear right through her soul. He knows her. He knows it was only righteous anger to begin with – that she became sick with her greed and a lust for blood. He seems to have heard it in the caress of her voiced commands – rise up, my brave horseman, come for my husband and make me a widow. A head for a head. We both like to kill, he tells her; we both like to hurt.
She screams when he forces her skirts up, but he offers her no mercy. She never offered him any, either.
He fucks her violently, forcing her down into the bed of leaves and dirt and decay. His body is wiry, deathly pale, but there is strength in it when he wraps one hand around her throat and clutches her hip with the other, eyes devouring her even as his hand steals the breath from her lungs and his cock – as hard and cold as the rest of him – ravishes her. Her earthly body is still alive, he says, and he’ll enjoy the warm, pink flush it gives to this other version of her for as long as he can. She still hasn’t forgotten what it felt like to be alive. Her heart thumps and her corseted breasts heave with every breath he allows her.
She flails a hand up and scratches his cheek, feels cold blood beneath her fingernails, then he catches her wrist and stills his movements for a moment. He asks do you want to taste me? as he licks her fingers clean, then curls his top lip back and sinks those teeth through the bottom. He pulls her to him, sheathing himself even deeper in her, and claims mouth with his own.
His blood is thick and cold, sweet like decay, and he smears it across her chin and breasts like a sacrifice. She offered her soul to Satan and he came to claim her.
When he comes, she feels herself tremble, and he keeps moving inside her until she’s screaming and clawing at his back and shaking around him. You’re mine, he says, your soul is mine forever now. My bride for eternity.
Three days later, she feels her body die – her fingers go cold and her skin turns alabaster. This spectre of her former self forgets what a beating heart felt like. He claims her even more roughly, then, and there is a cold pleasure in her veins, a climax like winter – ice blooming in once warm rivers and thundering through, destructive.
Time is liquid, meaningless. There is no day or night, only that unearthly light, and always him. He drags ragged nails over her belly, draws patterns on her pale thighs with the tip of his sword, and licks the blood from her body as if worshipping her.
When she convulses with wrongness and she knows her body has been taken from its resting place, he throws back his head and laughs – a high, watery sound. She forces him to his knees in the dirt, throws one leg over his shoulder and twists her fingers in his hair.
He hasn’t forgotten how to obey in the months since she ruled him.
The call comes, whispering through her, and she cannot resist. Rise up, Mary Van Tassel, rise up and do my bidding. Come to me, Stepmother.
It seems the girl is not as innocent as she once claimed.
Outside the cavern she is insubstantial as smoke, a wraith in search of her bones. She smothers the Chief of Police in his bed – his body for your body, dear Stepmother – the succubus of folklore at once ethereal and solid. She is a predator, and she feels almost alive with the thrill of her power when she sinks down on him, and knows he cannot kill her or even fight.
She doesn’t care, of course, that he is simply an innocent victim who stood in the path of Katrina’s ambitions.
When the soul leaves the body, she catches it in her hands and carries it back with her to the cavern beneath the tree, where it flickers and flits about and forms shapes that sometimes look like faces. The Horseman watches it, and offers her a jagged smile.
She doesn’t know how long it is before Katrina calls her again, but she does the girl’s bidding with a fierce, ruthless pleasure, heady with her own destructive power. The souls become a collection, a set of children or pets that greet her when she wakes and drift about her when she sleeps, always restless, always moving.
He fucks her, and they shy away, hovering near the edges of the cavern and watching. He twists his hand in her hair and bites her; she arches against him and convulses. The ice throbs in her veins. She licks her own blood from his lips, and they share their bed of leaves like a throne.
He is the Lord of this dark realm and she is his Queen. When the girl calls her, she brings him back tortured souls, and they rule their kingdom of darkness with severed heads and pale spectres as their subjects. She is the mistress of all he has, and he can never take another.
Title: Mistress of All He Had
Pairing: Lady Mary Van Tassel/Horseman, Sleepy Hollow
Rating: NC-17
WARNINGS: Non-con, breathplay, bloodplay, perhaps a hint of necrophilia (or undead!sex, or something). It's all very dark and twisted, but more implied than explicity described.
Summary: He calls her ‘Bride’ and he drags her into their marriage bed by her hair.
He calls her ‘Bride’ and he drags her into their marriage bed by her hair.
She stands in an earthen cavern beneath the tree, damp and real, but she can still feel the rain against her hand, and the wet nose of a wolf as it sniffs her frozen fingers. At the same time she stares at her outstretched palms and fingernails gritty with dirt. This particular version of Hell is made as much by the Horseman’s imagination as by the earth and roots he dragged her into. She’s left her physical body behind, but she still feels.
Twenty years he has gone, he says, without the pleasures of the flesh. Twenty years as neither man nor ghost.
He likes the taste of her blood, and he uses those razored teeth to bite into the flesh of her throat, one hand tangling in the ratty tendrils of her hair and pulling her head back to expose the pulsing vein. In this nightmare world, the severed heads are smiling, watching her and laughing. They line the chamber and are lit by unearthly, pallid light.
We understand each other, he says, and those haunting blue eyes spear right through her soul. He knows her. He knows it was only righteous anger to begin with – that she became sick with her greed and a lust for blood. He seems to have heard it in the caress of her voiced commands – rise up, my brave horseman, come for my husband and make me a widow. A head for a head. We both like to kill, he tells her; we both like to hurt.
She screams when he forces her skirts up, but he offers her no mercy. She never offered him any, either.
He fucks her violently, forcing her down into the bed of leaves and dirt and decay. His body is wiry, deathly pale, but there is strength in it when he wraps one hand around her throat and clutches her hip with the other, eyes devouring her even as his hand steals the breath from her lungs and his cock – as hard and cold as the rest of him – ravishes her. Her earthly body is still alive, he says, and he’ll enjoy the warm, pink flush it gives to this other version of her for as long as he can. She still hasn’t forgotten what it felt like to be alive. Her heart thumps and her corseted breasts heave with every breath he allows her.
She flails a hand up and scratches his cheek, feels cold blood beneath her fingernails, then he catches her wrist and stills his movements for a moment. He asks do you want to taste me? as he licks her fingers clean, then curls his top lip back and sinks those teeth through the bottom. He pulls her to him, sheathing himself even deeper in her, and claims mouth with his own.
His blood is thick and cold, sweet like decay, and he smears it across her chin and breasts like a sacrifice. She offered her soul to Satan and he came to claim her.
When he comes, she feels herself tremble, and he keeps moving inside her until she’s screaming and clawing at his back and shaking around him. You’re mine, he says, your soul is mine forever now. My bride for eternity.
Three days later, she feels her body die – her fingers go cold and her skin turns alabaster. This spectre of her former self forgets what a beating heart felt like. He claims her even more roughly, then, and there is a cold pleasure in her veins, a climax like winter – ice blooming in once warm rivers and thundering through, destructive.
Time is liquid, meaningless. There is no day or night, only that unearthly light, and always him. He drags ragged nails over her belly, draws patterns on her pale thighs with the tip of his sword, and licks the blood from her body as if worshipping her.
When she convulses with wrongness and she knows her body has been taken from its resting place, he throws back his head and laughs – a high, watery sound. She forces him to his knees in the dirt, throws one leg over his shoulder and twists her fingers in his hair.
He hasn’t forgotten how to obey in the months since she ruled him.
The call comes, whispering through her, and she cannot resist. Rise up, Mary Van Tassel, rise up and do my bidding. Come to me, Stepmother.
It seems the girl is not as innocent as she once claimed.
Outside the cavern she is insubstantial as smoke, a wraith in search of her bones. She smothers the Chief of Police in his bed – his body for your body, dear Stepmother – the succubus of folklore at once ethereal and solid. She is a predator, and she feels almost alive with the thrill of her power when she sinks down on him, and knows he cannot kill her or even fight.
She doesn’t care, of course, that he is simply an innocent victim who stood in the path of Katrina’s ambitions.
When the soul leaves the body, she catches it in her hands and carries it back with her to the cavern beneath the tree, where it flickers and flits about and forms shapes that sometimes look like faces. The Horseman watches it, and offers her a jagged smile.
She doesn’t know how long it is before Katrina calls her again, but she does the girl’s bidding with a fierce, ruthless pleasure, heady with her own destructive power. The souls become a collection, a set of children or pets that greet her when she wakes and drift about her when she sleeps, always restless, always moving.
He fucks her, and they shy away, hovering near the edges of the cavern and watching. He twists his hand in her hair and bites her; she arches against him and convulses. The ice throbs in her veins. She licks her own blood from his lips, and they share their bed of leaves like a throne.
He is the Lord of this dark realm and she is his Queen. When the girl calls her, she brings him back tortured souls, and they rule their kingdom of darkness with severed heads and pale spectres as their subjects. She is the mistress of all he has, and he can never take another.
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And I totally wasn't expecting the Katrina thing. That twist MADE it.
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:D Glad you liked!
Hehe Katrina is not so innocent (or at least I don't think she would always remain so). I'm glad you liked it. I was hoping it wouldn't come a bit out of nowhere, but I didn't really want to go into it because this fic isn't about her. I hope the inferences worked.
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Damn I LOVED this. I loved the description and feel of it. But I totally can believe this. I've only really read LVT/Ichabod before so this was GREAT! The Katrina thing was unexpected, I hated Katrina in the movie LOL. But yesss I loved it alot but strangely felt no pity for LVT :/
♥
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:D Thankyou! (and thankyou for excusing my whoring and commenting! *loves*) I'm so glad you enjoyed it. I must confess I didn't like Katrina in the film much, either, but I think she had the potential to be interesting... or she could have if twisted around a bit
or maybe dominated by her lovely stepmother*kills stray plot bunny*no subject
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:) Thankyou! What lovely adjectives to review with. I'm glad you enjoyed it!
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cold pleasure in her veins, a climax like winter – ice blooming in once warm rivers and thundering through, destructive.</i? I really loved that bit
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Thank you! I'm glad you enjoyed it!
And let me take a moment here to thank you for all the comments you left while I slept last night. It made me squee like a... squeeing thing *g*, when I woke up this
afternoonmorning.no subject