original character

Temple

Here we begin a new series: Picture Prompts. (There’s another, specific technical lingo word for it, but idk what it is, so there.) Ah! There it is: Ekphrasis.

We might also try to throw in some pieces inspired by songs, but that’s for future Kat to worry about. Anyways! Pls enjoy! Image used with permission from the wonderful artist @boomsheika_boom on Twitter/X!

The boy sat in a tree. It wasn’t much of a tree, really, more of a single remaining limb on a half dead giant of the forest. Vines draped off the trunk and limb, extensions of the vines covering the temple half-hidden by the surrounding foliage. The boy wasn’t much to look at either, scrawny and wan as he was, barefoot and clad in tattered clothing the colors of earth and moss. His dark hair was shaggy, hanging loose in eyes the color of summer wheat.  

Hood up, and hunched as he was, he resembled an oversized, somewhat tatterdemalion owl.  

The boy sat perched on the limb, contemplating the temple doors. They were stone, thick slabs of a granite like material that shimmered in the gilded light filtering through the canopy above. 

He’d been here, in the forest, for days, knowing he had to get in, find what lay within, and soon. But still the puzzle of the doors confounded him. 

He shifted, right leg dangling beneath, bare foot disproportionately large over the ground. His mind wandered, imagining himself as a giant, and how easy it would be to simply smash the wall with a fist. 

Alas, what was needed was stealth, subterfuge, subtlety. 

Huffing he looked back to the doors with a scowl. He was beginning to contemplate lunch when he saw something in the corner of his eye. He looked up, and nearly tumbled backwards off the branch as a flitting orb of white light darted at him. Clinging to the branch, he studied the orb as it dipped and buzzed around him. Then, it alit on his knee. 

Hello.

A voice chittered in his head. 

His hand slipped and he slid backwards off the branch, hanging only by his knees. His hood flipped off, his hair hanging in shaggy clumps, the wind wending through the ends.

“What are you?” He gasped, scrabbling for purchase. 

I am… 

“You are?”

I am Auros. 

“Auros…” the boy managed to pull himself back into a sitting position, disturbing the orb. It gave a distinctly avian shake of irritation and buzzed back into the air, hovering in front of his face. 

Yes. Auros. Who are you? 

“Me?” The boy pondered, unsure if this was one of the temple’s traps. 

Yes you. 

“Oh. Well I’m…” eh, what the hell, he thought. “Nevis,” he replied, opting for at least part of the truth. 

Greeting, Nevis, the orb chimed. It’s voice was surprisingly melodic. What are you doing here? 

“I’m… well I’m trying to get into the temple.”

Why? 

“Because there’s something in there I need.”

What do you need?

“I… I don’t actually know, really. Someone wants whatever it is, and they paid me to get it.”

Oh. Why don’t you have it? 

“Can’t get in, can I?” Nevis gestured to the impenetrable doors. 

Auros made a contemplative hum. And then zipped off, a blurring of white light through the gathering gloom of early evening. 

Nevis watched as the orb bobbed around the door, up and down and around the cracks. Just when the boy thought the orb was stymied Auros disappeared into the keyhole. 

Blinking in surprise, Nevis waited. And waited. Nothing happened. Just as the sun was sinking behind the eastern mountains, as dark enveloped the clearing he was in, Auros reappeared. The spirit beelined for Nevis.  

Now you can get in. Auros quipped, vibrating with self-satisfaction. 

“What do you…” Nevis asked. But at a bob from Auros, the boy looked. 

And saw that the temple doors were opened. Not much, just a crack. But enough for a slender boy like Nevis to slip through.

“How did you do that?” He breathed. 

Auros can do many things. Nevis need help from Auros. 

“Yes.” Nevis laughed, shocked as his turn of luck, and began descending his tree. “Nevis need help from Auros.”

Dish and Spoon – Part I

In the land of Neap, there lived a soup bowl. 

She wasn’t an extraordinary soup bowl. She was averagely shaped and hand made: a little crooked around the bottom, with chip on the left edge (don’t ask me to explain how it works, but does.) 

Nor was she a particularly useful soup bowl. She was small, and just a tad too deep for the soup to cool quickly. 

But she was unique. For in the entire collection of bowls and pates and mugs that lived in the lady of the cottage’s cupboard in the land of Neap, this soup bowl was the only one that was colored. 

She was a yellow soup bowl, with delicate green vines painted around its rim, and a blue circle right in the bottom. She rather reminded those who ate from the bowl of a flipped sky. Those that used the bowl often found themselves pondering odd things, such as why the sky was blue; or why didn’t plants grow with their roots in the air; or why was the snow white instead of palest purple? (Neap was a magical land, and had its fair share of absurdities: Purple snow wasn’t entirely out of the question).

Most importantly, when people ate from the yellow soup bowl, they felt at home, welcome visitors to the little cottage on the edge of the deep dark woods. 

Well then. Now that the introductions are done, our tale shall continue. 

One day, the yellow soup bowl sat on the counter. She was currently being used to hold potato peels. The lady of the cottage was preparing a large cauldron of stew. This was a hearty stew, filled with lots of good things like potatoes and onions and carrots and even a few rutabagas, in addition to delicious chunks of beef and pheasant. 

While so occupied, the yellow soup bowl thought to herself: 

It is rather nice to be useful, even if I’m not being used for soup. 

As the smells of simmering vegetables filled the cozy kitchen, the soup bowl buzzed with delight. 

“Maybe mistress will use me for strew today!”

While being a pretty bowl had its merits (all the other bowls and plates envied the yellow bowl’s glossy finish and pretty green leaves) it also had its drawbacks. 

You see, the yellow soup bowl only got used when there were no other bowls to be had. Either too many were dirty and were piled in the sink, or there were more guests than bowls. 

It was wonderful to be of use,  no matter the method. But nothing beat the purpose for which she was made. 

The yellow soup bowl sat there for a good amount of time, basking in the aromatics of the simmering cauldron. Then the lady set her knife down, stretched her back, and went to retrieve some herbs from her garden. 

“Sst. You there. Yellow bowl!” A voice came.

The yellow bowl sought the sound, perplexed (do not ask me to explain how a bowl, or any utensil for that matters, perceives the world. There are some mysteries best left unsolved).

“Who, me?” The bowl asked to the kitchen at large. 

“Yes. You. With the tato skins.”

The bowl turned, the chip on her left edge now facing the window outside. She could perceive the lady stopping to admire her lavender bush through the wavy glass. 

“What? Where are you?” The bowl asked again. 

“I’m here.”

There came a terrible clattering jangle as one of the wooden mixing spoons wiggled on the rack from which he hung. 

“Oh. You’re a spoon!”

“Yes I am. And you’re a bowl.”

“A yellow soup bowl, to be precise.”

The spoon gave the impression of raising an eyebrow. 

“But you have tato skins in you.”

“Yes. Isn’t it wonderful to be used?”

The spoon scoffed.

“Pfah, I wouldn’t know. Lady barely uses me.”

This the soup bowl could relate to.

“Oh. Me too.”

“But you have tato skins in you.”

“Yes, but I so much prefer to have soup in me, only it’s becoming rarer and rarer that she uses me for that purpose.” 

Taken aback by the sudden flood of words, the spoon just hung there for a moment. 

Then:

“Well. That’s all fine and dandy for you, bowl. At least you get used at all.”

The soup bowl felt a pang of pity for the spoon. What was life with no purpose? To be, without fulfilling your created duty?

“Surely Lady uses you more than that?” The bowl asked hopefully. 

The spoon shook its scoop rather sadly. 

“Nay. She used me but once when she got me, then hung me up and forgot about me.” 

“That can’t be!” Cried the bowl. 

“See for yourself,” the spoon indicated the myriad other spoons littering the kitchen counter and sink. “She has no use for me. That’s why I’ve decided to go away. On an adventure!”

The bowl gasped. 

“Go away? Where? How?” 

The spoon considered a moment. 

“I’ve no idea. But I’m going to, soon.”

Further conversation was prevented by the return of the Lady. She shredded the rosemary leaves from the stems, dropping the fragrant herbs into the cauldron before setting the stems in the yellow soup bowl. 

The bowl glowed, happy to be of use. But she wasn’t as content as she was before. As the hearty stew finished cooking, and the Lady didn’t empty the potato skins from her, the yellow soup bowl began to consider what the spoon had said. His words rang through her mind for the rest of the day and long into the night. 

***

The yellow soup bowl sat on her shelf for nigh on a month, with nary a glance from the lady. She’d been so sad when she’d placed it there, in the dust and cobwebs. Surely she would be cheered if she just ate a bowl of soup from her yellow soup bowl? Or even a nice helping of custard? 

But no. She all but ignored the soup bowl. She seemed to forget she was there. 

The soup bowl’s spirit quavered. Then she began to feel restive. 

She looked at the rack where the spoon had been. Indeed, he was still there.  

Seeing the spoon there, unused, unseasoned, the soup bowl had an idea. 

It was bold and daring, and so unlike her that she nearly didn’t follow through with it. But when the Lady once again overlooked the soup bowl for a drab, plain clay one, the yellow bowl made up her mind. 

Late that night, after Lady had gone to sleep, the yellow soup bowl wiggled to the edge of the cupboard and whispered. 

“Spoon! Spoooooon!”

A few spoons rattled and mumbled in their various nests. But the wooden one didn’t move.

“Oye! Spoon! Wooden spoon on the rack!”

“Mm. Wha? Whozit?”

“It’s me. The yellow soup bowl.”

“Oh. What do you want?”

“You were right!

“Eh? I was? Well of course I was… about what?”

“I’m bored. And I want to be useful. Er… more useful. Or something…” the bowl added, thinking she had the better deal of the two of them, despite being ignored for a month. 

“How do you propose to do that?”

“I want to go away with you.”

Silence met that proclamation. 

“Well? What do you think?” She asked, tentatively. 

More silence. 

“Spoon?”

The soup bowl’s spirits were plummeting back into despair when the spoon spoke at last. 

“Well that’s a brilliant idea. Let’s do it.”

A Treacherous Path

Trigger warning for violence, dub con, and minor sexual content

After losing yet another fight, the Hero woke once again in the Villain’s home.They were tied, as usual, to an uncomfortable chair. Though this time they were in what they assumed was some sort of sitting room. Though, given the presence of only a single love seat across from the their chair, they had to assume this room served other, darker purposes most of the time.

Disgusted with themselves, with the Villain, and with the world in general, the Hero immediately began working at the knots that bound their hands. The Villain’s rope work was spectacular as usual, but the Hero had been doing research. In a matter of minutes and a few dislocated joints, they had their hands and one foot free. They were working on the other one when the Villain entered the room. 

“Wha…” the Villain gaped, dropping their tea. It hit the hardwood floor and shattered. 

With a snarl the Hero tore the remaining rope from their body, and launched themselves at the Villain. This was a rare opportunity and they weren’t going to waste it. Besides, they had a score to settle.

Coming within reach, the Hero flung a fist at the Villain, hoping the suddenness of their attack was enough. 

It wasn’t. With effortless grace, the Villain dodged the blow, and landed one of their own on the Hero’s ribs. 

The Hero grunted, but turned and attacked again. 

“Well isn’t this fighting spirit new,” the Villain commented, dodging one punch only to take a kick to their upper thigh. They staggered, but maintained their defensive position. 

“Oh, it’s always been here,” panted the Hero, eyes burning. 

“Has it? I hadn’t noticed.”

The Hero yelled, and threw themselves at the Villain. Shockingly, the direct attack worked. The Villain – surprised at finding the Hero free, and unbalanced from the blow to their leg – wasn’t fast enough. They tried to slip aside as they always did, but instead caught the Hero’s bulk full in the chest. 

They barely had time to catch their breath before the Hero slammed them into the wall, knocking the wind from them again. Using the moment, the Hero grabbed their neck, locking their fingers behind their jaw. The Villain’s eyes bulged in surprise. 

“I should crush your throat,” the Hero growled. “For what you did to my Sidekick.”

“Ah, so that’s what’s got you so worked up.” The Villain grabbed the Hero’s shirt and twisted, searching for a hold. They kneed the Hero in the thigh, stepped on their feet, but it was no use. The Hero’s grip was relentless. As was the weight of their body, keeping them pinned against the wall. “I was wondering when that would come up. I should have thought of it soo-achk-“

Their taunt was cut off as the Hero upped the pressure on their throat. 

The Villain had a moment of panic as their vision darkened on the edges. But they found they still had a voice. 

“Do it then,” the Villain goaded, vocal cords whistling. Their eyes gleamed dangerously. “Avenge your Sidekick.”

The Hero sneered, and nearly lifted the Villain off the ground. 

The Villain smirked, despite being choked. They knew they had the upper hand now. 

“Ah. But you… won’t, will… You… You’ve proven… that before.” 

The Hero snarled and leaned in, thinking rapidly. Clearly threats of physical harm didn’t work with on the Villain.  Their face was a breath from the Villain’s.

 A sudden thought occurred to them, something that could potentially put the odds in their favor.  

They slackened their grip on the Villain’s neck and closed the distance. They breathed on the Villain’s lips, holding the Villain’s gaze with their own. 

“What are you doing?” The Villain asked, bemused and completely nonplussed. They even stopped struggling, their body still.

“I…” The Hero’s chest rose and fell with startled breaths. It hadn’t worked. But something had shifted. “I don’t…”

Suddenly the tension between them was different. More heated. 

One moment, they’d been seconds away from killing each other, the next…

The Villain pulled on the Hero’s collar, bringing them closer.

Their gazes locked.

And then they were kissing. 

Frantically. 

Viciously. 

The Hero’s hands shifted from the Villain’s throat to cup their head and grab their hair, and the Villain wrapped their arms around the Hero, suddenly needing to truly feel them. 

The Hero broke the kiss first, gasping. 

“What are you doing?” They rasped, fingers till tangled in the Villain’s glossy hair. 

“I don’t know.” The Villain giggled. “You started it though, and isn’t it wonderful?” They kissed the Hero again, fingers digging into the muscles of their back. 

Deciding to return the odds to their favor, the Villain reached up and jerked the Hero’s hair, pulling their head back. 

The Hero let out a startled yelp that turned into a sigh as the Villain began kissing their neck. They pressed kisses to the hollow of their throat, their collar bone, the pocket behind their jaw, and was pleased to hear the Hero’s breathing become even more ragged. 

Backing them up towards the love seat, the Villain pressed the Hero to their knees. The Hero didn’t resist, instead pulling the Villain down with them. 

With no idea what they were doing, but enjoying it all the same, the Villain straddled the Hero’s hips and leaned the Hero back until their back was pressed into the couch cushions, chest and throat beautifully exposed. 

This was certainly a new way to play their little game. And the Villain was far from disappointed with this development.

With a quick shrug of their shoulders the Villain freed themselves from the Hero’s arms. Grabbing their wrists, they extended and pinned the Hero’s arms down, holding them in place with the weight of their body. Staring down at the Hero, prone before them as they should be, the Villain decided they wanted to continue whatever this was shaping up to be. They kissed the Hero again, letting their desire for control guide them. 

The Hero struggled, but only half heartedly, and after a few seconds they melted into the Villain’s rhythm.

Forgetting themself and their game, the Villain released one of the Hero’s hands to run their hand under the Hero’s shirt.

“Oh Hell,” the Villain breathed, feeling the Hero’s body in a completely new way.

Finding a hand free, the Hero briefly considered fighting, doing anything besides continuing to maul the Villain’s face. Instead they wrapped an arm around the Villain’s back and pulled them closer. 

A surprised gasp escaped the Villain at the new friction between them, and the Hero grinned like a cat. 

Clearly this was a game, and two could play.

Feeling the Villain tense, the Hero lurched forward, sending the Villain sprawling backwards. The Hero sprang after them and straddled them, pinning their shoulders to the ground with their elbows. 

Perplexed, the Villain stared at the Hero, cheeks flushed, lips swollen. 

The Hero looked down at them, surprised at themselves. 

“What now?” The Villain asked, trying and failing to keep their tone steady; their voice cracked halfway through the question. 

Digging their elbows in, the Hero leaned forward, savoring the way the Villain gasped in discomfort. 

“Now?” The Hero mused. Their expression turned positively devious. They shifted their hips, and the Villain tipped their head back, eyes closed, throat bobbing as they swallowed a moan. “Now, I leave you with a parting gift.”

Leaning down, they kissed the Villain hard and swift. Then they shot to their feet and bolted out the door, leaving the Villain too stunned and frustrated to follow. 

***

The Hero didn’t stop running until they reached the street outside. They took the stairs three at a time, practically falling on the bottom flight in their haste to get away from… whatever that was. 

On the street, the night air was cool against their flushed cheeks. The Hero slowed to a brisk walk, feeling like their skin was too tight.

They took a shaky breath, mind reeling.

They shook their head, surprised to find that they were trembling.

But they weren’t… scared. They were… 

Exhilarated. 

Blinking, the Hero realized with horror that they liked the feel of the Villain’s hands on them, the way they…

No. The Hero thought. I shouldn’t be… We’re sworn enemies, nemeses. Hero, and Villain. I can’t afford to let the Villain get to me like that. Especially not after what they did.

They thought about what the Villain had done to their Sidekick, tried to elicit some of the rage they’d felt such a short time ago. It was there, that rage and hate. But it didn’t feel as potent in light of what had transpired between themself and the Villain.

Their thoughts strayed back to the feeling of the Villain beneath them, of the Villain at their mercy for once. 

It was intoxicating, that kind of power. 

The Hero suddenly understood the Villain on a level they never thought they would, and wasn’t sure they wanted to. 

Shaking themselves from their dazed reverie, the Hero turned a corner and hailed a cab. They were in no state to drive. Besides, the likelihood of a Minion lurking by their car was high, and they didn’t want to go back to that room. Back to the Villain.

At least not yet.

Sliding into the back seat of the cab, and absently giving their address, the Hero couldn’t refute the fact that they had been the one to initiate the shift in the game.

 And as much as they wanted to deny it, to deny everything that had just happened, the Hero knew they had just taken a step down a very treacherous path indeed.