Hello my guys and girls! I, um, I might have set myself a person target these past few weeks - namely, to try and write 24 comment fics to celebrate my 24th birthday (which, as you should all know, is tomorrow :D
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LOK FLUFF? ARE YOU CRAZY? I'VE NEVER HEARD ANYTHING SO RIDICULOUS IN MY- happy birthday, bb. ^^
~~~
He is, despite what some of the Ancients believe, one given to introspection. As most of those to think humans have no minds at all, and those born of their mortality must cultivate wisdom are themselves, not given to introspection or wisdom, rarely using their own minds, Vorador thinks little of it.
He thinks upon what he was, and thinks upon what he is, and partly of a curiosity born from his transformation and Janos' questions which have taught him to wonder. He knows, upon moving into the room and looking upon his sire, so engrossed in something that is not him, that his jealousy is a childish thing. A petty, but persistent thing.
He can find it amusing.
Janos turns, knowing he is there. His wings fan slowly outward, stretching, then fold in and resettle. Steps away yet and Vorador's hand is reaching for an errant feather, combing it back into place as he closes the distance between them. Janos raises his free hand, takes Vorador's still-human fingers in his talons, as carefully and gently as he cradles the babe in his other arm. Vorador runs his fingers over the ridge where flesh meets claw and marvels at the color, slips his fingers between them, two on either side of the center talon, his thumb on the outer side.
Janos lowers their joined hands, shifting to accommodate the contact but not letting go. He turns back to the subject of his scrutiny.
"What do you think, my child?" He speaks to Vorador, but the infant responds to his voice, making soft noises, ineffectually moving small limbs. Vorador looks at it, swaddled in the softest tunic they could find. A deep crimson, inappropriate for a babe, but not so for the company it keeps.
Vorador thinks it would hardly make a bite, let alone a meal, and remembers enough to have some vague impression of horror cross his thoughts, and move on. In the end, he is entertained by his reaction, and says,
"The wet nurse you've chosen would make for better drinking."
Janos says his name, softly. A rebuke, but teasingly spoken. He is amused.
The Ancients have procured a goat. An entire goat, alive and although slightly unnerved by the scent of blood on the person of each vampire, not so put-off that it has ceased to give milk. A good thing, that. The babe is one of the reborn Pillar Guardians, found among the humans and removed from them as protection from disease, death both accidental and not. There are those among the mortals with no love still for vampires. Less now that it has been proven the bloodlust can be passed on.
The Ancients had lost more than one new Guardian to the ignorance of humans attempting to 'save' their whelps from the eventual fate of vampirism. Vorador wondered if, eventually, they would realize that killing their own child simply doomed another to the same fate... or did they fail to care, so long as the child was not their own.
Vorador cared little, truth be told, but that the Ancients were passing duties to the child much as one did a rotation of chores, and this week fell to Janos.
"When you sire your own childer," Janos chuckled, moving to the cradle and laying the babe in it, "you will find yourself capable of dividing attention. Perhaps," he turned back to Vorador, stepping away from the cradle to meet his childe's embrace, "even once you are fledged-"
Vorador kissed him, ending the conversation with lips and the thought that even grown, even with his own clan, Janos would have the largest share of his affections.
~~~
He is, despite what some of the Ancients believe, one given to introspection. As most of those to think humans have no minds at all, and those born of their mortality must cultivate wisdom are themselves, not given to introspection or wisdom, rarely using their own minds, Vorador thinks little of it.
He thinks upon what he was, and thinks upon what he is, and partly of a curiosity born from his transformation and Janos' questions which have taught him to wonder. He knows, upon moving into the room and looking upon his sire, so engrossed in something that is not him, that his jealousy is a childish thing. A petty, but persistent thing.
He can find it amusing.
Janos turns, knowing he is there. His wings fan slowly outward, stretching, then fold in and resettle. Steps away yet and Vorador's hand is reaching for an errant feather, combing it back into place as he closes the distance between them. Janos raises his free hand, takes Vorador's still-human fingers in his talons, as carefully and gently as he cradles the babe in his other arm. Vorador runs his fingers over the ridge where flesh meets claw and marvels at the color, slips his fingers between them, two on either side of the center talon, his thumb on the outer side.
Janos lowers their joined hands, shifting to accommodate the contact but not letting go. He turns back to the subject of his scrutiny.
"What do you think, my child?" He speaks to Vorador, but the infant responds to his voice, making soft noises, ineffectually moving small limbs. Vorador looks at it, swaddled in the softest tunic they could find. A deep crimson, inappropriate for a babe, but not so for the company it keeps.
Vorador thinks it would hardly make a bite, let alone a meal, and remembers enough to have some vague impression of horror cross his thoughts, and move on. In the end, he is entertained by his reaction, and says,
"The wet nurse you've chosen would make for better drinking."
Janos says his name, softly. A rebuke, but teasingly spoken. He is amused.
The Ancients have procured a goat. An entire goat, alive and although slightly unnerved by the scent of blood on the person of each vampire, not so put-off that it has ceased to give milk. A good thing, that. The babe is one of the reborn Pillar Guardians, found among the humans and removed from them as protection from disease, death both accidental and not. There are those among the mortals with no love still for vampires. Less now that it has been proven the bloodlust can be passed on.
The Ancients had lost more than one new Guardian to the ignorance of humans attempting to 'save' their whelps from the eventual fate of vampirism. Vorador wondered if, eventually, they would realize that killing their own child simply doomed another to the same fate... or did they fail to care, so long as the child was not their own.
Vorador cared little, truth be told, but that the Ancients were passing duties to the child much as one did a rotation of chores, and this week fell to Janos.
"When you sire your own childer," Janos chuckled, moving to the cradle and laying the babe in it, "you will find yourself capable of dividing attention. Perhaps," he turned back to Vorador, stepping away from the cradle to meet his childe's embrace, "even once you are fledged-"
Vorador kissed him, ending the conversation with lips and the thought that even grown, even with his own clan, Janos would have the largest share of his affections.
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OH MY GOD
OH MY BLOODY GOD
MARRY ME NOW
*joy, sheer untold joy*
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