Prompt Post 2
Welcome to the second round of the_eagle_kink .
Please see the rules before posting.
Please check our delcious account before prompting.
Happy Kink, everyone.
~CLOSED TO NEW PROMPTS~
Please see the rules before posting.
Please check our delcious account before prompting.
Happy Kink, everyone.
~CLOSED TO NEW PROMPTS~
- MORE MOD NOTES: Alright guys I know this fandom is really into historical accuracy and all that jazz but here's the thing. This is a KINK MEME and therefore historical accuracy is not ( Read more... )
The customs official had assured St. John that a rickshaw was far preferable to traveling through the city on foot, but as he clung with whitened knuckles while the native raced over cobblestone streets, a bone-bruising jolt past parasoled ladies and peasant carts and beggars with twisted legs, he wondered if it was merely a matter of becoming accustomed to the conveyance or if he was the butt of some foolish joke. He kept his face stern and dispassionate, but churned inside with nervous tension and sensations even more concerning; the mal de mer he never experienced at sea had apparently chosen to finally visit him on land. The need to make less haste became more pressing, and he leaned forward to request his runner move slower.
“Dhimi, accha mahodaya krpaya ja'o!”
His request was resolutely ignored. St. John thumped his fist angrily upon one of the two wooden poles the native ran between. The native, without breaking stride, turned his head to peer questioningly at his English passenger.
“Dhima karane ke li'e krpaya,” St. John gasped out. He wondered if he was beginning to display a green countenance the way the Rev. Hollum had. The runner smiled at him, a broad flash of surprisingly white teeth in a dusky-brown face.
“Slow, sahib? Slow?” St. John whispered a silent prayer of gratitude that some of the natives apparently spoke a modicum of English, even if they refused to acknowledge his Hindustani. He nodded fervently, not quite trusting his voice, and the runner resumed at a more leisurely pace. The jolting did not let up, if anything it increased the intensity with which he felt each individual cobblestone they rolled over, but the queasiness slowly diminished. He had begun to feel positively refreshed by the time they arrived at the front of St. Paul Cathedral, seat of the Bishop of Calcutta, the Right Rev. Daniel Wilson.
His rickshaw runner bowed and scraped and salaamed as he descended the carriage, going so far as to rub the tops of his shoes with one greasy end of his unraveling turban. St. John frowned at the undignified display-he was of course the man's superior, being educated and British and a Christian, but the overt servility still rankled his English sensibilities-and he handed the native a rupee to send him on his way. The native looked at the coin in his palm, then at St. John, looked back to the coin once more and salaamed twice as deeply, bowing so far that his turban scarcely missed the dusty street. He gave a final wide, white grin at the Reverend and returned to his rickshaw, secreting the rupee away in his loincloth as he left.
Oriental decadence at its worst, St. John sighed. These poor creatures already almost spurn our offers of civilization and salvation. Perhaps the diocese office will provide tea; I would happily drink a cup and wash this taste from my mouth.
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“Accha dopahara, sahaba! Maim Rev. St. John Rivers hum, Stoke-on-Trent ke dera se.”
The clerk smiled a merry smile and replied “Kalakatta, srimana apaka svagata hai! Tuma sabase yahamm svagata hai-but perhaps you would prefer we continue in English? I can assure you it will make our conversation more easy, as my Hindu has faded with time. May I offer you any tea?”
St. John accepted his offer of refreshment with gratitude. The clerk's accent was purest Manchester, the barefoot coolie who brought them cups and a steaming pot of water made tea as well as any London hotel, and they spent an entirely satisfactory few minutes sipping Earl Gray and exchanging pleasantries.
Mr. Patel, chief clerk to the Right Rev. Wilson, had been raised in an English-speaking home by forward-thinking parents, baptized into the Anglican church at the appropriate age, and sent off to Oxford at age 17 with the intention of studying engineering. There, however, he had met Daniel Wilson at St. Edmond Hall and become captivated, as he described at fond length, by the great man's religious fervor and and passion for bettering mankind. After university they had kept in touch through affectionate correspondence, the Rev. Wilson having remained in England while Mr. Patel returned to Calcutta and took a humble position at the East India Trading Company, translating for purchase negotiations. They wrote of life's greater joys, the births of children and career advancements and personal satisfactions, and as the years progressed also had cause to share sorrows as children were taken by fever or dropsy and their wives both departed the earthly realm. Then, one unexpected morning, Mr. Patel had received a letter stating that the newly Right Rev. Wilson had taken up the bishopric in Calcutta; he was in need of a chief clerk to manage the daily administration of the diocese. And so in 1832 the two men, who had not been in each other's company in 28 years, were reunited in friendship on the far side of the globe.
This very personal tale of the Bishop's good nature and kindly disposition only added to the store of knowledge St. John already held of the man: his passion for education, his desire to spread the Word of Christ throughout the entire sub-continent, his hatred for the shameful caste system and its perpetuation in the church, his special compassion for the Dalits, who he had likened to the beggars and lepers with whom the Lord Jesus had chosen to feast.
Alas for St. John that the Bishop was not in that afternoon! His desire to meet the great man must needs be put off for another day. So he regretfully took his leave, inquired about instructions on how to find the Victoria Hotel and bid farewell to Mr. Patel, who promised he would pass along the news that the Rev. Rivers had arrived.
Whether it was the tea or the company or simply the opportunity to engage in civil conversation, St. John descended the steps of the office with a renewed confidence and enthusiasm to explore the city. Mr. Patel's instructions had been so straightforward-half a mile down College Street, west onto the busy Red Road, north on Rashbehari Street to Victoria Lane and the hotel would be on his right-that he decided to take advantage of the late afternoon by walking instead of enduring yet another ride in a rickshaw. He threaded his way amongst street-side shops and beggars with weeping sores, feral dogs and a very large but mercifully docile bull, past English ladies and Indian gentlemen and a litter draped with golden silk and innumerable tassels, borne aloft by four African slaves in matching scarlet tunics and presumably carrying a high-caste lady keeping purdah even as she traveled.
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Red Road was simple enough to discern; wide, busy and with numerous red-tinged buildings lining the corridor. But he had not inquired as to how far down Red Road his destination, Rashbehari Street, would be located; he searched in vain for an Englishman before pausing to ask a porter carrying large bunches of an oblong yellow fruit.
“Krpaya Rashbehari strita kaham hai?”
The porter shrugged and waved a hand further down the road. St. John tipped his hat and continued on his way. A few blocks down and the street looked promising, so he turned north and trusted to Providence that the Victoria Hotel was nearby. His chosen street, however, proved in reality to be little more than a cul-de-sac, quickly narrowing into an alleyway crowded with natives. He turned back and had nearly returned to Red Road when his eye fell upon a beggar child with stunted limbs, hollow-faced and holding up his grubby hands in a gesture that needed no translation.
Father, there is such great poverty here I scarce can imagine having any good influence. Guide every action I make, that I may follow Thy Footsteps and carry myself according to Thy Will.
He handed the beggar boy a single rupee, blessing him in the name of Christ as he did. The boy looked at him blankly but grasped the coin with great enthusiasm. St. John resisted the temptation to pat him on the head as he turned to go.
Before he had gotten a dozen steps he found himself surrounded by children, some so young they could hardly toddle, others on the cusp of adulthood. They crowded around him, tugging on his greatcoat and trouser legs, holding out a multitude of hands, all begging for a coin and chattering in a street patois that his Hindustani textbooks had not emphasized. He attempted to walk away but they clung tenaciously. No sooner did he get one off his trousers than two more attached themselves to his collar, one hand on cloth and the other in the air, demanding a rupee of their own.
“Mujhase dura ho ja'o! Ghara ja'o!” he cried, but the children shouted louder. He tried to break free, considering an undignified run to be the best of his few options, but got no more than three or four steps when the crowd closed in again, increasing in their fervor.
“Mujhase dura ho ja'o! Ghara ja'o!” His voice nearly broke in desperation.
“Cale ja'o, bhikhari! Banda sapha!” A clear voice rang out somewhere outside the crowd of children. St. John looked up over the roiling mass of dirty black hair to see an Englishman in a red army coat swinging a cane against the backs of the children unfortunate enough to be closest to him. Taller than St. John and tanned from the tropical sun, he smiled briefly at the Reverend over the heads of the beggar children as he continued shouting and hitting.
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“Banda sapha! Banda sapha!” A few last indiscriminately-aimed blows on unhappy flesh and the children scurried away, off to seek less-well-defended prey. St. John took a hasty account of his clothing and pockets to ensure all was present as expected, then turned his attention to the soldier, who gazed down at him with a look of mingled concern and amusement. His friendly, good-natured face managed to bring a smile to St. John in return before he recollected himself and turned serious. He held out a hand in gratitude.
“Upon my honor, good sir, I believe you have nearly saved my life today, and I am in your debt.” They clasped hands. “Your servant, Reverend Rivers.” The stranger's grip was firm and confident, although St. John noticed he leaned more heavily than expected on the cane with his left arm.
“Captain Aquilaine of the 3rd Infantry, Calcutta Corps. And the pleasure is all mine. This often happens to persons of good heart who are freshly arrived. My advice is never to give coins to beggars. Are you going someplace in particular? Perhaps I can be of assistance.”
Lord, I thank Thee in Thy generosity. Truly Thou doest provide in all circumstances.
“I am trying to find the Victoria Hotel. Surely it is around here somewhere close?”
“The Victoria Hotel?” Cpt. Aquilaine startled and looked at him closely. “My dear man, that hotel is nearly a mile south of our location. Perhaps you would like to accompany me to my club for the evening instead? It is mere blocks from here and I can assure you the food and company will be better than any you would find at the Victoria.”
Evening fell rapidly in the tropics and St. John did not relish the idea of walking yet another mile through the streets to find his lodgings. “Thank you, sir, I shall accept your offer with gladness, although I fear it puts me even further in your debt.”
Cpt. Aquilaine grinned, a look of good breeding and charm tinged by a hint of soldierly roguishness. “Then we shall simply have to be amiable to one another, for there is no debt among friends, especially not when one is an Englishman in India.” They set off in the direction he indicated.
“So tell me then, my new friend, how is it that you have such command over the language here and I do not? Is it merely the cane?” St. John pursed his lips in frustration. “I have been making a study of Hindustani for the last six months, and yet every time I speak to someone they simply stare at me as if I were attempting French. Further, I can not make out a word of what they say in return! Is my accent yet that poor? Will I soon make heads or tails of the matter?”
For this admission he received another look of concern from Cpt. Aquilaine, who smiled more gently this time and gripped him on the elbow, an overly-familiar action that marked him a born soldier. St. John, having spent the last three months surrounded by the markedly similar temperment of naval officers, took no offense.
“Reverend, I regret being the one who must present you with yet more unpleasant information, but clearly that is my lot this evening. For did you not know? The language spoken in Calcutta is Bengali.” Seeing the look on crestfallen St. John's face, he squeezed his elbow harder. “Come, come. Bengali is easy once you can read Hindu, and you will always have me at your disposal to assist. Here, this is my club right behind the footman.” He ushered St. John past a native bowing and opening a solid wooden door, and then they were inside.
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Also yay captain Aquilaine!! Is it next Friday yet???
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looking forward to next friday, nonny <3
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LIKE, IT READS LIKE A FUCKING CLASSIC NOVEL. JUST SEXIER.
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[So I hope you won't mind that I have a few nitpicks: You keep referring to 'reading/writing Hindu' when it should be 'Hindi,' a 'Hindu' being a person who follows Hinduism. Also, just out of curiosity, what are you using as a source for the Hindi and the Bengali?]
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** referring to the "Hindu language" (or Hindustani) rather than the "Hindi language" is incorrect now but perfectly appropriate for the 1840s (OED -- Colebrooke in Life (1873) "In the vernacular dialects, or even in the Hindu language [i.e. Sanskrit].")
** my Hindi comes from Google Translate, which is then transliterated. It's probably crap but IDGAF because life is short and I've got some porn to write. My "Bengali" is also Hindi, because Google Translate doesn't do Bengali.
** if Hindu/Hindi bugs you I HIGHLY suggest avoiding Chapter 13 (In which the Rev. St. John is forcefully and repeatedly violated by a Tentacle Monster)
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fine. here are some tentacles.
Chapter 13*
In which the Rev. St. John experiences a Mortification of the Flesh without ever removing his Trousers
*not the actual chapter 13
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St. John leaned back against the sandalwood tree, looking out over the placid surface of the lake. Such a tranquil scene; it soothed the mind just to gaze at it. Water lapped at the toes of his boots and leaves rustled overhead, trembling with each passing breeze. He felt himself drifting off as sleep overtook his weary body.
He woke with a start as a cold, wet band tightened around his waist, nearly choking off his mortal breath. His hands reached to grasp whatever was constricting him, only to find themselves also surrounded by wet and slime. St. John's eyes strove to take in the horror before them: long, grey tentacles, like writhing eels, snaking out of the lake and around his upright body, encircling his chest and limbs and pinning him to the tree. He struggled in vain against his bonds; rubbery but firm, they yielded no movement.
He stood transfixed, mouth open in horror, as two fat pink tentacles sporting wide, reddened suckers slid out of the waves. They crept towards his boots and parted, one wrapping around each ankle, sliding under the cuffs of his trousers and up towards his knees, leaving a trail of wet but strangely warm slickness behind. As they traveled up his thighs he shook with fear, the only movement left to him. One tentacle wrapped itself around his essence, red suckers latching onto that most sensitive member, while the other wormed in between his buttocks.
I am to be torn apart and devoured by this monster. God save me.
The second tentacle thrust and probed its way into his arse, filling him with a most curious sensation; all the while, the first tentacle continued tugging on his essence. St. John struggled against his bonds, fighting the white heat that pooled in his belly until he could fight no more. Tentacles swelled, thrust and sucked. He cried out, shame mingled with a strange pleasure, as a wave of blackness passed before his eyes. When he awoke he found himself lying in a heap on the ground, waves lapping calmly at the shore. The tentacles had vanished.
St. John staggered back to the campsite, limbs trembling. His arse ached and he could not erase the sensation of suckers tugging gently at his cock.
Cpt. Aquilaine glanced up from the fire he was nursing into life. “Are you well, friend?”
“Yes, quite. I am still waking from a brief nap, that is all.” His cheeks were red.
“I failed to mention earlier-the natives tell strange tales about the lake. Best explore it as a group, I hear.”
St. John gave him a cold stare; sarcasm lent his words a harsh edge. “I thank you for that most valuable information. You are, as ever, both timely and thoughtful. Surely, where would I be without a friend such as yourself?”
Cpt. Aquilaine frowned at him, puzzled, and turned back to the fire.
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