Torwood
“Surprise surprise, Tom just texted me that his flight was cancelled. Probably a good thing, I bet the roads are murder,”
said Vanessa. She was sitting at the kitchen table with Shirley, nursing a cup of tea and trying to get a news story about the weather to load on her cell phone. I stood at the counter, preparing ingredients for a hearth-cooked lunch. She had not looked at me since stalking out of the living room, not that I much blamed her. I had never known how to act around Vanessa. Even when we were teenagers I always seemed to provoke her terribly.
Perhaps closing the door in her face yesterday wasn’t the best idea, but what was I supposed to do when it felt like my heart would beat out of my chest if I had to look at her for one more moment? Her further accusations of manipulation and malintent had cut deep, but there was solace in the pain. I clung tightly to my anger over her comments, hoping that it would provide me the strength to keep away from her during her stay.
Oh gods, I didn’t want to keep away. I wanted to wrap her tiny form within my arms. I wanted to kiss her all over, touch the curves of her body, smell her scent which I had dreamt of for ten long years. But no. For now, I would quell the burning in my chest and keep my distance.
“I’ll be moving to the hearth to prepare lunch,”
I announced. I had assembled the ingredients for a simple meal of acorn squash, broccoli, and beans. The squash was one I had nurtured for months in Shirley’s greenhouse, and was excited to finally taste. I retrieved a large cast iron hearth skillet from the back of the pantry and hooked it to the metal arm which hung inside the hearth. The fire had burned down a little, and was the perfect height for cooking.
I carefully arranged the foil-wrapped squash halves, well-basted with butter, salt, and herbs, among the coals, then retrieved the broccoli and placed it in a mesh basket over the wide pot which we had used for tea. The broccoli steamed for several minutes, softening the woody stalks. I employed my mother’s favorite test for doneness, of pinching a piece between my fingers and comparing the color of the vegetable to that of my skin. Seeing that it was sufficiently emerald, I placed the broccoli on the skillet and began spooning the melted garlic butter over the florets and stoked the fire with a hickory log, hoping to achieve a nice char.
Next, I poured the baked beans into a sturdy low pot, and reheated them over the coals. On a whim I retrieved a tub of molasses, and spooned a few dollops into the beans, mixing well. Feeling good about my improvisation, I returned to the kitchen and mixed a glaze of maple syrup, miso, and rice vinegar for the broccoli.
I was keenly aware of Vanessa’s presence as I beat the ingredients together in a small jar. Although she remained chatting with Shirley, who was informing her about all the nefarious activities of her elderly friends, I felt the unmistakable prickly feeling of her gaze against my back as I prepared the meal. My heart began to thump again, and I made a hasty retreat back to the fire.
After glazing the broccoli, I moved it to a cooler corner of the hearth and unwrapped an acorn squash. It was deep yellow and orange, and had a beautifully sweet, earthy smell which mixed delightfully with the hickory wood and molasses aroma of the beans. I found three earthenware plates, and portioned a section of each dish onto them, salting everything generously. My return to the kitchen was greeted with sounds of delight from Shirley, and, I was deeply happy to see, a faint smile on Vanessa’s lips.
“Oh Torwood, you’ve outdone yourself,”
said Shirley.
“It’s no trouble. I am always pleased at a chance to cook on your wonderful hearth,”
I replied, pulling a seat out for myself.
“No meat?”
asked Vanessa.
I paused. “Are you no longer a vegetarian?”
Vanessa snorted. “I haven’t been one for years. What, are you?”
How could I tell her that I had been a vegetarian since she introduced me to the concept ten years ago. That I was ecstatic to share my vegetarian recipes with her, that whenever I prepared a new dish it was her mouth I would imagine eating it.
“I will find some meat to cook for our next meal,”
I replied, unable to answer her question.
I watched carefully as she cut a piece of the acorn squash, speared it on her fork, and placed it into her mouth. A wisp of steam escaped her lips as they closed around the food. Her eyes shot open. Before she could finish chewing the first bite, she was tearing again into the squash’s flesh with her knife, clearly eager for more, before becoming aware of herself again and slowing, attempting to appear indifferent to the food. I lowered my head so she would not see the blush that swept across my face.
Like a bull in a china shop, Shirley piped up and obliterated the delicate mood in the room. “Torwood, you cook like a fucking miracle!”
***
An hour later, when we had finished the meal and I was wrapping up the dishes, my fingers numb from the frigid sink water, Vanessa stalked back into the kitchen and announced, “I’m making my famous banana bread!”
followed by some grumblings under her breath about “not the only cook in the house,”
and “anyone can make something good on a fire.”
I finished the dishes quickly, careful to ensure that she wouldn’t see me chuckle at her adorable display.
No, not adorable! She was insulting me. She hadn’t even thanked me for the meal, and now she was trying to upstage my cooking. That had to make me upset, right? I dredged up her words from our fight the previous night, the memory of the disgust in her voice fanning the small coal of anger in my chest. I embraced the fire, allowing it to drive me away from her.
I left the room quickly and I found an empty spot on the living room couch near Shirley while Vanessa rummaged around in the kitchen, hunting for the necessary bowls and ingredients.
“Thank you for doing the dishes dear, but you know they will take care of themselves, yes?”
said Shirley.
She asked me the same question most days, and I responded the same way: “Yes of course Shirley. It’s a task I don’t mind when I have the time. If you had your way, runecraft would handle all the tasks of this house, and you’d have no need for me anymore,” I teased.
Shirley swatted at me. “Oh you drama queen, don’t act like I’m putting you out of work. If I figure out runes that can cook as well as you can, or lose at card games, or be a lousy waltz partner, well then you should be worried.”
I chuckled, and we settled into a comfortable silence. After some minutes, Vanessa entered the room with a small foil-covered tin of what I could only assume was the beginnings of her famous banana bread. She shoved the package roughly into the coals, and sparks flared. She yelped, then withdrew her hand sharply, grasping at her palm.
Without thinking, I was on my feet and by her side. “Are you hurt?”
I asked, kneeling down to look at her hand. A quarter-sized circle of shiny red skin was forming on the side of her palm, where a coal had jumped from the fire and hit her.
“Oh, dear, was it a burn?”
asked Shirley.
“Yeah, but it’s...it’s not bad,”
said Vanessa, clearly wincing. She stood, ignoring me and still holding her palm in her other hand, and walked to the bathroom. I heard the tap open, and was happy in the knowledge that the water was ice cold. I stood by the bathroom door, out of her eye line, unsure if I should offer help. She shut off the water, and I heard the mirror cabinet open, followed by a loud clattering.
“Fuck, fuck, fucker,”
she growled.
I moved into the doorway and saw that she had been attempting to wrap her palm, one end of the bandage held in her teeth and the other in her opposite hand, and in doing so had knocked the contents of the sink counter to the floor. I never came into this bathroom, as it would have been small for someone half my size, but I attempted to kneel and gather some of the items from the ground.
“I got it, it’s fine,”
said Vanessa. She attempted to keep wrapping her palm, but her other hand did not have a proper angle to manipulate the bandage. I stood, leaning back out of the doorway, then gently grabbed her forearm and pulled her in my direction. She looked up at me in surprise.
“You will not be able to wrap your burn properly like that. If it progressed to an infection, it would be extremely difficult for any emergency services to reach us. I will do it for you,”
I said. In that moment, seeing her hurt and struggling, the anger I had tried so hard to listen to was silent. All I felt was a deep need to protect this woman, to help her heal.
I retrieved an antibiotic cream from the cabinet and rubbed a measure of it into her burn. She winced despite my attempts at gentleness, but did not protest. I couldn’t help but notice how small her hands were in mine, my forefinger like a thick branch supporting the fragile leaf of her palm.
By Gruumsh above, I was becoming overwhelmed. I tried to focus on the task with a clinical remove, but was caught up completely in her closeness. I was unable to stop looking up from her hand to her lips, imagining closing the distance and tasting her lips. My heart began to pound, and a familiar heat crept into my cheeks.
With every ounce of willpower I possessed, I refocused. I took the bandage from her, and passed it around her hand several times, before finally tying it off and severing it with one long claw. My voice caught in my throat as I spoke again.
“Please, uhm, be more careful. Cooking on the hearth can be quite dangerous.”
She had a strange look in her eyes. I expected her ire at that boneheadedly obvious comment, but it did not come. Instead she nodded at me, and returned to the living room. I cleaned up the remaining mess on the floor without complaint, hoping that neither the flush in my cheeks nor the scent of my pheromones were too noticeable. These were the exact kind of situations I needed to avoid.
“I think I need to lie down for a little,”
said Vanessa to her grandmother.
“Yes, of course dear. Take a rest, we’ll be here,”
Shirley replied.
Vanessa padded off to her room, while I returned to my seat on the couch, fit my reading glasses against my face, and opened my book, desperately seeking distraction.
“That was a very kind thing you did, Torwood.”
Shirley spoke only once Vanessa was out of earshot, oblivious to my reading. “My granddaughter has always had a temper, but she’s a wonderful person. I hope you’re not taking her coldness too much to heart.”
I put the book down. “I understand she is in a difficult situation. I’m sure she will be glad to leave here once the storm has passed. I can tell that my presence is causing her distress.”
“She’s been gone for ten years, and her last memories of this place were not very pleasant. Everything is causing her great distress,”
Shirley chuckled.
I considered this. “Well, I will give her the space that she requires. I do not have any need for her to like me, but I hope we can at least be neutral within this house.”
“Hah. Good luck with that,”
Shirley replied, wearing the mysteriously knowing expression that only elders can accomplish.
Thoughts of Vanessa swirled in my mind, and I found myself reading and rereading the same passages. After a while the fire burned low, and as I went to add more logs, I noticed that the banana bread was still nestled amongst the coals. I retrieved it, barely feeling the scorch of the metal through my thick skin. Unwrapping the foil, I was pleased to see that it was not burned, and in fact looked perfectly baked. I cut a slice with a generous coating of butter for Shirley, who ate it greedily.
“Not bad at all for a first effort,”
she said. “Why don’t you bring some to Vanessa? I’m sure she’d appreciate tasting the fruits of all her hard work.”
I had a mental image of Vanessa throwing a lamp at my head for having dared to wake her from her nap.
I plated another slice and headed to the back of the house, pausing outside her door.
After a moment’s consideration, I bent to leave the plate on the ground.
A noise, from inside.
A rustling of sheets.
A faint electrical buzz, perhaps? And then a sound that froze me in place.
It was a miracle I did not drop the plate in that moment.
Vanessa let out an unmistakable moan of pleasure, a long mew that she failed to stifle.
My brain told me to walk away immediately, that this was a violation of the worst kind, but my feet remained glued to the spot.
“...ohwood!”
her cry shaped into a word.
There was no way. Had Vanessa just moaned my name? I must have been hearing it wrong, surely it was something else, “so good”
perhaps.
My heart was racing.
The buzzing from beyond the door ceased, and I heard another rustling of fabric.
Quickly I placed the plate at the foot of her door and turned to leave.
As my brain began to resume its normal processing, I was aware that I was fully, painfully hard within my pants.
As if her mere proximity weren’t enough, now I had this thought, those sounds in my head.
I retreated to the kitchen, thoughts swimming, hoping for a safe few minutes to allow my cock to calm.
I would have to take care of it tonight, and I knew what my fantasies would contain.
It would be far from the first time that I would cover myself in cum thinking of Vanessa, and it would certainly not be the last.