07-28-2017, 12:52 AM
** WARNING: Graphic violence, descriptive sexual innuendo, sadism, death.
She is so, so tired –
Fatigue has carved its way into every tender muscle, every weary bone – she is exhausted and thoroughly spent, with her spirit, her heart, and her body falling apart at the seams. She is eternally youthful, but the brightness that once lit up her dark, doe eyes had long since faded, and the glee that once graced her softened, feminine features had become melancholy - forlorn. She often forced the shadow of a smile to touch the rim of her dark lips, but it never reached her eyes – and though she yearned to feel mirth fill the deep, empty expanse of her chest, not even his kiss, nor his warmth could bring her from the depth of her own despair.
She was broken – barely held together by her own frail, frayed heartstrings, though she had been shattered into many pieces. She had come to know love - true, devastatingly beautiful love, but it had been too late. She had been used, manipulated, and abused for far too many years, and she could not bring herself to feel anything but the deep, unshakable self-loathing that had become as much a part of her as the curved kudu horns settled amid her tangled tresses, or her once wildly beating heart, which thudded dully against its rigid cage.
Her barrel is round – swollen with a stirring of life, growing, expanding within her. Her bristling, unkempt feathers flex along the hollow bones of her winged appendages, which lay limply across her belly, gently cradling its girth with the extension of their breadth. She can feel the familiar contractions beginning to ease up along her sides, and softly, her breath hitches within her throat – the agony is brief and fleeting, but as a trickling of fluid slides down the length of her hind-leg, she is all too aware that it is time.
She had hidden away within the darkness of the dimly lit, dense foliage – Taiga still felt foreign to her, though she had wandered it from rim to rim, exploring every dark crack and crevice it had to offer – and yet, still, she wandered just beyond the border and deeper into the forest that had become her refuge. Her solace. Her only semblance of soothing comfort in the aftermath of a world turned upside-down. Though she is yearning still for the warmth and close embrace of her beloved Siberian, she felt the desperation and urgency of solitude calling to her, and so deeper into the darkness of the forest, she moves.
The anguish is swift and agonizing, and soon she is shakily stumbling through the woodland, before collapsing against an old and brittle oak near the border of the Taiga. A weak cry emerges from deep within, echoing through the vast thicket as she lay prone, convulsing with each wave – each contraction bringing her unborn son closer to birth, closer to the frigid air of evenfall and to the unforgiving world he would be forced to face.
He is as dark as night, cloaked in a thick, sheathing sac – she is only barely able to look upon him, with a glimmer of hope flashing in her eye, seeing the inkiness of his skin (he is so like his father – perfect, stark imagery of the one she had given her whole heart to) and the wide brightness of his curious gaze. Her strength is gone, waning with each passing moment, though she pushes past her own discomfort to tear away the fragile sac from his body – but soon, there is little else but a sharp jolt of pain and a darkness falling over her, before she is breathless and limp upon the moist and supple ground.
I’d go to hell and back with you, stay lost in what we found.
Worlds apart, we were the same, Until we hit the ground.
She is tired.Worlds apart, we were the same, Until we hit the ground.
She is so, so tired –
Fatigue has carved its way into every tender muscle, every weary bone – she is exhausted and thoroughly spent, with her spirit, her heart, and her body falling apart at the seams. She is eternally youthful, but the brightness that once lit up her dark, doe eyes had long since faded, and the glee that once graced her softened, feminine features had become melancholy - forlorn. She often forced the shadow of a smile to touch the rim of her dark lips, but it never reached her eyes – and though she yearned to feel mirth fill the deep, empty expanse of her chest, not even his kiss, nor his warmth could bring her from the depth of her own despair.
She was broken – barely held together by her own frail, frayed heartstrings, though she had been shattered into many pieces. She had come to know love - true, devastatingly beautiful love, but it had been too late. She had been used, manipulated, and abused for far too many years, and she could not bring herself to feel anything but the deep, unshakable self-loathing that had become as much a part of her as the curved kudu horns settled amid her tangled tresses, or her once wildly beating heart, which thudded dully against its rigid cage.
Her barrel is round – swollen with a stirring of life, growing, expanding within her. Her bristling, unkempt feathers flex along the hollow bones of her winged appendages, which lay limply across her belly, gently cradling its girth with the extension of their breadth. She can feel the familiar contractions beginning to ease up along her sides, and softly, her breath hitches within her throat – the agony is brief and fleeting, but as a trickling of fluid slides down the length of her hind-leg, she is all too aware that it is time.
She had hidden away within the darkness of the dimly lit, dense foliage – Taiga still felt foreign to her, though she had wandered it from rim to rim, exploring every dark crack and crevice it had to offer – and yet, still, she wandered just beyond the border and deeper into the forest that had become her refuge. Her solace. Her only semblance of soothing comfort in the aftermath of a world turned upside-down. Though she is yearning still for the warmth and close embrace of her beloved Siberian, she felt the desperation and urgency of solitude calling to her, and so deeper into the darkness of the forest, she moves.
The anguish is swift and agonizing, and soon she is shakily stumbling through the woodland, before collapsing against an old and brittle oak near the border of the Taiga. A weak cry emerges from deep within, echoing through the vast thicket as she lay prone, convulsing with each wave – each contraction bringing her unborn son closer to birth, closer to the frigid air of evenfall and to the unforgiving world he would be forced to face.
He is as dark as night, cloaked in a thick, sheathing sac – she is only barely able to look upon him, with a glimmer of hope flashing in her eye, seeing the inkiness of his skin (he is so like his father – perfect, stark imagery of the one she had given her whole heart to) and the wide brightness of his curious gaze. Her strength is gone, waning with each passing moment, though she pushes past her own discomfort to tear away the fragile sac from his body – but soon, there is little else but a sharp jolt of pain and a darkness falling over her, before she is breathless and limp upon the moist and supple ground.
Misra