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  • Beqanna

    COTY

    Assailant -- Year 226

    QOTY

    "But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura


    [mature]  I tried to sell my soul last night; any
    #1

    I tried to sell my soul last night
    Funny, he wouldn't even take a bite

    The warmth of the summer sun heats his dappled skin as he lounges against the dusty green of the meadow grass. In the unfortunate length of his misbegotten life, he has learned that there is nothing quite so fantastic as lazily sunbathing on a warm day. To be frank, he’s pretty much just a lazy bastard, but hey, he can be poetic sometimes. Once in a while he manages to get off his dilatory ass (see? Fucking poetic) and do something with his life. But today is not one of those days. Today is reserved entirely for… nothing. Absolutely nothing.

    To be frank, one would have to be pretty damned special to change that. Not that he wouldn’t be willing to change his mind for the right lady (sorry gentlemen), but she’d have to be a pretty damn right lady. Hell, probably wouldn’t even have to be a very lady-like lady.

    With his eyes closed, he looks as though he could be sleeping. He’s not, but he sure looks like he could be. Instead he is lost in thought, remembering ages long past. He’d been a cold bastard once upon a time. Life, however, has a way of turning one on one’s ear. He probably wouldn’t have survived the last century or so if he hadn’t managed to develop a sense of humor. Granted, it’s a rather macabre sense of humor, one very few tend to appreciate. But then, he’d learned a long time ago just how little other’s opinions truly matter. The only one he ever has to actually live with is himself.

    And man, had he been an egotistical dick once. Not that he isn’t still, but at least now he’s an egotistical dick who can actually laugh at himself. A lot changes after a few decades of life. A few times he’d even gotten himself killed on purpose, just to get away from himself for a little bit. He snorts then, still not opening his eyes despite the somewhat humourless burst of laughter. At this point, if he couldn’t laugh at the stupid shit he’d done, he’d probably go mad.

    Who knows, maybe he is fucking mad. He wouldn’t be surprised by anything anymore, and certainly not by his sanity or lack thereof. But hell, he’s not supposed to be lingering on just how poor his state of mind is at the moment. He’s supposed the be enjoying the sunshine and the chirping of the birds.

    Chirp, chirp, motherfucker.

    Well shit, there goes that plan. So much for simply enjoying the afternoon.

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    #2

    A little breeze goes a long way

    A white dove lands silently in the meadow. It moves it's feet over the ground to try and trick worms into thinking it is raining; then, the bird would eat them.

    A white mare lands less silent. She is larger, for one, and the impact on the ground is perhaps graceful as she trots off the momentum, but nevertheless, really not that silent. A soft rush of wind against feathers is all it takes to warn the dove, though perhaps combined with a rather large shadow. Ilma spreads her wings for the break, then drops to the ground to walk the last bit. She shakes her fur - in the early autumn or late summer (who is to distinguish the seasons by a day, when it's still warm and the summer sun lingers, but the first leaves have yellowed out?), she had taken it upon herself to return to the meadow. As she'd told the little lamb before, it must be pretty in each season, and Ilma isn't one to miss a thing about it.

    Only after rearranging both fur and feather, she blinks and looks around, taking in the air that surrounds her. "Oh!" she exclaims before she can help herself. She's been very rude - the grey stallion isn't too far from her, but she's turned her back to him. She turns to give him a soft nicker as a greeting. She sure hadn't seen him there - his position had been aligned with a tree not too far away, and from the sky, he had seemed hidden to her. Not that he was, now. Clearly he hadn't even been near the tree's shadow. She can only hope she hasn't disturbed him too much, even though she fears that she might have.

    She hesitates a moment, but steps closer. "Sorry to drop in on you like that," she apologizes. One can only try to mend things, can't she?
























    Any fool knows men and women think differently at times, but the biggest difference is this: men forget, but never forgive; women forgive, but never forget.
    Robert Jordan, Wheel of Time
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    #3

    I tried to sell my soul last night
    Funny, he wouldn't even take a bite

    He’s just laying there, minding his own damned business, when suddenly he is very aware he is not alone anymore. His eyes are are still closed against the sun, so how can he tell, you might ask? He’s fucking psychic.

    Nah, just kidding, not really. But whoever it is is not exactly the stealthiest cat on the planet. Or horse, as the case may be. The thump of hooves against solid earth and the soft whooshing of wings breaking air are a dead giveaway. He still recognizes wings when he hears them. He’d had wings once. Back when he’d still been a massive dick and had actually given two shits about kingdom life. He’d risen pretty damn far in the ranks too, won a few battles, tweaked a few noses, romanced a few ladies.

    Fortunately he’s not that same douche anymore. He’s a different sort of douche now. One who can’t even be bothered to look at who had landed near him. I mean, if they quietly meandered off without saying anything, he’d be golden.

    But then, luck has never been on his side. Why should now be any different?

    The soft, feminine voice causes one ear to twitch as he hears her steps draw nearer. Hot damn. Well, no real gentleman (if you can actually call him that) keeps a lady waiting. Or ignores her. Whatever.

    Cracking his lids, he lifts his head from the smashed grass and peers at the pale mare for a moment before dropping his head back to the earth with a groan. Damn, the poor wench actually looks a bit hopeful. Now he has to get up. So much for his lazy day.

    But hey, maybe he could turn this around. She’s a cute enough little bit.

    In a sudden burst of movement, he has righted himself and managed to heave his tall, lanky frame to a standing position. Stretching his head forward, he braces himself to shake violently, loosing a cloud of dust from his dappled skin. Finally he turns piercing brown eyes to the winged mare, tilting his head curiously as a faintly cynical (yet oddly charming) smile quirks his lips. “Well, I might consider forgiving you if you tell me your name, love.”

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    #4

    A little breeze goes a long way

    As she watches his grey form in the grass, she wonders if perhaps she should not have approached. He takes his time to respond; lifting his head, dropping it, but just when she thinks that no, he’s not accepting visitors today, he stands. His motions quicker and more fluid than she had anticipated, she stops walking immediately, freezing for a heartbeat.

    She blinks to his words. Ah yes, now, while she knows that she really hasn’t approached in any proper way, but that should not mean she should be rude and not introduce herself. A small smile curls to her lips as she takes in the compliment - or flirt, or whatever the reason that he talks to her like that, she just thinks it a positive move on his side. ”My name’s Ilma. What should I address you with?” she asks in return.

    He moves with a certain carelessness, she does not fail to notice. It intrigues her, attracts her, but in a way that she knows might be dangerous. She’s not supposed to get closer, yet she does, offering her nose for an exchange of scents should he want to participate - and if not, she still knows that she will remember his. Frankly, it is the first actual male (mature male, that is) scent that she has smelled since her arrival in Beqanna, she realizes. And as that realization hits, she needs that she should tone it down. It’s not like this year will be the only season ever for her to reproduce. Seriously, Ilma! she scolds herself.

    All this passes silently, though. Quickly, also, thank goodness. Suddenly aware of her own body, she moves the wings on her back as if to rearrange them - something to distract herself, perhaps him too. He might just have an awful character, you know. Although she doesn’t really believe that - awful horses would have told her to just fuck off, or have ignored her completely. Right? Right.























    Any fool knows men and women think differently at times, but the biggest difference is this: men forget, but never forgive; women forgive, but never forget.
    Robert Jordan, Wheel of Time
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    #5
    I would like to apologize in advance because I don't know wtf this is. Ashhal is weird :| :| Please feel free to punch him in the nose if you need to XD

    I tried to sell my soul last night
    Funny, he wouldn't even take a bite

    The wry grin lazily adorning his sharply hewn features deepens as she sidles closer, curiosity overcoming any misapprehension she might have had. A misapprehension that would be decidedly appropriate, given his somewhat disreputable past. Not that he’s about to complain. Hell, that kind of misplaced curiosity is the only reason he ever got any attention anymore.

    Of course, being a bit more sociable might help too. Fuck, might as well put that in the ‘too old for that shit’ category as well.

    She seems to come back to her senses pretty quickly though. If it weren’t for his well-honed instincts, he might not even have noticed the suddenly more sensible ruffling of her feathers. Or he could be making shit up to suit his own fancy. Who the hell knows at this point. Not that any of that stops him from barreling on forward of course.

    “Ahh, Ilma, love,” he rumbles, sauntering forward with all the grace of a well-trained warrior (not that he’s been training particularly hard, but when it’s the only thing you’re any good at, eventually it becomes second nature). “Seems like the wrong time of year for a pretty little thing like you to be out here all alone.”

    (Yeah, he’s sexist as shit. C’mon man, catch up with the times.)

    Slipping alongside her, he brushes his muzzle lightly against the soft feathers of her wing, a teasing touch meant to distract and beguile. Or freak her the fuck out. Who knows. He’s pretty much lost all sense of subtlety in his old age, so he sure as hell doesn’t. Mostly, he’s just winging it (heheh, so punny).

    But hell, even if she did (rightly) decide he’s a bag of dicks and took off, at least he could get back to napping. I mean, this is definitely better, but napping is a good second.

    Inching forward, he continues his light caress until his muzzle reaches her shoulder. Grinning wickedly, he finally whispers a response to her question, hoarse amusement in his soft tone. “I’m Ashhal, but I feel like you’ll probably end up addressing me a lot more as ‘Oh god!”

    Darling Ilma, don’t you know awful horses most certainly don’t want you to fuck off? They only want you closer.

    Reply
    #6
    We'll see. I think I'm undecided if he should be punched or played with haha. His line of thought is fun to read though xD


    A little breeze goes a long way

    Instead of a name, she receives a warning - the only one she'll probably get, but, but - just a little too late. He's close now; closer than any stallion's ever been, and she drowns in his scent. His touch is soft, teasing, distracting. For a moment all thoughts are banished as a tingle rushes from her wings through her whole body. When he reaches her shoulder, he finally offers his name - and a plain insult for those who listen well.

    She opens her wing fast - dangerously close to his face, either forcing him away from her shoulder or bash into his nose, whichever one would work. Annoyed, she looks him up and down. She's not going to run - she could, she might, but he still intrigues her, he's just going way too fast. "Hey now. You could at least pretend to be a gentleman," she snorts. She's not sure where all of this is going.. or maybe she does know, but then she doesn't like the way how.

    Her heart's racing, pounding in her chest, yet he does not need to know and so she lifts her head high, her pride still untouched - for the moment. It's a game now - to not give in. But in the end, she knows that she just might. With the right amount of charm, that is.

    Let's start round two.























    Any fool knows men and women think differently at times, but the biggest difference is this: men forget, but never forgive; women forgive, but never forget.
    Robert Jordan, Wheel of Time
    Reply
    #7

    I tried to sell my soul last night
    Funny, he wouldn't even take a bite

    Fortunately for her (or perhaps unfortunately, depending on how one might look at it), Ashhal is a stubborn bastard. You might pretty it up, call it perseverance, determination, moxie, but any way you shake, he’s just plain damned mulish (if it weren’t for the fact he’s quite certain he can reproduce, one might even suppose he could be a mule). At any rate, one relatively tender boop to the nose is hardly enough to deter him.

    Besides, he’s been around too long to get winged in the snout by a young, lovely, fresh-faced girl. The sudden burst of feathers in his face causes him to lift his head sharply. Snorting with mild amusement, he tosses his head lightly before aiming a gentle, almost playful nip at the offending wing. Though his teeth close around nothing but air, it’s a subtle reminder that he is not someone to be fucked with.

    Yeah, he’s an ass. We’ve pretty much established that. But he’s an ass with a somewhat functional heart and at least a little bit of sense. He can tell when he needs to reel it in. Not that it’ll stick, but hey, what can you expect from said assery?

    Slanting her a somewhat wicked glance, grin still teasing his lips, he quirks one equine brow in an amused question. “I could pretend to be a gentleman,” he muses, once more inching a bit closer to the skittish Ilma. “But tell me Ilma, why the hell should I pretend to be something I’m not?”

    The soft gray of his muzzle reaches for her once more, lips tugging teasingly at the pale strands of her mane. A gentle nibble meant to soothe and appease. He’s cleverer this time (rotten bastard that he is), shifting the length of his body to press warmly against her winged side, effectively preventing a second round of nose punching.

    Breath fanning the pale skin of her neck, he grins once more before rasping, “I don’t think you want me to be a gentleman though.”

    Let her be the one to move away this time. If she even wanted to, that is.

    Cocky bastard.

    Reply
    #8

    A little breeze goes a long way

    He's a big bad boy, and she doesn't mind. Oh no she doesn't. It's why she didn't fly off as soon as he reverted his head just then, and now, he was smart enough to press his warm side against hers to prevent such a silly action in the near future.

    Her insides churn. Does she want thi- hell yeah, actually, she does. What she does nót want is to fall so quickly for his teasing, his touches, his warmth against her skin in places she didn't ever think to feel warm. It's all far too late for her though. She's lost in his scent, his warmth, his light touches, his voice. She answers his question in a whisper. "To get what you want, I reckon."

    Her tone is dryer than she feels, but she doesn't think that this bothers him in any way. He just continues with whatever the hell he's doing that is keeping her grounded, almost frozen in her spot as he tells her that she doesn't want him to be a gentleman. Well, maybe not, and to avoid having to answer, she lowers her head to rub away an itch on her foreleg. She knows it's just a momentary reprieve - and to be completely fair and frank, her movement rubs against his skin some more. She'd lean in if she weren't stubborn enough to stall just a little longer.























    Any fool knows men and women think differently at times, but the biggest difference is this: men forget, but never forgive; women forgive, but never forget.
    Robert Jordan, Wheel of Time
    Reply
    #9

    I tried to sell my soul last night
    Funny, he wouldn't even take a bite

    Ahhh, but falling is the fun part. He should know. There is something about the chase and the conquer that is as thrilling as the rush of battle. The thrumming of hot blood in his veins, the pricking of his skin, and the hyperfocus that sharpens his senses in the moment is the same. Fucking intoxicating.

    He can feel the way she relaxes into his touch, her resistance fading beneath the tender caress of his lips. “Mmmmmm,” he rumbles, muzzle pressing against her skin as the groan vibrates from him. He shifts his dappled body closer to the pale white of hers, until not even a breath is left between his lean, muscular frame and her softer, more feminine one.

    “Yeah?” he murmurs in response to her breathy statement (still filled with half-hearted resistance, but damned if they weren’t getting somewhere). He rubs his lips against the silken skin of her neck, dark eyes gleaming with wicked delight. “Oh, but I think I’m getting what I want just fine without it, love.”

    She drops her head then to rub an imaginary itch upon her leg, but this does little to deter Ashhal. Hell, she could probably wallop him one right then and it wouldn’t fucking deter him. Instead he traces his muzzle along the fine line of her neck until he reaches her exposed withers. There he nibbles lightly at the delicate, sensitive spine just beneath the tangle of her mane.

    He might not be good at much, but he’s damned good at seduction. And if she gave him but half a chance, he’d have her as putty in his fingers. Or hooves. Whatever. Semantics.

    Warm breath fanning her pales skin, he places a tender kiss against her shoulder before withdrawing slightly. Withholding his touch, a demonstration of what she would be missing. “Ilma, love,” he breathes, voice rough with want. “Tell me to stop and I’m gone.” Inhaling sharply, her scent filling his lungs, he pauses a moment before finishing the thought on a growl. “But if you don’t tell me to leave right now, you’re mine.”

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    #10

    A little breeze goes a long way

    Oh, but stalling makes the falling more worthwhile. Worth the wait. It stretches the moment from just before, but the time is now so that she just cannot resist. He's even closer now than she could ever imagine anyone even being, pressed against him and she knows, she will not move from her spot as long as a single hair of his touches hers.

    He makes a humming sound then, that vibrates from his chest, makes her own echo with his, the resonance filling her chest and extending all over her body. She revels in it, as far as that makes sense without moving a hair - perhaps uncertain of what comes next but knowing that whatever, she wants it. All of it. All of him.

    She forgets the question and answers that he poses as he touches a soft spot. A place where she could never reach for an itch herself, it is sensitive and sensual what he's doing, sending a chill, thrill of excitement down her spine. Her head jerks up a little, but relaxes a heartbeat later.

    She's a goner now.

    Then, and only then, he tells her he will stop if she asks him to - knowing that the answer is no, she won't ask him to stop. She knows in the back of her head that he must be doing that on purpose, but her voice betrays her state of mind when she finally answers. "Already... was." she sighs. She knows what he's doing but what the hell, who cares anyway. This is here, this is now. It's not even going to last, probably, but it's hot and intense and she's completely lost.

    A soft piece of melted putty, indeed.























    Any fool knows men and women think differently at times, but the biggest difference is this: men forget, but never forgive; women forgive, but never forget.
    Robert Jordan, Wheel of Time
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