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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 lay claim only to myself // Oxytocin
    #1
    The shackles of the contagion have not found her yet, though she sees those captured in its prison every day. The dead and the dying are now like acorns strewn across her path; more often than not, she kicks them out of the way when she cannot be helped to divert her course.

    The part of her that claims to be a magician’s daughter holds the contagion in contempt, idiotically traversing across the whole of Beqanna while fully believing in her immunity. The other part of her knows better; but she ignores it, steadfastly devoted to her eventual downfall in the name of egotism.

    Countless years spent on her own hardened her already steely exterior, lending her aura a blackness on top of the hue of her pelt. Though she spent little to no time grooming or maintain herself, the faintly Arabian creature presented an almost-forgotten kind of beauty to any who happened to glimpse her as she flitted between forests, rivers, and valleys. The Tundra had fallen long ago, and indeed, king Errant's reign had fallen even sooner. Still, she finds herself in search of something akin to her birth home; but none of the lands ever suited her, and so she never stayed long. Little did she know about the isle of ice to the north, though she could easily fly high enough to spot it.

    These days, she preferred to walk; despite her self-proclaimed isolation, she couldn’t help but to imagine that she hoped to meet someone along her meandering journey. That is to say, she thought about thinking about finding someone; but she would never admit to something so needy. At the very least, she might admit that she has more of a chance down here amongst the flightless, than floating up above in the clouds. Even the thought of utilizing her self-telekinesis renders the regal mare ill; and so she dismisses it with one sharp slash of her horned head, the ice-silver eyes set in her wide skull narrow as she continues through the unmarked underbrush.

    --

    Some time later – for she has certainly not kept track, having let go of that habit years ago when she realized that no one she loved or even knew yet lived here – the forest around her clears, and an opening appears. An early autumn snowfall has left the leaf-strewn meadow floor dusty and almost to her liking, though the once-royal female prefers permafrost to soil.

    Seeing no one else about, the mare steps forward, claiming this land as her own. Xiah, she thinks to the land around her, staring down her nose at the veritable wasteland with the haughtiness of any queen. She thinks this as if in doing so, the land might bend to her will and make itself that which she dreams of; but the land ignores her, and the unicorn stiffly rolls her eyes. Halting at a random, thoughtless point (for who is she to care any more what others think of her decisions), the mare swings her head abruptly to her flank, scratching an itch there with a blasé countenance so strong, one could almost write her off as but another bore of a horse.

    Almost, anyhow.
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    #2

    This plague has become... almost an annoyance.

    He has not been ill in several months now, having full recovered from the sickness, though the world seems to be growing sicker by the day. He does not fear it like the others do—his immunity has made him arrogant, it seems—but the sick repulse him, and he does his best to avoid them. Places like the Meadow aren’t peaceful anymore; it is filled with coughing and bleeding and dying horses, all trying to get their last kicks before they succumb to the sickness. He wonders if the herdlands and kingdoms are like this, too. Certainly, there are safe places, like the Isle, but he cannot be too sure of them. If they are inviting the ill within their borders, they are no better than the common lands that are already infested with them.

    The man never learned his father’s name, and thus doesn’t know that he traces back to some of the most powerful lines in Beqanna’s history. His unknown ‘sire’ line is full of kings and queens of the Chamber, the Valley, the Deserts. All kingdoms that are ancient history now, but they are rulerships that meant something, and certainly would mean something to Oxytocin if he ever learned them. He’s got powerful magic running through his veins; if only he knew it, though perhaps it’s best if he never learns. He’s heard of Nocturnal, of Tatter and Set and Starlace and the others, of the Blood Alliance and its fall out. If he found out he was a direct descendant of Starlace and Set? He’d probably become unbearable.

    Snow has been falling in the Meadow—a late fall occurrence that will probably fade by morning—and it has started to cover some of those that have died of the plague, littering the edges of the clearing distastefully. This place was really the last place some of them wanted to see? Disgusting, honestly. He steers clear of them all as he looks for a secluded spot, somewhere he could perhaps nap, under a beech tree or something. Anything to get away from all of these coughing skeletons and rotting corpses.

    The dead and dying fade as he goes further from the border, and finally he is alone. There is even a perfect napping tree here—dear lord, he really must be getting old if he’s searching out the places to take a nap. He leans his weight against the tree, wanting to thread his tendrils of death up through the roots but resisting. This is a good, old tree. Perfect for napping, remember? He doesn’t dare kill it.

    He hears the unmistakeable sound of teeth on flesh—he, too, occasionally scratches himself just as vigorously—and rounds the tree, eyes falling on a dark, horned mare just as she finishes her scratch and turns back around. She is pretty, that much is obvious, vaguely Arabic in her form and structure. He had planned a nap, but he supposes life has different plans (oh, how you have no idea, m’boy).

    He approaches her at a slow, leisurely pace, looking her up and down and finding no signs of the plague. No coughing, no blood, no emaciation. All good things. She is facing away from him and it is too easy for him to run his lips up her back as he draws alongside her, a wicked grin crossing his lips as he reaches to pinch her withers between his teeth. “Hello there,” he says, his voice deep and husky as his tail flicks over her back almost possessively. “What’s your name?”

    OXYTOCIN

    I don't have my head on straight



    @Xiah SORRY APPARENTLY HE'S FLIRTY
    immune.
    Reply
    #3
    Amidst the stench of countless rotting corpses (scenery, for all she cares), the scent of ice, royal blood, and stallion waft her way. She ignores them initially, though the combination enthralls the princess to no end. A single ear, flicked back to listen to just what this mystery man might do with her frail self with no one else around, twitches as she hears him stepping closer. Her head raises, though it does not turn; the point of her horn glimmers a warning, but it is a shame that she who needs it most cannot see it from where it sits atop her shapely head.

    His mouth finds her backside all too easily. Without pause the Arabian mare hops, kicking up her hind legs to land a punch squarely to the male's underside; but he persists, and it is evident in her lazily blinking eyes and their lack of contact to his that she has no further intentions of fighting off his advances. Not in any ways that wouldn't please him, anyway.

    As his teeth sink into the soft flesh of her withers, her ears pin, a brightness entering the silver hue of her eyes. At this point, as his husky voices washes over her like newly simmered water (unbearable, but leaving her wanting more), she addresses him. Tucking her chin to her chest, she twists beneath her neck to nip the firm bridge of the handsome stallion's nose. The clipped sound ringing thereafter makes her want to smile, but she refrains, preferring instead to simply breathe in the scent of her roguish pursuer.

    Perhaps a daughter raised by a magician king ought to have had more manners; but the plague and many decades of solitude leaves her victim to the ways of old, and that much is evident by the way she now eyes the other, as he asks for her name. She pauses a heartbeat before answering, listening instead to the thrum of her own heart, and imagining the blood it now pumps spilling. Why it would do so she chooses not to decide.

    "Xz-I-ah," she enunciates slowly, latching her eyes on to his, their depths a threat. "You must have duties elsewhere, to pass through this devastation." A twinge in her stomach and between her knees tells her all she needs to know about his current duties; but she feigns disinterest, blinking once and tossing her horned head to the wayside.

    Emboldened by the male's expressive interest, the mare pauses, and allows a coy smile to lazily crawl across the length of her velveteen lips. "And your name is?" Not that it will do you justice, she thinks, snapping her own tail at the other's flank. Let him tease her; she will only come out on top for all his efforts.
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    #4

    He doesn’t miss the delicate ear that points in his direction, nor does he miss the sharp, dangerous horn that she turns ever-so-slightly in his direction. If anything, it just excites the stallion as he runs his teeth up her back, a throaty chuckle escaping his lips as she crow hops, her back hooves catching him squarely in the chest. It doesn’t stop his advances any, and clearly, she hadn’t intended it to stop him, so he smiles as his teeth sink into her withers.

    She turns her head swiftly and her teeth meet the bridge of his nose and he laughs again, the air ringing with the sound of his mirth. “You’re definitely feisty,” he says with a grin.

    Even as a king, Oxytocin had never learned manners himself. His entire pedigree is made up of royals, top and bottom, but manners aren’t something that’s genetic, and seeing as he had never known them... he made do. He had seized the Valley in its weakened state and made it his own; fuck everybody else. He had gotten into more arguments and fights over his right to keep the Valley – he hadn’t needed anyone’s teachings or lessons to mold him into his own version of royalty. He had used brute force to take what he wanted, and that’s always been his mentality. If you want something, take it.  

    Make it yours.

    “Xz-i-ah,” he repeats, drawing her name out in honeyed tones, his brown eyes dark as he meets her gaze. “My only duties right now are to you.” His lips find purchase in her mane and he pulls on it, hind legs shifting only slightly closer to her. He finds himself wanting her, this woman he had only just met, but he is patient... for now. Soon he will shed all sense of patience, but for the moment he quiets the growing need.

    He takes a step forward and his lips graze the skin below her ear and he grins wickedly. “Oxytocin,” he murmurs into her ear, “and I can have you screaming it for the entire world to hear.” He sidesteps away from her then, eyes glittering wickedly as his tail thrashes from side to side.  

    “All you have to do is ask.”

    OXYTOCIN

    I don't have my head on straight



    @[Xiah]
    immune.
    Reply
    #5
    She smirks at the label the rogue issues her, ears flicking as though she mentally tries it on for size; feisty,; there passes through her mind many of memory of just such a word being used to describe her. Growing up as the eldest of the final two Learrant daughters, left to care for her younger sister in the wake of their disappearance and essential death, she supposes that she needed one such attribute to call her own. After all, there had never been anyone else to look after her except herself.

    The stallion's breath pools warmly against the skin of her face and neck, the taste of it heavy with sweetness, an over powering poison.

    Xz-i-ah, uttered the black, drawing out her name as though to do so might create for them a hole in the time-space continuum, a vacuum where only they can exist until time immemorial. She thinks, in that moment, of how greatly the notion tempts her; and privately, she comes to understand just why her royal parents drifted off into the netherrealm as they did so many decades ago.

    But she is not her parents, and this interaction is assuredly not one they would smile upon.

    My only duties right now are to you. This phrase he speaks with the same inflection, though the length of it is cut short as the larger stallion's lips find purchase on the silky locks of her mane. A jolt runs through her body, one which speaks embarrassingly clearly of desire, and especially, need; Xiah wonders with a shift of her gaze if Oxytocin can feel the heat which subsequently rushes to her face. Feeling her front of dominance and power begin to crumble beneath the weight of wanting the stallion so badly, the mare shifts her own legs closer, colliding her lithe black frame with his muscular one in an all too needy way.

    He grins, sensing her need, sliding his body up hers and finding the sensitive tissues of her inner ear. The deep syllables of his name bring a matching expression to the mare's visage, her lips curving elegantly and sinfully in the folds of her muzzle. Her shapely head tilts back, angling as though to do so might send his words even more titillatingly through her; and, with a rewarding lushness, they come, spilling from her head to her toes like scalding wax.

    Ironic, that they find themselves so aroused where dozens lay dead - and dying. Xiah is not blind to those without the energy to do anything but stare as the romancers trist openly in the middle of the field; she meets the gaze of one such unlucky soul now, her grin growing ever more wicked as she imagines the last thing they hear being the sound of their carnal fucking.

    Without further ado, the princess side steps, sliding herself sensually into most tempting of positions. The heady scent of her fertility wafts intoxicatingly around the stallion, the perfume of her smearing inelegantly along the stallion's broad chest as she teasingly swings her hips from side to side. "Pleeease, Oxytocin," she enunciates breathlessly, head tipping back, mouth falling open. Let the dying have a real show; and let her have some pleasure for the first time in too long. "Please, please won't you fuck me..."
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    #6

    It only takes moments for their innocent flirting to evolve into something a little more dangerous, to stray into territory he has not thought to explore in quite some time. Certainly, there had been a variety of women in his life over the years since Kindling, but none of them – not even Kindling, if he’s being honest – had excited him in the ways that Xiah is doing now.

    But he isn’t thinking about Kindling right now – he is thinking about the sassy black mare in front of him, trembling with desire as he pulls at her mane. His breathing turns heavy as her supple frame moves closer to him, her hips crashing against his barrel in a way that takes the breath from his lungs. A small gasp escapes his lips, still pressed to the curve of her face even as they move briefly – ever so briefly – apart before desire and lust bring them crashing back together once more.

    He is not ignorant to those around him; they are surrounded by the ghosts of the recently deceased and those that shall be quick to follow. Like her, he finds himself more turned on at the idea of giving them a show. Someone’s last thoughts are going to be of their copulation and his wicked smile matches hers as his eyes wander – only briefly – to the hoards around them.

    Then she swings her hips in his direction, moving her tail so that the scent of her assaults his nostrils. He grumbles deep in his throat as he moves closer to her, his chest pressing against her hips as she swings her hips, spreading her scent all over him. She is begging him now, daring him to fuck her and he chuckles as he mounts her in one easy movement, grasping her barrel with his forelimbs while his teeth find the sensitive spot at the base of her withers. “As you please, princess,” her murmurs against her skin, a wicked grin on his face.

    He enters her suddenly, rocking his hips back and forth as he settles on her back. Slowly, he slides the whole length of himself inside of her, pausing only for a moment before thrusting, hard. Their sex continues like this for some length of time; Oxytocin thrusting while Xiah squeals and moans underneath him. He groans at the sensation of her surrounding him, desperately trying not to end this feeling too soon.

    Hey, it’s been a long time.

    After what feels to him like an eternity, he slides from her back, drenched in sweat and breathless. Hips lips press soft kisses to her hips, her side, her withers; wherever he can reach. It is not in an effort to be tender – neither of them is quite capable of tenderness, he thinks – but rather as a promise for the next round to come. He’ll keep at this all night if she wants.

    OXYTOCIN

    I don't have my head on straight



    @[Xiah] THIS IS SO BAD but if you want to end this here or continue just let me know!
    immune.
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