"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
09-03-2019, 11:17 PM (This post was last modified: 09-03-2019, 11:17 PM by brunhilde.)
and all the quiet nights you bear, seal them up with care
no one needs to know they’re there, or i will hold them for you
Flashy and erratic, like the butterflies that surround her, Brunhilde floats through the autumn woods. There is something special about the fall in the forest, a little scent and sparkle that separates it from the perpetual colors of Sylva. She smiles to herself, something devilish and free, as she weaves between the tightly-woven trunks. Her mind wanders to sizzling the wretched insects clinging to her back, but is quickly drawn away by the eery blow of the wind through the dying leaves.
“Hmm . . .” she mumbles to herself as she comes to a graceful halt in a small clearing. Her gemstone eyes find a small circular opening where the canopy cannot fully close over the clearing. Just as she blinks, a single droplet of rain plops between her nostrils. She spooks, prancing backwards like the flighty woman she is. Her head shakes irritably, impossibly long and beautiful locks falling in voluminous tendrils around her face. The darkness of her mane accentuates the regal akhal-teke lines of her face, and she looks almost perfectly innocent and gorgeous in her little clearing.
The dappled light of a sunny rainshower dots her face, and she smiles: a sweet moment to herself.
“Hello?” she snaps, eyes flying open to search for the sound she thinks disturbs her peace. She is nervous suddenly, anxiety rippling off of her tensed muscles.
09-03-2019, 11:53 PM (This post was last modified: 09-03-2019, 11:53 PM by Beelzebub.)
you are sacred because i have made you sacred.
Beelzebub
Normally he enjoys his isolation and the quiet solitude of roaming the forests in the dead of night when there’s not a soul to disturb him. He can’t say for sure just why he ventures out during the day this time but the sun bleeds through the tree tops in little splashes of light. The rays catch his almost-gold scales and promise that he is treasure, he is wealth and splendor incarnate. How strange for something so vile to have such soft eyes as he scans across her body. This is the gaze of someone yearning for a companion, an other to walk beside, and yet his heart desires none of it.
The only thing he’s hungry for is the curve of her hips and the delicate skin that twitches along her neck with every heartbeat. He moves forward with his head held high and some awful imitation of warmth in a synthetic smile across his face. A twig snaps under his hooves and she turns so abruptly at the sound. Beelzebub pauses, his foreleg still in midair as he watches her with a relaxed sort of gaze. He means no harm, his smile says.
Slowly, he eases forward once more until his side is pressed to hers. The raging fire of her skin coats his scales but finds no place to scorch him, and so he remains comfortable in this way. His eyes are half-lidded as though he just awoke from the most pleasant dream when he leans in to whisper softly against her ear, “Hello, little sunset.”
Another raindrop falls on his face and rolls down his cheek. Her butterflies burn and turn to ash against her body but he says nothing. A trail of little wildflowers mark his path to her in varying shades of blushing pink, summer yellow, and cautioning reds. Fate made a cruel joke, wasting such beauty and gifts on someone as cold as him.
“Are you here all by yourself?” he asks as he trails erratic little kisses behind her ear and down to her jaw. Beelzebub torments himself by drawing it out this way but his hunger is too enormous to satisfy quickly. He must pace himself and take little bites of her like this to fully sate this feral need.
09-04-2019, 12:39 AM (This post was last modified: 09-04-2019, 12:45 PM by brunhilde.)
and all the quiet nights you bear, seal them up with care
no one needs to know they’re there, or i will hold them for you
The man comes like the night: blackened by that sweet charm that lulls you to sleep. She does not notice (of course she doesn’t) him in her serenity. While his eyes track her uptilted face, she remains within herself, blissfully taken with herself. That little taste of peace she knows she will not forget sits on the back of her tongue. It will choke her, if she is not careful.
He comes like the night and arrives like the dawn, beautiful and molten in his transition.
As still as a statue the stallion stands, and Brunhilde can only find it in herself to face him. She says nothing as her glittering eyes study his countenance: handsome features, a sharp face, alluring eyes. Her nostrils flare at the waft of his scent so delicately tangled with the rot of the forest.
He smells like a man.
It is when he rubs his side against hers that Hildy finally calls out for her companion. Khal? The hesitance in her voice should have sent him running, but the lion is mid-hunt, and the image he sends over is meant to tell her to hush. The little flame gulps, darting eyes finding Beelzebub in her peripheral vision as his lips brush her ear.
Little sunset.
She will never think of herself the same. The way her new nickname spills from his lips makes her skin shiver with delight and disgust, and she draws in a deep breath. He is all around her, masculine cologne mingling with the dying leaves in a saccharine way. “My name is Brunhilde,” is a stuttering protest, but she is almost certain he will merely laugh her off.
Are you here all by yourself?
Brunhilde should lie. She knows this, knows it to her core and still she hisses, “Yes.” Would he have left if she had told him otherwise? Or would he have whisked her away with less predatory sweetness, drawn her to the serpent without so much as a bat of his eye?
Beelzebub’s mouth is hot against her neck, his lips too sticky and sweet. The wildfire’s breath hitches in her throat, and she knows she should run, but she wonders if even that will be futile; that hesitation is what eventually does her in, a moment too long and now he has her.
She is great and beautiful like the sun and he has always wanted to see how much fire he could swallow before it destroyed him. Is there enough of her to overflow over his lips or will he take everything she has to give? She speaks up and says her name like a fire suddenly doused with a little gasoline. He hums, pretending that he heard her and that he’ll remember by the time he turns to leave. Is any part of him ever telling the truth, he wonders? At least he isn’t lying when he drags his tongue across her skin when she says yes.
“You taste so lonely,” he murmurs as he finally pries himself from her side. He backs up and stretches his wings out to their full reach, maybe to balance himself when he rears up or maybe to block her path a little more if she tries to run. Just as quickly, those leathery wings move forward and curl up over her shoulders, up to her chest. His blunt teeth have turned to fangs and he sinks them into the base of her neck to fully anchor him on top of her.
Beelzebub had thought he would pace himself but he can’t even tell the truth to himself.
His scaled forelegs lock around that curve of her hips that he had admired so much from afar. Her body is burning hot beneath him when his hips jerk forward, roughly pressing him inside her. An awful laugh rumbles from his throat and around a mouthful of her skin between his teeth. She feels like the heaven he has always been denied in this life and so he is ravenous to destroy her now.
Beelzebub can hear himself panting, ragged breaths all shuddering over her as the rain picks up. The droplets run down his ribs and onto her back where they sizzle and steam between their bodies. Slowly, he pulls back until it seems like he’s already finished using her up, and then his hips slam forward again. He releases his bite on her and leans his head up to mumble drunkenly into her ear, “Say you hate me.” And then his hips collide with hers more violently than before.
and all the quiet nights you bear, seal them up with care
no one needs to know they’re there, or i will hold them for you
She is a fine winter mist, and he is an impending hailstorm. Peaceful within herself, quiet and reserved: Brunhilde is unlike herself as her lips purse and her eyes close. She freezes, wings tucked upward, one leg lifted a mere two inches from the ground.
The stallion’s mouth and hot against her skin when she moans, breath hitching in her throat. She would choke if she could move any part of her body; instead, she shivers and finds herself cold where his lips have left, and curses herself for it. This is the exact opposite of what her parents taught her: fight and fight and fight like hell, even if it is with a loved one. This is no loved one, just a wretched and selfish being; and still she cannot find it within herself to even mildly deny him. There is no game here, she is quickly realizing - no game, just engulfing fear and sickly obsession.
It is beneath him that she finally breaks, the dam around her patched heart splitting open with a terrifying crash.
The air goes still when he wraps his wings around her. Brun watches as rain falls in slow motion, crystalline drops heartbreaking in their purity. She knows she will never feel the rain the same again. Even that simple joy, one of feeling clean after a spring shower, he steals from her.
“Oh,” she whispers when he is inside of her. Over and over again, she tells herself she could fight back: she should at least try to set him on fire, right? But even this she denies herself, relaxing beneath the push of his hips and attempting to tear her neck away from the sharp grasp of his teeth. It would feel good if she wanted it, Brunhilde quickly realizes, knowing all too deeply how much she wants others to inflict pain on her. It is a sickly epiphany, one that makes her silently gag.
A single, aggressive thrust forces the little flame forward, knees buckling at his weight and how much she wants to enjoy this. She moans and hates herself for it, even as tears begin to drip from her eyes.
Say you hate me.
“I hate you,” she whispers, though it is the empty response of desperation.
Say it.
“I fucking hate you.” This time there is meaning, but it is forced apart by a broken moan, and Brunhilde whips her head around to snap furious teeth in the stallion’s face. She begins to back into his hips, and spits, “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. I bet you didn’t want me to enjoy it, did you?” Tears still stream down her cheeks, turning what might be a worthy rebuttal into a childish one.
She cries when she’s angry. Has he ever been so delighted? When he first saw her, did he ever think it would all come together so perfectly? The way she presses back against him so he can plunge that much deeper inside her, the way she makes herself sick with all that want pooling into her every moan – it sends a shiver up his spine. Her voice says she hates him but it comes out empty the first time. The second try, though, is all bile and bitter and it makes him groan. He wants to bury his face against the arch of her steaming back but he wants to watch her more.
But even as the shame and that spine-gnawing hunger flood her, she doesn’t fight back or try to throw him off. Still, he holds her a little tighter any way and trails smaller bites across her shoulders until little beads of blood swell from the love marks. Beelzebub finds a thick lock of her mane between his teeth and he pulls at it roughly, laughing around her hair and listening for some fresh moan to come tumbling so recklessly from that pretty mouth.
He jerks his hips forward to cut off any noise she might make, to kill it before it finds its way from that beautiful throat that he wants to crush. In another life, she’s the kind of girl he would pluck roses from the bush for. He’d let the thorns cut his lips just to lay them at her door and court her. But that is not here. That is not how their story will go. In this life, he will only take from her, he thinks as his hips slam into hers again.
A short moan catches in his throat as he finishes inside her, shuddering as he releases the tangle of her hair and buries his face against the back of her neck. His legs flinch with tiny thrusts before he stumbles back, panting as his wings hang exhausted at his sides. Beelzebub slides from her back and tries to steady himself as that drunken afterglow settles into his muscles.
“You’re mine, Little Sunset,” he says, smiling and laughing weakly. “You tell everyone your lover Beelzebub gave you those marks. Tell everyone those perfect sounds you made when I did.”
And he watches her, golden eyes memorizing her expression for when he dreams of her. He thought he would be able to forget her but something sick part of his heart still licks its fingers just to remember the taste of her.
and all the quiet nights you bear, seal them up with care
no one needs to know they’re there, or i will hold them for you
Fate is a cruel dealer, and he has dealt Brunhilde a horrid hand. She stares at the cards as they begin to shake in her hands, what poker face she once possessed melting to the disappointment of a lost game. Dark eyeliner shapes her darting eyes when she folds, slamming those fickle slips of paper to the felt surface with a soft gasp and an aversion of eyes. The grinning face of the card master morphs, reveals his devilishly handsome features and torn leather jacket.
Did her parents teach her that love will be easy? Gentle? Worthy?
Oh, maybe this is love. Maybe she is in love.
The hot trickling of her blood on her shoulders makes her gasp louder than ever before. She realizes how much she loves it just as her neck arches in disgusted protested. The brute’s teeth wrap around her mane and tug, forcing her muzzle to the sky as she releases a frightened and aroused moan. The way he forces himself into her cuts the noise straight from her throat, though, and her head drops to face the ground with the force of it. She can feel each hair as it is ripped from her neck, but she does not care.
She has not cared so little since she was young.
“Fuck me,” she whispers, but what she meant to say is fuck you. It is too late, the slip out of her mouth and into the jello-air that surrounds them. She is soaked with the rain and her tears, water dousing the very essence of her being.
“You’ve ruined me,” she gasps when Beelzebub is finished. He rests upon her back, the weight heavy and sick. She wants to rip him to shreds for feeling so relaxed as to use her as a cushion. When he slides off of her, she turns slowly to face him, eyes as broken as they are angry. The rain weighs down her long mane and sticks it to her neck. She snorts defiantly as he speaks, lifting a proud chin to his handsome face.
Brunhilde does the opposite of what she knows she should, just as she has done this entire encounter: she grabs onto his lips with her own and bites down until she tastes blood. Her lips find the edge of his ear, and she whispers, “And I’ll be fucking ready for you.”
A threat and a promise.
She turns tail and runs, hoping he cannot hear her as she breaks down into sobs.
