"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
12-19-2017, 01:19 AM (This post was last modified: 12-23-2017, 01:28 AM by Trissy.)
I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife
She's can smell him. Or rather, she can smell herself drifting across lands she has not traveled - herself, but male. Potent. Virile. The scent is feral and untamed, a growling shadow of mystery that she demands submission from. This triviality will not escape her keen, scouring gaze; not if it's the last thing she does.
She slips away from Loess easily. Ivar has been a pleasant company, a useful way to pass the time and to amuse the black; in time, he may be more, or rather, less. She hasn't decided yet - the beauty of the man is undeniable, and she thirsts for him, and drinks deeply when given the chance. But this new scent, this heady, intoxicating scent - she must find it. Even in the depths of the kelpie's lair, it manages to weasel her out.
And so she goes. To the forest, the most sinister and private of places, where even Ivar could not find her if she did not wish him to. And for now, she doesn't - she will return to him in due time, she knows. And if the stallion had even a morsel of perspective, he would not be the hypocrite she expects him to be. If she can share, so can he. The thought of him finding out, however, is exhilarating; how erotic for him to lust after her even as she vies for another.
Trissy is a far cry from the child who was born from the Beyond some months ago... Or perhaps she is simply shedding skin.
The thicket she places herself in has room enough for two horses to stand comfortably, but not more - and the surrounding flora is expertly woven, leaving no room for prying eyes. The thicket smells faintly of other love and passion; she wonders if He will smell it too, when He comes. And she knows he will.
The dreadlocks of her hair fall to her knees, tangled and wild and messed into the chaos that both he and she knew all too well. The sleek and intricately muscled sinews of her hide flex in anticipation, rolling and bulging in a feminine display of sexuality and prowess. Her stature is small - doll like, a toy, something to play with and smirk at when she gives in to your touch and demands even more of you - but her eyes are a black tempest of muliebrity.
"Brother, brother, brother..." A rumble of husked words, toying with the ears she knows are listening. "Don't be shy."
It has been years since he’s last seen the busy face of civilization.
He might’ve been destined to the cobwebbed corners of Beqanna’s attic-space were it not for her. And he’s enjoyed his silence — the peace of the feral wilderness, the absence of anything but his own thoughts — but the scent of her draws him from his hiding places. Although she smells different from him, there is no denying the familiarity that weaves through her aroma.
Family. Sibling. Sister.
Only halfway, born from the same dark loins. But they are both of the shadows, spending their days in the darkness. He weaves between their cool, intermittent embraces as the scent of her wafts between the thickness of the trees. He is a wild thing — standing tall with a deep chest and sinewy muscle roped along the frame of his body. Scars are flecked across his inky black body, trophies of battles fought in the war of life and death. Long, tangled locks drape across the brown of his eyes and the slope of his withers.
He is just as untameable as she.
Her trail leads him to a thicket smelling of sinfulness and a wicked smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth. It stretches the thin scar found there, subtle and yet entirely too appealing. He pauses for a moment, hearing the husk of her voice — he is pleased to know that she is just as aware of their similarity as he is — before pushing his way into the privacy of the undergrowth.
She stands before him as a petite doll, just as wild and just as dark as he. His size makes the space smaller than it might have seemed before, forcing his firm muscle against her sleek curves. A rumble of a greeting rolls from his throat though there are no words. Already, the tension is mounted between them, as his dark eyes take in the landscape of her body with calculation and brazen amusement. Although they have only just met, he can see the way they fit perfectly (his wild muscle to her wild curvature).
He doesn’t feel the need to defend himself from her stab. Instead, he makes a move to change his position from alongside her length. The action is erotic — one side of him pressing against the unyielding fibers of the thicket they are surrounded by, the other side skimming along the soft femininity of her side.
As he moves, his mouth trails along the edges of her frame. She tastes like rocky mountains and crisp ponds. He reaches to lightly nip at the thicker pieces of her body, the plane of her thigh and the swell of her breast. As he comes around to where he initially started, low and smoky words blow from his mouth. “Mother did well on you.”
I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife
They are far more alike than most siblings, more akin to twins than half-siblings. They have spent their the beginnings of their adulthood lost to the delectable taste of utter freedom, chasing their own fantasies in far away lands where none except themselves could reach them. Trissy adored her time in the Beyond, embraced the way it had shaped her into the woman who has now joined civilization. The jagged peaks of the mountaintops and the roar of the furious salt-water sea were sounds such as a lover's heartbeat is to a love-swallowed girl. Infatuated, enthralled. The sound of the crashing waves is the soundtrack of her soul, the catatonic orchestra that was conducted by the girl herself.
Feral. The word suited them both perfectly.
He emerges from the thick vegetation with the devil's smirk possessing his scarred lip. Her face is guarded and dominant, but the mirror-image of his expression crosses her lips. Knowing, self-indulged. Perfectly erotic.
He stands far taller than she, and twice as broad - a Goliath to her Lilith. Trissy's black eyes travel undisguised across the many planes and features of his wildling body - drinking in the scars that match her own, that tell of his ventures in his own Beyond, just as hers do. His dreaded locks are as tangled and misshapen as her own. The smirk on her lips refuses to leave.
With an immediacy known only to wildlings, her teeth lash out and connect with the thick muscle of his neck as he presses his rumbling chest against her petite whithers - it is her own kind of greeting. Her ears are pinned, nose peeling back in a sneer of dominance as his massive figure consumes the small space between them. Far below her stomach, sparks ignite the flames of lust, and their heat cannot be quelled. Her tail whips and snaps, stinging his thighs and spreading the scent of her arousal.
She bites him again, lower on his chest, enjoying the way his flesh responds to her viscous touch. Still, no words have been exchanged between them. It suits them. Where they come from, words were not a part of life - and since it is only the two of them, to not speak seems almost perfect. Exhilarating. So wrong, she cannot help but bite him again, just beneath his jaw where his flesh is soft and malleable. The taste of his strong, virile blood works as a catalyst in her excitement.
He adjusts himself then, slithering as all snakes do - with malicious intent, or as Trissy would have it, delicious intent. Her hind legs stomps, bringing her knee up into his gut. In every way, she is not civilized at this moment - a mare defending herself from the comings on of a stallion, yet showing every sign of arousal and acceptance. A snarling image of femininity herself, in all her glorious, unprecedented appeal.
He draws fluid lines across the planes of her body, circling her like a vulture. The little mare snaps at his rump as he curls around, and again at his face as his comes around the other side. She is already his, already the possession he so desperately needed. And as for her possessing him, well... The handiness of her brother will show itself in other ways, in no long time at all. She kicks up her hips and snaps her tail when his nose comes too close to the heat that pulsates from there. An invitation.
"I feel as good as I look," she snarls, a low, husky sound that echoes Kotaro all too perfectly. "Far better than any you've taken before."
A grin is plastered on her lips, twisted and pleased. "Dearest Brother," she drawls, the words drawn out in a sing-song, girly kind of way - one that perhaps a younger sister ought to sound like, sweet and all too knowing. "Is baby sister confusing you sexually?" A pout, a glimmer of pure unadulterated evil. "What a naughty girl she is."
They are ships which carry the instincts of Earth as their cargo. He has spent most of his life Beyond — first in a bachelor herd where he quickly rose to the top, and then as the leader of several herds to which he fathered the next generations. The tradition of their ancestry dates back further in the Beyond than in his homeland. Beqanna has buried the rawness of their very species under the layers of government and physical power.
He much prefers the brisk promise of his wildling life.
Torture knows she does too, he can see it in the depths of her eyes as they meet for the first time. Her teeth catch the strength of his neck and his ears lace with the thick tangle of his mane for a brief moment, angry that she should place the first marking. Her mouth does little damage to his skin, but there is an ache when her lips depart.
The sweetness of her scent floods through the air and he nearly groans at the smell of it. There is nothing akin to the perfume of a mare aroused by his presence — and he is possessive, increasingly provoked by the knowledge that he has caused her undoing. She places another marking further along on his chest and this time a low sound rumbles from the depths of his throat.
He marvels at the way her body stretches to reach the underside of his jaw, watching her body ripple and her dark muscle stretch. She is erotic and wild (he cannot wait to feel her under him). Torture’s thoughts are undeniably elsewhere as her teeth find purchase against the soft of his throat. He twists his head away at the sharp pain, though his feet do not move (it is not a sign of submission to her whims, as he stays in place, but her wounding bite is surprising).
They are uncivilized and unbridled, partaking in an ancient tradition that began when their species did. He is unaffected by the defense she puts up and takes the hit to the gut. However, as her teeth reach to snap at the ebony of his face, he is quick to land a quick, sharp bite on the slope of her shoulder. A warning — though they dance with foreplay in mind, she is his.
Her heat appeals to every inch of him and his dark eyes take in the sight of her kicking and writhing and snapping. She is an obsidian seductress with her lithe curves sliding against his thick muscle and her swishing tail spreading her intoxicating aroma like a dangerous airborne chemical.
Her husky words prod at the arousal that glimmers just under the dark of his skin. He tucks his nose along the swell of her breast, allowing his lips to drag against her smooth skin before winding up the elegance of her neck. His mouth finds the entanglement of her mane and his teeth reach to snap a chunk of her rugged locks and give a vicious tug. A deep chuckle rides on the breath that comes before his smoky words as his lips reach her ear. “I guess I’ll have to punish you.”
She’s proved her desire for him thus far, but he’s still looking to increase the pressure found under his belly. He nips at her ear and then allows his mouth to travel down the slope of her neck once more. He wants to hear that husky voice cry out from his own doing, so perhaps then she will know that she is his. He wastes no time in finding the curve of her hip and then the suppleness of her buttock. Torture’s teeth reach to place a hard bite there, close to the sweetness of her heat. He licks the spot slowly, tantalizingly (though they may fuck with abandon, he does not forget the way a slow burn makes it worth even more), as a bruise already blossoms against muscle and tissue.
A smirk curls against the ebony of his mouth as he huffs a teasing breath against the swollenness of her heat beneath her tail.
I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife
She can feel his heart pounding as only a stallion's can through the thick muscle of his hide pressed against her. Her smile is dark, flattered; she knows exactly what excites him so, what leads him to react to her without submitting to her attacks. How exquisite, to have such control over such a brute. She rolls her tongue silently as the last trace of his blood fades away.
When her teeth snap at his face, he retaliates, landing a bite squarely on the tight flesh of her shoulder. His teeth - far larger than hers - cause a throbbing pain, and she revels in it, pressing her ears to her skull and snatching roughly at the goliath's mane. As he makes his way around her body, she catches sight of his own arousal - proud and shaming to others of its kind. She feels her insides clench at the thought of exactly how he could put such an item to use - if she allows him to, of course.
There is no chance of her resisting his rough tough at her mane, and she stumbles a step closer to him, her teeth working mindlessly at whatever skin presents itself to them. An identically cadenced laugh echoes his, creating a delicious low-high harmony that she shan't soon forget. At his words, she shivers.
"Big brother's got it coming too, you know," she growls, leaning her head in towards him when he takes the sensitive tissue of her ear into his mouth. Internally, she smirks at her usage of big as opposed to older."He's not exactly... deescalating." Another laugh ripples from her cloaked lips; a smokey sound.
He is retreating then, away from the sting of her teeth and closer to the fire of her loins. Trissy struggles to maintain control, to remember that this is her controlling him, and not the other way around; but when his tongue meets her inner thigh, such fancies are rendered fantasies.
Her tail arches free of his path and her legs are stepping her closer to him, demanding a more satisfying pressure than the maddeningly simple breath he places there. Glancing back at the colossus, Trissy suddenly becomes very aware of their size difference; she shakes her mane, rolls her hips by transferring her weight from one hind leg to the other, and emits the most girlish whimper she can summon.
"Don't leave a lady waiting," she simpers. "You wouldn't like the consequences."
Besides, Trissy has politics to discuss... But that can wait. Right now, there are bigger things on her mind.
It is fitting. They are fitting. Petite and muscular, short and tall, equally dark in color, female and male. They both know the songs of the Earth, they’ve both heard the voice of Mother Nature and responded in turn, they both feel the way the world spins under their feet and the way the seasons shift around them.
The simpleness of her presence undoes him, just as the strength of his own will undo her. She holds control over him one minute (her legs sliding along either side of his chiseled hips) but the next moment it will be snatched from her (her legs spread wide to make way for his length). He knows she delights in this, for he delights in it just as much.
Her tail flicks out of the way, revealing the sweetness nestled between her legs. Torture smirks as her hips grind closer toward him, as her entire writhing body craves his touch in whatever form it might come in. He huffs another teasing breath between her thighs. The cry of her desire sends a low growl from the depths of his throat and he decides to indulge her.
His mouth is passionate and quick against her womanly flower. Torture doesn’t waste any time — not like he had previously, but rather he devours her as though she were a rare delicacy — in enjoying her. However, he does not spend long with his lips between her thighs either. The pull of his own arousal brings him to instinctively run his nose up over the slope of her croup, where his teeth place scraping bites.
Torture is quick to mount her, forelegs tightening around the lithe muscle of her sides. The ebony stallion shifts his hips quickly to thrust his large length deep inside of her, a low moan coming from his mouth upon their union. His legs grip tighter as he thrusts again, this time his neck leans down so that his teeth can seize a chunk of her mane nestled against the slope of her withers. With each push of his hips, Torture allows his hooves to scrape against her sides (truly leaving his mark to prove their discovery of one another if there weren’t signs before).
He is vicious and hardy, moving with energetic passion into her depths. Gruff sounds expel from his throat with every push of his length and he digs his teeth deeper into the mess of her withers. Despite the pressure of his desire for relief bearing down on him, he waits for her release. As her muscles contract around him, Torture finally liberates himself deep into her.
He groans through the relief, heat swallowing him deliciously. When he climbs off her sweaty body, Torture gives his soaked body a shake. Then he curls himself against her lithe sides, beginning to groom the knots nestled against the bend of her neck. He says nothing — always a man of few words — but won’t hesitate to respond to any prompts she might give.
(this is a shit post but you know ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ also yes i used the word womanly flower bc i'm lame)
I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife
He does not hesitate as she invites him to partake of her womanly nectar, and Trissy twitches at his alluring touch, crying out as the waves of pleasure roll over her. In the Beyond, there had been no courtship quite like this one. Indeed, even with Ivar, that delicious knowledge of how wrong it was was lacking. She tips her head back, lost in Torture's caress, surrendering herself to the chaotic sensations the colossus inspires.
Air trumpets from her small nostrils when his teeth suddenly find her croup, biting hard and claiming her. She is expecting what shall surely come next, but unlike previous couplings, she feels herself buckling with an undeniable want. In one smooth motion, the stallion is atop her, and then all at once, deeply within her. There is no hesitation or ignorance in his movements. Her small, rounded hips match his powerful thrusts, and with gentle moans, she echoes his own noises of passion.
His hooves scrape viciously at her sides, causing her to smile and fuck him with great abandon, her pleasure spiking with each thrust and each bite and moment they spend intertwined. It is not long before the sounds of her climax send birds skittering from the treetops, and it is not long after that when she feels Torture pulsating between her legs and sending his seed to her deepest parts. For a moment, they stand there as one, satisfied and utterly glowing in the sinfulness of it all. Her heavy breathing matches his; the sweat on her coat renders it shiny, as it otherwise is dull. Her legs tremble at the weight of him, but she does not mind, indeed, it is but another delicious aspect of their forbidden romance.
The massive stallion removes himself stickily, their sweat mingling. The earthquake of his shake sends Trissy a step away, her head turning so as to avoid being splattered by his sweat. She smiles when he finishes, looking at him and giving a very small, lady like fluff of her mane. When he comes back to her, she leans into his grooming touch, and for a few minutes, they stand in silence, content with the lovely choices they have made.
When she feels herself drifting off to sleep, a thought pierces her, and her black eyes blink open. With a press of her muzzle to the base of his throat, Trissy steps away from Torture so as to look into his eyes. She had nearly forgotten all the politics she needed to speak with him about - what a bad boy, making her forget.
"I'm Trissy," she starts, a wry smile ghosting across her lips. "Should you be interested in the name of your latest conquest." The mare stands far more tame then when she coaxed him from the woods, her tail only waving from hip to hip instead of snapping. He has tamed her, for now - made the wild thing calm and docile, at least to look at. "I'd like you to come live with me in Loess. I am a herdmare there, and diplomat." She watches for his reaction to that information, but does not give any indication as to how she herself feels about the matter. Truth be told, she was rather indifferent. Loyalty was not proven through sex. Hopefully, he'd understand. If not...
"At any rate, come visit me there." There is more for them to discuss, and not necessarily of the carnal nature. Trissy, despite her feral and instinctual roots, feels small threads of want within her, questions about her mother and about before and about what he knew, exactly. She wanted to know, too. It wasn't enough just to exist, just to be a plaything. She wanted to be a plaything that bites back.
For now, however, those questions must wait. After his response - should he give one - the mare submits to her softer side and curls back into him, preening him and licking the salt off his body. She does not indulge herself forever, though; eventually, her figure dissolves into the thick forest, lost by the eyes, but not by the mind.
