"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
There was a burning determination in the star of her eyes, molten gold with the strength of steel. The moonlight glimmered across her midnight coat, catching on the barest flecks buried in her skin like a metallic twinkle of starlight. One.. It was hard to notice against the nebula-orange of her hair as she raced across the lands, her strides methodically eating ground to maintain a distance between the two she left behind. Ruan and Raksha would catch up in time. He was safe with the silent guardian.
She had to do this part alone.
A pale trickle of fear entwined with her hardened resolve, twisted tendrils of ice that could almost be fingered like a cold chain around her neck. Two.. Every few minutes her magic would spark inside her, removing fatigue, curing aches. She kept count, always kept count. Needed to track the power each time it trilled through her without any ability to control it. Instantaneous. Involuntary.
When she finally caught sight of him, he was facing her. He always knew she was coming. Always. She slowed, came to a stop at a distance from him. Enough to speak, only. Her heart raced even though her breath came evenly, as though she hadn't just been pushing herself to get here before them. The whole of her body was refreshed. And yet that pulse shared tempo to a cornered hare. He was the only thing she was afraid of. Not because he could hurt her; she healed. Always healed. Not because he could hurt Ruan; he had her. And she healed, always healed.
But yes, there was a fear. An uncertainty she dearly wished she could smother and stamp out. Just like his life should be stamped out of existence. Her jaw tensed, her face stern. Bold.
I won't let you hurt him, she warned though he already knew it, always prepared to place herself before him to take the blows, to take the heat. It was what she was meant for. It would take her life one day, but she was meant for that too. Her boy would live.
She didn't glance behind her. They were still a ways out, she knew. There was still time. What do you want with him? She swallowed, and waited, fire-gold eyes holding his evenly.
He is standing there, staring at her in the face. A dry, dusty wind blows past him and it blows up the hair round her, making her appear wild and sensuous. Even though she had never been touched by a man—none except him, that is.
Her eyes are flaring with anger and she doesn’t bother to say hello, or extend pleasantries. Only just what he intended to do with the young wolfpup and what it had to do with him… and her. And as always, Deimos cannot help himself in her presence. He laughs again. Low, guttural tones this time, from the deep pit of his belly. He says nothing, but instead works his way around her, stroking the line of her thighs with his nose, pressing the weight of him up her body, working the hollows there in a way that would make her tremble. In a way that would make her wet. Not an innocent little nun, are you—dirty little girl. Likes the dirty men she does.
He nips her, and then laughs again, his mind combing through hers with a strong gloved grasp, going through the memories there. So she had not stayed put as he had requested. But yet, she has come back. Looking for him?
“Miss me, did you, sex kitten?” He says by way of greeting, before sending her pretty little mind raunchy images of her beneath him, squealing and wincing with the weight of him. What would she cry in the middle of the night? What would a daughter of the Devil do in bed with a Demon? She’d certainly blow his sheets all in the right places.
He looked forward to that memory, indeed.
And so, he presses a throaty kiss, to drive the little wonton just a little crazy before he pulls away from her body to examine his handiwork his voice gravely and deep, eyes burning. But she has asked a question, and he is honest. “I intend to start a war.”
His nostrils flare, before he speaks again, eyes leveling her, sending more raunchy images directly to her mind, wondering how much talk of politics she could stand before they could change the subject. Innocents are such liars. If they could be honest about their sexual desire and give into themselves, life could be so much more fun.
“The boy is a telekinetic named Kilter, and the mute is Rocinante. If you are going to create your own band of merry men, at least learn their proper names. Kilter has something that I want… and a way to get it. His use is coming. But if you think I have any intention of hurting him…” his eyes were very serious now…
“He is the tool. But I will not lay a finger on him. I can swear you that.”
He smiles darkly, stepping closer to her form. What would she do if he touched her again.
He stared at her and time froze. That laugh again, the one that haunted her. It thundered around in her chest, desperate to escape though it came from him and not her, rumbling and echoing and pounding against her. She held her breath and watched him, wary. Afraid. He was the only thing she was afraid of. He played dirty, fought her in ways she had no training for. She was a warrior, a champion, a fighter and a tracker. He didn't challenge the knight, he battled the woman. And this woman knew nothing about being anything but a guardian.
The solid black of his body came toward her, and though she stood so strongly, deep in her chest her heart wilted. He would win this. He always did. No matter how she tried to turn this into a fight, he always spun his trap just the way he wanted it. She didn't know what to expect, never knew what he would do, and so she startled when his strong nose stroked the line of her thigh. She tensed, jerked her eyes away and closed them, swallowed.
His body was a vessel of limitless power as he pressed so firmly against her. He did things that made her pulse soar wild and erratic, and she strangled an uncertain whimper as she bit down on her lip and pinched her eyes shut. He knew her purity, knew she was as innocent in this as he had left her the last time when he'd cradled her in the iron-tight grip of his dragon-wing arms and drank from her delicate neck. A foreign warmth spread in her belly, and he laughed again, nipped her skin with a sharp little sting.
Miss me, did you, sex kitten? And before she could think to take offense, to say anything at all, her mind flooded with his vision. She gasped, her eyes shot wide but she saw nothing else no matter how she tried blinking it away. She felt nothing, but the vivid picture came in such harsh clarity, the image of her beneath his thick body, gasping, screaming, wincing from the strength of him. She moaned helplessly, an agonizing sound of sad distress. He always plays so dirty. Be strong, be strong, he'll get bored of this game.
He pressed a hot kiss to tender flesh, and she lost her breath again. I intend to start a war, he said so evenly, and she thought these words should mean something, thought they were important in some way. But she was so lost in this haze she couldn't swim out of, didn't know how to withstand or fight back. She finally turned to look at him with thick, foggy eyes, and it was a mistake. Such a big mistake.
Their eyes met, and more wicked images assaulted her. Her slender legs trembled, threatened to buckle, and she heard another groan leave her, not at all as distraught as it should have been. He was winning, he always wins this game. She was swallowed by an ache she'd never felt before, and her heart raced faster than it ever had, gasping for breath as though she were normal and could grow fatigued from pushing herself to gallop mighty speeds. But her magic always healed it, always corrected the pulse and the ragged breathing before it was even there.
Her magic did nothing here.
Maybe she was dying. Maybe he could kill her this way, where her magic refused to come to her aid. He was speaking again, his voice so distant and muffled by the roar in her ears. The boy Kilter, the mute Rocinante. She memorized it, but didn't register what it meant. Wasn't aware that he had come around to face her, his eyes so very serious. She should listen to this part, she thought, struggling to focus on him, on his molten voice, on those deep, dark eyes of brimstone and death. He is the tool. But I will not lay a finger on him. I can swear you that.
Her boy. She wore a delicate frown as she fought to pull herself together. She had to steady, had to protect him, had to save herself from this bastard first. His black lips cracked into a dark smile and he stepped closer to her, and she did the only thing she knew how to do. She learned, she adapted, she fought back. She didn't need his images now, only had to think of the way he kissed her before, standing behind her and rubbing along her thighs.
She swallowed, grit her teeth in determination and purpose as her eyes lit with a burning flame, filled her mind with the loud image of her returning that to him. Of her lips on him, her tongue against his solid flesh. Her heart was sick, disgusted with this game she must play, but she plastered a desperate face on the navy blue in her mind, eager and wanting. It felt like she drove a blade into him, while driving a blade even deeper into her. A necessary sacrifice. A battle she must learn to fight, desperately needed to learn to win even as she still fought to breathe.
03-05-2017, 11:59 PM (This post was last modified: 03-05-2017, 11:59 PM by Deimos.)
This little nun was not so innocent.
She wore a hot pink thong underneath her habit of innocence.
He purrs, approaching her slowly, his tongue thickening—like other parts of him—for the intoxicating smell of her. He is quiet, magic covering his shadow and dampening the sound of his step. He rises.
He is inside her.
“I know your thoughts, Raeg’n. I know that in that dirty little mind, you’ve wanted me since you saw how strong I was. But you can take my weight just fine…”
He purrs, closes his eyes, and rocks his hips. And Groans.
It is done.
He knows what is inside her head. He put it there. He could put himself there. And she knows it. His dark eyes plaster her, pin her pin place, as his hot breath hisses into her ears once more… “You can hate yourself all you like.. that dirty part of yourself. But when you accept truth, you will find that being yourself is much easier. Even if you still prescribe to the light. I will have you, my hot little sex kitten. I will have you first. And I will ruin you for all others. You’ll want no others after me.” Accept the truth…
More than all things, Deimos wished to get her to acknowledge her own truth, so that she could make her decisions from a place of strength, rather than childish foolishness. Her hot blue little body would look so good under his, but for now, there were other things to concern themselves with.
@[k i l t e r] had to go home.
As for @[Rocinante], he could die. Deimos really didn’t care one way or another.
Raeg’n’s band of merry men would not last. He could not be defeated. Their game would not be over, until her little delectable body was underneath his, and she screamed his name by night.
They would have tickets to the show if they wished, but they would only be able to have popcorn.
He takes his time. Playing with the boy and keeping him company, everyday scanning the horizon for a familiar flame haired mare. She had left in the middle of the night without a word but her message was clear enough. She had her own business too take care of and he would do everything to take care of the boy in her absence. So, for her, he became both guardian and friend to the child. The spent three days in the meadow after Raeg'n left, and for him it felt like three days too many.
With a silent nudge he let Ruan know it was time to find her.
He didn't have any idea where their midnight angel had run to, nor did he have any clues as to where to even begin his search. All she had left him with was Death, so Death is who he sought.
He followed whisperings and frightening tales of a valley that had been purged by the star god until he found himself standing at the border of Pangea, a land torn apart by the whim of a mad-man and remade by those twisted enough in their desires to follow him. Rocinante stopped and took in the barren landscape with a stoicly studious look before turning to the boy. Using the signal they had come up with, the titan let the boy know it was time to play hide and seek. The boy would hide, and the warrior would come and find him. Once he was certain that Ruan was well hidden, Rocinante began his descent into the forsaken land.
Once in the belly of the beast, Raeg'n's trail was easy enough to pick up. It was faint and stale, but she was here and that was a good start.
He wandered through the torn bones of the valley, eyes and gait focused, searching for any sign that his angel might be near. It didn't take long before he finally spotted her navy blue pelt and fiery mane. His rush of relief was quickly subdued when he spotted the black hide of the stallion currently twining himself around her like he owned her, like she was a piece of meat about to be devoured under his gaze. The rush of fury that threatened to overwhelm him would have surprised him if he wasn't already moving. Pinning his ears flat against his head, Rocinante reared and let loose a silent squeal before thundering down the slope towards the duo. As he drew closer, he slid to a stop next to Raeg'n, snapping a wing out between her and the stallion in an attempt to block her from the demons hungry stares.
He couldn't speak but the anger directed towards the stallion didn't need words.
