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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


    [private]  I'm not here looking for absolution; gospel
    #11

    — I'm not here looking for absolution —

    He would see her go to her knees, he thinks, the savagery in the back of his mind nearly ruthless. There is joy in the way that she defies him, but also fury, and he finds that he cannot full separate them in his head. They are utterly combined and he remembers what it had felt like the first time that they had come together; the way such things had manifested into their coupling and then into the two children.

    It infuriates him to know this is partially of his own doing.

    And it forces him to focus, instead, on her own part in it.

    “Pity that this is your best,” he says, voice never changing inflection, despite the way that he would snarl if he were to drop this mask he wears. His depthless eyes sharpen on her again and he wonders what she would look like, truly, if he were to stop her in her tracks completely. If he were to simply be done with her. Would her face freeze in horror? Would he regret it tomorrow? Would he forget her entirely?

    The smirk is enough to stir enough in him to stand away from the tree, standing up from it and focusing on her again entirely. His mouth twists into something nearly ugly as his tail flicks behind him.

    With a force that surprises him, he grabs onto her life-force, feeling it pulse in his hands.

    “Children should have respect,” he growls, pulling tighter than expected.

    “You should have respect, Gospel,” this quieter, refusing to let go.

    STAVE
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    #12
    BY THE PRICKING OF MY THUMBS
    SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES

    His cruelty inflicts no noticeable damage.
    She does not flinch or pout. She does not beg him not to think her a worthless mother.
    She takes no pride in her ability to raise children. It means nothing to her to know he thinks her a poor mother. The children are alive, at least. Though she had wanted to, she had not killed them and that is perhaps the most anyone could have asked of her.

    So, she does not cower or grovel. But nor does she further antagonize him. How easy it would be, she thinks, to tell him to find someone else to mother his children if he is so dissatisfied with the job she has done. It is a sharp spike of jealousy alone that stills the retort in her throat.

    She does not love a thing that cannot be loved.
    But to think that she does not belong to him would be foolish.
    Though it is a dangerous thing to think he belongs to her, too.

    He straightens and she knows what comes next. It is not fear she feels, though. It is unhinged delight. Almost delirious.

    It catches her breath, the force with which he takes hold of her. The heart chugs and spasms and she sways on her feet. It gets her eyes rolling, the thrill of it. She does not struggle for breath, merely lets the air bleed out of her slow. The sound of her blood rushing hot through her head almost drowns out his words. And still she smiles, her knees trembling.

    Tips back her head and exposes her throat. Take me, it says.



    gospel
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