The way she held him, the way she wrapped around him, it reminded him of something. It took him a moment to remember, the bright sting of pain taking his mind elsewhere. But then the image was in his head, as clear as day. Wolves fighting, and one grabs the other by the back of the neck, powerful jaws holding the lesser in place. A warning. A demonstration of strength. To show that they were in power. And she was. In this situation, she was more powerful than him, as evidenced by his inability to move, his inability to fight back. The blood that was running down the lines of his jaw and into the floor. Everything about the position he was in told him that he had no power against her, that she was stronger than him. Rusty vocal chords vibrated, a half formed growl that never grew to maturity or passed his lips.
She pressed into him, warmth against his cold. Any other time he would be glad for it, another warm body to drive off the chill of the darkening night. And his body, his skin, did yearn for it, would have been arching into what was against him if it could have. But the poison still gripped him, and he couldn't move. And as much as his instinct yearned, he pushed it back in a wall of anger, a wall of reason. You didn't lay with someone who cut you. You didn't move closer for warmth to the body of someone that traced patterns on your skin like a leather worker embossing a saddle for a nobleman. His lips twitched as the blade touched him, as blood was wiped away from his skin, not in a want to help or to heal but for the artist to better see her canvas. He watched her move, felt her weight settle, the new ways it pressed against his skin, and he hated her. Every bit of her, the scars, the inked markings that were etched into her own skin, the way she smelled. The glint of starlight off the razors edge she was using on him.
The feeling crystallized inside him, something ugly, something beautiful. A weapon, jagged edges of anger tempered by hardened steel of desire. Desire to see her hurt like she hurt him, desire because of how close her warmth was to him, because of how she was pressed against him. She moved, she shifted, he felt himself drawn and pushed himself away. Like a move from her tugged on a rope inside his chest. He ignored it. Pain was all that he was trying to concentrate on. The pain, the anger, forget the desire, bury it deep. If it couldn't be buried, let it be fuel for revenge. Make it something that he was sick at himself for feeling, so that when the time came he could use it. That was the only way he could let himself react to it. Her blade moved, his chest the next part of her canvas. As numbed as he was, his skin still jumped, muscles twitching as it made the first of the cuts. Nothing to ruin her work, nothing to even make the blade jump, but it let him know he was still alive. That he could still move. That his body still belonged to him. She could mark it anyway she wanted, scar him with her touch, but it was his body still. She could not, would not, take that from him.
Her fingers traced his lips, the taste of copper blood dripping across his tongue as she did, and his resolve wavered. She licked the fingers that had his blood on them, and that didn't help his conflicting emotions. Her forehead pressed to his, and he would have bit her if he could. He tried to move, but there was no drive to his body. Just a little give to his back. Not even enough to get it off the ground fully, stones digging into his back still.
Her blade moved again, and his hips moved, more than they had earlier, but he was disgusted that they moved towards her instead of away. Because no matter the poison, he was a male, and she was warm, and she was close, and her could smell the scent that her body carried, that her hair moved around her and towards him with her movements. His body felt something different than what his mind told it to want, and he hated himself for that, almost as much as he hated her. He would have some revenge. He thought about it, what it would be like to take her like this, to where she was the one that couldn't fight back as he carved the lines into her skin. He couldn't see any of his newest marks, so he imagined what they looked like from the pain. And then he placed them on her in his minds eye, and the image didn't help the split between bodies wants and minds hatred.
His breath hissed out, over dry teeth and the drying edges of blood on his lips at the pain she was putting him through. He wanted to close his eyes. He wanted to drown himself out from this image, to make it easier to hate her. Make her faceless, make her a monster. But he had to watch her. He didn't know why. The pain was manageable. He had to see what art she thought she was bringing out on his skin. He validated this to himself by saying he had to know so he could pay her back. He had to go through the same steps, had to go through this process. To make her feel like him. To make her see through his eyes.
To Let Weeds Thrive
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
The sludge in his body stilled him, silenced him, but he was not wholly paralyzed. It showed in the flow of his blood, in his heart that beat and his lungs that took in air. In the way his muscles trembled, and he moved beneath her, restless. The air pulsed between them, and for the air Fidget considered what she might take from him. The things she could take from him. Choice. Life. Choice. Life.
Her hand splayed against his dusty skin, her right, as she pushed up from his stomach to resettle herself: right leg knee down on one side, left leg foot to the ground and knee bent. Her weight balanced, keeping her knife hand free, over his body. She sat up to better feel the path his blood took, looking down at him from the sun's path. Shadows plied them both, mingling them together in their absence of light. Admirable, the way it blended together with the tang of blood and sweat and leather. She stared. The knife was placed upon his sternum, and she drank him in as she stretched out her hand, pulling each finger and rubbing at the flesh of her palm. It would not do for her own mortality to spoil his road, tainting him forever. Not when cloves favored him, and the air whispered darkness every time their skin brushed. It was beautiful, balanced so, their journey nearly completed but still stretching forward, bound by the wires of hot, dry umber.
She leaned forward, holding herself up with her stomach muscles. The blade was between them, its hilt brushing against one of her breasts as she reached for his throat. Her fingertips ghosted crimson over him, carefully brushing over the edges of the cuts she'd released from under the poison of his skin. The non-expression she wore, in all its unfeeling nothingness, seemed to soften around her eyes as she inspected her work with some care. She pushed her lips against the ridge at the center of his throat, and then shifted her weight so her left hand could work its way between them, lower, until it touched the rigidity of her blade's handle. She drew herself up, basking in the darkening serpentine, and bent herself so she could study the map beneath his skin as she set herself back to her task.
Release. Freedom. Cage. Even unbound from toil under sun and moon, she gave herself over to a new master. Again, and again, from the whorehouses of Baruk to the seeped tongue of the master who salved her desires with his knowledge, she worshiped at the foot of the unfurling alter, wrapping herself in its dreaming. Caught. Its words were her fingertips, the path their scripture. His blood decorated her, this proof of her adoration, though it had not been of purpose but of the grand agony inherent to the experience, to the skittering, reaching hands of her desire. She went willingly. When at last she drew herself upwards, palms slick with sweat and blood, her mouth rounded with her serpentine breaths, she could see the dampening reflection of herself.
It was the price she paid. It was what she gave, as she put her hands to his cleansed, amber flesh, and gazed down upon him.
There was hunger in her eyes.
Her hand splayed against his dusty skin, her right, as she pushed up from his stomach to resettle herself: right leg knee down on one side, left leg foot to the ground and knee bent. Her weight balanced, keeping her knife hand free, over his body. She sat up to better feel the path his blood took, looking down at him from the sun's path. Shadows plied them both, mingling them together in their absence of light. Admirable, the way it blended together with the tang of blood and sweat and leather. She stared. The knife was placed upon his sternum, and she drank him in as she stretched out her hand, pulling each finger and rubbing at the flesh of her palm. It would not do for her own mortality to spoil his road, tainting him forever. Not when cloves favored him, and the air whispered darkness every time their skin brushed. It was beautiful, balanced so, their journey nearly completed but still stretching forward, bound by the wires of hot, dry umber.
She leaned forward, holding herself up with her stomach muscles. The blade was between them, its hilt brushing against one of her breasts as she reached for his throat. Her fingertips ghosted crimson over him, carefully brushing over the edges of the cuts she'd released from under the poison of his skin. The non-expression she wore, in all its unfeeling nothingness, seemed to soften around her eyes as she inspected her work with some care. She pushed her lips against the ridge at the center of his throat, and then shifted her weight so her left hand could work its way between them, lower, until it touched the rigidity of her blade's handle. She drew herself up, basking in the darkening serpentine, and bent herself so she could study the map beneath his skin as she set herself back to her task.
Release. Freedom. Cage. Even unbound from toil under sun and moon, she gave herself over to a new master. Again, and again, from the whorehouses of Baruk to the seeped tongue of the master who salved her desires with his knowledge, she worshiped at the foot of the unfurling alter, wrapping herself in its dreaming. Caught. Its words were her fingertips, the path their scripture. His blood decorated her, this proof of her adoration, though it had not been of purpose but of the grand agony inherent to the experience, to the skittering, reaching hands of her desire. She went willingly. When at last she drew herself upwards, palms slick with sweat and blood, her mouth rounded with her serpentine breaths, she could see the dampening reflection of herself.
It was the price she paid. It was what she gave, as she put her hands to his cleansed, amber flesh, and gazed down upon him.
There was hunger in her eyes.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
Heartbeat. Sounding in his ears. The only thing he was able to hear, the only thing that he had never lost sound of. It thudded, strong in his body. Deep in his chest. His skin felt warmer, like blood was finally reaching it. He felt his heart hanging in a balance, fine wire stringing through the red muscle. Gentle tugs, sharp tugs, pulled it in different directions, his heart being pulled by strings of fate just like his own life was tied into fate. Was it his fate to die here, covered in his own blood? With an Animal Woman over his body, enjoying his blood, enjoying the life that she took from him like sustenance? He shifted his hips in discomfort, and then he froze. He had just moved. He had felt the discomfort from laying on the hard roofing, and his hips had moved in response. Not thinking, he tried to wiggle his toes, and almost chuckled as he felt them move. And then cold clamped down on his heart again.
Had she noticed? That was key. Had she noticed his movement? All it would take is one breath too much, a deepening that she knew was wrong, and that blade could slip between them. And he was sure he would feel the cool touch of her lips on his as the silver moonlight pierced his chest, or pierced his throat. And then all his cold would be gone to supply her warmth. His blood was finely moving freely, freeing itself up from the dank sludge that seemed to have replaced it. For a moment, he reveled in the warmth of fresh movement to his arms and legs, the cool breeze caressing his skin as it touched the moisture of blood on his body. The scent in the air of fresh meat, the blood that was both his own and his kills, the iron and copper tang that touched his tongue and carried that heady taste up to his mind, the stiffness of the leather knife sheath on the front of his belt as her body pressed it back into him. Having feeling back into his skin, finally being removed from the absence of it by her poisons, made it feel that more sensitive. He managed to make it appear like he was still frozen, still unable to move, but his skin broke out in goosebumps, his lips feeling the heat that was starting to come with his breath over blood covered lips. He felt the drying blood, the copper flakes that inhaling brought into his throat, and he looked at her.
The weight of the knife on his sternum as she stretched her finger was the weight of the world. He could make his move. He could move, she wasn't expecting it. He could run, disappear over the edges of the rooftops and into the alleys. But he didn't want that. He watched her stretch out her slender fingers, and he wandered what they would feel like not bringing him pain. Another part of him wanted to know what sound they would make as he broke them, one by one. He didn't think she would scream. She would look at him, drugged or not, in the silence she had existed in almost from the moment he saw her, and the only nose would be the work of breaking. But he wouldn't do that, even given the chance. As twisted as she was, as much as he wanted to bring her the same pain, she was an artist. And you didn't break an artists hands when you didn't like the work of their paintbrush. But you could imitate, and hope to make something like they had made. He knew where his own knife still laid. Unskilled hands would try to recreate the artwork that had been slashed into his own skin, to see what it would look like on another.
Her fingers caressed his throat, and he couldn't contain the small rumble that came forth from him. He was sensitive on the skin of his neck and throat, had always been. It had been all he could do to contain himself when she had carved into his body so close to the sensitive and delicate skin. It was harder even know as his body began to wake, the adrenalin from the pain pumping poison out quicker and quicker. Her warm lips touched his skin, and another low rumble tried to make itself known through his chest before he killed it. A different time, a different start, a different woman, he would have encouraged them to bite him there in his own clumsy way. To feel the silver tinged pain that drove his desire to a different height. But not her. She controlled him too much, her bloody fingers were too deep inside his chest for him to offer his throat to her willingly. He wanted to take hers instead, to taste the sweat there at the hollow of throat and collarbone, to watch a drop of blood slowly run from her lips down that white column. Soon, soon, he said to himself as she sat back up to do her work. To finish her art, to preface his own. Soon.
His body jittered as she put her finishing touches on him, his mind trying to control his reactions. He had thought that he could feel it all before, but either his body or the poison had masked some of it. Now silver edged threads worked there ways through his skin, following the lines she had traced with her razor tipped brush. He could feel all of them, a dull and gentle throb, the pulse of his blood and the beat of his heart making the lines move through the design. She drew away and upwards, and he tried to calm himself. He would move soon. He would draw her blood, would see the look in her eyes of feeling the silver threads of pain working across her skin, would taste a drop of blood from her lips. She put her hands to him again, and he couldn't help himself as his chest rose some to hold against her hands. A breath. Let her mistake it for an inhale.
His eyes still sparked at her, but not with the anger from before. Not with just the promise of revenge. But with something else. He wanted something from her for what she had done.
Serpentine lightning crackled, half-hidden behind a curtain of black lashes and half-shut lids, promising her many things. If only she could read the secrets.
Had she noticed? That was key. Had she noticed his movement? All it would take is one breath too much, a deepening that she knew was wrong, and that blade could slip between them. And he was sure he would feel the cool touch of her lips on his as the silver moonlight pierced his chest, or pierced his throat. And then all his cold would be gone to supply her warmth. His blood was finely moving freely, freeing itself up from the dank sludge that seemed to have replaced it. For a moment, he reveled in the warmth of fresh movement to his arms and legs, the cool breeze caressing his skin as it touched the moisture of blood on his body. The scent in the air of fresh meat, the blood that was both his own and his kills, the iron and copper tang that touched his tongue and carried that heady taste up to his mind, the stiffness of the leather knife sheath on the front of his belt as her body pressed it back into him. Having feeling back into his skin, finally being removed from the absence of it by her poisons, made it feel that more sensitive. He managed to make it appear like he was still frozen, still unable to move, but his skin broke out in goosebumps, his lips feeling the heat that was starting to come with his breath over blood covered lips. He felt the drying blood, the copper flakes that inhaling brought into his throat, and he looked at her.
The weight of the knife on his sternum as she stretched her finger was the weight of the world. He could make his move. He could move, she wasn't expecting it. He could run, disappear over the edges of the rooftops and into the alleys. But he didn't want that. He watched her stretch out her slender fingers, and he wandered what they would feel like not bringing him pain. Another part of him wanted to know what sound they would make as he broke them, one by one. He didn't think she would scream. She would look at him, drugged or not, in the silence she had existed in almost from the moment he saw her, and the only nose would be the work of breaking. But he wouldn't do that, even given the chance. As twisted as she was, as much as he wanted to bring her the same pain, she was an artist. And you didn't break an artists hands when you didn't like the work of their paintbrush. But you could imitate, and hope to make something like they had made. He knew where his own knife still laid. Unskilled hands would try to recreate the artwork that had been slashed into his own skin, to see what it would look like on another.
Her fingers caressed his throat, and he couldn't contain the small rumble that came forth from him. He was sensitive on the skin of his neck and throat, had always been. It had been all he could do to contain himself when she had carved into his body so close to the sensitive and delicate skin. It was harder even know as his body began to wake, the adrenalin from the pain pumping poison out quicker and quicker. Her warm lips touched his skin, and another low rumble tried to make itself known through his chest before he killed it. A different time, a different start, a different woman, he would have encouraged them to bite him there in his own clumsy way. To feel the silver tinged pain that drove his desire to a different height. But not her. She controlled him too much, her bloody fingers were too deep inside his chest for him to offer his throat to her willingly. He wanted to take hers instead, to taste the sweat there at the hollow of throat and collarbone, to watch a drop of blood slowly run from her lips down that white column. Soon, soon, he said to himself as she sat back up to do her work. To finish her art, to preface his own. Soon.
His body jittered as she put her finishing touches on him, his mind trying to control his reactions. He had thought that he could feel it all before, but either his body or the poison had masked some of it. Now silver edged threads worked there ways through his skin, following the lines she had traced with her razor tipped brush. He could feel all of them, a dull and gentle throb, the pulse of his blood and the beat of his heart making the lines move through the design. She drew away and upwards, and he tried to calm himself. He would move soon. He would draw her blood, would see the look in her eyes of feeling the silver threads of pain working across her skin, would taste a drop of blood from her lips. She put her hands to him again, and he couldn't help himself as his chest rose some to hold against her hands. A breath. Let her mistake it for an inhale.
His eyes still sparked at her, but not with the anger from before. Not with just the promise of revenge. But with something else. He wanted something from her for what she had done.
Serpentine lightning crackled, half-hidden behind a curtain of black lashes and half-shut lids, promising her many things. If only she could read the secrets.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
The air squirmed between Fidget's fingers. The heat had finally reached her, had crawled into her from her fingertips or her feet, and rasped under her skin until she wanted to remove it. All of it, until her muscles gleamed free from the strident impossibility touch had made of her. The collar pressed down. She worked a finger under it, petting it, and felt the ridge of the old garrotte scar there.
Was he waking up?
She did not know how much time had passed.
Ameus would be so -- Ameus wasn't there. She was. Her serpentine sacrifice was. Their blood was. Unseeing, she looked down at her work, feeling the cold slick pressure of unguent in her hands and unable to spread it upon him to properly finish the process. Unable because she didn't have it. Something prickled at that thought, and she stood. She pulled a cloth from a pouch, wiped her blade, and resheathed it. It was put away, and she looked down at her prize. She looked at all of him, devouring him where they stood as twilight bid her move and the burning embers of heat between them spit sparks down her throat and deep into her belly. His belly. His belt. The quills on his moccasins. His reaction to her.
Ameus would --
Ameus wasn't there.
Duty closed its fingers tight about her, and she vividly recalled the moment when the colorless one had put his heel to her wrist. Grinding, grinding, grinding. She knew what happened when something was broken. It healed, but it didn't heal right. Such things rarely worked the same again. Wherever there were the bindings of change, there followed permanence. That permanence was cut and drawn into her skin, over and over and over, her faith in it worn into her. And there, on her tongue, curled Ameus' name, teasing her to invoke it, to lap it up like honey, to remember his pleasures and his disappointments. She shuddered, uncertain in the circling strands of cool steel, and pulled the wiping cloth back out. With it she pulled free a small packet of a waxy substance that was always cool and friendly to her seeking intent.
It would not set his beautifully bared soul, but it would slow the bleeding. She could not stand seeing him streaked with blood, grimy and wallowing in his birthing fluids. She knelt over him, pushing up against his loins as she put her body to his, and cleaned the pain of their birth from him. Gentle, fading blood flaked and smeared as she rubbed at his skin, spitting into the cloth when necessary to remove the oldest streaks. It was imperfect, but as she traced the lines with the blood coagulant, she felt something like peace. Something. Ameus still haunted her, his echo present in the dust that clamped her feet, but she refocused herself into the straining green of this one, losing the last clinging tendrils of his intent, of their intent, with it.
He was not clean. But they were yet pressed together, and it would do. She bent, and traced the outline of his collarbone with her tongue, carefully relaxing her upper body against him: her leather against his skin. Her thighs clamped tight to his hips, and she breathed in his fire, feeling it snap at the edges of her airways, felt its press in the delicate lobes of her lungs. It wanted to burn her out, but she would not let it, wouldn't let it. She turned her head, and lay her cheek to his throat, rubbing the top of her head against the underside of his chin. Release and capture tired her, so that she was tempted to exhaust her exhaustion upon him, nestled in the crook of his shoulder, lazily brushing the fire away from his skin as it tangled in her fingers. Lay there, staring down over the full scope of his body, enjoying every sensation he could give her. From her vantage, she could glimpse his glowing road, and beyond that the shoulder opposite the one she couched herself on. She reached out, tracing her fingernails over the ridges of old stories, over the bulge of muscles hard won; his arms were strong, and she approved of that.
She was not content. His fire was eating her, goading her in tandem with the wind so she was sandwiched between those two encouragements, until her body would become a hollow shell split between the two. It had already gotten beneath her skin, had split her open until it could seep through the cracks to stare at her with its velvet eyes. She could not help but see it in the corners of her eyes, umber glazing the air with coalesced smears, watching her as she reached for it with each hot breath.
Her nails bit into his flesh. She was not supposed to take off her leathers. She was not supposed to bare her skin to the city. Her lips were dry. They were burned husks, and he -- he was so fresh, so new, so wanton. Sly tempter, reaching into her and pulling free the silken folds and their milk. She knew it was there. The quiet, plump fullness was trembling at the apex of her thighs, mirroring the questing fragments of her skin. Should. Should not. She groaned, and swallowed, pain mixing in with the stink of old blood as she shifted again, her body realigning with the cut cords of his, the twisting wires of his hair smoldering where she had put them away. She should shear him. She should finish the deal and leave him.
Clever, clever fingertips found his laces where they lay beneath her. Her tongue found the hollow behind his earlobe. Her left hand, her free hand, caught the side of his face and turned it towards her. Her left leg hooked under his, and she dangled over the hollow of moss he formed for her, where the cut-grass smell of him caught her up and dragged her in. It was her right. It was her right.
Punishment.
She bit her lips, too hard, brows twitching as she looked at him up close, sucking down his breath and regurgitating it as her own.
The composition of the laces between her fingertips was noted and named, every flaw marked and measured, its strength and tensile qualities understood and treasured. There was something more mysterious beneath them, waiting, lewdly driving her, drawing her in. Her fingers tightened, and then they pulled. Slow. Sure. She made eye-contact with the serpentine man of steel wires, and gave herself over to the rushing, sucking tide.
Was he waking up?
She did not know how much time had passed.
Ameus would be so -- Ameus wasn't there. She was. Her serpentine sacrifice was. Their blood was. Unseeing, she looked down at her work, feeling the cold slick pressure of unguent in her hands and unable to spread it upon him to properly finish the process. Unable because she didn't have it. Something prickled at that thought, and she stood. She pulled a cloth from a pouch, wiped her blade, and resheathed it. It was put away, and she looked down at her prize. She looked at all of him, devouring him where they stood as twilight bid her move and the burning embers of heat between them spit sparks down her throat and deep into her belly. His belly. His belt. The quills on his moccasins. His reaction to her.
Ameus would --
Ameus wasn't there.
Duty closed its fingers tight about her, and she vividly recalled the moment when the colorless one had put his heel to her wrist. Grinding, grinding, grinding. She knew what happened when something was broken. It healed, but it didn't heal right. Such things rarely worked the same again. Wherever there were the bindings of change, there followed permanence. That permanence was cut and drawn into her skin, over and over and over, her faith in it worn into her. And there, on her tongue, curled Ameus' name, teasing her to invoke it, to lap it up like honey, to remember his pleasures and his disappointments. She shuddered, uncertain in the circling strands of cool steel, and pulled the wiping cloth back out. With it she pulled free a small packet of a waxy substance that was always cool and friendly to her seeking intent.
It would not set his beautifully bared soul, but it would slow the bleeding. She could not stand seeing him streaked with blood, grimy and wallowing in his birthing fluids. She knelt over him, pushing up against his loins as she put her body to his, and cleaned the pain of their birth from him. Gentle, fading blood flaked and smeared as she rubbed at his skin, spitting into the cloth when necessary to remove the oldest streaks. It was imperfect, but as she traced the lines with the blood coagulant, she felt something like peace. Something. Ameus still haunted her, his echo present in the dust that clamped her feet, but she refocused herself into the straining green of this one, losing the last clinging tendrils of his intent, of their intent, with it.
He was not clean. But they were yet pressed together, and it would do. She bent, and traced the outline of his collarbone with her tongue, carefully relaxing her upper body against him: her leather against his skin. Her thighs clamped tight to his hips, and she breathed in his fire, feeling it snap at the edges of her airways, felt its press in the delicate lobes of her lungs. It wanted to burn her out, but she would not let it, wouldn't let it. She turned her head, and lay her cheek to his throat, rubbing the top of her head against the underside of his chin. Release and capture tired her, so that she was tempted to exhaust her exhaustion upon him, nestled in the crook of his shoulder, lazily brushing the fire away from his skin as it tangled in her fingers. Lay there, staring down over the full scope of his body, enjoying every sensation he could give her. From her vantage, she could glimpse his glowing road, and beyond that the shoulder opposite the one she couched herself on. She reached out, tracing her fingernails over the ridges of old stories, over the bulge of muscles hard won; his arms were strong, and she approved of that.
She was not content. His fire was eating her, goading her in tandem with the wind so she was sandwiched between those two encouragements, until her body would become a hollow shell split between the two. It had already gotten beneath her skin, had split her open until it could seep through the cracks to stare at her with its velvet eyes. She could not help but see it in the corners of her eyes, umber glazing the air with coalesced smears, watching her as she reached for it with each hot breath.
Her nails bit into his flesh. She was not supposed to take off her leathers. She was not supposed to bare her skin to the city. Her lips were dry. They were burned husks, and he -- he was so fresh, so new, so wanton. Sly tempter, reaching into her and pulling free the silken folds and their milk. She knew it was there. The quiet, plump fullness was trembling at the apex of her thighs, mirroring the questing fragments of her skin. Should. Should not. She groaned, and swallowed, pain mixing in with the stink of old blood as she shifted again, her body realigning with the cut cords of his, the twisting wires of his hair smoldering where she had put them away. She should shear him. She should finish the deal and leave him.
Clever, clever fingertips found his laces where they lay beneath her. Her tongue found the hollow behind his earlobe. Her left hand, her free hand, caught the side of his face and turned it towards her. Her left leg hooked under his, and she dangled over the hollow of moss he formed for her, where the cut-grass smell of him caught her up and dragged her in. It was her right. It was her right.
Punishment.
She bit her lips, too hard, brows twitching as she looked at him up close, sucking down his breath and regurgitating it as her own.
The composition of the laces between her fingertips was noted and named, every flaw marked and measured, its strength and tensile qualities understood and treasured. There was something more mysterious beneath them, waiting, lewdly driving her, drawing her in. Her fingers tightened, and then they pulled. Slow. Sure. She made eye-contact with the serpentine man of steel wires, and gave herself over to the rushing, sucking tide.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
Wulf bided, waking slowly. Pricks of heat, red hot, started to run through his body. He was waking up. His body treated him like his hand did when he fell asleep on it and required it to come to work for him, all pain and tingling pricks of heat and sensation. But it was a good pain. It meant his body was waking. And so was something else. Something in his spirit, something that threw his mind to the wind. Something that was awakening inside of him along with the fresh warmth pumping through his arms and legs, something wild. Untamed. More of what he was named for than the human side of him that wandered why she did the things she had done to him. This didn't care for that. It cared for the fact that he had been hurt, that he could smell and taste fresh blood, that there was warmth, that it was pressed up against him, that his body was reacting no matter how badly he tried to control the reaction. The emotions took over, and Wulf let his body react.
How long had passed since she first stuck him? Seconds, maybe a few minutes at most, had passed since she stood and fiddled with the collar at her neck. The darkness in him wanted that gone. Animal Woman shouldn't be collared. She was caged, tamed, and he didn't care for it. No matter how much he didn't care for her, wanted to hurt her, he didn't want her collared. Too wild for that. But it was selfish too, because he wanted to see her blood standing out stark and vibrant against the skin of her neck. And the collar would ruin the image he wanted in his mind. It didn't matter. He would figure something out.
She removed something from her pouches, and the she was on top of him again, so quickly he couldn't have reacted if he had wanted to. Her warm fingers applied cold to his body, the blood flaking away, the threads hissing in his flesh angrily as she disturbed them with whatever it was on her fingers. Sometimes she spat on the rag that she cleaned him with, and it angered him for some reason, that another fluid of hers would touch him, but it was a weak marking, something that was easily removed. It wasn't blood, it wasn't markings. He wanted her blood. Not her spit. He wanted marks that said she fought against him and he prevailed, and he would wear those scars with pride, but the artwork would always be silver hot threads of anger and shame. Threads in a story that said a wolf had been trapped and branded like any animal owned by man and tamed by his hand. He was almost vibrating with unreleased energy at this point, his body tenses and coiled like a spring with the desire to take her.
Blood and pain, heat and desire. Kisses that spilled blood from either one of them. Preferably both of them. Her tongue traced his collarbone, and he tilted his head almost imperceptibly to give her better access, not caring if she noticed at that moment. The sensitive nerves in his neck jangled like a merchants door bell, ringing down through his body to the shaft that was starting to fill, intent in the desire, the pain, and what she felt like against his skin was doing to him. Her head tucked into his chin, and the tenderness in the moment surprised him. What was her reason for that? How much had his fight cost her? He felt that she didn't face challenge much, at least not the kind he had given her. Her challenge was a sting, he had forced her to use claws. Just how tired was she? Fingernails barely scraped across skin, a light touch, light trails of silver that didn't leave threads like she had already stitched into his skin. These were soft paint brushes, scintillating flakes of pain that soaked into nerves instead of scraping them.
Her body moved on his again, the position favorable against his skin and favorable to his plans. Fingertips to the laces of his breeches, a tongue to his earlobe, and it took every bit of discipline in his body to stifle the groan inside him. She pulled at him and he allowed it, following the lines of her hand until her face and his were in line with one another again, eyes matching with fire. Oils and blood, leathers and the unguent, and some smell that was Animal Woman, something he thought he would find in her hair if he buried his sensitive nose in and breathed. Her fingers touched laces, opening them, starting to free him, and he felt the subtle twang of a bowstring in his mind. The feeling that it was time to take a shot.
His leg moved, quicker than he thought he would, pushing them up and over across her body. His damaged arm gripped her by the hair, pulling back and against the floor they laid upon, his other hand scrabbling for her hand. To press it down, to hold her hands away from him in some way.
He looked down at her, the dominant one for just a few seconds. He snarled silently, the stretch of his lips pulling open the freshly scabbing cuts that had been made in his face. His legs held him up to put pressure down on where she wrapped around his hips, his body weight pressing himself into where her legs met at the junction. His hurt elbow promised him pain as it sat on her forearm, but the silky strands in his hand made it all worth it. He looked into her eyes, serpentine fire blazing in his own.
Two drops of red fell, from his lips to hers, and it distracted him. And then he gave himself over. He wanted to see her blood. He wanted to quench the fire of desires that had been burning up the cold frame that he carried himself in. Hand still gripping her hair tightly, Wulf bowed down, his lips attacking hers, smearing his blood across them. Blood flaked lips met slightly chapped ones, and then his teeth pressed down until he felt the flesh of her bottom lip give way beneath them, and he tasted copper and iron tang that was not his own.
How long had passed since she first stuck him? Seconds, maybe a few minutes at most, had passed since she stood and fiddled with the collar at her neck. The darkness in him wanted that gone. Animal Woman shouldn't be collared. She was caged, tamed, and he didn't care for it. No matter how much he didn't care for her, wanted to hurt her, he didn't want her collared. Too wild for that. But it was selfish too, because he wanted to see her blood standing out stark and vibrant against the skin of her neck. And the collar would ruin the image he wanted in his mind. It didn't matter. He would figure something out.
She removed something from her pouches, and the she was on top of him again, so quickly he couldn't have reacted if he had wanted to. Her warm fingers applied cold to his body, the blood flaking away, the threads hissing in his flesh angrily as she disturbed them with whatever it was on her fingers. Sometimes she spat on the rag that she cleaned him with, and it angered him for some reason, that another fluid of hers would touch him, but it was a weak marking, something that was easily removed. It wasn't blood, it wasn't markings. He wanted her blood. Not her spit. He wanted marks that said she fought against him and he prevailed, and he would wear those scars with pride, but the artwork would always be silver hot threads of anger and shame. Threads in a story that said a wolf had been trapped and branded like any animal owned by man and tamed by his hand. He was almost vibrating with unreleased energy at this point, his body tenses and coiled like a spring with the desire to take her.
Blood and pain, heat and desire. Kisses that spilled blood from either one of them. Preferably both of them. Her tongue traced his collarbone, and he tilted his head almost imperceptibly to give her better access, not caring if she noticed at that moment. The sensitive nerves in his neck jangled like a merchants door bell, ringing down through his body to the shaft that was starting to fill, intent in the desire, the pain, and what she felt like against his skin was doing to him. Her head tucked into his chin, and the tenderness in the moment surprised him. What was her reason for that? How much had his fight cost her? He felt that she didn't face challenge much, at least not the kind he had given her. Her challenge was a sting, he had forced her to use claws. Just how tired was she? Fingernails barely scraped across skin, a light touch, light trails of silver that didn't leave threads like she had already stitched into his skin. These were soft paint brushes, scintillating flakes of pain that soaked into nerves instead of scraping them.
Her body moved on his again, the position favorable against his skin and favorable to his plans. Fingertips to the laces of his breeches, a tongue to his earlobe, and it took every bit of discipline in his body to stifle the groan inside him. She pulled at him and he allowed it, following the lines of her hand until her face and his were in line with one another again, eyes matching with fire. Oils and blood, leathers and the unguent, and some smell that was Animal Woman, something he thought he would find in her hair if he buried his sensitive nose in and breathed. Her fingers touched laces, opening them, starting to free him, and he felt the subtle twang of a bowstring in his mind. The feeling that it was time to take a shot.
His leg moved, quicker than he thought he would, pushing them up and over across her body. His damaged arm gripped her by the hair, pulling back and against the floor they laid upon, his other hand scrabbling for her hand. To press it down, to hold her hands away from him in some way.
He looked down at her, the dominant one for just a few seconds. He snarled silently, the stretch of his lips pulling open the freshly scabbing cuts that had been made in his face. His legs held him up to put pressure down on where she wrapped around his hips, his body weight pressing himself into where her legs met at the junction. His hurt elbow promised him pain as it sat on her forearm, but the silky strands in his hand made it all worth it. He looked into her eyes, serpentine fire blazing in his own.
Two drops of red fell, from his lips to hers, and it distracted him. And then he gave himself over. He wanted to see her blood. He wanted to quench the fire of desires that had been burning up the cold frame that he carried himself in. Hand still gripping her hair tightly, Wulf bowed down, his lips attacking hers, smearing his blood across them. Blood flaked lips met slightly chapped ones, and then his teeth pressed down until he felt the flesh of her bottom lip give way beneath them, and he tasted copper and iron tang that was not his own.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
There. He moved, and Fidget counted back, wondering through the sudden distraction of pain what time had passed. A few minutes earlier than average, she thought, seeing past the emotion in his face to where time surely laughed at her. She was not wrong. It was not wrong to lose time. Time had such a tenuous grip on everything, passing surly through the taut ribbons that normally guided her. They were loosening when he caught hold of her hair, putting his body's weight against her. Was it victory that she fancied she smelled in the bunching of his muscles? Was that what he thought he held beneath him? Such silliness to expect some base pleasure, some right held without the proving, without anything at all.
Two drops, warm, and then he had pressed his lips to hers, bringing metal pain together with a stark assertion. Fidget did not follow it, saw it, heard it, but felt herself immune to it. Stillness overtook her as he worked his teeth through her lip, eyes rolling sideways as she left him to his violent tantrum. She felt him against her, marked it as a claim, and saw no need to justify it.
Feet moved, planted sole-down onto the ground. Muscles relaxed. Her legs bent, knees crooked away from his hips, intent flaking away from her as she withdrew from outer motion into inner contemplation. There was something that had flowed out from her, and he had taken it, and chewed it, and now dribbled it back into her, altered and free from the textures she'd sought to instill. Was that disappointment? Was that what she'd traced so carefully? Scarring was not meant to happen so soon, so it was something else that burned shut the freedom she'd cut out of him.
Throbbing brought her back to her lips, the pain spiking awareness through every spot their bodies touched. She watched the twirling patterns that breached the pregnant stillness of the air, waiting for the moment their quarry would explode outward, taking her with it.
Two drops, warm, and then he had pressed his lips to hers, bringing metal pain together with a stark assertion. Fidget did not follow it, saw it, heard it, but felt herself immune to it. Stillness overtook her as he worked his teeth through her lip, eyes rolling sideways as she left him to his violent tantrum. She felt him against her, marked it as a claim, and saw no need to justify it.
Feet moved, planted sole-down onto the ground. Muscles relaxed. Her legs bent, knees crooked away from his hips, intent flaking away from her as she withdrew from outer motion into inner contemplation. There was something that had flowed out from her, and he had taken it, and chewed it, and now dribbled it back into her, altered and free from the textures she'd sought to instill. Was that disappointment? Was that what she'd traced so carefully? Scarring was not meant to happen so soon, so it was something else that burned shut the freedom she'd cut out of him.
Throbbing brought her back to her lips, the pain spiking awareness through every spot their bodies touched. She watched the twirling patterns that breached the pregnant stillness of the air, waiting for the moment their quarry would explode outward, taking her with it.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
Wulf wanted to roar in anger at her. The lack of anything on her face, not pain, not even a bit of discontent from his biting, just... boredom. That was the only emotion he could see on her fact. Boredom, a disconnect, like nothing was there. Like he was nothing more than a slightly annoying gnat that had bit her and then disappeared, not even worth a second look or even a swat to destroy him. That more than anything broke him. Even a half dead predator warranted a trap or at least a knife in hand to defend against him. His body went loose, his shoulders hanging down as he closed his eyes. Even with her blood in his mouth, with his strength pressing her into the ground, where he could hurt her, cut her, kill her, he didn't even warrant a spark of interest in her eyes. She would have taken what she wanted, and then he could have pretended that it was because she saw something instead of just satisfying her needs, but he had bucked against her because she had taken his freedom. And now that he couldn't even pretend, his fragile shell fractured around the scars that he would now wear.
He no longer applied any pressure to keep her down, not even trying to fight back against her now. What did it matter ? No one of this city knew him. No one would remember his scent or his colors. They would pick over his bones like so many carrion birds, but that is all. They would kick his body into the river, and the fish would eat him. They would pull apart his leathers, break his bow because they didn't know how to care for it, and use his knives to carve their grit tasting bread. The stars wouldn't remember him.
The only person that would remember him was this strange woman who had cut his hair, who had carved her strength into his skin. She had chained him as surely as links of iron and steel, chained him into this realization. He was nothing. A mote of dust flying through starlight before it's end, mourned by none, remembered by none. His only leave behind the locks of hair she had tucked into her pouch. Even with what she had put on him, the exertions of moving had made some of the lines open, and blood slowly dripped down his skin, creating new lines like burial paint on his body.
He sighed softly, and then collapsed on top of her. He didn't care what she did with him at the moment. What did it matter? He was nothing but scars and blood now, a man in defeat, a wolf that had been defanged and caged, the collar digging into his neck as he choked on it. He could still smell her scent on the air, in her air, and it mixed with the iron tang of blood in the air, the taste in his mouth, the bright spikes of pain on his body, rust tinged silver that rolled from his chest to his face. What had he done to her that she needed to show him this? What had drawn the animal woman to him? His hair? He finally sighed softly, opening his eyes and looking at her. Serpentine green eyes were darker appearing, stress, shock, all making a change. Instead of crackling fire of anger, all he had to give her now was cold ice, bleakness and cold revenge that turned into a block of ice in his heart. He let go of her hand, giving her the opportunity to strike. He knew she would. His hand reached for her face, the pad of his thumb wiping the blood that he had dripped onto her, wiping the blood on her bottom lip.
Waiting. For whatever came next.
He no longer applied any pressure to keep her down, not even trying to fight back against her now. What did it matter ? No one of this city knew him. No one would remember his scent or his colors. They would pick over his bones like so many carrion birds, but that is all. They would kick his body into the river, and the fish would eat him. They would pull apart his leathers, break his bow because they didn't know how to care for it, and use his knives to carve their grit tasting bread. The stars wouldn't remember him.
The only person that would remember him was this strange woman who had cut his hair, who had carved her strength into his skin. She had chained him as surely as links of iron and steel, chained him into this realization. He was nothing. A mote of dust flying through starlight before it's end, mourned by none, remembered by none. His only leave behind the locks of hair she had tucked into her pouch. Even with what she had put on him, the exertions of moving had made some of the lines open, and blood slowly dripped down his skin, creating new lines like burial paint on his body.
He sighed softly, and then collapsed on top of her. He didn't care what she did with him at the moment. What did it matter? He was nothing but scars and blood now, a man in defeat, a wolf that had been defanged and caged, the collar digging into his neck as he choked on it. He could still smell her scent on the air, in her air, and it mixed with the iron tang of blood in the air, the taste in his mouth, the bright spikes of pain on his body, rust tinged silver that rolled from his chest to his face. What had he done to her that she needed to show him this? What had drawn the animal woman to him? His hair? He finally sighed softly, opening his eyes and looking at her. Serpentine green eyes were darker appearing, stress, shock, all making a change. Instead of crackling fire of anger, all he had to give her now was cold ice, bleakness and cold revenge that turned into a block of ice in his heart. He let go of her hand, giving her the opportunity to strike. He knew she would. His hand reached for her face, the pad of his thumb wiping the blood that he had dripped onto her, wiping the blood on her bottom lip.
Waiting. For whatever came next.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
She wanted to keep him.
She wanted to keep him.
Keep him.
The urge took her in the gut, spread its tendrils through her until she knew her blood must be colored with them, until she breathed it out into the air that tittered to take her secret, to share it with the dying sun and the stars that crept ever closer. He was beautiful. He had given into her. This was right. He was hers. She had marked him, freed him, and he had given himself over to her, and her desires had wrapped themselves tight as silk bindings about his wrists. Hers, whispered her fingertips. Yours, sang the air, until the pulsing essence of it, that serpentine glare, stained everything between them and bound them for as long as it took. Until she grew tired, bored. Until he had no more to offer.
She understood that, took his hand in hers and kissed it. She whispered a single word into his palm: their secret. Her other hand rose and cupped the back of his head, her own thumb stroking his neck. A smile, slow and small, was offered to him as she turned her face and pressed her cheek into his palm. She was staring at him, owning him without a claim. It was as immutable as the air, as the sparks that burst like fire at the edges of her vision, and within his own eyes. This was what she had wanted, she thought, tangled up in the feel of his skin beneath her hands, in the suffocation of her own clothing.
Claim him. Take him. Own him. She spent time with all of her collections, bared skin and all, and she would do no less with this newest piece. Perhaps she would braid some of her feathers into his hair, wrap him up in her cloak and feel the two of them, together, in her time. In due time. Foolish to take eyes from the present, but it had been some time since she had last found a string that lead to one of these, one like him, and she was taken with the fancy. All at once, her hips bucked beneath him, and she dropped her hand from his to tug at her leathers. The hand at the back of his neck drew him closer, and she buried her face in his neck in order to breathe him in. She bared a sliver of skin; even one-handed she knew dexterity. But one-handed she could not take the piece off. Armor was not meant to be divested so easily.
She sucked at his neck as she removed her hand from the back of his head, placing it on her own clothing to free her skin from its jailor. She struggled with the leather even as her legs tightened about his hips once again.
She would make him hers.
Now.
She wanted to keep him.
Keep him.
The urge took her in the gut, spread its tendrils through her until she knew her blood must be colored with them, until she breathed it out into the air that tittered to take her secret, to share it with the dying sun and the stars that crept ever closer. He was beautiful. He had given into her. This was right. He was hers. She had marked him, freed him, and he had given himself over to her, and her desires had wrapped themselves tight as silk bindings about his wrists. Hers, whispered her fingertips. Yours, sang the air, until the pulsing essence of it, that serpentine glare, stained everything between them and bound them for as long as it took. Until she grew tired, bored. Until he had no more to offer.
She understood that, took his hand in hers and kissed it. She whispered a single word into his palm: their secret. Her other hand rose and cupped the back of his head, her own thumb stroking his neck. A smile, slow and small, was offered to him as she turned her face and pressed her cheek into his palm. She was staring at him, owning him without a claim. It was as immutable as the air, as the sparks that burst like fire at the edges of her vision, and within his own eyes. This was what she had wanted, she thought, tangled up in the feel of his skin beneath her hands, in the suffocation of her own clothing.
Claim him. Take him. Own him. She spent time with all of her collections, bared skin and all, and she would do no less with this newest piece. Perhaps she would braid some of her feathers into his hair, wrap him up in her cloak and feel the two of them, together, in her time. In due time. Foolish to take eyes from the present, but it had been some time since she had last found a string that lead to one of these, one like him, and she was taken with the fancy. All at once, her hips bucked beneath him, and she dropped her hand from his to tug at her leathers. The hand at the back of his neck drew him closer, and she buried her face in his neck in order to breathe him in. She bared a sliver of skin; even one-handed she knew dexterity. But one-handed she could not take the piece off. Armor was not meant to be divested so easily.
She sucked at his neck as she removed her hand from the back of his head, placing it on her own clothing to free her skin from its jailor. She struggled with the leather even as her legs tightened about his hips once again.
She would make him hers.
Now.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
When her lips touched his hand, her hand touched his neck, and finally, when she put her face against his palm and looked at him, the final bits of his chain were forged. He felt, he heard, the cage doors close around him. His neck felt heavy from her hand, because it wasn't just flesh and bone. It was a chain, forged of iron as heavy as the mountains, links binding him to her like roots bound into the deepest of black earth. He might have awoken this morning free, but he wasn't anymore. He was hers. The wind blew, singing it's own sad song for him, but he couldn't hear it. What did it matter anyways? The wind didn't cut through iron. It didn't lift collars or break chains. It just blew, and reminded those that were trapped what freedom was. His ears were closed to it. He just had to close his nose and eyes to it as well. And she offered him a way.
She buried his face in the crook of her neck and shoulder, and he breathed her in, iron tang and copper slick. Whatever oils she used were there as well, wrapping around the scents of metal and blood and blocking out the wind. Blocking out the freedom that was stolen from him. The wind still sang, through the cracks and the crevices of the abandoned or broken down buildings where the dregs of the city lived, caressing his skin, his scars, his wounds, but he blocked it out. He concentrated on the feel of her hand at his neck, tensing as it moved, only to be replaced by lips that drew him in. She drew the life from him, the fight from him, and didn't even have to break the skin this time to do so.
Her legs tightened around his hips, and he pressed forward to get between them better. If this was going to happen, it was. What choice did he have in the matter anymore? It was what she wanted. His arm was destroyed. Without careful attention, he might never even draw his bow again. It would be too strong for him if his elbow was truly weakened. She could fight, and she still had her snakes fangs on her side. And if he didn't do what she wanted, didn't give her himself, which poison would she use this time? Would he be frozen for her to take what she wanted, or would his attempt to go against her will see him dead, poison frothing on his lips as she disappeared into shadows.
She was struggling with her clothing, his lips grazing the lines of her neck, feeling the beating pulse of her arteries through the skin. His lips twitched, some stretched parody of a smile, a snarl on any other face. His teeth nipped over the spot where he could almost smell her heartbeat, some small bit of the wind giving him that much at least. His lips covered the marks his teeth may have left, his own time to suck at her neck, trying to draw himself back from her.
She buried his face in the crook of her neck and shoulder, and he breathed her in, iron tang and copper slick. Whatever oils she used were there as well, wrapping around the scents of metal and blood and blocking out the wind. Blocking out the freedom that was stolen from him. The wind still sang, through the cracks and the crevices of the abandoned or broken down buildings where the dregs of the city lived, caressing his skin, his scars, his wounds, but he blocked it out. He concentrated on the feel of her hand at his neck, tensing as it moved, only to be replaced by lips that drew him in. She drew the life from him, the fight from him, and didn't even have to break the skin this time to do so.
Her legs tightened around his hips, and he pressed forward to get between them better. If this was going to happen, it was. What choice did he have in the matter anymore? It was what she wanted. His arm was destroyed. Without careful attention, he might never even draw his bow again. It would be too strong for him if his elbow was truly weakened. She could fight, and she still had her snakes fangs on her side. And if he didn't do what she wanted, didn't give her himself, which poison would she use this time? Would he be frozen for her to take what she wanted, or would his attempt to go against her will see him dead, poison frothing on his lips as she disappeared into shadows.
She was struggling with her clothing, his lips grazing the lines of her neck, feeling the beating pulse of her arteries through the skin. His lips twitched, some stretched parody of a smile, a snarl on any other face. His teeth nipped over the spot where he could almost smell her heartbeat, some small bit of the wind giving him that much at least. His lips covered the marks his teeth may have left, his own time to suck at her neck, trying to draw himself back from her.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
Realization hit her, reverberating through her body until she was frozen with it. No. The sliver of skin that kissed the air was wrong. Not in Marn, they'd said. Over, and over, and over. They'd imprinted it in her, drawn it down to her bones so she'd remember. She pushed him. It was like molding clay in her hands to position him right, up, back on his haunches, so his rear touched the ground. She busied herself closing away her skin, sealing it in tight. Later. There would be a later when she could release herself, when she could couple with the air and feel its words written in silk across her skin. Later, when the sky could not see it.
But she did not intend to wait to claim her prize. He was hers to take as she pleased. Hers to do with. She did not need to bare her own skin to claim him; his would pay the tribute to the sun and the wind. It was not as good, no, but it would do. It was good enough for now, with his shuttered serpentine gaze and the thick, gnarled ropes of his hair. Reaching out, she took one in her palm and let it slip over her palm. Yes. It was the story writ in curling tangles, the path that she had felt when she had first seen him. The one she had transcribed, the one that beat in time with her own. It did not matter whether they would be twinned for only the night, or for one hundred nights. Now was all that mattered. He was hers.
She slide her palms down his front, careful to avoid her work. Down, and down, until they crested the cloth of his pants, and then pressed against the muscles of his thighs. She lowered herself until she was at eye level with the bulge between his legs. She looked up once: sharp, commanding. It was the only glance she spared him as she slid her left hand over the cloth that hid his erection from view, hid that flesh and blood and pulsing need. What colors coiled within, she wondered. She slid her fingers up and down, body still as she waited for the reaction he would unleash. Would he react?
She smiled. Small, perfect, in control. This was her victory. Hers.
But she did not intend to wait to claim her prize. He was hers to take as she pleased. Hers to do with. She did not need to bare her own skin to claim him; his would pay the tribute to the sun and the wind. It was not as good, no, but it would do. It was good enough for now, with his shuttered serpentine gaze and the thick, gnarled ropes of his hair. Reaching out, she took one in her palm and let it slip over her palm. Yes. It was the story writ in curling tangles, the path that she had felt when she had first seen him. The one she had transcribed, the one that beat in time with her own. It did not matter whether they would be twinned for only the night, or for one hundred nights. Now was all that mattered. He was hers.
She slide her palms down his front, careful to avoid her work. Down, and down, until they crested the cloth of his pants, and then pressed against the muscles of his thighs. She lowered herself until she was at eye level with the bulge between his legs. She looked up once: sharp, commanding. It was the only glance she spared him as she slid her left hand over the cloth that hid his erection from view, hid that flesh and blood and pulsing need. What colors coiled within, she wondered. She slid her fingers up and down, body still as she waited for the reaction he would unleash. Would he react?
She smiled. Small, perfect, in control. This was her victory. Hers.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
Her hands sent cold fire through him as she pressed her palms to his skin. It didn't matter that she didn't touch the etched marks that were beginning to scab in the night air. The pressure from her palms still tugged and pulled, making the marks split even more, edging the pain that still ran through him. He grew weary of this pain. He grew weary of the way she stared at him, like she was going to eat him until she was full and then leave the rest of his rotting corpse to the carrion fowl. He grew weary of the pain that even now drug through his blood, silver spiked and cutting. But even though he was weary, he would see this through. He didn't have any running left in him, and would not have left even if he did. While his body reacted favorably to the way she touched him, his soul bore it like a brand, wanting to pay it back someday. If he was ever strong enough, he would. But until the day he could slip his collar and chain, then he had to act like a dog. Not a wolf.
He bared his teeth, growling low in either anger or desire, he didn't know which. But her fingers still touched him, and something that had started to grow with bodily contact felt that touch and grew more. His hips rose to meet her hand, and he stared into her eyes as he growled again. He was pushing his boundary. But he was doing it on purpose. He wanted to see how tight she would draw the collar. He didn't know how this would end, what would happen here. But she was touching him, and while he couldn't control the rise of his hips, the fall of his hips, to her fingers, he could pretend, to himself at least, that he still had some sort of control over this. He was teetering a knife edge, and falling would make him hers, with no ability to fight back. And if he thought to himself that this was just a lost battle, not an entire world, he would be able to hang on.
She might be in control, she might have won the victory today, and he would have the scars to show for that. But as he took in a shuddering breath to her touch, he was reminded that not all wars were decided by one victory. By the sun and the moon as his witness, and the stars as his promise, not all wars were decided by one victory or an act of control.
He bared his teeth, growling low in either anger or desire, he didn't know which. But her fingers still touched him, and something that had started to grow with bodily contact felt that touch and grew more. His hips rose to meet her hand, and he stared into her eyes as he growled again. He was pushing his boundary. But he was doing it on purpose. He wanted to see how tight she would draw the collar. He didn't know how this would end, what would happen here. But she was touching him, and while he couldn't control the rise of his hips, the fall of his hips, to her fingers, he could pretend, to himself at least, that he still had some sort of control over this. He was teetering a knife edge, and falling would make him hers, with no ability to fight back. And if he thought to himself that this was just a lost battle, not an entire world, he would be able to hang on.
She might be in control, she might have won the victory today, and he would have the scars to show for that. But as he took in a shuddering breath to her touch, he was reminded that not all wars were decided by one victory. By the sun and the moon as his witness, and the stars as his promise, not all wars were decided by one victory or an act of control.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
For a time, there was oblivion.
It was the rushing of the air, the completion of the moon, the spicy aftertaste of ash on her tongue and sparks behind her eyelids. It ran through her body and his, until what each had to offer was mixed and returned. Completion was a narrow thing, a foreign thing, but satisfaction was expected and taken with delicate, delicate precision.
Drowning in it. Drowned. Hanged. Folded. Limp.
The residue lay heavy in her throat, spread thick and sticky over her chin. There would be a stain.
It was nothing to the echoes she'd left on him, on her prize, of the pathways that had opened up before them and lay before them, gilded in cinnamon and glimmering with serpentine promise. Promise. There were many promises, and this was one made in secret. Secret. She'd stripped him of his, of whatever masculine dignity and mystery he had left. Taken it. Grown jealous when his eyes promised something else still lingered, and proved to him that there was nothing between them. Nothing but skin.
Skin could be removed. Had been removed. Could be, would be -- it made no difference to her. She'd shown him that when she'd looked up at him, the whiteness of her teeth made slimy with him beneath her parted lips.
Rather than linger, rather than shower him in the greed of her rights and the prize that she'd won, she so carefully put him to rights. They moved through the city, again, their silence a thing of beauty and truth. The truth of her strength, and his compliance.
She felt safe.
Into her den she drew him, into the place she slept. And now, a place where he would sleep. With her, without her: she pointed to the nest of blankets, and looked at him, through him. He was glass: sharp edges glossed over, burnt down, clear and sparkling. Serpentine glass, or clear stone: her eyes burned down to his soul.
She went to him, placed her hand carefully on the unbroken skin of his chest, and looked up at him.
She would have to leave him tomorrow.
She would store him with the rest of her treasures.
The edges of her lips curled as she looked up at him.
It was the rushing of the air, the completion of the moon, the spicy aftertaste of ash on her tongue and sparks behind her eyelids. It ran through her body and his, until what each had to offer was mixed and returned. Completion was a narrow thing, a foreign thing, but satisfaction was expected and taken with delicate, delicate precision.
Drowning in it. Drowned. Hanged. Folded. Limp.
The residue lay heavy in her throat, spread thick and sticky over her chin. There would be a stain.
It was nothing to the echoes she'd left on him, on her prize, of the pathways that had opened up before them and lay before them, gilded in cinnamon and glimmering with serpentine promise. Promise. There were many promises, and this was one made in secret. Secret. She'd stripped him of his, of whatever masculine dignity and mystery he had left. Taken it. Grown jealous when his eyes promised something else still lingered, and proved to him that there was nothing between them. Nothing but skin.
Skin could be removed. Had been removed. Could be, would be -- it made no difference to her. She'd shown him that when she'd looked up at him, the whiteness of her teeth made slimy with him beneath her parted lips.
Rather than linger, rather than shower him in the greed of her rights and the prize that she'd won, she so carefully put him to rights. They moved through the city, again, their silence a thing of beauty and truth. The truth of her strength, and his compliance.
She felt safe.
Into her den she drew him, into the place she slept. And now, a place where he would sleep. With her, without her: she pointed to the nest of blankets, and looked at him, through him. He was glass: sharp edges glossed over, burnt down, clear and sparkling. Serpentine glass, or clear stone: her eyes burned down to his soul.
She went to him, placed her hand carefully on the unbroken skin of his chest, and looked up at him.
She would have to leave him tomorrow.
She would store him with the rest of her treasures.
The edges of her lips curled as she looked up at him.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
He let her tug him along, swirled in his own thoughts, flash of silver and sting of pain. What she had done to him had never been done to him before. The pain he could deal with, he'd put more scars into his own skin from carelessness than he could count, had more scars from the forest and it's creatures on top of those. Pain he could handle. He had always been told that people would hurt him, that people would harm him because of who he was or just because they were able to. That was how the world worked, or so his parents had told him. So he had always been prepared for pain, always been prepared for a new scar.
But this? She had harmed him, cut him, made him bleed across his body, and then his body had betrayed him to her. No matter how much he had willed the feelings away, tried to get himself to go soft, it hadn't worked. She had turned him into a toy, and there had been nothing he could do about it. How could he contemplate his freedom, contemplate his revenge, when his own body wasn't even his to begin with? When she could control him with just a move of her lips or a flick of her tongue? If all that he was was meat inside skin, and his soul and mind couldn't control it, what was his worth? Why would he fight back, when his body told him that it felt good, that it had reached completion from what she had done? How could he try this with others, when all that he was going to remember was the feeling of his skin crawling as she touched him, the first woman to do anything like that with him? How many scars was she going to leave on him?
They stopped, some hole with a blanket nest, and trinkets glittering on the walls. He understood, in his own way. She had brought him to where she slept, where she stayed, and wanted to put him in the toybox with everything else that she had collected in whatever way she wished to collect things. Did she think he would stay? But how could he escape? The throbbing of his leg, the loss of blood, the pain in his arms. He was battered, cracked if not broken. He would need time to repair, to heal, before he could run, before he could fight her. Never close, never again within her reach. But a bow... How fast could he draw and fire, versus how fast she could move? Her eyes bored into him, looking through him, like she was looking into his mind and trying to learn and discourage him from his plan.
Her hand told him to lay down. Her palm pressed into his chest, cold. Radiating out from her. Her flesh might have been warm, like any creature of flesh and blood, and she could bleed, he had tasted it, and he could still see her blood on her lips, but she felt like ice to him, numbing his chest and setting his stomach to churning with revulsion. But something else. Anger. Her lips curved at him, and he thought it was a smile. The kind that had crossed his face when an arrow struck true, when he looked at the bear that he had taken down, the thought of the chase the biggest buck had given him before he proved himself the victor. That's what he thought it looked like, that's what it told him, whether that was what she meant or not. His lips curled back at her, but it was no smile. It was a snarl, teeth bared and slick. He would sleep. He would heal. He would let her play her games that his body would react against his wishes to. And then he would find his way home and away from her. With the sun as his witness and the moon as his guide, he would find his way home from her.
But this? She had harmed him, cut him, made him bleed across his body, and then his body had betrayed him to her. No matter how much he had willed the feelings away, tried to get himself to go soft, it hadn't worked. She had turned him into a toy, and there had been nothing he could do about it. How could he contemplate his freedom, contemplate his revenge, when his own body wasn't even his to begin with? When she could control him with just a move of her lips or a flick of her tongue? If all that he was was meat inside skin, and his soul and mind couldn't control it, what was his worth? Why would he fight back, when his body told him that it felt good, that it had reached completion from what she had done? How could he try this with others, when all that he was going to remember was the feeling of his skin crawling as she touched him, the first woman to do anything like that with him? How many scars was she going to leave on him?
They stopped, some hole with a blanket nest, and trinkets glittering on the walls. He understood, in his own way. She had brought him to where she slept, where she stayed, and wanted to put him in the toybox with everything else that she had collected in whatever way she wished to collect things. Did she think he would stay? But how could he escape? The throbbing of his leg, the loss of blood, the pain in his arms. He was battered, cracked if not broken. He would need time to repair, to heal, before he could run, before he could fight her. Never close, never again within her reach. But a bow... How fast could he draw and fire, versus how fast she could move? Her eyes bored into him, looking through him, like she was looking into his mind and trying to learn and discourage him from his plan.
Her hand told him to lay down. Her palm pressed into his chest, cold. Radiating out from her. Her flesh might have been warm, like any creature of flesh and blood, and she could bleed, he had tasted it, and he could still see her blood on her lips, but she felt like ice to him, numbing his chest and setting his stomach to churning with revulsion. But something else. Anger. Her lips curved at him, and he thought it was a smile. The kind that had crossed his face when an arrow struck true, when he looked at the bear that he had taken down, the thought of the chase the biggest buck had given him before he proved himself the victor. That's what he thought it looked like, that's what it told him, whether that was what she meant or not. His lips curled back at her, but it was no smile. It was a snarl, teeth bared and slick. He would sleep. He would heal. He would let her play her games that his body would react against his wishes to. And then he would find his way home and away from her. With the sun as his witness and the moon as his guide, he would find his way home from her.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
Comfort. Fidget arranged him as was her wont, listening to the sound of their silence, of their complacency. There was the crushed velvet, drawn heavy and soft across their flanks, across their scars. She traced it there, fingers tipping over her skin and his, drowsing towards sleep. It wasn't the trust that she felt with him, but the certainty of her own dominance, writ large in the ashen splendor of evening and the calming winds. Ash then, to touch their lips and weight their eyelids. The serpentine glory that had gripped her during their tryst would be shuttered and laid to rest: a dream to bring her fullness in the morning.
Promise.
It wasn't often that Fidget had such a trophy to edge her victory in gilt, and she was determined to spend it however was necessary, in whatever way she felt was best. She pressed him into her blankets, pulled her cloak between them, around them, and found herself a hollow in his flesh. Comfort. She relished the feeling, relished him strong and steady around her. Their unspoken pact grew heavy between them, and she drew upon it as she drowsed, content in her triumph.
Tomorrow, she would need to build the metal strewn traps, and select the poisons that had been why she'd been tapped for such a mission in the first place. She was not trusted. She knew this. But here, in the circle of his arms, in the heat and weight of her body, she could give credence to the spicy musk that slipped into her bloodstream and promised her pleasure and rightness. That was something worthy of dreaming. There was her paradise.
She sunk into the blankets with him, her perfect creation, and pulled him around her. She would take him again, as many times as she desired, until she tired of his particular strain and rhythm. Until she sought another at the wind's insistence. Until. Who knew when that would be.
Who cared.
She was content.
Content, she settled in to dream.
Promise.
It wasn't often that Fidget had such a trophy to edge her victory in gilt, and she was determined to spend it however was necessary, in whatever way she felt was best. She pressed him into her blankets, pulled her cloak between them, around them, and found herself a hollow in his flesh. Comfort. She relished the feeling, relished him strong and steady around her. Their unspoken pact grew heavy between them, and she drew upon it as she drowsed, content in her triumph.
Tomorrow, she would need to build the metal strewn traps, and select the poisons that had been why she'd been tapped for such a mission in the first place. She was not trusted. She knew this. But here, in the circle of his arms, in the heat and weight of her body, she could give credence to the spicy musk that slipped into her bloodstream and promised her pleasure and rightness. That was something worthy of dreaming. There was her paradise.
She sunk into the blankets with him, her perfect creation, and pulled him around her. She would take him again, as many times as she desired, until she tired of his particular strain and rhythm. Until she sought another at the wind's insistence. Until. Who knew when that would be.
Who cared.
She was content.
Content, she settled in to dream.
Re: To Let Weeds Thrive
He waited. He endured her touch, like a tree had to endure the termites that crawled across its bark. He moved to the beat of her fingers, moved to the touch and sway and electric charge of her fingers tips tracing his wounds. He could feel her laxness, the dominance that she thought she held over him, and he was fine with letting her believe that she did. Because if she didn't he couldn't draw her in closer. She knew nothing. If an animal was hurt, was trapped, the only option was to put them out of their misery, because they were so much fiercer wounded than whole. And he was more than an animal, he was a person, with the capacity for cruelty that no animal had ever had.
Eyes closed, like he was sleeping, breathing slow and heavy. He had learned so much in his years. How to pretend, to draw the animals in closer. If he could remain still enough to draw a doe to his palms, he could fool this creature. Slowly, she drifted away from him. Another time, another place, another way the strands were tied together, and he would be happy with this. A woman in his arms, asleep and lulling him to that place of dreams and shadows. But not her. Not the one that cut him, not the one that touched him, not the one that made him feel shame and yearning in the same heartbeat.
She should have checked him.
Slowly, as slowly as he could and still be called moving, his hand and the leather of his boot met. His fingers dived under the soft leather, touching bone warmed by the blood that pumped under his skin. His fingers wrapped around the hilt, drawing it with the silence, a whisper of noise that would sound more like the wind skittering across the walls than anything. He paused, indescion written on his face. How would he keep her? How would he stop her from fighting? She had the tricks of poison, of the slowness that she had put in his veins earlier. Then the idea came to him, the fingers of one hand tugging away on the laces she had so easily tied back together earlier. He could still remember what her lips had felt like on him, still remember the look in her eyes as she had felt him finish. But that didn't matter. With a slight tug, the lace came free. The leather was tough, sinew that would take his place for her poison. He had made it himself, just like everything. He knew the strength in it. She had pitted her cunning against him, and she had won. But now he could use his strength, and he intended to.
He tied it in a loop, like any snare for a rabbit out in the forests. He was good with making them. He had caught his first meat with a snare, and now he would use it again. When pulled, it would slip tight, and the only way to undue it would be for him to cut it. That was the idea anyways. He moved, watching as the loop was slowly worked under her wrists and over the other hand. He took a deep breath, pulling on the sinew with all of his might, and putting his weight on top of her. He knew she had awoken as soon as he pulled, and this time, he was ready for her. He would find her needles, he would find her poison, and then it was his turn. He leaned forward, looking at her. He wanted to see the look in her eyes. He wanted her to see him, like she had forced him to see her.
Eyes closed, like he was sleeping, breathing slow and heavy. He had learned so much in his years. How to pretend, to draw the animals in closer. If he could remain still enough to draw a doe to his palms, he could fool this creature. Slowly, she drifted away from him. Another time, another place, another way the strands were tied together, and he would be happy with this. A woman in his arms, asleep and lulling him to that place of dreams and shadows. But not her. Not the one that cut him, not the one that touched him, not the one that made him feel shame and yearning in the same heartbeat.
She should have checked him.
Slowly, as slowly as he could and still be called moving, his hand and the leather of his boot met. His fingers dived under the soft leather, touching bone warmed by the blood that pumped under his skin. His fingers wrapped around the hilt, drawing it with the silence, a whisper of noise that would sound more like the wind skittering across the walls than anything. He paused, indescion written on his face. How would he keep her? How would he stop her from fighting? She had the tricks of poison, of the slowness that she had put in his veins earlier. Then the idea came to him, the fingers of one hand tugging away on the laces she had so easily tied back together earlier. He could still remember what her lips had felt like on him, still remember the look in her eyes as she had felt him finish. But that didn't matter. With a slight tug, the lace came free. The leather was tough, sinew that would take his place for her poison. He had made it himself, just like everything. He knew the strength in it. She had pitted her cunning against him, and she had won. But now he could use his strength, and he intended to.
He tied it in a loop, like any snare for a rabbit out in the forests. He was good with making them. He had caught his first meat with a snare, and now he would use it again. When pulled, it would slip tight, and the only way to undue it would be for him to cut it. That was the idea anyways. He moved, watching as the loop was slowly worked under her wrists and over the other hand. He took a deep breath, pulling on the sinew with all of his might, and putting his weight on top of her. He knew she had awoken as soon as he pulled, and this time, he was ready for her. He would find her needles, he would find her poison, and then it was his turn. He leaned forward, looking at her. He wanted to see the look in her eyes. He wanted her to see him, like she had forced him to see her.