drowning inside our hearts; shroud - Printable Version +- Beqanna (https://beqanna.com/forum) +-- Forum: Explore (https://beqanna.com/forum/forumdisplay.php?fid=1) +--- Forum: The Common Lands (https://beqanna.com/forum/forumdisplay.php?fid=72) +---- Forum: Forest (https://beqanna.com/forum/forumdisplay.php?fid=73) +---- Thread: drowning inside our hearts; shroud (/showthread.php?tid=21974) |
drowning inside our hearts; shroud - Tunnel - 12-03-2018
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves @[shroud] I hope this is okay, feel free to tweak anything that I assumed in your reply. Also sorry if it double tags I had to edit! RE: drowning inside our hearts; shroud - shroud - 12-21-2018 Shroud nestled into his side, as close as she could get without arousing his ire. She had learned his lessons fast but still felt a modicum of something for him as he’d gone from stranger to savior in the span of a few nights.
It occurred to her that he was neither mother nor father to her. His shape and skin was not quite the same as theirs but despite this, her devotion to him has snared her as quick as any noose around a neck. One that once yanked, grew tight and exhilarating instead of suffocating. Beneath his gallows’ hand, she flourished in the dark like a weed denies sunlight.
So she slept, and did not dream.
If she did, she could not recall it upon waking.
Shroud was obedient up to a point.
She toed a knife’s edge with him each time he came to a halt. A few steps here and a few paces there; testing her limitations until the noose tightened with a nip or small punishments that she recognized as such but found a dark delicious pleasure in. She hadn’t known how amazing his little hurts could be, but she learned like the good student that she was.
He taught her much and she flourished beneath his teachings. Grew a little taller and slimmer, the kind that comes not from starvation but from fitness and dedication- to him, to their time together that shaped her, honed her into a thing her original parents might never recognize as their own. She had become wholly his; bound to him through his generous allowance of her not-once-timid touches and hushed talks.
Even the slimness could not hide the feminine softness that cling to the curves that began to fill out. Her flesh grew lush as it aged.
Then came the call; the god-summons and she’d answered it. Shroud knew that she’d come back to punishment upon punishment, a heap of it that only he could dole out and the shiver down her back was a mix of anticipated pain and pleasure. She craved him; craved the way he’d bite into her neck or pinch her ear between his teeth.
Part of her made a paltry attempt at masking her presence m. In truth, she could have flown overhead and found him that way but there was more fun to be had in stalking him through the forest though she snapped branches and broke twigs to displease him. It is a wonder he has not smelled the sickness that rolls off her in beads of sweat, in the leather that gathers in the bends and folds of her skin. Plague-scent alone should have betrayed her.
He comments on her loudness and she laughingly coughs in return. Too loud? She knew it, but the plague made her stumbly and weak as she found him beneath an oak as addled by disease as she is. Shroud does not keep her distance; her fever-bright eyes and sweaty face find his, her breathing labored and loud enough to be a pant as she staggers to him and places her head beneath his blue-grullo neck.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be as quiet as you,” she mutters softly and truthfully. He was just better at it then she was. For now. Shroud was certain she could one day eclipse him but it might take more than practice and a whole heap of magic she didn’t have.
Oh, and not once does she apoloufor her disobedience.
@[Tunnel] loved it! RE: drowning inside our hearts; shroud - Tunnel - 01-19-2019
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves @[shroud] RE: drowning inside our hearts; shroud - shroud - 02-20-2019 Shroud expects no pity - only pain, the kind that he is so good at administering and the kind that she craves wantonly. She also knows that the plague will offend him but he will not cast her away; he can’t, as much as she never wants him to and this will only bring more punishment down upon her but she relishes it with a sinisterly tinged happiness - the kind that is a thorn-prick of blood from a rose, just a tiny painful kiss.
His breath on her spine is hot. The kind of heat that makes her, a dirty small weed, turn to the powerful sun contained in his look and touch. He’ll burn her in such perfect brutal ways and she waits for it, as he draws her closer to his chest. Even she has noticed how she fits against him in new ways, how his skin feels against her own, and how her looks are less callow and slavish and more girlishly coy - as much as they can be, given the fevered glaze to them and the dark affection she feels for him.
She laughs! He has noticed, but how could he not? The plague is reward and punishment enough for not heeding her one true master’s call. Still, he indulges her with his wandering touch as his lips march over her damp skin. Craven, she shivers - not from plague, though maybe just a bit, but mostly from his possessive assertion that she is whole and his. “Just a little,” she chokes out around laughter and plague-tickles in her throat.
This could earn her punishment and pain, but as she licks a little of the bloody spittle off her lips, Shroud knows she doesn’t mind. It means more time with him, as his. Instead, he pushes past her in that usual way that denotes boredom and she gives him a long dark indecipherable look before obediently following him to the river. He makes his demand and she acquiesces for the time being; the drink long and slurping and maddening.
River-water both cools and burns her arid throat, and a look of pain and distaste mingles on her face. Her reflection of sickness is dashed by her own hoof as she turns back to face him, eyes burning fever-bright. “I have been to Pangea.” she murmurs just before the excitable flutter of her wings, as they shift to thorny extensions of interlocking acacia branch. Pale feathers are gone, replaced momentarily by muscle-memory of the moment she lashed and slashed.
Her entire frail self begins to shake, to split in tiny tears from the wicked bite of thorns that leak beady sanguine tears down her sides. Then the effort exhausts her, pulls a haggard cough from deep inside her as she turns back to the river, contemplating bathing herself or worse, just giving in to the pull of the current in the middle that rushes on by. Shroud can’t leave her monstrous blue master though, and she simply says to him - “I’m tired.”
Her voice comes out small and strained, almost like a plea.
@[Tunnel] long overdue! ❤️❤️❤️
RE: drowning inside our hearts; shroud - Tunnel - 03-03-2019
Just a little. She says, and Tunnel’s lip twitches. Shroud’s rarely heard laughter is thick strangled sound she tries not let out as she speaks, but he knows it is there, feels the way she shudders with sickness and wry amusement. Tunnels teeth pinch at the nape of her neck briefly and swiftly. He pushes away, leads her to the river without bothering to respond.
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves @[shroud] poor tunnel, his little puppy is sick so he is bite her to help his worrying. RE: drowning inside our hearts; shroud - shroud - 04-15-2019 She is too tired to care that her antics elicit little in the way of a response from him beyond the pinch of his teeth at the nape of her neck. Maybe not that tired to feel the quick flare of pain and pleasure that always seem to mingle together around him. For just a moment, she is renewed by his little nip that she contemplates stoking his ire further by splashing him with just a bit of water from the river but the fevered conflagration of mischief leaves her as quick as it had come, and she is dull-eyed and tired once more.
Each ounce of strength is sapped from her and she just wants him to… maybe to hold her close, though she is no longer certain it would be in girlish innocence and ignorance. Neither of which Shroud has really ever been. But his flesh is a hearth that beckons, except she knows better than to mar the rich blue of him with the filth she is wearing from her sins and travels. Bathe first, snuggle later - play the docile obedient sick girl and maybe, she’ll feel his teeth on her again.
She had burned beneath his look.
The kind of look that makes wax melt and fires smolder. But he dropped his head back to the river and took another sip. It made her start to smolder in a different way then before. Before it was desire - that feeling of being desirous and looked at in a new light, and now, it is anger that summers and spits in her because she is a child again in his eyes. Shroud’s tolerance is a pendulum that swings precariously between an even keel and a wild temper.
Right now, it surges towards temper and hellfire as if he’d scorned her. He’d done no such thing of course and her tired plague-battered self tried to tell her as much but she wasn’t having it after the fires of desire had slowly but quickly been lit. Except he surprises her by coming to her of his own regard and in his own time - -
So unexpected!
There is the slightest quirk of her lips in a manner most coy as he begins to groom her neck. His teeth are rough; his mouth is rough - he is roughness incarnate, and her eyes shut in a blend of ecstasy and hopelessness. Even the shove of his head against her is deliciously rough enough to unsteady her but she maintains her balance. Shroud waits, patient and impatient for the bite she knows will come and anticipation makes her shiver beneath and against him.
Her flesh seeks his for strength and warmth and his sheer masculinity. Shroud leans in his direction always, like a flower listing after the hot bright sun. Knowing he’ll scorch her to dust but it will have been worth it. Just as she knows that some tide in her had turned from filly to mare, young yet but Shroud knows what she wants and that’s him - it’s always been him since they first met. He’s that shadow of doubt; that alarm that sounds in the back of her mind the moment her disobedience kicks in.
Then, his teeth on her neck -
A small gasp escapes her, pleasant and surprised. Her knees grow weak, she might stagger for a moment, then she braces herself in sheer foolish resistance - she’ll not submit unless he is right there beside her. Unconsciously, her wings are shuddering back into their favored form of brambling lashes and the thorny bits lift in open defiance - the only warning she gives him as he looks at her, and the look is one full of anger that she knows all too well and adores because she inspires it in him.
Her laugh rasps out of her throat as she falls against him, “I helped.” His teeth nip and send little jolts of pain ricocheting through her that leave her tingly and spent. Even her wings reassemble into feathers that brush against him as they tuck back up against her sides, soft as kisses. Shroud had undeniably taken pleasure in the mindless mass slaughter that unleashed the plague upon the lands. But he then asks about her disobedience and she laughs again; “You never said I couldn’t kill someone.”
Part provocation, but also so much truth. He had never said directly that she couldn’t stray from his side, couldn’t bask in the sins of the earth. There had been no further instruction on his part so as long as she came back to him, to their haunts in the forest each time. Hadn’t she? The disobedience came in the fact that she rubbed his face in her caveats; sauntered them about like the sashay of her virgin hips - to provoke, to displease him, to rile him up until he broke over her in waves of teeth and torment.
(who manipulates who here?)
Shroud begins to rub the side of her whiskery mouth against his chest before delivering daring little nips here and there to the sleek folds of his skin. “You never said I couldn’t…” she murmurs, biting hard before jerking her head back and managing another coy look at him.
@[Tunnel] haha she’s likes bite me more but I’ll bite back! ❤️❤️❤️
RE: drowning inside our hearts; shroud - Tunnel - 06-28-2019
Who is this creature he has created? It cannot be said that he does not remember her as she was when an infant. He does. Tunnel remembers how plain and scrawny she had been, and the snuffling stumbling way she sought him out in the dark like a blind pup. Small, sweet smelling, stalwart brown eyed babe. The beast had considered killing her and has wanted to destroy her many times since that night. Her skin and bones and flesh make him clench his teeth against the buzzing sensation in his jaw, he hurts her because he wants to pull her apart. He does not forget that he has ‘raised’ her, but her image flickers ever more clearly into that of a woman. Shroud has never been his ‘daughter’ even if she is other than what she would have been without his abducting her.
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves @[shroud] |