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  • Beqanna

    COTY

    Assailant -- Year 226

    QOTY

    "But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura


    sabrael or any;
    #1

    Wallace

    She wandered away from them, Sabrael and Ashley, anguish piercing her heart and tears bleeding from her eyes, until she stumbled into one of the many springs of cool water scattered across the island. She gasped at the sudden chill, soaked to the bone as it rushed over her and swept away the heavy sorrow smothering and suffocating her. Her mind focused on the biting cold, and she ducked her fevered, tear-stained face beneath the water to wash it all away.

    She should never let herself hope, she warned herself as she pulled her petite body out and onto the bank. Her neck curled as she lay there, licking absently at the water on her hip. Her tongue trailed over the bumps there, the scars of lace, the dips and ridges bladed into her from a careful hand. She should never hope for more, especially from Sabrael. It hurt too much. Not from him, not from anyone. She was only a body.

    And if they ever learned what she'd done while they were away, they would truly hate her, irreparably so. She prayed they'd never learn that he'd snuck onto the island. That in her loneliness and bitter hurt that they'd never come for her she'd allowed him to touch her. That in her desperation to be wanted, she'd let him coax her, tease and taunt and play until she craved more. He was an expert; he knew how to make her want it. They would hate her and it would kill her.

    She only wished it meant something.
    She only wished to be more than a body.

    She groaned softly and lay her head down, not caring in the least that slick mud dirtied her already-brown cheek. So ruined, so alone. She always would be, and it was time she accept it. Even the kind and watchful Reilly could never truly want her. Nobody could. Especially now, after she'd soiled herself further and taken him again. And liked it, too. It felt so damn good to be wanted, even in that shallow and meaningless way. Even if she had to pretend there could ever be more for her.

    With a defeated sigh, resigned and empty and hollow, she closed her eyes to the bladed pain in her chest.
    Never hope, Wallace.
    Never hope, Lacey.
    Never, never wish for more.

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