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    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


    shaking like a leaf with every God given night; bruise & jackel
    #1
    there is a dream in the space between the hammer and the nail
    ------ the dream of about-to-be-hit, which is a bad dream
    ------------ but the nail will take the hit if it gets to sleep inside the wood forever



    “Follow me,” he tells the woman – Jackel – “and I will take you to him.”
    She follows, and he does not look back, trusts the footfall of her steps. There is a part of him that clamors as he walks, begs him to reconsider, that he is not this kind of man. Never mind what he wants (to please Bruise, please the monster, to kneel, to be ruined, taken, broken) – she is not part of this game, she knows nothing other than the weak flattery he gave her.
    She is not meant to be part of this.
    But Bruise had asked – commanded – this of him, and he is so eager to obey, so eager to please, that his virtues crumble in the wake of the monster’s touch, and she is the consequence.

    He is afraid, at first, that he will not find the monster, that Bruise will have tired of him. But he comes into view, majestic, terrible, beautiful, and Rapt sighs in relief. 
    “Here she is,” he says, “she is eager to meet you.”
    He touches the girl, then, her gold skin so like his. She is sun-warmed, leaning into his touch, and the urge to tell her to flee arises again.
    “Jackel,” he says, “this is Bruise.”
    And then, without being told, he kneels. Surrendering to the monster.



    rapt
    caius x else


    @[Jackel] @[bruise]
    Reply
    #2

    I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin
    (and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)

    Bruise grows impatient in waiting.

    His patience, thin as it is, grows increasingly frayed on the edges, mood turning dark as the time passes. He wonders, for a moment, if the boy had been stupider than he had expected. If he had thought to run away instead of obey and Bruise’s mood lifts momentarily, thinking of all the ways he will punish the boy—all of the ways he will take apart his spirit, letting it fall apart before him, peeling inch by inch.

    But he does not get to have such pleasures, at least not now.

    Bruise lifts his gaze slowly when the boy returns (the man really, but a boy nonetheless), another on his heels. The smile that curves the edges of Bruise’s face is terrible and cruel, his shark eyes burning bright. Still, his patience is thin and when Rapt insists on talking, on touching the new possession that is clearly Bruise’s, he lashes out, moving with alien speed and snapping his dull teeth at the boy. “Quiet,” he snarls.

    Still, the boy has been useful and he feels a certain pride in his chest when Rapt hits his knees.

    “You took too long,” he reprimands but leans down all the same, gracing him with a brush of his lips against the other’s unworthy forehead. “But you did well. You will be rewarded.”

    He steps back, turning his attention to the mare in question, the one he had ignored entirely until now.

    “Watch, Rapt,” he commands, ensuring the boy lifts his eyes from the ground where they belong.

    Bruise’s beautiful sooty face washes clean, baptized in this raw material placed at his lap, and he steps toward her, appraising her like an artist, wondering if she is clay or wood or steel. Would she respond to the pressure of his palms? Would she require something stronger? He plucks the edge of Fear, thrumming his fingers over it, wondering how she will respond to it. “You are beautiful,” he lies, although he does think there is something beautiful in the way that she will come apart. “My name is Bruise.”

    Reply
    #3
    jackel
    I follow him.  It's slightly painful, trying to walk the steady pace he sets for us when my body longs to unwind from its taut coil and...and what?  I don't know where he leads me, who he leads me to, therefore I stay poised and it does not take much convincing from my other half to keep me obedient.  

    The movement of my black eyes are the only thing that can't be hindered, they roll and turn to mark the landscape they pass wildly in the safety of Rapt's blind spot.  I notice the way he relaxes meagerly, moving us closer to a thing of curved horns with a body cloaked in muddled gold.  A smile threatens to play at the corners of my mouth when introductions spill, and she allows the expression to come to fruition when the nervous stallion touches me, and I lean back into him, my first companion, accordingly.

    The horned one snaps, Rapt kneels, and I stand still, denying myself the urge to pick up my smile where it had fallen.

    And then my vision begins to darken, shadows spilling over the gentle stallion's master, etching and working him into something far more monstrous.  Whatever sensibilities that still remain within the captivity that is my mind begin to scream, telling me to fear, to run, to flee.  My pulse surges, out of fear more than likely, but where fear should cripple me, it enlivens me, sharpens me.  We want it, we need it.  Just like the hysterics and the pain, just like the drug they all are.

    My foot lifts and I intend to move into him, move closer, be nearer. Welcome him.  But no, that's not right, definitely not right.  I falter with an ebony hoof hovering precariously over the ground.  And with a force tossed against my conscious thoughts, Haide rises and shoves me backward, my body mirroring the action with a single retreating step away from him.  Now bathing in a shallow understanding, I lift my head higher, posturing myself into something more akin to shying creature.  My glance passes questioningly towards Rapt, my dark eyes widening, searching for a reassurance I do not need.  

    I do this on purpose.  I enjoy our game.

    "Thank you," I force softly, my voice wavering.  It could be perceived as nervousness, the way voice flinches. It is not.  It is the aura of excitement that begins to boil within me; that simple thank you having been more so issued to the greater hands at play here, having gifted me with this most fortunate turn of events.  

    It's been too damn long.

    all this joy, I've got some to share
    devin's∇designs


    @[rapt] @[bruise] pls do bad things to her :|
    Reply
    #4
    rapt
    rapt.

    there is a dream in the space between the hammer and the nail
    the dream of about-to-be-hit, which is a bad dream


    He shudders at the brush of lips to his forehead, and maybe this was worth it, whatever he’s done. The monster gives a command - watch, Rapt - and he does, of course. He watches as the stallion appraises his gift, the golden mare, and there is a hazy shimmer in the air. He is not privy to the exact nature of the Fear the monster presses into her, but he knows the sensation of it.
    He watches the mare, the way she shivers, and guilt gnaws at him in rat-bite quickness. Her voice shakes.
    Rapt – the stupid boy – does not recognize it as anticipation, a sick thrill, though his own tone has echoed such things. He hears only nervousness, fear, and he swallows, tasting bile and betrayal on his tongue.
    His mouth falls open, as if he’ll say something – don’t or wait or stop - but of course he doesn’t.
    His own morality is feverish and waning. It falters in the desire to serve.

    “Jackel…” he says, softly, but he doesn’t say anything else to her. He looks instead to Bruise.
    “What will you do?” he asks. A stupid question. Doesn’t part of him know, already?
    I’m sorry, he tells no one, only thinks it to himself, as his knees ache from laying prostrate on the ground, ever ready to worship.

    but the nail will take the hit if it gets to sleep inside the wood forever

    Reply
    #5

    I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin
    (and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)

    Bruise appraises her, biting his lip, dark eyes unreadable as he measures her up.

    She is young and foolish and has a body that will look like artwork when it is strewn apart. Once, his father had woken him early and ushered him forward. He had talked to him of the great lessons that he would need to learn. He had shown him how death can paint your muzzle and stain your flesh, how it was okay that he liked to play with them the way that he did, but that there were other steps he needed to take.

    He showed him how important it is to wash yourself shortly after, to cleanse yourself.

    These things echo in his mind now as he looks at the mare, as he idly plucks at the strings of the Fear, almost lazily picking up the tune, watching as her body reacts to it. There is something…different about the way she bends to it. The way she almost welcomes it. He tilts his head in thought, still thinking of the best way to break her, brushing her appreciation off with a shrug, when he hears Rapt’s voice trembling.

    Stupid boy.

    Anger floods the Krampus and he turns quickly toward where the boy kneels.

    He moves with supernatural quickness, lashing out. His hooves fly out to hammer into the boy’s side, his shoulder, wherever he can reach. Not enough to cause breaking, but enough to get his point across. “Quiet, idiot boy,” he hisses, standing over the pale gold stallion. “Speak when spoken to.”

    Scowling, he shakes the dust from his coat and, with one more hard stare at Rapt, he turns his attention back to Jackel. He almost purrs with pleasure, straightening himself and moving toward her. He plucks a little more on the strings now, wondering how she will respond—will her vision morph? Will she simply feel the beginning tendrils of horror through her veins? He reaches her side, his lips gliding up her body, claiming it as his own, material to be shaped as he wishes. When he reaches her head, he lingers on her jaw and then her eye for a moment, teeth grazing over the delicate flesh before he finds her ear.

    “I hate to be the one to draw first blood. It is so selfish.”

    He takes a step back, expectedly.

    “So I want you to be. Break yourself open for me.”

    He motions around them, the rocks, the branches, the endless options.

    Then, with a devilish glint in his eye, he whispers: “Please.



    @[Rapt] @[Jackel]
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