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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


    [private]  the sound of your voice in the aching; draco
    #1

    DESPOINA

    One would think that someone like Despoina would have clung to the chance of a family.

    That she would have been so grateful for the chance of a family that she would have done anything to keep it, to cherish it, to let herself be healed wholly by it. Despoina herself thought that about herself, and, if she was being truly honest, she still didn’t understand why it hadn’t been enough for her. They had all been so happy, so loving, so whole—and she couldn’t help but see her own brokenness reflected back at her in its mirror surface. Every second she lingered around them laughing was just a reminder of her silence. Every time she saw Wonder kiss the heads of the children, she heard her own mother leaving.

    Eventually, it became too much.

    It was weak and cowardly to leave as she did, but she couldn’t stay any longer. So, one night when they had been sleeping, she had simply snuck away. It was simpler in her hellhound form—quieter, stealthier than when she tried to move with her clumsy deer legs—but it didn’t make it easier. She cried for them. For the life they had, the one that she could have had, and for the girl that she could have been.

    But even the tears soon left and it was just her.

    Just her and the darkness stretching infinitely out in front of her.

    She preferred that loneliness for a long time, choosing to stay away from the common lands and the areas where they so often congregated together, but she was ultimately not strong enough to stay away. Strong enough to not return to her adopted family, perhaps, but not away from them all—not forever. Because in the back of her mind, she always saw him. Saw the way that he had stared at her as though he could see straight through her. As though he knew every weak and pathetic thought that simmered in her mind.

    And, like an addict, she found herself crawling back to be seen.

    So one morning, she rose and walked until she found herself in the place where she guessed him to be.

    She kept to the shadows but she knew that she was difficult to hide.

    And, somehow, she knew that he would be the one to find her.

    I guess the sound of your voice in the aching will just have to do




    @[Draco]
    Reply
    #2
    draco
    hitch a ride on my violence

    Despoina searches for Draco as he remember who she is to him.

    The hellhound represents an awakening. From the moment he saw her, he knew that he was different. Of course, Draco was sullen and rude from the moment he left Starsin’s womb; but . . . Despoina changed him. He knew what obsession was the moment their eyes locked. He knew that darkness and adoration can hold hands and birth beautiful, dangerous things.

    He knew that she would be his, forever. Even when she is gone, or six feet under, or in the arms of a lover—he claims her.

    It is that youthful fascination and desire that tells him she is in Pangea. Her thoughts are faint, distant—but Draco will know them through any obstacle. Excitement flares in his belly, aching and . . . adventurous? The resurfacing of such a pivotal part of his childhood puts him in good spirits. Despoina’s thoughts are timid but Draco thinks he will draw her out with a laugh and a little taste of what he can offer her.

    Shadows cloak Despoina, but Draco is able to pinpoint her quickly, as if the two are invisibly tethered. He grins when their eyes lock.

    “Just as lovely as the day I met you, Despoina. Why don’t you come on out?”



    @[despoina]
    hitch a ride on my violence
    Reply
    #3

    DESPOINA

    There is fear when she sees him.

    Fear of what he is, certainly, but also fear of what he is to her—what she is to him. She is fearful of the way that her pulse stammers when she hears his voice calling out for her, of the weakness in her that folds immediately. Her mouth runs dry or she would call back, her tongue thick in her mouth or she would say his name. Instead she remains there, wide-eyed and small, her nostrils flaring but no sound coming out.

    It’s only when she sees him moving closer that she moves at all, a single black leg lifting and then falling back down, pressing firmly against the dry, cracked earth of Pangea. He looks exactly as she had remembered him, although he is certainly older. There’s something devastatingly handsome about him, something so perfect in the cruel, cold features and the demonic red eyes that shine toward her.

    She swallows and her throat is dry. “Draco,” his name is so easy to say and she hates herself for that. Hates that she is so pathetic that she remembered it so easily. But he is the only one to say her name like that, to look at her in that way, and she knows it’s hopeless—she has no fight within her.

    I guess the sound of your voice in the aching will just have to do

    Reply
    #4
    draco
    hitch a ride on my violence

    To think Draco would not have been fascinated by another creature of hell would have been silly. It is only right that when he finds Despoina, his heart twists and turns with desire and delight. She leaves him with a pleasant feeling that blooms over and over again in his chest, warm and powerful like a summer dawn after a war finally won. If he can win Despoina over, keep her magic tucked close to his side, then he will become all the more untouchable; and, perhaps, he will find something in her personality—a surprise, maybe? He’s open to possibilities, the grin on his face indicating he expects something spectacular.

    It is the cruelty in Draco that seeks out the weakness in Despoina. He knows just what buttons to push and words to spin to keep those easily manipulated beneath his spell. He wouldn’t call the hellhound pathetic, or even entirely weak, but he knows he can take advantage of her and that—that is absolutely enough.

    “I’m so glad you remember my name,” Draco calls, practically purring. He steps closer to the hellhound, mouth turning down in a mock frown. “Why won’t you come here?” He knows why she won’t—the fear is clear in her mind and his supernatural ability to sense it. Draco lies to himself when he thinks he doesn’t know why she fears him; of course he knows why, to an extent, but sometimes he can’t face the manipulative parts of himself. Perhaps he is gearing up to be truly awful to Despoina (in some subtle way), weaponizing his charm and deceit.

    Draco draws closer, reaching out to brush his nose against Despoina’s cheek. “Are you here to stay?” he whispers, hope and selfish desire wrestling in his heart.



    @[despoina]
    hitch a ride on my violence
    Reply
    #5

    DESPOINA

    He knows the strings to pull, the way to tug at the threads of her heart, and without her consent something like hope begins to blossom in her chest. She struggles against the feeling of it, the way that it unravels within her, the way that she grows warmth beneath his gaze, but she cannot deny that she blooms under the spotlight of his attention—that he sees her. Like she is something special. Something to be cherished.

    Not something to be promptly abandoned upon first sight.

    Something to be kept.

    (How desperately she wants to be something worthy of being kept.)

    He asks why she won’t come near and she says nothing in return, her tongue thick and warm, the words stuck to the roof of her mouth. Because I am not worthy. Because my legs are broken. Because I could not imagine getting that close to the sun. These are the thoughts that swirl in the back of her mind—the thoughts that stick and grind, that cause her heart to stutter in her chest, leaving her eyes wide.

    As he gets closer, she takes an unconscious step backward but doesn’t run. She remains rooted, her black eyes taking him in, studying him, and then closing when he makes contact with her cheek.

    “Yes,” she finally says, quiet and breathy.

    I would never leave if you asked, she wants to scream—wants to lay it down at his feet, but instead she just looks to the ground, frowning and biting her lip. She remembers what it was like to be driven away, when she wasn’t given the choice to stay, and her heart clenches in her chest.

    Please let me stay.

    I guess the sound of your voice in the aching will just have to do

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