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Author Topic: Perfect little punching bag  (Read 292 times)

Description: Silver's lair // Tag: Marcos // Mature content.

Offline Silver Thrax

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Perfect little punching bag
« on: Nov 26, 17, 01:25:19 PM »
Silver hurt everywhere. As she lay there, looking up at the unfinished ceiling of the space she'd made her home, she thought that there wasn't a square inch of her body that didn't ache to some degree. Strange, how such pervasive discomfort could equate to bliss, in her mind, but it did. She was exhausted, and had every right to be. The Healer had not stopped to feed herself before launching a second assault, this time on her gangmate. Though there tended to be minimal Craft use between Silver and Marcos during these bouts, the exertions between them were nonetheless taxing in other, more mundane ways.

Now that the howls of fury had finally screamed themselves out, now that the urge towards violence that’d gripped her had finally been purged, Silver was left with a head and heart that were blissfully quiet, and a body that was ravenously hungry. Sitting up caused not a sound from the wide, luxurious bed beneath her (her bed was one of the few purchases she’d made where she didn’t mind acting like a Hayllian in the amount of money she spent), but it did summon a soft groan from the depths of her. She rolled her neck to one side and then the other, carefully stretching the muscles there. A few bite marks lingered, aching deep into the muscle between her neck and shoulder, and the shifting of her body drew a quiet sting back into the places on her back where the skin had been broken. It was nothing, really. Just scratches and some bruises besides. She could make it all go away with a flick of  her will, but she didn’t. Neither had she healed any of the leftovers from the fight earlier. The place at the corner of her mouth that’d been split open, it burned every time Marcos had kissed her, and had been aggravated every time he’d drawn that lip between his teeth. Silver had eaten it all up, had gathered it up along with every other bruising grip and crushing press he’d inflicted, and had let it fuel her fervor.

This particular afternoon wasn’t merely their usual bout of rough sex. Silver had been furious, and Marcos was as much as rescue to Silver then as the rest of the group had tried to be by throwing themselves in front of Draven. She hadn’t even made it all the way inside her place before she’d snapped. He’d thrown one too many of his jokes at her while she’d been fuming still and she’d swung at him. Of course he’d seen it coming; she’d been angry and tired and broadcasting plainly whether she realized it or not. But maybe that’d been his aim, from the start. He’d caught her arm and wrenched her too easily against the brick of the building at her side, and from there had turned the moment towards a different kind of exertion.Silver thought back over it now, sitting up on the side of the bed in her dimly-lit apartment, and she smirked quietly to herself. Marcos was a rare find, and as she reached to pull his ridiculously well-made shirt from where it hung on the back of a nearby chair, she was filled with a warm sense of appreciation. Silver hadn’t met many lovers who walked the delicate line that Marcos could, with her. She very much enjoyed some abuse with her sex sometimes, but it was the pain that she craved and not so much the submission that most men tried to attached to it. There were few others she could trust to be strong enough to weather it well when she hurt them, but also be unafraid to hurt her back, to an extent. She and Marcos had found a balance that allowed them both to find satisfaction, she thought, which was why she so often turned to him when she needed to blow off steam.

Marcos seemed to stir behind her, and she looked back at him over one shoulder while her hands were buttoning his shirt onto her body. She smirked, but didn’t say anything before she’d pushed off from the bed and walked on tired, sore legs towards the apartment’s tiny kitchen. The whole place felt a little cramped despite the length of it, but Silver didn’t mind. It was an old space with raw brick for walls, beams showing overhead, and a hard cement floor somewhere beneath the area rugs she’d layered atop it. They were well underground, in the basement of a building that had once been a thriving business before its above-ground parts had been demolished by some gang or another. It was a hidden space, a gem in a city that was overflowing with too many bodies and not enough space. It didn’t have to be fancy or huge (the bed being the only exception, of course). It just had to be quiet and discreet, and this place was both. It’d taken the Healer months to turn it into a place she felt comfortable, but she’d done so years ago. It’d gradually acquired webs and wards and furnishings to make it feel like it was both secure and hers, and now she rather adored it. She could count on one hand the number of people who knew about it; not even all of the Unchained knew where she laid her head at night.

Marcos knew, though, and had probably been here more often than anyone aside from Silver herself. Silver was still musing on her appreciation for the beast in her bed when she retrieved some food and drink from a cabinet and carried it all back to the bed with her.

“You hungry?” she asked him, as she crawled back onto the bed. Her voice was dry and rasped, evidence of how thoroughly it’d been used over the past couple of hours. Normally she would’ve put down a vanity shield to keep crumbs out of her beloved bed, but she was too tired, at the moment. She’d need to wash the sheets anyway, she reasoned.



Offline Marcos Torrero

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Re: Perfect little punching bag
« Reply #1 on: Nov 27, 17, 04:45:01 PM »
The golden eyes that had offered her solace from the rage burning in her enemy’s, had themselves burned with that same furious demand for action and violence, but now the embers which had raged as an inferno just simmered, the dullest glow of life amidst the coals. Rather than stare upon her with an unstoppable hunger, they now merely trailed after her as she slid from the soiled sheets. His hands curled against his chest as he lounged there, breathing slowly, merely taking her in while letting wind return to his bruised lungs and appreciating the simple but lovely hideout that was her retreat from the world above. She dressed while he watched, or did something resembling dressing. His dress-shirt hung worse on her than him, if he were honest, but he had to admire all the same the way it flowed upon her. She was a bit shorter than him, but not by too much; it meant he had a lovely view as she moved and shifted, the hem of it hinting regularly at things that enticed him to the violence he had unleashed on her.

In truth, he was surprised they even made it to the bed to ruin it so efficiently. But he was hardly complaining, even as his body did. She had put on a rather serious workshop her own against the previously hale and hearty Dhemlanese warrior. Aching severely, bruised extensively, with long raked furrows along his skin, he was rather certain she was trying to kill him at a few turns throughout that afternoon. The warrior had done as best he could to contend with her, and resting now, he got to savor some of the extent of it.

Normally he was one to enjoy control and precision in his bedmates, using them more as toys than as partners, but she had never been inclined to obey, and he never felt the urge to make her. Instead, he looked at it as any other brawl, just one with a far more satisfying conclusion. It was a brawl that had been happening for years, and he had yet to grow tired of her fire, as it only kindled his to life.

He did stir, slowly, grunting as he shifted into the pillows a bit to sit up. Clearly, the fop that he was, he was in no rush to leave the bed. Instead, he was toying with strands of her hair. Her hair curled wonderfully, and he enjoyed the body it held even as he slid the strands through his fingers that he had ripped free from her. They had not been meant to serve as mementos, but they did now, savoring the memory of the resistance that saw them free in his grip. It gave his hands something to do that wouldn’t get him in too much trouble, and it also satisfied some darker piece of himself, letting him tamp down a sharpened edge as he focused on the reward felt in the memory they granted.

She asked him for his need for a meal, and his body absolutely sang. She brought with her a bit of a feast, and his stomach nearly rumbled; he was fortunate it did not, so he could lie, smiling gently. “No, I’m good,” he told her, generously. “Tuck on in.”

The gray jewelled Healer had just exhausted herself beyond words; she needed to feast, and he wanted to ensure she had all that she could. Once she was finished, he’d change his mind, perceivably mercurial, so that they could both have a bit to eat; her topping off over what she now held and he just barely refilling a far smaller reservoir of need than she bore within her.

His hand slid across, to find her leg, drifting back and forth with his short nails, leaving small lines of sharp pressure as he lounged and languidly brushed her to show he was not yet wholly done with her attention. But he did not take a single step past; glutton that he was, he was not currently showing any telltale proof of a further want. No, he merely wanted to touch her, in this lazy moment. “That dick might be a problem yet. Do we wish he wasn't a problem anymore?” he asked, conversationally, the tone of which seemed theoretical, but she knew him long enough to have a subtle clue at least to his most shadow-recessed thoughts. She would know he was asking for permission, as much as anything else.



Offline Silver Thrax

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Re: Perfect little punching bag
« Reply #2 on: Nov 27, 17, 05:42:12 PM »
Silver arched a brow gently in question when Marcos declined food. It was a faint gesture, more a show of surprise than a real expression of doubt. She'd take him at his word not because she found it easy to believe anyone of a Dark Jewel was ever not hungry, but because he was a grown-ass man and it wasn't her job to see him fed. She would not have minded sharing her food in the least (preservation spells meant she could keep quite the store on hand, so there was plenty in the apartment), but she had never been the coddling sort, and Marcos had more than proven over the years that he could take care of himself anyway. 

With that fleeting gesture dismissed, she did indeed set about demolishing the plate of odds and ends she'd gathered from the cupboards: a pair of apples and a pear, some dried meat, several kinds of nuts and three knots of braided, sweetened bread. It wasn't enough, it never really seemed to be enough, but it would take the edge off of her exhaustion for now. She'd brought a pair of bottled beers with her, and wouldn't object if Marcos stole one even after he'd declined her offer. Should have been water, probably, but she was hungry.

The touch at her leg won little more than a cat-eyed glance and a knowing smile while she cut into an apple, a wordless but plain promise that neither was she quite finished with the work they'd come here to do. It was a warm and comfortable moment for her, surrounded not only by food and her haven, but one of the companions she enjoyed the most of them all. All of the demands that waited for her outside of the apartment were kept well at bay, and even when Marcos broke the quiet by dredging up the topic of Draven again, it wasn't in a manner that demanded anything from her. She did sigh deeply, though the sound bore no trace of annoyance in it. It was merely resignation, a returning realization that the situation with the Gray Warlord Prince was a complicated one with no simple answer. Silver took her time and chewed through the bite of apple in her mouth before she replied.

"Yes and no," she admitted, unhurriedly. "I mean, no," she corrected, with a softly pointed look to Marcos in order to address the question he wasn't asking aloud. "But I'm going to have to figure something out. Did you notice his jewelry?" she asked, gesturing to her own unadorned earlobe with the tip of her paring knife in between slices. "He was wearing a shard of Black. The Steward said Rook's one of Lord Black's favorites. I though he might've been just trying to scare me, but the proof was in his ear." She put another piece of apple into her mouth and chewed it down before adding, with a slim shake of her head.

"Even if I wanted him gone gone, the repercussions wouldn't be worth it. Especially now, since he's seen all your faces," she said, and though she'd started lightly, by the time she finished the thought there was a growl beneath the words. "Fucking Tylmandra," she grunted softly, her features tightening back towards something more annoyed. "If we had been left alone to fight it out, one of us would've come out on top. It would've been over after that. Problem solved. Now there's just this big.. fucking... question mark. And he knows your face, and hers, and Nadja's, and Dale's and Hrodi's at the very least. Fuck." She scratched her brow with the back of her knife-holding hand and leaned back against the headboard, chin tilted up while she searched the not-ceiling overhead for some kind of answer.

"She coulda died, Bull," she muttered, more softly. "So fucking fast." She righted her head, looked over at him. "You guys didn't even see him at his worst. Last time we fought he lost his shit, and he fucking turned into witchfire. He's a scary son of a bitch, and she just--" she shook her head, scoffing softly as she let her eyes wander. 

"Fucking Queens, man." She began to cut off more of the apple she'd been working on, but stopped to clench her fists and, well, be vexed for a moment. "Grrrraaahh. Night, I wanna kick her ass, sometimes."



Offline Marcos Torrero

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Re: Perfect little punching bag
« Reply #3 on: Nov 28, 17, 10:15:43 PM »
Marcos did not give any obvious tells at her brief and momentary glance of doubt. While hungry, he was not running on empty; he had about a fourth left in his reserve for his Blood Opal, easily, he reasoned, and had nothing of his Purple Dusk challenged. He had no interest in taking away this first rush of food, and every interest in having some of her planned seconds.

But he certainly did not refuse anything twice, or her drinks even once, and took a bottle from her with ease. The caps of both of them slid free without any outside help, it would seem, as he focused a touch of craft to ease both of their days. Her hands were already a little soiled, and he did not envy her the twisting with the juice of that pear in her palm, so saw fit to offer what little solace he could, when it cost him nothing. It was the little comforts in life he enjoyed his Crafts the most for, and enjoyed exploiting them when she was in no state to argue with their convenience.

His hand tipped back his own opened bottle to drink, enjoying its rush, and praying for it to have some effect. They lounged, while he teased at her skin, and she ate. The silence was broken by him, but he knew she needed to actually talk some of this out, so it was calculated; besides, he needed a break anyway, and she might chew slower if she was talking. All of those were victories in his book, and so he leaned on it, somewhat disingenuously offering to murder Draven if she wanted. He knew she would not go for it; but he would have unhesitatingly committed had she actually wanted it. Sort of like the times he brought up a threesome, but in reverse; this time it genuinely wasn’t serious, but he’d be willing. Those other times, he never was actually kidding.

“I noticed it, sure. Absolutely horrifying. I mean, really, one earring? What, does he think he’s a pirate? Unbelievably garish,” he scoffed, as if the favor was not the primary issue to address, when they both damned well knew otherwise. The jester who found more humor in death than in life seemed ever ready to try to soften blows, though the smile’s speed at fading showed he was certainly aware of and contemplating the depths of the concerns that came with that offered favor.

Still, while the Bull was not the biggest fan of the Queen, he at least felt the need to quell some of her stated concerns. “While they certainly forced our hand at revealing ourselves… anyone could see his Jewel was nearing its end. He drew deep in that fight. I suspect her Red would’ve been able to manage itself against him, after your work. The only danger I suspect she was ever really in was from you. Short-lived can be impetuous. Draven is not alone in that curse… just more frightening than most.”

He did his best to legitimize her anger at Tylmandra, if anything, and downplay the reasons to think Tylmandra was in danger: it was calculated to give Tyl less sympathy as much as it was anything for the red-jeweled Queen.

“And Silver, she’s your subordinate. Kick her ass and make her say ‘thank you’ for the honor. Darkness knows I’d do that in your position. But, then, that’s not the sort of restraint I’m overly known for.”

His eyebrows waggled a little bit, before he gestured for the apple and set aside her drink. If she granted him it, he’d finish the cut, and throw a piece cut into his mouth, before he carved free a new chunk of it, and offered it over to her outstretched on the knife, before repeating the process. She had a lot to process; he could do the labor for her.

“So you have Tylmandra and Draven to sort out. Know that you have a gang of stupid, but well-meaningly loyal, cannon fodder to help you with either.”



Offline Silver Thrax

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Re: Perfect little punching bag
« Reply #4 on: Nov 29, 17, 02:47:50 PM »
Marcos called Draven's earring garish, and Silver smirked and shook her head.

"Right? As if there was any doubt who really started that fight. He was asking for someone to kick his ass before he ever raised a hand." Because fashion choices totally justified that sort of thing. At least, in this oddly humorous moment, they did.

But the topic of the Red Queen tempered back the Healer's rising smile, and she was shaking her head in disagreement before Marcos had finished speaking. Her eyes were on her hands, where she was cutting the remainder of the apple and then the pear all up into slices at once.

"Maybe," she allowed, though her tone made it clear she wasn't happy with the odds, whatever they might've been. Truth be told, she had less confidence in Tylmandra's performance against Draven than she normally did. The Queen had proven herself to be quite capable, but Silver knew what few people did: Warlord Princes made the Queen's blood run cold. She couldn't imagine standing in front of Draven had been anything but traumatic for Tylmandra, which only vexed Silver more that she'd done it against Silver's request. Even with that aside, Silver knew it was it was like to fight from a position of desperation. As much as she doubted Draven's soundness of mind to begin with, she didn't have to dig far to imagine him lashing out with surprising ferocity if he'd happened to have let himself felt cornered by the approach of Silver's allies.

Things happened so fast, sometimes. One minute someone's there, and then next... they're just not. 

She ignored the ghost of Vespasian that drifted through the back of her mind, and focused intentionally on the fruit in her hands, instead. The moment passed with little more than a dull ache in the depths of her, and she pressed on with the conversation.

"The point is, she compromised the rest of the group when I specifically asked y'all to stay out of it. Whether she would've gotten herself killed or not is almost secondary. She's free to throw her own life away if she wants to, but now she's brought the rest of you into this more than you already were."

The Warlord Prince suggested that Silver resolve the issue with Tylmandra by kicking her ass, and Silver would've given a smirk in response if he hadn't couched in talk of 'subordinates'.

"Ugh, I hate it when you talk like that," she grumbled. While it was true that Silver was the point through which most of the rest of the Unchained connected, and while it was true that she held the darkest of the Jewels between them and was several times older than all but Marcos and Nadja, she hated being forced into accepting any kind of leadership title. "This isn't a military unit. The point isn't that she disobeyed, it's that she did something stupid and dangerous. And besides, a Queen's pride is fucking endless. Kicking her ass would only shut her up until she healed enough to get mad again."

Marcos wordlessly asked for the second apple, and Silver passed it to him, along with the paring knife. She worked on the slices she'd already cut, until he offered her another from the knife and she leaned over to take it between her teeth. 

"I mean, I might give it a shot anyway," she conceded, with a half-grin after she'd swallowed that slice and sat back. She studied him then, perhaps lost in her thoughts on the matter or perhaps just enjoying the look of him for a moment. It was a cozy picture, with his fit and lined form twisted up in her sheets, and the warm light from the widow's web on the nearby wall slanting down on him. It wasn't a window, but it projected the effect that would've been served by a window in its place, reflecting the genuine daylight that was captured by the web's mate elsewhere above ground.

"But it makes me worry about her and her idiotically principled reactions to situations she doesn't like." She paused, popped another piece of fruit into her mouth and then, after swallowing it, added, "I'm pretty sure she doesn't know yet about the Black Jewel in Askavi, yet. I have a feeling her reaction will be no more intelligent than her reaction to Draven." 



Offline Marcos Torrero

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Re: Perfect little punching bag
« Reply #5 on: Dec 05, 17, 07:42:48 PM »
Marcos tutted supportively, nodding and even offering an enthusiastically pointed finger when she suggested that the man's terrible choice for earring styles. It was an absolutely reprehensible fashion gaff in Marcos's eyes, but they both knew what else that jewel meant, and the threat it posed. He was not some mere psychopath - he was a black jewel's pet psychopath. That meant one of two people, and that's only if Kalvar wasn't their Lord Black.

No matter how wrong both of them were about the origin of Draven's jewelry, it left that option out as insensible and frankly implausible. The easiest, most sensible conclusions, remained in front of them and they had no reason but to grasp for them and the implications it misled one to find.

Tylmandra, and his half-defense of her, clearly took away from some of that joy. Fortunately, the Warlord Prince offered precious little actual effort when it came to defending her, and made no effort to further defend the woman who would be the Queen of Rihland... which was, again, the home of Lord Black, by many estimations, leading them back into this weird, sticky little twisting problem they were facing. She was right to be worried, and right to be angry, and he was of no mind to try to stop her from that righteous fury.

But then he took a turn to smirk, knowingly, likely making her chide herself in the process, when with one breath she spoke about irritation with them breaking rank from her demands, and with her next, tried to remind him that she was not in charge of them as if it were some military group. His eyebrow could not have actually scaled his face further if he wanted it to, and he wanted it to scale higher very badly to further parody her assertion. She was so absolute it was a democracy while demanding obedience.

He said nothing as he took the apple, took a slice for her and offered it, then sliced another for himself, just smirking with that obnoxiously knowing expression of his while eating his slice. Another slice was made for her, and he was happy he had the knife now, or he damn well knew he'd be stabbed. She was always happy for an excuse to practice her Craft when given a target to take out her anger upon.

"I'm glad none of us ever do anything that's stupid and dangerous,"
he contested, smiling. "Personally, I want to beat her in to the ground for the disobedience," he confessed. While he was apparently on her side, he was not on her side for the same reasons she might want him to be, and he was perfectly comfortable with that. The short-lived little snot should know when to fucking listen, as far as he was concerned.

"It's called Rihland, by the way,"
he let her know, conversationally. "Back to the name some of those hills used to be known, as I understand? I was living in Terreille at the time, so I just went with 'Askavi' by the time I was over here, too. But they ... changed it." It was pretty recent news, so she might not have picked up on it just yet, and he felt like offering the kindness of the rebranded image.

"And I don't really expect her opinions to ever prove intelligent,"
he smirked, before plopping another piece of apple into his mouth. The next slice was hers.



Offline Silver Thrax

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Re: Perfect little punching bag
« Reply #6 on: Dec 11, 17, 09:35:53 PM »
"Oh, shut up," she groused, when Marcos argued by eyebrow and lingering gaze alone. Her tone spoke the truth that her words would not: she knew she'd been called on her hypocrisy and had no sound retort. She shared more of the apple with him, and she too had the thought that he was fortunate to be in possession of the knife while he continued to smirk at her.

"That's different," she insisted, though not even Silver could keep a straight face while she argued on the shades of 'stupid and dangerous'. If her smile took on a saucy note after his following comment, he might imagine it was because she thought she'd very much enjoy watching him kick the mouthy Queen's ass. In theory, at least. In reality, there was only a small likelihood that she could ever enjoy seeing a Warlord Prince beat on Tylmandra, even if the Warlord Prince in question was the rousing specimen currently wrapped in her sheets. She fell quiet and pensive while she downed more of the food before her, considering the matter of Tylmandra and Kalvar Elbremov and Askavi.

Or Rihland, as Marcos reminded her. She looked back over to him and tilted her head in recognition of the correction. "Yeah. Habit," she said, with a shake of her head. "Did I tell you I went to see him?" she asked, picking up the remains of her beer and the plate with what was left of the food on it. She shifted up to her knees and then re-situated herself at Marcos' side instead of across from him. He was a living furnace, and it felt like more effort to conjure a warming spell at the moment than to just cozy up to the available heat source. As she moved, she continued to speak. "Elbremov, I mean. When I got back and got surprised by the Steward with the new rules - he wanted me to sign a contract, again - I fibbed a little to make him think Elbremov knew me. I was just fishing to see whether there really were two Blacks lurking around, and Harmaa didn't even blink."

She took the offered apple slice and ate it, and offered him his choice of the nuts and bread remaining on the plate as she continued. "So I figured I'd better make sure he actually did know me before Harmaa's people got around to checking my references. He's an interesting character. Did you know he's half-Tacean?" she asked, looking up from her food to check Marcos' reaction. "And also, good friends with none other than Lord Black himself. According to Elbremov and Harmaa, that is."



Offline Marcos Torrero

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Re: Perfect little punching bag
« Reply #7 on: Dec 21, 17, 11:23:23 AM »
He held his hands up defensively, as she told him to shut up, as he continued to not actually say anything, but now, he did so in surrender. It was a fun exchange, and he enjoyed tormenting her to a degree. It was clear that he was enjoying himself immensely, a smile plastered widely on his features at her torment.

She contended it was different, and he just shrugged, still smiling, allowing her to build the case she wanted to build. It wasn't his fight to have, anyway; after-all, she was the boss and he was the underling, and she could deny whatever she wanted as far as he was concerned, including being the boss at all.

"You somehow did not mention that bombshell," he told her simply and unexcitedly despite the shocking revelation, eyes narrowing a bit as she continued her story. It was... interesting to hear. A casual discussion from her about meeting what amounts to a God. They were within range of her power, after-all, to at least comprehend, but for him, it was beyond the most pale. But he knew she had a fun story to tell; so he half-listened, while putting himself at ease. Relaxing, he leaned back, his apple cored and knife somehow no longer visible. The cored apple erupted into a fire and disappeared into an ash that hung before him in a cloud; and then with a heavy breath, it flittered into the air, creating a smoke ring before flying away in a long trail, which his twisting finger guided towards the trash can, where it slid into its place, careful telekinetic craft guiding it to his idle whims.

But that knife was still missing somewhere else. He was skilled at sleight of hand; skilled enough it all but vanished. And maybe it had. Either way, unless prompted for it from him, she wouldn't be slicing any more food.

She asked about his knowledge of the Tacean ancestry, and he nodded his head a bit. "I know things," he answered her vaguely, but then his brow raised sharper when she mentioned he was friends with none other than Lord Black himself. Marcos looked a bit surprised there.

It meant not only was Lord Black real, but Lord Black was someone other than Kalvar Elbremov mucking around here. It was a confirmation of something terrifying: someone with power that deep was here, truly here. It meant something relieving, however, and he laughed. "Goddess, I hope whoever has those jewels dies soon. Short-lived are full of surprises, but not exactly full of endurance," he opined, assuming the source of the power. If it wasn't someone short-lived, well, they'd know about it already, unless they're a newborn baby goldskin, he supposed. In which case, they were functionally the same anyway.

Stretching slowly, he shifted and laid back in the bed, folding his arms over his stomach as he looked up at her now while she continued with her ripaste and her tales. "I wonder how much it would take to bribe Raej for the whole gang. I don't think they have a Lord Black," he suggested, smirkingly, clearly not entirely serious. Then again, knowing Marcos, he was just as likely not entirely not serious, either.



Offline Silver Thrax

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Re: Perfect little punching bag
« Reply #8 on: Dec 22, 17, 11:38:27 AM »
"I dunno, I'm not so sure," Silver countered in a thoughtful grumble, when Marcos hoped aloud for Lord Black to be one of the short-lived. "Whoever he is, he's very anti-slave collar. And it's weird but interesting that he squashed Morr's court but has been completely anonymous since. Maybe he's someone we can get along with."

Marcos shifted away, opting to lay back rather than provide her with the body heat she'd been leeching off of him for a few seconds now. She transferred her posted weight to a hand rather than joining him prone, and sipped at her beer. His comment about Raej caused her to turn and look down at him, smirking. She scoffed softly and then shook her head, surveying the little room once more. "Fuck that," she murmured, with a stubborn note to her tone. She was quiet long enough to down the rest of her drink, and then she picked up her plate and empty bottle (and his, if he was finished) and scooted off of the bed to return to the kitchen. She reloaded the plate with more food and acquired another pair of drinks, and returned. This time she'd push the food towards him, apparently no longer content with his lazy picking of tidbits.   

"Anything else you know about this Elbremov character?" she asked him, as she resettled. "In all those 'things' you know, I mean." It occurred to her that she'd overlooked an opportunity when she'd failed to ask Marcos about the man before going to see him. Marcos was so low-key about so many things that it was occasionally too easy to forget what a wealth of experience he had behind those smiles and bad puns. Silver situated herself so that she sat cross-legged, facing him with her knees brushing his side so long as he remained prone.



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Re: Perfect little punching bag
« Reply #9 on: Jan 10, 18, 12:48:31 AM »
The man was laid back, hoping she would set aside her plate and join him and stop their discussion with her having finished her ripaste, but it was not to be. He sighed audibly, chuckling, when she got back up, and this time prepared two plates. Accepting the truth, reluctantly, he remained at ease in the bed as long as he could really justify.

She argued for the benefits of keeping a mysterious gang-murdering Black Jewel around, and he just raised a brow in dubious appraisal of her words. Yet again, the idle man chose to let silence and accusatory muscles provide his words for him, and did not push against her consideration of this anti-slave collar psychopath just because they hadn't murdered the Unchained yet. His eyebrow remained piqued, but his words remained quiet.

He took a drink and a plate, still laying down, seeming a bit grumpy at her insistence of him not relaxing, and of her needing more details. Reluctant, grumpy, but permissive. Taking a sip, angling his neck to avoid yet rising, he rested the drink back down and thought on her words, head tilting to her as he began, still laid back, plate and glass rested on his taut stomach.

"Not as much as I'd like, really. I know what the Dhemlanese whispered in fear, and a touch more. By the time I was involved in the Great War, he was a boogeyman. Like me, he is from Terreille. But from... six hundred, I think, years before I was born. I know that... he was a pinnacle of their war machine, once, an unbelievable weapon. So strong that he was a spearhead sent to settle the lands of Rihland into Askavi. This man forged the fucking mountains into an Eyrie, only to dismantle the buildings he had helped build. And in the middle of that time, forty fucking generations of Rihlanders were born and died. But long before that, he was asked to come back to Terreille to help put us all in our damned place, to leave Kaeleer with half the forces sent there, the early expansion deemed foolish. They abandoned Kaeleer, and asked him to do so, and he did not, and this was the status quo for two hundred years, give or take, him hiding in an abandoned mountain he'd conquered. This... moment in time, this is about when I was born into a Dhemlan triumphant over Askavi. An Askavi that asked for him to come back and kill everyone I love. I grew up fearing his name, because we knew, if he obeyed, we would burn, all of us."

Taking the small plate, he scooted back to sit up, reluctant as he glanced at the meal and up to her, before sighing heavily and taking the first piece of meat and popping it into his lips. Chewing quickly, he licked his fingers, and swallowed it down with little time to actually manage his food, obviously bursting to answer more of her question. "But he never came back. I understand... they called him a traitor for this, for him remaining, but I think he'd had a kid there? Maybe that's why he stayed? I don't know. I just know that Askavi was always whispering that Kalvar was coming back, but he never did. Instead, they waited very patiently until my seventy fourth birthday to send their war to my home, and I got to finally have my first kill, as I joined the Great War."

Popping another piece, he chewed, and stared at the middle distance for a moment as he thought on just how satisfied he was with whatever he was remembering. It was satisfying, clearly, but he pushed past it as he finished chewing. "But this is not about me. Ah, he... disappeared, basically. Just kept living in what was and is again Rihland, as modest a life as he could have, and made no waves. I had wished the Purge would've killed him, but it did not."

Tapping a piece of bread against the plate, in a bit of meat juice, he stared at it for a moment before back up to her. "I'm told that those in charge of the Eyries decided to kill his wife. That was very stupid. He killed them all right back, much better than them at murder, showing them just why I feared him like he was the boogeyman going to come and conquer Terreille single-handed. And with the important Eyriens dead, he just gave the place back. He seems... unstable, from all I hear? But I hear he's a religious type. They're usually nice enough if you make the right gestures and say the right vows."

Though he knew all too well this was an academic series of questions and answers now. He tucked into the foods provided him, obviously needing to catch up to her, since she provided him a plate as she asked for fucking storytime. But he obliged, giving her everything he could. "He's got like fifteen kids," he mumbled, as the only other thing he could remember.



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Re: Perfect little punching bag
« Reply #10 on: Jan 11, 18, 09:41:09 AM »
"Hey, I said maybe," she countered against that oddly articulate arched brow of his, her shoulders lifting in an exaggerated and defensive shrug. "A little optimism never hurt anyone. That's what I hear, anyway. And if it's otherwise, there's fuck-all we can do about it, anyway."

If she was a little more sullen in the way she popped food into her mouth and ate it, perhaps it was proof that he'd succeeded in bursting her little bubble of stubborn hope despite her words. Or maybe she was just feeding off of his slightly grumpier cues, which she otherwise didn't seem to notice. She might've been the worst Healer in two Realms, but her caste did drive her in some subtle ways. Ignoring his subtle protests in favor of suggesting he eat something might've been one of them.

Silver settled into a mien more thoughtful and sober while Marcos began to describe what he knew of Kalvar Elbremov. She made quick and quiet work of her plate while he expounded, though her attention was more on the picture the man was painting than what was going into her mouth. Silver's experience with the Great War had been limited. Askavi had been on its rampage when she'd been taken into Hayll, but she'd been so far under her owner's thumb by then that it'd hardly touched her in a personal sense. Whether Vespasian had worked with the Eyriens, or whether he'd managed some sort of leverage to keep his estate mostly unbothered, she didn't know. Her experience was nothing like those such as Marcos, who'd lifted arms inside the conflict on the front lines. His retelling gave her much to consider, and she was quiet for a long moment afterwards.

"I'd heard that his coup was instigated by the Eyriens hurting his family somehow," she finally agreed, toying idly with the bottle in her hands. "Man," she murmured, with a shake of her head. "Doesn't seem like one person ought to have that much power." And this, knowing that she herself carried a terrifying wealth of the stuff. But even her Gray was not enough to allow her to single-handedly level a Territory. Even if there were two or three of her, routing out an entire Territory's establishment of a warrior race seemed well beyond her strength. She watched Marcus as he made his way through the plate she'd given him, and then shook her head and smirked again.

"Never a dull moment, these days," she murmured, before tipping back the last of her drink. It stung the cut at the corner of her mouth when the beer touched it, but she didn't mind in the least. After, she let her gaze wander down to the prone Warlord Prince at her side, and she couldn't help but find amusement in his stubborn desire to remain laying down even while clearing his plate. She set a hand on his arm, slid her palm up over his shoulder and back down in an idly affectionate gesture. The firmness of the muscle beneath the flesh was a pleasant thing, and was a tactile reminder of the strength hidden within that relaxed form.

"You mighta been on to something with the Raej thing," she teased, at the more-fully parsed thought of two Blacks in neighboring Territories. She still wasn't open to the idea, but she conceded that maybe a saner person would be.



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Re: Perfect little punching bag
« Reply #11 on: Jan 21, 18, 09:22:12 PM »
She opined about the helplessness of their opinions and desires when it came to the power in this territory, and he loudly and sourly laughed his agreement. "That's my motto: fuck-all we can do about the Black."

In truth, there was fuck-all he could do about the Gray, much less, but he also knew there were checks, there were balances. People with enough strength to hold it back against the tide of death it could bring. She’d learned that lesson herself a few times now. But there was a Black, it seemed, in Little Terreille, and one next door to the damn place. One of them was a mystery - the other all too well known by Marcos. And both were significant enough to inspire this grizzled, bloodlusting warrior to suggest they flee across the Realms to the safer Terreille, where two Blacks reported there had died, and the other was as dormant as Kalvar once was, by all accounts.

A suggestion he acted as if was in jest; a suggestion she dismissed just as idly, because her heart belonged to this place, at least today. To his credit, despite his clear worries, he just shrugged in acquiescence as she idly passed over his offering with her pithy false consideration that he knew was just a polite offer of bullshit. He just continued to nibble at his plate as he rolled it all through his mind.

The silence spanned as he chewed, and as he finished the last morsel he cared to touch, he chose to abandon the strained silence, the heaviness of the news that he had no interest in discussing, and the demons from Askavi that he had no interest in every facing again, even in his idle thoughts. They were all pushed aside in favor of the better fight he could wage.

“There’s some pretty dull moments,” he suggested, idly, finding something to lighten the mood to grasp onto, and he clutched it for all it was worth when he spotted it. His plate was rather well tended to, only scraps left to be considered, when he set it aside with a flick of his Craft to send it soaring back into the kitchen where it landed safely upon counter. The warrior’s hand lowered, then, his eyes slowly drifting over her as he began to at first adjust himself, before it became clear it was more than an idle adjustment. His eyes just took her in as he tended to himself slowly and patiently.

His voice was a little affected as he spoke, the depth of his Dhemlanese accent slipping in whenever he was so distracted by other issues. The man did his level best to sound as local and unaffected as possible whenever he could. Yet, Silver, she knew well the slow, liquid curl of his natural voice, from the precious experiences she stole from him when his mind was no longer able to focus so well on the mask of native he liked to wear. “For instance, right now, we are discussing politics, interrealm power dynamics, and hierarchal protocol for our gang, while nibbling at small plates. Which itself lapsed into an awkward silence as - ah - as we lounged on this far too loud bed that had grown far too quiet. Pretty dull. Because a history lesson was not remotely what I wanted to come here to drill into you, Sil.”

His breath caught again as his eyes drifted slowly up to focus on those full, bloodied lips, and a wicked smile crawled its way across his beard-kissed cheeks.



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Re: Perfect little punching bag
« Reply #12 on: Jan 31, 18, 06:00:16 PM »
"I'm sorry, was I boring you with my concerns about my future and well-being?" she asked him, though it was less an actual question and more an amused sort of chiding. Her mouth lingered somewhere between a smirk and a rising grin, her tone of voice lilting and playful. She leaned more heavily on the posted arm, and let her head hang idly to one side while her eyes moved from his grinning mouth down over his body. She used two fingers of her free hand to take hold of the well-wrinkled sheet near his thigh, and tugged it down to reveal the parts of him that had been covered before, as though wanting to inspect the work he was so brazenly doing. She was not shy about letting her gaze linger there, where he'd begun to stroke himself towards lust. It was a rare enough thing, to witness a lover doing so while one was available to do the work for them. And while Silver might've happily obliged the Warlord Prince beside her had he hinted at the desire for such assistance, she found herself quite happy to stay where she was for the moment and simply observe.

His voice was her favorite part, she decided. So many things that could never truly be articulated were voiced nonetheless in each little hitch of his breathing, each break that pushed a gasp or sigh from his lips. It roused her to see him roused, to hear him roused.

"Well I wasn't the one who needed a break," she outright lied, her expression edging back towards something more fully smirking. Her hand released the relocated sheet so that she could touch his arm, then slide over it to palm his thigh. Curled fingers caused her nails to scratch lightly there, the softest echo of the much more emphatic effort that'd left streaks of aggravated flesh up and down his back not quite an hour ago. She dragged her hand up over his hip, his ribs, splayed her palm over one broad pectoral. All the while she let her eyes caress his body just as intently, and with just as much fuel to the rising lust within her.

"Say something else," she told him, leaning down towards him until she could bite at his earlobe. Her voice lowered another notch there, velvet and soft. "I like the way your voice sounds when you get hot."

It was a crap shoot when extending such an invitation to Marcos. He was as likely to grant her some dirty enticements as he was to tell her some random story that had nothing at all to do with inciting lust. She knew as much, though, and didn't particularly care which route he took. That trace of an accent was precious to her, and she'd spend the time caressing his chest and kissing and nipping at his throat no matter what he chose to fill the silence with.



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Re: Perfect little punching bag
« Reply #13 on: Feb 01, 18, 12:34:28 AM »
She asked him, incredulous - or rather, pretending to be incredulous - and he smiled broadly. "Egregiously," he confirmed her rhetorical jest, making a slight shrug of his shoulders to help exemplify the disinterest he statedly held in her and his livelihood, and the fortune of this gang they called theirs. Well, that she called theirs and he called hers, at least. While he had plenty of advice to offer, and endless insights from a life long lived under war, he was far more excited by other prospects that this evening had brought.

The warrior woman he called his closest friend (and, when they were feeling filthy, that called one another so much worse) tugged away the sheet concealing the matter she knew he had taken to, the thick gift still glistening from the mixture of the sins they worked out on one another several times prior to the ripaste for food, drink and history and sociology discussions. Her lover was working his cock unrepentently, and she was the only thing before him to inspire the lusts she saw him indulging so boldly, and so very lewdly.

"I - ah - suppose you have me there," he conceded her lie, as his hand grasped himself firmly, and dragged itself along the shaft he urged to life with each slow, ponderous stroke. His eyes never left her, though he broke eye contact frequently, while admiring her as the inspiration he needed for his decision to progress them back towards the more enticing hopes for the evening. His lips broke in little sighs and sharp, heavy breaths that shook out of his scratchy throat as he stole himself to a pleasure she had apparently not hurried along to join fast enough for his tastes.

He did nothing to stop her as her hand moved to touch his arm; and she felt vividly the well corded muscles tensing and releasing with every roll, the musculature as visible to her eyes as it was to her questing fingers. Even with her eyes closed, between his catching breaths and this feel of his hand, she would be able to perfectly recreate the imagery of just what stress he was relieving at the glad beholding of her revealed curves. Those curious fingers slid free that working, rolling arm which proved unrelenting in its slow, but steady work. The broad thigh her hand next reached tensed slightly, as if shocked, every single time his hand disappeared the crown through his grip, the pressure seeming to send a wave straight down his legs that she could feel crest at those nerves and send them to pulse in measured response. Almost as if he wished to leap into his own touch. When those nails slid free to drag against the taut muscle, he hissed suddenly, but did not stop her.

His breath was shaking, she would find, when her hand slid back to his chest, his heart pulsing heavier with every few passing moments until it reached a rapid plateau. The killer was in no way hastening himself; he seemed to wish to take his time, just yet, stoking a fire that he saw no pressing need to have burn itself back out. Nostrils flared as he gasped, suddenly, voice shaking for that moment of sudden and unexpected delight. She commanded him, and he took a moment, hesitating not for a lack of compliance, but because his mind struggled to find the right words. He took a moment to begin, his mind racing to find anything he could speak, at length, while continuing this moment she seemed to find such ardent hunger for him to pursue. It left his options few, but he began, voice dragging with his lust. Those lidded eyes snapped open to find her, moments before she drove forward to nip his throat, so she could see the fullness of his clarity when he began to profess the lusts she brought forth from her lover.

"Lady Thrax, I have been fucking you for now a hundred and eighty six years, and it is not that I cannot grow bored of you... which I - aaaAhh - I cannot."

His hand slowed, but only slightly, the thoughts burning through him enough that the pace he was matching so slowly, so languidly, was itself growing too sharp for the patient and relaxing pleasure he sought. Easing his touch by just the slightest pace, he continued his breathy answer, gravel running through his afflected and affected voice as he fought against some growl of his desire for her. "It is that I believe my body has grown dependent on the feel of your cunt choking my cock to its release. It is that I have become reliant to the feel of your ass held too firm in my strong hands. It is that I have seen myself compelled to follow these beautiful twins as they rise and fall before my eyes. I resent how I - hhHh - need you."

Shaking his head briefly, to clear the cobwebs of his need, he struggled on to tell her the tale of her inspiration, of her status as his muse in these dark plays that ran through his mind, and he all but spat his next claim. "I am your fucking addict, strung out for the music of your gasps as you cum shaking upon me, every time a new - fffUCK - a new song I will recall for a thousand nights as I drift to sleep, my hand running maddened to chase the echoes, the visions, of your arching spine as you beckon me to - fuck, silver, fuck - as you beckon me to ... give you every shaking last of my need. I burn for you, and I hate that you have ruined the pure bliss of sex."

He condemned her, as he leaned into her kissing, nipping affections, freeing his hand used to keep him upraised to drive it between her own thighs, fingers seeking to grind against that all too abused nub that he had already devoured and brushed what seemed a thousand times this afternoon that so quickly became evening. "This has ruined me," he spoke with a pressure offered before his hand slid forward to glide his well worked fingers along her slippery folds as emphasis, "with what it is to feel your walls strain to bear and at last perfectly welcome me."

His head nudged against her own, to push her head free from its teasing brushes, so he could surge his lips forward and angrily claim her own. It seemed he was done, for this moment, with speaking. Now, she would have to taste his moan as his pleasure shuddered his lips into a soft cry of the need she inspired so wickedly in his needful, crass and poetic heart.



Offline Silver Thrax

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Re: Perfect little punching bag
« Reply #14 on: Feb 02, 18, 03:57:56 PM »
Without laying so much as a finger on the Healer, Marcos proceeded to incite the woman's lust once more. It was such a simple thing, to rest there at his side and watch as he pleasured himself. It was certainly a great deal less complicated than some of the more creative escapades they'd indulged in over the years. Yet given the hungers they both entertained, this kind of simplicity was a rare thing, nonetheless. Even now, as much as Silver was enjoying the moment, it took a phenomenal amount of restraint to make herself hold back, to force herself to observe and wait, when she wanted so much to crawl atop him and fuck him properly. She liked the strangeness of it, though, and she succeeded (for the moment) in letting  his words crawl over her body as effectively as his hands had done earlier. The longer he spoke, and the more of his little gasps and swears dirtied the air of that little room, the more deeply Silver felt herself stirred. She refrained from touching herself in response, refrained from touching him in any but the lightest of passes of her palm over his torso, the occasional scrape of too-gentle nails, and the mouth pressed to his throat. Her weighted breathing against the crook of his neck was giving proof of her heightening arousal by the time he reached for her, and she made no attempt to restrain the shameless moan that pushed past her parted lips when he drove his fingers between her thighs. It was a wanton sound, and he'd feel her mouth gape against his skin, perhaps even feel the way her brow furrowed as she burrowed against him.

"Fuuuuck, Bull," she softly panted, scrubbing her face slowly against his while he pressed further against her tender, salivating core. He pushed his way towards a kiss and she met him happily there, still scowling about the aching need he'd instilled in her with little more than his words and self-care. The hand that had been roving his body pressed up towards his face, and those fingers curled possessively against his cheek and jaw. She pushed forward to loom over him, pushed against his kiss, against his fingers, against his lust that she met with her own. She nearly paused for the sake of sitting up and pulling off the shirt she'd pilfered from him, but she did not. Some day she was going to get him hot enough that he'd rip one of those blasted things off of her, but she suspected he'd eventually just vanish it, as he tended to do instead. It was a game he likely didn't even know they were playing, but it kept her from having the skin to skin press she'd considered stealing. ...for the moment, at least.

"Sometimes I think," she breathed, when the need for that breath forced her to surrender the almost angry kiss she'd been enjoying, "...if there was man whose mouth was best used for making words... it'd be you," she told him, a grin carving itself into her lips to echo the playfulness in her voice. "You're really fucking good at  it." She bit her grinning lip, then bit at his chin and pulled away from him. Up onto her knees she went, arms overhead while a bit of elastic was summoned to her hand. She swept her hair up into a quick and messy ponytail, her gold-touched eyes not leaving his face as she did so. Her grin slid sideways into a smirk, and she leaned over him with purpose in her movements. Without further preamble, she crawled over him, orienting herself so that she'd be upside-down if they were standing. She pushed his hand away from his cock (though she held onto his wrist) and hesitated not one moment before taking him into her mouth. Her free hand reached between his thighs, took hold of his balls and began to massage them while she sucked on his shaft.  There was no shame in her eagerness, in the way her head bobbed up and down without reservation or the way those wet, sucking noises broke the quiet of the room. Neither was there shame in how she'd positioned her knees astride his head, inviting him to entertain himself with her cunt while she worked. She did not comment further, that sharp tongue softened for the moment. Instead, she brought his hand to the back of her head and released it there, then tasked her freed hand with finding leverage beneath his thigh.



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Re: Perfect little punching bag
« Reply #15 on: Feb 03, 18, 01:29:58 AM »
She had been so close to him upon the bed, her so carefully avoiding touching him more than those light brushes, as if she feared what would happen if she broke the spell of his own self-touch and his hypnotic words. She nipped him while he breathily ushered forth an array of tawdry facts of his wicked desires he held for her. His hand had laid coiled well between her thighs, at its end, teasing her and inviting her both as he communicated clearly just what his doom's origin had been: this sweet perfection that had so commanded his lust for an unconscionable number of years. Those fingers rolled her slowly but steadily, increasing his efforts by the second, wanting to encourage her with a sudden push against her.

And his potent lover commended him upon a story, her voice deliciously panting as if his words themselves had all but brought her to her peak again. She offered almost no time between biting that already torn lip, and then all but spinning herself to reward him for his tale, and, he supposed, for her to get a final meal before they resumed more brutal proof of the way she needed to be taken and to take him, after a battle like that.

Her turn neared him to a delightful gift; and he knew well what she was angling to devour. He felt that warm rush of her breath over his straining cock and knew it was just moments from having something so much more rewarding than his own worked hand. She did not even bother teasing him, or working herself up to the moment, as she lunged for him, his hand shoved away from his cock so she could have all of it.

"Oh, fuck," he cried as he felt her claim him for not the first time, or the thousandth, but he never tired of the feel of those ever more skilled lips upon him. There was little skill offered now; only appetite. She was eager, a ravenous heat shared between, as they stoked a lust in the other that was nearly untameable. He wanted her with a fire in his soul, a man in the desert who found an oasis, and she brought it to bear for him.

And she dropped herself forward, the Warlord Prince grunting in pleasure as his hips rolled, trying to contain himself from losing himself to her touch, but only losing himself that battle beforehand instead. She encircled him, working him, leaving him slick with her saliva as she laved his cock with her capable tongue and took him well into her questing mouth. He gasped again, this time his hips rocking without the slightest self-awareness, before he caught it, trying to urge himself to allow her own work, but clearly compromised in his self-control. His cock had been thrust forward on mere instinct, before he kept it steely and certain against this lovely mattress while she went to her work. And he moaned for her in his delight, while she began to slip her beautiful mouth over him with force and hunger. His eyes rolled back, and so did his head, for a brief moment before his eyes settled on the beautiful reward he had all but ignored. For that brief moment, he had just been riding the pleasure of the sensation as she decided to adore his dick with her wanton acts. He moaned louder than before, the sound breaking in shock as she worked him, the man clearly more far along from his own touch than he might have liked.

But he refused to deny her, and him, sampling the sopping prize before his animal gaze. "And if there was a single woman who's taste I fucking lived for... it wo-- unnghh - it would be you," he promised her, voice shaking, his eyes dancing along that moistness between her well poised thighs that now framed his handsome, grizzled face. His hands raised to find her calf and brace himself to help him lean up just ever so slightly. Those hands rushed up her legs, keeping himself pinned up to her as his tongue lanced itself across those slippery folds, calloused warrior's hands rough and possessive as they crested her knee... and he shifted back, dropping, and pulling her down over him completely, smothering his face into her wet cunt. Hiis tongue seeked to take off where his fingers left off; lapping, first, just against her folds as his fingers moved in close. His hand wound around her muscular legs, to join from above his mouth which worked ardently from below. His fingertips brushed over that clit he had teased to such compliment moments before; a compliment that she returned with her own praise that he knew masterfully what to do with his mouth, and echoed such a sentiment with action when she ensured he shut up and use it to other noble causes.

And so this wordsmith offered not one more word beyond a soft sigh. His tongue began its work more certainly, dipping within her, past those swollen, well-fucked lips to find just how wet, and just how ready, she remained for him so much later. He was ravenous as he began his feast, tongue slipping deep as his mouth closed against her there, hungry as he fucked her on his tongue and tasted himself, with her, mixed amidst her form that they both knew would be only further demanded of by this wanton warrior poet, given just this moment's reprieve.

Successfully, she had made him shut up. The man was skilled with his tongue, whether it meant clever wordplay or the attention he gave her now; but he was hardly putting his tongue to its finest use. Letting it explore her depths, he was sampling their mixed flavor as much as he was making any concentrated effort to please her. No, the task of her real pleasure was focused almost entirely on the hard work of his talented fingers, working fervently to excite and entice her further, fingers rolling and pinching at her exposed and aroused clit. His hungry lips met her own wicked set between those powerful thighs, as his tongue explored deep within her, seeking only to feast on what wetness he could find, to taste the proof of their combined sin and add spark and sensation to the well-practiced touch that seemed to anticipate her every shift, her every change in need, as he rolled and assailed her swollen nub. They were both so often awful folk, but they made for sweet bedfellows, and he sampled for the taste that proved their fortuitous union now as he delved within her, moaning his own excitement against her folds. Already he could feel himself begin to stiffen well beyond the point of idle pleasure. She was working him so very quickly to the oblivion he was trying to avoid by his own touch, and he did nothing to stop her assault or hold back his pleasure, and focused entirely on his tongue stabbed deep inside of her and fingers working with such ardent purpose.




Offline Silver Thrax

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Re: Perfect little punching bag
« Reply #16 on: Feb 05, 18, 10:19:16 AM »
He succeeded in distracting her from her work, though it took a few minutes of effort to do so. It was no small order to pull her attention away, as there was much about how she tended to him that she legitimately enjoyed. He wasn't merely erect, but solidly hard, and combined with the way his hips kept trying to move to thrust more eagerly against her, it felt like proof of how well she could incite him. His stuttering and swearing was no less arousing to her than his filthy diatribe had been moments before, because it was an honest betrayal of that same, inspired lust that gripped him - that she caused in him. Granted, it didn't take much to make a Blood male run hot, but in moments like these it didn't feel like just another biological imperative. His response to her made it feel like she was a creature more worthy and phenomenal than any other. It was the only kind of queen she was interesting in being, the only kind of worship she wouldn't shrug off in repulsion. She would willingly rule him him this way, own him this way-- for these few moments out of their lives, at least. Eventually they would leave this quickly-warming room and resume their roles in the world once more, but until then she gave herself over to the notion that no other creature existed in the realm, for him, and she worked to reinforce that illusion by trying to make him unable to think at all, much less think of anyone or anything else.

So, no... it wasn't easy to pull her from her work, just then. Yet Marcos was familiar enough with the woman to know just how to distract her, how to pull her forcibly away from her focus and shove her beneath the waters of her own pleasure even while she sought to increase his. At first it was just soft moans, muffled and stifled by the cock that filled her mouth and touched her throat. The longer he worked, though, the more emphatic those noises got, and the more her throat and mouth undulated, constricting and releasing in purring vocalizations. Eventually she could stand it no further and her mouth pulled free of him with a sharp, wet, pop and she threw her head back and moaned loudly. One hand moved to his shaft to continue stroking him, but the other braced against his thigh so that she could drag the rest of her body sinuously against him, hips rolling against his face to try and find more of that pressure and stroking that was tightening her insides.

"Fuck, yes, Mar--" she said, though her praise was interrupted by a gasp and a groan. She quickly forgot she'd even begun to speak, and worse, forgot she'd been stroking him altogether. Every instinct was suddenly taken over by the need to follow where he led, and not a full moment later she was beginning that descent towards release. She swore softly, her voice tightening and quieting the nearer she got, until she was sitting almost upright atop him, head pitched back and mouth hanging open, her core grinding almost angrily against his mouth and hand. She let her voice tear free without restraint when she came, let the depth of the orgasm ride through her body without any attempt to hide it. Knowing how well she loved to hear and see the pleasure she could inspire in him, she was often generous in letting him experience her own pleasure in return. She never amplified it falsely, not even for his pride, but then again she never really needed to, either. They'd been doing this long enough that they knew each others' bodies well, and tended to play them like favored, familiar instruments.

That being the case, it was likely no surprise to him that she'd no sooner slid off of him before she was turning about and crawling over him once more. Face to face this time, she all but attacked his mouth with her kiss, hungry and driven despite the satisfaction he'd just forced through her. Silver was nothing if not a demanding lover, undeterred by the taste of herself on his lips and tongue. She didn't bother breaking the kiss while she guided his cock to her core, though she did moan heavily against his mouth while she sank herself down onto his shaft.

"Mmnnggh, fuck, so good," she murmured against his lips, breath and tongue and teeth and voice all but blurring together in her fervor. "Love your cock," she grunted, before lifting her hips up and then slamming them down forcefully atop his. "Give it to me," she whispered, her hips rising and falling again, an emphatic punctuation to her demand.






Offline Marcos Torrero

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Re: Perfect little punching bag
« Reply #17 on: Feb 08, 18, 07:02:08 PM »
The artist and warrior had little interest in distracting her from her hungry work; but he found a dark satisfaction in finding her lips breaking from his cock to gasp her pleasure, or just still as she tried to focus through what he did to her. Beneath his fashions and perfumes, he was just as wild as any Warlord Prince, untamed by a Bond, and she was witness all too often of the unleashed desires he held. And as she devoured him, he yearned to let her have his taste for the second time that day, but he was satisfied just having it himself. Her folds still held proof of their mixed pleasures, and he relished lashing at her walls, tasting the unique mixture of their sin. Strong, diligent hands ensured that his lapping was just a pleasant affectation rather than the focus of her bliss, doing all he could to drive her to the brink of a madness he loved pushing her over.

But he had enough of her taste - no, their taste. The Dhemlanese mutt wanted to hear her cry for him, to hear her song as she sang it today just for him. Taking a moment's pause, his fingers even stilling, he shifted his posture slightly as his hands moved to pull her up his face. Breathing hotly over her bright red, dripping entrance, he assessed the gates before him with a ravenous interest. As much as he enjoyed eating pussy, that was a pleasure for him; he knew she needed far more than a lashed tongue. He served her, now, as he planted his mouth around the top of her cunt, encapsulating the clit and some of her folds in this seal he formed. Lips planted well, he began to suck, firmly but gently, applying a pressure that sent a fire of nerves alight as his practiced action brought blood rushing to her vulva and to the clit while the force of suction stimulated her dynamically. It was a careful, stuttering work, as he suckled upon her, as if trying to draw her in thread by careful threat. Inbetween those threading pulls of his strong lungs and needful lips, his tongue lashed out in a flat plane to run it along her folds and also dragged wickedly over that needful button pulsing for his attention.

Long minutes of this torture descended over her, bliss rushed through her but never given quite enough to finish her, before he felt her body all but keening with its need to be sent over into release from this constant, pulling wave of pleasure. His seal broke, and his fingers returned; two of them were sent inside, hooked in their intention, pushing through those all too eagerly parting lips to seek and press against the cluster of nerves he knew would give her madness. A smaller seal was found, as his lips descended upon her clit itself, tongue lashing her with ardent work well cued to what the sounds of her sighs and grip of her thighs truly meant. And he found his reward in her cries as she came for him, broken lips parting to gasp, groan and then tore free angrily into the room as she cried her pleasure. It was unrestrained and melodic in a way that thrilled him truly.

She barely had finished that sweet release before she had dismounted, turning herself quickly and pursuing more. For as hard as he felt her tremble and cum around his fingers, she was eager for more, relentless in her own need as she turned and drove herself over him. The kiss was fire, oblivion, and he chased the burn and the end offered as he sought to share her taste and take what she had of his own. Tongues thrived as they battled in this needful embrace, but she was not done. Her body continued to move, and she guided him to those weeping folds, which parted beautifully as she stole him into her. And then she sank down and he moaned loudly into her lips at the feel of her engulfing him again.

The kiss broke, but she remained just there above him, their bodies gliding together and forcing his shirt to ride higher and higher upon her. But he needed more; needed to feel her. Predictably, his hand reached forward, and his shirt vanished from her suddenly. He moaned again, at the feel of her pert tits rushed across his hard and scarred chest, hands rushing to grasp her ass and help pump her against him. "Keep going," he urged, not as encouragement, but as request; because he knew she might just deem this enough.

Because he came, all too quickly, buried to the hilt inside of her. "FFFFUUU--" he cried, his head slamming back against the pillow and his hips driving hard upward in answer. His cock thundered within her, pulsing wide inside of her as it shuddered and bucked, trying its best to give her all of him he could grant her. She had him nearing his own departure from sanity before her lips had abandoned his cock to focus on voicing her pleasure, and this, the feel of her taut around him, her hips rocking so quickly, brought him to his bliss all too quickly. The Warlord Prince infused himself with encouragement, bolstering himself for more, his cock forced to harden and remain so within her as he still seeped the last of himself. He was unwilling to be done so soon, after feeling her wrapped around him.

And to ensure she did not stop them just because of his release, he flipped then over, and drove his lips against her neck, biting into her flesh to make more marks than she left her fight with as his hips began their steady slap. He welcomed her fighting back, turning them again, but he wanted the feel of his ass crashing forward to give her this assault of his yearning form upon her own. He was hers, in this moment, and he wished to give her all of him, far more than just that spill of his desire given too quickly. Marcos wished, in all ways, to obey her command so simply worded: give it to me.



Offline Silver Thrax

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Re: Perfect little punching bag
« Reply #18 on: Feb 09, 18, 10:15:55 AM »
Marcos urged her to keep going, and Silver responded only with a saucy grin that was quickly eaten up by the next kiss. Oh, we're nowhere near done yet, that grin assured him. As rarely as she dipped into the stereotypes of her caste, she wasn't above twisting the Craft that came with it towards keeping a lover comfortable and eager. Marcos needed no such aid at the moment, but it would be clear that stopping now had been the furthest thing from her mind.

The Warlord Prince bucked up deeply inside of her and came, and Silver was a sinuously boneless weight atop him, glowingly satisfied from her own release and now doubly so from his. That grin slid across her lips once more, broad and hungry and sparsely veiled by the fall of a few locks of tousled hair. She ground her hips against him, more gently than needful, while he rode out his release, and nipped sharply at the chin that jutted into the air before her.

"Yeeessssss," she half whispered, half hissed while she kissed at his jaw. The hands that were posted against his chest, compressed now between their too-close bodies, tightened so that her nails threatened against his skin. His release pleased her, as it always did, and she was not reserved in her approval.

Marcos rolled them quickly, and though the slap of her back hitting the bed was softened by the rather decadent bedding, it nonetheless won the soft huff of the breath leaving her. She did not stop moving even then, and was reaching for him, looping her arms around his neck and pulling herself flush even before he'd reoriented them fully. Her mouth was near his ear, then, when it parted with a breathless gasp in response to the first slap of his body against hers. Silver's hands curled, strong and unafraid, one in the hair on the back of his head and one in the flesh of his back itself. Marcos' teeth on her throat won an unabashed moan and the rapturous roll of her head back. It was one of her sincerest delights, one of the kinds of pain she most enjoyed, despite how challenging it could be. Marcos likely knew that, of course, just as he likely knew that when her body tightened in building fury afterwards, it wasn't because he was being too rough. The pounding of his hips against hers, the plumbing of his cock deep into her core, it was enough to make her entire body shake with each thrust.

But she knew well that the Bull had more for her.

"I wanna feel it," she lamented, her voice breathy and warm against the side of his face. Eyes closed, she paused to moan at the pleasure he was already granting her. But she was the greedy sort in this, and softly begged him for more. "I wanna feel it three days from now, Bull. Give it to me. Make me feel it." And here was why Marcos was to Silver what so few others were. There was a trust that had been built up between long years, a familiarity that few could claim where the unorthodox Healer was concerned. When she leaned back from him, when she moved to strike him across the face, it required trust to believe that she wasn't asking for death. Marcos was an affable fellow, but there were few people Silver knew who so fully embodied the nature of a Warlord Prince. Yet not only did she mean to break his lip open, she snarled up at him after, and continued her taunting demands.

"Fuck me. Nnghh. Bull. Fucking... fuck me," she all but growled, leaning up to press her brow to his, her hands pulling unkindly on his body now, nails cutting into flesh. The wet smell of copper and iron announced new blood in the air, further defining the oddly vicious turn the coupling was taking. At least, the turn Silver was trying to make.



Offline Marcos Torrero

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Re: Perfect little punching bag
« Reply #19 on: Feb 09, 18, 12:51:53 PM »
She moaned as his teeth bit hard against her flesh, and he only bit harder, his hands taut in the fabric of the lush mattress and sheets as they gave him just the stability he needed to create that beautiful staccato as his body slapped against her own. Pulling his teeth free from her neck, he paused to suckle at her throat, taking up gladly the evidence of her wound he had born into her surprisingly supple skin for a woman as hard-fighting as she was. Dodging his lips down, he drank of her blood that spilled so teasingly out from the tear he left in her skin, enjoying the taste of her life. As ever, the two warriors tested the limits of their lust for their manner of brutality, and he discovered only that they still had not yet cracked their limits. She jerked and trembled, forcing him deeper inside of her directly in response to that bite. She wanted it all, and seemed to readily get off on the pain he had inflicted, just as she knew he relished the cruelty she brought upon him. His mind spun as he tried to think of all the things he'd wanted to do, the darkest wants, all unfulfilled with other mistakes that had stumbled across his path, reaffirming so clearly his words to her before: she had ruined him for all others. Even as his mind flashed to its appreciation of her unique wickedness, his body did nothing to slow its assault. Her legs curled about him to encourage him inside, her fingers dragging painfully against his skin to urge him on as she left red and white furrows in his back that weeped blood into the air. He drove himself on, fucking himself deep inside of her core, pounding forcefully into his lover's cunt with the sort of passion and energy reserved for those exacting revenge.

But theirs was not revenge; she was just the perfect excess in which he could release the darkness of his soul, the bloodlust and murder in his heart turned into something still so wanton but far more pleasing. She was given a taste of the harsh efforts of his strong, but tireless, motions and cried out in order I wanna feel it. and cried again, she wanted it to last. He snarled, and leaned back, his lips touched red by her own blood as his hands slid to grasp her hips instead, using her as his own leverage to drive himself inside of the woman he so gladly served. He fucked her ruthlessly, uncaring of the bruising or pain it might visit, his thick shaft careless as he unleashed his desires upon her. He left himself wide open, and his eyes closed in focus, as her fist came across his face. Wholly unprepared, his head flew to the side and blood spit from his mouth as she burst his lip. His eyes snapped open, and he barely was able to reach up and grab the headboard to stop himself from rolling free of her. His eyes were fire as he looked down to the woman - the warrior - beneath him and he snarled, a growl from deep in his chest.

She leaned up towards him, and he dove down to meet her, blood-slicked lips meeting her own, the proof of both of their injuries staining the golden skin of their opponent and lover. It was a kiss that was itself more fight than affection, as his lips rushed over hers while his hips crashed against her own. His hand remained upon the headboard, using it with a tense of his arm to help pull himself ever forward, give him that extra measure of force to fuck himself deep inside of Silver's wet, needful depths. She wanted everything he could give her, and he offered her more. Craft bled out of him as the man pushed his strength harder, pushed his speed faster, and enhanced his already legendary endurance. He gave her more than any man should give; his dream was to hear her, just once, ask for him to stop. But he prayed she would not, and pushed the line further as his enhanced form slid them up the sheets, soon finding them colliding with the headboard itself as the bed shook angrily beneath them. It was a sturdy frame, but it still protested as his cock impaled her, invigorated by Craft and by spite after that beautiful punch woke him up to the war he wished to fight with her.

He moaned into her neck as he tried to drag her lip into his mouth, to taste that blood sweeter. Even that drag was far from gentle, only natural given how lacking in kindness he now displayed her as his cock speared her, their bodies sliding by inches over tangled bedsheets as he all but rutted against her, her body taking every fat inch of him completely with only as much complaint as there was worshipful encouragement. A good socialite got a wise read on people; and he could tell clearly how much she thrilled for the pain he gave her, for the pain she gave him, and sought to give her more and invite her abuse in turn.

Breaking from that kiss forcefully, dragging her lip with him if he could, his bloodied mouth turned to strike at her neck anew, the other side, wanting to make a matching pair. The nape was claimed, where shoulder and neck met, his perfect and red-smeared teeth driving at that stretched skin, stretched even further as his free hand moved up from her hip to the tangle of her hair and tried to jerk her head to the side, angling her head to give him a perfect opportunity to maximize just how tense that skin could be when he ravaged it, to hear her cry again, to feel her legs dig into his hips. Wicked thoughts bore to his mind with a wicked grin curving his features while his teeth felt give, and his lips sealed to her flesh.

She matched his rhythm, and he made one for her to find; but that rhythm was not a kind, nor soft one, as he beat that perfect ass of hers down into the taut mattress, bounding her into the springs as his ardent thrusts set them sliding along those sheets.

That thick head drove through her sweet, welcoming folds, and he moaned gently as he broke contact with that biting viciousness he reveled in. Pressing forward, he gasped again as he felt it all, felt it as her body surrendered to him, him above her, in the most traditional of all forms, but it hardly felt traditional. It felt savage and needful in this moment as he gazed down at her, raising up on his arms to stare down at the beautiful, muscular, powerful woman beneath him. She was no idle participant, either, he knew; she was as wild and lustful for this as he was. The bruise forming across his face, the blood seeping down his chin, all said as much. And he was not arguing her violence, even if he was not her perfect little punching bag. Not with how wet she felt around him, how welcoming her entire body felt, and the sensation of his cock slipping naked inside of her, spreading her wide and feeling her clench around him in welcome and splendid discomfort that her body was shocked to overcome.

But that sight was not to be too favored; he needed something other than just this beautiful tapestry of bruises, cuts and tears. He ducked down, for more of what he wanted. Dropping to an elbow, that hand grasped her hair and wound through it, pulling her head aside forcefully again to give him a better vantage before his teeth and lips descended again over that rent flesh, biting hard as he refused to stop his enhanced form from its vicious work. He wanted to see just how much she would allow him; and just how much more she would cut and tear at him before she demanded her way back atop him.



Offline Silver Thrax

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Re: Perfect little punching bag
« Reply #20 on: Feb 09, 18, 07:19:13 PM »
Marcos' gaze snapped back to her after her strike to his face, and for just an instant, fear stroked through Silver as surely as his cock did. How could it not? It was murder staring down at her from those golden fires, a wrath that was nearly celestial in its intensity which seemed to heat that churning gaze. But Silver leaned into that fear, swallowed it and cherished it for how deeply it made her feel something, and how meaningful it felt to push past it. The trust she had in Marcos kept it from stretching beyond that initial instant, and she snarled back at him when he growled at her, despite how truly fearsome he seemed. Bare-chested and bloodied, his was a striking image even without the fervor that gripped him. Had she not been so desperately beholden to the moment, she might have tried to etch the look of him then into a crystal to keep forever. It was a thought she had often in moments such as these, but without exception she was always... occupied enough that stopping to record a crystal was impossible.

Marcos took hold of the headboard and used it to strengthen his thrusts, and then compounded that force with Craft that moved like a second skin over his limbs and muscles. The harder he drove himself against her the more he seemed to please her, evidenced not only by the wetness of her cunt and the welcoming pull of her body on his, but by the way she called his name and swore and blended the two now and then. She encouraged him, but those moments where he all but punished her body with his own were no longer about chasing an orgasm, for her. That rhythmic slap of bodies, the merciless force that plowed itself deep into her womb, the connection and the exertion and the pain and the need they shared... those were the end goals, and the sweeping pleasure that spiked through them now and again as a result was just incidental sweetness atop the thing she truly craved.

Her lip split between his teeth, and her voice rose in what should have been protest as it did so. She jerked her head intentionally, smacking his temple with her brow in retribution, though he scarcely seemed to notice as he was moving his head aside anyway. A moment later he had her face wrenched away by his grip in a handful of hair, her hasty ponytail having already given up the ghost. She was keening softly through clenched teeth before his mouth ever touched her, because she knew what was coming and how it would hurt. And it did hurt. The tender flesh of her neck bruised within the vice of his bite, and she was fully shouting and thrashing against him by the time he gripped hard enough to break the skin and dig his teeth in. He had her pinned, though, held down to the bed by the weight of his body and the force of his fucking, and he'd bloodied her again before she succeeded in moving him even an inch. Silver's tortured shouts crested in something that sounded not entirely like pain, despite how very real and substantial the pain inflicted on her was. Because as much as his abuse hurt, it didn't just hurt. It also felt like victory, when she survived it without breaking. It felt like strength when she didn't beg him to stop. It felt like triumph when she took that pain, even the dull, throbbing, horrendous ache that lingered after his mouth was gone, and let it summon not fear, and not surrender, but defiance and arousal.

She was quiet, save for the deep pants of her breathing, by the time Marcos lifted up to survey his work. She clenched her core around him, her upper lip snarling silently at him while he seemed taken with the mess he'd wrought. Blood was staining the sheets beneath the new wound, and the other side of her neck had already smeared proof of its injury all over her throat and shoulder on that side. Her mouth was smeared and bloody, swollen still from his last kiss and torment. Still, she watched him with a dark and burning look that might have been mistaken for hatred, if he didn't know her as well as he did. It was focus, one whose purpose would be clear an instant later, when she moved suddenly to knock one of his arms out from under him so that she could post up her opposing foot and force him over to the newly-weakened side. The arch of her body as she grunted and shoved him unseated him from within her, but she didn't seem to care, for the moment. She rolled him to the side and pulled herself quickly atop him, only barely leaning out of the way of the fist he sent barreling towards her in response. She felt the shhcckk! of wind cut past her cheek, so near did he come to knocking her off her ass. He caught her still as he often did, with the conversion of the missed blow to a backhand that she routinely forgot to anticipate. The fact that he caught her with it again angered her, and her rebuttal was swift despite the welt that would soon rise on her cheek. She leaned forward and brought her Craft to bear against him. She stole his wrists into her strengthened hands and forced both of his arms up over his head. Once his wrists touched the headboard she pinned them there with more Craft, though it was a decaying Sapphire effect that bound them. Eventually he'd be able to break them, though neither he nor she knew precisely when.

Silver sat up atop him, deep pants trying to restore her misplaced breath. Her throat ached on both sides, dual wounds thudding dully with her pulse, screaming at her for care. Heavy-lidded eyes watched Marcos' face while she began to rock atop him, stroking him without seating him within her just yet. The length of him, engorged with blood and waiting for release, made a pleasant rise against which she could grind herself, well-slicked flesh sliding easily along his ready cock. Being upright made the opened flesh at her throat weep blood down over her collar, and she waited there, riding him too-gently, watching him with her hands only lightly scraping at his ribs, until those crimson tears slipped down over the swell of her breasts. They disappeared around the fullness of those curves, nearby the dark nipples that were yet knotted in arousal, and only then did Silver move. She sat forward enough to reach back and position him properly, then sank down atop him to sheathe him in her body again. Her cunt was still salivating, well aware that no matter how sore and weary those velvet folds might feel, their abuse was not yet complete. The witch grunted softly at the feel of him parting her, her eyes closing for a moment so that she could focus on the feel of his weight within her. 

"Come on, lover," she whispered, her voice low and dusky. She stroked against him and whined softly, as even such a gentle pairing was more than pleasant. She opened her eyes and found his, and leaned forward on her hands. Those palms slid up towards his arms, took hold of his bound wrists and hung there. The positioning stretched her out over him, pitting his face very near to those bloodstained breasts that swayed gently with her movement.

"Fuck me, Marcos," she whispered, as though the only thing necessary now was his willingness. She began to ride him. It wasn't what she really wanted, that grinding motion that rocked her hips against his. It wasn't was he wanted either, most likely. They both enjoyed the pounding challenge of a good, hard, thrust, but she made no move to bounce atop him or otherwise scratch that itch. She just rode him, a taunt just as much as the words that passed breathily over his lips while she almost kissed him.

"Fuck me," she whispered, before nipping sharply at the lip whose flesh she'd already sundered. Her hands curled at his wrists, nails digging deeply into his skin before she began to slowly draw her grip down his forearms. Flesh curled and peeled beneath her nails, and the trails left behind shone pale before the blood rushed in to fill the void. She kissed him and moaned softly against his mouth, for even though she wasn't fucking him with the passion they both preferred, he was still stretching her cunt and she was still grinding against him. If she got off that way while she waited for him to break his binds, so be it.



Offline Marcos Torrero

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Re: Perfect little punching bag
« Reply #21 on: Feb 12, 18, 10:47:05 PM »
There was fear in her scent, in her eyes, and it aroused him unbelievably to witness it. However fleeting, this Goddess below him having a flash of panic and worry made his appetite spike in ways that was not comfortable for either of them to know, but both were nonetheless well aware of this darkness that ruled so very much of him. A darkness which she encouraged in her every action, and especially in those silent encouragements as the flash of uncertainty inspired him nearly as much as the lustful and enthusiastic welcome her body granted him, slick and grasping as she took her lover on with an unending hunger. A hunger which only broke before out of her body screaming louder for something other than sex itself. Satisfied with her rumbling, roaring stomach, she now found herself unsatisfied by darker and deeper hungers.

Hungers he would never stop seeking to slake between them. Hungers that drove every aspect of his being. A Warlord Prince who had not known a Rut in nearing a decade. A Warlord Prince who staved off the madness of his caste by indulging his appetites. He was not a sane, stable man. The man who tore her neck, who supped her blood, who fucked her with a strength beyond measure, was not safe or good: he was merely well fed. And she fed him here, indulgently, making this not a game of his ruling her; it was a fight. A struggle. And it brought them both beyond the point of rational or benign, completing them in ways that they'd likely hesitate to share with anyone else.

And he did not wish to share it with anyone else. His hand on that headboard, his Craft infused muscles driving his hips hard enough into her to bruise and risk breaking, she welcomed him with adulation and starving need for the abuse he visited upon her torn, bruised and blood-slicked body. The crueler his strokes, the louder his calls of fury, the tighter she grasped and more her clawed hands dragged into him. She never protested; she only ever encouraged his madness, letting him feast on her in every way. There was a bond between them, and perhaps the mix of their blood cemented it as it could with Queens; he certainly strengthened that bond as her neck and lip promised him what he sought to drink of her very soul.

But he knew this battle was far from won; even as his cock throbbed with a growing need, he knew she would not let him dominate her, and he yearned for that fight still inside the wild healer who he would follow into Hell. She shoved him suddenly just as he shifted posture, waiting for that perfect moment of his imbalance, and he all but tumbled free, but his hand caught the headboard again, keeping him aboard her lush bed. She wasted no time as she moved to straddle him and his fist flew wide, just by a breadth, and he felt the hair on his arms brush her bruised and broken lip. That brushing kiss against his arm was recovered from, as he rolled fully onto his back, bringing his shoulder down hard into a whip that carried up his arm and slapped her hard across the face. Blood splattered from her burst lip, and he snarled in his satisfaction. She nearly lost her own balance, but her revenge was sharp as she used a burst of her Sapphire to capture his wrists and pin them above him, anchoring them as if they were sealed to the hard wood above him. Captured, and at her mercy, his teeth gnashed and head snapped forward, fighting his bonds as she guided him to her. He moaned her name, anger and lust infused in those two syllables, as he felt her perfect little cunt prove just why she was the only one he ever returned to take again, and again. It felt right within her, and his hips rolled up, encouragingly, even as his arms thrashed and fought. He, like her, was not interested in merely being conquered, and they both knew between this and her strike, his desire for revenge was only growing.

Just as it felt within her, growing thick and needful, as the edges of his pleasure had sharpened so while he took her hard moments before. But now, as she languidly and purposefully used him, he was not brought past that point; he was merely stoked to boiling, left there to simmer in the heat that they had developed. His eyes trailed her, as she whispered encouragingly for him to fight through her defenses and show her the warrior she so enjoyed. Steadily she worked herself over him, just enough to keep it all burning, and there was only one thing that brought him trembling within her; that lurid sight he had hoped to witness. Her breasts bounced ever so in her steady drive over him, all the while letting the small river of her blood seep down the perfect curves he had grown to love. Those ravenous eyes could not steal away, his arms even steadying, and his heart all but stopping in pursuit of those slow streams carving a path that his lips knew all too well. The blood ringed just about her nipples, before curving down, under the swell of her breast and then, finally, dripped down onto his own chest. While this beautiful performance played out before him, she whispered her requests for him to take her, knowing he was powerless, but he could barely hear a word of it over the pulsing of his own mind drowning all else out: he hungered to taste her in absolute devotion to the flesh, and its blood, that commanded so much of his darkest desires.

Briefly, his lips surged forward, as he fought hard and renewed against those bonds, and they slipped; just enough to let his mouth seal over one of her sweet tits, drinking in that copper flash as his teeth dragged over skin and snapped at those jutting discs capping her lush flesh. But it was all too quick, as she leaned back, pulling her breasts free of him, but not before he nipped just a little too hard. She rode him harder, but just barely, as she leaned in to demand he fuck her, her lips brushing softly over his. He hissed as her nails found his arms and dragged their way down, opening his skin in long slashes, just as her mouth sealed to his. She felt that hiss of pain blown into her kiss, and perhaps even the tears that burned his cheeks as he kissed her back with a desperation and a renewed vigor.

That kiss broke, sharply, as he snapped his forehead as hard as he could against her own. Lights burst behind her eyes, and he felt the decaying bonds turn to dust; his hands rushed forward, blood sliding down them in every direction now as they turned entirely about, and his hand hurried to capture her throat in that half-second between the strike and the slightest chance of her clarity. His own nails, not well trimmed, dug into that sensitive skin as he forced her back and rolled them hard across the bed, so he once more lorded above her.

Hand clenched thoughtlessly; he was not showing care or concern as he choked her, forcing air to be an increasingly distant memory as he used her own throat as leverage to begin to offer long, powerful strokes that lost the speed of his prior dominance, but made up for it in the force of his thrust that was sent bone-shudderingly hard in the slap of their hips.

"I want to cum with your golden face turned purple," he threatened, and promised, his voice shaking with a desire they both could feel evident in his every motion, every breath, and overwhelming scent. His thick shaft shuddered within her, in mirror to his rolling timbre, but he did not slow, or show any interest in even considering pulling his strength. His face twisted, desire flooding him, as he drove himself forward with two goals. To see her face that darkness of breathlessness, and to feel his cock twitch and release within her the countless promises of his pleasure she had now known.

No one made him cum like she could; he had never met a girl who had made him feel like she did. She was the devil who made his dreams real. And he snarled, teeth bared, as he chased himself towards that bliss.