april
2nd Level Red Feather
- Joined
- Dec 16, 2006
- Messages
- 1,298
- Points
- 83
https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZTrJPDgvQ/
Draeven
A collab with element/story concept by element
The sun was low over the kingdom of Virethea, light slanting through the misted pines. Draeven Thearyn, elven general of the Western armies, rode through the forest with the ease of someone who belonged there. Six foot five, sun-kissed hair the color of wheat before harvest, and eyes like polished obsidian. His beauty was a dangerous kind; the kind that commands both fear and devotion. He was the youngest general in elven history, known for his sharp strategy and sharper instincts.
He felt her before he saw her, the faint tremor in the air, the tension of a crossbow drawn tight.
The dart hissed through the air.
And then…
A bird cut across his path, a flash of silver wings, taking the dart square in the breast.
Draeven's gaze snapped upward toward the trees. “Coward,” he murmured, scanning the shadows. “You'll have to do better.”
High above, Myrren Vale cursed under her breath. Fate had a cruel sense of humor.
A week later, she found him again, in a bustling tavern, in the border town of Miradorn. He was leaning against the bar, every bit the legend they said he was; relaxed, confident, and far too observant.
The fae assassin took a seat beside him. At six foot, the elven general still dwarfed her. Her ink black hair gleamed blue beneath the torch light. Her eyes, crystalline and cold, could stop the heart of any man…or aim the perfect shot through him. She moved like a shadow made flesh; quiet, elegant, and merciless. And her sight was set firmly on Draeven.
“General,” she greeted with a faint smirk, as though they were old friends.
He turned, those dark eyes sweeping over her. “You don't look like a soldier,” he said, voice smooth as aged wine. “And you don't look like someone I should be afraid of.”
“Then you haven't been paying attention.”
He bought her a drink.
She poured a sleeping potion into his cup when he looked away, a few innocent drops swirling into the amber liquid.
Except Draeven had switched their glasses.
Moments later, Myrren's head swam, her body went limp, vision fading into darkness.
When she awoke, the room was dim, candlelight flickering off stone walls. She was laying on soft furs; a decadent rug before a roaring fire. Her weapons, along with her clothes were gone.
Draeven sat across from her, shirt undone at the collar, golden hair catching the firelight. He was all calm menace and effortless grace.
“You've been busy,” he said quietly. “Assasins usually aren't this pretty.”
Myrren glared. “Kill me and get it over with.”
“Oh I don't kill beautiful things,” he murmured, leaning closer. “I prefer to teach them.”
His hand caught her wrist before she could move. His touch was deceptively gentle; a whisper against her skin that made her shiver despite herself.
“Lets see,” he said softly, tracing a finger along her ribs, “what happens when someone like you loses control.”
Her breath hitched. “Stop that.”
When his fingers found the soft places along her sides, she gasped; laughter breaking through like the first crack of thunder. Her defiance melted into sound, helpless and furious.
“You…you can't…” she tried to twist away, but his hand caught her again, pinning her easily.
His grin was wicked now, dark eyes glinting like onyx. “You planned to put me asleep, little fae. Consider this your awakening.”
She was already squirming beneath his touch, scanning her surroundings frantically, looking for a way out, but every exit appeared locked down; inescapable. His fingers slid from her ribs down her sides like shadowed rivers of fire. He had no intention of granting her mercy. His grin deepened as she writhed, her giggles cracking into squeals, the delicious sound fueling the hunger in his eyes.
“You thought you could poison me,” he whispered, voice low and dangerous as his fingers danced just above her hips. “Did you think I wouldn't punish you for that?”
Before she could reply, or even catch a breath, he dipped lower. One strong hand hooked behind her knee and lifted her slightly, exposing the soft, silken underside of her thigh. His fingers struck without warning, scribbling there with relentless skill.
She shrieked.
It was laughter; helpless, frantic, disbelieving. Her foot kicked uselessly against the floor, her hands clutching at the rug for purchase. His grip was unyielding, his strokes maddening. He switched between quick spidering touches and slow, deliberate presses of his fingertips into that agonizingly ticklish crease beneath her thigh. The sensation was unbearable, and she bucked, her breath lost in a mix of laughter and something deeper…hotter.
“You're trembling,” he noted, eyes gleaming. “Is it from the laughter…or the way your body arches into mine when I do this?”
He slid his hand up, so slow it was cruel, trailing over her thigh and abruptly shifting upward. He moved almost lazily, as if savoring her struggles, pinning her now with his lower body, lips close to her ear.
Then he touched her breast.
The first stroke was infuriatingly gentle, his fingertips tracing a circle around her nipple without touching it directly. But then his hand cupped her fully, and his thumb began to tease; light fluttering brushes, barely there tickles that made her inhale sharply and her back arch. It wasn't just pleasure. It was torment laced with lust.
“You're so sensitive here,” he growled, his tone dripping with sin. “I wonder, what happens if I do this?”
He squeezed gently and let his thumb flick and brush over and over; a teasing whisper of touch that had her wriggling and whimpering and unable to think. Her laughter had turned breathy now, every giggle a moan barely held back. She twisted beneath him, her body betraying her as arousal bloomed through every ticklish nerve he awakened.
He kissed her collarbone, still tormenting her breasts with slow, measured strokes, and whispered, “Try not to enjoy this too much, little assassin. I haven't even started being cruel.”
Her lungs were burning, her body trembling with the onslaught he's already delivered. She had no blades, no darts, no chance of overpowering a man built like war incarnate. She does the only thing left to her…
She uses her lips.
Myrren surges up, grabs his jaw in both hands and crashes her mouth into his.
He goes utterly still.
Not from shock.
From amusement.
His hands, which have been merciless on the sensitive curves of her breasts, pause. His breath draws in sharply through his nose, and for half a heartbeat she feels like she won.
His mouth is warm. His lips part. For a moment his fingers even relax as they glide down her sides, as if allowing her to take control. Her body shifts over his, and she swings her leg across his lap, straddling him, pushing him down into the fur rug with a confidence she absolutely does not have.
Her thighs lock around his hips. Her arms snake around his neck. And she tightens, trying to slip her forearm over his throat and drag him into a sleeper hold.
His back hits the floor. She feels him jolt beneath her.
She mistakes that for a struggle.
What she doesn't see, because her face is buried against his jaw, is the slow, wicked smile spreading across his mouth, dimples deepening, dark eyes lowering like a predator indulging a child's game.
A sound rumbles in his chest.
Not a grunt.
Not an effort.
A silent laugh.
“You're adorable,” he murmured, voice low, breath brushing her ear.
Before she can adjust her grip, his hands snap up and seize her wrists. Not violently; effortlessly, as if he'd been letting her play all along.
She has barely the time to exhale before he surges upward with terrifying speed. He rolls, using his legs for leverage, and in an impossibly smooth motion, he flips her.
She's spun around.
Arms pinned.
Back pulled flush to his chest.
Now she is in his lap, her spine pressed to his sternum, his legs bracketing hers, one hand locking her arms above his head.
His lips rest at her neck.
“You thought you could knock me out?” He purrs.
Then his fingers descend.
He attacks without hesitation.
His hand dives straight into the vulnerable hollow of her underarm, clawing and digging relentlessly. Her body jerks violently, her laughter tearing out of her like a scream. She thrashes, kicks, scratches at his wrists. But he only drags her closer to his chest, trapping her completely.
His hand slides down, spidering along her ribs and groping at her belly.
She screams, writhes, her thighs twisting uselessly as his fingers flex into her muscular abdomen ruthlessly.
“Your kiss was lovely,” he whispered, fingers still kneading into her belly cruelly. “But seduction won't save you.”
He then squeezes her sharply. She explodes into laughter again. Without warning, his hand descends to her knee, encasing the cap fully, slowly curling his fingers inward, where strength cannot hide sensitivity. She collapses back fully into him, squealing and begging as he digs into the tender spot.
“Too much?” He asks, mockingly gentle.
Before she can answer, he glides back up in a slow, torturously deliberate path and plants right into the tender spot where thigh meets hip; thumb brushing, fingers kneading softly.
Her head falls back against his shoulder, laughter cracking into breathless, humiliating little gasps.
He growls low in his throat with satisfaction.
“You're not going anywhere,” he murmurs, sinking his fingers in without mercy. “Not after trying to drug me…and certainly not after that kiss.”
His grip tightens.
Her laughter shatters.
The fae assassin was utterly helpless, thrashing against him as his fingers began to ravage her with otherworldly speed. She shifted her hips and recoiled for escape, but he moved first. With shocking grace for someone so large, he wrapped an arm around her waist, twisted her and flipped her cleanly on her back. The air left her body with a thud, her long black hair splaying across the soft fur.
“Oh no you don't.” He said, an amused smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth.
Myrren squirmed beneath him, giggling breathlessly, trying to look furious. “Let me go!”
“No,” he said simply. “You need to learn what defeat feels like.”
He reached down and dragged both hands languidly down her sides. Her reaction was immediate and explosive.
She arched off the floor, twisting fiercely. His fingers edged her ribs, each one pressing in one at a time against her silken skin. Her legs slammed against the floor, cackling and snorting uncontrollably, already overwhelmed by the sheer unfairness of how good he was at this.
“You're evil!” She cried out, bucking under him as if she were being flayed alive.
“And you're ticklish,” he replied darkly, trailing his fingers lower to tease at her hips. “Devastatingly so.”
He clawed into her hips to prove his point and she shrieked hysterically, cursing in ancient fae between helpless peals. He dug into every tender curve; along her waist, her navel, the sensitive sides of her breasts; then ghosted his fingertips up toward her underarms, which made her go rigid with panic.
“No, no no…dont!”
He smirked, paused a moment just to watch her eyes widen in suspense, then struck; ten precise fingers dancing in rhythm with torment.
“Stop! I can't! Oh god's! Please have mercy!”
She reached desperately to grab his wrists, to twist away, to bite, but nothing worked. It was hopeless. He was too strong, too fast, too skilled. He allowed her to turn over, to crawl, to drag herself toward any escape. But he followed.
He followed.
He crawled behind her, grabbed both ankles and pulled her flat…and then it was over.
She collapsed. Face pressed into the fur, her entire body convulsing with laughter, she gave in. Her hysteria gave way to breathlessness. Her vision blurred with tears. Her limbs spasmed. Her lungs burned. Her core throbbed. And still, he tickled her like a demon sent to break her will.
When she finally passed out, it was with shaking laughter still trembling on her lips.
Myrren awoke to birdsong.
A shaft of sunlight pierced the trees above her. The scent of pine and damp earth filled her nose. Her body ached faintly, tingling in strange places, but she was otherwise unharmed.
She was in the forest.
Her clan's hidden camp was just a few hundred feet away. She could see it through the trees. The curve of canvas tents.The familiar scent of smoke. The soft hum of protective wards crackling faintly in the air. Somehow, he'd carried her here. Undetected. Laid her down. Let her go.
Let her live.
The realization hit her like a slap.
He could have kept her. Could have chained her, punished her, used her. He had her defeated, completely at his mercy…and he let her go?
No. No, this wouldn't stand.
She stood slowly. Her legs shook. Her pride was shattered. But her eyes were burning with a new fire.
He thought this was over?
No.
This was war.
And she was going to take him down.
Draeven
A collab with element/story concept by element
The sun was low over the kingdom of Virethea, light slanting through the misted pines. Draeven Thearyn, elven general of the Western armies, rode through the forest with the ease of someone who belonged there. Six foot five, sun-kissed hair the color of wheat before harvest, and eyes like polished obsidian. His beauty was a dangerous kind; the kind that commands both fear and devotion. He was the youngest general in elven history, known for his sharp strategy and sharper instincts.
He felt her before he saw her, the faint tremor in the air, the tension of a crossbow drawn tight.
The dart hissed through the air.
And then…
A bird cut across his path, a flash of silver wings, taking the dart square in the breast.
Draeven's gaze snapped upward toward the trees. “Coward,” he murmured, scanning the shadows. “You'll have to do better.”
High above, Myrren Vale cursed under her breath. Fate had a cruel sense of humor.
A week later, she found him again, in a bustling tavern, in the border town of Miradorn. He was leaning against the bar, every bit the legend they said he was; relaxed, confident, and far too observant.
The fae assassin took a seat beside him. At six foot, the elven general still dwarfed her. Her ink black hair gleamed blue beneath the torch light. Her eyes, crystalline and cold, could stop the heart of any man…or aim the perfect shot through him. She moved like a shadow made flesh; quiet, elegant, and merciless. And her sight was set firmly on Draeven.
“General,” she greeted with a faint smirk, as though they were old friends.
He turned, those dark eyes sweeping over her. “You don't look like a soldier,” he said, voice smooth as aged wine. “And you don't look like someone I should be afraid of.”
“Then you haven't been paying attention.”
He bought her a drink.
She poured a sleeping potion into his cup when he looked away, a few innocent drops swirling into the amber liquid.
Except Draeven had switched their glasses.
Moments later, Myrren's head swam, her body went limp, vision fading into darkness.
When she awoke, the room was dim, candlelight flickering off stone walls. She was laying on soft furs; a decadent rug before a roaring fire. Her weapons, along with her clothes were gone.
Draeven sat across from her, shirt undone at the collar, golden hair catching the firelight. He was all calm menace and effortless grace.
“You've been busy,” he said quietly. “Assasins usually aren't this pretty.”
Myrren glared. “Kill me and get it over with.”
“Oh I don't kill beautiful things,” he murmured, leaning closer. “I prefer to teach them.”
His hand caught her wrist before she could move. His touch was deceptively gentle; a whisper against her skin that made her shiver despite herself.
“Lets see,” he said softly, tracing a finger along her ribs, “what happens when someone like you loses control.”
Her breath hitched. “Stop that.”
When his fingers found the soft places along her sides, she gasped; laughter breaking through like the first crack of thunder. Her defiance melted into sound, helpless and furious.
“You…you can't…” she tried to twist away, but his hand caught her again, pinning her easily.
His grin was wicked now, dark eyes glinting like onyx. “You planned to put me asleep, little fae. Consider this your awakening.”
She was already squirming beneath his touch, scanning her surroundings frantically, looking for a way out, but every exit appeared locked down; inescapable. His fingers slid from her ribs down her sides like shadowed rivers of fire. He had no intention of granting her mercy. His grin deepened as she writhed, her giggles cracking into squeals, the delicious sound fueling the hunger in his eyes.
“You thought you could poison me,” he whispered, voice low and dangerous as his fingers danced just above her hips. “Did you think I wouldn't punish you for that?”
Before she could reply, or even catch a breath, he dipped lower. One strong hand hooked behind her knee and lifted her slightly, exposing the soft, silken underside of her thigh. His fingers struck without warning, scribbling there with relentless skill.
She shrieked.
It was laughter; helpless, frantic, disbelieving. Her foot kicked uselessly against the floor, her hands clutching at the rug for purchase. His grip was unyielding, his strokes maddening. He switched between quick spidering touches and slow, deliberate presses of his fingertips into that agonizingly ticklish crease beneath her thigh. The sensation was unbearable, and she bucked, her breath lost in a mix of laughter and something deeper…hotter.
“You're trembling,” he noted, eyes gleaming. “Is it from the laughter…or the way your body arches into mine when I do this?”
He slid his hand up, so slow it was cruel, trailing over her thigh and abruptly shifting upward. He moved almost lazily, as if savoring her struggles, pinning her now with his lower body, lips close to her ear.
Then he touched her breast.
The first stroke was infuriatingly gentle, his fingertips tracing a circle around her nipple without touching it directly. But then his hand cupped her fully, and his thumb began to tease; light fluttering brushes, barely there tickles that made her inhale sharply and her back arch. It wasn't just pleasure. It was torment laced with lust.
“You're so sensitive here,” he growled, his tone dripping with sin. “I wonder, what happens if I do this?”
He squeezed gently and let his thumb flick and brush over and over; a teasing whisper of touch that had her wriggling and whimpering and unable to think. Her laughter had turned breathy now, every giggle a moan barely held back. She twisted beneath him, her body betraying her as arousal bloomed through every ticklish nerve he awakened.
He kissed her collarbone, still tormenting her breasts with slow, measured strokes, and whispered, “Try not to enjoy this too much, little assassin. I haven't even started being cruel.”
Her lungs were burning, her body trembling with the onslaught he's already delivered. She had no blades, no darts, no chance of overpowering a man built like war incarnate. She does the only thing left to her…
She uses her lips.
Myrren surges up, grabs his jaw in both hands and crashes her mouth into his.
He goes utterly still.
Not from shock.
From amusement.
His hands, which have been merciless on the sensitive curves of her breasts, pause. His breath draws in sharply through his nose, and for half a heartbeat she feels like she won.
His mouth is warm. His lips part. For a moment his fingers even relax as they glide down her sides, as if allowing her to take control. Her body shifts over his, and she swings her leg across his lap, straddling him, pushing him down into the fur rug with a confidence she absolutely does not have.
Her thighs lock around his hips. Her arms snake around his neck. And she tightens, trying to slip her forearm over his throat and drag him into a sleeper hold.
His back hits the floor. She feels him jolt beneath her.
She mistakes that for a struggle.
What she doesn't see, because her face is buried against his jaw, is the slow, wicked smile spreading across his mouth, dimples deepening, dark eyes lowering like a predator indulging a child's game.
A sound rumbles in his chest.
Not a grunt.
Not an effort.
A silent laugh.
“You're adorable,” he murmured, voice low, breath brushing her ear.
Before she can adjust her grip, his hands snap up and seize her wrists. Not violently; effortlessly, as if he'd been letting her play all along.
She has barely the time to exhale before he surges upward with terrifying speed. He rolls, using his legs for leverage, and in an impossibly smooth motion, he flips her.
She's spun around.
Arms pinned.
Back pulled flush to his chest.
Now she is in his lap, her spine pressed to his sternum, his legs bracketing hers, one hand locking her arms above his head.
His lips rest at her neck.
“You thought you could knock me out?” He purrs.
Then his fingers descend.
He attacks without hesitation.
His hand dives straight into the vulnerable hollow of her underarm, clawing and digging relentlessly. Her body jerks violently, her laughter tearing out of her like a scream. She thrashes, kicks, scratches at his wrists. But he only drags her closer to his chest, trapping her completely.
His hand slides down, spidering along her ribs and groping at her belly.
She screams, writhes, her thighs twisting uselessly as his fingers flex into her muscular abdomen ruthlessly.
“Your kiss was lovely,” he whispered, fingers still kneading into her belly cruelly. “But seduction won't save you.”
He then squeezes her sharply. She explodes into laughter again. Without warning, his hand descends to her knee, encasing the cap fully, slowly curling his fingers inward, where strength cannot hide sensitivity. She collapses back fully into him, squealing and begging as he digs into the tender spot.
“Too much?” He asks, mockingly gentle.
Before she can answer, he glides back up in a slow, torturously deliberate path and plants right into the tender spot where thigh meets hip; thumb brushing, fingers kneading softly.
Her head falls back against his shoulder, laughter cracking into breathless, humiliating little gasps.
He growls low in his throat with satisfaction.
“You're not going anywhere,” he murmurs, sinking his fingers in without mercy. “Not after trying to drug me…and certainly not after that kiss.”
His grip tightens.
Her laughter shatters.
The fae assassin was utterly helpless, thrashing against him as his fingers began to ravage her with otherworldly speed. She shifted her hips and recoiled for escape, but he moved first. With shocking grace for someone so large, he wrapped an arm around her waist, twisted her and flipped her cleanly on her back. The air left her body with a thud, her long black hair splaying across the soft fur.
“Oh no you don't.” He said, an amused smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth.
Myrren squirmed beneath him, giggling breathlessly, trying to look furious. “Let me go!”
“No,” he said simply. “You need to learn what defeat feels like.”
He reached down and dragged both hands languidly down her sides. Her reaction was immediate and explosive.
She arched off the floor, twisting fiercely. His fingers edged her ribs, each one pressing in one at a time against her silken skin. Her legs slammed against the floor, cackling and snorting uncontrollably, already overwhelmed by the sheer unfairness of how good he was at this.
“You're evil!” She cried out, bucking under him as if she were being flayed alive.
“And you're ticklish,” he replied darkly, trailing his fingers lower to tease at her hips. “Devastatingly so.”
He clawed into her hips to prove his point and she shrieked hysterically, cursing in ancient fae between helpless peals. He dug into every tender curve; along her waist, her navel, the sensitive sides of her breasts; then ghosted his fingertips up toward her underarms, which made her go rigid with panic.
“No, no no…dont!”
He smirked, paused a moment just to watch her eyes widen in suspense, then struck; ten precise fingers dancing in rhythm with torment.
“Stop! I can't! Oh god's! Please have mercy!”
She reached desperately to grab his wrists, to twist away, to bite, but nothing worked. It was hopeless. He was too strong, too fast, too skilled. He allowed her to turn over, to crawl, to drag herself toward any escape. But he followed.
He followed.
He crawled behind her, grabbed both ankles and pulled her flat…and then it was over.
She collapsed. Face pressed into the fur, her entire body convulsing with laughter, she gave in. Her hysteria gave way to breathlessness. Her vision blurred with tears. Her limbs spasmed. Her lungs burned. Her core throbbed. And still, he tickled her like a demon sent to break her will.
When she finally passed out, it was with shaking laughter still trembling on her lips.
Myrren awoke to birdsong.
A shaft of sunlight pierced the trees above her. The scent of pine and damp earth filled her nose. Her body ached faintly, tingling in strange places, but she was otherwise unharmed.
She was in the forest.
Her clan's hidden camp was just a few hundred feet away. She could see it through the trees. The curve of canvas tents.The familiar scent of smoke. The soft hum of protective wards crackling faintly in the air. Somehow, he'd carried her here. Undetected. Laid her down. Let her go.
Let her live.
The realization hit her like a slap.
He could have kept her. Could have chained her, punished her, used her. He had her defeated, completely at his mercy…and he let her go?
No. No, this wouldn't stand.
She stood slowly. Her legs shook. Her pride was shattered. But her eyes were burning with a new fire.
He thought this was over?
No.
This was war.
And she was going to take him down.
