april
2nd Level Red Feather
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- Dec 16, 2006
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Draeven
A collab with element/Story concept by element
The elven high court glittered beneath a thousand floating lanterns, each flame suspended like a captive star. Music shimmered through the air, delicate and ethereal; strings and chimes woven so tightly together that even the halls hummed.
This was a night of peace.
This was a night of diplomacy.
This was a night that Myrren walked in intending to spill blood.
She entered the grand hall like a sin the gods were too afraid to name.
Her gown was liquid fire; deep, dangerous red, slit high enough to promise wickedness, fitted tight enough to warn of it. Her hair fell in a silken black cascade down her pale back, each step purposeful, ravening. Her blue eyes scanned the room with cold intent.
And every elf in the hall turned to look.
But she only cared about one.
Draeven Thearyn; General of the Western legions.
He stood near the dais, all sculpted strength and dangerously poised, his broad shoulders wrapped in ceremonial black and gold armor that caught the lantern light. His sandy-gold hair was brushed back for the occasion, and the dark ember of his eyes swept the room like a hunter scanning for prey.
He hadn't seen her yet.
Good.
Her hand drifted along her waist where her hidden blade was strapped; slender, wicked, dipped in a fae poison potent enough to drop an elk in seconds. She glided toward him, every inch the elegant huntress.
She wanted him to notice her.
She wanted him to come closer.
She wanted him dead.
But Draeven was not a man easily caught.
And just before she reached him, his gaze snapped to her like a blade finding its sheath.
Their eyes locked.
Heat. Recognition. Something else. Something sharp and uninvited.
Then Draeven smiled.
Slow. Knowing. Infuriating.
He moved through the crowd with that dangerous calm of his, part storm, part command. He reached her before she could shift her weight for the kill strike.
“Myrren.” His voice slid like warm steel across her skin. “Did you dress up just to kill me? I'm flattered.”
Her lips curled. “You won't be.”
He stepped closer…closer than etiquette allowed, and his hand brushed her waist. But the gesture wasn't tender.
It was purposeful.
His fingers grazed the dagger strapped under the red silk. Her heart leapt. Too late.
Draeven leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. “I'll take that,” he muttered.
And in one swift movement he plucked the blade from its sheath, turned it in his hand, slid it into his own belt where she could no longer reach it, and all without a single soul noticing.
She gasped and stepped back, but he grabbed her hand.
Hard.
“No more running,” he said.
Then he pulled her onto the dance floor.
The world blurred; music swelling, lanterns spinning in a golden haze as Draeven swept her into the center of the hall. His grip at her waist was iron, his other hand capturing hers with possessive certainty.
She tried to pull away.
He pulled her closer.
“You walked into my court,” he said softly, looking down at her with those dark, dangerous eyes. “In that dress.”
“It's not for you.” She snapped.
“Everything you do is for me.” His hand slid, tracing tactically down her waist. “Even your attempts at murder.”
Her pulse pounded. “Give me my dagger.”
“No.”
“Draeven…”
“Dance.”
His command vibrated through her, through the strings, through the very air. The room faded until there was only him, towering, beautiful, maddening…and her breath tangled with his.
Her heart raced.
Her hands trembled.
Her mission shattered.
And Draeven leaned in, his lips almost brushing her neck.
“Try to kill me again,” he whispered, “and I'll drag you into a corner and punish you for it.”
Her crimson gown swirled around his legs like living flame. Every eye flicked toward her as they passed, captivated by her beauty.
They neared the banquet table.
And Draeven dipped her low.
Her hair spilled in a black waterfall toward the floor, her delicate neck exposed. She didn't waste a breath; her hand darted, fingers grasping a silver fork from the linen, and she thrust upward toward his ribs with lethal intent.
But Draeven's reflexes were legend.
His hand caught her wrist mid-strike. His expression didn't break. Not even a flinch.
“Oh, little assassin,” he murmured, sounding amused, almost fond. “So predictable.”
He snatched the fork from her grip, placed it neatly back on the table, and lifted her effortlessly from the dip before she could breathe a curse. Then he swept her away again, waltzing her so gracefully that no one suspected a thing.
He moved them across the hall, around spinning couples, past laughing nobles until…
Behind a pillar. Hidden. Alone.
The moment they were concealed, Draeven pressed her back against the marble, and claimed her mouth with a fierce, intoxicating kiss. It was sharp, consuming…like he'd been waiting hours for this single breath of her.
She fought him at first, palms against his chest, a tense sound catching at the back of her throat.
But inevitably, her resistance faltered.
Her lips softened under his. A trembling whimper escaped into his mouth. Her fingers curled into his coat as though she couldn't help it. He tasted her surrender as surely as her struggle.
And he struck.
His hands slid from her waist to her ribs, and without warning, he tickled her; mercilessly, viciously.
The effect was immediate.
Myrren jolted, breaking the kiss with a sudden gasp that dissolved into helpless laughter, muffled against his mouth as he kissed her again. She trembled violently, her knees buckling as the ticklish shock struck through her like lightning.
He swallowed every sound she made.
Her laughter, frantic exhales, her half formed protests; all smothered under the press of his lips.
She arched away from the pillar, desperately trying to twist free, her hysterics shaking through her body. His thigh pinned her in place, keeping her caught between pleasure and panic. A faint moan escaped her lips. Her reaction wasn't lost on him.
“Are you finally admitting you enjoy this more than you should?”
His fingers slithered down her sides again, slow and devastating, as her breath hitched and her body folded against him in uncontrollable giggles.
The orchestra masked everything.
To the ballroom, they were simply another couple sharing a stolen moment behind a pillar.
But only Draeven knew the truth.
He wasn't stealing a moment.
He was stealing her control.
And god's, she was letting him.
His eyes caught hers; dark, unblinking, bottomless, and every inch of his presence pressed in on her. One of his hands braced by her head against the cool marble, keeping her caged. The other drifted lower, skimming down her silhouette, across her stomach in a slow, provocative glide.
The faintest touch; barely there.
And yet her whole body tensed as though bracing for a blow.
Except Draeven didn't strike.
He teased.
His knuckles brushed the silk clinging to her hip, tracing her shape like he was memorizing it. Myrren's breath caught; she fought it, but her body betrayed her once more. She could feel the laughter building behind her ribs; the kind she couldn't will away.
“Still trying to look fearless?” Draeven whispered, voice smooth and mocking. “You tremble every time I touch you.”
“I do not…” she snapped, but the words died in her throat.
His fingers slipped along the slit in her gown, brushing the edges of the fabric where skin met silk; a touch light enough to make her nerves jump.
It was his restraint that undid her.
The threat of more.
The feathersoft whisper of his knuckles.
The warmth of his body crowding hers.
Myrren clamped her lips together, desperate not to react.
But Draeven saw the quake in her shoulders. The way her knees softened. The way her lashes fluttered like she might laugh, or gasp, or both.
His smile deepened.
“Ah, he breathed. “There she is. My little Fae is trying so very hard not to break…”
Then his fingers lingered upward again, slow, deliberate, tormenting.
Myrren giggled. A helpless, breathless, traitorous sound that she tried to choke back.
Draeven's hand came down instantly, covering her mouth.
“Shhh,” he warned, almost tenderly. “We wouldn't want the high court to hear how very ticklish you are, would we?”
Her glare was fierce, mortified, furious. But her body arched away from his fingers all the same, twisting in tiny, frantic motions against the pillar.
“Mm-mmp!” She tried to protest behind his palm.
“Oh, I know,” he cooed, leaning close enough that his nose brushed hers. “It's unbearable, isn't it? Every nerve on alert. Every breath uncertain.”
His hand drifted; up and down her outer thigh, tracing shapes with the very tips of his fingers, ghosting and skittering as her body jumped and squirmed, laughter escaping her lips in little bursts.
“This,” he purred, lips grazing her skin, “is the price of trying to kill me at a ball.”
She wriggled beneath his touch, hopelessly trapped between him and stone.
He kept her pinned there, under his gaze, under his effortless strength.
“You will endure every second of it,” he promised. “And you will remember, when you think of hunting me again, that I will always catch you first.”
Draeven caught both of Myrren's wrists in one large hand and pinned them high above her head. His body pressed into hers; tall, solid, unyielding. His dark eyes roamed her face, not cruel but hungry, fascinated, almost reverent.
“I cannot lie,” he murmured, his voice dripping with truth and something bordering passion. “I take pleasure in your defiance…and what it becomes under my hands.”
His mouth brushed her ear as he spoke, sending a shiver down her spine.
“And I know you feel the pull too, little Fae, though you'd sooner die than say it aloud.”
Before she could retort, he slid a folded handkerchief from his breast pocket and pressed it gently between her lips; firm enough to remind, soft enough to taunt.
“Bite down,” he instructed, “unless you're willing to bring the entire court down upon our heads.”
Her eyes flared with outrage, then panic, then something she refused to name.
Draeven's free hand rose slowly beneath her arm; hovering, threatening, his lips curving into a sinful smile as soon as she flinched. She shook her head frantically and pulled against his hold, but his grip was iron.
“You know what comes next.” He breathed.
Myrren's whole frame jerked as he moved suddenly, fingers strumming and swirling into the hollow of her underarm, exploiting every twitch, every whimper, every desperate shift of her body. She twisted hard against him, her muffled squeals tempered by the handkerchief. But he held her easily, the strength in his arms absolute.
Her knees buckled, her laughter silent but violent against the cloth. Draeven caught her; didn't even let her drop an inch, pinning her with his body while he dragged his fingers in new, devastating patterns that had her struggling futilely.
A low, controlled breath slipped from his chest, almost a groan. His composure strained under the way her laughter shook through her body and into his.
Her eyes filled with enraged tears. His eyes filled with something much deeper.
“Good,” he whispered too softly, bracing his forehead to hers as she shook. “Fight me. I want to feel every last tremor.”
He kept going, switching from one tender arm to the other; slow where she expected fast, sudden where she expected gentle; methodical, intentional, savoring every bit of her unraveling. But, god's help him, he was losing control right along with her.
Myrren was screaming into the gag, unable to withstand or even process the torturous sensations. Her laughter trembled against the handkerchief like trapped birds. She bit down hard, her jaw clenched in sheer desperation, because if she didn't, even if a sliver of that wild laughter escaped, the entire hall would know.
She bucked against him, wrists straining against his hand as he gripped her arms firmly. But she held onto that handkerchief because her life depended on it.
“Good girl,” he praised against her temple, his voice a low storm. “Hold it in. Let everyone stay blind while I take you apart.”
She shook her head again, eyes pleading hopelessly, but it only encouraged him.
He released her wrists in one smooth motion, only to drag her hard against his chest. Then both hands slid down…down…to seize her bottom, fingers fluttering, nails scratching lightly.
Myrren jumped, losing the gag entirely. Draeven closed the distance, muffling her laughter against his lips as he kissed her fervently, devouring the sound, turning her panic-stricken giggles into something soft and vulnerable between their mouths.
He kissed her like a man starved. She responded like a woman undone.
She could feel herself slipping; falling into that dangerous edge between temper and desire.
When he pulled back, she whimpered, words tumbling out in frantic, broken pleas. “Mmph…more…please. Please. Don't stop. Take me away.”
It was sweet.
It was desperate.
It was real.
And it hit Draeven like a blow.
His eyes went hot; dark, consuming. And suddenly he tore himself back a step as if burned. His breath came hard, unsteady, forcing itself back under control.
“Myrren…” her name left him like a confession.
For a heartbeat they only stared at each other; she trembled, gown disheveled, hair wild, lips kiss-bruised. He, standing before her with his chest rising and falling like he'd run a hundred miles.
He reached for her, almost, then stopped.
A raw sound escaped him, half growl, half groan, as he dragged a shaking hand through his hair.
“I have to…stop.” He rasped.
And before she could gather her thoughts, before she could beg again, before she could reach for him…
He vanished into the crowd, disappearing like mist swallowed by torchlight, leaving her panting, trembling and disoriented against the marble stone.
Draeven
A collab with element/Story concept by element
The elven high court glittered beneath a thousand floating lanterns, each flame suspended like a captive star. Music shimmered through the air, delicate and ethereal; strings and chimes woven so tightly together that even the halls hummed.
This was a night of peace.
This was a night of diplomacy.
This was a night that Myrren walked in intending to spill blood.
She entered the grand hall like a sin the gods were too afraid to name.
Her gown was liquid fire; deep, dangerous red, slit high enough to promise wickedness, fitted tight enough to warn of it. Her hair fell in a silken black cascade down her pale back, each step purposeful, ravening. Her blue eyes scanned the room with cold intent.
And every elf in the hall turned to look.
But she only cared about one.
Draeven Thearyn; General of the Western legions.
He stood near the dais, all sculpted strength and dangerously poised, his broad shoulders wrapped in ceremonial black and gold armor that caught the lantern light. His sandy-gold hair was brushed back for the occasion, and the dark ember of his eyes swept the room like a hunter scanning for prey.
He hadn't seen her yet.
Good.
Her hand drifted along her waist where her hidden blade was strapped; slender, wicked, dipped in a fae poison potent enough to drop an elk in seconds. She glided toward him, every inch the elegant huntress.
She wanted him to notice her.
She wanted him to come closer.
She wanted him dead.
But Draeven was not a man easily caught.
And just before she reached him, his gaze snapped to her like a blade finding its sheath.
Their eyes locked.
Heat. Recognition. Something else. Something sharp and uninvited.
Then Draeven smiled.
Slow. Knowing. Infuriating.
He moved through the crowd with that dangerous calm of his, part storm, part command. He reached her before she could shift her weight for the kill strike.
“Myrren.” His voice slid like warm steel across her skin. “Did you dress up just to kill me? I'm flattered.”
Her lips curled. “You won't be.”
He stepped closer…closer than etiquette allowed, and his hand brushed her waist. But the gesture wasn't tender.
It was purposeful.
His fingers grazed the dagger strapped under the red silk. Her heart leapt. Too late.
Draeven leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. “I'll take that,” he muttered.
And in one swift movement he plucked the blade from its sheath, turned it in his hand, slid it into his own belt where she could no longer reach it, and all without a single soul noticing.
She gasped and stepped back, but he grabbed her hand.
Hard.
“No more running,” he said.
Then he pulled her onto the dance floor.
The world blurred; music swelling, lanterns spinning in a golden haze as Draeven swept her into the center of the hall. His grip at her waist was iron, his other hand capturing hers with possessive certainty.
She tried to pull away.
He pulled her closer.
“You walked into my court,” he said softly, looking down at her with those dark, dangerous eyes. “In that dress.”
“It's not for you.” She snapped.
“Everything you do is for me.” His hand slid, tracing tactically down her waist. “Even your attempts at murder.”
Her pulse pounded. “Give me my dagger.”
“No.”
“Draeven…”
“Dance.”
His command vibrated through her, through the strings, through the very air. The room faded until there was only him, towering, beautiful, maddening…and her breath tangled with his.
Her heart raced.
Her hands trembled.
Her mission shattered.
And Draeven leaned in, his lips almost brushing her neck.
“Try to kill me again,” he whispered, “and I'll drag you into a corner and punish you for it.”
Her crimson gown swirled around his legs like living flame. Every eye flicked toward her as they passed, captivated by her beauty.
They neared the banquet table.
And Draeven dipped her low.
Her hair spilled in a black waterfall toward the floor, her delicate neck exposed. She didn't waste a breath; her hand darted, fingers grasping a silver fork from the linen, and she thrust upward toward his ribs with lethal intent.
But Draeven's reflexes were legend.
His hand caught her wrist mid-strike. His expression didn't break. Not even a flinch.
“Oh, little assassin,” he murmured, sounding amused, almost fond. “So predictable.”
He snatched the fork from her grip, placed it neatly back on the table, and lifted her effortlessly from the dip before she could breathe a curse. Then he swept her away again, waltzing her so gracefully that no one suspected a thing.
He moved them across the hall, around spinning couples, past laughing nobles until…
Behind a pillar. Hidden. Alone.
The moment they were concealed, Draeven pressed her back against the marble, and claimed her mouth with a fierce, intoxicating kiss. It was sharp, consuming…like he'd been waiting hours for this single breath of her.
She fought him at first, palms against his chest, a tense sound catching at the back of her throat.
But inevitably, her resistance faltered.
Her lips softened under his. A trembling whimper escaped into his mouth. Her fingers curled into his coat as though she couldn't help it. He tasted her surrender as surely as her struggle.
And he struck.
His hands slid from her waist to her ribs, and without warning, he tickled her; mercilessly, viciously.
The effect was immediate.
Myrren jolted, breaking the kiss with a sudden gasp that dissolved into helpless laughter, muffled against his mouth as he kissed her again. She trembled violently, her knees buckling as the ticklish shock struck through her like lightning.
He swallowed every sound she made.
Her laughter, frantic exhales, her half formed protests; all smothered under the press of his lips.
She arched away from the pillar, desperately trying to twist free, her hysterics shaking through her body. His thigh pinned her in place, keeping her caught between pleasure and panic. A faint moan escaped her lips. Her reaction wasn't lost on him.
“Are you finally admitting you enjoy this more than you should?”
His fingers slithered down her sides again, slow and devastating, as her breath hitched and her body folded against him in uncontrollable giggles.
The orchestra masked everything.
To the ballroom, they were simply another couple sharing a stolen moment behind a pillar.
But only Draeven knew the truth.
He wasn't stealing a moment.
He was stealing her control.
And god's, she was letting him.
His eyes caught hers; dark, unblinking, bottomless, and every inch of his presence pressed in on her. One of his hands braced by her head against the cool marble, keeping her caged. The other drifted lower, skimming down her silhouette, across her stomach in a slow, provocative glide.
The faintest touch; barely there.
And yet her whole body tensed as though bracing for a blow.
Except Draeven didn't strike.
He teased.
His knuckles brushed the silk clinging to her hip, tracing her shape like he was memorizing it. Myrren's breath caught; she fought it, but her body betrayed her once more. She could feel the laughter building behind her ribs; the kind she couldn't will away.
“Still trying to look fearless?” Draeven whispered, voice smooth and mocking. “You tremble every time I touch you.”
“I do not…” she snapped, but the words died in her throat.
His fingers slipped along the slit in her gown, brushing the edges of the fabric where skin met silk; a touch light enough to make her nerves jump.
It was his restraint that undid her.
The threat of more.
The feathersoft whisper of his knuckles.
The warmth of his body crowding hers.
Myrren clamped her lips together, desperate not to react.
But Draeven saw the quake in her shoulders. The way her knees softened. The way her lashes fluttered like she might laugh, or gasp, or both.
His smile deepened.
“Ah, he breathed. “There she is. My little Fae is trying so very hard not to break…”
Then his fingers lingered upward again, slow, deliberate, tormenting.
Myrren giggled. A helpless, breathless, traitorous sound that she tried to choke back.
Draeven's hand came down instantly, covering her mouth.
“Shhh,” he warned, almost tenderly. “We wouldn't want the high court to hear how very ticklish you are, would we?”
Her glare was fierce, mortified, furious. But her body arched away from his fingers all the same, twisting in tiny, frantic motions against the pillar.
“Mm-mmp!” She tried to protest behind his palm.
“Oh, I know,” he cooed, leaning close enough that his nose brushed hers. “It's unbearable, isn't it? Every nerve on alert. Every breath uncertain.”
His hand drifted; up and down her outer thigh, tracing shapes with the very tips of his fingers, ghosting and skittering as her body jumped and squirmed, laughter escaping her lips in little bursts.
“This,” he purred, lips grazing her skin, “is the price of trying to kill me at a ball.”
She wriggled beneath his touch, hopelessly trapped between him and stone.
He kept her pinned there, under his gaze, under his effortless strength.
“You will endure every second of it,” he promised. “And you will remember, when you think of hunting me again, that I will always catch you first.”
Draeven caught both of Myrren's wrists in one large hand and pinned them high above her head. His body pressed into hers; tall, solid, unyielding. His dark eyes roamed her face, not cruel but hungry, fascinated, almost reverent.
“I cannot lie,” he murmured, his voice dripping with truth and something bordering passion. “I take pleasure in your defiance…and what it becomes under my hands.”
His mouth brushed her ear as he spoke, sending a shiver down her spine.
“And I know you feel the pull too, little Fae, though you'd sooner die than say it aloud.”
Before she could retort, he slid a folded handkerchief from his breast pocket and pressed it gently between her lips; firm enough to remind, soft enough to taunt.
“Bite down,” he instructed, “unless you're willing to bring the entire court down upon our heads.”
Her eyes flared with outrage, then panic, then something she refused to name.
Draeven's free hand rose slowly beneath her arm; hovering, threatening, his lips curving into a sinful smile as soon as she flinched. She shook her head frantically and pulled against his hold, but his grip was iron.
“You know what comes next.” He breathed.
Myrren's whole frame jerked as he moved suddenly, fingers strumming and swirling into the hollow of her underarm, exploiting every twitch, every whimper, every desperate shift of her body. She twisted hard against him, her muffled squeals tempered by the handkerchief. But he held her easily, the strength in his arms absolute.
Her knees buckled, her laughter silent but violent against the cloth. Draeven caught her; didn't even let her drop an inch, pinning her with his body while he dragged his fingers in new, devastating patterns that had her struggling futilely.
A low, controlled breath slipped from his chest, almost a groan. His composure strained under the way her laughter shook through her body and into his.
Her eyes filled with enraged tears. His eyes filled with something much deeper.
“Good,” he whispered too softly, bracing his forehead to hers as she shook. “Fight me. I want to feel every last tremor.”
He kept going, switching from one tender arm to the other; slow where she expected fast, sudden where she expected gentle; methodical, intentional, savoring every bit of her unraveling. But, god's help him, he was losing control right along with her.
Myrren was screaming into the gag, unable to withstand or even process the torturous sensations. Her laughter trembled against the handkerchief like trapped birds. She bit down hard, her jaw clenched in sheer desperation, because if she didn't, even if a sliver of that wild laughter escaped, the entire hall would know.
She bucked against him, wrists straining against his hand as he gripped her arms firmly. But she held onto that handkerchief because her life depended on it.
“Good girl,” he praised against her temple, his voice a low storm. “Hold it in. Let everyone stay blind while I take you apart.”
She shook her head again, eyes pleading hopelessly, but it only encouraged him.
He released her wrists in one smooth motion, only to drag her hard against his chest. Then both hands slid down…down…to seize her bottom, fingers fluttering, nails scratching lightly.
Myrren jumped, losing the gag entirely. Draeven closed the distance, muffling her laughter against his lips as he kissed her fervently, devouring the sound, turning her panic-stricken giggles into something soft and vulnerable between their mouths.
He kissed her like a man starved. She responded like a woman undone.
She could feel herself slipping; falling into that dangerous edge between temper and desire.
When he pulled back, she whimpered, words tumbling out in frantic, broken pleas. “Mmph…more…please. Please. Don't stop. Take me away.”
It was sweet.
It was desperate.
It was real.
And it hit Draeven like a blow.
His eyes went hot; dark, consuming. And suddenly he tore himself back a step as if burned. His breath came hard, unsteady, forcing itself back under control.
“Myrren…” her name left him like a confession.
For a heartbeat they only stared at each other; she trembled, gown disheveled, hair wild, lips kiss-bruised. He, standing before her with his chest rising and falling like he'd run a hundred miles.
He reached for her, almost, then stopped.
A raw sound escaped him, half growl, half groan, as he dragged a shaking hand through his hair.
“I have to…stop.” He rasped.
And before she could gather her thoughts, before she could beg again, before she could reach for him…
He vanished into the crowd, disappearing like mist swallowed by torchlight, leaving her panting, trembling and disoriented against the marble stone.
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