april
2nd Level Red Feather
- Joined
- Dec 16, 2006
- Messages
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A Collaboration with element/Story concept by element
The fae wind howled across the northern peaks as Draeven was dragged before the council stones of Myrren's clan. The once honored elven general now knelt in chains, accused of atrocities he never commanded. Vaeliren, his second in command, had betrayed him and had sown chaos; half of Myrren's people had been captured, some struck down, and the survivors wanted vengeance. Myrren stood among them, her heart a battlefield. Though Draeven had not commanded the raids, he had interrogated her cruelly, wringing from her the location of her clan's encampment. She had watched the consequences unfold; smoke rising into the night, friends dragged off, trust shattered.
Yet now, bloodied and bound and shivering in the same position he once held her, her fury faltered. Her heart was conflicted, torn between the ache of betrayal and the memory of the man who once kissed her with reverence. Her clan demanded vengeance. Draeven demanded nothing. He simply met her gaze across the stone floor, unflinching, waiting to see which part of her would win; wrath or love. And hours later, as the torches flickered low, Myrren's footsteps echoed down the corridor, carrying a choice heavier or sharper than any blade.
The heavy wooden door creaked open, spilling torchlight into the cold, stone cell. Myrren stepped inside, the hem of her cloak brushing the dusty floor. She tossed a small pouch of coins to the fae guard without a word. He nodded and vanished into the shadows, the door thudding closed behind her.
Draeven looked up slowly, his golden hair appearing darker in the low light. He was still so beautiful, even in such a battered condition.
He was seated on the floor, ankles shackled together, the iron chain bolted to the stone beneath him. His arms were stretched high and outward, each wrist locked in a heavy iron cuff that was affixed to the stone wall behind him. The chains were short, just long enough to allow minimal movement; a cruel design meant to exhaust and restrain without mercy. His shoulders tensed against the cold stone, muscles subtly flexing as he adjusted his posture, ever regal, even in captivity.
Yet his expression remained steady, composed, his dark eyes only softening as they found Myrren.
“You risk your life being here,” he said softly, voice low and rough.
“I know,” she replied. “I shouldn't be here.”
She took a step closer, her anger like static in the air. Her fists were clenched at her sides, nails biting into her palms. “You tortured me,” she whispered, almost disbelieving, as though the memory still didn't sit right on her tongue.
“I know.”
“You made me give them the location.”
“I had to, Myrren,” he said, pulling against the chains in frustration. “You would have died if I hadn't convinced them you were useful.”
Myrren looked away first, eyes shining but dry. “I don't know if I came here to forgive you or watch you rot,” she said.
“And yet, here you are.”
Her eyes snapped back to his. “Tell me the truth, was there any part of it that wasn't duty?”
Draeven met her gaze with both longing and regret gleaming in his eyes. “Every breath I took while doing it felt like swallowing glass. I never wanted to hurt you. But I couldn't lose you, either.”
Her breath caught in her throat. “Then why do I still feel like I was lost?”
He lowered his head. “Because you were.”
She crossed the cell slowly, her expression impassive as she bent down before him. “They want you dead, Draeven. I want…” her voice cracked.
His eyes searched hers. “What do you want, Myrren?”
“Revenge,” she said first, without hesitation. Her expression softened, barely. “You, peace.” The last word trembled on her lips.
Draeven's head tilted slightly, the dim light catching on the silver strands in his deep golden hair. His wrists tugged gently against the manacles, but he made no move to fight. He wasn't restrained by the iron so much as something deeper; shame.
“If you want vengeance," he murmured, voice ragged with emotion, “take it now. Take it and be done with it.”
For a moment, Myrren didn't breathe. Her heart thundered. His words weren't flippant. They weren't self-serving. He'd meant them.
And that made her furious.
She looked angrily into the face of the one who'd cracked open her heart. Her tone lowered, dangerous and intimate.
“I don't want to kill you, general,” she hissed. “I want you to live with what you did. I want you to know what it feels like to be powerless. To feel what I felt…chained and betrayed.”
Draeven didn't so much as flinch.
“You want to hurt me?” He asked quietly. “Then do it. But not out of vengeance. Do it because you still care.”
“You're still alive,” she said, voice flat.
“For now.” His voice rasped with exhaustion. “Take your vengeance.”
Her eyes flared.
He meant it.
The bastard actually meant it.
His guilt was a noose, and he was offering her the end of the rope, letting her decide if he would walk free or die by her hand; or worse. And she wanted to scream, because he was the one who broke her first.
“I don't have to kill you to take something from you,” she said darkly.
Her eyes suddenly dropped to his exposed feet, vulnerable, restrained, helpless. He caught the look and tensed. She saw it. She relished it.
Myrren shifted forward, her hand outstretched, the tips of her fingers grazed the top of his foot almost tenderly.
Draeven jerked.
“I see,” he said hoarsely, trying to mask the tension in his voice. “So that's your method now.”
“You picked mine first,” she replied icily. “I'm just…borrowing.”
Her fingers danced across the top of his foot again, and Draeven stifled a breath, but not the twitch that ran through him. He tensed against the chains, jaw clenched.
“You could ask for anything,” he bit out. “Information. My allegiance. But instead you…”
“You chose this language first,” she snapped, pressing her fingertips in, and this time he flinched; hard. A half swallowed laugh escaped his throat, and he immediately choked it back.
But she heard it.
“Oh, general,” she said with cruel amusement. “Don't pretend this doesn't bother you.”
“It's not the sensations that cuts,” he replied curtly. “It's who I let close enough to do it.”
The words hit her like an arrow to the chest. Her hands froze. Then gently, deliberately, she leaned in, her lips just beside his ear.
“I loved you once,” she whispered. “And I still might. But I'll carve this lesson into your body until you earn it back.”
And she resumed.
Ever so gently.
His entire body went rigid.
“No.” He said quickly, almost too quickly. “Myrren, dont…”
The tiny hitch in his tone made something wicked unfurl in her chest. The mighty general had weaknesses. Mortal ones. One's he had once used against her.
She dragged a single fingertip slowly, from his heel to the ball of his foot.
Draeven jolted like she'd shocked him. His laugh punched out of him; loudly, involuntarily, before he clamped his teeth down with a hiss.
“Myrren.” His voice dropped into a warning rumble that would have intimidated anyone else. Anyone but her.
She did it again; two fingers this time, swirling lightly, teasing the arch.
Draeven's head slammed back against the wall with a muffled groan he clearly wanted to strangle in his throat. His toes curled, trying uselessly to shield the most sensitive parts.
“No…Myrren, wait…” he gasped, already breathless. “Not…there.”
She tilted her head sweetly.
“You tickled my feet when I was bound. Remember? When I couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't think?”
“Please…” he pulled against the shackles hard enough that chain scraped metal on stone. “I'm warning you. You don't want to do this.”
Her nails skimmed the underside of his toes.
The dam broke.
A raw, primal sound tore from him as he lurched as far forward his bonds would permit, laughter breaking free with no chance of suppression. He twisted, struggling against the chains, not with hope for escape, but because his body simply couldn't endure the sensation.
“Stop, Myrren, god's please!” He shouted, laughter shredding the edges of his voice.
She cleared tears from her eyes; hers were from fury, his from helplessness, and kept going, tracing malicious little patterns over the arch, then the ball, then back beneath his toes where he was most vulnerable.
Every stroke made him lose another piece of composure.
“You…are…vindictive!” He forced out between gasping laughs.
“You taught me.” She said coolly.
Her fingers flicked faster.
“I…please, mercy!”
“Mercy?” She echoed, her voice ice and fire at once. “Already?” She clucked her tongue with reproach. “You didn't show me mercy.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking with laughter he couldn't stop, couldn't muffle, couldn't hide.
“Won't you stop?! Please, I yield! I yield!”
The last words cracked out of him; honest, raw, powerful.
Myrren moved up his body without an ounce of hesitation, her fingers tracing the contours of his ribs. Draeven's body defied him, twitching and jerking against his will, his chest heaving with the effort to maintain some semblance of control. He knew he was at Myrren's forbearance, and the realization was a bitter pill to swallow.
“How does it feel, Draeven? Does it drive you mad? Does it make you feel helpless?”
Her fingers lingered, applying just enough pressure to make him feel every nerve come alive. His body stiffened. His muscles strained. His breath came in short, panicked bursts, a testament to the torment he was enduring.
“Stop…I cannot endure it!” He begged, his voice breaking on the plea. “I'll do anything to make this right. I'll lay my life down for your people!”
Myrren's fingers dug deeper, her nails biting into his flesh. The elven general cried out, a guttural groan of helplessness that echoed through the cell. He fought hard against his restraints, desperately attempting to evade her clever touch.
“Desist!” He yelled, but the order was only half hearted.
Her hands slipped lower, pressing into either side of his hips, teasing the ligaments there with deep, rapid squeezes that caused his pelvis to push violently off the ground. He cursed at her in the old elvish tongue, making threats she could not understand but his tone and expression revealed everything. He was properly angry now.
Good, she thought to herself.
“You will stop!” He finally screamed, his voice carrying the weight of a man that was pushed far beyond his tolerance.
Myrren paused, her fingers still hovering, giving him a moment to catch his breath. Her eyes, once cold and calculating, searched his face, looking for any sign of deception.
“Tell me something true,” she said, her voice softening against the words.
“I never stopped loving you.”
And that…that was the truth she both longed for and dreaded.
“I should hate you.” She whispered.
“But you don't." He murmured back, and there was pain in the gentleness of his voice.
She shook her head, tears threatening to rise again as her tone hardened once more. “No. And that's the worst part. You don't deserve my love.”
Myrren's breath steadied as she knelt before him once more. Draeven was still catching his own; deep, uneven inhales through clenched teeth, as if he hated that she could pull laughter out of him the way he once pulled secrets out of her.
Those delicate fingers, tipped with sharp, short nails, were poised like weapons, ready to inflict misery. To Draeven's abject disbelief, her hands slid over the shackles on both ankles and returned to the bottoms of his soles. This time, she held back nothing as those well maintained claws stroked and skittered, scribbled and teased, roused and titillated, her movements becoming more rapid and intense. Draeven's laughter overflowed reluctantly, unable to contain a single second of the bedlam she'd unleashed within his body. It filled the small space, mingling with shouts of protest and pleas for compassion, for leniency, for any sort of reprieve no matter how brief. She kept him right there; on the very edge of his endurance, weaving a tapestry of spiteful sensation. And through it all, she watched him carefully, her expression a mix of satisfaction and anticipation, knowing what her twisted dance was doing to the prideful general.
The echo of tearing stone ruptured through the chamber as Draeven’s body arched, every muscle wrenching with primal force. Veins corded along his arms and neck as he gave one final, furious pull; metal screamed against stone and suddenly, the chains burst free from the wall in a spray of dust and sparks.
“Myrren…” he growled, his tone low and feral.
She leaned back, eyes wide. “Fuck.” She whispered.
But it was too late. In a blur, Draeven lunged. His shackled ankles slowed him, but only just. He reached her, his hands still bound with broken chain, looping around her waist. With a shocked gasp, Myrren was hauled forward, her body colliding with his hard chest.
“You should've left while you had the chance,” he whispered against her neck, his breath hot, his grip unyielding.
“Maybe I wanted you to break free,” she snapped back, breathless, though the tremor in her voice gave her away.
“Then why do you look so terrified?” He asked, cocking his head, chains clinking as he gently but firmly adjusted her against his lap.
“Because I don't know if you'll kiss me or torture me.” She answered honestly.
Draeven paused at that. Their eyes locked. The tension between them was suffocating; wrath and longing, betrayal and need, all coiled into the inches between their mouths.
Without another word, he pulled her tight and kissed her; rough and desperate, tasting of rage and relief. Then his hands slid down, gripping the backs of her thighs…and bit mercilessly into the ticklish curves. Myrren's body went wild in his hold, her laughter spilling into his mouth in vulnerable, desperate waves. The stone cell faded away. There was only the press of bodies, the clash of heartbeats and the sounds of pure, chaotic mirth.
The fae wind howled across the northern peaks as Draeven was dragged before the council stones of Myrren's clan. The once honored elven general now knelt in chains, accused of atrocities he never commanded. Vaeliren, his second in command, had betrayed him and had sown chaos; half of Myrren's people had been captured, some struck down, and the survivors wanted vengeance. Myrren stood among them, her heart a battlefield. Though Draeven had not commanded the raids, he had interrogated her cruelly, wringing from her the location of her clan's encampment. She had watched the consequences unfold; smoke rising into the night, friends dragged off, trust shattered.
Yet now, bloodied and bound and shivering in the same position he once held her, her fury faltered. Her heart was conflicted, torn between the ache of betrayal and the memory of the man who once kissed her with reverence. Her clan demanded vengeance. Draeven demanded nothing. He simply met her gaze across the stone floor, unflinching, waiting to see which part of her would win; wrath or love. And hours later, as the torches flickered low, Myrren's footsteps echoed down the corridor, carrying a choice heavier or sharper than any blade.
The heavy wooden door creaked open, spilling torchlight into the cold, stone cell. Myrren stepped inside, the hem of her cloak brushing the dusty floor. She tossed a small pouch of coins to the fae guard without a word. He nodded and vanished into the shadows, the door thudding closed behind her.
Draeven looked up slowly, his golden hair appearing darker in the low light. He was still so beautiful, even in such a battered condition.
He was seated on the floor, ankles shackled together, the iron chain bolted to the stone beneath him. His arms were stretched high and outward, each wrist locked in a heavy iron cuff that was affixed to the stone wall behind him. The chains were short, just long enough to allow minimal movement; a cruel design meant to exhaust and restrain without mercy. His shoulders tensed against the cold stone, muscles subtly flexing as he adjusted his posture, ever regal, even in captivity.
Yet his expression remained steady, composed, his dark eyes only softening as they found Myrren.
“You risk your life being here,” he said softly, voice low and rough.
“I know,” she replied. “I shouldn't be here.”
She took a step closer, her anger like static in the air. Her fists were clenched at her sides, nails biting into her palms. “You tortured me,” she whispered, almost disbelieving, as though the memory still didn't sit right on her tongue.
“I know.”
“You made me give them the location.”
“I had to, Myrren,” he said, pulling against the chains in frustration. “You would have died if I hadn't convinced them you were useful.”
Myrren looked away first, eyes shining but dry. “I don't know if I came here to forgive you or watch you rot,” she said.
“And yet, here you are.”
Her eyes snapped back to his. “Tell me the truth, was there any part of it that wasn't duty?”
Draeven met her gaze with both longing and regret gleaming in his eyes. “Every breath I took while doing it felt like swallowing glass. I never wanted to hurt you. But I couldn't lose you, either.”
Her breath caught in her throat. “Then why do I still feel like I was lost?”
He lowered his head. “Because you were.”
She crossed the cell slowly, her expression impassive as she bent down before him. “They want you dead, Draeven. I want…” her voice cracked.
His eyes searched hers. “What do you want, Myrren?”
“Revenge,” she said first, without hesitation. Her expression softened, barely. “You, peace.” The last word trembled on her lips.
Draeven's head tilted slightly, the dim light catching on the silver strands in his deep golden hair. His wrists tugged gently against the manacles, but he made no move to fight. He wasn't restrained by the iron so much as something deeper; shame.
“If you want vengeance," he murmured, voice ragged with emotion, “take it now. Take it and be done with it.”
For a moment, Myrren didn't breathe. Her heart thundered. His words weren't flippant. They weren't self-serving. He'd meant them.
And that made her furious.
She looked angrily into the face of the one who'd cracked open her heart. Her tone lowered, dangerous and intimate.
“I don't want to kill you, general,” she hissed. “I want you to live with what you did. I want you to know what it feels like to be powerless. To feel what I felt…chained and betrayed.”
Draeven didn't so much as flinch.
“You want to hurt me?” He asked quietly. “Then do it. But not out of vengeance. Do it because you still care.”
“You're still alive,” she said, voice flat.
“For now.” His voice rasped with exhaustion. “Take your vengeance.”
Her eyes flared.
He meant it.
The bastard actually meant it.
His guilt was a noose, and he was offering her the end of the rope, letting her decide if he would walk free or die by her hand; or worse. And she wanted to scream, because he was the one who broke her first.
“I don't have to kill you to take something from you,” she said darkly.
Her eyes suddenly dropped to his exposed feet, vulnerable, restrained, helpless. He caught the look and tensed. She saw it. She relished it.
Myrren shifted forward, her hand outstretched, the tips of her fingers grazed the top of his foot almost tenderly.
Draeven jerked.
“I see,” he said hoarsely, trying to mask the tension in his voice. “So that's your method now.”
“You picked mine first,” she replied icily. “I'm just…borrowing.”
Her fingers danced across the top of his foot again, and Draeven stifled a breath, but not the twitch that ran through him. He tensed against the chains, jaw clenched.
“You could ask for anything,” he bit out. “Information. My allegiance. But instead you…”
“You chose this language first,” she snapped, pressing her fingertips in, and this time he flinched; hard. A half swallowed laugh escaped his throat, and he immediately choked it back.
But she heard it.
“Oh, general,” she said with cruel amusement. “Don't pretend this doesn't bother you.”
“It's not the sensations that cuts,” he replied curtly. “It's who I let close enough to do it.”
The words hit her like an arrow to the chest. Her hands froze. Then gently, deliberately, she leaned in, her lips just beside his ear.
“I loved you once,” she whispered. “And I still might. But I'll carve this lesson into your body until you earn it back.”
And she resumed.
Ever so gently.
His entire body went rigid.
“No.” He said quickly, almost too quickly. “Myrren, dont…”
The tiny hitch in his tone made something wicked unfurl in her chest. The mighty general had weaknesses. Mortal ones. One's he had once used against her.
She dragged a single fingertip slowly, from his heel to the ball of his foot.
Draeven jolted like she'd shocked him. His laugh punched out of him; loudly, involuntarily, before he clamped his teeth down with a hiss.
“Myrren.” His voice dropped into a warning rumble that would have intimidated anyone else. Anyone but her.
She did it again; two fingers this time, swirling lightly, teasing the arch.
Draeven's head slammed back against the wall with a muffled groan he clearly wanted to strangle in his throat. His toes curled, trying uselessly to shield the most sensitive parts.
“No…Myrren, wait…” he gasped, already breathless. “Not…there.”
She tilted her head sweetly.
“You tickled my feet when I was bound. Remember? When I couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't think?”
“Please…” he pulled against the shackles hard enough that chain scraped metal on stone. “I'm warning you. You don't want to do this.”
Her nails skimmed the underside of his toes.
The dam broke.
A raw, primal sound tore from him as he lurched as far forward his bonds would permit, laughter breaking free with no chance of suppression. He twisted, struggling against the chains, not with hope for escape, but because his body simply couldn't endure the sensation.
“Stop, Myrren, god's please!” He shouted, laughter shredding the edges of his voice.
She cleared tears from her eyes; hers were from fury, his from helplessness, and kept going, tracing malicious little patterns over the arch, then the ball, then back beneath his toes where he was most vulnerable.
Every stroke made him lose another piece of composure.
“You…are…vindictive!” He forced out between gasping laughs.
“You taught me.” She said coolly.
Her fingers flicked faster.
“I…please, mercy!”
“Mercy?” She echoed, her voice ice and fire at once. “Already?” She clucked her tongue with reproach. “You didn't show me mercy.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking with laughter he couldn't stop, couldn't muffle, couldn't hide.
“Won't you stop?! Please, I yield! I yield!”
The last words cracked out of him; honest, raw, powerful.
Myrren moved up his body without an ounce of hesitation, her fingers tracing the contours of his ribs. Draeven's body defied him, twitching and jerking against his will, his chest heaving with the effort to maintain some semblance of control. He knew he was at Myrren's forbearance, and the realization was a bitter pill to swallow.
“How does it feel, Draeven? Does it drive you mad? Does it make you feel helpless?”
Her fingers lingered, applying just enough pressure to make him feel every nerve come alive. His body stiffened. His muscles strained. His breath came in short, panicked bursts, a testament to the torment he was enduring.
“Stop…I cannot endure it!” He begged, his voice breaking on the plea. “I'll do anything to make this right. I'll lay my life down for your people!”
Myrren's fingers dug deeper, her nails biting into his flesh. The elven general cried out, a guttural groan of helplessness that echoed through the cell. He fought hard against his restraints, desperately attempting to evade her clever touch.
“Desist!” He yelled, but the order was only half hearted.
Her hands slipped lower, pressing into either side of his hips, teasing the ligaments there with deep, rapid squeezes that caused his pelvis to push violently off the ground. He cursed at her in the old elvish tongue, making threats she could not understand but his tone and expression revealed everything. He was properly angry now.
Good, she thought to herself.
“You will stop!” He finally screamed, his voice carrying the weight of a man that was pushed far beyond his tolerance.
Myrren paused, her fingers still hovering, giving him a moment to catch his breath. Her eyes, once cold and calculating, searched his face, looking for any sign of deception.
“Tell me something true,” she said, her voice softening against the words.
“I never stopped loving you.”
And that…that was the truth she both longed for and dreaded.
“I should hate you.” She whispered.
“But you don't." He murmured back, and there was pain in the gentleness of his voice.
She shook her head, tears threatening to rise again as her tone hardened once more. “No. And that's the worst part. You don't deserve my love.”
Myrren's breath steadied as she knelt before him once more. Draeven was still catching his own; deep, uneven inhales through clenched teeth, as if he hated that she could pull laughter out of him the way he once pulled secrets out of her.
Those delicate fingers, tipped with sharp, short nails, were poised like weapons, ready to inflict misery. To Draeven's abject disbelief, her hands slid over the shackles on both ankles and returned to the bottoms of his soles. This time, she held back nothing as those well maintained claws stroked and skittered, scribbled and teased, roused and titillated, her movements becoming more rapid and intense. Draeven's laughter overflowed reluctantly, unable to contain a single second of the bedlam she'd unleashed within his body. It filled the small space, mingling with shouts of protest and pleas for compassion, for leniency, for any sort of reprieve no matter how brief. She kept him right there; on the very edge of his endurance, weaving a tapestry of spiteful sensation. And through it all, she watched him carefully, her expression a mix of satisfaction and anticipation, knowing what her twisted dance was doing to the prideful general.
The echo of tearing stone ruptured through the chamber as Draeven’s body arched, every muscle wrenching with primal force. Veins corded along his arms and neck as he gave one final, furious pull; metal screamed against stone and suddenly, the chains burst free from the wall in a spray of dust and sparks.
“Myrren…” he growled, his tone low and feral.
She leaned back, eyes wide. “Fuck.” She whispered.
But it was too late. In a blur, Draeven lunged. His shackled ankles slowed him, but only just. He reached her, his hands still bound with broken chain, looping around her waist. With a shocked gasp, Myrren was hauled forward, her body colliding with his hard chest.
“You should've left while you had the chance,” he whispered against her neck, his breath hot, his grip unyielding.
“Maybe I wanted you to break free,” she snapped back, breathless, though the tremor in her voice gave her away.
“Then why do you look so terrified?” He asked, cocking his head, chains clinking as he gently but firmly adjusted her against his lap.
“Because I don't know if you'll kiss me or torture me.” She answered honestly.
Draeven paused at that. Their eyes locked. The tension between them was suffocating; wrath and longing, betrayal and need, all coiled into the inches between their mouths.
Without another word, he pulled her tight and kissed her; rough and desperate, tasting of rage and relief. Then his hands slid down, gripping the backs of her thighs…and bit mercilessly into the ticklish curves. Myrren's body went wild in his hold, her laughter spilling into his mouth in vulnerable, desperate waves. The stone cell faded away. There was only the press of bodies, the clash of heartbeats and the sounds of pure, chaotic mirth.
