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What was painstakingly obvious to those around her was becoming clear to the princess herself: her family was not coming for her. Position and power, sacrificed! Fortune, squandered! It was the worst reality that Kitsch could have come to terms with and she had tried to rebel against it; to remain blind to what was happening right in front of her. It was been weeks and there had been so sign of scout nor guard, outrider nor vanguard — and during these weeks, the truth demystified that there were none out looking for her, none sent by the brutish king and lovely queen of Saio Baile to find their prodigal, stracciatella daughter.
Sure, it was possible that her bounty hunters simply had not found her; for Kitsch’s adventure began in the midst of a snow storm which razed any scent trail or trackable markings that she may have left. In all likelihood, this was the truest possibility, as her family had several of the best trackers in their employ — but negativity and pain were emotions that the girl was quite attached to, so she threw herself into an otherworldly type of suffering. Crying and throwing herself about… it was really quite a sight! But... it hurt so much because Kitsch began to realize she knew this all along. Knew that one day, the gods would smite her for her foolish ways. Knew that her family didn’t truly love her and her constituents didn’t truly love her — only were told to love her. Her world was so fickle with its love!
Before long, the pearl found herself face to face with the gift from West: the singular poppy, stowed away safely in the confines of her den. Kitsch was saving it for something, but she did not know what. Maybe the girl hadn’t actually needed it until that moment, when she let herself feel the full breadth of emotions from her unintended ousting. Kitsch didn’t truly know what power the leathered plant held— simply thought it was medicine to cure aches and pains, like those of the woman she found lying the in snow. Kitsch’s pains weren’t of the physical sort, but [never the one to overthink these sorts of things] Kitsch at the entire plant and gagged at the earthen taste. Kitsch swilled the bitterness from her mouth at a nearby spring but eventually found herself moving quite far away from Ravensblood Forest in an attempt to clear her mind [and in an attempt to hasten the poppy’s elusive panacea].
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There is no goal set in his code. His paws have nowhere to take him. But still, they move.
He sees her in the distance and halts any further movement; her form breaks the horizon of the valley as she sweeps carelessly through the new blooms on the eastern side. His toes squish between snow soaked dirt. A rumble roils from deep in his stomach and his tongue slips from his maw, grazing across the scar that trails down the right side of his muzzle. It’s tender and pink and fresh but healed. Occasionally it reminds him of the pain it once caused but he forgets the phantom of remembrance, leaving the victorious memory behind.
Surma stands out of the growing flowers once he crosses over and out of the tornado’s former destruction. He doesn’t try to hide himself, either, but his head hangs low as he circles her, darkened orange eyes locked onto her form.
A low chuff escapes him. Look at me.
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It was almost imperceptible, the change she began to feel. The girl shuffled her ink-doused feet across the meadowland, one after the other after the other, using the metronome of her movements to pace her frenzied thoughts. Kitsch traveled with her jaw clenched and tail carried unbent, straight out behind her. It was not a pleasant jaunt but one of necessity, as the forest of unsettling bleeding timbers stifled her emotions and kept her small — and she needed room to feel! To be angry and pissed off at the world and her circumstances; at everyone who passed her by as if the oujo were something trite and entirely mundane. But at the same time, the girl wished to numb such emotions. She didn’t truly want to feel this way, when no one was watching! Without the sympathy of others to imbue her with collective strength, Kitsch found it impossible to shoulder the burden alone.
Then, she was doing pretty alright. Bit by bit the sadness and bitter despair fell away — cast to the wind like so many loose feathers on the back of a bird. It came about so naturally and progressively that Kitsch wasn’t really aware of it happening and in truth, any conscious change barely registered with her mental and physical faculties. Her mind, once so heavy and cumbersome, felt featherlight; her spirit bobbed along inside with her jaunty footsteps. The pearl continued to amble along, her movements more subdued and languid than before... and such was pleasantness that Kitsch would allow herself this time! A nice, long walk was a surefire way to quiet her mind, and had not failed her that day.
But then— she was not alone. Kitsch knew naught how long the man was there nor if he said anything to her, but the sounds of the brute's movement drew her dazed attention. Her place slowed to a crawl and soon ceased altogether. His close proximity stunned her somewhat, and loftily she mused how he had been able to approach her and remain undetected. It may have concerned her in her normal state of mind, but Kitsch found that she had absoltely zero qualms with his nearness. Her hearing was intact but her vision was soft around the edges and gaze felt weightless [both to the subject and to the beholder]. Kitsch lifted her flinted nose into the air and flared her nostrils in order to draw in his scent, but that sense too seemed to be deadened. Perhaps she had walked herself into such a state of relaxation that she was in a meditative, nearly trancelike — imagine that!
By now Kitsch had spent quite some time looking at the unfamiliar brute in an unassuming silence, his thick pelt of dark hues obscuring her sight further and she found herself unable to make out his features. So the girl took a single coquettish step forward and tightened her lids around watchet eyes in an attempt to focus. Sweet mouth struggled to make the words that her mind thought so clearly and the girl let slip one small “Oh,” as her greeting, softly shattering the silence that sat heavy between them.
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Even though she notices him, it doesn’t seem she really has. A moment passes as she lazily makes eye contact with him before she stumbles out a quite oh. Her footing doesn’t seem to be too sure either as she closes the gap between them. It is only a few seconds that Surma remains where he stands but the burning inside him urges him forward. Something isn’t quite right with the girl but he can’t yet put two and two together. She seems well fed enough, taken care of by herself or that of a pack—her scent mingles with others, he can tell—and she’s taken by surprise in his presence but her slow reaction sends a shiver down his spine.
“Oh?” he inquires, though it hardly seems a question. His ears swivel forward and his darkened orange eyes alight once he closes the rest of the distance between them, quick to finish what she has started. There’s a fleeting remnant in the back of his mind, a flash of a dark woman in the distance, but he quickly sheds the grasp for a light ahead of him.
With a sickly crawl of his lips, he flashes his teeth in her direction and when he’s close enough to touch her—the space behind her ear—his expression disappears and he closes his eyes. The strong inhale expands his chest, a nibble of the fur she keeps in soft locks, followed by a steady release as he dances back a few steps and around, circling (questionably) playfully forward.
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It was most interesting how her mind assumed a settled and unhurried pace; by now the high was quit perceptible, but it was a permutation she was completely at peace with. Here she felt good, here she felt featherlight and tranquil. The stracciatella girl was sure she had never felt so good in the entirety of her existence [especially when contrasted to the anguish of moments before]. She found that she could hold one thought for interminable moments, realizing great things about it; momentous things!, only to have her genius blown to the wind like the eroded sands of the coastal cliffs. She could feel so clearly — her heart that thump thump thumped inside her slight, downy ribcage. That sonorous energy reverberated down her body and wrapped around her willowed limbs, which had become flimsy and really quite heavy; nearly too heavy to move, but that was alright. It was all alright. The lamb knew in her heart of hearts that she would be fine, no matter what life in the wilds could throw at her.
If such good a feeling existed in the world, then all the bad was worth it.
Kitsch stood still out of both want and need; her body wouldn’t move, but her mind didn’t want to anyways. The girl was fine standing where she was, toes flexing against the soft grasses of spring; feeling the puff of her sugared breath as the rise-fall-rise-fall of her chest set the pace; her listless gaze watching as the man faded in an out — but every time she refocused on his looming form her was closer, then closer, then closer. Then the man was upon her, pressing the warmth of his lovely nose into the pulse point behind her ear. The girl used whatever energy she had to press herself against his ministrations, surprisingly receptive to his touch. She did not know who he was, nor did she question it; this right here, how he touched her, it was nothing but pure artistry — but why wouldn’t it be perfect? For she was perfect, faultless, immaculate and all other good things. She was god.
Kitsch wondered if he could feel the thumping of her heart. She was so close to him, felt so intimate, and she felt as if she already knew him and he already knew her; already knew all of her secrets and dark places — places she did not let anyone see — and she welcomed him freely. Kitsch’s hardened facade had faded completely and now even her skin felt weighted and it was a notable presence all over her body. The seconds turned into minutes which turned into years. The man moved away and Kitsch felt her chin lift so that she could watch the slurried form of the man as he moved, but her gaze always trailed just a second or so behind. Kitsch didn’t want him to leave yet... but if he did, that would be okay too. The sun felt warm. so warm. She had a divine trust in this moment and knew it would not forsake her. So the girl pursed thin lips to utter another single word; the only word her mind and lips could possibly form at that moment. The word “who?” rode upon her exhale, barely perceptible against the shallowness of her breath.
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cw: dubious consent
Her movements are slow and sloppy and Surma finds himself slowing down so she doesn’t have to struggle to find him. He hesitates in one spot for a long moment as she opens her mouth to speak. The whisper of the word is lost on his ears and nothing more than an exhale of wind. It is invitation enough for him to move forward and touch her with his nose again, closing his eyes as he embraces her scent. Nothing seems off and he wonders if something is altering her mind for her by the lost, confused look in her eyes.
A breath lodges in his throat and he fears if he opens his eyes, Asterr will be on the other side. It will be her dark fur his nose is running through and it will be her breaths infiltrating his ears. The thought grows and grows that, as much as he fears the woman materializing before him, he’s just as afraid she may not be there at all. A low rumble roils deep in his chest as the burning the started there grows, further and deeper, and it is only the dark woman that continues to fuel him in the moment. He overlooks the innocence that has him captured instead to focus on the haunting memory plaguing the back of his mind. Surma curves one limb over her waist as he comes up next to her, hooking the opposite leg until he settles parallel with the girl beneath him and he does not wait.
He
takes.
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The man obliges her unspoken wishes as if he could glimpse inside her mind and read her like the pages of a book. This feeling, that she was not alone to shoulder the weight of her burdens, was simply excellent. Kitsch didn’t even need to speak the words because he read them so clearly, obviously fluent in the language of Kitsch’s wants and needs… still she told him everything, her entire life’s story, but her mouth did not speak; her mind formulated the words but somewhere in the purgatory between brain and mouth they became lost, transposed. It was a happy loss and Kitsch reveled in the inanimation of her mind, enjoying the clear expanse that existed when all of the emotional cluttered was removed.
Kitsch had achieved some sort of meta-consciousness who was able to think clearly despite the fogginess of her body. From this height, Kitsch could see that she was not in the right state, knew that she was becoming too dizzy and too blinded from the brightness of her own light. She wondered if, perhaps, she had taken too much of the poppy — maybe a whole poppy was too much for a woman of her size and virtue, inexperienced in these sorts of delinquent things. She was better than that, better than this — better than being fondled and besmirched by this, this stranger!
All too quickly he threw himself on top of her, shattering her facade of sublimity and perfectness. The dove knew this motion, this feeling of a man’s weight on top of her… and though she wasn’t a virgin, she had only been with one other man and her [semblance of] wholesomeness still something quite sacred to her. Kitsch was a girl brought up to believe that she was the pinnacle of creation — the pearl of their days, they had called her — and somewhere deep in her brain the flood of serotonin told her everything would be okay; but Kitsch’s outward senses told her that she was in danger and her heart began to flutter out of control. “no…” came her wistful aria, and she peered up at him with swimming, powerless eyes as her dream transformed into some unearthly sort of nightmare. “no…” she whispered again as he settled himself on top of her, beseeching him demurely, and she cursed herself for inability to stop this act. Where were her guards? He would surely be executed for this treason! But just as her guards were not there to protect her, she could not protect herself. His arms swept around and underneath her and pulled her small body up into his. The pale girl shut her eyes and grit her teeth the best she could, but her strength was fleeting and Kitsch found that she was not in control of her facial nerves anymore and soon her mouth fell slack jawed, eyes shut just barely, forced to watch her obscured reality shattered at the behest of a complete stranger.
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cw: not so dubious consent?
There isn’t much struggle beneath him, nothing that he perceives enough to tell him to stop. Her voice does not slow him down as he pulls her by the grip of her hips. The soft whispers of
no do not reach his ears while he molds to the girl and it is an agonizing moment as he stands still to test her stance. He can feel the sway but it does not stop him, slowly giving her release from his embrace without fully leaving the warmth she has to offer.
His eyes finally flutter open to see the pale form within his grasp. The rumble vibrating his chest increases while the illusion slips away from him. Curved around the girl leaves him at the hands of another, however, she does not have the allure that Asterr had, the
heat the lit him on fire. This time when the fire flickers in him, the woman is nowhere to be found for the wrath she sparked some months ago. The growl increases, as does the movement of his hips against her. His claws dig into the sensitive skin of her belly that buries with each new thrust with an anger he’s long pent up. He takes the scruff of her neck between his jaws to further keep her up right, his jaw tightening around the tender flesh that gives away to his sharp teeth that grind together.
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Her body, which had felt so very good just moments ago, now felt so very bad. He pulled and he tugged at her and bumped against her and his incisors pierced her — this wasn’t what the burnt girl had wanted to happened — this wasn’t supposed to happen! It was all wrong! At least, thats what the stories had told her. Sex was gallant warriors and fearless leaders, capable of that cavalier type of love reserved for the wolves of aristocracy. Grand gestures were needed before virtues was surrendered, but he hadn't earned her [hadn’t done anything at all]… as if she were some common whore.
In her mind, she flailed against him and made his hellish task more trouble than it was worth! In her mind, she pulled away from the agony of his taking and slipped from his grasp; for she was young and fluid and could easily weasel herself through the entanglement of his limbs. In her mind, she cried out and screamed so that someone might hear and come end her assault. In her mind, she did so many things but in her reality, Kitsch did nothing. Could do nothing! She was nothing more than a ragdoll in his strong arms, body incapacitated but mind uncommonly strong, thrashing against the inefficacy of her corporeal movements. The girl was simply a passenger in her own defilement, rocking to and fro in a motion that had the potential to be the most beautiful thing in the world but instead was nothing but destruction.
Where was the blissful dullness that the poppy had given her?! Though the plant did nothing to mollify the soreness Kitsch felt in her body [for he was constantly finding new ways to pain her] but she felt the presence of the high in the rush of her veins, in the laboring of her breath which was forced from her lungs from the force of his thrusts. The man clawed at the delicate pink skin of her stomach and hips as if she was nothing. garbage. a woman so useless and undeserving of love that this was the best that the world would ever deign to give her. Even worse than nothing, she was an angel fallen, stripped of her wings and deserving of this fate. This, she was now sure of — he had showed her the truth. “please—“ she supplicated again, this time with more force, hoping he was listening and might take heed… but he didn’t and images of the gallant warriors and fearless leaders flashed across her mind, overriding any sight perceived through her unseeing eyes. Perhaps if she deadened to herself to the world, it may be over faster. But as she shielded her ears from the sounds of the brute grunting away on top of her, the strength suddenly left her legs and she fell to the ground with him on top of her, legs collapsing and folding underneath her. The impact forced the breath from her lungs and she struggled to regain it. Perhaps she would never regain it and she would die right here, like the dirty and worthless thing that she was. Perhaps it was for the best.
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The squirming, the weakened fighting back, none of it slows him down. The anger pent up from months of hoarding it, suppressing it in the depths of his mind, comes out all at once. The fact she has a light pelt and smells not of children or the lair doesn’t slow down the anger in his thrusts and he gives her everything he’s kept locked away. It is not what the girl deserves but in place of his antagonist, she takes the punishment instead. A swelling slows his movements down but the intensity does not pull back, using the short bursts to finish the frustration he’s been holding that shuffles them forward a step or two but her legs are not strong enough.
Surma snaps his head up with her scruff between his teeth to try and salvage the last few seconds but her legs fold and collapse beneath her. He doesn’t have time to prepare before they both hit the ground and his full weight forces her into the dirt. Stunned by the drop, he opens his jaw to release her ragdoll of body; the rest of his knot swollen and imbedded with in her but his satisfaction is long from filled. In his awkward position, trapped on the ground in frustration and her lack of effort to get away, he uses his position to try and push further into her. She remains beneath him like prey waiting for death as he forces the last few thrusts until his release but just before, he grips his teeth around her neck and clamps down. It is not enough to severe or bring her spinal cord but he tears at her skin and muscle for remembrance. Asterr may not feel what this girl does and she will live with it, she will carry the burden the dark chieftess is meant to carry for his destruction.
Slowly, when his hips are stilled and cemented to her groin, he releases the grip on her neck. Her formerly pale fur is tainted with her own blood, soaking through by his piercing teeth. Surma licks softly at the back of her neck, a subtle caress of kindness he has not shown since before he’d mounted her, and softly purrs into her right ear as a lover deserving of this moment would. “It is the sins of another you pay for,” he murmurs softly. He lets the words seep into her drug-addled mind. He shifts his legs into springs, picking up his front half that lifts her lifeless body from inches from the ground by his knot, using his front legs to put weight on her shoulders before he tears away from her all too soon. Surma gives her a warning snarl as the pain sears through his loins with satisfied fire, leaving her a lump on the ground behind him.
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The oujo choked and gasped from breath beneath the full weight of her assailant. The sheer mass and density of his frame threatened to crush and break her, so delicate and fine was she! Her breath could only come in superficial, minuscule puffs — curiously in time with the monster’s thrusts and macabre caresses, as if she was not even allowed to breathe unless he bade her. The dark specter had everything and she had nothing, from her breath to her fractured body to her drug addled mind to her waning spirit. But it was okay… the stranger deserved it more than she did, because she was nothing. deserved nothing. would always be nothing.
The brute found this new position to be a new way to hurt her and he drove deep. Kitsch opened her mouth to let loose a strangled cry but no sound could be heard, so her snapdragon jaws clipped shut and grit together as this new pace was sustained — and Kitsch felt everything. The lamb felt his thrusts against her feeble, quivering hips and felt his grotesque swelling inside her, felt his rough paws claw and clamor at her sides. Felt the searing pain of his fangs as they punctured and tore at the fine fur that lined the nape of her neck, felt the warm blood that coalesced with the assailant's saliva and stained her coat a saccharine shade of pink. Unable to hold her head up in the face of such shame, Kitsch listlessly laid her cheek upon the soft spring grasses and allowed her weakened body to be pushed about quite violently — and that the moment, the wasted ingenue was nothing more than a million china plates being smash on a concrete floor,
the wing of a dove broken between the jaws of its hunter,
the grandest of thrones set against a war-torn countryside
a delicate silken slip, torn and frayed by the claws of some cruel beast
a ragdoll chucked out the window of a family’s suburban going 90 on the highway,
and Kitsch, as she lay between man and earth, was a million things at once — but above all else, the girl was broken. Kitsch aged a thousand years during her assault and intimately knew every single second of this interminable lifetime, for the distortion of time was not in her favor and it did not end quickly. After a thousand years had come and passed, the brute finally found his release — the fleeting apogee that the stranger decided was worth more than she ever was. His jaws clamped upon her hide in his fervor and even then Kitsch could not find her voice; it simply wasn’t worth the effort anymore. Kitsch blinked her unseeing eyes as her head remained twisted and violently pressed into the earth, for it wasn’t until the man’s movements stilled that she realized how strung out she truly was. The numb that had been so endearing was now her enemy; her mind detached from reality, obscuring everything that had just been so clear. Kitsch did not feel his tongue nor hear his words. Her limbs were impossible to move, seemingly made of lead. The girl’s ink dipped tail twitched languidly upon the ground and her body trembled harshly beneath him and her blood ran hot then cold then hot then cold then hot again — but the sacrificial lamb could feel none of these actions, nor was aware of them happening. All she was aware of was a growing wave a nausea in the pit of her stomach, swelling and reeling in the confines of her sweet belly — a curling tide that crashed against her shores when the beast wrested himself from her body, torn from very being.
She vomited where she lay and continued to heave and retch as the monster walked away, disposing of her like a stripped, rotting carcass. It was then that merciful unconsciousness freed the pale babe from her corporeal bastille, cradled her wounded soul in its soothing arms, sang her ringing ears a hushed lullaby and shared with Kitsch last restful sleep she would ever know.
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