Room 218, Laaaaaate Sunday Night (After Radio)
After a busy day of brunch and catching up and residual excitement over being named sophomore princess, Karla had no problem falling asleep.
It is a picnic. She is having a picnic with Warren, with pineapples of both the edible and the kissing variety. They laugh and talk, feeding one another and nipping at each other's fingers. The sun is bright and golden, shining down and keeping them warm, even as the leaves above them are turning orange and crimson. It is a good dream.
Not again. Not again.
Suddenly, the sun dims, hidden by scudding clouds. The wind picks up, causing gooseflesh to raise up on her arms. Warren laughs and holds her closer, rubbing her skin with gentle hands, chiding her for not bringing along a sweater. He pulls her into his lap, wrapping his wings about her as he's done countless times before.
So why is she suddenly afraid? Why are her nerves buzzing?
Sever it this time. Break the link for good. No. Can't. Won't be able to reach him if...
His arms twine around her waist and he begins to press kisses onto her neck and shoulders, marveling at the softness of her skin. The sky turns darker still, until it feels like evening instead of mid-afternoon. The zipper on the back of her dress begins to slide down of its own accord. Karla knows she should be paying attention to what Warren is doing--his teeth are grazing the side of her neck, something that never fails to earn a gasp--but she just can't get beyond this sudden sense of fear. Where is it coming from?
You can't have this body. This body is promised to him.
Karla stands up, almost forgetting Warren's presence entirely. The back of her dress gapes, letting in the cold air. It's no longer a warm day in early autumn. Now it's the bitterness of the end of fall; harvest done, the dying season is upon them. With that chill comes another, the freezing rage of the Blood pushed past everything warm and human within them.
No. Not again.
She realizes now that this is just a dream--but it is a true dream, a Black Widow dream. These things she is feeling are coming from an outside source: the buzzing, the fear, the cold fury that is spiraling through her. These aren't her emotions washing over her--they're hers.
Jaenelle's.
Hell's fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful.
I won't allow this. I will not submit to this.
"Karla." Warren grabs her hand, spins her roughly to him. They are no longer outside. She recognizes the room that has sprung up around them: it is the ballroom at the estate. All around them are people she recognizes from her uncle's so-called Ruling Council. Their eyes are empty and vacant, and yet they watch with avid, prurient interest. They are dressed for a party and so is he, even though Karla is still in her same little picnic dress; her back bared for everyone to see. That glimpse of bare flesh is enough to make her feel naked, shamed, judged. It is frigid in here now, her fingers and lips turn blue with cold. It is the same, it is Glacia all over again, no it is Briarwood, and now Warren is the Opal Jeweled Warlord who'd attacked her in her chambers. She notices the glint of gold on his finger, before he drags her down for a crushing, bruising kiss, and the room fills with blood as she spirals round and round and down...
No.
Karla woke from her dream with a strangled cry, dragging herself up and out from layers of blankets. The room felt hot as an oven and her hair was plastered to her skin with sweat. None of that mattered. She had to go, to get home. Jaenelle was in trouble. She didn't know what was happening, but it didn't matter. Karla would take care of her afterward. Sweet Darkness, please let there be an afterward.
The cold, the fear, the buzzing had all vanished along with her dream. But within her, she could still feel the bone-deep rage. Mother Night, the rage!
Nooooooooooooo!
[Warning for allusions to a prior assault. Dream!Warren modded with express permission from not_a_parakeet. Snippets of text taken from Anne Bishop's Heir to the Shadows, Chapter Thirteen. For the roommate only, please. So kicks off the plot!]
It is a picnic. She is having a picnic with Warren, with pineapples of both the edible and the kissing variety. They laugh and talk, feeding one another and nipping at each other's fingers. The sun is bright and golden, shining down and keeping them warm, even as the leaves above them are turning orange and crimson. It is a good dream.
Not again. Not again.
Suddenly, the sun dims, hidden by scudding clouds. The wind picks up, causing gooseflesh to raise up on her arms. Warren laughs and holds her closer, rubbing her skin with gentle hands, chiding her for not bringing along a sweater. He pulls her into his lap, wrapping his wings about her as he's done countless times before.
So why is she suddenly afraid? Why are her nerves buzzing?
Sever it this time. Break the link for good. No. Can't. Won't be able to reach him if...
His arms twine around her waist and he begins to press kisses onto her neck and shoulders, marveling at the softness of her skin. The sky turns darker still, until it feels like evening instead of mid-afternoon. The zipper on the back of her dress begins to slide down of its own accord. Karla knows she should be paying attention to what Warren is doing--his teeth are grazing the side of her neck, something that never fails to earn a gasp--but she just can't get beyond this sudden sense of fear. Where is it coming from?
You can't have this body. This body is promised to him.
Karla stands up, almost forgetting Warren's presence entirely. The back of her dress gapes, letting in the cold air. It's no longer a warm day in early autumn. Now it's the bitterness of the end of fall; harvest done, the dying season is upon them. With that chill comes another, the freezing rage of the Blood pushed past everything warm and human within them.
No. Not again.
She realizes now that this is just a dream--but it is a true dream, a Black Widow dream. These things she is feeling are coming from an outside source: the buzzing, the fear, the cold fury that is spiraling through her. These aren't her emotions washing over her--they're hers.
Jaenelle's.
Hell's fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful.
I won't allow this. I will not submit to this.
"Karla." Warren grabs her hand, spins her roughly to him. They are no longer outside. She recognizes the room that has sprung up around them: it is the ballroom at the estate. All around them are people she recognizes from her uncle's so-called Ruling Council. Their eyes are empty and vacant, and yet they watch with avid, prurient interest. They are dressed for a party and so is he, even though Karla is still in her same little picnic dress; her back bared for everyone to see. That glimpse of bare flesh is enough to make her feel naked, shamed, judged. It is frigid in here now, her fingers and lips turn blue with cold. It is the same, it is Glacia all over again, no it is Briarwood, and now Warren is the Opal Jeweled Warlord who'd attacked her in her chambers. She notices the glint of gold on his finger, before he drags her down for a crushing, bruising kiss, and the room fills with blood as she spirals round and round and down...
No.
Karla woke from her dream with a strangled cry, dragging herself up and out from layers of blankets. The room felt hot as an oven and her hair was plastered to her skin with sweat. None of that mattered. She had to go, to get home. Jaenelle was in trouble. She didn't know what was happening, but it didn't matter. Karla would take care of her afterward. Sweet Darkness, please let there be an afterward.
The cold, the fear, the buzzing had all vanished along with her dream. But within her, she could still feel the bone-deep rage. Mother Night, the rage!
Nooooooooooooo!
[Warning for allusions to a prior assault. Dream!Warren modded with express permission from not_a_parakeet. Snippets of text taken from Anne Bishop's Heir to the Shadows, Chapter Thirteen. For the roommate only, please. So kicks off the plot!]