List Seven Times You Bled
I.
Fangs in her jugular and she moaned. As the cold, sweet blood filled his mouth, he answered with a moan of his own. It was like a narcotic and for the first time in two hundred and fifty years he hungered for more than blood. The salt and sugar taste of her was filled with such want, such need. As it mingled with him, he wished to know her body, to fill her and see her lost to orgasm. Her legs spread and she arched against him. Pants began to bind in ways they had not done since he was slightly more than a fledgling. Her fingers tangled in his hair and pulled him away from her neck with a strength he had not expected. Looking in her eyes there was none of the drugged pleasure he was used to seeing in human victims. She had felt all the pain of it and it had aroused her. When she rolled him on his back and started to take him, he could not complain.
II.
She hates the humans that have captured her in shackles of fire and iron. Hates the heat of the place they keep her. Even more, she hates the pain of tools they use on her. Beautiful tools that she hates. These young, pathetic humans have turned pain into an art. Were exercising it in all it’s various forms on her body. Testing her limits to heal, limits she didn’t know she had. The way they play with her body tells her that this is not the first time they’ve captured one of the greater Fae, nor the second nor the third. They know all the quirks of her anatomy, ways to explore bones and organs she had only a passing understanding of. With each passing hour they taught her more about pain than they could ever guess. When she got out of the shackles they would learn what skilled teachers they had been and what an apt pupil they had created.
III.
She runs her hands over his body, exploring all the different textures of his skin. He smiles up at her from where his head is resting in her lap. The smile is mischievous, a boyish hint before strong teeth sink into her naked thigh. She growls down at him and smacks his shoulder, but there’s a smile in her eyes so he does it again, harder. Her nails drag over his chest this time, her eyes half closed in the pleasure of it. Another bite and he’s broken skin and she’s on top of him, straddling his hips. She can smell her blood in the air and he can feel it against his skin. Pushes all his right buttons and the drive of it all kept them busy for hours. Could have kept them busy for days but they have their responsibilities and other needs. Besides, eventually the blood stops flowing. Then it’s just cold and sticky liquid, drying slowly.
IV.
They tell her she’s changed since she returned. She tilts her head and looks at them with empty dark eyes and the person who made the comment is left with the impression that she sees past their skin and is deciding the best way to destroy the vital bits below. Silence quickly ensues. Still, she finds herself less than surprised when someone decides to see how she reacts to a knife in the back. Nicely between the ribs, she has to admit. Maybe if her body weren’t adapting to such things for the past year and a half, her body would have begun to give up when the knife buried itself to the hilt. Instead it felt almost pleasant and left her feeling so very much alive. When she turned around to look at the man and pulled the knife out of her flesh and into him with half a pause, they stopped worrying about her changing and started thinking it might not be a bad thing.
V.
The knife settles into the flesh of her belly, slowly cleaving through the layers of skin, not quite reaching the muscle. He’s holding back for her, she can see it in his eyes. She wants to tell him it’s ok, that he cut deeper that her body body has been through more than he has ever done to a woman. Instead she arches back against the wall, moaning and whimpering for all the reasons he never thought she would. He draws another line in her skin with the blade and she sees his reaction to her blood and the soft sounds she makes as he works. Her right hand slides out of his grip in his distraction, kneading him through his pants. The blade slips slightly in his hand in his surprise. A shudder runs through her. He drops the knife as her hands work his body. This kind of torture might have been frustrating in other ways but he was always relaxed at the end of the night.
VI.
The nature of battle changed since the last time she was out on the field. Her reaction to the pain of it is different than it used to be. She doesn’t seek the damage, she’s not that much of a fool. But the blows that do land don’t distract in all the same ways. The feel is more like that of pleasure than the distraction of growing pain. She wonders if they hurt her enough in enough different ways if a release would come. The more that she progresses, the more sure she is that it will occur. But how strong will the pain be that leaves her with release. A blow that breaks one of the bones in her arms through muscle and skin does it. And her pain and the pleasure from the fight flows outwards. It ripples over her soldiers and settles in their enemies. She doesn’t remember anything after until they set the arm. Everything after is too clear.
VII.
His grip on the back of her neck is punishing. His lips are soft along her shoulder, a painful contrast that had all her focus on him. The wall he has her crushed against makes it nearly impossibly to breath, but what little pants she has are slowly frosting the glass of the mirror. His breath is so hot in her ear in comparison. He whispers that everything before was dream and that nothing else is real. She wants to believe it. Everything else is so very painful and this is nearly pleasant. There’s a pressure building against the small of her back, increasingly hard. The frosted ferns cover the mirror as her pants increase. There is nothing but this moment, he whispers again. She nods, smudging the frost patterns. Another soft kiss before his very human teeth sink into her shoulder. The glass shatters.
Mab
1145
Mythology/Folklore
Fangs in her jugular and she moaned. As the cold, sweet blood filled his mouth, he answered with a moan of his own. It was like a narcotic and for the first time in two hundred and fifty years he hungered for more than blood. The salt and sugar taste of her was filled with such want, such need. As it mingled with him, he wished to know her body, to fill her and see her lost to orgasm. Her legs spread and she arched against him. Pants began to bind in ways they had not done since he was slightly more than a fledgling. Her fingers tangled in his hair and pulled him away from her neck with a strength he had not expected. Looking in her eyes there was none of the drugged pleasure he was used to seeing in human victims. She had felt all the pain of it and it had aroused her. When she rolled him on his back and started to take him, he could not complain.
II.
She hates the humans that have captured her in shackles of fire and iron. Hates the heat of the place they keep her. Even more, she hates the pain of tools they use on her. Beautiful tools that she hates. These young, pathetic humans have turned pain into an art. Were exercising it in all it’s various forms on her body. Testing her limits to heal, limits she didn’t know she had. The way they play with her body tells her that this is not the first time they’ve captured one of the greater Fae, nor the second nor the third. They know all the quirks of her anatomy, ways to explore bones and organs she had only a passing understanding of. With each passing hour they taught her more about pain than they could ever guess. When she got out of the shackles they would learn what skilled teachers they had been and what an apt pupil they had created.
III.
She runs her hands over his body, exploring all the different textures of his skin. He smiles up at her from where his head is resting in her lap. The smile is mischievous, a boyish hint before strong teeth sink into her naked thigh. She growls down at him and smacks his shoulder, but there’s a smile in her eyes so he does it again, harder. Her nails drag over his chest this time, her eyes half closed in the pleasure of it. Another bite and he’s broken skin and she’s on top of him, straddling his hips. She can smell her blood in the air and he can feel it against his skin. Pushes all his right buttons and the drive of it all kept them busy for hours. Could have kept them busy for days but they have their responsibilities and other needs. Besides, eventually the blood stops flowing. Then it’s just cold and sticky liquid, drying slowly.
IV.
They tell her she’s changed since she returned. She tilts her head and looks at them with empty dark eyes and the person who made the comment is left with the impression that she sees past their skin and is deciding the best way to destroy the vital bits below. Silence quickly ensues. Still, she finds herself less than surprised when someone decides to see how she reacts to a knife in the back. Nicely between the ribs, she has to admit. Maybe if her body weren’t adapting to such things for the past year and a half, her body would have begun to give up when the knife buried itself to the hilt. Instead it felt almost pleasant and left her feeling so very much alive. When she turned around to look at the man and pulled the knife out of her flesh and into him with half a pause, they stopped worrying about her changing and started thinking it might not be a bad thing.
V.
The knife settles into the flesh of her belly, slowly cleaving through the layers of skin, not quite reaching the muscle. He’s holding back for her, she can see it in his eyes. She wants to tell him it’s ok, that he cut deeper that her body body has been through more than he has ever done to a woman. Instead she arches back against the wall, moaning and whimpering for all the reasons he never thought she would. He draws another line in her skin with the blade and she sees his reaction to her blood and the soft sounds she makes as he works. Her right hand slides out of his grip in his distraction, kneading him through his pants. The blade slips slightly in his hand in his surprise. A shudder runs through her. He drops the knife as her hands work his body. This kind of torture might have been frustrating in other ways but he was always relaxed at the end of the night.
VI.
The nature of battle changed since the last time she was out on the field. Her reaction to the pain of it is different than it used to be. She doesn’t seek the damage, she’s not that much of a fool. But the blows that do land don’t distract in all the same ways. The feel is more like that of pleasure than the distraction of growing pain. She wonders if they hurt her enough in enough different ways if a release would come. The more that she progresses, the more sure she is that it will occur. But how strong will the pain be that leaves her with release. A blow that breaks one of the bones in her arms through muscle and skin does it. And her pain and the pleasure from the fight flows outwards. It ripples over her soldiers and settles in their enemies. She doesn’t remember anything after until they set the arm. Everything after is too clear.
VII.
His grip on the back of her neck is punishing. His lips are soft along her shoulder, a painful contrast that had all her focus on him. The wall he has her crushed against makes it nearly impossibly to breath, but what little pants she has are slowly frosting the glass of the mirror. His breath is so hot in her ear in comparison. He whispers that everything before was dream and that nothing else is real. She wants to believe it. Everything else is so very painful and this is nearly pleasant. There’s a pressure building against the small of her back, increasingly hard. The frosted ferns cover the mirror as her pants increase. There is nothing but this moment, he whispers again. She nods, smudging the frost patterns. Another soft kiss before his very human teeth sink into her shoulder. The glass shatters.
Mab
1145
Mythology/Folklore