I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.


    Act III-- Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tomb

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    Tariq
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    Act III-- Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tomb

    Post  Tariq on Sat Oct 27, 2012 2:25 pm

    --The boy’s moaning cries had become inarticulate as he unconsciously obeyed the vampire’s command. There was something divinely carnal about the broken syllables coming from his lips, like the low gush of blood through his heart. It was fortunate the bat’s dull eyes could not see the gleam of taut flesh through the torn fabric. Already his lips were pulled back from the glint of his bone-white teeth in a gruesome smile taut with the fierce desire to feel the omen’s luscious heart on tiptoe against his lips. The scent that rose from the boy’s body was like the heat and smoke of church candles, like a cathedral soaked in rain. The heart thumping under the skin of his bared chest, his tight little belly glistening with sweat that smelled sweet and saltless and alive— it was maddening, and for a moment the vampire could scarce breathe.

        He sensed, rather than saw, the inviting arch of the omen’s exposed throat as he shifted hungrily beneath him. Instinctively, his spine curved, taut as a tripwire, in predatory loops of sharp vertebrae to allow his lips to rest against the pliant skin of his trembling neck. One hand still pressed the boy’s thin wrists together, grinding them into the floor above his head, while the other played on the flesh between his tight thighs to coerce the sweet gasps and grinding, eager motion from his starved body. The smell of their skin seemed to have gotten into the air, their desire a physical necessity.

         “So ravenous, little one.” The words, although soft and low as a growl, broke open against the flesh of the boy’s throat and bled, hot and heady. It was impossible to discern who he was referring to. His forked tongue traced a quivering line from collarbone to the base of his chin, cutting as keenly as any knife.

        The hand between his legs broke away as the bat straightened, his pelvis moving against the hips he straddled. His eyes, his black, dead eyes, had been possessed by something that burned hot and fierce, their gloomy depths lit by more than the omen’s erratic flickering. He brought his thin fingers up to his mouth and wet them with a long stroke of his tongue before brushing them softly against the boy’s parted lips. There was something tender about the touch, although wholly possessive, that seemed nearly a quiet, faded warning. The blood that pounded through the omen’s flushed veins and heated skin was met in kind from the bat, rousing them to an aching, wrenching heat. Whatever terrible thing was to come would be made all the worse by the enthusiastic consent from the boy’s trembling, eager body that whined, moaned, greedily pleaded, "I want it, I want it, give it all to me."


    Last edited by Tariq on Sat Sep 17, 2016 4:07 pm; edited 1 time in total
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    Fabien

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    Re: Act III-- Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tomb

    Post  Fabien on Sat Oct 27, 2012 3:36 pm

    Fabien did not feel alive. Every last drop of energy had been bled from him slowly, all the sharp corners of his memory were eroded and incorrectly archived. It seemed he almost lost himself here and there, moved so sharply between absolute terror and the warm tide of pleasure that his gasps were born both of fear and desire. Sometimes he was there, enclosed in the bat’s darkness, other times he was chasing his own shadow through confused hallucinations. The effect left him trembling.

    And at first his wrists twisted in an attempt to slip free of the vampire’s clutches, to work the skin away like a Bastille veteran searing at the flesh beneath a shackle. Somehow, it didn't feel right to be bound; it caused a weight to settle beneath his chest like a cold stone. He continued the action mechanically; his fingers splayed together, the bones beneath his flesh writing. But his lower body was not so keen to depart, and it triggered a lull, an uncertainty to his actions. There was something richly persuasive in the bat’s actions, in the stillness of his breath, and in something else he could sense deep below his flesh. It painted yearning into the corners of his lips, and appreciatively, undulating sways of his hips as they moved silkily against the bat’s hand. By the time dark lips were pressed against his neck, the omen’s moans were working the wheezing, hoarse flute of his throat to sing as fine as any well tuned instrument. The sudden contact urged the boy’s skull to turn softly, his damp cheek brushing against coarse fur in a strange, almost passionate manner. There was desperation painted into the indigo shadows of his features, a shivering, hot breathed necessity that caused him to almost nuzzle like a half spent lover.

    The cut of the bat’s tongue severed it, and incited the youth’s chin to lift, to arch upwards and tilt his skull back into the diamond space made between his restricted arms. He winced, broken thing that he was, and remained momentarily frozen in this tilted stance. Then slow, muddled recognition of the vampire’s words encouraged his skull to turn, the smooth plane of his brow soon tucked against the hard bone of his twisted arm. He wanted to take the wretched cloth that concealed that arm between his teeth, and bite it. Instead, he muffled his mouth against it, breathed heavily into his own flesh. They were deep, loud sounds, boiled somewhere within his blackened chest and thankfully deadened. For it seemed if nothing else, he recalled his shame.

    The cursed creature’s body moved with increasing ardour, and his trembling grew thicker and more pressured... until he was left panting. The frustration was painful enough to grit his teeth, to curl the filthy twist of his toes and set his tail into a crackling writhe. As the vampire’s hand turned aside, the omen’s lower body lifted in feeble search for it. His head rolled back to its former position, breath shuddering against the vampire’s finger, infused with his wanting, and crackling softly with his dissatisfied desire.
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    Tariq
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    Re: Act III-- Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tomb

    Post  Tariq on Sun Nov 18, 2012 1:21 am

    --Tariq’s fingers blew gently across the boy’s lips, reading every crease like lines on a page. They pulled his lower lip down, exposing his parted teeth and plum-purple gums, his fingertips moist from the omen’s wet mouth.

    His shuddering frustration sent a surge of cruel delight trembling through the bat. It arched his spine, his wings momentarily flaring in dark shadows at his shoulders, their claws tilted in a genteel bow toward the floor, and his bare hips tensed, his pelvis grinding obscenely into the omen’s torso. For a moment, he savoured it, relishing the silent, excruciated writhing beneath him. He treasured the hot, rasping want rattling dryly through the omen’s thin throat, and greedily drank in the struggling of hungry flesh and ravening nerves that ached too finely for words to capture.

    Without warning, he leaned in, applying a cruel pressure to the delicate bones of the slender wrists imprisoned in his hand. His breath, cool as a crypt, washed over the boy’s wet mouth, his lips pressing momentarily against his own fingers that still forced the omen’s lips to part. It began as a tender kiss, a pressing of lips to wet fingertips, lips to the purple inside of his lower lip, but the vampire’s sharp teeth grazed the skin and blood bloomed, a ripe, vivid bud, between the taste of their mouths. He trembled at the flavor, his serpentine tongue flicking in, slick, to savour it, his hand moving from lip to chin to throat. His claws flexed and raked against the skin of his neck as though hoping to rip him open and release the dark moths whose wingtips beat a startling crescendo in his heart, in his veins, fluttering beneath the warmed flesh. He sucked the breath from his throat, stole the air from asthmatic lungs as though he wanted to eat the silver moonbeam flaring in his wretched, shivering body, as though he wanted to devour the fleeting shade of his dark lashes.

    He could not endure this for long. When he pulled away, his white hair whispered like mist across the bones of the omen’s slight chest and there was something savage lurking in the clenching of his teeth behind blood-tinted lips. The vampire was made liquid by his desire, his warmed body moving with eerie, predatory grace as he arched to rise from straddling the omen’s torso. His ribs flexed, starved against skin. The sudden weight on the boy’s pinned wrists was sure to leave bruises as he inched upward, forward, to that hungry mouth.

    His position - spine arched and limbs taut - only exaggerated the shivers that haunted his long frame. His wings shook like dry leaves, the bones of his legs trembling like the branches of a dead tree in a storm. Perhaps it was this vulnerability that made him mean, perhaps it was in cruel retaliation at the boy having seen this exposure that prompted his fingers to tighten and his hips to thrust.

    Tariq’s shadows, his makeshift night, fractured and shivered as lips met hot skin.

    The vampire eased himself into the boy’s mouth with an exhalation coloured heavily with a ragged groan. His black eyes were concealed beneath dark lids, his teeth bared in a fierce, unguarded expression. There was precious little the omen could resist with his wrists bound above his skull, a delicate ink-splattering of bruises already tip-toeing down the inside of his arms. One of the bat’s palms firmly cradled his skull, fingers entwined in unruly hair, to keep him just where he wanted him as the touch of his tongue crackled like fire through every nerve.

    Streaked with saltless blood and tears, the boy was as thin as a trembling horn. Shrouded in the darkness, he grudgingly obeyed his master’s command for silence.
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    Fabien

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    Re: Act III-- Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tomb

    Post  Fabien on Sun Nov 18, 2012 3:27 pm

    Fabien was still so blissfully calm. Meek as a lamb was this creature of bad destiny, bringer of ill will and lost hope. But as intoxicated as he was with his undesired desire, the boy’s lust was coloured by sadness, sadness visible most evocatively in his large, questioning eyes and felt in the shallow rasp of his breath. It became audible in the softest of whines at the back of his throat, more pronounced when the pressure upon his thin wrists became too severe. Such whines also begged softly, pleaded of his master in ways he would break himself to voice. To touch him again, finish him, sooth the ache that he had left.

    Gradually his eyes lifted like sickly crescent moons beneath the clouds of his eyelids, it bestowed him an expression of resigned acceptance. He looked like one ready to die, be finished or be ended, it hardly seemed to matter anymore. But do it now, he sang without speaking, you have prepared me well for hellfire so take me now, I go willing. His breath sighed sweetly against the vampire’s lips, and offered up his soul, or what tatters remained of it were left. He hardly noticed the sweetened taste of blood against his tongue, nor sensed the bat’s preoccupation and strangely savage demeanour. The boy behaved like one drunk, sluggish, his head lolling, his breath a half panted rattle. Perhaps he had become complacent, too relaxed in his slow, crumbling shift towards absolute mindless servitude. It had dimmed him, dimmed and made a cadaver of him. So when those familiar fingers felt over his flesh, when lips were against his own, they were granted total freedom, uninhibited and without protest.

    It would have continued in a similar vein too, had the bat not awakened the sleeping fox.

    Unprepared, the boy’s skull moved mechanically, a sharp twist of the chin away, away but without relief, without escape. Now, his tongue was firm against the vampire’s scalding flesh, he could taste him upon his tongue, his hot breath shuddering over the bat’s skin. The shock of it, the soft, choking violation stirred his memory in the sharpest way possible. Images burned behind his eyes, the sobbing of those fleeting ghost he had once kept company with and were now recalled. Je ne suis pas votre petite pute. Not me, not to me. He was old, and free, and cunning. He was not this.

    Suddenly his eyes erupted in volcanic light, burning behind his papery eyelids until it seemed almost to set his hair aflame. His entire being shuddered, convulsed almost like a creature verging on fit, oh hysteria. The surge, the current that moved through him caused storms to break over calm seas, mirrors to slip from careless fingers, glass tumbles to hiss across lacquered wood. And with them, his hatred hissed through his vulpine tail in angry lashes, and only then did the cursed creature growl like a feral child. It was a noise that rumbled deep within his chest, unlikely to be a displeasing sensation. At least, not until his skull turned slowly and the slight shift of his chin caused one canind tooth to graze the sensitive flesh forced between his jaws. The omen’s frail chest heaved, his tongue trembled and mouth pooled slowly with the spit he dare not swallow. Soon it would trickle in steady steam from the corners of his parted lips, dyed prettily with threads of his blood.

    The boy became overly animated; he pulled hard at his bruised and secured arms, joints cracking, muscles stretching in his desperation to be free. But oh, how he would lunge if he could, how he would reach and claw and strike with every inch of his soul.
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    Tariq
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    Re: Act III-- Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tomb

    Post  Tariq on Sun Nov 18, 2012 5:15 pm

    --Tariq’s long frame shuddered. It pulsed and throbbed with a terrible hunger, a blaze of hot craving that possessed him utterly, consumed him whole. It crackled through his nerves and scorched him down to raw bones of want. He was transformed into an instrument of pleasure, blind senses wholly attuned to the sensations of grinding bones and whimpering lips. He was something terrible. He was something ravenous.

    The omen’s snarled protest thrummed pleasurably through the flesh forced between his jaws. The rancorous light of his eyes and the bitter dissent of his flailing body went unnoticed, ignored. The bat was far from the hostile plottings of his dark mind, his mind bound tightly in the thrusting of his hips and the heat of his body. However, while the omen’s feral growl was relished, the sudden snag of sharp tooth on taut skin was met with a visceral recoil, his black eyes flaring to some semblance of terrible, malicious life as he was jarringly returned to the present.

    The boy’s wrists, already crushed and bruising, were assaulted by the sudden, punishing flex of deadly claws. Blood welled eagerly up from the wounds, splattering grey skin with delicate strands of trickling crimson that only thickened at his struggling attempts to break free. Every pull drove the vampire’s claws deeper into the flesh. His resistance only guaranteed his painful captivity.

    The hand that had been snarled in the omen’s hair instinctively wrapped around the slender stalk of his throat. He promptly applied a crushing pressure whose suddenness and ferocity were liable to force the boy to gasp for the slightest air. Not swallowing swiftly ceased to be an act of revolt, and became a forced mandate.

    The vampire’s neck bowed, dark wings unfurling in a banner of clawed fingers to accommodate the shift as his mouth demandingly met the omen’s. It could hardly be described as a kiss; there was nothing so tender about the firmness of his lips, the predatory delight with which his long tongue savored the copper of their mingling blood, the hot, sticky mess of their mouths, the tongue that still tasted of his skin. It was a rapacious domination, a cruel, hard act of savage power.

    He pulled away and the relative benevolence of his mouth was replaced again by the demand of his greedy skin. This time, the vampire did not content himself with the touch of lips and flicking of tongue. His desecration did not stop until he could feel the skin of the throat beneath his cruel fingers expand with his presence. It was a swift, punishing gesture that the omen’s body was sure to protest, but it would not be removed until his wet mouth became compliant.

    He did not speak; his actions were proof enough of what he craved. He did not allow the boy to speak; he had been given his command, and had not earned his chance to see it diminished. The silence was broken only by the sounds of their struggle, the wheezing, livid gasps and scrabbling nails like some macabre melody in the blinding darkness.
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    Fabien

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    Re: Act III-- Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tomb

    Post  Fabien on Sun Nov 18, 2012 6:01 pm

    The boy had been weakened despairingly, made lack lustre from pain and continuous aggression; there was little life to be conserved within his dry, yellowing bones. But he scraped together what was there, and he fought the vampire like a trapped stag fighting for its life. His spine sought to rise up, his legs arched, bent, assisted in an attempt to bow him from the floor. His efforts were only stilled by split skin, and the sudden warm gush of fluid he felt gathering in his palms halted the boy’s efforts sharply. Regardless, he continued for as long as he could, twisting and struggling until the pain became unbearable and the floor around his upper arms was splashed with the pattern of his blood.

    Before he was cut off afresh, and limited though his time was, the vulpine youth composed the roots of a hissing threat. “I hope you bur-“Before he choked it back, consumed the remainder of his words. They were lined with blood, laced with the taste of the vampire’s flesh and through it his entire being convulsed a second time. The flesh of his neck fretted against the vampire’s palm, a discomfort, a misery, but he relished it. He assumed he had, in his act of outrage, at least shaken the bat from him. So, when their lips met again, Fabien’s features turned murderous, incensed. He would not stand for it; he would not allow it to proceed. He was not a toy, and this was enough, enough. Before the vampire’s retreating lips left his own the foxen youth snapped after him like a rabid dog. He tried, best he could, to sink his teeth into the dark curve of the vampires lips. Pain, for his pain, even if it was slight. And if not, he’d clamp down on the slither of air that briefly separated them.

    When his warning did nothing and his jaws were forced to part again, Fabien’s angry cries near tore a hole in his chest. They were silenced only by his choking, by his awful dry retching. Resilient, his spine arched, his torso heaved, every part of him pulled. But he was smothered, forced to succumb to gasping sobs and more angry tears that rolled in singular, shimmering lines through the grime that coated his cheeks. The sorrow of it caused his chest to jerk involuntarily, causing his body to force the vampire’s flesh deeper into his protesting throat. At last he began to soften, to still, his pointed tongue softening against the vampires flesh. Only his eyes retained their hatred, fixated on the bat’s skull and illuminating his hair with their angry light. It seemed he was resigned to stare at him for the duration of this fresh hell, jaw muscles slack, boring his eyes into the bat’s skull in a bid to convince him he had been forced once more into obedience.
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    Tariq
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    Re: Act III-- Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tomb

    Post  Tariq on Sun Nov 18, 2012 7:13 pm

    --Tariq’s lip bled freely where the omen’s teeth had bitten through it. A fresh trail of blood traced the curve of his chin, snaking down to disappear somewhere in the charcoal hollow of his neck. It stained his mouth a poisonous berry-red, his tongue slick and scarlet when glimpsed between the clean ivory of his teeth. It was a minor wound, a sting inconsequential to the misery he was inflicting to the suffering creature beneath him.

    Blood splattered the floor. It stained skin and fur and hair and filled the dark room with its scent, heady, potent and warm. The pair’s struggling had smeared it across their faces in wild, jagged designs. Bloody half-moons and savage streaks dappled their bodies, transforming their hellish embrace into a bestial dance as they twisted like serpents.

    The omen’s softening saved him. With every hint of compliance, no matter how feigned, the bat’s movements grew smoother, less punishing. The slackness of his jaw allowed his movements to work with him, a soft half-sigh involuntary slipping from his throat with every thrust.

    Staving off blackout, the vampire’s fingers loosened around his neck. Blood outlined where his fingertips had been, the insides darkened with the delicate whorl of bruise. His gray skin was a dangerous, mottled thing. He was allowed to swallow and breathe freely. The first sign of tensing or scorn would be asphyxiated before it had a chance to blossom, his grip merciless around the delicate struts and pulsing hollows of his tender, hurting neck.

    When at last the omen’s rebellion had faded - when his mouth, tongue, lips, throat had relaxed, warm and wet, against the violation – the bat pulled away with the ghost of a thick snarl haunting his throat. The trembling in his limbs had flourished. His ragged wings, still tensed above his shoulders to balance his weight, shivered a constant, melancholy susurrus. The vampire released the boy’s throat, his free hand slinking over collarbones and down the line of his slim chest, along the tightness of his stomach before reaching the soft skin between his thighs. For a moment, both of his arms were stretched to the limit as he continued to bind his wrists. However, once the points of his dangerous claws met the flesh between his legs, he released the boy’s arms from their bondage. His dark claws raked against the skin in an explicit warning that darkly threatened excruciating pain, agony, loss. But then his touch softened and became a reassuring coaxing meant to rouse the nerves from their surly stupor, meant to induce liquid warmth to twist through his innards.

    A shift, a twist of bones and muscles in the darkness, and the vampire had returned to straddling the omen’s torso. His muscles were granted a reprieve from their strain, and the boy was allowed the freedom to breathe, to move his limbs freely albeit within the confines of vampire’s weight on his chest. His sensitive fingers did not slow their work, working the skin with knowledgeable cunning that almost mirrored a tender apology to the omen’s ravaged body. A moment later, and his mouth joined the application of his fingers. Hot breath and the slickness of his tongue coaxed the club-marked flesh into a symbol of eager forgiveness, regardless of the desires of its owner. His unoccupied hand slipped to the quivering skin between his own thighs, loathe to waste the delicious slickness of his mouth. He silently worked it into his own skin as his mouth voraciously returned the favour.

    He settled quickly into a heated rhythm. His hands stroked both of their heated, hungry flesh with the same tempo, his lips greedy and obscene as they ravened the naked nerves. After the torture he had inflicted, the room still bespattered with blood in the same designs as the bruises that twirled up the boy’s sore neck, this aching tenderness was certainly a cruel, cruel trick.
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    Fabien

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    Re: Act III-- Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tomb

    Post  Fabien on Sun Dec 02, 2012 12:44 pm


    Fabien’s body was electric with rage; it trembled gently with a finely simmering aggression that crackled in every snake-like flit of his tail. Though the tension had eased from his jaw, every other joint and limb was sharp and paralysed by his loathing and disgust. His anger could have easily made him senseless, it still rumbled somewhere in the hollow pit of his starving chest with uncontrollable savagery. It paced to and fro like a fighting dog incited relentless to rip and tear with the singular desire to cause pain, and the boy’s lashing out was prevented only by the constrictive grasp about his throat. A blessing perhaps, for without it he would surely have taken his chance in a crazed bid to inflict more damage. The fox featured youth continued to cringe against the vampire’s flesh, to block his muffled whimpering as best he could, for the mere sound of them renewed the torrents of his anger.

    Finally his agitated displays lessened, the crackling and hissing of his tail diluted, and the fires that raged through his chest were seemingly doused. His reward was accepted with an almost thankful intake of air, the sharpest of gasps and a pull aside of the skull. So severe was the twist that the back of his head cracked against unpleasantly against the floor beneath him, dazzling the boy with pain infused illusions. What sparks of unsalted violence remained were crumbled into nothingness at his exposure to the bat’s rack-like torture, and he cried out against them as sweetly as any beaten creature might.

    When freed, he lowered his arms tentatively, the back of one grubby palm snaked towards his wet lips in its desire to sweep aside his grief. His fingers remained there, probing the flesh of his mouth as though he assess changes in its design. He seemed unaware of the bat’s touch upon him, distracted, or else too weakened of mind to stalk his actions further. But it came soon after, in the gentle flickering of candlelight, as the omen’s eyes shivered down towards his Master.

    He observed him blankly at first, too weary to construct thought, too lethargic to find his smothered voice. But when the bat’s lips lowered upon him, the boy’s spine twisted, his stomach muscles tautened, and his torso sought to levitate upwards. Unmolested, his body was sure to arch upwardly like Lazarus rising from the tomb, lip curled and eyes blazing. The restrictions imposed on him would never allow for the boy to achieve a great height, but were perhaps sufficient enough to prop upon one trembling elbow. But his purpose lay in his hands, in his conjurer’s fingers, their arthritic claws aimed towards the vampire’s skull with monstrous intent. They had come once before, these dreamy gestures of violence, rasping, ghoul-like and poorly conceived. If he was afforded the luxury, it was likely his fingers would skim the silken outer layer of the bat’s hair. Perhaps curl there, with knuckles ivory and the tendons of fingers flexed in preparation to clench, to pull, to rip.
    If not hindered before he reached his goal, the boy’s actions came to their inevitable conclusion. In a shuddering, frustrated surge of hot breath, in the bowing of his skull and clenching of his teeth. His features were agonised with pleasure infused dismay, robbed of the chance to fulfil his need for revenge and satisfaction.

    If pushed back, he most certainly would sink, if left, he’d remain frozen. His fingers still in their somnambulistic reach, but perhaps curled a little in forced wanting. His chin arched slowly, and his throat damned him with gentle, punishing moans.

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