A Case of Crabs [PM for invite]

[Vrag]

A sharp intake of breath followed his fast, artful parry, and though she twisted her wrist into pronation in an effort to bring her blade back around and into his leg from above, the woman found herself striking at empty air. Feth.

Her frustration would remain bottled and corked inside her, carefully stored as her anger simmered and boiled. Oh, how rarely she let the beast out of its pen. Perhaps a more… frequent stroll would be good for her mental health — something that Sith rarely thought about, it seemed — but it was certainly a train of thought she would pursue at a later time.

Her heart thrummed against her ribs, calmer and slower than what most would feel during a duel; a byproduct of both her physical and psychical state, ironically enough. It created an illusion of diluted time in her little bubble of reality, and as always she moved with the rhythm of her breath as she dragged it in through her sharp teeth. It had never been particularly hard for Vrag to wrap her head around the concept of time being relative, for there was no better way to experience that on one's own skin than in battle. There was a certain sort of… state that the mind slipped into, and treading that line between awareness and instinct was at the core of dictating the tempo of the fight.

By stepping out of the narrow measure, [member="Reverance"] forced her to pause in that tempo, creating a lull in the rhythm that she knew would disrupt the pacing of them both. Her eyes narrowed slightly, but it was all the reaction she let bleed into her features. Her opponent was a skilled duelist in his own right, and she didn't need to give him any more ammunition than he already possessed; any good fighter, after all, learned to read the enemy instead of the weapon.

The Knight allowed herself a moment of respite as they circled around each other, eyes darting away from Gabriel every now and then to assess her surroundings — she wouldn't let herself be backed into a corner —but mostly she remained silent and ready as she listened to him talk. Vrag rarely had any patience for the spoken word, but by now she'd learned that the Sith Lord usually opened his mouth only when he had something pertinent to share, and that was a quality she could appreciate. One of the many, in fact.

She would test the rest as she lunged forth again, aiming to exploit that brief moment of shattered focus caused by speaking; a consequence of humanoid neurology, yet sadly unavoidable. Her attack was a simple one by nature, but no less devastating when executed correctly. Its main advantage was speed, which was all the more amplified by the Force that ran through her body along with her blood, and it was that which sent Vrag into motion, her feet following the strike itself. She would aim the point of her lightsaber at the right shoulder joint, hoping to thrust it between the crab covering the deltoid and the one covering the trapezius.

 

[Reverance]

A man of endurance, Gabriel was ironically one fixated on the economy of motion. Little effort, big reward - the best of both worlds, when it could be achieved. And given that he was in the middle of talking, it was true that he couldn't be bothered to interact with the attack in any meaningful way. Truth be told, he was hoping she would get close, he knew how much she enjoyed the proximity.

Bending at the knees, enhanced by a bursting influx of force speed, his intentions and intended shift in trajectory may have gone completely unnoticed to the lay men. But to Vrag, who was supping upon the advice of his words, she would recall his change in position as something similar to a blink in movement, what would be a fluid movement turned into still frames as his speed would leave behind keystone movements for the interpretation of the mind. The orange blade, wielded deftly by the Firrerreo despite this being her first endeavor in the usage of the weapon, would run across the top of the deltoid plate, synonymous with the pauldron of the armor. The slight shift in position would be enough to prevent damage, leaving her blade to burn scorches across the exoskeleton as Gabriel shifted in concealed manner, the flex of his lower body muscles hidden behind the veil of vonduun.

His right foot had trailed back for the tail guard stance, yet the blade wouldn't ignite. He had resolved to crack this egg and the saber just wouldn't do, not for one of such tough exterior. As her Chom-huun crossed above his right shoulder, he pushed forward with force speed enhancement and the muscles of the suit, a lunge met with a lunge, as he would attempt to run straight into her with full force of his physique and physical nature. Should his tactic work, the likes of which would likely surprise Ygdris by the departure from blade work, he would move beneath the stabbing motion of his opponents saber to collide with the woman with a diving tackle. His move would favor his right shoulder colliding with Vrag's torso, an attempt to knock her weapon free from forward hand and take her rolling to the ground.

If him touching her legs was something that made her uncomfortable, this would assuredly seal the deal. Or maybe she liked it rough, an assumption already cemented in the Wrath's mind.

[member="Vrag"]

 

[Vrag]

She saw too little, too late, absorbed as she was in her lunge. Well, perhaps not too little, but she was certainly too dedicated to her motion to dodge what she realized was coming. Were she not wearing the Vonduun crab, [member="Reverance"] would've likely felt like a point-blank shot from a cannon; now it just felt like a point-blank Force-sped shoulder tackle. See the improvement?

Slam.

The chitinous pauldron met her armor-clad body in the blink of an eye, and then she was pushed backward, floor gone beneath her. Time stretched down to a diluted crawl as air was knocked out of her lungs by his gentle touch, and she felt the Chom-Huun slip from her fingers along with control.

Inhale​

Had she been fighting a real, hated adversary, her hands would've wrapped around his exposed head, seeking purchase in the crook of his jaw and the cartilage of his ears. She would dig her fingers in, a vice-like grip, and then proceed to snap his neck like twig, utilizing both her own strength and the Force. A swift, efficient kill that would leave her with a meat shield to protect herself with while she picked herself up; something that could mean the difference between life and death on the battlefield.

But she wasn't. She was fighting someone who, while not exactly a friend, per se — Vrag doesn't make friends —was certainly not someone whose life she was seeking to end. Not today, at least. No, she would have to take all he had to give and then use it against him, like she always did. The Sith was good at that, as it turned out, and this time would be no different. She would let him ground her again, coiling and rolling over her right shoulder as she pulled her legs in, thrusting into him; it would translate the momentum introduced by Gabriel back into his body, and the woman underneath him would attempt to throw him on his back by the virtue of his own speed.

Exhale​

​

​

A fraction of a second, gone, and then she was rammed into the organic floor beneath, flexing her legs in the knee as she pushed upwards into him even ash her shoulder burned. She would see him break before she bent.

 

[Reverance]

The tackle went as he planned, her body tumbling to the ground beneath him. He had original intent to lock his hands around her waist and fling her, should the dive not work, but this suited his needs just fine. The crab armor was a curious thing, different to most suits in that the plates were connected by muscles and ligaments, essentially creating a hardened body suit. While it worked in the same way as plate armor in it's capacity to deflect kinetic damage, it also gave when it needed to. Or in this case, didn't.

[member="Vrag"] had multiple options in this case. He sensed, through hardened exterior, that she cared for him in just the slightest perceptible pause. Enough to stay her hand when she could have taken efforts to debilitate or even kill him, given the lack of helmet on both the combatants. In earnest, the option had always been there for him as well, implementation of force specifically on the skull could do wonders to someone's enthusiasm towards a fight. But this wasn't a risk of death, nor serious injury. In the finest sense, it was a form of dance, a form of foreplay, for two that relished the fight with such keen interest.

So with the threat of death relatively removed, the combatants moved with levied risk in the fight. While recklessness was part of Gabriel's charm, it was hardly without it's own calculation. Vrag would attempt to turn him over or would attempt to kick him away or overhead. The latter had it's own sort of appeal, as it harnessed his momentum in her favor. But he likely would have been more apt to roll then be flung, his mind ever present on the wound taken before the fight began.

As her knees pushed up towards him, he thanked his own ingenuity for a well placed durasteel codpiece. But he wouldn't so easily be unhinged, his fingers grasping into the legs of the vonduun and plates across the back of Vrags armor, as he pulled himself towards her, fighting her athleticism with his own, augmented by his weight and the weight of the armor. Biting down on his pain in it's own form of intermingled pleasure, he would thrust back against her efforts as he dug in like a handsome tick, his hands attempting to wrap around her back, as he would split the difference and wedge himself between her legs. Shifting his weight all the way to his back and spine, he would plant his knees and lift her up by the waist before releasing his grip on the back, shifting his hands to the armpit gills, and slamming her back down to the ground to which he had originally tackled her. This might hurt him more than her...

Where his Chom-huun was, he wasn't sure. Somewhere not on his person and with the force removed, it might as well have been miles away. His mind was focused though, the pain he felt in his ribs and back would slowly become worse as he attempted to share it with Vrag in the most personal way he knew. Internally, he would have smiled if the brain could conjure such expression. He was constantly being reminded of why he felt a certain fondness towards this particular Firrerreo.

 

[Vrag]

She would not let him wrench control out of her hands, not without a bloody fight; teeth, nails (if she had any, of course), elbows, everything became fair game once he slammed her down into the ground. The surge of power traveled along her muscles like a ripple, and her whole body released like a spring against his.

Her lips curled back in futile anger, just a flash before she schooled her face back into submission; her attempt to turn his own attack around on him had been foiled, for Reverance had deftly exploited their sudden proximity by grabbing onto her, much like a parasite would. Thus the both of them buckled on the organic floors, their motions reminiscent of two wild beasts caught in a rough mating ritual.

Well. They wouldn't exactly be wrong; pain and violence made for excellent courting with people like them, the more the better. It's why she appreciated Reverance — Gabriel — as much as she did, for he, like her, could recognize the agonal melody in the song of pleasure, a second voice that so often went overlooked, yet brought so much more flavor to every encounter. Another time, perhaps, a little less armor on both of them, and Vrag just might have bitten down on those almost-smiling lips of his.

As it was, the woman let that tension fuel her flex against his immovable torso, wrapping her legs around his crab-clad ribcage just as he strained against her. Feth. Her eyes snapped closed as every muscle in her body coiled in anticipation of the inevitable — there was no getting out of this one — and then he brought he down again, hard and fast and oh so merciless. A strangled sound tore from her throat as the impact shattered against the Vonduun and then against the armorweave and finally against her latissimus, and her trapezius, and rhomboid and the rest of those sexy back muscles that the writer is too lazy to look up.

It would form a nasty, deep-violet bruise underneath her silver skin, like a child doodling over the lines of her ribs with a purple crayon. It would be gone in a few minutes, but it still stung like hell. Her nostrils flared as she drew a deep breath, crossing her ankles behind his back as she sought to squeeze his chest even as she dug her right hand into his hair. Black, luscious strands would be yanked back within the iron grip of her fist, and oh how she would enjoy seeing that look in the red of his eye.

Then it hit her, raking along her left side like the blade of a sharp knife, sending lightning and fire down the pathways of her nerves. Her teeth gnashed together and every muscle in her body tensed at the sudden onslaught of pain wrecking her body; first cold, than warm, like the kiss of a long-lost lover. She felt how the Vonduun shifted against her flesh, distantly, but her mind was racing with other questions, wild and raging like a ravenous beast.

"You… bastard," she growled at [member="Reverance"], her coppery breath hot against his cheek.

 

[Reverance]

The pleasure of feeling her body recoil and reverberate, the echo of the impact running through crab and armorweave and flesh and bone - it was exhilarating. She had resisted the attack and manhandling, but it wasn't enough to break his grip and he couldn't help but feel the writhing of enthusiasm within, like worms turning over in fresh mud, it crawled along his skin and spine and lifted hairs from laying position. For a moment, just the briefest of moment, with ear pressed against her chest from the inability to stop his own movement after the fall- he thought he could her the fast paced thump of her heart. But as soon as it was there, he felt the tightening of her legs around his ribs. That slow ache became something blinding, something to draw breath from lips as his vision turned red.

And even as her hand pulled at his hair, yanking desperately for the cease and desist, he stared straight into those blue nictitating eyes from cocked head position, baring white teeth in a growl returning the one given. He wouldn't let go, the unleashing of his pain would flow upon her, distracted as it may be. It would lack precision and it would lack accuracy, but when you were firing on auto, trigger held down and never let go - one didn't need such constructs. It was probably for the best, she may have not been prepared for the gravity of his mastery of Crucitorn.

He had never fought a Firrerreo before. Her endurance and longevity excited him, thrilled him, stirred something beyond his will to train this woman. The eye can't see beyond a mind nearly blinded from the pain, the dull ache of his scalp, the sharp and nearly breathless pain in his ribs. He would have held his breath, but the pressure was enough to remind him that he needed the air to keep going. Her words, they were laced with malice and anguish and pain, fruits of the labor that fell to the ground, only to decompose and fuel the tree once more for growth. It fed him and sated him in ways that only a broken mind could conjure, the years of experimentation twisting something pure into the thing that now grappled [member="Vrag"] for dear life. "Do something about it!" He would speak through clenched jaw, not to taunt. She would know by now that his words were sincere - it was as much a request as it was a challenge.

Legs moved without thought. One leg, then the next, as he lifted the woman from the ground, hands completely wrapping around her once more to lock and squeeze, fist gripping wrist and pulling. To pincer her as she now pincered him, arms vicing and flexing around her core to remove air from the lungs hidden deep within and put further ache to wound already inflicted and yet to heal, lying in purple contusion across silver back. She hadn't the training he did for pain tolerance, something he wished to show her the benefits of now. As his head pulled back from the clawing of her hands, he tightened his arms more, damage be damned. In his own way, he wanted to be hurt. But in the same vein, he wanted to fill that resistance turn into something - a submission of will. She was fiery and strong and fierce - and he wanted to see what it felt like to see such a thing acquiesce. In another time and another place, without the need to discern the quality and fit of her armor, this positioning may have led to something far different than the current clash of blood. Well, there might have still been blood.

That feeling of warmness in his left foot, as blood trickled down through wound upon back, reminded him of grievous injury. It was fairly obvious to him now that even if he could claim victory in this fight, it would hardly be a measurable difference. He would leave this interaction far more wounded than her in the end.

 

[Vrag]

The grinding of bone against the bone could be felt as their bodies moved and conformed against each other, undulating in that primal dance that every being knew innately. Blood surged in her veins, loud and boiling as pain spiked down her spine; a conduit for the caress of lightning, the touch of a lover that she knew so well. Her flesh had known all the forms of punishment available to man, had tasted it and absorbed it when there was nothing left to do; no corner of the Galaxy to run off to, no inner sanctuary to seek refuge in.

Her lungs screamed, her ribs cracked under phantom pressure as [member="Reverance"] forced his advantage, his pace on her. The relentless fether. She bared her teeth at him, more beast than human, and dug in despite of it. She would show him what fate awaited those who would think to break her, arrogant and self-assured in their attack. Blue, piercing eyes glared wide at his crimson one, so close she could almost see two of them. Nostrils flared and lips curled back in an animalistic show of strength, of superiority, of dominance not freely surrendered.

"Gabriel," she panted between shallow breaths, "shut yer gob." With that, the firrerreo coiled against him again, bracing her elbows against his broad shoulders as she yanked his head further backward, the black hair taut in her grip. She loomed above him with a monstrous, leering grin, and in that moment she could recall a thousand faces that had looked back up at her, lovers and enemies alike groaning as she toed the line between pleasure and pain. In her own way, Vrag knew how to balance herself on that precarious edge, had known for years, but sometimes extremes needed pushing. Not just for the hell of it — though there was no denying it was fun — but because without evolution, there came only stagnation, and Vrag was like a shark.

Always moving 'till the day you die.

She dug her thumbs into his exposed temples even as a small, strangled sound escaped her throat — torn out, unbidden — and then she squeezed her legs even tighter around his chest, sucking in a sharp breath as his pain reverberated in her own body. Agony and broken ribs be damned, the woman slammed her forehead against his, knowing that she would heal faster.

What a dirty cheater, that Vrag.

 

[Reverance]

Oomph. Hands tied up with his clenching hold, there was nothing more he could do to defend against the smack of her head against his. That perfect way her forehead fit just right in the divot between nasal bridge and nose. How delicious. Though it shouldn't have surprised him. Like in the animal kingdom, the most attractive things also tended to be the most violent - this wasn't any exception. And between the smack of her skull against his, the rattling of brain against inner tissues impossible to overcome with even the most adept training, and the clench of her legs around his waist. It was almost too much to overcome. Almost.

His vision filled with a cloud of black, star specked as he knees gave out and he moved with the weight to which he currently clinged. Falling backwards, his back smacked hard against the ground and Vrag would have been content to ride him down. Unless she learned how to fly recently. Nevertheless, as he hit, his head did this sort of bouncing thing against the organic ground as he went mostly limp, arms slapping against the floor. Instinctively, his left knee shifted upwards as he pulled his foot closer to his butt, adding a quite comfortable spot for Vrag to lean against should she decide that Gabriel didn't need anymore pummeling for the day. Perhaps it was old medic training, an habitual practice to stave off the incoming shock that he anticipated. It likely wouldn't come, but better to be safe then sorry. In tandem, he let out a slow groan and laugh.

His vision didn't return as he hit the ground, echoing and reverberating like pulsing blackness in the mirror. He couldn't seem to shake it as he laughed once more and spit out blood on the floor next to his head. Somewhere between the hit and landing, his inner cheek had found itself wedged between his teeth, as he was once more between those strong adductor muscles of the Firrerreo warrior. His left hand instinctively clawed towards her right thigh slowly, trying to push the pressure away from his ribs, as his right hand shot up. Despite not being able to see, he could picture the woman just fine. Where his right hand landed, 4 fingers on the inside of her plate armor, just where it parted to armorweave at the clavicle. His thumb pressed against the exoskeleton as he tugged her towards him, in an attempt to close the distance and make punching him a tad bit more awkward. He wasn't intent on losing control but she was pushing buttons of which she was likely unaware. Or maybe she was and didn't care. In the end, even if he had lost, he was still please to feel of the arch her back in response to the onset of his pain and presence. Something to remember more vividly when not so clearly dazed and blinded.

"Ygdris...if you keep going..." He lifted his head up, bracing his left elbow against the ground. "I can't be held accountable for my actions." A warning, a promise, a challenge. She had won this fight, the coup de grâce that sent this titan toppling over was enough to gentle him out proper. He spit another bit of blood out as his vision returned, slowly. With his various injuries and his inability to heal, he was teetering on the edge and well passed spent. He recalled an overwhelming sensation of control being torn away from him on the Manarai Mountains of Coruscant.

He couldn't help but smile. He had heard that one can drink a pint of blood before getting sick. Maybe he'd sort that rumor out momentarily. For science.

[member="Vrag"]

 

[Vrag]

Her brow furrowed as foreheads met, not the gentle touch of longtime friends, but the harsh, unyielding clash of two forces that would always dance close, then away again. Like waves against the shore, her immense strength broke against his stalwart, proud defense, and the spray of sea filled her mouth with salt. Blood.

He stumbled, staggered, then lost his balance as the impact caught up with him, and they went down, limbs intertwined. His pain reverberated through her, arcing there and back again as the man arched beneath her, coiled, straining muscle against the weight upon him. She would smile at the way their positions had been reversed if she weren't too busy grinding her teeth in an attempt to swallow a groan. Blue eyes finally opened again to account for the damage, to assess whether or not [member="Reverance"] needed another punch to the face.

A red-stained flash of teeth — almost a smile — greeted her, and the woman offered up one of her own even while knowing he couldn't see her. She sucked in another sharp breath as she felt the sharp tip of a broken rib scrape against the pleura (no, not yours, his), black spots dancing in her vision as well. She could feel the traitorous bite of tears in the corners of her eyes, and she curled her lips backward in an angry growl, stymieing them by sheer force of will.

The Knight gasped then, despite her iron resolve, as a pretentious, presumptuous hand sought to find purchase in the crook between two crabs. She was half-tempted to hiss 'Fifi, kill!' but then he was pulling her forward already, a movement that could have been laden with intent completely removed from fists and blood and the sheen of sweat upon skin… were they different people. They weren't, however, and the song thundering in her ears as she hovered above him made her heart skip a beat in her — no, his — broken ribcage.

"Is that a promise?" she forced out with heated breath, air sharp as it drew past her long canines. She could tear out his throat with them, all savage beast as he buckled against her in the throes of death. For a moment, for a pulse, her vision was painted red with that primal, animalistic urge, but the woman curbed the desire with the crack of a whip; she dug her knee into Gabriel's side, fast and harsh. The acute ripping in her chest had her burying her face into the crook of his neck as her back arched, and the firrerreo bit down on her bottom lip to drown a cry that would tear from her breast.

"Gabriel," she spoke once she was certain her voice wouldn't waver, her blue eyes finding the crimson of his. Lips barely an inch above those of Reverance, a casual observer might easily wonder what was truly going on between the pair.

"Do…your…worst." Her timbre was low, her lilt heavy with the accent of her native tongue as she enunciated every word, blood and sweat and body fluids all in her tone as she pressed her forehead against his again. A small consolation for the knee that pressed into his broken ribs, and the only way she knew to express the fire in her heart.

 

[Reverance]

Blood welled in his mouth as the two continued this dance. The symphony of groans and aches and the arch of the back, it made for a complex and simple harmony between the tangled bodies. She wanted something she couldn't handle, or maybe that was the lie he told himself to stay his hand. The jabs of her knees, while mild against the armor, were like sparks through his body from the strike of a hammer against anvil. Each thump resonated through him and traveled across the crucitorn grapevines to ache and remind her - that despite that armor, the force was never fully absent. And that even a cornered jackal can still bear teeth, no matter what hunts it.

An animal constantly testing the limits of her tolerance, Vrag continued to poke the bear just to see how it would turn on her. Gabriel was well beyond controlling his pain, the radiating branch echoed out from the wound upon ribs in roots that extended from his chest down into his feet and up into his mouth. And there, he tasted that mineral flavor at the back of his throat, as he gulped down his own essence in a survivalist form of cannibalism. It wasn't a choice, but it wasn't a decision he would gawk at.

Between her shift from his throat to her placement of her forehead against his, he felt an odd sense of intimacy that he hadn't recognized in this fight until now. It seemed, another caveat in their relationship, that they would both harness their taste for pain into it's own form of pursuit. A drive, a motivator to rise in the morning from bed and a reason to retire early, in the predicted anticipation of it. As he felt her skin against his, his right hand crawled along her, ascending from chest plate to clavicle until it wrapped around her neck, thumb on the larynx and fingers along the spine. He could feel the bated and stressed breath, the push of blood in hard flow through the carotid artery. It gave him life when he wanted nothing more to succumb to his aches, to roll in his discomfort, to pass out from the pain.

"Your body..." He spoke through ground teeth as he tried to pushed forward with his left elbow, his left knee dropping to allow the forced shift in her position. Quite a tricky situation indeed and he could hardly manifest it beyond the pain she was pushing on him. He could feel the contusion constantly growing on his ribs, the bones turning into shattered fragments and his breathing becoming more and more labored. And in this position, she had the capacity to wrap her legs around him once more, delivering him and her an even greater intensity of pain. He had never taught crucitorn like this before, but perhaps it would produce more meaningful results. As he pushed forward to stabilize himself, his left hand shot up to grip her red hair, pulling her head back as he inhaled the aroma of sweat coursing down the grooves of her throat - that canal between larynx and sternocleidomastoid muscle, tracing towards the manubrium of sternum - he resisted the urge to press teeth against silver flesh. Not to cause her pain, though that consequence would have been welcomed, but more to distract from his own, as it was immense."...my pain." His breath was agonal and each rise of the diaphragm brought mind numbing pain as he deciphered it, trying to mix in talking and thought with a body that would have none of it and instead began to greet primal urges as cherished friend.

There was nothing quite as beautiful as the stroke of pain across such striking features. The mix of blue eyes and red hair, the rose of flushed silver skin. It was a rewarding endeavor - to teach her the value of receiving and giving pain. As his sight continued to return and dismiss, with the thump of pain back and forth, he continued to appreciate it with a certain vigor.

[member="Vrag"]

 

[Vrag]

It was almost too much for someone like her — someone who needed to dictate every breath of a dance — to be connected to him in such a way. The longer he clung to her with those tendrils of pain, black and red and pulsating, the more she felt of him. Every shuddering breath, the flutter of a strong heart against the struggling lungs, the sharpness of air as it drew its razors down his throat, the stab stab stab of serrated ribs against the pleura. The broken bones had kindled a fire in his side — their sides — and now those flames were spreading along their intertwined bodies, up and around neural pathways as they sought new bridges to burn down.

She tongued the gap beside her lower canine, seeking more of that coppery flavor as body strained against body. Her blue eyes sought out the crimson of his, and she would revel in the dilated pupil staring back at her, unseeing and black as the void of space. Her bloodied teeth flashed in the half-light of the room, gleaming as she pulled her lips back in a sneer. Vrag let their ragged breaths bleed into each other, mouths so close she could sink her teeth into that inviting flesh if she so willed…

…but then his fingers were there, in her short, sweat-matted strands of hair, and he returned the favor she'd so kindly shown him but a few moments ago. The curve of her throat was rendered exposed by his rough gesture, and an unbidden sound escaped her chest, low and hoarse. She, too, felt the strain of their encounter, a closeness that demanded its price in blood, an intimacy that raked its sharp talons down both of their backs. It was the kind of pain they both understood and knew well, each in their own way, each with their own pace. He would… not... force…his own.

"Our pain," she panted, voice strangled as her vocal cords struggled against the unnatural position of her trachea. Her eyes screwed shut, unwanted, as the throb in her side doubled, tripled, like molten metal sliding between her ribs with an agonizing slowness. Her nostrils flared as she bit down on her bottom lip, refusing to let another groan escape, refusing to betray her weakness even when he lay bleeding and subdued beneath her. Broken and abused, [member="Reverance"] could still share of him, could give more, and Vrag wanted to moan at that display of power. Despite the blazing, white-hot fire in her lungs and chest, the woman let out a raspy chuckle, salt and iron filling her mouth as a trickle of blood ran down her chin.

"Feth you, Gabriel," her laugh was genuine — perhaps the most genuine he would ever hear from her — and then she reached back with one hand, sliding her fingers between his as she looked back down again. The arch of her back, the rise and fall of her chest, the burning stare directed at him and him only; were they not wearing armor, there would be no doubt about where this was going.

They were, however, and so the woman parted his lips with her thumb, roughly stretching his jaw as she forced his teeth apart with the armored finger. "Submit," she breathed, her eyes wild and wide open as she gripped his bloodied face with the gentleness only a killer would recognize.

 

[Reverance]

His crimson eye pinned at her exclamations and expletives, his facial expression mired in agony held behind clenched teeth. As she stretched apart his teeth, his left hand released the tethers of short red fire upon scalp to knock her hand away pre-emptively. He had been stretched enough as it was, his mind lingering away from the notions of being fish-hooked by this woman, especially with the inability to bite down upon true flesh. He could feel the flush upon his cheek, the ache of his body sending shivers through his core that more closely resembled tremors - the likes of which she would feel reverberate through her armor and beyond. Sweat dripped down his forehead. Drip drop from his chin as she spoke her words, made her unknown intentions known. What had been an attempt to discern the strength of her armor turned into a supposition of their relationship that strafed far beyond the battlefield.

A different battlefield, one that glorified pain in this tango between two and sometimes more. His mind drifted to the image of Matsu, of similar position, afflicting him in the same manner with that callous and comforting joy - that despite his accolades, despite his power, despite his strength and capabilities - he could bring worlds to their knees and found himself in similar position before the mighty. He let out a gasp at the revelation, releasing Vrag from the intermingling of pain and pleasure that was brought to her through crucitorn, a curved thorn withdrawn from inviting flesh in the same manner that it was inserted. As he did, he made no effort of aggression towards her, and he slouched and leaned forward to place his forehead against her breastplate. The sweet lullaby of the rise and fall of her chest, the agonal respiration that were now his, he realized the damage incurred in the pursuit passion - there was no joy here - was far beyond something mended with sleep and rest.

His left hand pressed against his side, shaking as if overexerted and flexed beyond capacity, and he let out a gasp as blood flowed through clenched teeth. He wondered what he would see if he looked through her eyes, looking upon a titan busted into duracrete foundation and rubble, slumped against it's pedastal and crying out with realization of it's own destruction. He couldn't seem to cease the feeling that this is what he had always wanted, that the vessel had brought about a desire to be broken - to know that it was possible. In the cold embrace of true masochism, he teetered between the extent of pain upon the body and the fear of the bodies destruction in its pursuit. Absent fear, he injected calculated prudence tempered with recklessness, to know that the limit had been pushed and he had received his hearts true desire - even if it wasn't planned all along.

"I..." He squinted as he watched the blood drip from his mouth, between the two bodies now intermingled. With the armor, he couldn't tell where he ended and she began, and wondered if that was always the case. "I...submit." These weren't hard words to speak, not as hard as he would have expected, but he choked on them nonetheless. Why?!? They were alone, there was no shame in crossing a bridge upon desired path. He had no tears, he was a man beyond such expression, and he didn't understand regret or remorse - why linger when you can merely turn you head and face forward. Injuries were injuries, one couldn't change that. He wasn't upset, he wasn't shamed, but he hid the exhilaration through closed eye as his hand drifted from her neck to the top of her breast plate, his fingers finding resting spot clamped between chitin and armorweave. He was done, he knew that, and she would feel the gentle wash of submission over come him. "You've won..."

In his own way, he had won as well. The price of pain was dutifully paid, to the brim with glee. He longed for sleep, opening his eye to stare point blank at her chitin armor and how it folded over that athletic form. He may have seen her figure before but now, now he had a piece of her soul. And that was more meaningful then the thousands of bodies that lied in her wake upon planets conquered. That she could cut through flesh and dispose of mortal coil so quickly but had cut no corner with him, bruising him and bloodying him for the purposes of sport and pleasure, tempting death and end like carrot from stick and twine. He smiled as he inhaled, pain swelling once more with exhalation, as his left hand drifted between them and rested across her lap. "You've won..."

[member="Vrag"]

 

[Vrag]

It was like the wash of relief after hours of battle, the countless rips and tears and wounds forgotten for a single moment in time to bask in the lull. It was a transitory, ephemeral feeling as his claws withdrew, both physical and mental. She let out a shuddering breath, cut by the sharp tips of her teeth as it passed through. She could almost taste the fight leaving her with that small, broken wisp of air, her body struggling to stay upright, to stay in one piece as adrenaline drained away. Vying for dominance was like a march; the very thought of stopping, of faltering meant defeat for those so weak to entertain it. Once a foot hesitated in its fall on the ground, the man would follow soon, beaten and crying and spitting blood.

Vrag had emerged victorious, perhaps, but it was a triumph that was irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. Theirs had been a bout on an entirely different level, its physicality simply a means, but not the end. They had done battle in a sphere that was alien to the woman, and difficult to walk upon; every step required great effort, every motion a feat in and of itself. The very thought of existing in that manner was exhausting. She could fight for days with blade and nails and teeth, and she would. But this? Not this.

She wrapped her hands around his head, then, and there was no violence in the flex of her muscles, no cruelty in her grip as she dug her fingers into his hair. Disheveled, sweat-matted strands — evidence of their rough, beastly coupling — and the woman simply held him close, disconnected but synced in their pace nonetheless. His hold on her ribs was gone, the magma cool and turned to stone, but she could still feel him, never more than a heartbeat away.

The devil was simply a woman in that room, mask peeled away by the ordeal, by their collective endeavor, and she would rest her weary head upon his. Nostrils flared as she inhaled, deeply, of him, tasting ash and copper and salt and so many other things she knew but couldn't name. Lips moved, unbidden, unconscious, as she pressed them to his forehead. Chapped and broken and probably bleeding, but she didn't care. The texture of his skin was like she'd always imagined; tanned by war, tough and harsh in contrast to the gentle kiss that left a red mark upon the flesh.

Branded, but not by defeat.

She did not speak, for all words had been wrenched from her throat, all sounds extracted by both force and volition. And what was there to say? [member="Reverance"] had uttered the one last truth of the day, and Vrag would not desecrate his willing sacrifice by meaningless speech. Instead she simply held him close and fast, an unspoken show of respect as their intermingled breath settled down.

The beast in her chest lay down to sleep again, sated and dormant just like an animal after a good meal. It would take someone like Gabriel to rouse it from its slumber once more, and people of their ilk were rare. Rarer still were those that knew the delight of pain and the joy of giving so that one might take. A primal dance, perhaps, but breathtakingly beautiful in spite of it, and the only melody she would ever sing to.