0 comments/ 17128 views/ 1 favorites Lechku and Nechku: Darkscape By: pinkgothic Note: This story is the result of a private roleplay on IRC and is, at some points, mildly disjointed, where I was unable to rearrange sentences to suit the chronological flow of content. Of course, my sincerest thanks goes to Lechku (Elizabeth), for not only allowing me to share this piece of work with the world, but encouraging it. Bless you, girl. - Nechku/pinkgothic * This night's dream seems to find Elizabeth shrouded in a strangely textured darkness, as though it had been drawn directly onto her sense of vision with crayon over a gray background. As her dream senses begin to creep into conscious grip, it adopts a different quality - a moisture seems to lie in the air, and the ground feels mossy and wooden simultaneously. Slightly curved, in fact, like a broad, sturdy tree branch. As she glances around to inspect the area, she finds that the area is shrouded in a thin mist, though that she seems to be carrying a bit of light with herself, since the area immediately around her is thinly illuminated. The blackness beyond it is not inky, the wisps of mist breaking up the otherwise uniform colour, giving it a life of its own as they shift. Below her, half in darkness, is indeed what seems to look like a tree branch. It's unusually detailed for a dream, as though it were inspired by a particularly intricate design she had spotted in real life - organic, palpable, real almost. Far more vivid than her dreams are on average, even in being only a slight fleck of the world so far. Curious, she finds herself squatting to get close to the ground, fingers trailing against the tree branch look-alike. It feels so ridiculously real that her fingers quickly snap back, eyebrows knotted in slight surprise. She's half tempted to pinch herself, using the classic test to see if this is perhaps real, but she resists the urge, as though doing so might make a fool of herself to some unseen dream-spectator. Satisfied with the physical inspection, she pushes herself back into her original standing position, eyes darting back and forth over the gray-scale landscape. It's beautiful, in its own melancholic way, and the artist in her can only hope that she'll remember the sight long enough to attempt to recreate it on paper. In hopes of seeing even more that might kickstart a burst of creativity upon awakening, she begins to carefully trek down the branch-like ground beneath her, steps slow and careful, if only because she can hardly see a thing. The branch must be a good metre thick, at the very least. It doesn't seem to give way under her stride at all, firm under the bare soles of her feet - it seems she has not been granted shoes in her dream, though she seems otherwise fully clothed. The hint of light letting her see seems to travel with her as she walks across the moistened wood. In the distance, the vague hint of pitter-patter of rain sounds, coming to her like a whisper, adding life to the silent world. Silent - and perhaps more complex than she might like, as is hinted at by the branch forking in figure of a Y, both ends vanishing into the thick, smothering mists. Her toes curl curiously against the damp branch with each step, still fascinated by the fact that she can feel each tiny groove and each degree of wetness. Perhaps dreams as vivid as this are always forgotten? She mourns this possibility, not wanting to forget something so ridiculously real. This place is nearly the embodiment of some fairy-tale land, a hint at the worlds she's always longed to get lost in. The soft sound of rain hits as she reaches some sort of crossroads in the thick, enormous branch, and she listens closely, trying to decide which path the soft trickling seems to be coming from. After all, a cool walk in the rain is always ideal. Eventually, she decides to head down the fork to her right, not even thinking twice about the possibilities she may be leaving behind by not going the other way. The air seems warm, tasting like jungle, though there are no leaves on the trees that you have seen so far - and the branch you're walking on seems to be neither thinning out nor thickening consistently, merely changing as part of its mimicry of reality. She seems to be alone in these mists, travelling by herself across and through this world, unsure even about her destination. Another sound joins the distant drumming of raindrops - the shnick of a knife wielded against a piece of wood. Someone seems to be carving something, from the sounds of it, the cuts coming in rhythmic succession, wearing at whatever is being worked on. Her head tilts slightly to the side at the soft sound of carving, reminded slightly of the sounds of her grandpa's basement. Often, she would sit outside his workshop, reading books from Hemingway or flipping through the Bible while listening to him gently scrape and carve at blocks of wood, morphing them into masterpieces. Warmed by this thought, a smile adorns her face as she picks up her pace slightly, a touch excited to see what might be waiting. Closing in on the sound, the outlines of a figure materialise in the mists, sat on the branch with its left leg stetched casually out and downward, right angled, foot up near the actual spot of sitting, gaze cast down on the hands that are indeed working on a piece of wood. As she comes closer, the silhouette fading to reveal a tanned man in his thirties, dressed in black slacks, he shifts his gaze up almost lazily, setting his eyes upon her, expression one of pleasant surprise. "Hey there." The voice is soft, quizzical, evidently perplexed by her appearance, but not bothered, though perhaps a bit concerned for her well-being. His left brow has arched subtly - and after a moment's hesitation, he's slowly pushing to his feet, seeming like he's resisting the urge to scramble. "Are you lost?" She meets the stranger's gaze of pleasant surprise with one of her own, although what reason did she have to be surprised? She was dreaming, after all, so everything should be expected. "Hello," she muses in reply to his greeting, and when he moves to get up, she almost steps forward, as though to insist he not rise for her. She decides against it, though; his actions are his alone. Instead, she answers, voice a touch soft and mousy: "Ah... I wouldn't say lost, per se. I don't know where I am, and I don't know where I'm going, but I wouldn't say lost is the right word." The smile she offers is bemused and rather carefree. Having finally risen to a stand, the crude blade passes from his right hand's palm to being pinned against the slab of wood in his left by the thumb of that hand, and, right hand thusly freed, he extends it to her in friendly gesture. "I'm Dakarai - and... well, if you want to get anywhere in this realm, I can probably help you. ...I've been here forever and a day - wasn't expecting someone else, to be honest, but it makes for a nice change." She takes his hand in hers, seeming to hold on a little longer than is normally appropriate. It's simply that she's fascinated, once again, by how insanely real everything looks and feels. The warmth of his hand against hers is something she's never before experienced in a dream, and it seems to drive her senses wild. She quickly realises what she's doing, though, and hurriedly shakes his hand, before releasing it, expression apologetic. "Ah, Elizabeth," she returns, smile still a touch shy. "As I said, though, I don't exactly no where I'm going, so I can't exactly ask you to help me get anywhere specific." She doesn't mean to brush him off but instead doesn't want to bother him for help when she doesn't know what she needs help with. "Do you get yourself stuck in labyrinthine branch worlds often, Elizabeth?" he asks, hand giving hers a friendly squeeze before his fingers drift from her, tips brushing her palm in the process. His lips are upturned in half a smirk, eyes glittering with a strange brand of friendly mischief, suggesting that he was simultaneously trustworthy and dangerous to be around. His aura seems full of youthful energy, his demeanour one of casual pride, of confidence - but not arrogance. She laughs, shaking her head side to side. "Oh, absolutely. It's a hobby of mine, Dakarai," she teases, quickly slipping into a fit of comfort around this man. She wasn't necessarily tense to begin with, seeing as the knowledge that she was in a dream certainly equipped her with a sense of immortality and fearlessness, but the man's friendly, casual demeanor simply helps. Her thumbs find themselves slipping into the waist line of her pants, and blue eyes dart again over the landscape, eventually resting upon her new-found companion. "So, is there much to see in this gray-scale wonderland, or is this pretty much what goes on forever?" "Pretty much all there is to it. Gloriously dull, this place," he remarks, grin not fading despite that, even if he does shake his head slightly to emphasise the point. "Though there are some interesting branch structures that way," he twists to gesture with outstretched arm into the distance, a certain fondness touching his features. "They resemble a dreamcatcher - if that tells you anything." "A dreamcatcher?" she echoes, interest obvious in her voice as her gaze trails in the direction of Dakarai's outstretched arm. She had one of those hanging above her waterbed at home, and while she hadn't been prone to bad dreams before she'd bought it, the young woman still liked to think that it did her good. Curiousity wins her over, and she turns her attention back to Dakarai, grinning. "I think I'll go take a look at that. Thank you for pointing me to it." She begins to resume her pace, intent on walking right past the older man, obviously expecting him to sit himself back down and go back to his previous carving job. After all, she'd made it this far on her own. No need to have him escort her now. "It's a bit tricky to get there so you can see the whole thing," he remarks, casually, even before she has fully begun walking and thus flaunting her intention to walk that way on her own. As he catches it, his brows are tugged by a hint of incredulousness and confusion. "...unless you would rather I stay here, of course, ma'am," he remarks, a touch of humbleness in his demeanour, an oddly out of place gesture of courtesy, seeming not to suit him very much, genuine though it may be. Evidently, he is not sure if he has perhaps tread on her toes with something he said or implied. She slows to a halt, looking back at him, expression quickly becoming apologetic. "Oh, I... I really didn't mean to imply that," she struggles, tone extremely earnest. "I just didn't want to bother you or anything - I mean, you were preoccupied when I showed up, and I figured you'd rather go back to that..." She trails off, nibbling gently at her bottom lip as her eyes dart to the ground, toes digging into the dampness beneath her. The young woman seems to emotionally withdraw a little bit, not having meant to insult Dakarai at all, until she remembers that this is merely a dream. No point in beating herself up over the situation, right? Perking very slightly, she adds, "You can go ahead and show me the best way if you'd like, but please, don't feel obligated." Both his brows arch as she reveals her desire not to bother him - and as she finishes, four syllables of laughter spill from him, hearty, friendly, though he shakes his head. "Let me repeat the implication from earlier - I've been alone for a while... you would have to try much harder to be a bother to me, miss. I'd love to show you. Forgive my enthusiasm at spotting another human being." The last sentence is delivered with a touch of irony and eye-roll, blatantly fond in intention, before his expression adopts a warm smile and he casts his gaze toward her to settle on her shape. Said, he suddenly bounds into motion, gaze darting between her and the branch's path, stride overly energetic, as though barely contained. She seems to smile rather awkwardly at Dakarai's initial laughter, obviously not sure as to whether she should be insulted or not. Very quickly, though, she realises that it's a kind and harmless laugh, and her smile grows into a comfortable grin, expression relieved. "Well, I certainly won't complain," she laughs, stepping off to the side and bowing graciously, beckoning for Dakarai to step ahead of her. "Please, my dear gentleman, lead the way," she says, again with her teasing tone, before standing upright and moving quickly to keep up with his enthusiastic pace. His brand of excitement is contagious; Elizabeth quickly finds herself grinning pleasantly, just as excited as he. As they wind their way through passageways - in fashions that would suggest randomness were there not the confidence this man carries himself with, as though he knew this area blindly, able to keep his attention almost entirely on Elizabeth without faltering in his stride or taking a wrong turn - it is revealed that he has lost track of the days he has spent in this perpetual darkness, though he estimates having slept a hundred times, which would explain knowing this world like the back of his hand. The wisps of mist wind around their shapes, seemingly dissipating on contact, like ghosts. She follows behind him rather devotedly, chirping out questions about the area and himself at a steady and constant rate, making for a verbal machine-gun like embodiment of her curiousity. It's obvious that she's the type hungry for knowledge about anything and anyone, and it's equally obvious that she's pleased with her company, ecstatic that Dakarai seems so willing to answer the questions she throws at him. In fact, she becomes so engrossed by the conversation that she nearly bumps into Dakarai when he comes to a halt. Teetering to a stop, his hands snap up, fingers fanned out, his expression lit up in a glee reminiscent of a child stumbling across presents under the Christmas tree, and then his left hand folds, all but the index finger curling about the palm, him pointing upwards and forwards, tip of his lower lip trapped briefly between his teeth, before he grins across at her. "There it is." "Gah, sorry," she laughs, and her gaze follows to where he's pointing, moistening her lips subconsciously. Her eyes hungrily take in the entire structure, and her smile becomes less of an amused one and more one of pure appreciation. Absolutely... stunning. "Heh," she mumbles to herself, voice soft and humble. "You asked for a piece of art, Elizabeth? There you go." The motion is not swift, per se - but a shadow slides across the landscape behind Dakarai's proud shape, the softest rustle of feathers piercing the silence, spattering the scene confusingly, and palest, spidery fingers find the boy's shoulders in a breeze-like touch, tracing down his arms seemingly with no rush, but without lethargy. Simultaneously, Dakarai is twisting his head around to take a look at the source of the bizarre change of scene - and a soft sound of surprise comes from him - enough to snap the creature into an abrupt motion, right hand's fingers flying sideways to seize the knife from Dakarai's right hand, hiss surfacing from beyond gritted teeth - curley, black strands of hair lashing the air, obscuring what would be a face - and the air protests as black wings snap apart and back from Dakarai's shape, spread as if they belonged to a banking bird of prey that had just seized its prey, arched impressively behind the bundle of flesh - and a cry from Dakarai dies down as the blade that had previously been his rests against his neck with an almost natural ease. With the feathers settling, all falls silent, leaving only the breathing of the assailant and Dakarai's own slightly erratic gasps, shaken by shock. Engrossed in the site of the dreamcatcher, Elizabeth doesn't notice at all the soft rustles or the near-breeze caused by wings that happen behind her and Dakarai. In fact, if it weren't for the soft, surprised sound that came from the older man, she may very well have remained oblivious to their new company, too caught up in trying to permanently ingrain the gorgeous landscape into her mind. Thankfully, the sound was enough to catch her attention, and she twists around half-way, glancing over her shoulder mostly, expression questioning. It quickly twists into concern, though, as Dakarai's knife is taken from him and placed swiftly against his neck, some magnificent and winged stranger suddenly holding him captive. Slowly turning herself completely toward the two, she makes no movement to come closer, obviously not willing to put her new-found friend at any risk. Instead, she asks, voice quiet and tense: "What're you doing?" Even as she speaks, she thinks back to her knowledge on lucid dreaming. She's dreaming, she knows she's dreaming, she should be able to take control of what happens in the dream. Could she just concentrate this winged thing away? The silence persists a little longer, the shape remaining half-curled against Dakarai as it is, revealing him dressed similarly, but with a ghostishly pale skin that seems unnatural and a more exaggerated frailty unfitting for something evidently currently in charge. His gaze rests unmovingly before Dakarai, piercing into the void at no particular point. Inhale. Exhale. "Tell me, Elizabeth, if this is your dream..." - the voice is offendingly casual in tone, corners heavy with a dark brand of malice, the cheerfulness, though, remaining the foremost feature - "...do you think he will... bleed if I cut him?" Almost lazily, his gaze drifts sideways toward her, revealing eyes with enough darkness to their brown to pass almost as black, glittering with a dangerous curiosity. The blade's edge pushes against Dakarai's neck as though he were asking her for permission to pierce the skin, though that is obviously not the case. Almost immediately, her bottom lip is enclosed between her teeth, biting down hard in attempts to keep the rest of her body from growing tense and revealing. Pale blue eyes lock with the winged man's, a stark contrast to the near-black of his. Her expression is searching, confused, as though wondering why he won't just disappear. Was she not concentrating hard enough? Were thoughts of her and Dakarai back at their original meeting ground not enough? What more did the dream want from her? In a way, all those questions are right there in her eyes, as though expecting this winged beast to know the answers and offer them to her. Answers don't seem to be his forte, though, and she releases her bottom lip, tone taught and trying hard not to plead. "What's the point of finding out?" she challenges, eyebrows knotting, almost aggressive. His lips. His lips are painted in a royal blue gloss of lipstick, a glaring splash of colour against his face, chilling his features further, enhancing the shadows of his face, the smooth planes of skin. The smirk is subtle, almost as if it were personal to him, rather than something to share with her, though he is glancing toward her. Dakarai is frozen, only motion that of his chest, heaving visibly at each breath; his gaze is locked down at the hand holding the knife almost gingerly to his throat, fingers curled against it just enough to be a real threat, able to wield it to cut with only a millisecond delay if it became necessary. "Don't you want to know if it's your lucid dream... or mine?" he asks, his tone dipping to a seductive darkness, rich, but seemingly slightly roughened at the edges, unpolished, and judging from his level of confidence, entirely without intention of polishing it. Lechku and Nechku: Darkscape Goddamn it. Was he somehow twisting into her thoughts, or was he just that damned good at guessing? Something naggingly tells her that it's the first, which nearly infuriates her. He has no right. Anything that goes on up in her head was hers and hers alone. This anger shows in her expression just barely, but she keeps it subtle, knowing very well that the slightest wrong move or expression could hurt Dakarai. She takes a shaky breath, calming herself. "No. Actually, I can honestly go without knowing," she insists, a hint of desperation in her voice as her eyes long on Dakarai's expression, sincerely concerned. This was so very much her fault. She should have told him to stay there. She should have tried to come here herself. She shouldn't have bothered him. If she'd done the right thing, Dakarai would still be sitting there, carving away. This was so, so, so very much her fault. A fond, soft chuckle surfaces from the fallen angel, him turning his smile toward her, letting it grow to a grin, revealing the lengthened tips of vampire fangs in the corners of that smirk. Her expression darkens briefly at that small grin, needing no extra hint in order to notice the wicked canines peeking through. Well, that could explain a thing or two. Of course her dreams would allow a vampire-type character to seem as though he was reading her mind. That made sense with many of the little pieces of folklore she had read. Not that this comforted her, of course. Hell, it was a touch more to worry about. His eyes seem to light up at the edges, brightening the leer, before letting his eyes drift closed, left hand's fingers tracing as if absent-mindedly down Dakarai's left arm. Very slowly, he turns his head back to face Dakarai's back, blue lips parting, seeking the back of his neck, locking around a fragment of skin, placing a kiss against it, which causes Dakarai to utter a soft, reflexive: "Damnit." It's a breathy two syllables. His eyes squeeze shut. She can't help but cry out when she sees the winged creature's lips duck out of view, aiming for the back of Dakarai's neck, but she quickly swallows the sound, choosing words instead. "Don't! Ah... please, stop. This is unnecessary." Her eyes are as pleading as her tone, although she does seem slightly... ashamed? Begging doesn't seem to come naturally for her. A soft rustle of feather pierces the silence, his left wing shifting slightly, or perhaps simply touched by the hint of a breeze. Eyes still closed, seemingly ignoring Liz's plea, a second kiss finds itself at an inch of distance to the previous spot, off to the right. The gesture seems bizarrely gentle, as though he were handling a particularly fragile rose with bare hands, both cherishing and possessing it. Her jaw clenches as she watches, feeling ridiculously helpless, and a hideous amount of guilt twists her expression into something miserable for a few seconds. "God, I'm so sorry," she breathes almost silently, the sound quivering with fear for Dakarai, mouthing the words more than she whispers them. Her voice gains a touch of volume, although it's still surprisedly hushed, as she takes a very hesitant step closer to the two, one hand actually inching up to reach out for Dakarai before realising what she was doing. No, no, no. She wasn't going to get him hurt. "Why won't you just let him go?" she asks, voice prodding, losing a bit more assurance with each word. Another kiss finds the side of Dakarai's neck, lingering tantrically for long moments - causing the captive to glance back at the wielder of the knife nervously, evidently unsure what to make of this... fake affection. His lips are drifting across bare skin further forward as she asks her question, lips having been gradually receding from those canines. The motion seems to halt for a moment, his breath ghosting across the skin of Dakarai's neck, causing the hairs to raise subtly. His eyes roll back open, gaze shifting toward her, catching her at the very corner of a sideways glance, otherwise unbudging. "Make me an offer." Her eyes narrow slightly as they meet with his, although they contain little fire and even less confidence. His comment obviously catches her off guard; she seems to come to a mental halt for a moment, completely at a loss for words, unable to think straight, thought frozen. An offer? Ridiculous. She had nothing to offer. Honestly, all she had on her were the clothes on her back, and those certainly weren't worth a Dakarai. "I... ah..." she struggles, gaze breaking off from the winged vampire's and darting to the misted ground, as though it would help her to think. "I honestly don't have much that I can offer. I... I have myself, and that's really all..." Her voice fades, and she suddenly considers this. Would she honestly trade herself for Dakarai? Hah. Again, no fair trade. She certainly wasn't worth a Dakarai. His teeth still paused above that neck, he remains immobile as if to consider her words, before that smirk perceptibly widens - and he slowly stretches, left arm sliding to grip the knife held against the lad's throat in a manner allowing no rebellion, his right freed up, hand coming to rest against Dakarai's right elbow for now. "Give me your hand," he instructs, his hand opening to her like a flower to sunlight, palm upturned, extremely delicate fingers looking more alien than human, but with the beauty of grace. His voice is almost a whisper - but it causes Dakarai to utter a choking noise, his gaze fearfully locked on Elizabeth. "Don't," he recommends, those eyes wide, unable to stay precisely still. Her own right hand raises briefly, gaze locked on the delicate, pale fingers of the vampire, but she doesn't move to place her hand directly in his. Instead, she raises her hand to her mouth, one knuckle lodging itself in her mouth so that she can nibble on it, torn. There was no way this could end well, but she'd gotten them into this, no? It was something she had to make right. Finally, she removes her knuckle from her mouth, blue gaze rising and locking onto Dakarai. Despite his recommendation, she can't help but be further fueled in her decision; it was not right for him to suffer because she dragged him along. "Dakarai," she whispers, forcing a pained smile. "It's alright. This is just a dream anyways." It's obvious that she's saying this just as much to convince herself as it's meant to comfort Darakai, but she closes the distance between the winged man's hand and hers all the same, gently resting her hand in his. His thumb folds gently against her hand, the side of it brushing in a gentle caress across the back of her hand while he locks her gaze - before abruptly, the spidery fingers scurry toward her wrist, locking around it in firm grip - and he yanks the hand down as though to force her to her knees or to fall. Her hand had tensed in his gentle grip, and again, the young woman was nibbling on her lip, already wanting to be anywhere but where she is. Gentle grip or not, it was obvious that she was still terrified of him... and then the gentle grip was gone, replaced by a vicious tug, causing her to squeal in surprise and stumble closer a few steps. His actual intention abruptly becomes clear as her fingertips brush against the fabric of Dakarai's crotch, causing him to reflexively tense, a single note of protest surfacing from him, only to culminate in silence once more. The fallen angel's gaze is boring into her as though trying to hypnotise her into obeying, as though trying to force her into being unable to look away. Another soft sound, this one more of a whimper than anything else, is issued when she realises where her hand is, although she dares not look down to confirm this. She's already invading his privacy with her touch; she won't do the same with her eyes. Instead, she wrenches her gaze from the vampire, directing blue eyes to gaze into Dakarai's instead. Hers are apologetic, guilty, so very sorry. This was not what she'd intended. "I suggest you work convincingly with your fingers," the black-winged one remarks in a whisper, a rumble surfacing from him much akin to a purr. Instead of granting her the courtesy of partial restraint, however, his hand drifts away from hers, stroking up across the back of hers with tantric lightness, up her arm to height of her elbow, before finally detaching and leaving her to force her own will into acting in compliance with no aid from him. The young woman's jaw drops a little, briefly overwhelmed by this command. "I... I don't understand the point of this," she breathes, shaking her head side to side before looking back up to the vampire, eyes narrowed and so very confused. Her fingers do no such thing, instead just barely leaving them where he left them, grazing the bulge of Dakarai's pants so lightly that it was as if they weren't even there. In silent response to her refusal and stuttered protest, the blade at Dakarai's neck presses further against his skin, shifting slightly to sink into the sensitive flesh. A blood-red line appears to her vision just under the blade, though it is lethargic in leaking blood, too shallow to be truly damaging. "Oh, Darakai," she whispers, sympathy pain quivering in her voice as her eyes follow the small, beaded line of red. Her left hand raises half-way, obviously intending to reach up and gently wipe the blood away, but she decides against it, not knowing at all what the winged horror could possibly do as punishment for that. The hand quickly lowers, and she mumbles, slightly angry and most horrified: "I still don't understand." Even as she does so, her right hand moves closer, gently cupping Darakai through his jeans. She closes her eyes, as though doing so might allow her to block out her own actions, as her thumb traces along the the outside of the bulge - even this small movement seems labourous for her. Dakarai's eyes close, evidently finding his situation equally unbearable, feeling discomfort overwhelm him, the touch feeling alien, bizarre - certainly not pleasurable right now. The demon, meanwhile, places a gentle kiss on Dakarai's neck once more, his own eyes narrowed to slits, watching Elizabeth's attempts with other senses, his gaze seemingly locked unseeingly on Dakarai's collar bone. A moment later, he rumbles, lips vibrating against Dakarai's neck as he does: "Convincingly. I daresay I don't have a lot of patience." She grimaces at his tone, opening her eyes long enough to shoot him a surprisingly spirited glare. Irrational, ridiculous, sadistic... even so, she had already been made well-aware of the fact that he was in control of the situation, if only because of that fucking knife. Oh how she wished Dakarai hadn't had that knife on him... then again, oh how she wished they hadn't gotten in this situation to begin with. Trying not to let her irritation and fear out physically on Dakarai, her fingers snake upwards, attempting to be enticing, teasing, before reaching the waistband of his slacks. Swallowing all hesitation, her fingers unbutton the pants, doing their best to be... convincing. A soft, breathy gasp surfaces from the captive, a line of terror running through him, perhaps in surprise at how easily she had been brought to act this way - his weight shifts slightly, though to most part, he remains still, his own gaze fixed on the dreamcatcher design before him. Dakarai's gasp catches Elizabeth off guard, and she jerks her hand away from him, possibly assuming that she had perhaps hurt him. The girl's wickedly inexperienced, after all - her movements are more out of a desire to survive than out of knowing exactly what will be effective. Her hands returns relatively quickly, though; again, she moves out of a desire to survive above all else. The vampiric fallen angel peers almost idly across Dakarai's right shoulder as though to inspect Elizabeth's progress, a wicked smile surfacing as he sees her behaving herself so well - even if that made the situation far too benign for his liking. But he wasn't going to kill the boy after implying he would spare him if she complied - he kept true to his word. He had nothing to hide. The truth was so much more interesting. Of course, he had so much more control over this dream than the petty knife in its crudeness - perhaps it was time to help Elizabeth a little, just slightly, have their mutual victim come to partly enjoy this particular torment. On the other hand, her struggling was so enticing. Her fingers don't delve too deep. Instead, the young woman is ridiculously shy about it, doing little more than dipping the first two knuckles of her fingers beyond his waist band. Instead, she drags her fingers back and forth, mostly stroking the skin on his abdomen, perhaps convincing herself that she's 'teasing' the poor boy. That's a terrible and obvious lie, though; the gentle quiver in her hand is enough to imply that she's simply too terrified to do much more. The benign silence seems to persist for further long moments - before abruptly, the scene changes, motion seizing the demon's shape - a shriek fades into a horrible gargling sound as Dakarai's head is wrenched to the side, toward and against the shape blade, slicing through his skin, shredding into his left carotid artery. Both arms of the demon swing around, shoving him roughly to the side like a discarded item, blood gushing forth from the lethal wound at his neck. "Fresh out of patience," he hisses, his wings curving toward her slightly as though intending to clamp around her to enclose her. For a split second, she remains silent, numb, as though not completely understanding what had just been done. That's amended quickly, though, and some sort of brutal mixture of a scream and a sob escapes Elizabeth, eyes wide with utter horror. Her hands quickly move to Dakarai's throat, as if hoping she can close the gaping, mortal wound, but the winged beast is easily able to push the blood-gushing body out of her hands, blood making her fingers slick. "Dakarai!" she screeches, voice shrill and choked, and attempts to leap for the body, viciously trying to push aside the thick and pitch-black wings that block her way. The horrified girl repeats the name several times as she claws at the wings, ignoring the smearing blood and thick scent of it in the air. A strange malice seems to radiate from the creature, pulsing off him as if in waves, his arms spread slightly, legs in half a crouch - and a moment later, his weight crashes against her bewildered shape, hands snapping to seize her wrists and slam them down against the wooden branch below them, above her head, pinning her on her back. She collapses to the ground, chin and knees and everything else slamming into the branch below, immediately tasting blood; accidentally biting through one's tongue will do that, after all. She cries out, the sound some animalistic mix of fury and sorrow, and writhes beneath the winged man, clawing at the branch in attempts to crawl away. Her struggles are wild and vicious, even as she cries out, almost sobbing: "No! No! Get off me! Let me go! I can still help him, please!" He hisses - having no issues with her struggles, even though she would have thrown him off long ago were this a physical battle - past clenched teeth: "This is my lucid dream, Elizabeth." He pronounces each syllable of her name individually, sharpening the edges into a truly serpentine representation. "I decide what happens. If I want him to come back as a zombie and violate your body, I can do that, too. Don't prompt me. Stay still." Slowly, her struggling fades into nothing more than some weak attempt at stretching her arm far enough to reach Dakarai's body, face wrenched with much more emotional pain than anything else. "I can fix it," she whispers before letting out another choked sob, tears starting to stream. She could fix it, if he'd only give her a chance... Eventually, she manages to cough through her new tears: "And no, no, no! This is my dream, and I want to wake up now!" The girl twists viciously to the left, and even she's not sure if she's trying to roll the winged beast off her or if she's trying to awaken her sleeping self. Either would be a liable solution, although she'd prefer the latter; then she could wash herself of this, forget about it all as soon as possible. It is then that something seems to snake like a helix around her wrists, binding them against each other above her head, its texture slightly leathery, having that part stickiness and part smoothness to its touch. As his fingers loosen their grip, it tightens about her abruptly, pulling her arms into half a stretch, placing a slight strain on her shoulder sockets. His left hand rests its palm on the wooden branch beside her, resting his weight against it, sitting mostly astride her shape with the way his weight is pinning her lower half. Right hand free, he moves it up to her hair, fingertips sliding from her forehead across her scalp, seizing strands of hair to hold her head still and keep her from thrashing. "What..." Something twists around her wrists and pulls them upwards, leaving her in slight but inescapable discomfort. She squirms, despite being pinned down quite thoroughly by the winged beast's form, only to have her head pulled back a touch, leaving all of her immobile but perhaps her feet. Even then, she does writhe slightly, as though there's some possibility of squirming her arms out of the thing holding them up or managing to roll out from beneath his weight. "Goddamn it!" she half moans, half sobs, voice exhausted. "Why can't I just wake up?" Her blue eyes, half-lidded, close in attempts to again find a way to force herself into consciousness... or perhaps a new level of unconsciousness. Anything that would get her away from this freak. A strange calmness seems to enter his demeanour again, the aggression of moments ago as if utterly extinguished - as if unthinkable, even. Still, his fingers remain in her hair, the pressure of the grip throbbing softly against her scalp. Inhale. Exhale. The struggle is over. His weight shifts against her hips slightly as he raises his left hand off the ground, moving to brush at her left cheek with the back of the same, gently letting his knuckles trace her cheekbone. The sudden lack of aggression in him is no relief to her; in fact his sudden calmness terrifies her. After all, wasn't it only a matter of minutes ago that he was tenderly kissing Dakarai's neck? No, no, no. This wouldn't do at all. "Don't touch me!" she hisses viciously, attempting to wrench her head out of the reach of the man's gently stroking fingers, disregarding the hand that's tightly twisted in her hair. "G'off me! Keep your hands to yourself!" Again, she's thrown into another fit of rage, trying hard to kick her legs up from beneath him, hoping to maybe hit a wing and get some sort of pained reaction. "Tch," he remarks, remaining perfectly calm. Her legs are thrashing out beyond where they would do damage, his wings lifted well off the branch, out of her kicking range, the rest of him at height of her hip or above. Keeping his right hand curled in her hair, he watches her expression warp under influence of the broken emotions, feeling her despair tingle up his spine as a pleasant emotion. Head still gripped, he leans forward, his wings rustling softly as gravity realigns the feathers, blue lips hovering near hers, inquisitive eyes latched onto her face, his left hand extending index and middle finger to brush their tips across her lips. Lechku and Nechku: Darkscape She can't help but shudder beneath him as his lips and entire face comes entirely too close to hers, unable to quell her repulsion. Everything disgusting in the world was suddenly all over her, and she hated it. Worse yet, the beast couldn't take a hint. "I told you not to touch me!" she shouts, her voice still shaky from the sobs that she can't completely swallow, and leans her mouth in to attempt to bite down on the index and middle finger that strayed just a little too close to her face. There is little rationality behind her actions any longer, and despite the fact that common sense states that her attempted bite is bad news, she doesn't stop herself. She warned him, after all. Serves him right. His left hand twists around almost reflexively, thumb sliding down the left of her jaw, index and middle finger down the other side, gripping a hold of her mouth, pushing some of his weight down into the hand to pin her head more firmly against the ground. No cursing. No signs of discomfort or worry - just that horribly analytic stare mingled with a predatory hunger. He dips his head, lips brushing across hers, tip of his tongue coming to trace against her lips in a single circular motion. It's outside the range of her teeth with the way she's currently being pinned. "Do I really have to force your pretty mouth open?" he asks in a tone of fake understanding. She lets out something of a growl through her clenched teeth, and a hiccup wracks her body, a side-effect of the still-there-but-quickly-dying sobs. The calmness frustrates her to no end - in her mind, his quiet and smooth reactions simply reinforce the fact that he's in control, and that's obviously the last thing she wants... not that she has much of a choice, obviously. Kind of in a bind, eh? The young woman's lips curl as though touched by some sort of waste product when he brushes his against hers, and her expression doesn't become any more attractive when his tongue flicks out. Through tightly clenched teeth, now done herself to keep him out of her mouth, she snarls, "Ow about you get da fuck off me?" "No," he responds, calmly, his lips hovering near hers. "I think not," he adds, with a dark chuckle, idly bemused, placing a light kiss on her left cheek near her lips as if fond of her, giving his hips a single grind against her to remind her that there are plenty other places he can play with if she doesn't cooperate. His little displays of affection bother her something fierce, so contradicting of what he really must be thinking, and the curl of her lip only as another hiccup wracks her body. "Go find someone else," she half pleads, half demands, although the phrase does trail off slightly as he grinds against her, catching her off guard more than anything. "Don't fucking do that!" she practically wails, body tensing uncomfortably, a new tint of humility in her voice this time around. "Nuh," he cuts across her swearing. "My lucid dream, remember? I will do as I please, and as it stands, your terror pleases me. I'm most intrigued - how will you act when I've proven to you that you're at my mercy?" His tone would be appropriate for talking between neighbours about the weather - but not about rape. "I'm feeling generous and talkative today, so: I recommend you learn to enjoy it." "This is my dream!" she argues without actual argument, treating the situation much like a toddler who's already lost would start the beginning of their temper tantrum. Something creeps up the left side of her face, a thin tendril of familiar touch, like what holds her wrists - the tip of it traces across her lower lip before moving to part her lips, working its way past the rows of her teeth, sliding into her mouth with that same horrible lethargy that seems inherit to all his actions, that superior quasi-saunter. It doesn't take much of an imagination what it will do once it slides past the back of her gums - no doubt curl to force her jaws apart. She opens her mouth to shout more, but something touches at the side of her lips, and she instinctively closes her mouth and clenches her teeth, light eyes trying their best to see what cool thing is slipping and sliding up her face. Her clenching is no good, though; the tendrils are wickedly strong, and in no time, her mouth is pried open, frustrated cries and attempts at furious growls issuing as articulately as she possibly can without being able to close her mouth. Her expression is some grotesque mix of hatred and disgust, and this becomes only worse as it starts to kick in... there are foreign, tentacle-like things all over in her mouth. Wretched. The tendril seems to have curled into a circle against the interior of her mouth, forcing it open as far as her joints and muscle fibre allows, giving her no leeway to find leverage for a bite. His smile down at her is so hideously fakely warm - not that it is easily identifiable as fake other than by sheer context. Keeping his right hand in her hair, he raises his left again, carefully tracing the tip of his index finger against her lower lip, then pushing the finger into her mouth gently, caressing it across her tongue. She tries fiercely to force her mouth closed, if only just the slightest bit; having it opened so ridiculously wide was going to get pretty damn painful pretty damn fast, but, unfortunately, the horrid tendril gave way not a bit. Worse yet, this freak seemed to think that her wide-open mouth was some twisted invitation, and soon, his finger was slipping into her mouth, unwanted, undesired. "Eeeah," she protests, the sound indecipherable, and attempts to push his finger out with her tongue alone. Completely ineffective, of course, but any fight she puts up makes her feel a touch better about herself. The finger withdraws, that horrible, warped smile persisting, before fading into a relaxed expression, his eyes drifting closed, head tilting, blue lips brushing hers once more, stray strands of black, curled hair falling across her face, tips tickling at her collar bone - and a moment later, his lips are properly upon hers, closing around them in a deep kiss, his own tongue invading her mouth. No longer occupied, his left hand comes to rest against her chest, palm brushing against the fabric-covered nipple of her right breast. The young woman actually whimpers as his lips brush past hers, not out of need but because reality is beginning to sink in just a touch. It seems as though no amount of squirming and verbally biting back is going to get her out of the situation, and that level of helplessness, above all else, is terrifying. No surprise, although still impossible to brace for, the winged beast's lips soon envelope hers, not needing her cooperation or invitation. "Nnnnfff," she protests all the same, trying to close her mouth, trying to pull away from his face, trying to arch her breast away from his touch... wait, what? Her protests become even more frequent - it's apparent she doesn't take too kindly to his touching her. His left hand slides down past the touch of her nipple to her side, travelling down it in more of a hover than caress, his hip shifting to lessen the weight resting on her slit. Fingertips touch the side of her hip, travelling across her skin, finding the rim of her own trousers, two fingers sliding teasingly beneath it - their length makes this more than a passing tease, fingertips stroking her slit lips. His kiss persists, still so deceptively gentle in its touch. Every part of her body attempts to draw away from him, slipping as far into the ground as she possibly as she tries to escape each gentle caress, shying away from any light touch his fingertips try to make. There's little space for her to move, though, and every attempt is a wasted effort. There's no escaping him. Two fingers slip menacingly past her own waistband, and she gasps sharply into his kiss, not having expected him to delve so far down. Her hips pull back, desperately attempting to squirm away from his reach, and she attempts to toss her head off to the side, wanting so badly to break the kiss, roll him off her, run away. If that wasn't possible, then please... please... she begged the dream to allow her to simply shrivel up and disappear. Finally, the kiss breaks and he plants a lighter peck on her jawline, before sliding his right hand's fingers away from her head, bringing it down to the waistband of her trousers, letting his fingers work on pulling it down past her hips, peeling her underwear from her in the same gesture, amongst other things shifting his weight to allow it, smiling down at her in an altogether pleased fashion, black curls of hair fallen across his face, his wings arched behind him, his ghostishly white skin such a frightening contrast to all the black. Relief is her first reaction when the kiss is broken off, but the feeling's short-lived; Elizabeth quickly realises where his hands are heading, and she wants nothing to do with that. Pale blue eyes grow wider than ever before, frequent, protesting whimpers issuing from her wide-open mouth as she attempts to move herself with her clothing, desperate to keep it attached to her hips. Unfortunately, this method, like every other attempt of hers, is ineffective, and she shivers violently from the cool of the damp branch beneath her and the situation as a whole. In fact, by this point, her entire body is trembling, terrified. The soft breeze of shifting air touches her slit, caressing across it, making her warmed skin abruptly aware of its nakedness, its vulnerability. A series of awkward shifts later, his hands are behind him, pulling her trousers down to her knees, sat on her thighs. His right hand drifts up her left thigh until it can't ascend further, blocked by his body, circling around the same through the air, before he slides the hand down between her legs, pressing the side of his index finger against her slit lips, effortlessly sliding to part them, though not changing the vertical rub once there, a fairly gentle grind against her clit. His left hand, meanwhile, is tracing fingertips up her belly, sliding under her shirt, travelling in tantric caress up her shape, taking its time, describing several warm circles across her belly. She breathes in sharply at the cool breeze, entire body tensing at the sudden change of temperature. Worse yet, though, is his hand snaking between her legs, slowly and nonchalantly making its way up to rather uncharted territory. With as close to a vice-grip as she can get, the young woman clenches her thighs, fighting so hard and making every attempt to block him that she can. As always, though, an emotionally distraught girl will lose against the man in control of the dream, and she finds his touch growing even more invasive, getting a new stream of protests from her. "Uu ah-er uh-er," she cries, trying hard to pull her hips away from the unfamiliar touch. "Eh ur uh-in ahs oh eh!" She writhes violently, certainly not from pleasure, and attempts to wriggle her way out from beneath him, eyes watering in the meantime. This was... this was not supposed to be happening. Not now, not here, not like this. No, no, no. He leans forward again, curling his shoulders slightly, curls of his hair tickling across the skin of her increasingly exposed belly as the edge of the shirt wanders up with ascent of that seeking hand. Leaning down fully, his lips brush across her skin, their warmth pressing against the whereabouts of her diaphragm near the bottom of her ribs. Then the first sign of lack of control enters his voice, a slight change in his breath, a hint of a tremble in it. His hand at her slit, being held flat, is unaffected by her attempt to force it from her with tensed thighs. His thumb pushes against her clit, grinding it almost carefully against her, beginning to circle it even as his index finger slides lower to probe at her opening. So's the theory, of course. Again, a sharp breath - most of her is deathly ticklish, and locks of deep black hair trailing against her ghostly white skin does nothing to help that. Then again, nothing that he's doing has been particularly helpful in garnering reactions from her that she desires. His light lips and knowing hands are rather frustrating as well, although in a different sort of way, proving to her that it's completely possible for the body to react in ways that the mind or heart would never dare to. Goosebumps trail behind every touch of his lips, and her hips slowly find themselves relaxing, no longer pushing as deeply into the branch beneath her as they once had. Red seeps into her cheeks, a mark of her shame as she tries to regain control over her body. Even then, she covers up the positive reactions with more verbal protests, listing off clumsy expletives the best she can without being able to close her mouth. The probing fingertip finds no entrance - the rest of his motions momentarily freeze, his breath ghosting across her bare skin at height of her belly-button. Contemplation. He hadn't expected that - perhaps he should have dug that far into her mind before, but he hated spoiling things for himself. Slowly, he lets his thumb resume its circling, its touch becoming more light, though this does nothing to lessen the intensity of the pleasure caused by the motions. Wickedness warps his features, though a strange warmth creeps into his gaze, even if it does have a predatory undertone, and he raises his head to look up at her, silent, though his lips are parted as though to ask a question. Not yet - he can ask in a moment, when he's sure she's irreversibly crossed that line. The pause in his movement surprises her, and she find herself wondering why he stopped. Immediately, she begins to mentally chastise herself for this wicked twist in thinking. Wondering? She should be thanking god he'd stopped, not asking for the reason why. She should be... taking advantage... And finally, she does make an effort to wriggle away again, even as the motions begin again. She's naive enough not to pick up on what discovery caused the falter in his actions, mostly because her mind is too intent on being furious and confused by itself. The horrible argument going in inside her quite nearly distracts her from the feeling of his gaze, but she eventually does look downward, although she immediately looks away. There's too much that she doesn't want him reading from her expression: the inner tormoil, the shame, and... ah, nothing. The raven-like wings lose their tension, drifting from their respective arching down toward the branch, coming to rest like two parts of a feathery cloak around his shape. Unable to contain the stab of sadism, he lances through the silence with the words: "Pain or pleasure, Elizabeth... it's your choice. Latter requires a bit of... cooperation," while pressing some of his weight into his index finger at her slit, mainly to draw her attention to it, to remind her of what she is trying to avoid thinking about, amongst other things. His thumb continues its motions as if in exploration around her clit, causing her belly to become enveloped in little pinpricks of pleasure spread like a myriad of needles across that area. His left hand finds one of her breasts under her shirt, fingers curling to grip it almost viciously. She shifts awkwardly beneath the weight of his finger, trying viciously not to arch her hips into his touch. Phyically convincing or not, she reminds herself that this is in no way what she wants. She's in no way a creature of instant gratification, and she's not a girl to be seduced by a pretty face and a few soft touches. This man... this man just killed another. Tears sting her eyes, but this is the painful reminder she needs to get control over herself again. "Yyy ohn uuh uh uh oh?" she spits at him, trying her best to tell him to fuck off without being able to budge her mouth an inch. With newfound determination, she again attempts to roll over with a violent lurch to the side, hoping so very much to knock or roll him off her so that she can make a run for it. This isn't what she wants. Her writhing is more of a shifting beneath him, her hips still held down by his weight, her wrists pinned far above her head by something vine like. He utters a dark purr as if in acknowledgment - and without warning, as his expression adopts a vicious streak, sadism glinting in his eyes, before his hand at her slit twists and forces its way down and into her entirely without gentleness. His left hand's fingers curl to the point of digging their nails into her breast as if attempting to force her to stay on her back by using it as a handle - but of course that's not necessary, he's only emphasising his cruelty. His change in expression may have been enough to warn her to brace for the pain that was to come, but Elizabeth was far too busy evading his gaze to take any hints from it. Without warning, she cries out shrilly, entire body tensing, back arching, limbs locking. The cry fades into a series of pained, pitiful whimpers until she's finally able to gain control of herself, swallowing the pain like a true champ. Somehow, she manages to convince herself to adopt the mantra: 'This is only a dream,' and she closes her eyes tight, repeating this to herself, using it to block out the scorching pain and keep herself from crying out any more. "If it were a dream, shouldn't you have woken up by now?" His voice is sickly sweet, mocking, his index finger driven deeply into her, almost carefully turning and twisting within her, the burning pain from the intrusion being renewed over and over again, though dulling each time, spreading out within her. Slowly, he shifts his weight, moving from his sit to more of a kneel, his left hand slowly drifting away from her breast, him leaning back down to kiss her belly again, his smirk tangible against it. Her entire body twitches angrily at his question, verifying her earlier suspicion that he had the ability to and no problem with invading her thoughts. 'Stay. Out,' she mentally growls, hoping that he'll go ahead and listen to that one and then stop. Still, for good measure, she adds, 'You're a disgusting fuck-off that should really get off me.' Eh. If you were gonna take a stab, might as well go full out. Still, she doesn't merit him with an answer, if only because answering him would be admitting the experience to be real rather than dream. Instead, she mentally gropes around for something to think of other than the foreign feeling between her legs, thoroughly horrified by the pain and experience. It was all going horribly wrong. He's never understood the need to insult others - it doesn't occur to him how obviously untrue statements could ever affect someone. He had learned that it was typically expected that he react in some way - and in her case, he curls the finger inside her until the nail scrapes against her inner wall, before tearing the finger from her, leaving a furious, fiery burn across her g-spot. A moment later, his left hand has grasped her shoulder, seizing her shape and hauling himself up across her shape, his chest lifted off hers slightly, face hovering above hers, his expression offendingly neutral, analytic, blue lips glittering. Drinking in her despair, the hint of a smile in the very corners of his lips, his right hand traces down her shape, pinching a nipple through the cloth in passing, the crescents of his fingernails like miniatures knives against the sensitive piece of flesh. "I can read your mind, sweetheart," he whispers, leaning down, voice ghosting past her ear. "And I'm aware you know fine well what I'm finding under those superficial, verbal assaults." Mocking her. His right hand rests against her hip. Even in her naivité, the hardness she can by now feel pushed against her through his clothes is unmistakable.