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.