Post by brodie on Nov 1, 2018 17:24:13 GMT -5
A simple little street, nothing extraordinary to note about it. Uneven little cobblestones stuck, haphazardly, into cement to create a winding path that goes nowhere in particular. In a nondescript town of an unimportant city, this road wound its way down that simple little street to a tree, on a hill, lush and green. And it is, in fact, rather unimportant how tall the hill is, or how alive the leaves on the tree, thick enough to cast a shadow over an entire side of that hill, appear in their green color. Because all that matters is that is where she sits;
A bright red cloak, playing a part in a story unwritten; she sits beneath the tree; her dark hair tucked beneath the cloak. A picnic basket that has seen better days, containing horrors no fairytale could ever imagine; sits in her lap as Brodie waits for him to follow the whisper.
“Find me.”
“I always wondered what made Little Red Riding Hood's cloak so red. Do you truly think it was a simple dye or was it all that blood?” The voice brushed quitely against her skin like a velvet growl.
The source a tall figure in the shadows leaning lazily against one wall, sealing up on of his signature hand rolled cigarettes. Her head inclined ever so slightly, barely a movement at all really, to lean away from his voice and angle his ear closer to the dulcet tone that sent shivers down her spine.
“I imagine…” she purred, like a kitten at the feet of a lion, her tone far softer, playful almost. “That the blood would darken and dry to murky colors without such vigor.”
Her eyes, hidden beneath that hood; allowed a swoop of thick, extended eyelashes. Fingertips tracing the very edge of that cloak, so he could almost feel the silky smooth exterior on his own fingers.
“Perhaps she wore entrails instead, hm?”
Her answer drew a rumbling chuckle, that paused only so he could light his cigarette. Soon trails of smoke twined through the air leaving the scent of cherry and whiskey tobacco in its wake.
“Maybe the entrails of an axe man rather than a wolf? I doubt the good people of the village would have been able to properly understand her needs...especially the strapping young boys.” His eyes caressed her form like physical caress as he spoke. By this time it was clear that his edgier darker tone was reserved especially for her.
“I would like to hear a story like that…”
Her form shifted, leaning back against the tree and extending those long, milky white legs. The hood slips, of course to reveal what she lacks as clothing underneath. A basque pulled so tight her waist seems to have all but disappears meets, the tiniest of shorts and sheer stockings. You would note, that she is dressed as though she were attending a brothel in post era France, not sitting beneath a tree with a picnic basket.
“You imagine…”
That same purred tone, slipping from her lips as the caress of his words engulfs her. A soft, breathy moan from barely parted lips, eyes, peeking from beneath the hood that now masks only her face. A very slightly wriggle of the hips, just enough to tug at his own eyes, pull his attention into her grasp.
“That those boys would paw and scratch; desperation oozing off them like beads of sweat as they pant and desire… so unobtainable… terrifying even.”
A laugh from her own lips; husky but light as she wriggled once more against that tree, another moan, another flick of her eyes.
“But the Wolf… Oh, the wolf with those sharp teeth that gnash and gnaw would excite her, would he not? The feel of claws against the milky white skin, how he would tear asunder those… strapping young boys at just the whisper of her name.”
His eyes heated at her words and movements the silence itself was charged and strung tight like a bow. He when he finally pushed away from the wall to move into the dappled light beneath the tree the small scraps against the stone were deafening.
He did not move to touch her though like many would. No he crouched down just out of reach, but close enough that she could feel his presence. His blue grey eyes the color of storm clouds trained upon with a single minded focus.
“I collect two paychecks whether I win or lose a match, and the lager of the two does not come from valor pro. So in all honesty I care less about winning, and more about doing whatever I want. However, when what I want is to crawl back into the ring with you to feel that vicious embrace tearing at my body...Well that changes things a bit doesn't it.” He paused to let his words sink in, while his eyes blatantly began to take in every detail of her body.
“So yes Little Red, I'll be leaving bodies in my wake if need be to have you back in the ring with me.”
A smirk, a small and simple smirk accompanied her movement as she pushed back against the tree, allowing that basket to topple from her lap; poison apples tumbling from their containment to surround the tree, but she didn’t seem to notice, her own eyes trained on his gaze.
“Such a simple thought process for such a man… wins and losses are all but relative in the grander scheme. They compete for what? Do tell… a scrap of tin and sense of pride, what is pride after all?”
Blood red lips to match that barely covered cloak part, making way for another moan. Louder, with certainty as she sat up against that tree. Arching her back against it to display herself, her cloak herself in the shadows all at once. Fingers, traced down that tightly bound basque, creeping across her own thighs. Raising goosebumps on her flesh in their wake.
“Yes, lust. A far superior master. Lust for blood, to feel… feel something beneath the touch of another. What a pointless desire that is, the ideal of pride or love. The ideal of humanity itself being the superior race… no better than animals writhing in the dirt and there you sit, big bad… ready to huff and puff and drag me down into it with you.”
He watched her avidly his head cocking to the side curiously for a moment. A slow crooked grin spreading on his lips, as he slowly exhaled a slow stream of smoke.
“Maybe lovely...but then sometimes the most simple things are far more complex than they seem.” From his coat he pulled a small worn book. It was obviously an antique judging by the cloth binding. A stain disrupted the soft deep blue and continued to stain the gilded edges with drops a dark reddish brown.
One scarred hand set the book down by her creamy thigh. It was close enough that she could feel his heat, but their skin never brushed.
“A gift lovely for the gift you gave me in the ring…” He pulled back smoothly moving back to his feet. Her eyes lingered on that hand, then moved to the book. At first she didn’t reach to touch it, instead studying its ever mark with a curious air of her own.
“There is nothing complex about pain… did you notice that mi amore? There are levels, deep and dark levels those who are unlike us would not dare to read. But it is simplistic by nature, animal… carnal. Pain drives through your body until it trembles and wavers. It drives, it takes, but it is never complex.”
Finally that hand slid from her thigh to pick up the book, resting the stained cover to her cheek she seemed to inhale the scent, a habit, if you’ve been paying attention, of hers. To smell things before daring to trust what they may present.
“Silver bells and cockle shells and… dead things all in a row. Hmm? Do you take their name when they become just a number to you, or do you leave that to those who survive the dead?”
The smile her words evoked was softer than usual. A bittersweet thing, wistful around the edges.
“I remember all their names…”
She pressed her lips softly to the cover of the book, slipping it into the basket as she sat it upright her fingers moving swiftly almost a little too quick for an untrained eye, finally turning her head to drop her hood; her eyes resting upon him.
“It’s not time yet, you know that, don’t you?”
Those lips, curved into the smallest of smiles. Each knew, understood perfectly that which the other craved, but neither would be satiated today.
“When you know my name as you recall theirs… then it will be time.”
She rose from her place beneath the tree, scooping up that beaten old basket that contained a now shared secret, pulling out a small, old and hand carved rosary; wrapped in an aged cloth she pressed it against his palm, her lips just barely brushing his cheek, the first and only contact the pair would make on this day.
“Soon.”
A flurry of red satin, pulled tight around her slender form; saw her disappear down the small path until she appeared to be engulfed by the shadows of the branches themselves, disappearing in a blink and leaving behind only a whisper.
“Find me.”
A bright red cloak, playing a part in a story unwritten; she sits beneath the tree; her dark hair tucked beneath the cloak. A picnic basket that has seen better days, containing horrors no fairytale could ever imagine; sits in her lap as Brodie waits for him to follow the whisper.
“Find me.”
“I always wondered what made Little Red Riding Hood's cloak so red. Do you truly think it was a simple dye or was it all that blood?” The voice brushed quitely against her skin like a velvet growl.
The source a tall figure in the shadows leaning lazily against one wall, sealing up on of his signature hand rolled cigarettes. Her head inclined ever so slightly, barely a movement at all really, to lean away from his voice and angle his ear closer to the dulcet tone that sent shivers down her spine.
“I imagine…” she purred, like a kitten at the feet of a lion, her tone far softer, playful almost. “That the blood would darken and dry to murky colors without such vigor.”
Her eyes, hidden beneath that hood; allowed a swoop of thick, extended eyelashes. Fingertips tracing the very edge of that cloak, so he could almost feel the silky smooth exterior on his own fingers.
“Perhaps she wore entrails instead, hm?”
Her answer drew a rumbling chuckle, that paused only so he could light his cigarette. Soon trails of smoke twined through the air leaving the scent of cherry and whiskey tobacco in its wake.
“Maybe the entrails of an axe man rather than a wolf? I doubt the good people of the village would have been able to properly understand her needs...especially the strapping young boys.” His eyes caressed her form like physical caress as he spoke. By this time it was clear that his edgier darker tone was reserved especially for her.
“I would like to hear a story like that…”
Her form shifted, leaning back against the tree and extending those long, milky white legs. The hood slips, of course to reveal what she lacks as clothing underneath. A basque pulled so tight her waist seems to have all but disappears meets, the tiniest of shorts and sheer stockings. You would note, that she is dressed as though she were attending a brothel in post era France, not sitting beneath a tree with a picnic basket.
“You imagine…”
That same purred tone, slipping from her lips as the caress of his words engulfs her. A soft, breathy moan from barely parted lips, eyes, peeking from beneath the hood that now masks only her face. A very slightly wriggle of the hips, just enough to tug at his own eyes, pull his attention into her grasp.
“That those boys would paw and scratch; desperation oozing off them like beads of sweat as they pant and desire… so unobtainable… terrifying even.”
A laugh from her own lips; husky but light as she wriggled once more against that tree, another moan, another flick of her eyes.
“But the Wolf… Oh, the wolf with those sharp teeth that gnash and gnaw would excite her, would he not? The feel of claws against the milky white skin, how he would tear asunder those… strapping young boys at just the whisper of her name.”
His eyes heated at her words and movements the silence itself was charged and strung tight like a bow. He when he finally pushed away from the wall to move into the dappled light beneath the tree the small scraps against the stone were deafening.
He did not move to touch her though like many would. No he crouched down just out of reach, but close enough that she could feel his presence. His blue grey eyes the color of storm clouds trained upon with a single minded focus.
“I collect two paychecks whether I win or lose a match, and the lager of the two does not come from valor pro. So in all honesty I care less about winning, and more about doing whatever I want. However, when what I want is to crawl back into the ring with you to feel that vicious embrace tearing at my body...Well that changes things a bit doesn't it.” He paused to let his words sink in, while his eyes blatantly began to take in every detail of her body.
“So yes Little Red, I'll be leaving bodies in my wake if need be to have you back in the ring with me.”
A smirk, a small and simple smirk accompanied her movement as she pushed back against the tree, allowing that basket to topple from her lap; poison apples tumbling from their containment to surround the tree, but she didn’t seem to notice, her own eyes trained on his gaze.
“Such a simple thought process for such a man… wins and losses are all but relative in the grander scheme. They compete for what? Do tell… a scrap of tin and sense of pride, what is pride after all?”
Blood red lips to match that barely covered cloak part, making way for another moan. Louder, with certainty as she sat up against that tree. Arching her back against it to display herself, her cloak herself in the shadows all at once. Fingers, traced down that tightly bound basque, creeping across her own thighs. Raising goosebumps on her flesh in their wake.
“Yes, lust. A far superior master. Lust for blood, to feel… feel something beneath the touch of another. What a pointless desire that is, the ideal of pride or love. The ideal of humanity itself being the superior race… no better than animals writhing in the dirt and there you sit, big bad… ready to huff and puff and drag me down into it with you.”
He watched her avidly his head cocking to the side curiously for a moment. A slow crooked grin spreading on his lips, as he slowly exhaled a slow stream of smoke.
“Maybe lovely...but then sometimes the most simple things are far more complex than they seem.” From his coat he pulled a small worn book. It was obviously an antique judging by the cloth binding. A stain disrupted the soft deep blue and continued to stain the gilded edges with drops a dark reddish brown.
One scarred hand set the book down by her creamy thigh. It was close enough that she could feel his heat, but their skin never brushed.
“A gift lovely for the gift you gave me in the ring…” He pulled back smoothly moving back to his feet. Her eyes lingered on that hand, then moved to the book. At first she didn’t reach to touch it, instead studying its ever mark with a curious air of her own.
“There is nothing complex about pain… did you notice that mi amore? There are levels, deep and dark levels those who are unlike us would not dare to read. But it is simplistic by nature, animal… carnal. Pain drives through your body until it trembles and wavers. It drives, it takes, but it is never complex.”
Finally that hand slid from her thigh to pick up the book, resting the stained cover to her cheek she seemed to inhale the scent, a habit, if you’ve been paying attention, of hers. To smell things before daring to trust what they may present.
“Silver bells and cockle shells and… dead things all in a row. Hmm? Do you take their name when they become just a number to you, or do you leave that to those who survive the dead?”
The smile her words evoked was softer than usual. A bittersweet thing, wistful around the edges.
“I remember all their names…”
She pressed her lips softly to the cover of the book, slipping it into the basket as she sat it upright her fingers moving swiftly almost a little too quick for an untrained eye, finally turning her head to drop her hood; her eyes resting upon him.
“It’s not time yet, you know that, don’t you?”
Those lips, curved into the smallest of smiles. Each knew, understood perfectly that which the other craved, but neither would be satiated today.
“When you know my name as you recall theirs… then it will be time.”
She rose from her place beneath the tree, scooping up that beaten old basket that contained a now shared secret, pulling out a small, old and hand carved rosary; wrapped in an aged cloth she pressed it against his palm, her lips just barely brushing his cheek, the first and only contact the pair would make on this day.
“Soon.”
A flurry of red satin, pulled tight around her slender form; saw her disappear down the small path until she appeared to be engulfed by the shadows of the branches themselves, disappearing in a blink and leaving behind only a whisper.
“Find me.”