Vampire The Masquerade RPG
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The Times
The Kindred Chronicle
Key Figures
THE MONSTER OF EALING
Last night, several people reported the sighting of a "screaming red monster" in a quiet neighbourhood of Ealing. After a power shortage in the area, a building caught fire. It was then when, what was described as a "man shaped, footless creature" emerged from the flames, leaping, running, and screaming. One woman has told our reporters that the man had "teeth like a wolf, and the face of the devil". Police officers are still trying to get to the bottom of this; neither the power shortage nor the fire have still been explained. A spokesperson from Scotland Yard has stated that the "so called monster" might be a wounded person, escaping the fire.

TRAGEDY IN TOOLEY STREET
The police has found the bodies of three TFL workers in the construction site at Tooley Street. One of their colleagues raised the alarms last week, when the three workers didn't attend their shifts. The bodies of the men have been found in a deep hole, uncovered by the refurbishment works that are taking place in the area. According to the Police, the bodies were horribly mutilated, which has led to the wildest speculations. The names of the three workers are being kept anonymous, following the wishes of their families.

HOROSCOPE
MARCH 8 - PISCES
You are used to making sacrifices, to prioritising the happiness of others before yours. Even though that is a noble attitude, there are times in life where the only healthy alternative is to embrace your own selfishness and allow yourself some enjoyment. Reserve one hour per day to do something you really like. Treat yourself! Your colour for this month is blue.
Echoes from the past ring back into London. Their intensity increases until they are deafening. What once was a faded memory of a glorious time, now becomes a shocking reality. The consequences of actions taken decades ago ripple into the present, altering the lives of everybody in the City. Unguided and blind, Kindred wander around, trying to make profit out of the reigning chaos.


The appearance of four mysterious figures turned the city upside down. Mistrust and jealousy became the official currency of London. Serpents and fiends rise to power, misdirecting the blaming eyes of the Camarilla towards imaginary enemies. Only those with clear vision and the ability to trust each other strive, while the rest run towards a shallow grave.



Across The Board
Current Chronicle: Dragons and Lions; Pride and Fire
Current Season: Spring
Controlling Sect: Camarilla



Index
Getting Started
General Information
Central London
North London
East London
West London
South London
Miscellaneous
Out of Character


Population: 31

Camarilla
Anarchs
Other
Ventrue: 1
Toreador: 5 (6)
Brujah: 2 (3)
Malkavian: 7
Tremere: 2
Nosferatu: 3
Gangrel: 1
Ventrue: 1
Toreador: 0
Brujah: 2 (3)
Malkavian: 0
Nosferatu: 1
Gangrel: 1
Setites: 5
Sabbat: ???


THE CAMARILLA

Prince

Nobody

Sheriff
Meredith Furlong
Hounds
Robyne Sheridan
Rosella Marie Allain


Keeper of Elysium
Davvad Bisset

Grand Harpy
Catherine Wilke

Primogen
Ventrue: Marcus Antonio Russo
Brujah: Thomas Krusen
Gangrel: Alexa Mallik
Malkavian: Ellora Reese
Tremere: Hannah Sundling
Toreador: Arsenio Pozzi
Nosferatu: Dogan Khojak



ANARCHS

Baron

Khoza

Baronets
Enfield: Leslie
Haringey & Barnet: Clarice Harris
Harrow: Jelena Korolenko

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Welcome To The Night

You find yourself in London on a dreary, foggy night like any other. But what lurks in the shadows is the stuff of fantasies and nightmares, far from mortal reality.

This game uses the cursed and immortal vampiric condition as a backdrop to explore themes of morality, depravity, the human condition, salvation, and personal horror. We are a writing and roleplaying community dedicated to telling complex and engaging stories.

Your fate is your own. Mingle among the ivory-tower elite in the Camarilla, join the fight of the discontented and chaotic Anarch rabble, or set out independently and attempt to survive in London's nighttime underworld. Anything is possible in our World of Darkness.

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Little talks; Church
Topic Started: Thursday, 16. October 2014, 09:11 (3,015 Views)
Mac
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Goddess of Fuck and War
* * * * *
She'd spent the rest of the night before alone, thinking he'd turn up after getting into a bar fight somewhere and coming out with a face full of someone else's blood, or that he'd come back near sunrise stinking like some cheap hookers he'd fucked and chucked in the vampire way. Hell, possibly the human ways too. Wasn't like he was a monk or nothing, and she sure as shit hadn't made herself available to any of his needs that night.

She'd not taken the time to think about his hunger, physical or mental, after the exertion of trying to teach her stupid ass Celerity. She'd just called it quits and hauled herself up that rope and gotten lost from view in the rafters. She hadn't done it proudly, and she sure as shit felt like shit about it. She'd just had to get away from him. Get away from everything that made her resist him since the beginning and that had suddenly come tumbling back to reality. It was easier when things were black and white, vampires bad, humans good. Well alright, humans weren't good they were tolerable assholes but vampires were undoubtedly BAD.

With Church and Tory the world started coming into color. Small drops of hues and questions where only the brightest whites or darkest darks had been before. From the first time she'd looked down at Church after they'd fucked till sunrise that night over a year before, she'd known she should have just taken his head. Instead she'd handcuffed him to her bed... He had been in her blood then, infecting her thoughts with supernatural admiration. Just a little dash of false love, but enough that she hadn't done what she ought to have. She could excuse it at first. Excuse his dead presence in her life because he made her feel good and she was under a 'thrall'. She couldn't help herself right? Then she'd gotten clean, and when they'd come together again without his blood in her? Since then flares of colorful brain fucks were heaped all over the place. Questions with no easy or truthful answer. It burned her eyes and made her thoughts tumble about in a confused daze.

She was a Hunter. She killed Fangers. She'd taken their horror, preying upon humanity, and turned it about so the hunters were the hunted. She feasted with vindictive pleasure with each kill, bathing in a sadistic triumph over the kind of creature that had once put her down like a dog and made her beg for it's love.

How fucking weird the 180 in her life had been. She wasn't being asked by a Fanger to get on her knee's and rip out her heart for him, something Marco had never quite gotten up to but damn he'd asked her for things too close for comfort to the analogy. Thoughts like that still sent a quiet wave of nausea through her belly, a quick and fleeting feeling like when you drop over the edge of a roller coaster ride. No, Church never asked anything like that from her. Church would fucking get on his knees for her. He worship at the alter of her body all the time, and did just about anything she'd ever asked. In fact, he'd never /not/ done anything she asked. Not once.

Well, not anything serious she'd asked. He had declined her asking if he'd put on a pair of thigh highs and heels and strut around the apartment to the moulin rouge sound track, she'd been really high and rolling around on the bed just thinking about it. She hadn't been fully kidding, she would have loved that shit and boned him real good for it but in all fairness he had a right to say 'Uh, no.' when being asked to cross dress for her own personal entertainment. He also didn't want to go sky diving, but that again wasn't anything serious... And she hadn't really asked him to go, she'd only ever made a suggestion and he'd said 'No flying.' Man of eloquence was her Church. Her Church.

Still... Through everything they'd built by slowly breaking bottles and breaking bones in the most tender fashion imaginanble, he was still something she'd feared, hated, and hunted for a decade. She'd done well enough at trying to pretend he wasn't, but when she laid her head down on his chest after a vicious round of R&R there was no heartbeat to lull her to sleep. He stole that from her, he pretended through her. They both pretended he was a real boy.

And damn if she didn't want to keep on pretending. Till one day, maybe she wont resent it.

She'd gone to sleep after a shower and woken some time later, when the sun was up beyond the blacked out warehouse walls that let no inkling of sunrise through it's heavy shading. He hadn't been beside her, and although that bugged her she was to groggy a sleeper to really wake without some kind of fuss somewhere altering her to danger. She'd dropped back off to sleep right quick, trying to avoid issues that were unavoidable in the long run.

She'd gotten up mid afternoon, and hoped the idiot hadn't died in the sunrise somewhere. He'd known right? That she just needed some time. Wasn't like she wanted him to get the fuck out forever, just for a while... Just so he didn't have to see her wrestling with her demons. Spare him the mind fuck she was having and help keep the walls from completely crashing by having him push against them with those big dopey green eyes.

Her day went by in routine. Warm up, work out, cool down. Her arm still throbbed, even though the bruising had mostly disappeared the tissue beneath was searing as it worked to heal itself. She forced it to keep up anyways. Her day was accompanied by some healthy servings of bacon, and even healthier servings of her favorite vodka. Drinking always helped cure the haunting. It was shower time after diner, work off the sweat from the day in the gym. She was tipsy enough for the moment to think about going out to see about where her Fanger had gotten too.

With another bottle of vodka, maybe she'd even apologize for going two faced. Well, maybe two more bottles...
Edited by TapestryofShame, Thursday, 16. October 2014, 17:02.
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"You are so fucking Camarilla. All hope and optimism. Maybe we can mount a rescue mission, and everyone can have a cupcake party, and fly around on Pegasus unicorns pooping rainbows."
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Church
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
* * * *
"Mac?"

I'm sat in the pitch black, waiting for the events of the previous night to come flooding back into memory. Only then do I understand why the hell I'm waking up fully dressed in somewhere that looks and feels and smells different to, well, home. The warehouse is big and open, sure, but it don't seem to lose much heat as it should. Different to the cold and dank vibe I'm getting from here. Also throw in the fact that I'm draped over something hard and wooden, certainly not the comfort of a mattress that has had it's springs thoroughly tested. Only after a few minutes of face rubbing and beard scratching do I remember that I did manage to get my ass out of the sun by dawn. I don't own much in this world, and even less since Princess was kind enough to blow my apartment to hell. But, miraculously, I keep regular payments up for a storage unit a little north west of hers. Why? Just for such occasions as this. Plus, I've got a fucking corpse hidden away underneath me so...

I did indeed find a blonde. His name was Dolph, he barely spoke any English and once I was able to stop gagging on all the hairs on his neck...shake that image out. Point is, Dolph could drink with the best of them and after leaving his heavy ass unconscious in an alleyway, I was feeling a whole lot better. I didn't do my usual routine of trouble making. I was a good boy, for real. Instead of concussing anyone who looked at me the wrong way, I couldn't bring myself into a fucking bar to do just that. Too noisy, too close, too smelly...I'm very likely to punch somebody in there, drunk or not. I wanted the violence, needed a bone to gnaw on to keep me distracted from the fact that I'm in the dog house. But that just didn't happen. What the fuck was the point? There's only so much ass I can kick before it gets boring. So last night, I didn't. I found a nice little bench to park my ass on, set my eyes to the sky in some hopeless attempt to see some stars through the glare of the city...I dunno, just a little quiet time as I tried to figure out what the fuck I did and how to fix it. A task made infinitely more tricky in an intoxicated state, seeing as I couldn't actual fathom that this mess was my fault to begin with.

Then I realized the time and got my ass into shelter. Then I fell asleep. Then I woke up and...

The fuck do I do now? Blessedly free of a hangover and able to come to terms with all the crazy shit that's going through my head. I'm...better. Feel better, less mind fucked and pissed with Princess Cocktease, though all the while I still want...well, her. One day removed from our 'spat' - if it can even be called that - and you know what that means? One day, a full twenty-four hours, that I wanted to get my dick wet and my ass beat and I was god damn cock blocked. Do I dare go back to her and hope whatever crawled up her ass died and fell out? Yes. Yes, I do. She might tell me to fuck off again, and admittedly I would be the exact of opposite of a very happy man if she did. But only if it was followed by the silent treatment. I can handle disputes, shouting and screaming, and certainly all for when the aggression manifests itself in physical mediums...but the silent treatment? Sulking, and not even as a means of getting attention. A great, big giant 'what the fuck' that really gets under my skin and makes me lash out as if it'll somehow vindicate me instead of just prove what kind of asshole I am. Where as if she told me what was wrong, opened up about herself and explained yet another little avenue of nightmares that is a chapter of her life...and I'll understand. I'll comfort. She can do whatever the fuck she wants if she gives me a god damn reason why - I'll at least try and do my best then.

I leave the container as I found it, lock it up and get on my merry way back to the warehouse. It's only when I hit the streetlight can I give my outfit the once over, cause there have been a few additions since I left her place. For one, the boots I'm wearing are nice! Or at least they would be were it not for the fact that my toes are stuffed uncomfortably into the bottom. They're plain black and in good condition aside from all the mud that has licked itself all over the leather. I think that might've been my fault. The jacket is also nice, albeit a few sizes too...big? Interesting. It's some sort of fancy ass raincoat with too many zips and buttons, but I guess somewhere in my hazy journey I had decided that it would be better to hide away from sight instead of rocking the crack fiend look. Cause that shit'll get you arrested. I get this shit off Dolph? I'm able to chew that question over as I walk through the bustle of London. I don't often come out so early, because of said bustle; the streets are still plugged up with cars and buses, got rude motherfuckers bumping their way past you (you, not me, they know better than that) so they can shave a few seconds off their trip to the pub. Not quite the city I want to love, but hey, there's a reason I like my privacy. And dislike people. Something my former and drunker self seemed to understand last night. There's only one person we want and need, and as long as I got her, I don't need anybody else. As long as I got her.

However many seconds, minutes, whatever it is, later and I'm finding myself at the back end of an underground parking lot and opening the door to a room that...well, it has a very special place in my heart. I raise my palm to the electronic panel and wait for it to do it's business. This time...wait, is it not gonn-oh, there it is. There's a soft electronic grind as the door opens itself up and I find myself amazed yet again that such new fancy-pants technology and an old fart like me can co-exist. Mac was kind enough to give me a 'key,' so to speak, to her place, and even did her best to convince me that it would work and that I shouldn't just follow her around indefinitely just to make sure I had a place to sleep that night. Go figure. I wait for the thing to seal behind me before I climb up these stairs, not altogether convinced that she would even be here.

But...she is.

It only takes a few steps into the structure before I realise what that noise is. The pitter-patter of a water stream as it hits hard concrete and even harder flesh. Whatever I was thinking would happen, whatever I was gonna say or do? That's gone. Melted, along with the rest of my brain, something of a side effect for spying on a Goddess in all her glory. Now, some of you might be thinking 'Gee Church, I know she's petty n all, but you've seen her naked plenty. What's with the horny teenager brain?' You would be thinking right. I have seen her in her birthday suit all too often. I've tasted every inch of it. Hell she, like me, would probably live life au naturel more often if it were socially acceptable. And personally? I've always gotten more excited when there is at least something left to the imagination.

”Hey, baby...”

As soon as she's noticed me, which wasn't long given the fact that she has the ears of a fox or some shit, my eyes aren't looking at anything but her own. I can molest her with my eyes whenever I want, but right now, I'm more interested in where she's at up here. Listen to the story her gorgeous peepers tell, and hope they aren't screaming 'fuck off.' Even if they were, I don't know if I could reciprocate in the appropriate way. There was a reason you walked out of here last night Damon old boy, and if she's gonna do it again...well, it was probably already too late. It's like her scent is locked in, and I'm gonna be drawn to her until I satisfy a certain craving of mine. I shed the coat, dumping it on the leg press as I pass it and approach the shower. Man, I could use a shower...but I could give less fucks if I get one.

”How ya doin?”
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Mac
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Goddess of Fuck and War
* * * * *
She loved to shower, and since saving the worlds water supply and the enviornment was no where near her agenda of fucks to give, she showered often. There was a time in her life when showers were rare, weeks gone with little more than a splash to her face now to try and clean away the worst of the stains. Sometimes that was a risky use of precious supplies, and she just existed in a constant state of brown and black smears. Now that water was plenty and she wasn't living in the trenches? Bitch showered whenever the opportunity arose. She knew how to appreciate a good thing while she had it even if it terrified the shit out of her to not be constantly struggling for the mere need to live, rather than the luxuries of a shower, a fridge full of bacon, and a steady roof over her head. She'd never meant to stay in London this long, this warehouse wasn't supposed to become more than a shelter. While the physical objects inside it hadn't grown much over the last year and some, the feel of the place had. It had gone from shelter, to temporary lodgings, to something more than she'd had in more years than she could count on the fingers of both hands.

The waters stream was cool, even in the chill of the late autumn weather she burned too warm. Her skin was on fire from her work out earlier, her arm still sorely grumbling from the deepest tissue that had been on the receiving end of her lovers machinations the evening before. Her dreads spilled down her back, loose and soaked and freshly washed with knotty boy dread shampoo. She lathered and soaped, let it rinse away from her skin and then did it again. The soap smelled like soap, nothing fancy or scented with floral nightmares. She didn't do that shit, she just appreciated the fresh aroma of being clean. Thick white bubbles creating a foaming layer before sliding down to the damaged tiles of the floor of the shower. Looking at the damaged tiles made her laugh, not an outright belly laugh but a grunted “Heh heh” of a perverts amusements.

Something shifted in her periphery, coming up from the stairs. She didn't turn to look immediately, as there could be only one person whom it would be toddlering in just after sun down. Her heart leapt to her throat a moment, because instead of getting to go out there and look for him and having the opportunity to yell her face off at him being out all day... He'd come back on his own. Alas, there went her opportunity to have the first fit of girlfriend rage since she was a teenager. The corners of her mouth twitched a little at the amused lamentation inside her mind, tipping her head to the side as she shifted in the showers stream.

“Hey, baby...”
She turned to look, taking in his not so ruggedly or beaten face. She'd sort of expected him to look a whole lot worse than he did, not in shiny boots and stripping out of a new coat with his usual near perfect skin. He always woke fresh, even when she'd shit kicked the holy hell out of him the night before. She could make his entire body blue and purple, bruise and break him beneath her until he was the perfect vision of the only art she knew how to create, and the day would heal every territorial claim she'd placed on him. Fucker, maybe she could get a tzimisce to perfect a mark on him permenantly? She could learn Vicissitude , maybe she'd be better at it than Celerity.

Celerity... Her expression faltered from that sort of half humored look she got when she was thinking dirty, to something unsure for a moment. Did she have to say 'I'm sorry' now? Those sorts of words got all stuck in her throat. She could say them yeah, now and then she didn't even choke on them, but to say them to his face then would feel wrong. She wasn't sorry, not really. Yeah she was sorry he'd left, that things had gotten all fucked up at her insistence, but she wasn't sorry she'd pulled the plug on that play. She didn't want to see him like just another fanger. He wasn't a dumb shovelhead on the street, not part of pack hunting her down to slowly strip skin from her meat. Threatening her, Chasing her down, trying to make her feel that rush and fear to instigate celerity? It would take her places she wasn't sure they could come back from. Not to this warehouse, not to London, not to the entire continent. If things crashed and went sly with Church, she was gone. She didn't want to crash.

“How ya doin?” The goofy way he said the most common phrases just seemed to turn things around all the time. He was always weird, aloof, and able to find just the right innocent thing to make the world feel less heavy. He was her helium, and when he was around her head got cloudy and she felt just that little bit of high. Especially when he did just what he was doing then, trying to get inside her head by staring at her so intensely with those dangerously green eyes.

What did she answer? Did she have to answer with words? She wasn't good with words, not good at saying things. She was better with actions, and as he shed his new and somewhat to large coat she was stepping out of the waters reach and crossing on we bare toes to get to him. She moved slippery and quick, with a look somewhat softer and hungrier than she usually wore, so the expanse between them disappeared and she was entangling him in long wet limbs. She wanted that dopey, lop sided mouth, the one that made her laugh and smile and always seemed to know what to say and even more importantly sometimes, what not to say.

Her lips met his, hard and with a sort of greedy need to shower him with her wet affections. She didn't give him a choice, instead her hands sought that shaggy hair and she tried to show him how glad she was that she hadn't set him on fire the night before, and that he hadn't gotten all caught up in sunrise. She'd pull his head back without any restraint to her strength, and smash her lips to his, pushing and pressing and trying to use her tongue to greedily seek his. When the kiss broke, she was trying to pull his shirt off and get it out of the way, strip him down to his bare basics the way she was. Get access so that her hands could push, pull and bruise their way along his body.

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"You are so fucking Camarilla. All hope and optimism. Maybe we can mount a rescue mission, and everyone can have a cupcake party, and fly around on Pegasus unicorns pooping rainbows."
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Church
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
* * * *
My baby sure knows how to welcome me home, huh?

A few tense seconds lingered in the moments she shared eye contact and...I could already see some of that humor in there that I am so used to and fond of shining through the hazel, but when you're dealing with this level of crazy bitch, that could mean anything. Like 'Know how you're so pretty Doc? Well, I was thinking that your head would look nice on my wall...' Something like that, maybe? Maybe. Were it not for the fact that we Fangers are abominations and such trophies, while awesome, would still turn her stomach. If she ever did want to get rid of me, would she be happy to do so? Who cares, why the fuck am I even thinking about this?

Cause it's abundantly clear that that ain't the case as she meets me in my stride and we proceed to melt into one another. I don't mind the fact that she's dripping wet, in fact, it lets my hand glide seamlessly up from where they first rested on her hips (like they always do) and make for a handful of her hair. I love her hair when it's down. Don't get me wrong, she'd be gorgeous bald, but when you see all the dreads spread out behind her on a bedsheet. Well, it makes her look like sort of primal goddess, mother nature or whatever the fuck. Something so fucking divine, and yet, something I can make breath heavy, work up a sweat, scream all fucking night long. She leaves two rather large and wet impressions on my vest as our bodies close together, being damp barely registers when you're already pushing up daisies. As a hand snakes closer to the back of her neck, I realise I lost the race when my head is jerked, into whatever angle best suits her, and I meet the aggressive kiss with my own fierceness.

She probably hears it, the strange moaning that leaks out between the mouthfuls of each others tongue. I'd compare it to a 'yummy' noise, cause damn if she ain't one tasty bitch. My hand finally rests in the crook of her neck, and with that I can push into her as much as her own grip will allow. The other hand is busy playing walk abouts, fingers whizzing around on her like she's sculpted of smooth ice. My senses could short circuit over the fact that her soaking body is steaming hot...and then some. It slides up and down her back aimlessly before they curve around that ass of hers, a butt too cute to be attached to such a formidable body. I'm desperate to taste her blood, but I know it'll be there in due course. But, going back to my original question of how she was doing...good, is what I'm guessing. And about to be a whole lot better.

”Whaddar-” I...ask? Or at least I mean to question what she's doing when she decided to break things off, we're it not for her hands clawing at my chest. She suddenly seems to realize that I'm wearing way too many clothes, and I can't help agree. She strips the wife beater as soon as I allow her, unwrapping myself from her to allow the drenched top to be hoisted up and over and off of me. My hands, when lowered, instinctively go for my waistline with the intention of getting these pants out of the way. Only when I pop the button do I realize a bigger obstacle...two in fact. And my feet are stuffed up inside them. Well, damn Dolph, why couldn't you have had easier fitting shoes? They're tighter than a motherfucker and I ain't gonna have my pants around my ankles...I'll be fucking done for!

”Fuck, honey...” I look back at her like she'll read my mind and give me assistance. Problem is, as soon as I look at her I'm back to mauling her mouth with mine. Can't help myself. And while I wanna save these jeans from being shredded as she literally tears them off me, there are other things I wanna do so much more. My hands are immediately back on her, aiming for her shoulders though one in particular shimmies it's way down and takes a whole hearty handful of her fantastic tit, giving it a gentle squeeze. Church gentle. As in if they were really fake-fake tits, they would've exploded. She can take it, right? Tough bitch, tough tit. It should be in my mouth, but it makes a mighty good steering wheel as I push her back, a few steps towards the shower she just slithered from. What can I say? We have fun in the shower. Gets us all lathered up and feeling soft and cuddly...so that we might proceed to crack and shatter the feeling with something shiny and remarkable and altogether nasty. The hands want to slither lower, between her monsterous thighs, right in the sweet spot that glows so warm. But it's pointless...cause I still have pants!

So I shove her.

Back the fuck up bitch, give me some room. She's gonna catch the smile that's on my lips though, my rows of teeth grinning her way parted only by a especially frisky tongue that waggles between them. I lean over, lift a foot up and grab the fucker on opposite ends. I pull, and the motherfucker splits open like a pinata, showering us with...well, a Church foot. Not a particularily clean one either, given that I was wandering barefoot who knows how long. I toss the remnants of the boot aside, wiggling the free toes before they plop down on the ground. Then, I do the same for the other. Or I go to. The entire time my eyes are on her, begging forgiveness for having to be such an ass and get these boots off in the unsexiest way imaginable...and maybe inviting her to disregard my apologies and take it out on my hide. I mean, I'm hopping around on one foot. She wouldn't take advantage of little old me, would she?
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Mac
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Goddess of Fuck and War
* * * * *
He offered no real protest to her, instead he met the assault of tongues full force and they clashed like desert stranded deviants who just found an oasis in each other. She loved the sounds he made, intentional or otherwise, the growl of a moan simply spurred her on to push harder, capture him tighter. She didn't let go of his hair till the shirt was being struggled off, his complicity in it's removal rendering the thing flying several feet away to land with a slightly moist flop. Her hair was dripping everywhere, small pools of water falling at their feet and splashing to soak his clothing.

She swallowed as his hands dropped to his waist, fumbling with his button as their eyes met again with a heated challenge. Buttons were briefly forgotten in another assault of violent lips and tongues, eyes closing a moment as a near puppy like whimper escaped her. She couldn't help that around him, the anticipation, the sounds he illicited with his touch on her skin were never subdued, never quiet, never controlled. She let them roll as naturally as they came, there was no direction or mastery of them, she wanted to ride them where ever they lead. His squeezing just made her retaliate much the same, hands finding new places on his hide to sink her nails in and squeeze. She needed to rework her artistry on his flesh, bring out finger prints of blue and black in dappled delight along those thick meaty arms. She loved the feel of him, solid, wide, delightfully cool beneath her burning wrath.

Her knees trembled slightly at the highest of his 'gentle squeeze'. Not because it hurt, but because it felt good. She could sell her soul for this, she had sold her soul for this hadn't she? And in those moments it didn't really matter, all that mattered was that heated wanting. A wanting that never seemed to quit, only grew more addicted to the source of the burning want.

When he shoved her away to deal with his boots she actually laughed, the flood of momentary relief in her body that came when he let go of his squeeze on her was a quick, if tiny, rush. She saw what he was doing, and with breath already deepened not by exertion but debased craving, she took a moment to enjoy his struggle. When his eyes came up to her again, she wasn't taking advantage of his hopping on one foot by knocking him down herself. No, she'd picked up his wife beater and was shrugging into it. She was wide for a woman, but not so wide as he was. She could get into it easily enough, but the moisture of her skin would cause it to hunker down and stick to her like she was covered in some kind of kids glue.

She didn't need to knock him over, she was hoping he'd make himself fall down with his pants around his ankles like that, trying to stop her from getting the shirt over her head.

This was the right kind of cat and mouse for them to play, no fear and anxiety, just building tension with the promise of what they both needed on the other side.


"C'mon baby..."
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Church
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
* * * *
Know that look somebody gives you when they're completely fucking with you?

To the untrained eye, it might be difficult to pick up on. Hell, I should hope the untrained eye is too busy ogling the glistening form of a goddess, feel the excitement of catching her own beautiful peepers. Feel their respective organs rising to the occasion...This isn't run around and play stupid fucks Mac. This is steamy, saucy, 'I'm a perfectly sweet and innocent little Amazonian' stupid fucks Mac. I expect a knee to the noggin, and instead I find myself wobbling on the spot, watching her in absolute awe as she pulls on my forgotten vest. Enough to actually just drop the foot back to the ground, still laced up in the inadequate boot, and lunge. Not as aggressively or forcefully as I might, especially cause I'm also falling to the ground like I just found God. It's not far wrong, if you left out the 'found' part. What I'm actually doing is praying tribute to my darling Princess, my Goddess of debauchery, who's shit I simply will not be taking.

This isn't Cat and Mouse. There's a Cat, for fucking sure. She has that sort of...it ain't cruelty. Well, maybe it is, it sure looks like it. She takes a great deal of pleasure from tormenting me, tricking me, watching my mind melt from not being able to figure out what two plus two makes. Cause I take equally great pleasure it doing it back, I just do it in a different way. The dog way. Doggy style, if you will. A more direct and cumbersome approach to that of the apparent evil genius I shacked up with. A dog will climb all over you and slobber all over your face till your done tasting good to it, or you bop it on the nose.

I land hard on damp knees, though it doesn't register on the scale in anyway. I'm much too busy wrapping my arms around her, her height makes them naturally fall shy of the waistline, around those thighs that miraculously haven't broken my hips...yet. Points for trying, cause she's come mighty close. I figure she could wriggle free of a bear hug, which could be fun...slipping around-nah. It's all about the fucking with each other by not fucking with each other, right? So I grab the back of her thighs, roughly, Church-roughly. Overlap my arms so I an get the legs at least contained a little bit, maybe she wont stamp on my balls. I could eat that pussy, and she probably thinks I will, but no. Not yet, anyhow. I know the vibe she's sending off tonight, and how very fucking different it was from yesterday. I know that we're very intense, I guess is the best word, intense people who have amazingly co-existed so far. Last night was bad; I wanted it too bad for her to say no, and I needed to get out. And even though I need her as badly as then, I'm comfortable knowing that she needs it to, and the journey getting to satisfying that craving will make it all the better.

”Macintosh...” My voice has that sort of threatening edge to it in the way you'd address a naughty kid after they're looking to do something they've been told they shouldn't for the umpteenth time. Drawing out her full name slowly as I turn my gaze up at her past the landscape of her body to that pretty, prettyface. I have to lean back a little to do so...Then I just sigh, not frustrated at all, sort of dreamy. ”Looks good.” I concede a stupid smile to her antics...and her tits. It really does look good. As much as I miss staring at my octopus friend (who I always think looks like a 'Chuckles.' That a good name? 'Chuckles the Kraken?') there certainly is something about seeing her form presented in such a fashion. Can she read minds? It's like she knows I prefer to have it all hidden away and revealed to me in, though she will add in deliberate and agonizing pace until I'm literally baying for blood no doubt. Maybe I like that she's wearing my clothes? It's almost like we're a fucking normal couple.

I sigh again, though more from the throat. Was I grabbing her firmly? Not as firmly as I can apparently as my brain decided to give her another little jolt. I hold on tight though, no wigglers escaping me.

”You're cruel, you know that?” She is. Totally. I'm not looking at her anymore, cause I can savour every fucking response from the way she moves and the sounds she's making. Hell, more than that I dare say. I'm staring at her stomach, thankfully stuck to curves of her body so it doesn't hide all the skin of her abs. My lips find themselves caressing her pelvis, cause I know how riled up it'll get her by virtue that it's not hard enough and what the fuck, am I a care-bear now? No honey, just a faithful bitch who wants to get you hotter than hell and fuck it right out of you.

So I say the magic word. One I ain't heard in a while, actually.

”Just...please... As in, knock me down, take my pants, ride me till the sunrise. Pretty please?
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Mac
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Goddess of Fuck and War
* * * * *
She hadn't meant to cover up for him, enticing him sexually had nothing to do with it. She wanted to being him to the ground without laying a finger on him, assert herself and watch his beautiful green eyes go wide with comprehension that she was adding layers, adding difficulty, preventing the immediate direction of their goals. When it worked and he forgot about his boots, his pants, and everything else and fell before her on his knees? She was grinning like a school kid who'd just been presented with the worlds most delicious cupcake. She laughed, not a full out belly laugh but the rolling hum of a chuckle from within her chest.

Just grabbing her legs couldn't have prevented her from escape, not a traditional grab. Church knew her too well. Church was to familiar with the ways she could twist and writhe, and so he double wrapped his arms and held on tight. Thick strong fingers held captive the meat of her thighs, gripped by vice like hands of the sort of pressure only a Brujah could deliver. The sudden grab knocked her balance askew a moment, and she wobbled, with no real threat of falling because she was being held so desperately tight by her lover. The grip alone was satisfying, the sort of play she most enjoyed... Coupled with his rough stubble scraping across her skin? Shivers shot through her anywhere he touched, and when he laid a surprisingly soft kiss on her anticipating skin she breathed a soft sigh of that vexing want for him that never seemed to subside. Her eyes closed a moment, taking in a breathe to just feel that amazing grip upon her. Get dizzy from it.

His cool form against her volcanic skin had become so familiar, so naturalized over the last year, that not having him for the last 24 hours was like going cold turkey for a heroine junkie. He wasn't in her veins, but he was damn well inside her in every other way... Well, except one other way at that exact moment, but that was coming. Over and over likely, as she doubted after 24 hours apart they'd manage to get beyond these walls tonight. No, this was their heaven and they would bask in the glory of it's private damning delights.

As he called her name, her real full name, she opened her eyes and looked down at his face. He called her cruel, and her mouth just pulled up into a grin so pleased that the dimples she would deny until her grave (just like the freckles) were visible in the corner of her cheeks. Yeah, so? He loved the cruelty, he loved the play. She took in a long slow breath looking at him, whistling air over her tongue as her lungs slowly filled and her chest swelled with gleeful tension. Her grin slipped a little, settling into a blazing sort of demand as he whispered.

"Please."

Her hands moved from her sides, having left him unabused so far to simply enjoy being wrapped so tightly in his grasp, to appreciate what she'd missed in a hissy spat the night before. Her breath shook out from her lungs as he pleased, body shivering as if caught in a storm of ice and hail. That sound from him was so pleasing, so delightful, it made every part inside her swell and fill with a sort of inflated ego. He was on his knee's before her, begging. Begging for her, for what she could do for him. She wrapped her hands in his hair, that shaggy mess that he never seemed able to take unless he was cutting it off for the night. She wanted it, she wanted hard fist fills gripped right from the base of his skull. Both hands wrapped deep, muscles in her arms flexing and tensing as her entire body became more rigid, strength from her core flexing as she peeled his head back from where his lips had been so teasing close to her flesh. She needed a bit of space between them, even if she could only peel him back part way. She wanted him to look at her, without choice, see those worshipful eyes burning into her.

When had her heart started beating so hard? She wasn't sure, but it's heavy presence flickered into her mind as she parted her lips to say something in return. Words got stuck, insensible. What was she supposed to say? She had no words other than the same... Instead, she had actions. One hand would come free of his hair, but the other would make up for it as she retightened the controlling grasp. The now free hand came up to her mouth, and human teeth, dull and incapable compared to church's, pried back her fingernail. She'd never be able to bite through, her skin was to thick, but she could rip her nail up to achieve the desired effect. She wanted blood, but not on her tongue. She tasted it immediately, and pulled the finger from her mouth to look a shining wet tip. It blossomed into a red smear immediately, and her thumb moved to massage the side of the bleeding finger to coax out even more of that hot red liquid.

She kept her grip in his hair, denying him movement, hard and strong and ready to fight against him if he should try and get up from his knees. No. That was right where she wanted him. Then she flicked her hand, to send that vital crimson liquid scattering in a rain of droplets down the side of her leg, feet, and floor. Her eyes blazed with a sort of challenge, asking with a desperation to be denied the defiance, if he would really worship her. She wanted it, she wanted it so bad she wondered if she might not force him down to do as she wanted, if he didn't go willing. Her finger came to her mouth, to stem them bleeding and deny him being able to suckle at the finger should he try and go for the bleeding source. She let her grip in his hair loosen just a little, not freeing him, he would still have to work for that... It was still an invitation.
Edited by TapestryofShame, Friday, 24. October 2014, 18:12.
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"You are so fucking Camarilla. All hope and optimism. Maybe we can mount a rescue mission, and everyone can have a cupcake party, and fly around on Pegasus unicorns pooping rainbows."
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Church
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
* * * *
As I feel her reach down and let her fingers slither into the mess of my hair, I assume she is encouraging me onwards to a more intimate use of my mouth. I am of course happy to oblige. But as much as I enjoy making her toes curl, I'm in need of more. It's still inexplicable to me, how she runs so hot all the time. The mocking kisses on her stomach, an attempt to rev her engine up, somehow gets me going more for the pleasant warmth that is left on my lips. I need her body pressed to mine, grinding into one another, all the better to feed from the fire that burns through her skin. I want her...all of her. I like her pussy, but it's not what sets her apart from the mere mortals. I'm not given the luxury of having a taste though, as her grip suddenly becomes more noticeable and I'm being peeled away from her. My grip remains sure, possibly becoming more monstrous than before. I expect a normal person might not be able to work to well, if at all, after gripping so tight. I don't think my fingernails have quite the kick to pierce the skin, but that's only cause she's got skin like a Mac-appotamus. I could just hold my ground and have my hair ripped out for my trouble, but where's the fun in that, huh? I play the game, but I sure as shit hold tight.

It's not a bad compromise; I stare into her eyes with an expression that I figure there's some fancy word for. I adore her, I love her. I think of very little but the things I could be doing to her. For her. With her. That I can't understand what I was before her, and what I would be without her. Too much for my dumb ass to actually verbalize, not that I'd be comfortable to profess such declarations with her psychotic mentality on such things, so I figure I can say it with my eyes and my hands. She gave me the best year of my life and all without a working dick. And the way she looks at me...Well, it's not what I quite expected. Victorious and pleased for it. I wrestle in her grip as she slips a hand away, though only enough to remind myself that she's playing for reals. And I'm curious just what she's doing as she brings it to her lips. A finger sucking routine maybe? No. Not at all. Oh fucking Jebus...

The sight of trickling red is enough to make me squirm a little, an agonizing second or two before the smell gets into my nostrils. Smells as good as ever, and I wait like the good dog I am, begging for treats from the master. I give her my cutest eyes to achieve said goal. As much as she likes fucking a wild animal, I know the thrill she gets from being in charge. On top. This goes beyond that. I expect that thumb to be lowered down and teased into my lips...but no. None of that... Oh lord. She flicks the blood around like she has no idea how fucking much I want it, and my eyes undoubtedly widen as I come to the realization. I knew she was cruel.

I'm not so dumb as to realize that the place she bleeds from is the thumb. My instinct is to lunge forward and sink my fangs into a thigh, but her grip holds me steady. Right, the game. Got to play the game. Get under her skin as much as she does yours. I look from her face, to her stomach, to her face again and I'm fucking enthralled by that gorgeous mug and the expression it wears.

”Please, baby.” I repeat those words, but their significance shouldn't be lost. I can't do the sexy voicework like her, all I can manage is something quiet and damn near trembling as I resist the urge to groan. I think it's dispersed quite nicely in my words. I'm still not willing to let a grip loose from her entirely for fear that she run away and I lose my god damn mind, but one hand comes free of it's thigh. It comes back to the front, but does not fight as she might expect. It claws at her clumsily, reaching up her chest and raking at the vest she's hidden her perfect form beneath. My fingers are thick, and I can poke like a mother fucker. I wanna leave purple traces all over her. ”Lemme praise you in the ways you know I can.” I sort of bob and wiggle, or at least I feel like I am. I'm anxious, I want on her, in her. I put myself down here, but I never did have much foresight. I want up on my feet, but I think she feels differently. So my hand snakes further north and tries to hook a shoulder and maybe drag her down to my level? I have minimal confidence in such a plan.

”...You're the only heaven I ever wanna know 'bout...”

Well bless my soul, what's wrong with me?
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Mac
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Goddess of Fuck and War
* * * * *
The biggest, greenest eyes stared at her. Eyes that had haunted her when she'd try to run the fuck away from all of this so long ago. She'd seen them everywhere while trying to detox his blood from her veins, and they'd made her regret leaving everytime she closed her eyes. It was something then she'd had to do, just like she'd had to come back. To try and say goodbye, and realize that she couldn't. She adored him to much. She wanted him, even without his blood, needed him the she wanted air, and vodka, and bacon. He looked dopey, worshipful, bemused and struck by something that she didn't full understand. He likely didn't either. That's what made them so stupid about each other, that they couldn't explain that desperation each felt when they looked at the other but they felt it. Dizzyingly powerful sometimes, to the point it could cause her to panic and run from the sheer dumb struck potence it laid on her senses.

“Please, baby...Lemme praise you in the ways you know I can.”

That hammering heart of a amazon thundered, a consistent, heavy beat. She was calm now, the urgent need she felt earlier starting to cool and simmer. His words made her feel secure, like she didn't have to rush to get to the end. There would be an end, and it would be a good one... but he wanted to praise her, adore her, and she wanted it. Something inside her desperately wanted something debased and wrong. She knew it was cruel and twisted, to have someone on their knee's before her. She'd been on her knee's to many times in her life, begging the way he was now. Instead of turning her stomach, flooding her with the horrors she'd crawled through, it made her want it all the more. There was no bond between them, niether of them were acting on supernatural allure.

This fucking depravity, this needy desire was all them and their addiction to one another. She swallowed hard, brown eyes narrowing a little as she tightened her hand in his hair as he reached u, trying to pull her down. The back of her thighs felt the absence of the arm that had one been holding her so tightly, the cool pressure of it removed and leaving her skin screaming for a return of that touch. He grasped with iron fingers, and the shirt she wore tore in several places as he pulled with clawing hands. He wasn't shielding his strength, he was doing what he knew she loved and pressing into her with all that Church strength. She had to fight to stand standing, with her balance obscured by the one arm that wrapped the back of her thighs and his hand doing such a good job of laying welts not just on her flesh, but on her mind. Each little dragging of his bruising fingers was delicious, and she had to literally grind her teeth and shakenly force herself to stay on her feet.

A part of her just wanted to fall down to him and let him have her. Go to her knee's with him and find that absolution from reality. Lose herself, lose the demons that taunted her, find the peace that came only when they were lost in each others pain, causing it and feeling it. Sharing in the splendor they both craved, a white and vicious sort of relief.

No. No. She didn't want to go so easily, so quickly. She wanted this moment, a victory in a lot of ways. A complete turn about in her life, from being at the feet of a Fanger to having one at her own. It might be wrong, or it could be so right, but really none of that bullshit mattered. The only thing that mattered was she was going to get what she wanted, feel the world beneath her, feel like she was a fucking goddess in all the best ways. She did love to be in control, and the constant struggle for that between them was something that left her wanting. She didn't always have it, sometimes she had to give it up, let him run the show, especially when her head was to clouded and he'd done too good a job on her for her to even speak sentences. It happened all the time, but it wasn't there yet. While she could, she wanted to revel in the abuse of power she could exert.

“...You're the only heaven I ever wanna know 'bout...”

She pulled on the handful of hair, to try and smash his face against her thigh, against where the smear of flung red droplets of her wasted blood started. A few of the red tears had already begun to run down her leg, creating little lines and picking up other splatter along its route. She then pushed down on his head, so he'd know, she wanted him to follow it down. All the way to her feet.

“If you clean this up, like the dirty dog that you are... I'll punish you in all the best ways. I'll make you scream till the sun comes up...”

She swallowed hard, not sure if he'd take the bait on this or not. He could, he could be so into it that she'd get the exact sort of tongue and teeth worship she was so desperate to feel. Or, he could punch her in the face for being such a fucking cunt and fuck her anyways. He didn't always react the way she thought he would, and sometimes she crossed the line... Life on the other side of the line was just so fucking tempting though, they both liked to put a toe over it every now and again. Or, every other minute. She wanted it though, she wanted it so bad her entire body was tense and ready to fight back if he would struggle. Push him harder to do it, tension built in a small cresting wave within her. A desperate need to express this sadistic reverie.
Edited by TapestryofShame, Monday, 27. October 2014, 19:25.
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"You are so fucking Camarilla. All hope and optimism. Maybe we can mount a rescue mission, and everyone can have a cupcake party, and fly around on Pegasus unicorns pooping rainbows."
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Church
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
* * * *
What goes on in that coconut of hers, hmm? Would I wanna know?

I can only gaze at her all awestruck for a few seconds before she's taking me and making the promises I am only too happy to hear. I am the afore mentioned 'dirty dog' without question, and she is the master, even if it's only in the here and now. I'm fucking putty in her hands and she knows it. Enjoys it. Lord knows I do to, but this time? This time I am conflicted. I resist her grip as best I can, which is achievable in this compromised position, undoubtedly from my capacity to bench cars. Probably. Can't say I've tried. But what with my hands free, and that one which pawed at her like an overgrown pooch now laying on firm muscles of her stomach, I'm bracing on her also. I go, she goes. I still clutch the leg tight...I ain't letting her fucking slip away. The grip in my hair jerks my head to look further down, and I trace the spirals of blood as they make patterns down to the toes.

”It's not enough.” I let her know in a voice that could only be described as factual. It's perhaps a blend of the dark greed and the 'eager to please' masochist creating this blank tone of just telling it plain and simple. Her trying to do what she is, rub my face on her legs, as enjoyable as that sounds, means wasted drops. I might be an addict for her as a whole, but her blood does special things to me that on a biological level I can't refuse. The beast has never been sated in such a manner before I met her, and somehow I feel never will ever again. It completely fucked my palette, since everything else just tastes...unworthy. But if I start thinking that way I might wonder why the hell my baby lets me bite her, lets me worship her and gives me these opportunities to satisfy her demented urges, which is a reward in itself.

And so I obey. Turns out I didn't need to think that hard at all.

Her skin still moist with the shower, the blood streaks in more directions than I am able to follow. I'll let my taste-buds do the searching, along with the guiding hand of my benevolent Princess. I don't stop opposing her complete control of my head, but as my lips press on her skin and a cold tongue slithers through, it hits me immediately. The best juice I ever did taste, and for reasons I am just unable to comprehend beyond the fact that it's her. Course her blood tastes good, how else would the blood of this divine fucking creature taste? My head bobs along the thick meat of her leg, tracing down and around, finding where every single pattern makes its beginning and end. I couldn't stop if I wanted to. As I lap at the inside measurement, ensuring a sparkling shine finish, I think about how I could wrap the whole thing over my shoulder and get that pussy of hers even wetter, ready for a hellacious pounding that is coming regardless. And that's just the thing, it's coming anyway. So while I think about it, I sure as shit don't care enough to do it. I can substitute her screams for this, the goosebumps and the gasps. The shivers through her body that make me feel so...

As touching as this reuniting is, and as furious as my tongue works to seek out every drop before it's absorbed into the mess of my beard by her appreciative attempts to continue her delightful game, I am left wanting. The damp on her skin dilutes that greatness, if only by virtue that it don't belong in my dietary requirements. Watered down Mac. It's blasphemous. My fingers stop thinking their dangling on a cliff face and I give her thigh reprieve, still gripped but loose enough that I can slide my hand down the smooth backside of her leg as I clean the front. Settle on that calf and give it similar treatment. This time though, as my mouth moves across the surface of her skin, a highlighted line follows as a marker of where I travel. My fangs are desperate to pierce in. I say that like they have a mind of their own, fuck it, I'm desperate. I figure that by the time I get to them toes and I'm sucking whatever last dregs remain off of her, this counter fit milk of Mac ain't gonna cut it anymore. I'll be a good little dog and follow her lead, but there's only so much teasing I can take. Only so much waiting I can do. Seriously. I still have way too many of my bones unbroken, and I can keep the psycho within happy only so long as she keeps the bait in front of me and doesn't pull a fast one. Cause no matter how long she dangles that meat, I'm gonna keep jumping at it.
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Mac
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Goddess of Fuck and War
* * * * *
There were moments in her life that surpassed her ability to coherently capture, no way to put words to the feelings. Perhaps she just didn't have the vocabulary to comprehend the impact of times like this, with his free hand pressed to her stomach and his other arm trapping her legs. His hair caught up in her unforgiving grasp, and the green eyes that adored her from his knee's simply surprassed anything she could qualify. She was dumstruck with a sort of gleeful joy as he pulled on his hair till her grip was not so tight, ripping it as she refused to loosen on her own hold. She felt something so big, and so swollen, and so powerful that all she could manage was to breathe as hazel eyes tried to memorize the moment.

“It's not enough.”

Was it ever enough? Would it ever be enough? Was he to hungry to starve for a while?

Church's cool tongue lapped and slithered up and down her flesh. The roughness of his beard scraped like road rash, and her eyes closed for only a few moments to enjoy the sensation alone. They snapped open quickly enough, as she shifted from enjoying the sensation to wanting to bask in the sight of him at worship. That was the best feeling, the best visual, watching him desperately licking away the escaping blood... Waiting and wondering if he would call it quits on the soft play, and just sink fangs into the meat of her calf? The top of her foot? A small anticipatory sensation built and waiting.

"Have you fed tonight?" She had to know. The limits of their games would be heavily influenced by his hunger. How far she could push him, how far she could tease and tempt, would need to be carefully minded incase of frenzy. That was something neither of them wanted, because one of them (her she suspected) would end up very dead.

"No." Not the answer she wanted, she couldn't push him as hard or as far as might if he was full. No running then, because that was his beasts favorite game to rise to. If she ran while he was hungry, it tended to cause an absolute freak out. She had been surprised he hadn't tried to follow her up the rope the night before, and undoubtedly his beast was pawing for it's revenge. No, no running. Only playing here and now.

She wanted him lower. He was already on his hands and knee's in front of her, and yet that was not quite low enough now. She had promised him pain had she not? He had done what she asked, and she would fulfill her promises in turn. A knee to the side of that thick skull of his, quick and meant to be the opposite of painless. He wasn't going to move out of the way, wasn't trying to escape what she brought down on him. The connection was a crashing wave of power, feeling that beautiful moment where bone and knee cap met and kissed like the most intimate of lovers. It sent a small reverberation out from the point of impact, and her body rippled with that all over thrill of dominance.

She followed through with the knee, letting his hair go completely from her clutching hand with a Downwards shove. Some people didn't understand optimal damage, and once they themselves felt the impact they stopped the driving force behind the movement. She did not. She pushed all the way through, continuing the power coming from those long amazon legs till the feeling of his head slipped away from her knee. She refused to go to ground with him. He still had a hand on her leg, despite a dizzying blow he had the potential to bring her down atop him. She staggered against it's pull, but she didn't want to go down yet, she wanted to stay in the seat of top dog for a little longer...

 Part of her wanted to stay up there forever, looking down at the visage of Church reeling on the floor in blissful pain. The sounds that came from his throat when he was struck never ceased to get her blood flowing faster, encouraging that building desire to make him hurt more. He was the best music in the world, from the soft sighs of admiration when he was just staring at her, to the guttural growls of agonized freedom. She could deliver this sort of love forever, and she wanted to see him black and blue and covered in her name before she got lost in pain herself. They always got lost in each other. When one of them was walking the path of heavenly agony, they never stopped to extend a hand and pull the other free. No, the would pull each other down into that sinful oblivion. Eventually ending up lost together, which was exactly where they wanted to be.

Leave the real world, it's horror, it's pain that treaded on territory they wanted to forget. Escape into a world of right pain, so hard and vicious and plentiful that you transcended into a place of such beautiful release no other moment could compare. Nothing else mattered, except the hurt and pleasure, companionship and solitude of your moment of falling from the end of the road into the thrills beyond.

To get there, you had to endure the trials of that painful journey. Take your pain, ride it, feel it through. She would kick out again, not with a knee but with a scoop of her foot to get him hard on his side and flip him onto his back. Once there, a hard and hammering foot would come down to try and crush his chest. She wanted to feel the bones splinter beneath her bare foot, the crack and snap like when she was young and used to go smashing snails in he moist trails after a rain. Unlike her lover, she didn't have to be gentle. She didn't have to worry about his mortality, about breaking him so badly he wouldn't live. She could rain her love down on him without hesitation, and she did. Another crushing stomp, but not so quick that he couldn't ride the wave of the first. Pacing was important, and to that keep herself from getting carried away she would push down on the second and let her weight slowly fall entirely on that leg, leaning over him with a jubilant expression.
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"You are so fucking Camarilla. All hope and optimism. Maybe we can mount a rescue mission, and everyone can have a cupcake party, and fly around on Pegasus unicorns pooping rainbows."
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Church
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
* * * *
For a moment, there is a blessed reprieve from the madness as I spend a few moments lost in prayer. I loose my inhibitions regarding the waning taste on my buds, far too devoted to pleasing my goddess more than my own selfish needs. There is little to accompany my frantic tongue-worship, only the sound of water as it jets unimpeded into the concrete floor. Damn shower, couldn't she have turned it off? If you're thinking that this desire is due to my meticulously held beliefs regarding the future of our planet and it's wildlife, you'd be wrong. So. Fucking. Wrong. I mean, it's true, I probably helped balance the amount of times she's showered since she walked the earth with my complete lack of doing so since I caught a case of the death. And though my attitude has been, erm, “re-educated” regarding the matter, I usually insist on sharing these nights. Something I had hoped to do only a few minutes ago, before I was brought to my knees in awe. Now the damn thing needs to shut up before I do some plumbing. Plumber Fanger? Nah, that'd never work.

I don't find myself right down to all fours and licking any remnants from between them toes, at least, not yet. Though her grip keeps my mind on the task at hand, I get a little shady on what the details are. My mouth trails back the way it came, and I find I am planting a pattern of wet kisses from her shin up. I feel her shiver, feel her skin respond to wherever I touch. Feel that furnace get hotter, the steam fucking bulge up inside until she's unable to contain it any longer for fear of bursting. A sigh leaves her lips, barely audible but some part of my dampened forehead feels a cold breeze pass by. Clearly, not a product of the ordinary, raging inferno of the she-beast Macintosh. This is something appreciative, something commending me for my dutiful handiwork. It's almost the equivalent of getting her on her knees. Hence, I would like the shower to shut the fuck up so I can hear each and every decibel of delight.

"Have you fed tonight?"

I give no pause in my hungry tasting of her flesh, wondering somehow if I might make her come from the mere massaging of her skin? It would take a very, very, very long time, sure, but I'd most certainly be willing to do so. Maybe with her tied down? Powerless to advance the situation, to be subject to an agonizing and deliberate pace of things and not seeing that craving satisfied with the sort of unbridled fury that we love to unleash upon one another. Get her so psyched and ready and desperate for the fucking of a lifetime, but be the one that determines all there where and whens? It's a sweet little thought. One I relish as I find myself now back to her knee, creeping up the side of it to physically admire the innards of her thighs.

”No” I respond finally, when I can bare to part myself for long enough for such a tiny little noise to be made. No, I have not. Dolph filled me up good and plenty, but that was the early hours of last night, after which I had to burn a bucketload just to get my ass covered before sun up. Hungry and hunger are very complicated things to determine when your nose is pressed into your favourite meal and the woman you love all in one package. I mean, will I ever not hunger for her? That I'd willingly hurl my guts up to free some room if it meant tasting her, having her inside me. Maybe that's how she feels with my-

As the world explodes into stars, I yelp. For a bleak and brilliant moment I am cut off from anything and everything, even that damned shower, as the stars spin too far out for me to see anymore. Now there is just blackness, darkness. A complete lack of anything bar...this. This fucking euphoria of being knocked the fuck out of my own box. I can feel my knees pressed hard into the concrete, my hand doing the same as fingers frantically try to decipher what hidden Egyptian runes are on the ground. My other hand is holding onto something, hanging from it dare I say. It's firm and smooth and moist, and above all else I know I have to hang onto it. No matter how good this feels, and I'd like to lay down and ride it out, I have to do something. Somebody groans, drawn out and low like a demented fucking animal that I can't even describe. Sort of a gargle, but not one so overcome with pain that I would mistake that moan as a sign of displeasure. Whatever it is, it's having the time of it's fucking life.

The bland grey of the floor comes into focus first before I realise the wriggling toes beneath my hunched form, knowing who they belong to and what they're about to do. Instinct tells me to dodge. My brain shouts something similar. So whatever the fuck is screaming ”YES, GOD YES, DO IT! DO IT MORE!” inside...I guess that's the Fetish? Don't think that's part of the biology, but it's strong enough for me to listen and take a pop to the ribs for my troubles. It's nothing on the first blow, of which my skull still reverberates like a heavy pulse is sending shock waves of this glorious fucking sensation around the dome a few times before ricocheting down the spine.

I relinquish my grip, because I guessed wrong. There would be no need to drag my baby on top of me, not when she's so very willing to mount that top spot and ride me till the sunrise, right? Wrong. I should've pulled her down, taste those lips again as we mash our faces together in mockery of a supposed 'kiss.' No-one does it that nasty, therefore, not a kiss, therefore, not care-bears. It's already been too long that I have not been ensnared by those sinfully thick thighs of hers, get tangled and wrapped up with groins going furious. I want that. I want it. Her, God I want her. And as the Goddess looms over me as I tumble to my back, I reach out a hand with enthusiastic fingers clawing at the air and inviting her to sit on her most favourite saddle. But then her body moves in ways it shouldn't, and once again that peculiar animal is making noises.

”Fuck me. Jebus...Baby.” I writhe beneath the foot, teeth clenching tight while my head seems to jerk upwards in response to the impact. Holy fuck. Whatever can be said about me and Mac, and our shenanigans, I would most certainly advise any lucky bastard watching to never try this at home. I always worry that I might break her, snap her spine or pop the wrong organ – something that might inevitably end our drive along this highway to hell. This is purely on the basis that she is a mortal, that she needs air and blood and all that jazz in order to survive. But to say that she is the 'softie' of our duo...Her foot relinquishes it's hold over me, and my hand tries to catch it, but only manages to run down the smooth of her calf before she brings down the hammer yet again.

If my ribs weren't starting to buckle before, they're already gone by now. Whatever air finds a place in my lungs in case of 'emergency masquerading' is gone, driven out along with a squeak that no doubt will make her swell with joy. I close my eyes and hope my neck isn't looking too strained as I arc my head beneath her weight. Trying not to describe the heaven she's putting me in cause, well, I'd rather lie here and enjoy it. As I was saying, she's mortal, I'm not. But she's also the toughest bitch I ever did meet, living or otherwise. Where as I...well...Pain is not an issue, in fact, my tolerance to it has disappointedly increased over the span of several decades. Combined with the amount of chemicals my brain was on, there were times I lost fucking limbs without noticing. Just because I can take it doesn't mean I should, or physically be able to walk afterwards. She could break me up too bad that I'm powerless to struggle back...which sounds awesome, albeit a little selfish.

But what other stance do you have in such a position? Your lover pinning you to the ground, a manic look of glee on her face as she enjoys every noise you make, every crease in your face as it winces in gratitude. As my eyes open wide and they meet her crazed gaze, I just...can't comprehend. Everything. How lucky I am to be here, to have found her, to have made this beautiful friendship and turned it into something so much more.

My hands move again, once placing itself on the front of her leg as she grinds down deeper and I shudder in response beneath. The hand does nothing beyond claw dumbly as it did earlier, wishing now to bring out lengths of purple down those very lickable muscles. The other...well, the other one has looped around entirely and is out of my viewpoint. But I can sure feel my way down there, get a hand on the button and pop open the fly on these jeans. She might not wanna sit on it just yet, but fuck, she carries on like this I might have to start beating it anyway.

”Harder.” I half-wheeze half-croak, but with a full grin that might be as psychotic looking as hers.
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Mac
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Goddess of Fuck and War
* * * * *
She loved the way he twisted beneath her bare toes, every small twitch and jerk sending a thrilling sensation up along her legs. Church's grasping hand biting in with strong fingers, calves crying out under the bruising pressure of his sliding grip as she leaned her weight down upon him.

"Harder." It was such a simple request, but one that made her laugh softly. Her baby could take it like no other, where a mortal would have died from lack of breath beneath a broken rib cage, he shuddered and demanded more. The very thing she so often hated about him was what made him so god damned entertaining. She couldn't really break him, couldn't kill him without intention. It made their play so much more gratifying to the lurking creature in her chest, a small shadow compared to what lay within her lover. Her beast was still a presence in her though, shivering, shifting, making itself all to known beneath her skin with every loving movement. It was a creature longed for all the good things in life. Bacon, vodka, torture, pleasure, blood, sin and Church. It longed for him on a level she always had to deny.

Sometimes all the things Mac wanted and her beast wanted got all confused, and the desires mixed and mashed. Overlapped and got cloudy as restraints loosened with desire. Church and blood were so easy to confuse, to get carried away with. Inhibitions dropping away with questions of 'Would it really be so bad? Wouldn't it be worth that incredible moment of bonding? The taste of him?'. A taste she'd craved since they first met. Always a small voice of her own mortality and reason whispering at the back of her mind to be careful, don't draw his blood. Making him bleed would make her want him on those levels she might not be able to deny if they were to fucked up on the glory of playtime, and his blood would fuck with what they had struggled and fought to keep kindled. Them. A real, them. No blood bond, no vampire hoodoo. What they had was all pure 100% desire on a real, near human, (if psychotic) level. Blood drive her more crazy. Make her more obsessed with her clenching, trembling lover. Could she get more obsessed? Yes. It probably wouldn't be good. What they had was so god damned good and plentiful and wrongly right she didn't want to fuck that up. This was her happiness.

She had to play somewhat carefully, to not break him open and spill him. So instead she built upon the broken bones of his chest, pushing up on the toes on the ground till almost all of her weight was on the foot bringing her whole Amazonian heft upon his partially crushed bones. They felt uneven. When her legs were stretched as long and limber she they got, and only her toes of the one were still in contact with the cold cement floor, she carefully lifted it and placed it down on his chest fully, all her weight slowly and methodically placed on his front. Never moving too fast, careful not to go too slow.

Trying to prolong and push the agony upon him, his fingers still grasping into her legs. Digging now, causing her eyes to become heavier with a heated need as teeth ground together to keep herself upright. She had to force herself not to simply crash upon and seek relief from that expanding sense of eager knotting in her belly. Steady resolve to resist came in the form of biting her inner lip, the way she always did, soft tissue beginning to break between sharp front teeth as she ground down. Taking a few moments to simply feel the beating of her heart in her chest, heavy and thundering, and the feel of her cold fanger beneath her now somewhat wiggling toes.

As his hand moved to reach for himself, she shifted her weight suddenly. She wanted to catch his wrist and crush it to his hip, eye brows wrinkling up as she shook her head. If she could break his wrist she would, but the chances of getting the right angle of wrist to hip bone with her crushing down was very low. Alas, this is what she gets for trampling him. Lack of solid ground. One foot was still on his chest, which caused her leverage to be uneasy between the moving parts f his body.

"No. That's mine. You don't touch..."


She couldn't help the near giggle that bubbled from her chest then, although she tried. She just wanted to stop him, deny him. Get him twisted with bliss and confused anger. How frustrated could she make him? Before he could adjust, pull himself free, she dropped. She'd pull her feet up in the tiniest tuck she could, so she didn't leave undue space between them and provide to much a window, and try and bring both knee's down together with her full weight on the bottom of his sternum and into his stomach. To add insult I injury, she said the quietest "Wheee!" On the way down, rolling notes of a seductive joy in her teasing. Intending to grind her knee's into him when she landed.
Edited by TapestryofShame, Wednesday, 5. November 2014, 19:11.
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"You are so fucking Camarilla. All hope and optimism. Maybe we can mount a rescue mission, and everyone can have a cupcake party, and fly around on Pegasus unicorns pooping rainbows."
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Church
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
* * * *
I know I didn't really have to ask her to go harder (not that I was any position to make demands anyway), but my simple request to turn it up a notch was mainly to let her know just what a gay old time I'm having. Almost like some sort of affirmation that I can take more, that I want it. My head is still ringing from the cheap shot that got me down in the first place and I'm pretty sure she cracked the skull. I think it's bleeding out some sort of stupid, happy, twisted goop that's soaking my brain, making things foggy and distant. Though that could just be the expression on her face, the utter glee that my baby is in from this. The power, the punishment. We wrestle for top plenty, sure, but without a fight entirely is something so fucking gratifying. My reasons are obvious. Hers too, if you've ever spoken to her for five minutes. Especially so when you learn about the hell she endured just to be here today. But somewhere I know this is all the sweeter cause it's me; cause I'm a violent lump of meat, that I could've killed her ass last night. Cause I adore her and worship her and would have no other treat me like this. Understand that Mac didn't bring this out of me or nothing, but you know how it is. Once you go Mac, you never go back.

My ribcage has probably seen better days, but hell, if it's what she wants? To bend and twist me into a shape distinctly not my own? I can dig it. Her weight is nothing to me, but to my broken bones and punctured lungs, it's a different story. I almost feel numb from the torso down as the pressing toes of Princess cut of the, for lack of a better term, circulation. Pain-brain barrier, or some shit, meaning that I only give a damn about the places she's loving enough to grace with her perfect touch. I plead for her to do it with my eyes, and her reciprocation is mouthwatering.

”Mmmm” It's a breathy moan that leave my lips as she lurches forward with her weight, and though relatively quiet it was still definitely one suited for the bedroom. It's not the jolt like before, but a gentle grind at the damage already done. My hand that was so fixated on caressing her thighs also act to express my enjoyment as they stop in their tracks and, in jagged motions, claw their way down the leg and dropping limply to the ground. With each second that she builds the pressure, my jaw clamps that much tighter, to the point that I wonder if my teeth will crack and shatter from being forced together so aggressively. My feet, both barefoot and booted, shake and shimmy somewhat uncontrollably as the good vibrations hit the floor and start shooting back up. Did I say I couldn't feel down there? Well it was exaggeration, obviously, cause there's certainly something I can feel down there. Something I'm fucking desperate to get up in her guts.

I fumble with the fly, what with the whole body shaking from trauma. Each shuddering moment that passes though, I feel the need for more. The high that my biology does not allow me. This is just the build up to the big finish in my head, and I want that big fucking finish. I want her to give me that finish. I know she can't give me that finish. But my Baby does me the next best thing, and what with there being three decades of distance between me and my last experience, it's fucking better than the real thing. Cause it's her. And right now I need to get these pants off, cause as much fun as she's having, I can so vividly picture that face of hers when I'm satisfying those other primal needs.

She stops me, but not before coming fully to stand on me. The move makes my mouth widen, giving her an even greater bearing of my teeth in what could be described half-grin, half-snarl. Too true that it's hers, and I would be perfectly comfortable going the rest of my days having my cock handled exclusively by her. Just as I prepare to make proposals for such an arrangement, a clear indicator that my brain is acclimatizing to the condition of my ruined chest, I hear the child in Mac rear it's playful head and makes one of the most bizarre noises out of her. I don't know what's happening, barely being able to see past her chest line since she mounted me. I don't know until I'm already in fucking orbit.

The wail I give is just that. Like the cry of somebodies heart breaking...or being stabbed in the gut. A pained and terrible cry of hysterical outrage at the shit the universe threw in whomevers face. Though I certainly am not outraged. Cause as the howl of pain subsides I find myself straining like there's a golfball in my throat. The best orgasm I'm able to have these nights. My feet kick at the ground, scuffing the concrete floor with both flesh and leather as they thrash as freely. My whole body writhes, rides the wave of impact as it courses through me and just makes me feel impossibly good. This attention, this love. I have no idea where my hands are in relation to my form, only that they clutch desperately at the cold ground beneath and try to hang on before I get lost out here forever. As much as I wish that could happen. My eyes shut tight as my insides get mushed up some more, but as soon as I start to realise what happened, that I ain't died and got to heaven and that they are her knees pushing down on my injured chest, I'm giddy knowing just where I am. Like a kid at Christmas, albeit extremely x-rated and with a bitch who is gonna look like the cat who ate the canary staring back at me, no doubt thrilled about my reaction to her affections.

”Guess that means...your tits are mine?” I give a pained snigger as my peepers slowly crack open, and despite the humour in my words, I'm still so hungry and desperate for her. But if I don't tease back, what chance to I have? If I'm a little bit defiant, a naughty boy dare I say, it's only gonna fuel the coming frenzy. And...it's somewhat a valid question. And considering how often I catch the girl feeling herself up, it would be a terrible shame if I gave the order of no touching now wouldn't it? There, and the other place I do in fact own.

”As well as that cunt. That's definitely mine...”
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Mac
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She had been expecting a little more fight from him, a little more scramble to escape and evade even if it was what he really wanted. Maybe she'd left him so high and dry the night before he couldn't bring himself to pretend like he didn't want the love of her fists, knees, and other body parts? Where sometimes play involved running, hunting, and a struggle for dominance he seemed to be giving himself over to her so greedily she was lost in the forest of his pain. Every hiss and sigh was a delight, the torment of his body beneath her a thrill. She loved to hurt people, but hurting Church was the best kind of hurt. He craved it, begged for it, and worshiped what she did for him. The shadowy creature that needed to rip and rend that lived within her was always pleased by the sacrifice, and the part of her that loved the wild abandon of doing whatever she pleased was always satisfied into a sinfully overwhelmed silence by the end of a night with him.

It wasn't the end of the night, and she wanted so much more still. The feel of his body crushing up against her as she came down with both knee's into his chest was beautiful, the crunch where his limbs all moving and lifting from impact as if he would curl up upon himself, and then stretching and arching outwards. A symphony of music from his throat accompanied the writhing glory of his body, and she ground her knee's down into him slowly to push him along through the waves. She balanced with all her weight on his broken torso, on her knee's with one hand coming to touch upon his jaw.

She could taste a slight coppery taint inside her mouth, from biting into her lip just before she had let herself crash upon him. As his eyes opened she didn't look as amused as she ought to, as his words brought a sort of sobering challenge. A blazing, heated stare of hazel eyes as she leaned over him, weight shifting on her knees more pointedly, removing some of the wider balance and centering the pain and pressure. She would use the hand on his jaw to grip, forcing open his mouth with a thumb to run over his gleaming teeth and tease against fangs.

Could be feel with his teeth? What was having a pair of pearly white shark teeth like? She'd thought about it before, and every fanger she knew were certainly attached to theirs. It was a good motivation when you needed a grinner to talk, to get their mouth jammed open with a crowbar and start yanking on the reapers. However, that was the whole tooth from the root that caused such an upstart. Did the teeth themselves, feel? Have sensation? Or were they just a means to an end like her own significantly less exciting teeth, there to rip open and cause the pouring out of that precious red elixir. Feeding was like sex for a vampire, did that make his teeth like his cock? Was that why he enjoyed biting into her so often? Was slipping fangs beneath the warm, hard skin of her throat the same rush for him as that first moment he would find his way home between her thigh was for her? Heaven. Was her cunt his? Absolutely, but she wasn't just going to tell him that.

She bit into the corner of her lip further, prying open already worn away flesh, skin inside her mouth almost never allowed to heal. Then she let the blood roll down over her lip, warm and fresh, pitter pattering in a few scarce drops from her mouth to where she'd forced his open.

"Prove it."

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Church
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* * * *
Am I being selfish? Of course I am. At the core of it all, aren't we very selfish things? I did mean human beings, but seeing as that no longer applies, I guess fangers are to. Moreso at times. But you'd be few and far between in any attempt to find anyone - living or otherwise - who can immerse themselves in such violent indulgence be so very appreciative, even giving. I know how this floats my girl's boat, how she likes to feel things bend and break beneath her, the ways it feeds her darkness and ego all in one. Beating a fanger is one thing, causing them pain is another...having them beg you with their eyes for more...I make no effort to hide my discomfort as she shifts her weight forward. Soft groans and sighs of content, undoubtedly with traces of desire in having her in the only sense of the word I care to know. I want her, all of her, our bodies wrapped together in that frantic mass of limbs that grinds on each other in such gratifying ways.

Her warmth spreads to my jawline, and I can't help let my eyes slide shut and enjoy, well, the attention I guess. A few blissful seconds in which I let myself slip back into the euphoria spilling from my chest and not fret over what she will do. My beast, well it's just like hers, it thirsts to be the one spilling blood and not being the one who is getting taken apart. But so long as she's there, she's close enough that I know she will toy with my body instead of my mind, I can fight it. And I can win. Cause I know all too well that it'll be my turn to give the love soon, and her turn to break. I struggle against her attempts to pry open my locked jaw, though it's not like I'm fighting her off. On the contrary, as soon as her fingers slip between my lips, I'm eager to see them bloodied. In the absence of her neck, or thighs, or tits, I figure a slight prick to give me some pure, undiluted Mac goodness will be enough to keep me in check and all the while spur me to take things to a more even playing field. Unfortunately, Princess is a little more careful around my chops than she was with a certain skull, and is in more than adequete position to keep my head frimly in place by pressing it into the concrete below.

Her flesh glides along my gnashers, and I'm not able to do anything but watch her. Watch her face as it seems to creep forward just ever so slightly...a dark blotch running from her lips and staining that perfect face of hers. It lingers for an agaonizing second or two before it drops down, a soft patter on my lip that ignites my senses in that instant I greedily find it with my tongue. Oh, fuck.

Prove it, Jebus.

As much fun as forcing her to the ground and tattooing my name on her crotch would be...well, I don't have anything to do that with. As always, I have little on hand apart from just that, my hands. My weapons, my tools and, for my Princess, anything she wants them to be. Well, apart from that, not until I learn how to make my fingers vibrate. I need to say something witty, but I can't, too preoccupied with trying to catch every precious drop of ambrosia she deems fit to spare me. Of course, I can't do dicks with my head held with such authority, but I can pretend it's helping. My hands are no longer flailing, not riding the waves of good vibrations out of my body and into the atmosphere. Now they're seeking out her form, fingers wrap around her hip while the thumb seems determined to crush the bone between. I try to bring myself back to a sitting position, not sure how hard I try exactly, but for a moment there ain't no bare part of me touching the ground but for the small of my back. Without the support of the floor behind me, I no longer feel the building sensation of the crushing chest. Now her weight threatens to go through me and push those wretched and mangled bones straight through me. It makes me hiss, the slow and deliberate act of raising up against her is clearly foolhardy and amazing all in one. She seems to have little difficulty in keeping her balance and placing all her weight right there. Her expression tells me that it's more than that, and that she wont let me overcome the obstacle without significant struggle.

I sag a little back down, forcing out the words;

"Yes Ma'am"

I push with all my might, the hand on her waist determined to drive her into the hard floor below. And while my other hand tries it's darndest to get lost somewhere in the mess of her dreads, that hand has no intention of pushing her aside. I want, somehow, for her to take all the impact on her hip. To crash solely on the curve of her body just as a little taster of things to come. Bone pain is just the best, so debilitating and agonising for something that protects all your delicates, to the point where you might wonder if it was worth it. Well, it always is for us. Always. The hips in particular just seem to jud out and beg to get broken. And broke them I'd like to, take her strength away from those big python legs and, when I get to showing just how that cunt is mine, make every thrust that much sweeter. If I can get her off and lay the groundworks to that beautiful pain in one move, then hell yeah.

I yelp as I make the move, forcing more pressure on the one side as I hope to knock her balance. Something so that if I can get her off, I can get up. Get these pants off at the very least and thus facilitate the planting of the Church flag in that twat. She could probably stop me, being as smart and sadistic as she is, but I sure as fuck ain't letting punctured lungs slow me down.
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Mac
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* * * * *
They moved against one another, him arching into her pressing weight so that she could feel the stretch and flex of his broken chest against her bare legs and pushing knees. His lacing fingers grip didn't go unnoticed, the pressure of the thumb pinching hard against the thin muscle that stretched over her hip grinding against the jutting bone. It was almost gentle for him, not a violent blow but a slow and deep pressure. That sort of depth and lingering pain she enjoyed, blood vessels bursting and bruises forming to leave tender purple reminders of his touch upon her form.

It made her breath hitch just a little when he first began to apply the pressure, the last little drops of blood falling from her broken lip as she sucked it in with a pleased sigh. Her grin never faded, it just got more depraved and devious as he answered her.

"Yes Ma'am"

She fought against the movement, knowing full well what was coming. You don't invite the ravaging beast to take a bite out of you and expect anything else. She couldn't stop him from getting away, but she did her best to simply delay as she struggled to keep her throne atop his chest. His strength was a defining factor in their struggle though, she might have leverage and know how to use her skills, but the fucker was simple made of brute strength. Once his hand was tangled in her hair, the pull was to demanding to deny. She went down, crashing on the already bruised hip as he guided her to the cement with loving malice. It didn't break the hip, she wouldn't let that happen, she twisted to try and come down on a more flat angle than he'd intended. It hurt.

A short white flash sprung from behind her eyes. Her teeth ground together as she pushed up from the cement immediately, trying to come over from the fall and roll onto her back so he'd stay within her sights. She didn't want to be exposed for long, even if that exposure would only lead to all the places she wanted to go.

She wouldn't retaliate, not immediately. Instead she'd savour that throbbing, pulsing pain her her hip as he moved to struggle out of his clothing. There was something she still wanted, something she wanted as badly as she wanted to just get lost down Church pounding lane. She raised up on her elbows to watch him strip off his other boot and begin to take off his pants, mimicking a sort of preverted viewing like he had done to her that night at the strip club a year before. There was something inviting in her eyes, but he'd read that undertow of something mischievious in those hazel eyes. She was up to something as she lay stretched out, viewing his muscled and heavily tattoo'd form stretching and moving to get bare for her pleasure.

Her excitement was mounting, building. Apprehension and anxiousness as she waited for that exact window of opportunity to show itself, tongue running over the inside of her teeth as she watched with impish glee. The moment he was stepping out of his pants she would move, to kick out quickly and try and trip him in that first and glorious moment of his perfect nudity. She wanted him to go right back to the floor is she could, trying to take him out at the back of his legs. Then she would be rolling to get up and steal the pants.

She wanted into his pants.

She wanted into his pants literally. She was already wearing his shirt, and now she'd try and take off with the pants and make it back into the showers stream. If she could get the pants on and beat him into it, they'd stick to her flesh gloriously and deny him what he wanted without the brute force to just peel it from her skin as if she were a holiday orange. She wanted that, she wanted his anger and revenge and need to take her to all those beautiful places. If she could get that far... if she couldn't, well, he'd still be riled up and try and take it out on her.
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* * * *
For a moment, I think I've done it; I am dangerously close to passing the agony and pulling up at ecstasy station, but there ain't no brakes on this here fuck train. I am so very close to being free of the soggy denim that begins to pool at my feet after unbuttoning the fly and letting them slide. As fast as I want them off, I happen to notice her ogling me, getting a little private peepshow from the doc and apparently satisfied with the routine. It makes me grin at her, all hunger and horniness bursting from the seams of my silent promise. If only I could dance, she'd lose her fucking shit if I could knock something together like she had waiting for me oh so long ago. But...maybe she gets a little something. A thumb looping through a belt hole, easing the pants slowly down the thighs with a short snort of laughter. Who am I kidding? I'll leave the sensuality to her. My smash mouth style hasn't done me wrong with her so far, so the sooner I get these off the sooner we can all feel good, right?

Wrong.

The sensation...is fucking bleak to say the least. Something primal inside had inflated like a balloon with anticipation and yearning, that was ever so eager to hear it's lovers screams, to feel her fingernails tear and scrape as she hung on for dear life. Still with the very clear end goal in mind to prove who that cunt belongs to. Then that balloon get's popped along with my fucking knees in that chop block. I swear, growl - who know's what - something as I nearly trip over my own damn feet trying to get even footing, though my appetite ain't partial to eating floor right now. I fumble through a hazy world, only to catch a glimpse of where Mac was previously lying to where she was now, which was that bare apple ass trying to hide...in my jeans?

"Da fuck!?" I shout, more confused than angry, but still angry none-the-fucking-less. It's hardly a surprise, and yet, I can only grit my teeth in disbelief at this fucking chick. What's her deal, really? Really!? Is it always a fucking game, even when I'm giving myself to her so whole-heatedly? I thought she craved me like I do her. Craved the bliss. Craved my touch...And as for the jeans-

She only got a second head start on me before I'm after her. And trust me, this ain't a normal footrace. She's got all the tools to succeed, sure, but she's fumbling on some baggy trousers. I can take a stab at where she's heading, but what does it matter when she ain't gonna make it? Sure, I could catch her. Maybe. I'll never find out. Cause baby, Church is naked now. He's unbound. And this fucker is feeling his primal energy surge into his chest, watch that ass wiggle away and decided 'fuck that.' Despite what only happened less than twenty four hours ago, I switch on the juice. I celerity to make sure there ain't no chance of escape...even if it does set off alarm bells as to just how hungry I am. I could picture a slab of meat with legs being dogged down if this were a cartoon, a juice bag of my favorite concoction taunting me by so carelessly splashing here and there...My teeth vibrate. Whether that's from the reverberation of my bare feet slapping against the hard concrete as I lunge out to grab her, or if they're just so ready and willing to slip inside her. And they ain't the only ones.

My hand finds her hair, what with being tied up there so often then seamlessly grab a good hold as close to the roots as they can. My other hand finds her tits, flat across her bust and pushing hard. That, with a little yank - and ungodly strength - and a fleeing Mac is no more. I slam her into the ground, with authority. With certainty. I don't let her hide that cunt away, not my fucking cunt. And as delicious a it is to see my girl sprawled out, eyes dizzy from the bump that just shook through her, all wet and...helpless...

I don't let her move. Not this time. As soon as that impact has ran its course through her, the sole of my food drives down on her thigh. Hard. The thigh attached the hip I had such wonderful ideas of shattering. My desire to keep the jeans off of her is suddenly washed away by one to make her toes curl, but this right here is two birds with one stone, so what the fuck am I gonna complain? I love the noises she makes. The look she gives me. The ragged breaths that go through her. No one has ever made me feel more alive and human before she knocked down the door into my life, and just maybe, I do the same for her. I grind the foot, admittedly not as effective with a bare foot, but further strain on that bone can only be a good thing.

"I'm ain't playin' your games...cause I'll just lose on purpose..." Ain't that the most perfect way I could've put it, and it still makes no sense at all? After a night of being apart, I can't separate from her. I need our flesh and bones ignited...and crashing into one another. "An' if that makes you the winner-" I suddenly drop to a knee. Oh yeah, that knee. The leg slides between hers and the waistline of the pants, but the point of the knee itself drives home to wail on that femur some more. Doubt it's broken - yet - but fuck if I ain't gonna bend it into all shapes. My hands press to the cold concrete beneath as my form now looms over her. My eyes trace the shape of that tattoo'd body of paradise, picking out the delicate detail as best as I can through the now soaking wet and rather transparent vest. Up to her face...that still makes me feel that warm sensation, almost nervousness of being so close to something so beautiful. Afraid that I might damage it...especially cause I wanna fucking pummel it. "-I'ma make you feel like a winner."

I lean in close, making sure to put all my weight on the knee above all other points of pressure. My arms stop aiding in my support, more determined to now wrap her up and make sure she doesn't find her way into putting on my boots. Dolph's boots. Not that it matters, cause I'm sure as fuck not thinking that. Or anything really. As our bodies mesh together, I once again find myself grabbing the hair. Keeping that bitch in line. Funny thing about the psychopathic amazonian? Bitch likes her hair. And she don't want that shit ripped out. Neither do I in fact, so it's why it makes it so perfect for keeping naughty princesses still while their love gets all sloppy. I smell her. Maybe she cut something, or maybe she's gnawing on those lips like she usually does just to drive me nuts? My lips press to hers, but barely, off center and not the deep and expeditionary kind I normally commence. My mouth is too preoccupied finding its way south, trace kisses past her chin and lay them desperately on that throat.

"I was promised screams till sunrise." I mumble into her as I bizzare criss-crosses of affection shown with my tongue and lips halt. I think she meant mine but...hers are even better. With that, I can't take anymore time, and before I know it my teeth and popping open a tasty can of Mac soda.

Aaah.
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Mac
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Goddess of Fuck and War
* * * * *
His confused shout as she took off with his pants was nothing less than gratifying. Slick feet tread her path towards the shower, a path quickly interrupted by a rampaging fanger with a beef to pick. Supernatural sounds or chase follow her, and while her nose wrinkles in a sort of disgusted delight it's too late to make it to the shower.

The world tips and shifts, a snapping searing sensation as a fist full of her thick dreads tangles and an arm around her chest stops the cat and mouse game. He was on her too fast, to angrily. Maybe she shouldn't have pushed him, maybe she shouldn't have ran. She knew better than to test a beast when it was hungry, but she couldn't help it, not with him. She delighted in his pain, his begging pleasing eyes. The way he wanted her was an absolute thrill, one she thought should have lost its sensation by now but hadn't. If anything, she liked it more. She'd learned how to fuck with him on grander scales, how to make him beg and plead, how to get that ever rising high off his need for her.

The momentary embrace of her near frenzied lover was cut short with a blinding white sheet of pressure as she was driven whole body into the concrete. Instinct enough had her haunch her shoulders and roll her head forward so she didn't get a concussion, but there was no saving the impact from along her forearms as they slapped down to try and minimize the damage, her back and legs screaming a dazzled and confused chorus. She had the urge to curl up, roll into a ball and protect herself as she recoiled for a moment from the confusion.

Before that much needed moment of escape, a foot was bearing down on her and pressing with superior strength. With her skin still singing the sting of impact, the weight of Churchs potent foot Pinning her. She screamed as he leaned into it a little more, brain caught in that whirling breeze of tension. The upside (and downside) of a brujah lover was that their strength was near unbearable when they wanted it to be, and she writhed with the pressure making all her other senses go dull and spastic with misinformation. Everywhere tingled, it all hurt, like she was a swelling balloon getting ready to burst.

She sucked in a hard breath, trying to gather herself together enough to reach out and pry his digging foot from the place where she could feel the grind and cry of bone under extreme duress. All she managed was to clasp a hand on his ankle, twisted on the floor beneath him. She squeezed, but where instinct said 'shake him off' that not so little part of her demented nature cried more. She cried out with that dark little whisper in her mind, a ragged gushing breath to try a regain control of herself in the sudden shift in power dynamics. When had she lost the top seat? When she ran... That was alright, she wanted him to break her down, strip her apart, make her feel so fucking good that for the first time in over a decade she was worried she could lose something.

He's talking, but she's barely listening. She wants to get a grip on herself, and his words were distracting her from trying to realign and push out the pain of his ministrations upon her body. However, he lets go. The mind numbing pain sudden relieves as his foot comes away, and that fucking incredible, unbeatable wave of endorphins that come at the end of such small tortures was like bathing in melting cotton candy. Her mind washed with relief, a sticky sort of high that ended too quickly as his knee crashed down to replace the foot.

Then she was climbing that threshold again, swelling with the grind of her bone beneath his knee. She could already feel the explosion of angry tissue, while the impact of the floor might bruise and break a normal human she was a meaty thick little Ventrue, it took more to break her. That applied love to her thigh? That was more, that was so perfect more. So much more she was twisting, body bending and elbows and hands trying to find traction to throw him off. She wanted that relief again, as much as she wanted him to fight her for it. A hand grasp her hair, wrenching her to stillness for ... Well, a moment maybe. She shot him a hard, defiant, blazing look as she tried to take a few seconds to just catch her breath. Writhing in blissful agony left her gasping, but all the right kinds of shortness of breath.

It was easy to hate something that you once loved, tipping the scale from devotion to demonization was easy. Scorned lovers did it all the time, it was human nature. When something hurt you, you learn to turn the switch on it. Your love grows cold, stale, empty... It becomes a little coal of hate in your chest. It was a total mind fuck to turn those tables around, and take something that you hated and ... Learn to love it. It was counter to /her/ nature, and yet it'd happened. She adored him, even if it wasn't a word that would slip from those twisted lips. Their strange attraction had gone from a toxic, confusing fuck fest of sin in the beginning to a sort of world of happiness and pleasure that she didn't feel entitled too. She'd fucking revel in it while she had it though. She'd fight tooth and claw to keep it as long as she could, and go down with it if it were to ever burn up. What was the point of living without moments like this?

He smelled her, dear god the way he did was primal and predatory and sparked all the right kinds of fear and elation. The look on his face while he did such a simple gesture was such a rush for her. The way... The way he craved her, like she was something special. It was maddeningly delightful, and she wanted those lips so badly as he pressed them to hers that the brief cut off left her making a whimpering noise of disapproval that nearly became a snarl of agression. She wanted his tongue, she wanted to crash their lips together with a painful force of authority and declaration. She wanted ... Everything at once. She simply wanted in every inch of herself. The exact nature of these wants slipped from her mind when trailed kisses elsewhere, that knee still driving into her femur like a vice causing her to grunt and hiss.

Then the storm came. His fangs parted flesh and left her arching beneath his form. It was sensory overload, the kind she craved, the kind of escape only he could bring her. Whatever she'd been doing before was gone, whatever driving thoughts she'd had we're blown from her wind in the crashing wind and rain inside her skull. She wanted to ride in that storm forever, follow it anywhere. She wanted to leave herself behind and become part of the torrent forever.

"Please... Please..." What was she begging for? She wasn't even sure, the words were just slipping over her lips without her telling them too. She couldn't even hear it, she was being washed in the glory of his fangs and pain.

Edited by TapestryofShame, Monday, 19. January 2015, 20:34.
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"You are so fucking Camarilla. All hope and optimism. Maybe we can mount a rescue mission, and everyone can have a cupcake party, and fly around on Pegasus unicorns pooping rainbows."
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Church
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Putting the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'
* * * *
I love my baby best when she's bleeding. It's...fucked, but it's true. And gorram bliss.

I thought the sensation of feeding on a person was one of the few reasons I still carried on kicking. Then I met Mac, and nothing has been quite the same since. Ruined my standards in ways I won't complain about. Unless we end up in a situation like last night. It's not something kept in mind as my teeth pierce that thick skin of hers, but it's most definitely a niggle that unconsciously has grown to dangerous levels. The darkness inside me, the thing that she would decapitate as soon as she lay eyes on it, it's the same god damn monster that's gonna rear it's ugly head. My tongue presses furiously into her neck in desperation to coerce out the blood, taste the real thing finally after the longest twenty four hours of my existence. It's just this thing...it's too late. Is it? She stuck her hand through the bars of it's cage, made faces and threw rocks at an already rabid thing. She was more concerned with her own amusement, fucking with the junkie. Hell, risking her well-fucking-being, and probably knowing it. Getting off on it. Using me for her fucked up ego. She deserves the swollen arm, the cracked leg. She deserves her fucking throat gettin-

Then it hits me.

The moan that escapes the gaps between my lips and her neck is nothing short of pained ecstasy. A few seconds pass with tunnel vision of nothing but a mess of dreadlocks as foul and menacing voices fade as if they were never there to begin with. Now there is nothing but the hammering of an ecstatic heart and the strained breaths of my Princess. Like a baby latching to the bottle, I close my eyes and begin to unravel into a more complacent creature. The inner struggle is washed away by the divine concoction that runs down my throat. She's my oasis. She saves me. I melt into her, a forgotten knee that tormented her so slips between her thighs, tangling our legs and the stolen pants in a predicament I'll worry about never. I press firmly against her response that would please me in all kinds of way that blessedly lingered past snuffing it. Though she's never exactly shy about letting me know how wonderful something may feel, I can't help get my rocks off watching her body do the talking for her. See such a beautiful creature writhe in pleasure, a kindness that my hands are actually capable of, and watch her just become that much more glorious. My Goddess. She begs me...she begs me. I'll never let it win...not when I have you.

The seconds graciously drag. Time does it's usually clichéd slowdown in moments of euphoria. My grip on her hair remains steadfast, an anchor for me to stay adrift against a torrent of her blood. Or some stupid metaphorical shit. I feel much more myself in the buzzing aftermath of my appetiser, and though there is disappointment and wanting in such a brief meal, it's at least my own. Still, I take care and attention in caressing the bite marks shut – what can I say? Good bedside manner – a small pause for me to let things come back into colour and become so much more...undesirable. A hedonist at heart perhaps, if I could munch on her neck for all eternity, I don't think I'm a good enough man to say no. But still...it's not all bad. I let my hand free of her messy hair to prop me up, the other slides from where it rested on her hip and rests on her shoulder. I bring my gaze to bear over her, and can't help feel the stupid grin come over my face. A few seconds ago, it was...bad. It could've been anyway, a fucking razors edge to tippie-toe on and, despite what I might be into, is something I know better to fuck with.

Whatever. The moments gone. Good won over evil, blah blah blah.

My eyes shift down as I allow our chests to part from one another. The grin surely widens that extra mile. The hand that found her shoulder amongst the noshing? It trails down and grabs a handful of the soaking vest. The thing is ripped wide open with a sharp yank, and I'm throwing the material ripped off over my shoulder. A level head achieved, I can now play. And safely. The undead equivalent of safe sex, lets say. And I fancy playing with some tits. Grab 'em, suck 'em, lick 'em – I can do it all. A level head achieved, I'm ready to subject myself to every cruel and fantastic whim of hers. Make her make me do the begging again. But of course, she needs top spot for that. And while I want her to do that, I ain't giving it to her. She's gotta take it. But maybe she just wants to lie there in the aftermath of the little death and have me worship her Godly form.

It's a Win-win. As per usual with her.
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