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Pasion Pasiva

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Pasion Pasiva last won the day on August 25 2018

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About Pasion Pasiva

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    The Black Queen

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  1. “For you and… and our child.” There was simply no emotion more profound than loss. It delivered a blow so heart wrenching that he was certain it would cause his lungs to cease expanding, and thus end his miserable life right then and there. Whatever else he had been feeling, whatever he had thought, what emotions were stirred in his heart and loins by virtue of her image standing there, kissed by sea breeze and bathed in moonlight -- it all became, seemingly worthless. What did love matter? What did lust mean? All of it fell away into bleakness and black. To know that he was a father and subsequently to know that he had lost a child, all within the same breath, wounded him near death. The strength melted out of his limbs, so much so that even his trunk-like thighs and legs trembled under the weight of the rest of him. Whatever magic kept him upright and illuminated him from within, so that his eyes were that same molten gold as the sun, whatever any of that was -- it simply ran out of him like blood from a deep and mortal wound. But it was not death that was coming. Just pain. He took steps forward -- fast, heavy, seemingly angry -- but when they brought him upon her it was only to topple to the sea-wet wooden boards of the dock. Down onto his knees he melted, landing before the altar of her feet, her knees, her thighs, the space between them that he had prayed to so often in the past, and her belly, empty and devoid of life now. He knew the baby was gone, because of her sadness, because in that moment of sharing they both knew the horror of having lost something they inexplicably loved more than anything in all the world. So he fell before her and wrapped his arms around her delicate waist. He wept into her belly, and kissed her over and over for the great guilt he suddenly bore. She had gone through it alone. “I am so sorry, Lemoine -- I am so sorry.” He could not weep. A man like him did not have tears. But he could sob, and so he did, and the force of it stirred the fire in his lungs back to life. He hissed out his pain and sparks flew past the corner of his lips and lit the dark space around them. She’d feel the sting of these tiny floating embers as they made contact with her flesh -- more than little fire-pricks of light. He didn’t mean to hurt her, but his agony was fire in his flesh now. He knew that he had to untangle himself from her, less she burn up with his sorrow. So he did, and he pushed her back, gently of course, and sat on his knees looking up at her with a broken heart that could not be mended. Behind the gold of his eyes, orange and white danced like flames licking at his soul, threatening to consume him. “Tell me what happened,” he coughed and gray plums of smoke swirled around his white face.
  2. The heat that radiated from his fingertips was not like the slow and steady rise of temperature from water being heated gradually. It was sudden and it was painful, and it took a steady focus not to yelp out in both surprise and discomfort. It wasn’t that it was terribly hot, but rather that she was terribly cold. Gabriela could withstand most drops in temperature, she could walk around in the nude while snow blew around her during a violent blizzard. But heat could undo her, and with her prolonged exposure to being such as Roen and even Raphael, her tolerance had grown paper thin. Her golden gaze sought his, and the sight of crystalline tears gathering around his silver irises made her heart lurch into her throat. It reminded her of the millions of people who had lost their lives -- of countless bodies over which they were now walking and standing, as if it were nothing. His agony, and the reflective light of his eyes, became a mirror for her own turmoil. But unlike him, if she succumbed to tears she would certainly seal her fate as a monstrous creature of horror within the minds of his people. She could not afford the catharsis that came with showing emotion, especially not in the form of tears -- for unlike Raylon’s beautiful diamond sorrow, her’s were bloody rubies. She looked to the crystal platform, the crystal chairs, the crystal podium. These were beautiful things that had sprung from the earth, watered by the blood of her people. It made the hollow in her heart grow and grow, until she felt his support. He lead her forward and upward, and helped her to move before she grew too rigid with her hurt to do much else. The heat of his touch melted the ice in her joints and the slush gathering in her veins. La’Ruta gave her comfort, but it also fueled her indignation and anger. He seemed ready for this, for his presence blanketed her as they came to a stop and stood together. “My people hold a hatred for all manner of what many consider ‘occult’ stemming from centuries of bloodshed and oppression by their hands. Vampires, necromancers, ghouls, wraiths…” She need not hear more to feel the swell of panic prickle at her scalp. These people, save for their king, did not belong in Genesaris, and least of all Orisia. They sounded like the Gaian’s of Terrenus, with their radical views on ‘unnaturals.’ Suddenly she was wondering at the possibility of these people having to remain, of them reaching out to make alliances with the Gaian’s, of inviting that sort of radicalism into her home and against her people. With mounting worry, she thought of the High Lords of Genesaris and their hatred of the Gaian’s. Could she defend Orisia from these people with their deep rooted racism? Could she defend these people from the protective inclinations of the High Lords? With a small and private sound, a near whimper, she reached out and took hold of Raylon. He intended to move forward, he was building them both up, but she wasn’t ready to let him go. “Many have benefited from your goodness and willingness to aid us but they do not know oyu like I do. They have not felt the truth that I have.” What truth is that, my Light? She wondered, with her eyes beginning to brim with her own tears. She had to wonder as to what he saw in her, what in the world would make him trust her in that distant beginning they had shared so many years ago. He was like them, of them, the leader of them -- but he was different. How could such a thing be? “This is our moment to let them see an ally. We have been thrust into a world you are familiar with. They are scared, angry… much like your people surely are. Help me usher them into this new beginning my queen.” Please, don’t go… “My Light… we are making our last preparations for the broadcast. We should be ready in a few minutes.” Gabriela look at Luz, and saw the woman’s distrusting and disapproving regard. It spurred her to step forward and closer to Raylon. He was the source of all comfort now, and she refused to be frightened from his side. Her pale hands, they sound his out, they clung to his warm fingers. “Do you need anything before we begin?” “Just a single answer,” she said to him. She stood a good amount shorter than him, and in such close proximity, it forced her to look up into his face. She didn’t mind it. She found no logic in the power plays of physiology, unless they had some founding in tactical strength. Even so, she played on the logistics of their size. She appeared petite besides him, small and wispy as she held onto his hands. “To your knowledge, Good King Raylon, was act of horrific violence purposely done?”
  3. Raphael had often wondered at the fact that Gabriela, while being of royal birth, seemed to lack traits that were fundamental to the survival of an aristocratic creature. He did not often voice these curiosities, but they were easy enough to read. It was a multitude of people who doubted her claim to royalty, and in many ways it was simply due to her particular way of thinking. What Raphael, and a great many other vampyres, failed to realize was that the very nature of their culture is what had driven her away in the first place. It wasn’t that she didn’t understand it, or lacked a handle of it, but more so that she refused it and turned her back to it. She knew all about the political games, and whether he believed it or not, she was an skilled player. By far, younger and more inexperienced, Gabriela had learned to take full advantage of her looks and had carefully crafted an unassuming mask that earned her love and devotion. But she was no less a monster than he, and she needed him to know it. Her face, cradled in his massive hand, while her wrist was pricked and suckled upon was a reminder of the liberties he had taken over her body. Though she willingly rested her face into his hand, and even appeared content there, when her eyes opened they were fixed in a narrowed glare. “I am not a blooddoll, Raphael. My blood is just as sacred as yours, and it should not be wasted on frivolous impulses.” That glare, which was perhaps sharper than she intended it to be, shifted across the room to the scribe who had stopped her writing and was now intently looking out the window in an attempt to afford the Emperor and his Queen, a moment of privacy. It was upon this mortal woman that Gabriela focused her disdain now. She was a private creature by nature, and not a particularly warm or affectionate one. It bothered her that intimate moments be documented so, as if they were the operations of the common. The perception she had built about herself was one of respectability, of modesty, and of privacy. “What sort of liberties will you invite upon us -- upon me or our child -- by making such a spectacle of our intimacy?” Golden eyes were raised, they were looking into his face with a firm stare now as her brows pinched into a frown. “I don’t like it. I am not like that -- like them,” she breathed a whisper. It should have been clear who she was referencing, but in case it wasn’t, Gabriela gently added, “I am no thief and I am no feudal lord, I do not live by a thief’s or a warrior's creed. You’ll not steal from me my blood, my affection, or my love -- and you'll not bully them from me either. I believe that the only reason we were able to conceive a child was because we both wanted it. I didn’t take this long to get pregnant for lack of you trying. It seems that our blood locks away more than just impulses and history. It seems it affords us consent, and dignity. So let me have it.” But then she did a very strange thing. Her body turned just a touch, just enough for her to reach behind her and onto his desk where a sharpened blade lay atop a stack of papers. She wielded the letter opener and brought it forward after collecting the wide hand of his that still held onto her face. “You owe me a drop of blood,” she stated matter-of-fact as she pierced the center of his palm with the pointed tip of the blade. It was a dull thing, not meant for cutting and piercing, but rather tearing. It was a painful way to get what she wanted, when a mere pinch of her fangs could have done the same with minimal discomfort and even a touch of pleasure. But she didn’t want to give him pleasure, she wanted to hurt him -- to sting him. She had to push down with force to break his flesh open, and only when an adequate pool of blood hand gathered, did she relent and release him from the pressure of her weapon. “I want you to understand what it is you’ve been asking for… If I am to accept my place, you will give it to me, fully.” She bent forward, but kept her molten-gold gaze upon his as she lapped the blood from his palm with a single stroke of her tongue. “A drop for a drop…” A thought echoed in her mind -- His blood is your inheritance. take it. One drop at a time if you have to.
  4. May I join your thread in Orisia?

    1. Xenophoenix


      Yes you may I have big plans for this thread

  5. I would date myself. But damn, I look rough as a man.
  6. Pasion Pasiva

    The Manse

    He did not allow her time to react. Since the day they had met, he had become like her shadow -- sewing himself onto her in a way that did not allow for escape. No move, regardless of how illogical or precise, had given her the freedom she so vehemently proclaimed to want. And now, he stood behind her and made her feel just as small and insignificant in the shadow of his presence and confession. And while his soft spoken confession had not come as surprise, it would one day astonish her (in retrospect), just how heartrending the words were as they passed his lips and blew at a few wayward strands of hair that curled along the length of her neck. If Raphael was the immensity of space, and all of its terrifying emptiness, and the High Lords, all in one, the bright sun that commanded the wider sphere of her orbit, and Malice and Desmond and all the other strange and magnificent creatures that existed in her life took up the roles of other such celestial bodies -- well then, she would name herself the pale and cold moon and would lay upon his brow the crown of earth. All of the vast universe pulled at them in some manner or another, but they danced alone somehow. When he was near -- when he lingered this close, the swell in her heart and the ebb of her blood was a powerful and heady sensation. He pulled her in by virtue of his very existence, even as the rest of all of existence tried to pull her away. Would that she could say these things and give life to sorrow in her heart so that he could hear it. She had her own confessions to make. But he would not hear it, and so he silenced her before she ever had even the chance to express a desire to speak. “It is time for you to leave,” he said as he pulled away creating a sudden and violent vacuum in her heart, which crushed her entirely before he even uttered the ending of his thought, “You should take him with you; he hasn’t left this hole for months, it will do him good to spend time with his mother.” Little Philippe’s mouth fell open and a soft and happy sigh left him -- a breath of contentment that somehow managed to exist and survive in the soupy density of emotions that existed between this mother and father. The little boy roused Gabriela from the heartache that was threatening to pinch and crush her esophagus completely with the sheer force of her withheld sob. How simple, how easy, how appropriate it would be turn around and tell him that she too missed him -- that she missed him so much. But she didn’t know what that would entail, or what more she might confess. Truth, she felt her blood sing, truth and nothing else -- nothing more or less. “I cannot apologize,” she began after a significant pause that would surely giveaway to the devil that she had no intention of leaving, at least not yet. Slowly, and meaningfully, she turned to look after the man she had broken, her brows pinched in such an expression of despair, conflict, and determination. She did not look upon him with disgust or distrust, she believed his words and she did not hate him for them. There was no pretense now -- no attempt to deny the reciprocation of his longing. But still, there was a restraint and it was as magnificent as it was devastating to observe, especially when it was restraint from throwing herself into his arms. Would he see it? Could he understand it -- or would it be like another betrayal and well-delivered wound unto his badly broken heart? She loved him, but not enough. “To apologize -- to express regret for what has happened, for what I did,” there she struggled -- she strained with giving a name to her betrayal. There was a faint brushing of color across her cheeks. She could not hide the shame, though she was trying to deny it. “To do any of that now, even for the sake of your love -- would be a betrayal to this child growing inside of me. And he bares no fault in the choices I have made. To say that he should have been ours -- that he should have been yours -- would forever damn him to bear the weight of my own reproach.” She was grasping for something, perhaps a better way to explain. But she was blind and seeking in a dark room, there were no appropriate words to say what was in her heart. Would that he was the old devil who did not need words to know what was true, the one who was so certain of his worth and regard in her heart that he would do anything and everything to keep them together. Sadly, that man was gone, and she was responsible for his death -- for, love never dies a natural death. They both knew it, even as they stood with such a small distance between them that felt like a growing chasm. He was not that self-certain man willing to fight both heaven and hell to return to her side, and she was far from woman he had met out in the gardens once upon a midnight. “I am unfit to rule, unfit to love, and unfit to mother,” she said finally as her summerset eyes dropped from his face and moved down to trace the delicate and beautiful features of their son. The little one was sleeping still, with his small hands balled up into loose fists and his precious lips half parted as he snored ever so soft and sweetly into her face with his baby breath of milk and honey. “I believe it is time for you to leave -- to go far away from this place and to take Philippe with you. I made one mistake with Lucis. You see, my vanity commanded me to have his caregivers tell him who I was. While I knew I could not properly raise him, I also could not sever the cord that bound us. I wanted him to know who I was, and it was a grave mistake. I will not repeat such a mistake with Philippe. You’ll take him far away,” she looked at him with tears brimming in her eyes -- crimson in color and ugly in sight, “--to some place where he will not be two halves of something, but rather one beautiful and wonderful whole. You’ll take him, and you’ll tell him that I loved him, and that I loved you, and that I died a good death. And...” her breathing was labored, she was on the cusp of openly sobbing but she was managing somehow to keep it together. It was a fragile facade that was cracking like thin ice under foot -- quickly. “And he’ll never want for me because he will have you and you will tell him only the best about me, only the good -- only that we loved him and each other.”
  7. ❤️

    1. Infernal


      Thank you so much for your support. It helps a lot.

    2. Pasion Pasiva

      Pasion Pasiva

      Just take it easy and remember that this is a hobby. You can walk away and it will always be here waiting for you. People on Val are incredibly understanding, so don't feel obligated to power through rough patches. Just be good to yourself. 

    3. Infernal


      It just sucks cause this place is supposed to be my escape from the crap going on in my life, and now the stuff going on is getting so crazy I can't even enjoy being on here like I used to which really hurts. 

  8. Glorious...I want to comission one for Gabriela ❤️
  9. I am sorry. I'll have to take a rain check on your upcoming thread. 

    1. Csl


      It's alright, thanks for telling me ^_^

  10. Is this the person Gabriela met?
  11. She felt disembodied. He bent her this way, pushed her that way, squeezed and pinched -- and she simply felt the loss of her agency. There wasn’t much anger in it, or sadness, or anything at all, save the unmistakable realization that it was happening. Perhaps this is what it felt like to die and become nothing but spirit, lingering near the place where the mortal trappings remained, and watching as that physical thing was made to suffer all the humiliations of no longer belonging to anyone. Standing, he had her on her tiptoes as his hands roamed. They cupped and squeezed, and then smoothed over the curve of her hips, and then hurried back up her slender sides to catch her under the arms, and then over, and around. It was like he couldn’t stop himself from touching, and as if touching was not enough. More than anything, she felt the tremendous and nearly overpowering sense of his desire, need, and love. It was not a brutal thing, as she had once imagined, but rather a wild and savage feeling. He could hardly control it, and so it often manifested itself in whatever emotion he happened to be harboring at the moment. A great many things made sense in that moment -- principal among which, that she was the author of her own tragedies. Out of anger, hate, and a sense of hopelessness, she lashed out with aggressive words when she found herself without the ability to cause the physical hurt she yearned to inflict. And her talented cut-throat tongue delivered its venom and caused her own agony when it produced in her lovers a lust that was mixed with violence. When he kissed her, when he breathed his savage desires against her ear, and lapped at the healing marks upon her neck, she found herself wondering what sort of results may come about if that same lust were mixed with affection. He was a beast, she thought as her eyes fluttered closed and her lips fell open just a hair’s width apart. There was a simple pleasure to it that she did not have to deny, and could in fact openly enjoy -- if only to stroke the ego of this brute animal. He was her inheritance -- she just had to learn how to tame him. Her poor father had failed in this endeavor when it came to Isabella, but perhaps she -- with Bartolome blood in her veins -- could prove herself successful. “A day and a night,” she replied after a moment. Her head had fallen to the side, and her eyes remained softly shut -- she was enjoying the sensation of worshiping hands upon her limbs and loving lips upon her neck, “It almost seems a reasonable price, cousin.” She shook her head then, and shimmied her shoulders free from his grasp. Her entire body shifted as she pivoted on the balls of her feet to twirl within the circle of his arms to turn, to face him forward and regard his wide face, his narrow nose, and piercing eyes. “You will let me change the content as I see fit, and you will take my suggestions into serious consideration. And if you find my changes unacceptable, we will find a way to accommodate both of our needs. If I am your wife and the mother of your child, then I refuse to be your slave. You cannot have me in both fashions, I refuse. I may not be as old as you are, Raphael -- but I am your equal. We are a Royal Pair. One should never be subservient to the other, that much I know about your kind.”
  12. Levantate Chucha
    Y levantate Joana
    Que viene la bruja
    Detras de tu hermana
    Levantate Pepa
    Y Levantate Adela
    Que viene la bruja
    Detras de tu abuela

  13. “You’ll do well to watch your tone with me, High Lord,” said Gabriela, her voice a suddenly sharp note, which was as dangerous as it was lyrical. She had not taken another step back, refusing to be cowed away by his bullying presence. She was in her own rooms, during her own time, and it was he who had burst in demanding answer to questions he had no right to ask. Simply put, she refused to be spoken to in such a manner under her own roof -- for it was still her roof, even if just for a few more precious hours. The Black Queen of Orisia had not flinched from his prodding touch. In fact, she had turned her face upwards toward his when his fingers touched her forehead and slid down, with a familiarity that was not warranted, down her beautiful face and along the path of her slender throat. Even as the pads of his fingers touched her collar, and caught on the neckline of her gown, tugging at the material to expose a slice of tender white flesh, she did not so much as flinch. She stood her ground as he spat his poison, and lifted her chin all the more defiantly when she spoke. “This time around, we in my seat of power and not the Wilds of Terrenus where brute force and lofty wings gave you the advantage.” Of course she was referring to the very unfortunate meeting they had shared outside the walls of Last Chance. Zenahriel had thought her a murderer then and had taken it upon himself to punish her, without knowledge or regard to the unborn child growing in her womb at the time. The abuse suffered at his hands had nearly caused her Philippe, but that was an offense that neither of them had ever spoken about. So having witnessed, just moments before, the pained expression upon his handsome face as he considered the sad status of their trampled friendship, Gabriela struggled to fight back the red, hot rage that caused the muscles in her jaw to clench so tightly her teeth nearly cracked from the stress. “I’ll be damned,” she went on, her words a steady hiss now that passed through bars of her clenched teeth, “If I let the likes of you speak down to me regarding love. Especially not when you…” she was trembling, a visible weakness that she did not care was on full display, “--not when you’re the one rolling around like a fucking dog in heat with every single one of my enemies. You, who swore love and loyalty to me. You,” a finger pointed at him, a finger that landed square upon his chest, which pushed him back with all of the force of La’Ruta behind it, forcing him to lose his balance if he was not properly braced for such an impact touch, “You -- who put this bloody fucking crown upon my head, only to make a mockery of my rule by supporting his claim.” She was done. She pulled back, and the swirling crimson that had suddenly bled into the glorious summerset gold of her eyes, was hidden from him as she turned away. It was mention of Philippe that had caused this outburst of rage, and given her reason to verbal attack him with the same fierceness that only Roen and Raphael had felt. Zenahriel was now a part of a very special gentlemen's club, a list of hated names that Gabriela prayed she may take bloody vengeance upon someday. But those were hopes for a distant future. “Darling…” she said softly, her shoulders dropping, her body softening as she crossed her arms under her breasts and began to pace away. “Darling blackbird, let’s not fight -- I don’t want to fight anymore. Let’s not hurt each other, let’s not be cruel to one another. Once...once upon a time,” over her shoulder, small and round, she looked at him, ruby tears gathering in her eyes, “we loved each other, you and I. We were best friends. And I am all alone now, my son stolen from me by that miserable devil, and my not yet born son, soon to follow the same path...unless…” A smile, a sad and tired smile. “Unless I submit, unless I give up and become his wife, his empress, his destiny.” That smile broke and she laughed, a weak sound that was no less lovely. “The bastard won, don't you see? He's got a High Lord and La'Ruta's child, we belong to him now. We’re going to have a baby, Zenahriel -- you, me, and Raphael. Aren’t you happy? You’re going to be a father." It took just about every ounce of her strength to curb the bitterness out of her voice.
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