STAKING A CLAIM - CIRCA 820 AD
Within a tangle of arms and legs and lips and tongues, The Darkness swarmed over Night, grappling with her small form, filling her soft open body with himself, pushing, shoving, leaving trails of blood and purple in the shape of his large fingers and the hum of his voice on the frightened air.
"You. Should never. Torment me ( Read more... )
"You. Should never. Torment me ( Read more... )
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He had let that Other One - the bovine Briton that made pies and kept house and dared sing him songs - only Nyx should sing him songs, ever - go. He had let her go to find some happiness, to find some mortal bull to keep her company until she withered and grew ugly uglier and died. Nyx had long since abandoned Govinda, taking some time with the children, seeing to her duties, and doing her best to ignore the ravenous, insatiable jealousy that ate away at her sense of well-being and contentment.
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She'd barely adjusted to him when he thrust again, hard, pushing a gasping moan from her this time. Now, she met his eyes, her lips slightly parted, breath rushing in and out. He had her pinned down at her chest, but that didn't stop her hips from thrusting up at him, didn't stop her from catching his rhythm and meeting him with equal force.
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When her husband had let the Other One go, Nyx found herself unwilling to simply fall back into step - unable to pretend that his loving another was reasonable, was understandable, was acceptable. She never spoke of her true feelings: that he had betrayed her, a thousand times more ruthlessly and injuriously than she had him; that she couldn't forgive him for his trespass; that she didn't want to forgive him.
So, with the cow-eyed concubine gone, Nyx took up the weapons she'd learned to wield over the years, and had used them against her husband: teasing, flirting; passing by him just closely enough for him to smell her hair; her skin brushing against his almost casually; sweet languorous kisses that built up momentum just before she suddenly had some urgent business to attend to.
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He moved his hand to her hip for leverage, and her back arched before her arms went up around his neck, still maintaining eye contact. Deep sounds were coming from the back of her throat as she pounded against him, ground herself against him. She pulled herself closer to him, and kissed him, her tongue licking and teasing and tasting him. Her nails dug into his back, and she crashed against him harder still.
She did not want to relent. She did not want to give him her essence, to let him in the way he had been before. Let her take her pleasure of him, and he of her, fine. But let him share his essence with his next stupid, ugly, mortal naif. Let such a wench share her essence with him.
Not Nyx, oh no. She knew how to do this without opening herself completely.
Bastard.
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Deep inside him, under all the festering pain, the poisonous rage, the embedded disgust, he was still weak for her. Her eyes. Her mouth. Her essence. It was a gift to have a wife who was always ready for him. Always wet. Always responsive. No male could ask for anything more in the bedroom than what Nyx gave. But it also twisted inside him. Sex had never just been sex; he did not even know how to take and give pleasure without touching a connection in his partner also. It was why he had to love Marie. It was why he would always love Nyx.
And he despised that.
No. No. She was not allowed to try to soften his anger by reacting the way she did. She was not allowed to drive his violence out of his body by those kisses, those needful clinging arms, those melodious cries. Not now. Not after.... Everything.
Nor was she allowed to hide herself away from him. He could feel those walls inside her, strong and stubborn and insolent, barring him from the essence that was Night. She thought to hold back. She thought she could actually hold back. From him. From her husband.
A growl of rage crawled out of his throat and spilled through parted lips. Darkness beat against those barriers inside his wife, demanding entrance even as he deeply entrenched himself within her body. She teased, she tortured, she taunted, and then when he could take no more, when he finally dragged her by her hair into her bedroom and forced himself upon her, she did it again? Again? She insisted on doing this to him?
Another sound came from his throat, this one of choked anguish.
No. No. Do not give into the pain. Stay with the anger.
His movements became more violent, if it were possible, his hips pistoning swiftly, and his face contorting with a rare display of anger. But those green eyes bespoke the lie.
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She felt him inside her, too. Not just his cock pounding into her harder and faster, stretching her and pushing her and claiming her over and over. No, she felt his essence pushing out for hers, battering against that which protected her, that which prevented him from having her. She looked at him, recognizing the fruitlessness of her physical struggle, and began clenching him as he thrust into her, her hands sliding up to his arm to dig her fingernails into it, her body making the most of whatever subtle motion her hips could achieve as he held her down.
But the internal struggle was not fruitless. He could not force this from her. In a physical contest, he would always win - and in a physical contest, it mattered little to her. Despite all this, she doubted he would ever really harm her. But what she had only shared with him, he had shared with another, and for that, he would not be forgiven.
He was hurting her now with his onslaught, but with the pain came transcendent pleasure, and she moaned and cried out and whimpered at what he was doing to her body.
Even still, she looked at him, writhing to the limited extent that she could, looking into his eyes, and saying to him silently,
"Have at me, Ere. But you will not have me."
She saw his pain. She felt his pain. But though she took no pleasure in it, she would not let it sway her. He had taken that which was most sacred between them and given it away; shared it with another.
Nyx would not feel pain like that again.
Sweat beaded on her brow as he fucked her. Her legs wrapped around him, compromising how well his arm could keep her down, and she kept moving against him. She turned her face downward and kissed the arm that pinned her shoulders to the floor, even as her nails dug deep and drew blood. She licked some away.
There was something tiny and tragic inside of her that wondered why it had to be this way, but she smashed it aside harder with every thrust.
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He knew he could break those walls that surrounded her. He had the power. He had the strength. He knew he could take out his anger on her form. Crush. Destroy. Violate. He could take what he wanted. He could have it.
His eyes roved over her face as she wrapped her legs about his waist, clamped her body sweetly around his own, and kissed his skin. Those kisses. Those kisses that burned him painfully. Those nails that sent spikes of relief through him.
He could break her. But it was he who broke. Bending his head, he kissed her without the violence, without the anger. Her lips were bruised and swollen, but her mouth was still sweet. So damned sweet. He shook with desire.
But it mattered little at all. He could not do to his wife, to his other half, the things that he knew he could do. Power, with Nyx, was useless. A bowl of ambrosia appeared just above her head, and he removed his arm from her hip so that he could pick up a piece of it and feed it to her. His motions were tender. Gentle. Slow. His fingers, when they touched her throat, put only just enough pressure there to be felt as he stroked softly.
He needed her. He would always need her. And she would not give herself to him. Not in the way he craved. Not in the way he needed. Not the true way. It was hopeless.
Taking in the ruin of her body, his face contorted briefly with emotion he dared not name. A second later, he was standing, his raging erection bound by trousers, his hard chest covered by mortal fashion.
"Heal," he said softly, his face dropping into that familiar unfathomable mask.
If she would not have him, then he would find someone who would. Perhaps the love of another could soothe the wounds she riddled him with. He stood a moment before her, staring down at her naked form.
And then he turned and walked out of her bedchamber, the sound of his footfalls muted by her carpets. The mortal plane called him back.
But the shadows in Nyx' temple seethed for some time after he was gone.
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But then he pulled away from her, he pulled out of her, left her naked and shivering. When he told her to heal, she turned her head away from him, anger burning its way through her body, starting at her center, filling her up and heating her. Inexplicably, tears pushed out of her. She'd felt it all, his withdrawal and his despair and his anger and his pain. She knew he wanted to go out and seek some other mortal, some other cow wife who wouldn't know or care if he loved someone else, who couldn't feel the betrayal of the Darkness' treacherous heart. And he left her there, alone, naked, spoiled creature that he was, because she wouldn't let him break her all over again.
"I hate you," she said softly, aloud, in a trembling voice.
"I hate you," she repeated with more force, her voice catching, the bowl of ambrosia ignored as she turned onto her side and pulled herself into the fetal position, her temple closing itself off to other visitors.
"I hate you," and this time, she knew he heard it, and she didn't care. Because now those hateful tears were leaking out of her treacherous eyes, and her body hurt, but not as much as everything inside it, and the only release she had was to hide her face in her hands and wait for this weakness to pass.
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Kneeling down beside her. Telling himself not to touch her. Reminding himself that she would not be with him in the manner he desired. Craved. Needed. Nevertheless, he brushed those terrible streams from her face.
"Hate me, then," he said, unable to keep the tremor of pain from his voice. Why did she do this to him? Why did he always let her? "Hate me. You tease. You dance away. You deny. Why not hate me?"
He gathered her unwilling, bleeding body from her carpets and settled her on her bed. Tugging the blankets around her form, he stepped back once. Why was he here? Why was he doing this to himself?
She made him react in ways that no one else could. And he hated himself for it.
Why would she be any different?
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It was sometimes difficult, when your mate was ubiquitous, to preserve your pride.
This gentleness of his, this gentleness from one so strong and so cold, again undermined everything. This time, the pain that she heard in his voice, felt coming from him, affected her, moved her. When he went to lift her to the bed, her body tensed, resistant - but when he stepped back, her hand reached out for his of its own accord.
"You gave yourself to her," she whispered fiercely. "You gave yourself to her - how can I give myself to you?"
With her free hand, she vehemently wiped more tears from her cheek.
"I want you to fight me; push me; bruise me. It's good. Because if you do those, it's easier."
She held his hand, idly tracing patterns on his palm with her thumb.
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"You will not," he said in response to her. "You have said that you will not. I loved Marie; I love her still. She needed me. She wanted me. She would have died without me. She gave herself into my care, then gave herself to me." He leaned forward. Hissed the next words. "I love you, Nyx. I love you deeper than I could ever express, and I will never be free of it. But you were not there. And I needed. You are not there again, and I need. Tell me what you think I should do."
Straightening, he shook his head.
"Fighting you. Hurting your body -- it means nothing. Your body is a shell that repairs. But what we are..."
He paused, shook his head again, and viciously drove all emotion out of the tone of his voice. He had his pride. "I lose with you; I always have. Will I always? I think yes."
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She hadn't been there. It would always come back to that.
"You love her. You love me. You could love others, if you chose. But I've only loved you. Now, before, in the future - it's only ever been you."
Despite the words she spoke, the distance that she longed for between them, she turned toward him, resting her cheek against his hand, looking up at him. She didn't know how to express to him that had she known he'd needed, she would have come. It wasn't fair, because although it may have been true, she wouldn't have wanted it to be. She wouldn't have wanted to come, because he had her in his palm so securely already.
She listened to him talk about fighting and hurting, and she looked up at him, quirking her head slightly to one side. "You've always lost with me? You must be quite mad," she said softly. "I am a goddess; one of the Protogenoi - and nothing in the world makes me feel weaker or stronger than you."
She paused for a moment.
"Come lie down next to me," she asked without asking.
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Everything that wanted to be free of the hurt that Nyx rained down on him rebelled at her request. Because he did not want to lie beside her. Because he did not want to love her. Because he did not want to need her. But he did. But he did. But he did.
The blanket he wrapped her in kept her skin from touching him, as did the space he left between them. It was a miniscule mercy, but mercy nonetheless.
He folded his arm over his face as his body once more traitorously began demands of its own, demands that his heart was certain would kill it once and for all if he gave into them. He hated it, he hated himself completely for putting himself back into this position. For letting her win. Again. For being here when, if he had any emotional sense whatsoever, he would be leagues away by now.
She said that he was the only one she ever loved. The only one she ever would love. And. He was not sure if he believed her. Her body had been claimed by others. She was not so cold as to take pleasure without giving a piece of herself along with it. At least, he had never known her to be that cold. (Until tonight.) And she had willingly placed herself between his murderous rage and her lover. If that was not love in the arena of Night, then...
He squinted his eyes closed under his arm and focused on breathing. He did not need breath, but it was calming. It soothed him, when he could concentrate hard enough. He sucked in another breath, and let it out slowly, steadfastly ignoring how his body tightened when he took in the scent of his wife.
Love. Love. What did it even mean? In the arena of Night, it meant pain. It meant betrayal. It meant anger and fear and jealousy and abuse and desire and desire and desire and denial. How could he keep on wanting her, even through all this? How could he love her, and want her to love him back, so desperately that he was willing to forget what he needed just so that she would look at him. Smile at him. Want him. Share with him. Be with him. He wanted his wife. He longed for his wife. And he didn't know who his wife was anymore. Not after all this. Love, in the arena of Night, was utter maddening torture.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Breathe.
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What manner of woman was she to give in to him this way? To accept his love of another woman, to accept his giving of himself to someone else, when he was supposed to be hers, Nyx's, and Nyx's alone?
She was his, and only his, and had only ever been his. She had promised him that long ago, and had kept her word.
But he had broken his - the promise he'd made at the beginning of the world. Perhaps he'd never been hers to begin with.
Force wouldn't move her to yield to him. He was stronger than she, and could force her body to give - that was a given. Perhaps he could even break her will, and force his way into her essence - she didn't know. But those methods would never move her to willingly share herself with him.
Now, though. Now, he was next to her, and she, wrapped in her bedclothes, felt him breathing next to her, felt all the emotions that were wearing him down right now, and she found herself unable, even for the sake of her own preservation, not to give him what he wanted... what, perhaps, he even needed.
The bedclothes peeled down just enough to free her arms. She rolled onto her side and put her hand on his chest. Slender, gentle fingers slid up, up the column of his throat, and she leaned forward to look him in the eye. She knew that this was folly - that he would probably have another cow-wife in all too short a time. She knew that sometime, possibly soon, she wouldn't "be there" when he needed her.
That knowledge cut at her too deeply to consider right now. Right now...
"I'm here," she said quietly.
She kissed him. Softly, sweetly, her lips touching his, kissing the corners of his lips, her tongue then dipping into his mouth to remind herself of his taste.
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Because she was touching him.
His whole being responded immediately, though he was paralyzed with the fear of it. He wanted her. He wanted his wife. Sweet gods, he missed his wife so much that it shook him. That soft kiss against the corner of his mouth. The way her tiny hand rested in the curve of his throat. Her scent. Sweet Gaia, her scent. It twined its way into his heart and squeezed, like barbed wire over an infant's arm. She hurt him with her kisses, with her unspoken promises to be who he needed. To love how he needed.
And then she said it: "I'm here."
That was really the crux of the matter. He just wanted her with him. All of her. For always. No one else, no one else, just him. He wanted to be everything for her. He wanted to give her exactly what she needed. He wanted to fulfil her, he wanted to be her second half, he wanted to make her cry out at night, he wanted to make her laugh. He wanted to be enough for her.
But he wasn't. But he hadn't been. And he knew it. The bitter thought of Krios, the thought of her mortal lovers, all of them before he even met Marie, before he even considered Marie... It sobered him. Krios was the first, but would certainly not be the last.
Warning sirens screamed viciously in his head, but then her tongue was delicately dipping into his mouth, stroking his tongue, tasting his taste. With a groan that sounded like pain, that was pain, he set his hands on her shoulders. There was no force. There was barely any pressure. He didn't want to draw her in, knowing that she would perhaps open herself to him tonight, but soon find another lover, soon be disappointed in him again, soon want to explore something -- someone -- else.... Because he failed her as a husband. Because he could never be everything that she wanted. Everything that she needed.
And it shattered him.
He broke the kiss, words springing unbidden to his lips.
"What are you doing to me, my love, my wife, my love? What... What...?"
She was turning him inside out. She was throwing fire into his soul and dancing in the flames. She was tempting him with exactly what he wanted.
All the while, he knew that she would not stay with him.
Despite the knowledge, he couldn't pull away from her. He knew he should. For the love of sanity, he should. For the love of everything pure and sacred, he should. But he didn't. He couldn't. He needed her. He would never stop needing her.
Slowly, slowly, as if he fought each and every movement, and lost, he began making love to her. If this was all he could have, he would accept it. He knew... the dawn would come, and she would fade again.
And he would be left again, needing, wanting. And watching her play her games with others.
Because he was not enough.
He hid his face in her neck so that, throughout their lovemaking, she could not see his expression. It was filled with ineffable pain.
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