Once Upon a Moonless Dark Interlude
Chapter 24 – Eamonn & Dylan
Author's Note: I love LA's Nuada fanfics but I've always thought they were too tame for me. All the sexual build up but none of the release really. All of the build up to serious carnage or torture or agony and none of the reveal. So I decided I'd make my own. She said I could. LA Knight lets anyone write fics for her Nuada fics as long as the characters are in character. I made certain. So for anyone wondering what Eamonn did to make Dylan scream like that in Once Upon a Moonless Dark Chapter 24, here it is. It's all based on LA's work and anything I came up with that she likes, she can have it.
If you've read Chapter 24, you know bad shit is about to go down. You've been warned.
She must have made some sound of protest, because Eamonn pressed a wet, smacking kiss to the cheek he'd slashed open with his knife in her cottage.
"Oh, yes, my sweet," he crooned against her ear as he tightened his hold on her. "The night is just beginning for us."
Her stomach twisted, churning with revulsion and fear. Eamonn's hand lay against her stomach and he must have felt something, because he shifted a little and murmured, "Forgive me, my sweet. Carrying our little ones must make you…" He chuckled. Kissed the spot just under her ear that always sent shivers along her spine when Nuada kissed her there. "Ravenous. I brought you something to eat."
If she swallowed anything, she'd hurl it back up. She couldn't possibly stomach anything just now when the taste of him still sat cloying on her tongue. But one look at her enemy's face told her he would accept no arguments. So when he offered her a slice of apple, the flesh white as Eamonn's own and the skin red as mortal blood, she forced herself to allow him to slip the thin slice between her lips. He wouldn't let her feed herself; he fed her thin slices of the crimson apple, one at a time and with impossible care. Every bite was set between her teeth, against her tongue. Then, with every bite, Eamonn's thumb pushed her lips closed and she chewed the sharply sweet fruit.
He never looked away from her face as the hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach began to fade and the ice in her veins warmed a little, and that sickening taste was washed away by the apple's juices. Maybe, just maybe, some of her fear had been low blood sugar or something. Except this was a dream. She shouldn't have had low blood sugar…
"You should drink, sweetness." Eamonn lifted a waterskin and held it near her mouth. When she hesitated, he sighed. "I would not poison my own children, Dylan. It is safe enough. Look." He took a long drink from the skin. As he gulped down the fluid, whatever it was, Dylan suddenly realized she was desperately thirsty. Her throat ached when she swallowed. When Eamonn offered her the waterskin again, despite the unease gnawing at her, she took a drink.
It was only water. Clear, sweet, a little cool. No spirits, no alcohol, no potions. Only the simple crisp taste of water and the faintest taste of spring berries. When the water touched her parched mouth, Dylan began gulping, desperate, greedy. She often had dreams of being impossibly thirsty, ever since she'd stopped drinking alcohol. This nightmare had just pulled that thread into itself. And the water washed away the last taste of Eamonn from her mouth; a definite plus.
Eventually she stopped slurping down the water. She gasped for air as Eamonn took the waterskin back, wiping at her mouth with one hand. Eamonn stroked her hair with incongruous gentility.
"If I'd known how thirsty you were," he said, "I'd have offered you a drink before now. Forgive me. Now, come here."
She already sat closer than she'd have liked, but Eamonn put her firmly between his updrawn knees again, her back to his chest. She sat in such a way that the lower part of her tunic kept her from sitting her naked butt on the grass beneath them, and at least the damp spot had mostly dried, though the small of her back itched and crawled.
Eamonn didn't seem to mind sitting nude on the ground. He kept one arm draped across her shoulders and the other resting on her thigh; the very tips of his fingers crossed the hem of her tunic to rest against her skin, five spots of icy heat.
After a moment, the dark Elf said, "When we were boys, millennia ago, before he betrayed us, Silverlance would tell me about the stars, you know." His fingertips brushed slowly along a scar on the top of her thigh. Slow. Slow. Dylan bit her lip and tried not to claw at her leg. "How to navigate by their positions, how to gauge the passage of time," he added, breath warm and sickeningly moist against her ear. "The myths and legends behind each constellation. How to find the pictures of them in the sky."
"These st-stars are so d-different from the ones I'm used to," she replied, trying to distract him, to keep him focused so he only caressed the top of her leg and nothing else. She didn't want a repeat of what he'd made her do. "Some of them look sort of f-familiar, but...but just when I think they're the same, I see something that makes them d-different."
Cool lips brushed against her ear, a small kiss. "You needn't fear me tonight, little harlot," he whispered, dropping tiny kisses along her cheekbone, her jaw, her temple. His lips were lukewarm and dry as snake skin. The words dried up in Dylan's throat. "You speak with such nervousness in your voice. Shy as a maiden on her wedding night. But you needn't be, sweetness. Shall I tell you about the stars of Bethmoora? Would that please you?"
Desperate for something to occupy his mouth so he would stop kissing her face, she nodded. Eamonn pointed.
"That constellation there is the Stag," he said in a voice as soft as the shadows around them, and as warm as a summer night. He leaned in again so that his breath was a damp whisper against her ear. "A symbol of virility. In winter and summer, the Boar will be in the sky as well. They come closest together on the Winter and Summer Solstices, where they fight for dominion over the sky for half the year. The Stag wins at Yule, and stays in the sky until Lethe, where he mates with maiden stars to breed new constellations.
"Imagine it, sweetness. The Stag," Eamonn pressed his lips to her ear, his palm to the mound of scar tissue between her breasts. "Imagine those lucky maiden stars, mounted and speared by him, seeded by the life essence of a stellar beast. Imagine what it must be like. The glorious heat and ecstasy of it. Making love with a Child of the Stars isn't quite the same, but it was close, aye? I was so hot and hard inside you. Felt so good." His fingers pressed into her collarbones, into the bruised flesh there. Dylan bit down hard on her tongue. "You're just like those virgin stars, pet. And once the Stag's reign is done, when he must kiss his stars goodbye, the Boar conquers then, and remains aloft until Yule, where he does the same - slaking his celestial lust in the bodies of virgin stars."
He gestured to another constellation. "That is Cù Chulainn, the Hound of Ulster." Eamonn cupped her hand with the one he'd had pressed to her heart and guided her in tracing the bright pinpoints of silver-white light in the sky. His touch was warm against her skin as his palm slid smoothly against the back of her hand, like funeral velvet. His fingers curled around her hand, cradling it with the threat of hidden strength. She knew what that hand could do. She remembered the sudden, hollow, brutal snap when he'd broken her pinky finger. Remembered the sick weakness when he'd socked her hard in the stomach on her kitchen floor, driving the breath and strength from her body. "He guards the Moon when she rises and journeys through the heavens. He is always at her side, watchful, keeping her to her course. He is one of the few fixed constellations; no matter the season, he always remains on guard beside her."
Dylan scrunched down, unable to escape his embrace but wishing fervently that she could, somehow. Eamonn threaded his fingers through hers, and she didn't dare wrench away from the contact. Just as she didn't dare slap at the fingers stroking lightly over the scar on her thigh. She nudged a few blades of grass with her toe and drops of dew landed on her skin. Each tiny drop sparkled like a jewel; the beauty of them seemed to mock her.
When would this nightmare end? When would Nuada wake her up for his surprise so she could get away from all of this? How long could she keep the dream-monster distracted?
"Sh-show me another one," she requested softly. Anything, so long as he continued to do nothing else but talk. Forcing a lightness to her voice she certainly didn't feel, she added, "P-pretty please, Eamonn?"
"Such a polite harlot tonight." The smile was obvious in his voice. "Of course, my sweet. Anything to please the mother of my children."
She bit her tongue again, hard enough that she tasted blood, and didn't scream that they were her children, that she wasn't his sweet anything, that she wasn't a harlot, that she despised him.
So he showed her the Yeth Hound, the headless beast locked in constant celestial battle with the Lambton Wyrm; the five-horned Quinotaur and the constellation of the rampant Alicorn; the cluster of little stars known as the Trow; the stellar image of Macha, the warrior goddess who was said to be the first of Balor's lineage, and the seven stars that were her ravens; Finn Bheara, King of the Dead Under the Hill and his half-Fomori queen, Oonagh, whom he'd stolen from the Fomori lands in the middle of Samhain night.
Despite herself, despite his nearness, his words began to run together in her head. She was so tired, unable to maintain the buzzing fear and thrumming tension any longer. Her body felt pleasantly warm and loose as the tension drained away to be replaced by tiredness; her entire body was hungry to lie down on the soft, warm grass. Her brain began to fog over the more Eamonn talked of stars and myths and legends. Her eyes felt gritty, and the world felt distant and muffled and too warm to be comfortable. Dylan's head dropped to Eamonn's shoulder and she made a small sound, half protest and half confusion.
"Shall I tell you of the Boann Star?" Eamonn's voice came low, almost husky in her ear. His fingers smoothed along the scar on her leg, tracing the ridged flesh...but this time, instead of turning back at the jagged point, he skimmed over it and down to lightly tickle the side of her knee. Dylan made a sleepy sound of denial but couldn't seem to dredge up enough energy to shake him off or slap at his hand. And there was a reason not to, wasn't there? But she couldn't remember. She was so warm, too warm, and so sleepy.
Eamonn pointed to a pair of stars hanging in otherwise empty space, so close together as to seem like one great star shining with multiple colors, the scarlet of human blood and the blue of bruises. Only by squinting hard could Dylan see that they were actually separate.
"The Boann Star," Eamonn murmured, his breath coming a little faster now against her cheek. His thumb moved in slow circles over the back of the hand he held. Each stroke drew uncomfortable prickles along her skin. They were so close, too close, his lips brushing her cheek and ear every time he spoke, his limbs caging her. The dark Elf added, "The Boann Star was once said to be a goddess of the Tuatha de Danaan, but she was foolish. She sought to bring the humans into the fold of the Fair Folk, to force the Children of the Earth to make peace with their mortal oppressors, despite the myriad sins the humans had committed against them. Foolish, no?"
She needed...needed to respond. If she didn't, he might think she wasn't listening. Might think she was ignoring him. If he thought that, he'd get angry, and then the truce might end. He might hurt her. So she nodded, though it took Herculean effort. "F-foolish," she mumbled.
"Tired, sweetness?" Eamonn's voice held an odd edge. Was he furious? Insulted she wasn't more energetic? Dylan tried to straighten up, blinking hard to bring the world back into focus. Pale fingers gripped her chin and tilted her head up so she was looking into slitted silver eyes glittering with some emotion she couldn't guess. "Perhaps you should lie down. Come. Lie beside me."
Something told her she should find some excuse not to do that, to avoid stretching out beside him on the grass, but her vision was beginning to blur a little and her head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton batting. Her protest was a mere breath of sound behind her teeth as Eamonn shifted her, laying her on the grass on her side, her head pillowed on his arm. He fitted himself against her, chest to back, his knees touching her calves just beneath her own knees. Even now, laid out on the grass, the impossible mass of him made itself felt - monstrously wide shoulders, long legs, thick-hewn muscles with enough strength to snap her neck. His other arm, the one not supporting her head, came around her waist again. His hand cupped the swell of her belly with steely possessiveness, as if to say, Do not forget this is mine.
"So tired, sweetness," he purred in her ear. "Shall I finish the story? Or am I boring you?"
She half-shook her head. "M'not bored," she whispered. "M'not. Promise. Please tell me." If he thought she was bored, this fraught but mostly painless interlude would stop. Tired as she was, she couldn't run from him if he decided to beat her.
"The goddess Boann betrayed the fae," he said, the words hissed in her ear with a snake's sibilance. Eamonn shifted closer to her, fitting himself firmly to her back and buttocks. Dylan stiffened, a petrified gasp locked in her throat, when she felt the very clear evidence of how much he enjoyed being so close to her. Her head cleared just a little of the exhausted fog. He was aroused again. What was he going to do to her now? But he only kept talking. "So of course she had to be punished. The king of the Fomori chose her punishment; they have a knack for such things. Do you know what they did to her?"
Mutely, she shook her head. Her skin itched. Heat prickled along her arms and legs, across the parts of her clavicle where the embroidered tunic collar touched. The fine Elven silk felt too heavy, too rough against her too-hot skin. She was so tired, and she needed to shift around, try to get comfortable, alleviate some of this prickling and stinging and heat...but if she did, she'd rub against Eamonn. She did not want that. So she chewed her bottom lip and forced her body to keep still.
"They tied her to the pillory," Eamonn said. "And they brought two-hundred human men to her. They bathed the men in Branwen's Tears and unleashed them on her, to show her what she had wrought by offering mortals access to anything belonging to the Fair Folk." Eamonn's hand smoothed down her stomach to her hipbones and Dylan squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the violating touch between her legs...but Eamonn only moved to stroke the scar on the top of her thigh again. The skin under his touch seemed to tighten, shrinking from him, and tingles bit into her skin. She dug her fingers into the earth beside her and bent her entire will on not moving her body an inch. "In other words, little slut, they fucked her."
She couldn't stop the flinch she always gave whenever Eamonn said that word. She knew he only used it because the harshness, the vulgarity made her sick.
Nuada never used it. He always made love to her, or - rarely, when he could no longer leash the animal side of himself - he "ravished" her, to use his word. Devoured her. Took her. Pleasured her. That was how her husband spoke to her. Let me love you, mo duinne...Shades of Annwn, I need to touch you...You're so beautiful like this, Dylan, so beautiful when we make love…Take me, my love. Take all of me...
He didn't fuck her. That was what Eamonn did, according to the dark Elf. She knew better. Eamonn didn't even do that. He raped her. Violated her. Used her. That was all.
Dylan shoved her fingers deeper into the soil. The grit of rocks and loam helped keep her anchored as Eamonn continued his story, using the mortal words he knew she hated to hear.
"They fucked her and fucked her, sweetness. For days. Weeks. Ramming their human cocks into her lovely body again and again, never pausing for food or drink, until they sickened and died of their own lust and her belly had been filled with mortal ooze. Most women can't imagine what that must have been like, but you know, don't you?"
He nuzzled the back of her neck. Scraped his teeth along the gancanaugh bite-scar, the scar tissue still saturated with venom. A spasm of heat shot down Dylan's spine and the prickles along her skin intensified, almost scalding for a moment before easing back to merely uncomfortable. She bit back a whimper. Squeezed her eyes shut against the temptation to move around. "You know what it's like to feel a man spilling into you again and again until you're practically drowning in it, don't you?"
This time, when she didn't respond, Eamonn thrust his hips against her tunic-covered buttocks, hard enough to hurt a little. She jumped. Couldn't hold back her whimper. Eamonn said, too softly, "Answer me, Dylan."
Voice still slurry despite the fear thudding in her blood, she whispered, "Yes."
"Yes, what?"
When she swallowed, she swore she could taste the poisonous slime of him on the back of her tongue again. She swallowed again. "Yes, I know what it's like."
"Oh?" The false curiosity in his voice sliced at her like mockery. "Know what what is like, exactly, my pet?"
He was going to make her say it. He was nothing but a soulless bastard. A monster. He was going to make her say it.
She thought she might choke, or vomit, or scream, when she managed to rasp, "I...I know what it's like to...t-to be f-f-fucked until I...until I'm...d-drowning in...in—"
"And," he interrupted, still nuzzling her, kissing the back of her neck, laving the scar with the tip his tongue, "you love it, don't you?"
A tear rolled from the corner of her eye, over the bridge of her nose, to drop onto the grass beside Eamonn's arm.
"Yes."
"Hmmm?" No pause in those violating butterfly-light kisses, but the edge to that single sound told her what he wanted.
"Yes," she choked out, "I love...love being f-fucked like that."
Why? Why did he make her do this? Say these things? Why did he force her to lie like this? He had to know she was only saying these things so he wouldn't beat her again. Why did he want her to say them? She couldn't get inside his head, couldn't figure out what he was thinking. If she could, maybe she could make him stop. Or distract him. Play him the way she'd played a few others in the past.
Eamonn kissed the nape of her neck, tenderly. "My good girl. It's best to be honest with ourselves, is it not?" He waited a beat. She forced herself to nod. "Yes. Very good. As for Boann, after she'd been used by her human lovers, the Fomorian king gave her to the king of the demons of night and cold starlight to be his plaything. And to this day she lies on a bed of velvet darkness, speared by the demon king night after night, chained to his pleasure every night for eternity while the world sleeps on. Do you see?" He pointed, and Dylan saw that the cold, crimson spikes of one star stabbed into the heart of the blue light Eamonn had called the Boann Star. "A pretty story, no?"
Gave her to the king of the demons of night and cold starlight to be his plaything…speared by the demon king night after night, chained to his pleasure every night for eternity while the world sleeps on…More tears rolled silently over the bridge of her nose to sprinkle the grass beside Eamonn's arm. If any touched him, he gave no sign. Only continued whispering the tiniest of kisses across her nape, over the bite scar.
"I've often wondered, where did you get so many scars, my pet?" He murmured against her skin. The soft blow of damp breath caught her by surprise and she jerked. A wash of tingles swept across her skin and she sucked in a choked breath. "This is a gancanaugh bite. Poor little slut. I can't imagine how it must have hurt you," his fingertips grazing the long scar on her thigh, a steady stroke along the sensitive skin, "feeling those long, hard teeth penetrating that soft flesh, feeling that poison pumping so hot into your body. Was it agony, sweetheart? Did you have to slake your own lust with those clever little fingers between your legs?"
"I...I don't…" The world tilted, swimming slowly in front of her tired eyes, and Dylan tried to shake her head, though she didn't know why. She couldn't make sense of the question, somehow. Her breath came in shallow pants and she couldn't keep still anymore, her skin felt too warm, too tight on her bones.
"You don't what, little sweet?" Eamonn asked softly, with terrible gentleness. "Don't see to your own pleasure sometimes? We both know that isn't true." His fingers smoothed over the scar on her leg, tracing the tip, before skimming along the soft swell of the inside of her thigh, midway to her knee. A curl of warmth drifted beneath her skin in the wake of his touch. "I remember the way you were in the cottage," he added, tracing up and down the curve of her thigh - from the edge of her knee to just under the tunic's hem. Every pass, his fingers drifted a little higher. "When I wouldn't let Silverlance have you, or when he decided to stick his manhood somewhere other than between your legs. I saw the way you were so frantic for release. The way your fingers moved so desperately."
She tried to shake her head again. Couldn't seem to move it more than an inch or two. Her neck felt stiff, and her head was so heavy. "N-no...I...I didn't…" She wasn't supposed to argue with him, but she couldn't remember why, now.
Eamonn cupped her face, turning her to look at him. His palm almost burned her cheek. He smiled as he studied her face. "You did, yes. I remember. While Silverlance shoved his cock down your lovely throat, while I taught you the rush of darker, more decadent delights than your virgin heart had yet known, you saw to your own pleasure. Do you know why?" He wiped at a single teardrop on her cheek with his thumb. "Because even with two Elven lords using you, you're still a greedy…" He kissed her. "Selfish." Another kiss. "Human," he murmured against her lips, "bitch. I despise how lovely you are," he added breathlessly. "No mortal should fire my blood as you do. But you crave me, as well. At least there is that."
And he kissed her again, a long, deep kiss without teeth or blood. He shifted so that Dylan slid bonelessly onto her back as he kissed her, his tongue sweeping like a warm eel into her mouth. She tried to make some sound, some protest, but all she managed was a breathless moan. One of his hands cupped the back of her head as he drank from her unwilling mouth. The other slid up, slowly, slowly, slowly, over her stomach to cradle one breast.
Fire flared where he touched her, brutal pleasure, and Dylan recognized dimly, distantly, the heat of the Tears. How? How had he poisoned her with them? And why did her limbs feel like cement? Eamonn's thumb brushing over her nipple fractured her desperate thoughts and she cried out at the unexpected, twisted pleasure.
"Ohhh, Dylan," he murmured, "I have such a fire in my belly. Such a hunger for you. Seeing you like this, so eager, so wanton...I'm in a giving mood tonight, have no fear. I will give you such exquisite pleasure before I finally enjoy you." And he kissed her again, hungrily. She couldn't push at him, or scratch at him. She could barely raise her arms. Eamonn didn't seem to notice her feeble attempts to shove at his bulk hovering over her. He simply devoured her mouth as if she were meat and he some ravening beast.
When he cupped both her breasts, stroking and pinching her nipples through the silk of her tunic, she couldn't stop her breath from catching, or her nipples from tightening until they ached, or the restless minute shifting of her leaden body as the gancanaugh venom scalded where he touched. When she moaned, Eamonn laughed into the hideous kiss. Then he pulled his mouth away, bent his head, and carefully bit one nipple through the silk with his sharp, white teeth.
"Guh!" Dylan strangled on a cry of mingled pleasure and revulsion. Tremors rolled through her as Eamonn's teeth worried with exquisite, vicious care at her breast. With two fingers, he hooked the collar of her tunic. He only lifted his head to pull the silk down, baring her to the night air and his glittering silver gaze.
"So sweet," the monster growled. "Always so sweet. And dark as champagne grapes, here." He flicked the tip of his tongue against the tip of her breast. Dylan gasped, tried to move away. Couldn't. He licked at her nipple and that sick, nauseating fire pooled low in her stomach. "They did not look like this the first time I tasted them. They're bigger, now, as well. I did this. Wrought this change in you when I plowed you like a ripe field in your little cottage. When your greedy whore's belly drank up every drop of my seed." Another quick flick of his slimy tongue. Her gasp made him chuckle.
Then he covered the soft mound of woman's flesh with one hand and met her wide, frantic gaze. "When they are born, our babes will suckle here. Until then, I shall take my pleasure." His mouth closed, hot and demanding, around her breast and he suckled greedily. Pain and pleasure twined beneath her skin, vicious thorns. Dylan mewled, hating the rhythmic pull of his hungry mouth. Hating her own weakness. Why wouldn't her body work? What had he done to her? She couldn't even push at him. She…
He'd drugged her. He'd drugged her somehow, sedated her. The apples? The sweet water? Even as the thought struck, it flitted away into the fog of her brain and all she could focus on was the scream she couldn't force out of her mouth and the feel of that unwanted mouth sucking and sucking, that slimy tongue like a wet worm lapping at her nipple.
Eamonn's fingers were neither clumsy nor hurried when he lifted her tunic and spread her thighs. He didn't raise his head from her breast as his fingers grazed the apex of her thighs. Knives of pleasure slashed through her and she moaned, half sobbing as his fingers stroked over her again. He growled approval as his thumb brushed over her, growled again when her hips gave an involuntary spasm with every touch.
"So wet," he whispered, running his fingers through the Tears-induced slickness. "Gods, you're so wet, Dylan."
She tried to shake her head, tried to scream that it was the drugs, the poison, that she wanted him to stop, stop, stop! But he kept on, working her over, fingers gliding over and against her and now her hips jerked with every stroke, whimpers spilled from her lips, and Eamonn continued his slow, steady, inexorable raping of her with his fingers.
"I'm going to break you, sweetness." His fingers moved in tandem with his words. "I want to hear you beg for me to take you. I'm going to drown you in the ecstasy only I can give you. And you'll do it. You'll break. You'll beg me. You may try to fight, but you won't be able to for long. Is it good, my sweet? Are you close?"
It wasn't but she was and she hated him for it. Hated the warmth pooling between her legs, building and building from warmth to heat to burning. Hated the way her body ached to be touched, the fire soothed, the need cooled by hands and mouth and the cruel hardness of him. She couldn't even turn her head to look away from him as her pleasure peaked, as her spine stiffened and the world narrowed to Eamonn, his touch, and the delirious, disgusting spasms shaking through her.
Dylan lay there, immobilized by whatever he'd done to her, whatever drugs he'd given her, panting for breath and quaking with aftershocks, every inch of her skin screaming at her now, while Eamonn raised glistening fingers to his lips and sucked them into his mouth with an appreciative groan.
"Mmmm," he said, licking his fingertips clean of her. "Delicious. In fact…" He moved to hands and knees and she had a few moments to wonder what fresh hell he had planned when he settled on his belly on the grass like the loathsome snake he was, forearms braced against Dylan's thighs. But then, with a toss of his head to flick his long, inky hair over his shoulder, he bent his head and kissed between her legs.
Oh, I've missed this, Eamonn hissed as he curled his tongue into her, thick and wet and violating. Dylan's body bucked, writhing feebly as the tip of his tongue stroked over that sweet, sweet spot inside her that Nuada could caress so well. The taste of you, like cream and mortal tears and desire. The way your body gives away what you want when you spread your legs even wider and press yourself against my mouth. Oh, gods, the sounds you make...you taste so very good...and you're mine, little slut. Mine to feast on. Mine to devour. My whore. Only mine.
No, she moaned silently. She had no voice. Whatever poison held her body heavy and mostly inert locked her voice away as well. She could barely make any noises at all. Not yours. Get off me. Stop it. Stop it, get off. Get off! Nuada, where are you? Help me. Wake me up! Help me, please…
So good, Eamonn was busy mumbling to himself as he licked and nipped and sucked at her. So good. I must remember to indulge myself in this more often. Do you like this, pet? His tongue thrust deep, the tip stroking that spot, and a strangled scream managed to crawl out of her throat. Oh, ho, it seems you do. Let's see how long this takes. I want to taste it when you come apart this time.
He attacked her with his mouth and fingers, using teeth and tongue to make her sob with shame and pleasure and horror while he shoved his fingers inside her, and she couldn't push him off or stop him. He growled and groaned against her flesh, relishing the mewling cries of protest and pleasure she couldn't hold back, lifting her with one arm when she bucked weakly so he could feast more deeply. Her fingers curled into claws but she couldn't raise her hands high enough to rake him. Her climax hit her like a fist and Eamonn laughed and drank her pleasure while tears dripped over her temples to wet her hair and soak into the ground.
Kill me, she begged silently to anyone who might be listening. Just kill me. Why won't he stop? Why won't anyone wake me up? Kill me, please. Help me. Please, please, help me…
"Please…" The word slipped out from between her tingling, half-numb lips. A plea for him to just cut her throat and stop doing this to her. To leave her alone. To let her rest, finally. "Please. Eamonn…"
But Eamonn didn't take it that way. He moved to hover over her, one hand on either side of her head, his hair hanging around her face like an ebony curtain, blocking out hope and starlight and anything but the vicious hunger in his expression. Dylan's lips quavered as more tears came. Couldn't he just leave her alone? What did he want from her? She closed her eyes against the sight of him and wept, waiting for whatever he would do next.
He wiped her tears from her cheeks with careful fingertips.
"Shhh," he crooned, gently wiping her face with one hand. "Shhh. Dylan. Do not weep. Shhh, there now, sweetness."
Was he...was he comforting her? What...how...why…?
"I know," Eamonn continued, stroking her face. "I know. Such pleasure...Silverlance can never satisfy you the way I can. I know."
She stared at him.
"I know you wish for me. I know it's hard to admit you want me so much, so desperately. It's been very difficult for you, realizing what your true purpose is. Realizing you were made for me and me alone. I know. Shhh, sweetness, do not weep. Soon I'll be with you in the waking world. Soon I'll be there to make love to you whenever you need me. You've done so well, Dylan, admitting the truth of what you are. You know now, don't you? You know you'll never be anything but a pawn for the fae, hmmm? A mere plaything for my pleasure. Humans are selfish creatures, hating to give their loyalty or affection to anything, hating to sacrifice their abominable pride. You've done well, pet, giving in as you have. Now don't worry, my sweet. I'll never let you go hungry for long. I'll always be there to give you what you need. Just like now. You've been such a good girl, letting yourself beg me. The word 'please' on those lips is a sweet sound. Are you ready for me, Dylan? Because I am certainly ready for you."
No. No, no, no. He was...no, he couldn't, not now. She couldn't even fight him, and the Tears...they weren't strong enough to make her respond the way she would have to Nuada, but the pain was building again, overcoming the endorphins and dopamine from the last orgasm, and if he raped her now...The Tears wanted him, but she would rather have satisfied the poison by slitting Eamonn's throat. Sex or blood worked to soothe the fire of Branwen's Tears.
Eamonn's breath was coming in shallow pants now as he rubbed his fully aroused sex between her legs, bathing it in drug-induced wetness. Dylan moaned, her body throbbing, aching, every inch of her felt like it had been rubbed with sandpaper. She wanted to scream at him, swear at him, curse him to Hell while he teased her with the head of his sex. She wanted to gouge his eyes out. Wanted to reach down and tear his scrotum from his body and watch his erection shrivel up while blood geysered from his mutilated corpse.
Instead she could only lay helpless and drugged to stillness as he lifted her legs to his shoulders to spread her open for him and rammed himself into her with a hoarse cry. It hurt, like a quick kick in the ribs, and then the Tears turned the pain to pleasure. Eamonn began to move in her, strong thrusts that pounded one word into Dylan's body with every hard snap of his hips: mine. Mine, mine, mine.
"I never thought," he snarled from between clenched teeth, "that fucking a human would ever feel so damned good. The only thing as satisfying as fucking you is fucking your slattern-prince. You're both so delicious. Moan for me." His voice took on that harsh, disgusted edge she was used to from her other nightmares when he rumbled, "Moan for me, slut. Moan like a wanton bitch. You love it when I use you, don't you? Can't get enough. What is it humans call it? I can't recall. Something about fuck-toys. An interesting phrase. Is that what you are, Dylan? My fuck-toy?" He gripped her hips hard enough to leave dark fingerprints in her skin, angling her limp body to thrust deeper. "We should do this more often," he panted, losing the viciousness once more. "Make love under the stars, eh? Quite romantic. Perhaps when the time comes for me to put another babe in your belly. Perhaps the next time you fall asleep."
Get off of me, she screamed in her head. Get off, get off! Don't touch me, don't touch me, you son of a bitch, get off of me!
She had no idea how long he raped her. Only that after an eternity, his endless thrusting sped up, the slap of his thighs against her skin echoing in her head like the sound of a beating, his grunts of effort harsh in her ears, and then he threw his head back, arched his spine, and spurted into her.
She thought he'd be finished and go then, leave her to weep on the ground like a broken doll, but he didn't. Instead he scooped her up, his member still pulsing his slime into her body, and pulled her so that he held her against his chest, her heavy head on his shoulder and her arms dangling at her sides, tingling and numb. His thick, meaty hands held her in place for him as he began to use her again. She felt, distantly, his semen smearing her thighs and dripping off her skin onto the grass. Her limp body jerked with every hard thrust of him. She'd have bruises from this. From him.
She and Nuada had made love like this before, but he'd never hurt her. He'd held her, open and vulnerable and ready for him, while she'd curled her arms around his neck and clung to him and he rocked into her, drowning her in pleasure and the murmured Gaelic endearments he breathed into her ear. Now tears ran down her cheeks at the memory and this corruption of it.
I'll kill you, she snarled silently. Her numb fingers twitched. You bastard. You bastard, I'll kill you. Nuada will kill. We'll kill you. Leave me alone!
"I'm already dead, sweetness," Eamonn said, rolling his hips. "You're being fucked by a dead man. Not my fault you're enjoying it." He kept moving, speeding up again, his breath harsh against her cheek. "You don't want me to go. You know it and I know it. And I know you just hate to be wrong," he gritted between snarling teeth, "but you're close, aren't you? You say you want to kill me, but you're going to break for me again any moment."
She pressed her face against his neck to block out the sight of him, the sound of his voice, but she couldn't block out the hot, hard grip of him bruising her thighs or his fully aroused sex forcing its way into her body, sheathing to the root. Eamonn angled his hips so that every time he entered her, he stroked every sweet spot inside her, forcing pleasure through her like waves of warm poison. Small noises dropped from her lips and even she didn't know if they were protests or murmurs of pleasure wrung from her by the Tears.
"That's it," he gloated as those sounds picked up volume, turning from whimpers to cries. "That's my girl. Louder. Louder!" He thrust harder, faster, a vicious pounding that dragged short, breathless staccato cries from her lips. "You love it. You want it. Whore."
Please, she moaned as heat spread along her spine and pooled between her legs. Please, stop. Please, Eamonn, just stop.
You don't want me to stop, he whispered in her skull while the heat built and built between her thighs. I don't want to stop. I never want to stop. Do you know this is the only time I can feel anything? Any sort of satisfaction at all? I cannot taste food or enjoy drink, cannot find rest in sleep, or warmth from a fire. My warmth comes from your body. My food, my drink, my rest, my pleasure - it all comes from you and Nuada, little harlot. And you love how I make you feel. You're so close. So very close. I can feel it, you're becoming so exquisitely tight.
No…The word was a sob in her mind. No, no! I'm not.
Yes, he breathed. Oh, gods, yes. Gods, yes. You are, you're so tight, little sweet. I need to feel you break. Break for me, Dylan. I want you to feel it. Feel me inside you, every inch of me so deep. Feel me taking you. And he shrugged his shoulder so that her head lolled on her limp neck and then he was kissing her, sucking her tongue into his mouth, thrusting his own tongue past her lips. You disgusting mortal tramp. Stop lying to yourself. This is what you need. This is what you love. You're wet for it. You're begging for it. You hate yourself for craving it, but you want more. Now, be a good little trollop and come undone for me. Fall apart with me buried deep inside you, Dylan. Come undone while I'm fucking you.
No, no, but she was, she couldn't stop it, her entire body tightened and Eamonn crushed her against him, choking her with his tongue thrusting into her mouth as spasms wracked her, pleasure ripped through her, and her paralyzed throat managed a long, mewling cry that he swallowed like wine. In the midst of it, she felt him ejaculate again, that hideous flood of him.
Gods, he groaned, still kissing her, still thrusting into her, still coming inside her as he lowered her onto her back on the grass and blanketed her with his body. Oh, gods. Gods, yes, take it. Take it all. That's a good girl. Oh, gods, yes. Oh, Dylan. Take it all. Oh, gods. He broke the kiss to pant hard against her clavicle, groaning a little at the strength of his release. Oh, gods…you little bitch...As if she were somehow at fault for what had just happened. How dare you do this to me? You filthy little slut...oh, gods, I'm still...You loved that, didn't you? Bitch. Whoring bitch. Gods...
Eamonn noticed her crying a few minutes after he'd stopped groaning oh, gods in her head and calling her a trollop and a bitch. Dylan couldn't give any volume to her tears. She could only lie there, body aching and heavy with whatever he'd given her mixed with the gancanaugh poison, feeling that sickening slide of his lust dripping over her legs and soaking the hem of her tunic where it lay crumpled under her, her face scrunched up as she sobbed. He stared down at her, head cocked to one side.
"You're rather ugly when you cry like that," he said. "Even uglier than usual."
She wept harder.
Eamonn frowned. "Did I hurt you? I was trying to please you." He sounded like a petulant child, annoyed that nobody liked the venomous snake he'd tried to offer them. But then his expression softened. "It can be overwhelming, I imagine, experiencing such things as we've shared. I was a little stunned myself, and you are only a lowly human. Come. Come now, my pet. Let me soothe you." When she shook her head a little - a very little, but as much as she could - and tried to mouth the words no and please and stop, he shushed her with soft kisses. "You'll like this, sweetness. I'll be oh so very gentle."
He was gentle. That made it so much worse. He moved in her slowly, long unhurried strokes knifing into her that sent flames licking under her skin. His weight over her, his breath hot on her face, made her cringe from him. She tried to push at his arms on either side of her. Couldn't reach. Could still only barely lift her hands. She couldn't scrape together enough concentration to bite at him whenever he kissed her. She could only lie there as he spilled himself in her again, and then again, and yet again, while her own body betrayed her over and over under his careful ministrations.
"How many times has the mighty Silverlance made love to you in one night, Dylan?" Eamonn asked. The words came a bit muffled since he was nuzzling her breast while he thrust into her. "How often has he flooded you with his essence in a single night? Nine? Ten?"
"I...I don't...I don't…" She couldn't get the words out as her climax arced through her and a shuddering sigh escaped her. I don't know, she wanted to say, and, We never counted, and Please just leave me alone! But her body would not obey her.
"I'll find out one day," he said, nipping at the tip of her breast before soothing the stinging pain with swipes of his tongue. "And then you and I shall surpass his number. Until then, we have many nights where we can practice."
He licked her nipple before lifting his head to kiss her. Then he said something that almost made her heart stop.
"Tell me you love me."
Dylan stared at him, mouth slack. "Wh-what?"
"Tell me you love me, little whore. More than Silverlance. More than the babes in your belly. More than your own sluttish life, you love and want and need me. Say it."
But she couldn't. She couldn't process what he was saying to her. "I...but...what?"
His hand flashed up, curling snake-swift around her throat. He squeezed once, lightly. "Say it, Dylan. Say you love me."
"B-but…why would..." Think. She had to think. Had to redirect him. Had to distract him or something. The hand at her throat warned her that this time he might not be so "gentle" and she had no way at all of stopping him if he decided to torture her. Death, she would welcome, but she couldn't bear Eamonn's idea of torture. Not after the cottage. But she couldn't think, she was so tired, every nerve raw. What was the trick here? "I…" She couldn't say it. Not to him. Not to him. But if she didn't…"E-Eamonn, I…"
His expression chilled. "You're thinking of Silverlance."
"N-no!" If he thought that, it wouldn't be long before he started breaking her bones. Before she tasted her own blood in the back of her throat. "No, I...I just…I…" He was still sliding in and out of her, a hideously slick motion. "I...he…" She couldn't think, she couldn't think.
"Is it because you feel some loyalty to him?" Eamonn demanded. "Why? Because he sired your brats? Oh, no, whore. Not he." His fingers tightened around her neck and his pace increased again, his breath coming ragged and hot in her face. "His blood is in their veins, yes. Yes, he was right about that."
She wheezed in a breath past his strangling hand; his grip was tight enough to hurt, to make it difficult, but not impossible. Her head swam as she tried to process. Nuada's blood...but Eamon had always insisted...what was he saying?
"But remember, love, I'm a curse on you both. Every time I spill my seed in your whore's belly, every time I flood your womb with it, Silverlance's babes become a bit more mine."
Her eyes snapped wide and she tried to shake her head, tried to make sense of his words, tried to push him off of her.
"Every time I come inside you, your little brats become more my children. Bit by bit, drop by drop, their blood becomes my blood. Our blood."
No, she screamed in her head, tried to scream out loud. No! That's impossible, that doesn't make sense! That's not how genes work, that doesn't make sense-
"That's magic, Dylan. That's curses and sorcery and vengeance." And with a shudder, he finished inside her again. He withdrew, gripping her hips, and flipped her over so she flopped onto the grass like an addled, landed octopus. With a low growl, he grabbed her roughly and hoisted her up so that his hips pressed with bruising force against the curve of her buttocks. He slid into her at a new angle, and she felt every disgusting, loathsome inch of him filling her, and all she could do was scream weakly into the grass. He began to thrust hard, a punishing rhythm. "Every time we make love, every time I seed you, dearest, his grip on our babes loosens a little more and they become mine. My children. Our children. Don't worry, little sweet. Soon, oh so soon, we'll have our babes and Silverlance will have no claim on them, I promise you."
He was lying. He had to be lying. That wasn't how pregnancy, how genetics, how DNA worked. That wasn't how biology worked, even with magical beings. You couldn't just warp someone's DNA and change their paternity, you couldn't! She pressed her fingertips into the grass as her body rocked with every vicious thrust of him into her but she couldn't feel the green blades of grass against her skin or digging into her cheek where it pushed against the ground every time he slammed into her. Her lips were numb, her hands were numb. Her breasts lay crushed under her weight, compressing her chest, her lungs; she couldn't catch her breath. What had he given her? What had he done to her?
"You feel so good this way," he groaned. "You're almost beautiful like this. And just think, sweetness – every time we make love in your world of dreams, every time I'm inside you like this, pleasuring you, I gain strength from your need, your lust, your love for me. You love me, don't you, my sweet? You love this, what I can do to you. How I make you feel. And soon I'll be able to come to you both in waking, and we can continue what we started in your cottage. We'll all be together again…oh, gods…once more, my sweet. Once more…gods…shades of Annwn, it's always so perfect this way…gods!"
She couldn't feel her face, her toes, her fingers. But she could feel him pouring his slime into her body again. Feel that disgusting ooze smearing her legs. Feel the tears stinging her eyes, taste them on her lips. Eamonn withdrew from her with a sickening, wet sound and flipped her onto her back once more, then looked down at her, lying in the grass. He kissed her, long and slow and thorough while she wept. Stared down at her again and licked his lips. Shuddered.
"You have never looked more beautiful than now. Thoroughly used. Lips swollen from my kisses. My marks all over your body. Tears in your eyes and my seed between your legs. I'll remember this, and when I go to see Silverlance again, I'll make sure to show him." He cocked his head, considering. "Hmmm. There's one thing missing from this to make it perfect."
He crawled up her body, kissing her hip bones; kissing her stomach where the torn, grass-stained tunic had ridden up; kissing her exposed breasts. He dragged his sticky, damp penis along her skin and she tasted bile in the back of her throat. When he settled on all fours, his knees on either side of her shoulders and his pelvis above her face, she started to cry again in earnest.
"Open your mouth, Dylan," he commanded softly. "Open for me. I want that lovely little whore's mouth."
She shook her head weakly. "No...n-no, Eamonn, please…"
"I want," he snarled, "your mouth. Want to feel that clever tongue against me. Be good. Open. And if you use your teeth on me, you won't have teeth when I'm finished. Now open."
"Eamonn, please-"
He reached back, behind him, and pinched her nipple between his thumbnail and the nail of his forefinger. Hot pain, too sharp and quick to be turned to pleasure by the venom, slashed through her chest. A trickle of blood spilled over the slope of her breast. Dylan screamed, and Eamonn shoved his organ into her mouth.
"Mmng!" She tried to scream no, tried to scream stop, but he was choking her, the thickness of him flattening her tongue to the bottom of her mouth and filling the back of her throat. "Mmph! Nnmphg!" She tried to breathe around him, tried to block out the disgusting taste of sex and his skin as he raped her mouth, but she couldn't, she couldn't. His coarse, dark hair scratched her face as he forced his erection past her lips. Every strangled cry seemed to excite him. Red began creeping in at the edges of Dylan's vision. She couldn't breathe, she was choking, he was choking her, suffocating her. Her limbs twitched, spasming as she tried to fight the sedative or whatever held her leaden and still. Eamonn continued thrusting into her mouth.
"So - damn - good," he grunted with every shove of his hips toward her face. "I love your mouth. Gods, I love that whore's mouth. That's it. That's it. You like that, whore? Like it? You love it. That's it, deeper. Deeper, you bitch. Oh, you slut! Deeper, you know you love it! Take me deep, that's my girl."
Her vision had gone red and sparkly. Her pulse thundered in her ears and the blood roared in her head. Saliva and tears streamed over her lips, cheeks, and chin as she fought for breath. Her chest spasmed, hungry for oxygen. She dug her heels into the grass in a futile attempt to escape. He kept pushing into her mouth, kept ramming himself down her throat, choking off her screams. He snarled and grunted like a wild animal as he raped her mouth.
He's going to kill me, she thought distantly, while in the front of her mind, her brain screamed, Can't breathe, can't breathe, stop! Stop, stop, please, please stop, please!
"So close, Dylan," he rasped. She dimly felt him bury his fingers in her hair, cupping her head, lifting it so he could shove deeper down her throat. Her muscles seized, spine bowing, head thrashing weakly. Sick, choked sounds clogged her throat along with his flesh. He held her captive under him and kept going. "So...so close...I'm so...oh, gods…"
She felt him suddenly jerk against her tongue and then thick, vile-tasting fluid flooded the back of her throat. She gagged. Her stomach twisted hard and she nearly vomited as he jerked out of her mouth with a hoarse shout, dropping her head so it smacked the ground. More of that disgusting fluid spattered her lips and chin and cheeks as she gasped, sucking in great lungfuls of air as her vision began to clear. Coughing and sputtering, she tried to roll onto her side to clear her throat, but still couldn't move. All she could do was hack and spit and breathe and struggle to keep from being sick so she didn't choke on her own vomit.
Eamonn sighed out a low laugh when she finally stopped coughing and she only lay sprawled on the grass, wheezing and brutalized. "That. That's what was missing. I'll treasure this image for a long, long while, my sweet. Gods, you're actually beautiful like this." He leaned down and kissed the tip of her nose. She cringed, tried to curl into a ball. Could only lie with her limbs splayed, vulnerable to his vile gaze. "I never would have thought you could be beautiful but you are. If Silverlance had only known what you looked like after being used, I might be able to forgive him his dalliance with you, but…alas, no. He never bedded you before I arrived. No, it was real love and not infatuation with this…glorious sight that chained him to your side."
He leaned down again and she moaned a sob even as he took her mouth in a slow, probing kiss. He didn't seem to care that her mouth still tasted of his pleasure. After he broke the kiss, he licked the tears from her cheeks despite the salt. His gaze was soft.
"I quite enjoyed this evening, sweetness. Making love to you under the stars. You enjoyed yourself as well, I see. Tears of joy on your cheeks, and for me? I'm honored." He brushed his lips against hers and she flinched. "Thank you very much for your hospitality. We should do this some other time, aye?
"But I think you've slept long enough, however. If you stay much longer, I may have to take you again, and you seem a bit tired. And it was so very good tonight, I'm feeling generous. Silverlance may want to make love to you now. It's been hours since he sheathed his pike between your thighs. So wake up, now." He slapped her cheek and she yelped at the sting, ducking her head, flailing with her arms to try to cover it, sobbing. "Lazy slattern, I'm tired of you, don't you understand? If you want more of me, you must wait your turn. Up now! Stop that mewling and wake up!"
Dylan's eyes snapped open and she bolted upright, screaming, clawing at her face, swiping at her mouth with her hands. Nuada was beside her in an instant but she didn't see him. She only saw Eamonn above her, raping her, pumping himself into her while she lay pinned and immobile beneath him. She screamed and screamed and screamed, every scream she hadn't been able to let out while he'd been using her. She scraped her nails over her thighs, her cheeks, her lips, her tongue, desperate to erase that disgusting taste and feel of him. She raked at her palm when she remembered how he'd ejaculated over her hand.
"Dylan!" Nuada shouted. He gripped her wrists and she screamed louder, yanking at his grip until he heard one of her shoulders pop softly in protest. He shifted her, wrapping his arms around her to keep her hands pinned to her sides. "Dylan, stop! Stop! You'll harm yourself, stop!"