| Hello there! Welcome to my first American Horror Story Coven fanfiction about my OTP. I made an attempt at getting back into writing after a few years of a break, so here you are. Please enjoy, feel free to leave (constructive) feedback. |
DIGNITY
[noun}
1] The state or quality of being worthy of honour or respect.
- 'the dignity of labour'
1.1] A high rank or position.
- 'he promised dignities to the nobles in return for his rival's murder'
2] A composed or serious manner or style.
- 'he bowed with great dignity'
2.1] A sense of pride in oneself; self-respect.
- 'it was beneath his dignity to shout'
Louisiana Night or When Dignity Is Silent
The cigarillo was put out in the ashtray by the balcony. Blue eyes were staring into the night sky through a pair of huge vintage cat eye glasses, matching the colour of the night sky if only the glowing stars had been missing. Myrtle Snow just stood there; her slender silhouette leaned against the door frame leading onto the balcony adjacent to her assigned bedroom. The air outside was cooling. It had a refreshing effect on the woman with her fiery red hair. Certainly what was needed after the heated argument she had been involved in earlier with the Supreme.
They always had arguments. Nothing but arguments.
Allowing a sigh of relief to leave Myrtle's lightly colour-stained lips after having escaped the smell of whiskey lingering in the Ancestry room, the redheaded witch lifted a hand and gently rested her palm above her fabric-covered cleavage, right underneath the rim of her multi-coloured silk scarf. Her fingertips tugged gently at the material as if to create more space for her to breathe properly.
After a brief moment of mere tugging, Myrtle used her gloved hand to free herself of the scarf entirely, discarding it almost carelessly onto the table nearby the door. Her hand then moved back to her now bare cleavage, slightly rubbing her fingers against her skin. She could feel her slightly protruding collarbones through her gloves.
The flame-haired witch's thoughts went back to the Supreme.
To this day, Myrtle did not understand how this woman could expose her body to the men of the world like a cheap whore, although taking into consideration that Fiona Goode was a cheap whore, it made sense again. It seemed this blonde, ruthless bitch was ready to seduce anything that could breathe and had male parts. Just the way she had been standing downstairs in the Ancestry room with her whiskey tumbler and cigarette balancing in one hand, her tight, black dress giving a revealing view of her flawless cleavage. Of her defined collarbones that only gave away a brief impression of what was still covered by the black fabric.
Myrtle sighed heavily, her fingertips purposely drawing a line along her own collarbones. A few seconds of this simple motion passed until the witch lowered her hand again, carefully pulling at the fabric of her gloves to remove them from both her hands. Myrtle would be going to bed soon. Lifting her hand back underneath her neck, the redhead relaxed herself against the door frame yet again. The fresh air still blowing about her nose. Letting her index and middle finger tenderly trail the hard lines shaped by her bones, she closed her blue eyes for a minute.
Fiona had been wearing this whorish, ass-hugging dress. For the sake of God, the fabric had clung to the woman's curves in all the right places, exposing just enough bare skin to let any man fantasise about her. This woman was manipulative, calculating, and she knew very well how to twist anyone around her little finger.
Anyone but Myrtle Snow.
Still, Myrtle's thoughts revolved around the one witch that she despised more than any of Cecily Pembroke's fashion faux pas.
The way Fiona Goode had been sat in her chair like it was a throne, like she was a queen, giving Myrtle this sneaky yet indefinable smirk before she had taken a longing sip from her alcoholic beverage. The memory alone sent a shiver down the redhead's spine. How the Supreme's chest had been heaving up and down in a slow, regular manner as she had inhaled and exhaled her cigarette's smoke. How the curvaceous mounds on top of her ribcage had moved in rhythm with her breathing.
A bare palm gradually stroked over Myrtle's exposed cleavage and further down, sensually fondling her own clothed breasts for a moment. Turning lightly and leaning her back against the door frame so that she had more freedom to use her arm, she also lifted the other one to cup both of her mounds at once. She squeezed gently, an audible sigh escaping her thin lips.
Fiona Goode was a whore. A whore with a black dress that clung perfectly to her finely shaped bosom. The image in front of Myrtle's inner eye made her shift uncomfortably in her position, her thighs pressed together slightly. The Supreme pushed her heaving chest up against that of Myrtle's, her fingers taking hold of the redhead's hips. The woman with the fiery red locks inched her lower region forward as she pictured her nemesis grinding her alluring curves temptingly against her own. Imagining that very same look that Fiona had shot in her direction back down in the Ancestry room, this sneaky yet indefinable smirk. As if undressing the Guardian of Veracity in the Vernacular right there with just her piercing brown eyes.
Red-painted fingernails grazed over the expensive designer material, their destination the first button of Myrtle's blouse. She slowly undid every button from top to bottom, her right hand soon slipping underneath the fabric. Carefully pushing down the left cup of her bra and lifting her ample breast from its barrier, the witch exposed sensitive skin to the cool air of the Louisiana night. Myrtle drew in a sharp breath as she allowed her fingertips to sensually tease her stiff nipple, visualising Fiona Goode's luscious, plump lips wrapped around the hard, rosy nub.
The redhead slipped her free hand down her pelvic area, pushing the material of her voluminous skirt back between her thighs. In her imagination, it was the Supreme's fingers gently trailing back and forth, stimulating her womanhood through the thick fabric. She spread her legs slightly now at the sensation.
"Oh Fiona …"
A split second passed before the head of the Witches' Council opened her eyes, halting her pleasuring movements for a moment.
For the sake of Cristobal Balenciaga, this manipulative, calculating bitch did know how to twist anyone around her little finger. Even Myrtle Snow. And yet, even though the mere realisation angered her, the flame-haired woman felt an immense urge to touch herself, to pleasure herself. She felt an immense amount of something that she suddenly wished was not real.
Lust. Lust for the enemy, for the despicable Fiona Goode.
Myrtle could not possibly let the Supreme win. She could not possibly give in to her desires. Then again, she was just dying to work on that fire between her thighs. The redhead bit down onto her bottom lip. This was unacceptable, infuriating. She could not allow herself to be seduced by her enemy, not even in her thoughts. No, Myrtle was not willing to give that outrageously selfish witch the satisfaction, but the feeling was not intending to fade any time soon – she needed the pleasure. She needed a release from all the stress of the evening, from the anger of the argument she had been carrying out with the inebriated Supreme.
Earlier that night, Fiona had called the head of the Witches' Council a prude. Despite being considered a prude by many, Myrtle Snow was anything but that when she was on her own, when she could let herself go, and yet, even in a situation when no one was looking, in this particular situation, the witch with the reserved sense of fashion would do anything to maintain her dignity.
Struggling to lower her hands from her body's most intimate and hungering regions as well as struggling to let her desiring self go, the former headmistress of the academy pressed a heavy sigh out of her lungs. Her narrowed, blue eyes were focused on the night sky yet again while she pondered the current situation she was captured in, while pondering rational options for rational solutions. There were no rational solutions for such an irrational problem. Was this a problem, after all?
"To hell with rationality", the witch, still fuming, murmured to herself eventually, "To hell with dignity, just get it over with, Myrt." The arousal spreading in her abdomen was driving her insane – she needed the pleasure.
Moving away from the door frame in the end, the redhead made use of her fingers to push her skirt and slip upward until she got to take hold of the rim of her underwear. She slid the piece of fabric down to her ankles before stepping out swiftly, the heels of her second favourite Prada pumps clattering on the wooden parquet flooring. She pressed her behind against the table top on which her gloves and scarf were resting, placing her palms against the wood on either side of her hips to lift herself up onto the surface. With one heel propped up on the tabletop and the other hanging loosely in the air, Myrtle leaned back. She rolled the floor-length skirt up to the middle of her thighs, which she spread as wide as it was possible in her current position.
Sliding her right hand beneath the Gaultier runway obstacle, Myrtle arched her back lightly when she felt her index finger dip between her swollen folds. She kept her eyes shut tight as she began to stroke back and forth, soon thrusting two fingers into her entrance. She felt her own juices enclose around her fingers as she pumped them roughly within her tight walls.
Her thoughts went to Fiona Goode yet again. How she loathed this woman, how she loathed what this woman was doing to her. Myrtle was livid. Enraged by their previous argument, by decades of pure hatred between the two witches. The redhead pictured the Supreme kneeling between her thighs, her face buried into her womanhood. She was boiling with anger because of her sudden desire for the Supreme.
"Fiona, you goddamn bitch!"
Myrtle made an attempt at spreading her legs even further, which was hardly possible. She rocked her hips forward as she used her free hand to part her folds, pulling her dripping fingers from her wet hole to work on her most sensitive spot, on that swollen bundle of nerves that was waiting to be touched.
"I hate you, I hate you, Fiona!"
Just a split second had to pass before a moan, more comparable to a growl or a desperate whimper, escaped Myrtle's parted lips. With her head leaned against the wall, pressing against the massive material, and her hips pushing back and forth in an irregular rhythm, the flame-haired witch began to aggressively rub her hard, swollen clitoris. Roughly gliding her fingers up and down the sensitive spot, then going from side to side and finally circling around the stiff nub like a madwoman.
The Guardian of Truth was a mad woman, eager to release her stress and fury very soon. With heightened breathing and a racing pulse, sweat covering her pale skin, Myrtle proceeded with brutally pleasuring herself, her wrist slowly exhausted and hurting from the ruthless motion. And yet, she did not once stop. Carelessly, the witch groaned with lust, with hunger, feeling the peak of pleasure approach quickly.
"Fuck, you reckless whore, yes, yes, harder!" And Myrtle worked even harder, even rougher on herself.
When her orgasm took over and sent the red-haired witch into an erotic frenzy, Myrtle cried out with pleasure and pain all at once, Fiona's name leaving her lips as a frantic bawl. Her muscles tensed at the sensation of her climax spreading through her entity, her chest moving up and down quickly and heavily. Her fingers halting in their position as they pressed down onto her now numb and reddened clitoris.
Finally, Myrtle relaxed her muscles, slumping down on the table's surface, collapsing from the immense influx of pleasure and exhaustion. Both legs now loosely hanging from the table, both hands lingering above her womanhood, the only noise in the room was the redhead's heavy breathing.
Several minutes long, the head of the Witches' Council lay motionlessly on the table, calming her breath and her heartbeat. When she had eventually regained some strength, she slowly sat upright, opening her eyes for the first time since she had begun touching herself. Smoothly, the witch raised her wet fingers to her mouth, letting her tongue twirl around each finger to rid herself of the sticky fluids. She tasted herself. Her eyes inspected the room with its dimmed lights just a brief moment later, a long, confused yet satisfied sigh pressing through her lips.
"God, I despise you, Fiona", Myrtle whispered to herself, "I need a shower."
Once Myrtle Snow had got up from the table, her legs still weak from what had just happened, she carefully and gradually made her way into the adjacent bathroom. Taking off the remaining clothes and discarding them into the laundry bin, the exhausted witch stepped into the shower cabin as soon as she was completely nude.
About ten minutes of taking a cold, refreshing shower, cleansing any sweat and other liquids from her body, and complaining about Fiona Goode's devilish ways later, Myrtle dried her skin with a large, white towel. Elegantly and with new energy flooding her, the redhead wrapped herself into her silky dressing gown, eyeing herself in the mirror of the bathroom once she had wiped the steam residues off.
"Even you let yourself be twisted around her little finger, Myrt. I thought higher of you."
Eventually, Myrtle shook her head at herself, at her own carnal desires, at her own damned weakness. Turning away from the mirror, she strode out of the bathroom back into her bedroom and she took another quick glance around. Her eyes fell on a piece of paper that was placed on the table that Myrtle had recently sat on to provide herself with an unexpected crescendo of emotions. She frowned deeply at the sight.
Moving closer to the table, the flame-haired witch picked up the piece of paper, inspecting it intently. Luckily enough, she had put on her glasses already, so she could easily read what it said on the paper, written in a far too familiar handwriting.
'That did not sound like you hate me, Myrt.
P.S.: Try closing the balcony door next time.'
For a moment, it seemed Myrtle Snow's heart stopped beating. So much for maintaining her dignity. Yet again, the Guardian of Truth felt humiliated by the Supreme. Just this time, it was her very own fault. She had allowed her deepest feelings to get the better of her.