Warnings: Descole/Brenda. As expected, the intent is heavily one-sided. Somewhere inside there is some consensual Clark/Brenda. Might be triggering for some. Spoilers for Last Specter all the way through. This is also set in an alternative universe where Descole is more mean-spirited.
Oh, and I hate the 2 day delay.
Brenda had gotten used to the blinding darkness. In fact: she had grown to embrace it. The darkness was always the interval between the painful light that came from the entrance of the trapdoor.
That light was an ill omen.
It meant that he was ready to pry on her again.
"Mrs Triton," Doland's voice spoke next to her. "I would like to ask you…if it's not disrespectful of course: would you like to know the date?"
She shook her head. Then she remembered that there was no way the poor, old butler could see a thing in the darkness. "No Doland, I think there's no need for that."
"Of course, " the butler spoke gently "But if you need you know that today is the tenth of August, then feel free to ask me."
August already? No wonder why her captor was visiting more and more often. He must need some sort of outlet for his frustration in not finding…whatever he was searching for. She didn't care.
Then…sounds began to form above their heads.
"Could it be help?" the butler's voice was thin.
No: it was him again. The footsteps, the rusty swinging of the lantern…she could almost make out the swishing of his cape.
The trapdoor opened and the silhouette of the man appeared. He must have been feeling either particularly cocky or particularly insecure, for he didn't bring anybody to hold back the butler. It must have been a spur of the moment visit. He set the lantern on a nearby perch and took out his sword.
"Did my favorite captives miss me?" He carelessly pushed Doland into a box with such force that Brenda could have sworn she heard the wood gave away. She couldn't bring herself to check on him. Brenda knew what he wanted.
She didn't look at him. She could already hear the smirk on his voice.
A flash of metal. A ruffle of a cape.
He stood behind her, sword carefully posed at her neck. His breath shook.
And then…
His other hand pressing against her chest. She didn't resist. She couldn't move. He was the one holding the sword. But only he could stop trying to squeeze her inside out…
"You're not going to cry?" he breathed against her ear. "You're not going to yell?"
She remained stiff.
"Good," he laughed "I like my women quiet."
His other hand stopped tormenting her bosom and scratched at her leg underneath the thin dress that her captor had forced her to wear.
"Of course, if you feel the need to moan in pleasure, please don't hesitate." The venomous words slithered inside her mind. "Now that I'm doing you a favor you might as well enjoy yourself."
His hand tugged at her dress. It ripped satisfactorily underneath his hand: revealing her upper body and legs.
She knew why he had picked such a light, summer dress. He was probably planning to literally destroy all the fabric that prevented him from claiming his spoils of war. It was like him to have such childish urges.
At least her legs were already numb from the cold. If she made an heroic effort, she might pretend that the hand that was digging inside her underwear was not there; that it was just an illusion...
"You like this." He stated, as if trying to convince her of it.
No. She didn't like it. Brenda was not an animal. It was not the mere act that got her aroused. It was the person and the emotion behind it. For instance, if she were in the hold of her husband, perfectly safe and willing…she would be definitely giggling and letting out a heated moan every now and then.
When Clark held her… he was always gentle and so warm… How could she not melt underneath his passionate, loving caresses? There was not only lust of a man and a woman in their bedroom. There was also the curiosity and love. It was not just sex; it was the event of two human minds, beings and souls becoming one: it was gentle and slow, passionate and loving. In fact, the mere thought of comparing Clark and this shadow of a man was an insult to her husband.
This man didn't have enough warmth in his hand for her to actually know that he was alive. There was no love, there was no curiosity. He definitely had a sort of passion, but it was clumsy and childish.
"Say it," he bit her earlobe a bit too strongly "say that it pleases you."
She shut her eyes.
"Say it!" he boomed. "Say it or I'll-"
"It pleases me." Her voice was flat and mechanic. She didn't mean it.
She could never mean it.
His hand finally let go of the sword and joined the other. His breathing filled the cellar. "Show it to me. Show me that you like this."
How could she make herself do that?
His hands moved on, making her quite sore.
"Don't lie to me," he growled "I can tell that you are a pathetic, lying fool."
She kept her eyes closed. That memory of Clark… it was the only thing she had to save herself. But in exchange…she would soil that beloved image.
"I promised not to rape you," he whispered too softly against her ear "but maybe that will teach you to appreciate what I'm doing for you."
-Brenda was no longer in the cellar. She was sitting on the bed in their expensive hotel room. Clark was there, smiling at her and-
Tears fell down her eyes. No, she couldn't do it. It was one of her last joys. She needed it.
"Don't start crying now. You are mine. Don't go around thinking you can do as you please with your body." He verbally assaulted her "Give in to me and your son will not take your place.
"Please…" she whispered "Not Luke please-"
Drunk on power, he moved one of his hands out of her underwear and tugged at her hair. The other hand, however, began to grow even more violent within her too-soft body. She knew what he wanted. She knew it off the bat.
So, she gave it to him.
She shut herself out of reality and immersed herself in memory.
-"God… you are so beautiful." His voice was warm. His cheeks bright red. "I don't know how may people I must have saved in order to earn getting married to the most gorgeous woman in the universe."
She blushed. The lacy underwear she had picked out for the occasion was a bit more uncomfortable than she had predicted. But then again, it wasn't meant to be worn for long.
He placed his hand against hers. "Nervous?"
She nodded.
"Trust me," he smiled at her "I'll make you feel wonderful."
He locked their lips. He was warm. He was too warm. He must be having a fever. A fever that she herself was catching the more their lips and tongues played back and forth.
His hand slipped inside her brassiere and gently cupped her breast. Brenda gasped, albeit surprised that such a thing could actually feel…nice. Her breathing suddenly began to grow a bit more agitated against his lips.
"Do you like that, love?" his deep voice made her insides shake.
"Yes…yes I like that…" she heaved.
The gentle sensation against her bosom disappeared. Clark threw the uncomfortable piece of lingerie away. He moved and sat behind her, holding her body like a precious artifact. He smelled her hair and moaned against her neck.
"Lavender…" he muttered in his daze.
She allowed herself to become loose in his hands. The newlywed leaned back against her husband and sighed with every gentle caress that he made. She could feel his chest against her back.
His hands fondled her inner thighs.
"Ah…" she flinched.
He let her go. "Brenda, please lie down for a moment."
She nodded at him and did as he requested. She felt at him tugging at the only piece of underwear she had left. She helped him get it out of the way. Her eyes turned to look at him. He had already taken off his own clothes and was about as equally exposed as she was.
So, this had to be it. She had heard that it usually hurts, so she would just have to bear with it for a while and- well that wasn't so bad. It felt odd. She looked down at him again. His fingers. Of course. She had to get used before going for it. She leaned back. It wasn't embarrassing to let him see her. In fact, his almost entranced gaze was quite flattering, to say the least. She began to get used to the motion. It was soft and rhythmic. His hands let her finally go.
"Ah!" Brenda shook at the sudden charge of complete pleasure that roused her. What was that? She sat up and saw what her husband was doing with her and felt her cheeks flush even deeper. Was it even ok for him to be using his…?
He kissed her again, smiling at her reactions.
"W-w-wait!" she stuttered. Her mind tried to reason but it was getting too bothersome. She had only managed to realize what Clark was doing and the mere thought acted like a catalyst for her pleasure. If his fingers were gentle and rhythmic, his mouth was passionate and unpredictable.
She heaved and writhed. Her entire body was too sensitive. Even the air that surrounded her felt like a million gentle caresses.
"Darling…!" she let out despite herself "Clark! I-I can't-"
He slowed down, letting her slowly recover her breath and return to the mere warmth of before.
She found herself letting out a giggle of delight.
"I love it when you do that." He let her legs go and went straight for her lips. They tasted odd, but for some reason, she couldn't really mind. "I love it when you are happy. Brenda, please let me make you happy in any way I can."
"Hm…in that case…" she traced her husband's chin absentmindedly. "How about we have lots of lovely children?"
He chuckled. "Very well then."
Their lips met once more.
A flash of red tinted the bedspreads. Her toes unconsciously curled. But, she then realized something weird… it didn't really hurt. No, it was more like a slight sting. Just a bit of discomfort. Her body was not used to it, but the lovesick fever they both had made her body more willing to accept him and let her become one with him.
But then reality seeped into her memory. Brenda was no longer in the warm, gentle light of that room. She was numb. She could no longer make out how the masked man was forcibly holding her. But it was then that she realized that he was no longer holding her at all.
"See?" the man sneered in satisfaction. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"
He threw at her a change of clothes.
"It's a shame to be dressing filth with such nice clothes," his cruel smirk dared her to defy him. But she knew better. She couldn't afford the luxury of talking back to him because this madman had the lives of her son, her husband and her hometown in his hands.
And she? What did she have? Just a change of clothes. A change of clothes and a dream of another setting: where she could have actually left town without anybody noticing and calling for real help. A dream of what could have been.
She couldn't delude herself with wishes of someone rescuing her. She knew that there was no hope left. Just as he turned around, left the cellar and shut out the light both captives had to rely on to not go blind. No light, no hope, nothing: just an empty dream of what she had once possessed.
"Mrs Triton…" the elderly butler shook by her side. Even in such circumstances, he knew well enough that he had to pretend that none of it had happened. However, his more human side insisted to at least make sure that she was not severely injured.
She pushed him away gently. She began to feel the clothes that Descole had picked out…and then she realized that it couldn't have been him the one who chose the clothes. The soft woolen turtleneck, the dress pants, the fresh tunic…Clark was the one who chose these. Descole always picked the most uncomfortable garbs in her wardrobe. There was no mistake on who was the person that chose them… But how did it get here? How could Clark have gotten away with the favor of picking out some comfortable clothes?
"Clark…" she found herself muttering as she felt the soft fabric underneath her fingertips. She could almost feel the gentle caress of her husband's touch upon it.
"Madam," Doland solemnly spoke "would you like to…change attire in the dark or shall I light a candle?"
"Candle?"
"Yes madam. I found a box of them lying nearby and I happen to have a box of matches with me. I have one on my hand right now."
"Please, light me a candle. You may turn around while I undress if you feel uncomfortable."
"As always, madam."
A small light. The candle wasn't big, nor did it light a lot. But it shined beautifully against the darkness of the cellar.
The light gave her a small sense of hope.
Light…
Of course. She still had another hope.
Luke was a child, but he was precocious. Wouldn't it be natural to wish, even for once, for him to outshine the dark and gloom of Misthallery? It would be hard, but maybe he could contact someone outside. Maybe gather the villagers, make them join forces...
The new clothes warmed her body. Not only because of the layering, but because she felt a flicker of a fire within her soul. Yes, the man was able to lock her up in the dark and delude himself into thinking that he could do as he pleased with her body. But she knew it. She had to just bide her time. His downfall was inevitable once he panicked and tried to stifle her in anyway he could.
She now knew that her captor was nothing but a shell of a human being.
Brenda didn't care if it came by her own hand.
He was going to pay for every stinging word, every cold sneer, every rough touch.
Of that, she was absolutely certain.