Not officially part of the Son and Daughter Cycle, but definitely within the same plane and related/connected. Not exactly horrific, but definitely creepy and M for a reason.
Disclaimer: Paolini didn't have to go to highschool to get more knowledge...or not that much highschool, I guess. Anywho, I don't think anyone really has to go to highschool to get knowledge about Lord of the Rings, you know, elves and magic and crazy lands and Sauron and all that...oops, what am I implying? Anyway, characters not mine. You know what I mean. No profit, save for some reviews--ahem.
This idea came to me after reading a bunch of flufflybunny's Inheritence fanfics, I highly suggest checking flufflybunny out, too. Sooo good. I haven't written in a while, I'm exhausted, and I just jotted this out, but I'm pretty proud of it. Reviews are love and if you want to bash, constructive criticism only please. If you just want to rave, well, that would be amazing and thank you in advance!
--[my name is] Inconsequential.
Memory of Darkness
Her skin is beautiful.
Dark, darker than I've ever seen. Darker than I ever imagined possible.
It's soft, her skin. Even her hands—which have now seen a battle where too many people died, seen more than one—are suave and silky. Soft. One slides coyly towards the apex of my thighs; I see her darkness raise goosebumps in its wake, and these are not the only things that rise.
She kisses me, hard and rough, so unlike her soft skin, and I crash back against the pillows.
This is forbidden. I am a prisoner; this is my cell! Yet...
She is holding my length in her palm, and her fingers are wrapped loosely around it; she puts barely any effort into her lazy upward-downward movements. It takes all my effort and more not to grasp her and push inside.
But I will not hurt her, this much I promised, and she is still dressed while I am naked and even as my fingers find her core beneath her skirts, we both know that those digits and my lips will be the only things to give her pleasure, and though my mind wanders and wishes for more, in my heart this is enough.
A reward for my curling fingers, I hear her gasp my name and lose her grip on me. Seconds later, she is as bare as I am, and lying over my stomach, feeling me swirl between her legs. I cannot resist slipping down her body, gently turning her on her back and pressing my lips into her, slowly exercising my tongue against her moisture.
One hand encircles her hips and pulls her to my mouth, my other reaches down to my own need, which had been momentarily forgotten. She murmurs an apology between her groans—an apology for neglecting me, but as I hum a pardon, her words are lost again and she drops her head back, hastily repeating my name over and over again in various intonations. I stroke harder and flick deeper, feeling her hips lift with ardor.
This is not love, but this lust is strong and it is full and must be fulfilled. She presses closer and I am nearly there and blinding heat sears my body as my mouth forms over her and my tongue dives and I am screaming wantonly, knees shaking…
...
And an exploding pain cracks through me as dark magic binds me—binds me into a promise that I will capture my brother and smite anyone who stands beside him.
Why did you not take him? Thorn shrieks, and I am writhing on the stones, mouth wide in a scream that has long since faded from my lips, my throat too parched to bring forth any more sound but the ragged grunts that escape now. But there is screaming in my head; and the dark magic crackles and Galbatorix is fearsome and angry and old.
The memory of Nasuada does not block out my pain and my shame and I cry silently as the magic tightens its grip. The spell wrenches around me and into me as chains would my wrists—cutting, closing in. If Eragon escapes after I next meet him, I will be dead; for I cannot see nor feel any other way to free myself from this energy-leeching trap.
He must fall and they must die.
My vision is clouded, the magic is suffocating me, and when I wake, I will have no choice. But this is no change, I have never had a choice. Not in lineage, nor my dragon. Not even in whom I love. Lust, yes, but I cannot love, my heart has long been cold. And now I have no choice in those I must kill.
Galbatorix's words stifle my lungs in a haze of red and searing white and jolting, lightening blue.
I bite my lip when I come, eyes barely open to see Nasuada panting, sweat shining on her dark, night-fire skin.
I bite my lip as I fight for consciousness, but I have no choice.
They must die.
She must die. She of the soft, dark skin; she of the rough kisses; she who claimed not to love me. My memory is breaking me—she does not love me, cannot love as I cannot, even while lusty moans exit our mouths. Oh, how fair this cruel world pretends to be. I will break a promise I made in hopes that I might love, to keep a promise forced upon me out of greed.
The darkness presses my eyes closed, and it is so different from hers. Hate fills me and I do not understand. I am: bound and broken. Galbatorix's servant. Morzan's son. Never in Nasuada's heart.
Among these, I have no choice. No choice, but to let myself be bound and broken.
Why did you not kill him? What twisted, masochistic game are you playing, Murtagh? Thorn is screaming as we are punished for my mercy. And it is my crimson dragon's screaming that accompanies the vision of Nasuada's body arched in pleasure, her lips parted.
The vomit soaks my tunic and Galbatorix is laughing when I finally break; I slump forward much like I would after completion. But I am basking in no afterglow, and my eyes see only a darkness blacker than anything I have ever imagined.
//
//
xfin.