#dcmination

from  dredhwen  hyldypi  (  @dcmination  )  to  eric  northman  ;  ❛  beg .   to  make  my  muse  beg .

this  is  not  something  eric  expected  to  come  out  of  their  connection.  his  friendship  with  dred  wasn't  supposed  to  turn  into  anything  more.  and  yet  .  .  .  he  practically  craved  her.  she  was  attractive,  she  understood  him  (  as  well  as  anyone  could  ),  and  he'd  never  wanted  anyone  this  much.  he  almost  hates  himself  for  it.  but  there's  that  something  about  her,  and  he  moves  in  to  make  his  move.  he's  irresistible  and  he  knows  it.

until  he's  apparently  not.

dred's  got  a  smirk  on  her  face,  and  she  puts  her  hand  on  his  chest  to  push  him  back.  eric  may  have  over  a  foot  on  her,  but  he  stops  in  his  tracks.  eric  hears  the  word  (  the  command,  if  he's  being  truthful  )  fall  from  her  lips,  and  he  isn't  sure  he's  heard  her  right.  he's  a  viking  god,  he's  never  had  to  work  for  sex  a  day  in  his  life,  and  now  dred  wants  him  to  beg.  his  lip  twitches  slightly,  a  reaction  due  to  .  .  .  annoyance?  lust?  he  doesn't  know  which.  all  he  knows  is  he  needs  her  and  he  can't  let  something  as  silly  as  his  pride  get  in  the  way.

✟ ... unprompted.

All around them, lichen-mottled stone rose out of the earth like bones, like fangs. It was fitting that they meet here, among the crumbling ruins.

Dredhwen must have heard him, must have known that he approached. With his own mass, with the weight of his steel, his footfall was heavy. Age-old bones peeked from between blades of grass and from under blankets of moss. As Farkas approached, they splintered beneath his boots. A fitting audience, of the deathless and the death-bound.

Daughter of Coldharbour, she would outlive him – unless violence took her. They would bear no children, they would never sleep under the same roof. The only ceiling they shared was the vaulted sky, pitch dark and bristling with stars. No hope for the next life, either. All they had were moments such as this. Furtive, offensive to Molag Bal and Hircine alike.

Farkas was immune to her monstrosity, just as she was immune to his. In his nose, the familiar scent of moonflower and blood. In his ears, her voice, its frigid edges thawing. Silently, he swallowed her in an embrace from behind, arms closing around his paramour like jaws. His looming silhouette engulfed her own as he pulled her into his heat, blunt teeth scraping against the helix of her ear, before dissolving into a kiss to her temple. Farkas breathed in Dredhwen’s nacreous beauty, breathed in the chill of her, her perfume of grave soil and blood. Weeks and months of absence had salted his appetite.

More sensible than he, his lover prised herself away, resisting what he had already yielded to. Distance of only several places yawned between them, seemingly insurmountable.

“Looking for you. The moons are almost full. I know they call to you, as they call to me.”

We share that much, at least.

Beneath the gravel of his voice, a wound, rejection stinging brief and bright as a papercut. It passed quickly, and Farkas’ tone shifted into one that was soft, urgent:

                        never ask him why he was still here. playing old hound to a entity like her. maybe it was the rush ─── the overwhelming feeling like a drug that clogged his nose. pinching back the blood & riding the sky , the sea , the stars. he never liked playing lapdog , still hated it. collars never looked good on him. blood , guts , cum? absolutely beautiful. like little jewels that decorated his own crown of thorn & horn. the berserker was known to be mighty , LAST OF HIS KIND. last cursed , bound for death.

                                      why not have a little fun?

he had no memory of how he got here. why he stayed. what even drew him to her. he had been a hound made to watch her territory her girls. while he was hiding from the freak he was. the monster he could be. the destroyer. mother killer. doom bringer. he wanted to drown in his madness while tucked between a pair of legs that could handle him. she was exactly that. but of course , kerr was still kerr. he was still a menace. insufferable. a complete & total piece of shit.

watching her turn on him had him grinning ear to ear. taking those fingers like they were water. his fanged grin only widening at the word bitch. if there was a way to slip underneath his skin. it was to kick him down the steps he had taken to get so far. he was feared. he was infamous. he was a creature of legend. & she seemed to be forgetting that. motion to catch her throat was quick ringed digits looking stunning around it , his feet pushing forehead to drag her across that floor pinning her to the opposite wall was quicker.

fangs bared , knee tucking between her legs as he grinded upward. head falling to a tilt , the jangle of his earring not even able to bring that slice of humanity back. instead he snickered , barely touching lips to lips. hovering. ‘ i'm not your fuckin bitch , galla. ’ that scottish tone slipped so sweetly off his tongue. bitter venom dripping as he pulled her forward , closer. grazing his tongue over her lower lip before slamming her back again. ‘ i'm here for the fuckin` thrill of it. hoping you'll rip my insides out before i take my own fucking head. ’

       Molag Bal could see that hunger in his champions eyes, feel it in her touch as kissed her way down his stomach. A hunger that would never be fully sated. He had corrupted this one beyond repair and reveled in it. Most night he did as he pleased, and as she very much enjoyed -- but tonight things were going a bit slower.        The Daedric prince was allowing her to do as she pleased with him, though they both knew he was still very much in control. Which was being demonstrated as she paused in her actions that had a moment ago seemed so sure, to look at him for his approval. “ Continue as you wish little one. ” His voice betrayed his arousal, it’s tone husky and full of need. Though here, in his bedchambers, he did not care so much. The woman hovering above him was his.

maybe a break was the best course of action [ ... ] though such a rare sight it would be to see him admit it. but it was difficult to simply up and stop —— especially when a certain riff acted like a worm in his ear ; wiggling and finally nestling itself into his brain like a disease to fester until it had been perfected. this always led to frustration once the clock had ticked on long enough . . . . time proved to be his biggest enemy as there never seemed to be enough hours in a day , but she was always nearby to distract when the expletives ( or the urge to smash his guitar ) became too loud.

he'd been ignoring her.