Hellboy II, Nuada/Nuala, "Running Light"
Title: Running Light
Fandom: Hellboy II: The Golden Army
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Nuada/Nuala
A/N: This is part of a series of prompts I am unofficially taking up, list HERE.
Prompt: Nuada/Nuala: 10. Sex with (almost?) all their clothes on
She walked through the dark forest, black trunks rising smooth around her, branches fanning away above her head. The light that penetrated the dark leaves was always startling, a stark gleam, illuminating small spaces, giving her little goals to coax her along the path.
Nuala thought that if she stepped off the path, this forest would swallow even she, child of the last elven king. It was curiously comforting, the knowledge of the earth still strong and wild in this place, the whispering promise of untameable life. It made her smile, here in the night and peril of the black wood, and it was fierce and brilliant, without restraint.
"It has been a long time," her brother's voice said softly, "since I have seen you smile so."
Nuala forgot to breathe.
Her skirts hissed out when she whirled, hair brushing her face, the weight of her cloak on her shoulders suddenly stifling. The arch of crown pressed against her belly burned her, and she froze, pinned in his gaze.
He smiled at her, and there was in that moment little she recognized within it. A battlefield mask, his teeth bared in mirthless invitation, the hot weight of his stare. "Do you have no words for your brother, Nuala? No greeting, after so long?"
She said nothing for a long moment, without the words for him, but when he took another step forward her voice returned. "I cannot welcome you home, brother, for you have not come home. Nor can I say I expected to see you, or sought your company." His head cocked to the side, a sharp inquisitive motion, and she licked dry lips and said softly, "and neither can I say I did not expect to find you here."
"Did you hope not to find me, sister?" He asked softly, and came forward. His armor was gray, subtle sliding shades, and he looked like a ghost, like a killing spirit, only his eyes burning bright enough to reassure her that he was alive.
I simply no longer allow myself to hope for you, she did not say. And though her palms itched, she did not reach for him; contact had always strengthened the bond between them. She held herself aloof, and wished briefly that she had retreated to one of the small pools of light, simply for the scant warmth and separation.
Instead, they both stood in shadow. He reached out, fingers grazing her skin, but he wore a gauntlet, and the chainmail scraped across her skin.
Nuala gasped, the sound sharp and involuntary, and his eyes flared. There it was, something she could not take back, her wordless admission of response lingering in the still shadowed air.
She stepped back and her back hit the trunk of a tree, hands splaying against the smooth trunk, her throat working. Not a retreat but a simple action to grasp for support before her legs failed her, and she watched him acknowledge and react to that, watched his stare begin to burn.
"Ah, sister." He said softly.
A soft breeze whispered through the leaves and faint light passed over her face, making her flinch away, pupils contracting not-sharply-enough, and when she turned back he was so close his breath stirred over her skin.
Her hands rose slowly, fingers grazing the smooth surface of his armor, the soft fall of his hair--longer, now, than it had been last she saw him--and his eyes hooded, eyes hot as molten gold. When he kissed her there was little gentleness there. She wondered if he had any left in him, or if all the desperate solitary years hunting for the peace of vengeance had stripped him of the last vestige of softness.
And it didn't matter, because she was kissing him back just as hard, her fingers tangled in his long hair, the contact flooding and sparking and running fire along her veins, a complex shock of sensation as she felt her own nails prick his scalp, sharing pleasure as they shared pain, her body pulled tight against his.
Her lips moved against his, mouthing his name, and again. His hands, heavy and cold with armor in the layers of her skirts, fingers pressing into her soft skin. Fabric tore just a little and she shuddered as the chain mail rested against the height of the inside of her thigh, drawing a sound like a whimper from her throat.
"Ah, Nuala." He said softly, sibilants layered beneath his voice, and then his mouth was on her throat, voice vibrating through her, abandoning English for something darker and older, their birth language, the one that resonated in her veins. For a moment only his mouth touched her and then he settled back against her, a gauntlet stripped away, fingers pressing into her skin, in the soft crease where thigh met hip, and then against and into her.
She bucked against the tree, her hand knotting in his hair--she felt the echoing sting--her pleasure ricocheting between them, her voice a lost birdsong between the close shadowed trees. For a second an image flashed into her and she knew it was not hers, the image of her pale body against the dark tree so exactly like those thin sharp shards of light pouring between the branches, brilliant and rare and brief.
Shaking, she pulled him up to her and found his lips, mouth opening, eyes wide open, his stark and harsh with something like irrevocable hunger as he met her gaze. "Nuada," she whispered, and her voice shook, and then she trembled, body spasming, and felt golden light flood her, contract, take her apart from the inside while he held her there against the trunk and whispered soft harsh words into her neck, of love and loyalty and desolation.
Nuala could only shake and cling to him, pressing her forehead against the cool shoulder of his armor, panting his name again and again, no more words left to her. She could not encompass what she felt for him, the passion or the pain, the fear that he was already gone from her. She could not touch him, he was locked away in his steel and bone, the knife strapped to his leg and pressing against the inside of her knee a brutally efficient reminder.
Her eyes closed, and she knew he felt both the phantom trace of a tear down her face, almost cool on her flushed skin, and the shattering pain of her heart breaking as he drew away.
"Nuala," he whispered against, and he kissed her, mouth against hers and lips parting, a harsh farewell.
She wiped the tear away, hand shaking, and forced her eyes open to meet his. Unflinching, shoulders still and held back, chin up. Her fingers curved against his shoulder still as the cloak fell back around her. Her mouth felt bruised, her body tender and still humming, her fingers scraped raw against the chain mail.
She wanted it. She wanted this to remain, wanted the tear in the fabric of her skirts to remain, indelible, printing her skin with the harsh reality of his touch.
"Nuada." She returned, and wanted so desperately to return the touch, to reach out to him. But they were both building their walls again, steel and resolve and grief and separation, carving them away one lost word at a time.
"Walk with me for a time, princess," he said only, and held out his arm.
Nuala closed her eyes and folded her hand against his forearm, and then dropped it to link with his fingers--still slick and warm--savoring that contact, the touch he had not denied them.
"For a time," she consented softly, and they left the path behind.
Fandom: Hellboy II: The Golden Army
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Nuada/Nuala
A/N: This is part of a series of prompts I am unofficially taking up, list HERE.
Prompt: Nuada/Nuala: 10. Sex with (almost?) all their clothes on
She walked through the dark forest, black trunks rising smooth around her, branches fanning away above her head. The light that penetrated the dark leaves was always startling, a stark gleam, illuminating small spaces, giving her little goals to coax her along the path.
Nuala thought that if she stepped off the path, this forest would swallow even she, child of the last elven king. It was curiously comforting, the knowledge of the earth still strong and wild in this place, the whispering promise of untameable life. It made her smile, here in the night and peril of the black wood, and it was fierce and brilliant, without restraint.
"It has been a long time," her brother's voice said softly, "since I have seen you smile so."
Nuala forgot to breathe.
Her skirts hissed out when she whirled, hair brushing her face, the weight of her cloak on her shoulders suddenly stifling. The arch of crown pressed against her belly burned her, and she froze, pinned in his gaze.
He smiled at her, and there was in that moment little she recognized within it. A battlefield mask, his teeth bared in mirthless invitation, the hot weight of his stare. "Do you have no words for your brother, Nuala? No greeting, after so long?"
She said nothing for a long moment, without the words for him, but when he took another step forward her voice returned. "I cannot welcome you home, brother, for you have not come home. Nor can I say I expected to see you, or sought your company." His head cocked to the side, a sharp inquisitive motion, and she licked dry lips and said softly, "and neither can I say I did not expect to find you here."
"Did you hope not to find me, sister?" He asked softly, and came forward. His armor was gray, subtle sliding shades, and he looked like a ghost, like a killing spirit, only his eyes burning bright enough to reassure her that he was alive.
I simply no longer allow myself to hope for you, she did not say. And though her palms itched, she did not reach for him; contact had always strengthened the bond between them. She held herself aloof, and wished briefly that she had retreated to one of the small pools of light, simply for the scant warmth and separation.
Instead, they both stood in shadow. He reached out, fingers grazing her skin, but he wore a gauntlet, and the chainmail scraped across her skin.
Nuala gasped, the sound sharp and involuntary, and his eyes flared. There it was, something she could not take back, her wordless admission of response lingering in the still shadowed air.
She stepped back and her back hit the trunk of a tree, hands splaying against the smooth trunk, her throat working. Not a retreat but a simple action to grasp for support before her legs failed her, and she watched him acknowledge and react to that, watched his stare begin to burn.
"Ah, sister." He said softly.
A soft breeze whispered through the leaves and faint light passed over her face, making her flinch away, pupils contracting not-sharply-enough, and when she turned back he was so close his breath stirred over her skin.
Her hands rose slowly, fingers grazing the smooth surface of his armor, the soft fall of his hair--longer, now, than it had been last she saw him--and his eyes hooded, eyes hot as molten gold. When he kissed her there was little gentleness there. She wondered if he had any left in him, or if all the desperate solitary years hunting for the peace of vengeance had stripped him of the last vestige of softness.
And it didn't matter, because she was kissing him back just as hard, her fingers tangled in his long hair, the contact flooding and sparking and running fire along her veins, a complex shock of sensation as she felt her own nails prick his scalp, sharing pleasure as they shared pain, her body pulled tight against his.
Her lips moved against his, mouthing his name, and again. His hands, heavy and cold with armor in the layers of her skirts, fingers pressing into her soft skin. Fabric tore just a little and she shuddered as the chain mail rested against the height of the inside of her thigh, drawing a sound like a whimper from her throat.
"Ah, Nuala." He said softly, sibilants layered beneath his voice, and then his mouth was on her throat, voice vibrating through her, abandoning English for something darker and older, their birth language, the one that resonated in her veins. For a moment only his mouth touched her and then he settled back against her, a gauntlet stripped away, fingers pressing into her skin, in the soft crease where thigh met hip, and then against and into her.
She bucked against the tree, her hand knotting in his hair--she felt the echoing sting--her pleasure ricocheting between them, her voice a lost birdsong between the close shadowed trees. For a second an image flashed into her and she knew it was not hers, the image of her pale body against the dark tree so exactly like those thin sharp shards of light pouring between the branches, brilliant and rare and brief.
Shaking, she pulled him up to her and found his lips, mouth opening, eyes wide open, his stark and harsh with something like irrevocable hunger as he met her gaze. "Nuada," she whispered, and her voice shook, and then she trembled, body spasming, and felt golden light flood her, contract, take her apart from the inside while he held her there against the trunk and whispered soft harsh words into her neck, of love and loyalty and desolation.
Nuala could only shake and cling to him, pressing her forehead against the cool shoulder of his armor, panting his name again and again, no more words left to her. She could not encompass what she felt for him, the passion or the pain, the fear that he was already gone from her. She could not touch him, he was locked away in his steel and bone, the knife strapped to his leg and pressing against the inside of her knee a brutally efficient reminder.
Her eyes closed, and she knew he felt both the phantom trace of a tear down her face, almost cool on her flushed skin, and the shattering pain of her heart breaking as he drew away.
"Nuala," he whispered against, and he kissed her, mouth against hers and lips parting, a harsh farewell.
She wiped the tear away, hand shaking, and forced her eyes open to meet his. Unflinching, shoulders still and held back, chin up. Her fingers curved against his shoulder still as the cloak fell back around her. Her mouth felt bruised, her body tender and still humming, her fingers scraped raw against the chain mail.
She wanted it. She wanted this to remain, wanted the tear in the fabric of her skirts to remain, indelible, printing her skin with the harsh reality of his touch.
"Nuada." She returned, and wanted so desperately to return the touch, to reach out to him. But they were both building their walls again, steel and resolve and grief and separation, carving them away one lost word at a time.
"Walk with me for a time, princess," he said only, and held out his arm.
Nuala closed her eyes and folded her hand against his forearm, and then dropped it to link with his fingers--still slick and warm--savoring that contact, the touch he had not denied them.
"For a time," she consented softly, and they left the path behind.
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