WORKING ON DYING

by BodyLathe

Summary:

Agmaer's spent a whole lot of years picking veggies on a Riften farm; he's working on dying, and he hasn't gotten very far. When the loss of a friend leads him to join the Dawnguard, he finds both death and companionship to be a whole lot closer than expected - and both in the most unexpected places.

Chapter 4 for sex, I'm not capable of writing Porn W/O Plot so take what you will. Squick FYI: Isran calls Agmaer "kid" both in regular conversation and sex, but Agmaer is 19.

Chapter 1: On Vampires and Applesauce

“If you plan on fightin’ for a cause, you better plan on dyin’ for it too. You really fixin’ to die for Ulfric Stormcloak, boy?”

The question had been followed by a long sip of ale from his Pa’s worn hands, dirt stuck under the nails from a long day tilling on the farm. Agmaer had shifted uncomfortably in his seat and wrapped his hands around the muddy axe in his lap; his father leaned in real close, close enough for Agmaer to smell the thick tobacco permeating his skin and languishing on his breath. 

“We’re all working on dyin’, Pa.” He’d responded, his defiance undercut by the tremor in his voice. “Might as well go out fightin’ for somethin’.”

Unimpressed, the old man had only huffed and pulled away the axe; Agmaer felt some shame in not giving any fight for the taking, watching his Pa sling it over his right shoulder and hoist himself with a couple harsh pants to his feet. The weight sitting on his aging bones was giving him more trouble than it really oughta at his age, but it didn’t make him any less intimidating nor the action any less demeaning when he’d stuck his finger in his son’s face. 

“You ain’t no Stormcloak, and you sure as shit ain’t ready to die, I know that.” He’d said, hand trembling. “You’re actin’ real selfish son, gettin’ thoughts in your head ‘bout leaving your sick momma like that.”

“Pa —”

“Enough boy!” The old man had loudly chastised. The shout was followed by an extended hacking and a pounding on his chest, the smoke having gotten to lungs many ages ago. “You been an ungrateful brat since the day your momma brought you into this world cryin’! I swear if I’d have talked to my Pa the way you talk to me, I’d be—”

The sense of defeat that had permeated his bones in that moment had mouldered his father’s ramblings into a dull groan, eyes fixated on the remnants of dirt the axe handle had left in the creases of his palms. When his Pa finally gave up and hobbled out of the room with cane to ground and axe to shoulder, he felt the embarrassing urge to cry. He’d suppressed it, just as he usually did, no sense in giving the old man another reason to head up the attack again. 

Agmaer had always been his Pa’s great shame; where his brothers had grown up to be big, broad-shouldered, broad-bellied proper farm boys up in the Whiterun tundras, Agmaer wasn’t much for a hoe or a rake, usually only managing to hurt himself in the process. Pa always had a good wisecrack at the ready for him: “that boy can’t tell an eye hoe from his ass hole,”; “Zenithar, touch his mind,”; “Stendarr’s mercy, you touch a woman like you touchin’ that cow, then my Lord, save her soul. ” 

Mandy was his Pa’s first wife, a purportedly nice Nord woman who he never got the chance to meet; she came down with a case of the rattles real bad, and passed on when his brothers were fifteen and twenty. Then there came a little Breton noble girl named Rosalie looking for a quick path out of High Rock — though falling pregnant with Agmaer probably wasn’t the path she was hoping to find, it had happened all the same, and so the first elf-blood boy was born into the family, and no matter his lack of pointy ears and high cheekbones, to Pa, he may as well have stepped right off the Isles. 

It didn’t help that his Momma didn’t take too well to childbirth; she’d hurt her spine real good putting Agmaer in this world and had been bed-ridden ever since. For a while he’d used his limited magical capabilities to give her a little comfort, but his plea with his father to head off to the College, learn from the masters, give his Momma a fightin’ chance had been met with a hard slap to the back of the head. 

“Ain’t no son of mine goin’ off to wizard school. ” He’d mocked. “You wanna know how to help your Momma? Make sure we got enough food to get her through the winter.” 

So he’d stayed, year after year, milkin’ cows, plantin’ crops, tillin’ soil until his arms could till no more, and with time his magic atrophied until he couldn’t remember how to heal a limping chicken, and with time Momma got worse and worse, and with time his Pa didn’t seem to care real much about that anymore. 

At least he had his books, the one thing Rosalie had given him before it got tough for her to talk was literacy, hours spent pouring over makeshift flashcards and practicing his letters. He learned Cyrodilic, of course, but some Old Bretic songs too, and from there he picked up decent Aldmeris, enough that when the Thalmor came knockin’, they’d been impressed enough to walk away without giving them much trouble. Ancient languages intrigued him; it only took him a couple long nights to learn the dragon language, and he’d stumbled through a little Yoku with Abram, the old Redguard at the mill. 

He studied the Divines, especially Stendarr, and the Princes, especially Molag Bal. Vampires were his guilty pleasure, a topic he could get to rambling on about if anyone permitted it: usually only Abram, who’d let him sit and prattle about Lamae Bal for hours if he liked while he took to cutting lumber. 

Agmaer dreamed, stupidly, of becoming a Vigilant. He kept a secret Amulet of Stendarr, sometimes wore it in the privacy of his room just to feel the weight around his neck and imagined the sturdiness of an old beating stick as an ebony mace, sharpened and primed for killing dirty bloodsuckers. Some of the Vigilants were downright legendary, namely Isran, who supposedly took down an entire clan of vampires with nothing but his fists, and who other vampires had taken to calling “The Cold Harbour Reaper.” Agmaer could swoon at the thought of obtaining a sobriquet like that , but the Vigilants were selective in their recruitment, and having only meager magical abilities and little combat skills outside of killing a few wolves, he didn’t think he’d make the cut. 

One afternoon he’d walked into Riften with the week's cut of produce, and was approached by a beefy Orc in sun-studded armor, expression serious and holding an armload of pamphlets. 

“The Dawnguard is looking for men and women ready to fight the growing vampire menace.” He’d pitched, and shoved a map into Agmaer’s hands. “Isran wants to see you.” 

He’d slipped the map into his pocket, and over the next week made a habit of staring at it every night, wondering what it might be like to walk into that canyon, to meet Isran face to face. Surely he’d take one look at his weak arms and shoulders, laugh and send him packing. The Dawnguard were looking for ready and able warriors, not farm boys with heads full of dreams. And that remained all well and good until Morndas, when he’d walked out to the mill to bring Abram some fresh cream and found him floating dead in the water with two holes in his neck. 

Maybe he wasn’t much of a Stormcloak, but he was gonna be one good-ass Dawnguard. 

So when night fell, he’d packed up the heavy axe his Pa had put back on the shelf, took a bit of bread and cheese from the ice box, kissed his Momma goodbye, and set out for Dayspring Canyon with an ache for vengeance and a new source of determination. 

And after all that, here he is, and just as expected, Isran laughed at him. 

This time he doesn’t think he can suppress the tears. They build up just above his lash line, and he tries desperately to blink them away, so as not to look like a crybaby in front of his childhood hero. Yeah , he thinks, a Dawnguard alright. Head hung heavy in shame, he slips his axe back into his makeshift hip holster and turns on his heel towards the door. 

“Agmaer. You’re already here. Don’t bitch out now.” Isran chastises. When he turns, a heavy contraption is shoved into his arms, and he nearly buckles under the weight of it. 

“But—”

“Crossbow. Best thing for taking down bloodsuckers. Keeps you from getting too close.” He explains as Agamer scrambles to adjust the weapon into his arms. The shape of the contraption is confusing; he’s rarely seen crossbows, and as far as he knows, they’re an exceedingly unwieldy weapon. Does he really see him as an arbalist? The thought is almost laughable, and defeat washes over him again. 

Isran chuckles, a low rumble, and lifts the heavy bow from his arms as if it were air. He turns it around and pushes it into position properly with butt to Agmaer’s armpit. 

“Point the firing end towards the target, not yourself.” He instructs, and Agmaer feels his face burn hot with humiliation. He slides a thick iron bolt into the chamber, and guides Agmaer’s hand to cock the lath. No wonder no one shoots these things, without Isran’s extra strength behind him, he’s not sure he’d have even gotten the damn thing loaded. His finger ghosts the trigger, and feels the tension behind the shot. 

“Let’s see if we can’t make a Dawnguard out of you.” Isran says. He points at a number of old barrels across from them. “Aim for the center. See if you can’t bust one open.”

The defeat and confusion in his brain washes into his movements, and he finds the trigger heavy to press. When the shot fires he bounces back, and the bolt slacks lamely off the stone wall, far from his expected target. He expects Isran to laugh, but instead, he just puts a hand on his back, and guides the bow back into position.

“Focus. Aim. You’re going to feel kickback. Keep your left foot forward and bent at the knee. That’ll minimize the pressure.” He explains, carefully adjusting his student’s form. “Put some confidence behind your shot. I’m not expecting you to be good, but I’m expecting you to try.” 

When he manages to get the bow cocked again — no easy feat, it really is difficult — he feels Isran’s hand on his shoulder, keeping him in an upright position. He lines up the sight this time, really focuses, thinks of Abram, thinks of his Pa. Thinks of fightin’ for something, and then releases. 

This time the bolt sinks right into the middle of the barrel, and Isran nods approvingly. 

“It’s easier than it looks. Again.” He orders with the offer of another bolt, and feeling a little more confident, Agmaer takes it, this time finding the cock back is a little less difficult. He aims for another barrel, and manages a pretty good strike, not quite the center, but good enough. 

“Doesn’t have to be perfect every time. A shot to the neck is just as good as a shot to the heart.” Isran grumbles as he tugs the bolts from the barrels. “We’ll keep practicing for a while, then we’ll see what you can do with that axe of yours.” 

“Sir—”

“Do I look like a sir to you?” 

“Isran.” He capitulates, lowering the bow a little. “Do you really think I can do this?”

He looks annoyed at the question. “Ain’t up to me. It’s like Durak told you: I’m looking for anyone ready to stack bloodsucker bodies. If you don’t think you have what it takes, then don’t waste my time.” 

“No, I-I do,” He stammers and stumbles nervously. “Sorry, sir, Isran, I just—”

Isran steps behind him and puts the bow back into position, adjust his form this time with a harsher attitude. “Enough talk. I don’t need it. I need hard motherfuckers who can put down a vampire. You a hard motherfucker that can put down a vampire? Then show me.” 

He blinks. It’s not a phrase he’d have used to describe himself five minutes ago, but it’s a title he could get used to. A title a little better than farm boy, elf boy, or brat. He settles into the crossbow and bends his knee. Just above the error sits an apple, leaned just slightly to the side, well within his sights. Does he dare? He sucks in a breath. 

The bolt punctures the apple and explodes the rotten fruit into smithereens, the sticky scent of juice permeating the air as pulp plops to the floor. His arms are shaking, and he can’t help but smile at his success. Yeah. Maybe he is a hard motherfucker who can put down a vampire. At least, maybe he can be. 

Isran snorts, but his expression is impressed. “I’ll take a motherfucker that can turn a vampire to applesauce. Again.”

Chapter 2: Thrall Haul

The first few weeks are a sharp adjustment — Agmaer’s used to being up at the crack of dawn and working out in the early Rift cold, but patrolling for vampires turns out to be a whole lot riskier than picking carrots and milking cows, so he often finds himself nodding off at his station. Today, he’s woken by Celann’s sharp boot to the ankle. 

“Don’t let Isran catch you nodding off like that.” He criticizes with a grin — Celann is a bit of a jester, a welcome personality in a fort full of all too serious vampire hunters. “You know what he’ll say, sleep—”

“Is for the weak.” Agmaer finishes with a groan. He adjusts his armor, which had begun to sit uncomfortably where he’d been leaning off to doze. “Has Isran always been so…”

“Intense? Yeah.” He agrees, taking a sip of his morning ale. “That’s just Isran, take it or leave it. Most choose the latter.”

They sit in silence for a while, listening to the mourning doves call in the day and watching the trees for any kind of movement. Stendarr’s mercy, their shift is nearly over now — no vampires tonight, just farmers crossing over the border. Agmaer finds some shameful gratitude in that — his training is paying off, but he wouldn’t consider himself an arbalist just yet. He’d been relieved when a rogue vampire had shown up last week and Celann had taken it down before his bow was even against his shoulder. 

“He likes you.” 

“What?” Agmaer asks, taken aback by the sudden statement. “Isran?”

“Yeah. You’re the first person I’ve seen Isran smile around. At least in a long time, or, since his wife died.” His companion says with a shrug. “That means he likes you. Good position to be in. Don’t fuck it up.” 

“He had a wife?” He questions. 

Celann holds the bottle of ale out to him, and he waves it away, uninterested. He’s never been much for a drink. “Why do you think he is the way he is? Bloodsuckers killed his wife and kid. Nothing but anger left there.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.” He sighs, and tosses his crossbow onto his back. “Just saw Ingjard and Mogrul on the path. Let’s go get something to eat.” 

They meander their way back to the fort, Celann going on a tangent about the time he swears he saw a werewolf up in the Dawnstar ice fields. Agmaer tunes it out about three sentences in, still thinking about Isran and wondering why exactly the notion that he likes him made him feel something distinctly different from a sense of pride. 

He enjoys Isran’s company, as much as he can and as much as he’s allowed, anyway. Being the most experienced of their faction, their leader is usually off hunting, kicking doors and stacking bodies , as he likes to call it. But when he’s around the fort, he usually makes a little time to check in with Agmaer, show him a trick with a crossbow or two. Once, he’d even brought him a souvenir, an empty red bottle, intricately gilded in gold. A potion of blood. 

“There you go kid, something to bring home to Pa,” He’d mumbled. “Show him you’re a real Dawnguard now.” 

Agmaer doesn’t think he’ll ever go back home; if he tried, his Pa would beat his head in with his walking stick, but he’d kept the bottle anyway, set it below his cot and occasionally took it out to look at it. A real Dawnguard . He went to sleep smiling. 

Now warm again inside the fort, Agmaer tucks into a poor excuse for a chicken dumpling Gunmar had cobbled together; the man’s a master blacksmith, but an abysmal cook. Still, food is food, and he musters up some gratitude after a long night out in the cold. Every day you come back here alive is a good day. Celann had reminded him once. This isn’t a game. Those bloodsuckers will kill you, and they’ll do it fast, so say your thanks to Stendarr and appreciate his gifts, no matter how shit they taste. 

As he’s washing the sticky paste down with a cup of milk, the best non-fermented drink the fort has to offer, Isran appears in the dining hall doorway, arms crossed and voice gruff.

“Kid.” He orders, and Agmaer turns. It’s a diminutive he only uses with him — he’s the youngest recruit here, after all. “You’re coming with me tonight.”

Celann cackles, and Isran’s eyes narrow perceptively.

“Something funny?”

He shakes his head and puts his drink down on the table. “Nah, it’s just that the kids never actually killed a vampire.”

“And he never will if you keep stealing his shots. I’ve got reports of a thrall haul North of the city, and I’m taking Agmaer.”

Celann puts his hands up. “All I’m saying is—”

“I never asked you to say a damn thing.” He interrupts. “Agmaer. Be outside the gates by dusk. It’ll be a long journey on foot, so get a few hours of sleep in.” 

“I thought sleep was for the weak.” Celann teases. 

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Woo! Coming in hot today!” His companion shouts after him, to no response that somehow still feels impossibly tense. Celann’s the only one who can speak to Isran that way; they were Vigilants together, building an on-again-off-again friendship that made them both insufferable and indispensable to each other. He’s Isran’s begrudging right hand man — whether he likes it or not. 

Agmaer tries to take their leader's advice to heart; he really should sleep, but anxiety keeps him up, fiddling with the lath on his bow. You’re a good shot, bud! Durak had praised just the other day when he managed to shoot an elk down before it slipped across the mountains. Those vamps won’t know what hit ‘em!

But something in him suspects they will; he’s always been a fuck up, never been good for much, least according to his Pa. There’s a little comfort in going with Isran; maybe he’ll lead, let him take up the tail and hopefully prevent him from having to get too close. A thrall haul is no joke — with precious cargo like that, he imagines they’ll be face to face with five or ten vampires at least, all Nightstalkers, maybe a Clan leader, even. His heart is beating faster and faster, and he feels tears threaten his eyes again. Stendarr’s mercy, this is really it, isn’t it? He’s going to die like this, or worse, become a vampire, and be shot to death by Isran and end up suffering in Coldharbour like—

No. He sucks in a few deep breaths and leans back onto the cot. He’s not going to Coldharbour. Isran wouldn’t be taking him if he didn’t think he could handle this, and by the Nine, he can handle this. He’s a good shot. He’s got a brave heart. He walks with courage in his step. He’s a real Dawnguard, and he’s fighting for a cause he’s sure he’s willing to die for. If he goes out tonight, he’ll go out fighting the good fight, and pray Isran takes him down before he turns. 

Dusk falls quicker than expected, and Agmaer begrudgingly settles the anxiety in his gut with a couple swigs of bad mead. Eugh. He’s not sure how Celann drinks so much of the stuff. When his belly is warmed and his nerves are steeled, he sheathes his crossbow, counts his bolts, adjusts his armor straps, and heads out with head held high to meet his leader. 

Isran, surprisingly, grins when he sees him, the torch in his hand lighting up his expression. “You ready for this, kid?” 

“You look happy.” Agmaer comments as Isran passes him his own torch. He laughs and socks his recruit on the shoulder. 

“Never happier than when I get to blow apart Molag Bal’s abominations. Let’s go kill some fucking vampires.” 

Isran wasn’t exaggerating when he said the journey was long — as it turned out, the town he’d referred to wasn’t Riften, but Shor’s Stone. By the time they pass the Northern watchtower, Agmaer, unhappily, feels his feet starting to ache. He trudges on anyway, and gives no indication of his discomfort. No point in it, Isran wouldn’t hear his whining. In fact, he’d probably send him right back to the fort. 

Outside of their initial conversation and a quick breakdown of their strategy, Isran remains mostly silent, only the occasional clearing of his throat breaking the night air. He sweeps the road carefully, on the lookout for any stray vampires sneaking out the camp. They’ve been lucky; no wolves or bears, obstacles that would waste critical ammunition and give away their location. They’re relying on timing and the element of surprise; it’s a risky job, but a necessary one. The cart they’re hauling contains twenty enslaved men and women. If they make it to their lair over the mountain, they’ll never be heard from again. 

Isran points to a rock overhang jutting on the side of the mountain road, and the two men creep off the path and traipse through the high brush and thistle outfitting it. It’s a sturdy hideaway, and Agmaer is grateful for some protection from the strengthening midnight gales. Once Isran is confident that it’ll provide them enough shelter he slips out and takes a moment to ensure that they’re not visible from the road. Certain, he signals to Agmaer to put out his torch. 

“Just a matter of waiting now. They’ll be coming South bound, we’ll hear their horses.” He theorizes, taking off his helmet. Agmaer does the same, grateful to take some of the pressure off his shoulders. He places the heavy steel mask in his lap and pulls his knees up to his chest, trying to spare a little room in the tight cavern. 

They sit in silence again, listening for the sound of hoofsteps approaching. Every moment feels like it stretches on for hours, and Isran must sense his nervousness, because he pulls out a thin and hollowed piece of wood from his pocket. 

“You smoke?” He asks. Agmaer shakes his head. 

“Nah. My Pa stank real bad of ta-bacco, it makes me sick.” He says, watching Isran flick fire from his fingertips to the bowl of the pipe. The older man grins, and holds it out to him. He’s surprised; it’s not tobacco, but a crystal that smells unfamiliar — sweet. 

“I don’t smoke tobacco. This is something from Stros M’kai.” He says. “Take a puff. It’ll calm your nerves.” 

He shrugs and capitulates to Isran’s encouraging nod, takes a short inhale of the substance. It is sweet, sweeter than anything he’s ever tasted. Surely sweeter than moon sugar, even. He passes it back to Isran. “What is that?”

“Angelica.” He confirms between puffs. “A Hammerfell delicacy for calming nerves, and less commonly, flatulence.” 

The two men chuckle together, spend a little time chain-smoking until the roof of the cave grows hazy. Agmaer does feel more relaxed — still alert, still prepared, but not trembling like he was before. Between hits, he picks up his crossbow and adjusts the lath, ensures the hardware is well-secured, and practices his aim. 

Isran is humming something beneath his breath; it’s an old Yokudan worship song. He’d heard Abram sing it a couple times while he worked at the mill. 

“That’s the communion song, right? For Tall Papa?” He asks. His companion looks up sharply. 

“What?”

“I, uh, learned a little Yoku from my neighbor.” He says before meagerly attempting the hymn. “ Ruptga, dua Anseilak, Ruptga, tang hadi do tengai. ” 

Even in the dark of the cave he can see Isran’s incredulous expression, and he wonders if he’d just made a critical fumble. Maybe it’s offensive to sing it as a non-Redguard? He worries. He hadn’t meant to offend him, just wanted to share a little something from Abram, something to lighten the mood. Of course you’d fuck this up, boy his Pa’s voice growls in his head. Can’t keep your damn mouth shut!

“ Ueedonga. My brother!” Isran responds, his face breaking out into what looks like, shockingly, a real, genuine smile. “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard someone speak Yoku. Much less a Nord. Damn, kid. You just keep surprising me.” 

Relief washes over him, and he rubs the back of his head sheepishly. “So you’re from Stros M’kai then, I take it?” 

“No, Elinhir, on the mainland. Born and raised, crossed over the border when I met my wife.” He refutes, taking another breath on the pipe. “Mathilde. A good woman.” 

Celann’s recollection of Isran’s wife leaves him struggling for the right words. A tragedy like that…what’s the use in offering any sort of sympathy for something so unspeakable? A brush of cold wind cuts between their shared silence. 

“You reminded me of her, actually.” Isran says. “When you showed up at the fort, I thought, now that’s just something Mathilde would have done, shown up to hunt vampires with a rusty old axe. As naive as a mouse but as courageous as a bear. She was always well-intentioned.” 

“She sounds like a wonderful woman.” He says softly, to which Isran nods. “And what you’re doing, to avenge her—”

“This isn’t vengeance.” He disagrees. “This is just doing what’s right. Something tells me you understand that.” 

He thinks of Abram, floating in the water beneath the mill, the man who had been more of a father and more of a friend than his Pa ever was. The man who had taught him old Yoku songs and let him ramble on about vampires without a single expression of annoyance. And though he can’t comprehend even a quarter of Isran’s loss, he feels it all the same. Vengeance implies bloodsuckers have some inherent value. Vengeance implies they’re worth caring for. “I do.” 

“You’re a good kid.” 

Their conversation is interrupted by the clack of hooves, and Isran sets his helmet on instantly before getting down on his belly and drawing his bow. He motions for Agmaer to follow, and they crawl out into the brush, still shielded from sight by the flora, but aided by the Masser’s low glow to see the caravan slowly winding down the road. 

“Shit.” Isran hisses. “There’s more than I expected. Ten or twelve.” 

“What’s that mean?”

“It means the bows aren’t going to cut it. We’re going to have to risk some melee.” 

“Melee?” Agmaer asks nervously. “But then we risk being bitten.”

“You’ve got a helmet on your head and armor on your shoulders. Don’t get wooby on me, kid.” Isran orders. Agmaer steels himself, and nods. 

“Okay, so what’s the plan?” 

“If we’re quick to reload, we can take out four before they catch onto our position. After that, they’ll sense where we are.” He explains, gaze still trained on the slowly approaching crew of vampires. “Once your second bloodsucker is down, stand and retreat behind the mountains. Take as many as you can down from a distance.”

“And you?” Agmaer asks. 

“I’m looking forward to decapitating a couple of Molag Bal’s shit stains.” He says with a rumbling laugh. He draws his axe from his belt and sets it softly on the ground in front of them, ready for the taking. “Don’t worry about me.” 

He’s right, there’s no use worrying about Isran. He’ll be fine. Right now, he needs to worry about himself. His eyes dart back and forth beneath his helmet, taking stock of the passages around him. If he’s quick, he can cut through the trees and buy himself lower visibility on the mountain peak. If he’s not, he risks being followed. Steel your nerves, Agmaer, he talks to himself. You’ve got a helmet on your head, and armor on your shoulders.

When the caravan gets close enough for their torchlight to reflect off their steel helmets, Isran props his bow up to the right of his chest. Agmaer does the same, and takes notice of his leader’s shoulder signals. Take the left flank. 

He counts. There’s six Nightstalkers and four weaker turns, two Nightstalkers on his flank. The lower turns are a better shot, but Isran stands a better chance against four turns than one stalker. He lines his sights on the leather-clad woman just in front of the cart mare, and waits for the go ahead. 

Isran’s boot taps his ankle, and he pulls the trigger. 

Three Nightstalkers crumble instantly, and Agmaer is so impressed by Isran’s double-shot that he’s a little slower to reload. He only manages to get one of the weaker turns down on his second shot. Thankfully, Isran’s put them ahead of schedule. 

“They’re in the brush!” One of the remaining Stalkers cry, and the glow of red energy in their palms is his cue to run. Keeping low, to the ground, he crawls his way through the trees, reloading his crossbow as he goes. He hisses when the mechanism accidentally snaps onto his finger, blood immediately gushing from the wound. Whatever. No time to worry about that now. He’s relieved to get to his sniping position without having been followed. 

Isran’s already going to town, having cut down another Nightstalker and decapitated two turns already. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven — he pulls the trigger — eight. Only two Nightstalkers remain. He feels a little excited as he lines up his sights again. Shit, this is fun. He grins as Isran cuts a vampire's body in half. 

Before he can pull the trigger, he realizes a critical error. There had been a scout sent ahead of the group, approaching Isran from behind with a frost spell glimmering in her hand. In a split second, she fires an ice bolt directly at his chest. Shit. Shit! 

He doesn’t think, just does, tosses his crossbow aside and focuses all his energy into his hands. A strong blue ward surrounds Isran’s body, and the ice bolt bounces off, much to the Nightstalker’s irritation. Isran doesn’t look up, so as not to betray his position, but makes a thumbs up close to his chest as he wacks the head of the offending vampire right off her pale neck. One left. 

“How sweet, what a handsome little doll you are!”

A voice from the shadows emerges as a vampire, and before he can react his crossbow is kicked from beside him onto the ground far below. Her foot goes to his chest, leaving him struggling for air and looking around frantically for any sort of makeshift weapon. There’s a pointed root to his right; it’s just out of reach, and he scrambles for it, trying to squirm beneath her weight. 

“Missed one.” She teases, her disgusting black hair falling in his face. He gags, and she giggles, using one clawed hand to bend his neck towards her mouth. Almost there, shit! Almost there…

He rips the root from the ground and shoves it deep into her chest. She wails and wobbles to her feet, stumbles backwards into the trees before shrieking and collapsing into the grass, black blood gushing around the stake in her heart. 

“What the fuck,” Agmaer says, his breathing coming heavy. “What the fuck!” 

He hears Isran’s footsteps coming up the mountain, and almost laughs when he starts at the sight of the vampire’s gushing body. Helmet quickly removed, he tosses Agmaer’s bow back to him and nearly doubles over with laughter. 

“Well fuck me, that’s some damn good hunting kid.” He says, helping him to his feet. “I probably would have shit myself.”

“Almost did.” He admits, brushing off his pants. “She was real darn creepy up close.”

“That’s why I try not to get close to them. Ugly motherfuckers.” He says, holstering his bloodied axe. “Good save down there. Didn’t tell me you’re a spellsword.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not — well, I thought I wasn’t. I haven’t used magic in years, it just came to me.”

“I’m glad I could impassion you,” He claps him on the shoulder, but frowns at the grisly sight of his index finger. The nail had been ripped clean off by his lath during his earlier accident. Agmaer winces when he lifts it.

“Got my fair share of these over the years.” Their leader shrugs. He casts a hand over it, the nail not reappearing, but the wound no longer bleeding. It’s a pleasant feeling, one that had become unfamiliar to him. 

“Thanks,” He says, shaking out his hand. “Should we check on the captives?” 

“You go South to Shor’s Stone, fetch a couple guards and bring them back here with food and blankets. No use saving their lives if they all freeze to death in this cold.” He orders. “I’ll make sure everyone’s safe and awake.” 

“Right.” He agrees. “You’ll be ok on your own?”

Isran gives him a bewildered look, and Agmaer concludes that the dozen dead vampires littering the ground below them is enough to answer that question. “Sorry.” 

He gives him a friendly nudge to the side as they head back down the mountain. “Whatever. Thanks for caring, kid.” 

Chapter 3: Preying Mantis

In books, all vampires worship Molag Bal. After all, they’re essentially his descendants. Agmaer is surprised to find, on this unfortunate occasion, that’s not the case at all. 

The initial mission has gone well. He’s taken down three or four Nightstalkers by surprise, their forms so muddled in the darkness that they’re little more than shadows on the pale cave walls. If he had a bit more light, the chance to pause and look closer, he may have noticed that these vampires were not only dressed in unique black leather armor, but they’re also all women. 

But he’s nervous and dangerously uncoordinated, his determination to succeed outweighing consideration and good sense. This is his chance to prove himself to Isran — if he fails here, what is he? Not a Dawnguard, surely, so then what?

Just a lowlife Riften farm brat. His Pa’s words echo in his skull; another bolt sunk deep into the chest of the stalker at the bottom of the staircase. That ragged, insulting tone leaves his motivation rejuvenated, energized, even. He creeps around the bottom of the staircase and presses himself up against the wall to reload. 

He’d been practically giddy when Isran assigned him this solo mission, a lair-clear deep in the Haafingar mountains, bordering on the edge of High Rock. None of the other recruits have been sent alone yet, and he had to bite his tongue to keep himself from bragging, especially with the rumors beginning to circle the Fort. 

“You are spending a lot of time with Isran.” Ingjard commented one evening before turning in. “I have not seen you sleep here in three nights. Do you sleep in his quarters?”

He’d fumbled his response to the question at first, mostly because he’s a poor liar. Yes, he’d been sleeping in Isran’s quarters, but not with Isran, he’s just normally too tired after their evening conversations to crawl his way back down to his cot. Besides, the chairs in his bedroom are more comfortable anyway, easier to curl up in. But all of this isn’t easily explainable to a Nord woman with a shit-eating grin on her face. 

So what if he’s come to enjoy their quiet evenings together? Isran had taken to mentoring him in restoration, a practice which he picked up far quicker than expected. Once he felt he’d suitably mastered Vampire’s Bane on one of their duo-expeditions, he’d began coming to him just for conversation. The man seemed to sleep poorly anyway, their talks helped. Agmaer found that strangely endearing. 

The night before they’d talked for a good couple hours, passing the pipe between them until the sweet scent of crystal bubbled against the fireplace smoke. Agmaer had asked if one could get addicted to the stuff, to which Isran had responded with a laugh. 

“If you do, I’ll make sure you get your supply,” He said, a statement which was perhaps a little amusing, but not the slightest bit comforting. “Redguards don’t have a problem. Can’t say I know how Nords take to it.”

“Breton.” He corrected quickly. 

“You’re too tall for a Breton.”

“My Pa’s a Nord, Mom’s a Breton, which makes me a Breton by default.” He explained with a shrug. “Still would have been a Breton if my Pa was an elf. Zenithar knows he’d bristle at the prospect.”

“Ah,” Isran said. “No sympathy for elves. You won’t find an ounce of that across the border. But the Nords take it to a new extreme. History says they always have.” 

Their conversation flowed to a halt after that. Occasionally, Isran would open his mouth as if to say something, then shut it again, furrowed his brow, confused. Agmaer figured it difficult for him to talk about family and heritage. He’d caught a glimpse of the portraits on his bedside table; Mathilde, and his daughter, all bouncy curls and big smiles. It’s a level of suffering he still can’t reconcile, and he finds it only makes him admire Isran’s strong demeanor more. 

“I like having you around.” 

Agmaer blinked. His companion’s gaze was fixated on the fireplace, directed entirely away from him. It was hard to see in the dim light, but was he flushed? Was it the alcohol? 

“Well!” He said, wincing at the immediately awkward energy his reaction shoved between them. “Weren’t expectin’ that.“

Isran sighed, and it was still hard to tell, but he looked almost amused. It’s a face he often makes around Agmaer, the one Celann had pointed out on their patrol. 

“Look, I’m a hard-ass motherfucker. I’m old and I’ve seen a lot of shit.” He explained, and this time he associated the statement with a hand on Agmaer’s knee. “But you and that stupid grin you’ve always got plastered on your face…it helps.”

The touch felt right. No burning. No spark. Just right. Comforting. When he’s spending time with Isran, he feels safe, like things are going to be alright, so he’d returned the gesture by placing his hand over his leader’s and squeezing. 

“I like being around you too.”

Isran was equally staggered by that confession; that’s not a phrase he’s likely used to hearing. Everyone at Fort Dawnguard is terrified of him or hates him, the Vigilants despise him, his family is gone. How many years has it been since someone genuinely enjoyed his company? Wanted to spend time with him?

“Anyway.” Isran coughed, returning his hands to his lap. “I’ve got a solo run for you tomorrow. A lair clear North of Solitude.”

“Solo?” Anxiety immediately makes itself known in his throat, and he frantically swallows it down so as not to appear unprepared. 

“Did I stutter?”

“No!” He exclaimed. “You’ve just said before you don’t like to send us out alone.” 

He’d put a hand to the bridge of his nose and groaned. “I still don’t. But your little friend and her little freak have some sort of Priest coming. I need to be here, and everyone else is occupied.” 

His little friend being the actual Dragonborn, Agmaer’s gotten the sense that Isran isn’t too much of a fan, especially after she dragged a Volkihar vampire with a penchant for sass to their fort. To her credit, shit just sort of seems to happen to the Dragonborn no matter where they go, but Isran doesn’t have much tolerance for vampire sympathists. 

“I’m trusting you to do good work.” He reassured. “Just…don’t get yourself killed, kid.” 

And so here he is, twenty feet underground into a lair clear, trying very hard not to get himself killed. For a vampire lair, the setup is atypical; there seem to be four chambers on each side of a large spiralled staircase, running so deep that he can’t see the bottom. He’d snuck into the right side chambers first, but hadn’t found a single vampire in any of them. It seems they were all on their way down the stairs, making for easy kills, but poor sneaking. 

No matter. He moves forward anyway, occasionally casting muffle on his boots so as to keep his steps quiet on the terraced staircases. He catches sight of another Nightstalker a few flights down — a pull of the trigger, and she’s tumbling. It’s a good four seconds before he hears her hit the ground. Where in Oblivion does this go?

Curiosity betrays him, and he slips down the next four flights quickly. There are emblems on the wall, but none of them depict traditional Coldharbour imagery; rather they’re a mix of spider and heart motifs painted in beautiful pinks, purples, and reds. The red spider, especially, seems familiar, but he can’t quite place it. Down another flight he goes. 

More hearts, more spiders! He’s wholly perturbed now, especially as he realizes he hasn’t come across more than six vampires in this entire massive lair. Something is wrong, and he makes the call — he needs to turn back. He suspects the inhabitants know he’s here, and if they’ve accumulated together, he has no chance. He turns and begins to walk back up the staircase. 

He should feel the upward ascent in his legs, but there’s no struggle at all. Disoriented, he looks around to see that he’s somehow gone deeper. There’s a source of light beneath him now, and he can hear muffled movement from where it shines. As he takes another step forward, the stairs tread in the opposite direction, as if deescalating him down towards the center. Alarm seizes his common sense, and he begins to run, only speeding up his descent in the process. 

By the time he catches his breath and his mistake settles in, there’s excited chatter not too far below him, bright pink and purple murals decorating the walls. On the side opposite him is a gruesome depiction of a mantis with a human head in its jaw, mouth hanging open and eyes rolled back. Upon closer inspection, it becomes clear that the head is not a painting, but the desecrated corpse of a victim nailed to the wall. Agmaer’s stomach feels unwell, and he stumbles, an error that leaves him tumbling headfirst down the staircase, landing at the bottom with no crossbow or helmet to speak of. 

“Welcome, Revered One!” 

There’s no time to recover as the pain of the fall soaks into his bones; two freezing arms wrap around his own and lift him to his feet, the sharp red candlelight nearly blinding him with the loss of his helmet. His captors drag him forward, and as his eyes adjust, he pales to the sight of what must be hundreds of female vampires watching him and gossiping excitedly among themselves. The room is nearly the size of an arena, at the center, a veiled woman sits beneath a massive stalagmite statue, the head of a decapitated man piked on each side of her throne.

A gorgeous Khajiti woman leads him to the altar with an adoring smile on her face, directing the vampires on either side of him to treat him with great care. Her outfit — all of their outfits, for that matter — are unlike any vampire’s he’s studied, nothing but thin leather bodysuits with cutouts at the navel to reveal a spider with a thorax in the shape of a heart. On their shoulders, leather bat wings. It almost looks like a parody , he thinks as he’s brought to his knees before the throne. It’s only when he gets close enough to recognize the statue that everything clicks into place. Mephala. These vampires worship Mephala. 

“Succubi of the Mantis Web!” The Khajit announces with wholly delighted joy. “The Lady of Legs has brought a new man to our beds. Give thanks for her good boon!” 

There’s a glorious uproar among the crowd, clapping and cheering, but the veiled woman in front of him remains nearly entirely motionless, only the slow, impatient tap of her left index finger on the throne indicating she’s anything but a corpse. 

“As customary, our fair and beautiful Widow will bear the passing of his fate,” She says, to which the crowd quiets with anticipation. “Whether the taste of his blood and feel of his body is bestowed upon us tonight, or offered to our leader, we all will know the grace and goodness of the Lady of Legs!” 

“Wait!” He exclaims, but no one seems to pay his outcry any mind. The most he gets is a tightening of the grip on his limbs. “There are others comin’. Let me go and we’ll leave you fine ladies alone.”

No one spares a word for his plea, and he tries to struggle, tries to kick himself free, his growls and shouts of frustration interrupting the clan’s careful silence. After a while, the Khajit finally tsks her irritation with him, and his body goes rigid. Fuck. He’s paralyzed.

“Mantis, we await your decision.” She says, satisfied. The veiled woman peers down at him, and he can just catch the glow of royal purple eyes through the netting. The silence drags on, and he manages six or seven prayers to Stendarr — though he’s not entirely sure which option is preferable at this point. 

Mantis nods, and the Khajit bows in recognition before returning to her audience. 

“Tonight, Mantis will feast!”

The crowd roars wildly, and a pungent rag is tossed over his nose. He drowns in darkness.

Chapter 4: Sleep Is for the Weak

Agmaer awakes to cold hands on his skin and an irritatingly high-pitched voice in his ear. 

“Oooh, Lorraine, he’s just too cute, I can barely keep my hands off him!” It squeals, proof of point as chilled nails scrape his chest. “You don’t think Mantis will mind if we have just a little taste, right?”

“Of course she will!” Another woman snaps. “And if you’re going to keep salivating over him, then you can leave.”

She makes a huffing noise, and he’s relieved when he’s no longer subjected to her freezing touch. He tries to recollect his thoughts. Vampire lair. Statue of Mephala. Fuck . The reminder makes him groan; whatever had been in that rag is beginning to wear off.

“He’s awake!” The young voice coos, and before he can test out movement in his muscles, a bright-eyed vampire girl is leaning over him, a spider painted on her left cheek. “Good evening, Revered One! Rejoice, for Mantis has chosen you!”

His limbs are tied down tightly, only giving one or two pulls before concluding resistance is in vain. “Mantis…?”

“Yes! Our beautiful Widow has chosen you as her sacrifice to the Lady of Legs!” She excites, and he winces as her proximity leaves him freezing again. “I’m Lily, and this is Lorraine, and we’ve been honored with the chance to prepare you for her.”

“He doesn’t care about our names, Lil.” Lorraine mumbles. He can’t see the other woman, but he can hear the sound of her pestle, and smell whatever she’s brewing. With the limited movement he has in his neck, he takes stock of his situation. Arms and legs tied tightly, armor and underclothes removed, the room around him completely barren except for the elegant bed he’s attached to. Shit. No makeshift weapons to be found. 

“You’re never any fun!” Lily fumes, before leaning back over her captive again. “You’re beautiful. Has anyone ever told you you’re beautiful? Oh, what I would have given to keep you as cattle!”

The reality of his situation begins to settle in, and he gives another sharp pull at the rope. Lily brushes his hair back and makes a soothing noise, kisses his forehead.

“Don’t resist. Your death will be a pleasant one. How I envy you! I still remember when Mantis made me a succubus. But you’ll feel so much more than that!”

“You’re going to make me a sex vampire?” He asks. Lorraine can’t keep her laughter, and Lily giggles too. At least they recognize the ridiculousness of his circumstance. 

“Succubi can’t be male silly!” She says, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Mantis is going to claim you, and when she eats your head, the Lady of Legs will restore our youth once again!”

“Eat my head?!” He asks, panicked. Lorraine is looming above him now too, and smears something across his chest. 

“Well, they don’t call her Mantis just because, sweetheart.” She says. He feels a strange, almost heady haze as his skin absorbs the cream. It’s as if all his trepidation melts away in an instant. He’s still terrified, of course, being that his head’s about to be eaten, but it’s more like a dull groan in the background now, warmth flooding through his veins. 

“Oh, you’re ready to go already honey!” Lily purrs, and he cries out when he feels a hand stroke his more intimate area. “Good work Lorraine.” 

Is this…pleasure? It feels too overwhelming to be that. He can’t squirm, strapped against the bed as he is, and he gets the sensation of being trapped in his own body, his heart feeling as if it might stop when Lily touches him again. Lorraine slaps her hand away, and he has to bite his lip to suppress a moan. 

“Enough, Lil. Not your meal.” She chastises to a sharp whine of discontent from the younger girl. “Come. He’s ready. It’s time to retrieve Mantis.” 

“No!” He spits out, desperation clouding his brain. “Don’t leave. You can’t leave me… not like this…”

“Awww! You’re just too cute!” Lily squeals. “Don’t worry. Mantis will take good care of you.” 

The door shuts behind them, and Agmaer is left completely alone, burning up slowly in his body. The noises he makes are more than humiliating, but he can’t keep them from his throat. He tries to squirm, tries to get any sort of friction between his legs, but the ropes are far too tight, and he only succeeds in giving himself terrible rope burn. If something, anything would touch him. Every breath is torture. 

He briefly allows himself to consider the prospect of the Dawnguard coming to his aid, and then crushes it. He’s all the way across Skyrim in a lair who knows how deep, filled with hundreds of powerful vampires sanctioned by an entirely unpredictable Daedric lord. As his Pa would put it, he’s more fucked than a whore in a Hjaalmarch whorehouse. No one would risk their hide for him — it wouldn’t be strategic, and despite his dim hope that Isran’s seemingly minor regard for him would assist his case, he’s a calculated man first and foremost. No. This is where he’ll die, headless and hard as a rock. 

Not soon enough the door creaks open again, and there’s some relief associated with that. At least the torture is at its end. The woman in the doorway — Mantis, he presumes — is flanked on either side by Lorraine and Lily, now garbed in the barely-there black leather bodysuits that reveal the heart-bodied spider tattooed on their bellies. Mantis is bare; she’s easily the most beautiful woman Agmaer has ever seen, with a little knowing smile on her face that lights up her pale expression. Alright, so, yes, his death is going to be miserable, but at least he won’t have a disgusting vampire Nightstalker looming over him and chewing on his face.

Thought all too soon with all too much confidence; Mantis begins to twitch, her body writhing and bending as her gyrating shoulder blades push her form into unnatural positions. Vile, featherless wings break her flesh, which quickly turns a sick gray. When she lifts her head, her soft blonde curls and harmonic features have given way to an unspeakable monster, her jaw elongated and salivating as she looks upon her waiting prey.

“Well, ain’t that just great.” 

The Vampire Lord practically pounces upon him, shaking the bed frame with the weight of her horrible body. Agmaer can do nothing as she bares her teeth at his neck and sinks her sharp claws into his shoulders, as if determining how large of a bite is needed. He tries to turn his head away from her rotten breath, but she grabs him and forces him to face her. The worst part of all of this is whatever magic had been in that cream is still leaving him helplessly desperate, and to his embarrassment, he’s grinding against the disgusting Vampire’s thigh. 

Lily and Lorraine have left them alone now, and he can sense from the way Mantis tenses that she’s ready to properly begin the ritual — that is, eat his head, fuck his body. He laughs in disbelief; he thinks of trying to tell himself six months ago that this is how he’d die, with a vampire on his dick. 

It’s more exciting, at least, then working oneself to death on a rundown farm, and he decides he doesn’t regret it. He made friends, he learned a thing or two, he took down a couple bloodsuckers. All in all, a good life. He’d make his peace, if it weren’t for Isran’s last words in his head. Don’t get yourself killed, kid. 

Just as Mantis lowers her head to his neck, sharp teeth scraping across his collarbone, there’s an ear-splitting bang that resonates across their joined forms. The succubus lets an unearthly shriek, abruptly cut off as she goes limp atop his body. She’s dead weight, he can feel her lips close, fangs retracting. She’s dead. He thinks. Stendarr’s mercy. She’s really dead.  

When he dares to lower his eyes from where he’d trained them on the ceiling, her now empty, pale sockets stare back at him, devoid of the remnants of evil which had turned them their scorching purple-red. Between her brow is a weeping hole, the scent of burning flesh seeping from the flaps of skin crowding the thick steel ball lodged in her skull, a strange black powder coating its sheen. He tries to reach out to touch it, but remembers his hands are tied. 

His eyes seek beyond the bed, and there stands Isran, a long, smoking weapon burning in his trembling hands. In his short life thus far, he’s never seen an expression of such boiling anger. The gilded weapon is tossed aside and clatters to the floor as Isran pulls his axe and begins to cut his binds. 

“Isran, more will be coming—”

“They’re dead.” He responds flatly, only his eyes betraying his fury when he runs a thumb over the rope burn on Agmaer’s wrists. The uniquely gentle touch coming from Isran’s rough, calloused hands makes his overwhelmed body shiver, especially exposed like he is. 

“You brought everyone to save—”

“Just me.” He says. He shoves Mantis’s corpse onto the floor and begins to cut away the binding on his ankles. “Just me.” 

It’s insane of course, to have come alone to a lair this deep in the mountains knowing that your recruit might already be dead inside, to put a bolt through the heart and head of hundreds of blood sucking freaks just to get to what you can only presume will be his totally drained corpse, to wipe out an entire clan, to directly defy a Daedric prince, to stake everything on the chance to bring a Breton farm boy’s body home. But Isran, a man who he’d idolized, a man infamous for his cold demeanor and lack of faith, had done all of it for him, and somehow arrived just in time to save his life. 

Completely freed from his binds, Agmaer is pulled into two strong arms. Isran stands there for a while, holding him almost too close. The chill of his buckles and belt against his bare flesh makes him tremble, but he squeezes back, feeling his hands dig into his ribs as if nothing is ever going to tear him away again. 

“Fuck. I thought I lost you. Thought I lost you.” He mumbles.. “I fucked up. Shouldn’t have sent you here alone.” 

“You couldn’t have known.” Agmaer attempts to console. 

“I should’ve. That’s my job.” He says. When he leans back, Agmaer is surprised to find his eyes are glossy. “You really are a damn good kid.” 

Then Isran is tilting his chin and kissing him carefully, as if trying not to overwhelm him. His kiss is entirely his opposite, slow and thoughtful, but burning with a deeper intensity beneath the surface. He can’t know, of course, that just the feeling of his hands trailing and finding a home at his bare waist is enough to make his eyes roll back in pleasure, or that when he pulls him in a little tighter, he has to arch his hips backwards so as not to press his need into his thigh. 

He pulls away slowly, and there’s a look of caution on his expression, not regret, not confusion, just careful consideration. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” 

Agmaer can barely speak, and he only lets out a little whine. He’s never experienced this kind of need in his life, and Isran is standing so close to him, the taste of his kiss, fresh with Angelica, still lingering on his lips. He can’t help but to slide a hand between his legs, trying to keep from humping it like a dog. Just the feeling alone is enough to have him burying his head in his shoulder and seeking something to hold onto. 

It takes Isran a moment to figure out what’s going on, but when he does, he groans. “Shit. What…?”

“Succubi…” He manages to moan, hand still lingering over the tip of his own cock. He knows if he touches himself, he’s just going to start embarrassingly writhing against the bed, desperate for release. “Isran, I can’t, I don’t think I can…”

He’s just stammering now, his vision going blurry and head going wild as the sensation hits him all at once. A dull thought in the back of his mind reminds him that he’s grinding against the thigh of his childhood hero, that he should be embarrassed, but he isn't, too addled with thoughts of sex, especially when Isran gently peels him off and turns him over as if he were a doll, the feeling of the soft sheets brushing up against his nipples making him blabber worthless nonsense. 

“I’ll take care of you, kid. Just trust me.” He hears Isran say. Agmaer’s never done anything like this — a proper virgin — but it’s as if his body suddenly has a mind of its own, and he finds himself pressing his chest into the bed, ass slid up in the air invitingly. In any other circumstance he’d be horrified, but his brain doesn’t have the capacity for it, not now. All he can do is wiggle his hips a little, whine as he hears Isran undo his belt. 

Only nineteen and a Breton to boot, the thought of being taken ass-up by a massive, much older man would be terrifying, but now, he’s practically drooling at the thought of how good this is going to feel, how full he’s going to be. He doesn’t realize he’s moaning Isran’s name until a kiss is placed to the back of his neck, and he feels a hand wrap around his cock. His eyes cross, and he sobs. 

“There you go.” He guides, helping him to rock his hips into his touch. “Move slowly. Don’t overstimulate yourself. Don’t want you passing out on me.” 

The prospect is very real, his vision already blackening at the corners. His whole body is an erogenous zone, and he can do little more than make pathetic, gurgling noises as Isran uses his free hand to squeeze and knead his soft ass. The truth of the matter is that even without the Succubi he’d been dreaming of Isran fucking him senseless, had hidden under his blankets and muffled his moans with an empty flour sack to the thought of a night just like this one. It couldn’t be helped. That night they spent in the cave together, the taste of each other on the pipe shared between them, the way Isran had become so publicly possessive of him that the rest of the fort had started to talk. They’ll really be talking now, he thinks, and the thought only serves to make him rock his hips harder into Isran’s grasp.

“You really are a pretty boy.” 

“Mhm.” He agrees weakly. Were he in his right mind, the compliment would have made him ashamed, but now he leans into the praise, repeating it to himself. “P-pretty…”

“Yes. A pretty boy. My boy.” He mumbles. He wraps his free hand in his blonde curls and lifts Agmaer’s panting, cross-eyed face to his own. “Have you ever been with anyone before?”

He manages to shake his head, and Isran nods, bites his lip. “Fuck, kid. I’ll make this good for you. You won’t need anyone else.” 

“Please.” Agmaer pleads. He doesn’t want anyone else, wants nothing more than to be taken so thoroughly he can’t remember anything but the feeling of Isran’s length rocking in and out of him. He needs it so badly that tears drip down his face, wailing as two long, warm fingers are slipped inside of his entrance instead of the full stretch he’s craving.

“I know.” He shushes, rubbing his back comfortingly. “But I don’t want to hurt you. I need you ready to take me. Sen tengai Dua Nogro Ueemong.” 

He’s too sex-drunk to recognize the Yoku, but he assumes it’s something equally gentle and filthy. Even Isran’s fingers stretch him wide, and he’s moving in ways only describable as pathetically whorish, seeking deeper penetration. It’s not enough, no matter how good it feels when he curls his fingers against places he didn’t know he had, or when he pumps them in and out, almost like he’s enjoying teasing him. Even desperate as he is for his cock, he still weeps when the fingers are removed, tune only changing when Isran finally mounts him, the full length and girth of his cock resting on his back. 

“It’s big,” He moans. Isran lifts his mouth to his own, kisses him more harshly this time, enough that when they separate, Agmaer’s eyes are seeking wildly for focus. 

“I know, kid.” He soothes. “Spread your legs for me.”

He obeys, and this is simultaneously the best and worst decision he’s ever made. When Isran finally slides inside him, his vision goes black with pleasure, and he faints, coming in and out of consciousness as he takes him cautiously, every inch like torture in his overstimulated body, every inch feeling like it should be the last, only to be followed by more. He’s so big, too big , stretching him in a way he worries he’ll never come back from. 

He manages to regain consciousness to the feeling of Isran bottoming out against his ass, deeper and hotter than he could have possibly imagined, filling him so well he doesn’t think he’ll ever feel full again. He tries to say something, but it comes out as nothing more than a high whine. 

“Did you pass out?” Isran laughs. His voice is strained now, and Agmaer manages to hang onto a little pride in knowing he’s affecting him so much. “You feel so good. Soft and tight. Just like I thought you would.” 

Like he thought he would? Had he been thinking of this too, and if so for how long? The questions only make him needier, and he pushes back against him, a signal for more. Isran’s hands squeeze his hips, and he cries something into the pillow. 

He doesn’t even thrust into him at first, just gently rocks his hips against his own, moving him back and forth on him with only his hands. It’s not enough, and he knows it, beginning to pick up the pace, slow enough to keep him from passing out again, but strong enough to keep his green eyes rolled back, and his shoulders twitching helplessly. 

“There you go. Just like that.” He says, wipes a few tears away from Agmaer’s flushed face. “I’m a little too big for you, aren’t I? But you’re taking me so well.” 

He slides two fingers into his open, panting mouth, and Agmaer takes them eagerly, gagging and drooling around them as Isran moves faster inside of him, each thrust bouncing off his soft ass. The gentle pace doesn’t last long, soon his strong hand is gripping his hips hard enough to bruise. Between gasps of pleasure, he manages a few pleas for more, pleas which don’t go ignored. Soon enough Isran is properly rearranging his insides, thrusting into him hard enough that the bed trembles beneath them. Agmaer’s screams are only muffled by the fingers in his mouth, and when those are removed, Isran tugs his head back by his hair, and growls in his ear. He can feel the scruff of his beard scratching his neck.

“Cry louder for me.” 

“Please, I—”

“I know you can cry louder for me.” 

“Isran!” He sobs. His reward is immediate, and he knows he’s reaching his limit. He should have reached it long ago, but the magic had clearly given him more longevity. Despite his best efforts to keep himself upright, his legs finally give out, and he can’t do anything but whimper and grasp onto the headboard as he’s pounded into the mattress. 

Their pace slows, and Agmaer feels him twitch inside him. At some point they’d found each other’s hands, and he squeezes to signal that he can’t take much more. His movements grow weak and sloppy, his efforts to throw his hips back onto him no longer much more than an effort to feel the rough touch of his hand on him. 

Isran must recognize this, because he guides his hand forward and runs his thumb over his tip, just enough to overpower whatever they’d put in his body. “Go on.” 

He finally does. The last thing he hears is Isran talking him through it, the last thing he feels warmth between his thighs before he slips into a blissful sleep.

---

They don’t make it back to the Fort until nearly three days later. Only one of those was spent actually traveling. The rest?

Well, it’d be a shame to waste a pure supply of succubus magic. 

“Hey hey! Agie, you’re alive!” Celann says when they stumble through the heavy doors, lifting a mug of mead in his direction. “And here Isran was worried for nothing. You two kick some vampire ass?”

“A couple hundred or so,” Isran responds, tossing his crossbow and the long-barrelled weapon onto one of the sitting hall benches. He’d shown it to Agmaer the night before. An arquebus, he’d called it. Something Sorine dug up in an old dwemer ruin. Not a practical weapon, but it does look badass. 

Celann chokes on his drink at Isran's purported kill count. 

“Bullshit asshole!” He manages between coughs. “No fucking way. There aren’t that many vampires on Nirn.”

“Sure.” Isran waves him off, gesturing for Agmaer to hand him his crossbow. Celann whistles. 

“Oh shit Agie, you got a limp on you!” 

“He fell down some stairs.” Isran grumbles, his tone short. “Any more commentary?”

“That bloodsucker chick wants to see you.”

“Fuck. Of course she does.” He growls, having just sat down. “Fine. Agmaer, go have something to eat. And get some sleep. That’s an order.” 

“I thought sleep was for the—”

“Shut the fuck up .” 

Agmaer tries his best to hide the little limp in his step as he makes for the kitchen, one of those pasty chicken dumplings sounding shockingly delicious after an entire day on the road. Gunmar is cooking something up, and he mouths a thank you as a baked potato is set in front of him, roasted in chicken broth and settled on a bed of tomatoes. Much better than a half-cooked pastry. 

“Word of advice, lad.” Gunmar says before he can take a bite. “If you’re fuckin’ the boss, don’t parade around in his armor.”  He leaves Agmaer alone with a face the color of his platter, the bite of potato on his fork having fallen down the front of his very black, decidedly not silver armor.