❤Sareena thiking of us❤

Writer's notes before starting the chapter:
Lore on the chapter: 1. Lucifer does exist in the MK lore, lol; check it out on the wiki. As crazy as it sounds.

2. Edenians are technically the most beautiful beings in the realms; as beautiful as Sareena and Skarlet would be, they are no match for the girls in appearance. The closer to divine bloodlines, Argus and Deliah for example, the more this is accentuated.
3. Sareena is a demon who is closer in appearance and emotions to humans due to Shinnok's changes on her kind(Remember that this was done out of spite for losing Earthrealm). The evolution in emotion was an unforeseen change from his constant spell(That's why characters like Sareena and Ashrah, who are younger compared to Argarath, have a more neutral vision and lean toward the light side). Argarath and Belook, ancient demonic forces, are beasts by nature, and these rules don't apply since they cannot be changed. Besides, there was no need for they could change their form.

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Chapter 32: Sareena:

Somewhere beneath the floors, the foundry’s pulse had slowed, its glow low behind the stone, and the long corridors that had seemed so ordered at dusk now felt hollow and attentive. Fenrir walked them alone. The black marble gave him back at every step, a dark figure in silver and crimson pacing beside his own reflection. He had not forgotten what the last mirror had shown him.

He pondered his father’s proposal as he went. “An item for the war effort,” Argarath had said, and not a word more until first light. Fenrir did not like it. A demon lord of Belokk’s standing did not scream across a battlefield for the pleasure of the sound, and a man who guarded information this carefully was usually covering something worse. He had nothing but suspicion to go on, yet suspicion told him the prize sat somewhere the Brotherhood could already reach, perhaps in Belokk’s own keeping. That would explain the urgency. It did not explain his father’s patience to withhold information from his son.

Still, his mind kept dragging him back to Outworld. The war was not finished. If anything, it had turned against him. Reiko had walked into Kuatan with a storm of stolen souls at his back and had still been standing when Fenrir fell. He needed to be stronger. The only door in this entire realm that opened onto strength was the one his father held, and he hated how little room that left him to choose.

He did the math once again, as he had been doing since the balcony, and it always came out the same. A day here was the better part of a week there. He had already lost an unknown stretch to the void, and now he was spending more of it on a favour.

It was not the war which he missed the most. But them. Jade first, and the most. The last true conversation they had shared was still an open wound, and he had gone and died on top of it. He could see her at the edge of that battlefield with the staff in her hands and the words she had made him swear prior still raw between them: “Promise me.”

Kronika had warned him that Jade’s fate was knotted to his own. In what shape or form he did not know, but everything that had transpired between them only strengthened that prophecy. He did not know what happened after his death nor the consequences of his actions. What if she had been…he did not allow himself to finish that thought.

Kitana, most likely, would have taken the news in a different manner: composed yet bleeding with sorrow somewhere no court could see. “Do not begin to decide for us what we can or cannot bear,” she had told him once. He suspected she would call a day in hell, spent searching for an item he could not even name, exactly that kind of decision. And she would not be wrong for saying so.

Then another vivid yet most painful image returned to him as he walked. Mileena running towards him across Kuatan’s broken ground, with Kitana and Skarlet at her heels, alive and whole after all those months. The scream that followed was the last clear sound he remembered. He had been that close. He could still feel the exact distance. And Skarlet would be furious with him for dying and yet just as pained as the others. Just like Kitana, she would do what she taught herself best. Bury the pain beneath efficiency, drilling soldiers until nobody could tell whether she was angry or afraid.

Outworld had not been his by birth, and perhaps it never would be by blood. But the better part of a year of waking through its landscapes and city streets had made it his by choice, and he could no longer picture Earthrealm as anywhere he would go back to. He had promised the people of this realm a better tomorrow from a throne that had belonged to a tyrant. He had died before he could deliver it, and the shame of that sat in him painfully.

Yet beneath the shame there was another thing. He wanted a life there, with all four of them. The time spent together, even the arguments and the endless council, were his favourite part of the day. On the cold night before the war began, Kronika had looked at the sleeping queens and told him that soon they would carry a part of him within them. The first time he understood her, it had struck him with tenderness and grief in equal measure, with Mileena missing and the war still ahead. It still did. But here, in a corridor of hell, the picture came back with a warmth he could not kill: a small, loud child with Jade’s warmth, perhaps a daughter with Kitana’s eyes, or one with Mileena’s laughter. Skarlet teaching them to hold a blade the wrong way just to annoy their parents. The smile crept onto his face before he could stop it. He shook his head, yet it stayed anyway.

“Gods, I’d be a shitty father,” he muttered, and reached for the door of his room. He had, after all, met the example.

It was then that the dark beside him spoke, but the voice that came from it was one most familiar to him by now.

“Not even a day under the old man’s roof and you’re already thinking of knocking a girl up just to annoy him.” Sareena detached herself from the shadows, unhurried, arms folded, the crimson lining of her tunic flickering as she moved. “I knew you resented him, Emperor. I didn’t realise it ran to founding a dynasty out of spite.” She grinned. “Bold. Insane if you ask me, but bold nonetheless.” Fenrir stared at her in pure shock at her statement. “What?” Sareena asked, all innocence.

“What the fuck.” He said slowly. Then, he dragged a hand down his face. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough; waiting for you is boring, you know?” She said with a shrug.

He shook his head and pushed the door open. Sareena slid past him before he could think to stop her. “Hey! No. Out.” Yet she was already across the room. Sareena did not look at the room as any visitor would. Her eyes went to the chandelier, the writing desk and the weapons stand, checking them as a person checks a house they look after. The candles above were fresh, the chains oiled, and there was no dust anywhere, in a room that had supposedly waited decades for him. She sat on the edge of the bed with her boots planted and her palms braced behind her, perfectly at home.

“Why are you in my room?” Fenrir said, irritated.

“Because it’s quiet. And it’s the only room in this Citadel that doesn’t listen to what’s said inside its walls.” Sareena spoke simply.

“That’s a shitty reason to break in.”

“You opened the door.” She shrugged. “Besides, I’m only saying hello.”

“I’m going to sleep.” He closed the door harder than he meant to. “Remember that? People tend to do that? Especially when they want to be ALONE.” He said, placing the focus of his statement on the final word.

“Sleep. In a place like this?” Her mouth twitched slightly. “We demons don’t get that luxury easily, Emperor. Only the old man manages to do so, and even he wakes looking guilty of having that benefit.”

Something moved across Fenrir’s face. It was not suspicion or alarm, but plain, unguarded surprise at the word “we”. Sareena felt the look’s weight land heavy upon her. She had seen it once before, on an Earthrealmer named Bi-Han, in another life, and she did not let herself remember what had become of him after she left.

“So, he had not known about what she was”, Sareena thought. It was a kind mistake, and those sorts of mistakes were rare enough in her life that she nearly regretted correcting them. Her kind had not always looked like this, or so the elders claimed. After Lucifer’s fall and Shinnok’s remaking of the realm, the old bloodlines had begun to bend towards the human shape. Each generation drifted a little further, the older form folded away beneath the new. Argarath and Ulor were born of the old stock and wore what they were on their skin: horns, tusks, different-coloured hide and cinder or crimson eyes. Sareena belonged to the newest line, the closest to human the realm had yet made. Only the dark markings around her eyes and a faint heat beneath her skin betrayed her; even the elders said even those would fade in time. What lay folded beneath them she preferred not to look at. She had found a will of her own, and what she had come to suspect was a soul, thanks to Argarath and the Earthrealmer called Bi-Han. It still stung when people looked at her and saw only the demon, because she had fought for every inch of the name she had made for herself; one day she hoped her sister could as well.

“You’re a demon?” Fenrir said at last, yet not less shocked.

“I thought you knew.” The words came out smaller than she intended. She touched two fingers to the dark marks around her eyes. “Did you think I painted them on?” Then the shyness curdled into something closer to astonishment. “You honestly can’t sense it?”

“Should I?” He was not lying, and that was what troubled her. Fenrir had reached for the old hunter’s instinct the moment she said it, the one that should have told him in a heartbeat what stood beside him, how dangerous it could be. Yet, he found nothing but a single candle in a furnace. And from all of those flames, she was the least harmful of them all. Everything in this realm breathed brimstone, and she was one small flame among a thousand, and not a loud one. The mark between his shoulders was cold and silent too; there was nothing to be cautious of.

“Interesting,” Sareena murmured. Argarath had warned her that something sat inside this man. It occurred to her now that it might sit on his senses as well. She let the thought go and met his eyes. “Yes, you should. Every one of us can. It’s like hearing a bell that tells you one of us is nearby.”

“Well, apparently not me.” He shrugged, too tired to be embarrassed. “Now get off my bed, and out of my room.”

“You’ve taken the old man’s offer,” she said, ignoring both. “I’d have thought that would improve your mood. You are acquiring strength, your sword back and a way back home. Most people would be smiling rather than in your current predicament.”

His eyes narrowed. “Who told you?”

“No one.” She examined her gloves. “The balcony doors don’t close as well as either of you thinks.”

“You were listening to us,” Fenrir said with a raised brow, amused.

“I was doing my job.” She said it without a trace of apology. “If you’re going where I think you’re going, somebody ought to know what it is, and where, and when to start worrying.” A pause. “That’s all I’ll say. I was told to keep an eye on you. So, what’s wrong with you? Am I that terrible a companion?” She added playfully at the end.

“It’s not that.” The anger had gone out of him, and what remained was worse. “I just want to be alone.” Sareena tilted her head and studied him properly for the first time. He looked wrung out, and she knew the shape of the trouble was not her lord’s bargain. After a moment, Fenrir let out a long breath and sat down beside her on the edge of the bed, leaving a careful hand’s width between them.

“You don’t look like the lonely type,” she said, more gently than she meant to. For all that she had heard from Argarath and read in the reports, he was a stranger to her. She knew the facts of him: the hunter, the Nephilim, the emperor. She did not yet know the man.

He huffed a tired laugh. “You’d be surprised. I kept to myself, mostly, back in my hunting days.” He caught himself and winced. “Sorry.”

“For what?” She tilted her head, confused.

“You know. The hunting.” He said, knowing what his line of work could be seen and taken as in the Netherrealm.

“Oh…Don’t be.” She waved it away as if he had apologised for the weather. “Most of mine are bastards. Every hunter who put one in the ground did the realms a kindness.”

Fenrir blinked. Then he blinked again. “You really have no filter, do you?”

“Why would I need one? Was I wrong?” She said nonchalantly. Yet, there was underlying meaning behind her words. A hidden disdain towards his kind, what they chose to be.

“They’re your kind. Shouldn’t you care about them?” Fenrir replied.

“I can count the innocent ones on one hand.” There was no heat in it, only certainty. “Two, if I include the ones who repented.” Then her voice dipped, and the certainty went with it. “Some days I wonder if I belong on that list.”

“Why would you think that?” The warmth in his voice caught her off guard. “I don’t know you well. But you don’t strike me as someone who does terrible things for the fun of it.”

“I wish I could tell you otherwise.” She looked at her hands. “I spent most of my youth serving a being who thought of souls as coin, and I was very good at collecting. If your father hadn’t taken me in, I’d still be at it. Or I’d be dead.”

He almost asked for a name. He saw her face and let it lie. Names could wait, and he had a good many to ask for already. “I think you’re being too hard on yourself,” he said instead, slowly and warmly. “I’ve hunted demons for years. I know how they talk about what they’ve done. They don’t care about the pain they have caused. The few I saw try to change couldn’t carry it and took their lives. You’re still here. You’re sitting on my bed insulting your own species. That isn’t nothing.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Demons don’t change easily. Most don’t change at all. But you don’t sound like them, and you, certainly, don’t act like them. That’s what I think. I could be wrong.” He turned to look at her fully. “What do you think?”

Sareena did not answer at once. She blinked, once and then again, and discovered that for the first time in a long while she had nothing quick to say. Nobody had ever bothered to comfort her. Certainly, nobody had done it for a woman who had held a dagger on him a few hours earlier and had earned no part of his trust. He had simply sat there on the edge of a bed that was supposed to be his, tired and awkward and honest, and offered her the one thing she had never learned to accept: the benefit of the doubt.

While she was busy not knowing what to do with it, her gaze had wandered. It went to the line of his mouth, caught between embarrassment and sincerity, then to his eyes, both warm and human, pale with a strange blue that belonged to no one but him. Then to the symmetry of his face, which was irritatingly handsome, and the faint crease between his brows, which was irritatingly sincere. The more she looked at him, the more something warm and pure formed, and most strange, inside of her heart and body.

“You’re weird,” she said at last. It came out less like an observation than an accusation.

Fenrir’s mouth opened and shut. “I— what? I try to be decent, and I’m weird? Fuck you.”

“Excuse me?” One dark brow climbed upwards gently. “Fuck you too, Nephilim.”

“No. Fuck you.”

Neither of them looked away. The silence stretched, and their eyes narrowed by degrees, each waiting for the other to blink first. Fenrir became aware of how close she sat. Her skin ran hotter than a human’s; he could feel it across the hand’s width he had left between them. Sareena became aware of the pulse beating in her heart, and of the fact that she was counting it.

Then one of them moved, or both did; neither could have said which did first. It was not a gentle kiss. It was two people who had spent too long being careful colliding at once, Sareena’s fingers knotted in his hair, Fenrir’s hand slid to the back of her neck, the mattress dipped as they fell sideways into it. Buckles gave way under impatient fingers. The fine leather tore. The silver-threaded collar, the crimson sash, the gloves: all of it was dragged away and abandoned on the floor, until there was nothing between them but skin and the light that bled in through the high windows.

It should have stopped there. Fenrir knew exactly why it should: knew the faces, the names, the vows waiting for him a realm away. But the knowledge sat at the back of his mind like a voice in another room, and the rest of him did not appear to be listening. There was no spell in it; he would have felt that. It was only that two bodies seemed to have agreed on something their owners had not yet been told. There was none of the slow, vow-weighted tenderness he had grown used to either. No ceremony. Only heat, and appetite, and no one to answer to.

Neither of them spoke. The only sounds were breath and the low, wordless noises that escaped them both in pleasure. Beneath the stone, the foundry’s pulse went on until it stopped being the loudest thing in the room, replaced by the sounds of pleasure. Fenrir’s hands roamed around her soft skin with arousal, yet no less warmth due to it. She was nothing like the godlike symmetry of the Edenian women he had married, but no less compelling for it. Where Jade, Kitana and Mileena were perfection, Sareena was a different kind of beauty just like Skarlet, lean and strong and written over with old scars. Yet there was a sincerity that formed in her skin, giving a less perfected beauty but no less genuine. Perfection could mean many things in the eyes of many, and, in Sareena’s case, she was her own definition of perfection and beauty. One that Fenrir adored equally to his many lovers.

His thumb found the ridge of one of those scars beneath her ribs, and she laughed against his jaw, breathless. “You are gorgeous.”

She caught his lower lip between her teeth. “Don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t planning to,” Fenrir said with a sultry grin.

She pushed him back into the pillows and followed him down, her mouth travelling from his lips to his throat and the hollow beneath it, the silver streak in her hair slipping free of its pin at last and falling across his face. Sareena, once ready, turned around. Placing her head on Fenrir’s hips, lowering it till her lips reached his hard-on, and her bottom found itself in front of Fenrir’s face. He did not waste a step; The emperor moved his tongue around her wet folds. Making the demonic girl moan in the process as both of them pleased each other with lust.

The crimson glare of the Netherrealm cast heavy shadows across their forms as Fenrir and Sareena devoured one another. “Fuck!” She moaned as she pulled her mouth from his cock. “So, fucking hot.” Just as quickly as she removed herself, she went back in at a rapid pace and depth between each suck. Taking Fenrir fully and lubricating his hard-on.

Sareena’s aroused statement was most shared with Fenrir as he himself took care of the girl, pleasuring her with just as much determination. As he did so, Fenrir, as someone who always had a strong attraction to them, admired Sareena’s backside. Whilst it didn’t have the godlike benefits his three Edenian wives had, being a form that could only be considered the perfection in form and size, Sareena’s rear was just as beautiful and had nothing to envy them in its own right. Just like Skarlet’s, Sareena’s bum had an athletic and rounded form that fit perfectly with her slim, yet well-kept, figure. And just like Mileena’s and Jade’s, it was most alluring to the eye.

Fenrir couldn’t help but squeeze her rear, then caress it with both his strong hands. Sareena didn’t push back; instead, she seemed to relish the hard yet passionate and caring touch. “Fuck…Right there! I- I’m-!” She moaned as Fenrir felt her legs begin to tremble. His tongue’s sensual movements intensified. “Fuck right there, asshole! You are going to make m-“ Before she could finish her sentence, a powerful and most pleasurable melodic moan escaped her lips.

After a couple of seconds, once the climax subsided, Sareena’s head fell to his legs while her legs trembled from the shuddering release. Yet, she wasn’t finished. Not in the slightest. Fenrir, feeling this was far from over, moved and positioned himself behind the girl. Sareena grinned mischievously at the Nephilim, digging the vibe. She bent over for him, lowering her back and raising her hip, daring him to claim her if he was brave and skilled enough to do so. Fenrir didn’t back down in the slightest; he took the playful and sultry challenge head-on. The Nephilim pushed himself into her in a swift and deep motion, fully claiming her in the spot and making her gasp loudly.

“Fuck! You could have given me a heads up, ass-“ Fenrir rolled his eyes and began to move before she could finish her teasing remark, penetrating and making Sareena’s wet walls adjust to his length and size. Whilst the demonic girl seemed to enjoy teasing the Nephilim, she enjoyed more the pure and unfiltered pleasure he was providing her. One that no companion had ever given to her; while the pleasure was part of it, something more seemed to accompany the sensation that she couldn’t place her finger on, yet it only made everything better. Sareena couldn’t help but grin at the thought, for this was only starting.

Fenrir kept pumping into her in that position. Then, they passed through many others. Sideways, missionary, piledriver…Whilst the forms changed, the symphony that composed through them did not. The echo of their, now most wet, bodies was heard all across the room, as well as Sareena’s and Fenrir’s moans. Fenrir was hypnotised by Sareena’s ass as it jiggled in a rhythm with his pumps. He didn’t answer to her remarks, for he couldn’t find his own voice unless it was used for pleasure. Instead, he could only answer with actions, which Sareena found most pleasing. Nevertheless, Fenrir enjoyed her teasing and was most aroused by it. For it added a passionate layer to their utmost strange, forming bond.

Somewhere in it, the heat in her climbed past anything, only slightly, human. The dark markings around her eyes deepened and crept outward, faint as ink spreading through water, and the air began to taste of cinders. Sareena froze below him, braced for the flinch she had learned to expect from every Earthrealmer who had ever glimpsed what lay beneath her skin. It was his eyes she watched. The pale blue ones that had brightened to match her heat.

He did not reach for a weapon, nor did he look away. Fenrir looked at her as though the demon were simply another part of the woman, one he would have got round to in time, and drew her back down to his mouth. The marks stayed dark a moment longer. Then they eased.

An hour or two passed that way; the dark seemed to lengthen to hold them. She lost count of how many times she had come apart in his hands, and found, to her irritation, that she did not want to count. Later, she could not have said how much later, she found herself astride him, flushed and bright-eyed, her palms flat against his chest, and looked down. His eyes were the problem. Behind the warmth in them there was pain, old and buried deep. Sareena found herself captivated by them, for they were of the most beautiful colour and even in the state of arousal he was, they carried warmth and safety to whoever gazed deep inside them. And Sareena, in that moment, realised that those beautiful eyes did not allow anyone to sense those feelings unless Fenrir’s soul truly wanted it.

Yet, beneath that was something else: a shadow, coiled tight around his soul asleep with one eye open. A cold, haunting shiver ran down her spine, the instinct of every demon born that something older and worse than herself was in the room. She went still. Argarath’s warning returned to her, unwelcome: “Be careful of what lives in him.” In that moment, she didn’t understand; she still didn’t. Perhaps this was what he meant.

She did not ask. It was not the moment, and she was not certain she wanted the answer. Instead, she did the only thing that seemed right and gave him back the warmth he had been lending her without knowing; slowly, her palm found its way against his cheek as well as her forehead against his. A strange, soft thought rose in her, as unfamiliar as a language she had never learned; she wanted to stay like this. That she would like to keep this man safe, and to be there when he woke, and…She shut the thought away. Duty, she told herself. Her lord had asked her to keep watch over his son, and watching was all this was.

The pace built again, and with it their breathing. Sareena’s bounces on top of Fenrir made the mattress move with each of them. She couldn’t help but let soft-spoken whimpers and moans escape her lips as she felt herself once again close; this time she wouldn’t be alone. As her walls tightened and her breaths began to quicken, Fenrir’s cock began to twitch. “Yes, Fen,” she whispered. The name was out before she had decided to say it. Fenrir heard it and found that, for the first time since the mirror when the shadow spoke it, the name did not sting. In her mouth it sounded like something else entirely. It carried warmth and tenderness in it, just as it always had before.

(Credits to @Dc4st_lol) (Nevermind that it's Bi-han on the image lol)

“Sareena,” he breathed back.

The lust that had once filled the session had slowly, and without her realising, taken a backseat to allow something most unfamiliar to her to take centre stage. “Do it. Fill me up. Don’t waste a drop, please.” With that, Sareena pushed herself fully down. Her lips instinctively found their way to his with passion and, perhaps, something more that she didn’t understand, yet her soul and heart wanted to form. As Sareena’s climax took place around his shaft, Fenrir began to unload pulse after pulse of ropes into her. Painting her wet walls fully white. Once she pulled out, due to how deep it was in her, only a little bit began to drip as it mixed with her own juices.

She kissed him then hard and deep once again, “Stay,” she said against his mouth, “just a little longer.” She meant the moment. Afterwards there was only the long, slow quiet. “Well,” Sareena managed, once she could. “That was unexpected. I didn’t think you had it in you, Nephilim.” The armour was back in her voice, thin but there. She waited for the retort. None came. “Fen?”

He was asleep. The Emperor of Outworld, the last of the Nephilim, the man who had killed Shao Kahn, lay sprawled across a bed in hell with his mouth slightly open, tenderly sleeping.

“Cute,” Sareena said, and meant it as an insult. Yet, it did not come out as one, as a small, genuine grin formed on her lips. She smoothed a damp strand of hair from his brow, laid her head against his chest, and let the sound of his heartbeat fill her ear, slow, strong and warm. “Good night, fool,” she whispered tenderly.

(Credits in image)

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