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Lara Croft Commission Story
🕑 Added 2025-05-14 16:13:21 +0000 UTCA commission continuing the story laid out so far here: (https://www.patreon.com/posts/lara-croft-82827195 ) and (https://www.patreon.com/posts/lara-croft-base-107149633 )
Kindly commissioned by Koopz; always thankful for everyone coming to me for storywriting needs and I'm always happy to facilitate where I can.
While I didn't have any particular plans for this storyline, this takes us further into her Ladyship's power-trip; the request was to try and keep her somewhat in-character, an anti-hero who does what she feels is necessary, even if that means only trusting herself.
Hope you enjoy! Stay beautiful, new comic on the way later this month...
FYI: I have just uploaded a scaled-down and watermarked version of the second Catwoman (Tower of Fate) comic over on my Deviantart page for anyone that missed it!
\/\/ Story pasted below and attached in .doc format at the bottom if you prefer \/\/
Surrey, United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland...
Flanked from all sides by glowing monitors, a brooding and anxious figures sits hunched staring into one particular screen, her nerves shredded as she watches the relentless advance being made through hammering rain.
Benefactor of covert organisations, investigator into the paranormal, Heirress to the Giles family fortune, the world knows her as Terrie Giles. The parts of the world she allows to know of her existence that is.
She's been planning this for weeks, every ounce of her energies and vast wealth poured into uncovering the secrets she is convinced lie locked up within the walls of the immense country house she vaguely sees in silhouette through the stream.
“Nothing yet, sergeant.” Miss Giles murmurs into the microphone in front of her hunched form, her eyes flicking around the screen in search of any of that curious artefacting and interference she has become acutely familiar with.
She turns her head away from the constant footage streamed to the main screen in front of her. Half-turning in her opulent command chair, she eyes up the various other screens around her, each playing on loop a cycle of footage painstakingly reconstructed.
Despite the immense efforts poured into reconstructing these few snippets of footage, odd, almost alien interference still crackles around the edges of each video.
The most cutting edge AI, monumental render farms, geo-location algorithms and a team of career professionals; that's what it took to get even these snippets, yet still the reconstructed footage remains imperfect.
Miss Giles regards each video with a mixture of intrigue, fascination and, indicated by her labored breathing, obsession. Each screen shows a unique recording of the mysterious woman in the gleaming, skintight suit responsible for so much chaos around the globe.
All of her efforts, all of her investigations have led her to one murky theory and an identity she feels increasingly confident of.
The woman in the footage, wielding such superhuman power, can be none other than the owner of the very estate her mercenaries are cautiously infiltrating: The Croft Estate.
“None of the interference I'd expect yet...” She murmurs, shivering slightly as the dreadful thought crosses her mind that she might have gotten it wrong, that she may have showed her hand in the wrong place at the wrong time.
A question fills Terrie's headphones, spoken not by the sergeant, but by a woman, smoothly and confidently, her voice so clear it's as if she's in the room with her: “Is this the interference you were expecting?”
Miss Giles freezes in place momentarily, the light out of the corner of her eye causing her to slowly turn her head while fighting back a frightful shiver of dread.
“L-L-Lara Croft...?” Terrie tries to add as much confidence and presence to her words as she can, but fails miserably. The sight of the woman she's been hunting staring back at her through what should be a secure stream sends shivers up her spine, “h-how?”
“~Mhmhmhm~” The woman in close-up portrait on the main screen chuckles under her breath, her full lips curling into a wicked smirk, “surely if you've got this far, it can't come as too much of a surprise... Madame Giles.”
Terrie can't help but gasp, nobody knows that name; nobody outside of her own home's very tightly guarded circle of trust anyway. “Oh don't worry, your little toy soldiers can't hear us,” Lara reassures the paranoid investigator, “I've taken the liberty of cutting off your means of contacting them... but I will allow you to enjoy the show.”
With a cheeky, almost disrespectful pucker of her lips, Lara Croft blows a kiss to her obsessed voyeur and an instant later vanishes from the screen like an overlay being closed.
Shocked, lost for words, Miss Giles is left wide-eyes and watching her hired mercs' bodycam footage as they creep in organised formations through the rain.
“S-Sergeant!” She finally exclaims, getting enough of her wits about her after that haunting interruption to bellow at her armed group's commanding officer, “Sergeant!” She bellows, angrily beginning to bash, twist and test the connection of her microphone.
“Both teams in position, permission to breach?” The sergeant's voice arrives in the same headphones briefly hijacked by Lara.
“No! No, abort! She knows you're coming, sergeant!” Terrie exclaims, bashing her desk with balled up fists as she yells with all she's worth as if it'll force the message through.
“No response from HQ...” The sergeant reports to his soldiers. Miss Giles' face goes pale, they're walking into a trap... the have no idea what's about to befall them. “-alright boys, we trained for this.”
“Oh no...” Terrie whispers under her breath, jaw quivering, “this is not what I meant!”
“We expected a comms blackout... It just means we're in the right place. Everyone stay sharp, I want eyes in all directions when we breach!” The orders keep going out and there's not a thing their clandestine emploter can do to stop what's about to happen.
As she watches her soldiers take up flanking positions around the opulent front doors of Croft Manor, Terrie Giles inhales sharply, refocusing her mind.
“They're dead.” She softly says to herself, “They're disposable.” She continues as if each phrase is a chant meant to push away her sense of humanity, “Their lives are a necessary sacrifice to understand and witness this mysterious power of hers first-hand.”
Terrie rolls her shoulders as if setting herself and straightens up in her chair to watch the carnage unfold, a quivering hand reaching for a much-needed cigarette.
“BREACH! BREACH!” A barked command cuts through the diagonal rain and a split-second later, a heavy, mud-caked boot slams into the front door of Croft Manor, the surprisingly unlocked door flying open with little-to-no resistance.
Five assault-rifle wielding mercenaries, each trussed up in the latest military-grade armour spill into the warm light of Croft Manor's grand foyer, guns trained in every direction with expert practise and precision.
One-by-one the laser-sights of their rifles train on the centre-mass and forehead of the sole figure awaiting them inside, an unsteady male of advancing years holding a silver tray embellished with a fine tea set and five cups of freshly-poured black tea.
“Hold your fire.” The sergeant commands, keeping his gun trained on the figure as the unexpected situation causes him momentary pause.
“G-Good evening, gentlemen...” The old man stammers nervously as if he's as uncomfortable with the situation as the soldiers aiming their guns at him, “I am Miss Croft's butler, Winston.”
“Lady Croft apologises for her absence, though my Mistress will be with you presently; in the meantime, may one offer you refreshments?” He asks courteously, either completely misreading the situation or up to something nefarious.
“S-Sergeant, what-” One of the mercenaries almost breaks his professional veil, reasserting it the moment the commanding officer snaps an intense stare his way.
“Drop the tea set! Hands up where I can see them!” The sergeant insists, a classic show of intimidation that always works to reassert control of a situation.
“Drop it, sir? With all due respect, this tea set has been in the Croft family's possession for centuries.” Winston responds in the most affable yet assertive tone of voice he possesses.
“I said DROP IT!” The sergeant insists, taking two steps forwards, gun raised. His moment of power is cruelly stolen away from him when a gleaming, metallic object appears from his peripheral vision and swipes the assault rifle from his hands.
“Now, now...” A sultry, calm voice echoes over the foyer from the curved staircase to the soldiers' left. “Have you no respect for your elders... and betters?”
To a man, the other four soldiers spin and paint the woman descending the stairs with their laser-sights. She's tall and elegant, yet muscular, her long right leg poking out of the thigh-high slit of her luscious, gleaming black evening gown as she casually descends the stairs.
“Wh-” The sergeant is taken aback the moment he sees the target, her attire and behaviour completely at odds with what he expected. He takes a moment to glance back and find his assault rifle physically pinned to the opposite staircase with some kind of throwing dagger that has pierced and buckled the weapon in ways he didn't think possible.
“Target confirmed!” He exclaims, the other soldiers fanning out while keeping their weapons trained on the gorgeous figure of womanhood slowly descending towards them like a vengeful dark angel, her unblinking eyes darting from one to the next and her confident smirk never leaving her lips.
“Open fire!” The sergeant commands, an arm thrust and finger extended towards the seemingly unarmed woman who casually waves her opera-gloved hand dismissively in response; it's just his job, no hard feelings. He braces himself for the din of gunfire, but it never comes.
The soft clicks of fours triggers being pulled fill the air, followed by silence. A moment passes before finally another sound breaks the eerie quiet. It's the awkward, familiar sound of a rifle magazine hitting polished hardwood floorboards. Then another, and another, and one more.
The sergeant spins around to glance, wide-eyed and furious at the nearest soldier, barely believing that all of his experienced soldiers coud screw up so badly. Lo and behold at the stunned merc's feet lies the magazine that's supposed to be slotted into his gun!
“Dear, dear me...” Lara chuckles, finally stepping off the bottom step and swaggering, hips swaying towards the old man in her employ, “I am sorry, Winston. Such brutish behaviour,” she expresses sympathy with her butler, gently resting a hand on his shoulder as he turns to offer her a comforted nod.
“Kindly go and lock yourself in the walk-in freezer, old bean...” she instructs with a warm smile, “this won't take long.” With a sigh of relief and a nod, Winston turns away and begins making his way to the exit, tray shaking with every shuffling step.
“Of course, Lady Croft,” the butler speaks gratefully as he slowly retreats.
The mercenary commander spins back around, his hand whipping to his hip-holstered pistol; the last thing he wants is a witness to find later! Quick as a flash, he levels the weapon at the back of the butler, but the seemingly ill-prepared mansion owner is quicker!
Glistening, gloved hands whip out, prying his forearms apart. With a cruel twist, the sound of bones breaking fills the quiet foyer accompanied by the sergeant's guttural scream.
Lara spins around behind him artfully, twisting his good, pistol-wielding hand behind his back as she yanks his head back to meet the muzzle of his gun. She pulls the trigger for him and lets his body collapse, spinning to face his fellow soldiers before they even realise what's happened.
An instant later, a second soldier collapses dead, the butt of his sergeant's pistol embedded deep into his collapsed forehead from ten feet away. The survivors of Lara's lightning-quick attack realise they have moments to react and each scramble for replacement magazines from their belts.
With a satisfying click, a second magazine slots into the rifle of the central-most mercenary and he hurriedly lifts it to where the murderous aristocrat was just stood. No longer, but a dark shape draws his eyes upwards where he finds the stiletto heel of an airborn woman waiting for him.
As his throat gives out to the fiercely sharp and potently thrust high-heel, his finger instinctively pulls the trigger, wildly spraying bullets across the floor and staircase. His colleagues duck for cover as they fumble their own disarmed weapons, but it's all distraction and delay that allows Lara all the time she needs to strike!
It takes all of two seconds to make a recovery, but by the time he reacts, the next on the kill list finds himself embraced from behind by the lusciously defined and buxom mansion owner. Her slick, long rubber gloves wrap around his body, one hand tickling over his pelvis while the other gently strokes his throat, angling his head back towards her.
Lara's lips brush against his ear, her moist breath whispering sweet nothings into his ear, too quiet to even be picked up by his body cam's microphone. Despite her advantageous position, Lara doesn't kill the man in her arms, her fingertips sensually rolling off him as she turns away to begin striding back upstairs.
The last soldier, unaware of what was said, swings his gun towards the back of the woman in the slick dress half-obscured by his fellow soldier. Before he can even think of pulling the trigger, his comrade opens fire and blows the shocked merc away with a spray of bullets.
Lara casually brushes down her vivishined latex dress, smiling as she hears the gunshots. Her dress doesn't just smooth down as she casually climbs the stairs, it actively begins to transform, gluing to her body and smoothing over her form until it looks and feels far more like a skintight suit than a svelte ball gown.
A moment later another burst of bullets signifies the end of the first squad of home-invaders, the man she whispered in the ear of kindly blowing his own brains out as she requested. Lara can't help but smile to herself, this second skin of wonders that she wears offering so many wonderful and creative ways to deal with her enemies.
“Enjoying the show so far, Miss Giles?” She purrs as she nears the top of the stairs, her skin now utterly clad in gleaming dark latex like a shadowy predator stalking the halls of her territory, “feel free to pleasure yourself while you watch if you'd like...”
Lara stalks into the shadows as she loosens up her neck, “Trust me, nobody else will know... and you'll be doing so with the footage later anyway,” she purrs into the microphone she stole from one of Terrie's mercenaries, “no time like the present and I'd really like to hear those soft, blissful moans while I clean up your mess.”
Tantalizing though Lara's offer is, Miss Giles doesn't have the time nor focus to indulge in the now embarassing act of swooning over the oddly seductive, horrendous actss of Miss Croft as she'd honestly like to.
She's too focused, too distracted by figuring out how Lara has managed any of this. It's not the raw power and ability to kill her hired guns that she's most interested in, she came into this acutely aware that these disposable mooks would be an asset she'd likely lose.
She's far more interested and upset by how easily Lara Croft seems to have not just seen through Terrie's pursuit, but completely undermined all of her safeguards and usually bulletproof security measures.
Her gaze occasionally flickers and fixates back on the main screen as one by one Lara isolates and eliminates the mercenaries. The grace with which she does it, the predatory precision and languid ease with which she despatches trained professionals is as absorbing as it is appealing, filling Miss Giles with deep resentment and envy.
She works diligently, trying again and again to find a way to get a message through to the remaining soldiers. She knows it's in vain, but vanity is one thing she's certainly not lacking in. In her heart of hearts she knows she's searching for just one small success to at least salvage some modicum of pride from this entire failed endeavour.
A smile crosses her face at last as she rapidly taps away at a keyboard, she's finally figured something out! Hitting the enter key triumphantly, Terrie Giles spins back to the main screen, flicking through the streams of each soldier, not a single one left alive until she comes to the bodycam of the leader of the second squad.
Miss Giles gulps as she realises he's the last one alive and doesn't even realise it yet; his hands are shaking as he progresses down a narrow hallway. He's heart the screams of his squadmates, he's understandable shaken and yet, despite his fear he finally recognises the signal she sent.
The footage blinks as the scene in front of the survivor flashes, the rifle-mounted torch flashing rhythmically, not malfunctioning but sending a signal in morse-code.
“Huh?” He waits, frozen in his tracks as he watches the sequence, waiting as it loops around, “All... dead... waitin'... ahead... run?!” He exclaims in a thick American drawl, his camera angle tilting up to the door as the message comes through loud and clear.
“Good... gooood.” Terrie grins, pressing her fingertips together, a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. She watches the footage back away from the door for a few moments before the merc spins around in response to a clattering sound behind him, his gun trained on a familiar figure.
“Him?” Miss Giles sneers as she sees that god-damned butler standing with his tea-tray at the end of the corridor, it's out of her hands now; all she can do is watch.
“Please, sir... Lady Croft is awaiting your arrival in the lounge.” Winston nods politely to indicate his harmlessness, “kindly allow my Mistress to offer you the full breadth of her hospitality.”
“You gotta be kiddin' me, ol' man!” He shouts, clutching his gun tighter, “Whatever's goin' on in this crazy house, maybe takin' you hostage is my ticket outta here,” He reasons, hurrying towards the butler with his gun trained in a low squat.
“I wouldn't recommend that if I were you, sir.” Winston is confident and precise in his wording, enough to catch the merc by surprise, slowing him up as he gets within a few yards.
“Oh yeah? And why's that?!” He insists, his gestures aggressive and insistent.
“Because, sir...” The floor suddenly opens up beneath the mercenary's feet, sending him plumetting and shrieking into the darkness, “that's exactly what Lady Croft expected you to do.”
“GYEAH!” The survivor cries out as he lands hard on his back, his fall thankfully broken by his armour and the plush floor rug he lands on; the jolt causes him to almost lose his rifle, but with an instinctive roll he makes his way towards the wall, his ees darting around to find out where he landed.
“The hell?!” He asks, his gun suddenly trained on a beautiful, reclined woman in an opulent red velvet chaise longue. Her body is caked in gleaming black rubber and a bone china teacup is pinched gracefully between her fingers.
“Well hello there,” She purrs warmly, “so glad you could join me at this hour.”
“Y-You... what?!” The last remaining soldier asks, his eyebrow and lip rising in utter disbelief; not a damned thing in all his years of military and private service has prepared him for this.
His eyes roam briefly from the woman to spot the roaring fire, the ornate coffee table in front of her and the unoccupied armchair between them. His eyes can't help but land back on the woman though; on the curvature of her hip and waist as she lays on her side, propped up on one elbow, but most definitely relaxed in the extreme.
“Relax, lovely... Take a seat,” Offers the woman with the long brown brain jutting from her black, dominatrix-like mask, gesturing gently yet somehow domineeringly towards the chair across from her. Clearly this is the woman he's supposed to be here to assassinate, Lara Croft.
“A seat?!” The merc spits in anger, “I'm here to take your life! Just like you took the lives of all my friends!” He exclaims, clutching his gun more firmly, finger twitching on the trigger. Something feels wrong, not just with this scene, with his gun.
“AEII!” He shouts in shock, instinctively dropping his gun as his hands feel like they're suddenly holding the glowing end of a red-hot fire poker. His gun clatters to the ground and his eyes follow, even while he staggers back and up to his feet. Just as his hands warned him, his now melting, misshapen auto-rifle is glowing orange on the stone floor, whisps of smoke rising off it.
“Aww, hell no!” The merc glances in disbelief at Lara as she calmly sets her teacup down; his hand whips behind his back to grab his only weapon left, his combat knife glinting in the flickering firelight as he whips it out.
“I said-” Lara insists, her now free gloved fingers splaying as the knife suddenly yanks itself out of his hand, spinning in the air and hovering in front of the surviving soldier's eyes as if it's gained sentience.
“Take.” The knife swipes at him, slicing his belt off in the blink of an eye.
“A.” Even as he back away, the knife whips and slices with every twitch of Lara Croft's outstretched fingers, scything through his straps, armor and fatigues with faultless precision.
“Seat!” She insists as the last shreds of his clothing falls apart and sloughs off him is shreds, the knife suddenly launching at his head, embedding itself into the wall an inch beside his terrified eyes.
“Wh-wh-wh-whuh...” The American veteran stammers, his mind and courage as shredded as the pile of fabric patches at his feet that used to cover his modesty. “What the hell are you?!”
Lara smirks in satisfaction and offers a playful chuckle, her raised arms dropping onto her hip, slick fingertips rolling over her jutting him teasingly as she fixes him with a steely gaze, “100% woman, lovely. Lady Lara Croft, charmed I'm sure.”
Her eyes slowly, methodically trace back and forth down the now naked form of the terrified and fully naked soldier, his honed physique appealing to her on a visceral, animalistic level.
“I-I know... but...” He hasn't moved a muscle, not even to hide his modesty; modesty is one word for what Lara sees anyway... and it's currently acting anything other than modest, much to her excited delight.
“In polite society the usual response would be to tell me your name...” She purrs, the invading soldier slowly regaining his wits as his eyes follow hers downwards.
“Yip!” He whinces, his hands flicking out with all the speed he has to hide his crotch, legs crossing in absolute embarrassment. Lara continues to stare, her eyebrows raising as if still waiting for his response.
An unsettling sense of helplessness begins falling over the mercenary, his throat visibly bobbing in the light of the dancing flames as he comes to realise how helpless he is. He has two options, his gaze snapping to the door to consider the first only to hear the door lock itself as if by magic.
That does it, he's genuinely trapped and helpless! His training and experience tells him what to do, the most sensible way to get out of this... play along, act friendly and give away only the necessary information; make up misinformation if necessary, but above all: survive!
“Conway...” He gulps, “Larson Conway.” He introduces himself properly, stepping forwards and puffing out his chest as he commits himself to what he's going to have to do.
“Larson, hmm?” Lara echoes through puckered lips poking out of her slick, skintight mask as she graciously gestures to the seat opposite, “A pleasure.”
As he takes a seat, Lara's eyes never leave him, the super-powered archaeologist waiting patiently for him to get as comfortable as he can under the circumstances.
“I can imagine what you're thinking, Larson,” Miss Croft muses, smirking slightly. “You're wondering why I let you live after killing everyone else, what it is that makes you special.”
“Hmm, I think I have a pretty good idea,” he grumbles, fully understanding his position as a captive, but not happy about it... despite the undeniable allure of his captor.
“Do you now?” Lara chuckles huskily under her breath, “I think you might find, lovely...” Lara ponders, her eyes dark and menacing as she gently plucks her teacup from the coffee table again, rising it to her lips for a sip, “that your imagination doesn't even come close to what I have in store for you!”
Altai Mountain Range, Southern Siberia, Ten Days Later...
“~MmmMMm~” Lara Croft stretches languidly, the single reclining sofa bed in the cabin of her cutting edge stealth plane supporting her in all the right ways, the suit caked across her body squeaking in all the delicious ways she loves.
Slinging herself off the comfortable furniture, she ripples up to her feet with peerless poise and, still stretching out, swaggers towards the cockpit. Unheard and unseen, she approaches the sole pilot from his blindside.
Slick, smooth hands slide around the pilot's heavy-set chest, stroking possessively across the fine italian shirt barely holding Larson in; he jolts slightly from the initial contact, but soon puffs his chest out, pressing his rippling pecs and abs against Lara's hands.
“How are we looking?” She purrs over his shoulder, revelling in the way the former mercenary readily gives himself over to her touch. Her hand slides down the front of his shirt, over his belt to find the bulge where his caged cock resides, unable to react how it wants.
“We're circlin' over the dig site now, Mistress.” Larson humms gruffly, hands shaking on the controls as he loses himself in her masterful touch. “It's difficult to see from here, but they've a camp about a thousand feet up on the north slope.”
“~snfff~” Lara inhales Larson's scent, a delightful smell she knows as well as she knows his body. She's had each in plentiful supply, again and again and again until he begged her for more, “Sublime,” Lara purrs, setting his senses even further on edge.
“You understand why this is necessary now, don't you, lovely?” she asks in a hoarse and still sleepy whisper, her lips pressed against his ear to let him feel every syllable.
“Sure do, Mistress,” he answers, looking out of the cockpit as he continues to somehow guide the aircraft, “Miss Giles can't be allowed to claim the second suit, nobody can.”
“Exactly...” His once captor and now everything purrs in response, “only I can be trusted with this power, it belongs to me and anyone else would use it for ill,” she concludes.
“You have enough fuel to keep circling while I'm away, correct?” Lara asks as she slowly starts standing, hands trailing off Larson's delightful body as her own squeaks and purrs with all sorts of rubbery melodies.
“You betcha, I'll set 'er down wherever you want when ya call, Mistress,” her keen submissive nods, speaking softly as he continues to be overwhelmed by Lara's presence and intimacy.
“Good boy, but landing won't be required,” she informs him, much to his surprise, “boarding an aircraft in flight is child's play, honestly,” Lara brags as she backs up, her suit coming to life.
The tight costume zips itself up from the bust that stresses its material at the best of times, sealing shut and continuing in the form of mechanical tendrils up her neck towards her face. In moments, Lara's extraterrestrial costume covers every inch of her including her head in a flattering, angular helmet.
“I'll be back soon,” she reassures her pilot with a squeeze of his shoulder, his eyes widening as her suit actively changes color before his eyes. It'll never stop being amazing how it does that, bleaching from glistening black to a grey and white speckled, blizzard-like pattern.
“I may even see fit to bring a new playmate with me,” she chuckles, turning towards the cabin and the door, “there's space in your bedroom for a new friend,” she notes dismissively.
“Oh sure, Mistress. I'd love nothin' more'n having another hot, sticky body pressed up against me in the cage,” he retorts, half-playfully, causing Lara to pause in the doorway with a smirk on her face beneath her impervious helmet. She knows he enjoys his time in the cage, but his sleeping arrangements couldn't be more luscious when she's not playing with him.
“~Hm~” she laughs just once, glancing back, “that too can be arranged, lovely,” she half-threatens and disappears through the door.
Seconds later, a circular hatch opens on the angled floor towards the back of the cabin; wind whistles in, but not nearly enough to cause issues. With a confident, unfaltering stride, Lara Croft struts to the porthole and pencil-dives out of it, not a parachute in sight.
Free-falling is a sensation Lara alwas enjoys, the sensation of having nothing but air between herself and the Altaian foothills 10'000 feet below is a rush little else can match.
That much was true until she discovered her yummy new one-piece at least, now every moment is a rush beyond compare.
Still, the idea that she has no safety device besides her own control over the alien technology she wears is a rush and flipping over to streamline herself into a terminal velocity nose-dive only adds to the thrill.
Her razor-sharp senses, heightened by countless sensors and heads-up displays inside her helmet, allow her to pinpoint heat signatures, figures and constructs even through the light snow she is diving through.
She reaches both arms through the wind-resistance like it's nothing and spreads her fingers, bringing her palms to life to form a pair of twin SMG-like weapons. SMG-like, because while they share many visual similarities and offer the same familiarity of the real thing, beneath that they are very different.
The unaware guards trudging through the ankle-deep snow constantly piling up around her have no way of knowing what's coming and the first bullets arrive so silently and suddenly that few of them ever live to know what actually happened.
Lara flips, landing with a poise and silence that should be impossible, barely even indenting the thick snow as she casts arcs of bullets from the tips of her akimbo weapons, the gunshots making so little sound that even she barely hears them, but the effect is ever bit as lethal as she desires.
In seconds the heavily guarded excavation site entrance is scoured clean by the woman in a figure-hugging rubber suit so adapted to the environment that even when she moves she is camouflaged like a part of the storm.
She huddles behind a rock, glancing around it as she approaches the entrance, her eyes and sensors picking out only four more between her and the darkness beyond. Squatting low, she pounces into an almighty backflip, vanishing into the snow overhead and raining down lethal hail. She lands amidst crumpling bodies, her suit almost instinctively beginning to alter once more.
Pausing for only a split second before pouncing into the darkness, her suit is already pitch-black and silent by the time the roof closes in above her.
“How much longer?!” Terrie Giles snaps at the excavation chief under her employ, her patience at its end with the promise of such power so close.
“A-A just a few f-feet, M'lady. All scans show we'll break through inside the next ten minutes,” the nervous man responds, visibly sweating. That's ten minutes too long for Miss Giles' liking!
“HMPH!” Terrie huffs and storms away from the chief towards the deepest point of the cave. Her ees fall on the heavy-duty laser drill melting away with heavy-set ice, the drill operative next to her shifting uncomfortably next to her. She stares at the ice wall as if the eagerness in her eyes could melt it faster.
Lara can feel it, a power so familiar is tingles across her skin like a shriek of pleasure, a caress of familiarity. Her own suit too seems to react, a feeling cutting through her like anxiety mixed with bliss, some kind of warning system she assumes.
An alert that another suit, the only force capable of stopping someone wearing one, is nearby seems sensible, but to Lara it's less of a warning and more of an invitation.
The possibility to claiming a second one of these, conquering it as she has the first, melding its power too with her own... the excitement she feels is nothing short of euphoric and it fills her with a desire to hunt, to play and finally to claim!
The soft murmuring of patrolling guards and off-duty crew are like dinner bells ringing and the living shadow, warping through the darkness with predatory grace, helps herself to each in turn.
Lara Croft takes guttural delight in each gasp of shock, each collapsed ribcage, each shattered skull, each scream of agony, every snapped bone and life cut short.
Pity is a feeling long since lost to her.
In its place dwells satisfaction. Power. Dominance!
The hollowed out mountain soon rings with the echoes of screams and wayward, hopeless gunfire. The sound of a tibia breaking like dry firewood reverberates back and forth again and again like a warning to send shivers down the spines of everyone in her path, a warning that none will be spared!
“Shit! Shit! SHIT!” Terrie Giles shouts, grabbing the laser operative by the scruff, “Faster! Make it go faster!” She demands as the sounds of death and destruction shake her mind, her nerves shredding with each guttural shriek and sickening crunch.
“B-But, M'lady, if I increase the power, the drill will burn out in minutes!” The scared subordinate tries to argue, but finds his complaints met with a glare of pure fury.
“Out of my way!” She roars, yanking the man aside, the man willingly steps aside, backing away as the boss takes the controls. “How do I do this?!” She demands.
“The-the slider on the left side of the-” SPULCH! His chest explodes, blood and viscera filling the air. “G-GGLUR-GKKK,” he sputters, spitting up blood as he looks down to find a slender, black rubber clad hand poking out of the front of his sternum, dripping with his blood.
On feeling the wet slap of insides all over her back and head, Miss Giles spins to see what happened, her eyes opening in absolute, soul-crushing dread and horror at what she sees.
“Oh dear, having trouble with our little toys are we?” Lara Croft purrs over his shoulder, licking her teeth and panting with sensual gasps telling of the potent orgasm rippling through her body as she wriggles her fingers in the cool air on the other side of her victim.
“Pity,” she hisses and with a thrust of her arm, launches the perforated drill operative into the darkness behind her; nobody now stands between her and the woman who has hunted her for weeks craving her power!
Terrie Giles presses herself flush against the waist-high console operating the drill, frozen in fear as if the cold has finally gotten to her as she's feared for days that it might.
“C-C-C-Croft!” She stammers, her eyes unable to even blink as she beholds the sublime figure wrapped in black latex illuminated by the red glow of the laser behind her.
“Miss Terrie Giles...” Lara purrs in response, squeaking closer, her straining total-enclosure costume the only sound filling the air besides the soft hum of the laser and the dripping of melting ice, “about time we finally met.”
Lara's helmet opens, revealing the wild, hungry grin of the British aristocrat and archaeologist inside; she gets closer, closer and closer still until she's pressed against her whimpering adorer.
“So,” Lara purrs, her lips milimeters from Terrie's, “am I as frig-worthy in the flesh,” she asks softly, leaning up towards Miss Giles' ear to gasp into it, “-and rubber?”
“~HuhHnn~” Terrie whimpers, almost spasming in response to her words, her power, the touch of her, everything, “p-please...” she begs, “I-I just want... to be like you.”
“~MmmMMmm~” Lara moans gently, her hands roaming over the defenceless investigator's body, creeping under her thick winter clothes to map out her contours, “I bet you do!”
“Buuuut...” She breathes and nibbles on Miss Giles' earlobe, “there's only one Lara Croft,” She continues, her grip getting firmer as one hand slides up from Terrie's bosom towards her throat, “there's only one person who deserves this power!”
With a flick of her wrist, Lara deactivates the laser while snagging Terrie's throat. In one potent, flowing move, she steps around the console, lifting the suddenly gagging other woman over it as she makes for the melting ice wall.
“HAKKKK!” Miss Giles chokes, kicking wildly as Lara carries her forwards like she weighs less than a feather.
“You can do something for me though, M'lady...” Lara chuckles, her tone dripping with condescension, “you probably don't know this,” the alien rubber-clad woman continues as she strides towards the thinning ice wall, the corridor's smooth stone on either side just the same as it was back in Nasiryah, “but these places have their own security!”
Lara balls up her spare hand, glancing down at it as swelteringly immense heat begins radiating off it; satisfied, she thrusts a punch into the ice to calamitous effect.
Steam and water bursts out from the point of impact, the ice shatters and almost instantly a familiar-looking chamber opens up in front of them. Lara grins wildly, her helmet closing up as she recognises the arrangement of the outer defences.
Twin laser cannons flank a central platform that Lara knows is secretly an opening to the depths of an alien vessel buried deep in the ice.
“This is where you come in, Miss Giles,” Lara growls and with a potent thrust, launches her screaming enemy-come-adorer deep into the chamber.
The automated turrets, time-worn yet still effective, groan to life and swing towards the falling woman in a laboured, rusted fashion. Terrie sees the metallic platform rapidly approaching, her scream carrying on right until she lands, her legs giving way beneath her as she does everything to make her landing anything other than deadly!
“GYEAAAAGH!” She cries out as she lands, the sound of broken bones filling the silent, ancient place, but it's not until she pushes herself up onto her hands that she hears the whirring of machinery.
Her eyes dart left to the slowly turning, twitching turret, then right to the other, both damaged, but every bit as lethal as they were designed to be.
“No,” she sobs, her eyes widening as she sees glowing blue energy begin illuminating the weapons, the threat of immediate death hanging over her like a guillotine, “not like this!”
Not an instant too soon, a dark, rapid figure drops from above, striking the right hand turret with crushing power, her super-powered kick buckling the turret's support as she grabs the weapon itself, tearing it free of the mounting and turning it to the more laboured turret across the way.
Her suit comes to life once more as the other turret seems to disregard Terrie as the lesser threat, its laboured movement not as quick as Lara's suit liquefying to merge with the weapon under her arm.
Gritting her teeth, Lara braces herself, charging the weapon and digging her heels in as it suddenly unleashes that all too familiar and haunting sound, the weapon's power tearing clean through the other turret's mounting, severing it from the ship and disabling it.
“Heh,” Lara chuckles briefly, turning her gaze down to the large weapon she has semi-merged with her left arm, “so that's how it works,” she purrs, flexing her fingers inside it, feeling the inner workings becoming one with her suit, becoming one with her!
“Well,” She heaves a sigh of something like relief, the hardest part done as her attention turns to the useful distraction with the broken legs, “that wasn't so bad, was it, Terrie?” She chuckles darkly.
“Not so bad?!” Miss Giles demands, her heart still racing as much in fear as in pain, her legs and one arm buckled at truly awful, shock-inducing angles, “You broke... my-my legs... my arm!”
“Oh relax!” Lara scoffs as if that will offer any real comfort to the wounded woman as the victor swaggers over to her, throwing one leg either side of the downed patient, her free right hand flexing towards the second turret and beckoning the weapon to come to her.
“Wh-what happens... now?” Terrie asks, her breathing laboured and heavy, the cold not helping with her pain and distress. She looks up as the recently disabled weapon lands in Lara's hand and begins merging with her also.
“Now?” Lara asks, somewhat absent-mindedly as she focuses on melding with the extra-terrestrial weapon while the left-hand gun folds away back into a seamless, skintight rubber glove. “Last time, just as soon as I'd removed the guns it opened for me.”
Turning her attention properly back to the question, Lara looks down with menace in her eyes behind her svelte, futuristic helmet. “Last time I was heavily injured though,” She aims her newly melded right-hand gun down at Terrie, “maybe you need to be a little more scuffed up for it to open!”
“WAIT!” Miss Giles shrieks in terror, unable to even properly cover her face, not that it would do her much good, “Just-” a loud noise fills the cavern from below, the energy in Lara's gun disipating the moment she hears it.
“That works too,” Lara chuckles, feeling the shaking beneath her. She warps her gun away and snatches Terrie up in both hands, “you don't want to be sat there for this, though.”
As expected, the platform-like hatch beneath them opens up once Lara steps off it, replaced moments later by the flat elevator panel. “This is our ride,” Lara announces, stepping back on, “I think it's only fair that I at least let you see my moment of triumph, M'lady.”
“Aaaa!” Miss Giles cries out as they suddenly descend, her almost limp form clutched tight to Lara' impervious and unshakeable body all the way through the elevator tube. When they begin to slow, she too starts relaxing, the cold ousted by the seemingly warm insides of the alien structure Lara told her was a ship.
“There...” Lara announces with an almost reverent tone as she sets off into the illuminated central cavern with a recognisable silhouette inside, the radiant halo of light drawing her enhanced vision to the reflection of her own figure, “do you see it? Do you hear it?!”
“H-hear?” Miss Giles asks, squinting into the light, her eyes unable to pick out the dark shape at the core of the blinding light, “hear what?” she asks, labouring in her breathing. She labours even harder a moment later when Lara unceremoniously drops her.
“No, of course you don't,” Lara scoffs, stepping over her downed hunter, “because it's all for me!”
Beneath her helmet, Lara grins wickedly, wildly in anticipation, her existing suit blaring alarms at her, telling her to back away, to be aware, but she fights through, determined to take what she desires.
“You...” “I...” Voices hiss at her, one from the outside and another from the inside, “-do not belong here” “-should not be here” they echo, her own voice but twisted and changed into something else entirely, the two suits trying to repel each other, but Lara refuses to be dissuaded.
“No...” She growls, balling up her fists and pumping her focus into the suit she wears, “I do belong here!” She insists, feeling the liquid latex all over her ripple, resist, reform and finally submit. It bends to her will, it warms to her thoughts, her opinions, her determination.
“Violation!” “Ascension!” The voices snarl, their hatred and revulsion now aimed at one-another with Lara the catalyst, “imbalance!” “balance!” Her otherworldly voices in conflict bark to-and-fro.
“Nonsense! You will soon understand...” Lara interjects, reaching out as she approaches the now visibly writhing, almost uncomfortable suit ahead of her, acting as it animated by some force towards self-defence, “I know what you are, what these voices are... My own, internal conflict.”
“My own mind playing tricks on me, the last vestiges of my fear refusing to take the final step...” She muses, getting closer. The writhing, unworn suit suddenly launches its living matter outwards, but with a tense of her own, Lara pushes back, winding feelers of her own suit whipping out to snap around and knot with the defensive ones.
“I can control this power!” Lara Croft insists, her gloved hand finally caressing the equally, unimaginably soft and smooth surface of the second suit, the meeting of such sleek, luscious materials making her breath escape in short, euphoric gasps. “I am the only one...”
“The only... one who can...” She gasps and moans, her skin rippling with ecstasy, warmth and sexual bliss pouring across her like honey; up and down, coiling around her and seeping from every pore like infinitesimal volcanic eruptions, “it's the only way... It's all for me... All... MINE!”
With a final thrust of effort, Lara grabs the second suit with both hands, snatching it free and yanking it against her, opening her helmet to press her face into in, her senses overcome as the two costumes begin to weld together, warping like contradictory forces overcoming their differences.
All the knowledge in the universe explodes behind her eyelids; every dialectic ever proposed works through inside her mind in a heartbeat; every incalculable calculation and unspeakable secret becomes hers alone to understand.
The very universe itself unfolds, mapped out like a blueprint to Lara Croft as writhing alien latex, of two different yet similar designs, melds into one with a shape and purpose uniquely hers.
Lara had thought that the moment she first came into contact with and conquered her first suit was the greatest possible sensation, but this... this is all of that multiplied by itself.
Her mind should twist and writhe, be wrung out like a dishcloth, her body should shut down from overstimulation, her heart cease beating all together from the utterly unspeakable bliss. None of that occurs, she not only weathers the storm, she surfs upon it, riding the tidal waves of the impossible, drinking in the lightning and driving the clouds themselves together through the force of her will alone.
Her familiarity with the first suit no doubt allows it, but such is the depth of her control over it, its reprogramming to serve her, that the additional matter, the second half of the ultimate full-body equation, soon falls into line and the endless orgasmic moments ripping through her like machinegun fire finally begin to slow to the steady beating of a drum.
Orgasm... Ecstasy... Rapture... Bliss... steady, constant, slowing as Lara remembers how to breathe, how to live in the real world, how to be mortal.
Mortal... she's not even sure if that word still applies, she doesn't feel mortal in any sense of the word.
“Divinity...” Lara murmurs, her voice smooth and sensual as she rides out the last, almost achingly intense, waves of ecstasy. “That fits,” she growls, lifting her hand and feeling the even tighter, even slicker, even more devine sensations of her new and improved, dual-layered alien rubber costume.
Lightning dances between her fingertips , the particles in the air rearranging to make the flickers make the exact forks she desires as even the probability of such fundamental reactions bow in her presence.
Languidly, lustfully, her tongue extends and laps across one fingertip at a time, tasting each in turn. Molten stars, nuclear oceans, ecstasy itself and impossibility.
Her eyes flutter closed, the insides of her eyelids blazing with the intensity of a million galaxies as bliss beyond words fills ever atom of her being.
“Wh...what happened?” A familiar voice asks from behind her, Lara snapping around, bending at the waist to look back at the downed and aching Terrie Giles, the other woman's eyes filled with lust, expectation and adoration. Atop it all lies a gloss of envy and resentment, but she can't even begin to hold onto it as Lara spins towards her, radiating an almost omnipotent aura.
“What happened...?” Lara chuckles, swaggering forwards, hips swaying as the light behind her dies down. Terrie can finally witness the majesty before her, the enhancements to Lara going far beyond her merely wearing a suit that reflects everything so brilliantly that it seems impossible.
“You just witnessed Apotheosis, Miss Giles!” Lara grins, her eyes blazing with an understanding beyond the pale of mere mortals such as she. “Tell me,” Lara insists, strutting closer with a grace that strikes the injured woman as virtually angelic, the warmth emanating from Lara feeling so glorious that her aches seem to numb into nothingness, “What do you see?”
Miss Giles knows what she sees, she sees every defined muscle, the swells and troughs of a figure that gives envy a meaning and, amongst it all, she sees a woman so irresistible she has no other word for it than “Goddess...”
Lara squats low and slow, her latex creaking now so intense yet lustful that they caress the wounded woman like physical contact rippling across her body.
“Correct,” Lara smiles, her expression a paradoxical mixture of warmth and sadism, the air around her almost humming in excitement at her presence; if the air itself is excited then what hope does Terrie have?!
“Now... You wanted a suit of your own, didn't you?” Lara purrs, “Then worry not, M'lady,” she purrs, her impossibly slick and warm hand cupping the other woman's chin. Black latex begins to expand from her glove across the other woman's face, tendrils reaching out to cake the lesser being's body in Lara's alien-cladding, “I've got just the thing!”
“~MmmMMmuuUUhgGhhh!~” Miss Giles moans as alien sensations begin crawling over her body, seeping into her pores and filling her with a sense of newfound purpose, belonging and submission.
Soft, wet cracks fill the air, not the sounds of yet more breaking bones, rather the sounds of mending bones, cartillage snapping together and a body being perfected according to Lara Croft's desires.
“~Mhmm~” The self-proclaimed divine archaeologist hums in agreement, “Feels good, doesn't it?” She asks rhetorically, the fully healed figure writhing beneath her giving the answer through bodylanguage alone.
“You wanted this, Terrie,” Lara purrs, pulling the other woman up close as every inch of her but her face is smothered, tendrils beginning to tickle around the edges of that too, “let it... let me consume you!”
“Y-Yess... Goddess,” Miss Giles stares longingly, blissfully, her breath catching in her throat as the darkness closes around her features, plunging her into a world of bound submission, blissful and ever in servitude to the inhumanly perfect woman who started her down this path.
“There's a good girl...” Lara purrs, her new power absolutely going to her head, “-there's a special place in my world just for you, the one who went the extra mile and made this all possible.”
As darkness consumes Miss Giles, subsuming her in a total-enclosure, sense-depriving suit of seamless liquid rubber, she gives herself over to the bliss, wrapping herself hungrily in the adoration of her new Goddess. Her Mistress if that's what Lara craves, Terrie doesn't care, she surrenders to the submission all the same, she gives herself to Lara as plaything, toy and lover.
