Chapter 707: Heat in a Cruel Room (End)
"GIVE ME MORE," she said, her voice low but fierce, a command that carried no shame. "FILL ME UP." The words were a spark, igniting something in his eyes, a hunger that mirrored hers. His breath hitched, and he kissed her harder, as if he wanted to gobble her up, to consume every piece of her. His tongue dove deeper, sucking at hers with a ferocity that made her moan again, "MMH!", the sound swallowed by his mouth as they devoured each other, tongues twisting and curling in a dance that was all heat and need.
She guided him, her hand steady and sure, positioning the giant hot thing at her entrance, where the torn fabric of her pants left her bare and ready. The slot’s proximity made every movement precise, a necessity born of stone and marsh. He knew, his eyes dark and wide, and he moved with her, a slow, deliberate thrust that filled her completely. The sensation was overwhelming, a searing heat that stretched her, claimed her, made her feel alive in a way she hadn’t thought possible in this cruel place. "MMMHH!!!!" The cry tore from her, raw and desperate, but his mouth was there, muffling it, his lips sealing over hers as his tongue sucked at hers, pulling her into a rhythm that was both fierce and tender.
Their bodies moved together, the slot dictating a relentless pace. Each thrust was a collision, a "SLAP! SLAP!" of skin against skin, loud and unyielding in the tight space. The sound mingled with a wetter "QUELCH! QUELCH!", intimate and raw, as their bodies found each other again and again. It felt so great, so passionately good, that her eyes rolled back, her head tipping against the stone as the pleasure coiled tighter, a spring wound to breaking. Her hands gripped his shoulders, nails digging into muscle, anchoring her to him as the heat built, a tide rising with no shore to stop it. "GIVE ME EVERYTHING," she gasped, her voice a low growl, and his answering kiss was a promise, his tongue sucking at hers with a hunger that made her tremble.
He was aroused, more so now, her boldness fueling him, his kisses growing wilder, as if he wanted to consume her entirely. She matched him, her tongue diving into his mouth, sucking and curling with a ferocity that felt like devouring, like they could swallow each other’s souls and keep them safe. "Slrp! Slrp!" The sounds were intense, a chorus of want that filled the slot, mingling with the "SLAP! QUELCH!" of their bodies, a rhythm that was both battle and surrender. Her thighs trembled, not from strain but from the fire pooling where he filled her, his size a constant presence, stretching her, grounding her, making her feel whole.
The crest came, inevitable and overwhelming, like a wave that had been building for miles. His seed flooded her, a hot, overflowing rush that spilled through her, filling every hollow with warmth. "MMMHHH!!!!!" The cry broke from her, louder, wilder, a sound of triumph and release, but his mouth caught it, muffling it as he kissed her deeper, his tongue sucking at hers with a hunger that matched her own. Their tongues danced, twisting and curling, a frantic play that felt like devouring each other, like they could consume the moment and make it eternal. "Slrp! Slrp!" The sounds softened but didn’t fade, a reminder of their raw, human truth.
It was so great, so godly good, that her thoughts dissolved into sensation—the heat of him inside her, the press of his body, the way their breaths mingled in the kiss. Her body hummed, satisfied, complete, like a blade sheathed after a long fight. The warmth of him lingered, a quiet echo that made her thighs tremble, her core pulse with aftershocks. His hand slid to her back, holding her together, and she let him, needing the anchor as much as the freedom. "THAT WAS... SO GODLY GOOD..." she whispered, half a laugh, half a confession, spoken into the space between their mouths. Her voice carried no shame, only awe, as if she’d found a new map and deemed it beautiful.
"Later," he whispered.
She touched her mouth to his cheek. A brief press, a mark you’d have to be him to feel. "Later."
They slept. The brake below sang a low, even song made of old math and new mercy. The Lux ember counted for them and did not ask for thanks.
Watch passed in small shifts that did not trip the room. A lich’s crown brightened just enough to keep the law of the slot honest and then dimmed. A Scurabon tapped the back of its own sickle twice, the click tiny and satisfied. The Hypnoveil at the mouth lowered, lifted, lowered, practicing absence until it was better at being a curtain than most curtains. The Slime turned itself to keep the base gel from settling wrong at the corners where angles grew sharp.
In the dark between ticks, she tested the admission again inside her own head to see if it would crack under weight. It didn’t. It sat down on the bench like something that had paid for its seat. She left it there and finally rested the way she used to before she had rank and a name people said with their backs too straight.
Her breathing loosened a notch she hadn’t allowed in years. The piece of her that inventories everything—even sleep—made a note: back muscles relaxed; jaw unclenched; hands not in fists; heart not running ahead trying to herd the rest. She did not dream of doors. She dreamed of breath in duet and a room that stopped pretending it hated them. The dream had no faces. It had wrists and timing and a door that warmed because she didn’t fight it.
When the crystals woke, she was already watching his face. The dust had moved to new constellations—one bright fleck perched ridiculous at the tip of his nose, another tracing his jaw like a half-made scar. The cut on his brow looked a little less angry, edges not so tight. His mouth did not look like it wanted to perform. It looked like it wanted to say the kind of careful words that had bones inside.
She lifted her hand from his hip and let her knuckles brush his jaw once. Bone, heat, a morning rasp. The touch was so light it could have been a mistake. "Up," she said softly.
He smiled into the word, eyes still almost closed the way people smile into pillows they trust. "As the lady commands."
"Don’t call me lady in a hole."
He didn’t open his eyes, just nodded, solemn. "I apologize to the hole."
The laugh escaped. She hadn’t planned to let it. It sounded like a small stone hopping twice on water and vanishing. It made the day wider by a finger-width. She closed her mouth over the rest of the laugh before it got ideas about being large.
They ate. Broth again, but not cruel. He had coaxed sweetness out of bones she would have sworn were done, and the mint-paper crumb turned the fatigue taste into a cleaner thing. She pretended not to see him slip a smaller portion toward a beetle auxiliary whose thread had worked all night. The beetle pretended not to love it and then parked itself precisely in the warmest airflow.
Straps next. She checked hers, then his, because she was faster and he let her be. Buckles sat where they should. Silk knots lay flat, not proud. She tugged one strap, then smoothed it with the same thumb; he did not say "I had it," because he didn’t.
"Breath," he said, more ritual than request.
They breathed like the door had taught them to. Palms against the chair-back for practice, not because they needed it here, but because the body respects what it repeats. Hold, hold, bite, slide, reset. He matched her on the second beat because he liked the challenge of landing on someone else’s tempo. She matched him on the fifth because she wanted to prove she could lead and follow without feeling like either stole from her.
<Phase alignment acceptable. Please avoid heroics.>
"Not dramatic," Mikhailis muttered.
"Not today," she answered.
They checked the others quickly. The lich librarians’ crowns flickered to the work-pulse like a heartbeat on a good day. Veils loosened their mantles. Scurabons turned blades to rest and showed the dull backs of their sickles like polite hands. Slime’s surface smoothed; Tangles hummed in the key of "ready." The chimera ant variants—those quiet, strange things Elowen had taught them to accept—were neat as ever, not flamboyant, just there, like tools no one else knew the names of.
He glanced at the burr-listeners’ readings, then flattened a palm to the stone. The place is still sulking about last night. Good. Let it sulk; it will teach us more lines to read.
"Anything?" she asked.
"Only that we are not the most interesting sound here."
"Comforting."
"Deeply."
They packed fast. He coiled threads with a speed that looked playful until you paid attention to how each loop landed the same size as the last. She folded veils with that brisk neatness people learn when they’ve had to make beds where blood once slept. Bowstrings checked. Arrows counted. The stupid loose end on his sleeve—always one—tucked under and captive.
She took a breath to say something practical and found herself looking, instead, at a small thing she had not allowed herself to look at before: the way morning softened his eyes. Not kind, exactly. Less armed. He caught her looking and didn’t make a noise about it. He just reached and tapped the torn edge of her sleeve, where their scrape with the spindle had frayed the seam.
"Later," he said, very softly. "I’ll mend it."
"You sew badly."
"True. But I will try. The sleeve will be offended and then forgive me."
"Forgive the hole first," she said.
He put a hand to his heart. "I apologized to the hole."
She shook her head and felt the minute lift of something that was not duty. She set it down carefully where it wouldn’t trip her later.
"March?" he offered.
"March." She did not add "General" or "sir" or anything else ugly. He didn’t need titles to do the correct thing when she asked.
Silk peeled the veil-door open a finger-width. Air from the shaft slid in—iron and wet stone, the faint bitter of something old that remembered the forest it once was. The Lux ember on his wrist brightened one quiet degree. The day was stingy, as always, but you learned to be grateful to small lamps if you walked long enough.
They moved toward work again. The slot let them go and pretended not to watch them leave. Behind, the chair sat where they had left it, straps laid flat, the place their foreheads had touched still faintly warmer than the stone around it. The alarm hair curled on its sill like a cat pretending to be asleep with one eye half-open.
Thalatha took point. He fell half a step to her left where she could see him without turning her head. The line flowed into the narrow, each piece remembering its part: veil, beetle, bone, thread, hand. Her palm brushed the wall once, not to test it, just to say we are both still here. The wall did not answer in words. It answered by not trying to kill them yet.
Mikhailis glanced down at the Anchor. Short morning. Enough if we don’t pretend we deserve more.
The day was still short. But it was theirs.