Archive of Our Own

The door shuts behind them and the lock bolt snicks into place.

It’s a modest room, free of all the gauzy sheets and heady trappings of a place like the Wild Mare—and more importantly, none of their traveling companions know about it. Downstairs, at the threshold of his hearing, there is fast, tinny music playing, a hypnotic beat that reflects in their feet tapping, fingers itching to be anywhere but at their sides.

A nervous energy pools at the bottom of his stomach as he watches her inspect the room, feeling awkward as he lamely trails behind her, tugging at his gloves. How tight they suddenly feel, how dry his throat has become when she turns around and the corners of her lips quirk up in one of her languid smiles, the kind she saves only for him. He returns the favor, but she can tell something is amiss as she steps away from the pile of pillows collected on the bed and returns to him.

She smooths out his collar and watches the bobbing of his throat with rapt fascination. “You’re not new to this as well, are you?” Her eyes glide over his bare arms, then back up to meet his stare.

“Iselmyr,” he replies, teeth gritting for a fraction of a moment. “She has made many motions in my stead to...do something about my inaction. At some point I allowed her to take the reins and I became something of a bystander.”

Alchemilla frowns. “But never of your own accord? That seems...wrong. You were alright with it?”

“More or less, as it would quiet her for a time. She is as stuck with me as I am with her.”

“And where is she now?”

Aloth’s attention fixes itself on a distant point, in the corner of the room, as he reaches within his own mind and soul. Normally summoning his Awakened self was a last resort and rarely a conscious one, but he had to be certain there would be no interruptions. He’d made a promise, after all.

Deep down, there she was—though formless, he could feel her fox-like grin, her approval dripping in spades.

“She...won’t make an appearance tonight, I assure you.” His jaw tightens.

The answer seems to please Alchemilla—she hums, her lower lip caught between her teeth, as she resumes plucking at his sash. Aloth exchanges the sash for his hand, holds hers, and leans in to place his lips on hers. The taste is sweet, still of the spiced Aedyran wine they had had hours ago, and he gets lost feeling as though he is drinking it again. It is familiar, like home but as seen through rose tinted glasses. He sighs into her mouth and drifts back into reality, the feeling of their foreheads pressed together grounding him.

He is so thankful they are not on the ship. The thought of this moment spoiled by a wayward knock on the door, or an imminent scrap between two ships, or any number people, things, or events—the disappointment of his imagination curdles in his stomach at the thought of losing what’s in front of him. He wraps his arm around her bare waist and sinks his fingertips into her flesh. Thinks about all the places he wants to touch, all the time he has to do so.

The sky darkens through the window, cloaking the room in shadow as they finally find a moment to pull apart. Alchemilla steps towards the bedside tables and looks back at Aloth, glowing eyes visible while the rest of her hides. Under her breath she whispers in familiar Engwithan—words he himself taught her weeks prior—and a set of candles flicker to life. 

“Come, sit,” she insists. 

He does as he’s told, toeing his boots off as he takes a seat at the end of the bed. Before he can look up from his feet, she swings a leg over his lap, straddling him, the slits of her floor-length white skirt opening wider to reveal her thighs on either side of him. Arms crossed over the bottom hem of the tight chest band she’s wearing, she wriggles the fabric up over her head and flings the top as far as she can get it.

She must enjoy it, then, when he takes one of her breasts in his hand and the other in his mouth—her body trembles instantly, her chin coming to rest on the top of his head. His tongue flicks over her nipple as his thumb does the same, causing her hands to fly into his hair, her hips shaking as a jolt of energy surges down her spine. He kisses around her breast as he waits for the feeling to pass, for her to release her grip on his roots, then starts again, tongue swirling, his free hand pressing her closer from the small of her back. Alchemilla’s left hand comes to rest on his shoulder, while the other tugs through his hair tie and frees him of his ponytail.

“I—“ she scoots off of him and shimmies out of her skirt, kicks it off in the direction of her top. Bathed half in candlelight and half in moonlight, he maps her with his eyes then grabs her by the hand and pulls her back into his lap, so that his own hands can finish the work. 

He is familiar with most of her skin—she shows it often, bares it to the open air and the sea, like a sunflower to the light. But in this context it is new and untouched; he trails his fingers down her waist and to her hips, momentarily slinking down her backside beneath her undergarments, then northward to rest on her back. The pads of his fingers feel the scars he has done well to never dwell on, unsure of their origin. One is long and thin, cold and cracked to the touch, the other a deep divot, still healing behind a paper thin membrane of green flesh.

“Where?” he asks, fragmented.

She tenses as she continues to comb through his hair. “The Master Below.” A hand reaches behind herself to guide him along the trail of her scars. “I don’t know how or why, but nothing grows in that one anymore. No flowers, no moss, nothing. And the other is from Caed Nua. Falling debris. I didn’t have my armor on.”

“Do they trouble you still?”

She releases his hand. “As the temperature drops, they ache. Especially the one from the dragon—it’s already cold in that spot, as if the heat was all drawn out, and winter’s windchill and snow does it no favors.” 

In Eld Aedyran he mumbles, his mouth pressed up between her breasts, willing himself to temper a spell into something innocuous. His fingertips warm unnaturally, a shade off from outright burning, and he traces the scar from end to end. It does not solve her problem, but for a glorious moment there is feeling seeping into the dead skin, and her body shudders at the sensation. 

“Thank you,” she says.

“I’m sorry,” he replies.

Alchemilla stiffens. “For what?”

“That I was not with you at the fall of Caed Nua.” The regret smolders like a dying ember in his belly, never able to be fully smothered.

“I don’t so much mind you being absent from that as I do that you were gone for five years with no word.” She lowers her voice, until it registers just barely above a whisper. “Let me show you now how much I’ve missed you.”

Alchemilla tugs at his collar and groans, eyes narrowing. 

“Must you always wear your armor, even around me? I feel as though this speaks volumes about our relationship.” Her mouth stretches into a thin line. Before he can respond, she makes quick work of his gloves, peeling them off and adding them to the growing pile of clothes.

She guides his hands in opposite directions, one to her mouth and the other to her thighs. Slipping the tip of his index finger between her lips, her tongue darts out and grazes over it, around the nail. The chilling effect is dashed away by the heat of her mouth as she lightly sucks on it; his cock twitches at the motions, already straining against his trousers. Aloth drags his finger from her grasp and untucks his sash from his belt, unbuckles, before letting her pull open his robe. 

They jostle around for a minute, bodies shifting to dispose of things they no longer need, until she is standing between his spread legs, eyes dancing from his throat to his stomach.

Tentatively she reaches for his bare chest and settles on his collar, a sweeping finger tracing along the bones. She sinks to her knees and gazes up at him, then presses her lips his chest, his abdomen, falling lower and lower with each slow kiss. Her mouth drags along his waist, the crest of his hips, or at least what she can reach before it all dips down, obscured by the last articles of clothing between them. Her hands deftly make short work of his pants clasp, and he maneuvers to let her slide his pants and smallclothes down his thighs.

Aloth fights the urge to look away, swallowing the almost instant embarrassment he feels as she pauses for a split second. But then her pupils swallow the glow of her irises and he can feel the wave of hunger wash over her, even without the sight of her tongue briefly peeking out from the corner of her mouth. 

Alchemilla takes an experimental lick at the tip of his cock, her tongue swirling around the precum beaded at the slit. Again her tongue darts out, dipping lower around the head, getting a feel for the taste. It goes lower still, charting a trail from head to base, then back again—Aloth groans at the mere flick of her tongue once it reaches the tip again, his hands squeezing the edge of the bed with barely any restraint.

“What was that incantation you used?” Alchemilla asks, looking up. She bats her eyelashes, the peak of innocence, but the slick gloss of her lips says otherwise. “Whichever temperature you prefer.”

His lips move, and he knows he must be saying something because her lips move in kind, mimicking the shape of his words over and over until she straightens her back with confidence. He wants to tell her something beyond that, but all sense of clarity is gone as she takes him into her mouth, heated fingers curling around the base of his cock. Aloth gasps and chokes on it—it doesn’t deter her in the slightest, as her tongue wraps around his tip and invites him in further.

He bucks, and he scolds himself inwardly for the lack of restraint. She pumps him slowly, a little clumsily until she finds a rhythm between sucking, licking, and moving her fist. Her grip is loose and the heat of her fingertips is strange, but far from unpleasant. Again he bucks, earning him a rough grasp from her free hand, pinning one of his hips in place—a warning.

A moan is caught in his throat as he feels himself tense up; his thighs shiver as he tries to push away the building pleasure. He forces himself to think of other things, of spells or memories but he is caught in the here and now, watching her head bob up and down, the edges of his vision growing blurry. He laces a hand through the curtain of her hair and tugs up at the roots, hoping she’ll forgive him for what he has to do.

“Why?” she pants, knuckles wiping away the spit from her mouth.

He breathes hard through his nose while his cock throbs, still trying to will away the building sensation. “I was too close, and I’d like to last a while longer.”

Alchemilla thumbs the head of his cock with the heated tip of her digit, smiling wickedly. “We have all night, you know. I’m in no rush.” Another thumb swipe. He shudders, nearly recoiling.

“I want more than this, more than your mouth,” he admits. He stands and pulls her up with him, then bends down to lift her from beneath the backs of her thighs. She yelps, arms encircling his neck and buries her face in his cheek. “I deserve the chance to show you how I’ve missed you as well.”

“Fair enough,” she says, muffled and petulant.

Knees sinking into the bed as he climbs up it, he deposits her neatly into the mountain of soft, cushy pillows, his body eager to sink in with her. She grips his bicep as he hovers above her, and they share a smile, as though together they are in on a grand secret.

“So these arms are good for something other than carrying your massive books,” Alchemilla teases, giving his arm a squeeze.

Another kiss, this time tortuously slow, with the barest hint of tongue swiping along each other’s bottom lip. “The thought had occurred to me as I was training, once or twice.” And perhaps a hundred times more than that, he doesn’t say.

The moon is in full view of their window, washing more of their bodies in muted light; his chest tightens as he can see her lips, still wet, her chest rising and falling, and where her godlike skin markings thin out just above her underwear. One window is cracked open, the breeze rolling in, thicker than the ship’s galley’s smoke and steam. The music from below has nearly died out, the soundtrack of the evening replaced with the crashing of waves and the ebb of the tide on the sand.

He wants to continue touching her, but indecision paralyzes him. Her mouth, her neck, her breasts, hips, thighs—he can’t help but watch her with a studious eye, committing her body to memory, as though it will vanish beneath him. A light raking of nails up his back reminds him that she is here, waiting, and he melts back into her, thighs parted to make room for him.

Aloth scales down the length of her torso, extra attention given to spots that cause her to buck up into him. She’s impatient, he knows, by the time he reaches her thighs. Hooking his fingers beneath the waistband, he peels her underwear down past her ankles, then returns to her thighs, breath hot on shaking skin until he reaches her cunt.

Mirroring her tentative attentions to his cock, he flicks his tongue out and swipes at her clit. Just the once.

Alchemilla’s hips rocket up at the feeling, her backside crashing back down into the sheets. A nervous giggle escapes her as she throws her forearm across her eyes and her ears sag. 

Again, he kisses and licks into her, slow and deliberate, letting her acclimate to the sensitivity of her own body. He grins into her as already she begins to babble nonsensical broken phrases, her back and face arching up while she continues to hide. Hands sliding beneath her ass, he lifts her up and pulls her closer, aiming for accuracy as he continues his slow, pinpoint ministrations on her clit.

Her hips roll into his tongue, desperate to set a new pace, desperate for relief. He obliges—he has difficulty denying her anything, he had learned that long ago—and all but devours her. His tongue swipes up from her folds, back to her clit, then down to her entrance, curling inside of her as her thighs quiver around his ears.

“Aloth,” she pants, broken, hands pawing at whatever parts of him she can reach. A nail catches his ear and a shaky hand follows, finds shelter in his hair as she tries to pull him closer to her core.

He pulls away. Kisses every fifteen seconds or so, but little more than that.

She whines and scoots herself down, body seeking body, angry and taut like a bowstring. The cycle begins anew—spreading her apart to lap her up, take her in, and it grows faster and faster, until he pulls away. She cries the third time he does it, a debauched and needy sound; he preens at his accomplishments, the one time he allows himself to slip into the vice grip of pride.

Aloth’s tongue finds its rhythm again, and each swipe grants him an involuntary tremble from her body. They move together to an imaginary beat, until her hips lurch forward and her knees lock around his head. It grows quiet, save for the sound of her toes curling into the bedsheets. Her back arches. Her nails dig deeper, breath coming quicker and uneven.

The silence is shattered by a scream, and her whole body twists away from his mouth. He feels her muscles twitch and clench beneath his tongue, and he replaces it with his lips, kissing and savoring how much wetter she becomes. 

Alchemilla gropes at the air for him to come back to her and he obeys, sinking into unsteady arms. It surprises him when she laughs, quiet at first and still wracked with surges of sensitivity and pleasure, until it becomes full of mirth. The forget-me-nots of her cheeks pop open, the moss lining her cheekbones glistening with sweat, and the more she laughs, the more flowers burst open, petals lost in the waves of her hair.

Unsticking a wet strand of hair from her forehead, Aloth smiles, bemused. “Is something the matter? Have I...done something wrong?”

She trembles and clenches her thighs together, still beaming at him. “Nothing is the matter.” She kisses his cheek and chin, suddenly uncharacteristically shy as she avoids his eyes. “It was incredible, it was—you’re so good to me.”

“I—“

“In general, not because of that.” Alchemilla’s cheeks flush. “You, and your... Nevermind, my head’s a mess. I want to say... but my mind... it’s all incredibly foggy.” She laughs again, sweeter than any song or chant he’s heard her sing. “I’ve missed you so much. I’ll never tire of reminding you.”

“I’m right here,” he chuckles, nuzzling into her skin.

“I know that, but... It makes no sense, but let me be silly. My mouth and my brain aren’t cooperating at the moment.”

She holds his cheeks and showers him with kisses. Decorates the bridge of his nose with her lips, the corners of his eyes, his brow even as it scrunches up—she is especially gentle with the scar on his hairline, but she gives it the love it deserves all the same.

For a time her eyes unfocus, lost somewhere in the mist rolling in from the bay, the harbor fog creeping in to cover them. Leaves rustle in the sea breeze, carrying her out with them, and he fights to keep her in the bed, in this room. He knows that a part of her is missing, and that she’s been dragging her heels on reuniting with it. Their weeks at sea are long and aimless with constant directional shifts, each bounty a flight of fancy, an island excursion for a new bout of whimsy. Their bodies rock together as their thoughts take them elsewhere, until the fog dissipates from their room and her eyes, her hands gliding down his back.

“Are you with me?”

“I’m here.” 

“Are you certain?” He worries about her. She’s capable, strong, and a hundred other words meant only for his journals. But he worries.

“I’m positive,” she laughs, brushing the hair out of his face. “And ready, if you are.”

Alchemilla’s legs spread as he reaches down between their bodies, his cock still hard and wanting. He guides himself into her, as carefully as he can manage, more so when he feels her brace herself.

The tip slides in. She freezes, her hand gripping his bicep.

“Too much?” Aloth blinks.

“No, just...” After a beat, she relaxes and her grip on him loosens. “ Very sensitive, but very good.”

She moves against him and he pushes in further, until he’s buried as deep as he can go, and lowers down to slot up against her. He buries his face in her neck as he rocks into her, her ankles crossing behind his back, her thighs locking him in. She huffs, denying herself the allowance of moaning—until his pace picks up and she struggles to keep her keening to herself. The whole inn will be able to hear, he’s sure of it, but he can’t find it within him to care.

He pushes himself up, still keeping tempo, and loops an arm around her waist, lifting her slightly up as her back arches. She tries to maintain something resembling sitting, but with each thrust her heads lolls back, eyelids fluttering. 

“Aloth, I—you—“ her voice becomes raspy, deeper than usual. 

Still holding her around the waist, he slows to a stop, allowing her to catch her breath. He wipes away a rivulet of sweat that is traveling down her forehead and lowers her back into the pillows, mindful of her hair.

When he doesn’t continue moving, she whines. “Aloth, please. ”

He responds with a kiss to her throat.

“Please, I need—“

Aloth’s hips piston forward, slamming into her hard enough that her hands fly to her shoulders, their thighs slapping together. He pulls back out, excruciatingly slow, then fucks back into her, hard, again and again, cries burbling from her lips. Each thrust is punctuated by a new word, but they slowly dissolve into nonsense, even after he resumes his formerly steady rhythm.

“I’m not going to survive this,” she growls into his ear. Teeth meet his earlobe for a sharp nibble, eliciting a groan from his throat. “You’re going to well and truly destroy me long before Eothas has his chance.”

“Stay with me,” he says, kissing her.

Before he can continue, Alchemilla stops him—in the blink of an eye Aloth finds himself on his back with her in his lap, hand guiding his cock back into her. “Mila, ah—“ he breaks off as she fills herself to the hilt, rocking back and forth with him inside her. 

It is his turn to drift away and unfocus, an unsteady thumb finding her clit and rubbing while his mind turns hazy, ears feeling stuffed with cotton. The sweat trickles down her stomach and he absently swipes it away between grunts and shaky swirls of his fingers. His hands raise above his head, in benediction, to find the headboard and grasp it—she hunches over, tired, and he channels his new leverage into strength to bounce her on his cock. Alchemilla’s hands eventually find purchase behind herself, perched atop his lean thighs, as he thrusts faster still.

The building heat in his belly returns and makes demands of Aloth, quick quick quick, he tries to match the speed that he needs, he craves. It’s too much , he thinks, he can’t go on. Darkness curls at the edge of his vision, the candlelight gone, the moonlight forgotten—he sees and hears nothing but her and the wet slap of her slickness running down his cock and over his legs. 

“Fuck,” she grits out, lifting herself off him and slamming back down. “Fuck, fuck. I—I need—fuck.”

“Can I—“

“Fuck, please .”

Aloth grips her hips and pins her in place. The tension builds, higher, higher, and then it comes crashing down, spilling into her. Wanton cries fall loose from his mouth, his face turning away and into the pillow as he rides the climax, cock still throbbing while Alchemilla holds her hands over his. The feeling of cotton in his ears subsides and he hears everything with crystal clear clarity—Alchemilla’s heaving breath, the call of distant shorebirds, the blood rushing to his head as he blanches. And he feels everything so acutely, too; the sweat begins to itch where it pools between them, and a wayward petal from the crown of her head tickles when it lands on his knee.

They are careful when pulling apart, as their skin is determined to stick as if on leather on a burning summer day. Sitting up, Aloth brushes her hair back, grooms out the blossoms that grew when he had lost his focus. He scoots over and they lay together on their sides, exchanging lazy half-kisses as they will their heart rates to slow.

The dazed look in her eyes returns and he would give anything to know what she is thinking. He doesn’t have to wait long for an answer, as she snatches his jaw and kisses him roughly, smirking as she rolls her hips into him just once.

“Still not satisfied?” Aloth aims to sound incredulous, but there isn’t enough air in his lungs to expend the effort on managing his tone. 

“Oh I am,” she insists, swinging a foot over his calf and running it along the lower half of his leg. “Just...frustrated, is all.”

“How so?”

“You can’t possibly deprive me of this for weeks while we’re sailing, you just can’t.”

His ears redden.

“Because if I’m to go without this for any longer in my life, I’m shackling myself to this bed and my crew can find a new captain.”

“Even if I wanted to, I would find you too hard to deny.” He kisses her again, drinks in the pleased humming she makes as the flowers on her cheeks open back up. “But let’s not dwell on that just yet, when I have you here to myself, without the waves and the drunken shanties and the prying eyes of our companions.”

Alchemilla smiles widely, and the brightness of it, the sparkle of her eyes, makes his heart clench.

He’s known for so long that he loves her, painfully so sometimes—he is stricken with the sudden fear of their journey’s end, of their promises to the Huana, of the day when their souls will part and he thinks, knows , that he will find her again wherever she goes. If the Wheel breaks, he will fix it, he will love her to the point of invention.

But for now, he is content to watch her as she climbs back atop his body, and lets her pin his wrists above his head. He waits, eager to listen, eager to please.

“The night is still young,” she purrs, sucking in her bottom lip. 

“We can do anything, anything you’d like,” he promises.

“For now, kiss me?”

Aloth swallows, then pulls her in, their lips touching as he speaks. “You need only ask.”