post-series.
i own nothing.
Subconsciously
Rue sees him, face between her legs, and she leans her head back to groan. He holds her thighs down, though she thinks it's more a way of him assuring himself that he has control; she never squirms or throws her hips onto him anyway. She takes it, and it is so very much unlike her.
He never lets her touch him in return. Rue doesn't understand it, and Fakir is always silent. But they never meet to exchange words.
The next time she opens her eyes, he is holding himself up on his hands above her, naked. She feels the warmth emanating from his sweat dotted skin, and reaches up to place a palm on the darkened skin of his birthmark. Fakir catches her wrist before she makes it, and kisses her knuckles. The gesture is so much like a knight, something he failed to become, and it almost makes her laugh at the sheer irony. His hair is undone and hangs around them, tickling her arms.
They don't kiss. Not usually. Not this time.
She drags her toes up the back of his calf and lets him rain his attentions on her. It's surprising how gentle he's being with her. Unnatural. But neither one of them seem to be very concerned with it. She merely tilts her head to the side and lets him mark her neck. In the back of her mind, Rue wonders if anyone else will see the red.
His green eyes almost burn as he enters her. She wonders what he sees in her own—if he thinks they're red like wine or more like blood. To Rue, there is no difference. And she arches up, angles her hips to his, and makes a deep sound in her throat. She lets herself feel.
The air reeks of sweat and sin. His breaths brush against her ears, heavy and deep. She reaches up to hold his back—he once again interrupts the journey and holds her hands down as he gets to business. Fakir goes through metamorphosis, abandoning sweet caresses and giving way to primal and carnal passion. His face morphs into that expression she knows so well: contorted, teeth clenched, and eyes wild.
They start off going through the motions of making love, but the night always ends with them fucking.
Fakir releases first, grunting with his face between her breasts. She tightens a few moments later, head thrown back and raven black hair in complete disarray. They fall together, limbs tangled in the stained sheets. They don't hold each other; Rue merely allows Fakir to remain draped over her. She doesn't stroke his hair fondly. He doesn't whisper sweet nothings in her ear.
Fakir doesn't wake up.
Rue always does.
She is back in her bed, the grand four poster piece of furniture that wrapped curtains around their privacy, and she stays in place for a moment, disoriented. She wipes the sleep from her eye and turns to the side. Her husband remains peacefully undisturbed, by her side.
And she remains guilty.
End