A/N: A very long chapter, this one. And finally the smut. As always, credit to Lavender_Whalebones(AO3)/kaldwinqueen(tumblr) for a fantastic job writing the Outsider. And keeping it both classy and engaging. Also, thanks to everyone who has reviewed, followed, and favorited.
PART SIX: TEMPTATION
Emily stared at the door to the safe room, spinning the signet ring on her finger, a determined scowl on her face. She'd been blindsided by her father's suggestion over dinner.
.
He'd been giving her questioning looks as she ate, her eyes half focused and distracted. "...You know…"
She blinked a couple times, coming out of a reverie she was already having a hard time remembering. "Hm?"
He looked away and ran careful fingers over his fork, twirling it in the remains of food on his plate. "...It would probably be good to know the range on that... aura thing," he grimaced.
Her eyebrows had shot up at that, surprised to find him suggesting she have anything to do with the Outsider - Oliver - after everything that had happened the past two days. She stared at him silently.
"You don't have to do it right away. You may even want to bring in Hypatia, if you're alright with her knowing. I don't know if it's something she could quantify for you…" He shrugged, lips still thin, looking regretfully assured. When she didn't speak, he shot her a sidelong look, making sure she was listening. After a moment of silence, his words were a bit softer, less business-like. "...You can't just avoid him, Emily. This thing that's troubling you… You were right that you need him near you."
She felt herself glaring. He was supposed to be the one who told her what she didn't want to hear, but not this way. He was supposed to be telling her to stay away from the former god. Not pushing her toward him.
"If you want to figure out just how far is safe enough, you'll need to make a study of it. As formally as you'd like," he added, as though that might pacify her, watching her reactions carefully.
What was he doing? It was as though he wanted her dependent.
Even as she thought that, she knew it wasn't true. The rueful expression on her father's face made it clear he wasn't thrilled to be bringing the issue up at all, and she felt a twinge of guilt that she'd given the idea even a moment's attention. He'd been teaching her to be self-sufficient all her life. If he encouraged her now it was to help her set her own limits, to keep her from being dependent, rather than suggest it.
"You know I have a lot of work to do - what with the Academy deaths and all, not to mention today's revelations - but if you want me to come help, you know I could work something out."
She was already waving her hand, dismissively, glancing away and hiding her own concern. "No, no… it's fine." She wasn't entirely sure it was, but the more she considered it the more she could trick herself into believing it. She wasn't sure she wanted to bring anyone else in on this supernatural little secret. As far as she knew, the only ones aware of this weakness of hers were the three of them. It was said that three could keep a secret if two of them were dead. While she didn't plan on killing any of her secret-keepers, expanding that circle only added risk.
Which left her only one option.
.
She wondered if he could feel her glare from wherever he was on the other side of the door. If he could tell how anxious she was. He had that odd instinct, and it was often unsettling.
She'd waited until late in the day, letting the Void creep ever closer, the ringing persistent, before she'd even come back to her room. It had lessened a bit, so she knew he was there. She'd stalled further, stripping off her formal jacket and removing her boots, re-reading notes she'd taken during the day, even taking the time to brush her hair from its braid and pull it back again. Then she'd sat on the edge of her newly-relocated bed, staring at the bookcase.
Finally, after reassuring herself that it would be fine, that she could keep things platonic - professional, even - she clenched her fists and stood. Strength. Resolve. Courage. She was the Empress of the Isles and she was taking her safety into her own hands. Rolling her shoulders back and standing tall, she forced her hands to relax and walked to the secret door.
She knocked on the frame, firmly but not loudly. "Oliver?"
It was hard to work when there was a choking tension shooting daggers towards him from the other side of the wall. The connection grew stronger when she was closest to him and sometimes he wondered if he could hear her voice in his head, but he chalked it up to the fact that her voice was this musical thing that he really hadn't been able to get out of his head beforehand anyways.
His pen moved along the paper in fluid motions, mechanically shifting from one line to the next as he carved his knowledge onto fresh parchment, a smell wafting from the ink as it escaped his quill that reminded him of the wall to wall books and archaic tomes that lined the ancient libraries of the Void.
As the night dragged on and he slipped his careful fingers over the stack of extra paper, he couldn't stop himself from pondering about the night before, her thighs locking around his waist, softer than the surface that he wrote upon - warmer too - like a pulsing furnace burning into him. It had gotten to the point where he'd become incapable of escaping those searing thoughts, the scent of her perfume assaulting him where he sat as though she were there brushing her lips against his neck, whispering his name, his real name. What he wouldn't give to taste his name as it rolled off of her tongue.
He would have to stop, he would need to breathe, to remind himself that he'd been given a task. And also to remind himself that if he didn't complete the task he would have to come up with some excuse for not finishing it because he had a feeling that, 'I was distracted by the thought of pleasuring your daughter into a delirious stupor' would earn him a little more than just a punch to the throat.
It became a vicious cycle of standing, running his hands over his face and through his hair, taking a deep breath, sometimes several, and then sitting down again. But each time he'd get back to work it would be worse. So finally, after a few hours, he gave in. ...He indulged temptation. The night was his own, he wasn't in danger. And if he couldn't have her, at least he could have the thought of her.
He had his thoughts, his words that painted pleasant pictures of her skin, the colors of silken nightgowns that danced over the curvatures of her figure, the way her hips brushed against the fabric, shadows playing on her body. ...When she was that close he could see the rise of her chest even in the dim light they'd been in. The subtle bumps protruding through, begging to be given attention. He swallowed hard, a sweat pricking at his brow.
Near perfect photographic memory was both a blessing and a curse.
Her hair fell in wisps as if the Void itself were curling along the line of her jaw and caressing her collarbones, concealing the lovely length of her neck and all of those sacred areas of hers he so desperately desired to nip at with his teeth. He imagined her beside him, open to his touch but her brows furrowed, demanding, perhaps challenging, he could never really tell. A breath escaped him. "Emily..." he whispered. He wanted to play with her, gently draw little noises from her lips that no one ever had before, and-
He near jolted out of his seat, slinging his pen so hard across the room that its pointed tip dug into the wall before slamming against the floor and rolling away. He rushed to stand up, flustered, cheeks the faintest pink. He hoped the slight tan he'd gotten on the way to Dunwall would do well to hide it. But it didn't matter. He ascended the steps, clearing his throat as the door opened. What a wonder, Sokolov's machinery, so very convenient. He could hide his trembling hands behind him, clasped together, fingers tugging at the silver rings nervously. "Kaldwin. Emily... Kaldwin." His speech was jumbled.
As the door to the safe room opened Emily felt as though a softly charged breeze rolled over her, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. It felt different. It smelled different, too, though she couldn't quite place the scent. Not what the safe room used to smell like, in any case. It reminded her of when she and Wyman would sneak away to the safe room for secret trysts in the dead of night, the year before the coup. How odd that a couple months had changed her so much, that even thinking on her former lover no longer made her heart react at all. Then again, perhaps it was a bit distracted.
She blinked in surprise at the man before her. He looked... Well, he was flustered. His words proved that well enough. She didn't usually see him flustered. Pink dusted his cheeks and she found her own face warming almost in response, as though it felt the need to mirror his. Her throat felt tight and she wondered if this was a horrible mistake, but she quickly averted her eyes from his, the shift of her head dismissing the thought to replace it with her usual self-assuredness as she briefly glanced over the workbench below.
"I was hoping we could-" she faltered very briefly as her eyes returned to his, but she charged valiantly on, "-work on determining the radius - the range, rather - of our, ah… connection." By the Void, she sounded just as flustered as he did. She pulled herself to her full height, chin up, taking her royal posture again. "That is to say, I think this Void issue could benefit from some scientific study." There, that was better. Formality had returned, even though she still felt the warmth in her face.
What was that feeling? It was distracting. It reminded her of the hum of the Void, but not its recent advances. No. It reminded her of the hum off his skin the night they'd kissed. Something warmer, and magnetic, perhaps even heady. She looked away again, eyes furrowing very briefly in curious confusion as she tried to qualify the sensation, eyelids fluttering as though she might blink a hazy film from her eyes.
Oliver could practically taste the tension in the air and the way it lingered between them, an elephant in the room, or perhaps a full safari now that he thought about it. There were words left unspoken, actions left undone; he was aching. Every fiber of his being wanted to pull her forward just to have her close to him, to feel the warmth radiating off of her skin, to slip her hair from the tie and watch it bounce before going still against her back.
He stood there instead, staring at her, not quite processing her words even moments after she'd said them. Finally he moved, tensing and nodding. "Reasonable consideration," he replied briefly. Which was abnormal, seeing as he typically didn't do brief.
He turned on his heel and stepped down the stairs, a mess of machinations littering the workbench alongside his sketchbook and the stack of papers he'd written for Corvo. The rather unfinished task he'd been given.
"How do you propose we go about doing that?" he asked, fumbling through pencils and pens, his back directed to Emily. The last thing he needed to see right now in his state was her face, her delicate brows and the scrunch of her nose, the way sincerity leaked through her tough, rock solid facade...
He pulled a clean paper from the stack, beginning to write. He knew Hypatia would be interested in getting notes on the topic, that she hated being bothersome. She had so very many questions — he'd have to ask Corvo to send the report her way. When he finished it, that was…
Emily hadn't noticed how hard it had been to breathe until he'd left her side and she inhaled deeply once more. Again that heady scent washed over her, and she wanted to shake her head, to free herself of this spell the room seemed to put on her - that he seemed to put on her, any time they were trapped in enclosed spaces - but she kept her cool. She had to focus. She closed the door and followed him inside, slowing as he continued down to the workbench.
"Well." She cleared her throat, swallowed, tried to keep her voice even. "Ideally we'd be able to do this in a wider open space, but I really don't want anyone raising any questions — to be honest," she met his eyes, her gaze pointed, "I'd really prefer if no one else knew about this. Just us. And Corvo." Fuck, Corvo. She looked away, hands dragging along the railing at the top of the stairs. What was she thinking? He'd trusted her to do this, to be professional. He trusted me to figure it out; he didn't say to do it alone — that was all me. Damn it. "I just don't want this weakness to be-" She cut herself off, eyes flicking to him briefly, then away, as she stopped herself. "I'd just prefer no one knew."
She hated weakness. Hated it. And maybe that was a weakness in itself. At the very least, she didn't publicize it.
She ran her hand over the rounded edges of the finial at the top of the stairs, rimming it absently with a single silk-covered fingertip, gaze focused firmly on not him. "So it may work better just using the hall, and the safe room itself. Maybe knotted string for distance. I've already noticed certain differences between - close contact, and - less direct." The sentiment was perhaps a bit halting, but clear. Truth be told, she was curious about that difference. Because it had been severe, when she'd been touching him, how she'd felt almost bathed in light.
"I don't know how far we might be able to go apart — maybe start out and work in? Start in and work out?" She finally raised her gaze to him again.
Oliver noticeably winced at the word weakness, his eyes flickering away. He lingered there for several moments, hand still holding pen over paper but not writing, only thinking, processing her words. Weakness. He was her weakness, and not in the good way. He would tie her down. He wasn't as fast as her, nor as quiet or lithe. He couldn't wrap himself around the shadows, embrace them as though he were one with them. Not anymore. He couldn't keep up with her if he tried. And now she had to go out with an unclear mind whenever the time called for it.
Because of him, and his own weakness: her.
"...The safe room is adequate." He pulled a spool of yarn out of one of the cubby holes and gazed at her. "...I'll pull the roll of yarn back towards the balconies, you hold the spool, and stop it from spinning once you've feel I've gone too far," he explained, his voice even, but he did not look at her. He was glad his trousers weren't form fitting tonight.
"...Shall we start in your bedroom?" he asked. He figured he'd just walk through where he'd been spending most of his time, going from the bed and backwards. He needed to know his limits. He wasn't sure he'd be able to control himself if she had another one of those episodes.
Images of their last interaction in her bedroom flooded her mind, a mix of emotions also flickering through her. Her cheeks were pink. "Um… I would request that we start in here instead." Her voice was quieter than it had been. As much as the heavy air in the safe room clouded her mind, she didn't dare imagine if that same thick atmosphere were to leak into her bedroom. No, that seemed a recipe for disaster. Perhaps this whole exercise was. She really wasn't sure anymore.
She felt so odd in his presence. Attuned to something else that seemed to alter her resolve, leak images into her brain and urges into her limbs. It was as though they resonated on the same frequency, and if he changed she did too. It was horribly distracting.
She looked down to her hands again. Trying to distract herself, she pulled her gloves off of warm fingers — the one place she was able to do so without the risk of being labeled a heretic. His Mark on her was fading away, a shadow of what it once was, but still distinct, still recognizable, and still very much blasphemous.
He opened his mouth to reply to her, finally turning to meet her gaze when he noticed she'd taken her gloves off. His eyes ghosted over the marking on her hand, the slender fingers, polished and heavily manicured. They were the hands of an empress, the ones that nobles kissed — the ones he wouldn't mind kissing, either.
Thinking was difficult. His judgment was clouded, his head fogging up. She was mystifying in all of the right ways, and before he'd even realized it, he'd stepped forward and carefully taken her hand, fully prepared for her to snatch it back, to reprimand him.
He brushed his thumb over it, the warmth of his palm heating her skin even more. That was his name, fading from her skin. But it was still there. It was still his: him on her. His expression was surprisingly calm, but his gaze was intense. "...Lir," he spoke after a few moments. "...That is my name. That is the name I was given at birth, the name etched into your skin, seared into your being all those months ago. ...How long has it been since you woke to see the charcoal platforms of the Void? Breathed in its stale air, the scent of stone attacking your senses — do you remember how it felt? When I approached you, propositioned you." His voice was hardly above a whisper.
He remembered. He remembered perhaps a bit differently now that he was human. He recalled her hair in disarray, sticking up in some places after only waking moments before, the uncertain quiver to her lips, apprehensive in step, two dark almonds glaring defiant little daggers into his apparition.
She wanted to pull her hand back when he took it - truly she did, her muscles tensed for it and all - but his touch was just…
It was as it had been the night before, but without the need to chase away the screams of the Void. Just… light. And warmth. It took her breath away, and she swallowed a whimper. She didn't want this. Why did it have to be this way? She wanted so badly to resist this, to say no, she wanted it to not feel as good - as natural - as instinctual as it did. She squeezed her eyes shut, almost pained — but of course, it wasn't pain. It felt good. Just… too good.
Her head fell forward, turning away even as she felt herself pulled toward him, his words and his touch and his scent all overwhelming her while she kept her eyes closed. His name… His Mark. Etched into her skin? No… Branded on her soul. Scarred into her heart. It faded on her hand but still remained elsewhere, claiming her.
Of course she remembered how it felt. The Void was hard to forget, and the Outsider even more so. But when he mentioned propositioning her? That brought back an entirely different memory. His hands in her hair, on her neck, his mouth on hers-
She was short of breath as her forehead pressed against his shoulder. She hadn't even noticed the gradual movement toward him, but it had happened. His gravitational pull on her, irresistible. Still, it dragged her closer, and she fought to keep her feet planted, keep that gap between their bodies. She swallowed hard, not daring to speak, her hand trembling in his. Weak. She was weak. Fuck him if she wanted, sure. But to have this thing? This feeling? She wanted more than just his body, and that wanting made her weak. She'd known it, too. She'd predicted it just days ago. Her downfall wasn't in him hurting her. Not pain. Pleasure. Pleasure she had to resist, had to stop. She couldn't let it happen.
Yet she did nothing. Said nothing.
He was nearly too concentrated on the Mark to notice her shattering facade. His thumb drifted along the curves and circles and something within him was deeply saddened that it was not in its former, more polished glory. When her face hit his shoulder he gasped sharply but did not move to stop her, his cheeks still reddened, intoxicated by her presence.
He didn't speak, either, and came to the conclusion that words would do no justice. They wouldn't help him now in this state of uncertainty, unfamiliarity. It was exhilarating, it was absolutely terrifying. Part of him felt as though he should be uncomfortable with the physical contact — but it was small, and all of the other parts - most of them being very human in faculty - overwhelmed that little bit of reason. He could have resisted the touch of any other person in all of the world, but not Emily Kaldwin. Not his Emily. Not when she was close enough that he felt her breath trickling over him.
He lowered his thumb and turned her hand in his palm, feeling her pulse. Her heart was thrumming wildly in her chest, and he took pride in the fact that he was the cause of it. Hopefully. His hands were trembling, too.
He parted his lips, licking them before biting down on the lower, holding himself back. When his voice came out, it was low, it was gentle — almost intimately so.
"You're trembling Emily," he whispered. "Even in the face of the Void, with leviathans and a figure of myth peering down at you... you stood poised at the ready. But now here... in the royal safe room of all places, you're shaking like a frightened pup. Now... I haven't scared you off, have I?" The corner of his lips upturned bittersweetly and he let his eyes meet her figure against him.
He broke.
He reached forward with his unoccupied hand, took the first step, the liberty of putting his hand on her waist, pulling her just the slightest bit closer.
She couldn't stop it. Her body moved on its own, and with just the slightest provocation she found herself closing the space between them even further, fingers twitching as her unmarked hand balled into a fist at her side. Her head raised slightly as she moved, and she turned her face toward where he held her hand, keeping her eyes closed, as if in not seeing it it wasn't real. Her cheek rested against his shoulder, eyelashes brushing the side of his neck. Her shaky breath breezed over the light line that scarred his throat. It was a huge mistake. Her mouth watered, suddenly seized with the urge to taste his skin. Instead she sucked her lip into her mouth, worrying it between her teeth.
If only she'd been scared off. If she'd stayed away. If she'd allowed herself to suffer from the onslaught of the Void instead of this — this hollow empty feeling, where she knew he possessed something that could fix that breach if she just let him. If she gave him part of herself. She couldn't do it. She would suffer at the will of the Void rather than at the romantic whims of any human.
But oh, how she wanted him...
With no exertion whatsoever she still found herself panting, chest rising and falling against his. Her body heedlessly ignored that logical part of her. It was all she could do to keep still.
He reveled in her attention, a warmth crashing over his whole body when he felt her close that tiny gap between them. He was now painfully aware that she had shut the door to the safe room. They were alone, for the whole night. Just two of them and their lips and their trembling hands and the silence that settled between them — the sweet, sweet, understanding silence. He let go of her wrist and reached up, pulling her hair out of the tie she had it in and watching it fall, swallowing harshly. She had him spindled around her finger.
He leaned forward, his chest flush against hers. His lips ghosted over the side of her neck, breath hot and fluttering over sensitive skin, trickling down her collarbone, seeping into her being. "Truly, there is no quicker means by which a life can be upheaved and sifted..." he let his lips meet her flesh, and his eyes shut as they traveled up to her ear, "...than by the depredations of uncontrolled desire," he nearly cooed, words lined with a breathy lust.
The hand that settled on her side moved to the line of her back and he imagined her arching off of it, laid down beneath him against the hues of lavender bed sheets, her hair sprawled messily out alongside her face, sweat making her glisten, making her glow in the dim flickers of the candlelight.
He wanted her. Now. There was no point in trivial thoughts so he didn't make time for them, only her, his attention undivided.
She'd begun to think her body actively wished her harm. She felt herself bending to its whims again and again. Her head tipped to the side as her hair tumbled down, baring her neck to him just as he brought his lips there — perfectly in sync. And oh, his lips...
Seven Voiddamned bloody fucking strictures. His words, his touch — at this point there was no use in denying it, when the physical proof of her arousal was evident. Why would she try? When it felt this good to give in…
She reacted to every brush against her, body no longer able to hold still, wishing nothing lay between them and yet terrified to take any action that might make that the case. She found her lips parting, mouth hot and wet as she breathed against his skin, just barely holding herself back from running her tongue over his bobbing throat. She wanted to taste him. Wanted him to taste her. She wanted so damn much.
Kiss me, she thought. Touch me. Write your name in the spaces between my breaths. Take me and break me open and empty me out and fill me up.
But no words came out. Just a single sound, one she hadn't heard in a long time, if at all — all need and desire and sheer surrender, all wrapped in a single pleading moan.
The noise was enough to set his insides on fire, he felt like he'd melt right then and there where he stood, but he kept himself at bay. Four thousand years of slow, excruciating time made him patient, and also a lot of other things that were sort of irrelevant. He stood there a moment, and a few beats of silence passed between them as he choreographed his next movements. The hand on her waist tightened and he pulled her up off the ground, taking a few steps toward the bed and stopping when the back of her legs pressed against the mattress.
He didn't push her though. He'd made his intentions clear enough, he was certain of that by now. Well, as clear as they could possibly be without him explicitly stating them. He didn't plan on taking her completely, but that didn't mean he couldn't at least give her pleasure.
So he reached up and brushed locks of coffee hues out of the way, nipping at the shell of her ear pleasantly. "I'd like to undo you now, Your Majesty," he whispered, wanting her to accept him first.
Her face stayed pressed into the crook of his neck even as they moved, like dancing, and she knew where they went well before she touched the telltale framing that marked the edge of the bed. Her breath was shaky, feeling like a virgin all over again, and absolutely silly for it. Her eyelashes batted against his skin along with her breath until his request against her ear caught one and stilled the other before she glanced up at him, caution and curiosity unguarded in her gaze.
And she couldn't look away.
She drowned in his pale eyes.
Her free hand came up to hesitate by his face. Her eyes darted over details she tried to memorize, only having been quite this close once before. Finally, giving up - giving in - she let her hand brush against his cheek, harnessing that sunny glow, that burst of warmth in her chest as she tilted her chin, closing the distance between them more hesitantly than she did almost anything in her life, and ghosting her lips over his for just a moment. With an almost resigned sigh, she let her lips touch his, feeling the sun enter her bloodstream through her mouth - feeling radiant, and resplendent - as if kissing him somehow made her beautiful.
Ironically, in all of his years of looking down on nobles with cynical distaste for everything they took for granted, it was Empress Emily Kaldwin that wiped the smug look off of his face without even trying. She was so pure it was like holding a piece of fine porcelain betwixt his fingers, and he was just as gentle as such in the beginning, his lips catching hers and lingering, tongue teetering over his lips but maintaining a boundary.
It wasn't long before his physical disposition had begun to fog his mind with an intense, ravenous hunger. He wanted her, not just heart and soul but body too, and he was now suddenly, very physically aware of that. The same innocent boy that had been so driven to attain her father's blessing, who'd been modest enough to resist temptation for the past several days, sunk his teeth into her lower lip playfully, and none too harshly.
He pressed her back against the bed and went toppling down with her, resting at her side and releasing little, breathy chuckles against her lips. He pulled away when he decided that, yes, humans do need to breathe, and instead he focused on her neck, doing what he'd imagined only minutes before. He nipped here and there, sucking along her skin and searching like a beast on the prowl, but with method to his madness.
His hand lingered at the front of her trousers, fingers nervously toying with her zipper. She was no inexperienced virgin, and though he knew it was petty of him, he wanted to best those before him, he wanted her to remember every touch and bite, sear his presence into her being as though he were Marking her all over again.
Her heartbeat had already been fast, but now it was stronger - angry, passionate - her blood a fire in her veins that licked deliciously at her skin. A soft groan escaped the lips he nipped at, cutting off into a slight squeak as they tumbled onto the bed, the involuntary noise making her blush. But her embarrassment was quickly forgotten, his lips on her neck making her vision white. She still held back - she always held back - but it was hard.
Her back arched dramatically, grinding her hips back into the mattress even as she shifted her head to allow him more access. Her tongue swept over open lips, panting, unable to form words and not knowing what she'd say if she could. Tentative hands hesitated on the sheets before exploring, moving lithe fingers over fabric, one skimming up his hip to clutch at the back of his shirt, the other tracing his shoulder, cupping his neck, tangling her fingers in his hair but not directing him anywhere.
His hand, paused, teased her. She felt her chest flush under her blouse, knowing exactly where this might go, and her grip in his hair tightened, tugging gently.
She turned her eyes to him, watching him, fascinated — aroused. Pink lips remained parted, as though waiting for him to return, ready to accept his mouth as soon as he cared to grace her with it. Her skin was vibrating with the energy of him, nipples tight, muscles tense and taught, unsure what to expect. He must know so much… Eyelids fluttered shut as she imagined all that he had seen over thousands of years of human existence. He must've borne witness to it all. Every ravenous appetite, every depraved coupling... Her curiosity flared.
Slow. Excruciating. He would have her begging, or perhaps he would just annoy her, but it would be a delectable annoyance — wistful sighs and pouts and all of those entitled little expressions flashing across her delicate features. He wanted to see them all, but they had time; he would string it out, savor it while he could. All of the time in the world would never be enough.
He left her trousers unbuttoned, opened, the undergarments below now exposed to him. He had to force himself not to tease her with his fingers. The only thing more exhilarating than touch was the thought of touch, the agonizing absence of a lover's caress and undivided attention.
His hand trailed up the center of her stomach, dancing over buttons as he leaned up and dragged his lips down over Emily's, letting her have a taste of a kiss, rather than the full experience. "Emily Kaldwin," he whispered, locking his nails under the buttons of her blouse and pushing them out of their places. "Child born out of wedlock, empress turned savior of the Isles, Serkonan half-blood... and the first one to ever twist the Outsider himself around her spindling fingers as though weaving a wicked tapestry with nothing but the will of her mind and heated desire alone." His words tumbled forward against her neck and jaw, of which were already teeming with little marks he couldn't quite see beyond the haze of his growing appetite.
He watched her closely, still remaining on his side but propped on his elbow and leaning against her. He would not straddle her, not yet, he'd let her simmer first, watch her break and crumble for him; it wouldn't be fun if he gave her everything she so desired all at once.
"I believe, Emily," he dipped his lips down, slowly pulling himself over her just a bit more so that he could mouth the hard rosy bud as he dragged the fabric away, "that you might just be the most fascinating person in history yet..." His tongue slipped around and he held her there between his teeth, carefully of course. He wouldn't push her, not until he knew her boundaries.
She was part relieved and part incredibly annoyed when his hand didn't finish the damned job he'd started. The air of the room only made her need for him that much more obvious - to her, at least - as she bucked her hips toward him, a whine slipping through gritted teeth. Still he moved away, and she threw her head back with a frustrated groan, hands slamming down on the mattress and fingers digging into the sheets, practically pouting.
She licked her lips, tongue just brushing his as he teased her, and breathed in her name from his mouth. Nothing could sound better. She loved his voice, loved when he talked. Before she'd ever touched him, she'd heard him. He may have lost the echo of the Void, but his voice still sent shivers down her spine, making her writhe hungrily. She could just pounce on him, dragging his lips to hers, placing his hands exactly where she wanted them, rolling on top of him and taking control — but she held back. She wasn't quite sure why. The tension was taking her to dizzying heights, waiting and wanting, greedy to experience every torment he offered her. She could hardly control her undulating body, so focused on not jumping him right then and there.
Her eyes were hooded, out of focus as his lips and tongue caressed sensitive skin. She dug her own teeth into her lip as he grasped her, but couldn't hold back the whimper, pressing her chest toward him, nearly begging. She sucked a quick breath between her teeth, pressing her thighs together, wriggling her hips, praying for some kind of relief. Her voice was a breathy accusation, hardly more than air next to the small sound of exertion. "Nnh- ...Tease."
Watching her bend to his will, back arched, body quivering at his touch, it triggered something within him that turned every stiff little movement into something free flowing, almost muscle memory, eyelids lowering as his near glowing pale emeralds scanned her feverish figure. He felt himself throbbing now, shaft pressing at the fabric of his pants, desperate for attention, or at the very least, a bit more space. He needed to be patient though.
As much as this was for her, it was also for himself. Before the Void, he had grown old enough to know his own touch intimately. He knew what he liked, in those rare moments when he did have time to himself. When he wasn't running, hiding, searching for food. Though he'd seen women and men ravaging one another from his place in the Void, he never knew the warmth of another against him. The action itself had been so futile in his mind - a natural process similar to eating or sleeping - but now it had devoured him. He embraced it completely; this was so much more than anything he'd ever thought it to be.
He quickly came to the realization that he knew everything and yet absolutely nothing all at once.
But then the sight of Emily bucking her hips made his head go blank and all of the blood rush south.
When his voice escaped his lips it came out hushed, almost shaking, the corners of his lips tugging upwards in amusement. "I've hardly touched you at all and yet you look as though you're already teetering towards the edge, losing your footing... What's holding you back? What's stopping you from tripping into free fall?" His fingers graced downwards again and he slipped his mouth along the other side of her chest, giving it the same roughly adoring treatment for a brief moment before drawing away, lips brushing against her skin as he spoke. "Have you ever thought that perhaps... it would be so deliciously pleasant to lose control completely? Bare yourself to another? No facades, no defiance... no clothing."
His fingers pushed into her trousers, applying pressure to the wetness that had gathered along the fabric, rubbing methodically against the button above her lips. "You could stop me, you're perfectly capable of pinning me down, unraveling me and plunging into my depths — but you won't." His lips returned to her neck and stopped at her ear. "Because you're so very curious. You yearn to lose yourself - even for a moment - to shed your title, your authority, your responsibility..." He was panting and he didn't know why.
"Admit it, Emily Kaldwin." He leaned in and kissed her cheek, mimicking the one she'd given him those few nights ago behind the fireplace. "You long desperately to be taken and molded like clay in somebody else's hands. Because deep down... you're just as much of a touch starved masochist as I am." His voice was unnervingly steady, but he was clearly holding something back, taking on a darker, sinister tone.
His words….
His words his words his words his words his words.
Each sound from his lips, every phoneme like the keys of a piano played a melody on her body. He dripped poison in her ear, tempting her, swaying her, teasing her, even as his lips- his tongue- his teeth-
Her toes curled, her body shook, and a hand flew to her mouth trying to stifle her cries, biting down on a knuckle as he bit down on her.
With previous partners Emily often took control — perhaps due to her natural assertive attitude, perhaps because no one wanted to accidentally mistreat an empress. She was used to being the one that pinned her partner to the mattress, teased them mercilessly until they were either physically dripping or rock hard, drew out their pleasure until they begged her for release, or gave as good as they got. Of course, the roles had been switched before - at least one particular night came to mind - but those were the exception, not the rule.
But now-
Her response to his returned hand was immediate and violent, desire rippling through her body. "Fuck—" The word burst around the digit in her mouth, high and breathless, and she shifted her hand, biting the flesh where her thumb met her palm, trying to keep quiet even as a low moan rumbled through her, her free hand clenching and unclenching in the now thoroughly distressed sheets. She squirmed, resisting the urge to pounce, resisting the urge to beg him, just letting his words slip like knowing hands over her skin, lavishing her with truths that only heightened her arousal.
She choked back a whimper as torrid breath breezed in her ear and unraveled all her secrets, laying her motivations bare. He knew her so well, so intimately, to read these things from her. Perhaps some things he couldn't understand, but this - this delicate exchange of power - he seemed to know instinctually. His kiss on her cheek was obvious payback, and she realized: he did it much better. If he was wrapped around her finger, it was only because she was tangled with him already, wound together, inseparable. But admit it? Not so easily.
She had no reason to refuse, but she did. She wouldn't give up so quickly, not when resisting was such delicious torture. So instead of admitting anything - saying anything - she ground herself against his hand and turned her head quickly, in search of his lips. She could have grabbed him, mounted him, sucked at his skin and marked him herself — but hands clenched into fists, restraining herself for the sake of their battle of wills.
He felt himself straining against his trousers and a growl escaped him that surprised even himself. His hand left her for only a moment so that he could unbutton them, push them down his hips, but his touch returned to her and this time he was more persistent.
His thumb drifted over the tender, reddening pearl but his other fingers focused now on her entrance, pushing past royal lace and into her warmth as though he knew exactly what he was doing, following each and every primal urge that ran through him like the adrenaline that riddled his veins furiously.
"Nothing to say but a measly curse? I... expected more of a pout, or perhaps... a whine in protest. R-Really Emily, you've never stopped being that child empress have you?" he teased her, the grin on lips clear in the tone of his breathy voice, speaking through labored pants. Maybe she wasn't the only one holding herself back.
"A-Always getting what you want, every subject tripping over themselves desperately just to please you, the whole empire at your mercy. But here you are, at mine." He moved his fingers in an abrupt curling motion, as if beckoning her forward, pressing against the pulsing nerves within her — but suddenly pulling back, easing his touch. He was testing her.
Four thousand years strengthened his patience, but he wondered just how far he could string her along until she snapped back like elastic. He wondered how much she could take, if he could make every touch last a lifetime, every whispered syllable ringing in her ears until they faded into the cosmos together.
But if he was being blunt and honest, he wanted nothing more than to skip the foreplay and pound into her with every fiber of his being until she saw the stars themselves being hungrily, messily consumed by the reaches of oblivion. He wanted to completely strip her of the societal labels she'd hidden behind for so long and take her raw, vulnerable, without restraint or boundary or anything separating them.
He was patient. The Outsider. Oliver. Lir. Whoever he was, he was a patient man. He kept telling himself that.
Emily bit her lip with a fierce determination, tasting blood even as she tried so hard - so so hard - not to cry out, to beg him for more, demand more, flexing around his fingers, muscles spasming, needing more. She threw her head back, with another frustrated groan. "Mm-hm-hm-hm-hmmm—" Her bitten lip stopped her from the 'please' that sat at the tip of her tongue. She could sense his heat next to her, practically feeling the throbbing, and she- just- wanted-
She rocked her hips against his hand, over and over, driving herself further and further. Her mind was gone, lost in a world that just funneled every word over her in slick dripping waves, spilling across her skin. A pout, a whine — those she could do, but the sounds that seemed to pulse from every erogenous zone on her body were all expletives and obscenities. The vulgarities she'd hiss into a lover's ear as she touched them — not unlike his current actions. Realizing how her lovers must feel, she felt incredibly sorry and incredibly proud at the same time. Truly an ecstatic punishment.
His fingers inside her, stroking her, dragged her lip from between her teeth, followed by another, panted curse. "Damn-...fucking- tease-" Her fingers flexed again, her writhing only growing stronger, wriggling her hips, to get as much of him as she could, itching to grab him, to pull him onto her - into her. She growled, patience quickly dwindling.
Her back arched dramatically and she shook her head from side to side, but the words tumbled from her in a dark husky snarl. "You'd damn well be ready to fuck me after this, or I swear- by the Void- by all the blasted Abbey and every Isle in this fucking Empire-" A keening whine cut off her words, desperate and demanding.
Her voice sent the embers within him ablaze, a raging wildfire settling in his core and threatening to engulf him from the inside out. For a moment, everything seemed so surreal, like a distant dream he'd had as a human all that time ago. The noises she made sent shivers down his spine, the expressions flickering across her features like the sparks off of a match. He admired them, appreciating the way her brows would furrow and knit together against her forehead glistening with sweat, lips captured between teeth, the unfiltered desperation that danced through her body to the music he made with her in the heat of the moment. Rasping breaths, quiet groans, and then she let go.
And he laughed, genuinely, not loudly or quietly, adoration thick in his voice. Perhaps he should let go too.
"Emily," he whispered into her ear, dipping his face down to her neck, sucking and biting, bringing her between his lips and tasting her as she was now, without the shields and barriers, hard brick walls she built for herself. Now she was soft and pliable, compliant beneath him, begging even.
Emily Kaldwin was begging him. She yearned for him.
He immediately pulled himself over her, pressing his trousers down and letting them slip to the floor without a second thought. Mostly because there were no thoughts, only Emily. Sprawled out beneath him, arching and pleading and perfect — she was faultless. She was angelic. "Emily, you're perfect." He spoke, not caring in the slightest about his uneven tone. She needed to know — he wanted her to know how much she meant to him, how much she'd always meant to him.
He nestled between her thighs, swallowing harshly and glancing up to meet her gaze. "...Is this good? You're alright with this?" he questioned suddenly. He didn't want to break the mood, but he couldn't stand the idea of her regretting it, that she was uncertain or had changed her mind.
His laugh would've made her grin - it still made her heart jump - if she wasn't busy being so damned hot for him. His touch was her sunlight and she was burning up from him (and for him, and with him, around him): a destruction built of skin and sweat and hunger. So instead she glared as the blush spread over her bared skin, eyes still clouded with lust even as they blazed. She attempted anger, but there was also pleading there. A desperate need.
She'd managed to wriggle her trousers further down her legs with his various ministrations, and they finally slipped to the ground with the shiver that went through her as she felt the skin of her neck bruising from his attention, that gorgeous ache that promised a mark — a new mark, to go with the other, both given to her by the same beautiful man. As he spoke her name yet again, voice raw with emotion, she realized she would gladly take any sort of mark he offered. If he wanted to bruise her skin with his kisses, so be it. She would wear them as a badge, as proof that she had tamed the god — that he had tamed her.
He paused before her. Why? She wanted him so badly and he hesitated.
His questions quieted her fires - though they still burned as hot as ever - and she found her gaze softening, frustration replaced with that delicate gentle need that was so unlike the Empress of the Isles. She hesitated for all of a second, as though she might truly think out the consequences of her actions, but impulse won out. "A thousand times yes," she whispered. The flush in her chest had spread, reaching all the way to her hairline and the tips of her ears, the golden skin gone peachy. "Now…" A knee lifted, gently rubbing her thigh against his as it did so, and the husk was back in her voice, despite the blush. "Did I, or did I not, tell you to fuck me."
There was another chuckle but this time it was riddled with the faintest bit of uncertainty. He hadn't done this before, though he'd seen it plenty of times — watching with furrowed brows and idle hands, rolling his eyes, finding no particular pleasure in being an unwilling voyeur... especially when it was Emily with other people, and he could not pull back his prying gaze.
But she was his now, and that's what mattered; this moment above all others, limbs entangled, her hips bucking up, desperation clear in the tone of her voice and the little sounds that broke the small silences between them. Mesmerizing, the empress was absolutely enchanting — mystifying in every sense of the word.
His eyes widened at her obscenity but he admired it, the defiance in all of her actions, the way she held herself, sharp chin and pink pursed lips and dark, piercing eyes that could cut into his soul if they were the daggers she hid in her boots. Slender figure before him, beckoning him forward without words, whispering to him without voice, he felt himself throbbing, pulsing at the very thought of-
"Of course, Your Imperial Majesty," he whispered, his voice husky, a low gravel to it that had never shown itself before. He pressed into her, face hidden in the crook of her neck as he caught his lip between his teeth and stifled back his own treacherous moans. He chided himself when a small one escaped, a mixture of primal lust and blissful relief as he pushed his shaft further, throbbing within her, "...Emily... fuck-" he nearly whined, cheeks reddening at the sound of his own words. That was the first time he'd ever cursed.
It had been a while since she'd been with anyone, but it was just as good as she remembered - that sensation of being filled, of skin on skin - the very human carnality of it. A deep breath, a catch in her throat, and she closed her eyes with a shaking sigh, arching her back, pebbled nipples brushing against his chest as she bit her lip, shifting her hips just right. Her satisfied hum turned into a low breathless chuckle at his profanity. His words never failed him. Always a word - too many words - ready to spin complex arguments, images, barbs, seductions — and now he was reduced to common expletives. And she did that to him.
She couldn't hide the impish grin if she'd tried. "A surprise to hear such foul language from an Empress's consort…" she teased with a purr, though the effect was somewhat lessened by the frequent breaks for her heavy breaths. A hand combed through his hair, twirling it into curls, massaged his scalp, before tangling her fingers in the dark nest and giving a gentle squeeze, a slight tug that coincided with her own moan as she ground against him. Her mouth watered hungrily. She'd already been heightened by his attentions before, and now that familiar itch tightened in her abdomen, urging her for more. "And such- a shame-" she tried to sound smug, but her voice was breathy, rising in pitch slightly. "Your words were- what seduced me in the first p- place-" The word drifted off to a hissed pant as she tightened the hand in his hair, biting her tongue to keep from voicing her urges even as she rocked herself against him.
It was true, too. It wasn't just their magnetic pull, the way he silenced the Void - or even just the stunning cut of his jaw or general beauty - but the way he spoke, the words he used, how his tongue seemed to pluck each choice from the air and kiss it into the ether.
There were no words at first. He adjusted, struggling to keep himself at bay, to hold his own climax back so that he wouldn't leave her unsatisfied. But he was patient. He had to be patient. He was trying so hard to be patient — so hard he was practically mouthing the words to himself against her neck as he began to rock into her, not pulling out all of the way, but hilting each time, aiming for that spot. Whenever he nudged it he felt her tighten around him delectably, he actively sought it out, leaning up and suddenly brushing his lips over hers, kissing the corners of her mouth and her cheeks, peppering her face with little lingering affectionate pecks before turning down to focus on her chest.
Her lovely, petite figured chest - her skin like silk beneath his touch - the taste of sweat stinging his tongue and drawing him in for more. He relished it, not only the feeling of being within her, but tangling himself around her, one with her — her. He ravaged her, starved for more, but he knew nothing would ever be enough to satiate his hunger for the woman beneath him.
"No words," he breathed out, his voice reaching a high point, rasping, teetering over the edge of a growl. "None within any language, dead or alive, spoken, unspoken, i-in all of... the world's time... could begin to describe my- adoration for you, Emily Kaldwin," he stammered, too focused on the motion of his hips, meeting the rhythm between them perfectly, his movements graceful but desperate for more, like an animal, completely unrestrained and lacking in his characteristic stiffness.
He led a hand down, two fingers brushing against the ruby above her occupied entrance in the same way that scandalous textbooks detailed it, or the way that courtesans were taught to; he'd seen it, now it was a matter of putting it into action, and he most certainly wasn't failing in that respect.
Her words melted into unintelligible sounds - moans, hums, strangled breaths against his lips - with each thrust, legs wrapped around him. His lips on her skin sent tremors through her body, sharp sensations that made the muscles in her back and legs tense and tremble. His movements, his voice, his words, the warmth from his body and the friction — all of it. Her lips fell open as she panted, head rolling back again, his reverence washing over her, licking at her skin.
She choked back a piercing gasp at his touch, but couldn't silence the pleading whine, the tight whimpers, the tiny but shrill whispered, "Fuck-!" as she grabbed his wrist, slipping her shaky hand over his, holding him against her, using him for her own wanton needs. The other hand still tangled in his hair trembled just as much. Her whimpers pleaded for something, but there was nothing to be given except more of the same, and she was breaking — but continuously, over and over, a constant barrage of mewling agonizing ecstasy, a wave that she never wanted to end.
She tugged on his hair, bringing her lips to his ear - knocking against him clumsily as she writhed - and her words were hot against his skin, pleading, moaning, distraught. "More - please, more - Lir-"
His hips bucked into her a bit more wildly than he would have liked to admit. His control nearly shattered when he heard his name and immediately he leaned up to catch it on her lips, sharing the taste with her between raspy, desperate breaths.
Something stirred at the core of him and he knew he was close, he knew she was close, her warmth hugging the entirety of his length tighter with each and every thrust. He relented, pulling up off of her and settling onto his knees. He tugged her closer, wrapping her legs around his waist hastily and reaching up to unbutton his shirt as he kept his pace, his movements so harsh that the bed beneath them creaked, probably hitting the wall but he wasn't worried about that.
His shirt toppled down to the side, another thing he wasn't worried about right now. His hands settled at her hips and lifted her up off of the bed so that he could angle himself, but also so that he could watch her in all of her glistening glory as she twisted and writhed, her body vulnerable, completely at his mercy. "I-Impossible things," he whispered, mostly to himself, "y-you've given me absolutely... imp-possible things." His grip on her tightened. "I-I'm close.. I'm v-very close," he warned.
She let him go and whimpered again as he moved her, her strength momentarily forgotten in her vulnerable state, thankful for the direction as she truly could not have done it herself. Hands reached blindly for him, running over that part of his newly bared torso that she could reach, finally grabbing onto his wrists where they held her, and just in time. She grit her teeth, nearly shrieking when he found just that right angle, and he needn't have warned her. Her eyelids fluttered, body trembling and spasming even as it locked up, clutching his wrists maybe a little too hard, her voice - her breath - caught in her throat.
When it did finally return it was one hard gasp, convulsing again and again, and then that keening wail, that whimper, a mix of all the noises and all the desire — entirely animalistic, the rawest form of herself. She trembled violently, his continued movements drawing out her agony, and she wasn't sure if she wanted him to stop or keep going, the feeling was so incredibly overwhelming.
His eyes widened and he nearly forgot what he was doing, staring down at her in awe, cheeks reddened to a near cherry hue. He was quickly pulled back into reality when he felt her tighten again, eyes rolling back and closing as he moaned out, unable to stop his voice as it leaped from his open mouth.
It was a completely new sensation, and suddenly he could understand how one might become addicted to it. Perhaps he was addicted to her as it was, her voice and her eyes shut tight and her hands, lovely manicured hands gripping his wrists, the way her body curved off the bed, everything so exquisite. He gasped and his breath caught so abruptly he thought he might choke as he edged forward into his climax, brows knitting together tensely. His pace slowed, jagged movements halting. "Emily... E-...nngh." He trembled, holding her still as his chest rose and fell.
He collapsed beside her, vision hazy, as though he were swimming, submerged in his own bliss, he felt like he was drowning in all of the best ways.
Emily's mind was blissfully blank. No thoughts of the Void, or of imperial duties, or of any stress or trouble in her life, just the buzzing of her skin and the aftershocks that still trembled through her. She wasn't anything close to cold but she still shivered. Her ears only heard a dull hum, the thudding of her pulse, and the sound of her own breaths — and his, once she was listening long enough. Her body was useless in the best way. Her limbs were jelly, but she managed to roll over a bit, kissing whichever part of him met her lips first, and laying there, just breathing against him.
She was exhausted. He must be exhausted. All that tension, snapped. She nuzzled into her current resting place, cheek against his shoulder, still too tired to bother doing anything with her arms or legs aside from drag them wherever the rest of her body seemed to go.
Gradually, as her mind returned, she was able to comprehend those little details she'd missed in her lusty haze. Impossible things. That's what he'd said that night — that first night, the night he'd kissed her — the night he'd cursed her. What I wish for are impossible things. He'd thought his death was imminent — and it was, in a way. She'd been his last kiss then, and his first kiss now. Symmetrical, in that aspect.
His lips were upturned, not in amusement but in delight. Albeit, an exhausted delight that barely met his eyes but regardless, he was absolutely ecstatic. Glimmering even, in the dim candlelight, a silence falling upon them as his breathing gradually slowed and they laid there, basking in the afterglow of blissful release. Now he knew.
Now he understood those simple, trivial things that made a human a human. Fixations on sex were more than the act itself, but the implications — the heat and passion, the closeness and the reassurance that came from being with another person, sharing your demons to such an intimate degree. She'd seen him now, for what he had been and for what he was, and it was her acceptance that felt so pleasantly warm within him.
His eyes flickered over to her resting body and he ran the back of his hand down her side - not with a lustful gaze, but admiration - studying the dips and curves of her figure almost curiously, knuckles gracing her skin. "... I don't suppose you own any high collared jackets, do you Emily?" He questioned, eyes meeting her neck. The bruising would fade, he knew that much, but he doubted it'd be gone by breakfast.
Even if she did own any, he knew Corvo was already needlessly suspicious as it was, always on high alert and looking for patterns where none existed. How easily would he spy something hidden in plain sight? But Oliver was too tired to be terrified. His eyes closed and he rested his hand there, laying on his side and facing her, pulling the blanket up.
A/N: *Ahem.* Feel free to leave a review. Writing smut is surprisingly challenging, and responses are encouraged.