MagicBats

Your position had long since grown too complex for the role you originally had.  Once a lady-in-waiting to the Tsaritsa, you were asked merely to be a liaison in the Archon’s stead.  But you asked questions, interested in understanding the Gnostic web that tied everything together; it was less about faith and every bit simply being tired of not knowing what Her Majesty was referring to.

And then you simply…never left his side.  Morning lessons began to include tea, and then by the time that was over, it was lunch time and you were still present.  Time already sped by as it was at his age but in your presence, it may as well have not existed at all.

Zandik felt himself relax against the soft chaise, long legs outstretched on either side of you, your back curled forward.  You were hiding your latest floral creation from him as best you could.  All the while, he had brushed out your hair from the unnecessary pins and begun to braid, fingers working off of muscle memory from his time with the Eremites, humming all the while.  

Every once in a while, he plucked off a nearby purple flower, a rose in name alone, and wove it into the pattern.  Padisarahs were difficult to grow here but he used those, too.  The occasional Mourning Flower for a pop of vibrancy.  

If there was ever a goddess of the flowers, she walked along the ground, warming every room she was in.  He always felt a kinship to Deshret and couldn’t help but wonder if the Desert King felt as such.  

His only lament was meeting you now, at eighty four, compared to your thirty-something.  Perhaps that was for the best.  He would have completely devoured you at thirty-five, likely ruined you at least in some capacity.  Certainly would have made his current passing musings happen much earlier under the guise of curiosity.

For he couldn’t help but wonder if he had gone about his legacy the wrong way.

The thought hadn’t crossed his mind until the Knave, vicious woman that she was, asked for a meeting regarding a colicky new addition to the House.  You were present for most events and meetings nowadays, purely out of a selfish need for your comfort.

You scooped the child right up out of the pram, adjusted them into a hanging tiger pose, and walked his office perimeter for what must have been an hour.  Not a single cry, not even settling them back down.

It wasn’t the first instance of seeing you with children.  Those who could not be put into spy work because of Crucabena’s tests landed in his care.  More often than not, they became the subject of minor experiments that were to their benefit: new limbs; new methods of bodily repair.  They became errand runners, lab assistants, and Forty-Five did his best to find placement for the children who had skills needed elsewhere.  You were there to greet them when you could be and more than once, he’d heard reports of story time and penmanship help and repairs to comfort toys.

Goddess, indeed.  You had to be, to walk alongside the monster he was known to be.

But he’d taken the wrong approach to his legacy, he had to have.  Zandik was all but certain now that he couldn’t shake images of you from his mind as he worked in a smaller braid into the larger design.

“Zandik?”

He pulled his gaze away from your hair, realizing his fingers were still pinching a few strands, not yet having started another section.  He’d been staring off, lost in thought, all the while you’d turned your head ever so slightly to see him out of the corner of your eyes.  His good eye found your visage instantly, a pool of eternal patience.  

“Your thoughts must be heavy if you stopped humming,” you said.

This close, he could smell your soap and lotion, and the heady scent of your pheromones undercutting both.  He’d been humming to put it out of his mind but the knowledge you were likely ovulating may have been one of the subtle nudges that started this whole storm of thoughts to begin with.

Zandik finished off your braid, fingers tracing a path of Padisarahs before you shifted and turned around.  In your hands was a crown of Kalpalata Lotuses, Frostlamp Flowers, and an occasional Mourning Flower.  You had yet to yet the Sneznhayan lilies you had pruned earlier for the task.

You moved effortlessly, a pang of envy moving through him as you placed a knee on either side of his hips and sat, never putting your full weight on him.  He could take it, he’d always insisted, but you only ever gave in when he was inside you.

His hands rested on your hips as you asked that he look down for you  to place your work upon his head.  Your fingers brushed his ears softly.  His member throbbed as he took the chance to indulge in the remainder of his fantasy.  Zandik fixed his sights on your abdomen as he let a hand drift to press against your flat stomach.  Your body would handle the process well, even if something unforeseen happened.  Something about you was simply…stubborn that way.  He pulled you closer, pressing you against him and burying his face in the crook of your neck, forcing you to pause.

He could imagine the fullness of your breasts, the glow in your face, the way you’d smell.  Knowing full well it was his seed growing inside of you, making you his in the only other way he could…

Hadn’t he buried these impulses?  He was too old; he would die and leave the child without a father, surrounded by contraptions that claimed to be him…

Your hands found his hair and he felt his member twitch greedily.

“Talk to me, my love,” you coaxed.

He took a slow inhale and then looked up at you, hand still on your belly.

“There are many things I’ll never get to do,” he said.  “I thought the Segments were a worthy way to leave a trace of myself behind but I’ve come to realize that was a mistake.”

Your face softened further and you combed your fingers through the hair at his temple, just as always liked.  You weren’t helping the matter, being so doting and gentle.  “How so?”

“They’re inorganic, mostly.  They’ll survive but only insofar as being able to pass knowledge to others, maintain records.  Once I’m gone, the memories of me will only exist in the minds of others.  I leave no physical trace behind.  No lineage.”

No, no, don’t cup his cheek like that, he wouldn’t survive this conversation if you—

“You would be a beautiful mother,” he confessed.

How he wished his vision was better to drink in your face.  Why hasn’t he met you fifty years ago?  Why hadn’t the Elixir worked?

He could succeed only to never…

You tilted your head and kissed him, tender and filled with everything that words failed to convey about complex human connection.  The closest comparisons were waves to a shoreline, the sun to the horizon, water shimmering in an oasis.

He gasped when your hand traveled, finding his pants pocket.  Your fingers skimmed his length as you found what you were looking for.  He always kept an extra one on him, not that it was necessary every time, but he was never not prepared.

You pulled away from the kiss long enough to hold up the tiny pill to him, confirming his thoughts.  You slipped it between his lips and he almost choked as you grazed your lips against his ear and said, “Then make me one, Zandik.”

His sense of control shattered.  He grabbed your skirts, hiking them up and hastily twisting them into a knot to keep them out of the way.  Hard though he was and as much as he loved watching you bounce, he still needed time enough for the medicine to work, and he was not about to waste the opportunities in this position.

“Perhaps we should use gravity to our advantage,” Zandik said, grazing his teeth on your lower lip.

He felt your smirk as you reached and clung to his shirt while you leveraged your weight, mindful of moving too quickly.  The wet patch of your panties burned against him, your core already soaked.  How long were you going to stay silent about your own needs?

Zandik moved down the length of your body carefully, pulling your dress down to free your breasts, placing open-mouthed kisses along the soft flesh until he found your nipple.  He sucked until your nipple hardened and then rolled the nub with his tongue, one hand idly managing the same on the other side, causing you to wriggle against him.  You once described the sensation of him sucking as having tugged a string right down your abdomen and he grinned against you as you arched, clearly feeling the same now.  He gave the same attention to your other breast, and by the time he was pleased with his handiwork, you were already panting.

He grazed his teeth along the fabric of your dress until he arrived at the apex of your thighs, heady arousal filling the air.

“Hungry little thing,” he chastised, pulling your panties aside to inspect your glistening pussy.

You were plush and soaked, more than ready, but something about this moment demanded patience from both of you.  He had it in abundance, even if his cock ached at the sight of you.  Nothing might come of this, for there were way too many variables involved, but when you looked down at him like that, how could he not taste you?

He lapped at you, paying special attention to your clit, using his nose while his tongue pressed into your folds.  His fingers dug into your thighs, squeezing, pulling you closer to him.  You tasted sweet and when you began to tremble, he pulled away, face sticky as though he’d bitten into a ripe peach, your juices coating his lips and chin.

Oh, you were a sight.  Lips swollen and parted, eyes hooded in denied ecstasy, skin flush with need.  You were unabashed in your desire.  A sight only for him, a goddess undone at his touch who never made him feel unloved in the process.

He would have ruined your fifty years ago.  He didn’t understand, not then, what it meant to have companionship such as this.  

“Zandik,” you whispered, voice hoarse, hands reaching  to cup his wet face.  “You’re lost again.”

He shook his head.  “I’ve never been more at home,” he replied.  “You truly want this?”

“To bear your child?”

“And all that goes with it.”

“I know the risks and the agonies.  If I do one thing with our time together, let it be this.”

He didn’t deserve you.

Zandik moved to kiss the inside of your thigh, slowly working his way back up, your skin hot under his lips.  He sighed into your mouth when he finally kissed you properly, tongue meeting yours with steady certainty, meeting his movements beat for beat.  You pulled at his belt and unfastened it with ease, positioning his tip at your entrance.  He pushed into you in a single stroke, your walls scalding as you engulfed him down to the hilt.

He rocked gently, holding himself back as he took long, slow strokes.  Every inch.  He needed to feel every inch of you, feel the way your pussy molded itself to him, hear the way you parted for his cock.  You, who held more divinity in your bones than the Archon he served, certainly more than the Archon who failed him, and he needed to know it with every fiber of his being.  He broke the kiss to press his face into your neck, suddenly overcome with a strange wave he couldn’t identify that burned his eyes and caught his breath.  The flowers atop his head rustled and he let out a shaky gasp as you stroked his hair.

No, no, too early, not yet—

“Come for me, Zandik.  Let go and come for me.”

Fire stung his eyes, tears welling up as you rolled your hips, pussy clenching for every last drop that he could no longer hold back.  He shot deep inside, driving himself as far as you would take him to plug you up.  His cock throbbed, still swollen; he was sensitive but nowhere near ready to stop.

Zandik caught his breath, blinking away the tears, and then moved to capture your lips again.  It didn’t take much for your walls to flutter again, and again, and again, tributes owed for allowing his heretical self to bask in you.  He was shaving off years of life, certainly, but it was worth it, he reasoned as he pulled you down and pressed your legs to your chest, driving every drop of his seed into you.

He kept himself inside you until his cock finally softened, both of you entirely spent.  The glass around you was foggy, obscuring the wintery landscape into little more than a white blur.

It mattered little.  Zandik pushed the sweaty strands of hair from your face and pressed his lips to your forehead, nose, and cheeks.

“We may not succeed immediately,” he whispered.

“I know.  That doesn’t change what I said.”

What you wanted, what you desired out of life, did not matter. It was something you came to terms with rather early on. Other than the obligations to society, you were able to do as you pleased. You were well-read, adept with a paintbrush, capable of plucking a tune from a harp (a skill that made you stand out amid those who touched the keys of a pianoforte). With no frame of reference, you could not want what you’d never actually had, and flights of fancy weren’t your style.

You thought it strange that, on the night before your wedding, the Ninth Harbinger made a house call. Your carriage had yet to arrive and he strode through your fiancé’s foyer with a slow, appraising ease. He exchanged pleasantries, a kind smile as he congratulated you and wished you well, as you passed one another.

His golden eyes lingered a touch longer than necessary, molten mora burning in the sun.

Your wedding the next day was an all-day affair and you were happy that at least your new husband was amicable. Almost two years of courtship paved the way for clear communication, an understanding of the other’s habits, and a friendship that knew exactly where one stood with the other.

He was experienced; you were not. You’d prepared as best you could and hoped the garments that burned beneath the layers of tulle were appreciated. They did your figure perfect justice and you did not want the effort to go to waste.

In the quiet of the night, you arrived at your new home and followed the mostly-familiar halls to what would now be your quarters. His smile was comforting, his hands soft, and in hindsight he kissed you as though he were a man starved while others ate plenty right before his eyes. His touch lingered, begging for something you didn’t understand. The signs were there.

He took his neck tie and sweetly kissed you as he covered your eyes. The silk slid in soft hissed while he tied a knot behind your head.

“I’ll be right back. We’ll be famished when we’re done and I want to make sure the staff did as I asked so we can help ourselves.”

Insecure in his status as master of the house, it seemed. That was new to you.

He was gone longer than necessary. When you felt the chill begin to seep through the lace sleeves of your wedding dress and heard the fire snap the large log, you knew he wasn’t coming back. You reached for the tie, about to shove it up over your head when you finally heard footsteps.

The cadence was different. Lighter but certain. A third beat, a walking stick atop carpet.

Warm leather met your skin as a thumb brushed your cheek. Gloves? Why would—

Adept fingers pulled at the knot and you found yourself face to face not with your new husband, but Lord Pantalone. He almost melted into the dark of the room if not for the fire burning behind him.

His presence here was self-explanatory. No one invoked jus primae noctis anymore, it was out of fashion and looked upon unfavorably by the Tsaritsa Herself. And yet here the Harbinger stood, your husband’s tie tossed aside as though it were a dirty rag.

“Where’s my husband?” you asked, voice soft but tone firm.

“His intentions are kind, if it’s any comfort,” Pantalone replied. “He doesn’t want to be indebted to your family and to have you positioned on a chess board. You both benefit from your alliance, after all.”

If that was even true. You had every right to be skeptical.

That sounded like your husband, though. A short term frustration or tribulation for a long term plan. You lost out on one night for a lifetime.

But your virginity, your first time as a married couple, meant so little to him?

You were lost in thought, eyes focused on the fur collar of the Harbinger’s trailing cloak. Your eyes found Lord Pantalone’s face and the mask you wore all day fell away for a moment. He at least had the sense to look sympathetic.

“I’m only here to collect, my dear.”

Tears were beyond you, swallowed away for later. To his credit, he was gentle. Hands now free of their gloves were careful as they undid the pins in your hair and every button of your dress. Every patch of skin was caressed, Pantalone’s lips brushing against you the way they likely met fragile porcelain teacups. He took his time, treasuring the soft lace covering your nipples and hips, drinking from your folds as though you were a fine wine to be savored.

You were cherished, as much as one could be in such a situation. He rocked into you with patience and soothed you when, after the initial adjustment wore off, you began to see stars. His strokes were slow and long, completing you in a way you never knew was possible. He held you, stroked your hair as you gasped and cried at the unfamiliar sensations. Your entire being was on fire and you couldn’t help but want more, your body demanding release.

“Let go. Let go and come for me, my dear.”

You shattered, spasming around his cock, writhing and whining. Warmth filled you as he twitched inside you with a low grunt.

Although the debt was paid before the moons truly bled through the curtains, Pantalone stayed until sunrise. He was a pleasant conversationalist, if a little self-centered, and you were careful to guard your speech.

Your husband didn’t return until mid-morning, after you’d bathed away the evidence. He tried, to his credit, at every turn during your honeymoon and beyond. But something in your mind always turned back to Pantalone, a nagging reminder with every failed or faked orgasm. Your husband was competent but he never tried to study you. Pantalone knew exactly how and where to elicit every reaction.

A pang of guilt ran through you every time.

This was your duty.