#rolo replies

Her vision darkens at the edges, blurs in the center, her mind a stabbing, pounding mess. Xinara gasps in pain as she takes a step deeper into her chambers; the sound echoes in the space and is met by a pleased, rumbling purr. But she should be alone? Heinrix is- he is- “Oh dear,” Heinrix coos, appearing by her side, one hand grasping her elbow and the other wrapping around her waist. “You look miserable.” She struggles to focus. Blinking furiously, swaying on her feet, she grabs onto the lapels of his jacket to steady herself. His face slowly comes into clarity, but something about it is wrong — Heinrix always looks at her with a gentle warmth, his eyes always convey how happy he is to see her; so why is he staring at her as though she is prey to be consumed? And why does his touch repulse her? “Poor little thing, you’re so unwell,” he guides her towards a great black shadow, the details of which she can’t make out. Instinctively, she digs in her heels, bucking against his grip; immediately feeling guilty when he glances at her with a hurt look.  “I’m sorry,” she mumbles, forcing herself to relax despite her gut screaming at her not to. But this is Heinrix, her head is so jumbled, so frazzled, why wouldn’t I trust him?

He feels so solid beneath her, solid and warm and present – and yet, she can't keep the tremble from her hands, fingers hovering over his face; she doesn't know whether to believe in his realness, or if this is just another hallucination her slowly dying mind is distracting her with. Does she touch him as softly, as gently as he deserves? Or should she grasp him with the greed that's always present in her chest, press into the suppleness of his flesh and steady herself with the feel of it? Xinara mulls over it for several long moments, mock-frowning at Heinrix when his lips curve up in a fond, if exasperated, smile. Finally, finally, she sets shaky fingers to his skin, the warmth searing down nerves and setting slight the ever-present yearning. Xinara gasps, vision turning watery as she traces his face; his strong cheekbones, his noble nose, his sharp jaw, the mismatched, beloved eyes, that faint freckle at the corner of his mouth. Everything that she’d dreamed of, everything that she’d missed during her near-endless time in the Dark City. The tremor from her hands moves through her until she's a trembling mess, her being slowly coming to terms with the fact that he is he, he is here — he's real and he's here and she's touching him after days, weeks, months of pain and agony and torture. Heinrix gently tips her face to meet his gaze. His eyes are so soft, yet so pained, so guilty.  “I dreamed of you,” she murmurs. “When I slept, you kept me company. You made me feel safe. Protected.” 

His wife, unbound hair a curtain falling down her back, is draped in naught but rubies; the jewels dripping from her ears, her throat, her arms and wrists all gleam in the soft, delicate candlelight, winking a hundred ways at him. And his husband is- Pearls decorate the breadth of Estinien’s chest, each necklace hanging lower than the last. A rope of them is wrapped around an arm, and – oh, Halone save him – another decorates the base of his very erect cock. It is as though the sun and the moon occupy the bed, and they gaze up at him through hooded eyes, captivating and mesmerizing, the curves and planes of their bodies as alluring as sirensong on a hazy moonlit night. Distantly, he wonders how Aly managed to persuade Estinien into participation, but the larger part of Aymeric's thoughts all revolve around the sharp, sharp need that has his gut clenched into a fist.