Hot sex. PASSABLE

Ah! I entreat you to permit me to see some of your faults. Be less beautiful, less gracious, less affectionate, less good, especially be not over-anxious, and never weep. Your tears rob me of reason, and inflame my blood. 

No, my darling, I am not jealous, but sometimes worried. Come soon; I warn you, if you delay, you will find me ill. Fatigue and your absence are too much.

perhaps you will even grant him the unique and perfect favor of kissing your cheek, and I shall be alone and far, far away. But you are coming, aren’t you? You are going to be here beside me, in my arms, on my breast, on my mouth? Take wing and come, come!

I don’t love you anymore; on the contrary, I detest you. You are a vile, mean, beastly slut. You don’t write to me at all; you don’t love your husband; you know how happy your letters make him, and you don’t write him six lines of nonsense…Soon, I hope, I will be holding you in my arms; then I will cover you with a million hot kisses, burning like the equator.

they all have my hatred. You alone have my tenderness, my love. They must see how I abhor them from the frightful state I’ve been in… They see my regrets, my hopelessness at being deprived of seeing you as often as I desire to.

and of course

London, Surrey, 1705

The Russell manor stood like a crown jewel amidst the rolling hills of the London countryside, its ivy-clad stone walls warmed by the tentative fingers of April sunlight. Sir Lewis Hamilton’s carriage crunched over the gravel drive, the rhythmic clop of hooves a familiar prelude to the hour he both anticipated and feared. He adjusted his cravat, the starched linen suddenly stifling as the manor’s oak doors swung open.

“Good morning, Sir Lewis,” the butler intoned, bowing. “Young Master George awaits you in the library.”

Lewis nodded, his polished boots echoing in the marbled foyer. The scent of lemon polish and aged parchment greeted him, but beneath it lingered something sweeter - orange blossom and vanilla, the signature fragrance of an Omega in bloom. George.

He paused at the library’s threshold. George sat bathed in sunlight, his cerulean silk gown pooling around him like water. The dress, embroidered with forget-me-nots, accentuated the soft curve of his waist, though his frame remained slender, boyish in its delicacy. His curls, the color of burnished chestnut, framed a face so ethereal it stole Lewis’ breath: alabaster skin flushed pink at the cheeks, lips parted in concentration as he traced a line of Latin text.

“Sic itur ad astra,” George murmured, then glanced up. His eyes - wide, blue as periwinkle - lit with a warmth that made Lewis’ pulse stutter. “Thus shall one reach the stars. Do you think Virgil ever imagined his words guiding an Omega’s hand, Sir Lewis?”

Lewis clasped his hands behind his back, the Alpha in him straining against propriety.

“If he’d known you, Mr. Russell, he might have written epics in your honor.”

George’s laugh was a melody, soft and bright.

“Flattery from London’s most esteemed professor? I shall treasure it.”

They fell into their ritual: George reciting philosophy, Lewis challenging him with equations, their clandestine curriculum sprawled across the mahogany desk. Today, it was Kepler’s laws, George’s fingers trembling as he sketched elliptical orbits.

“The planets… they yearn for the sun,” he mused, “Yet must keep their distance. A tragic dance.”

Lewis leaned closer, his braids brushing his shoulder.

“And if they drew near?”

George stilled. The air thickened with the heady sweetness of his scent.

“They would burn,” he whispered.

Their eyes met. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the space between their lips. Lewis’ Alpha instincts roared, urging him to claim, to protect - but he recoiled, knuckles white on the desk’s edge.

“Forgive me,” he rasped.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” George said, voice steady though his hands shook. “Shall we… continue?”

The lesson ended too soon. At the door, George hesitated, clutching a budding rose plucked from the manor’s garden.

“For you,” he said, pressing it into Lewis’ palm. Their fingers brushed, a spark that lingered.

“Sic itur ad astra,” George repeated, smiling faintly.

Lewis tucked the rose into his coat, its thorns a sweet sting. As the carriage rolled away, he wondered if the stars themselves could feel this ache - the cruel beauty of an orbit that dared not close.

The days since their last lesson had been a torment. Sir Lewis Hamilton, a man who prided himself on mastery - of academia, of etiquette, of his own Alpha nature - now found himself unraveling. He paced his study, fingers raking through his braids as if he could claw the scent of orange blossom from his mind. George’s scent. The boy - no, the man - had turned eighteen, and with each passing week, his Omega bloom deepened, sweetening the air like honeysuckle in high summer. Lewis’s gums ached, his canines threatening to prick his tongue. Disgraceful, he thought. A professor of your standing, panting like a pup over a student. Over an Omega betrothed to another.

Yet when the Russell family crest appeared on his weekly summons, Lewis went.

The maid’s flustered curtsy should have warned him.

“Master George is- indisposed,” she stammered, wringing her apron. “He begs a moment to prepare.”

Lewis frowned. George was never late.

“I’ll wait in the library.”

“No!” the maid paled. “He… requested you meet him in his chambers. To review the star charts. At once.”

Star charts. Their code for lessons his parents must not overhear. Lewis ascended the grand staircase, his boots sinking into plush carpets, until he stood before George’s door. A sliver of light spilled through the crack. He knocked.

No answer.

“George?” he pushed the door open - and froze.

Morning sun gilded the room, illuminating George half-reclined on his bed, clad only in a silk slip that pooled at his thighs. His bare legs glowed like marble, one knee drawn up lazily, the fabric slipping to reveal the soft curve of his hip. His chest - small, delicate, crowned with rose-pink peaks - rose and fell with startled breath.

“Sir Lewis-” George scrambled backward, silk hissing against linen sheets. “I- I told the maid I needed ten minutes-”

Lewis turned sharply, heat flooding his face.

“Your servant said you were dressed.”

“A misunderstanding,” George’s voice trembled, though whether from fear or something else, Lewis dared not guess. Fabric rustled - the sound of a robe being hastily tied. “Please, wait in the garden. I’ll join you shortly.”

Lewis fled.

The Russell gardens sprawled in opulent disarray, a wilderness of tulips and climbing roses. Lewis chose a stone bench beneath an apple tree, its branches heavy with blossoms. He gripped his leather-bound folio until the brass corners bit his palms. Control yourself. You are not some tavern brute.

Footsteps crunched on gravel. George approached, swathed in a mint-green gown, his hair still tousled from sleep.

“Forgive me,” he said, voice steadier now. “The household is… chaotic this morning.”

Lewis kept his eyes on his notes.

“We’ll review Newton’s Principia today. The laws of motion.”

“Of course,” George sat beside him, the bench wide enough for propriety, yet close enough that Lewis caught the faint musk of his bare skin beneath bergamot soap.

The lesson unraveled. Lewis stumbled over inertia, George misquoted gravitational theory. Their hands brushed reaching for the same page, and Lewis jerked back as if scalded.

“Does it ever trouble you?” George asked suddenly.

“What?”

“Teaching me secrets. Letting me… want things I cannot have.” George plucked an apple blossom, shredding its petals. “My father has invited suitors. Alphas from Edinburgh, Bordeaux. They’ll expect a docile Omega who knows nothing beyond embroidery and childrearing.”

Lewis’s throat tightened.

“You deserve more.”

“Do I?” George turned to him, eyes blazing. “Then give me more.”

The world stilled. A petal drifted between them, caught on a breath.

Lewis’s restraint snapped.

He cradled George’s face, thumbs tracing the blush on his cheeks, and pressed their lips together - slow, tender, a collision of heat and hesitation. George gasped, fingers tangling in Lewis’s cravat, pulling him closer. The taste of him was dizzying: mint tea and longing. Lewis’s Alpha purr rumbled low, a sound he’d suppressed for decades, as George’s lips parted, yielding, wanting.

When they broke apart, George’s breaths came in shaky bursts.

“I’ve dreamed of this,” he whispered.

“As have I,” Lewis admitted, forehead resting against his. “But this cannot-”

George silenced him with another kiss, sweeter than the first.

“Today,” he murmured, “let us be Kepler’s planets. Let us burn.”

Above them, apple blossoms shivered in the breeze, their petals falling like snow over two souls already lost. The world ceased to spin as their lips met again, a collision of longing and reverence. Lewis’s hands trembled where they cradled George’s waist, his thumbs tracing the delicate embroidery of the Omega’s corset ties. George’s gown, mint-green silk now rumpled from their embrace, whispered against Lewis’s thighs as the younger man arched into him, fingers carding through the professor’s braids. The air thickened with George’s scent - orange blossom and vanilla, now laced with a honeyed warmth that made Lewis’s Alpha pulse with possessive awe.

“George,” he murmured against the Omega’s lips, the name a prayer.

“Don’t stop,” George breathed, his voice trembling like a plucked harp string. “Not yet.”

Their kisses deepened, slow and savoring, as if they could etch this moment into their bones. Lewis’s palm slid up George’s spine, feeling the flutter of his heartbeat through the corset’s stiff brocade. A petal from the apple tree caught in George’s curls, and Lewis brushed it free, marveling at how the sunlight gilded his lashes.

It was the crunch of gravel - too sharp, too hurried - that shattered the spell.

“What in God’s name?!”

William Russell’s roar cracked through the garden like a musket shot. George jerked back, his face draining of color as his father stormed toward them, cane raised like a weapon. The older Alpha’s face was mottled crimson, his scent a sulfurous storm of rage and betrayal.

“You vile, scheming cur!” Russell seized Lewis by the lapels, spittle flying. “Corrupting my son on the eve of his marriage - defiling him like some tavern whore!”

“Father, no-!” George threw himself between them, his small hands pressing against Russell’s chest. “He’s done nothing I didn’t freely allow!”

“Silence!” Russell backhanded George across the cheek, the slap echoing cruelly. Lewis snarled, his Alpha instincts surging, but George caught his wrist, pleading with tear-bright eyes.

“You’ll wed Lord Beaumont tomorrow,” Russell hissed, “And this filth,” he jabbed his cane at Lewis, “Will answer for his crimes at dawn. Pistols. To the death.”

George staggered.

“Beaumont? That- that stranger you dined with once? You promised I could choose-”

“You forfeited choice when you spread your legs for this bastard!” Russell’s voice shook the garden. “Honor demands a duel. Beaumont will defend what’s his.”

Lewis stepped forward, his voice glacial.

“I accept.”

“Lewis!” George whirled to him, trembling. “You’ve shared one kiss with me - why would you throw your life away?!”

The professor cupped George’s face, thumb swiping the tear on his bruised cheek.

“Because there is no life for me without you,” he said softly. “I will die… or I will leave this field as your husband. Let fate decide.”

The night clung to George like a shroud, its hours creeping by in a haze of candle smoke and unshed tears. His maid, Martha, had long since given up coaxing him to rest, retreating to the corner with a rosary clutched in her hands. George paced his chambers, the hem of his silk robe whispering against the cold floorboards. Every tick of the clock on the mantel echoed like a pistol shot. Lewis. The name throbbed in his chest, a wound and a prayer.

By dawn, the sky bled violet at the edges. George knelt by the window, his breath fogging the glass as he stared at the empty drive. Somewhere in the mist-shrouded heart of Hyde Park, two Alphas stood back-to-back, their fates measured in paces.

Hyde Park, 5:03 a.m.

Frost crunched beneath Lewis’s boots as he took his position, the dueling pistol cold in his grip. His second - a fellow professor, beta, and old friend - leaned close.

“Last chance to withdraw, Hamilton. No one would fault you.”

Lewis’s gaze never wavered from Lord Beaumont’s sneer across the field. The man was a brute, all jutting chin and swollen pride, his cravat stuffed so tight it seemed to strangle his decency.

“I’ll fault myself,” Lewis said softly.

The referee’s voice cut through the mist.

“Ten paces. Turn. Fire at will.”

Lewis’s heartbeat slowed, a scholar’s focus steadying his breath. Ten. His boots sank into the frosted grass. Nine. George’s laughter flickered in his mind. Eight. The scent of orange blossoms. Seven. The press of lips, desperate and sweet. Six-

A twig snapped. Beaumont spun early, pistol raised - cheating.

The crack of gunfire split the dawn.

Lewis staggered, his left sleeve blooming crimson. Gasps rippled through the small crowd. Beaumont grinned, already lowering his weapon - until Lewis straightened, teeth bared in an Alpha’s feral smile, and fired.

The bullet struck Beaumont’s thigh, sending him crumpling to the ground with a howl.

“Foul!” the Lord’s second shouted. “He fired out of turn!”

Lewis tossed his pistol to the referee.

“Check the count. He turned at six.”

The crowd murmured. Beaumont writhed, cursing, but the referee’s nod was grim.

“Honor is satisfied. Sir Hamilton is victorious.”

Russell Manor, 6:17 a.m.

George’s fingernails bit crescents into his palms. The sun had risen, gilding the gardens in gold, but the house held its breath. Had the shot been Lewis’s? Had it been-

The door creaked open.

George turned, his heart a trapped bird - and there stood Lewis, silhouetted in dawn’s light, his coat sleeve torn and bloodied but his eyes blazing with triumph.

“You’re… alive,” George choked out.

“Barely a scratch.” Lewis crossed the room in three strides, catching George as he stumbled into his arms. The metallic tang of blood mixed with George’s orange blossom scent, a heady contrast.

“Beaumont?” George whispered against his collarbone.

“Alive. But he’ll limp to the altar of his pride, not yours,” Lewis cupped George’s face, thumb brushing the bruise his father had left. “Your father has no choice now. The duel’s outcome binds him. You’re mine.”

George laughed, wild and free, tears streaking his cheeks.

“Yours,” he agreed, sealing it with a kiss - a promise, a beginning.

Melkor, content to follow his servant, smiled. Even now, he could hear the sounds of feasting and merrymaking drifting up from the great hall. “You indulge me too much,” he murmured, glancing back over his shoulder. Lungorthin began to sing. His voice echoed through the halls and corridors like distant thunder. Fists banged against the tops of tables in time with his words. It was not unpleasant to hear. “Pray what is this gift?”

“That I cannot tell you,” Mairon returned. He led the way into the sleeping chamber set aside for the new king’s particular use. “You must see it for yourself.”

The Vala’s eyes widened. Mairon had already done much, from forging his iron crown to seeing to the preparations of the feast. It had been splendid. Greater spirits and lesser spirits and orcs and elves who saw the wisdom in pledging to a new master gathered around trestle tables set beneath a ceiling fashioned to look like the star-filled sky. They gorged themselves on delicate pastries, great haunches of meat roasted in honey, and fruits of all kinds, before setting their eyes on the ale and the mead and the fine wines offered to anyone who had a thirst for them. Now they were all singing, a bawdy air that would have made an Ainu as pious and proper as the last Elder King flush from cheek to chest.

His brother was a fool, Melkor told himself. An unsuspecting and all-too-trusting fool. He did not perceive the danger that led to his undoing until it darkened his doors. Now, he was confined to a chamber within Ilmarin itself, a prisoner of the great palace he once freely walked in with his queen. Melkor beamed, still drunk over his great victory over them both. Varda, too, was a prisoner and kept apart from her husband. She would not see the light until Melkor called on her, bringing the torments he devised especially for her.

“Here it is, my king,” Mairon said, halting. He grinned wickedly and extended his arm toward the bed, drawing his king’s attention to what lay on top. “Here is the gift that awaits you.”

The gift Mairon spoke of was no mere trinket or priceless jewel. It was one of the Maiar instead, laid down amidst the pelts as if to rest. She was dressed in a woolen roughspun robe the color of mud. Her limbs were bound by chains to the posts of the bed, and her legs were outspread. Melkor knew her, of course. And he approved of what he saw.

“Lady Arien,” he said, greeting her. He turned to face his servant, perplexed by the silence that followed. Arien barely struggled against her shackles; it was as if she was drained of her will to defy him. “How did you accomplish this?” He said to Mairon.

“The poison,” Mairon explained. He rested his hands against the railing of the footboard, utterly pleased with himself. “Too much of it can cripple and destroy one of our kindred. Just the right amount of it, on the other hand, when infused with certain other elixirs, would render one such as her weak and helpless. She is yours to do with as you please.”

“If she had accepted my hand,” Melkor began gravely, “she would have been your queen. She would have been seated beside me in the place of high honor, drinking in the adoration we all bestowed upon her. Instead, she is bound to my bed, unable to do naught but accept my advances, whether she desires them or not. Tell me, Mairon. Is there more to what you have set aside just for me?”

“There is, indeed, my king.” Mairon crossed over to the round table beneath a wide window open to the darkness outside. Not a star was to be seen; they were all hidden behind a wall of thick clouds. It was how Melkor wished the world to be: shrouded in shadows. “Ice,” he said, lifting a gilded glass bowl. “I believe you quite enjoy the use of it.”

“You know me well.”

“I know you too well, my king. It was I, after all, who procured your bedmates for you.”

Melkor chuckled. He stretched out his hand, ready to accept the proffered bowl. “A duty you quite loathed, if I am not mistaken.”

“Indeed.” Mairon came to him and gave the bowl for him to take. His eyes glittered. “And I will remind you of the many duties I performed in your name should you balk at the rewards I ask for myself.” Master and servant laughed—something few had ever seen. “Farewell for the moment, my king,” Mairon continued, composing himself. “I trust this gift pleases you?"

“This gift pleases me grealy,” Melkor said. "Return to the feast" he urged, “and celebrate our triumph. For it was chiefly through your labors that my conquest of this realm was made possible.” 

Mairon bowed deeply, gratified with the praise he received. “My king,” he said, straightening himself. "I will ask the others not to disturb you." Without another word, he respectfully turned on his heel and walked away. 

Melkor waited until his attendant took his leave of him before returning his attention to the bed. “Lady Arien,” he said, taking careful, measured steps toward her. He remembered all too well what happened when he last approached her in the meadows of Almaren. “How fare you this hour?”

Arien watched as he drew near, her fear growing with each passing moment. Her gifts had deserted her, as had the chief of her vitality. It had something to do with that strange libation Mairon compelled her to drink after she awoke in a damp and dark cell; she was certain of it. Ever since she swallowed the last sip, she discovered herself straining to take a step without the aid of another.

“Melkor,” she spat weakly. “Release me this instant.”

“So there is a spark of defiance still left within you,” Melkor said. He sat by her side and picked a small clump of ice from the bowl in his other hand. It was in the shape of a sphere and perfectly formed. “Tis a pity, truly, when I see what has become of you. Had you accepted me, you would have been dining with the others, a queen above all other queens, and garbed in costly array. Now you are here, dressed in a slave’s robes and at the mercy of my whims. Tell me, how should I begin?”

“I shall not tell you,” Arien countered, and she briefly closed her eyes. Speaking was already becoming a trial. “I will not aid you in any way.”

“Is that your final word on the matter?” Melkor questioned.

“It is indeed,” Arien insisted, her voice trembling. She yearned to yield to true sleep. Alas, she could not do so as long as she remained in Melkor’s presence. “I will not help you in this matter, not even if many comforts were offered to me.”

“Very well. Let us begin this way, then.” Melkor ran the sphere of ice along Arien’s arm. It hissed from the warmth pulsing from within, but it did not melt. Arien could not bring herself to do it. She did not have the strength to command such a power.

The Vala took a perverse delight in seeing the Maia writhe feebly whenever he dragged a fresh sphere of ice over her flesh. Arien was a being of fire and heat, and fire and heat were what she oft delighted in. Ice and cold, on the other hand, were a torment to her and many of her kind. Mairon had chosen well.

“You left the chief of my earthly vessel a gray ruin,” Melkor remarked. He ran his cold, gloved hand down Arien’s leg. It startled her. “What I do to you now is appropriate, I think, given what you did to me all those years ago.”

“You attempted to ravish me then,” Arien shuddered. She recalled him coming to her while she tended to the flowers in Vána’s meadow and the manner in which she rebuffed him. “You attempt to ravish me even now.”

“Attempt?” Melkor set the bowl down on the floor and rose. He peeled his gloves off each hand, finger by finger, and cast them aside. “My dear Arien, there will be no attempting now.”

The Maia closed her eyes again, unwilling to even deign to glimpse the Vala while he undressed himself. She heard him remove his boots, and then she heard the soft rustle of him freeing himself of his robes. Her stomach was a roil, and her spirit was overcome with despair. There would be no escape for her this time, no great warrior who could come to her rescue. They languished in the prison Melkor devised for them, or they had perished during the battles that came to pass. Arien was alone, and she truly was at her captor’s mercy. The notion frightened her in a way she could not describe.

“You denied me what I desired then,” Melkor growled, angry. The weight of the featherbed shifted when he joined her. “You will not deny me what I desire now. Close your eyes for as long as you wish. Pray, if you think it will give you comfort. Neither will save you now.”

He grabbed onto the collar of her robe, yanking it down and tearing it clean down the center with a forceful tug. Arien shivered. Gooseprickles rose all over her skin. She kept her eyes closed even when Melkor moved over her, even when he pressed down against her, and his lips brushed against her hair, her throat, her cheek. His breath was colder than the ice he amused himself with, and his touch was like the ice found only within the depths of Eä itself. Pain followed wherever it went, and she endured it as bravely as she could, biting down on her lower lip when he moved lower and nuzzled at her breasts until her nipples hardened to little peaks.

Melkor could have restrained the cold that flowed through him and brought forth the unrestrained heat within him instead. He chose not to, believing Arien did not deserve such kindness. He savored what he discovered for a moment, indulging in the sweetness that he found, before raising his head to seek her lips. Arien tried in vain to turn her head. He gripped her chin, keeping it in place, his nails leaving indents in their wake. When he kissed her, he kissed her with power and violence, stunning her with the malice and fury he unleashed.

“Later,” Melkor said after he was finally able to speak, “when the feast has ended, and others have retired to their chambers, I will return to you and bind my spirit to yours. No other will be allowed to claim you for themselves.”

Arien knew all too well what Melkor spoke of. He wished to cleave his spirit to hers, wedding her to him in the manner of their kindred. “I will not wed you,” she declared in a strangled whisper.

Melkor barked out a laugh. “Your declaration will not shield you,” he said, amused. “I will bind my spirit to yours. Until then, however, I will join my flesh with yours instead.”

He settled between her thighs and braced a hand by the side of her shoulder. The other, he slipped around her hip, lifting her. He teased her at first, rubbing the tip of his length against her folds. The sensation sent unwelcome shivers up her back. Arien was ashamed. She could already perceive the flames rising low in her belly. She turned her thoughts to other things, hoping to dampen the fires that were already alight. It proved to be of no avail in the end. Melkor breached her without warning or further preparation. The pain that lanced through her was a nigh unbearable thing. It loosened her tongue and made her cry out. The sound inflamed him.

“For so long, you thought you had bested me,” the Vala husked into her ear. “Now you lay beneath me, serving me in ways you never thought possible. You are mine, Arien. You have always been mine. Now, you will be mine in one of the many ways I desire.”

Arien turned a deaf ear to his little speech. She wrapped her fingers around the very chains that bound her arms, her golden knuckles turning white from the effort. She could feel him, all of him. His thrusts were as uncommonly rough as his kisses. His hips bruised the insides of her thighs. And she prayed for it all to end. Her own body was preparing to betray her. She could feel it in the coiling deep within her stomach.

Her prayer was answered. Melkor climaxed not long after, spilling his seed with a long, satisfying grunt. He kissed her one final time before he pulled away, his cock now soft, his chest heaving from the exertion.

“I will go to the others,” he said, rising. He picked up his breeches and his boots. Those he would put on first. “Then I will return to you after they have all departed. Savor this respite, Arien. Such will be few and far between for quite a while.”