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for sinners ✶ king of darknight x a very bitter kod!mc

— ݁₊ SUMMARY / kod!xavier intends to lay with his queen, now that she's recalled she even was a queen at all; she does not recall everything... and is VERY jealous about a certain trinket.

WC: 9.7k RATING: explicit TAGS: p i n i n g, mc being jealous of her dang self, star pommel my beloved, one-sided resentment from misunderstanding, a bit of a propriety fixation from MC, cunnilingus, fingering, p-in-v, xavier being very smitten (likely thing for him to be) A/N: i wrote this to help myself submerge from our old mate Brain Fog, so i'm not 100% sure it's canon compliant; her memories of lightseeker onwards get returned but her memory of anecdote 3 doesn't, basically! ✦ my masterlist | read this fic on ao3 OR read it here ↓

From the foyer to your bedchamber, Xavier’s kisses can’t be nudged away; not for a moment, not for an inch. He settles for your cheek when you need to see where you’re going, but he “needs to kiss you.” So you let him.

The door to your bedchamber swings shut behind you, you’re pressed against it, and Xavier’s hands are fast as ever. The squeak of the latch and lock register in your mind when he's already cupping your jaw again, tilting your head to deepen the kiss. Your heart skips up your throat, in the hope of meeting his reverent tongue. When you feel your chest is seconds from hollowing out, Xavier—finally—pulls away. Enough that you can see his face, even, such self-possession!

A few breaths prove your heart as it ought to be, though thudding fervently. Its pace worsens as you meet Xavier’s eyes. They are… bafflingly pretty. Other words would suit just as well, words more masculine or empowering, but ‘pretty’ is the most articulate thought as you can presently manage.

Is he flushing? The moon is not yet risen, it’s too dark to see, if you lit a candle—you are not going to push past him to light a candle!

Perhaps it is the dim light that makes his skin seem so smooth. Perhaps it is weariness softening his expression. Or… that he no longer wears a mask of disinterest; pure affection fills the pretty blue eyes raking over your face.

… Perhaps Xavier doesn’t mind you staring.

He must find you pleasing enough to look at, you suppose, smoothing your skirts down and smile at him. (He smiles back.) Granted the lucidity offered by awkward silence… he’s… remaining. Scuppered is the chance of this being some mindless, lustful impulse; you’re not being pawed at, yet he remains. Your king, right in front of you. Watching you watch him, breath coming arduously through those petal-pink lips…

Your king is too pretty.

“You can kiss me again,” you say, “if you’d like.”

He answers with a smirk, which breaks into a laugh. “I’d like nothing more. But…” He taps the black armour on his shoulder. “I realised the risk of putting out one of my lady’s eyes. I was just thinking of how fond I am of them.”

“Right, I can… um…” You feel along Xavier’s shoulder as he turns, until you find the thick leather strap where pauldron joins to breastplate.

“Did that sound strange?” he asks quietly. He glances at you. “About your eyes.”

“No, no. I appreciate your concern for my, um…” You furrow your brow as you try to yank the metal buckle loose. Leather is tough. Well, of course it is, it’s leather, you simply hadn’t thought it’d be this taut—

“It was the compliment I believe I worded poorly. You have beautiful eyes. I should’ve said.”

His voice is the gentlest you’ve ever heard it. What of the look on his face, you wonder, is it the same?

You resist indulging yourself with a peek. “Thank you,” you say, focused on unbuckling the pauldrons. (As if it’s dutiful work and not a prelude to further indulgences.) At his insistence, it’s onto the floor they go (then kicked, by him, beneath the bed.) The two of you work off the cape, the armour; Xavier tore his gauntlets off at some point to assist you, (likely kicked them, as well.)

Once he’s in his undershirt, you crumple your mental catalogue of ‘what he’s kicked where.’ The very heart in your chest flutters, weak as paper. Over the thin cotton undershirt, dangling from a black cord, around his neck, is, the…

You drag your eyes up. His catch the candlelight as they narrow. Playfully. Mischievously. Briefly, briefly, you’ve half a mind to leave.

Xavier reaches behind his neck and unclasps the cord; with twinkling eyes, he lies right to your face.

“No one's ever meant as much to me as you do.”

The ancient lump of once-yellow fabric goes in the dresser, by the window, middle of the top drawer; he places it atop your linens—

—turns, crushes you to his chest, latches his mouth to yours, drags you onto the velvet sheets.

The slide of his tongue works every thought from your head; the slide of his hands along your waist is all that keeps you conscious of your body. The satin ripples under his attentions. One of your simpler dresses. Xavier need not fiddle around faceted garnets or topaz cabochons. (You're thinking again.) He’s tracing the embroidery… Wherever you’re quite sure his fingers would meet gilded thread, they press firmer.

… What are your hands doing? … Nothing—nothing?!

You reach up to dig them into his hair. Instead, they graze cold metal, sharp. His crown. Of course, you didn’t remove that, it could tumble and break, or cause injury… You yank your face away, to get a proper look. Around his head it firm sits, even as he turns his head, lips brushing against your neck, then kissing, then trailing…

You focus. Carefully, you untwine a few ashen strands caught in the crown’s black spires, and begin to lift the crown free.

“Hurry up.” Xavier nips your pulse. “Please?”

“Your ma—mmf.”

His tongue strokes down your throat. You shake your head to break the kiss; he allows it, thankfully, and pulls back. Bracing his hands on either side of your head, he mutters, “Your Xavier is listening.”

You waggle the crown demonstratively. “My Xavier should place this on my bedside.”

Those too-blue eyes fill with tenderness. What a darling sight; less so, the smirk below them.

“You’re always so assiduous,” he says, taking the crown in hand.

It meets the wall with a clatter, and you’re set upon once more.

Silver spills through the window, drenching the room. Sat at the end of the bed, you find each small hair upon your arm turned to stardust by the moon’s light.

Such inspections are to avoid taking a proper look at the sight before you.

Framed by the weathered fireplace and its neglected hearth, more cinders than flame, Xavier kneels. What little firelight remains dances along his jaw. Beneath his smoky fringe, his lashes lie so low that you’re only sure of where he intends to look thanks to him telling you. Inside your ‘cunt’, an odd tension begins to coil.

Your skirt brushes your ankles as Xavier tucks his hands under the hem. He splays a hand on either shin.

You try to keep your voice steady. “And I am to, what? It cannot kiss back.”

Xavier’s eyelashes flutter, then he clears his throat and replies, “Indeed. I suppose you’ll have to satisfy yourself with doing nothing for me in return.”

His hands move up and up, as determined as the man himself. And as calloused, you think faintly, yet there is softness beneath; his fingertips trail delicately up your shins until they rest on the sides of your knees. Xavier presses his forehead to your knees, and exhales.

This is not the ravishing you’d expected when he first yanked you onto the bed. Nor the sort detailed in…

While working through the castle library, you would often and accidentally encounter a novella within which consummation was depicted midway, most often as a matter of course after a wedding, but sometimes for reasons utterly separate from any sort of development within the story, and the general impression given by the words as you skimmed them was never of such a… contemplative nature.

Xavier lifts his head. His eyes roam your face again, and yours roam his. Though his hair is now more ash than blonde, he ‘hasn’t aged a day’ in the hundred thousand or so you’ve spent apart. (That he spent without you. How many did you spend without him? Did you count? Surely you did.)

Your eyes slip to his collarbone, pale skin and paler cloth. After whatever this is, will he fetch that stupid star? Did he wear it every day, is briefly removing it meant to flatter you?

“You’ll enjoy it,” he whispers. “If you don’t, the fault is mine.”

“Mhm.”

“Just tell me if it bores you.” To leave your periphery, Xavier ducks his head and offers you a smile; you meet his eyes, you are not so rude as to deny that. “My lady?”

“I understand.”

His smile falters. “Would you rather do something else—?”

You cup his face. Xavier’s eyes strain trying to watch your thumb’s path over his cheek. A boyishly full curve, unweathered by the years, yet the stress of such starvation… Unspoken, but immense, beneath everything he said earlier, there growled a weakened longing. Was it for you?

You swallow your own need. “Even if I enjoy it, I would see you satisfied.” By me.

Xavier tilts into your touch, rests his chin on your knee, and gazes up at you… coquettishly. “Your enjoyment will satisfy me. I promise.”

“How?”

One of his hands moves an inch or so further up, passing back and forth over your thigh, seemingly absentminded. Desire fills his eyes as he speaks; shadows over forget-me-nots. “For a long time, I’ve wanted to make you feel a certain way.”

“I don’t know how you’ve even heard of such a method,” you mutter.

His smile widens. “That’s alright.”

You fold yourself forward and squint at him faux-accusatorily. “How often did you think of me in such a position?”

“Often.” Xavier nudges your nose with his. “But I thought of you always; most of my thoughts were appropriate.”

“When thinking upon this, you… decided it’d be best if I laid back and did nothing. Truly?”

“There is one thing I hope you’ll do.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm.”

It is with comical swiftness that Xavier butts his head to your chest. The world tilts, momentum has its way, you fall back. Thump.

“I dislike you again,” you declare.

Xavier’s hands slide down to your hem. He starts rucking your skirts up. “Then I’ll make amends through action. We’ve talked enough, for now.”

Nerves bounce upon your chest, then find their way inside your chest. Little foolish words and impulses. With great determination, you swallow them. You pull down a pillow from further up the bed and set it beneath your head, arranging your hair neatly, then fold your hands atop your stomach. Tucking the nerves in for the night.

They wake immediately when you hear leather rasp on stone; all the air leaves your lungs as your legs tilt up and, carefully, are pulled forward. They hook over Xavier’s shoulders—he’ll see beneath your skirt, easily, well, obviously, such is his intent—

Hands, flat on your inner thighs, kneading the flesh there, massaging. A kiss to your left knee. Another, to the right. Another, further up your left thigh. The peculiar sweetness between your legs stirs, as if moving?!

The nerves burst free. “It cannot have been always.”

Another kiss, right thigh. Buzzed upon your skin: “hm?”

“You said you thought of me always,” you clarify, staring at the oaken bedpost as if it could serve as a decent distraction.

“I did.” Xavier’s words dampen your inner thigh, and the other bedpost, in fact, is not a match; the wood is less evenly polished.

“But even revenants must sleep. Everyone sleeps.”

“Yes. Some dream of the person they most care for.” There’s a slight weight on your folded hands—your dress, folded up yet further. “I did.”

You must be bare from the hips down, but the due embarrassment has yet to reach you. Too focused are you on the hoarse yearning voice below, the slight tremble between each word; the bedposts are no comfort, nor the canopy. You shut your eyes and bite your lower lip and listen.

Xavier’s hands splay over the top of your thighs, high enough that his fingertips brush your hips. “I’d wake longing for her warmth. Then endure each day, ‘til came the night, and with it came more longing.”

You laugh breathily. “Forgive my disrespect, then.”

“Disrespect me. I don’t mind.”

A wet pressure parts you.

“Your h—ah!”

On your inner thigh, just barely, you feel the curve of Xavier’s smile. “Try again.”

“Xa—” You choke as moisture is laved up your crease. By Xavier’s tongue, while two of his fingers hold you open; then comes a deeper pressure, ardent as a kiss. Your hands fly out to fist the sheets; those stupid nerves are loose while your lower half is pinned beneath his forearm. Your ankles drive into the back of his shoulders. Xavier’s muscles tense beneath the cotton shirt as he moans into you.

“Xavier!”

“Yes,” he pants, “what?”

“I can’t lie still!” you insist. Mortified, you close your eyes. “It’s… sensitive.”

Xavier rubs his cheek on your inner thigh. “I know. That should pass. Move if you must, it’s fine. Do anything you like.”

His nose nudges at your crease. You’d never considered how that part of you tasted, but now you can think of nothing else. Xavier doesn’t inquire after your silence, instead spreading you further and pressing his face up to your cunt. So, it must taste… good.

Your face heats as Xavier licks at you. He does so with… animalistic focus, as if grooming or devouring—no, as if it is instinct, what he does to you, not a vulgar thing, and… and the sounds…

You feel used.

… It is not wholly unwelcome.

Heat prickles down your body. How hollow a vessel it is, as from your head to your cunt, Xavier drains you. Eventually you cannot hear a thing but the desperate gasps, leaving your mouth parched; it misses his, you want a kiss, but you do not want him to stop ‘kissing’ you.

You smother yourself with a hand so that you’re at least breathing warmer air, and… can pretend it is his hand…

At some point, your eyes open? Foolish, as they just loll about uselessly. The stone ceiling falls in and out of focus as you imagine it being blocked by his body, over you. There’s more done in the bedroom between a man and woman. He could do worse to you.

That sweet sensitivity yanks at you from the inside.

You bite the side of your hand to keep from moaning aloud, but your legs spasm; instantly, Xavier pins them, and despite your perfect silence, he pulls his mouth away. You let out a muffled growl. How attractive.

“So.” Xavier exhales. “You dislike me?”

Bastard. You try to find your voice somewhere in the canopy above you. Considering your reaction thus far, if you look at him, you’ll faint. “Mm-mm.”

“Yes or no?” he asks softly. Before you can reply, a true pressure coaxes your hole. His finger, probing, curious.

“No.” Your reply is more a whine than anything else.

“I’m relieved to hear it.”

Oh, damn you, you bite back the words. “Xavier.”

“Yes? Does my lady desire something?”

With sore fingers, you grip the sheets, blood stirred from arousal to agitation. “Ugh! I won’t say it.”

It is more than a matter of modesty, it is uncharacteristic; the girl he knew at the Academy would be horrified by such vulgarity. (Although she shared the want for it. After you fixed his brooch he could’ve fucked you and you would’ve allowed it; door unlocked, appointment looming, you would’ve done whatever Prince Xavier wanted, whenever, if he’d just told you he wanted it.)

Half feeling as if you are that naive, desirous girl again, you mutter, “Do you just want me lowly? Squirming about for you?”

“A little,” comes the reply, heart-achingly tender. “I want you however you are.” As he speaks so sweetly, his finger coaxes at your entrance. He’s vile, you’re vile, it feels wonderful, it’s vile.

“You are a terror of a king,” you laugh. “Defiling a lady’s dignity.”

“Your dignity?” Xavier widens his eyes, and penetrates your pulsing hole.

You gag on nothing, tipping your head back, clenching your fists; velvet sheets shift, a hundred miles away. The weight along your hips vanishes, freeing you to arch, though it barely alleviates the pressure. A splayed hand meets your sweat-slick backside.

Suddenly close, hushed by your ear, his voice: “Speak if it hurts.”

It does hurt; it doesn’t? Your fingers hurt. Your eyes, squeezed shut, are fine… Your cunt, invaded and insisted upon, aches. Fumbling, you press your hand back to your mouth, and moan into it. The pressure in your lower half continues until Xavier’s palm is pressed flush to you. Then, his fingertip starts to drag against your insides. Second-by-second, an even pace of press-and-drag-and-turn-and-press-and-probe—

“I like your dignity as it is,” he says, miles away.

“M’sorry.”

“It’s alright. You were joking.”

Lightning arcs up your shins, searing your lower stomach. “Ah!”

Again, Xavier strikes upon something inside you, like flint to a fire, water to a drunkard; you’re overheated and dripping, you’re blinded—

“I want to defile this.” Right underneath where Xavier’s finger is driving inside you, you receive a long, messy kiss.

“Xa—y’h—” You slap your hand over your mouth as the wet slip of his tongue ventures lower, toward an entrance far filthier; from the skin between, Xavier laps at your cunt’s dribbling. You go limp, and let him.

Goosebumps ripple all over your skin—yet if there is a chill in the air, you cannot feel it. Relaxation spills over your body, as delicious and tempting as a hot bath in winter. Your hand slips from your mouth to grasp something, somewhere, and your hips buck reflexively. Xavier’s unwavering mouth follows. Even if you wanted to stop the sounds escaping you, you can no longer anticipate them.

The dark behind your eyes. Xavier on you. Those are the only things you’re sure of. Gradually, you cannot tell where exactly his mouth is, or what your body is doing; your body is his concern, not yours.

Squelching and hums, sucking-licking-penetrating, rhythmic, deep…

Pleasure is a wave, swelling below you, bidding you to float. Each pass of Xavier’s tongue fills you, now, until warmth drenches your insides, softening your bones, your muscles, and his hand slides up your neck. It is no grip at all, just a caress, yet breath flees. After one long exhale, anchored to only Xavier’s palm, you drown. Washed over all at once, a fierce current and Xavier, Xavier, Xavier—

“I’m here.” A susurrus of wind over water. A breeze on your cheek. “You’re so perfect.” The loveliest voice in the galaxy is right over you. “I… I’ve…”

Then a kiss coaxes you open, as the world clenches inward.

Xavier's here.

Xavier is kissing you. Your knight, your prince, he came back and called you perfect and kissed you, just like you wanted him to, that afternoon on the rooftop, and always…

Giddy, weak, you fumble at air before Xavier takes your hand and presses it to his cheek. You can feel his jaw working as he kisses you. Death and stale sorrow and clumsiness are inconsequential; Xavier's kissing you like he loves you.

He does, you decide, delirious. He came home to me. Across the starry sea and back again.

The sound of your name floats down to you like a feather, tickling your face. Blearily, you open your eyes. The moon lights Xavier’s hair to pure silver—how did you ever think it ashen?—and his shirt is pristine white. Your star, shining over you again.

… Concern lines his brow, for whatever silly reason. You squint, disapproving.

Instantly, his face smooths to contentment. Xavier braces himself on one elbow, rests his head on his hand, and smiles down at you. “Good evening.”

“Shush. Hush-shush-shush.”

Mock-somber, he nods, then smiles again. Gazing at you as you… lie back. Doing nothing.

“This feels right,” you say, still in a daze.

He cups your face. “So it does.” Calloused fingertips brush your cheekbone, then turn. With the softer part of his hand, Xavier traces the curve of your cheek with delicacy befitting a relic. “l missed this,” he whispers.

A confession amid catharsis; admission made after blessings bestowed; ‘I prayed for this,’ said in gratitude; it is gratitude, and after so long, melancholy’s weight would feel minute, and Xavier couldn’t have anticipated—

Hasty kisses land below your eyes, back and forth, as if to shoo back tears. Oh! There are tears—

“Pain?” he asks, panicked. “Or I—”

“It’s fi—snf—fine.”

Xavier presses his forehead to yours. “You’re crying.”

“Because I’m sad! Saddened. You made me sad!”

“Oh,” he sighs the word, “I’d meant to make my queen happy.”

“You do!”

This time, he laughs: “Oh. But… if she’d have me not speak of the past, I won’t, it doesn’t matter.”

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, beneath the blanket of his hair. You wind your fingers through some of the strands and slowly, carefully, clench your fist. “It does matter.”

“Th—”

“I missed you.”

Xavier tucks his face to the curve of your neck.

Of course. Any honest response would be chivalrous demurring. Or inadequate reciprocity. You’d begrudge him for it. You’ve no right to, you’ve every right to, he left for a good reason, he abandoned you; your knight wanted to save his lady love, or the planet, or both, he had to follow his guiding starlight, wherever she is or was or may be.

You loosen your grip on Xavier’s hair, in case the bitterness in you reaches that far. It certainly seems capable of it. Washed clean as you are by newfound bliss, this ancient resentment remains.

After you’re distracted from the discontent by kisses and pretty words and his pretty face, lit by infatuation, Xavier rolls off the bed. To go clean his face, and fetch water; five minutes, he promises, no more.

He returns on time, presumably; there’s no clock for you to brood at. You take the glass from your bedside and hold it out. Even how carefully he tilts the flagon bothers you. It is kind, he is kind, you want… all of his kindness. Are you greedy, now? Covetous? You suppose you are, and were.

“You don’t need to do this,” you mutter.

Xavier sets the flagon onto the floor. You let yourself forget its location immediately; let him clong his foot against it later.

“What do you mean?” he asks, sitting beside you.

The urge to kiss him rattles your ribs like prison bars. You drown it and place the glass back on the bedside. As if from a long distance, you watch him take your hand, and splay your hand open. His fingers start to lace through yours, and you cannot bear to watch, for some unfathomable reason. You stare at the bedsheets.

“You can go,” you say, “since… it's done.”

Your joined hands meet his lips. Upon each of your knuckles, a kiss. One, two, three, four, five. “But you don't want me to go.”

“No.”

A smile against the back of your hand. Then, Xavier rolls to lean over you, ever-so-gently pressing your hands down. He dips his head to whisper by your ear. “Let's stay here forever, then.”

Too much. It’s too much, it’s not real. Staring at the canopy keeps his hair in the periphery—you strain your eyes away, and they land in the worst possible part of the room.

“Xavier.”

“Mhm?”

“Where is the star I gave you?” One, two, three seconds pass. “Where is it?” you ask, sick.

“Welded to my breastplate. Where the flowers sit. I can—”

“Nevermind.” Stupid idea. Shown any speck of silver metal upon it, you’d believe him. Another two seconds pass. Three more. Another three! That makes five; more and more, ah, this is humiliating!

“When you gifted it to me,” Xavier murmurs, “I came perilously close to a confession.”

Your head spins.

Xavier's is anchored upon the nape of your neck. Breaths shudder free, and words, too, oh, no. “I love you,” he lies, “I won’t leave you again.”

“W—”

“Do you believe me?” he asks, pulling his head up. His hands grip the sides of your face with none of his earlier reverence, and force you to look at him. Such is the intensity in his eyes that it can only be described as a glare.

“Upon your face is not a loving look.”

Xavier pokes the sides of your frown with his thumbs. “Love doesn’t grant one a pleasant countenance. And you don’t believe me.”

“What does it matter?” you croak. (Whatever moisture the water left on your innards seems to have evaporated. Marvellous.) “Any of it.”

His eyes widen. “What?”

You grasp the front of his shirt. Had you the strength, you’d tear the cotton crumpled in your fist, to palm at the skin beneath and know him truly bared, even in a small way. Some small recompense. (He only bared you to pleasure you. Which he then did. And now, he’s giving you what you always wanted. Or… what is left of it, considering the ruin you’ve both found yourselves in…)

He placed another woman’s favour amongst your belongings and violated you because he wanted to, and now demands faith from you; next, you’re quite sure, he’ll seek forgiveness. “If you want to finish having me,” you say, tugging until that baffled face fills your vision, “you can just… you can. I’ll enjoy it. You don't need to do this.”

For a moment, that pretty, bewildered face is horrified. The hands on your face gentle, and for a moment, you hate Xavier.

It passes. It always passes. You hate that too. Once more, his forehead touches yours. Somehow you find the courage to shove your head to the side.

You stare at that ghastly dresser.

What sits in the very middle of its top drawer is so small! Smaller than a stone in your shoe or sleepsand in your eyes of a morning or the very lump in your throat as you think upon it.

Xavier’s hand folds over the one you’ve fisted in his shirt. “Please let go.”

You tighten your grip.

You ought to obey. King or prince or man stronger than you; it is unwise, being petulant to him. Certainly not a trait of a lady well-loved. Though it may be best, for him to see up close the shrew you are. (“Yes, ‘tis your Queen; you’ll prefer her upon the pedestal where complaints cannot be heard.”)

He doesn’t love you. He doesn’t know you. Nor you him; Xavier seems to be the same, divested of raiment, but what seems to be a star is no more than a lumpy circle of linen. It is only a star if viewed with sentimentality. This was no true reunion. He doesn’t love you. (Meaning he didn’t make love to you, although you knew that, for it was just his mouth—meaning he is more likely to have used you.)

Xavier speaks so softly. “Tell me what you want.” You want to strangle his temper free.

“For you to have your way with me then go.”

“Don’t…” Fingertips calloused at the edges trace overtop your aching knuckles. Roughened skin, gentle touch. “Please look at me?”

As you turn your head, your throat thickens. Swallowing hurts. The bitterness is less like bile, more... sand within an hourglass. You are not a woman, you are an object Xavier tipped carelessly. Now the object itself must adjust. Right itself. Endure the scrapes.

The look upon Xavier’s face is a loving look. (You hope there are portraits of him, somewhere, painted with caring hand.) You hate him.

“I want,” you rasp, “to be of a mind with my closest friend, but he is gone; I want to trust my…” … Xavier was your knight in title alone. A knight, yes. Yours? No.

“Your Xavier?”

“Mm.” You loosen your grip to avoid his touch, but Xavier takes your hand. Entwines his fingers with yours again. Again, again, again. Such persistence. Such constancy—“You said you’d come back when I missed you. You did not."

"I shouldn't have promised that. I failed you. I’m sorry." Xavier gathers you into his arms; you close your eyes to hide from shame, and sink into the abyss. A kiss is pressed to the top of your head. "If I could've returned sooner, I would’ve.”

“I don’t forgive you.”

His chuckle rumbles against your cheek. (You nuzzle into the sound. Shame hasn’t found you yet.) “Good. It is not pardon I seek.” One broad hand strokes up your neck, and cups the back of your head. “I daresay... I missed you as much as you missed me. The difference lies in my being at fault for it, but... Once I'd learned the fate I abandoned you to, it weighed on my every hour. I was in anguish, and... I truly hope that brings you some relief, because... I think it might.”

It does. Horrible as it is, it... Because... you missed him. Because you missed him and you did precisely as he asked and—

You sob. Fossilised hopes made a cairn over missing him, having him in any way feels... wrong, odd, strange... it does not alleviate the weight... you want desperately to believe him, and you cannot bear to have him lie to you again. You sob, and sob, and try your very best to imagine it is not his shirt you cling to, but... that you've found some part of him that is just for you, that you can keep close, that... won't leave again...

Your prince doesn't hush you or comment upon your state; when you squeeze him, he squeezes back; when you blather miserable nonsense, he shifts so you may breathe and babble easier. Though coherency remains out of reach—you always cut yourself off after a syllable or two—your mind begins to clear.

… You feel compelled to apologise.

Prince Xavier must’ve seen a seed of perseverance in you, else he wouldn’t have named you queen. Perhaps you wilted easily, perhaps you didn’t. So many memories remain unexcavated… you dislike sifting through them already. Flecked upon your whole life is an inexplicable, stagnant rage.

As beloved queen you had a servant (Maisie? Mary?) who always lay in your empty bed of an evening, while you undressed and chattered about literature. She was lovely to you. Yet were she Maisie or Mary or a heated brick magically capable of conversation, it’d make no difference; what you recall most, flecked throughout the memory, is how angry you were. Like ash, your anger soils without seeming to, and cannot be removed without soiling something else. You knew, upon bidding your bedwarmer goodnight, the bed wouldn’t feel warm at all.

Luxuriant and overlarge, the sheets were burdensome, you wanted Xavier beneath them with you. You couldn’t quash the hope of waking in Xavier’s arms, briefly frightened, scandalised; warmed by his whisper, melting into his arms. 'I needed to see you right away. Forgive your indecorous knight.'

Every fantasy had Xavier desperate to hold you. (He was not always doing so; imagining him sorrowful and alone brought pleasure. You were alone!) To fall asleep, you’d oft imagine kissing him—as you kissed tonight!—or comfort alike what's seemingly offered now, or merely hearing his voice from another room. These wishes seem granted. The space between your bodies is warm, and you've dribbled and melted upon him like leftover candle wax. Hurrah.

Xavier kisses your temple. “I’m here.”

As I am aware, yes, you think dimly. Your heart and lungs are less obdurate: at each soft breath upon your skin, foolish affection prances around your innards and unsteadies your breath. Even when he kissed your gloved hand, the night you met, your heart was ‘aflutter.’ He could’ve kissed you properly, explained himself to you, and explained you to you, and Sindersfell’s past; all of this could’ve happened earlier, you could’ve had more time. Instead, your spirit is broken and bloodied from clawing free of the grave.

You no longer feel compelled to apologise.

Whines thin to sniffles, sorrow dries up. Finally, you pull away from the pretense of Xavier’s embrace. "Thank you," you say, then scold yourself for such meekness. You smooth your hand over his drenched sleeve, rearrange your face, and grant him a glance. “Apologies. I believe I’m all right, now.”

Xavier’s staring at you as if you’re speaking in a foreign tongue. "May I hold you again?"

"I don’t require comfort, thank you."

"I know. I'd still like to hold you."

"My trousers will ruin the bedsheets," Xavier tells the wall. “The inner-most. They’re silk; gentler than the coverlet.”

You know what your own bed feels lik—what are his trousers made of, then?! You peer at the fabric through the hands he’s clasped behind himself. Then you quickly look away, drawing your shoulders back. It’s of no concern to you.

Perhaps he speaks of stains, not texture... It’s of no concern. Having emptied yourself of lust and melancholy, you work on emptying yourself of wondering. As a queen you will soon reunite with your imperious dignity. You resolved so before Xavier could catch your mouth mid-embrace.

(Not that he had the chance to try. But he would’ve, if allowed to 'hold you.')

Whatever Xavier would like to happen could wait, you decided, as you’d like to go to bed. He can hold you in bed if he likes. Thus you shooed him into turning ‘round so you could undress, and refused when he asked to take his leave for a moment.

(Not that you desire for him to stay, necessarily; you were ensuring you were capable of refusing him something.)

Stood by the chest of drawers, your eyes linger on the window. There’s hairline cracks on the panes; the thick-wrought latticing looks silly, pointless. "If by ruin the sheets, you mean stain them," you say, pulling open the second drawer, “or otherwise leave them inadequate for sleep, then you can sit atop the coverlet. Or simply remove your trousers.”

“... Remove them.”

“Yes.” Eyes fixed on the window, you pull open the second drawer, and feel your way to silk-muslin-linen-cotton—your shifts. You pluck one up. “I’ve seen men bared before.”

“Oh?” threads the air, light and sharp as a needle.

Peculiar trend between sparring sword-brothers. Started… in the second century of your absence? Or the third? You wonder if the history books recorded it. “Haven’t you seen a naked woman before?”

“Are statues included in our measures?”

“We aren’t doing anything beyond conversing. I asked you a question. You need not answer.” You close the drawer. As you strip, you force your eyes down, and watch your day-dress pool at your feet. You step free and kick it behind you. Soon the underside of your bed will host the stock of a haberdashery, tailor, and armory.

A glance over your shoulder proves Xavier standing just as you left him, eyes fixed on the wall; too-snug trousers and all. You slide the cotton nightdress on and are grateful for your luck. It’s one of your favourites. Lavender, but for two small blue flowers you’d embroidered over moth-bitten holes. The fabric is breathable, without being so thin to show your figure beneath; if you’d blindly plucked up a see-through white shift…

It’d be of no concern. Queens wear whatever they like. "You may turn," you announce.

As soon as Xavier’s eyes are upon you, they begin to roam. "That's a lovely dress,” he says, “lavender flat—"

“It’s lilac. Now…” You rap one knuckle upon the topmost drawer. "The furniture in my room is for my belongings, not another's. I'd like you to remove what you put in here, and… put it with your crown, or pauldrons, wherever any of that went."

Xavier's brow furrows in confusion. Confusion! The cheek of the man!

"It belongs to the girl you 'liked.'" You pause in case of correction. (In the event of which you shall scream.)

Silent, Xavier walks around the four-poster and to your side. He slides the top drawer open. Just as delicately as he'd traced your face earlier, he scoops up the small, stuffed lump. Washed milk-pale in the moonlight. Most vibrant is the threading down one side: richer brown than the rest and exceptionally tight. Most noticeable is the dark strap the old thing is hung on, a poisonous vine around Xavier’s open palm.

"I should’ve asked permission?" he asks quietly. "The woman I love stores her ribbons and kerchiefs here. Is that not the best place for... ? Other than with me?"

As you stare at the star, his words buzz to insignificance. Rich brown is the colour of its smile, too. Mismatched to its gleeful eyes. Your hazy memories of the Academy swirl, with the star at their center. Its face was always light brown. Thus Xavier repaired it, at some point, while away from you.

Had it been damaged in combat, and he panicked at its ruin? You thought he'd replaced it with your star because he preferred you! Juvenile, foolish, cruel silly idea that should’ve brought no comfort in the first place! The fabric star was too precious to wear upon his pommel, that's all!

The idea of him stooped over this tiny star, delicately pricking a needle through—

The idea of him caring for something you had no hand in. That's what it is. That sickens you. No queen feels so unless she is a tyrant, no tyrant trembles when faced with a childish trinket, thus you are naught by a silly, smitten girl. You are so selfish.

Xavier’s hand closes around the star. "I'm realising a mistake of mine."

"You shall have to be more specific," you say flatly.

"I will be,” he lies, voice as sorrowful as when he spoke of Uluru; when did you stop hating him? It passed, you suppose, foolishly, for you feel its return. You drag your head up. Past that frowning face is a future of this. Watching a great secret wear Xavier’s skin, retreat inward, and take the rest of him with it. Xavier steps closer to you, and dips his head. He takes your hand. "Can you resonate with me?”

“I can, yes. Of course.”

He smiles ruefully. “My queen, may I resonate with you, please?”

Your heart is made of dough. You imagine yourself punching it like a hardy baker, free of girlish fantasies. “Go on.”

Searing pain meets your palm—you flinch so far back into yourself, you do not feel the heat. Xavier’s voice passes over you. “The ‘person I liked’ is the person I care for now, and love. You.” Your mind judders at the words and falls, and falls, and falls, shuddering; a clock hand struggling to meet each hour.

“Only one person has given me … she can die and be reborn … how many times, no matter where … can you help me—”

Clocks and time are equally unreliable. Paint upon a clock's face, sand in an hour glass, so on, so forth, specks on specks in the grand cosmic landscape...

Stars scatter behind your eyes and burst, one at a time, until the final star is revealed to be a pat of butter, melted. Velvet snuck from textiles class. The little curved eyes of the star were asymmetrical, so you had to unpick one and try again; then, the smile kept puckering too much on the left… on the day, you regretted adding the little face at all; it looked childish, as well as ugly…

“It looks good. Can you help me put it on?”

Xavier's arms close around you while the world ends. No, you merely… are off-balance, or... you were. Or the world tilts. Doesn’t matter, Xavier has you. One of his broad hands is splayed on your back—quickly joined by another, though curled in a fist.

Through the abyss you scrabble, trying to catch hold of what already steadies you. Your hands land around his face. He gasps as you drag him close. One of his sleeves brushes over your shoulder, followed by a wooden thud, then with both arms, Xavier pulls your trembling body flush to his.

Hands splayed at your waist, he lets you kiss at him like a madwoman. You understand, now, how he felt earlier: the alleged need to kiss. How much it overwhelms. Once you can bring yourself to part from him for anything more than a quick breath, you’ll apologise. For now, you can only pant and whine whenever he pulls away to breathe.

Xavier’s tongue slides deeper into your mouth upon each return, hot and slick and demanding; you match his fervour, nudging and shoving him back. Eventually he falls back upon the bed, laughing, pulling you along with him. You straddle him and sink down so you’re sat eye-to-eye. There will be no more worship of you, pedestaled or prone.

... Xavier’s disobedient gaze is already ardent and worshipful. You'll allow it, as he is so handsome. The fire is long-dead, so it is by moonlight alone you admire him; features both shadowed and over-bright...

He admires you admiring him awhile, then says, "I had hoped... further memories needed to be baited out."

"Like fish? Tch."

"Did it not work? You kiss me vigorously as a punishment?"

"No, it... I... I remember. I understand. The star being mine, at least."

"As the one before you now is, too. No one had ever given me anything handmade," he says wistfully, "unless it was an heirloom—"

"Might we reflect upon my childhood infatuation of you another time?"

Xavier cocks his head to the side. "Mhm. I'll make sure of it."

You fist his shirt and tug it toward his neck. Xavier yanks it over his head. (Tosses it over the bed's edge. Breaks the brick wall with the force of flinging the thing for all you care.)

The musculature of his chest is as pale as marble; hands splayed, you find it near as cool and firm. There's a thin scar just below his collarbone, on the left side. From his clavicle down to his navel… Too thin and light to have meant true risk. You trace its path, down, down. The muscles of his stomach, impossibly, harden.

When the tips of your fingers reach the top of his trousers (which are not leather!), Xavier shifts away, propping himself on his elbows. "Such intimacies are usually shared by those in love,” he breathes. He widens his eyes facetiously. "Though I am not averse to breaking with custom. As I am a virgin…"

You scoff. "Who are you to claim such a thing?"

"I made several claims.” Xavier smiles. “You shall have to be more specif—ah."

Your palm doesn't cover the entirety of the swell in his trousers, but brings the desired effect. Xavier tips his head back, wincing, and the swell throbs under your hand. "You thoroughly ravished me earlier,” you remark. “Hardly virginal."

"’Ravished’?” Xavier laughs. “I did not r—nngh.”

You continue pressing your palm down, and rub at the bulge as you would a muscle, in need of gentle massage. “Plenty of girls liked you at the academy,” you muse, watching your hand work over him. "I'd understand dalliance, curiosity..."

“None but you ever crossed my mind, not a single other person please please please please stop.”

Immediately you lift your hand. If he denied you completely, right now, you'd not resent him, or insist. Absurd as it is, you take a moment to be grateful; your emotions are steadying. “Would you like me to continue at all?” you ask, and trail your eyes up to meet his.

The muscles of his stomach are pinkening, working furiously, and true flush is smeared from his throat to his ears. Those pretty blue eyes are wide, sincere, pupils making stars out of moonlight. "Did you love me?"

"W-when?"

Xavier’s brows curve close. "During Philos, before I left. Either of the times I left you, for which I am so sorry. Did you love me then?"

Again comes the absurd, selfish gratitude, trimming your compassion. The ancient wound of missing him or loving him 'more' doesn't bother you at all; he is the most soothing balm, and you want to treat him gently. You cup his cheeks, and smile. “I forgive you. We’re together now. I love you, Xa—”

“Did you love me. Then.”

You can’t find it in yourself to be offended. Xavier’s eyes shine as if they are glass, or sapphires. A dim, distant memory comes of a lake just like his eyes, and how breakable you both seemed at its shore. “I don’t think I knew exactly what it was I was feeling,” you say, and watch his face collapse. “I wanted to embrace you every day, and be your betrothed, and, when I was feeling especially imaginative, I wanted to live with you on Uluru.”

A horrible frown pulls at Xavier’s mouth. When he speaks, it is so quiet you must watch his mouth to be sure of the words. “I wanted you.”

“And you were loved by me. I felt then as I feel now, but I did not know what it was for… a long time.”

He clears his throat, blinking rapidly. “I loved you, and never ceased." He pushes off his elbows to sit upright and gaze up at you. "Do you believe me now?”

“Of course I do." (Though with even more incredulity, submerged from a shy schoolgirl's mid-class daydreaming.) "I merely... This strange planet of ours did strange things to my mind.”

Xavier slowly reaches forward to pinch the front of your cotton shift, and tug. “Mm-mm. This isn’t our planet.”

A pang of longing fills you. You smile weakly. “No, yet here is where we are.”

“In love.”

“Oh! So we are.” You tap his nose, and squeak when his hands encircle you to pull you into his lap.

“I’ve loved you for so long; I can scarcely remember when I didn’t.” The sweet words come in great contrast to the insistent throbbing pressed to your thigh. Xavier’s hard as a stone. “Let me show you how much. Please.”

Removing his trousers while sat on his lap is a more difficult task than the pauldrons; you end up standing once more so Xavier can bare himself. Immediately, he pulls you back. Your shift catches on his erection, pressing it to his stomach. By your navel, the cloth grows damp, rubbed by a pink nub, half a palm’s width, and glistening.

You shift back to see the full length of him. The shaft of his cock is paler than the head, though flushed towards the base, nestled in a thatch of thin, silver hair. You resist the temptation to measure it with your hands.

“It’s lovely,” you remark.

Xavier looks set to burst into laughter. “Thank… you… my lady.”

You huff, and cradle the head of his cock with one hand. Xavier’s hands turn to fists at your waist. “Books make a man’s manhood sound rather intimidating, that’s all.”

“You’ve, read—?”

In a queenly manner you insist he pull back the coverlet, so embracing may be done comfortably.

It is indeed thanks to books you supposed lovemaking would be less overwhelming, if done under the covers. You wouldn’t be faced with the full sight. Nor would he. Before slipping under the coverlet (and his body) you took off the nightgown you’d just put on, so you could both be naked. Equals!

Terrible idea.

When Xavier brackets your face with his arms, the small space you share becomes an entire world. Within which you are overheated and helpless. “While I always knew you favoured literature,” he breathes, nose brushing yours. “I did not consid—”

“Consider nothing now, either, um.” Memories flit over your loosened mind like shooting stars, one after the other; you choose not to linger on them, or seek them out. Let them be dust, lint. You’re in Xavier’s arms. “Lovemaking comes up. In all sorts of stories.”

Xavier lowers his hips. His ‘manhood’ drags up your thigh, dampening the skin. “You don’t need to be demure with me, anymore.”

“Then stop talking,” you order, heart thudding, “and… show me, as you said.”

Obediently silent, Xavier nuzzles the nape of your neck, then drags his head down until breath meets nipple—

“O-oh—!”

Your breast is enveloped in warm, wet suction. Moans spill freely from you as Xavier suckles. One arm curled underneath you to keep you close, the other slides between you, cupping your mound. Your head spins. His mouth is too strong. The coverlet is too heavy. You kick a leg free. Blessedly cool air meets your calf, your hip, before a heavy thigh cages your leg.

“Nnnh.” You thread your fingers through his hair and tug his head back up—before you can glimpse his face, you bury your face into the curve of his neck. There, in the heat and the darkness and the scent of his sweat, you feel safe. This is a hug, nothing more. Jostled in the darkness as he removes his arm from between you, no doubt to embrace you even tighter.

Xavier spits.

You furrow your brow right against his skin so he may feel it. “Xavier. What was that.”

He laughs, then wordlessly drags his bare arm down your stomach once more, touch returning to your mound. Two fingers slide lower, and part you.

“Again?!" you ask, aghast. He's obsessive. "The same as—?!”

After a few breaths, Xavier laughs. “Mm-mm.”

“... Oh for goodness' sake. You didn't need to stop talking altogether.”

Xavier kisses your shoulder. “You always forget how easily you command me. To answer: no, it is not going to be the same. Trust me.”

Slow, tender circles to the apex of your cunt until the sensations within swirl and pinch like a whirlpool, though the muscles themselves relax under such gentle attention... You let yourself be carried through the abyss behind your eyes. This time, you barely notice the entrance of his finger, until he curls it as if beckoning. Intoxicating pleasure ripples over you again.

“S’good,” you murmur, and kiss his neck.

He shivers. “I’m glad.” Virginal indeed; Xavier works you lovingly, dextrously. So well did you take one, he whispers, and shortly adds a second, curling them, stretching, coaxing… A fuzz-like warmth begins in your hands and feet…

Then you are empty, and he is upright, leaving the coverlet to rest against his waist—and your naked body exposed. You cover your breasts with your arms.

Xavier quirks a brow. “What my mouth has known, my eyes cannot?”

“Your mouth knew only one,” you mutter, and let your left arm fall to the side.

With an exaggerated sigh, Xavier takes hold of your hip in his free hand. "We have time aplenty for introductions." His thumb rubs a circle on your skin. "Spread your legs for me."

One determined inhale doesn't grant you much courage, so you do not bother with another. You slide your legs open. Slightly the same as before, he raises your legs, though only to his hips; you keep them there when asked to. Xavier wraps one hand around the base of his length as the other spreads you. Against the muscle of your entrance, you feel the head of his cock. Your body's awareness of itself is reduced to that small space. Surely it will not fit.

"Xavier..."

He leans down over you, and kisses you so feather-soft that it is almost aggravating; how tender a man he is, and can only be so now... Xavier whispers your name in return and the settling woe is brushed away. Dust. It is all dust, now.

Blunt pressure nudges your entrance. You flinch; Xavier soothes you with a kiss. As his lips part yours, the pressure breaches you. The girth is startling, stretching you open, hard as the hilt of a sword. You whine, he hums a comfort, hips rocking shallowly until the discomfort ebbs. Then he nudges forward, and sweetness coats the ache.

Your body forgets itself, the arm covering your breast falls to the side as all of you goes slack, wanton moans spilling from your mouth. Your cunt loses its strength steadily, forced open again, and again, and again, it relaxes and lets Xavier offer more, and more, until he is fully seated.

Vaguely, you're aware of him leaning over you. His voice is a hot rasp over you. “A dream. This must be a dream. You are… mmh."

"S'real," you murmur, and find yourself smiling, giddy. You came back. There is some strange, mad accomplishment felt in finally being with him this way. You press a hand between you both, flat on over his heart. Just barely, you can feel it beating.

"It's yours," he croaks. "If you'll have it."

"It's your heart, Xavier, I'd quite like it to stay right where it is," you jest. His hips knock a gasp free from you; punishment for such cheek, perhaps.

"Then stay it shall. Whatever your desire. F… ah... I am yours." Your mouth parts in surprise as he begins to move in earnest. The friction is... you’d thought the initial breach would be the true shock of intercourse. The fullness is startling, yes, but coupled with this dragging, pulsing heat, it's almost too much. Xavier seems equally overwhelmed. His breath hitches with every inward thrust, and sweat quickly slicks his broad chest. "Everything I've… it's for you, everything I am, everything I did. I begged the stars like a… I couldn’t…”

Xavier’s head droops as he fucks into you harder, breath shallowing. “I waited for you. I waited. For you. For this. I stayed. Couldn't leave you. I'll never leave you.”

You seize him by the jaw and pull him close; his kisses fall upon you open-mouthed, sloppy. His cock drives in and out, in and out; a storm over your sea, waves of sensation cresting with each drag of his length. Lightning sparking up your limbs. You loop your ankles around Xavier’s muscled hips, and cling.

The fullness of him within you is constant; even when he withdraws, it is for a second before he returns, and you're too overwhelmed by the smell and feel of him to notice the lack. Eventually he breaks away, panting, and buries his face in your neck. You nuzzle his ear, delighted by the flush, and stroke the side of his neck. Xavier bites you—though lightly—and a whine breaks over the skin in his teeth.

His hips begin to stutter.

Aha! (When skimming… books… that came up. Quite often.)

You kiss the curve of Xavier’s ear and whisper, "I love you. I love you so much.”

Xavier’s arms loop around you and crush you close as he rolls onto his side. Your thigh's squashed between his body and the bed, jostled as his hips snap into you fervently; it takes great effort to keep your ankles from falling. He sounds almost in pain: "Please, my name, please please."

"I love you, Xavier; you’ve always been my only love. My star.”

“F… Y-y-yes. Yours. Yours.”

Thrust by thrust, the air is knocked out of you. “My, love, my, Xavier."

The shudder that wracks him is so great, the bedframe shudders alongside; Xavier drives himself within you once more and remains, shivering. Heat blooms low in you, where your bodies are joined; you can feel him spending, twitching, filling you with all he has. You're stunned to silence by how warm it is... how must it taste? Excitement dances along your ribs and out your every breath. He'd let you... find out. There is much more you can do together. (You're becoming quite the deviant.)

As you fantasise, Xavier's shivers ebb, and his arms relax, though they still tremble.

Your trapped thigh screeches at you. “Xavier... Roll me onto my back again?”

He obeys immediately, a hoist and a roll, then turns boneless too. Xavier weighs heavily upon you, but the weight is an unexpected comfort. The coverlet is a twisted mess somewhere low on the mattress, and there is an expanse of mattress on either side, yet you cannot imagine ever being bothered by the cold or loneliness again.

You wrap your arms around him. Over the salt and musk of your shared slick wafts an ever-so-slight floral fragrance, from his hair. You breathe it in, nuzzling close. This shall be all there is, please; this shall be eternity.

However much time passes with the two of you laid so is not time enough. There is a shlick from Xavier's chest rising from yours, as he props himself up on a hand. A drop of moisture falls from his jaw and lands on your breast. He wipes it away with a quick yet clumsy thumb. "I’ve coated you in sweat more than I would my sword in oil. Forgive me.”

“You favour me more than you do your sword, I’d think.”

“Much more than anything else.”

“You also…” Rather than continuing, you squeeze his hips and tilt your own. He remains inside you—adjusting the angle to match you. “Elsewhere is... coated thoroughly. Do I forgive that too?”

“Sin I intend to commit again, and so cannot honestly repent.” Xavier braces himself on one arm; with the other, he reaches between you. His fingers trace where you’re parted around him, and he eases out but a few inches, before pressing back in. You savour how complete you feel; you'd be empty, lacking, without him. “I found myself at a peak too soon. I wanted to feel you reach yours, but…”

He finds that peak of sensitivity again, now made slick by his release. Already filled with him, your cunt twitches for more. Under his skilled hand you’re unspooled yet again, twitching and shivering, and he caresses you until you’ve gathered yourself. Skill acquired by reading a great deal, he confesses, while you were gone. The confession is amongst many sweet words pulled from his heart and whispered cheek-to-cheek; through the long night Xavier shares all he did for you while you were gone. You tell him what you can, of what shameful little you recall. (Even then, Xavier believes it to be more than he deserves.)

Just as individual memories coalesce into one’s memory, entire, these acts of commitment to one another converge into a silent promise. The dust left by so many lonely hours gathers into something beautiful. Grandiose. Yet just for you and Xavier. The most precious, safest place to land amongst a chaotic cosmos: you’ll always be together.

— A/N: ty for reading! if you enjoyed it, pls consider leaving a like/reply/reblog here; they mean so much to me and i love knowing what y'all like. <3

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