The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

"Mmh," she breathed, the sound caught between pleasure and restraint.

"Slrp," came the soft reply, not from his voice but from the meeting of mouths, a sound that should have been awkward but wasn't. It was real. It was alive. It was the sound of two people choosing not to be ghosts.

His hand moved—not fast, not greedy, but curious. It slid from her wrist to her elbow, then up to her shoulder, tracing the line of her collarbone like he was memorizing it. She felt the warmth of his palm through the thin fabric, felt the way his fingers hesitated at the edge of her sleeve before continuing. It was a question, and she answered by tilting her head, deepening the kiss.

Her thigh shifted, and the pressure of him there became undeniable. Not invasive. Not demanding. Just present. A reminder of everything they weren't saying. She didn't flinch. Didn't pull away. Instead, she let her leg press back, a subtle movement that said: I know. I feel it too.

His breath hitched, and she felt it in the kiss, in the way his mouth paused for half a heartbeat before resuming with more intent. His tongue moved with purpose now, tracing the inside of her lip, tasting her like he was trying to remember her for later. For the moment when "later" became "now."

Her fingers found the back of his neck again, curling into the short hair there. She tugged—not hard, just enough to say, Don't stop. He didn't. He shifted closer, the slot barely allowing it, but enough that she could feel the full length of him against her thigh. Her breath caught, and she swallowed the sound, letting it melt into the kiss.

"Mmh," she whispered again, this time more like a plea.

He answered with a low sound, almost a hum, and his hand slid lower, tracing the curve of her waist, the dip of her hip. He didn't rush. He didn't push. He explored like a man who knew the map would disappear if he moved too fast.

She felt the tension in him—how tightly he held himself, how carefully he moved. It wasn't fear. It was reverence. And that made her want to give him more.

Her other hand, the one still resting at his hip, moved now. Slowly. She let her fingers slide along the edge of his belt, feeling the worn leather, the frayed stitching. She found the buckle and paused, not to undo it, but to feel its weight. To remind herself that this was real. That he was real.

Their mouths parted briefly, just enough for breath. She saw his eyes then, dark and wide, pupils blown with want and something gentler. Something like awe.

He didn't speak. She didn't need him to.

Instead, she leaned in again, her lips brushing his with a softness that felt like apology and promise all at once. Her tongue flicked forward, teasing, tasting, and he responded with a low sound that vibrated against her mouth.

"Slrp," again, quiet and wet and utterly human.

She felt the heat between her thighs grow, not from friction, but from recognition. Her body was awake. Alive. Not just surviving, but wanting. And that was dangerous. That was new.

His hand slid further, fingers tracing the seam of her pants, the curve of her thigh. He didn't press. He didn't claim. He just rested there, a touch that said: I know where you are. I'm here too.

She shifted again, her leg sliding between his, and the contact made them both inhale sharply. The kiss faltered for a moment, not from discomfort, but from the sheer weight of sensation. Then it resumed, slower now, deeper. Their tongues moved like dancers who knew the music by heart.

Her body ached, not with pain, but with the kind of longing that had no place in war. She felt herself growing slick, felt the pulse of want in places she'd trained herself to ignore. But she didn't pull away. She didn't shut the door.

Instead, she kissed him harder, letting the heat rise, letting the moment stretch.

His hand moved again, this time to her back, fingers splaying across her spine like he was trying to hold her together. She let him. She needed him to.

They paused again, foreheads touching, breath mingling. The ember flickered, casting gold across their skin. The Brake Choir hummed, low and steady, like a lullaby sung by machines.

She could still taste him. Could still feel the echo of his mouth on hers, the phantom pressure of his tongue against hers. Her body hummed with unspent energy, with wants that would have to wait for later. But the waiting didn't feel like punishment anymore. It felt like promise.

She felt the tiredness arrive at last, not the panic-sleep of exhaustion, but the softer thing that comes when a room stops being an enemy. The ember lowered and raised its light. The Brake Choir's hum took on an almost human warmth, like a low song in a kitchen at night.

"Mikhailis," she said, giving herself one use of his name shaped like warmth instead of rank.

He didn't answer—not with words. His breath caught in the space between them, and then he kissed her again.

This time, it wasn't tentative. It wasn't careful. It was the kind of kiss that remembered everything they'd just shared and asked for more. His mouth opened against hers, and hers did the same, not in invitation but in instinct. Her lips parted wider, her jaw slackening as if something inside her had snapped—not broken, but released. A dam giving way to flood.

She gasped softly into him, a sound that wasn't meant to be heard but was. Her mouth gaped, not in shock but in need, and he met it with his own, tongue sliding deeper, slower, more deliberate. It wasn't a battle. It was a dance. A rhythm. A language they were still learning but already fluent in.

"Mmh," she breathed, the sound caught between pleasure and surprise.

"Slrp," came the wet reply, the sound of mouths meeting and parting, of breath tangled in motion.

His hand moved again, tracing the line of her spine, then lower, fingers splaying across the curve of her hip. He didn't grip—he held. As if anchoring her to the moment. As if afraid she might drift away if he didn't.

Her own hands began to move, slowly at first, then with growing confidence. One slid up his chest, feeling the heat beneath the fabric, the tension in his muscles. The other found its way to his waist, then lower, brushing against the hardness that had pressed between her thighs earlier. It was still there. Still insistent. Still real.

She didn't recoil. She didn't freeze. She pressed back, just slightly, just enough to feel it again. The friction was subtle, but it sent a pulse through her that made her breath hitch.

He groaned softly into her mouth, the sound swallowed by the kiss.

"Mmh," she whispered again, this time with a tremble.

Their bodies shifted in the narrow space, a slow, careful movement that felt like a tide turning. His thigh slid between hers, and the pressure changed—more direct now, more deliberate. Her breath came faster, but she didn't pull away. She leaned in, letting the kiss deepen, letting the heat rise.

His fingers found the edge of her shirt, slipped beneath it, tracing the bare skin of her back. She shivered—not from cold, but from the intimacy of it. From the way his touch felt like a promise.

They moved together, not with urgency but with inevitability. The slot was narrow, the space tight, but they found a rhythm anyway. A slow press of bodies, a subtle grind of hips, a kiss that refused to end.

"Mmh… slrp…" she murmured, the sounds escaping between breaths, between kisses.

Her hand slid lower, fingers brushing the edge of his belt, then the fabric beneath. She felt him—solid, warm, alive. The hardness that had teased her thigh now pressed more firmly, and she let herself feel it. Let herself want it.

He shifted, just slightly, and the friction grew. Her breath caught again, and she moaned into his mouth, the sound muffled but unmistakable.

"Mmh…"

The ember flickered, casting gold across their skin. The Brake Choir hummed, low and steady, like a lullaby sung by machines.

And still, they kissed.

Still, they moved.

Still, they held each other like the world outside didn't exist.

The pressure between them built, not just physical but emotional. A tension that had been waiting for release. Her body arched into his, and his hand slid lower, fingers brushing the edge of her waistband.

She gasped again, mouth open, eyes closed, and he kissed her harder, deeper, tongue sliding against hers with a hunger that was still restrained, still respectful, but no longer shy.

"Mmh… slrp…"

She felt the fabric shift, felt the friction change, felt the heat rise.

But they didn't speak.

They didn't need to.

They were still alive. Still here. Still together.

And for now, that was enough.