The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

Thalatha woke before the light. Soldiers do. The crack held their warmth like a cupped hand. Her body checked itself the way a quartermaster checks a shelf: spine, ribs, hips, straps. The chair bit less than yesterday. Stone had stopped arguing with her lower back. Good.

They were still entangled. Her forearm curved at Mikhailis's waist. His palm rested on her wrist, politely heavy, the way a hand rests on a ledger to keep a breeze from turning the page. The marsh gel had dried to a matte cradle along their edges. It made their outlines soft, like chalk rubbed once with a thumb.

She did not pull away. She measured the nearness. Not a trap. Not a mistake. A correct answer to a cruel room. Her breath found the Anchor's faint tick without warning, then matched it, then stayed there. Irritating. Also a relief. Her lungs had memorized his cadence.

His sleeping face was easier to look at than his awake one. Dust constellations lived in his stubble. A thin cut crossed his left brow. His mouth—too ready to throw a joke like a coin—looked made for careful words when he slept. The kind that cost something.

Her jaw relaxed one small notch. She did not tell it to.

A cold ribbon of air slid down the shaft. The slot's skin prickled and settled. Somewhere below, the Brake Choir hummed like a cat learning to purr again after a long winter. She felt the note in bone, not ear. The line around them kept its manners: a Scurabon's sickle-back leaned harmless; a veil breathed once and quieted; a Tangle thread thrummed very softly and was pleased with itself.

His lashes twitched. The Anchor's tick pulled the thin light forward. Dawn here was not sun. It was crystal deciding to be kind for a while. It painted his lashes in silver.

She saw herself in the dull rim of his lenses—just a smear, but enough. Longer ears than court liked people to remember. Dark-blonde hair unruly from the gel, a soot-smudge turning one lock almost brown. Indecorously cute. She refused to process that.

His eyes opened already attentive. He did not flinch. He noticed their hands. He made a small nod, like two captains saluting on a narrow bridge. Consent checked. No drama.

He leaned in. So did she. It was the smallest kiss. Warm. Brief. Embarrassingly steadying. Something small in her chest, always tight, loosened as if a strap had finally found the right hole.

Thalatha woke before the light, as soldiers do. The slot held their warmth like a cupped hand, cradling the heat of their bodies against the stone's unyielding chill. Her mind ran its inventory: spine aligned, ribs steady, hips sore but functional, straps secure. The chair's bite had dulled since yesterday, the stone no longer arguing with her lower back. A small victory, but enough.

Their bodies remained entwined, a necessity of the slot's tight confines. Her forearm curved at Mikhailis's waist, fingers resting where fabric met belt, a touch both deliberate and unassuming. His palm lay on her wrist, politely heavy, like a hand resting on a ledger to keep a breeze from turning the page. The marsh gel had dried to a matte cradle along their edges, softening their outlines as if a thumb had rubbed chalk across their forms. She did not pull away. The nearness was no trap, no mistake—just a correct answer to a cruel room. Her breath caught the Anchor's faint tick without warning, matched it, and stayed there. It was irritating, that involuntary sync, but also a relief. Her lungs had memorized his cadence, and she let them.

His sleeping face was easier to read than his waking one. Dust speckled his stubble like tiny constellations, a thin cut crossing his left brow like a half-forgotten signature. His mouth, too quick with jokes when awake, looked crafted for careful words in sleep—words that cost something to say. Her jaw relaxed a small notch, unbidden, and she didn't fight it.

A cold ribbon of air slid down the shaft, prickling the slot's skin before settling. Below, the Brake Choir hummed, a low purr like a cat relearning warmth after a long winter. The sound resonated in her bones, not her ears. The line around them held its manners: a Scurabon's sickle-back leaned harmless; a Hypnoveil breathed once and stilled; a Tangle thread thrummed softly, pleased with its own quiet work. Mikhailis's lashes twitched as the Anchor's tick pulled the thin light forward. Dawn here was no sun, but crystal choosing to be kind for a moment, painting his lashes silver.

In the dull rim of his lenses, Thalatha saw her reflection—a smear, but enough. Her ears, longer than courtly fashion approved, poked through dark-blonde hair, unruly from the gel, one lock smudged with soot, almost brown. Indecorously cute, she thought, and refused to dwell on it.

His eyes opened, already attentive, no flinch. He noted their hands, their closeness, and gave a small nod, like two captains saluting on a narrow bridge. Consent checked, no drama. He leaned in. She met him halfway. The kiss was small, warm, brief—a steadying touch, like a hand on a rail during a storm. Something tight in her chest loosened, as if a strap had found the right hole after too many tries.

"Good morning," she said, aiming for dry but landing warmer than intended.

"Morning," he replied, voice rough with sleep, lingering close to her mouth, a low rumble that seemed to settle into the stone itself.

They didn't discuss closing the space again. It wasn't a debate; it was gravity. The kiss came naturally, meeting them halfway, as if the slot had granted permission. It began careful, a testing of boundaries, but their breaths aligned, and the care deepened into something patient, something sure. She tasted dust first, sharp and honest, then the faint mint-paper from his kit, clean and deliberate, then him—familiar now, a signal her body recognized before her mind could argue. The word "addicted" tried to creep in, and she shoved it aside, focusing on the kiss instead.

Her fingers flexed against his shirt, feeling the worn weave, the warmth of his skin beneath. His palm pressed once on her wrist, then eased—a signal: I'm here. The slot's tight walls allowed only small movements, but small was enough. The kiss stretched, no longer a brief comma but a full sentence, deliberate and unhurried. His tongue brushed hers, slow at first, tracing the edge with a care that felt like mapping a new land. She met him there, her tongue sliding against his, soft but sure, tasting the warmth of him, the mint still faint but fading into something deeper, something only his. "Slrp!" The sound slipped out, wet and unpolished, as their tongues tangled, not fighting but dancing, each movement a question answered in the same breath. "MMH!" Thalatha's voice broke free, a low hum of pleasure vibrating in her throat, caught between want and restraint. His tongue pressed harder, curious rather than greedy, sucking gently at hers, pulling it into a rhythm that made her chest tighten.

The sensation was sharp, alive, like a blade honed just right. Her thoughts scattered, then rallied around the feeling—his mouth, his breath, the way their tongues played, curling and sliding, a duet that needed no conductor. His tongue sucked at hers again, a soft pull that sent heat spiraling down her spine, pooling low where discipline was losing ground. She sucked back, tasting him deeper, and the "Slrp!" came again, mingling with another "MMH!" as their mouths moved together, devouring not in hunger but in recognition, as if they could consume each other's truths and keep them safe.

The slot pressed them closer, stone and marsh gel erasing any distance. Her thigh, bare where yesterday's tear had split her pants, brushed against him, and she felt it—the heat, the pressing hot thing, gigantic and undeniable, slipping through the frayed edge of his trousers. The slot's proximity left no room for pretense; it was there, hard and heavy, nestled between her thighs, a truth her body couldn't ignore. Her pulse quickened, a drumbeat in her core, and she hated how much she wanted to lean into it, how much her body was already deciding for her.

She moved. Deliberately. Not surrender, but choice. Her hips shifted, slow and sure, positioning herself so the heat of him aligned with her entrance, where want had already made her slick and ready. The slot's confines made every movement precise, like threading a needle in a storm. Mikhailis noticed, his breath catching, a small hitch that told her he knew exactly what she'd done. He moved then, not fast, not forceful, but with quiet certainty, like stepping into a room he'd been invited to. The giant hot thing pressed forward, entering her, filling her with a warmth that was both ache and answer. It was slow, deliberate, a tide finding its shore, and she felt every inch, stretching her, claiming space she hadn't known was empty.

She tried to stay silent, to hold the soldier's discipline that had carried her through worse. But the sensation was too much, too real. "MMMHH!!!!"