The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

"MMMHH!!!!" The cry tore from her, raw and desperate, wanting to echo but caught by his mouth as he leaned in, kissing her harder. His lips sealed over hers, muffling the shout, and his tongue found hers again, sucking with gentle insistence that made her head spin. Their tongues played, curling and twisting, a dance both fierce and tender, as if devouring each other's truths. "Slrp!" The wet sound of their kiss filled the slot, mingling with the rhythm of their bodies, a song of heat and need.

They moved together, the slot dictating a rhythm both tight and relentless. Each thrust was a quiet collision, a "Slap!" of skin against skin, sharp and clear in the confined space. The sound was joined by a softer "Quelch!", wet and intimate, as their bodies found each other again and again. The pleasure was overwhelming, so great that her eyes rolled back, her head tipping against the stone as the sensation coiled tighter, a spring wound to breaking. Her hands gripped his shoulders, nails digging into muscle, anchoring her to him as the heat built, a tide rising with no shore to stop it. Her thoughts were a blur of sensation—the press of him inside her, the way he filled her completely, the way her body answered with a hunger she hadn't known she could feel.

Mikhailis moved with her, matching her rhythm, his breath hot against her mouth. The slot held them close, forcing them to feel every movement, every pulse. The heat of him, the size, was a constant presence, stretching her, grounding her, making her feel alive in a way she hadn't thought possible in this cruel place. Her hips rolled, meeting his, chasing the pressure that built low in her core, a fire that burned without consuming. "Slap! Quelch!" The sounds were a chorus, raw and unashamed, marking the rhythm of their shared want. Her eyes fluttered shut, then opened, catching the ember's glow on his face, the way his jaw tightened with focus, the way his eyes held hers, dark and wide with something like awe.

"PLEASE! MORE!" she cried, the words sharp and unguarded, a plea that carried no shame in the slot's embrace. The words were half-swallowed by the stone, half-caught by his breath as he leaned closer, his chest a steady anchor against her trembling. "It's alright…" he murmured, voice a low tide, soothing but not slowing, a promise that he heard her, that he was with her.

The crest came, not sudden but inevitable, like a wave that had been building for miles. His seed filled her, a warm flood that overflowed, spilling heat through her, a release that felt like a promise kept after too long waiting. "MMMHHH!!!!!" The cry tore from her again, louder, wilder, a sound of triumph and surrender. His mouth was there, catching it, muffling it as he kissed her deeper, his tongue sucking at hers with a hunger that mirrored her own. Their tongues danced, twisting and curling, a frantic play that felt like devouring each other, like they could consume the moment and keep it forever. "Slrp!" The sound was softer now, but no less real, a reminder of their raw, human truth.

It was so great, so godly good, that her thoughts dissolved into sensation—the warmth of him inside her, the press of his body, the way their breaths mingled in the kiss. Her body hummed, satisfied, complete, like a blade sheathed after a long fight. The heat of him lingered, a quiet echo that made her thighs tremble, her core pulse with aftershocks. His hand slid to her back, holding her together, and she let him, needing the anchor as much as the freedom.

"THAT WAS… SO GODLY GOOD…" she whispered, half a laugh, half a confession, spoken into the space between their mouths. Her voice carried no shame, only awe, as if she'd found a new map and deemed it beautiful.

Mikhailis didn't answer with words. His hand pressed once at her back, a silent agreement. His breath, warm and even, brushed her lips, a promise that "later" was still theirs to claim. The slot held them, not as prisoners but as partners, its stone and marsh a cradle for something new. The ember ticked, a heartbeat of light, and the alarm hair at the slot's mouth slept, undisturbed.

Then, a rumble started, low and deep, like the stone itself waking from a dream it didn't like. The slot shuddered, a warning that the world wasn't done with them yet. The ember flickered, sharp and urgent, and the Brake Choir's hum faltered, as if caught off guard. They froze, breath caught, still tangled in each other, the heat of the moment clashing with the cold truth of the shaft.

The stone growled under them. The Brake Choir reminded everyone it was awake.

Reflex carried her upright inside the straps. "Roof half a finger. No noise." Her voice barely crossed the space.

He checked anchors without moving much. Eyes flicked at alarm hairs, at the veil mouth, at the rail. Then the growl sank. The Choir eased back to its new, saner note. They held each other's eyes, both pretending nothing had happened. A cough. Reset. She smoothed an armstrap that did not require smoothing. He tapped dust off a buckle that did not need tapping.

The text wrote itself across his lenses in thin light.

He gave the smallest nod to no one Thalatha could see. "Understood."

No heroics, they agreed without saying. Ask permission before every cut. They kept want at arm's length, not by denial, but by rule. It worked.

Roll call was done with hands and small knocks. The lich librarians answered first—crowns dim, worklight steady. Scurabons intact and clean, edges hidden. Hypnoveils folded; a shimmer hiccuped and corrected itself, embarrassed. Silk/Slime/Tangles reported with hums and little taps. The beetle auxiliaries that Mikhailis insisted were "just beetles" sat tidy at their threads, not flamboyant, thank the saints.

Objectives lived in signs. Recon the spokes from this shelf. Seek a climb that isn't a lie. Ignore doors that flatter. Thalatha lifted three fingers and held them long enough for every eye—living and borrowed—to read them. Rule one: move only on Lux exhale. Rule two: don't chase brightness. Rule three: return at first "night."

She took half a mouthful of broth and nothing more. Warmth washed her tongue, quieted the funny impulse in people to add extra words when they were afraid. Cups tapped wood once, then vanished back into wraps. She set her bowl down with that small finality she used to end a meeting. "March."

The shaft's crystal lattices made their own weather. No sun—just a thin patience that went across the stone like light seen through closed eyelids. Day here wasn't a period; it was a breath. The Lux Anchor on Mikhailis's wrist brightened on the shaft's inhale, dimmed on its exhale, a polite follower. He glanced down, tapped a pattern on the cuff.

Breathe with it. Do not argue with rooms that have lungs.

<Anchor phase-locked. Drift tolerance plus-minus two percent. Please try not to exhale dramatically.>

"I never exhale dramatically," Mikhailis whispered.

Thalatha didn't check if he was smirking. "Today you do not."

They stepped on the exhale. It made their boots feel light, like the stone yielded a little to good manners. Hypnoveils ghosted ahead, mantles low, reflecting only quiet things. Silk stretched a faint handrail between ribs. Tangles measured load with a hum like bees who had studied geometry. Even the beetles walked with small pride: boots? No. Feet? Also no. They were somewhere between, and that pleased them.

They marked three corridors.

A: polished and empty. The floor was so smooth it drank steps. It reflected nothing, but Thalatha still felt watched, the way you feel a mirror in a dark room. The air had the dry taste of a shrine that hates shoes.

"Looks friendly," Mikhailis breathed.

"It wants you to think that," she answered.

"Ah. A duke."

"Focus."

B: walls carved with erased elvish. The lines wandered like river memory, curving where water had taught hands to draw long ago. Someone had scraped them on purpose—no rage, no hurry. It hurt to look because the hurt had been tidy. Thalatha felt her fingertips ache to trace the ghost of a bridge, to guess what the missing city had once promised.

Don't touch. Don't touch anything that chooses to be almost.

C: a rib-to-rib spindle with hairline fractures. You couldn't see them unless you squinted; your teeth told you faster, a faint sand-grit note that made jaws clench. The spindle sighed when anyone weighed it, the sound of a bow pulled by a hand that doesn't love music.

Mapping discipline kept them honest. Scurabons chalked ankle marks—small, low, already fading, here-not-here. Slime dabbed arrows that absorbed light instead of bouncing it, marks that meant nothing unless you knew the rest of the sentence. Mikhailis eased two burr-listeners into knee-height cracks—one where drafts turned inward, one where the echo returned a beat late. He looked like a man misplacing a coin on purpose.

Thalatha watched the stones he touched. Then she purposely looked away and did not store the exact placements. If capture came, she meant to be a poor witness.

"Translate signs," he murmured, because he liked hearing how her mind filed the world.

"Don't get clever," she said. "Clever breaks ankles. Clever gets proud. Proud makes noise. Noise feeds eels."

He grinned with his mouth, not his eyes. She likes me better when I am boring. Good.

A spitting, delicate glitter drifted from the ceiling—crystal dust sloughing its skin. Day thinned even as they were learning the sound of it. Thalatha felt the coming "night" before the light admitted it. The shaft's breath shortened. Mirror-gnats woke in thin, fussy flutters, like nervous hands picking at a seam. In rib-niches, resonance eels tested the silence—lightless fish with teeth made of timing. Far below, a Seraph shard clacked a wing: not an attack, a performance. It wanted an audience who could bleed.

"Back," Thalatha said, calm and small, as if she were reminding a pot not to boil over.

They peeled out the way they came, stepping only where their matte trail taught them to step. No scraping. No speeches. Hypnoveils laid a last thin doubt where an eel's mouth would have liked a foot. Silk's veil breathed once, the way a good curtain knows when to hide a room. The crack's door recognized their outline and then forgot it with professional pride.

The slot took them in and dared the world to disagree.