Chapter Text
Beware of Smut: 18+
Not thinking of her was the challenge.
With more haste than usual, he returned to his chambers, his entourage in tow.
Not thinking of her lips. Soft, yet demanding. Moving against his own– at first as if to taste him, but soon as if she might consume him whole.
Eckhart retired for the night. Zergius and Razfam were already gone, leaving Justus to help him prepare for bed.
Not thinking of her hair. The faint scent of nelke and kove and other summer flavours. Glistening, silky smooth. How he wanted to let it loose, run his fingers through it, bury his face in it. To lose himself in her dark skies.
He declined a bath, earning him a suspicious look from Justus. As useful as he was, there was a downside to keeping someone so perceptive close. Still, there was nothing to be done; making it through a bath in his present state would prove an impossible feat.
Not thinking of her breasts. He longed to touch them, but did not yet dare. To uncover them, to see what color lay beneath. So many times had he helped her change, the thought pushed down and trapped, hidden away somewhere he could almost forget about, but now that she had released the seal his mind wandered again and again to those small moments, and how easy it would be for them to become something more.
Claiming he was tired, he cast waschen on himself.
Not thinking of her hands, her fingers. Where his were hesitant, hers knew no such reticence. They went where they willed, exploring him, claiming him. He’d long since come to accept, even find comfort in, Rozemyne’s touch, but this touch was the opposite of calming. It made his breathing heavy– shut out the whole world, except for her.
His loyal aide pulled layer after layer off him with a practiced hand and an expression of knowing curiosity.
Not thinking of her voice. The throaty moans that stirred his inner Ewigeliebe or the gasps and ragged breathing as her own impatience caught up with her. The things she might say to him. The things he hoped she would say to him, that he was waiting for, even if they may never come.
His nightdress was simple in design but fine in make. The silky tunic felt nice against his skin.
Not thinking of her body against his. Pulling and moving and rubbing. Her mana tangling with his own, ever so slightly. Even their breath mixing, as if he himself was becoming a part of her and she him.
The bed was turned up and the magic tools of illumination dimmed. Justus set a pitcher of water at his bedside.
Not thinking of her desire. The face she made that announced it for any observing eye– luckily only his so far– to see. The slightly parted lips, the rising heat in her cheeks, the widened eyes– focusing on him, casting their moonlike illumination only on him. They lit him up, they saw him, in a way no one else ever had or would.
With a reminder that Rozemyne would be cross if he didn’t sleep properly, Justus left and Ferdinand went to his bed.
At last, he thought of her.
His mind could easily process the minutiae of his surroundings, whether during a hunt or a meeting. A deluge of information from Justus posed him no problem. But Rozemyne, she overwhelmed him. Thoughts of her lips, her hair, her smile– all of it, but there was so much more, and even more overwhelming were the feelings she evoked in him. The desire to make her his and his alone, to hide her away where none could see or touch her. At the same time, he felt compelled to free her - let her own this world, do as she wanted with it. Too hold her up for all to see, to blind them with her light. He wished to give himself to her, for her to take him, do as she willed with him, but at the same time a part of him wanted to dominate her, to bring her to release herself to him, entrust her whole being to him.
His mind was in shambles, but his body was focused. The thought of her brought sweat to his brow and blood rushing to his loins, and for once he didn’t try to suppress it. Pulling up his tunic, he took his sword in hand.
A bit too tightly.
With a cry more of surprise than pain, he unhanded himself. The shock lasted only a fleeting moment and, undeterred, he took up arms again, loosely at first, then just a bit firmer, and began stroking tentatively with the motion Rozemyne had shown him.
“Aaah.” It was only a touch, but it felt good, calling to mind the gentle rubbing of Rozemyne against him, first on the balcony, then later in the supply room. The motion she had demonstrated was quite a bit faster though. Perhaps if he picked up the pace…
A deep, guttural moan escaped him. The results far exceeded what he’d anticipated. There was the sensation of his hand, yes, but he felt it in completely unrelated places as well. From the crown of his head to his now curling toes. His unoccupied hand started to quiver as the mana within him began to swell and roil.
He fell back onto the bed, grasping at the sheets and his hips thrusting entirely without directive from him.
It was only his hand. If it were Rozemyne…
The intense pleasure which overcame him was throbbing, and it pushed everything, even her somehow, from his mind for a moment.
Only a moment.
His hand and thighs were slick with his own seed, but he was far too undone to move. The sweat soaked sheets clung to him, whispering to relax, take his time, let the heat dissipate and his mana calm. To regain his senses first.
It was messy and chaotic, but this was a far more pleasurable way of dealing with his urges.
Rozemyne said she touched herself. Then it would feel the same way for her, or something like it. He’d always thought of coupling as a primarily biological drive, given rise from the need to beget children, but…
Could he also give her this pleasure? What type of face would she make when everything was driven from her mind?
Well, brilliant as she was, it wasn’t that uncommon for her head to find itself empty.
He sat up, lifting his hand to scrutinize the wintry substance– the god of life’s gift. Rozemyne was clear about it before anything else; she wanted a baby. She’d longed for Entrindulge’s blessing long before Beischmacht had any influence on her. Long before she held any desire for him.
It was a noble’s responsibility to propagate their own line. Aside from duty to one’s house, it was essential that there remain enough individuals with adequate mana to support the country.
But more than that, he wanted her to have what she wanted.
“Waschen.” He cast it not only on himself, but the bedding as well, and availed himself of the water at his bedside.
A calmness washed over him and his limbs sunk into the bed, pulling him into its downy depths, and he greeted Schlatraum far more easily than ever before.
When he woke, he was thinking of her again.