Work Text:
Thorn was barely fourteen when Berenilde made the first of her very many comments about his lackluster love life. It had been embarrassing at the time; humiliating, even, but by the time he was engaged, he had become used to it. He thought Berenilde both held him to a certain esteem and saw him as lesser in the same breath. She had a very peculiar way of treating him, holding him both at arm’s length and as closely as she could muster.
Thorn did not ever blame her for having this strange relationship with him - he knew no better of what to expect. Abandonment, he’d learned from books and whispers over the years, greatly damaged a child’s ability to express himself, to find closeness with another, to simply exist. It didn’t help to have his claws, to be taunted by half-siblings he only wanted some semblance of recognition from, to have a mind that ran at what felt like kilometers per second.
“You know, Thorn,” Berenilde had said that first time, lounging in one of her finer pink velvet chairs while he sat, quietly, at the dining room table, fulfilling his schoolwork with exacting purpose, “you will find a girl who will put up with you, not to worry.”
Thorn had not known what that meant, not really, and he frowned deeply. He did not quite understand what it meant to be put up with, but he extrapolated that it was what Berenilde did. He hadn’t yet learned to rein in his expressions at that age - anger, sadness, and fear were all dangerous to express, but with Berenilde even more difficult were they to hide - and she scoffed as he reacted. He hated her, sometimes - how she could never let him simply sit in silence, unobserved, ignored, and safe.
“You’re lonely,” she said. She blew smoke from her mouth. The scent of the cigarettes she smoked was one Thorn was all too familiar with. He considered it for a moment as he watched the smoke curl above Berenilde. She blinked her eyes at him, lingering with them closed. The sleeves of her dress rolled down, exposing her tattooed arms. He wondered if he would end up with enough scars to mimic the lines of the tattoos his family shared. As she looked at him again, mouth quirked, he knew it was impossible. He would remain, always, a poor mimic of a Dragon. “Any boy your age would be lonely.”
“I’m not lonely,” Thorn said stiffly. He looked back at the math. He excelled with numbers, and it pleased him deeply. It felt like the one single stroke of luck in his life, to have talent in this area so few seemed to. Berenilde had assured him he would have no trouble settling into a role of much prestige with her to guide him, but Thorn didn’t feel he needed to be guided; he knew what he wanted. If he could stay, in one single room, with papers and a typewriter where he could click away at numbers, reconciling budgets, he would be happy, or at close to it as he expected to be.
“Of course you are,” Berenilde insisted, “but you won’t be, forever. I’ll see to it.”
Thorn pursed his lips. Something about his expression made Berenilde laugh, and he forced his face into utter neutrality. His heart raced in his chest. His hand ached from holding the fountain pen so tightly in his fist.
Even then, he felt certain she was wrong. There was no place for him, with anyone, let alone a girl. And he didn’t want that, anyway. He put away the thought, reminding himself that Berenilde was a woman of many fantasies, and that to her, he was sometimes nothing more than a paper doll for her to play dress-up with. If she wanted to procure him a bride, so be it - it would still, in the end, be his decision.
-
Berenilde disagreed.
“That girl, she’s a piece of work,” she said to Thorn, while the escort and the girl in question finally slept. Berenilde rolled her eyes and demanded tea from the servant hovering in the corner of the room.
“For you, sir?” the servant said, not smiling at Thorn.
“Nothing,” he said, offering her the same cold reception in return.
“I don’t think anyone realized how comical you two would look besides one another,” Berenilde said, snickering in a way that was unbecoming for her tone. The servant returned with a plate balanced on her hand and poured a steaming cup of tea for Berenilde, who took it wordlessly. Thorn observed the servant’s movements and realized there was a second cup on the platter. His stomach knotted and he forced his eyes down again at his papers. The servant hesitated and his chest started to hurt. Then, without another word from any of them, the girl sighed and was gone.
Berenilde seemed not to notice, and continued on. “How tall is she, Thorn? You must know.”
He wrinkled his nose, as the knots in his stomach started to unravel. “If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say no more than one-hundred and fifty centimeters.”
Berenilde guffawed like he’d told a very good joke. Berenilde always seemed willing to laugh at his words; Thorn was, to this day, uncertain of her exact reasoning. He had never cracked a single joke with her, or perhaps, with anyone.
Of course, it was no guess, not really - perhaps that was why Berenilde laughed at him. He knew exactly her height, and knew that her boots added several centimeters that made no difference to him. He stood at 197.5 centimeters, exactly, and was very cautious about the height added by shoes because life was already so damned difficult with the world not made for him. He expected they did look comical besides each other, but he didn’t think the height difference was entirely to blame. She was simply different, and it was hard to ignore. Her eyes were too big for her face, and the glasses just exaggerated that nature. She had too much damned hair, too - it was embarrassing, the way she clearly braided it with almost no care for the visual of it. It stuck out in thick curls all around her, in brown, curly cords. She also smelled like something Thorn could not put his finger on. It wasn’t paper, like the aunt - she smelled a bit of the mildew that gathered on old books, and dust - but it was almost ancient as well. Ophelia had smelled particularly strongly when they’d first arrived in the house, and it had been something Thorn had tried, desperately, to ignore. Her sweat had been from anxiety and cold, instead of exhaustion - her breath had been stale but otherwise not altogether unpleasant to smell. Her hair, which took up so much space as well, had a scent, and Thorn was angered by how impossible it was for him to nail down. He was used to the sweet, foreign fruit smell of Berenilde’s hairwash, but there was nothing false about whatever Ophelia used to wash her hair. Maybe she preferred a method of oil and fat to keep it clean. Maybe she hadn’t washed it in weeks.
Annoyingly enough, despite his internal scoffing at Berenilde, he found it difficult not to obsess over this girl’s features. Just a girl. A girl who, at worst, would be dead before they even got to the wedding. At best, she would reluctantly agree to his scheme. Thorn expected what would actually happen might be more down the middle. She would hate him, she would do as told because she had a sense of honour, despite everything, and then he would send her home.
“Would it really hurt to play nice with her?” Berenilde said, eyeing him curiously. “Would it hurt to bed one woman in your life?”
“Aunt,” Thorn said, and she bristled under his stare. Berenilde was a strange one, quick to inflict suffering on others, though she so rarely did so intentionally. Her lack of awareness embarrassed him, and he gritted his teeth at her. “This conversation is over.”
“Fine,” Berenilde tutted, her claws withdrawing as she relaxed again. She touched her stomach, almost protectively, and Thorn ignored the rushing wave of disgust that would be quick to drown him in other circumstances. She was insane, his aunt.
It wouldn’t stop him from thinking about what she said.
-
Thorn was forced to think about what Berenilde said for years. Intimacy with Ophelia was not easily cultivated. She gave him whiplash in the very worst way - and he was useless at convincing her of his intentions. It wasn’t that he craved sharing a bed with her, specifically - at least not at first. He liked her company. He could say that about no one else. There had been a short time where he enjoyed Archibald’s presence, or at least, he had thought he had - but it had been short lived and there had never been anything physical or emotional for him to compare it to. Berenilde was a strange case as well; he would not say he loved a single other person in his entire life, and yet being around Berenilde could be exhausting, and it drained him of any energy he could muster.
Ophelia had the opposite effect; not that he made it a habit of comparing her and Berenilde. They were, of course, nothing alike. Berenilde knew everything, or at least was very capable of acting like she did when it suited her purposes. Ophelia was truly ignorant, which bred curiosity - Thorn was often caught between annoyance and astonishment. She truly wanted to know what might hurt her, all the same, constantly trying to understand the intricacies of a world that Thorn felt would be better left unsaid. When he felt certain that she should be kept ignorant, for her own sake, she lashed out. When he confided in her the dangers she might face, realities that would hurt them both, she was resolute.
Ophelia surprised him. It was as simple as that. There was no one else of which he could say the same.
He wasn’t, particularly, surprised to see her in Babel. It was impressive, of course. She had changed. Her face was stiffer, and he alone knew he could read the fear and excitement there. She’d chopped off her hair, but it didn’t change her appearance enough to throw him off; he doubted anyone who recognized her could avoid it. Her small chin, her large eyes, the thick lenses resting in front of them - all warm, familiar images that soothed Thorn’s aches as much as they rose in his chest. He had to put in more effort than ever before to battle the tide inside of him. He wanted, very badly, to envelop her in his arms. She fit so well there, when they had embraced, and he still carried that memory with him like it was more precious than any item he had ever owned, the fob watch he wondered if she still kept on her person included. Her lips were pressed together and when she drew breath, the colour had been sucked from them, leaving pale, dry, pink lines behind. Though he spoke with slow ease and only lingered his gaze on her for barely a second, a wave of desire rode through him, clenching hard in his chest and making his knees nearly buckle. He stopped thinking of her; there were so many more important things than his body’s wants, as there had always been. If he watched her for too long she would be angry and it would draw suspicion. That didn’t stop her, of course - he could almost smile about the way she stared. She hid her shock well; Septima seemed annoyed rather than suspicious, but Thorn saw it clear in her face. She hadn’t known it was him. How could she, of course. Perhaps she hadn’t expected to see him at all. She likely came here, simply, of her own accord. The desire died down, but he was still almost overwhelmed by a sense of pride. That she had made it this far was nothing short of impressive. The temptation was to lift her off the ground and whoop with joy. He wanted to see her howl with happiness, too. He had never felt such a thing in his life. It tipped his entire worldview.
He had hoped it would have faded. Instead, it had been completely dormant, and now instead rang through him like the solid banging on a gong. He did not know how capable he was of keeping this ruse up. He hoped she would allow him some peace of mind, and at least reiterate that she was there in a singular capacity - to find God, to solve this mystery, the same as him. He could, and would, accept that.
He gave her three days.
Her eyebrows barely twitched.
-
Thorn had hoped he would quell his desire quickly. He had hoped, beyond all hope, that Ophelia would exact upon him a sort of revenge, and tell him, Once this is over, I’m going to go home. To Anima. Instead she led him in strange circles; Why did you come? She avoided looking at him head on, and he offered her the same in return. She knew how to humiliate him in a way that no one else had ever been capable of, before he’d even been aware of the intentions of others. She lingered, so he had to look at her, to smell her, to hear her voice. Her voice was confident, it didn’t waver or break in the same way it had constantly on the Pole. She didn’t sneeze, or sniffle, or have to blow her nose at every interval - and though he had found it beyond annoying before, he wished to hear those mundane sounds again. He was completely unhinged by her presence, and she acted like she didn’t know. Like he’d never said those stupid things to her. It was like nothing happened for her; like she spent three years lounging on Anima and then decided to come to Babel on a whim.
He supposed it was her right, and deflated.
If she had something more to say, she didn’t say it. He could - he would - accept that, and respect it. She had earned that from him. He would keep his distance.
It remained, as Thorn knew that it would, mind-numbing.
-
There were, of course, many distractions. He was not simply thinking of Ophelia every time he had an idle moment, for he barely had idle moments. He ate, he slept, he observed. And then, with every spare moment, he thought of Ophelia. It was torture to the strangest degree. She was there, accessible, he could see her any time he pleased - at least to an extent - yet they were at an excruciating distance. He wondered if he was to blame for the gulf between them, but he didn’t have the faintest idea of how to extricate them from it. He considered lying to her; saying he no longer had romantic feelings for her, explicitly. Perhaps the problem was that he implied such things without being clear, and she hesitated because she did not want to lead him on. That was humiliating in its own right, and, in the same way, made it impossible for him to tell her the lie or the truth. The truth was useless, anyway. If he reiterated his want for her, that he couldn’t help but remain cagey, and stilted, and awkward around her because if he tried to loosen himself for even a second the temptation to touch would be there, she would be horrified. Understandably so - he was her husband but she had laid the groundwork for his lack. She had never wanted this; truly, why would she, now? That they were stuck in this mystery together was rather a cruel intervention, Thorn thought, than anything miraculous. He suffered with her in a strange but not totally dissimilar way to how he suffered without. She turned her eyes on him and he crumbled.
Stupid.
Pathetic.
He wanted her and it took every echo of restraint that he could manage to keep it simmering below the surface. If she knew, she would hate him. He could at least say, in that moment, that she did not hate him.
That would be enough.
Though it seemed that Ophelia decided it was not enough. It would never be enough, in fact.
Her hand reached out to him. He could sense it, in his periphery. His claws sensed it, too. He knew she wasn’t a danger, but still, there was a twitch. She was going to touch him - and when she touched him, he would fall apart. He could not bear it anymore, for her to touch him. Not even with anger - he would lose all sense of self, he would dip deep into his own psyche and likely disappear.
Curiously, she said it, casually. “I love you,” like it was blurted out by accident, like she hadn’t been reaching for him with those words on her tongue.
If he reacted, he was unaware of it until the glass shattered and they were both on the ground. Her weight on top of his was ferocious. Her breasts pressed against his ribs, her face was crushed to his chest. He feared he was hurting her, but he couldn’t let go. Her legs slotted between his, her thighs pressed unintentionally to his groin. It happened in barely a second, but he took in so much sensory information in that bare second that he couldn’t track it all. Her hair smelled different, but was soft against his face. She had gasped when they fell together, and he could feel the rabbit-thump of her heart where it was squeezed against his ribs. She was trembling, and likely not even aware of it herself.
He felt more idiotic in that moment than he ever had. He wanted to shake her, to understand her, but he was thrilled in the same sense, knowing he never would. She was unreadable to him, even when Thorn felt he knew her. Ophelia was surprising as always; curious and frazzled, determined and afraid. He held her as tight as he could, until his arms hurt. “Above all, no sudden gestures,” he said into her hair, and then slowly, he released her from his grip.
She sat up gradually, touching him as he did so. It made him strung tighter than a violin. His heart was pounding; he was certain she could hear it roaring through the room. Her expression stayed stoic, though her cheeks were flushed red and her eyes were searching his for something else.
Hadn’t he said enough? He didn’t know what else to say to her. He never would know what else to say to her.
She was so strange. He wanted to kiss her, very badly.
They had time for but one. Maybe, eventually, they would make time for another. Thorn decided not to linger on it. The possibility would be enough to guide him.
-
He loathed nothing more than seeing Ophelia playing her part in the Observatory. It cut him in two. Pride and astonishment clung to him on one side - she was spectacular in many ways, but nothing could have prepared them for what was in store for her within their confines.
Selfishly, he let her decide.
He hated himself for breathing a sigh of relief when she said, resolutely, that she meant to stay. But despite his own misgivings, and despite hers as well, he felt confident that she did, truly, want to stay. They were a unit now, meshed more truly than they had ever been in their years of cooperation.
He tried to express that to her with words but it was difficult. He wasn’t sure if he convinced her. He was here, with her - nothing could possibly change that. He didn’t doubt that she meant it anymore than he doubted his own feelings, but still, there was hesitation from her as they looked at each other. The watch seemed to wink at him, almost teasing, when he finally checked the time. His throat opened with the urge to speak, to assure her, to touch her.
He felt he was failing. How could he claim to be worth her trust, her respect - how could he confidently give her a life worth living when she could not understand him when he was at his very best?
He stared down at his own hands, willing them to steady. Shame was very familiar to him, but this felt different. It felt grounded and it sickened him to his stomach. To have a physical want for someone took him down a very strange path. Wasn’t wanting Ophelia, in this circumstance, with her pale cheeks and her loneliness, wrong? Didn’t that make him something disgusting, or eerie? Doubtless, she wondered the same. He had initiated their first kiss. He didn’t consider the first kiss a kiss at all, but still, that had been his as well.
He watched her intently even as those waves crashed over him. She reached for him, tentative but her eyes glinted. She was determined, something sparking at the edges of her skin now. She fumbled with his buttons, clumsier than ever, and the hand that held Thorn’s heart seemed to loosen its grip, granting him a small reprieve. She met his gaze and he stared back, unable to blink, unable to let her go.
The first time had been awkward. That was another thing Berenilde had told him, as he got older and she drank more to soothe her anxieties, as she rekindled her intimacy with Farouk. She told him that it didn’t matter how many times you laid with someone - when it was with someone new, it would be awkward the first time. And if it was with someone you cared about, well; physical desire was meaningless. All that mattered was the heart and the body and how you would slot with the other. Thorn had always scoffed at her. How ridiculous, he thought, to lose all sense of self when with another person. He knew if he ever were to do this (and he had doubted it would ever be making love, as Berenilde sometimes put it with a wink and raise of a perfect eyelid), he would be in control. Of his arousal, of his emotions - like always. None of that could possibly change just by being with another person. Humans were predictable, first and foremost. He had seen the way Archibald convinced women into his bed; they wanted to be flattered, and they wanted attention. Understandable, yes, but very predictable.
Ophelia had, of course, proved to be the exception to the rule he made for himself. The moment they were entwined together, he had been lost. Berenilde was right about one thing - it was awkward. Neither of them had ever done anything like this before, which Ophelia flat out admitted to him with her face screwed up as they had hurriedly undressed. He hadn’t been surprised, but he had been relieved nevertheless - neither of them had talked much about their three years apart, and she had grown in that time. Gained weight that she had lost in the Pole back, giving her more full breasts, a curve between her waist and her hips. Thorn wanted to bite down on those zones where she had changed. He wanted to fit his mouth on the skin of her inner thigh and taste her. He wanted to suck bruises into her, he wanted to guide his tongue inside of her, he wanted to fuck her, he wanted her on top of him and vice versa and yet, neither of them knew how to accomplish these things.
What had followed was pleasant, but simple. Thorn had slotted himself on top of her and she had clung to him as he sunk inside. She had tensed and Thorn had been so afraid. Hurting her like this could have simply ruined everything, no matter how good his intentions were. But, it had worked, and she’d said, “Yes, Thorn - that’s right,” as he’d rolled his hips, a trick that he was embarrassed to have learned from Archibald, though completely against his will. It was more embarrassing that it worked. Ophelia had remained very quiet beneath him, and Thorn had been so focused on his work that he was barely aware of his own aching erection until his cock twitched and he became aware of how close he was. He touched her, with a fumbling hand, and she whined and clung to him desperately, and he had used all of his willpower not to come, focusing instead of balancing his weight between his good leg and his opposite arm, braced on the bed.
Sex was hard. It was worth it when Ophelia cried out with a weak half-sob, and hissed as she clenched around his cock. It was worth it when he felt that vice grip of tightness and finally unraveled in time with her. It was worth it to have come inside of her, albeit with a condom she had awkwardly asked him if he’d had once they were naked. The ache in his entire body and the pain in his leg had been worth it, even with everything that came after. Just seeing Ophelia’s face after that orgasm, knowing he made her feel like that - he needed nothing else, truthfully.
He did, of course, need something else. He tried to tell her with his eyes, the words hard to say. He needed her; it pained him to admit it, but it was the only thing of which he was absolutely certain.
“I don’t want to hurt your leg,” she said, cautiously. She had pushed his crisp, white undershirt to the floor, and he was tempted to pick it up so it wasn’t cluttering the space.
“My leg is fine,” he said.
She sighed and pushed herself up on the balls of her feet and kissed one of the scars above his right nipple. He nearly flinched at the breath ghosting against his pectoral muscle. She touched his bare skin with her small hands, and hushed him.
“I could tell you were favouring the other,” she murmured. “After last time.”
He tensed, then relaxed. She glanced up at him and smiled broadly. “It’s alright,” she said. “I want to do this.” She then cupped his face in her hands and drew him down into a kiss.
Ophelia kissed very gently. She let the kiss linger, and he dared not push further on something she had initiated with such certainty. Her mouth opened under his, and her tongue curled tentatively against his closed lips. Thorn was lost. He opened his mouth with a low groan and their tongues plunged together. She tasted unimaginably good. He pushed forward. She went with ease. He fucked her mouth with his tongue and she pulled back but then laughed.
“Thorn, Thorn,” she said, breathless. He loved her voice, he loved her laugh, he loved the way her hands rested against him, he loved how warm she was and how she still had a smell that was hers, and he loved her. It was impossible how much these details could all come together. He wanted to tear her apart. He wanted her to do the same to him. It was atrocious, it was incredible.
He would have to speak, to gain her consent. He lowered her to the bed and stared at her, wondering if she would understand him just from his eyes. He sank to his knees in front of her. The brace creaked but did not, otherwise, protest. It wasn’t extraordinarily comfortable, but he felt the position was more important to him than anything else.
She peered back, perhaps trying to read him, perhaps hoping to wait him out. She slid a hand into his hair, smoothing it away from his face. He was aware of himself, even more so than he was when he entered a mirror. She reflected too. She was a different kind of mirror.
Still, Thorn didn’t break her gaze.
She tilted her head.
“Let me taste you,” he said.
She shivered. “Fine,” she said. When he didn’t move, she tugged at his hair, “Yes, yes, okay. Make me beg, why don’t you?”
He thought on that for a moment. It certainly appealed to him, that he could make her beg. He heard his name in her voice, “Thorn,” throbbing through the room. But he knew she could do the same to him, simply by holding him back by his hair. He would do anything to crack through her armour and release her.
He considered her and then let his mouth twitch; he hoped it resembled a smile. From the way her expression softened from anxiety to peace, he had managed.
He lifted her cautiously by the hips, folding his fingers under the waistband of her pajama shorts and tugging them down her thighs. She helped by lifting her legs so he could slide them off and onto the floor. He brushed his hands on her outer thighs. Her legs spread with his movement and he peered at her, throat catching. Between her legs she was wet, her arousal visible through the simple white underwear the Observatory provided to its patients. He was quick to strip them away, not wanting to linger on the idea of them. She gasped a little, just a small choke in her throat, as he exposed her to the cool air. His mouth flooded. Her scent surrounded him and it was intoxicating as it was overwhelming. He hesitated no more - he was unpracticed but he could learn. He dove into her, nose pressed into the coarse, dark hair above her cunt, and licked her open.
She was an incredible combination of salt and musk. Something sweet and tangy under the surface. He couldn’t possibly define it, but he knew he wanted more. He lapped at her hungrily, his arms possessively wound around her thighs. Ophelia made small noises of encouragement as he worked at her, and he broke back to take a breath, his tongue wet.
“Guide me,” he said, flicking his eyes up to her. She wasn’t looking at him, though her hand was still clenched in his hair. He waited for her to settle and when she did, she looked away, her spare hand covering her face. “Don’t hide from me,” he said, and he meant it - he feared her fear of voicing any displeasure, and curled in closer to her. He gave in to the temptation and teased his tongue against her swollen clit, using two fingers to spread her folds. She was soaked everywhere. Her pubic hairs stuck together and the slickness of her cunt only drove him on. He flicked his tongue against her and Ophelia cried out, more urgently now. He moved faster and her fingers fisted in his hair, both hands now. She picked up on what he desired, and guided his face to her.
“Thorn,” she said, her voice strained as he sucked happily at her, “your hands.”
It was a statement. He continued sucking gently and removed his hands from her thighs, tentative still. He glanced at her, her stomach curved as she bent over, one hand now on his bare shoulder, the other more gently stroking through his hair. Her toes barely touched the floor. His leg was starting to ache, truly. He wanted to stay right here, so he simply ignored it.
“Please,” Ophelia said, and her voice shook now.
She didn’t know what to say. He simply would need to figure it out.
He sat back and looked at her cunt. Her opening was still producing arousal, and he again gently pushed her folds apart and then slid a finger inside of her.
“Fuck,” Ophelia said, the first time he had ever heard her curse so viciously.
He braced himself. The angle wasn’t as good for this, but he saw this was what she wanted. She was staring between her legs where Thorn’s finger circled inside of her, massaging her inner walls like they were sanctuary. It didn’t feel too unlike that, to Thorn. She was warm and inviting, and his cock twitched with the memory of being inside of her. But this was what she wanted; his fingers fucking her open.
“Another?” he said, not wanting to push too hard or go too slow.
She nodded vigorously. She was so sweet like this, so pretty and timid but full of exhilaration. He wanted to bury his face between her legs again.
“Ophelia,” he said, after he had slid in a second finger and was lazily fucking her while she breathed hard. “I apologize, but I cannot keep this position for much longer.”
“Oh,” Ophelia said, and then her eyes widened and she scrambled away from him, up onto the bed. “Oh, I’m sorry, Thorn,” she said, taking his hand in hers as he stood. The pressure relieved off of his leg, he immediately felt more grounded. “I can. Um, we could.” She stopped, staring at him with wide eyes.
“I’ll lay back,” he said. “Perch yourself on my face.”
He said it matter-of-factly and Ophelia went so red he thought she would start whistling like a tea kettle. He kneeled on the bed and laid back anyway, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. It was strange, almost terrifying, not to feel the need to reach for his surgical spirit. He was, in fact, more at peace with the debris on his skin, in his mouth, the taste of her, the smell, the lingering cells she produced that he so desperately wanted to consume, than he had ever been about anything in life, possibly ever.
“I can’t,” she said.
“You don’t have to, of course,” Thorn said. “Still, I need to rest.”
“I,” Ophelia said. She was still flushed but the first wave of embarrassment was settling. She fidgeted. “You’re quite…deft,” she said. She cleared her throat, refusing to look him right in the eye. “With your tongue.”
“Thank you,” he said, mildly.
He was uncertain if she was avoiding the act he had suggested out of mere embarrassment or nerves, or if there was something else on her mind.
“If there is something you want, please, say it,” Thorn said, because it was much easier to simply face whatever it was.
“I,” she said again. Her gaze flicked to his trousers. He was aware of the stubborn hardness there. His cock stood, attentive, but he was perfectly content to ignore it. She continued to stare. He had, admittedly, expected her to ask something else of him. Maybe his hands again, if she felt too shy to sit on his face. He would happily finger her to completion here. It would be a good angle to watch her pleasure at.
She surprised him. He supposed he shouldn’t have expected anything else. Her small hand touched his erection through his pants and he jerked, despite how tentatively she reached for him.
“Ophelia,” he grunted.
“Shush,” she said, stroking him lightly. “I’ve never - look, Thorn, I don’t know what I’m doing, but.”
She made him insane. His hips jumped again and she watched him, her eyes still wide and uncertain.
“Can I - on you?”
He nodded, furiously. He only felt half-sure of what she was asking; regardless, he’d give it to her.
Ophelia hesitated. Her poorly buttoned top hung down to her thighs, too big for her small body, but he knew beneath was her dripping wet cunt. This was so different from the first time, charged with a new arousal. He would do anything she asked.
Ophelia fumbled with her uncoordinated hands but she still managed to undo his trousers with relative ease, pushing them down his hips, his undergarments along with them. He didn’t need to be naked for her, he thought, as her hand gripped him, more tightly now. She still had small hands - her fingers fit around him, but she had to put forth a particular confidence that was clearly unnatural to her as she pulled his foreskin back and revealed the shiny head of his cock. She hesitated, then leaned down and kissed it. Thorn’s head spun. She sucked the head into her mouth, her palm pressed to the underside. She flicked her tongue, still uncertain, her eyes fixed on his from where she was awkwardly bent on the bed.
“Ophelia,” he groaned, because he would not last, even with her awkward pauses.
She pulled back and wiped her mouth. “I wanted to see what it felt like,” she murmured. Then, her face broke.
“What?” he said as she forced her expression into neutrality.
“I don’t suppose you have a condom,” she sniffed.
He did, though it wasn’t exactly in his pocket. He watched her curiously. “Yes, I do, of course I do, Ophelia…you do not need to do this. I’m perfectly capable of bringing myself to completion.”
She shook her head. “It isn’t that,” she said. “I want to, I want to more than anything, the way you felt, it is…” She shut her eyes. “It doesn’t matter right now. I’ll take the condom, please.”
It was excruciatingly awkward, but Thorn managed to roll over enough to reach into the dresser drawer, where he extricated a wrapped condom and rolled it onto his still-hard cock.
Her longing was intense, and it made Thorn feel as if he were burning up. He rested his hands on her hips as she straddled him. She fumbled, a bit awkwardly, until she got his cock lined up and he breached her with relative ease. Slipping inside of Ophelia felt safe, and earned. She was still tight, liquid heat, and Ophelia gasped as she took him to the hilt. She fumbled with the buttons of her shirt and dropped it beside her on the bed. Thorn, devoid of an ability to ignore his impulses any longer, held one of her breasts in his hand and squeezed. She smiled at him and rocked forward, then back again. She swallowed him completely with her cunt, and did not seem keen to let him go. He tweaked a nipple, watching the peak harden as he played. Her thighs quivered. She kept her eyes shut, now. She squeezed him at his narrow hips. He granted her wish, and fucked into her as she dropped down. It was hard, at first, to get the rhythm. They were slightly off-cue, like they were reading off of different scripts. Then, without warning, it was perfect again. Ophelia clung to him, leaning over his chest to kiss his face, squeezing his cock with her cunt, keeping him just nearly on the edge.
“Touch me, please,” she said, almost like she was begging, though he was ready to tell her she would never need to if that’s what it took to get those tears from welling in her eyes. He still couldn’t parse what made her so emotional, and it frightened him, but he didn’t have the time to think about it either. He rolled his thumb on her clit and she groaned and rode him faster and harder. It was sweetly inevitable, and he watched her fall apart, mesmerized by the contortion of her face as she sunk onto him, again and again, until she finally shook and let out a startled yelp.
Her orgasm overcame her. It was so powerful she sobbed as it wrecked her, and he followed her easily, the crescendo of squeezes pushing him to the very edge he had been so dangerously near for so long, since he had his mouth on her.
“Ophelia,” he murmured. “Ophelia, Ophelia.”
She was dazed, flopped on top of him. His soft penis was still inside of her; finally, she sat forward and it slid out. She let another little sound from her mouth and buried her face against his chest. He stroked her hair. He was dazed too, his body melting, the shock and force of their encounter already starting to send him towards the edge of hysterics. He wondered if she felt the same, so he stroked her hair until she sat up and he was allowed to do the same, carefully disposing of the condom and wrinkling his nose at the sweat stains they had left on the bed.
Thorn had no regrets. He watched Ophelia pick up her shirt, buttoning it with shaking hands, before reaching for her underwear and the shorts she had worn as well. She glanced at him and smiled.
“Thank you,” she said, and kissed him.
He watched her as she breathed in deeply and shut her eyes. He wanted to touch her again, to gather her in his arms and tuck her against him. It was that protective instinct that always managed to overwhelm him with Ophelia. There was something she wasn’t saying to him. He did not take it as a lie. She would speak to him when she was ready. Still, he hated to sense her pain. It seemed like a glaze on her skin, scraped off with every minute movement of her body.
She kissed him softly.
“Thank you,” he said to her, touching her face as gently as he could. His fingers barely brushed her skin. She smiled, though her eyes shone. She pressed a final kiss to his head, and left the directors’ apartments as quietly as she had appeared. He thought of her, wandering around in the dark. They each would sleep perhaps two hours that night, and wake up, and live in this strange world they had clung to.
-
Berenilde had looked at him, her hand protective on her stomach, tears welling in her eyes.
“You love her,” she had said. “Does she know how lucky she is, that you love her?”
Thorn had tried to ignore Berenilde’s words. They meant to hurt him as much as they intended to strike her. She sobbed as she held her stomach.
He had no idea what was inside of her. His aunt giving birth to a direct descendent made him, at the very least, deeply uncomfortable. Listening to Berenilde weep as she clutched at herself and cried about how her daughter would be beautiful, that her daughter would help Farouk to learn to love a child - every part of it was unbearable.
Thorn didn’t believe it, and he knew she didn’t either. He knew only that Berenilde loved this child more than she had ever loved him, much as he knew now that she did love him. He was lacking, not truly a Dragon in her eyes, but she loved him in the way she knew how. Still, the unborn bundle inside of her had fulfilled for her what Thorn never could. He had no way to make peace with that, no hill to climb to find a sunset of peace.
Berenilde wiped her tears. He had not seen her so completely broken since he was a very small child, and her, simply, his aunt.
“Do my feelings affect you so much?”
Berenilde choked a laugh. “They always have, you ungrateful…” She trailed off. “I regret that. You have never been ungrateful. And Ophelia is a daughter to me. I hope to beg her forgiveness for the ills I have caused.”
He snorted. She laughed again, softer this time. “I mean it,” she said, more gently, sniffing hard. “Perhaps I’m not ready to let go of you, Thorn.” She stood, hand still tucked under her pregnant belly, like she needed the extra attention. She approached him from the front, so she was always within his periphery. He appreciated that about her, at least; she was always careful in her approach. She tilted her head and smiled wetly at him as she stroked his hair and then his shoulder. The touch was tender in a way Berenilde rarely managed.
“She does not return the favour,” Thorn said, shrugging. “She would have nothing to do with me, if it were possible.” He recalled, with something close to fondness despite the humiliation of it all, her small palm slapping hard across her face. In truth, he had no regrets.
Berenilde tipped her head back now, letting out a sigh. “You say that,” she said, then shrugged. “Love is strange. Sometimes immutable, even. It may even be a danger to you, and to her. And I don’t even mean simply as your lives are already dangerous.” Berenilde stroked, compulsively, at her stomach. He wanted badly to flick the watch he no longer carried on his person. He realized, with a mild jolt, that Berenilde had passed this particular neuroses down to him.
Despite all he kept to himself, he didn’t, truly, appreciate the ways in which Berenilde threw herself into harm’s way. She drank to excess and smoked endlessly; her cigarettes, opium, anything she could get her hands on. She wanted so desperately to blur the world around her - Thorn found her impulses to hurt, herself and her own child, disgusting. He never wanted to be like her, turning to a bottle or the tarry smell of nicotine to soothe his nerves. He had promised himself from a very young age that he would not indulge. He would not fail.
It was a spectacularly intense expectation for a fourteen-year-old boy to put on himself, even one with Thorn’s claws, his lineage.
Berenilde stood now, unmoving, at the door.
“I don’t want to lose you,” she repeated.
Without any certainty of his words, he said, “You won’t.”
She looked over her shoulder, and he saw Berenilde as she really was. Vulnerable, shaken. He steeled himself as her eyes closed. She hummed under her breath and pressed her hand to her swollen belly. Maybe within her was the key to something. She believed as much, anyway. Thorn thought it admirable, that she could convince herself of pretty lies.
He held his pen so tightly it left an indent in his skin.
He watched as Berenilde left him behind. Her strides remained long, though slow, with the weight of her pregnancy. Thorn flicked his gaze away from her as she left the room, and the silence overcame him, throbbing and powerful, echoing within his skull. He relaxed his grip on his pen and brought his fingers to his lips. He touched his mouth, feeling his own skin with the feigned presence of tenderness. Perhaps it would remain imagined. Perhaps not.
It was out of his control.