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The only trace of time's passage was the ink that dried at the side of his left hand, or the insistent clinking at the table, barely dulled by the thick parchment. A single elbow was slumped across the cold surface of the stone, but even the generous pooling of his sleeve couldn't defend him from the bite.
On occasion, the mismatched eyes—one pure as milk and the other as blue as sky on a dewy morning—would flick over to the large, arched window, lingering to then retreat to the sepia parchment. As soon as he scribbled down a few words with little care and even less focus, he found himself looking to the window again, as if wishful thinking could somehow manifest a reality.
It felt like this torture dragged on for hours, even if it had likely just been one.
Fount wasn't certain what exactly was haunting his evening daydreams (if he knew he ignored it all together), and the real core of his distractedness seemed to spill through his fingers like clouds that temporarily descended—evasive and slippery, maybe even like a snake that cut its way through roses.
Just ruminating on it alone was enough to first have his brows arching, then furrowing—all the while he made a point of ignoring whatever warmth bubbled in his stomach.
The moment his sharp sight subconsciously fled to the window for the nth time that night, like an animal awaiting a treat it was accustomed to getting at a certain time of day, he knew any and all attempts at normalcy would be as laughable as the questions his people gave him.
With his shoulders rounding from the tension and displeasure as high as that of a bothered elder, he hunched over the chiseled stone. There was more rush to his penmanship now—a near aggressive dip of the pen into the blackened bottle there, a rustle of the metal on scroll here when his limbs pressed tighter to his body.
The hand that supported Fount's chin like a pillar of justice shifted instead, up his cheek, to where the milky-white sprung from his hairline. The virtue's fingers sank into the strands firmly, scrunching at them in hopes of getting the pressure to knock his focus back into him.
But it only made it worse.
Fount's legs shifted, the carved surface beneath digging into him despite the thick fabric he donned. Impatience for something swelled in the gap between his teeth and tongue, and he begrudgingly spared the curtains yet another dose of his grace.
As if it could distract him from the sensation—from whatever pooled not only in the hollows of his chest, but also the space below it.
The glass that most of the time remained half-closed was now peeled away almost wholly, upheld only by the silveren hinges of a window that were drilled through the bricks for who knows how long. Free and as real as all else, the night air spilled into the space further.
It was so very cold.
Fount used to not mind—used to not even notice—the chill that came with the darkness that bathed his land. Once, he would not even care whether the study was drowned in stale air of suffocation, or if it was full of incense and aroma of spring that forced its way inside.
Now, nothing felt right, and the circulation of the particles only made nausea rise.
A subtle movement underneath the desk followed his impatient thought. First, one of his legs draped over the other, crossing as slowly as possible, as if there was shame in disturbing the sleeping fabric. The blackened pen rolled out of his fingertips, traveling to the edge of the stone as if it wanted to fall.
Before he could do something stupid—naive and unbecoming—he looked to the silken curtains again. They swayed, and gave no answer, as if ignorant to the absence of a presence that was usually there at this time of night.
Fount's eyes narrowed, before closing. His arm moved over the desk enough to support his forehead when he finally leaned over, the other hand falling to his side. The virtue's thumb pressed to the edge of the fashioned seat, providing stability when he shifted closer to the table, just enough for his foot to finally feel the tiles.
He stayed like this for a few shaky breaths, the rush of blood through his skull making him feel as if he sank into an ocean instead.
One of the fount's eyes managed to peer out to the desolate space again (as if hoping he would be stopped), but even through the milky bangs he couldn't sense the shadow that he grew so accustomed to.
No spillage of dark fabric near the structure of the bookshelves, strange lack of scoffs meant halfheartedly and those which slept somewhere between mockery and truth. As far as Fount saw it, he was alone—truly alone. And, as if it could get any worse, the thought jammed itself into the small cracks between his skin and heart.
The virtue quickly found the air growing stuffy—something he refused to acknowledge starting to dance before the retina. Subtly, as if he thought he could evade the witches' gaze, he pressed his legs closer together. The heated skin of his bare thighs was separated by nothing but a moral dilemma underneath the fabric, and maybe that alone caused him to hesitate.
For a moment, however brief, that is.
In the end he only sank his face back into the crook of his elbow, the sleeve generous enough to conceal the shame.
Shifting against the stone, Fount felt the muscle of his thighs tighten. Such strange pressure it was—starting at the knees, creeping up the receptive flesh of his inner legs, where it curled below the belly button, almost where—
He bit his lip firmly to get himself together but the sobriety was as temporary as relief he so dearly sought. The movement stilled for whole, excruciating five seconds, but its absence already had him stirring anew—thighs chasing greater pressure, rubbing against each other clumsily with an unbecoming abandon. The virtue's calves trembled faintly from the friction, an ankle brushing an ankle as if that were of any use.
The hand that clutched at the edge of his seat tightened, thumb digging into the unyielding marble as if he could carve a hole through its snowy surface. His shoulders rounded as his elbow dragged over the table, and he finally willed his eyes down.
The fabric pooled at his waist as it did before, scrunched like crushed flowers from the reckless movement—golden edges glintng like cleavers, and they might as well be those.
Fount pulled at the bottom lip with his teeth, the canines pressing into the dry skin. The arm that stuck to his side like glue finally moved, the whisper of thick fabric revealing his hand enough to have him swallow.
It was so reminiscent to the rich sound that came when the collar around his chin came unpinned, or where it was slipped to the side with measured movement—or even the sigh that the material gave when it was shed from him like second skin, when it fell to the floor—
Fount felt like his throat tighten in on itself, mismatched lashes fluttering to a half-close. The hand that wasn't being used for support found itself creeping from the seat to the covered hip, fingers twitching when the knuckles deliberately grazed their way from the bottom of the seat to the top of his thighs.
His digits curled in an almost petting motion, uncertain as they edged to where the material dipped into his thighs. Fount's breath hitched in disbelief, but the anticipation of it all already had melted his sense—who dared to care about deeds comitted in private, anyway?
Wasn't he the one questioned only by public conduct?
Such excuses for this sin did not ease the shame, and he could feel the mortification in him solidify at the thought of being found.
But Fount couldn't stop. It was a long while since he was able to.
His fingers, still cold from the air yet softened by ages of penning, straightened just enough for their pads to brush his clothed abdomen.
Previously, the near-natural state of nakedness underneath wasn't a testament to impurity—but with the sensations seeping through him like ink bleeding into fingerprints, Fount felt less than clean.
The tips of his digits—with nails filled down as smoothly as the surface of his milk tiles—moved lower, dipping the long curtain of his dress between his legs. There was a warmth he ignored, an insistent glide that didn't allow itself to be forgotten, and when he was close enough to almost remember the feeling—
"Are you slacking off?"
Fount's body jumped, focus broken so harshly that he flinched like a child caught while thieving candy. His hands immediately fell to his sides where they gripped at the bottom of the marble seat, straightening so fast it had his back knocking into the stone. The virtue's head snapped to the side, and he was almost grateful that he couldn't suffer such physical strainage.
If he did, he would have to deal with the ache of his neck on top of the sensation that crept up his spine.
He didn't know when a shadow loomed over him—a silhouette highlighted at the edges only by the scant glow that dipped from behind, casting a darkness over the virtue in the very same breath. The streaks of gold cut through the otherwise unreal shades of depth, but it had his heart race all the same.
Fount was at a loss for a moment, but the words he wished to say weren't the ones that slipped his lips. "I thought you weren't coming."
"I wasn't going to." the voice was low—measured and gravely, as if decided long ago. Or maybe decided long before. He offered no explanation, no spin of a tale to justify his presence.
He almost didn't want to ask.
As subtly as possible, if that even worked, Fount uncrossed his legs. The material muttered and whispered forgotten complaints, or maybe that was his own body.
"But you did."
The shadow's features became clearer, the hood of their cloak slipping off as easily as wax melts away from a wick. Blond strands caught the uncertain beams of the moon, feeling almost cold instead—as if whatever sun had kissed him simply died somewhere and was now apathetic towards the man he had become.
Truthless Recluse left his gaze to flick over the virtue briefly, as unbothered as it was for weeks. "I did."
It was such an unnatural way to start a conversation that Fount couldn't find a proper answer, choosing to place his hands at the edge of the table instead. The chair scraped at the tiles with a shriek when he decided to stand, but the movement stopped as soon as it started.
Recluse's hand fell to the back of the seat, stilling it with quiet certainty. "No need," he mused. "I won't take up too much of your time—I simply thought to stop by."
"Oh, I'm not busy anymore—" He protested, but the seat was already pushed back towards the table. Fount's eyes caught the folds of the scrolls that rested in the corner, right next to the jar of ink that threatened to fling itself over the edge. There was a pen that nearly tipped from the stone, and a smear of black-blue that was left from the stains on his hand.
There was no need for light to see the disarray, or the way that the items seemed in a state of almost abandonment—left suspended in a half-action that was not yet finished.
The virtue swallowed quietly, feeling the firmness of Truthless Recluse's knuckles at the back of his shoulder, where they held the chair.
"What's this, then?" Fount's eyes widened, sight trained ahead as the shadow over him deepened. He felt a brush at the crown of his head—a tickle of something like a strand of hair. "…As far as I recall, you said you wanted to finish your duties?"
Right—why was he surprised? He told Truthless Recluse not to come.
His pale blue fingers tapped at the table lightly, without making sound. Fount's lips pressed together as if there was a thought he wished to suppressed, but the weight of darkness cast over him was insistent.
"Ah, uhm… that's correct." Fount's voice came out meeker than intended, the proximity already sparkling his mind with electricity.
Goosebumps raised somewhere below his clothes when the firm brush of Truthless Recluse's knuckles fell away. The chair was let go as easily as it was gripped. "Don't let me distract you."
The darkened silhouette retreated from its place, but before Fount could think better of it, he already stretched his hand to grasp at the blond's sleeve. His body twisted enough to catch the glimpses of skin, the fabric feeling as thin as the air.
He could feel the blond's body heat through the material, and—
"No." Fount felt it snap out of him like a pulled branch, bouncing off the walls in firmness he didn't know he was capable of.
The thick bricks of the Spire held onto the protest as one holds onto thorns, echoing it back at them in a few melodic layers, before finally letting it go.
Truthless Recluse's lips parted lightly, throat bobbing faintly in that stretching stillness—mismatched look bouncing from the thin wrist to its owner.
"I meant—" Fount's voice flickered like a blown candle, and his hold slipped from the healer immediately. The virtue's shoulders rounded when his hand fell back to the chair. "—You won't be distracting me. You don't need to go."
Knowledge felt their eyes drop lower, to where the recluse's robes were trimmed with gold that seemed to soak in all the light, and he added quietly—almost more to himself than to the other. "Unless you want to…"
His hand tightened at his side, where the dark cloth of robe bunched on his lap. Fount wanted to dig his fingers into the fabric if it meant choking the answers out of it.
There was no response that he could hear.
Fount's lashes fluttered lightly when he eventually looked up to the healer, but the eye contact was dispelled. Truthless Recluse shot the window a sidelong glance, and his single hand—calloused from things the virtue couldn't comprehend—came to his throat to clear it.
"I see," he mused, already turning away from the virtue. The healer's attention fled somewhere to the corner of the study, where a humble table with messily stacked items rested—accompanied by a lover the shape of a chair, padded and cushioned with pillows that the blond couldn't recall.
When Truthless recluse looked at Fount over his shoulder with an arched brow, the shorter appeared as if he was ready to shrink in on himself. "And…?"
"I thought something more… padded would be preferable," Knowledge muttered, straightening. "Considering how frequently you find yourself here."
The deliberate wording didn't slip the recluse, yet he still stepped over after a pause as brief as his heartbeat. A single finger was stretched out, swiping over the edge of the desk as if he were debating its usage—or cleanliness. "Yet you insist on sitting on bare stone. How strange."
"It keeps the mind sharp," Fount finally twisted to look at the desk again, the backrest biting into his shoulder blades with little kindness to spare. "Ensures focus and utmost attention to the task."
"By being unbearably uncomfortable, you mean?"
The recluse eyed the seat seemingly designated for him. It was quite like the one that—without fail—always rested near the virtue's desk. There was the same chiseled pattern, softened enough to be mistaken for a poured plaster instead. Yet the difference was undeniable.
It felt like the cushioning was manufactured in, the material sticking out of the white as if it was a part of it since the very beginning.
Truthless found his lips curling in distaste. "If the seat is uncomfortable enough, you'll find yourself rushing to finish, if only to get out."
"It's not like that," Fount muttered, trying to reach for the pen instead. There was movement behind him that he could hear—faint creak of the book spines being flexed, or the rustle of scrolls, crunching like a leaf being stepped on. "As I said, I'm simply not inclined to rely on things so trivial to do what must be done."
"So you forsake comfort for the sake of petty pride?"
The cushions gave a puff of a breath when Truthless Recluse finally reclined, leaning back in the seat as if willing to imagine it was a proper armchair. Or maybe he was utterly apathetic towards it.
"No," His fingers twitched faintly, but the grave voice—tired and nearly amused—was doing far less than keeping Fount focused. He swallowed against himself, elbow on the table to lean forward better. Single closed fist was tucked under his chin. "It makes little difference to ones like me."
Fount managed to take a hold of one of the scrolls, unrolling it with a practiced press of a thumb. There was a brief moment of quiet when he laid it down, and from what the healer could see, the virtue did their very best to appear occupied.
Maybe it was in the way that Fount folded the material with a grumble, or the way it was put aside in distaste. Maybe the truth of the moment was hidden in the subtle movement of his legs beneath the desk, perhaps even sleeping in the darkened folds of the fabric that shifted with each breath.
Despite Truthless Recluse's absent-minded tracing of the books and unfinished dialogues curled on the table, his mismatched eyes not once left the virtue. "What does enjoying such trivialities make me, then?"
"…The same rules or habits don't apply."
Ah, classic.
The blond gave Fount a scoff and no more.
His fingers found a hard-cover spine of a book that waited on the table, index finger and thumb prying it open as one breaks in an apple.
The shackling gaze of the hermit finally relented, and it felt as if a weight was lifted from the virtue. Now that the eyes no longer burned holes in his back, he could try to refresh his focus.
He picked another question from the pile, hoping under his breath that it would be worth his time. Technically yes—they always were, but Fount recently discovered some were… more worth it than the other ones. All plants are lovely, but only a handful seem to matter depending on the context of the situation.
Some people matter more than others.
The writing was sluggish, ink smeared in a way that made it near incoherent had he not been used to reading—it was all the same.
Knowledge tapped their chin with the end of the pen, other hand keeping the paper flat on the desk as he considered the answer to his follower's dilemma.
Something simple, entirely mortal and—well, Fount wasn't inclined to calling anything foolish, but with every script that passed through his fingers, it felt like the words were turning into a salad instead. His limbs pressed together tightly as his mind slipped from his body, the words he skimmed over turning out as drawn out as seaweeds. The wovels melted into eachother almost melodiously when he forgot to pay attention, giving way to thoughts not even the witches were privy to.
By the time that a third parchment was turned he recalled—as distracted as ever—that he should pen out his answers to their dilemmas immediately after, as to not forget the question.
A soft frown shifted on the Fount's face when his pen clicked onto the table with impatience, was he seriously going to have to do that?
Tonight?
For a moment, that very same train of thought seemed to come off the railways entirely, throwing itself down the bridge that connected two mountains—and then crashing down.
The Fount of Knowledge craned his head back lightly, doing his very best to quiet the rustle of his clothes. Truthless Recluse was sat where he was sat before, though his gaze lifted away from the book just as fast.
Knowledge snapped his head back towards the desk, his chest feeling strangely full. There was knocking in his ribcage, as if someone insistently tried to reach from the inside and in that, ruin all the effort he put into staying calm. His pen tapped into the desk without meaning to again, and when he crossed his legs over and leaned, he dropped it just as fast.
Truthless Recluse was right there.
Sitting there in the corner, undoubtedly leaning back in the seat as he always had—still slouched, Fount imagined, with the folds of the robes lazily draped over parted legs. Perhaps he would play with the pages between each sentence, and at that point the virtue's hands landed on his frost blue cheeks.
The parchment—focus on the parchment, on the pile of items to be read and to be put away for sending tomorrow morning. His mind trailed off to the possible way that Truthless Recluse's hands would part the book, calloused fingers tracing the sharper edges, sliding where the spine was. Maybe he would discard it entirely and burn his tired, weighty gaze right into Fount's back.
Maybe he'd already know what the virtue's mind was like.
His pale fingers sank into the skin of his warming cheeks, blunt and filled down nails leaving no sensation behind when they dragged along. Fount closed his eyes and inhaled quietly to reset his mind, but the direction of his thoughts was undeniable. The buttons that kept his robe together dug into his back like rings, the seams of it itching at his body like insistent claws.
It was already bad when he waited for the hermit to come, how was he supposed to handle it now?
His leg wrapped around the other one, tangling in a poor attempt to let out the excess energy.
Fount felt the night air brush his ankles with every breath, now that the robe shifted with his body—he was utterly boiled. Swallowing as thickly as he could, he pried his eyes open once more, trying to start reading from the first paragraph again.
"You seem to be curled over this scroll for what feels like ten," The voice beneath him pointed out when knowledge's eyes passed over the ink, and his shoulders squared soon after. There was a soft thump coming from behind—like a final chapter of something being snapped shut—and Fount looked off to the side against himself. "Is something the matter?"
A shift in the air was all it took to realise that the healer lazily lifted himself from his seat. Fount straightened back into the stone, but the shadow that crept from over his shoulder lacked mercy.
"U-Uhm." he cleared his throat, neck craning when he glanced to the taller. Truthless Recluse was stood at his side as certainly as a tree, arms lazily crossed over his chest. Fount's voice wavered. "It appears I may… have a hard time forming an answer to some of these."
"That's not something I recall happening before."
The virtue's breath stopped when the healer unfolded his arms, single hand coming to the table at his side. Truthless leaned over him, not unlike a teacher who was about to read out the task when clearly asked for help instead, and a huff of breath left him.
The proximity was enough for the curls of blond to fall over the shoulder, the ashen scent of burned vanilla clinging to him like bitterness to a smoker. He could briefly feel the warmth of breath, and—
"This doesn't read as a challenging question," The musing ripped Fount back to the present, the healer's finger tapping at the inked paragraph. "Nor a very original one."
Knowledge's eyes flicked over once. "Perhaps it's why I find myself at a loss of a proper reply."
They knew this wasn't the case, but neither called out his bluff.
Gone was the little space between them, the chair's slim frame allowing the healer to close the distance. The next sound—rumbly and aimed—was right to the back of Fount's ear. "…Then I suppose all the other scrolls are just as unremarkable."
Fount's fingers visibly tightened on the table, and he held his gaze down as if he were ashamed of a deed. There was no admittance to leave his lips this far, not a secret to be spilled from his eyes—just the solemn weight of knowing.
The taller knew he couldn't bleed the truth out of the apparent emissary of all there was to know.
So he switched the tactics.
If there was something in the entire Earthbread that bothered Fount more than mediocrity, it would be the idea of words stripped from decorum.
"You seem awfully out of it today," He pointed out from behind, chin nearly at the crown of the virtue's head.
Truthless Recluse's hand slid over the desk, until its side grazed the edge of the blackened sleeve—barely brushing the other's cold skin. "Constantly shifting in your seat, dropping and picking up the pen as if the act alone could bring you any peace."
His hands balled into fists more, nearly shaking. "Some people… refresh their mind differently."
"That's what you call it when you try to keep your thoughts from taking their own direction? Refreshing your mind?"
"You—" His jaw tensed. "Mustn't—Shouldn't talk to me like that."
Truthless Recluse all but scoffed, hands slipping up to grab at the chair's back rest. He pulled it back with one fell tug, having Fount's breath catch when he nearly slipped off from it. "I'd say it's too late to be setting such boundaries. Would you?"
Leaving the emissary speechless, the healer straightened. "Get up."
"I'm not done with—"
"Get up."
There was dryness in Fount's mouth, and he met the healer's eyes in a way that was all but confident. Pure Vanilla faced him head on, his head cocking to the side—almost daring him to disobey, challenging in its own right.
When the emissary finally stood with trembling fingers and tremulous posture, the healer sighed. Briefly.
He didn't have it in himself to turn back to the hermit, fingers finding the tables edge. Truthless Recluse regarded him for an interval of a breath, and scoffed anew. It was a sound that bled from his chest frequently, more so now than before.
"You leave me with no choice but to supervise."
Soft movement behind him was all he heard, the brush of the recluses knees on the back of his own. When Fount thought to turn around, a firmness wound around his waist, pulling him back easily. As he was seated, he no longer felt the cold stone beneath.
Firm, yes—not in a way of stone being eternal, but in a way muscle is firm from work and tension.
Fount's breath came out in a quiet gasp when he was tugged, his back pressing into the taut, clothed planes. Even through the thickened layers of cloth and secrets, Knowledge could feel the sheer, mortal heat that seemed to seep from the recluse as it seeps from a sun.
Before he thought to slip free, the hold on him became firmer.
His vision trembled, thin pupils dilating. The virtue's fingers stretched to grasp at the taller's knee—to get out no doubt—but his attention was brought elsewhere. A sun-kissed finger tapped down at the parchment in front of them, low rumble from the throat following.
"Eyes here, virtue." Truthless Recluse muttered, tone hitting every syllabe just right. "Get it over with already. If you paid attention, it would've all been finished."
Shivers rose up his spine, goosebumps forming near where his sleeves ended. When he remained too frozen—breathy and quiet—the former king found it in himself to add, straight to the fount's ear;
"You know why you need to be done with it, don't you?"
Fount curled inward, single of his hands covered by Truthless Recluse's one. The warm fingertips interlocked with his, dragging them up to the table properly—right next to the unanswered letter.
He swallowed thickly against himself, shudder rushing through. "Yes…"
When his palm was released he meekly grasped at the pen, rolling it between his thumb and index finger. Fount already forgot the contents of that single paragraph which he strained to read, but the new presence made it hard to even imagine working right now.
He hesitated for a few breaths, but only when they turned to minutes did the recluse push him further.
"Milk," the rumble sank through the back of Fount's neck, and he jolted. He leaned to the table more, feeling the firm arm at his waist sink into him deeper. "Go on."
And so he did. Tried to, at the very least.
His eyes skimmed the text with half the usual care, ink scraping the paper with even less effort as he tried to not think about the heat that clung to his body. Fount formed an answer shorter than he usually did, rolled the parchment, and set it aside. The virtue made a point of ignoring the finger that traced the line of his back between the shoulderblades.
Then came another letter which he unraveled, read over two times from the effort it took to keep himself from shifting, and gave an answer vague enough to count for a non-answer instead. By the time he reached fifth, the words began to turn mushy again. His penning slowed, head reclined on one of his hands.
The coldness of stone beneath his arm sank through the skin, but another thing seemed to cling to Fount's focus.
Behind, where chest met back, and where the recluse's lap met the virtue's thighs, heat seemed to have been trapped. It sizzled steadily whenever Fount found himself adjusting, sparking and burning when Truthless Recluse's limbs brushed his own.
Whatever lay before him was slowly melting from the mind, and his shoulders were drawn up when an occasional stray lock—coloured like a sun's beam—brushed his neck.
The buttons and hems at the back of the virtue's robes dug into his skin as a reminder, and he found himself pushing back.
And then, the work was forgotten entirely.
The virtue moved with a murmured sorry, elbow pressed into the table when his hips pushed back into Truthless Recluse. He stirred to readjust, but even that did not quite help in refreshing frayed nerves or thumping heart.
Not urgently and even lazily, the arm around his waist moved as well—open palm pressing to where the virtue's side was.
Subtle at first, the fingers bent in a graze, and then uncurled, brushing him through the material as one caresses a carved statue. His mismatched eyelashes came to a close about half-way, and he breathed in shakily—drawing in the air, and the thick scent of burned cinnamon and condensed extract.
His knee shifted, leg nearly slipping into the slight space between the recluse's parted thighs. The hand that rested at the edge of the table tightened into a fist, and he pressed his legs together before he could think better of it.
Bucking down into the recluse more, he ignored the way that something seemed to rise not just in him, but beneath him.
And there it was—the pressure he wanted to chase earlier yet never quite could. His mind was cotton and his thoughts were somewhere up in the night clouds, and whatever ardor passed through his flesh returned.
Fount tried to imagine that the firmness beneath him was made-up by his mind, or that the slick sensation he grew to feel was merely trapped heat.
Witches curse him. He was wicked. Depraved and weak and wicked.
"Is this where your focus ends for tonight?"
Fount's body stiffened, the warm planes of the recluse's chest pressing into him. The fabric did little to isolate the sparks between them, and his thighs shifted involuntarily. Get a hold of yourself.
"I…" He trailed off, the sound of swallowing cutting off the unfinished thought. But Fount had nothing to say—or think about—spare for the insistent sensation. The virtue's throat felt dry, and the hand that held the pen pressed flat to the table.
Truthless Recluse gave him the benefit of silence, lips sealed momentarily. When Fount failed to answer, he readjusted his hold with something like the quiet burn of awareness. His thumbs pressed into the virtue's side, fingers curled around his waist as they moved upward.
His mind was filling with fog, and he couldn't help but shift against the other, first debating if he should slip away entirely, then deciding he wouldn't be able to bring himself to do so.
They were long past his denials.
"You were so insistent on getting it done you even warned me in advance not to come," One of his palms trailed from the side of the virtue's ribcage to where the thick fabric covered his back, side of his hand pressing into the hollows between the shoulderblades. "And yet, you were distracted long before I arrived anyway."
Fount curled his fingers on the table in protest, upper body moving in a pitiful attempt to twist. His vision tipped forward when he was nudged to lean towards his work, setting space between the taller's chest and his back.
"Seriously," he tried, warmth moving up his back, to where the blond's fingers fiddled with the button that slept right underneath the large collar of his robes. "I s-simply… went over so many words today, they keep getting mixed up—"
The brushing at Fount's back stopped for a brief moment, and he held his breath in. And then—the first button came undone.
"Right, considering that the pile of work hardly moved in the hours that passed," There was the slightest brush of cold air when the blond worked his fingers down to another button that laid sewn in below, one arm remaining around the virtue's waist loosely. "Do you think I didn't see it?"
Fount's eyes widened. "S-See what—"
The material parted with each press of the recluse's hand, fingers slipping beneath the loosened hems to undo them more. A quiet hum, stern and questioning, left the blond. Fount had no way to read his face out.
"You were twisting like a worm for an hour, if not more, before I finally decided it was enough—" The virtue felt the warmth of his breath at the back of his ear briefly, cold air hitting his back. "—Before I finally showed my face."
Truthless Recluse curled his digits into fabric that remained trapped between his lap and the virtue's thighs, pulling it up enough to reach the last of the buttons.
And through it all, Fount remained just as he was posed—leaned forward almost obediently.
Almost attentively.
"You are stubborn, I'll give you that," With the folds of material finally cleared for the most part, Truthless Recluse split the fabric off the virtue's back like one pulls curtains open. The frost-blue flesh was exposed, all the way down to where the skin met Truthless Recluse's clothes. His knuckles grazed Fount's backside in passing.
"So stubborn in fact that you make up reasons to use as excuses," The touch that the recluse had on the virtue left briefly, sunkissed hand's moving to the front of his own robes to undo few of the buttons that laid from the waist down to the navel.
A metallic click cried when a buckle—belt no doubt—sprang free, the leather tickling Fount's skin when it finally rolled away.
The sound was too familiar for the virtue's sin-run mind, and he already felt saliva start pooling in his mouth as if he were a dog. "If pretending to be oblivious is what you desire, then by all means, let me indulge you."
Faintest breath of material moving—like autumn leaves being stirred—woke up right behind Fount. He didn't need to turn around to experience the heated press right above his backside, or the way that the blond's hand slipped onto his hip again, grazing the material when it slid beneath it.
"In which case…"
Mortified, the virtue could only slip their lips open.
"I suppose I will need to help you push through the rest of your work." Truthless Recluse held him by the hips shortly after, fingers pressing in to lift him by few, pathetic inches. It was enough to draw Fount back to himself as he had been minutes prior, but when the bare of his back hit the taller's chest—
His cheeks burned more than they previously had, his thighs having to part to make space. A distinct sort of pressure pushed up into him, sitting snuggly between the heated flesh of his legs that no doubt was long stained by sin. Was that the healer's—
The virtue's eyes immediately trailed down, to where the robe still covered his front, almost as if he'd rather be able to see right through it.
Fount felt the touch (firm and decided and tinged with callouses and hard livelihood) move over from the dips of his spine to the top of his thighs, bulging out the silks he wore in the same way relics bulge out carpets that lay atop them.
"Just don't start crying on me when you finally decide to be honest with yourself."
Before the words managed to decode themselves in the spirals of the virtue's mind, Truthless Recluse's knuckles passed over the inner part of his thigh. His fingers straightened when he dipped, and Fount's hand instinctively reached lower.
He didn't get to displace the fabric, fingers smacked away as gently as a flower yields to the wind.
"I—I can't focus like that—"
Truthless Recluse hummed, palm pressing his length up into the virtue. It was sat quite comfortably there—with the base pushed up into Fount's slit, enjoying the way that the slickness already parted the folds.
"You couldn't focus before from how rotten your thoughts are nowadays, virtue. Just feel how wet you are, and I've done nothing."
"N-No… No, I really…" Fount argued, waist grasped tighter. The complaint that bloomed in his throat wilted in an instant as Truthless Recluse pulled him down more, and the slightest friction had his thighs quiver. He knew better than to snap them shut.
Was it really how he ended? Like a cock-thirsty animal that couldn't help themselves? Knowing he would get no further like this, a shaky whine left his trembling lips. "…Please."
A hush of silence followed, gone as soon as Truthless Recluse clicked his tongue. Dissatisfied somehow, he rolled Fount's hips again, earning a shiver.
"Please, what?" He scoffed. "I'm no mind reader, Milk. Uness you tell me what you want me to know, I will not be able to read your thoughts."
Fount's fingers curled as he leaned over the desk, half wanting to bury himself, half wanting to buck down. "You—You know what I mean—" He argued with the quiestest hiss, voice rumbling in impatience. Fount nearly snapped his gaze back to the recluse, if not for the insistent push of the blond's shaft into his heat.
It just wasn't enough.
The demand, or attempted defiance, stopped as soon as it started. "I'll d-do it, I'll finish it just… please…"
"I told you." Steadily, Truthless recluse rubbed a circle into the virtue's hip. His other hand moved over his cock to nudge it into the virtue, giving the other enough of sparks to choke out a confession.
Filthy and sinful and grotesque, and everything that a virtue like him shouldn't ask for—shouldn't say, shouldn't want.
Fount took a sharp breath in. He had no space for prolonging.
"I want—need your c—" He stifled on the word. "—cock in me."
The scarce friction, if he could even call it that, stopped abruptly. Truthless Recluse's fingers froze in their motion, and then he carried on, as if nothing happened. As if Fount couldn't feel the twitch of his erection.
"You will do your work." He mustered, pushing the virtue to lean onto the table. The material was held away throughout, and Truthless Recluse pressed his lips tighter together.
Fount's hips angled, almost habitually, rising enough to expose his entrance. His thighs were glistening from his own, rotten mess. Truthless swallowed thickly.
"I—I will…" Fount felt the slow swipe of the taller's cock, where it grazed from the top of his mound, nudging his clit in passing. The warmth poked at his entrance, and the healer readjusted his grip.
"No complaints."
The virtue pressed their lips together tight, eyes snapping shut in preparation. The anticipation lingered up until Fount realised that nothing was to come. If he was not going to cooperate, at least.
"…No complaints." He lied.
The Recluse grasped at his cock better, keeping it lined up when he pulled the shorter's hips back down. Cursing under his breath as the heat enveloped him, his eyelids dropped lower. About halfway, when Fount mewled and shivered, his fingers left his length, pulling at the other side of the hip to join the symmetry.
"—A-Ah-" Something like a sob tore through the virtue to accompany the wet glide, shoulders jumping from the sheer sensation of his cervix being prodded.
It happened so quickly he didn't quite register when he was seated fully again, his legs sliding shut. Fount's eyes glossed over when he brushed his fingers through his locks. "M-Mmhh…"
He wasn't given much time to enjoy the sheer sensation of being filled, or the aching heat of being split. Once the blond was fully sheathed, an arm wound around the fount, pulling him back straight.
"—There," Truthless uttered, forcing his voice to remain steady. "That should compell you enough to finally get this done."
The blond's other hand was already clutching at Fount's, bringing it back to the centre of the desk, ignoring the hiccup of protest. Fount's brows furrowed as the pen was pressed into his palm more, and the unraveled letter which he was stuck at stared at him mockingly. Soft pressure of the taller's chin to his shoulder followed, stern and expecting.
Don't complain. Don't complain, don't— "Y-You can't just… just stay like this—" Knowledge murmured under their breath, other hand on the stone to try and allow them to shift.
The subtle graze of Truthless Recluse's cock already had his mind melting and thoughts swimming, how could he ever hope to read coherently?
"Hm?" Fount's thigh was grazed again, fingertips slidding to the inner part momentarily. The fabric whispered something in the tongue of leaves when the recluse's palm pressed up into his abdomen.
Just holding at first. "So you'd rather have me leave, is that right? The only way you'll do what you must is if you can't think about cock at all?"
Wincing, the virtue rounded its shoulders. They were both stubborn.
The difference was that Truthless Recluse knew when to quit it.
Maybe it was about time it learned, too.
"…No, I'm… sorry," The ink-stained edge of the pen nearly cut the parchment from how tight he was digging it in. Fount's face heated in a potion of anger and shame as he tried to move his eyes back to where the paragrapah started, but found himself looking below regardless of his strain.
Having to pass his eyes over the sentences was as ardous as needing to revisit his own journals. There was the inkling of getting it finished, just so he could move onto another letter—one which he hoped would be less mind numbing than this one.
Fount's lips pursed, fingers on his abdomen tapping lightly. He felt timed almost, as if there was a clock hung right above him, ready to fall had he not done well.
It wouldn't be enough to keep his mind out of the gutter.
He readjusted subtly, withholding a sigh at the subdued friction at his inner walls—hunching down lower to act as if he were at the heights of focus.
Perhaps if he wasn't busy with trying to feel out the veins of the blond's member, or the way it kept him parted like a gag keeps ones mouth—
"Eyes on the desk," Flattened palm pushed up below his navel, the soft and yielding skin letting Truthless Recluse do as he pleased. Fount felt the pressure at his inner walls and nearly jolted, knuckles tightening on the pen. "I'm not seeing you make any progress."
His writing slurred when he finally began to move, lips parting and eyes hazy. Fount had no true idea of what the vague author wanted, with this vague text and vague question.
His response lacked precision to match the parr, his reply folded with the letter in intertwinement. Once knowledge set it aside, they reached to the edge of the desk for another one.
Fount tried to comprehend the wording dilligently, ignoring the passing hand on top of his leg, or the one which descended below the navel. He swallowed dryly when the grazing, heat-waking motion made sparks roll through his senses, and he scattered his words the way one scatters ashes. When he stared at his desk for a beat too long, the touch froze.
The recluse said nothing, and neither did the virtue. It was clear what was expected of him.
He used the pen to move over the paragraphs, ensuring that his sight didn't get lost, or that the meaning was lost in translation. As he attempted to move back into the Recluse, he felt warmth on his back. The brush of the blond's breath made him shudder—curse the anticipation.
Curse his burned senses.
Fount skimmed the letter as one skims their hair with a brush, and as he started to arrange an answer in his mind—like messy four dimensional puzzle pieces he so dearly indulged in—something else, just as coherent, wrung itself at the forefront of his mind.
The pressure on his abdomen remained, but lower now. Few fingers gently swept across the top of his heat, middle one poking right where his folds were parted.
Fount's arms tensed to his body.
It's fine—It was all fine. With his vision smearing like gouache wash, he aimed at another technique. Keywords. Yes, Keywords—and he skimmed the lengthy letter, but the context sailed away before he anchored it down. The pen tapped roughly, and fount's fingers scrunched at his bangs.
He was still for too long, it would seem. Just a few presses of Truthless Recluse's body into his own, and he was keening.
"The letters and words are blending together," Fount rasped, lowering his hand from his hair to his throat. "I believe a… break is in order."
"You're drooling all over my cock, virtue," Low rumble echoed into Fount's ear, and he had to withhold a squeal at the suddenness. Recluse's middle finger inched between his folds, and his breath wavered when it coaxed at his clit.
The anticipation boiled his muscle into tension, and the nub was already begging for attention. "Like a starving animal. You won't be fed just because break time is due."
Please end this madness. "…I can't—"
"Can," The healer's finger rolled against the virtue's pearl once, then twice, testing out the slow, leisure movement that already had knowledge squirming.
Fount's pitiful attempt at getting off his length was put to an end as easily as one puts off a light match. "Sit still."
Knowledge tightened their thighs, but even that did not make Truthless relent. He jolted when he was pressed down firmer.
"If you stopped thinking about getting—"
"Don't," Fount breathed. He tried to muster up the voice of courage—the one that snapped when displeased and glared when angered, but it was more like a pathetic plea.
As if begging to not be humiliated. "Don't… I—I will finish this…"
Fount felt the movement still, the tip of blond's finger still threatening to stimulate. Once the healer gave it a thought—that's what the virtue assumed—his palm slid away.
It crossed the supple flesh of his stomach, enjoying the warm and comforting shape, creeping up towards where the ribcage began.
"Your last chance. If you stop, I'm leaving."
And oh how Truthless Recluse threatened him. He should take it seriously and just do what he was supposed to do.
But there were better things to think about.
Fount took notice of the rough texture at the inside of the healer's palms as they dragged over his body, and he felt his thighs tense involuntarily when these very same hands cupped at him.
There was a brief break in his thoughts when Truthless Recluse's thumbs pressed into the pliable flesh of the soft peaks, swiping past his nipples.
"That should be enough to ensure you keep your eyes ahead," His index fingers inched higher, and Fount's body jerked with the sharp sensation. Truthless Recluse rolled his hardening buds, pulling just enough to have the virtue squeamish.
"T-Truthless—"
Another pinch quietened his whining, and he begrudgingly got back to penning. Only when he managed to move past a few of these foolish questions did the rubbing at his chest slow, but it was clear that they weren't done.
The hermit cupped Fount's breasts carefully as one does, using the leverage to press the virtue's back into himself.
"M-m…" A whimper slipped the virtue at the quiet friction.
The taller's cock was still lodged inside him like a key in a lock, but the weird feeling that swelled in him was equally unbearable.
"See? You can be a good boy when you just listen to what you are told," Singular pinch followed. One of his hands stayed where it was, another slipping back down Fount's compliant skin. "Just three more."
Three more.
It might as well be three decades more.
The way that knowledge gripped the pen was as pathetic as the haste in which he moved. Fount was grateful for the lack of comment on that, up until he felt touch on his thigh again. How could he focus like this? How can one possibly—
"Come on," Truthless Recluse's voice transitioned from something stern and mocking, to something nearly velvety. A fabric woven by skillful hands which glimmered in stranger colours depending on the angle, even—or the way a candle flickered differently depending on who was nearby.
Fount didn't know where such metaphors came from, and he was too busy to try and track them. Warmth from his thigh slipped below again, and his hips bucked when Truthless Recluse's fingers found the spot. "Hn—"
He couldn't stop.
The paper nearly tore from a sudden stroke of aggressiveness, the end of his fountain pen threatening to bend and fold. Little mercy was granted when the taller shifted his hips, as if digging deeper into him. Into his heart.
Only then did a low groan echo at the back of the virtue's ear, and with that came a realisation.
For all the deviance that grew in him in the past weeks, he was the one squirming and begging for cock like an unsatisfied animal.
He was the one needing it. Not Truthless Recluse.
How—how utterly pathetic. Foolish. He was a fool. He was the biggest joke of all.
Perhaps that aspect was tucked somewhere at the back of his throat or buried deeper than Truthless Recluse was buried in him, but—
He didn't get to make that thought in the end, two sun-stained fingers passing over the top of his clit. Fount's face contorted in despair as he reached for the next letter, and a gruff breath sent arousal straight to his gut.
It wasn't right. It wasn't correct to get this warm and slick over just how gravely the blond was.
"Stop making me wait and get on with it," Truthless Recluse growled lowly, pads of fingers coaxing at Fount's nub as if he was petting a foolish creature.
Knowledge hiccuped, but did as told.
Another movement of pen dipped in ink, another letter Fount wouldn't remember. The drags over his clit, right above where Truthless Recluse still remained in him, were just enough to have his stomach curl in on itself.
Fount's eyes watered as he desperately wrote whatever nonsense came to mind, knowing fully well all this hard work had to be redone when morning would come.
Just reading and writing, reading and writing, reading and—and he would be sick of it. He was sick of that and the way that he twitched at the subtle graze of Truthless Recluse's cock.
Whatever material was beneath the virtue was undoubtedly soaked, and he didn't care. Not anymore.
His clit was rolled between calloused fingers with utter disregard, and the shadow of sharp teeth skimmed knowledge's bare shoulder.
Fount only hicced when the very same canines sank into him, and his body answered without meaning to.
"P-please…" he whined, scribbling the last sentences. His welcoming and starving heat already gripped itself around Truthless Recluse as if unwilling to let him go, and the steady building in him came to be overwhelming.
Fount's eyes watered as the lettering started to resemble uneven threads instead, his hips shifting down. His walls tensed around the other slightly, and a sweet pleasure finally began to creep up from the mix of sensations.
"Nh-mn…" His pen stuttered onto the table, the approaching bliss making him oblivious. Truthless Recluse breathed warmly into his neck in encouragement, and just as the sweet peak was about to wash over him like water crashes onto rocks—
A yell of his pen bouncing from the floor cut the focus, Truthless Recluse fingers stilling on top of his clit in a way that had Fount sob from displeasure.
The taller moved, and knowledge assumed it was to look down on the pen, and—and the second that the calloused fingers moved to his hip, another cry spilled from him.
"W-Wait—Truthless, I'm—I'm sorry—" Fount didn't comprehend when the pleas spilled from him, but along these silly little words ran the tears that stained his hot cheeks.
The other hand fell from his chest, both grasping his waist. He didn't get a say when he was suddenly pulled up, forced to stand on his feet and bent knees. Fount latched onto the table with a filthy hiccup when he felt Truthless Recluse's length pull back from him.
"Tch. Selfish," he spoke it as if it were a curse, single hand brushing up Fount's spine, to the back of his neck. The virtue yelped softly when their cheek was pushed into the cold, dead desk beneath. "I have no idea what I was expecting."
"I swear—"
Knowledge swallowed thickly as Truthless Recluse's foot nudged his ankle, forcing his leg apart. The movement was repeated for the other one.
He didn't fight.
"Swear what?" The taller grasped his length anew, eyes lowering momentarily. Where Fount's flesh was exposed, the undoubtable sin laid bare—wetness that spilled from his heat to the inner skin of his thighs, almost like tears.
Almost as if his entire being was crying to finally be shoved and taken and fucked.
Because Truthless Recluse could be nice.
He could be nice when Fount deserved it.
"As far as I'm seeing, you thought about nothing but getting your fill." The tip of his cock swiped against Fount's glistening entrance, and he had to pause his breath for a moment. "Even though I already told you,"
Fount's eyes fluttered shut when the taller leaned over him. "That you will only come from my dick."
Gentle pressure inched his heat apart again, and Fount's breath keened from the cold surface.
"What has become of you, huh?"
The blue locks of hair shifted when Fount's back arched, strands shadowing his eyes as if in attempt to hide them. Truthless Recluse moved his palm from the neck to the base the virtue's hair, scrunching them.
His face was shoved into the table with newborn determination, in the same way that Fount recalled an hour prior.
Was it an hour since Truthless Recluse came here?
"Y-yes—" A hiccup rolled from knowledge, body shuddering when the blond pushed into him in one fell thrust. The tip kissed his cervix for less than a second before withdrawing.
Fount's lips opened in complaint, but the other's cock was slammed into him again with a sound so filthy that he was flushing. "H-hhAa-!"
His hand stretched over the table, but his wrist was suddenly seized. Truthless Recluse stopped momentarily to pin the virtue's arm to their back, and with such a firm purchase, he thrust into him again.
"H-hn…" A low groan left him to accompany Fount's cries, brows furrowing in a way almost pained. "Stupid, i-ignorant little—"
Each slam was accompanied by a grief, but Fount had no space to be offended. Every single hollow between his brain and his skull was filling with euphoric fuzz, and the mismatched eyes of milk and sky rolled back.
The sensation of his heat grazed over and over made up for all the truth to his ears.
"—t-thinking you're above it when you're s-squeezing me as if it's the only thing you're good for,"
Fount's eyes watered anew. His body remained pliant, Truthless Recluse pulling at his hair to angle his face better. Bliss painted itself on his face, and each thrust was amplified by the firm shove of the table underneath his stomach.
He was so deep. So rough and deep and so hard and big and Fount forgot how to conduct his mind properly as to not commit a thought crime.
"N-h-hha-nn…"
Only curses left the blond as he leaned over the virtue, the quick pace of his thrusts having the stone beneath tremble. Each textured dent of his cock had Fount's heat wrap around him like a vice, and he thought to stop for a moment.
Truthless Recluse couldn't. He waited too long.
"P-Please—" Fount sobbed gut-wrenchingly, his body shuddering from all the denied sensations. "I-I'm ss-sso close Pl-pLease please please pleasse please—"
"Please w-what?"
Knowledge's stomach curled from building sensation, and it truly felt like he might die. He might die from how wrong this was and from how good it felt.
"N-Need to ccOme on your—" Fount would never in his right mind say it. "On your cock p-please ple-"
"—pitiful brat," Truthless Recluse slammed into him with a distinct slap, and that was all that the virtue's pitiful heat needed.
"Pl-NnHaa—!"
A sharp sob spilled from Fount when his entire body tensed, the arm that Truthless Recluse kept pinned straining.
Everything went blindingly white as he trembled against the blend of feelings, the strokes of the taller's cock in him slowing from the tightness alone.
Fount shuddered, all of the anticipation having crashed onto his body. It was far too much to handle for his flesh, and yet—and yet—
He hiccuped and whimpered when his entire self loosened moments after, tears threatening to soak into edges of letters. Only when the sensation sank from him like water drains from a broken vase did Fount realise how laboured his breathing was.
The slick of this thighs ran low, wet squelch trembling in his ears when the hermit bucked into him once.
Knowledge's eyes closed in a well deserved moment of rest, and his legs limply hung.
It was everything he wanted today and more.
The hold on his wrist shifted to the upper arm, and his eyes snapped open in alarm when he was pulled up straight. "W…wait, I still—"
His hands were shoved onto the desk, back forced up to keep him mostly upright. Truthless Recluse's cock pressed into him again, and an arm slung around Fount's neck.
The virtue swallowed thickly, incoherent babble slipping past. Truthless Recluse mused sonething quiet, other hand slipping to the hip.
"I'm not finished yet."