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She was sick of it. Sick to death of it.
It had been weeks and weeks, and she was not going to put up with it anymore.
The occasional snarky comment, a playful 'Irene', as they danced around it at the start, danced around each other. A huff here and there, in laughter or consternation or she didn't know what.
She had seen the King be loud and boisterous, play up the role for a crowd, she knew he could do it, but something about the darkness of the night reduced him to his essence: a silent thief.
At least, she hoped. Hoped it was the hush of the sleeping palace, the still in the air, and not her.
Sometimes she would help him take off his hook or his hand, holding his arm where it had been in the cuff and warming it as blood flow returned. That would always produce the gentlest of sighs, and smallest of smiles as he watched her.
But more than anything, he was silent. She couldn't even hear him breathe, he might as well have not been there at all, just a pulse and a shadow in the dark. Only the shadow had moved from the rooftops and the corners of her room to underneath the sheets with her, to between her legs, where he was now.
She knew he was enjoying himself, that much was obvious. As was she. As was evident in the, quite frankly, alarming occurrence of their coupling.
In the beginning, she had found it charming, even darkly mysterious. The intensity of their first few encounters lending itself to the quietness. And she had thought it would be enough. Enough to feel and taste and see and smell. Feel him inside her, taste the salt on his bronze skin. Watch his face twitch, and his mouth drop open, and his brows pull together. That is, when he did allow her to see anything at all and resisted dropping his face into her shoulder. Into the soft spot between her neck and collarbone. Not that she minded that much.
The King excelled in bed, much as he did most things. And the fingers of his left hand, though already roughened from overuse, were able to produce her own delighted noises at the simplest of touches. A deft hand and a light touch not only benefitting thievery, it seemed.
But now, she wanted to hear it, hear him. Her King.
(And not the, 'Just imagine what I could do with two’, whispered through a grin into her ear.)
It was alarming to find that she wanted to hear more from a man who could provoke her with so few phrases in any other setting. Alarming to find that she wanted more from a man she had already taken so much from.
And if she thought about it, maybe his silence in their marital bed reminded her of his silence there, then, all those years ago. His mouth twisted in a scream that did not arrive. And maybe the Gods thought she didn't deserve absolution. To not be reminded of such a thing.
But she was Attolia. She would accept her punishment for her actions that day, and all the days since, everywhere but here. In this loving bed. Where he made her feel truly seen and heard as herself for the first time. This time was theirs alone. Gods new and old, be damned.
“My King,” she murmurs to get his attention.
This only serves to spur him on, his head bowed, the muscles in his arms and shoulders bunching with his movement.
The Queen tightens her pale thighs around his hips.
“Eugenides!”
He falters in his rhythm, looking down at her in not-quite alarm. She wasn't sure if it was her sudden pressing tone, or the invocation of his full name, of his God, that had thrown him. He was usually just ‘Gen’ or ‘My King’ to her here.
She reaches up slowly, takes his face in her hands. Now he looks worried, but it's for a mere second before he gets control again.
She runs her thumb over his feather scar and pulls him down to her, pulls his mouth down onto hers. Feels the familiar exhale from him into her mouth, can't help but wish it carried the moan she was sure he hid.
“I want to hear you,” she whispers into his lips and feels chastened even having to ask.
“What?”
She pushes him, and he goes. Always so suggestible here, in her arms, under her sheets.
Attolia flips their positions carefully, settling herself atop him with a resonant sigh.
She can see his dark eyes glowing in the dim light fading through the window. He looks up at her with the same sense of awe he usually had, like he's caught off-guard by her presence at all.
Some nights she enjoys it, his reverence. Tonight, she is glad for the dark hiding the blush she is sure has travelled down to her chest, when she says, “You’re too quiet.”
He refrains from letting his eyes wander, quirking one brow at the slight tremor in her voice. But annoyingly, does not say anything, for once in his life.
Attolia takes a long, steadying breath.
“Eugenides Attolis, I order you to make as much noise as you see fit in this bed,” she tries. Her voice only a little commanding, not daring to take it any further. And he was usually so good at adhering to orders here.
But now, Gen takes pause, his face carefully blank as he gazes up at her.
And Gods, it wasn't even really an order. He could take that and actually give the attendants further out in the apartments something to gossip about, or he could carry on the way he had been doing.
Instead, after a minute, he opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again. And, in what almost sounds like relief, says softly, “Yes, my love.”
And she knows he hasn't taken it as an order from his Queen, but for what it is: a request from his wife in their bed, something that would make her happy here. That once most unfamiliar affection swells deep in her chest.
“Good,” she manages, before tensing her thighs and rising slightly from his body. Succinctly drawing his attention back to the fact that they were still joined in the most intimate of ways.
On her subsequent downward stroke, she watches his face contort like he’s about to say something, but he quickly interrupts the impulse. Reaching up, placing his hand on her face, and bringing her down to kiss him once more.
A final attempt to stifle his own sounds, and she's not having it.
Attolia pulls away, continuing her rolling, languid movements. Gen exhales slowly through his teeth instead, though he leaves his hand cupped around her jaw, thumb brushing across her cheek. She sees him think - or is it hesitate? - for a second before he rubs his thumb over her mouth, just leaving it resting there on her lips.
She figures, as long as they were traipsing into uncharted territory.
Attolia doesn't know what he was expecting but the sound he makes when she opens her lips and takes it in, lightly sucking, is enough to tell her it probably wasn't this.
It's a gasp and a "Guh— " like he had been going to cry out to the Gods but caught it in time. He's still stifling but it's the first real reaction she's had from him.
She hasn't done this to him yet, used her mouth on him. Wonders about it now, having him writhing under her, completely at her mercy, at the mercy of her lips and mouth and tongue. The noises he would make then.
The thought so un-Queen-like, so wanton, it lights a fire in her, and she doubles down. Digs her fingers into his chest and grinds her pelvis down. Her tongue running along the length of his thumb.
Gen hisses like he's been burned, thrusting his hips upward involuntarily, jolting pleasure through her. Attolia just barely bites down, and for a moment neither of them can look away.
Gen's own jaw clenches and slowly, he pulls his hand away from her mouth. Trailing it lower, across both her breasts. Sometimes they did this while she was still in her nightshirt, the suggestion of nudity almost more tantalising to them both somehow. She was glad it wasn't one of those nights tonight. One peak hardens under Eugenides' palm and he makes a choked sound like he would sit up and take it in his mouth if he could, if her hands weren't stopping him.
He continues his path downwards and lays his palm across her lower stomach, pressing down faintly. Resting it there like an anchor to her rise and fall.
He had used his mouth on her, almost everywhere. Gen privately insisting on using all the tools left to him at his disposal, and as such knew all her most sensitive places. Had learned them with an eager diligence.
He wets his bottom lip briefly, like he knew what she was thinking.
She was just used to avoiding eye contact with her attendants the following days, and for their part they never said anything either. A king could be a good lover and still be a terrible match, still be a terrible king. Attolia wasn't so sure these days.
Without breaking eye contact, Gen extends his thumb out flicking it against the bundle of nerves at the top of her core. Her answering moan and clench have him pulsing upwards into her heat again suddenly, with a muffled groan of his own.
She grabs him by both forearms - just to be sure, and holds them up to either side of his head. Trapping him under her, in a rush of breath.
“Eugenides, stop distracting.”
“You have to understand, dear." He sounds strained, a soft tremor in his tone. He's definitely choking something back. "This is an imposition on my person that feels wholly unnatural.”
Moving forward she had slipped off him and so reaches back, replacing his member at her entrance and slides down.
“This?” She asks seating herself back on him fully. Her muscles immediately remembering, fluttering pleasurably around him. “Unnatural?”
He shuts his eyes, shaking his head. "No," he replies in a deep shuddering breath.
Attolia rises above him until just the head is pressed to her slick entrance, then slowly sinks back down. The husky grunt he exhales as she settles around him immediately burns into her memory. It nestles there in a way that she knows she will be able to call upon it. Allowing her to feel powerful in a way she wasn’t sure she had ever truly felt it.
There must be something in her face, because Eugenides can’t help himself. He leans forwards, propped up on his one hand, trying to capture her lips with his.
Power that was also love, and respect, and most importantly trust.
She tilts her head back, staying just a breadth out of his reach.
He groans through his teeth in frustration.
“Are you going to be like this for me from now on?” She breathes against his straining lips.
His brown eyes are almost black as they bore into hers with an intensity that had shocked her at first, in the beginning. She never felt quite so seen, as through his fathomless eyes. Now, she sees the small tug at the corner of his mouth, of the grin threatening to break through.
“Yes,” after a beat, “My Queen.”
She lets their mouths meet. Attolia melts into his kiss, opening her mouth to him, and wrapping her arms around his shoulders. Inviting in that familiar feeling of relief, of comfort. He breathes her in like he’s gasping for air. Grinning as he finally gets to kiss her.
He often grinned while kissing her, as if he couldn’t help himself.
“My Queen,” he repeats, moaning deeply around the words. His voice is softly spoken, but suddenly thick with emotion. The sound of it spurring her on.
She could see it on his face and hear it in his voice, how foolish he had been to think he would ever have to be forced into her service, to think being her King would not be worth all the rest of it. He would serve her now, always and every day to come. Would do as her every wish commanded.
Treasured might have been the word for it if she could have thought of anything beyond the sensation of him beneath her at that moment, of his moaning lips against hers.
Attolia gives in to the need to feel him closer, to feel him everywhere.
She leans forward, pushing them both back into the bed, quite forcefully. Eugenides lands with a huff, embracing her as she spreads herself over him. She relies on him skilfully shifting his position, angling his hips upwards to hold him inside of her. Letting his upward thrusts set their pace for a moment.
The weight of her pushing him into the bedclothes, of her breasts pressed against his chest, of the punishing heat of her, all has a visceral groan escaping the back of his throat.
In turn, she tightens her hands in the hair at the nape of his neck. She doesn't want this to end just yet.
“My sweet, gentle Queen,” Eugenides gasps.
Attolia laughs into his throat, and he gives a pleased hum, before she bites down on his shoulder. Hard.
“Ah!” He cries out.
She continues rocking up and down on him, as she bites and nips her way across his neck and shoulder. Falling into a rhythm that has both their pleasure building hopelessly. She mouths at the long-healed scar that runs across his shoulder.
"Gods — "
Gen sputters and groans in between sharp inhales and half-muttered curses. Fully obeying her request now, perhaps losing himself in it a little. She should have known he would be good at this; in the same way he was at everything when he truly applied himself.
She sits up again, proud of her work. Her hands trail down his chest which is heaving with effort, across his patchwork of scars, to rest on his abdomen. His brow is furrowed and his gaze flickers between her face and the place where they're joined, making a small keening noise on every downward press of her body over his.
Gen looks and sounds a wreck. He is visibly shaking beneath her as she lays her claim to him, his tone bordering on ruin, and Attolia begins to feel her own end creeping up on her quicker than she had anticipated. The dichotomy of him, of Gen’s hardness inside her at odds with his complete acquiesce to her, of his happy surrender to her, to being a noisy lover. She loves it, loves this vision of him, losing control for her, for only her. Knows what it means about her, about both of them, doesn’t care.
She digs her fingers into his sides and lets out her own shuddering moan, squeezing tightly around him.
Gen's resolve slips, breaks, and he surges up suddenly. Gripping her around her waist, pushing himself up on the other elbow. His hand splayed across the back of her ribs, holding her in place, as he thrusts his hips upwards, panting loudly at every delicious drag of them together.
“Irene,” he groans into her neck. Finally, finally Irene.
Curling inwards around her, with all the fragility and intensity of a man on a precipice, of falling, falling into her. He spends himself, pulsing into her warmth, sounding like he had never sounded before, had never allowed himself.
The rush of hot air, of her name against her neck, combined with the new angle he's put himself in against her, has her own mouth falling open, though she’s not sure what she says.
She keeps him there, squeezing her thighs around his hips, her hands grasping at his broad shoulders. She’s moving urgently now, riding out her own release against him, until she’s trembling. Until her vision whites out to a place of pure bliss, her entire being focussed in on the feeling radiating out from her core. Her hand in his hair grips so tight she feels the King inhale sharply against her jaw. Her every muscle burns and she holds him as tremors rack through her.
It’s a desperate clawing thing. And she’s never been so glad to share it with her husband.
She lets go of him as slowly as possible, in increments. Her body and her brain slowly catching up, relaxing piece by piece until, finally, she untangles her hand from his hair. She feels Gen shudder one last time before he falls back onto the pillow, swearing.
She watches him, still catching her breath. Gen appeared as satisfied as she felt. His eyes are closed like he might be praying silently for a second, as his left hand and stump lightly brush up the outsides of her thighs, still straddling his hips. A small smirk playing around his mouth.
And suddenly, she can’t even feel bad for what she had demanded of him. Not when it was really what he wanted, what Gen had essentially been doing to her since the beginning. Forcing her to unravel, figure out who she was when they were just Eugenides and Irene. Shedding the parts of themselves that everyone else got to see. And tonight, this was it, or some of it.
Irene waits until her inner muscles have stopped contracting before slowly lifting herself off. Eugenides watches with the same conflicted expression he usually had, like he would love to stay inside for longer, forever, but it was painful on him already. He sighs at the physical loss, stopping just short of a whimper.
She lies on her back beside him, dark hair splayed out across the pillow.
Gen turns on his side to face her. She doesn't move to cover herself, sated and secure in his presence. He tucks himself closer to her side, gazing across at his wife, still letting her breathing slow down. Their quiet breaths the only sounds filling the room once more.
She knew he was getting another moments closeness before he would have to leave, ultimately returning to his own rooms before morning.
She also knew why. The King spent half his time these days convincing people that they weren't intimate. Convincing the palace that he was useless was easy when her court was mostly men; useless at getting into his wife's bed was good enough.
The other half of the time, she knew his bluster, his need to prove himself - that he had been dampening ever since becoming King - got the better of him. She knew what he told Dite in the garden, what he had inferred on others. And tall tales of their exploits had been heard among small factions, true or not.
And after tonight, her attendants would have no doubts.
She says something to that effect, pretending quietly to herself it was about projecting a sound strategy, and not about her own personal desire for him to stay in her bed a little while longer.
Strangely, her King is still for a second, his face betraying a sudden uncertainty, a sheepishness she had never seen flash across it before. She thought he might blush, if he were the type to do such a thing.
Gen blinks away his slightly seized expression and quickly turns his face into the pillow, hiding it in the softness of her hair.
She raises a brow which he must see out the corner of his eye.
When he has regained whatever composure he might have had, he props himself up on one elbow looking down at her. Resigned, for a moment before turning his head towards the door.
“Guards!” Gen shouts, suddenly. “Guards, help! Come quickly, they’re trying to murder me!”
Irene has to suppress the urge to hastily cover herself up.
They both listen for a moment but there is no sound on the other side of the doors. Not even a shuffling of feet. The attendant’s rooms are right there, the guard’s just beyond that.
He clears his throat and bobs his head from the large, silent doors to face her again.
“These rooms, the King and Queen's rooms are almost completely soundproofed.” He pauses, letting that sink in.
She ruminates over why and how he would know that but ultimately settles on: of course he would know that. How long he had gone without telling her is another issue. She's quietly more impressed her attendants had never managed to betray the secret themselves, probably not wanting to sacrifice their own slight upper hand over the Queen.
Eugenides carries on, a careful tenor to his worn voice, “Mine are not, which is why the whole peninsula knows I suffer nightmares, still.”
The Queen makes a soft, pensive sound.
“Oh, don't sell your attendants short, my King,” she says after a moment. She runs the back of her hand thoughtfully over his cheek. “I'm sure the Mede know of your nightmares too.”
Gen buries his face into her shoulder, groaning softly.
“You presume they would come to rescue you anyway,” she continues. And she's laughing a little.
“Hmm.”
“You should have threatened my life instead, that would have at least worked.”
She moves her hand up to his hair, her fingers lightly dragging across his scalp hopefully softening the teasing of her words.
“Oh no. I already did that once. Look where it landed me.”
He sounds very forlorn, but she feels his smile against her shoulder and the hand trailing up and down the outside of her hip.
"So, so, so."