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Ilia knows his safest space to be behind Emmrich’s doors.
That's what he's always needed, he thinks. A safe harbour, away from the world, and how much more away can you get than the Fade? It's quiet, and the air is cooler than anywhere else in the Lighthouse, and there's nothing but books, and privacy, and Emmrich.
They have an agreement, one set in stone some nights after Weisshaupt, when Emmrich had discovered him in a cold bath, nearly catatonic with the ache of his whole being. When he steps through those doors, he sheds the title of a Rook, of a Shadow, of a leader. When the lock clicks shut, he is no more than Ilia Mercar. The projection of something so much bigger than he could ever be slips off his back like water, and he is left as nothing more than a young elven man.
Emmrich greets him with open arms, always, "Ilia, darling," he calls out with a smile from his desk, a book in hand. The joy falls from his expression a touch when Ilia does not immediately respond in kind, but the warmth, the openness, remains. He senses something amiss, a disturbance in his lover like a twist of the Fade, and waits. He waits for as long as Ilia needs to find the words and the courage to explain his troubles.
Ilia moves into the sparse gap between Emmrich and his desk, shameless as he hops up to sit on the surface. His actions convey confidence, his expression relaxed and unmasked into its neutral state of flat disinterest. Yet Emmrich knows there is something more beneath the surface of that unfocused, one-eyed gaze. He places a hand on Ilia's ankle, hoping the weight will supply comfort.
"Request," Ilia begins, and Emmrich is already feeling practically giddy. It had taken an age to get Ilia comfortable with asking for what he wants. Emmrich nods encouragingly, waiting with baited breath. "I..."
Ilia swallows, struggling either with his wording or willingness to act upon even an ounce of selfishness. Emmrich rubs his thumb against his ankle, and Ilia visibly untenses.
"I need you to make me cry."
Emmrich pauses, thinking for a moment. He is aware of Ilia's lifelong struggle with empathy and apathy, the elf making it all explicitly clear to him when they first began courting. He knows that Ilia has to fight to feel, let alone process, his own emotions, knows that they don't come naturally nor easily, knows that this builds a frustration within him. Feeling nothing, after a time, brings him to long for a release of anything. Emmrich is immeasurably honoured that Ilia entrusts him to be the provider of this.
"As you wish, my dear," he says with a smile.
Ilia can hardly think above the sound of his own heartbeat thrumming in his ears, his heaving breaths. This is just what he needed.
Bent over Emmrich’s desk on the side opposite the chair, to allow for adequate space, Ilia lays sweating and occasionally whimpering. His clothing has long since been removed, folded neatly into a pile and placed to the side, while Emmrich remains pristinely dressed. His ass burns from the impact of his partner's hands, stinging especially in places where he's finally begun using the crop.
Ilia knows Emmrich has complicated feelings about this aspect of his pleasure, knows the sight of scars across every inch of the elf's back makes him clench his jaw. The crop is as far as Emmrich is willing to go, adamant on no whips, no rods, no permanent damage. Ilia can respect that. Knows that Emmrich often knows what he can truly take better than he does himself.
A tap of the leather against the inside of his ankle commands Ilia to spread his legs. He does so obodiently- this is his favourite part.
"Do you remember your word?" Emmrich questions, less so to actually ensure Ilia recalls, and more to make certain he is still present in the moment, prone to dissociating as he is.
"Mandible," Ilia responds easily, even through the heaviness of his tongue.
"And if you cannot speak?"
Ilia raps a knuckle against the desk three times. Emmrich had been insistent on the addition of a safe action to their scenes after the first tlme Ilia lost the capacity for speech, something that has been known to occur in moments of prolonged stress or, in these cases, intense feeling. Be it physical, emotional, magical, after a time, it often renders the man wordless.
"Good," Emmrich says, just shy of the praise he truly wants to shower the other in, as he knows that is best saved for later.
Then, without warning, the crop progresses from leaving heart-shaped bruises upon Ilia's bottom (the elf had shamefully admitted he found that specific crop to be his favourite,) to striking them into his inner thighs. With every whip, applied at random to keep him guessing, Ilia flinches and gasps, clenches around nothing. He's so wet he's nearly dripping.
The strikes begin to rise higher and higher, until they are placed just shy of his rosy cunt, and with every one, a whimper follows. Anticipatory, rather than fearful, Ilia whines and bites his lip, clutching the desk for dear life, his head losing clarity with each hit. Every stinging swat brings him further and further out of his constantly working mind, to the point of being unfettered by his embarrassment and self-consciousness, panting and drooling openly, so close to tipping over that precipice, so close to reaching that height of physical pleasure, so close to-
The crop strikes his cunt, directly over his dick, and Ilia wails.
The orgasm rips out of him, nearly shocking him with its suddenness, fluids dribbling out of him to drip down his thighs, calves, nearly to his trembling ankles. Along with it, the tears that had beaded up in the corners of his eyes finally spill over, and then simply do not stop. Emmrich hurriedly gathers him in his arms, twisting him around and pulling him upright so he can hold Ilia to his chest while he sobs.
The emotional catharsis is nearly better than even the climax. The cries heave out of the depths of Ilia's weary form, feeling almost as if his very intestines twist with the intensity of it, his stomach cramping, his chest tingling. Even his fingertips ache with the force of his mental release, and so he tangles them into the front of Emmrich’s shirt, uncaring of the fabric and how he's certainly wrinkling it- not to mention ruining it with the salt of his tears and the mess of mucus from his nose. He's half-certain he's drooling onto it as well.
"You did so well, darling," Emmrich mutters as he pets the back of Ilia's head, fingers running through the mess of fluffy hair and untangling knots as he goes. He kisses the top of his head, his other hand gripping Ilia's shaking shoulder tightly, as if to hold him together while he breaks apart. "You were perfect for me, you're delightful, my dear."
As Ilia's cries die down, so too does his energy, until he is little more than a useless bundle of nerves in Emmrich’s arms. He sniffles intermittently, can hardly breathe through one nostril, and his eyes feel nearly bruised after sobbing for so long. Finally, he aims his head up, chin rested upon his partner's clavicle, mouth pressed to his throat, nose against the underside of Emmrich’s stubbled chin. The human chuckles, and Ilia feels the vibrations in his lips, nearly inside him, grounding him further.
"Shall we get you washed up and redressed?" Emmrich offers, noting the hour on the clock to the side of the room. His fingers run up and down Ilia's back, over corded lines of scar tissue, tickling gently. "Or would you rather a reward?"
Ilia thinks, though it takes considerably longer than it typically would, his brain sufficiently transmuted to the consistency of runny eggs. He squeezes his thighs together, feels the fresh sting from the action, as well as the wetness clinging to his skin. He feels Emmrich’s erection against him, and in this moment directly after being brought to a powerful release, all other feelings come to him easily, like breathing air. Heat pools in his belly, and Ilia wants.
"Reward," he whispers into Emmrich’s skin. Feels as the human hums.
"And what would you like?" Emmrich pushes, keen to see how freely Ilia will ask for what he desires in this state.
Ilia pauses for thought once more, then pushes himself free of Emmrich’s grasp. Sluggishly, he turns back around, and places himself over the desk yet again. Finally, a trembling hand reaches to grasp at his own bruised flesh and pull himself open, revealing his aching pussy further, as he looks over his shoulder at the older man.
"Inside."
Emmrich inhales shakily, audibly swallowing, before reaching to hold Ilia's twitching hips in each hand.
"Are you certain?" he asks, as he always does when the younger man desires penetration. Ilia nods, and Emmrich chooses not to ask that he say it aloud, sensing the other’s physical and mental exhaustion. "Would you like me to prepare you?"
Ilia is quick to decide, this time, shaking his head "no." Emmrich takes a moment to deduce if this much pain is wise, despite how much the elf may thrive on it. Ilia whines, then, and pushes back against him, grinding onto the front of his trousers and smearing wetness against his clothed cock. And, at the end of the day, Emmrich is but a man.
He undoes the fastenings to his trousers, Ilia groaning in anticipation of receiving what he's so desperate for. He lays his overheated cheek against the cool wood of Emmrich’s desk, bringing his hand back around to grip the edge of it. When he feels the tip of Emmrich’s cock slip between his folds, followed by the rest, Ilia keens. He clenches his thighs together as Emmrich drags his length between them to wet his cock with Ilia's fluids, the human grunting.
Once he has deemed himself sufficiently lubricated, Emmrich takes himself in hand and aims his tip at Ilia's twitching entrance. With no warning and little fanfare, Emmrich pushes forward, going back to holding Ilia by the hips as he bullies his way inside. He tries to do this slowly, can hear Ilia's voice crack on a whimper at the sting of being stretched open too much, too fast, even if Emmrich isn't the biggest he's ever been made to take. The older man is so weary of his overactive muscles, the way they never quite relax, always contracting as a response to years of mistreatment.
Ilia, on the other hand, seems not to care, pushing his hips back and impaling himself on the full length of Emmrich’s cock, crying out as he does. Emmrich groans, curling in on himself and over Ilia's back, forehead resting upon the base of the elf's nape as he attempts to take measured breaths, hardly capable of focusing around the intense feeling of Ilia's sex fluttering around him. It's blazing hot within Ilia's body, as it always it is, hotter than his own ever reaches, and delightfully slick. The muscles tense and spasm over every inch of him, and he grits his teeth.
"HhhEmm-Emmrich..." Ilia manages, the vocalisation forced and rasping with desperation, and when Emmrich raises his head, he sees the other looking over his shoulder at him again. His eyes are still wet and swollen, the functioning one glistening a deep green as his eyebrows knit together and raise pleadingly.
Emmrich can no longer suppress his own desire, pulling back and forcing himself inside. As he repeats the action, he picks up speed, then strength, until he's thrusting into his lover with all the power he can muster. Ilia cries yet more tears, these of overwhelmed pleasure, feeling so full and warm and protected with the long silhouette of his partner pressed to his back, fingers digging into his hips. He hopes they leave more bruises, desperate to see the effects of their coupling for long after, as they both know Ilia bruises like a ripe fruit, and the marks remain for days, sometimes even weeks.
Emmrich changes the angle of his hips, pointing downwards, and Ilia loses what little strength remained in his legs as Emmrich stimulates the buried nerves of his dick from the inside. He holds himself up by his trembling hands upon the desk, Emmrich’s own grasp aiding in the endeavour, even if he hasn't a hope of having enough strength to truly support the elf's weight. He continues to pummel the frontmost wall of Ilia's vaginal canal, a hand reaching down to wrap its fingers around his short length and stroke, aided by the copious amounts of wetness smeared and splashed upwards with each thrust.
Ilia howls a garbled noise that resembles Emmrich’s name, voice gurgling around a mouthful of drool, and reaches his peak for a second time. Another gush of fluids follows this release, drenching Emmrichs balls and the front of his trousers. Ilia sobs, whimpers, sniffles and coughs, and all of it, combined with the twitching of his insides following the orgasm, sends Emmrich careening over the limit of his own pleasure, the culmination of their lovemaking bursting forth in a warm, sticky mess that stuffs Ilia to the very brim. Just the way they both like it.
Emmrich is panting, sweating, still twitching where he remains seated in Ilia. Ilia, who is still breathing heavily, but rapidly losing the battle against slumber, his fatigue finally catching up to him. Emmrich tucks a lock of brown hair behind the elf's ear, fiddles with a piercing, smiles endearingly down at the flushed profile of his lover.
"Let's get to bed, shall we?" he suggests, tired himself.
Ilia hums. Nods. Makes no effort to move. Emmrich chuckles.
He's sure to have a potion around that will supply him with the temporary strength needed to carry his darling to bed. For now, he is happy to remain connected, petting Ilia's hair and running his fingertips over his plump cheekbone.
After all, there is no safer space than right here.