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They're figuring it out. Emilia and Emmrich, Emmrich and Emilia. Her on top. His gloved hand. The ghostly, spectral touch of his magic (frustrating). His voice in her ear, her own fingers in her cunt (not him).
But mostly, mostly, she goes to kiss him and meets the glamour of his lips, and her fingers on his hard skull find themselves clutched in his hair.
It is easier. It's easier to have sex with a hard cock, memory of it though it is, thrusting inside her. His hand, his hand, cradling her head, his voice telling her she is doing so well, love, that she is so beautiful like this.
But when she looks up at him, it's not the same Emmrich she is used to. Undone, slightly. Breathless wonder, soft, on his features.
He's perfect. Pristine. Hair unmussed by her ravaging fingers, chest unmoved by breath. There's still that wonder, though - she'd see that written across his skull.
...
It happens, as it does. Impromptu. Unplanned. She is pressing a kiss to the teeth of his skull, and then his fingers cup her chin, tip her face up, and a wonderful warmth flows through her and when she kisses him once more, she is met with lips, with a mouth, with tongue.
They're going to fuck. There's something heady in the air, something thick. She is already breathless, already thinking of unbuttoning her clothes and spreading her legs. They're moving towards the stone slab like dancers in a dream, and when it bumps against her she lifts herself on top as though that was what it was meant for, as though its contact with her body was a prompt.
Emmrich goes with her, chasing her kiss - and she plants a hand on his chest.
"Emmrich," she says.
She knows how she must look. She knows how she must look from how she sounds. Lips swollen, eyes black with want, out of breath.
"Yes?" he says, and he sounds just about there too.
She swallows. "I want you."
Even with the glamour up, there's something light and dancing in his eyes. He laughs, quiet.
"Patience, dear thing," he says, the laughter in his voice. "You'll have me very soon."
Emilia licks her lips. "No," she says. "I want... I want you. As you are."
His lips part as he realises what she means, and pulls away, slightly. He looks at her. "Are you sure?"
Emilia nods.
And then - and then her Emmrich, the pristine, perfect, pretend version of him, is gone. She sees his bone jaw clench.
Her hands go to the helm, the diadem, and he helps her lift it clean from his head. The collar, his coat-sleeves. Unwinds the wrappings from his fingers.
Her own clothes, she lifts over her head, shuffles from her hips and under her thighs, until she is naked against the stone.
Slowly, slowly, his hands find their place at her sides, pointed fingertips brushing softly against her back. She shivers.
Emmrich withdraws slightly. "Too cold?"
Emilia catches his hands, and draws them back into place.
"No," she says. And then, because she does not lie to him, "You'll warm up."
She lies back, and after a beat he goes down with her. The stone is cold against her, and his phalanges, metacarpals, carpals, are cool where they grip her soft skin.
She presses a kiss to his skull, then another - and like she would when he was flesh, parts her lips, her hot breath bouncing off the hard plane of bone and heating her face. Hesitantly, his jaw moves, teeth no longer clamped together, and she kisses him again, open mouthed. Kisses him, and kisses him, tongue slipping inside the empty cavern of his skull, brushes against his hard palate.
His hands drift, as she does - she misses them, misses where they had gripped her, worries he is pulling away - and then one finds the soft flesh of her thigh, and she was right, he has warmed up, and when she gasps now it's in not surprise, no. Hope.
The other hand, his intermediate phalanges, brushes against her folds. Her breath hitches, and she shivers.
Emmrich pauses. "Rook," he says, quietly. "Are you sure?"
Emilia nods. "Yes." Her chest is heaving, her face hot. "Yes."
It's humiliating, the sound her cunt makes when his fingers slide into her. All the blood in her body rushes to her face, and the sound of her slick, the sound of her wet insides, is the only sound in the room.
"Oh," Emmrich says.
Emilia feels her face is burning pink enough to glow, enough to give off light.
The slender hardness inside her withdraws, slowly, bump of knuckle and bump of knuckle, and she sees her wetness glisten on his hand, webbing between his fingers.
"You're very..." he begins, but does not finish.
And there it is. That wonder.
The skull looks up to her face, and she swears she can read him by the flickering glow of his eye sockets.
"My little love," he says. "You never fail to surprise me."
Something inside Emilia thrums, pleased.
"Fuck me now," she says. It comes out like a whisper, the kind of noise a wet little cat would make. "Please."
Emmrich smiles. It's in his voice, in the green glow of him. "As you wish."
His fingers slide back into her without preamble, and she's so wet, so wet, that she can't even tell how many fingers he has in her, but it's certainly more than one.
"I am, as ever, at your command," he says, softly - and then begins to thrust. Slow out, hard and fast in, and Emilia gasps. She cant help it. It's a surprise, every time, that he is so good at this. How well he knows to play her body.
That's even before his wicked thumb flicks over her clit. Emilia jolts up - not all the way, she hasn't the strength - and grips his arms where she can reach them, embarrassed by the keening sound that comes out of her. Because he does it again and again and again, and keeps doing it, and doesn’t stop, all the while thrusting his finds hard inside her.
His other hand goes to her shoulder, gently pushing her back onto the slab.
"Shh," he says, comfortingly. "It's alright, my sweet."
She releases her grip on him, allowing herself to be pinned by that soft touch - but the hand doesn't leave her. No. It trails, maddeningly, down to her breast, and begins to pluck at her nipple.
At first, just a little tug, earning another gasp. Pleased by this, it seems, he locks the little bead between two of his phalanges, and keeps it pinched there.
Emilia can't help but look at it - her pink little bud, trapped between his fingers - and then up to his face. And she can see that look there, just as plain as it was in the flesh - awe. Fascination. Love.
And all the while he is thrusting inside her, and rubbing against her, and the feeling builds and builds without her having to chase it until she's coming, gasping and coming, her fingers trying to dig their way into the slab for something to hold on to.
"That's it," he is saying, and his voice is so comforting, so pleased. "There you are."
She clenches on his fingers all the way through it, still inside her as the feeling begins to ebb, and she can think again.
"You're marvelous," Emmrich is saying to her, softly. "My dear girl. My Rook."
Emilia laughs. It comes out all shaky. "Not bad yourself."
His fingers do come out of her now, and he releases her poor nipple from it's clamp. Both elicit a stifled noise from her.
"Yes," he answers, and she can hear his smile. "I think I'm rather getting the hang of it."
His skull comes down, and presses a quick peck of teeth on her forehead. Emilia angles her face up to catch his mouth, her own kiss not quite so neat.
"Well," Emmrich says, still leant over her. "They do say practice makes perfect. Do you think you manage another, sweet thing? For me?"
...
They figure it out, in the end.