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Anaxagoras never knew how much time passed between their meetings.
It was a rhythm all its own; irregular and unspoken. They were arranged through letters, always sealed in that elegant gold wax, bearing the mark of Romance like it was her own. But their intervals were erratic, sometimes a month, other times several. No pattern, no explanation. Her handwriting would appear on his desk without warning, and whatever he was doing at the time would simply have to wait.
He never replied.
There was no spark of anticipation when the seal breaks, no fondness stirred at the sight of the carefully measured script. If anything, there was a kind of weariness, not quite dread, but something adjacent to it. A bracing, a tightening of the jaw.
And yet he always went.
Not because he wanted to, but because he had to. As if one of her threads bound him to her whims — not duty, not affection, maybe something worse, more instinctive. He didn’t quite understand. Curiosity had died a long time ago. Maybe it was a habit, weakness. Whatever it was, the moment Anaxa crossed the borders of Okhema, his feet followed a path memorized long ago, past the markets, entering the Marmoreal Palace, through a narrow, forgotten corridor that bloomed with burnt silk. No guards, no summons, no escorts from her staff of immaculate Garmentmakers. He would simply walk in and the door would never be locked.
He’d always end up on the same couch — a large, worn divan near the tall windows, draped in velvet, half swallowed by the room’s shadows and incense. Sometimes, the seamstress would be there, waiting for him like she’d never moved. Other times, the space held only her presence during absence; faint hum of string music through hidden speakers, shimmer of half-finished dresses on mannequins, needles sunk-in various kinds of fabric draped over the tables, and, of course, the scent of her, a blend of myrrh and crushed pomegranate.
It didn’t matter how long she took to arrive. Minutes or hours, he’d sit, silent and unmoving, like he had nothing better to do at the Grove but their conversations — if they could be called that — were always unraveled into the same tangled knots. Every attempt he’d make to assert himself, to state some simple truth or draw a clean line, would be undone within minutes.
Debating with Aglaea, no matter how carefully he chose his words, would result in them being scattered before they even landed. The demigoddess would tilt her head, smile like she’d already heard this argument a dozen times, and counter it not with facts, but suggestions, metaphors; provocation, he’d call it.
It wasn’t that he lost. It was that he never managed to maintain his merit.
So no, he did not look forward to these meetings. Anaxa would leave them tired, agitated, questioning whether anything he’d said mattered to her at all. But still, each time, he came back, sat in the same place and waited in the same quiet.
Because even if these debates were fruitless, even if his point never landed, there was something about facing her that kept him bound. Something unsaid, unresolved. Something that pulled him in.
And when she finally appeared again, with that look in her eyes that emphasized how she already knew he was there for a long while and made him wait for the hell of it, he remembered why he hated it so much.
Aglaea enters the room as she always does, no warning, no apology, just the sound of her heels tapping against the marble just enough to remind Anaxa he should look up — and he doesn’t.
“Have your manners withered so badly since our last encounter, Performer?” Her voice is calm, maybe even warm, the kind of warmth that suggests the knife she’s about to twist has been polished beforehand. “No greeting, not even a glance?”
Anaxa exhales slowly, still staring at the floor. “Forgive me, o Goldweaver,” he says flatly, “I’ve spent the past days chasing timetables, silencing headaches, outrunning schedule and sleep just to sit here in silence until you decided I was worth your time. You’ll forgive me if I’m not eager to curtsy.”
She hums, amused. “Mm, then I suppose exhaustion suits you.”
He sighs. “Enough,” he mutters, finally turning his head toward her. “You wanted to discuss the same thing from before, didn’t you? So enough talk. Let’s get to it and be done.”
Aglaea arches a brow, smile cool and patient, like she’s already won. It makes his blood boil. “Still pretending it’s just talk, then? How quaint.” She moves to sit on her knees beside him on the couch, smooth and unhurried, as if the conversation were a dance he’d already agreed to. Her presence folds around him — scent, breath, whispers of silk — until escape would feel more theatrical than effective.
Anaxa finally meets her gaze, gentle eyes staring right through him, threads wrapping themselves around their presence, if he said this did not give him chills, he’d be lying. “‘Surrender’ seems to be the only language you seem to understand, so yes.”
“Oh, you never lose. You just refuse to win on my terms. That’s all.” Eyes gleaming with mischief, she settles far too close, as if proximity were part of the performance. “You should speak freely, Performer. But be warned, I’ll be a harsh judge of honesty.”
He snorts softly. “I’m sure you are. Though I doubt you’re used to hearing anything but flattery.” Anaxa tries his best to maintain composure; he swears he does, with the way he can faintly see the golden threads hanging around the room catch the light, some places less cluttered than others, but always there, but always there, weaving through the air like invisible chains.
He shifts in place, hoping she’d not notice the anxiety pumping through his veins.
“Then, how long has it been since your mouth served any purpose other than blasphemy? Weeks? Months?” Aglaea leans in slowly, deliberately, until her knees brush the inside of his thighs and her face hovers above his, right hand over where his heart once was. “You poor thing. Does anyone even care?” Her voice spills into the narrow space between them — low, almost indulgent.
“Can… Can you not?” He’s flustered, unable to keep quiet. Anaxa’s voice trembles just to betray him, trying to sound firm, but failing.
A slow, amused breath follows. “Oh, don’t be shy. I’m only asking because you react like a man who’s forgotten how closeness feels. Or perhaps you do remember, and that’s the tragedy.”
Anaxa’s response is simply to turn his head, trying to hide the heat creeping into his face.
“I suppose even silence must ache after so long,” Aglaea continues, voice filled with mock sympathy. “Though I do admire your loyalty— to solitude, if nothing else.”
“I— Stop playing around.” Anaxa glances away again, jaw tight, but not before his gaze falters, drawn downward, lingering where her skirt parts just enough to reveal the soft skin of her thighs, pale and deliberate between his legs. He licks his dry lips and she notices.
Of course she does.
With practiced elegance, Aglaea lifts a hand and cups his cheek, fingers cool and certain as they guide his face back up. “Anaxagoras.” She says, soft but unyielding. Anaxa knows better than to look away now, knows he cannot hide from her, as much as he’d want. He swallows hard, lips parted, yet says nothing.
Aglaea chuckles as she studies him for a moment longer, then leans in again, nose almost touching his, voice all velvet and amusement. “I do wonder… is it pride that keeps you starved, or fear?”
“F…Fear?” He repeats, with a half-laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Aglaea, please. I, Anaxagoras, do not starve. I define, I have standards. Discipline. Not… Not everyone indulges every passing whim like virtue,”
He tilts his chin slightly, despite her fingers still holding him. He mustn't admit he might break from this. “You mistake my silence for suffering. I assure you, I’ve had no shortage of opportunity— only taste.” And Aglaea smiles at that, slow, knowing.
“If you say so, then I suppose you can also let this opportunity pass.” She says, all composure and sadism dressed as kindness. Her other hand, already settled low, bold in its placement, glides deliberately over the growing heat between his legs, no more than a brush, but enough to make his breath falter.
Anaxa’s body must know something his pride refuses to name, seeing how quickly he wraps his hand over her wrist, desperate to keep her close. “No— wait,” he blurts, voice unsteady with her sudden absence, the unbearable lightness of her gone. “That’s not what I meant,”
“Oh?”
“I’m capable of restraint. That doesn’t mean I want to be tested for sport.”
“You make it sound like I’m toying with a thing that holds no power of its own.” Golden blurry eyes half-lid, her voice is quiet, but laced with that particular cruelty reserved for truth, the thing he loves oh, so much.
Her hand doesn’t retreat, at least not entirely. Instead, she shifts, ever so slightly, until her palm presses fully over the front of his pants. Not rough, not hurried, just a gentle weight that makes the space between them feel unbearable.
“You say you don’t want to be tested,” Aglaea murmurs, fingers beginning to move in slow, idle circles, her voice so close he feels it more than hears it, “but you act like you’re already halfway through the trial.”
She presses down a little harder, her palm molding to the shape of him through his pants, now unmistakably wet. Her fingers move with just enough pressure to remind him how long it’s been — how sensitive he’s become to the slightest bit of attention.
Anaxa’s breath stutters. His grip on her wrist doesn’t tighten, it softens, like the fight in him is slipping through the cracks, being slowly replaced by heat and something dangerously close to surrender.
“You know, I am not testing you,” she sighs, thumb grazing along the seam of the fabric of his pants with maddening precision. “—‘testing’ would imply I doubt you,”
She leans in closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Which I don’t.”
Anaxa opens his mouth but nothing comes out but air, sharp and ragged.
“Mm,” Aglaea hums, as if pleased with herself, or perhaps with his lack of words, or perhaps just with how easily power rearranges itself when she wants it to. Her hand continues its slow massage through the fabric, calculated and unhurried.
She pulls back just enough for him to look at her face again, smile all silk and cruelty. Beautiful, kind and clouded eyes, staring directly at his soul, or what remains of it. Her hand lingers only a moment longer over him before she begins to move, deft fingers trailing downward, hooking under the waistband with practiced ease.
Anaxa stiffens, but shifts a little to give her space. His breath catches in his throat as his clothes are tugged down, letting her strip him. Aglaea hums, pleased, almost fond, he secretly hopes she’s not seeing through him with her threads and frowns, his eye nervously following her hands and those well manicured nails. He lets out a small sigh. “There you are.” She whispers, fingers sippling lower, warm and cautious as they trace through his soft folds slick with anticipation.
His head tips back against the wall behind him, eye fluttering shut for a moment. He tries to breathe through his nose, tries not to react, but it’s pointless now. The heat has crept into every part of him.
“I was only joking about how long it could’ve been, but this—” She circles her middle finger delicately around his soaked entrance, not pressing in yet, teasing his pussy just enough to make his thighs twitch. “This tells the truth.”
Now exposed to open air and to her touch, Anaxa groans through clenched teeth, his hands tightening at his sides like he’s holding onto the last fragments of his composure.
“It’s a surprise you’re not trembling.” She says rather dryly. “I can fix that.” Her lips finally touch the corner of his — a small kiss, light and mocking, before she nips at the edge of it with maddening softness. “You know I can see past through your façade, right?”
Her fingers softly trace his cunt, as if the day would never come to an end, and under Kephale’s blessing, it really wouldn’t. “The last time you came to Okhema… It was several months ago, for our last meeting.” Her fingers stroke down again, even slower this time, part memory, part observation. “You argued with me for two hours about my own faith in the prophecy. You didn’t look anyone in the eye while you were here, except for me.”
Anaxa hitches as his hips give a small, involuntary roll into her hand, seeking more. Needing it, even if he’ll never say so.
“I… remember,” he mutters hoarsely, teeth clenched. “But that was hardly the point of the meeting.”
“Yes, but that’s not what I’m saying.” Aglaea agrees, and then, without ceremony, sinks a finger into him, slow and knuckle-deep. His whole body shudders, jaw going slack, a sharp gasp escaping through his lips. Her name almost following, but he swallows it back down.
Aglaea’s thumb presses gently against his clit while her finger curls inside him, searching, patient, merciless in its own tenderness. The pace is killing him, the last thing he’d do now was beg, and here he was, considering it as he frowns and tries to keep quiet.
How badly he wishes to bite back, retort something, but he can’t — not with the way her hand moves, coaxing his body into helplessness. His thighs twitch and he tries to sheepishly follow her rhythm with his hips, slick pooling down below them. By the time she slips a second finger, he’s a mess already, impulsively reaching out for her.
One hand rises from his side and finds her chest, cupping the curve of her breast over the thin fabric of the dress. A quiet, instinctive need, not for dominance, but for grounding. His thumb brushes against her nipple beneath the cloth and he feels it stiffen against him.
Aglaea makes a soft, delighted noise in response. “Oh, finally,” she says, breath hitching just slightly. “I was starting to think you were assuming your hands were bound by my threads.”
But she doesn’t let him keep control for long.
Her free hand, the one not buried in his warmth, catches his wrist and guides him, pressing his palm firmer against her. “Hold tighter,” Aglaea commands softly, voice warm against his ear. “I want to feel how badly you want this.”
And he obeys. He squeezes her breast through the fabric, hand stroking her in slow, shaky motions, taking her nipple between his fingers and clumsily pulling. Her breath uneven, but her rhythm on him doesn’t falter; if anything, it grows more focused. The slip of her fingers keeping on stretching, filling him. Her thumb never strays from its path, relentless and precise while his breathing burns his lungs.
Anaxa hisses, biting down on his lip as her fingers stroke through him with a tenderness he had long forgotten about, yet it is still not enough, a pressure that leaves him wanting.
“You say you don’t beg,” she murmurs near his ear, tone light and smug, “and yet your body makes the most compelling arguments.” She curls her fingers ever so slightly, testing, tasting his reaction with every twitch, every shaking breath.
“Just—” He rasps, eye squeezing shut, head pressing back against the wall. “Just don’t you dare stop now,”
“Still so stubborn,” Aglaea comments, voice thoughtful now, though her hand continues its unhurried work. “Last time, you came to contest the journey’s alignment. You said the Flame-Chase was a myth bent to control, not to liberate.” Her tone softens at the edges, not out of mercy, but purpose, he assumes.
Anaxa’s eye flickers, the fight still lit in it, but dimmed under the weight of her words and her touch. She shifts, drawing his chin toward her with her free hand, forcing him to meet her gaze again.
“Tell me, when you challenged me that day, did you believe what you were saying? Or were you just trying to see if I’d still hold the line?”
“I did. I was…” He begins, and then falters as she curls her fingers inside him, slow and deliberate, yet Anaxa breathes through the sharp edge of sensation and shame. “I didn’t believe,” he concedes at last, rough and through his teeth. “And— I still don’t. But belief isn’t the point of this principle, is… Is it?— You know it’s not,”
That draws a small chuckle from her, surprisingly far from unkind. “No, it never was. The Flame-Chase is not a doctrine. It’s about pursuit, movement. Even if it’s toward something so uncertain, or painful, or even…” She punctuates the next push of her fingers with a soft, calculated thrust. “Unbearably intimate,”
“Ah—” Aglaea moves again, enough to leave him gasping, ruined in this very moment, body betraying truths his mouth won’t speak.
“You came here thinking this was still about the last meeting,” she continues. “But this is already the next one, Anaxa. And we're already deep in it.” Her mouth hovers just above his, a pause in the inhale before revelation. “So say it, say what you were really looking forward to.”
He tries to make sense, but the words don’t come at first. Only a broken sob slips past his lips, chased by a low, helpless sound that doesn't resemble anything dignified as Aglaea doesn't ease up. Anaxa’s hand moves, slow but certain, and clumsily pulls down her dress from her chest, as if feeling her through clothing just wasn’t enough. His palm massaging her once again, trying to memorize the softness of her skin.
“I…” He grits his teeth. “I was looking forward to proving you wrong— To argue until I wore you down,”
A soft huff, almost a laugh, follows. “Liar.”
“I was—” His core clenches around her. It’s pointless. Anaxa insists, but it’s even weaker now. “But I—” His voice breaks again, as she crooks her fingers just right, the motion dragging out a noise that shouldn’t belong to someone like him, so tightly coiled and so proud.
“Say it.”
“But I remembered… How your voice held steady and how you— Ah— I remember you finding me alone in the hall after it— How— How… You looked at me like I owed you something—” His resolve cracks and he stumbles upon his own words, yet somehow still manages to lift his other hand and settle it over her waist. “And I— I hated you for it—”
A small, pleased hum vibrates from her throat. “See? That’s what brought you back. Not duty. Not curiosity. Hunger.” Her hand shifts again to his cheek, fingers brushing lightly beneath the chain of his eyepatch. “It’s good you understand now.” And Anaxa, overwhelmed and undone, can only nod with a parted mouth, eye glassy and hands trembling all over her.
Aglaea’s smile deepens as she watches him. There’s nothing composed left in him, and that’s precisely what she wanted. Not submission for its own sake, but the truth peeled raw from beneath his defiance. Her body leans in, breast pressing fully into his palm now, flush against him. “You could’ve gone back to the Grove after we talked. Yet you didn’t.”
He doesn’t answer. He can’t. His mouth works uselessly for a moment, but the breath he draws gets caught behind the ache down his throat.
“You had every reason to.” Her fingers press in again, slow and persuading, finding the tempo that wrung him open before, patient, as if each thrust were a line of liturgy. “Though I must admit… It’s far more… Satisfying this way.”
Anaxa huffs, half a gasp, half a bitter, breathless laugh. It’s all bark, really, but it’s just enough to burn through the haze clouding his voice. “Oh, of course it is,” he manages, words slurred with something between mockery and arousal. “You’ve been dying to pull me apart since that day,”
Aglaea stills, not out of offense, and tilts her head, amused. “Is that so?”
“Yes—” He rasps, rolling his hips toward her touch, breath catching as her fingers curl again. “That look you gave me when I stood and challenged you,” his grip on her waist tightens, not cruel, just needy. “You wanted to— Wait— Slam me against that table right then and there— and make me— ride you until I couldn’t speak in complete sentences— Like you are—”
Her hand covers his mouth, not to silence him, but to savor the sound trembling just beneath it, half-confession, half-curse. She leans in close, lips grazing his cheek as her breath fans hot across his skin.
“Careful,” Aglaea whispers. “Say too much and you might believe yourself.” She laughs, not softly this time, but rich and full of delight. “You poor thing. You were the one who lingered after everyone left. Who kept circling me like a starving animal. I could feel it on you, the want.”
His expression narrows, flushed and fevered and defiant even now. She moves her hand and gives him a small nod, if that’s permission or provocation, he doesn’t know, but he takes the bait anyway.
“And you,” he begins, almost collapsing into the words. “You didn’t exactly send me away, did you?”
Aglaea hums low in her throat, eyes lidding. “No, I did not.”
“It only proves my hypothesis—” Anaxa’s eye widens, he chokes as he feels himself coming close, face flushing hot and cursing the woman before him inside his head, feeling a full-body shiver running through him as her fingers remind him that they haven’t stopped moving. “Please— I— You—”
“And now look at you,” her hand presses deeper, finding that sweet spot in him. It's a lovely sight, to watch him break. “Back here again. So enlighten me, Anaxa. What were you hoping for this time?” She gently drags her thumb over his bottom lip. “Another debate?”
Anaxa exhales a sound too ragged to be called a laugh. He closes his eye and just gasps as she continues her movements. It’s a lost cause. He might as well simply indulge himself. Aglaea can feel how his hands falter, both on her bosom and on her waist. “Oh?”
Then it hits, just enough, the final thread snapping. He suddenly clings to her as climax hits, hot and overbearing, thighs trembling as waves of pleasure crash through him. He pulls her closer and does not cry out, but simply sobs her name, low and reverent, forehead now pressed to her throat and face buried on her chest as the tension finally leaves his frame.
Aglaea stays still for a moment, fingers still inside him, thumb over his clit, breathing calm and steady, chest rising and falling where his hand still rests.
Then she withdraws, slow, careful, and lifts her fingers to her mouth, tasting him with deliberate intimacy. “Mm,” she muses, giving her lips a small lick. “Still sweet under all that arrogance.”
Anaxa, still catching his breath, doesn’t respond right away, but when he looks up — flushed, disheveled, chest heaving, there’s something different in his gaze.
Something cracked open.
Something ready.
Aglaea notices, and smiles like a woman who always knew this would happen.
She studies him a moment longer — how his chest rises, how his mouth parts in the aftermath of surrender, how even now his hand hesitates at her waist, like he’s unsure if he’s allowed to want anything else.
Then, with a languid grace, she finally takes his wrist; not roughly. Not gentle, either, just the same certainty she always wielded in debate, in command, in her life. A touch that asked no permission, because it already knew the answer.
“Lie down,” she says, as if it’s already been decided.
Anaxa blinks at her, still catching up to the moment. But he silently obeys as she shifts, giving him more space on the divan. Aglaea adjusts herself, rising above him, knees bracketing his head, white and golden robes all over him. The light from the room’s high windows cuts across her exposed back, catching in her hair and the curves of her body as she hovers, poised, sovereign.
She lifts her skirt, keeping the same poise that makes time feel like it belongs to her. The fabric pools around her hips like drawn curtains before a private performance, her silhouette made divine in the wash of window’s light behind her.
Anaxa stare’s up at her, quick breath, eye wide, fingers twitching at his sides, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to reach. Awkwardly, he still adjusts himself just enough to hold her thighs, warm and plump against his palms. He lets out a pathetic noise feeling them up as her scent immediately envelopes his senses.
Aglaea feels it, his heavy breathing against her cunt, the way his hands shake against her skin. All of it. And she smiles.
“You’ve got what you wanted,” she says, almost contemplative. “Now be still, and listen carefully. You’ve always been better with your mouth when you are not speaking.”
She lowers herself, painfully slow for his liking, her knees tightening around him. Her hand sliding through his hair, guiding, framing, anchoring — and then settles herself just above his lips, a small gasp leaving her as the heat of his presence presses closer.
Anaxa lets his hands rise again, trembling, trying to pull her closer as if telling her to hurry and smother him between her legs. Aglaea simply chuckles at his attempt and finally presses her weight down, still keeping her balance so he can breathe.
He, of course, still decides to go against both of their wishes, placing gentle kisses on her inner thighs, feeling Aglaea shift her hips at his actions, shivering — sighing, all fun and games until she actually pulls his hair as some form of reprimand.
“You’re impossible…” She mutters, though there’s no venom in it.
Anaxa doesn’t answer, but his lips curl faintly against her skin, as if proud of the accusation. He remains reverent, stubborn, still proud even after being worn down. It doesn’t take long for it to get him another tug to his hair, but this time her fingers linger longer at his scalp, not quite letting go.
“Anaxa.”
“You told me to use my mouth for something else. Yet I don’t quite understand why what I’m doing isn’t enough.” His hands press firmer at her thighs, anchoring her as much as himself.
Aglaea’s laugh was dry as she shook her head at his retort. “Oh, you understand perfectly. You just have a stubborn talent for pushing limits, you fool.”
His breath hitched in reply, a faint hum vibrating beneath her. “I prefer to think of it as… Selective compliance,” and finally, he opens his mouth ever so slightly, tongue finally brushing against her clit, earning a gasp from the woman above him.
“Selective…” Her brow frowns in silent amusement as she feels his mouth on her. “That’s simply your excuse for dawdling when you’re exactly where you wanted to be all along.”
At this point, Anaxa barely registers what she’s saying as the taste of her, her weight and the sheer presence of her consumes him. His nails dig into her flesh like she’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. But even so, there might still be some mischief left in him — his movements all too measured, his strokes too slow, teasing as much as they can.
Aglaea narrows her eyes at the languid drag of his tongue. She knows that pace all too well to be aware it’s not worship, it’s provocation. Taunting. Her thighs twitch under his grip, not from pleasure alone, but frustration.
“You think it’s funny?” She says, tone low and dangerous. “Dragging your mouth like it’s some of your heretic lectures, when I know full well you’re capable of far more devotion.”
The scholar’s only answer is a small hum, and the angle of it almost makes her curse aloud. Her hips shift, seeking more, but he isn’t having any of it. He’s drawing her out, savoring. He drags his tongue along her slit, giving her lips a small kiss when he’s done with it, her slick all over his mouth and chin as he holds back a moan. Aglaea growls under her breath, as indecent as it is for a woman like her, hand curling tighter in his hair until his scalp burns.
“Don’t you dare pretend you’re powerless down there,” she warns, though her voice wavers, not with doubt, simply building tension. “You want to make me work for it… Like I’m supposed to beg while you savor.”
He pulls back the barest inch, just enough to speak, lips slick and arrogant. “You always say I talk too much, and when I don’t, you complain.”
Her laugh breaks through a moan as he goes back to circling her clit, his warmth running through her as he moves. “Because you don’t know how to listen, Anaxa. If I wanted someone slow and delicate, I wouldn’t have dragged you, of all people, into this.”
“Then command me,” he swallows, parted mouth ghosting over her pussy. “Use that sharp tongue of yours for something besides insults.”
Aglaea freezes just for a moment, caught in his arrogance. “You want orders?” And then, she shifts forward, forcing his head back ever so slightly with the pressure of her thighs, the grin on her face turning wicked. “Then open that clever mouth of yours properly and make me forget why I bother arguing with you at all.”
His mouth opens without hesitation this time, hungry and obedient, yet never tamed. He drags his tongue with reverence, now seeking purpose. No longer teasing but intent on overwhelming her with every wet, desperate stroke. Aglaea’s breath hitches, the sound sharp and satisfying to his ears and her fingers flex at the crown of his head like she’s grounding herself.
“There it is…” She exhales, hips giving a subtle shudder as she presses down more firmly against his mouth. “You put on that bold front, but deep down— this is what you ache for… Isn't it?”
Anaxa hums, the vibration deliberate, as if acknowledging what she said. Aglaea gasps, thighs tightening instinctively as he licks into her like it’s all he’s been born for. His grip on her firm now, not unsure, guiding her rhythm as much as she guides his.
Letting go of him, she glides her hands slowly up her torso, palms rising to cup her breasts, fondling herself in lazy, soothing motions as she grinds her core against him; fingertips catching her nipple, pulling, teasing gently, gasping as sensation builds in tandem with their rhythm. “Ah, don’t you dare think this means you have won,” she whispers quiet but commanding, body trembling with arousal and restraint.
His face is glassy with effort, lips wet and glistering, a thin line of slick connecting them to her bottom, and yet, somehow, he smirks. Or at least tries to. “Never said I did,” Anaxa whispers, voice muffled, hoarse and breathless. “But I’ve never seen you struggle so hard to stay composed, Seamstress,”
Her lips curl at the title, with dangerous delight. “And I’ve never seen you so desperate to disappear into someone, Great Performer.” She shoots back. “Are you— Oh— Finally admitting you don’t know what to do with yourself unless I’m sitting on your face?”
There is no need to answer her with words, just a rougher, messier, swipe of his tongue — like he wants to prove her right — followed by softly pulling her clit with his lips. Above him, Aglaea moans, sharp and sudden, right hand flying to her thigh, trying to steady herself as much as she can. “There— This is what I want,”
But even as the pleasure builds in her body, even as she starts to lose her rhythm and elegance, Aglaea won’t let him pretend he’s in charge. She gasps again, voice fraying at the edges, but her grip on control doesn’t falter — not yet. Her left hand tangles in his hair once more, not guiding, not holding, but reminding this is her rhythm, her pace.
Her hips roll with intent now, claiming, grinding into his mouth like she’s branding him with every motion. His hands squeeze her in response, nails biting into skin. “You think— just because I’m falling apart,” she pants, shifting forward just enough to make him chase after her with his tongue, “you’ve taken something from me?”
Anaxa lets out a sound between a groan and a laugh, muffled beautifully between her legs. He wants to speak, to smart-mouth her back– but he can’t really get a chance; not with the way her thighs squeeze his cheeks just enough to steal a breath, just enough to make her point, not with the way being under her skirt for this long is starting to make him feel lightheaded.
“You haven’t won.” Aglaea hisses, sharp with pleasure. “You’re just fortunate that I take such delight in feeling how you lose yourself beneath me—”
Her words are met with a low, reverent moan against her, redoubling his efforts, tongue relentless, lips sucking, teeth scraping just enough to make her back arch. And still, she does not let go of power. Even when her thighs tremble, even when her moans grow louder, less filtered. Even when her chest rises and falls in erratic gasps, hand squeezing her breast tighter, chasing the peak she can feel approaching like a storm.
“Do not stop,” The demigoddess tilts her head back, mouth parted in parted in pleasure, yet her voice cuts through again, hoarse, breathless, but as eager as ever. “You will make me come like this— drowned in your mouth— if only to— Mm— Remind you what truly owns your devotion,”
Anaxa shudders beneath her, a raw, needy melody that reverberates straight through her core. The sound alone nearly makes her fall apart— but it’s the intent behind it that sets her aflame. He’s not just following her command; he’s relishing in it, unraveling her with his tongue like he’s memorized every flick, every pattern that makes her gasp, her thighs tense and body grind harder against him.
His grip slides upward, fingertips digging into her hips now, yet not trying to keep her in place. Aglaea’s moans are no longer soft or distant, voice dripping with desire; guttural, honest. Her head falls forward, sweat beading at her brow, her rhythm erratic, stuttering, chasing release like a woman possessed. “Mnestia above— just like that,” she gasps, breath ragged, hand clenching tighter in his hair. “You were made for this— to kneel beneath me and be used, Anaxa,”
She feels him shiver at her words, letting out a stifled whimper that vibrates against her. The kind that shoots through her like lightning, her own body responding in kind, waves of heat coiling deep in her abdomen. “Words—” here it goes, “can twist— and falter— But touch... Touch does not lie—”
Anaxa manages to nod, or tries to — as his mouth doesn’t leave her, even as he struggles to think of anything if he could talk back to her. She laughs, befitting of the Goddess she will be someday, high and broken, hips moving faster now as she chases the final edge. “That’s right—” she growls, voice shaking. “Don’t you— Ah— dare pull back,”
And he doesn’t.
His tongue presses harder, faster, focused solely on her clit now, lips pulling and sucking her into complete surrender. Her whole body seizes, a cry testing from the throat — loud, shaking, utterly undone. She comes with a violence that surprises even her, thighs clamping around his face, nails digging into his scalp as she rides it out, grinding through every wave, every aftershock that leaves her trembling.
When Anaxa stops with a tug on his hair, taking a moment to relish in the sound of Aglaea’s heavy breathing coming from above him. Then, she finally adjusts, getting off him and moving to the side. Anaxa exhales deeply and swallows when his eye finally meets hers.
Aglaea stares down at him, chest heaving, sweat on her brow, lips parted in the aftermath… He must admit, she does look like a goddess in the throes of victory. Surprisingly, she leans down, fingers curling under his chin, lifting his face toward hers. “You will never win against me,” she whispers, like it’s a promise, lips brushing his. “But you can beg for the privilege of trying, maybe during our next meeting.”
Anaxa’s lips are swollen, slick, parted like he hasn’t remembered how to close them yet. His eye is half-lidded, glassy, completely ruined — staring up at her like she’s the only thing keeping him in touch with reality. He doesn’t try to speak, not yet. He just breathes, heavy and warm against her mouth. Her fingers brush along his cheek, almost tenderly.
Aglaea lingers there, just inches from him, breath mingling with his. Golden-bathed eyes burning into him with victorious calm. Then, letting her thumb drift down, tracing the curve of his lips, smudging the slick sheen left behind. “You look undone,” she murmurs, velvet-rich.
Anaxa doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe for a moment — until her thumb presses more firmly at the center of his mouth. He parts his lips obediently, eye still locked on hers, tongue spilling out to meet her without hesitation.
Aglaea smiles — slow and wicked — and slides her thumb past his lips, letting it rest on his tongue.
“There,” she purrs. “That’s more like it.”
Her thumb presses down just slightly, watching the way his mouth stays open, tongue warm beneath her and drool starting to pool on the corners.
Anaxa still says nothing. It’s a bit alarming, to see him like this, by all means he could be pronounced dead right now, if the warmth on his face didn’t say otherwise. She draws her finger back, dragging it slowly across his tongue before slipping it free; a glistering trail left behind.
“You can speak now, you know.”
He nods, staring down at her breasts, still hanging over her dress, swollen and flushed from her own touch; nipples abused by her fingertips, and simply licks his lips. “I still don’t quite see your point,” my throat is done for, he notes. “The Flame-Chase is still most likely a pointless trap by the Titans themselves, only seeking to twist us until we break.”
This, of course, earns him a slap that echoes in his head, ears ringing as he rushes his hand over the heat on his cheek and adjusts, leaning over his elbow. Aglaea sighs. “This, was for toying with me before,” she rolls her eyes. “But regardless of what you think, Anaxa,” she continues, tone regaining that smooth, regal chill that so often accompanied her displeasure, “you followed willingly enough that it led between my thighs.”
He flinches — not from the slap, nor the way his face burns from it — and half-laughs at her words. “Then stop making it feel like a standing ovation, Aglaea.”
She leans back slightly, adjusting the folds of her dress over her flushed chest though she does not bother to cover herself completely; that would be merciful. And mercy is the last thing Anaxa needs right now. “It’s a performer’s flaw, I suppose.” He mutters.
And for a brief second, something flickers behind her expression — fondness, maybe, he secretly hopes, then immediately discards the thought.
Then, she meets his gaze again and tilts her head, golden strands clinging to her temples from sweat and heat. Her next words come smooth, quiet, but far more cutting than anything she’s said all night.
“I still prefer when you’re not performing.”
Anaxa simply sighs, turning his face. She turns from him without waiting for an answer, adjusting her posture, spine straight and shoulders high again, composure sliding back into place like armor.
“Clean yourself up,” she says, walking away, voice like silk over steel. “Garmentmaker will be here soon to escort you out of Okhema.”
Still seated in the ruins of his pride and body, whatever clever retort he thought he had escaping him, he calls for her. “Wait—” and Aglaea swiftly turns her head at the sound of his voice. “Shouldn’t we document this phase of the meeting properly?”
She chuckles at him. “You’re insufferable.”