The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort

"Please do not wave at the peasants; they bite."

"If you bow," she replied, completely straight-faced, "I will dock your rations."

He exhaled, exaggerated. "Rations include coffee. Docking is a war crime."

Then he tilted his head—barely a motion—and addressed the space beside her shoulder. "Transfer plan?"

Numbers slid into his lenses, invisible to her, but she could see the effect in his eyes—how his gaze steadied, how some internal clockwork clicked into place behind his lashes.

< Rigid plan as follows: Stepwise load redistribution.

Stage A: silk web absorbs forty percent from sling.

Stage B: chair struts accept remaining lateral shear.

Stage C: shield back assumes primary vertical load.

Final: release sling in three micro-pulses to avoid whiplash.

Count aloud. Warn before each. No heroics. >

He nodded once, and the sling gave a hum—not quite mechanical, not quite organic. Almost as if it approved of being told what it already knew.

"Ready?" His voice was small now—deliberate, focused. It was the kind of voice people leaned toward without realizing they did. "Three pulses. I count. If anything hurts, you tell me to stop and I will grow a new plan."

She hesitated. Only a moment. The word that floated in her chest—say yes—felt oddly light, oddly frightening. She didn't like asking for help. She tucked the discomfort away with the rest of the ghosts.

"Understood," she said. Her hands settled on the armrests, made of silk woven tight enough to feel like leather. They reminded her of reins. That helped.

He swallowed the room's stillness. The sound was so soft, so bare, she wouldn't have noticed it if she hadn't been listening.

"Pulse one in three… two… one."

The sling gave way like breath exhaled. A soft shift. Silk absorbed the weight with a sighing pull, the air around her tightening. Her body dropped a little, no more than the width of a thumb, and then the lattice beneath her caught her, gently, firmly.

It wasn't a fall. It felt more like trust.

The pressure that had made her hips scream and her thighs numb began to melt, pins and needles retreating like a tide rolling back from the shore.

"Alright?" he asked, not blinking, not looking at the straps—just at her.

"Yes." She made the word strong, stable. "Next."

His hands hovered. Not over her, but near enough that warmth passed between them. The silk shifted slightly, requiring an adjustment. She tilted—just a little—and he moved to compensate.

Their heads drew closer.

She could smell the dust on him, the faint mineral scent of gear, a thread of something like mint or dried leaves. And then, as if it were part of the motion, their foreheads brushed. Her breath stilled.

It was supposed to be an accident. It was easy to pretend it was.

He whispered again. "Pulse two. Three… two… one."

The shift was firmer this time. The weight moved to the shield back and the struts. The tension flowed like water through ropes and bone and silk. For a breath, the entire apparatus thrummed.

The sling sang—a thin, fleeting note. Then silence.

A jolt went up her spine. Straps bit into her hips and ribs with brief but ferocious clarity. A sound—sharp, involuntary—escaped her lips.

He flinched as if he had been slapped. "Sorry."

"Not your fault," she managed, biting off the pain. "Keep counting."

He matched her breathing. It was almost tender, how carefully he synced their inhale and exhale. His fingers moved again—not with purpose this time, but with instinct. Adjusting a strap, flattening a silk fold, brushing a pad beneath her elbow.

And then it happened.

A lean. A breath. A shared mistake.

Their mouths found each other, just at the edge of movement, the way leaves meet in a wind neither intended.

She didn't mean to. Neither did he. That made it worse.

Worse, and something else.

Slrp. A soft noise. Like wet silk pulled apart.

They froze. Only for a beat. Then—

"Three," he whispered, almost without breath.

She wasn't sure if he meant the count or the number of times they had touched now. She didn't ask.

The lattice shifted again. She adjusted her thighs deliberately—just slightly. Just enough to press where heat pooled. She pretended it was necessity. She lied to herself poorly.

His hand moved to stabilize the support near her waist. She reached to assist and their heads turned in the same rhythm.

Again.

Mmh.

Their mouths brushed, lingered, then parted. Then again. They did not talk about it. Not even with their eyes.

"Two," he murmured, and they shifted once more. She wasn't even sure if they were still counting the pulses.

She leaned in a hair's breadth more this time. She could feel his breath, feel how it slowed—how each inhale caught slightly in his throat like he was surprised to still be breathing.

Her hand pretended to fix a buckle. His hand pretended to help.

The kiss happened again.

Longer.

Softer.

Messier.

Her mind spun wildly, shamefully, gloriously. She should be embarrassed. She should push him away. But instead she tasted the tension, let her mouth part. Just a little. Not a kiss like lovers. But a kiss full of accident and gravity and things unnamed.

Another breath.

She gave in again.

Slrp.

Her fingers gripped the silk armrests tighter. Her legs, still recovering from numbness, twitched slightly. One thigh pressed against him. She did not move it. The heat only grew, threading like a slow tide.

"Pulse three. Last one. Three… two… one."

This time, his voice trembled just slightly. The sling released.

The silk let go with a sound like cloth being slowly pulled from skin. For a brief moment, she felt the entire world tilt. Then the chair accepted her weight and the rails claimed his, and everything was grounded again.

He exhaled. A long one. His hands flexed. He owned them again.

She adjusted in the chair—slightly too long, slightly too aware of what lingered in her bones. She pressed her tongue against the roof of her mouth, chased the memory of the taste that wasn't hers to keep.

"Indignantly comfortable," Thalatha said dryly, settling into the strange lattice-chair, testing its balance like a rider tests a saddle. Her weight shifted once, twice; the chair accepted her without protest. "It will do."

"Excellent." Mikhailis rubbed his shoulder where the sling had pretended it was a harness. He winced at the phantom ache. "We'll embroider your crest later." He tilted his chin toward the dark mouth yawning below. "Now—where is 'down'?"

The question made her lips tighten, not from humor, but from the way his voice hovered between serious and joking. Does he even know which mask he's wearing? she thought, watching him. Or does he change it because he likes to confuse the room?

The others moved quietly, collecting breath, balancing loads, tapping small rhythms that meant alive, alive, still alive. She should have been cataloguing, counting every soul. Instead, her mind betrayed her, looping back again and again to the heat pressed against her earlier, the accidental nearness that had become something more.

She hated that she could still feel the taste of dust and mint on her tongue. Hated more that part of her wanted to keep it. That kiss had not been planned. It had been accident, circumstance, gravity—and still, her mouth kept replaying it, like a soldier retracing an ambush to see where she had left a flank open.

Her fingers flexed unconsciously on the silk armrests. The texture was oddly smooth, faintly warm from the Crymber's breath. It reminded her too much of his lips, which had been warmer still, patient and steady. She bit the inside of her cheek. Enough. You are not a girl at a festival stall.

Mikhailis leaned close, inspecting one of the straps near her shoulder, pretending it was about adjustments. His hair was dust-streaked, his jaw sharper in the dim light. Their faces hovered too near again. The sling and chair made space precious. Too precious. She turned her head slightly—too late. His nose brushed hers.

Both froze. A fraction of silence, stretched. Neither pulled away.

Her pulse betrayed her before her discipline could mask it. She hated the quick throb at her throat. He noticed—of course he noticed; his eyes always catalogued, dissected, played archivist to people's secrets. He didn't mock it. He only breathed with her, slow, like a man unwilling to steal pace from someone else.

She wanted to speak. To cut the tension with command. But her mouth betrayed her. "Perhaps… it would be better if you lifted me," she said, voice lower than intended. Fool. Why did you say that?

He blinked. "Lift you?"

"For balance," she added, too quickly. "The angle is wrong. If I adjust here, I'll only strain the line further. But if you—" She gestured vaguely at the straps near his chest. "—if you bear me higher, it may redistribute better."

It was half-truth. Enough soldier in it to stand. Enough cowardice to hide the rest.

He nodded once, serious. Then bent, slid his arms with careful strength beneath her. He moved like a craftsman handling fragile cargo. She did not resist. She should have. Instead, her legs shifted, and suddenly she was astride him, straddling him from the front as he straightened with her weight. The chair creaked, but held.

Heat bloomed up her body. The world narrowed to the breadth of his shoulders under her hands and the solid press of him beneath her thighs. Too close. Far too close.

She clenched her jaw. Professional. Soldier. Say something crisp. But her voice betrayed her again. "Closer than expected," she muttered, and hated how soft it sounded.

"Physics is rude that way," he answered, tone light, as though nothing were amiss. But his eyes flicked briefly, betraying he noticed every line of contact. He always noticed. He always remembered. That was the danger.

Their faces hovered only inches apart now. A shift in breath would be enough. She should have looked away. She didn't. Her gaze snagged on his mouth, on the curve she already knew too well.

And before either of them could invent words, it happened again.

Their lips met. This time not by accident. Not a brush. A kiss, messy, unplanned, full of the pressure of their closeness. Her breath stuttered against his mouth. She wanted to pull away. She wanted to lean further. She did both, badly, at once.

The kiss broke, then returned, as if gravity disapproved of their indecision. His tongue brushed hers, tentative at first, then steadier, the way a man tests water with one hand before committing the rest. She answered before she could stop herself, pressing into him, letting the rhythm claim her.

Slrp. A small, humiliating sound slipped out. She froze. Heat surged into her cheeks. But he didn't laugh. He only kissed again, firmer, swallowing the sound as if it were his to carry.

Her thighs tightened by instinct, trying to steady herself on him. That only pressed her closer against the warmth she'd been trying to forget. A rush went through her like a bell struck too hard. Her head felt blank, empty of maps and orders. Just breath, just heat, just him.

Stop. Order him back. End this. Her soldier's mind shouted, distant. But her body argued louder. She tilted, shifted deliberately so she could feel him firmer between her legs. Not out of lust—she told herself—but necessity of balance. The lie held poorly.

Their mouths parted, then clashed again. She didn't know who moved first. It didn't matter. Lips slid, tongues tangled clumsily, then adjusted, found rhythm.

"Mmh—" The noise escaped her, raw and low. She pressed her forehead against his between kisses, trying to catch air, trying not to drown.

His breath came ragged too, though he tried to hide it. She could feel it against her cheek, hot, hurried. His hands remained steady beneath her, strong but not roaming, holding her as though she were made of glass that also demanded fire.

They paused once, twice, as if to gather dignity, then failed and met again. The kisses grew longer, less tidy, more real. Every small adjustment in the chair made their bodies slide fractionally, rubbing against each other in ways too sharp to be ignored. Each time, her head blanked. Each time, she told herself: only accident. Only circumstance.

But when his tongue teased the corner of her mouth and she answered with her own, deliberate this time, she knew there was no pretending left.

She pressed closer, felt the heat at her core answer, and hated herself for wanting more. Fool, she scolded. But only fools sometimes get to feel alive.

The room around them groaned, stone remembering gravity, dust whispering down. She almost welcomed the interruption, but their mouths stayed joined through it, refusing to yield to the noise. When at last a slab cracked somewhere above, the shock jarred them apart, panting, staring, each unwilling to name what had just happened.

Silence stretched. Her cheeks burned. Her heart pounded with the irregularity of a faulty drum. She swallowed dust and pride together. "This position," she said finally, aiming for neutrality, "is… functional. For balance."

He coughed a laugh, quiet, disbelieving, almost tender. "Functional," he repeated. His eyes softened, though his mouth twitched as if fighting humor. "Understood."