Springtime 1681 CE, Paris
It was late evening, and the City of Lights was, as always, teeming with life. Nyx was at a grand masquerade, poking subtle fun at Hera, who though not in attendance, might have scowled at Night bedecked in a glorious peacock colored dress. The deep greens and blues of the silk shimmered iridescently by design, rather than divine will, which only
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Now. Nyx typically had the best taste in everything. So he knew that this strange garb they wore was probably very expensive and very tasteful (even if it showed off more of her chest than any other male should see. The French. Snort.). But by Creation, it was ridiculous!
And then he called him her most handsome beast. It was difficult to argue with her when she smiled so sweetly and when she called him that name, the name that meant that she loved him, and when she was so very clearly happy.
Grumbling under his breath, he looked into the parlor, then back to her.
And grudgingly, he held out his arm. Tonight, at least, she danced only with him. Now that put a smile on his face.
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That was enough to overlook the clothing. Leading her strongly into the dance, he let himself admire his lovely creature of a wife. Were others looking at her? The idea spiked in his head and he glanced around, but the men there were very careful not to look.
And that pleased Erebos. Infinitely.
He had not noticed the attention of the mortal women. He had no need to look their way. As they danced together, his thumb gently stroked her hand. Beautiful little Nyxie.
They were not alone, so he did not smile. But his eyes told the tale of his pleasure. That light grew when she whispered her idea.
"Court you? Right now? If you wish. Then I will."
And with a terribly mischevious almost-smile, he released her hands and reached for her waist to throw her over his shoulder and drag her off to some dark place in this mortal home.
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"You are a beast," she scolded in a whisper, though her expression revealed a bit of barely concealed amusement. "How utterly inappropriate you are! And in front of all these guests..."
She put on a little moue for him, and continued in the same whisper:
"That is not courting, my husband. That completely circumvents the very idea of courting."
He turned her, and she dipped into a low curtsey before smoothly returning to his arms.
"What I was trying to say, O Insatiable One, is that I should like to be wooed. By you."
She looked at him with mock lament.
"You have never wooed me."
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"Oh. I was disappointed."
He walked a few feet more and looked back to her again. Her expression said "Tell me more!" And Erebos was ready to do just that.
He explained further (again, as if he had not already planned this out).
"The blossom looked beautiful, but compared to its wearer, it fades too quickly. I had hoped to make you feel prettier, but... I do not know how I could manage that now."
He did his best to look downcast. Inwardly, he was smiling.
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Oh yes she did.
It was not so obvious, to the casual observer. A hand going to her riotous curls, the opening of her fan to draw it across her cheek, the slight and subtle smile. Of course, there were no casual observers to be known, and so these subtleties would speak clearly to her husband of just what they meant.
Preen, beam, preen.
Had she not been Nyx, she would have been hard-pressed not to clap her hands together at his willing participation in this new game. But she was Nyx, and so instead, she replied smoothly, still with a bit of a sly smile,
"O, my Ere, you are a flatterer and a rogue."
Then, she grinned at him, and squeezed his arm.
"It is impossible not to feel beautiful on the arm of such a gloriously stunning beast."
Turning her head forward, her grin turned sly, and she looked at him sidelong before adding,
"All the mortal ladies simply adored you. I am certain they are cursing my name as we speak."
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Capturing the hand that scratched his arm through the silk he wore, he gently guided it to her thigh, edging up the skirt with a little divine help, pressing his hand against her hand against her outer thigh, and moving upwards, slowly, carefully. He refused to touch her. Oh no.
"And how about now, my Dearest, my Darkest, my Love?" he whispered to her. With his free hand, he pulled her tighter against him, shifting so that his legs were inside hers, and hers could wrap around his, feet tucked neatly at his ankles. It left her legs wide open. It put her in exactly the position he wanted. Spreading his legs meant spreading hers wider, now. And it only took a little shifting.
"Am I yet persuasive enough for you? What do you want?" he asked her, not expecting an answer. "What would you like ( ... )
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Oh Creation...
The torturous, treacherous, unfair beast she had married had her, had her, had her... His hand only touched her where it overlapped her own, teasing her heated, sensitive flesh with its presence, but not its direct pressure.
Oh, Creation.
The feel of his rough hands on her skin, even that light touch sent heat rushing just there, slickening her and driving her mad. She tried to tug her hand, and hopefully by extension, his, to the source of her ache, but he would not, would not budge.
O, treacherous beast!
She turned her head toward him, so that her mouth was close, close, close to his, leaning forward just slightly, so that their lips were only a hair's breadth apart.
"You are," she breathed, a barely contained moan in her voice, "very, very persuasive, my Ere ( ... )
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When she spoke, he felt her breath against his mouth. The heat. The moisture. He was reminded of the way it felt to brand her with his kiss, to take absolute possession of her, and he felt the sting of desire run down his spine. His eyes grew darker.
"A lady," he said huskily, "May not. But mortals' laws of etiquette should not apply to a goddess so perfect as you. Give in, my Night ( ... )
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But no! It was her game. She wanted him to court her; she wanted him to lose that blasted, damnable control of his and have her, to admit with his body that he wanted just as much as she.
She gave him a fine, sloe-eyed moue when he stopped the movement of her hips with that arm of his.
Always stronger. But.
"Perfect? O, my Ere, you are too kind," she murmured just against his mouth, her own free arm now reaching up to scratch her nails slowly, ungently, down his neck before her hand reached between both their legs to stroke the inside of his thigh ( ... )
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