Chapter Text
Heels digging into the unforgiving bed, Hythlodaeus ruts into a well-slicked hand and imagines another's breath in his ear - a pair of brilliant souls beside him rather than the lonely monochrome room that surrounds him.
How many times does this make? That he's envisioned brilliant sun and star-studded night enveloping him. Embracing him. Tormenting him. Driving him in tandem to new heights.
With a sharp exhale he grasps the base of his cock, finger and thumb circling the shaft tight to stave off another wave of pleasure. Not. Yet. Slowly the tide of pleasure recedes, leaving his breath short and thighs trembling.
How many times does that make tonight? Relaxing by ilms back onto the bed, the stinging warmth of denied pleasure roils through him, setting his aether abuzz. At times like these he feels as though he could reach out and shape the world, ambient aether nearly within reach of a grasp as deficient as his.
Exhaling sharply he starts anew, languid strokes over his painfully hard shaft. He's caught glimpses of their aether, of what their souls taste of, from the charged concept crystals that pass through his hands. He recalls those singular sensations now, imagines them nestling into him while his hand continues its work. To have them praise him as he eagerly sups on them both, a most devoted supplicant in the face of such wondrous beauty. The thought alone nearly undoes him, cock twitching in his grasp.
And give they could - their aetherial reserves as great as any Convocation member. Whetting his lips, Hythlodaeus thrusts into his hand at a glacial pace. Imagines their aether filling him beyond his soul's ability, the sum spilling over as it irrevocably stains him in their colors. How many times has he brought himself to this edge, until his nerves sing at the punishment he's put them through?
With the low moan of the well-debauched, Hythlodaeus comes at last - his body shuddering in protest. Warmth covers his fingers, his belly, sweat a second skin. Too weak to do more than pant, he basks in the limb-tingling bliss suffusing him.
Perhaps it is time he assembled his own cosmos, instead of settling for pale imitation.