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Corvo waits, leaning against the wall, watching as Emily completes her preparations.
As Empress, she may have attendants, if she wishes. But, like her mother, she prefers fixing her own hair, applying her own makeup. She is meticulous in her application, scraping a small, coarse brush through the block of black kohl, pigment picking up on the bristles. Running the brush underneath her lashes, she deposits the pigment on the hairs, making them look thicker and longer. She repeats the process on her bottom lashes, letting the line smudge softly. With a finer, softer brush, she blurs the edges along her lower lash line until she's satisfied.
She returns the kohl to its decorative box, sealing it air tight before setting it aside. Powdering her face is the next step, taking down some of the shine from the bridge of her nose and forehead.
Emily has never been overly fussy about her appearance, but she knows well enough the expectations placed upon her. It is an event every time she chooses to attend some orchestrated ball given in her honor, any fancy party thrown by an aristocratic family. She does not attend them all, being politically careful in her selection of events.
Corvo watches the wires diligently, discerning to the best of his ability whether the nobles talk about their Empress showing too much favor to a single name. It is to be expected that the majority of her engagements are in Gristol, if not Dunwall proper. Increasingly, she has appeared in Morley. Her affections for Wyman are not unknown. But, still, appearances must be maintained.
As a final step, she presses shiny, pink gloss to her lips, concentrating the color in the center, letting it blur at the edges. That is the style of the moment. Whether or not Emily favors it is of little consequence.
Standing from the vanity, Emily smooths down the front of her coat, then checks that her cuffs are even. “How do I look?” she asks.
Everything she wears has been expertly fitted by her personal tailor in Dunwall. She is not really seeking his opinion, asking instead out of habit. When she was young, having first taken her throne, Emily was terribly concerned with what others thought. Her confidence has grown as the years pass. But she still asks Corvo his opinion each time she dresses for the public.
Corvo can't help but reach forward, patting her on her cheek, “you look lovely,” he smiles, “Wyman better watch themselves.”
Emily rolls her eyes, batting Corvo’s hand away. “They're not supposed to be here tonight. They had another engagement at home.”
Tonight's gala is being held in a splendid seaside villa, half a day’s travel from Dunwall. The estate is owned by the Tavish family, but it is the Guillaumes who are hosting the event. Something about presenting their nephew to formal society. Increasingly, the aristocracy are putting on more airs than necessary. Emily selected this event because the guest list kills some two dozen birds with a single stone, and the trip here was not particularly arduous. Corvo agrees with her decision.
Corvo escorts his daughter to the grand hall, walking arm in arm. The villa is styled more like a well appointed home in Serkonos, than the architecture more common to the northern isles. Built after the Rat Plague, the villa is downright impractical for Gristol. The wide corridor that leads from their guest rooms to the great hall is lined with glass. In the warmer, spring and summer months, the light must be lovely, but in the dark of winter, Corvo can only find the cool chill permeating the hallway laughable.
Emily’s arrival is buttressed with overflowing excitement from the assembled aristocracy. They had not been certain she would attend. Even after her arrival, early this morning, the younger Tavish girl had been beside herself with joy that the Empress had come to her home.
Corvo’s name is announced as well, though he walks in half a step behind his daughter. Though everyone knows, his position as her father has never been formally acknowledged. Corvo doesn't give a rat’s ass about it, though. Whenever Emily raises the subject, he dismisses it entirely. He loved her mother, even when he shouldn't have. He loves Emily more than his own life. Nothing else can better prove her parentage.
Emily receives invitations to chat and dance almost immediately, aristocrats crowding in around her. Corvo is no more suspicious than necessary. He is well acquainted with the layout of the venue, the guest list for the night, and Emily’s own cleverness. While he stands guard over her as she travels from circle to circle of chittering aristocrats, he interferes very little, if at all.
When she finally does accept an invitation to dance, it is from the young Tavish girl. No more than thirteen years of age, she squeaks in delight when Emily accepts her hand. She is a politically good choice for the first dance. Young and sweet and of one of the hosting families, her open smile and excited gait out to the center of the floor can be interpreted as little more than childhood infatuation.
Corvo watches as Emily leads the girl across the floor in long, graceful sweeps. The girl’s maroon trousers and white kitten heels contrast with the uniform black boots Emily wears, coming up past her knees.
A servant asks the Lord Protector if he would like anything to drink? Corvo requests whiskey, but only a single finger, mixed with water. Standing out of the way, Corvo leans against one of the hefty, wooden pillars, keeping the balcony above aloft, to watch Emily dance and wait on his drink. The servant comes and goes, the song changes, and Emily kisses her partner on her cheek, before accepting another hand.
A chill rolls through the grand hall again. Fucking aristocrats and their sense of style over substance. There aren't enough fireplaces. Corvo shoves his free hand into his pocket. Fuck it if it ruins the line of his jacket. He takes another sip of his whiskey.
“Excuse me, Lord Protector?” a voice comes from just behind him. Strange, Corvo heard no footsteps.
When he turns, he expects to see a mousy servant, perhaps to take his glass and offer another drink. But while the man who has appeared at his side is young, he is no servant.
Trim and tall, taller than Corvo, at least, the man cannot be over twenty. With black hair and fair skin, the glow from the lamps cast heavy shadows across his features, lighting his brown eyes almost gold. He stands with his hands clasped behind his back, his spine perfectly straight, and expression solemn.
He is a beauty for an age, no doubt, but a sad one. A time long gone.
“Yes?” Corvo asks, trying to keep his shock well concealed. It is best not to give anything away. Corvo should allow the young man state his business, before he responds.
A small smile crosses his thin lips. Corvo expects him to look away in shyness, but he keeps his eyes locked with Corvo’s. “I was hoping to have this dance?” he holds out his hand to Corvo, palm facing the floor.
Corvo has been asked to dance before, at functions such as these. He always refuses, unless his partner is Emily. And she has not dragged him to the floor since turning sixteen.
Though he might allow himself a drink or two, he is technically on duty, not here to enjoy the company of others, the music, the joy. But the young man keeps his hand aloft, a soft, pretty smile on his face, “Please. You won't regret it.”
Corvo cannot help the pang of want that goes directly to his groin. The man is beautiful, without a doubt. His lashes long, feathering around his eyes. Cheeks slightly hollow. When he smiles, his teeth are perfect, straight and white, with sharp incisors.
“I shouldn't,” Corvo says, accepting the man’s hand despite himself.
His dance partner looks so inconsolably pleased, smiling now from ear to ear, dark hair falling over his forehead. Corvo’s feet move with a mind of their own, leading his partner to the dance floor with smooth, even paced steps. He can already hear it, how one aristocrat notices, whispering to their comrade on the right. Curious, they remark. The Royal Protector never dances.
“Your name?” Corvo asks, since the stranger obviously knows his.
The young man smiles, “Don't you enjoy a bit of mystery, Lord Protector?”
Corvo grunts, positioning his hand at the small of the man’s back and holding the other at the precise height needed for the next dance. The Emperor made sure he had proper lessons, upon arriving in Dunwall. Corvo was never to be an embarrassment to the Crown. With his physical gifts, and already established footwork skill from swordplay, Corvo took to dancing naturally. And though he is out of practice, that inherent grace remains.
His partner matches him, step for step, beautifully light on his feet as he lets Corvo lead him around the room. As they brush close to the sidelined crowd, Corvo can hear them whispering again. Who is that boy dancing with the Lord Protector? No one seems to know his name, but he must have been invited. Perhaps the Yarlin boy? He has not attended a formal occasion since he was twelve. But his parents are nowhere in sight. They may have been on the guest list, though.
“Do not listen to them,” the man in Corvo’s arms urges, “they don’t know what they’re talking about.” His hand is warm and dry in Corvo's.
“It’s my job to listen,” Corvo counters.
“Mine as well,” the stranger’s lip quirks at the corner, “but I thought we could have a little fun, at least tonight.”
The song ends, the strings fading out over the lingering piano notes. There is barely a pause before the next dance begins, a beat of silence, in which the stranger drops pretensions, tilting his head down to whisper against the shell of Corvo’s ear, “Dear Corvo..."
His long, narrow fingers brush against the leather band Corvo keeps wrapped tightly over his hand to obscure the Mark he accepted, years ago. But with the Outsider’s touch, he feels the magic flare.
“How?” Corvo asks, realizing now.
Corvo leads them through a second dance, the smile on the Outsider’s lips now a permanent feature. As they step out of the light, he watches as the Outsider’s eyes go black, the whites blotted out. By the time they reach the radiance of the lamps again, they're brown.
“Forbidden magic, of course. There are many things I can do, but don't.”
Corvo realizes that's not the question that he intended. He tries again, “Why?”
The Outsider’s eyes look deeply fond, a little hurt, “I missed you.”
This is not the place to talk. Gossip is already rising in Corvo’s ears. This is a scandal already, how much time he's spent with a young man none of the aristocrats can place. They’ll never find the right name. The eyes of the assembled are on them both, boring down with fascination. Corvo wraps his arm tighter around the Outsider’s waist, wanting to drag him from this place, take him somewhere no one can see him, can realize who he is.
Where Corvo can have him for himself.
Corvo cares little for gossip concerning him. He has always been a larger, more interesting man in the whispers people share, than he could possibly be in reality.
“And I want them to know you're mine,” the Outsider continues. “They were talking, harpies, all of them. Now that they assume the Empress spoken for, they speak incessantly about who you will bed. They think you the Isles’ most eligible bachelor.”
Craning lower, the Outsider brushes his lips against Corvo’s throat, brief enough that it could be denied.
Corvo must suppress the shiver of desire he feels sparking to the surface of his skin, “And you wished to introduce a new topic of conversation?”
“Yes, that,” the Outsider pulls his body closer to Corvo’s, so they stand chest to chest. There can be no mistake, “and I wished for you to take me to bed. You, Corvo, are not eligible. You are mine.”
Corvo hooks his index finger through the belt loop at the Outsider’s back, binding them together a moment more. Their second song is ending. Corvo doubts he has the patience for a third, “you know which room is mine?”
“Of course, but I want us to walk out together.”
“You want them to know?”
“They already do, I assure you.”
The melody comes to a halt. Looking around the Outsider’s narrow shoulder, Corvo spots the Empress. She bids goodbye to another partner. It is impossible for him to leave without telling her.
He leaves the Outsider standing alone on the dance floor. As soon as they break their embrace, one of the society women rushes up to speak to the young man none of them can identify. Her cheeks are bright red and her breasts cradled high on her chest. Lady Kellogg, she has four children, all but the youngest are grown.
The Outsider can explain himself to the curious woman. The one lady brave enough to step forward and ask for the stranger’s hand to dance. That should keep the Outsider occupied, while Corvo speaks to Emily, “My Empress,” he begins.
There is already a pretty smile on her mouth, “Who is he?” Of course she has noticed.
Corvo waves off her question, “It's not important right now.”
She laughs, wrinkling her nose when she does so, “Okay, and I really don't want to know why you're leaving,” she brushes her hand down her father’s arm. “Don't worry so much. You know I can defend myself. If you are certain this is not a ruse to separate us?”
Corvo is certain. He is certain too that the Outsider would not construct an arrangement that would place Emily in obvious harm. Though he does not say as much, he clearly favored her becoming Empress, over the available alternatives.
Tired of formalities, Corvo interrupts the Outsider’s tepid dance with Lady Kellogg. In return for his rudeness, the Lady only smiles politely, giving up her claim on the handsome stranger. The whispers follow them out of the grand hall and into the glass corridor, only damping once the door swings shut.
“Who did you tell her you were?”
The Outsider shrugs, still pushed along by Corvo’s hand on the small of his back, “I told her I was the Yarlin boy.”
“Void,” Corvo curses, “you realize he'd only be sixteen?”
“Lady Kellogg, unlike the others, knows the Yarlin boy died last winter. My obvious lie will only make her more curious. What does it matter?”
Corvo sighs, “I only want to know what I will be facing in the morning.”
The Outsider grins, “And yet, here we are, sneaking off to your accommodations. Knowing full well what will be said about your tastes and my honor.”
“You cannot have honor, specter,” Corvo fits his key into the lock, turning the knob and practically tossing the Outsider inside. But as soon as the door is closed behind them, the Outsider has his vicious teeth at Corvo’s neck.
“Take me to bed, Corvo,” he growls, grinding down on Corvo’s leg, wedged in between both of his. “Take me to bed and fuck me. I know that is what you desire.”
“Oh?” Corvo asks, willing to do whatever the Outsider requests of him, but he's more than happy to play this game, “I don't see you for fifteen years, and here you are, keen on taking my cock?” Reaching between their bodies, Corvo squeezes at the Outsider’s erection, feeling the solid heat in his hand. The Mark spasms in response, dark light seeping out from behind the wrap, needlessly bright in the dimness of the room.
The Outsider hisses, tugging at the leather cording so the wrap uncoils, exposing the Mark to the open air. Grabbing Corvo’s wrist, the Outsider brings Corvo’s hand to his mouth, licking lewdly along the edges of the Mark. “I have my reasons,” he kisses over his own imprint on Corvo’s flesh.
Corvo knows he's not a heretic. He's something worse.
Grabbing the Outsider by his thighs, he hoists the lighter body off the ground with ease. The Outsider’s body weighs even less than Corvo expects. Perhaps it is not really flesh and bone, some other type of forbidden magic, stitched together to serve the Outsider’s own ends.
But Corvo’s cock throbs inside his trousers, pressing painfully against the inside seam. They're both wearing too much clothing, with too many polished buttons and too much excess fabric. Dropping the Outsider to the overstuffed bed, Corvo rips at the Outsider’s jacket, unconcerned when the buttons go flying.
“How am I supposed to walk out of here with my modesty intact?” the Outsider teases, letting out a soft, ‘oh,’ when Corvo finally makes his way through excess layers, laving his tongue against one of the Outsider’s soft, pink nipples.
Speechless now, the Outsider threads Corvo’s hair through his fingers, squeezing down when Corvo goes from licking against his skin to biting down. Corvo can't help but chuckle against the Outsider’s chest, having already reduced a god to incoherency.
He suckles at the other nipple, teasing it until it's hard and red, pulling away from the paler flesh of the Outsider’s shuddering body. Once the nub is raw and sensitive, Corvo bites down harder, however briefly, making the Outsider arch off the bed, hissing through clenched teeth.
“Corvo,” he growls, having found his voice, “and your incessant teasing. I always thought you were a generous lover.”
“Oh?” Corvo sits back on his haunches, still perched between the Outsider’s spread legs. With one hand he thumbs over the Outsider’s abused nipple, the other he uses to squeeze at his own cock, trying to relieve some pressure. “Is that my reputation?”
“Yes,” the Outsider bites in frustration.
“And that is why you are here,” he continues pinching at the Outsider’s nipples, keeping them flushed and at attention, but he's gentler with his touches now, trying not the break the threshold between pain and pleasure, “you were lonely and wanted attention?”
“I wanted you,” the Outsider makes himself perfectly clear. He arches his back again, spreading his thighs and grinding his cock against Corvo’s. They have to move faster than this or Corvo will spill in his trousers. And he is not a young man.
But the heat and friction of the Outsider’s body writhing beneath him is dragging Corvo towards the edge faster than he can grasp the tattered remains of his resolve. Huffing, he grabs the Outsider by his hips, trying to push down his too-tight trousers.
“Get out of these,” Corvo says, climbing out of bed to shuck his own trousers, letting his cock spring free. Searching through his bags, he tries to find some sort of lubricant, to slick themselves while they rut together.
“And you get back here,” the Outsider rasps, “have you forgotten who I am?”
Corvo stills, realizing how silly he must look. Once he's come to his senses, he climbs back into bed, putting his lips to the Outsider’s and drinking deeply from his shuddering breaths.
Rubbing their cocks together, Corvo grips them both in his unmarked hand, groaning as they slide, skin on skin. He can hear the Outsider, whining at the back of his throat with each slow squeeze. He bites at the Outsider’s lips, trying to feed on his gentle noise, kissing at his neck when he starts to shake.
“Now,” the Outsider insists.
With invisible hands, the Outsider flips them over, so he is on top of Corvo, still straddling his thighs, their cocks brushing against one another. Shifting his hips, the Outsider positions the head of Corvo’s cock against his hole. Corvo can do little more than hold on to the Outsider’s hips, waiting in agony for him to bear down and take it.
The Outsider drops his hips, inch by excruciating inch, enveloping Corvo’s cock as he grinds his hips down. Whatever magic he has used has left him impossibly tight around Corvo’s cock, and just slick enough to let them couple smoothly, leaving sweet friction in their wake.
Corvo can't keep his hands to himself, running his fingers over smooth, unblemished skin. The Outsider is completely free of defect, of scars and imperfections, everywhere except his neck and wrists. His hips are narrow and his rib cage small, bird-built and lovely, bouncing on Corvo’s cock.
Corvo cannot help but reach up, wrap his Marked hand around the Outsider’s throat. The Mark glows in the darkness of the room, black-purple light spilling over his knuckles. He brushes his thumb over the edge of the scar, thick and jagged, at the Outsider’s neck. So distinct, now that the high collar of his shirt has been ripped away.
Rolling his hips, Corvo chases the Outsider’s thrusts, trying to drive him to orgasm in his hands. As wonderfully tight as he is, as beautiful, as much as Corvo does not want to undo this magic the Outsider has rendered between their bodies, Corvo wants to watch the Outsider to fall to pieces at his insistence.
When the Outsider comes, it's in a sudden rush, spilling over Corvo's chest, cum catching in his chest hair. His hole clamps down tight around Corvo’s cock, beckoning Corvo to come inside him, fill him with his seed. But Corvo breathes deeply, trying to calm his racing heart.
Once he has the Outsider boneless in his arms, Corvo flips them over again. He plunges, long and deep, into the Outsider’s hole. With a growing sense of urgency, he builds speed, keeping the Outsider prone beneath him, blanketed by Corvo’s broader body.
“Corvo...Void…” there is the whine again.
Through the Outsider’s cock is still soft against his belly, cum still slightly wet at the tip, the Outsider shows no signs of discomfort. But he breathes heavily on each stroke of Corvo’s cock.
Reaching to kiss the Outsider, Corvo keeps them sealed together, as many points of contact that they can manage, trying to keep their bodies intertwined.
The Outsider’s mouth is wet and pliant, his body, warm. And after Corvo fills him, emptying with a primal groan, he opens his eyes to view the Void.
Corvo keeps his arms bracketed on either side of the Outsider’s head, waiting for him to open his eyes. Though he feels weak, drained from orgasm, Corvo cannot bring himself to move, only shifting enough so that his softening cock falls from the Outsider’s hole.
“Why didn't you just bring me here?” he asks the Outsider. “It's been years. You could have just...brought me here.”
The Outsider rolls his head against the pillow, perhaps only now realizing the villa room has been stripped away, the vacuum around them filled with the endless stretch of the starless Void, though the bed remains. The Void is often like this, a mixture of flesh and fate. Corvo seldom questions the mechanics at work here. There's no point.
“You would not come,” the Outsider answers.
“You never asked,” Corvo hasn't felt the pull, even in dreams, for over a decade. After the Rat Plague, the Outsider’s visions stopped. Though the Mark was gifted to him, until he takes his last breath, he assumed the Outsider’s favor waned once the plague ended. Corvo ceased to be interesting.
“I did. But you did not need me, so you never heard. You were happy, here with your daughter, her Empire, your status. There was nothing you needed from me. And you are not a heretic.”
Corvo cannot help but laugh, “And so, you missed me?”
The Outsider frowns, “Yes, I did,” the Outsider admits, quite succinctly, without shame.
And Corvo kisses him again, long and sweet, hanging onto the moments they have left together. His comings and goings through the Void were intermittent, all those years ago. And even now, he can feel the expanse slipping through his fingers. Corvo is not meant to linger here. The Outsider’s magic can only accomplish so much.
“Will I see you again?: Corvo asks.
The Outsider gives him a wry smile, “Perhaps, dear Corvo. But I have already accomplished my objective tonight.”
“That the fine society of Gristol will talk?”
“And others.” He lays his hand flat against the center of Corvo’s chest. Now that his is returned to the Void, his eyes are black again, making it harder to read his expression. “Tell them what you’d like about me, they won’t believe a word.”
“The truth?”
“They’ll never believe that.”
Corvo smirks, “Should I tell them, yet again, I’ve come to care for someone beyond my station?”
“No one is beyond your reach, Corvo. You should know that by now.”
Rolling to his side, Corvo gathers the Outsider up in his arms, pressing his nose into soft hair. When he opens his eyes, he expects to be alone again, his body returned to the mortal plane, in a villa on the sea, architecture displaced from where it properly belongs. Like the Outsider. Like himself.