Transcend

by Natalia Jaster

  Their foreheads meet. Envy’s face twitches like he’s holding back, then his features dissolve into rapture as Sorrow gyrates into him. Summoning the utmost restraint, she rocks her hips with a leisurely cadence that she doesn’t quite feel.

  She wants this fast and hard, but they’ve done fast and hard before. With that in mind, she juts over his shaft with furious concentration, turned on by the sight of Envy helpless, useless as his brows slam together.

  The vision spurs her on. She rolls, urging him backward, until his spine dissolves onto the moss, and she’s got him, she’s got all of him. This archer, who sprawls before her, muscles contorting and spanning her view.

  She angles forward, pins his arms to the ground, and hovers over him. Just like that, she patiently rides this god into the constellations. Her thighs clench around him, and her inner walls cinch around him, and her body cages around him.

  “Sorrow,” he keens.

  “Envy,” she implores.

  As their bodies writhe, they watch each other. Truly, she could almost care less whether she comes, so long as he does.

  However, it warrants repeating: She could almost care less.

  She shifts her tempo, achieving a subtle bounce, tiny shards of pleasure flooding her bloodstream. Her waist flicks at Envy’s groin, lashes at his length.

  When he grows more rigid, sparks bolt up her shins. Her knees dig into the ground on either side of him. With her limbs splayed, the skirt bunches into a mess.

  Flattening one forearm along the ground, Envy balances on his elbow, slanting halfway up while his free hand claims her hip. His grip encourages her. She bucks above him, and he’s caught between enjoying it and searching her face.

  He almost looks proud of her.

  He definitely looks hot and bothered.

  That’s why he shoots upright and crooks his hands over the backs of her shoulders, fixing her into position.

  Sorrow startles. “What—”

  He purrs, “Do you like having me inside you?”

  “I’ve always liked that. But I like it more now.”

  “Then don’t move,” he commands. “Not one inch.”

  Then he begins to thrust upward.

  Though they haven’t sped up yet, the repetitive snap of his body renders Sorrow senseless. Her joints loosen, yielding to the impact. Actually, becoming pliable magnifies every slant of his pelvis, so that she feels it acutely.

  Now she lets herself be ridden. Meanwhile, Sorrow holds onto him, though she isn’t certain where her fingers have crash landed. In his mane? Evidently, because her digits get lost in strands of hair.

  Stars almighty. His lips wreathe into a naughty I’m-fucking-someone-special grin as he lunges into Sorrow with such gentle ferocity that a wail builds in her mouth.

  “There you go,” he implores. “Take it. Take it from me.”

  But she can’t take it from him, can’t take any more of this shit, can’t take it without exploding. She claws at his scalp, needing to climax, but he refuses to let up. Wild sobs pour from her, meshing with his groans.

  Enough is enough. No matter how affectionate, this is a joint venture.

  Matching his movements, Sorrow resumes her own antics, synchronizing with Envy’s thrusts. On and on and—oh, right there.

  In the midst of it, their mouths latch into a clumsy, dire kiss. The instant her tongue strikes his, Envy’s torso quakes. Heaving forward, he reels Sorrow backward, this time fastening her to the moss.

  As he does, a fresh desire kicks in. He pulls out of her briefly, and they jostle with the remainder of their clothes, wanting to see one another bare.

  Envy drags her skirt down her legs, then crawls over her, his hips splitting her thighs wide. Sorrow uses her heels to lug down his trousers, and he chucks them aside with his feet. After hitching one of her legs over his waist, Envy balls her hand with his and extends their arms above her head. His other palm covers her cheek, and her free hand molds over his taut bottom.

  “Not done,” he swears, then thrusts again, filling her to the brim.

  “Oh,” Sorrow cries brokenly, arching off the ground. “Oh, Fates.”

  “That’s right. Let me in. Open for me.”

  “I will. Just don’t stop.”

  Envy nods and renews his efforts. His length whips into her, the snap of his waist slinging her along the ground.

  The glide of his skin on hers is a delicious relief. His abs rub her navel, and her breasts skate across his pecs, and their groins twist. The motes swirl as Sorrow and Envy cling, naked, and damp, and incomprehensible.

  Their moans harden. Their tempo quickens.

  Envy’s depth turns shallow, probing a spot that wrings a shout from Sorrow. Her hips slant with his, both of them laboring to reach that zenith, the abrasion inciting a riptide of sensation. He knows what she likes, and he learns more of what she likes, and he steals it from her, and then he gives it to her.

  Their fingers squeeze above them, then fall apart. He grabs her face, and she grabs his backside.

  She could keep him here forever, but it’s impossible to keep him here forever, because she’s not going to last forever. This is too good. All of it is too good, but still, it’s scarcely over.

  Envy’s barreling inside, and she molds around him. His impending orgasm thrills her, an intoxication buzzing through her veins.

  Deities can go at it for hours. A human would have fainted by now.

  Yet Sorrow’s not far off. When Envy’s pelvis grazes that small nub at her center, it sends a burst of pleasure from her toes to her skull. The result is inebriating, like she’s drunk on lust.

  Is this sex? Is this lovemaking?

  Neither applies, because what they’re doing to each other has no definition. None that she can fathom. Likely none that would do it justice, blending this much pleasure and pain—an emotional fusion that assures her they won’t be the same when it’s over.

  When it’s over much later.

  Sorrow is utterly fine with this. In fact, she’s fairly certain the effects they have on each other are not merely magnetic, but persevering. This relentless mating shows no end in sight, which is bliss and its own form of punishment.

  Beads of water splatter the rocks. The half-light illuminates patches of flesh.

  He mumbles against her lips, but she can’t hear the words, because her mind has been reduced to the place where they’re joined. All senses—sight, sound, taste, touch, smell—tapers to the merciless slot where she meets his thrusts.

  Yet again, their foreheads press. His dilated pupils consume her, and she can’t seem to satiate herself with the image of him. This archer whom she’s hated, and befriended, and slept with. This archer who pitches deeply into her, his face tensing on the cusp of release, holding out as if to say, You, first.

  The God of Envy, who pleasures everyone and pines for no one. That very god, pleasuring her and pining for her.

  Her toes curl. Her knuckles curl.

  Sorrow cries out, the torrent erratic and directionless. Envy grinds out his own climax, the influx washing through the grotto.

  The noises stack high. They jolt, suspended for a movement.

  And they tumble. The knot of tension breaks. Both Sorrow’s womb and his length seize up, then surrender. Her body contracts with Envy’s, her insides fracturing around him, the orgasm gushing from where they’re rooted together.

  In all this time, not once have they looked away from each other.

  And now she knows what that feels like.

  23

  Envy

  Afterward, he kisses her slowly. Still nestled between her thighs, still breathing hectically, he seals her mouth with his own.

  And so, he gives what’s left of himself to her.

  Her skin is fleece, soft and simple—like this moment. A gorgeous suffusion of red trails over her body, beckoning his lips to map out each blush until she chuckles.

  When she combs through his hair, nothing has ever felt so comforting.
With his erection still lodged in her, nothing has ever felt so agonizing.

  Reluctantly, Envy pulls out and rolls them over. Wrapped around one another, they listen to the waterfalls.

  Soon enough, he glances at Sorrow. Dipping his head, he grazes his nose against hers. “You are my pleasure and pain.”

  She gulps. “Back atcha.”

  Her expression wears the aftereffects of his lovemaking. A landslide of emotions tackles his heart to the ground. Over the centuries, countless deities have mooned at him, but none have ever looked at him this way.

  His own little drowning star, to whom he winks.

  24

  Sorrow

  Afterward, they dress one another slowly. Their eyes remain pinned as Envy tugs Sorrow’s skirt up her limbs, as she drapes his shirt over his shoulders and buttons the material. Their movements are tender, and languid, and intimate. This turning point is as priceless as the endless sounds they’d made together.

  Sorrow stares at Envy, at an utter loss for words. Every smile drills another hole into her chest.

  How one can feel pleasure while enduring pain? Are both synonymous? Is it impossible to have one without the other?

  She should know, but she doesn’t. She’s unsure if she knows anything at all.

  Because maybe her sovereigns had known better than she. Because that’s how destiny works, predicting the moves and countermoves before the players act.

  Because until this moment, her answer to the Court had been no.

  And until this moment, she had expected it to stay that way.

  25

  Envy

  It happened. It happened in a way it’s never happened before.

  What just transpired between them has a sumptuous and priceless texture that he fails to identify. Is this what it’s like for his friends?

  Envy wants to do and say shit that’s out of character to his nature. He wants to spring into cartwheels and hoot a confounded melody. He wants to spoil her, make her come at least two dozen times. He wants to learn more about this feeling, figure out how it works.

  But they can’t stay here. And he’s too fretful, barely cognizant of where to start.

  He’s been a fool for centuries, taking this for granted. But then, perhaps they’d needed to go through their lives just as they had, in order to end up here. If he’d been able to undo prior events, would he have? Only a mating of fate and free will can say.

  He swaggers up behind her, where she stands contemplating the blurry landscape beyond the waterfall. Encircling her middle, he flirts, “I’ve always liked purple hair.”

  She tenses, then slumps into him. “I bet you have.”

  Funny. He would’ve expected a snort, a caress of his forearms, something typical or intimate. Well, they’ll improve at this.

  Envy confirms for Sorrow the details of their escape, including Echo’s help, Siren’s message, and that unnamed youth’s assistance. Then Envy wheels Sorrow around, securing her in his embrace. “What did they do to you?”

  “You’ve seen it,” she says, referring stoically to the ladder of cuts. “They wanted to know how we got here, and who’s with us, and where they are.” She dissects his lack of reply. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I told them?”

  “No,” is all he says, injecting trust into the word.

  He doesn’t ask what her answer had been to the Court because he doesn’t need to. Incisions aside, Sorrow would never betray that information. Her friends mean too much to her, as does this campaign. That’s why she rescued Love’s iron weapons; she wouldn’t turn her back on any of them.

  Had she done this for him, too? Flung herself into harm’s way, in order to protect him?

  Yes, she had. He had felt it in the way she’d shared her body—in the primal arch of her back, her hands gripping him, her lips clinging to his. All of it has since dissipated, replaced by a strange sort of vulnerability. In fact, Sorrow flinches at the implication that he doesn’t need her to answer him.

  On the other hand, this thing between them is new.

  Extending his hand, Envy cradles her cheek and strokes his thumb across the surface, smoothing out the rough edges. “All I want to know is what happens next.”

  “I want to know that, too.”

  “I would say this is the sexiest truce in the history of truces.” He levels her with a serious expression. “I’m all in, if you are.”

  She wavers. “Envy, I—”

  “Well, I’ll be fate-fucked.”

  They spring apart. Swiveling toward the impish voice, they come face-to-face with six astounded archers who stand there goggling at the scene.

  Love, her white dress smudged with dirt, her mouth agape.

  Andrew, his white hair a beacon as he expels a ragged breath.

  Anger, his turbulent features slack for once.

  Merry, in her bedraggled tulle frock and beaming as if just discovering that faeries exist.

  Wonder, her cherub features lifting into a grin.

  Malice, trussed up in devilish leather and smirking as if he knows exactly what shenanigans Envy and Sorrow have been up to. “Look at you two, doing the immortal walk of shame,” the demon god congratulates them.

  “Kindreds!” Merry chirps, dropping her skateboard and hopping across the divide, her pink ponytail bouncing. She flings her arms around Envy and Sorrow, squishing them against her. “I’m positively dizzy with glee.” Flouncing back to give them air, Merry seizes their hands. “How we’ve searched for you high and low, after being torn asunder!”

  “You guys are one hell of a sight for sore eyes,” Andrew says, while the rest of the group exhibit varying degrees of relief.

  “How did you know where we were?” Sorrow asks.

  “Can’t you guess?” Envy quips with a smug flash of teeth. “My charm and animal magnetism lured them here. The frequency is just that strong. All they had to do was follow the path to greatness.”

  Beside him, Sorrow hedges. She seems daunted as well as comforted to see them, which can’t be right. It must be due to her recent ordeal and everything that’s happened since the separation. She’s frazzled, that’s all.

  The reunion begins, with everyone embracing, their voices overlapping with inquiries and exclamations. During a rift in the conversation, Sorrow hustles to retrieve the iron archery. She hands it to Love, who accepts the weapons with reverent astonishment. Since it’s clear that Sorrow isn’t going to say anything, Envy takes it upon himself to fill in the blanks about what Sorrow went through to get the longbow and quiver.

  Meanwhile, Sorrow and Love stare at each other. The latter goddess gives Sorrow a wobbly smile as she tucks the archery against her, then kisses Sorrow’s cheek.

  Once the shock of the story subsides, Anger interjects. “How about a trade?” He produces Sorrow’s archery with a mild grin. “Just like you, they don’t go down easily.”

  “Anger rescued the weapons after you went overboard,” Merry rhapsodizes as Sorrow accepts the longbow with tremulous expression. “He dove in to find both of you, but you’d vanished, so he braved the rapids and saved the archery instead, preventing them from sinking to a dismal end.”

  “I tried to find yours,” Anger says to Envy. “They’d tumbled from the boat, and we couldn’t see them.” He glimpses the set of glass resting in the alcove. “Though it appears you sniffed them out on your own.”

  Envy recaps the past seventy-two hours, omitting the personal bits about him and Sorrow. Anger grimaces as if the concept of Envy and Sorrow stuck together is cataclysmic.

  Sorrow gives an abbreviated report about their rulers, about being captured, and about the monarchs maiming her. Is it just Envy, or does he detect a note of contrition in her voice?

  No, it’s not just him. A mastermind of subtext seems to notice as well. Malice tilts his shrewd head as he surveys the goddess.

  Envy’s friends take turns breaking down their excursion. After the rapids, they’d ended up on another side of the cliff and dis
covered a conduit, which was the only option, since none are as versed with this particular summit as Envy.

  Battered and bruised, they rested and then sifted their way out, hoping for an outlet or lookout point where they could search for Envy and Sorrow. Or at least rejoin the path leading to their original destination.

  Neither had panned out. They wandered for three days before stumbling upon the waterfall enclave hours ago. From there, they managed to locate the cavern and recognized the signs of Envy’s residency. Basically, the hollow filled with his wardrobe tipped them off.

  By then, Envy and Sorrow were gone and dealing with the Fate Court. But the group had backtracked through the enclave, on a hunch that Envy and Sorrow might be nearby. And here they are, at the hub, where the grotto intersects with the tunnel, leading from the palace’s throne garden. It appears the belly of this cliff has a number of arteries beyond what Envy had comprehended.

  “We might’ve found you two sooner, if the stormy god to my left hadn’t bitched about taking the east tunnel instead of west,” Malice remarks, then erects his index finger, the nail as sharp as a talon. “I sayeth, we went round and round more times than a fucking prayer circle.”

  “Will you please let that go?” Anger snaps.

  “Sorry, mate.” Malice levels him with a devil-may-care grin. “Beating that dead horse is what you get for not listening to me, or Wonder, or Andrew, or Love. It’s also what you get for turning down my original ‘Teepee-the-Palace’ idea.”

  Ah, yes. Malice had suggested that as a military tactic, prior to entering the Peaks. But because he’s Malice, no one had been able to gauge whether he’d been serious or not. Either way, Anger had shot down the proposal.

  As for their outlook, everyone agrees. Though the Court knows of their presence, it doesn’t detour the plan. Sorrow hadn’t given anything away, after all.

  Envy had intended to sail his boat with her to Fortune’s Crest. From the enclave, there’s a waterway that will take them there. But the vessel isn’t big enough for all of them, which means they’re traveling on foot.