Chapter Text
He really should have taken up making love to her years ago.
It’s not just the physical aspect, although that part is not to be ignored. It’s a deeper sense of connection, of reading her moods and her thoughts through her body. Even when not in the act of making love, their wordless communication has improved. He’s learning to interpret the shift of her knee, the placement of her hand on her staff. He’s no longer annoyed by what he thinks is her on the edge, not paying attention. Her body tells him she listens, and what she thinks.
But he very much also likes when she sits on his dick.
They’re both getting used to the tenderness, the warmth. The rhythms of each other’s pulse and breathing. But they’re also finding the other doesn’t break easily.
And there are more place to enjoy each other than a bed.
He’s on the throne and she’s on him, rocking and riding. If one of the other evil warriors comes in now, they’ll get a show. Right before they’re blasted into a smudge on the wall.
In this position, she’s doing all of he work, but she’s not complaining. She rocks and glides, sliding up and down on him, her muscular thighs bunching and constricting in his grip. There’s a puddle of wetness between them, and a sheen of sweat on her silvery body.
But Skeletor is not one to sit still.
His hands roam across her body, squeezing, massaging. He pinches the flesh above her hipbone and she moans. He pulls the same trick on her nipple and she yelps.
Lyn shudders and grins, bucks against him.
“Do the other one.”
Skeletor obliges. The firm, brown nub puckers and slips between his fingers. Lyn throws her head back. With a hiss she drags her nails down the front of his chest, catching his dark blue parts. The intensity of the sensation shakes through him. Skeletor growls and digs his nails into her rump.
She’s firm, yet giving. Wet, and warm. Low, throaty noises mix with high yelps, as together they explore the textures of her skin, her hair, her insides.
And she is not afraid of him.
For the first time since the accident, someone sees past his deformity. When Lyn puts her arms around his neck and presses herself against him, there is no hesitation in her smile. No disgust or fear in her eyes.
Not even the mirror shows him such mercy.
Lyn shivers as he runs his nails down her ribs, leaving soft pink lines behind. Her head is thrown back, throat open to him. Skeletor trails his fingers up her ribs, between her breasts, over her collar bones, along the strong tendons that stand out in her neck. One large blue hand cups her face. The other takes a handful of short, white hair and pulls gently. Lyn groans.
“You like that, my queen?”
“Yes.”
He tugs a little harder.
“Of course you do.”
He’s got two handfuls of hair, so short it’s hard to keep ahold of, but he’s managing. Snowy tips spray between his fingers, and white teeth show as the witch’s lips pull back. But she doesn’t ask him to stop. Instead, she digs her nails into his chest, latching onto him like a cat with her claws.
Skeletor lets one fistful of hair go and starts kneading again, pressing into her flesh harder than he has before. Lyn’s breath hitches and sighs as he rolls over muscle and bone.
“That’s nice.”
“You want more?”
“Yes.”
He joins his other hand to the motion, starting at her head and moving down, squeezing until her bones must creak, her thighs wrapped in an answering crush outside his own.
“Breathe,” he says, because she’s forgotten to for a while.
Lyn sucks in a breath, and as she does, Skeletor slides his hands down her arms, in one movement pinning her wrists and pulling them above her head.
Lyn smiles at him, intrigued and unafraid.
“What’s this?”
“You like it?”
“I do…”
“Then don’t worry about it.”
Both chuckle. Skeletor changers her slim wrists to the grip of one hand and keeps them pinned above her head. With his now free hand, he returns to her breasts and belly, pinching, flicking, leaving soft pink marks from her collar to the place just above where they’re joined down below.
Lyn whimpers and squirms. Her motions feel amazing on his veined shaft still buried deep inside her. She bites back a cry when he runs a blunt nail across her nipple.
“Don’t swallow such beautiful noises, my queen.”
He takes her nipple again, slowly applying pressure, teasing the tip with his thumbnail.
“I want to hear you.”
He grips her whole breast and squeezes. She lets loose a shuddering mewl. As soon as she does he stops the pressure at once and strokes her cheek softly.
“That’s right.”
She’s still trying to fuck him, rocking her hips and squeezing with her thighs, but he’s removed almost all of her leverage in this position. A purple gaze pins him through white lashes.
“Tease.”
His only answer is a high giggle.
“Stand up.”
He doesn’t give her the opportunity to object. Releasing her hands, he lifts her and slides her, off the throne and off himself. Lyn shakes on her feet, arousal plus the loss of blood flow to her feet and hands no doubt. He steadies her, standing up to join her, and maneuvers around behind. He nudges her forward, not exactly gently.
Lyn catches herself against the throne. She shoots a questioning look over her shoulder at him as he grabs her ankle, lifting her knee onto the seat.
Skeletor folds over her, molding her back to his front. His erect length fits back in the slippery cleft propped open and waiting for him.
“Ready, my queen?”
There’s a wicked smile on her face and in her voice.
“Do your worst.”
“On the contrary: only the best for my queen.”
He pulls back, gets aligned, and lunges. Fluid gushes out between them. She’s hot, wet, already stretched open by him. And it’s so good to plunge into that heat, that wet. To feel her convulse around him, hear her cry out. To see her nails dig into the stone arm of the chair over her bowed head. If the rest of the mountain hears them, he doesn’t care. There’s only the woman below him, taking his strokes, meeting his thrusts, with only one word on her lips:
“Harder.”