Tags: size difference, scent kink, blood kink, anal sex, multiple orgasm, egg laying, mpreg, hurt/comfort, angst, romance, touch starvation, body worship, selectively mute! tarnished, top! messmer, insecurity, topping from the bottom, Messmer POV, possessive behavior, miscommunication, resolved sexual tension, fluff, face fucking, family
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chapter 1
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Messmer sits in the center of his nest, not alone, not really, because a few feet away, bundled in a myriad of sheets, are his eggs. His and Eyries, he corrects, and thinking of them only makes his listless, foul mood worse. After days of rest, his Tarnished had recovered from laying the eggs and while they were content to remain at his side, they were not content to remain in his chambers, much to his disappointment.
His consort takes leisurely walks throughout the Shadow Keep, their little treks becoming longer and longer with each day as they grow confident exploring its many floors and halls, now without the worry of being attacked by his guardsmen or the vermin that tended to sneak in and make a home for themselves.
He makes a habit of following them, keeping his presence cloaked in the safety of the shadows that the rafters on the upper floors of the Shadow Keep provided. From this vantage point, he can see his Tarnished perfectly, how they scour the many tomes on the bookshelves, unbothered by the scholars beside them, how they drag their fingers across one of the massive bones of a specimen on display, looking fascinated.
He sometimes finds them sitting atop one of the hanging specimens, the treacherous path up to one of them no problem at all for his nimble consort. They sit on the back of a specimen, right between the grooves of its spine, and their legs dangle over as they sit there thinking, although what about, he is not sure.
What occupied such a strange man’s thoughts?
The last time he’d been trailing them, Eyrie had made themselves comfortable in the armory and had been tending to their shield and sword. The armory is empty, save for them, and the candles lit are dwindling, making the room especially warm and peaceful looking. They were captivating, those beguiling purple eyes set in serene concentration as they sharpened their blade against a whetstone.
He must have made a noise of some kind or disturbed the dirt on the rafter with his feet, because Eyrie had stopped sharpening their sword and looked up, face turned the exact direction where he’d been hiding.
He’d frozen clean to the spot, gut dropping.
Could they see him, despite the shadows he was hiding in?
He had remembered, far too late, how his singular eye glowed in the dark. It must have been the only thing they could have seen of him.
Cursing, he’d turned his face away, using his serpents to instead gauge their reaction.
Eyrie hadn't seemed all that upset at their discovery of him. It was almost as if they’d known he’d been following them this entire time, or maybe after catching him just this once, they’d put together the pieces and figured it out.
Knowing that he was still there, watching, his consort had smiled, lips curling wryly at the corners, and they'd returned to sharpening their sword, in no hurry to return to his chambers or to confront him for his small transgression.
He’d left soon after in a huff, embarrassed.
That was days ago, and while Eyrie always makes sure to return before night fall, never staying away for long, he detests that they leave his chambers at all. It becomes worse when their need for movement and exploration grows beyond what his Keep can satisfy. Earlier that day, his guardsmen had informed him that Eyrie had left the Shadow Keep entirely, seen riding their spectral steed south, towards the Gravesite Plains.
It had shocked him initially, but he had managed to contain his emotions in front of his men and simply dismissed them with the order of informing him when they returned.
If they returned, he thinks in the back of his mind.
He’d asked Eyrie to stay with him, to abandon their ambitions, but he had not asked them to stay in the Keep, never leaving, for eternity.
Perhaps he should have, as now that they are gone, and the hours continue to pass, loneliness sneaks up like an assassin and drives its terrible dagger into his heart and twists.
He understands their need for sunlight and fresh air—
To a degree.
He himself preferred the warm, stagnant air of the Keep, and the shadows that clung to every corner. What need for sunlight did he have, when there was enough light that snuck through the rafters, illuminating the wayward dust motes in the still air.
His body is stiff from sitting in front of the clutch for hours on end, so he stands and begins to pace his chambers, feeling unstable both physically and spiritually. He’s yet to eat, he realizes. He cannot remember the last meal he’d accepted from his men. He is starving, and by extension, his two serpents are famished as well.
He often neglects feeding himself routinely, usually eating a large meal every few days or picking at something small throughout the day.
He goes to his mother’s statue to pray when he becomes sick of pacing, but it is difficult when his serpents are starting to become quarrelsome from their hunger. They start to nudge their muzzles against his mouth, as if to physically remind him that he needs to eat. He shakes his face away, going back to praying, but now the other serpent was chewing on the ends of his frazzled, red hair.
“Cease this at once.” He fusses, batting them away from his hair gently, and his serpents are upset enough with him to even hiss, although they do it quietly, before settling down, looking exhausted. He feels tired, too, but just like his appetite, sleep eluded him as his melancholy tightened its grip on him.
He returns to the nest at some point, readjusting the sheets around the three eggs, and while it is tempting to lay beside them, especially now that the sun is setting, he refuses to sleep alone. He takes a seat on his throne instead, melancholy turning into ire, as it always did when he was allowed to ruminate.
When the sun is soon to set at last, some of his men arrive to inform him that Eyrie has returned, and while elated at first, the feeling only remains for a second before the anger returns. His hands grip the armrests of his throne as he waits for his Tarnished to make their way up to his chambers. He feels their presence becoming stronger, little by little as they ascended each floor. He feels them on the other side of the door now, and part of him is tempted to seal the door and force them to beg on their knees to be allowed in.
It would soothe his temperament, but not his heart.
He simply wants to see them and know where they’ve been.
Engrossed within his spiraling thoughts, he startles a little as the double doors are pushed open and Eyrie steps inside his chambers, black hair looking windswept from the ride back. There is an ease to their shoulders and eyes that wilts upon seeing the furious clench of his jaw.
“Thou have remembered to return, it seemeth…” He speaks in greeting, emotions spiking as he’s assaulted by the myriads of different scents that were despoiling Eyrie’s natural one. He can smell the salt from the sea on them, can smell a few different animals on them, as well as the blood that stained their scabbard. He crosses one leg over the other, tapping his clawed fingers against the armrest rhythmically.
Eyrie watches from where they remain at the door, studying him for a moment, before at last walking further into his chambers. His serpents perk up as they approach, but they do not have the energy to extend out and greet them, only managing to bob their heads up in greeting, before laying back down.
He is about to voice more of his upset at them, but the second he opens his mouth, there is a sharp, throbbing pain behind his eye, making him hiss, and he raises a hand to grip his temple. The pain was a good reminder of how poorly he’d maintained his form that day. The worse shape he was in, the more difficult it became for his serpents to keep the Abyssal Serpent at bay, and he can already feel its influence rousing from deep within. It makes him cold, and pain ripples through his body like the Abyssal Serpent is trying to tear itself out.
Eyrie frowns, moving his hand away, and they raise his face with both of their hands. He shakily opens his eye, sweat beginning to bead at his temple. Their brows were furrowed together, and they wipe away the sweat gently, turning his face this way and that in their hold, examining him for injuries.
“Tis no ailment.” He forces out, trying to move away from their touch, still upset with them for being gone for so long—and for leaving at all.
Eyrie allows him to rebuff their touch. They eye him for a second before leaving and he instinctively reaches out for them, desperate, and flushes with shame afterwards, lowering his face in his hands.
They return shortly, standing in front of him again, and when he raises his hands from his face, he sees that they have brought a flagon of water and a platter of food. They do not ask permission before taking a seat on his lap. They do not ask permission to bring the flagon towards his lips to carefully help him drink the tepid water.
Emptied, they set it aside and hold the platter with one hand and use the other to hand feed him. They push a grape against his mouth until he acquiesces at last, and he fumes as he chews around the fruit. He finishes everything on the platter, a little surprised at that, and while mostly content, his serpents, now rejuvenated the slightest, start up their poor behavior from hours ago and start rubbing their faces against Eyrie’s shoulder and chest, flicking out their tongues.
He knows what they want, because it is the very same thing he wants: their blood.
He craves blood more than any luxurious meal or finely aged wine. He always considered it to be a symptom of his affliction.
“Think nothing of it.” He tells Eyrie, who is watching as his serpents continue to nip at them incessantly. He tries not to think about how hot their skin is and how good their blood had tasted the one and only time he’d been given a taste. Unknowingly, he makes a small noise, shivering a little, and runs his forked tongue over a fang.
It hurts deeply to keep his natural urges shut away, but he has decades and decades of practice.
If given a few minutes to meditate, he can will the desire away completely, and eventually his serpents will settle once more.
When he dares look at them again, he sucks in a choked breath. Eyrie is rolling their tunic over their head and tosses it aside, baring their upper half to him completely. Their rich, brown skin and taut muscles make his head spin. Fine black hair covers their chiseled abs and trails down from underneath their belly button leading towards their leather trousers. The soft fat padding the muscle of their pecs was accentuated in the candlelight. The silver nipple piercings twinkled tantalizingly.
Gold would suit them more, he thinks, but there is something to be said about how silver looked against their skin and how it complimented the coolness of their purple eyes. They sit up on their knees, which bracket his massive thighs, and while it doesn’t at all make their faces level, it at least brings their chest closer to his face, which is apparently their intention.
They guide his face to his chest, and his nose brushes against their skin. Soft. Warm. He wants to bite into the muscle but fights the urge. It wasn’t Lordly to put his consort through such pain, to drain them like he would an animal, and it is shame, always shame, that freezes him to the point of inaction, even as his entire being screams for him to open his mouth and taste what he is being freely offered.
Eyrie slips a hand into his hair, their palm resting to cup the back of his head and they pull him closer, encouraging, and now that his lips are pressed to the delicious skin of their pec, his resolve shatters and he opens his mouth wide, suddenly, and takes a bite, fangs sinking in deep. Blood gushes into his mouth and he moans loudly, looping his arms around their waist and pulling them closer. They make a breathy sound, surprised, and even when his serpents join in and take loving bites out of their flesh, his consort doesn’t fight or protest.
They run their fingers through his red hair, humming quietly to encourage him, content to give him as much as he wants.
And he wants, so, so, terribly.
When the blood from his first bite stops flowing, he moves to their other pec. His eye rolls into the back of his skull as he tastes more of their sweet blood. He breaks away to lean against his throne, mouth hung open as he pants hard, his ashen lips stained red.
Eyrie is smiling at him in a way that makes his heart leap in his chest.
They lean forward and lick away the rest of their blood from his lips, before kissing him.
Now that his urges had been quelled, the call of the Abyssal Serpent was quiet, like the knocking on a door at the end of a very long hallway. Their blood had stirred up other feelings, but he is too exhausted now, wanting nothing more than to sleep beside them.
Eyrie slips off his lap, taking a sip from their flask, before trailing after him towards the nest. He lays on his back, waiting for them to join him, but he is glad to see that they check the eggs first. They rub the reticulated shells gently, before pressing a kiss atop them each, one by one. They untie their satchel from their waist, tossing it aside, but they remember something, grabbing it again, before crawling over to him.
They sit on their folded knees beside him.
He’s half asleep already, but he manages to give attention to whatever it is they’re trying to show him: a shell, a large one, bigger than their hands. It had plenty of space within it for a crab to live. With the long, blunt spikes that stick out of the shell, it makes him think of a barbed gauntlet. The underside of the shell is completely smooth, and unlike the outside, which was bleached white, the innards are an enchanting mixture of pinks, blue and oranges.
They hold it out for him, and he’s confused, but only for a moment.
They weren’t just showing him something pretty they found.
They were gifting it to him.
It was clear that although Eyrie may have left, he was a constant in their thoughts.
Other Lords might shun such a gift, but not him. He has received oaths, curses, and damnations in excess, but once his mother left, there has been no one and nothing to care for him in such a way. When they place the shell in his awaiting palm, Eyrie pantomimes bringing it up to his ear. He does so and is surprised to find that for some reason he can hear the sea.
He’s smiling, he realizes, as he lowers the shell from his ear and turns it around in his grasp to further appreciate the colors on the inside.
“It is appreciated.” He remarks, a little shy now that he realizes they’d been watching his face the entire time, and his cheeks flush. “…My thanks, mine consort.” And he says their title quietly, still unused to having someone he could refer to as such.
They unceremoniously flop onto their side after, offering their back, and he curls around them immediately, serpents wrapping around them as well. It is how they have slept together every night.
Eyrie’s treks outside of the Shadow Keep become more frequent, but they now put forth the effort of showing him on their aged map just where exactly they felt like exploring, and they always returned as soon as they sun set, and typically brought back something for him. He adds each of their gifts to his nest, readjusting how they were placed from time to time.
He’d still prefer if they remained within the Keep for most of their time, but he no longer finds himself spiraling into misery at their absence. There are times where even he himself feels the need to leave his chambers and wander the property of his Keep, and on those rare occasions, Eyrie is more than willing to remain in his chambers to watch after the clutch.
The times that he returns and finds them sleeping around the eggs he feels an inexplicable joy surge within him. It leaves him reeling and breathless; his heart feeling far too large for the space it is being contained.
Every time he looks at Eyrie, as of late, he finds that his hands twitch with the need to touch them.
He wishes to take them, as he did the first time, but he reminds himself over and over that he is a Lord, and that it is unbefitting of a Lord to force themselves on their consort like an animal whenever he felt the urge. He’d already burdened them with the physical labor of laying his eggs, and while he is assured that their form took no permanent damage from the experience, he knows that the sole purpose of lying with his consort is to produce a lineage.
With a lineage now secured, he really should not be desiring them as much as he should.
And yet…
He rids himself of the thought entirely. Here he was thinking of his own wants and needs, when he had been neglecting something very important: commissioning one of his blacksmiths to make his consort a crown.
He ruminates over the design, first asking the blacksmith to make one in gold, then silver. Then he realizes that a typical crown would be entirely too heavy and unwieldy for someone as light on their feet. He requests a circlet instead, silver, and delicate. Then he spends an even longer amount of time debating on what kind of design should be engraved on the band, or if any should be placed at all. Maybe small, glittering gemstones would suit them better.
Because of his indecisiveness, it takes almost a week for a suitable circlet to be finished, but once it is finished and presented to him atop a small, velvet pillow, he knows at once that it is perfect.
“Thine finest work, certainly.” He commends his lady blacksmith, and she graciously bows her face.
It was tempting to sequester the gift in some hidden room while he waited for the perfect occasion to present it, but he is far too eager to see how the circlet fits atop Eyrie’s head—of how they might react. Thinking of their quiet, wry smile makes him feel hot, and he stops his journey back to his chambers to lean against a wall, hand resting over his beating heart.
“Mercy be upon me…” He sighs, lovesick.
He reaches the double doors to his chambers, hesitating outside of it for the first time in perhaps the entirety of his life. Taking a deep breath, he tucks the arm holding the pillow with the circlet underneath his cloak and then pushes the door open, stepping in with his head held high.
He hadn’t sensed a second presence, but there is most certainly one.
Eyrie is dressed fully in their meagre armor and had their sword and shield readied as they dance around the space in front of his throne, sparring with a mirror-image of themselves, and it is as he enters that Eyrie’s focus breaks and they look towards him, eyes brightening at his return, but it gives their mimic an opportunity to attack—it rears forward, spinning in a familiar fashion as it readies to use the gathered momentum to cleave his consort’s head off.
But his consort is quick, jumping out of the direction of the attack in a graceful roll, their muscular body gleaming with sweat as they straightened just behind the mimic and grasped its shoulder with one hand before backstabbing it.
Chest rising and falling rapidly as they sucked in breaths, Eyrie turns fully towards him, smiling now.
Bewitched, he walks over to them at once, one of his knees buckling, and he curses, straightening at once as he settles to stand in front of them. God, all he could smell was them…Their sweat, the blood pumping just below their skin, the musk between their legs and underneath their arms.
Focus, he reprimands himself.
Eyrie gestures for him to lean down a fair bit, and once his face is squarely leveled with theirs, he makes a scandalized sound when they kiss him on the lips with no warning at all.
His eye widens, and his serpents twitch about restlessly.
They hum a little, content that he has returned, and break the kiss to lick their lips, uncaring of how lascivious the gesture is or how much it almost brings him to his knees entirely.
“I have something for thee.” He says in a voice that is far too breathless. Slowly, he pulls his concealed arm from out of his cloak, presenting the circlet that sat atop the pillow.
Eyrie stares at it, eyes wide, clearly surprised. Their purple eyes trace the silver band, admiring the intricate engravings and the small, sparkling white gems embedded in such a way that no matter how the light touched it, it glowed like moonlight against the surface of a lake.
The surprised expression on their face calms and is replaced by one of confliction.
His shoulders drop the slightest.
“…Is it not to thine liking?” He asks, sorely disappointed, as he thought it would look magnificent in contrast to their dark hair. “If thou allow me a week’s more of thine patience, I will see to it that a suitable crown is made—one that will suit thine’s tastes perfectly.”
Eyrie’s mouth falls open, and they shake their head fiercely.
They grab at his free hand, which confuses him, until they start tracing words onto the wide expanse of his palm.
“Beautiful.” They write, and his worries are somewhat soothed. “Too beautiful.”
“Nonsense.” He huffs. “It’s beauty hardly compares to whom it is intended for. Wouldst thou allow me to put it on thee? I have been eager to see how it fits.”
But again, Eyrie shakes their head, refusing, and this time they even take a step away from him.
“Why?” He asks, becoming furious, and he closes what little distance Eyrie put between the two of them.
They take his hand again and quickly answer him.
“Dishonorable.” They write, and his heart falls to the ground and feels as if they’d succinctly stomped it into mush.
He almost drops the circlet in his hurt, but he collects himself.
“Thy consider our union…dishonorable?” He asks quietly, tortured by this revelation, but surely, he should have seen this coming.
What creature, let alone man, would ever have him as their Lord?
Eyrie makes a frustrated sound, and they make sure he is watching them when they shake their head again.
“Graceless.” They write into his palm, pointing at themselves. “Lowborn. Undeserving.”
“Thou art neither of those things!” He protests, upset, “Thy have accepted to stay as mine consort, and so it is only proper that thee wear something that befits the status. What of thine past shames thee so?”
Eyrie looks somber as they slip their hand away from his palm, suddenly finished discussing the matter, but he isn’t.
Before they can walk away from him, he captures them by the waist with one of his snakes—or he tries to, but Eyrie had just been sparring, and their senses were still sharp, so they twist out of the way, barely putting forth effort as they dodged his grab seamlessly, before walking towards the double doors, their back to him as they quietly leave.
He hadn’t been able to see their expression as they left.
Were they furious with him? Were they crying? Before he knows it, they’re gone, and he’s just standing in the middle of his chambers, alone.
Why had he pushed them so?
His emotions had ruled his being again, and now he had insulted his consort, and they were leaving.
Lip quivering, he curses, and sets the circlet atop his throne, before throwing himself into his nest, burying his face into the pillows. His serpents try to soothe him by rubbing against his face, but he ignores them.
He doesn’t deserve their pity.
None of his men arrive at his door to tell him that Eyrie has left the Keep, but that didn’t stop the possibility of them sneaking out undetected. He wants to chase after them, wants to drag them back kicking and screaming, if he must, but the idea of them despising him, like all others despised him, makes his heart break.
A cursed, wretched thing such as himself should be content to have had them briefly, even more to be left with a clutch to raise.
Now that he is keenly aware of how little he knows about Eyrie, the desire to know everything is stifling. He wants to pry each and every secret out of them like precious pearls. Wants to become so knowledgeable of their wants and needs that he can fulfill them before the need even fully arises.
“Oh, mine dearest consort…” He bemoans, eye wet, and clutches the pillow that they slept on to his face, taking a deep inhale. It smelled like the oils they used in their hair. Instead of soothing him, it makes the loneliness even worse. He gives up on fighting back his emotions and allows himself to freely weep as pitifully as he wants.
It was unlikely anyone would come to his chambers anytime soon.
Yet he is proven wrong.
He stops crying at once, pushing up from the pillow he was hiding his face in, because he feels Eyrie at the door. They had returned, he realized with shock. It had only been an hour, perhaps less than that, and while hope blooms in his chest, he quickly stifles it, sobering himself with the thought that his consort could be returning with the sole purpose of telling him officially that they would be leaving.
He almost falls back against the nest with how much that thought guts him.
He cannot bear to go and see them, so he waits, miserable and anxious, in his nest. He rolls onto his side, facing the eggs, because he does not want them to see his face after he’d been crying. He hears the door open, hears their greaves rattling minutely as they walk deeper into his chambers. He feels the smallest brush of air against his legs as the curtains to his nest are pulled back.
He doesn’t move, even as he feels Eyrie walk over and take a seat behind his back.
They reach out with one hand and start combing their fingers through his hair. He bites back a sound, still feeling so unstable and sensitive, but the more they pet him, the more relaxed he becomes despite his best efforts.
He sniffs wetly, and their hand pauses.
Drat—
He’d meant to conceal that he’d been crying.
He feels Eyrie move closer, pressed to his back now as they lean over to look at his face. He can’t see them quite right, as his singular eye is half pressed against a pillow, but he uses one of his serpents to read their expression. Their face is sullen. There is an exhausted weight to their gaze.
They curl their hand under his chin, wanting to make him look at them, instead of the wall he’s been glaring at, but he fights against it, remaining tense and unmovable. They don’t get irritated with him, or sigh. They simply climb over him like they would a mountain and rest on their side so that they can face him, giving him no choice in concealing himself further unless he rolled over petulantly.
There’s no point now, given they can see his tear-stained face and how pink his cheeks and nose are. Their eyes soften, and they reach out to hold a lock of his hair, bringing it to their lips. They press a kiss to it, still staring at him.
The gesture makes a shiver run up his spine, and his shoulder shake.
They move up so that they can wrap their arms around his head, pulling him into an embrace that nestles his face into their chest. He is stunned, but he quickly relaxes. Wraps his arms around them and holds them tightly, perhaps too tightly, and takes a deep inhale of their scent. He nuzzles his face against the bare part of their chest that’s always exposed by their deep neckline.
“Forgive mine temperament.” He breathes against the spot over their heart. “I will not force thee to part with thine history. It was uncouth to attempt otherwise. Such a blunder will not happen twice, I swear to thee.”
He feels them press a kiss atop his head before they move against him to sit up. They don’t move to leave, Eyrie sits up so that they can take off their greaves, tossing them aside, before doing the same with their shoes and rolling up the hems of their leather trousers to reveal their ankles. He’s seen them completely naked, only twice, and his attention has never been drawn towards this part of them, but now that he is given the chance to look, it becomes crystal clear what they are trying to show him.
On both of their ankles, there is the tell-tale uneven, thick scarring that came from the prolonged wearing of shackles.
“Thou were imprisoned?” He asks, sitting up now so he can take a better look at them. Eyrie swallows hard as he draws nearer, blinking hastily. “For what crime? On what paltry, little lordling’s authority?” He continues, fury beginning to simmer in his chest.
Eyrie hesitates when they reach for his hand, which is a first.
“Slave.” They spell out, expression dimming with each letter. Their face lowers, their index finger starting to waver as it adds something else: “Whore.”
Another first; Eyrie turns away from him, unable to meet his eyes. They look so much smaller now, shrunk inward by the shame that settles over their entire being like a shroud.
The silence between them thickens the very air.
He is loath to see them so upset, but for now he keeps his words to himself, wanting to take time to process his whirling thoughts and feelings before he breathes them into being so that he will be confident when he says them. He slowly rises to his feet, sparing them one last glance, before leaving the nest and walking over to his throne, where he picks up the circlet before returning to sit on his knees in front of them.
They have not turned their face back towards him. From this angle, the longer parts of their hair conceal their eyes. He uses one of his serpents to peek at them and his heart clenches as he confirms that his consort was in fact weeping, but they did so in a strange manner, remaining as silent as the grave, even while looking utterly miserable. Not even their shoulders shake as tears pour endlessly from their eyes, tracing their cheekbones and falling onto the sheets.
They notice his serpent, and their eyes shut. He moves it closer, and rubs its muzzle against Eyrie’s cheek, licking away a few of their tears as a distraction while he reaches out and captures their chin gently, turning their face to him.
“Any Lord would be honored to have thee,” He assures them, brushing his thumb against their cheek, mindful of the sharp tips of his nails. “But none but I, and I alone shall have that honor, forevermore, mine tender-hearted consort.” And slowly, he leans forward, heart beating erratically as he presses his lips to theirs.
He breaks away first, a little shaky as picks up the circlet to his right. He sets it atop their head with reverence, fixing its position a little, then he lowers his hands.
They look as perfect as he’d imagined.
“A crown befits thee as much as the sun’s rays upon thine skin.” He remarks breathlessly, taken aback by how lovely they looked. He pulls them into his lap, pressing his forehead to theirs, his singular yellow eye staring intensely into their eyes. “Allow none to utter a breath otherwise.” He tells them, his large hands set on either side of their waist to secure them on his lap.
Eyrie is still, but only momentarily. They melt in his hands, pliant like a sapling, and lean their weight against him, purple eyes fluttering shut.
After some deliberation, they nod, just once, before pressing a kiss to the prominent bridge of his nose and returning his embrace fully at last.