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 2
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After that night, Messmer is delighted to see that Eyrie always wears the circlet, only removing it when they came to sleep beside him, or when they bathed.
The two of them were becoming more…at ease around one another. His consort’s affection pours from them freely. They are happy to slip their small hand into his, squeezing lightly, their palm so much softer and warmer than his own. The times when they bring his hand to their face, so that they may kiss the top of it, leaves him reeling and breathless, face so red that it nearly outshines his hair.
Several times now, his consort has done something sweet, and entirely innocuous, such as stroke his arm, or ask for him to bend at the knee so that they may kiss his cheek, but those small gestures are all it takes for him to hastily excuse himself, blood on fire as he absconds to an empty room or hallway to will his rabbit heart to calm.
He had been doing his utmost to remain chaste, and respectful, especially after learning of their history but it was proving difficult to keep his desires at bay.
He does not want to remind them for even a single instance of how they were treated in the past.
The eggs have yet to hatch, yet he wants nothing more than to take his consort and put a few more into them. He is a Lord, not an animal, he reprimands himself. He will not submit to his basest desires and disrespect them in such a way by asking to lay with them so soon after they had gone through the physical labor of laying his eggs.
So, he keeps his touch light.
Formal.
When Eyrie kisses him, he is the one to break away first, because it will be the very second that they drag their tongue across his lip that he will lose all composure and take them right then and there.
Gods, he aches for their touch. Just their scent alone was enough to rile him up.
He starts taking more walks around the Keep, alone, leaving Eyrie to guard his chambers and the eggs. Time away from them is only a minor cure for this sickness, and being away from them unnecessarily makes his spirit unsettled.
Try as he might, he can only stomach avoiding them for a few hours at most before his feet drag him back towards his chambers. It was one of those instances now—he’d finished exploring his Keep from bottom to top, clearing out wayward vermin, and even speaking with his lady blacksmith for some time, discussing what sort of jewelry he might commission next for his consort.
He hasn’t come to a decision, torn between a necklace, or perhaps a ring, and he is still thinking about the matter as he heads up to his chambers. He steels himself before entering, taking a deep, wavering breath before pushing open the doors.
Eyrie sometimes sits on his throne, when waiting for his return, and it dawns on him that a secondary throne, one much smaller, would look perfect beside his own. Perhaps he should have talked with his woodworker, instead. It was something to ponder, as he continues further into his chambers, and finds Eyrie readjusting the sheets around the eggs, making sure that they were sufficiently warm enough.
They brighten upon his entry into the nest, and crawl down from the elevated tier the eggs are residing to greet him, standing on the balls of their knees with their arms held wide open, expression warm and inviting. His stomach flops ceaselessly, and his cheeks flush.
He kneels before them, and they take his helmet off, laying it aside gently, before cupping his face and bringing his forehead to press against theirs in greeting. He shivers, minutely. Their skin is so warm…
He stiffens as their scent wafts into his nostrils, inadvertently leaning more of his weight against them. They interpret it as exhaustion, and lead him into laying on his back, his upper half pressed against their front, but his weight does not bother them, it seems. They sink their fingers into his frizzy, wavy hair, combing out wayward tangles with their nimble fingers. He sighs, relaxing immediately, and his eye slips closed.
It should be soothing—and it is, mostly, but he is unused to being touched, and touched so intimately, and it rouses the fire in his belly with the littlest of efforts. When their fingers tug some of his hair against a particularly stubborn knot, a breathy noise escapes him, and humiliated, he sinks his teeth into his bottom lip and lowers his face.
Eyrie taps his shoulder, their way of telling him to offer his hand so that they may use it to speak. He holds his palm up at once, and they write out:
“Hurt?” They ask, clearly worried, and that only makes him more ashamed.
He shakes his head, not trusting what other sounds might leave him.
Eyrie returns to combing, and it feels unfairly pleasant as they continue to accidentally tug at the roots of his hair while untangling it. There is sweat at his brow now, and his breath is quick, and shallow. Between his legs, his cock strains achingly against his undergarments, the bulge of it now becoming visible past the hem of his chest plate where it drapes into a pseudo skirt, baring his thighs, save for the spots concealed by his ceremonial cloak.
He squeezes his thighs together, throwing some of his cloak over his lap to conceal it at once.
Eyrie’s fingers still in his hair, and he internally panics, wondering if they noticed.
But before they can do anything, his focus is stolen away.
A group of his men are approaching his chambers.
He sits up at once, putting his helmet back on, and grabbing his spear, before exiting the nest swiftly and approaching the double doors. He wills them open just as his men are about to raise their hands and knock.
One of his elite knights is about to open their mouth and inform him of the problem at hand, but a sudden, screeching roar is answer enough.
There had been a second roar in answer.
Dragons.
A bonded pair, it seemed.
How irritating.
“Dispose of the vermin at once.” He commands, his order punctuated by the heavy thud of his spear tapping against the cobbled stone. “See to it that that they are—” And he stops talking, drawn by the quick footsteps behind him. Eyrie is fully dressed, their meagre armor settled on their shoulder and legs, their sword and shield ready and their eyes bright with excitement. “…Thy wish to join in the hunt? So be it. Have thy fill of bloodshed. I will await here, with the eggs, for thine return.”
Eyrie holds his hand briefly, which makes him blush, but he allows the public display of affection this once.
“Go now. Do not keep me waiting.” He tells them, yet it is his own fingers that linger as they take back their hand and leave with his men.
Cursing, he returns to his chambers, eyeing the eggs, before he makes his way to his personal balcony, which he rarely occupied. There was a red lounge chair perfectly suited for his size, and it is covered with many blankets and sheets, some of which spill to the floor like blood from a cut neck.
He has no intention of sitting on it. He grabs his personal telescope from a table and moves to lean against the railing so that he may watch from the perfect vantage point as his consort and his men race out on their horses to go confront the two large, dragons now loitering on the front of his Keep’s property. Eyrie’s spectral speed is as quick as its rider, and it is his consort who reaches the dragons first. They do not remain on their steed, jumping off it skillfully just as it dissipates into spectral dust, and they run towards the larger of the pair of dragons first, the male, who’s scales were a pale yellow, as if whitened from the sun.
His hand grips on the railing tightly as he watches them dance gracefully around the dragon’s attacks, dodging them by a hair’s breadth, all while inflicting painful wounds, even cutting one of its eyes and blinding it, making it lash out and accidentally attack its partner.
By the time his men even join the fray, the male dragon is dragging itself on its belly weakly in attempt to shield its mate, but he is privileged to see Eyrie’s blade sink deep into its belly, finishing it at last. When they pull out their blade there is a great gush of blood that drenches their entire form.
The remaining dragon wails, furious at its mates passing, and it fights erratically now, focusing solely on Eyrie, and not his men, who are chipping away at its flank. Eyrie whistles and their steed returns, carrying them safely away from the wall of fire the dragon is spewing. It turns in a circle, its head trailing after his consort’s movement, and the dragon readies its breath again, chest enlarging as its lungs expand, but before it can release it, Eyrie guides their horse towards its head and they jump off it, landing squarely on the dragon’s head and using both hands and the added weight of gravity to sink their blade deep into its skull, scrambling its brain.
The fire swelling in the dragon’s throat extinguishes.
Blood pours out of its skull and joins the massive, growing pool.
Drenched in blood, but still with their circlet perfectly atop their head, Eyrie pulls their sword free and jumps off the dragon’s carcass, boots splashing in the ocean of blood.
They looked radiant.
The hand holding the telescope trembles as his breathing quickens.
Somehow, Eyrie notices his staring, perhaps his large frame noticeable enough from his balcony, or perhaps the sunlight had caught the glass lens of the telescope. Either way, he sees them smile crookedly, before they bend at the waist, bowing.
He drops the telescope at once, gasping, and turns and leaves the balcony at once, heart beating a mile a minute.
There is no time to meditate or pray these burgeoning desires away.
He must go to the base floor of his Keep and dutifully await his consort’s arrival and compliment their endeavors—and his men, too, he supposed, although they certainly had their workload made lightened.
The real work his men would take on would be processing the dragon’s carcasses of its scales, hide, bone, and even its meat, which he was quite fond of. He storms each floor of his Keep, steadily lowering, and as he reaches the base floor, where the large, water laden area sits, he moves to stand just under the gate, one hand on his spear, the other behind his back as he puts his entire focus into willing himself to calm.
Just like with the dragons, Eyrie is the first to make it back to the Keep, and when they notice him waiting, they dismiss their horse and clear the rest of the distance on foot, the water they kick up washing away some of the blood on their boots and greaves.
“Thy fought magnificently, my consort.” He forces out, voice strained. His knees were starting to shake as their heady musk wafted into his nostrils. It was so potent it coated his throat, and he swallows hard, swearing that he can even taste it, if he chased it enough. Their black hair looked even darker when wet, the blood soaking it gathering at the ends and dripping onto their collarbone, where it pools, momentarily, before their quickened breathing eases the droplet of blood lower, and his eye watches it trace their chest before it disappears out of sight.
He tightens his grip on his spear. It is the only thing keeping him from tackling them to the floor—that, and the approaching group of his men.
Eyrie follows his line of sight, and they raise their sword, pumping it into the air twice in camaraderie, and his men follow suit, looking strangely invigorated.
His Tarnished turns back towards him, their bloody hand reaching for his, before they remember how filthy they are. He wouldn’t have minded if they still touched him, but they bend at the knee and wash their hands in the water of the arena, before taking his hand and writing on his palm.
“Feast.” They write on his palm, giving him a significant look in the direction of his men. “Celebration.”
He cannot recall if he’s ever held a banquet in celebration of anything.
The war he continues to wage in the name of his mother was a dark, cruel one. Having feasts, while blood continued to be spilled and the war was yet to be finished, seemed inappropriate. But this was no war—merely a hunt being complete.
“I see no harm in it.” He acquiesces after a long while, and with a single glance at one of his elite knights, they approach him quickly, bending at the knee. “Once the dragons have been processed, inform the cooks to prepare a feast at once. Have a room cleared to make way for the merriment. Tis well deserved.”
And with that, he dismisses his men, who seem to hold their heads higher as they slip into the Keep.
Eyrie offers their hand to him, and blinking rapidly, he takes it, and the two of them walk hand in hand up the many floors to his chambers. There are many times that he stops walking, so under the thumb of his own lust that he considers pushing them against a wall and sinking his fangs deep into their neck. Eyrie gives him a look each time, confused, but he excuses his behavior with the lie that he is merely hungry after smelling so much blood.
It isn’t entirely a lie, although it still shames him to tell them falsehoods of any kind.
He enters his chambers first, taking his hand away, and barely gets the words out that he is preparing a bath for them, before he shoots off towards the washroom. He paces the slowly filling tub, biting his thumbnail. He startles when Eyrie enters a moment after, and startles further when they begin to take off their bloodied armor piece by piece.
He wishes to help them, but he doesn’t trust his hands, and they wore so little armor that it truly did not necessitate assistance. They set all their armor on a pile on the floor, with their circlet carefully atop it all, and once they start taking their clothes off, he rushes to pick up everything, before swiftly exiting, shutting the door firmly behind him.
He leans against it, panting hard.
His snakes extend out to sniff their circlet curiously, their tongues flicking out. He cannot stop himself—he brings the circlet to his face and drags his forked tongue across the dragon blood stained against the band. He can smell their sweat on the inner side of the circlet. He shudders, beginning to feel lightheaded as arousal clouds his senses.
He is so entranced by the iron on his tongue and his consort’s scent, that the sudden knocking on his chamber’s double doors makes him drop the circlet and he frantically swipes for it before it clatters to the floor and reveals that he’s been standing outside of the washroom this entire time.
One of his serpents catches it in their jaws.
He sighs with relief, taking the circlet from its mouth and petting it before he briskly walks over to the entrance of his room.
It is his lady blacksmith, who perks up at the sight of his consort’s weapons and armor bundled in his arms. She wishes to clean and tend to it all, and while that makes perfect sense to him, of course, and he is elated that she is eager to do services for Eyrie, he hesitates for a moment before handing over everything.
He is about to close his doors, but as the blacksmith leaves, more of his men appear at the top of the stairs down the hall, their hands full of platters of food, as well as bottles of wine, and accompanying goblets and silverware. He is thankful that they recall his preference in eating alone, but he is quickly growing overwhelmed with so much fanfare and guests. He allows them to bring in a wooden table, which they dress accordingly with red cloths, before setting everything down and leaving with a bow of their heads.
When the door shuts this time, he seals it, making his opinion clear on anymore visitations.
Even with the door shut, he can hear the merriment starting from below. If it were louder, his sharp hearing would be able to focus on that, instead of the soft splashing in the washroom as Eyrie bathed.
Thinking of their beautiful skin, now glistening, wet with soap and water, is a poor decision. He hunches his shoulders, hands shaking, and stalks towards the table had been brought in and snatches a bottle of wine, using his fangs to inelegantly pull off the cork, which he spits aside, before pouring himself a full goblet.
He takes a deep drink, calming somewhat now as the alcohol settles in.
It is rare for him to drink. He typically saves it for the lonelier nights, when sleep evades him. Or he had—it has been many moons now, since he’s had to sleep alone. He doesn’t dare pour himself a second glass. Despite his large frame, he was sensitive to wine, and he was prone to weeping and becoming dull-witted after more than a single serving.
He can already feel his body warming, his face now flushed permanently.
He isn’t sure how to keep himself busy while Eyrie bathes. He goes to the nest and checks the eggs for the dozenth time that day, but there were still no signs of them hatching. When he puts his face to the shells, he is disappointed that he doesn’t hear any movement, but the warmth emanating from within assured him that things were fine.
He could remain in the nest and dutifully wait for his consort to finish their bath and lay beside him. He would very much like to feed them and see if their taste in wine was like his own, but he remembers suddenly that while he’d made sure to collect their filthy clothes and armor, he’d forgotten to provide them with something clean to change into.
Cursing, he tears from the nest and goes to one of the adjacent rooms to retrieve a clean robe for them and opens the washroom door slowly, the doors not even making a hint of a sound as he peeks in. He’d only meant to check if they were fully submerged in the water, as to protect their modesty, but he finds himself continuing to stare.
Eyrie is facing the doorway, their arms spread wide and hanging over the rim over the stone tub, their head leaning backwards and bearing the entirety of their throat. He drags his tongue over a fang. They do not notice his presence at all, entirely too relaxed in the steaming water. Eyrie sighs, bringing one hand up to brush some hair out of their face, and their bicep and the muscles in their chest flex attractively, making one of their nipple piercings jump at the movement.
He sets a hand on the door to brace himself because his legs are starting to feel weak.
His consort lifts off the side of the tub, stretching their shoulders, and dips themselves completely under the water, staying there for a second, before resurfacing and swiping the water and hair out of their eyes. The water pours down their sculpted chest, trailing the curve of their pec, then following the divots of their abs, and he is struck suddenly with the urge to lap that very same water from where it settles into their belly button.
He rakes his sharp nails against the wooden door, which inadvertently pushes it open further, and the hinges squeak noisily. Eyrie’s face whips towards him suddenly, eyes wide with alarm as they at last notice him.
He sucks in a breath, horrified, and steps away from the door, and when Eyrie begins to move towards the steps of the tub to investigate his actions further, he flees, dropping the robe he’d brought for them and absconding down the dimly lit hallways of his inner chambers.
He is a disgusting fiend for having spied upon them in such a vulnerable, private moment.
Truly, the depths of his own wickedness astounded him.
He means to shut himself away, perhaps on the balcony, or even deeper, but he’s barely down the hall when he hears wet footsteps swiftly trailing after him. He tries to hasten his escape, but he is so delirious with want that it leaves him panting and unable to keep himself totally upright. He stops, leaning against a wall, and brings a hand up to conceal his face.
Eyrie slips in front of him, and through the gaps in his fingers, he sees that they had picked up the robe he’d dropped and had hastily thrown it on, the ties not even set properly, so the entirety of their chest, stomach and thighs were visible to him. There were even some bubbles still clinging to the fine hair on their chest.
They look greatly concerned for his well-being.
He does not deserve it—
He does not deserve them.
The shame is enough to bring him to his knees. He bows his head as he kneels before them, staring at the scars on their ankles.
“Forgive me.” He pleads, voice in a strained whisper. “It was not my intention to spy upon thee, but my desire is insatiable. It sparks just upon looking at thine visage. At thine scent. For this very reason, I have…avoided thee, as of late. After our talk nights ago, I have doubled my efforts to remain chaste, as to not offend thee, but it is difficult. I have already failed and disrespected our bond. I will accept any punishment thou see fit: a lashing, a seat upon nails, whatever it takes to prove my sincerity.” He explains with a repentant tone.
There is movement.
His hand is pried away from his face, and he sees now that Eyrie has lowered to the floor as well.
He can scarcely stand to look at them. When he turns his face away, they immediately reach out with both of their hands and make him look at them. Their brows are furrowed, and their purple eyes are set intensely upon him.
He swallows hard.
“…Have thou ascertained a suitable punishment for this transgression?” He asks.
He has plenty of painful methods at his disposal to teach them.
After a second, Eyrie nods.
He is so, so relieved.
“Let us commence with it at once.” He tells them, standing up shakily.
He wants nothing more than to prove how sorry he is.
He wants to be in their good graces once more.
Eyrie, his kind, tender-hearted consort, still takes his hand in theirs, and leads him not to the nest, or the washroom, where his sin had taken place, but to the balcony, which greatly confuses him, but he will not open his mouth and question his Tarnished’s line of thinking. They direct him to take a seat atop the lounge, which he does so at once obediently.
It is nighttime, but the balcony is swathed in moonlight, perfectly bright for him to see every detail of his Tarnished’s face as they steadily take in his appearance: the sweat at his brow, the near constant flush on his cheekbones, and the shame upon his shoulders, which had served just as much time as a companion to him, as his serpents had.
They hold up a finger, before leaving, so he waits dutifully for them to return.
They return with two things: their red flask and a small, silver bell.
He’d never seen the bell before, but it was undoubtedly something of theirs, and not a mere trinket they’d just found.
Eyrie approaches, taking slow, languid steps towards him, their robes shuffling open wider. His guilt crescendos with each piece of skin he greedily ogles. When they stand before him, so close that he can feel the warmth rolling off their body in waves, his entire body flinches with the need to touch them, but he forces himself to remain where he is. Forces his hands to stay planted at his sides. They start to shake—that is how badly the want burns through him.
His consort divests him of his helmet, setting it upon the table nearby. Then they unlatch the gold pin keeping his cloak secured on his shoulders and they gather the large bundle of fabric and fold it neatly before it joins his helmet. He feels exposed, the only thing left on him his chest plate and grieves. They take those off him as well, needing him to stand, and part of him hopes that they will let him keep his undergarments on, but they deftly take those off as well, leaving him naked as the day he was born as he stands in front of them, shadowing them with his height, yet he is the one trembling.
He is guided back into sitting. He does not know what to do with himself, so he sets his hands on his lap. He wonders why they would want to see him this way. He was not impressive in the slightest without his full regalia on. His body was malformed, the proportions entirely off, leading to his arms and legs being well past what would be considered attractive in length.
Gangly, he thinks is the apt word for it.
His shoulders are broad, but his chest, waist and hips were exceedingly narrow. He failed to feed himself sufficiently, as was proven by how his body lacked any curves or soft spots. His face is gaunt and angular because of it. His flesh, like all demi-gods, was hardened like marble, but there were patches of skin on his back and chest around the exit points of his serpents that were softer, the texture even reminiscent of snake scales and red in color.
His consort’s eyes drag all over his body, taking in every inch.
They were so lovely in comparison that he almost feels the need to apologize for this form he’s been cursed with, but Eyrie doesn’t look at him with revulsion, or thinly veiled pity.
Their eyes are smoldering with the same desire that shined in his.
He is ill-equipped to process that. He squirms under their continued staring, his snakes just as shy as him now, and they coil tightly around him, unsure of what to anticipate as Eyrie at last stands directly in front of him.
Whatever his punishment, he will accept it gracefully.
He closes his eye, and takes a deep breath, expecting a sudden blow of some kind, still not sure why they decided to bring a bell with them, instead of a torture device.
Suddenly, there are hands cupping his face. Just as suddenly, there are lips pressed to his.
He sucks in a stunned breath, eye opening, and finds Eyrie’s eyes open too, as they kiss him. Of all the things he’d expected, it was not a kiss—and not one as sweet as this. He makes a pitiful sound in response, desperate for it, and they acquiesce, kissing him over and over, until he is a panting, shaking mess.
Even then, they do not let up, skillfully prying open his mouth with their tongue and curling it around one of his fangs, letting the sharp catch against the tip and draw out their enticing blood and when he tastes it, his desires from earlier come back with a vengeance.
He moans out their name, hips bucking, and one of the hands on his face glides into his hair, towards the back of his skull. It grabs a handful of hair and slowly clenches into a tight fist, pulling at the roots, and he hisses in pleasure, the sensation starting at the base of his spine and tingling upwards.
They move their face away, hovering it over his to study his expression.
Their jaw clenches, not out of anger, but as a byproduct of them clamping their teeth down on the cut on their tongue to ease out more blood. They open their mouth and hang their tongue out, the blood slowly welling up and tracing the length of it before dripping into his awaiting mouth.
He licks it up shamelessly, panting like a dog.
His cock stands at full attention, so full of blood that it was becoming painful.
He is allowed to savor their blood for another second, before Eyrie releases his hair and backs away the slightest, raising their hands to their shoulders to shrug off their silk robes completely. He stares with open hunger at their beautiful form. He pays particular attention to their shapely thighs and the thick cock hanging between their thighs, which was generous in size, given their proportions.
Eyrie falls gracefully to their knees between his thighs. Without fanfare they reach out, gliding their warm, calloused hand upward, tracing his inner thigh on its way to his flushed, swollen cock, which they grip the base of firmly, stealing an undignified yelp from him as his face turned wholly scarlet.
Their eyes become noticeably darker as they watch the tip of his cock weep. With their other hand, they bring their flask to their mouth, taking a sip, but noticeably not swallowing, and it is while they stare at him through their dark lashes that they move their face nearer and slip his cock into their mouth.
He cries out, back arching, and his serpents writhe in unison as pleasure spreads through him. Their mouth was hot, soft, and so skilled at taking his much larger length. The liquid from the flask coats him, leaving him feeling soaked and tingling, the excess dribbling down his shaft and following the subtle curve of his backside as Eyrie begins to bob their head slowly.
They waste no time in taking him deeper, his cock nudging the back of their throat now, and when they swallow hard around him, he feels pleasure like white hot fire licking at his heels, making him bring a hand to his mouth so he can bite the crook of a finger to keep himself grounded as they took him apart piece by piece.
When his thighs start to shake, and it becomes too much, his pleasure almost overflowing, they stop, to his terrible shock, and he looks down at them, confused.
Eyrie pulls their mouth completely off him but keeps their hand curled around his cock, pointedly refusing to move it. He makes a miserable sound, hips squirming to chase out more sensations, and their eyes crease in the corners with satisfaction.
He understands now that while Eyrie may have brought no tools of torture to assist them, they were perfectly equipped to put him through agony and they seem more than content to bring him closer and closer to the precipice repeatedly, only to stop entirely and leave him shaking and close to tears.
He throws his head back against the railing, brows pinching together. Just as he’s catching his breath, he hears something—a bell chiming prettily. He slowly brings his face back towards them, and is shocked when he finds not only Eyrie on their knees, but their mimic tear, who mirrors their exact position between his thighs. His consort leans their face towards their mimic’s ear, whispering a command he cannot make out, and it sits there motionless, its eyes dull, compared to its master, before an understanding is reached and the mimic too, reaches out and curls a hand around his cock, its grip cold and tingling.
His senses are overwhelmed by too many things; the disparity of temperatures between the hands stroking him, which was as strange as it was pleasing, the double set of his consort’s enthralling purple eyes, both of which were creased with satisfaction at his growing desperation. Eyrie, the real one, hums while taking his cock back into their mouth, uncaring of how their mimic’s hand bumps into their chin as it continues to pump him.
He feels faint, breaths coming out too shallowly to give him any true reprieve. His entire body is covered in a fine sheen of sweat, and the sheet draped across the lounge chair has been shredded to ribbons at the spots where his hands rest.
His consort could draw this out for far longer, he can tell, but either the tears welling in his eye, or the pitiful way he repeats their name, sways them into being merciful.
They slip him out of his mouth and press kiss after kiss against his wet slit, their mimic tear following suit and doing the same to the other side, and it is too much to see this lascivious gesture mirrored twice, and his body arches off the lounge completely, body taut like a bow as his entire body shakes as he finishes with a long, wavering gasp, painting his consort’s face with his seed messily.
“A-Ah, forgive me…” He warbles out through his labored breaths, still shaking as he rides out the pleasure in waves, more of his seed still pumping out and spilling against their lips and jaw. He tries to sit up so that he may clean their face for them, but Eyrie lays a hand flat on his stomach, a sign that they want him to remain exactly where he is.
They turn towards their mimic, raising a hand to cup its face affectionately for a second, before they dismiss it with another ring of the silver bell.
Eyrie stands up and swipes the mess from their face using two fingers, before climbing atop his lap, standing on the balls of their knees, their thighs spread wide as they reach around themselves to slip their slicked fingers into themselves. Their hips start to roll as they take their two fingers deeper, sweat beginning to bead on their face from the exertion. They were enjoying themselves, clearly, but there was a notable frustration in their face as they worked themselves open. Even after a third finger has been added, it doesn’t seem to sate them, and Eyrie’s mouth falls slack.
“Mess…mer…” His consort sighs wantonly, voice hitching as they sank back down on all three of their fingers, their hips swaying hypnotically.
How many nights had they uttered his name so sweetly, while touching themselves exactly in this fashion, all because he was too blind to realize that their desires ran as deeply as his own? His misguided attempts at chastity only served in starving them both of their needs.
He is a fool.
“Never again will I leave thee wanting.” He swears, at last gaining the courage to lift his hands and touch them. He sets his hands on their shapely hips, squeezing firmly, and that single touch alone is enough to make Eyrie’s eyes flutter closed and another soft sound spill from their lips. “Take what thy crave, and take it freely, for it is thine, my consort. All that I possess, all that I am—I bequeath it to thee.”
Their eyes open, and Eyrie surges forward and kisses him. He savors it, kissing them freely in return, taking his time as he tastes every inch of their mouth, and he feels them adjusting slightly, their fingers slipping out so they can curl their fingers around his cock and align it with their entrance. Just the tip brushing against their slicked hole is enough to elicit a sharp hiss from him.
They take a steadying breath before utterly impaling themselves on his cock, taking each inch with no trouble at all, as if their belly was the perfect scabbard for him to sheathe his sword. Eyrie hums beautifully, so pleased to be filled up, and once he is fully buried inside, they sit still for a second, thankfully giving him a second to catch his breath.
If they had started riding him immediately, he thinks he truly would have fainted on the spot.
He still comes close to it when they do start moving, his breath punching out of his lungs as they slowly and achingly slip off him, almost entirely, just the tip still pressed inside, before they sink all the way back down again, their supple thighs and backside making a satisfying slap as they bury his cock completely back inside.
His hands grip tighter around their hips, some of his nails digging into their skin and drawing blood, and he apologizes, but they’ve never shied away from pain, he realizes, and when he experimentally digs his nails deeper, they bounce on his lap faster.
They were precious, but they were not made of glass, that was more than evident. Pain wasn’t something that they tolerated for him; it was something that they themselves enjoyed, although he is glad to see they have limits to it. He does not think he could be anymore rough than he’s currently being. At least not without some gentle coaxing.
Something for next time, he thinks, unable to put his focus anywhere else but the tight, wet heat squeezing around him.
“Eyrie.” He calls out weakly, reaching out to cup their face. “If thou taketh too much, too deeply, thy will be impregnated once more. Thy have already put thine body through much, for mine sake.” And he does not mean just the egg laying from prior, but the battle they had won protecting his Keep, as well.
Just thinking of the display from hours ago makes his cock throb inside of them.
Eyrie gives him a puzzled look, initially, before their expression becomes one of fondness.
They raise a hand and settle it over the one he has on their cheek. He watches them turn their face towards his palm and kiss it. Then, they guide his hand to rest flat over their chiseled stomach.
“My beloved…” They say quietly, voice weak from disuse, but the words are said steadfastly.
He sucks in a sharp breath, eye widening.
His heart was beating so loudly in his ears. It felt like it was trying to fight its way out past his ribcage to eagerly go towards their awaiting hands.
“B-Beloved?” He repeats, barely getting the word out, because his voice shakes. He swallows hard, looking into their face with poorly concealed hope. “…Truly?”
Eyrie’s eyes soften, and they nod, smiling now.
His vision blurs as a pathetic sound leaves him. He slips both of his arms around them, and they let him hide his face into the curve of their neck, running their hand through his hair until he calms. When he can lift his face and look at them once more, they lean forward and kiss him softly. He sighs against their lips, feeling so vulnerable, and shaky as the countless sensations begin to meld into a dizzying embrace.
Although he wielded flame within his being, it did not warm him. Not in the way that his consort’s touch did, and now, under their steadfast ministrations, he felt as if an inferno were bubbling just below his skin.
Their walls clench around him suddenly, spasming as they finish, their cock emptying on their stomach and thighs, but they their pace doesn’t slow down at all, in fact they only seem to fuck down against him faster and harder now. He grips their hips tighter and pistons his hips upward, meeting each of their brutal thrusts and somehow forcing himself impossibly deeper in them, and they throw their head back, baring their throat.
He latches his mouth onto it immediately, sipping freely from the blood that pours from the wound, and his serpents take whatever pieces they can get, joining him as he gulps down their sweet blood while he continues to fuck into them roughly.
When he unravels for the second time, he cries out their name, wrapping his arms tightly around them as he fills them up so completely with his seed that there will be no chance they do not end up feverish and swollen at the waist hours from now.
It feels like he spills inside for hours, no matter how much he thrusts, there is still more to be milked from his core, and Eyrie takes it all dutifully, petting his hair soothingly as he at last stops trembling like a leaf.
Like this, arms wrapped around each other, his length still buried in them, it felt like they were one being, their parts slotting so perfectly with one another that he fails to find the seam of where he himself begins and his consort ends.
He would like to stay like this forever, if possible, he thinks.
He is only mildly disappointed later, when Eyrie starts to ease off him, their legs shaking, and he realizes that both of them were now in dire need of a bath. He refuses to make them walk, and he stands up at once and picks them up in his arms, feeling a little strange as he traversed his inner chambers stark naked, but it is a short walk to the washroom. He empties the tub and refills it with scalding hot water, adding a few things that will help his consort’s muscles relax, before he slips into the water and sets them on his lap.
He gets much pleasure in washing their hair and body for them. He likes discovering each scar, likes seeing how each muscle flexes when he moves their body this way and that. When he finishes, he gets started on cleaning himself, but Eyrie nimbly steals the cloth from his hand and returns his services, seeming just as happy to explore his body.
He tries not to squirm too much under their touch, but it feels wonderful, and he cannot help but be noisy and lean into their touch. They always touch him so gently, like he was something precious, and not a war monger who had scourged half the land with his flame, killing the guilty and the innocent alike, all in the sake of his mother’s name.
As much as he does not know of their history, he wonders just how much they truly knew of his.
He wondered how much of their love had begun in their fights against one another, and how much of it burgeoned afterward, when they began to learn more about him from their stay here in the Shadow Keep.
Dried and dressed, he carries them to the nest, the two of them dressed in the red, silk robes that he so rarely used, but had now kept within arm’s reach because his consort looked so attractive drowning in the excess fabric and they preferred to hold him when he wasn’t wearing his cold, uncompromising armor.
He lays on his side, face resting in his palm, and Eyrie mirrors his position, more than happy to let him stroke their face and hair. His fingers catch against one of their earrings, and the dangling gem swings, the low candlelight catching its surface. He’d always thought the gem was black, some sort of volcanic glass, but each time the light catches on a different facet, he is awarded with a different color, first dark green, then purple, then even red.
Out of all their jewelry, it was the earrings that Eyrie never swapped for another set.
He is curious about the significance of that.
It must show on his face, because Eyrie sits up on their folded knees and brings both of their hands up to their right ear, unclasping the earring before waiting for him to hold his hand out, before tentatively setting it in his palm.
He holds the earring between his index and thumb, turning it this way and that in the light.
“I am unfamiliar with this gem. It is strange. Beguiling in its beauty. A perfect fit, for thee, certainly.” He remarks with a low hum. “Where didst thou acquire it?”
They hold up a finger, asking for a moment, before leaving the nest and returning with something: a yellowed scrap of parchment, and a piece of charcoal, thin enough to wield between their fingers, and wrapped with even thinner rope to protect their hands from becoming stained.
They take a seat against him, leaning their back against his stomach as they begin to write, and from this angle he can see the paper perfectly.
“My hometown.” Eyrie writes, and he is surprised that they are willing to speak more of their history, despite the unpleasantness attached to it. He hopes that they are not forcing themselves, but when he peeks at their face, he does not see any sadness fouling their otherwise relaxed expression. “It is the only thing I have left from my time there.” They explain.
The earring in his hand feels weightier now.
“What was thine home called? What manner of place was it?” He asks, growing more and more curious, and his consort leans more of their weight against him now, slouching a little as they started to write again.
“Havilah.” They write, and he tries to pronounce it, but given the way their lips curl at the corners, he does a poor job of it evidently. Very, very quietly, Eyrie says it, just once, and when he repeats the name properly, they hum a little, pleased. “It is a desert settlement. Hot. Sandy. The wind is sharp, and the nights are freezing. There are sandstone structures taller than most of the castles in this land. Underground caves with water so clear you cannot tell that you have entered it, until you feel the wetness around you. In these caves, gems like this are common.” They write, and they even attempt at drawing one of these caves, and he discovers that they are quite good at drawing, even if working from memory alone.
The cave they depict is more akin to a grotto, with water in the center, and the smooth walls are littered with sparkling, black gems.
“Dost thou miss it? Thine home?” He asks.
Eyrie gives him the courtesy of mulling over the question seriously for some time, but even after much deliberation, they end up shaking their head.
“There are parts that I miss, sometimes, but each good memory is stained by several terrible ones.” They write out, tapping the charcoal repeatedly in the same spot as they thought. “I never knew my mother or father. I had no siblings. For some reason or another, I attracted the attention of my settlement’s chieftain, and from that day forward, I was his slave."
“I was rebellious. Despite being an unwanted child with no honor, or fighting prowess, I could not make peace with the lot in life I had been given.” Eyrie continues to write. “For punishment, slaves and thieves were sent to the dunes outside of our settlement, where the wind and lightning waged war against one another. Great whirlwinds would gather in these dunes, picking up the hot air and condensing it to the point that lightning gathered. The lightning was so potent that when it struck the sand, it riddled it with glass.”
“I was sent to the lightning dunes, many, many times.” Eyrie writes, holding their chin up high with pride. “And despite that, not once was I struck by it. For some reason, I was able to dance with the wind and avoid each strike. A singular strike would be enough to kill a man. There are glass formations in the shape of the men, women and children who were not quick enough. That was the only kind of burial that awaited people like me.”
“Thy chieftain…” He speaks up, sitting up now that anger was welling from deep within him. “Dost thine former captor still draw breath? I would see to it that their ilk is put to the spear, that all history is eradicated, turned to ash, and carried off in the wind. I would do so, gladly, for thee.”
Eyrie slowly turns towards him to study the fury painting his features.
They smile at him with unyielding affection, purple eyes sparkling and the little dimples by their mouth make an appearance. He finds it so, so charming.
“Dead.” Eyrie writes on the paper. “I took his life and was then executed by his men. Then, I was resurrected, and called to the Lands Between…” And they are finished discussing the matter now, tossing the paper and charcoal aside so that they can cup his face with both hands and guide his forehead to theirs.
He is pleased that revenge was already theirs, but he is still upset that they had to endure so much. If they hadn’t been resurrected, they would have never traveled to the Lands Between, and then eventually, the Shadow Realm.
He cannot fathom having never met them.
It feels so strange to think about.
He remembers that he still has their earring in his hand, but when he tries to give it back to them, Eyrie shakes their head.
They curl his fingers over it.
“A gift? Art thou certain thy wish to give such a valuable thing to—” He begins, unsure, but Eyrie shushes him with a kiss.
He blushes, fidgeting a little.
“…I have never worn such jewelry. Wouldst thou…?” He asks, gesturing to his unpierced ear.
Eyrie kisses him again, smiling still, and leaves to grab a small needle from their satchel. They sit on his lap, and he holds them securely while they brush the hair away from his left ear. The needle passing through his lobe is hardly noticeable, but the feeling of something now hanging from his ear would take some getting used to.
Both of his serpents move to examine his ear, pleased by how the gem catches the light.
He is more pleased by the fact that he now matches his beloved.