Tags: Messmer the Impaler/Tarnished, M/M, enemies to lovers, masturbation, mutual pining, size difference, scent kink, blood kink, touch starved, multiple orgasms, anal sex, mpreg, egg laying, Top Messmer, Bottom Tarnished, Messmer POV, Selectively Mute Tarnished, angst, biting
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
Messmer stirs from his meditative state atop his throne, alerted to someone’s arrival—
A Tarnished.
He sees them through the view of one of his serpents. With a blink, his vision sharpens, and he sees the finer details of this interloper’s visage. It is a man, dressed in a dark tunic that was left unbuttoned, the collar dipping low past their chest and even showing a hint of their chiseled stomach. The sleeves are long and billowing, and the hem is tucked into dark trousers, the thighs, calves and feet covered in silver armor. A colorful, red and purple cloak is tied to their hip, and it sways as they walk further into his chambers, the frayed edges sweeping the floor.
The only additional armor on their person are the pauldrons on their shoulders and a singular gauntlet, its tips like claws. Their head is bereft of a helmet, but their face is obscured—a dancer’s mask is hiding the bottom half of their face from the bridge of their nose downward. Their skin is a rich brown with undertones like precious gold shimmering in the low light. Their inky black hair was shoulder length, with half of it tied up, and some of the longer parts in the front casting a shadow over their purple eyes.
Their brows were furrowed with trepidation. They raise their shield, the body painted black and the insignia in the middle of a yellow scorpion. In their right hand, gripped tightly, is a slender great sword, the length about equal to the man before him. The tip of the sword gleamed eerily sharp, despite it looking common place. They wore a myriad of different pieces of jewelry, yet they decided on not wearing a chest plate of any kind.
They had earrings, a ring on almost each finger, and various talismans clasped onto the fabric tied to their hip.
They looked less like a fighter and more like a dancer, with their slight frame and lack of a full set of armor.
He finds it insulting.
“Mongrel.” He spits in greeting at once, rearing his snake back towards himself and standing to full height from his throne. Like every other Tarnished, they only reach up to his stomach, if that. If he were a brute, he could slay them with his very hands. And so easily. He’s had so many visitors as of late—he can hardly be blamed if he barely spares this one any further words before jumping high into the air and making his first attack.
They die laughably quickly, so completely taken off guard by the speed and strength he wielded.
He doesn’t think they even manage to land a bodily hit, their blade only hitting his armor or the floor.
It is undignified, but he raises a hand to shield his mouth as he laughs darkly.
As he’s still laughing, someone enters his chambers again.
It is the same exact Tarnished, looking no less determined. They don’t even look embarrassed, although they should. He takes a deep breath and readies his spear, going so far as to insult them by starting off with the same maneuver as before, and while they manage to dodge it, they still take a full attack from the side afterwards, unable to hold up their shield in time.
They last a few more seconds than last time, he will give them that, but they die a pitiful death just like before. He hadn’t even allowed them to take a drink from their hip flasks.
Again and again they return, like a plague. He insults them each time they fail to land a hit, each time they take one in return, and each time they step through the door.
It seemed to only be minutes until they showed up again. The other Tarnished who received so many beatings had either given up temporarily, showing up again with an entirely different set of armor, or a different weapon, and sometimes even a few of their compatriots, either living or spectral, or they have given up for good. Rightfully so.
Not this one.
It is beginning to infuriate him.
There was something off about them. Perhaps he cracked their skull open one too many times and they were simply playing out their last actions over and over like a broken automaton.
What was more infuriating is that they were starting to last longer in their attempts. They were growing familiar with his fighting style, not taking quite so many hits as before, at least not directly. There was focus in the Tarnished’s eyes now—not just burning determination.
Their blade is sharper than it appears. Where it catches him on a gap in his armor, it cuts through his flesh like it is heated, his blood spewing out messily as if coaxed out by eager hands. With a hiss he twirls his spear and easily drives it into their gut as they take a steadying breath, bracing for an attack too late.
He yanks the spear upward just as they reach for their flask, and their eyes roll to the back of their head and their hands still before their form dissolves a second later.
Now that they weren’t dying immediately upon entry, and had begun to memorize his methods, there were many times where the two of them seemed to circle around one another, weapons readied, but not moving yet in case the other did first.
There was a charge in the air during those times.
He almost wants the moments to drag out longer.
The Tarnished’s eyes were an all too familiar shade of purple, like St. Trina lily’s but a shade or two darker. He is staring at what he shouldn’t be—the color of their eyes hardly mattered. Not compared to where they were directing their blade.
But he keeps noticing other things. How their skin was like gold when he cornered them against the wall and the candles sat right above them. How they were eerily quiet, even when being killed in the most violent of ways. The most noise he has ever heard them make is a grunt. Or a wheeze, one that wavered and was often wet with blood.
He notices most of all that when they have an opportunity to show their battle prowess, moving confidently, instead of cautiously, they prove to be equal parts fighter and dancer. The Tarnished makes use of their smaller form, slipping just under his arm and spinning in a hypnotic circle away from him as he plunges his spear forward to gut them. Their eyes had locked with his, briefly, and he swears that he saw their eyes crease in the corners minutely, as if amused at him.
It made his heart skip a beat.
Wretched little creature, using whatever it can to distract him, he thinks, temper spiking. He vows to tear that mask from their face the next time, the burning curiosity to see what they may look like and what expression they are making when facing him eating him up from the inside.
When the Tarnished arrives again, and the two of them fight, he only has one thing on his mind: removing that insufferable mask. He fights a little sloppier for it, but they didn’t need the entirety of his focus.
They are readying to block an attack he intentionally makes obvious. He takes full advantage of the trick and pulls one of their legs from underneath them, making them slam into the floor on their back as the air knocks out of them. He looms over them at once, spear directed at their neck, as he looks down his nose at them, his lips curling the minutest in the corner. He coils one serpent around their thighs, and secures the other around their arms before lifting them up: dangling them in the air before him.
Their sword and shield clatters to the floor noisily.
They squirm against his hold, some of their tunic bunching up and falling slack in odd places. More of their chest is exposed as the collar falls to the side. His eye is drawn immediately to the supple curve of a pec; the dusky nipple that is pierced with a silver loop. His face becomes hot, and he rips his attention from it, raising his eye to their face.
Something about them fighting against his hold and trying to move their face away is exciting to him. It is the first time they have look troubled. He snatches the dancer’s mask off their face and tosses the thin fabric aside.
His mouth falls open in unmistakable befuddlement.
It was as if they were beautiful just to spite him.
Their face was roguish in its good looks: a slender jaw with dark stubble, full lips that seemed far too soft, and a sloped, elegant nose, complimented by full cheek bones. The mask had made their eyes the focal point of their appearance, but even without it, it remains what captures his attention the most. The shade was pretty, yes, but the shape of their eyes was attractive as well. They were almond shaped, and their dark eyes lashes settled in such a way that the corners of their eyes looked like they leaned upward in a feline-like fashion, giving them a wry look, even when they were concentrating.
He hisses, releasing them suddenly and recoiling by a large margin. The Tarnished falls to the ground in a heap, tunic now slipping entirely off their shoulder, exposing more delicious skin and he tears his face away from their general direction, slipping a hand over his eyes His serpents disobey him, continuing to look at his adversary curiously, tongues flicking out in the air excitedly. He catches one of them with his hands, scowl deepening, and once it acquiesces, the other does as well, settling into a defensive position around him.
He kills the Tarnished before they can even right themselves or reach for their weapon, not trusting where his eye may linger if given the time to wander. The dancer’s mask is left behind, oddly enough, although nothing else of theirs ever does. Strange magic and rules for strange people, he readily decides.
He takes it as a trophy of sorts. Glides the silky fabric against his hands—it was so small in comparison, much like the man who owned it. He for some reason feels the need to bring the fabric up to his face and take a deep inhale. There is a smell like incense or the sap from a tree. He cannot tell. It is a pleasant undertone to the masculine musk and the smell of sunshine.
Something rouses in his gut, long undisturbed and feeling like a fire of its own right.
He puts the stolen trinket away, a part of him frightened of these burgeoning feelings.
There is reprieve in the fact that the Tarnished does not return to challenge him anytime soon. It is a first. He is not concerned. They were surely swapping out one of their weapons. Or getting outfitted with more armor at last. What an amusing thought to see them in a full set the next time.
There is no next time for quite a while.
He is in agony.
It was rare that he let his temper run so freely, but he does not understand what else he is supposed to do—other than go mad, he supposes. He paces his chambers like a low born animal, his serpents coiling and whipping around him in just as foul of a temper. The ‘other’ Tarnished that show up aren’t even given words of greeting before he kills them in a fury. He makes their deaths especially painful. He hopes to scare them all away for good for making him feel like this.
There has been a lapse in challengers now that word has spread that he is growing blood thirstier. More relentless and impossible; a veritable wall stopping all from continuing their journeys. In these slow moments, despite his better judgement, he takes out the face covering and brings it to his face, taking a deep inhale of it.
He shivers, feeling his gut twist into knots. He vanishes into one of his hidden chambers, the fabric still clutched over his nose, and he slips one hand down underneath the pleated armor of his skirt, fingers pushing his undergarments aside to grasp his hardening cock.
He loathes them.
How dare they make him feel this way.
He makes a pitiful sound, tightening his fist and moving it quicker now, as he imagined their full lips taking him instead. He spills across his palm noisily, having to bite his lips to quiet the rest of the shameful noises that threaten to leave him.
His pathetic ministrations only serve to make him feel worse. Loneliness was something he had gotten thoroughly used to, but there was something about the Tarnished’s absence that pierced like a thorn in his side.
He ruminates in his nest which is hidden from initial view because it is tucked behind his throne. Draping, red curtains help to obscure the rest. He has a proper bed, elsewhere, but he considers this to be his actual bed, as he spends most of his time here when not lounging on his throne or kneeled in front of the statue of his mother. Thinking of her fails to soothe him as it usually would, as of late.
Slinging an arm over his eyes, he gives up on thinking altogether.
It is like the moment he stops thinking of the Tarnished, they show up. He hears familiar footsteps and smells a scent that he has been craving for many nights now. He rolls onto his feet and approaches the center of the room in a whirlwind of emotion, hand shaky around his spear for the first time in a long while.
They hadn’t replaced their missing face covering. They leave their face bare. Aside from that, nothing of their appearance has changed—if the Tarnished changed nothing, then why had it taken them so long to return?
Everything they do kindles his ire.
This time when the two of them fight it is a stark contrast to their first.
The Tarnished reads him like a tome, keen on his tricks and his tells, and they dodge most of his attacks, punishing each in turn and bleeding him out with their light great sword with captivating ease.
This is not how things are meant to go.
He is not supposed to be so out of breath. His focus was hanging on by a thread. His attention kept drifting to any part of skin he could steal a glance at while they danced around him, their tunic flaring up and flashing pieces of their chest. He is meant to be swinging his spear towards their neck— not staring at it with hunger.
If only he could say it was because he was distracted that he ended up knocked down onto his knees for the first time. He simply had not been able to dodge their blade. There was no avoiding the fact. He looks down at his abdomen, reaching down slowly to palm at the slash that his armor failed to protect him from. He retracts his hand, staring at it. It was sticky and red with his blood.
His hand starts to tremble.
The Tarnished is hovering near still, shield readied, and blade pointed, but they do not strike.
Fine, if they are frozen in fear, then he will take the opportunity to turn things back on his side, no matter the cost. He raises his bloodied hand towards his eye, ready to pluck it out and face whatever punishment comes for him afterwards—all for the sake of stopping this man here and now.
He will not accept defeat.
Not ever.
The Tarnished lowers their blade. They take many steps back away from him, looking horrified as they watch his fingers draw nearer to his socket.
He stops, utterly confused.
“Why is thine weapon lowered?” He demands, temper flaring, and he uses the same hand he was going to pluck out his eye to point a clawed finger at them accusingly, “The stars have aligned for thee to have the upper hand and thou would toss the advantage away so carelessly? What is thy ploy?”
The Tarnished says nothing, silent as the grave as usual. Their dark brows knit together, a stormy expression taking residence on their handsome face. After some thinking, they toss their shield and sword to the ground defiantly and approach him with quick, confident steps. They deftly tug off one of the flasks from their hip—the red one of the golden pair. They pop the cork off and push the tiny bottle towards him, insistent.
When he fails to move, frozen where he is kneeling, they grow bolder and cup his face with one hand, now attempting to feed him the flask themselves.
He is poorly equipped to fathom any of this. When his mind catches up with what is currently happening, his emotions hit him all at once like a barrage of attacks. His face erupts with color and he moves suddenly, as if coming to life from a deep slumber, and he slaps the flask away from his face with an enraged hiss and jumps away from their touch. He can easily ignore the pain from his still bleeding wound and finish this.
The Tarnished will have no part in this, they make it clear. They refuse to pick up their weapon as he quickly approaches, spear in hand. He shoves his spear deep into their gut, returning the injury they imparted upon him and feeling his heart flutter a little at the thought. With a hiss, he impales them fully onto his spear, lifting them into the air so they can dangle above him. Their ringed fingers instinctively go to their stomach to grasp at the handle of the spear, hoping to dislodge it, but once the initial shock of the blow recedes, and some focus returns to their eyes, the Tarnished takes advantage of the position he’s put them in and leans their face down.
They don’t gather the blood in their mouth and spit in his eye, or rear to take a bite out of him with their woefully blunt teeth. They press their warm, soft lips to his, the smallest of hums slipping out.
He freezes, eye widening.
There is no time to react. The Tarnished fades away the next time he blinks.
His spear drops from his hand and clatters to the ground. His breaths come to him hastily but no matter how much he gulps down air, he is still left feeling as if he is going to faint. Torn between desire and his duty, he shuts himself away, sealing his chambers from all visitors, even his guardsmen.
He spends hours kneeling in front of his mother’s statute, asking for forgiveness, for her warmth, and when he crawls into his nest and listlessly lays among the sheets, he thinks of Them…
He rolls onto his back, scowling at the ceiling. His serpents are calm, almost asleep, their minds untroubled in comparison to his. He strokes one of them absent-mindedly. Then, he moves his hand to his face, tracing his lips with his fingertips, chasing out the memory of the sensation of the Tarnished’s kiss.
His heart aches like an open wound.
He was intimately familiar with torture, and this was certainly the worst kind of it. He would take any whip, and toothed blade, then lay here for another second in this acute loneliness. The slash on his stomach healed days ago, but it still felt like there was a gaping, open wound that he was actively bleeding out of and nothing he did was enough to plug the geyser.
In the throes of his lamentations, he almost misses that there is now a presence outside of his chambers.
A familiar one.
He sits up, heart racing.
He unseals his chambers at once, then waits, not brave enough to wait on his throne. The double doors open slowly, and the Tarnished walks inside even slower, due to the almost pitch black of his room—he’s only lit a handful of candles. He could see the warmth of others in the dark, but it forced them to use caution as they wandered in deeper.
It gave him ample time to stare from the eye of one of his snakes, which he cranes around his throne, watching the Tarnished step towards the center of the room, unnoticing of it as the door shut behind them. Their shield was tied to their back and their sword was sheathed. The ribbon used to tie up half their hair was missing, and so all of it hung loosely around their face in shiny rivulets.
They do eventually notice the snake staring at them, and they follow it as he pulls it back towards himself, leading the Tarnished to walk around his throne and discover the nest behind it where he is currently sitting half up, propped against many pillows, wearing his armor still, but his helmet and spear have been set aside within reach. His singular, yellow eye smolders like a flame in the dark as he stares intensely as the Tarnished idles near the fringes of his nest.
Quietly as always, the Tarnished slips off their shield, then their scabbard, laying it to the ground. He already knew they wouldn’t attack, but he appreciates the gesture, he supposes. He gasps sharply when they suddenly begin to undress, removing their pauldrons and grieves slowly and with a languid air, as if putting on a show. Their shirt is casually rolled over their head and joins the growing pile at their feet.
Their rich, brown skin is hypnotizing in the lowlight. Their stomach and arms are chiseled attractively, and there is a layer of fat padding their pecs and their hips that is begging for him to sink his teeth into. He can at last confirm that both of their dark nipples were pierced with delicate silver hoops.
Their fingers hook into the hem of their pants and tug them off in two smooth motions, and he sees that their well-defined legs are covered in the same fine, dark hair that littered their jawline and chest. His eye rakes across their thick thighs and the curly hair nestled at the base of their cock.
He is struck speechless, choking on his own breath.
With a shaky hand, he flicks his wrist and the doors to his chambers are sealed once more.
The Tarnished will not be escaping him anytime soon.
He is about to capture them with his snakes, as it feels natural to him, but the Tarnished is agreeable, walking over to him with tentative footfalls as they traverse his nest. They could reach him in a few more steps, but they slip onto all fours and seem pleased to crawl up his front in a purposeful way.
Their jewelry sparkles in the candlelight.
Their beguiling face is hovering in front of his, their hands planted on either side of his chest plate, arms pushing their chest in a way that it made it seem like they had cleavage. Would their teasing never cease, he internally fumes, running his tongue over a fang as he fights down the urge to loop it around their nipple piercing.
They take the lead in joining their lips and he clumsily follows their movements, unable to return the gesture properly due to the size difference between their forms— and his own inexperience. Where he fumbles, the Tarnished adapts quickly. They tilt their face dexterously and it makes their much smaller mouth align better with his.
Their eyelids grow heavy, and they sigh dreamily against his mouth as they kiss him again.
His shoulders shake with want. He captures their chin with his index finger and thumb, grip bruising.
“Fiend!” He curses sharply. He is starting to feel faint again and all it took was some meagre gesture. How pitiful. He digs the sharp nail of his thumb into their lower lip, his eye cutting into an accusing slit. “What has thou done to me?” He demands, voice wavering, “Break this enthrallment at once.”
The Tarnished utters no sorcery or incantation. All they do is stare at him with open, unmistakable heat in their gaze.
“Curse thee…” He berates with a hiss; prying open their mouth wider as he leans forward. His long, forked tongue spills past his fangs and he drags it across their lips, tasting, before slipping it inside their mouth and coiling it around their tongue, squeezing it possessively. Their jaw falls utterly slack, opening for him completely.
His cock stirs incessantly against his pleated skirt as he continues to taste them. They were being so agreeable, allowing him to grip their small body as much and as firmly as he desired. He moves them up higher, bringing their chest to his face. He opens his mouth wide and sinks his fangs into their pec like he would a ripe fruit. The Tarnished arches in his hold, making the loudest sound he’s heard them emit yet: a hoarse moan.
It affects him viscerally. A chill rolls up his spine, and he clenches his jaw, fangs sinking deeper into their flesh until it gives way and blood wells into his mouth. He whines, eye clenching shut, and swallows around the mouthful, a little spilling past his chin. It is sweet like nectar. It coats his tongue and throat; dizzying his senses like a potent draught.
Past the sound of his pulse thudding in his ear drums, he hears his Tarnished make another captivating sound. They were leaning forward, offering more of their body. Their cock was fully swollen between their thighs now, weeping messily. He wants those thighs around his face. He pulls them up higher, settling their legs around his shoulders and noses at their thigh, mouth open and panting. His snakes keep them from falling, supporting their lower back by coiling around their sternum.
He buries his nose deep into their curls, basking in their scent. He curls his tongue around the base of their cock, serpentine and wicked, and flicks the forked tip against their slit. They shudder, goosebumps breaking out over their skin and making their hair stand on end. Their thighs squeezed together the slightest around his head.
A hand slips into his hair, which was frazzled from tossing and turning in his nest. The Tarnished gently combs it with their fingers in a way that is disarming. He coils his tongue tight around their cock, squeezing it like a vise, and their hips buck, the hand in his hair clenching into a loose fist. The sensation of his roots being pulled leaves him reeling. He doesn’t know how to ask for more of that, so he repeats what caused them to do it in the first place: flexing his tongue up and down their shaft, teasing the tip.
Their balls tighten and they groan, gently but firmly trying to push his face away. He refuses, and in his excitement his fang grazes their shaft the slightest, and the Tarnished yelps, hips stuttering, and coats his inner mouth, lips and chin with their seed. Their hand grips his hair throughout it, a pleasant sting, and it eases out a hum from him as he swallows what he’s been given. He drags a finger across his face, catching the rest, and cleans it with his tongue before doing the same for their still twitching cock.
He is happy to see that they are still just as hard as they were moments ago. He was not even halfway finished with them. He intends to lay them flat on their back and take them, but the Tarnished squirms out of his hold nimbly and settles back on the flat level of the nest, settling between his parted, much larger thighs.
They lay on their side across one like it’s a lounge built just for them, and their hands reach under his armor, searching. They move his armor and underclothes aside, using both hands to caress his flushed cock. It was nearly the length of their forearm, although thankfully not as thick. It would be impossible for them to fit it in their mouth— or so he thinks.
The Tarnished hefts his cock and holds out the tip towards their face, mouth falling open to give way to their pink tongue. They swirl it around his tip languidly, making a small noise as they taste him and his hips lurch in reaction. It feels intense already. His brows furrow together, and he brings a hand to his mouth, biting the crook of his finger as he watches them suckle at the flared glands, blunt teeth grazing the sensitive skin and stealing a sharp hiss out of him.
They keep their hands at the base of his cock, squeezing firmly in intervals as they slipped the tip into their mouth, the size of it bulging their cheeks in an obscene way. His cock twitches against the soft flesh of their inner cheek. Their eyes crease in the corners, pleased, and they take him deeper, their throat unbothered by the throbbing, wet length invading it.
He is noisy as he writhes against his nest, face red and dappled with sweat, looking less like the embodiment of this land’s fears and more like a desperate animal in heat. He covers his face by slinging an arm across his eyes.
“It is too much to bear! I cannot stand it…” He cries. His other hand drags against the sheets, the sharp tips of his nails tearing the fabric into ribbons. His Tarnished ignores his pleas, taking him impossibly deeper, half his length now buried in their throat, and they hum encouragingly while swallowing around him, tongue plastered to the underside of his cock to nudge against a vein incessantly.
The second they move their head the slightest, he unravels, back arching hard and his head thrown back as he spills down their throat. They make a choked sound, but keep moving their mouth, making sure to wring out every last swell of pleasure they can from him until he is so, so empty, left breathing fiercely and trembling.
But no less hungry.
He opens his eye and watches them, the fire in him kindling at the sight of their shiny lips and the bruises that had already formed in a myriad of places. He flips them onto their belly and crawls over them, slipping both of his snakes around their waist and hoisting their hips up just high enough that it sits level with his own.
He perches his face near theirs, dragging his tongue along the shell of their ear.
“Give thine name.” He demands haughtily. “Thou have given all else freely—do not keep this secret from me.”
“…Eyrie.” Comes the quiet reply.
It sounded as if it took great effort to speak.
“How befitting.” He remarks, thinking an odd name suited such an odd man. “And so thou art capable of speech. Why hide thine voice? If thou can speak, then I will have thy speak before me.”
Eyrie peers over their shoulder to give him a deeply uncomfortable look. For whatever reason, they find comfort in this strange vow of silence of theirs.
“Forget it. Do as thou wilt.” He huffs and they relax immediately. He will allow them their eccentricities. He noses at their neck, inhaling deeply, and reaches around them to squeeze at their chest. His nails rake across their skin and they let out a long whine. He cannot help it—he bites their neck, giving them no bracing for the sudden piercing sting, and he chastises himself, feeling shame well up in him as he seeks out their blood again.
He licks the wound clean, pressing his lips to it, and moves lower to lick the beads of sweat racing down their sculpted back. He rears upon his knees, and Eyrie starts to squirm, wanting his attention. He follows their line of sight: their pile of clothes and trinkets. They make a gesture as if drinking, so he releases one of the snakes around his waist and passes off the mission of retrieving their flask. His snake drops it gently by their hands, flicking its tongue against their bicep before retreating.
“Satisfied?” He asks impatiently.
Eyrie rolls onto their side, still comfortable to be held down, but with this angle they can look him in the eyes as they bite off the cork to their flask, before pouring a generous amount over the cleft of their ass. They waste no time sinking two fingers into their eager hole, back arching in display for him as they start to stretch themselves.
“Willful thing!” He curses darkly, the need to be inside of them becoming painful. His cock lifts his pleated skirt and twitches repeatedly as Eyrie wiggles their hips and takes in a third finger, thrusting them in and out of their entrance. He is beside himself now, serpents whirling around him, stirred up by the pheromones in the air. He slaps their hand away before capturing their hips between both of his massive hands. “Thy have teased enough. Be still, now, or I will lose mine temperament and take thou as an animal would.” He warns them, nails digging into their hips and drawing blood.
He lifts their hips higher, then aligns himself with their hole, nudging forward until he starts to slowly and achingly sink inside. It is unfair how good it feels. He gasps, knees buckling, feeling as though his blood was starting to simmer underneath his skin. He is at odds with himself, wanting to fuck into them without care and relieve himself of this torturous pressure in his belly, but he is so large in comparison to them that if he acts without care he is scared he might break them.
Being hurt is the last thing Eyrie gives any care towards, it seems, and they grow impatient with his cautious pacing and thrust their hips back against him suddenly, forcing him deeper inside and it tears an undignified yelp out of him, and he hunches over, knees giving out.
“Very well.” He hisses, incensed, as fresh sweat beads at his temple. “Take it all—my desire. My wrath.” He lifts them up, leaning them against his front as he impales them on his cock with the assistance of the snakes around their waist. Eyrie sinks completely onto his length, a breath punching out of their lungs, and their head leans back against his chest plate. Their eyes were cloudy with lust.
He sucks his teeth, suddenly hiding his face against their back as he manually lowers them onto his cock repeatedly. He fits every inch of himself with each thrust, taking satisfaction in how Eyrie starts making these quiet, little choked sounds, their hole clenching tightly around him. They roll their hips, starting to match his thrusts and he loses himself again, falling apart with a rough snap of his hips. His cock jumps as it empties inside them, painting their inner walls with his hot seed.
He’s sensitive after finishing twice, and the barest squeeze around his length is enough to bring a tear to his eye, but Eyrie either disregards his desperate noises of complaint or finds profound pleasure in it, because they continue to roll their hips and thrust against him with abandon.
If they were going to be cruel—
He pins them to the nest, uncaring of his weight against their back, and sinks his teeth into their neck as he pistons his hips at an unforgiving pace. His two snakes join in, one biting their round hip and the other latching onto their inner thigh. The smell of their blood pervades the air and the warm hug of their twitching muscles milks another, far more powerful orgasm out of him. They don’t fight against his continued thrusts, taking it all with hushed noises of pleasure.
Although a whisper, Eyrie had almost certainly just said his name. They tremble afterwards, limp against his nest. When his appetite is finally spent, he stays sheathed inside, making sure that his seed buries deep in them, even if they lacked a womb.
“Forget thine ambitions.” He tells them, anger spiking as he thinks of them leaving, and the feeling propels him to slip out of them at last so he can grab their face and make them look at him. Their eyes clench shut tightly at the sensation of being empty, and his seed steadily pours out of their fluttering, spent hole. “Remain here, beside me, my bloodied, nimble consort.” He demands, but his voice breaks the least bit, his desperation barely masked.
He is prepared to trap them, if he must, but Eyrie only needs a moment of consideration before nodding.
His ire dissipates as his anxieties are quelled.
He wraps a sheet around them and tucks them on the most comfortable spot on his nest, leaving only to grab them a goblet of water and a platter of food, feeding them by hand. He wills all the candles to extinguish before pulling them close to his side, his arms, legs, and snakes wrapping around them possessively.
He cannot remember the last time he hadn’t slept alone.
Hours later, he awakes to Eyrie stirring in his grasp. His eye flicks open at once, panicked as he thinks they are trying to leave while he remains asleep, but there is something wrong: the Tarnished’s skin is hot to the touch, sweltering even, and their was a fine layer of sweat covering their still naked form. It may be a trick of the light, but their stomach seemed less defined than before. It even looked slightly swollen as they crumpled onto their side, face pinched as they suffered from an unseeable ailment.
He sits there, motionless in his horror.
He’s only had them for a brief time and they were already in pain, surely caused by something he did. Or maybe because it was him. He is keenly aware that he is a cursed, wretched thing, only good for cleansing these lands of his mother’s foes. Still, he thought that the omens that slotted in his destiny were for him and him alone, not whoever he interacted with; spreading like the very same sickness that makes Eyrie fold in the middle, forehead pressed to the sheets.
He gathers his resolve eventually and picks them up, carrying them off to a hidden away chamber where his bath sits. He sets them against the marble steps leading into it and gets the magic apparatus filling the tub with hot water in a blink. He leaves and returns with sachets of dried herbs and flowers which he upends into the bath. Eyrie’s resting their head against their folded arms, looking delirious as they watch him sit nearby.
He can hardly bear to look at them in such a weakened state.
He watches the water filling the tub instead. In his serpent’s eye, he sees them feebly reach out with one hand to touch him but he smoothly moves away just in time. The dread of making their condition worse makes him wary of any advances. Their face crumples with obvious hurt and he sucks his teeth, ashamed, but he lacks the courage to apologize.
Or explain himself.
After the water is shut off, he lowers them further into the tub, the water up to their chin. He is glad to see their body begin to relax to a degree but their sudden virulent sickness remains. Eyrie’s breath has quickened, and their eyes are shut tight. They make a miserable sound, like the moan of an animal dying, and it makes his heart clench.
They swore to stay by his side and now they were suffering from a pain he cannot understand. He sits there at the lip the of the tub, internal panic starting to leak out visibly. When he lifts a hand to shield his face, it trembles.
He wishes he had never met them, if only to save them from this pain.
As he agonizes, he misses Eyrie crawling out of the bath, but he opens his eye in time to see them hunching forward, forehead to the marble floor as if praying. They make those miserable sounds again, even calling out his name again, and he curses.
Maybe killing them would be the kindest thing. He can provide them with a swift, painless death and rid them of this temporary ailment. Then all he would need to do is wait for them to return to him.
But there is an odd sound; a wet, squelching sound like a wound opening and then something solid rolling onto the marble gently. He drops his hands from his face and looks towards them. Eyrie was sitting upright now, hands planted on the marble across from each other to maintain their balance as they sat on the balls of their feet, soapy thighs spread.
Their stomach looks noticeably flatter, but it still retained a swollen look on the lower half.
Dropping his eye to the spot between their thighs, he sees why that is.
Laying on the floor on its side, is a red and black egg, the shell textured like freshly molted serpent scales. Eyrie’s thighs tremble and with some grunting he watches as another egg slips out from between their legs, rolling gently beside the first. There are tears freely falling from his Tarnished’s eyes. A third and final egg slips out and once its freed Eyrie slumps to the floor onto their side, gasping for breath.
He slips onto all fours and tentatively crawls over to them, one step at a time, heart beating in his throat.
Those are HIS eggs, he realizes. He hadn’t killed them by spreading some bizarre illness—he’d impregnated them, although briefly. He hadn’t thought his seed was viable, or that a man would be a suitable enough home for gestation.
It hardly matters. He gently picks up all three of the eggs and disappears into the main room, settling them onto the highest tier of his nest and swaddling the clutch with a myriad of sheets, only leaving the tops peeking out. Then he returns to the washroom and scoops up his Tarnished, and brings them into the bath, acting as a seat for them to lean their exhausted body against.
Now that he is assured his touch is not poison to them, he touches them freely, cleaning their body for them and gently massaging their stomach. He dresses them in some of his spare robes and their meagre form drowns in the red fabric, the bulk of it dragging along the floor as he carries them in his arms back to his nest.
The Shadow Keep has always been rather empty, save for his guardsmen and the shadow cloaked scholars. The thought that he now has Eyrie to stay with him and wander its dark halls, as well as a brood of his own to eagerly await as they hatch, eases the somberness he has always carried with him.
Loneliness seems like a hazy, far-off memory now.