Power and Pride Chapter II: Kisses in the Dark
#2 of Power and Pride
A/N: A slightly yiffier chapter than before; for now, the questions about the plot (such as the who and why of the murder or the identity of the resious, or what that means) will remain unanswered, so don't think it's something you're not understanding. The next update might take a week or so, due to my life getting busy, or I might just post a short section.
Chapter II: Kisses in the Dark
1.
Back into the night. The black. Words in corridors forgotten by day, blood spilled by candle and torch, deeds once dreamed done. Any sin imaginable in hand.
Aovast 14th. Night of Wounded Stars.
A night for sowing and reaping.
******
Fresh from his deed, the resious crept off into the festivities. No one paid him a second notice. They knew him enough from his frequent walks about the castle at night to give him no heed normally, and tonight? Well, the celebrations made certain that every guard, on duty or not, had a stumble to his step.
Passing through a hall, all red brick and torches, from the High Crest to the inner works of the main keep, he noticed a banner strung along the wall. White and gold, it bore the standard of the land, a crown circled by thorns dribbling with blood, surrounded by roses and lilies. It proclaimed in old Dialectic "MORTA WUERNTIO PI EX FATALIS." The motto of the high guard: "Vigilance in life over death, vigilance in death to cause."
The resious allowed a smile to stain his muzzle.
2.
He moved along the castle halls, taking careful, selected paths: down the hall to the inner keep, out into an intersection where he took a left into the west residence and guest wing, down a an alley of a corridor wedge between two sitting room doors, and into a library the size of a knight's chamber set aside for guests. He weaved around shelves stacked with centuries of their knowledge, proud in even its low ranks. He reached behind a bookcase set against the wall, fumbled with a switch set into the wall, and stalked off into the passage that opened behind him, shutting it as he went.
From this hall, barely wide enough for his bulk (originally meant as an escape passage for those on higher floors to get to the ground floor in case of siege, now in disuse, covered in dust and cobwebs, forgotten except to the spiders in the cracks of its stone, himself, and trusted others), he worked his way into a circular tower set with stairs leading down to storage, prisons, and other more abandoned sections, and up into the true heart of the keep. He took up, into the royal chambers.
Eventually he found himself at the right door. A small, oak panel set into the wall, unassuming from the other panels except for ornate lever halfway down it. He knocked three times, waiting five seconds between each knock. He heard the scramble of feet, and a voice call something out. He waited there nearly two minutes, according to his body clock, glancing from side-to-side after the first minute, his face firm and heart steady--but still, hoping not to be discovered by a patrol, or that somehow someone had found him out. It would seem such a shame to put such years of work into the furnace to having to wait in a hall for too long. Then he might have to murder and flee, begin again in another kingdom where no one could utter his name and no one memorized his face.
But he found these thoughts ungrounded. At the third minute, the panel clicked. And inched open. A face appeared in the crack. One he knew well: a fox the shade of snow except for the black around her ears. She tilted her head up, slowly, to meet his violet eyes. A smile flowed up her thin muzzle. Her eyes, leaf colored, shimmered.
"It's done?" She rested a hand atop his right, running her fingers over his fur there, studying him for a response. "Doensi?" Her hand traced up forearm, tickling him.
He only nodded. And she sighed.
"Thank the gods. We're in the clear." She stepped aside, letting him inside a room he had been in hundreds of times over the year in the king's hold; never, never like this. The walls still had their ocean paint, the scarlet tapestries still draped to the floor with the weight of the battles and blood in them, the crest of crown-and-thorns still capped the room, and the massive bed still dominated the center floor with its gold, blue, and green silk.
"Everything has started to spiral," he said, rubbing her shoulder from behind, kneading it, "but here all remains the same." She let out a long gasp of relief. He lowered his muzzle to beside her neck. And kissed her--just a touch, a prick, before he inched back. She turned to face him, giggling like a youth.
He knew he must have her. He had been with dozens of dozens in the years since he sprung from the dirt of this ball, and he knew he would take hundreds more before his death. He had mingled with elementals, laid with daemon and angaelus alike, made love to elves beneath open sky, pleasured a people from the far south who called themselves huemin, and fucked his share of anthro.
Few could compare to this: the energy ridding in their bones second to none; her old husband, one who never...touched her...minutes into the depths of Hell; nothing to build walls between them. Just them.
"Your eyes...how pretty," she said, staring into him, the smile frozen on her face. "They remind me of jewels. But I want to see them on you. On you as you are. That form is far more handsome, though you are cute enough now." She laughed, motioning to his ash fur, busy tail, and tall frame. "I want to see those powerful horns and the glow from those eyes of yours." She shivered. Not from fear.
A grin melted up his muzzle. "As you wish." He bowed.
His body heated up, an ember in a vast fire. He shut his eyes. No hint of pain escaped him.
His image, his very form, his place in the world crackled. A mirror smashed in by a smaller mirror.
The image of a dark fox broke apart. He felt the cool, the sea; he drank it in. The old image washed off him.
******
His height stayed; he ever looked down at her by a foot. His eyes stayed; except for the lavender light leaking from his sockets, warm coals in the vast dark of her chambers. His clothes stayed; but now they appeared tight on him.
She did not say a word, eyes scanning him from the straight gold horns poking out from behind his pointed ears and the mane of black hair that ended at his back to his curved foot-claws tapping the stones. He grinned, rows of teeth appearing in the low light of the room. She felt no threat from the dragon; she shivered again, twitching her legs to try and halt the warmth beating in her lower regions. A want--a need.
"Am I as you remembered, queen?" He turned his head to the side, studying her. He stepped up to her, pressing his chest against her breasts so that they lay against him. She gasped, but didn't move. No, she leaned closer, tighter, moving hands around his neck.
The queen never answered his question, not in words. She just stood on tiptoe, pressing her muzzle against his; she let him slip his hands onto the rounded thighs no dress could conceal, squeeze her there; he responded to her kiss, thrusting his forked tongue in and out of her mouth. Tasting each other.
She smelled of lilies and summer blooms. He carried a musk of crisp, open water in sunlight.
They drank each other in.
Bliss.
******
She finally managed to gather her strength and pull away from him. He leaned down to take her up.
"Wait." She unlocked her arms, moving to his tunic. "I want to see you." Awkward, like a first time lover. Not her forty-six years of wants. "The rest of you, I mean."
He grinned, all teeth again. "Go ahead." He moved his hands to cup the moon-shaped cheeks under her tail, getting a yelp out of her.
She recovered and worked at the buttons on his tunic. One by one they popped open, revealing hardened flesh like a blend of skin and scales. At last, she pulled his tunic open to reveal more of his green (the arms, shoulders, his outer neck, and head, she noted) and gold (his chest, down to his stomach, and running up the center of his neck) flesh. She smiled at the body he had had hidden in the form of the average fox, his clothes now barely containing it: "powerful" and "strong" sprung to mind, hardly doing his condition justice.
She had seen her husband nude before, of course, and for his fifty years he had held onto some of his biceps; she had seen court knights, admired the tone in their lithe bodies and the hardness their fur failed to cover; but every male she had seen or slept with paled in comparison to the dragon who gripped her oh so close to him (she felt his breath, the smell of spring woods, on her neck, as he traced his tongue over the fur there).
He radiated power.
He was strength: sex, blood, a god of everything a male struggled through life to turn himself into and a god of desires females harbored locked away or in the open for raw force. Again, the feel of power.
This, she felt under her hands, the ideas burning in them and burning in her sex.
******
She drew up to him, kissed him deep. He picked her up so she wouldn't have to reach. She played her hands over a body artists only wished they could portray, starting at the neck and working her way down: along squared shoulders--to solid biceps she could only encircle using both hands--over to his striated chest--down to a golden abdominal cut up with slabs of definition--out along the notched green muscles that lay between his chest and stomach--then back down, and in, to the hem of his trousers.
Feeling her there, he slipped his tongue out of her mouth with a smack, giving her lips a slight touch (teasing) as he went. "Queen, queen...you are an eager one, aren't you?" He lowered her to her feet. "You're lucky, so am I." He cupped and kneaded her left breast, held its large form, considering, before he flicked her nipple through her satin dress. And withdrew, letting her pant. "Or else I'd let you weight for me." He grinned, full of teeth. "Go ahead."
Recovered, she set her hands on his trousers, fumbled apart the buttons, and let his outer garment drop to the floor...only to find he did not wear under garments.
She stepped back, brows lifting. "Et aoi dei!" The queen stared at the cock resting between his muscular legs, reaching towards his kneecaps and managing to get just over halfway. Flaccid.
"The king and his knights didn't arm themselves this well, hmm, my queen?" He still grinned. A laugh escaped those many teeth. "Don't fret, I won't hurt you; I know how to make it fit in you."
She stepped towards him, cupped the heavy thing.
It throbbed in her hands. Grew hard, lifting up straight. Pre dribbled from the tip already.
She stroked a finger along his length, up and down, so long. He growled at her, messed with her hair. "Let's not delay any longer, queen."
He grabbed her at the rear, lifted her up, and carried her to the bed where she landed with grace of a cloud. Her hands worked furiously at the buttons, the laces, the stupid "guards" that their society had chosen to work into their clothes (to protect themselves from what, she mused, ever changing garments?"). He helped her: claws slit the purple silk at its sides, he whispered an apology to her, and off came her dress, letting her body sit bare under his grasp. Her seemingly leagues of pure fur in view, and the body in and under it: he tickled those curves, ran a rough tung on her pink nipples, and teased her soft face before slamming his arms to either side of her, ready.
(She shivered.)
He thrust in. All at once.
More than a foot oh gods more than any she'd ever had or would have again almost too much, going straight into her all at once, no warning, gods--gods it felt like paradise drawn unto her. She felt full. As if she had been missing this her whole life, a broken toy whose gear had been fit in.
******
He tangled with her, they danced.
In and out, his cock smooth despite its huge length and girth, he went. All of it out, all of it in. No middle path with that.
She gasped and gasped with every thrust home, her head nodding back. Flashes in her eyes.
Gods gods gods she had gone over.
******
His hands shaped her breasts as he pushed in and out, grinning, playing with her. Yet he never grew tired, never seemed to go above casual movements.
He enjoyed her. The wet velvet of her insides, the way she downright needed him--and how bucked under the weight of his cock, all smiles for the thing.
Of course, in this their midnight fuck was no different.
******
She felt him in her as he massaged her body. All of him
The length, the width, the veins drawn straight up it, the ridges--from the biggest one at the base to the smaller ones they turned into near the head--to his fat, spear-shaped head.
Every part of it moving her.
The lights twisted and shone and dimmed and shone in the room.
They danced.
They forgot the night, having each other. Forgot the night of their plot, and gave themselves to its end: their last pact.
They danced, sheets scattered around them.