FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Eragon licked his cracked lip again. He flinched at the sting, and at the strong metallic taste that invaded his tongue. He spat some of it, yet its trace lingered, a constant reminder of how defeat tasted. The stillness of the night did not make it any better. The whizzing of the currents whipping past his ears almost was the only sound, darkness the only sight, and soreness the only thing he felt. His bottom was so raw and numb at the same time he could hardly think.

Yet, somehow, he did think. A great deal, in fact, more than he wanted, and the only way to cope with it was repetition. Endless repetition.

Ignore pain, ignore shame, ignore Saphira. Ignore pain, ignore shame, ignore Saphira. The mantra was his only true companion in the ubiquitous darkness. The more he thought of it, the better they bonded. It was when his mind was at peace that a thump shook his innards so hard he retched.

"That's as far as we get," Saphira said. He couldn't ignore that.

"Keep going."

"That means going back on my word."

"No, it means accepting the fact that we've been gliding till the moon turned silver."

Saphira snorted and shook her great horned head. "Accept as well that this is as far as we get." Her gaze fixed on him, eyes sparkling with cold moonlight.

Eragon stretched his back, then leaned against the tough backrest of his saddle. It only made him wince in pain and resume his customarily hunchback position. "Make it as far as your wings allow."

Her muscles rippled and relaxed under Eragon as she crouched expectantly. Eragon didn't budge. He rubbed the soreness from his legs as Saphira stared, and snarled, and growled, then stared again. Eragon smiled as he held her gaze.

This burden is here to stay. He bit his lower lip, and more blood filled his mouth. He cursed in silence, then spat on the side, across the joint of her wing and onto her cerulean wing membrane.

"Murtagh will follow us like the bloodhound he is. Same goes for Thorn."

Saphira lowered herself onto her belly. "If he comes, I'll tear off his slack, cowardly, limp and tired tail."

"Had your chance at that," Eragon whispered. Too loud. A violent tremor shook him off the broken saddle. A frail whimper was his reply before the ground met him. Pain exploded on his side, raw and overwhelming.

"I didn't--you know I--" Eragon paused to regain his breath. His ribs burned with every word, and that flared his temper.

Calm. Calm like a lake's surface. Don't create ripples you cannot stop. Oromis' teachings. Eragon groaned at the thought as he pushed himself onto his bottom. Why have they surfaced?

"Blame me?"

Eragon snapped out of his reverie with a blink. Saphira turned towards him, much faster than her bulky form should allow. He swallowed, but spit stuck in his throat as Saphira's maw inched closer to him, fangs bared. "Typical for a human, I'd say. To fault your kin for your deficiencies."

Eragon smiled. It hurt, blast it, and more blood seeped into his mouth, yet... Deficiency. Such a pretentious word.

Saphira's snarl died, and her eyes held yet again that glimmer reserved only for him. "A smile? Why?" She tucked her wings to her sides and drew her head back. "Moments ago you called me a coward, and I wanted to eat you, and--"

"You wanted to eat me?"

"The most accessible edible prey in my vicinity."

"Har," Eragon growled to match Saphira's snarl. "Then you'd dine on a handful of toothpicks. Meat is scarce on these bones."

"So is my patience," Saphira said. She strolled away from him, her tail twitching with each footstep.

Eragon grunted. Her patience? He had just called her a coward! Well deserved too. If only her claws found proper lodging and her teeth sank deeper.

The memory was still fresh in Eragon's mind. The red whelp, snapping, biting, clawing at an opponent twice his size, thrice more nimble and countless more experienced in battle. "You could have killed him. You just didn't want to."

He looked up. Saphira lay several wingspans away, flat on her belly, with her head arched to regard him with cold, impassive eyes. When did she even put such distance between them?

For a moment, his ragged breath was the only sound he heard. She did not even growl, the craven.

"I follow my instincts before the words of a two legs. The land is full of you, yet Thorn..." she paused for a moment. "There is only one dragon besides me left. A male."

Eragon tried to push himself up, but a protest from his ribs sent him back on the hard packed ground. Despite his layers of cloth, leather and mail, he still felt the cold reaching out for his battered body. He shivered, more out of frustration than anything else. Has his promise meant nothing to Saphira? The more he comforted her with the boons of a Varden victory, the more reckless she became.

And now, they might have lost the war because of her.

Words hovered around Eragon's mind. Some were bitter, like his foul mood. Others carried the vengeance of the defeated, meant to pierce Saphira's irrational resolve. But in the end, none mattered. The dragoness already pushed him out of her mind as she curled into a ball.

Eragon followed her example. He rested on his back, hands clasped under his head as he stared at the star speckled sky. Pain no longer troubled him as it did moments ago. Blood too hardened on his lip, preventing more from oozing into his mouth. In that moment, he cast every thought aside, welcoming the peace of the night.

It did not come. His efforts to push Saphira out of his thoughts proved futile. Even in defeat, she had certain majesty about her. The way her tail tip twitched, her sinuous limbs, her perfectly curved talons, pristine scales, wings, horns, spikes. Wherever he looked, Eragon couldn't help but marvel at just how perfect dragons were.

Bruises and tiredness faded as Eragon pushed himself up, limped to her snout, kissed it, then hugged it.

"My apologies," he said. Muscle memory dictated his fingers which areas to rub in order to produce that hum he longed for. "You're better than me in every way. Acceptance..."he trailed off. Her heat seeped into his clothes, his skin, his muscles, his mind. "It comes hard to us. To humans. We keep to our resolve and lash out when challenged."

"I betrayed you," Saphira's soothing voice came. She dug her snout into his chest so hard he staggered. "Thorn, although a dragon, is an enemy. Our enemy."

"Yet it's us humans that turned dragon against dragon. This war, as every war, is our own doing."

Saphira retracted her snout and fixed her glimmering eyes on him. "The land is our home as much as the sky is. As long as humans prowl it, they must be kept in check."

Eragon chuckled. "You only stay on the ground long enough to take flight. Doesn't make it a home."

Saphira lifted her front paw. "Is that dirt I see under my foot, where I use to stand and curl and rest?"

Eragon smiled. He ran his palm along her paw, rubbing the dirt off her softer, frayed scales. Her paw twitched as he reached the middle, and Eragon chuckled. "I don't see any dirt. You were saying?"

"That you do a poor job of cleaning a dragon's paw. Look." She twisted her paw to allow enough room for her snout to nibble of a patch of wan scales. "These scaled need rubbing so they can shed, like a snake's skin."

"You can do that yourself."

"Point proven."

Eragon cupped one of her three fingers in both hands. It was almost as long as his forearm and twice as thick, with three joints to allow maximum flexibility.

"Your front paws have the flexibility of a hand. Shouldn't you call them such?"

"Do humans walk on their hands?"

They both laughed, Eragon in his hiccupy way mostly. Saphira merely hummed, content to beat him at his own games.

The moon crept from under the blanket of clouds. Its light kissed Saphira's scales, and her back shimmered like the surface of a pond.

But only her back.

Eragon pet her snout, a cackle escaping him. "There's grime all over your scaly coat. What does that make you?"

He drew back as Saphira unfurled her massive wings and growled. "A fighter!"

"Fighters are stinky as they are dirty. It's not a privilege."

Her snout returned to Eragon's arms. "I don't reek."

You do, Eragon thought. Her scales bore a certain earthy fragrance, soft yet alluring to his nose. "Well," Eragon said while he rubbed her chin. "You're a dragon. You don't sweat."

"I still clean myself. You ought improve on that as well."

"Humans already did. We have more means to clean ourselves after our bodily needs, while you only have what?" He pushed Saphira's lips up to reveal rows and rows of teeth, and hiding behind them, her slim tongue tip. "I can't imagine how it is to eat your own--"

Eragon gasped against the sudden, abrasive lick. He pushed back just in time to avoid a second touch of that wet, rough, devilish tongue.

"Why do you cringe? Licking is a display of affection for numerous land dwellers."

"Let's--get back to warriors and why they need both cleaning and healing," he stammered.

"Eragon," Saphira said. "You can barely stand straight." She gave him a nudge, and Eragon had to grip her snout for support to keep himself from falling. She was right, yet he refused to accept it. He called her a coward during a similar moment of weakness, and had no intention to succumb to it again.

"I can clean your belly to keep the cuts from festering."

They stared at each other, each searching for ways to make the other concede. Saphira gave in first. A low whimper escaped her as she shifted onto her side to expose her belly. Eragon walked to the saddlebags that fell along with him, grabbed a linen blanket, healing salve, and a waterskin. He pulled them out one after each other with a hand while the other kept groping for contents. A kettle, wooden platters, and something smooth and fuzzy.

"Could do," Eragon whispered to himself as he pulled it out. A fresh boiled leather vest. Saphira needed cleaning, but so did he.

He emptied the waterskin onto the linen blanket, then folded the fabric twice. This way, it fit his hand perfectly.

By the time he finished cleaning himself, Saphira dozed off. Eragon covered his nakedness with a new pair of deerskin breeches and the boiled leather tunic over a woolen shirt. He then shuffled towards the sleeping dragoness.

"What a mess you are," he said to her grime coated belly. One of her wings stood limp in the air, half extended towards the sky. It bore the cerulean color of the midday sky, clean and flawless.

"I can clean myself. Thought we already established that."

Eragon shuddered. Did Saphira ever truly sleep?

"With your tongue, yes. That's like eating dried blood, mud--" he took a closer look at a dark sphere lodged onto her scales. "And snails."

She lifted one forelimb to flex her fingers. "Should I use my hands then? Like a proper human woman would?"

"Women do more than that with their hands."

"Like?"

Eragon blushed a fierce beet red. His gaze drooped to avoid Saphira's, but the swish of the grass sealed his fate. Saphira was on her belly already, her snout inches from him. "What do ladies do with their hands?"

"Cook," Eragon stammered. "Wash, clean...floors." He pretended to swipe away his rebellious hair when, in fact, he wiped away beads of sweat.

He flinched and staggered as Saphira's snout poked his cheek. "You're hot and red, like dragonfire. There's more to it."

When did she--

"Fine," Eragon said. He stomped the ground with one foot while his fingers twirled around the tunic's laces. "I'll tell you."

"Not enough."

Eragon bit back a yelp as Saphira's snout reached under his chin to pull his head up so that her azure eyes bore into his. "What are you hiding from me, Eragon?"

Curses and pestilence upon... "I once saw a woman inserting her fingers into the crack between her legs for pleasure's sakes no doubt," he said in one breath.

Saphira tilted her head, then retreated her snout. "Does every lady do this?" Her voice acquired a certain murmur. It sent shudders across Eragon's spine. He almost felt the longing trying to wrench its way out of her voice.

"N--not all. Some."

"What prompts such lust?"

"The lack of a mate. They don't have one, so they do it themselves."

"Curious." Her voice shook off every emotion, returning to the nonchalance Eragon knew and loved. "Two legs find ways to cope with everything."

Eragon smiled a half smile. "You overestimate our capabilities."

"I do. That's why I don't let you clean me."

Yet, despite her words, she exposed her belly to him. Eragon gripped the cloth tighter, approached her chest, reached towards it...and ran it along her scales without as much as a snort from her.

A smile crept on Eragon's lips. Embarrassing as they were, his salacious thoughts made Saphira concede faster than a battle of wits. Her usual hum of joy came to life as Eragon rubbed her warm underbelly scales meticulously. That somewhat deep purr soothed Eragon more than any word, wish or feeling. His dragon, mighty and fierce as she was, purred in joy whilst presenting the white of her belly like a kitten.

He continued to rub off mud and blood off her healthy scales and dabbed at gashes or rakes before healing them up to the best of his limited ability. By the time he reached her rear legs, sweat drenched his forehead. His legs wobbled to the point of collapse, and he barely had the strength to keep his eyes open. To make it worse, a laceration across her inner thighs entered his field of vision. Petrified dragon's blood coated the foul would to prevent more from oozing. Eragon grimaced at the sight of it.

"You fool," he whispered to himself. "Is mating more important than your own life?"

His hand hovered over the wound as he prepared to draw in the last of his strength to fuel the healing spell. He said the words.

Then stopped. Something moved. Her leg? No, the wound was still there. Yet something changed. Eragon blinked, then squinted in the dark.

He saw it. Right there, before his eyes. Eragon's heart pounded at the sight--no, at the irony of it. To stumble upon her private area just after their discussion was...it was... His mind went blank while all the blood he had welled within his hot cheeks, his pulsing temples, his sweat covered brow, and into...

Eragon shifted from one foot to the other in a failed attempt to make it go away. It didn't. On the contrary, movement made it worse. Eragon winced as his blood engorged manhood poked against the leather, yearning for freedom that wouldn't come.

"You're being ridiculous," he said to himself while he tapped his foot. "Just do it." Saphira's mellow voice demanded it. Her actions justified it. Her concession simplified it. Yet Eragon still stared, his hands clutching velvety leggings leather. By all rights, he had to do it. And yet...

"I'm not--not your mate Saphira," Eragon blurted out, his voice too frail to hold power. "I can never be. Yet..." he swallowed what little moisture dwelled in his mouth, took in a deep breath, and stepped forward. "I can be the hand that you need me to be. Just like the ladies we talked about."

His hands slid across her increasingly smoother and smaller and paler scales. The closer he got to her crevice, the softer they became, until warm, wet skin greeted his palm. Eragon retreated and bit back a gasp. His heart pounded in unison with his throbbing member, and his cheeks flushed to a beet red.

Wet. She was so wet and slimy. A trickle of liquescence fled from her twitching lips and dribbled across her scales and onto the grass. The same that coated his fingers. Eragon wiped it on his tunic, yet its scent lingered. Wan, earthy, but somehow sweet and intoxicating.

Eragon swallowed, yet no moisture wet his parched throat. Every droplet of water his body held fled through his skin, only to be trapped by his seething clothes.

No more.

He clawed at his tunic for the laces, undid the blasted things, then slipped out of it. His vest followed, shirt, leggings...

Eragon's fingers froze on the clasp of his leggings, and his heart skipped a beat. No. It...it wasn't right, no matter how tightly they squeezed his member. And yet, each throb, each involuntary bob sent ripples of pleasure through his shaft. All he had to do was undo the clasp. Nothing more. Just to alleviate the discomfort of his groin.

"No," Eragon said with a firm shake of his head, as if to dispel the troublesome thoughts. To no avail. The more he stared at her wan, fleshy crevice, the more his thoughts churned. Only this time, his rigid fingers rested on top of the clasp, ready to release it.

"No!"

Eragon straightened his back, and as he did, renewed pressure slammed against his groin. Good. The discomfort set his mind back on the task. On what he needed to do.

Yet, when he sat besides Saphira's flanks again, Eragon froze for the second time.

"How...how do I do it?" he said to himself. Her crack parted her flesh midway between her flanks. The edges, although swollen, were barely prominent, unlike a woman's. How deep ran her tunnel? How much would it take to get the release she desperately needed?

Eragon released a drawn-out sigh and knelt beside his dragon.

A tantalizing finger hovered across her soft, warm, slick surface. Then two fingers. Then his whole hand. He started from the outer edge, where soft scales nipped at his skin, and continued inward, smiling. He never imagined dragon skin to bear such semblance to human one. He didn't even know dragons had skin underneath their impenetrable plates!

Her smoothness proved him wrong.

He traced along her lips, eliciting a shiver from Saphira as he did so. Her flesh became rigid, and her nether depths widened enough for Eragon to see moonlight reflected against the clear, viscous liquid within. More of it fled her insides as her lips twitched, then hardened against his touch. Eragon grabbed hold of her ridge, then rubbed between his fingers. Saphira's reaction was immediate. A snort escaped her, followed by a quiver of her tail and the beat of a wing. Her flesh shivered and twisted under his fingers like the waves of a tumultuous sea; ripples near the shore, curled masses of foaming power farther on. Saphira's muscles followed the same pattern. They lured Eragon's hand closer, and closer, and closer, until the tips of his fingers sank into her depths.

Saphira's hind leg jerked. She clamped around the intruder, then released only to clamp again. The repeated motion sucked in Eragon down to his wrist.

He gasped at her squeeze. Tight when he probed deeper down her rippling muscles, but light when he pulled out with a squelch. Saphira's lips shivered with longing for his touch, and Eragon complied.

Eragon entered her again, flexing his fingers to explore her warm depths. The gentle movement of her flesh lured him deeper, urging him to continue. He sank up to the elbow inside her slick nothingness, dabbing at her sensitive insides and flexing his wrist whenever her ripples subsided. The extra motion brought her to the edge of elation. She growled, her wings beating once, twice. Coldness buffeted Eragon, chilling his sweat drenched skin. Saphira became restless. Her fingers flexed and claws pierced the soil as thin rivulets of arousal flowed across her trembling lips.

Numbness invaded Eragon at that moment. His heart no longer beat, his member no longer flexed, and his mind did not think. Everything he had now rested within his arm, and what it took to show Saphira just how deep he cared for her.

Eragon wet his lips. He had to rest against her side for support, now that he sank further. His fingers parted increasingly sensitive flesh in his wake, which he caressed long enough to cause spikes of pleasure to jolt through Saphira. He advanced slowly and carefully, rocking his arm left and right, up and down before delving deeper. Her ripples grew in intensity, her squeeze became tighter, and her tail curled upwards, almost ready to...

A frail roar shook Eragon, interrupted by several pauses of laborious breathing. Her depths collapsed against Eragon, milking his arm of the seed he couldn't offer. She was tight as a bowstring, ready to burst from all that pressure. Wings stretched to their limit, claws pushed and scraped, muscles tightened like stone.

Another roar left her throat. No, a yowl, clear and crisp like the moonlight reflecting off her straight neck. A heartbeat passed, inaudible and hardly noticed among those clear and blissful yelps.

Saphira's tension melted as quivers shook her form. With each ripple, spurts of fluid fled through her crevice, wetting Eragon's leggings to a deep brown. Eragon twisted his wrist, flexed his hand to prolong her bliss, and Saphira's claws dug even deeper into the soil. She pushed back, tail slapping, almost sending Eragon off balance. Teeth snapped and bit at nothingness, releasing that long, flicking tongue from its prison.

Saphira's snarl lasted only as long as her dying fire. Free of the liquid burden, the dragoness relaxed with a long, mellow growl. Eragon stood there like a stone. Unmoving. Unwielding. Unblinking. Saphira's snout snaked past his bold arm and began to lap at the excess fluid. Her longue slithered inside with obvious expertise, cleaning every trace of the glistening slime

Eragon gulped. He reached a hand towards her head. He wanted to touch her scales, to feel that warmth again upon his skin. His fingers traced several scales before he dropped on his back, overcome with weakness. Perspiration drenched his body, and his leggings felt slick around his groin. Did he--had he too released? His senses returned to him only when the drum within his chest attained a softer rhythm.

That's when he chanced a look at Saphira. Her flank covered her private area, and her head rested on her paws, as if nothing happened. Had it? It felt like a dream to Eragon, vivid only until he woke up. Had he fell asleep? The wind carried the answer. It battered his sweat drenched chest, his soiled leggings, and his trembling form.

He propped a hand and raised himself. Or at least he tried. With a groan, he embraced the cold ground. Grass rustled, and the sky became noticeably darker. Saphira nuzzled, then licked his bare chest.

"Warm yourself under my belly," she gently guided him with her snout.

The warmth. It was blissful. Eragon sighed, cupping Saphira's great head between trembling arms. No thoughts passed his head, and no thoughts were exchanged until a push rooted him firmly to the ground.

His exhausted body fell without complaint. Surrounded by familiar scent and warmth, Eragon gasped. That slick tongue was the last thing he felt before awareness slipped from grasp.

***

I'm also open to commissions! Now you can have your own, personalized story for a price as low as 7 euros/ 10 dollars. Click here to go to my commission page https://www.sofurry.com/view/717455

Want to see a sequel for this story? Click the following link to find out how to get your dose --> https://www.sofurry.com/view/766496