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Terence had spent enough time with his prince—in every capacity—to know the summons to the throne room after their evening meal had enraged him. He hid it well; grace accompanied his every step like a veil. But Terence had long since learned how to see through it. In the frigid atmosphere of the throne room, he was attuned to Dion’s calculated breaths, to the inflexible set of his mouth. He was holding himself taut to avoid even the slightest imperfection.
The empress was with child. Terence had stepped into the throne room, a shadow behind his summoned prince, and was grateful for the armet to cover his face when he saw the gentle curve of Empress Anabella’s stomach.
Dion didn’t measure up to his own definition of perfect. Trained as he had been in the decorum of the court, he was still only twenty-one. Deep below his mantle, Terence knew he was choleric, enough that it broke through the surface as a single twitch of his fingers wanting to curl into fists.
But to his audience, Dion was the picture of magnanimity. He smiled, although Terence could see the disgust in it, and he offered his congratulations to the man he could no longer call his father and the woman he would never call his mother. When Emperor Sylvestre dismissed him, he turned around—but not too swiftly—and motioned for Terence only with a nod of his head.
Terence would follow Dion anywhere, but he wasn’t certain where his prince was leading him now. Outside the palace to escape the physical reminders of imperial secrecy? The barracks, where he would be welcomed for rigorous training with the night watch dragoons? He didn’t have much room to speculate; Dion walked faster through the moonlit halls, offering pleasantries toward every servant, guard, and attendant. From behind him, Terence gave them a look he hoped would pierce through his armet: His Imperial Highness would brook no interruption on his unknown trajectory.
He knew better than to broach their silence first. So he followed Dion from the throne room, to quieter halls, to winding staircases. He knew this path well; he could navigate the passages to Dion’s apartment with his eyes closed. The palace grew quieter still, the background noise fading into the night. Here the sound of Dion’s boots marked a staccato, a strict four-beat to the arrhythmic clattering of Terence’s armour.
Dion stepped into his antechamber, and when Terence didn’t follow, he glanced over his shoulder, his eyes cold. Terence could feel the weight behind it and still knew his fury was not for him.
“Terence.” His name was a command.
“Yes, Your Highness.”
No continuation. Terence braced himself and stepped into the antechamber, closing and locking the door.
Dion took a deep breath, then stomped into his study and through the sunroom. Terence paused with surprise as he set aside his armet. The only room past that was the oratory, a room claustrophobic in its physical size and suffocating in its consecration. But it was also the most private, even more than Dion’s own bedroom, and it was from there that Dion finally let free his furious growl.
He didn’t rush to follow, giving him the time to release his frustration. Dion’s outbursts were infrequent, and even including this one, Terence could still only count them on one hand.
But as he took the first step into Dion’s study, the hopes he had of this outburst being typical, if not rare, sank heavy in his gut. Something was wrong. Malaise flooded him, making his movements feel slow, even as he tried to hasten—the air was growing thick, the temperate heat of the night cloying enough to strangle him. When Terence finally made it to the oratory, his heart beating nervously, he had the sense he was too late.
Blinding light greeted him, and next in the procession of Dion’s turmoil was his guttural growl and the cacophony of glass relics tumbling to the floor. Dion had ripped the cloth from the altar, and fresh, deep gashes marred the wood underneath.
The stained glass iconostases flickered dangerously with Dion’s ire, tales of saints and Dominants and Bahamut coming to life. And when the light faded to a dim glow and Terence could see Dion clearly again, he reached for his face, where scales flowered against his skin.
“My prince,” he murmured, cupping Dion’s jaw.
The first time Dion had semi-primed was when he’d awoken. The scribes lauded Dion Lesage, for even when his power had first blinked to life, he had controlled it so well that rather than becoming all of Bahamut, he had still kept himself—if only for a few minutes before Bahamut reigned. He was barely nine years old, and already he had overshot expectations. It was one feat to prime fully and not lose his sanity; it was another to semi-prime and show his command over Bahamut before he even knew Bahamut had taken residence within him.
He never semi-primed again. He saw no need to when the Sanbrequois people saw Bahamut, not Dion, as their symbol of hope and power. Even before Dion had been elevated from nobility to royalty, Terence had heard the rumours of the Lesages’ bastard firstborn; he was sure Dion didn’t want the people to think him a bastard Dominant as well, a half-state of being. And in a land continuously swallowed by Blight, the people didn’t want to be reminded that their merciful god was housed in a human body.
Still, Dion was that: human. And in this semi-prime form, the confluence of naked human emotion and godly power, Terence found him beautiful.
Jagged, symmetrical horns had emerged from his temples like spires of a wretched cathedral. The onyx scales that ornamented his face licked down his skin and underneath his tunic. And although Terence was familiar with the wings that burst forth from his back now, a flag of command in the skies of Sanbreque’s battlefields, they were no less comforting.
Even as Dion’s transformation crowded the oratory, he avoided touching Terence, allowing himself only to lean into Terence’s hand. As always, he took out his frustration on something else—anything else—and the wood of the altar crackled and splintered under Dion’s metamorphosed claws. Past the study and the meeting room, the prince’s quarters rarely saw guests outside of Terence, and the servants never went into the oratory. He could regretfully immortalize his rage here and conceal it when he calmed.
A shaky breath, and Dion collapsed into his chest. When Terence dared to wrap his arms around him, Dion beat his fist against the altar and let out another sharp cry. He would shed no tears, Terence knew this, but he shook as though he were sobbing regardless.
Dion wrapped his wings around Terence, his whiplike tail tapping gently against Terence’s leg. Then, finally, when Dion lifted his head and met his gaze, Terence knew there would no conversation to be had about royal affairs.
Dion had already succumbed to Bahamut’s power; Terence would remind him that his body was still his own.
He kissed experimentally at the corner of Dion’s mouth, hoping to soothe his desperation. But no sooner did his lips find skin did Dion grab his jaw and turn his head, his claws pressing into his cheek. Terence opened his mouth to say something, which he instantly forgot the second Dion claimed his mouth, tugging him close until Terence was forced to confine him against the altar.
Their kisses before had been marked with hesitance, the clandestine nature of their affair ever present in their minds. In this hallowed chamber, Dion kissed him angrily; Terence gasped for air, and Dion only clawed at him more, like it was Terence’s flesh, not his own, that caged him in his doomed existence.
All Dion accomplished was adding scratches to his armour, of which there were already plenty, and he huffed out his nose with frustration. Terence was endeared despite being privy to the downward spiral threatening to swallow Dion whole. He stepped back and catalogued Dion’s appearance once more. Amber eyes burning, tail tapping impatiently, shirt partially torn from the sudden manifestation of his wings—whatever was left of it was still tucked into his trousers, and Terence helpfully untucked it.
The simple act took all the fight out of Dion. He turned away; his clouded thoughts had parted just enough for a moment of clarity, it seemed. Guilt was foundational to Dion, keeping him as much upright as the vertebrae in his spine. Terence leaned for his claws, chased them when Dion shied away.
“Forgive me,” Dion rasped out. He watched intently as Terence kissed his hand, warped beyond recognition. “To lose control of myself, let alone to have a witness, is shameful. It was unbecoming of me. I should—I must be better.”
The light surrounding Dion softened. All that remained in the storm-wreaked oratory was the blue glow from the fissures between Dion’s scales: from a jagged V-shape across his chest, from gashes like claw marks across his neck. His amber eyes glowed with the aether pulsing behind them.
“I only ask that you are yourself.” Terence glanced up at him.
“Myself?” Dion gave a humourless laugh. “And who should that be?”
“The Dion that takes all of me.” He kissed again at the scales against his jaw, down to the glow of blue light against his neck, and waited.
“As I am now?” he asked, small—as if he couldn’t plunge one lazy claw into Terence’s chest and destroy him.
“As you are always.”
Their lips met again, slower but no less desperate. When Dion kissed him, his fangs unintentionally bit into Terence’s lip, drawing blood. Dion would regret all of this in the morning, perhaps in mere hours, but for now, the blood resurrected him, and Terence would gladly give everything he needed. He unbuttoned Dion’s shirt. A futile act when Dion’s wings had left it in tatters, but it was one he hoped would remind Dion he was—in this oratory dedicated to the worship of their gods—worthy of affection.
It had its desired effect. Dion shuddered under his touch, and his light pulsed in tandem with his fragile contentment. He spread his hands across Dion’s chest, humming when the obsidian scales seemed as receptive as the flesh he knew. Dion sucked in a deep breath and leaned back against the altar.
“My prince,” Terence murmured, moving his hands around Dion’s chest and against his back, one hand tracing the scales of his spine.
Dion tipped his head back with a sigh, and Terence allowed himself a smile. He pushed Dion’s shirt off his shoulders, finally ridding him of the silly thing, and Dion cradled the back of Terence’s head and brought him back in for a kiss. Always hungry; Terence felt like he was being devoured. Dion wrapped his wings around him again, his tail snaking around Terence’s thigh. In return, Terence traced from between his shoulder blades down to the small of his back, and he pressed down into the scales there. Dion gasped into his mouth, his hips bucking forward.
As freely as he had given that blessed touch, Terence took it away, teasing a whine out of Dion’s lips as he retreated. On another day, he might be weak enough for that sound to sway him; tonight, he had other plans.
He got down on his knees before Dion, the metal plates of his armour chiming like the sanctus bell, and watched as whatever objections Dion had dissolved. Dion was a sight. Eyes swollen with unshed tears; lips red with attention; his otherworldly, half-human body arcing toward him in anticipation.
And then, fear. “You can’t,” Dion rushed to say, panic seeping into his tone. “You cannot. This semi-priming has left me—grotesque. I would not have you see me this way.”
Terence placed his hands on Dion’s thighs, moving his thumbs in small circles. “I’m certain that’s my decision to make,” he said, goading Dion into objecting.
Without fail—“Do not suffer me in this poisoned state.” In times like these, Terence knew him too well.
“Then I won’t suffer at all.” He moved to unbutton Dion’s trousers, slow enough to give Dion enough time to stop him if he truly wished. But instead, Dion raked a hand through Terence’s hair, sending a wave of warm pleasure through his body; with his other hand, he covered his mouth and looked away. Terence would allow him that for now.
He pushed Dion’s trousers down—and what he saw gave him pause. Dion tensed above him, assuming the worst before Terence could even absorb the sight before him. “Terence—”
“No,” he said firmly, hands flying out to keep Dion in place.
The draconic transformation had engulfed his lower half. His thighs were more scale than skin, his waist adorned with obsidian shifting to midnight blue in his light. Terence had never wanted to tear his gauntlets off more than in that moment, to know how Dion’s scales would sing for him.
Before him was all of Dion, his most intimate parts touched by the transformation. Terence was well-acquainted with his lover’s anatomy, had spent their precious time together memorizing the weight of Dion’s cock in his bare hand, the taste in his mouth. But what he saw now was none of that.
For starters, there were two. He had to confess: he was taken aback.
Twin shafts beside each other, a deep, pure blue, half erect and pulsing slightly with light. He took a moment to observe each. Compared to Dion’s usual form, the two cocks he presented now were longer, more slender. Scales shimmered along each length, the underside punctuated with soft ridges and the sides lined with stout spikes.
Nothing had quite prepared him for this. But, well—he was prepared enough. These were still attached to his lover, after all, and the overall shape was similar enough to what he knew that he could imagine bringing Dion pleasure in the same ways. He just had to improvise.
A glance at Dion revealed he was hiding his face entirely, his shoulders hunched with shame. His posture exuded nothing but defeat as he supported his weight on the altar behind him. He croaked out Terence’s name again, and Terence hushed him.
The initial surprise of Dion’s form faded into curiosity. Terence was filled with the overwhelming urge to take one, then the other, into his mouth, to know what Dion would taste like. The bumps and spikes down each of Dion’s cocks were not quite the same angular sharpness as his claws, scales, wings, but enough that Terence was curious if they would bring him more pain than pleasure.
Despite Dion’s mortification, his cocks twitched with interest as Terence stared and stared. He hadn’t removed his hand from Terence’s head. It had become a comfort, and now mingled with his desire, it felt like an encouragement. Looking up at Dion, he breathed hot air over the tip of his right cock, and Dion’s hips jerked forward, stopping short of Terence’s lips only because Terence was still holding him by the thighs.
That got his attention. Dion moved his arm enough to look down at Terence, and Terence smiled up at him, reaching for his right cock before stopping himself. If he was to know everything about Dion, it would be with his own flesh. He let go of Dion’s thighs and unstrapped his gauntlets at the same time he moved forward with his mouth instead. He licked his lips and took the head of one of his cocks.
Dion whined; Terence took just his tip in and sucked lightly, and Dion cried out. Spit pooled in his mouth, his appetite for Dion stoked, and he slid down the length. As he took him deeper, his other cock rubbed against his cheek, the scales more velvety than he had expected. He tossed his gauntlets to the side and ran his tongue experimentally along the ridges, and he was rewarded with Dion gasping above him. Sensitive they were, then. He held Dion’s right cock—or as much as he could of it—in his mouth, sucking, the soft skin of the inside of his cheek pillowing the harder spikes.
He flattened his tongue along the underside of Dion’s cock, and just when he could sense a curse about to float out from between Dion’s lips, he brought his hand up to Dion’s other cock and stroked. The scales covering his cock were smooth and soft, the small spikes pliant in his hand.
Dion’s thighs trembled, and as Terence drew his lips from his cock, he sucked hard, feeling each ridge pop against his lips. Dion whined louder, higher in pitch, and heat spiked through Terence’s body. He took his hand from Dion’s left cock and spit in it, murmuring a soft apology for his lack of lubrication.
Not that Dion seemed to mind, judging by the tantalizing sharpness of Dion’s claws against his scalp. When Terence looked up at him, he found a deep flush across Dion’s cheeks, the amber glow of his eyes almost swallowed by his pupils. In the haze of unnatural pleasure, Dion’s gaze was glassy, flicking back and forth from Terence to his own form.
Terence licked his bottom lip. “My prince,” he breathed out. “If this remains to your liking.” Then he moved his mouth to Dion’s other cock.
He heard the sound of claws against wood grain once more, and he smiled around Dion’s shaft. A glance up rewarded him with the sight of Dion, falling against the altar, his mouth open as he hung on for dear life. His other cock, slick with spit, glided across Terence’s cheek. He tried to take as much of Dion as he could, but when Dion’s cock hit the back of his throat, there was still some left; with the hand not already wrapped around Dion’s other cock, he grasped it where it met his lips.
Dion gasped for air above him, his thighs trembling, and it filled Terence to the brim with lust. But this surely couldn’t be all he was capable of with such a rich offering before him; for Dion, he wanted to do more. Drunk with Dion’s moans, he was was struck with misplaced confidence. Glancing up once, making sure he and Dion were making eye contact, he took both of Dion’s cocks in one hand and brought them to his mouth, opening wide.
“You’ll hurt yourself—Terence!” Dion exclaimed, pushing him away with the hand still in his hair. But if the possibility of Terence feeling pain was why Dion was trying to stop him, then he wouldn’t have any of it. His eyes fluttered closed, and he resisted Dion’s grip.
It was . . . possible, he thought as he closed his lips around both tips. He frowned with concentration and tried to take more; the uneven sensation against his sensitive lips was not entirely offensive. This would be possible beyond a doubt had he tried this in his backside rather than his mouth, but it was worth it to hear Dion start babbling nonsense as he raked his claws through Terence’s short hair.
He soon discovered that despite his best intentions, he could go no further. Unable to take more than the tips of both, he released them with disappointment, his experiment done. He would have considered it a failure had Dion not been debauched by the attempt. He returned to giving attention to just one while he worked the other with his hand. Suddenly, Dion’s knees gave just enough to thrust into Terence’s mouth, and the head of his cock jabbed the back of his throat. Involuntarily Terence swallowed, then started coughing, and he withdrew. Thick, sticky spit trailed from the tip of Dion’s cock to his lip, and he blinked tears of startled pain away before looking at Dion again.
Desire and guilt swimming in his expression, all at once. Terence smiled in understanding, his heart bursting with affection, because he knew what would come next, and so he stood to cradle Dion’s face in his hands as Dion began his apologies.
“I am sorry. I didn’t mean—Are you hurt?”
“No,” Terence said plainly, then kissed him before he could say more. This time, he reached down to stroke both of his cocks in his hand, and Dion scrambled for him, Terence’s sturdy frame the last thing keeping him from falling backward onto the altar.
His claws were digging into the nape of Terence’s neck, but he didn’t mind. Whenever Dion allowed himself to rely on someone else, to be vulnerable and naked, Terence was selfishly glad it was him. He moved one of his hands to rest at the small of Dion’s back again and tipped him backward until his back was against the altar, his wings fully extended across. He broke the kiss and stared at Dion, dazed with his internal fight between asceticism and sinfulness.
Terence twisted his wrist, and he watched as sinfulness won, consuming Dion. “Your armour is cumbersome,” Dion breathed out matter-of-factly.
“Not so, my prince. It allows me to conduct my duties at your side confidently,” he replied with sensibility that matched Dion’s. He leaned down to nip at Dion’s neck, and Dion hissed.
“Off with it.” Dion’s command was soft, and he tilted his head to the side.
“I need assistance.” Terence kissed the corner of his mouth, then teased, “Unless you would not deign to assist your knight.”
Dion scrunched his nose with distaste. “I would always.” He huffed and followed Terence as he backed up. “Don’t imply such things.” He reached for the gaps between Terence’s armour as Terence undid leather straps more easily accessible, but Dion hesitated long enough to catch his attention.
The claws. Of course he would overthinking his capacity to hurt. Terence took his wrist and guided him to his armour again. Taking a shaky breath, Dion gingerly unfastened his pauldrons, then went to work on the crisscross laces across his bicep, trying much too hard to keep his claws from scratching linen and skin.
Still, they made light work of his armour, and no sooner did Terence place his chest plate aside did he take advantage of the despondency storming Dion’s features to grab him by the waist. He groaned at Dion’s hard-earned muscle shifting under the soft scales. Dion’s regret was quickly replaced by confusion, and he blinked rapidly as Terence nudged him and lifted him until he had to scramble to sit on the altar, bare.
“What are you doing?” Dion hissed as Terence settled between his legs, kissing above his belly button. “I’ve defiled this space enough with this atrocity.”
As he had many times in his service to Sanbreque, and more specifically to Dion, Terence found he no longer cared what the clergy deemed holy. What mattered to him—as a mere mortal, as Dion Lesage’s sacred knight, as his prince’s lover—was that Dion was tended to. He kissed Dion’s abdomen again, and he felt Dion’s cocks twitch in the space between them. “Respectfully,” Terence started with the intent of being disrespectful to the Holy Empire of Sanbreque, “you are the very thing this chamber was built to worship. And if not so, then I will change that.”
“But Bahamut—”
“Dion,” he interrupted. “Lie down.”
He didn’t expect Dion to. No matter. Terence shed himself of his undergarments, only somewhat aware of Dion’s eyes on him. The oratory was small enough that whatever destruction Dion had caused was contained, and he had no troubles finding what he was looking for.
Dion was shocked into silence when Terence picked up the ampoule of anointing oil and snapped its glass neck, breaking its seal. A smoky, wooden smell wafted through the air, as though he had lit incense. Terence looked up at Dion, waiting for him to protest.
He was met with a wide-eyed stare. Again, he said, “Lie down.”
Dion didn’t have to be asked again. He still hesitated, but when he lay on his back and Terence moved close enough to kiss him until he couldn’t breathe, his arousal had returned in full force. Terence wasn’t planning on any more interruptions, whether external or from Dion’s own doubt. He had been gentle enough already.
Sprawled across the mistreated altar, Dion glowed with Bahamut’s light, drawing shadows across his naked form. He was waiting, wanting. Terence wanted this sight only for himself; none other would love Dion as he was now, and none as wholly.
Dion closed his eyes and took a breath, and he drew his legs up and spread them, expecting Terence to claim him soon enough. The claws of his draconian feet scratched once more into the wood, but this time he had nothing to say. Perhaps he had finally let go and given in, at least for the time being.
How wrong he would be.
Terence poured the anointing oil over his fingers, coating them with more than necessary. It had been a while since he had last received instead of given, but he could think of no better way to join with Dion in his semi-primed form. He climbed up onto the altar and straddled Dion.
Dion’s eyes shot open in realization, his gaze ricocheting from Terence’s oil-covered fingers to his hips positioned over Dion’s cocks. Terence brushed the hair from his face, then leaned down on one elbow and kissed him. “I would give my body to you, Dion,” he petitioned against his lips. “If you would take me.”
He inserted his index finger inside himself, keeping his breath steady as he pushed past the resistance. Dion reached up and stroked his face, then cupped the back of his neck. While Terence worked himself open, Dion’s clawed hands travelled the expanse of his chest, tracing scars of battle and smiling at those that represented less noteworthy gaffes. Light followed his touch like fireflies blinking in the open fields. He leaned up and captured Terence’s lips.
Between the two of them, Dion had always been more vocal, and it followed even now; he moaned into their kisses, arching his back in a struggle to touch more of Terence. Dion’s cocks leaked with precome, smearing across Terence’s stomach, urging him to prepare himself faster.
What Terence wanted was to work himself open to the point that he could take both of Dion’s cocks at once. With his impatient prince, he would have to settle with one. He sat back up again, and Dion grasped for him as though he was deprived of air.
He bit the inside of his cheek. He was unsure how this would work—would one be bent at an awkward angle and cause pain? Would any pleasurable sensation be halved if he only serviced one? The questions seemed more important to him than it did to Dion, who rested his scaled hands on Terence’s thigh, begging him to make a decision.
Terence reached behind him to cover both of Dion’s cocks in the anointing oil, then grabbed one and lined it up against his entrance. He watched the bob of Dion’s throat as he swallowed, Dion’s guilt forgotten in his pursuit of the corporeal pleasure Terence offered to him now.
He lowered himself onto one of Dion’s slender cocks, gasping at each ridge and spike teasing his rim. It was a sensation like no other; he hadn’t expected himself to be so receptive to the texture. He got halfway, then lifted and tried again, Dion’s other cock sliding against the cleft of his ass and slick with precome.
When he finally managed to take Dion to the base, he hummed with satisfaction. Dion’s focus was on him and him only, watching the place where they joined. Terence grinned, and then he took Dion’s wrists and put them beside his head, tangling their fingers.
As Terence started rocking atop him, groaning as Dion’s cock stretched him open, Dion wrapped his wings around him, and he curled his thin, whiplike tail tighter around his calf. The altar creaked with their combined weight, but Terence wasn’t worried that it would break. If it couldn’t handle this sharing of flesh, then what good was it for?
Dion arched his back, letting out a slow whine. His hands twitched, and Terence let them go, chuckling as they flew out to grab Terence’s hips. His claws dug into the soft skin of his waist, and this time, it hurt, but he didn’t let it show—Dion must have been well past caring, which Terence considered an outstanding victory.
Dion’s hair haloed him, fanned out against the dark wood of the altar. Light flew off him in sparks as he bucked his hips to thrust into Terence harder. Terence’s grin grew a fraction wider. It was easy to tease his prince, easy to make him forget earlier heartbreak by drawing his pleasure out, but it was even better to give him everything he wanted so he could finally indulge.
He leaned back just so, the new angle hitting a spot inside him that made light dance before his eyes. He moved faster, grinding down into Dion’s lap and drinking in his moans. The lacerations in the altar were splintering more now, threatening to break the skin of Terence’s knees, but it was a small price to pay to see Dion twisting with ecstasy beneath him.
Dion’s hips bucked, and he draped an arm over his forehead and groaned into the open air. His chest heaved with breath; Terence let loose a heady chuckle. Terence leaned down to kiss the side of his neck, exploring the grooves between the stiffer scales with his tongue. The cry Dion let out was a pure harmonic of his primal desire.
Terence was becoming less levelheaded as he worked Dion’s cocks, one inside him, one grinding against his ass. He pressed his forehead into Dion’s shoulder, panting heavily, and Dion slurred something Terence could barely recognize as a request to come.
“Please, my prince.” Terence asked for little from him—only his trust. Only. As if it were something Dion freely gave. “Don’t ask for permission.”
Dion threw his hands around Terence’s shoulders, scratching his back. His loud cry was accompanied by the sound of his clawed feet gouging the wood of the altar beneath him. He stretched out his wings, pulsing with light, as he submitted to his passion. The tail around Terence’s calf wrapped so tight it was reminiscent of a tourniquet—and then Terence was filled with blinding heat as Dion buried fully inside him and came. His other cock covered his backside with come, and the trickle of his release ran down the cleft of his ass and pooled beneath them.
Terence didn’t stop moving, close as he was to his own climax, but he hadn’t expected Dion to reach between them and stroke him, careful not to scratch with his claws. The scales of his hand were soft, superheated with the blood running beneath them, and as Terence buried Dion fully inside him, Dion pressed the pad of his thumb under the tip of his cock, and he melted in Dion’s touch.
It was all rather inelegant; when Terence could breathe and the sensation of come both inside and on him was becoming uncomfortable, he assessed both them and the room. They were covered in sweat and scratches, and now with a slightly clearer head, he realized what a disastrous state the oratory was in.
At least Dion seemed to have been spent of the emotions that had led them here in the first place. Terence sat up, Dion’s cock slipping out of him, and Dion deflated with a sigh. The hand he brought to rest on Terence’s thigh was sluggish, drained of the energy to go further.
With a shimmer of light, the scales across his face and body faded into his pale skin. Terence held the hand on his thigh as it retreated into human proportions, Dion’s neatly trimmed nails back in place instead of claws. All at once Dion looked weary, but when Terence tried to get off the altar in his postorgasmic dizziness and stumbled, he cracked a smile.
“Your report, Sir Terence.” Dion’s weightless voice after their activities charmed Terence every time.
Terence pursed his lips as he assessed the damage. The verdict . . . “It would be best if you closed your eyes once more, Your Highness,” he concluded. At the formality, Dion snorted, nudging him in the stomach with a naked foot. “The less you see what we’ve done to this room, the better.”
Dion threw his arm over his eyes. A concession of responsibility, freely given. “I trust your judgement is sound.”
He walked beside Dion and brushed the hair away from his forehead, matted with sweat. “You may entrust yourself fully to me,” he said, and then he reached for Dion, nudging him enough that he could curl into Terence’s arms and off the ravaged altar. “Now rest, Dion.”
By the time he’d finished drawing them a bath, Dion had already half drifted asleep.