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The God-King of the Adlivun Empire stalks down the corridors of the imperial palace like a descending thunderstorm, wreathed in wrath. It’s a common sight on the days imperial court is held and most know to make themselves scarce. The unfortunate attendants that must remain on staff or are unlucky enough to cross His Majesty’s path quickly shrink their necks, bowing low as they retreat out of his way.
Nanook pays them no mind, only sparing a glance for the royal attendant who greets him at the door of his personal chambers. “Where is he?”
Khaslana never lingers in Nanook’s personal chambers, preferring to hide himself away at the private indoor pool or royal gardens.
The attendant salutes the king, bowing deep. “Consort Khaslana is at the Grand Pool.”
Changing direction, Nanook heads for the pool hall. The absence of personnel is confirmation that Khaslana is here. Nanook barely notices servants anymore, used to their ubiquitous presence, but Khaslana is particular about his privacy, dismissing them whenever possible.
Arriving at his destination, Nanook pushes the heavy, carved alabaster doors open. Refreshingly cool air brushes over his skin, the doors falling ponderously closed behind him. The pool is a magnificent affair of arched white marble columns and elaborate mosaic tile flooring accented with blue and gold. The light of the evening sun shines down from the vaulted ceiling’s skylights, golden beams playing upon rippling, crystalline blue waters, reflecting off the surface like a shifting mirage.
Khaslana is resting in the shallows with his back to him, wings folded in against his back. “Nanook,” he acknowledges without turning around, his tone apathetic.
The corner of Nanook’s mouth curls at the disrespectful address. It seems he’s not the only one in a poor mood today. He doesn’t find Khaslana’s recalcitrance displeasing. On the contrary, it whets his anticipation of what is to come.
Carelessly dropping his half robe at the side of the pool, Nanook descends the steps into the cool water, choosing to settle on a bench further into the depths. He curls his hand. “Come here.”
Khaslana’s lips thin with displeasure, but he obeys, rising from his seat and wading over, the edges of his wings dragging through the water. Knowing what’s expected of him by now, Khaslana climbs up to straddle Nanook’s waist, water dripping from the tips of his wings and hands coming to rest on his shoulders. Khaslana isn’t a small man—usually the strongest and tallest person in the room whether here or back in Amphoreus—but Nanook is a full head taller than him, dwarfing his figure.
Nanook palms the cut muscle over Khaslana’s hip admiringly, fingers resting on the curve of his ass, the other hand landing proprietarily on a strong, pale thigh. “What displeases my consort today?”
“What’s there to be pleased about?” Khaslana returns coldly.
“You don’t like being idle. I gave you options. You refused them.”
Khaslana’s jaw tightens. “I won’t aid you in oppressing people.”
Nanook’s grip tightens, a warning. “And if I ordered you, what choice would you have?”
Khaslana goes silent and sullen. Having promised his loyalty, Khaslana belongs to Nanook. If Nanook commanded him, he would be hard-pressed to obey; it’s only by Nanook’s grace that he is spared from performing a task he can’t stomach. Khaslana does have a degree of protection, won for him by his mentors, but it’s limited—Amphoreus was the disadvantaged party in their negotiations.
The large hand resting on Khaslana’s thigh slides down and in, tucking up between his legs. Fingertips slip between slick folds, teasing. Despite himself, Khaslana’s hips shift. His breathing quickens, light color entering his cheeks.
“This part of you is more honest.” Nanook languidly pushes two fingers into his slick heat, spreading the digits wide.
A small shiver goes through Khaslana at the stretch, cold water rushing into his passage, body tightening lustfully around the digits.
“Were you looking forward to this?”
“I’m yours to command, Your Majesty,” Khaslana bites out.
“You are,” Nanook returns, eyes hooded. He pats Khaslana’s hip. “Go on then.”
**
The lewd slap of skin on skin echoes through the grand room, punctuated by harsh pants and the soft slosh of water against the sides of the pool. Khaslana moves on Nanook, his stunning figure, like sculpted perfection, highlighted in brilliant red and gold by the rich warmth of the setting sun.
Nanook’s hands wander over the beautiful body as Khaslana rides him, soft skin over defined musculature. He pays special attention to Khaslana’s chest, kneading the plush muscle and teasing the nubs until Khaslana is glaring at him, face reddened and pace unconsciously quickening.
Khaslana is getting close, teeth grinding as his jaw clenches tight to hold in his moans. Reaching down, Nanook pinches Khaslana’s clit, toying with it between his fingers. Without warning, he sinks his other hand into a wing, grabbing a fistful of strangely-textured feathers and pulls. Instantly, Khaslana lets out a startled cry and climaxes, spine pulling taut as he shudders through another orgasm. Loosening his hold, Nanook strokes over the feathers, feeling the wings shiver and flutter against his palm.
Khaslana only slumps for a moment, giving himself a brief reprieve, and then he starts moving on Nanook again, even as he trembles through the oversensitivity, biting his lip against a moan. “Will you just—come already?” he snarls as he slams himself down. He’s already come twice, staving off his own climax but Nanook hasn’t deigned to finish, not allowing him to end this affair.
This view is worth holding out for. Khaslana is especially beautiful like this; golden eyes flashing with fury, teeth bared at him as his body moves upon him in sinuous motion.
“Ask me nicely.”
Khaslana’s nails dig red crescents into Nanook’s shoulders. “Fuck. You.”
Fingers sliding into soft blonde locks, Nanook jerks Khaslana’s head back, sinking his teeth into the sun on his throat. Khaslana lets out a helpless cry, the rhythm of his hips stuttering.
“You’ve no manners, Amphorean.” Nanook licks over the wound, Khaslana hissing at the sting. “Seems like I’ll have to teach you another lesson in imperial etiquette.”
“I know my manners; I just see no point in wasting them on you,” Khaslana retorts resignedly, even as his cunt gushes around Nanook’s length, body remembering the last time Nanook disciplined him.
It’s going to be a long night.
**
Khaslana of Aedes Elysiae was one of the Twelve Chrysos Heirs, champions of the nation of Amphoreus, to the Northwest of the Adlivun Empire. In their quest to vanquish the apocalyptic Black Tide devouring their country, the Chrysos Heirs beseeched the Titans, the gods of their land.
By then, Phagousa and Georios had succumbed to madness. When the Titans witnessed that even they could not resist the corruption of the Tide, Talanton lowered his head, permitting the champions to slay the two rampaging Titans.
Under the Sky Father’s guidance, Cerces pondered the question, Janus and Oronyx divined destiny, Mnestia wove fate itself… Together, the remaining ten unveiled the solution in an oracle: humanity must prove itself worthy and able to receive the Coreflames through passing each Titans’ Divine Trial. The Titans would then relinquish their Coreflames, becoming mortal themselves. All twelve Coreflames had to be borne by one, wielded in unison to eradicate the monstrous Black Tide. Who this bearer was didn’t need to be said: it could only be the Savior, the sole Chrysos Heir without imperfection—Khaslana.
Working together, the Chrysos Heirs conquered the Divine Trials, the champions assisting their dear friend in attaining the Coreflames until he held them all within his mortal shell. Withstanding the scorching fire of the Coreflames, Khaslana wielded their power and defeated the Black Tide, burning the last of its shadow from Amphoreus.
Doing so was not without its consequences. Khaslana’s body was hardened in the demiurge form, more like stone than human skin, but this transformed body remained mortal and, in the long run, could not contain the power of divinity, much less the rampaging fire of twelve. Cracks appeared in the plaster like skin, golden ichor leaking through the wounds. His companions, Hyacine, Anaxa, and Cerces put their heads together, but nothing they tried slowed the deterioration.
It was then, when Khaslana’s body was beginning to fail, when Amphoreus had yet to recover from the Black Tide, that the conquering army of Adlivun came to their borders, led by their God-King Nanook.
With Khaslana and the Chrysos Heirs at the fore, the warriors of Amphoreus gathered behind their heroes and marched out to meet the invaders. It was a futile resistance with impossible odds, outnumbered a hundred to one, but the Amphoreans were determined to fight to the death for their freedom rather than submit.
But this desperate last stand never came to pass.
**
Back then (Khaslana POV):
On arriving on the battlefield, Adlivun flies the marked white flag of parley.
As Amphoreus’ delegation, Aglaea and Khaslana in his demiurge form go forth. To their surprise, the one that comes out to meet them from Adlivun’s side isn’t a representative—one of the Lord Ravagers at Nanook’s side as would be appropriate—but the God-King himself. Even from a distance, Nanook’s bloodthirsty power is felt, blanketing the field. As he nears, it becomes a physical weight bearing down on their shoulders and stifling their breaths.
“Aglaea of Okhema greets Your Majesty.” Aglaea performs a polite salute but does not bow her head despite the tyrannical pressure of The Blemished One’s divinity.
“Khaslana of Aedes Elysiae greets God-King Nanook.” Following his mentor’s example, Khaslana does the same. Given the circumstances, this is as civil as the two are willing to be, not believing for a moment that Adlivun will withdraw.
The God-King is a giant of a man, the top of Khaslana’s head just reaching his shoulder. Nanook lowers his head to regard them. His long, white braids sway forwards, his expression unreadable. “Even if this little godling burns himself to cinders, you can’t win this battle. Yield, and Adlivun will not mistreat you.”
The two Amphoreans trade a bewildered glance. There are exceptions, but Adlivun’s rule of their subjugated nations is often harsh and exploitative. At the same time, the God-King is known to keep his word. What does he intend with this?
“We thank you for the generous proposal, Your Majesty,” Aglaea replies, tactful but firm. “However, we must decline: Amphoreus will forever be a free state. We will not submit to a dictator.”
“There will be no Amphoreus when this war is done,” Nanook says, a statement of fact. “Still, would you fight?”
Khaslana’s wings flare, wanting to shield everyone behind him. “We will fight you to the end,” he promises, low and hoarse. Knowing his friends and comrades will likely die today because of this man, his golden eyes blaze with determined wrath. His temperature rises, Coreflames burning hot in his chest.
Slowly, the God-King smiles, the expression sending a chill down the two people’s spines. “Very good. Then I will make you one last proposal.” He tips his head at Khaslana. “If this one, Khaslana, becomes my consort, Adlivun will leave Amphoreus. As long as he is true to me, we will not cross your borders while I reign.”
There is a stunned silence. And then Aglaea who had, up to that moment, been calm and composed, abruptly drags Khaslana behind her with surprising strength. “You want Khaslana?” Her voice is colder than ice, a spindle whirling at her side. “We won’t sell our own to you, you—” She cuts herself off, barely restraining the desire to hurl invective at him.
The God-King is unmoved. “Even if I can save his life?”
“What do you mean?” Aglaea demands, back rigid with wariness.
Nanook gestures casually to the still-nonplussed Demiurge. “As he is, you’ll be burying him before the month’s end.”
Aglaea’s grip on Khaslana’s arm turns crushing.
Khaslana is silent. He knew but hadn’t wanted to tell her.
“However, if he takes my divine ichor, I can make him a true demigod.” Nanook’s gaze flicks to the sun in the sky. “I’ll give you a day to consider it. Tomorrow, Adlivun will return for your answer.”
Though his heart is unwilling, Khaslana already has his answer. It takes much longer to convince Aglaea and his friends.
The following day, there are seven extra bodies on Amphoreus’ side. Khaslana wasn’t able to prevent them from coming and, for some inexplicable reason, Aglaea hadn’t stopped them. The seven complications introduce themselves to the God-King—though it’s more like a declaration when three of them do it with their weapons drawn.
Hurriedly, Khaslana spreads his wings, blocking the idiots from sight. There are muffled splutters as Mydei and Cipher get smacked with faces full of feathers, and something cold pokes his wing. Is that Professor Anaxa’s gun? “Please forgive their discourtesy, Your Majesty,” Khaslana says, teeth gritted. “They’re just—concerned parties.”
He needn’t have bothered. Nanook doesn’t spare them a glance, his gaze fixed on Khaslana the entire time. “Then you agree?”
Anaxa impatiently pushes the dark wing aside, coming to the front with a sheaf of papers in hand. “With conditions. Of course, as the disadvantaged party, Amphoreus will provide satisfactory compensation for the concessions—”
Khaslana’s hand twitches at his side, wanting to snatch back his professor who has walked right up to the God-King. He restrains himself, knowing the action would be too conspicuous.
“—Your Majesty may have heard of the Grove’s advanced technology. We can provide our knowledge and our scholars—I have samples here for you to peruse.”
Nanook’s attention turns to Anaxa, mildly interested by the tiny, suicidal scholar who shows no fear or reverence before the God-King. The others are appropriately tense, but this one acts completely unaffected, as if he doesn’t even feel Nanook’s unmistakable aura.
“Okhema’s craftsman as well, have much to offer,” Aglaea says, drawing level with Anaxa. The two people like oil and water—who normally can’t agree on a single thing—stand together, forming a solid wall in front of Khaslana.
The whole point of this is for his companions to not get killed, Khaslana thinks helplessly. What are they doing?
After Anaxa and Aglaea’s negotiation of the terms, Hyacine and Tribios check Nanook’s demonstration that the god’s blood can heal Khaslana’s wounds. The golden ichor burns like liquid fire, but the smallest of the widening cracks on his chest seals closed.
“And Khaslana has a final condition,” Anaxa says thoughtfully after Hyacine’s grudging confirmation, studying Nanook. The God-King has been far more patient than expected. It’s not necessarily a good thing.
Nanook looks to Khaslana. “Speak.”
“I want a duel.” Khaslana stands tall, holding the God-King’s gaze. “Prove yourself,” he demands audaciously, a final defiance. He summons his sword to his hand, the golden halo wreathing his head in glorious radiance as twelve Coreflames blaze to life, pushing the others back. “Best me, and you’ll have your deal.”
Nanook is very pleased with this condition.
It’s a spectacular duel, though Khaslana can tell Nanook is indulging him. The God-King’s power is incomparable to the Titans, vaster than the oceanic strength of the Black Tide.
Khaslana remains undeterred. As he vowed, he fights with all his fury to the bitter end. When the Coreflames begin to burn away at Khaslana’s mortal shell, Nanook decisively ends the fight, seizing victory.
A week later, Khaslana bids farewell to Amphoreus, and enters the Adlivun imperial palace as the God-King’s betrothed.
**
In the present:
Nanook eventually moves their games to the bedroom, carrying a drooping demiurge there.
At present, Khaslana lies limply on the bed, eyes half-closed, and wings sprawled out. He’s too tired to close his legs, thick white fluid flowing down from his red and swollen slit, joining the come leaking from the similarly abused, puffy rim below, the combined spend pooling on the sheets.
Sitting relaxedly at the side, Nanook runs his fingers through damp blonde locks. “Are you still going to be stubborn? Beg my mercy, and I will grant it.”
Khaslana’s response is delayed, but clear: “No.”
The corner of Nanook’s mouth lifts. “I’m beginning to think you like being disciplined.” Gathering the wings, he hauls Khaslana to lie over his lap, looking up at him. “Spread your legs.”
Guessing Nanook’s intent, Khaslana lets out a soft whimper. Still, he obeys, moving a quivering leg wide to expose his cunt for more abuse.
Nanook’s palm cracks down, landing three harsh slaps on Khaslana’s pussy. Khaslana arches and cries out, wings jerking and hands twisting in the sheets. Humiliatingly, it’s followed by a gush of slick from his cunt, drenching his thighs.
“You’re even enjoying this,” Nanook scorns. He pushes his fingers in, playing with the mess of come and slick, soft inner walls fluttering pitifully around the invasion.
It makes Khaslana pant for breath, the muscles of his thighs flexing, heels sliding on the sheets. Shaking his head in denial, Khaslana turns to bury his face in the linens, muffling the sounds that want to escape.
“Since you haven’t had enough, let’s continue.”
**
It takes a lot of doing, but it’s possible to take Khaslana apart until he’s pliant and willing, pushing up into Nanook’s touch, wanton moans no longer restrained. With how resistant Khaslana is, and his extraordinary endurance, Nanook doesn’t often have the time to do this, but it’s always worth the effort to have Khaslana’s sweet surrender.
In truth, Nanook could push him farther. Khaslana is no longer constrained by mortal limits, sinfully wanton when he gets like this. But he finds that with Khaslana so sweet for him, he can be generous. He takes Khaslana on his back, slow and deep the way he likes it, until he’s scrabbling at the sheets, wings shivering and hips tilting up for more, breathy moans urging Nanook on. He clutches at Nanook’s shoulders, begging wordlessly for kisses, and Nanook indulges him, hitching Khaslana’s legs higher and nearly bending him in half to taste his lips. They’re still kissing when Nanook hilts himself deep and comes inside, pumping him full of his seed. Khaslana whimpers into his mouth, tugging at Nanook’s braids in protest, already filled to capacity and unable to take more, but Nanook doesn’t relent. He soothes Khaslana with his touch, petting down his sides as if gentling an animal, and Khaslana has no choice but to let Nanook do as he pleases, groaning softly.
When he’s finished, Nanook carries Khaslana to the low dining table in the outer room, where the servants have set out a sumptuous spread. Adjusting the limply hanging wings, he settles on a cushion with Khaslana in his lap. In this state, Khaslana will even take food from Nanook’s fingers, letting him feed him dinner. Khaslana has a penchant for sweets, licking the final dessert course of honey and fig cake from Nanook’s fingers. His pink tongue slides between the digits, chasing the crumbs and sticky sweetness.
It makes Nanook hungry for something else.
Stretching his legs out, Nanook draws Khaslana to lie on his belly between the vee of his legs, his head in Nanook’s lap. Khaslana goes docilely, obediently opening his mouth when Nanook lays the head of his cock against Khaslana’s lips. Too deeply under, Khaslana tongues absently at the head but does little else, so Nanook gives him direction, sliding his fingers into soft blonde hair and guiding him to take him in, all the way down to the root, until his nose is pressed against Nanook’s pelvis. With Khaslana so listless, Nanook moves him by the hand in his hair. Khaslana has no complaint on being used thus, humming and moaning in response, sucking and licking around the girth.
Nanook doesn’t mind doing the work. Khaslana is a pretty sight, heavy lidded with his red lips stretched wide around Nanook’s cock, his throat bulging visibly as it expands to accommodate the thick intrusion every time Nanook slides in. When Nanook finishes, Khaslana coughs and gags at the sudden flood of come, but dutifully swallows, throat working as he drinks it all down. As soon as he’s done, he pulls off and goes out like a light, breathing softly.
That’ll be all Nanook has of him for the night. Nanook intended to end this earlier, but Khaslana always tests his control, sometimes intentionally, sometimes not.
Bringing Khaslana back to bed, Nanook suddenly recalls his purchase from two days prior. Setting Khaslana down on the mattress, he goes to get the item from the reading room—a small rosewood box.
Within the box is an anklet, woven gold chain interspersed with brilliant blue lapis lazuli beads and a small hanging sun charm. While Nanook was passing through the grand bazaar on inspection, the accessory caught his eye. Surrounded by delicately exquisite chains, the piece had stood out with its thick golden links, boldly gorgeous, bringing Khaslana to mind.
Sitting at the end of the bed, Nanook lifts Khaslana’s foot to rest on Nanook’s thigh and clasps the links around Khaslana’s ankle, just above the angle of bone.
As he thought, it looks well on him. It’s a pity that the anklet will likely be melted into scrap metal when Khaslana finds it, the fate of the majority of Nanook’s gifts to him to date. There’s a chance he’ll keep it, but it depends on Khaslana’s mood on waking and where he thinks he stands with Nanook in this game of theirs.
As for wearing something Nanook gifted him—Khaslana only does that when ordered. To date, Khaslana has shown no preference in colors or clothing, simply choosing whatever is plainest of the clothes laid out for him, wearing no accessories unless he is asked. It’s a minor act of resistance, only giving as much of himself as is absolutely required by their agreement and not a single grain more.
Perversely, this only makes Nanook want more of him, to know and to possess.
**
At the end of the week, Nanook calls Khaslana to his office. It’s a routine part of his schedule, the halls cleared of staff.
“Your Majesty,” Khaslana says on entering, bowing appropriately. He’s dressed in a thin white linen tunic that just covers the top of his thighs, gathered at the shoulders with a gold link belt at the waist. The leather sandals he wears are laced high over the calf, pleasing to the eye but unusual given his penchant for simple accessories.
Khaslana stays in place, waiting for further instruction despite knowing his purpose here.
“Do I have to command your every action?”
“My vow was to serve you, not myself,” Khaslana replies, tone dripping with sarcasm.
“And it serves me to direct your every motion? Stop delaying. I have better things to do with my time.”
“Then go do those,” Khaslana mutters under his breath, but removes his sandals, leaving them in the entryway, and comes around the desk. He climbs onto the low couch, settling sideways in Nanook’s lap.
Drawing the dagger at his hip, Nanook opens a cut on his wrist and stagnates the healing so the wound will stay open. “Drink.”
Khaslana’s lips turn down, but he takes Nanook’s forearm in both his own, lowering his head.
Nanook used to make him kneel for this, but it was ultimately a pointless gesture. He still does sometimes, but this is more comfortable for them both. Cupping the back of Khaslana’s head with his free hand, he gently rubs his scalp; it’s less to soothe, and more to keep Khaslana in place until he has taken enough.
A god’s ichor is an addictive elixir of power. That is, for the rare individuals, never wholly mortal, who aren’t instantly incinerated on consuming it. But, as with everything else, Khaslana is disagreeable about this, wanting nothing that comes from Nanook, even if it’s a necessity for his survival.
Nanook’s affinity is destruction, the polar opposite of creation. Though sufficient, his repair of Khaslana’s body was imperfect. With the twelve Coreflames constantly burning away at him, demiurge’s form requires regular strengthening and healing of the damage. Nanook knows that in his overabundant leisure, Khaslana is diligently researching other ways to achieve this. He has yet to find a feasible solution.
After the feeding, Khaslana is sluggish, body needing time to process the density of Nanook’s divinity. He has just enough strength to crawl out of Nanook’s lap and flop onto the floor, but he doesn’t bother trying it anymore. Nanook never allows it, scooping him back up into his arms.
Having Khaslana’s weight leaning against him, held in his lap, is always comfortable, mollifying Nanook’s frustrations. That wagging, impudent tongue of his, not so much.
“What country are you destroying this week?” Khaslana asks snidely.
Nanook generally finds their arguments amusing, though last week’s was more irritating than usual with how persistent and worked up Khaslana got over the paper he saw lying on Nanook’s desk. It was over a request for aid from the hinterlands, the neighboring country harrying their borders. It’s an insignificant settlement, a great distance from the nearest fort. Sending troops would be a waste of resources, Nanook stated factually. Khaslana had vehemently taken issue with his answer.
Today, Nanook isn’t in the mood for their squabbling. “If you’ve nothing worth saying, then shut up.”
Hearing the rare emotion in Nanook’s voice, Khaslana darts a glance up to see his dark expression. He sneaks a look at the papers on his desk.
The Gauls and the Romans are feuding. Again. It’s endless.
“Your suggestion isn’t bad,” Nanook reflects, slow and deliberating. “Annihilate both and resolve the grudge between them, once and for all.” His bloodthirst rises, exceedingly tempted to smite them all.
Color drains from Khaslana’s face, hands curling into fists in his lap before he forces them to loosen. “Nanook—Your Majesty, I didn’t mean it.” Khaslana’s throat bobs nervously. “Please,” he says, always quick to plead on another’s behalf but refusing to beg lenience for himself. “I. I’ll—”
“At this age, you still can’t hold your tongue.” Nanook cuts him off, not wanting to hear whatever foolish offer he intends to make. Khaslana’s self-martyring pacification only ever infuriates him more. “Did that Grove of yours not teach you to think before you speak?”
“I do,” Khaslana says, frustration leaking into his voice. “It’s just that you—” He seals his lips closed.
Nanook pinches Khaslana’s chin, lifting his face. “Just that I what?”
“Because it’s you,” Khaslana mutters.
The sentiment is mutual.
Releasing him, Nanook lets Khaslana stew in apprehension, working through a stack of papers. Khaslana opens his mouth twice, and then closes it without saying anything both times, wavering between remorse and resentment.
What Khaslana said is true, Adlivun is forever expanding, though the growing complexity of administrating the lands has slowed their advance in recent years, currently at a lull. Two of his Lord Ravagers, Celenova and Asat Pramad, advised consolidating and stabilizing the territories before embarking on another campaign.
“The threat should be enough,” Nanook comments, returning to the original headache. “If the Gauls and Romans continue in spite of my warning, we’ll march on their borders and see if they would really rather die than reconcile.” He scribbles down his directive and tosses it into the outbox. There’s an army of scribes two doors down who will draft it into the formal language of a royal decree for him to sign off. Rolling his shoulders, he lets out a heavy sigh.
Nanook doesn’t pay much attention to Khaslana climbing out of his lap—the lethargy from taking Nanook’s blood should have worn off so it’s to be expected—until he hears a tinkle of sound. His gaze snaps down, catching the flash of gold and blue on Khaslana’s ankle.
Khaslana is wearing the anklet?
That was why he wore the high-laced sandals today—to hide the jeweled chain beneath.
To Nanook’s further astonishment, Khaslana doesn’t go directly out the door, instead shuffling behind him. Nanook learns why in the next moment, when strong hands squeeze the knotted tension in his shoulders, working at the muscle. With a low groan, Nanook lets his head fall forward, giving Khaslana access to the back of his neck. As the hands knead upwards, his lids droop with contentment.
Mm. Nanook wouldn’t wipe out the Gauls and the Romans without significant reason—they both have valuable resources and the manned facilities in place to extract them—but he won’t complain if this is the result of voicing the desire.
With Khaslana’s hands on him, Nanook’s mind is still caught on that small gold chain on Khaslana’s ankle. It makes him want to drag Khaslana forward and take him over the desk, listening to the bell-like chime of the charms as he fucks into him.
If he did so, would Khaslana never wear it again?
It’s not something he should care about, an insignificant matter beneath his notice. He doesn’t dwell on it, his thoughts replaced with a haze of relaxed pleasure as Khaslana diligently kneads every last bit of vexation out of his back.
When Khaslana is finished, his touch lingers, not quite wanting to just up and leave but also unsure of what else to do. Nanook makes the decision for him, hooking him around the waist and lifting him back into his lap, drawing him into a kiss.
It’s slow and sweet—everything that they aren’t, everything they shouldn’t be. There’s a breathless silence in the air when they part, Nanook’s conflicted feelings and uncertainty reflected in Khaslana’s eyes. Feathers rustle quietly, Khaslana’s expression tightening on unintentionally revealing the depth of his disquiet.
It would be easy for Nanook to erase this ambivalent moment. All he has to do is push Khaslana’s legs open and claim his body, reducing it to sex, returning things to their comfortably antagonistic status quo.
Instead, Nanook takes another kiss and sends him on his way, the image of his gift on Khaslana’s ankle seared into his mind for the rest of the day.
**
Before Nanook set out to conquer the continent and no longer had the time for recreation, he kept a beautiful falcon with reddish auburn plumage. Sayda was her name, and she was a magnificent creature, proud and fierce—if Nanook wasn’t an immortal god, she probably would have clawed his face off at least twice during their acquaintance.
Birds of prey could never be domesticated and develop no fondness for their falconers. As such, their keeping requires daily training and care. It’s no light hobby, but a dedication and a commitment. A core aspect of this ancient tradition is controlling the falcon’s diet to keep them at flying weight. Birds of prey do not return to the falconers hand for affection, only for food. Thus, the bird must be a little hungry when flown, her intake regulated to keep her in optimal condition for the hunt.
This requirement demonstrates the nature of falcons—always wild, and never truly tamed, even after years together. At best, the relationship between a bird and their falconer is one of trust and cooperation. For the most independent and apex species, tolerance would be the more accurate description.
It was hard to pin down the precise draw of falconry for Nanook when it wasn’t the thrill of capturing, the satisfaction of training to abide his commands, or a desire to conquer the untamed. But this kind of temperament suited Nanook more than domesticated beasts, which he found useful but not of much interest.
Nanook flew Sayda for a few years, hunting together with her. When he no longer had the leisure for falconry, Nanook let her go, releasing her back into the wild where she belonged. Though he captured the falcon for his own purposes, she was never meant to be an ornament. Their kind were most exquisite as they were meant to be: hunters, wild and untamed.
Two years later, Sayda returned, for no reason he could identify; she bore no injuries or signs of illness. Bemused, Nanook called off his schedule for the day and took her on a hunt, just for old times’ sake.
After being released, some birds of prey would return to the falconer if they preferred the benefits but, if that were the case for Sayda, she would have returned at the outset.
Sure enough, she stayed a day and was gone the next. Maybe she was just an odd one, an outlier.
Since then, Sayda would sporadically show up. Once, she came to him injured, wing pierced and leg broken. To his experienced eye, the injuries looked to be someone’s idea of sport.
It was displeasing. Within two days, he had the name of the culprit—the commander of a fortress and, that day, the fortress was no more.
There was no complicated sentiment behind it. On account of their prior partnership, Nanook would have Sayda’s wounds seen to, even if the only time she returned to him was solely to seek shelter. However, his response would end there.
But Nanook set Sayda free, and she came back to him. That meant she was his, and that was something else entirely.
**
As Nanook’s consort, Khaslana is not confined to the palace, allowed beyond the walls under supervision. What prevents him from travelling outside is himself.
While Khaslana dislikes the way he is stared at in public, the wings too large to hide beneath a cloak, his prime reason for not going out is because he must ask Nanook’s permission to do so, and he is loathe to ask Nanook anything. The result is that he remains in the palace, training by himself, swimming in the pool, or squirreling himself away to read books from the library; a monotonous daily routine.
It’s Khaslana’s choice though Nanook does find it something of a disappointment that he never sees Khaslana fly. The reason Khaslana doesn’t is unknown to him.
Thinking on the matter, it might be unfamiliarity. Khaslana became demiurge only upon receiving all twelve Coreflames a little more than a year ago. More evidence to support this conjecture is Khaslana’s neglect of his plumage. He washes them if he notices they are dirty but doesn’t provide any other care. While Khaslana’s wings are hardier than a bird’s, they still require regular preening.
Nanook doesn’t mind taking on the task when he finds it enjoyable. He’s endlessly fascinated by the wings, so different from anything he’s ever seen, and has time set aside for these sessions, twice a week.
Today, he finds Khaslana in the Azalea Garden, reading in the pavilion.
On seeing the bottle of preen oil in Nanook’s hand, Khaslana brightens, feathers rustling. He closes his book, coming over to Nanook without prompting. It’s probably the only activity Khaslana actively looks forward to.
The thought gives Nanook pause.
…Ultimately, this issue is self-inflicted by Khaslana, undeserving of pity. More to the point, what does he care about it?
“Your Majesty,” Khaslana greets him, “should we go to your room?”
For a moment, Nanook’s gaze flickers over the garden imagining Khaslana laid out on the grass with his wings spread for him, basking in sunshine. Becoming aware of the direction of his thoughts, Nanook frowns. Turning sharply, he makes for the bedroom. “Follow.”
**
Khaslana lies belly down in the center of the bed, the full span of his wings open across the sheets.
The work is simple, but strangely relaxing. Nanook starts at the wingtip, moving inwards. Damaged feathers are plucked out, his fingers running through the plumes to align them straight. Last, he finishes with a thin coat of preen oil, fingers gliding over the feathers.
As Khaslana himself doesn’t do anything more than washing them, Nanook is the only one to have ever shown the wings this much attention. Consequently, the first time Nanook had preened his wings, Khaslana had gone beautifully pliant, left shivering and dazed.
Having received this treatment several times since then, Khaslana’s reaction is no longer so dramatic, but the process still mellows him out, the steady, comfortable motions lulling him into a drowse. He lets out soft, pleased sounds, humming in his throat.
It’s rare to see Khaslana like this—soft and unguarded. Nanook likes Khaslana defiant and resistant, but he likes this too, likes it a lot more than he should.
But why does ‘should or shouldn’t’ matter? He is the God-King of Adlivun, he’s always taken what he wanted, and this is no different.
By the time Nanook is done with both wing spans, Khaslana is half-asleep, wings flopped out across the bed. Nanook strokes a palm over the expanse of skin between the pinions, feeling tense muscles beneath, strained from supporting the heavy wings. He’s never done anything about it; it’s Khaslana who should be serving him, not the other way around.
But…he’s already done this much, what’s a little more? He wants to see how Khaslana will respond, if he’ll go dazed and yearning for him again.
The sudden dig of fingers at the base of Khaslana’s wings jolts him out of his drowse. A wanton moan escapes, wings jerking and flaring. Encouraged by the response, Nanook works Khaslana over, hands steady and merciless, from one shoulder to the other, then down the line of his back. When he hits a trigger point, Khaslana’s voice pitches in volume at the aching-pleasure, the wings thrashing and shuddering—a satisfying reaction. Continuing on, Nanook kneads the knots out of tight, strained muscles until Khaslana is gasping and rutting his hips into the bed, shameless and uninhibited.
When Khaslana turns to Nanook, his eyes are moist and his face is flushed, his gaze beseeching. “Nanook,” he says, reaching back to tug on Nanook’s wrist in a wordless request, wanting him. “Nanook, please.”
He’s never heard Khaslana beg so readily, never heard him say Nanook’s name like this.
There’s no one in the world who would be able to resist.
Growling, Nanook pushes up the hem of Khaslana’s robes to bunch at his waist and tosses his own aside, dragging Khaslana’s hips up. Khaslana is already spreading his knees wide, holding himself open for him, two fingers spreading the lips of his pussy to reveal red, moist flesh, his thighs shiny with his own slick, and Nanook nearly loses his mind. Grip leaving bruises on Khaslana’s hips, he slams all the way in with a single thrust. Khaslana cries out, wings snapping out and face pressed to the sheets, hips riding back as if he can’t get enough.
“You want this,” Nanook says. He punctuates his words with a harsh snap of his hips, but his tone is one of wonder.
“Yes, yes, please—Ah!” Khaslana’s voice breaks into a high keen as Nanook pounds into him, so huge and rough that each thrust drives into his cervix. Khaslana is so desperate for it, so sopping wet that he’s drenching Nanook’s pelvis, clear fluid gushing out of his pussy every time the massive length shoves in, leaving a spreading damp patch on the sheets beneath. Nanook drives Khaslana over the edge, fucks him through it, and then turns him over and pulls his legs up around his waist, and then he’s plunging into him again, continuing without pause. Khaslana whines high in his throat, and it must be overwhelming, it must be too much, but he’s moving with Nanook, hands twisted in the sheets and hips rocking up into Nanook’s thrusts, wings spread out like an offering. Khaslana’s chest is heaving, his eyes like molten gold, wide and bright with desire, so beautiful that Nanook has to kiss him, bending low as they continue to move together, his arm braced by his head and fingers in his hair.
“Is it good?” Nanook asks softly, because he wants to know, not because he wants Khaslana’s concession.
And that makes all the difference. For the first time, Khaslana answers, honest and unrestrained. “It’s—Nn! It’s so good, Nanook, Ah, hngh—!” He’s sobbing for it, and Nanook gives it to him, until he’s gushing around him again, back bowing and wings arching. The hot, tight clutch of his body drags Nanook over the edge, shoving in deep and coming with a groan, pulsing into him. As he’s filled with Nanook’s heat, Khaslana gasps softly, head thrown back and eyes half-lidded with rapture, legs locked tight around Nanook’s back to keep him inside.
When Nanook kisses Khaslana this time, Khaslana reaches up to embrace him, holding him close.
**
Nanook gazes down at the person lying on his chest, breathing softly in his arms.
Was it that simple? Could he have had this all along?
Except he knows that isn’t the case.
It was, in part, a culmination of all the times before when he tended to Khaslana, whether it was preening his wings or making certain he took the necessary ichor.
They’ve both changed from who they were at the beginning, influenced by one another. Before, Nanook couldn’t have imagined he would even want this—Khaslana’s attachment.
Despite that, this is only a temporary détente. He could spoil and indulge Khaslana to the limit and still, it wouldn’t matter. The moment Nanook sets out to conquer again, this fragile truce will shatter like glass—Khaslana would no longer tolerate him, and they would be at daggers drawn like nothing had changed.
What does it matter? At the end of the day, Khaslana is already his, will belong to him as long as Amphoreus exists.
He still wants Khaslana resistant and fighting—that, he has no doubt he will always have, their nature and principles too disparate.
But his greed knows no bounds. He wants Khaslana like this too, wants to possess the whole of him, including these softer parts Khaslana has hidden away.
It makes him think of Sayda, of flying weight, and how much he must give for what he wants, how much he is willing to give, to receive this part of Khaslana in return.
More than once, Nanook has seen Khaslana perched on the roof, looking to the sky with longing. What would it take to see those beautiful wings open again, spreading in flight?
Having known this, is he willing to be merely tolerated?
**
A week later, Khaslana’s mandatory feeding day comes around again. Having consumed Nanook’s ichor, Khaslana lies against him, languid and drowsy, not rousing until an hour later. As he scrubs his face, sitting up, Nanook hands him an envelope.
“What is this?” Bemused, Khaslana takes out the page inside. It unfolds to reveal an official document, signed by Nanook’s hand and stamped with the imperial seal. Reading through the document, Khaslana’s eyes widen in disbelief.
It’s an imperial decree, pronouncing Consort Khaslana as the Imperial Guardian of Adlivun, a sentinel of their lands answering only to Nanook himself. His duties include protecting their borders and maintaining order at his own discretion. The resources Khaslana is allowed to use seems nearly unlimited, the only absolute condition being that his actions are to Adlivun’s benefit.
“Idling here dulls your blade, but you won’t ride out with me in conquest. Then, will you protect my people? Go wherever you think the need is greatest, and strike down Adlivun’s enemies in my name.” Ultimately, it’s not a solution, but it’s a start.
“What’s,” Khaslana’s voice comes out hoarse and he has to swallow, throat gone dry. “What’s your condition?”
“How swift are you with these?” Nanook trails his fingers through the feathers of Khaslana’s wings, and feels them shiver.
There’s a millisecond of pause before Khaslana answers—considering lying to him. “Two days to make the border.”
“Return once a week, minimum. If you fail to show, I will go fetch you and, I assure you, you do not want that to happen.” The wake of Nanook’s divine form only leaves behind destruction, nothing remaining but ash—or so the stories go. Nanook doesn’t burn what he doesn’t wish to burn; his control isn’t so inferior, but Khaslana doesn’t need to know that.
Khaslana’s gulp is audible, apparently believing the tales. “You’re not worried I’ll go elsewhere?”
Nanook stares at him, face blank. “I’ve never restricted your movement, only required that I be informed.” The unspoken stipulation previously was that Khaslana return by nightfall, but Nanook has now extended that to a week.
“And what if I go to Amphoreus?” Khaslana goes tense in his lap, watching him warily.
“One week.” Nanook has nothing to worry about when what binds Khaslana to him is his love for his own country, not affection or loyalty to Nanook. It would require a foolproof plan for Khaslana to even consider breaching their agreement.
“I can visit Amphoreus?” Khaslana asks, dazed, having thought he would never see his companions again.
“Do it sooner rather than later,” Nanook advises. “Before your friends pull some trick to rescue you, and I have to kill them.” There’s been some movement in that direction, though he isn’t sure what they intend to do. The Goldweaver and Scholar are both clever and pragmatic, they know they could never defeat Adlivun’s might. Petty tricks at best, but he suspects they would be troublesome.
Khaslana’s lips are slightly parted, dumbstruck that Nanook is encouraging him to go to Amphoreus. The paper in his hands trembles, his fingers tracing the imperial seal.
Nanook watches Khaslana keenly. This should be a desirable offer to Khaslana but, coming from Nanook’s hands, his reaction is hard to predict.
He frowns when Khaslana begins to laugh, the sound wet and ragged, and then he’s surging up, kissing Nanook like he’s never kissed him before, hungry for it with a desperate kind of want; hungry for him.
“I hate you,” Khaslana whispers against Nanook’s lips. His eyes are reddened, the tears welling in them evaporating before they can spill. “I hate you so much,” he says, holding Nanook’s face tenderly in his hands, and it sounds like something else altogether.