Amid the embers of a world She razed, a conqueror learns there can be no human form without human essence.
This work, which was created at the request of generous patreon maskofshame, is a little rougher than our usual fare (it features the destroyer of worlds, after all) so be forewarned!
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you can also read this over at Archive of our Own!
Massive wingbeats flurried dust from the ground. A dread shadow streaked over the earth. Bifurcated wings, a baleful cry, and an army of Grimleal followed behind Her.
The Dragon’s Table had been razed, the former holy site the foundation for a new palace of bare stone. Like a meteor, She impacted the parapet. A tempest of ash struck the sky above. The shadow shrank, then lifted itself on two legs, a deep purple robe and long white hair flowing behind it. The mark flared on her face—six eyes in their terrible majesty—as the Fell Dragon strolled down the tower stairs. The ground still quaked from her crashdown, the jeers and guttural speech of Her Host echoed from the switchback passes below.
She permitted Herself a smirk. How could she ever have resisted this? Fought against this magnificent power, this truest destiny? Her hands brushed dust from Her robe and the blood of the fallen from Her cheeks as she emerged into her vast throne room.
Poised in tableau beside an unearthly throne of weeping obsidian, there was a particular woman.
Full of hips and breasts, sumptuous curves with shimmering silken finery, she lay upon an array of cushions. At the sound of her Master’s footsteps, well attuned to the swell of heated breath, she roused herself. Her eyelids were heavy, and dark with kohl (not to mention that lack of sleep—there were many experiments to perform, in service). Her cheek dragged along the side of the rightful ruler Grima’s throne as she drew herself up on one elbow.
“Welcome home, Mistress.” Tharja’s hair fell in onyx waves over her shoulder as she rolled the sleep from her neck. “I trust your foray was successful?”
“As are they always. We take more and more ground by the day, and our only resistance is a few pitiful hamlets.” A dust-and-blood-tinged hand fell to Her pet’s hair. Grima lazily twisted a lock of it around Her finger, and tugged—as if to test that she was real; the strange, painful greeting was practically ritual. A mild sneer. “…and the brat.”
There were still holdouts to Her will—the damnable princess with Naga’s tooth and her repulsive hangers-on—but that was only a matter of time, wasn’t it?
Tharja groaned—a velvet sound, an almost feline purr deep in her throat—at the harsh greeting. Her spine arched with it, toes curling. Though she did not look directly; unready to gaze at her Queen’s magnificence. Merely, her lips parted; a warm whisper of wind, as she felt the prickles of her Queen’s affection run, painful, over her scalp. “You will crush them all, Mistress.”
“And the hexes? Do they progress apace?” Grima did not wait for an answer. “I look forward to seeing how you remake this world for me.” Another soft tug of hair—a strange language of what, for anyone else, might have been affection.
But not Her. The Fell Dragon Grima did not lower Herself to pitiful human affectations.
The whelp would crumble, and soon all would be Hers.
“Come,” She said. “The worms have left me filthy.”
Her footsteps left a brown and red trail across the stone floor, and she shed her robe in a heap, like shedding wyrmskin.
“Right away, Your Greatness,” she husked, stooping to retrieve Grima’s discarded clothing. She would’ve preferred to say ‘nothing would please me more,’ but she had long-since learned that her Queen had no concern for the pleasures of Her pets.
On bare feet, Tharja padded after Her, scurrying, crouching to retrieve each bit of her Master’s leavings without stumbling. The mélange of reagents—dust of war, blood of fallen, fragments of broken metal, shed opalescent scales, and the lingering resonance of futile spells—layered into the cloth from Grima’s outings were essential for her continuing experiments. She totted this bundle in both arms, and in any other moment, in any other time, in any other world, the scene would almost look silly. A sultry seductress consigned—denigrated—to the role of a mincing maid.
Of course, there was no denigration in the service of Grima, that would mean there was some perch to fall from; they were all worms, in her sight.
Indeed, Tharja preferred it this way. She was nothing but a mote of dust, to be pinched out or swept away, plucked out or ground up, as was appropriate.
Grima strode forward. She was bare as She moved through the cavernous palace, more like a lair than any human dwelling, its ceilings vast—because they had to be, to accommodate Her full majesty. She paid no attention to stares of the few remaining servants before they quickly lowered their eyes—it was only natural that Her sleek form, modestly curved and muscled, with the stride of a predator—would provoke such responses, draw their admiration, and command their deference.
As Tharja had taken great pains to establish herself as the great Grima’s premiere servant, these sights and these responsibilities were not foreign to her. Yet they never grew dull, never became even one iota less interesting, no matter how many times they recurred. Her fingers hooked and clenched into the bundle of filthy laundry hugged to her chest. Slim hips and small cheeks swayed with Her purposeful stride. She was compact, and perfect in form, as She must be, for She had the weight of a world perched upon her sublime shoulders. Oh! The sight of it was enough to make her drool!
That smirk twisted Her face once more, enjoying the slap of bare feet on stone as the worm struggled to match her pace. This was an odd one, who served without fear. It brought Her some semblance of pleasure—but perhaps that was a fleeting remnant from her former life.
The bathing chamber was no tub. An endless lake in a yawning grotto, She had hacked it crudely out of raw stone by iron of claw and shadow-flame’s heat, and it steamed with the energy of ancient veins of dragon’s blood that ran beneath the land. Grima stepped forth into the steaming pool, letting it boil away the remnants of the day’s victory. She did not wait for Tharja to follow Her—She knew the creature would be always a pace behind Her, desperate to please.
The water fairly boiled, comfortable for a dragon, perhaps—Tharja hypothesized that it was the calcified blood of those great old ones which provided this roost its regenerative power, healing what rare wounds the human resistance managed to inflict on her Master. Rarely, however, despite her status as Grima’s favored pet, researcher, and plaything, was even she allowed access to this inner sanctum. Thus, its majesty compelled her a moment to marvel, as the blood and grime that caked Grima’s shape splayed away from Her in a ring of crimson, murky tendrils atop the surface of the amber and azure-tinged sulfuric water.
It brought her great joy to muse that, even this deep into their relationship—though likely only a creature such as Tharja would consider it that—she could still be brought to awe by her Queen’s majesty.
Tharja entered the water seemingly unbothered by its scalding heat. Naturally, she had taken such pains to modify her body in ways that suited her Queen’s needs. And so, she could endure these things, through manipulation and modification of her form, that would bring other humans—a callow and feckless lot, without the determination to survive, much less thrive, that Tharja possessed—to their knees, yowling in insensate pain like the animals they were. A droplet of invaluable blood was all it took, offered in a moment of sublime magnanimity, at the tip of her Queen’s taloned finger… Tharja treasured it, dividing and subdividing the precious sacrament into small portions, wasting not a molecule…
But these modifications could only result in pale simulacra. Thus, it was not that the water did not pain her, merely it made the pain possible to endure.
Ultimately, it was her devotion that compelled her into the water. What was this flaying of heat, this rippling pressure that sought any ingress along the weakness of her skin, compared to the ecstasy of serving her Queen?
With the swish of her shapely body, undaunted, Tharja met Grima in the frothing water, and fingers touched upon shoulders made tense by the weight of an entire world. The Fell Dragon quirked an eyebrow; this ritual was one of her rare indulgences. One such as She found pleasure in only the most sublime purposes; in the conquest of her domain, in the blasting of its lands, in the fulfillment of a destiny that only she had the power to see through.
And, occasionally, in the exquisitely hot water of a bath that cleansed away the remnants of her toil, bubbling and caressing skin that, despite its exquisite softness, could shrug away magical flames, the force of catapults and ballistae.
“Please, relax your body.” Tharja whispered, tone replete with the joy of servitude, as her fingers drove into Grima’s tensing shoulders. With quiet suggestion, her own shapely body molded to Grima’s back, insinuating itself against Her with a roll of her hips. Her pale skin pinkened with the scald, and there was no way to differentiate between the sweat and the steam that coursed down her bounteous body in rivulets, branching into rivers of moisture along Grima’s back. “Your hard day is done…”
The same lips that expelled dark magic sufficient to eradicate entire fortresses parted, and let forth…
A mild sigh.
…almost involuntary, as Her servant began to press the exhaustion from Her muscles. Powerful wings required powerful shoulders, which scarcely gave as Tharja worked them—but nevertheless, it felt…
Surely in some way this made Grima self-conscious, though it was unlikely that either of the pair would acknowledge it as such. Not even when Tharja produced the special soap, smelling of lilacs and sweet berries, both of which had long been razed to extinction—but she had her ways—and lathered it into Grima, working it to a froth, and softening skin made hard by time and war.
The woman he once was might have considered it strange, how Tharja served. She, who had once called Tharja her “wife.” How Tharja had borne her two girls, half-wyrm and half-worm. How carefully, Tharja worked the weight of effort from Grima’s body. Though likely neither of them would ever admit it—for their individual reasons—Tharja had become quite adept and knowing her Queen’s needs, even those unspoken, and that was likely a primary reason for the continuity of her “service”—Grima found this word ‘wife’ strange, inapplicable—from Grima’s cast-off host to her present state, and her elevation from “worm” to something closer to “wyrm. Though of course, if even those born of Grima’s body could not escape their blood, then the crucible that bore them certainly had no chance.
But this life suited Tharja, who knew her primary purpose was to serve and whose secondary was, in that service, to unravel the mysteries of this body, and the universe that existed to sustain it. So fingers and thumb ground into Grima’s tense shoulders, arms, stomach and abdomen, the pectoral muscles beneath her small breasts, buttocks, hamstrings, quads, calves, and feet down to each toe, and no sound but the measured meter of their own breaths, and the sloshing of the water.
Perhaps this strange physical affectation was a remnant of her former life, as well. She ought to cleanse it from Her mind, as She cleansed worms from the land.
But She could not deny the pleasure it brought Her, and so, for the moment, She permitted herself this indulgence.
It was Her reward.
“Please, my queen,” Tharja said, guiding Her to one of the lake’s many outliers, pockmarks in the rock where shallow pools had formed, where Grima could recline in the lightly simmering water. “Rest your body, and close your eyes.”
“Trust” was not a word Grima likely knew, yet there they were. And Grima lay still, unperturbed, as Her servant mounted her prone body. The weight of Tharja descended on Her back, and those fulsome, heavy breasts touched down in gentle caress. Tharja gripped them from either side. Against Grima’s burning body, her nipples grew stiff, and drew soft patterns into skin, as if she were etching forbidden runes in the soap suds that shimmered upon her Mistress’s flesh.
Modesty was foreign to Grima—there were few such as she, and those that remained were not much longer for the dying soil. Tharja’s touch would have been intimate for her host; the gentle fingertips across her thighs and legs and feet would have brought her to a blush. But not even the desperate heat of the water could so much as bring a tinge of pink to a fell dragon’s cheeks. Her servant was working for Her pleasure—that was what mattered.
The body that once belonged to a whelp called “Robin” tensed further, fingers sharpening to claws and a long, scaled, prehensile tail breaking from Her hips with a crack of bone from the sheer frustration of that knowledge. As if in response to this frustration, this momentary, lashing, majestic display of power, she felt her pet’s breasts press firm against her back, and she felt her body’s response—a quickened heartbeat, a rush of blood to parts draconic—and she smiled.
These old pleasures were, on occasion, permissible.
As Tharja moved and stroked, washing the soap away from Grima’s body with cupped handfuls of water, her curves eliding along Grima’s, quite naturally, thighs drew over hips, and crotch and the swell of buttocks met, and the budding flicker of Grima’s tail split the lips of Tharja’s cunt. Merely a flicker, before contact broke.
Tharja’s lips parted, quite despite herself, and she whispered a painful ‘aah’ of unexpected pleasure that tightened like a silken knot inside her stomach. Her hair, wet and heavy, and shining like shadow-darkened quicksilver, curtained Grima’s face. For a moment, Tharja seemed to boil hotter than the baths.
Perhaps it was the mote of dragon fire that now lingered in her blood, this woman’s body a receptacle for Grima in many ways, made holy by this communion.
That was all that mattered, She thought, until She felt the woman’s breath lathe over Her skin, heard the sweet gasp of pleasure as beautiful tail found her beautiful crux.
Why did she suddenly think of Tharja as a “woman” rather than a “worm?” Why did Her heart beat faster?
Curiously, Grima dragged Herself upright, offering no care for how it forced Tharja’s sudden dismount, dropping her with a splash to the ground. Tharja, in reflection, offered no sound of discontent at the poor treatment, only a mild moan.
Grima’s sprouting tail, now long and draconic, slunk about Tharja’s waist, and lifted her deftly from the heat of the water, to suspend her before Her eyes. A stuttered gasp found Tharja. Hoisted so quickly, the air became leaden weight, settled at the bottoms of her lungs, and she could not breathe, for a moment. Her toes curled for the surety of ground, too far to touch, lingering soap suds strolling down her breasts, stomach, and thighs, tracing lazy patterns over her skin. The dragon, clouded in lilacs and fruit—scents she alone in this rendered world possessed—examined Her servant.
The worm was easy enough to understand—she hungered for Grima to break the world, so that she could see what it was made of, solve its many mysteries.
Reflexively Tharja’s toes curled, as if seeking earth. Her breasts sagged, their nipples still firm. Her shoulders slumped, in submission. And her neck rolled, hair again falling in that scintillating wave, as she bared her neck.
Grima’s eyes roved over Her servant’s body. The heaving breasts. The press of her thighs, and her utter subservience within the firm, powerful grip.
How her breath heaved. The burning desire in her eyes—
Enough to set even a dragon aback, and draw blood downwards, to her loins.
And yet, the desire remained, with force enough to move even a dragon. Her coil tightened, and her tremendous cock, rose swelling from the surface of the water.
Asked, Tharja would surely have an answer. She was calm and ever confident, despite what her Queen might inflict on her—tests of loyalty, tests of endurance. Perhaps she thought this was another of those. Or perhaps she thought tonight would mark the end of her service…
If that was the case, she showed no fear.
Indeed, the spectacular senses of Grima twinned to another, growing, aura. Secreted amid the droplets of water that rolled down the sumptuous feast of Tharja’s curves, prickling down like a rainstorm in the water she hovered above, was the trickling line of her budding arousal.
Tharja did not speak on it, of course. She spoke of nothing. Merely showed her neck, her body slumped like a puppet, waiting for her Queen’s command—or her decision.
Time meant little to Grima, nearly as little as the comfort of Her servant. But Her eyes stayed fixed—the suppressed desperation of her breath and the way her chest rose and fell, the way the softness of her felt against her scaled tail. The way her excitement trickled down her thigh, glistening contrast to the harsh light of the torches flattened against the wall with their crude, huge metal staples.
And even more than that, the scent…
Grima never lost control. Never gave in to rage or lust or pity. Nevertheless, over those long moments as She observed Her servant, She began to… heat.
A shrug, and snapping sounds heralded the unfolding of the muscles of Her shoulders and back as four proud wings tore away from Her skin. Her transformation was not elegant, like those of manaketes or the noble dragons. She never flinched as horns cracked the bone of Her scalp and curved forward to frame Her face. Across Her body, pale skin reddened as if in a blush—and then calcified, hardening into shimmering, splendid scales in scattered patterns beneath her eyes, along the length of Her arms and her legs.
Even stoic Tharja watched the transformation with trembling jaw. It was not her first time bearing witness, but nothing in the presence of Grima was mundane or trivial. Fear seemed to ripple from Tharja’s skin, contrasting with the glorious waves of her radiant arousal. Grima drew the woman closer in Her fascination, tail cinching all the harder around Tharja’s waist, forcing her to earn each simpering, wheezing breath, reptilian eyes boring into her servant, until the source of that fragrance was bare inches from Her lips.
Dragons did not blink.
Nor did Tharja, though her breath grew uncertain, because passion had drawn it erratic, and she was giddy, knowing that she had no knowledge of what was to come, and preferring it that way. Could she even comprehend the plans of a Deity? She was but a grub in Its presence, as the tail lofting her upwards drew her closer, and closer, to the dragon maw. A suppurating sound passed her lips, a particularly heady brew—a wheeze of both excitement and utter supplication before her Queen, her Ruler, her Mistress…
Grima’s long tongue pushed past Her lips, as though tasting the air, following the allure of that scent home to the crux of deep warmth from which it emanated, stroking up along Tharja’s damp thigh and roughly pressing her folds before delving within.
Tharja cried out, shoulders tensing, head lolling back at the first touch, and hands groping into reflexive fists at her side. Grima was not a sensitive lover, and Her tongue forced its way in before even her amply prepared body was ready.
Yet, how deeply did Tharja understand the touch and slaver of tongue. A bolt of lightning struck her rigid, her body scrambling against the familiar rush of stressful pleasure. It pulsed around Grima’s touch, her slippery cunt. It pulled at her, begging her inward, the velvet entreaty of flesh, as eager and as willing to endure as every other piece of Tharja had proven itself to be.
Lust was not foreign to Grima. The Fell Dragon had Her conquests—and, of course, Her servants, and the feeble memories of the worm that came before. But She was a creature of destruction, of void and darkness, not of fevered blood and affection.
Nevertheless, the flavor of Her servant, of her sheer desire, pulled at Her.
The worm’s ardor was fascinating—something more than her mere curiosity with and affection for Grima’s darkness. It was a hunger for Grima Herself, fascinatingly rare in the worms that crawled futilely to escape her. The wings at Grima’s back shook as if they were alive, tittering in excitement unexpressed by Her placid face.
Very well, then. If She was to permit herself the desires of the worms, then She would do so as only one as majestic as She could.
Her tongue coiled within Tharja’s pussy, filling her, then retreating, snakelike, to gather her flavor, before plunging back deep within. The heat of her was shocking to the sensitivity of a dragon’s tongue. Pressing against her tightness, against the constricting, delicious warmth. Her own blood. Her blood and seed—there was, she recalled, in this woman, an infinitesimal amount of her power and majesty and resilience.
Tharja’s head, already lolled, rocked gently from side to side. Her arms dangled. It was so indomitably freeing to be suspended this way, to feel weightless, to truly understand how your control was stripped from you. This was the power of Grima. This was what those babes out there, still fighting, did not understand. The thrill of submission. The certainty of it. The lack of question. The all-encompassing nature of another’s control. And they would call this hell on earth? Wretched fools, who understood not their lot, and what pleasures the petulant and futile recrimination of their true Master denied them.
Grima’s wings spread wide, a veil between the world and Her indulgence. She could consume her, devour this flavor and the woman who served as its source. Perhaps She would. Perhaps, after all, that could elevate her from her status as a worm.
But just a little longer…
The tip of Grima’s long, scaled tail trailed behind Tharja, still suspended and helpless and properly submissive, along the quivering folds of her cunt, and then up the cleft of her plush rear to tease and test at her tightening asshole—faded memories suggested that Tharja had been receptive, eagerly so, to such entreaties in the past.
Grima was not about to be outdone by the worm who had once borrowed Her shape.
And there, approaching the summit of the explosive pulse of another’s desire, was Tharja. A gasp of fresh air clipped in her throat, with the new pressure of Grima’s tail, like the conclusive falling of a stone door before a tomb. It was merely reflex, however. Her body welcomed its Queen in all ways, much less such terrestrial pleasures, which she had endured and enjoyed, replete in her sodomy before she’d modified herself to better suit her Mistress’s whims. Now? The painful openings? The testing of her form and shape and resilience? They were hardly a trifle. She bore them—enjoyed them—fresh and flying on the idea that a pound of her pain might stoke even an ounce of her God’s pleasure.
The Elder Dragon offered Her servant an unblinking stare as Tharja’s thighs eagerly parted at the merest tease from the powerful, flexible tail. The aura of dread that surrounded her, tinged the air around her a purple-black, seemed only to inflame the worm more, ignite her desire. The tail-tip had hardly touched the bare, sodden silks she wore, and yet…
Tears streamed down the sides of Tharja’s face, mingling with the sweat-tinged water speckling her damp skin. A giggle of pleasure grew in her throat, like a balloon, swelling and swelling with each push of Grima’s combined instruments, until it exploded into a crazed cackle of desire.
Grima offered what might, on any human, have been a smile. She withdrew Her tongue, filthy with the pleasure of a creature so far beneath her she could crush her with hardly a thought, luxuriating in the taste of human weakness.
The silks were an obstruction. Fortunately, Grima knew how to deal with obstructions.
The wyrm took in a long, deep breath, and Her lips opened in a delicate “o” shape.
When Grima’s mouth opened a memory flashed through both their minds. Tharja’s body rose, as did her hand. She wished to touch that pale, cold face, and run fingers through that long hair, welcoming a kiss…
…that never came…
But for that of dragon flame.
Black fire billowed forth, engulfing the worm as she squirmed in the clutches of Grima’s tail, cloaking her head-to-toe. If she survived, she might just be worth what Grima might give.
If not? She yet had servants aplenty to see to that sudden lacuna.
Tharja writhed, the inchoate rapture of her Mistress’s possession already intoxicating. Her nails roved the strong, scaled muscle that clutched her body like a belt—no, a shackle! She hung pliantly, passively, as the dark aura flowed over her shape, seeking like fire atop her skin, as if searching for a vulnerability, testing her, to find a way in, an entrance, a…
Howls filled the cavern, as the fires that created one world and scorched another wreathed Tharja. They shaped her—though not in the terrifying way that basal worms who resist the rule of their rightful Regent might expect. Her clothing burned to ash, the hiss of vapor as water sublimated. Her head fallen back, she writhed with unbound ecstasy. The smell of her was all-encompassing. The pain. How many tinctures had she stewed in her chambers, preparing for it? She nearly cackled, at their efficacy. Her skin was clean as a hot bath—cleaner! She felt rejuvenated, reborn! What glory! What glory it was, to have your very shape reformed by the implements of a queen’s will!
The unblinking eyes, rheumy with malice, roved Her servant’s body as the cloud of ash cleared. Firm skin, unbroken but for the patterns of runes and circles with which Tharja had marked herself. None of that was any of Grima’s concern. What was it to Her, if a worm decorated her passing, fragile form with magics? And yet—
It would be wrong to call the emotion within Grima admiration. Such as She felt nothing so timid or half-complete. Rage and lust and hunger she felt aplenty; nothing so tepid as admiration. And yet… Tharja yet lived. Tharja smiled.
What servant would Tharja be, if she couldn’t survive even a casual deployment of her mistress’s power? That baptism—it would be imprudent to say she’d survived worse… but well… she certainly thought it. The Lady Grima couldn’t read minds, so far as she knew. Oh what a pity that would be, if she were caught, found out. The mere thought of what punishments she’d suffer brought a quirk to Tharja’s lips.
The scent around Her bellowed through the cavern, the acrid reek of ashed silk and the apparently unbounded hunger of Tharja’s body. This one lusted almost like a dragon did. Powerful and full and arrogant.
She would have to test her further.
Not hardly. Her body writhed in welcome upon Grima’s offered spike, goading it deeper with her, the tunnel of her ass quaking upon this new sacrament.
The wheeze of breath. The timorous roll of hips. These were the things that showed the worm’s weakness. Why, she fairly begged for it, her full cheeks clenching and coaxing at Grima’s tail as if it were the throbbing spear of the cock, bobbing unused before her, almost close enough to touch, and wasted on empty air! Oh it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter! Whatever her Lady willed, she desired it. Pleasure, pain. Climax, conflagration. All these things were both manifest and absent, the deeper one peered into the void.
Grima’s long tail, tapered only slightly, continued to tease at Tharja’s ass, promising—but never satisfying. The dragon smiled once more, dark fire roiling in Her eyes, as the coil holding Her servant descended at a precise angle…
Tharja’s tremendous breasts pooled against her body with the manipulation of the tail, posing her in the air as if for examination. Still she whimpered like a filly. She squirmed like a stripling, worked into hard lather, and yet to realize it’s already been broken.
Such terrestrial desires.
And the leak of her. The leak of that wanton body, down between her thighs, and over the coursing, rippling muscle of that which constricted her, threatened her. Had worms no sense?
And this creature? Who in the threat and presence of her God, raked nails lovingly over cheeks as if in lover’s caress?
There was no hesitation as Grima’s cock parted Tharja’s folds. No gentleness, no foreplay, no warning, just the inhuman girth and shape plunging deep into sacrificial tightness, and boundless warmth. Humans were not meant to take so much—and it was such an unsatisfying way to break a worm!—but Tharja did not snap with the force or girth, and so the dragon readied her hips, light reflecting off of pale skin and dark scales—and begin to plunge home, again and again, bottoming out within her most loyal servant.
She hungered like a dragon? Let her satisfy a Dragon’s hunger, then.
The warm, all encompassing, all-accepting embrace of primed body. The muffled moan of delirious rhapsody. She serviced this, this part of her Queen, and her Queen in full, grasping Grima by tensed and tightened buttocks to draw her closer, to invite her fully into her warmth.
Grima tilted her head back and bellowed. These feeble human lungs did no justice to the sound—but nevertheless, the cry echoed through the cavern, down the halls of her palace, along with Tharja’s moans of pain-become-passion.
She would not even resist?
The idea struck the dragon as somehow presumptuous, as if Tharja did not fear properly, did not adequately respect and worship her destroyer Goddess.
A human might have called the emotion “petty.” But a dragon was bound not by imagined restraints.
A muffled shout when the tumescent flesh speared into her. She was entered. Tears of effort clouded in her eyes, much how Grima’s had shivered, watery, before. She would take this, not because she must, not because she desired it, but because It. Was. There was no meaning to things. There was no fate. There was the world, as it was, and those that existed in it.
And Tharja, how terrible, how magnificent, her existence had become.
The writhe of an overwrought body greeted the great Grima. Sweat-dappled muscles twisting with effort, yes, but the effort of pleasure—or of pain that had become—transmuted—in to such. Tharja took her, accepted her within, however deeply Grima cared to force hers, she would endure it. For past the ultimate point of that endurance was the sublime, waiting to unfold.
But within her eyes, Grima’s fire burned. It demanded more. Test her. Prove to her that she is right to hunger for You and fear Your hunger.
Grima’s body reclined against the edge of the pool, as if in repose. The coiled grip of Her tail pounded Tharja against her pelvis, each strike forcing her cock farther and farther into the woman. Lips smiled, softly, in pleasure. That smile might not have been so different from when they first coupled, long ago, but for the violent plunging, the splashing, the heated water and the reek of sex.
Untapered, unaided, the tip of Grima’s tail stirred Tharja’s tight asshole once more.
The Robin-worm could never have matched this.
And on Tharja’s next descent, Grima’s tail tip pushed within, speared her around its muscular length, stretching her fore and aft for naught but the dragon’s own pleasure. Grima’s rippling tail dictated the pace, moving her like the marionette she rightly was.
But the worm could not be passive. Tharja’s hair whipped at Grima’s legs. She matched her Lord, the rhythm not so different from the mathematics and timing of her formulae. With each strike forward of the tail, a bob of her head. Begging, cajoling. How wonderful, to be possessed in this way! To be perfected, by She which was born perfect!
To Grima, it was not so different from flying, keeping that rhythm—pull, thrust, thrust, lift. Her hips rocked barely in her reclining position, as if stretching Tharja’s cunt and ass were the simplest of efforts. Carefree. Almost dispassionate. As if Tharja were meant to be broken, used up, thrown away.
Robin’s lips curled in a smile before fanged teeth.
Yet, Despite this dispassion, this contempt for a risen worm—ascended though she may be, a worm is ever a worm—Her hips began to speed, ever so slightly. Her tail delved deeper, reshaping the woman. The coil of it tightened, slamming Tharja’s cunt down upon Her massive dragon-cock faster, harder. Grima’s breath caught in Robin’s throat, Her heart sped.
But why? There was no exertion in this display at all, not to a body that had singed armies and razed continents. Tharja was as a feather to Her, a mote of dust.
Pathetic worm shell!
Scales awoke in rippling force down Her legs. The dragon reasserted Herself within Robin’s body, and sped yet further, Her draconic hunger mixing with human lust. Something built in the back of Grima’s mind, in her spine, in her lungs like dark fire. Something inescapable and terrifying and compelling, and Tharja only stoked it further, closer and closer and closer…
A body meant to do nothing but destroy made love—if one could call it that—to the woman that had once been her wife.
There were no words level for Tharja to speak. Her body, she’d adapted to survive; her mind, perhaps, was not ready. Even after Grima’s ascension, Tharja had desired her. If anything, the Fell Dragon had only stoked Tharja’s desire, her willingness to be her Queen’s plaything. She floated, and were it not for the grip of Grima all around her, and within, she might well have touched the ceiling of this cavern. Eddied by currents of impassive passion, she rode her mistress, her Queen, her God, rocking her body in plaintive thrusts of desire, and squealing with emotion purple and raw as a bruise as she shook, shuddered, forced past each breaking point, trembling on the point of collapse. Her thighs gripping Grima’s, her breasts shaking, and sweat pouring onto her Ruler like deviant anointment. Surely, the next thrust would break her. Hoarse screams of passion, when it did not. The cracks of her shape, she could feel it rippling through every muscle. How could she contain it. This. She was a fool to think that even she, with her myriad ways.
And yet, she did not break. Not on one cataclysmic thrust, nor the next, nor the next, nor the next. Her body, it held. Her mind, it… retained whatever shape one could call its own.
And that’s when a curious thing happened. Overswept by passion, Tharja lunged. So quickly that even the legendary Grima was powerless to deflect her attack. Panic, even in the dragon god. What was this? The climax of some worm’s ploy? A pitiful attempt to lower Her guard, and strike in Her moment of weakness? Pfah! She’d rend this vile creature limb from—
Tharja’s hands grabbed Grima by fistfuls of ears and long hair, a yowl of pleasure ringing her mouth as the lunge forward impaled her all the more deeply, and…
She kissed Her. Deep. Dark. And thoroughly.
The last thing Grima would have expected. It shocked Her, at first, this pathetic affection. And in that moment of shock, Her restraints fell.
She roared, gouts of black flame filling the mouth of her treacherous servant, tongue to tongue with the woman. Her back tensed, her wings wrapped them both in a tight cocoon. Her hips bucked once, twice. Her tail pushed deeper inwards, so deep she could feel the heat of her own fire.
And then, She released. Dark seed, destroyer-spawn, that which was never meant even to seek pleasure found it in the loyal, faithful body of Her first, and most trustworthy, servant. And it spilled within, gout after gout, a sudden human desire powering the last, deepest thrusts of Her hips, as though She meant to defile all that Robin had once loved.
Doubtful Tharja would think it so. Her hips rolled, a whimper carried from her mouth to Grima’s by the medium of her probing tongue. As if, for all the pain, for all the effort, this was the crux of her effort. That trembling fullness within her, pushed to the breach with the expulsion. What a surprise, Tharja might reflect later, when untroubled by corporeal pain, that it did not burn her. Did not even feel particularly warm. Merely… filling…
She was done. Depleted. She collapsed atop Grima, arms thrown over shoulders in a lover’s embrace. A trepidatious moan, the almost-drowsy wind and clench of hips. The constriction of flesh around beloved girth, and the seep of spunk from a wracked and overfull body. Her back shuddered, wrenched by spasms, and this close the heat of her flaring nostrils spilled like fire over even a dragon’s skin.
A destroyer would be unprepared for this. Unaccustomed to such situations. Certainly, She could unleash the glory of her full form on someone who had sprung upon her so. Or She could, with less than a whim, drawn upon any of the baleful spells at her disposal, all the flames a dragon could produce.
Hesitantly, Grima’s arms wrapped around Tharja. Slowly, clumsily, as if a confused puppet on invisible strings, Grima embraced the woman close, their shared heat more than matching the bubbling spring.
But Her body was human, and, to Her surprise, it had its own ideas. Its unique desires.
Tharja held softly to her Lover, full body shivering despite the burning spring air, not to mention the furnace-made-flesh she rested upon. Talons embraced her. Tail and cock still rippled within her, and yet she seemed as comfortable as one taking a nap at a noontime picnic.
It might have taken an hour for Grima’s ardor to subside, or more, or less—neither one of them felt any beyond the presence of their partner in that strange dance, so deep in their daze that even the immutable construct of time was alien to them. When Grima’s cock slipped from her, when Tharja slumped against Her, Grima found Her body drawing Tharja in.
Tharja’s arms were weak, slack, and they shivered with every breath, tightening with quakes of discomfort as the remains of Grima’s load drooled from her. She did not complain, not in any particularly worm-ish way. Merely a soft breath of air, something like a gasp, something like a sigh—things that Grima had no analog for, in all Her mortal catalog—perhaps this bemusement, which gave Her pause, was why She did what She did next.
Occasionally, the indulgences of the worms were permissible.
So Tharja was carried, shivering and fetal in Grima’s hold as a newborn deer. Her head rolled back, and she had a mind to deny this comforting touch—it was improper, to be serviced by one’s God—but she had no bodily will left to speak it. Instead, she took a feeble hold of Grima’s bare arm, glassy, tired eyes speaking with silent entreaty.
I am a servant; leave me where I lay.
And yet, her God did not.
The staircase silent, but for her breathing, and the pad of Grima’s bare feet. At the moment, so small, despite her stature, despite her full curves, when Tharja shivered, it was because of the steady outflow of Grima’s invaluable spunk. Foolish girl… Tharja chided herself, half-aware. If you’d had sense, you’d have brought a phial or two.
Up the towering stairs to her aerie, the Fell Beast carried the woman silent in Her arms, rested her as best she could—then let Her full majesty unfurl, let Her silhouette darken the sky and blot out a sun already occluded by the ashen clouds of war.
And, as humans did, She curled around Her Lover, great fearsome cheek nestling to the small worm’s dark hair.
Tharja thought she had some memory of this. Such a magnificent beast, curling, protective, around her. With the drain of body and mind, conscious only enough to know she rued not being conscious enough to appreciate it. A trembling hand, of thanks, of appreciation, of love, against Grima’s scaled snout, longer than her arm. A breath of release. And then, sleep.
After all, there was still so much left to be done.