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It is a humid night, air gummed and warm. The rainy season has once again come to the plateau, the usual sunny, golden skies painted in shades of dreary pearl-gray and slate. But for tonight, the clouds have yielded, and he can see the twinkle of stars eclipsed by the glow of the Erdtree. Godwyn lifts a crystal glass filled with a ruby wine, glass cool against his lips and a pleasant contrast to the warmth of the night.
It is another calm night in the capital of opulence, of prosperity and peace. Soft lights from lanterns and lit candles peek out from windows, and rustling streets are now vacant save the knights who patrol below, golden armor gleaming in the light of the Erdtree far above. Godwyn watches his kingdom, and feels content. It is not perfect from the roots, nothing is - not even his Divine mother - but he decides to see only what he can from his spot upon the balcony, at least for tonight. He sips at his wine.
The back of his neck prickles as he feels the deluge of another come up from behind, silent. He cannot help the shiver that courses through his veins as he feels teeth rest against the nape of his neck, just distant enough that he does not feel the sharpness of them. He feels the ever-faint brush of a hand across his hip, momentary.
Fortissax's aura is not unlike that of a storm; it is as if he has reached up to feel the pulse of the sky beneath his fingertips; the familiar feel akin to a raw, beating heart, back to the days when Fortissax had taught him how to feel the energy of a storm, that steady oscillation of life that lit up the sky, a conflation of ravagement and reverence. He remembers the day he had finally summoned a flicker of lightning from his fingertips; the day the dragon had looked at him with something other than vague disinterest and aversion, the countenance he had never seen waver from his stony face since his kin had arrived at the Capital beneath Godwyn's treaty.
That day, he had looked at Godwyn with something like respect.
The smell of wet earth and ozone fills his senses, and he leans back against the steady chest of the dragon. Fortissax hisses, gravelly voice soft.
"Another storm will come to pass by midday tomorrow."
Godwyn hums in response, bringing the wine-filled cup to lips before answering. "And I will tend to my duties within the palace. A storm brings little change."
The dragon hums drily, so often of so few words. "Depends on the storm."
Godwyn raises an eyebrow. "Is that so?"
Fortissax snorts, a soft noise through his nose, and the closest thing to a laugh Godwyn has ever heard him utter. "Storms are of a volatile nature. You'd do well to learn that one of these times."
Godwyn finally turns, tilting his head up to look at the dragon. Fortissax's flat, amber gaze stares back, as stalwartly austere as he always is. His face is stony, features so sharp they cut - yet undeniably beautiful, in an ethereal, inhuman way, as if he is one of the many statues in Godwyn's golden kingdom, carved from smooth marble. Here, bathed in the lambent light of the Erdtree, he is breathtaking.
"Must you treat me as if I am newly hatched from one of thine stony eggs, legs unfit to carry me?"
The dragon gives him a look that borders on curious, narrowing to slits, and is silent for a moment as his serpentine eyes flick above his head. "I remember the days when thy great tree was naught but a sapling, spilling golden sap as it grew. Thou'rt not an infant, but thou'rt young in the shrouded face of time." He tilts his head, near imperceptibly, as he looks back down to look the prince in the eyes. "Though thou'rt more learned than most, I have discovered. You have foolish moments, as beings of flesh are oft victim to, for it is their very nature. But I do not think of you as a fool."
Godwyn decides to be pleased with this comment - as Fortissax offers few - and turns back to look at the sky. He lazily sloshes the wine in his cup, noting it is far less filled than it had been previously. Behind him, Fortissax begins to methodically unspool the knots of the braid that rests against his back, golden hair spilling between his fingers like the flow of water. When Fortissax's claws abate, he gently shakes his head, letting his hair fall free down his back.
Fortissax comes up beside him, pale eyes on his face. Godwyn turns to meet his gaze, and the dragon reaches out pluck the glass from his hands, setting it on the balcony railing before snatching his jaw between his fingers.
It is not uncommon for the dragon to touch him - the gliding of ridged nails across his jaw, a subtle touch to his hip as they walk down the marbled paths of the palace. A hand brushing across the dip of his elbow here, the brushing of a stray hair across his forehead there. Hands always so inquisitive, as if he is a star come down to the earth after eons of watching from the cosmos above; a visitor to the tangibility of soil on the ground below. They say the stars burn, and Godwyn believes it; for every time the dragon touches him, he burns.
He expects him to peer at him with curiosity, like a noble examining a jewel beneath clothed fingers. But when he looks up to see the dragon's calm eyes looking down at him, he sees a hunger pooled within his amber gaze. It is not the first time Godwyn has seen the dragon look upon him as if he is prey, and he suspects that it will not be the last.
He feels a thrill as the dragon kisses him. He can taste smoke on his tongue, dragon's flame in his throat.
His fingers thread through Godwyn's hair, molten gold pooling around his shoulders. When he tightens his grip against his scalp, pulling to expose the supple skin of his neck, he makes a noise in his throat unfit for a god. Fortissax's mouth travels across his neck, and Godwyn grips the dragon's shoulders a little tighter when he feels the press of his teeth. He feels the beginning of idents, and tenses.
"You would not dare to spill the blood of a god when we are treaty-bound," he breathes quietly, pulse thundering wildly beneath the dragon's mouth where he presses into Godwyn's jugular. Fortissax rumbles deep in his throat against him, and Godwyn realizes he is laughing.
"Perhaps thou should have taken that sentiment to heart before inviting a dragon to thine bedchambers."
The bluntness of the statement makes him flush. Fortissax surprises him further when he flashes Godwyn a grin, teeth flashing, before sinking them into the flesh of his neck. He barely manages to keep himself from shuddering.
Fortissax reaches for his robes, meaning to undo them, but Godwyn stops him with the gentle grabbing of his wrist. He gestures around them, on the balcony. His quarters are high above the city, being close to the very Erdtree itself, but he still feels too exposed. As if his mother will see them, and strike the dragon down herself. She had accepted the dragon's gold-tinted blood to be congruous with the Golden Order, but Godwyn is not so sure she would be too pleased to know one of them was bedding her beloved son.
He pushes on Fortissax's chest, ushering them into the room past softly billowing curtains.
It does not take long for Fortissax to continue, leaning him up against a wall. Without gentleness, yet still retaining a modicum of formality, Fortissax unfastens the clasps of his cotton shirt, fingers brushing against golden filigree, letting the deep azure cloth pool to the floor. Fortissax pauses to draw one of his rough fingernails across his chest; not enough to draw blood, but enough to make him burn further. He glides the pad of his finger across an old scar just beneath his collarbones, faint. Godwyn is not wholly unblemished; the scars are a reminder of an age gone. The age in which his Father had taken him across the plains of Altus and up into the frigid roughness of the Mountaintops; in the far north - where wiry branches had coiled against the sky like twisted veins against sapphire skin; where the pale, blue specters of flora and fauna alike scattered across the land, and where the grand moon above seemed just that much closer, close enough to reach out to in tangibility.
The memory of the cold brings him back to the sweltering heat he feels now, crawling across his skin and pooling deep within his gut. Fortissax's hand leaves his chest, and moves to map the curve of his spine. The hand gripping his jaw moves down, and the dragon's hand comes to curve around the column of his throat. He presses his claws gently into his skin, and it is not the first time that Godwyn feels an odd flicker course through him. An ugly feeling, one that the divine blood in him seethes at. It is the feeling of being an ant, at the mercy of his godly Mother's scrutiny in his childhood.
The feeling of being small. Insignificant.
And yet he could not possibly hope to explain the heat that came from that feeling, when Fortissax would wrap his claws around his neck. How easily could he pierce his skin, he wonders, paint the pale floor in shades of deep crimson, and be subject to his divine mother's wrath? Would he spread his wings and flee to the heavens above? Would he leave Godwyn’s corpse to fester and rot, cold and pallid on the floors of his own bedchambers?
Fortissax tilts his head up, and frowns. “Thou’rt thinking of thine own death.”
Godwyn jolts, feeling himself flinch a fraction of an inch. The dragon has always had a knack for looking straight through him, gaze piercing into his soul. But here, he almost believes that Fortissax will gaze into his mind. He must be able to sense his hesitancy, because he relents his grip.
“I have seen countless stare at the spectre of their own deaths, and I shall watch countless more, someday. I know what it is like to see one peer into the unknown, and I see it in you now." Something like understanding flickers across his eyes, and then his gaze softens. He begins to rub his thumb in slow circles on Godwyn's neck. “I would not harm thee, Godwyn. I know that thou fears me, deep down. And for that… I am sorry.” The words make Godwyn open his mouth in disbelief, unsure of what to say, but the dragon shakes his head and presses his fingers against his lips. “I will not apologize for the nature of my kin. But I would be willing to apologize to thee as many times as need be if only thou wouldst know the truth.” Godwyn swears he sees lightning flash across his eyes, a pale flicker of ruby across the abyss of his pupils. “Thou made a pledge of peace, and never shall my claws know thine blood, even in a time of disharmony. Even should thee rip thine own treaty to shreds. But I would think of thee to be the biggest fool I have ever met."
Godwyn stares at him, stares at the blunt fact that Fortissax has laid himself bare before him, an oblation of golden veins at his feet. He looks into the resolute face of the dragon, and knows then that he never had the intention of lying to him; never once had a deceit poured from his smoky mouth. Despite his callous countenance, Godwyn now realizes that the dragon had plucked himself of his rough scales, placing them down as a bridge of trust. He had gifted him his lightning, his very lifeforce.
Fortissax had given him a piece of his soul. And what had he offered him back? His distrust, thinly veiled by polite words and formal obeisance. He feels a flicker of shame; a sparse feeling, yet not unfamiliar.
For the first time, Godwyn trusts him wholly. He rushes forward to capture the dragon’s lips in his own, uncaring of the painful clack of their teeth; he only wants to taste Fortissax on his tongue, to burn alive in his scorching heat. He cups the dragon's face in his hands, and Fortissax's claws sink a little closer into the soft flesh of his back, other hand nestling back into his hair.
In a dance that would be far more awkward were he not currently occupied, he steers them towards the bed. He lets himself fall back into the plush pillows, silk hangings fluttering past him and sheets cool against his skin, Fortissax following and clutching him close. His hands are still cupped around Fortissax's face, and as he leans back for breath, he rubs his thumbs into the edges of his face, eyes lidded.
"Take me," he breathes, "I have been unkind to thee. I offer myself wholly to thee, as repentance," His words feel lewd, forbidden, in his own ears. He is a god, a child of the Eternal Queen, he should not bend to any force. And yet, he finds himself pliable in the claws of Fortissax. He longs to kiss him again, and he does. Fortissax answers with a possessive, hungry greed, voracious in the way he captures Godwyn's lips between his teeth. He growls deep in his throat, a noise alight with a hunger that makes Godwyn yearn for him further.
Fortissax pulls back, towering over Godwyn. He leans back and shrugs off his own robes, flicking them offhandedly to somewhere beside the bed. Godwyn eyes him appreciatively, for even in the dim light he can see the chiseled, toned body of the dragon.
Fortissax finally touches him again, beginning to run his hands down Godwyn's body, pausing when he brushes against a spot near his hip that makes his breath hitch, claws running down every facet on his golden body. Godwyn stays silent, for the most part, as the dragon takes his time in touching him, breath hitching or soft sighs leaving his lips. He is not a stranger to Fortissax's prying touches, always so inquisitive, and yet he swears that his hands must be made of hot steel. It is with these hands that he unknots the robes around his waist, laying him bare.
It is all he can do to not choke on his own saliva when he feels Fortissax trail down further, until his fingers begin to trail delicately from the base of his shaft to the head of his hardened cock. A shiver runs like currents of lightning surging through his veins, pulse thundering in his own ears.
He knows the dragon is no fool when it comes to the pleasures of the flesh, despite being a creature of stone. And yet here he is, obelisk shed, and skin just as warm and thrumming with life as the rest of any of them. It is not the first time the dragon has indulged himself with Godwyn, and despite the few occurrences where they found themselves tangled about in his bedsheets, Fortissax has become a swift learner in what makes Godwyn become undone. Godwyn is clay; friable, and malleable, and pliant, and Fortissax is the sculptor's hands that shape him, that break and make him whole once more.
Godwyn watches, feeling only somewhat vertiginous, as Fortissax wraps his hand around his cock, and begins to slowly turn his wrist in methodical strokes. He idly runs his thumb over the slit of his cock, wiping away a bead of precum. Godwyn hisses through his teeth, grip tightening on Fortissax's shoulders.
"Fortissax," he breathes, unsure of what his own intention with the word is. Fortissax's amber eyes flick up to meet his gaze, face rested as always - if it were not for the immense hunger in them, Godwyn may think he looked calm, bored even. Fortissax leans over him to press more kisses across his skin, in the places just beneath his collarbones. Godwyn sighs into the dim room, feeling beads of perspiration line the curves of body and across his forehead. The humidity makes a home within the pores of his skin, and he feels heavy.
Fortissax's teeth nick into his skin. Surely he will leave marks, he thinks dazedly. He finds that he does not particularly care at the moment. He watches with lidded eyes as the dragon's thumb presses against one of the tiny wounds - something that mildly stings - and brings it to his mouth, tongue poking out to lick his blood from it - and never once does his gaze leave Godwyn's.
The dragon begins to speed up his ministrations, enough to have Godwyn groaning, thumb brushing across the head of Godwyn's cock and across his slit once more. He watches, somewhat dismayed, as Fortissax suddenly pauses, swinging a leg over the bed to reach over at a nightstand. His fingers wrap around a small vial, slightly vacuous liquid sloshing about inside. Without sparing Godwyn a glance, he pops open the lid, pouring a generous amount on his fingers.
He leans back over Godwyn, lifting one of his legs up against his hip. He kisses Godwyn fiercely, and the prince lets out a sound of muffled pleasure against his mouth as he feels Fortissax slip two fingers into him. He wraps his arms around Fortissax's neck, moaning into his mouth as he feels the press of his long digits begin to work him open. Fortisaxx is not cruel in his preparation, but he is straightforward, sure and practiced as he buries his fingers down to the hilt, deep within him. Impatient, yes, but never unkind. Godwyn mutters a curse that his mother would surely scold him for, savoring the burn, and body desiring more of the dragon's benefactions.
Godwyn leans his head back against his pillows, seeking stolen breath. "Mmh, Fortissax," he mutters with a groan, feeling just a touch dazed.
Fortissax hums, a little noise of reverb deep in his throat. He adds another finger, and twists them all together just so, curling them into the soft organ of his prostate. Godwyn chokes on a moan, hips stuttering, and for a moment detests the faintly smug look on the dragon's features. He digs his fingernails into Fortissax's back impatiently, not caring if he drew blood, for he knew the dragon certainly did not. Fortissax chuckles lowly at him.
The dragon finally relents, unceremoniously removing his fingers from Godwyn. Godwyn is only mildly ashamed to feel his hips angle up to follow, deciding to simply accept the notion and move past it. He was ill-suited for shame, such a bitter taste that stained his tongue and left him feeling unsure of himself. And who would the golden son of the Eternal Queen be to be unsure of himself?
He doesn't linger on the thought, instead propping himself up by his elbows to watch reverently as Fortissax sits back on his haunches. The vial of oil is back in his hands, and he slathers more on his fingers before reaching down to take his own cock in hand. His eyebrows are furrowed, something Godwyn had noticed he does when succumbing to any sort of physical pleasure. The faint Erdtree light passes through the curtains, settling over his shoulders, his obsidian hair. Godwyn wonders if he will ever understand the flicker in his heart each time he beholds the dragon in any light.
Without meaning to, he murmurs, "Thou'rt beautiful,"
But of course, Fortissax hears him. He pauses, looking over at Godwyn without something unreadable in his eyes. Slowly, Fortissax leans back over him, and presses another kiss into his mouth - but whereas all his previous kisses are hungry, demanding, this one is… something different. Almost chaste. Yearning, perhaps, no longer quite so hungry.
But perhaps he was only hoping it to be so.
Fortissax leans back again, momentary softness gone as the hunger returns to his silent amber gaze.
Godwyn's eyes trace the veins on Fortissax's cock, watching with a quiet exhale of breath as the dragon spreads his legs further, lining himself up. He pauses to dig his claws into Godwyn's thigh, both of them watching as a rivulet of crimson trickles down his leg. Godwyn feels a roll of pleasure and apprehension churning within him as the full weight of the situation bears heavy on him; if his mother ever learned that Fortissax had even dared to touch her beloved son, let alone make him bleed, it would be over. If word of their coupling ever reached the Queen's ear, then surely she would strike down the dragons. The peace he had worked so hard to effectuate would be lost with a single utterance from her mouth.
Would he plead with her, then?
It's not his fault, Mother. You cannot condemn them all for a few drops of blood spilled.
He isn't sure he has the strength for that. He prays he never needs to.
He realizes Fortissax is watching him intently, eyes burning into him. He wonders if the dragon really can read into the depths of his mind. He shivers, and has only a fraction of a second to feel the head of the dragon's length against his hole before he is sheathed to the hilt inside of him. Godwyn shudders hard in his grasp, mouth agape. He is rendered wordless, reduced to breathy pants as he feels his insides burn with the stretch of Fortissax pressed deep within him.
Fortissax growls from somewhere deep in his chest, hands moving to grip Godwyn by his hips, fingers surely leaving indents. Fortissax sets a steady rhythm, far less vicious than usual. Each of his thrusts sends his head reeling, a symphony of sensations that fills the pit of heat inside him, pooling in his gut.
Fortissax hisses lowly, hands slipping off his hips to grab his wrists, pinning them to the sheets. Godwyn groans, wrapping his legs around the dragon's midsection as he feels his thrusts begin to pick up in speed. He cannot help the moan that leaves his mouth when he feels Fortissax press into a particular spot within him, rolling his own hips to meet his thrusts.
Fortissax's mouth is on him again, on his skin, and Godwyn breathes out, "Kiss me,"
And he does, he kisses him until Godwyn's head swims for air, until Godwyn pulls back to breath. He closes his head and tips his head back, letting himself drown in the pleasure. He lets himself feel every drag of his cock, every vein across his thick length as it pumps in and out of his pliant body. Fortissax is precise - hitting every spot in him that makes him shudder and cry out the dragon's name into the night, without fail.
He pleads for Fortissax the way the people pray for his mother: reverently, over and over in hopes to receive some modicum of blessing from her. Except he is not his people, nor Fortissax his mother, and yet he begs the dragon to make him whole, to fill not only his body but his soul. He repeats the dragon's name like a mantra, a sacrosanct invocation just for him.
It is easy, for a moment, to pretend that they are something more.
He takes the dragon's thrusts in stride, and chooses to believe in the facsimile of a soft lover in the throes of a gentle evening; a lie, an omission of reality. He is a divine prince, and Fortissax a dragon; but here, shrouded by the darkness of the night, the only world that exists is the one between their bodies, it is easy to pretend.
They are not lovers. And yet…
He does not know if dragons can even feel love, and then realizes that he did not know if gods could truly love, either. His mother had never looked upon her husband with any sort of affection, and seldom yet did she touch him beyond a light touch to his arm to issue forth another command. He had only ever remembered jagged words passed between his parents, two mountainous peaks jabbing into the guts of the skies.
Is that what love is like for the gods?
He doesn't care. He wraps his arms that much more around Fortissax, cries out his name with that much more care and affection as he feels himself reaching the summit of his pleasure, loins coiled almost painfully.
Fortissax kisses him again, and Godwyn decides then he must surely be drowning; dizzy and lightheaded, body feeling no more than one of the clouds he glided his hand through during one of their flights across the golden Altus skies. And then Fortisaxx grabs his face, and leans down so that his mouth is at the cusp of his ear.
"Let go," he whispers, and Godwyn does. He grips Fortissax's shoulders in a grip like death and shudders hard, crying out the dragon's name as he cums in spurts across his own chest. He lets out a rather uncouth whimper as Fortissax does not relent, continuing to push into him and igniting every nerve in his body into flame. Surely he will float away into the distant cosmos, for nothing tethers him to gravity.
Fortissax tenses, and then he is cumming deep within him, hands gripping his wrists nearly cutting off all circulation. Godwyn shudders at the feeling, at warm fluid being pumped into him over and over. Then the dragon stills, panting heavily above him, mixing with Godwyn's own. He dips his forehead to rest on Godwyn's for a moment, their breaths intertwined.
Godwyn is only dimly aware of the weight lifted from him as Fortissax slips away. He jolts, eyes snapping open when he feels a damp cloth prodding at his sore entrance. Fortissax shushes him softly, and gently cleans him up, wiping at his leaking hole and stained stomach.
Godwyn thanks him quietly, and the dragon simply nods at him.
Fortissax is gone once more, and then returns to his side. Godwyn looks tiredly up at him, drowsily reaching for him, hand on his forearm. "Lay with me," he murmurs sleepily, and is pleased when Fortissax slips beneath the covers with him, curling around him as if he is a treasure to be guarded like a hoard of gold. The thought makes him feel something fluttery in his chest, and it is this thought that he leaves with as he slips into oblivion.
✧✧✧
When Godwyn awakes, there is warm sunlight filtering in through the silk curtains of his windows. He gauges that it must be early morning, not yet plagued by the clouds sure to come later in the day. He sighs, cheek pressed into Fortissax's warm chest.
He traces his fingers across the dragon's unblemished skin, etching mindless maps. In the morning light, his darkened skin glows warmly, and Godwyn finds himself yearning to press kisses to it.
It is uncommon for Fortissax to spend the night with him in full. Often, he was at his side when he fell asleep afterwards, but seldom when he awoke the next morning.
He ceases his motions when he feels Fortissax's gaze on him. Fortissax looks at him drowsily, golden eyes hooded.
"Good morning." Godwyn says, and Fortissax hums, sounding gravelly.
He is quiet for another moment, before speaking. "I see thou stayed."
"I did." The dragon's voice is deep with sleep.
Godwyn looks up at him. "On purpose?"
"I do not do things by accident."
Godwyn smiles at that, unable to help himself. Quietly, he says, "Thank you,"
He leans his head back down to the dragon's chest, breathing deep. Perhaps he should make himself presentable for the day, and find a way to discreetly usher Fortissax out of his chambers.
But he is a god, and he will indulge as such. He closes his eyes, and lets his companion's warmth lull him into peace.
✧✧✧
As expected, the rain begins to fall by midday. The skies are grey once more, and Godwyn finds comfort in the sound of rain pattering outside the oratory's open walls. He opens his eyes, completing his daily communion to the Greater Will, and stands from the altar with an offhand brush to his ivory robes.
He feels that familiar, pressured gaze on him, and smiles. He turns, and sees the dragon at the edge of the room, arms folded and leaning against the marbled doorway.
Fortissax is smiling at him at him, in his usual obscure way, but it is enough to make Godwyn's heart stutter once more.
He approaches the dragon, and looks up at him with a smile of his own.
"Thou wert right, it would seem."
Fortissax chuckles at him, saurian eyes narrowing in amusement. "That I was, prince."
Godwyn wishes with a sudden, nearly overwhelming yearning that he could reach out and slip his hand into Fortissax's own. But he cannot, not here.
Boldly, Fortissax reaches out and tucks a stray hair from his forehead, brushes his fingers gently over his jaw. Godwyn attempts to give him a look, to reprimand him, and fails. He ignores Fortissax's vaguely amused look, lets himself lean into the touch for only a moment before pulling away.
"Wouldst thou be interested in flying?" Fortissax asks in a voice far softer than Godwyn has ever heard it. He nods, perhaps a tad too eager because the dragon looks thoroughly amused at him now.
When they step outside the city's gates and into the golden Altus fields, Godwyn is sure the rain must kick up an notch, pouring down on them relentlessly. Lightning arcs the sky above them, reaching down to kiss the earth, a near ear-shattering peal of thunder following. He finds that he doesn't mind, and Fortissax certainly does not. When he turns to look at him, the dragon's face is tilted up, eyes closed.
Godwyn's eyes trace along the column of his neck, shamelessly.
He reaches for Fortissax's hand, taking it into his own. Fortissax looks down at him, but does not object. Godwyn lifts their intertwined fingers, wet with rainwater, up to his mouth and smiles. Perhaps they will never be able to touch outside his chambers, but that is alright, he thinks.
He always has the promise of returning to them when evening falls each night.