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A Pact of Earth and Life	By : wanderingaddict Category: +S through Z > World of Warcraft Views: 2220 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own WoW and I don't make any money off of this.

Chapter List
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Summary:
A night of surprises lies in store in the Wood.

Like most forests in the Blade’s Edge mountains, Raven’s Wood seemed to cling, almost desperately, to the skirts of the rocky, serrated ridges; a source of water, food, and abundance life in an otherwise high-altitude desert. Not many places, on Azeroth or Outlands, could claim to be home to such extremes.
Where Antelarion and his sisters had seen to the calming of the Ruuan Weald, however, Raven’s Wood answered to no one. Dark arakkoa, driven from the Weald and the other southern forests, waged a shadow-war with the ogres of Boulder’mok for territory. Both sides frequently ran afoul of the treants that still tended the untamed wilds; stonebarks and leafbeards, bitter creatures whose scars from the Shattering still ached. Even their de facto leader, an ancient of lore named Treebole, struggled to reign them in, though the keeper often wondered if part of the learned treant didn’t simply revel in the chaos.
“And on top of it all…” he breathed, as his eyes fell on the charred remains of some humanoid - large, larger than himself even. The creature, an ogre, he assumed, was nearly stripped clean of all meat, its bones cracked, the marrow sucked out. A bloodied club lay further away, black dragonscales littering the ground around it. The ogre had put up a fight - no surprise, considering the amount of gronn in their veins.
“May the earth from whence you came embrace you once again,” he murmured, casting a small blessing over what was left of the dragon’s meal. The grasses about the ogre stretched and flourished in his wake.
With the southern forests claimed by the Alliance, Horde, and Mok’Nathal, the Black Dragonflight of Draenor had claimed all that lay to the north. The Skald, Raven’s Wood, even sometimes - to Antelarion’s great irritation - the Weald itself. As paranoid and reclusive as they had ever been on Azeroth, the black dragons were zealous in defending against any encroachment… which tended to include eliminating anything in the forest that ‘wasn’t supposed to be there,’ a list that changed with each dragon’s mood. In some ways, the Boulder’mok ogres and the dark arakkoa were trapped in the forests, rather than ruling it themselves; unlike the treants, who would be perfectly pleased to see all mortal races go, the black dragons were more likely to view them as food, supplementing the population of elk and gigantic moths.
To Antelarion, exhausted with the endless chaos from the blood, fel, and shadow magics the ogres and bird-men inevitably turned to in their wars against each other - and anyone simply caught in the vicinity - the sight of a black drake flying away with a full belly was a relief. Once he would have entered the Wood carefully, skulking along the eastern cliffs, spells at the ready for anticipation of an ogre or arakkoa ambush. In the ten years that had passed, however… the journey had become quite peaceful. Restorative.
Wilder than the Weald, where even now he could see, sense in the distance, a pack of untamed wolves harassing a cave bear that had wandered down from the hills to investigate their kill. Overhead, a silkwing - silvery dust trailing its furry body - fluttered from tree to tree, looking for sap. Where the Weald, bordered by sun-baked canyon on three sides, was far too bright for the delicate creatures, the shadows of the Wood allowed them to flourish and grow to monstrous size. The Wildlord extended his wooden claw to the insect, calling for it to land. After a moment’s hesitation, the moth rested on his fingers, surprisingly heavy. Antelarion let its antennae brush his face, his hair, shoulders.
For all its size, however, he could sense no intelligence behind its gorgeous, multifaceted eyes. It was merely an insect, currently interested in the urge to feed, mate, and feed again. The keeper studied it a moment longer, then released it and continued down a path he had used so frequently it was now a fairly obvious trail. He opened himself to the leylines of the primeval Wood, one of the few forests in all Outlands that had never fallen to the Legion or its Horde slaves. Natural energies, rich and pure and undiluted, streamed through him.
In Evergrove, he would have never pulled on the magic of the Wilds so deeply; the leylines the cenarions had built to channel the Dream were still far too young. Centuries from now, they would be so ingrained in the land it would take another Shattering to shake them. In the present, however, it meant that he limited the bulk of his craft to teaching his son the basics, with the odd emergency healing provided as needed.
The Wildlord never held back in the Wood, though, reveling in the opportunity to drink his fill. His eyes drifted shut, though he had no fear of foundering. Life flowed through him, all about him, twining through root, leaf, and beating heart. He could feel a great swath of the forest about him, from the shift of a dire raven’s egg - about to hatch - to the reaching thirst for the last rays of sunlight in the trees above his head.
His usual reserve cracked, and the keeper’s night-elven features relaxed into a giddy grin. He had the presence of mind to keep his gait to a mere high-hoofed trot, though little could stop him from bleeding natural magics into the world around him; the animals, plants, and insects that he passed all momentarily swelling in size.
It was rare for the keeper to indulge himself so freely, but then these nights were rare as well. Antelarion, reminded, quelled his giddiness and managed to school himself into what he counted on being some sort of measured grace as he neared a northern section of the Wood, crossing into a small valley nestled in the foothills.
The dragon was already waiting for him, in the clearing at the trail’s end. He said nothing when the keeper entered the glade, but then black dragons were rarely known for their social niceties.
Antelarion met the dragon’s gaze, both eyes great orbs of red fire - almost the same color as the sky of Blade’s Edge - and sauntered into the open clearing with feigned indifference. The keeper was large in size. He had always towered over the kaldorei, even his other cenarion kin. The dragon, however, was easily four or five times larger, long and sinuous, its back covered in bony spines, sharp ridges, and crested with great curling horns, some that shot straight back like a gazelle’s and some that curled like a ram’s.
Smoke drifted from the dragon’s nostrils. He was getting impatient. Good. The keeper smirked. “Hemathion.”
“Wildlord.” The black dragon didn’t bother hiding the flare of his nostrils taking in the cenarion’s scent. The past ten years had granted Antelarion enough opportunities to learn that the expression on the dragon’s face was something of a smile. “How fares the Weald?”
As though a leader of the ever-suspicious black flight did not already know. Still… perhaps there were some black dragons that might be known for their pleasantries, if they ever spent enough time outside of the flight to demonstrate it. Antelarion shrugged. “Our work continues.” It did not seem like enough, so he added, “The ancient, Mosswood, has returned from the Skald. It is cause for some excitement.”
“Ah. Then the stonebarks will be having their moot soon.” Hemathion’s observation startled the keeper, though he knew he shouldn’t be surprised that the dragon took more of an interest in the Wood than the rest of his flight. He smiled, showing a mouth laden with diamond-sharp teeth. “Good. Perhaps they will step on a few ogres along the way.”
Antelarion gathered that perhaps the skirmish he had seen earlier was less of a hunt and more a sign of something greater. He returned Hemathion’s wicked smirk. “Has Boulder’mok been keeping the bellies of the black flight full?”
The black dragon’s head tilted, one large red eye examining him directly. Another toothy grin followed. “Our whelps are fat. They cannot fly for the weight in their stomachs.”
No word as to the actual troubles, but the dragon had chosen to reveal enough that the keeper understood there must have more bloodshed than normal. He decided to laugh at the black dragon’s quip instead of pressing for more. “The new brood must take after their mother then. I cannot imagine Moraineon doing anything more than gagging on ogre.”
It was Hemathion’s turn to chuckle. A deep, chthonic sound. “Perhaps having to chew his way out of the one that swallowed him as a whelp has soured the taste of them forever. A pity.” The dragon ran his terribly long, matte-black tongue about his lips. “Their fat, when flamed, keeps the flavor beautifully.”
“I wouldn’t know,” the keeper stated, tone dry.
This time the dragon belted out his laughter, bringing his head close to the Wildlord’s face. “I apologize, Wildlord. Sometimes I am so used to your presence I forget you are not dragon.”
Antelarion smirked, but said nothing, content to watch as the dragon extended his neck, nostrils flaring again. The dragon paused, for a second, almost long enough for the keeper to think something was amiss, but then Hemathion cocked his head in a way that let him watch the cenarion with both eyes. It was slightly unnerving, to have such a large predator fix its full attention on oneself. The keeper’s blood quickened, but, again, he did nothing. Just waited the dragon out.
Hemathion acted first, pushing his muzzle into the cenarion’s breast and tugging at the mooncloth wrapping. Antelarion shrugged himself free of it, tossing the bundle aside. The dragon’s breath, hot against his bare skin, was welcome in the cool evening air. “Eager, are we?” the keeper asked.
“This was the pact, Wildlord.” The dragon rose to all fours, his gaze fixed on the keeper as he paced around him. Knowing he was on display, Antelarion shifted just enough to show off the well-defined muscles on his bare chest, the strength obvious in his thick haunches. Nonchalant, the dragon moved to stand over the keeper’s stag-hindquarters, his belly brushing the cenarion’s white deertail back. The ribbed underside of the black dragon was warm - the fires that burned within him heating his entire core. Tall enough that he could rest all four legs to either side of the keeper, he lowered his head to Antelarion’s ear. “Count yourself lucky I am not taking you first tonight, Wildlord.” His long, matte-black tongue snaked out to lick an elf-like ear. “I find myself closer and closer to claiming you for my hoard.”
Cracking a smile at the dragon’s hubris, the keeper turned his head to bite the draconic tongue. Hemathion ground his sheath between Antelarion’s buttocks in response, reminding the cenarion of both the great length - and the powerful thrusts - behind what it concealed. “Who is it, then?” the keeper breathed, digging hoofs into the ground. “Not Moraineon?”
“Hhhn,” the dragon rumbled, settling his orange-tinged, snake-like belly on the keeper’s back. Heat from the fires within the great reptile warmed his furred lower body. “No, though he sends his regards. He said he will miss spilling seed on you, but Schorlia has claimed him as her mate. She has already laid her clutch, so is now insatiable. I fear Moraineon will be distracted enough to lose his position in the Flight.” The dragon again brought his nose to the cenarion and inhaled deeply, pressing into him from all sides. Then he released, finishing with, “It’s his young rival that will be arriving shortly.”
Antelarion had to search through the names of the drakes that had survived Gruul’s rampage. “Is that Silteon?” he gasped, feeling the flared head of the dragon’s cock get ground between his buttocks.
“Diopsidia will be ready to lay again next year. If we’re to save Ooliteon’s line, the drake must be the next broodfather.”
Antelarion huffed, shaking his antlered head. “Chosen to sire a clutch already. No wonder he is arrogant.”
“His father once challenged Sabellion himself. Were it not for the dim-witted Grulloc’s ambush, Ooliteon might still be the greatest of us.” The dragon shifted until his stiffening erection was lodged firmly against the keeper’s anus. The warmth of the wide head - along with the sheer pressure - set Antelarion’s heart to pounding. The dragon continued, “Or, at least, secure in second place. Alas, now his skull decorates some ogre’s filthy mantle.”
The keeper braced one hand against the dragon’s black-scaled foreleg. “You don’t sound that sad about it.”
“Would you have me shed a tear for him? We blacks are not so coddlesome as the greens. His pride was a weakness. The Flight does not need those who do not learn from past mistakes.”
“Can you be so quick to abandon the loss of one of your own?” Even the loss of some of the most foolish cenarions could hurt, at times. Antelarion couldn’t even imagine not feeling something at the death - even just a material death - of one of his kin.
Hemathion had no such emotions. He snorted dismissively, shifting backwards to put even more pressure against the keeper’s clenched hole - his arousal utterly unaffected by the topic. Or maybe even increased because of it. “He was a mighty member of the Flight, but not a necessary one. Where most of us came to rejoice in the whispers of the Old Ones fading, he…” The dragon took a moment to curl his tongue about the keeper’s neck, leaving a trail of saliva dripping down the elvish chest., while he found the right words. “Reacted differently.”
Dextrous as a snake, the dragon had his tongue out and about the cenarion’s face, slipping into his mouth, under his chin, beneath both arms. His nostrils flared, and though Antelarion could not see his eyes, he knew Hemathion was reveling in his weird fixation with scents. He wiggled his hind-end impatiently, pulling the black dragon from his thoughts. Hemathion stirred, a puff of smoke spewing from both nostrils at the reminder of how close he was to being inside the keeper. “His son, brashness of youth aside, is far more agreeable. So long as a clutch is formed, either male would have been as good as the other.” The dragon shrugged. Then grinned. “Though his son has… interests that might surprise you.” He prodded the cenarion’s anus suggestively.
The last time he’d been with Silteon, the drake had spent an inordinate amount of time eating him out. He had been decent at it too, unlike his elders; Hemathion didn’t seem to grasp the difference between rimming and a straight tongue-fuck. Given Silteon’s greater skill, the keeper had to admit - he was a little curious about what the sleek young drake’s other interests might be. “Oh? Like what?”
“I think you’ll find out soon enough.” Hemathion flashed a lascivious grin, before he looked up to the darkening sky. “Ah. he’s arrived.”
“Wildlord!” a voice called from above, followed by the sound a flapping wings. A black drake, massively muscled, yet still sinuous, landed in the glade, wings flaring. “Your body had better be ready.” The drake’s blunt snout twisted to show all his teeth, in what most would hesitate to call a smile. “Mine certainly is.” Silteon shifted, rising to show a rigid, clearly inhuman erection jutting from the bulging sheath between his hind legs. Precum dribbled from the orange, spade-shaped flare at the tip.
“Drakes,” Antelarion muttered. Whether blue, black, green, red, or bronze, they were all the same. Lusty, lewd, and eager to tumble anything that moved.
The keeper strode forward and clasped Silteon’s erection in his right hand, tugging it upwards for inspection. The drake, obliging, shifted his weight, moving his stiff, reptilian cock into the last of the evening light.
Not as big as Hemathion, and he had yet to fully develop the flattened, trowel-like flare that the elder dragon had on the head of his thick cock. Where Hemathion’s, when erect, was had ridges thick as Antelarion’s tongue, Silteon’s were still mere suggestions of what one day might take shape. Regardless of his early development, however, the drake was a match for any normal cenarion. Antelarion pressed a thumb into the wet opening at the tip, gently running the tips of his fingers through the wetness and rubbing them against the raised ridge of the drakenoid glans.
Silteon’s tongue lolled out of his open mouth, coppery fangs and sulphurous light at the back of his throat on full display. Squeezing the drake’s tumescent shaft, jelly-soft flesh coating a rigid core of steel, reward the cenarion with a spurt of soupy, drakenoid precum across his fingers. Useful, as far as lube went - easily better than anything he could manage. The keeper pumped his vine-twined hands up and down the full length of the drake, smearing Silteon’s semen across every glossy, orange-sabled inch he could reach. Into the sheath as well, for good measure, which had the young drake hissing and shaking his wings. “Careful, Silteon,” Antelarion teased, “You’re going to burst.”
“Even if I do, I’ll go again!” The drake panted, moving his head behind the keeper to nip at his furry buttocks. “If I’d known to expect this, I’d have taken you in Evergrove last night!” he boasted, thrusting into the strong elvish fingers closed about his shaft.
Used to the drake’s bravado, Antelarion at first ignored him, but then realization froze him in place; the Black Flight had been to Evergrove. “You were in the Weald?” he asked, his voice deceptively cool.
While hopelessly brash, Silteon still had the presence of mind to catch the note of warning in the keeper’s tone. The drake backed off, trying to explain. “I followed the scent of my broodkin. It led to Evergrove, but it wasn’t Samia, this was of a different clutch. None will defy the will of Sabellion!”
Hearing that there was more than one of the black drakes in his territory set Antelarion’s blood to boiling. He cut the drake off from whatever else he was going to say. “The pact was that none of the Flight were to enter the Weald!” he fumed.
Affronted, Siltion reared his head back. “We have always kept our end of the bargain, Wildlord. You share your body,” he tried to say, but again the keeper refused to let him finish.
“In exchange for leaving the Weald to Evergrove!” Antelarion’s eyes flashed. “That does not, ever, give you leave.” This was about more than just protecting boundaries. This was about protecting his son.
Dangerous though it was to confront a member of the black dragonflight, the keeper had no fear of the drake. The forest was his territory, after all. He didn’t even bother pulling away from the drake; instead he just made an obvious show of pulling the Dream into himself, green sparks flaring all about his hands and head.
Silteon hesitated, looking to Hemathion, who merely sat, watching, with the same enigmatic smile from earlier on his face. His red eyes flicked to the drake’s. Seeing the audience, Silteon reared his serpentine neck back and bared his teeth at the keeper, snarling in draconic. ”You will respect the Black Flight, keeper!”
Losing all patience with the impudent drake, Antelarion pulled so deep on his magic that his eyes glowed green - and immediately felt an uncertain, extremely familiar cenarion presence at the edge of the glade. Both he and the drake whipped their heads about at the same time to find a purple-skinned, green-haired dryad, clad only in vines, step into the clearing.
“Wildlord?” Faradrella asked, her eyes wavering from the disrobed keeper to the dragon, to the drake looming over the keeper’s stag-body. Their immediate freeze - as if caught doing something wrong - threw off the spell she had been about to cast when she thought the Wildlord was in trouble. She hesitated. “I - I am sorry, but I - I followed and - do you need aid?”
“Aid? Silteon rasped, at the same time that Antelarion exclaimed, “Fara?!” The drake was even less intimidated by her, however, planting his claws possively about the keeper’s flanks. “What could you offer for aid?” he barked, full of scorn.
Her brain caught up with her at the sight of Silteon - now clearly in a position of mounting over the male cenarion - and she recoiled, bellowing, “How dare you lay a claw on the Wildlord!”
“This is the agreement, dryad.” Hemathion’s interjection surprised all three of them, his low, rumbling voice cutting through the confrontation.
Dryads were rarely cowed, however, and Faradrella almost never. She bared her teeth, utterly defiant. “I heard enough! This is coercion. This is barely a step above rape!” Antelarion felt her magic return to her, gathering about her hands for a spell. “Your kind is just as vile and loathsome as it ever was on Azeroth!” she spat.
Silteon, subconsciously shifting himself behind the keeper, protested, muttering, “Not rape when he’s willing.”
“Willing? To protect our home from you monsters? That doesn’t make it better, wurm!”
Though he was still scrambling to understand the situation, Antelarion winced at the epithet. Fara truly had spent a lot of time around dragons - she had to know just how much that word infuriated dragon-kind, given her choice to use it there.
“Watch your tongue, dryad!” Hemathion reprimanded, rising. “The slander of my kin has always been a point of pride for you humanoids. There is no threat to Evergrove! No dragon of my flight would ever harm it!”
Faradrella scoffed. “Then what hold do you have over him!”
“Hold?!” The great black dragon’s spined head snapped back, shocked. His jaw worked a moment before he rallied. “There is no hold, dryad! The Wildlord mates with us willingly! It was his idea!”
“What?” Stunned, the dryad staggered as her spell left her. Her face went from rage to disbelief, her pert little mouth falling open. Her big eyes sought out the keeper, who looked away, having hoped to avoid her scrutiny. “Antelarion…?”
“Hm... “ the keeper stalled, in a remarkably similar example to his son. He rubbed the back of his head, still not meeting her gaze. “How… how much did you hear?”
Her icy reply made him grimace. “Enough.”
Silently cursing his luck - and himself for even hinting at finding release in the Wood! - Antelarion grit his teeth and decided to start simply. He waved at the black dragon seated behind him. “Hemathion approached me a number of years ago about… how we might aide in the rebuilding of their flight after the slaughter of Gruul.”
“Druids are experts on fertility,” the dragon quipped, moving over to the keeper and - with a look - sending the drake slinking away. “The Wildlord of the Weald has seen three broods hatch for us. More than has hatched in the past thirty years.”
The pride in the dragon’s voice was a little steadying, though the keeper was still at something of a loss for words… and not exactly keen to reveal too many details. By Cenarius, this was awkward. Antelarion gestured with his wood-warped hand at the two male dragons, “Black flight dragons normally vary in the urge to mate.You’ve seen the spikes on black dragon eggs?” At once, all four creatures in the glade winced, very glad they had never had to pass something like one of those through themselves. It was a marvel that the black dragonflight continued in any form at all - or that the females didn’t simply eat all the males in anger. Even Antelarion, good-natured soul that he was, would slaughter the male that saddled him with an egg like that. “If the females are all with egg, he continued, “and thus rejecting advances, male dragons tend to experience diminished sexual appetites. At times, this impotence might last for years. Decades, even.”
His cheeks colored. “A very simple solution was to… offer an alternative outlet when a female is with egg.”
“A delightful alternative,” the dragon - Hemathion - murmured, still standing possessively over the Keeper. His head dropped beside Antelarion’s face. “Not once have I regretted it.”
It took a mountain of will to ignore the dragon. The keeper made a half-hearted motion towards Evergrove. “In exchange, we have their... cooperation with our interests in these mountains.”
He fell silent, waiting for her to speak. “So…” she began, slowly, her brow creased in thought.
“So you’re wrong, dryad.” Stilteon snapped, still bristling.
She ignored him. “So there’s no… coercion?” She waved a pale-purple hand at the two dragons. “This isn’t some sort of black-flight conspiracy?”
Half-holding his breath, Antelarion responded with, “Not as such, sister, no.”
Fara stood there a moment longer, half a spell still held in each hand, before the glow about her disappeared. Relief washed over the keeper, and he drew breath to speak - but was cut off by her rounding on him, her eyes ablaze anew.
“You - you bastard!” she swore, stalking up to shove an accusatory finger under his chin.
“F-Fara?” he asked, worried.
The dryad waved angrily at the two dragons. “You mean this whole time you have been coming out to the Raven’s Wood you’re just getting fucked silly by the black dragonflight?”
“Uh,” he began, “not - I mean, I wouldn’t exactly say it like that...”
“I’d say it was exactly that,” Hemathion interjected. Antelarion shot him a dagger-glance, but turned back to the dryad, hoping to quell her fury, now directed at him.
“I - I don’t think I understand,” he tried to say, “I was just something between myself and the black dragonflight! No one in Evergrove needed to know!”
Faradrella was not at all interested in hearing his protest, however. She jabbed her knuckles into his taut stomach, driving him backwards. “You know how much I want to get stuffed with big dragon-cock! You could have told me!”
Antelarion boggled at her, sputtering in a combination of indignation and sheer disbelief.
Terribly amused by the whole situation, Hemathion couldn’t resist goading the keeper as well. “Wildlord. I had no idea you wanted us all to yourself. You could have told me,” he mimicked, his voice a draconic falsetto.
His cheeks flushing, Antelarion ignored the dragon. “These are not the greens of Ashenvale, sister. I would not subject any of my sisters to something I would not do myself,” he said tersely.
For a second he thought he had convinced her, but then her eyebrows shot together, and - not for the first time - the keeper cursed the dryad’s sharpness. “Fel-feathers! It never even crossed your mind!” she hissed. “I should gallop right back and tell them all that there are drakes.” She raised her chin, nostrils flaring, then added, tightly, “for capture.”
Silteon bristled at the threat, growling, “You’re welcome to try!”, though he likely had no idea what Faradrella truly meant, much less the danger he was in. Or the fact that some of the males a dryad coterie ‘captured’ might have actually preferred death, by the end of it. Antelarion stuck a hand in front of the drake, before the young lizard did something stupid, like challenge the closest thing in Outlands to a cenarion archmage.
Breathing out through his nose, the keeper strode forward. The dryad, undaunted by his greater size, kept her scowl. They glowered at each other, the only two cenarions in Outlands that bore the colors of Ashenvale, all shades of purple and green.
Antelarion broke first, knowing full-well he already had the lower hand. “You could - but you won’t.”
She gave a petulant toss of her long green curls. “No?”
He shook his head. “No, because if you did, you’d have to share. There are seventeen Ruuan sisters, Fara. There aren’t even a handful of unpaired black drakes in this world.”
After digesting that, Faradrella’s mouth softened into its usual pretty moue. Breaking their gaze, she looked to the ground. “Then what do you propose?” she asked, glancing sideways at him.
Carefully schooling his face to keep the scowl off it, Antelarion did a masterful job of swallowing a very bitter pill. “I propose…” he began, haltingly, “You… perhaps…” He trailed off weighing his options one last time. There were certain things he was willing to give up, willing to allow, he supposed. If it meant her compliance. The keeper drew a deep breath to finish. “Start joining me in honoring the pact. You can have any drakes you want.”
The dryad caught the subtle inflection in his voice immediately. “But no dragon,” she stated. The firm expression on Antelarion’s face was answer enough. Behind him, Hemathion’s jaw hung open for a moment before he threw his great head back and roared his laughter.
Not quite sold, Fara looked from the keeper to the dragon first, her gaze raking over the black male. She bit her lip, hesitant, before taking one last look at Antelarion’s face. “Fine.” The dryad sighed, gesturing with her right hand. “I can abide by that.”
“You speak as if I won’t satisfy you, dryad,” Silteon growled, still doing his best to loom imposingly. It was less than effective, given that he was hardly larger than either cenarion.
“It’s Fara.” The dryad eyed him up and down. “And I already heard you earlier. I know that you won’t. But....” she shrugged, striding to her own section of the clearing. “We all have to make do. Right, Wildlord?”
The drake stared a moment, before padding after her. “... the name is Silteon. Feel free to scream it as you need.”
Still reeling from the whole encounter, Antelarion could only shake his head in disbelief. At both the bravado of the drake and his Ashenvale sister. Relief washed over him, though, at the sight of the two getting along - at least well enough for a tryst, if nothing else. Loathe as he was to admit it, this was a far preferable alternative to any of the other options. Of course, given time, he knew the dryad might work other things out… but by then he should have an answer for that, too.
Knowing he was being watched, Antelarion turned to the dragon, arching a long green brow.
“Wildlord.” Hemathion tilted his horned head, looking for all the world like a very smug kitty. “I don’t know whether to be amused or angry about you trading us like prized horseflesh.”
“The wise choice is to be flattered.” Antelarion reached out with his warped hand to scratch the underside of the dragon’s chin. “And relieved that you’ve been spared my sisters’ attentions. If you sometimes struggle with keeping up with me…” He leaned closer, rubbing his other hand over the draconic muzzle. “They would leave you quaking in your scales.”
The dragon moved his head to the keeper’s stag-body, exploring it with nose and teeth. “Then it is all the more fitting they have the drake.” He cocked an eye at the cenarion. “Perhaps I could trade him to you permanently?”
Chuckling, Antelarion turned as the dragon’s moved around him, nuzzling the dappled fur on the keeper’s belly, sliding his entire tongue over the keeper’s sheath, over his haunches, over his ass.
“It looks like I am the one taking you first tonight after all,” the dragon murmured, rising over him. Antelarion helpfully backed himself between the glossy-black scales on the dragon’s forelegs. “Perhaps I should claim you for my hoard after all.” The cenarion paused, hearing that.
“I know it was you behind Silteon scouting Evergrove.” The keeper craned his neck backwards, his antlers striking the dragon’s neck. His face was hard. “It would be a mistake to test me on this.”
Hemathion put a claw to his breast. “Wildlord, you wound me. I stand by my word: I mean no harm to the druids.”
“I do not doubt your intent, Hemathion.” Antelarion paused, choosing the right balance of forceful and tact. “Chaos follows the Flight. I will tolerate announced visits - in humanoid form - but do not think to come and go as you please.”
“Of course, Wildlord.” The dragon extended his tongue, and Antelarion obligingly opened his mouth. The muscle was thick, and hit the back of his throat all too soon, though it was slippery enough that it didn’t make him gag. The dragon also had no care for his teeth scraping against it - in fact, that seemed to be what he reveled in most, for he clasped both claws about the keeper’s slim, elven waist, grinding Antelarion’s hind-end against his swollen sheath. His arousal poked out once again, the flared, triangular head sliding easily between the soft white fur that framed the cenarion’s buttocks.
Hemathion rumbled in pleasure, pulling his tongue out of the keeper’s mouth and bracing his forearms on the ground in order to slide his erection between Antelarion’s legs. The feel of the keeper’s heavy sac pressing into it, along with the cenarion’s own swollen sheath when he thrust further, made the dragon’s nostrils spurt a plume of smoke and forced him to push off of Antelarion entirely. His mouth immediately sought the keeper’s asshole, wasting no time in pushing a good half-foot of tongue into the tight, clenched little opening. If he hadn’t been expecting it, Antelarion might have been surprised - as it was, he just gave a puff of breathless laughter and relaxed as best he could. For all that the dragon had no concept of rimming, getting tongue-fucked by a good two feet of dextrous muscle was hardly a chore.
Bracing his weight on his forelegs, the keeper shifted to help spread his haunches for the dragon, as the huge male’s tongue thickened to the point that Antelarion actually felt it start to stretch him open. His elven mouth fell open, and his blood quickened to the point that his own lengthy shaft was fully erect, smacking his underside each time his hindquarters flexed. He wiped the excess saliva from his lips, just as Hemathion helpfully supplies about a gallon more to his ass, liberally coating just about everything his tongue could reach. The keeper’s fat, furry testicles, his hole, and anything the dragon’s tongue could reach inside him. By the time black male pulled away, Antelarion’s anus was soaked in saliva and gaped slightly, and the cenarion was of half a mind to just demand that the dragon fuck him.
Similar thoughts had entered Hemathion’s head as well, however, and the dragon was quick to line himself up with the keeper’s once-hidden hole. His erection took some maneuvering, and at first looked like there was no chance of entry, but time and experience had long ago worked out the path of least resistance. All it took was pressing his triangular head to the hole and letting the cenarion’s lust take care of the rest.
He entered slowly, letting the keeper’s strained anus struggle over each and every inch of thick, draconic cock, from the spade-like glans, raised and rugged, to the periodic bulges of the dark, orange- and red-hued shaft. Antelarion let his eyes roll back, clasping his arms above him, about the dragon’s neck once again. “Deep as you can go, dragon,” he breathed, wiggling backwards. Hemathion, relishing how easily the cenarion opened up to him, was more than willing to comply. He bottomed out in the keeper’s warm, moist depths, faint lines of smoke trailing from his nostrils in satisfaction.
Hemathion clasped both forearms about Antelarion’s waist and rested himself on the keeper’s back - letting him feel the full weight of the beast inside him. Antelarion huffed, good humor flashing across his face, so Hemathion kissed him again, deciding to see if, not for the first time, he could make his tongue meet his dick inside him.
Where the two respective leaders of each tribe had the practiced ease of nearly a decade behind them, Silteon and Faradrella were in a very awkward new territory - made a bit moreso by a strained first impression, to say the least. That did very little to stop either’s arousal, however, with the drake’s erection still full and straining, and the dryad more than willing to let him prowl about her body, sniffing her, tasting her, at will. She watched him as she did so, just as he kept one predatory red eye trained up at her face as he slunk along her flanks, dragging his smooth scales against her fur.
Barely larger than herself - really about the same size as the keeper, in her estimation - Faradrella idly ran her fingers up her stomach, around the undersides of her breasts as Silteon nuzzled underneath her hindquarters. The heavy exhale against her sex, the breath instantly recognizable as the heat of a drake, whetted her appetite for more. She bit her lip, cupping her left hand over her right breast, rubbing the other over the sensitive skin of her navel. The sudden, kittenish swipe of the drake’s tongue across the insides of her thighs startled her, her sharp, spear-like hoofs coming down on the drake’s tail - unfortunately making the drake snap his head up into her gut, winding her.
“Oof!” The dryad kicked at the drake. “Watch it!”
Smarting from both blows, and her criticism wearing thin, Silteon’s crests flared. He hissed at her, coppery fangs on full display.
Seeing the trouble brewing, Hemathion intervened immediately. “Silteon,” the elder dragon said warningly. The drake turned from the dryad’s backside. “Cenarion’s are not all built the same. Do not treat her as the keeper. Adjust to a different partner.”
Faradrella cooed. “Oh does the big, bad black drake need tips from his uncle?”
“There is no shame in wisdom from elders,” the drake replied, running the sides of both sets of claws along her flanks. He gripped her hindquarters suddenly, leering. “He can make the Wildlordbeg.”
“You’re also here to practice.” Antelarion’s interjection was only in-part to keep the dryad from hearing more regarding his… weaker moments.
The dryad clasped her hand to mouth. “Oh. So you’re just a beginner then,” she taunted, her face pitying.
Silteon just stared at her. Then his eyes narrowed. “I’m going to devour your pussy, dryad. You’re not even going to remember your own name.”
Faradrella chuckled, throaty and low. “Tough talk from a whelp.” She stroked a hand along the underside of his jaw, running her fingers along the scaley crests. “You’re lucky I don’t mind drakes fresh from the shell.”
Jerking his head free, smoke wafting from both nostrils, Silteon snarled and twisted to shove his head between her hind-legs, a guttural growl rising from his chest. The dryad jumped, her chortle cut short by the drake rudely laving nearly a foot of tongue between her labia. By virtue of its sheer length alone he managed to flick her clitoris, prompting a breathless gasp, along with a solid buck of her rear. Silteon just clamped his forearm across her hindquarters, forcing his muzzle deeper between her furry legs and lapping wildly. “Easy, hatchling, it’s not a race!” she called, arching her back to brace both hands on her backside. The wide smile on her pretty mouth belied her jeers.
Hemathion, having paused to let the keeper adjust, shifted slightly - hitching Antelarion’s breath immediately. “I admire her,” he stated, watching Faradrella push back against the drake’s head, taunting him again. “Not many take him to task so easily.”
“She has been itching for battle,” Antelarion explained, “and my sisters are far more warlike than my brothers.”
A small chortle slipped from the dragon’s mouth. “Good. Perhaps the whelp will learn that size alone determines very little.”
The Wildlord reach up, placing vine-twined fingers on the dragon’s neck. “And yet you’ve never shape-shifted while mating with me.”
“Sometimes size counts for a lot. Namely, when I want to feel you squeeze!” Hemathion growled clutching the keeper in a way that drove his cervine butthole flush against the dragon’s sheath. Antelarion gasped, his insides spasming against the rigid flesh stuffed inside him, but then laughed and shook his hindquarters.
“I love it when you do that,” he teased, wrapping his arms about the dragon overhead and bouncing his rear insistently. “Do it again!”
Every-ready to oblige the tight, taut cenarion that let him spill so much seed inside him, Hemathion snapped his hips back and plunged in, all the way to the hilt, where he gave a practically bone-crushing squeeze. The keeper bucked against him, the irregular motion making both moan in unison. Hemathion could smell - and hear - the keeper’s arousal; Antelarion’s lengthy, cenarion girth, a strange combination of dark-purple night elf-flesh and horse, slapped against his belly, precum spraying from it in stringy white ropes.
A giddy grin practically split the keeper’s face. The heat that emanated from the dragon’s underbelly, from the dragon’s stiff rod, was intoxicating. Having it wrapped all about him, driving hard against his prostate, tore away the steely resolve with which he held himself together. He wrapped both arms around the dragon’s forearms, more than content with the steady thrusts of the great, scaled male’s hips. Feeling the keeper relax into him, Hemathion started using full-fledged strokes, slower by a small degree but each one bringing that much more sensation to the both of them. They lost themselves in the moment, each happy with the pulse of the heartbeat, clench of the insides, and the slow, steady build of heat in their blood.
Unlike Hemathion and Antelarion’s deep knowledge of each other’s bodies, however, Silteon was having his own problems. After several attempts to get his mouth on her pussy without having to crane his neck, the drake decided to simply shift into his mortal form - a dark-skinned young man with glossy-black hair and wild eyes. It was far from perfect - his horns still jutted out from his forehead, and his feet and hands more resembled claws than anything mortal - but it was a fair approximation, and more importantly, let him shove his entire face between her furred hind-legs. The sudden shift - and push of a humanoid face into her muff - made Faradrella jump, but she relaxed when she saw her most important concern was just fine; Silteon’s lack of finesse saw to it that his penis was still wildly reptilian, all orange and black and ridged, spilling draconic precum like it had an infinite supply.
At first she was resolute that the cocky young drake not hear her, but the sheer greed with which he attacked her most tender parts was getting to her. She tried to distract herself, running her hands through the sheen of sweat on her breasts, shifting her weight from her forelegs to hind, but it just wasn’t enough. Faradrella let out a long, shuddering moan, he haunches shaking hard enough that Silteon had to have noticed.
Fortunately, for her pride, if nothing else, the drake was lost in his haze of lust under her hind-end. For him there was naught but the warm, wet folds of her flesh, the feel of her soft, deerskin thighs on his cheeks. The smell of her sexual fluids, all around him. On his face, on his tongue - the drake could not stop tasting everything she had to offer, running his tongue from her clit to her perineum, spread her labial folds with fingers from his free hand in an effort to squeeze out more. Then the fingers of the arm wrapped around her leg, hand spread across her shapely ass to hold her in place, found the tight little hole hidden between her cheeks.
She leapt at the touch, and that caught his attention immediately. His tongue never left her flesh, however - the drake simply dragged it up across her fur and to her anus, where he took a curious lick. Finding it satisfactory, he spread his inhuman tongue against it, laving widely. He continued digging his talons into her muff at the same time, mostly using his knuckles to keep her lips spread and flooding her with the dull sensation of being opened too wide.
At the other end of the clearing, Hemathion had tired of his lazy thrusts into the keeper and was taking a break, content to pull the cenarion down on his side and simply soak. Antelarion, face flushed and sweaty, struggled with his ass clenching around the irregular intrude; every muscle in his body was screaming that he needed to cast a restorative spell around the massive, drakenoid erection stuff inside him, but he knew from experience that letting the healing power of Nature flow through him would be a massive mistake - for both himself and the dragon. It had only taken tightening himself that way once for the two of them to learn to never do it again.
The threat of that horrible ending didn’t help matters either, of course. Antelarion panted, wiggling his stag-end around the dragon’s shaft for distraction. Hemathion helpfully ran his tongue along the keeper’s elven chin, tasting the purple flesh before he pushed the dextrous, matte-black muscle between Antelarion’s lips. “Eager for another rut?” he asked when he withdrew.
Antealrion only nodded, swallowing a mouthful of draconic saliva and rising to his hoofs. The move, of course, meant that the two feet of knobby, ribbed shaft popped cruelly out of his asshole, but that was okay. He took a few steps and shifted his weight, presenting his ass to the dragon again. Hemathion grinned at the sight of the keeper’s deer-tail arced so stiffly over what was becoming a rapidly visible hole. It didn’t take long for him to mount the keeper and give himself the pleasure of hilting his shaft all over again.
One eye scrunched shut, Faradrella struggled to decide if she liked having her ass eaten or not. The purple-skinned dryad twisted at the waist, leaning over her cervine portion to figure out exactly what the hell the drake was doing. Feeling her shift, Silteon pulled back far enough that his stunning red-orange eyes peered at her from just over the curve of her rump. At that moment, the drake seemed boyish, you, and and eager for approval.
Not seeing any response from the dryad, Silteon gave up rimming her and dove back into her pussy, getting his mouth on whatever he could.
“Let me lie down.” Her voice was a little more unsteady than she would have liked.
Obediently, he followed her, his jutting, drakenoid erection straining with all the vigor of adolescence. She settled against a small mossy rise, then whooped as the drake - still possessing the strength of a dragon, if not the form - gripped her hind legs and rolled her on her back. He lost no time in getting his tongue reacquainted with her clit, lapping at it gently before pausing to catch his breath and just breathe, hard and hot, over her naked arousal. In this position, in human form, the drake had the additional benefit of being able to grip his erection in his free hand and stroke while still eating her out.
However, this way also allowed her to lean forward, tangle a hand in his hair, and shove his mouth wherever she wanted. He growled at her, glaring from under his dark brows, but she just directed him more forcefully the next time and he went with only minor complaint - though she felt the momentary thrill of fangs tap against her flesh.
Faradrella let him thrill her a little longer, her mouth parting whenever he tried to use even his nose to push inside her, before she forced his head backwards to look at his teeth.
Saliva ran from his inhuman tongue where it hung over his open jaw, and a haze of lust clouded what little remained of the boyish charm in his eyes. When she released him to cup his chin, he nuzzled into her palm. The dryad huffed at the jolt of arousal that surged through her. “Come,” she beckoned. She didn’t have to asked twice; the drake scrambled up between her legs, pressing his mouth to hers with the same fervor that he had attacked her pussy earlier.
His tongue was warm. Far warmer than any cenarion, or even any green-flight she had been with before. Almost as warm as the shaft pressed against her folds. “Elune,” she breathed, between the drake’s desperate kisses as he ground into her. “You’re big! Move!”
He pushed his narrow frame away, reluctant, his mouth still seeking hers - until she gripped his leaking cock and pushed the head down into her quivering depths.
Silteon froze, quivering as his drakenoid dick spasmed and the dryad felt hot liquid gush inside her. “Really?” she asked, but was only met with another red-eyed glare, one that somehow managed to mix equal parts of wounded pride and steadfast determination. The drake, scowling now, forced himself the rest of the way inside her - making her squeal - until his hips were flush with hers. This time it was the dryad’s turn to quiver, head rolling, as she dug her nails into his dusky shoulders. He held himself still while she adjusted, waiting until her grip on his shoulders eased enough that he might try a delicate push with his hips. Faradrella huffed, hindlegs clutching about him, hoofs twitching, but her fingers stroked his face. Touched his lips and nose, and when the dryad lay back, breasts bare, the soft, white glow of her eyes focused on his, the drake couldn’t hold back. He buried himself to the hilt, pulled back, then thrust all the way in again, his lust consuming his brief spell of rational thought.
Between his cum and her juices, his thick shaft slid with ease, more and more, each time he pumped his hips. He’d never lain with a woman in human form - part of him wanted to keep every inch of his ridged shaft buried in her warmth, but the other was drawn by the gentle, the commanding strokes on his cheeks, under his chin. Across his throat and mouth. Silteon moaned, a hissing noise that seemed as much in irritation as it was torturous pleasure.
While the drake struggled to find a way to start moving without spilling another load in the dryad’s moist heat, Antelarion freely let his orgasm tear through him, the cenarion’s thick shaft slapping loudly against his stomach each time seed erupted from it. His whole body shook, from the fat, bouncing sac that dangled between his legs to the muscular arms he still had wrapped about Hemathion’s neck.
The dragon wasn’t fairing much better; each spasm through the keeper’s dappled, stag-like hindquarters made Antelarion’s white-furred hole snap tight about his cock, practically milking the great shaft of any seed he had to give. He bore down on the keeper, a long, low rumbling noise coming from somewhere deep in his breast, and buried himself to the hilt - holding perfectly still as his seed flooded the cenarion’s insides.
That set Antelarion over the top, but the dragon was already there, clamping his claws about the keeper’s elven waist to keep him from leaping free. The cenarion could do little more than writhe in the dragon’s grasp beyond panting, grinding his rear along the bulbous length, and soaking in the feel of dragon-cum spilling out his hole whenever it spasmed. Not about to let the afterglow overtake either of them, however, he pulled on his connection to the Dream - letting innervating Life flow through him. Through both of them.
Hemathion winced at the surge of energy, the strange taste of seeds and leaves and water and life flickering across his tongue. It also made his dick stiffen, painfully, while still buried in the keeper’s depths. The dragon pulled himself out, intentionally splashing cum across the keeper’s white-furred buttocks.
Hard though he was, he needed a breather. Otherwise he was just going to pound a hole through the cenarion and cum again five minutes later. Hemathion settled back, one claw draped over Antelarion’s lower body, and looked to where Silteon was thrusting mightily into the cenarion sister.
It appeared the drake had found some semblance of the correct movement, as his bouncing bubble-butt attested. He had to balance on hands and toes in order to use his full drakenoid length, but he showed no sign of slowing. If anything, the pace was evening out. Each snap of his brown-skinned hips involved more skill, less force.
The slowing pace also gave Antelarion an eyeful of the drake’s tightly-drawn balls and, surprisingly, dark hole.
Curious, the keeper slid out from under Hemathion’s forearm and strode over, planting hoofs on either side of the drake - his solid erection pressing directly against the black-flight male’s anus.
At first Silteon reared in surprise, but that only threatened to pop the massive head of the keeper’s cock inside him. He quickly buried himself inside the dryad, but his human form’s cheeks kept the cenarion’s cockhead trapped between them. He snarled, tensing, only to find Faradrella’s cool hands pressed about his neck.
When he met her gaze, she smiled at him in a way that did not reach her eyes. “If you try to shift, I’ll squeeze until you pass out,” she promised, her grip frighteningly tight.
Silteon felt his cock inexplicably harden, but any chance for a response was lost as the keeper above him bore down. The drake’s asshole did nothing to halt Antelarion’s great length - if anything, it seemed to part like folds of warm velvet - surprising them both.
While there was enough cenarion cock to do serious damage to a human recipient, the drake - even in human form - was made of far tougher stuff; he only experienced pleasure as the keeper’s length slid across parts inside him that made his head loll back and tongue hang out.
”Fu~ck, why are you doing this to me?” he begged in draconic, for lack of ability to process anything else.
Antelarion had no answer for him. He could hardly breathe for the blazing heat wrapped around his dick - in fact his legs were trembling, his whole body shaking at the drake’s astounding ability to take his entire length so quickly! In truth, he had no answer; he had just been planning to torment the brash young drake, maybe dip the tip in, but not plunge in to the hilt. The keeper got a taste of his own, however, as a great weight - and shaft twice the length and thickness of his own - bore down on his hindquarters.
Hemathion craned his head about to admire the drake, the two cenarions pinned beneath him, all three of them grimacing at the sheer size of the male inside them. He grinned.
“You do well, Silteon.” The black-scaled dragon, all boney spikes and sinew, gripped the keeper’s cervine buttocks and sawed the last six inches back and forth across his anus before pulling all the way out and slamming home, making Antelarion cry out as he was forced deeper into the drake beneath him. “But do not dither. Move your hips. Please your partners.”
“Ye- yes, elder,” the black drake choked, rocking his perfectly-shaped butt back along the keeper’s shaft before awkwardly driving his full length into Faradrella’s pussy. It only took two more experimental tries until he was once again slapping his human ballsac against her furred muff with the same - perhaps even greater - fervor as before.
While the sheer heat of the drake, so moist and soft and firm about him, was unquestionably amazing, Antelarion still boggled at the unmistakeable touch of humanoid buttocks against his sheath. “How can you take so much?!” he exclaimed, half-pulling out to inspect the young dragonkin for damage.
Hemathion held him in place, however, leaning forward to chuckle at the trapped drake. “Thunderlord Stronghold has been showing you favor, Silteon?”
Distracted by over a foot of girthy cenarion length sliding inside him - while his own drakenoid member was getting squeezed by cenarion pussy - Silteon couldn’t manage anything more than a low, protracted moan. Seeing that neither dragon seemed particularly concerned, Antelarion let the drake continue bouncing his ass along his shaft, though he still prodded Hemathion for an explanation.
The dragon smirked. “He likes to pretend he is a hapless human, a little waif in need of rescue by big, powerful orcs.” He punctuated his speech with a few brutal thrusts of his cock into the keeper, practically punching his penis into the stag-like buttocks. Then he took the time to run his tongue along Antelarion’s face and neck. “Guess how he repays them.”
“Lying, overgrown snake!” the drake spat, his face caught between agony and ecstasy. Above the keeper, Hemathion just laughed and bore his weight down, hilting Antelarion in the pinned humanoid’s searing depths all over again.
For all that it was the other three that were caught, were trapped, with cocks buried in them, it was Hemathion who shook first, who felt his insides go taut and his body tense up in warning. This time he didn’t simply let loose in the cenarion, happy to ride himself silly with the first orgasm when he knew Antelarion would innervate him. No, this time he slammed himself into the keeper’s furry ass, completely ignoring the cries of the dryad and the drake, and he reared backwards, gripping Antelarion’s hindquarters and roaring as his seed soaked the keeper’s insides.
Caught up in lust, he didn’t even pause this time, continuing to thrust, to brutalize the poor cenarion male with his massive, flared, drakenoid dick. At one point, his cock popped free and a huge blast of cum shot out and streaked a wet line on the back of the keeper’s tawny back. Antelarion quickly reached back and held the spasming cock steady, hot draconic semen spilling over his hand, and guided the enormous head back to his hole. Hemathion drove himself back in, bottoming out and holding still once again. He rested on the cenarion male’s hindquarters, leaning forward only to mouth the keeper’s long, pointed ears.
Both Faradrella and Silteon were next, the glory built up between them rising to a peak. Fara was silent when it hit her, merely closing in on herself, eyes scrunched shut as she bit her lp, her hands leaving the drake for the first time to stroke her bare breasts, to clutch at her neck and her elven stomach.
The drake was the true victim of her climax, for her insides closed about his cock, gripping, massaging every inch of his massive, inhuman shaft. The worst was whenever a flared ridge passed into her, for then she would spasm and close her hind legs about his hips. “I’m gonna cum!” Silteon called, warning, but never slowing.
It didn't take long. After only three or four hard long strokes the drake cried out and jerked back - unintentionally impaling himself on Antelarion’s cock. His thighs quivered as he held himself in place, his drakenoid dick spurting twice in the dryad’s entrance before a heave popped it free and semen arced across her stomach.
Silteon gave out at that point, his smooth, copper-colored butt sliding down the full length of the shaft stuffed inside him. Between the squelching of the dragon inside him and the squelching of the drake on his shaft, Antelarion had to give up. An orgasm crashed over him, forcing him to empty everything he could manage into the humanoid-drake’s hot depths.
Faradrella just lay there, eyes sightless, the butterflies in her hair not even fanning their wings. Silteon’s dick continued to vibrate in an intense orgasm, and he moaned, driven by a force greater than himself to lift his hips - forcing his ass back up Antelarion’s shaft - to stuff his cock back into the dryad’s cum-soaked vagina. Thick strands of semen coated him; his back, his stomach, his shaft, his balls, his thighs, his ass, but he didn’t care. He was just as insensate as the cenarion he lay buried in.
He might have even mumbled something in draconic, but Antelarion missed it, distracted as he was by a greedy black dragon trying to stuff his tongue down his throat once again. The keeper tolerated the intrusion, briefly, wrenching his head to the side. Hemathion retaliated by clutching his forearms, his entire body about the cenarion’s lower half, making him whimper as the draconic cock inside him swelled momentarily. The dragon’s tongue was back in his mouth in a heartbeat, though this time it was harder to reach the keeper’s throat for the fact that neither could stop snickering.
Antelarion was the first to extract himself, adroitly pulling off Hemathion’s softening erection while he hopped sideways over the two trapped beneath him. Silteon flinched when the keeper slipped out, biting his lip to keep from whimpering as seed poured from his hole and ran over his human nuts. He didn’t want to move; just lay there, cheek pressed to the dryad’s furry underside, ridged dick still twitching inside her, forever.
Rarely fatigued by sex, Antelarion stretched, starting with arms over his head and working all the way down from his spine to his hindquarters, delighting in the soreness he found all over.
Never one for conversation afterwards either, the keeper paused, awkwardly, by his fellow cenarion and the drake still tangled in her limbs.
“There are places to bathe, in the Wood.” Antelarion saw her crack an eyelid at him. He hesitated, adding, “We’ll speak on the morrow, Fara.”
The dryad stirred, brushing damp, ivy-twined locks from her face and pushed her elven half up on her elbows to watch him go. “Of course, Wildlord,” she replied, though it was clear something lingered in the pause after.
Night had set in fully, though that didn’t always mean much in Outlands. Instead of the red-orange, sun-burnt sky of day, the swirling energies of the Twisting Nether arced through the sky overhead. What remained of Draenor’s moon floated, terribly close, and in the darkened shadows of the Wood, it loomed, pale and scarred, over the treetops.
A shadow passed before it, accompanied by a gust from great wings. Hemathion had taken off.
Antelarion headed in the general direction the dragon had flown, his head pleasantly devoid of thought. The Wood absorbed him with the nightcalls of birds, insects. The silkwings danced between the trees, chasing each other in complex mating dances that left shimmering trails of dust in their wake. The keeper found a tiny, though merry, rocky stream. It took him to an opening in the terrokar trees, all lined about a pond that the stream tumbled into. Though he had been there many times before, the beauty of the place - in the darkness, lit by moonlight and little more - was still enough to make the cenarion pause. Make him soften at the edges.
Hemathion met him there, lazing at the rocky edge, his red eyes fixed on the keeper the moment he arrived. Not having anything to say, Antelarion headed straight for the pool, striding into its cool waters with confident ease.
After his exertion earlier, the feel of it against his underside, over his haunches - and especially lapping at his hole - was a welcome relief. The keeper scrubbed himself slowly, thoroughly, once he reached waters up to his waist.
“Do you wish to end our agreement?” The dragon’s question jolted Antelarion out of his thoughts. He shot Hemathion a narrow-eyed look. “You conceded sex with the drakes to the dryad,” the black-flight male stated, scrutinizing the keeper. “She could assume your place just as easily.”
Antelarion held the dragon’s gaze, knowing he had heard every part of his exchange with Faradrella earlier. “It’s true that my interest in the drakes has waned.” He shrugged. “It is no hardship to pass it on. Perhaps even more of my sisters will decide to join.”
In truth, after nearly a decade of the affair, he found himself satisfied more often by other means than the drakes. Even tonight, as much fun as it was to dominate Silteon, he found he lacked much interest in doing it again. He cocked his head at that realization. He was a different man than he had been ten years ago, before he’d... His mouth turned wry.
The cenarion had been aware, in the general sense, of a change occurring within him. Perhaps tonight he had simply realized the specifics. He shook himself free of those thoughts, finishing with, “If that’s what my kin want, I am happy to leave the drakes to them.”
“Yet I do not hear you wishing for an end to your part of the pact,” Hemathion observed, his deep voice voice unusually husky.
The keeper was silent. “You heard me clearly enough, earlier,” he said eventually. “What do you think?”
“I think you wish to claim me for your hoard.”
A smile cracked Antelarion’s facade, briefly, hearing that. He inclined his head at the black dragon, the corners of his lips threatening to twitch upwards again, before turning away to leave.
“Stay a moment,” Hemathion called, rising. The keeper turned to look at him as he paced over, serpentine body slinking over the rocks about the pool’s edge. The dragon’s obsidian scales glittered in the moonlight when he settled on an outcropping beside the cenarion. He shifted onto his side, indicating a space beside him, between his forelegs, along his ribbed belly. “I know cenarions do not need much sleep, but perhaps you might just lie with me for a time.”
His interest piqued, Antelarion still felt the need to feign his hesitation. “Just for a time, Hemathion. I do have duties I must return to.”
“As do I, Wildlord.” Hemathion shrugged with his wings, nonchalant. “It is just for a time.”
The keeper studied the dragon, but after a moment he trotted over and settled down beside him, at first stiff, then he shifted similarly onto his side. Hemathion threw a forearm over his cervine body and tugged him closer. Save for the size of his partner, it wasn’t dissimilar to how he might have lain with another cenarion. Curious.
He tilted his head back to look at the dragon. Faint wisps of smoke drifted from his nostrils, a slight detail that might be lost to those who didn’t know the black-flight male well. The keeper placed a hand on the claw about his waist. “It is hard, being an elder.”
Hemathion puffed a cloud of ash, glancing down him, but merely grunted. He looked off into the woods, his forearm tightening about keeper’s bare, elven waist. “Sometimes, though, I am not the elder. It is a pleasant reprieve.”
Antelarion’s face was blank, mostly because he was trying to contain his shock. Careful as the paranoid, black-flight male was, his words there carried a lot of meaning. The keeper stared at the still pond, its clear waters mirroring the brilliant auroras of the night sky. After a while he turned his antlered head back towards Hemathion’s face.
The dragon’s red eyes never completely closed - at most becoming mere slits, splashes of bright color against the inky sky, but never at rest completely. Antelarion idly wondered how much of it was for show, and what the black flight male hoped to gain. When he thought about the warmth of the dragon’s belly along his back, though, he realized that… a part of him just didn’t care. With Hemathion, even if it was only superficial, even if it was only some convoluted, black-flight scheme a decade in the making… for the moment it offered respite from the burdens of the world.
In many ways, that was all he could really ask for from anyone.
Glancing at the dragon’s narrow slits, Antelarion pulled at the Dream and entered his own form of distant wakefulness, his body relaxing into the curve of the black dragon’s chest even while his thoughts sailed down the verdant paths that lead for the Emerald Dream. While he had no sappy desire to ‘stay like this forever,’ or even any great urge to hear what the dragon was thinking… he had to admit that, of potential mates, he really would have chosen Hemathion over so many others.
Antelarion frowned, rueing the implications of that thought, then turned contemplative as his mind stepped into the rich, emerald-green forests of the Dream.
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Notes:
Lore notes!
Black dragonflight naming conventions stand that males end with "-ion" sounds while females end with "-ia" sounds.
Hemathion is a black dragon rare spawn in Blade's Edge mountain and his name is based off of hematite.
Diopsidia, Schorlia and Ooiliteon are also dark black gemstones.
Moraineon and Silteon are earth strata.
The sky of Outlands looks different in different areas because it's actually the Twisting Nether it shows, not space!
Grulloc is one of Gruul's sons. You have to retrieve a dragon skull he keeps as a trophy on his fireplace.
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A Pact of Earth and Life