Shelter

Pairing: Iskandar Khayon/Lheorvine Ukris

Fluffy. I went back to updating Book of Siroca a bit, but since they're very small segments, I don't know if I should really post them here. Might compile them every 5 or so.

1,654 words

As one would expect of a Legionary of the Twelfth, Lheorvine’s retreat aboard the Vengeful Spirit was an austere one, a spartan den void of any unnecessary clutter. Lheor cared little for ostentatious displays or comfort; he kept no trophies and slept on a scattered pile of fluffbeast furs by his weapons. How he had never rolled onto the teeth of his chainaxe in restless sleep was a mystery to me.

Regardless, despite its simplicity - or perhaps because of it - I enjoyed staying in Lheor’s lair, especially in times I could not reliably protect myself from my enemies within the Legion. Lheor was a murderer, a killing machine oiled and fueled by the barbaric contraption at all times biting into his brain, but the more amiable quirks of his gene-seed always were strong with him; he gladly lent his hand to any violent effort, but his hearts were only satisfied when he was sought out for protection. I learned the secret truth of this when I first came to plead for shelter in our early crusading days; Abaddon, maddened by his visions of Drach’nyen, frequently treated me to mindless beatings and I had precious little power left to ward myself after spending it all on mending my wounds. I needed to rest, and I could not do so alone, not if I wanted to have any hope of waking up.

“Lheor,” I greeted my brother in his quarters; he seemed irritated to be out of action even for a minute, and was sharpening the teeth of his axe in a most menacing fashion. “Could I stay with you?”

“If you wish,” he said. He did not care to question me; he did not care for my reasoning.

I came to him, lay beside him on the soft pelts. With curious eyes, I watched the sparkling whetstone in his hand.

“Mind if I sleep?” I asked.

“No,” he said without giving me a single glance.

“Don’t leave.”

“I won’t.”

Armorless, clad only in a sheer underrobe, I curled up next to the World Eater and surrendered myself to oblivion. I knew no harm would come to me at his side, not without him giving his all to keep me from my hunters’ predations.

By the Eye’s rare mercy, I dreamt of nothing. Five hours passed in quaint peace; when I woke, Lheor was still with me, resting as I was, with a scarred arm wrapped around my petite waist. He was squeezing me gently, and I could not help but smile.

He had always been fond of me in ways he did not quite want to admit or understand. Though my sorcery inflamed his Nails, he felt overall better for my presence; it pleased him in forgotten, human ways to stare at my bouncing curls, to listen to my mellow voice, to stand between me and my challengers.

I wriggled tighter against him. He was big, bulky; not quite as tall as Ezekyle, but just as wide in the shoulders. It was pleasant, comforting.

“Lheor,” I pestered him, “Lheor.”

“Go back to sleep,” he murmured; he wasn’t quite tired enough for his exhaustion to overpower the biting Nails, but he allowed himself some quiet rest at my side, and was keen to return to it.

“Lheor,” I pressed on, “do you want to have your way with me?”

“I swear to the War God, wizard, be quiet or I will drop you in front of the door and leave you there.”

I would not be deterred. I rubbed against him and then wormed out of his arm to straddle his waist and sit on top of him.

He shot me a hostile look. His hands, it appeared, did not get the angry memo, and idly wandered up my bare thighs.

“See it as a trade,” I said and teased him with a stretch, “payment for shelter.”

“I am not so desperate nor degenerate to demand that of you,” he growled, “if you need nothing more of me, you are free to leave.”

“I don’t want to.”

In silence, I rocked against the hard muscles of his stomach for long minutes. He watched me with his brow furrowed in a disapproving frown, but the scattered thoughts bleeding from his mind sang a wholly different tune.

Pretty. Pretty.

Small. Small.

Want. Want.

After some deliberation, Lheor brought his hands to my hips and swerved me back down into the furs. I laughed, and then again when he rolled over to loom above me. With a claw, I cut the flimsy ribbon binding my robe and let the warrior feel the stiffness between my legs when he leaned against me.

“Do you not worry about the Nails?” he asked. I shook my head, and I pulled him down. That, as I discovered then, was his great weakness: affection exchanged in warm breaths, soft lips pressed against his own. Finally, his enthusiasm showed; he tugged my hips close, let me feel his weight in my groin. I let myself be a docile plaything for him; once I saw that he would not draw away, my hands fell to the furs to rest helplessly by my head. Lheor was pleased with the submissive display, and more with my clear enjoyment of the embrace; though largely atrophied, his gift of empathy let him feel a trace of my excitement.

“I only have machine oil here,” he said once he tired of my sloppy sentiments and aligned himself to grind the hardness hiding underneath his loincloth against my crotch. I huffed; my cheeks flushed red.

“Forget it. I like it when it hurts.”

Heeding my wish, Lheor tore away the cloth shrouding his privates and, without allowing me a second to savor the sight of his dripping girth, leaned into me. What little precome coated the tip of his cock eased him past my tight entrance; from there on, he pushed against chafing discomfort to hilt himself inside me.

I arched my back, opened my mouth for a silent moan. Lheor’s eyes scouted my tense body for subtle signs of genuine distress; when he found none, he dragged his hips back and then shoved himself inside me again with a loud smack.

“Adorable,” he slipped, charmed by the sight of me biting into my lip. I shot him a hungry look from underneath the dark fan of my long eyelashes, and he took it for an invitation to do with me as he pleased.

I’ve had gentler lovers, and I’ve had ones far more savage, but Lheorvine’s brutality or the lack of it turned out to be of no import. I did not want to have rough sex; I wanted to have rough sex with Lheorvine Ukris, who alone of my brothers desired me for reasons not entirely selfish and inherently abusive. I was beautiful to him, maddeningly so, though not a beautiful thing, but a beautiful man; he did not please himself with me as one would with a toy, but instead relished every sigh, every twitch, every throb, every reaction of mine to his ministrations. Finally, what drove him over the edge was not the sensation of me yielding to his advance, but my own moaning climax, the knowledge that he had satisfied the sweet little magician that so often came begging his help.

Stirred, the Nails biting into his brain shed scraps of hate-turned-passion; Lheor took my legs into his strong grip and pulled me against himself, and while I dripped laces of white onto my stomach, he plummeted into a release of his own. I had expected roars and screams, but none came; Lheor’s orgasm passed in muffled grunts, and I saw that he was holding himself back, either out of fear of the Nails or to avoid startling me with unhinged cries of delight.

“Again,” I panted while his warmth trickled out of me, “you need not be so careful with me, Lheor. I am not made of glass; I will not break so easily.”

“Why are you so keen to suffer?” he huffed, “does Ezekyle not put you through enough?”

“I am not. You do not wish me harm, not truly. I trust you in that.”

He said nothing, but I felt that my trust meant much to him. Following a quick nod, he slid out of me and turned me to kneel before him, my upper body pressed against the soiled pelts; in that prone position he took me again, vigorously, and for hours after, until duty called us away from our sweaty coupling.

Days later, my scent still faintly lingered on him. I knew not whether that was the way of the Machine Spirit within his armor or if he avoided the balneary solely to carry around a reminder of me; he would not have given me an answer even had I asked. We did not speak of it; the first to comment on the fact was an outsider, Telemachon Lyras, whose heightened senses alerted him to the reality of it in the long halls of the Vengeful Spirit. He was, of course, greatly amused by it.

“Sweet, spicy lemon verbena,” Telemachon noted after taking a whiff of the very, very annoyed Lheor, “I see you’ve finally treated yourself to a ride on the village bike, Firefist.”

Lheor’s fist flew before even the graceful, nimble Telemachon could register it, and the force of his impact shattered the blademaster’s silver mask. Blood spurted from Lyras’ twice-broken face, and I smiled at the trickling red. Partly because he deserved to suffer; partly because I saw then just how much restraint Lheor exercised when handling me and me alone.

Never, not until Mackan, had I succeeded in convincing him to fully drop his reservations in his dealings with me. While he bled out into the slaughtered world’s rivers, only then did he let down his guard and spilled to me the truth of his violent, love-struck hearts.