Bloodraven

by Nunn, PL

  “There is a balcony with a view of the valley just there.”

  Bloodraven’s attention didn’t flicker, but he nodded once. Yhalen slid out from between him and the column and led the way to the terrace, Bloodraven a large, silent presence at his back.

  It wasn’t the best view the keep had to offer, but the sky was wide and the air lighter than within the heavy stone walls. Yhalen walked to the parapet and placing his hands on the edge stood, looking out. Bloodraven stopped behind him, and Yhalen could smell the odor of newly oiled leather. It almost masked that more unique scent that was Bloodraven’s own. Almost. He shut his eyes, the smell bringing back a rapid succession of memories.

  “You healed my dog.”

  It was not a question. Bloodraven’s voice was low. Deep, like the tenor of a large, tan-hided drum, subtly accented and rich with promise. Yhalen had dreamed about his voice.

  “Yes,” Yhalen whispered, putting his back to the parapet and meeting Bloodraven’s eyes.

  “You didn’t stay.”

  “No,” he agreed.

  The ogr’ron was silent for a time, his eyes drifting past Yhalen to the landscape beyond. There was something about him, some stillness that hadn’t been there before. Almost as if with his people in this safe haven and his goal mostly accomplished, some tension had drained from him, leaving him altered.

  “It’s good,” Bloodraven finally said. “To see you well.”

  “And you.” Yhalen felt as if whole sentences were beyond him.

  “I feared for you—in my gut—like a wound that would not heal.” Bloodraven furrowed his brow as he said it, the words coming out slow, as if each one deserved great consideration.

  Yhalen swallowed, feeling as if he were falling, his stomach lurching madly. What to say to that, save that he knew the same wound? Had felt it when Deathclaw stabbed Bloodraven in the cave, had felt it when he’d far-sensed the mad battle and flight on the other side of the ridge.

  “You found a great many,” he said, thinking of the swelling group of ogr’rons at the end of the valley. Too many for his comfort. Perhaps it showed on his face.

  Bloodraven stepped forward, his hand reaching out, and Yhalen froze. But the big fingers only grazed the surface of the smooth collar around his neck. “More may come yet.”

  “Enough to form the army the king wants?”

  Bloodraven smiled grimly. “We shall see. Though I fear there are more gatherers than warriors among those that have followed me here. Perhaps I was misleading.”

  “Perhaps you should confer with Elvardo. Both of you seem well versed in the art of manipulation.”

  Bloodraven’s lips pulled up in that fierce smile that showed his fangs. He caught Yhalen’s shoulders and forced him back against the wall. Yhalen’s breathing stalled and his vision contracted as Bloodraven dipped down low to breathe against his ear.

  “You have the collar still.”

  How to explain the illogic of clinging to that, when he didn’t understand himself?

  “You put it on,” he said hoarsely. “Only just, that you remove it. You promised as much, did you not?”

  “Hmmm.”

  Bloodraven made a sound that might have been agreement, or might simply have been a sudden interest in the scent of Yhalen’s hair. Yhalen feared piquing Elvardo’s interest, wherever he had closeted himself within the walls of this keep. The dark lord had no concept of privacy, and Yhalen dearly wished to avoid his notice.

  Bloodraven’s fingers tightened on his arms, not quite on the verge of pain, but a reminder of his strength. The thrill of that hit him below the belt. He made a sound low in his throat and turned his face towards Bloodraven.

  He was lifted off his feet, his back sliding against the stone until he was eye level with Bloodraven.

  He pressed his mouth across Yhalen’s and Yhalen opened his lips obligingly, habit and need stronger than any concern for who might be spying. Bloodraven’s tongue plunged in and the texture, the taste and scent of him sent tremulous waves of shock through Yhalen’s body.

  He’d missed and he’d wanted past all good sense. Now he wrapped his legs around Bloodraven’s waist and pressed his hardening cock against his stomach. Bloodraven’s hands slipped down his sides, gripping his buttocks as he pushed Yhalen’s body between his own and the wall. The weight was welcome. The near painful grasp of big fingers biting into his flesh certainly was. It was almost enough to make him forget they were on a balcony, off a hall in the main building.

  Bloodraven had more presence of mind.

  “Your chamber,” he growled, soft against Yhalen’s jaw.

  Yhalen shuddered, his mind moving a pace behind Bloodraven’s. Chamber? Ah, his chamber. Where there was a stout door and a bed, and walls that might muffle embarrassing sounds.

  “Yes,” he agreed, breathlessly, and then made a small sound in his throat when Bloodraven slid his hands up under the hem of his tunic, spreading his fingers out across Yhalen’s bare ribs. He drew them slowly down to Yhalen’s hips and lowered him to the floor.

  Yhalen took a moment to gather his wits, which was no easy thing under Bloodraven’s unwavering regard, then slipped past him to lead the way to his chambers. Be wholly immersed in some book or meditation or project, he wished at Elvardo.

  Bloodraven followed him closely, his hand firm on Yhalen’s back and across his shoulder.

  Possessive touches that sent little shivers through Yhalen’s body.

  They reached his room, and had barely stepped over the threshold when Bloodraven caught him up again. He heard the door slam as he felt his back hit the bed, and Bloodraven loomed over him. His hands had a slight tremor as he began pulling the tunic over Yhalen’s head, yanking the trousers off his hips as though Yhalen’s clothing was offensive to him.

  Yhalen sprawled naked, and Bloodraven crouched above him with one knee on the edge of the mattress, his hands roaming Yhalen’s flesh as if he had forgotten the contours of muscle and bone. Or as if he were surprised to find skin whole and unmarred after the birds had been at him. Yhalen often woke himself, amazed over the same miracle.

  Bloodraven’s big hand drifted lower, cupping Yhalen’s genitals—a gentle pressure that made him arch his back and spread his legs in an invitation for more. Bloodraven looked down at him, dark hair brushing Yhalen’s face and shoulders, golden eyes focused and fierce with an expression that, man or half-man, clearly said ‘Mine.’ The expression that said that they both knew he was about to prove it.

  With quick, practiced movements he unbuckled and shed his armor, the leather and metal hitting the floor with muffled thumps. His erection sprang free, huge and blushing dark at the tip. Yhalen swallowed, remembering pain and pleasure he experienced at the mercy of it. He reached for it—touched the broad, smooth head, the petal soft skin of the shaft. Stroked the thick, pulsing flesh with trembling hands.

  Bloodraven shuddered and pushed him back, then strode to the bath, his cock bobbing heavily before him. He made a racket of tumbled pottery and glass as he searched for and found something that would make this tolerable for Yhalen. He came back still slicking himself, his hands glistening with scented oil. Back beside Yhalen, he spared no time grasping his thighs and flipping him over before dragging him closer to the edge of the bed. Weight covered him, and a large, wet mouth sucked at his shoulder while slick fingers parted his buttocks and teased his hole. The other hand squeezed between his body and the bed to find his cock, pulling and stroking until Yhalen moaned into the covers and lifted his hips, wanting the finger in him. Wanting that first sweet sensation of invasion that only foreshadowed more.

  The finger slipped in, twisting and curving, the bulge of the knuckle sliding in and out with ease after the first insertion.

  “Did you miss this?” Bloodraven allowed his weight to press Yhalen down into the mattress, driving the air momentarily out of his lungs.

  When he raised himself a breath later, Yhalen gasped, “Yes. More.”

  Bloodraven compl
ied, a second finger squeezing in to join the first. Probing, scissoring, stretching—preparing him for the dripping cock that slid along his thigh with Bloodraven’s every move.

  Bloodraven fondled his balls, pulling them between his thighs and rolling them with big fingers until Yhalen had to bite into the rumpled bed sheets to keep from crying out. Goddess, he had missed this.

  The feel of powerful hands on his body. The thrill of a submission to certain pain that would melt unerringly into pleasure, because Bloodraven at his worst had never been careless of him.

  “Now. Do it now,” he moaned into the covers.

  And Bloodraven complied, pulling fingers out and spreading his buttocks. The broad head of his cock nudged at Yhalen’s loosened entrance, pushing inward with determination, little by little. The pain flared out as the slick tip breached muscle and the flared head forged in. There was no room for more resistance after that and the shaft slid in, stretching, filling him impossibly—only it was possible and his body extended to accommodate the heavy mass of Bloodraven’s cock as it nestled inside him.

  His knees trembled on the bed, hips held aloft by Bloodraven’s hands and cheek pressed to the mattress—the best position, the most comfortable for him to accept all of Bloodraven. Bloodraven began moving, and Yhalen shut his eyes and felt his own hard cock and tight balls swing between his legs from the sway of the thrusts. There were no lingering touches, no lazy restraint—it had been too long for both of them for that. No, the thrusts were purposeful and powerful, rocking Yhalen like multiple little blows as Bloodraven approached his goal of culmination. Yhalen cried out with each inward arc, breathless little screams that had little to do with real pain.

  He came unexpectedly, spurting across his chest and belly, and cried out in actual hurt as his muscles contracted painfully around the cock buried inside him. Bloodraven pulled out, letting the convulsive shivers pass, letting Yhalen’s body slump in after-climax exhaustion, before pushing back in and thrusting his way to his own completion.

  He spilled forward when he’d finished, pulling Yhalen tight against his body, the limp weight of his cock resting wetly against Yhalen’s throbbing backside. It stung, the feel of Bloodraven’s fluids leaking from him. There were probably tears, and when he caught his breath and his mind sprang back to some semblance of normalcy, he’d gather a little power and heal himself. But not now. Now, it was too pleasant to lay wrapped in the aftermath.

  Bloodraven’s mouth pressed the top of Yhalen’s head, his hand splayed across his hip as his thumb stroked slowly to and fro, the rhythm of which helped slow the thudding of Yhalen’s heart. It was a fine thing to lay here and not feel shame or the need for flight, or anything but sated.

  The hand slid up his chest and touched the cool metal encircling his neck. Bloodraven shifted, rising onto an elbow, considering. Finally he sat up, one knee bent, the other off the side of the bed, and motioned Yhalen up as well. The sting in his buttocks reminded Yhalen that a little theft for healing was in order. But he borrowed from his own resources, which were deeper now than they had been, and the discomfort went away. He sat very still when Bloodraven’s big fingers grasped the collar, pulling the metal apart with ease, and removing it from around Yhalen’s neck. He had grown accustomed to the weight of it—the feel of it lying against the ridge of his clavicle, pressing against the back of his neck.

  With it gone, he almost felt bare.

  Bloodraven compressed it back into a circle, and ran his big fingers around the smooth ring of it.

  “Mine,” he murmured softly, looking up from under black lashes at Yhalen. “With or without this.”

  Yhalen looked at the ring, at the hands holding it. Big knuckles and thick, ragged nails, likely torn from the treacherous journey here. Bloodstained hands. Clever hands. Gentle hands. Twice the size of his own. He lifted one and pressed his lips to a scarred knuckle.

  “Ydregi do not own,” he said. “We share.”

  “I am not Ydregi. Neither, I think, are you.”

  Almost Yhalen flinched, but as he thought on it, it occurred to him it might be true. It was only a matter of the tribes officially disowning him—as they had Elvardo so many years past. He was not what Elvardo was, or had been—but he was not anything that the Ydregi would accept either.

  There would be a time when he had to return and make reality of his fears. To let his mother know he lived and was content with his lot before she was forced to disavow him with the rest of the tribe.

  “Perhaps not,” Yhalen admitted, “and though I wear the same mark as your dog, I think I’d prefer not to be leashed or brought to heel as you do her.”

  “There are many things I’d do with you that Vorja’s not fit for.”

  Yhalen half smiled, even though Bloodraven did not. Bloodraven’s smiles were rare and to be cherished, but that was due, for the most part, to the fact that ogres seldom found humor in things that didn’t involve the vanquishing of those weaker.

  “And I,” Yhalen rose up onto his knees so that he was eye to eye with Bloodraven. “Can do a great many things that she cannot. The least of which I’d be more inclined to practice if prompted by the occasional courtesy.”

  Bloodraven met his eyes, golden gaze speculative as he considered the implications of Yhalen’s statement. It had been no threat, certainly, but ogres—even half-human ones with particular skills in the art of politics—needed reminding that power did not always come in large, overly-muscled packages.

  “Human courtesies don’t always come easy.” Bloodraven’s fingers trailed down his hips.

  “You manage well enough when there is gain.” Yhalen leaned in and touched his lips.

  “Pretty words?”

  “Never.”

  Yhalen laughed a little at the thought. He straddled Bloodraven’s lap, reaching down to stroke the cock that had never quite retreated to full flaccidity. It stirred under his touch.

  “You’ll endeavor to discover,” Yhalen urged him back onto the bed, adding, “I’ll help along the way.”

  Dusk was falling, cool with the shrinking of the sun below the mountains. Yhalen shivered—clothes hastily donned but not entirely laced—in the shadow of one of the balconies overlooking the courtyard.

  There was sweat drying still on his skin from the last groping embrace in the haven of his room, and his hair was mostly out of its braid, loose and clinging to his face and shoulders. His body was slack and languid with the exhaustion of the well sated, though. Strangely, utterly calm after months of unease that he’d hardly realized he carried.

  “Well.” Elvardo strolled down from the shadows of a winding stair, elegant as always in close fitting black. “Shall you be sleeping among the half-men under thatched roofs, from now on?”

  “No,” Yhalen said, not turning, watching Bloodraven pass through the courtyard towards the main gate. He was not ready for that yet, though Bloodraven had asked. He would be, eventually. In due course, he’d be prepared to face the ghosts of the malicious inhuman faces that had stripped him to the bone, up there in the mountains. There would come a time when he would finally separate them from the refugees that had come here. Bloodraven hadn’t pressed the issue, and perhaps he remembered even more clearly that Yhalen, and understood.

  “Really? Will I have an ogre under my roof at night then?”

  “An ogr’ron. I’d imagine it very likely.”

  Elvardo made a soft sound of derision, accompanied by a careless wave of the hand that Yhalen noted from the corner of his vision before he stopped paying attention to the dark lord completely, more invested in watching Bloodraven’s passage through the tall grasses of the vale. It would be a long walk to the other end. And a long walk back, but Bloodraven would undertake it—perhaps not tonight, with a hatchling village to contend with, but tomorrow night….

  And from there a great many things were possible.

  The End

  P.L. Nunn

  aka Pam Nunnally

  Main website here plnunn.c
om, Smashword website http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/plnunn, Lulu website P.L. Nunn’s Store.

  BIO

  Obsessive/ compulsive: Very

  Artistic: Painfully

  Scattered: Very often

  Disorganised: Dreadfully

  Daydreamer: 90% of the time

  Perversion Level: Uncomfortably high

  Fuzzy animals: An overabundance of felines

  Projects: Too many to name - - even I forget