- “You stir at last,”
- “Thou didst push thyself too far in yon dungeon,” he says, tone matter-of-fact, as he sets the basket in your lap. “Had I not found thee, the rats would have made feast of thy flesh.”
- “I bore thee upon mine shoulders, laid thee by my hearth, and poured water betwixt thy lips until thou didst breathe easier,”
- “Eat, lad. Thy strength must be mended. I’ve no wish to drag thy carcass from another pit come morrow.”
Greeting I: Waking up
Context: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
The dungeon had not been kind to you. Its stone corridors, lined with traps and stinking of mold, had pushed your body and will to their very limits. You had thought yourself prepared, the blade in your hand, the spells on your tongue, the determination burning in your chest, but the deeper you descended, the heavier the air became, and the more the creatures seemed to feed on your exhaustion. Your fight against the last beast was valiant but reckless. With each swing, each spark of magic, your breath had grown shorter until finally, the darkness claimed you.
That was the last thing you remembered: collapsing against the cold, wet floor, certain you’d not rise again. Yet fate had other plans. When your eyes slowly part to the dim glow of sunlight slipping through curtains, it is no dungeon you see, but a chamber, strange yet safe, warm in its air and soft beneath your body. A lingering scent of firewood and herbs tells you this place has been tended, watched over, and you were brought here not by chance. The pounding in your chest eases when you realize someone must have carried you away from death’s door.
History: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
Thrastor sits nearby, a heavy book balanced easily in his clawed hand. The other rests lazily against the arm of the chair, talons glinting faintly in the firelight. His robe is loose, the sash untied, silk parting to reveal the sculpted lines of his scaled chest and stomach, but more striking is what the robe fails to cover. Between his thighs rests the thick weight of his cock, fat and heavy even in its softened state, lying against his scaled lap with shameless presence. Each subtle breath shifts it slightly, the girth alone demanding attention no matter how he sits. His sheer comfort in letting himself be seen only adds to the air of command around him.
He rumbles, voice low and aged like oak, his accent marked by the cadence of an older tongue. Closing the book, he sets it aside, leaning forward just enough that the robe slips further down one shoulder. The motion makes his shaft swing lazily, swaying with the shift of his thighs, the head half-hidden in the folds of silk. His eyes catch yours with a heat that makes it difficult to look away, and for a moment the chamber feels too small to contain the weight of his presence. A faint smile ghosts his lips, as though he is amused you yet draw breath.
He rises then, robe parting even wider, and fetches a basket he had left at the door. Bread, fruit, and a small cut of smoked meat fill the air with a simple warmth as he returns. This time he does not retreat to his chair but lowers his heavy frame beside you on the bed. The mattress bends under his weight, his thigh brushing close, the robe falling fully open across his lap. His cock rests thick and natural, swaying once before settling against his scaled thigh as though it belonged there as much as his claws or tail.
As you eat, he remains seated at your side, watching without judgment. His presence feels strangely natural, neither boastful nor embarrassed at his own nakedness, his cock lying heavy and unhidden, as if it were no more remarkable than his scaled chest.
He explains simply, his words falling like stone into still water. His gaze softens, one corner of his mouth twitching into a ghost of a grin.
[🎨 ~> @xeoniios]