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Serahdriel shifts slightly, settling a groove into the pile of golden coins beneath his knees. His white robes cause him to stand out like a beacon in the pale moonlight, an ocean of gold and jewels shimmering all around him, hiding the grass and rocks from view on the mountain’s peak. He’s trembling, though there’s no fear in his heart. For twenty years he’s been groomed and molded into the perfect sacrifice. His sacred duty will ensure prosperity for his people and their village, cradled in the arms of the valley below the great mountain. Symbols of worship have been painted on his palms, chest, and the soles of his feet. His eyes are lined with kohl, his hair tied back in a long, tidy braid that reaches to the middle of his back.
His head is bowed, and his eyes lowered. There is very little known to him of what’s to come, and though he’d trust the priests their secrets, he knows that they knew nearly as little as he. Only that he would not be returning. And that he had to leave alone. With the paint dried on his skin, and the carefully embroidered robe fastened over his bare frame, he’d set off up the mountain. No provisions. No map. Nothing but the constant faith in his heart to lead him to his great deity, Aznahar.
He trembles slightly more now as the wind picks up, tickling a few coins and trinkets and shifting them in soft scrapes over their brothers and sisters. He knows instinctively that his deity is near. The cuts on his bare feet do not hurt, and the cold of the coins against his knees does not sting. The mountain trembles, the hoard shifting now like a thousand insects scuttling as Serahdriel’s heart soars. It takes all his considerable will to keep his head lowered, his gaze averted, as the mountain shakes with a sound like thunder and his god approaches before him.
There is absolute stillness for a long moment, and Serahdriel feels that his heart may burst. He aches to look upon his god. They see Aznahar from the valley sometimes, his great reptilian body blotting out the moon when his massive wings stretch out. He remembers the awe and trembling it inspired in him, the eagerness to run up the mountain to offer himself before his time, but duty and devotion kept him still then. And it’s keeping him still now, though he can feel the dragon god’s warm breath on his skin and hear and feel the soft rumble vibrating through his skeleton.
“Look at me, little sacrifice.”
The voice makes Serahdriel quiver, his heart leaping to his throat. It’s like the rumble of a quake, like a sound felt more than heard. He eagerly lifts his eyes, and feels his breath catch in his throat. His deity is beautiful beyond words. Big like a mountain and black like the night, with scales that glitter like sapphire stars. All those nights, seeing the great god from below, he looks as much like a silhouette here as he did against the moon. Like an absence, and yet he feels like everything. Like Serahdriel is looking at the new moon itself, or the night sky come to life.
The dragon god regards him with two large, gold reptilian eyes. Once, when Serahdriel was just a boy, he looked out of the window of his tower and beheld an eclipse. The priests, who worship the sky, were singing a hymn, and Serahdriel was allowed to join them. In his heart, his song belonged to Aznahar alone. Now, looking up at those glowing eyes with their sliver of darkness, Serahdriel knows it was true.
“Great Deity…” he says, his voice feeling thin as a spring breeze. He can’t tear his gaze away. He wonders if the dragon god will eat him. He imagines that towering head lowering down, swallowing him whole into that great expanse of night sky. He feels no fear.
Aznahar huffs softly, causing Serahdriel’s hair and robe to billow slightly. The god draws himself up to his full height, and Serahdriel knows that were he not already kneeling, he’d have fallen to his knees at the sight. The god wraps his great wings around himself and then begins to shrink. His wings fold in around him, like a large tent around a shrinking tent pole. Serahdriel watches wide eyed as the wings and scales and mountainous body fold neatly down, until a man-like creature stands before him. There’s no doubt in his mind that the humanoid and the dragon are one in the same. The same gold rimmed eyes look down at Serahdriel from a strikingly handsome face. Even like this, the god still towers over him. Serahdriel would have to stand on his own shoulders to meet him at eye height.
The god, in his new man-like form, is stark naked. Serahdriel has a fleeting thought of looking away out of respect, but he couldn’t bear to tear his gaze from Aznahar. His proportions differ from those of a mortal man. His torso is longer, his body more angular and defined. His cheekbones are so prominent that he’d seem starved, if there was any hint of weakness about him. But instead a raw, undeniable power radiates from the god. His skin maintains its blackness with those sapphire glints, his back and the tops of his arms scaled, but his belly and the undersides of his legs and arms as smooth as flesh.
“You’re beautiful, great deity…” Serahdriel murmurs, his jaw slack and eyes wide. The words are inadequate, but he can’t help but speak them. Letting such beauty go unacknowledged would be unthinkable.
Aznahar’s thin lips curve into a devastating grin, a rumble of satisfaction emanating from his throat. “What is your name, little lamb?”
Serahdriel shivers as the god’s voice scrapes against his skin. “Serahdriel, my lord. I am yours. Your sacrifice.” The words send a tingle of pleasure up his spine. His. It feels almost presumptuous, to say that he belongs to this magnificent being. And yet, it’s true. Even if the god did not want him, Serahdriel would remain his. He’d sooner be nothing than belong to anyone else.
Aznahar circles him slowly, bare feet nearly soundless on the golden trinkets that had shifted so noisily beneath Serahdriel’s trembling gait. Serahdriel can feel every point of contact burning where the god’s gaze travels over him.
“Rise,” Aznahar says, coming to a stop behind Serahdriel.
The young man stands, trembling from exhaustion, keeping his head lowered. He can feel Aznahar’s presence like he has his back to a blazing fire.
“Disrobe,” the god rumbles.
Serahdriel sucks his bottom lip between his teeth as he lets the robe fall away from his shoulders. He’s maintained himself as best he could for the god. Each scrape and bruise suffered on his way up the mountain had filled him with shame, worried that Aznahar would think him blemished. The symbols painted on his skin remain clear, however. He hopes they please the god.
The silence stretches out, and Serahdriel finds that his eyes are burning as tears threaten to form. Is he not what Aznahar expected? Perhaps the priests chose poorly in him, or he grew up to disappoint them. He’s about to open his mouth to beg forgiveness when strong, warm arms circle his waist.
He sucks in a breath, his eyelids fluttering. The god’s stomach is pressed to his back, warm like a fire, but not burning him. Those large, star-spangled hands settle on his hips. The feel of them is warm and firm, just how Serahdriel had always imagined the skin of a dragon would feel. He’s sure he can feel the texture of scales, though the skin of the god’s palms appears smooth. The god traces a path down from Serahdriel’s shoulders, touch gliding over his skin, until he reaches the blood on the back of Serahdriel’s hand where a thorn caught him up the mountain. Aznahar rubs the red stain off with his forefinger and lifts it up over Serahdriel’s head. Although he has his back to the god, Serahdriel can hear him sucking it clean. Perhaps he will be eaten after all, though Aznahar’s new form will certainly complicate the matter compared to the mountainous one from before.
The god’s hand reaches back down, settling on his jaw, and he finds his face tilted back. Aznahar is bending down low, bringing his sharp, angular face down to hover just above Serahdriel’s. The young man’s lips part automatically as the god claims his mouth.
Serahdriel has never kissed before, so the electricity that shoots through him makes him jolt and moan. It feels like Aznahar is breathing fire into his lungs, making his whole body feel floaty and light. The god’s long tongue slips into his mouth, and Serahdriel gasps into the kiss. When Aznahar finally pulls away, the god’s hands slide back down to his wrists, turning over his arm. Serahdriel stares in amazement. The scar is gone. He looks down at his shins, then lifts one leg and the next to see the soles of his feet. All healed.
He looks up at Aznahar with wide eyes. “Great one… thank you. Thank you! Y-you… I… I do not deserve such a gift.”
The tall god laughs, the sound vibrating against Serahdriel. “You are mine, little treasure. Look around you. Are any of my treasures tarnished?”
Serahdriel looks around at the piles and piles of glittering gold and gemstones, pearls and rubies, colourful glass tumbled into soft round shapes. Then he looks down at his now unmarred skin, whole and unbroken, a soft bronze in the moonlight.
“No, my lord,” he breathes, looking back up at his god. “I… I am unworthy of-”
The god places a long finger to his lips, silencing him. “You are mine, yes, little lamb?”
Serahdriel nods mutely, eyes wide and glittering with the reflected stars in Aznahar’s skin.
“Then you reflect on me, do you not? And insulting yourself is like insulting me, isn't it?”
Serahdriel’s eyes widen, shooting full of tears. He turns and drops to his knees between the god’s legs, head bowed low. “Forgive me, Great One! I didn’t- I didn’t mean- I would never dishonour you, I am y-yours to command, I-”
Aznahar laughs again, and Serahdriel looks up to see if his face is angry. It isn’t. He looks amused. “If that is so, then let us try again. What do you say to my gift?”
Serahdriel swallows hard, feeling like he’s looking up at a tall altar as he holds the god’s gaze. “Thank you, my lord. I… I d-deserve…” he swallows, gathering his courage. “I deserve this gift, because I am yours, and you are worthy of all the greatest things in this world.”
Aznahar purrs, kneeling down to stroke Serahdriel’s cheek. “Very good, little lamb. The priests chose well in you. You are a true devotee.”
Serahdriel nods, struck dumb at the sight of the great Aznahar kneeling to touch him.
The god’s large hand trails down from Serahdriel’s cheek to his chest, sending him backwards with a firm shove. Serahdriel lands with his back on the cool coins, though the god’s intent gaze on his exposed form warms his chest and belly from the inside. The young sacrifice has never been looked at before with such appraisal, though in his weaker moments he sometimes fantasised of the god gracing him with an appreciative look. Such thoughts would fill him with shame, to think a being as great as Aznahar could look upon him with any regard. Yet now he sees how wrong he was. His worth is abundant, because he belongs to the beautiful god before him.
Aznahar trails a large, warm hand over Serahdriel’s belly. “Have you ever been touched, little lamb?”
Serahdriel shivers, his cunt growing wet. “N-no, Great One. I… I’ve only touched myself. The priests did not want me sullied for you.”
Aznahar laughs, leaning over him. His size dwarfs the mortal as he leans down, breathing warm air onto the soft folds of Serahdriel’s sex. The sacrifice shudders.
“Your priests are small-minded, my treasure. No mortal is my match. Had you been pleasured by one or a thousand, none would ever satisfy you after me. None would even come close.”
His long, rough tongue drags up the seam of Serahdriel’s hip and thigh, and the mortal jerks most satisfyingly.
“It is almost a pity you will not grasp how superior I am, having nothing to compare it to.”
Serahdriel struggles to find his voice. “I… I would not want another.”
Aznahar laughs again at that. He braces himself above the mortal, pressing his face into that soft neck and inhaling deeply. “You amuse me, Serahdriel.”
Serahdriel whimpers, his name on the god’s tongue nearly making him weep. He’s leaking, his thighs quivering finely.
“Do you know what will happen when I take you?”
Serahdriel has a fair idea of the mechanics, but he wants to hear Aznahar speak it. He’d gladly build a shrine to that voice and spend all his days on his hands and knees worshipping at it.
“N-no, my lord.”
Aznahar nips very softly at the base of his neck, then his shoulder, and his collarbone. That dexterous tongue flicks up his throat, down his chest. He catches one of Serahdriel’s peaked nipples between his teeth, then swirls around it with his rough tongue. The mortal bucks, shifting the gold beneath him, his breathing ragged.
“It will rob you of all sense. When I enter you, there will be magic. It will melt your pretty mind, replacing all your thoughts with pleasure. You will be emptied of everything apart from me, forged into a shiny bauble of a body for my pleasure and amusement.”
Aznahar watches Serahdriel’s face as he speaks, and sees a bone-deep hunger in those pale brown eyes. He hears the mortal’s pulse kick, watches his pupils grow wide and round.
“Y-yes,” he breathes, and the scent of his desire increases. “Yes, Lord Aznahar. Please. Make me yours. I… I w-want to be your treasure.”
Aznahar feels the fire in his belly surge, his cock protruding from its bed of scales. Serahdriel’s eyes are fixed on it as it grows and grows, his lips slightly parted, mouth watering.
“Will…? Will it fit?” he breathes, eyes round as saucers.
Aznahar purrs. “Your body will make room.”
Serahdriel shivers. He’s seen cocks before, in artworks and in the bathing chambers at the temple. This one is the right shape, but it protrudes like a blade from the god’s lithe body, long enough that it would surely fill his belly up all the way. But it’s the girth that really concerns him, and makes his pulse stutter. It’s thicker than the god’s arm, like a tool meant to hollow him out. And perhaps it is. Aznahar said as much, didn’t he? That Serahdriel would be emptied of everything but him.
“Will it hurt?” he makes himself ask, his voice soft. He doesn’t want to upset his god, but so far Aznahar has been very upfront with him. The god takes a hold of both of Serahdriel’s thighs, his hands encircling them almost entirely, and spreads him open. “For a moment, yes. It will burn.”
His fingers dig into Serahdriel’s skin as he says it, kneading the tender flesh, holding firm. He begins to rub his cock up and down the mortal’s weeping cunt, pressing Serahdriel’s thighs together around it, creating a warm and wet pressure around his shaft. His deep, rumbling groan underscores Serahdriel’s sharp, keening cry.
“G-Great D… dah! D-Deity…!”
“Use my name, little lamb.”
He lowers his head to plunge his long tongue into the sweetness of Serahdriel’s cunt, fucking him with it.
“Aznahar!” Serahdriel shrieks, bucking madly, his head tossing back and forth against the piles of coins, sending a few clattering over one another. Aznahar grins, flicking his tongue rapidly against Serahdriel’s swollen clitoris, then latching on and sucking hard.
Serahdriel shrieks, and wonders fleetingly if the people of his village below will hear him and assume he’s being flayed or stabbed or eaten, then giggles a bit hysterically when he realises that he is being eaten, just a little bit, and then all his thoughts go scattering away like the jewels beneath his back as Aznahar pinches his clitoris between his wickedly sharp teeth.
Serahdriel is kicking and squirming and panting now like a wild thing. Aznahar reaches up and tugs the leather cord holding the mortal’s braid loose. He works his clawed fingers into the strands and combs through them until the young man’s dark brown locks are spread like silk around his head, standing out starkly against the gold he’s resting on. He admires his prize for a moment while Serahdriel shakily fights to catch his breath, then fists a hand into the hair near Serahdriel’s scalp and tugs him into a sitting position.
Serahdriel gasps, but doesn’t fight. His pupils are large and nearly swallowing the soft brown of his irises. His lips are swollen, hair falling down in waves over his shoulders. The gold and gems between his thighs are slick with his need, and he’s tremoring finely from his shoulders down to his toes. He looks gone already, although Aznahar hasn’t even unleashed any magic on him yet, beyond the magic of his touch. The sacrifice looks so exquisite, so conquered and so his, that he can’t help but jerk the boy’s head back, forcing him to arch his neck dramatically, and sink his teeth into the join of shoulder and throat.
Serahdriel makes a wrecked sound that lacks the breath to be a scream, his eye’s rolling back in his beautiful face. Aznahar fights the urge to take a chunk out of him. He unlatches, sucks, licks the wound clean. A starling bruise decorates the mortal’s skin, weeping blood, and his shaking is harsher now.
“Aznahar…” he slurs, his soft voice husky and wanton and worshipful: “Great… Nnn… Great Dei… dei-uhh…” his head lolls, his pretty lips parting and gone too slack to form the words.
Aznahar keeps him upright with one hand in the mortal’s hair and the other arm wrapped around his waist. He delves into Serahdriel’s mouth again, licking the seam of his lips, fucking his throat with his tongue. The sacrifice twitches as the god’s heat floods him again, and the wound on his shoulder knits shut.
“Deity,” he manages, gasping, bucking up against the god’s warm skin. “Want… Take me. Please.” He realises he’s weeping with need, and leaking with renewed force, an ache constant and throbbing between his legs. Aznahar drops his upper body, letting him thud softly back onto the treasure pile, then grabs a hold of his thighs and jerks him closer, lifting his hips off the ground as though he weighs no more than a sack of cloth. His thick, blunt cock is poised at Serahdriel’s entrance.
“Shh, little sacrifice. Serahdriel.”
Aznahar is shaking himself with the warm pulse of desire that seeing his devotee laid out before him in such a state has inflamed.
He enters with a harsh shove, holding Serahdriel’s hips tightly so he doesn’t simply push him further along up the treasure pile. The mortal screams as his passage is forced to give and he’s split open down the middle. He thrashes wildly, his legs gone stiff and jerking, face stretched into an expression of agony. Aznahar shoves in deeper, dragging the mortal closer, half of his inhuman size buried inside his devotee’s quaking flesh now.
Serahdriel’s choked, sobbing cry breaks into a series of short, breathy whines and mewls before his eyes go wide and unfocused, the soft, earthy brown flooding with honey-like gold. His slack mouth allows more weak, senseless sounds to escape his frozen chest. Another few centimetres, and the mortal drags in a shuddering breath.
Everything has gone so still and so focused. It feels like he’s become a cave, and every sensation is echoing through him. He’s floating, or sinking, sinking slowly and steeply and jerking to a halt, only for everything to dissolve into waves and waves of pleasure with no clear point of origin.
Aznahar sits back on his knees, dragging Serahdriel back with him. The mortal’s legs hang off either side of his hips, his arms dragging along above his head. He’s staring sightlessly up at the stars, his face slack of all thought. Aznahar takes him by the hips and drags him the final agonising centimetres onto his cock, bringing their flesh flush together. Serahdriel’s breaths are shallow and rhythmic, swooping out of him in constant increments, dragging back in passively. His hair runs like water over the trinkets beneath him.
Aznahar draws back slightly and thrusts forwards. Serahdriel jolts, fingers twitching, then settling back into a loose curl above his head. His eyelids flutter, but he remains staring blankly at the sky. He’s full to bursting, every inch of available space stretched out to cushion Aznahar’s large, warm cock inside of him. Another thrust knocks a soft, feeble grunt loose from his lax throat. His previously chilled skin has warmed, and he’s so wet that Aznahar is able to fuck him with almost no resistance.
The dragon god growls. He can feel his heat and magic sinking into the little mortal’s body, his own pleasure roaring like an inferno. Lifting Serahdriel by the hips, he stands upright to move them into his cave within the mountain. He keeps the boy impaled on his cock, letting him dangle for a moment. His back is arched, hands and hair hanging down towards the ground, his neck arched dramatically. With a growl of appreciation, Aznahar shifts his grip upwards to support the mortal’s lower back, the other cupping his supple backside. Serahdriel’s head lolls to the side on his graceful neck, his expression soft and yielding.
Aznahar carries him down into the cave, lighting torches with his breath as he goes. He can see perfectly well in the dark, but the firelight casts glittering reflections off the gold and jewels that cover the rocky floor. The main chamber is buried beneath a sea of treasure, and quartz crystals of varying size and colour grow from the walls and ceiling. As Aznahar lights flame after flame, the cave fills with dazzling lights, and the crystals on the dark cave ceiling sparkle like stars. The mortal’s blank eyes reflect the lights, his warm bronze skin alight with golden reflections, like he’s burning from within.
Aznahar lowers them both onto the treasure, admiring how beautifully his new trinket fits into the cave, how magnificent he looks on this bed of jewels. He thrusts violently, as if making up for the minute it took to manoeuvre his prize into his lair. Serahdriel shifts against the pile, eyelids flickering. When Aznahar releases his thighs, the mortal’s legs fall open like flower petals, the bud inside red and swollen.
The god begins to fuck in earnest then, knowing the mortal is entranced beyond awareness, immune to pain and to weariness. He slams into Serahdriel over and over again, practically burrowing him into the heap of treasure beneath him. The mortal stirs occasionally from his stupor to moan and keen and tremble, slender hands scabbling for purchase on the jewels and stones before falling slack, his golden eyes widening and rolling before unfocusing again.
Aznahar pinches the mortal’s swollen clitoris violently between thumb and forefinger, leaning over that limp body to bite and suck the boy’s brown nipples to peaks. He kneads the flesh of thighs and chest, raking his claws over the soft skin of Serahdriel’s ribs and thighs. He pounds into him relentlessly, inhuman stamina allowing him to piston in without tiring. His size makes the mortal’s soft belly bulge outward with each forward thrust.
The hours bleed into one another, and Serahdriel’s thighs begin to quiver uncontrollably, his cries and whimpers sometimes nearly resembling speech: “Ah-azz-ahz-nnn… Ah! Mmo…rr… D-d-d…” He writhes and bucks and weeps and clings, a puddle of want beneath his thighs, drool trailing down from his wet lips, and tears streaking over his cheeks to glint like jewels beneath his eyes, his head thrashing so much his hair tangles in the gold. The painted symbols on his skin have long since sweated off, leaving him entirely unadorned.
The sun is rising up above by the time his body gives out from overuse. The shaking muscles have relaxed into uselessness, his eyes unseeing, body sprawled like a fine piece of fabric over the stones. His skin is rendered gold with sweat and firelight, glittering spectacularly. His breathing has gone shallow and slow, nearly vanished. Each thrust rocks his slack form, his head lolling loosely.
Aznahar lifts him by his slick hips, stumbling to the cave wall, bracing his sacrifice against it and hammering into him with relentless force. Serahdriel’s upper body sways and jostles, his chin fallen down to his chest. Aznahar spares a hand to tangle in the mortal’s hair and wrench it back, keeping that exquisite face in sight. The force of his thrusts is enough now to keep the body from sliding down. Finally, the dragon god comes deep inside his new trinket. His sacrifice. His Serahdriel.
The spend flows and flows, filling the mortal vessel completely, forcing much of it to leak out between their bodies, squeezing past the near impassible seal of Aznahar’s cock. With the spend comes a rush of magic that floods Serahdriel to his core, reigniting his very essence. His eyes snap open, a cry of absolute pleasure tearing from his exhausted throat, and even as he screams his body is mending, all pain receding, any mark and scratch blending away as though he were merely a soft clay sculpture momentarily dented. He convulses as he spends for what must be the twentieth time in less than half the amount of hours.
His toes curl, and his hands clench into fists. Shuddering and panting, he slackens into Aznahar’s hold as the god gathers him close against his chest.
“My pretty one… Serahdriel…” the god purrs into his neck, clamping down on the flesh.
“Aznahar… yours…” the mortal slurs, using his brief moment of lucidity to renew his promise to his god before he slips again into the warm rush of pleasure his mind has become.
Aznahar lays his treasure down with the rest of the jewels. The mortal goes where he’s taken, and stays where he’s put, a pretty prize with golden eyes and no command over his own glowing form. The dragon god drapes strings of gold and gems around his throat, and belts of pearl and emerald around his waist. He slips diamond rings and golden bands onto each delicate finger, and hangs sapphires from his ears. He braids the long dark hair tenderly, working jewels and gems into the strands. The spend and sweat that clings to his treasure’s skin makes him glow in the firelight, and his staring golden eyes reflect the false stars above.
Aznahar often leaves the cave during the day, knowing his hoard will still be there when he returns, that his treasures will soon dazzle again in the firelight.
Whenever the mortal’s body begins to fail from hunger or thirst, Aznahar simply fucks him again, restoring him to perfection. If the spend dries on his skin, or dust from the cave walls collects on his limbs, he cleans him with his large tongue in dragon form, or carries him to the river outside in his humanoid form to wash him tenderly.
The village below prospers, and the villagers sing to Aznahar on festival nights, but no one dares disturb him. Decades pass, but Aznahar and his treasured sacrifice remain unchanged, with the stars in the dragon god’s dark scales glittering eternally in the unseeing gaze of his devotee as he fucks him constantly and with abandon.