Work Text:
A sigh escaped the Pale King as he slumped over his desk. His head felt heavy with weariness and his back ached with a dull pain. These were looming reminders of how long he’d been sitting there, slaving over his work. He couldn’t exactly place how long ago that he started working. Had it been hours? Days?
He turned to glance over at the deconstructed Wingmould lying on the table beside him. He couldn’t remember how many times he had rebuilt them. He would put them together, find a flaw in their design, tear them apart, and then assemble them again. His Root often chastised him for his perfectionism, even saying that she believed many of the flaws he saw were imagined. He didn’t take many of her concerns to heart.
His shoulders sagged as his thoughts wandered off to those about his Root. How she would admonish if she were to see him now, sitting there at his workbench for an unknown amount of hours. She would take him and cradle him in her roots, scolding him when she learned the only thing he’d eaten or drank that day had been several mugs full of black coffee. He felt a chill come over him and wrapped all four of his arms around himself. He would give anything to see her, even if that meant she would be separating him from his work.
As she did every spring, his Root had gone out to visit her Gardens. She would root herself to the ground for the first week of the new season, releasing her pollen throughout the kingdom of Hallownest. She was not alone, of course. Dryya, her knight, accompanied her each spring.
The King’s thoughts shifted over to that of Dryya. His Queen’s knight was certainly an enigma. She was strong, fierce, and skilled with a nail. Though he and Dryya didn’t exactly get along, the two of them were surprisingly similar in demeanour. Cold, quiet, calculated, work-oriented; these were traits that the two of them shared. Their most striking similarity, however, was their respective affections for the Queen. Despite being one of his Five Great Knights, Dryya made it clear that her priorities were centered around his Root.
It was natural for Higher Beings to take multiple partners, and his Lady was no different. She had many different partners and what she called “dalliances,” though most of them were brief and fleeting. Her and Dryya’s arrangement was the only relationship of hers that remained consistent. When the King could not find the time to warm his Root’s bed, Dryya would be there for her. To know that someone would be there to care for her needs when he wasn’t able to, it was comforting.
The King himself had never been one to stray from his Lady. His wife pushed and prodded him often, insisting that he take on another. She had encouraged him with the promise that it would be fruitful, but he had never really taken her suggestions seriously. He was often too busy to spend time by her side and could not imagine what it would be like to have to allocate himself to an extra partner (or Gods forbid, partners ). Yet, on nights like this, he found that he regretted his decision.
The loneliness that hung over him was almost as musty and stifling as the air in the workshop. He shook his head, deciding not to dwell on such trivial things any longer. Moving the Wingmould to the center of the desk in front of him, he let himself fall back into the rhythm of his work.
. . .
Grimm slinked through the hallowed halls of the White Palace, taking in the illustrious decor around him. Every surface was polished and pristine, the beauty of it all punctuated with the natural vines that hung from the ceiling here and there. Though he didn’t visit the King and Queen of Hallownest as much as he would have liked to, he knew very well that their home always looked spotless. Sometimes he wondered how they managed to keep it that way, considering the impressive size of the place.
He’d been walking around for what must have been almost half an hour, looking for the King and Queen. Occasionally, when his Troupe would settle near or in Hallownest, he would find it imperative to visit them. The White Lady was always a treat. She managed to be both gentle and enthusiastic at the same time. She would fuss about his cloak, smoothing it out over his shoulders and complimenting its beauty. His real enchantment with her came when she would return his flirtations. Despite what many bugs would think just by looking at her, she was neither soft-spoken nor subtle when responding to his advances. The two had never really had a chance to engage with one another, but he certainly hoped to remedy that sometime.
The Pale King was another story entirely. Grimm’s relationship with him had always been rocky. He could remember a time long ago when the King was but a simple Wyrm. Powerful, strong; he would move mountains and level cities. After the King had first made the decision to change forms in his conquest of the kingdom now known as Hallownest, he and Grimm had been smitten with one another. The two had shared endless nights at one another’s sides. Grimm had been taken by him in a way that he had seldom experienced with any other God or bug. He dreamed about those nights often.
As it was in the present, things had changed. The King had turned his attention to his kingdom and his Lady, burying himself in work that Grimm found to be tiresome. When he visited, the King was distant, quiet. Grimm revelled in getting on his nerves. Dropping in unannounced (as he was doing that very evening), poking and prodding at his insecurities, laying the sugar on thick–these were all things he just couldn’t resist doing. Even though his intentional torment just seemed to make the King drift further and further away, it was worth it. At least when Grimm picked at him, he would have a reaction to his presence. Otherwise, he was ignored, shoved to the wayside.
Grimm paused in one of the long hallways, taking a moment to breathe deeply and calm himself down. He knew that he was acting irrational, getting so worked up about this. Feelings that he didn’t quite have the courage to sort through swirled around inside of him. He shook them away and started walking again, deciding to focus on the mission ahead. He needed to find the King and Queen without being seen and chased out by one of the patrolling Kingsmoulds.
The palace was maze-like. It was impossibly large in size and Grimm always seemed to get turned around within it. He had already been to the throne room, dining room, and had even knocked on the door to the royal chambers.
Just as he was wondering if the King and Queen were out for the evening, he turned down a random hallway and stopped in his tracks. This hallway was different from many of the others. The pristine, white tone of the rest of the White Palace was absent. The walls and floors seemed darker, dimmer in shine. It was like the very material had been washed out and soiled. The hallway was bare, aside from a doorway that lay at the end of it. He had never seen this part of the palace before. It was unsettling.
The entrance to the strange new room appeared pitch black from where he was standing and, to his dismay, he noticed that the darkness of the floors and walls was more pronounced near the opening. It appeared as if something from the room was creeping forth, tainting the purity of the palace. He gulped. This room was the only one he hadn’t yet checked, meaning that the King and Queen were most likely inside.
He wasn’t the type to get cold feet over such small things, so he headed down the hallway and slipped into the blackness of the room.
When he went inside, he was greeted with a darkness he’d been expecting. What he hadn’t been prepared for, however, was the state that the room was in. The floor was littered with the metallic, silver parts used to create the King’s famed Kingsmoulds and Wingmoulds. The shelves were not much more organized than the floors. Jars of what Grimm assumed to be ink covered every shelf. Parts were interspersed between the containers and Grimm noticed one jar that had fallen on its side and was dangerously close to rolling off and onto the floor. The room was dim, despite there being several sources of light within. The Lumafly lanterns that hung from the ceiling were accompanied by the empty, hollow shells of Wingmoulds strung up around the room.
In the center of the room sat the King, hunched over his desk and working intently. As Grimm inched closer, he could see that the Wyrm was tearing the wings off of a Wingmould. The black, inky substance present in the jars leaked from the cracks of the King’s creation, staining the table beneath it. Upon closer inspection, Grimm noticed that the white chitin of his hands had also been stained. The King used his lower set of hands to work as he tore the creature–or rather, the invention–apart, piece by piece.
As Grimm watched, he felt an unease creeping up his spine. The more he stared at it, the more he began to realize that the black liquid inside all those jars was not mere ink.
The King, with his back to his visitor and his nose buried in his work, had not noticed Grimm. The Troupe Master swallowed the rising anxiety he felt and leaned up against the other small table behind the King, deciding to act nonchalant about everything.
“Gods, have you ever bothered to dust in here?”
The King jerked and whirled around so fast that one of his arms bumped a jar full of the black, inky liquid off of the table. It shattered upon impact with the hard floor, pooling at the spot it had broken. The King stared at the mess for a few seconds, bringing his hand to his chest. When he calmed down after the initial fright, his surprise took a turn into instant irritation.
Looking up from the puddle, he glared daggers at the intruder opposite him. “Have you ever bothered to ask before barging into people’s homes uninvited?” His tone was dry and apathetic, but the vexation present within his eyes was enough to betray his displeasure.
Grimm smirked, easing himself up onto the desk he’d been resting his weight on. He sprawled himself out over it, knocking a few spare parts onto the floor. Putting his wrist to his forehead and leaning back dramatically, he let out a long sigh. “Well, asking permission would really put a damper on my charming spontaneity. Besides, it’s a lot more fun this way, isn’t it?”
The King’s eye twitched and he put a hand to his forehead, slumping down in his seat. “Don’t you have anywhere else to be this evening?”
Grimm shook his head and, much to the King’s chagrin, he answered with, “I’m afraid not, your Majesty.” He slipped off the table and approached the Wyrm at his workbench. He glanced over his shoulder at the deconstructed Wingmould lying on the table. “Say, what were you working on?”
The King turned back to look at his desk, pointedly not making eye contact with the other God. “I am reconstructing my servants,” he explained. “I found that I could improve upon their flight. They’ll be able to hover in place without drifting to the side.”
Grimm listened but didn’t find his words to be of note. From the sounds of it, the King was merely focusing on irrelevant details, but he did not voice these thoughts. Instead, he found his curiosity wandering elsewhere. “And these jars?” he inquired.
“They contain Void from the sea down below,” the Pale King murmured, glancing down at the pool of it on the floor beside him. “When combined with Soul, I can use it in my creations.”
So that’s what it was–Void. Grimm knew little of the Void that slept beneath the Ancient Basin of Hallownest. He had heard a few things about it, but not anything with enough substance to be useful in adding to the conversation. “Is the Lady Root around?” he asked. He had already searched for her around the palace, but still held onto some hope that he could have just missed her.
“She’s off in her Gardens with knight Dryya to prepare for the coming spring,” he said.
Grimm could see the way he stared longingly into the puddle of Void on the floor, thinking of her. “A real shame, visiting with her would have been lovely,” the Troupe Master replied, echoing the King’s sentiment.
“Now, will you excuse me? I have work to attend to,” the King sighed, turning his attention back to the desk in front of him.
Grimm rolled his eyes and shifted over to the side. He climbed back up to sit on the table; this time, he sat on the edge of the King’s workstation. The silence between the two grew as Grimm watched him work.
The Pale King was skilled with his hands–Grimm certainly remembered that fact from their time together. He worked quietly and efficiently, putting the Wingmould back together now. All of his movements were controlled and precise, sometimes moving the device in the most subtle of ways. It was almost fascinating how gracefully he managed to reassemble his creation, especially considering how he had been ripping the device apart only minutes prior. When the machine was finally pieced entirely back together, Grimm could see no difference between it and the empty shells of the other Wingmoulds scattered about the floor.
Apparently, the King had noticed the scrutiny within his scarlet gaze because he inclined his head to scowl at him. “If you’re just going to sit there and pass judgement, I see no reason why you’re sticking around.”
“And I see no reason why you’re forcing yourself to do such menial labour, Wyrm. Why don’t you just have your servants do this?” he snorted.
“Void is a dangerous substance,” the King replied wryly.
“Yet you decide to use it in your work?”
“My Retainers aren’t equipped to deal with its effects. My Kingsmoulds are not as detail-oriented as I am.”
“Pfft, and you think you’re equipped to handle its effects?”
“Silence, Troupe Master.”
“I mean, just look at what’s happened to your hands–.”
“ Silence .” The King’s normally soft speaking voice had taken on a dangerous quality. Though he hadn’t spoken any louder, it felt as if the word echoed through Grimm’s skull, resonating in his very being. Grimm couldn’t help but let a snarky grin break out upon this face. He relished in moments like these, when the Wyrm dropped the act and returned to his base instincts. It reminded him of the beast that the King had once been. The memory was distant, but still present nonetheless.
“Though I can admire your dedication to your craft, I still believe it would be wise to walk away from your desk for the night,” Grimm chided him. “You must learn to care for yourself more often.”
The King reached up to gently massage his temples. As much as he initially wanted to chase the other off and return to his projects, he knew very well that Grimm was right, as much as he despised admitting it. He could almost hear his Root saying the same thing; he pictured her dragging him away from his workstation and bringing him to bed for the night.
“If I retire for the evening, will you return to your Troupe?” he sighed, carefully slipping down off of his stool.
Grimm purred, slinking off of his own spot upon the table. “If you so desire, I will leave you,” he said.
The King nodded to him and carefully scooped up his empty coffee mug from the table. When he turned to leave, Grimm found himself unsatisfied. He had walked all this way, spent his precious time searching the palace in pursuit of a visit. Leaving like this would be such a waste, pointless really. He didn’t want their visit to end so early, leaving off on an anticlimactic note.
“How long will your Root be out for?” he asked, unable to just let him walk away.
The King pondered that for a few moments. He replied without turning around to look at him. “She and Dryya will return in seven days.”
“I see,” his lips curled up into one of his signature shit-eating grins. “Would you perhaps fancy someone to warm your bed tonight?”
The King went rigid where he stood. When he turned around to look at Grimm, the Troupe Master was delighted to see that he was flustered. Of course, the King was trying his damndest to mask his mortification, but Grimm could see it clearly nonetheless. “Excuse me?”
Grimm snorted. “I asked if you’d be interested in fucki–”
“I know very well what you meant,” the Wyrm sputtered, cutting the other God off before he could say anything further. “Gods, why did you put it like that ?”
“I figured you’d respond to that frilly language you noble types like so much,” Grimm replied with a half-hearted shrug. “You always were a prude.”
“I am not –” he cut himself off before he could continue that thought. He would not humour his insolence any longer.
Grimm approached him, drifting closer with an otherworldly aura of debonair about him. “You haven’t yet answered my question, your Majesty?” In truth, Grimm did not at all expect for the Pale King to accept his proposition. He was fully prepared to take his refusal and had made the offer without much hope to begin with. So, when the King’s eyes fell to the floor and Grimm could see the genuine consideration flash across his face, he was shocked.
He was even more shocked when the King tilted his head to look back up at him, movements sheepish but his affirmation still resolute. “You may provide me with your company.”
The King felt a twinge of regret over his decision the second that he saw Grimm’s eyes widen. Within the crimson flames that stared back at him, he saw something that unnerved him–it was an emotion that he couldn’t place. “Just for tonight,” he hastily added.
The alien emotion within the Troupe Master’s eyes dimmed at that, much to the King’s relief. Grimm glanced around at the workshop around them, then at the door behind the King. “Not here.”
“Why not?”
“It’s musty as fuck in here. Doesn’t really inspire a mood.”
The King rolled his eyes, but conceded. “Very well. Accompany me to my chambers, Nightmare King.” The Pale Wyrm turned and left the room.
Grimm snickered at that, falling into step behind the King’s trailing robes. “You needn't be so formal. Use my name, if only just for tonight.”
“Hush, Grimm.”
Grimm’s heart fluttered when he said it. It had been far too long.
. . .
The royal chambers were similar to the rest of the palace. The decor was primarily done up in shades of white and silver. The walls were lined with the small, detailed symbols that represented the King and his crown of horns. The only notable attractions about the room were the large vanity, a walk-in closet full of robes and cloaks, a side-door that presumably led to a bathroom, and the canopy bed that took up the center of the room. The mattress was larger than any Grimm had ever seen before, presumably to accommodate the size of the Queen. As the King lay across the silken sheets, the scale of the bed only served to make him appear even smaller than he already was.
Grimm climbed up onto the bed after the King settled himself in. He crept closer, his movements smooth and cat-like. He hovered over the Wyrm, studying the way the fabric of his robe hung around his form beneath. The King, he noticed, was deliberately avoiding his eyes.
“No need to be shy, your Majesty,” his voice rumbled like a sensuous purr in his throat. He couldn’t resist teasing him; it reminded him of old times.
The Wyrm rolled his eyes and glared at him, finally meeting his gaze. “I am most certainly not shy ,” he hissed, the discomforted shifting of his body betraying the truth.
Grimm chuffed, clearly amused. “Then I’m certain you wouldn’t mind shedding your robes.”
The King sneered up at him, but reluctantly raised one of his hands up to unclasp the brooch that pinned his cloak together. The white fabric fell limply to the side as the King undid the holdings of his royal robes. The collar loosened and fell away from his neck. Grimm decided to help him move the process along faster, for he sensed that the King was stalling. He hooked his digits around the soft cloth, gently guiding it over his shoulders. His hands brushed over the King’s chitin. It was just as cold as he remembered it. The contrast of the King’s body temperature in comparison to the elevation of his own was a feature of the Wyrm that Grimm found especially rousing.
Grimm had always thought that the King was exceptionally beautiful, both as a Wyrm and as he was now. His body was different, almost alien in comparison to most other bugs. His arms–he had four, though many bugs did not know that about him– were spindly and the same stark white as the rest of him. His legs were of similar stature to his arms, skinny and white. His most striking oddity was his brilliant tail. The look of it was reminiscent of his Wyrm form, almost like a vestigial reminder of things past.
Grimm traced his fingers over the intricate shape of the King’s Brand embedded within his carapace. The mark of a monarch. The King shivered beneath his warm touch, his tail lashing gently beneath him. “Get on with it, already,” he grunted.
Grimm looked up to meet his eyes, a grin returning to his face. “My, someone is surely impatient,” he whispered, trailing his hands down his sides to rest upon his hips.
The King scowled. “Do you ever stop talking?”
The Troupe Master chuckled, winking at him in a way that made the King tremble. “It wouldn’t be as much fun if I did, wouldn’t you agree?”
The Pale King looked away from him as Grimm situated himself in between his legs. “Just can it.”
Grimm laughed again, but decided to abide by the King’s wishes and promptly quieted. His fingers traced from the smooth exoskeleton of his hips down into his inner thighs. When one of his fingers brushed over his slit, the King’s hips twitched involuntarily. Grimm’s characteristically snarky grin only widened as he brought his thumb to gently massage the nerves around the opening. The tips of both of his cocks began to poke out. Grimm moved his other hand to rub along their lengths, coaxing them out further. When they were each fully erect, Grimm glanced up to find the King watching him, face alight with a soft flush. The pink stood out against the white of his chitin. When Grimm smirked up at him, the King glowered at him and looked away again.
Grimm moved his face down to drag his tongue from the base of one of his cocks all the way up to the tip, where he placed a gentle kiss. The King was unresponsive, aside from the subtle movements of his hips. If Grimm hadn’t been familiar with his body, he might have missed these little twitches and jerks. He let his tongue trail down his length, this time moving down to gently tease the nerves above his cunt. The King’s breath hitched at this, making it all the more gratifying for the other.
This time, when his tongue reached the tip of his cock, he pulled his mouth away and instead licked the palm of his hand. The King grimaced. “Was that truly necessary?”
Grimm rolled his eyes. “I can stop.”
The King’s eyes narrowed.
“That’s what I thought.”
Grimm moved his head down to his dick, where he parted his lips and took in the tip of his length. Before the King had any time to react to the stimulus, Grimm wrapped his hand around his other dick, gently pumping it up and down. It slid through his fingers effortlessly, lubed by the saliva. Finally, with his other hand, he moved to gently prod the entrance to his slit. To his delight, it was already wet with his slick–loose enough to slip a finger inside.
Grimm greedily took his cock all the way to the base, slipping two of his fingers inside of him. The stroking of his other hand quickened in speed and the combination of stimuli turned the once stoic monarch into a jerky, moaning mess beneath him. Looking up to gauge the King’s expression, Grimm was treated with the pleasure of seeing him out of his element for what felt like the first time in ages. He was gripping onto the bed with all four of his hands as if holding on for dear life. The noises he made, the far-away look of pleasure in his eyes–it was like he’d become the same Wyrm he’d once been, all those years ago.
Completely and totally enraptured by him, Grimm quickened the pace of his rhythm, feeling the tip of his dick brush against the back of his throat each time he took it to the hilt. Plunging a third finger deep inside of him is what finally sent the King over the edge. Without giving Grimm any proper warning, he grabbed the Troupe Master by the horns and forced his head down to the base. His climax was more than intense. Grimm was taken by the feeling of the King’s seed oozing down his throat. He could feel the wet slick of his cunt coat the fingers inside of him; it pooled down onto the sheets beneath him. The orgasm of the cock in his hand was the most exhilarating, however. His climax made a mess of Grimm’s face and his own abdomen. Grimm waited until his convulsions died down to pull his mouth off of his cock. It was easy to pull away–the grip that the King had on his horns loosened easily. He swallowed the remainder of the King’s climax and breathed out a blissful sigh.
He glanced over at the Wyrm to see how he was faring. His body lay limp on the bed. His breathing was laboured and his eyes were glazed over. Grimm felt that signature, mischievous grin return to his face. “I must say, your O-face is truly something to behold,” he snickered.
The King jerked at the comment and tilted his head down to shoot him a nasty look. “I seem to recall telling you to shut up,” he growled.
Grimm’s ruby eyes narrowed and he shifted onto his knees. As he crept forward, black and red cloak falling around his lithe limbs, he became aware that his own cock had emerged from his slit. Slick dripped down his inner thighs as he crawled on top of him, taking in the sweet scent of the other God’s arousal. He dipped his head down until his voice was just centimeters away from his ear and whispered a quiet, mocking, “ Make me.”
Grimm hadn’t expected the King to make a move and was pleasantly surprised when he snatched him by the front of his cloak and mashed their mouths together. The sensation was how Grimm remembered. The frigid temperature of the King’s mouth paired with the dangerously sharp mandibles within sent a shiver down Grimm’s spine. His heat was enough for the both of them, body melting into his as the kiss deepened. He ran his tongue over the points of his teeth, the risk of getting cut only fueling his growing arousal.
Much to his own pleasure, he felt the tips of the Wyrm’s dicks nudge against his wet slit. He broke the kiss, deciding that he wanted to be able to see the King’s face clearly when he ravished him. Grimm carefully moved his hips above the King’s, wrapping a hand around both of his cocks and lining them up. The King himself had seemingly slipped into a state of delirium beneath him. His tail snaked itself around one of Grimm’s thighs, guiding him lower.
When Grimm conceded and began to lower his hips, the Pale King’s eyes focused on him again upon feeling his warmth. “Y-you aren’t seriously trying to take both, are you?” he breathed, his expression one of disbelief.
Grimm purred, smiling at him again. “‘Trying’? Oh, you underestimate me, my Wyrm.” Before the King could say anything further, Grimm slammed his hips down onto both of his dicks. They both slid into his warmth so easily that Grimm couldn’t help but think that they were made for each other. The King jerked and his wings instinctively flared out beneath him.
Ah, Grimm’s favourite feature of his. The six beautiful, translucent wings had always been the most striking thing about the King’s appearance. The light refracted through them, creating a mesmerising rainbow effect that Grimm found himself lost in.
The next words that left the King’s lips made Grimm snigger: “Oh, good heavens.” When he saw Grimm trying to stifle his laughter, his eyes narrowed. “I don’t see what’s so comical.”
Grimm took a moment to calm his giggles before he replied. “‘Good heavens’?”
The King scoffed. “Is it really so humorous that I choose to use well-mannered language?”
Grimm just burst out laughing again. “Well-mannered? Try prudish !”
“Impudent brat,” he spat, his tail coiling even tighter around Grimm’s leg.
“Snob.”
“Heathen.”
“Pampered.”
“ Harlot .”
Grimm drew in a breath and thrust his hips down against the King’s, earning him a soft groan. “Right you are about that, your Majesty.”
The King’s indignance melted away the moment that Grimm started moving at a regular pace. His lower two hands moved to his sides, where the King dug in his fingertips. With his other hands, he grasped at the sheets beneath him to hold himself steady. The Troupe Master lurched forward, bracing himself by placing his palm over the King’s chest. With the altered position, he was able to take each cock deeper. His glowing eyes fixed on his partner’s wings, and he let himself be taken by the majesty of the shifting rainbows within.
Soon enough, it wasn’t only him who was doing most of the work. To his elation, the King’s fingers dug deeper into his black chitin and he began to thrust in tandem with Grimm’s rhythm. The feeling was euphoric, unlike anything that Grimm had the pleasure of experiencing in such a long time.
He raised his hand up to take his own dick. Already dripping with his own pre-cum, it was easy to start stroking it with the same vigour as their dizzying pace. Grimm attempted to lift his hips off of his, just to give him a little bit of a tease, but the second he tried, the King forced his hips back down and hilted himself inside. His tail tugged on his leg possessively, something that sent a wave of Lumaflies fluttering through Grimm’s stomach.
“Fuck,” the King’s voice rumbled, his pace quickening to a degree almost unmanageable. Almost.
Grimm held on, smirking down at his lover triumphantly. “Now that’s the sort of language I want to hear from you, my Wyrm.”
“Silence,” he hissed, but there was no venom behind the way he said it this time. Grimm could hear it in his tone, he was getting close, surrendering himself to the throes of ecstasy.
To spite his request, Grimm only let his voice ring louder. He ground his hips down onto his cocks, pushing them in as deep as possible. That was when the King lost his composure. He released an animalistic noise–a noise unfit for any king–and climaxed.
Grimm let out a low noise of contentment. The King’s seed was a shock to his system, just as cold as the rest of him was. He did not stop to wait for the King to come back to his senses. Instead, he left him spasming beneath him helplessly as he chased his own release. The King, for his part, did not beg for any reprieve. His hands still steadied Grimm’s hips, his tail was still coiled around his leg, perhaps tighter than ever before.
As Grimm found the perfect spot, thrusting down upon it, he felt the flames inside him rising. After a particularly aggressive lurch of his hips, the Pale King grunted something. It was almost inaudible over the wet thrusts and the sounds of Grimm’s own pleasure. And yet, he heard it nonetheless.
“ Grimm ,” he’d whispered under his breath, eyes squeezed shut tight and head arched back.
That one word alone is what brought him to orgasm. Grimm took the King’s cocks all the way to the base and came. His hips rocked into the King’s repeatedly as he rode the waves of his climax. When he shut his eyes, he saw stars. A warm feeling grew in his chest, but it wasn’t the familiar warmth of the flames within him. Instead it was something different, softer. Something he couldn’t quite place, but still something he delighted in regardless.
As the thralls of the orgasm melted away, he slowly opened his eyes again. The first thing he saw was the King, still sprawled out beneath him. He was panting from the exertion of energy, eyes transfixed on the ceiling.
The next thing he noticed was that he’d made a mess of him. The white chitin of his chest was covered in both his own seed and Grimm’s. The thing that made Grimm start snickering, however, was the cum he’d gotten on his face. Grimm’s seed tricked down the King’s face in several places. The red pigment stood out against the stark white of his exoskeleton.
Grimm’s chuckles seemed to bring the King back to reality. His eyes moved from the ceiling and then moved to look at Grimm. His brow knitted together and he raised his hand to touch his cheek. When he felt the mess on his face, the look of mortification that crossed his features was something that Grimm would remember for a long time.
“Oh, good heavens !” Grimm cackled, not even bothering to attempt hiding his laughter. “Looks like I’ve given you a little bit of a facial.”
The King sneered at him. “I do not appreciate being mocked , Grimm.”
There it was again. His name. Grimm’s grin only widened. “Mocking? Oh, I would never think of doing such a thing!”
The Pale King grumbled and shifted beneath him. His tail uncoiled itself from Grimm’s leg to free him. “Just get off of me, I need to go clean myself up.”
“Of course, your Majesty,” Grimm jeered, his tone still light-hearted. He carefully lifted himself off of the King’s dicks, shivering as he felt a mixture of the King’s seed and his own slick dribble down his thighs. “I believe it would be wise for me to freshen up as well.”
The King carefully slipped off of the large bed, wrapping himself in his royal robes. “Very well, you may use the shower in there,” he gestured to the bathroom door, “and I will use the washroom down the hall.”
Grimm nodded, wobbling as he stood after him. The King turned and headed out the bedroom door and as he walked away, Grimm silently hoped that one of his Retainers would see him like that.
. . .
Grimm stood in front of the mirror on the medicine cabinet, admiring his reflection within it. He always seemed to have a noticeable afterglow, but perhaps it was only his imagination. His black chitin sparkled beneath the fluorescent bathroom lights as he pulled his black cloak back over his shoulders. He clasped it near the shoulder and smoothed the collar out.
Ah, good as new.
He stared at his reflection for just a moment longer before sauntering out of the bathroom and back into the expanse of the bedroom. To his surprise, the Pale King had already returned from the other washroom. His face had been thoroughly scrubbed and draped over his body was a loose robe that Grimm assumed was some sort of night wear. The monarch was standing in front of his closet, carefully knotting the robe at his waist when he caught Grimm staring at him.
“Lurking, are we?” he asked dryly. His tone had returned to its usual quality–cold, distant. It was hard for Grimm to get an accurate read on him.
“Perhaps, or maybe I was simply admiring you,” he said, glancing over at the bedroom door. “It seems that it may be time for me to leave.”
The King paused for a second, considering something carefully. “Say, it’s quite cold out tonight.”
“So it is.” Grimm watched him with narrowed eyes.
“Would you perhaps fancy a warm bed tonight?”
The question made Grimm almost do a double-take. The Lumaflies flitting around in his stomach returned. The answer came without any second thought. “I believe I would.”
The King nodded and climbed back into the massive bed he shared with his wife. Grimm hesitated for a few seconds, but moved towards the mattress and plopped down beside him. He noticed that the sheets had been changed. An appropriate decision.
The Wyrm avoided his eyes as he settled in beneath the covers, pulling them up and over himself. Apparently, the night had taken a lot out of him because the second his head hit the pillow, he was out. Grimm watched him for a few moments. Or perhaps, he watched him for a few minutes. He wasn’t counting. Eventually, he settled himself down in the covers beside him, his eyes heavy. Normally, he preferred to be hanging from the ceiling on the off occasion that he slept, but this was fine too.
As he began to drift off, he felt the bed shift beside him. The King pressed closer to him. Grimm could feel the chill of his carapace against his own. His heart fluttered when he felt the King’s tail gently snake around his leg, locking them closer together.
Grimm draped his own arms around him gently in return, letting the blissful thrall of sleep take him.