Chapter Text
“I’ll take a pint of yer finest ale and—oh! One of those too!”
The raven-haired man’s strong, gloved finger pointed at the item he’d spotted on the menu behind the counter. He was a tall and broad-shouldered man, obscured from head-to-toe in a dark and roomy cloak. His only defining features were the lengthy hair that had fallen free and escaped the shadows of his hood along with bright eyes, the blue of royalty. The rest of his face was entirely subdued in darkness, a large weapon rested across his back.
The barkeep had his most polite smile plastered across his face after he recognised his customer could be someone of great importance, and nodded at the cloaked man’s request.
“You certainly can, Sir. Would that be all?” replied the barkeep.
The raven-haired customer nodded enthusiastically, his eyes held an impatient gleam and the barkeep just prayed this fella wasn’t someone important that’d come to keep an eye on them lower folk. Why else would someone like him have come to a tavern like this? Not that the food was bad or anything—they’re actually the best in the town.
“I’ll be taking 3 silver coins off ya then, Sir.”
The barkeep extended a worn and marked hand over the counter, indicating clearly for the silver coins to be chucked into his palm before he even attempted a call back to the kitchen.
The ravenette deposited a frighteningly light leather pouch next to the young man’s outstretched hand and fished around inside until three dirty silvers appeared. He dropped the silvers into the man’s hand and scratched awkwardly at the head of his cloak.
“Sorry for the dirt on ‘em. I’ve been holdin’ onto them a while ya see. Wanted to make sure I spent them sensibly.”
“Well Sir, you’re in good hands here. Maggie cooks a mean pie, ya won’t find yourself within a mile of a better cook. Our ale is the best around too,” smiled the barkeep.
He did his best to keep the shock off his face at the sight of the near-empty pouch that was in sharp contrast with his customer’s air of mystery. The barkeep seemed to have forgotten about his earlier worries at the ravenette’s sheepish smile.
The barkeep pocketed the silvers into his waist pouch and vanished around the back, he relayed the man’s order to Maggie before returning back to pour the ale. He handed the drink back, which had foamed at the lip and spilled over with every slosh, the young man then took the chance to consider the mysterious man before him.
Despite his apparent lack of funds and being dressed rather suspiciously, even an amateur like the barkeep could tell the claymore strapped to his broad back was the work of tremendous craftsmanship. The pommel and cross-guard were gilded with precise designs cut into them, even more eye-catching was the cross-guard that was intriguingly long and adorned with beautiful, intricate inlays.
From hilt to blade the weapon reeked of power and riches.
The scabbard too, was of high-quality leather and featured sophisticated motifs on the silver locket and chape. It wouldn’t have taken much to tell the man was a skilled warrior with a weapon to show for it. Unless one was a noble or of high-status, they could only have gotten their hands on a weapon as meticulously crafted as his as a reward for a highly dangerous quest.
He assumed it was the latter as the man was on his own with a near-empty pouch. He sighed, there went his chances of ingratiating himself to a high-born.
“You’ve a good pair of eyes there. Good enough to know when yer in the presence of a real master, huh,” chuckled the claymore-wielding man, voice oozing with the arrogance of an experienced warrior. He took a swig from his wooden tankard, leaving it more than half empty.
“Oh! ‘Scuse my gawkin’ Sir!” The young man bowed his head and looked away. A blush crept its way up his skinny neck and settled across his thin cheeks.
“No need to apologise. Yer free to keep lookin’ kid. No harm in starin’ at a beauty when ya see one, is there?” The ravenette’s tone was light and teasing. Clearly not offended at all at the blatant oogling. The barkeep would wager a pretty penny that rather than be offended, the man seemed in the mood for easy entertainment while he dined.
Before any more words could be exchanged, a booming voice interrupted and a robust muscular woman appeared with a tray in hand.
“Ay bonny Thomas, were ya caught starin’ at the fella’s sword? Still entertaining dreams of bein’ a knight?”—she turned towards the cloaked man—“Ya wouldn’t be the first victim of his.”
The off-handed comment had the yoking man flushing. The fierce red headed woman slammed the mouthwatering wooden trencher of meat and greens onto the countertop in front of the raven-haired man and dropped a heavy arm around the barkeep, Thomas.
“Maggie am not! Also, don’t go tellin’ ‘im that! And it wasn’t a knight, it was a wandering Adventurer! Anyways I was just… just lookin’ at it…” Thomas’ blush intensified from Maggie’s familiar teasing.
She ruffled his scraggy mop of brown locks and let off a loud raucous laugh, her head tipped back in the process. The cloaked man joined the conversation in a friendly manner, not forgetting to start the process of dissecting his mouthwatering meat.
“So, Thomas, was it? You’ve dreams of wielding a weapon like mine and wandering the lands. If that’s yer dream, keep after it. Nothin’ wrong earning yer funds in a stable work like this to buy yer first weapon.”
Maggie’s laughter died down and both herself and Thomas turned to look at him.
“Ah, there’s nary a hope for me to learn any kind of swordsmanship. It’d be years before I could even afford a weapon, and where would I even find a mentor?” replied Thomas, his demeanour reminiscent of a kicked hound. Maggie too, had a look of disbelief at the stranger’s words.
“Ya work in a tavern, kid. I’m sure ya meet all kinds of people ‘ere that’d be willing to lend a determined lad like you a hand,” returned the stranger. As he did so, he took his first bite of meat. He chewed and turned it over in his mouth, and before long a satisfied ‘mmm’ was heard and he started to enthusiastically shovel the food into his mouth.
Maggie patted Thomas on the back. “Eh, he speaks a bit of wisdom, doesn’t he? Well, great to see you enjoyin’ my food. Not the first I’ll say but one of the most enthusiastic ones anyway." She winked at him and then retreated back the way she’d come.
The cloaked man continued to scarf his food down and before Thomas could ask if he would possibly consider teaching him, a drunk patron came stumbling over to the counter and demanded a refill for his empty tankard. Thomas sighed inwardly but his polite facade returned as he did as he was asked. In his peripheral, he noticed the hooded man had finished his meal and had stood up to depart. Before he was able to stop himself, he was already calling out to him.
“‘Scuse me! Could I get your name, Sir?”
His brown eyes caught mysterious blues from beneath the hood as the man turned around. Both of his gloved hands rested at his hood, clearly ready to pull it up tighter around himself.
“The name’s Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes,” the mysterious figure responded evenly, voice only loud enough for Thomas—the only sober person—to hear.
Thomas nearly dropped the tankard clean out of his hands at the name. His brown eyes widened and his jaw slackened in shock. Sherlock had already long left the tavern by the time Thomas came back to himself, mostly thanks to the angry shouting from the drunkard he had been serving.
Despite the slim chances, he slammed the drink down on the countertop, wiped his wet hands against his waist cloth and rushed out onto the street to try to find Sherlock. His head moved about frantically, still holding onto the hope that the man would still be near enough that he’d be within sight. He heard shouting from the tavern—his colleague must’ve told Maggie that he’d run out on a customer. He sighed in defeat, he’d been too late and Sherlock seemed to have been long gone.
Sherlock hummed a lively little tune under his breath as he made his way down the crowded, bustling market street. He was feeling quite cheery after his first meal in Eia, the Capital City of the Kingdom of Eydna, had gone so pleasantly.
His eyes scanned the ware stalls as he walked, conscious of lingering or drawing attention to himself but not enough that he would forfeit a gawk at them. He had only ever heard tales of the extensive goods the Eydians sold and had never seen them for himself before. It was fascinating to finally be here. However, the last thing he needed was to stand out so he kept his hood and cloak drawn tightly around him and was careful not to linger too long or bump into anyone.
Sherlock was a wandering Adventurer, and a famous one at that (much to his dismay).
When he was young, he had been on the verge of death after a famine had swept through his already poor village. His parents had done all they could to keep him alive, feeding their young son most of their portions. One day they gave young Sherlock the remainder of their dwindling food and told him to shut himself in his room and to never come out until the door was opened for him.
That was the last time Sherlock saw his parents alive.
Aid had arrived far too late from the governing Lord, and most of the village folk had starved to death—his parents included. The Captain of the Lord’s Knights, Ralph Moore, was the first to find him and the man who would later become his guardian. Sir Moore served as both Sherlock’s father-figure and mentor. He taught Sherlock how to wield a sword, manners, reading, writing, and more. Everything Sherlock would never have been able to learn had he been handed off to some church orphanage.
He owed everything to Sir Moore. However, the same did not hold true for Sir Moore’s Lord, Lambert Giffard. The man was truly an incompetent swine with an undeserved title, lands, riches and underlings. He had delayed sending aid to the surrounding villages under him simply because he did not wish to delay his birthday banquet. The villagers who had all paid their taxes and thought highly of Lord Giffard were ravaged by disease and famine because he couldn’t have been bothered.
For years, Sherlock couldn’t understand why a man as outstanding as Sir Moore continued to serve such a cur-like bastard. Thus, in Sherlock’s rebellious years, when he had big ideas about himself and left Lambert Giffard’s rotten fief to make his own way in the world, he hadn’t known that scuffle about ‘heading into the world too green’ and ‘Sir Moore’s misplaced loyalty’, would be his last conversation with Sir Moore.
At the tender age of twenty, a letter had finally found him many miles from his old home and within its travel-worn pages, the news of Sir Moore’s passing were detailed.
To this day, it remained one of Sherlock’s biggest regrets in life. Had he not been so stubborn and bull-headed, perhaps his final conversation with the man wouldn’t have been about something as trivial as his irrational loyalty to a knave and rather about how thankful he was to Sir Moore—no, to his adoptive father—for taking him in and giving him such affection and teachings. For giving his potential and life a shot of its own, for never requesting that Sherlock swear his loyalty to Lord Giffard and instead enduring the punishment that came with his refusal in silence (Sherlock didn’t learn of this until after his father’s passing).
Since that day, Sherlock vowed to himself that, despite not being a knight (with no plans to be one), he would follow in his father’s footsteps and become a man he would be proud of. Despite not having an innate desire to help people, Sherlock took on requests of any who found themselves in need of a helping hand—no matter how trivial, miscellaneous or irritating the requests were. He never actively sought them out but he never passed by any civilians in need of a hand or turned them down when they found him.
His new vow inevitably led him to the Adventurers’ Guild—an international organisation with branches all across the continent—where he began to take on more fulfilling and stimulating requests. Criminal bounties, monster hunts, cave explorations, dungeon clearing—all of which paid handsomely but the caveat was the danger levels. Most of Sherlock’s earnings were spent on armour or weapon repairs, doctor visits and lodgings where he could recover. He had no home of his own, always on the move from one place to another.
Sherlock’s fame began after he took on a particularly tall request from the Guild branch in Albara. An extremely perilous task that had required the King of Albara to turn to Adventurers to try and solve it rather than his own Royal Order of Knights. He had lost too many to continue sending them and instead supposed the experienced Adventurers may have better luck and skillsets (Sherlock knew it was a load of bull, he just didn’t want to keep sending his own knights to their deaths) for handling his issue.
An unregulated and unexplored monster dungeon was on the verge of erupting and allowing its inhabitants to roam free and wreak havoc on the nearest settlements belonging to the Kingdom. The Albarian King needed the dungeon to be conquered before this chaos ensued. Many before Sherlock took on the quest, with many of them dying in the dungeon or leaving with less limbs than they’d entered with and a severe case of trauma.
The news reached Sherlock who, by this point, was already relatively well-known as an Adventurer within the Guild by the Guildmaster himself and the other branchmasters as someone with a 100% success rate on every quest he’d ever undertaken. The Branchmaster for Albara’s headquarters contacted him personally and asked if he’d take this one on.
Sherlock himself was unsure. He had taken on his fair share of monster quests but never ones with this little info on them (all the knights had died and the surviving Adventurers were too traumatised to speak). The risk was too high. With this in mind, he’d decided to tell the Branchmaster of his decline. However, when he heard the reward had been switched to a personalised weapon by a retired master bladesmith who’d gone into hiding in Albara, well, how could he refuse?
Thus began Sherlock’s expedient rise to fame after his solo wipeout of the dungeon. Tales of one man against hundreds of grotesque monsters spread far and wide at an explosive rate. Hundreds of flyers with his face were plastered all over streets and marketplaces, fellow Adventurers couldn’t keep his name off their lips, the Albarians sang praises of his exploits—even his previous ones! The King and Queen themselves had personally held a banquet for him and the master bladesmith, Helson, was more than delighted to craft a weapon for, “a warrior as great as him!”.
From that day onwards, Sherlock found himself covering up to try and conceal his identity from his admirers. Many times, he’d found himself in hairy situations where crazed women had discovered where he was staying, had allowed themselves into his room uninvited, and crawled into his bed with nary a thing on! Safe to say, Sherlock became wary of every woman he’d come across since—not that he’d ever been particularly fond of them anyways.
When every lad his age was lusting after women, Sherlock was busy with other, more important things. Honestly, he didn’t see the appeal of their curvy bodies and high pitched voices. Sherlock much preferred the hard feel of toned and taut muscle beneath his fingers and a prominent protrusion under his tongue as he sucked pink flowers into his trembling skin. Even at that, it wasn’t like he’d had many sexual encounters—just enough to have satiated his curiosity and satisfied his lower body. He was far more concerned with his occupation and the rush it brought him than he was with the pleasures a man’s body could offer him.
His little trip down memory lane ended abruptly when he found himself standing before the doors of his destination. He brought his gloved hands up and with a harsh bang, the two ornately carved doors flew open, hitting the walls and catching the foyer’s occupants’ attention. Sherlock waltzed in like it was nobody’s business and leant against the counter where a very bewildered receptionist stood.
“Uh, may I help you, Sir?” asked the receptionist. She looked up at him skittishly, fidgeting with her uniform.
Sherlock leant forward and pressed uncomfortably close to her, he opened his mouth and whispered in a hushed voice.
“Not to be soundin’ arrogant or anythin’.” Sherlock leant in conspiratorially. “But I’m actually Sherlock Holmes.” He pulled back his hood a little at the sides, revealing more of his easily recognisable face, and winked playfully at the receptionist.
She gasped and both of her hands shot up to cover her mouth.
“The Sherlock Holmes?!” her voice quivered a little as she choked out his name.
He scrambled a bit at her repeating his name with a much louder volume than he would have liked. He brought a finger to his lip and he made a ‘shhh’ sound. He pointed a thumb back at the crowd behind him, before miming a slit across his neck.
“If you wouldn’t mind just lowerin’ yer volume a wee bit there. Despite my dramatic entrance ‘m not too fond of the attention.”
“Oh, Gods above, please pardon my ignorance Mr. Holmes!” she profusely bowed her head in apology at her careless behaviour.
“I won’t hold it against ya. Don’t worry,” he smiled at her, pulling back to a more upright position.
An shaky sigh escaped her at his reassurance. She gazed up at him, a subtle sparkle to her eyes. Would he ever get used to such reverence and adoration in people’s eyes?
He cleared his throat and continued speaking, “So, would ya have any jobs befittin’ someone of my rank? ‘M lookin’ for a difficult high-class quest, one that everyone else’s turned away or that the Branchmaster has reserved for higher ranked Adventurers.”
The receptionist nodded enthusiastically at his question. “Actually, the Branchmaster has been awaiting someone of your calibre to land here in Eydna. The King himself has put in a secret request of the highest difficulty.”
Sherlock’s eyes came alight at the mention of ‘secret request’ and ‘highest difficulty’, and pumped a nerdy and excited fist in the air. “Nice! What does it entail, and can I start it immediately?”
“Oh, I’m afraid the discussion can’t be had here for a reason already mentioned,” she responded with an apologetic smile.
”If you’d please, follow me.” She gestured for him to follow and started retreating up the stairs to the left of the desk.
Sherlock pushed himself up from where he’d been leaning and bound up the steps after her, two at a time. She led him to a thick velvet curtain that she pushed aside and bade him to enter, letting the curtain fall shut once he was in.
The room was rather large for how bare it was, its most notable feature being the large trestle table that served as the room’s centrepiece. Atop the table was a table-sized map of the continent of Isor. The map was detailed enough that Sherlock could pinpoint the exact route he’d taken to get here. From the City of Tir to the Town of Lios and then the village of Surk, where it had only been a three-day journey by horseback until he had reached the gates of Eia.
As he stepped closer to the map, he noticed a large red ring scribbled around a mountain range that was north of the city. There was a scrawl of a beast’s head next to the circle with the words ‘fictitious or real?’ in bold red writing.
“Ah, it seems you’ve already found your destination without any prior information from me, Mr Holmes!”
He looked towards the receptionist who was approaching him with two scrolls in her hands. She unfurled the more recent looking scroll on the trestle table. The first thing he saw was the endless 0’s on the page and feared his eyes were playing devious tricks on him.
“This, right here”—she pointed to the contents of the scroll—“is your mission.”
He leant closer—there were indeed that many 0’s—and read aloud, “The Infernal Scarlet of the Northern Mountains?”
”Yes, that’s what we Eydians call the Dragon of the Northern Mountains. It’s a majestic golden beast that’s been rumoured to have been living there long before our Kingdom was founded,” she answered
Dragon? Did she just say a dragon?
Well, he’ll be damned! If he had been intrigued enough before then he was damn ecstatic now! A dragon of all things was related to his new quest. His fervency must’ve been radiating off him in waves because the receptionist continued on, enthused.
”Legend has it that our founder and first King, Eydnolis The Worthy, struck a deal with the aureate two-winged beast and was granted protection and the promise of peace for his descendants and people for as long as he and his direct kin continued to uphold and honour their contract. Now, the details of this contract have been lost in the annals of our Kingdom’s history but the Dragon hasn’t made any moves for hundreds of years.”
”I haven’t heard any tales of this Dragon of yer’s in all my travels, how fascinating! Why is that?”
And it was true. He hadn’t heard of this Infernal Scarlet Dragon belonging to Eydna. Not that he hadn’t encountered any dragon-like creatures before (note dragon-like because dragons were mythical legends), most of which he had fought because their mischievousness consisted of burning and terrorising towns and villages. Despite this, he’d never seen a real dragon before.
“Well, it’s an old tale but one that we keep close to our hearts. It does no good for strangers to go spreading rumours of our Dragon—a dragon that we aren’t even sure exists. Don’t you know some harecop will come along and trespass into the mountains to find the thing,” she sighed and shook her head at the mere thought.
He nodded his agreement. Couldn’t argue with her there. There would be some bloke who’d think himself worthy enough to search for and challenge a Kingdom’s dragon (if it existed). Looking down at the scroll, the receptionist got back on track.
”Enough of that, let me tell you what you need to do. King Eizer has requested a high-ranking Adventurer to brave the trek up the Northern Mountains and into the Dragon’s lair. He wishes to confirm its existence.
“It may sound like an odd request considering the danger level and how common monsters are but no one’s ever seen the dragon or been brave enough to venture into the mountains for fear of awakening it from its supposed age-old slumber.
“Not to mention, there’s an obscene amount of danger in venturing somewhere no one has ever gone—ever. There’s no records about what’s in the mountain range itself.”
Now this was odd. Why would the King only now decide that he wanted to confirm the existence of the Dragon in the legends? Was it really so important that it necessitated an Adventurer of my calibre journeying into the treacherous unknown?
”Alright, anything else I need to note?” he asked.
He was curious, Gods above, was he curious. This was turning out to be such a mystery. A King was looking for an ancient dragon and had turned to the Adventurers’ Guild to do so and with such a lousy reason too!
The receptionist seemed astonished at his apparent lack of questioning or hesitation about the mission. She rolled up the scroll on the table, tied it shut and handed it over to Sherlock along with the second scroll.
She gave him a look of pity and said, “To come back alive.”
Sherlock was standing before the gaping maw that was the supposed ‘Dragon’s Lair’, ripped and dirty map in hand (which was useless by the way, he ended up lost fo days). His breathing was ragged, legs shaky and his energy was spent. It had been, as was foretold, an arduous journey to make it here.
He’d had a couple near-brushes with Death itself and a few with Frostbite too. The mountains were crawling with high-level monsters, some that he had never encountered before. Not to mention, the terrain itself felt like it was changing, and constantly at that. After sporadic naps, he would open his eyes and find the scenery around him had changed—or maybe he had gone crazy, Sherlock wasn’t too sure anymore.
Rubbing his aching legs, he stumbled into the cave’s entrance and like magic, the dreadful winds that battered at his face vanished and the world was engulfed in silence. Nothing could be heard except his own trembling breaths. An ominous premonition crawled up his back, worming its way under his skin and settling in the pit of his stomach. He felt as if this was a grave mistake, that he was standing somewhere no human should ever stand, that he had gotten himself caught in something way bigger than he’d realised and he needed to leave—now.
He turned back the way he’d come, dreading venturing back into the harsh winds and unrelenting cold, when he felt it. Molten air descended around him and he saw his clothes and hair start to singe at the ends. The scent of burnt hair and leather rushed into his nostrils as he took a gut-clenchingly deep breath in and held it for fear of bringing trouble upon himself.
That air that had just burnt him—that was something’s breath.
He was alone in this cave with a creature big enough that a single volcanic breath from it was enough to envelop the entire space around him—to burn him. He turned his head slowly, breath still held, and that was when he saw it.
A gigantic eye, its appearance frighteningly similar to the depictions of Gehenna, like an eternal raging and swirling fire was staring unblinkingly at him. Reptilian and piercing.
The eye was so gargantuan that he barely made out the sliver of gold scales that encapsulated it.
Oh. Oh.
I’m standing before The Infernal Scarlet, the Eydian’s Dragon. And that… that’s only one of its eyes.
His knees gave out from under him, he fell back and hit the rough terrain beneath him unceremoniously. Scrambling back, his breathing broke into uneven, laboured pants. All at once, the beast’s presence alone was enough to start suffocating him. Like just noticing it had an intangible pressure pushing down on him relentlessly.
He was going to die. He was going to die and there was nothing he could do about it. This was no monster he was in the presence of, it was a God’s.
Being mortal, he could only handle such horrors before his brain shut down to try and protect itself. He passed out cold, his last coherent thought being that he shouldn’t have been blinded by the seemingly endless amount of 0’s on the page.
Sherlock awoke to the feeling of plush softness beneath him. He was warm and cosy and safe. There was a comforting weight around his middle and it felt good. He tried to open his eyes but found it difficult, thinking briefly that he’d much rather drift back into his peaceful slumber.
Softness, peaceful slumber and not eternal slumber…?
His eyes shot open and darted around in panic. There was pitch darkness above him, he moved his head around, a gentle ember glow reached his vision. A campfire was burning before him.
A campfire? Who set up a campfire?
And then it dawned on him.
An impossibly large eye was staring at me and I fainted. A dragon, wait, where’s the dragon?!
He tried to sit up then and failed when he belatedly realised that comfortable weight was actually a firm grip around his waist that was pinning him down. His eyes met unblemished pale skin bathed in a soft amber glow. A slender arm had him locked in place by his waist. His heart stopped in his chest. Ever so slowly, his head inched down to meet the figure that was laying beside him.
His frightened blues met resplendent gold hair and delicate eyelashes. An inhumanly handsome face and a very toned naked body was resting against his side. His heart jumped into his throat.
Gods above, who is this?!
Those perfectly sculpted lips parted and a voice so angelic entered his ears that he had to do a double take of the body’s chest to confirm that it was indeed, a male laying next to him.
“It seems you’ve awoken, human?” The man’s head turned and suddenly, Sherlock was staring into two molten lava orbs, yet his pupils clearly indicated he was a human. “You were out cold. I didn’t think you’d wake up so soon.”
The blond sat up, every slim muscle rippled under elegant movements as he stretched, pushing forwards with outstretched arms much like a feline would. He stood then, in all his naked glory, and plopped himself down in front of the campfire that had been spitting and sputtering away. Sherlock’s shock wore off hastily and he launched into questioning the mysterious man before him.
“Who are you? Where’s the dragon? Also why- why are you naked?!” Sherlock flung whatever it was that was covering him previously at the man, hoping he would cover himself up so he didn’t have to see that thing every time he looked at him.
Is that size even a human’s? And it’s not even hard!
The blond caught the furs that were thrown his way and set them neatly over his lap, much to Sherlock’s relief.
He tilted his head, confusion clouding his expression. “You’re looking at it right now.”
“What?”
The very space around Sherlock began to crack and warp. Refracting and shattering into shards, a sight beyond mortal comprehension. The oppressive heat that had singed him before returned in full force and Sherlock felt as if the air was being coaxed out of him. He squeezed his eyes shut as tears started to leak and pour, and began to claw frantically at his neck.
Air, he needed air. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t feel, his sensations were falling away and he feared he would never stop falling, falling, and falling—
Nothing.
All at once his senses crashed back into him. Air rushed into his gasping mouth and flooded his starved lungs. He fell forwards, breathing roughly, his tears hit the rough terrain beneath him and soaked into the stone. His eyes burned and his ears were ringing.
“What- what the…” he gasped out.
A guttural snarl sounded from somewhere above his head, followed by a booming voice, “Raise your head mortal. Comprehend whose majesty it is that you stand before, behold me with eyes of worship and reverence. Bathe in my incomprehensible brilliance.”
Sherlock struggled to do so but an unknown force propelled him on and aided him. His eyes settled on the magnificent two-winged scaly creature before him. Its size had shrunk a great deal. Its single eye wasn’t taking up the entire wall anymore, instead its entire body was enveloping the space around him. The campfire was dark ash yet Sherlock was able to clearly see every minute detail of the dragon.
Resplendent gold scales shimmered and rippled, and eyes of fire met his own, its hulking chest heaved as scorching breath was huffed from flaring nostrils each the size of buckets. Elegant marble-colour keratin horns protruded gracefully from its head and leathery large appendages were folded carefully against its muscled torso. Wrapped around its hind legs was a thick reptilian tail, its end was pointed and shaped like a sword. The dragon was squatting—its image reminiscent of a common four-legged beast.
The dragon leant its head down closer to Sherlock, its lips curled back to reveal menacingly large fangs and razor sharp teeth. Sherlock feared it meant to eat him but something akin to pride was dancing inside its flame-like eyes.
“Mortal, am I not the most magnificent being you’ve ever laid eyes on?” the dragon sing-songed. Its voice was lacking its previous booming quality and instead sounded playful.
It tilted its head cluelessly when Sherlock failed to respond in time. “Mortal, are you alright? What seems to be the matter with you? Have I stunned you into silence?”
Sherlock pulled himself back to sit on his knees, his hands coming to settle on his lap. His breathing evened out as he composed himself. With the knowledge that the dragon didn’t wish to kill or eat him, Sherlock allowed himself to rake his eyes over its ethereal beauty.
A sharp intake of breath before—
“You’re beautiful. I’ve never seen anythin’ like ya. Nothin’ can even hold a candle to yer breath-stealin’ beauty” and he meant every word he’d uttered. The creature of myths and legends that sat before him was one of true divine and heavenly beauty.
To Sherlock, he was beholding the most powerful being that could ever dwell above and below the heavens. How could a mortal dare to comment on such grandeur?
The dragon’s eyes crinkled in mirth. An uproarious laugh rattled the very air surrounding them.
“I’m glad you think that. I would hate for the first human I’ve ever wanted to dislike my true appearance,” muttered the dragon softly.
“Wha—?”
Before Sherlock could ask what he meant by this, the space shifted and folded. All of a sudden he was enveloped in strong arms and pressed against a firm chest, with an even firmer thigh forcing his legs open and propping him up.
The dragon was clothed this time in its polymorphed form. He was in a tight black, sleeveless top with a cut-out over his pecs that revealed his milky white skin. The tight fabric clung to the man in all the right places and led down to loose fitting pants that were tied around his waist with a rope of some kind. Despite how loose they were, they failed to conceal the large tent he was sporting.
Sherlock gasped in alarm at what he was seeing (it couldn’t be that big?!) and the situation he was now in. A furious blush spread its way around his body at the sight. From his neck to his ears, there wasn’t a single place that hadn’t turned a pretty scarlet.
A large hand landed on his head and tucked him into a defined collarbone. He couldn’t see anything but could feel soft flesh and the beat of a pulse against his lips.
A serpentine tongue licked the shell of his ear and dove into his ear canal. He squeaked at the sensation. The tongue pulled away and all that was left were the hot breaths that were hitting his ear.
"Won't you tell me your name, darling?" rumbled the dragon.
Sherlock's body went boneless in the man's embrace. His whole body felt as if it was on fire, starting from his wet ear all the way to his nether-regions and down further to the tips of his toes. The voice in his ear was beguiling velvet and Sherlock needed to hear more. His last intelligible thought was something along the lines of dragon saliva and an aphrodisiac before his brain cells shut off and his last remaining one went wet with anticipation.
“S- Sherlock Holmes,” came a breathy moan in a voice unfamiliar to even Sherlock’s ears.
Now, by no means was Sherlock Holmes a submissive man and that also proved to be true when it came to matters of the bedroom. Sherlock preferred to be the one doing the penetration and making his partner feel good. He hadn’t the faintest notion of ever being the one on the receiving end and wasn’t sure how to feel about it. All he knew now was that he needed to have sex and ejaculate and he didn’t care how it happened as long as it happened.
The dragon had his outerwear off in a flash as if that was his reward for responding in a way the dragon liked. A cold hand snaked its way under his inner shirt, trimmed nails trailed a path along his abdominal muscles and up to his pecs before finally settling on a half-hard bud and squeezing. Sherlock couldn’t help the hiss that exited his mouth at the cold stimulation.
“William is the name of the beast that’s ravaging you, dear”—William kneaded and twisted the bud he had trapped between shrewd fingers—“won’t you moan my name for me like a litany of desire and sin, mortal?”
Sherlock gasped his name out, “W… William!”
Satisfied with Sherlock’s breathy response, William used his free hand and grasped Sherlock's cheeks between his fingers and dragged it closer to his own face. His reptilian tongue darted out from its fleshy cove and pried Sherlock’s lips open. He swirled the obtuse muscle around, exploring Sherlock’s cavernous and plush mouth, rubbing against the mortal’s tongue as he moaned sweet whimpers and cries of pleasure. William’s name fell from his lips as sweetly as he’d wanted, yet it was desperate or broken enough.
Encouraged by such sweet sounds, William’s tongue plunged into the depths of Sherlock’s throat. The ravenette choked and his face started to redden, tears spilled profusely down the sides of his face, and drool leaked down the corners of his lips and ran off his chin but he couldn't bring himself to protest at such a heady intrusion. Instead, he clawed at the man’s chest, hoping that it would get him to let up on his relentless diving in his oral exploration.
William had understood thankfully that Sherlock wasn’t a fellow mythical creature and that he desperately needed to resupply himself with oxygen regularly, lest William wished to cavort with a very dead mortal. When he retracted his lengthy tongue, he cheekily lapped up his drool in one big movement and slipped it back into his own mouth to savour.
Sherlock’s flush deepened at the erotic display that had sent electric jolts down south to his hardening cock. William narrowed his reptilian eyes in delight at Sherlock’s reaction and without any warning and a click of his fingers, Sherlock’s remaining clothes burnt away without him feeling a thing. This meant he was now on full display for the dragon before him.
His chest was flushed the most tempting of pinks, one tanned nipple was fully perked and swollen, the other was only half-erect and William wished to rectify that immediately. To allow himself better access to further ravage the human in his arms, he released more of his polymorph, allowing his more natural features to shine through. His once rounded ears turned pointed—similar to the Elves’ ears but longer. His horns, albeit smaller, broke through his scalp and emerged from his lovely golden locks. His canines sharpened to fine points and a scaly tail ripped through his clothes and rushed to wrap around Sherlock’s waist, lifting him from the ground and into the air. The dragon’s clawed hands were on his neck and the small of his back, leaving Sherlock no room to even wiggle.
A warbled gasp escaped the man at the feeling of being suspended mid-air and he grasped onto the hard scales to try and steady himself. Sherlock was big enough that no one had carried him since he was a wee lad and now he was being lifted off his feet by a dragon that was eager to bed him.
Faced with a much more accessible angle, the dragon’s tongue got to work. Lathering Sherlock’s torso with his thick saliva, slithering into every valley and crevice before finally William was leaning in close to catch his trembling nipple between heated lips and pointed teeth. Despite being razor sharp and dangerous, William’s playful tugging and sucking was gentle. He didn’t wish to draw blood—not yet anyways. Sherlock’s trembling body and stifled moans were enough at the moment.
As William’s ministrations laboured on, he pressed closer to Sherlock’s chest. This new closeness allowed for him to focus on the rapid ‘thump, thump, thump’ of Sherlock’s rampaging heart. He felt a small pang of guilt and sadness. The rapid beats beneath his tongue—against his nose—weren't because of his feelings towards him, they were the cause of his own seduction. Sherlock’s heart was beating so uncontrollably as a natural reaction, not an emotional one. Much unlike William’s own heart that was banging and crashing against his ribcage at the thoughts of finding such a pretty mate. From the moment Sherlock stepped into his domain, his frozen heart had burned to life and every cell in his body was screaming out that his fate had finally found him.
Sherlock was in visible awe at what was happening. William was suckling on his chest like he was a woman lactating and he loved it. He was moaning and panting like a common whore, not the least bit embarrassed at the echoes that were reverberating through the cave. William pressed into his back harder as his sucking and kissing became more fervent, more desperate. The claw at the back of his neck started to scratch at sensitive skin and elicited a sharp cry of pleasure from Sherlock.
The dragon popped off Sherlock’s loved bud with a slick pop and licked his lips. Eyes hazy with desire at his work of art. Sherlock’s nipples were swollen red, teeth marks and blooming roses decorated his panting chest. Sherlock tilted his head down, confusion evident on his pretty features at the sudden halting of William’s ministrations.
“Wha…? Wh- why?” came a hoarse cry.
“Patience, my Darling. You’ll have what you wish for soon,” the dragon soothed his needy prey.
Before Sherlock could protest further, an unfamiliar high-pitched keen was ripped from his throat when he felt a hard pressure around his weeping cock. A cooing sound came from his tormentor.
“My, I see no difference between you and a female. Both are so eager to be pleasured… You’ve gushed a most pleasing amount, Dear.”
Sherlock was mortified at the blond’s words and if he was more lucid he would’ve had much to say but right now, he needed whatever was coming—fast.
“Hnggh- if you can- mmgh- see that,” he bucked his hips into the pressure,”Then do something about it-!”
William chuckled and obliged. Gods, did he oblige. Sherlock was roughly manhandled into a very embarrassing position. His back was to the ground and his chest was pointing skywards, his body was pulled towards William and his legs were spread wide enough for the blond’s head to fit between them. His thighs were resting on muscled shoulders and the dragon kissed reverentially along his sensitive skin, licking and pecking, pushing his sharp nose against his skin and inhaling.
William’s worship brought him to his altar, and his hot breath was beating down against his scrotum and perineum. Sherlock gasped and tightened his grip around William’s tail, shredding his own fingers in the process on the sharp scales.
William had a bruising grip on Sherlock’s hips as he pressed forwards. His nose nudging at Sherlock’s ballsack, an experimental lick was given to his perineum, one that had Sherlock thrashing and babbling. Incoherent strings of pleading and begging fell from his drool laden mouth. A series of ‘William!’, ‘please’, ‘more’ and ‘so good!’, all trickled into William’s ears like honey. Encouraging him on as his licking became more hot and heavy, drawing patterns and tracing a line up his balls and to his proud-standing cock.
His eyes zeroed in on the stringy pre-cum that was oozing out and dripping onto the ravenette’s tummy and down his dick. He freely moved Sherlock as needed with his tail and using his hips, he licked wet stripes up and down bulging veins and delectable folds. Coming to a halt at Sherlock’s angry head, contemplating his next action.
Would it please his human if he took him into his heat? As if asking such a question, he mouthed at the frenulum, testing the waters. A delicious sob came from the man in his tail followed by more incoherent begging, and that was all the confirmation William needed before he pulled the first inches of Sherlock’s cock into his own mouth.
William was shy to admit he’d never done this—any of this at all—before. He was ravaging his human on pure primal instinct. He was a dragon and the only one in his near vicinity. He hadn’t any urges to find and mate (dragons are so scarce precisely because they don’t have a strong urge for procreation) nor did he wish to. He was born from chaos and stars and wishes. He’d always believed such acts were below his stature. Oh, what a fool he had been. How was he to function without the sweet taste of his pretty man on his tongue and down his throat?
Hollowing his cheeks, William sucked Sherlock deeper until his nose was buried in dark coarse hair and Sherlock’s tip was hitting the back of his throat. Sherlock’s moans were breaching his lips all strangled and breathy and he knew he wouldn’t last long—not with how warm and hot and wet William’s fleshy cavern was. His gasping moans came to a jarring halt at the sharp scrape of a tooth against his sensitive skin.
“Ah- ugh! Hurts- that hurts!” he grimaced.
Instinctively he tried to pull himself out of the dragon’s mouth, one fist hitting the dragon’s tail and the other clenching even tighter, ignoring the pain of his worsening cuts. Immediately, like he’d been burned, the dragon stopped all of his movements and pulled off Sherlock’s cock in haste. Wide crimsons met hurt blues. Sherlock found the panic and shock in William’s reds endearing.
“Sherlock! What’s wrong? Have I hurt you?!” William cried out in panic.
Catching his breath, Sherlock replied with a shaky voice, “Your teeth…”—he moved a hand to rub gently at the base of his shaft—“c- curl your lips around your teeth.”
Using his tail, William moved Sherlock until he could get at his face and slapped a big sloppy peck on his cheek.
“Thank you, Sherlock. I’m sorry for hurting you.”
“Hnngghh- hah- no problem. Jus- just keep goin’. Please-” he squeaked out in response.
William quickly manoeuvred them back into their previous position, wasting not another second before he was back on Sherlock’s cock. Following the human’s advice and curling his lips back to cover his teeth, William started in earnest. Angling his head as he sucked, experimenting with more forceful suction and flicking his pointed tongue against his tip before pushing his tongue into Sherlock’s oozing, narrow slit. At this, Sherlock’s thrashing and scratching began again in earnest, his shaking body and crescendoing moans were telltale signs of his imminent release.
William retracted his tongue in time and at the peak of Sherlock’s cries, he climaxed so hard he swore he’d blacked out for a second. William popped off his spent cock with a wet, echoing pop and released Sherlock from his tail. The ravenette, like a marionette with its strings cut, dropped into waiting arms. With William’s arms around his waist, he nuzzled into Sherlock’s neck, mindful of his horns. He sucked gently and left open mouthed kisses in his wake. Sherlock limply wrapped his arms around William’s head. Trying to process what had just happened to him.
Still being held in William’s arms, he wrapped his legs around his waist while he allowed William to move the both of them over to the furs he had first woken up on. He lowered them both until Sherlock’s back was resting against the plush sheet of furs.
William was resting on top of Sherlock, still kissing and licking without crushing the man below him, tail swishing happily behind him. Sherlock wrapped his arms around William’s strong back, chest still heaving from his spectacular orgasm.
“Did I please you, Dear?” asked William, hot breath fanning against Sherlock’s flushed skin.
“Please me? By Gods, I’ve never had such mind-blowin’ sex before,” gaped Sherlock, mind still reeling.
William smirked into the underside of his jaw, his tail picking up momentum. He was still painfully hard but after his amateur mistake that ended with him accidentally hurting Sherlock, he didn’t wish to cause anymore distress by trying to relieve himself.
“Uhh, I can feel yer own thing against me there. Are we… not going to go any further?” Sherlock asked tentatively.
“Would it please you to go further?” William sounded genuinely curious, with an edge of concern tinging his voice.
Sherlock gave an inward sigh. What was he, a virgin maiden? Of course he wanted to go further, who’d be satisfied with a bit of licking and blowing? He’d put Sherlock into this state so he needed to get him out of it. Grabbing William by the cheeks he pressed his lips against the blond’s.
“Yes, please,” he sighed breathily. Fire reignited in his own loins at the idea of finally getting what he had been waiting for.
William’s hesitation melted away at Sherlock’s confirmation. He reattached their lips with a renewed vigour, their tongues rubbed and danced before William wrapped his lengthy one around Sherlock’s short, mortal tongue. After his first climax, Sherlock was feeling better and in his right mind, William must’ve gotten rid of his aphrodisiac saliva because despite all this lapping at each other, his body hadn’t come alight from anything other than his own consensual arousal rather than an immediate urge for release.
Both men moaned into their primal dance of tongues and teeth before William was pulling back to trail more carnations down Sherlock’s skin. Feeling very self-conscious, Sherlock bit his lip and tried to suppress his mortifying sounds. It was okay when he wasn’t sober but now he was and he didn’t wish to sound so needy. This didn’t please William as he tsked beneath his breath, clawed fingers were prying Sherlock’s mouth open in an instant followed by a comment of “I wish you wouldn’t deprive me of your sinful melodies” and that was all it took for Sherlock to release all his inhibitions and sing for William like his own finely crafted stringed instrument.
When he was satisfied that Sherlock wouldn’t try to hide his moans anymore, he returned to gripping Sherlock in place. As he continued further down on his voyage, he allowed his breath to ghost over Sherlock’s half aroused cock, breathing sensually against it, not satisfied until it was twitching weakly in response to such seduction.
He pressed a gentle kiss to the tip before vanishing down between Sherlock’s thighs. Readjusting his position he suddenly bent Sherlock by his waist and hoisted him up so that his thighs were flung over his shoulders, one arm wrapped around his middle to keep him secure.
Sherlock’s protests and whines of shock were cut short when he felt a thumb with a shortened nail (how considerate) was pushing against his puckered ring of muscle tentatively. Oh. Oh. Oh Lord above was he going to do what he thought he was going to do—? Sherlock’s train of thought was cut short when a sculpted nose was pressed into his perineum and a pair of hot lips were flush with his entrance, then just as suddenly, a wet tongue was licking against it.
“Oh! Mmh- ah! W- William, n- not there!” Sherlock squirmed.
William paused briefly, voice muffled, “Do you not like it?”
“It- it’s just- it feels weird…” Sherlock whined.
Taking it that Sherlock didn’t hate such actions, William plunged his eager tongue into Sherlock’s tight heat, groaning at the sensation of his wet muscle being strangled by Sherlock’s tight walls. He stayed cautious and didn’t venture too deeply at first, opting instead to rub his tongue around just past his tight and wet rim. Sherlock gripped the furs beneath him, tears slipped from his eyes at the feeling of his hole being breached by such a thick, wet, fleshy muscle. Every whimper, whine and groan helped ease William’s worries as he pushed his inhuman tongue in a few more centimetres, thrusting it in and out, every ‘in’ brought him deeper and slathered Sherlock’s walls in more and more viscous saliva.
William was unsure if it would even be safe to push his tongue any further but driven by instinct he continued to edge in a little further, almost as if he was searching for something—for what, he wasn't sure. Until he was. His tongue had met a peculiar raised bump in its exploration and when he slid his tongue over it—curious at the change in relief from flat to raised—his head was crushed between two solid thighs and a wanton moan from the man whose anus he was a solid 5 centimetres deep in.
Sherlock’s right hand shot from where it was clenching at the covers to grasp at blond strands at the feeling of his prostate being stimulated, yanking hard at the threads of gold beneath his fingers. His head was thrown back and his veins were bulging. He gave a weak buck of his hips.
”Ooh- hngh! Yes!! Haah- there! Gods above- ngh”
It dawned on William then, that this must be where a male felt the most pleasure through anal penetration. Sherlock almost regretted his previous moans of encouragement when William’s tongue turned ruthless. He unrelentlessly rubbed and prodded his sensitive bundle of nerves until Sherlock had almost ripped the hair from his scalp as he had his second orgasm of the night.
William moaned in pleasure, a deep rumble from his throat, knowing he was pleasing his mate excellently. Carefully, he extracted his tongue from Sherlock’s twitching and trembling hole, worried about overstimulating him to the point of pain, and loosened the grip Sherlock had on him with both his hand and thighs.
He set Sherlock’s lower body back onto the furs, trusting fully that the man before him was prepared to receive him in full. Sherlock was dazed and briefly entertained the thoughts that it was time to rest now and that he could taste the dragon dick another time; he was spent and exhausted after two of the most mind-addling, brain-frazzling, wit-robbing orgasms of his entire life.
It was his own fault for harbouring such useless optimism because when he somehow regained the last brain cell that had temporarily blacked out and lifted his head, he was greeted by the sight of William: monstrous dick in hand with bulging thick veins that was weeping in great amounts at his engorged head.
Sherlock nearly jumped out of his skin at the sight because despite having had William’s long and thick dragon tongue shoved up his ass mere moments ago, one could not have called it adequate preparation for the extra limb William was decidedly about to thrust into him.
As if the terrifyingly monstrous dick wasn’t bad enough, to top it all off, Sherlock, like an absolute moron, began to hiccup from the shock of seeing it. A hand shot up to cover his traitorous mouth but it was too late, William had already paused his own languid stroking to gaze down at him with lust-addled reds and saint-like concern. Sherlock was now scarlet from embarrassment and not the arousal.
“Are you quite alright, Dear? Do you wish for me to stop?” If Sherlock wasn’t so terribly mortified at his hiccuping, he would’ve noticed the backflip his heart had done at William’s kind concern.
Not trusting himself to respond verbally, Sherlock just shook his head. He was terrified of the size but he trusted in William to treat him lovingly as he had been doing so far (also was he going to add to his mortification by blue-balling William? Over his dead body, he would!).
William gave a half-hearted nod, clearly he had lost his mind a little at the prospect of finally entering Sherlock with his own rock hard cock that had been left abandoned for far longer than he would’ve liked.
Sherlock, who was unfortunately still hiccuping, relaxed his straining neck and plopped himself back down on the furs, hand still covering his mouth to try and stifle his cock-softening sounds. He moved his limp, still trembling legs and wrapped them around William’s waist, heel of his foot digging into the small of William’s back as further encouragement.
William stopped pumping his cock after he’d smeared enough of his own fluids along his shaft. Magically shortening the nails of his left hand, he pushed them back into Sherlock’s hole, working them until he could fit four inside. When Sherlock’s rim was gaping and wide, William gave a satisfied low purr and Sherlock could physically see the rumble in William’s throat.
The dragon shimmied himself closer and aligned his leaking head with Sherlock’s eager entrance. Sherlock had been expecting a gradual stretch—a careful, timid ease of the blond’s cock into his virgin hole—such actions would’ve been in line with William’s previous tenderness. Instead William had plunged the entirety of his member into Sherlock with such force that his hiccups had been purged and in their was place was an unexpected loud, debauched cry of William’s name and his third sinful orgasm of their carnal rondeau.
It was then that Sherlock shut off and William had lost all control. His technique lost to the primal instinct to mate and claim as he thrust and pounded like a feral beast in heat. Sherlock’s voice was all but lost in their vicious intercourse and all he could do was whimper and moan, weak as a newborn foal as his body was rocked in tandem with William’s powerful slamming of his hips.
The dragon fell forward in his fervour, left hand releasing Sherlock’s bruised hip in favour of cradling Sherlock’s ragdolling head—his last coherent thought was to protect Sherlock and prevent him from smashing his head into the ground. His incoherent thoughts led him to chomp down on Sherlock’s already marred skin to leave even more bruising love bites, to mark and claim and own the man beneath him.
This thought had him biting until his teeth were breaking the abused skin and leaving permanent scars. Blood trickled down from the bites in strong rivulets, smearing and mixing with Sherlock’s sweat and drying tears, leaving mesmerising patterns in their wake.
When William finally came to after his nth orgasm, Sherlock had long since passed out, his spent cock was hung loosely about his thighs. Panting furiously and greatly alarmed at the sight before him, William pulled out his flaccid member. He cringed internally at the wet squelching sounds and the white stickiness that flowed out in great amounts from Sherlock’s puffy, swollen hole. It seemed he’d failed spectacularly at pulling out on time and treating Sherlock delicately as he had first intended. He had grossly underestimated the pleasures of sexual intercourse and what being in the throes of illicit pleasure did to one’s mind.
Despite feeling immensely guilty at his treatment of Sherlock, he couldn’t deny that the debauched look before him was worth every bite and bruise. Sherlock was splayed out temptingly beneath him, legs spread wide with viscous, gooey liquid seeping from his gaping hole, his thighs too were covered in unknown bodily fluids (whether it was Sherlock’s or his, he couldn’t tell), his cock was soft but soaked and his chest… oh his chest, all shiny and wet, and sin and vice wrapped in human flesh. It was a view that was stimulating enough for William’s member to twitch in interest. He had to physically hit his phallus for fear of pouncing on the unconscious man once more.
Every inch of skin from Sherlock’s pecs to his under jaw was plastered with varying shades of reds and purples along with red teeth marks. William gasped in horror at this, he had bitten hard enough to break the skin so deeply, the bites were bound to scar.
William lightly snapped his fingers and willed for Sherlock’s body to become clean and fresh (his own included), reality heeded his call and Sherlock’s body was free of its sticky remnants and sweaty sheen. He made sure the cave stayed warm enough that Sherlock wouldn’t fall ill while he rested, then he pulled the animal fur blanket up over the two of them as he settled into place atop Sherlock’s chest. Another purr came as he started to gently lick over Sherlock’s wounds in an attempt to heal them, switching the properties in his saliva.
Nuzzling into Sherlock’s neck and feeling his calm pulse William murmured quietly, “Sleep restfully, my Beloved.”
William smiled against his neck. How delightful. Hundreds and hundreds of years had passed before he had finally found a mate of his own—finally, he would belong to someone and they would belong entirely to him. His only one on the entire continent and vast universe that he could truly call his own.