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He could smell it.
A damp, earthy tone. Dark and deep and sharp as chilled silver. Like a blades edge, leveled to his throat. Like molten metal hissing through a hearth. Like––
Grimm burst into the room in a flaring burst of capes and flames. "My dear Wyrm," He crooned. His tongue flickered from his mouth, tasting the air. The scent was so thick he was nearly chewing on it. So sharp, so tangy, so weighted with vibrant, unspeakable sin. He could barely see through it. The entire world, so absolute, so bathed in writhing crimson. His chest trembled with his own chirring purr. "What a delicious nightmare you're having."
Beneath the blankets of nightmare–– the Wyrm-King startled awake.
Soul filled the bedchamber. Grimm rattled with the violence of his laughter as it burned into his vision. Silver and white, sharp and deadly as the Wyrm itself. It speared through the air like jaws clamping shut, barely snapping closed around the wisp of his retreating cloak.
"Now, Wyrn," he cooed, sickly sweet. His chitin itched. It crawled. The nightmares bubbled from between his fangs, from out his shuddering spiracles, bursting at the fine seams of his delicate mortal form. He felt, at once, the sheer awareness of how his vessel was simply inadequate–– "That is no way to greet a visitor! Especially one you have so kindly invited in."
What else was a nightmare that potent, but an invitation? What was a moth, but a starving thing streaking for the light? What was he, if he did not answer that call?
The Wyrm should have known better than to dare dream, than to dare sleep.
(His sister was not so kind, in her own starvation and greed.)
A low chitter filled the bedchamber. It was less than a purr. Less than a murmur. More like a rumble of the earth itself, threatening to collapse. The God-King rose from his slumber with a great many raising of legs, a thrashing of his silvering, coiling tail, and––
And––
Grimm blinked. Breathed in deeply. He flicked out his tongue, dragging it across the roof of his mouth. It clung there as if sticky. Slick.
"Ah––" Grimm started. He felt a mite foolish. There was no helping it. He only blinked dumbly down at the shifting bedsheets, eyes wide. "Nitor?"
The chittering began again. This time less a growl and more a slow hiss, almost sluggish with sleep. Grimm blinked away spots in his vision as the conjured soul dissipated. The Wyrm finally propped himself up into a proper coil. He glared. "Of course it is you," He snapped. "Only you would dare call us by that name."
It carried none of the proper weight to it. None of the steel. None of the edge. Grimm shifted uncomfortably. He could not shift his eyes away. How could he? Was he supposed to do something besides stare, when each little rippling shift of the Wyrm's scales glistened with light beyond his natural luminesce, when the barest change to his half-hearted curl revealed... "Are you gravid?"
"You––" The Wyrm sputtered. "Am I––"
He made as if to curl tighter. Grimm darted forward, clawing at the silken bedsheets. The Wyrm flailed and snarled, but his thrashing claws did not even graze his carapace–– glancing blows of his tail slid off him, no more harmful than a dizzied lumafly in the breeze––
Grimm pried the Wyrm open and stared.
"You're full of eggs," He said, breathless. Something churned under his shell. Deeper even than mortal flesh or blood. Deeper still. Grimm swallowed thickly as the Heart blazed and pulsed at attention, barely beneath he surface.
White hands settled on his. Grimm braced himself, but they did only that. Though the Wyrm squeezed tightly, claw tips digging into his wrists, they did not move to tear him off of him. That did not mean the Wyrm was not fully spitting with anger though, mandibles snapping barely inches from Grimm's throat.
"I am not gravid, you insolent jester," He snarled, "My Root would not–– she cannot place eggs within me." He squirmed a little. Grimm almost startled as scales slid along his side, over his thigh. The tail rested in a deceptively loose curl there. Wyrm turned his face away. "...They are only her seeds. Absent of child, unpollinated. She only wished to... sate an urge."
Grimm tugged delicately. He was firmly locked in place over the Wyrm. "And so she has," He noted. His eyes traced, again, the evidence. If he wasn't certain the action would grant him more than a warning nip, he would have pressed against the prominent little bump nestled within the Wyrm's body. Even without, the eggs–– seeds–– were barely kept inside. Grimm could see them every time the Wyrm breathed too deeply. Every time his trembling legs twitched. It was a wonder the Lady had managed to fit so many inside of her dear lover at all. The slightest press of a claw upon his soft underbelly, and they would come spilling out whether he wanted them to or not. He would have no choice. Such a small mortal vessel, fraying at the edges to hold the Lady Root's primitive burden... Grimm's Heart swelled. "...So she has."
Filled him, full to bursting... and left him there.
Where Grimm caught his scent.
"Say," Grimm said, more quietly than he maybe intended, "You must be rather uncomfortable." More than uncomfortable, judging by his nightmare. And oh, oh, Grimm could still smell it. Taste it. Like a thick wine, sliding down his parched throat. It clung to him so tightly. Wrapped itself around him, whispering for him, to him.
All that hunger, all that starved fear. The clinging weight of a belly filled not with food. The helplessness of a bed cloud-soft. The painful whimpering of something left wanting, the terror of having.
Grimm breathed it in deeply. It curled up and cried on his tongue. The most delicious nightmare he had ever had.
He pressed forward, down, without a dared inch of retreat. "Say," He said, more raggedly than he maybe intended, "You must wish for a helping hand about now."
The Wyrm's claws went punishingly tight. Grimm pulled from their grip without blinking. He pressed the soft pads of his hand down, claws barely tapping the heaving, vulnerable flesh below. He pushed.
Immediately, the Wyrm came alive. His gasping snarl came out more of a shriek, whistling out from grit mandibles. "Do not!" He writhed violently. His tail tightened so harshly Grimm felt the delicate carapace of his vessel's leg crack. His voice went high and tight with panic. "Stop!"
Grimm lifted his hand. Unable to blink, unable to breathe, he watched as the first seed slowly disappeared. The Wyrm shivered. His body rolled with the spasms, shuddering in little convulsive waves until the find white shell of her making being sucked back inside his body.
His cock was sliding out. Almost pushed from the sheath as the seed pulled back in, as if its mass returning was simply too much to fit alongside. Precum dripped in a sticky, glowing mess down his shaft. It slipped and slid until Grimm could not tell it apart from the slick still keeping the Wyrm impossibly wet, coating thick and bright between his first set of legs.
Grimm dragged his tongue out. Slid it, slowly, tantalizing, over the roof of his mouth. "Do you truly want me to?" He asked.
He received a shaky hiss. "Do not mock me, Dream-Eater."
"No." He pressed again. A tiny, tiny nudge. It still made the Wyrm squirm, tail coiling impossibly further. Grimm did his best not to let it budge him. No matter how the Wyrm's body reacted. He doubted he would be able to fit one of his cocks within the God-King at the moment, much less both of them. "Answer me, Nitor. Would you like some assistance?"
A silence. Grimm occupied himself with watching the Wyrm's body flex with every breath. Even without outside stimulus, shivers continuously rippled down his vessel. It wanted the eggs–– seeds out. She had already done her part. He had already begun his. All that was left was for him to give in, to give out.
Grimm gently stroked over the mound of his belly. Not pressing, not pushing. Just a gentle stroke, over and over. Petting the softer scales there until the Wyrm's wiggling stilled. "I am not my sister," He reminded quietly.
"...You are the same, with your prices."
That stung, a little. Admittedly. True or not. Grimm continued his light petting. "My price has already been paid in full. I was not lying, dear Wyrm, about the flavor of your flame." He did not dare let his claws wander, even as the Wyrm's body strained for attention. The pale cock stood at its full height below his hand. "Come, dear Wyrm. I offer only my help, this time."
For a moment, he was certain the God-King would not accept. He was prepared for it. The Heart would be sated with the hellfire of his sleeping mind. Whatever his vessel wanted was irrelevant, beyond that.
It startled him deeply when the Wyrm's tail unwound. The pain in Grimm's leg pulsed, without the constant pressure around it, but it was a distant ache. A future problem.
"Fine," The Wyrm snapped. "Just get them out."
Grimm smiled behind his mask. "A good choice, fair King."