Archive of Our Own

Faith was not something a bustling mercenary camp was ever lacking, and Francis’ morning vigils were always heavily attended to by those camped outside the city.

The great horde had arrived the month before at the request of the city’s leaders and Francis definitely had his own strongly-held opinions as to the matter, but his duty to the faith called regardless. The endless squabbling of regional city-states had been going on for decades, ravaging the countryside and making the cleverer mercenary leaders very rich in the process. All kinds had been drawn into the conflict, drawn by the promise of gold or glory and swelling the mercenary bands into true armies, almost walking cities of their own.

Whenever a mercenary company arrived – sometimes for siege, sometimes for barter – the services of the various priestly orders were called upon to offer support and succour for those in need. 

Every morning he was able, he took himself down through the city streets and out past the heavy-barred gate that protected the city from the various sieges it had come under in the past decades. The road was bustling even at this early hour, full of merchants and civilians trying to go about their day as usual in spite of the thousands-strong army camped outside.

The camp sprawled beyond, the mercenaries that couldn’t find accommodation inside the city instead setting up elaborate tents and pavilions in their hundreds, or even thousands.

An army marched on their stomach and the camp was awash in the smells of the cookfires when Francis picked his way through, mercenaries and camp followers alike giving the cleric a polite berth and often giving him a polite nod and bow – others eyed him with suspicion but let him pass nonetheless.

The clearing he usually commandeered was a little ways into the camp, but there was already a small collection of faithful waiting for him. 

Humans stood amongst their counterparts. All kinds of people ended up in mercenary bands, some more than others: Orcs and half-orcs were commonly drawn to the warring trade for their strength and expertise in combat, and elves that eschewed the peaceful solitude of their forest kingdoms sometimes ended up recruited for their superior archery.

Francis himself was human (although he liked to claim drops of elven blood to explain his handsome features) but the robes of the faith allowed him kinship with all of the races of the world. The sun shone across all of the lands and all of her people, and thus so did the faith of the Lord of Light.

Most of those drawn to mercenary work tended to put their faith in the various gods of war and honour, but worship of the Morninglord remained ever-popular for good reason: all men wished to wake and see the sun the night after a hard-won battle.

And so, Francis took his usual spot and gave his usual sermon to the collection of mercenaries who came to pray and receive advice from him.

Mid-morning came and he gave his final blessings to those that requested them — those with lingering injuries from the battles before having arrived outside the city, others seeking spiritual guidance, some even asking about conditions within the city.

Precious few of the mercenaries were actually allowed within the walls. Only those of prestigious enough noble blood (or those with enough funds to pretend they were) were permitted to take refuge within the city, leaving the rest of the rabble to sprawl out in their masses. The city’s population had been swollen by the repeated devastation to the countryside, so space was precious and limited. 

Besides, not having a rowdy, undisciplined army of mercenaries trapped within the walls was a very reasonable measure of security. Even with the peace that was offered to Francis by virtue of his faith, there were times in the camp when he had the uneasy sense of imminent violence, even though none had yet dared to actually assail him.

Francis had been about to make his way back into the city when he felt a presence behind him.

Antonio, the half-minotaur that frequently attended the morning service stood before him, his furred ears flicking and his green eyes glancing around with an uncertain energy that seemed foreign to what Francis had come to know of him.

Antonio had always been a keen, enthusiastic participant of the morning sermons which was hardly a surprise — he was from the distant, sunny south where the lord of light was almost universally worshipped. He was not quite as tall as his bestial heritage might have usually imparted, but his brown curls and long sweeping curved horns peeking out from them along with his tail gave him an appearance that was almost sweet… but undoubtedly would be terrifying to see on the the battlefield.

He’d once shown off his axe to Francis with a great deal of pride, and Francis had made sure to bless it for future battles.

Now he stood almost sheepishly, his tail swishing nervously as he held his plumed hat in-hand. He didn’t wear the flamboyant slashed asymmetric garb common to more audacious – and highly paid – mercenaries, but he was well-dressed for the morning sermon and cut a dashing figure all the same. Even his boots seemed to have been polished for the occasion.

“Ah, Father, I hadn’t meant to frighten you,” the man-bull said sheepishly when Francis turned to him, in the lilting, musical accent of the south. “Merely, ah– Might we discuss this somewhere more private?”

Antonio was giving him a nervous, genuine smile. Francis tilted his head but gestured to where there was a break in the tents surrounding the little clearing.

“Of course, what avails you this morn?” he asked, finding himself preferring the more formal language for the time being. Some found comfort in professionalism, others required more of a personal touch.

Antonio ducked his head a little bit, leaning in closer.

“Father, my comrade–”

Francis raised his eyebrows and Antonio laughed softly.

“My comrade,” he eventually insisted, “is, ah. The landsknecht I mentioned, a few days back?”

Francis hummed noncommittally and watched his face.

“You asked me to pray for him, yes?”

“Quite so! For his health, yes, because he’s, ah. Wyrmkin, you see.”

That definitely earned Francis’ attention. Dragons were great and terrible beasts, and their offspring and kin were relatively rare amongst the halfbloods of the world. It was less surprising one would end up in a mercenary camp, they were generally regarded as hotblooded and fierce people. Francis had never seen on in person, but the idea of them intrigued him to no end. In his younger days he quite fancied himself the idea of stumbling across a wyrm – halfblood or otherwise – and ingratiating himself to it, earning its attention and even affection– 

“Oh? And has he recovered, ser? I have been so very looking forward to meeting this comrade of yours,” Francis teased, lightly, to watch a blush spread across Antonio’s handsome features.

“A-Ah, well. The situation has… Not resolved itself, Father.”

He was trying to skirt around something, and was afraid to bring it up. Francis could read his anxiety in the tense way he held his shoulders.

“The situation being…?”

Antonio flicked his ears in what might have been annoyance, but Francis waited patiently.

“He is wyrmkin, Father,” he reiterated like that was in any way a sufficient explanation, “Which means he is… Affected by his nature, at times. They’re creatures who, mm. How do you say.”

“Ser,” Francis tried to reassure – or perhaps encourage, out of his own undeniable curiosity – him, “Anything you tell me is for the Morninglord’s ears only, there is no shame or secrecy beneath the light of the sun.” One of the first teachings of the faith, and one most central.

“They– He– Lays eggs, Father,” Antonio finally managed after wrestling with himself, “Every few months, on a cycle.”

Francis’ mouth opened in confusion, but Antonio continued right over the top of him.

“–It’s come on since we’ve been camped here, and normally the situation is resolved naturally but he’s found himself. Ah, there is a term– ‘Eggbound’, I believe?”

“Eggbound,” Francis repeated, mouth strangely dry. Fear, he rationalised to himself. The wrath of a wyrm was something of legend, and surely their offspring would share such fury. He cleared his throat and straightened. “Antonio, ser, how serious is this situation your comrade is in?”

At this, Antonio broke eye contact and glanced away, as if to keep an eye on the rest of the camp while he spoke in hushed tones.

“Word is going around that Captain Zwingli wants to decamp by the end of the week, that payment is being negotiated for a campaign. He’ll need his landsknechts and if Gilbert cannot fight, then…”

Gilbert. Francis took note of the name for later but followed the thread of logic Antonio was weaving.

“...He will be left behind unless he can resolve the situation. Something like that, yes?”

Antonio’s smile was tight and grim. It looked slightly unnatural on his face, usually relaxed and friendly as the man was at the morning sermons.

Francis rubbed his chin in thought. The mercenaries had very limited rights to entry into the city to keep them out of trouble with the population. Outside the pubs and bars and brothels they tended to frequent there were legal restrictions on their movement to minimise interactions with civilians. Morninglord forbid the barbarians enjoy the fruits of civilisation before they go to hack each other to pieces on a field.

Francis would prefer to be able to assist Antonio’s comrade in some place more private than the middle of the encampment. He would have to make arrangements to host them at his temple.

“Antonio, ser.”

“Yes, Father?” He was clearly waiting for a decision, tail thwipping back and forth with anticipation and anxiety.

“Should the situation not resolve itself overnight, bring your comrade to my temple by dawn. We have a clinic there, I’ll send word to the gate guards to allow your passa– A-aïe!”

Francis didn’t have time to react before he was crushed into a hug by strong arms which made him wheeze and urgently pat the man-bull’s back to try and earn his release.

“Oh, Father, thank you so much,” Antonio said once he had finally taken mercy upon Francis’ poor ribcage and released him, his soft leather-like hands on his shoulders and green eyes wide. 

Francis reached to cup one of his cheeks and kissed the other with a reassuring smile. His pride in being a priest was in no small part due to the earnest appreciation that the commonfolk had for the services he was able to perform, be they sermons or acts of healing or simple words of comfort. It brought him warmth in his chest in the same way the sun’s rays warmed the skin.

“May you walk in the light of the Lord, ser,” Francis said by way of prayer, which Antonio echoed before he stepped back.

“Thank you again, Father–”

“No, ser, thank you. You are a good friend for your comrade. I’m sure it’s something he will appreciate.”

Antonio laughed at that.

“Oh, I’m sure he’s going to disagree with that assessment. Lord willing he will pass his e– Situation and we won’t have to find out about it.”

A feeling of something tight and unusual coiled in Francis’ belly at the idea and he couldn’t quite identify it. It was not that he wanted Antonio’s comrade to suffer more than strictly necessary. Such a thing would be unthinkable.

No, it was moreso a burning sort of… Curiosity, perhaps. Wyrmkin were uncommon, and Francis had personally never encountered one before. To know that there was someone so unusual just nearby, and that he might have the opportunity to explore them in such an intimate fashion…

“Lord willing, ser,” he agreed, with a furtive sense of hope.

The following morning Francis rose with the sun and joined his brethren in their morning rituals in the courtyard just outside the temple, facing east and bowing to greet the Morninglord’s daily rebirth with quiet prayers.

He had told his colleagues that he was expecting visitors, so he was allowed to slip away before the prayers were finished and ready the room he had reserved: The temple took in all manner of people seeking healing, and some required a degree of privacy. He’d put in a reservation for one of their maternity rooms, which was neatly and appropriately appointed for such a purpose. Blessedly largely sound-proof, too.

When a younger order-brother came bustling to alert him that a big bull had come knocking, Francis had been in the middle of making the last preparations and so sent him away to greet the visitor himself.

There was madness in Antonio’s eyes when Francis found him on the steps of the temple entrance, and a distinctly humanoid-figure wrapped in a simple brown blanket cradled carefully in his arms. A long, white scaled tail emerged at the bottom alongside a set of matching clawed feet, but the blanket was pulled up and over the person’s head to conceal them.

“F-Father!” Antonio grinned at him broadly, his ears flicking, “I’ve brought him!”

There was indistinct grumbling from the wrapped figure, and the spaded tip of the emerging tail visibly twitched with what might have been annoyance.Francis beamed at him and gestured for Antonio to follow him.

“I’ve prepared a room, ser, just this way– Is this your comrade you mentioned? Gilbert, was it?”

There was a muffled hiss and a short “You’ve been talking about me?” that was covered by Antonio shifting his grip on the wrapped figure as he followed Francis into the temple and towards the private rooms.

“Thank you for being ready for us, Father, I had to wrangle him myself,” he said with a laugh, taking a seat on the bed with the wrapped bundle cradled across his lap protectively. It stirred warmth in Francis’ heart to see how much care Antonio had for his comrade– almost as much as it stirred his curiosity.

“Mm, and let us see this fearsome beast, perhaps? I’ve been quite looking forward to meeting him,” Francis said, pulling over a chair to sit on.

“Ah, right! I wrapped him up so we wouldn’t draw too much attention, you see,” Antonio explained, gingerly pulling the blanket away from the head of the comrade he had apparently kidnapped – exposing white, swept back horns that crowned a head of equally white hair and a surprisingly human face glaring up at Antonio with startlingly red eyes.

He was handsome, a realisation Francis was struck by, an androgynous sort of prettiness that was uncommon amongst the beastfolk. His skin was pale as milk and white scales crept across his brow and temples, half-hidden by his hair, and it could only be assumed that the rest of his body was similarly bespeckled by draconic features.

The wyrm was glaring at him, too, when Francis met his eyes: Slitted pupils dark against irises the same colour as rubies, his brows furrowed and the sharp line of his mouth set into a deadly scowl of displeasure.

Francis beamed at him.

“What a joy to finally meet you, ser,” he said in what he hoped to be a pleasant tone, “Your comrade has said much about your fine combat prowess, and I found myself quite enchanted by his tales.”

The wyrmkin turned his glare on him, but Francis spotted the way his toe-claws flexed with what might have been pride.

“You’re the cleric, aren’t you. The one Toni keeps going to see.”

“Many people visit for the morning prayers,” he replied easily, giving the wyrm a sunny smile that was only met with a suspicious scowl.

“For some reason,” Gilbert insisted, but Francis sensed little heat there, thankfully. Gilbert was eyeing him with a curiosity only barely hidden behind his apparent hostility.

Antonio was nodding along.

“Clerics of the Morninglord are renowned healers,” he said, giving Gilbert’s shoulder a squeeze in what was likely supposed to be reassurance but only earned a soft hiss of discomfort.

“I don’t need healing I need to—“

Francis got to watch a flush of pink spread across Gilbert’s pale cheeks and he felt his heart flutter a little.

“Antonio has informed me of the predicament,” he cut in, smoothly, “I’m very sorry for the situation, ser, but we are all trained in midwifery here: The Morninglord celebrates all new life as holy as the rising sun.”

Gilbert leveled him with a cautious glare.

“There is no ‘new life’ here. Just— Passing waste.”

Antonio rolled his eyes and interjected, “That is not passing. So we ask the good Father for his expertise.”

Francis distinctly had the impression that Gilbert was hardly asking at all, and was entirely being manhandled by his bullish comrade. Antonio was correct, though, if the natural process of expelling the ‘waste’ was not occurring, it would require something… more manual.

He shuffled the chair a touch closer and tentatively reached out.

“Might I take a look at the situation? I’ll not touch you more than necessary, ser, you have my word,” he said to try and reassure the wary wrym.

Gilbert’s narrowed gaze was cautious and the coil of his tail was uncertain, but the grip Antonio had on him offered precious little options to escape. He nodded, nose wrinkling in distaste. 

“…Fine. Not my fault if it disgusts you.”

Francis smiled at him and gingerly took hold of the blanket’s edges to unwrap the prize that had been offered to him.

Gilbert was just as pale everywhere else. Peeling the fabric away revealed that he was half-dressed in some basic form of decency in a white nightshirt and the black hose loosely drawn up around his hips was slashed with white fabric. Beneath that was porcelain skin that flushed with pink and prickled in the early morning air of the room, despite the warm light filtering through the windows. 

The problem became immediately obvious: Gilbert’s middle was as round as any woman close to due, his hose pulled up around his hips but no further due to the grand swell that was barely hidden by his nightshirt. 

Francis’ hand hesitated and Gilbert squirmed slightly as Antonio cooed as one might to a child who had skinned their knee.

“See, Gilberto? The good Father isn’t upset.”

“Sh-shut up and let him work,” the wyrm hissed, and now that he was unwrapped Francis could see the way his legs blended into scales and became more draconic in nature the further down they went. He hummed to himself and turned to address Gilbert, keeping his hands a polite and proper distance from the swell of his belly.

“I fear I am going to need to inspect you more fully, ser.” It wasn’t a lie. For all of Francis’ curiousity, he did have a duty as a healer first and foremost. “Are you able to stand, or—?”

He nodded meaningfully to the grip Antonio had on Gilbert, the way he was cradling him. Francis watched those strong hands tense briefly, and the flick of Antonio’s ears as he huffed, which Gilbert echoed with his own.

“Hah. Sure. Probably. Big guy seems to think I’m fragile in this state. Mind sitting me up?” he asked Antonio, in a slightly lighter tone than he had been using previously. The bull looked conflicted and shifted his grip slightly.

“But, the eggs…?”

“Aren’t fertile, like I’ve said a dozen times before. Not particularly fragile either, I’ll have you know.”

That last bit was directed towards Francis, who nodded along which seemed to mollify the wyrm slightly. Antonio at least finally acquiesced and used his strength to carefully remove Gilbert from his lap and instead set him against the pillows at the head of the bed, which Gilbert gingerly propped himself up against. Francis caught a glimpse of discomfort, but didn’t comment for fear of bringing back that earlier wariness.

In this position the swell of Gilbert’s belly was unmistakably gravid and Francis could tell that he was struggling not to squirm beneath the eyes of both himself and Antonio, who stood at the bedside as a fearsome presence, as if he suspected Francis of any untoward actions. He would be correct, of course, but he didn’t need to know that.

Francis gave Gilbert a reassuring smile and turned to the bull.

“I am going to have to ask for privacy, ser, for intimate matters.”

Antonio’s ears flicked, and Francis saw the flash of possessiveness cross his features.

“I– Are you sure, Father?”

Gilbert rolled his eyes.

“Go on, big guy. Make yourself comfortable outside or somethin’. Take a walk in town. God knows we’re not allowed in here usually,” he butted in, crossing his arms and leveling Antonio with a stern look. 

To Francis’ knowledge landsknechts did not generally have authority over their mercenary colleagues, but Gilbert seemed to command enough respect that Antonio begrudgingly inclined his head, his horns bobbing as he visibly schooled his expression away from a disbelieving sneer. Interesting.

“...Fine. But if you need anything–”

“I’ll scream.” Gilbert paused. “...Well, I might be screaming anyway. You know how eggs are. I’ll scream for you if I need you, how about that?”

This hardly seemed to reassure Antonio, but it was enough to have him bow most graciously – while peering suspiciously at Francis – and take his leave, shutting the door behind him with a definitive click .

Left alone with the wyrm, Francis allowed himself to take his time and have a proper look at his charge.

Gilbert was visibly uncomfortable, and the tension radiated out from his swollen middle to the rest of his body, even down to the reptilian feet that curled as Francis observed them. Somewhere around the mid-thigh, hidden by the hose he had attempted to put on – presumably in the name of basic decency – lovely pale skin transitioned to speckled pearlescent scales, down to clawed feet that seemed quite deadly if they were to be turned against an opponent. 

“The problem’s up this way, doc,” Gilbert said, distracting Francis from the thoughts of how nice those white scales would look splashed with blood. He returned his attention to the matter at hand.

His patient looked rather sheepish and he gestured vaguely towards himself, as if unwilling to directly acknowledge the situation.

“Ah. Might I inspect directly, then?” Francis asked, pausing long enough to receive a hesitant nod before he took the hem of the undershirt and pulled it up to reveal the skin beneath. Gilbert was averting his eyes, but Francis hummed sympathetically as the gravid swell revealed itself.

He very much looked like he was with child, the poor creature. Francis felt him shudder in mute discomfort as he gingerly pressed his fingers against the warm skin, feeling the weight and fullness that lay within.

“–Nnnot. Usually like this,” Gilbert provided, as if sensing his racing thoughts. He was still stubbornly glaring at the wall rather than making eye contact. “Usually just a few develop. You go off somewhere private to, erm, get rid of them, and then you go back to normal. But I…”

Francis already had his suspicions.

“You’ve been on the march, and now at camp you cannot find that somewhere private you need.”

Gilbert nodded, flushing, so Francis continued.

“...Which has resulted in them…”

“Accumulating,” Gilbert said with a croak of embarrassment, flushing again. Francis saw him take a side-look at his belly and visibly cringe. He took his fingers away from the taut skin and tapped his chin in thought.

“In normal cases of, euh, delayed delivery , shall we say, I would prescribe some.” He wiggled his fingers suggestively. “Intimate behaviours, with the matron’s partner of choice. To get things moving, as it were.”

He was aware Gilbert was glaring at him, burning red.

“We, uh. Tried that, a bit.”

“‘We’?”

A moment of hesitation.

“...Antonio, and I. Nothing… Extravagant, but. We tried.”

Of course. Francis didn’t smile despite the confirmation of the hunch he had been nursing, and instead was politely and professionally interested. For the health of the patient, of course. Unlike some other gods, the Morninglord did not feel the need to persecute the intimate affairs of those who might be unmarried – All those living within the rays of His light were His children. Francis was quite a believer in that sense.

“Ah, and Antonio is your…?”

Gilbert snorted a laugh.

“Ha. Not really, no. He’s actually got eyes for my cousin, y’know. Real aristocratic prissy kind of guy. He’s serving to save up gold and glory to court him.”

Francis’ eyebrows raised. 

“And yet you…?”

“What?” Gilbert bristled. “He’s invested in making sure I stay alive so I can put in a good word for him. And he’s a good comrade.” There was a pause. “He’s got… Nice fingers.. It’s not like half the other mercs aren’t doing the same thing.”

He said it with a shrug, but there was a note of fondness there. Ah, so they were comrades in the truest sense of the word, but there was little love there beyond simple mutual friendship and affection. Francis felt a slight bubble of worry deflate in his chest. 

The other matter at hand rose to the forefront of his mind.

“Ah, was it just his fingers you tried with?”

The flush returned, but Gilbert seemed on steadier footing now. Perhaps he was reassured now the parameters of his relationship with Antonio were clarified.

“...Yes, I suppose?”

Francis hummed thoughtfully.

“It’s not impossible that you may just need more direct stimulat–”

“Are you going to fuck me or what, doc?” Gilbert interrupted, with a savage, knowing grin.

Francis squawked, and then laughed, which was joined by Gilbert’s thin chuckle of amusement.

“Come on, Father. I could tell you’ve been eyeing me up the entire time, ‘nd it’s not like I’ve never done it before to induce a clutch.”

His mouth was suddenly very dry at the thought, but he was nodding along as if his mind was not occupied with conjuring images. He swallowed thickly.

“Ah, of course! Then you would have no objections with me, euh, taking a look, shall we say? It’s not often wyrms enter our halls, you see,” Francis explained, spreading his hands in a gesture to placate any of that snark he had come to expect from his patient – Gilbert surprised him by flashing his teeth in a grin.

His hands crept past the swell of his belly and to the hose that had been ineffectually pulled up over his hips, wiggling a bit to indicate that he needed some assistance. Francis was quick to oblige, fingers careful not to tear the hose as he pulled them down and tried not to get Gilbert’s coiling tail caught in the material as well.

“–Was wonderin’ when you were going to offer it, really,” Gilbert was saying, his tone amused. He still sounded strained, and by the time Francis was slipping his clawed feet through the leg holes of the hose he was slightly winded, cupping his belly and cringing slightly. “If Toni hadn’t gotten into his head that I needed proper ‘healing’–” He rolled his eyes. “–In another couple of days I would have had to ask him for it.”

“And you didn’t before because…?” Francis knew it was impolite – and unprofessional, no less – to pry about the specifics of his patient’s relationship, but Gilbert didn’t seem to mind.

“Have you seen the size of him? I wasn’t sure he’d fit. But, y’know. Desperate times, desperate measures. And here you are, offering me help with an implement that won’t break me in half.” He paused, eyeing Francis critically. “Well, hopefully not. We can workshop it.”

“I’m honoured by your faith, ser, but I can quite assure you that I am not overlarge, nor am I lacking in any capacity,” Francis reassured him, stroking his fingers up the length of the bare scaled legs and appreciating the shifting muscle he could feel beneath. When Gilbert was not so burdened with a clutch he must have been a fearsome sight clad in his striped regalia and zweihander.

“Mm. Not lacking in practice then, I suppose?” Gilbert seemed distantly amused, his verbal banter pointed but plainly not aiming to do harm to Francis’ ego. He was spreading his thighs at Francis’ touch, revealing a curious slit between his legs that was speckled with smooth white scales the same as what crept across his face.

“I confess a lack of familiarity with your people, but you will find I am a quick study. May I?” Francis asked, managing to pull his eyes away from the remarkably pretty slit to ask for permission.

Gilbert was visibly flushed and watching him with slitted pupils, but was not nearly as nervous as Francis had initially assumed from his behaviour. It was becoming clear that it was not for lack of interest in sex, but rather simple discomfort in his gravid state that had earned the previous irritability. 

Gilbert nodded, and shuffled a bit so his back was better supported by the pillows. Francis could only imagine that the weight of his clutch would be weighing heavy within his womb, and the thought made his fingers twitch where they rested at the wyrm’s thighs.

“Go for it. Not that it’s anything that different from normal, really.”

Gilbert was correct. From simple outside observation, aside from the hairless speckles of scales, the cleft between his legs seemed much the same as any other person’s. Francis took the offered opportunity to seat himself on the bed between the spread legs and tucked a lock of hair behind his ear while he leaned close to get a better look.

His fingers traced along the pearlescent scales that crept up from Gilbert’s reptilian legs and made the skin of his groin smooth to the touch, his cleft curiously sealed tighter than that of a regular person’s. Not abnormally so, but it similarly seemed vertically longer than others he had inspected and interacted with in the past. 

Francis hmmed with some curiosity, and then cast his eyes downwards towards where Gilbert’s tail emerged, and…

“Ser, you appear to be missing an anus.”

The wyrm burst into laughter and peered over the roundness of his middle so he could give Francis a harmless thwap around the head, lips curved in amusement.

“That’s my – Uh, don’t know if Common has a word for it. But I have one, it’s just– Inside, with the rest of it.”

Francis’ finger traced along the line of the cleft, enjoying the smoothness and the way he could feel Gilbert shiver beneath the touch. 

“The rest of it?”

“The usual arrangement, mostly. You’ll see.”

Gilbert seemed disinclined to specify further, and Francis was more than inclined to take it as an invitation to investigate the situation at hand.

His other fingers joined the first as he stroked the smooth flesh, petting the scales and feeling the subtle trembles of the drake beneath his focus, and then he used two of his fingers to frame the length of the slit, parting them and making the cleft open to reveal pale, pink skin just on the inside.

Already he could feel the warmth emanating from the cleft and he carefully slid a finger between the clefted lips to encourage them to part more easily. Even now he could feel the distinct wet inside, hot and tight against the invading digit as he worked it in to pet the soft, slightly pulsing walls from within.

Gilbert sighed, not unpleasantly, and Francis could see the thrum of tension in the muscle of his thighs, and the hand that still lingered by his head twitched as he worked his finger inside the clenching heat.

“Y-Yeah, like that. C’n probably get another one in there…”

Who was he to disobey? Francis sunk the second in along with the first and he found that he couldn’t resist himself; he ducked his head to kiss the open slit and work his tongue against the length of it, making Gilbert coil and having to muffle a shout. A hand was back in his hair, neither pulling him away nor pulling him close.

He paid special attention to a curious little sheath-like structure nestled at the crux of the slit, exposed to the outside by his ministrations and the flush of arousal that was turning the pretty pink insides a brighter colour. Francis laved his tongue against it and was rewarded with a distinct squawk and bodily shiver.

“D-Do that again, Father—“

Gilbert couldn’t see the grin Francis wore but the hand in his hair twisted as if he had. He obeyed and returned his mouth to his slit, lapping and working it against the hot flesh until it seemed to burgeon beneath his tongue and unfurled in a way that Francis had quite literally never seen before in a humanoid:

It was perhaps the length of his forefinger and the same pink as the rest of the wyrm’s sex, but it pulsed with visible sensitivity and twitched in response to Francis’ exhale of surprise.

“Ser, your—“

“Th-that’s my… thing. Don’t kn-know the word in Common. Normal. Feels good when you— touch it? Please?” 

Gilbert was shaking with the intensity of his desire, and Francis could see the tension of it in his thighs and the strain of his voice. What a sweet thing, to have been shown such a unique expression of arousal. He turned to kiss Gilbert’s thighs and obediently returned to working his fingers in the slick entrance beneath the protrusion. A clitoris, perhaps? It seemed anatomically analogous.

“Of course,” he reassured him, peering down at the twitching little implement that seemed to coil with a mind of its own. Francis hummed to himself to try and assess the best approach, but ended up shrugging and simply leaning in to lap at it with tender licks.

It tasted much like the rest of Gilbert’s sex, being wet and slightly bitter to the tongue but not unpleasantly so. It was warm and pulsing and as Francis delicately took it into his mouth he could feel how hot it was and how it seemed to seek out the heat of his tongue, almost trying to wrap around it.

The hand not fisted in Francis’ hair must have gone to cover Gilbert’s mouth because the yell that the action earned was muffled only barely, hopefully enough that Antonio would not find cause to come barging in. Morninglord knew that it would be difficult to explain why Gilbert was mostly naked and Francis was working his hidden clit down his throat.

Which he was, of course. The protrusion was not so thick as to be difficult to bob his head and take it fully into his mouth, sinking down and feeling it squirm and pulse at the back of his throat and at the same time feeling Gilbert moan and helplessly try to buck against him to try and get deeper.

Gilbert’s tail whipped back and forth and the pitch of his voice climbed higher until Francis gave a solid suck of the clit and worked his fingers inwards to the knuckle at the same time, and he came with such a lovely arch of his body that Francis could only imagine how beautiful the sight might have been if the wyrm were not weighed down by such a heavy clutch.

He swallowed the slick that had poured from the clit-protrusion and discreetly wiped his fingers on the sheets, pulling back enough to see the mess Gilbert had made of his slit and how the aftershocks of orgasm ran through his form…

Alas, there were no signs of those aftershocks condensing into anything resembling contractions.

Francis frowned while Gilbert gave him a hazy look, pupils blown so wide that his eyes were dark blots of ink with a thin ring of red around them.

“Ah, my apologies, ser, it doesn’t seem to have wor—“

“Y’don’t need the pretense to fuck me, you know,” Gilbert interrupted, panting but pleased. “Just give me a minute. Gods, do you do that for every midwifery case?”

Francis fetched a jug of water from the supplies nearby and offered a cup to Gilbert while wiping his mouth. The wyrm took it gratefully.

“Mm. Only for those that may require it.”

“So I’m not special? You wound me, Father. I thought we had something,” Gilbert said harmlessly, swallowing and setting the cup aside as Francis chuckled and reapproached.

“Oh, but you are, ser. You are certainly the only case of being eggbound that I have ever attended to.” He paused and gestured to himself. “I’m going to undress to avoid a mess, is that permissible?”

Gilbert sat up on his elbow, cradling the swell of his belly with his other arm, and looked him up and down.

“I’m sure you priests have mastered the art of fucking with your robes on, but it might be for the better. ‘Nyway, it’s only fair.”

Oh, if only Gilbert knew how right he was. Unlike some other religious orders, followers of the Morninglord had no compunctions in regards to intimate relations— be it with one another, or persons outside the order.

He shed his outer layers to leave himself clad in his shirt and hose, and decided to take those off as well to leave himself bare in the mid-morning light streaming through the window. Gilbert was visibly very appreciative, and tossed away the nightshirt he had been left with initially.

When Francis approached the bed Gilbert raised a finger. 

“One second. Lemme just…”

His movements were heavy and tired but he managed to hoist himself up to his elbows and knees, tail lifting to bare himself and looking over his shoulder at Francis.

“More natural like this, yeah?”

“Quite so,” Francis agreed, moving to the bed behind him. From this angle he could see the heavy swell of his middle pulling his back into a delicious bow, and as he took those sturdy hips in his hands he could see the knit of strong muscles lining his back, and the way the thick scales of his tail ran up the length of his spine uninterrupted.

Were he not burdened with a clutch, Gilbert would have been the peak form of a beautiful killing machine, a proper wyrm of myth in everything but true form. Now, he was on his knees before Francis and presenting himself like a beast, and his hips were warm in Francis’ hands and his sex was wet and open and welcoming.

He stroked along the scales running down Gilbert’s spine, following the ridges with his fingertips until he reached the base of his tail, which coiled and shifted out of the way invitingly. It earned a soft noise.

“Come on,” Gilbert whined, wiggling his hips a bit in Francis’ grip, “These eggs aren’t getting any smaller.”

“Mm, I wouldn’t imagine so,” Francis demurred, taking his attention from the strong tail and instead taking himself in hand — for he’d been hard for some time now, and it was a relief to finally be able to touch himself with a purpose in mind. He’d been half-afraid of spilling early in his excitement.

“Steady now,” he warned lowly, guiding his length to bump against the spread lips of Gilbert’s sex, shivering as he felt the wet slit cling to the head of his cock. “Now just like…”

They moaned in unison as he took proper grip of Gilbert’s hip and slid into that beautiful, silken heat. Gods he was tight around him. No wonder he had feared the potential damage of bedding Antonio, Francis was by no means enormous but it felt like a tight fit regardless. He sunk deep and to the base, leaning over Gilbert’s back and trying not to hitch his hips immediately or too greedily — he could only imagine the discomfort and the pai—

“Fffather. Please move,” came the gritted, wanting demand that made Francis’ cock pulse. He gave Gilbert’s thigh a reassuring squeeze.

“O-of course, ser,” he obliged, tenderly rolling his hips to almost unsheath himself before he rocked back in, sinking back into that vice grip wet that had him moaning almost more intensely than the way the wyrm squirmed beneath — and around — him. 

He fucked him like that, in slow, deliberate movements. Anything else would have him finish the race just as it started, but he made sure not to leave his patient wanting in the process.

Francis was nosing into the sweat-darkened hair in front of him with each hitch of his hips, was reaching down around the great swell of Gilbert’s belly to trace his fingers around the coiling clit that made him shiver and clench every time— he could feel himself melting at the same time pleasure pooled in his belly, hot and desperate.

“S-ser, let me—“ 

Gilbert turned his head, enough to bump their noses together and Francis had to go crosseyed to look at him. That didn’t matter, because Gilbert was kissing him, at first fleetingly and then with growing confidence and then with nips and a growl.

“Come on and fuck me, Father. C-come on. Want these eggs out,” he hissed, and Francis gasped as the clit unwound from his fingers and instead twisted to coil around the base of his cock, right around where they were pressed together, where Gilbert’s sex was stretched around him. 

It made him warble and his eyes cross and the pulse of wet slithering by his testicles made him chase the sensation, driving him inwards and making Gilbert’s eyes roll back—

“Y-yesss—"

It was all the encouragement Francis needed to finally let himself follow the desire burning in his belly. If it was what his wyrm demanded, he would take him as a beast would.

He kissed him back full of teeth and tongue and fucked up into him, deep and purposeful into that clenching heat to chase his pleasure and exact it upon his lover. The sweat was dripping off them both now, and they both fought for breath amidst the almost cruel thrusts but they equally fought for their own pleasure.

Gilbert was reaching back and entangling his fingers into Francis’ hair the same way his clit coiled around his cock and it wasn’t long until Francis couldn’t help but unravel into him with a few more bruising, rocking thrusts that moved the whole bed against the wall; Gilbert was not far behind him with a beautiful wordless warble that dissolved into indistinct moans as Francis kissed and licked up the sweat that had pooled at the base of his neck, greedily groping at his thighs and the generous full swell of his belly that—

That seemed to clench, and then release the tension it was holding. 

It took an embarrassingly long couple of seconds for Francis to recognise why the taut skin of the gravidity he was happily groping along was drawing tight along with the blessedly wet sex he was still buried in.

Gilbert didn’t seem to mind that much, at least, even if his breath did hitch with discomfort as a contraction built deep in his core — Francis could feel it, around himself. It was almost enough to stir him back to hardness, but he reluctantly slid out of that crushing heat to allow his lover to carefully collapse to his side, cradling his belly and hissing beneath his breath.

“…Hah, that… did it, Father. E-excellent work,” Gilbert grit out, wincing as his belly visibly clenched around the precious cargo he carried.

Francis left his side only long enough to get some spare rags and the jug of water. With them damp enough to be cool, he ran one across Gilbert’s forehead and down his throat (when had Francis bitten him? There were distinct teeth marks along the back of his neck and shoulder) to clean some of the drying sweat from him.

“Will you be in need of… Further assistance?” he asked, and Gilbert gave him a slightly strained grin.

“‘F’y’want,” he said, through clenched teeth. “Not like I’m goin’ anywhere until it’s… all done.”

Of course. Francis had not intended on kicking his patient out onto the street until he was good and ready — and not so terribly eggbound. He nodded and offered Gilbert more water, who took it gratefully.

Progress was slow for the first little while, Gilbert mostly scowling and gritting his teeth through the contractions Francis could see rippling through his body, tail flicking and flexing as he did so. 

He kissed him between the contractions, sweet and tender to distract him. It seemed to amuse Gilbert, but the wyrm did not object and was leaning into Francis when he gasped breathlessly and shuddered— The bedding was suddenly sodden, dark and wet with a sudden release of water from between Gilbert’s thighs. His mouth twisted into a thin line of what Francis recognised as pain and his nostrils flared.

“Nhn. There we go. Things’re moving.”

“Would you like me to move?”

Francis had been crouched beside the bed during the process and his knees were beginning to object. Thankfully, Gilbert was nodding while his fingers fisted into the sheets.

Francis obligingly took position and tried to avoid the wet patches of the sheets but found himself kneeling in it anyway as he parted Gilbert’s thighs to take a peer at the situation between them.

With Gilbert laying on his side, Francis could see the way the muscles of his sides and back and thighs clenched around each shaking contraction, each one now coming soon after the next. He was pushing, Francis realised, loosely slinging one of Gilbert’s draconic feet over his shoulder to act as leverage.

Screaming during childbirth was expected of those in labour, and yet Gilbert was seemingly taking the process in stride. Rather than yelling out in pain he grit his teeth and focused on efficient breaths and his entire body tensed as he bore down on the eggs filling him… They surely were not as large as a whole child would be, so Francis reasoned that the process would be easier for him.

The thought did stir to mind the idea of the wyrm with child, though. Would he bear just a single babe, or would he bear a clutch like the one he was currently laden with? That, and the sight of his wet sex flexing with strain stirred Francis’ cock back to attention.

“How fares things?” he asked Gilbert, to take his mind off other matters. He was stroking the scales of the leg that was over his shoulder and only mildly wincing whenever those powerful muscles worked against him.

Gilbert panted, shaking from the force of the previous contraction and trying to catch his breath.

“Th-they’re… big. First one is comin’.” Sweat was sticking his hair to his forehead but despite the pain and effort being expended he was in good condition. Gilbert ran a hand over the great swell of his belly contemplatively and Francis noticed it had visibly dropped a bit in the process of labour.

Gilbert shivered and glanced over to Francis with a look of determination.

“Help me up, will you? Gotta— get into position. Help ‘em out.”

“Of course, ser.”

It took some manoeuvring but Francis gently helped Gilbert from the bed to be crouched on the floor, balancing on his clawed toes and keeping himself upright despite the heavy heft of his belly with a steadying hand on the bed. His tail swished and helped to balance him before another contraction gripped him, making it pull up and to the side to present his dripping, flexing sex.

His clitoris had unfurled too, and Francis could only imagine it was due to the immense pressure building from inside as Gilbert’s breath hitched and a soft warble broke through his clenched jaw. He couldn’t see the progress directly, but from the way Gilbert’s hips twitched and his clit coiled uselessly he suspected the first egg was settling deep, moving through his hips and pressing on everything in the process.

He encouraged the wyrm with soft words of reassurance and wasn’t too bothered when he got a growl in response… not when he peered down and saw the way his sex was seemingly beginning to gape and flare, forced open by the pressure of the great weight bearing down from within. 

Francis was stroking Gilbert’s trembling flank, mesmerised by the sight of his pretty pink flesh parting around— 

“There! Almost there, ser!”

Gilbert bore down with a muffled whine and his sex bulged around the shell of the first of his eggs, pale and unyielding around the strain of his body. His sex parted and furled as he pushed, legs trembling as the egg crowned— only for the contraction to pass and for it to sink cruelly back in.

Gilbert’s cry was of frustration, and Francis could see his toe-claws dig furrows into the floorboards. He pet the wyrm’s back, just above his tail, and could feel the knot of straining muscles. 

“Let me know when you’re ready, it’s okay,” he murmured and Gilbert didn’t spare the energy to curse at him beyond a short growl of acknowledgement.

The moment of respite passed and the labour continued, Gilbert shifting his stance to widen his legs as he pushed, keening in the back of his throat.

Francis watched the egg creep forward again and crown, and saw the way Gilbert’s sex was stretched tight around its width, pale with tension before a final little flex of his muscles finally found purchase against the shell and it breached, passing through and dropping to the floor with a solid thunk that startled Francis.

“Ah, ser, would you like me to catch the—“

“Don’t care,” came the short snap, because the second egg was quick on the heels of the first and already peeking through the part of his sex, “They’re not— Nng! F-Fertile anyway.”

Francis wasn’t sure what the sensation was in his chest. Disappointment? The egg sitting on the wooden floor was pearlescent, a lovely white-pink-blue that caught the eye with subtle glittering. It was warm to the touch as he gingerly picked it up, and surprisingly heavy. It was bigger than his fist, and he couldn’t help but imagine what it might have been if it was fertile.

But there were more important things at hand, he reminded himself and his manhood, as he set the egg aside and returned his attention: The second egg was crowning as well now, and moments later Francis was catching it to set it with its sibling.

Gilbert chuckled at him, mildly, watching Francis from over his shoulder.

“C’n probably sell ‘em for a good price, y’know. Or bury ‘em. Whateve— Oh Gods above this one is bigger—“

He was visibly shaking with the strain of this one, taking short breaths and keening slightly as he pushed, yet he never screamed like Francis might have expected.

Perhaps he didn’t want to have Antonio rush in to save him, or perhaps he was simply an old hand and experienced with the process. Francis offered a steadying hand at the small of his back and felt Gilbert press back against him, using that as leverage through each hard push.

“O-Oh fuck,” he cursed, and there was an actual note of desperation in his voice that made Francis pay attention.

“Is there anything I can do to h—“

“Your hand.”

“My hand.”

Gilbert was glaring at him over his shoulder, brows furrowed. With the red of his eyes and the arching curves of the horns sprouting from his brow he looked very much the fiery dragon he was descended from. Francis found himself quite taken by the image, and only just remembered to listen to what he was being told.

“—inside. It’s stuck. I think. D-Don’t want it to break.” Gilbert’s mouth twitched in what might have been a sardonic smile if there hadn’t been a note of distress to his voice. “Bad when that happens.”

Francis swallowed. He was being trusted to manually extract the egg without breaking it. It was not a light task to be assigned, but he nodded grimly.

Gilbert flashed him his teeth in what might have been a reassuring smile and leaned forward slightly, tail raising out of the way to offer him entrance.

Not that he needed it, really. Gilbert’s sex was unfurled and beautifully dripping with the mixed fluids of birth and what Francis was interpreting as arousal. It was easy to sink three fingers back into that clenching heat, and a little wiggle of Gilbert’s hips encouraged the rest as he delicately tucked his thumb against his palm and pushed his hand up and into him.

Keeping a firm grip on Gilbert’s trembling hip, he inched his hand deeper and he was up to his wrist when his fingers brushed something hard and solid and utterly unyielding to the clenching, crushing muscle: the egg was considerably larger than its siblings, he found after a moment of terse, careful investigation. 

He swallowed again, mouth very dry. 

“I-I can feel it, ser.”

Gilbert keened and Francis interpreted that as an acknowledgment. He felt the insides around his fingers begin to twist into a vice of contraction, and did his best to get an effective grip on the offending egg — without causing it to crack or shatter. 

He didn’t even dare to breathe until he felt the solid weight shift perhaps half an inch, wedging its way through and guided by the barest amount of force Francis dared to use to assist the contractions. Half an inch, another, another, and he was eking out tiny progress but progress it was all the same, and each time it made Gilbert whine prettily and even outright moan when there was a particularly significant slide.

His fingers found more certain purchase against the slippery, smooth shell of the egg as progress continued until he was guiding the movement pushed along by Gilbert’s valiant efforts and his hand was stretching the opening of his sex.

It was going to be a tight fit, and Francis was cautious as he squeezed Gilbert’s hip reassuringly and murmured to guide him through each pulse of contraction, feeling how tight it was between the egg and the clench of his sex. The contraction ended before they’d slipped loose and there was no way it was not agony to have both Francis’ hand and the egg seated right at the breach of his sex but he wasn’t about to let the egg slide back inside and set back their hard-won progress.

Francis almost feared that Gilbert would tear with the power of his next push which forced a pitched, strangled moan from him as the shell stretched him to his absolute limits, bulging his slit and then agonisingly, slowly slipping past and almost falling out from him under its own weight with a shudder and an open moan and a gush of fluids as Francis had to hurriedly use both hands to catch the egg–

It had brought Gilbert to climax. Francis laughed breathlessly as he inspected the offending egg. No wonder it had brought such grief: it was easily twice the size of the others. 

Gilbert sighed and it drew his attention back, only to see a follow-up egg drop from his gaping sex with a solid clack, and there was another quick behind that one. The oversized egg had been keeping the others from passing and had likely been the one rendering him eggbound in the first place.

Gilbert’s head was hanging between his arms braced against the edge of the bed and Francis could hear his focused breathing as he pushed with intent. He caught the eggs as they emerged, one after the next with precious little time between them. Hot and slippery with fluids but heavy and beautiful he set them with the growing clutch and massaged Gilbert’s back and rear and thighs between pushes.

“There’s- ah. ‘Nother one. Not as– Big, but. Last one, I think.”

“Of course, I’m here.”

What had been the grand, gravid swell of Gilbert’s belly was now considerably more modest and even cute, a little bump that might have been easily mistaken as an early pregnancy, or perhaps a too-big meal from the night previous. Silver-pink lines spiderwebbed across his lower belly which still distended slightly. Gilbert was tenderly probing his fingers there, gnawing at his well-bitten lower lip and scowling.

“...Yeah, almost done,” he confirmed, casting a glance to the collection Francis had set aside. He’d laid a dozen orbs thus far, it was precious little wonder that he’d been so uncomfortable with that huge one blocking him up. 

Gilbert seemed to hesitate, mouth doing that twist that Francis had learned meant he was thinking about something.

“...Father,” said the wyrm, mildly, “I, mm. Need your assistance. Just this last time.” He winced, but it wasn’t one of pain this time. Moreso, Francis suspected as he stroked his fingers down the line of Gilbert’s scaled, ridged spine, something approaching that sheepishness he had seen earlier.

“...The egg, I’m… Tired,” Gilbert admitted after a moment. He was drenched in sweat and his limbs were trembling with the effort of having stayed crouched in position for so long. “Might I… Borrow you, as before?”

Francis leaned to kiss him, and Gilbert gave a tired, but sincere laugh as their mouths met and Francis cupped his cheek.

“Of course. Like this?”

The selfish part of Francis – which was admittedly a not insignificant part – felt vaguely disappointed when Gilbert nodded. He understood the practicality of taking the wyrm from behind to help the process along, but still he internally mourned not being able to have him from the front, face to face.

Still, he took position behind Gilbert and took his hips in hand and guided himself inside once more.

Deliciously loose and beautifully wet, the slide this time was smooth and he was immediately able to sink deep and to the base, curling over Gilbert’s shoulder to kiss him while pumping his hips. 

Francis could feel his insides still coiling, gripping against him but it was with purpose, with instinctual intent and he wrapped his arms around the wyrm’s waist to feel the soft swell to his belly, to grope at the relatively flat planes of his chest. 

Their hips met with wet noises and Gilbert was kissing him back as best he could with the awkward angle over his shoulder and it seemed to frustrate him as much as it did Francis because he was gasping and wiggling, making Francis pull out long enough to turn himself over and lean back against the bed frame, spreading his thighs and beckoning with the curl of his claws.

Finally Francis was able to slide in, face to face and nose to nose with the beast. He watched Gilbert’s eyes flutter and roll back as the new angle let him work deep into him and mate him properly– What indulgent thoughts he allowed himself!

This drake was not his to claim, and yet he wanted to imagine that the little curve of Gilbert’s belly would grow gravid and full again but with his clutch this time– Would he bear a single child as most humans do, or would he grow heavy with a litter of wyrms? Would they be as lovely and scaled as their dam? Francis palmed the soft swell and his fingers were joined by Gilbert’s – was he imagining it too? 

They moaned and moved together like that, right on the floor. Each time their hips met the bed jostled against the far wall but Francis paid no mind to it as he took the now-familiar slick coil of Gilbert’s clitoris between his fingers and squeezed lightly, working it in time with his thrusts and the pulsing clenches of Gilbert’s rippling, mild contractions– 

Gilbert is the first to climax with a sweet, exhausted noise as his body arched and he scrabbled at Francis’ shoulders while kissing him breathless. He must have been riding out a contraction – which had blended together during their mating into a collective, crushing vice of tension for Francis – because the way he tensed up was enough to make stars fill Francis’ vision and have him follow in short order, spilling deep inside the wyrm and–

There was something against him, inside.

When Francis’ brain returned from the soft, warm place it had gone while kissing Gilbert the sensation of a strange, uncanny something brushing against his oversensitive manhood almost made him jump out of his skin. He squawked awkwardly and hurriedly pulled out to the sound of Gilbert’s sigh of relief because the last egg was quick to follow, slick with their combined seed and needing only Gilbert’s gentle encouragement to pass into his hands.

Gilbert was panting and was flushed from tip to tail, fucked open and messy but looking altogether much too pleased with himself and the hearty collection of eggs he added the last one to. A solid baker’s dozen, the last one was noticeably larger than most but was still considerably smaller than the egg that had blocked its siblings.

Francis had to remember how to use his legs but was quick to fetch the water, which Gilbert accepted gratefully and thirstily. 

All of the Morninglord’s maternity suits had a simple padded basket supplied for any babes that could not be carried in arms, and Francis felt more than a bit silly carefully placing the eggs into the one provided. It was better than just leaving them on the floor or throwing them directly into the waste, even if they were infertile and carried nothing more than (he assumed) the usual arrangement of yolk and white.

Gilbert was using the cloth to clean himself and Francis noticed him cringing mildly.

“Is there still another?”

It was a fair question, in his opinion: Gilbert’s middle was still soft and slightly distended, but he was shaking his head.

“Nah. Just… Sore. Big clutch,” Gilbert dismissed offhandedly, before he saw Francis’ look of concern and sighed. “Look, come here. You do it if you’re that worried.”

He pointedly perched himself on the edge of the bed and spread his thighs and offered him the wet cloth. 

Gilbert’s sex was visibly bruised, the white-pink skin turning from red to purple where it had strained around the eggs… and Francis’ fist, he reminded himself as he gingerly wiped his patient ( mate ) clean. Then he moved to those strong thighs, which were still laced with muscle but Gilbert was considerably more relaxed now, leaning back on his hands and watching Francis with slightly hooded eyes.

He hadn’t said anything, but there seemed to be something of an invitation in the languid body language that did nothing to object as Francis decided to investigate the condition of Gilbert’s sex with an altogether more personal and hands-on approach.

They had to clean up all over again, afterwards, but at least that time they actually made it to the bed properly.

“I am going to have to go back at some point,” Gilbert said from beside where Francis had collapsed into the sheets next to him. “Toni’s probably on the verge of having a mental break.”

“Euh,” Francis mumbled into the pillows. Gilbert didn’t pay him any heed as he hauled himself upright with a huff and climbed over Francis and went about locating his clothes.

Cracking open an eye, Francis watched him dress and admired how his pale skin and white hair seemed to catch afire in the red light of the setting sun streaming through the windows. They’d taken a good most of the day to themselves.

Gilbert noticed his gaze and smirked, tossing Francis’ long-discarded robes at him while he began lacing up his black-and-white slashed breeches. It earned an indignant squawk, but Francis was forced to rise nonetheless.

“Y’can keep the eggs, by the way. Eat ‘em or sell ‘em. Or eat ‘em and just sell the shells, it’s good money either way,” he was explaining offhandedly, jerking his head to where the basket sat. “Consider it a donation to the temple for your, ah. ‘Services’.”

Francis briefly wondered about the practical culinary applications of dragon eggs as he pulled his robes on.

“My services were adequate to your personal needs, then?” he pried curiously, watching Gilbert blush as he glanced away.

“‘M not eggbound anymore,” he said, despite the fact they both knew that Francis’ assistance had gone quite above and beyond a usual midwifery assignment. He raised an eyebrow and the wyrm’s tail lashed in a way that really was quite feline.

He turned and stalked up to Francis until they were almost nose-to-nose; Francis had not had the chance to notice that they were the same height previously, but now he could appreciate the length of Gilbert’s draconic legs that seemed to give him an extra inch or two of height.

“I have to move on with the company when Captain Zwingli says so,” Gilbert declared with such force that Francis suspected he was informing the both of them of the fact. “I… Can’t stay. Whatever this was, it has to be professional. Simple.”

Francis cupped the wyrm’s cheek and Gilbert startled at first but quietly leaned into the touch, looking up at him from beneath his lashes.

“That is the way of things, ser,” Francis said, smiling as Gilbert closed his eyes and drew his brows together. The poor creature seemed to be wrestling with himself.

“...Look,” Gilbert said eventually, audibly reluctant, “After this campaign is finished I’ll… Pass on a good word to the captain. See if the company can’t swing back around.”

Francis raised his eyebrows and brushed his thumb across the corner of Gilbert’s mouth.

“You hold that much sway over the captain, ser?”

The grin he got was savage and full of pride, Gilbert’s chin rising as he puffed himself up.

“I’m damned good at what I do, Father,” he said and Francis wholly believed him. There was a reason why he wore the fanciful black and white attire – landsknechts were fearsome fighters on any battlefield who strode willingly into massed piked formations with only their bravery and zweihanders to protect them. Ostentatious uniforms were a boast and a threat in equal measure.

“Mm. I’m very willing to attest to your capabilities should your captain question your motives,” Francis teased, making Gilbert bark a laugh and pull away, or at least try to because Francis couldn’t help himself but to lean in and steal a final kiss that Gilbert simply melted into.

He was very close to offering the wyrm to stay the night in his personal chambers before Gilbert finally disengaged and made quick steps to get out of range of any potential further attempts at keeping him close.

“I do really need to get going,” he insisted, tucking his shift into his trousers as he gathered up the blanket Antonio had wrapped and carried him in. “I’ll put in a good word for you, Father, promise.”

And just like that, the wyrm left and went to recollect his comrade, leaving Francis alone and with an unsettled, unsated coil of embers in his chest that felt altogether too much like grieving for his comfort.

He cleaned the room and reported the situation – in professional, abstract form, of course – to his brethren and retreated to his own quarters not long before sundown, carrying with him the basket and its precious contents.

Word had it that the mercenary company outside the city walls would be moving out by the end of the week, assuming the discussion between its captain and the city’s leaders went well.

Francis considered this as he cleaned and inspected his collection of lovely, beautiful eggs that weighed heavy in his hands.

He dare not break one open, not yet, so as to not potentially waste the dear gifts he had been given – dragon eggs were a rare sight, let alone coming into possession of a dozen-odd of them.

The following morning he rose with the sun and made his way through the dawnlit city and through the gates and out into the sprawling field as he had done many times before. The camp was already bustling with soldiers and their wives and women but Francis found his way easily through the crowd that mercifully let a cleric of the Morninglord pass without interruption.

It was near the clearing between tents that he spotted the shock of white hair and the graceful horns that swept back from a brow above red eyes that widened when he spotted the priest making his way over at a jog.

Francis couldn’t just let his wyrm go just like that, of course. 

He still had a week to learn how to actually cook the eggs that he’d been given, and–

Well, Francis would be lying if he wasn’t interested in getting hands-on experience in ‘helping’ his wyrm make the next batch… Not that Gilbert seemed to mind, with how he was leading Francis back to his tent.