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“Disciple’ve mine …”
The incubi’s voice comes as a spirant whisper, a pair of clawed hands framing his summoner’s hips. It’s a prayer, a song, spun by a graying vessel that pleas for a place to bury himself. Intamin is crowded back against his altar, the demon’s fangs pressed to his bare throat, and when he turns his face to kiss him he dares not deepen it, fearful of this small misstep.
Deep here in the heart of this city, once-vault of Mimiron, Intamin knows he is truly damned.
There are no scriptures, no covenants or tithes that could grant him salvation — not when Gerlix growls into his open mouth and slides a thick, wet tongue down his throat. It’s then when Intamin truly understands what it is to sin, unable to look away when the incubus pulls back to lower his cock and press himself into the open entrance of his waiting body.
If Intamin is a Titanic vessel, then truly he feels himself crack. When he moans it’s not to cry for forgiveness but to beg for more, more as Gerlix shifts his powerful hips and sinks to a newer, intoxicating depth. It would be easy to ruin him, to make manifest the stories of maidens heavy with the seed of the demons that deflowered them.
And in a way, perhaps, he does — for Intamin feels himself well when Gerlix shoves his legs up, ass down, a set of arms bracing his midsection as he’s speared over a curved cock that pushes into him inch after torturous inch. The incubus hilts him, sinks his teeth over the meat of the little gnome’s trapezius, and strikes a bargain.
“Pray fer it, boy.”
“A-All of it …” Intamin implores in a fractured voice. “All of it or I should swear you will never see a summoner’s circle again, demon.”
An ugly smile curls his lips, ancient and cruel. The length lists deeper, deeper still, nosing up against the barrier of his womb and kissing him there. Intamin feels as if all of the air has been stolen from his lungs, a realization that threatens to send him to rapture.
“Such a devout little thing …” Those words coo over a clockwork-quick pulse, hips still, cock rigid. “How very pious y’are, how lovely t’let me have m’way wit’cha. Sweet, stupid boy. What would th’ others think? Fucked n’ made fat wit’ demonspawn …”
Intamin wants to reply, to argue, to insist that he’s a temple fit to ruin, to strip of its reliquaries and hymns, that the rabble should envy him as a demon’s chosen — but instead Gerlix snaps his hips forwards and without rhythm to enact a vow of silence. The demon mates with him like some truly feral thing, clawing fresh lines of crimson over Intamin’s freckled stomach — communion of its own kind.
Intamin doesn’t know how long he’s bred like this. Their sacrament betrays no loveliness, no softness, the demon taking him with harsh thrusts that punch choked sounds from the little gnome's lungs. When he’s bent like a sinner it’s only so that Gerlix can press himself deeper, right to the root, the head of his cock kissing his core. The tip of him rests right at that entrance, pushes into the soft flesh of his cervix, kissing without tongue as his hips list staccato, and then it’s too much heaven for either of them to bear.
Gerlix spills his seed in a biblical flood, and though Intamin writhes against him there’s nothing to stop the incubus from fucking him through their shared rapture. A set of clawed hands hold him fast against his twitching shaft — not because the demon feels his climax ebb, but to keep Intamin there even as he cries against the corrupting heat of his come.
“Spill not a drop, apostle’ve mine ...” Comes a hiss against Intamin’s receptor, distant and detached. It’s a commandment, a proverb, and what else can he do but feel himself fill out in places he thought long forsaken?
They greet the ground in a disheveled heap, guided not by silvery wings from Algalon’s heavens, a pile of sinful bodies that heave with the effort of their communion. Gerlix doesn’t ask to slide a palm up Intamin’s thigh, parting his trembling legs to accept his still-hard cock.
“Again, demon.”