Work Text:
"Ah—! Mmn, my Wyrm..."
The Pale King hardly noticed his wife's moans anymore. He wasn't sure how long this session had lasted, but if the stretched fullness in his lower half was any indication, it had been a very long time indeed. Claws kneaded her breast as they'd done for hours by this point, bringing rhythmic gushes of thick, creamy milk upon the Wyrm's tongue. Her taste was quite literally divine. He couldn't get enough of it, and more nights than not were spent cradled in her many roots, nursing like a babe.
His Root's production seemed to only increase as of late. Repeated stimulation, she theorized, her body interpreting his daily feedings as a sign to redouble its efforts. Her breasts grew heavier. Her cries grew desperate. Her milk grew sweeter, thicker, and all-the-more addictive.
Neither really cared. Sure, the King's own breasts growing supple and full was an inconvenience, but one whose release was enjoyed, and threat of exposure tantalized. Sure, the Lady's volume grew more difficult to manage, leaving him straining and trembling with each mouthful, but it made draining her all the more satisfying, like victory claimed over a ferocious foe. Sure, his body felt heavier, his breasts felt heavier, and his eyes closed in milk-induced sleep longer and longer, but life was meant to be indulged to the fullest, not spent wasting and ascetic.
Things naturally would come to a head, however. Ignoring signs does not halt the fruition of consequence.
A pleasant haze had long-since settled over the Pale King's mind. There was nothing else beyond their chambers, nothing else beyond his Lady, her delicious milk, and himself. A foreleg twitched involuntarily. Dimly, he noted it slide atop of his lower half, rather than sink into its plushness like usual. He might've cared had his Lady's trembling not suddenly increased.
She was close. Very, very close.
Her breath hitched. A sign that this breast was almost dry. His grip tightened. Soon, both mounds of supple softness would be fully tended. How kind was she, to grant her Wyrm the privilege of assisting her so.
As her milk grew thinner, the White Lady's cries grew more pronounced— louder, higher pitched. Roots cradled his head and forced him against her teat; a pathetic final squirt filled his mouth as softness enveloped his face, his wife's keening muffled by her own breasts.
Her climax thrummed around him. Root after root, branch after branch, even her breasts themselves; all shook in unrestrained pleasure, unrestrained satisfaction, unrestrained, rapturous joy at a release finally obtained.
He sucked her all the while. Even dry, he knew how much his wife loved the act, and would only cease when she asked.
A trembling root reached down, petting his horns affectionately. "Th— that's enough, my Wyrm."
Case in point. He unlatched from his Lady's teat with a sodden gurgle. She sighed, her great head leaned back. Satisfaction at being emptied was plainly evident in her voice. "Thank you," she breathed.
He nodded slowly. Relaxing fully into the many branches suspending him, the Wyrm's eyes closed with a slight moan. He, too, was satisfied. Full, warm, and tired; a routine end to their many sessions, yet one he craved more of all the same. At least his own breasts weren't leaking too. She'd taken care of him earlier that night.
A claw absentmindedly ran across his upper torso. It barely soothed the persistent, body-wide ache of his Lady's love filling him utterly, but he continued the act regardless, secretly enjoying the new resistance he found. She'd been quite laden that day. A difficult task, to deplete both abundant mounds, but the Pale King persevered regardless. Even had he not been hopelessly addicted to her taste, he'd be a poor husband to fail her when she begged so sweetly.
Sleep called him. Another reason he dearly cherished these nights. His divine nature made sleep an elusive novelty at best. His Root's milk, however, lulled him with a consistency most tinctures dreamed of. He curled to the best of his ability, lids shut and ready to drift off.
"Not tonight, love," the White Lady murmured. She poked his side gently. Dark eyes fluttered open. "We ran longer than usual. Morning preparations will begin shortly."
He frowned, blinking blearily. Not sleeping made him appear an early riser to the bugs he ruled over. The Pale King's tightly-packed schedule reflected such. He knew his Root's milk production was increasing, but to last an entire night? Well. They'd simply have to start earlier. But then it would interfere with evening obligations instead...
As he mentally scrutinized scheduling, a Pale root wiped excess milk from his mask. Without thinking, he caught it within his jaws, absentmindedly beginning to suck.
A soft gasp. A fond laugh. "You're insatiable," his Root cooed. A small burst of sap gushed on his tongue. He swallowed it as eagerly as all her milk before, savoring the pleasant burn of even more liquid pressed inside. "My greedy, beloved Wyrm."
Oh, he liked when she called him that. A pleased rumble thrummed in his throat. Body twisting contentedly, splayed legs wriggling happily. Lavishing the appendage rewarded him with even more sap, indulged in with equally reckless abandon.
Their impromptu play was cut short, however. Duty called with the unyielding force of a mountain. A heavy sigh, and the White Lady removed the root. It came free with a wet pop. A string of saliva refracted her naturally Pale glow, suspended like threads of microscopic stars. The Pale King made a discontented grumble.
"Ridiculous to go through the entire night," the King of Hallownest pouted. Roots altered their grip, turning him over like a particularly Pale ball of dough. He winced from their presence on his stuffed midsection. "I suppose alterations could be made to my nightly routine, though mid-day is already tightly packed as it is."
Scheduling was irrelevant to the White Lady; her spread complex of consciousness could handle more tasks than his singular one ever could. Still, she humored his venting of grievances, humming in agreement as she maneuvered her Wyrm to set him down.
The Pale King's forelegs extended; the first pair of six ready to step forth, carry his weight and set off for another day of bureaucratic obligations...
... only for his lower half's bloated midsection to touch the tile instead.
A chill zipped up his shell, sensation so sudden and unexpected the Wyrm was stunned into silence. His Lady, not noticing his shock, continued lowering her husband, until his entire vulnerable underside lay flush with polished marble.
It wasn’t just his forelegs; secondary and tertiary sets also failed to meet the floor.
Well. Uhm.
This was. Awkward.
He leaned forward, cringing at the added pressure to his gut. Nothing. He leaned backwards, hoping to reach with his hind legs. Nothing.
His limbs strained, extending further, extending downwards, and still...
Nothing.
The revelation hit like a white-hot iron to his nethers.
He.
He couldn't walk.
He couldn't even touch the floor.
The Pale King twisted his torso back, looking at the length of his body with widened eyes. Sure enough, all six legs failed to find purchase against the white tile of the chamber. They splayed awkwardly, his stuffed and bulging lower half pushing them outwards with his own milk-filled body. The cold marble along its length only accentuated the searing heat of his slit.
His wings fluttered. Bestial panic swelled. Still nothing. He couldn't fly either. He was stuck. Trapped. Immobilized, by his own actions no less! Slowly, ever-so-slowly, his neck craned upwards. The White Lady's baffled expression met his. His mouth parted, then closed, then parted again.
"I— my Root, I don't— I don't believe I can..."
"No," she whispered. "No, you cannot."
Her confirmation made it all the more real. "Oh," was all he could bring himself to say.
The additional weight on his gut was getting to him. A particularly wet hiccup made itself known, causing the Wyrm to cover his mouth with both hands. His shell prickled. Embarrassment at his own indulgence, mixed with increasing hyper-awareness of the body it brought forth.
Delectable, yet pained. A steady, stinging ache permeated his entire lower half, the Soul-rich milk within making him glow twofold. His limbs were awkward and clunky, pushed out as they were. He couldn't move. He genuinely couldn't move.
And. And yet. And yet he— he felt—
"I..." his Lady began, then trailed off. She swallowed audibly. With her head so close, it was all he could hear over the faint sloshing within himself, stubby legs fruitlessly flailing for purchase against his own stretched skin.
A root wrapped comfortingly around his forearm, pulling it away from his mouth. He grabbed it, squeezing it tight and appreciating the grounding. More pressed around the corpulent whiteness of his lower half. Feather-light, as to not accidentally squeeze any of her love right out of him, but enough that a wet moan pushed past his throat, his free claw suddenly pressing into his own milky softness to steady himself.
The whole situation was humiliating, nauseating, and painfully arousing. He looked down. Excess milk lay drying against his own sizable breasts— which had started leaking at some point— and the abdominal portion of his upper half protruded noticeably past them. Damning evidence on its own. When combined with his forelegs spread hopelessly wide, cushioned and immobilized by the Pale, trembling flesh around them, the utter truth of his state could not be ignored.
Gods, what had he done to himself?
... And why was he getting so aroused, thinking of it happening again?
The White Lady finally composed herself. She squeezed his palm tighter. Her great head nuzzled the small of his back, careful not to harm his ephemeral wings.
"My beloved Wyrm," she whispered, breathy and soft, commanding and firm, "I believe you've indulged enough. Any further and you will hurt yourself."
Like a child who'd grown sick from too many sweets. Her speaking so plainly only sharpened the Pale King's shame and arousal. He nodded dumbly.
Yes. She was right. His hand kneaded further, causing another wet hiccup. The way his claws sunk into suppleness enraptured him.
"I think," he said, voice quiet and distant, "I will send word that I've taken ill today."
He really had indulged enough.
"That would be wise," she agreed. "You're in no state to rule right now."
He whimpered. No. No, he wasn't.
The Pale King swallowed. His claw continued kneading. His legs continued twitching, useless in their efforts, flesh sliding against flesh, exemplifying consequences he could not avoid.
(And yet, he wondered, as his Root carefully lifted him up and tucked him in their bed...)
(... Why did her saying that make him want even more?)
(The question haunted him as he drifted off to sleep.)