A little drabble for tumblr user pinkypirate whose Greeghan/Balem art makes me ask a few very important questions of myself. One of those questions is, “What in god’s name am I doing?”
I think the first paragraph is enough to let you get a feel for what you’re getting into. No nsfw, just lizards.
I could crush him.
The thought has crossed Greeghan’s mind more than once, and it does, again, even as his clawed fingers trace, one after the other, down Balem Abrasax’s frail chest. The First Primary of the House of Abrasax lies beneath him on the floor, propped up on one elbow. By human standards, he’s lean, but to Greeghan, he’s gossamer. That pale flesh would yield easily, those delicate bones would snap under him. The golden gorget around Balem’s throat would not protect him; in fact, it would only serve to gag him. All of this, and his expression retains that unbearable look of certainty, the confidence of a man who holds life in one hand, and death in the other. Greeghan has seen both spill from his palms, and even that could become meaningless under the weight that he could bring to bear.
It would be easy.
He bares his fangs, sharp enough to rend and tear and make an end. Where most would shudder, Balem only smiles. Or… Almost smiles. His lips move. Human expressions are peculiar, at best, and nonsensical at worst. Even Tskalikin, who has been raised from a hatchling among them, had not been able to read them quite perfectly. Hot anger flicks at the pit of his stomach to think of Tskalikin, whose failures had not merited the death that had been dealt him.
“Do it.”
The sibilance of Balem’s whisper is almost enough on its own to make Greeghan shudder. He’s been found out, without even a word exchanged between them. This isn’t a new game, but it doesn’t stop Greeghan from putting some of his weight on Balem’s chest. Balem eases himself onto the floor; it’s useless to attempt to continue propping himself up. And the pressure increases. He is barely looking at Greeghan, now, something centuries old managing to distract him even as the pressure forces the breath from his lungs. Another strange look, the meaning of which the Sargorn expects never to be able to decipher, flits across Balem’s face. It isn’t panic. He seldom sees that from his lord. More often, he sees it in the eyes of his opponents when they realize just how outclassed they are. It takes more than raw power – there’s scarcely a Sargorn alive that lacks that – it takes precision. When he lets his claws press into Balem’s skin, they don’t draw blood, and his reward is a barely perceptible gasp. A wasted breath that turns to words. “More weight.”
“Yes, my lord,” Greeghan rumbles, and with that compliance, the playing field is altered. He has obeyed. And having obeyed, he cages the two of them in with his wings to press harder. He can almost feel Balem’s body creak, but the Entitled only rests his hands – so small, so soft – on top of his, silently demanding more, closer. That isn’t what this is, but just for a moment, it feels that way. He isn’t certain at what point he stopped thinking about crushing Balem’s ribcage, and started thinking about closing what little space there is between them. Humans are warm, as a rule, but Balem is exceedingly so, as if the thousands of lives sustaining his burn just under that delicate skin. Greeghan might leave the imprint of his hand behind, but he fancies that to do so would scorch his palm. There is a curious, all-distorting power around Balem Abrasax that turns the will to crush into something different… Something difficult.
Greeghan’s hackles come up, but his master is sure. Those soft, warm hands tap on the back of his, and Greeghan releases the pressure without thinking. He can’t pretend to understand any of this, any more, understand how his resolve became so fragile. Balem only sighs.
“Mr. Greeghan,” he begins only after a few slow, deliberate breaths, “get off of me.” And just like that, he stands. Just like that, he helps his lord, his damnable, murdering lord onto his feet. Just as he might have stepped back, Balem catches the front of his clothes. “Take me to my chambers,” comes the whispered command.
I could crush him, Greeghan thinks, but instead he lifts him into his arms and obeys.
