Dohmenic

He thought the day he ascended to the throne would be the most successful day of his life. It was a title he had worked his whole life to earn, to be worthy of, being the next leader of Drala, under the watchful eye of The Blithesome Miss.

But all of that faded into nothing as he watched his pregnant female slip into a happy coma now, sated by his cock and blood.

Fatherhood. He was to be a father, and no amounts of royal blood, status or wealth would ever come close to describing how truly lucky and blessed he felt in this very moment. To know that he had filled his female's womb and made it full with life...

This was the title he had truly been born for. His true purpose in life, being a father.

Watching his female close her eyes and dwell in post-coital bliss and the saturation of feeding, the Dralan couldn't help but lower himself, scooting down once more to be head-to-head with his growing fetus. Placing a warm, careful hand over his Amorsa's stomach, he gently stroked the flesh, hoping his young could feel it deep inside.

"I am your master," He whispered to the fetus in the Ancient Tongue, pressing his lips softly against it. "Yet you will forever command my heart. Grow strong, my kin. Take from me what you need. The Blithesome Miss be good to you."

Prayers was all he could do for now, hoping the Sweet Miss in the sky would look over his female as she grew their young. The future heir of Drala. Until the day the young was born, all he could do was wait, pray and keep his female happy with everything she needed.

Looking up from his nesting place near her womb, he saw that her breaths had evened out and that she had fallen back asleep again. Her body was exhausted these days, growing their miracle creation. To think she had conceived on her last day of bleeding... he had doused her plentifully with his semen, that was for sure, but it would all have been for nothing had her womb not been willing and ready to accept him.

And she had. She had carried his seeds all the way up to her fruitful womb where she now was growing his first young. First of many to come.

Smiling proudly to himself, the Dralan decided to let his female rest. It was barely dawn, but he had not been able to sleep a wink all night. Her beautiful body had been growing with his young for so long without him knowing, and he was making up for time lost caring for it. It wouldn't be long before her body would be changing to fit their young, changing to prepare for its arrival.

The arrival that would surely stir rumors and speculations.

Carefully moving his body out of the bed, the Dralan parted from his young and female with a last kiss, before donning his pants and slipping on his tunic. As ever, his responsibility as Dralan called him away, and now so more than ever.

Stepping out of the bedchamber quietly, he begun marching down the hall to his study, raking a hand through his tousled hair as thoughts and new concerns filled his mind.

He might've fulfilled his job as a male, but as Dralan, he knew he had crossed a line making it all happen. Making his Leyla Dralaq had been no easy feat, one that had involved fraudulence from his side, forevermore tainting the pure line of his descendants. He knew his blood had not suffered any harm on that front though, but the future of Drala might have.

Coming to his study, he stepped inside and closed the door, before going up to a certain book on his bookshelf – a dusty, old book with a leather binding, one that had not been touched for years... since his own birth.

Flipping through the pages, it didn't take him long to find what he was looking for. It was a journal. His father's personal journal to be exact, a documentation of when he had sat on the throne as Dralan, shortly after mating his mother. Their arrangement had been arranged through pure bloodlines, but according to the notes in his journal, the attraction had been mutual. His parents had met, courted and since hence decided on mating, his father propositioning his mother for the nuptials. It was during the ceremony, during his mother's deflowering and first time with his father, she had conceived with her virginal blood.

A truly rare occasion indeed.

Mihrs and Mihrisas rarely conceived when their purity was taken. Nonetheless, that was the night his own life came to be, and according to his father, he had been thrilled in the same way his mother had when she had felt the signs. Increased appetite for blood and sexual hunger, as well as odd flashes of heat and a nervous affliction. The Dralan cursed himself for not having read any of this sooner. Had he done so, he might've known. What was done was done however, and the only reason he was reading this now was because of their current situation.

'Three months.' His father's penmanship was clear and crisp as he noted the months it had taken before his mother had started rounding out with him. 'The fetus grows stronger by the day. I feel it stir beneath my palm, the tiniest flutter from within.'

His father had been as close to his mother's womb as he was with his Leyla's. Perhaps males grew closer to the female while she grew, somehow strengthening the already fortified bond.

How was it even possible at this point? The Dralan thought to himself, reading on through his father's notations. To grow even closer seemed unlikely and nearly impossible at this state.

And yet, as his father noted the first time he felt him kick inside his mother's belly, the Dralan felt a strange stirring inside his chest.

'It was a strong foot, of that I am certain. The fetus senses my presence. It moves when I talk to it and it eases when I stroke her roundness. The Blithesome Miss is watching over it, I feel it.'

He had never opened this journal before. Had never needed to. All his father's notes on how to rule a kingdom had already been passed on to him through lessons and repetition. Now, though, reading the words of his father as he had awaited fatherhood, he regretted not having opened this journal before now... before he was here himself, needing to know what needed to be taught about fatherhood.

– For the first time since his death, the Dralan missed his father, missed him not being here to see their next of kin, to guide him through parenthood.

There were plenty of books for mothers-to-be. Plenty of reading material on what mothers should eat, drink and do during their pregnancies to allow themselves a successful delivery and a healthy young.

But no one, no lesson during his childhood nor war tactic during his adult life had ever prepared him for being a father. His own had set such a good example, how was he expected to follow in his footsteps?

He would succeed at this. Be it on his life, he would make a good father as he would make a good mate to his female, or so The Blithesome Miss help him. If She had trusted him enough to let him mate a female of no noble birth and raise her status to Dralaq of the kingdom She had created... perhaps She trusted him with the task of fatherhood as well.

"The Blithesome Miss's will be done," He vowed solemnly, lowering his head. He shut his father's journal and placed it back on the shelf, promising that this wasn't the last time he had read it. He would surely come back once more when his young was here to see what notes his father had written then.

For now, the pressing matters at hand awaited.

His female would need to pass her pregnancy off as a product of their mating ceremony. Two weeks had passed since then, which meant it was too early to show the public her maternal signs. Her symptoms needed to be concealed, as well as her mothering body that would only bloom as time passed. They would believe him if he said she had conceived on the marble alter. They would believe him, because he was their Dralan.

But what would they say when the young arrived a month too early?

Those worries could wait for now. For now, his main concern was orchestrating the following time to come, covering his female's heat flashes and concealing the bump that would soon show. He would need help for this, but he knew his old friend could be counted on to be by his side. Just as when they were kids.

And now more than ever, his loyal services were needed.

"Fuck," The Dralan growled under his breath as he clenched his fists against his sides.

Never once, he was freed from trouble. Never once, his trials came without suffering.

Because as the Dralan slowly started walking his way back to his pregnant female, he knew that with her growing condition, she would need his blood now more than ever.

And he... he would need Mihrs.

Byhron

He awakened by the stir of another body against his.

Blinking his eyes open in the faint light, his head started pounding with a vengeance. Groaning lowly, he cupped his head and slowly sat up.

What the hell had he done last night?

The answer came to him as a body moved beside him again and slowly sat up. "You were out of it last night."

Byhron's eyes briefly widened as he saw Ahrron sitting next to him on his small cot. He didn't remember much from last night, but he faintly remembered stumbling upon the male. How had they ended up in bed together? Had they...?

"Why are you here?" He rasped out, his throat dry and parched.

"You asked me to stay," Ahrron replied. "You were talking about losing your sister and I—"

"Forget I said anything," Byhron immediately cut in. The memories suddenly came back; how he had broken down in the barracks, a pathetic mess of a male, and how Ahrron had picked him up and carried him to bed like an infant child. "You should go. The castle will be waking soon."

"You can talk to me, you know," Ahrron said, ignoring Byhron as he crawled out of bed and slowly got up, going for the bowl of water and cloth. He reeked of ale and old sweat.

"There is nothing to talk about."

"You have not told your sister of who you are."

"Leave my chamber, now," Byhron growled, lowly, just as he poured water into the basin. He splashed a handful into his face before removing his tunic and taking the cloth to clean himself.

He heard the Kathmir move behind him. His eyes didn't stray from the bowl, but he sensed as the male moved up behind him and put his hands on Byhron's hips. "Your sister will still love you for who you truly are, Byhron. She is not a bad female. She will not cast you away."

Byhron spun around fast enough to make the world spin along with his headache. Still, it didn't prevent him from grabbing the Kathmir by his throat and slamming him up against the wall. "You will not speak about my sister! You will not mention anything to her, is that understood?"

"You can fight me every day, but it will not change who you are," Ahrron snapped back, batting his hand away. Byhron stepped even closer, but the Kathmir surprised him by grabbing his throat and spinning him into the wall. "The sooner you accept who you are, the sooner you realize you will not have to sacrifice a thing. Your sister will accept you. She is a good female, she will not tell—"

"She will never know!" Byhron roared, fighting the Kathmir's grip. He shoved him off and pointed a stern finger at him. "She will never know of my foul nature. She will never be tainted by it, do you hear me?"

"Foul nature?" The Kathmir slowly repeated. His face twisted as Byhron stepped around him to grab the cloth once more. "You call what happened between us foul?"

"It is against nature," Byhron snarled out. "Males should not like males. I am sick, and so are you."

There was a heavy silence after that. Byhron stubbornly continued dipping the cloth and wrenching the water out, currently his only outlet to twist out his anger. The cloth was more than dry of water when he started scrubbing his skin down, hoping he might remove the stain of shame on it... although that never moved.

"I am sick, am I?" He then slowly heard Ahrron speak. It was a low tone, and there was something ominous beneath it. Byhron still did not turn, but kept his eyes down.

He sensed as the male once again approached him from behind, this time stepping so close, Byhron felt the hairs on his neck rise, just as his skin covered in goosebumps as the male leaned down to his ear.

"If I am sick, then find me no cure," He whispered, deadly. "If I am sick, I will be sick my whole life, and I will carry my illness proudly. If I am sick, Lathra, don't invite me back to your bed the next time your cock gets hard. Don't look for me when the females can't get you off. When you think of me late at night, of my mouth around your rigid... pulsing cock... don't think of me when you jerk off desperately."

Byhron whipped around once more, but this time with red in his eyes. He roared and launched for the male, but the Kathmir saw him coming; in one swoop, the male trapped him against his body and sunk his teeth into Byhron's throat. The second the male's fangs pierced his skin and tugged on his vein, Byhron's body burst from the inside and lit his lower gut on fire. It was the savage way the Kathmir drank his blood that had Byhron groaning, feeling his cock lengthen. It pressed into the male's stomach and made him feel delirious as the Kathmir's own cock hardened and brushed his, rubbing against each other.

The heavy drags on his vein made Byhron stumble back with dizziness, yet as the Kathmir followed him, clutching onto him, shoving him up against the wall, pleasure traitorously ran through his system and blinded him.

He could not fight this.

"Fuck," Byhron groaned out, strained. The male was still at his neck, gulping down his blood with deep moans of pleasure. It spiked a fever in Byhron's veins and made his own hands reach for the Kathmir, running them up his strong frame. By The Miss, he was wrong for thinking what he was thinking...

But as Byhron felt the muscles clench beneath his Kathmir robes, all he wanted was to shred the useless material away and have at the male like he had done before. He wanted to pin the male to the bed and watch him twist in pleasure with that look on his face as he sunk deep inside him...

"Fuck!" Byhron roared, just as his tip started leaking white. He felt it spill down his pants as the Kathmir drank his last gulps and pulled away from his neck. Byhron panted and felt the daze hit him like a brick, the pounding from the ale paling in comparison.

– The Kathmir had done what endless amounts of alcohol could not; he had taken away the pain from his heart and relieved it in less than five minutes.

And nothing he could say could combat that.

"Is this sickness to you?" The Kathmir then rumbled against his neck, licking up his wounds carefully. Byhron could not move, but stayed perched against the wall, catching his breath. He felt the Kathmir press a kiss over his vein, before pulling back with finality.

He knew he was sick, so why had it not felt that way?

"I will hear of this no more," The Kathmir spoke, drawing away and walking towards the door. He halted in front of it, squeezing his jaw shut. "If you are determined to be self-loathing and unhappy, I cannot help you. I have tried to make you see the truth, but you refuse to meet it. If the day should come where you finally accept yourself for what you are, though... for who you love," He emphasized. His eyes looked down, shining with something... more. "You know where I'll be. Until then, consider me a stranger."

With a soft yank on the door, the Kathmir then walked out silently, but with a lasting impression that was his words. Byhron remained stiff in his spot as he watched the Kathmir leave, walking out of his life until he could sort himself out.

Until he stopped hating himself for what he was.

The problem was, Byhron thought to himself as he swallowed against a ball in his throat, feeling his heart twist with a funny ache that wanted him to fetch the male back.

He did not think he could ever love someone again he had hated for so many years.