Monday, 5 November 2018

Saurfang and Anduin fuck fiction - based on the Lost Honor cinematic that just dropped ..

... what if Saurfang paused after hitting that wall only a moment longer?




The old orc smashed into the dungeon wall behind the kingling, screaming: I WANT MY HORDE BACK!...
    Though he was monstrous to behold, what he was saying, whom he was saying it to, that was not violent, it was not a threat. Anduin never blinked, never cowered – something perhaps a more reasonable man would. He shook all over, but that was stress, not fear. From the moment they clashed in the field before Lordaeron, ravaging tracks of war machines leading to it, toxic horror spilling from it, Anduin understood the old warrior exact. There were centuries of trials between them, but it all came down to one blow. The orc had a model opportunity to take the boy’s head clean off. He refused it.
    Not out of pity; he’s killed children before. Not out of honour or respect, that has no place in the battlefield. There was another reason. Tell me. Do you see future in me? Anduin wanted to ask. Do you see what I cannot see of hopefulness?
   “I want the war to stop,” said the youth stubbornly. He seemed but lost in the fanciful armour, only the eyes blazed bright.
     “Then stop it.” If you think wars are stopped so easily – stop it, then. Boy king.
     The smell of the caged animal enveloping him, he thought how absurd this was. This old murderer of some, this old hero of some, this old orc whose name had years to grow from fearsome to honorbound, demon-blood drinker, enemy king sparer. He was known to everybody on both sides – here and now he was probably the only person Anduin had leave to be completely open to. Their situation - two sides of the came filthy coin, their frustrations was the same. It was the strangest feeling, equally despairing and optimistic, equally hating the situation he was in and not wanting to leave the room.
     The young king looked down. Most of what he saw was the orc, blocking everything out of view, but the heft of his armour wouldn’t let him bow lower. “I want to be like you,” he muttered. “You won your wars.”
       “I gave up in the end, remember?”
        “Not likely.”
        Anduin put a hand on the mass of leather armour’s base on the orc’s stomach. The orc frowned and it took a little while to understand that this bizarre connection they had drove the kid to start going a little crazy. When the orc moved the kid’s hand away, Anduin placed the other. He stared and breathed heavily into the beastly prisoner.
      “First war I won, your majesty, was a puppet theatre that had me slaughter unarmed women and their young where they stood. Last king I trained made ruin of us all.”
     “You trained Garrosh for war. War was everything he knew. What chance do I have? Doesn’t anyone have anything else to teach in this end of all things good?”
      “You think honour is what we cling onto after all good we wasted?”
     When Anduin looked defiantly up at the orc’s face, their angry stares lasted a moment too long. The kings hands were still on the prisoner’s stomach. The old orc pushed away.
      “I am not fucking you, prince.”
       “King.”
       "Prince, king, god, I don’t care. I will fight against her, but I serve the Horde. Never forget that. Though I want the same as you at this stage. If you want my help, you have it.”
        “There are no more soldiers I have left to put in coffins. On your side, well … the dead refuse to stay in coffins. It’s why I come down to the lowest levels of my house today.”
         “Right. Great. Goodbye.”
      The orc withdrew to sit back next to the wall where he slumped before the boy interrupted his miserable privacy.
     Anduin hesitated, listening to the sewer water drip, to the distant guard’s movement, to scape of metal clasps on the prisoner’s costume against the barren stone of walls and floor; he ultimately crossed the cell and parked between the old orc’s feet. He was only a little higher than the sitting behemoth at this point.
      “Do you know how long it’s been since I hadn’t worn this armour?” the boy asked. “Do you have any idea how heavy it is?”
        “I wore mine since I could walk. Orcs are expected to make their first kill as soon as they abandon the mother’s tit. This is still not going to happen, p … king.”
       Anduin took the shoulders off first, then the chest plate and the belt. He allowed them to drop to the floor loudly. He pulled off his tabard and then the shirt to expose a pale, sweating body, rubbed red at several parts where seams edged into it. Saurfang looked, but all he could see was a miniature human, absolutely nothing attractive about that body at all. Like someone gave him a large smooth fish to play with, or a training doll.
Except for the eyes. That part he secretly yielded to, at least beneath his waistline. The eyes were magical. They never left him and it was all he could follow in the dark.
       The old orc reached for the leg armour, unclasping it, and Anduin pushed down his breeches. A teenager’s cock stood up from him, slightly darker in the nest of fair shock of curls, purple tip, though Saurfang suspected that’s a nervous erection rather than an actually erotic one.
      “Such a pathetic, useless little body,” the old orc said. If he put his massive green hand on it, on any part of it, all of it felt like a pale driftwood snapping twig.
       Anduin didn’t take the bait to insult. He stood and then reached for the clasp on the orc’s chest, his hand now ungloved and even smaller. The warrior moved it away again. “When someone walks in and sees their king ridden by an old orc, what little confidence your people have in your sanity will be lost, prince.”
       “King …” hissed Anduin, tensed back his head and pulled the orc’s hand onto his groin.
        The orc felt hot moist tool in his palm, a toy it seemed, a small bird. But no matter how little his hand moved, the whitish body tensed further, breathed harder, ribs and muscles showing, patches of the body getting moister and pink. A drop of condensation left the cell ceiling, glimmered, landed on the boy’s shoulder, dripped down over his clavicle, chest and hip, hardening one of the nipples with chill along its way. The orc removed his garb and pulled the young boy into his lap, rubbing his own enormous cock with the boy’s whole body. By comparison the two were a jest. The orc’s was like an old tree root, polished and rock hard, wrapped in hard green leather, dark brownish plum protruding the sheathe. A very finger on his hand was bigger than Anduin’s dick and even pushing that into the boy would be unthinkable.
        “You’ve not done this before, have you?” muttered the orc when the boy tried to kiss him and it just didn’t work. The closest Anduin came was biting one of the fangs.
      “Myself alone,” said the kid. “But I know soldiers do it all the time to relieve one another.”
       “How many fingers did you manage inside?”
         “I …. one, Varok.”
          “One.”
         The old orc wanted the boy to understand what he was asking for. He licked his middle digit and inserted it into the kid’s rosepetal entrance. He held the boy firmly in his other arm, forceful and absolute. Shock, nay horrified the boy pushed away, mouth gasping, eyes wide as if in panic. His cock hardened visibly – now a proper bedroom phase – and a shout escaped him. At the end of the hall the only two guards Anduin ordered to remain in the dungeon during his politically unwise visit, checked on their master in alarm, but saw that it was a noise of two people fucking, not fighting. They exchanged hesitant looks and returned to the position, facing outwards, only slightly less nervous now than they were a minute ago.
     “No, stop, Stop. Please,” cried the boy. The old orc pulled out and looked at him sideways, the I-told-you-so angle.
          “Hurts?”
          “It … hurts a lot.”
       “Not a human female who’s passed five young could easily accommodate an orc, little king. Not something your tutors will take time to explain, and not all soldier’s taverns offer such education. But trust me. What you think you want I am not giving you. You would never ride a horse again.”
        Anduin wiped his mouth, dripping with shocked saliva. He pushed four of his own fingers into the orc’s mouth, as if to try and cut himself on the saw of the sharp teeth. “Give me that finger again, then. Only slower.”
         “This one?”
          “I want this, from you.”  
           “Spit.”
It didn’t last even a minute, the way the old orc did it. He made the ‘mistake’ of lifting the boy, who clung onto the massive orc’s body for dear life, only just enough to take the lot of his erection and suck on it, only momentarily, sacs included, fangs scratching the inside of the hot thigh. This caused Anduin to lose the grip on the unfamiliar, impossibly overwhelming sensation and lose the rest of himself with it, wail out, his cock twitching, squirting the content tension and the whole body as if letting air out of the balloon slowly subsided, laying soon entirely wasted in the orc’s lap.
       The orc reached for the boy’s hair in what he intended as a fatherly gesture, but soon found himself burying the fingers and his face into the soaked tresses. Momentarily he became violent, only a little, desire to finish what the kid started surging through him. He could fuck him proper, nobody would stop him. He breathed the primitive conqueror’s urge away.         
        “Feel better?”
       Anduin detached from the embrace, rolling a sore shoulder. All of the bones in his body will always ache for what was done to him by Saurfang’s best student, however today was a good day.
       “It’s impossible to describe how I feel,” he stated quietly. “Like I’m drowning. Like I’m going to explode. Like I want to surrender, like I will do everything it takes to win. Like I’m brutal. Like I’m merciful. Like I’m weak. Like I’m as strong as a human can get. Like I’m alone, like I have an army. Like I’m a failure before I even begin, like I’m a giant who’s going to change the world. I think I want to die to stop having to decide such impossibly complicated matters. But if I knew who better to replace me, I’d have crowned them already.”
         He stood up and began to dress.
     “You inherited a storm, young king,” said Saurfang. He pulled a clothing over his ithyphallic condition, which also gradually subsided under the weight of their reality.
        “Doesn’t everybody?”
     “Most. And a lot of leaders I knew thought they were doing the right thing until it tumbled, their kingdoms built on pillars of salt. Distracted by petty old hatreds, exhausted by unforeseeable new doom that always seems to find us. They went crazy. Or they died far too soon.”

        Anduin, half clad, holding the rest in his hand, came back to the orc and buried his face in the old beasts’ neck. “Doesn’t everybody?” he echoed, barely audibly. He carried most of his armour in his hands on the way back. He left the cell door open. 





0 comments: